Theo has recently fallen in love with the word plumber. He learned to spell it and for some reason it speaks to him more strongly than most other words. Plumb-er is how he says it now. Or sometimes plumb-ber. He recently declared it is what he is going to be when he grows up. I guess I can be thankful he hasn't fallen in love with other musical and appealing words- say giggalo.
Eli, he continues to fish around in his fairly spectacular vocabulary and hook just the right word for each occasion. Here's an excerpt from something he said yesterday: "Mr. Mark's sister came in to talk to our class about a book that she had written. It takes place in the past- not super long ago, but awhile. I didn't know that she was going to dress up like a character in her book, so when I walked in and saw her in this fancy skirt and these little gloves, I thought 'boy is she posh'." Boy is she posh?? And I can guarantee that he does not know this word because he was a big fan of the Spice Girls, although I do think that might have been their one great contribution to society- introducing the masses to the concept of what it is to be posh. Or Posh. No, they were before his time and even though old Posh and Mr. Posh make the news every now and then, Eli is not seeing it. That kid hears a word somewhere and it gets lodged in that brain of his, and then when he needs it, there it is, on the tip of his tongue. "And I said to myself, boy is she posh." Really? What other things do you say to yourself?
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Flight
I'm not a huge fan of flying. I often look at planes cruising overhead and think, dang, it's a good thing the world wasn't waiting for me to invent that. I feel like that about a lot of things. Like radios, the internet, straws. Anyway, the other day I was listening to Annie Lamott on This American Life and heard her describe herself as a skeptical flyer. That's me. Skeptical. I used to have quite a bit more anxiety, but that was before flying with kids. Lately I have been so busy retrieving lego guys from under the chair in front of me that I have no time to focus on my own issues. But alas, last week Jon and I were flying to New York, just the two of us. Jon didn't drop even one of his lego guys, so I had plenty of time to sit there and think. My first thought was this: I wonder why this flight was delayed for two hours? Was it an engine problem...something wrong with one of those wings? These thoughts spiraled me into a pretty bad place where I had no business being. Just then the nice and friendly pilot came on the loudspeaker (actually, on a plane I think it should be called a quietspeaker. I can NEVER hear what they are telling us) to tell us that the delay was indeed caused by extremely windy conditions in New York. Then he went on to say the landing could be bumpy. Then I think, New York!! Birds!! In turbines!! Landing in rivers! I glance down at my bag in my lap. Will they make me leave it here? I could easily hold it while balancing on the wing....
Somehow I managed to doze for a while after this pronouncement. I awoke as we approached the sprawling metropolis of New York. I was enthralled looking out the window, until I noticed that New York sure was slipping around down there quite a bit. Then I tuned into my body and felt that feeling that sometime comes on planes, when you're heading down and you get pressed down into your chair, then up...and you feel almost weightless for a second. Well, that's a fine feeling. Once. But when combined with a lot of left-right-wing tilting slippage, that's not ok. My anxiety skyrocketed, kicking in just as the motion sickness genes I inherited from Rodg (he once threw up while standing on an aircraft carrier that was completely beached and LOOKING out at the sea) kicked in. Instantly I was covered in a full body sweat. I mean I could honestly feel my toes sweating! Sweating in my shoes. For some reason the only thing that seemed to keep me from losing my lunch was to keep my arms pressed into my sides and my eyes out the window. I'm not sure why looking at the ground slip sliding this way helped me keep my last kernel of control, but it did. I really really wanted to grab the motion sickness bag and get it ready. But I couldn't move my arms! I wanted to tell Jon to get it, but I couldn't move my eyes- nor my lips- they were firmly smacked together. Meanwhile Jon is pleasantly leafing through the Us magazine I bought for my reading pleasure. I can hear him lazily turning the pages, not a care in the world. He tries to say something to me, but I can't respond. He asks again. I use all of my will power to signal to him "Can't talk! Can't move! Sweating! Toes!" But he doesn't get it. He wants an answer. Luckily it is at that moment that we bump onto the runway. And whew- all at once the anxiety, the nausea, flows out and away and I am fine. I turn to Jon and he askes again and I answer with a smile.
Somehow I managed to doze for a while after this pronouncement. I awoke as we approached the sprawling metropolis of New York. I was enthralled looking out the window, until I noticed that New York sure was slipping around down there quite a bit. Then I tuned into my body and felt that feeling that sometime comes on planes, when you're heading down and you get pressed down into your chair, then up...and you feel almost weightless for a second. Well, that's a fine feeling. Once. But when combined with a lot of left-right-wing tilting slippage, that's not ok. My anxiety skyrocketed, kicking in just as the motion sickness genes I inherited from Rodg (he once threw up while standing on an aircraft carrier that was completely beached and LOOKING out at the sea) kicked in. Instantly I was covered in a full body sweat. I mean I could honestly feel my toes sweating! Sweating in my shoes. For some reason the only thing that seemed to keep me from losing my lunch was to keep my arms pressed into my sides and my eyes out the window. I'm not sure why looking at the ground slip sliding this way helped me keep my last kernel of control, but it did. I really really wanted to grab the motion sickness bag and get it ready. But I couldn't move my arms! I wanted to tell Jon to get it, but I couldn't move my eyes- nor my lips- they were firmly smacked together. Meanwhile Jon is pleasantly leafing through the Us magazine I bought for my reading pleasure. I can hear him lazily turning the pages, not a care in the world. He tries to say something to me, but I can't respond. He asks again. I use all of my will power to signal to him "Can't talk! Can't move! Sweating! Toes!" But he doesn't get it. He wants an answer. Luckily it is at that moment that we bump onto the runway. And whew- all at once the anxiety, the nausea, flows out and away and I am fine. I turn to Jon and he askes again and I answer with a smile.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Stories from yesteryear
The other night Theo requested that I tell him a story rather than read a story to him at bedtime. I do not like this request. I have trouble coming up with a story and it usually ends up rather dumb. But then he told me to tell him a story from my real life. That's easier. I told him a tale that got him giggling and I thought I better record this one before it slips out of memory and is gone forever. I hope that old Andrew Robbins can corroborate the truth of this tale.
Back in the summer of 1992 I was one year out of college. I had spent the previous 8 summers working in some fashion at Camp St. Croix. Most of those summers found me out on 'trail'- leading groups of girls on canoe trips down the Nam, the Chippewa, the Flambeau, and of course, the Croix. But the summer of 1991 found me tied to a desk out at camp, serving as the program coordinator. I didn't like it. I promised myself that the next summer I would find more time to be outside, in the woods.
So here we are in May 1992. Somehow I've found myself signed on to a crew who are going to rent a van and head to the Yukon. The Yukon. Why not the rockies?? First sign of trouble. The group existed of all St. Croix alumni- all male, except me. Four of us piled into the van in early June and headed North. Our final member couldn't join us until early July- we were going to pick him up from a ferry in Haines, Alaska after we had completed a loop our two out in the mountains.
To tell the tale of this whole trip would take forever. There are endless memories- creek crossings where the sound of boulders clunking downstream in the turbulent current could be heard far far away; sitting at dinner for hours, the sun still high in the sky, not getting up until every last noodle was eaten; seeing the footprints of grizzlies in the mud; singing songs to scare away said bears- Rockin' Robin can get stuck in one's head for days. But here are three so-called highlights that gave Theo the chuckles.
1. We needed to pick up John O in Haines. We were to meet his ferry mid-afternoon. We spent the morning hiking up a small mountain and sitting in the sun overlooking the bay and the ocean beyond, watching bald eagles in the throes of their mating ritual- flying high in the air, clasping talons with a hopeful mate-to-be and then spiraling downward in a death-defying stunt, then releasing and soaring upward again. After this Mutual of Omaha morning, the four of us (Andrew, Andy, Steve, and I) found a local pizza joint and settled in for some non-campfire food. Only Steve never made it into the restaurant. He was out in the parking lot tearing apart our van, looking for lost traveller's checks. Andy, Andrew and I munched away, casting glances outside, keeping tabs on the van destruction. After finishing we went out to find Steve in a state of high anxiety. This was similar to his normal state, but we could tell that the agitation was more severe...he couldn't find them...we needed them...the only way to get them was to go to the bank....in the next town....there were no roads to this town....one had to go by boat or plane....he had chartered a small plane....was leaving in a half hour..... The three of us eyed each other, realized there was no way to talk him down, packed up the van and brought him to the airfield. It was then that we realized we had a little time before John's ferry arrived. Andrew convinced us that John would do something to embarass us as he got off the ferry, we had to beat him to the punch. So Andy suggested we dress as mimes. And that we shouldn't come out of character until Steve returned, whenever that may be. So we tooled around Haines, the cutest little port town I've seen, looking for white face paint. It was not easy to find and I can't remember where we finally procured it. But we did. We painted our faces and dug out the darkest clothes we had along. Andy then tried to teach Andrew and I some popping moves- he was quite the accomplished breakdancer. It was 1992. Andrew and I were pathetic. We decided to stick to the old mime standby- the box. We were good at that. So- we went and parked at the ferry dock and took up our place in the small crowd awaiting the arrival of the boat. Andy was in breakdancing heaven. Andrew and I made small boxes. People pretended we weren't there.
Then the boat arrives. We gear up for the grand performance. We are good. John finally comes down the gangplank, saunters up, looks us over like he is considering throwing us a coin. Then he reaches under his shirt and pulls a few ripcords. He has smuggled off not one, but two, inflatable life vests and has them under his clothes. Upon ripcord pullage, he inflates mightily. We break character to chortle, but only for a minute. It is then that John realizes that Steve is not with us. He asks, for the first of many many times, where he is. We shrug and make like we are flying. We do that all the way to the campground, through dinner prep, and nearly to bedtime. It is then that Steve shuffles into the campsite, new checks in hand. We say hi to John. The next morning, as we are packing up for our next loop, Steve finds the old checks tucked into a pocket of his backpack.
2. When backpacking the rule is to leave most stuff behind. We were not the crew to break our toothbrushes in half to save a few ounces, but we tried to be minimalistic. Only Andrew and John O were not to be trusted. The stuff they had in the van was endless and silly. One could never be sure what would find its way into a backpack. One of these things was a large battlion of those little red and black plastic army guys. I quickly learned that if I was sharing a tent with either of these guys it was never wise to fall asleep first. If you did- you undoubtedly would wake up with a battle recreated on your sleeping bag, your arms, your face.
3. Another little thing they just could not leave behind was the head of a ventriliquist dummy, named Benny. Benny had started the trip whole, with a flimsly little body. But somewhere on the Al-Can highway Benny had been swinging in a campground swing, next to some innocent little 5 year old on a trip with his family. Andrew pushed him too hard and Benny launched from the swing, flew magistically through the air, and somehow became detached from his body. His head landed with a thud that probably still echoes in that 5 year old's dreams. Anyway, that suited Andrew and John fine, Benny's head was much more packable than his whole body. So one day, round about day 5 of an 8 day loop, we come to a creek. It is not easy to cross and Steve slips off a rock or a log or something and gets a quick dousing. Loses his favorite walking stick. This does not make him happy. We get to the other side and he stops to check the map. He checks the compass. Map. Compass. Map. Then he whips them both angrily to the ground and stomps around. Apparently we are lost. The rest of us sheepishly pick up the cast off materials, give it a look and agree. Lost. Steve stomps. Swears. Asks us what we should do. John has been waiting for this. He slips off his pack, grabs out Benny, places the head on a long stick and slowly, carefully raises Benny to the sky. He then turns Benny left, right, left again. He lowers Benny to ear level, has a whispered conversation and says, "Benny says this way!" He points into the the trees and sets off. Andrew, Andy, and I follow, trying desperately to keep our chuckles under cover. Steve stays, still steaming. If he could get his hands on Benny, Benny would be gone, chucked into the creek full force. But he can't get Benny, Benny is up ahead, still on the stick, back up in the air, looking left, looking right.
Back in the summer of 1992 I was one year out of college. I had spent the previous 8 summers working in some fashion at Camp St. Croix. Most of those summers found me out on 'trail'- leading groups of girls on canoe trips down the Nam, the Chippewa, the Flambeau, and of course, the Croix. But the summer of 1991 found me tied to a desk out at camp, serving as the program coordinator. I didn't like it. I promised myself that the next summer I would find more time to be outside, in the woods.
So here we are in May 1992. Somehow I've found myself signed on to a crew who are going to rent a van and head to the Yukon. The Yukon. Why not the rockies?? First sign of trouble. The group existed of all St. Croix alumni- all male, except me. Four of us piled into the van in early June and headed North. Our final member couldn't join us until early July- we were going to pick him up from a ferry in Haines, Alaska after we had completed a loop our two out in the mountains.
To tell the tale of this whole trip would take forever. There are endless memories- creek crossings where the sound of boulders clunking downstream in the turbulent current could be heard far far away; sitting at dinner for hours, the sun still high in the sky, not getting up until every last noodle was eaten; seeing the footprints of grizzlies in the mud; singing songs to scare away said bears- Rockin' Robin can get stuck in one's head for days. But here are three so-called highlights that gave Theo the chuckles.
1. We needed to pick up John O in Haines. We were to meet his ferry mid-afternoon. We spent the morning hiking up a small mountain and sitting in the sun overlooking the bay and the ocean beyond, watching bald eagles in the throes of their mating ritual- flying high in the air, clasping talons with a hopeful mate-to-be and then spiraling downward in a death-defying stunt, then releasing and soaring upward again. After this Mutual of Omaha morning, the four of us (Andrew, Andy, Steve, and I) found a local pizza joint and settled in for some non-campfire food. Only Steve never made it into the restaurant. He was out in the parking lot tearing apart our van, looking for lost traveller's checks. Andy, Andrew and I munched away, casting glances outside, keeping tabs on the van destruction. After finishing we went out to find Steve in a state of high anxiety. This was similar to his normal state, but we could tell that the agitation was more severe...he couldn't find them...we needed them...the only way to get them was to go to the bank....in the next town....there were no roads to this town....one had to go by boat or plane....he had chartered a small plane....was leaving in a half hour..... The three of us eyed each other, realized there was no way to talk him down, packed up the van and brought him to the airfield. It was then that we realized we had a little time before John's ferry arrived. Andrew convinced us that John would do something to embarass us as he got off the ferry, we had to beat him to the punch. So Andy suggested we dress as mimes. And that we shouldn't come out of character until Steve returned, whenever that may be. So we tooled around Haines, the cutest little port town I've seen, looking for white face paint. It was not easy to find and I can't remember where we finally procured it. But we did. We painted our faces and dug out the darkest clothes we had along. Andy then tried to teach Andrew and I some popping moves- he was quite the accomplished breakdancer. It was 1992. Andrew and I were pathetic. We decided to stick to the old mime standby- the box. We were good at that. So- we went and parked at the ferry dock and took up our place in the small crowd awaiting the arrival of the boat. Andy was in breakdancing heaven. Andrew and I made small boxes. People pretended we weren't there.
Then the boat arrives. We gear up for the grand performance. We are good. John finally comes down the gangplank, saunters up, looks us over like he is considering throwing us a coin. Then he reaches under his shirt and pulls a few ripcords. He has smuggled off not one, but two, inflatable life vests and has them under his clothes. Upon ripcord pullage, he inflates mightily. We break character to chortle, but only for a minute. It is then that John realizes that Steve is not with us. He asks, for the first of many many times, where he is. We shrug and make like we are flying. We do that all the way to the campground, through dinner prep, and nearly to bedtime. It is then that Steve shuffles into the campsite, new checks in hand. We say hi to John. The next morning, as we are packing up for our next loop, Steve finds the old checks tucked into a pocket of his backpack.
2. When backpacking the rule is to leave most stuff behind. We were not the crew to break our toothbrushes in half to save a few ounces, but we tried to be minimalistic. Only Andrew and John O were not to be trusted. The stuff they had in the van was endless and silly. One could never be sure what would find its way into a backpack. One of these things was a large battlion of those little red and black plastic army guys. I quickly learned that if I was sharing a tent with either of these guys it was never wise to fall asleep first. If you did- you undoubtedly would wake up with a battle recreated on your sleeping bag, your arms, your face.
3. Another little thing they just could not leave behind was the head of a ventriliquist dummy, named Benny. Benny had started the trip whole, with a flimsly little body. But somewhere on the Al-Can highway Benny had been swinging in a campground swing, next to some innocent little 5 year old on a trip with his family. Andrew pushed him too hard and Benny launched from the swing, flew magistically through the air, and somehow became detached from his body. His head landed with a thud that probably still echoes in that 5 year old's dreams. Anyway, that suited Andrew and John fine, Benny's head was much more packable than his whole body. So one day, round about day 5 of an 8 day loop, we come to a creek. It is not easy to cross and Steve slips off a rock or a log or something and gets a quick dousing. Loses his favorite walking stick. This does not make him happy. We get to the other side and he stops to check the map. He checks the compass. Map. Compass. Map. Then he whips them both angrily to the ground and stomps around. Apparently we are lost. The rest of us sheepishly pick up the cast off materials, give it a look and agree. Lost. Steve stomps. Swears. Asks us what we should do. John has been waiting for this. He slips off his pack, grabs out Benny, places the head on a long stick and slowly, carefully raises Benny to the sky. He then turns Benny left, right, left again. He lowers Benny to ear level, has a whispered conversation and says, "Benny says this way!" He points into the the trees and sets off. Andrew, Andy, and I follow, trying desperately to keep our chuckles under cover. Steve stays, still steaming. If he could get his hands on Benny, Benny would be gone, chucked into the creek full force. But he can't get Benny, Benny is up ahead, still on the stick, back up in the air, looking left, looking right.
Friday, February 13, 2009
On second thought
I just took a hot shower, and now that I am a little warmer, I'm thinking to myself, you know, it's just possible that maybe when I wrote that last entry about life in Antigua, maybe I forgot to take off my rose-colored sunglasses. So, in attempt to be a little more fair toward my home state, here are some of the things that were not so hot about life in the Caribbean:
- It was hot. Always. I was consistently dehydrated and sweating.
- My name, in most people's eyes was simply 'White Lady Teacher'. Not many people knew me as Gretchen. Or Gret for that matter.
- There were tarantulas. I never saw one alive, but the dead smashed ones on the road gave me the creeps.
- The roads.
- There were centipedes. Bigger than the tarantulas.
- There was a glue trap for mice behind our fridge. Since it was hard to get to the store to get new traps, we always used the one we had for all it was worth. There was a mixed bag of mice back there, from those that were beginning to decay to those that were still making soft little pathetic screeching noises. And everything in between.
- I did not get to take a hot shower for two years.
- I saw both jellyfish and sharks while swimming in that turguoise water.
- Jon was my hair stylist.
That last one should pretty much sum up everything else that I might be forgetting. I'd like to forget that one, but everytime I look at a picture from that era, there's the reminder. I looked good.
Ok, I feel a little more even-handed now. Perhaps someday soon I'll get to put on the rose-colored sunglasses here in MN. Someday?
Gray.
There was a time when I lived on a small Caribbean island. It was always around 85 degrees. The sun was out 12 hours a day, every day. It was physically impossible to be further than 5 miles from a beach. The beaches were white sand and the water was turguoise. You could wander down the trail out back and find a wild mango tree. There was a field of lemon grass down the way so that when it rained (which, admittedly was very rare) it smelled like lemons. Lemons. And if wasn't going to rain, which it wasn't, you could go grab a handful of grass and make a tea. And then that smelled like lemons.
And then I moved back to Minnesota. Which has its wonders. But. today. is. gray. So was yesterday. So will be tomorrow. And it doesn't smell like lemons. Ever.
And then I moved back to Minnesota. Which has its wonders. But. today. is. gray. So was yesterday. So will be tomorrow. And it doesn't smell like lemons. Ever.
Never stuck in neutral
I don't know why it has taken me nearly 7 years to figure this out- it's been fairly obvious since day one- Theo William has no neutral. The little vehichle that is Theo goes full speed, or gets four flats simultaneously. And the clutch goes out. And the engine knocks. I promise that is the end of my car metaphors- I've exhausted my knowledge base. He is not cold but freezing! Not hungry, but STARVING. Not just a little tired, but piled in a sloshy heap on his floor, feet from his comfy bed but unable to make it the final distance. Luckily for us, most of the time he is stuck on the other side of this continuum- his engine running high, but smoothly- no whining or clanks and crashes- just pure unadulterated love for his dinner, his legos, his owl, his wand, his babysitter, his brother. And he lets us know constantly that things are going well for him and that he is pleased with his surroundings. Last night he snuggled up to me, professed his love, then proceed to go so far as to call me his one and only "loobity lobbity fat piece of chicken". Like I said- he does nothing halfway. Pet names included. I have been invited, if I wish, to go ahead and call him my "loobity lobbity obese piece of chicken". And since it wraps up exactly my sentiments toward this bright and shiny boy I share a life with, I think I will.
Mr. Vocab
I was helping the boys with valentine construction the other night and Eli was talking talking talking away. Theo and I were dismissing him, occasionally slinging over an "Ok, Bob's wife." (Have you seen Open Season? Eli often channels Bob's wife.) And then a word caught my ear. "What did you just say Eli?" "Oh, that I think some of the kids in my class have a rather Philistine-y sense of humor." "Philistine-y????" "Yea...you know they laugh really hard at things like someone bumping their head, or falling on the ice." He went on to give more examples of what would be included under the new adjective philistine-y. I had quit listening however because I was trying to wrap my head around the fact that Eli seemed to have a better grasp of using bibilically-tinged insults than, well, me. In fact I was forced to sneak upstairs and look up the word Philistine. I had a feeling he was indeed on the right track, but when I read the definition- a person smugly conventional, narrow, lacking culture- I thought that he had nailed it. That kid has always had a penchant for using not just any word, but one that illuminates his message perfectly. I have fear of what words are going to be used to describe me as soon as the moon of good favor that I currently am enjoying wanes in Eli's eyes.
And here's a secret I better keep from Eli. I did chuckle a little when I heard about the boys and the tongues and the flagpole. Of course I didn't laugh until I found out the boys were essentially ok, and I did wait until I was turned away from Eli. But it did cause a little philistine-y smile.
And here's a secret I better keep from Eli. I did chuckle a little when I heard about the boys and the tongues and the flagpole. Of course I didn't laugh until I found out the boys were essentially ok, and I did wait until I was turned away from Eli. But it did cause a little philistine-y smile.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Details
Today after I walked the boys to school I returned home and in a whirlwind made out a grocery list, checked my work email, found a receipt and the piece of flooring I needed to return, and packed my gym bag. Then I rushed out the door for my tour of duty as a sometimes stay-at-home mom. By the time I reached the gym I was a little behind my self-imposed schedule. I rushed down to the locker room, threw my clothes into a locker and started changing into my workout clothes. I reached into my duffle, grabbed my well-worn gymshorts and bent down to put them on. Only to realize that I was struggling into my son Eli's t-shirt of the same color. Dang. But here's the kicker: I honestly contemplated how to make this t-shirt work as a pair of shorts. I had this vision of putting my legs through the armholes and then somehow cinching it up around my waist. I think everyone at the old Midway Y this morning is very thankful that I could not find a proper cinching device. Luckily a further examination into the depths of my gymbag produced a pair of sweats that were really much more appropriate.
Yo-yos
So, when the boys went to ArtScraps- a local little gem that resells other people's waste and overstock for minimal prices- to buy valentine card makings, they somehow also came home with yo-yos. These are NOT the Pro-yo's you could buy after school from Mr. Yeager, the coolest teacher at Bel Air Elementary. Remember those? They came in all colors, some see-through, some glow-in-the-dark...and that one that Mr. Yeager only sold to kids who had mastered certain tricks- the solid black pearly one. I never got that. I did have a sweet little red number that I remember well. The ArtScraps yo-yo's are some marketing scheme gone wrong from Greater Minnesota Dakotas CDC -these cheap knock-offs would have never been allowed in Mr. Yeager's little after school store. But the boys love them. Love them. They have both finally mastered rolling the string up on the yo-yo and I am sure that someday soon they are going to successfully complete one yo-yo. Up and down. Once. It's coming. I keep trying to tell them that the strings are too long and me and my trusty scissors can fix that. But they will not let me near the yo-yo. Instead they have figured out that the yo-yo's work better (and don't crack into the floor quite as often) if the boys stand on chairs.
This morning I was still lying in bed when I heard first one boy then the other jostle out of bed and head to the bathroom. I patiently awaited their arrival by my bedside, asking for breakfast, or for permission to get on the computer, or help getting down the legos. But they didn't arrive. And they weren't making any noise. What were they doing? I rustled myself up and padded out to the hallway- and there I spotted Theo, perched precariously on the cushy chair in their bedroom, and Eli, proudly atop the office chair. Both of them silently yo-yoing, quiet smiles playing across their lips as they successfully negotiate a yo-yo. Sometimes they even manage a yo-yo-yo. I am sure they were yo-yoing all night in their dreams. Remember those days? When you learned some new thing, some new trick, and you practiced in every minute of your spare time, then went to bed relunctantly, only to spring from the covers at the crack of dawn, already reaching for your new ball, or recorder, or pogo stick, or skateboard, or hula hoop, or yo-yo? Miss them.
This morning I was still lying in bed when I heard first one boy then the other jostle out of bed and head to the bathroom. I patiently awaited their arrival by my bedside, asking for breakfast, or for permission to get on the computer, or help getting down the legos. But they didn't arrive. And they weren't making any noise. What were they doing? I rustled myself up and padded out to the hallway- and there I spotted Theo, perched precariously on the cushy chair in their bedroom, and Eli, proudly atop the office chair. Both of them silently yo-yoing, quiet smiles playing across their lips as they successfully negotiate a yo-yo. Sometimes they even manage a yo-yo-yo. I am sure they were yo-yoing all night in their dreams. Remember those days? When you learned some new thing, some new trick, and you practiced in every minute of your spare time, then went to bed relunctantly, only to spring from the covers at the crack of dawn, already reaching for your new ball, or recorder, or pogo stick, or skateboard, or hula hoop, or yo-yo? Miss them.
I await the rebellion
I thought that this was going to be the year- the year of the Valentine Rebellion. A couple months ago I was listening to Kevin Kling's essay about Valentines and the politics involved in divying up the pre-made cards amongst your classmates. I remember that- how there were only about 4 different sayings and you had to choose where those all-powerful 'Be My Valentines' would go. The decisions were tough and I remember intense feelings of regret as I dropped a few cards through the slots of the boxes lined up on the radiator at school. But at least I had store bought cards!! Those poor kids who had to make their own!!
I was sure that this year as the calendar swung closer to Feb. 14 the boys would put in a push to get store bought cards. But no, once again they were eager to go to ArtScraps, buy random materials and then get the assembly line going. What I love about my boys is that they have set the bar very low for what a homemade valentine needs to look like. In years past I have pulled homemade numbers out of their shoeboxes that obviously come from homes where someone is a scrapbook-er. They are intense and surely involved hot glue guns, steam presses, and 3 figure budgets. Not so the cards that originate from this kitchen table. After trying to control the process for 37 seconds, I took a deep breath, let go, and then sat back and thoroughly enjoyed the evening. Both boys were in high spirits and the fun loving banter kept me chuckling. Our cards lack 'luster', but certainly have some home grown charm. At least in their mother's eyes.
I was sure that this year as the calendar swung closer to Feb. 14 the boys would put in a push to get store bought cards. But no, once again they were eager to go to ArtScraps, buy random materials and then get the assembly line going. What I love about my boys is that they have set the bar very low for what a homemade valentine needs to look like. In years past I have pulled homemade numbers out of their shoeboxes that obviously come from homes where someone is a scrapbook-er. They are intense and surely involved hot glue guns, steam presses, and 3 figure budgets. Not so the cards that originate from this kitchen table. After trying to control the process for 37 seconds, I took a deep breath, let go, and then sat back and thoroughly enjoyed the evening. Both boys were in high spirits and the fun loving banter kept me chuckling. Our cards lack 'luster', but certainly have some home grown charm. At least in their mother's eyes.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Boys
Today I went down to Expo at the end of the day to collect Eli and Theo and their friends, the twins Benjamin and Daniel. By the time we crossed the street to head home we also had good old Sam DG in our crew. The boys were tussling around, whipping snowballs, sliding on the ice, knocking each other down, all of it done to the soundtrack of high decibel yelling. I was walking along behind, out of snowball range, thinking some thoughts about boys and their dang energy and general propensity toward pummeling each other. And then above the battle cries I heard a sweet little, "Hi Eli!" and looked across the street to see Janey, a girl from their class who is dealing with some physical and mental challenges. At first I didn't think the boys heard. Then I thought maybe they heard but they were going to ignore her. Another "Hi Eli!!" and then they stop, look up, and one by one call out a hearty "Hi Janey!!". They remain there, frozen mid-brawl for one more second while they give her a wave. She waves back delightedly. And then it's over- the break in the chaos- and they are back pummeling, throwing, screaming.
The artist formerly know as Eli
Eli came home from school about a couple weeks ago and said, causal like, "Oh Mom, I didn't say anything earlier because I didn't know what would happen, but I guess my picture was chosen to be in the Winter Carnival art show." Then, with downcast eyes he sidles past me. But he is not so sly that I miss that super pleased smile playing around the corner of his lips. He is trying so hard not to look excited about this. When the invite came to go to the opening of the artshow where the work was to be displayed he shrugged it off. And when the hour came round for us to head out one evening, old Eli was curled up in a chair reading. He asked if we could just please stay home so he could read. But he slogged over to put on his boots and coat. In the car he was extremely non-committal. Even kind of shuffled his way up to the gallery door. But then we walked inside, and there, right inside the door, was a display with his picture. And right in front of his picture is a stranger, leaning in for a closer look at Eli's sweet little details, smiling at the piece. And it was then that the smile cracked out for real on Eli's own face. What a gift, to see something you created up on a wall out there in the world, and better yet, someone paying attention to it- and pleased by it! I asked Eli about some detail up in the corner of his drawing and the stranger turned to Eli. "Are you the artist?" Eli shyly nodded in assent. The person had a few questions for Eli about intent and technique and inspiration. Eli's answers got more assured as he went along and by the time the fabulous stranger walked away Eli was standing tall and not denying us the chance to take his picture. And that quietly proud little glow he had will be with me for a long time. I imagine with him as well. Go Eli.Second Fiddle
Eli is nine and he still is more apt than not to hold my hand while we're out strolling, or like this morning, to crawl into my bed early in the morning, snuggle up and give me some heartwarming affirmation of his love. This morning I got a sleepy, "You're the best mom in the whole world....no, even in other worlds too." Which I take and stick into my bank of lovely sayings, saving up for the times in adolescence when the boys might not be so free with their sweet nothings. But yesterday we got the cold affirmation of the fact that Jon and I, though still clearly loved and treasured by our boys, have fallen to second fiddle in their esteem when it comes to having a good time. And who has taken our place? The babysitter. Rebecca. I know that this should not be a shock to us. The hints have been floating around all year, but yesterday Eli summed it up like this:
Jon- "Eli, you know, you could have Rebecca help you with your spelling homework this afternoon while she's here."
Eli (eyes agog)- "Dad!! That would be like asking me to jump out of line at an amusement park in order to do my spelling!! I'll wait til after she leaves and you're home."
So, I guess time with Rebecca = amusement park-like excitement. Time with mom and dad? Spelling practice. Dang.
Jon- "Eli, you know, you could have Rebecca help you with your spelling homework this afternoon while she's here."
Eli (eyes agog)- "Dad!! That would be like asking me to jump out of line at an amusement park in order to do my spelling!! I'll wait til after she leaves and you're home."
So, I guess time with Rebecca = amusement park-like excitement. Time with mom and dad? Spelling practice. Dang.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Skiing with the Big E
This past Sunday Jon was still at his ski race, Theo was heading over to a friend's to play, and Eli and I had a nice afternoon in front of us. I would have loved to curl up on the couch with him and read, but I also thought that since it was above 30 and sunny we should probably get our behinds outside for some fresh air. So we packed up our skies and headed over to Theodore Wirth. It was actually his ski lesson time and those lessons do take place at that very same park, but we decided that since all other family members were skipping lessons that Eli should go AWOL as well. We parked in the auxilary lot, away from the prying eyes of ski school volunteers, and suited up. I took him through the woods to the back portion of the park, away from the 170 small skiers working hard at lessons. This trail system is significantly more hilly than anything Eli has tried lately, but he was game.
We had skied the Luminary Loppet on Lake of the Isles the night before (an event you should not miss!) and Eli was passing literary hundreds of people as we shuffled through the throngs of skiers out enjoying the 40 degree temps and the festive atmosphere of the event. So I knew that his speed and skill on the flats was really getting pretty good, but I was worried about the hills. He usually approaches them crouched over, snowplowing, with his poles jammed out front- poking into the snow so as to keep himself under 1 mph for as long as possible. This is far different than Theo's style. That kid, if the slope even appears to be heading downhill, Theo immediatly enters into a tuck, poles clamped under his armpits and eyes wild with anticipated delight. He usually is able to deal with the fact that his 'hill' allowed him to only top out at speeds slightly faster than that off a swift turtle, but sometimes he yells out, demanding we find him a steeper hill. So far, we have declined to meet this demand. Anyway- there I was with Eli at the summit of a somewhat steep, somewhat icy hill on the back 9 at Theo Wirth. And the kid suddenly takes on this indomitable spirit. He loosens up his crouch a little, eases up on the snowplow, only sticks his poles awkwardly into the snow in front of him once or twice, then, to my utmost surprise, lets out a whoop and careens downhill. He is not bothered by the fact that just before it levels out he wipes, sliding in a circle and coming to a rest with his head pointing downhill. He untangles his long limbs from the equipment, staggers up, and strides off, looking for the next hill. As we head out into the woods he tells me, "You know Mom, I think in the last year that might have been my first real wipe out! All the times before that I kind of just toppled because I lacked confidence. I wasn't really falling." I agreed with him and became just a little worried about this new found confidence level. My worries proved justified as we hit the last hill of the day. This is a great long one that just goes and goes and can be pretty easily negotiated if you keep your feet in the tracks. He didn't. About 3/4 of the way down, right when he was topping out at quite an alarming speed, the left leg got away from him. I watched from below as the leg drifted farther and farther- knowing that the toppling point approached. And over he went. Spectacularly. But what do I hear as the dust settles? He's giggling, thrilled at the speed he had just attained and unbothered by the fact that his ski had come around and whacked him on the head, leaving a nice red welt. He was up and heading back to the car, ebullient about his new confidence and the joy of skiing. I can't wait to get out with him again.
We had skied the Luminary Loppet on Lake of the Isles the night before (an event you should not miss!) and Eli was passing literary hundreds of people as we shuffled through the throngs of skiers out enjoying the 40 degree temps and the festive atmosphere of the event. So I knew that his speed and skill on the flats was really getting pretty good, but I was worried about the hills. He usually approaches them crouched over, snowplowing, with his poles jammed out front- poking into the snow so as to keep himself under 1 mph for as long as possible. This is far different than Theo's style. That kid, if the slope even appears to be heading downhill, Theo immediatly enters into a tuck, poles clamped under his armpits and eyes wild with anticipated delight. He usually is able to deal with the fact that his 'hill' allowed him to only top out at speeds slightly faster than that off a swift turtle, but sometimes he yells out, demanding we find him a steeper hill. So far, we have declined to meet this demand. Anyway- there I was with Eli at the summit of a somewhat steep, somewhat icy hill on the back 9 at Theo Wirth. And the kid suddenly takes on this indomitable spirit. He loosens up his crouch a little, eases up on the snowplow, only sticks his poles awkwardly into the snow in front of him once or twice, then, to my utmost surprise, lets out a whoop and careens downhill. He is not bothered by the fact that just before it levels out he wipes, sliding in a circle and coming to a rest with his head pointing downhill. He untangles his long limbs from the equipment, staggers up, and strides off, looking for the next hill. As we head out into the woods he tells me, "You know Mom, I think in the last year that might have been my first real wipe out! All the times before that I kind of just toppled because I lacked confidence. I wasn't really falling." I agreed with him and became just a little worried about this new found confidence level. My worries proved justified as we hit the last hill of the day. This is a great long one that just goes and goes and can be pretty easily negotiated if you keep your feet in the tracks. He didn't. About 3/4 of the way down, right when he was topping out at quite an alarming speed, the left leg got away from him. I watched from below as the leg drifted farther and farther- knowing that the toppling point approached. And over he went. Spectacularly. But what do I hear as the dust settles? He's giggling, thrilled at the speed he had just attained and unbothered by the fact that his ski had come around and whacked him on the head, leaving a nice red welt. He was up and heading back to the car, ebullient about his new confidence and the joy of skiing. I can't wait to get out with him again.
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