MamaBlogga

Hayden continues to “workies,” but his job is taking various forms these days.

Some days he is a world-class photographer. Methinks he has an excellent grasp of the use of negative space. Or just a poor grasp on the camera. . . .

Other days, he’s in what’s now become his primary office, the pantry:

And some days, he just has to sit down in his thinking chair and think, think, thi-i-ink. And take notes. A PI in training if ever I saw one.

Wonder what he’ll really do when he grows up.

Hayden reached another milestone this week. While he’s made a play attempt or two at praying, he usually pretends to be shy when I try to help him through a prayer. Until Tuesday night.

Hayden was at the table getting ready to eat, I was getting ready to leave to visit someone from church and Ryan was getting his dinner. We reminded Hayden that we needed to say a prayer, and he dutifully folded his arms.

And then we heard what he was saying. “Hebely fader. Hebely fader. Hebely fader.”

Ryan and I quickly folded our arms and walked into the dining room. “Thank you for this day,” I prompted him.

“Dates day.”

“Thank you for this food.”

“Dates fud.”

“Please bless it.”

“P’ease b’ess.”

“In the name of Jesus Christ.”

Blank look.

“In the name of Jesus Christ,” I tried again.

Blank look.

This could be simpler for a two-year-old, I guess. “Jesus,” I tried.

He knew that one. “Dee sa.”

“Amen.”

“Amin.”

Not bad!

Like most children, Hayden has picked up on adult mannerisms and intonations long before he’s mastered the words to go with them. Yesterday, for example, I told him something and he tilted his head to the side as if to say “That’s silly, Mommy. You can’t be serious.”

I tilted my head the same direction to joke with him and he said, “Awwww! Sad?” (To Hayden, everyone is sad, except for outlines of his hands, which should be happy.)

This morning, I was getting Hayden up and I had a song in my head. I started singing it at the line “Tried to touch the sun.”

Hayden looked at me and said, “No touch uh sun. Hot.”

I have no idea how he knows that.

Brownie points to anyone who can name that song—but members of my family should give someone else a chance to get the answer before you post it!

Brownie points not redeemable for actual brownies.

Hayden’s at the age where he learns new words every day. Here are some of the latest additions to his vocabulary:

With my parents and most of my sisters around all last week, I got called by my first name a lot more than normal—enough that Hayden started calling me “Dordee,” and especially “Mom—Mom—Dordee.” (Don’t worry, he doesn’t really know what he’s doing; today when I asked him what my name was, he said it was “Haydie.”)

Yesterday I went in to get him up from his nap and he was jumping in his crib. He looked at me and said “kay see” several times, then shook his head wildly.

It took me a minute to figure out that he was saying “crazy.” Which is usually one of the first things I say to him when he wakes up in one of these (wonderful, entertaining) manic moods.

This morning, we were in the grocery store and I sad, “Oh man!” Hayden repeated his version, something between “Oh men!” and “Oh min!” And then he added something that—I swear—sounded like “Bite me.” No idea where that one came from.

Today we were sitting in my room and he started gathering up loose clothes and papers from around the room, stuffing them into an empty box. As he did so, he would burst out with “Eee op! Eee op!” Luckily, I know the words to that song: “Clean up.”

Hayden’s newest favorite hobby is a bit alarming to me. He hops up in front of any available computer, starts playing with the mouse and keyboard and proclaims “I worky!” He is very devoted to his profession (whatever that is; probably something as nebulous as mine).

I promise, I really don’t work that much while he’s awake. I’ve been a bit worse lately about working while he’s awake, with him so obsessed with Blue’s Clues and all, but this? This is dedication.

Y’know, I always looked a bit askance at the parents who could hear their child say something that didn’t apparently have any consonants and interpret that into a paragraph’s worth of meaning. Until Sunday night.

We had a big family get together this weekend for Easter dinner. Hayden was his usual, babbly self—but oddly enough, I found myself translating from “Haydenese” for his aunts and uncles. I sounded like one of “those” parents: “He said, ‘Sorry,’” and “He means, ‘Brown milk.’ You know, chocolate milk.”

Hayden. Veiled child. Veiled meanings.

Strange; doesn’t everyone spend 12 hours a day listening to my son talk?

Many of his words are recognizable, but since the rest of my family is coming to visit this weekend, I figured a guide to Haydenese would be useful, so I’m not the 24/7 on-call interpreter again.

Anything I’ve missed?

I realized last week that I’ve been having the same argument for the last twenty years. I have three younger sisters, and you’d think we were all here, reliving our Barbie-and-clean-up-time-induced blow outs. Seems like every other sentence out of my mouth could be a direct quote from our childhood.

Stop that.

Don’t touch that.

Stop, you’ll break it.

Don’t touch it.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

Please don’t do that.

Ouch—you’re hurting me.

Stop—you’re stepping on me.

Please don’t mess with that.

Leave it alone.

Leave me alone!

I imagine that by the time Hayden’s old enough to not need these constant injunctions, he’ll be giving them (and receiving them) from his siblings.