He Could Be Amelia Bedelia's Cousin

Discussing Thanksgiving details with me, Bill's dad said, "I'm going to fix the turkey..."
And before he could continue the menu Landon pipes up, "What's wrong with it, Grandpa?  Why you need to fix it?"

Watch out, folks.  We've got a tool-lovin', problem-solvin' toddler on the loose--and he might just want to help you fix what you didn't even know was broken.

(I suddenly am seized with the urge to just give him a bunch of broken appliances and electronics from the thrift store with a few more real tools, safety goggles and wire cutters and say, "Have fun, my little fixer man")

and don't plug anything back in when you're done

The Halloween That Almost Wasn't

I've just never been that into Halloween.  Not when I was a kid, not now.
Even so, sometimes I can sense that I'm leaving gaps in my son's childhood that he may feel wistful about later.
Most times, I don't really mind. I figure we'll fill them in with our own traditions and memories that will be just as meaningful and evoke enough nostalgia that will make up for the fact that his parents weren't always culturally mainstream.

But this year I decide to give a nod to one of the biggies and have Landon participate a little in Halloween.   Translation: I really want to justify buying a bag of snack-sized chocolate.  Three, actually.  We should be prepared and do this right.

So I tell Landon that in a few days some kids are going to come over in costumes and ask for candy and would he like to pass it out?  This idea is thrilling to him and I get no end of reminders to buy the candy.

All afternoon he is running around talking about how it's all going to go down.  He preps the foyer with the candy bowl, a chair to set it on, and one for himself so he can camp out and be ready for each kid.

I dig out a doggie costume my sister gave us last year (or was it the year before?) to snap a few pictures of Landon as proof that we didn't totally neglect his childhood.  He seemed happy with it; happier still with the prospect of my putting "cara" on his face for a few whiskers and nose.

At the last minute he decided to wear some new footies my mom had bought him that had a racing motif on them.  "I want to be a race car driver, mom.  Can you draw a number on my face instead?"

Sure thing, buddy.  Two eyeliner-drawn threes coming right up.

We are ready.  I stopped counting how many times Landon climbed to the back of the couch to check the front window to see if any kids were coming.  I lost track of how many times he asked me where the kids were.  I was in awe of how many times he asked if he could have a piece of the candy himself: once.

My in-laws called to say that their neighborhood was beginning to get active (and fearing that mine was going to be a complete dud) we packed up the half-prepared dinner and the candy in a cooler and drove over there in hopes that some kids would come.

We were ready.  They had way better candy and had already had one group stop by; I felt hopeful that the real event was just about to happen.

But darkness got darker, minutes kept ticking and things were not looking good.  Am I the only nonHalloweener wishing I lived in a neighborhood smitten with it?

Finally the doorbell rings.  It's Landon's face I wish I could have photographed at that moment; not any costume.  We ran to the door a little wildly and flung it open in such happy anticipation.

There was my father-in-law, on his knees, hands up by his chin like little paws and wearing black mouse ears squeaking, "Trick or treat.  Trick or treat!"  I started laughing so hard my belly hurt.  Landon was completely befuddled.  Even after he gave him some candy.
When he came in he said, "You are such a goofball, Grandpa," and I had to to agree.  In a good way.  Oh the lengths we'll go for those we love.

Landon settles back in to eating one of the custom-decorated lollipops when the doorbell rang again.  Here we go, I think.  So I ramp it up even more; you would think I thought we were being filmed for a million dollar prize or something.  Grab the candy.  Fling the door!

It is some guy with his jacket pulled up over his head saying in a raspy, creepy voice, "Trick or treat.  Trick or treat." and for a moment both Landon and I are taken back.  Until I realize it is Bill, trying to be the headless horseman (I think).  Landon looks at me like, "What is this, mom?" and asks quite innocently, "Where are the kids?"

Does young at heart count, buddy?

At long last we get a group of bona-fide, costumed children who are properly delighted that we have double doses of candy for each of them.

My favorite line as Landon troops back to the kitchen to finish off that lollipop,

"I knew they would come mom.  I knew the kids would come."

He seems so genuinely happy that all this hoopla has been for all of six kids diminishing our outsize stash by precisely 12 pieces of candy.

I don't know what his take-away from all this is going to be, but I know I won't soon forget the two goofy guys who tried to make sure there was one.

Taking a Millimoment to Ponder the Solar System

My neighbor's backyard is a birthday cake whose trees are the candles that flame up in staggered succession.  It's like all Autumn they have been making good wishes for our house's 40th birthday this year.  At least, that's how I see it.  How I had time to see it because Landon and I were sitting quietly on the deck watching the sun make dappled patterns as it moved across the sky.

"Hey!  Where did the sun go?" he asked.

"It has moved across the sky," I told him.  (Yes, I know this is inaccurate but I'm ok with that for now)  "It's going down." I continued.

"Under our deck?"

"No, to the other side of the earth."

"What's earth?"

"The planet we are on, out floating in space."

"I don't feel us rocking, mom."

I pause. I've lost the thread.  Ahh, yes.  "Floating" would suggest that we're on some kind of boat.

"All pretty amazing, don't you think?"

"Yes.  It is, mom.....Hey!  Can we get out my water guns?!"

Annnnd, he's off!

Work in Progress

Landon was enjoying his first sleepover at our house.  His cousin  agreed to come over and do us the honor.  They had such a great time: making mice cookies and playing games and making each other laugh.  Avery calls Landon "Buddy," so the house was filled with buddy-this and buddy-that as she tried her best to manage her little cousin.  So cute.

But then the middle of the night rolls around and Avery wakes up crying because she is stuffy and misses her mom.

I hear him ask her, "What's wrong with you?" more puzzled than empathetic.

I go out there to do what I can by way of comfort and tissues.  "Avery's just a little homesick, honey."

"Mom," he tells me quite decidedly, "It's not a sickness.  And that whining is getting a little annoying."

Wow.  I see a bright future in medicine with bedside manner like that.  I get everybody settled back down after several earnest pleas that Landon should just be quiet and then I go snuggle back into my own bed.

"What's wrong with him?" I ask Bill.  And I mean how he seemed to not have any inclination to comfort or empathize with his cousin, whom he adores, in a moment when she was sad.

"He's a boy.
And he's three,"

he answers without hesitation or concern.
Then he rolls over and turns on his magic sleep button and is out before I'm done pondering the implications of his answer.

True enough.
But someday he's going to be a man, I think.  Who are we raising?
But then I think about the dear man next to me who would do anything in his power to comfort me when I'm sad, even when he's powerless to change the circumstances.  I notice how even in his sleep his hand has found me to gently rest on my leg.  I think about how he and Landon have brought me breakfast in bed this week just because I'm worn out, run down and pregnant.  No holidays involved.

So I decide to trust Bill's assessment.
Landon may not have warmed my heart with his gentle kindness.
But he is a boy.  Who is three.
And we have some time to work on the project.

BAM

It felt like someone was electrocuting my leg.

Which is a pretty big thing to say, considering I have never had my leg electrocuted.

But I'm pretty sure the pain that woke me up the other night would be a close approximation.

Having Googled this earlier, I tried the suggestions to point my toes and relax.  Can you relax when you're being electrocuted?  Neither could I.  I forgot how to breathe for pain.  As seconds ticked by I could feel a surge of adrenaline kick in with the panic that this was not going away.

And then in one instant, blissful moment, it was gone.  The switch was flipped and my whole calf only felt like it (and it alone) had just finished running a marathon.

Again, a pretty big thing to say seeing as I've never run a marathon, either.

I hobbled around the next day, unevenly sore and sort of baffled that my body could be so weird about this pregnancy deal.

Weirder still, I've had these before.  Until the moment that I woke up with one the other night, I had forgotten it beyond recall. I'm not sure how newborns perform a mindwipe on us, obliterating all memories of every trial and pain endured in pregnancy and labor, but mine sure did.  Maybe it happens while we get no REM sleep for weeks on end...the previous 10 months have no chance to log into long term memory.

However it happens, I proceed with this pregnancy like a person who has never been pregnant before, until BAM! Some difficult aspect of it emerges like a deja vu two shades stronger than average and I'm forced to admit that yes, I have indeed been to this boot camp and no, I cannot remember how I sucked it up and got through it.

Because to be honest, these BAM moments are starting to happen mighty frequently now.

What about you?  Anything surprise you on the repeat trip because it was new or forgotten?

Soaking It In

Our house overflowed with family and I looked around and felt so happy.  19 of us gathered on the deck and ate homemade chicken tortilla soup, salsas and guacamole.  Two decadent birthday cakes and righteous chocolate chip zucchini bread were still ahead.  19 of us.  All squared away on what I have decided must be an enormous deck.

The cousins ran wild all over the yard.  They tossed and tussled and threw balls and jumped rope and made each other laugh.

The women danced a prep in the kitchen, with only small missteps as I often had to think pretty hard to remember where certain items had found their new home.

The men talked, and drank drinks from the cooler, refereed the kids, got wrangled into helping with odds and ends, and roamed in and out doing quality control on the dips.

Until all 19 of us ended up on the deck, with twilight approaching and a sunset starting to paint the sky spectacular.

I wore a huge grin on my face and my heart was full.

We have come home, I thought to myself.  We gather to celebrate my mom's birthday, a big decade one, and we come to laugh and remember and cherish and hug and talk and make the memories that fill this house with love and make it a home.

It's a bittersweet moment, how time marches on and not everyone I want to make these memories with can be here, but it's still a moment worth cherishing.

Our caterpillar of a collection of home repair projects is emerging as a butterfly of a cozy home, and I loved, loved loved having my family around for one of its first big flights.

Our lives are fleeting and beautiful and terrible and extraordinary, and celebrating my mom's journey today was a joy and an honor and causes me to pause and say to myself, "Remember this.  Soak it in and enjoy each moment. You will never come this way, exactly like this again."

It has been a great day Along this Beautiful Path.

Baby Bird

He is standing on his two-step stool at the counter improvising a song about pears.  The lyric: "Pears, pears, pears," and he is contagiously happy.

Why?  Because I let him cut the pears on his own.  With a knife.  A real one.

Am I ridiculous?
I mean, he is only three.

But they are the softest fruit I know of, those canned pears.  And I can't deny it makes me happy to see him filled with joy so uncontainable he must sing about it.

He scoops the pears into the bowl with the other fruit I had already cut.
He brings it to the table where Bill and I are waiting like guests at a restaurant.
He goes back for a serving spoon and chooses the exact one I would have: the slotted one from the silverware drawer.
And then he scoops us each a serving into the glass bowls and passes them our way with two hands.

I can't help it.  I'm kinda proud of this little person who can do more and more all the time.

I see my pathetically small serving of fruit salad and before I can say anything he tells me,

"Just start with that,"

and suddenly our roles have so completely reversed it feels uncanny.

But it's just a moment.  In an hour Bill and I will be back on full duty, endlessly parenting our baby bird with all of our energy and most of our patience.

It was fun to watch him fluff his feathers a bit, though.

Spiky Exposure

Carpet has been torn up in our new house everywhere.  Did I tell you we got our new house?  We did. I look forward to the day I'm calling it our home, but for now, it is the new house and is in the stage where it must look worse before it looks better as they tear out carpet, cracked tiles, chipped tub and warped linoleum.

That house is a little dangerous.  Prickly.  Little nails and staple spikes are scattered across the floor, shards of tile spill from the bathroom, unwanted glass shower doors lean against the wall.

It is unwelcoming, a bit chaotic, and a bit unpredictable.

But when it comes to the carpet, I am so grateful that we have pulled it all up with the pad. Animal stains we suspected have been confirmed and the damage assessed.  We found some mold that also needed to be bleached and "Killzed."

But this post is not about the trials and tribulations of home ownership and repair.  Many of you, I'm sure can relate, but it got me thinking about something else.

The carpets have sustained some serious damage.  And only by really exposing it down to its boards can we assess, repair and prevent.

Without turning our living room into a spiky mess, we would never have been able to enjoy it as a welcoming and inviting space.  The smells would linger.  Some would get worse.

All the Yankee Candle plug-in air fresheners, Fabreeze dousings, and cloying air sprays were only masking the much deeper issues.

Expose and eradicate.
Mask and fester.

Two choices for  our house.
Two choices for my heart.

This month we've sustained some serious damage.  In the aftermath of adversity my whole family has to decide now how to deal with the deck we've been dealt.  One of my instincts is to just cover it up.  Spray on a happy face, "fabreeze" it with a breezy attitude, and tell myself that time heals all wounds.

But is that true?  Doesn't healing heal wounds?
Here's the rub:

If I expose these parts that need to be addressed I become prickly.  Anger and grief mingle in me in chaotic, unpredictable ways.  I am not a welcoming refuge to the people who love me.  In fact, I'm as uninviting as a bare, spiky floorboard with random debris and undetermined damage points.  At one point last week this sensation was so acute, I did not even want Bill to touch me.  I felt like a hedgehog on full alert.

I'm not exactly sure what the spiritual equivalent to "Killz" is when it comes to taking care of emotional damage, but just smothering it with a kick in the pants to "buck up" is not it.

In the meantime, my own raw vulnerability makes me wonder how many angry people I have encountered who are not "what-a-jerks", but really folks who are in a spiritual remodel, letting their pain be exposed in uglier ways to make sure they can really address it before they move on.

Also in the meantime, books, mindless movies, chocolate and chai, eating out and taking it easy on my path of parenting excellence all make some pretty decent throw rugs.

Lolly

As my father-in-law has said on more than one occasion as our family story unfolds, "History has a way of repeating itself."

Her name was Janice.  I met her when I was five.  I found her homeland in The Illustrated Encyclopedia Britannica that held a place of honor in our home.  There it was, an illustrated map of Africa, with little icons of of what notables each region produced.  Sometime later, Janice immigrated to the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, and I would think of her fondly or give my family updates on her when we passed the stone structure I considered her home.

Janice and I kind of lost touch after awhile, but she was always such a faithful, obliging, imaginary friend, I still think of her fondly today.

Enter Lolly.

I started hearing about Lolly a few weeks ago when Landon wanted to cite who had taught him something or to attribute experience he wished he had to someone.  "Lolly knows how to fly a plane, Mom." or "I need to start learning math in a couple weeks.  Lolly knows Math."

Lolly is funny and mischievous with a real fondness for talking about all things poopy. Tonight I heard an elaborate story in which Lolly was caught in an elevator for four hours.  "She had to sleep in the elevator until a doctor came and fixed it and got her out."

"What did she think of that?"
"She thought it was funny."

Yep.  I bet she did. And now I'm pretty sure I know what happened to Janice.  She grew up and had a kid who became Landon's first imaginary friend.

The Dreamer and the Scientist

The tears came fast.  The tears were real.  I looked up with Landon to discover that his helium balloon had escaped the trunk and was well on its way to becoming a blue speck of a memory.

To everyone but him.

Tonight (three days later), as we were driving home Landon said, "That balloon is not going to Heaven, mom."

I suddenly recalled an unconsidered remark I had made about the balloon in my attempt to comfort him: "Bye, bye balloon.  He'll go to heaven."  (Yes, I personify everything like that. A childhood habit that still threads itself into my adult life.)  "We'll get another balloon sometime, buddy.  We're sorry that happened to you."  Even though it was small, nearly meaningless to me, I could tell Landon was sad.  It was his first run-in with the fleeting nature of helium balloons.

"You're right, buddy.  That was pretty far-fetched to say it was going to Heaven. Kinda far for one little balloon to go.  What do you think will happen to it?"

"I know what will happen to it."

I wait. I love to learn the things Landon 'knows.'

"When the gas comes out of that balloon it will come down and land back by the storage unit for us."

Dumbfounded silence.

I have been calling the storage unit, "a big garage thing we are keeping our stuff in" and not giving lessons on helium gas and its interactive properties with the permeable surface of a rubber balloon.

So who is this three-year-old who sorts it out with more realism than his whimsical mama who wants to imagine that blue balloon joining up with the "Balloon Ball in the Sky," by serendipitous invite only.  I want to imagine them all gathered in a swaying bouquet of wishes, each allowed to share who they are meant to honor, what party they graced, what carnival they attended. Our little blue one would chime in,  "I showed up at a guy's work and announced that  his wife is carrying a son.  You should have seen his grin, and the way he swooped his family up in a big family hug when he figured out why I came floating in!"

While I'm writing fairy tales about talking balloons going to Heaven my little investigator is quietly making sense of this world.

So would it be too mean if I tied another blue balloon to our storage unit with a note that says, "Loved the trip; glad to be back"?

Royal Preference

We recently stayed in a hotel for a mini stay-cation.

Of course, sleeping arrangements needed to be discussed and decided long before bed.

I told Bill that I was happy that two Queen beds were the same price as one large King bed.
Call me picky, but I'm kinda partial to the no knees or elbows in my back style of sleep.

Landon pipes up, "I can't sleep in this bed!  I'm a boy!"

I truly didn't have a clue.

Upon further investigation, Landon explained that he was a boy, so he should be in a king bed, not a queen bed for girls.

I explained that it was meant to designate size.

"They should call it an Everybody Bed, then," he decided.

I agree.  And then only you should sleep in it.
Not all of us.

Oh, Never Mind

My family is in a gypsy mode, displaced from our permanent home and still waiting for the next.  This is a good thing, since we sold our home, packed our belongings in storage, and spent time racing around the Front Range looking for a new house like party-goers playing an expensive game of musical chairs.  Just when we would muster the guts to put an offer on one, boom! By morning it was gone; we had waited too long by wanting a mere eight hours to go by before committing to such a significant decision.  Our agent said maybe we should bring the offers to our first look appointments.

As you know from other posts, neither Bill nor I are "fall in love at first sight" kinds of folks.  At least, not with something as big as a house.  Sure, I can be bedazzled by a layered fudge-chocolate-mint-concoction of all things delicious and declare it my instant new favorite, and Bill can see the latest model of something drive by and decide it is worth a serious investigation whether it belongs on our family's dream list for a future car, but this is not the same as being willing to plunk down our entire savings on a twenty-minute whirlwind tour.  Sometimes I was just trying to disassociate myself from the thematic decorating and the unusual pet? smells to really form any opinions at all!

So the process continues. But in the meantime, we have sold our house that was the midpoint between our significant commutes.  We are road warriors, Bill and I, and if it seems melodramatic to you that I would use the word "warrior" to reference my commute, it means you have never been one.  (A road warrior, that is, not a commute)  Bill moved in with his parents, closer to his job in the south, and Landon and I  live with my mom, closer to my job almost two hours north of his.

Until I got the brilliant idea that we should go visit him and all have a slumber party at his guest quarters this last Thursday.  Yes, that's a school night for those of you who don't know that Bill is a teacher. Who thinks these are ever going to be good ideas?!

Well past bedtime we are still trying to get our dearest little boy to settle down and go to sleep. But the house is not his home, and the noises that we can disregard become monumental to my three-year-old.
This transcript seems funny to me now, but at the time I was cringing--would it ever end?!

"I can't sleep!  It's too noisy!  What's that noise?  Daddy, what's that noise?"
"It's a big fan, Landon, go to sleep." (they had an attic fan blowing outside the door of our room)
"A pig fan?  What's a pig fan?  Where are the pigs?  I don't hear pigs."
"It's not a pig fan, Landon, it's a big fan.  It the attic.  Go to sleep."
"What's an attic?"
"Go-to-sleep."
"Why a fan?  What's it doing?  Why it so noisy?  What's an attic?"
"You know, a fan, with blades spinning around, trying to cool us down.  GoToSleep."
"Knives?!  There are knives?  Why there knives daddy?  Are those for the pigs?  It's too noisy.  I can't go to sleep."

Pigs and knives and noisy attic fans.

We might be gypsies with a little bit too much imagination.

The Biggest Decisions

     

     For analytical types, making a significant decision can be an agonizing struggle with points and counterpoints, small considerations and large speculations, long lists of pros and cons and even a middle column for things worth mentioning that may very well be a neutral.  When Bill and I were moving to a more serious place in our dating relationship, we both paid the price our analytical natures exact.  For Bill, it meant reopening his still-active online dating account and taking one last look at the women he had already communicated with, checking to see if anyone else seemed compelling enough to halt the forward motion he was making with me.  He later told me that it settled his heart to see how no one could even spark a little bit of interest when he compared them to me.  I was flattered, and happy to be with someone who understood the gravity of giving your heart to someone.  The same thing happened to me when a good friend suddenly got interested in exploring if we could be “something more,” and I was left weighing a 3-year relationship against the 3-month one I had formed with Bill.  One seemed a steady known quantity, the other, a wild gamble.  Well, you all know I took the wild gamble, which really wasn’t so wild after all.  I couldn’t have told you then how much I would come to love Bill, but I could tell it was totally worth it to me to find out.  (With my whole heart, to the moon and back, it turns out)

     But in those early days those options are real.  And narrowing the choices felt hard.  Watching your life of seemingly limitless possibilities funnel onto one path with one person, effectively removing countless other exciting and interesting options, was a struggle for this single girl who had been free-wheeling it longer than most .  How could I ever be truly sure that this was the exact right person to marry, about whom I would have no misgivings or regrets?  How could I skip ahead to the end of the story and see if I liked the ending (or even the middle 20 chapters, for that matter) before I decided to buy the book and make it my own life story?  The truth is, I simply couldn’t.  It is a leap of faith to read a few chapters of someone’s life, share of few of your own, and decide to be rebound into one volume of a story merged forever for better or worse.  You pray the “worse” won’t be the worst you could possibly imagine and the” better” feels more like the best, and then you live.  And work.  And pick up the pen every day and try to make the book the one you’d want to read if you were looking for a love story of epic proportions, a life of grand adventures, and simple pleasures smoothing the bumpy parts all along the way.

Sleepless, Sheepless

I feel like I am in a scene from a movie, but perhaps one that went straight to video, so the details are not well known to me.

I sit here, past midnight, in a quiet hotel, in a city not far from my own, with too many things in my head to find any mental space to count some sheep and go to sleep.

Even as I write that sentence, I see sheep all starting to bounce around chaotically, mocking me for thinking that they could be of service.  They speak in several languages.  And one wears a green fez.  They are useless, and getting more bizarre the longer I let them take center stage of my imagination.

How anticlimactic is this?!  I suddenly am catching that first little wave of sleepiness.  Past experience has taught me that if I don't follow it out to the sea of sleep, I'll be stranded on this island of insomnia for hours more.

If this WAS a made-for-video movie, this most certainly was one of the deleted scenes, known only here in the Director's Cut.

I'm going to try.
To get some sleep.
Even if I have to bring in a talking pig to herd those bilingual sheep.

The Burdens Shared

I have recently grown more convinced that everyone is carrying a burden.  Larger than we can see, heavier than we can imagine.

We move among each other- award-winning actors and actresses, earning more awards than Hollywood has time to create award shows for.

We are not fake, per se, we are surviving.  We are civil.  We are functioning members of a society that does not expect more than a sentence to the question, "How are you?"

Among our closest we may say more.  Or sometimes, even less.  But our burdens are real and our weariness is real, and sometimes, in moments we don't plan or prepare for, we find ourselves getting real with the unlikeliest people in the unlikeliest places.

And that's why my job is studded with encounters that leave me a little breathless at the raw humanity that sits right beneath each of our carefully constructed images.

I work at a very busy public library.
And when I'm on the floor, there are days when I can tell that I am meant to simply be an ear.
That someone just needs somebody to listen.  With an open heart, with no answers or advice, with no judgment, with no fear.  Whatever you say, for these next moments, I'll get in your boat and listen as you describe what it's like to bail like crazy, paddle like mad, face every kind of storm and trouble and feel like you are making absolutely no headway at all.

Felony charges.
Drug and alcohol addiction.
Abandonment.
Grave and terrible illness.
Accidents.
False charges.
Death of your loved ones.
Your baby having babies.
Betrayal.
Loss.
Unemployment.
Unemployable.
It's a crowded, perilous boat.

He came back.  One such paddler.  A young man making his way out of a terrible place.   I admired his courage.  I admired the open, frank way he could talk about his life without self-pity, but some real regret.
"I found a job!  A good job!  I had to come back and tell you.  You showed me how to get on the computer and look, and I put out hundreds of applications and I finally got one and it is awesome!"

Someone saw the spark in him I had so admired.  His dogged persistence.  His teachable attitude.

I cried a little.

I'm so, so proud of you!  And so honored that you let me be part of your journey.
I cannot even begin to comprehend a mile in your shoes,  but thank you for setting your burden down for a moment at my reference perch and sharing your humanity with me.

I shoulder my own load with a little more hope today.

Entitled or Empowered

"I hungry, Mommy.  I hungry.  Mommy, I hungry.  I hungry, Mommy."

Ceaselessly.  Plaintively.  With pathos to tug at my heart strings, a whine to get on my nerves.

And still I kept my eyes tightly shut, hoping that in this little battle of the wills at midnight, mine would prevail.

(and before you wonder whether I am cruel and unusual, dinner had been served, and a before-bed snack given that was so generous, a bowl of dry cereal was leftover on the table for morning)

I don't remember signing up to staff a 24/7 diner for my three-year-old.
 I just wanted to sleep already.

Landon and I were sharing my mom's basement guest room; there was no escaping his mission.  I finally realized that I could not outlast him.

"You can go upstairs and get that bowl of cereal if you are so hungry, then."

"But it is too dark.  I can't reach the light.  I a little scared, Mommy."

These seemed like valid points.  Kind of.  I felt a twinge of guilt that I may be sending my toddler upstairs on an errand of terror just to settle a grumbly tummy.

I dragged myself out of bed, prepared to turn on the light to the stairwell.  It was on.  Illuminating the trail to the answer to all hunger in this house.  A bowl of cereal.  Take it or leave it.

"The light is on, Landon.  If you are so hungry, go upstairs and get it yourself."

And with a little more fussing and fretting, he decided he was not that hungry.

I thought I had won.

Until 3 AM rolled around and I was barely asleep (tough night), to be woken up by an outraged, "Hey!  Who turned off the bedroom light?!  I want that on.  I can't sleep with the light off!"

Will I ever get any sleep?

"If you want it on so badly, turn it on yourself," I say, thinking I'd found the magic formula.

And so he did. Flooding the room with blazing light.  At 3 am.

Alrighty then.

We have officially learned to call each other's bluff.

Cooperative Water

Landon's shirt was soaked because he was watering the grass with a hose.
"This will dry, Mom," he assured me as I buckled him into his carseat.
He explained, "It will just cooperate into the air."
"Evaporate?"
"Yeah, evaporate.  It will evaporate, mom."

How did he learn about evaporation?  I was lost in my own thoughts about it when he piped up from the back seat some time later, "How does it evaporate, Mom?"

I couldn't help myself.  I launched into a lesson on the states of matter: solid, liquid, gas (steam), carefully explaining each one with examples from our kitchen.

Since I was driving, I couldn't tell if he was intently listening or zoning out, but since he was so quiet I decided it was worth the effort.

Landon is my little sponge, and if he wants to soak up knowledge, I'm happy to oblige.  I figure I must be a true-blue nerd if I started dreaming about the science lesson we could create with the ice cube trays and tea kettle to really demonstrate all these states of matter.

Kinda makes me want go check out a book from my local library and read up on it.

Landon's World

"Who are those people up there, mom?" (in an overhead walkway to the light rail)

"I think they are passengers from the train."

"What are passengers?"

"People who ride a train.  Or a plane.  Or a bus."

"Oh, so their name is people and their middle name is passenger."

Something like that.

~~

We were doing our Memorial Day Annual Puzzle (though I can't remember if we've only meant to do this every other year), when Landon spilled his drink over half of it.

During the clean-up Bill said, "Landon, I could use a hand here."

And oh, so earnestly, Landon held up his hand in Bill's direction and kept it there.

Got you covered, dad.

Oh!  And now I must go b/c a certain favorite little boy just came in and said, "I can read now!" with a book in hand.

This oughtta be good.  

All in the Same Boat

"How can I judge you, when this is my kid?"

This is what I ended up saying after Landon was a guest at one of my library programs.  My mom had very sweetly agreed to bring him, but he was being anything but sweet when he got there.

When it was time to pass out rainbow scarves, Landon went to the bin and took them all.  (I had not realized this was possible).  He gathered them all up to his chest, and clutched them with a fierce look on his face.  "These are mine!  I'm not sharing these!" he declared.  When another child tried to pull one free, they began the toddler dance of possession, with the accompanying territorial grunts and groans.
"Oh, buddy, we share the scarves.  You need to let this boy take one."
I am talking to a tyrant.  He is not softened by my gentle tone or the affectionate use of "buddy".
Instead I must resort to, "Landon, if you can't share, you'll have to go," which is a trigger for him to begin a loud wail that even picking him up could not comfort.
He had to go.
There was that awkward half moment when the rest of the moms are watching to see what I'll say.

"I could be mortified, but I'm just....not."
And they laugh.

Collectively, we share the knowledge that we try to shape these little people, but we cannot control them.
We can set reasonable boundaries and they stomp over them.
We can model good behavior, we can practice it, we can expect it, we can ask for it:
and not get it.
And at inopportune times they can make it seem like we have no parenting "skills" at all.

So really, dear friends whose children are as mixed a bag as my own sweet boy,
how can I judge you?

To a Birthday Boy

You were a noisy bundle bent on survival as a newborn
A bright-eyed, happy baby at one
A hundred questions, a thousand discoveries, a climber and a runner at two
Now you are an exuberant,  interesting little person, a talker, a thinker, a mover and a shaker at three.

Every age has had its challenges
And every age has had its joys
You are more than I could have imagined, and better than I dreamed
So happy birthday to you, dear Landon!

Let's enjoy year three together.