DadaMama

Interview with The Bean, Age 4

What is your favorite food? Ham cheese jelly sandwich

 

What do you hope you never have to eat again? broccoli

 

What’s your favorite thing about school? You get to learn a
lot of stuff and in preschool you get to do a lot of fun stuff and you know
what I really want to eat? Fried suction cup tentacles.

 

What makes you happiest? Because you. You’re beautiful and I
like you.

 

What is one new thing you’d like to try this year? I wanna
try wearing underwear in the middle of the night for the first day. Can I wear
the same underwear tonight? Cause they’re not dirty.

 

What would you like to be when you grow up? A fire farter
man. Where they put out fires they fart all day. Actually I wanna be a farter
man. Where you fart all day, like loud farts and you pee in the toilet all day
long and poop on a rock like a dog in the backyard. Actually not peeing and
pooping. Just farting.

 

Why do you like being a kid? Because it’s fun.

 

What kind of fun? Blending in fun.

 

One word to describe you would be? My eyeballs. They can’t
see that far.

 

What advice would you give your parents? To go outside and
ride Wingnut and hold on to her collar.

 

What would make them as parents better? I could jump on your
head.

 

What do you like to do for fun? Bouncing bouncy balls.

 

What was the nicest thing you did for someone? Giving them
their breakfast. But that would be weird. I once, well, giving them fried
dinosaur leg or something.

 

If you could be any animal, which one would you be and why? A
kangaroo because you get to ride in Mommy kangaroo’s pouch.

 

What is your favorite memory so far? A kangaroo.

 

Who is your favorite aunt? Sugar ants! Because they clean up
your cars and they clean up your houses. They put things away.

 

Of All the things I can do, I am best at… farting at people’s
faces.

 

If I could stay up late on a school night I would …. watch Ninjago

 

Favorite candy? Smarties

 

Who do you look up to? You

 

What do you think you will be doing 10 years from now? When
I grow up and get in college? I’m gonna get a phone. And then I’m gonna call
you and I’m gonna tell my Daddy how happy I am that I’m in college and then I’ll
get kids and sons.

 

What do you want to do as a career? Protecting the planet
with my machine gun, like shooting earth’s best deadly predators. Like aliens
and stuff. I’m gonna be somebody who KILLS monsters.

 

Favorite color? Red

 

Favorite subject? (I didn't ask. Kid is not in school.)

 

Favorite song? I’m Sexy And I Know It

 

Favorite book? Elephant and Piggie

 

Favorite sport? Swimming

 

Favorite Drink? Ruby beer

 

Favorite Ice Cream? Vanilla

 

Favorite Game? Gunstringer … except I can’t play it. I don’t
know how.

 

Favorite Flower? Orchids, they’re magical.

 

Favorite Restaurant? The one with the good, good dumplings.
Mark’s Kitchen.

 

Favorite Store? The Giant with the scanners!

So Far, 8 Is The Oldest You've Ever Been

 

Eight Things About Being Eight:

1. You never ever have to stop talking, for any reason. Not even when you have no idea what you're talking about. Also, you're welcome to engage in a little free association, or randomly insert words you've just heard into your stream of consciousness. (No lie, this boy was talking talking talking and heard me say "biscotti" which he then inserted into his never-ending speech without bothering to check if it even made sense.)

2. You DO know everything. Also, you're awesome. You spend lots of your time pointing this out to the rest of us lame-os.

3. You want to be older. So you wear your two-strap backpack with only one strap, across your chest, hanging ridiculously close to the ground. This makes it nearly impossible to walk, but you don't care.

4. You feel entitled to bitch about chores you don't want to do. So far you haven't figured out that this only makes YOU miserable, as the rest of us just ignore you when you're bitching anyway.

5. You mercilessly mock things you think are stupid. Like Justin Beiber and Dora. It actually takes more effort to stand around and mock these things than it does to just go find something else to do, but you think it's time well spent.

6. You love school, but keep trying to find homework loopholes. Your teacher expects you to read every day for 20 minutes, so last week you brought me a picture book and said, "I'll just read this twice." Nice try, kid.

7. You are, like, so over your little brothers. GOD.

8. You are the most frustrating person I've ever met. (But I DO love you. Motherhood is such a mixed bag that way.)

Sometimes I've Believed As Many As Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast*

Dear Finnegan,

 
Today you are six. I woke early to take you to Dunkin' Donuts for a breakfast of hydrogenated fats and high-fructose corn syrup, for which opportunity you got dressed extra fast, even producing clothes for the Bean in record time so he could come, too. Nothing gets you going like dessert for breakfast (You're just like me that way. Sorry.). When I started the car, NPR came on and I learned what half the world already knew: Osama Bin Laden has been killed.

I don't know how I feel about this. I try to keep these birthday letters very personal, but this news feels personal. The war on Afghanistan began in 2001 and the war on Iraq began shortly before your brother Jack was born in 2003. Your Uncle Luke has done more than one tour of duty in the Middle East. Your dad's cousin Josh has been there, too. It seems that everyone knows someone who has been there. Many who have gone have not returned.

We have eaten, breathed and slept with the war on terror for ten years. Whether we are directly involved or not, not one of us can escape the grip terrorism has on our world. I just wanted to buy you some donuts, but reality bared its teeth and bit me through the car stereo. You, of course, will not remember this day. I only record it here because I think someday you will want to know what your parents thought about this. I don't know what to tell you, except this: I'm sorry. I'm sorry we've made a world for you where human life is valued so very little. I'm sorry that extremism is the order of the day. I'm sorry that death is being celebrated on the day we celebrate the singular miracle of your birth.

Don't get me wrong; I think Osama Bin Laden was an evil, misguided, hateful man. I was as riveted and as heartbroken and as terrified as anyone by the tragedy of 9/11. But I do not think, not for one nanosecond, that throwing an impromptu party outside the White House or at Ground Zero in the wee hours is fitting. We cannot honor the dead by celebrating more death. Instead, I choose to focus on the small things. The way you wrinkle your nose when you smile, the sprinkling of freckles across your cheeks, the aroma of homemade almond cake baking in your honor. Your little brother asleep on the couch under his favorite blanket, his ridiculous, beautiful eyelashes nearly touching his cheeks. The way Jack gets so involved in what he's reading that he stops noticing anything else.

 
The small things, the impossibly you things about the three of you: these are what keep me tethered to Earth when it feels like the ground has fallen out from under me.

 
You have grown tall. There is nothing you won't eat. You laugh easily. You are a peace maker and the most empathic of my children. You are secretly everyone's favorite, because something in your sweet nature makes other people feel at ease with you. You listen more than you talk. You are an integral piece of us.

 
When you remember your sixth birthday, I want you to remember these things: that your dad and I are doing everything in our power to make this a world a place that won't scare the hell out of you. That terrible things do happen, and that it's our job to teach you and your brothers to perservere in the face of great sorrow and even greater destruction. That maybe Gandi was right, and maybe an eye for an eye really does end up making the whole world blind. That maybe the impossible things we believe in are the only things worth having anyway. We want so much for you.

Love,

Mom

*Quote by Lewis Carroll

Everybody knows it sucks to grow up (but everybody does, so weird to be back here)

Dear Jack,

You've now reached the ripe old age of eight. I mean this in the nicest way possible, but HOLY HELL YOU'RE INSUFFERABLE. I've been taking an informal poll, though, and I'm pretty sure it's not your fault. ALL eight year olds are insufferable. Apparently, we've entered the "tween" stage. "Tween" is a detestable contraction that means "not old enough to drive but definitely old enough to be an a-hole." You want to be in charge. You want respect and the right to use enormous words to describe things. And you really, really, REALLY want a Nintendo DSi.

 
"Mo-OM!" you say, "All my friends have one!" Unfortunately, your mother is a horrible person who lives to make you unhappy. You're not getting one. Yes, I know Aunt Jacqui got one for your cousin Isaac. No, I don't care.

Wikipedia says that "eight is the natural number following seven and preceding nine." I say that eight is the year my inquisitive, intelligent, gregarious oldest child turned into a sullen, indignant, bossy know-it-all. 

"Jack," I say, "It's 7:45."

"Actually, Mom," you reply, "It's 7:42."

Don't get me wrong, I love that you can tell time. I just hate that you refuse to round up.   

 

I cannot get over the change in you. You even look older. I know you're thinking "Duh, Mom, I'm growing up!" Just bear with me a second. Last year you were rounder, shorter, softer. More baby than boy, despite being seven years old. Suddenly I can't keep you in clothes. You've grown actual cheek bones and a solid, muscular body that is never still. You eat like a teenage grizzly bear. You've grown nearly two shoe sizes and you want your hair long so you can wear it in a pony tail. It won't be long before you start writing poetry about how no one understands you.

 
What happened to my baby? And no, I will not ever stop asking that question. As your mother, I am legally entitled to wonder that, out loud, as many times as year as I want, even when you're 60. Also, don't think that I don't love you just because I said that you're an insufferable tween. Because I do love you, oh sweet baby Jesus do I ever. You're the boy that started it all.

Do you remember when you were smaller, four maybe, and you invented the "I love you 1,000 ... " game? You would say, "Mom, I love you 1,000 ... Transformers!" Or trucks, or Legos--or whatever thing you valued most at the time. "I love you 1,000 robots! I love you 1,000 acorns!" you would say, and giggle. And I would say that I loved you 1,000 chocolate chips or kisses or planets or birthday parties with sprinkle cupcakes, and then you would giggle some more. Little boy love is the only kind worth having (in my opinion, obviously I'm terribly biased). It's the stickiest, most tackling-est, soul-wringing-est kind of love there is.

 
You're still that little boy underneath, but I see you burying him under more and more bravado. Instead of "I love you 1,000," you have Harry Potter books and Pig Latin and soccer at recess and a secret, desperate desire to be a grownup. You no longer want to me to muss you hair or tell you that you're adorable.  "I'm pretty much over school," you tell me. "Math is too easy. I've outgrown it." And in your Snoopy t-shirt that reads "Allergic to School," and blue jeans and black Converse and your Buccaneers hat on backwards--it's easy to believe you.

 

What I really wanted to tell you is this: don't be in such a hurry. The things you think will set you free when you arrive freshly minted at adulthood are not all rainbows and unicorns (or in your case, Nerf guns and video games, please forgive me my unnecessarily girly metaphors). Just be a kid. You're damn good at it.

We're almost halfway there. I love you beyond all reason.

Love,

Mom

Justice Beaver

Dear Finnegan,

If you were to go through the archives of this blog, you'd probably notice that last year's birthday letter to you is missing. I know you just learned to read, but I am counting on you finding this when you're 25 and being retroactively pissed. Because life is NOT FAIR.

 

It's really too bad that life works that way, because you, Small Boy, are overly concerned about fairness and justice and how many lollipops Skylar had while you were at school. I swear you have a radar that detects when other people (read: Your Brothers) get something you don't. You are constantly monitoring cookies, toys, rides in the front seat and who got to sit next to Mom last. When things don't go your way you are given to pouting, stomping your feet and storming out of the room (... and into your bedroom, where you can scream loudly and moan like a laboring sea cow, while also rolling around on your bed in a really bereft way). I really think the answer to this problem is for you to develop a crime-fighting alter ego who passes out lollipops to middle children in his spare time. Personally, I'm rooting for Justice Beaver, but you're free to choose your own.

 

Lately you've decided that you and I need to be together all the time--and when I say together I don't mean just in the same room. Somehow you have gotten it into your brain that "together" means "touching at all times but preferably hugging." This is equal parts sweet, adorable, clingy and overwhelmingly annoying. I invented a new game today called "Keep Your Hands Off Me For Five Consecutive Minutes," but you didn't want to play. 

 

As usual, I digress. What I really came here to tell you was "Happy REALLY BELATED Birthday." You turned five LAST MAY and I am a terrible person for letting it go largely unacknowledged. What can I say? School ended, Daddy started looking for a new job and found one--then we moved. Somehow you got lost in the shuffle, which is, I hear, the special lot of the middle child. If you don't believe me, ask Aunt Jacqui. She is the original Justice Beaver.

 

So now you're five-and-a-half and you are such a spectacular little person. You're a goofball, a flirt, and an athlete. You still take extra special care of Bean, but you go out of your way to piss Jack off. Lately Jack can't say anything to you without you insisting that you ALREADY KNOW. It's as if you're pretty sure he thinks you're stupid, so you make sure to tell him (often) that you're not. Watching you two together reminds me of ... me, and my little sister.

 

You continue to love the ladies, and they (unsurprisingly) love you back. You somehow managed to wrangle yourself an invitation to a first-grader's birthday party a couple of weeks ago-- a girl you only know from the bus room, a girl who is not in your class and who did not invite any other kindergarden kids. You get very obviously starry-eyed when you talk about her; and it was when you were talking about her that I realized your secret. The girls love you because you listen to them. You went on and on about how this little girl was getting a new dress and her hair done for her party and how she would not be at school on her birthday because of these preparations. Not only that, but after the party you came home and told your dad how pretty she looked in her new sparkly dress and black tights. Well played, son. Women love a man who pays attention.

 

Anyway, it's not your birthday, not really. This is just to let you know that I didn't forget you and that I never would (however distracted I may seem). I promise to get your 6th birthday letter out on time this year. Don't tell your brothers, but you're totally my favorite.

Love,

Mom

Welcome to Three

Dear Skylar,

 

Uncanny child, there is no one like you. You are a diva, a comedian, a vaudeville star, and a superhero. You talk incessantly, mostly about philosophical matters. Philosophy is generally what you're doing when you should be sleeping.

"Mom, are monsters around anymore?"

You emerged from your room to ask me this question at bedtime.

"Are monsters around anymore?" I said, not sure what we were talking about.

"Yeah, are they around anymore? Or are they 'stinct?" 

"Oh!" I got it. "They are extinct." You had to be sure no one was coming to scare you in your sleep. Until you had a birthday and reminded me, I had forgotten that three is the age of unanswerable questions. Sadly, I don't know why Iron Man is metal or how Optimus Prime turns into a truck or what happens when Fat Leo falls asleep. You forgive me this, though, and usually come up with an answer you can live with on your own.

You wear a cape everywhere. The grocery store, the park, to bed--the world needs saving, and you are just the guy for the job. You spend a lot of your time showing me how strong you are and how fast you can run. You got Iron Man's Arc Reactor for Valentine's Day and I swear it changes your posture when you wear it--you stand a little taller, you puff your chest a little more and you swagger. Iron Man is the Love of Your Life. He is your favorite superhero, and as far as you're concerned he's the strongest, the fastest, and the shiniest. (Second place: Batman. Third place: Superman.)

 

You are a storyteller with a penchant for drama. Just the other day you told me you couldn't take a nap because you were dying.

"Dying?" I said.

"Yes! I can't SLEEP!" you told me. You were insistent. "I'm dying!" I mentioned that it was too bad you were dying and that I would miss you when you were gone.

"I will miss you SO MUCH when I die!" you replied, and then dissolved into huge tears. I stifled my grin and told you that dying seemed a bit much to get out of a nap.

"I'm just fake dying," you said. It's really hard not to laugh at you sometimes. I hope you grow up to be a writer.

 
You still love your brothers more than anyone else. I love to watch the three of you together--you, little one, are quickly taking over as the bossiest. We all spoil you, I'm afraid. The rest of the world will have to forgive us, because HOLY CRAP YOU'RE REALLY CUTE.

 
Also, you're funny and you make up jokes. My favorite so far is this one:

You: Why did Godzilla cross the road?

Me: Why?

You: TO DESTROY THE WORLD AND EAT ALL THE PEOPLE!!! <this was accompanied by much stomping and roaring>

You're just three, and already your jokes make far more sense than either of your brothers'.

 

Everyone loves you and you know it. You revel in attention and know just how to catch someone's eye to get them to talk to you--a more shameless flirt has never walked the earth. You say you have a girlfriend, a neighbor girl who at 9 is a full six years older than you. She's tiny and cute and you call her "the Blue One" because she wears a blue coat to the bus stop every morning.

 

This past year has been full of all sorts of things. You learned to dress yourself and to pedal a tricycle and blow bubbles and to use the potty and to climb on the top bunk all by yourself. You mastered the King's English and started using college words. We gave away the crib and bought you a big-boy bed. You spent all your time policing people who referred to you as "little" or a "baby" and swiftly let them know that you are a "BIG BOY" and everything you do is for big boys. You even made us call you "Big Boy Batman" or "Big Boy Iron Man" or "Big Boy Superman" (insert fictional characters little boys worship ad nauseum) when you were playing.

We left the home you were born in and moved to a new one several hundred miles away. It was hard to leave our friends and family and the first real house we'd ever owned. I realized just today that your childhood will not be shaped by the same icons and experiences as my own--no Disney, no space shuttle, no beaches, no huge college game days. You will probably not remember where you were born.

 
But you will have other things. You will have fall leaves and snow and all the flowers of spring appearing out of the thick, prolific mud. You will have rock throwing at the creek and swinging at the park and public transportation and visits to some of this country's greatest museums. You will know a big city as well as I knew my own small town when I was a child.

 
I hope it is enough.

Love,

Mama

He Has Sweet Moves

My apologies if this a double post with Facebook: this is just too good not to share. My son doesn't need no stinkin' dance routine. He already knows one.

To Jack On His Seventh Birthday

Dear Jack,

(I know. I'm late with this. You should know that your mother is a terrible procrastinator and also forgets to do important things often. Sorry.) It's been seven years since we first met. It's strange to think that the tall, freckled boy I live with now is the same baby I brought home from the hospital.

I've told you the story so many times that now you can tell it to me. It fascinates you to think that your entire body fit in the crook of one of my arms. You know about your "special box" now, and revel in looking through the few items I saved from your babyhood: a cap, a newborn diaper, your hospital bracelet, the outfit we brought you home in. Suddenly, your story is important to you.

It's been an interesting year. You lost your first teeth, you went to first grade, and your reading skills really took off. You know what I love about you? I love that you always pick the largest, most complicated book to read. You scoff at lowly picture books, instead choosing chapter books. You even got an award at school for reading so well. There is nothing you can't read, and I'm so proud of you. You've FINALLY caught on that if you bring a book, you're never bored. This has made car rides SO MUCH EASIER. So thanks for learning to read, kiddo.

You had your first-ever slumber party this year. We took you and some of your friends bowling, and you were SO EXCITED that your feet barely touched the floor. Actually, very little bowling was accomplished--but you guys did get in a lot of high-fiving and sliding around the waxed floor on your bellies. After the bowling it was back to the house for cheeseburgers and tiny cupcakes, then lots and lots of Wii and Legos. I think it was your perfect day, pretty much.

You've really struggled this year to not be a little kid any more. I see it in the way that you talk, the clothes you like to wear, and the way you treat your brothers. It's no secret that you think Dora is STUPID and LAME and OMG I CANNOT  BELIEVE FINN LIKES THIS. You desperately want to be older, and sometimes it's hard to watch you attempt to walk the line between little kid and big kid. What you don't know is this: it will all happen in time. Trust me. I know I'm your mom and that automatically makes me uncool, but you'll get there eventually. And when you arrive, you'll wish it hadn't happened so soon.

Also: be gentle with your brothers. I know Finn drives you crazy, but it's only because he wants to be like you. It's hard to be the oldest, I know this. But no one is going to love you like they do. No one else will share your history or know all the inside jokes. It's important.
 
  
 

All of this is just to say happy birthday, son. Without you, I wouldn't be a mama. You changed my life for keeps, and I am the one who's richer for the experience.

All my love,

Mama

He's Perfecting His Insult English

His brothers are starting to rub off on him. As evidence, I offer the following conversations with The Bean:

1.
Bean: I dropped my chopstick.
Judy: Can you get it?
Bean: No. YOU get it.
Judy: No, I think you can do it.
Bean: You suck.

2.
Me: Do you want to wear your monster shirt?
Bean: No. I HATE my monster shirt. It's stupid!

Don't forget, he's only two. It's going to be a long road from here, methinks.

I Know One Thing: That I Love You

Dear Superbaby,

Today is your 2nd birthday. I'll spare you any comments on how the time has flown, and how you can't possibly be a big grown-up boy when fifteen minutes ago you were still a baby. You've heard all that before. I guess we have to stop calling you Superbaby, though. So--Bean it is.

Now that we got that settled, let's talk about your Insane Amount of Awesome. Because you are among the most hilarious, kick-ass, fabulous, genuine people I know. (Yes, that's you on the right in that photo down there, challenging the whole world to a duel with your brothers by your side--my money is TOTALLY on you guys.)

You're pretty sure you can already do everything--even tie your own shoes. God forbid someone mention "the baby"--you've never heard of any such person thankyouverymuch. Your new refrain is: "NO. I WILL DO IT." No, I can't help you with your spoon. No, you don't want me to find your shoes. No, you don't want me to help you get that Lego guy's head on. You will do it. And you do.

A few weeks ago, I was emptying the dishwasher and you decided to "help." I turned around to put a plate in the cupboard, and when I turned back you were holding a steak knife. Then you told me, cheerfully, "knife cut baby!" In that moment I wasn't sure whether to praise you or laugh or chastize you or scream. I mean, COME ON. It's like you're a Junior Safety Officer or something. I KNOW knives cut babies, which is why you're not allowed to help unload the dishwasher. But dude, get this: you've been listening to me! That, ultimately, is scarier than the fact that you had your chubby little fingers wrapped around the handle of a steak knife.

 

You no longer let me pick out your clothes and you get really pissed off if I suggest you might like to wear, say, a jacket or, you know, socks. (Nevermind that it's 26 degrees outside, MOTHER. Can't you see I have a vision?) On Thursday, as we were headed out the door to art class, you insisted that you must change your clothes. Your outfit consisted of: a striped t-shirt, blue plaid golf pants, striped socks and your beloved Elmo shoes. Best. outfit. ever.

The best thing about you, though, is how much you love and admire your brothers. You think they are the coolest, hippest, most radical people you've ever met, and you want nothing more than to do exactly what they're doing. All the time. If they're wearing blue shirts and standing on their head, then so are you--no questions asked. When they aren't home, you're a little lost--what does one play by oneself? You greet them with hugs and kisses and con them into sharing their candy and toys. You make them laugh and you boss them around (and they listen to you! you're going to be so rotten) and you steal their Gator jerseys when they aren't looking. They've taught you the robot, knock-knock jokes and to make an announcement when you've just ripped a big one and you need some applause. 

Which brings me to your sense of humor, which is fairly well developed, I think. When I say, "What's your name?" You say, "Jack Aengus!" or "Finn!" or "Batman!" and even occasionally "Betsy!"  But never Skylar. If I say, "Are you poopy?" You say, "No, Daddy's poopy!" All of the name-changing and blame-shifting is accompanied by raucous laughter. You pulled off a doozy of a trick at the yarn store the other day, when you offered to share your Cheerios with Aunt Sharon, pretending to slip her one and then eating it in front of her. You shrugged and said, "I ate it!" All that was missing was a bow from you, my little showman.

 

 I think I'd best keep my eye on you.
 

Anyway, all this is just to say that I am the luckiest mama in the world to have such a little boy to call my own. I'm not much for blogging these days, but I promise I'll always write you an annual birthday letter, so we can see how far we've come. May this coming year be the best one yet.

All my love,

Mommy

P.S. You should really go check out the picture of you Aunt Jacqui put on her blog this morning. You're future girlfriend is gonna love that one.