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A Boy and His Tonka

Jul 23rd, 2010 by

The Object of His Affection

I keep reading that age three to four is when imaginary play begins, and certainly we’ve been slaying monsters and doing Iron Man poses a lot around here. I also read that age three to four is when imaginary friends show up for only or oldest children. Until a week ago, I had seen no signs of this at all.

Now I have, sort of, and it is capital W Weird. Simon has decided to personify his metal Tonka dump truck (could I make this up?) and make it some sort of hybrid friend/proxy. Tonka is the truck that Simon delights in pushing around the basement when we play “good trucks” or “bad trucks.” I am never allowed to push it; I am stuck with the cheaper, plastic Silverado that doesn’t roll straight and sits lower to the ground. I’m not a big fan of this game, nor is my back.

But I digress. A few days ago Tonka came upstairs to play. And to sit on the couch. And to snuggle. And to cuddle with me and watch Noddy when Simon goes off to camp. Honest engine!

Every morning this week when we’ve told Simon it was near time to leave, he’s gone to Tonka, bent over it, grunted slightly as he strains to lift it (it’s pretty big for him), and said, “Oh, Tonka is heavy; I have to be very strong” while putting it on the couch. Then he continues:

“You sit right here, Mommy, next to Tonka. While I go to camp you can sit right here on the couch with Tonka and snuggle with him and watch Noddy Twinkly Star. OK, Mommy? You’ll cuddle with Tonka and keep him company and watch Noddy Twinkly Star?”

And every morning, I sit down next to Tonka, stroke its metal scoop and pat its cabin as though it were a pet, and promise to take care of Tonka. I also tell Simon he’s being a good friend to Tonka by wanting to take care of him.

This is what I’m supposed to do, right?

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

Back Seat Driver

Jul 21st, 2010 by

Someone’s ready for his driver’s permit! He couldn’t pass the written test at this point, but he’s verbally got the rules of the road down pretty well.

“Mommy,” he’ll say as we turn into a parking spot, “you forgot to turn your turn signal on.”

Or how about: “Mommy, are you driving too fast?” Or, “Mommy, why are you driving so slow?” Or, “Are we in the left lane?” Or “Mommy! That man just ran a red light!” Or my personal favorite, “Mommy, if you drive too fast, the police man will stop you and put you in jail!” That last bit is stated with particular relish.

Everything, and I do mean everything, I, Matt, or the grandparents do in the car is subject to Simon’s questioning, commentary, and frequent disapproval. It’s like having a cop in the car with you. I mean, as a family we rail against those who speed, run red lights, or don’t use their signals. But honestly, if we are alone on our street or alone in a giant parking lot, we don’t always signal our intentions to the non-existent cars around us.

Fortunately, Simon is balancing out his annoying back-seat driver tendencies with helpful navigational abilities.

“Is this Graf drive?

“Are we turning right on Spring?

“This is Maryland Avenue. Here’s where I go crazy on my trike.

“Are we getting off on Taylorsville Road?

“Here comes the tunnel!”

At this stage, all of this back-seat driving is much more endearing than irritating. Also, I can’t wait to remind him of his own nagging when he’s got his permit and it’s me or Matt doing color commentary from the passenger side.

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

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Jul 19th, 2010 by

When I was eleven or so, I’d pass boring summer or winter break days by reading random encyclopedia entries. In particular, I’d hunt for entries on countries and peoples. One day, the encyclopedia opened to “Lappland,” and my world was rocked by the knowledge that these indigenous dwellers of far northern Sweden and Norway—now called Sami—made their living by herding reindeer.

Reindeer!? God as my witness, until that day, I thought reindeer, like unicorns, were fictional animals. And really, as a Southern Jew, it is perhaps not altogether insane that I could not sort out the true bits from the Santa story from the made up ones.

That was the beginning of my fascination with points north. Ten years later, when I was working on my senior thesis at UNC, I occasionally drifted one shelf to the left of my topic’s home in the library to read about Viking settlements in Greenland. Thus began two decades of avid reading about life near or above the Arctic Circle. While the bulk of my passion has been directed at northern Alaska, Nunavut, and Greenland, a fair bit of it—fueled by my love of knitting, streamlined design, and Viking metalwork—has remained in Scandinavia.

So when I heard that my dear friend Jim was getting married to a Norwegian lass, I was intrigued. When I learned he was relocating to Norway and getting married there, I smiled at his good fortune. When I discovered that a mutual friend would make the trip from San Francisco, I grew intolerably wistful. And when Matt mentioned that he’d like to go, I got angry.

“I’m out of work. If we spend that kind of money, it should be for a family trip! I can’t believe you’d even suggest that!”

About ten days ago, our the invitation arrived. I looked up the destination city, Trodheim, and oh dear heaven, it’s nestled amid a fjord, it features many brightly painted wood structures, and I could not find one bad shot of it.

Trondheim, Norway

It’s my Scandinavian dream. Then I looked up the location of the ceremony: a cathedral built in 1070. My heart sank. That’s when Matt looked over at me and surprised me with:

“You go.”

“What?!”

“Seriously. It would be great if one of us could be there for Jim. You’re 40, and you’ve never done anything irresponsible in your whole life. And hey, you have the time. Go.”

I can list 50 reasons why going would be stupid. Most involve money or child-care. But we can spare the cash if we continue to stick to my strict budget, even after we account for the untouchable reserves set aside for Simon’s college fund and preschool tuition, home repair, and emergency living funds. I can line up a baby-sitter for one or two days. Matt can take a day or two off from work. I’d have to make further cuts in my spending to help soften the blow, but it’s doable.

Darling, you have to let me know….

poll by twiigs.com

Oh, who am I kidding? After ten day of staring at my atlas, gazing longingly at Google satellite images, talking endlessly about it, dreaming about it, and watching videos of people yoiking online, I gulped hard and bought a ticket. I’ve got a half day in Trondheim, then one day split between Trondheim and an nearby village, the wedding day, and one day after the wedding. I’d love to stay longer, but I can’t leave Simon for more than five and a half days, and I have to watch the money.

poll by twiigs.com

Posted in Friends, Jessica | 2 Comments »

Anglophile

Jul 17th, 2010 by

I swear we didn’t put him up to it…

Here are the TV shows Simon is regularly exposed to:

  1. Tom and Jerry
  2. Curious George
  3. Syd the Science Kid
  4. Dinosaur Train
  5. Thomas and Friends
  6. Caillou
  7. Mama Mirabelle
  8. Kipper
  9. Noddy
  10. Sesame Street
  11. Bob the Builder

#1 is a treat he gets at his grandparents. He loves it, and I haven’t seen him get violent as a result.

#3 is useful mainly as a timer: when Teacher Suzie calls the kids inside for rug time on the show, Simon has to head out the door to be at KIP on time. He never asks about the other 2/3 of the episode.

Shows 4, 7, 10, and 11 are desperation time fillers, mostly used on weekends or snow days. He rarely watches an entire episode of any of them. In fact, I wasn’t even sure if all should be on this list.

That leaves the biggies. Curious George, still a great favorite. Caillou, which rose up the ranks about a year ago, right when Simon could identify with the lead character. Thomas and Friends is another oldie but goodie that is responsible for his saying “cross” instead of mad and using “cinders and ashes!” as an exclamation. I think it also has a lot to do with how Simon narrates his toys. I hear things like this every day: “’Oh no! I’m stuck!’ the car said. ‘I’ll help you,’ the other car replied.”

Kipper, the Frasier of kids’ shows, is a family favorite. It will always have a place in my heart for the way Simon sings along with its opening theme. It will always have a place in Matt’s heart for its making Simon pronounce “Arnold” as “AH-nuld”. Finally,there’s Noddy, a show we sometimes supplement with the books my step-mom enjoyed when she was a young girl.

So here’s the thing: Curious George is American, and Caillou was originally French Canadian. But the other three? All British. He’s not even four, and the Anglophilia is already showing up.

It’s adorable, but it does come with a tiny complication. Conversations like this sometimes happen:

Mommy, I want to go to the store and get a jail so I can put Sly and Gobbo in it.

Honey, I can’t find any Noddy toys. I’ve looked, and  you can only get them in England and South Africa.

Can we go to England and get a jail and Sly and Gobbo?

No honey. England is very far away. It would take us a very long time.

Can we go after my nap?”

On the plus side, I have an idea for an adorable Halloween costume that (1) I can make myself; and that (2) we are unlikely to see repeats of while out trick-or-treating this year.

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

Dr. Shellie

Jul 14th, 2010 by

Twenty-two months ago, we introduced Simon to the dentist. It was awful. He had injured a tooth and we took him to the dentist and had it fixed before he’d ever gone for a basic cleaning. A papoose board was involved. Hysterical crying ensued. No one got out of that office unscathed. Even now when I read about the episode I cringe.

So awful was this introductory pediodontic session that I kind-of sort-of allowed myself to forget to make an appointment for a follow-up cleaning session, a cleaning he was supposed to have had by age eighteen months. I had a hard time picturing Simon so freaked out again (honestly, the sounds from the papoose board got feral), and I wasn’t sure how I’d handle it myself.

But when I got on the phone two weeks ago to schedule Tristan’s teeth cleaning, the jig was up. You cannot pay $200+ for feline dentistry and “forget” to have your own child’s teeth cleaned. Especially when the child has dental insurance. It was time to face the music.

Our appointment was last Friday, and what a difference twenty-two months makes! It seemed at the time the unlikeliest possible outcome, but Simon was a champ. No crying, no fussing, no resisting, and not even that much in the way of visible nerves. The hygienist, Miss Barbara, was a pro, showing Simon each tool, giving it a silly name, demonstrating it, and letting Simon play with it a bit. Yes, even the metal hook had a name and got played with.

I got to sit on the edge of the chair with him, Simon got praised about every 2 minutes for his “good job with your listening”, and at each step he was reminded that his help made Miss Barbara’s job faster and easier. When Dr. Shellie (Branson) came by to discuss Simon’s re-chipped tooth (the repair broke about a year ago), I realized that this injury, so hysteria inducing two years ago, was no big deal today. It doesn’t seem to bother Simon, the chip is superficial and not going to cause decay, and I’ve long since accepted the cosmetic aspect as just a part of what makes Simon unique. Simon wasn’t the only person in the chair who had matured since our last visit.

Thirty minutes after we got called into the examining room, Simon was choosing two toys from the bin on his way out. Really, the only bad part of the entire visit came when Ms. Barbara performed her ritual of maternal humiliation: painting Simon’s teeth with pink goo, brushing them, and then showing me what parts I was brushing well (the white bits), what parts I was brushing not-so-well (the light pink bits), and where I was completely derelict in my duties (the hot pink bits). Let’s just say that a wide swathe of Simon’s mouth was the “it” color of summer 2010.

So while Simon walked out the door with one blue bouncy ball and one hot pink one, my own parting gifts were flossers, a two-minute timer, and instructions for how Mommy Dentist is supposed to do her work going forward. I’ll do my best, but I have to wonder: Do any parents out there really brush their actual human children’s teeth for a full two minutes? I can barely brush my own for that long! (The Sonicare session is the longest two minutes of my day by a wide margin.) Or do we all just accept the semiannual ritual humiliation at the pediatric dentist’s office as part of the parenting package?

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy | 2 Comments »

Gallery is Back

Jul 12th, 2010 by

Matt re-installed the latest and greatest Gallery last night, so our photo albums are back up. Late May through early July are uploaded, and we are thoroughly caught up. Link from the sidebar or the photo below.

Two Dear Friends, One Fake Smile

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Letting Go

Jul 11th, 2010 by

If I lived on Sesame Street, I’d tell you that this summer is brought to you by the theme “letting go.”

The first thing I’ve had to let go of is control over Simon’s emotions. When he was younger, I’d work hard to get him out of funks or to prevent a funk from happening. Now, I’m seeing that my place more often than not is to stand back and let Simon try to manage his own emotions. Not that I expect him to be able to do so, but I sense from him that he wants to, no, make that needs to, at least try.

It can be really hard seeing him choose poorly when he’s in a fit of anger. “Mommy, I want to hit five more balls!” he’ll declare at his grandparents’ house when I tell him it’s time to leave. “Honey, you can hit two more balls; then we have to go” I’ll counter. “Then I don’t want to hit any balls any more” will come the pout. “Are you sure honey? Two is better than none.” “No,” he’ll say in a sad, angry voice, “I don’t want to hit any balls at all.” “OK then”, I sigh. Give Grandma and Papaw a kiss and let’s go home.”

No one is happy in these scenarios. But I can’t let a preschooler rule the roost, nor can I coax him out of a fit of pique all of the time. The best I can do is to compassionately let him experience the consequences of his decisions, not get fed up and escalate things, and then keep the mood light when the bad moment passes. The very night of the Tragedy of the Foreshortened Tee-Ball Session, we arrived home and had a delightful time reading stories together in his bed. Just like that, a rotten mood turned to sweetness and light.

The second thing I’ve had to let go of is stuff—lots and lots of stuff. One of my spring projects was to declutter my house. I did a great job, but I never touched the baby stuff that I tripped over to get to the other stuff. Somehow, baby stuff seemed exempt.

Two years ago, baby stuff was exempt because I wasn’t sure if I’d have another baby or not. A year ago, baby stuff was exempt because I had mixed feelings about not having another baby.  And this spring, baby stuff was exempt because, having realized that Simon was going to be an only child, I became uncharacteristically and irrationally attached to objects tied to his babyhood. I tried, but couldn’t force myself to dump off baby accoutrement to total strangers. I felt guilty about my attachment, but not enough to buck it.

Then my friend James and his wife Nyawut came to my rescue. James is a fellow board member of the Sudanese Refugee Education Fund. He is, in fact, a founding member, a situation that required him to recuse himself from receiving the scholarships we distribute and for which he would have qualified. James gladly made the sacrifice to help out his Sudanese brethren; he’s a mensch that way.

At the end of this month, James’ wife is due to have the couple’s first baby, and the board threw Nyawut a baby shower this Saturday to thank James for all his years of selfless service.

When I took one look at Nyawut’s registry, I realized I had at last arrived at a solution to my overflowing baby stuff. Serendipitously, half a dozen of the unpurchased items on her registry were the very things cluttering my attic. I couldn’t find my baby-wearing wrap, so I bought that new as her “real” present. Then I loaded Simon’s infant play mat, nursery monitor, baby bathtub, and a never used spare diaper bag into my trunk.

Me being me, I was able to hand over my lightly used items not only with their owner’s manuals attached, but in most cases also in their original packaging. All of my bizarre reticence to part with stuff dissolved the minute I thought of this young couple who work three jobs between them and just bought their first home in the neighborhood I grew up in. In fact, I couldn’t wait to force all my stuff on them.

At the shower, I was also introduced to a friend of Nyawut’s who is, equally serendipitously, expecting her first child, a son, on October 16. That would be Simon’s birthday. “How lovely,” I said to my friend of five minutes. “I have an entire infant wardrobe for you. Please don’t buy anything.”

Soon enough, I will be able to navigate my attic and have room for all the sports stuff we’re on the cusp of needing. It’s just a delightful win-win, and I’m feeling great at last about letting go.

Coda: You can read more about James in a recent local news feature about him .

Posted in Friends, Jessica, Little Boy | 1 Comment »

Emotional Intelligence

Jul 9th, 2010 by

Yoikes. It was just five days ago that I posted about Simon’s asking “Why am I so upset?” when he awoke crying in the night. Honestly, I assumed this was him mimicking our asking, “Simon, why are you so upset?” when he gets wound up. Still, it looked a lot like self-awareness, and I wasn’t 100% sure that it wasn’t.

Now I’m even less so. Today Simon got angry when I wouldn’t let him play with memory cards I was sorting for a game. It was close to nap-time, so he was getting crabby and was having a hard time controlling himself. He reached for a card, and I said “no.” Then he pushed a stack cards over, and I gave him a stern warning. Then he threw a stack of cards in anger, and I took him to time out without comment.

He was mad. I was mad. We had been enjoying a busy day together, but had clearly reached a point when we needed a break from each other.

I finished sorting cards while he whimpered on the staircase landing. After a few minutes, I called over to him.

“Simon. I’m finished now. If you have calmed down and think you are ready to play nice, you can come back in the living room with me.”

Head bowed, Simon walked towards me. “I’m ready to play nice, Mommy,” he said. Then he gave me a hug to make up. I hadn’t planned on saying anything more when he popped up with:

“Why did I get so angry?”

“What do you mean, honey?” I thought he was really asking why he got time out or why I got so angry. “You got angry and threw the cards. Sometimes it can be hard to control yourself when you get angry. I understand that. And when that happens, you go to time out until you get control of yourself.”

“I know Mommy. But what made me so angry?”

He was genuinely confused. It had happened just a few minutes before, but once the anger receded he couldn’t figure out what had got him so worked up. So we had a nice little chat about not getting what you want, bad moods, fatigue, and other things that can make you act out. He listened intently and seemed satisfied.

I’m beginning to think this kid is, in fact, asking me to explain his emotional states to him. Simon never does anything to make me think he’s a little genius, but he sure pops out with things that make me think he’s unusually emotionally cued in for his age. And whenever it happens I always think two things at the exact same time: (1) You will grow up to be a wonderful boyfriend/spouse/father; and (2) middle school is going to be torture.

Posted in Jessica, Little Boy | 1 Comment »

Party Pics

Jul 6th, 2010 by

I hosted a July 4 party this year, my first ever. This has always been my brother Perry’s holiday, but he returned from vacation the night before this year and so didn’t have time to put on his usual grilling, explosive-laden extravaganza .  I’m guessing he’ll reclaim the day next year, but I’m so happy with how things went that I think I’ll just lay claim to Labor Day.

Getting ready for this made getting ready for Passover look like a picnic, mainly because my yard had suffered from 3 years of neglect. I had two planting beds to weed and mulch, a stone border to dismantle, a stone wall to hew down, a pile of mulch to relocate, a pile of dirt (deck construction debris) to get rid of, a leaf/compost pile in the back of the yard to tidy up, and an old concrete platform to bust up. Matt had to help with the last of the wall and Matt and his brother moved about half of the stones, but I did all the rest except for the platform. And I have isolated spots of poison ivy, a thumb that went into spasm for two days, and a spade injury on my left leg to prove it. I’ve also got a respectable yard and a pound of new muscle mass, so I’m feeling triumphant! And the party was grand.

Here’s Simon, the day before, “helping” Matt move stones to the back of the yard.

Simon is a big help.

The next day, the party got started with badminton and corn toss. To my delight, everyone headed straight to the back yard and started playing.

Getting the Party Started

Two platters of chilaquiles, heaping amounts of side dishes, a pitcher of sangria, and four pitchers of lemonade later, the party looked like this:

That’s Simon getting soaked with cousins Liv and Maddie. The next day, I would do three loads of wet clothes and towels, and then invite friends over to play more corn toss, throw back a second pitcher of sangria, and kill all the leftovers.

Isn’t summer the best?

Posted in Family, Friends, Jessica, Little Boy | 1 Comment »

Getting It

Jul 6th, 2010 by

Ever since the big race talk last December, I’ve been waiting for some sign that Simon “got it”, by which I mean that Simon saw physical differences in people and understood it was OK to notice and ask about these differences but wasn’t ascribing any deep meaning to them. Several more months of his insisting that Anieya and Jillian, the two unrelated black girls in his class, were twins did not instill confidence. Nor, for that matter, did my insistence that they look NOTHING alike, only to mistake one for the other in a school photo. (sigh) In my defense, the child was wearing a hat, and the picture was dark and a bit blurry. They really don’t look alike.

For the next few months, I tried to nonchalantly discuss hair, eye, and skin color whenever the chance came up. Some cute moments came from these chats. One was trying to explain why our cat Tristan has orange hair and is therefore an “orange tabby”, but that his classmate Isabel also has orange hair and is therefore a …. redhead? Why is orange red on people, anyway? Then there was the time he told me that he has “my Zadie’s eyes”, paused, and then asked if Zadie needed them back.

We finally knew he was getting it a bit when he went to Willow Park last weekend with Matt. He met a little girl named Ruby on the playground, which made Simon think of the main Ruby in his life, the little girl who goes to KIP with him, is his best friend at summer camp this year, and until a week ago was also his next door neighbor. After being introduced to this new Ruby, Simon looked up at Matt and nonchalantly asked:

Where’s dark brown Ruby?

Ruby was adopted from Guatemala and does, in fact, have dark brown skin. Well, in summer anyway…  So there it was at long last, a sign that Simon is making note of the colors of us but isn’t letting the differences color his opinions of anyone.

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

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