Saturday, June 26, 2004
M-A-X
At Patisserie this morning, Max was demonstrating his new proficiency with letters by identifying them on a "Happy Birthday" napkin. Someone asked Max to spell his name, and he said slowly, "M. A. X." That was a thrilling first, and we all cheered. Lucky for Max we didn't name him Bartholomew.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Dinosaur Tales
Max's love affair with dinosaurs began a few months ago when a sizeable package arrived from Memphis. About three times a year, Glennie Klug packs up the clothes her three boys have outgrown (some still sporting their original tags), and sends them our way. This is quite a coup for Max and Reed because I won't indulge very often in this kind of quality or quantity for rapidly sprouting kids. Her generosity saves me a lot of money, energy and aggravation, and I'm grateful.
When Glennie's most recent package arrived a few months ago, I hadn't reached the bottom of the box before Max spied a pair of white pajamas covered with images of half a dozen different dinosaurs. Although it was only mid-afternoon, Max demanded to wear the PJs RIGHT AWAY and for several weeks tried never to take them off. If other events in your life haven't persuaded you that the only person you can control is yourself, motherhood bombards you with this lesson, and you ignore it at the risk of your sanity. To show you that I'm learning, I have actually permitted Max to go to a restaurant wearing half of his dinosaur PJs (fortunately, the top half). It is a corollary of Murphy's law that when you take your child to dinner in his pajamas, you will run into former work colleagues. If you are lucky, they will have children and/or a fine sense of humor, and you will share a laugh. Still, it's a wee bit embarrassing.
Soon after the PJs arrived, Max's nascent interest in dinosaurs was fueled when Sheri Purvis Sweeney and her family came to visit. We took the kids to the Museum of Natural Science to see the giant dinosaur skeletons. Making this outing particularly enjoyable for Max was the fact that he held hands much of the time with Sarah, who is cute and seven and blonde. So smitten was Max with the lovely Sarah that I wasn't sure at the time that he noticed much of anything about the dinosaurs. But he frequently asks now to go to the "dinosaur station" or the "newseum" to see Sarah and the dinosaurs. After all, memory and emotion, like children, go hand in hand.
Babee recently steered Max's new passion in a more scholarly direction with the purchase of a board book entitled, accurately, "My First Dinosaur Book." Perhaps paleontology has come a long way in three decades, but there are many, many more varieties of dinosaurs than I remember from childhood. Plumbing my admittedly hazy memory, I can recall the names of exactly FOUR dinosaurs: T-Rex, stegosaurus, brontosaurus and tryceratops. This afternoon I've counted FORTY-ONE dinosaurs and other prehistoric reptiles, and that's just in Max's FIRST dinosaur book. Listening to me struggle to pronounce dinosaur names, one could get the impression that I was new to this whole reading business: PAR-A-SAUR-O-LO-PHUS, COMP-SOG-NA-THUS, ME-TRI-O-RHYN-CHUS. Friends tell me that their kids could rattle off the names of dozens of dinosaurs by the time they turned four. Parenthood is humbling.
Last week as I was continuing my house-organizing project (which in some rooms looks more like disorganization...), I opened a drawer and discovered a large dinosaur puppet that my sister, Kimberly, had given me a couple of years ago. Serendipity! I remember putting the puppet away when Max was baby because its eyes were potential choking hazards. When I produced the dinosaur and showed Max how to make its mouth move by reaching a hand and forearm through the missing mid-section, he was hooked. In Max's kingdom (where he is, naturally, The King) the dinosaur puppet has acquired "Most Favored Stuffed Animal" status. This means, among other things, that he doesn't go to bed without it. But with the puppet, Max also bumps up against his limitations. First, while he can get his hand and wrist into the hole, he hasn't figured out how to maneuver his arm and/or the dinosaur's tail in such a way as to get his hand all the way to its head. So making the dinosaur "talk" or "eat" continues to elude him. In addition, Max doesn't comprehend that the correct word for this particular dinosaur is "puppet." Instead, he refers to it as a "pocket." Pockets make sense to Max. He stuffs crayons in his pocket. He likes to wear pants with pockets, just like his dad. He can put his hand in his pocket, and he can put his hand in the dinosaur. So "dinosaur pocket" it is. He likes it.
The latest chapter in the dinosaur tales began a few days ago. Libby Taylor's oldest child, Katy, graduated from high school last month and will be attending Harvard in the fall. I sent Katy a graduation present, and her note of thanks arrived earlier this week. On the front of the card was a muscular Superwoman standing in the mouth of a ferocious looking T-Rex. In typical comic book fashion, Superwoman's outstreched arms are bracing the dinosaur's mouth open, keeping her just out of harm's way from its razor-like teeth. I found the card particularly funny because "superwoman" is precisely how I've thought of Libby for twenty years, and now her daughter, just 18, is identifying in some way with this image. I set the card aside on my desk without much thought. And then yesterday afternoon, Max brought the note to me and asked, "Mommy, what's the T-Rex doing to that lady?" Not wanting to get into the more frightening implications of the picture, I responded, "Honey, the lady is brushing the dinosaur's teeth." That seemed to satisfy Max's curiosity, and certainly comported with his understanding of the world. And then I put the card out of his reach.
Last night, I tucked Max into bed, surrounded by his dinosaur treasures: PJs, dinosaur book and dinosaur "pocket." After I'd kissed him goodnight, Max said, "Mommy, I need the picture of the lady brushing the dinosaur's teeth." So much for keeping the card away from his observant eyes. But my explanation is in tact, and hopefully so is Max's innocence, at least for a little while longer.
When Glennie's most recent package arrived a few months ago, I hadn't reached the bottom of the box before Max spied a pair of white pajamas covered with images of half a dozen different dinosaurs. Although it was only mid-afternoon, Max demanded to wear the PJs RIGHT AWAY and for several weeks tried never to take them off. If other events in your life haven't persuaded you that the only person you can control is yourself, motherhood bombards you with this lesson, and you ignore it at the risk of your sanity. To show you that I'm learning, I have actually permitted Max to go to a restaurant wearing half of his dinosaur PJs (fortunately, the top half). It is a corollary of Murphy's law that when you take your child to dinner in his pajamas, you will run into former work colleagues. If you are lucky, they will have children and/or a fine sense of humor, and you will share a laugh. Still, it's a wee bit embarrassing.
Soon after the PJs arrived, Max's nascent interest in dinosaurs was fueled when Sheri Purvis Sweeney and her family came to visit. We took the kids to the Museum of Natural Science to see the giant dinosaur skeletons. Making this outing particularly enjoyable for Max was the fact that he held hands much of the time with Sarah, who is cute and seven and blonde. So smitten was Max with the lovely Sarah that I wasn't sure at the time that he noticed much of anything about the dinosaurs. But he frequently asks now to go to the "dinosaur station" or the "newseum" to see Sarah and the dinosaurs. After all, memory and emotion, like children, go hand in hand.
Babee recently steered Max's new passion in a more scholarly direction with the purchase of a board book entitled, accurately, "My First Dinosaur Book." Perhaps paleontology has come a long way in three decades, but there are many, many more varieties of dinosaurs than I remember from childhood. Plumbing my admittedly hazy memory, I can recall the names of exactly FOUR dinosaurs: T-Rex, stegosaurus, brontosaurus and tryceratops. This afternoon I've counted FORTY-ONE dinosaurs and other prehistoric reptiles, and that's just in Max's FIRST dinosaur book. Listening to me struggle to pronounce dinosaur names, one could get the impression that I was new to this whole reading business: PAR-A-SAUR-O-LO-PHUS, COMP-SOG-NA-THUS, ME-TRI-O-RHYN-CHUS. Friends tell me that their kids could rattle off the names of dozens of dinosaurs by the time they turned four. Parenthood is humbling.
Last week as I was continuing my house-organizing project (which in some rooms looks more like disorganization...), I opened a drawer and discovered a large dinosaur puppet that my sister, Kimberly, had given me a couple of years ago. Serendipity! I remember putting the puppet away when Max was baby because its eyes were potential choking hazards. When I produced the dinosaur and showed Max how to make its mouth move by reaching a hand and forearm through the missing mid-section, he was hooked. In Max's kingdom (where he is, naturally, The King) the dinosaur puppet has acquired "Most Favored Stuffed Animal" status. This means, among other things, that he doesn't go to bed without it. But with the puppet, Max also bumps up against his limitations. First, while he can get his hand and wrist into the hole, he hasn't figured out how to maneuver his arm and/or the dinosaur's tail in such a way as to get his hand all the way to its head. So making the dinosaur "talk" or "eat" continues to elude him. In addition, Max doesn't comprehend that the correct word for this particular dinosaur is "puppet." Instead, he refers to it as a "pocket." Pockets make sense to Max. He stuffs crayons in his pocket. He likes to wear pants with pockets, just like his dad. He can put his hand in his pocket, and he can put his hand in the dinosaur. So "dinosaur pocket" it is. He likes it.
The latest chapter in the dinosaur tales began a few days ago. Libby Taylor's oldest child, Katy, graduated from high school last month and will be attending Harvard in the fall. I sent Katy a graduation present, and her note of thanks arrived earlier this week. On the front of the card was a muscular Superwoman standing in the mouth of a ferocious looking T-Rex. In typical comic book fashion, Superwoman's outstreched arms are bracing the dinosaur's mouth open, keeping her just out of harm's way from its razor-like teeth. I found the card particularly funny because "superwoman" is precisely how I've thought of Libby for twenty years, and now her daughter, just 18, is identifying in some way with this image. I set the card aside on my desk without much thought. And then yesterday afternoon, Max brought the note to me and asked, "Mommy, what's the T-Rex doing to that lady?" Not wanting to get into the more frightening implications of the picture, I responded, "Honey, the lady is brushing the dinosaur's teeth." That seemed to satisfy Max's curiosity, and certainly comported with his understanding of the world. And then I put the card out of his reach.
Last night, I tucked Max into bed, surrounded by his dinosaur treasures: PJs, dinosaur book and dinosaur "pocket." After I'd kissed him goodnight, Max said, "Mommy, I need the picture of the lady brushing the dinosaur's teeth." So much for keeping the card away from his observant eyes. But my explanation is in tact, and hopefully so is Max's innocence, at least for a little while longer.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
High Drama
One of the unexpected joys for me of Max starting "school" at our church is the comraderie I've developed with some of my fellow moms. A major benefit of these fledgling friendships is the note-trading we do at the playground or pool about vexing issues like "How are you dealing with biting?" and "How do you manage a 5-hour plane flight with two kids under the age of three?" I feel fortunate to have found a group of moms with whom the experience seems more like surviving boot camp together than competing in the parenting Olympics.
What many of us are facing right now, with sadness and trepidation, is the realization that our kids are about to abandon their naps. And we are all in agreement: This is not a good development. Naptime is my window of opportunity to start dinner, pay bills, write emails, have a little uninterrupted adult conversation, make incremental progress on one of my house projects, or--imagine this--put my heels on the coffee table for a few minutes and exhale.
It's now 3:29 in the afternoon, and Max and I are entrenched in a typical battle of wills over his nap. We've been at this drama since 2:00. Here's a loose transcript of the last 30 minutes. (I'll let you extrapolate what the previous hour was like....)
Max (yelling from behind the closed door in his room): One Blues Clues And Then A Nap!
Mommy (making a serious tactical error): Okay, Max, one Blues Clues. Then it's nap time.
I situate Max in front of the telly and proceed to the nursery/office to finish the bill-paying which I started yesterday afternoon. Then I hear the door to the kitchen. I go in to find Max standing on a barstool, peering into the refrigerator.
Max: I'm hungry, mommy.
Mommy: Would you like some yogurt, Max?
Max: I want a sandwich.
Mommy: Okay, a sandwich (Never mind that he already had a sandwich for lunch at 12:00.)
Max: I want turkey and cheese and bread on top and bread on the bottom.
Mommy: Okay, Max.
Max: No no no no no. I don't want that cheese.
Mommy: Okay, Max.
Max: No no no no no. I want cheese.
Mommy: Okay, Max (handing the turkey and cheese sandwich to him).
Max: No no no no no. I want it on a plate.
Mommy: Okay (handing a plate to him).
Max: No no no no no. It's too big. I want it in pieces.
Mommy: Okay (approaching the sandwich with a knife to cut it into quarters).
Max: No no no no no. I want the other knife.
Whenever there are this many sentences that begin with "no no no no no," you can be sure that we are building up to a meltdown. It's not a matter of if, but when. I take another knife from the drawer and put it on Max's plate.
Max: I want it cut into pieces.
Mommy: Like this?
I simulate cutting it into squares. I have learned to use this much specificity because if I cut it the wrong way he will want it "put back togeder" and the tantrum will ensue.
Max: Uh huh.
I divide the sandwich into squares.
Max: Please feed me mommy.
I acquiesce. The sandwich now consumed, Max begins to renegotiate our deal.
Max: One Dora, mommy.
Mommy: It's time for a nap, Max. Let's go.
Max: No, mommy. I don't want a nap.
I carry him into his bedroom, plop him on the pillows on the floor and leave.
The moment of meltdown has now arrived, and the wailing begins in earnest.
Max: Mommy, arghhhhhh. Melony, arghhhhh. Mommy, arghhhhhh. Melony, arghhhhh. Mommy, I want my mommy. Mommy....mommy? Arghhhh. Mommy, I have a dirty diaper.
This is a fairly common scenario at naptime, and Max does not bluff about these things, at least not yet. I go into Max's bedroom and change his diaper.
Max: I'm still crying, mommy.
Mommy: Why are you crying, Max?
Max: I'm crying about you. (Ouch!)
Mommy: Why are you crying about me?
Max: I need you, mommy.
Mommy: You need me?
Max: I need your help.
Mommy: How can I help you, Max?
Max: I need to take a nap in the living room, not my bedroom.
Mommy: Max, you need to take a nap on your pillows. It's naptime.
Max: No, mommy I DO need to go to the living room.
Mommy: Max, you need to take a nap.
Max: I need to help you throw away my dirty diaper. I need one Dora.
If Max wails much longer, Baby Reed will awaken from his nap, and then I will have two tired, cranky children on my hands.
Mommy: Max, you need to take a nap.
And then I hear a sound I dread even more than the sound of Max wailing: the yardmen have arrived. With the lawnmowers and leaf blowers* around the perimeter of the house for the next half-hour, getting Max to sleep is now impossible.
The battle is over for the afternoon. I've taken Max to the living room, where he is now lying down, watching Dora. There will be no nap today. Hopefully he will go to bed early. Very early.
*Remember the Bernard Pivot questionnaire? One of the questions is, "What noise do you hate?" My answer: LEAF BLOWERS! I'd have prefaced that with an adjectival phrase, but you know I'm trying to give up swearing....
What many of us are facing right now, with sadness and trepidation, is the realization that our kids are about to abandon their naps. And we are all in agreement: This is not a good development. Naptime is my window of opportunity to start dinner, pay bills, write emails, have a little uninterrupted adult conversation, make incremental progress on one of my house projects, or--imagine this--put my heels on the coffee table for a few minutes and exhale.
It's now 3:29 in the afternoon, and Max and I are entrenched in a typical battle of wills over his nap. We've been at this drama since 2:00. Here's a loose transcript of the last 30 minutes. (I'll let you extrapolate what the previous hour was like....)
Max (yelling from behind the closed door in his room): One Blues Clues And Then A Nap!
Mommy (making a serious tactical error): Okay, Max, one Blues Clues. Then it's nap time.
I situate Max in front of the telly and proceed to the nursery/office to finish the bill-paying which I started yesterday afternoon. Then I hear the door to the kitchen. I go in to find Max standing on a barstool, peering into the refrigerator.
Max: I'm hungry, mommy.
Mommy: Would you like some yogurt, Max?
Max: I want a sandwich.
Mommy: Okay, a sandwich (Never mind that he already had a sandwich for lunch at 12:00.)
Max: I want turkey and cheese and bread on top and bread on the bottom.
Mommy: Okay, Max.
Max: No no no no no. I don't want that cheese.
Mommy: Okay, Max.
Max: No no no no no. I want cheese.
Mommy: Okay, Max (handing the turkey and cheese sandwich to him).
Max: No no no no no. I want it on a plate.
Mommy: Okay (handing a plate to him).
Max: No no no no no. It's too big. I want it in pieces.
Mommy: Okay (approaching the sandwich with a knife to cut it into quarters).
Max: No no no no no. I want the other knife.
Whenever there are this many sentences that begin with "no no no no no," you can be sure that we are building up to a meltdown. It's not a matter of if, but when. I take another knife from the drawer and put it on Max's plate.
Max: I want it cut into pieces.
Mommy: Like this?
I simulate cutting it into squares. I have learned to use this much specificity because if I cut it the wrong way he will want it "put back togeder" and the tantrum will ensue.
Max: Uh huh.
I divide the sandwich into squares.
Max: Please feed me mommy.
I acquiesce. The sandwich now consumed, Max begins to renegotiate our deal.
Max: One Dora, mommy.
Mommy: It's time for a nap, Max. Let's go.
Max: No, mommy. I don't want a nap.
I carry him into his bedroom, plop him on the pillows on the floor and leave.
The moment of meltdown has now arrived, and the wailing begins in earnest.
Max: Mommy, arghhhhhh. Melony, arghhhhh. Mommy, arghhhhhh. Melony, arghhhhh. Mommy, I want my mommy. Mommy....mommy? Arghhhh. Mommy, I have a dirty diaper.
This is a fairly common scenario at naptime, and Max does not bluff about these things, at least not yet. I go into Max's bedroom and change his diaper.
Max: I'm still crying, mommy.
Mommy: Why are you crying, Max?
Max: I'm crying about you. (Ouch!)
Mommy: Why are you crying about me?
Max: I need you, mommy.
Mommy: You need me?
Max: I need your help.
Mommy: How can I help you, Max?
Max: I need to take a nap in the living room, not my bedroom.
Mommy: Max, you need to take a nap on your pillows. It's naptime.
Max: No, mommy I DO need to go to the living room.
Mommy: Max, you need to take a nap.
Max: I need to help you throw away my dirty diaper. I need one Dora.
If Max wails much longer, Baby Reed will awaken from his nap, and then I will have two tired, cranky children on my hands.
Mommy: Max, you need to take a nap.
And then I hear a sound I dread even more than the sound of Max wailing: the yardmen have arrived. With the lawnmowers and leaf blowers* around the perimeter of the house for the next half-hour, getting Max to sleep is now impossible.
The battle is over for the afternoon. I've taken Max to the living room, where he is now lying down, watching Dora. There will be no nap today. Hopefully he will go to bed early. Very early.
*Remember the Bernard Pivot questionnaire? One of the questions is, "What noise do you hate?" My answer: LEAF BLOWERS! I'd have prefaced that with an adjectival phrase, but you know I'm trying to give up swearing....
Monday, June 21, 2004
On Sharing
I picked Max up from school a little early today. When I arrived, he was fast asleep, positioned like a lumpy triangle, cheek pressed to the mat, bottom in the air. I don't know how much longer he'll settle himself in this charming, childlike pose, but I will surely miss it when he's left it behind. Although I could have contented myself with watching him, he lifted his sleepy head as soon as I greeted his teachers.
I had decided that our adventure on the way home would be a detour to Patisserie for a cookie. So to whet our appetites, I asked him what kind of cookie he wanted. Sugar cookie? Chocolate chip? Oatmeal raisin? Giving choices to your toddler is widely recommended in parenting books, but the strategy sometimes backfires with Max. Vascillating among his options, he can reach such heights that his dismount often resembles a full meltdown with two and a half twists. Fortunately, this was not his destiny today. He announced confidently, "Peanut butter. They're on the bottom row."
And so they were. But Max's choice wasn't your mother's peanut-butter-cookie-with- fork-tine-imprints-on-top. It was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cookie, meaning, as the name would imply, TWO peanut butter cookies married with a thin layer of jelly. I considered the consequences of this sugar infusion at 3:00 in the afternoon and acquiesced anyway. For me, I chose a snickerdoodle.
We sat down at a green bistro table, Max's legs dangling restlessly. A bite into our cookies, Max decided that he wanted to try my snickerdoodle. I permitted him a bite. Then he wanted another. Soon he had confiscated the snickerdoodle in its entirety. So, as quid pro quo, I broke bite-sized pieces off the top half of his peanut butter cookie. Watching as I began to disassemble his cookie, Max broke into pieces, too. "That's my cookie!" he began to wail. I stopped encroaching and explained to him that because he had eaten mine, it was only fair that I get to eat some of his. I sat back to let him think on this and collect himself. He didn't look persuaded by my rationale.
A few minutes later, in what appeared to be a spontaneous burst of generosity, Max declared, "Mommy, I want to share with you." Having put this offer on the table, Max took careful stock of his cookie inventory. All that remained in his hands were two pieces of the peanut butter cookie, one larger than the other by a factor of three. His eyes shifted back and forth between the two pieces. Then, with great deliberation, he took two bites from the larger piece. Now he appraised the two morsels again, and finding the comparison more to his liking, he offered me the piece that had just been reduced by two-thirds. "Here, mommy. This is for you!"
At the dinner table this evening, Max gave Lee his version of events at Patisserie: "I ate my cookie and mommy's cookie. And I shared my cookie with mommy." King Solomon might not have adjudicated it a fair and equitable division of cookies, but Max's account was all true, just the same.
I had decided that our adventure on the way home would be a detour to Patisserie for a cookie. So to whet our appetites, I asked him what kind of cookie he wanted. Sugar cookie? Chocolate chip? Oatmeal raisin? Giving choices to your toddler is widely recommended in parenting books, but the strategy sometimes backfires with Max. Vascillating among his options, he can reach such heights that his dismount often resembles a full meltdown with two and a half twists. Fortunately, this was not his destiny today. He announced confidently, "Peanut butter. They're on the bottom row."
And so they were. But Max's choice wasn't your mother's peanut-butter-cookie-with- fork-tine-imprints-on-top. It was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cookie, meaning, as the name would imply, TWO peanut butter cookies married with a thin layer of jelly. I considered the consequences of this sugar infusion at 3:00 in the afternoon and acquiesced anyway. For me, I chose a snickerdoodle.
We sat down at a green bistro table, Max's legs dangling restlessly. A bite into our cookies, Max decided that he wanted to try my snickerdoodle. I permitted him a bite. Then he wanted another. Soon he had confiscated the snickerdoodle in its entirety. So, as quid pro quo, I broke bite-sized pieces off the top half of his peanut butter cookie. Watching as I began to disassemble his cookie, Max broke into pieces, too. "That's my cookie!" he began to wail. I stopped encroaching and explained to him that because he had eaten mine, it was only fair that I get to eat some of his. I sat back to let him think on this and collect himself. He didn't look persuaded by my rationale.
A few minutes later, in what appeared to be a spontaneous burst of generosity, Max declared, "Mommy, I want to share with you." Having put this offer on the table, Max took careful stock of his cookie inventory. All that remained in his hands were two pieces of the peanut butter cookie, one larger than the other by a factor of three. His eyes shifted back and forth between the two pieces. Then, with great deliberation, he took two bites from the larger piece. Now he appraised the two morsels again, and finding the comparison more to his liking, he offered me the piece that had just been reduced by two-thirds. "Here, mommy. This is for you!"
At the dinner table this evening, Max gave Lee his version of events at Patisserie: "I ate my cookie and mommy's cookie. And I shared my cookie with mommy." King Solomon might not have adjudicated it a fair and equitable division of cookies, but Max's account was all true, just the same.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Gotta Dance
Our local Pacifica station has been paying tribute to Ray Charles today, and we've been appreciating his special genius. As I was making lunch, Max wandered into the kitchen and climbed onto the counter. Soon he was nodding his head to "Unchain My Heart", a big grin stretched across his face. It didn't take long before dancing erupted. We shimmied past the sink, we wriggled in front of the refrigerator, we boogied on the barstools. Max was so inspired that he looked at one of the dogs and said, "Dance, Harley!" And then he implored me, "Make Cassie dance, mommy!" Sometimes the music takes you and you gotta dance.
Saturday, June 12, 2004
As I was saying...
In the last few weeks, Boo has become quite verbal and seems tickled with himself as he experiments with various inflections and sounds, just like Max was doing at this stage. It took two more months before Max said his first word ("bubble") and another couple of months before he began to add words like dada and duck. By his second birthday, he had a vocabulary of a couple of hundred words and had begun to express himself in short phrases like "more milk" and "water cold." And then it seems that he made this dramatic leap and suddenly he's communicating original ideas and conjugating verbs and employing pronouns and prepositions and contractions as if he'd been speaking English all his life. Lots of days I listen in amazement and wonder, "Where was I when you learned THAT?"
Since Max started talking, I've kept a journal of words and phrases and sentences that he formulates. Here's a sampling from the last few weeks:
Max: "I got my face wet, mommy." Me: "How'd you do that, Max?" Max: "From the dog water." (Blech!)
[About 6:00 in the evening, upon entering the house from playing in the back yard] "What are we having for dinner, mom?" I did a doubletake to make sure Max hadn't turned 14 while he was outside.
[To our housekeeper/nanny Araceli, as I walked into the kitchen] "We call her MEL-O-NIE." Now that he knows I have a name, too, he calls me "Melanie" about a quarter of the time.
[Handing me his latest abstract expressionist masterpiece] "I made this painting for you, mommy."
[As we drove into our trainer's place and Max spied Lee on Max's favorite horse] "It's time for Daddy to get off J.J. so I can ride by myself."
[On our walk this evening] "I need to wear sunglasses so my eyes can be safe and I can see."
And last, but not least, my personal favorite:
[As I was tucking Max into bed] "Mommy, you're my best buddy."
Gloria Steinem said, "If you want children to grow up believing they have something important to say, listen to them." Listening and laughing--we're doing lots of both these days.
Since Max started talking, I've kept a journal of words and phrases and sentences that he formulates. Here's a sampling from the last few weeks:
Max: "I got my face wet, mommy." Me: "How'd you do that, Max?" Max: "From the dog water." (Blech!)
[About 6:00 in the evening, upon entering the house from playing in the back yard] "What are we having for dinner, mom?" I did a doubletake to make sure Max hadn't turned 14 while he was outside.
[To our housekeeper/nanny Araceli, as I walked into the kitchen] "We call her MEL-O-NIE." Now that he knows I have a name, too, he calls me "Melanie" about a quarter of the time.
[Handing me his latest abstract expressionist masterpiece] "I made this painting for you, mommy."
[As we drove into our trainer's place and Max spied Lee on Max's favorite horse] "It's time for Daddy to get off J.J. so I can ride by myself."
[On our walk this evening] "I need to wear sunglasses so my eyes can be safe and I can see."
And last, but not least, my personal favorite:
[As I was tucking Max into bed] "Mommy, you're my best buddy."
Gloria Steinem said, "If you want children to grow up believing they have something important to say, listen to them." Listening and laughing--we're doing lots of both these days.
Friday, June 11, 2004
Skin
"I want some skin." I hear this rather unusual expression from Max almost every day. What it means in concrete terms is that he wants to lift my shirt and press his cheek against my bare skin. What it means in emotional terms is not as clear. From my standpoint, however, it's sweet and tender and maybe a little odd. As best I can tell, none of my friends has had this experience with their toddlers, which leaves me wondering exactly how we got here.
When I was pregnant with Max, I embraced the parenting philosophy that babies who receive lots of skin-to-skin contact with their mothers experience a variety of benefits: better sleep, fewer problems with nursing, less stress, fewer infections and greater security. Even without this persuasive list, physical contact between mom and baby just seemed to make intuitive sense to me. And as an added bonus, holding a baby's silky skin close feels really, really wonderful.
Soon after I weaned Max, he began to raise my shirt and lean against my skin. I found this to be pretty endearing and took it as a natural transition from the closeness of nursing to greater independence on his part. If you want to know what mother love is, I even tolerated this behavior last summer, when I was quite voluminous with Reed, and Max would call me "Big Momma" as he'd rest his head against my belly....
To the best of my knowledge, the only other person with whom Max does this is Babee. She accommodates him with remarkably good humor, which is particularly helpful in her case since Max often chooses to expose her torso in public places.
I still might not have given this much thought were it not for a recent incident involving bathing suits. A few weeks ago while flipping through a magazine, I came across one of those springtime articles about best swimsuits for every figure. The article caught Max's eye, too. He enthusiastically shouted, "SKIN!" and crawled into my lap for a better view.
I have tried to make it a habit, at moments like this, to modulate my own reaction. I don't want Max to think there's anything alarming about looking at women's skin, and by the same token, I don't want to raise a voyeur. So we looked at the pictures together and I spun them into an ad hoc, interactive lesson about body parts: head, shoulders, knees and toes, that kind of thing. Imagine my surprise a few days later when Max, searching for something to do, said, "Mommy, I want to see the pictures of the girls with the skin." (Strangely, those pictures were nowhere to be found....)
So what does all this mean? I can't be sure, of course, but here's what I imagine. I think Max means: "I want to be close to you. I want a connection with you. I need comfort from you right now." And if I'm honest, he probably also means, "I like girls." So I intend for his grandmother and I to provide him with a lot of closeness and connection and comfort, and hopefully he won't need those things from other "girls" for a long time.
When I was pregnant with Max, I embraced the parenting philosophy that babies who receive lots of skin-to-skin contact with their mothers experience a variety of benefits: better sleep, fewer problems with nursing, less stress, fewer infections and greater security. Even without this persuasive list, physical contact between mom and baby just seemed to make intuitive sense to me. And as an added bonus, holding a baby's silky skin close feels really, really wonderful.
Soon after I weaned Max, he began to raise my shirt and lean against my skin. I found this to be pretty endearing and took it as a natural transition from the closeness of nursing to greater independence on his part. If you want to know what mother love is, I even tolerated this behavior last summer, when I was quite voluminous with Reed, and Max would call me "Big Momma" as he'd rest his head against my belly....
To the best of my knowledge, the only other person with whom Max does this is Babee. She accommodates him with remarkably good humor, which is particularly helpful in her case since Max often chooses to expose her torso in public places.
I still might not have given this much thought were it not for a recent incident involving bathing suits. A few weeks ago while flipping through a magazine, I came across one of those springtime articles about best swimsuits for every figure. The article caught Max's eye, too. He enthusiastically shouted, "SKIN!" and crawled into my lap for a better view.
I have tried to make it a habit, at moments like this, to modulate my own reaction. I don't want Max to think there's anything alarming about looking at women's skin, and by the same token, I don't want to raise a voyeur. So we looked at the pictures together and I spun them into an ad hoc, interactive lesson about body parts: head, shoulders, knees and toes, that kind of thing. Imagine my surprise a few days later when Max, searching for something to do, said, "Mommy, I want to see the pictures of the girls with the skin." (Strangely, those pictures were nowhere to be found....)
So what does all this mean? I can't be sure, of course, but here's what I imagine. I think Max means: "I want to be close to you. I want a connection with you. I need comfort from you right now." And if I'm honest, he probably also means, "I like girls." So I intend for his grandmother and I to provide him with a lot of closeness and connection and comfort, and hopefully he won't need those things from other "girls" for a long time.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Consequences
I was browsing through a parenting magazine today and came across the one page (!) that's designated for dads. The blurb that caught my eye (it's not an article if it only occupies a third of a page) was called Watch Your Mouth. Here's the salient part: "You're always telling your child to 'use your words.' But if you curse around her--as many dads do--off-color language will infiltrate her vocabulary, too."
This reminded me that last week, mom told me that while Max was visiting her, he dropped something and then exclaimed, "Damn it!" (By the way, could there be many things less attractive than an expletive casually flung from the lips of two year old?)
Getting this news from mom was the emotional equivalent of being told to go sit in a small, dark room with my conscience. Because the parenting magazine got it all wrong. The truth is, Lee doesn't use any of those words. I mean ANY of those words. If he's telling a story about what someone ELSE said, he'll actually say "the S word" or "the D word". HE WILL NOT USE THOSE WORDS. I love this about him, but it does cast me in a poor light, because you know what that means. If Max isn't getting those words from his dad, he must be getting them from me. Yikes!
So I've decided that I need to do to myself what I'd do to Max under similar circumstances: I need consequences. I don't know yet what an appropriate consequence is for the offense of using foul language. I suppose I could borrow from colonial times and wear a scarlet P, but I'm not much for public humiliation. The blurb suggests putting a quarter in your kids' piggy banks. The idea of a mere fine seems to be letting myself off light, but I'm going to begin with that as I ponder and solicit other suggestions for suitable consequences. Any ideas?
To jumpstart this little consciousness-raising exercise, I've decided to fine myself retroactively. Yesterday morning, Max showed up in our room at exactly 4:30. Lee got up to take a shower and, thinking Max might go back to sleep, tucked Max in on his side of the bed. Max interpreted this as an invitation to a party and promptly woke up Baby Reed. So both boys were now up at 4:40, Lee was heading for work, and I was a cranky mommy. As I stumbled out of bed and past Lee, I confess that I quietly muttered "the S word." And I'm going to pay for it today.
This reminded me that last week, mom told me that while Max was visiting her, he dropped something and then exclaimed, "Damn it!" (By the way, could there be many things less attractive than an expletive casually flung from the lips of two year old?)
Getting this news from mom was the emotional equivalent of being told to go sit in a small, dark room with my conscience. Because the parenting magazine got it all wrong. The truth is, Lee doesn't use any of those words. I mean ANY of those words. If he's telling a story about what someone ELSE said, he'll actually say "the S word" or "the D word". HE WILL NOT USE THOSE WORDS. I love this about him, but it does cast me in a poor light, because you know what that means. If Max isn't getting those words from his dad, he must be getting them from me. Yikes!
So I've decided that I need to do to myself what I'd do to Max under similar circumstances: I need consequences. I don't know yet what an appropriate consequence is for the offense of using foul language. I suppose I could borrow from colonial times and wear a scarlet P, but I'm not much for public humiliation. The blurb suggests putting a quarter in your kids' piggy banks. The idea of a mere fine seems to be letting myself off light, but I'm going to begin with that as I ponder and solicit other suggestions for suitable consequences. Any ideas?
To jumpstart this little consciousness-raising exercise, I've decided to fine myself retroactively. Yesterday morning, Max showed up in our room at exactly 4:30. Lee got up to take a shower and, thinking Max might go back to sleep, tucked Max in on his side of the bed. Max interpreted this as an invitation to a party and promptly woke up Baby Reed. So both boys were now up at 4:40, Lee was heading for work, and I was a cranky mommy. As I stumbled out of bed and past Lee, I confess that I quietly muttered "the S word." And I'm going to pay for it today.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
The Library
Yesterday I decided to borrow a page from mom's playbook and take Max to the "library" (a.k.a. the bookstore). After Max recovered from his disappointment that I, not Babee, was taking him, we had a wonderful time. We primarily canvassed the children's section for books about dinosaurs, with occasional detours to look at horse books. Then Max wanted to see a book that he and mom had discovered, a charming Caldicott Award winner about a mischievous rabbit and his misadventures. We eventually found it, much to Max's delight.
At the beginning of our outing, I had told Max that he could choose one book that we would buy. I gave him a choice between the book about the rabbit and one of the dinosaur books. That's when a Wiggles book caught Max's eye. Thinking it might stanch his interest, we read that one, too. Then Max announced, "I want to buy the Wiggles book." THAT I was not going to do.
And so the tantrum began. Yelling "I want the Wiggles book," Max made a dash for it. As fast as he was able, he ran from the children's section to the other end of Barnes and Noble, clutching the Wiggles book like a diminutive half-back headed for the endzone. I was still laughing as I chased him the length of the store. But when I picked him up, the screaming began in earnest.
Books on childraising are very clear about what you are to do in this situation: leave immediately regardless of the degree of sacrifice on your part, like abandoning the shopping cart, heaped with the week's groceries, in the checkout line. I had every intention to do just that. But Max had such a viselike grip on the Wiggles book that I couldn't leave the store without shoplifting.
I walked to the checkout counters and sat Max on the one closest to the exit. My goal was to extricate the book, then promptly dash out the door. Max was in high gear by now, face red and contorted, tears streaming. I pried and pried. No sooner would I get one hand off the book, he'd grasp it with the other. If I managed to get both hands off the book and take hold of his writhing body, he'd twist around and grab the book again. Round and round we went, all four hands flailing. All the while I was talking in calm tones, the way a horse whisperer might sooth a spooked horse. I might as well have been whispering to a voracious lion at feeding time.
Unfortunately for Max, size does prevail. As I carried him, still screaming, out of the bookstore, the relief of the patrons queued up to buy their books was palpable. I was relieved, too, to mop up the remains of the tantrum in the relative privacy of the parking lot. I used to think that pressure was giving a presentation to the bank's Board of Directors. Oh, no. Pressure is dealing with an hysterical toddler in public, under the scrutiny of a dozen tense strangers. After he was safely in the car, Max wailed for several more minutes. And then, like a fleeting thunderstorm on a summer afternoon, it was over.
At moments like this, I wonder whether Max has been putting me to a test. Often as some struggle between us subsides, Max will say spontaneously, "I love you, mommy." What I choose to hear in those words is, "Thanks, mom. I needed those limits." Yesterday, I had to content myself with, "Mommy, I want to play with Karen in the pool." Not as emotionally fulfilling as "I love you", but a signal nonetheless that he had moved on.
This morning after breakfast, Max asked if we could go to the library. I think I'll let Babee take him next time.
At the beginning of our outing, I had told Max that he could choose one book that we would buy. I gave him a choice between the book about the rabbit and one of the dinosaur books. That's when a Wiggles book caught Max's eye. Thinking it might stanch his interest, we read that one, too. Then Max announced, "I want to buy the Wiggles book." THAT I was not going to do.
And so the tantrum began. Yelling "I want the Wiggles book," Max made a dash for it. As fast as he was able, he ran from the children's section to the other end of Barnes and Noble, clutching the Wiggles book like a diminutive half-back headed for the endzone. I was still laughing as I chased him the length of the store. But when I picked him up, the screaming began in earnest.
Books on childraising are very clear about what you are to do in this situation: leave immediately regardless of the degree of sacrifice on your part, like abandoning the shopping cart, heaped with the week's groceries, in the checkout line. I had every intention to do just that. But Max had such a viselike grip on the Wiggles book that I couldn't leave the store without shoplifting.
I walked to the checkout counters and sat Max on the one closest to the exit. My goal was to extricate the book, then promptly dash out the door. Max was in high gear by now, face red and contorted, tears streaming. I pried and pried. No sooner would I get one hand off the book, he'd grasp it with the other. If I managed to get both hands off the book and take hold of his writhing body, he'd twist around and grab the book again. Round and round we went, all four hands flailing. All the while I was talking in calm tones, the way a horse whisperer might sooth a spooked horse. I might as well have been whispering to a voracious lion at feeding time.
Unfortunately for Max, size does prevail. As I carried him, still screaming, out of the bookstore, the relief of the patrons queued up to buy their books was palpable. I was relieved, too, to mop up the remains of the tantrum in the relative privacy of the parking lot. I used to think that pressure was giving a presentation to the bank's Board of Directors. Oh, no. Pressure is dealing with an hysterical toddler in public, under the scrutiny of a dozen tense strangers. After he was safely in the car, Max wailed for several more minutes. And then, like a fleeting thunderstorm on a summer afternoon, it was over.
At moments like this, I wonder whether Max has been putting me to a test. Often as some struggle between us subsides, Max will say spontaneously, "I love you, mommy." What I choose to hear in those words is, "Thanks, mom. I needed those limits." Yesterday, I had to content myself with, "Mommy, I want to play with Karen in the pool." Not as emotionally fulfilling as "I love you", but a signal nonetheless that he had moved on.
This morning after breakfast, Max asked if we could go to the library. I think I'll let Babee take him next time.
Sunday, June 06, 2004
Games People Play
Several years ago Lee and I became fans for a time of "Inside the Actor's Studio." I always looked forward to the end of the show, when the featured actor was asked the "Pivot Questionnaire." Perhaps I'll write about how I'd answer all 10 questions at another time, but the one that stands out for me right now is, "What turns you on?" To which I'd respond, "Creativity."
Many people associate creativity with those who have taken art or science in an uncharted direction: Mozart and Ellington and Hendrix come to mind in music, for example. But that's far more esoteric than what I'm thinking of right now. I'm immersed in the day to day marathon of parenthood. Keeping a two-year old entertained for a couple of hours? Now THAT requires creativity, and Lee has it in spades.
One of my favorite times of day is in the evening, when I'm in the kitchen making dinner and Lee and Max are outside making up games. One is called, "I've Got Some More Stuff In My Ear." The game originated in a restaurant, when a very bored Max had tired of sitting still. Lee performed a rudimentary version of the old "quarter in the ear" trick, and Max was hooked. Now Max makes the opening salvo by telling Lee he's got some more stuff in his ear. And Lee, with a flourish of "daddy magic", begins to produce all manner of things ostensibly from Max's ear: a plastic watering can, an icy cold bottle of beer, a shoe, a tennis racquet--whatever is within arm's reach. Generally speaking, the bigger the foreign object, the more special effects are required to extract it (tugging, twisting, straining, unusual sound effects, etc.). Like a 9-year old holding on to Santa Claus for one more bountiful Christmas, if Max is clued in to the fact that these things aren't really coming from his ear, he keeps it to himself.
Another game is the "Aspiring Russian Gymnast" routine. One day Lee picked up a hula hoop that had been lying around the garage and made it boomerang. You've probably seen this technique in the rhythmic gymnastics competition at the Olympics: by rolling the hoop with enough backspin, it eventually reverses direction and comes back to the lithesome waif. (How Lee came up with this trick is a mystery to me, because I'd wager a lot of money that he's never watched more of a rhythmic gymnastics event than the time it takes to change the channel.) Max's role is to chase the spinning hoop, anticipating its speed and change in direction, and catch it before it wobbles to the ground. An ancillary benefit of this game: depleting Max's considerable reserves of energy before bedtime.
Last night I looked out the window to see Lee and Max racing around the back yard, this time sans hoop. They had just invented a new "Rope the Steer" game. Picture steer-roping at the rodeo, with Max as the steer and Reed's favorite teething toy, a small ring of rubber beads, as the rope. Max and Lee line up together in the "chute." Lee yells "go" and Max takes off running. Lee's job is to toss the ring so that it lands on Max. I stopped cleaning up the kitchen to savor the moment: over and over, father and son, cowboy and steer, running and chasing, laughing and giggling, in the waning evening light.
Some women want a man who brings them gifts. Some women want a man who brings them to Paris. Some women want a man who brings them breakfast in bed. Me? I want a man who brings so much joy to a two-year old boy in their backyard on a summer's night.
Many people associate creativity with those who have taken art or science in an uncharted direction: Mozart and Ellington and Hendrix come to mind in music, for example. But that's far more esoteric than what I'm thinking of right now. I'm immersed in the day to day marathon of parenthood. Keeping a two-year old entertained for a couple of hours? Now THAT requires creativity, and Lee has it in spades.
One of my favorite times of day is in the evening, when I'm in the kitchen making dinner and Lee and Max are outside making up games. One is called, "I've Got Some More Stuff In My Ear." The game originated in a restaurant, when a very bored Max had tired of sitting still. Lee performed a rudimentary version of the old "quarter in the ear" trick, and Max was hooked. Now Max makes the opening salvo by telling Lee he's got some more stuff in his ear. And Lee, with a flourish of "daddy magic", begins to produce all manner of things ostensibly from Max's ear: a plastic watering can, an icy cold bottle of beer, a shoe, a tennis racquet--whatever is within arm's reach. Generally speaking, the bigger the foreign object, the more special effects are required to extract it (tugging, twisting, straining, unusual sound effects, etc.). Like a 9-year old holding on to Santa Claus for one more bountiful Christmas, if Max is clued in to the fact that these things aren't really coming from his ear, he keeps it to himself.
Another game is the "Aspiring Russian Gymnast" routine. One day Lee picked up a hula hoop that had been lying around the garage and made it boomerang. You've probably seen this technique in the rhythmic gymnastics competition at the Olympics: by rolling the hoop with enough backspin, it eventually reverses direction and comes back to the lithesome waif. (How Lee came up with this trick is a mystery to me, because I'd wager a lot of money that he's never watched more of a rhythmic gymnastics event than the time it takes to change the channel.) Max's role is to chase the spinning hoop, anticipating its speed and change in direction, and catch it before it wobbles to the ground. An ancillary benefit of this game: depleting Max's considerable reserves of energy before bedtime.
Last night I looked out the window to see Lee and Max racing around the back yard, this time sans hoop. They had just invented a new "Rope the Steer" game. Picture steer-roping at the rodeo, with Max as the steer and Reed's favorite teething toy, a small ring of rubber beads, as the rope. Max and Lee line up together in the "chute." Lee yells "go" and Max takes off running. Lee's job is to toss the ring so that it lands on Max. I stopped cleaning up the kitchen to savor the moment: over and over, father and son, cowboy and steer, running and chasing, laughing and giggling, in the waning evening light.
Some women want a man who brings them gifts. Some women want a man who brings them to Paris. Some women want a man who brings them breakfast in bed. Me? I want a man who brings so much joy to a two-year old boy in their backyard on a summer's night.
A New Ditty
Twinkle, twinkle, little circle
How I wonder what you circle
Up above the world so high
Like a dino in the sky
Twinkle, twinkle, little circle
How I wonder what you circle.
How I wonder what you circle
Up above the world so high
Like a dino in the sky
Twinkle, twinkle, little circle
How I wonder what you circle.
Friday, June 04, 2004
Boo's graduation, of sorts
Someone called to my attention that I've been at this blog for over a week and still haven't written about Boo. Sadly, I'd say that pretty fairly reflects the relative amount of my attention that each of my boys receives. Max consumes a lot of the oxygen in a room. And easy-going Boo is, well, easy-going. But I'm going to make a more conscious effort to remedy the disparity in who gets my attention, and not just on the blog.
Yesterday Reed graduated from our bed to his bassinet. Having spent three more months sleeping between us than Max did, he's been capable of this transition for quite some time. But Lee and I have had a difficult time letting go. First, we both love the feeling of his little body snuggled up against us, and of his hand tugging on the back of our T-shirts. But perhaps more significantly, we know that this is the last baby who will sleep between us, and it's a phase that we're sad to see go.
So why now? Two reasons, really. First, the longer we wait and the more conscious he becomes, the more difficult it will be for him to learn to sleep on his own. From that standpoint, frankly, we've probably already waited a little too long. But WE weren't ready. (At least we were clear that our delay was about us, not him.)
The second reason is one of pure self-interest: I need more sleep. This was the same trigger that led us to expel Max when he was about 4 months old, although it evolved differently. Max squirmed, kicked, thrashing and thumped in his sleep, usually on me. Reed is as serene at night as he is during the day, but he takes up a lot of real estate, and I find myself squeezed closer and closer to the edge of the bed.
A few days ago we reached the tipping point. By 3 a.m., Baby Reed, fully spread-eagle, had so overtaken the upper right quadrant of the mattress that I curled up in a fetal position at the foot of the bed to try to eke out a few more hours of sleep. After this became a pattern for a few days, my fatigue, coupled with the ironic image of a 2 foot 4 inch baby having more space on the bed than me, took hold. I'm committed to reclaiming my territory.
But it isn't easy. Last night I rubbed Reed's back until he nodded off, but when he flipped over a couple of hours later he became frantic and couldn't get himself back to sleep. So I suppose it's an oversimplification to say he's graduated completely. But at least we've begun the journey. Hopefully, this transition will also alleviate some of the envy that Max has been showing this week. Very early one morning, he tried to crawl into bed with us, saying, "I want to be little like Baby Reed." (Ouch!) Later that day Lee observed that Max is the only member of our household who doesn't sleep in our room. Who wouldn't be feeling left out?
Yesterday Reed graduated from our bed to his bassinet. Having spent three more months sleeping between us than Max did, he's been capable of this transition for quite some time. But Lee and I have had a difficult time letting go. First, we both love the feeling of his little body snuggled up against us, and of his hand tugging on the back of our T-shirts. But perhaps more significantly, we know that this is the last baby who will sleep between us, and it's a phase that we're sad to see go.
So why now? Two reasons, really. First, the longer we wait and the more conscious he becomes, the more difficult it will be for him to learn to sleep on his own. From that standpoint, frankly, we've probably already waited a little too long. But WE weren't ready. (At least we were clear that our delay was about us, not him.)
The second reason is one of pure self-interest: I need more sleep. This was the same trigger that led us to expel Max when he was about 4 months old, although it evolved differently. Max squirmed, kicked, thrashing and thumped in his sleep, usually on me. Reed is as serene at night as he is during the day, but he takes up a lot of real estate, and I find myself squeezed closer and closer to the edge of the bed.
A few days ago we reached the tipping point. By 3 a.m., Baby Reed, fully spread-eagle, had so overtaken the upper right quadrant of the mattress that I curled up in a fetal position at the foot of the bed to try to eke out a few more hours of sleep. After this became a pattern for a few days, my fatigue, coupled with the ironic image of a 2 foot 4 inch baby having more space on the bed than me, took hold. I'm committed to reclaiming my territory.
But it isn't easy. Last night I rubbed Reed's back until he nodded off, but when he flipped over a couple of hours later he became frantic and couldn't get himself back to sleep. So I suppose it's an oversimplification to say he's graduated completely. But at least we've begun the journey. Hopefully, this transition will also alleviate some of the envy that Max has been showing this week. Very early one morning, he tried to crawl into bed with us, saying, "I want to be little like Baby Reed." (Ouch!) Later that day Lee observed that Max is the only member of our household who doesn't sleep in our room. Who wouldn't be feeling left out?
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Max, Lee and Cassie
Reed
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Sticks and stones....
That jingle we were taught in elementary school? Well, whoever wrote the line "But words can never hurt me" wasn't a mother.
I was taking Max to gymnastics this morning, and frankly, he wasn't excited about going. He would have preferred to stay home and play with Araceli's daughter, Karen, but there was time for that after gymnastics.
Our routine on the way to gymnastics is to run by the recycling center in West U, which is my forum for explaining to Max why we try not to waste things and why it's important to reuse what we can. After the bottles and boxes and cans had been sorted, Max had it in his mind that he was going to drive the car. Where this particular idea originated, I don't exactly know. But as you've heard recently, Max's imagination is blossoming, and he was tired from having risen at 6:00 this morning, and he was grumpy at being pulled away from Karen. And so the tantrum began.
Initially, his wailing took the innocuous form of "Mommy, I want to drive the car!" about a dozen times. (It's pretty clear to me, altough he couldn't express it, that he wanted to be the driver of far more than the Suburban.) And then it veered in a decidedly ugly direction: "I DON'T LOVE YOU, MOMMY."
Books tell you this will happen. Friends tell you this will happen. But the visceral pain of hearing those words from Max's mouth--like being elbowed in the solar plexus--caught me quite off guard. Now that the inital body blow has subsided and my rational brain is working again, I think that next time I will be able to stay composed enough to say, "Max, you seem angry with me." And there WILL be a next time. Count on it.
Fortunately, that is not the end of the story. By the time we got to gymnastics, Max was ready to participate. Today was the beginning of the summer session, so there were new classmates to meet. His former coach, Eric, whom Max enjoys immensely, was back. In a remarkable improvement from last semester, Max was so cooperative that he earned stamps on his hands, feet and belly. (I privately wonder about how Coach Eric's presence may have contributed to Max's success today.)
Now comes the good part. As we go home from an event, one of our rituals is to discuss the question, "What was your favorite part?" I told Max that my favorite part of gymnastics was seeing Coach Eric again. And when I asked Max the same question, he said, "My favorite part was the new girl." I asked Max what her name was and he hesitated and then said, "Her name is Girl." And then he piped up with this: "Mommy, I need to go to the library first and get a book about girls. I want to find out the girl's name in the book about girls at the library." I think about the years that lie ahead of us when Max and I will both wish that it could be so simple--if only he could go to the library to get a book about girls.
P.S. It's now 5:30, and Max has just announced, "I love you, mommy." Everything is right with the world again.
I was taking Max to gymnastics this morning, and frankly, he wasn't excited about going. He would have preferred to stay home and play with Araceli's daughter, Karen, but there was time for that after gymnastics.
Our routine on the way to gymnastics is to run by the recycling center in West U, which is my forum for explaining to Max why we try not to waste things and why it's important to reuse what we can. After the bottles and boxes and cans had been sorted, Max had it in his mind that he was going to drive the car. Where this particular idea originated, I don't exactly know. But as you've heard recently, Max's imagination is blossoming, and he was tired from having risen at 6:00 this morning, and he was grumpy at being pulled away from Karen. And so the tantrum began.
Initially, his wailing took the innocuous form of "Mommy, I want to drive the car!" about a dozen times. (It's pretty clear to me, altough he couldn't express it, that he wanted to be the driver of far more than the Suburban.) And then it veered in a decidedly ugly direction: "I DON'T LOVE YOU, MOMMY."
Books tell you this will happen. Friends tell you this will happen. But the visceral pain of hearing those words from Max's mouth--like being elbowed in the solar plexus--caught me quite off guard. Now that the inital body blow has subsided and my rational brain is working again, I think that next time I will be able to stay composed enough to say, "Max, you seem angry with me." And there WILL be a next time. Count on it.
Fortunately, that is not the end of the story. By the time we got to gymnastics, Max was ready to participate. Today was the beginning of the summer session, so there were new classmates to meet. His former coach, Eric, whom Max enjoys immensely, was back. In a remarkable improvement from last semester, Max was so cooperative that he earned stamps on his hands, feet and belly. (I privately wonder about how Coach Eric's presence may have contributed to Max's success today.)
Now comes the good part. As we go home from an event, one of our rituals is to discuss the question, "What was your favorite part?" I told Max that my favorite part of gymnastics was seeing Coach Eric again. And when I asked Max the same question, he said, "My favorite part was the new girl." I asked Max what her name was and he hesitated and then said, "Her name is Girl." And then he piped up with this: "Mommy, I need to go to the library first and get a book about girls. I want to find out the girl's name in the book about girls at the library." I think about the years that lie ahead of us when Max and I will both wish that it could be so simple--if only he could go to the library to get a book about girls.
P.S. It's now 5:30, and Max has just announced, "I love you, mommy." Everything is right with the world again.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Oh, say can you sing....
Lyrics are pretty fluid when you're two. As a real-time window into a child's inner world, they are usually delightful, sometimes startling. Here are Max's recent renditions of some old classics:
Sung while eating scrambled eggs for breakfast....
Eggs, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.
Eggs, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.
And eyes and ears and mouth and nose.
Eggs, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.
Patty cake, patty cake baker's man
Bake me a cake as fast as you can
Pat it and roll it and mark it with a knee
And put it in the oven for Baby Reed and me.
Come to think of it, Max does sometimes try to mark Baby Reed with a knee.
The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout
Down came the rain and washed the spider out
Out came the sun and dried up all the rain
And the itsy bitsy spider went up Baby Reed.
Old Nat Donnell had a cow, EIEIO
And on that cow he had a pillow, EIEIO
With a sweep, sweep here and a sweep, sweep dere
Here a sweep, here a sweep, everywhere a sweep, sweep
Old Nat Donnell had a cow, EIEIO.
There are all kinds of other interesting things on Old Nat's farm, like houses and doors and kitchens and baths and boats and turtles and penguins. You just never know what you're going to find on that farm!
The image of a pillow on a cow reminds me of Lyle Lovett's tune about "Me up on my pony on my boat." Hmmm....maybe we have a singer/songwriter in the making?
Sung while eating scrambled eggs for breakfast....
Eggs, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.
Eggs, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.
And eyes and ears and mouth and nose.
Eggs, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.
Patty cake, patty cake baker's man
Bake me a cake as fast as you can
Pat it and roll it and mark it with a knee
And put it in the oven for Baby Reed and me.
Come to think of it, Max does sometimes try to mark Baby Reed with a knee.
The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout
Down came the rain and washed the spider out
Out came the sun and dried up all the rain
And the itsy bitsy spider went up Baby Reed.
Old Nat Donnell had a cow, EIEIO
And on that cow he had a pillow, EIEIO
With a sweep, sweep here and a sweep, sweep dere
Here a sweep, here a sweep, everywhere a sweep, sweep
Old Nat Donnell had a cow, EIEIO.
There are all kinds of other interesting things on Old Nat's farm, like houses and doors and kitchens and baths and boats and turtles and penguins. You just never know what you're going to find on that farm!
The image of a pillow on a cow reminds me of Lyle Lovett's tune about "Me up on my pony on my boat." Hmmm....maybe we have a singer/songwriter in the making?
