He's really into lights. When I pick him up from Ms. Irving's Daycare (on New York avenue at Lenox Rd), the first thing he does after flinging himself into my arms is show me the overhead light.
He loves trucks. Jeez, what a cliche. But it's true. "Big truck" is a common phrase when an 18-wheeler rumbles past. He also knows "garbage truck" and knows that the appropriate time to utter it us at 6:30am.
He loves to drive in the car, now that we have a car seat that faces forward. But he hates being placed into that car seat.
He's starting testing us. Today Hannah was smearing peel-away on our foyer door (more about all that here). Since it can take off 20 layers of paint in a single day, I assumed it was not so good for human skin, so I told the barefoot Elliot to stay away from her.
He stared right at me and took a single step toward her.
Do not go toward her, I said. Come back here.
He stood still. Elliot, I said.
He paused. Again staring at me, he took another step toward her.
(You don't need me to explain how this ends. Hint: tears are involved.)
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