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...

Dreams

Yesterday, E asked, "How do you get to space, mom?" Assuming that he already knew about spaceships, etc., I replied, "You have to be an astronaut to go into space."

E, obviously intrigued: "Well, how do you get to be an astronaut? Because that's what I want to be when I get big."
Me, thinking: "Aw, that's adorable!"
Me [seizing the chance to reinforce education...]:"You have to learn all your math and do really well in school."
E, horrified: "You mean I have to learn my numbers?!?"
Me, timidly: "Well, yes, to do math you have to know your numbers."
E, disgusted: "I don't think I can do that."

Pause

E, resigned: "Maybe I'll just be one for Halloween instead."

He's Getting Old...

E's in the next room taking a bath while I'm snatching a few moments to check my email. A second ago, he called out "I can't find my towel [meaning wash cloth] any more! I need you to help me find it!" Assuming he was teasing me, I ignored him for a little while, and then when his cries became increasingly more distressed, I finally peeked around the corner at him.

Me: "What's the problem?"
E: "I can't find my towel. It's supposed to be here and I just can't find it."
Me: "You mean the one on your head?"
E: "OH!......I didn't see it there..."

Someone's Been Making Up Too Many Answers...

The other day, E and I were playing in the living room. He was getting frustrated at his inability to take the lid off of a small barrel (it was rather difficult, he has small hands and chubby fingers) so tossed it aside.

A few minutes later, when we were picking up his toys, I removed the lid from the barrel to put some very small pieces inside for safe-keeping.

E watched me in awe, before saying, "Mom, how'd you do that?"

And then, before I could muster an answer that didn't involve "because I'm bigger than you", he supplied one for me:

"Oh, magic."

Bad Influences

Tomorrow, my parents are taking E to the fair. Unfortunately, the rides don't open until 11 AM, and E's pre-K starts at 12:30 PM...which means about an hour of ride time, all told. However, I was planning on taking him in the afternoon/early evening, after my Pharmacology test at 9 AM.

But they asked if he could skip school. To go to the fair.

Something seems wrong in this picture...

It's Not BRAIN surgery!!

Earlier today, E and I were in the grocery store, attempting to decide which type of applesauce we were going to purchase. Naturally, I was pushing for the generic brand, and E was excited about Mott's, since he recognized it from Nanay's house...Anyway, eventually I gave in and reached for the Mott's, only to realize that the Non-Sugar "Organic" type was right below it. I switched packages, forgetting that my child is not blind. He immediately gave cry to his indignant feelings of betrayal, and I had to persuade him that, yes, indeed, he did want the green package, because it had strawberry applesauce in it, while the other package just had regular, old boring applesauce. He, after all, is not the least bit interested about where his applesauce comes from, only what color it is.

Well, in the end, it worked and he accepted the exchange.

We moseyed on down the aisle, and E said "I wanted the strawberry one because I like strawberry." [See how I do that? I convince him it was his idea all along. Because I'm just that good.]
I replied: "I know, and you know how I know? Because I'm a mom, and moms know everything." [I'm also trying to convince him that I have eyes in the back of my head...]
E: "Nuh UH! I know everything!"
Me: "Nope, just moms know everything."
E: "Well, MOM, you gotta share your brain!!"

Damn You, Dr. Seuss (with apologies, love and respect)

One of E's favorite books a couple of years ago was Dr. Seuss's "Happy Birthday to You!" I'm sure it was partly because of the rhythmic nature of his works, and partly because the man was so wordy that it took him 60 pages to tell "The Cat In the Hat". [I know, not exactly complicated subject matter, you wouldn't think it would take that long, right?] And after all, the longer the book, the farther away bedtime is.

Anyway, reading "HBtY!" every night was fine with me for a while, as I've always thought that Dr. Seuss wrote his books to appeal to both children and their parents. I find his whimsical stories and made-up words endearing and they definitely make for some funny tongue-twisting. Plus, "HBtY!" was my favorite Dr. S. book when I was a kid, so it was nice to pass the love on, as it were. And most importantly, before I managed to get too tired of it, E switched his allegiance to a different book.

Well, he hadn't really rediscovered it until recently. You see, once he gets off an addiction kick, he's done with that thing for a loooong time (happens with movies, books, toys, food, people, you name it).

But tonight we read it together. And I realized that book has a lot more pitfalls in it than I ever expected.

You see, E's at the "But what does it mean?" stage right now. Everything has to have a definition, from pictures to facial expressions to colors to words.

I hit the first snag at the memorable line(s), "If you'd never been born, well then what would you be...Why, you might be a WASN'T!"

Interruption #1: "Mom, what's a 'wasn't'?"
"Um, it means you're nothing."
"How can you be nothing?"
"Just listen to the story, honey." [That's right, I said it. You try explaining it...]

My next notable hang-up came at "If you'd never been born, then you might be an ISN'T! An isn't has no fun at all. No he disn't."

Interruption #218: "Mom, what's 'disn't'?"
"It means 'doesn't'." [He let that one pass. I don't know how.]

We managed to get by "Klopfers" and "Pal-alace" without difficulty.

But THEN we got to the part where the birthday band is coming by, with their Drummers and Strummers and Zummers and Plumbers...

Interruption #578: "Mom, what instrument is that?"
And he pointed to a contraption of bongos and maracas and harp strings and pipes that shared only a remote resemblance to its more mundane instrumental relatives...

And I gave up:
"I have no idea."

Apparently, good ol' Theodor should have included a freaking labeled guide and dictionary to his books, because they are NOT "easy reading" for this mom and her very confused little boy.

To Cave or Not To Cave

E's OGs (Other Grandparents) brought him back from his Daddy Z's today. Unfortunately, it was after 9 PM by the time we met up, and E had already been asleep for an hour or so by that time.

Which meant that by the time I got him home at 9:45, read him a story, rubbed his back, gave him a face massage and sang him a song (yes, this is the normal routine...he's high maintenance, what can I say?), he was wide awake.

So for a couple of hours, I was in and out of his room every 15 minutes or so, reassuring him that he would eventually fall asleep, encouraging him to turn his light on and "read" for awhile, refusing to let him have something to eat.

That would have been, if not fine, at least tolerable, except for the fact that test block starts in a week, and I was trying to study. So it was neither fine nor tolerable, but extremely frustrating. You can imagine how difficult it is to concentrate on memorizing the billion different types of cancer when your study groove is broken every 15 minutes by a little voice saying (or screaming) "Mommy, I can't sleep!"

So I finally gave in and did the unthinkable.

Right now, he's lying tucked up on the living room couch in the dark, watching Toy Story, on the condition that if he gets up or makes any noise, back to the Unsleepable-In Bed he goes. And I'm happily engaged in reading about neoplasia.

I can't decide if I'm a really bad disciplinarian or a genius.

It Was True at Some Point, At Least

E just started Pre-K at a public elementary school. He goes Monday through Friday from 12:30 to 3:30 in the afternoon. There are 20 children in his class, with a teacher, a teacher's assistant, and a student teacher.

I was a bit leery of putting him in Pre-K. Our experience with a private preschool last fall didn't go over well. The teacher didn't impress me, E was having a hard time adjusting to certain of his classmates, and it got to where he was screaming every time we dropped him off. Because he'd been in a preschool before (which he had loved), I wrote the entire experience off as just a bad apple, and withdrew him from the program after about 4 months.

However, that meant that my parents had to bear the brunt of childwatching during the school year. And while they love him, and they love taking care of him, he's an extremely active/curious/ high-maintenance 4-year-old, and they're in their 50s. They're not spring chickens (sorry, 'rents, if you read this...I love you!). I felt like it was wearing them out to watch him for what sometimes amounted to 9 hours a day. I mean, let's not kid ourselves, it wears me out to watch him all day.

Plus, seeing as how E is an only child (and likely to stay that way for a long, long time), and my parents' neighborhood is composed mostly of retired and mid-life couples with grown children, he didn't have that many playmates. And the poor thing loves other kids. So I made the decision (with parental encouragement) to enroll him in Pre-K.

And so far, it's been a delight. He comes home jabbering about his friends and his teachers every day, he loves being the "helper", and talks about the little "jobs" they give the kids to do around the classroom. Seeing as how school's in the afternoon, he gets to spend the mornings with Nanay & Poppa, and then they can rest while he's being worn out playing at school. He's been sleeping better at night, he has something concrete to look forward to every afternoon, he gets to be around other kids, and the g'rents get a well-earned rest.

Anyway, today was the first Pre-K parents' meeting. I attended, like the active parent I am (going to be). It lasted for maybe 10 minutes, and its real purpose was just so that his teacher, Mrs. S., could meet those parents that she hadn't yet, and we could pick up a big set of papers about the program and our kids.

So at the end, after I'd collected all my shnizzle, I went to go speak with Mrs. S. I had met her briefly at the open house before school started, and had seen her when picking E up from school, but had never officially met her. Upon introducing myself as E's mother, she told me that he's apparently a joy to have in class, and that he's a well-behaved, sweet child.

I'm so glad someone thinks that on a daily basis.

Kidding, kidding...

Are You My Mother?

Because I'm a young, single mom, I've always been wary of misinterpretation as far as who E's mother is. Not from E himself, but from other people.

It doesn't help that his last name is different than mine. You'd think in this day and age, with all the freaking divorces, professional women keeping their last names, etc., people would be used to parents having different last names from their kids. But no. Every time I pull out my ID or sign for E, I get weird looks. Sigh.

And I look like I'm about 18. And my mom looks like she's less than 40. So I tend to hear that my "little brother" is adorable. Or people will exclaim that my mom doesn't look old enough to have a teenager AND a 4 year old. It gets old fast.

Worst is when my son calls my dad "Daddy", which he does a lot. It catches Poppa's attention a lot faster than "Poppa" does. I mean, come on, he's been answering to "Daddy" for over 20 years, and "Poppa" has only been around for the last couple. However, that habit gets awkward, because while Dad doesn't look old, per se, he looks quite a bit older than I do. So when E goes around calling me "Mama" and Poppa "Daddy", my poor father gets the "you're a creepy old man" looks. It's kind of funny, admittedly.

Anyway, my parents, E and I were eating dinner out some time ago, when a work acquaintance of my dad's walks by. They strike up a conversation, and she eventually starts cooing over E...I mean, she couldn't help it, he's adorable. So Dad's like, "he looks like me, doesn't he?" in that proud Poppa way that all parents/grandparents/relatives of cute kids have. The poor lady goes "No, he looks like his mom!" while gesturing toward my mother. The rest of us just kind of smiled, willing to let it pass.

But not E. He indignantly stated: "That's not my mom! That's my nanay! This is my mom!!"

And that's my boy.