Happy 7th Birthday, Baby Boy
Dear Elliot,
First, I should probably apologize about including the phrase "baby boy" in the title here. Obviously, you are no longer a baby, and your vociferous objection to that particular classification is fully justified. This, however, is you birthday letter. And the writing of your birthday letter is an activity that always makes me reflect back on, well, your birth. Seven years ago, my baby boy, you were brand new.
Oh, my baby boy. My baby boy who idolized his big sister. My baby boy who decided to skip crawling and jump straight to walking because that's how his big sister got around.
You may be seven now, but chasing Audrey is still one of your favorite pastimes. And you could not have chosen the more perfect role model.
What joy you take in tackling tough songs from her piano lesson book. How insistent you are that the bedtime books we read you be from her favorite series. How thrilled you were when a quick equivalent fractions lesson from Mom enabled you to go to town on figuring out common denominators and adding fractions, just like a big fifth grader. (Also, how smug you were when you tested me at dinner time by asking if 3/4 was larger than 6/8, and I failed to notice that they are equivalent fractions. Schooling mom in fractions is a totally worthy endeavor. But let's aim for a tad more humility in our eighth year, hmm?)
Oh, my baby boy. My baby boy who grew to be a train-loving preschooler. When you were 2 and 3 and 4, your complex track layouts never failed to astound me.
To be honest, seven years of witnessing your phenomenal building feats has made the whole family a bit blasι. of Sure, that robot thing that Grandpa and Grandma got you for Christmas may have been labeled 14+. But none of us batted an eyelid when you opened up the Japanese language instruction book and immediately set to work on it. I mean, of course putting that thing together was fully within your capabilities. (Also, let me point out that when Dad and I get you a 1100 piece AT-AT Lego set for your birthday, and it takes you less than 24 hours to put it together, it's a little bit demoralizing for us. If you could maybe go just a little slower putting together whatever we get you on the next gift-giving occasion, we would be grateful.)
Oh my baby boy. My baby boy whose megawatt smile has never failed to charm neighbors and strangers and friends and teachers.
Darling, you've still got those teacher charming skills. And I couldn't be prouder of the student that I see when I volunteer in your classroom each week. You listen quietly when it's time to listen. Your hand goes up when it's time to contribute. You get down to business when it's time to work. You tidy up when it's time to clean. You treat others with kindness when it's time to play. You liberally flash that famous smile.
Elliot, you're not always at your best at the end of the school day. Sometimes you come home in desperately needing to wind down and have a snack, ready to explode into completely illogical tears and demands at any little thing that goes wrong. I am so proud of you for holding it together at school, and saving your venting for the safety of home. (Also, if you would spend at least part of your lunch periods actually eating your lunch instead of playing, you might not be so viciously hungry at the end of the school day. I'm just saying.)
Oh, my baby boy. My little baby boy who thought it was hi-lar-i-ous when Dad I and warned you to stay away from the living room floor lamps. My daredevil baby boy who inspired us to finally install those canned lights that we'd long been meaning to install.
Dear boy. Parental lectures never really had much of an effect on you when you were a little tyke. And in truth, parental lectures don't often seem to have much of an effect on you now that you're seven. When called out on your shortcomings, you have always tended more towards impertinence than contrition.
So it is especially dear to my heart when your goodness of heart shines through. A couple of weeks ago, I demonstrated some parental shortcomings of my own. Your sister and I had had a disagreement. I knew it was time for me to be a mature adult and start working towards mending fences. But in my irritation, I chose to let the situation fester. As I sat watching you work on Legos in your room, you listened to Audrey crying in the living room, and gently prodded me to do the right thing. "I don't need you to be with me, Mom. You can go be with Audrey."
My smiling and compassionate Elliot. My clever, math-loving memorizer. My creative and detail oriented artist. My maker of music and structures. My competitive tackler of challenges.
Just a little longer, may you keep taking my hand as you balance on the brick wall near school. Just a little longer, may you impishly hide in the bushes at pickup time. Just a little longer may you hold fast to the unfettered enthusiasm of early childhood.
And at just the right pace, may you grow and grow in body, mind, and spirit. For growing is what you are meant to do. And besides. No amount of growing will ever stop you from being my sweet baby boy. Because I knew you when you were brand new.
Happy 7th birthday, Elliot.
Love,
Mom
Bucket Lists and Buckle Fractures
Spring Break was a couple of weeks ago, and we had plans, people! Success in our quest to visit all nine of California's National Parks was tantalizingly close! I had the Facebook album all planned out in my head! We were packed to leave early Saturday morning!
And then, about 10 minutes before school got out on Friday, Elliot toppled off a table, stuck out his left arm to protect himself ("I didn't want to fall on my head, Mom.") and broke his arm.
OK. Technically, he didn't "break" his arm. He kind of compressed it. Made it bulge out a bit in a couple of spots. Got a "buckle fracture."
But he needed a cast. And the swelling had to go down before he could get a cast, which meant he couldn't get it until Monday. And once he had the cast, we wouldn't be able get it wet or sandy, which was a problem considering that we had plans to go tidepooling and river hiking at Redwoods National Park.
Yeah. California National Park number nine would have to wait.
The whole situation was rather unfortunate. Yet from the moment I stepped onto campus and saw my boy in pain, I felt filled to the brim with nothing but gratitude.
Elliot was clearly hurt. But he was clearly not terribly badly hurt. I felt grateful. (Nice job protecting your head, sweetie!)
I made a late Friday afternoon phone call and got my boy a prompt appointment at a clinic where he could get excellent medical care. I felt grateful.
My husband was able to come home early from work so that I didn't have to drag both of our children to the doctors' office. I felt grateful.
My son was a trooper, and his pain diminished almost completely as soon the doctor fit him with a splint. I felt grateful.
Elliot fractured his non-dominant arm, his forearm-only cast leaves him completely free to move his arm and fingers around, and he only needs the cast for three and a half weeks. I felt grateful.
With no plane tickets purchased or hotel reservations set up, canceling our vacation to the Redwoods was as simple as not going getting in the car. I felt grateful.
Our nature loving Audrey was deeply disappointed that we had to postpone our Redwoods vacation. But she was stoic in her acceptance. I felt grateful.
We live an easy drive away from Muir Woods ("Redwoods Lite") and Alcatraz, so our "Plan B" spring break destinations were world class attractions. I felt grateful, truly and utterly grateful, for the great good fortunes in my life.
Trust, But Verify
We're currently putting an addition on our house, and the children have been troopers during a process that has involved a great deal of upheaval. They've adjusted well to apartment living, and have let go of fun and familiar things (like their favorite climbing tree, which had to come down) with minimal complaining.
Still, at times their attitudes are understandably wary.
A: Mom, Dad says we're going someplace special. Just to clarify, are we going someplace special like a tile store, or are we actually going someplace fun?
With Both Kids Prepping for Their Class Musicals, Our Apartment is Currently a Very Musical Place
E: Mom, when you sing, the tune comes out of your mouth, not just the words.
Since Last August
So, what have I been doing instead of writing updates for this blog?
Most of the writing time I've managed to squeeze in between moving, remodeling, and a ton of traveling, I've used for writing and researching picture books.
Plus the kids are getting older, which makes fewer of their stories appropriate for this medium.
But I do still jot down notes about blog worthy events.
And so, this update.
Their Philosophies Differ
A: (Last December) My Christmas list is pretty short. I basically have everything that I need.
E: (Already strategizing in March) If you ask for fewer things for Christmas, are you more likely to get everything that you ask for?
That Which Gives Hope
When parental frustration arises concerning the distressingly limited array of foods that our boy child is willing to consume, it helps to remember that the girl child (once also a finicky first grader) is now firmly on our side.
A: Just try it, Elliot! Bell peppers are good for you!
They Didn't Dress Up for Nerd Day at School, But They Got Into the Spirit of Things Over Breakfast
A: Have you ever had a dragon dream?
E: No, sadly not.
A: I've had a lot of them. For example, the other night...
Dental Planning
"Mom," pondered the six-year-old. "When's the tooth fairy's birthday? When I lose a tooth, I'm going to wait until her birthday and wrap it up for her and put it under my pillow."
"Aw," I thought. "Sweet. I better jot that down so I remember to blog it."
So I slipped away to the office and typed myself a note. When I returned to my boy, he looked up expectantly. "Did you look it up? When is her birthday?"
The Very Busy Tooth Fairy
Let it be known that on December 9th, 2014, Miss Audrey did lose the very last of her baby teeth.
(So she finally has a pristine, no-metal-caps mouth. Huzzah!)
And, let it further be known, that on January 6th, 2015, Mr. Elliot did lose his first two baby teeth.
(Alas, his permanent teeth were already growing in by the time he lost the babies, so he skipped over that whole, "adorable gap" phase. Boo!)
And let it be regretfully declared that late in the February of 2015, young Elliot was diagnosed with small cavities in a couple of his 5-year molars.
(So we had less than two months as the parents of children with unspoiled mouths. Now we're right back to being parents who let their kids' teeth decay.)
So, Apparently My Children Didn't Watch Enough Sesame Street in Their Youths
E: Mom, what's the frog in Elmo?
L: Elmo? Like the Sesame Street guy?
E: Yeah.
L; Oh, Kermit!
E: He did the ice bucket challenge, Mr. Jones said.
The Six-Year-Old Philosopher
If hurricane is air blowing in circles, what makes them visible?
How do you learn words? I mean, if you don't know any words how can someone teach you?
How to Use Fridge Poetry
When a Linguistics major organizes the fridge poetry magnets, there is likely to be a row of morphemes on the bottom.
When the six-year-old decides to contribute, he'll be giggling like mad as he makes liberal use of the morphemes to string together this masterpiece, "What when-ed so-er up or at water dream-s."
The 10-year-old's creation, on the other hand, will be just as serene and simple, and just as wise and wonderful as she is:
"I am happy today."
On Guavas
The observation of a life-long lover of both fruits and literature:
A: "Guavas are tart on the outside, and sweet on the inside. Kind of like people in books."
More On Guavas
We were having a fight at the dinner table, me and my girl. "You have three pieces of guava," she insisted. "I'll have two."
"No," I demurred. "You take three pieces. I'll take two."
I totally won. Because I convinced her to take three pieces. And because that wonderful human being is my daughter.
A Little Public Service Announcement
A: Eh! It is a horrible idea to cover your tongue in pepper!
My Little Lexicographer
E: What's that word that means you don't like yourself because you did something bad?
L: Uh...ashamed?
E: Yeah!
(As for me, I'm a little ashamed to admit that, prior to that moment, I wasn't aware that shame was an emotion my "never-admit-fault" six-year-old was familiar with.)
I Wasn't Entirely Enthusiastic about the Scouting Thing, But I Have to Admit the Outfit is Pretty Adorable
Regrettably, there are few cute babyisms left in the vocabulary of a six-year-old. Which made it all the more fun when he got totally excited about his brand new Tiger Scout "unicorn."
Adventures in 1st Grade Readers
"Shapes and Idiots," the six-year-old enunciated confidently.
"Uh...Look a little closer, honey," I suggested. "See, the 'm' there? It says 'Idioms.' Shapes and Idioms."
I kind of wish he'd brought home "Shapes and Idiots" though. "Shapes and Idioms" was a total snoozefest. But "Shapes and Idiots"...that one sounds spicy enough to potentially be a worthwhile read.
My Little Psychologist
There was reason that our family dining experience was so unpleasant, and that reason was Elliot. He was needling his sister constantly. "Which song do you like better?" he taunted, as he referred to favorite characters of hers, "Dead Boo or Dead Tuck?" "There's vomit on your strawberries," he chortled, to make her lose her appetite. As he pointed a fist-gun at his (ever-patient) sister, and pressed down the thumb trigger, I just managed not to completely explode at him.
L: Elliot! Why are you being unkind?
E: Because it's fun!
L: It's not fun for the rest of us. You're making dinner a very unpleasant experience for Dad and Audrey and me, because we have to listen to you saying unkind things. It's making the rest of us sad and kind of mad at you. You need to take our feelings into account.
There was not much the child could have said, at that point, to lessen my feelings of irritation. An outright expression of remorse, and a promise to work on self-improvement? That probably would have helped quite a lot. But Elliot took a different tact.
E: Theory of Mind?
OMG. Yes. Theory of Mind. ToM is, as Wikipedia notes, "the ability to attribute mental states beliefs, intents, desires, pretending, knowledge, etc. to oneself and others and to understand that others have beliefs, desires, intentions, and perspectives that are different from one's own."
Given that my kid had taken information from a Nature video about crow behavior and appropriately applied it to the subject matter of my dinnertime lecture, my irritation softened a little. Just a little, though.
L: Yes. Theory of Mind. Show us that you're as smart as a crow, dude.
I Guess This Entry Makes it Clear That We're Generally Bedmaking Slackers
"Mom, don't come in here," he ordered.
"OK," I agreed. It wasn't really a problem to avoid the bedroom. I was running the morning routine solo, so there were plenty of lunch and breakfast preparations that needed doing in the kitchen.
After a few minutes, he called out again. "OK. You can come in now."
His eyes were shining proudly as I walked in to the sight of a messily made bed.
His spontaneous contribution to helping the household run smoothly while Dad and Audrey were off at 5th grade Science Camp.
He's So Punny
"Where are we having dinner?" Elliot queried as he looked out the car window. "Willow Street?"
"Nope," I teased, pointing to another establishment in the shopping center. "Men's Warehouse. They have lots of suits there. And very tasty ties."
"Oh," he bested me. "So we're having Thai food."
(For the record, we ate at Veggie Grill.)
It's the Most Wonderful Piano Time of the Year
In October, the kids' formal piano curriculum goes on hiatus, and they concentrate full time on Halloween music. October is a month of minor keys, and the brilliant harmonies of Mr. Brian Pendleton, composer of a fabulous collection called "Halloween Tales."
Piano practice in our house is sometimes perfunctory and grudging, especially on Audrey's part. It's a chore that needs to be gotten through so that computer time can be earned.
But when Halloween time rolls around, there are magical days when the siren call of the computer doesn't get through to my children. Days when we gather around the piano and sing and play and make spooky music together, just for the joy of it.
November means a return to regular lesson books, and a spate of accidental flats. I love the clunky notes the kids hit as they become re-accustomed to playing mostly in major keys. Those weeks of mistakes are our long farewell to the best piano season of the year.
I Really Am Still Better at Reading Music. For Now.
Thursdays are the days the kids have off from piano practice, but Elliot was messing around anyway. (Sight reading Halloween songs. In March.) The pieces in our Halloween book get progressively more difficult, and when the going started to get tough, Elliot asked me to demonstrate a piece for him.
I'm not the greatest pianist in the world, but my effort was moving along reasonably swimmingly for a while. Then I came to this one measure that sounded terrible. I tried replaying the trouble spot. It sounded terrible again.
"What's am I doing wrong here?" I mumbled to myself.
"That C is supposed to be sharp, Mom," the boy advised.
Attention to 4/4 Time Detail
"Look," the 6-year-old pointed out to his piano teacher. "The first measure of this song only has one beat. So the last measure should only have three beats. BUT INSTEAD IT HAS FOUR!!!!"
Now, if only the kid would turn his acute powers of observation towards numbers and start consistently writing 4s, 5s, and 6s that face the correct direction.
The Star Wars Entries
Star Wars is popular even among preschoolers, so by this past winter our kids had been hearing about Star Wars characters and plotlines and ships for years. Given that Star Wars is a frequent source of imaginative play inspiration for some of Elliot's friends, not being fully up to speed on the storylines was a bit of a disadvantage for him. So on our annual Christmas journey down to Southern California, James and I made the call that our first grader was mature enough to see the movies for himself. Between December 2014 and March 2015, our kids watched Episodes IV, V, VI, I, II, and, III (plus all five seasons of the Clone Wars cartoons) on our minivan's teeny-tiny DVD screen. What follows is a series of entries detailing our children's journeys from Star Wars neophytes to experts. (I was tempted to use the phrasing, "Our childrens's journeys from Star Wars padawans to masters, but that would have been pretty cringe worthy, don't you think?)
(And yes, I did let my 6-year-old watch Episode III in all of its PG-13 goriness. Please don't hesitate to judge me about that, if you're in the mood to be judgey. Or judge me for letting him watch Episode I in all of its cringe worthy Episode One-ness. Whatever floats your boat. Just don't let this opportunity to judge me pass you by!)
P.S. I'd been trying to convince my firstborn to watch Star Wars for years, but she'd never been interested until this winter. I want that to be clear for the record.
P.P.S. In order to make it clear how I felt about introducing my kids to Star Wars, it should be noted that during our Christmas drive to So. Cal., I abandoned James and hung out in back seat with the kids to rewatch the movies. Also, I rode in the back seat during our subsequent winter trip to Yosemite. And during our trip back to Ventura county for my grandma's 95th birthday celebration in March.
P.P.P.S. I've officially lived in Northern California long enough to refer to Southern California as "So. Cal."
P.P.P.P.S. Eep! My kids are into Star Wars now. Yay!
In Which He Discovers a New Resource for Information, and Discloses How Much He Already Knows
(Timeframe: Before Watching the Movies)
Me: (Checking on Elliot as he worked on an origami Stars Wars book.) How's your X-wing coming along?
E: Mom! How do you know the names of the fighters?!
Me: Well, I've seen all of the Star Wars movies. [Like a million times, dude. The original ones, anyway.]
E: How bad was the first one?
Me: [OMG, is he talking about Episode I?!]
E: Did they start with the fourth one? [OMG. He was totally talking about Episode I.]
My Little Film Aficionado
(Timeframe: Before Watching the Movies)
E: Who are the main characters in Star Wars?
L: Well, there's Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia and Han Solo...
E: Who's Han Solo?
L: He's a pilot.
E: And who else?
L:Well, there's Obi Wan Kenobi...
E: Who's Obi Wan Kenobi?
L: He's a teacher.
E: Who else?
L: There's Darth Vader...
E: He's the main bad guy.
L: Yes.
E: Because you need a bad guy in a movie.
L: That's absolutely true...
E: You need someone to fight. Otherwise the movie wouldn't be Star Wars. It would just be Stars.
On a Related Note
You know what you can't help but notice when you're sitting in the back seat with the kids, re-watching Episodes I, II, and III? Those are movies with thoroughly non-scary bad guys. (OK. Maybe Palpatine sort of got scary by the end of III.) George Lucas would have been wise to consult with Elliot during the screenwriting stage.
My Little Film Aficionado, Part II
(Timeframe: After Watching the Movies)
E: You know, Mom. The Millennium Falcon is kind of like a main character in the Star Wars movies.
Me: Huh. I totally see your point.
An Unfortunate Side Effect of Learning to Read
(Timeframe: Before Watching the Movies)
E: (Working on a Millenium Falcon origami project) "Milleniun Valcon." Look, from the way it's spelled it looks like "falcon" even though it's "valcon."
L: Actually...it *is* pronounced "falcon."
And that was how another of the few remaining "adorable babyisms" in Elliot's vocabulary got rooted out.
The Man Has Totally Earned Both My Money and My Gratitude
How do you get your six-year-old to volunteer to do supplementary math homework?
You buy him a Star Wars themed math workbook, of course.
How do you get your six-year-old to enthusiastically assign himself extra piano pieces to practice?
You buy him a beginner level Star Wars themed music book, naturally.
How do you find books that your six-year-old will actually want to sit down and read to himself?
Well, hello! You check out a bunch of Star Wars readers from the library.
Thank you, Mr. Lucas, you marketing genius, you. You make me feel like a parenting superstar.
