9, 9, 9...

PROS
The Little Dictator LOVES to count.
The Little Dictator LOVES to read.
The Little Dictator LOVES to point and identify.

CONS
The Little Dictator thinks every number is the number "9".

The Little Dictator thinks every word is either "Mama", "Dada", "Bobo" (his favorite stuffed monkey - and yes, there are multiple... three, at last count), "No", "SpongeBob", "Chowder" (both are cartoons), "Bye-Bye", and "Mwah".

The Little Dictator thinks every object that he points to and identifies - no matter how inaccurate it may be - exists solely for his enjoyment... or terror.

EXPLANATION
Like many parents in Toddlerville, we have a book (or several) on counting. This particular book has buttons that *insert toddler's name here* can press to hear the number said out loud, with corresponding pages full of 1 cat, 2 dogs, 3 balls, etc. For wahtever reason, Bruiser has zeroed-in on the number "9", and has now decided that every number that he sees has GOT to be the number "9". Until recently, this was limited to times he actually saw numbers... now he counts things - his deck of cards, especially - using his patented "9, 9, 9!" approach. I do not see a future in mathematics.

Just last night, our little Dookie-Doo was reading the newspaper - the weather section, to be exact. He was sitting on the couch, leaning back, and scanning the page with a thoughtful expression on his face. The next thing we know, it's

"Mama Dada Bobo No SpongeBob Chowder Bye-Bye Mwah."

... over and over and over. Oh, sure, there was plenty of inflection, intonation and enunciation, but I could not stop laughing! (Which, of course, goaded him on to repeat, repeat, repeat.) While my son may know over 40 words, I just wondered what made him choose those particular few. The world may never know.

We took Bubba to the Puyallup Fair this weekend for a little outdoor, greasy-food, ride experiencing fun. While the Man-Mate and I took turns sliding down the Giant Slide with him nestled in front of us, the really wasn't much else to occupy his mind. He was, technically, too young to go on ANY of the rides (I told the Giant Slide ticket collector-man-guy-person that "Yes, in fact, my son IS two years old. He's 25 months, even!"), and there are some rules that you just don't want to push when it comes to your child's safety on a ride. Plus, who knew if he was emotionally ready for the terrors of "The Peaceful River Raft"?? Speaking of terror, we took him in to see the 4H cows and pigs. Guess who isn't fond of bacon's origin? When he wasn't cowering in fear, our little Squish-Face would shake his finger at the offending creatures and tell them "no, No, NO!" from behind his beloved Mama.

I can't wait to tell him all about his toddlerhood quirks...

Fieldtrip to The Fires of Mordor... or, Introduction toThe Squish

Our son is brilliant. I'm sure every mother thinks so at some point but, really, what are the odds of every boy-child possessing the intellect of a Fortune 500 CEO? Squishy, on the other hand, is brilliancy personified. Don't believe me? Well, it's your prerogative... however wrong you may be.



1. He walks (or, rather, a complex stomp-run-trip-slide hybrid).

2. He talks (well, more like a rambling stream of the following: dada, mama, pez (please), day-do (thank you), up, down, no, mine, me, baby, this, 'way (away), muh (more), muhhhhv (move), dogf (dog), Bobo (his monkey), wow-wow (car), bus, beerbong (airplane... we hope), uh oh, help, wee, gung-gung (swing... or a war cry), adur (water), juice, beep-beep, hi, hello, bye, nigh-nigh (night-night), dirt, knock, num-num, gacker (cracker), brr, hot, teef (teeth), stuck, ow/ouch...)

3. He signs (please, thank you, up, eat, water, more, move, away, no, mine, I'm going to punch you in the effing face if you don't give me that g-damn thing that I want that you can't seem to discern from my series of grunts and pointing, etc.)

4. He sings (granted, until very recently, it consisted of the words "doh doh doh" over and over, while strumming a pretend guitar held vertically).



But, best of all, he cuddles. Oh, the cuddling; my mommy-heart melts into a puddle of A&D-scented goo when our little Bruiser decides he needs a hug. This brilliant creature wants to take time out of expanding his already-gigantic brain to fit in a snuggle with the ol' Mom?! I'm in!



One thing both the Man Mate and Girly could use a little less of? The Toddler Temper.

Have you ever heard the saying "Red skies at night, sailors delight. Red skies in morning, sailors take warning."?

Where is OUR early warning system?

What I wouldn't do for a quick little "Hey, Girly? Your son is going to have a meltdown in 3.2 hours... you might want to get home to the safety of SpongeBob SquarePants and some Garden Herb Ritz crackers if you want to keep a grip on your sanity." Instead, it's smooth sailing through the mall, poster child for good behavior at the climbing toys (where children three times the height limit are jumping off of the play structures, coming mere inches from landing on my Sweet Squish-Face... but that, and Sweet Squish-Face's reaction, is for another post), and then *WHAM!* A fairly accurate, if not overly dramatic, reenactment of Chernobyl at the restaurant when he's made to sit in a high chair.



All in all, our son is brilliant. He is learning in leaps and bounds, and impressing us with his sheer ability to stomach any and every food we put in his path. He holds his father's Wariness of New Situations, but still manages to embody his mother's Desire To Befriend Everyone in The Room. He is equally at home in front of the television (again... SpongeBob SquarePants is his religion) as he is out playing in the dirt with Grandma (whom he calls "Hi" and "This", alternately).



His temper is one to be feared, but his cuddles are those to be craved.