Sneaky

November 29, 2011

This morning Sophie told us that she and a friend are “sneaky” at preschool. “What do you mean, sneaky?” I asked. She said that some of the work they choose from the classroom bookshelves is meant to be done alone but she doesn’t like doing work alone—she likes doing it with her friend. So they find a place “that’s blocked so the teacher can’t see us.”

“Where did you learn the word ‘sneaky’?” I asked.

“From my teacher,” Sophie said.

I have a feeling my next parent-teacher conference is going to differ from the last one.

Sophie can be sneaky, though. I know this. Several weeks ago I left all three kids playing in the living room for just a few minutes. When I came back in the room, Sophie and Owen were snuggled on the couch together, under the blanket Linda knitted for us, watching Clifford on TV. The TV was off when I left the room. So somehow they managed to find the remote (which is always missing), turn the TV on and then find a child-appropriate show to watch. (It took me a good month to learn how to use that remote.)

But I loved how they were snuggled into one another. And I loved the look on Owen’s face—it’s a smirk he makes often, when he’s proud of himself. So I let them be, despite the fact they were over their TV limit for the day. Sometimes, I think, sneaky can be harmless. And can bring joy. And camaraderie.

I’m sure being sneaky will take on an entirely different meaning, however, when my children are 16.

“I was so naive as a kid I used to sneak behind the barn and do nothing.” —Johnny Carson

Finally …

November 21, 2011

the boys sit on my lap, content, happy, calm, and I can read to them. These moments are some of my favorite moments of the day. And it is next to impossible to say “no” when one of them comes to me, eager, book in hand, saying “book,” “book,” “book” over and over and over. Among the many books we own, they typically choose one of five favorites. And insist I read them over and over and over. This is incredibly tiresome but yet, I think back to when they wouldn’t sit still at all. And how I feared I would never get to read to them (how silly, I know). And now, their insistence keeps me from getting much done during the day. I don’t care. Or, rather, I do, greatly, which is why little else gets done.

“Books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind.” –James Russell Lowell

A Perfect(?) Fall Afternoon

October 31, 2011

I have been purposefully neglectful about updating my blog. As much as I love my children I haven’t felt much like writing about them upon learning the loss two dear friends of mine have endured. I know it’s cliché to talk about hearts aching but that’s exactly what mine has been doing all week—no parent should outlive their child.

And this is what I struggle with: Why am I allowed a perfect fall afternoon with my three beautiful children while others must suffer so much? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why must there be tragedy, suffering and loss? How is it possible—and right—that while something beautiful is happening something tragic is as well? At any given second someone, somewhere is experiencing the most profound happiness. And at any given second someone, somewhere, is experiencing the most unimaginable sorrow. Why must this be so?

I suppose the answer is something along the lines of better appreciating happiness because sadness exists. And yet, my heart is so heavy. Life can be so unfair, so fantastic, so beautiful, so unkind. I have a difficult time accepting this, understanding this. And so I try to focus on the good—the perfect, sunny, blue-sky, falling leaves, pinwheel-perfect autumn days. The kind meant for falling into a leaf pile and chalking on the sidewalk and finding snake skin and collecting beautiful leaves and fighting your brother for a turn on the rocking chair and throwing your beautiful leaves in the air. And yet. And yet. And yet. Sometimes, some days, it’s too hard. The world’s sadness haunts me.

“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” —Kahlil Gibran

Owen’s Helmet

October 31, 2011

Lately Owen has been getting a lot of bumps and bruises on his head. Sophie has taken notice of this and, as such, likes to make sure he’s well-protected.

“The cardinal virtue of a teacher (is) to protect the pupil from his own influence.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Comfort of Dolls

October 19, 2011

When Owen’s really upset, Sophie will find his favorite baby doll (it’s hers, she shares) and he’ll hug the doll to him and say “aww.” And now, when he stumbles upon a baby bottle, he’ll find one of Sophie’s dolls and gently feed it. Of course, the dolls are sometimes thrown across the room but mostly, for now, the boys handle them gently and with love, which I love.

James enjoys feeding Sophie’s dolls, too, although he doesn’t quite get the bottle-to-the-mouth aspect yet.

“Nothing that grieves us can be called little: by the eternal laws of proportion a child’s loss of a doll and a king’s loss of a crown are events of the same size.” —Mark Twain

An Example of Poor Mothering

October 12, 2011

James and Owen (who aren’t wearing socks or shoes) are playing with Sophie’s paint and brushes, and Owen, in particular, has blue paint in his (too-long) hair and on his clothes and he’s not wearing his tot collar … I’m sure if I could zoom out I’d find about 12 other things wrong with this picture as well. Thankfully, it’s a close-up. And if good mothering is judged on how happy your children are, well, despite the flaws shown here, in this moment, I was doing OK.

“The best way to make children good is to make them happy.” —Oscar Wilde

The Lure of the Open Laptop

September 8, 2011

“The quickest way for a parent to get a child’s attention is to sit down and look comfortable.” —Lane Olinghouse

The Grand Carousel

September 3, 2011

I have long loved carousels, believing them to be the most elegant of amusement park rides. The Grand Carousel at Kings Island was built in 1926 and I remember, even as a little girl, imagining those in the late 1920s and early 1930s riding it—children, adults, everyone happy.

The carousel is painted with more than 20,000 sheets of 23-karat gold and 1,000 sheets of sterling silver—I love the painted scenes and as a young girl I spent many a hot summer afternoons dreaming about living in them.

We sought shelter under the carousel during a long thunderstorm. Two older men were operating the ride—and beautifully singing the old-fashioned words to the songs coming from the carousel’s organ into their microphones. They both acknowledged the fact that we kept getting off the ride and getting back on. Because the ride was quite empty they insisted we just stay on for the duration of the storm. Sophie loved this.

As did the boys.

I think we rode the carousel at least six times. Maybe more.

And if you count the smaller one in the kid area, well, it was probably close to 20.

Sophie still talks about the carousel, almost daily. She likes to play “Kings Island” in our entry at home, although she often calls it “Kings Land.” We sit on the area rug and pretend we’re on the horses, going up and down, or on another ride, going “super fast.” Grandma is particularly good at this game.

I see so much of myself in Sophie. Especially, though, when she’s doing things I did as a little girl, such as riding the Grand Carousel. Maybe it’s the memories. Maybe it’s what happens when you’re a mother. Maybe it’s just the cyclical nature of things, which Joni Mitchell put so well: “And the seasons, they go ’round and ’round. And the painted ponies go up and down. We’re captive on the carousel of time. We can’t return, we can only look behind from where we came. And go round and round and round in the circle game.”

“You don’t really understand human nature unless you know why a child on a merry-go-round will wave at his parents every time around—and why his parents will always wave back.” —William D. Tammeus

Climbing the Couch

August 15, 2011

The boys can climb up on the couch now. Without help. They are extremely proud of this feat. (Sophie never did this.)

For a couple days I lined the front of the couch with pillows. But then Tucker just used them as a dog bed. So I stopped putting the pillows down figuring a couple falls and the boys would more quickly acknowledge edges. (To be fair there is carpet underneath …)

It is a.b.s.o.l.u.t.e. c.h.a.o.s. The boys fling themselves forward and backward and bury their heads in the cushions and climb up onto the window sill and over the arm of the couch to the end table where they bang the keys on Andy’s laptop, or sometimes pick them off or, if Andy’s smart and closes his laptop they then, simply, sit on top of it. Always there is the risk of someone falling off or toppling over an edge but short of gating the couch or removing it from the living room (both of which I’ve considered) there is nothing I can do but watch wide-eyed, jumping from one end to the other, arms reaching out, occasionally pulling in my breath loudly making the noise I so often make around these boys lately, the noise everyone laughs about.

This is what it looks like from the outside. Sometimes, when our neighbors are taking walks, they slow down and stare as they push their strollers or pull their wagons or follow their child’s tricycle in front of our house thinking, I’m sure, thank God I’m not dealing with that. And even though it’s exhausting and frustrating (I love the look on Andy’s face in this picture) it’s also, often, a hilariously fun time—despite the bruises. So as much as I complain about that, really, I love that. OK, maybe not in the moment but definitely later, when everyone’s sleeping and I can’t help but smile when looking at their faces filled with such happiness, such joy.

“He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying.” —Friedrich Nietzsche

The Knee Clutch—Again

August 7, 2011

I took this picture of Owen mid-July and, looking back through my blog, realized I took almost the same picture of Sophie when she was about Owen’s age. (Owen, in general, is a little more frantic.) You can read about it here. Now, of course, it’s times two. (And some days, times three.)

“The quickest way for a parent to get a child’s attention is to sit down and look comfortable.” —Lane Olinghouse