Wednesday, June 29, 2005
I didn't know that
Max initiates many of our conversations these days with the opening line, "Mommy, did you know that...yada yada yada?" Usually, he's relaying some obscure fact about the animal kingdom. "Mommy, did you know that camels and moose can close their nostrils?" "Mommy, did you know that tigers have muscles in their ears?" "Mommy, did you know that a kinkajou can hang upside down by its tail and eat a banana at the same time?" That was the question Max posed from the doorway of our room tonight after he'd been stalling bedtime for nearly two hours. I didn't even know that there was an animal called a kinkajou, let alone that it possessed such extraordinary talents. "Do you know what pre-ten-smile means, mommy?" He sounded out the word carefully, molding the unfamiliar syllables into a form he understood. "Pretensmile?" "Yes. It means grabbing something." Max flexed his hand several times. "Like monkeys use their pre-ten-smile hands for climbing." To illustrate, Max grabbed one of the bedposts and climbed onto our bed. "Max, I think you mean prehensile. Monkeys have prehensile hands, just like we do." "That's it!," Max replied. "And kinkajous have prehensile tails, too." In my vicarious journey through childhood, I can tell I'm going learn a multitude of things that I missed on the first pass.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
My Sunshine
My bedtime routine with Boo took a new turn this week when he began participating in the evening anthem. Our version of "You Are My Sunshine" now sounds more like a vocal rendition of a responsive reading:
Me: You are my...
Boo: Sun. Shine.
Me: My only...
Boo: Sun. Shine.
Me: You make me...
Boo: Pappy.
Me: When skies are...
Boo: Gay.
Me: You'll never know...
Boo: Ear.
Me: How much I love...
Boo: Oooo.
Me: Please don't...
Boo: Take
Me: My sunshine...
Boo: Way.
And he can even carry a tune.
Me: You are my...
Boo: Sun. Shine.
Me: My only...
Boo: Sun. Shine.
Me: You make me...
Boo: Pappy.
Me: When skies are...
Boo: Gay.
Me: You'll never know...
Boo: Ear.
Me: How much I love...
Boo: Oooo.
Me: Please don't...
Boo: Take
Me: My sunshine...
Boo: Way.
And he can even carry a tune.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Morality and the Fig Tree
As I stand at my kitchen sink, I can witness the magic of the seasons emerge from a fig tree in our neighbors' sideyard. I watched this spring as a profusion of chartreuse teardrops appeared, then expanded like tiny balloons. For weeks I've eagerly wondered when the first figs would begin to soften and blush lavender. I didn't need The Farmer's Almanac to tell me. A few days ago, I spied a mockingbird rustling in the branches of the tree. By yesterday morning, a band of bluejays, cardinals and mockingbirds was locked in noisy competition with two squirrels for the fruit.
In epicurian matters, there are few things I love more than figs. My mouth waters just contemplating prosciutto and figs drizzled with honey, or a tantalizing appetizer of french bread topped with bleu cheese and carmelized figs. After months of anticipation, culminating with the feeding frenzy outside my window yesterday, I could no longer restrain my curiosity or desire. At dusk, I opened our driveway gate, circumnavigated the long fence that protects our boys and dogs from the street, and plucked a half-dozen soft figs for dessert. (I was relieved at the cover of semi-darkness, and ashamed by my relief.)
But oh my goodness, the figs! They were succulent perfection.
Am I trying to alleviate my guilt or your judgment by mentioning that our neighbors' house stands empty? With no one there to tend to the harvest, I tell myself that I'm only shortchanging the squirrels and the birds. To be honest, though, my integrity seems to be paying a price, too. Next year, when a new family has taken up residence in the house, I imagine my conscience will regain the upper hand, and I'll watch with envy as the small creatures of the neighborhood come to feast on the first figs of summer.
In epicurian matters, there are few things I love more than figs. My mouth waters just contemplating prosciutto and figs drizzled with honey, or a tantalizing appetizer of french bread topped with bleu cheese and carmelized figs. After months of anticipation, culminating with the feeding frenzy outside my window yesterday, I could no longer restrain my curiosity or desire. At dusk, I opened our driveway gate, circumnavigated the long fence that protects our boys and dogs from the street, and plucked a half-dozen soft figs for dessert. (I was relieved at the cover of semi-darkness, and ashamed by my relief.)
But oh my goodness, the figs! They were succulent perfection.
Am I trying to alleviate my guilt or your judgment by mentioning that our neighbors' house stands empty? With no one there to tend to the harvest, I tell myself that I'm only shortchanging the squirrels and the birds. To be honest, though, my integrity seems to be paying a price, too. Next year, when a new family has taken up residence in the house, I imagine my conscience will regain the upper hand, and I'll watch with envy as the small creatures of the neighborhood come to feast on the first figs of summer.
Monday, June 20, 2005
The Little Yogi
Max turned on the television this morning in hopes of finding his new favorite animal show, Zaboomafoo. What he discovered instead was his first yoga class, which captured his full attention for a spell. A lithe woman in a white unitard was lying on her back with her knees bent. She put her hands alongside her head and arched her back into a backbend. She then walked her feet closer to her hands until her back was arched in a perfect bow. Next she tilted her neck backwards so that her face was looking straight down at the floor. Then the soothing voice of the instructor said, "Now relax your tongue and eyes." I almost laughed out loud. At this point Max, who had been mesmerized by the contortions on the screen, announced definitively, "I can't do that." I assured him that neither could I.
This evening as I was cleaning up after dinner, Max lay down on the kitchen floor. When I walked around the island a second time, his feet and hands were on the floor and he had lifted his back, bottom and thighs so that his body resembled a badly sagging bed. I don't know how many times during the day Max might have practiced this maneuver, but I recognized imitation when I saw it. "Max, are you trying to do what that lady was doing on television this morning?" Proudly, he said, "Yeah, and I did it!"
This evening as I was cleaning up after dinner, Max lay down on the kitchen floor. When I walked around the island a second time, his feet and hands were on the floor and he had lifted his back, bottom and thighs so that his body resembled a badly sagging bed. I don't know how many times during the day Max might have practiced this maneuver, but I recognized imitation when I saw it. "Max, are you trying to do what that lady was doing on television this morning?" Proudly, he said, "Yeah, and I did it!"
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Boo's World
I took the boys to the club yesterday morning with one purpose in mind: exhaust them into napping for a meaningful part of the afternoon. To my surprise, Boo happily floated in a friend's arms while Max and I played together in the pool. But then the inevitable occured. Boo began to resist the confines of his life jacket and, once it was removed, bolted for the tennis courts like a thoroughbred breaking out of the starting gate. I intercepted him on the back stretch, and then his protests began in earnest: "Tennis court! Tennis court! Please! Please! Please!" Could there have been any other context in which Boo would utter "please" for the first time? If Max hadn't been near the pool, I would surely have rewarded Boo's good manners with a few minutes on clay.
I treasure the way in which Boo's burgeoning vocabulary affords us glimpses into his inner world. Consider, for instance, the following sentences, which Boo intones throughout the day like a yogi's mantra.
1. Tennis court. Tennis ball. Hit ball.
2. Horse ranch. Horse cow. Ride horse.
3. Daddy lap.
Without Boo's urgent repetition, the words by themselves look rather dull and flat. But with his characteristic persistence, Boo animates them by tucking his racquet beneath his arm and trying to open the back door, or retrieving a horse photo from the bookcase, or uncrossing Lee's legs so that he can scramble into his lap with a book. It doesn't take an analyst's couch to figure him out, does it?
I treasure the way in which Boo's burgeoning vocabulary affords us glimpses into his inner world. Consider, for instance, the following sentences, which Boo intones throughout the day like a yogi's mantra.
1. Tennis court. Tennis ball. Hit ball.
2. Horse ranch. Horse cow. Ride horse.
3. Daddy lap.
Without Boo's urgent repetition, the words by themselves look rather dull and flat. But with his characteristic persistence, Boo animates them by tucking his racquet beneath his arm and trying to open the back door, or retrieving a horse photo from the bookcase, or uncrossing Lee's legs so that he can scramble into his lap with a book. It doesn't take an analyst's couch to figure him out, does it?
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Cats and Dogs
Last week Max began summer camp at St. Luke's, his first school. The second day he resisted going to camp because he didn't want to participate in the 90 minute naptime. I offered to pick him up after lunchtime, but before nap. We had a deal. At the end of the day, as we walked to the car together, Max assessed his day at camp: "This was the perfect amount of time, mommy. Yesterday was too long, but today was just right."
As the afternoon wore on, Max unleashed his full destructive powers on the household. Repeatedly, he pestered Boo until he cried. He broke a hinge on an antique chest. He refused to get in the bathtub and then refused to get out. And so it went for several hours. When Max becomes this uncooperative, it can only mean one thing: he's gone way past tired. I told him as much and sent him to bed. He was asleep within seconds. It was 6:15.
Taking such drastic measures always comes with a price, and I knew exactly how I would pay. Max would be awake at 3 a.m, and so would I. I couldn't have been more precise if I'd set my alarm clock.
Occasionally, Max will wake me to ask for milk or to use the bathroom, but it's been months since he wanted to start his day in the middle of the night. And it's been months since I've crawled into bed next to him, hoping to coax him back to sleep. From this familiar vantage point, what I first noticed was how much maturing Max has done. I remember with agitation how Max would carry on a stream-of-consciousness monologue at full volumn, or dislodge toys in his closet by climbing the shelves, or thrash about in bed like a fish without oxygen. But not this morning.
Max rubbed my back, and I reciprocated. We pressed our noses and foreheads together, which made us both laugh. I kissed his face all over, and he answered with a smile. Occasionally, he whispered to himself or to me. And eventually, after a couple of hours, we slept.
I could have been irritated, but I wasn't. I'm more mindful lately that there are only so many short years when I get to touch Max with relative impunity. (And to remind me that that day is coming, Max will sometimes admonish me when I plant a smooch on the top of his head: "No kisses, mommy!") Some days, considering this reality is almost more than I can bear. Can I can store the delicious memories of enough caresses and kisses to last a lifetime? I guess Max isn't the only one who might need a little more skin.
I recently commented to my friend, Angela, how much I'll miss these moments when the boys and I begin to redraw the physical boundaries between us. The boys will want more privacy, or I'll hesitate before I offer an affectionate gesture in public. Angela understands, because her boys are now 14 and 12. She's crossing this threshold now with her younger son; the older one is already on the other side.
Angela tried to comfort me with an analogy. When your children are little, she said, they're like dogs. You can pet them on your terms, and they gratefully absorb your affection whenever and wherever it occurs. But as kids reach adolescence, they become like cats: you must touch them on their terms. By paying attention, you'll learn how and when they'll permit you to enter their space.
Am I reassured? Maybe. Just a little. But not very much. After all, I've always been more of a dog person.
As the afternoon wore on, Max unleashed his full destructive powers on the household. Repeatedly, he pestered Boo until he cried. He broke a hinge on an antique chest. He refused to get in the bathtub and then refused to get out. And so it went for several hours. When Max becomes this uncooperative, it can only mean one thing: he's gone way past tired. I told him as much and sent him to bed. He was asleep within seconds. It was 6:15.
Taking such drastic measures always comes with a price, and I knew exactly how I would pay. Max would be awake at 3 a.m, and so would I. I couldn't have been more precise if I'd set my alarm clock.
Occasionally, Max will wake me to ask for milk or to use the bathroom, but it's been months since he wanted to start his day in the middle of the night. And it's been months since I've crawled into bed next to him, hoping to coax him back to sleep. From this familiar vantage point, what I first noticed was how much maturing Max has done. I remember with agitation how Max would carry on a stream-of-consciousness monologue at full volumn, or dislodge toys in his closet by climbing the shelves, or thrash about in bed like a fish without oxygen. But not this morning.
Max rubbed my back, and I reciprocated. We pressed our noses and foreheads together, which made us both laugh. I kissed his face all over, and he answered with a smile. Occasionally, he whispered to himself or to me. And eventually, after a couple of hours, we slept.
I could have been irritated, but I wasn't. I'm more mindful lately that there are only so many short years when I get to touch Max with relative impunity. (And to remind me that that day is coming, Max will sometimes admonish me when I plant a smooch on the top of his head: "No kisses, mommy!") Some days, considering this reality is almost more than I can bear. Can I can store the delicious memories of enough caresses and kisses to last a lifetime? I guess Max isn't the only one who might need a little more skin.
I recently commented to my friend, Angela, how much I'll miss these moments when the boys and I begin to redraw the physical boundaries between us. The boys will want more privacy, or I'll hesitate before I offer an affectionate gesture in public. Angela understands, because her boys are now 14 and 12. She's crossing this threshold now with her younger son; the older one is already on the other side.
Angela tried to comfort me with an analogy. When your children are little, she said, they're like dogs. You can pet them on your terms, and they gratefully absorb your affection whenever and wherever it occurs. But as kids reach adolescence, they become like cats: you must touch them on their terms. By paying attention, you'll learn how and when they'll permit you to enter their space.
Am I reassured? Maybe. Just a little. But not very much. After all, I've always been more of a dog person.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Boo's Obsession: Part IV
In Boo's world, there's only one thing better than a ball, and that's two of them. You can imagine his excitement, then, when he came across a jar of marbles at the ranch this afternoon. Using a technique borrowed from the guessing game featuring jellybeans, I did a rough approximation, and I'd estimate that Boo's ecstasy was about 350 balls strong. When combined with a brief horseback ride and his first skinny dip in the lake, Boo had a banner day. So I'm unable to account for the misery that is now arising from the depths of his small being. I've rocked him and sung to him. In contravention of every parenting book I've ever read, I've given him a bottle of juice. (No, it couldn't have been milk; he doesn't drink it.) I've even searched the house for balls to offer him as a comforting soporific. But now that Boo has experienced nirvana, perhaps I'm about 345 balls short.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Snippets from our day
I was trying to get ready for a luncheon today when I heard banging sounds from the direction of the kitchen. When I walked in, both boys were sitting on the island soaked to the skin. The kitchen was bathed in milk--the island, the fronts of the cabinets, the plastic containers and bowls and sippy cups inside the cabinets, the floor, the refrigerator door, the bar stools, my calendar, a couple of magazines, a stack of paperwork, and the entire contents of my "junk drawer." A gallon carton lay empty on the floor. Max was holding a cup of milk filled almost to the brim, with two icecubes floating on top.
-What happened, Max?
-Boo did it.
-He did what, Max?
-He poured out the milk.
-How did Boo get the milk carton, Max?
-I got it out of the refrigerator.
-Max, this is the reason I don't want you to get things out of the refrigerator by yourself. Boo doesn't understand how to keep things from spilling, and the two of you have created a huge mess. I'm trying to get ready to go out, and now I've got to clean all of this up. I'm really frustrated with you.
-But do you want to know why I got it out of the refrigerator?
-Why?
-So that I could have a nice tall glass of cold milk.
Oh. That changes everything.
*****
Max was playing with the salt shaker at dinner this evening.
-I want to take this home, mommy.
-So I can put it in my pool.
-Why do you want to put salt in the swimming pool?
-So that I can float.
-What do you mean, Max?
-Well, did you know that if there's salt in water, you can float in it, but if there's no salt in water, then you sink?
I guess he's been studying the Dead Sea in his spare time.
*****
Max turned up his increasingly-finnicky nose at the tortellini that was served at dinner. On the way home from the restaurant, he began to look for something more to his liking:
Max: I want ice cream.
Me: Well, you're in luck because we have some in the freezer.
Max: I want it in a cone.
Me: All we have is ice cream sandwiches.
Max: Yuck. I don't like those.
Lee: An ice cream sandwich is like two pieces of chocolate cake with ice cream inside. It's the best of both worlds.
Max: Well, in that case, maybe I should give it a try.
*****
Boo seems to have entered a brand new bedtime phase that involves a good deal of screaming before exhausting himself to sleep. Or he's cutting a new molar, or perhaps has a bit of a bug coming on. In any event, he's been highly agitated for several nights running. That'll teach me to brag about what a good little sleeper he is.
As I was trying to sooth him in the rocker, Max showed up. This is a gigantic No No in our house. Max's company is always a stimulant, particularly for Boo. But Max persisted despite my demand that he leave the room and shut the door behind him. "I need to sing Boo a lullaby." And he offered his own personal favorite, sung to the tune of the ABC song:
"Ant, Bear, Cat, Dog, Elephant, Frog, Giraffe
Horse, Iguana, Jaguar, Kangaroo, Lion, Mouse
Nightingale, Octopus, Pig
Quetzel, Rhinocerous, Snake
Turtle, Umbrella bird, Vulture, Whale
X-Ray fish, Yak and Zebra
Now I know my animal ABC's
Next time won't you sing with me."
He kissed Boo on the head and turned to leave.
"Thank you, Max. That was very sweet of you."
"No, mommy, thank you."
*****
For over an hour, Max has been resisting my efforts to get him to bed. I finally joined him on the floor and watched him in earnest. He was trying to figure out how to hang a toy monkey from a palm tree so that its feet didn't touch the ground and the tree didn't topple over. After experimenting with numerous angles, Max was increasingly frustrated. He asked me to give it a go, and after several unsuccessful attempts, I found a solution. We lay on the floor for a few minutes, dangling monkey between us, grinning at each other and our accomplishment. Then I announced that it was time for bed.
-Mommy, I want to be nocturnal.
-What do you mean, Max?
-I want to stay up all night and sleep during the day.
What on earth am I going to do with this boy?
-What happened, Max?
-Boo did it.
-He did what, Max?
-He poured out the milk.
-How did Boo get the milk carton, Max?
-I got it out of the refrigerator.
-Max, this is the reason I don't want you to get things out of the refrigerator by yourself. Boo doesn't understand how to keep things from spilling, and the two of you have created a huge mess. I'm trying to get ready to go out, and now I've got to clean all of this up. I'm really frustrated with you.
-But do you want to know why I got it out of the refrigerator?
-Why?
-So that I could have a nice tall glass of cold milk.
Oh. That changes everything.
*****
Max was playing with the salt shaker at dinner this evening.
-I want to take this home, mommy.
-So I can put it in my pool.
-Why do you want to put salt in the swimming pool?
-So that I can float.
-What do you mean, Max?
-Well, did you know that if there's salt in water, you can float in it, but if there's no salt in water, then you sink?
I guess he's been studying the Dead Sea in his spare time.
*****
Max turned up his increasingly-finnicky nose at the tortellini that was served at dinner. On the way home from the restaurant, he began to look for something more to his liking:
Max: I want ice cream.
Me: Well, you're in luck because we have some in the freezer.
Max: I want it in a cone.
Me: All we have is ice cream sandwiches.
Max: Yuck. I don't like those.
Lee: An ice cream sandwich is like two pieces of chocolate cake with ice cream inside. It's the best of both worlds.
Max: Well, in that case, maybe I should give it a try.
*****
Boo seems to have entered a brand new bedtime phase that involves a good deal of screaming before exhausting himself to sleep. Or he's cutting a new molar, or perhaps has a bit of a bug coming on. In any event, he's been highly agitated for several nights running. That'll teach me to brag about what a good little sleeper he is.
As I was trying to sooth him in the rocker, Max showed up. This is a gigantic No No in our house. Max's company is always a stimulant, particularly for Boo. But Max persisted despite my demand that he leave the room and shut the door behind him. "I need to sing Boo a lullaby." And he offered his own personal favorite, sung to the tune of the ABC song:
"Ant, Bear, Cat, Dog, Elephant, Frog, Giraffe
Horse, Iguana, Jaguar, Kangaroo, Lion, Mouse
Nightingale, Octopus, Pig
Quetzel, Rhinocerous, Snake
Turtle, Umbrella bird, Vulture, Whale
X-Ray fish, Yak and Zebra
Now I know my animal ABC's
Next time won't you sing with me."
He kissed Boo on the head and turned to leave.
"Thank you, Max. That was very sweet of you."
"No, mommy, thank you."
*****
For over an hour, Max has been resisting my efforts to get him to bed. I finally joined him on the floor and watched him in earnest. He was trying to figure out how to hang a toy monkey from a palm tree so that its feet didn't touch the ground and the tree didn't topple over. After experimenting with numerous angles, Max was increasingly frustrated. He asked me to give it a go, and after several unsuccessful attempts, I found a solution. We lay on the floor for a few minutes, dangling monkey between us, grinning at each other and our accomplishment. Then I announced that it was time for bed.
-Mommy, I want to be nocturnal.
-What do you mean, Max?
-I want to stay up all night and sleep during the day.
What on earth am I going to do with this boy?
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Knock, knock...
I enjoy a good joke, but I'm terrible at telling one. Invariably, I can't remember the punch line, or my inflection or timing is off, and my effort falls pathetically flat. For Max, however, the skills of a comedian seem to come effortlessly. On the way home from summer camp, Max served up his first real joke, punctuated with a perfect pause: "Have you ever heard a duck tell a joke? It quacks everyone up!" Given Max's disposition, is anyone really surprised?
