erm, apparently, Shakespeare was wrong. there is something in a name, after all.

Oscar and i are in the midst of what i suspect is a brief but wonderful window of parent-child contentment, wherein he’s mobile but not very fast-moving. he’s happy to scoot about the floor of whatever room i happen to be in, rather like a baby swiffer (hence my part of the contentment). he explores the dustbunnies while i get to pluck my eyebrows or unload the dishwasher at leisure…oh, glamourous life. but over the past couple of days, i’ve noticed a disturbing pattern to what actually attracts O’s attention.

if there’s a garbage receptacle around, or a pail, or a trash can, Oscar is enthralled. this morning, he was (i thought) safely esconced in his jolly jumper for a few minutes, because i was gathering laundry from around the house and wanted to be sure he was in a safe place. when i hopped down the stairs loaded with pee-soaked sleepers, i found him around the corner of the kitchen doorway, jolly jumper stretched to its absolute limit, trying to pull the plastic bag out of our back porch garbage can. he was beaming and cooing to an empty Doritos bag. sigh. he really is an Oscar.

here is my boy, if he could only form complete syllables.

perhaps we should have named him Joe, instead. then he’d only be after the coffee.