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Spring Training

Apr 8th, 2011 by

Slightly warmer and significantly longer days are getting us all outside after an unusually long winter.

My spring training is, of course, the New Balance No Boundaries Couch to 5K program. After tomorrow’s run, I will be half-way through the program. After four weeks of finishing so far ahead of the rest of the run-walk group that I occasionally lost sight of them, this week I gulped hard and put myself in the run group. These folks started out with a foundation for running, had run in the past, and were getting themselves back in shape for a 5K and beyond.

They’re up to two miles now, which may not seem like much but is totally intimidating to the person who has never, ever run before. But I did it! I’m a solid middle-of-the-packer, the coaches were very supportive and encouraging, and so far nothing hurts. Next week we’ll also go two miles, but our weekend runs are 2.75 miles tomorrow and 3 miles next Saturday. In other words, it’s pretty much 6 weeks from the couch to a 5K for me. A slow 5K, a pretty flat 5K, but 5K nonetheless. That gives me four weeks to work on hills and speed. But not speed on hills!

Having stared down my second-greatest fear, running, I now must face my greatest, running shorts. I mean, have you seen those suckers? They have 2″ inseams, which is great if you are tall and/or built like an Olympic athlete, but I’m going to look diapered in them. I wonder if I can find a running store that serves wine while you shop?

The shorter member of our family has broken out the T-ball set and the bike. And has run at every opportunity; mama is getting in shape just in time. Last year we put him on a trike with rubber inflatable tires and watched him zoom. This year Evie has put him in a little 14” bike with training wheels and watched him zoom even faster. There will be no running to keep up with him this year. We clearly have only two options: Condition our own bikes and join the fun or find a place where he can go on his own. We also have only  one option when it comes to purchasing: calls and drop-ins to four used kids places have so far turned up one used bike the right size: a pink Barbie bike*. Off to the bike store we go….

Last night kicked off spring training for baseball in my absence. Matt informs me that Simon batted pretty good right handed (Papaw wants him to be able to hit with both hands.) and then killed it with his left (Mom will just be grateful if either hand is worth much.). Thinking back to last summer, he then asked if they could run the bases. Matt is convinced that finding a T-ball league is pointless, as Simon will never be that good. I’m convinced that adequate + leftie = good enough and plan to go looking.

* Other moms of boys will surely recognize the phenomenon of consignment stores being packed with great, like-new things for girls while sporting 12 inches of rack space for thoroughly battered boys goods.

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy, No Boundaries | 1 Comment »

Adventures in Cross Cultural Communications

Apr 5th, 2011 by

I’m hosting a baby shower for my friend Alek, Agotich’s mother. Invited guests include fellow members of the Refugee Education Fund and a mix of American and Sudanese women. We didn’t have much lead time for the shower, and it was hard for Alek to gather everyone’s addresses. So she gave me a list of her friends’ and relatives’ names and phone numbers instead.

Whoo boy! I called a few of the women I know and have met first. Easy! Then I got to the women I don’t know at all, many of whom have not been here long themselves and are not yet proficient in English. That’s where it got more challenging. After stumbling around on a few calls, I began to realize that it was best to describe Alek not as Alek Ajak, but as Kwai Kwai’s (Gabriel’s first and last name) wife, Akech Kwai’s (Gabriel’s middle and last name, which he often goes by so he has a different first and last name) wife, or, in a pinch, Agotich’s mama.

I can’t remember if I’ve ever posted about this or not, but in Dinka culture a woman is known by name of her first child once she becomes a mother. Thus, my friend Agok is “Aciek Mama”, Alek is “Agotich Mama” and I am “Simon Mama”, or would be were I Dinka. I learned about this while helping Alek take out a set of extensions this winter.

Anyway, some of the women understand enough to write down my name, number, and address. Others ask me to call back when their husbands will be home. And then there was the most unlikely impasse of all:

“I’m calling about Alek Ajak. You know her?”

“Alek? Ajak? Who?”

“Kwai Kwai’s wife? “

Nothing.

“Akech Kwai’s wife?”

Nothing.

“Agotich’s mama?”

Nothing. Then:

“Wait! Do you mean Gabriel’s wife?”

Ohforcryingoutloud.

“Yes! Gabriel!”

And so we continued.

Then yesterday, I took Alek and Agotich for one of Alek’s regular prenatal exams. Owing to the fact that the very beautiful lobby had no reading material or TV and that the wait was Godot-like, I had the chance to get to know the life stories of many fellow Louisvillians. There was the very fair woman with the rash, who commented about how beautiful Alek was once Alek got called back into the examining room. There was the nurse with her four-year-old boy who was nervous about getting his shots. There was the no-nonsense mother of five who told her brood in no uncertain terms that they better sit quietly and not disturb anyone. And there was the very cute and very bored 10-year-old African American girl whose opening conversational gambit was, “Are you her mother!?”

The fact of the girl’s race and my choice of language to describe it are important and intentional for this story. Having discussed Agotich’s age, whether she was falling asleep, the girl’s school, how long she’d been wearing glasses and so on, the girl looked at me and said:

“She doesn’t look like she’s from here. Is she Mexican or Indian or something?”

I was dumbstruck. I mean, given this country’s primary racial story, how can anyone born and bred in the US not recognize as African someone with Agotich’s features? It’s not like Agotich is San or North-African. Nor did the girl confuse her with someone from, say, Melanesia or New Guinea. I can’t decide if this level of racial oblivious is a sign of the decay of our educational system or a hopeful sign that the next generation really is color blind!

I’m hoping for the latter, but I have my doubts…

Posted in Friends, Jessica | 1 Comment »

Another Milestone

Apr 2nd, 2011 by

Last night, Simon took his first ever shower. His first attempt was more than a year ago; he shrieked and had to be airlifted from the premises.

But yesterday, at bath-time, Matt casually asked Simon if he wanted to shower with him, and Simon surprised us all by saying yes. He loved it! Giggled a ton, said the water was tickling him, stepped out into his own robe when he was finished, and generally had a wonderful time. He wants to know when he can shower next.

One more step on the march to big-boydom. The other milestone? Mommy didn’t photograph this momentous occasion, you will be relieved to know.

Posted in Family, Jessica, Little Boy | 3 Comments »

Howlers and Head Scratchers

Mar 31st, 2011 by

The last three months have brought some terrific quotes that didn’t quite flesh out into full vignettes. They’ve been sitting around as drafts for a while, tid-bits I’m afraid I might lose/forget if I don’t commit them to type.

The first and oldest dates to January or early February. Having played foosball and loved it once, Simon could not wait to get to back to the rec room at his grandparents’ church to play again. A week later, the whole family headed over to Southeast Christian to play after a Thursday night dinner. Since the second trip included Jim, Evie, Matt, me, Dan, and Simon, we had to split into two cars.

Hilariously, our five-minute or less car separation (the Whitworths live in a development across the street from their church) was the source of much anxiety on Simon’s part. He was excited that Uncle Dan was going with him and concerned that he couldn’t see Uncle Dan’s car for the entirety of our 1/8 mile trip.

The money quote came when we pulled into our parking space:

“I bet Uncle Dan is already inside playing [foosball], and I’m worried.”

He (Dan) wasn’t (inside), but he (Simon) should have been (worried). Turns out, Uncle Dan is something of a Foosball Wizard, and the only way to win that night was to be on his team. And that was with Dan not even trying very hard. Or at all I suspect.

Flash forward a few weeks, and we find Matt fixing Simon lunch while Cambria looks and meows on. Simon assumes that Cambria is crying for lemonade and offered the following:

“No, Cambria, you can’t have any lemonade. You drink water. [to Matt] Cambria likes water. I like sugar.”

Accurate. Alas, Matt and I both have runaway sweet-tooths, and Simon is following suit.

Or how about Simon’s knack for directions:

I want to go to that house where we took I-64 to I-264 to I-71 to I-265. We can go fast on I-71.

Apparently he had a good time playing with his cousins at Uncle Sam’s new place.

Moving right along, Simon and I found ourselves out in the cold one winter day when he grew cold and tried to speed up our departure:

“Ooooh, Mommy, I’m cold. We better get home before I turn into sorbet.”

Somebody’s Bubbie is lactose intolerant!

Then there was the day Simon either counted or named a color in Hebrew. Matt was impressed and asked, “What language is that, Simon?”

Simon thinks for a minute, obviously unsure. Then he says:

“Other Spanish”

We still laugh about that one. Although, given a preschool taxonomy, it makes sense.

In just the last few days, he’s rattled off some more zingers. Except these aren’t funny little preschool constructions, these are things Matt has taught him that I had no idea he know. They include:

“The sun is made of hydrogen gas. Hydrogen gas turns into helium gas.”

and the question

“Where are Spirit and Opportunity? (exploration rovers on Mars)”

or even

“That’s the Commodore.”

identifying the name of an apartment building a block down from us.

If the first two thirds of this post represent cute things I don’t want to forget, the last third reflects my growing realization that Simon is a smart little sponge who is on his way to knowing more than his Mama can remember!

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy, Simon says... | 1 Comment »

Acceptance

Mar 28th, 2011 by

Matt and I are still a bit fried from our week of sinus hell. His having a work all-nighter Wednesday night didn’t help any, either, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.

So Friday night when Simon brought up death, I was tired and not terribly excited about being engaged in such a potentially draining conversation. Tristan died seven months ago Friday; Percy seven months Sunday. But he surprised me. Many of the same old tropes came up, but with none of the old emotional distress. He looked and sounded very much like a boy who had achieved understanding and acceptance. Here’s how the conversation flowed:

“I wish Percy and Tristan had the force.

“The force?

“Yeah, so they could come back.

“Oh, I see now. [that would be The Force from Star Wars; it allowed Yoda and Obi Wan to make post-death appearances.] Yeah, that would be nice. But it doesn’t work that way in real life.

“Yeah, they can’t come back.

“No honey, they can’t. But you know what the best way to remember them is? And to honor them? It’s to love Cambria.

“Cambria is young.

“He is. And Percy and Tristan, when they died, were both old. But when I brought Percy home, he was in a shelter living in a cage. And a year later, when we brought Tristan home, he was in a shelter living in a cage, too.

“[excited now] And you brought Tristan home and held him up to Percy, and Percy loved him right away.

“That’s right! You remember! Percy did love him right away. It was so sweet. And they lived long, happy lives. We’ll always miss them, but they’d want us to give another cat that needs a home a turn. So we have Cambria now. Remember his cage?

“Yeah, we have Cambria now. He’s young. Mommy, does he love us a whole bunch?

“He does, Simon. We’re his family now, he’s settled in, and he loves us all.

“That’s good, Mommy. I’m happy we have Cambria.

And that was that. The easiest, least fraught conversation yet about Percy and Tristan’s death. Interesting timing, too, as I spent part of Friday deciding which color crape myrtle I want to plant in my back yard as a memorial to them. And just in case I worried his understanding might be temporary, Sunday the topic came up again and Simon offered this:

“When Percy and Tristan died, Cambria was at the shelter in a cage waiting his turn to have a family.”

By George, I think he’s really got it.

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy, Simon says... | No Comments »

Fun and Games

Mar 24th, 2011 by

Yesterday Steepleton delivered and assembled Simon’s new play set. It took the crew (two very nice guys) three hours to put together, and Simon sat and watched for all but about 20 minutes. Most of the time, he sat right by the mulch line and watched as though it were a TV show.

During part of the watching, he and Matt snuggled on the deck, allowing me to get this picture:

My two guys

When Simon is grown and gone and I want a reminder of the short but sweet early years, this will surely be one I visit.

Once the set was assembled, Simon got very busy trying out every feature. Slide, check. Climbing wall, check. Spyglass, check. And possibly his favorite, the rings.

Hang time

I saw him pull this off a month ago at Ruby’s birthday party, but I’m still surprised to learn those arms have enough muscle to do it!

Simon asked about his set first thing this morning when he woke up. We’ve already discussed who will come over and play on with him. I anticipate hundreds, if not thousands, of hours of fun will be had on this in its lifetime. Bonus well spent!

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy | 1 Comment »

Down for the Countdown

Mar 22nd, 2011 by

Matt has spent the last few days struggling with his second (third?) major sinus infection of the year. He’s been upgraded from “acute” sinusitis to “chronic” sinusitis and gets to discuss more aggressive treatment options with an ENT tomorrow, having been referred yesterday. There’s only so many antibiotics and so much cortisone a man can–or should–take. Matt’s been sick more than not the last year and needs to find some relief. I’ve been increasingly worried about him.

Throughout this, I’ve been battling pretty miserable allergies myself and self treating with Zyrtec (which does nothing for me) and Allegra (which also does nothing for me). By Thursday last week I was feeling off, but managed my run anyway. Saturday I felt bad and did my training run feeling so cold that my toes were all Raynaud’s white and numb despite warmish weather. I also hosted a board meeting feeling a trifle woozy. By yesterday I was adding Advil for headaches, throat sprays for my sore throat, and nasal spray to try to open up my clogged head. I knew I was getting worse, but figured I just needed to power through until Matt, prostrate at this point, felt better and/or the pollen count went down.

Then last night I awoke at midnight drenched in sweat. Clearly, it was time to get to to a doctor. Helpfully, Matt’s designer antibiotic and cortisone pack had left him functional enough to watch Simon while I went and got checked out.

The diagnosis?

“You are one sick puppy.”

I have a raging sinus infection of my own. I’ve been walking around with a 101.5 degree fever (normal for me is about 97.5) and the lymphs in my neck, underarm, chest, and groin are all swollen. The doctor prescribed a huge antibiotic dose, regular fever reducers, Afrin spray for three days, saline spray for the duration, lots of steam, and as much rest as I can get.

“But I have a four-year-old.”

“He’s at the video age. Plug him in. You are a sick, sick, woman.”

Sigh. I’m missing spring training tonight. My mom, two weeks to the day post surgery, is picking up Simon tomorrow. I’m playing the rest of the week by ear.

I’m also taking the opportunity to indulge myself with new bath salts, a pack of coconut M&Ms, and the Vanity Fair a friend lent me just today. As an added bonus, Cambria can tell something is off and has been my constant companion in distinctive feline fashion. If I can get the head to stop throbbing, this might just be a cool little 24-hour vacay.

Posted in Jessica | 3 Comments »

Sky Lofter

Mar 20th, 2011 by

We had some fun at Chenoweth Park today. Simon, for reasons I still don’t understand, called me “Reverse Launcher” the entire time. We shot off Sky Lofter three times, each with great success. I tried to video the descent two times, with less success. Next up will be the HeliCAT.

Simon was beyond excited by all of this. Let the boy games begin!

Posted in Little Boy | No Comments »

Exhibits Y and Z

Mar 19th, 2011 by

Filed under “Having kids changes everything,” I offer Exhibits  Y & Z. One would likely have never happened before Simon came along. The other certainly would not have.

Exhibit Y: One of my favorite mystery writers is, or more accurately was, Elizabeth George. She writes the Thomas Lynley series about a titled , handsome, Bentley driving Scotland Yard detective. Early mysteries delved into English class distinctions (Lynley’s partner was born on the opposite end of the class spectrum) and complicated matters of the heart while taking readers along on involved murder investigations.

Later entries have delved deeper into the sociological problems that foster violent crime. The stories are increasingly long and increasingly gritty. To my taste, this makes them increasingly hard to love, but I’ve stuck with them out of habit and allegiance to the key characters. With each successive let-down, I’ve wondered what it would take to have me put down a book and quit the series forever.

Now I know. Last April, George published This Body of Death. It’s over 600 pages, and its main story of a murdered woman found in a London cemetery is intersected with a re-imagination of a famous British murder. In 1993, James Bulger, then 2, was abducted from a shopping center and beaten and tortured to death. In case that’s not horrible enough, consider that the murderers were two ten-year-old boys. Yes, ten.

It was a story that rocked British society and challenged a court system that had never had to try or punish such young offenders. In the wake of this horrific crime, British society drew a collective gasp and wondered what it had wrought.

When I started the book, I didn’t realize that this crime would play a part in the story. Very shortly into it, with the details sounding familiar, I did a little research to confirm my suspicions. At about page 170 of the book, the fictionalized James Bulger has been abducted and thrown about. His clothes are getting tattered, he is getting increasingly hysterical, and I know more than I want to about what’s left to come. (I’m sparing you these details.) With about 550 pages to go, I put the book down and asked myself a few key questions. Namely:

  • How could George have used such a horrible story as part of her work? Especially when the victim’s parents are still around to read it and when her work claims to be wholly the product of her imagination? What’s the point of this publishing boilerplate if it’s a lie?
  • How could anyone read this and enjoy it? I know what James Bulger looked like: he looked like a sweet reddish-haired boy with big brown eyes and pink cheeks. It wasn’t long ago that Simon looked much the same. There’s no way I could get through a graphic retelling of this crime without feeling sick or having nightmares. I can’t imagine I’m alone in that.

Having considered these questions, I made a decision to skip ahead to the last 75 pages, confirm my suspicion as to how the two stories were connected, and delete the rest from my e-Reader. I’m done—with this story and this author.

Exhibit Z is more cheerful. It begins with Matt getting a nice bonus this year. It would be handy any year, but is especially welcome now that I’m not bringing in an income. What to do with it?

  • Redo our ancient bathroom?
  • Finish our deck?
  • Make the dining room window into French doors leading out to our deck?
  • Knock down the wall in our living room and restore the original staircase?

So many options! Here’s what we settled on:

It seems a bit much for one kid, but it will make it much easier to sneak in play time when we don’t have time to hit a park, to say nothing of how much easier it will be to get yard-work done. And Simon already tried out the climbing wall on the store’s demo. As for the rest of the bonus, that’s going to repair our fence and make it easier to keep Simon in the backyard to enjoy his new play-set.

All hail suburban parenthood! We’ll have time for a decent bathroom and elegant deck when Simon is off in college.

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy | 2 Comments »

The Disciplinarian: Part II

Mar 17th, 2011 by

It’s been a while since I blogged about Simon. Given the title and ostensible purpose of this blog, that seems improbable. But ten days or so of schedule updates, health updates, and running updates has pushed the eponymous subject of Kid Amnesiac to the back-burner. Not in real life, mind you, strictly in the literary sense.

So, today I wanted to revisit a topic from just over a year ago. Last January, I noticed that Simon’s discipline of his stuffed animals bore an uncanny resemblance to our disciplining of him. I was amused then to watch Simon explain that Baby Bunny was playing roughly, to explain that Baby Bunny wasn’t trying to be bad, and to gently and correctly give Baby Bunny a time-out to break the cycle of undesirable behavior. It was, I knew, a mirror into my own parenting.

The last week or so has afforded me additional glimpses into that mirror, and into that one other parent.

When Ruby arrived here on Sunday, Simon was busy doing something on his own and did not immediately turn his attention to her. At which point Ruby stood with her legs at shoulder distance, elbows to her side, forearms up and hands splayed outwards at shoulder level.

“Simon,” she asked, “did I come here to have a play-date with Mr. Matt and Ms. Jessica or with you?”

I have heard her dad ask the same question a dozen times when Ruby tries to talk too much with her dad or other adults on play-dates. Right down to the posture and intonation, it was a perfect imitation of Greg.

A day or so later, Matt corrected Simon over his increasingly bad air hockey etiquette.* After the mini-lecture, Simon stood up, faced Matt, and got a little of his own back:

“Daddy, I don’t like it when you talk to me that way. It’s not nice, and it’s not respectful. It hurts my feelings, so you can’t talk to me that way any more.”

Matt can and in fact needed to talk to Simon that way. Simon wasn’t playing nicely, and Matt was trying to instill a sense of good sportsmanship. Matt explained in a serious and gentle tone that parents need to talk to their kids like that sometimes, that he was being very respectful to Simon, and that parents know more than children and have to teach them things.

I watched the drama from the dining room. And I have to say, I was highly amused to hear Simon parrot us so accurately. I was also pleased with his outburst. Not because I wanted Simon to give Matt a hard time, but because I knew I was seeing how Simon defends himself in a peer-group. He stood his ground really well!

My turn came Tuesday. We were turning left into the grocery store parking lot when the person in front of me screeched to a halt, leaving me partially blocking a lane of a very busy street. Alas, this is not a rare occurrence. Our grocery is located in a heavily congested part of town, and Louisvillians drive, for the most part, like idiots.** Tuesday’s issue was that the car in front me pulled into the lot and then immediately stopped to canvas the area for parking spaces.

This maneuver reminds me of people who reach the top of an escalator and immediately stop to figure out which way to go, oblivious to the fact that those behind them on the escalator need a place to put their feet when they reach the top one to five seconds later. This was a particular pet peeve of mine in Bay Area BART stations and at the San Francisco Shopping Center downtown.

Anyway, there I am, half hanging in Bardstown Road while the person in front of me neither continues forward nor turns down an aisle. As traffic approached, I honked. And yelled. And honked some more. And yelled some more. Right about the time I called the person in front of me a “total moron”, Simon admonished me:

“Mommy, that isn’t a nice word. I don’t like you using that word. And you are too loud; you are hurting my ears. So don’t keep being loud and using those mean words.”

It stands to reason that if Simon isn’t allowed to call things “stupid”, that “moron” is equally verboten. Unlike Matt, I did not admonish him in return or defend myself. Having been so respectfully and appropriately disciplined for violating house rules, I mirrored the desired reply:

“You’re right, Simon. I was upset about the car in front of me, but I shouldn’t have used that word or gotten so loud. I’m sorry if I hurt your ears, and I’ll do better in the future.”

That or leave him home when I grocery shop. Because the morons at the Kroger parking lot are unlikely to change!

*Air hockey etiquette: Matt gets this more than I do. What happens is that Simon gets upset about being behind in a game or even being scored on and pouts, suggests quitting, or starts playing in a jokey way (e.g. with four pucks at once or with his mallet upside down) to end serious play. Shades of Goldstein!

**I’ve driven in a lot of cities. Boston drivers are fast, aggressive, and not afraid of their horn. San Francisco drivers are fast and often spaced out. But for sheer annoyance: stopping inappropriately, running red-lights, turn signal failure, and veering in and out of lanes due to simultaneous eating/smoking/texting/cell phone gabbing, this city is second to none.

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy, Simon says... | 1 Comment »

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