Recently Heard

My 4 year old who's going on 30...

"I have a sentiment..."
"I'll be with you in a minute."
"Let's set up a pattern."
"I'll check on you in 10 minutes."

Mary had a little lamb...

I took E to school with me today. No one else was available to take HIM to school, and I had required morning and evening classes, so he had to just tag along. He wasn't too thrilled, but he was amazingly good.

In the morning, I had a human behavior class, where we were interviewing patients simulating mental illness. Our course director ended up playing the part of our first patient, and before the began, she asked E's name and age, and commented that her own son had been the same age when she was in med school. She's good at building rapport, I suppose.

Anyway, so she's going along pretending to be in the manic phase of a manic-depressive disorder, when suddenly she comments to her interviewer: "And I see that you treat all kinds of patients! I saw a little boy in the waiting room, who was just sitting there reading his book, and he said his name was 'E'." And E, who was at that moment sitting on my lap, "reading" a book, covered his face with said book and muttered "Not cool," while everyone laughed.

And in the afternoon, he calmly sat through 2 hours of dermatology slides, drawing pictures on some hematology papers I had dug out of my bag. He drew a lot of notice, including that of some of my undergrad classmates.

One commented "This should at least be more interesting than Biochem, huh?"

Which led me to remember that interesting time that I brought Evan to Biochem with me...he was about 2. And he spilled a whole container of Cheerios on the floor in the middle of the lecture. And I had to pick them up off the floor (blessedly, with the help of another mom...) in front of all those eyes.

Times have certainly changed.

Wise Child

E and I were listening to the infamous radio host Delilah the other night. Now, I used to hate Delilah. A few years ago, I much preferred Dr. Laura for my radio entertainment, she of the biting tongue and unfailingly sarcastic wit. But then I realized that my life was beginning to reflect her "give-no-quarter, ask-none" policy, which, whatever she may say, is NOT a good/Godly way to live your life. So I turned back to Delilah. Delilah may not shock people out of their supposed stupidity as often as Dr. Laura does, but she has kind words for everyone, and honest yet gentle words for those who need them. Sometimes I still get tired of hearing how much in love everyone seems to be, but then again, the world doesn't always display that love very openly, so if I can find it on the radio, I suppose I should just appreciate it for what it's worth.

Anyway, my point is, the radio was turned to Delilah while she and some caller were talking about how to make relationships work. Now, I wasn't really listening, but apparently E was. Because after a very long period of silence (that never happens in my car unless he's asleep; he's always either chattering, singing, or screaming), during which the requested song started up, E piped up: "If you want to make someone happy, you gotta do it yourself."

Which, admittedly, is true.

Priorities

When discussing whether E and I wanted my fiance (then boyfriend) to be part of our family, E pronounced: "It's ok with me, as long as he brings his toys."

Proprioception Problems

Driving home from dinner, E says to me "You're going the wrong way, Mom!" I replied, "No, babe, this is how we get home." E concedes: "Ok, I guess, but we don't usually come this way." Gently, I correct: "Well, this is how we go home most of the time..." After a moment, E: "Yeah, but we're not usually upside-down when we come this way." I had nothing for that...

Storytelling

This evening, my son eagerly repeated a story that his Poppa had told him a few nights ago before bedtime...a story that Daddy used to tell me before my bedtime. It brought a tear to my cynical eye.

My dad is a great storyteller. His stories always involve me and my siblings (and now E) and our various pets, and he makes up ridiculous names for us ("E the Wonder Boy", "Lucky Bucky", "Pepper Wepper", "Smokey Lokey", etc.). We take on fantastic powers and undergo the most involved adventures, always after saying goodbye to "Mama Llama" at the house. The stories are dynamic and fluid, changing at a moment's notice or a small child's request ("I wanna fight the bear this time!"). The heroes always save a family member or friend from a horrifying threat (lions and tigers and bears, oh my!!) while remaining calm, collected, and heroic throughout. Everything always turns out well, and in the end, Mama's always waiting for us at home.

I think everyone should tell their kids stories. I remember my dad's stories better than the multitude of books that my parents read me during my childhood. Stories like his stimulate imagination and encourage creativity. We were always encouraged to help our hero selves find ways out of their predicaments. I can't even look back at my childhood without hearing my dad's voice mischievously spinning out nighttime adventures for me and my siblings.

So I'm a huge proponent of storytelling. I just wish I were better at it. I think I'll go practice...

Sweetness

Starting Christmas Day, E spent a week with his father's family. I picked him with his other grandparents on New Year's Day. He climbed out of the car with his grumpy "I just woke up, and I hate everyone" look on his face. But one look around, and he ran toward me, yelling "Mommy, I missed you! I missed you so much!"

And at that moment, the whole missing-piece week was worth it.

Christmas Come Early

We pulled out our Advent calendar this week. It's a sweet little felt pocket thing that I received as a gift last year (which has always seemed strange to me - holiday items given as holiday gifts...but whatever). A little wooden Santa hat comes with it, and your child (ostensibly, unless you're the kind of adult who likes to have Santa-themed felt Advent Calendars) is supposed to put the little hat in the pocket marked with the date to keep track of how many days there are left until Christmas. Yes, I know that was a very long sentence. You can read; you'll be fine.

Anyway, so on Sunday night, I supervised the placement of the hat into the 2 pocket. On Monday morning, I awoke to discover that apparently it was the 6th of December. Yesterday morning, it had become the 20th. Last night, E told me that it was Christmas Eve and in the morning we would open our presents...

He Teaches Me Well

Note: I can't remember if I've already blogged this, or when exactly it happened. But it was in the last couple of months, so...

Driving home one night, E asked me how God made space. I started describing the Big Bang theory, basically ending with "So it was a big explosion, isn't that cool?!"

E flatly denied it, saying "Mom, that's not cool, that's dangerous. Someone could have gotten hurt."

Resuming my role as stern safety regulations officer, I replied "You're right, that's true, but there weren't any people or animals around then, so no one was there to get hurt."

E shot back, "God and Jesus were there!"

Getting a bit desperate now, I floundered "Yeah, well, God and Jesus can't be hurt, sweetheart."

Without pause, my 4-year-old: "But, MOM, Jesus died!!"

Needless to say, I lost the argument.

I hope he becomes a lawyer.

That way, he'll be able to take care of/support his mother when she's lost all of her neurological function from racking her brains in order to hold intelligent conversations with him.

Green Kids

In the car recently (a lot of my stories start that way), E held up an empty Reeses Pieces bag (don't judge me, it was left over from a movie, ok?!) and asked: "Is this recyclable?"

I swear. That's what he said.

Someone's Nanay (aka my mom) has been getting to him...

Career Planning

My bf D is an oil engineer who travels a lot for work. Tonight, hearing me explain to someone that D was gone "on a job", E asked "What kind of job?" This is always a difficult description for me to make, because I'm not quite sure what exactly D does on these "jobs", therefore my family has a standing joke that D is secretly a CIA agent. Anyway, so I plunge in headfirst, saying "Well, you know that D is an engineer [for the longest time, my dad had E convinced that D was the type of engineer who drives trains...], and when he's gone, he helps get oil out of the ground by digging with lots of big tools."

E: "When I grow up, I'm going to be an engineer, and I'm gonna help D do his job. Because sometimes, when I go outside with my friends, I dig in the ground, and I help dig things up, and so I'm already an engineer."

...But at Least I'm Better than Some

After dance class, on our way home, E & I heard Alvin & the Chipmunks' "Christmas Don't Be Late" (or whatever it's called) on the radio. Thinking that E would appreciate the silliness of the song, I turned the volume up and urged him to listen. Apparently, he was listening more seriously than I had supposed...

"Their voices are not as pretty as yours."

Everybody's a Critic

Tonight, I was singing a very, very late lullaby to E (bedtime doesn't matter so much when there is a lot of attention to be had...). I've been sick for what seems like ages, and I was trying to keep my voice down so as not to disturb my grandmother across the hall. So my voice happened to be scratchy, whispery, and intermittently punctuated by coughs. E listened patiently and at the end, asked, "Why isn't your voice pretty tonight?"

Thanksgiving is:

...Not as exciting as someone else's toys and a large, empty living room to play in.

Must Remember...

E decided he was going to make a science project.

While I was in the shower this morning, he was describing it to me from the next room. These were his instructions:

1) Put water on a piece of paper
2) "Paint" over it (the water? the paper?) with a pencil
3) Glue a "seed" (also known as a paper clip in the adult world) to the paper
4) Watch the seed grow

E asked me if I thought it was a good idea, and I replied that we could definitely do parts of it, but that we'd have to use an actual seed in an actual pot, and (more importantly to the overall success of the project) do it at Nanay's house...

E replied that he thought this was definitely a good plan, and as he walked out of my bedroom, he commanded:

"Don't forget about this idea, Mom. Keep it in your brain."

Notes on a Celebration

(At the risk of violating my tenuous anonymity on this blog,) I am proud to state that today we celebrated our home state's 100th birthday. I took E out of school and we drove to the original state capital to witness the Centennial Parade taking place there.

There were huge state school bands, tiny high school bands with one person to an instrument, pioneers tugging around oxen, trick ropers, nuns, a children's Irish dance group, a float with representatives from every Indian tribe in the state, old cars, old tractors, cheerleaders throwing Mardi Gras beads, oil rigs, and a Budweiser wagon with a team of matched Clydesdales.

The parade (which was fantastic) lasted for 2 hours, and consisted of everything from cowboys to Indians.

Interestingly enough, my son, who is more than a quarter Native American, was dressed as a cowboy...

Another Door Opens

If you ever happen to have made the mistake of going to a popular restaurant with a child who's on the verge of being cranky and tired, here's a good way to keep said child busy while waiting to be seated:

Employ him as doorman

Everyone wins. It keeps the kid entertained, you look like a good parent who has taught your child to open doors for his elders, and the other patrons get to coo over your "handsome young man."

Bonus points if you can teach him to wink at the ladies.

First Confession

Apparently, early today, E told my father that he was "going to go tell Jesus" on him because Dad was "being naughty and scaring children"...

My mother, of course, was all "he's a good Catholic boy." She thinks she's funny.

Out-Manuevered

Usually, threatening the loss of a bedtime story (half of the normal allotment) in the couple of hours before bedtime is enough to curtail any shenanigans that a rapidly-tiring child o' mine is likely to engage in. Tonight I had already given the warning, due to the excessive amount of whining that was going on. So I was a little surprised when, 30 minutes later, there was a hint of a whine upon being asked to change into his pajamas.

"E," I said, with all the maternal sternness I could muster, "was that a whine?"
"Yes," he said, simply, smiling up at me.
A little nonplussed, but rallying, I asked, "Do you remember what I said would happen if you whined any more tonight?"
"Yes," he beamed, obviously proud of himself, "I'd lose a story."
"Well, then if you whined, I guess you have to lose a story..." I guessed that upon having the connection laid out for him, he'd consider his original definition.

It was not to be:

"Yay! I'm glad when I only get one story because then I get more sleep."

Cross-Painting

E's elementary school held a Fall Carnival this evening, for which I (probably because I was directly under the eye of his teacher, who reminds me of both my mother and one of my former piano instructors...meaning I do whatever she tells me...) volunteered 45 minutes to help set-up the classroom.

This year, Mrs. S landed the salon room, which is apparently a hugely popular thing with the tykes. After experiencing it first-hand, I'd have to say I agree.

The salon this year consisted of 2 nail tables, 2 temporary tattoo tables, and "hair painting".

After serving my sentence, I for some reason landed a job painting nails. Now, I rarely do my own nails, because I play guitar, which is not conducive to nicely polished fingernails. In addition, I have never liked the effect of nail polish on my stumpy "man-hand" fingers, and I prefer to leave them nude and therefore ignored. Also, I have a boy-child, and not a girl-child. This is all meant to illustrate that I don't paint nails.

Well, I did today. There was a huge rush for the nail painting table, and I was faced with the dire prospect of doing tiny nail after tiny nail under the critical eyes of countless mothers. I took a long, long, long time doing it, too.

The interesting thing was that after a certain time, I ended up painting boys' nails.

Now, these weren't little boys (meaning above the age of 8 or so). According to them all, this was "the one time of the year" when this was acceptable, so they were determined to get their due. And not all of them chose black, in fact only 1 did. The rest chose any combination of blue, red, and/or pink. I'm serious. I painted more boy nails than girl nails, all told.

While I was painting some kid's nails a brilliant shade of pink, my own boy-child happened to walk up, my faithful parents in tow. After explaining what I was doing, I teasingly asked if I'd be allowed to paint his nails. At first, I met with a sharp no, but then apparently he changed his mind. Probably due to the fact that the boy whose nails I was painting was much bigger than E is. My mom offered to paint them for him, since I was busy, but E insisted on waiting his turn. He then somberly sat down in front of me, handed me a bottle of black nail polish, and held out his hand.

My baby's fingernails are black. And on purpose.

And the rest of the evening, he kept telling people that his mom had put "makeup" on him...