Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Take me out to the ballgame...
Over the last few months, I've started a number of posts, only to abandon them. Usually, I've intended but failed to return the next day to polish a thought or to write a meaningful ending. Often the boys have done or said something in the intervening hours that has become fresh fodder for writing. Sometimes I've simply given myself over to more pressing matters like sleep. Even though some of the material will be out of season, I've decided to attend to some of this unfinished business. I hope that you'll forgive the anachronistic aspects of these stories and enjoy them for what they are.
*****
From October 23:
When I was a student in what is now called "middle school", I loved the Houston Astros. Pressing a small battery-operated radio close to my ear, I'd lie in bed at night listening to games until I fell asleep. So tranquilizing were the rhythms of the games that I recorded them on a tape recorder, then let the announcers' voices lull me to sleep even when the Astros weren't playing.
My ardor as a baseball fan has weakened in adulthood. I usually tune in for part of the World Series, but I know nothing of the rosters or rivalries or drama of the season. This October, though, I was gripped with the baseball fever that swept Houston as the Astros came within a game of their first trip to the World Series. I suspect that my enjoyment of the Astros' late-season success had much to do with my own private nostalgia trip, but whatever the reason, I savored it while it lasted.
The night that the Astros lost Game 7 of the National League series to the Cardinals, I was reading in bed as the Yankees and Red Sox provided comforting ambient noise. I'd put Max to bed over an hour earlier. And then he tiptoed into my room.
"Can I get into the bed with you, mommy?"
"Of course you can, Max."
Max clambered onto the high pencil-post bed and crawled under the covers. Assuming Lee's place alongside me, Max scooted backwards until his head was propped up on the pillows. He placed both hands behind his head, elbows jutting outward like wings. How many times have I seen Lee strike the same pose? Max could have been 3 or 43.
Max was silent for awhile. Then he chirped, "What are we watching, mommy?"
"A baseball game."
He studied the television earnestly.
"What are those men doing?"
"Well, one man is throwing the ball, and the other man is trying to hit the ball with his bat. Did you see how the batter tried to hit that ball?"
"Yes, like I hit the ball with my bat," Max said, taking a practice swing in the air.
"And if the man hits the ball, then he tries to run around the bases. And he runs the bases in the shape of a square." With the basic shapes under his belt, Max delights in discovering them in the world around him.
Just then the batter hit a single into right field, advancing the runner to third.
"Do you see how the batter ran and made one of the four lines on the square?
"Yes."
On any other evening, I might have pressed Max to return to bed. But tonight we watched, shoulder to shoulder, as our national pasttime began to work its wonders on Max's consciousness. Periodically Max would turn and flash a beaming grin at me as if to say that a delicious secret was being revealed to him, and I had let him in on it.
In that moment, I peeked through the window that sometimes separates men and women and caught a glimpse of the joy fathers must experience when, after a hiatus of two decades or more, they take to the Little League field with their sons. Max let me in on that secret, and it was just as precious.
*****
From October 23:
When I was a student in what is now called "middle school", I loved the Houston Astros. Pressing a small battery-operated radio close to my ear, I'd lie in bed at night listening to games until I fell asleep. So tranquilizing were the rhythms of the games that I recorded them on a tape recorder, then let the announcers' voices lull me to sleep even when the Astros weren't playing.
My ardor as a baseball fan has weakened in adulthood. I usually tune in for part of the World Series, but I know nothing of the rosters or rivalries or drama of the season. This October, though, I was gripped with the baseball fever that swept Houston as the Astros came within a game of their first trip to the World Series. I suspect that my enjoyment of the Astros' late-season success had much to do with my own private nostalgia trip, but whatever the reason, I savored it while it lasted.
The night that the Astros lost Game 7 of the National League series to the Cardinals, I was reading in bed as the Yankees and Red Sox provided comforting ambient noise. I'd put Max to bed over an hour earlier. And then he tiptoed into my room.
"Can I get into the bed with you, mommy?"
"Of course you can, Max."
Max clambered onto the high pencil-post bed and crawled under the covers. Assuming Lee's place alongside me, Max scooted backwards until his head was propped up on the pillows. He placed both hands behind his head, elbows jutting outward like wings. How many times have I seen Lee strike the same pose? Max could have been 3 or 43.
Max was silent for awhile. Then he chirped, "What are we watching, mommy?"
"A baseball game."
He studied the television earnestly.
"What are those men doing?"
"Well, one man is throwing the ball, and the other man is trying to hit the ball with his bat. Did you see how the batter tried to hit that ball?"
"Yes, like I hit the ball with my bat," Max said, taking a practice swing in the air.
"And if the man hits the ball, then he tries to run around the bases. And he runs the bases in the shape of a square." With the basic shapes under his belt, Max delights in discovering them in the world around him.
Just then the batter hit a single into right field, advancing the runner to third.
"Do you see how the batter ran and made one of the four lines on the square?
"Yes."
On any other evening, I might have pressed Max to return to bed. But tonight we watched, shoulder to shoulder, as our national pasttime began to work its wonders on Max's consciousness. Periodically Max would turn and flash a beaming grin at me as if to say that a delicious secret was being revealed to him, and I had let him in on it.
In that moment, I peeked through the window that sometimes separates men and women and caught a glimpse of the joy fathers must experience when, after a hiatus of two decades or more, they take to the Little League field with their sons. Max let me in on that secret, and it was just as precious.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
And I don't think she was teaching Max how to get dressed...
Yesterday evening I was trying to change Max's clothes so that we could rush out for a bite and get to bed early. Max was wriggling like Houdini extricating himself from a straight-jacket. In frustration, I barked at Max to STAND STILL! He slowed long enough to position his wrestless limbs in the appropriate places. And then he said, "Zip it, mommy!"
That command isn't in Lee's or my repertoire, so I was more than a little surprised to hear it roll so comfortably off Max's tongue. Because I wasn't sure whether he knew what it meant, I postponed our "using polite language with one's parents" conversation until I'd asked Max if he knew what "zip it" meant.
"It means to stop talking."
"Where did you learn than, Max?"
"At school."
"Whom have you heard say that at school?"
"Mrs. Foltz."
"Did Mrs. Foltz tell you to 'zip it', Max?"
"Yes."
"When did she tell you to' zip it'?"
"When I didn't take a nap."
I have plenty of sympathy for Mrs. Foltz.
On Tuesday and Thursday, Reed was in the early stages of his nap when I told Max that it was time for him to follow suit. Knowing that you can't make a child sleep any more than you can make that proverbial horse drink, I explained to Max that he could sleep or play quietly, but that in either case he was to be quiet and stay in his room until I returned. I hadn't been alone for 10 minutes when I heard bellowing coming from the direction of Max's room, followed by the screams that Reed reserves for times when he's been roused from a sound sleep. Both boys were now tired but fully awake, and one was cranky, too. Those afternoons were almost interminable.
There's been a dearth of sleep in our house recently. This evening Max resisted going to bed, protesting that he didn't want to be alone. Finally, I insisted that it was bedtime and left the room. As I started down the hall, Max called out, "Mommy, I'm sad and I need a tissue for when I'm crying!"
Do I need to explain that that doesn't bode well for the coming hours? No, I didn't think so.
That command isn't in Lee's or my repertoire, so I was more than a little surprised to hear it roll so comfortably off Max's tongue. Because I wasn't sure whether he knew what it meant, I postponed our "using polite language with one's parents" conversation until I'd asked Max if he knew what "zip it" meant.
"It means to stop talking."
"Where did you learn than, Max?"
"At school."
"Whom have you heard say that at school?"
"Mrs. Foltz."
"Did Mrs. Foltz tell you to 'zip it', Max?"
"Yes."
"When did she tell you to' zip it'?"
"When I didn't take a nap."
I have plenty of sympathy for Mrs. Foltz.
On Tuesday and Thursday, Reed was in the early stages of his nap when I told Max that it was time for him to follow suit. Knowing that you can't make a child sleep any more than you can make that proverbial horse drink, I explained to Max that he could sleep or play quietly, but that in either case he was to be quiet and stay in his room until I returned. I hadn't been alone for 10 minutes when I heard bellowing coming from the direction of Max's room, followed by the screams that Reed reserves for times when he's been roused from a sound sleep. Both boys were now tired but fully awake, and one was cranky, too. Those afternoons were almost interminable.
There's been a dearth of sleep in our house recently. This evening Max resisted going to bed, protesting that he didn't want to be alone. Finally, I insisted that it was bedtime and left the room. As I started down the hall, Max called out, "Mommy, I'm sad and I need a tissue for when I'm crying!"
Do I need to explain that that doesn't bode well for the coming hours? No, I didn't think so.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Giving Thanks
Max has been sleeping sporadically of late. In hopes that both of us might benefit from a good night's sleep, my goal this afternoon was to exhaust him. We'd been romping around the back yard for some time when Max declared that it was time to paint. As I collected his painting materials, it became, ummm, apparent that art would have to wait for a diaper change. As Max lay on the changing table, he began to chant:
[While counting the fingers on each hand]
One, two, three, four, five,
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,
Put them together and let's begin to pray:
God is great, God is good,
Let us thank him for our paint.
Aaaa-men.
You see, I talked with Max last week about how God made everything. Even though I'll be short on answers when he starts asking about the "how's", it's important to me to cultivate his sense of gratitude from an early age.
Apparently, Max accepted this new idea as willingly as animal crackers. This evening as I put him to bed, Max spontaneously offered an earnest, 3-year old prayer:
"Dear God, thank you for Daddy and for Mommy. Thank you for the light. Thank you for Harley. Thank you for my friends."
I chimed in: "Thank you for our food and for this house. Thank you for all the people we love."
Now it was Max's turn again: "Thank you for everything. And thank you for Sarah."
[While counting the fingers on each hand]
One, two, three, four, five,
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,
Put them together and let's begin to pray:
God is great, God is good,
Let us thank him for our paint.
Aaaa-men.
You see, I talked with Max last week about how God made everything. Even though I'll be short on answers when he starts asking about the "how's", it's important to me to cultivate his sense of gratitude from an early age.
Apparently, Max accepted this new idea as willingly as animal crackers. This evening as I put him to bed, Max spontaneously offered an earnest, 3-year old prayer:
"Dear God, thank you for Daddy and for Mommy. Thank you for the light. Thank you for Harley. Thank you for my friends."
I chimed in: "Thank you for our food and for this house. Thank you for all the people we love."
Now it was Max's turn again: "Thank you for everything. And thank you for Sarah."
Monday, December 06, 2004
And the elephant has an amazing memory, too
My husband, Lee, has astonishing auditory memory. He can recall conversations from years ago virtually verbatim. When he reminds me of some long-ago discussion and I ask him what each of us said, an expression crosses his face as though he's listening to a tape that's been rewound. "You said such and so, and I said this and that, and then you said so forth and so on, and then I said blah, blah, blah." To which I can generally only reply, "Oh. I guess so."
In addition to the obvious professional benefits, Lee sometimes uses this aptitude as a kind of party trick. On our infrequent social outings, Lee can resume the conversation we'd been having with those friends months or even years before. When people remark in amazement about Lee's memory, he's been known to reply, "I'm not as stupid as I look."
*****
For me, one of the joys of watching my children is seeing glimpses of loved ones reflected in them. Boo has my sister Kimberly's beautiful doe eyes and his grandmother Nancy's nose. Max has Lee's almond eyes, and his face is unmistakably shaped like that of his grandmother, Babee. (From whom Max and Boo acquired the identical dimples on their left cheeks is anyone's guess.)
And then there's Max's memory.
While I imagine it's too early to say for sure (and not wanting not to sound like a braggadocio when it comes to my kids...), it's looking like Max may have been blessed with Lee's ability to remember.
By last summer, Max had mastered the "ABC song" (making allowances for the rather garbled pronunciation of "LMNOP"). Then he learned it backwards. He memorized the sound that each letter makes. And now he practices spelling like an Olympic athlete in training.
We spell words in the bathtub. We spell words in the car. We spell words in his room, using big foamy letters that form an interlocking floor mat.
A couple of weeks ago, Max wanted me to spell "elephant" using his foam letters. I explained that I couldn't because we only had one of each letter, and elephant had two "e's". I put the letters together on the floor and showed him how the "e" would have to go in two places in order to spell elephant. So we spelled "zebra" instead.
The next evening we were spelling once again. I put together S-U-N, and Max sounded out each letter. "SSSS-UHHH-NNNNN. SSSS-UHHH-NNNNN." Ever the showman, Max has developed a routine: once he deciphers the word I've spelled, he pretends to still be pondering it. Furrowing his brow in mock concentration, he silently mouths the syllables. A "Eureka!" expression animates his face, and he shouts, "I KNOW! I KNOW! IT'S SUN!"
Eager for more, Max asked, "How about "Moon"? I explained that I wasn't able to create "moon" because moon had two O's in it: M-O-O-N. Max grasped the implication, at least in part: "And I only have one "O" in my letters. Maybe we can go to the "O" store to buy another O."
*****
This evening, Max produced a coloring book from his art supply cabinet and asked me to read it to him. I hadn't seen or thought about the book in several months. Then he said perfunctorily, "I got this book in Seattle." I had to plumb my memory, but he was right: I'd bought him the book in anticipation of the long flight.
I began to read, each page revealing a fact about a particular zoo animal: "The giraffe is the tallest animal in the world. A camel with one hump is called a dromedary. The gorilla is an endangered animal who lives in the rain forest."
Authoritatively, Max said, "Gorillas live in Africa."
"Where did you learn that gorillas live in Africa, Max?"
"On the plane."
*****
On Max's first day at his new school, he began to work diligently on an alphabet puzzle. Each letter was embellished with a corresponding picture: an apple on the A, a bear on the B, and so forth. The "N" was adorned with two quarter notes. Max picked it up and said, "It's music!" One of his teachers was watching attentively. "How does he know that?," Mrs. Foltz asked. My reply is just as true today:
We don't really know how Max knows what he knows.
In addition to the obvious professional benefits, Lee sometimes uses this aptitude as a kind of party trick. On our infrequent social outings, Lee can resume the conversation we'd been having with those friends months or even years before. When people remark in amazement about Lee's memory, he's been known to reply, "I'm not as stupid as I look."
*****
For me, one of the joys of watching my children is seeing glimpses of loved ones reflected in them. Boo has my sister Kimberly's beautiful doe eyes and his grandmother Nancy's nose. Max has Lee's almond eyes, and his face is unmistakably shaped like that of his grandmother, Babee. (From whom Max and Boo acquired the identical dimples on their left cheeks is anyone's guess.)
And then there's Max's memory.
While I imagine it's too early to say for sure (and not wanting not to sound like a braggadocio when it comes to my kids...), it's looking like Max may have been blessed with Lee's ability to remember.
By last summer, Max had mastered the "ABC song" (making allowances for the rather garbled pronunciation of "LMNOP"). Then he learned it backwards. He memorized the sound that each letter makes. And now he practices spelling like an Olympic athlete in training.
We spell words in the bathtub. We spell words in the car. We spell words in his room, using big foamy letters that form an interlocking floor mat.
A couple of weeks ago, Max wanted me to spell "elephant" using his foam letters. I explained that I couldn't because we only had one of each letter, and elephant had two "e's". I put the letters together on the floor and showed him how the "e" would have to go in two places in order to spell elephant. So we spelled "zebra" instead.
The next evening we were spelling once again. I put together S-U-N, and Max sounded out each letter. "SSSS-UHHH-NNNNN. SSSS-UHHH-NNNNN." Ever the showman, Max has developed a routine: once he deciphers the word I've spelled, he pretends to still be pondering it. Furrowing his brow in mock concentration, he silently mouths the syllables. A "Eureka!" expression animates his face, and he shouts, "I KNOW! I KNOW! IT'S SUN!"
Eager for more, Max asked, "How about "Moon"? I explained that I wasn't able to create "moon" because moon had two O's in it: M-O-O-N. Max grasped the implication, at least in part: "And I only have one "O" in my letters. Maybe we can go to the "O" store to buy another O."
*****
This evening, Max produced a coloring book from his art supply cabinet and asked me to read it to him. I hadn't seen or thought about the book in several months. Then he said perfunctorily, "I got this book in Seattle." I had to plumb my memory, but he was right: I'd bought him the book in anticipation of the long flight.
I began to read, each page revealing a fact about a particular zoo animal: "The giraffe is the tallest animal in the world. A camel with one hump is called a dromedary. The gorilla is an endangered animal who lives in the rain forest."
Authoritatively, Max said, "Gorillas live in Africa."
"Where did you learn that gorillas live in Africa, Max?"
"On the plane."
*****
On Max's first day at his new school, he began to work diligently on an alphabet puzzle. Each letter was embellished with a corresponding picture: an apple on the A, a bear on the B, and so forth. The "N" was adorned with two quarter notes. Max picked it up and said, "It's music!" One of his teachers was watching attentively. "How does he know that?," Mrs. Foltz asked. My reply is just as true today:
We don't really know how Max knows what he knows.
