Out the Door in Five

I woke up to find a little boy soundly sleeping next to me.

That's sweet, I thought in my fog, since the phrase "woke up" is rather generous to describe how I start almost every morning.

Maybe half a dozen snooze-button pushes later it finally entered my brain that today is a school day.

Today is a school day!

Don't confuse the exclamation point for happy excitement.  It is meant to express that panicky feeling you get in dreams when something big is crashing down around you.

Finally, reality sinks in and a shot of adrenaline spikes me vertical and I realize we are supposed to be out the door in five minutes.  Landon is still sound asleep and Micah is upstairs telling his crib noisy stories.

We lasted two whole months.  Two months of timely, reasonably calm school mornings where I felt like I was rocking it...in spite of the fact that I took numerous trips through the carpool with bedhead and teeth I hadn't brushed yet.  But overall, no tardies for a girl not known for her punctuality felt like victory.

Well, let's do this thing, Landon.  This won't be great, but I think we can salvage it.
Up.  Out.  Just wear what you have on.

I throw on yoga pants and slip on shoes.  Meet you in the car.  I have breakfast bars.  And the soggy-bottomed baby who needs a diaper change.  (bless his amiable heart)

Landon comes out carrying his shoes and looking a year younger in that sleepy-eyed, soft way he holds onto when he just wakes.

Can you kinda comb your fingers through your hair?  See if you can settle it down in the back.

My foot is growing too heavy and I try to lighten up on the gas as I contemplate how lame it would be to get a speeding ticket on the way to something like kindergarten.  

This is not urgent, remind myself, but I'm convinced that Landon's equilibrium will be totally thrown if he has to come into class late after everyone else has followed the peaceful protocol of lining up with the teacher and marching in as a happy little group.

Suddenly, like rounding the corner and discovering a double rainbow, I realize we are going to make it.  We will be just fine.  Dad will be disappointed that we all ate crumbly breakfast bars in the newly clean van, and Landon will have to fill his water bottle at school, but he will be in line with the group.  Rumpled, sleep in his eyes, with a few crumbs clinging to his mouth, but just fine.

I exhale.  Landon pipes up from the back,

"I'm not as hungry as you think, Mom.  I had breakfast with Daddy.  So it will be ok that all I had was that nola bar."

Breakfast with Daddy?!  Bill eats while it is still dark, long before I get up.

It all clicks.  How he ended up in my bed.  Why he couldn't be woken.  Why he is not fussing about the disruption of our luxurious routine.

I drive home behind a responsible citizen who seems like they are driving painfully slow, following the speed limit.  I need to re-calibrate

I knew this day was coming.  The one where decades of chaotic mornings catch up to me and claim a piece of the order and calm I have been working so hard to create for Landon's school experience.  I knew the leaf would turn back over, accompanied by the well-worn mantras of "Come on!  Let's GO! We're going to be late."

And for a moment, the rut of all that feels smooth and deep and in danger of closing in over my van, becoming the tunnel we'll be destined to live in.  It starts to feel like once you hop on the Frantic-Late-Ones train there is No.Getting.Off. until it pulls into the station.  Late, of course.

Mark Sylvester

Bet we have managed to stay off that train for two and a half months, I tell myself.  And what we can do one day, we can do again.

So I take the soggy-bottomed baby in the house.  And I do the next thing.  As I change his diaper I resolve to get us all in bed a half hour earlier tonight.

We have some track jumping to do tomorrow.

My Favorite Gift So Far

Of all the gifts my son has given me, a renewed sense of wonder in the world may be my favorite.

Somewhere along the way, my sense of wonder faded.  It was like a glow stick that is rather magical in the beginning and completely nonessential in the end.  Much of the time my wonder was inactive and superfluous.
I didn't really miss it.  I had mostly forgotten how it felt.

Then we met Landon, lighting up our lives with more wonder than a hundred glow sticks could contain.  Each year we got to live life anew through his eyes, and there was so much to see.

There was so much to hear.  To taste. To smell.  The world cracked open again and the exploration of it with someone experiencing it for the first time is one of the best parts of parenthood.

I used to point out everything I could to him.  I didn't want him to miss one butterfly wing or double rainbow or dandelion puff.  I didn't want to miss his discovering these things for the first time.  I wanted to see his expression when the sandpaper tongue of a kitten licked his hand, when he heard the haunting notes of a cello, when he rode a carousal.  All of it brand new, all of it ageless, all of it full of wonder for us both.

I thought I was giving him these gifts, wrapped in my renewed interest and enthusiasm. Look at this!  Did you hear that?!  Have you ever seen anything so lovely?  Have you noticed this?  And maybe a little bit, I was.  I wanted to tag the whole world as his--to explore and cherish.

But in the end, he has given it back to me, more beautiful and mysterious than I ever remember it being before.  He asks his questions and increasingly, they are about things I have never once considered.  He fuels my own curiosity the way I once thought I was nurturing his.

This is what I mean:

We have started learning about the human body, beginning with the circulatory system.  I love, love love this topic, and Landon does, too.

"What will you want to learn about the circulatory system?" I ask him after several overview-giving conversations.

He mentioned some stuff.  A few days later he told me, "Mom, what I'm really wondering about, though, is if
the deox-a-nated (deoxygenated) blood is blue, how come I've never seen any blue blood come out of my body?  Why don't I see blue blood?

I sat there silently pondering this.  I felt dumbstruck.  My mind has never wandered there, but it seems like such a reasonable and interesting question.  I find myself admitting (as I am doing more regularly these days) that I'm as curious as he is, that I don't really know, and I'll need to do some research before I can answer the question.  I pose a guess that maybe when it hits the air it gets oxygen then?

Google mocks me.

As it turns out, we don't have blue blood running through our veins. It is, in fact, all about how light is reflected through the surface of our skin and is kind of a trick of the eye.  Even though I read several articles, I was never really able to get my mind entirely around it.  Except to understand that there is no blue blood, with or without oxygen.

Those circulatory charts sure do stick in your mind, though, don't they?

That's what I mean when I say Landon fuels my curiosity as much as I think I'm nurturing his.  Maybe my brain was like a kite and his is like a submarine, because he takes me places I never once considered.

My favorite part is that everywhere we go, the world is full of wonder.

I'd like to trade in my "wonder-as-a-glow-stick" paradigm for a new one.  As a parent, I'll trade it in for a Wonder Colander, able to collect and share wonder with equal ease and unprecedented joy.

So if you see us spinning and grinning in a field of green under a great big sky of blue and billowy clouds, look closer.  I'll be holding my invisible Wonder Colander--my favorite gift my son has given me so far.

Movie Scene or Real Life?

Ever have a day that fits neatly into a movie?  Or a scene, at least?

I don't often notice these kinds of trends, but Landon did the other day and made me smile.

I was at the airport and momentarily reminded of my formerly more extroverted self by this conversation:

"So, Special Forces then.  Is that you?"  He looked up at me, startled.

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"Well, the watch, for one thing.  Most people don't have their watches set to military time.  And that book you're reading has something about Special Forces on one of the pages."

Which in itself was kind of embarrassing to admit, seeing as the entire cover of the book was hidden by duct tape...duck tape?  Whatever.  It looked obvious that the secret book of military combat procedures was begging for my surreptitious glance to determine its content.

"Well, you're right."

"Thanks, then.  For everything you do for us."

The conversation hovers in that space between awkward and natural and I'm not sure where it will land.

"Thanks for saying something," and he sounds genuinely grateful.  "I don't get a lot of that.  I don't usually advertise what I do."

Yes, the secret handbook sealed with tape...I'm noting that.
Numbers are called and he boards and we board and the moment passes and I spend the first few minutes of the safety speeches constructing all kinds of interesting back stories for him and his tattoos in my head.

I must have been a little proud of my detective work because I even retold the story to my family after I got home.  Landon told me seriously (after I tried to explain what Special Forces meant) that I was really lucky to have him on the flight with us.  "Yeah, that way, if a bad guy was on the plane, the Special Forces guy would know what to do and save everyone."

And just like that, I can picture watching an exciting action movie and thinking, Really?  There just happened to be a Special Forces guy on the plane who could take the bad guy out?

It could happen.
I've already practiced that scene in real life

Every Generation Has Its Perils

Landon and I were sitting at the table for a "late" night snack when he asked me earnestly, "Mom, do these animal crackers have hydranated oil?"

"I don't know kiddo, why?"

"Dad said that's the kind that kills people."  Bill did make this sweeping statement about hydrogenated oils, but I don't think either of us realized our literal listener was taking it in. 

Poor kid.  I feel his pain.  In my childhood of the eighties, I feared nuclear annihilation from the Cold War.  We did these ridiculous drills in elementary school during which we were supposed to hide under our desks and instructed not to stare at any bizarre mushroom clouds we may see erupting on the horizon.  If you can see a nuclear explosion from your school yard, I suspect you are too close for your actions to matter much.  I would lay awake at night fretting about the fact that we could blow up the earth seven times over. It was all too big and scary for a kid to have to think about.

And now my own sweet little kid thinks we need to watch out for deadly animal crackers.

Ay yigh yigh.  I guess we need a clarifying conversation so that Bill doesn't lose some hard-earned credibility.

In the meantime, I told him no.  No, these crackers looked ok.  And we admired the turtle and owl--both animals we've never eaten before.

   

If You Call my Kid 'Suckah' He Will Beat You Up

Today at the park Landon joined a group of kids playing tag. At four, he was at least one year younger than everyone else. The oldest was 11.  At the outset I could see that he was outmatched, but either he didn't realize it or didn't care, and joined in with gusto.  They weren't the sweetest kids we've ever encountered as the game was peppered with with the kind of a singsong bantering that wasn't cruel, but wouldn't be fun in my book.  It just put a focused look on his face and a speed in his foot as he poured all his effort into catching someone, anyone.

Do I intercede?  Do I risk undermining his sense of competence by telling them it isn't fair to make the youngest one be it  For.the.whole.game?  Do I ask them to stop pseudo-taunting him?  I decided to let it play out a little longer because I could see that Landon believed he could catch one of these kids and was really focused on trying.

And then he did.  "Tag, You're It!" he yelled in triumph.  But the kid didn't stop running or acknowledge him. So Landon tagged him again.  As the kid kept running as though nothing happened, Landon put in a final burst of speed and tagged him one last time.  Only this time, the extra effort turned that last frustrated tag into more of a shove and the kid fell down.

He starting bawling and ran over to his mom (who hadn't seen any of it).
He crawled into her lap and she began to rock and soothe him.

By an unspoken code that if you cause another kid to cry you must apologize, I asked Landon to apologize.  I told the mom, "They were playing tag." thinking the sentence would be an obvious and concise explanation.  "He didn't mean to push him."

"Man," she said pointedly to the mom sitting beside her, "My kid got beat up yesterday at the park, too!"

Ummm, what?  What is she talking about?

"It's just a little bruise," she said.  What bruise?  What is she talking about?

The oldest girl pipes up, "Yeah!  He PUSHED him!"

Yes.  Yes, in fact he did.  Because that older, faster kid was cheating.  Maybe saying, "Yeah little guy, show us what you got!  Come and get me suckah." didn't foster all sorts of gentle feelings toward you.  Maybe the little guy showed you what he's got: a little fire in his gut and an unwillingness to be made to feel less.

As soon as the tables were turned you went running to your mom who claims you were "beat up."
While playing a game of tag against a four-year-old.

I don't belong in this world.
I don't understand these people.

I waver between feeling ok and feeling like a maverick, second-guessing myself at every turn and seeing my world through someone else's truth.

Like wearing someone else's glasses, it just makes everything a little fuzzy.

As we were driving home I asked Landon if he had fun.

"Yeah, I did, Mom.  They thought I was so little and couldn't do anything.  But, Mom?  Do you know this?  I did tag one of them."

Yes, little spitfire of a boy.  Yes you did.

And yes, we covered the concept that pushing on a playground (even by accident) is not a good idea.

Footnotes of Our Story

I don't remember when the notes started.  But somewhere along the way, Bill started leaving me notes.  Post-its, random scraps, torn pieces from a daytimer...little notes.  I find them on the mirror, on the kitchen counter, taped to my alarm clock, his love in writing to be discovered before the day can let me forget.

We are word people.  This is our language.

They are small, and the themes are simple and repetitive, but these little squares quilt my heart and keep the cold and lonely away.

Tonight Landon brought out a lovely latched basket that I had not noticed was missing.  Inside was a package he had wrapped with two colors of construction paper and twice as much tape.

"I made this for you," he said to Bill.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's for you."

Bill peeled back the outer layer.  A white paper emerged.  In fact, there was nothing but paper.  Scraps Landon had cut and "written" on.  A heart with more tape and writing.  And his main attraction, a full sheet covered with letters from an alphabet stencil.

"What does it say?" Bill asked.

"It's love.  It's loving words.  It's a note I wrote for you and it says I love you and we can go to a theater together."

Bill and I share one of those glances that say more than it's worth trying to express aloud.
My eyes get glassy and my throat gets tight.

We are word people.
This is our oldest son learning our language.

My heart is so full, I find I must write it all down while I can still remember it.  Just.like.this.

Even as I type, a few aisles in every grocery store have exploded with red and pink, candy and cards.  There's a day on the calendar marked to express and share love, in all its preference for red and pink, candy and cards.   And the day may pass at the Brown house with nobody remembering to mention it at all.

Just as you can't create an entire beautiful quilt in a day, our love is grown in small bits-
one post-it, one calendar scrap, one construction-paper-wrapped collection of words at a time.

You're Not Always Right

"Mom, did you know Georgia is one of the coldest places on Earth?"

Hmmm....I did not know that.  In fact, I know nothing like that. "Well, Buddy, that's not really true.  Georgia is in the southern United States, and there are lots of places colder than that."

"I'm not talking about that."

And now he's annoyed.  As he often is when he is corrected.  Like many of us, he likes to be right more than wrong.  But I don't want the seeds of "know-it-all" to bloom in his personality, so even though it isn't fun, I do point out when he's wrong.  Sometimes.  When I have the energy.

"Let's look at the globe, Buddy."

(He got a globe for Christmas and both of us still think it's great fun to pull it out for anything we can think of.)

"This is Georgia, here in the United States. It isn't one of those icy places like Antarctica or the Arctic, which are much colder."

"It's not that Georgia, Mom!  It's a cold Georgia. You don't know what you are saying.  You are just confused."

Sheesh.  I'm pretty sure I know that Georgia is not as cold as the Arctic.  And then a lightbulb goes off in my head....."Do you mean the Georgia that is a country near Russia?  That might be a cold Georgia,"  and we find it on the globe, but still he is unsatisfied. And frustrated.  And a little miffy that his mom is so dense that she can't concede that Georgia is one of the coldest places on Earth.  I'm a little down that he has such an unteachable attitude.  That he's kinda stubborn.  That he thinks he has to be the expert about EVERYthing.  But we let it go because what's the point of arguing?

This morning Landon was finishing watching a documentary called "Frozen Planet." We've been studying the Arctic, so I thought it was a nice tie-in.  When I walked in I heard the narrator say, "Winds in South Georgia can get up to one hundred and thirty miles an hour."  South Georgia?!

I sneak out and get his globe.  I scan the top.  I search the bottom.  Yep, there it is, an island near Antarctica called South Georgia.

One of the coldest places on Earth.

Well, since we're talking about cold things, can I have my Humble Pie a la mode?  

Unforgettable Bear

Bear-Bear was a grungy, germ-infested, foul-smelling, sad little excuse for a stuffed animal when I let him move on.

In the interim, Bill has occasionally told me that Landon is still missing Bear-Bear, but I dismissed the idea. Surely Bill was assigning a sentimentality to the situation that Landon didn't possess.  I've never heard a peep about it. The preciousness of a saggy lump of a worn out bear did not compute.

Then tonight happened.  Stories were over and Landon was getting ready to go to bed.
"Dad, do you think you could call your old school and see if someone found Bear-Bear and they didn't know what to do with him so he is sitting in a closet somewhere?  Can we drive down there and see if anybody found him?"  His voice cracks.  His eyes fill up with the real-deal, genuine tears.

I sat there stunned. My little boy is really, truly missing that bear almost two years later. I can't let Landon think that all his pain is his own fault, and yet, I don't want it to be mine, either.

I take a deep breath.

"Buddy, I really made a big mistake.  Bear-Bear was dirty and stinky and gross and even after we washed him he just seemed like a grungy, dirty bear that I didn't want to make you sick, so I got rid of him. But I'm really sorry.  We should have talked about it before I did that."

"But could Daddy just check to make sure he didn't get left at his school?"

"He could. He can.  But I think we need to get on a mission to find a new animal your big loving heart can welcome as your very special one.  Maybe we'll find a bear.  Maybe a monkey.  Maybe something else will be the one, and you'll just know you're ready to love it like you loved Bear-Bear.  Do you think you're ready to love another animal and let it be your favorite one?"

He nods, but I can see that he is still sad and trying to process the permanency of the loss.

"Mom, did you throw it away or give it to the Goodwill?"

I don't know for certain, but I'm certain what I need to say.  "To the Goodwill, Buddy. He was excited about meeting some new animals and going on new adventures.  He was ready to go."

We hug.  Bill and I look over his head in our shared misery over my miscalculation.  I believed Landon wouldn't remember, wouldn't care, and would quickly be over it.

My little boy has spent half his life (and all the time he can remember) feeling the loss of that bear.  It's hard to acknowledge that this is an addition to what will be a long list of ways I let him down, cause him pain, disappoint him, misunderstand him, or otherwise fall short.  Oh, I'm hoping and praying that it's a short list, but I'm not kidding myself, either.  Parenting is hard, and nobody does it perfectly.

I'm remembering my last Christmas of being a little girl when the doll my parents got me was a bitter disappointment.  Not the baby doll I yearned for, but a stand up doll that had golden ringlets and a creepy grin.  With dogged perseverance, my mom took me to every toy store she could think of until we found the perfect baby doll, the very last one of my childhood, and most beloved.

My mom isn't a sentimental person, either.  But sometimes, a parent can look into their child's heart and see a big, deep yearning for something that isn't fueled by greed, peer pressure, or market manipulated wishes...It's for something real and simple and solid like a doll or best-friend bear.

I've learned my lesson, sweet boy. He may be the last one you love with all your heart, the perfect stuffed animal friend for you to finish out your littlest years with, but we'll find him. And when we do, I promise he can stay with us every day you ever want him to.  And then for me, maybe a couple more.

Early Morning Ambitions

I heard a tap-tap-tapping at my window.

It got incorporated as a sound effect in my dream. (Right? Hasn't your alarm clock been a truck backing up?  Endlessly.)

So I'm not entirely sure how long my patient son was standing there, fully clothed, tapping at my bedroom window.

I dragged my sleepy self over to him, wondering if/how I'd missed my alarm clock.

"Mom!  I'm just going to be out here (in our backyard) kicking the soccer ball around, kay?"

"Sure thing, buddy.  Have fun."

Here's my gauge: If baby ain't up, mamma ain't up.  The rest of you ambulatory people are just gonna have to kick it a little on your own, kay?

Kay.

Great.  With all that tapping, now I'm gonna be dreaming some creepy thing about a raven, only this and nothing more.

Might as well get up before the baby after all.

I've got Mr. Soccer's breakfast of champions to clean up.

Let's Pretend that You're the Mom

Summer Time and Bed Time are not fond friends over here at my house.

Maybe at yours your kids still go to bed at their regularly scheduled times without regard to the light, or if they slept in, or if you all had dinner late because you're fond of eating outside on your deck after the heat has gone over the hill and is creeping away.

Or maybe not.

At any rate, it was no surprise to me that Landon didn't want to go to bed again tonight. Finally, drawing from one of his newer versions of "Let's pretend..." I said,

"Let's pretend that you're the son and I'm the mom and it's bed time."

"Ok.  Good idea."

"Okaaay, Toby. (what I call him when he is my "pretend" son) Let's go pick out pajamas for you!" I said a little too brightly.

"Ok, Mom. But could you say it in a normal voice so that you sound like a real person?"

Umm.  Sure.  Got a little too caught up in my character there, I guess.

We "pretended" to brush our teeth, get our pajamas on, read stories, pray and get tucked into bed with less fuss and hassle than I've seen in a week.

"Good night, Toby."

"Good night, Lulu."

As I walk out of his room,

"Oh, and mom?  Good night for real, too."

Almost a Textbook Scenario

"Ok, you're clear to go," I said to my sister as she started backing out of her driveway in her SUV.  Children accounted for.  Until he wasn't.  Instead of holding my hand like I asked, Landon insisted he wanted to see Daddy and pulled away and into the path of the moving vehicle.

Yelling ensued. Enough adrenaline to satisfy even the most hard-core adrenaline junkie shot through me.  And my extreme fear morphed instantly (as it usually does) to anger when the danger was past and Landon was safe.

At that moment I was sick and tired of having a kid I cannot count on to obey.  (Do those kind exist somewhere that I don't know about?)

In a calmer moment Bill and I talked with Landon about what happened and emphasized the need for him to trust that when we ask for something, we have his best interests in mind.  I don't think I micromanage him.  So mister, if I'm making demands, it isn't because my ego won't let you walk out of the house with your shirt on backwards.  I'm picking my battles, buddy, and they are ones I demand to win.  Running around moving vehicles: that's a no.  Wearing long sleeves and pants in hot summer weather?  Well, if you must.  Sweat it out, I guess.

Landon's response to our conversation?

"The answer is stuck in my brain mom, and I can't get it out."

The question was the super-complicated, "What are you going to do the next time we ask you to do something?"

Hmph.  Are we getting through to this guy at all?

Fast forward to tonight.  Landon and his cousins were given goody bags of noisemakers and other kid kitsch. Kids love it.  Easily overstimulated moms like me wonder if the giver hates us.  Noise issues aside, Landon bagged all his up when he was done playing with it. I told him to keep it in our diaper bag or it would get thrown away since it didn't look like anything special and everyone was cleaning up.

I turn around, and his plastic bag and toys are strewn all over the counter.  My swoop instinct takes over and it all goes in the garbage.  (confession: a teeeeny part of me was happy to be justified to throw that kind of chaos away)

As we were leaving Landon asked, "Where are my toys?"
"They should be in the diaper bag, where I asked you to leave them," I tell him innocently. (My poor nephew beheld the swift swoop moment and is a little puzzled)
But they are not.  And Landon knows they are not because he didn't leave them there.  I didn't gather them. I didn't retrieve them. He knows I am not taking responsibility for them.

When we get home I tell Bill what happened.  I am happy.  Now here's a lesson that I think is really going to hit home for my little boy. I am willing to sacrifice one bag of plastic trinkets if it means Landon will be more likely to obey next time.  Because next time might be like last time: a situation with high stakes.

I am fed up with negotiating.  I am done wheeling and dealing.  And I think we sometimes couch being softies in the phrase, "showing you mercy" to justify being pushovers.

Request. Disobedience. Logical consequence.  Textbook scenario.  This should work.

Bill gets a funny look on his face.  "Umm, Jodi?  Cam (Landon's cousin with a heart of gold) showed me the garbage and told me that Landon's toys had gotten thrown away so I fished them out for him and we took them home with us in the green car."

Ahaahah!  Foiled again!

Good thing I have a new set of plastic hand clappers I can use to shake out my frustration.

Roots and Wings

Roots and wings. They say this is what a good family will provide you.  Stability and independent autonomy.

But nobody tells you exactly how to provide this for your own kids.  

Lately the wing part has been particularly challenging.  I love to see my three-year-old growing up, growing more autonomous, gaining confidence and initiative. 

But sometimes it seems like it goes too far.

It starts out with him cutting soft fruits under my supervision to add to the fruit salad.

Next thing I know, he's standing at the cutting board with a sharp knife trying to cut raw carrots.

It starts out with my encouraging him to use a stool, get his own cup, and dispense water from the external dispenser on the fridge.

Next thing I know, he has used that same stool to climb onto the counters, and then Spider-Man up the cupboard shelves to get more attractive snacks or treats.

It starts out with my letting him face the natural consequences of not putting his shoes on in a timely manner by having to walk to the car barefoot.  The next thing I know, he is in love with running about half-dressed.

It starts out with my giving him easy access to his art supplies. (a decision overturned here) The next thing I know, he has used a blue marker to color in every paint chip on his blue bed.

It starts out with my letting him help me unlock the trunk to get the groceries out.  The next thing I know, he is in the trunk, thinking it grand fun.

It starts out with me seeing him as my baby bird, nudging him to flap his wings a few times and try something new.

Next thing I know, he is piloting a jet plane and I'm caught in the "whoosh" of him buzzing past me.

Not always the kind of wings I have in mind.

What about you? What are your kids doing to test their wings?

Simplify by Radical Reduction, an Experiment

I thought I might make it a facebook survey, but then I decided to trust my gut and make it a personal experiment instead:

Hypothesis: one leading cause for my three-year-old's perpetually messy room is that he simply has too much stuff to successfully manage
(Upon consideration, the same could probably be said for most of us)

Hypothesis #2: by radically reducing the number and variety of things in Landon's room, he will enjoy and appreciate his belongings more

I have no idea what is developmentally appropriate as far as how independently this age should be able to put away their things without needing to be
reminded
asked
cajoled
bribed
asked again
threatened
asked
wheedled
needled
poked and
prodded
to do such a thing.

In the end, I start to feel like I'm stuck in a revolving door-- unable to move into the room of "Success" or out into the fresh air of "This doesn't matter to me."   But before you think me a woman of unreasonably high expectations (we are talking about a three-year-old, after all) I just don't want to put myself in dangerous peril simply walking across the room. Most of all, I don't want the task of tidying up his room (with or without his help) to feel like such a momentous project.

I mean really, should the heights of my achievements on a daily basis be, "Wow, we got Landon's room up to normal living conditions, yet again.

So today, we began The Experiment.

What would happen if we reduced his bedroom possessions by at least 75%?
(We have a play area downstairs that we didn't address)

If a bedroom should be a peaceful haven--a place to read yourself to sleep and good dreams--then shouldn't it  feel peaceful and uncluttered?

Process:        1. Reduce everything by as much as Landon can joyfully accept.
                     2. Don't second-guess any of his decisions. If he wants to part with the animal I would have         chosen, let him.
                     3. Celebrate the spartan new room and observe results.

Here's what that looked like for a few areas:

Matchbox cars: Landon has a large collection.  When I asked him how many he wanted to keep, he chose 12.  (woo hoo- bonus that he doesn't count that high yet!)

Crayons: He could furnish a classroom with crayons.  We chose his best 12 and bagged the rest.  (Stifling creativity? We'll see.)

Stuffed animals: A well-loved menagerie lived on his bed. (or under it and around the room) I suggested choosing one for every year of his life and letting the others take a vacation together.  I was stunned when he went with this idea.

Art Supplies: no longer a suitcase he will be allowed to take out any any time, night or day.  (In hours of insomnia the crafty bug gets him and we'd wake up to find his room looking like several aisles of Hobby Lobby had exploded in it.)

Paper and pen supplies: reduced his paper supply from a full ream, plus 3 years' worth of Bill's old paper planners, to what can fit in a file folder and a few pens and pencils in a ziplock bag.

Books: every shelf needed at least 6-12 inches of breathing space.  Weeded them until that was true.

Bed blankets: he's such a big "nester" that it is several loads of laundry to wash his bed linens.  We removed three of the blankets.

Even typing this out is making me uncomfortable.  It sounds rigid and spare. Who doesn't want to have 24/7 access to a suitcase brimming with supplies to make both messes and magic?   Who doesn't want to have dozens of cars to sort, count and align?  And only one shade of purple? Is that even right?

But here's the thing:
I'd like to spend more time enjoying our time together and less time on Tornado Recovery Patrol in his room. I want more intentionality and less random chaos.
I'd like to see more gratitude for what he has and less "What else?" on his mind.
These are mindsets I'd like to nourish in myself, as well.

Disclaimer: None of his stuff got thrown away, merely relocated to an inaccessible box.  He knows that we can rotate in his animals, coloring books, and cars.  He knows he can get more crayons, markers and paper as needed. And he knows that he can ask for that suitcase and work at the table just about any time I'm awake.

So what do you think?  I'm not sure, either.  I'll be sure to post a follow-up regarding the outcomes of this experiment.

I'm hopeful.
And curious.
And happy to peek in on my sweet sleeping boy without having to stifle pseudo-expletives as I step on parts and pieces strewn across his room.

Micah and mini-Micah

The newest member of my family made his grand debut six days ago.  A post after such a momentous event could take so many different tones: rapture, delirious sleep-deprived nonsense, contentment and gratitude, angsty hormone-hectic overload, awed wonder...and likely some like those are still to come.

But today,
It is funny.

And yes, it is Landon, and not our sweet little baby who never ceases to amuse. 

I read somewhere that one way you can help your child adjust to a new sibling is by involving them as much as possible in the pregnancy and care of the newborn afterward.  Let the older make some choices for the baby (Landon has picked all of Micah's sheets each time they get changed: "I'm going to let him have this one, Mom, because it is mine and he will like having a big-boy sheet.") Landon enjoyed putting lotion on Micah's cracked feet, feeding him a few drops of breast milk they had me pump at the hospital, taking his picture, and "holding" Micah on his lap while studying his teeny parts.

My mom intuitively knew the same advice because she showed up at our house with a plastic doll that Landon could help take care of to get in on the action.  He was thrilled to learn he could wash his baby in the real baby bathtub, put a real diaper on it, and dress it in real preemie newborn clothes that we don't need.  He calls it his "premiere" baby.

I was charmed.  Bill was uncertain.  Landon seemed enthralled.  He oh-so-creatively named his baby Micah (that's not confusing or anything) and miniMicah began draining the battery on the baby swing, borrowing receiving blankets or hanging out on the boppy for the next few days. 

He and my mom discovered that miniMicah could take a bottle (medicine dropper) and he would "pee" out the other end.  Landon was exclaiming with such nurturing delight over this; my mom said it was quite endearing.  Bill might have said, "See?  You are feminizing him with all this babycare stuff!"

He needn't worry.
Just after his delight to discover miniMicah's abilities to fill a diaper Landon said,
"Now let's squirt water up his butt to see if it comes out his mouth!"

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.

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.

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.

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.