Tuesday, October 25, 2005
My Other Child
For a couple of weeks in September, Max balked at going to school. Out of a class of 16, only three children from his class last year are in this year's room, and none were his real buddies. He missed his friends, but he really mourned for Alison, Brennan and Sophia. So I was greatly relieved when Max began to mention the names of new classmates: Elizabeth, Ella, Dylan, Samantha. (That all are girls, once again, is not lost on me.)
On the way home from school yesterday, Max announced, "Dylan is my twin."
My ears perked up. "What does that mean to you, Max?"
"It means we'll be friends forever."
On the way home from school yesterday, Max announced, "Dylan is my twin."
My ears perked up. "What does that mean to you, Max?"
"It means we'll be friends forever."
Monday, October 24, 2005
No worries...
One of my friends from my days at the bank is a woman whose life has been unconventional and adventurous and whose wisdom I have always admired. Of the many things I enjoy about Maureen, her stories about parenting Nick resonated with me long before I joined the motherhood sorority. Nick is now in his 30's, a handsome, accomplished scientist with a passion for tutoring underprivileged kids at an acclaimed charter school. When Nick was in high school, like millions of other teenagers, he expressed himself in part through his tresses, which had been, at various times, green, purple and fashioned into a mohawk. When I asked Maureen how she had abided some of Nick's more outrageous hairstyles, she replied pragmatically, "If your kid is polite, does well in school, avoids drugs, and hangs out with friends you like, you don't worry about hair."
I filed away her response in a mental folder labelled Adolescent Years of Unborn Children. Fast forward a decade. For over a year, Max has stubbornly resisted my attempts to tame his hair into something akin to order. I've become accustomed to the odd strand or the belligerent curl, even as I wish for better grooming.
This morning when Max awoke, the cowlick on the back of his head seemed to have burst into spectacular plumage. (Had you been browsing through his well-loved Animal Encyclopedia, you might have noticed a passing resemblance to an African crown crane.) Buoyed with confidence from the parenting course I'm attending, I ventured a new tack:
"Max, do you want to brush your hair yourself, or do you want me to do it? It's standing straight up in back like a porcupine!"
Without so much as a glance in the mirror, Max rebuffed me. "No way, mom! It's my 'Show and Tell'!"
Perhaps you're wondering how this potential stand-off ended. I took the page from Maureen's playbook, swallowed hard, and permitted Max to go to school with quills. By the time I picked him up three hours later, gravity had reduced the height of his unruly sprig, but by no means had it worked magic. As Max's teacher opened my car door, I couldn't resist a defensive remark. "Did Max show everyone his hair for 'Show and Tell'?" Mrs. Richards shook her head and laughed. "He reminded me of a boy a few years back who had five cowlicks all over his head. Every day he came to school looking like a gerbil."
I filed away her response in a mental folder labelled Adolescent Years of Unborn Children. Fast forward a decade. For over a year, Max has stubbornly resisted my attempts to tame his hair into something akin to order. I've become accustomed to the odd strand or the belligerent curl, even as I wish for better grooming.
This morning when Max awoke, the cowlick on the back of his head seemed to have burst into spectacular plumage. (Had you been browsing through his well-loved Animal Encyclopedia, you might have noticed a passing resemblance to an African crown crane.) Buoyed with confidence from the parenting course I'm attending, I ventured a new tack:
"Max, do you want to brush your hair yourself, or do you want me to do it? It's standing straight up in back like a porcupine!"
Without so much as a glance in the mirror, Max rebuffed me. "No way, mom! It's my 'Show and Tell'!"
Perhaps you're wondering how this potential stand-off ended. I took the page from Maureen's playbook, swallowed hard, and permitted Max to go to school with quills. By the time I picked him up three hours later, gravity had reduced the height of his unruly sprig, but by no means had it worked magic. As Max's teacher opened my car door, I couldn't resist a defensive remark. "Did Max show everyone his hair for 'Show and Tell'?" Mrs. Richards shook her head and laughed. "He reminded me of a boy a few years back who had five cowlicks all over his head. Every day he came to school looking like a gerbil."
Friday, October 07, 2005
A Breath of Fresh Air
September is, I think, the cruelest month in Houston. From all around, cultural stimuli suggest that fall has arrived. Children return to school. Stadiums fill with football teams and fans and marching bands. Store windows boast tweeds and sweaters in autumn hues. Psychologically, after a seemingly endless summer, Texans long for relief.
Despite calendar photographs of amber aspen leaves, despite our fervent wishes, September betrays Houston with more summer swelter. This year she mocked us, too, with blistering temperatures that exceeded August's usual wrath and a glancing blow from a hurricane that compounded misery all along the Gulf Coast.
So you might have heard the collective sigh today as Houstonians threw open their doors to the first temperate weather of the season. Parks were filled with scampering children and their beaming parents, many shivering in the overcast morning. After weeks of insufferable heat, it's hard for many of us to imagine that layers and jackets and bluejeans really are, once again, the order of the day.
I ventured into the cool air this morning with Boo in my arms. His eyes grew wide. He looked skyward and began to wave his hand through the air as if welcoming home a long lost friend. "Cold!" he exclaimed in awe. I imagine his young mind couldn't even recall such glorious weather. "Do you like the cool air, Boo?" He nodded enthusiastically. Don't we all? Ahhhhh....
Despite calendar photographs of amber aspen leaves, despite our fervent wishes, September betrays Houston with more summer swelter. This year she mocked us, too, with blistering temperatures that exceeded August's usual wrath and a glancing blow from a hurricane that compounded misery all along the Gulf Coast.
So you might have heard the collective sigh today as Houstonians threw open their doors to the first temperate weather of the season. Parks were filled with scampering children and their beaming parents, many shivering in the overcast morning. After weeks of insufferable heat, it's hard for many of us to imagine that layers and jackets and bluejeans really are, once again, the order of the day.
I ventured into the cool air this morning with Boo in my arms. His eyes grew wide. He looked skyward and began to wave his hand through the air as if welcoming home a long lost friend. "Cold!" he exclaimed in awe. I imagine his young mind couldn't even recall such glorious weather. "Do you like the cool air, Boo?" He nodded enthusiastically. Don't we all? Ahhhhh....
