the whale bus

I put both my kids on buses today. Separate buses, though they are going to the same school, because one kid is full day (her first full day experience!) and leaves at 8 am (FIRST GRADE!!) and the other has half day kindergarten (KINDERGARTEN!) in the afternoon so doesn't get on the bus til lunch.

While Clark and I waited in the front yard for his kindergarten bus, I took a good look at him. Sometimes when the light is right I can see the toddler I hold in my mind, the toddler that was him before he became. Sometimes, like today, I then look even harder and try to see the man he will become, or even the adolescent, but I can't, because that person doesn't exist yet. When I see pictures of his dimpled toddler self, I recognize the person he is now in that seed, but it's impossible to see it going forward. Right now he is only five. He is Potential for a full sized human, but he is not Blueprint. His five year old self does not guarantee any kind of future. Anything can happen between now and then that will shape who he will become, things that I do and decisions that I make as a parent, and things wholly out of my control, curves the world will throw at him that none of us will see coming.

Parenting, it often seems to me, is a large portion helping and carrying and cooking and arguing and explaining and cajoling (which is different from what it used to be, which was more physical labor - holding, carrying, lifting, rocking, wiping, schlepping.), but the most important part is the releasing. Which is what I watched myself do today. As they each climbed those huge steps onto the bus, one at 8am and the other at noon, I felt they were being swallowed by a whale who was then going to turn in the water and swim away. Right? That's pretty much it. I had to just stand and watch, wave goodbye.

My husband asked me recently what I do when I get in really cold water. You can seize up, clinch your fists, tense all your muscles to try to block the cold from getting into the deeper parts, or you can relax into it. Force your muscles to go soft, your breath to release. It's not hard to do - the releasing - but it's hard to want to do.

I told Clark this morning that it was amazing that this big boy in front of me (KINDERGARTEN!!) is the same little tiny baby I held 5 years ago. I told him that five years doesn't seem like a long time to grown ups although it seems like forever to him. (for good reason: it is forever to him. It's all he's experienced of ever.) The only constant is change, right?

And now I get to leave this blog post to walk to pick them up. We are fortunate to live in the same neighborhood as the elementary school, and I love walking to get them in the afternoon. Last year Clark walked with me to pick up Frances, and now I am going to get them both. I'm excited for them to start this new adventure, to hear how the world comes to them, what they've learned about life since being carried away from me this morning. It's a big ocean. 

water sky sand guns

Well, my son has learned the word gun, and how to make one with your thumb and index finger. And with legos. Until now he's been calling things shooters, a word I do prefer, and often the shooting is done by blaster dasters; for example, belonging to Iron Man and someone I had to look up named War Machine (played by Don Cheadle in the Iron Man movie, which I'm certain I will some day view). Yesterday when he pointed his index finger gun at me and said pshw pshw, I asked who told him that was a gun. "Henry," he said. His six year old cousin. "He said you point this finger, then put up your thumb like this, and it's a gun." Uh huh. This is what we get for multigenerational beach vacations. That, and really good scallops and cherry pie.

I'm rather in love with both my kids right now, sweet stages all around. We're in North Carolina for a two week beach vacation (with cousins and aunts and grammy), though Mitch and I left in the middle for three days to visit friends in Durham. For the first time ever, I believe - excluding going back to work when Frances was mere months old - I missed them. Maybe they simply had to be more than babies for the missing to happen.

It took me two full days in Durham to relax. I couldn't figure out why I was anxious - just general floating anxiety - and I now think it's simply that I'm always tensed and ready to spring to action. I was still tensed, but with nothing toward which to spring, and so the tension just circulated like stale air. It reminded me of when I went to visit Boise by myself (when Clark was 15 months, Frances 2 and a half) and I cried for the first three days. About nothing. Everything was just so moving. (You can read about that trip here.)

So now the beach the beach. A week is never enough, but maybe two weeks is too much? Yesterday the kids came to blows, but perhaps that is to be expected and means little about how long we should stay. There are big tide pools here during low tide and some of them are deep enough for the kids to actually swim, and for the adults to lounge comfortably. I'm including pictures.

Tomorrow morning we will leave. Half the party left today because of the gray skies and rain, though Frances and I went and swam in it. When we were walking to the beach this evening, Frances asked if the cousins were already at the beach, then she remembered they had gone home. Clark expressed sorrow and Frances said, "You still have me, Clark. You will always have me. We will always be together. Forever. When you go to Harlan's house for a playdate I won't go, though. But other than that, we will always be together." They were holding hands at the time. It was the first time they had been alone together in two weeks. I wonder if they missed each other. Sweet.

kids are (left to right) 2, almost 5, 6, 3, 4.  

poopie jokes are hi-larious

fourth of july parade

tide pool

picky picky picky

My son. My son is a lunatic. An adorable lunatic, but the screaming really undoes me. He'll be three in a week and I know it's typical for this to be an awful age, but - really. Come on.

He won't wear pajamas. Which is fine. He wears to bed whatever he's been wearing all day, which does make bedtime a little sideways because we don't have the ritual of putting on the pjs any more. But whatever.

He agrees to wear a grand total of two pairs of shorts. Shorts. They are long shorts, the longest I could find in the bottom of the box of summer stuff in his closet. When we go outside I require snowboots and socks that he allows me to pull up under the legs of the shorts, and that he pushes down the instant his butt hits the carseat. He does, however, pull them up of his own accord before we get out of the van. As you can imagine, there being only two pairs, the shorts are often dirty. Today I washed one of the pairs out in the sink and dried them on the heater, and then the last bit with the hairdryer (oh what a sweet mama I am), so they'd be ready for bedtime.

And he found a pair of his now-too-small shoes in a stack of things I've been meaning to ebay, and he insists on wearing them all the time. Even to bed. (I've actually finally won that battle. Score one for mom! No shoes in bed anymore, but he does put them right beside the bed so they'll be there in the morning, or, I assume, if he wakes in the night and needs to glance down to reassure himself of the steadiness of the universe.) Although he wears his snowboots outside (spiderman, light up when walking, bought in desperation at Target months ago when he was refusing to wear his perfectly acceptable blue ones), I often have to carry the too small old shoes with me in my bag so he can change into them when he gets where we're going, like our friend Sophia's house or the kid area at the gym. And if dad's home, he can skip the snowboots all together, because he convinces dad to carry him to and from the car. Which his dad agrees to do. Again, whatever.

His puppy eyes are indeed convincing. He's not even three and he's already mastered throwing the sugary bone. Today he hollered "TV! TV!" while shrieking and flailing in my arms on the way to the car from Frances's ballet class. I told him absolutely not; boys who behave like this don't get to watch tv in the car. He stopped immediately and quietly said, "I not screaming any more." A little too late for that, little man. Five minutes later I said that no, boys who hit mom certainly don't get candy. He looked at me so sweetly and said, "I'm sorry I acted like that, Mama," in the most adorable little voice you've ever heard. "Why, thank you, Clark. I appreciate that apology," I said. "Now we can watch TV?" he asked with just as much sugar. Heh. His girlfriends are going to be in trouble.

Have I mentioned how stinkin cute he is?

I can't figure it out, really. I've tried several different approaches. My latest is to pretend he isn't screaming at all. I dig my earplugs out of my jeans pocket, where they are the minute I get up in the morning, and I just go about my dish-doing, my straightening, my sweet potato slicing for Yam Spinach Bacon soup. He follows me around the kitchen screaming, and screaming, and screaming, and after about three full screaming minutes, he swats me on the legs. I say, "You may not hit me, Clark," and I pick him up and carry him to the time out chair in the dining room. He continues to scream, which I ignore, and then he screams for his blankie blankie, which I scoop from under the kitchen table or up off the family room floor and throw to him. When the blankie hits his hands he quiets immediately, and spends the rest of time out lounging sideways in the chair and sucking his thumb.

(The blankie is fascinating, isn't it? Its like a drug, a deep inhale, the world's edges suddenly softer, life not such a strain, one foot at a time into a steaming hot bath. Ah. I could use a blankie, come to think of it.)

I have to keep reminding myself, keep reminding myself that this is a stage. One day he'll stop all this madness. He won't still be throwing fits like this when he's sixteen (they'll be a different variety of fit then...) I'll even be able to keep a crayon within his reach without fearing consequences.

But as a stay at home mom, dealing with this all day long, every day, several times a day, ad nauseum, it's hard to keep it in perspective. I feel like I'm forever going to live in a house with someone who screams for extended periods at a time. I really do think the noise level is what throws me off. I didn't realize I was noise sensitive, but on the extremely rare and random day when he doesn't scream, I'm a much happier and calmer and better parent.  Cheers to that.

spring please come.

My son took off his mittens and buried them in the snow and now we can't find them. I'm having trouble finding the humor in this, though I know it's there somewhere.

He also buried his Little People fireman, and he seems to think that loss is much more traumatic than his mittens.

He's going to be three in a few weeks, I really can't believe it. He's lengthened out recently, and suddenly he looks like a little boy, so tall and big and grown. He's not a toddler any more. He speaks so completely and well, except when he's screaming, of course; a thing we're still struggling with.

And he is all boy. Before I had kids I thought gender differentiations were more socially constructed than I now believe. Certainly much is, but so much is clearly instinct; it's weird to me. As Mitch and I were watching him toronado through the family room the other day, Mitch commented that Clark, as a little boy, has to practice for killing the big animal. So funny! And if one is indeed going to hunt big animals, he needs to be good at running and climbing and throwing things. Of course, the girls need to practice caring for the babies. I guess I believed until puberty hormones were absent in kids. Certainly and clearly not the case.

As for the caring of babies, Frances has now constructed a miniature house in our dining room, complete with kitchen, playroom, dining room, and bedroom (which is more like a dorm, baby beds lined up in a pretty row). She's never done this before, not to such lengths. And she's scared to death Clark is going to wreck it, not an unfounded fear.

Finally, I will say it: I'm ready for winter to be done. I'm ready for us to be able to step outside barefoot. I've been sick so long I don't remember what it's like to be well. And taking care of kids isn't the easiest thing when you've got no energy. Back to bed for me.

boys will be girls

Clark is all boy. Climbing, jumping, running, tumbling, car-zooming, rocket-blasting, tiger-growling, monster-roaring boy. But he also LOVES his big sister and wants to do whatever she does, which these days means wear her clothes.

"Sissy's clothes!" he says, and pulls open her drawer. "Princess dress!" It started with the dress up clothes, pink tutus and velvet leotards, but now it's Frances's actual clothes he demands, usually a skirt and tank top. His favorite tank top is orange with a bejeweled pineapple on the front. It's lovely. 

        

I let him. Everyone thinks he's a girl, of course, what with his long hair and stick on earrings. I don't correct them. (The stick on earrings were a big thing for a while and looked particularly funny with his regular boy clothes, but now that Frances has her ears actually pierced he's not interested in the stick ons anymore, I assume because she's not.) It occurs to me that it's a good thing his hair isn't buzz cut short--I'd really have to deal with comments then. He looks so funny to me dressed in poofy pink while zooming cars all over the family room floor and walls. I try to squint and see him as a girl but I can't--he just looks so boyish, despite the frills. Handsome as he is, he would not make a pretty girl. 

Salon recently did an article on this, from the point of view of the dad who was much more distressed about it than I am. His son was four and in school, and he was worried about whether the other children would tease him. We start school in about 3 weeks and we'll see then if it's still the fad. I might make a we-wear-our-own-clothes-to-school rule. Then again, I might not care.

My mom was here recently and she bought him a spiderman shirt for dress up. I think she hoped having some dress up of his own would mean he would abandon his sister's. He loved it. He accessorized with a wand and fairy wings. Very nice. 

mother love

My son is in love with me. It's one of those Mommy Infatuation stages that I have the gall to hope will go on forever. He cradles my face in his hands, kisses me on the mouth, says "Love. You." When I pick him up from the kid area at the gym (where he's happily waved goodbye to me only an hour ago), he runs to me, hollers Mommy!, literally leaps into my arms. He squeezes my neck as tightly as he's able, then puts his hands on my cheeks, says, "Missed. You." He gazes at me and smiles, a smile so sweet, so complete, it seems as if there is nothing else at all in his world. He's totally present.

He wants me all to himself. Last week Frances was having a hard time one evening, was mad at her Dad because he was at that moment the one holding the line, so I sat her on my lap and let her tell me why she was so upset. And Clark couldn't take it--fell apart apart apart, his heart breaking because I wouldn't let him climb on my lap between Frances and me. Finally he agreed to settle beside us, snuggled down with his blanket and his thumb, tucked under my arm.

Sometimes I look at his full lips and think that someday a girl (or a guy, I suppose) is going to kiss those very lips, will gaze into his blue eyes, and she/he will feel something related to what I feel now--she will feel enamored. But for now he's all mine.

boys and trucks

What is UP with the gender-specific desires for toys? Clark has out of the blue fallen in love with trucks. And construction vehicles. And tractors. When Frances was little we had some truck books and she never showed even a second of patience for or interest in them. These same books are still floating around our house and Clark has recently discovered them. HOW can his fascination be something simply ingrained? And what did cave boys obsess about? It all completely confounds me.

Recently the county did a bunch of construction on our sewer pipes and for weeks there were bulldozers and dump trucks and fellas in hardhats on our street: breaking up concrete, digging, moving loads of dirt, making lots of noise. Oh the joy. All I had to do was put small people in the wagon and take them out to the road. I'd pull the wagon into the shade under a tree and sit on the sidewalk beside them. We could pass all kinds of time this way.

Meanwhile, it's summer here; a different summer than I'm used to, but summer nonetheless. All Frances wants to do is wear her bathing suit because it shows her belly button, and all Clark wants to do it play in the sandbox. Both are problematic. For the former, it's often only 65 degrees, and for the latter, he gets sand in his hair and in his ears and in his mouth and down his diaper, and he's gritty and uncomfortable until he has a bath. Plus, his poop has been strange and grainy lately, and I only yesterday realized it's all the sand he's eating. You know how it's hard to wipe sand off your body when it's wet? Yeah, like that.

simple joy

Clark is seriously the cutest thing ever on the planet. I don't remember thinking this about Frances when she was this age and lately I've been wondering why that is... Perhaps I just don't remember correctly. But then I realized that when F was this age I was pregnant and very sick and exhausted and in fact didn't want to have much to do with her. I didn't have the energy to be animated and every time I changed a diaper I threw up. The smell of her formula made me sick, as did the smell of most things. It was not a good time. Also, Clark is a snuggler. He nestles down on my chest with his thumb in his mouth, just to take a play break or to recover from a spill, or just because he's a mama's boy. That mama's boy thing isn't without merit, for sure. Frances wasn't attached to me like this, and she also wasn't nursing still. Clark and I have this little private time, several times every day. So sweet.

"Ghap!" he says with his hand up in the air, reaching for the far corner of the room in salute. "Bhak!" and then a sweet squinty grin like Frances used to flash. Charmed.