Phone transcript: Henry after his date with Thomas.

Henry: I [incoherent] THOMAS’S WORLD.

Me: Did you have fun?

Henry: YEAH AND I [incoherent] TOO.

[hands phone back to grandmother]

[whispering in background: Tell her how you shook hands with Sir Topham Hatt.]

[shuffling]

Henry: I SHOOK SIR TOP HAT.

Me: Wow! Did you ride on Thomas?

Henry [obviously losing interest]: Hmm.

[hands phone back to grandmother]

[more whispering and shuffling]

Henry: OKAY GOODBYE.

Me [trying to hide the desperation in my voice]: I'll see you soon! I love you so much!

Henry [whispering]: Yeah.

[click]

He's coming back this afternoon. Upon his return, I may eat him.

I just have to figure out how he printed this.

I found the following tucked away in a corner of Henry's crib. I am so onto him.

Date: April 1, 2005

To: Child 4A0765B-1007@children.com, toddler_unit@children.com

From: Kevin, VP, Toddler Division

Subject: Quarterly Objectives

Happy new year, company members! As you know, our first quarter was a fruitful and productive one. By working together to delay our bedtimes, we acquired over 53,000 extra hours of valuable awake time. That’s 53,000 more hours of running in circles. 53,000 more hours of shaking our heads wildly and arching our backs. 53,000 more hours of the Parents straining to communicate that toothbrushes do not go in the diaper. We have seen the Parents falter and ultimately give way under our consistent efforts, and we are proud.

It should be mentioned that some of our members have made great strides in drastically limiting the variety of foodstuffs they allow to enter their face-holes. We are thinking especially of Child 3A0762C-0908, who now ingests only raisins and lukewarm water sipped from a plastic spork; Child 5B0755F-0528: ketchup on crackers and the occasional mashed grape; and, most breathtakingly, Child 8A0576L-0108: plain dried breadcrumbs licked off a moistened index finger.

For the second quarter of 2005, we’ve strengthened our resolve and shown what a little determination and a lot of screeching can accomplish. And we are ready for the next phase: Operation No-Pants.

Every morning without failing, the Caregivers initiate a dressing procedure that is tiresome at best and scratchy at worst. It distracts us from our viewing of Elmo and limits our access to our smooth smooth skin. Their motives are puzzling: either they are jealous of our smooth smooth skin or else are attempting to break our wills by imposing nonsensical rules and demanding that we comply. But they will not succeed, friends. Because we will resist.

So: no matter how sopping wet or poop-crammed your diaper is, refuse to let Caregiver remove it. Declare that diaper to be your FAVORITE DIAPER. Do not allow any larger beings to lay a finger on it. For motivation, imagine that said diaper is part of your body, like a real tushie over your tushie. If any attempt is made to remove it, you will scream. Remember: the Scream is your friend. Caregivers live in fear of the Scream. If you add to the Scream “No hit! No hit!” they’re sure to back away for fear of the authorities coming after them.

Once a clean diaper is on very little can stop them from dressing you. The soiled diaper is your last and best hope.

Now that you’ve mastered toddler-ese, use it! Declare your opinions at each and every turn, and make sure that they are as vague and baffling as your pronunciation. If Caregiver explains that dressing is a vital step in a traveling-to-playground initiative, screech, “Murfy! TOO MURFY!” Do not explain. Never explain.

But why do we resist, you ask? Why not get dressed and enter the playground, where fun could possibly had? Because, that’s why. Because because because. Because we must take every stand we are able to take. Also! Because Caregiver is deceiving you. There is another, better playground, a Naked Playground, with balloons and ice cream and cake. The soiled diaper will lead the way. This is true, we think.

Onward!

Kevin

Toddlers are both cute and difficult! Hey!

It appears that, as the toddler grows, the endearing behaviors must increase in direct proportion to the less-than-charming tendencies. If the toddler failed to kick his/her cuteness into high gear, one would simply leave the toddler on the side of the road, and skip away merrily, singing a little song to oneself, tra la.

So, for instance, we begin the day with the following uncuteness:

Henry decides he hates my breakfast, which happened to be a crumpet covered in almond butter. My crumpet! My breakfast-y delight, all my own, which was not bothering him one bit! He lunges at my plate and slaps at the sticky almond buttered top until the entire crumpet attaches itself to his hand, and then runs shrieking toward the dog, who is only too happy to help him out, crumpet-wise.

It was my last crumpet. I wanted that crumpet. Ever had a crumpet? They're good.

But before I can kick him to the curb, the above is canceled out by the extreme adorability of the following:

We run into Henry’s girlfriend E. (and yes, I mean girlfriend—I watch him running his fingers through her hair and covering her face in kisses and I want to either get them married NOW or lock him up until he’s 16) and her mother on the street; as we adults discuss our plans to escape someday to a Land Where No One Attacks Breakfasts, Henry takes E.’s hand and the two of them toddle down the street hand in hand, grinning. Then Henry turns to her and says, “Beautiful day.”

Can one abandon such a child on the street? It appears that one cannot. Once again the toddler wins.

An entire post written solely to use the word "monkeyshines."

The grandparents are determined to turn Henry into Little Lord Sissypants. Not that I have a problem with sissy-fying Henry’s pants—indeed, I had planned on it, but I was hoping to institute a low-key sissy-fying initiative. Like, I would suggest cooking classes instead of after-school sports. And then, instead of football, Henry would prefer baking cookies with his mom. Or, better: for his mom. Or better: veal piccata. Or, no, veal is evil. Something piccata. For his mother. And father. And several guests.

But instead of teaching Henry how to make a wine reduction, they’re ensuring that even his play outfits are smart enough for the country club; they're getting him accustomed to insisting on only the finest of juice drinks. In the local Met Food a few days back, a few rugged-looking youths behind us in line were buying Kool-aid drink mix, and Henry turned to them, pointed one soft finger at the canister with Scary Pitcher Guy on it, and observed, “Oooh— Pom.” Which in case you don’t know is insanely expensive pomegranate juice. My mother is singlehandedly supporting the “Pom Wonderful” company by filling my child’s delicate insides with it. Luckily the kids didn’t understand him, as no one but me can decode his charming jibber-jabber, so we got away that time without getting our asses kicked.

Thanks to the grandparents, every outfit Henry wears has a Polo insignia on it (and yes, I realize I could buy outfits for him myself, but you see, I am both cheap and lazy. Oh--and poor). My mother defends her choices by claiming she bought them at the Ralph Lauren outlet, but I can’t very well stick a “Bought this at a steep discount” sticker on his back; I tried that and it fell off after a few minutes. And then we go to the playground and every other kid is wearing—horrors!—Gap wear (or worse! Sometimes there’s no discernible brand at all!). I’m waiting for the day, and it will come, when Henry runs up to me in his polo shirt and pleated shorts and patent-leather taps and frilly ankle socks and weeps, “Mother, those children knocked me on my bottom with their rambunctious monkeyshines!”

Just last week I made Henry some toast—the old Henry used to love my toast!—and he looked down at it in disgust and I said, “Look, Henry—toast!” and he asked, “French toast?” Only he pronounced it “Fr-aah-nch.” The poor boy. He never had a chance.