Le Petit has the chicken pox. When the first spots appeared two days ago it was no great surprise, since the baby who shares his nanny came down with it two and a half weeks ago. So far le Petit doesn't appear to be suffering much, just spots and no fever beyond the "gee, I think he feels a tiny bit warmer than usual" reading on my mommysense barometer. It is only day three, though, so we'll see how it evolves.
He also has the same rotten cold that I have and is drooling so much that he must be working on his two-year molars. He's quite the trooper, despite all this.
(Ever noticed how when you ask a parent with a child under three -- especially their first child -- how said child is doing you must brace yourself for a monologue that lasts at least ten minutes and includes the most boring details of teething, potty training, first feats of all sorts, and cases of the sniffles? I used to hate this before I became a mother myself.)
I still have no internet connection at home. They're coming to look at it on Saturday. I love French customer service.
Le Petit woke up in the wee hours this morning talking to himself. Not crying, not whining, just mumbling something about "bear." My husband and I woke up, glanced at the clock, wondered if we should do anything -- I briefly worried that one of le Petit's beloved teddy bears had been tossed out of the crib -- but le Petit quickly went back to sleep. Then at seven o'clock I heard him declare "beah!" once again before rolling over and continuing to sleep. If you'd told me a year and a half ago that le Petit would wake up and talk himself back to sleep before age eighteen, I would never have believed it.
We moved our voluminous CD collection up to a shelf out of le Petit's reach over the weekend. My husband accomplished this herculean task during nap time, and when le Petit woke up he immediately noticed something was amiss. He pointed at the bookshelf where the CDs were now just beyond his reach. "Encore?" he asked and pointed, confused and annoyed, as if to say "I leave this place for two measly hours and the whole operation falls apart."
He still has the book collection to dismantle, though, which we're working hard to discourage with limited success. A typical conversation chez Petit these days goes something like this:
"Boom!" Le Petit declares proudly as he grabs a book and tosses it on the ground.
My voice shifts into mommy-warning-mode, sliding to sharp and high tones at the end of each phrase. "Books are for reading, not for throwing!" I gently grab his arm and put the book back on the shelf. "That's in-ter..."
"Dit!" Le Petit pulls another book to the floor with his free arm as he completes my sentence.
He just figured out how to say "book." He's also starting to take an interest in the words printed next to the pictures in his story books, and asks me to repeat them for him. He's pretty proud of himself, and I am, too.