Lest you think

that Iyyar does not figure prominently in the cast of characters around here, let me reassure you that that is not the case. It's just that he doesn't really talk much, so there's not as much to blog. He sort of says Barak's name, and sort of says his own, but that's it. No real developmental milestones lately--he pulls up but doesn't stand on his own, crawls and cruises on furniture but doesn't walk yet, even holding hands. He claps, he nurses, he understands more and more, and he spends a lot of time huffing and puffing his way around the house in search of things to bang, suck, and chew. He is more tolerant of the stroller than he once was, but I don't think he'll ever really be a fan. He'd just rather be on the floor. He gets very excited by drawers (Elmo underwear! Blankets! I can fling them on the floor!) and can now reach and empty the third shelf of the bookshelf in their room. He had his 12-month checkup last week, and is at 20 lb 6 oz--15th percentile for weight, and 76th percentile for height.

One thing he does do, however, is eat. A lot. Of everything, but preferably whatever I'm eating. Tonight, Barak was having couscous while MHH and I were having crockpot ratatouille and meatballs. I gave Iyyar couscous. Biiig mistake. Iyyar was completely outraged, because clearly whatever I had was better (he was right) and it is always preferable to be fed with a spoon over eating things with one's fingers, is it not? Clearly. So, I took off his (milchig) high chair tray and started feeding him eggplant and red peppers. First he started wailing hysterically, because usually the removal of the high chair tray means that mealtime is over. Then he got a mouthful of vegetables, chewed thoughtfully, and opened wide for the next one. And whenever I was a little too slow with the spoon, instead of his usual frantic "uh! uh! uh!" he reached over and tapped me politely on the knee. "Um, hi, I'm ready for more, please..."

His willingness to eat just about anything will be helpful in three weeks when I take him to Hungary, but his objection to being confined by arms, stroller, or carseat for any length of time will be, ah, inconvenient. It's not even the 10-hour flight I'm worried about; it's the week of hanging out in a Hungarian nursing home with my grandmother and her three roommates and their distinctly un-baby-proof setup of low drawers full of medicines and choking hazards. It's going to be... a challenge.

We're leaving b'ezrat Hashem in 19 days. I still have no idea how I will do this--I think I will attach his carseat (La-Z-Boy toddler sized) to the stroller with the Latch straps, put my big backpack on my back and my carryon under the stroller, bring lots of Cheerios (or Cheerioka as my grandmother calls them) and hope for the best. And try very hard to remember to say tefillas ha'derech.