DadaMama

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

No Bad Vowels

Gus and I are in another difficult place lately; he's a hard kid and even normal tasks take on a whole new meaning some days. He often acts without thinking, and while I know this is to some degree common kid behavior, most days it feels like chasing my tail. I'm sick to death of hearing myself, so God only knows what Gus must think about me.

Sometimes, when he's made a bad choice, I ask him what he was thinking. I'm not asking this question rhetorically--I really want to know. I often get answered with varying degrees of "I don't know" or "Mmrph." Honestly, I don't think Gus knows what drives him and some days he's just as frustrated as I am.

But this afternoon was different.

"Think of it this way, Mom," he said. "I'm the vowel that doesn't always follow the rules--but that doesn't make me a bad vowel."

My son is the letter "Y." Very, very handy under the right circumstances, but a tricky one to nail down. Depending on his mood, he can start a word, end a word, or jump in the middle and seriously screw you over.

I think this makes me love him even more.

Here Is Your Happy Thought

Joy

Today was a shitty day. I don't like to use that word, but there it is. I mean, today had its high points but mostly it sucked and so I leave you with this:

Child

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new

Whose name you meditate --
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.

--Sylvia Plath

This Boy

He is six years old, almost six and a half. His hair is spiky and his shoes are scuffed in that very particular way that shoes scuff when you spend half your day kicking holes in the dirt. There is a handful of freckles scattered across his nose, and he is missing one bottom tooth. He knows the things a first-grader knows: 2+2=4, cat is spelled C-A-T, and dinosaurs are extinct. He knows that it isn't nice to call names or talk with your mouth full or snatch toys from your little brother. He is six years old, and still fresh. If you look carefully, the baby he was is still there just beneath the surface of the boy he is; vibrant, melodramatic, wreathed with an air of studied bravado. 

Today he wandered around the block with his friend. Around the block is a forbidden place; the great unknown. I expect it's very much like our side of the block, but because it's out of eyesight and earshot, the boy is not allowed to go.

The boy thinks this is unfair. The boy thinks he is bigger, stronger and smarter than his parents. He has the small boy's tendency to think that nothing and no one will hurt him. I wish that was true.

This afternoon, the boy's little brother came in and said that the boy was playing with a kid he didn't know, a kid with a brown football. The boy's father slipped out the door to find him. The boy returned dirty and crying, walking the walk of shame just behind his father. It seems that there was a football game on that side of the block, and that the sixth graders running the game bullied him, seeing him as nothing more than fresh meat to cut their teeth on.  

The boy had been tripped. He'd fallen to the pavement and landed hard on his knee. His elbow was skinned. When he stood up, the sixth graders invited him to punch the kid who'd tripped him. The boy knew this to be wrong--both his parents have told him not to hit. So the boy walked away.

He walked away. This was an act of bravery that left him shaking, breathless and terrified. I cannot tell you what it cost him; I can only tell you that I am so very proud of him.

I look again at this boy; grubby, disheveled, tears smeared across his face. I see that his lip is quivering and his ears are red, and notice how his shoulder blades look like fragile broken wings under his brown t-shirt. He is so small, so defenseless, I feel that I should scoop him up and cradle his head against my neck, like I used to do when he was a baby. But I cannot stop the press of time, the years hurtling forward and away from all of us. I look again at this boy and I see the man he is becoming.

Four

It turns out that if you're four, and old enough to have a mohawk, you're also old enough to ride your bike without training wheels. Yesterday, we finally took the plunge and bought Will a real bicycle (he already has a real one, but it's so small it's practically a doll bicycle) so he can keep up on rides to school in the morning.

He agreed to try it without training wheels, and ten minutes later--with some coaching from his Dad--he was off. He can turn it, he can stop it, and pretty soon he'll be riding it off a ramp (not because his mother wants him to). I'm not really surprised--I mean, the kid has been riding a scooter like a professional since his third birthday.

He loves his bike. "Mom," he said, "I'm a lucky kid because you got me this awesome bike." And I am a lucky woman, to be his mother.

Ah, What The Hell

You only live once, right? Right. So, if you're four, and you want, say, a mohawk--well, I say: GO FOR IT. So we did.

 

I think it suits him.

 

My husband came home and said, "I SAW what you did to his hair." And I said, "It was his idea." And he was all, "If the kid wanted to jump off a bridge, would you let him?" That was when I sighed heavily and rolled my eyes. "PUH-LEASE," I said. And he said, "I know, it's not really a big deal. It's just my job as a codger to say that."

So, glad we got that over with.

 

At least Superbaby liked it.

Camping

 

 

 

 

 

 

Showing Off Their Matching Haircuts

Here is Will and Cheez (his grandfather) on his 4th birthday at our favorite pizza place. Please note the raised eyebrow on my son, which he inherited from Dashing Husband (UNFAIR).

 

Cheez is pretty much Will's hero. These two have been buddies since day one.

Two Squared

Dear Will,

Tomorrow you turn four years old. Did you know that four is the first non-prime number? Me neither. In fact, I'm ashamed to admit that I have no idea what a prime number is. Perhaps I should have paid more attention in math class? Yes, I should have. What's funny about this story was that if I told you that four was a non-prime number, you would simply say, "I know."

 

Another fun fact: four is the number of knees that elephants have. They are the only creature on the planet that can claim this distinction. I am slightly weirded out by this, but you probably already know. Four, apparently, is the age at which One Knows Everything. Four is also the age of: Incessant Whining, Clenching One's Fists When Angry, Talking About Butts, Using "Weiner" To Describe One's Private Parts, and Refusing to Eat Breakfast Cereal.

 

Holy schnike, you're getting big. Your feet are almost as big as your brother's, and he's two whole years older. Speaking of your brother--you adore him. You want to be just like him and you're pretty sure that his ideas are the BEST ideas. In fact, when I asked you what you wanted for your birthday, you quickly rattled off a list of all the things that Gus got for his birthday. The only thing that has changed about this hero worship in the last year is that you've really stepped into the Annoying Little Brother role and made it your own. I have personally witnessed you manipulating your brother to get what you want. You're frighteningly good at it, in your quiet way.

 

What's fabulous about you is how you've also stepped into your role as A Big Brother. You take special care of Superbaby. If you have crackers, you share. If he wants your Matchbox car, you give it to him. You help him climb on the couch and you pick him up when he falls down. When he wakes up crying, you run to his crib and start tossing toys in until he's happy again. This is no doubt how I came to find Superbaby standing on top of a giant stuffed dog, a monkey, a bear, a stuffed snake, a shape sorter, three pacifiers and four blankets. Those are the things you thought might make him feel better.

 

Will, I think you're the perfect middle child. Aunt Jacqui was saying that about you before we even thought about Superbaby, and she was right. You're like the cream in our Oreo--without you, the cookie would be a little less sweet, and it certainly wouldn't stay together. Without you, our little family just wouldn't be the same.

So this is what four looks like (for the record, that's your self-proclaimed "Rock N' Roll Pose," and you are one handsome guy). It's going to be a big year, I can tell.  A couple of days ago I told you that you weren't allowed to turn four, and that you would have to stay three forever. I wish I could bottle three-year-old you, but you said, "No, Mom, I have to get bigger!" That right there is the knowing you were born with, that some things are just the way they are, and why fight it? When I asked you what you would do when you got bigger, you said, "I will tell people not to hit each other and that they have to share stuff."  That sounds like a plan to me.

Love,

Mama

On A Lighter Note

A few days ago I mentioned to Will that he needed a haircut.

"I want it just like the Cheez's hair," he replied. For the record, my father has always worn his hair short. Navy short.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

He was.

 

I'm not complaining--it's easier to shear them like sheep than it is to fight with scissors and thick hair that doesn't lay right. Besides, the Cheez is pretty much Will's idol. It didn't take Gus long to decide he'd like his hair like the Cheez's too.

 

For the record, the thumbs-down is for the picture taking, not the haircut. The haircut is SWEET. Also sweet? Gratuitous baby butt, as pictured below.

 

What do you mean you don't garden naked? That does not compute.