Light and Momentary

Seven

I didn't remember, at first, that it was the anniversary of 9/11. September 11, I thought; the Discover payment is due today. September 11, in between the birth of Mary and the feast of St. John Chrysostom.

Then it hit me.

New Heights in Packrattery

Joe is a packrat. Don't throw away that crumpled piece of paper with catsup smudges -- it is a Precious Memento. Artwork must be saved or there are tears. In general I try to accommodate him (or be very surreptitious in my culling -- I've been burned before when I tossed something into a white trash bag and it showed through), but sometimes a person has to draw the line.

Last night he got a sandwich bag and announced that henceforth he was going to save all his toenail clippings in it. (No, really, I'm not making it up.) Later on I was tucking him in and he said, "Wait! I need my bag!" I assured him that there was really no need to sleep with his toenail clippings, that they would be fine without him overnight.

He said, "No, you don't understand. I just pulled off a little piece of toenail and I'm afraid I'll lose it forever if I don't put it in the bag right now."

And wouldn't that be a tragedy?

House of Four Boys Redux

Elwood, God bless him, made the school supply run today and when he came home there was much sorting and divvying and arranging. The process was interrupted by dinner, though, and the unsorted stuff went to a temporary home on the dining room floor. After dinner the three younger boys enacted a sort of Battle of Five Armies with school supplies as the principals. "My tape cannon is blowing up your Kleenex box tank!" shouted one to another, with appropriate sound effects.

This was fine and good for ten minutes or so, but then I began to weary of the sounds of the glue stick M16. "Boys," I interrupted, "I need the artillery to fire more quietly or I'm going to call an armistice." Marty objected. "Mom, you can't have a quiet machine gun." "Fit it with a silencer," quoth I. Elwood rolled his eyes. "You can't put a silencer on a machine gun."

Tell me I am not the only one to see the irony there: you can spray bullets out of a hole punch and lay siege to a city with a box of markers, but it's too implausible to put a silencer on a machine gun? Maybe I should call it the House of Five Boys if my husband is going to side with the mad eraser bombers.

On a more serious note, today we walked down to school to find out the middle boys' class assignments. (And hurray! They both got the teachers I hoped they would!) As we walked, and then again at dinner, we talked about what to do if this neighbor who has caused such hassles for us should bother them as they are walking to or from school. Is she going to view a pretend swordfight, or an argument with raised voices, as further evidence of maternal negligence requiring immediate intervention? I'm not terribly worried about it since the police officer told me he would make it clear to her that she needed to leave my kids alone, but it has been niggling at me. They will pass her house twice a day, unless I tell them to take the route to school that has many times more traffic. I don't think I want to do that.

Tonight I told the kids that they had to remember, always, the greatest commandment. Loving your neighbor means you shouldn't be ugly or deliberately rude or vengeful. But I told them they should be assertive and forceful if she attempted to stop them, that they could shout something like, "NO! Do NOT touch me! I do not need your help to get home safely!" And possibly, "My mom will report it to the police if you touch me!" I think I will also call the principal and give her a bare-bones outline of the situation (probably just "we're concerned about a neighbor who exercised poor judgment in an interaction with Joe"), and ask to be alerted immediately if the boys have a run-in with her on the way to school.

I am still wrestling with the question of expressing forgiveness -- I was intrigued to see the range of possible responses in this comment thread. However that plays out, though, she cannot ever again restrain one of my children without my consent. I have poured a lot of energy into teaching my kids to treat adults courteously and with respect. It feels a little strange to say, "And really, go right ahead: bellow NO and run away if that's what you need to do." Different tools for different situations, I guess. But it's one thing to talk about shouting NO at a hypothetical stranger, and another to say, "You have my explicit permission to shout at this neighbor."

What would you do?

Things that make me happy

1. Baby hiccups. I love them. I'm terrible at figuring out what parts of baby are where. In every pregnancy I read about Leopold's maneuvers and think, "That can't be so hard," and fail utterly to distinguish head from bottom. There could be a squid in there for all I know (a lumpy squid). But hiccups are so distinctive -- I love knowing that a little phrenic nerve is firing, stimulating a little diaphragm to contract.
2. For the first time since 1996, I have no children in diapers. Hurray!
3. My children are planning a music video of the Romans 8 song. Production may be delayed while they find funding for the project. (They hope to buy, among other things, a dummy guitar for me to smash at the end, since I would no sooner smash in my beloved Taylor 410 than I would smash in my own head. Also, there may be a budget line for hair product, because they think I need bigger hair to be in a music video. First time I've ever been told my hair's not big enough.)

No update, but I'm feeling peaceful about the whole thing. The caseworker called Elwood yesterday to say he hoped to have things wrapped up by the end of that day. I decided to assume that "the end of the day on Thursday" in public-employee-speak translated to "next Tuesday" in actual English. We'll see if that's an accurate translation, I guess.

Funnies

Alex: "Hey, Joe, when you go back to school and your teacher asks you what you did over summer vacation, you can tell her 'I got investigated by CPS.'"

A few minutes later Joe asked Pete if he wanted to play Indiana Jones, and Pete stopped what he was doing for a second to say "Wes!" (He has no /y/, so we have "wou" and "wummy" and "wes" instead of "you" and "yummy" and "yes.") Joe said, "I am a bad guy and my weapons are these rulers." (From the upcoming movie, Indiana Jones and the Measurer of Doom.) Pete said, "I'm Indy, nursing," and resumed. First things first, you know. Can't fight the bad guys without the snack of champions.

Marty, just in from climbing in the tree again: "Mom, when I die, can you put my coffin in one of the two highest branches of our tree? I don't want it to be buried in the ground."

Alex again: "Mom, can we name the new baby Hoelun?" [to which I said, "???"] "That was Genghis Khan's mother." Better than Elvis' mother, I suppose. Marginally better than Genghisette, a previous suggestion, but not by much.

A funny from last Thursday: the caseworker was sitting at our breakfast table, filling out paperwork about whether I have visible drug paraphernalia in my home while the boys finished their muffins. Alex (he's 11) said, "Mom, I'm still interested in reading some Nietzsche. Can you recommend a good place to start?"

Not at all funny: caseworker isn't returning my calls. Still nothing in the mail. Trying not to let it get to me. I want this over.

9:00

The caseworker is coming tomorrow morning at 9.

Shaken

I've been reported to CPS. I assume this is the hostile neighbor again, unsatisfied with the cop's lack of outrage at my negligence. But maybe I offended some other neighbor, doing some other thing that struck me as normal. I'm waiting for the caseworker to return my call.

Stay tuned...

A few more thoughts on kids and safety

I can't stop thinking about Friday afternoon.

Negligent. Or not.

This afternoon I was driving home from the county fair when there was a ruckus in the far back of the van. I have a low tolerance for ruckuses in the car. I told Joe that he needed to keep his hands in his own space or else walk home. He didn't. I pulled over and told him to hop out.

You should know that we were a quarter-mile from home, driving down the street where the boys walk to and from school. You might also want to know that we live in a walking neighborhood, on the southern edge of a decent-sized college campus. Lots of foot traffic, little vehicular traffic. It's Joe's stomping grounds. There are kids running around all over the place in the summer. I didn't think twice about it.

I got home, drank a glass of water, brushed Pete's teeth in preparation for getting to the dentist. We unloaded the stuff from the back of the van. I said, "Where's Joe?" Elwood said, "Maybe he sat down on the sidewalk in a fit of pique." (He was mad about having to walk home.) I took Joe's toothbrush and a water bottle along with me, and hopped back in the van. Joe was standing on the street corner with four adults: a neighborhood couple and two security guys from the nearby hospital.

They told me they'd called the cops, and that I couldn't go until the police arrived.

I thought briefly about saying, "Oh, get a grip," and loading Joe into the van. They were pretty serious about the whole thing, though, and I thought it would be better to talk to the cop than to have them write down my license plate number and report me to CPS.

The cop, who arrived right after I did, was very reasonable about the whole thing. Not so the woman. "He's only six years old!" she kept repeating, which brings out the snarky in me now. ("Six? Really? Are you sure? I'm only his mother; these details confuse me.") I pointed out where he lives and where he goes to school, and explained that he had walked this route hundreds of times. The woman was upset because he ran across the street and she didn't think he had looked both ways.

At first the cop told me not to overestimate the safety of the neighborhood, saying that there'd been some recent issues with property damage and petty theft. I said, "Property crime is in a completely different league from kidnapping." He said, "Yeah, that's a good point." I said, "If the school district thinks this is a reasonable walk for a 6-year-old child [and they do -- there's no bus service for kids in our neighborhood], I'm inclined to agree." He said, "Yeah, that's true." He said he'd have to file a report, but there should be no further action. (I had a friend in the next town over who had the same thing happen last year with her 6yo, and had to be interviewed by CPS as a result.)

This woman, though -- it was so clear that she thought I was negligent. She made a point of talking about the time that elapsed between when I dropped Joe off and when I came back for him. "He's only six years old! Six!"

Here's the creepy part: Joe told me later that she had stopped him when she saw him running across the street alone and asked if he needed help. He said, "No, I know how to go home. I want to go home." He said it repeatedly, trying to pull away from her. She finally yelled at him, "No, you have to stay here until the police come." Which, whoa. In my little world, if you are trying to be neighborly to a kid who needs assistance, you don't yell at him. Maybe you say, "Let's walk to your house together." Maybe you still report it to the police if you think the parents were negligent, but you treat the kid kindly.

I assume that if she is thinking about the incident, she is thinking about how inappropriate my choices were. I can't stop thinking about the incident, only I am thinking the same thing about her. It's a strange world.

Old Before Their Time

I was tucking Joe in on Saturday when he sighed heavily. "I don't know if I'd want to be married or not," he said. "I'd have people asking me for things all the time, like wanting granola bars at 10 in the morning."

I assured him that the joys of having kids outweighed the inconveniences.

"I don't know," he went on. "It'd be a lot more expensive. I'd have to buy food and health insurance for four people, or maybe more."

I reminded him that God provides, but it still makes me chuckle. Health insurance? What kind of 6-year-old worries about the cost of health insurance 20 years from now?

Today I was feeding the kids overprocessed frozen chicken things for lunch (because I am still queasy -- grumble grumble) and Alex was saying that his favorite was the chicken Kiev, with its fake butter filling. "My arteries are probably going to explode," he said, "but it tastes good."

The kid is 11 and he's worrying about his arteries? Where are they getting this stuff?

Next thing I know the 3yo will be telling me about his lumbago.

House of Four Boys, Again

Joe the 6yo, who has no /r/, announces that the upside-down laundry hamper is his gun turret. He climbs inside and begins firing at imaginary bad guys. His brothers hear it as "gun toilet." Apparently it doesn't get any more hilarious than climbing inside the toilet to shoot at bad guys.

Inevitable?

I suppose it shouldn't surprise me too much: in a house with four boys and a walnut tree, there will eventually be a green walnut going through a windowpane. Sigh.

Conversation

What if we named the baby for a Greek god or something? Like we could give it my screen name, Surreal Hephaestus Quasar.

    Wheezer?

No, Quasar. You know, like the star.

    We've always given a saint's name and a family name.

Well, maybe we should branch out a little. Like name the baby Mohammad or Buddha. Or Elvis.

    No. Just no.

Why not? Lots of people consider them saints. Saints, prophets, same difference.

    No.

Let's name the baby for me. Alexander the Second.

    No.  

How about Otto?

    For...?

Otto von Bismarck.

    No.

I know! Genghis!

    You're trying to get me to blog this conversation, aren't you?

Notes from the Zookeeper

The boys had coupons for a free lunch at Subway, so today we picked up sandwiches for lunch and had a picnic at the park around the corner. It's an old park, with big trees and weathered tables and little in the way of equipment, so they were trying to figure out good games to play.

The trouble with having kids 2.5-3 years apart is that they can't play physical games together very well. The 6yo is never, no way nohow, going to be able to catch the 11.5yo when they play tag. This is frustrating for the 6yo.

I looked up from the sock I was knitting (say! I never knew how fun it is to knit socks on two circs! next up, magic loop) and said, "What if we played some kind of tag where I was the director, and I would say, 'You walk like an elephant, holding your ankles,' or, 'You take long jumps like a kangaroo'?"

The idea caught their fancy and we spent an animated ten minutes working out the details. What we came up with for the cast of characters:

• Invertebrates: a spider, who scuttles around on hands and feet; a slug, who must crawl on his belly; an octopus, who drifts around wafting his arms but who can shoot "ink" (i.e., chuck grass) at a pursuer who must, if hit by the ink, stand still for ten seconds while the octopus escapes. Am I mixing up my cephalopods? Should that be the squid?
• Quadrupeds: elephant, who must hold his ankles but is free to move as fast as possible in that position; cow, who walks on all fours mooing (there was discussion of whether the cow should have to eat some grass if he forgot and walked like a biped -- I vetoed that idea even though I was the one who suggested it); goat, who can make a head-butt gesture and immobilize the tagger for a count of ten.
• Tree-dwellers: bird, who runs around flapping; gibbon, who brachiates, whooping loudly; monkey, who can briefly claim any tree as base.
• Big cats: tiger, who can make a slashing motion that stops a pursuer for a count of ten; panther, who can be briefly invisible (everyone else has to cover his eyes for a count of ten); cheetah, the only one who can run flat out on two legs.

The director makes the animal assignments and switches them at frequent intervals. "It" is a flamingo (sort of); he must chase everyone while hopping on one foot, holding his other ankle. This was the announcement that made Alex say, "No. I am not playing that game." But everybody else was excited, so we gave it a whirl. Joe says, "It was very fun and you should tell everybody it's called 'zoo tag.'" Marty says, "It's an interesting game that could go on forever as long as somebody doesn't lose their voice." (That was the reason I called a halt.) I see more zoo tag in our future.

School's Out

First day of summer today, at least according to our school district. I'm looking forward to having all the boys home -- can't decide if that's madness or merely optimism. Also my first day in maternity pants. I'm in that in-between stage where the maternity clothes look like clown pants but the clothes with waistbands are just not going to happen. Won't be out of the first trimester until Thursday, but my belly is...advanced, just like my age.

Also on Thursday I'm leaving town for a conference. Today I need to get my poster off to the printer and firm up accommodations. I have a couple of reservations but I think I'm going to cancel them both and stay in a university facility.

Do you think I will have a mutiny or only grumbling on my hands when I announce to the boys that immediately after we pray Morning Prayer from the Divine Office, we are going to clean the house? I do not think that this is what they had in mind for their summer vacation, even if I promise to follow it right up with a long browsy trip to the library and lunch out to celebrate the beginning of freedom.

We shall see. All three of the big boys are still sleeping, the fruit of a weekend scouting campout at our nearest minor league baseball field. Pete thinks this post is very boring, and perhaps he is not alone. Let me just add to the boring by saying that before I leave town, bright and early Thursday morning, I WILL have dealt with the accumulation of paper clutter, including the backlogged budgety bits and bobs (people, I have not balanced the checkbook since I got pregnant), the treasury report for which I begged an extension in early May (I'm a volunteer -- what will they do, fire me?), and the everlasting laundry pile.

The end.

Snapshot

Tonight Pete was fighting sleep but in the sweetest way. He was snuggled in next to me, signing "I love you" and patting my cheek gently.

Joe read me a book for the first time -- what a treat! It was a library book about the duck-billed platypus. He sailed effortlessly past "mammal" and "mouthful" and "worm." I haven't pushed him to read to me because he's made a big fuss about not being a good reader. I was astonished.

Marty told me after bedtime prayer that he wants to be a priest, and also that he lies in bed every night and worries before he falls asleep. I promised to see what I could find to help him with that. Any ideas?

Alex and I butted heads ALL DAY LONG, but we said a peaceful goodnight and I have some ideas about how to cut down on the head-butting. We get along best when it's just the two of us.

Elwood offered to take the kids on a road trip tomorrow, allowing me to stay home and work like a crazy woman!

I am much, much less sick. If normal is New Orleans, I spent the last month in Chicago. Now I'm in Memphis -- not all the way back home but at least I can see the magnolias blooming. I can't even tell you how nice it is.

Serenade

Yesterday I was dozing when a line of boys trooped in. Marty kicked it off with eight counts of beatbox, and then Alex took over:

It's a day for your mama
Treat her like the Dalai Lama
Let her lounge in her pajamas
Get her a pet llama
From the Vietnam-a

Joe's turn: It's a day for your mama
    It's a day for your mama
    It's a day for your mama
    It's a day for your mama
    It's a day for your mama (back to Alex)

She's so nice
Clean as ice
Doesn't let in any mice
or any head lice
So just to suffice
we've got to say...

Joe again: It's a day for your mama (x5)

and Alex: Brand new
Breaking through
Just for you
New 'do [pointing to his freshly buzzed head]
New shoes [poetic license; Elwood buys his shoes]
You say who?
We say...

Joe: It's a day for your mama (x5)

And then everybody joined in -- It's a day for your mama! -- and jumped on the bed to wish me a happy Mother's Day.

Say It With Flowers

Until last summer, my 5yo was the most affectionate of my four boys. He would pepper me with kisses and make extravagant declarations. "I love you all the way up to heaven," he would say. But then one day it turned off like a faucet. Maybe one of his brothers teased him. Maybe it was some developmental thing. He decided that boys didn't do that stuff.

These days he will tell me he loves me, but sneakily. "Mom!" he will call across the room, and when I look up he will flash the "I love you" sign. He will kiss me if he is sure no one is watching. It makes me a little sad.

Sometimes it also makes me laugh. Last night we were talking about how he doesn't like to say that he loves me, how he doesn't want his brothers to know. I said, "Honey, boys always love their mothers and mothers love their boys. Even when mothers do really awful things, they love their children and their children love them. It's a law of the universe."

He said, "Oh."

He said, "Maybe Alex and Marty aren't smart enough to figure that out."

Yesterday as we were coming home I saw the first dandelions of the season. I love dandelions -- their color, their tenacity. I love it that a cheery yellow flower can sprout up from a crack in the sidewalk. I will never kill a dandelion because I think they are like little spots of sunshine. (My neighbors love me, I tell you, and my little spots of sunshine too.) Joe went out to see if his friend around the corner was home and came back a few minutes later. He hadn't found his friend, but he had found dandelions. He brought back all that he could carry and pushed them into my hands wordlessly.

Sometimes you don't need words.

Evidid

One of my favorite things about age 2 -- which gets a bad rap -- is the pretending, especially the dizzying identity shifts. In the past five minutes we've been a mama turtle and a baby turtle, switching to a mama seal and a baby seal when it was pointed out that baby turtles don't nurse. After confirming that baby elephants could also nurse, Pete decided we were elephants (rendered "evidids") instead.

"Baby evidids use toiet?" he wanted to know, when I asked if he needed to make a bathroom stop. "They don't pee on their moms," I told him. Baby evidids do, however, use cell phones. Pete fished mine out of my pocket and told me he was calling the daddy evidid. Daddy evidid can be reached at 007. I guess that makes me the turtle-seal-elephant bride of James Bond.

Conversation

Boys and I are sitting in the living room. Pete climbs up on the couch next to me. "Me Superman! Have nonny?"

"Raise your hand if you think Superman's mom gave him nonny," I say.

Pete looks around at his brothers (who do not think, apparently, that the Man of Steel nipped home for a quick little pick-me-up between stopping the speeding freight trains and going head-to-head with Lex Luthor) and defiantly thrusts his hand into the air. "Me Superman. Me have nonny with Mama."

The big boys discuss Superman's mother. They wonder, What happened to her anyway? Pete brings them back to the issue at hand. "Superman have nonny with Mama!"

"I know," says Joe. "You can be SuperBOY, Pete."

"Superboy!" Pete agrees. "Superboy have Mama's nonny."