Thursday, June 20, 2013

Fuff

The boy-child, the youngest of the three, my last baby, he is experiencing some Napolean complex or dsymorphia, or maybe he's going to grow up to be a motivational speaker: portray yourself the way you want to be understood, and all that.  If you say, "hey, sweeto!" he will correct you: I'm not a sweeto; I'm a BOY. And if you say, "hi, love!" he will argue: don't call me love! Call me a kid. I'm the biggest big kid, you know. That's what he will tell everyone who will listen, and also everyone who won't: he's the biggest big kid.

Your worst offense is to call him by merely his first name. "Hi, G!" He will get right in your face. I'm not G! I'm G Fuff Noteverstill, the biggest big kid! His indignation is electric. You check the window for stormclouds and a shiver crawls your arms.

His middle name is not Fuff, but that's how he's taken to pronouncing it. Meet Fuff, the Biggest Big Kid. My boy.

I love it as a nickname, Fuff. It's a nice strong identity and a great complement to the lovely husband's nickname, Mouth, recently bestowed by his softball team. Don't Fuff and Mouth make a great pairing? But there's no calling him Fuff unless you include the rest of it. Fuff, tBBK. (Fuff, the Magic Dragon. Fuff, Private Eye.)

The first thing about the Biggest Big Kid is that he is not the biggest kid by age or by height in our family. The second thing about the Biggest Big Kid is that he is not the biggest by age or by height in his classroom. The third thing about the Biggest Big Kid is that he is delusional, but very cute. And the fourth thing about the Biggest Big Kid is that he's been moving through some Big Kid milestones this month at a rapid pace.

About three weeks ago, he scared the daylights out of me by just standing in the hallway, motionless, as I came out of the shower. Until that morning, Fuff had never realized that he could get out of bed on his own. He always called to be gotten. And then, one day, in the dawn's shadows of an unlit hallway, there he was.

The next night, he showed up at our bedside. He'd realized that if he could get out of bed in the morning, he could do it in the middle of the night. And now when it suits him he climbs in our bed. And you know what I can do? I can sleep right through that. Cue the angels. For the first time in seven-and-almost-a-half years, nobody cries out every night. Channel some Full House with me, because: WHOA.

One of my favorite aspects to all this embiggening, though, is G's language explosion. I always love how kids' language comes in waves. He's at that delightful phase of applying concepts he understands to vocabulary he hasn't yet acquired. My favorite is how he'll approach a doggie: can I fluff it? He hasn't absorbed the verb "pet" yet, but he sees the fluffy fur, converts the adjective he knows into a familiar format, and conveys his intent perfectly.

And then, and then! As language acquisition goes, he takes his new-found skills and subsequently applies them to other contexts. When he does something silly or as I'm walking by, I love to tousle his wild blond locks. And when he objects, he now says to me every time:

Mama! DON'T FLUFF ME!

And that was the whole point of this entry, really. I just wanted to tell you how much I love to fluff sweet Fuff.


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