Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Grandparents' Day
A few days ago, I promised to tell you about Grandparents' Day. In a well-conceived short story, this anecdote might foreshadow some clever troublemaking at Max's graduation, just as his classmate's father predicted last week. But thankfully, there are no tea leaves here. There's still time for Max to chart a different course before high school. I'm counting on it.
Grandparents' Day is a major event at the school. The kids rehearse their 20-minute performance for weeks in advance. To secure the best possible seats in the sanctuary, the standing-room only crowd queues up for more than half an hour waiting for the doors to open. As the kids file into the sanctuary and take their places on risers, families spring to their feet, waving and shouting from the pews. As you might expect, the kids respond in kind. So the mood is festive and a bit chaotic, and the entire spectacle is captured on dozens of video cameras by parents who stand around the perimeter of the sanctuary for the duration of the show.
Max was tremendously excited about Grandparents' Day. He was thrilled that Babee and Poppy were coming to see him, and I overheard him practicing his songs many times in the days leading up to the performance. But troubles often lurk beside the road between anticipation and achievement.
As Max walked onstage, I saw that the bandana, an integral part of each child's outfit, was missing from his neck. I didn't have to strain hard to imagine Max's protest before his teachers capitulated and left his bandana behind. After all the children made their entrance, the music director motioned for the kids to sit. All the children sat, even Max--for a moment. Then, inexplicably, he rose to this feet. After brief opening remarks, the music director motioned for the children to stand. Max, always the contrarian, took a seat. When Max finally stood to join the pack, he scooted toward the blonde on his right, put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. The girl spurned him by moving down a couple of rows. Max followed her, undeterred. Eventually he lost interest and began to wander up and down the risers. And so it went, 150 children following the music director and Max following his inner drummer.
In fairness, there was plenty that Max did right. He knew the words to every song, and he sang them with gusto. He supplied most of the correct hand gestures at the appropriate times, too. And in a venue that many children can find intimidating, Max obviously enjoyed himself, which is more than can be said for the girl who fled from the stage or the boy who stood silent and motionless for the entire show. Max just happened to embellish the scripted performance with an improvised, one-man show.
Simply put, Max was being Max. As he does at home and in class and out in the world, he was charming and amusing and frustrating and infuriating, all at the same time. I wish I could tell you that Max's behavior was visible only through my maternal lens, but I have too much evidence to the contrary. I could hear people on the pews around me remarking on Max's antics. The teacher sitting beside Max put her hands to her temples and shook her head in exasperation. And at the lovely reception following the show, I lost count of the parents and faculty who stopped me to marvel at Max's singular performance. As for me, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.
Grandparents' Day is a major event at the school. The kids rehearse their 20-minute performance for weeks in advance. To secure the best possible seats in the sanctuary, the standing-room only crowd queues up for more than half an hour waiting for the doors to open. As the kids file into the sanctuary and take their places on risers, families spring to their feet, waving and shouting from the pews. As you might expect, the kids respond in kind. So the mood is festive and a bit chaotic, and the entire spectacle is captured on dozens of video cameras by parents who stand around the perimeter of the sanctuary for the duration of the show.
Max was tremendously excited about Grandparents' Day. He was thrilled that Babee and Poppy were coming to see him, and I overheard him practicing his songs many times in the days leading up to the performance. But troubles often lurk beside the road between anticipation and achievement.
As Max walked onstage, I saw that the bandana, an integral part of each child's outfit, was missing from his neck. I didn't have to strain hard to imagine Max's protest before his teachers capitulated and left his bandana behind. After all the children made their entrance, the music director motioned for the kids to sit. All the children sat, even Max--for a moment. Then, inexplicably, he rose to this feet. After brief opening remarks, the music director motioned for the children to stand. Max, always the contrarian, took a seat. When Max finally stood to join the pack, he scooted toward the blonde on his right, put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. The girl spurned him by moving down a couple of rows. Max followed her, undeterred. Eventually he lost interest and began to wander up and down the risers. And so it went, 150 children following the music director and Max following his inner drummer.
In fairness, there was plenty that Max did right. He knew the words to every song, and he sang them with gusto. He supplied most of the correct hand gestures at the appropriate times, too. And in a venue that many children can find intimidating, Max obviously enjoyed himself, which is more than can be said for the girl who fled from the stage or the boy who stood silent and motionless for the entire show. Max just happened to embellish the scripted performance with an improvised, one-man show.
Simply put, Max was being Max. As he does at home and in class and out in the world, he was charming and amusing and frustrating and infuriating, all at the same time. I wish I could tell you that Max's behavior was visible only through my maternal lens, but I have too much evidence to the contrary. I could hear people on the pews around me remarking on Max's antics. The teacher sitting beside Max put her hands to her temples and shook her head in exasperation. And at the lovely reception following the show, I lost count of the parents and faculty who stopped me to marvel at Max's singular performance. As for me, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Boo's Obsession: Part III
I think I've mentioned before that Max asks almost daily to go someplace he hasn't been before. While this can be taxing for me, I find that it also alleviates my own boredom. Even after living here for more than three decades, I'm discovering lots of places in and around the city that I've never seen.
Today Max, Reed and I went to the McGovern Museum of Health and Medical Science. In addition to being housed in an interesting building, the museum features wonderful interactive exhibits that teach kids about how their bodies work and how to keep their bodies healthy.
The museum was almost deserted this morning, so I decided to see how the boys would fare at the 20-minute film shown in the museum's theater. It was an experiment I was only willing to tackle because we had the theater to ourselves. The kids stayed in their seats for about 5 minutes. Far more entertaining than the movie about nutrition and exercise was the thrill of running up and down the ramps and across the stage and through the aisles of the dark theater. Max was easy enough to follow because he was tall enough to be visible over the movie seats. I had to track Boo like a firefly, looking for the intermittent lights on his tennis shoes that glowed red with each step he took.
Boo was fully engaged in playing chase with Max until he spied an Irresistible Object on the science table at the front of the theater. I heard him shout, "Ball!" as he grabbed the plastic model of a human brain and hurled it across the stage. The brain split into two lobes, which fortunately it was designed to do. As each of the hemispheres tumbled awkwardly to a halt, I wonder whether Boo was thinking through his disappointment, "Well, that's the sorriest excuse for a ball that I ever hope to see."
Today Max, Reed and I went to the McGovern Museum of Health and Medical Science. In addition to being housed in an interesting building, the museum features wonderful interactive exhibits that teach kids about how their bodies work and how to keep their bodies healthy.
The museum was almost deserted this morning, so I decided to see how the boys would fare at the 20-minute film shown in the museum's theater. It was an experiment I was only willing to tackle because we had the theater to ourselves. The kids stayed in their seats for about 5 minutes. Far more entertaining than the movie about nutrition and exercise was the thrill of running up and down the ramps and across the stage and through the aisles of the dark theater. Max was easy enough to follow because he was tall enough to be visible over the movie seats. I had to track Boo like a firefly, looking for the intermittent lights on his tennis shoes that glowed red with each step he took.
Boo was fully engaged in playing chase with Max until he spied an Irresistible Object on the science table at the front of the theater. I heard him shout, "Ball!" as he grabbed the plastic model of a human brain and hurled it across the stage. The brain split into two lobes, which fortunately it was designed to do. As each of the hemispheres tumbled awkwardly to a halt, I wonder whether Boo was thinking through his disappointment, "Well, that's the sorriest excuse for a ball that I ever hope to see."
Sunday, May 29, 2005
The Little Acorn
We were on our way to dinner at The Buffalo Grille last night when Max, Lee and I broke into song:
[To the tune of The Farmer in the Dell]
"We're going to be the Buff,
We're going to the Buff,
Hi-ho, the dairio,
We're going to the..."
From the back seat, Boo unexpectedly shouted, "Buff!"
We repeated this refrain a dozen or more times, cracking up each time Boo supplied the finale. (Sometimes, just for a respite from tradition, I'd sing "Hi-ho, the rodeo", or the stereo, or the oreo, or the radio....) Then Boo surprised us with this rendition:
"We're going to the Buff,
We're going to the Buff,
Hi-ho, the dairio,
We're going to the..."
"Tree!"
During his short life, Boo has spent many hours observing this kind of creative license by riding in the car with Max and me. One of Max's favorite verbal games is the "animal game," in which each person describes an animal using three clues. Somewhat counterintuitively, the goal of the game is not to guess the animal as quickly as possible. It's to guess several animals for which one, but not all, of the clues is true before identifying the correct animal, like this:
-I'm an animal that's black and white, and I live where it's very cold, and I'm a good swimmer.
-You're a polar bear.
-No.
-Polar bears live where it's very cold.
-But they aren't black and white.
-You're a zebra.
-No.
-Zebras are black and white.
-But they aren't good swimmers.
-You're a sea lion.
-No.
-Sea lions are good swimmers.
-But they don't live where it's very cold.
-You're a penguin!
-Right!
Evidently, the little acorn named Boo hasn't fallen far from the family tree.
[To the tune of The Farmer in the Dell]
"We're going to be the Buff,
We're going to the Buff,
Hi-ho, the dairio,
We're going to the..."
From the back seat, Boo unexpectedly shouted, "Buff!"
We repeated this refrain a dozen or more times, cracking up each time Boo supplied the finale. (Sometimes, just for a respite from tradition, I'd sing "Hi-ho, the rodeo", or the stereo, or the oreo, or the radio....) Then Boo surprised us with this rendition:
"We're going to the Buff,
We're going to the Buff,
Hi-ho, the dairio,
We're going to the..."
"Tree!"
During his short life, Boo has spent many hours observing this kind of creative license by riding in the car with Max and me. One of Max's favorite verbal games is the "animal game," in which each person describes an animal using three clues. Somewhat counterintuitively, the goal of the game is not to guess the animal as quickly as possible. It's to guess several animals for which one, but not all, of the clues is true before identifying the correct animal, like this:
-I'm an animal that's black and white, and I live where it's very cold, and I'm a good swimmer.
-You're a polar bear.
-No.
-Polar bears live where it's very cold.
-But they aren't black and white.
-You're a zebra.
-No.
-Zebras are black and white.
-But they aren't good swimmers.
-You're a sea lion.
-No.
-Sea lions are good swimmers.
-But they don't live where it's very cold.
-You're a penguin!
-Right!
Evidently, the little acorn named Boo hasn't fallen far from the family tree.
Boo's Obsession: Part II
Scattered throughout our house and across our lawn are pint-sized versions of assorted balls and related accessories: a football, a basketball, two soccer balls, a beach ball, three "wiffle balls", numerous tennis balls ( including one suspended by string from the ceiling of the patio), plastic golf clubs and golf bag, a basketball goal, several tennis racquets, a couple of baseball bats and and a baseball "T." The variety seems to be well-suited to Max's often-abbreviated attention span. (I'm having a moment of self-doubt, though--if we offered him fewer choices, would he focus longer on whatever toys were around?) But dabbling is not in Boo's make-up, even when he's presented with abundant alternatives.
Boo is consumed with tennis with a focus that could only have come from his father. We first noticed his passion when we gave Max a junior tennis racquet for his third birthday. Max would periodially take a few swings at the tennis ball on the patio, but Boo's appetite for hitting the ball was insatiable even before he was one. Every evening, Lee watches tennis with Boo, who clutches a racquet in his hand and yells "Ball!" at the screen. If Boo grows restless, he'll wander outside and whack away at the ball for awhile, then return to watch some more. This evening while we were playing in the backyard, I picked up a racquet and served a few balls at the fence. Boo's amusement was audible. Then he tried to figure out how to simulate my overhead motion. He discovered that by reaching over his head and perching a tennis ball atop the fully-extended baseball T, he could hit it using something resembling a serving motion.
When kids are learning to play tennis, they learn to hit by bouncing a ball and hitting it on the way up. As their hand-eye coordination improves, they drop the ball and hit it on the way down. Reed has already figured out how to smack the ball before it bounces. Sometimes he even bounces it off his head on the way down, which makes me wonder whether he's just amusing himself by increasing the degree of difficulty. His accuracy isn't perfect, to be sure, but I'd guess he makes contact at least half the time.
You might wonder whether Boo pays attention to other things when we get out of the house and into the world. Let me assure you, he brings his obsession with us. As he rides in the car, Boo will pantomime practice swings from his car seat, yelling "bop!" with each imaginary hit. Even the pleasures of a playground are no match for his siren's song. When we go to the park, Boo walks over to the courts and stares longingly at the tennis players while Max swings and climbs and runs.
I know that I'm in danger of sounding like a psycho-mommy with grandiose visions of her child's potential. So I offer these examples to reassure myself that I'm not simply delusional. Wednesday evening we had dinner at the club to celebrate the beginning of summer. Both kids were too excited to stay at the dinner table. Max romped in the pool while I supervised; Boo made a bee-line for the tennis courts. When our dinner arrived, I went to find father and son and ran into Lee's regular doubles partner leaving the courts with a man I didn't know. The second man, who had been the #1 ranked juniors player in the state many years ago, said, "I've been hitting with your son. He's really good. He hits better than my four-year old. I can't believe he's not yet two." We've even had someone suggest that we might have Boo assessed by a coach experienced in identifying and working with young talent. Neither Lee nor I is inclined to do so, but it's an indication of what other people notice in Boo.
To see an intensity of interest and capability in a person so small is amazing to behold. I don't know what to make of it, and I certainly can't explain it, but it's clearly there for now. As Lee and I see it, it's our job to make it safe for Boo to pursue his passion and equally safe for him to choose other paths. At least until he's out of pre-school.
Boo is consumed with tennis with a focus that could only have come from his father. We first noticed his passion when we gave Max a junior tennis racquet for his third birthday. Max would periodially take a few swings at the tennis ball on the patio, but Boo's appetite for hitting the ball was insatiable even before he was one. Every evening, Lee watches tennis with Boo, who clutches a racquet in his hand and yells "Ball!" at the screen. If Boo grows restless, he'll wander outside and whack away at the ball for awhile, then return to watch some more. This evening while we were playing in the backyard, I picked up a racquet and served a few balls at the fence. Boo's amusement was audible. Then he tried to figure out how to simulate my overhead motion. He discovered that by reaching over his head and perching a tennis ball atop the fully-extended baseball T, he could hit it using something resembling a serving motion.
When kids are learning to play tennis, they learn to hit by bouncing a ball and hitting it on the way up. As their hand-eye coordination improves, they drop the ball and hit it on the way down. Reed has already figured out how to smack the ball before it bounces. Sometimes he even bounces it off his head on the way down, which makes me wonder whether he's just amusing himself by increasing the degree of difficulty. His accuracy isn't perfect, to be sure, but I'd guess he makes contact at least half the time.
You might wonder whether Boo pays attention to other things when we get out of the house and into the world. Let me assure you, he brings his obsession with us. As he rides in the car, Boo will pantomime practice swings from his car seat, yelling "bop!" with each imaginary hit. Even the pleasures of a playground are no match for his siren's song. When we go to the park, Boo walks over to the courts and stares longingly at the tennis players while Max swings and climbs and runs.
I know that I'm in danger of sounding like a psycho-mommy with grandiose visions of her child's potential. So I offer these examples to reassure myself that I'm not simply delusional. Wednesday evening we had dinner at the club to celebrate the beginning of summer. Both kids were too excited to stay at the dinner table. Max romped in the pool while I supervised; Boo made a bee-line for the tennis courts. When our dinner arrived, I went to find father and son and ran into Lee's regular doubles partner leaving the courts with a man I didn't know. The second man, who had been the #1 ranked juniors player in the state many years ago, said, "I've been hitting with your son. He's really good. He hits better than my four-year old. I can't believe he's not yet two." We've even had someone suggest that we might have Boo assessed by a coach experienced in identifying and working with young talent. Neither Lee nor I is inclined to do so, but it's an indication of what other people notice in Boo.
To see an intensity of interest and capability in a person so small is amazing to behold. I don't know what to make of it, and I certainly can't explain it, but it's clearly there for now. As Lee and I see it, it's our job to make it safe for Boo to pursue his passion and equally safe for him to choose other paths. At least until he's out of pre-school.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
His Brother's Keeper: Reprise
Boo has begun testing limits more often, and this morning he was experimenting with bites to my shoulder. I barked at him about how completely unacceptable his behavior was, when Max piped up, "Mommy, I think you're being too hard on Boo." Easy for him to say....it wasn't his shoulder.
Friday, May 27, 2005
His Brother's Keeper
Of the many things I wish for my boys, one is that they will be lasting friends and will always look out for each other. I'm so conscious of this desire because, as much as it may sadden me, there may be a lot of years when they are each other's family. So when Boo's impulse in the morning is to climb into Max's bed to wake him up, or when Max delights in singing songs that make Boo convulse with laughter, or when Boo lays his head in Max's lap, or when Max says spontaneously, "I love you, Boo" and wraps him in a tight embrace, I'm overjoyed.
The frequency and variety of episodes like these continue to escalate. I was trying to get the boys out the door this morning when I heard the sound of splashing water. I walked into the utility room and found Boo beside the toilet, his hand dripping. I wish I could tell you that this was a unique event, but Boo has made something of a sport of removing the child-proof locks before I can stop him. I picked him up and marched him to the kitchen sink for a good disinfecting. I was admonishing Boo to stop putting his hands in the toilets because the water is dirty, and my voice was stern and loud. Max walked over and said gently, "But mommy, everybody makes mistakes sometimes."
The frequency and variety of episodes like these continue to escalate. I was trying to get the boys out the door this morning when I heard the sound of splashing water. I walked into the utility room and found Boo beside the toilet, his hand dripping. I wish I could tell you that this was a unique event, but Boo has made something of a sport of removing the child-proof locks before I can stop him. I picked him up and marched him to the kitchen sink for a good disinfecting. I was admonishing Boo to stop putting his hands in the toilets because the water is dirty, and my voice was stern and loud. Max walked over and said gently, "But mommy, everybody makes mistakes sometimes."
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Boo's Obsession: Part I
In his short lifetime, Boo has had a handful of passions--cats, horses, cows, painting and books. But nothing compares to the ordinary object that captivates Boo above all else: the ball. So fully do balls fill Boo's consciousness that when he sees a round object, he invariably calls it a ball. A couple of months ago, Lee and Boo were playing outside in the late afternoon with Boo caught sight of the full moon. He pointed toward the faint white orb and yelled, "Ball!" I started to say that Boo's reaction was animated by misplaced conviction, but in the truly grand scheme of things, I suppose he was spot on.
Over several months, I've been composing a lengthy post about Boo's obsession with balls, but the stories have become so numerous that I now think it better to parse them out in serial fashion. I'll begin with the following one because it's short and sweet.
My bedtime routine with Boo involves none of the demands or negotiations favored by his brother. I rock Boo for a short spell, singing "You Are My Sunshine" and a closing lullaby. Still cradling him in my arms, I say, "It's bedtime, Boo" and he parrots, "Bedtime." I lift him to my face and kiss his cheeks, whispering, "Good night, sweet prince, I love you so. Sweet dreams. I'll see you in the morning." And I gently lay him in his crib.
To this day, it amazes me that Reed actually remains horizontal. Max would pop up from the mattress as if springloaded and plead for his freedom. But not Boo, who entertains himself until he drifts off to sleep. His parting thought, as he gazes up at me serenely, is to utter a single syllable: "Ball."
Over several months, I've been composing a lengthy post about Boo's obsession with balls, but the stories have become so numerous that I now think it better to parse them out in serial fashion. I'll begin with the following one because it's short and sweet.
My bedtime routine with Boo involves none of the demands or negotiations favored by his brother. I rock Boo for a short spell, singing "You Are My Sunshine" and a closing lullaby. Still cradling him in my arms, I say, "It's bedtime, Boo" and he parrots, "Bedtime." I lift him to my face and kiss his cheeks, whispering, "Good night, sweet prince, I love you so. Sweet dreams. I'll see you in the morning." And I gently lay him in his crib.
To this day, it amazes me that Reed actually remains horizontal. Max would pop up from the mattress as if springloaded and plead for his freedom. But not Boo, who entertains himself until he drifts off to sleep. His parting thought, as he gazes up at me serenely, is to utter a single syllable: "Ball."
Bedtime Stories
My bedtime ritual with Max continues to evolve. Over time, it has included rapping the words to Goodnight, Moon, reading by flashlight in a nearby chair until Max fell asleep, tossing him into bed like a sack of potatoes, crooning silly improvised lullabies, and tucking him into a sleeping bag or tent. Last weekend, Max earned a set of sheets covered with dinosaurs as a reward for his first full day without diapers, and since then, what was once the drama of bedtime has become almost effortless. I wish I'd found dinosaur sheets sooner.
A few weeks ago Max added a new dimension to our routine by asking me to tell him a bedtime story. I made up a tale about a mischievous little monkey named Max. The following night, Max asked me to tell him a story about a little zebra named Max. Since then, he has asked for stories about a lion, an elephant, a rhinocerous, a zebra, a frog, a kangaroo, a mouse, a gorilla, a camel, and a whale, all coincidentally named Max.
Remarkably, Max the Boy has kept track of the menagerie that parades through his room at night and can recount most of their adventures and misadventures as well. The little zebra named Max ran away and got lost, but his mommy found him because she could see his white stripes in the dark. The little elephant named Max was sad that his trunk was too short, but discovered it was long enough to save his friend the frog from a well. The little rhinocerous named Max wandered too far from home and fell into a hole, but the hole saved him from a stampede of wildebeasts, and then his mommy found him and led him home. The little lion named Max didn't want to go to bed, so his mommy took him hunting for three days and three nights, and he learned that sometimes the best feeling in the whole world is to lie down on a soft bed and go to sleep. You've already surmised it, and I'll confess it right now: Many of these stories are deliberate messages sent in hopes of helping us clear some hurdle with Max. But I'm learning that sometimes a story arises, quite by surprise, from the well of my own unconsciousness.
Last night, Max asked me to tell him a story about a little polar bear named Max. Max the Polar Bear was very lonely. He desperately wanted to make friends, so every time he saw a human or another animal he ran in their direction. When the humans and animals saw Max the Polar Bear approaching at a rapid speed, they were afraid he intended to hurt them, and they ran away. Wracked with sadness, he went to his mommy, and this is what he said:
"Mommy, I'm so lonely. I want to make friends but I don't know how. Today I was excited because I saw a human by a tent. But when he saw me, he shouted, 'Arghhhh!' and ran away. Then I saw a fish in the river and I ran into the water to play with it, but when it saw me, its eyes got very big and it swam away. Next I saw a deer lying under a tree, and I ran to meet her, but when saw me, she screamed, 'Eeeek!' and ran away."
Max's mommy knew that being misunderstood and lonely can be very painful. She asked Max the Polar Bear if he'd like for them to talk about some ways he might make friends.
At this suggestion, the face of Max the Boy brightened. "I know! He could make friends with some other bears, you know, like a polar bear or a koala bear or a panda bear."
Content that he had solved the problems of at least one small bear, Max was ready to sleep.
A few weeks ago Max added a new dimension to our routine by asking me to tell him a bedtime story. I made up a tale about a mischievous little monkey named Max. The following night, Max asked me to tell him a story about a little zebra named Max. Since then, he has asked for stories about a lion, an elephant, a rhinocerous, a zebra, a frog, a kangaroo, a mouse, a gorilla, a camel, and a whale, all coincidentally named Max.
Remarkably, Max the Boy has kept track of the menagerie that parades through his room at night and can recount most of their adventures and misadventures as well. The little zebra named Max ran away and got lost, but his mommy found him because she could see his white stripes in the dark. The little elephant named Max was sad that his trunk was too short, but discovered it was long enough to save his friend the frog from a well. The little rhinocerous named Max wandered too far from home and fell into a hole, but the hole saved him from a stampede of wildebeasts, and then his mommy found him and led him home. The little lion named Max didn't want to go to bed, so his mommy took him hunting for three days and three nights, and he learned that sometimes the best feeling in the whole world is to lie down on a soft bed and go to sleep. You've already surmised it, and I'll confess it right now: Many of these stories are deliberate messages sent in hopes of helping us clear some hurdle with Max. But I'm learning that sometimes a story arises, quite by surprise, from the well of my own unconsciousness.
Last night, Max asked me to tell him a story about a little polar bear named Max. Max the Polar Bear was very lonely. He desperately wanted to make friends, so every time he saw a human or another animal he ran in their direction. When the humans and animals saw Max the Polar Bear approaching at a rapid speed, they were afraid he intended to hurt them, and they ran away. Wracked with sadness, he went to his mommy, and this is what he said:
"Mommy, I'm so lonely. I want to make friends but I don't know how. Today I was excited because I saw a human by a tent. But when he saw me, he shouted, 'Arghhhh!' and ran away. Then I saw a fish in the river and I ran into the water to play with it, but when it saw me, its eyes got very big and it swam away. Next I saw a deer lying under a tree, and I ran to meet her, but when saw me, she screamed, 'Eeeek!' and ran away."
Max's mommy knew that being misunderstood and lonely can be very painful. She asked Max the Polar Bear if he'd like for them to talk about some ways he might make friends.
At this suggestion, the face of Max the Boy brightened. "I know! He could make friends with some other bears, you know, like a polar bear or a koala bear or a panda bear."
Content that he had solved the problems of at least one small bear, Max was ready to sleep.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Bathroom Humor
Warning: If you are squeamish about things of a scatological nature, skip this post.
*****
I admit to being hopelessly out of touch with popular culture. When I happen across lists of the Top 10 records or books or movies, I rarely recognize any of them. But I do know that CSI is the most viewed program on television. And though I've never seen an episode, I hear that it has sparked a surge of interest in all things forensic. I consider myself lucky that I struggle to imagine a single way in which forensics relates to my daily life. But all that changed today.
Today was the celebration marking Max's last day of school. The kids warded off the heat by splashing around the courtyard in their bathing suits and slurping ice pops while a facepainter transformed 3-year olds into lions and bumblebees and ladybugs. For his metamorphosis, Max wanted to become a red and black butterfly. He'd informed me last week that his favorite day at school was the day the butterflies came out of their cocoons on the playground, and I suspect this was his tribute.
We'd been home a short while when Max set off running toward the back of the house. After a minute or so, I followed him. He was already coming back down the hall wearing nothing but facepaint. I asked Max if he had used the potty. "No, I went into your bathroom, but I ran out of time."
As I walked by my sink, I saw the puddle in the middle of the floor. Taking a giant step over it, I retrieved a towel from the cabinet near the shower. I thought my clean-up job was complete when I noticed drops on the doorframe between the sinks and the shower room. Then I spied rivulets running down the wall. A telltale smudge of red and black paint stained my white robe. Max's discarded bathing suit lay nearby. As I moved along the wall, I noticed that the floor in the toilet compartment was wet, too. The sheetrock behind and beside the toilet yielded more evidence. The toilet wasn't spared, either--it wasn't used, of course, but it wasn't spared. The lid was down, and the porcelain was splattered. Turning around, I found the door christened, too. Then I retraced my steps to the original crime scene and took a closer look. Pools had formed on the marble countertop surrounding Lee's sink and on the floor beneath it. The cabinets in between were still dripping, and the wet footprints of the perpetrator led out the bathroom door and down the hall.
All I could think was: "What the hell happened here? How on earth did Max do this?"
After examining the evidence, here's my hypothesis: When Max entered the bathroom, he thought his plan was sound. Standing next to the tub, he removed his bathing suit. He went into the toilet compartment, but he encountered an unexpected contingency: the lid was closed. According to his body, time was up. He began to pee. Now Max knew that his plan was failing, and he panicked. He turned, spraying walls and door, and walked back past the tub, spraying more walls and my robe. There was no turning back. He stopped close to the doorway, facing in the direction of Lee's sink, where he relieved himself to the utmost. And then he fled.
I hope I never get to see a reenactment.
*****
I admit to being hopelessly out of touch with popular culture. When I happen across lists of the Top 10 records or books or movies, I rarely recognize any of them. But I do know that CSI is the most viewed program on television. And though I've never seen an episode, I hear that it has sparked a surge of interest in all things forensic. I consider myself lucky that I struggle to imagine a single way in which forensics relates to my daily life. But all that changed today.
Today was the celebration marking Max's last day of school. The kids warded off the heat by splashing around the courtyard in their bathing suits and slurping ice pops while a facepainter transformed 3-year olds into lions and bumblebees and ladybugs. For his metamorphosis, Max wanted to become a red and black butterfly. He'd informed me last week that his favorite day at school was the day the butterflies came out of their cocoons on the playground, and I suspect this was his tribute.
We'd been home a short while when Max set off running toward the back of the house. After a minute or so, I followed him. He was already coming back down the hall wearing nothing but facepaint. I asked Max if he had used the potty. "No, I went into your bathroom, but I ran out of time."
As I walked by my sink, I saw the puddle in the middle of the floor. Taking a giant step over it, I retrieved a towel from the cabinet near the shower. I thought my clean-up job was complete when I noticed drops on the doorframe between the sinks and the shower room. Then I spied rivulets running down the wall. A telltale smudge of red and black paint stained my white robe. Max's discarded bathing suit lay nearby. As I moved along the wall, I noticed that the floor in the toilet compartment was wet, too. The sheetrock behind and beside the toilet yielded more evidence. The toilet wasn't spared, either--it wasn't used, of course, but it wasn't spared. The lid was down, and the porcelain was splattered. Turning around, I found the door christened, too. Then I retraced my steps to the original crime scene and took a closer look. Pools had formed on the marble countertop surrounding Lee's sink and on the floor beneath it. The cabinets in between were still dripping, and the wet footprints of the perpetrator led out the bathroom door and down the hall.
All I could think was: "What the hell happened here? How on earth did Max do this?"
After examining the evidence, here's my hypothesis: When Max entered the bathroom, he thought his plan was sound. Standing next to the tub, he removed his bathing suit. He went into the toilet compartment, but he encountered an unexpected contingency: the lid was closed. According to his body, time was up. He began to pee. Now Max knew that his plan was failing, and he panicked. He turned, spraying walls and door, and walked back past the tub, spraying more walls and my robe. There was no turning back. He stopped close to the doorway, facing in the direction of Lee's sink, where he relieved himself to the utmost. And then he fled.
I hope I never get to see a reenactment.
Monday, May 23, 2005
How to win friends...
From my conversation with Max as we left school on Friday:
-Mommy, I want to wear my dinosaur shirt to Jesse's house because Jesse likes dinosaurs.
-We'll try to do that very soon. I'll call Jesse's mom about getting together, okay?
-Okay.
-Max, I'm so pleased to hear you notice what Jesse likes. It's important to know what your friends like. What does Brennan like?
-She likes princesses.
-What does Allison like?
-She likes princesses, too.
-And Sophia?
-Princesses.
(Must be a 3-year old girl thing.)
-What does Sarah like?
-She likes trucks.
(A gender bender! I like that.)
-What does Betsy like?
-She likes me.
-She likes you? Do you like her?
-Yes, and she loves me.
-What does Lindsey like?
-She likes pets.
-Oh, really? What kind of pets?
-Dogs and cats.
-What does Braxton like?
-I don't know.
(I'm sorry to hear this, but not surprised, because this beautiful boy shows less affect than any child I've ever met. Even his mother says that he doesn't utter a word at school.)
-What might you do to find out what Braxton likes?
-I could ask him.
-That's a good idea. Or you could watch and see what he likes to do or what toys he likes to play with.
-Okay.
-What does Andrew like?
-He likes trucks.
(Someone for Sarah to play with.)
-What does Lane like?
-He likes painting.
-What does Zane like?
-Bicycles. The red one.
-What does Douglas like?
-He likes dinosaurs, too.
-Max, why do you think it's important to know what your friends like?
-Because that way they know that I love them.
Some days I have glimpses of light, illuminating the possibility that we are on the right path after all. And sometimes, after a good night's sleep, I realize that my lessons to Max are really admonishments to myself. After all, I'm the one who's been feeling lonely and in need of companionship. It's time to make some playdates--for me.
-Mommy, I want to wear my dinosaur shirt to Jesse's house because Jesse likes dinosaurs.
-We'll try to do that very soon. I'll call Jesse's mom about getting together, okay?
-Okay.
-Max, I'm so pleased to hear you notice what Jesse likes. It's important to know what your friends like. What does Brennan like?
-She likes princesses.
-What does Allison like?
-She likes princesses, too.
-And Sophia?
-Princesses.
(Must be a 3-year old girl thing.)
-What does Sarah like?
-She likes trucks.
(A gender bender! I like that.)
-What does Betsy like?
-She likes me.
-She likes you? Do you like her?
-Yes, and she loves me.
-What does Lindsey like?
-She likes pets.
-Oh, really? What kind of pets?
-Dogs and cats.
-What does Braxton like?
-I don't know.
(I'm sorry to hear this, but not surprised, because this beautiful boy shows less affect than any child I've ever met. Even his mother says that he doesn't utter a word at school.)
-What might you do to find out what Braxton likes?
-I could ask him.
-That's a good idea. Or you could watch and see what he likes to do or what toys he likes to play with.
-Okay.
-What does Andrew like?
-He likes trucks.
(Someone for Sarah to play with.)
-What does Lane like?
-He likes painting.
-What does Zane like?
-Bicycles. The red one.
-What does Douglas like?
-He likes dinosaurs, too.
-Max, why do you think it's important to know what your friends like?
-Because that way they know that I love them.
Some days I have glimpses of light, illuminating the possibility that we are on the right path after all. And sometimes, after a good night's sleep, I realize that my lessons to Max are really admonishments to myself. After all, I'm the one who's been feeling lonely and in need of companionship. It's time to make some playdates--for me.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Mischief in the making
A couple of years ago, the 8th grade graduation ceremony at ROBS was disrupted by three rambunctious kids. As the first of the three crossed the stage to receive his "diploma," he pretended to bump into the podium and fell to the ground. The audience reaction to his hijinx rendered the names of the next three graduates inaudible, much to the distress of their families. The next delinquent pulled a subway sandwich from under his robe as he walked across the stage, evidently dropping tomatoes and lettuce on the shoes of some administration members. And two of the three miscreants had cut the sleeves off their shirts so that when they removed their robes, they were unsuitably attired for graduation. In the disciplinary world of ROBS, the punishment they received was severe: on their final transcripts, each received an "Unsatisfactory" in Citizenship.
(It's a testament to the school, I think, that this incident is even noteworthy. I'm reminded of the story I heard about the parents who were called into the principal's office because their child had uttered a four-letter word. One of them expressed surprised at being summoned for such an offense and wondered aloud what the school would do if a child brought a weapon to school. The principal's reply was simple: "We never get there." I suppose that's what happens when you draw the line at infractions like expletives or gum-chewing. And you see the results throughout the campus: the student bathrooms are clean, I've never seen a word of graffiti, and every person I've encountered--adult and child--is unfailingly polite. But I digress.)
As a result, every 8th grader now must sign a contract forswearing any pranks during the graduation ceremony. Among at least some at the school, the requirement is called the Riggs Rule, in honor of the twins who participated in the brouhaha. I learned this ROBS history lesson from the mother of one of Max's classmates. Her older child is an 8th grader, so she and her husband have been immersed recently in graduation protocol.
Friday morning after carpool, Kamala stopped me to tell me that while she and her were discussing graduation, he said, "In ten years, Max Hightower is going to be the guy who pulls some stunt at graduation." I couldn't help but laugh because frankly, I'd predict the same thing. Kamala and I went on to imagine that Max will try to enlist the rest of the class to join him under the theory that there's safety in numbers. I can just hear him now: "If we all do it, there's no way they can bust us!"
Even when it's his potential for mischief, I find great comfort in knowing that other people see Max as I do. I feel less alone and reassured that I'm not just delusional about what a handful he can be. I'm also concerned, though, that a parent with little exposure to Max can already envision his antics as an adolescent--is he really that transparent? (Of course, he is.) Perhaps that father is simply extrapolating from Max's memorable performance during the Grandparents Day recital, which is a story I must tell you another day.
(It's a testament to the school, I think, that this incident is even noteworthy. I'm reminded of the story I heard about the parents who were called into the principal's office because their child had uttered a four-letter word. One of them expressed surprised at being summoned for such an offense and wondered aloud what the school would do if a child brought a weapon to school. The principal's reply was simple: "We never get there." I suppose that's what happens when you draw the line at infractions like expletives or gum-chewing. And you see the results throughout the campus: the student bathrooms are clean, I've never seen a word of graffiti, and every person I've encountered--adult and child--is unfailingly polite. But I digress.)
As a result, every 8th grader now must sign a contract forswearing any pranks during the graduation ceremony. Among at least some at the school, the requirement is called the Riggs Rule, in honor of the twins who participated in the brouhaha. I learned this ROBS history lesson from the mother of one of Max's classmates. Her older child is an 8th grader, so she and her husband have been immersed recently in graduation protocol.
Friday morning after carpool, Kamala stopped me to tell me that while she and her were discussing graduation, he said, "In ten years, Max Hightower is going to be the guy who pulls some stunt at graduation." I couldn't help but laugh because frankly, I'd predict the same thing. Kamala and I went on to imagine that Max will try to enlist the rest of the class to join him under the theory that there's safety in numbers. I can just hear him now: "If we all do it, there's no way they can bust us!"
Even when it's his potential for mischief, I find great comfort in knowing that other people see Max as I do. I feel less alone and reassured that I'm not just delusional about what a handful he can be. I'm also concerned, though, that a parent with little exposure to Max can already envision his antics as an adolescent--is he really that transparent? (Of course, he is.) Perhaps that father is simply extrapolating from Max's memorable performance during the Grandparents Day recital, which is a story I must tell you another day.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
"After"
When I pick Max up from school, he is always disappointed to see me. Usually, he juts out his lower lip and moans, "I want Babee to pick me up." But if he is particularly tired, he may burst into tears, or refuse to get in my car, or crumple onto the floorboard with his face buried in his hands. Because I pick Max up in a carpool line, where a teacher helps Max into his carseat, someone from the school is always there to witness his reluctance to join me in the car. If I were only slightly more paranoid, I'd be concerned about what the teachers imagine I do to him after we leave the schoolgrounds.
Of the parenting transitions we've encountered, one that I hadn't anticipated, and that the parenting books I've read fail to mention, occured sometime during Max's fourth year. Where once Max would happily accompany me on the errands or chores or entertainment of my choosing, now he wants to create his own itinerary, with me acting primarily as chauffeur or chaperone. I suppose one of the reasons Max may prefer to see Babee in the carpool line is that after school Max usually gets to pick their destination: the dinosaur museum or the zoo or the park or even just to Babee's house--anywhere but home, where Max feels shackled by my insistence that he remain quiet while Boo naps. So I've been trying lately to take Max on a short excursion after school before he is greeted by the boredom of home.
Last Friday, we grabbed a picnic lunch and headed for the zoo. I told Max that our visit would be brief, so he needed to choose the three animals that were most important to him and we'd make sure we saw them before we left. I didn't ask this because I actually needed the information; I asked so that Max understood the limits of our visit. I already knew that Max wanted to see the giraffes, the elephants and the zebras. I don't know why he is so partial to these three--is it just a coincidence that their pictures hung above his crib when he was a baby?
As luck would have it, the giraffes and elephants reside in close proximity to one another, but the hooved animals are on the opposite side of the zoo. En route to the zebras, we passed the camels and the antelopes. And then we paid a visit to the zebras. But Max was not prepared to leave.
"I want to see the camels," he implored.
"Max, we've already seen the camels. We saw them on the way to the zebras."
"But I want to see the camels after the zebras."
"I'm sorry, Max. We've seen the giraffes and the elephants and the zebras and the camels, and it's time to go home."
"But I want to see the camels after the zebras."
"Max, we're leaving now."
"I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME!"
Max began to wail, but I was unmoved. I picked him up and headed for the car. Mind you, we were not close to the parking lot, but Max wasn't going anywhere under his own power. My only consolation was the sympathetic looks I received from the strangers in our path. I know what they were thinking, because I've thought it a hundred times myself: "Thank God it's her, not me." After a few minutes, I shifted Max from my left hip to my back, and he wrapped his arms tightly around my neck. The longer I walked, the more his grip loosened, his weight pulling both of us backwards as he began to nod off. When we reached the car, I managed to hoist Max into his seat without cooperation.
But he had one last protest in him. As we turned for home, Max mumbled, "Mommy, do you know what 'after' means? I want to see the camels after the zebras." And then he slept.
Of the parenting transitions we've encountered, one that I hadn't anticipated, and that the parenting books I've read fail to mention, occured sometime during Max's fourth year. Where once Max would happily accompany me on the errands or chores or entertainment of my choosing, now he wants to create his own itinerary, with me acting primarily as chauffeur or chaperone. I suppose one of the reasons Max may prefer to see Babee in the carpool line is that after school Max usually gets to pick their destination: the dinosaur museum or the zoo or the park or even just to Babee's house--anywhere but home, where Max feels shackled by my insistence that he remain quiet while Boo naps. So I've been trying lately to take Max on a short excursion after school before he is greeted by the boredom of home.
Last Friday, we grabbed a picnic lunch and headed for the zoo. I told Max that our visit would be brief, so he needed to choose the three animals that were most important to him and we'd make sure we saw them before we left. I didn't ask this because I actually needed the information; I asked so that Max understood the limits of our visit. I already knew that Max wanted to see the giraffes, the elephants and the zebras. I don't know why he is so partial to these three--is it just a coincidence that their pictures hung above his crib when he was a baby?
As luck would have it, the giraffes and elephants reside in close proximity to one another, but the hooved animals are on the opposite side of the zoo. En route to the zebras, we passed the camels and the antelopes. And then we paid a visit to the zebras. But Max was not prepared to leave.
"I want to see the camels," he implored.
"Max, we've already seen the camels. We saw them on the way to the zebras."
"But I want to see the camels after the zebras."
"I'm sorry, Max. We've seen the giraffes and the elephants and the zebras and the camels, and it's time to go home."
"But I want to see the camels after the zebras."
"Max, we're leaving now."
"I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME!"
Max began to wail, but I was unmoved. I picked him up and headed for the car. Mind you, we were not close to the parking lot, but Max wasn't going anywhere under his own power. My only consolation was the sympathetic looks I received from the strangers in our path. I know what they were thinking, because I've thought it a hundred times myself: "Thank God it's her, not me." After a few minutes, I shifted Max from my left hip to my back, and he wrapped his arms tightly around my neck. The longer I walked, the more his grip loosened, his weight pulling both of us backwards as he began to nod off. When we reached the car, I managed to hoist Max into his seat without cooperation.
But he had one last protest in him. As we turned for home, Max mumbled, "Mommy, do you know what 'after' means? I want to see the camels after the zebras." And then he slept.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
The Snow Mess
When I was in 1st grade, my class at Valley Oaks Elementary created a cookbook. Each student was asked to write the recipe of his or her favorite food. With ingredients, measurements and directions scrambled by 6-year old minds, the recipes for pancakes and spaghetti and macaroni and cheese may have borne a passing resemblance to the originals, but surely would have produced inedible resuts.
I was reminded of the cookbook a few weeks ago when I found Max in the kitchen, ostensibly whipping up a batch of waffles. He had filled a mixing bowl with most of a box of baking soda, a liberal serving of the salt, a mound of flour, a little baking powder, and an aromatic helping of vanilla and orange and lemon extract. Thankfully, I intercepted the project before he had begun to crack eggs or slosh buttermilk. Aside from Max's liberties with the citrus extract, I was surprised and impressed with his recall of the ingredients. Perhaps I shouldn't have been, since Max asks to make waffles or pancakes almost every day of the week. I don't always indulge him, but when I do, I'm partial to waffles. Not only is the recipe divine, but the extras are just as perfect when heated through, straight from the freezer. They've become so popular as the kids' snack that a couple of times a week I'll discover the freezer door open and one of the boys roaming the house with a zip-lock bag full of cold waffles.
Sometimes, though, what Max really wants is to make waffles, not eat them. On more than one occasion, he and I have measured dry ingredients and separated eggs and whisked in oil and buttermilk and folded in stiffened eggwhites. When at last I'm pulling the first steaming prize from the waffle iron, Max walks out of the room, calling over his shoulder, "I'm not hungry." (Can we add that to last week's list of things my kids do that make me think I'm going insane?)
A week ago, Max asked to make pancakes, and soon he and Reed were sitting cross-legged on the island, eager to participate. For a short spell, I tried to maintain order, moving the carton of eggs out of Boo's reach and confiscating the baking soda from Max and fussing at both of them to keep their hands out of the flour cannister. And then I had an epiphany. For a couple of weeks I've been struggling to maintain an ever-changing list of projects and outings to stimulate my kids, yet here I was squelching the very activity that held their full attention. Not to mention that with boys (at least mine), there is simply no fun greater than the joy of making a mess.
I shifted gears, and the real play began.
Reed picked up the box of Arm & Hammer and dumped its contents onto the island. Max dipped his hand in the flour and marked Boo's chest with a powdery print. They took turns sprinkling baking soda liberally in each other's hair. Then Max began to shower the floor with handfuls of flour: "It's snowing!" That gave him another idea. He jumped off the island, ran from the kitchen and returned with baby powder, white gusts shooting from the container with every squeeze. Reed joined him in stomping across the floor, leaving perfect footprints in their wake. Filled with delight, Max shouted, "It's a snow mess!" Then Max went to find his plastic animals to make pawprints in the "snow."
I often wonder what my kids will remember about their childhoods. Of the many memories I wish for, I hope they include many happy hours spent together in the kitchen: learning to level the contents of measuring cups and spoons, magically whipping eggwhites into a frothy foam, licking the spatula from a bowl of brownies, maybe even making a few messes of unforgettable proportions.
As I was changing his clothes that evening, I kissed the top of Boo's head. He still tasted of baking soda.
I was reminded of the cookbook a few weeks ago when I found Max in the kitchen, ostensibly whipping up a batch of waffles. He had filled a mixing bowl with most of a box of baking soda, a liberal serving of the salt, a mound of flour, a little baking powder, and an aromatic helping of vanilla and orange and lemon extract. Thankfully, I intercepted the project before he had begun to crack eggs or slosh buttermilk. Aside from Max's liberties with the citrus extract, I was surprised and impressed with his recall of the ingredients. Perhaps I shouldn't have been, since Max asks to make waffles or pancakes almost every day of the week. I don't always indulge him, but when I do, I'm partial to waffles. Not only is the recipe divine, but the extras are just as perfect when heated through, straight from the freezer. They've become so popular as the kids' snack that a couple of times a week I'll discover the freezer door open and one of the boys roaming the house with a zip-lock bag full of cold waffles.
Sometimes, though, what Max really wants is to make waffles, not eat them. On more than one occasion, he and I have measured dry ingredients and separated eggs and whisked in oil and buttermilk and folded in stiffened eggwhites. When at last I'm pulling the first steaming prize from the waffle iron, Max walks out of the room, calling over his shoulder, "I'm not hungry." (Can we add that to last week's list of things my kids do that make me think I'm going insane?)
A week ago, Max asked to make pancakes, and soon he and Reed were sitting cross-legged on the island, eager to participate. For a short spell, I tried to maintain order, moving the carton of eggs out of Boo's reach and confiscating the baking soda from Max and fussing at both of them to keep their hands out of the flour cannister. And then I had an epiphany. For a couple of weeks I've been struggling to maintain an ever-changing list of projects and outings to stimulate my kids, yet here I was squelching the very activity that held their full attention. Not to mention that with boys (at least mine), there is simply no fun greater than the joy of making a mess.
I shifted gears, and the real play began.
Reed picked up the box of Arm & Hammer and dumped its contents onto the island. Max dipped his hand in the flour and marked Boo's chest with a powdery print. They took turns sprinkling baking soda liberally in each other's hair. Then Max began to shower the floor with handfuls of flour: "It's snowing!" That gave him another idea. He jumped off the island, ran from the kitchen and returned with baby powder, white gusts shooting from the container with every squeeze. Reed joined him in stomping across the floor, leaving perfect footprints in their wake. Filled with delight, Max shouted, "It's a snow mess!" Then Max went to find his plastic animals to make pawprints in the "snow."
I often wonder what my kids will remember about their childhoods. Of the many memories I wish for, I hope they include many happy hours spent together in the kitchen: learning to level the contents of measuring cups and spoons, magically whipping eggwhites into a frothy foam, licking the spatula from a bowl of brownies, maybe even making a few messes of unforgettable proportions.
As I was changing his clothes that evening, I kissed the top of Boo's head. He still tasted of baking soda.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
I say "tomato"...
I've had too many days lately when I've felt as if being a mom might just drive me insane. The thought has crossed my mind when: (1) I am hit, kicked, shoved or bitten yet again, (2) I endure another meal with a child dangling from my body or eating from my plate like a malnurished street urchin, (3) I try to finish another phone conversation while trying to outrun a screaming child, (4) another piece of furniture or clothing or electronic equipment is ruined at the hands of a child who has somehow acquired a Sharpie or a pair of scissors or too many seconds of unsupervised time. When I voiced my concerns about my sanity to my favorite mental health professional, he could only offer this small consolation: "No mother ever died of this."
Surely part of this is the nature of being home with a 3 1/2 year old and an 18 month old, but I still wonder whether I have a role in the chaos somehow. From the many parenting books I've read, this phrase stands out: "Failing to plan is planning to fail." So a couple of weeks ago I began researching things to do with young children, both at home and around town. Actually, my purpose was two-fold: to assuage my growing boredom with our usual routine, and to satisfy Max's almost daily thirst to do something he hasn't been before. Armed with some new ideas, I've redoubled my efforts to be present, energetic and creative for Max and Reed. Last weekend I put my new plan into action. By Sunday evening, I was tired, and still paying bills at 11:00, but I was confident that I had been a good mother to both of my children for two whole days.
Saturday morning we went to a magnificent park in the Heights. No primary-colored plastic on this playground! In keeping with the character of the neighborhood, the play structures are wooden castles with a Victorian flare, featuring rope bridges, chutes and look-out towers. We hadn't been there long when Max came over and said, "Cool park, mom!" He had that right. On the way home, we made a detour by the Art Car Museum for a brief introduction to some of the zany things people do with cars. As an added bonus, the "docent" (now that's a lofty title for the guy who was on duty) sent Max home with a couple of inexpensive plastic cars perfectly suited for do-it-yourself decorating. For his first foray into the world of art cars, Max stuffed the yellow sedan full of flowers freshly picked from the backyard flower pots. All of us were tired from the morning excursion, but Max resisted the idea of a nap. When I tried to encourage a siesta, he said, "You go to sleep with daddy and I'll play with my quiet toys." And, remarkably, he did. Okay, so he removed most of the toys from his closet and took a layer cake out of the freezer and "decorated" it with every last drop of food coloring (rendering it inedible and staining his fingers a deep shade of blue), but boy, he sure had a ball and, more importantly, I had a really lovely nap.
I was still energized on Sunday, heading to Colonial Park in West U, where we ran into Alison, one of Max's best pals from school. (Never mind that first they decided to play "doctor" and then Max invited himself to Alison's house for a sleepover....) Lee joined us in the afternoon for a trip to the Bayou Wildlife Park, which is a private zoo where visitors can get up-close and personal with most of the residents. From the tram that took us around the property, we were able to feed llamas, camels, ostriches, emus, longhorn cattle, miniature water buffalo, antelope, various kinds of deer, goats, and so forth. Max loved the visit so much he has begged to go back nearly every day since. (See what a little energy and planning gets me?) When I explained to him one afternoon that we didn't have time to go to the "pet zoo" because it was pretty far away, he was eager to offer a solution: "We can take the Porsche, because it's fast so we can get there soon."
I've failed to mention that Houston was enjoying spectacular California weather last weekend, the kind that can lull me into forgetting how truly miserable the summer promises to be. Between our Sunday outings, we had a picnic lunch in the backyard under the canopy of a live oak. I'd given each of the boys half a turkey sandwich, when Max began to scrutinize the offering. He made a sour face: "I don't like tomatoes." Meanwhile, Reed was busy dismantling his sandwich, discarding bits of turkey on the picnic blanket. That gave me an idea. "Max, why don't you give Boo your tomatoes because he loves them. And then you can eat Boo's turkey. You guys can have a symbiotic relationship. [I pronounced it "sim-BEE-o-tic".] That means that each of you will be helping the other get what he wants." Max looked pleased. "Oh, yeah. Symbiotic. [He pronounced it "sim-BI-o-tic."] Like the clown fish and the anemone are symbiotic." "Oh, really, Max? In what way are they symbiotic?" "Well, the clown fish hides in the anemone, and the anemone eats food from the clown fish." Oh. I did not know that.
I feel somewhat self-conscious when I tell stories of this kind about Max. After all, I want both Max and his mother to be liked, and regaling people with tales of this sort can be offputting, to say the least. I also believe that we will be doing Max no favors if by highlighting what may be somewhat unique about him, we inadvertently contribute to his feeling separate from his peers. There's no joy in lonely, no matter how bright you are. And to be realistic, the complete picture of Max is more complicated, with areas of weakness as well as strengths. His teachers have pointed out that relative to his peers, he seems to be lagging in empathy and self-control. And let's not forget that great uncrossed bridge, potty training.
Which reminds me...last week Max appeared in the kitchen naked yet again. "Mommy, I used the potty! Come see." I went into Max's room and looked into the pot. Nada. I asked Max for more information about the nature of his accomplishment. "I made pee pee." I took another look, and now I saw. There was the liquid, pooled around the rim of the potty, soaking the hardwoods and the rug, and splattered on the wall and windowsill and wooden blinds behind the potty. Proudly, Max exclaimed: "I did it standing up!" The potty has been relocated to the bathroom.
Surely part of this is the nature of being home with a 3 1/2 year old and an 18 month old, but I still wonder whether I have a role in the chaos somehow. From the many parenting books I've read, this phrase stands out: "Failing to plan is planning to fail." So a couple of weeks ago I began researching things to do with young children, both at home and around town. Actually, my purpose was two-fold: to assuage my growing boredom with our usual routine, and to satisfy Max's almost daily thirst to do something he hasn't been before. Armed with some new ideas, I've redoubled my efforts to be present, energetic and creative for Max and Reed. Last weekend I put my new plan into action. By Sunday evening, I was tired, and still paying bills at 11:00, but I was confident that I had been a good mother to both of my children for two whole days.
Saturday morning we went to a magnificent park in the Heights. No primary-colored plastic on this playground! In keeping with the character of the neighborhood, the play structures are wooden castles with a Victorian flare, featuring rope bridges, chutes and look-out towers. We hadn't been there long when Max came over and said, "Cool park, mom!" He had that right. On the way home, we made a detour by the Art Car Museum for a brief introduction to some of the zany things people do with cars. As an added bonus, the "docent" (now that's a lofty title for the guy who was on duty) sent Max home with a couple of inexpensive plastic cars perfectly suited for do-it-yourself decorating. For his first foray into the world of art cars, Max stuffed the yellow sedan full of flowers freshly picked from the backyard flower pots. All of us were tired from the morning excursion, but Max resisted the idea of a nap. When I tried to encourage a siesta, he said, "You go to sleep with daddy and I'll play with my quiet toys." And, remarkably, he did. Okay, so he removed most of the toys from his closet and took a layer cake out of the freezer and "decorated" it with every last drop of food coloring (rendering it inedible and staining his fingers a deep shade of blue), but boy, he sure had a ball and, more importantly, I had a really lovely nap.
I was still energized on Sunday, heading to Colonial Park in West U, where we ran into Alison, one of Max's best pals from school. (Never mind that first they decided to play "doctor" and then Max invited himself to Alison's house for a sleepover....) Lee joined us in the afternoon for a trip to the Bayou Wildlife Park, which is a private zoo where visitors can get up-close and personal with most of the residents. From the tram that took us around the property, we were able to feed llamas, camels, ostriches, emus, longhorn cattle, miniature water buffalo, antelope, various kinds of deer, goats, and so forth. Max loved the visit so much he has begged to go back nearly every day since. (See what a little energy and planning gets me?) When I explained to him one afternoon that we didn't have time to go to the "pet zoo" because it was pretty far away, he was eager to offer a solution: "We can take the Porsche, because it's fast so we can get there soon."
I've failed to mention that Houston was enjoying spectacular California weather last weekend, the kind that can lull me into forgetting how truly miserable the summer promises to be. Between our Sunday outings, we had a picnic lunch in the backyard under the canopy of a live oak. I'd given each of the boys half a turkey sandwich, when Max began to scrutinize the offering. He made a sour face: "I don't like tomatoes." Meanwhile, Reed was busy dismantling his sandwich, discarding bits of turkey on the picnic blanket. That gave me an idea. "Max, why don't you give Boo your tomatoes because he loves them. And then you can eat Boo's turkey. You guys can have a symbiotic relationship. [I pronounced it "sim-BEE-o-tic".] That means that each of you will be helping the other get what he wants." Max looked pleased. "Oh, yeah. Symbiotic. [He pronounced it "sim-BI-o-tic."] Like the clown fish and the anemone are symbiotic." "Oh, really, Max? In what way are they symbiotic?" "Well, the clown fish hides in the anemone, and the anemone eats food from the clown fish." Oh. I did not know that.
I feel somewhat self-conscious when I tell stories of this kind about Max. After all, I want both Max and his mother to be liked, and regaling people with tales of this sort can be offputting, to say the least. I also believe that we will be doing Max no favors if by highlighting what may be somewhat unique about him, we inadvertently contribute to his feeling separate from his peers. There's no joy in lonely, no matter how bright you are. And to be realistic, the complete picture of Max is more complicated, with areas of weakness as well as strengths. His teachers have pointed out that relative to his peers, he seems to be lagging in empathy and self-control. And let's not forget that great uncrossed bridge, potty training.
Which reminds me...last week Max appeared in the kitchen naked yet again. "Mommy, I used the potty! Come see." I went into Max's room and looked into the pot. Nada. I asked Max for more information about the nature of his accomplishment. "I made pee pee." I took another look, and now I saw. There was the liquid, pooled around the rim of the potty, soaking the hardwoods and the rug, and splattered on the wall and windowsill and wooden blinds behind the potty. Proudly, Max exclaimed: "I did it standing up!" The potty has been relocated to the bathroom.
