Tower of Babble Babble Babble

Max is 20 months old and on the cusp of a vocabulary explosion. I can feel it. I thought it might be good to record what words he can say now.

This is not bragging. This is me being completely obsessed with language and lists. (OK, maybe a little bragging.)

Of course, only a few of the words below are articulated as clearly as you and I might say them. Max can't really make the "L" sound at the end of "ball," but we all know he is saying "ball" when he is saying "baaa-uh." (The fact that he is usually carrying his big orange bouncy ball is a pretty good clue.)

A few words come out "baaa-uh," but if you listen carefully to inflection you can tell whether he is saying "ball," "bottle" or "block." Other words don't sound anything like the real word -- he says "beeps" for "grapes" -- but we know what he means and that counts as a word in my book. That is what language is for, after all. Communication.

It is hilarious how he says "triangle" and "rectangle." There are at least six extra syllables in there, but he gets an "A" for effort.

Speaking of "A," I'll also note that he is beginning to correctly identify and say some letters and numbers, including: A, B, D, E, O, R, T, 2, 8 and 9.

All of these words for the past several months, and only a few days ago did Max finally call his parents Mama and Dada. His first word ever was "Grandpa," starting out as "Papa" but moving fairly quickly to "Gam-pa." My mother is beside herself that he still hasn't called her "Woo" yet. (That's another story how she got that moniker.) Max learned both "Brother" and "Gabe" (which comes out "Ge-eee") but still no "Woo."

Here's the bragging part. All of the words listed below are what Max says in context or in correct identification. He can speak a lot more words, often just repeating what someone else is saying, but this list is really about what he can say about the things he knows.

Names
Dada
Mama
Brother
Gabe
Grandpa
Baby (any little baby he sees)

Animals
dog
cat
pig
moo moo (for "cow")
bird
duck
horse
mouse
goat
bear
lion
hippo
bug
dinosaur

At the Table
cup
spoon
fork (comes out "bork," too cute)
knife
grapes ("beeps")
cookie
cracker
pouch (those squirty puree things)
bottle
cheese
banana
carrot
peas
corn
cake

Body
hair
ear
eye
nose
teeth
mouth
toe
head
pee pee (fear not, I will teach him anatomical words)

Toys/Characters
ball
block
boat
map (from "Dora the Explorer")
backpack (ditto)
Thomas (as in the Tank Engine)
Blue's Clues
Bot (from "Team Umizoomi")
Elmo
Bubble Guppies (he hits all of the syllables, but not exactly in the right order)
Bubble Puppy ("Bup Pup")
SpongeBob ("Bob Bob" -- and thanks, Gabe, for the early exposure)

His World
car
truck
crane
choo choo (for "train")
book
bath
sock
shoe
hat
tissue (one of my favorites, and one of his most clearly articulated)
bubble
balloon
pumpkin
toothbrush (this one comes and goes, it was one of his first words, but he doesn't say it much now)
light
door
bink ("pacifier")
snow
sky
moon
sun
star (in the astronomical and geometrical sense)
triangle
rectangle
oval
circle
box

Colors
blue
green
purple
orange
black
pink
red

Other
bye bye
hi
hello
go
uh-oh
no
thank you
don't
all done
up
down
big
small
apart
together
pop
pat
back
cold
hot
march
amen (although I think even at church he thinks we're all saying "Oh, man!" like Swiper the Fox on "Dora")

And then one of my favorite things he says, in a way, is the fake snore for "sleep." "Acgghh-shooo, acgghh-shoo, acgghh-shoo ..."

The Sound of Music

"The Sound of Music" is kind of sacred cow in our house, but one of Max's favorite lullabies is one that I wrote to the tune of "Edelweiss."

You may remember that I do this a lot. I composed a new version of "I See the Moon" to connect our baby to his daddy when he is out to sea, coming up with it long before I was even pregnant. When Max turned into such a nursing fanatic, I was moved to write "No Sleep till Boobie," an homage to the Beastie Boys.

This new one gives a shout-out to all of the folks who love him. We call Gabe "Brother" a lot, Woo is my mother, and Poppy is Dan's mother's beloved. I have to be careful to sing this when Max is really tired. He loves to say "Grandpa" and will pull out his pacifier and say, "Paaaaaa," waiting for me to repeat the verses so he can do it again.

Maybe I write these lullabies just because I can't remember the real lyrics to anything. But I like to think it's something clever and sweet. Hopefully, personalized songs will make Max remember that his mother really could be kind to him when every other thing about trying to get him to sleep sucks donkey balls.

And so, here's our lovely rocking chair song, "Baby Boy" (imagine Christopher Plummer crooning it, drawing out all of the vowel sounds):

"Baby Boy"

Baby boy, baby boy
Boy, does your mommy love you
Baby boy, baby boy
Boy, your daddy loves you too

Grandma, Poppy
Your aunts and uncles
Brother, Woo and Grandpa

Baby boy, baby boy
Boy, your family loves you

Kleiboemer Clan Descends

Grandma gives Max her signature smooches.

My mother-in-law, Adrienne, and her beloved, John, as well as my husband's older brother, Adam, came into town last week to soak up some serious family time.

"Soak" being the operative word. We've been in a drought all summer, and it's been ridiculously hot nearly everywhere that Adrienne and John have been touring in the U.S. to escape the burst-into-flames conditions at their Arizona home. But of course the rain decided to show up right around the time they all did.

Eating at Biaggi's is always good to do on a rainy day.
Gabe, Adam and Max would agree.

We scrubbed plans to go to Marblehead on Lake Erie, figuring a visit during especially optimal weather could be done in the future. Since the timing matched up, we tried to go to the Flag City Balloon Fest in Findlay, where Gabe and I used to live, but the wind kept the balloons safely packed up in their trailers and all we managed to do was eat some fried concession stand food.

But nothing phases my mother-in-law. Just to be near her grandbaby was enough to keep her sunny smile going.

Brothers bundle up and bond at Balloon Fest.

Help Wanted

My mommy is a rookie too at finding full-time babysitters.

I never had a babysitter growing up. Ever.

I had extended family instead. My mother was pretty much Betty Crocker until I was an adolescent, making our baby food and clothes, tending the garden, taking a break from dusting to watch "As the World Turns," and generally being an extraordinary farm wife.

When my dad taught her how to drive one of his semi trucks and she joined him in his grain hauling business, my brother and I took a short trip through the alfalfa field to our grammy's house in the mornings. She fed us Fruit Loops -- an awesome treat since my mother took the church co-op rather seriously in the '70s -- and set our grandpa's horrific photo development timer to make sure we wouldn't miss the school bus. (That buzz would have woken the dead.)

In the afternoons our great aunt, who lived between our farm house and grandparents' house, would be waiting at our home when we got off the bus. My brother always marveled at how she poured the milk at just the right time so that it wasn't too searingly cold to have with our cookies, without a timer no less.

Now that's the way to leave your kids when you go to work: with trusted family.

My parents aren't in retirement, though. True, my dad isn't hauling anymore, but he is maintaining all three properties. And he's better with kids already out of diapers. My mom can swing a few days a week tops, and other family members have their own careers and families and obligations.

And we live a bit farther apart than one little alfalfa field.

So I have begun the cheerless task of finding a sitter for my baby. It reinforces some resentment and anxiety about returning to work. It's especially odd since teen Gabe has been on autopilot for so many years. In some ways he may be watching my dad when he is at the farm! (I wonder if he sets out milk and cookies for his grandpa.) As I said before, Gabe is the brother and not the primary babysitter for Max, although he does help out a great deal when I am trying to get things done around the house.

I started with some word of mouth, or rather word of Facebook in this social media age. I got some bites for folks willing to care for my baby in their home, but I am really hoping to keep Max in his own home -- especially with the major change of his daddy coming and going every three months or so.

I turned to Care.com, a site for posting jobs and resumes for caregiving of all sorts. It's good, although you have to pay a monthly fee to view full profiles and communicate with prospective candidates. And there are a bevy of filters to screen the best matches and background checks already on file.

I was willing to pay for that, certainly. But I got sticker shock when it came to paying for the actual sitter. Most folks will accept $20 a day if you bring your kid to their home. But the rate triples and even quadruples if you want someone to come to your own home ... and watch your full cable lineup and sit in your air conditioning and log onto your wi-fi and eat your food and use your washer and dryer.

I guess I understand part of it. There is the driving, and the not being able to wipe down your own kitchen counters. But everything else is the same. You'd better shower and get out of your pajamas at your own house too if I'm paying you to be with my bambino.

Good care is worth it, though. I felt like I was on eBay trying to get this wonderful young nursing student to come here, offering her more and more until she said yes. She was the only one I felt like could have been part of my family, and that was what was most important.

Post Script: No, I'm not going to pay you $40 a day for any damn thing, and certainly won't let you near my children, if you write to me things like: "I seen your ad" or "Your welcome." No. Way.

Grandma Came to Work

Grandma Kleiboemer holds Max while we wait for the pediatrician.

I am at once quite comfortable and extremely uncomfortable.

The former is because I am relaxing on the couch, my feet propped up on an ottoman, with a warm and cuddly infant sleeping on my chest.

The latter is because my mother-in-law in on her knees, cleaning all of the dog nose prints off of the glass coffee table.

Before Mom flew in from Arizona, she told us that she was coming to help and work and care for the baby, and that she would brook no refusal. She's a petite little thing, but she can be as formidable as my own mother when it comes to being determined to do what she wants to do.

Dan may have pledged to cherish me during our wedding vows, but it's really his mother whom he puts on a pedestal. I at first had to convince him that it was entirely appropriate to let his mother do chores around our house because I really needed the help after major surgery to bring forth our son. I reminded him that my mother had stayed with me for 10 days after Gabe was born, making meals and doing laundry and changing midnight diapers, and that it made all the difference in the world in me being a capable mother of a newborn.

Mama had been helping me my whole life, though, and it was easy to let her do those things. After three days of labor, comfort and assistance from my mommy was all that I desired anyway.

But now that my mother-in-law is here, tirelessly dusting furniture and folding laundry, I have to convince myself that this is good for our household. I'm perfectly content to let her hold/rock/walk/change the baby so that I can prepare a meal or write. But watching her be Miss Molly Maid is disconcerting. In some ways it just reminds me of all the ways I'm not a good housewife.

She sternly reminded me that my job was to take care of her grandson -- her first and only -- and that she'll dust as much as she pleases.

Apart from the housework, it has been marvelous for her to get to spend time with Max. Well, with the rest of the family too, but let's not kid ourselves. She's soaking up some serious baby time in between these chores.

We're all loving that part.

The Grand Wood Cutter

Under the watchful eye of his grandfather, Gabe makes
practice cuts in a log with a chainsaw last fall. Notice the
matching flannel shirts, suspenders and ball caps.

When I am driving down the road toward my family farm, it is hard to tell my teenage son and my father apart until I pull into the driveway.

Gabe has idolized his grandfather from the very beginning. 

"No shorts, Mommy," he would say as soon as he had some say in his wardrobe choice. "Grandpa wears jeans."

"I need more button-down shirts, please. Like Grandpa's."

"Wow! Grandpa got me a pair of suspenders! Just like his!"

He soon transitioned from just looking like him to doing chores like him. He dislikes green peppers but thinks fried mush is a delicacy. He will watch hours of "American Pickers," "Ice Road Truckers," "Dumbest Stuff on Wheels" -- whatever keeps him and Grandpa in their recliners the longest on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Gabe is just as close to my mother, but not so much into emulating her wardrobe or her hobbies and chores.

Being in relationship with grandparents can be one of the most rewarding aspects of childhood. I was lucky enough to grow up right next door to my father's parents, and my mother's parents were close enough to visit often. I know they are cornerstones of my foundation.

There's something special going on between my son and my dad, though. History is repeating itself.

My father grew up right next door to his grandparents too, his mother's parents who lived on the very same farm. He spent far more time plowing fields, feeding animals, chopping wood and whatever else farmers do with his Grandpa Benson than he did anywhere else, including his own home.

It was more than hanging out with a beloved relative. He was learning valuable skills, not just in operating a farm but in general self-sufficiency. My husband always says that if the apocalypse comes, we're heading to the farm where Big Jim will keep us warm, fed and safe.

My dad is intentional about imparting these same skills to his grandchildren, with Gabe getting the most instruction as he practically lives at the farm. Their current project is putting a new metal roof on the garage. Sure he could pay a professional roofer to do the job, he said, but then how would Gabe learn to do it?

Gabe also has learned how to shoot a rifle and operate a chainsaw, dangerous things I never would have been likely to teach him. From mowing to snow-blowing, he can do it all.

Which is good news for my dad. Growing up, there were five of us kids to pick up sticks, pull weeds, plant flowers, feed calves, haul wood, wash trucks, pick vegetables, roll hay, collect eggs, muck barns -- not to mention wash dishes, dust shelves and hang laundry. Frankly, I think we all could survive the apocalypse.

But now Dad is down to just one regular extra set of hands, and he's tending all three family properties on the farm. It's a major endeavor.

Good thing Gabe grew big and strong. Just like his Grandpa.