While Ian was eating his waffles this morning (no, we don't eat anything else), I figured I'd check in with him about spring sports.
"Ian, do you want to play baseball this spring or soccer?"
"Huh?" Ian looks at me with the corner of a bite of waffle sticking out of his mouth.
"Baseball or soccer? Which do you want to play?"
"Soccer!" He's sitting up on his knees to eat, a commanding presence over the Mickey Mouse plate, waving a Lightning McQueen fork.
"Are you sure? Papa and I took you a few years ago and you hated it. Remember?"
"Huh?" Ian freezes while poking around for the next bite, as if he just realized I'm talking to him. Sometimes he really reminds me of that fish in "Finding Nemo", the one who had a short-term memory problem.
"Remember? You hated it?"
"No, I want to play soccer. They have teams in soccer. I like teams."
"Well they have teams in baseball, too."
"Yeah, but I don't want to be a Yankee," he says, chewing a wad of waffle from inside his cheek, tobacco-like.
But whew. Looks like we dodged a bullet on that Yankee thing.
"I want to be the other thing. The soccer thing."
Real Madrid? Man United? His Papa, hailing from Europe, will be so proud.
And in case I needed a reminder, he adds this bit:
"And Mom? I'm gonna WIN!!!!!! WHOOOOOPEEEE!!!" and he pumps his fist like our friend Rafa Nadal.
Looks like the next conversation needs to be about how you get thrown out of the game if you don't have a sportsman-like attitude. Or maybe I'll let the coach tackle that one.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Frightful Outside (and In)
We had a charming little blizzard here in Hoboken, New Jersey this morning. Wet, fat flakes that stuck to everything. It was beautiful. When the boys saw it out the window, I could barely get them dressed from all the jumping up and down and sticking their faces to the window. And then, the inevitable questions:
"Can we go outside and play?!" and "We want to build a snowman! Can we? Can we?"
Unfortunately for them, I'm sort of a taskmaster. A little snow wasn't going to mess up my schedule. I had a meeting to get to 30 minutes away, I had my coffee mug in hand, and my big fat answer to all that was "NO!"
You should have seen their reaction in our living room. Total anarchy. Stuff about we don't want to go to school!!! and we don't want to go in the car, we want to walk!! and we don't want to go with you, we want Papa!! (given the aforementioned Oedipus issue, I know it's serious when they call for Papa).
But I've learned to tune out almost everything. They could be crying about two sets of broken legs and I'm not sure I'd notice until an hour after they started moaning. It's probably not in their best interest, but it's one of my last remaining survival skills and I've spent years honing it. I'm not giving it up now.
So I just shoveled them into the elevator, not unlike a stubborn snowbank on a driveway, and pressed "1". To the garage, more shoveling. Into the car, more shoveling.
Then finally, they were restrained in the backseat like two mental patients and I could enjoy my coffee.
As we pulled out of the driveway and onto the street, Julian was suddenly deathly quiet (that's usually when I start paying attention).
"Are you OK, Jul?" I ask.
"Yeah. I just want to hear the snow," he says.
"But snow doesn't make noise when it's falling."
"Yes, Mom, it do. It do make noise."
I listened at the next stop sign when the engine was quiet. And you know what? It do.
"Can we go outside and play?!" and "We want to build a snowman! Can we? Can we?"
Unfortunately for them, I'm sort of a taskmaster. A little snow wasn't going to mess up my schedule. I had a meeting to get to 30 minutes away, I had my coffee mug in hand, and my big fat answer to all that was "NO!"
You should have seen their reaction in our living room. Total anarchy. Stuff about we don't want to go to school!!! and we don't want to go in the car, we want to walk!! and we don't want to go with you, we want Papa!! (given the aforementioned Oedipus issue, I know it's serious when they call for Papa).
But I've learned to tune out almost everything. They could be crying about two sets of broken legs and I'm not sure I'd notice until an hour after they started moaning. It's probably not in their best interest, but it's one of my last remaining survival skills and I've spent years honing it. I'm not giving it up now.
So I just shoveled them into the elevator, not unlike a stubborn snowbank on a driveway, and pressed "1". To the garage, more shoveling. Into the car, more shoveling.
Then finally, they were restrained in the backseat like two mental patients and I could enjoy my coffee.
As we pulled out of the driveway and onto the street, Julian was suddenly deathly quiet (that's usually when I start paying attention).
"Are you OK, Jul?" I ask.
"Yeah. I just want to hear the snow," he says.
"But snow doesn't make noise when it's falling."
"Yes, Mom, it do. It do make noise."
I listened at the next stop sign when the engine was quiet. And you know what? It do.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
"Job WANTED"
After we dropped Ian off at his preschool and were on the way to Jersey City, Julian spotted this on the sidewalk: A man in a dark suit and tie, crisp pressed white shirt and shined shoes was standing near the stoplight. He was wearing a sandwich board on his chest on which he had carefully printed the words, in orange, "Job WANTED".
"What's that man?" asked Julian.
"Well, Juli, he's just standing there, waiting for someone," I sort of lied.
"What are those letters he has?"
"Um, those letters are because he wants to tell people something."
"What he wants to tell people?"
How do you explain to a 3-year-old about having a job, and then losing that job, and then trying desperately to get another one? How desperate must things have gotten for this guy that he's resorted to a blitzkrieg, an untargeted shout-out to all the passersby on their way from Jersey, into the PATH train, and on to their own jobs in Manhattan. But I couldn't figure out a non-anxiety-producing way to explain the whole this-guy-has-no-job-and-is-probably-on-his-last-dime situation of the sandwich board. So I did what most of us do in those situations (at least I hope most of us do, not just me). I wimped out and completely made something up.
"He wants to tell people about a cool new toy."
But I should have known better than to go that route.
"A toy? But I want that toy! Mommy, I WANT IT!!"
I dug myself in deeper. "Well, I don't know where to buy it."
"Mommy, but I WANT it. Mommy, buy it!!"
Juli has a short fuse. When something distresses him, he goes off the deep end pretty fast. Soon, he's crying and thrashing about wanting a toy that doesn't exist, based on my lie. I deserve this, I'm thinking.
"OK, Jul, we'll find it." Where I was going with this lie I had no idea, but he starts to calm down.
We drive on and I think about the sandwich board guy. I wish I ran a company so I could give him a job. Anybody who had decided they could stand in broad daylight and advertise to strangers that they were out of a job, dressed in a suit and ready to work, is obviously somebody who doesn't give up. Ever. That would be a good person to hire. I hope somebody walking past him to their job in Manhattan would be thinking the same thing. I hope I don't see him there tomorrow, unless it's because he's commuting. Good luck to him.
"What's that man?" asked Julian.
"Well, Juli, he's just standing there, waiting for someone," I sort of lied.
"What are those letters he has?"
"Um, those letters are because he wants to tell people something."
"What he wants to tell people?"
How do you explain to a 3-year-old about having a job, and then losing that job, and then trying desperately to get another one? How desperate must things have gotten for this guy that he's resorted to a blitzkrieg, an untargeted shout-out to all the passersby on their way from Jersey, into the PATH train, and on to their own jobs in Manhattan. But I couldn't figure out a non-anxiety-producing way to explain the whole this-guy-has-no-job-and-is-probably-on-his-last-dime situation of the sandwich board. So I did what most of us do in those situations (at least I hope most of us do, not just me). I wimped out and completely made something up.
"He wants to tell people about a cool new toy."
But I should have known better than to go that route.
"A toy? But I want that toy! Mommy, I WANT IT!!"
I dug myself in deeper. "Well, I don't know where to buy it."
"Mommy, but I WANT it. Mommy, buy it!!"
Juli has a short fuse. When something distresses him, he goes off the deep end pretty fast. Soon, he's crying and thrashing about wanting a toy that doesn't exist, based on my lie. I deserve this, I'm thinking.
"OK, Jul, we'll find it." Where I was going with this lie I had no idea, but he starts to calm down.
We drive on and I think about the sandwich board guy. I wish I ran a company so I could give him a job. Anybody who had decided they could stand in broad daylight and advertise to strangers that they were out of a job, dressed in a suit and ready to work, is obviously somebody who doesn't give up. Ever. That would be a good person to hire. I hope somebody walking past him to their job in Manhattan would be thinking the same thing. I hope I don't see him there tomorrow, unless it's because he's commuting. Good luck to him.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Just Trippin'
I honestly had to ask myself if Ian had LSD on his Special K this morning. Special LSD?
There was a puddle in our path on the way to school and here was how Ian explained "puddles" to me:
"So, Mom, the snow melts and makes a puddle, then the puddle turns into a cupcake. A snow puddle cupcake! Ha ha ha!!"
I decide to play along. "Oh, I see. Is it chocolate, vanilla or strawberry?"
"Vanilla. Ha ha ha!"
"Would you eat the whole thing?"
He does the "no's" in rapid fire. "Nononono, No Mom. I would eat all the icing and then I would take little bites of the cake part."
He has a flash, a new idea. "Then the WHOLE PARK would turn into a giant cupcake and I would eat the icing, aaaallllllll (he's circling his hand flat out in front of him like the rotors of a helicopter) the icing and then you could have the cake part."
"Oh, thanks. But I think I would have a belly ache."
"Yeah, that would be cooool!! Like that movie, Mom, like the belly ache movie."
We told him that "Airplane" was just a silly movie about people having belly aches on the airplane. Remember, everybody gets sick (including both the pilots) after eating the fish? He was scared it was something more serious. No, we said, it's no problem if the pilots get sick. (Ha ha ha)
When we get to school he jumps up and down, reminding me that he wants to push the buzzer that opens the door (we're in the city, you know, can't just let anybody in). I lift him up to the 6-feet-off-the-ground buzzer and he presses it. A voice comes on the intercom: "Who's there?"
Ian throws his head back, smiles broadly and yells: "It's PACO!"
Whatever he had, I'm having it tomorrow.
There was a puddle in our path on the way to school and here was how Ian explained "puddles" to me:
"So, Mom, the snow melts and makes a puddle, then the puddle turns into a cupcake. A snow puddle cupcake! Ha ha ha!!"
I decide to play along. "Oh, I see. Is it chocolate, vanilla or strawberry?"
"Vanilla. Ha ha ha!"
"Would you eat the whole thing?"
He does the "no's" in rapid fire. "Nononono, No Mom. I would eat all the icing and then I would take little bites of the cake part."
He has a flash, a new idea. "Then the WHOLE PARK would turn into a giant cupcake and I would eat the icing, aaaallllllll (he's circling his hand flat out in front of him like the rotors of a helicopter) the icing and then you could have the cake part."
"Oh, thanks. But I think I would have a belly ache."
"Yeah, that would be cooool!! Like that movie, Mom, like the belly ache movie."
We told him that "Airplane" was just a silly movie about people having belly aches on the airplane. Remember, everybody gets sick (including both the pilots) after eating the fish? He was scared it was something more serious. No, we said, it's no problem if the pilots get sick. (Ha ha ha)
When we get to school he jumps up and down, reminding me that he wants to push the buzzer that opens the door (we're in the city, you know, can't just let anybody in). I lift him up to the 6-feet-off-the-ground buzzer and he presses it. A voice comes on the intercom: "Who's there?"
Ian throws his head back, smiles broadly and yells: "It's PACO!"
Whatever he had, I'm having it tomorrow.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Holy Cow, Toto!
It often amazes me how impressed kids are by things. When Ian and I walked to school this morning, it was through an unseasonably warm morning with stiff gusts of wind and pelting sprinkles. But for Ian, you would have thought it was the Gale farm in Kansas, headed for Oz.
"HOLY COW, Mom, that church is going to blow away!!" he screams through the wind.
"HOLY COW, Mom, that car is about to fly - look!!"
"HOLY COW, Mom, I'm going to blow away, Mom, watch out! Here, hold my hand!"
I never noticed his fluency with "Holy Cow" until this morning. My influence, unfortunately, but I guess there are worse things he could be saying. I just continued on with my miniature Judy Garland and thanked God he wasn't saying "HOLY SHIT, Mom!" or "JESUS CHRIST, this is a big wind, Mom!" Can you imagine?
A few more Holy Cows later, we're at school, Ian grunting and shoving his way up the front stoop of the school and muscling in through the wind-whipped door. As soon as we get inside, he hands me his umbrella, which he has been fighting with against the wind during the whole walk. He sits on the first step of the marble flight leading upstairs to his classroom.
"Mom, my arm needs to go to sleep. It's tired."
"Just your arm?"
"Yeah, just my arm. Can you tell my teacher? I don't think I can do school today."
Holy Cow.
"HOLY COW, Mom, that church is going to blow away!!" he screams through the wind.
"HOLY COW, Mom, that car is about to fly - look!!"
"HOLY COW, Mom, I'm going to blow away, Mom, watch out! Here, hold my hand!"
I never noticed his fluency with "Holy Cow" until this morning. My influence, unfortunately, but I guess there are worse things he could be saying. I just continued on with my miniature Judy Garland and thanked God he wasn't saying "HOLY SHIT, Mom!" or "JESUS CHRIST, this is a big wind, Mom!" Can you imagine?
A few more Holy Cows later, we're at school, Ian grunting and shoving his way up the front stoop of the school and muscling in through the wind-whipped door. As soon as we get inside, he hands me his umbrella, which he has been fighting with against the wind during the whole walk. He sits on the first step of the marble flight leading upstairs to his classroom.
"Mom, my arm needs to go to sleep. It's tired."
"Just your arm?"
"Yeah, just my arm. Can you tell my teacher? I don't think I can do school today."
Holy Cow.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Carseat, Optional
By the time I get to Friday, a lot of my synapses aren't firing anymore. You know how it is, right? It just so happens that there was one particular synapse, the one that tells you to strap your child into his carseat before you leave the garage, that wasn't only not firing it was still in bed waiting for someone to bring it breakfast.
During the whole ride from our apartment to his school, Ian was frantically trying to get my attention.
"MOOMMMMMM!!!!"
I'm looking ahead, wishing I had thought to put some coffee in my 1-800-Mattres (leave off the last "s" for savings) travel mug before leaving. "Ian, don't bother me, I'm driving."
"BUT, MOOOMMMM!!!"
"Ian, don't yell while I'm driving. You're going to make me have an accident."
Julian tries to help. "Mom, Ian wants you."
Thanks. "Boys, there are lots of books and things back there. Can't you keep yourselves busy for 5 minutes?!"
"MOOOMMM, I have to show you something!"
"Ian, show me when we get to school. I can't turn around when I'm driving."
Julian again, with a note of concern in his voice. "Mom, I don't think you strapped in Ian."
WHAT!??! I'm stopped at an intersection with a Hummer sitting impatiently on my back bumper. Didn't they outlaw those things? I whip around to look at Ian. Sure enough, there he is hanging out in the back with narry a seatbelt.
There's a backstory here which will help you understand how much I flipped out on myself at that moment. When Ian was about a year old, and we were in Madrid for a family wedding, I nearly HELD UP THE WEDDING so we could find a carseat to put Ian in for the cross-town drive from our hotel to the church. We just hadn't thought about how Ian was going to travel to the wedding until we were all on the curb in our finest hailing taxis. Where's Ian's carseat? My husband gave me this blank look. Can't he ride on someone's lap? Madre mia, over my dead body. Ian and I stood in front of the hotel for a good 45 minutes while my poor husband and his family scrambled to rectify the situation. Listen, I try not to be the crazy American, but it's hard, especially when my kid is involved. I just thank God he can humor me when things like this happen.
So, with flashbacks of Madrid, I pull the car over and jump out, run around to Ian's side and strap him in. In these moments, just like a good therapist, Ian somehow knows exactly what I need to hear.
"Mom, don't worry. You were just being silly."
Oh, how I love this one.
During the whole ride from our apartment to his school, Ian was frantically trying to get my attention.
"MOOMMMMMM!!!!"
I'm looking ahead, wishing I had thought to put some coffee in my 1-800-Mattres (leave off the last "s" for savings) travel mug before leaving. "Ian, don't bother me, I'm driving."
"BUT, MOOOMMMM!!!"
"Ian, don't yell while I'm driving. You're going to make me have an accident."
Julian tries to help. "Mom, Ian wants you."
Thanks. "Boys, there are lots of books and things back there. Can't you keep yourselves busy for 5 minutes?!"
"MOOOMMM, I have to show you something!"
"Ian, show me when we get to school. I can't turn around when I'm driving."
Julian again, with a note of concern in his voice. "Mom, I don't think you strapped in Ian."
WHAT!??! I'm stopped at an intersection with a Hummer sitting impatiently on my back bumper. Didn't they outlaw those things? I whip around to look at Ian. Sure enough, there he is hanging out in the back with narry a seatbelt.
There's a backstory here which will help you understand how much I flipped out on myself at that moment. When Ian was about a year old, and we were in Madrid for a family wedding, I nearly HELD UP THE WEDDING so we could find a carseat to put Ian in for the cross-town drive from our hotel to the church. We just hadn't thought about how Ian was going to travel to the wedding until we were all on the curb in our finest hailing taxis. Where's Ian's carseat? My husband gave me this blank look. Can't he ride on someone's lap? Madre mia, over my dead body. Ian and I stood in front of the hotel for a good 45 minutes while my poor husband and his family scrambled to rectify the situation. Listen, I try not to be the crazy American, but it's hard, especially when my kid is involved. I just thank God he can humor me when things like this happen.
So, with flashbacks of Madrid, I pull the car over and jump out, run around to Ian's side and strap him in. In these moments, just like a good therapist, Ian somehow knows exactly what I need to hear.
"Mom, don't worry. You were just being silly."
Oh, how I love this one.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
My Oedipus Wreck
I haven't written about this before, but given that it's an ever-present tension, it's worth mentioning. What I'm talking about is the mother-son thing. Call it maternal love, worship, devotion, whatever. If it were bottled, it would have to be a controlled substance.
When I first heard about the so-called "Oedipus complex", I thought the idea that a boy would want to kill his father to be with his mother (or some less fatal variation of that) was pretty absurd. Then I met Ian. When Ian was about 6 months old, I was nuzzling with my husband on the couch one Saturday afternoon. Suddenly our placid baby boy, who was playing with a toy on the rug, dropped everything, pointed wildly at my husband and started to scream.
We thought the nuzzle-kiss-scream trick was pretty cool. We tried it again. Closer, closer, a little peck, there it is: SCREAM! It never failed. We did it for friends. See, watch what he does when we do this. Again and again. Eventually Ian learned how to cope a little bit better, but when his chips were down, look out Papa.
Then, 16 months later, Julian came along. At that point, our Oedipus Complex became multi-layered. Julian didn't want Ian. Julian didn't want Papa. Ian didn't want Julian. Ian didn't want Papa. Both sons had only one object in their sights: me. Each of them schemes regularly about how to get rid of the other two men in the house.
Scared yet? I am. Especially when it's bedtime and I have to listen to:
"I don't want Ian to see MY STORY!" Shove, push, slap (yes, I'm sorry to say.)
"I don't want Julian to sit on the couch next to us!" Shove, push, and another slap.
Then in the morning when we pile into the car I get to listen to:
"I AM sitting behind Mommy!!!"
"NO, I'm sitting behind Mommy!! You CAN'T sit behind Mommy! No no no!!!"
The energy from the anxiety circulating around the car (mostly from me) would be enough to light half of Manhattan for a week.
Ian wants confirmation: "Mommy, where are you going to sit? I want you to sit here." He points to the passenger seat, which is in front of him. I explain that if I sit in the passenger seat then nobody will be driving the car. This is a small detail that he doesn't want to be bothered with.
"Mommy, you have to sit HERRRREEE!" He's still pointing to the passenger seat. Juilan catches on to his taking-the-mountain-to-Mohammed strategy.
"No, Mommy always sits heeere! Mommy, you have to SIT HERE!" Julian is about to turn his third shade of purple as the Acapulco-cliff-diving tears are jettisoning themselves from his eyelashes.
They're both kicking the back of the seats on our leather interior Honda, a small luxury my husband and I snuck in for ourselves when we bought the car. I just see heels flying, fists waving, tears, hear screaming. I think I'm starting to black out... now I know what those Calgon people were talking about.
This flag-planting, lets call it, on the continent that is "Mommy" continues day after day. It's usually down underneath many a temper tantrum. Oftentimes, I'm too weary from the onslaught to be very good at soothing them. I'm sure I'm sowing all kinds of seeds of male dysfunction (a la, 'my mother didn't love me enough that's why I have commitment issues,' etc), but look: I'm just trying to keep my head above water most of the time. This is too much love for any woman, don't you think?
When I first heard about the so-called "Oedipus complex", I thought the idea that a boy would want to kill his father to be with his mother (or some less fatal variation of that) was pretty absurd. Then I met Ian. When Ian was about 6 months old, I was nuzzling with my husband on the couch one Saturday afternoon. Suddenly our placid baby boy, who was playing with a toy on the rug, dropped everything, pointed wildly at my husband and started to scream.
We thought the nuzzle-kiss-scream trick was pretty cool. We tried it again. Closer, closer, a little peck, there it is: SCREAM! It never failed. We did it for friends. See, watch what he does when we do this. Again and again. Eventually Ian learned how to cope a little bit better, but when his chips were down, look out Papa.
Then, 16 months later, Julian came along. At that point, our Oedipus Complex became multi-layered. Julian didn't want Ian. Julian didn't want Papa. Ian didn't want Julian. Ian didn't want Papa. Both sons had only one object in their sights: me. Each of them schemes regularly about how to get rid of the other two men in the house.
Scared yet? I am. Especially when it's bedtime and I have to listen to:
"I don't want Ian to see MY STORY!" Shove, push, slap (yes, I'm sorry to say.)
"I don't want Julian to sit on the couch next to us!" Shove, push, and another slap.
Then in the morning when we pile into the car I get to listen to:
"I AM sitting behind Mommy!!!"
"NO, I'm sitting behind Mommy!! You CAN'T sit behind Mommy! No no no!!!"
The energy from the anxiety circulating around the car (mostly from me) would be enough to light half of Manhattan for a week.
Ian wants confirmation: "Mommy, where are you going to sit? I want you to sit here." He points to the passenger seat, which is in front of him. I explain that if I sit in the passenger seat then nobody will be driving the car. This is a small detail that he doesn't want to be bothered with.
"Mommy, you have to sit HERRRREEE!" He's still pointing to the passenger seat. Juilan catches on to his taking-the-mountain-to-Mohammed strategy.
"No, Mommy always sits heeere! Mommy, you have to SIT HERE!" Julian is about to turn his third shade of purple as the Acapulco-cliff-diving tears are jettisoning themselves from his eyelashes.
They're both kicking the back of the seats on our leather interior Honda, a small luxury my husband and I snuck in for ourselves when we bought the car. I just see heels flying, fists waving, tears, hear screaming. I think I'm starting to black out... now I know what those Calgon people were talking about.
This flag-planting, lets call it, on the continent that is "Mommy" continues day after day. It's usually down underneath many a temper tantrum. Oftentimes, I'm too weary from the onslaught to be very good at soothing them. I'm sure I'm sowing all kinds of seeds of male dysfunction (a la, 'my mother didn't love me enough that's why I have commitment issues,' etc), but look: I'm just trying to keep my head above water most of the time. This is too much love for any woman, don't you think?
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Calle Ocho Dance Party
Did I mention Julian likes Calle Ocho? And I mean, A LOT. He got so mad in the car this morning because I was letting Steve Miller croon about that big ol' jet airliner that he started to scream at the top of his lungs:
"I want CALLE OCHO!!!"
So if you haven't been keeping up with the Top 40 stuff (I hardly do), then I'll remind you of the song that is Calle Ocho's big hit right now. There are basically three lyrics:
I know ya want me.
Ya know I want ya.
Uno Dos Tres Cuatro!
Ring a bell? At least the guy can count.
If the song comes on while we're in the car, Julian goes ballistic. His head flies side to side while he 'dances', his little body retained only by the 5-point-harness on his Britax carseat. If it weren't for that, he'd have his head out the top of the sunroof. Remember Tom Hanks' Manhattan limo ride in the movie "Big"? Like that.
Poor Steve is just keepin' on: Don't carry me too far away, oh oh oh.
"I want CALLE OCHO!"
I try to explain to Julian that I don't control what they play on the radio. Normally, if this Calle Ocho worship got bad enough, I might be tempted to buy the CD and play it for him, but Ian put a quarter into the felt-lined CD intake slot about 3 years ago and no CD has been played in our car since. There's even a Johnny Cash stuck in the 6-disc changer. I miss him.
My husband and I argue periodically about whether or not it was a dime (his recollection) or a quarter (mine), but like most things related to home/car upkeep, we haven't done anything about fixing the radio or settling who's right. (I'm not too anxious about it. I know it's me.) We're hoping maybe we could even sell the car without the buyer noticing. I mean, think about it. Did you check the CD player the last time you were shopping for a car? (OK, no, we would never do that. I promise.)
I flip around to other stations. No Calle Ocho. Sorry, Julian, I say. He's not appeased. I try to concentrate on Steve and do that thing where I zone out and watch the stoplight until the red, green and yellow merge into a color that kind of looks like okra. I'm considering the earplug solution, but Steve's serenade is too good.
Ridin' high I got tears in my eyes
You know you got to go through hell
Before you get to heaven...
Ain't that the truth, Steve.
"I want CALLE OCHO!!!"
So if you haven't been keeping up with the Top 40 stuff (I hardly do), then I'll remind you of the song that is Calle Ocho's big hit right now. There are basically three lyrics:
I know ya want me.
Ya know I want ya.
Uno Dos Tres Cuatro!
Ring a bell? At least the guy can count.
If the song comes on while we're in the car, Julian goes ballistic. His head flies side to side while he 'dances', his little body retained only by the 5-point-harness on his Britax carseat. If it weren't for that, he'd have his head out the top of the sunroof. Remember Tom Hanks' Manhattan limo ride in the movie "Big"? Like that.
Poor Steve is just keepin' on: Don't carry me too far away, oh oh oh.
"I want CALLE OCHO!"
I try to explain to Julian that I don't control what they play on the radio. Normally, if this Calle Ocho worship got bad enough, I might be tempted to buy the CD and play it for him, but Ian put a quarter into the felt-lined CD intake slot about 3 years ago and no CD has been played in our car since. There's even a Johnny Cash stuck in the 6-disc changer. I miss him.
My husband and I argue periodically about whether or not it was a dime (his recollection) or a quarter (mine), but like most things related to home/car upkeep, we haven't done anything about fixing the radio or settling who's right. (I'm not too anxious about it. I know it's me.) We're hoping maybe we could even sell the car without the buyer noticing. I mean, think about it. Did you check the CD player the last time you were shopping for a car? (OK, no, we would never do that. I promise.)
I flip around to other stations. No Calle Ocho. Sorry, Julian, I say. He's not appeased. I try to concentrate on Steve and do that thing where I zone out and watch the stoplight until the red, green and yellow merge into a color that kind of looks like okra. I'm considering the earplug solution, but Steve's serenade is too good.
Ridin' high I got tears in my eyes
You know you got to go through hell
Before you get to heaven...
Ain't that the truth, Steve.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Silence Ain't So Golden
Some mornings are just not funny.
If you want to know how to reduce your 4-year-old child to total silence for an extended period of time, start his morning with a sharp reprimand (you come when I'm talking to you!), and the seizure of his beloved new Power Rangers motorcycle given to him just 24 hours earlier by a friend.
That's how Ian's and my morning walk got kicked off. Then we walked to school in the gloom of a January morning, one that can't seem to decide if it's spring yet, in total and complete silence.
And I learned something: I don't like silence as much as I thought I did.
He didn't want to hold my hand. He didn't want to walk near me. I even got a "leave me alone!" plea, which sucked, while I was pretending I could give a damn.
So on the way to school I try to use those few quiet minutes to broker a truce. If the morning walk has taught me anything it's that during that walk, Ian is like a tourist and I'm like a billboard in Times Square. With neon and animated bubbly things and moving cardboard parts. He can't miss my message. He's a captive audience and I'm an obtrusive advertiser. So be it.
"Ian, do you know why Mommy was mad this morning?"
Silence.
"Ian?"
"Because I wasn't listening," he says, talking over the chapped flesh of his thumb, which seems to be continually renewing a monthly parking pass inside his mouth.
"Right. Do you know how to listen?"
"Yes."
"OK, then. We're going to work on that, right?"
No response. Suck suck suck. Like that baby in The Simpsons. Only mine is wearing silver Adidas and a winter hat with Spiderman lunging across the front of it, throwing his web.
By the time we get to school, Ian gives me the standard issue hug and kiss and I blast my last public service announcement: "Don't hit anybody, please," I say.
OK, OK, OK he says, trying to ignore me, but I know he won't, or rather can't, at least for now. Kinda like TV advertising before there was TIVO. You just gotta sit through it.
If you want to know how to reduce your 4-year-old child to total silence for an extended period of time, start his morning with a sharp reprimand (you come when I'm talking to you!), and the seizure of his beloved new Power Rangers motorcycle given to him just 24 hours earlier by a friend.
That's how Ian's and my morning walk got kicked off. Then we walked to school in the gloom of a January morning, one that can't seem to decide if it's spring yet, in total and complete silence.
And I learned something: I don't like silence as much as I thought I did.
He didn't want to hold my hand. He didn't want to walk near me. I even got a "leave me alone!" plea, which sucked, while I was pretending I could give a damn.
So on the way to school I try to use those few quiet minutes to broker a truce. If the morning walk has taught me anything it's that during that walk, Ian is like a tourist and I'm like a billboard in Times Square. With neon and animated bubbly things and moving cardboard parts. He can't miss my message. He's a captive audience and I'm an obtrusive advertiser. So be it.
"Ian, do you know why Mommy was mad this morning?"
Silence.
"Ian?"
"Because I wasn't listening," he says, talking over the chapped flesh of his thumb, which seems to be continually renewing a monthly parking pass inside his mouth.
"Right. Do you know how to listen?"
"Yes."
"OK, then. We're going to work on that, right?"
No response. Suck suck suck. Like that baby in The Simpsons. Only mine is wearing silver Adidas and a winter hat with Spiderman lunging across the front of it, throwing his web.
By the time we get to school, Ian gives me the standard issue hug and kiss and I blast my last public service announcement: "Don't hit anybody, please," I say.
OK, OK, OK he says, trying to ignore me, but I know he won't, or rather can't, at least for now. Kinda like TV advertising before there was TIVO. You just gotta sit through it.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Does She Still Have Them?
So after yesterday's post, you're probably wondering if I still have posession of my two sons? If they talked to me when I came to pick them up, if they decided to classify me as "known adult to whom I can talk" versus "stranger to whom I cannot talk and must run away from." Did they follow me home? Yes, unfortunately they did. No, I don't mean that. OK, usually I don't mean that.
They did follow me home, but the talking was enough to have sent a stranger running into the woods far, far away from them. What was I worried about? A kidnapper wouldn't last three minutes with them.
Picking up Julian from his daycare in Jersey City, the "talking" went something like this:
"I don't wanna go home," he whines when I pick him up in his classroom, my car double parked outside. What is he talking about, he doesn't want to go? He usually screams "child abondonment!" at the top of his lungs when I drop him off. He writhes and goes limp so that I can't possibly get a jacket sleeve over either arm.
"I wan't PIZZA!" he then says. OK, we'll talk about it. My standard answer.
"I want pizza NOW!!" he then says again. OK, that's enough out of you, Mister. My other standard answer.
Come to think of it, you could just put a pair of D-cells in my back and just let me chatter off a few patent lines every day and you'd probably never know the difference between me and a real, human mom. Sad, isn't it?
When I get Julian home, after a ride-full of ordering me around, Ian has his own show to put on.
"I cannnn't eat, I'm tooo tirrreed." He splays himself over his chair like a dying man, arms and head out one side and his skinny doesn't-eat-enough legs out the other.
"OK, if you're tired, then you must be too tired to watch Dora and Diego before brushing teeth." Another patent line. This threat perks Ian up for about a tenth of a millisecond.
"I dooonnnn't like this," Ian says, pushing his food away. I push it back.
"I caaaannnn't eat this," he says again. Push away. Push back. Meanwhile, Julian is climbing up my left leg because he's either decided he's a cat that needs to scratch his claws, or he wants my attention. I can never tell the difference.
Once in the bathroom, Julian informs me he wants to take a bath without getting wet. I have nothing clever to say in response to this and just continue to fill up the tub with two inches of water.
"Get in," I order.
"Nooooooo!" he hollers.
Jeez. Why couldn't I just be a stranger? Then they wouldn't talk to me, they'd just call me a poopy and run away. I'd be OK with that.
They did follow me home, but the talking was enough to have sent a stranger running into the woods far, far away from them. What was I worried about? A kidnapper wouldn't last three minutes with them.
Picking up Julian from his daycare in Jersey City, the "talking" went something like this:
"I don't wanna go home," he whines when I pick him up in his classroom, my car double parked outside. What is he talking about, he doesn't want to go? He usually screams "child abondonment!" at the top of his lungs when I drop him off. He writhes and goes limp so that I can't possibly get a jacket sleeve over either arm.
"I wan't PIZZA!" he then says. OK, we'll talk about it. My standard answer.
"I want pizza NOW!!" he then says again. OK, that's enough out of you, Mister. My other standard answer.
Come to think of it, you could just put a pair of D-cells in my back and just let me chatter off a few patent lines every day and you'd probably never know the difference between me and a real, human mom. Sad, isn't it?
When I get Julian home, after a ride-full of ordering me around, Ian has his own show to put on.
"I cannnn't eat, I'm tooo tirrreed." He splays himself over his chair like a dying man, arms and head out one side and his skinny doesn't-eat-enough legs out the other.
"OK, if you're tired, then you must be too tired to watch Dora and Diego before brushing teeth." Another patent line. This threat perks Ian up for about a tenth of a millisecond.
"I dooonnnn't like this," Ian says, pushing his food away. I push it back.
"I caaaannnn't eat this," he says again. Push away. Push back. Meanwhile, Julian is climbing up my left leg because he's either decided he's a cat that needs to scratch his claws, or he wants my attention. I can never tell the difference.
Once in the bathroom, Julian informs me he wants to take a bath without getting wet. I have nothing clever to say in response to this and just continue to fill up the tub with two inches of water.
"Get in," I order.
"Nooooooo!" he hollers.
Jeez. Why couldn't I just be a stranger? Then they wouldn't talk to me, they'd just call me a poopy and run away. I'd be OK with that.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Don't Talk To Strangers
Occasionally, I do pay attention. Take this morning. While driving under the overpass for the NJ Transit rail lines, the ones that run from the hinterlands of Jersey into our little burg of Hoboken, they were talking about a child predator on the radio. Some guy in Greenwhich, Connecticut was spotted yesterday trying to lure kids as young as 10 yrs old into his van by asking them for directions.
Holy Mapquest, Batman! I switch off the radio.
"Hey, guys?" I call out to Ian and Julian in the backseat.
Huh? They both look at me a little glazed over, still digesting their waffles.
"Do you know what to do if a stranger talks to you? A grown-up who you don't know? What do you do?"
Ian knows what to do. "You say, 'You're a poopy!!' Ha ha ha!!" Yes, we're starting to get to that age when excrement terminology makes it into every conversation. I'm loving it.
"No, guys. You run away. You say "I don't know you!" really loud and then you run away and find your parents or your teachers. OK?"
They both look at me like I am asking them to walk with their shoelaces tied together.
"No, really, that's what you have to do. Get it?"
"OK, Mom." They both nod blearily.
"What did I ask you to do?"
Julian offers a concise recap, as concise as he can with his word-search kinda toddler speech pattern. "If if if if our Mommy or or our Papa or teachers talk to us, we should yell and run away."
Holy cow.
"No, guys. Not your parents and teachers. A stranger. Do you know what a stranger is?"
Ian knows. Brace yourself. "A stranger is somebody with no arms, no legs and no head. Ha ha ha!!" He's laughing so hard he's holding his side and I'm trying to figure out when the Backyardigans got so graphic.
"Guys, OK, one more time. A stranger is a grown-up who YOU DON'T KNOW. A stranger. Got it? So what do you do?"
They answer together, offering the obedient, programmed response I was hoping to finally hear. "We run away."
"Yes, exactly. You run away."
Ian decides that now I'm just nagging. "OK, Mom, we get it."
Now the fun part will be when I pick them up from school. Will they scream and run, or follow me home? Hard to tell with these two. I'll let you know tomorrow if I still have them.
Holy Mapquest, Batman! I switch off the radio.
"Hey, guys?" I call out to Ian and Julian in the backseat.
Huh? They both look at me a little glazed over, still digesting their waffles.
"Do you know what to do if a stranger talks to you? A grown-up who you don't know? What do you do?"
Ian knows what to do. "You say, 'You're a poopy!!' Ha ha ha!!" Yes, we're starting to get to that age when excrement terminology makes it into every conversation. I'm loving it.
"No, guys. You run away. You say "I don't know you!" really loud and then you run away and find your parents or your teachers. OK?"
They both look at me like I am asking them to walk with their shoelaces tied together.
"No, really, that's what you have to do. Get it?"
"OK, Mom." They both nod blearily.
"What did I ask you to do?"
Julian offers a concise recap, as concise as he can with his word-search kinda toddler speech pattern. "If if if if our Mommy or or our Papa or teachers talk to us, we should yell and run away."
Holy cow.
"No, guys. Not your parents and teachers. A stranger. Do you know what a stranger is?"
Ian knows. Brace yourself. "A stranger is somebody with no arms, no legs and no head. Ha ha ha!!" He's laughing so hard he's holding his side and I'm trying to figure out when the Backyardigans got so graphic.
"Guys, OK, one more time. A stranger is a grown-up who YOU DON'T KNOW. A stranger. Got it? So what do you do?"
They answer together, offering the obedient, programmed response I was hoping to finally hear. "We run away."
"Yes, exactly. You run away."
Ian decides that now I'm just nagging. "OK, Mom, we get it."
Now the fun part will be when I pick them up from school. Will they scream and run, or follow me home? Hard to tell with these two. I'll let you know tomorrow if I still have them.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Cain and Abel, Revisited
You wanna know how Cain actually killed Abel, I mean how it all went down, play by play? I can tell you.
So Eve straps Abel into his carseat, and then she goes around to the other side and straps in Cain. That is her first mistake. Cain is pissed off that he wasn't strapped in first.
Then Eve starts to drive, and Cain, being pissed off, starts banging the back of her seat with his sneaker.
So Abel, ever the good son, says: "Mom, Cain is banging the back of your seat. Cain is doing that, he is."
To which Eve says: "Shut up and let me drive."
To which Cain says: "See, you can't tell Mommy what I'm doing."
To which Abel says: "Yes, I can."
"No, you can't."
"Yes, I can."
At which point Eve reaches a stoplight and turns around, fuming like a dragon.
"If either ONE of you opens your mouth again for the rest of the drive, even to BREATHE, you're getting a spanking. I MEAN IT!"
Cain and Abel watch her. Will she do it? They both open their mouths wide, silently, and wait.
At the next light, Eve looks in the rear view mirror and sees two gaping mouths, tonsils wagging. She is sorry she ever took a bite of that apple.
"Mom?" says Abel.
"Yes?"
"Cain touched me."
"Cain, don't touch Abel."
"But Mom, he really really hurt me. Mom, he's still touching me. Mommmmm!!!!!"
Eve keeps driving.
"Mommmm!!!!" Eve hears garbled noises from the backseat, belts unbuckling, some wrestling, punching, the car starts to rock back and forth. Eve keeps driving.
There's a rough punching sound, car glass breaking, and then silence. Eve keeps driving. There's no talking from the backseat. One of them must be dead. At least they can't both drive me crazy anymore, Eve is thinking.
"Mom," says Cain.
"Yes?"
"Are we there yet?"
So Eve straps Abel into his carseat, and then she goes around to the other side and straps in Cain. That is her first mistake. Cain is pissed off that he wasn't strapped in first.
Then Eve starts to drive, and Cain, being pissed off, starts banging the back of her seat with his sneaker.
So Abel, ever the good son, says: "Mom, Cain is banging the back of your seat. Cain is doing that, he is."
To which Eve says: "Shut up and let me drive."
To which Cain says: "See, you can't tell Mommy what I'm doing."
To which Abel says: "Yes, I can."
"No, you can't."
"Yes, I can."
At which point Eve reaches a stoplight and turns around, fuming like a dragon.
"If either ONE of you opens your mouth again for the rest of the drive, even to BREATHE, you're getting a spanking. I MEAN IT!"
Cain and Abel watch her. Will she do it? They both open their mouths wide, silently, and wait.
At the next light, Eve looks in the rear view mirror and sees two gaping mouths, tonsils wagging. She is sorry she ever took a bite of that apple.
"Mom?" says Abel.
"Yes?"
"Cain touched me."
"Cain, don't touch Abel."
"But Mom, he really really hurt me. Mom, he's still touching me. Mommmmm!!!!!"
Eve keeps driving.
"Mommmm!!!!" Eve hears garbled noises from the backseat, belts unbuckling, some wrestling, punching, the car starts to rock back and forth. Eve keeps driving.
There's a rough punching sound, car glass breaking, and then silence. Eve keeps driving. There's no talking from the backseat. One of them must be dead. At least they can't both drive me crazy anymore, Eve is thinking.
"Mom," says Cain.
"Yes?"
"Are we there yet?"
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Explaining Wall Street
Halfway through the park today, Ian asked a very reasonable question: "What does Papa do?" It was on his mind because Ian went with Papa to his office on Sunday to help him move into a new office tower adjacent to the World Trade Center site. But how do you explain "he works in finance operations for a large investment bank in lower Manhattan" to a four-year-old? That is my answer for adults, but I figured it wouldn't fly with him.
So here was how I explained it:
"So, Ian, let's say you have two people. The first person has money and the other person has a really cool toy. So the first person decides to give the other person his money so he can go home with the toy. So what Papa does is he makes sure that when they exchange the money for the toy, it all works right."
"But why wouldn't it work right?"
Good question. Why wouldn't it work right? How do I explain global compliance, IT infrastructure, trading desks, queues, exchange rates, etc, etc? I spent the night on the couch, in part because of the aforementioned pacifier separation issues with Julian, so I was not a very quick draw this morning. Here was my really sucky answer:
"Well, sometimes it just doesn't work right. Like maybe the first guy drops his money in a puddle and it gets all muddy."
"What?!" says Ian, wrinkling his face. Makes no sense, clearly. What kind of idiot drops his money in the mud.
Fortunately, Ian took over and came to my rescue. "But Mom, that's not what Papa does. Papa has TWO computers on his desk. He works on the computer!" Eureka! In Ian's simple little mind, if you have a computer in front of you, nay two computers, you're doing work. It's called "working on the computer."
With that thorny question resolved, he proceeded to tell me how Papa's building is really really really tall and he climbed all the way to the top of it like Spiderman. Really? I asked him if he looked out the windows and what could he see. What windows? OK, clearly he was mostly paying attention to the TWO computers. A career is born.
So here was how I explained it:
"So, Ian, let's say you have two people. The first person has money and the other person has a really cool toy. So the first person decides to give the other person his money so he can go home with the toy. So what Papa does is he makes sure that when they exchange the money for the toy, it all works right."
"But why wouldn't it work right?"
Good question. Why wouldn't it work right? How do I explain global compliance, IT infrastructure, trading desks, queues, exchange rates, etc, etc? I spent the night on the couch, in part because of the aforementioned pacifier separation issues with Julian, so I was not a very quick draw this morning. Here was my really sucky answer:
"Well, sometimes it just doesn't work right. Like maybe the first guy drops his money in a puddle and it gets all muddy."
"What?!" says Ian, wrinkling his face. Makes no sense, clearly. What kind of idiot drops his money in the mud.
Fortunately, Ian took over and came to my rescue. "But Mom, that's not what Papa does. Papa has TWO computers on his desk. He works on the computer!" Eureka! In Ian's simple little mind, if you have a computer in front of you, nay two computers, you're doing work. It's called "working on the computer."
With that thorny question resolved, he proceeded to tell me how Papa's building is really really really tall and he climbed all the way to the top of it like Spiderman. Really? I asked him if he looked out the windows and what could he see. What windows? OK, clearly he was mostly paying attention to the TWO computers. A career is born.
Monday, January 11, 2010
You're Walking Too Fast
I'm working now, having dropped Ian off about an hour ago, and I can't get that little whiny voice out of my head.
"You're walking too fast."
I slow down.
"You're walking too faaaaasst."
I slow down more.
Ian had decided he was tired. This often happens when I need him to do something. If somebody walked up to him on the sidewalk and gave him a Transformer, however, he would suddenly be brimming with energy.
And then, shortly into our walk there was a new problem. Ian was carrying a small, plastic shopping bag (I know, shame on me) with his nap blanket in it. He held it out to me.
"Mom, can you carry this? I don't want to carry it anymore. It's boring."
Boring? That was an interesting choice of phrase. But yes, it is indeed boring to do things we don't like, especially when we're tired. What could I tell him? I just dragged him on through the park, moving at an ever more glacial pace with each whine. If my mother were with me, I would have turned to her and whined:
"I'm tired. It's cooooold. I wan't my cofffeeeeee."
But those days of whining are over, sadly, and boy do I miss them.
"You're walking too fast."
I slow down.
"You're walking too faaaaasst."
I slow down more.
Ian had decided he was tired. This often happens when I need him to do something. If somebody walked up to him on the sidewalk and gave him a Transformer, however, he would suddenly be brimming with energy.
And then, shortly into our walk there was a new problem. Ian was carrying a small, plastic shopping bag (I know, shame on me) with his nap blanket in it. He held it out to me.
"Mom, can you carry this? I don't want to carry it anymore. It's boring."
Boring? That was an interesting choice of phrase. But yes, it is indeed boring to do things we don't like, especially when we're tired. What could I tell him? I just dragged him on through the park, moving at an ever more glacial pace with each whine. If my mother were with me, I would have turned to her and whined:
"I'm tired. It's cooooold. I wan't my cofffeeeeee."
But those days of whining are over, sadly, and boy do I miss them.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Mourning Our Pacifier
Having served a tour of duty so far of 1,565 days as a mother (not counting today, I mean, it's not over yet), I've learned the difference between a manipulative cry - shrill, barking and purposeful - and a cry of real grief - breathless, the whole body heaving, sobs coming like an avalanche. This morning I got the latter from Julian, out of the blue, over the recent loss of his pacifier.
Last Friday, the boys put their shoes by the door to lay in wait for the Three Kings to bring presents. We celebrate both Christmas and the Epiphany (or King's Day), since both holidays were important to my husband growing up in Spain. (Don't you wish you were born in this family?) In addition to candy for the Kings, Julian left his pacifiers in a little orange bowl from Ikea, right next to his silver Adidas. A friend told us it might work. The Kings come, take the pacifiers so they can distribute them to little babies, and then leave a 'big boy' present. We explained how it would work, and Julian seemed reluctant with the plan, but thought he would try it.
He woke up that night (while one of the Kings and his Wife were laying out the presents) crying out for what he calls the "pete" (PEH-tay), short for the Spanish "chupete," which means something like "sucker." I explained that the Kings took it. He didn't believe me. Sob. Sob. He wanted to see. Sob. Sob. I walked him to the front door, and there on the floor was his empty Ikea bowl. Sob. Wail. Clinging to Mommy. No, it can't be. But next to the empty bowl was a stuffed dog from LeapFrog called "My Pal Scout" that plays music when you squeeze his paws. Julian is a little songbird and once he realized what Scout did, he was, to use the word, pacified. And Scout was even green. His favorite color. Back to bed.
The past week has been full of fitful nights of sleep, with Julian waking to the memory of the absent "petes" and asking us for them. He even explained to me a few nights ago that, once the babies were done with his "petes," he'd like to have them back please. I just patted his head and changed the subject.
But this morning, he got me in the gut, only because he so calmly and beautifully expressed the dark feelings he's wrestling with. He stood in the bathroom this morning, in a pretty striped yellow shirt with a collar and buttons down the front, brushing his teeth. Then all of the sudden, he took the Diego toothbrush out of his mouth and turned to face me, his big brown eyes starting to water.
"Mommy, I'm just so sad because the Kings took away my petes," he said, the sobs rolling out of him.
Well, there's not much I can write to tell you how that felt. If you're a parent and have helped your kids deal with any kind of loss, you already know what it's like. I was ready to let him suck on the "petes" until he was in college if necessary. I hugged him over the bathroom tile, his little stripe-shirted body heaving. I told him how proud I was of him for being such a big boy, and how proud the Kings were of him, too.
After a minute or so, he was quiet. I'd like to think he even seemed a little proud of himself, too. At least I hope so. He turns 3 on January 23, so we figured it was about time. It's been hard, but we think he can do it and that he'll be better off not being a 3-year-old with a pacifier habit (and he had a bad one). But that's just our opinion. Who knows when the right time is. Maybe he'll have recurring nightmares of lost "petes" until he's 25. But then I'll have another reason to hug him.
Last Friday, the boys put their shoes by the door to lay in wait for the Three Kings to bring presents. We celebrate both Christmas and the Epiphany (or King's Day), since both holidays were important to my husband growing up in Spain. (Don't you wish you were born in this family?) In addition to candy for the Kings, Julian left his pacifiers in a little orange bowl from Ikea, right next to his silver Adidas. A friend told us it might work. The Kings come, take the pacifiers so they can distribute them to little babies, and then leave a 'big boy' present. We explained how it would work, and Julian seemed reluctant with the plan, but thought he would try it.
He woke up that night (while one of the Kings and his Wife were laying out the presents) crying out for what he calls the "pete" (PEH-tay), short for the Spanish "chupete," which means something like "sucker." I explained that the Kings took it. He didn't believe me. Sob. Sob. He wanted to see. Sob. Sob. I walked him to the front door, and there on the floor was his empty Ikea bowl. Sob. Wail. Clinging to Mommy. No, it can't be. But next to the empty bowl was a stuffed dog from LeapFrog called "My Pal Scout" that plays music when you squeeze his paws. Julian is a little songbird and once he realized what Scout did, he was, to use the word, pacified. And Scout was even green. His favorite color. Back to bed.
The past week has been full of fitful nights of sleep, with Julian waking to the memory of the absent "petes" and asking us for them. He even explained to me a few nights ago that, once the babies were done with his "petes," he'd like to have them back please. I just patted his head and changed the subject.
But this morning, he got me in the gut, only because he so calmly and beautifully expressed the dark feelings he's wrestling with. He stood in the bathroom this morning, in a pretty striped yellow shirt with a collar and buttons down the front, brushing his teeth. Then all of the sudden, he took the Diego toothbrush out of his mouth and turned to face me, his big brown eyes starting to water.
"Mommy, I'm just so sad because the Kings took away my petes," he said, the sobs rolling out of him.
Well, there's not much I can write to tell you how that felt. If you're a parent and have helped your kids deal with any kind of loss, you already know what it's like. I was ready to let him suck on the "petes" until he was in college if necessary. I hugged him over the bathroom tile, his little stripe-shirted body heaving. I told him how proud I was of him for being such a big boy, and how proud the Kings were of him, too.
After a minute or so, he was quiet. I'd like to think he even seemed a little proud of himself, too. At least I hope so. He turns 3 on January 23, so we figured it was about time. It's been hard, but we think he can do it and that he'll be better off not being a 3-year-old with a pacifier habit (and he had a bad one). But that's just our opinion. Who knows when the right time is. Maybe he'll have recurring nightmares of lost "petes" until he's 25. But then I'll have another reason to hug him.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
All Mom and No Play
This was one of those mornings when my sons were feeling especially playful and I was feeling especially adult and therefore, not playful. We were running late, no time to play.
Ian wanted to play hide-and-seek with me behind the bathroom door. After telling him 10 times to brush his teeth and listening to the hide-and-seek giggles coming from the bathroom, I went in and did the molar hosedown myself. He wasn't happy.
Julian thought it was funny to show me the food in his mouth, which he followed me around the apartment doing (laughing himself silly in the process) until I gripped him by each bicep and put him back in his chair at the table, wagged a finger in his face, and told him to finish his breakfast - MOUTH CLOSED! His eyes started spewing projectile tears that always remind me of little Acapulco cliff divers launching themselves with all their force into the Pacific. Only Juli's launch off his lower eye lashes and splash all over his face, shirt, food, table, floor. You name it. He's good at this.
But what is it they say about how children recover more quickly than we do? Five minutes later, there wasn't a wet eye. More play on the way out of the apartment - who's going to push the elevator call button first!?
More play in the garage - who's going to push the button to open the garage door!?
More play getting into the car - Ian entered on Julian's side and Julian on Ian's side so they could "tunnel" from one side of the backseat to the other to get in their carseats. What a laugh riot.
I eventually uttered, while strapping them in, "You guys are exhausting." Sigh.
Halfway to school, Julian was humming something in the backseat and then he says, "Mom?"
"Yes?"
"You're exHAUSting!"
And finally, something made me crack a smile.
Ian wanted to play hide-and-seek with me behind the bathroom door. After telling him 10 times to brush his teeth and listening to the hide-and-seek giggles coming from the bathroom, I went in and did the molar hosedown myself. He wasn't happy.
Julian thought it was funny to show me the food in his mouth, which he followed me around the apartment doing (laughing himself silly in the process) until I gripped him by each bicep and put him back in his chair at the table, wagged a finger in his face, and told him to finish his breakfast - MOUTH CLOSED! His eyes started spewing projectile tears that always remind me of little Acapulco cliff divers launching themselves with all their force into the Pacific. Only Juli's launch off his lower eye lashes and splash all over his face, shirt, food, table, floor. You name it. He's good at this.
But what is it they say about how children recover more quickly than we do? Five minutes later, there wasn't a wet eye. More play on the way out of the apartment - who's going to push the elevator call button first!?
More play in the garage - who's going to push the button to open the garage door!?
More play getting into the car - Ian entered on Julian's side and Julian on Ian's side so they could "tunnel" from one side of the backseat to the other to get in their carseats. What a laugh riot.
I eventually uttered, while strapping them in, "You guys are exhausting." Sigh.
Halfway to school, Julian was humming something in the backseat and then he says, "Mom?"
"Yes?"
"You're exHAUSting!"
And finally, something made me crack a smile.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Crying Out Loud
On Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, I have to get both Ian and Julian to school, one in Hoboken and one in Jersey City, by car. So the "morning talks" for Ian and I are not quite the cozy affairs that they are on Monday and Tuesday.
These days go something like this: my husband makes as much noise as possible until I crawl out of bed, he gets Juilan's daycare stuff ready, I shower (this is optional, however), he makes the boys waffles, I dry my hair (this is also optional, and somewhat dependent on how likely it is for ice to form on my head once I leave), I get the boys out of bed, we fight about how they have to get up, they tell me they're tired, I go back to my room to find clothes for myself (unfortunately, not optional), I go back to their room and drag them out of bed until they're standing crying on the polka dotted area rug in their room, I carry them both to the table to eat waffles, they may or may not eat, I dress them both (while crying, sometimes all of us), we all brush teeth (still crying), put on coats, put on hats, put on gloves, go down to the garage and get in the car.
Today there were two Wall Street types in the elevator who thought that all the crying this morning was pretty funny. Julian was in full blare, gripping the extended ladder of his toy fire truck and throwing his head back.
"Ha ha, I wish I could get away with that at my office!" said one of the Wall Streeters, laughing to himself, probably imagining the hissy fit he could throw over his paltry, politically-charged bonus this year.
Ha ha, indeed.
Once in the car, I was hoping for better things, or at least no crying. But I made the mistake of turning on the radio.
"I want that song!" shouted Julian, as I was flipping. OK, back to that song. Lady GaGa.
"No, I don't like that song!" shouted Ian, wanting a different station. So I just turned it off and they both started to wail.
"We want music!" the backseat chorus sang, or rather, wailed.
All I could do at that point was pull my hat down over my ears. I keep earplugs in the car for just these moments, but feel a pang of irresponsibility if I put them in while driving my children. You never know. If my darling sons get loud enough, however, the pang goes away and in go the plugs.
Today, I was reaching for them as the light changed...
These days go something like this: my husband makes as much noise as possible until I crawl out of bed, he gets Juilan's daycare stuff ready, I shower (this is optional, however), he makes the boys waffles, I dry my hair (this is also optional, and somewhat dependent on how likely it is for ice to form on my head once I leave), I get the boys out of bed, we fight about how they have to get up, they tell me they're tired, I go back to my room to find clothes for myself (unfortunately, not optional), I go back to their room and drag them out of bed until they're standing crying on the polka dotted area rug in their room, I carry them both to the table to eat waffles, they may or may not eat, I dress them both (while crying, sometimes all of us), we all brush teeth (still crying), put on coats, put on hats, put on gloves, go down to the garage and get in the car.
Today there were two Wall Street types in the elevator who thought that all the crying this morning was pretty funny. Julian was in full blare, gripping the extended ladder of his toy fire truck and throwing his head back.
"Ha ha, I wish I could get away with that at my office!" said one of the Wall Streeters, laughing to himself, probably imagining the hissy fit he could throw over his paltry, politically-charged bonus this year.
Ha ha, indeed.
Once in the car, I was hoping for better things, or at least no crying. But I made the mistake of turning on the radio.
"I want that song!" shouted Julian, as I was flipping. OK, back to that song. Lady GaGa.
"No, I don't like that song!" shouted Ian, wanting a different station. So I just turned it off and they both started to wail.
"We want music!" the backseat chorus sang, or rather, wailed.
All I could do at that point was pull my hat down over my ears. I keep earplugs in the car for just these moments, but feel a pang of irresponsibility if I put them in while driving my children. You never know. If my darling sons get loud enough, however, the pang goes away and in go the plugs.
Today, I was reaching for them as the light changed...
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Let's Spend The Night Together
OK, let's back it up a few hours before our morning walk. At precisely 4:11am (I know because I had to hunt for my glasses on the dresser and then squint at the digital clock to see the time), two men came to my bed. Sounds good so far, right?
Except that as soon as I looked over the 400-threadcount sheets at them, they asked me to make them a waffle. With syrup. I actually had to say out loud: Are you freaking kidding me?!?! To which they blinked and scratched their heads. Yes, waffles please. With syrup. I went back to bed. Jumping and crying ensued from the men standing at the foot of my bed. I worried about the neighbor in the apartment downstairs calling the police (well, not really, but I should).
Which is how I found myself, then at about 4:15am, dropping two hockey puck-like frozen round waffles into our toaster. Ian and his 2-year-old brother, Julian, were actually sitting at the table, quiet, hands folded in front of them, waiting for their waffles. As I stood like a Denny's night shift waitress over the toaster, I thought to myself: I don't get paid enough for this job.
Between waffle time, and 8:15am when we left for school, Ian, Julian and I slept a collective 17 minutes piled on top of each other in our queen-size bed, in a game I like to call "Who Can Sleep Closer To Mommy." My husband, who is wiser than I, abandoned ship immediately when the waffle-eaters appeared in our room. He spent the rest of the night tossing on the foam mattress of an Ikea toddler bed and probably slept another 15 minutes himself.
So when we left for school, I was not feeling very chatty. We start out, it's only about 20 degrees in Hoboken this morning, Ian and I are bundled from head to toe, hands included. But despite the affront to my beauty sleep, I'm feeling generous. I hold my gloved paw out to his.
"Ian, would you like to hold my hand?"
"No, thanks."
That's how these nights always end, isn't it? No matter how old they are. No, thanks.
Except that as soon as I looked over the 400-threadcount sheets at them, they asked me to make them a waffle. With syrup. I actually had to say out loud: Are you freaking kidding me?!?! To which they blinked and scratched their heads. Yes, waffles please. With syrup. I went back to bed. Jumping and crying ensued from the men standing at the foot of my bed. I worried about the neighbor in the apartment downstairs calling the police (well, not really, but I should).
Which is how I found myself, then at about 4:15am, dropping two hockey puck-like frozen round waffles into our toaster. Ian and his 2-year-old brother, Julian, were actually sitting at the table, quiet, hands folded in front of them, waiting for their waffles. As I stood like a Denny's night shift waitress over the toaster, I thought to myself: I don't get paid enough for this job.
Between waffle time, and 8:15am when we left for school, Ian, Julian and I slept a collective 17 minutes piled on top of each other in our queen-size bed, in a game I like to call "Who Can Sleep Closer To Mommy." My husband, who is wiser than I, abandoned ship immediately when the waffle-eaters appeared in our room. He spent the rest of the night tossing on the foam mattress of an Ikea toddler bed and probably slept another 15 minutes himself.
So when we left for school, I was not feeling very chatty. We start out, it's only about 20 degrees in Hoboken this morning, Ian and I are bundled from head to toe, hands included. But despite the affront to my beauty sleep, I'm feeling generous. I hold my gloved paw out to his.
"Ian, would you like to hold my hand?"
"No, thanks."
That's how these nights always end, isn't it? No matter how old they are. No, thanks.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Back to School (and not a moment too soon)
I did not expect to find Ian charming in any way this morning. I envisioned this morning as follows: bundle child, bundle self, walk as fast as possible through the park (freezing) to school, deposit child with teacher and get the heck outta there. After two weeks of 'vacation' (which was much more fun when I was the kid), Ian and I had probably had a little too much together time.
But today on the way to school, Ian was verrrry charming. And that, in and of itself, is also charming: his ability to warm up to me when I least expect it - to chat effortlessly, to not complain, to smile, to squeeze my hand, to even say "thanks, Mom" more than once during our walk. Where was this kid during the last two weeks, I ask you!?!?
Our walk starts in the elevator. Ian is eating those little Sweet Tarts candies (I know, I know... don't call the police on me). He holds the roll out to me.
"Here, Mom, do you want to have one?"
Who am I to turn down a Sweet Tart at 8:30 in the morning?
"Sure," I say. He digs a sweet, little white candy out of his roll and hands it to me, all the while pressing his gloves under his elbow to keep them from falling.
"Thanks!" I say.
"Sure, Mom, you're welcome."
I finish it and he offers me another. Wow, what generosity.
As we walk out of our building, Ian stuffs his Sweet Tart wrapper into his pocket and discovers that one of his Transformers is in there. He gasps.
"Mom, Ms. Thomas doesn't let us have toys in our classroom. She's going to take this away from me," he explains. He's visibly bothered by this prospect, and seems to regret not having checked his pockets before leaving home.
"Don't worry, Ian," I say. "I'll keep your Transformer in my pocket and then put it at home, safe on the kitchen counter. How's that?"
"That's good, thanks Mom. When people take my toys away at school it makes me nervous."
Nervous? OK, well, glad I could help.
We walk on, Ian and I squeezing hands through our gloves. He skips, tells me he's excited to see his friends, and then laughs half way through the park because his pants are falling down. He couldn't be in a better mood. (Did I ask yet where was this kid during the last two weeks?)
When we get to his school, he dashes inside and takes the big turn-of-the-century (the one before the last one) marble stairs two at a time up to his classroom on the second floor. I trail behind, peeling off layers of hat, gloves, coat, sweater as he goes up the stairs. Once he's in his classroom, I try to remind him about not hitting. But before I can finish my sentence, he wriggles out of my arms and he's off talking to his friends. I slip out of the room.
You see, he was just as happy to have a break from me, too.
But today on the way to school, Ian was verrrry charming. And that, in and of itself, is also charming: his ability to warm up to me when I least expect it - to chat effortlessly, to not complain, to smile, to squeeze my hand, to even say "thanks, Mom" more than once during our walk. Where was this kid during the last two weeks, I ask you!?!?
Our walk starts in the elevator. Ian is eating those little Sweet Tarts candies (I know, I know... don't call the police on me). He holds the roll out to me.
"Here, Mom, do you want to have one?"
Who am I to turn down a Sweet Tart at 8:30 in the morning?
"Sure," I say. He digs a sweet, little white candy out of his roll and hands it to me, all the while pressing his gloves under his elbow to keep them from falling.
"Thanks!" I say.
"Sure, Mom, you're welcome."
I finish it and he offers me another. Wow, what generosity.
As we walk out of our building, Ian stuffs his Sweet Tart wrapper into his pocket and discovers that one of his Transformers is in there. He gasps.
"Mom, Ms. Thomas doesn't let us have toys in our classroom. She's going to take this away from me," he explains. He's visibly bothered by this prospect, and seems to regret not having checked his pockets before leaving home.
"Don't worry, Ian," I say. "I'll keep your Transformer in my pocket and then put it at home, safe on the kitchen counter. How's that?"
"That's good, thanks Mom. When people take my toys away at school it makes me nervous."
Nervous? OK, well, glad I could help.
We walk on, Ian and I squeezing hands through our gloves. He skips, tells me he's excited to see his friends, and then laughs half way through the park because his pants are falling down. He couldn't be in a better mood. (Did I ask yet where was this kid during the last two weeks?)
When we get to his school, he dashes inside and takes the big turn-of-the-century (the one before the last one) marble stairs two at a time up to his classroom on the second floor. I trail behind, peeling off layers of hat, gloves, coat, sweater as he goes up the stairs. Once he's in his classroom, I try to remind him about not hitting. But before I can finish my sentence, he wriggles out of my arms and he's off talking to his friends. I slip out of the room.
You see, he was just as happy to have a break from me, too.
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