fakyouforolthefeingdatyoudonformoe

Civilization is on the horizon for some of us. The distant horizon, but visible in glimpses now and again. On Saturday, Booker--acting completely of his own unprompted volition--decided to type up a note to Mary expressing his gratitude. He sat down at the computer and labored for a while, and, as he has recently discovered the printer icon, printed up the following:

fakyouforolthefeingdatyoudonformoelovebooker

That is the complete text.
Translation: thank you for all the things that you do for me. Love, Booker.

Seamus, in contrast, continues to be wilder than the Christmas reindeer described in the book we are unseasonably reading in the accompanying photo. Don't be fooled by the toothbrush photo. He just likes the taste of his supposedly organic paste, and the thrill of squeezing out something messy. No actual brushing happens without forcible restraint.

The marshmallow photo below is more indicative. We have a stock of these leftover from making s'mores in the fireplace for Jussara's goodbye party. Seamus can be counted on to ask several times a day, "Can I have a marshymayow?" And to grieve if the answer is no. As the photo indicates, we have found that they function reasonably well, if temporarily, as corks.

They do not function as sedatives, unfortunately. It is impossible to discern whether they have the reverse effect. When the normal standard of behavior is so frenetic, how could one possibly tell? It is only a matter of time before the boy is taken away, as Booker would say, in handcups.

Kielbasa is Salami

Kielbasa is Salami, at least according to Seamus.  He has insisted thus since he was able to pronounce the two words, about six months ago.  (He says tillbasa and sayami, but we know what he is talking about.)  How many times have we patiently explained that kielbasa is a type of sausage, and salami is a type of sausage, but kielbasa is not salami.  Too many to count.  But he steadfastly maintains that kielbasa is salami.  Why does he have so many opportunities to do so?  Because salami is one of our major food groups, and the first resort when we are too harried to cook anything.  The salami and cheese dinner is a repast of both familiarity and great appeal, particularly for Booker.  And kielbasa is a basic ingredient of Mary's famous beans.  But Seamus often demands to have it plain, as well.  

Whenever he does so, he repeats to himself and anyone in earshot, kielbasa is salami.  It seems to be a kind of brainworm that has nestled itself in his memory so deeply it is impervious to correction.  It disappeared for a while until Mary pulled some out of the fridge the other day for another batch of beans.  Seamus, eagerly anticipating the debate to come, asked, "Mommy, is kielbasa salami?"  She just stood there with her hands on her hips, shaking with silent laughter, finally saying, "Seamus, are we really going to go through that again?"  To which he replied. "Is!  Is, Mommy!  Kielbasa is salami!"

The major event of the week was the arrival of Carol, our new au pair, who is one smart cookie.  She immediately won Booker over by offering to sew a shirt for his stuffed Snoopy, with his design assistance.  Here they are in the photos, working on their creation, a cute little nehru jacket with a single button.  Snoopy will soon be the best dressed member of the household.

Speaking of dogs, Booker was christened with his capoeira name this past Saturday - his teacher only calls her students by their capoeira name in class, so this was an urgent requirement.  She asked his advice, and he had a single but difficult requirement: he wanted to be "an animal that saves."  Confined to this fairly small pool, she opted for a choice that suits him perfectly: Labrador.  (Spelled the same but sounds better in Portuguese.)

And all else continues to roll along as before.  Every day is a saga of tears and elations, every night is too short and punctuated by someone crying, and kielbasa is still salami.

Speech Therapy

9:45 Saturday morning.

Booker and Mary have just returned from violin lesson to pick up Seamus and take him over to Max’s birthday party, across the street. Max’s birthday party! Seamus has been feverishly anticipating the event for aweek, insistently melding it with Jussara’s going away party, scheduled for our house that same evening. As soon as he hears the magic words, he strips off his pajamas—he’s been awake since 6:30 of course, but I haven’t gotten around to dressing him for the day yet. Naked, he runs to the shoe rack and jams his feet halfway into his crocs, swapping left for right. He stands defiant, stabbing his finger towards the door and screaming, “Let’s doe Mommy! Det da hot-dods and da tate! Det da hot-dods and da tate!” **

He is a frat boy in the making. He already has most of the defining characteristics, lacking only the ability to sleep it off. It doesn’t hurt that his hair usually looks like it does in the accompanying photo. Not at the moment, however. After the two wild parties, Mary took them out the next morning and got them haircuts at George’s. Seamus was apparently benumbed by the plastic cape snapped around his neck, and sat immobile and stone-faced through theproceedings, like a volcano-god accepting ministrations. Once defrocked, he returned to madness. He is shorn but not tamed.

Booker, meanwhile, is going through rapid personality transitions evidenced mainly by changes in dialect. He has been insecure about his weak ‘r’ for several months. In late summer, there was a short period when, if asked his name, his first response was, “I can’t say my awuhs vewy well.” Then he would tuck his chin into his shirt and whisper “Bookuw.” He got over that, but has not yet mastered the pirate’s arrrr. He recently determined to mask this by affecting a fake French accent. He makes a spoonbill with his lips and produces a noise that sounds like a throaty combination of h, r, and y. “They ahrye dhryiving the cahry ahryound thecuhryve.” Someone must have told him this sounds French, because yesterday, staring out the window at another drizzly winter day he said to me, “I know how to say its hryaining in French. It’s hryaining.”

He is more deeply engaged with the arts then ever. He cranked out yet another self-published manuscript last night, entitled “Rokit Sips.” The title page showsthat he is both the “alistr” (illustrator) and the “offr”—you know, the guy who wrote the book. All this is printed right to left, it goes without saying. We are past masters in decodification of Bookerisms printed and spoken, naturally. On successive pages, the book shows a rocket navigating between Saturn and the Sun, drawing ever closer to the moon. On the final page, the astronaut hops down on the moon to take a look around, all of this bearing a suspiciously strong resemblance to Wallace and Gromit in “A Grand Day Out.” Another fine story about a hryocket to the moon.

** "hot dods" - hot dogs
** "tate" - cake