Among the mysteries of becoming a family of four are the sticker books. Meant to be gifts for the big brother, these skinny books arrived from all sorts of people. There are truck sticker books, farm animal sticker books, God help us yes, Disney sticker books and a solitary ABC sticker book. Which takes us to the real issue at hand: reading.
A couple of weeks ago, my sister in law, normally a wonderful and sensitive person, called up to tell me that my neice, who is also typically rather wonderful, has begun to read. [Note: the neice in question is three months younger than my older son.] My son belongs to what his teachers call the 'trucks and train' set - if it's got wheels and velocity, he loves it. Otherwise, not so very much. So, you can just imagine the delicate shade of green that I tried not to turn as I listened to my sister in law's news.
Let's face it - there are two problems here. First, childhood these days is designed for parents as a set of milestones. At age X, skill Y should be achieved. A child who does not reach the milestones 'on track,' as it's called, is then subjected to a host of therapies in order to bring him/her back into line with what is percieved to be normal. Oh, joy. It is the rare parent who can resist the siren's call of these milestones, especially since in the chaos of child-rearing, the milestones offer a soothing, simple way to see whether or not your child will survive your parenting more or less intact. I spent months requiring reassurrance from my older child's teachers once he turned three and was not yet potty trained. On the one hand, I didn't want to force the issue, but on the other hand, well, was this late start okay? [Note: at 3.25 yrs he decided to toilet train on his own, and was completely trained in two weeks. I have a bottle of single malt scotch which I reserved for my use during this process, and it is still virgin.]
The second problem is that I am horribly competitive. I bury it deep, but from time to time the old streak resurfaces and I have an evil green moment. So there we were: two bookwormy mamas, a deep affectionate relationship, and she's telling me the preschooling equivalent of 'my kid slept through the night.' I was very very glad at that moment to be on the telephone, so that I could make sure that my (real) pleasure at her news would not be too badly overlaid by my silly jealousy. I soothed myself with the truth: different kids develop differently, and mine is just not interested in reading. It's kind of like potty training - when he's finally ready, it'll happen all at once, but if I force it, well, there will be some kind of metaphoric pee on the floor.
And so the sticker book. The past two days he's been carrying it around, trying to figure out which lowercase letter goes with which capital letter, which word in a set doesn't fit (bat/ball/wombat/butterfly), etcetera. I've been happy to see him buried in an activity that doesn't involve unscrewing lightbulbs, but I finally snapped to attention this afternoon, when we read a new book together.
I was reading it to him, and I paused to jiggle the baby on my knee. "Oh, no," he filled in helpfully. I looked at where his finger was pointing. Sure enough, the finger was on the word 'no.' I pointed to a harder word. 'What does that say?' He told me. I tried a harder one. We sounded it out together: 'heeeemmmm, heeeemmmoh, heeeeemmmmohf - ' 'Hemophilia!' he shouted. We grinned at each other in triumph. Then he pointed, 'what does that one say?'
Hm. Maybe it really is like potty training, after all.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
All I want for Chistmas are some jeans that fit
Three and a half months after the baby was born, I had reached my moment of truth. It was time to get rid of all of those pants with the stretchy tummy panel. True, most of the maternity pants and skirts actually still fit, but that's not the point: there is pride at stake here. Line in the sand time. I loved being preggers because then nobody expected me to have a waist, my natural convex shape was admired, and I actually had clothes designed to fit me, with those neat little strings at the back. Sigh. Those were good days (barring the acid reflux, the swollen ankles, the five months of intense false labor - yup, it was swell. Literally.).
So I spent Christmas going through boxes. It was pack up or donate time, and I went to town. I sorted and packed the maternity clothes, I ejected the 'maybe they'll fit someday' clothes, I faced a life without a waist and accepted that this is the life I've been living all along. I looked at my somewhat barren closet, considered the throbbing vein on my partner's forehead when he reviewed our budget last week, and sighed. I do adore buying clothes: I always believe that this shirt/skirt/pants/sweater will fit better than the others, will make me look thinner/elegant/help me write the dissertation. As you can imagine, I have a lot of stuff that barely fits, that matches absolutely nothing else I own, and that I'm actually too timid to wear. But with two kids, a mortgage, car loans, tuition - okay, so maybe this week is not a good week to go shopping.
And then there it was: a pair of jeans, size (noneofyerbusiness), from the Gap before the Gap decided that anything that fits me shouldn't cover my undies. Heaven. I resisted the urge to throw out the other three pairs of jeans, none of which quite fit right, and danced around in my closer-to-perfect jeans. Hooray!
Next week: maybe a sweater to go with that?
So I spent Christmas going through boxes. It was pack up or donate time, and I went to town. I sorted and packed the maternity clothes, I ejected the 'maybe they'll fit someday' clothes, I faced a life without a waist and accepted that this is the life I've been living all along. I looked at my somewhat barren closet, considered the throbbing vein on my partner's forehead when he reviewed our budget last week, and sighed. I do adore buying clothes: I always believe that this shirt/skirt/pants/sweater will fit better than the others, will make me look thinner/elegant/help me write the dissertation. As you can imagine, I have a lot of stuff that barely fits, that matches absolutely nothing else I own, and that I'm actually too timid to wear. But with two kids, a mortgage, car loans, tuition - okay, so maybe this week is not a good week to go shopping.
And then there it was: a pair of jeans, size (noneofyerbusiness), from the Gap before the Gap decided that anything that fits me shouldn't cover my undies. Heaven. I resisted the urge to throw out the other three pairs of jeans, none of which quite fit right, and danced around in my closer-to-perfect jeans. Hooray!
Next week: maybe a sweater to go with that?
(small) guys and dolls
Their names are Bindy and Blake. Blake has oh-so wide jeans, a jacket and a baseball cap (backwards, of course). Bindy has braided brown hair streaked a fire engine red, a sort of minidress and go-go boots. As of today, there are three items that my older son cannot live without. One is a hat that his grandmother made for him, and the other two are Bindy and Blake.
The two Bs were a Chanuka gift from his auntie Jo, and while I was initially surprised by her choice, in fact dolls for a little boy are a great idea. Dolls offer an obvious avenue for playacting some of the scenarios that he's trying to sort through, like having a sibling, the various emotional baggage of his medical issues, or perhaps the kid at school who doesn't speak English, but sure wants to roughhouse with him. Yup, dolls for a small boy are a great idea - although I'm not so sure about the go-go boots. But Bindy's first game in our house was a game of soccer, so I suppose the boots will be a Ginger Rodgers kind of thing (anything Blake can do....only in heels).
Today, after a frustrating morning of not getting out of the house to run a necessary seventeen errands including, thankyouverymuch picking up a new prescription for the oh-so ironic birth control pill,
[sidebar: when our baby decides to poop in novel directions, few of which involve the diaper, he really takes it to an art form. Today he managed to go through three outfits in as many hours. Each mini-explosion was timed perfectly to coincide with either the interview of a potential nanny for next year, mama's lunch, or her attempt to get out of the house and run an errand. Peeing on mama was simply a minor fillip on an already baroque morning.]
I finally escaped with the baby long enough to collect my older son and his two B-buddies. I was instructed to buckle in the Bs (why??!!!), which I did (why??!!!!!!!!?), and we all went off to find mama some sanity at Starbucks.
Now, if you have a cute kid and go to one of the more family friendly Starbucks in our area (translation: "family-friendly" = easy parking, less staring at the lactating woman), your kid will be an object of some interest. Mine is definitely a cute one, and he immediately struck up a conversation with a couple at a nearby table. He took them on a detailed tour of his new winter gear, and of course introduced them to the two Bs. I curled my hands around my latte and tried to remember how my shoulders felt when they weren't sitting up around my ears. The kid played with B&B, the baby slept, and the couple resumed their conversation with each other. Slowly, slowly my shoulders descended, and the fog lifted.
Bindy: Hey, Blake! Let's play a kissing game.
Blake: Okay.
(they press their faces together and rock slightly)
Blake: Let's go fight!
Bindy: Okay.
(they go under the table and appear to tussell, bumping the table from time to time.)
By now, the couple at the nearby table, the barrista and the cash register girl with no hair and many metal decorations are all watching. A woman reading a novel in Hebrew is studiously staring at the page. My shoulders creep up around my ears again. I force them down, resisting a slightly manic urge to giggle.
Me: honey, who do you know who plays kissing games?
Child: Sam and I like to play hugging games. And we play squshy-mushy, but then Judy says to stop.
(long pause)
Child: Bindy and Blake are married.
Me (relieved): really? How old are they?
Child: three and a half months.
Me: not, say, 30 and a half years?
Child (tone of withering scorn): No.
Now, I know that 'squshy-mushy' is his word for 'dogpile,' but the listeners do not. I also know that 3.5 months is his baby brother's age and that 'Sam' could be either a girl or a boy, and, and, and. I am, in fact, bursting with helpful information that could explain this interaction for our fascinated audience. So, now I have a few choices: I can comment loudly on the child's role as social analyst; quietly consider that the kid thinks my partner and I have a healthy sex life and argue a lot and whose role is 'Sam' playing if this is about me and ma man?; I could obsess about it (ooh, yes); I could try to publicly defuse the situation; I could acknowledge the audience; ignore the audience; laugh it off...
...or I could count my blessings. My kid is telling me what he sees, and hell, with a cup of good coffee in my hands, I guess I can just damned well shut up and listen. Thanks, Auntie Jo.
The two Bs were a Chanuka gift from his auntie Jo, and while I was initially surprised by her choice, in fact dolls for a little boy are a great idea. Dolls offer an obvious avenue for playacting some of the scenarios that he's trying to sort through, like having a sibling, the various emotional baggage of his medical issues, or perhaps the kid at school who doesn't speak English, but sure wants to roughhouse with him. Yup, dolls for a small boy are a great idea - although I'm not so sure about the go-go boots. But Bindy's first game in our house was a game of soccer, so I suppose the boots will be a Ginger Rodgers kind of thing (anything Blake can do....only in heels).
Today, after a frustrating morning of not getting out of the house to run a necessary seventeen errands including, thankyouverymuch picking up a new prescription for the oh-so ironic birth control pill,
[sidebar: when our baby decides to poop in novel directions, few of which involve the diaper, he really takes it to an art form. Today he managed to go through three outfits in as many hours. Each mini-explosion was timed perfectly to coincide with either the interview of a potential nanny for next year, mama's lunch, or her attempt to get out of the house and run an errand. Peeing on mama was simply a minor fillip on an already baroque morning.]
I finally escaped with the baby long enough to collect my older son and his two B-buddies. I was instructed to buckle in the Bs (why??!!!), which I did (why??!!!!!!!!?), and we all went off to find mama some sanity at Starbucks.
Now, if you have a cute kid and go to one of the more family friendly Starbucks in our area (translation: "family-friendly" = easy parking, less staring at the lactating woman), your kid will be an object of some interest. Mine is definitely a cute one, and he immediately struck up a conversation with a couple at a nearby table. He took them on a detailed tour of his new winter gear, and of course introduced them to the two Bs. I curled my hands around my latte and tried to remember how my shoulders felt when they weren't sitting up around my ears. The kid played with B&B, the baby slept, and the couple resumed their conversation with each other. Slowly, slowly my shoulders descended, and the fog lifted.
Bindy: Hey, Blake! Let's play a kissing game.
Blake: Okay.
(they press their faces together and rock slightly)
Blake: Let's go fight!
Bindy: Okay.
(they go under the table and appear to tussell, bumping the table from time to time.)
By now, the couple at the nearby table, the barrista and the cash register girl with no hair and many metal decorations are all watching. A woman reading a novel in Hebrew is studiously staring at the page. My shoulders creep up around my ears again. I force them down, resisting a slightly manic urge to giggle.
Me: honey, who do you know who plays kissing games?
Child: Sam and I like to play hugging games. And we play squshy-mushy, but then Judy says to stop.
(long pause)
Child: Bindy and Blake are married.
Me (relieved): really? How old are they?
Child: three and a half months.
Me: not, say, 30 and a half years?
Child (tone of withering scorn): No.
Now, I know that 'squshy-mushy' is his word for 'dogpile,' but the listeners do not. I also know that 3.5 months is his baby brother's age and that 'Sam' could be either a girl or a boy, and, and, and. I am, in fact, bursting with helpful information that could explain this interaction for our fascinated audience. So, now I have a few choices: I can comment loudly on the child's role as social analyst; quietly consider that the kid thinks my partner and I have a healthy sex life and argue a lot and whose role is 'Sam' playing if this is about me and ma man?; I could obsess about it (ooh, yes); I could try to publicly defuse the situation; I could acknowledge the audience; ignore the audience; laugh it off...
...or I could count my blessings. My kid is telling me what he sees, and hell, with a cup of good coffee in my hands, I guess I can just damned well shut up and listen. Thanks, Auntie Jo.
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