Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Waiting for you
On Sunday afternoon we had unexpected guests. About 2:00 I received a phone call from David Albert, the husband of my dear college friend, Libby. David and their oldest son, Michael, were in town for baseball camp and had a few empty hours before their flight home to Oklahoma City. Libby had asked David, if time permitted, to come see us, meet the kids and take a few pictures. We had an all-too-short hour together, and after they left, I so yearned for more time with the Alberts that I'm plotting how we might make that happen this year. I asked about their daughter, Katy's rapidly-approaching departure for college. (You may recall that Katy is the sender of the card featuring Superwoman brushing the dinosaur's teeth.) David predicted that as they pull away from campus, I'll be able to hear Libby crying all the way from Boston.
One day a couple of weeks ago Max asked me to carry him into the living room. As I was about to deposit him on the sofa, he said, "I'm in a nest." I was confused and curious, so I asked Max if the sofa was a nest. He said, "No, you are." Then I asked if he felt like he was in a nest when I carried him in my arms, and said, "Yes. I'm a baby bird and I'm in a nest." Quite an endearing metaphor. And in fifteen years, he'll leave the nest like Katy. I get choked up now just imagining that day.
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Our usual nightime routine is to put Max to bed, then Baby Reed. There's considerably more fanfare to Max's bedtime ritual: Lee and I vie for the privilege of carrying Max to bed, after which Max, not yet adept at parity, always declares, "It's mommy's turn!" I walk/trot/run down the hallway with Max "in the nest." Lee follows closely behind so that when Max says, "Get my toes, daddy," Lee can tickle his feet.
Then one of us grasps Max's hands, the other his feet, and we swing him like a sack of potatoes into his bed. How long we swing depends on Max. The rule is that we keep swinging as long as he keeps counting correctly. He will usually make it to thirteen, after which he begins making erratic turns: "Eleven...twelve...thirteen...fifteen...sixteen...eighteen...twenty." Sometimes, though, he runs amok from the start: "One...two...twelve...fifteen...sixteen."
I'm reminded of an article I read recently about a political commentator for CNN. This man is no dummy--undergrad from Harvard, law degree from Stanford. Asked about his most embarrassing moment, he said that he'd been kicked out of kindergarten. When the teacher asked him what 2 + 2 equaled, he said, "Yellow." He thought it was funny. She didn't, and she had the power.
I can imagine Max doing exactly the same thing, and I wonder if that isn't what he's up to when we swing him into bed, because he's clearly amused. I hope that Max through the tribulations of growing up, Max manages to retain the ability to crack himself up. It's a great asset in life.
After Max makes it into bed, I usually join him for a few minutes. How long I stay is a function of how tired I am, how physical Max is (if he kicks or bites me, even out of exuberance, I'm out of there...), how demanding Baby Reed is, and what else remains to be done around the house. We read books (usually "How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight?"), or I sing a song (Max requests "Stay Awake, Don't Close Your Eyes," which I crafted improvisationally one night when I hoped reverse psychology would get him to sleep), or I tell a story (Max usually requests one about when he was little like Baby Reed), or I give him a backrub.
After Max is in the neighborhood of quiet, it's Baby Reed's turn. I'm embarrassed to admit that his is the Cliff's Notes version of a bedtime ritual...I nurse him and kiss him goodnight. If he's particularly fussy, he gets a lullaby. He's a much less skilled negotiator than Max, being sorely disadvantaged by a lack of words. And because he's Child #2, my tolerance for crying is way up. Life isn't fair.
Last night I put Max to bed and was devoting a few quality minutes to Baby Reed. Through the darkness, I heard Max's voice:
"Mommy, I need to ask your attention about me."
Hearing these words was wonderful on many levels. Max's usual attention-seeking tactic is to get out of bed, come into our room and climb under our covers. We've been working to curb this habit, and for Max to ask for attention rather than to compel it was a welcome sign of nascent self-control. This was also the first time Max has requested something abstract rather than concrete, like "more milk". Developmentally, that's a huge leap forward. And his syntax was utterly charming--childlike, yet completely intelligible.
"Do you need my attention, Max?" I asked.
"Yes, mommy."
"Okay, I'm putting Baby Reed to bed, and then I'll come give you my attention."
"Okay, mommy, I'm sitting right here and waiting for you." How could anyone resist that?
One day a couple of weeks ago Max asked me to carry him into the living room. As I was about to deposit him on the sofa, he said, "I'm in a nest." I was confused and curious, so I asked Max if the sofa was a nest. He said, "No, you are." Then I asked if he felt like he was in a nest when I carried him in my arms, and said, "Yes. I'm a baby bird and I'm in a nest." Quite an endearing metaphor. And in fifteen years, he'll leave the nest like Katy. I get choked up now just imagining that day.
------
Our usual nightime routine is to put Max to bed, then Baby Reed. There's considerably more fanfare to Max's bedtime ritual: Lee and I vie for the privilege of carrying Max to bed, after which Max, not yet adept at parity, always declares, "It's mommy's turn!" I walk/trot/run down the hallway with Max "in the nest." Lee follows closely behind so that when Max says, "Get my toes, daddy," Lee can tickle his feet.
Then one of us grasps Max's hands, the other his feet, and we swing him like a sack of potatoes into his bed. How long we swing depends on Max. The rule is that we keep swinging as long as he keeps counting correctly. He will usually make it to thirteen, after which he begins making erratic turns: "Eleven...twelve...thirteen...fifteen...sixteen...eighteen...twenty." Sometimes, though, he runs amok from the start: "One...two...twelve...fifteen...sixteen."
I'm reminded of an article I read recently about a political commentator for CNN. This man is no dummy--undergrad from Harvard, law degree from Stanford. Asked about his most embarrassing moment, he said that he'd been kicked out of kindergarten. When the teacher asked him what 2 + 2 equaled, he said, "Yellow." He thought it was funny. She didn't, and she had the power.
I can imagine Max doing exactly the same thing, and I wonder if that isn't what he's up to when we swing him into bed, because he's clearly amused. I hope that Max through the tribulations of growing up, Max manages to retain the ability to crack himself up. It's a great asset in life.
After Max makes it into bed, I usually join him for a few minutes. How long I stay is a function of how tired I am, how physical Max is (if he kicks or bites me, even out of exuberance, I'm out of there...), how demanding Baby Reed is, and what else remains to be done around the house. We read books (usually "How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight?"), or I sing a song (Max requests "Stay Awake, Don't Close Your Eyes," which I crafted improvisationally one night when I hoped reverse psychology would get him to sleep), or I tell a story (Max usually requests one about when he was little like Baby Reed), or I give him a backrub.
After Max is in the neighborhood of quiet, it's Baby Reed's turn. I'm embarrassed to admit that his is the Cliff's Notes version of a bedtime ritual...I nurse him and kiss him goodnight. If he's particularly fussy, he gets a lullaby. He's a much less skilled negotiator than Max, being sorely disadvantaged by a lack of words. And because he's Child #2, my tolerance for crying is way up. Life isn't fair.
Last night I put Max to bed and was devoting a few quality minutes to Baby Reed. Through the darkness, I heard Max's voice:
"Mommy, I need to ask your attention about me."
Hearing these words was wonderful on many levels. Max's usual attention-seeking tactic is to get out of bed, come into our room and climb under our covers. We've been working to curb this habit, and for Max to ask for attention rather than to compel it was a welcome sign of nascent self-control. This was also the first time Max has requested something abstract rather than concrete, like "more milk". Developmentally, that's a huge leap forward. And his syntax was utterly charming--childlike, yet completely intelligible.
"Do you need my attention, Max?" I asked.
"Yes, mommy."
"Okay, I'm putting Baby Reed to bed, and then I'll come give you my attention."
"Okay, mommy, I'm sitting right here and waiting for you." How could anyone resist that?
1 Comments:
What a sweet bedtime story. And what a lovely, quirky sense of humor Max has. Can't imagine why he'd be, well, not quite average. When we were in Houston, I played around with what the piggies in "this little piggie" were doing, venturing away from the standard market/ home/ roast beef/ none/ weeweeweewee. While at first he said, "Nooooooo" when I said the "wrong" thing, he thought it was funny... and then he started saying "Noooooo" and laughing when I said the "right" thing. As you said, I hope he'll always be able to crack himself up.
And I like Mom's new name for herself (in her comment). If I were going to give her name a modifier (like Peter the Great, Ivan the Terrible, etc.), I think Barbie the Rational would be a fine choice.
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