Thursday, March 23, 2006
From a Different Cloth
I should have known Max was getting sick long before I noticed his bulging lymph nodes. Tuesday evening, after the boys finished an early dinner, Max refused to take a bath. I gave him a choice between bath and bed, and he opted for bed. It was 5:30.
With misguided self-congratulation, I attributed Max's fatigue to the exhilerating day we'd spent together. In honor of his spring break, I'd planned a custom itinerary with Max's interests in mind. First stop was the Museum of Natural Science, which was hosting a special traveling exhibit about dinosaurs. Then we picnicked in Hermann Park, followed by a trip to the zoo. Perhaps I claimed credit for Max's droopiness because I was so utterly exhausted at the end of the day. Little did I know that Max's body was being engulfed by the illness that would translate to a 104.9 degree fever by this afternoon.
Without any competition from Max Tuesday evening, Boo received personalized tuck-in service. He chose the books, the toothbrushing venue, and even, in a surprise move, the tucker-inner--his dad.
Sometime later, I popped my head into the boys' room to admire my sleeping angels. But Boo was still awake. I went to his bedside to kiss him goodnight.
"Mommy, will you sit in the rocking chair and sing me some lullabies?"
Over the last year or so, our nightly lullaby selection has been culled to a handful: "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot", "Lullaby and Good Night", "You Are My Sunshine", "Summertime" and a lovely benediction sung to the tune of "Edelweiss."
"Okay, Boo, what lullabies do you want to hear?"
"'Sweet Caroline' and 'Who Let the Dogs Out.'"
Remember the Johnson-O'Connor aptitude test that evaluates the usualness--or not--of a person's way of thinking? (For those who may not be familiar with Johnson-O'Connor, it's an interesting and informative tool for people beset with career indecision or malaise.) The format of the test is basic word association: I say "ham"; you say the first word that comes to mind. If you say "eggs" or "cheese" or "sandwich", your thought patterns are considered similar to most people's. But if you say "pineapple" or "toss" or "peanut butter", you're deemed odd..., no, I meant to say unorthodox. Out-of-the-box. Inventive. A maverick.
By whatever standard someone might devise, surely "Sweet Caroline" and "Who Let the Dogs Out" rank as idiosynchratic lullabies.
I must say, I love that about my Boo.
With misguided self-congratulation, I attributed Max's fatigue to the exhilerating day we'd spent together. In honor of his spring break, I'd planned a custom itinerary with Max's interests in mind. First stop was the Museum of Natural Science, which was hosting a special traveling exhibit about dinosaurs. Then we picnicked in Hermann Park, followed by a trip to the zoo. Perhaps I claimed credit for Max's droopiness because I was so utterly exhausted at the end of the day. Little did I know that Max's body was being engulfed by the illness that would translate to a 104.9 degree fever by this afternoon.
Without any competition from Max Tuesday evening, Boo received personalized tuck-in service. He chose the books, the toothbrushing venue, and even, in a surprise move, the tucker-inner--his dad.
Sometime later, I popped my head into the boys' room to admire my sleeping angels. But Boo was still awake. I went to his bedside to kiss him goodnight.
"Mommy, will you sit in the rocking chair and sing me some lullabies?"
Over the last year or so, our nightly lullaby selection has been culled to a handful: "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot", "Lullaby and Good Night", "You Are My Sunshine", "Summertime" and a lovely benediction sung to the tune of "Edelweiss."
"Okay, Boo, what lullabies do you want to hear?"
"'Sweet Caroline' and 'Who Let the Dogs Out.'"
Remember the Johnson-O'Connor aptitude test that evaluates the usualness--or not--of a person's way of thinking? (For those who may not be familiar with Johnson-O'Connor, it's an interesting and informative tool for people beset with career indecision or malaise.) The format of the test is basic word association: I say "ham"; you say the first word that comes to mind. If you say "eggs" or "cheese" or "sandwich", your thought patterns are considered similar to most people's. But if you say "pineapple" or "toss" or "peanut butter", you're deemed odd..., no, I meant to say unorthodox. Out-of-the-box. Inventive. A maverick.
By whatever standard someone might devise, surely "Sweet Caroline" and "Who Let the Dogs Out" rank as idiosynchratic lullabies.
I must say, I love that about my Boo.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Oedipus is alive and well
For over a week, Max has been looking forward to a sleepover at Babee's tonight. As a general rule, I withhold from Max information about those activities about which he's likely to be most exuberant--birthday parties, visit to the zoo, trips to the ranch, and most of all, sleepovers at Babee's house. My motivation is largely selfish: I avoid the persistent pestering that is Max's outlet for anticipation. But I also do it to protect Max, in a way. If circumstances change, as they often do with kids, I've spared him a dose of disappointment.
But this time, Max was loaded with knowledge, and he was singleminded in his enthusiasm. So much so that he called Babee--all by himself, mind you--at 6:37 this morning. (Independence in a 4-year old is a mixed bag.)
So I thought it was a ploy when he balked at going to gymnastics this afternoon. "My feet hurt," he protested. "And my throat. But they won't hurt at Babee's tonight." Then I took an earnest look at Max. The pink patches beneath his eyes accentuated his droopy, faraway look. I ran my fingers under his chin and down his neck. He winced. The bulges in his neck were not only palpable, they were visible, giving him a passing resemblance to an NFL linebacker. The thermometer registered 101.6. Max had just forfeited his sleepover.
Surely it was a sign of just how bad Max felt that he didn't resist my suggestion of a nap. He and I curled up together in his bed; Boo, alone in his own bed, eyed us longingly from across the room. Soon we all succumbed to sleep.
But Boo's memory is proving to be quite durable--not unlike his dad's.
When I tucked him into bed this evening, long after Max had retired, Boo asked me to lie down beside him, his first such request in many weeks. Warding off the chill of a late season cold front, we snuggled beneath a mound of blankets, giggling. We exchanged eskimo kisses. And then Boo bestowed me with the most beatific smile.
"I feel soooo safe, mommy."
"I feel safe, too, Boo."
"You make me so very, very happy."
"Oh, Boo, you make me happy, too."
These are the indescribably delicious moments of parenthood-- sweet, tender, as close to heaven on earth as I'll ever know.
And then he continued. "Renember (sic) daddy?"
"Of course, sweetie. Isn't your daddy the best daddy in the world?"
"I'm going to eat him all up, and then he'll be gone."
Boo smacked his lips a few times in apparent satisfaction, and, having dispatched his imagined adversary, fell fast asleep.
But this time, Max was loaded with knowledge, and he was singleminded in his enthusiasm. So much so that he called Babee--all by himself, mind you--at 6:37 this morning. (Independence in a 4-year old is a mixed bag.)
So I thought it was a ploy when he balked at going to gymnastics this afternoon. "My feet hurt," he protested. "And my throat. But they won't hurt at Babee's tonight." Then I took an earnest look at Max. The pink patches beneath his eyes accentuated his droopy, faraway look. I ran my fingers under his chin and down his neck. He winced. The bulges in his neck were not only palpable, they were visible, giving him a passing resemblance to an NFL linebacker. The thermometer registered 101.6. Max had just forfeited his sleepover.
Surely it was a sign of just how bad Max felt that he didn't resist my suggestion of a nap. He and I curled up together in his bed; Boo, alone in his own bed, eyed us longingly from across the room. Soon we all succumbed to sleep.
But Boo's memory is proving to be quite durable--not unlike his dad's.
When I tucked him into bed this evening, long after Max had retired, Boo asked me to lie down beside him, his first such request in many weeks. Warding off the chill of a late season cold front, we snuggled beneath a mound of blankets, giggling. We exchanged eskimo kisses. And then Boo bestowed me with the most beatific smile.
"I feel soooo safe, mommy."
"I feel safe, too, Boo."
"You make me so very, very happy."
"Oh, Boo, you make me happy, too."
These are the indescribably delicious moments of parenthood-- sweet, tender, as close to heaven on earth as I'll ever know.
And then he continued. "Renember (sic) daddy?"
"Of course, sweetie. Isn't your daddy the best daddy in the world?"
"I'm going to eat him all up, and then he'll be gone."
Boo smacked his lips a few times in apparent satisfaction, and, having dispatched his imagined adversary, fell fast asleep.
Monday, March 13, 2006
With friends like these...
One of the most-requested songs in carpool is Jimmy Buffet's ode to meat, "Cheeseburger in Paradise." While the six of us were howling our way through the lyrics last week, one of the kids asked what "carnivorous" meant. I explained that the word came from "carnivores," a concept with which Max was already familiar. With a happy chirp, Max volunteered this astounding news: "One of my friends died, and he was a carnivore."
My heart skipped a beat. Had one of Max's classmates died? Recently or long-ago? How could I have missed or forgotten such a terrible tragedy?
"You know, my friend, T-Rex? He liked to eat other dinosaurs."
Glad we didn't have him over for any playdates.
My heart skipped a beat. Had one of Max's classmates died? Recently or long-ago? How could I have missed or forgotten such a terrible tragedy?
"You know, my friend, T-Rex? He liked to eat other dinosaurs."
Glad we didn't have him over for any playdates.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
It's been awhile for me, too...
At bookclub last night, my friends were comparing notes about their teenage children. Angela's son had just betrayed his older brother by divulging the secret of his first kiss. Erin recently coached her son through making dinner for his girlfriend's parents for the first time. Sarah is reeling from her children's questions about sexual activities that I didn't know existed. Whatever anxiety I might have about my kids, it pales in comparison to what lies ahead.
That certainty somehow made this innocent moment even sweeter. Yesterday afternoon, Max and two of his classmates went to the park while Boo and I ran errands. We retrieved Max only when I was sure that sufficient boy energy had been released back into the universe. As I was strapping Max into his carseat, I noticed an abrasion on his knee.
"Did you scrape your knee on the playground, honey?"
"Yep."
"Does it hurt?"
"Yep."
"Do you want me to kiss it?
"Yep." When Max is reduced to one-word sentences, fatigue is getting the upper hand.
I gave his knee a perfunctory peck. "Does that feel better?"
"Yep."
Then, Boo chimed in, his voice full of appreciation: "Mommy, you're a good kisser."
I could barely stifle my laugh. When was the last time you heard that?
That certainty somehow made this innocent moment even sweeter. Yesterday afternoon, Max and two of his classmates went to the park while Boo and I ran errands. We retrieved Max only when I was sure that sufficient boy energy had been released back into the universe. As I was strapping Max into his carseat, I noticed an abrasion on his knee.
"Did you scrape your knee on the playground, honey?"
"Yep."
"Does it hurt?"
"Yep."
"Do you want me to kiss it?
"Yep." When Max is reduced to one-word sentences, fatigue is getting the upper hand.
I gave his knee a perfunctory peck. "Does that feel better?"
"Yep."
Then, Boo chimed in, his voice full of appreciation: "Mommy, you're a good kisser."
I could barely stifle my laugh. When was the last time you heard that?
