Grabapple.net

Baby babble is kind of like static–you hear nothing but noise, nothing but “bababababa, lalalala loo loo loo, eeeeeAAAAAA!” several hours a day, and you think, it might mean something. And you transmit back, “Roger that: see? Book! Apple! Daddy! Chair! Look, kitty! Kitty goes Meow! Cow goes moo!”

And you may get completely ignored, get radio silence, accompanied by an enigmatic smile, or you might get more babble. Did it sink in? You have no idea.

Even worse, sometimes something does come through. “Aaaahpul.” “Neow!” “Yay!” but then isn’t repeated for months, or ever again.

The baby guides all act as though this is a linear process. “A child begins babblilng at 8 or 9 months. Soon they are saying individual words. By age two, he or she is creating simple sentences, such as ‘daddy go bye-bye.’”

I’m starting to suspect that, as in so many other cases, a simple linear process may not in fact describe child development very well.

My enigmatic, nonsense-babbling child said suddenly this week “I eat now.” He pointed emphatically to the table, and when we brought him food, he wolfed it down. He’s said it several other times on the way to school, mostly because we let them serve him breakfast and he doesn’t like having to wait till we get there to eat.

What the hey? He’s never said “I” “eat” or “now” in my presence or his father’s. I guess he’s taking the phrasebook approach to learning English, maybe. Tomorrow he may ask “Where is bathroom please? I wish to order a sandwich. Can you tell me when this train arrives?”

Anyway, he still babbles his static, but more frequently now, you can hear faint traces of speech coming through, broadcast from the other side of the moon. Hi, Daddy! Sock sock sock! Shoooe! Skuuuh (school). He tries to imitate us, but his accent is thick and clumsy still. We don’t speak his native tongue, and he’s reluctantly decided he has to try ours. For toddlers, I suppose whatever life they get is like a foreign-language immersion program.

He’s still taking his time. There are still 18-month olds who say a lot more than he does. But then, neither his father nor I are what you’d call early adopters. We were slow to get CD players, cell phones, non-ancient computers, or to take up IM. We were doing fine, without, after all. Let the other eager types get all hyper. We’d wait and see. And it’s quite possible that this explains far more about our child than the development charts. He just wasn’t sure about this new-fangled practice of using language to communicate. He’s only two, but already he may be a grumpy old man.

And that’s fine. We’re keeping an eye on him to make sure there isn’t a real problem. In the meantime, we’ve got our ears on, good buddy. That’s a 10-4, c’mon back.

Updated link to the list, per comments below, from the original author.

For the record, I won’t homeschool unless absolutely driven to it (i.e., if all the available schools for Nathan were awful). Because I really am not cut out for it. But I have sometimes wished I was, and admire many of those who do.

Ok, here’s the list.

The Bitter Homeschooler’s Wish List:(From Secular Homeschooling Magazine, Issue #1)

1. Please stop asking us if it’s legal. If it is — and it is — it’s insulting to imply that we’re criminals. And if we were criminals,would we admit it?

2. Learn what the words “socialize” and”socialization” mean, and use the one you really mean instead of mixing them up the way you do now. Socializing means hanging out with other people for fun. Socialization means having acquired the skills necessary to do so successfully and pleasantly. If you’re talking to me and my kids, that means that we do in fact go outside now and then to visit the other human beings on the planet, and you can safely assume that we’ve got a decent grasp of both concepts.

3. Quit interrupting my kid at her dance lesson, scout meeting, choir practice,baseball game, art class, field trip, park day, music class, 4H club, or soccer lesson to ask her if as a homeschooler she ever gets to socialize.

4. Don’t assume that every homeschooler you meet is homeschooling for the same reasons and in the same way as that one homeschooler you know.

5. If that homeschooler you know is actually someone you saw on TV, either on the news or on a “reality”show, the above goes double.

6. Please stop telling us horror stories about the homeschoolers you know, know of, or think you might know who ruined their lives by homeschooling. You’re probably the same little bluebird of happiness whose hobby is running up to pregnant women and inducing premature labor by telling them every ghastly birthstory you’ve ever heard. We all hate you, so please go away.

7. We don’t look horrified and start quizzing your kids when we hear they’re in public school. Please stop drilling our children like potential oil fields to see if we’re doing what you consider an adequate job of homeschooling.

8. Stop assuming all homeschoolers are religious.

9. Stop assuming that if we’re religious, we must be homeschooling for religious reasons.

10. We didn’t go through all the reading, learning, thinking, weighing of options, experimenting, and worrying that goes into homeschooling just to annoy you. Really. This was a deeply personal decision, tailored to the specifics of our family. Stop taking the bare fact of our being homeschoolers as either an affront or a judgment about your own educational decisions.

11. Please stop questioning my competency and demanding to see my credentials. I didn’t have to complete a course in catering to successfully cook dinner for my family; I don’t need a degree in teaching to educate my children. If spending at least twelve years in the kind of chew-it-up-and-spit-it-out educational facility we call public school left me with so little information in my memory banks that I can’t teach the basics of an elementary education to my nearest and dearest, maybe there’s a reason I’m so reluctant to send mychild to school.

12. If my kid’s only six and you ask me with a straight face how I can possibly teach him what he’d learn in school, please understand that you’re calling me an idiot. Don’t act shocked if I decide to respond in kind.

13. Stop assuming that because the word “home” is right there in “homeschool,” we never leave the house.We’re the ones who go to the amusement parks, museums, and zoos in the middle of the week and in the off-season and laugh at you because you have to go on weekends and holidays when it’s crowded and icky.

14. Stop assuming that because the word “school” is right there in homeschool, we must sit around at a desk for six or eight hours everyday, just like your kid does. Even if we’re into the “school” side of education — and many of us prefer a more organic approach — we can burn through a lot of material a lot more efficiently, because we don’t have to gear our lessons to the lowest common denominator.

15. Stop asking, “But what about the Prom?” Even if the idea that my kid might not be able to indulge in a night of over-hyped, over-priced revelry was enough to break my heart, plenty of kids who do go to school don’t get to go to the Prom. For all you know, I’m one of them. I might still be bitter about it. So go be shallow somewhere else.

16. Don’t ask my kid if she wouldn’t rather go to school unless you don’t mind if I ask your kid if he wouldn’t rather stay home and get some sleep now and then.

17. Stop saying, “Oh, I could never homeschool!” Evenif you think it’s some kind of compliment, it sounds more like you’re horrified. One of these days, I won’t bother disagreeing with you anymore.

18. If you can remember anything from chemistry or calculus class, you’re allowed to ask how we’ll teach these subjects to our kids. If you can’t, thank you for the reassurance that we couldn’t possibly do a worse job than your teachers did, and might even do a better one.

19. Stop asking about how hard it must be to be my child’s teacher as well as her parent. I don’t see much difference between bossing my kid around academically and bossing him around the way I do about everything else. (considering I dont boss anyone around, this dosent really apply to our family)

20. Stop saying that my kid is shy, outgoing, aggressive, anxious, quiet, boisterous, argumentative, pouty, fidgety, chatty, whiny, or loud because he’s homeschooled. It’s not fair that all the kids who go to school can be as annoying as they want to without being branded as representative of anything but childhood.

21. Quit assuming that my kid must be some kind of prodigy because she’s homeschooled.

22. Quit assuming that I must be some kind of prodigy because I homeschool my kids.

23. Quit assuming that I must be some kind of saint because I homeschool my kids.

24. Stop talking about all the great childhood memories my kids won’t get because they don’t go to school, unless you want me to start asking about all the not-so-great childhood memories you have because you went to school.

25. Here’s a thought: If you can’t say something nice about homeschooling, shut up!

It’s been two years since Nathan’s birth. I guess there are days I don’t think about it; being as involved in birth issues as I am, though, that’s pretty rare.

I’m still angry. Laid-back, non-grudge-holding me, still wishing she could go back and scream and strike out at the people who hurt her, lied to her, who denied her and her son a good birth, c/sec or no. Because believe it or not, it’s not just about the surgery. It’s about all that came after, too.

There was no reason to take my baby from me for six hours, while he screamed and I pleaded pitifully, begged and wept for someone to bring him to me. None. There was no reason to forbid me visitors in recovery, so that my doula had to sneak in to hold my hand for fifteen lousy minutes. There was no reason someone could not have stayed with me and Nathan in my room after visiting hours, so that I could have help lifting and feeding him without tearing my scar. There was no reason for that suffering.

There was no reason for Nathan to be given sugar water instead of my milk right after birth, no reason he could not have been put next to my skin, held between his daddy and me while I recovered. For that six hours, he was in a cold, comfortless world, and he screamed bloody murder, as well he should. And my heart ripped in two, and I’m not sure it’s back together yet.

It took us a long time to bond, to get back to a peaceful place, after that. A long time for the memory to fade, for us to find our way together. Some things, like breastfeeding, we never did find a way back to. A long time for us to be mamababy, together and content.

Today Nathan was sick, and wanted comforting after a particularly bad spell of diarrhea. He’s a big boy, but I sat on the floor and held him in my lap, his ear on my heart, while he drank his milk, and rocked him and calmed him down. I made a little safe world for him to be in while he was hurting and scared, a refuge from the bad things he didn’t understand.

It worked today; it would have worked then too.

If we’d only gotten the chance.

Two is: tall and weighs 38 pounds, and wears a size 8.5 boy’s shoe.

Two has: big white teeth and a huge grin, when he wants something, or when he’s trying to get your attention.

Two says the following words: apple, nose, Hi, Bye-bye, Dora, Ola, dog, Mama, Dahdah, Yay. But Two knows a lot more words he either can’t say or doesn’t need to.

Two has a love/hate relationship with: baths, naps and bedtime, food, being carried.

Two has silky brown hair that: gets into his eyes because he hates getting it trimmed. But Two’s mama can’t stand the thought of buzzcutting him, so for now he keeps his shaggy baby mullet.

Two will cry at: the sound of hair dryers and vacuum cleaners.

Two will laugh at: puppets, his father’s pointy-finger dance, the feel of ice cubes, and people who put blankets over their heads.

Two has no lovey except: his sippy cup, and never has.

Two practices: passive resistance and going limp when you’re taking him where he doesn’t want to go. Also using Daddy as his jungle gym.

Two has learned to: receive kisses but not to give them, that you must pet kitties gently, how to take off his shirt, how to climb into his own car seat.

Two has not yet learned: how to eat with utensils, why you can’t lie down in the middle of the street, to like chocolate, to go potty in the toilet, or how to get out of his crib–yet.

Two smells: mostly delicious, except when he doesn’t.

Two’s voice sounds: high and soft, squealy and giggly, and every now and then, growly like a dinosaur or a lion.

Two’s eyes: have changed from blue to green, and kept their long eyelashes. They light up when they see his daddy, and droop at bedtime no matter how hard he tries.

Two likes to wear: as little as possible, but also, his mommy’s shoes.

Two will celebrate his birthday by: eating cake and ice cream at his Mamaw’s house, surrounded by people who love him. And then taking a nap. Or not. You never know, with Two.