Frogs and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

It's been pretty clear there's a little boy in our midst lately. I've found rocks in my dryer, there's been chugging of milk right from the jug, earthworm collections, pet snails, thumbs smashed with hammers, exorbitant amounts of time spent in the bathroom and new notions of competition and speed.


He still has an answer for most things, like when he explained to me months ago why "there are no more fairies, none of any kind", it seems "they were from a long time ago and they got old and they died and that's it, there are no more and never will be." This even before the constant talk of death in our home...

If we give him a direct instruction, a global rule, such as, don't climb over the stair railing. He may or may not comply, but there will always be an entire explanation of precisely when that behavior might be necessary and acceptable. I know I'm in trouble when I hear, "Except when....there's a fire and I have to jump down to not get burned up and killed..."


He has a burgeoning sense of humor with the expected knock knock jokes that usually make no sense whatsoever. Though I did get a kick out of the first joke he told us last summer, where he learned it, I have no idea.

"Why did the chicken cross the playground?"

I surely didn't know.

"To get to the other slide!"

All hilarity breaks loose lately when he burps and I remind him, "What do you say after you burp?"

"I say...fuuuuuu-nnnnnnnnny!"

The bathroom humor can go as far as I'm concerned, but the smart humor, I'm convinced can take a person places. A couple of months ago, Jarrah spent the night and when I went in to shush them well after bedtime, Nathan informed me they would be "staying up all night long because we are nocturnal!"


Our little boy has also become quite the protector. He has offered to protect me more than once when I've expressed misgivings about doing something. We went to the holiday light extravaganza at the zoo and Nathan really wanted to try ice skating. Having never been on ice skates myself, I didn't feel competent enough to try it for the first time on my own with him and on some sort of pseudo plastic "ice" to boot. "Don't worry Mommy, I'll protect you, I'll help you." Oh, okay then! This actually gave me pause, why would he offer to protect me? Have I not made our roles clear and safe for him? Am I putting some weird emotional burden on my kid? I like to think not. I like to think he's sensitive and smart and wanted to go ice skating. Too bad for him, maybe next year.


Ah yes, sensitive Nathan. "Mommy, put Puff the Magic Dragon on the cd player. I will play this song for Grandma and Grandpa's dog. It is gentle, Chesty will like how it pets him."

And if you don't happen to have a beard, he may stroke your jaw or put his soft cheek against yours and tell you he loves your face, and guess what? He means it.


His speech is punctuated with more "guess whats?" and "except whens" than even the "Actuallys..." lately. His vocabulary is vast and he doesn't hesitate to stop all conversation or story telling to ask "What means that?" and if he doesn't understand your explanation, he will barrage you with questions until his understanding is complete. Most assuredly he will utilize that new word at the next opportunity to do so. Also, he spells the answers to the simplest questions lately. I'm ready for the novelty to wear off of this one sooner than later, though I'm pretty damn happy to get a response once in awhile.

It's no surprise that his teacher refers to him as a reader, nor that the first words he learned to write on his own after mastering his own name were I love you. His fine motor skills are getting where we want them to be for kindergarten next year and he is now enjoying writing, coloring and drawing way more than ever before. The occupational therapist Nathan saw for torticollis when he was a baby pointed out what now seems obvious, that babies or kids (all of us?) simply don't do what is difficult. There are some things that I thought weren't of much interest to Nathan, such as coloring or riding his tricycle, I'm learning those may have been some of the things that were simply difficult in terms of his unique development.


Nathan remains enthralled with all babies and requests me to have many more on a regular basis. With his recent study of birds, amphibians and reptiles he seems to have forgotten our Its Not The Stork book and discussions for the moment. A couple of days ago he told me he wanted me to lay another baby.

And the music, holy cow, it never ends. Now, with his current teacher he still sings constantly, but the songs are educational and fun. I've learned about the layers of the earth, the continents and so much more. Mostly the songs he comes home with are a peek into what goes on during his days at school, and that, I cherish.


As gentle and kind as he can be, I am pleased to see indications of boundaries put in place. He doesn't try to impress me by copying my tastes. In fact, if I say I don't care for something, he will tell me he doesn't like it either, actually, he loves it! Once I told him the cool way to wear a shirt and he promptly told me he didn't care about the "cool" way, he wanted to wear it the "Nathan" way.

Emotions are running rampant for him the beginning of this sixth year, and man oh man do they swing from one extreme to the other. The rumblings are pretty obvious before he blows, but the challenge remains how to negotiate that fine line between providing a safe place to let go and disciplining unacceptable behavior, and oh yeah, not losing it myself...there's that.

Slowly, I'm learning the peace in accepting the paradoxes in life and in parenting. Sometimes it feels entirely odd and perfect that my child should be so responsible for bringing many of my life's lessons out of the dark caverns of my head and into the reality of our days. I suppose the simple notion that with parenting comes deliberate action is bound to nudge lots of stuff into the light.

I'm reminded of the night after Nathan's birth. He was about sixteen hours old, it was the middle of the night and he lay in a roll away bassinet next to my hospital bed. Shaun was in the bed across the room. Our new baby cried. Shaun slept. The birth had not been easy on either of us. I was severely limited in my physical movements, so I reached out and put my whole hand firmly across his tiny body. In the same moment I felt a fool for thinking such a simple act would be of any comfort and knowing without question it would. It was that moment that I became a mother, and then, we slept.

Seriously?

A few years ago I had a discussion with a friend about how to present religion and/or spirituality to our young children. Neither of us was raised with any particular religious doctrines, but both in families that imparted strong morals. This conversation barely nibbled at the surface of what I consider to be intensely important stuff to define for myself and in turn present to my child, but that is not the topic of this post. At a minimum we agreed that exposure to the different religions of the world was a positive thing. Indeed, this practice would give our children the tools with which to make their own decisions and it would foster tolerance and open mindedness.

My friend thoughtfully followed this discussion up with the gift of a children's Bible, My First Read and Learn Bible, it is a board book designed for very young children. I appreciated it very much and certainly I must have read it many times to Nathan as a baby and young toddler. I admit, I often pay no attention whatsoever to what I am reading in those last minutes of parental duty at the end of the day. The book remains on Nathan's shelf and he chose it for the first time in a long while recently. This time I was paying attention, and my education commenced. We read the story of creation and then about Noah and all was well, even I knew these tales. And then came the story of Moses. Disney taught me to be wary of death and destruction designed for babes, so why I was aghast at this Babies Bible, I'm not entirely sure. I read a little ahead and changed the words a bit to be...what? More palatable? With less murder and abandonment? In my disbelief I didn't do a very effective job distracting him and he didn't stand for me simply turning the page in response to his questions about why Moses' mother would put him in a basket and send him down the river. Oh, because otherwise, he would have been killed...Seriously. The best I could come up with was she couldn't take care of him any more so she sent him to this other mommy who could take very good care of him. Huh? Nathan doesn't take the brush off very well and proceeded to turn the page back several times to more fully analyze the pictures that went along with the sorry job I did of changing the story. "And why in this picture the Mommy is crying and the baby is sleeping and happy when she pushes him away, and over here the baby is crying and the new mommy is so happy?" And who is the woman hiding in the bushes in both pictures stalking everyone?? Good lord, I knew I was disrespecting a lot of people's beliefs when I quelled his concerns by telling him, don't worry this is just a story, it's not true, and in any case I don't think it's a good story for kids.

He insisted we finish the book, and since my insecurities told me I was being ridiculous, I forged onward to David and Goliath. Excellent lessons to teach our children, fighting and killing in the name of god is well and good--brave even. Oh, but the coup de gras, the icing on top of the king's cake was the story of Daniel and the Lions. Are you familiar? Surely I must have skipped these pages in prior readings; how is this book still in my home? Censorship? I'm thinkin' yes; for now anyway. May I quote? Don't mind if I do. "The jealous men wanted to get rid of Daniel. They made him go into a pit with hungry lions." Seriously. I am not making this up. And the best part--I was so relieved; Daniel was spared by the hungry lions, and the wise among you know, it was his faith in God that saved him! Yes! These are just the lessons I want to indoctrinate my child with.

I find it disconcerting that the most inappropriate, violent book on my child's shelf is a Bible, a Baby Board Book Bible no less.


In the interest of full disclosure, I admit we may be a slightly hypersensitive. Shaun and I like to believe our sensitivities are in response to what is appropriate for our particular child, but we are open to the consideration that we may be a little nuts. Really though, do you know the opening line of Charlotte's Web is "Where's Papa going with that ax?" And even Beatrix Potter weaves a story around skinned and beheaded Flopsy Bunnies--it's downright disturbing I say.

Le Bavardage

"Mommy, I love you, but I'm running away. Actually, I'm walking, I'm walking to France to find Grandma."

"Pinky Promise?"

"Mommy, if you don't let me watch tv, I think you're going to have very bad luck."

Le Poisson

After a fair amount of discussion and one in particular in which I let Nathan know that the progress of his grief over the loss of Jake was not in fact, the deciding factor as to how quickly we would acquire a new pet, (I dread the day I cannot see through his manipulations.) we are the proud new owners of a turquoise beta fighting fish.

Meet Chip Fishy Fish, sometimes known as Chippy Fish Fish. Shaun wondered if the name was chosen with Fish and Chips in mind...no, Nathan happened to have been eating a tortilla chip during the naming process is all. Chip's name could have just as easily been yogurt or tomato or quesadilla. We're a creative bunch.


Chip is finally getting accustomed to his new bowl, or cage, as Nathan likes to call it, after having been sloshed around in the take home tupperware-like container for the first few hours as Nathan carried him around wherever he went. Little Chippy didn't come with any care instructions, but Nathan is creating his own manual and posting it page by page all in the vicinity of the Chipster's bowl, lest we forget vital tips like he prefers it quiet or that people food is detrimental to his well being. He is also concerned about the fish's emotional needs and has provided a frog for friendship and written him a love note. He's also a little concerned about gender identity and the possibilities therein.

"Mommy, if Chip Fishy Fish is actually a gwirl and she lays eggs, will she fight with her baby fish till they're all dead?"

Supporting the Arts

There was a little of this:


A lot of that:


And now there's this:


A street performer is borne...note the tambourine played with his foot and of course the piggy bank...

Mary Mary Quite Contrary

Grandpa Tony, my Sicilian grandfather was a produce man his entire life. He started out helping his own father deliver produce to his village in a horse drawn wagon. He and his family immigrated when he was young boy and settled in Portland. As a young man, he and two Italiano partners opened a produce store that maintains a storefront today--no longer a produce market, but the structure is still there.

When I was a child and Grandma and Grandpa came to visit, I was embarrassed to be seen with these people, my family, at the airport baggage claim--had they no cooth travelling with worn produce boxes wrapped in tattered cords? There was no escaping it. Today, I might follow an old Italian home for what that box contained--home grown citrus, tomatoes, and braids of garlic. The peppery salami was the piece de resistance and would become the subject of my dad getting schooled in the value and technique of the thinnest slices possible. The education came with plenty of tastes and no doubt a few icy brews along the way, not a bad trade.

Grandpa was the vegetable man and Grandma had gorgeous flower beds. So proud was she of those gardens, she posed with them and sent photos to us on a regular basis. I thought it curious. I also found it curious that my grandfather recorded the day's temperature everyday, probably for decades. My parents also had gardens, my interest in which was so minimal, I don't know which of them was the gardener or if it was a shared hobby. I suspect they manned their own plots. I do remember my mother announcing on a semi regular basis, or maybe just once, that all of the tomatoes and cucumbers in the evening salad were products of our own garden. Whatever, I wasn't impressed; seemed a little bitter if you asked me, but nobody ever did. I was a delightful child.

Vegetables became only slightly more interesting as I entered adulthood. Once I had my own house, non-vegetable related working in the yard became a relaxing hobby. I mostly tended what was already there, though once I tried to grow tulips--from bulbs. Did I mention that I like immediate gratification? Yeah, that, combined with my ineptitude as a gardener did not give me a bed of candy colored blooms by Easter, or ever, for that matter. First, I couldn't determine which end of the bulb was up, then I couldn't decide if I should plant them consistently, or just toss them in willy nilly and hope they would figure it the hell out. My anxiety over the whole matter became more and more clear when I made it my job to dig the damn things up every chance I had. Were they growing? Were the roots growing down and the sprouts up? What about the temperature and moisture level of the soil? Yeah, that didn't work out too well. Incidentally, I'm pretty sure I have some odd disability that turns images around in my befuddled brain, dyslexia you say? Maybe, but it doesn't happen so much with letters; tulip bulbs and turkey breasts, yes. The few times I have cooked a bird, the simple instruction to place the bird in the roasting pan breast side up has given me great pause. Perhaps my organic birds have not been pumped up to Pamela Anderson proportion, or maybe after I've manhandled the poor things in the sink, they're a tad misshapen, but still. Do you think it's typical to conjure the bird back on it's feet in order to figure out where it's chest is? Frankly that method isn't even fool proof, and the fact that they shove the chopped off neck in some random other cavity, is downright confusing, but I digress.


For Nathan's second birthday, my parents gave him all the accouterments for his very own garden. Tools, container, soil, plenty of seeds...the whole thing. We planted and tended this miniature plot and even saw sprouts come up. I didn't insist that he maintain the integrity of his garden and if he wanted to rake it all up, replant it a hundred times and water it fourteen gallons of water per day, that's what he did. He was two.

Three years later, Nathan and I were working in the teeny tiny bit of soil we have in our current back yard. We were pulling weeds and cleaning up his smidge of a gardening area. In and amongst a fist full of weeds I pulled up a little carrot leftover from the endeavor of years gone by. I may as well have found a winning lottery ticket or some such treasure, the excitement I had for this ordinary root. Let me just say that no carrot has tasted better, ever. From that point, it became my mission to plant a garden with the sincere goal of harvesting actual food from it. Recognizing my limitations, most of our crop is intended to grow above ground, lest I can't control myself to check the progress of the carrots before their time.

I may never get the fixin's for an entire dinner salad from our newly planted garden, but already, there are things growing; sweet things, crunchy things and savory things. If only I can get Nathan to quit eating all the basil and cilantro directly off the plants, we may have a chance yet.

Good Morning Sunshine

"I don't want to go to school, not kindergarten, not college, or anything."