Mother of a Boy

You ever read those italicized notes at the end of an article that describe the writer? There will be some brief mention about what that person does for a living (along with the writing because so few of us can actually live off that) and a little tidbit about her family life: Judy is the mother of an active boy. Every time I read "active boy" I wonder why not just say what it really is: Judy is the mother of a boy. It's superfluous to add "active" really. There is no such thing, therefore no clarifier is needed. Just saying a woman rears a boy should instantly draw feelings of empathy from the reader.

When I learn that an expecting mother is having a boy, I reach out to her in mercy and compassion. "Hold on to your hat," I say. Forget any nice-looking furniture you have, any freshly painted wall, any nice-smelling bathroom. Get ready for all the science projects he'll bring home, like the pet worm my son and his friend tried to sneak in the house last week. Get ready for the fact that while you are trying to cook dinner, he is flushing three toothbrushes down your toilet (yes), hosing his sister against her will outside, or, having found a blue ink pad in your art supplies, he is using it to stamp geometric patterns on your flagstone path in the yard, your minivan, and the neighbors’ brick edging that trims the path to their home. And by the way, it took me days to figure out that it was permanent ink— I had my son scrub it off with a toothbrush and detergent. I should have made him use one of the toothbrushes I had snaked out of the toilet from the first incident I mentioned.

Yes, to say that one is the mother of a boy is description enough. One day at church, there was a woman sobbing outside the doors to the building. She was being comforted by a friend. Concerned, I walked over and asked if they needed help. “It’s ok,” said one woman as she held an arm around the crying one, “She is just raising boys.” No kidding.

We have countless stories about the wild boys among our family and friends. My grandmother tied her second-born to a tree so she could complete chores in peace. An Indiana friend of mine once came home to her son swinging on a rope like Tarzan from the second floor interior balcony of her home. The other stories I have, especially a host of them about my son’s birth father, aren’t even fit for print. While some of these boys I knew grew up okay, others didn’t. My grandmother on her deathbed still obsessively worried about at least one of her sons. I supposed that happens. The people I worry the most about though are the mothers. We are exhausted from cleaning up the damage.

A friend of mine, whose little boy has similar difficulties to my Tiny Man's, described his recent suspension from school. She asked me how she was supposed to keep going—how much could she really take. The next day I walked up to her office and told her Tiny had just been suspended from after-school care. We laughed. It’s the best we can do. Mothers take all our children’s faults and eccentricities to heart. We grew these creatures. They came from us. They are extensions of ourselves. When we see them do things we wouldn’t do (because we were girls), we become unglued. And we need other mothers to sympathize with us because they understand. When I tell men what my son does, most of them say something like, “I did the same stuff.” My husband appears to be an anomaly in this department, the worst story about him being that he jumped off the top of the refrigerator once in a while, usually with his Dad waiting to catch him and encouraging it. At least Tiny is incredibly sweet and affectionate; it’s what has kept him alive this long. By the way, among the things I did to ground my son for his having misbehaved enough to be suspended, I put him in time-out in his room from after school let out until supper time. He could play alone with his own toys—no friends, no TV, no Wii, no dog, no free-ranging it outside. He made do. I caught him emptying buckets of water out his bedroom window to amuse himself. There is no rest for the weary mother of the boy.

While all mothers deserve medals for the hell their boys put them through, there are those of us who deserve special awards for raising a hyperactive boy.  In a recent ADHD article I read, the doctor described raising a child with this disorder as raising a child times five. So, if you are going to call a spade a spade, here it is. This is what my byline should read: The author is an editor, a blogger, and an artist. In addition to bringing home the bacon and trying to maintain snippets of a creative life, she is married to a handsome, brilliant academic and skydiver who she fears could die any day, leaving her solely responsible for her son with ADHD and his sister, who is often grossly disappointed with her brother’s misconduct.

Meatal Stenosis and the Recovering Weenie

This summer my son had surgery for meatal stenosis, a narrowing of the urethra that makes urination difficult. The solution was to cut him a longer hole than the one he had. (This is the point in the story that most men, when they ask about what happened to my son, start running away or dancing with their hands over their privates.) Tiny Man was so exhausted with the pain of trying to pee properly that he couldn't wait for surgery. Like the doctors had promised me, I promised him that he would be all better in two to three days. Insert buzzer sound here and ring the BS alarm.

Recovery from surgery to the meatus is painful. It took much longer than the promised three days, and on top of that, due to a reduction of immunity when under anesthesia, he developed tonsilitis and ear infections. When he wasn't burning up my couch with high fever and scaring the hell out of me, he was crying because he had to pee through his newly cut incision. He missed almost a full week of school, would tire easily, and would get sore just walking around. I saw that his healing instructions from the surgery center said he could return to riding his bike the day after surgery. I took one look at my son and his wounded weenie and forbade him to use the bike or play with his rough-housing neighbor child until I was sure he was better. In the meantime, my son would stand on the front walk, wait for neighbors to walk by, and say, "Hi. I just had surgery on my crotch. Do you want to see?" Between nursing his wound and preventing him from exposing himself to strangers, I was exhausted.

Two weeks later, my son complained of itching, so at the follow-up I inquired as to the reason for the discomfort. "Those stitches," said his doctor, "likely get uncomfortable. Are you still putting neosporin on them?" No, I explained, because I had been told to only do this for about four days. The doctor clarified, "Apply it twice a day for a month or more. Those stitches can last for up to two months." Seriously? Why are we never told not just the RIGHT  information but ALL the information? The stitches lasted most of the summer and my son's energy level was negatively affected for at least three weeks of the start of it. Across July and August, he still occasionally complained of pain when urinating. Now, he seems back to normal and the odd symptoms that led us to the doctor in the first place have stopped: constantly showing others his weiner (hence his dismissal from riding the bus last year), peeing in public, wetting the bed or the floor, complaining of pain, and urinating with a stream strong enough to put out a small fire. Unfortunately, he still is fascinated with wanting to show me his weenie. "Look!" he says proudly, "Want to see how much better it is?"

Dining with Children: The Qdoba Experience

Once a week, I treat my kids to a meal out with just mommy. Their favorite restaurant is Qdoba, one of those fast-fresh Mexican joints. Ideally, we stand in line and tell a server what to pile on our tortilla bowl as we watch over the counter and scoot sideways to the cash register. While the food there is always decent, and I can feed the three of us for about 20 dollars, it's not convenient to eat there with kids. I am sure that the kind managers of Qdoba would argue with me that it is a kid-friendly place, and they certainly mean it to be. But this whole style of ordering, which is found at other places, such as Subway, Moe's, and Chipotle, is not conducive to peaceful and easy meal-engaging for anyone who totes in line a tyke or two. To clarify exactly why, here is what often takes place when my kids and I visit Qdoba:

Me: Allright, kids. While we wait, take a look at the menu and decide what you'd like. And no, you may not have Coke.
Tiny: Chips and wocamowee!
Chicken Little: Ummmmmmmm. Ummmmmmmmm.
Tiny: Chips and wocamowee! Mom? Mom. Mom! Chips and wocamowee, please.
Me (turning to CL): You need to decide. (turning to server when it's our time to order) I'll have the Mexican gumbo with black beans and salsa please.
CL: Ummmmm. Ummmmmm. I'll have the... ummmm.

Tiny Man starts walking back and forth behind the line of people being served, running his hand along the tile of the wall that divides the line from the dining room. He then quickly progresses to running back and forth.

Me: (ignoring daughter who has had ten minutes to make a decision): The little man over here will have the chips and woca...I mean guacamole. (to Tiny) Cut it out. Either stay beside me or go choose a table and wait.
CL: I'll have the regular nachos and a bowl of Mexican gumbo and a side of...
Me: No. We talked about this before we came in. That's too much food for you. Stick with the kid's nachos.
CL: But I am always hungry afterward!
Me: Then just pick one thing and one side.

Tiny has scampered off to find a table and I hear him calling (Mom? Mom. Mom!). Meanwhile, the server is doing her best to be patient. People are piling up behind me. At this point, Tiny may have come back from the table and is asking for a brownie, as there is always a bowl of saran-wrapped ones on the counter. Whoever puts those there should be shot.

Tiny: Mom? Mom! Can I have a brownie? Mom? Mom!
Me: No. Go sit down. (turning to CL) This year, sweetheart.

CL: Ok, then I'll have the regular nachos with a side of...
Me: Oh, no. What did I just say? That's too much food. (server heaves a sigh)
CL: Ooookkkaay. I'll have the kids' nachos with a side of Mexican gumbo.
Me: Tiny? Tiny. Come back here. (watching server pile way too much on the kid nachos as CL asks for every condiment there is.) Wait, no, stop. That's too much food. We have just had this conversation. No. No more. Grown ups shouldn't even eat that much.
CL: (to server) I'll have a coke, please.
ME: No, no she won't. We are all having unsweet tea. Holy God, that's a huge plate of nachos for kids. Chicken Little!

At this point, there is the gathering of food, paying for everything, getting the empty cups that the kids and I will have to fill ourselves, and then trying to figure out how to get it all to the table. If the restaurant isn't slammed, the very nice and patient server earns a wealth of gratitude prayers from me by offering to help. And then there's the pouring of tea and making sure that my daughter doesn't fill her cup with Sprite on the sly. When I arrive at the table, I have to tell the kids to quit arguing over who has more tea in whose cup while I wander back to get forks, spoons, and napkins.

By the time I sit down to eat, I am exhausted, my son's face is happily spattered with guac, my daughter is hunched over her food, and I begin the second set of parental badgerings, the ones that appear whether we eat at home or out.

"Sweetheart, sit up. Thank you. Chew with your mouth closed. Baby doll, look at your mother. Sit up straight. Like this. Honey, bring your food to you, not you to your food. Elbows off the table, Tiny.Wipe your face, Little Man. Elbows. Hey! Elbows! Don't grab your sister's food. No, you may not have his chips-- you have plenty. Oh, no thank you, Bunnykins. Mommy doesn't want to share and get your cold. Focus on your meal. Cut that out. Leave that alone. Chew with your mouth closed. Seriously, sweetheart, at twelve you should know how to chew with your mouth closed, and it's wearing me out to tell you this at least two meals a day every day each year. Holy God. Tiny. Dude. Eat. Cut that out..."

I know you read this and think to yourself that surely there are ways to prep the kids for this experience... or maybe, as I sometimes do, that birth control is a beautiful thing. We do prepare before going to Qdoba, but sometimes, even that fails to prevent mayheim, especially because my son feeds off activity, and if the place is crowded and loud, he becomes incredibly... all over the place.

I honestly prefer to pay extra for a true sit-down meal, but I tend to save those for really special days. So, one Sunday not so long ago, the kids and I had brunch at a delightful place where college girls took our order from us at the table and charmed the kids with Shirley Temples, coloring pages, and toys. I sipped a Mimosa and sent the kids to play with paper airplanes between the restaurant's patio and a neighboring garden. I had a perfect view of them from the open windows of the enclosed patio where I sat. When our meal was delivered, complete with more waitresses fawning over the children, the kids sat up and ate with good manners. We told silly stories and relaxed as plates came and went, drinks were adjusted, and so forth. There was one brief episode where my son complained because he wanted his sister's toy. I nipped this quickly in the bud, distracted him with the crafting of a paper plane, and life went smoothly forward.

The bill? About 48 dollars for three of us. Worth every cent. I strolled away from there as mellow as a mom can be on a Sunday afternoon with two short-stacks in hand. I wish we could do that every week.

Educating Tiny

With school starting again, I have been a little anxious about how my youngest will fare out back in a traditional group setting. Tiny Man is best one-on-one and gets bored easily. He is, as I have told his teacher, THAT child in the classroom-- the one that stands out, the one that doesn't conform, and often cluelessly so. I understand the exasperation of his teachers, as I am drawn to that point myself some days; it is hard to be THE mother of THAT child. At least now, with some of his acts of defiance in the past, I can find those things amusing.

Late last year, I was called by the assistant principal because my five-year-old son had, according to her report, kicked and punched three kids while waiting in the lunch line. It wasn't the first call I had, and wouldn't be even close to the last. When I picked him up from school, I told him that sometimes I was embarrassed to be his mother.

"Why?" Tiny whined.
"You beat up three kids at school today!" I snapped. My son's brow furrowed in a moment of confusion and he quickly corrected me, "It was TWO!"

You see my point. Months before, I had gotten a tired and irritable email from his teacher who wrote to document all the craziness he had performed that day, and then added that right at the moment she was writing, he was flicking balls of foil around the room and refusing to follow the Spanish teacher's directions. He had worn everyone completely out.

"This is precisely why I don't teach anymore," I responded. "Good luck with that."

Honestly, we worked very hard with his teacher to help shape my son's mischief into bouts of productivity and compliance. For every good effort he made at school, we rewarded it at home. For his more disruptive episodes, we withdrew privileges. And yes, headway was made. This year, we have taken a more proactive approach knowing what we know about our son and what he tends to do, such as why, for example, he might have lost bus riding privileges last year.

"Son," I said on the first morning of school. "Keep it in your pants on the bus. Understand?"
Tiny heaved a sigh of massive resignation. "Okaaaayyyyy."

Little Reflections of Parenting

Periodically, a mother's words can come back in the funniest ways. One evening over dinner, my son piped up with a complaint about how I had used one of his paper airplanes to write a note. In desperation that morning, I had unfolded his hand-crafted jet, smoothed out the creases, and wrote a note of permission for my daughter to give her teacher. He had objected to my doing this at the time, and hours later, still was a little peeved.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Next time, I will go into my office for paper and use that instead."
"It's okay, Mommy. I still love you," he answered.

I'm glad he does. I am also glad that of all the things I tell my children, this was the one thing I clearly heard reflected before my children left for holidays with their father. And they will come back saying or doing all manner of things they have learned from time with their other family. Of course not everything they learn is so charming.

A few weeks ago, my son came home with a note from school. "Had a good morning," it began, "but kicked, hit, punched, and gave Ryan a wedgie at snack time." My ex-husband was appalled and sent a text asking me who Tiny had learned the wedgie from. I texted back an answer, "You."

Heh.

In the Order of Importance

 Last night, my four-year-old son called from his vacation with step-family in Puerto Rico and asked immediately to speak to the dog. When he learned that she was unavailable (outside taking care of important dog business), he then asked for his step-father.

"Did you hear that?" I asked Jujubee. "Where am I on that list?"
"Well," she said, "notice he didn't ask for Chester."

Nice to know I share the bottom rung with the family rabbit.

Summer Farewell for the Wee Folk

I can't write much lately because my children have been home from school, but in a few days, they will be gone for the summer. I am quite sad about this today, because while their distracting noise makes task completion of any sort difficult around here, once they are gone, so will be the giggles, the cuddles, the story-telling, the comfort of their presence, and the simple silliness that is a part of childrearing.

This past week, I nursed my son's feet to health after they had been sliced up on rocks at the beach. Three times a day, I checked for infection in the cuts between his tiny toes, cleaned them, medicated them, and applied fresh bandages. His toes are one of my favorite things about him because of they are bumply. On both feet, the second toe's joint to the foot sits higher than it should, making the foot from the bottom sometimes appear as though he has four little toes, not five. My doctor called it a birth defect; I think it's the cutest birth defect I have ever seen. With my son sitting in front of me this week, his legs straight between us as I doctored his feet, I would playfully poke his wayward second toe back into line. Tiny would laugh as he wiggled his toes so that the second one would pop back up into its original place. And then we would do it again. I love how things with children can be so sweet.

And so this summer, even though I need the break and plan to work on various projects, I will miss Tiny and his toes, his sister and her stories about the pictures she draws, and their hugs and kisses. Twice this summer, I will travel down to their father's to visit with them. They will return as a kindergartener and a middle schooler, with Tiny's toes being less tiny by then.

Wish them a safe summer and a safe return. Wish me peace of mind in the meantime.

Simple Procedures? Not with Children!

When rearing children, everything is a project. I'll never know why, but following simple procedures is beyond the still-developing minds of the very young. Take, for example, trying to leave the house with children.

The other day, I told my eleven year old what time it was, what she needed to do to be ready for riding lessons, and what time we were leaving. (Sounds organized--doesn't it?) My son should have been less complicated; all he needed was his shoes. Instead, this is what happened:

"Tiny? Tiny. What are you doing? Put that down. Clean that up. Where are your shoes? Are those your shoes? Behind you, where you have been playing. Those? All mixed up with your toys? Put your shoes on. No, put that down. Get your shoes. No, son, other foot. No, that shoe. Okay, finish putting on your shoes. Come downstairs when you have cleaned up your mess."

Meanwhile, his sister walked the house in riding breeches and stockinged feet, saying, "I can't find my helmet. It's not in the silver tub."
"I know it's not in the silver tub, sweetheart. It doesn't belong there. Go check your room."
"But it was in the silver tub!"
"It was not in the silver tub and doesn't belong there. Go check your room."
"I checked my room. It's not there!"
"So go check the car, then." Chicken Little headed to the SUV and explored the trunk and recesses under the back seat bench. Meanwhile, this was now taking place:

"Tiny, choose one toy to take with you. No. One. One toy. I see you have two. Fork over the one in your shirt. Hand it to Mommy." Tiny held his ground, one Transformer toy clutched in his hand and the other clumsily concealed in his shirt. (Mind you sometimes he shoves things in his pants and I have to frisk him before we leave a store.) With no cooperative movement from my son, I began the count. "One." Still he stood feet planted and fingers clenched about the two toys. "Two." He stared back unblinking.
"Three. Time out. Go to your room." Crying, tears, and the usual, "Whhhhhyyyyyyyy?" As he headed upstairs, my daughter came back into the house and said she couldn't find her helmet.

"Oh, dude. You lost your helmet. Geez. Ok, maybe it's at the ranch." The price of a new helmet ran through my head briefly. "Just go check your room one more time. That is where your helmet belongs."
"But--"
"Just do it. Go on. Check again to be sure."

Eventually, my daughter came downstairs with her helmet that had been hanging on her bedroom wall the entire time. She showed it to me sheepishly. You can't miss the helmet; it sports a lime-green and polka-dotted cover. So, helmet in hand, daughter's boots pulled on, we called down the little guy, and he showed me he was ready with his one toy (and nothing shoved up his shirt or down his pants). As the kids headed to the car to climb in, I turned to Juju who had been calmly observing the circus from her safe position on the couch and I said, "Do you see why I am exhausted before I even get out the door? Why does everything have to be a project?"

My days of simple exits and entrances are over for still another few years. There's fooling with the booster seats and the untwisting seat belts; reminders of retrieving book bags, lunch boxes, permission slips, and sports equipment; making sure the little guy doesn't get his fingers or toes slammed in the car door by his sister; making sure neither vacuous child gets hit by a car while entering or exiting my vehicle; stopping the arguing over who touched whose toy in the back seat. What kills me is when I am told I will miss these days. I was told that when my kids were babies, too. No, with those days done, I do not miss them. And as much as I adore my children, I won't miss trying to get them out of the house on time either.

Feelin' It? Fitness and Family

Occasionally, I feel the need to work out to a Jillian Michaels DVD... with my little four year old. Jillian kills me. As my thighs burn from repeated squats, she calls out, "Ya feel it?" Tiny, soup cans in his palms, squatting and flexing near me, releases a gasp and answers, "Ooohh, yeah. I feewin' it!" God bless my Tiny Man. He takes the edge off my return to a fitness routine.

For the last few weeks, I have been walking at dawn before the children rise. In my effort to regain tone and fitness, I have also replaced carby snacks with veggies, have been drinking more water, relegated alcohol consumption to once weekly (okay, maybe twice), and have foregone the fatty, sugary items. I work at a barn doing physical labor and riding one day a week, and in the afternoons, take a play break to throw the frisbee with my son. My reward is a gain of 3.3 pounds. You'd think I would have shed all the underarm dingle dangle just by saying goodbye to salty afternoon snacks and adjusting portion sizes. It's not fair, especially when considering how easily men shed pounds.

Last year, my husband gave up sugar in his coffee and lost five pounds. I found those five pounds and padded them neatly about my middle--just in case he missed them. I have held them there ever since. I am almost afraid to ask him to give up that plate of cholesterol he serves himself each morning. God knows where that would end up on me.

This year, thinking that I was at peace with my nearing middle age, I put on a bathing suit to play at the beach with my family, and looked down to discover that the cottage cheese police had missed ticketing my thighs for the excess of dimples present. Weeks later, I showed my youngest step-daughter that my upper arms were so flabby I could use them as wings. The tummy pooch, which began when my husband shed his coffee-sugar weight, has been stretching the waist band of my pants as well, I complained.

"No problem," said my lovely Jujubee. "Let me show you a little trick. Now watch carefully. Okay?" She flashed a smile at me, angled her body to the side, and raised her shirt a little. I waited for some kind of magical exercise. Instead, she raised her pants up to cover her belly button, and patted her stomach. "I call it the Tuck," she said. Somehow, I don't think that was the fix I was looking for, but thanks anyway, Juju.

Still, I recommend multiple reps of that move--after dinner, before going on a date, and of course, while putting on a bathing suit. Ya feelin' it?

Thirteen, Fourteen, Cheese-teen...

Family jokes are often completely lost on outsiders. Of the many jokes the kids and I have, such as our dog wearing pants, the least explainable one is the concept of cheese-teen. And while my son definitely knows the difference between counting at home and counting at school, he is not beyond incorporating our mystery word into play with friends.

Yesterday, Tiny went next door to ask his friend, Lu, to play hide and seek. Little Lu is a bit older--maybe by two years. He took the time to explain to me why Tiny isn't a good play partner for hide and seek, one reason being that Tiny doesn't stay hidden long enough, but the primary reason being that my son counts to cheese-teen and then stops.

Lu waved his hands with exasperation as he cried out, "I don't even know what cheese-teen is!"

"Well, it comes after fourteen and sometimes fifteen. It often comes before sixteen or seventeen," I said as if this explained everything.

Meanwhile,  my son stood in the yardwith his hands pressed to his face counting:

"Firteen, fowteen, CHEESE-TEEN!! Ready or not!!"

Chuckling to myself, I sent a quick message about the incident to my parents. Later in the evening, my father wrote back saying, "Anyone who is anyone knows what cheese-teen is. Lu, as your mom says, has no soul."

You can definitely see how I inherited this sense of humor.

Tiny and the Great Lunch Debate

This morning at my son’s school, the cafeteria ladies asked me if I had been packing my child’s lunch. I told them that I have been, but Tiny has learned how to work the system. This week, Tiny racked up a five dollar debt with the cafeteria. A couple of weeks prior, it was four dollars. Doesn’t sound like a lot, does it? But, each lunch is two dollars plus the value of one solid lie that he spins when he doesn’t want to eat my food. Dealing with the lie is frustrating enough. The wasting of food is a second problem. Worst of all, however, is trying to figure out what he will eat. He isn’t consistent.


Once when my husband unpacked a box of mandarin orange cups from the grocery, my son exclaimed his love of “owanges”. He ate them a few times and then went on strike.

“I don’t wike dis.”

When we purchased a large box of granola bars, he ate one, decided he did not like them, and then two weeks later began to raid the box on his own. This week?

“I don’t wike dis.”

At school, he eats grapes. He will not eat grapes from home. At school, he will deny the very leftovers or sandwiches he will eat at home. I think my son just likes to walk through the cafeteria line and make choices. I think he just likes to make me crazy.

At home, life is simple and choices are limited: you can eat or starve. Take last night, for example. Tiny pushed his plate back and announced that he could not eat his dinner. I put the plate on the counter and told him there was an awful lot of untouched food, so therefore, should hunger return, I would reheat his plate.

Minutes later:

“I’m hungwy. I would wike a ganilla bar.”

“You cannot have a granola bar. If you are hungry, you can finish your burrito and rice from dinner.”

“I’m not hungwy,” he decided. Figuring two could play this game, he went on active hunger strike and later headed to bed having touched nary a grain of rice on his plate. I still cannot figure out how and when his love of granola bars returned. This morning, in hopes of packing a good lunch that would sustain the little fella’s tummy and please his palate, I asked him what kind of lunch he would like. He decided on a cheese sandwich and some fruit. Packing his lunch, I knew exactly what would happen: eventually he will return to me with a mashed up half-eaten cheese sandwich and make a certain comment about it: “I don’t wike dis.”

Wish me luck.

Pink Houses

I know my son is unwell when he cries over small matters, such as not being able to find his true desire: a pink house with a pool in the real estate magazine I gave him. My son, beloved little creature, house-shops at the precious age of four. He is obsessed with real estate magazines, which he eagerly procures from those curbside magazine and newspaper stands in town.

Today, home with a case of strep throat, my son occupied himself quietly while I wrapped up a load of administrative duties at my desk. To reward him, I gave him the latest copy of some grand estate brochure—one that showcases million dollar homes with loads of lush acreage, customized marble flooring, or fancy outdoor kitchens. I no longer look in these magazines myself because they are a form of torture.

Tiny Man slapped the magazine with the back of his hand, complained about the glossy paper being resistant to marker (which he had tried to use to circle his choices), and whined about how he could not believe there was not one pink house in this edition. I tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help myself. Scooping him up, I checked his forehead, carried him upstairs, and tucked him in bed for a nap.

Sweet dreams, little man. And lullabies of pink houses. 

Snugga Bugga and Child Speak

My son folded himself up in my lap, tucked his head under my chin, and pulled his blankie around himself. As I drew it up to warm the back of his neck and tucked the loose end under his toes, I asked him if he was my snuggle bundle. He replied, “Yes, I am your snugga bugga.” I rocked him and thought about all his funny words and phrases. Super boach lives in infamy here due to the day he announced that such a thing was on the stairs. When he had run to my husband for help, I had proceeded to examine the source of Tiny’s shock and horror: the largest house roach I have seen in years. What he says in reflection of my own spoken discipline is just as sweet and amusing. One day, frustrated with a Transformer toy that would not fold per the illustrated directions, he put his hands on his hips and stated clearly that he was “tired of this" and "it is so disappointing.” I’ll never forget my daughter at the same age taking her bears into another room for what we termed special chats. After her bears returned, their behavior had dramatically improved. Hearing her discipline her bears was always an amusing check on my own behavior.


Of course, repeating what one hears can backfire. My daughter attempted to shun her chores one Sunday morning by announcing that her intentions were just to take it easy and she was not in the mood to do her work, words that mimicked mine from a different conversation (with different intentions and circumstances) the week prior. That did not end well for her, by the way.

Most of the time here, the things the children repeat or reiterate in some form are varieties of affectionate talk. For example, “Mommy,” says my little boy, “I am your Tiny Man! Are you my Tiny, too?” And after years of telling him I am going to eat his little bumply toes, he says, “You need to chase me, catch me, and eat me!”

These days, I find myself sad that my last baby is outgrowing my lap. Next year, Tiny will be a kindergartner and I will be out of the house more for work or school again. Note that I crave another baby—a woman knows when she’s done. Tiny, however, has a special bond with me. He reminds me of a very green pony I worked with long ago. My trainer once stood me beside that tired, frustrated little horse and told me that hardship forges a bond.  (I hear she is now a well-trained, but still naughty pony, just like someone else I know.) My son and I have forged a bond through hardship, too. He has been a challenging child to raise. Even pregnancy with him was a battle of wills. Our little man has reached this wonderful place where he can listen and follow directions without being angry, where he understands consequences, sleeps and stays in his bed, and is eager to cooperate and please. He does regress occasionally, but always will be my snugga bugga, as he likes to say. So these last couple of years where he invents vocabulary or naively bumbles through speech will be cherished more than ever. His words will carry me.

Small Acts of Compassion

This week, I contracted the nasty stomach flu. Several hours and retchings later, I lay semi-comatose and feverish on my bed, but recovered enough to let the children see I was not dead. The youngest child, our Tiny Man, crawled up beside me, took a damp rag from the bedside, and proceeded to sponge me with it. He said he wanted to clean my eyes, my ears, check my hair, my skin. He wiped gently and murmured the entire time that I was getting better and that I was okay. He sat with me for around ten minutes, giggling and pressing his cool feet against my burning skin. He kissed my forehead, my lips, and my chest, patted me with his little cool hands.


Oh, to be loved by a child. Makes everything better.