Two and Two

Alex is starting to put two and two together. There was a time-seems like yesterday-when he had a vent down his throat and paralyzing drugs dripping into his IV, and it felt like he'd never figure out the little things in life. Or have a life to figure them out in.

"A lot of these kids have learning problems later in life," the doctor declared at Jill's bedside, the day after Alex was born, "but you're a long, long way from having to think about that." Then came all that time of trying to get him off the vent, then came the two black days when he drew a crowd of doctors and actually may have been without oxygen for minutes.

In the months since, every time he didn't glance when called, every time his eye wandered, we wondered.

But good things started a few months ago in front of the dishwasher. On top of the dishwasher sat a tube of Pringles. In front of the dishwasher stood Alex. The dishwasher was closed but unlocked. Alex likes Pringles. "Just a minute, Alex," I told him as I left the kitchen. I returned a minute later and found him standing on the opened and flat dishwasher door. He stretched up and took the Pringles.

Soon after, I was giving him a bath. Alex likes to pull the stopper and the strainer out of the drain. I don't like him to do this because the naked drain would be a lobster trap for his hand: just big enough to get the hand in, but too small to get it out. So whenever Alex starts fiddling with the drain, I put my finger on top of the stopper. He tugged and tugged at my finger. "No no, Alex," I said, "we've talked about this." One night in the bath, however, something must have clicked in his head. Before reaching for the drain with his right hand he reached out with his left and held my finger away from the drain.

"Wow!" remarked one of his therapists. "Problem-solving abilities!" His tugs on my fingers are getting stronger. Last night he downed six pieces of bacon and scanned for more. Then he screeched. Good boy. Bacon builds the brain!

He's beginning to imitate. "All gone," I tell him when he eats the last piece of bacon. "Awn ga," he replies. "Door," I tell him when he's in one of his swinging moods with the bedroom door. "Knock on the door, Alex." He does, obedient taps with his fine knuckles, then he says, "Do-ah." "Bath time, Alex," I say. He helps me wrangle his T-shirt off over his head and starts saying, "Bat, bat." Two nights ago he said "bat bat" right after dinner, and ran straight from the high chair to the bathroom. Last night, he threw a ball.

If he wants you to read to him, he opens the book, carries it over and lays it on your thigh with insistent and growing force. He likes to slam the sliding shower door. I don't like him to do this, so I check the door with my hand. He saddles over and tries to pry off my hand. Then Jill says that the other day, Alex pulled a diaper from the drawer and brought it to her. She checked. He was wet. Problem solving.

It's dawned on him that the front door is more than just a movable wall that sometimes reveals beloved therapists and babysitters (to squeals of delight never squandered on mom or dad, incidentally). Let him out that door and he finds a straight and empty corridor that I think is dingy but that he finds custom-built for a first halting run. He scales into the high chair when hungry. He grasps the big hand from above when walking the street. Suddenly those shape-sorter toys--the parts of which he scrupulously distributed to every room--are more fun with all the plastic triangles.

"It's true," says Jill. "If he finds one part of a toy, he looks around for the other parts."

I wish one thing he'd put together is who mom and dad are. I pick him up and he squirms and wiggles and tries to press his elbow into my neck. He likes the hugs that turn into flip-flops and games of Upside Down Boy. There are toys he clearly loves, chairs he likes to climb, and when I got back from a business trip last night I swore he'd grown an inch in three days. But how come when I came home, he didn't scamper to the door and screech in delight? "He has cuddly moments," Jill says, "but not many. You just have to get used to that with boys." He studies books, murmurs to himself in a broadening range of sounds while fingering a toy, moves with increasing smoothness from couch to ottoman to dining room table.

But I can still see the doctor leaning at Jill's bedside. What did happen on those two bad days? Will two and two be as high as Alex ever goes?

I have another question. More bacon?