Ice Cream Sneakery

This is just to say, I set a dangerous precedent on my return from my recent Mother's Day trip to Brooklyn. In my joy at seeing Espen, I may have granted permission for a small cup of ice cream before breakfast.

In all the days following, my first experience of the day has involved Espen angling for a reprise of Breakfast Ice Cream.

Skip to Saturday morning. I hear Espen vaguely rustling around in bed. He does not make a beeline for me, which is the norm in days following a Return of Mom. It's early, so I am grateful for a little more time to be horizontal.

Footsteps pad around in the hall and kitchen. It's quiet enough for me to rest but not so silent I am forced to investigate out of Pure Self Preservation.

I finally get up to visit the loo and ask Tobias what time it is. Espen hears this and comes racing down the hall. I'm back in bed before he reaches the door, but that is no deterrent.

The child approaches my bedside. Gets real cozy and close like.

"Mama. Have some."

A spoon appears near my face.

"What is that, Espy?"

He smiles like a shark.

"Ice cream!"

"What?"

"Have some ice cream, Mama!"

"Oh, boo. Oh."

Because I notice he has a 5 o'clock shadow that is slowly sliding down his face. His arms. His wee little legs.

He raises his other hand. Which is holding a half gallon of chocolate ice cream. Also, his ice cream cup and spoon. There is a pool of ice cream forming around the perimeter of the box, which tells me he has been in his cups for some time.

A sticky little hand extends over the bed, leaving a goopy trail of ice cream splotches that mirror his gooey body.

As I dodge to avoid the cream glue, I recall his predilection for leaving the freezer door open after his raids.

"Did you leave the freezer door open?"

"Yes!"

Sigh. I should be unsuprised by this, but it still stings a little. "Alright."

I'll say this, Espen is very consistent at telling the truth. Even if it involves 60lbs of mostly de-thawed beef.

Nude Swamp Water

In the last week, Espen has become a fully developed nature boy. At the first given opportunity, the clothes come off and the wild rumpus-ing begins. This pleases me immensely.

I had harbored secret worries that he would shun nude toddler-romps altogether and go straight for his driver's license. Thankfully, he has discovered that less clothing equals more fun.

Skip to yesterday. I return from a weekend class on the Yoga Sutras, all full of knowledge and benevolence for the human condition. Tobias and I are peacefully chatting at the window, watching our wonderful child frolic about in unfettered ecstacy.

He is wet. Of course. It's a warm day and there is water about. Oh yes. Being pumped straight from underneath our house. Nevermind why.
Actually, yes, mind why.


Said hose is actually part of a bilge pump that is extracting mysterious water that has been lurking under our house for who knows how long. Exact contents, unknown, but it is rank.



But it's a fantastic hose. Really more like a miniature fireman's hose just begging a three year old champion to wave it about masterfully. Which Espen is very happy to accommodate.

Tobias and I chuckle tolerantly, love in our eyes, insulated from complete responsibility by Farfar's presence in the backyard.

And then we see Espen drop the hose, drop himself to the ground in front of it.  And open his mouth wide.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" Tobias and I both screamed, launching ourselves through the door and onto the deck.

"NO DRINKING THE WATER ESPEN!!!" As though we'd been rehearsing the line for months.

Espen looked up, puzzled. He has been drinking from garden hoses with great success for the last many months. Clearly, his mind registered this rubber beauty as The Hose of all Hoses.

Farfar looked up. "He isn't drinking from the hose." clearly, having seen such things almost happen and then not many times.

And then, "Is he?"

Ahhhhhh........

Big Bottom Momma

Many things change when you become a parent. Perceived sleep needs. What you'll eat off the floor. (It's only been there a couple minutes, what.) Modesty. (Try getting a toddler peeled out of a wet swim diaper and changing out of your swimming suit in a cubicle the size of a matchbox without having your rear end flashing about for the world to see) Personal hygiene. Body shape. Basic definitions of what constitutes a "Clean House."

And perhaps, most importantly, your own sense of self-importance in the overall shaping of the universe.

Which leads us to the end of my shower and the subsequent clothing ritual, which has included Espen in some way since he was born.

Mostly, he chatters about getting down the "Rune blankie" and pushing around tarot cards on the floor while I select my garments du jour.

Not so, this fine morning.

The crowd has grown for this particular dressing. Tobias is lounging around on the bed making casual comments about this and that. Espen is staring at me intently.

Check that, he is staring at PART of me intently. As if drawing conclusions of some kind.

He speaks.

"Momma. You have a BIG bottom!" he cheerfully proclaims.

I mean, ok. Yes. After an entire lifetime of coming to terms with my, shall we call it, voluptuous derriere, I have found some measure of harmony between reality and acceptance. Which was lucky for me because there it was, in all its truthful candor, ushering forth from the mouth of my babe.

So I laughed. Just buck naked, big bottomed laughter. Tobias howled.
But part of me wanted to know. Was it my personal truth or was it a size/ratio thing?

"Espen, what kind of bottom does daddy have?"

Espen wandered over to Tobias.

"Daddy, stand up. Show me your bottom."

Espen whipped off his underwear to display the view he required.

Tobi politely declined due to our imminent departure.

Espen cocked his head, mentally undressing his dad. And spoke again.

"You have a big bottom too, Daddy."

And all I could think was, "Yessssssssssss."

You are not wise

We are driving home from REI after picking up my bicycle. It is rush hour. We have cleverly bypassed much traffic, but alas, not the sun. The sun is beaming down, angled, as if by divine design, directly into our eyes. I take this moment to impart some wisdom to Espen.

"We can just squint our eyes or look in the other direction if we don't want the sun in them."

"Why?" Espen is ever interested in howtos and wherefores.

"It's just something wise people do."

He doesn't miss a beat.

"You are not wise."

Pause.

"Really?" Stall for time. Stall. Stall.

"Yes. Only Poppa is wise."

"Um. Ok. Well, listen to this for a minute." (Listen to what? I have nothing to say, yet the brain wings bravely forward.) Tobias and I share a meaningful glance.

Espen is not finished.

"I don't listen to you. Only Poppa."

Of course I did what any self-preserving parent would. I got Poppa on speaker phone, pronto.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hi, Jaim, What's going on?"

"Espen says you're the only one he will listen to."

-chuckles erupt from the speaker-

"Oh did he?" The glee is unmistakable.

"In fact, he did. Can you please tell him to listen to his parents?"

Meanwhile, in the back, Espen is bouncing in his car seat, chanting, "Hi Poppa, Hi Poppa, HI!"

-more chuckles-

"Will we see you soon, Espen?"

"Dad."

Espen grins and nods wildly.

Cahoots. Pure. Wild. Unstoppable.

And I'm thinking, "God made two of them."

"Alright, Dad. we'll see you."

"Poppa!!!" Espen hollers.

"I love you Espen!" Poppa rejoins.

Espen cackled happily. Fortunately we arrived home shortly thereafter, with one thing clear.

Our child is developing startling powers of declaration.