magnetic poetry

It's my gift to Greta this year. It was the last thing opened, but now that it's out of the box, it is serving to amuse.

Poem One (in all honesty, it was destroyed before I had a chance to remember it, but it included a pink baby.)

Poem Two:

Imagine
bird dog flies home
to magic baby
eating

Poem Three:

Something dog is going on hold your
nose.

Poem Four:

hot pig family special see red is a cloud tiger bed window woman

All I want for Christmas

Greta has decided that she doesn't want to sit on Santa's lap this year. She doesn't want anything from him. It helps, of course, to have a birthday on December 14 when you are a child who is too shy to sit on an old man wearing a ridiculously insulated suit in the middle of suburban shopping mall. I suspect that she'll cave, but for now she has opted out of the Santa gift.

Graham told me that he too would like to stay away from Santa. Why? Because he only wants coal anyway. For what? To put in his special treasure box.

Greta was on to him and asked, "Graham, is it because TRAINS use coal?"

Yep.

feral cat

This is what Greta wants for Christmas. She spelled it on her Wishlist written at school:

ferrel cat

Do you see anything but feral cat there?

She means a FurReal Cat. It's a name brand, hot item: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001TMA03U/ref=pd_lpo_k2_dp_sr_1?pf_rd_p=486539851&pf_rd_s=lpo-top-stripe-1&pf_rd_t=201&pf_rd_i=B00006782E&pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_r=0HRETD95RCC94N9XVNMN

Note the price is over $70. Seriously kid? We have a for real, non-feral cat. Of course, she plans on asking Santa for it. Awesome.

I can not thank the Kindergarten teacher enough for having the kids write their wish lists at tables together. Greta had never heard of this item, but saw that Katie had it written on her paper. Apparently, she trusts Katie's judgement in the toy department because she put it right at the top of her own list. Yes, indeed, for a second time, the power of the Christmas marketers have managed to find me despite my attempts to steer clear of advertising with my children. I'm still hopeful that something like a marble run will be emitted on Santa's lap tomorrow, but I'd bet on the feral cat if I had to.

dinosaurs

Our family conversation has been taken over by dinosaurs for the last few months. Apparently, this is somewhat of a rite of passage for the 3-6 year old child. I thought that, perhaps, we had avoided it with Greta. And, I have to admit that I was sort of grateful for it. For good reason.

The dinosaurs may be long extinct, but they are still capable of evoking terror in my home. I don't know if you are aware of the fact or not, but scientist don't know the answers to many of the questions about the dinosaurs. They are shrouded in mystery. For Greta, this is troubling to no end. She would like to know much about the prehistoric beasts, but she is mostly interested in how and why they died. I know the theories, but went along with checking out multiple books about the dinosaurs at the library. When it came time to say that scientists just aren't sure how they died, Greta burst into tears. "But how did they die? HOW? HOW?"

I repeated, "Well. It could have been the asteroid. It was because there wasn't food. There might have been disease. It was along time ago. Scientists have theories, but they don't know for sure."

Hysteria. "But I want to know HOW THEY DIED."

I tried another tactic. Well, you'll just have to become a paleontologist and discover this someday.

No consolation. "But, why did they all just DIE?"

I switched gears again, picking up a book, "You know what? This one says that they are pretty much sure that it was the giant asteroid."

Through tears, "Are you sure?"

This conversation has been repeated multiple times, each time slightly less intense, thankfully. But, it left such a mark on young Graham that he has been known to bring it out as a chip to play whenever Greta cries. "Greta, I will be a pawentowogist and find out how the dinosaurs died for you." This would be fine and good and even cute if it weren't for the fact that he chimes in with this at times when we are not talking about dinosaurs, thus bringing the opportunity to lament yet again to the forefront. Thanks, Graham.

lip removal

Graham: Nanamom, can you take my lips off of me?

Me: What do you mean?

Graham: Take my lips off of my body so they're not there any more.

Me: Why would you want to do that?

Graham: Because my lips are pink and I don't like the color pink.

Me: (silent, supressing the urge to mention other certain body parts that are pink.)

tornadoes

Graham has had a whirlwind of a fall. He was thrust into daily montessori school despite his protests that he'd rather not go. And, he goes every day.

He's run the whole gamut of emotions: excited that he's a big boy, sad to be away from mommy, furious over the fact that we don't let him politley decline from this daily engagement, anxiety that mommy won't come back to get him, frustration that he is expected to use the toilet at school. The list goes on.

But, recently, finally, he has decided that school is a place that is fun. He can be himself. Last week I asked him what he did at school. He told me that he sang his tornado song for the kids. I was previously not familiar with this song, so of course, I took the bait to ask how that song goes. The lyrics are really quite stunning:

The tornado. The tornado.
It goes to get the guys. Then it dies.

And the tornado's guts go up to Heaven.

And its skin comes down to go to the place where the dinosaurs dieeeeed.

I had to ask, "Graham, do you know what a tornado is?"

"A big big wind."

I hope the kids were impressed.

I just don't want to forget this one.

Graham: Where is my baby?

Me: A dolly?

Graham: No, my baby that I'm the Daddy of.

Me: I don't that baby was born yet.

Graham: I know that. But, whose belly is that baby in the inside of?

Me: Um. I'm not sure.

Marc: All I can say is choose wisely, son.

Thankfully, Graham moved on to something else.

Graham is 3?

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.

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.

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.