This seems to be very much on Ian's mind. Already. For example:
"Playing" tennis yesterday and observing what was happening on the next court:
"Mom, those mans switched sides," he says, pointing to them.
"Yes, they did. That's how you play. After a few games, you switch sides. Do you want to switch sides with me?" I ask.
"No, mom. That's for big boys. When I'm big, I'll switch sides."
Today on the way to school, we talked about what was going to happen in Winter. Turns out, a lot of things. At least 4 birthdays in our immediate family (if I'm counting correctly) and 3 big holidays - Christmas, New Years and Los Reyes (the Kings). Ian is bowled over by the list of upcoming opportunities for merrymaking and, especially, present getting. One thing is missing, however. He wants to know if his birthday is in Winter. I explained that his birthday is in Autumn, which is just about to end. He's not happy about this.
We also talked about the Winter Olympics in Vancouver that will start soon.
"Mom, is the Lympics for boys that are bigger than 4 years old?" he asks.
"Yes, usually it is. But one day you'll be bigger and you can do it."
"OK, then, I'll do the Lympics when I'm big," he says.
You heard it here, folks. Look for him when he's all grown up. 2022? 2026? Maybe I'll even be grown up by then.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
It's a Transformer World
If you ever wanted to know how to work Transformers into just about any conversation, read on.
Ian's friend Tyler* let him borrow a Transformer last night and overnight (literally) it has become the thing around which the sun, moon and stars revolve.
"Hey, Mom, ya know what?" he starts, as he starts all sentences these days.
"What?"
"My transformer doesn't like waffles."
"What does he like?"
"He likes huevo frito," Ian explains, referring to how we call fried eggs in our house as Mom and boys work on being bi-lingual to catch up to Papa.
"Did he sleep well last night, Ian?" I ask, remembering that last night, Ian tucked his Transformer - a large silver and yellow robot with a frightening expression on his face and bulky arms and legs - into his pirate hat and covered him with his clown blanket so he wouldn't see any monsters.
"Yeah, Mom, he did, thanks," Ian says, as his manners momentarily appear and work their magic on me like a rare whale sighting on the open ocean.
"Mom, ya know what?"
"What?"
"Everyyyyyyyboooddy's a Transformer," he says.
"Everybody? Even you?" He has to think about this.
"YES!"
"What thing do you transform into?" He has to think a lot about this.
"A MONSTER TRUCK!!" he says, then modifies it: "A RACE CAR monster truck," he says.
"Oh, that's very nice," I say in my most uncool mother voice. "And what about me, what do I turn into?" I ask.
"You're a truck, too, Mom, a blue and red one that has windows," he explains. I'm happy to have windows.
"Ian, do some trucks not have windows?" I ask.
"Yea, sure they do, Mom, they all have windows," he says. My elation at having windows is dashed.
"What about Papa and Julian?" I ask. "What would they turn into?" As we walk through the park, leaf blowers and lawn mowers are making an awful noise. "Would Julian turn into a lawnmower?" I ask. Ian is horrified by this suggestion.
"NOOOO, Mommmm. Tranformers don't make lawnmowers. They only make trucks and race cars," he says. C'mon Mom.
"Ian, do you know where we are going next week?" I ask, deciding I have nothing more to add to the Transformer discussion.
"Yea! Grandmommy's house!" he says.
"And what are we going to eat?" I ask.
"Turkey!" he yells, and leaps into the air.
"Are turkey's Transformers, too?" I ask, deciding I might have the hang of this game after all.
"Sure, the turkey makes a race car robot turkey," he says.
We arrive at school. Ian plops down onto the carpet with a friend and a bin full of building blocks. They decide they're going to build - what else? - a Transformer. I warn the teacher, apologize, and make my escape before I get turned into something else and, God forbid, lose my precious windows.
*The name has been changed to protect our Transformer sources
Ian's friend Tyler* let him borrow a Transformer last night and overnight (literally) it has become the thing around which the sun, moon and stars revolve.
"Hey, Mom, ya know what?" he starts, as he starts all sentences these days.
"What?"
"My transformer doesn't like waffles."
"What does he like?"
"He likes huevo frito," Ian explains, referring to how we call fried eggs in our house as Mom and boys work on being bi-lingual to catch up to Papa.
"Did he sleep well last night, Ian?" I ask, remembering that last night, Ian tucked his Transformer - a large silver and yellow robot with a frightening expression on his face and bulky arms and legs - into his pirate hat and covered him with his clown blanket so he wouldn't see any monsters.
"Yeah, Mom, he did, thanks," Ian says, as his manners momentarily appear and work their magic on me like a rare whale sighting on the open ocean.
"Mom, ya know what?"
"What?"
"Everyyyyyyyboooddy's a Transformer," he says.
"Everybody? Even you?" He has to think about this.
"YES!"
"What thing do you transform into?" He has to think a lot about this.
"A MONSTER TRUCK!!" he says, then modifies it: "A RACE CAR monster truck," he says.
"Oh, that's very nice," I say in my most uncool mother voice. "And what about me, what do I turn into?" I ask.
"You're a truck, too, Mom, a blue and red one that has windows," he explains. I'm happy to have windows.
"Ian, do some trucks not have windows?" I ask.
"Yea, sure they do, Mom, they all have windows," he says. My elation at having windows is dashed.
"What about Papa and Julian?" I ask. "What would they turn into?" As we walk through the park, leaf blowers and lawn mowers are making an awful noise. "Would Julian turn into a lawnmower?" I ask. Ian is horrified by this suggestion.
"NOOOO, Mommmm. Tranformers don't make lawnmowers. They only make trucks and race cars," he says. C'mon Mom.
"Ian, do you know where we are going next week?" I ask, deciding I have nothing more to add to the Transformer discussion.
"Yea! Grandmommy's house!" he says.
"And what are we going to eat?" I ask.
"Turkey!" he yells, and leaps into the air.
"Are turkey's Transformers, too?" I ask, deciding I might have the hang of this game after all.
"Sure, the turkey makes a race car robot turkey," he says.
We arrive at school. Ian plops down onto the carpet with a friend and a bin full of building blocks. They decide they're going to build - what else? - a Transformer. I warn the teacher, apologize, and make my escape before I get turned into something else and, God forbid, lose my precious windows.
*The name has been changed to protect our Transformer sources
Friday, November 13, 2009
Oh Gentle Muse, Where Hath Thou Taken Off To?
Our Fall break, which was only for a week and a day but seemed to last four months, finally ended this Tuesday. On Tuesday morning, we left the apartment at 8:29, a full minute before he was due in class, with my standard "Hurry up, Ian, we're going to be late," while he looks at me with this look as if to say, "Then how come you didn't get me to turn off the cartoons 10 minutes ago, Mom?"
On this walk, a slightly new Ian is emerging. The teacher told us we'd be "surprised" by the Ian that she saw about to come out of his shell. I'm not sure surprised is the right word.
"Hey MOOOMMMM!! Come OONNNNNN!!" he says to me as I'm buttoning my coat and he's holding the front door to the apartment building open. He hisses and expels an enormous sigh of exasperation.
Excuse me?
"Ya know what? Ya know what? I'm only gonna play with Lucas today. He's my best friend. I don't like anybody else," and Ian kind of rock and rolls down the sidewalk, not wanting to hold my hand.
I start to join the conversation and Ian moves on to the next topic.
"Ya know what? Robert pee-peed in his pants last time!! HA HA!! Pee, pee!! Poo, poo!!" and Ian thrusts his tongue in and out of his mouth making fun of the imaginary Robert who was not with us, thank God.
I'm about to ask him not to talk about pee pee and poo poo and he moves on again.
"Ya know what? Ya know what? I've got a shooter in my pocket and I'm gonna shoot you, Mom!" and he whips out his two hands from his pockets making a gun with his index and thumb, and making shooting noises.
Ok, ok. "Ian, we don't play with guns. We don't even play with pretend guns," I say, trying to reinforce his parents' vehement objection to arms of any kind. Then I remember that we gave him and his brother water pistols over the Summer. I move on. "And Ian, you can't talk about pee pee like that, it's not nice to make fun of other kids," I say.
"YOU aren't nice, Mommy!!" says Ian, making the pistols and shooting noises again. I close his pistol fingers, take his hand and start walking faster.
So by this point, I'm thinking, an 11-year-old boy has kidnapped my pre-schooler.
When we get to class, I mention to the teacher that we've started seeing more attitude from Ian. She smiles knowingly. "Yeah, that's the age." Really?
"And you know, there are some rough kids in this class. I'm sure he's picking some of that up here," she says.
Rough kids? Four-year-old rough kids? I'm suddenly terrified of elementary school. I kiss him, as he ignores me, and I walk out of the school feeling like a juggernaut of other people's attitude problems is against my sweet, little baby. Is it realistic for me to camp out in the classroom? Do I start profiling the bad kids and call their mothers? Then it hits me, the awful spectre of another possibility: is my kid one of the bad boys? Impossible. I walk home, head down, sure a nicer boy will show up at home after school.
On this walk, a slightly new Ian is emerging. The teacher told us we'd be "surprised" by the Ian that she saw about to come out of his shell. I'm not sure surprised is the right word.
"Hey MOOOMMMM!! Come OONNNNNN!!" he says to me as I'm buttoning my coat and he's holding the front door to the apartment building open. He hisses and expels an enormous sigh of exasperation.
Excuse me?
"Ya know what? Ya know what? I'm only gonna play with Lucas today. He's my best friend. I don't like anybody else," and Ian kind of rock and rolls down the sidewalk, not wanting to hold my hand.
I start to join the conversation and Ian moves on to the next topic.
"Ya know what? Robert pee-peed in his pants last time!! HA HA!! Pee, pee!! Poo, poo!!" and Ian thrusts his tongue in and out of his mouth making fun of the imaginary Robert who was not with us, thank God.
I'm about to ask him not to talk about pee pee and poo poo and he moves on again.
"Ya know what? Ya know what? I've got a shooter in my pocket and I'm gonna shoot you, Mom!" and he whips out his two hands from his pockets making a gun with his index and thumb, and making shooting noises.
Ok, ok. "Ian, we don't play with guns. We don't even play with pretend guns," I say, trying to reinforce his parents' vehement objection to arms of any kind. Then I remember that we gave him and his brother water pistols over the Summer. I move on. "And Ian, you can't talk about pee pee like that, it's not nice to make fun of other kids," I say.
"YOU aren't nice, Mommy!!" says Ian, making the pistols and shooting noises again. I close his pistol fingers, take his hand and start walking faster.
So by this point, I'm thinking, an 11-year-old boy has kidnapped my pre-schooler.
When we get to class, I mention to the teacher that we've started seeing more attitude from Ian. She smiles knowingly. "Yeah, that's the age." Really?
"And you know, there are some rough kids in this class. I'm sure he's picking some of that up here," she says.
Rough kids? Four-year-old rough kids? I'm suddenly terrified of elementary school. I kiss him, as he ignores me, and I walk out of the school feeling like a juggernaut of other people's attitude problems is against my sweet, little baby. Is it realistic for me to camp out in the classroom? Do I start profiling the bad kids and call their mothers? Then it hits me, the awful spectre of another possibility: is my kid one of the bad boys? Impossible. I walk home, head down, sure a nicer boy will show up at home after school.
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