On our way back from Toronto this weekend, we stopped in at Montana's for dinner. Owen was fidgety and pissy and not in a good mood, until I pointed out that they had a truck in the ceiling. It's a full size old-fashioned red pick up truck and it was suspended on beams and logs up in the open ceiling, and he was amazed.
Repeatedly, over the course of the meal, every time I needed a distraction, I'd say, "There's a truck in the ceiling", and he would light up and say, "TRUCK!"
Toronto
To back up a bit, we went to Toronto this weekend to visit friends. We visited pubs and drank lots of good beer, played the Firefly Boardgame well into the wee hours, visited the Steamwhistle brewery and the train museum and rode on a steam train, and visited Meeplemart, which is a couple of blocks from our friend's condo and, seriously, is all that I had hoped it would be.
Owen was amazed by the trains. That was probably the highlight of the trip, until he saw the truck in the ceiling.
Sleep Habits
We have a little pop-up sleeping tent that we borrowed from some friends. We decided to start to transition him from the crib and using the tent as his sleeping area kills two birds with one stone: it gets him used to not sleeping in the crib (which is also to say, sleeping in a place he can leave when he wants to) and accustoms him to the tent, so we can use it when we travel.
Since we've been on the go pretty much constantly since Canada Day, it's seen a lot of use, and we're fortunate that he's taken to it very quickly. He loves the thing.
He also has been very good about staying in it until we come to get him. I was pretty sure he was going to wander into our room that first morning, once he woke up, but he stayed put.
The other night he started making noise. I went in to see what was wrong and he was half out of the tent; I think he rolled over and couldn't get back into the tent in his drowsy state. I put him onto his back. Mostly asleep, he grabbed his soother and put it in his mouth, then let his arms fall to the side. Then, without opening his eyes, he blindly groped with his right hand until he found cow, then draped cow over his face and head, and let his arm flop to his side, and was asleep.
Language
Anything that he can't see is Hiding. I ask him, "Where is Owen's belly?" He looks at the shirt covering him. "Hiding," he says.
Lots of stuff is crying. At first it was just babies -- "Crying," he says, glumly, pointing at the picture of the laughing baby on the tempra box -- but then it was animals, and toys, and all sorts of things. One time, a motorcycle was crying. I'm still unsure whether the word has some hidden meaning for him or whether he just likes the sound of it.
Cow
Owen was sitting with his truck book and Cow. He touched Cow's nose against the page, over the picture of the loader and said, "Loader." Then the crane: "Crane." Finally, content that Cow's education in the world of trucks had progressed to a satisfactory degree, he put Cow aside, saying, "Enough."
He certainly is in a good position to teach the recognition of trucks and related vehicles. When he hears a siren he'll point out whether it's a fire truck or an ambulance, and he's usually right.
The other day I was reading to him and the book requires you to match the driver with their vehicle. I pointed to the construction worker and asked him to find the digger, because that's the label the book used, and he held up his hands in the "I don't know" motion he uses when he can't find something. I pointed to it and he said, "Loader," which, of course, is what it was.
Fashion Criticism
He still doesn't like my fashion choices.
On at least two occasions, as I'm getting dressed in the morning, he has stopped me to protest my decisions, principally that I wanted to put on an orange shirt. He insisted I go with green.
In the restaurant (with, you will recall, a truck in the ceiling), he stopped mid conversation to pull on my shirt and say Off, Green. I asked if I was supposed to wear a green shirt and he confirmed that I was. My lovely wife pointed out that we were on the last day of our packed clothes and I didn't have a green shirt, and I certainly wasn't going to change in the middle of the restaurant.
I told him that I could wear a green shirt tomorrow. He gravely shook his head. "Orange," he corrected me.
Sometimes you just can't win, I suppose.
Repeatedly, over the course of the meal, every time I needed a distraction, I'd say, "There's a truck in the ceiling", and he would light up and say, "TRUCK!"
Toronto
To back up a bit, we went to Toronto this weekend to visit friends. We visited pubs and drank lots of good beer, played the Firefly Boardgame well into the wee hours, visited the Steamwhistle brewery and the train museum and rode on a steam train, and visited Meeplemart, which is a couple of blocks from our friend's condo and, seriously, is all that I had hoped it would be.
Owen was amazed by the trains. That was probably the highlight of the trip, until he saw the truck in the ceiling.
Sleep Habits
We have a little pop-up sleeping tent that we borrowed from some friends. We decided to start to transition him from the crib and using the tent as his sleeping area kills two birds with one stone: it gets him used to not sleeping in the crib (which is also to say, sleeping in a place he can leave when he wants to) and accustoms him to the tent, so we can use it when we travel.
Since we've been on the go pretty much constantly since Canada Day, it's seen a lot of use, and we're fortunate that he's taken to it very quickly. He loves the thing.
He also has been very good about staying in it until we come to get him. I was pretty sure he was going to wander into our room that first morning, once he woke up, but he stayed put.
The other night he started making noise. I went in to see what was wrong and he was half out of the tent; I think he rolled over and couldn't get back into the tent in his drowsy state. I put him onto his back. Mostly asleep, he grabbed his soother and put it in his mouth, then let his arms fall to the side. Then, without opening his eyes, he blindly groped with his right hand until he found cow, then draped cow over his face and head, and let his arm flop to his side, and was asleep.
Language
Anything that he can't see is Hiding. I ask him, "Where is Owen's belly?" He looks at the shirt covering him. "Hiding," he says.
Lots of stuff is crying. At first it was just babies -- "Crying," he says, glumly, pointing at the picture of the laughing baby on the tempra box -- but then it was animals, and toys, and all sorts of things. One time, a motorcycle was crying. I'm still unsure whether the word has some hidden meaning for him or whether he just likes the sound of it.
Cow
Owen was sitting with his truck book and Cow. He touched Cow's nose against the page, over the picture of the loader and said, "Loader." Then the crane: "Crane." Finally, content that Cow's education in the world of trucks had progressed to a satisfactory degree, he put Cow aside, saying, "Enough."
He certainly is in a good position to teach the recognition of trucks and related vehicles. When he hears a siren he'll point out whether it's a fire truck or an ambulance, and he's usually right.
The other day I was reading to him and the book requires you to match the driver with their vehicle. I pointed to the construction worker and asked him to find the digger, because that's the label the book used, and he held up his hands in the "I don't know" motion he uses when he can't find something. I pointed to it and he said, "Loader," which, of course, is what it was.
Fashion Criticism
He still doesn't like my fashion choices.
On at least two occasions, as I'm getting dressed in the morning, he has stopped me to protest my decisions, principally that I wanted to put on an orange shirt. He insisted I go with green.
In the restaurant (with, you will recall, a truck in the ceiling), he stopped mid conversation to pull on my shirt and say Off, Green. I asked if I was supposed to wear a green shirt and he confirmed that I was. My lovely wife pointed out that we were on the last day of our packed clothes and I didn't have a green shirt, and I certainly wasn't going to change in the middle of the restaurant.
I told him that I could wear a green shirt tomorrow. He gravely shook his head. "Orange," he corrected me.
Sometimes you just can't win, I suppose.
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