Bonehead

My son has taken an interest in the Presidents of the United States of America.

No, not that band, but the actual guys who served in the Oval Office.

His school did a lesson about the presidents last month and my boy has, of all things, a plastic placemat, displaying all the photos, names and basic facts about them.

One night, he studied the placemat, pointing to random photos to ask their names. My husband patiently answered.

The last face he pointed to is the person Garrison Keillor refers to as the Current Occupant. To which my husband named, "Bonehead." I shot my husband a look of horror but my Darling Husband - ever the tree-hugging, long-haired, vegetarian environmentalist - smiled to himself, enjoying this little joke.

A few days later, though, one of my boy's teachers relayed the day's funny school story. During a lesson about the presidents, my son proudly proclaimed that he remembered the name of the Current Occupant.

"Bonehead!" he volunteered.

The only thing I'm thankful for is that the teacher involved is liberal enough, and had a decent sense of humor about the little bit of misinformation.

Real conversation

Curling up with my little couch potato, I started to wrap myself in the couch blanket. It was a cold evening (at least for Florida standards).

My little boy jumped onto my lap, declaring he was cold too.

Me: "Yes, it's been cold all day today. Were you cold at school?"
Son: "Yeah. Were you cold at work?"
Me: "Yes."

I couldn't say much else, so shocked at this little bit of caring displayed.

Sweetness and life

There are a few moments that make all the hassles and trials of motherhood all worthwhile.

Beware. I am going to now begin gushing.

My boy had just woken up, but was curled up on the living room sofa, missing sleep. He saw me walk in.

"You're still my best friend, Mommy."

My face lit up and I walked towards him. "Yes, baby, and you're my best friend. Can I have my hug?"

"Sure" And then I get the tightest squeeze his little muscles can give me.

"And I'll give you a kiss." And there it is, a wonderful smooch on my cheek.

I kiss and hug him back and I hold on, trying to memorize this exact feeling of how small his body is, how soft and squishy his cheek feels against mine.

I only hope I can remember this about 12 years from now when, having diagnosed symptoms of my own stubbornness in his character, I'm going to have to give him some tough love.

Feeling uninvited

My husband and I celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary in our own quiet homely way. An exchange of presents. Gathering with close family. And a nice dinner out.

It seems hard to believe that I've been married for six years. It's gone by quickly.

The odd experience of the day was how my son reacted to our wedding anniversary, or more specifically, to our wedding album. My mother-in-law requested the album to reminisce about our glorious day under the oak.

He intently studied each photo for familiar faces - Mommy, Daddy, his grandparents, his aunts, his cousins, our close friends. But he gradually got upset when he didn't see his own face.

"Where am I" said the pouty little face. "Why didn't I come?"

It was hard to explain that he arrived as a result of our marriage. We tried but it didn't register with the 4 year old, who ended up melting in my arms, a puddle of tears.

Road trip

I tend to worry too much about big trips.

I have always loved travel and always took in stride the long hours - either in flight or in cars - required to get to my destination. But I worry too much these days, since I've got a 4-year-old to entertain.

My son did well during our Portland trip but now we were embarking on a different journey - an 8-hour drive to see his cousins for Thanksgiving.

So we did just as my parents did, and left most of the driving for the night, so that keeping the kid happy during waking hours wouldn't be a problem.

We left home 10:30 p.m. last night, departing from the bizarre winter chill in Florida (48 degrees!) in a spitting rain. My boy was already very excited to see his cousins, so he tolerated being woken up and strapped into the car. Within 5 minutes, he was asleep, as was my husband, leaving me the night owl to take the first driving shift.

Some three hours later, somewhere south of Savannah, Ga., my boy woke up and started cracking jokes.

Do you smell a smell?

It's ditch water!

I laughed at him quoting one of his favorite Thomas the Tank Engine goofs. And he barked his heartiest laugh, a sign that he was wide awake. Which was all good because I felt myself starting to fade.

We stopped for gas and for potty breaks and switched drivers. It was a half hour more of jokes before he could finally get back to sleep.

There is nothing more surreal than quoting Thomas the Tank Engine at 2 a.m. in the rain, driving through the Peach State.

Then he had to ask: "Are we there yet?"

I almost burst into tears, it was so funny.

"Don't you start that now, mister!" I teased him. "Go back to sleep."

Attachment

The first conversation came about two months ago, as my son played with a stuffed dog in his room.

"I'm going to have my own doggy one day," he told me.

Knowing his love for animals, I wasn't surprised that he would want a pet. I was a little taken aback, but also touched, by how strongly he knew he wanted his own dog.

Still, we have resisted, knowing the work and responsibility of having a dog in the house, and knowing that a 4-year-old boy really isn't ready to taken on any kind of role with raising a dog. And I know I'm not ready to do it by myself.

Over the weekend, we picked up a gopher tortoise, not as a pet, but as an extension of my husband's environmental work. The tortoise was losing his burrow to a new housing development and he came to live with us for a couple of days until my husband could finalize all the state paperwork for its permanent relocation.

My little boy had little interaction with the reptile. A few moments to satisfy his curiosity and to make sure that the turtle had some food in his little box.

With our Thanksgiving vacation, the turtle needed to be relocated. We never realized what trauma this would cause.

Just before leaving work Monday night, I called the house to check if we needed any groceries. I could hear my son bawling in the back.

My Darling Redhead explained: "He's upset because the turtle is gone."

A little while later, I came home and a sad face greeted me at the garage door. He waited until I closed my car door.

"Mommy, the turtle is gone and I'm missing the turtle." His face erupted in tears again.

I did what I could to comfort him and I tried to explain why the turtle had to go. He understood, I think but still had a little trouble accepting it.

One of the gang

Halloween is not a big event in a neighborhood full of retirees.

After years of living in our neighborhood of grandparents, and grandchild-less octogenarians, I became accustomed to having 1 or 2 trick or treaters reaching my door and collecting as much candy as I could give without guilt.

Thankfully, the neighborhood is changing and we now claim 10 children on the block. This year, Halloween was different.

One of the moms hosted a night party for the kids and after some food at the house, our group headed out for Halloween.

Imagine a rush of 10 children, the oldest 8 and 9 years old, dashing to each house and screaming "Attack!" The flock gathers at the doorway, simultaneously shout "TRICK OR TREAT," and then press towards the door for their candy.

More than once, the unsuspecting homeowner was so overwhelmed that she was out of candy by the 5th child, and the rest waited patiently at the door, not wishing to forfeit their right to their chocolate.

My son, the baby of the group, was ecstatic for the chance to relish in Halloween. He did well for the first group of homes, but soon found his little legs could hardly keep up with the older children.

He persevered though he had to skip a few homes, but made it through the two block route around our neighborhood and got more candy than he could ever eat for weeks.

Holy Toledo, Batman

I take full responsibility for the fact that my son knows all about lightsabers, Darth Vader and Yoda.

Batman, however, came from a different source, despite the fact that the Dark Knight was also a distinct part of my childhood.

I was about 4 years old when I watched the old Adam West series on TV, while my father, who worked night shifts, took his badly needed naps. He had it timed well. After Batman was over, I was supposed to wake Daddy up so he could go to work. I have such vivid memories of this routine: my father on our old tan sofa and me sitting between him and the coffee table while the Joker, Robin and several rounds of "Pow" and "Bam" flashed before my eyes.

These days, however, my son experiences Batman comes through the Internet.

At the moment, one of his favorite websites is this wonderful animated series of the Lego Batman vehicles.

(I'm already a big fan of the animation company, which did this wonderful Star Wars - Lego movie).

Batman came in handy when my son was home sick with a cold and I, trying to rearrange my schedule to watch him one morning, needed a quick shower.

No problem on the distraction, especially since my 4-year-old is already handy with a mouse and knows how to navigate a web browser. In truth, he only needs me to send him to the web page, since the URL is embedded deep in my bookmarks.

I shudder to think what would happen if I set up a toolbar buttons saying, "Batman." Then he would have nothing to stop him from stealing away to the computer and watching the defeat of those Gotham City criminals.

The cutest part is the fact that no matter how many times my son has watched these videos, he is still amazed everytime when good defeats evil. He cheers the ending everytime, having that affirmation that all is good in the world, and all that is bad goes to jail. (Or at least the Arkham Asylum.)

What comes next? Geometry lessons at the pool table?

I had been waiting for the day that my son's basic counting lessons extended into the realm of double digits. I guess it's the secret math-head in me.

I never would have guessed the day would have arrived courtesy of NASCAR.

If you don't already know, my husband is a fan, Daytona born and bred and though he's not an intense fan, and as a well-educated, vegetarian liberal he doesn't fit the fan mold, he follows the races every Sunday.

One day, he bought our son a toy racing car for driver Carl Edwards. A day later, my husband pointed out Edward's car in the weekend race. My son was hooked.

Now, Edwards' racing number is 99. It was the first double digit he learned to instantly recognize (though he was already able to comfortably count into the teens).

Then my boy tried to count, using the 99. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,15,99!

No, darling, I explained to him. There are a lot of numbers in between.

Pushing him on a swing some time later in the day, he started counting. Then I took took over when his number knowledge stopped and he repeated after me. So we went through the whole number sequence, reaching that final prize of shouting out 99!

Another funny part of this, given his interest in race cars, I've been pointing out all the different numbers on the random cars in his collection. And it seems he remembers those numbers easier than other ones.

Top 10 signs your child is obsessed with weapons

10. He refers to the 8-year-old down the block not by his name but as "the boy with all the swords." This is because the 8-year-old, bored with his array of weapons, graciously loaned a sword to your son.
9. He is thrilled when Daddy loans him a tool holder (which attaches with a belt) because it is a perfect sword holder. Then he specifically wants to wear pants with belt loops so that he can wear the sword holder and sword all day long.
8. A broken gun-shaped remote control for a toy car is now called a gun.
7. A toy drill is now called a gun.
6. During a round of Lego building, he interrupts your attempt to make a truck and notes that what you have in your hand is a gun. Then he takes it, because obviously, he doesn't have enough toys converted into guns.
5. During a round of Playdoh rolling, he interrupts your attempt to make words and points out that the "t" you just made is shaped like a sword. He takes the Playdoh "t" and waves it against imaginary thugs by the front door. When it flops over, he calls it a floppy sword.
4. He then asks for more floppy swords in all the available Playdoh colors.
3. He has started taking all your clothing hangars to use them as archery bows.
2. During bath time, he opens negotiations to find out exactly what chores he would need to accomplish so that Mommy and Daddy can buy him a real bow and arrow set.
And the number one sign that your child is obsessed with weapons....
You spent an entire Labor Day with your son killing off at least 30 different monsters, bad guys and everyday thugs in your house. You never realized that your house was so unsafe.

Not a merry man

In the fickle mind of my 4-year-old, Superman has ceded his prominence to that legendary benefactor of the proletariat, Robin Hood.

 

We have an animated, non-Disney-fied version of Robin Hood, which features British accents, a more complex dialogue and a plot line that sticks close to the original legends.

 

And what little boy wouldn't love Robin Hood's life in the forest, his skills with the bow and the sword, and his noble cause. And I've always been fond of all things medieval, anyway.

 

My son has reguarly requested Robin Hood for his allotted TV time but last night's airing surprised me.

 

Watching the final sword fight behind the outlaw and the sheriff of Nottingham, my son took the drama very personally. At one point, Robin lost his sword, provoking a fit of tears from my son.

 

"Mommy, Robin lost his sword. He needs his sword," he cried, fearful for what could happen. Never mind that he had already watched this scene at least four other times.

 

Mommy ran to his side, assuring him that the resourceful woodsman would figure out what to do. And he did of course, using somebody else's sword to counter-parry his way to victory.

 

I just didn't know my son would take this fight between good and evil to heart so much.

 

 

 

A butterfly in the hand ...

… is an impossible task for a 4-year-old.

Belated news again (since I’m slacking on the blogging, but getting caught up on household chores), but yes, darling, we got our butterflies.

It was Thursday afternoon when we arrived home from a busy day of work and play. I noticed something flutter inside the butterfly cage. Sure enough, our caterpillar experiment succeeded in a batch of five Painted Ladies.

“Mommy, look! The cocoons are all broken!” was the first response from my son.

Excitedly, we did our best to take care of the butterflies (lest they starve in the net). We picked several flowers, got a small cup of water and mixed some sugar in it. Then we sprinkled it onto the flowers (as per the kit’s instructions).

My darling boy continued to be fascinated with the butterflies, carefully watching them flutter about in the cage. Then he said good night to them before bedtime.

My husband, the darling red-headed biologist, decided that the butterflies would have to be released, though he had a few qualms about it, since he can be very adamant about the proper biodiversity, would have preferred to release the correct, native species. Our version, it seems, is more common to Europe and Africa.

Nonetheless, it was time to say goodbye and my son didn’t seem particularly heartbroken about it. He seemed to understand that they needed to be out in the world, finding other butterflies.

When the moment came, he seemed wary of touching them and was content enough to let someone else do the dirty work. In this case, it was Nana who sent them on their way.

The Great Negotiator, chapter 2

We have more proof yet that my son is an attorney in waiting. And a potentially Machiavellian one at that.

Recently, he tried to argue his case for sleeping in Mommy and Daddy's bed. I had allowed him to do this one night when he had bronchitis, but that was a rare treat for a sick child and I had no intention of making this a permanent habit.

My son thought otherwise.

At bedtime, he whined and cried and demanded to go to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed. I held firm to my refusal, though he cried for what seemed like forever.

Sobbing aside, he tried a sweeter approach. "Pwease, may I sweep in your bed, pwease?" Maybe he thought that saying please twice would gain extra points. But no go.

Then the negotiations began.

Maybe we can move my bed.
Move it where?
To your bedroom.
But there's no room there.
Yes there is. We can put it next to your spot.
But there's already my night stand there
We can move that.
No, we can't
How 'bout next to Daddy's spot?
No, we have furniture there too
But you don't need that.
Yes, we do.

Seeing that Mommy was not giving in, he moved to Plan B, my redheaded husband, to retry all the maneuvers.
Again, his mission failed, but he won a little compromise from Daddy, who agreed to let fall asleep in our bed, only to be to transfered to his own room in the middle of the night.

The boy pondered it and saw the compromise had potential. He played along.

A moment later, he was settled in the middle of the queen sized bed, pointed out to me, "This is a good space for me."

Then he glanced around the room, trying to discuss a furniture move again.

Surprisingly, all these negotiations didn't wear him out, though I was fading fast. He lay wide awake in my bed and found he couldn't fall asleep. So he saw the futility of the whole ordeal and agreed to go back to his bed.

In the end, I may have won, but if this is what he's capable of at 4 years of age, I'd hate to be at the other end of the bargaining table after he gets his law degree. Or his MBA.

Who was that caped super hero?

Faster than a crawling baby!
More powerful than a climbing toddler!
Able to leap from tall jungle gyms!

He’s not 2! He’s not 3! He’s a super 4-year-old!

My SuperBoy celebrated his big birthday, and now that the weekend is over, I have a spare moment to tell you about it.

We hosted a splashy shindig at the local water park. I wouldn’t recommend the pizza party that came with the birthday price (service was lousy), but the kids had a great time at the park. I never realized that my son could gain more and even more energy as the day wore on, but somehow he worked himself up to an absolute frenzy, ricocheting from wave pool to jungle gym to octopus slide to the river, everywhere he could be, as fast as he could.

What’s even more surprising is that he fought bedtime (though he took a quick car nap close to dinner time).

But he loved the park, so much so that he broke into a tantrum when we had to leave.

The birthday pro that he already is, my SuperBoy came to expect the presents and the cake (plural actually, since we had a separate celebration with his grandparents). We tried to tone down the impatience, but it’s hard when you know you’ve got cool toys and chocolate dessert coming your way.

Fun presents they were, though. My parents came through with their usual loud toy – a talking Lightning McQueen. Why don’t these things ever come with a volume control?

He got a very cool PlayDoh set, complete with a set of tools, causing My Darling Redhead to exclaim, “Wow, you have more hammers than me now.” That is an amazing thing.

He also got some great books, a nice Lego set and a cool butterfly kit (with fresh caterpillars arriving by mail, ready to cocoon themselves).

But Superman ruled the day. My boy had already ran several laps around the house, his favorite blankey wrapped around his neck. But now he’s got a nifty cape for that flying.