Binkytowne

He Jumped

He was last in line, his blue noodle which matched his swimsuit tied tightly around his waist. The kids in front of him were noodle-less. They had discarded them, tossed them to the instructor in the pool so they could use as a target to aim for when jumping off the diving board.

I stood a safe distance away, camera in hand, ready to capture his first leap off the diving board. This one is not so much of a leaper. He's more of an incher, taking baby steps in this big body that naturally assumes long strides while his fretful mind tries to catch up.

"I'll do it next time" I heard him tell the teacher, his hands resting safely on the noodle. I inched over and gently touched his shoulder, whispering so the other kids wouldn't hear: this is our last swim class, we won't be here next week so if you want to take the noodle off and jump, go ahead. If you don't that's ok too.

SPLASH went the first kid, then SPLASH went the second and third. He untied the noodle and threw it to his teacher in the pool. I gave him a thumbs up. "Mom" he said, just loud enough to hear "I'm a little scared". I reassured him. I knew he could do it. His teacher would be right there to catch him and the lifeguard was watching and I would jump in with all my clothes on if he needed me.

SPLASH went the fourth kid.

SPLASH went the fifth kid.

And then he jumped.

 

Because That's How We Roll

 

Keep Your Red Roses

 
Somewhere here, buried in my work drawers between the extra barettes, mints and peacock blue, tiny post it notes that are too small to be of any use to anyone, I keep a photograph.

One summer during the late '90s I had a shitty camera, but somehow as I was whizzing by in a car, as night was turning to morning, I snapped a photo of the Italian countryside and a full field of sunflowers in bloom. Growing up in the midwest the most plentiful thing I had ever seen a field of was corn, and believe me, there was no comparison. It was one of most incredible things I had ever seen.

When I got married a decade later, I did so in the fall and I chose to carry sunflowers. Because of the colors, of course, but also because they reminded me of that morning and moments of complete wonder.

My son knows nothing of any of this.

One Friday evening my son sat on the couch playing with some toy or another and he very non-chalantly announced: I'm going to be in an art show. Sure enough, in his backpack I found a note from his teachers letting us know he'd been one of the two children selected from his kindergarten class to be presented in the upcoming district art show.

His painting was of three sunflowers. 

It was all very busy at the art show. Relatives came, there were snacks, the little one ran madly through the stacks and needed to be chased and held and chased and held some more. I went back the following week when I was alone. I stood as still and as somber as if I were in the Uffizi. The bursts of yellow and the green stalks and his signature scribbled in green colored pencil. 

No one tells you how a school art project will make your knees feel weak and like your heart is too big, so full of pride that it can't possibly be encompassed in your tired, forty year old, thought-you'd-seen-it-all chest.

But it is, and you haven't, not by a mile.

Kindergarten

We pull into the parking lot of the grocery store. The windows are open. Black Eyed Peas are bumping through the speakers. Rowan's curls are flying everywhere and he sucks on his binky to the beat. I hear Finny say something so I turn down the music. What?I ask over my shoulder, eyeing a prime parking spot that's close to the front entrance and a cart stall.(Yes!) 

Do you have your debit card mom? I'm not sure I heard that right so I ask him to say it again.

Do you have your debit card? He complies but he's irritated that he has to say it a third time.

Why would you ask me that? I'm genuinely puzzled. He often spits out questions about random things he's thinking about. He's always, always thinking of something but it's usually robots or Kit Fisto or when I will finally give in and let him have a Happy Meal already - Jeez!

You forget it a lot.He says matter-of-factly. Oh my God he's right. 

I turn off the engine, now that I'm parked in my super sweet never-get-this-lucky-on-a-Sunday-spot and grab my huge silver tote bag that I carry everywhere. I check the first pocket, then the second larger one and finally the small third one where it's most likely to be. Then I see it, clearly, in my mind's eye. It's sitting on the kitchen counter next to the fruit fly infested package of strawberries I meant to dump in the compost bin, and, of course, didn't.

I spin around and lift my sunglasses, sticking them on top of my snarly hair. I look straight at him and he looks at me, slightly alarmed. I forgot it. I say. He laughs and laughs and then Rowan laughs even though he doesn't know what's so funny. Even I laugh, knowing that I'll have to park clear on the other end of the lot when we come back. (Damn it!) 

He's starting real kindergarten soon. In a three-story brick building with real teachers and new faces and hot lunch. I worry about him some days, but I think he'll be just fine. 

My little boy girl boy

The other day I was out shopping with Ro and as the clerk range up our groceries Ro chirped happily in his seat and proceeded to dump a teeny sample plastic cup of lemonade down the front of his shirt. Oh Ro, I sighed, why did you do that? The clerk, who was already chatty and friendly, pointed out that that she did it because she wanted to!

So it finally happened.

I've been refusing to cut Ro's hair. I don't care that my husband thinks we have a hippy-child and I don't care that co-workers have made (unsolicited) comments about how long his hair is. He has the most gorgeous hair I've ever seen. He always has.

At two years old he's had four or five haircuts but mostly those have consisted of me helicoptering nearby an overpriced stylist in a kiddie salon, hyperventilating and reminding her that this was just a trim. (JUST A TRIM!)

The color of his hair is like gold. It's not a white-blond like his older brother or a dishwater-blond like I have now or even a yellow-blond that I had when I was little. It's not even a mysterious red that showed up from some mystery DNA strand, it's blond with the slightest hint of ginger. In the sun it practically sparkles.

Then there's the curls. They are so pretty. You see? I'm talking about him like he's a girl.

But he's so not. Obviously, he's not a girl, nor does he act like a little girl. I clearly dress him in little boy clothes with dump trucks and sports paraphernalia galore. But I've wondered if people think I have a daughter instead of a son.

I don't want a girl, I never really did. I was intimidated by the idea of raising a little girl. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if he were a she, what the dynamic would be like or what kind of mother I might be if there was a girl, but it's not because I'm sorry he's a boy or feel like something (or someone) is missing. 

I just love his hair. Even if people think he's a girl.

(I don't think he looks like a girl, even with the massive cluster of curls on his head. Do you?)

P.S. You can tell me he looks like a girl and I'm still not going to cut his hair. Husband, that goes for you too.

Mothers Day Epilogue

I did not want to go. The sitter had been arranged for weeks and we were way overdue for a date night out of the house without our children but I did not want to go. We got in the car about an hour before our dinner reservation and my husband asked "Should we get a drink somewhere first?" and I said "I don't care".

"You don't care?" he asked flatly.

I repeated, "I don't care".

He sighed. 

Fantastic. Not even out of my neighborhood and already this sucks, I thought.

Nice attitude. I know.

But there were 5 year old poop issues going on all afternoon and whining that was off the charts (his not mine). I could tell he was not himself. I was worried about him. Also the power flickered on and off multiple times while I was getting dressed. You can't leave a babysitter in your house with no power, can you? What if it goes out while the kids are in the bathtub and everyone loses their mind?

I was worried about getting a call sometime between when I ordered my expensive meal and when it was delivered to me. In my mind I had already played out my apologetic explanation to the server and pictured carrying home my expensive meal in a Styrofoam box.

I asked myself why this was so hard for me. I feel much more guilt leaving them with a trusted and capable babysitter and when I leave them in the care of others. After I drop them off at school I drive off to work and don't think twice about it. It's different when I leave them at home. Home is where we are. Where we do our thing.

One vodka seltzer later I felt my shoulders sink back down from where they had taken up residence next to my ears. After the pomegranate martini and adult conversation with good friends I could actually laugh. After the salmon with brown sugar and plantains was delivered and devoured (and sooooo good) I kicked back in my chair a bit.

The phone never rang. The text of doom never appeared. When we got home way past my bedtime we found out that there were some problems with the 5 year old but the babysitter handled them like the pro that she is and was completely cool with it. (I tipped her extra for that.)

Everything was fine. Everything is fine.

I adored my children yesterday. All day. I rocked the baby when I put him down for his nap and I tickled the five year old and made him a smoothie just because. We went to the park and ate hamburgers and talked about star wars.

And everything is fine.

The shoulders, they shook

I fall asleep in my son's bed, frequently. His bed is like a cloud, I swear to God. Wrapped in my blue, fleece, floor-length bath robe I read him books tucked under his cozy comforter. If I'm especially tired and I'm reading passages I've read a million times, I slip into auto-pilot. My dreaming will start when I'm still awake. While Papa Bear is supposed to be giving a stern lecture to those naughty cubs, I will start to talk about things like purple basketballs and corn on the cob until a stern MOM brings me back to book in my hands.

Last night I finished the the book we were reading and involuntarily shut my eyes for a few minutes before bolting awake again since I knew I couldn't go to bed yet. Once downstairs I realized my iPhone had slipped out of my pocket and was still in his bed. The last time this happened I wound up with 18 photos of his closet on my phone.

I could see his lights were still on and as I slowly opened his door he dove under the covers. My iPhone please.. I said holding out my hand.

He popped out from the blankets excitedly. He just had to show me this one thing! Did I know that my phone played videos?

Uh oh. He was pointing to my YouTube app.

It plays Rock N Roll videos!

Oh good lord, what has he seen.

Wait, wait, mom, really, you have to see this..

Phew.

First he smiled, then he chuckled. Then the shoulders started- that's the best. The silent giggle. When no sounds are coming out but he's so filled with glee he can't contain it.

I should have scolded him for being up too late playing around with things on my iPhone without permission, but the shoulders, they shook and I had no choice but to give in. 

                                           

Nap Time

Happy Place

As I sat last night, my head pressed up against the bars of the crib, a chunk of my hair firmly clutched in the sweaty palm of my other little man, a'la Jasper, I really didn't bat an eye. I didn't agonize, fret or even whimper.

I am sleep deprived, oh yes, I am. I am going through exactly what HBM is at this very moment. Leave him in his crib and his shrieking will break me AND wake his brother who will immediately want a snack, a drink, a bathroom break and can we please watch tv now? (NO WE CAN NOT!) Bring him to our bed and he will kick and thrash and gouge someone (cough*dad*cough)so fiercely in the eyeball that it will require an urgent care visit. (True story)

I am mostly to blame. I have no knack for sleep training. I could never get the hang of it with the first and I really didn't care with the second. I was too tired to care. Bring him to bed, go back to sleep, the end. Only now he's old enough to know what's up and what's up is me, practically every night.

I've let him fall asleep in my arms in my room at night, every night. I've brought him to bed as soon as he wakes. I have reminded myself that he's my last baby and he's barely even a baby anymore and we are apart during the day, he needs to be close to me and I need to be close to him. This is all true. But when he started climbing out of my bed in the middle of the night and I had to put him in his crib because what else could I do and he lost his little mind I realized that it wasn't fair to him. He doesn't recognize his crib or his room as a happy, comfy place.

So I've invested in some D batteries (not cheap! Hello recession!) and I fired up the aquarium and instead of cradling him in my bed I've held him in his rocking chair before bed. He doesn't seem to mind. I've tucked him into his crib before he was sound asleep. His hands reach and search for my hair even as he drifts to sleep so I pressed my head against the bars and let him have it. In a few weeks I will try this when he wakes before morning, once he's had a chance to acclimate. Baby steps.

I've been here before. The thing is I can't even picture it. I know we would rock and there was a smooth jazz station that is no longer on the radio that I used to play every night to soothe him. I remember the sweet smell of a freshly bathed little creature who is about to be five years old. Five years from now my forehead against the hard crib bars will be a hazy, lingering, dreamy memory.  

Artist In Residence

An orange crayon

New artist in residence

All over the house

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Behind the front door

On the closet door

Closet door- side view

Bedroom door. Title unknown.

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You can't get mad about this right? Isn't this something all kids do? I think it's kind of endearing but certain other people in the house (cough*dad*cough) are not amused.