Cerin Amroth

When I was slicing some cheese for Dominic just now, he said “Cheeeeeee!” in a spot-on imitation of Wallace,  complete with the trademark clicking-the-sides-of-his-fists-together gesture.

Dominic had his eighteen month doctor’s appointment last week, three months late.  The D-ster is in fine health, weighing 29 pounds and change, which seems gigantic to me but according to the charts is right around the 75th percentile.  He’s in the same range for height.

The doctor asked if he was talking yet, and I was about to explain that he’s still mostly just babbling, when, as if on cue, he started pointing to the pictures in the wallpaper and naming them.  Dog: “Daaaah.”  Plane:  “Paaaaaayn.”  Truck:  “Tuuuuh.”  “I see he’s started talking!” said the doctor cheerfully.  Yeah, I thought to myself.  Like, just now.

Since then he has been a bit more conscientious about trying to repeat words that he hears.  Though of course when his will is thwarted his preferred response is not to discuss the issue but to collapse in a heap on the floor and then straighten his body stiff as a board while shrieking a primal scream to the heavens in complaint about the inconceivable injustices visited upon him.

Ella meanwhile is totally into racing.  Heading down the stairs?  “Race you to the bottom of the stairs!”  Going to the car:  “First one in seat belt wins!”  Strolling down the sidewalk?  “I got to the driveway first I win!”  This has led to some necessary conversations about good sportsmanship and about not declaring something to be a race when she already has a twenty foot lead and is only five feet from the destination.  We have a bit more work to do to encourage graciousness in both victory and defeat.

But the part that cracks me up about it is that now, whenever we’re driving, she’ll crane her neck so she can see out the front window and then say “Daddy!  This is a race.”  And then proceed to show which cars I need to get in front of and which stoplights I need to get to before anybody else.  The part of me that wants to model proper road safety is now constantly at war with the part of me that fully agrees with her that driving would be a heck of a lot more fun if there was a bit more racing involved.

I have the leisure to write all of this because Dominic is napping upstairs and Ella is at school again — her very first day.  She is in the upstairs class, five mornings a week.  It’s a pre-K/K class, so some of the kids will be going from there to first grade, though she is on the younger end and won’t be starting kindergarten for another year.

Ella has been overhearing plenty of convention speeches on the radio.  After the Biden pick Suanna explained to her that the VP becomes President if the President dies.  Which may explain the text of the speech she just delivered, standing on top of the lego box in the middle of the living room.  She began by informing me brightly that she and Barack Obama would be giving a speech together.  Then she intoned:

Barack Obama!  Is going to be my!  Vice President!  I will not die!  I will live and not be sick!

All of the Presidents are going to go to South America!  All you guys will be where your grandparents are for five weeks.   I will be the first one!  In South America!  Of all the Presidents!  Barack Obama will ask you all who the name is of your grandparents!

It continued for several minutes with variations on the above.  The speech was generally well-received, though a single protester attempted to disrupt the proceedings by drawing on the window with a crayon.