Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Progress
With the advent of kindergarten, we've turned over a new leaf:
Max is doing chores.
Daily.
It began as his idea. We've had a magnetic chore chart for some time, but after anemic results the first few times we tried to use it, the idea was put in a holding pattern until a few more clouds of immaturity lifted.
A few days ago, Max remembered the chore chart. Asked that I get it down from the top shelf in the closet. Had me read over the more than dozen chore choices.
He decided on seven.
Among the finalists was "Pick Up Toys." I was elated.
Day One: all seven chores were completed with delight.
Day Two: seven chores were completed with zeal.
Day Three: six chores were completed with equanimity.
Day Four: Max balked at the idea of picking up toys.
"I don't have to put up these blocks. Boo got them out."
"Yes, and he's going to help, too. But you've got a job to do, so let's hop to it."
Max grabbed the robotic claw from his closet and began to pick up blocks one by one and deposit them in the box. With 200 blocks strewn across the floor, a long evening stretched before him.
"It's not fair. I didn't make this mess."
"I know, honey."
"Mom, now I know how you feel."
I think I actually hurt my face with my grin.
Max is doing chores.
Daily.
It began as his idea. We've had a magnetic chore chart for some time, but after anemic results the first few times we tried to use it, the idea was put in a holding pattern until a few more clouds of immaturity lifted.
A few days ago, Max remembered the chore chart. Asked that I get it down from the top shelf in the closet. Had me read over the more than dozen chore choices.
He decided on seven.
Among the finalists was "Pick Up Toys." I was elated.
Day One: all seven chores were completed with delight.
Day Two: seven chores were completed with zeal.
Day Three: six chores were completed with equanimity.
Day Four: Max balked at the idea of picking up toys.
"I don't have to put up these blocks. Boo got them out."
"Yes, and he's going to help, too. But you've got a job to do, so let's hop to it."
Max grabbed the robotic claw from his closet and began to pick up blocks one by one and deposit them in the box. With 200 blocks strewn across the floor, a long evening stretched before him.
"It's not fair. I didn't make this mess."
"I know, honey."
"Mom, now I know how you feel."
I think I actually hurt my face with my grin.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Back to School Rituals
The boys were tucked in early this evening, with hair still glistening from baths and outfits laid out at the foot of their beds. The sun set on summer today; school resumes tomorrow. For Max, it's one of the public milestones: First Day of Kindergarten. Uniforms. Lunch in the cafeteria. Kids ranging in age from 5 to 14 jostling through the halls. It's a big step, and not just for Max. I wanted to mark the occasion for us all. After lullabies, I conducted a short interview.
Me: How are you guys feeling about going back to school?
Max: Scared and excited.
Boo: Mmmmhmmmm.
Me: What are you looking forward to most about going back to school?
Boo: The farm animals and the animals and the building things.
Max: Seeing my friends.
Me: What will you miss most about summer vacation?
Max: Can I go first?
Me: Sure.
Max: Seattle. And the Aquarium. And the farm and the dog and the goat.
Me: Boo, what will you miss the most about summer vacation?
Boo: Seattle. Aunt Kimberly and Uncle Paul.
Me: We miss them, don't we?
Max and Boo: Yeah.
Max: And Lyra and Serei and Sasha. And picking blueberries. I only ate two. And Boo ate, like, a thousand.
Boo: Yeah, eating the blueberries right off the bushes.
Me: It was a great summer, wasn't it?
Max and Boo: Yep.
Max: Hugs and kisses?
Me: Good night, sweet prince. I love you so.
Max: Sweet dreams.
Me: Sweet dreams. I'll see you in the morning.
It's been only 10 minutes, and there's nothing but silence emanating from their room. I think I'll go start the pancake batter for tomorrow morning.
Me: How are you guys feeling about going back to school?
Max: Scared and excited.
Boo: Mmmmhmmmm.
Me: What are you looking forward to most about going back to school?
Boo: The farm animals and the animals and the building things.
Max: Seeing my friends.
Me: What will you miss most about summer vacation?
Max: Can I go first?
Me: Sure.
Max: Seattle. And the Aquarium. And the farm and the dog and the goat.
Me: Boo, what will you miss the most about summer vacation?
Boo: Seattle. Aunt Kimberly and Uncle Paul.
Me: We miss them, don't we?
Max and Boo: Yeah.
Max: And Lyra and Serei and Sasha. And picking blueberries. I only ate two. And Boo ate, like, a thousand.
Boo: Yeah, eating the blueberries right off the bushes.
Me: It was a great summer, wasn't it?
Max and Boo: Yep.
Max: Hugs and kisses?
Me: Good night, sweet prince. I love you so.
Max: Sweet dreams.
Me: Sweet dreams. I'll see you in the morning.
It's been only 10 minutes, and there's nothing but silence emanating from their room. I think I'll go start the pancake batter for tomorrow morning.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Tough Guy
Maybe they've come down with a mild case of back-to-school anxiety, but by breakfast time this morning, the boys were at each other's throats. As the final straw, Max destroyed the African savannah that Boo had painstakingly created in their room. Boo stormed into the kitchen and began to disintegrate.
"Hey, Boo, what do you think you might do about this?"
"I. Don't. Know!"
"Could you use your words and tell Max that you didn't like what he did?"
"I did that already."
Hmmmmm. Maybe this wasn't really my problem to solve.
"Well, how else might you handle it?"
Tears banished, Boo perked up.
"I could do like you told me to when we were playing with our new friends at the school."
Oh, really?
Boo shrugged.
"Yeah. I just could toughen up."
And he trotted back towards the bedroom.
Last week, I had arranged an afternoon playdate with a mom and twins who are new to the school. We wound up in the well-airconditioned lunch room, letting our four boys chase two stray beach balls. Max was being particularly feisty with Boo, wresting one ball from his arms even when the other was within easy reach. In response, Boo was flailing about as if someone had just pulverized his last toy. Perhaps because my new mom buddy (who happens to be a preschool teacher) was a witness, I resisted the urge to dangle Max from the ceiling by his shoe laces. I put my arms around Boo and heard a calm whisper I barely recognized.
"Boo, if you're going to get this upset every time Max takes something away from you, you're going to have a long and difficult life. Maybe what you need to do is just to try to toughen up a little. Okay, buddy?"
I paused. Waiting. For screams of protest from Boo.
Instead, his mood brightened.
"I think I can do that, mommy!"
And he trotted off in search of the other ball.
It was a brief exchange. A few seconds, maybe. I didn't give it another thought.
But Boo did.
"Hey, Boo, what do you think you might do about this?"
"I. Don't. Know!"
"Could you use your words and tell Max that you didn't like what he did?"
"I did that already."
Hmmmmm. Maybe this wasn't really my problem to solve.
"Well, how else might you handle it?"
Tears banished, Boo perked up.
"I could do like you told me to when we were playing with our new friends at the school."
Oh, really?
Boo shrugged.
"Yeah. I just could toughen up."
And he trotted back towards the bedroom.
Last week, I had arranged an afternoon playdate with a mom and twins who are new to the school. We wound up in the well-airconditioned lunch room, letting our four boys chase two stray beach balls. Max was being particularly feisty with Boo, wresting one ball from his arms even when the other was within easy reach. In response, Boo was flailing about as if someone had just pulverized his last toy. Perhaps because my new mom buddy (who happens to be a preschool teacher) was a witness, I resisted the urge to dangle Max from the ceiling by his shoe laces. I put my arms around Boo and heard a calm whisper I barely recognized.
"Boo, if you're going to get this upset every time Max takes something away from you, you're going to have a long and difficult life. Maybe what you need to do is just to try to toughen up a little. Okay, buddy?"
I paused. Waiting. For screams of protest from Boo.
Instead, his mood brightened.
"I think I can do that, mommy!"
And he trotted off in search of the other ball.
It was a brief exchange. A few seconds, maybe. I didn't give it another thought.
But Boo did.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Good Riddance, and Good Night
Our annual pilgrimmage to Seattle was a smashing success with all three members of our tribe. We've been replaying the highlight reel ever since we set foot on the plane home. The zoo, the aquarium, the organic farm with farm animals for Boo, wild blackberry bushes for me, and for Max, a dog that would actually fetch, the ferry, the children's museum on Bainbridge Island, watching the float planes land on Lake Union, the zipcord at Ravenna Park, nectarines from the farmer's market, blueberry picking, blueberry pancakes, blueberry muffins, handfuls of blueberries straight off the bush--it's hard to choose a favorite adventure, and not just for the kids.
The only painful legacy of the trip is getting the boys back on a regular sleep schedule. Our more-or-less smooth routine fell victim last night to a perfect trifecta of problems: (1) a two time zone change travelling east, (2) the rare luxury for the boys of getting to sleep next to me (or better yet, grandmother Babee!) for a week, and (3) long, Benadryl-induced naps on the plane.
At midnight last night, the boys were still awake.
This would be less problematic were it mid-June. But school starts next week, and with the advent of kindergarten, Max will need to rise and shine by 6:30.
Well, maybe not shine. Max wakes up like a teenager--under great protest.
So exhausted was I at midnight that I did the unthinkable--allowed them to pile in bed with me at home, since Lee was on a business trip. Both boys were asleep in 2.4 nanoseconds.
We started bedtime preparations much earlier this evening. 7:45.
5:45 Seattle time.
Neither was ready, but I was motivated.
As Boo sprung in and out of his bed like popcorn, Max temporarily assumed the role of Third Parent. It's a job he likes.
"Boo, if you get out of bed One More Time, you'll have to sleep in the playroom for a week!"
"How long is a week, Max?"
"A week is, like, a year!"
Sounds like wishful thinking to me....
The only painful legacy of the trip is getting the boys back on a regular sleep schedule. Our more-or-less smooth routine fell victim last night to a perfect trifecta of problems: (1) a two time zone change travelling east, (2) the rare luxury for the boys of getting to sleep next to me (or better yet, grandmother Babee!) for a week, and (3) long, Benadryl-induced naps on the plane.
At midnight last night, the boys were still awake.
This would be less problematic were it mid-June. But school starts next week, and with the advent of kindergarten, Max will need to rise and shine by 6:30.
Well, maybe not shine. Max wakes up like a teenager--under great protest.
So exhausted was I at midnight that I did the unthinkable--allowed them to pile in bed with me at home, since Lee was on a business trip. Both boys were asleep in 2.4 nanoseconds.
We started bedtime preparations much earlier this evening. 7:45.
5:45 Seattle time.
Neither was ready, but I was motivated.
As Boo sprung in and out of his bed like popcorn, Max temporarily assumed the role of Third Parent. It's a job he likes.
"Boo, if you get out of bed One More Time, you'll have to sleep in the playroom for a week!"
"How long is a week, Max?"
"A week is, like, a year!"
Sounds like wishful thinking to me....
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Locks of love
The energy in our house has been in steady crescendo this week as the boys have looked forward to tomorrow's flight to the west coast. By this evening, it resembled a Rolling Stones concert in volume and frenzy.
As I packed for three, straightened up the house, scheduled Max's birthday trip to Sea World, arranged delivery of a new dishwasher after a month of dishpan hands, and scheduled repairs and painting to avoid small fingerprints on kitchen cabinetry, the boys acted out by upending box after box of freshly-organized toys. I took down six-month's worth of art work in the playroom to make room for new Kindergarten masterpieces, only to find Max pulling out files to review of his archived art from years past. One step forward, two steps back.
Finally, in an attempt to douse their wildfire energy, I tossed both boys into the tub. Boo was first to emerge.
Over the summer, Boo has been undergoing a bittersweet transformation. Come to think of it, there's nothing sweet about it. It simply breaks my heart.
For more than a year, Boo has been blessed with a halo of golden curls. Think Rubens cherub. Beautiful, stop-strangers-on-the-street whisps. When the Gulf Coast air is at its hot and muggy worst, Boo's perfect ringlets are at their angelic best. A cosmic consolation prize.
But Boo's hair is getting darker and straigher. With a few more months and a shorter cut, Boo's locks might become utterly unremarkable.
I've been in a strange stage of denial, scrunching his hair vigorously after each bath and contemplating products like "curl activator." For my three year old.
This evening I decided that either I need to seek professional treatment, or I need to make peace with the strands on Boo's head. After his bath, I pulled a comb from the top drawer.
Boo doesn't do combs. Combs have always made Boo's hair look goofy--frizzy, wild, practically levitating from his head. But not this evening.
We stood in front of the mirror. I began to gently stroke his hair, some to the left, some to the right, forming a part where only curls had been. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!"
His protests were vigorous.
Then he crumpled to the floor.
"Hey, Boo Bear, time for pjs."
"No pjs!"
"Hey, buddy, what's the matter?"
Silence for a good long while. Then:
"I need my curly hair (pronounced 'hay-yer')."
Boo is nothing if not a Texan.
"You do?"
"Yeah (pronounced 'yeah-yuh')."
"Hmmm."
"Because I don't look like me."
He sounded wrecked.
"Oh, sweetheart, you'll always look like you. Your eyes, your nose, your smile, and your sweet heart. There will only be one you, and I'd know you anywhere."
"But Babee won't recognize me without my curly hair!"
Now he was wailing.
His beloved Babee, from whom we've always told him he acquired his curly hair. If he no longer wore her hair, the hair they've shared for as long as he can remember, would he still be her Boo?
I wanted to sob, too.
"Would you like me to put the curls back in your hair?"
"Yeah-yuh."
I scooped him into my lap and lovingly tossled his hair. It made for a somewhat messy composition, straightish on top, ending in fusilli curls. Like a teenager growing out a stale perm.
What's wrong with denial for just a while longer?
As I packed for three, straightened up the house, scheduled Max's birthday trip to Sea World, arranged delivery of a new dishwasher after a month of dishpan hands, and scheduled repairs and painting to avoid small fingerprints on kitchen cabinetry, the boys acted out by upending box after box of freshly-organized toys. I took down six-month's worth of art work in the playroom to make room for new Kindergarten masterpieces, only to find Max pulling out files to review of his archived art from years past. One step forward, two steps back.
Finally, in an attempt to douse their wildfire energy, I tossed both boys into the tub. Boo was first to emerge.
Over the summer, Boo has been undergoing a bittersweet transformation. Come to think of it, there's nothing sweet about it. It simply breaks my heart.
For more than a year, Boo has been blessed with a halo of golden curls. Think Rubens cherub. Beautiful, stop-strangers-on-the-street whisps. When the Gulf Coast air is at its hot and muggy worst, Boo's perfect ringlets are at their angelic best. A cosmic consolation prize.
But Boo's hair is getting darker and straigher. With a few more months and a shorter cut, Boo's locks might become utterly unremarkable.
I've been in a strange stage of denial, scrunching his hair vigorously after each bath and contemplating products like "curl activator." For my three year old.
This evening I decided that either I need to seek professional treatment, or I need to make peace with the strands on Boo's head. After his bath, I pulled a comb from the top drawer.
Boo doesn't do combs. Combs have always made Boo's hair look goofy--frizzy, wild, practically levitating from his head. But not this evening.
We stood in front of the mirror. I began to gently stroke his hair, some to the left, some to the right, forming a part where only curls had been. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!"
His protests were vigorous.
Then he crumpled to the floor.
"Hey, Boo Bear, time for pjs."
"No pjs!"
"Hey, buddy, what's the matter?"
Silence for a good long while. Then:
"I need my curly hair (pronounced 'hay-yer')."
Boo is nothing if not a Texan.
"You do?"
"Yeah (pronounced 'yeah-yuh')."
"Hmmm."
"Because I don't look like me."
He sounded wrecked.
"Oh, sweetheart, you'll always look like you. Your eyes, your nose, your smile, and your sweet heart. There will only be one you, and I'd know you anywhere."
"But Babee won't recognize me without my curly hair!"
Now he was wailing.
His beloved Babee, from whom we've always told him he acquired his curly hair. If he no longer wore her hair, the hair they've shared for as long as he can remember, would he still be her Boo?
I wanted to sob, too.
"Would you like me to put the curls back in your hair?"
"Yeah-yuh."
I scooped him into my lap and lovingly tossled his hair. It made for a somewhat messy composition, straightish on top, ending in fusilli curls. Like a teenager growing out a stale perm.
What's wrong with denial for just a while longer?
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Birthday Business
As a general rule, Max embraces the school of thought that more is more. At bedtime, he ritually arranges a couple of dozen stuffed animals above, around and atop his horizontal form. He has never seen a toy in the Back to Basics catalogue that he doesn't Love/Want/Need. And for his fifth birthday, his invitation list grew to 37 before I finally cut him off.
In contrast, Reed ascribes to Mies Van der Rohe's philosophy that less is more. He selects a single stuffed animal to accompany him to sleep. ("It's all I can hold.") After a birthday party on Saturday, he politely declined the regulation-sized soccer ball that was being offered as the "goodie ball." The invitation list for his next birthday party consists of his two best friends. Period.
But Max has limits--limits that even he is beginning to recognize.
Max's birthday is only six weeks away, and the topic of his party has begun to suck much of the oxygen from our house. Theme, location, invitation list, present wishlist--Max's preferences have changed nearly as often as the date on the calendar. (This is why a wise friend once cautioned me never to buy a Halloween costumer until October 24.)
Initially, Max decided that he only wanted to invite the three members of last year's carpool, plus an additional friend from the neighborhood. "Not like last year's birthday," he implored. "There were too many people!" Glad he remembered that on his own. I'm recalling the sight of Max, clearly overwhelmed, pulling a large plastic tub over his body and disappearing. "I'm a turtle," was his rather transparent explanation.
But recently the invitation list had begun to show signs of project creep. At last count, he'd reached 16, with some obvious omissions that would be realized as soon as school starts.
On the way home from the ranch, as the boys slept, I made a counterproposal to Lee.
"What if we offered Max the chance to go to Sea World instead of having a birthday party? He's been begging to go."
Lee jumped aboard the plan.
I crossed my fingers.
"Yep, that's where Andy is."
"But I don't know why."
"You don't know why he moved?"
"No."
"Well, his mother grew up in San Antonio, and they moved to be closer to her family."
"Yep, her mom and dad. Andy's Babee and Poppi."
A knowing look passed over Max's face as the significance of Andy's larger family took hold.
He grinned. "And what about his Aunt Kimberly and Uncle Paul?"
With no party to plan, I can hardly wait to celebrate Max's birthday. Now if we can just figure out how to build him an airplane-shaped treehouse....
In contrast, Reed ascribes to Mies Van der Rohe's philosophy that less is more. He selects a single stuffed animal to accompany him to sleep. ("It's all I can hold.") After a birthday party on Saturday, he politely declined the regulation-sized soccer ball that was being offered as the "goodie ball." The invitation list for his next birthday party consists of his two best friends. Period.
But Max has limits--limits that even he is beginning to recognize.
Max's birthday is only six weeks away, and the topic of his party has begun to suck much of the oxygen from our house. Theme, location, invitation list, present wishlist--Max's preferences have changed nearly as often as the date on the calendar. (This is why a wise friend once cautioned me never to buy a Halloween costumer until October 24.)
Initially, Max decided that he only wanted to invite the three members of last year's carpool, plus an additional friend from the neighborhood. "Not like last year's birthday," he implored. "There were too many people!" Glad he remembered that on his own. I'm recalling the sight of Max, clearly overwhelmed, pulling a large plastic tub over his body and disappearing. "I'm a turtle," was his rather transparent explanation.
But recently the invitation list had begun to show signs of project creep. At last count, he'd reached 16, with some obvious omissions that would be realized as soon as school starts.
On the way home from the ranch, as the boys slept, I made a counterproposal to Lee.
"What if we offered Max the chance to go to Sea World instead of having a birthday party? He's been begging to go."
Lee jumped aboard the plan.
I crossed my fingers.
This evening, after Lee had gone to bed, I broached the subject with Max and Boo.
"YES YES YES YES YES YES YES!!!!"
"Now you understand the trip would be instead of having a birthday party?"
"YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES!!!!!"
"And you still want to do it?"
"YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES!!!!!!!"
I pulled up the website. The boys' exuberance escalated.
I breathed a sigh of relief. No birthday theme. No entertainment. No decorations. No goodie bags. No extra housecleaning. No last-minute helium balloons. No giant birthday cake for 50.
But Max was in a different place, imagining a day filled with orcas and sea lions and penguins and belugas and sharks and Clydesdales. (Yes, Clydesdales. Where was the asterisk that said, "Which of these animals doesn't belong in the sea?")
Then Max had another epiphany. "Maybe we can see Andy! Andy lives near Sea World!"
He had been one of Max's best buddies from school. His family moved this summer. Max hasn't stopped talking about him."Yep, that's where Andy is."
"But I don't know why."
"You don't know why he moved?"
"No."
"Well, his mother grew up in San Antonio, and they moved to be closer to her family."
"Her family?" Max looked puzzled.
"Yep, her mom and dad. Andy's Babee and Poppi."
A knowing look passed over Max's face as the significance of Andy's larger family took hold.
He grinned. "And what about his Aunt Kimberly and Uncle Paul?"
With no party to plan, I can hardly wait to celebrate Max's birthday. Now if we can just figure out how to build him an airplane-shaped treehouse....
