Monday, January 30, 2006
Not so fast...
Max reminded me today that when it comes to children, progress doesn't happen in a straight line. We were getting ready for the arrival of a friend's older twins (yes, two sets of twins, one fraternal, one identical--what are the odds of that?), and the playroom was a big mess.
Me: "You guys need to clean up before Will and Grace come over to play."
Max, thinking I was out of earshot: "Boo, if you do it, I'll cheer for you." And in a deep, throaty voice reminiscent of frat boys rooting for a football team, Max began to chant: "Clean! Clean! Clean! Clean! Clean!"
Me: "You guys need to clean up before Will and Grace come over to play."
Max, thinking I was out of earshot: "Boo, if you do it, I'll cheer for you." And in a deep, throaty voice reminiscent of frat boys rooting for a football team, Max began to chant: "Clean! Clean! Clean! Clean! Clean!"
Sunday, January 29, 2006
It had to happen, but not this soon...
"Mommy, I want a gun."
Max's announcement from the backseat this morning hit me like a rifle kick. We've never discussed guns, nor, to my knowledge, has Max ever seen one. I tried to sound non-chalant.
"Max, do you know what a gun is?"
"It's a special kind of stick that shoots out fire."
"Mmmm, that's interesting. Do you know what a gun is used for?"
"Yes, someone takes it away from you and throws it over the fence."
And that might be exactly what I'd do if I found Max with a gun.
"Where did you learn about guns?"
"At school. From Peter and Gabriel."
Ah, Peter and Gabriel, the source of other unwelcome input as well. Like lollipops in carpool. And "I don't like the crust on my sandwich. " "I want my own Christmas tree in my room." At least Max missed the day one of them graphically described how to field dress a deer.
Some days it's enough to make me contemplate homeschooling.
But not for very long.
Max's announcement from the backseat this morning hit me like a rifle kick. We've never discussed guns, nor, to my knowledge, has Max ever seen one. I tried to sound non-chalant.
"Max, do you know what a gun is?"
"It's a special kind of stick that shoots out fire."
"Mmmm, that's interesting. Do you know what a gun is used for?"
"Yes, someone takes it away from you and throws it over the fence."
And that might be exactly what I'd do if I found Max with a gun.
"Where did you learn about guns?"
"At school. From Peter and Gabriel."
Ah, Peter and Gabriel, the source of other unwelcome input as well. Like lollipops in carpool. And "I don't like the crust on my sandwich. " "I want my own Christmas tree in my room." At least Max missed the day one of them graphically described how to field dress a deer.
Some days it's enough to make me contemplate homeschooling.
But not for very long.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Declarations of Independence
Max has been full of surprises lately. Last week after his bath, he walked into his room and declared, "This place is a mess!" Then he proceeded to pick up every dinosaur, train car, cowboy hat, construction vehicle and ball and return it to its proper home. (Perhaps this wouldn't seem so remarkable were it not from the child who, for much of his life, has tried to shirk duty on the clean-up crew with this exaggerated sigh: "I'm starting to feel a little tired now...." Only a couple of weeks ago Max dismissed my request to pick up the birthday candles that he'd strewn across the kitchen floor, saying, "That would be a good job for Boo!")
There's a wonderful woman at Max's school who regularly buoys me with her wit and wisdom. Perhaps I cling with such hope to her advice because she once offered me these comforting words: "As a parent, you only have to get it right 40% of the time for your children to believe they had a happy childhood." I'm thinking of her now because she also cautioned me that when it comes to raising kids, there's no such thing as "turning a corner." Because there are hundreds of corners. So I've been careful not to expect dramatic changes in behavior overnight. And then it happened again.
Last night after dinner, I turned around to find Max perched atop the kitchen table, carefully spooning the remainder of the fruit salad into a plastic box. As far as k.p. duty goes, I've never asked Max to do more than carry his plate to the sink. But in a spontaneous burst of helpfulness, he'd noticed what needed to be done and figured out how to do it.
And then this evening Max announced that he wanted to fix dinner and he didn't want any help. His autonomy lasted right up until the moment he needed an ingredient that was beyond his reach. Even then, though, he insisted that I not look at the table until he was ready. Finally, he summoned Boo and me to dinner. Waiting at each of our rightful places, on the table Max had set all by himself, was a bowl of Special K cereal and a turkey and cheese sandwich flavored with a thick smear of mayonnaise. After dinner, Max and Boo crawled onto the island and wrung the juice from a Cara-Cara orange for dessert. Then Boo and I polished off a ruby-red grapefruit plucked earlier this week from the backyard tree. For Max, it might have been the perfect meal. For different reasons, I think I'll remember it for a long, long time as well.
There's a wonderful woman at Max's school who regularly buoys me with her wit and wisdom. Perhaps I cling with such hope to her advice because she once offered me these comforting words: "As a parent, you only have to get it right 40% of the time for your children to believe they had a happy childhood." I'm thinking of her now because she also cautioned me that when it comes to raising kids, there's no such thing as "turning a corner." Because there are hundreds of corners. So I've been careful not to expect dramatic changes in behavior overnight. And then it happened again.
Last night after dinner, I turned around to find Max perched atop the kitchen table, carefully spooning the remainder of the fruit salad into a plastic box. As far as k.p. duty goes, I've never asked Max to do more than carry his plate to the sink. But in a spontaneous burst of helpfulness, he'd noticed what needed to be done and figured out how to do it.
And then this evening Max announced that he wanted to fix dinner and he didn't want any help. His autonomy lasted right up until the moment he needed an ingredient that was beyond his reach. Even then, though, he insisted that I not look at the table until he was ready. Finally, he summoned Boo and me to dinner. Waiting at each of our rightful places, on the table Max had set all by himself, was a bowl of Special K cereal and a turkey and cheese sandwich flavored with a thick smear of mayonnaise. After dinner, Max and Boo crawled onto the island and wrung the juice from a Cara-Cara orange for dessert. Then Boo and I polished off a ruby-red grapefruit plucked earlier this week from the backyard tree. For Max, it might have been the perfect meal. For different reasons, I think I'll remember it for a long, long time as well.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Winter Wonderland
Max has the heart of an explorer. I've mentioned before Max's fascination with Africa and India, Australia and Madagascar. Lately, Max has been ruminating about Antarctica. He recently chose the icy continent as the theme for his next birthday party. (How, exactly, I'll pull that off in a sweltering Houston September is anyone's guess. I'm willing to bet, though, that he'll have generated a dozen new themes before we have to lock in on one for good.)
A few nights ago, Max asked me to help him fashion penguins out of plain, white printer paper. After a few lame attempts, I asked him to bring me a picture of a penguin. He fetched the children's atlas that I'd given him for Christmas and turned to the pages featuring Antarctica. When it comes to art, I do better with a "go by." Penguins, it turns out, are wider than I'd imagined, with thinner wings (or are they flippers?). In any event, I churned out a few plump birds before Max requested one sliding on its belly. I managed to improvise a little.
Next Max asked for snowflakes. Last winter, I discovered a fine set of instructions for making paper snowflakes. While most of the process is beyond Max's abilities, he loves to execute the final step himself, carefully unfolding the crisp seams to reveal a magical, lacy hexagon. We cranked out a half dozen paper ice crystals in short order.
Now satisfied, Max disappeared into his room, emerging only to ask for tape. After awhile, my curiosity got the better of me and I headed down the hall. From his doorway, the fruits of Max's labor were evident. Across the far wall in purple crayon was an arctic landscape, dotted with penguins. And on the downhill side of a snowy mountain was a horizontal penguin making like a sled.
"My room is Antarctica!," Max exclaimed proudly. "Will you hang the snowflakes over my bed?" That night, Max slept in a winter wonderland of his own making.
A few nights ago, Max asked me to help him fashion penguins out of plain, white printer paper. After a few lame attempts, I asked him to bring me a picture of a penguin. He fetched the children's atlas that I'd given him for Christmas and turned to the pages featuring Antarctica. When it comes to art, I do better with a "go by." Penguins, it turns out, are wider than I'd imagined, with thinner wings (or are they flippers?). In any event, I churned out a few plump birds before Max requested one sliding on its belly. I managed to improvise a little.
Next Max asked for snowflakes. Last winter, I discovered a fine set of instructions for making paper snowflakes. While most of the process is beyond Max's abilities, he loves to execute the final step himself, carefully unfolding the crisp seams to reveal a magical, lacy hexagon. We cranked out a half dozen paper ice crystals in short order.
Now satisfied, Max disappeared into his room, emerging only to ask for tape. After awhile, my curiosity got the better of me and I headed down the hall. From his doorway, the fruits of Max's labor were evident. Across the far wall in purple crayon was an arctic landscape, dotted with penguins. And on the downhill side of a snowy mountain was a horizontal penguin making like a sled.
"My room is Antarctica!," Max exclaimed proudly. "Will you hang the snowflakes over my bed?" That night, Max slept in a winter wonderland of his own making.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Thanks-giving
My astute husband has said (lovingly, I'm sure) that I'll read anything, and my favorite genre of the moment is parenting tomes. On the side, I keep a stash of organizing and housekeeping books--my guilty little pleasure--but that's an illness for another day. I'm particularly enamored with two recent reads, Parenting with Love and Logic and The Blessings of a Skinned Knee. Last night I went to hear the author of the latter book, Dr. Wendy Mogel, speak to a large gathering of parents. She had many wise things to say, including the need for parents to counteract a culture that perpetuates the lie that happiness comes from obtaining more and more stuff. Not exactly a novel idea, but on the mark nevertheless. The antidote she offered was gratitude. So this evening, before I sang lullabies to the boys, I teed up the topic.
I want the two of you to know how grateful I am that you are my children. I'm so grateful for our wonderful family. What are you grateful for Max?
I'm grateful for animals and rainbows.
And what are you grateful for, Boo?
(After a brief pause...) Food. (This from the child who doesn't miss many meals.)
My turn again. I'm grateful for snowflakes. And for beautiful places, like the ranch. And for our home and the roof over our heads. How 'bout you, Max?
The world.
What are you grateful for, Boo?
Food. (Evidently, he was not kidding the first time.)
I'm grateful for Harley and Cassie, and for horses. Max?
Books. Books about the world and fossils and dinosaurs and animals. (Through the darkness, I could see Max's face. He was smiling.)
Boo?
Coach Alicia (his new gymnastics instructor). And Coach Doug (his old gymnastics instructor)
Now all of us were smiling. And as this grateful mother sang, her grateful children slept.
I want the two of you to know how grateful I am that you are my children. I'm so grateful for our wonderful family. What are you grateful for Max?
I'm grateful for animals and rainbows.
And what are you grateful for, Boo?
(After a brief pause...) Food. (This from the child who doesn't miss many meals.)
My turn again. I'm grateful for snowflakes. And for beautiful places, like the ranch. And for our home and the roof over our heads. How 'bout you, Max?
The world.
What are you grateful for, Boo?
Food. (Evidently, he was not kidding the first time.)
I'm grateful for Harley and Cassie, and for horses. Max?
Books. Books about the world and fossils and dinosaurs and animals. (Through the darkness, I could see Max's face. He was smiling.)
Boo?
Coach Alicia (his new gymnastics instructor). And Coach Doug (his old gymnastics instructor)
Now all of us were smiling. And as this grateful mother sang, her grateful children slept.
