tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24434220882265198702024-02-18T17:31:21.590-08:00Word by WordThoughts and vignettes; a Nicole's-eye view of life in Orange County, and in general.Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-63242102091721710522011-02-24T13:42:00.000-08:002011-02-24T13:59:49.453-08:00Auction Basket Case<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-6R4ulZiO5fS0u_wKGJdLq9upiBbvxmkZ2S9NSld_9mNc3WD1MCc5qoWdWgQUSejXVUuRT3AWBsHte2HY0ODcOVgaY_tD7bOzv16B3Q-xuBYyPQN15L7Glyj-zrQtlqQAFhfHLTglO8/s1600/duktig-mini-kitchen__0086283_PE214923_S4.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-6R4ulZiO5fS0u_wKGJdLq9upiBbvxmkZ2S9NSld_9mNc3WD1MCc5qoWdWgQUSejXVUuRT3AWBsHte2HY0ODcOVgaY_tD7bOzv16B3Q-xuBYyPQN15L7Glyj-zrQtlqQAFhfHLTglO8/s200/duktig-mini-kitchen__0086283_PE214923_S4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577377583396871666" /></a><br />My first experience with being involved in the creation of an auction basket was last year, for the preschool fundraiser. I really just dipped my toe in the water -- was present for the selection of the theme, and okay-ed decisions made by my more pro-active co-room mom. It all went very smoothly.<br /><br />This year, I am the more experienced of the room moms in terms of how this all works. Our theme last year, "cooking" went over well, (two baskets, one for pretend cooking, one for real cooking). I suggested we nab the theme. We have less money to use this year, which is just as well; one thing that drove me crazy, even from the sidelines, was the amount of work that went into these baskets (driving around, time spent hunting online, wrapping the things for presentation). The baskets only went for the purchase price at auction, if we were lucky! A strange tradition.<br /><br />Anyway, when I was at Ikea, having spent all the money in the budget on a handful of great play kitchen items, I confessed to the employee who helped me carry the heavy piece that I felt a little guilty about how easy it was this time, copying an idea, and doing one-stop shopping. His response was surprisingly pithy: "Work smarter, not harder." The Tao of Ikea?Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-22915429427226882882011-02-14T10:38:00.000-08:002011-02-24T21:00:39.973-08:00Rain Roulete<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKsE5gsFvUIyQzmJ_5XMd7Lauc9M0gxRcenmb-UB5p8vn05_ohT4s15k4P34VbC2F771SRgeRESB6fv_faAz6HZfiog1ODNt5vyYd8kzliG3l-vgm-93YLzey4aDnAwmDj0Rw52Q0a02c/s1600/roulette_sm.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 185px; height: 103px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKsE5gsFvUIyQzmJ_5XMd7Lauc9M0gxRcenmb-UB5p8vn05_ohT4s15k4P34VbC2F771SRgeRESB6fv_faAz6HZfiog1ODNt5vyYd8kzliG3l-vgm-93YLzey4aDnAwmDj0Rw52Q0a02c/s320/roulette_sm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573620555147948978" /></a><br />"You're so lucky!" These were the words of a friend regarding the fact that C's birthday was in the late spring, and we were able to confidently plan a park birthday party. This friend's girls' birthdays are in January and February.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEGH5ydktoNQr4xk4NwaFuTIFwbn2cXvvGL-jyaqPB1ldamBukZnVB3aF5yxGZ2q0GGG0-mWQvMoWDr3tKdmYXM13UehQW7MXFhkaf02NJj3RRZaBCOnnkLLl3hIzi5Om_L-AfuYLOJHc/s1600/Raincloud.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 228px; height: 221px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEGH5ydktoNQr4xk4NwaFuTIFwbn2cXvvGL-jyaqPB1ldamBukZnVB3aF5yxGZ2q0GGG0-mWQvMoWDr3tKdmYXM13UehQW7MXFhkaf02NJj3RRZaBCOnnkLLl3hIzi5Om_L-AfuYLOJHc/s320/Raincloud.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573620846844538370" /></a><br />The youngest's birthday is next weekend. A few weeks ago, when we got serious about planning the party, the weather was gorgeous. <i>A perk of living in Southern California!</i> I thought. <i>We can have a park birthday in February!</i> G got excited about it, invitations were ordered, and away we went. And then we hit the window where the weather sites will start to give you an extended forecast.<br /><br />Depending on who you ask, there is around a 40% chance of rain on the day for now, give or take. We have a skeletal Plan B, but I am still hoping we don't have to go there. At least G reports that what he is looking to most is the chocolate cake, which will be there, rain or shine.Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-47729011675453977022010-05-23T09:17:00.000-07:002010-05-23T09:40:40.197-07:00Dual Birthday Theme Duel<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdkz4IXzgL3zAHBdq0GOaQhcZrSLup1vx5l4RyfqpQjTYXP8AXeTCOtAlHcI7hBLyW8hului2OOmUS1l4aHPvxU4MNBrBSmgDFpRUNCZswEOqTaoZyYQh8luxva-j95xnfboGI77mCB8/s1600/Caillou2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 147px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdkz4IXzgL3zAHBdq0GOaQhcZrSLup1vx5l4RyfqpQjTYXP8AXeTCOtAlHcI7hBLyW8hului2OOmUS1l4aHPvxU4MNBrBSmgDFpRUNCZswEOqTaoZyYQh8luxva-j95xnfboGI77mCB8/s200/Caillou2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474504130469218466" /></a><br />Weeks ago, when I asked C. what he wanted on his birthday cake, he replied without hesitation, "Caillou!" <em>That was easy</em>, I thought. I found Caillou invitations, a mylar balloon, a table cover... this 4th birthday party at the park was going to be a piece of cake. Until...<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDppvG2R9EuAc8NlasB2YRHmfCwY4FRRyxkF3kVWnd5HYPxwfTOoeZ0AbHiooo_UAd1tT6Eh0fYn5tG91nDly_N1AXckBjqMXgUAZf1a1ASCEf_1bCV_siia5bahcZLa9KP7SXAoEbcsE/s1600/fs_sam_03_pv.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDppvG2R9EuAc8NlasB2YRHmfCwY4FRRyxkF3kVWnd5HYPxwfTOoeZ0AbHiooo_UAd1tT6Eh0fYn5tG91nDly_N1AXckBjqMXgUAZf1a1ASCEf_1bCV_siia5bahcZLa9KP7SXAoEbcsE/s200/fs_sam_03_pv.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474504345065108258" /></a><br /><br /><br />Hubby, in conversation a few days ago about the upcoming birthday, happened to ask C. what he wanted on his cake. The cake is the last thing to get ordered. "Fireman Sam!" he replied with enthusiasm. Hm. A disjointed theme? Or give the kid what he wants (unless of course by party time he wants Batman on the cake)? Or put them both on the cake? I have to decide by Wednesday... As long as it's chocolate, I imagine he'll be fine with whatever I decide.Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-68152269685488469572010-05-08T21:13:00.000-07:002010-05-08T21:25:38.193-07:00Conflicted<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXiu4m9HRz2DSY3N1IzVYTDwb9yJp1YuiZ77YNWCc9xeiQD3Eu3oEIKT8Ors4SykUIlkuGr9Ti2576NfLbCEtAyTDZLyHOl__0K049ZmT84y0MSJhxax2fF9XKLZDPqOV6443JhOh6BSI/s1600/u13735050.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXiu4m9HRz2DSY3N1IzVYTDwb9yJp1YuiZ77YNWCc9xeiQD3Eu3oEIKT8Ors4SykUIlkuGr9Ti2576NfLbCEtAyTDZLyHOl__0K049ZmT84y0MSJhxax2fF9XKLZDPqOV6443JhOh6BSI/s200/u13735050.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469119397505627138" /></a>Before I had kids, I resolved that I would not let them play with guns. It seems like an obvious rule to me. <br /><br />But, but. What about squirt guns? I sure loved them as a kid. I remember the excitement of picking one out at the drugstore, getting the stream of water from the faucet small and steady enough to go in the little hold in the back, and fumbling with the stopper to get it snug, before blasting the neighborhood boys with my best shot. <br /><br />Sometimes it seems like a ridiculous thought to consider denying my kids this pleasure, but other times, I worry about the slippery slope.Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-46361600990026966542010-03-30T16:44:00.001-07:002010-03-30T16:44:37.237-07:00A Scarry History<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi3xhacuR_kej2z8Wk85auBI24X0IgpC5b6v_35RJzqpERfQZ6S_Zu6R7wEJnf4eadG4uK5b-JIYwuiiHIhFba0BX3p7oh_olJ4qkyTrmPkmx2mGOWT3ibLD8-__ZBHhmOlMZPy4NZETc/s1600/hessu.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 121px; height: 121px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi3xhacuR_kej2z8Wk85auBI24X0IgpC5b6v_35RJzqpERfQZ6S_Zu6R7wEJnf4eadG4uK5b-JIYwuiiHIhFba0BX3p7oh_olJ4qkyTrmPkmx2mGOWT3ibLD8-__ZBHhmOlMZPy4NZETc/s320/hessu.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453733643373624946" /></a>I loved the Richard Scarry books as a kid. The imagination, the word play, the details of the world he created... I got lost in them, in the best way.<br /><br />Now, my sons have a few Scarry books. They enjoy them too. But they are not yet old enough to read the books themselves, so Hubby and I have the honor. <br /><br />As fabulous as these books are, they are hard to read aloud. The other day, reading to C. before his nap, I skipped a few pages here and there, to get through. When he wasn't quite ready to sleep afterward, I gave him the book, "Here, you can look at this while you rest." He picked it up and started slowly paging through it.<br /><br />"Mommy! You missed this page!" he yelled, an edge of concern in his voice. Pause. "You missed this page too, Mommy!" Oops. Busted. And come to think of it, although I remember being read plenty of Dr. Seuss, Berenstain Bears, and Mother Goose tales as a kid, I don't remember hearing the Scarry ones...Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-34698735435400656202010-01-13T12:11:00.000-08:002010-01-13T12:24:19.547-08:00Bust my Boiler<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-LZdjjcoGkfZJyMHGPtPxNJuNmPoluQi1oDk3C50jtbXKxis3TawejrXCJwvn6kXaS1l22GRurXncm-IJTixIFXFP1XhXTw2IiNiNEPVzYY2VNiWZ2IIPMxV1NfynUhJRhQgW68U1mKQ/s1600-h/BF.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 106px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-LZdjjcoGkfZJyMHGPtPxNJuNmPoluQi1oDk3C50jtbXKxis3TawejrXCJwvn6kXaS1l22GRurXncm-IJTixIFXFP1XhXTw2IiNiNEPVzYY2VNiWZ2IIPMxV1NfynUhJRhQgW68U1mKQ/s200/BF.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426321896174316114" /></a>Perhaps C. has been watching a little too much of the Thomas and Friends dvd that he received for the holidays. Or maybe it's a combination of that and Fireman Sam that's causing the problem. Thomas is narrated by Brit Pierce Brosnan; the latter has characters with various accents from the UK. So now C. is experimenting with a British accent – dropping his r’s and denasalizing vowels. “The cah ovah theh.” “The mahn with a red sweatah.” He’s also trying out idioms and vocab from the show. “Bust my boiler!” I heard him say once. And he likes to use the word “decoupled” whenever possible. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AzhyphenhyphenTb8PCJmLVy_i5OMJrmvpYWhbG4By9WhWWQ2mSRC1xToXqKyUEujg1pGoI0G0Wg8xj5AjXDHQs9h7oJ9o1McFsJP5efHCy5v2Q4L7VNcndLrmI5kpWMBdCuJBM952q_Ya9f-uSEM/s1600-h/STH.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 168px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AzhyphenhyphenTb8PCJmLVy_i5OMJrmvpYWhbG4By9WhWWQ2mSRC1xToXqKyUEujg1pGoI0G0Wg8xj5AjXDHQs9h7oJ9o1McFsJP5efHCy5v2Q4L7VNcndLrmI5kpWMBdCuJBM952q_Ya9f-uSEM/s200/STH.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426322075507105058" /></a><br /><br />Even Hubby will randomly follow a statement with “…Sir Topham Hatt boomed importantly.” Time to unplug the TV already?Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-48018101609163725982009-12-15T14:34:00.000-08:002009-12-15T19:45:55.978-08:00T.C.Several years ago, my husband and I heard a <a href="http://www.scpr.org/programs/loh-life/?page=2">Sandra Tsing Loh </a>commentary about what she called "treasure chum" -- the useless things that accumulate in the house. The term has proved to be so useful, especially after having kids, that we now just say T.C. We giggled through the skymall magazine during plane rides, marvelling at all the T.C. We wrestled with the challenge of finding appropriate favors for C's third birthday party last summer; "No T.C.!" was our guideline. We opted for personalized cookies. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxlvkyu6yhBhmAb_6p3sUmpNunBe0HBGzRabOwNh_fOpHm9p86sQ5LZTiEwVkhfdgBjqhth1NAH-I6EX98xuoPm_hD4YLfynWKOzYwHHky8w5PZIxB11cun71uPLl7l5E3sCihcUfphY/s1600-h/menorah.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxlvkyu6yhBhmAb_6p3sUmpNunBe0HBGzRabOwNh_fOpHm9p86sQ5LZTiEwVkhfdgBjqhth1NAH-I6EX98xuoPm_hD4YLfynWKOzYwHHky8w5PZIxB11cun71uPLl7l5E3sCihcUfphY/s200/menorah.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415674579225350338" /></a><br />This past week, I was presented with a new category of T.C.: a menorah that C. made at preschool. I do think it is lovely. But we will never use it. So what am I supposed to do with it? Do I put it in the top of the closet forevermore? Will he be hurt if I chuck it? Is there any way to recycle it? I'm truly conflicted.Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-12496828053276986782009-11-21T10:05:00.000-08:002009-11-21T10:21:06.699-08:00Theater firstC. has a big day today, his first time going to see a <a href="http://www.scr.org/calendar/view.aspx?id=2510">play</a>. Although it is a production for children, the reccommended age range starts at 4, which C. is still over six months away from. But Grandma S. is enthusiastic about getting his arts education started, and his attention span is pretty good already, so there he goes. Last night, I was giving him a preview, trying to prepare him for the experience, and I realized that it was a big deal: his real introduction to the world of theater. Soon, <a href="http://www.orshakes.org/">Shakespeare plays</a> with Grandpa F.!Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-6044563746897273912009-11-21T10:00:00.000-08:002009-11-21T10:05:04.106-08:00So much to learn...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzSjXYtWtpsXxKFCFKtZizwORmAOtvnOzhvQtSiH1REE7RajeJKC5y9f9ZFc5KvbfSbHRvZCQBNKPXtS5N2roG56PR4tPPo2t-McpdoQKCXNuCN8-7C8l3hmsIZ7qV_8LG9LJwJWlCc2Y/s1600/noname"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzSjXYtWtpsXxKFCFKtZizwORmAOtvnOzhvQtSiH1REE7RajeJKC5y9f9ZFc5KvbfSbHRvZCQBNKPXtS5N2roG56PR4tPPo2t-McpdoQKCXNuCN8-7C8l3hmsIZ7qV_8LG9LJwJWlCc2Y/s200/noname" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406619283250692290" /></a><br />The other morning, C. was playing in the living room, after having put on his own underwear. I didn't even notice the problem from the front. It was only when he turned around that I started laughing...Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-50079242075234839392009-11-16T13:26:00.000-08:002009-11-16T14:11:07.894-08:00On FearI just read a <a href="http://www.normanollestad.com/">fantastic memoir</a> by a Southern California writer with a terrifying, heartbreaking, fascinating story about surviving a plane crash that killed his father, his father's girlfriend, and the pilot, when he was 11 years old. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03OWJnObS4pZIGtbrLfKfdch0jU130dcBbxO5tB369ahclEU085_OScPiy9DzAuVrcpPeXt3-35_hM8jDo9457qTJ0dhJ9PpZAtNWlAk6P4txLyDTKee1JgVvlNctbRo9mVq7OVDetb4/s1600/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 111px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03OWJnObS4pZIGtbrLfKfdch0jU130dcBbxO5tB369ahclEU085_OScPiy9DzAuVrcpPeXt3-35_hM8jDo9457qTJ0dhJ9PpZAtNWlAk6P4txLyDTKee1JgVvlNctbRo9mVq7OVDetb4/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404825541839774658" /></a>The father had made him conquer all kinds of fears when he was tiny: skiing and surfing in conditions that are hard to imagine in any case, let alone trying to envision going through that fear as a young child. A parent these days would most likely go to jail if they subjected a kid to the conditions his dad inflicted on him. The irony is that the balance, instinct and confidence that he developed are what allowed him to escape that deadly crash.<br /><br />C. (3.5) is going through a "Fireman Sam" phase. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Jwh42-56lTRMv_xM814jy5zoGUAJ2-7iLHrL-mbrVu6DAKOdcuMKstPyJw1raGuGq47IgrAF_IvGb8E2RT82yOB2HvWdJLPXk2mL2x-F8Xw55F42cAkoTe3j9UvmhZK2ANBC5FL7ikg/s1600/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 47px; height: 94px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Jwh42-56lTRMv_xM814jy5zoGUAJ2-7iLHrL-mbrVu6DAKOdcuMKstPyJw1raGuGq47IgrAF_IvGb8E2RT82yOB2HvWdJLPXk2mL2x-F8Xw55F42cAkoTe3j9UvmhZK2ANBC5FL7ikg/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404822084632960050" /></a>But of the six episodes currently available On Demand... only two of them can be viewed without a screech of, "I don't like this one! Change it!" He doesn't like it when someone gets hurt, lost, or if the story is otherwise too scary. He's a sensitive little guy. This morning, I was thinking about what it would have been like for C. to have a parent that made him confront and tolerate intense fear. As it stands, he has two pretty indulgent ones who don't like to scare him... <a href="http://nicole-nelson.blogspot.com/2009/11/boarding-bribe-train.html">perhaps to a fault</a>. Some fear is clearly good, at least in the confidence that he gains from getting past it. (Case in point: preschool.) <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-ZXt3dELqfUL66_v9FF9JogHewSwJY_EkdwzPtEfUgsL648ZPDnTztAv1Skh3Ns4IwVT23Vjo7evceA733BL_bTYrMtKvkFSkv7mtgNNNRXxmejkr7D03QNgYbt3zj4EwutXLFfbbc8/s1600/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 132px; height: 88px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-ZXt3dELqfUL66_v9FF9JogHewSwJY_EkdwzPtEfUgsL648ZPDnTztAv1Skh3Ns4IwVT23Vjo7evceA733BL_bTYrMtKvkFSkv7mtgNNNRXxmejkr7D03QNgYbt3zj4EwutXLFfbbc8/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404822932321094610" /></a>He starts soccer tomorrow, which he says he doesn't want to do, presumably because he is scared. He'll go anyway, any probably like it a lot. But that's about the speed of my tolerance of having him confront fears. Now I can only hope that he won't be in a situation where he would need to be able to scale down an icy mountain solo in a freak accident...Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-90036723178818005232009-11-04T19:51:00.000-08:002009-11-05T03:41:44.255-08:00Boarding the Bribe TrainC. is pretty smart. However, he does not excel at everything. One particularly weak skill has proven to be… potty training. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaDpt8CzHAJMZlSbDCnqEuBBbGaBYXtFcCTGixZvqTUdth2W4zJ5rh-wbGVwY9ScnxYzO2L2awD8vDaSQZIi7ktu-ewOGDYKG-pcCWxVvsREy7-r9zIckx_sgH2ltE-mGWYTQe7iwVaRo/s1600-h/IMG_1609.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaDpt8CzHAJMZlSbDCnqEuBBbGaBYXtFcCTGixZvqTUdth2W4zJ5rh-wbGVwY9ScnxYzO2L2awD8vDaSQZIi7ktu-ewOGDYKG-pcCWxVvsREy7-r9zIckx_sgH2ltE-mGWYTQe7iwVaRo/s320/IMG_1609.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400473285162026690" /></a>His preschool teachers have been supportive. Relatives have had their opinions. Hubby and I have done our best. But the kid is <span style="font-style:italic;">stubborn</span>. And he hasn’t wanted to do it. It had not gone well. That is until… Teacher Susan said to C., “C! You like playing with Gordon? I’m going to put him up in this cabinet. If your mommy tells me that you went pee in the potty, I’ll let you take it home and keep it for a few days.” Next time we were at school he was able to take it home; finally, he was interested (and motivated) in using the potty. And today, when he took Gordon home for a second time after some more sporadic practice, he really was on a roll, using the potty on his own for the rest of the day. I am cautiously optimistic that we are rounding the PT bend…<br /><br />I had been against bribery. It sets up "things" as a reward, rather than the satisfaction of accomplishing something… it just seems so <span style="font-style:italic;">capitalistic</span>. But at this point, with C. knocking on the door of 3.5, I’m genuinely OK with a little bribery to neutralize the stubbornness. I even told him that if he continues to try to use the potty over the weekend, we’ll buy him his own Gordon. Peep peep.Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-41951569393379182672009-10-10T10:54:00.000-07:002009-10-10T13:12:57.571-07:00Bonjour, la classe<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGt0grrb69BosJOSRKMEFjQzb38j-49NKG8kQRruD0ffpYOVeMsRotKsXHqmD8cF52RRh4rr-NE8p7sWruKFnG5QIQuqFOFQVeO3KOm_4uzgR_KDE6AycawGu_EIZCsxKNSX4Fq_X9Z3g/s1600-h/Large-7119556c-fe1f-4af9-9ff6-862206931801.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 174px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGt0grrb69BosJOSRKMEFjQzb38j-49NKG8kQRruD0ffpYOVeMsRotKsXHqmD8cF52RRh4rr-NE8p7sWruKFnG5QIQuqFOFQVeO3KOm_4uzgR_KDE6AycawGu_EIZCsxKNSX4Fq_X9Z3g/s200/Large-7119556c-fe1f-4af9-9ff6-862206931801.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391034548935341298" /></a><br />C. had his first French class. It happens to take place within walking distance of our home. The owner of the Lango Kids company came to the meeting, and she participated while a young, enthusiastic, impressive instructor led the group in songs, dancing, stories, and rhythm games, all in French of course. I did not expect to join in the lesson, but she invited the parents at the beginning, so we hopped, sang, clapped, and repeated along with the kids. <br /><br />At the end, the owner approached me. “Are you French?” she asked. I admit, I get a kick when people ask this. I told her no. “Moroccan? Canadian? Swiss?” She went on. “Just a long-time Francophile,” I shrugged. “Did you live in France?” I told her yes. She complimented my accent. Then she said, “Do you work full time? Maybe you could work for us!” I smiled, and told her we could talk. On the walk home, I laughed at myself. Could my ego take going from teaching French phonetics in French at a major university to teaching preschoolers the names of animals and body parts? Perhaps. The draw is that I whole-heartedly embrace the mission of the company, to create better world citizens. <em>On va voir.</em>Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-63798426641535961102009-10-05T14:28:00.000-07:002009-10-10T10:54:49.004-07:00Little shot of horrorFresh from a visit with a good, very sane friend in Minneapolis over the weekend, I braved the OC moms at mommy & me today with G. I put in my contacts, pulled together an outfit, even put on some make-up... Towards the end of the class, I chatted with a fashion shoot-ready mom whom I had talked to the meeting before. She was asking me the same questions we had already covered (where we grew up, where we lived now, our other kids, etc.) Then, out of the blue, she said, and I quote, "A friend of mine just got Botox, and now whenever I talk to anyone, all I can think about is where they need Botox." Zap. And sigh.Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-34285652917360539562009-09-09T16:13:00.001-07:002009-09-11T15:12:49.606-07:00The Littlest LiteralistC had an appointment with a pediatric urologist for a minor issue, to see whether surgery was necessary. The doctor needed him to exert himself in order to evaluate the problem. "Knock down the wall, like this," he said, posing with two palms on the wall, and pushing. C looked up at him skeptically, put his hands on the wall, looked up at him again, and you could see in his mind, <em>What is this guy thinking? I can't knock down the wall...</em><br /><br />The doctor recognized that this approach wasn't working. "OK; never mind." He opened the exam room door. "Close the door." The doctor held the door halfway open. C's eyes lit up, and he reached with one hand for the handle, and another for the door, and the doctor said, "No, both hands on the door-" <br /><br />"But, you have to take your hand away!" he insisted. Hubby and I were chuckling pretty heartily in the background at this point. Ah, our little literalist. (And, hopefully it wasn't due to suboptimal evaluation circumstances, but the verdict was no surgery.)Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-3792557158602312982009-09-04T14:07:00.000-07:002009-09-04T14:18:33.474-07:00WordsG., at 18 months, is officially a late talker. Of the few words that he does use, only two are nouns. The rest are not: <em>yes, no, hi, bye, beep beep</em>… What is funny is when he copies his older brother C., twice his age. I hear him, in the exact same tone of voice saying, “Okay,” “Mine!” or… to my amusement and horror, “Why, why? <a href="http://nicole-nelson.blogspot.com/2009/03/question.html">Why</a>!”Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-87639365452156809592009-07-15T22:16:00.000-07:002009-07-15T22:30:22.086-07:00Check-up freak outI brought C. to his three-year well-check visit yesterday. I was hardly looking forward to it. I talked about it casually with him the day before, reminded him the pediatrician was a friend of Dad's, etc. But the kid is too smart; he freaked out anyway. The drama started when the nurse asked him to get on the scale, and continued in the half hour that we had to wait for the doctor after that. Tears, thrashing, screams of "I want to go home! I want to take a nap! I want to get back in the car!" -- Quite the little salesman, working to find the right pitch to close the deal. <br /><br />When the doctor finally walked in the door, he said immediately, "I don't like you!" I was mortified, but she seemed unfazed. She was great with him, and by the end, she got him to give her a hug.<br /><br />Then came time for the shots. I told him, "The nurse is going to come back, and to keep you healthy, she is going to give you a couple of shots. They'll hurt a little bit, and then we are going to go home." I held my breath and waited for a new round of grief. Instead, from his crouched position on the floor, he looked up at me and said, "This is an airplane." He dragged the toy airplane he had found under the chair out and continued talking about it until the nurse came. He simply looked at the tray with the vials and syringes and cotton and let her jab him twice, and then reached for my hand to go.Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-36955093478087244612009-06-19T13:33:00.000-07:002009-06-19T21:06:11.974-07:00Crimini justiceI have already bemoaned the <a href="http://nicole-nelson.blogspot.com/2009/02/love-and-fromage.html">gaps</a> in my husband's palate. My three-year-old son has a similarly narrow range of foods he'll eat. So imagine my delight when I offered a bite of the mushroom-in-citrus-vinaigrette-with-parsley offering that comes with the bread at our <a href="http://modomiocucinarustica.com/home.html">local Italian restaurant</a>. Usually, I am the only one who eats any of it. But G. loved it! Together, we finished the plate. Now maybe it's worth flagging the good mushroom recipes that come along, as I apparently have someone to share them with...Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-43553925021501585752009-06-13T14:36:00.000-07:002009-06-13T14:39:33.313-07:00Personalized, schmersonalizedC. received recently a very thoughtful gift: a cd with children’s songs, personalized with his name in each song. It includes his favorite, Old MacDonald. Only, in this version, it goes: “Little C. had a farm…” It drives him crazy every time it comes on -- because the song isn’t <em>right</em>. “I want to hear the <em>real </em>EE-AYE-EE-AYE-OH song, Mommy! Turn it off!” Sigh. <br /><br /> It made me remember Girl Scout camp one year, when a counselor tried to teach us the song “When all the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops”, and I complained loudly that she wasn’t singing it right. Alas, I can relate…Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-29325487763855462202009-05-25T13:46:00.000-07:002009-05-25T13:54:59.078-07:00Star-crashedA family barbecue at my in-laws’ yesterday was crashed by a movie star – sort of like that great scene from “Notting Hill”, but not as dramatic. She is a friend of my sister-in-law, someone I had met briefly once before at a party. Yesterday, I got to talk to her at length, and I was charmed. Although she is much-celebrated, having been nominated for Tonys and an Oscar, and winning a Golden Globe, I was not familiar with her work. Her husband is lovely too. It was a welcome, random, “only in Southern California” thing. She dropped names like “Lily Tomlin” and “Jamie Lee Curtis”, made a reference to the time Arnold Schwarzenegger asked her out on a date (pre-Maria; this woman had the sense to decline the invitation). At the radio station, I met plenty of famous people, but that was a different dynamic. In that case, it was you: important guest, me: employee. This playing field was more enjoyable, and we got to know each other a little, just as two women with different life experiences.Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-43815593121341931292009-05-18T20:39:00.000-07:002009-05-19T02:11:45.320-07:00Rattled<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig4jOrtiqIaPw7f-WgO0gmi_9yWGdei4X3ivjvB-SqK4v-Ytqfc57Wn36dhRRKW5XtDPWCNnmHqojmQiaLbsccVKJacQ98l1SabTpMB02OLHc8DoufGwSDcmCBW-01_4PpGOsqubyE9nA/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 139px; height: 96px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig4jOrtiqIaPw7f-WgO0gmi_9yWGdei4X3ivjvB-SqK4v-Ytqfc57Wn36dhRRKW5XtDPWCNnmHqojmQiaLbsccVKJacQ98l1SabTpMB02OLHc8DoufGwSDcmCBW-01_4PpGOsqubyE9nA/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337395300533543074" /></a>The magnitude 4.7 seismic event last night made me think back to an enrichment segment offered in middle school about earthquakes. It provided detailed information about everything from plate tectonics to interpreting the Richter Scale and different kinds of waves. My study of earthquakes until that point was limited to hiking the <a href="http://www.nps.gov/pore/planyourvisit/hiking_guide.htm">Earthquake Trail</a> in <a href="http://www.nps.gov/pore/">Point Reyes</a>, and having a second grade teacher say that in some very large number of years, Disneyland would be in San Francisco, because of movement along the fault. It sounded not so bad at the time. But the “expert” leading the mini-course felt inclined to pepper his lectures with comments like “the question isn’t ‘if’ the Big One will hit, but ‘when’.” He went into great detail about all the damage that would occur, the number of people that would be killed, and said that the side of the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPYH0JrkieNrOQW_6wbWmublMPyK4EYF2lXfW4PtfldlMQqCF7PF41eDhQN1lXe3Pfl_yXxqZBUOnOiKbJ41pg2DfOTqffWTss25AZlTcSnkvZ7V96kojN8p-FerNLSeugc0QpCpBBmU/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 137px; height: 103px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPYH0JrkieNrOQW_6wbWmublMPyK4EYF2lXfW4PtfldlMQqCF7PF41eDhQN1lXe3Pfl_yXxqZBUOnOiKbJ41pg2DfOTqffWTss25AZlTcSnkvZ7V96kojN8p-FerNLSeugc0QpCpBBmU/s200/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337394383062975762" /></a>Golden Gate Bridge that was not on bedrock (I don’t remember which one) would collapse into the Bay. I stopped listening at that point. I was already a moderate hypochondriac; he made me an earthquake-phobe too. I was a nervous wreck driving across the Bridge, in underground parking garages, and I didn’t enjoy roller coasters anymore, because I spent the whole time worrying,<span style="font-style:italic;"> what if we have an earthquake and the car gets derailed mid-corkscrew</span>? Maybe it’s my over-sensitivity, but tempering this information with a discussion of risk analysis, or even foregoing the most sensational details to simply talk about <a href="http://www.fema.gov/areyouready/assemble_disaster_supplies_kit.shtm">disaster preparedness</a>, to actually empower us, might have been a better way to go.Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-14350103091454168012009-05-08T16:52:00.000-07:002009-07-10T14:34:16.411-07:00Room with a (new) view<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCnAmFMdt74-xIZgciVUmFq2fn-5JHWpYNMcvzHMXYjn6dD3CM7tU1Et3WnnR4Bk1dtYnRxMZ3r2IxfV9r_xo5l0cHBtLbhP_sJyJh8LZ7Dqmv_eUk0TJItUm3icz9mXmO1Ouyh5iHsw/s1600-h/new+view.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCnAmFMdt74-xIZgciVUmFq2fn-5JHWpYNMcvzHMXYjn6dD3CM7tU1Et3WnnR4Bk1dtYnRxMZ3r2IxfV9r_xo5l0cHBtLbhP_sJyJh8LZ7Dqmv_eUk0TJItUm3icz9mXmO1Ouyh5iHsw/s320/new+view.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333605642307566178" /></a>Our babysitter asked, "What color are your neighbors painting their house?" as the painters and ladders and tarps, buckets, and trucks assembled. Their house physically abuts ours, half of a duplex/condo. "Green," I told her. "Uh-oh," she said. I looked at her. What could be wrong with green? I pictured a muted sea foam green, assuming it would be like the several other such shades on our street. I was not sad to say good-bye to the tired, blond-stained shingles that were not aging well, with a large discolored swath right where their wall met ours. <br /><br />However, once the primer was up and the color was quickly spreading across the house, I realized the prescience of her comment. It was not a delicate green that they had gone with; rather, it was an "ick" green, a camouflage green. I don't care for it, but I am able to overlook it (even as I look at it, alas, multiple times a day...)Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-46208779497109944432009-04-25T13:48:00.001-07:002009-04-25T14:10:33.526-07:00Fort CaveI came home from running errands yesterday to find that my son (with the babysitter's help) had collected all of the dining room chairs in the living room, and draped two big blankets over them. The memories came flooding back... I used to love building "forts", with the light filtered through the dark pastel mix comforter I would use, where friends and I would make up games. To make the fort bigger, we would stack books on the coffee table on top of the seams where we put two blankets together... fine, until the books inevitably fell on one of us when the other inadvertently yanked the blanket with her head at a low point in the "ceiling". And once I cleverly added on to our structure by using masking tape to secure a sheet to a painting, which my mother was NOT happy about. Thankfully, she is artistic (and forgiving), and "fixed" it herself. <br /><br />One thing, though. C. called his construction a "cave". I almost corrected him, until I stopped and thought... and realized that I liked his word for it better.Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-19297109599960250012009-04-17T08:50:00.000-07:002009-04-17T08:52:30.947-07:00The QuestionWe know that there are as many different paths to acquiring English as there are speakers. Along the way, C. was an enthusiastic <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reduplication">reduplicater</a>, (<span style="font-style:italic;">maymay</span> for raisin or airplane, <span style="font-style:italic;">didi</span> for cd, etc.) and he went so far to avoid making the "y" sounds that he said <span style="font-style:italic;">es</span> for yes, and <span style="font-style:italic;">orange</span> for yellow. Of course, we are all enjoying the typical over-production of -ed verbs: <span style="font-style:italic;">goed, builded, doed</span>. Another stage I had heard about, and looked forward to (It will be great! I will be patient; I'll get to explain so much to him!) is upon us. All preschoolers seem to converge on one key point, whatever path they are on: the "Why?" stage. Now I know from experience, as cool as it is that he is curious, it gets old fast. For example, he asked us why it was dark outside. Russ pulled out a globe and a flashlight, and gave a full mini-lecture: the rotation of the earth, the concept of a day, the whole deal. When he was done "...So that, C., is why it is dark outside," all he got for thanks was, naturally, "Why?"Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-28361400678690833282009-04-05T21:03:00.001-07:002009-04-06T08:23:12.428-07:00Helmetlessness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIIJLtkVvo2mDoOWBjl3P-OMsBfdeP_Z1legpIxBv6I6LPPO0ZsxF5ZAFG7_MwdHW4dsTXaxKlotHqoWUFHWVSmrPHNXU2xotPxXx_kbhA9gbI2Y8GNo3Qg6dBgIgS3EPUeWVep4M12is/s1600-h/helmet.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIIJLtkVvo2mDoOWBjl3P-OMsBfdeP_Z1legpIxBv6I6LPPO0ZsxF5ZAFG7_MwdHW4dsTXaxKlotHqoWUFHWVSmrPHNXU2xotPxXx_kbhA9gbI2Y8GNo3Qg6dBgIgS3EPUeWVep4M12is/s200/helmet.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321424548636405762" /></a>The headless helmet over there is now just a memory, fading fast. Two days ago, G. and I said our farewells to the outstanding clinician who guided and supported us through the last two helmets. For the first helmet-free day, G's head looked naked without it; I kept taking a second look. And, I would have feelings that maybe the improvements weren't as good as I'd hoped, that his head was still narrow and long, that he might always stand out -- even after surgery and ten months of helmets. But today already, I'm getting over it, starting to focus on more exciting things (walking, talking, music making...) And G., for his part, has shown no signs of regrets about leaving the thing behind. Ciao, clever but cruel contraption!Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2443422088226519870.post-81267000944946084332009-03-23T21:41:00.000-07:002009-03-23T21:55:57.956-07:00The Age of reason(ing)All of a sudden, C. (who turns 3 in May) has started making counter-arguments. He woke up first from his nap yesterday, and I asked him to be quiet, so as not to wake up G. "But <a href="http://nicole-nelson.blogspot.com/2008/11/new-snuggle-buddy.html">Van</a> isn't being quiet," he said. Easy to defend (but difficult to explain to a nearly 3-year-old). And when we were at a party at a house with a big yard out back on Sunday, C. tried to tell his dad to go inside. "The other kids don't have their dads outside with them." True. But the next-youngest kid was twice his age, and most likely had enough sense not to try to drag a big toy with wheels up a ladder and send it down the slide, or some such stunt C. was sure to have on his clever but judgement-impaired/developing mind. I love when he exposes his thought process through these arguments. It makes me anxious for G. to get beyond "cat" and "banana".Nicole Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11113842473999943957noreply@blogger.com0