My Henry, Turning Over a New Leaf

Remember all of those things I wrote about Henry being my sweet natured fellow? A people pleaser? Focused on others? Emotionally sensitive? Well, we seem to have entered a new era with Henry. We have entered the dreaded Terrible Two's. And really, this is just a cute way of saying this: the Angel Baby has become the Demon Child. Okay, okay, just indulge me in this hyperbole. He did, after all, take my icons off the shelf yesterday and place them, face down, under the table.

With Luke, I didn't buy the whole "terrible two's" thing. Luke was actually getting easier by the time he turned two. I thought that Luke from age two until age Henry Was Born was pretty fun. In fact, come to think of it, we decided to try to conceive again when Luke was about two. Let me tell you, that ain't gonna happen again anytime soon.

Because every ounce of our energy is spent dealing with these kids. Luke has always taken a good deal of energy, but we could sort of coast with Henry. Maybe that is part of the trouble: we have always expected him to go with the flow, and now he is putting his foot down. He has to make a ruckus so that he can make his opinion known.

Henry has to do everything for himself. Luke was, and still is, a child that prefers to be done unto. He likes us to dress him still. He actually told me that he does not want to learn to wipe his own bottom. But Henry. Oh, Henry. He must do everything himself. If we walk out the door together, he insists, insists, on going back in and doing it himself. And don't even think about pushing on the door one little bit with one finger. If this much help is given, Henry must start all over. If said door opening results in Henry, oh, say, falling out the door onto his face, as it did yesterday, the whole process must begin again.

And the nights. I'm not sure if these are the dreaded "night terrors," but every few nights Henry wakes up once or twice screaming for nursies, screaming to get up, screaming for his mommy, who he then does not permit to touch him. He lurches around the room like a half baby, half big boy swamp monster. He is permanently hoarse from these screaming sessions.

I suppose it only makes sense that it would be harder for a people pleaser to claim his own independence. And I'm glad he is standing up for himself and his desires. Only, it is just so exhausting. And his timing really isn't good, what with the move and all.

But at least I'll have more stories for my blog.

A Move in Progress

I haven't posted in so long because, for the last several weeks, we have been moving. I mean, there was an actual move date, but the whole process has been going on for a while. We are only getting just a little bit settled right now.

And let me tell you, it is all I can do some days to keep the panic and utter mania at bay.

The problem is, every other time we have moved I have been able to actually unpack. The last time we moved Luke was one year old, and he took a long afternoon nap, during which time I would unpack as furiously as possible until I collapsed on the bed beside Luke for a quick snooze before he woke up. This sounds heavenly now. Almost up there with sleeping in, eating chocolate for breakfast, and having a pedicure while reading a book. Seriously.

Because now, this is what a day is like: wake up at 5 am, read books to the kids for two hours so they won't tear up the tenuous order we have begun to establish in the house, feed them breakfast, wake Craig so he can work, take the kids out of the house so they won't tear up the house and/or bug power-tool-wielding Craig, come home, feed them lunch, try to get Henry down for a nap, make some dinner and do some dishes and laundry. Okay, you get the picture. There is not a lot of unpacking going on, at least on my end.

This is all made much, much worse by Henry's recent development from Happy People Pleaser into Psycho Independent Man. This really deserves its own post, which it shall receive, but suffice it to say that our nights have been less than peaceful, what with Henry waking every few hours and lurching around the house screaming at the top of his lungs for whatever thing he has decided he needs at 2 am. I mean, nursies, cheese and books in those early, pre-dawn hours all sound reasonable to you, right?

I should have known that it would not be a peaceful move when we wound up leaving our car in Chicago on the day of the move. Who leaves their car behind? Oh, yes, and the vomiting on the airplane. Me. Vomiting for much of the flight while trying to take care of Luke and Henry by myself.

And now, the nightmares. A few nights ago I dreamed that we got in trouble for having such a long lawn, and so, since we don't have a lawnmower yet, Craig mowed it with a weed trimmer. The next night, I dreamed I was in Jenny's kitchen shredding chicken with my new suburban friends, who started lecturing me about Luke's behavior. We don't even really live in the suburbs, it is just that Worthington, Ohio is so very suburban compared to Chicago.

Every day I alternate, several dozen times, between giddy elation and despair. We are living in a house for goodness sake! With a yard! This in opposition to a small, two bedroom apartment in a dorm, where we were responsible for 78 undergraduates. There is parking at all of the stores, where the workers are friendly! There are lots of beautiful trees and parks. But, alternately, these parks are empty. Everyone must be hanging out in their own large backyards. And so, I stand out even more, the lone mom sitting on top of the playground equipment nursing my toddler, getting ready to return to my long-lawned house full of boxes.

But we are making progress.

RIP, Doc Oc

While in Alaska, we got a call from our pet-sitter. Luke's guinea pig, the aptly-named Doc Oc (what could be more villainous than kicking litter and turds onto my floor?) had, sadly, died. We weren't sad for ourselves, really, since we always wound up caring for this messy, biting animal, but we knew that Luke would be very upset when he discovered that his only pet was dead.

We decided not to tell Luke about Doc Oc's demise until we got home from vacation. Luckily, when we arrived home at 7 a.m. from a night of flying, Luke was asleep. Sleep-deprivation was not something we needed to add to the mix when we were gingerly telling Luke about the death of his beloved villian.

The day before we flew home, I had casually said to Luke, "You know, when I was a little girl, my dog cocoa died. She was very old and just fell asleep and never woke up."

Knowing Luke and his intensity, as well as his great love of television and junk food, I ad-libbed a little extra, throwing in, "and my parents let me eat lots of candy and watch a lot of T.V. the day cocoa died since I was sad."

So when Luke woke up from his long nap that day we came home, he asked if our pet sitter was in the house.

"No, Luke, Charlie just came to our house to take care of Doc Oc but he slept at his house," I told him, realizing that now was the time to break the news to Luke.

With a nervous stomach, I told Luke that Charlie had called a few days before and told us that Doc Oc had died. Luke cried. He cried quite a bit. But he didn't scream. He didn't freak out. His reaction seemed appropriate.

And then, when he was done crying, he asked me, "Can I watch T.V. and eat candy now?" And I said yes.

I wasn't sure what we should do with the body, but I knew I wanted it out of my freezer. (Yes, we told Charlie to put the body in a plastic bag and put it in the freezer. What else were we to do? And, too, this carries on a family tradition that involves a dog and a suitcase and a deep-freeze.) So I told Luke that we would decorate a special box and put Doc Oc in it. Then we would have a memorial service and leave the box out in the hall for the pet buriers to pick up. That's all this city-dwellin' mom could come up with on two hours of sleep.

Luke made a great box, and at the service Luke asked me to say a prayer and he would share some of his favorite memories of his pet.

"Dear God," I prayed, "Please be with Doc Oc up in heaven and tell him that we miss him. Please give him lots of space to run around in and lots of produce to eat. Please take good care of him until Luke comes to heaven, too, in a long, long time. Amen."

Luke seemed satisfied with the prayer, and began his part of the service, speaking in a strange, sing-song sort of monotone.

"I remember when Doc Oc bit me on the finger," Luke said. "I remember when he ate his food. I remember when he sat in his cage."

Craig and I, in our sleep-deprived states, were beginning to get a little hysterical at this point, so we cut Luke off and carried the box to the hall.

A half hour later or so, after Craig took a furtive trip to the dumpster, we told Luke that the pet buriers had come. And in his sugared-up T.V. daze, he raced out to the hall with a look of childish, joyful belief, happy that the mysterious pet buriers had done their job.

I hope you are somewhere with a lot of space for running and a lot of produce to eat, Doc Oc.

Don't Hurt a Forest Troll's Feelings

Camping the other day, hanging out around the campfire, a little old lady walked through the edge of our large wooded campsite carrying a folded up tent in a carrying bag.

"A forest troll!" Luke shrieked loudly. Certainly loudly enough that the woman, as well as many other campground neighbors, surely heard. "A forest troll carrying a bomb case!"

We were feeling well embarassed when Luke added, as if for good measure, "Eeww! Gross! The troll is so tiny and wrinkled!"

The ensuing discussion, I think, did make an impression on Luke. The impression that he is supposed to talk quietly about forest trolls carrying bomb cases. One might hurt someone's feelings. But nothing seemed to dissuade Luke from his belief that this was a troll. And we focused on the hurting feelings issue more than the species of the creature.

The next day, when we were visiting with Wade Hampton Miller after hitting his bus, Luke, ever the social butterfly, threw into the conversation that he had seen a forest troll carrying a bomb case the day before.

"Do you have lots of imaginary friends?" asked the musician/bus driver.

"It wasn't imaginary," Luke said in a stern and deadly serious voice. "And it wasn't my friend."

A Reunion, Alaska Style

We have been in Alaska for the last two and a half weeks, and I think I'm finally adjusting to the pace here. It takes me a while. Everything moves more slowly in this largest of large states. The daylight stretches on forever and the mountains surround us and reach for the sky. Life moves like the tides, inching up and down almost imperceptibly, against this monumental setting. I get anxious to hit the Chicago streets, one kid strapped on my back and one in the stroller, and visit bookstores, bakeries, parks, and friends at least one-per-block. Instead, every outing takes planning, two carseats, one vehicle, and large bottles of sunblock and mosquito repellant. The other day, stuck at the in-laws house without a car, I spent two hours looking under rocks for bugs with Henry as my only company. But once I gave in to this slower pace, I began to enjoy it.

When in Chicago, I run into friends all over our village-like neighborhood. It seems I can't walk anywhere without running into several friends and many acquaintances. In Alaska, these meetings-between-friends happen less often, but take on seemingly epic proportions. I visit the coffee shop where my sister works, only to run into my in-laws, whose friends happen to stop in, joining us for coffee. Then, it turns out, my sister has become friends, all on her own, with the friend of the in-laws. And I find these connections everywhere, snaking through almost every interaction, almost every day.

A few days ago, we were coming back from camping in a borrowed camper. Now, we used to scorn campers, but having kids and getting older and creakier, we decided to give it a try. The day before, on our way to the campground, Craig had crashed into one of the millions of roadside coffee stands (coffee too! monumental!) but thank goodness, the person working inside merely said, "Don't worry about it. This thing gets hit a lot harder by bigger RV's."

So we decided to stop, out in the middle of nowhere, to get some ice cream. As we pulled into the parking lot, we passed by a stopped bus in order to park in a spot in front of it. And again, Craig underestimated the size of the vehicle he was driving (vehicles too!) and he hit the side mirror of the bus. We got out, and the bus driver was nowhere to be seen. But moments later, walking out of the outhouse tucking his shirt into his pants, came Wade Hampton Miller, the musician who had played at our wedding ten years before.

"Are you Wade Hampton Miller?" we asked. After we reminisced about our wedding for a few moments, we asked if he was the bus driver, which, indeed, he was. As we waited for the insurance guy to show up, we spent over an hour catching up with this old acquaintance. We ate ice cream, and then burgers, and we talked about weddings, kids, camping and driving busses.

It was a scene right out of Northern Exposure.

Happy Birthday, Henry

Dear Henry,

You turned two a few weeks ago. The fact that I am writing this letter only now says so much about what it is like to parent you. Patience is one of your strengths.

You have been called a people pleaser. A follower. Even "the happiest kid I have ever seen!" by more than one. All of this makes parenting you so enjoyable.

But it's funny. Often, people tell me that you are so happy as if they are complimenting me. Congratulating me on what a good parent I am. And I can say this with great conviction: You came this way. Besides a bout of early colic, this is just your nature. You have always smiled at everyone, flirted with those around you, looked outward for congratulations after each new accomplishment.

My job as a parent might be to teach you that you don't always have to make everyone happy. That it is okay to be different. That you might make some people mad sometimes, but that it isn't your problem. These are things I'm trying to teach myself.

At two, you love having your toenails painted, wearing hear clips. You love shoes and clothes with lots of color. But these little quirks, these little things you do only to please yourself, might be not last. You might realize, at some point, that most little boys don't paint their toenails pink.

And then I hope I can help you to find some other way to express who you are, only for you. Because I don't know you inside out, and you might surprise me, but I think that you are a follower. You are concerned for those around you. You want to fit in. And this external focus is delightful, but I hope you never lose too much of yourself.

I hope you can keep the pink and purple in your life.

Love,
Mommy

Farewell, Steiner

Luke is finished with his second year of Waldorf preschool, heading for public school next year. We have found a place to live in Columbus that has half-day kindergarten, and that is what we have decided Luke will do. And I have to say, it feels really good.

Gone are the days of furtively distributing spiderman fruit snacks after we have distanced ourselves by two blocks from Luke's school. Goodbye to forbidding certain movie-themed clothing from Luke's school wardrobe. And a big farewell to Rudolf Steiner's reincarnation, gnomes, and early weaning!

Don't get me wrong: I love feeding my children wholesome, organic food; I believe in very limited television; I think simple toys are often the best.

But I'm tired of feeling like bad junk-food-pop-culture-plastic-superhero mama. And because Luke is who he is, I always felt like his teachers were asking, "What caused him to pretend he was shooting with that lovely driftwood? Does he watch TV? Does he stay up late? Does he eat chocolate?" And, also because Luke is who he is, he has a categorical knowledge of all things superhero, soda-pop, and weapon-oriented. And I'm sure he talked about this stuff at school.

So my feeling now that Luke is done with this school is one of relief. And I think he feels happy, too. When we visited his friend Anna's more mainstream preschool the other day, he watched very closely. I think he is eager to go on to the next phase of his education. And I'm eager to find a place where I can feel more comfortable with my moderate parenting style, one that values outdoor play with rocks and sticks, but that simply can't justify forbidding a spiderman fruitsnack now and then.

FasTracKids

I'm thinking a lot about educating kids right now. Actually, thinking might be the wrong word here. Obsessing is more like. You see, I've reached this critical point in my firstborn's life where he is the age for kindergarten. The issue can no longer be avoided.

I sent Luke to a waldorf preschool after having visited precisely one preschool, the one that he attended. I didn't agree with some of the philosophy and practice, but those teachers really seemed to love the kids. And there were those great organic snacks. Here's the thing: I didn't think it mattered so much what kind of school Luke went to for a few half days a week, so long as he got to play a lot with a lot of different kids.

But now we are facing the prospect of sending him to public kindergarten, which, where we are moving in Columbus, as in so many cities now, is full day. That is usually around six hours per day, five days per week. And most of the school's websites focus on "achievement" and "independence" and "standards." Of course these are not bad personality traits and goals--but perhaps not so essential for the under-ten crowd. And as I picture my barely five-year-old in such a structured environment for so many hours per day, I feel simply stricken with disbelief.

I truly don't believe that it could be good for him to spend so much time away from us at such a young age. I just don't. I know that it is good for many children, and necessary for many others. But I'm just talking about my Luke. My Luke who still has difficulty separating when he goes to the school that he has gone to for two years where the teachers love him and the teacher/child ratio is 1:7. My Luke, who is still very, very attached to his (somewhat odd) habit of "cuddling daddy's earlobe" or (odder still) "cuddling mommy's mole."

In the most recent issue of Brain, Child magazine--which, I should add, is the most balanced and interesting parenting magazine I have ever read, one that I read, cover to cover, as soon as it arrives--there is an advertisement for FasTracKids. This program, the ad promises, will "build communication and speaking skills, promote leadership and personal growth, and teach the application and transfer of knowledge." There is a picture of a girl, probably about Luke's age, giving a presentation with a microphone. This program is for children ages 0-6. Perhaps if children attend this program they will have the skills necessary to start a company with as clever a name, a company that, as the ad says in fine print, has "franchise opportunities available."

Compare this with the kids in the Mrs. Piggle Wiggle books, written in the 50's, that I am currently reading to Luke. They go to school, sure, and their parents certainly don't agonize over what school they will attend. All of the children go to the neighborhood public school. But school is really just an afterthought. The real drama occurs after school, when the kids wander home together in packs, eat large slices of applesauce cake that their moms bake, and spend the rest of the day building clubhouses, forming "neighborhood clubs," and being cured of their bad behavior with Mrs. Piggle Wiggle's magical medicines. 0-4 year olds are certainly not attending school or educational programs. In one story, the baby is dressed in his "ski suit" and put out to play in a playpen in the yard on a cold winter's day while his mom works inside.

Now this is not intended to be a 50's nostalgia post--and certainly the Mrs. Piggle Wiggle books don't bode well for women in many ways--but my point is this: I'm stuck in a position where I'm struggling to manufacture a childhood experience for my kids that was standard in the 50's. I want to be able to send them to the local school that all the neighborhood kids go to and that is just fine. I want kindergarten to last half the day and to be about playing nicely. I want Luke and Henry to run around the neighborhood, to spend lots of time outside, and to while away the hours building forts and hauling rocks.

I'm just trying to figure out how to make this possible. I need Mrs. Piggle Wiggle and some of her magic: time travel powder, or urbanizing suburbia pills, or, well, I don't know. Even just some make up her darn mind juice would do.

Another Botched Parenting Moment

So last night Craig was giving the boys a bath while I made dinner, when Craig called for me in an urgent voice. When I got to the bathroom, Craig told me that Luke had something to ask me.

"Why are testicles important for making babies?" Luke asked, blushing slightly.

And then Craig and I started giggling.

What are we, sixth grade boys in health class? Come on.

And what was up with Craig pulling me into the middle of this? I didn't know what questions had come before this, what information Craig had already supplied.

So then we stepped out of the bathroom and conducted a whispered conversation. Another shining moment in our parenting history, to be sure.

I told Craig that he should answer the questions that Luke asks as simply and directly as possible. Play it cool. Don't give more information than Luke asks for. Apparently, this is what Craig had tried to do, but Luke kept pressing the conversation until Craig wasn't sure what to say.

So I went back in the bathroom, and answered as breezily as possible after that ridiculous series of events, "Well, a baby is made with a sperm and an egg. The egg comes from the mom and the sperm from the dad. The testicles help make the sperm."

"Why does the baby only grow in the mom?" Luke asked.

"Because the mom has the uterus, remember, the special place where the baby grows?" I replied.

"Why didn't God give men uteruses?" Luke continued.

"Well, Luke, that is a really good question," I responded.

And then that was enough, and Luke went back to splashing in the bath.

Spiritual Rewards

Today Luke was being nasty--truth be told, I don't even remember what he was doing, being that this was a day that started with Luke peeing in the trash can and ended with Luke punching our guests' little boy in the stomach--and he asked me if God can hear everything.

"Yes, Luke, God hears everything."

"Does he even hear when I whisper this quietly?" Luke asked, and then whispered something so softly that I couldn't hear him.

"Yes, Luke, He hears you all the time, even when you are just thinking," I answered.

Luke looked worried, so I went on. "God doesn't get mad at us, though. He just feels sad when we do bad things because we grow further away from Him. But God is happy when we are good because every time we do something good we grow closer and closer to Him."

"So is our house moving up a little each time I do something good?" Luke asked, "Or does God come a little closer to the ground?"

Conversations With Henry

Henry is talking a lot these days, even using a lot of sentences, but I can't always understand him. Yesterday in the bathroom, Henry hovered over the toilet and said, "I stand go peepee fall down boom boom" and then spit emphatically. I asked for clarification. Henry repeated, vigorously, "I stand go peepee fall down boom boom!" and spit again. I got most of it, I think, but I'm not sure about the spitting part.

For whatever reason, Henry is obsessed with spitting these days. He spits his yogurt out repeatedly onto the dining table. He spits at me. He offered me a lick of his lollipop and when I declined, he spit in his hand and politely offered me a bit. And he really uses this spitting to communicate. He thinks it is an expression of emphasis, I think. But he also seems to understand the literal meaning of the expression "to spit out." The other day I told Henry to spit out his gum, just as he was taking it out of his mouth with his hand. He looked at me for a moment, puzzled, then put the gum back into his mouth and spit it directly onto the counter, along with a small puddle of saliva.

I think that something has clicked in his brain recently and he now understands my words much more than he recently did. But, of course, he still doesn't understand many of the nuances of expression (although he is forging ahead in his makeshift, spitting-for-emphasis way). I asked him to hang up the phone the other day, and instead of placing it back into the receiver on the counter, he started looking up in the air for somewhere to put it.

How is it that Henry's language development seems so miraculous to me? I've gone through it all before with Luke. But somehow, it seems new and story-worthy, even the second time. Maybe, like the fuzziness of memory that surrounds childbirth, this is one of the blessings that we are given as mothers: that watching a small baby grow toward a life of his own is fresh and exciting, each and every time.

Violence, Waldorf Style

We recently celebrated the Spring Festival at Luke's school. Activities included making cloth butterflies, blowing bubbles, and digging in the dirt. But the climax of the day was when each child was crowned with a wreath of flowers and we all danced around the May pole. It was hot, it was late, and five songs on the teacher's flute were just a bit much. Luke got in a chest puffing, spitting, yelling match with the twins, Van and Elvis, which climaxed in Luke tearing Van's crown off of his head and throwing it to the ground. Van burst into tears.

Aaah, these little boys that attend the Waldorf school. They dance their little gnomes around in the flowers but also use the driftwood to make toy guns. For a full year, the game of choice for the boys was "trap house." From what I can gather, this game had a slightly different meaning for each of them, but for Luke it meant building a machine (with chunks of wood, pieces of silk cloth, wooden kitchen tools and play stands) that would catch and kill the enemy. Unfortunately, the enemy could be someone from school.

While the days of trap house seem to be fading, the conflict at school remains present. The night of the Spring Festival incident, Luke and I said his standard guardian angel prayer, but he interrupted my singing later to add, "And God, please take care of Van and Elvis." Then, he told me, by way of explanation, "We are supposed to pray for our enemies."

The Mommy Diet

For some reason, my nurse-a-toddler-on-demand-but-eat-whatever-the-heck-I-want diet plan seems to be failing me these days. Much to my dismay, my baby belly seems to be growing right along with Henry. Maybe it is because what I want is a tub of ice cream after the kids go to bed, or four cinnamon rolls washed down with two glasses of wine.

Dont' get me wrong. I don't consider myself a binge eater--even though I have been in the past. On the whole, having children has been very good for my body image and my relationship with food. It is just that my relationship with food is--what shall we say?--a bit unrealistic. I used to have some self-discipline when it came to eating. Now I just don't.

I gained 50 pounds when I was pregnant with Luke. But then I nursed him on demand until I was four months pregnant with Henry. And Luke was a nursaholic. And I trained for, and ran, a marathon, a half-marathon, and a 10-k when Luke was little. Then pregnancy again, and nursing a hungry little Henry while running around after Luke. And then there are the runs that I squeeze in here and there, all while pushing 75 combined pounds of kid in the double jogging stroller.

So this is all to say that while growing and birthing and nursing two little people has made me respect and care for my body a lot more, it has also nurtured in me a false sense of sensible eating. Six full meals a day plus liberal servings of chocolate, ice cream and red wine have been fun, but as Henry nurses less and Luke stays by my side more, I've got to re-learn what normal portion sizes look like. In these last five years I have leaned toward the exercise-and-nurse-more-when-the-scale-creeps-up diet, but I think it is time to return to the world of normal eating.

Losing My Religion

I don't always know how strict to be with our religious practice and instruction with the kids. We are Orthodox Christians, but Luke, in particular, seems drawn to quite a spiritual smorgasbord. And, truth be told, we aren't strict at all. I'm always happy when my kids show some sort of spiritual inclination, even if it isn't within our religious tradition.

I think it all started when Luke was about a year old. We were at a long, crowded Orthodox service, and I took Luke outside for a walk. He immediately toddled over to the Baptist church next door where there was some great singing and dancing going on, and walked up the steps. He stood, enthralled, for about ten minutes, which was nine minutes longer than he had ever stood still at our church.

Then, when Luke was three years old, he started attending a Waldorf school. This type of schooling is based on the methods of Rudolf Steiner, who founded the Anthroposophy movement, which is basically a philosophy/religion. So while the school isn't a religious school per se, it is informed at every turn by anthroposophy--which, I might add, is pretty kooky. But we do love the school. Except there is this little detail: Luke prefers to say his school "blessings" before we eat rather than our Orthodox prayers. So as we light a candle, he says "Fire fairy, fire bright, thank you for your golden light." Then, making lovely little hand gestures, he sings something like, "Sun, that gives us golden light, earth, that gives to us this food, dear earth, dear sun, we won't forget what you have done." Now, it is probably all about the singing and the hand gestures, and also about doing his own thing, but I sometimes wonder if we should allow Luke to cultivate these little pagan-like rituals.

And then there was that time that Luke met his Guardian Angel. It was downtown in a Subway restaurant. Chicago was hosting the Gay Games, which I can't believe was a coincidence. We dashed into the place to escape a huge thunderstorm, as did many others. All the tables were taken except for one, and on it were four lovely, feathered, white wings. At the table beside the wings sat two men, both dressed in all white. "Excuse me," I asked, "Are these your wings?" They did belong to the men, who politely moved them. Luke then began to quiz them.

"Are you Angels?"

"Yes," they replied.

"Why did you take off your wings?" Luke asked.

"Because we are taking a break from flying," they responded.

"Why did you leave heaven?" Luke questioned.

"Well, we are on an exchange program," was their answer.

Later that night, when I said the Guardian Angel prayer with Luke, he said excitedly, "I may have met my Guardian Angel today!" I hmmmmmed a lot and left it at that.

Also, Luke is obsessed with Greek Myths. And Russian Folk Tales. And The Arabian Knights. Anything in the "Myths and Legends" section of our public library. All of which, obviously, go into great detail about other systems of belief. I don't broach this too much with Luke, besides an occasional, "Are these real gods?" question, which Luke always answers with a no. And then we usually laugh, because, really, what kind of a god would get mad at people and do mean things to them? Well, except the Old Testament God, I guess. But no problem--I overheard Craig telling Luke that the Genesis creation story is a metaphor. Whew! I'm glad Luke has that cleared up. I don't want him to get confused or anything.

Henry loves church. Every time I ask him if he wants to go to church, he says, "Yes! Church! God! (Father) John!" But Luke--not so much church love there. So I think I'm okay with his exploration of spirituality in all of these various forms. Who is to say, after all, that he didn't meet his Guardian Angel that day? I'll bet if Jesus were here today, he would visit the Gay Games.

And then, the other morning, I overheard Luke talking to God. He was muttering, "Dear God, let us all have a good day today. Let me be nice and let mommy not be too crabby."

Amen.

Half Full, or Half Empty?

We are always struggling with how to deal with Luke's misbehavior. Lately, we have been working on being as positive as possible with him, as this seems to help him the most. So today, after he and Henry got in a punching match--and after I separated them and time-outed them and lectured them sufficiently--I sat them both down and told them that they are both very special. Each of them, I said, was made especially by God for our family. But, I threw in, they are each very different.

"Yes," said Luke. "I see the house half full, and Henry sees the house half empty."

And you know, I think I always thought of Luke as a half empty kind of guy, prone to moodiness and self-doubt, flying into rages at the smallest of setbacks. But I'm glad to know he thinks otherwise. And, in true, grandiose Luke fashion, his metaphor for life isn't just a glass. It's a house.

Oopsy Henry

Henry is extremely clumsy. I'm beginning to wonder if I should be worried. The thing is, I can't figure out why he bumps his head multiple times a day, how he manages to flip, headfirst, off of so many large objects.

Just this morning he was sitting on the counter, helping me make coffee. I was holding the glass caraffe over by the sink, while he sat a few feet away by the coffee maker. Then, before I knew it, I saw him rolling, headfirst, off the counter. My mama instinct kicked in, and I was over to him in a flash. Of course, I still had that caraffe in my hand. So I saved Henry from hitting his head on the tile. He did, however, shatter the caraffe with his head.

My instinct tells me that there is nothing wrong with him. But the way he approaches the world is so open and joyful and bumbling--he is bound to be tripped up by reality. Half his accidents are caused by his flirting. He focuses on a person, waves and smiles and carries on, meanwhile running into a wall.

I guess I hope he doesn't change.

Important Childhood Moments

"Now just a touch of fish sauce!"

Climbing a tree

Bouncing while chewing a frog



Chocolate Painting

The Artistic Process

Luke colored me this picture yesterday morning. He colored the balloons, the rainbow, the sky, and the little girl. Then he proudly handed me the picture.

"Thank you Luke! This picture is so beautiful!" I exclaimed.

"Wait!" he yelled in a panicked voice. "I forgot the gravestones!"

"Okay," I responded, waiting for the story to unfold.

And I really should have thought of it, you know. Surely I saw the gaping hole in this pretty scene.

"Long before Trader Joe's existed here," Luke began, "there was a fierce battle, and many fell. This is why there are gravestones."

Okay.

Parenting Advice

Here is the key to parenting: It is difficult. There is no way around it. And anyone who tries to sell you a book that will make it less unwieldy, less scary, less disorderly, is selling you a pack of lies. At least that is what I think. But if your experience is different, I'm okay with that.

But Dr. Spock. Dr. Sears. John Rosemond. Dr. Dobson. The FlyLady. They don't work for me. Timeouts. Spanking. Reward charts. Not my cup of tea.

I have been disillusioned way too many times.

Not to say that keeping an orderly house doesn't make life a little more bearable, or that a timeout or a sticker chart can't help in some situations. But I'm the kind of gal that needs a bag of tricks. A parenting toolkit.

And underneath it all, what really works for me is being a calm and gentle person myself, working on not throwing my own tantrums. Working on being the best example I can for my children. Communicating as authentically as I can with them.

I always have this little voice in the back of my head that chides me for not being in better control of my children. But here's something I have realized, and I know it may rub some people the wrong way: My goal is not to control my children. My goal is to help them be loving, thriving adults. And I think the journey there will be awkward, tiring, and not always very pretty. And of course, there will also be moments of nearly unbearable beauty and joy.

Maybe I'm letting myself off the hook. My children behave horribly sometimes. But I don't often feel that their behavior really corrolates with how "good" of a parent I'm being at the time, how strict a disciplinarian or how perfectly I remember to reward the good behavior.

The better I discipline myself, the better our life together feels. And that's about all the advice I can give.

Two Small Victories

I feel out of words, lately, which is strange. I think part of it is that I have been realizing that I am a far, far worse mother when I try to spend time on the computer while my children are awake (from 5 am to 7 pm), and after they go to sleep I'm really not good for much.

But I do have two small miracles to report: Last week, we went to Presanctified Liturgy (an evening church service that we celebrate during Lent that I love) and it went really well. It starts at 6:30, which is when we are usually turning off the kids' lights at our house. But we needed to go to confession and we really wanted to attend one Presanctified during Lent--a lofty goal!--and so we just did it. Henry fell asleep in the car and napped while we went to confession before the service, and Luke was in one of his unpredictable, wonderful moods. So it was all quite lovely. And, yes, there was the moment before communion when the boys were wrestling up on a pew over a baggie of goldfish. And, true, we did bring Luke's inflatable Batman bed, which for some reason distracted me. But when it was all said and done, the service was more fortifying than draining, which is not often the case.

And the other: I have, not once, but twice, been able to complete an exercise video with my children around. This might not sound like much, but it has been years--years!--since this has happened. It feels like some small piece of myself that I have reclaimed, and it is sweeter because I didn't have to pay or bribe someone to take my kids away in order for it to happen.