But especially for my sister-friend, CH.
xx
Puns and All: It’s What I Love About Him
August 12, 2011 by ·
My husband thinks he’s funny.
He’s King of the Puns. Some of them are cheesy, some of them are witty, and all of them make me laugh.
He’s the master of making up new lyrics to songs. I secretly find this amusing, even when he mangles my favourite songs and John Denver’s poetic “You fill up my senses, like a night in a forest” becomes “You fill out my census, with a number 2 pencil.”
He does funny voices, and thank goodness because I’m no good at funny voices.
He’s never afraid to act goofy, and I truly hope my son got this quality because it’s one of the things I love most about my husband.
So far all the evidence suggests that he did.
Looks like I’m in for a lifetime of laughs with my very funny boys.
xo
***
Linked up with Multitasking Mumma for It’s What I Love About Him
My Big Little Boy
August 1, 2011 by ·
“How old are you going to be on your birthday, Connor?!”
We played this game a lot in the weeks before his third birthday.
“Three!”
His toddler voice turning the ‘th’ to an ‘f’.
“Wow, you’re so big now!”
I said it every time, knowing what the answer would be.
“No, I’m still little.”
He was then. Still little.
But something has changed.
***
I sit watching him, his face deep in concentration as he does a puzzle on his own, something he hasn’t done before because he never had the attention span to sit still long enough.
He gets to the end. There are two pieces missing. Buried, most likely, in the huge pile of rubble he and a friend made the day before by dumping the entire contents of the toy bins and book shelves onto the floor. The mess is huge and it takes us an hour of sorting and putting away to get it cleaned up – and for a moment he is little again, impatient and wanting those two pieces so badly he can’t sit still to help.
Then they appear and he gently but deliberately puts them into place.
And I’m looking at my little boy who suddenly seems less little.
***
I catch a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror and take a moment to wipe a mascara smudge from my brow before driving away.
He’s in the back seat, watching. And then the questions start.
What are you doing? Why? How did it get there? Where did it come from?
As I drive, I try to think about how to explain mascara to a three-year-old. To me it’s just a mascara smudge, but if I stop long enough to look past the slight annoyance of incessant questions I can get a glimpse of who he is. Who he’s becoming.
Curious. Perceptive. On a quest for information about his world.
So many questions.
I answer them all.
***
He’s been acting out lately, deliberate in his defiance. Following bedtime stories I tuck him into bed, knowing he’s not going to stay there. He climbs out before I’ve even left the room.
We play this game for an hour. It’s the Battle of Wills, and he’s determined to win. He’s big enough now to get up and walk away. To come out – over and over – to tell me one last thing before he goes to sleep. To throw things when I stand my ground, unwilling to concede defeat until he’s demonstrated his independence.
I am frustrated. I start hearing my own questions of why. Why does he do this? Why is he worse with me than with my husband? Why won’t he just go to sleep?
And then he does. And suddenly he’s little again – round cheeks, long lashes, still-pudgy hands.
I resist the temptation to climb in next to him despite knowing the opportunities to do so are slipping away. In the last week, for the first time in three years, he has suddenly and consistently started to sleep on his own. I knew this day was coming and yet a part of me resents it. So I cherish his sleeping form and wait, knowing he’ll come to me in the night and need tucking in one more time.
He’s still little enough for that, at least.
***
“I’m big now.”
I know…
It has crept into conversation, from behind somewhere when I wasn’t looking.
“I’m big enough to carry that.”
“Look how strong you are!”
“I’m eating all my food and getting bigger.”
“Good job, buddy.”
“I don’t need you to help me. I’m big now.”
I know.
***
Linked up with:
Vlog: He Gets It From His Dad
July 11, 2011 by ·
This isn’t a new video but, as suggested for the 3rd prompt, it’s one of my best memories. (And no, this is not helping my baby fever.)
Art Therapy
July 9, 2011 by ·
I’d been on the couch all morning, still battling the fine line between better and not, and not was winning. Only the clock ticking closer to 11:30 pushed me toward reality.
The logical part of my brain was urging me up. You have to get up, it said, before he gets home from dino camp. Just GET UP. Don’t succumb.
I knew it was right, but I ignored it. I played the usual game – you can’t, or you don’t want to?
Neither? Both?
I know. I need to get up and get dressed. There’s only so long you can sit on the couch wondering what the hell is wrong with you and trying desperately to hold back the tears.
I finally tweeted myself off the couch, had a shower, got dressed and came back downstairs.
The list of things I could do – should do – was long. But the couch won.
When Connor came home it was with a burst of energy, bringing life back into the living room. A bouncy ball, retrieved from his dinosaur egg pinata, flew around in a flash of orange. He was revved up, full of leftover excitement from his day camp activities and bursting with anticipation of backyard camping that night.
When he’s excited he’s physical and loud. I sat on the couch, paralyzed, sensory overload taking over all rational thought.
It’s too much.
As though physically pushing in the clutch, I forced my brain to switch gears. You need to eat something. You’re due for a med dose.
I stood up, focusing on making sandwiches. I can do that and then retreat upstairs, I thought.
But I was back in the company of those who understand, no longer alone where letting the tears fall leads to a flood I can’t control. The dam broke and the tears were set free.
I’m sick of the rug underneath me going very suddenly MIA. I’m sick of the tears. I don’t know if this is worse than the anger and irritability, but it feels worse. I never used to feel this way. I’m in it – this black hole of depression – and I don’t know how to get out.
After all this time, my husband understands. He gives good hugs and he’s willing to be the voice of reason.
“I know. But it will be okay. It will.”
When? When will it be okay?! It’s been THREE YEARS.
A small voice.
“What’s wrong, mama?”
I don’t even know how to answer this anymore.
“Mama is sad”? But mama is sad way too often and that’s not how I want him to think of me.
“Mama is sick”? But I don’t want him to worry.
In the end I was saved from having to find a response.
“Here’s a picture. I made this for you.”
He brought it home from camp. It’s a dinosaur, I assumed, but I asked anyway.
“It’s an airplane!”
Oh.
Not a dinosaur? Or are the dinosaurs in the airplane? Do you think dinosaurs even fit in airplanes?!
I can still play the silly mama.
He paused, deep in thought.
“Maybe little ones do.”
That he took the question so seriously, answered so earnestly, made me laugh. In so many ways three is such a perfect age.
And then he said it.
“It will be all right, mama. Put this picture I made you on the fridge and it will be all right.”
Then he was gone, having turned away to help make sandwiches, focusing very carefully on lining up the bread just so.
But I couldn’t see, because my eyes had filled up, the tears spilling over in gratitude and love for his wisdom, his sureness, his caring.
I put the picture on the fridge – I don’t even know which way it’s supposed to face, but I placed it high enough that he can’t steal it away – where it has stayed. And he was right.
At the end of the day, things are closer to being all right.
