Jun 21, 2005 | Boy Wonder
Occasionally, behavior is so egregious it must be addressed. Running around the Post Office making a general ass out of yourself after your father has asked to you stop numerous times is to be expected from an eight year old who has been cooped up all day and ignored far too long by the adults in his life. The reasoning, if you can call it that, which runs through Boy Wonder’s brain is very similar to 2nd strike criminals who figure, “Hey, if I get caught I’m going to do TIME, so I might as well make this good!” Basically, he figures he has nothing to lose. He would be wrong.
But, flaunting your behavior in your father’s face once you leave the Post Office, declaring that you knew you had been asked to stop and then shrugging off your behavior in a “What are you going to do about it” smirk is enough to send your father’s blood pressure to the ceiling.
Warning, warning, Boy Wonder… RUN!
We could let the obnoxious behavior slide–the belief that you can get away with anything,
is another matter all together! But what to do? No way, in the middle of the move, am I going to take away the things keeping us all sane. I’m way smarter than that! Parenting experts may suggest creating boredom–but I’m met my child “bored” and I haven’t the stamina. I’ll admit it.
Boredom is how all my china ended up “decorated” with markers. Boredom is how marbles got glued into the pen cubbies on his art desk. Boredom is how the bathroom door ended locked with the bathtub quickly filling with running water. Boy Wonder has expressed an interest in chemistry as of late. NO WAY IN HELL am I going to let this kid get to the bored state right now. No, no, no, no, no.
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Jun 20, 2005 | This Life
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Jun 18, 2005 | This Life
We are down to a week and there is so much to do. But, the stint of living in boxes is nearly over and for that I’m ever so relieved. We have been so busy putting things into boxes that blogging has seemed meaningless. Something tells me no one wants to read real time blogging of my packing. First I opened a box. Then I taped it. I wrapped a few dishes. Stopped for a latte. Then wrapped a few more. Had a minor breakdown. Went out to coffee to recover. Wrapped a few more dishes. Then stopped to hang out with Becca. You get the idea. Not exactly fun reading.
What it is, is exhausting! Poor IZ and I walk around in this grave yard of boxes and packing paraphernalia looking more and more like zombies as the days go by. So, while lots of interesting things have been taking place I haven’t the energy to do anything other than think, “Oh, I should blog that.” That’s as far as I get before the alternative message of, “KEEP PACKING” interrupts and my eyes glaze over and I go back to putting things IN boxes. In boxes. In boxes. Boxes.
We did take a break on Thursday from all this madness to hang with Boy Wonder on his last day of school. Thursday also marked 15 years of connubial bliss. The day was an odd assortment of celebrations and on several occasions I found myself questioning my reality. “Am I really watching a 3-D movie on my 15th anniversary?” “Are we really eating at THIS restaurant tonight?” Sometimes the important moments in your life collide. It is the risk you take to have meaningful relationships. Not everything will be about YOU. In the midst of your own chaos, the ones you love often need your presence and attention. I suspect this is the mark of a great relationship–when you are willing to be present in the chaos.
So, while our big day wasn’t what we had planned, I am eternally grateful to have a companion willing to journey with me through the day. Willing to rescue a BBQ without any of the ego you would expect. Willing to shelter our child through a difficult transition even if it means sitting through the most inane movie playing in the theaters. A man willing to hold my hand through the emotions of it all–creative enough to sneak moments away in the midst of people too oblivious to know the importance of the day. A lover who remains my best friend and best example of what marriage should be. A true companion. Happy Anniversary, IZ. I love you.
Jun 15, 2005 | Boy Wonder, This Life
Boy Wonder, “Does it look better now?” holding scissors in his hand.
“Did you just cut your hair?” (What I’m really thinking is, “OMG, this child just cut. his. hair!”)
“Yeah, it was sticking out.”
“YOU DO NOT CUT YOUR HAIR!” (What I’m really thinking is, “Are you FOUR?”)
“But it was sticking out.”
“YOU DO NOT CUT YOUR HAIR!!!”(What I’m really thinking is, “So you cut
it off? Sure, keep cutting every piece that sticks out and we will have to print you up a bunch of T-Shirts that say, ‘Cancer Survivor'”)
“I didn’t want to look like a girl, mom!”
It was at this point I walked away. It was either that or spit back, “Then try getting a haircut.” Which would have only proved his point.
Jun 11, 2005 | You Can't Make This Stuff Up
I’ve got not strings
To hold me down
To make me fret, or make me frown
I had strings
But now I’m free
There are no strings on me
Hi-ho the me-ri-o
That’s the only way to go
I want the world to know
Nothing ever worries me
Hi-ho the me-ri-o
I’m as happy as can be
I want the world to know
Nothing ever worries me
So, I finally went wireless. I’d shout “freedom” but something tells me this new iBook will be glued to my lap indefinitely. IZ sleeps with his Palm Pilot, whom we call precious. I know, seek help. So I will… Any suggestions on what I should call this God of a computer? I make it a hard and fast rule not to sleep with strangers. 🙂
Jun 9, 2005 | Boy Wonder
“Wow! I’m only a hundred dollars from reaching my goal!” Boy Wonder said when I handed him his earnings from the weekend’s yard sale.
“Oh yeah? Whatcha’ got in mind?” I asked.
“Promise you won’t be mad?”
Now, I’m thinking, what could this child possibly want to buy with that kind of money? I’ve seen his bedroom, trust me when I tell you he wants for little. What, a case of surgery bubble gum? More legos? Perhaps weapons. Oh yeah, he wants weapons.
“Yeah, I promise, ” I lie. I get set to launch into my “anti-violence” speech that includes phrases like, “I KNEW I shouldn’t have let you see that stupid Star Wars movie.”
“Well,” he says with that sly grin he owns so well, “I want to buy you that red Kitchen Aid you want.”
Boy Wonder Needs a Haircut
Jun 6, 2005 | Boy Wonder
Boy Wonder did not “acquire” language until he was 2 and a half. He wasn’t mute, he just relied on other forms of communication to get his point across. Consequently, the stories of him actually
using language tend to be humorous, if rare. Our child was not a poet, he was a man of action.
At the time, I obsessed over it. It didn’t help that we were in a play group with 6 other boys all born within 2 months of each other. The comparisons were unavoidable. Those little boys had vocabularies at 16 months. Real Language. Our child had a language reminiscent of Chinese. In fact, the local Chinese restaurant used to love to have him visit as much for his gusto in eating as for his ability to hold down a conversation with the waiters. They would ask him questions and he would answer back. Not a word of the conversation was in English, but they didn’t seem to mind, and neither did he.
He had inflection and pauses down pat–but none of it made any sense. Pure nonsense. No amount of analysis on our part could distinguish a pattern other than it sounded like spoken language, it just wasn’t. In turn, I spent hours pointing out objects and labeling them only to be met with a look
that seemed to imply I was a little touched to be stating the obvious. He thought he could talk.
When his two year old check-up rolled around I decided it was time to get to the bottom of all this silence. I took him to his pediatrician and while there his doctor did the standard check-up drill. Every time the she would try to put a tongue depressor in his mouth, he would politely take her hand and move it away. After a few minutes of this, I summoned up my courage to ask the question that had brought us there,”Is there a reason he isn’t talking?” She answered, “Probably because he concentrating on perfecting his mobility skills. Which, I have to tell you, are pretty impressive.”
She then went on to explain that a minority of children acquire language differently than the vocabulary building we read about in all those baby manuals. For these kids, labeling is a bit pointless as they are working building concepts not lists. She sent us off with the promise that he would indeed talk, eventually.
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Jun 6, 2005 | This Life
Today ends my tour of duty as a single parent. IZ is making his way back home from a 12 day stint of painting. I can honestly say, I can’t remember being so tired. Stress and exhaustion (and
Heaven forbid a combination!) seep out in strange ways. I’m a “bottler”, a “stuffer”. So I carry around all my grief or frustration or anxiety on the inside. Occasionally I have a minor meltdown. Tears, snot, puffy red eyes, and hiccuping ensue. But that’s a rarity which takes a lot more than you would imagine to actually happen. Despite my reputation for being overly emotional, I rarely have a full-out atomic event. Instead, things “eek” out, typically in my sleep.
I’ve suffered from night terrors most of my life. They usually take the form of spiders falling from the ceiling and me bolting upright. Sometimes I make a mad dash out of the room. Sometimes I scream with such terror that I am hoarse in the morning. Most of the time they are minor events, hardly worth noting. But the intensity and frequency has became much more
noticeable since I started Seminary. Correlation does not equate cause and effect. But I’d bet money there’s a connection.
Last Thanksgiving when my parents were in town, I screamed so loud and so long one night that my father sleeping down stairs threw on his jeans and sprinted out of the house barefooted brandishing his knife.
He ran three blocks looking for me before he realized I might still be in the house. It was just after midnight. He’s fortunate that no one in this sleepy little borough called the cops. He would have had a hard time explaining why he was running down the streets of San Anselmo half dressed carrying a weapon. I’m fortunate it was only a knife and not his police issued firearm.
He has his own traumas.
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May 29, 2005 | You Can't Make This Stuff Up
It’s hard not to laugh when the eight year old turns to me and says,
Of course, it stops being funnywhen he then launches into a 3 minute lecture on the causes and treatments of said heartburn. This child is a walking Rolaids
commercial.
May 23, 2005 | You Can't Make This Stuff Up
Gone? Not quite. I finished classes and work last week. I even stopped dating my Dentist as of last Friday. But I traded one list of academic work for a much longer list of things to pack. Currently, my living room is filled with 10 crates of boxes–all of which must be unloaded and packed by the 26th of June. That’s 100+ boxes! So, while I’ve been blogging right along in my head, I haven’t had the time or space to sit down and say it all. And there is SO much to say. Like how I went out to a school “function” on Friday and lived to regret it! Or how I learned the lesson that you must, you MUST back-up all your email–especially when dealing with Religious Institutions! Heh. Or how Boy Wonder discovered the Dark Side and then promptly put it into play at home. But I’m not blogging any of this now. The only writing I’m doing is on the outside of boxes:
- LIVING ROOM: FRAGILE.
Drop this box and I will hunt you down and tell your mother what you did at camp when you were 15. I have ways of knowing these things.
- UPSTAIRS OFFICE: Yes, all the way upstairs. Stop your whinging!
- BOOKS: The only reason I’m keeping these is because I’m paying YOU to haul them upstairs. YES, they go upstairs, too. Don’t give me that look.
- BOOKS: Take a wild guess where these go!
- ART: FRAGILE. Don’t even think about stealing this. Unless you think you can pass off my kid’s kindergarten paintings on Ebay for $500 bucks. And then I expect my cut.
I know this looks like I don’t trust movers. But that’s not it. I don’t trust humanity in general. Seminary does that to a person. Heh.
