Friday, July 09, 2004
Word Association
Let's play word association. If you said "still", I might say "statue" or "air" or "night." What I would not say, under any circumstances, is "Max." Take, for example, Max at mealtime. Watching him on any given day, you will find him sitting on his chair, kneeling on his chair, standing on his chair (not allowed), putting his feet on the table (also not allowed), tipping his chair backwards at a precarious angle (really, really not allowed), getting off the chair, crawling into my lap, eating some of my dinner, getting off my lap, making faces at Baby Reed, tickling Baby Reed, getting back on his chair, banging the table with the tines of his fork (not allowed), trying to feed the dogs (not allowed), and so forth. With only a bit of hyperbole, I'd guess that the calories Max ingests during a typical meal are roughly equivalent to the calories he expends eating it.
Even in his sleep, Max can be so active that I sometimes worry he may hurt himself. When he graduated from his crib to a bed, I installed a mesh guardrail for what I thought would be a brief transition period. When I'd check on him before turning in for the night, I'd often find that he'd swiveled 180 degrees or wrangled into some sideways contortion with part of his body dangling off the mattress. Then one night, Max woke up screaming. Much to my horror, he'd tried to get out of bed by squeezing his body between the guardrail and the bedpost, but he'd gotten his head stuck on the way out. Concluding that the rail might be more hazard than help, I removed it, only to have Max fall out of bed twice that night. So the guardrail went back up, with pillows strategically positioned to prevent him from hurting himself. The rail is an added measure of security, too, when he uses his mattress for trampoline practice.
Max is many things, but "still" is usually not one of them.
On July 5, morning came early to our house. At 4:30, I was jolted from a dream in which I was observing Max at school, busily coloring everything brown. The silence was shattered by Max the Drill Sergeant blaring, "MOMMY, I NEED FOR YOU TO TUCK ME INTO THE BISCUIT! MOMMY, I NEED FOR YOU TO TUCK ME INTO THE BISCUIT!" (Now that it's no longer 4:30 in the morning, I can better appreciate the hilarity of that expression coming from a two and a half year old.)
Max and I both know that he is perfectly capable of manipulating the bedcovers himself. (He's capable of manipulating much, much more than that, too.) But something else was at stake this morning because if the shouting continued much longer, everyone in the house would be awake, with no guarantees that anyone would go back to sleep before daybreak.
So Max succeeded in luring me to his room. After I'd repositioned the top sheet, blanket, comforter, and baby quilt with the military precision he demanded, Max raised the stakes: "Would you lie down in my bed with me, mommy?"
Many nights I am unwilling to accomodate a second request like this, in which case there are typically a few seconds of wailing, and he is asleep again. But I'm particularly mindful these days of the imbalance Lee and I have created by having Baby Reed sleep in our room, while forcing Max, from his vantage point, to serve out a nightly exile in his room. Max's distress is manifested in myriad ways these days, ranging from his recent declaration that "I want to be little like Baby Reed," to his tendency to situate himself in Baby Reed's highchair just as I'm preparing to feed the baby, to the teeth marks that appear periodically on various parts of Baby Reed's body. Oh, and I mustn't forget his recent pencil drawing entitled, "The Mad Boy and Mommy." I will attach a copy of it for your analysis. Consequently, I've been making a concerted effort to pay special attention to Max, which led me to climb into bed beside him this particular morning. I'm glad I did.
Lying in the darkness, our foreheads pressed together, Max smiled and relaxed, and I smiled back. Savoring his warm, damp breath on my cheek, I noted how unusual this moment was....Max calm and silent and STILL. I lingered beside Max longer than I otherwise would have, acutely aware of his stillness. I seldom experience this kind of tranquility with Max, and I cherished it. Just when I'd concluded that he was asleep again, Max lifted his hand to my face, stroked my cheek gently, and let his fingertips rest there. We both lay still. With his small hand cupping my cheek, it occurred to me that I'd wake up at 4:30 every morning for moments like this. A few minutes later, as I started to take my leave, Max whispered, "I need the cold pillow, mommy." I flipped his pillow over to the cold side, just the way I like mine. Then I slipped out of bed, and Max slipped off to sleep.
I wish I'd slept more, too, but Reed was hungry, and an hour later Max wanted milk, and in another half hour NPR was set deliver its new, somewhat diluted version of the morning news. (Bob Edwards, I miss you.) The stuff of my day--kids and meals and house and animals and naps and discipline and errands--will be both completely new and utterly familiar. But whatever moments of joy or frustration or amusement or boredom or exhaustion or surprise or anger or delight happen today, the time spent with Max this morning will glisten like a precious jewel.
Even in his sleep, Max can be so active that I sometimes worry he may hurt himself. When he graduated from his crib to a bed, I installed a mesh guardrail for what I thought would be a brief transition period. When I'd check on him before turning in for the night, I'd often find that he'd swiveled 180 degrees or wrangled into some sideways contortion with part of his body dangling off the mattress. Then one night, Max woke up screaming. Much to my horror, he'd tried to get out of bed by squeezing his body between the guardrail and the bedpost, but he'd gotten his head stuck on the way out. Concluding that the rail might be more hazard than help, I removed it, only to have Max fall out of bed twice that night. So the guardrail went back up, with pillows strategically positioned to prevent him from hurting himself. The rail is an added measure of security, too, when he uses his mattress for trampoline practice.
Max is many things, but "still" is usually not one of them.
On July 5, morning came early to our house. At 4:30, I was jolted from a dream in which I was observing Max at school, busily coloring everything brown. The silence was shattered by Max the Drill Sergeant blaring, "MOMMY, I NEED FOR YOU TO TUCK ME INTO THE BISCUIT! MOMMY, I NEED FOR YOU TO TUCK ME INTO THE BISCUIT!" (Now that it's no longer 4:30 in the morning, I can better appreciate the hilarity of that expression coming from a two and a half year old.)
Max and I both know that he is perfectly capable of manipulating the bedcovers himself. (He's capable of manipulating much, much more than that, too.) But something else was at stake this morning because if the shouting continued much longer, everyone in the house would be awake, with no guarantees that anyone would go back to sleep before daybreak.
So Max succeeded in luring me to his room. After I'd repositioned the top sheet, blanket, comforter, and baby quilt with the military precision he demanded, Max raised the stakes: "Would you lie down in my bed with me, mommy?"
Many nights I am unwilling to accomodate a second request like this, in which case there are typically a few seconds of wailing, and he is asleep again. But I'm particularly mindful these days of the imbalance Lee and I have created by having Baby Reed sleep in our room, while forcing Max, from his vantage point, to serve out a nightly exile in his room. Max's distress is manifested in myriad ways these days, ranging from his recent declaration that "I want to be little like Baby Reed," to his tendency to situate himself in Baby Reed's highchair just as I'm preparing to feed the baby, to the teeth marks that appear periodically on various parts of Baby Reed's body. Oh, and I mustn't forget his recent pencil drawing entitled, "The Mad Boy and Mommy." I will attach a copy of it for your analysis. Consequently, I've been making a concerted effort to pay special attention to Max, which led me to climb into bed beside him this particular morning. I'm glad I did.
Lying in the darkness, our foreheads pressed together, Max smiled and relaxed, and I smiled back. Savoring his warm, damp breath on my cheek, I noted how unusual this moment was....Max calm and silent and STILL. I lingered beside Max longer than I otherwise would have, acutely aware of his stillness. I seldom experience this kind of tranquility with Max, and I cherished it. Just when I'd concluded that he was asleep again, Max lifted his hand to my face, stroked my cheek gently, and let his fingertips rest there. We both lay still. With his small hand cupping my cheek, it occurred to me that I'd wake up at 4:30 every morning for moments like this. A few minutes later, as I started to take my leave, Max whispered, "I need the cold pillow, mommy." I flipped his pillow over to the cold side, just the way I like mine. Then I slipped out of bed, and Max slipped off to sleep.
I wish I'd slept more, too, but Reed was hungry, and an hour later Max wanted milk, and in another half hour NPR was set deliver its new, somewhat diluted version of the morning news. (Bob Edwards, I miss you.) The stuff of my day--kids and meals and house and animals and naps and discipline and errands--will be both completely new and utterly familiar. But whatever moments of joy or frustration or amusement or boredom or exhaustion or surprise or anger or delight happen today, the time spent with Max this morning will glisten like a precious jewel.
1 Comments:
What a sweet moment... I realize that you take moments like that when you get them, but oh, if only you could schedule them for a little later in the morning.
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