Monday, March 21, 2005
Good question...
When Reed was baptized a year ago, St. Luke's gave him a board book called Baby's First Prayers. The book is a favorite of both Max and Reed. My hunch is that they love it, in part, because it has a nifty plastic handle and clasp adorned with three-dimensional plastic animals. But no matter. We read it and read it often.
The book features prayers for daily living, from sun-up to bedtime, and its themes are straight-forward and non-sectarian: God made the world and everything in it. God is with us always. For these things, we are thankful. Not particularly complicated or controversial stuff, at least not on the surface.
But Max is trying to figure out how the world works and how various things relate to one another. A couple of weeks ago as we were reading together, Max asked, "Did God write this book?" That might have struck me as an odd inquiry had we not been discussing the rather curious phenomenon that everything comes from God. It is, after all, the ultimate mystery.
This evening Max once again asked me to read him Baby's First Prayers. After we'd finished it from cover to cover, Max asked, "Mommmy, how did God make me?" I've been readying myself for "Where do babies come from?", but Max's formulation was slightly different. As I began to stutter through a response, Max turned and walked out of the room. He appeared to care not one whit about my answer. Perhaps, at some level, he already recognizes this truth:
Sometimes it is the question that is most interesting.
The book features prayers for daily living, from sun-up to bedtime, and its themes are straight-forward and non-sectarian: God made the world and everything in it. God is with us always. For these things, we are thankful. Not particularly complicated or controversial stuff, at least not on the surface.
But Max is trying to figure out how the world works and how various things relate to one another. A couple of weeks ago as we were reading together, Max asked, "Did God write this book?" That might have struck me as an odd inquiry had we not been discussing the rather curious phenomenon that everything comes from God. It is, after all, the ultimate mystery.
This evening Max once again asked me to read him Baby's First Prayers. After we'd finished it from cover to cover, Max asked, "Mommmy, how did God make me?" I've been readying myself for "Where do babies come from?", but Max's formulation was slightly different. As I began to stutter through a response, Max turned and walked out of the room. He appeared to care not one whit about my answer. Perhaps, at some level, he already recognizes this truth:
Sometimes it is the question that is most interesting.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
A Prayer for Max
I zone out--a lot, in fact. If you had asked me a couple of years ago whether I lived in a fog, I'd have vehemently denied it. I'd have professed to being keenly perceptive, to living in the moment. But that is not true, at least not all the time, and I know this now because I live with Max. Max notices things. He not only pays attention; he grasps concepts and sheds insight on his experience of the world.
Recently on the way to school, Max started to laugh. "Shady River?! That's a funny name for a street." "Why is that a funny name, Max?" "Because it's a street, not a river!"
I began to witness Max's powers of observation many months ago while we were listening to Lyle Lovett tunes. Lovett is known for his witty and sometimes mysoginistic lyrics, and the punch line of one of his songs is, "You can have my girl, but don't touch my hat." It never occured to me that those lyrics might register with Max until one day he protested: "No! You can have my hat, but don't touch my girl!" He still registers his objection almost every time he hears that song.
A couple of weeks ago, we were listening to A Prairie Home Companion when a lovely song, which is folksy allusion to the Aretha Franklin classic, began to play:
"Lights are on in the middle of the night
There’s a sick little child around
Momma said, “Papa, don’t you worry
I think her fever’s comin’ down.
Yes, I know, it’s just a cold or it’s just the flu
But I say a little player, say a little prayer for you
I say a little player, say a little prayer for you
Let her get better, let her get better soon, please do."
Max piped up from the back seat, "That girl is sick and her mommy wants her to get better!"
"Mama’s been walkin’ with ya’
Papa’s been walkin’ with ya’
Walkin’ up and down the hallway
Look out the window
See the city lights a-shinin’
When you’re sick you look so tiny
I wanna put you in my pocket
Take you down to where it’s warmer
Gonna throw you in the ocean
And you will turn into a dolphin
And when you get all better
You will swim back to me."
"Turn into a dolphin? That's silly!"
For several days, Max asked repeatedly for the "get better" song, and we'd sing the chorus to each other in the car. I even pulled it up online, much to his delight. (If you'd like to hear the entire tune for yourself, go to www.prairiehome.publicradio.org/programs/2005/2/26. It's in Segment 7.) And then he moved on to other things.
This morning, Max was wracked with a terrible cough, perhaps from the clouds of yellow pollen wafting through the spring air. He looked at me earnestly and said, "Mommy, I feel a little sick. Would you say a prayer for me?"
P.S. For the curious among you who are thristing for an example of how I zone out, here's a recent one: As I was getting ready for bed this evening, something about my toothbrush didn't feel quite right. That's when I discovered that I was using Max's toothbrush--the one with Dora the Explorer and Boots the Monkey on the handle in multi-colored, plastic relief. You'd think I might have noticed that before I got started....
Recently on the way to school, Max started to laugh. "Shady River?! That's a funny name for a street." "Why is that a funny name, Max?" "Because it's a street, not a river!"
I began to witness Max's powers of observation many months ago while we were listening to Lyle Lovett tunes. Lovett is known for his witty and sometimes mysoginistic lyrics, and the punch line of one of his songs is, "You can have my girl, but don't touch my hat." It never occured to me that those lyrics might register with Max until one day he protested: "No! You can have my hat, but don't touch my girl!" He still registers his objection almost every time he hears that song.
A couple of weeks ago, we were listening to A Prairie Home Companion when a lovely song, which is folksy allusion to the Aretha Franklin classic, began to play:
"Lights are on in the middle of the night
There’s a sick little child around
Momma said, “Papa, don’t you worry
I think her fever’s comin’ down.
Yes, I know, it’s just a cold or it’s just the flu
But I say a little player, say a little prayer for you
I say a little player, say a little prayer for you
Let her get better, let her get better soon, please do."
Max piped up from the back seat, "That girl is sick and her mommy wants her to get better!"
"Mama’s been walkin’ with ya’
Papa’s been walkin’ with ya’
Walkin’ up and down the hallway
Look out the window
See the city lights a-shinin’
When you’re sick you look so tiny
I wanna put you in my pocket
Take you down to where it’s warmer
Gonna throw you in the ocean
And you will turn into a dolphin
And when you get all better
You will swim back to me."
"Turn into a dolphin? That's silly!"
For several days, Max asked repeatedly for the "get better" song, and we'd sing the chorus to each other in the car. I even pulled it up online, much to his delight. (If you'd like to hear the entire tune for yourself, go to www.prairiehome.publicradio.org/programs/2005/2/26. It's in Segment 7.) And then he moved on to other things.
This morning, Max was wracked with a terrible cough, perhaps from the clouds of yellow pollen wafting through the spring air. He looked at me earnestly and said, "Mommy, I feel a little sick. Would you say a prayer for me?"
P.S. For the curious among you who are thristing for an example of how I zone out, here's a recent one: As I was getting ready for bed this evening, something about my toothbrush didn't feel quite right. That's when I discovered that I was using Max's toothbrush--the one with Dora the Explorer and Boots the Monkey on the handle in multi-colored, plastic relief. You'd think I might have noticed that before I got started....
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Lean on me
One of the many things I love about Boo is that he's a "leaner." He'll drape himself across my shoulder like a cheetah sunning on a tree limb, or rest his head in my lap when I'm sitting on the floor, or plant his forehead against my legs for a little extra support (more emotional than physical at this point, I'd guess). But for me, nothing beats the moments after I pull Boo out of the bathtub. I position the green, hooded frog towel over his head; then he'll reach his arms over my shoulders and press his warm, sweet-smelling body against me for an extended hug. It's such a delicious moment, I never want to let go.
I get my fair share of affection from Boo, but without question, his favorite leaning partner is his dad. Boo has found myriad ways to insinuate himself into Lee's daily routine. He scoots between Lee's knees while he shaves; Lee takes Boo in his arms to fetch the newspaper; Boo's preferred seat for meals is in his father's lap; and they sit side-by-side on the teak bench while Lee enjoys his evening beer. A few weeks ago, Boo created a new ritual with his dad: he found the hand-held wooden back massager, marched over to Lee's chair and handed it to him, turned around and backed up. Boo was demanding a backrub! Every time Lee would stop rubbing, Boo would back into him like a horse using a fence post to scratch an itch. It's just another of the manifestations of the whole physically-sensitive, coordinated, kinesthetic thing that Boo's got going on.
If you were to surmise, based on these anecdotes, that Boo's affection could be easily won, you'd be sorely wrong. He's still reticent about people who are unfamiliar to him, and he will scream his head off if he's handed to a stranger. And that's what made our visit to the park this weekend so remarkable.
I often take Max and Boo to parks in West University because we are likely to encounter many other kids, and as a bonus, I may run into one of my friends. On Saturday morning, we were at Sunset Park when we bumped into Lee's cousin, Boyd, his wife, Erin and their two-year old son, Connor. Boyd is a slightly taller, leaner, younger version of Lee, and the family resemblance is unmistakeable. I hadn't seen Boyd in a few years, and we'd never met each other's kids, so we were getting caught up when Boo spied us from a distance. He walked directly up to Boyd, wrapped his arms around one of Boyd's knees, and leaned heavily. After a couple of minutes, Boyd yielded to Boo's charm and scooped Boo up in his arms. Now Boo was exactly where he wanted to be. He rested his head against Boyd's chest, looking completely content with his place in the universe.
From four feet below, did Boo think that Boyd was really his dad? Or did Boyd seem just familiar enough to be appealing, rather than frightening? Whatever the case, Boo clung to Boyd in the same way that he attaches himself to Lee. So when it came time for Boyd to leave, I could have scripted what would happen. As soon as Boyd began to lower him to the ground, Boo began to wail. And he continued to howl until Boyd walked out of the park and disappeared from sight.
But Boo's lovefest was not yet over. Ten minutes later, Boyd and Connor returned and settled into the rock pile together. By this time, Max and Reed were engaged in a game of chase, dashing up the stairs and down the spiral slide. Then Boo caught sight of Boyd's broad back. In a moment of mommy telepathy, I knew exactly what he planned to do. It's a move I've seen Boo make a hundred times with his dad. He headed for the rock pile, shimmied off the curb, walked backwards until he reached Boyd, and seated himself squarely in his lap. Boo sat happily in the lap of the stranger-who-looked-almost-like-dad, scooping and dumping and sifting rocks until it was time for us to go home.
I get my fair share of affection from Boo, but without question, his favorite leaning partner is his dad. Boo has found myriad ways to insinuate himself into Lee's daily routine. He scoots between Lee's knees while he shaves; Lee takes Boo in his arms to fetch the newspaper; Boo's preferred seat for meals is in his father's lap; and they sit side-by-side on the teak bench while Lee enjoys his evening beer. A few weeks ago, Boo created a new ritual with his dad: he found the hand-held wooden back massager, marched over to Lee's chair and handed it to him, turned around and backed up. Boo was demanding a backrub! Every time Lee would stop rubbing, Boo would back into him like a horse using a fence post to scratch an itch. It's just another of the manifestations of the whole physically-sensitive, coordinated, kinesthetic thing that Boo's got going on.
If you were to surmise, based on these anecdotes, that Boo's affection could be easily won, you'd be sorely wrong. He's still reticent about people who are unfamiliar to him, and he will scream his head off if he's handed to a stranger. And that's what made our visit to the park this weekend so remarkable.
I often take Max and Boo to parks in West University because we are likely to encounter many other kids, and as a bonus, I may run into one of my friends. On Saturday morning, we were at Sunset Park when we bumped into Lee's cousin, Boyd, his wife, Erin and their two-year old son, Connor. Boyd is a slightly taller, leaner, younger version of Lee, and the family resemblance is unmistakeable. I hadn't seen Boyd in a few years, and we'd never met each other's kids, so we were getting caught up when Boo spied us from a distance. He walked directly up to Boyd, wrapped his arms around one of Boyd's knees, and leaned heavily. After a couple of minutes, Boyd yielded to Boo's charm and scooped Boo up in his arms. Now Boo was exactly where he wanted to be. He rested his head against Boyd's chest, looking completely content with his place in the universe.
From four feet below, did Boo think that Boyd was really his dad? Or did Boyd seem just familiar enough to be appealing, rather than frightening? Whatever the case, Boo clung to Boyd in the same way that he attaches himself to Lee. So when it came time for Boyd to leave, I could have scripted what would happen. As soon as Boyd began to lower him to the ground, Boo began to wail. And he continued to howl until Boyd walked out of the park and disappeared from sight.
But Boo's lovefest was not yet over. Ten minutes later, Boyd and Connor returned and settled into the rock pile together. By this time, Max and Reed were engaged in a game of chase, dashing up the stairs and down the spiral slide. Then Boo caught sight of Boyd's broad back. In a moment of mommy telepathy, I knew exactly what he planned to do. It's a move I've seen Boo make a hundred times with his dad. He headed for the rock pile, shimmied off the curb, walked backwards until he reached Boyd, and seated himself squarely in his lap. Boo sat happily in the lap of the stranger-who-looked-almost-like-dad, scooping and dumping and sifting rocks until it was time for us to go home.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
My Wonderful Day
If you'd asked me at sunrise, I might have doubted that my day would be wonderful. After all, I'd had 5 hours of sleep, bifurcated by listening to Boo scream for an hour. When Max awoke shortly before 6:00, I was annoyed, and I became even more irritated when he roused Boo soon thereafter. My day turned the corner, though, when Lee put Boo in bed beside me while he showered. While I was still pretending to doze, Boo began to hum an unfamiliar tune: WHO hoo hoo, WHO hoo hoo, WHO hoo hoo. It took several minutes for me to recognize the pattern--he was singing a duet with the dove outside our bedroom window. Every time the dove would call out, Boo would respond in kind. WHO hoo hoo. WHO hoo hoo. By the time I got out of bed, I was smiling.
*****
We met our new 8-day old foal this morning. He and Max stand about eye to eye right now, but not for long. Judging from his performance in the turnout pen, our family has added another character to the menagerie. He ripped and raced around the pen at full tilt; he jumped stiff-legged into the air and twisted and skipped and spun and hopped; he went nose to nose with his momma as if she were a cow and he was trying to hold her. He was obviously having a ball with this whole business of being alive. The vet's wife was watching with us as we admired the little guy and laughed. "He's been like this since the minute he was born," she said. "As soon as he came out, he jumped straight in the air."
*****
At dinner this evening, Max blurted out, "Can you believe it? I'm growing, and I'm going to be a daddy just like you, daddy!" I asked Max what he'd like to do with his son when he became a daddy. "Share my toys. And eat macaroni and cheese. And throw him up high in the sky. And I'm going to call him Boo!" Lee asked, "What are you going to do if your son doesn't listen and do what you asked him to do?" Max thought for awhile in silence, clearly puzzled by Lee's question. Then he furrowed his brow and wagged a finger in Lee's direction, ""I'm going to tell him 'NO!' and then he's going to be a good listener." Tomorrow I'm going to remind Max of our conversation, and then I plan to put his suggestion to use.
*****
Boo needed a diaper change this evening but wasn't up for staying still. So Lee resurrected a tactic that had worked often with Max: singing "If You're Happy and You Know It" while juggling wipes and diaper cream and velcro and pj's. Lee lateralled Boo to me for hand-washing and teeth-brushing, and I took up the tune: "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands...." And Boo went "clap, clap" with his hands. Thinking this might be an accident or a fluke or an involuntary spasm, I continued: "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands...." "Clap, clap," went Boo. And so we continued, me singing and Boo responding on cue, in perfect rhythm. Evidently Boo was happy, and his mommy was, too.
*****
We met our new 8-day old foal this morning. He and Max stand about eye to eye right now, but not for long. Judging from his performance in the turnout pen, our family has added another character to the menagerie. He ripped and raced around the pen at full tilt; he jumped stiff-legged into the air and twisted and skipped and spun and hopped; he went nose to nose with his momma as if she were a cow and he was trying to hold her. He was obviously having a ball with this whole business of being alive. The vet's wife was watching with us as we admired the little guy and laughed. "He's been like this since the minute he was born," she said. "As soon as he came out, he jumped straight in the air."
*****
At dinner this evening, Max blurted out, "Can you believe it? I'm growing, and I'm going to be a daddy just like you, daddy!" I asked Max what he'd like to do with his son when he became a daddy. "Share my toys. And eat macaroni and cheese. And throw him up high in the sky. And I'm going to call him Boo!" Lee asked, "What are you going to do if your son doesn't listen and do what you asked him to do?" Max thought for awhile in silence, clearly puzzled by Lee's question. Then he furrowed his brow and wagged a finger in Lee's direction, ""I'm going to tell him 'NO!' and then he's going to be a good listener." Tomorrow I'm going to remind Max of our conversation, and then I plan to put his suggestion to use.
*****
Boo needed a diaper change this evening but wasn't up for staying still. So Lee resurrected a tactic that had worked often with Max: singing "If You're Happy and You Know It" while juggling wipes and diaper cream and velcro and pj's. Lee lateralled Boo to me for hand-washing and teeth-brushing, and I took up the tune: "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands...." And Boo went "clap, clap" with his hands. Thinking this might be an accident or a fluke or an involuntary spasm, I continued: "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands...." "Clap, clap," went Boo. And so we continued, me singing and Boo responding on cue, in perfect rhythm. Evidently Boo was happy, and his mommy was, too.
Friday, March 11, 2005
The Existential Marsupial
Cassie has been limping for over a month. For as long as I remember, she's been sore after a hard run at the ranch, but this time she didn't get better. Two weeks ago, I took her to the vet. I had to leave her for the day so that she could be sedated for X-rays, and when I came for her at the end of the day I had both kids in tow. While we waited for the vet, I tried to engage Max in a game of "I Spy" and hoped that the fishtank would hold Boo's interest.
As Max would say, "Silly mommy!" From the moment we arrived, the boys were bent on destroying the sitting room. By the time Dr. Wilkie emerged from an examining room, I was lurching from child to child in a futile attempt to contain their restless energy. Max was busy disassembling the nesting toys and dropping wooden animal statues on the floor, while Reed was preoccupied with the cords, plugs and miscellaneous electronics associated with the fishtank. I was so distracted that I barely glanced at the doctor when she delivered the verdict on Cassie: hip dysplasia.
Had I been alone, my mind would have raced with a dozen questions about the diagnosis and prognosis and treatment options. But not this day. This day I just wanted to stem the damage by strapping the kids into their carseats. Once I'd gotten home and turned the boys out into the backyard, the questions about Cassie began to surface in my brain. I called the vet and left a message.
When Dr. Wilkie returned my call, she was quick to ask whether, from a kid standpoint, it was a good time for me to talk. "Sure," I said. But here's what Dr. Wilkie didn't see.
As soon as I got on the phone, Max's radar--the one that alerts him when I'm paying attention to someone other than him--evidently began to squeal. Max climbed onto a barstool, walked across the kitchen island, shimmied around my shoulders, and slid down my back and legs. Picture mommy as human jungle gym. Now repeat. Repeat again. Repeat several more times. Eventually Max tired of this game. On his last trip across the island, he scooted around my shoulders, wrapped his arms around my neck and hung, quietly suspended, while I conversed with Dr. Wilkie:
- How far along is the hip dysplasia?
- Severe, I'm afraid.
- What are our treatment options?
- Hip surgery or anti-inflammatories for pain relief until she can no longer walk.
- If she has hip replacement surgery, what will her quality of life be like? Will she be able to chase birds at the ranch again?
- She should be good as new, or, in her case, better than new, since she's probably been suffering with painful joints most of her life.
-What are the pros and cons of doing the surgery sooner vs. later?
The conversation continued in this vein for several more minutes. I did my best to ignore the constriction around my throat and to concentrate on getting the information Lee and I would need to make some decisions about Cassie's care. When I hung up, Max was still clinging to my neck.
"Mommy, I'm being a koala bear. Would you carry me to the living room? That's why I'm here."
As Max would say, "Silly mommy!" From the moment we arrived, the boys were bent on destroying the sitting room. By the time Dr. Wilkie emerged from an examining room, I was lurching from child to child in a futile attempt to contain their restless energy. Max was busy disassembling the nesting toys and dropping wooden animal statues on the floor, while Reed was preoccupied with the cords, plugs and miscellaneous electronics associated with the fishtank. I was so distracted that I barely glanced at the doctor when she delivered the verdict on Cassie: hip dysplasia.
Had I been alone, my mind would have raced with a dozen questions about the diagnosis and prognosis and treatment options. But not this day. This day I just wanted to stem the damage by strapping the kids into their carseats. Once I'd gotten home and turned the boys out into the backyard, the questions about Cassie began to surface in my brain. I called the vet and left a message.
When Dr. Wilkie returned my call, she was quick to ask whether, from a kid standpoint, it was a good time for me to talk. "Sure," I said. But here's what Dr. Wilkie didn't see.
As soon as I got on the phone, Max's radar--the one that alerts him when I'm paying attention to someone other than him--evidently began to squeal. Max climbed onto a barstool, walked across the kitchen island, shimmied around my shoulders, and slid down my back and legs. Picture mommy as human jungle gym. Now repeat. Repeat again. Repeat several more times. Eventually Max tired of this game. On his last trip across the island, he scooted around my shoulders, wrapped his arms around my neck and hung, quietly suspended, while I conversed with Dr. Wilkie:
- How far along is the hip dysplasia?
- Severe, I'm afraid.
- What are our treatment options?
- Hip surgery or anti-inflammatories for pain relief until she can no longer walk.
- If she has hip replacement surgery, what will her quality of life be like? Will she be able to chase birds at the ranch again?
- She should be good as new, or, in her case, better than new, since she's probably been suffering with painful joints most of her life.
-What are the pros and cons of doing the surgery sooner vs. later?
The conversation continued in this vein for several more minutes. I did my best to ignore the constriction around my throat and to concentrate on getting the information Lee and I would need to make some decisions about Cassie's care. When I hung up, Max was still clinging to my neck.
"Mommy, I'm being a koala bear. Would you carry me to the living room? That's why I'm here."
Thursday, March 10, 2005
A Very Welcome "First"
A few minutes ago Max finished a glass of milk. Then, to my surprise, he said that he needed a stool. "Why?," I asked. "Because I need to wash out my glass and put it in the dishwasher. That's what big kids do."
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
A Poem, as recited by Max
Little Miss Muffin sat on a puffin
Eating her curds and weigh
Along came a spider and sat down next to her
And washed Miss Muffin away.
Eating her curds and weigh
Along came a spider and sat down next to her
And washed Miss Muffin away.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Extra! Extra!
When the phone rings after 10 p.m., I flinch. In my experience, people do not deliver good news at that hour. We are surrounded by our fair share of medical emergencies right now--Lee's father in the hospital for femoral bypass surgery, complicated by alcohol withdrawal; Lee's step-father is working his way back from a bone marrow transplant; and my friend, Linda was diagnosed with a Grade 4 brain tumor last month. So when the phone rings at 10 p.m., I dread what I may be about to hear.
Lee tries to be asleep by 9:30, and if I don't have something pressing to do, like finish our taxes, I try to join him. That way when our little rooster, Boo, begins to crow at around 6 a.m., we've had a decent night's sleep. When the phone rings after 10 p.m., we are usually shaken from some much-anticipated sleep, leaving us startled and grumpy.
Last night the phone rang shortly after 10 p.m. The vet from the foaling center was calling to let us know that our new baby--a beautiful dun stud colt--had just arrived.
Suddenly, Lee and I were both wide awake and giddy with excitement. We wondered how a sorrel mare and a grey stallion could produce a dun foal. (I've found a website about coat color genetics--ah, the miracle of the internet!--and will try to give you a short biology lesson in the future.) We began playing around with names. (The sire is named Playgun and the mare is Smart and Tassy, so Lee tossed out "Playdun" for starters. Your suggestions are welcome!) We talked about taking the kids to Centerville next weekend to see the newest addition to our horse family. And eventually, after exhileration gave way to exhaustion, we finally slept.
Who says good news doesn't come after 10 p.m.?
P.S. We'll post photos as soon as we have 'em!
Lee tries to be asleep by 9:30, and if I don't have something pressing to do, like finish our taxes, I try to join him. That way when our little rooster, Boo, begins to crow at around 6 a.m., we've had a decent night's sleep. When the phone rings after 10 p.m., we are usually shaken from some much-anticipated sleep, leaving us startled and grumpy.
Last night the phone rang shortly after 10 p.m. The vet from the foaling center was calling to let us know that our new baby--a beautiful dun stud colt--had just arrived.
Suddenly, Lee and I were both wide awake and giddy with excitement. We wondered how a sorrel mare and a grey stallion could produce a dun foal. (I've found a website about coat color genetics--ah, the miracle of the internet!--and will try to give you a short biology lesson in the future.) We began playing around with names. (The sire is named Playgun and the mare is Smart and Tassy, so Lee tossed out "Playdun" for starters. Your suggestions are welcome!) We talked about taking the kids to Centerville next weekend to see the newest addition to our horse family. And eventually, after exhileration gave way to exhaustion, we finally slept.
Who says good news doesn't come after 10 p.m.?
P.S. We'll post photos as soon as we have 'em!
The Bachelor
We've had a major bathroom breakthrough this week. It all began when I took Max to Target on Tuesday. As we were passing the baby gear aisles, I noticed the toddler potties. And that's when I had an epiphany of sorts: If I let Max choose his own potty, perhaps he would begin to use it. I don't know why this solution hadn't occured to me months ago. Given the degree to which Max tries to control, well, everything, perhaps it should have been obvious to me that allowing him to make decisions in this arena might yield results. Or maybe he just hadn't been ready until now.
In any event, Max was delighted to select his own throne. He chose a white and teal model with a yellow lid and royal blue handles. When I started to put the potty in the bathroom, Max protested. He wanted it in his bedroom, like an old-fashioned chamber pot. So that's where it went.
A few hours later, Max came running into the kitchen naked. "Mommy, I used the potty!" And indeed he had. I don't know exactly why all clothes must be removed in order to use the potty. But whatever. He used it. And he used it again. And again.
I have to allow for the possibility that Max is somewhat incentivized by the M&M's that I've promised him every time he uses the potty. If I forget, he will remind me, although hours sometimes elapse before he does. Then our conversation sounds something like this:
"Mommy, can I have some M&Ms because I used the potty?"
"Of course, Max. I'm so proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself, too. How many M&M's would you like?"
"Ten." (Max is a quick study, because initially he would only ask for three.)
"That's a lot of M&M's, Max. I think we should save some for next time."
"Okay. Five. Five is a good number."
Like most areas of human development, if Max's potty progress were charted day by day, you would not find a straight, upward-trending line. Some days he has ignored the potty altogether. Other days he has preferred to wear diapers. But we had another successful day today, and I know this because Max continued to show up naked every couple of hours. There were only a couple of minor set-backs when Max was too consumed in the backyard to bother coming inside. (Max's defense: "I'm being like a dog!")
Lee captured the magnitude of this week's developments with an insightful forecast: "When all of his girlfriends hear the news, Max will become a much more eligible bachelor."
In any event, Max was delighted to select his own throne. He chose a white and teal model with a yellow lid and royal blue handles. When I started to put the potty in the bathroom, Max protested. He wanted it in his bedroom, like an old-fashioned chamber pot. So that's where it went.
A few hours later, Max came running into the kitchen naked. "Mommy, I used the potty!" And indeed he had. I don't know exactly why all clothes must be removed in order to use the potty. But whatever. He used it. And he used it again. And again.
I have to allow for the possibility that Max is somewhat incentivized by the M&M's that I've promised him every time he uses the potty. If I forget, he will remind me, although hours sometimes elapse before he does. Then our conversation sounds something like this:
"Mommy, can I have some M&Ms because I used the potty?"
"Of course, Max. I'm so proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself, too. How many M&M's would you like?"
"Ten." (Max is a quick study, because initially he would only ask for three.)
"That's a lot of M&M's, Max. I think we should save some for next time."
"Okay. Five. Five is a good number."
Like most areas of human development, if Max's potty progress were charted day by day, you would not find a straight, upward-trending line. Some days he has ignored the potty altogether. Other days he has preferred to wear diapers. But we had another successful day today, and I know this because Max continued to show up naked every couple of hours. There were only a couple of minor set-backs when Max was too consumed in the backyard to bother coming inside. (Max's defense: "I'm being like a dog!")
Lee captured the magnitude of this week's developments with an insightful forecast: "When all of his girlfriends hear the news, Max will become a much more eligible bachelor."
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Where I'm From
There's a poetry exercise about family and memory that's circulating in the blogosphere these days. It's based on a poem called Where I'm From by George Ella Lyons. Kimberly sent the template my way in hopes that I might give it a go. Perhaps it's reflective of how desperately I longed to focus on something other than my children that these images sprang forth in less than a day:
I am from warm towels,
from Crayola and the kitchen table.
I am from skylights, terrazzo and sliding glass doors,
spare, modern, my face distorted in gleaming chrome.
I am from the buttercups and onion flowers
and emerald clover cool beneath my naked feet.
I am from blueprints and bread,
from Verda and Lamar
and the Scotts that may have been royal
if only in southwest Arkansas.
I am from righteous indignation
and the virtue of being bright.
From mind your manners
and I love you muchissimo.
I am from Jesus loves me
and good girls don’t.
I’m from Houston swelter and Little River stones,
Black-eyed peas and gingersnaps
and pecans shelled during Sunday football games.
From the gas mask that delivered my grandfather
to the elves that washed Bubba’s dishes at night,
and momma tracing my face with her fingertips
before she turned out the light.
I am from the photographs,
the crimson dress in the closet
that whisper the family secret
and my inheritance,
a legacy of matriarchs.
And, so you know what a real poet sounds like, here's the George Ella Lyons' original:
Where I'm From
by George Ella Lyons
I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the black porch.
(Black, glistening
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush,
the Dutch elm
whose long gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.
I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from perk up and pipe down.
I'm from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.
I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments-
snapped before I budded-
leaf-fall from the family tree.
I am from warm towels,
from Crayola and the kitchen table.
I am from skylights, terrazzo and sliding glass doors,
spare, modern, my face distorted in gleaming chrome.
I am from the buttercups and onion flowers
and emerald clover cool beneath my naked feet.
I am from blueprints and bread,
from Verda and Lamar
and the Scotts that may have been royal
if only in southwest Arkansas.
I am from righteous indignation
and the virtue of being bright.
From mind your manners
and I love you muchissimo.
I am from Jesus loves me
and good girls don’t.
I’m from Houston swelter and Little River stones,
Black-eyed peas and gingersnaps
and pecans shelled during Sunday football games.
From the gas mask that delivered my grandfather
to the elves that washed Bubba’s dishes at night,
and momma tracing my face with her fingertips
before she turned out the light.
I am from the photographs,
the crimson dress in the closet
that whisper the family secret
and my inheritance,
a legacy of matriarchs.
And, so you know what a real poet sounds like, here's the George Ella Lyons' original:
Where I'm From
by George Ella Lyons
I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the black porch.
(Black, glistening
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush,
the Dutch elm
whose long gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.
I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from perk up and pipe down.
I'm from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.
I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments-
snapped before I budded-
leaf-fall from the family tree.
