ROBOT SMALL

This is a video of Ivo on a fence in Berkeley talking about how he would like to "picka fwower" and also to "splash". "Here". The flower would not be picked, the puddle that he would like to splash in was in the gutter (totally gross), and the quality and repetition of my voice reminds me of one of the plights of being a mother, which is that you always kind of are talking, and sort of listening, but there are layers of talking and listening.

FIRST LAYER.
Ivo wants to splash in dirty gutter water. I do not want him to. SO, redirect to something else.. FWAWER? TUNNEL?

SECOND LAYER.
I am videotaping for posterity. Future generations, and Ivo, who will see this on a (at that point) crappy plasma HD TV and wonder how we ever lived without teleportation.

THIRD LAYER.
Thinking of all the phone calls that I need to return, and all the sadness of the adult humans that I know. Deaths. Divorces. Domestic violence. Stuff that Ivo doesn't know about. Urge to check Blackberry and make work phone calls. Urge suppressed.

FOURTH LAYER.
Nice day. Warm.

FIFTH LAYER.
Can't splash in dirty gutter water? Tantrum. Am I a bad parent? Too strict? Too permissive? Mentally review parenting manuals and other people's advice. Metalayer. Ignore.

SIXTH LAYER.
Follow Ivo in a toddler drone pattern to tunnel. Safety checks. Repeat mindlessly what toddler is saying. Down? Up? Holda hand? Yes. This layer is things like, "When we cross the street, you hold mama's hand." To him, sounds like, "{Sesame} Street, holdahand mama." Somehow this communication is working. Seems coincidental to me, but results are results.

SEVENTH LAYER.
IN AWE OF MY CHILD. He is talking, looking and commenting, running and laughing, experiencing this gorgeous day. And holding my hand in that heartbreaking way, where his whole hand is engulfed in mine.

Little baby. Little little sweet baby.