I'm in denial that my baby is 3 already. He is too. Whenever anyone, be it family member, teacher, stranger in the store, asks Graham how old he is now, he replies, "It's a surprise." If given the chance, he will go on, "If I tell you, it won't be a surprise anymore."
I think it's cute. Greta is nothing short of exasperated. She tried telling him, "Graham, it's actually not a surprise to anyone. We ALL KNOW that you are three." Now, she has given up and chimes in, "He's three," before he has a chance to utter the ridiculous. He does it anyways, of course.
I think that he might actually be a bit befuddled about the whole affair, actually. When his preschool teacher told him, "Happy Birthday," he replied, "Happy Birthday to you."
And, when given the opportunity to choose the song for the class to sing at school ( I was present as a special birthday guest), Graham said he wanted to sing, "Thomas, James and Gordon discover Stanley."
His sweet teacher ran through a litany of choices that the kids actually sing in class, but Graham insisted on "Thomas, James and Gordon discover Stanley."
So, Miss Kelly said, "OK. We'll make up that song today." The teachers, Graham, and I sang the above lyrics to a semi-monotonous "tune." Then, Miss Kelly looked to Graham, who continued, "And they were sooooo prouuuud."
He's right about one thing. He's full of surprises.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Over Christmas
I sometimes feel like it's a shame that Christmas falls at the beginning of the winter. I get why it is when it is . . . the merging of the Christian celebration with the Winter Solstice. But, I just feel like with Thanksgiving and New Year's hovering around it, the Holidays are filled with fun wintery good cheer, and then there is THE REST OF THE GODFORSAKEN WINTER to live through. Seriously, it pains me to look at all of the fluffy snow and think, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, . . . except there's no Christmas right now." The void, added to the unyielding cold, is too much. We should just put Christmas on January 25. Problem solved. By the time the whole post-holiday celebration was over, we'd be almost done. We'd be so re-energized with good will that we could take on that short, thug of a month, February. I don't mean to be Christian-centric either (although decidedly Norhtern-centric.) Hanukkah could move . . . with Kwanza, Ramadan. Give all of the willing a chance to move something important to January.
Seriously, there is a dirth of celebrating from Jan 1 until Spring. It's like a cruel joke to ring in the New Year as though you're happy about it when you actually know that the next two months of this great "new year" are going to suck.
Valentines Day is hardly a holiday to look forward to with much anticipation. Don't get me wrong. I try. We do heart crafts. We exchange little presents. But, there's no Dickens to read along with it. No Santa. No radio stations devoted to the endless playing of Valentines tunes. It's an excuse to eat/ give candy.
This year, we do plan on celebrating Chinese New Year. And, that might fill my void. But, it's uncharted territory for me.
Granted, it might be particularly painful for our family this year because of my husband's decision for tree removal.
We are burning it.
Branch by branch.
Amidst the children's cries for their beloved tree, my husband told them, "I'm not hurting the Christmas tree. I'm using it to make the house warm."
I supported him despite my cringing at the sight. "It's Happy Wood. It's better than throwing it away."
But, there is still the image of the tree in our living room, ornaments gone, half of the branches eaten away, like the grinch has come and, well, eaten half the tree. And there's the image of something gone terribly wrong with the pine needles shooting huge flames right there in Santa's toy chute. The horror.
Seriously, there is a dirth of celebrating from Jan 1 until Spring. It's like a cruel joke to ring in the New Year as though you're happy about it when you actually know that the next two months of this great "new year" are going to suck.
Valentines Day is hardly a holiday to look forward to with much anticipation. Don't get me wrong. I try. We do heart crafts. We exchange little presents. But, there's no Dickens to read along with it. No Santa. No radio stations devoted to the endless playing of Valentines tunes. It's an excuse to eat/ give candy.
This year, we do plan on celebrating Chinese New Year. And, that might fill my void. But, it's uncharted territory for me.
Granted, it might be particularly painful for our family this year because of my husband's decision for tree removal.
We are burning it.
Branch by branch.
Amidst the children's cries for their beloved tree, my husband told them, "I'm not hurting the Christmas tree. I'm using it to make the house warm."
I supported him despite my cringing at the sight. "It's Happy Wood. It's better than throwing it away."
But, there is still the image of the tree in our living room, ornaments gone, half of the branches eaten away, like the grinch has come and, well, eaten half the tree. And there's the image of something gone terribly wrong with the pine needles shooting huge flames right there in Santa's toy chute. The horror.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Understanding
Graham loves trains. That's an understatement. He plays, dreams, thinks, reads (well, is read to), talks, thinks, breathes trains.
Trains are a source of great joy, and great angst for him. We have a family rule: we share the toys. For a great deal of his life this has worked to Graham's advantage. And, as he has been reminded frequently, his sister is actually not a huge threat to his train-playing liberties. He apparently sees things differently. Out of the blue in conversation Graham has been repeating a troubling thought.
Says Graham: I wish I didn't have a sister. Do you know why?
Mother: Um, why? (With a tone of angst, noting that the troublesome sister is strapped in next to him. Is it really fair to pursue this conversation?)
Graham: Because, um, I don't wike to share my twains with her.
Greta: Graham, I don't even like trains. (Which is sort of true.) Well, I only like the girl trains. Molly and Lady are my trains.
Graham: But, I really, really like trains. I really, really like Molly.
Mother: That's OK, Graham. You can play with them.
Thankfully, Greta has yet to hammer him with why she could do without a little brother too. And, working to her advantage in the fair-train play department, Graham recieved a set of tracks that he has yet to master himself. Greta, however, has no trouble. Imagine his quandry when she approached him saying, "Graham, do you want to set up the racing Thomas set in the kitchen? Then, Molly and Thomas can race."
"O KAYYYYY." Graham literally gallopped about with enthusiasm as his siter began to set up the track.
Then, at the ripe old age of two 1/2, Graham must have realized the incongruency of his emotions. He said, "Greta sometimes I joke about I don't like you to pway with my twains. I just telling you a joke." He really said it. (She was so over it already, Graham, but my heart melted.)
Like all happy endings, though, Graham's warm and fuzzy feelings toward his sister faded quickly. Today, on our way to Barnes and Oboe (I will never go back to Noble), Graham told Greta, "You are going to go find fairy books, and I'm going to pway twains, Greta. Do you understand me?"
Of course, she understood him far too well. She marched right past all of her favorite books and grabbed a train right off the bat. To which Graham chimed in with, "No. This is not what I understand."
It's hard, Buddy.
Trains are a source of great joy, and great angst for him. We have a family rule: we share the toys. For a great deal of his life this has worked to Graham's advantage. And, as he has been reminded frequently, his sister is actually not a huge threat to his train-playing liberties. He apparently sees things differently. Out of the blue in conversation Graham has been repeating a troubling thought.
Says Graham: I wish I didn't have a sister. Do you know why?
Mother: Um, why? (With a tone of angst, noting that the troublesome sister is strapped in next to him. Is it really fair to pursue this conversation?)
Graham: Because, um, I don't wike to share my twains with her.
Greta: Graham, I don't even like trains. (Which is sort of true.) Well, I only like the girl trains. Molly and Lady are my trains.
Graham: But, I really, really like trains. I really, really like Molly.
Mother: That's OK, Graham. You can play with them.
Thankfully, Greta has yet to hammer him with why she could do without a little brother too. And, working to her advantage in the fair-train play department, Graham recieved a set of tracks that he has yet to master himself. Greta, however, has no trouble. Imagine his quandry when she approached him saying, "Graham, do you want to set up the racing Thomas set in the kitchen? Then, Molly and Thomas can race."
"O KAYYYYY." Graham literally gallopped about with enthusiasm as his siter began to set up the track.
Then, at the ripe old age of two 1/2, Graham must have realized the incongruency of his emotions. He said, "Greta sometimes I joke about I don't like you to pway with my twains. I just telling you a joke." He really said it. (She was so over it already, Graham, but my heart melted.)
Like all happy endings, though, Graham's warm and fuzzy feelings toward his sister faded quickly. Today, on our way to Barnes and Oboe (I will never go back to Noble), Graham told Greta, "You are going to go find fairy books, and I'm going to pway twains, Greta. Do you understand me?"
Of course, she understood him far too well. She marched right past all of her favorite books and grabbed a train right off the bat. To which Graham chimed in with, "No. This is not what I understand."
It's hard, Buddy.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
that's not fair: the musical
Graham literally laments when things do not go his way. I am listening to him through the monitor lamenting over the fact that I am no longer in the room. How sweet? Here is his song (the melody is almost the blues, three or four tones, with certain words drawn out)
I want mommy, buuuuuuuuut, she is not coming.
Bad mommy. She is a bad mommy.
Buuuuuuut, I want her.
(We change keys here and turn uptempo, like the upbeat part of behemian Rhapsody, only inspired from recent trick-or-treat rhymes of Greta's. Add in the percussion of him jumping in his crib.)
Mommy. Mommy.
I'll pull down your underpants.
I'll pull down my mommy's underpants.
Trick or treat. I don't care.
I'll pull down your underpants.
(Key change again. A wail this time.)
Mooooooommmmmmmmyyyyyy. I need you. I need her, but ummm, but Mommy. Not nice.
Pop goes the weasel.
Mooommmmmmyyyyyyyyyyy. Oh Mommmmmmmmmyyyyyyy. But, I think I will go there for one afternoon. That's OK. We have something good to eat. If you don't, I don't care, I'll pull down your underwear. I'll pull down your underwear. I'll pull down your underwear.
CRIEEESSSSS. Mom. Give me something. huhhhhhhhhhhh Mom, I need something.
Huhhhh. I'm disappointed. huhhhh. I'm disappointed. What's disappointed. I don't know. Mommmmmmyyyy, I need you. I need you. I DUST (just) NEEED you.
Hysterical frenzy.
I want mommy, buuuuuuuuut, she is not coming.
Bad mommy. She is a bad mommy.
Buuuuuuut, I want her.
(We change keys here and turn uptempo, like the upbeat part of behemian Rhapsody, only inspired from recent trick-or-treat rhymes of Greta's. Add in the percussion of him jumping in his crib.)
Mommy. Mommy.
I'll pull down your underpants.
I'll pull down my mommy's underpants.
Trick or treat. I don't care.
I'll pull down your underpants.
(Key change again. A wail this time.)
Mooooooommmmmmmmyyyyyy. I need you. I need her, but ummm, but Mommy. Not nice.
Pop goes the weasel.
Mooommmmmmyyyyyyyyyyy. Oh Mommmmmmmmmyyyyyyy. But, I think I will go there for one afternoon. That's OK. We have something good to eat. If you don't, I don't care, I'll pull down your underwear. I'll pull down your underwear. I'll pull down your underwear.
CRIEEESSSSS. Mom. Give me something. huhhhhhhhhhhh Mom, I need something.
Huhhhh. I'm disappointed. huhhhh. I'm disappointed. What's disappointed. I don't know. Mommmmmmyyyy, I need you. I need you. I DUST (just) NEEED you.
Hysterical frenzy.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
a penny for MY thoughts
There is a fountain at our public library that the designer, in infinite wisdom, decided to surround with staggered cubes -- somewhat akin to climbing equipment one might find on a playground. Do you see where I'm going? In this summer alone two children, mercifully not mine, have taken the full-body plunge.
Greta and Graham love to climb up, lean over toward the depths, and plink their little pennies in after we check out. Greta always makes a wish. Much to her chagrin, her brother never does. Last time we were there, I had only one penny. It was a parenting crisis. Sophie's choice. Who was more likely to have a melt down. I acted quickly, but reasonably, I think. I gave Greta the penny to wish on. And, Graham threw it in. It sat well for a minute or two when Greta decided that maybe her wish will not come true if she did not throw it. Rather than assure her, and risk possible tears, I threw out, "Next time you can have TWO pennies to throw." (Ugh, I can just hear the pundits. "There she goes, classic liberal, throwing money at a problem to fix it.")
Today was that "next time." Of course, Graham, too, needed two pennies. So, now I'm out four cents. It's getting steep, but it's for my favorite public institution of all times . . . the library. (I use the same logic for the fines. ;))
This time, however, Greta, my darling little optimist, turned miserly. I think it was the thrill of two pennies to clink against each other. Rather than wish for toys, candy, or another penny, her top three most common wishes, she decided that she needed to put her pennies in her piggy bank. Now, on reflection, Greta's impulse was a smart impulse, perhaps one that I should have fostered. The pennies in her bank are far more likely to buy her a Barbie than her wish is, or her mother is. I should have affected my Benjamin Franklin voice, tousled her hair, and said, "A penny saved is a penny earned, Greta. You'll get rich that way, kid."
I have to admit that the current political climate affected my parenting. I don't want to foster miserly behavior. I want her to make wishes for her future! (I, too, roll my eyes at this.) I said, "Greta, wish for Barack Obama to become president."
Greta cocked her head and said, "Noooo." She was feeling me out to see if it was a joke.
"Please. It's very important to Mommy."
So, she did it. She wished into a penny for Barack Obama to become president (for me). I hope it works, but I'm not banking on that wish. I sent my pennies straight to the campaign.
Greta and Graham love to climb up, lean over toward the depths, and plink their little pennies in after we check out. Greta always makes a wish. Much to her chagrin, her brother never does. Last time we were there, I had only one penny. It was a parenting crisis. Sophie's choice. Who was more likely to have a melt down. I acted quickly, but reasonably, I think. I gave Greta the penny to wish on. And, Graham threw it in. It sat well for a minute or two when Greta decided that maybe her wish will not come true if she did not throw it. Rather than assure her, and risk possible tears, I threw out, "Next time you can have TWO pennies to throw." (Ugh, I can just hear the pundits. "There she goes, classic liberal, throwing money at a problem to fix it.")
Today was that "next time." Of course, Graham, too, needed two pennies. So, now I'm out four cents. It's getting steep, but it's for my favorite public institution of all times . . . the library. (I use the same logic for the fines. ;))
This time, however, Greta, my darling little optimist, turned miserly. I think it was the thrill of two pennies to clink against each other. Rather than wish for toys, candy, or another penny, her top three most common wishes, she decided that she needed to put her pennies in her piggy bank. Now, on reflection, Greta's impulse was a smart impulse, perhaps one that I should have fostered. The pennies in her bank are far more likely to buy her a Barbie than her wish is, or her mother is. I should have affected my Benjamin Franklin voice, tousled her hair, and said, "A penny saved is a penny earned, Greta. You'll get rich that way, kid."
I have to admit that the current political climate affected my parenting. I don't want to foster miserly behavior. I want her to make wishes for her future! (I, too, roll my eyes at this.) I said, "Greta, wish for Barack Obama to become president."
Greta cocked her head and said, "Noooo." She was feeling me out to see if it was a joke.
"Please. It's very important to Mommy."
So, she did it. She wished into a penny for Barack Obama to become president (for me). I hope it works, but I'm not banking on that wish. I sent my pennies straight to the campaign.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
an interview
This is based on a friend's blog. She interviewed her son, so I got curious about how my two young charges would respond.
What’s your favorite smell?
Greta: Huh? Why did you ask? (Because I'm going to write it down.) My favorite smell . . . I don't know. My favorite smell is the smell of bacon.
Graham: My favowite smell is fwuit. (fruit)
Greta: Actually, my favorite smell is flowers.
What’s your favorite vegetable?
Greta: My favorite vegetable is popcorn. (watching me type) What did you spell? (popcorn) WHERE is the 'P'? Oh, OK.
Graham: Um, strawberries.
What’s your favorite fruit?
Greta: Um. Tangerine.
Graham: Strawberries.
What’s your favorite snack?
Greta: My faovrite snack is cream cheese and YOU. (laugh) Cream cheese on popcorn. (We don't eat that.) I like it though.
Graham: My favorite snack is pretzels.
Greta: Actually, that's my favorite snack too though. How is this a quiz? (It's an interview.) How is this a quiz? You said it was a quiz.
What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re bored?
Greta: um um um um . . . HUM. (no, really) Really, HUM.
Graham: Hum a little dum.
What’s your favorite song?
My favorite song is Hanna Montana (she only knows one song by HM . . . you and me together)
Graham: Uh. MMMM. (Greta, in exasperation: BIG RED CAR) Big Red Car is my favorite song.
What’s your favorite dream?
Greta: Hmmm? The one that is about me and my friend and we're being friends. (I read this back to her and she spazzes out that I misunderstood. I still don't get it. I move on, but in the back of my mind I'm logging in my concern that Greta does not dream. I'm quite certain of it. What does that mean, and is it a sign of a budding sociopath? And, would that be my fault if she was?)
What’s your favorite toy?
Greta: My favorite toy is.. is...my new fairies and my princess purse. And Grace (stuffed cat she sleeps with).
Graham: My favorite toy is legos.
What’s your favorite book?
Greta: My favorite book is fairy books. (The rainbow fairy books.)
Graham: My favorite books are Thomas books.
What’s your favorite movie?
Greta: My favorite movie iiiiiiiisssss uh . . . My favorite movie is Belle, I mean Beauty and the Beast.
Graham: Thomas and the Big Big Bridge.
Greta: That's his favorite movie, but he doesn't have that movie, but he does have that BOOK. I guess you should have said that when she asked our favorite book, Graham. (I wish I could convey the tone . . . BRILLIANT, but I'm so very tired right now.)
Who are you going to marry?
Greta: Um, Graham.
Graham: You.(to Greta, because she has been repeating the last few questions for me because my voice is being tuned out by a certain two year old.)
Who's your favorite person to play with?
Greta: Ella, Allison, Livi and Katelynn. (all neighbors)
Graham: Katelynn (Katelynn is in 6th grade and comes over to play/ be a mother's helper a few days a week.)
What’s your favorite smell?
Greta: Huh? Why did you ask? (Because I'm going to write it down.) My favorite smell . . . I don't know. My favorite smell is the smell of bacon.
Graham: My favowite smell is fwuit. (fruit)
Greta: Actually, my favorite smell is flowers.
What’s your favorite vegetable?
Greta: My favorite vegetable is popcorn. (watching me type) What did you spell? (popcorn) WHERE is the 'P'? Oh, OK.
Graham: Um, strawberries.
What’s your favorite fruit?
Greta: Um. Tangerine.
Graham: Strawberries.
What’s your favorite snack?
Greta: My faovrite snack is cream cheese and YOU. (laugh) Cream cheese on popcorn. (We don't eat that.) I like it though.
Graham: My favorite snack is pretzels.
Greta: Actually, that's my favorite snack too though. How is this a quiz? (It's an interview.) How is this a quiz? You said it was a quiz.
What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re bored?
Greta: um um um um . . . HUM. (no, really) Really, HUM.
Graham: Hum a little dum.
What’s your favorite song?
My favorite song is Hanna Montana (she only knows one song by HM . . . you and me together)
Graham: Uh. MMMM. (Greta, in exasperation: BIG RED CAR) Big Red Car is my favorite song.
What’s your favorite dream?
Greta: Hmmm? The one that is about me and my friend and we're being friends. (I read this back to her and she spazzes out that I misunderstood. I still don't get it. I move on, but in the back of my mind I'm logging in my concern that Greta does not dream. I'm quite certain of it. What does that mean, and is it a sign of a budding sociopath? And, would that be my fault if she was?)
What’s your favorite toy?
Greta: My favorite toy is.. is...my new fairies and my princess purse. And Grace (stuffed cat she sleeps with).
Graham: My favorite toy is legos.
What’s your favorite book?
Greta: My favorite book is fairy books. (The rainbow fairy books.)
Graham: My favorite books are Thomas books.
What’s your favorite movie?
Greta: My favorite movie iiiiiiiisssss uh . . . My favorite movie is Belle, I mean Beauty and the Beast.
Graham: Thomas and the Big Big Bridge.
Greta: That's his favorite movie, but he doesn't have that movie, but he does have that BOOK. I guess you should have said that when she asked our favorite book, Graham. (I wish I could convey the tone . . . BRILLIANT, but I'm so very tired right now.)
Who are you going to marry?
Greta: Um, Graham.
Graham: You.(to Greta, because she has been repeating the last few questions for me because my voice is being tuned out by a certain two year old.)
Who's your favorite person to play with?
Greta: Ella, Allison, Livi and Katelynn. (all neighbors)
Graham: Katelynn (Katelynn is in 6th grade and comes over to play/ be a mother's helper a few days a week.)
Monday, August 18, 2008
Eavesdropping
Consider this a live feed.
Greta: Come on, Socks.
Graham: I have a good idea. I'm going to bend him.
Greta: No, I have a better idea than bending the cat, Graham. Let's put these fairies in a fairy house.
Graham: I'm bending him. Look. He's smiling at me.
Greta: Well, I'm going, Graham. I'll be back at midnight.
Greta: (to cat) (I'mnot sure when the transfer of cat happened) Are you my little boy?
Socks: Meow
Greta: Are you my little boy?
Socks: Meow
Greta: When are you going to be my little boy?
Greta: Watch Socks go in his little house. Graham, you hold this while I look for something to block him.
Shuffling around.
Socks: a high pitched Meow.
Greta: You want a new tail Socks?
Socks: Meow.
Greta: I'll let you go.
Socks walks into the room with me, his protectress. There is a ribbon tied around his tail.
Poor little cat? Poor little cat, my ass. First, there is nothing little about this cat. Second, he never hides from them. He's a cat. He fits under the couch. But, he walks up to them asking for more every day. Just for the record.
Greta: Come on, Socks.
Graham: I have a good idea. I'm going to bend him.
Greta: No, I have a better idea than bending the cat, Graham. Let's put these fairies in a fairy house.
Graham: I'm bending him. Look. He's smiling at me.
Greta: Well, I'm going, Graham. I'll be back at midnight.
Greta: (to cat) (I'mnot sure when the transfer of cat happened) Are you my little boy?
Socks: Meow
Greta: Are you my little boy?
Socks: Meow
Greta: When are you going to be my little boy?
Greta: Watch Socks go in his little house. Graham, you hold this while I look for something to block him.
Shuffling around.
Socks: a high pitched Meow.
Greta: You want a new tail Socks?
Socks: Meow.
Greta: I'll let you go.
Socks walks into the room with me, his protectress. There is a ribbon tied around his tail.
Poor little cat? Poor little cat, my ass. First, there is nothing little about this cat. Second, he never hides from them. He's a cat. He fits under the couch. But, he walks up to them asking for more every day. Just for the record.
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