A Cave Story

My husband's sister lives with her new husband on a hillside farm in Mallorca called a finca. A rocky cliff rises steeply behind their property and is covered with a thin canopy of pines and acorn trees along its top edge. There are dark nooks at the base of the rock face that look distinctly like caves, called cuevas in Spanish. Julian has been inspecting them from afar since we arrived last week. I didn't even know he knew the Spanish word for cave until he was pointing them out to me today.

"Mom? Mom? Mom?"

I was listening the whole time. Yes?

"Up there are cuevas. Do you see them? Do you see them, Mom? Yes or no?"

"Oh? Cuevas?" I turn to my sister-in-law and ask her what the heck a cueva is. Once informed, I turn back to Julian. "Who lives in the cuevas?"

Julian looks at me pensively and considers my question. As I watch him, I can tell it hadn't occurred to him that somebody could actually be living in the cuevas.

"Mom? I think the wolf and the sheep are living in the cuevas. I have that story in my school. The wolf and the sheep." Julian is shivering with delight at the connection his little classroom has with this towering formation of earth on an island thousands of miles from home. His story continues. "No, actually, no. That's not how the story goes. This is the story: the wolf lives in the cueva but he doesn't want the sheep to come into his cueva. He pushed the sheep out and shut the door and now only he lives there."

"But what about the sheep? Aren't they lonely?" I ask.

Julian looks from the cuevas to me, completely taken aback by the new predicament of the sheep. Loneliness. As if suddenly a word existed to explain an experience he had struggled with since his first hour of life. His large eyes roll towards me like orbs and he speaks slowly. "Yes, Mom. Yes, the sheep are lonely now."

"But Juli, maybe somebody could go get them and bring them down from the cueva so they won't be lonely. Could you go get them?"

His mood lifts as he giggles and shakes his head. Of course he can't. What a question.

"But Juli, why can't you get them?"

"Oh, Mom. Because I'm not in the story!"

Green Acres

Ian has taken to Mallorcan farm life like he was meant for it. After four days visiting his aunt and uncle's self-sustaining family farm, he can tell you what their dog can and can't eat, where the plums are ripest, which lettuce can be picked and how to water each row of vegetables.

This morning over breakfast on the terrace, I get an earful about the hens.

"Mom, you have to be careful with gallinas because they can scratch you with their nails."

"Oh, OK, that's good to know. Thanks."

Ian hoists his foot up to the level of the table to demonstrate to me. "See, the gallinas don't have this thumb," he says, pointing to his big toe. "But they have these other fingers and at the ends they have really sharp nails."

"You mean claws? They have four toes with claws at the ends?"

"Yeah, except they don't have four toes, they only have three actually." He attempts to bend back his thumb and second toe to demonstrate a foot with only three toes. Exasperated after a moment, he puts his foot down. "You see, Mom? You have to be careful."

I nod.

"Oh, and you have to get their eggs every day or they might break if they stay there. You have to pick them up and be careful with them." I nod again. "Oh, and you have to make sure the gate is shut and locked or Bruxia will eat the gallinas." (Bruxia is their playful, blonde Labrador. Her name roughly translates to mean "witch".)

I nod again, sipping my coffee. Ian is scanning the mountainous horizon around the country inn where we are staying, estimating what needs to be attended to at his aunt and uncle's farm today.

"Oh, and Mom?" I nod again. "We have to bring something for Bruxia to eat so she won't eat the gallinas. Does she like Colacao?" (This is an excellent chocolate drink you mix in milk, like Nestle Quik, that the kids love here.)

"She might, Ian, you can try it."

Ian leans back, drinking, satisfied. He feels in charge. And as I watch him, I realize there is nothing more enjoyable for a four-year-old than that.

Wherever You Go, There You Are

When you're three years old, there are just some things that can't be explained to you. For Julian, the country of Spain is comprised entirely of a five-bedroom apartment where his grandparents live in the city of Zaragoza. Spain is nothing else but that.

So you can imagine his anguish when we finish an eight hour flight and then announce to him that we are in Spain and he looks around and does not see the apartment he is expecting to see. Just palm trees. Just a beach. Some picturesque mountain ranges in the distance. Just a charming country hotel with lovely gardens and farm animals. The stunning, rugged island of Mallorca. He wasn't going to have any of it.

As we're unloading our things onto the hotel's gravel driveway, he twists into a ball and throws himself down.

"NOOOOOOO! I want to go to ESSSSSSPPPAAAAÑÑA!"

I'm jet-lagged and hungry so I can only manage to come up with the obvious answer. I should know by now that the obvious answer is bound to be the wrong one.

"But Julian, you are in España. You are."

"NOOOOOO! This isn't ESSSSSSPPPPAÑÑAAA! NOOOOOOO!" Julian is going full blast, screaming, tears bursting forth, writhing on the ground. We're starting to attract attention from other guests who are relaxing on the terrace with an afternoon beer. I wave. Don't worry. It's not child abuse, I want to say, if I knew how to say it in Spanish.

OK, next tactic. I get down to his level. "Juli. Calm down. Calm down." (He's not hearing me so I say this so many times I feel like it's time to fly home by the time I'm done.) "Listen, you are in España, you are -"

There she goes again! Lying to me! My continued, but unchanging, explanation has only launched him into an even more energetic hysteria. My husband puts down our overweight suitcases and kneels next to Julian with me, starting to make a map with his fingers. Julian is mildly intrigued by this.

"Juli, look. This is España, the peninsula (Iberia - also known as Agustin's left hand), and this is Mallorca over here (his right hand) which is also part of España. It's an island. It's in the Mediterranean. It's also España too, see?" Agustin holds his left and right hands up in front of Julian's face and wags Iberia and Mallorca in front of him to emphasize how they go together.

Julian thinks he is even more crazy than I am.

"NO NO NO NO NO!" he wails. He is totally distraught and I'm about there myself.

The next 24 hours were a continuous rant from him about how he was not, no way, not possibly in and couldn't be anywhere near España. We stopped trying to convince him, and anyway Agustin had run to the end of his pre-school geography curriculum.

Not until the owners of "España" (known to the rest of us idiots as the apartment in Zaragoza) arrived, and Julian asked them where he was and they looked incredulously at him and said "you're with us!" was he ever happy.

And that's why God invented grandparents.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAALLLLLLL !!

From the "don't you wish you were me file":

Tomorrow comes one of my very favorite things to do: sit in between my children for eight hours.

My husband and I are taking them to Spain for a family wedding. We're all very excited to be there, of course, but we always wish we could just "teletransport" (because that's what marshmallow-cleavaged superwomen can do in his comics, I guess... see Tuesday's post if I've lost you.)

This morning, I needed to do something to calm myself down. I needed confirmation that my sons were older (not infants) and could behave (not scream) and might even be at an age where they could have fun (not puke and poop).

I had to talk to the boys about how we behave on a plane. I knew it wouldn't sink in, but I also knew such a talk would at least make me feel a fraction more secure. Secure, like when the flight attendants review the procedures for a water landing. Procedures which would involve me floating on my seat cushion in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Ha ha. They can't fool me on that one; unless Sully is my pilot, a water landing is not going to work out so great. But security, even the false kind, I'll take it.

So as we are velcro-ing our sandals to head out, I drill them.

Me: Guys, where are we going tomorrow?

Them: (in unison) ESPANA!

Me: That's right, and how do we get to Espana?

Julian: (With command) In a C-130 Transport! (Too much military aircraft knowledge? Check.)

Me: Well, not exactly, but close. What do we do on a plane?

Julian wrinkles his face at me and I realize my question may be a little too broad.

Me: You know, when you sit down?

Julian: Ohhhh, yeah yeah yeah OK. I know! We watch movies! YEAH!!

Oops. I told my husband last night I didn't want to bring the DVD players. Not this year. Let's leave TV behind. Not even watch the World Cup. Let's enjoy each other. But once I mentioned the part about not watching the World Cup, my husband was ignoring me and had his nose in the comics again. Did I seriously think I would visit a country who is seriously a contender for the World Cup and not be watching it? Silly American...

With the boys, though, I redouble my efforts.

Me: Guys, how about coloring books? And dot-to-dot? And mazes? And we could bring some of your little travel games and puzzles? And Ian, we can read some of your "I Can Read" books?

They both look at me quizically. Is she OK?

Me: Guys?

But I had lost them. They were high-fiving and oh-yeahing and were already at the drawer by our TV picking out what movies they were going to jam into my purse for the trip over. Still, I'm the boss, right? I may just pull a totally gutsy move and leave the DVD players at home. 30,000 feet up, there's not much they can do. (With the minor problem that the same rule applies to me.)

I'll have to sleep on it and decided just how gutsy I am. I hope there's still hope for my dream of a TV-less vacation. Because readers, let me remind you: as of this writing, the U.S. has 1 point and Spain has 0. I might just come out ahead on this one.

Annie, Get Your Freakin' Gun Already

Ian is not usually a chatterbox. Except for today. He was rolling like a hippodrome broadcaster calling the lead horse from the minute we left our front door until we got to school. And like any self-respecting, spaced-out Mom... I was spaced out. OK, I'm trying to remember what he said. It was something like this:

"Blah blah blah blah shooter blah blah guns can shoot at the man blah blah and they have shooters blah blah blah shooters are huge but blah blah bigger than guns blah blah. Oh! And blah shooters are like THIS HUGE blah blah blah."

Now, at the risk of revealing my politics, I will tell you that I am not pro-gun in any way (because I actually don't care about revealing my politics). I don't see the point of being pro-gun with a four-year-old, do you? But he is gaga over them. Pow pow! Blam! Bang! Shoot-em-up!

I went to buy him pajamas at Sears recently and couldn't find any that weren't plastered with weaponry, the weaponry carried by scary looking robotic beings that can transform into lawnmowers or circular saws or whatever.

And my husband knows I could throw him under the bus by talking about the Iron Man and Hellboy comics he has lying around within reach of the little ones, but I wouldn't do that. The only thing cooler for me than the guns blazing from every page is the marshmallow cleavage popping out of every superwoman's shirt. Are they serious with that?

Am I just out of touch? Is this a normal stage of development for any little boy, this fascination with wrecking stuff and shooting things? Will it pass or do I need to take up arms myself and bar the door? Will my husband ever talk to me again after that comment in the last paragraph?

Please, if you're a man reading this, help me understand this penchant for violence. Please reassure me that my kid will be as likely as the next one to turn out normal. Because if you don't, I just might have to resort to drastic censorship from their clothes right down to their toothpaste. And I don't think my politics could take things that far.

Here's The Story...

Lately, the "boys will be boys" line is not sustaining me. If I have to separate another foot from a midsection, a fist from a face, an elbow from a back, a head from a gut (you get the picture) one more time I'm going to do them both in. But no, that might land me in jail.

Raising little boys has made me realize that when they were handing out patience, I must have been in line to get another supply of chocolate chip cookies. So I have none. Absolutely none. So you see, I'm somewhat lacking in resources in the little boy department. But I decided that I could get on top of this deficiency. I could. I just need a new approach. Yeah, that's all. Just a new approach. Like being somebody completely not me.

So today, I decided to try it out. To be someone with total control. With a zen approach to mothering. Someone who confronts temper-tantrums with aplomb (what the hell is aplomb, anyway?) An ability to cook and not mess up her clothes. Who, who, who I wondered? Who? I know! How about Florence Henderson?

I pictured her in her most famous incarnation, Mrs. Mike Brady: yes, those bright, perky dry-clean-only minidresses, that blonde coif, those twinkling eyes. And Mike, how awesome is he? And they live in that totally rad architect's house. Cool. And they have that awesome station wagon just beginning to hint at aerodynamism. Cool. And that carport with the fake-grass backyard. All cool. I could be her. Sure.

So here's how it went:

Me: (Entering the boys' room, singing like Snow White in the forest) Good morning, my little lambs!

Them: .... radio silence ...

Me: What would my little darlings like for breakfast?

Them: .... more radio silence, but slight movements of the eyelids ...

Me: (Hands to heart, like Florence might do in yoga) How about some nice waffles with butter and syrup!?

Them: ... grunting ...

Me: OK, coming up!

I trot off to the kitchen, already showered and dressed (Flo would never make breakfast in pajamas). I put some frozen waffles in the toaster and hum "Here Comes The Sun". I take out the condiments and set the table. I'm still humming. I'm realizing I kind of like this song. What the hell.

The waffles pop.

Me: Oh, boys! Let's eat so we can go to school and have a great day!

Them: (Sounds of a struggle come from their room) Noooo!! Stooooooppppp!! Stoppp it! I had that! That's miiiiinnneee! I'm going to tell MOM on YOU!!

Julian approaches me in the kitchen. I'm still humming. He's sobbing hysterically.

Julian: Maama der far wahhs miiirne aaaan Ian took it!! Wahhhhhhh!

I kneel down, like Flo would. You have to talk to kids at their level, you know.

Me: Julian, slow down. Don't worry. Tell Mama what's wrong. (I'm petting him on the arms and I bring him to hug me. His tears are jettisoning off his cheeks and splashing on my shoulder.)

Julian: Der far wahhs miiirne aaaan Ian took it!! Wahhhhhhh!

Me: Der far?

Julian: NOOO, der faaaarrrr!!!!

Me: (In my Flo voice) Oh, OK, der far?

Now Julian is jumping up and down with his fists clenched. Ian arrives.

Me: (Still in Flo mode) Ian, dear, can you explain to Mama what Julian wants so badly?

Ian: He wants the red race car, Mom.

Me: Julian, when we want things we have to ask for them nicely right?

Julian: Ian, can I please have the red race car?

Ian: No.

Ian retreats back to their room with the car under his arm like a football. Julian goes ballistic, and I mean full blast ballistic. I turn back to the waffles and begin spreading butter on them, followed by a neat swirl of syrup. I start humming "I Am Sixteen, Going On Seventeen" from The Sound of Music.

The boys eat through a storm of fighting and crying and Mama humming. Then we leave.

As we motor away in our very aerodynamic Honda Accord, I realize that I could only keep up this Florence Henderson thing if I could also be allowed to trip on some LSD on a regular basis. And anyone who knows me will tell you I'm too much of a goody-goody to trip on anything except a crack in the sidewalk. So Flo may have to go back in the closet.

And P.S. - I looked up aplomb. Yes, that's exactly what I need. More aplomb.

Girl Toy

Today, I did probably one of the most generous things a young (OK, give it to me) working mother can do: I shared my nanny.

No, really. It's big. When you live in a nanny town, and you have a very good nanny like ours, you guard her like a vintage car. If she's stolen, she's irreplaceable. I think if we could figure out how to put a LoJack on her, and it didn't border on being a possible felony, we would do it in a heartbeat.

But because I know what it's like to be a mom in a childcare jam, and because I'm also a non-confrontational sucker, I said "Sure, bring your daughter over for the day!"

This may just be for today, but I fear the chance that it will go on and on like when Hitler took the Sudetenland and the next thing we knew the Yankees were handing out American chewing gum to French kids in Normandy. But for now, it's just one day.

And Ian and Julian, well, they love her. When she showed up this morning, little pony-tailed Emma, toddling all 19 months of herself around our apartment, you would have thought we just brought home a cocker spaniel with a bow on her neck.

"Mama! I think she wants something to drink?!" Ian yelped. Emma was standing in front of the fridge. I fetched some milk.

Ian and Julian took her by the elbow like a little old lady and squired her to the table so she could sit down to drink the milk. But Emma apparently doesn't sit in regular chairs yet. As soon as Julian hoisted her diapered bottom up to the seat she took a flying leap off the other side. Ian was on the scene immediately.

"Mama! [Ed. note: Ian switches from Mom to Mama when he's feeling especially docile and obedient. I don't hear it very often.] Emma fell off the chair!"

As a mom of two boys, it's hard to impress me with an injury, even if it happens to somebody else's kid. "Is she OK?" I call from the kitchen. I look over the breakfast bar into the living room and watch Ian inspecting every inch of her, lifting up everything from her left heel to her right ponytail for a look.

"Yeah. I think so, yeah, Mama, she's OK." I saw the fall and knew she was, but I figured I would let the boys play Ponch and Jon at the side of the Glendale Freeway for a few moments to exercise their damsel in distress muscles. They did a fine job.

The nanny rolled in at just that moment with a double stroller to take Julian and Emma to the Hoboken waterfront, to sit by the Hudson River and watch the sun come up over Manhattan, the cruise ships churn out to the Atlantic and daysailers playing hooky from work flit by. I took a swig of joe and thought about how fortunate that child was to be visiting the side of a deep and swiftly moving body of water with the nanny and not me.

Once Emma was strapped in next to Julian, I started to feel really sorry for her. Julian isn't one to shut up, especially when he's excited.

"Emma do you like the water do you like the boats do you want to go see manhattan emma do you do you what do you like Emma?" No, he didn't take a breath.

Emma looked up at me with her round blue eyes and her light brown ponytails sprouting from her head.

"I know, Emma, I'm really sorry about him. Try to make the best of it."

And they were off.

A Butterfly Moment

Sometimes I overestimate the urban savvy of my small sons. Like, for instance, this morning:

Julian and I were leaving the apartment and I was busy trying to find the right keys to lock our apartment door. Julian was waiting for me in the hall.

"Julian, can you call the elevator, please?"

"OK, sure Mom," he says, moving like a little soldier toward the elevator, a few precious Bakugans in one hand and his other hand balled up like an infant's fist. I'm smiling to myself, back turned on him, because I love it when he says "sure Mom"! It's one of those rare moments when I truly enjoy my son's company, when my tornado of a pre-schooler suddenly exudes something more like a gentle, tropical breeze on which a butterfly might float. A butterfly with nothing to do all day but be beautiful and feel the sun on his wings.

Still with my back turned, this is what I hear next:

"Yoooohoooo! Oh, elevator! Where are you, elevator? We're waiting for you, elevator! Please come up to us, elevator! Yooooohooo!"

I turn to see him with his head pointed toward the innards of the elevator shaft, behind the closed door, trying to delicately coax the elevator upstairs with his child voice. I howl.

He sees me and knows he did something funny, but isn't sure what. He smiles back, my small butterfly. As we leave, laughing together, I'm feeling so sorry to take him off to school.

Rise and Shine !!

I think I've written before in this space how I am not a morning person. I assumed my reluctance to get out of bed was a high school/college problem, and that when I grew up to be an adult, I would bound out of bed to go conquer the world every day. That has not happened, unfortunately. At 7 o'clock in the morning, there isn't much difference between me and a 17-year-old about to miss her first period class.

Except for this one, tiny thing:

Julian came in early this morning, pantless (more on that later), carrying a small, plastic mechanical rooster. I didn't see this, I just heard it. He put it up next to my ear, which was attached to my deeply sleeping head, and he pulled a little trigger under the rooster's belly that makes him do what roosters do: COCK A DOODLE DOO!!!!!!

Oh, and the rooster also has this Berlin-wall era spotlight that blasts light out of his mouth whenever he crows. So there was that, too.

Once I pealed myself off of the ceiling, Julian was there next to the bed, smiling, wearing only a skimpy Spiderman tank top.

"Hi, Mommy!!"

And then a question from me that seemed like the only logical thing I could ask: "Julian, where are your pants?"

"I don't know," he says, then: "Mommy, my rooster wants you to wake up. He wants breakfast."

My eyes are closed again and I can hear Julian jogging from one foot to the other, unsettled by my lack of verve. "What does the rooster like to eat?" I ask, my eyes still closed.

Julian calms down. Good, I gave him something to keep his head busy for ten seconds so that's ten more seconds of sleep for me. "I know! He likes doughnuts, and he likes corn and he likes bugs." Of course he does.

"Mommy? Can you get him his corn and his doughnuts and his bugs? You have to get up. They are with the kitchen toys." Julian is jogging left-right-left again and I know my seconds are numbered.

"Mommy?"

My eyes are closed again.

"Mooooommmmmy!! Youuuuu'rrrre noooot geeetttting uuuuuup!!"

No kidding. Then I think of another stall tactic: "Julian, why don't you find your pants and then we can make rooster's breakfast together?"

Julian stops jogging. I can tell he's thinking. Then I hear: COCK A DOODLE DOO!! and the rooster-mouth strobe hits my closed eyelids again. "But Mooooommmmy. I don't knooooooow wheeeere are my paaaaaaants," he whines.

"When did you take them off?"

"At night. I think at night, in my bed. I don't like sleeping with pants."

OK, this is new. I think I'm starting to realize that Julian has more libido than a three-year-old can handle.

I roll off the side of our queen-size sleigh bed (oh, queen-size sleigh bed, how I love thee!). As I follow Julian to find the rooster's doughnuts, corn and bugs, I wonder who bought us this rooster and hope that we aren't friends with them anymore. And then, when I'm more awake, I'm going to accidentally "lose" the rooster somewhere like, say, in the trash can.