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Illusions

Jul 3rd, 2010 by

In late May, Simon said a few things that gave the illusion of his possessing adult understanding or common adult fears. At the time, it was his description of insomnia and stated fear of getting old that caught me off guard. I don’t think he fully understood what he said, but he gave a convincing performance of existential dread in the three-year-old.

His new tricks are playing at figurative language and giving off the illusion of understanding that he is a child.

Figurative language first: It’s become a habit of ours to describe the various cats in our families. Percival is a serious cat. Tristan is a happy cat. And TJ is a playful cat. These three adjectives get bandied about almost every day: serious, happy, playful. Then about two days ago Simon informed me that “TJ is made of playful.” Simple grammatical misconstruction or attempt at figurative speech? I’m still not 100% sure.

Next up, awareness of being young and/or different: The last week has been marred by some stomach aches, resulting in later than usual bedtimes and a return of the unlamented midnight partial awakening. About three nights ago Simon awoke in tears at just after midnight. Matt and I lay in bed waiting to see if the cries would fade to sleep or escalate into something requiring intervention.

They escalated; Matt offered to go in. From my bed on just the other side of the wall, I heard the vignette play out.

Said as he opens the door: “Simon? It’s Daddy. Are you OK, buddy?”

Said in gasps between sobs: “I can’t find my Dirty Dog! I lost Dirty Dog!”

Response in super calm voice: “Let me find him. I bet he’s just under the covers again. Here he is little guy. See?”

Said in gulps as sobs abate, in a confused tone: “Why am I so upset?”

Matt tells me he’s heard this before recently. And again, we don’t know if it’s a verbal tic, him repeating a question we ask (“Why are you so upset?”), or something else entirely. But for all the world it looks and sounds like a kid who understands that he’s gotten more upset about something than he can explain or that an older person would. It’s an uncanny imitation of self-awareness that he can’t possibly (can he?) possess.

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The Why We Live Here Moment

Jun 30th, 2010 by

When Matt and I lived in San Francisco, we would occasionally feel beat down by Muni, noise, traffic, and the prohibitive cost and competitiveness of the city. The feelings grew stronger as more and more of our friends moved away. Then we’d have what we termed a “This is why we live here” moment that would buy us more time feeling satisfied.

Most often, these moments came in the form of a walk up from our Richmond District home to Lake Street, into Sea Cliff, down Camino del Mar, and to Land’s End, where we’d take in the view of  the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the Marin Headlands and feel rejuvenated by the sheer beauty of the place. If it was dusk and the bridge was lit up, the feeling was even more magical. In these moments I was hyper aware of living in a post-card and felt privileged to be able to do so.

Now that we’re back in Kentucky, the stress comes from sources like allergens, mosquitoes, leaky basements, winter heating bills, and the car-centric nature of the Midwest. But we have our “this is why we live here” moments in Kentucky, too. They just tend to come from humbler sources.

Most often, and most recently, they hit on summer evenings after a day spent watching Simon in the thrall of cousins or grandparents. Inevitably the day will wrap at twilight, at that magical moment when the light from the setting sun is equal to the light from fireflies as they illuminate a hosta or spark a part of the neighbor’s lawn. Some days we can catch a glimpse from our porch, others we watch from Simon’s bedroom while one of us holds him up to his window.

This isn’t postcard living. But our summer “this is why we live here” moments can be an awful lot like living in a painting. Specifically, this one:

Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose

The subject and secondary light sources vary, but the feeling evoked is very much the same for me. Realizing I’ve gone from a postcard to a Sargent makes me rethink the humbleness of this new inspiration. I suppose whether the source be singular or quotidian, magic is still magic. I’ll take it.

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Hero Worship

Jun 28th, 2010 by

Six months ago or so, getting together with his cousins meant that Simon spent much of his time with Liv, the oldest of my brother Steve’s brood. Liv is now 11 ½ and has always been the “Mommy Jr.” of her household. So the larger Goldstein family would get together, and I would inevitably find Liv chasing Simon around with a pull toy, pushing his swing, or playing patty-cake. In return, he adored her.

Around Chanukah last year, we noticed a shift. The gender identification switch was flipped, and suddenly Ben, the youngest of the crew, came to the fore. At 7 ½, Ben  is 4 years Simon’s senior and is perfectly poised to be the object of adoration: He’s just enough older to be able to show Simon all sorts of things Simon can’t do or isn’t familiar with, but he’s still young enough to be approachable and identifiable.

This weekend, Simon and Ben got together twice and were able to share their adoration for all things Rondo. Simon referred to the NBA championships (of which I will say little, as my most hated team in the league beat one of my favorites) as “Rondo”, knows his jersey number, and asks to see Rondo’s house (hometown Louisville house, not current Boston and/or Orlando mansions) on Google maps. Ben, meanwhile, is going to camp Rondo this week and next and loves to play basketball on his back-yard court and on the Wii.

I wasn’t thrilled with this last bit, as we fight the screen time fight frequently, and I have no intention of spending money in my unemployed state on an expensive video game. I had been planning to delay Simon’s discovery of the existence of video games for as long as possible. But Ben and Steve prevailed, so Simon was in the thrall of the older cousin and the video games, explaining to me when I told him we had to leave that “playing Speed Racer was his job” and that “it would be too dangerous for me.” I love preschool logic.

By days’ end, Simon wanted to know when he could go back and was in tears at the thought of leaving. Cousin Maddie, who at 9 is currently a junior camp counselor for three-year-olds, took one look at Simon and helpfully told me that he looked like he was about a minute from a melt-down. Au contraire, young Maddie, he was a minute into his collapse!

Luckily, Ben left a very cute message on our answering machine last night asking when Simon could come back. I was a bit surprised by this, as I figured spending time with the little boy who can’t keep up might start to feel like unpaid babysitting. Then Steve explained to me that this is the first time Ben has ever gotten to be the big cousin, that Simon is easy, and that he’s relishing his new role.

I am, needless to say, delighted that what is a treat for one is an equal treat for the other. I am also interested to see how Ben’s bull-in-china-shop mien will mesh with Simon’s more hesitant and sensitive nature. Having said that, I have put my brother on warning that first time Simon nags me about the NBA or Speed Racer Wii game, he’s on the hook for buying us one for Chanukah or Simon’s birthday!

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Window into the Mind

Jun 24th, 2010 by

Sometimes Simon will answer a question with a non sequitur and I just assume he’s bored and wants to change the subject.  Of course, most times he’s quite clear on this front and will say things like “I don’t want to talk about that any more.” Other times, I suspect there’s some little boy logic going on that I can’t follow.

But every once in a while Simon delights me with a response that reveals a thought process different from my own, but into which I am afforded a view. These times are magical, and we had one just a few days ago in the car coming home from Grandma and Papaw’s house.

Matt: “Simon, do you know what this song is?”

Simon:” I don’t know.”

Matt: “I used to sing this song to you when you were a tiny baby. It’s ‘The Kids are Alright’.”

Simon: long pause as he ponders this. “What happened to them?”

For a split second, I thought we had another of those opaque responses. Then just as fast a porthole opened: Simon mostly hears the expression “he’s alright” or “she’s alright”–or even “you’re alright”– after someone has hurt themself and appears otherwise. So of course he’d want to know what happened to the kids.

Sometimes I think the best part of being a parent are these occasional glimpses into a developing brain. This kid is alright!

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Solstice

Jun 21st, 2010 by

The Gallery photo album is down for a bit. We’d been using an outdated model, and the clock finally ran out on the old version working. Once Matt figures out the new, overhauled software, we’ll be back in business.

Today is the official beginning of summer, as the 97-degree temperature is making all too clear. Tomorrow it will be 99, which means I had better drag the pool out of the shed.

We spent Father’s Day visiting. First, a trip to Zadie and Nana’s house for cars, fish feeding, and Finding Nemo watching. After his nap, we zipped over to Grandma and Papaw’s house for dinner and outdoor fun.

And cat admiring:

Friends

Simon and TJ remain fast friends. During a typical day at Grandma and Papaw’s house, Simon will have at least two 45-minute play/chase/pet sessions with him.

We also hauled out Grandma’s newest yard-sale finds. The clear favorite:

"I'm good at this!"

Once we got him batting left-handed (I think they had him going right at school last week), he had a blast whacking the ball across the lawn. The quote in the caption above is a real one, and was followed by “Mama, go get Daddy and Uncle Dan so they can watch me!” He was so very proud of himself.

The night ended with a trip around the block in the Little Tikes toy car. I think that trip gets filed away under “Last Things”, though. His legs have gotten so much longer that his knees were too high up and he had a hard time getting the car to move! Out goes one era: in ushers another.

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Comic Relief

Jun 21st, 2010 by

Simon is on a roll. I have a sneaking suspicion that, even when explained, most of these items that made Matt and I laugh out loud and clutch our sides won’t translate into print. I think you sort of have to be here. And probably be (or live with) us, too. But I’m committing it to print anyway, because while I won’t always remember these things, I trust that I will remember enough of us that I’ll get the joke when I read it 40 years down the road.

“Mommy, are you married?”

This is the question Simon asked me on Friday, pretty much from out of nowhere. He was sitting in the living room and I was standing between the living and dining room when he fixed his gaze on me, furrowed his brow, and popped the question so to speak. I began a long and confused spiel (don’t I always?), when Simon quit paying attention. “Where the heck did that come from?” I asked Matt. “It’s because you are wearing a dress. He never sees you in a dress, so he thinks you are getting married or going to a wedding.”

I have to agree, but what an absolutely stunning development. I used to live in dresses. As in, two summers ago I bought my first pair of shorts since I was a teenager. When the temperatures rose, my fall/winter uniform of skirts and boots and jeans/trousers and boots changed to my spring/summer uniform of skirts and heels and dresses and heels. Pregnancy, nursing, and climbing all over playgrounds with a toddler interrupted this, and it was just last week that I looked at a row a languishing dresses and thought “why not?” It’s jaw-droppingly strange to think that what I still consider my default dress code struck Simon as being an anomaly.

Why Cats are Liberated from Work

Simon and Matt were getting ready to play a game of either Sequence or Candy Land, and Simon was setting up the game. This, he will explain to everyone, “is my job.” He set up a space for Matt and one for himself, then looked over at Percy and said, “Percy can’t play because he doesn’t have any hands.” He’s heard us joke about this before, but it was still funny hearing it from him.

Like Father Like Son

From the embarrassing-but-true files. Matt and I, but mostly Matt, make up songs about our cats. Really, truly, silly songs. Sometimes they are entirely new; other times they are new lyrics fitted to familiar tunes. It gave Matt enormous joy to witness Simon singing along with the theme song to Kipper last week, improvising the lyrics to be about Percival, Tristan, and TJ.

Like Mother Like Son

Every now and again, Simon does something to remind me that he does, against all appearances, share my DNA. This week it was his ice cream order. We went to Ce Fiore for a summer treat, and instead of his ordering the acai berry, what seemed to be his favorite, he ordered the green tea, my absolute favorite. When green tea moves out of the rotation (it’s not popular enough in these parts to be a permanent flavor), I feel lost and bummed. I have to wonder how many others in the preschool set share Simon’s taste in this regard? I can’t wait ‘til he’s old enough to have his first cup of loose leaf Assam….

Like Bubbie Like Grandson

My mother is not a huge sweets eater. There are, however, a few items she finds irresistible. Halva is one. Baklava is the other. This despite the prodigious amount of butter in the latter and her own lactose intolerance. Saturday night, Matt, Simon, and I joined friends at a local Persian restaurant. Now, Simon is still sufficiently picky and resistant to anything new that I brought his dinner with me. And yet, when the owner brought out a plate of baklava for us to share, Simon immediately declared, “I want to try that”, picked up a sticky wedge, and then exhibited paroxysms of joy. Literally. He threw his head back, closed his eyes, and rocked from side to side while simultaneously chewing and smiling. Then he asked for seconds.

Like Bubbie Like Grandson, Part II

My mother is famous in our family for her bat-like hearing. It’s not just that she can be awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of two bottles clinking, it’s that she can tell, when thusly awakened, whether the bottles contain soda or illicit beer.

Simon seems to have a similar gift. While I was cooking dinner one afternoon last week, I helped myself to a small amount of Simon’s M&Ms. I being Pearl Wolfson’s granddaughter, the candy had to be put in a dish. Simon being Rita Goldstein’s grandson, he not only heard the sound from the next room with the TV on, but also recognized it. I knew I has done when I heard the feet pounding through the dining room.“What’s that noise, Mama?” he implored with eager and suspicious eyes. He knew what they were and hoped to shame me into sharing.

No dice. I lied. Not sure whom I inherited that trait from!

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Last Things

Jun 17th, 2010 by

In her New York Times blog, Lisa Belkin posted a thoughtful piece called “Moments When Children Grow Up” this week. The gist was that while most of us try to pay attention to our children’s firsts—first steps, first words, and the like—last things can tell us just as much about our kids and often go by without our noticing.  As it happens, the very day I read this post I went to put away napkins from the wash, pushed a stack of bibs to the far front of a drawer to make room for them, and suddenly realized that Simon doesn’t use bibs anymore.  What’s more, I can’t remember when he quit using them.

He doesn’t use his high chair any more either; I dragged that to our attic a few months ago. Just a few weeks later, his dining room booster seat was consigned to the attic; at 41” tall, he can sit in a chair and do just fine. Nor does he read many of the books that still occupy his shelves or play with the toys stored in our attic and stuffed at the top of his closet. Nearly everywhere I look, I find the remains of his younger self: the old changing pad, his old crib bumper set, the Bumbo seat, the Jumperoo and Exersaucer, even the little red wagon sitting on our porch is a relic of a different era.

In the current era, I live with a little fellow that tried to pump his own tricycle tires two days ago, recognizes and can name most of the streets we travel on, knows his address, and can tell left from right. He’s extremely sensitive about being laughed at and is equally adamant that while he has last year’s teachers at camp this summer, he is, under no circumstances, to be considered an Itsy Bitsy again.

I do remember a few key lasts. I can recall when Simon last nursed, slept in his Moses basket, and used a pacifier. I’m a little vaguer about other things, like when he quit being rocked to sleep or used his swing. I can live with that. But readers of Lisa’s blog chimed in with some lasts that were harder to swallow, discussing the last time their kids were carried, the last time they would hug Mom or Dad in public, or even the last time they would hug Mom and Dad at all.

Frankly, Simon is getting big enough that I suspect carrying days may be winding down. It’s those last two words, the hugging at all, that strike fear in my heart. Right now I can contain my tendency towards premature nostalgia by comforting myself that while Simon may not be rocked to sleep any more, that he does enjoy snuggling and tells me that he loves me all the time. We’ve still got lots of physical and verbal affection, only now it’s reciprocal and more mature. And while he’s stopped doing many adorable toddler things, he still does some of them (sleeping with cars in his hands) and has added some pretty adorable little boy things (the aforementioned bicycle tire pumping).

In other words, I’m running even, if not slightly ahead, when it comes to net parenting gain. I just can’t help but wonder when things become a net loss. In the meantime, it’s time to disperse all this baby and toddler goodness to the several new babies I know before my attic turns into a kind of disturbing shrine.

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Foodie

Jun 15th, 2010 by

Despite living in a foodie heaven for eight years, I’m hopelessly disinterested in food. I have my standards and favorites, but I’m about as far as you can get from being a gourmand. It took my layoff to finally get me cooking every night, and while I’m enjoying it, it’s much more about nutrition for me than haut cuisine. In fact, name any cuisine in the world, and I’m guaranteed to prefer the peasant and/or street version to the fancy stuff.

The rest of my family is, to varying degrees, the same way. My oldest brother Steve probably takes it the furthest: he avoids all sauces and condiments, hates spending money to dine out, and can—no joke—happily make a meal out of cereal or Sun Chips. If it fills the hole in his belly and is low in saturated fat, that’s good enough for him.

Matt’s family, on the other hand, cares. I can’t see any of them making a dinner of popcorn or Sun Chips barring depression, illness, or desperation. They’d either consider it nutritionally suspect or devoid of all the fun you are supposed to get from sitting down to a good meal.

It’s probably too soon to know where Simon falls on this continuum, but he gave me  a pretty good idea last week when he told me what he was going to dream about.

“I’m going to dream about eating purple ice cream (acai berry frozen dessert from Ce Fiore) . And M&Ms (potty-training staple). And fruit bars. And chicken nuggets. And grapes. And fish crackers. And slices of cheese. And opameal (sic). And juicy pears. [winsome breath] And crunchy apples …. And lemonade. And chocolate milk. And orange juice …. “

The litany only ended when he became cross with me for laughing at him. He’s very sensitive about being laughed at and equally suspicious of the “laughing with you” explanation. Pride has kicked in with a vengeance.

I went to bed myself that night wondering who on earth dreams of food? And then it dawned on me that just the week before Jim (aka Papaw) told us all about a dream in which he judged a pie-eating competition. I can assure you that no member of my immediate family has ever or will ever have such a dream. I’m thinking that Simon may have something more than popcorn and undressed salads in his future.

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

That Which Does Not Kill Me Makes Me Faster

Jun 11th, 2010 by

As I type this, I am dead tired and my legs are sore. It might be the new Shape-ups shoes I’ve been wearing. (This family cannot resist a good gimmick.) But it’s more likely Simon.

A long winter indoors did nothing to dampen his love of running. He was a little slow in March, but now that summer has arrived, he’s getting back into form. The thing is, when he was 21 months old and ran, I could leisurely stroll and keep up. Last summer, I could get away with a brisk walk or slow jog. This summer? I have to run.

A few days ago, we ran at the park. Lap after lap after lap. And then we ran at home in the basement. Lap after lap after lap. And then we ran on the driveway. Lap after lap after lap. I bet I spent two full hours running. My legs felt like I spent two full days running. (Again, in part because Shape-ups are not for running.)

Clever boy that he is, Simon understands how to get around my cries of “I can’t run any more.” He’ll say, “OK, Mommy. Let’s play good trucks.” That’s the game where we run bent over Tonka trucks, pushing them in circles and going “beep, beep” when they pass. If I quit that game, he suggests “Bad Tonka,” a game in which we run bent over Tonka trucks, pushing them in circles until one (Simon’s) crashes into another (mine). And when I finally run the white flag up the pole and say “I can’t do bad Tonka any more,” my loving, sensitive replies, “Ok, Mommy. I chase you! I chase you!”

Not even play-dates help, as only Simon’s friend Baron has a similar interest in running. Leah will run a bit before she moves on. Sophie’s not a big runner. Ruby never wants to run. So we’ll go a park dreaming of watching the kids entertain each other, only to have to go off and run with Simon while his date does something else.

Yesterday offered a bit of a reprieve, as he spent the day at the Whitworths—running with a friend’s grandson and chasing T.J.( nee Kitty Friend). But when he arrived home at 7:30, his heart’s desire was to head directly to the back yard and run laps with me.

Recognizing that most kids love to run more than most adults do, but also recognizing that we are on our third summer of running and that we never see other kids running the way he does, we have to wonder: When does this stop being phase and start becoming part of his nature? Is Simon a born runner, much as he is a born leftie? Only time and my joints will tell!

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Good Sport

Jun 8th, 2010 by

Is Simon more Goldstein or Whitworth when it comes to sportsmanship? That is the question.

Here’s how board games work in my family. We set up the game, ready for pitched battle. Turns take forever, as we play as though the fate of the free world is at stake. Blocks, checks, or any defensive maneuver on the part of opponents are taken personally. We mope. We plot. We can be ungracious losers.

As children, we say lots of things like “You’re going to win, aren’t you? I can tell you’re going to win. I might as well not play; you’ve already won.” At our absolute worst we quit games when we are behind and/or cheat. It’s so ugly that it’s barely fun. Until pretty late in life, I hated board games and avoided playing them. I just couldn’t manage my own competitiveness and the attendant Goldstein family psychodrama.

Here’s how board games work in Matt’s family. They set up the game, ready for pitched battle. Turns take varying lengths, but players are mocked and/or heckled if anyone takes too long. The room sounds much as it would during the NCAA basketball tournament. (That’s like the Super Bowl for you non Kentuckians.) Blocks or defensive maneuvers are celebrated, mainly by the blocker. Good offensive maneuvers are hooped and hollered about. They gloat. They preen. They are horribly ungracious winners.

At least, that’s how it first seemed to me. But that’s because I approached these games as War, and they approached them as Fun. The same chest-pounding that would send my entire family into a raging hissy fit is merely part of the fun at their house. It’s a culture clash for sure.

Now that we’ve started playing board games with Simon, mainly Sequence for Kids and Candyland, I’ve been watching for clues.

  1. “I’m going to win!” he screams: Whitworth
  2. “No! No! You don’t win. I want to win!” he pouts: Goldstein
  3. “I blocked you!” exclaimed with joy: Whitworth
  4. “You blocked me!” said with equal joy: Definitely Whitworth
  5. “Now it’s my turn to win!” or “Daddy won, and I won, too!”: If he understands the game, that’s a Goldstein maneuver (changing the rules to avoid disappointment). Otherwise, he’s just excited about the idea of anyone winning, which puts him squarely in the Whitworth camp.
  6. “I’m finished playing now,” said halfway through a long game in which no one has yet won and/or he’s way behind: Goldstein all the way!

It’s early days yet, but I think Whitworth tendencies are ahead. And I sure hope so! Heaven knows he’ll have more fun that way. Whereas I, saints preserve me, actually get a little (lot) defensive and peevish when Simon blocks me. We don’t need another Goldstein in this house!

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