Catching up

Sorry for the radio silence. Our camera went missing, and blogging's felt somehow inappropriate of late. But blog, like life, must go on, I guess, and there's so much to report that I don't really know where to begin.

So I guess I'll start with an anecdote. Sue's been taking him to a weekly music class for tots taught by his old music teacher Tony, who's like a huge rockstar in Oscar's world. He's on the upper end of the age range for the class and he's considerably more expressive than most of the other kids. Tony had them passing around pictures of animals and naming the animal pictured. When it came Oscar's turn to name the elephant, he told Tony: "I call all jungle animals rhinoceroses." And he proceeded to do just that, to the apparent befuddlement of his teacher. He also demonstrated how he makes his bellybutton clap (which looks something like a bellydancer, or a sailor making a ribald tattoo dance).

Oscar's doing a lot of imaginary play, nonsense words and storytelling. He's also experimenting with emotions -- playing at being "shy" or "scared."

A lot has happened over the past few months that I never got around to writing about. We moved schools, which I did write about, and we moved apartments, which I didn't. We're now in an elevator building, a block from daycare, in a neighborhood we love. Goodbye, tiny sixth-floor walkup in fashionista- and celebutard-infested Nolita, O ye of nouveau riche and Euro riche and numberless luxe shoe, handbag and jewelry boutiques. Goodbye, one-mile walk to school in the morning, whatever the weather. Hello, East Village, with your boho holdouts and schlubby non-profit and media worker parents like us.

This has made life immeasurably easier. No longer do we fear going downstairs to fetch a half-gallon of milk or a carton of eggs because we'll have to carry it back up five flights. In the morning, we walk a block to Oscar's daycare, which we love. There's a lot of kids in the neighborhood, including a couple in the building around Oscar's age. We got a loaner tricycle from the three-year-old downstairs for Oscar to ride in the hallway. Patrick and Lizzy live a block away, and we can take the bus up First Avenue to Grandma's. There's a playground literally next door. It's attached to a school that contains a charter program we'll probably try to get Oscar into in a couple years (it's on a lottery system, so we'll see).

Plus, though it's a little dark, the place is twice the size of our old apartment, and includes a small room that will be Oscar's if we can ever clear the boxes out of it and put down carpet. For the time being, he's still sleeping in his crib in our bedroom, which is enormous. There's plenty of room for toys and even a pup tent in the living room.

At our old place, we knew some of our neighbors well -- the elderly woman across the hall, a couple families downstairs -- but it seems like there's more of a community in this building. Some theater people downstairs put on an annual Christmas puppet show -- dozens of people cram into the hallway for it, kids up front, and then there's a party afterwards. There's also a building holiday party in the lobby, featuring buttery baked goods, booze for the adults, juice boxes for the kids, an amateur choir and a tree trimmed with candy canes. For weeks, we couldn't get in or out of the building without Oscar having to pluck one off the tree. After a few days, the remaining ones were clustered at the top, beyond the reach of little hands, and then even those were gone. We'd surreptitiously return uneaten ones to ensure that he'd find some on our next foray out into the world (and if there were none to be found, there'd be hell to pay).

I'm not really sure how Oscar's processing John's death. For awhile, he'd ask, brightly: "Did Grampa die? Is he coming back?" And so on. Pretty much daily for a couple months there. As though he was making a game of it, which is, I guess, how kids process anything challenging -- through play. We reply with the mantra: "Yes, Grampa died. He's not coming back and we're very sad." And he'll go: "Oh." And it's on to something else.

The photos are from a fall expedition to Jack and Ginger's place in Connecticut.