Milo turns 6!

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 8

Six years ago right now I woke up feeling an odd but familiar stirring in my abdomen, and realized Alec and I should probably cancel the brunch we had planned to have for some friends.  We were living in DC—our last sabbatical before this one.  Milo’s due date was November 26, my mother’s birthday, but he decided to show up early.

We spent yesterday walking the Grand Via and exploring the Parque del Retiro, which is magnificent.  We found two excellent playgrounds and saw a puppet show—El Soldadito del Plomo (the Little Lead Soldier)—at the park’s sweet outdoor puppet theater.  It was packed with local kids, their parents and grandparents. 

The Prado loomed nearby so, even though the kids were starting to drag, we coaxed them inside, where we basically sprinted through the Velazquezes and Goyas, and took a quick turn through a Rubens show.  Even with all of the dogs, horses, and naked butts, pre-20^th century art does not do much for C.C. and Milo.

Madrid is much colder than Barcelona—down vests and fleece gloves weather.  The trees and plants are much more reminiscent of New York, and the leaves are all turning.  So we are all getting a dose of autumn, which makes sense somehow.  After a siesta, Milo got his first birthday present—tickets to see Atletico Madrid (one of the local futbol teams) with Alec last night.  Diego Forlan plays for Madrid, and—according to Alec and Milo—is one of the greats playing today.  So they were pretty excited.  C.C. and I decided to pass—we are both fair weather sports fans.  We watched a movie in our room, and went out for some ramen noodles and then found another chocolateria where we had cups of dark hot chocolate topped with mounds of fresh whipped cream.

Everyone got to bed pretty late.  Fortunately, like any good hotel, this one can be shut up tight as a tomb at night, with metal shades and blackout curtains.  So when Milo crawled into our bed at 5:30 this morning asking if he could open presents, we told him it was the middle of the night and he needed to sleep some more. He did, for three more hours.

Conversation overheard from our sleeping loft after the kids had gotten up:

Milo:  “I think they’re getting up.”

C.C.:  “Yeah, so that means you can open your presents.”

Milo: “Idea coming up!  I’m going to get into my birthday suit!”

C.C.:  “Great idea, Milo.  Me, too!  Can you wear your socks with your birthday suit?  My feet are kind of chilly.”

Milo:  “Nope!  You have to be COMPLETELY naked!”

C.C.:  “Okay, let’s do it!”

The day turned out to be chilly and rainy.  Milo wanted to go to a museum that had dinosaurs, so we took the metro to the Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales.  It’s not even in the guide books, which tells you something right there.  But a colleague of mine who lives in Madrid had recommended it.  It is an old style science museum, full of glass cases loaded with specimens—38 examples of the same kind of butterfly, that kind of thing.  Kind of like what you’d expect Charles Darwin’s home office to look like, on a grand scale.  Unfortunately, when we arrived we learned that the dinosaur section was closed for renovation.  We rallied.  Milo wanted Alec to take pictures of almost everything.

Yesterday we asked Milo what his ideal birthday dinner would be—what three foods he would most like to have.  His answer?  Spaghetti with red sauce, “big noodles” with red sauce, and pizza.   So in honor of the day we had lunch at an Italian restaurant, where Milo enjoyed a big bowl of spaghetti Bolognese.  The food was really good.  The waitress scrounged up a candle in the shape of the number “2” to stick in his piece of chocolate cake, and sang to him after which the other patrons clapped.  It was really sweet.

We headed back to the hotel for a quick rest before going to a children’s theater to see “Pinocho.”  One of the things that’s been really nice about being in Madrid is that everything is in Spanish!  When we go to museums and children’s programs in Barcelona, they are usually in Catalan.  Being here has made me realize that I often have to do double translations—guessing what the Catalan to Spanish translation might be, and then translating to English.  This is much easier by comparison.

So Milo has been duly feted, without too much jealousy from his sister.  I asked him whether it felt any different to be six than it had to be five.  “A little bit,” he replied.  “How does it feel different?” I asked.  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.  And that was that.