I May Not Be A Smart Man

I may not be a smart man. In fact, I'm not a man at all. But I know what "old" is. At least, I do as of this morning.

So there I was, sitting in my car at a red light, looking for and removing white hairs from my 'do, when I looked in the rear view mirror and noticed my son watching me. His eyes caught mine, and he decided to enlighten me with a little advice.

Check out those white invaders in my rich brunette locks! Out! Out, I say!

Bear:  "Mom, you may have some white hairs, but you're not old."
Me:  "No?"
Bear:  "No. Forty-two is still young. You are young and beautiful."
Me:  "Why thank you, angel."
Bear:  "Think of it like rounding. Forty-nine and under, you're young. Fifty and up, you're old."
Me:  "Are you saying that when I turn fifty, I'll be old?"
Bear:  "Yep."
Me:  "Cool. Then I have a while yet to enjoy my youth."

There you have it, folks. If you're forty-nine or younger, you're young. Otherwise, just give up and accept your elderly status.

So says Bear.

Bear's Invitation To Steve Carell

A few nights ago, we asked Bear whom he would like to invite to his 7th birthday party.  We're succumbing to the Chuck E Cheese phenomenon, but we have to keep the list small (we're cheap like that), so we needed Bear to really be on board with the guest list.

Bear quickly rattled off a set of names, and I wrote down the list. When we got to the final spot, Bear's face broke into a huge smile and he said, "And for the last spot, I will invite Mister Steve Carell!"

Bear's invitation. My "typo." Sorry, Mr. Carell.

Because this statement was so entirely out of any context of any kind, it took me a moment to recognize the name. My thoughts ran through a sequence something akin to Is that a camp counselor? The name sounds so familiar. A teacher from his elementary school? Someone who cut his hair before? A karate instructor? A barista?

When my brain finally recognized Steve Carell, I very carefully asked Bear, "Um... huh?" to which he cheerfully replied, "I love his movies! I'm inviting him. I can't wait until he comes to my party!"

So there you go. Invitation written and published. I've done my part. Now I can focus on the goody bags.

**Quick Note: When I asked Bear exactly which Steve Carell movies he likes so much, he clarified, "The ones he's in, of course."  Of course.

**Follow-Up: Bear has now made (with my help, of course) a brief video invitation for Mr. Carell. Enjoy. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-yToKS86hOA

So, I Have a Great Idea...

This is yesterday’s post-school-pick-up, in-the-car conversation with my 6-year-old.  That’s all the set-up this needs.  And all the hyphens it needs as well.

BEAR:  So, I have a great idea.

ME:  Yes?

BEAR:  You can give me maybe three hundred dollars or so, and then I can get my own iPhone with its own phone and apps, and then I won’t have to use yours.

ME:  Hm.  Interesting.  No.

BEAR:  [incredulous] No???

ME:  Nope.  It’s highly unlikely you’ll get your own phone for quite some time.

BEAR:  When?

ME:  I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. But at six… no.

BEAR:  When?

ME:  Not for a while.

BEAR:  When?

ME:  Jeez… maybe in middle school.

BEAR:  When’s middle school?

ME:  Sixth grade.

BEAR:  So in a little over four years?

ME:  Good math.  Look, I honestly don’t know when you'll get a phone. No promises. Maybe high school.

BEAR:  When’s that?

ME:  Ninth grade.

BEAR:  So maybe seven years?

ME:  Possibly. I really don’t know. Quit it.

BEAR:  Yesssss!!!

ME:  Glad that makes you happy.

BEAR:  [without a pause in the conversation] May I get my pilot’s license?

ME:  Your what? Your pilot’s license? Like to fly a plane?

BEAR:  Yeah.

ME:  Um, someday. Sure. Though I’m pretty certain it’ll be a few years until you’re old enough. You may need to be at least old enough to drive a car.

BEAR:  Which is how old?

ME:  Sixteen.

BEAR:  Forget the pilot’s license.  I just need a phone so I can do my job.

ME:  Your job...

BEAR:  Yes, I’m going to be a cop.

ME:  You are? That’s great.

BEAR:  Well, okay, I’m retiring from being a cop.

ME:  Already? You’re a very young retiree. I’m not sure you even qualify for social security.

BEAR:  Well, it’s time.

ME:  Will you have another career?

BEAR:  I want to be a travel worker.

ME:  Um… a what?

BEAR:  A travel worker. Like you. I want to work from my house, with you, and then travel to visit people, with you.

 

This has nothing to do with this topic. I just like sharing it. Because... yay me.

I’ve now figured out how to describe my job to people, who always get confused when I try to explain what I do. From now on, two words suffice:  travel worker.

Mother of the Year

Tonight I made Bagel Bites for my Bear for dinner.  You’ve seen these things, haven’t you?  They’re essentially tiny pizza bagels.  They’re sold and stored frozen; you can cook them in the oven, toaster or microwave.  They’re chock full of nutrients (not), so an ideal dinner for a growing boy (again, not).

Prior to being cooked, the cheese on top of the bagel bites looks like solid little white squares.  As you can see from the photo below, many of the little square cheese bits on the Bagel Bites don’t actually melt flat but remain in various states of square-dom post-heating.

Mmm... such organic, healthy goodness. 

Now that you have the low-down on Bagel Bites, I can proceed with the telling of tonight’s tale.  We were sitting at the dinner table – Bear eating his Bagel Bites, Ballerina and my husband and I eating pasta – when Bear’s little hand suddenly hovered in front of my face. His 6-year-old fingers held what looked like a tiny mass of two or three somewhat unmelted cheese bits.

“Mom,” he said, “is this a tooth? Did I just lose a tooth?”

“Um…,” I stalled, trying to sort out the right response. “Have you had a loose tooth this week?”

“No,” stated Bear.

Full of confidence, I replied, with conviction, “Then no, it’s not a tooth. No worries. Just eat it.”

Bear looked at me with the slightest hint of doubt, but he dutifully put the little blob back in his mouth and crunched down.  He looked at me as he ground down this little bite and swallowed it.  Then dinner continued as usual, and all was forgotten.  Until…

At bedtime, I went to Bear’s room to have our usual little pre-sleep chat.  He was on the ground playing with a few Lego Star Wars figures, so I laid down on the ground near him and propped up my head in my hands, getting comfy for our good night ritual. Something I said to Bear made him smile, and that’s when I noticed this:

See the gap just to the left of Bear’s front tooth?  Yeah, um, that’s what I saw. As it happens, that gap is brand new. Fresh. Wasn’t there earlier today, if you get what I’m saying. And if you don’t, let me spell it out for you.

1. Tonight, I fed my child a really poor excuse of a dinner.
2. During this poor excuse of a dinner, I made my child eat the tiny tooth he lost during said poor excuse of a dinner.

Fortunately, Bear finds this immensely funny. He also realized, after he finished laughing at me, that the opposite tiny tooth is loose, which excites him to no end. Of course, Bear was relieved to hear that the Tooth Fairy magically is aware that he lost a tooth - even though we have no actual tooth to show for it - and will be bringing him some nice pocket change.

And the best part is that all of this gloriousness happened on Mother’s Day. 

Heartless Murder of an Imaginary Friend

I’m a big softy and a sucker for a cause, especially any cause that promises to improve the lives of children in some way – preventing bullying, providing wigs for kids, curing childhood cancer...  

Still, “caring” and “compassionate” weren’t always adjectives that could describe me.  My nature from birth was more inclined toward strict pragmatism, even bordering - for much of my youth - on coldly calculating practicality.  It took many years for me to develop even what I’d consider a “normal” level of empathy and kindness, much less the overflowing blob of emotion that I now can harbor when I’m confronted with the injustices of the world.

Case in point:  My imaginary friend.  According to my mother, when I was 2 or 3 I had an imaginary friend.  It’s something that I forget about most of the time, but the other day I was reminded of this when I found myself answering a slew of questions – asked by my little daughter – about the untimely demise of a child’s imaginary friend in the movie “Parental Guidance.” (If you have not seen this flick, give it a shot. It’s very cute.)

According to my mother, my imaginary friend was named Dansindoor.  I can only speculate about the actual spelling of his name, as I didn’t know how to spell back when my imaginary friend told me his name, so just go with me on this.  And to answer your next question, no, I have no memory of him whatsoever.  See?  Callous.  But it gets worse.  Far worse.

Apparently, Dansindoor was very small and lived in my pocket.  Once in a while, I would take him out and hold him up in the palm of my hand, and we would sing songs to people.  When we were finished singing, I would return Dansindoor to the cozy confines of my pocket.  (I have no idea where I kept him when I didn’t have a pocket in my clothing, though perhaps he lived in an imaginary pocket in that case.  See how that whole imaginary thing works?)

Anyway, as the story goes, one day I apparently no longer needed Dansindoor. Did I wish him a fond, tearful farewell? No. Did I have a long talk with my parents about the fact that I was ready to confront the world on my own terms? Nope. This is what I did:  I took Dansindoor out of my pocket and sang to someone – my mother, I assume, as she’s the one who tells me this sordid story. When we were done with our final little ditty, I looked at the invisible little being standing on my palm and said, “Good-bye, Dansindoor.” Then, with my other hand, I swiftly and unceremoniously clapped down, squashing my imaginary friend into oblivion.

That’s right. I murdered my imaginary friend. In cold blood. With no remorse.

Pretty bad, right?  Yeah, I thought so, too. 

But that’s not exactly the end of the story. Not anymore. Because the other day, as I recounted this to my children during their ride home from school, this was their response:

Bear (6):  “That is the most terrible thing you’ve ever told me. You should never kill your friends, even imaginary ones. Never tell me about that again.”

Ballerina (5):  “Mommy! That story was awesome! My favorite part was when you said, ‘Good-bye, Dasindoor,’ and then you squashed him! Can you tell it again?”

The Little Things, from The Little People

The last several days can only be described as a pile of stress. Between friend "stuff", work "stuff", family "stuff" and trying to get ready for Halloween, things are abnormally abnormal. That's saying a lot in my existence. On top of that, a historic storm bearing my mother-in-law's name -- so much opportunity for humor if she was a stereotypical mother-in-law... darn it -- just did serious damage to my childhood hometown in Connecticut  plus devastated Seaside Heights, New Jersey where my family spent a few weeks each summer. B***h of a storm attacked my youth.

My stressy time clearly doesn't hold a candle to what others are going through right now, so it feels selfish to feel stressed. But the stress is there, and what is it that they say?.. You can't fix the problem if you don't acknowledge there IS a problem. Or something like that. Likely something pithier or more clever.

Watching my kids tonight, I realized that they hold the key to getting a handle on serenity. It's NOT that they epitomize serenity personified -- no, they are more "this is what 5-Hour Energy would look like as tiny humans" -- but their outlook and actions hold the keys to bringing life back into balance.

Without further ado, here are lessons from them regarding what to do to reestablish bliss... these all came from a single evening:

• Hug everyone good-bye. Everyone. Every. One.
• If you don't get your way the first time you ask, keep asking. Several times.
• Chat up everyone you encounter. Be sure to introduce them to everyone you are with, including sharing everyone's ages, birthdays, address and phone numbers. It's friendly.
• Walk up to someone you like and sit in their lap, then cuddle up to them. Without asking.
• Challenge people to impromptu foot races. In the hallway. Naked.
• If the urge hits you, grab someone's face with both hands and kiss them. And then do it again. Then follow up with an Eskimo kiss, a butterfly kiss and an upside down kiss for good measure.
• Find your passion and then give it your all, even if your passion is battling fancy tops (beyblades).
• Close your eyes, extend your arms, and spin and spin and spin. Because it's fun.
• Tell someone you love the following, verbatim: "I need to tell you something. I need to tell you something. Hey. Hey. Are you... Hey... Are you hearing me? Hey, so um... This is important. Ready?... 'Kay... I really love you. A lot."

Try it. Report back. Now... Go.

Even When You're Dead

I was speaking to my first grader about his day at school as we made the short drive to pick up my daughter from pre-K. I asked him the simple question, “What was your favorite part of the day?” to which he answered something about enjoying lunchtime.  A quiet minute passed – no more than that – and then the following conversation ensued.

Bear:  “Mom, when you’re dead, remember these good times that we had. Because these are the good times, and you need to know that I’ll always love you forever and forever. Even when you’re dead.”

Me:  “Um… thank you? I think?”

Bear:  “And you know, I’m always with you, wherever you are. Even when we’re apart, I’m with you.”

Me:  “That’s sweet, honey. And I’m always with you.”

Bear:  “I know, Mommy. Even when you’re dead.”

I’m trying to focus on the good in this.

Still Reeling

I apologize ahead of time that this post is a little lengthier than most that I write. However, it’s imperative that I tell today’s story correctly rather than focus on keeping it especially concise.

Originally, I’d intended to break my recent hiatus from posting with a fun little piece about Halloween costumes. As fate would have it, that post will have to be delayed.

Let me start this by setting the stage a little bit. My son’s hero of all heroes is Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. When we visited the King Center this past January on Martin Luther King, Jr Day, my little Bear didn’t want to leave first the museum and then the memorial. He wanted to commune with Dr. King all day. On a recent trip to Washington, DC, Bear didn’t want to leave Dr. King’s statue, and he made it a point to read aloud every single quote inscribed along the long wall of the memorial. As Bear’s mom, I am proud beyond words.

As for my daughter, Ballerina, she isn’t quite old enough yet to understand these matters and historic struggles for civil rights. However, from her friendships and from the discussions we do have with her, it’s clear that she would be baffled by someone disliking or excluding someone based on a physical trait.

Yes, my husband and I talk to the kids about these issues, in children’s terms. We ask them if they feel that any skin color or hair tone or eye hue is better than another, and when they answer no, we make sure to ask them why so that they solidify this belief in their hearts as completely as possible.

With this as the backdrop and as a reflection of how my husband and I feel about discrimination of any kind, I will tell you about today.

This afternoon, while my husband took my kids on errands, I took off on my weekly long run. I expected a relatively uneventful, if slower than usual due to humidity, 8-mile run. Because of the length of the run, I started listening to a novel on my iTunes to pass the time.

A little over 3 miles along the trail, I came upon a detour sign and a loose mesh fence blocking the arm of the trail I usually follow. Being curious, and figuring I could just turn around at any sign of real danger, I went around the detour and continued on another tenth of a mile or so until I reached the spot where the trail passes under a road. Signs indicated that until early October the city is doing water line construction, so the portion of the trail under the road is closed.

I have a small fear of underpasses, so I decided not to risk going under. The thing is, this underpass is relatively new. The trail used to wind along another tenth or so of a mile up to the road itself, where a runner, walker, cyclist, etc., using the trail had to wait for a walk light to cross the street to the trailhead at the other side. I felt adventurous and decided to follow the old trail up and over the road.

Just as I was about to continue along, a slightly older couple on bicycles happened along – apparently, like me, they considered the detour sign to be more of a suggestion than a rule. We all spoke for a couple of minutes, and they decided to follow me up the old trail. For the sake of clarity in the story, let me state that this couple was African-American. The necessity of this description will be clear in a moment.

We approached the road, and as we arrived at the spot where the final turn up to the road used to be, we discovered that last length of connecting sidewalk had been removed and trees and shrubs planted along the strip where the paved trail had been, effectively blocking the easiest rise to the road. What was left was a very steep, grassy rise straight in front of us of about twenty or twenty-five feet up to the roadside sidewalk.

The man of the couple and I carefully worked to pull the bicycles up the rise, and when all was secure, the woman gingerly made her way up as well. Did I mention it was steep? It was really steep. I was impressed that they climbed up, and in such good spirits! They didn’t complain about this obstacle. They didn’t wince at the climb. They took it in stride and laughed almost the whole time.

I was just telling them that I’d lead them to the trailhead across the street, when a small, white SUV passed, filled with young men or teenagers – they went by so quickly, I couldn’t tell – and the most hateful word in the English language was screamed out the car window at our little group.

You know the word I’m talking about.

There’s no way you don’t.

I refuse to type it.

Like most people, I can write things and type things that I’d be embarrassed or even mortified to say out loud. But this… I don’t want any effort of mine to produce this word. But you know it.

Of course I have encountered this word numerous times in my life. In movies. On news reels. In history lessons. On talk shows. In philosophical discussions. But I have never encountered it flung as an invective at me or at people I’m with. This is a new experience for me. And hey, I’m Irish with a temper that matches the stereotype; I get furious enough just hearing about this word being used. Hearing it marring the air around me and directed at people in my proximity performed the miracle of simultaneously stopping my heart and sending my blood pressure skyward.

I heard myself yell some impotent remark at the boys as they drove off; what I really was thinking was, “What I wouldn’t give right now for a baseball bat and a red light.” Of course, violence against these fools – or at least against their vehicle – would have accomplished all of nothing, but it was the first response that came into my head, and I felt it through my gut and along every nerve ending.

The man of the bicycle riding couple looked at with me, and with his unwavering smile still brightening his face, he asked, “What did they say?”  I looked at him for a moment to determine if he was only pretending not to have heard… to try to spare me? to spare me what? embarrassment? to spare himself embarrassment? to sweep away anger and not let someone else’s idiocy ruin the day? 

Either way, I said, “I’d rather not say. Let’s move on. The trailhead’s right across the road.” I gave the couple what I hoped was a warm smile that didn’t reflect how shaky I felt inside, and we continued up the sidewalk, chatting about the area and the trails.

The rest of my run was pretty terrible. I turned off the audible book; I wasn’t listening any longer to anything but the thoughts raging through my mind. I tried to grab hold of my anger and leverage it to drive me forward, but the shock of that word and the hatred it reflects invading the day deflated my motivation and killed my energy. And I wasn’t even the object against whom the word truly was flung. Fortunately, the couple who were the targets either didn’t catch what was yelled or were able to rise above it.

To everyone who ever has fought hatred without turning to hatred themselves… my respect, which always has been tremendous beyond description, somehow managed to increase a hundredfold today.

I’m not naïve enough to believe that people don’t still use the awful word that was yelled today. I’m not Pollyanna enough to think that racism is dead. But I like to believe that it’s becoming increasingly shameful and unacceptable. I like to think that people “out there” are becoming increasingly aware that varying skin tones and ethnicities should be appreciated and embraced, not hated and feared.  I like to believe that parents are teaching their children to be a better generation than ours and the ones before.

Ultimately, I refuse to let today kill my spirit, but it’s going to affect me for the long haul. What I experienced was so insanely minor compared to what others have had to experience and continue to experience today. And yet it was so powerful, that one word, that one moment. It was a perspective changer.

Even so, to those who tease me about being a bit of an idealist in my view of the world… no, this won’t make me less of one. I continue to be realistic about the world as it is, but I also refuse to stop being idealistic about how I want the world to be. Because being an idealist requires a person to have and strive for ideals. And if people don’t have ideals they firmly believe in and want to strive for, how will anyone ever make a difference… how will they ever make this world a better place?

As long as young men like the ones from today are out there, the world needs to be made better. I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do about it, but I’m working on it. I’m doing my best to ensure that my children not only think differently than these young men but that they also are passionate enough about their beliefs to stand up for them.  I’m encouraging my son’s choice of hero, because not only did Dr. King make a difference but he did so with a focus on peace, education, love and non-violence. Focusing my efforts on my children may be the equivalent of a drop in the bucket, but there are millions of us out there, and if all of us would contribute a drop, the result wouldn’t be just a full bucket… but a flood.

How about you? What are you doing to make the world a better place?

Weird, Unimportant Coincidences

[Spoiler Alert:  If you’ve never seen Sleepless in Seattle or Field of Dreams, and if you think you may someday, and if you don’t want any information about either one before you do, and if you somehow have never encountered any other spoilers about these movies that are now 20-ish years old… you may actually learn a very little something about these movies in this post. Very little. But something.]

As my BFF pointed out recently, I’ve been in a bit of a nostalgic mood lately. One of the results of this all-encompassing nostalgia is that I’ve spent time lately introducing my children to some of the classic movies of my youth. E.T. Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Star Wars. Ghost Busters. Black Stallion.

It’s been fun seeing them fall in love with these movies that captured my imagination when I was young, and it’s also been interesting to see these films through their fresh eyes. Some of the observations have been enlightening or even funny. For instance, there are scenes in E.T. that involve a rotary phone. Many kids these days aren’t fully familiar with original touch-tone phones that connect to land lines, and even land line phones often have cordless headsets, so explaining a rotary phone circa 1980 was a fun challenge.

Last weekend, I had a late evening “sleepover” with my kids in our basement playroom. The kids thought this was the most fantastic thing ever.  Kids tend to think sleeping anywhere but their own beds is the best thing ever, really. Anyway, I had one rule: the only movie we would watch would be a “Mommy movie.” I knew they absolutely would not fall asleep if we watched a kids’ movie, and I assumed that if we put on a romantic comedy or light drama, the kids would drift off.

After flipping through the channels, I happened upon the last maybe half hour of one of the best, sweetest romantic comedies of all time, Sleepless in Seattle. I took a moment to give the kids a quick overview of what the movie was about, and then we settled in to watch. By the time I was done with my kid-friendly film synopsis, the movie was at the scene where the son Jonah’s little friend Jessica helps him secure a seat on a plane to New York. To my happy surprise, the kids watched raptly until the end and were giddy with excitement when Sam and Annie finally met at the end.

Bear (smiling ear to ear):  Mommy! Will they get married?

Me:  I don’t know, baby.

Bear:  I think they will. They have to. This is so great!

Well, last night I held another sleepover with the kids. This time I was determined to show the kids a complete, start-to-finish Mommy movie.  I gave the kids a choice between my all-time-favorite movie, Field of Dreams, and Sleepless in Seattle (so they could see how it begins). After some debate, the kids agreed they wanted to see Field of Dreams (Ballerina’s first choice) first and Sleepless in Seattle (Bear’s first choice) second or the following day. 

We settled in – the kids in their sleeping bags on our couches, I on a “bed” of couch cushions laid out on the floor – and turned on Field of Dreams.  Ballerina zonked out about halfway through the movie, but Bear was rapt and fascinated throughout.  He was crushed for Doc Graham after he left the field – sacrificed his place on the field, in truth – to save Ray’s daughter, Karin, from choking on a hot dog. Bear felt indignant at the end when Terry was invited “out” with the ball players but Ray was not, he asked over and over during the last scene between John and Ray, “Do either of them know John is his dad? Do they know yet?” and he quietly cheered when Ray called out to John, “Hey… Dad? You wanna have a catch?”

After the movie was done, Bear asked if we could start Sleepless in Seattle.  It was late, and Bear was sick, but I thought, “Why not?” and put the movie on. About ten minutes in, Bear yawned and the following exchange happened:

Bear:  When does Karin show up?

Me:  Um… who? 

Bear:  Karin. When does she show up?

Me:  Karin… from the last movie?

Bear:  Yeah.

Me:  But this is a different movie.

Bear:  Right. So when does she show up?

At first I thought that these were perhaps the sleepy ravings of an exhausted, mildly feverish, almost-6-year-old who wasn’t used to staying up past 11:00pm. But then it hit me.  The little girl who played Jonah's friend Jessica in Sleepless in Seattle is the same girl who played Karin in Field of Dreams.  I would never have made this connection, but my sweet little Bear saw it right away. It kind of gave me chills. Not entirely sure why. But isn't it interesting?

From Field of Dreams (c/o IMDB.com).

From Sleepless in Seattle (c/o stargalaxy.com).

This observation must have switched on the “find commonalities” part of my brain, because I almost immediately made two more interesting connections between the movies… well, interesting to me, at least.  First, baseball figures prominently in each.  The baseball connection in Field of Dreams is obvious, of course – if you can’t sort that one out, you likely haven’t actually seen Field of Dreams, and if that’s the case, then your assignment for this week is to rent, borrow or buy the film and watch it! – but if you watch Sleepless in Seattle, you’ll find that it’s a baseball reference within Annie’s letter that is the first thing Jonah refers to as “a sign” that she’s someone to whom Sam should consider speaking.  And speaking of Annie, the main female character in both Field of Dreams and Sleepless in Seattle is named Annie.  That’s right.  Not Ann or Anna or any other iteration of the name.  Annie.

Now that I have impressed you with my son’s powers of half-asleep observation and my own ability to make inane connections between movies, you may go about your day. As for me, I’m going to try to sort out what sort of “sign” all this is. Because it must mean something, right?

Or not. 

It's a Free Country, Baby... or "I Wonder Why You Still Have a Dad"

Actual conversation that happened this past 4^th of July, at a friend’s house, while my 5-year-old son and I were changing back into street clothes after going swimming:

Bear:     I wonder why you still have a dad.

Me:        … Because I’m lucky?

Bear:     Sure, but someday your dad will die, and you’ll just have a mom.

Me:        Yes, and I’ll be sad when that happens.

Bear:     And then one day both of your parents will die.

Me:        Yep.

Bear:     And then you’ll be free.

Me:        Um… what?

Bear:     You’ll be free then. When you have no parents.

Me:        Okay… um… but I’ll be sad and have no parents.

Bear:     Hey, it’s a free country, baby.

Belated Happy 4^th. May you appreciate your parents and your freedom. Simultaneously, if possible.

Camping With Obama

There’s this beat-up, old, dark blue truck in my neighborhood that is eternally parked in the same spot up against the curb, not far from one of the neighborhood entrances.  The truck has hard cover over the bed, and across the back is scrawled, in large capital letters, “STOP OBAMA.” 

Clearly, the owner is a fan of the POTUS.  (I love the acronym POTUS. Sounds kinky.)

On the way home today, Bear read the sign on the back of the truck out loud to Ballerina. “Stop Obama,” he said, followed by, “Why would someone want to stop Obama?”  I explained that like with anything else, people’s opinions differ on the President; some like him, some don’t.

Ballerina, who is four, thought about this a moment, and this is the conversation that ensued.

Ballerina:  So that man doesn’t like Obama?

Me:  Apparently that is the case.

Ballerina:  Does that mean he won’t go camping with Obama?

Me:  Most likely no.

Ballerina:  And he won’t go to his house for a party or a sleepover?

Me:  Probably not.

Ballerina:  What about fishing with him?

Me:  I doubt it.

Ballerina:  Why do grown-ups not do sleepovers if they don’t like each other?  And why doesn’t he like Obama anyway?

Even casual, not sure this screams "I love camping."
image c/o nydailynews.com

At this point we arrived home, so both children focused their attention on arguing about who should be allowed to unlock the door.  But this discussion left me wondering… could domestic and international issues be easily resolved if our leaders would just hold a darn sleepover?  Maybe tell ghost stories?  Do “light as a feather, stiff as a board” games and spin the bottle?  Play truth or dare?  Ballerina might be on to something.

Lightsaber Battle in the Back Seat

Below is the conversation that occurred in the back seat of my car last night.

Bear (5 years old):  Ballerina!  I know what we should ask for for Christmas. Jedi lightsabers.  Then we can have lightsaber fights.

Ballerina (3 years old):  Okay, Bear. But don’t we have lightsabers already? [I think she meant the light swords we bought them at Disney… over a year ago.]

Bear:  I’m talking about real lightsabers. They have them at Target. Right, Mom?

Me:  Um, yeah.

Bear:  See? 

Ballerina:  If we fight with lightsabers, who do you want to be?

Bear:  I’ll be Anakin.  That means my lightsaber has to be blue.  You need to be… um…

Ballerina:  Can I be Han Solo?

Bear:  No.  We will be playing a Revenge of the Sith [Bear pronounces it Siff] fight. Han Solo isn’t in Revenge of the Sith.

Ballerina:  Oh.  Then… who can I be?

Bear:  You can be Padme. We can give you a purple or pink lightsaber. That’s okay for girls.

Ballerina:  Who will be the dark Jedi?  [Not sure if she meant Mace Windu/Samuel Jackson or the “dark side” Jedi/Emperor.]

Bear:  It’ll be just you and me.

Ballerina:  Huh? Padme and Anakin are both good. They can’t fight.

Bear: No, Ballerina, I’m going to be bad Anakin, from the end of Revenge of the Sith. Remember? He turns bad.

Ballerina:  So wait. Will you be a good guy or a bad guy? [Incredulous that anyone would choose to be a bad guy.]

Bear:  A bad guy.  Bad Anakin.  From Revenge of the Sith. [At this point I’m thinking he just likes to say “Revenge of the Siff.”]

Ballerina:  So if just you and me fight, can I cut off your legs?  In Revenge of the Sith, Obi-Wan Kenobi cuts off Anakin’s legs and then they put on new legs and then they put on a scary cape and then the put on his Darth Vader mask and then he’s Darth Vader.

Bear:  Right. And after that he’s Darth Vader in Star Wars and Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi and we know that he’s really Anakin but also Darth Vader.

Ballerina:  Look, Mommy!  Christmas decorations!

I’m wondering how many of you reading this have no idea what this conversation is all about, how many of you are impressed at what an awesome mom I am and how many of you are ready to call Child Services…

Eat Your Heart Out, John Lennon

You know how, as the parent of a young child, you hope that at some magical moment you will catch a glimmer of your child’s future brilliance?  For me, that day has arrived.

I’ve always suspected that my Ballerina’s talents were geared toward art.  My tiny 3-year-old enthusiast doesn’t color anything a single hue. Rather, she makes every coloring book character an intense calico.  She can spend 10 minutes meticulously coloring in a space 2 inches by 2 inches, choosing every tint and shade with care and making sure to blend the colors into one another, even layering colors for effect. She practically floats with joy at the mention of paints, and she thinks mixing mediums – markers, paints, puffy stickers, glued magazine cut-outs, stamps – is nirvana.

Did I mention that her favorite item of clothing is her pair of black pleather boots?

This past weekend, Ballerina spent the better part of an hour drawing a picture for me of about forty “houses.” When she brought me my paper, 2-dimensional neighborhood, I almost fell over. First, in all honesty, I was shocked at how very un-house-esque her houses appeared. I mean, most little ones, in my experience, at least draw something approaching a box shape when sketching a house. My child’s houses look more like… well… red squid. A swarm of them.

But that’s not what got me. Check out Ballerina’s "house" next to John Lennon’s famous self-portrait:

Almost identical, right???

The resemblance is uncanny!!  My 3-year-old daughter is channeling Lennon!  She may even BE John Lennon reincarnated!  I need to give her more time at the piano…

Speaking of reincarnation… several months back, my sweet, 5-year-old Bear read a science book chapter about the decomposition of trees, which led to an existential discussion about the circle of life as we took one of our many trail walks. Tonight, out of nowhere, Bear decided to pick up this conversation, but he suddenly became focused on the fact that I will die someday and that he will die someday, yadda yadda… crying and howling and tears (oh my)! Eventually my husband and I calmed him down by throwing theories at him, telling him about the idea of reincarnation and the possibility of heaven and how some people even believe that we stick around after we die and watch over our loved ones. This idea that there may be some sort of "after" gave him pause. Positive pause. (No, not paws... you know you thought it...) Bear still is not 100% convinced that he shouldn’t live in abject fear of death, but he’s pondering. Right this minute. As you read this. I guarantee it.

Finally, I learned that today my Bear loves me more than my husband. I am She Who Is Most Loved. Everyone say “awwww.” Bear told us this tonight. He loves me “point one” more than my husband. To be specific, he loves me “one point four one two” (1.412) and he loves my husband “one point three one two” (1.312). I’m not sure what that means, but I’ll take it. I might even make it into a T-Shirt. 

Want one? 

Volcanic Panic at Kindergarten

This past week, Bear started Kindergarten. *sigh*  Honestly, I'm not sad or nostalgic or weepy. I don't pine for his toddler years or wish time would stand still. That's not my nature. I'm truly excited for this new phase of my son's life. He loves to learn, and so far, he's thriving already. I'm sighing more from relief that the transition was not only smooth but awesome!

When Bear arrives home each night from the big K, I reach into his backpack and pull out the folder that we parents are required to review. It contains homework (some nights), Bear's daily behavior report and samples of work he's done. Well, after day 2, I opened up the folder and pulled out a sheet of paper with this drawn on it:

I'm not sure what you see in this figure, but I saw a very upset person with spikey brownish blonde hair, arms in the air (curiously without hands), wearing a shaggy blue shirt, no pants and red shoes. Curious as to what this figure was intended to represent, I glanced at the bottom of the page, where this description was written:

At this point, I became perplexed. I still found the lack of hands and pants on the little person vaguely disturbing, but the big frown was what worried me most. I mean, Bear can read. There is not doubt that when he was handed this piece of paper, he knew what he was supposed to draw... and he drew a figure bearing a passing resemblance to himself (my child, however, has hands and wears pants to/at school) sporting a huge frown.

I decided to ask Bear about the drawing. Here is the conversation that ensued:

Me:    Sweetheart, did you draw this picture?
Bear:  Oh, yeah!
Me:    It's really good, honey. Is this person you?
Bear:  Yes.
Me:    I thought so.  Is that your blonde hair and your red sneakers?
Bear:  [looking very pleased] Yes! Exactly!
Me:    Alright then. And, um, so... is this picture supposed to be your first day of Kindergarten?
Bear:  Yes, Mommy, it says so right there at the bottom.
Me:    Right... well, honey, why do you look so upset in this picture? Why are you frowning?
Bear:  [very matter of fact] Because I'm running away from a volcano.
Me:    ... That's a volcano above your head?
Bear:  Of course.
Me:    So on your first day of Kindergarten you had to run away from a volcano?

At this point, my Bear broke into hysterical laughter.

I think I'm going to enjoy Kindergarten.

My Kids and Big Love

My daughter’s latest career aspirations came to light over the weekend when my husband, kids and I attended my close friend’s birthday dinner at a semi-traditional Turkish restaurant; I say “semi-traditional” because their kids’ menu included pizza and chicken fingers, which I do not believe qualify as Turkish fare. You do, however, sit on comfy cushions at low tables to eat, and they serve delicious Middle Eastern food, like kebobs (hello! yum!) for us grown-ups. 

They also have a belly dancer. My Ballerina was entranced from the first twitch of this woman’s hips. By the end of the evening, Ballerina was serenely mirroring the “dance belly’s” moves.  She refused to leave the restaurant before the dance belly finished her set, and Ballerina has since shown off the sways, swishes and gyrations (toddler-version) of her chosen future profession to any who will observe. We do not allow tipping, thank you very much.

While this development challenges my husband’s sensibilities, it doesn’t compare, in my mind, to the conversation to which I was privy on the way home tonight from preschool. Things to know – Bear is 4, Ballerina is 3, Gabbie is a new girl in Bear’s classroom and Tyler is a little girl in Ballerina’s classroom. On with the replay:

Bear: Mom! I played with Gabbie today all day! She is my friend already, and I’m going to marry her.

Ballerina: What about me?

Bear: I can’t marry you. Brothers in a family can’t marry sisters.

Ballerina: But I want to marry you.

Bear: I’m marrying Gabbie. What boys at school do you want to marry?

Ballerina: You.

(Thus commenced a thorough discussion of the relative merits of every boy in each of their classrooms. Finally…)

Bear: Okay, I’ll let you marry Evan.

Ballerina: Okay. I’ll marry Evan. And I’ll marry Tyler, too.

Bear: You can’t marry Tyler. She’s a girl. You can’t marry a girl.

Ballerina: I’m going to marry both Evan and Tyler.

Bear: That’s so cool! You’ll be two mommies and a daddy! I’ll let you do that.

Let’s recap. Based on this past weekend and tonight, my children’s future includes belly dancing, misogyny, patriarchy, dangerous proximity to incest and polygamy.

Winning!  (Off to get a glass of wine…)

You Make Me Feel Like Dancing

If you are even just an occasional visitor to my little bloggy thing, you know by now that I occasionally diverge from theme to address a random top-of-mind topic. Today’s random topic is Dancing. More specifically, I’m curious about the state of dancing in this country.

Why, you may ask, is this even a blip in your tiny mind? 

First and foremost, I love to dance.  I cannot imagine how music doesn’t affect some people.  I hear music (most music, let’s be fair) and it just goes through my whole being. The rhythm gets my heart pounding and my shoulders twitching and my feet moving.  I find myself swaying to the beat almost without realizing it.

What brought this to mind, though, was my Bear.  Simply put, the boy loves to dance.  Seriously, he is, as my uncle would have said, “a dancing fool.”  He will watch the same Bubble Guppies ditty on our DVR over and over while committing the song to memory and simultaneously creating his own little dance routine, which he then will demonstrate to me with the pride of a Broadway choreographer. 

Bear’s joy of movement and dedication to his craft are impressive (and not just a little hilarious, I admit).  It made me wonder whether boys these days – older boys, primarily – retain the same reticence to dance that was prevalent in boys of my age when I was growing up. Back in junior high school, boys attended our periodic dances for the sole reason that girls would be present.  By high school… let’s just say that prom seemed to be a reluctant afterthought. Between those events, boys I knew tended to express their love of music by playing air guitar or sitting and nodding their noggins to the beat rather than putting on their boogie shoes.

These days, from my extremely muddy viewpoint, this dance-a-phobia appears to still haunt the teenage male, aside from a fortunate few. Why is this the case? Why are boys discouraged from letting music seep into their bones? Why do adults let their sons believe dancing shouldn’t be seen as a fun or “cool” thing to do?

Ladies, come on, don’t you agree that a man who can move well on the dance floor is fantastically attractive?  I mean, truly, think about male music stars… think of Usher.  Take a moment.  Okay, now focus; eyes (and mind) back here, please.  His voice is smooth and his smile is sexy, but it’s those moves that really seal the deal on how appealing the man is.  Am I right?  It doesn’t have to be a “sexy” thing, by any means, and often it’s fun, even barrier-destroying, just to see a person – male or female – who’s able to express the joy of movement and music through dance.  If we acknowledge the appeal of a man who can dance, why don’t we encourage or even teach our boys to dance these days?  Why is dancing seen as an embarrassment rather than an edge over the competition that we should hone and refine?

I, for one, will continue to praise my Bear as he spins and emotes and bops around the family room.  His adult years are a long way away, but I’m all about giving my son an edge for when that time comes.  Young ladies of 2028, look out!

National Stop Bullying Day

I have a TON of schoolwork to do today – and the sheer amount of work in my program will be the subject of a post coming soon (quick snapshot: worker bees forget how much work school is, oh.my.god.) – but the gravity of what today represents is pushing me to write to you all. As some of you know, bullying has been hitting a little too close to home for the last year or so, and I’d like to share a few experiences and thoughts. Read on or exit out… whatever you choose is fine. This one’s for me.

My Bear is 4-1/2 years old, and he is a sweet, bookish child who makes a point of sharing and complimenting and thanking. Every single time he is given something – a lollipop at the doctor or a piece of candy at swimming lessons or a toy – he insists on getting something for his little sister, too.  And for 2 years now, he has been the target for aggressive kids. I hate labeling it “bullying.” Whenever I do refer to what happens to him as bullying, the whole thing seems so harsh, so huge… my heart hurts too much. Because he’s 4-1/2 years old.

Think back to when you were that age. Think about how you saw the world and how dramatically things impacted you. Small children go apoplectic about not getting to watch a TV show or fall to the ground in distress when a friend won’t share. Do you remember trying to sort out how you’re supposed to behave in new situations and being just filled with joy from praise?

Now think about being the kid who doesn’t necessarily fit in entirely, the one who tries to play with other kids but who gets tongue-tied or who is a little clumsy or who’s just not as rough-and-tumble. Even little kids can feel awkward. They’re not oblivious as so many people seem to want to believe. And to then have those other kids you want to play with call you names and make fun of your awkwardness and tell you you’re not included and push you down and hit you when the teacher’s not looking and refuse to play with you and ostracize you… Try to think about how that feels to a 4-year old who is just forming an image of his place in the world and his ability to be accepted and loved. 

Here’s the kicker, people.  From my experience, and this is just my experience, the victim is the one who deals with all the consequences.  That’s right.  Not the bully.  The victim.

Let me give you a few highlights.  When Bear was not quite 3, a child in his class (at our former preschool) took to hitting Bear every chance he got.  I was never told by a teacher, but rather I started seeing bruises, and Bear acted differently about going to school.  When I spoke to the Administrator, she acknowledged the hitting (WTH??) and explained that the other child had developmental challenges.  And she left it at “we’ll try to keep the boys apart.”  What???  Excuse me???  I’m sorry that the other child has challenges, I truly am, but please tell me what will you be doing to help and correct that child with those challenges aside from just trying to act as a barrier?  Because I’ll tell you all, acting as a barrier didn’t work. The bruises kept coming. The consequences were ours alone to bear – Bear’s fear of going to school, Bear’s retreat into himself, Bear’s reluctance to play with other kids, and our ultimate decision to go to another school.

There have been more instances in the year and a half since, even though Bear is at a different school. Like I said, he’s a sweet, gentle and awkward kid, and aggressive children see an easy mark in him. Most recently, a boy has been taunting Bear and calling him names almost every day, much of which I witnessed directly. Let me tell you, it never fails to knock me over seeing such small children act so mean. When I brought it up with the head of the school (again, I had to bring it up, apparently it didn’t merit attention) I was informed that the boy in question is the youngest of three boys, so he’s just acting out. I was told the teacher would try to encourage this boy to be more empathetic. Super. So, because he’s belittled by his brothers, it’s understandable and sort of okay for him to take out his frustration on Bear? I appreciate the effort to try to redirect this child’s thinking, I truly do, but are his parents being told that their child is being mean to another child? Are they expected to help him learn to behave in a more appropriate way? Are there consequences for them if this behavior continues?  

Let me give you a final perspective, and then I’ll leave this alone.  This has been happening on and off for a while, and since I recognize that Bear’s gentle and awkward demeanor may be at play here, I’ve asked the teachers to help him approach other kids and teach him ways to interact with them, things I’m working on at home, too. To be fair, the teachers are trying, and I appreciate their efforts. However, when we talk about how it’s going, the teachers fall back on the fact that Bear isolates himself, and they seem to see this as the reason these efforts aren’t working, like the isolation is the cause of all of this. Excuse me for seeing things differently, but perhaps this is a learned behavior brought on by all of this cruelty.  Perhaps what Bear has learned is that by isolating himself, he protects himself – even temporarily – from the hurt. Perhaps his decision to isolate himself shows that more work needs to be done to reassure him that the other children are learning new ways to interact and that the onus isn’t entirely on Bear to change.

Because in every case, we’ve been given information on what WE need to change and what BEAR needs to change. Not the other child. Not the bully. Nope. Bear. The victim.