The finger

Most of Elijah’s advances have been incredible, joyful experiences. Sitting up, crawling, standing. I’ve loved every minute. But for some reason, when Eli started pointing to things last week, I had a panic attack.

Something snapped. I suddenly didn’t want him to grow up. I wanted him to stay a baby forever. He’d point at Grover and say, “Et da?” I’d shout, “No! No more growing intellectually! Get dumber! Dumber!” He’s point at the TV and say, “Et da?” I’d grab him and beg, “Turn back into a baby, Eli. Let’s get you back into that womb.” At which point Diana would call from the other room, “Not in your life, mister.”

Maybe it’s because my mind has officially been blown by Sesame Street. Di’s brother Mike bought us the “Old School Sesame Street” 1970’s collection. Last Saturday morning I popped it in to distract Eli from my neglectful laying on the floor and rubbing of my temples.

But the minute that bouncy theme started, I got a shock in my frontal lobe. I leapt up, shoved Eli out of the way and pressed my nose to the TV. All my long lost friends were there. Bert, Ernie, Big Bird, Grover. Did I mention Grover? To my delight and Eli’s horror, I knew and could shout all the lyrics to every song. I knew every gag.

I kept trying to push Grover on him. “Eli, see him? He’s the mayor of Sesame Street. Grover saved all their lives in a fire once. Grover chooses not to know the alphabet” But no luck. He fell in love with Cookie Monster. Stupid, overeating, soon to be diabetic Cookie Monster.

He’s see him, point and say, “Et da?” And then I’d cry.