The Baton Wielding Beauty

I love the absurd arguments that children get into. Well, I guess I don't always love the absurd arguments that my particular kids get into at the time that they get into them, but I definitely can appreciate the humor later. In our house, since Henry has recently been speaking much more clearly, the arguments have taken on new sophistication. Only three months ago, the verbal banter went something like this:

Henry: Gabba Gooboo!
Luke: No Gabba Gooboo!
Henry: Gabba Gooboo!
Luke: No Gabba Gooboo! (scuffling ensues, stage left)

But now since Henry is speaking so much more eloquently, and since he is recently becoming very, very opinionated, the arguments have taken on new depth, revealing much more character motivation.

Luke: I will be Schuyler "Sky" Tate, S.P.D. Blue Power Ranger, and you will be Sydney "Syd" Drew, S.P.D. Pink Ranger, the baton wielding beauty!
Henry: I Jack (translation, "I will be Jack Landors, S.P.D. Red Ranger.")
Luke: Baton wielding beauty!
Henry: Jack!
Luke: Baton wielding beauty!
Henry: Jack!

Luke always wants Henry to have the worst of things, and I'm not sure why. Even though Luke didn't want to "be" Jack himself, he didn't want Henry to occupy this imaginary position, since Luke himself likes red and Jack is the red Power Ranger. Henry must be the least desirable character, who is the pink, female, "baton wielding beauty."

This is a little game that Luke plays regularly, in fact, this game of deciding who he is and who Henry will be. In a recent reading of a Bob the Builder book (and no, adds that insecure angel on my shoulder, we don't only own television tie-in books) Luke decided on each page who he would be (always the truck) and who Henry would be (always one of the accessories). On one page Luke was the truck named Muck, hauling away Henry, a chopped up log.

Maybe it isn't that Henry must have the worst of things, but that Luke wants to establish that they are different. I feel like Luke has never actually recovered from Henry's birth. Being yanked from his position as the center of the universe, Luke is still fighting to establish his new identity. Many children cling to the "big brother" or "big sister" role, but this was never very appealing to Luke.

I think Luke often feels like he is witness to a great love affair between Henry and the world. Henry flirts, embraces everyone and everything with gusto and glee. This is not Luke's standard mode of operation. So Luke looks on as our front desk clerks say, "Hi Henry! You just make my day, Mr. Smiley!" These desk clerks have long given up on Luke, who, for a whole year, said "GO AWAY!" when they tried to talk to him.

Luke looks on as Henry chats on the phone with Grandma and Grandpa; Luke himself isn't much of a phone conversationalist. Luke looks on as Henry works the camera. And all this looking is with a mixture of humor, jealousy, and discomfort

Luke isn't Henry. I'm okay with that, and I think Luke is working on being okay with that, too.

The Boys of Baraka

A few weeks ago I watched the first half of a PBS documentary called The Boys of Baraka. This was an amazing movie in many ways, and I'm excited to see the other documentary made by Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady, Jesus Camp. But really, I digress, because this isn't about the film, but about me and my children. Film used to be an academic interest and hobby of mine; now my main hobby is obsessing about my children.

So this movie was all about these boys from a "bad" neighborhood in D.C. who go to the Baraka School in Africa. It is a school designed for inner city boys who are having a hard time academically and socially, and the school's focus is on nature, teamwork, and just letting these 11-13 year old boys be boys.

What struck me so much was how the physicality of these boys manifested itself in these two different environments. In their D.C. 'hood, most of them were physically aggressive at times, and, while this sort of physical aggression did happen at the Baraka School, it was much more unusual. Instead, the body language of these boys changed from defiant, challenging and aggressive to boisterous and curious. At the Baraka School, they danced, they chased lizards, they were very active and often wild, they were silly and creative and wonderful.

I think of my own boys, and how they change when they are in nature and surrounded by hard physical work and challenges. Of course, I haven't seen this in Henry so much yet, since he is so little, but Luke is a child who cannot walk three city blocks but can climb a mountain. He will dig and haul 25 buckets of dirt when given the opportunity. He has raked a whole lawn. Last spring when we went camping, he was a delight.

Even in the best of situations they are full of energy, often bursting at the seams with it. What was so wonderful to see in the movie was how the boys of Baraka were not expected to stop jostling each other and wiggling around and dancing and yelling. This was expected of them, being boys.

And while I could get bogged down in nature vs. nurture and justifying all of my statements about boys--and who really knows why my boys are as active and loud and obsessed with trucks and superheroes as they are--what I really know is that my boys need nature, and space, and places to be loud and rough and active.

I don't know where we will wind up living in the long run, or where or how my boys will be educated, but I know that I want to be somewhere that my boys don't need to pick a fight in order to be as active and loud as they want to be. I hope we can be in a place where they can chase bugs (and probably dismantle them) and build forts and run and yell at the top of their lungs with, not defiance, but joy.

Oedipal, Only More So

This morning Luke wanted to play Spiderman, as he does most mornings. Usually I am Aunt May who is just discovering Spiderman in Peter's room. This morning, Luke wanted to change it up. He decided that he would, as usual, be our hero Spiderman, Henry would be Doctor Octopus (otherwise known as "Doc Oc"), and I would be Mary Jane.

"You are falling in love with Doc Oc and you want to marry him, okay?" Luke commanded. "And then I convince you to marry me instead, okay?"

"Well, okay," I agreed, not quite feeling comfortable with this break-engagement-to-one-son-to-marry-another scenario, but too tired to argue.

"Okay, now tell Doc Oc you love him!" instructed Luke.

"Doc Oc, I love you," I dutifully told Henry.

At this point, Henry decided it was a good time to nurse and, being nearly two years old, he helped himself.

"Now tell him you want to marry him!" yelled Luke, escalating in his enthusiasm.

Feeling uncomfortable, I told my nursing son Henry that I wanted to marry him.

"You can't do that!" Spiderman-Luke informed me. "He does bad things!"

Indeed.

The Dark Cloud

I can't quite understand the dark cloud that hangs over me sometimes. I mean, sure, it makes sense that I would be feeling a little hopeless and worried and emotional when my kids have been waking up at 4 am for over a week. And the dark circles under their eyes and horrible behavior don't do much to help me feel like a good mom. And the fact that my normal extrovert tendancies get somehow squashed under the weight of actually getting out the door--this can't be helping my mood.

And, true, it took me 15 minutes--15 full minutes!--to read one page of the spiderman book that Luke selected this morning. What with Henry approaching age two and thus grabbing the book and trying to rip it out of my hand, and Luke (being Luke) trying to hit him, and Henry being placed on the floor, and then crawling back up onto the couch and grabbing the book again and then biting me and being placed in time out, and re-placed in time out, and re-placed in time out--when it was all said and done, it took me 15 minutes to read the first page. And to realize that I am not ever, ever, ever having any more kids. The futility of trying to read the same sentence out loud over and over! The bore of the cheapie spiderman book that I wish we didn't even own!

This dark cloud: I realize that it is a cliche, but it is apt. My vision feels as though it has actually been dimmed. I feel like I'm spinning in circles (another cliche), stuck in some game of Star Wars Monopoly, being moved, over and over, in the same pattern by my kids.

And the fear. For me, the dark cloud is really about the fear. I'm so frightened that none of us will ever get enough sleep again. And I'm scared of what it says about me as a parent, that I can't even get my kids to sleep enough to keep them rested. And, too, there's the fear that I'm never going to pray one decent, heartfelt prayer again, or think one coherent thought again, or raise my kids to be decent human beings.

But then, through what is surely, again, a holy moment of everyday life, the cloud just lifts. The sun starts to rise, the coffee starts to hit me, the icons catch my eye, and I think of my children as adults who might not sleep enough but will still be (I pray every moment of my life) happy and loving adults.

So, really, I guess I often do understand the dark cloud. It is the lifting of this darkness that is mysterious and miraculous to me.

P.S.

P.S. I didn't actually make it to that one church service. I don't want to falsely brag or anything.

P.P.S. I should give credit to Jenny and Lucy for the depressing form letter idea. Thanks, you two! It made my sixth 4 am wake up in a row more fun.

My Lenten Form Letter

Dear Friends and Family,

Here it is, 4 a.m., and I am thinking of my lovely family and want to share with you all what we have been up to this first week of Holy Lent. We are doing well, and this time of Lent always emphasizes our strengths.

Henry is in bed sleeping. Meanwhile, the bacteria from all the breastmilk is hard at work on his already deteriorating enamel. While Craig put him to bed last night in order to try to keep his teeth clean after we brushed them, he awoke after 30 minutes to begin his all night nursing marathon. He prefers to remain latched on all night but, being the flexible guy that he is, he will settle for once-per-hour feedings at age 20 months.

Luke is lying in his bed awake, fondling Craig's ear. This is quite possibly a sign of a neurological disorder called sensory processing disfunction. Luke has been waking at 4 a.m. all week. His extreme exhaustion only highlights his unique personality, however, one that we understand much better now that his Waldorf school teacher told us in a conference that he was a warrior in his past life.

Craig may be finally finishing his PhD! He has sent out 50 job applications. However, he has had no positive responses to any of them, and the rejection tally is now up to 7. I found him just an hour ago on the couch watching televised poker and drinking a beer. However, I think his spirits remain good, as he is clearly focusing on Lent to keep him positive.

I was awoken 1, 421 times last night by Luke, Henry, Craig, and the 78 students that we live with. But don't worry--I am able to remain happy and focused despite my chronic exhaustion because I fuel myself with fatty, dairy-laden junk food every night. And I am looking forward to the one church service that I will attend this first week of Lent.

I hope you are all as happy and blessed as we are!

Love,
The Jacksons

All These Winters

Yesterday, Luke and I were spending our much-loved "alone time" together while Henry was at his playgroup. Luke's mood always markedly improves the moment we walk out the door leaving Henry behind. This day was no different.

It was a bitterly cold day, and as we walked out the door, Luke picked up a big, dirty chunk of ice. "Mom, let's keep this and put it in our freezer to remember all these years by!" he said excitedly.

"Uh, okay, Luke," was my reply. "But what are we going to remember with the ice?"

"All of these winters," he answered decidedly.

Okay, then. I'm not sure what Luke has in mind. I'm envisioning something like saving the top layer of wedding cake, breaking it out of the freezer a year later to eat it and celebrate one year gone by. It has been terribly cold out for so long--maybe this winter itself feels like "all these winters." Frankly, we have all been in a funk for the last few days, cooped up in the house as we have been. I would rather forget this winter, to tell you the truth.

When we got home, we forgot about the ice hunk. I recovered it, half melted and sitting in a pool of grey water, and chucked the thing in the freezer. Maybe a year from now I'll remember this winter a bit more fondly. Right now I'm ready for spring.

A Little Faith

So I don't really know why I don't post at all about my faith. It certainly relates to raising my children, since we are raising them as Eastern Orthodox Christians. Part of it is that I always feel like my faith is so personal that it is hard to write about. But I write about the bad behavior of my kids, about my worries and fears about how we are raising them. I write about Henry's rotting teeth and Luke's tantrums. So why don't I write at all about being Orthodox?

Mostly, I think that I fall way, way short of the mark of what it means to be an Orthodox Christian. I know everyone says that, but believe me, this isn't humility speaking. I feel like a hypocrite writing about my faith because it is so small. Well, this isn't exactly accurate. I do have quite a bit of faith, I guess, but my practice is rather dismal.

In the past, I went to church and participated in as many services as possible, but I realize that this was largely for show. At least 75 percent of my motivation for attending church has been because I should. When we left our home parish to attend graduate school, this motivation began to fall away. I realized that people didn't think less of me for not attending Great Vespers sometimes, and that missing the occassional Divine Liturgy wasn't the end of the world. And, happily, my delight and joy in church began to grow. And then I attended church more.

But then we moved to Chicago and we had children, an intersection of events that has been rather disasterous to the practice of my faith. I now go to church on three out of four Sundays. And that is it. No Great Vespers, no mid-week services. And, really, this could become a pondering on faith and practice and how these overlap and reflect one another and the chicken and the egg . . .

But when it comes down to it, going to church with my two very active boys feels like hard work, and I don't often feel particularly spiritually rewarded for it. I feel a lot closer to God when I get a chance to say personal prayers, or when I light the candle in front of my icons, or, really, during any moment of beauty and peace that I can find in any one of my days.

I do think going to church, despite this, has its own rewards, but right now these rewards feel the same as those I get when I get up every day at five in the morning with Luke and Henry and start reading spiderman books, buttering toast, washing dishes and wiping bottoms. I get through it. I do it because the alternative is yelling and feeling sorry for myself and checking out. And I can't do that, because then I would miss that moment at the park when the sunlight hits them both from behind as they sit on top of the slide, just perched there ready for speed, laughing with what is surely a holy joy.

A Trip to the Dentist

So Henry has bad teeth. After tossing and turning about this for many nights, I have come to the realization that there is no way of knowing why his teeth are rotting. But as a perfectionist, first child, daughter of a dental assistant, this is hard to accept. It could be something I didn't eat while pregnant. Or perhaps it is that Henry has been allowed, as a second child, to indulge a bit more in sweets. Then, it could be that Henry is still an avid all-night nurser, and I'm so tired I haven't yet done anything about it. Maybe he has weak enamel. Maybe we didn't brush well enough. Perhaps genes? I could drive myself crazy trying to figure it out. But when it comes down to it, his enamel is breaking down, he has a cavity, and we have another four years or so until these baby teeth begin to fall out.

So this first trip to the dentist. I was prepared for Luke to have fits. He is my spirited child, after all. But Luke was perfect. So good, in fact, that Henry followed his example and sat, by himself, in the dental chair for the first half of the exam. But after that it started to go south. Henry started crying, and had worked himself into a wailing frenzy by the end. But, in true Henry style, the moment he got up from the chair he was all smiles again.

Henry's next visit was last week. He needed to have a tooth filled. His dentist planned to fill it quickly, not using any anesthetic, as the shot would be more painful than any pain from the work itself. But Henry was on to what was happening. He started crying as we walked back to the room, and was wailing as the chair began to recline. He spent the entire 15-minute procedure screaming and thrashing, trying with all his might to bite one of the dentist's fingers off. I was holding Henry and we were both a sweaty mess by the end of it.

Luke, meanwhile, sat on a chair and calmly read books the whole time. Apparently Luke is my spirited child except while under the mystical charms of Dr. Morin. Luke murmured dreamily, as we put on our coats in the waiting room, "I love Dr. Morin." One might wonder what, exactly, Luke loves so much. Somehow, I think that Henry's "bad" behavior made Luke feel really good. It was probably nice, for once, that Henry was losing it.

Yet another reminder not to be so quick to label my kids, not to carve a place for each of them in my heart and soul that is so permanent and fixed that it cannot be changed. Henry, with his charm and winning smile (all the more reason to toss and turn over the crumbling mess that I envision in his mouth!) can be difficult. He can throw a tantrum with the rest of 'em. And Luke does have his shining moments.

Of course, when I asked Henry the next day if he wanted to go to the dentist, he smiled and said, "YES!" Oh, that Henry. He is a charmer. And that Luke. I don't know what to say about him sometimes. I'll try to keep my heart wide open for the both of them.

The Force

Luke is really into board games lately. With the exception of Candyland and Chutes and Ladders, though, he cannot tolerate the rules. They are sometimes too confusing, but often it is just that Luke really, really likes to win.

I get it. I either must adopt a bored, distanced perspective on games or--truth be told, if I am to truly enjoy myself--I am out for blood. Craig loves to remind me of the time I threw a pair of dice at him when we were playing some game that we have long since forgotten. I was really mad, and the dice bounced off the window and wound up in someone's drink.

One game that we can play very successfully, though, is Star Wars Monopoly. Except that we don't really play it. We each pick a team of figurines, and then we fight. We randomly draw cards, take money when we like, buy ships when it suits us, and engage in numerous battles. Sometimes we throw the dice at the figurines and try to knock them down. Luke dictates the rules.

This game always ends the same way, though. All of the figurines have died, save for Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader. Then Skywalker stabs Darth Vader, Darth Vader says, "Luke, I am your father," Skywalker says, "I know this to be true," and then he stabs his father. They profess their love for one another before Darth Vader dies.

I think it is the drama that Luke likes more than the rules, regulations, and chance of games. It is the playacting. And in Star Wars Monopoly, I think, it is the eternally fascinating oedipal struggle that entrances Luke. This kid, he likes drama and passion. He is a force to be reckoned with.

A Few Pictures

No musings, just a few pictures for the grandparents. Here is Luke pretending to be a ninja.













Here are the boys kind of holding hands, an amazing sight. These days, they are usually trying to use their hands to inflict pain on one another. I think I told them to hold hands and look nice.











Here they are on Halloween, Luke as Batman and Henry as a ladybug.

The Difficult Child

When Luke was a baby, we thought he was colicky. When he was one, we thought he was approaching the terrible two's at an advanced pace. At age two, there was some respite. (Well, there was the biting, but what's a little breaking of skin among friends, right Nancy?) But then, when Luke was two years, ten months, Henry was born. As one might imagine, there was a serious "adjustment period." I finally broke down when Luke was three years old and bought a book called The Difficult Child. This was a breakthrough for me.

Up until the time that I bought the book, I couldn't really admit that Luke was difficult. Sure, I was willing to go so far as to say he was spirited, but difficult? Pinning such a label on him didn't seem fair. He has so many nice traits, after all. He is funny. He tells great stories. He makes new friends very easily. I cherish all of these qualities in Luke.

But Luke is difficult, too. In admitting this to myself, I had to let go of the fantasy child that I had been clutching on to. The child that goes through some difficult phases, but that ultimately does not sleep horribly. Or bite other children. Or throw hour-long tantrums. Or pretend to shoot people. Or yell at Craig, "Your consequence for putting me in my room is that I'm going to take away all of your beer!" Because, really, I keep waiting for an easier age to arrive, and it doesn't. Luke is Luke, with some variation to keep us on our toes, but the personality and the challenges remain a constant.

So anyway, I finally bought this book about difficult children, and it is great. I wish that I had bought it sooner. And it has been freeing, to some degree, to read about children just as difficult, or even much more so, than my own. But more than anything, it is just owning the book that has been so good. In owning the book, I am owning my child for what and who he is. And this kid--he's often difficult.

Hi. My name is Ser. I am the mother of a difficult child.

Oh, Henry!

Henry. Oh, Henry. I have written three posts about Luke now, with hardly a word about my Henry. It is so easy for me to write about Luke. I feel like there are so many things with Luke that I want to work through, so many funny stories and so many heartaches I want to detail. But Henry is different. He is a second child. I've done it all before. I think so much less about everything with him and enjoy it all so much more. Not that I enjoy Luke less than I do Henry, but everything is far more intense with my firstborn. My relationship with Luke is a first love. Everything is exciting and new and puzzling and heart-wrenching. With Henry, it is a mature relationship. The first thrills are over, but the comfort and ease make most things more simply enjoyable.

Even the way that they each came into the world was so very different. Luke refused to budge in the birth canal--or perhaps I refused to let him go. I pushed in every way known to woman, for five hours, and still he was pulled from me with forceps. It was painful and disorienting and shocking and, yes, traumatic. And then the life changes that came once we brought him home! We had to become different people. It took us at least a year to resume some semblance of normal life, and what was normal had forever changed. Henry, though, tumbled from me in a short time, at home, and we were all napping a few hours later. Our life carried on almost immediately.

And, because I'm now a disorganized mama of two who can't think straight, because I spend admittedly too much time analyzing my firstborn's every move, because I have no memory left after twice going through the hormone haze of pregnancy and early motherhood, I offer this series of disjointed vignettes about Henry. Because I don't want to forget some of these times with him, and because who knows if I'll ever write in his baby book.

Henry has so much desire for independence. I suppose this is a trait of many second children, but it amazes me still. He unloads the dishwasher. If he can't get a dish out, I cannot take it out myself. I have to pull it out only enough that he can get it. He hands me the dishes, which I put away. But lately, he wants to put the silverware away himself, since he can (barely) reach the drawer. He hurls each piece of silverware up with reckless abandon, hoping it will land in the drawer, as I shudder, hoping the forks and knives won't fall back into his face. His other housekeeping hobbies include vacuuming, mopping, and putting laundry in the washing machine. We're working with him on loading the dishwasher.

He wants to walk everywhere we go. Or, really, not walk so much as trot. My four year old reclines happily in the stroller while my 17 month old trots along on the sidewalk.

Henry is obsessed with shoes, and this is recently spilling over into clothes in general. He gets his mind set on a certain pair of shoes, a certain shirt, and nothing else will do. I recently bought him a pair of black, white and pink cow rain clogs, which he loves. The great thing about them is that he can get them on and off himself, so he can entertain himself for long stretches of time. "Oooh! Shoes! Cow!" he yells. Then he takes them off. Back on. "Ooh! Shoes! Cow!" Repeat. Repeat.

Oh, that Henry.

Fighting the Bad Guys

The other day I was looking at mama-blogs and found a mama writing about her daughter who is obsessed with Superman. Included was a photo of her cutie dressed as her hero. Charming! Subversive! Feminist! And then I think about my own reaction to Luke's love of all things superhero. Not so cute, at least to me.

And, too, I think about how I encourage my sons to browse the little ovens, the tiny princesses at the store, how I glow with pride when Luke plays with the old "My Little Pony" collection that my mom has saved from when her girls were little. How I felt so accomplished when Luke used to say that his favorite color was pink. But, see, then it became pink and red. Then just red. As in red like Spiderman. Red like Superman. Even, yes, red like blood.

Because the blood is what I'm resisting here. I don't want my sons to be typical, this is true. I want to have kids that stay firmly outside the cultural pressures for them to play with certain toys, act certain ways. I would like my sons to feel as free to play with dolls as with guns. And maybe, hopefully, they do. But what I'm more scared of, I think, is that Luke is so interested in not just superheroes, but guns, shooting, killing. Why? What have I done wrong as a parent?

Of course, the answer is probably nothing. It just goes against everything inside me as a mom to hear my little boy, my sweet little guy, say "I'm blowing up the head of the bad guy!" What am I supposed to do? Say, "Okay dear, time for breakfast"? Or give him a lecture on gun control and educating our criminals? Probably the former. I should not lecture so much as tolerate. I'm sure he's working through all sorts of things when he plays like this.

I think in the big picture this is all a part of the huge letting go that is parenting. Our babes are born so innocent, and we have so much in our hearts and minds for them. But they continually go beyond, outside, around our expectations. They are people, more and more every day, with their own ideas and interests. Each day we are forced to let go a little bit more. And even though some of the things that my kids do scare me, I'm trying let my children go little by little, bit by bit, without fear.

I'm fighting the bad guys, too.

The Flavor of a Birthday

Last month, Luke celebrated his birthday at school. I asked him what type of cake he wanted me to bake. "X-Men," he replied without a thought, as though he had been planning for the day I would ask him this question. "Actually, I meant the flavor," I replied, "since you aren't allowed to have characters on your cake." After a long pause, Luke responded. "Okay, punch." Punch as in punch-flavored. Here's where I remind everyone that Luke attends a Waldorf school. A school where he wears a crown for his birthday celebration, listens to a sweet story about how he chose his parents from heaven, and receives a beeswax candle and homemade cards in a basket. The cake I bake will be eaten after their standard Friday snack of homemade, organic soup.

And do punch-flavored cakes even exist? I'm envisioning a garish, red-colored cake, store-bought of course, with Red#32 as one of its primary ingredients. Maybe we could take Spongebob ice cream bars (anyone seen these things? they leave black and yellow dye streaming down a kids arm) and Spiderman fruit snacks to serve with the cake. Actually, while Luke has, unfortunately, had the latter two, he has not, to my knowledge, ever eaten a punch-flavored cake. (Nor has he seen X-Men, the angel on my insecure shoulder tells me to add.)

Something about birthdays inspires the American consumer superhero junkfood freak in Luke, although I must admit that it doesn't always take a birthday to inspire his, shall we say, less Waldorfy traits. One of Luke's school friends, Anna, recently invited him to her birthday party. I asked him what he would like to give her, envisioning a great old fashioned book or some homemade finger puppets. "A remote control princess!" was his enthusiastic reply. Oh how I didn't want him to give me this gendered, technology-heavy reply.

And yet. And yet. He was so sweet. He wanted to think of something sparkly and exactly perfect for Anna. He dreams of a remote control robot for himself. But, since she is a girl, what better gift than a remote control princess? Really, aren't birthdays supposed to be a little indulgent and fantastic? And, really, what could be better than a day celebrated with a dayglo, punch-flavored cake and a remote control princess?

Testing

This is just a test. I'm setting this blog up in hopes that I will record some of the daily chaos of our family life, some of the laughs and the tears that are a part of my parenting experience. As my (quite original) blog title indicates, I will focus on mothering. This is both necessary, as mothering is the thing I do most, and fun, because mothering provides me with my best material.

I mother my two boys, Luke, age 4, and Henry, age 17 months. They are both--what shall we say?--a handful, headstrong, active, willful, or my favorite, spirited. Luke thinks he is Spiderman at least half the time and at school pretends the little ironing board is a cannon, the chunks of pretty driftwood, guns. Did I mention that he attends a Waldorf school? Henry is obsessed with shoes and is beginning to assert his will (usually regarding said shoes) by throwing lusty tantrums. They are both much more fun outside, which is why we spend a great deal of time at the park.

Speaking of testing, I guess I could mention testing of another kind, since I seem to have mastered the basics of composing text, inserting pictures and such. Testing of the kid kind. The four-year-old kid kind. When I was lamenting all of the fantasy gun play to a friend of mine while we were (where else?) at the park she told me that she thought a lot of it was just testing, since the kids know we don't really approve. (We can't. We live in an ultra-crunchy university neighborhood. Luke attends a Waldorf school. I cringe every time I hear "gunpowder" or "enemy" or "conquer." But more on that subject in another post.) Luke was playing while we talked, but he must have heard, or his timing is just naturally dramatic, because not moments later he said, "We are shooting animals." Normally this is where I would insert, "Because you are hungry, and you thank the animals for giving life so you can eat, right?" We are from Alaska, after all, where many people, Luke's dad and grandfather included, hunt so they can stock the freezer with meat. But I didn't say it this time, and after a dramatic pause, Luke said, "Killing them for no reason!"

Testing, testing. This is a test.