Mother's Day, Part 1: An Idyllic Time

There has been magic in my family this year. I turned around the other day and caught sight of it. Good thing, too. I might have missed it entirely.

My Sonars are getting bigger, getting more independent, doing more and more things to take care of themselves and to take care of me.

In August, Sonar X7 started going to and from school on his own, on his bike. I’ve facilitated his transfer only a handful of times, during rain and illness. After a couple of weeks of anxiety, in which we followed shortly behind him to make sure he didn’t need to be scraped off the sidewalk, the pride settled in for me. I was proud that he was able to negotiate the bike, the helmet, the backpack, the half-mile, the crossing of the big street, the parking, the locking, and the satisfaction of arriving under his own power. His joy at going fast, or slow, or meandering, or whatever way he decided to go, was so apparent and so infectious.

One consequence of his independence was the other two Sonars not having to get up and get ready as early in the morning. Through kindergarten and first grade for Sonar X7, we all got up at the same time, all ate breakfast, all rushed and flurried out the door to walk or drive up to the school. Then the preschool pack and I would come back and settle into our routine. Now though, Sonar X7 is up and off before the other two even crawl out of bed. So our mornings start off quietly and gently, sometimes one at a time. I love this because there are unexpected moments of quiet snuggling, sleepy morning questions and dreams.

Another consequence of Sonar X7’s independence is that the rest of us get a leisurely quiet time in the afternoon, not interrupted by the packing up and heading off to school to pick him up. So we each settle into a spot with books or puzzles, or as often as not for me, the computer, for a while. Some of us sometimes go to sleep. Then we wake up and color or draw until Sonar X7 gets home. Our afternoon then tumbles into a flurry of snacks, homework, and playing outside until dinnertime.

Tucked away in the spaces in between, Sonar X5 is learning to read. Watching him figure out the way the letters and words work to make meaning is one of the coolest things ever. I’ve been here before with the biggest Sonar, but it’s still magic. Each of them has stumbled toward literacy in his own way. Sonar X7’s reading acquisition reminded me of childbirth. It came later than I expected, and then it was sudden and messy and violent and then he was a reader. Now he reads anything and everything he can lay his hands on. His bed table holds the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and encyclopedia of the weird, a comic book, and he’s lying in bed reading Dragonrider by Cornelia Funke. Sonar X5 is sneaking up on literacy. Quietly working out the words that are all around him. Cereal boxes. Some of his books. An activity page here or there. A question about how something is spelled or pronounced. And now he can read all the words on a kindergarten readiness page. He can read most of the words in a few books, partly from working them out and partly from memory. And it’s so delicious to watch how patiently and hard he works at it. Shaping the words in his mouth, listening inside his head, then smiling proudly when realization hits. This is not to say that he doesn’t get frustrated. But he doesn’t let the frustration overwhelm him. When he gets tired, he walks away, knowing in his quiet way that tomorrow he will try again.

In other quiet spaces, Sonar X3 is wondering where he fits in all of this. Nothing so dramatic as learning to read, though he is discovering that he knows most of his letters and numbers, and that feels good to him. He is figuring out how to draw lines and shapes with more intention, which he finds funny. His development though is focused now on the emotional. He sees the things that his siblings are doing, and tries to understand it. He is bold, and a combination of our encouragement and his personality has mostly kept him from being babied by the other kids and most of their friends. But the gulf that separates them is spreading right now. Reading, and very soon kindergarten for Sonar X5 will stretch that gap even farther. And I think Sonar X3 is feeling a little sad about that, though he’s not yet capable of expressing it. I don’t know how this will work itself out, how the two of us will negotiate our time when the older kids go off to school together in August. But I’m excited to figure it out.

Next school year we will likely return to all rising together to accompany Sonar X5 to school. I think there’s a very good chance that he won’t want my company for as long as Sonar X7 did. Seven was forging a new path, with all the anxiety and excitement that entailed. Five sees how his brother has gone before, and has a better idea of what to do. Perhaps after a time the two of them will go off together without me and Three. Three will follow suit in two years, going off on his own kindergarten adventure. And my patterns, my negotiations and requirements will shift again.

I am feeling profoundly lucky today, as a mom, for this right now. For the reading, for the independence, for the emotional development, for the relatively calm and quiet transitions, for having time with each kid that is just mine and theirs. For being able to be here and see it with the confidence that our family is secure, that Partner and I are in agreement about how we want things to work, that each of us is doing our share on the team as we all grow together.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of the beautiful women out there, wherever you are in your negotiation of life.

Be the Grouch

Drythe has something good to say about Oscar here. She is right about Sesame Street doing a better job with a range of human emotions than most children’s shows these days. On most shows, emotions seem to be flat and sanitary, simple and without a lot of passion (good or bad). When was the last time you saw a show for young people that included a kid really popping their cork in anger? When, any of you who are around kids regularly, was the last time you saw an actual kid pop his or her cork in anger? Uh huh.

Even the saccharin sweet Sesame Street characters have complicated feelings. Elmo (red monster) and Zoe (orange monster in tutu) are good friends and play together often. Zoe has a pet rock named, wait for it, Rocco, and she takes Rocco’s feelings very seriously. Rocco has to get his turn on the swings and put in his two cents about what they play. Elmo loves Zoe, but he gets very frustrated with the rock. It is, as Elmo finally yells at Zoe, Just a Rock!!! This interchange deals with Elmo’s initial annoyance, which builds to frustration and finally erupts into anger, and then, with the intervention of a kind adult, the reconciliation of the two monster friends. Now, yes, it’s oversimplified and tidy, but, as Drythe points out, the story happens in about twenty minutes. And if you’ve ever seen two siblings squabble about how to play and what to play, you know that fights often take a similar course, and that few minutes after an eruption of hurt feelings, yelling, and tears, they often are right back to giggling and rolling on the floor.

Oscar is another example of a character who consistently portrays emotions on the grouchy end of the spectrum. And as I pointed out before, he’s not a “bad guy,” nor is anyone else on Sesame Street. When was the last time you saw a “bad guy” on a children’s show? When was the last time you had a face-to-face with your nemesis on the street? Oscar is gruff, grouchy, direct, somewhat intolerant, but he’s also loving, generous, stable, resourceful. He gently reads a bedtime story and tucks in Slimy every night. He chuckles and says he just loves to see the little guy sleep.

I can think of a lot of other storylines on Sesame Street that have addressed jealousy (Baby Bear with his new sister), fear (Abby Cadabby (sp?) getting ready for her first day of school, the big wind that destroyed Big Bird’s nest), obsession (Telly and his triangle collection), silliness (The Honker, Duckie, Dinger Jamboree—say that five times fast, I dare ya), not to mention the treatment of specific life events. Elmo’s dad is deployed to Iraq. Families grow. Parents go to work. Friends fight. People die (anyone remember when Mr. Hooper died? Sigh.) And I don’t even see the show regularly.

The preternaturally calm adults are still there. Though, to be fair, the grown-ups do sometimes get annoyed, flustered, and impatient, though in muted ways. They are sometimes busy. But they do try their best to be supportive of the little characters around them.

As a sort of aside, one of the genius things that the show did from the very first episode in 1969, make the monsters lovable. I can recall a time when Sonar X7 was dreaming or worried about monsters, and I reminded him that Elmo and Cookie Monster were monsters, so we knew that all monsters aren’t bad or scary. It was such a handy tool in reassuring him to be able to think of the good monsters he knew and loved.

Ha. So, I started off this post thinking, Drythe has a good point, Sesame Street is doing ok with emotion. And as I’ve gone on, I’ve talked myself into believing that the show is really doing a great job. And now you should go write a letter to your federal representatives and tell them that you want to continue to support public broadcasting in our country (if I recall, a funding vote on public broadcasting in the U.S. is coming up soon). Participate in this civic enterprise because you can.

Full Disclosure

A few updates and then no more whining.

No, I do not have a plastic surgeon. That was sarcasm.

No, in spite of all experience indicating the contrary, I did NOT have the flu OR pneumonia. An invasive nasal swab and an assay of blood and urine tests confirmed against the flu, favoring instead “Pyrexia of unknown origin” and “Viral Infection NOS (not otherwise specified).” I am a conundrum. Doctor called it ‘ILI’ or Influenza-like Illness. Bastard virus.

Besides a persistent stuffy head and phlegmy cough, my cesarean scar feels like it has been ripped apart on the left side, sending shooting pains up under the mama-belly fat on the left side. No, it has not actually been ripped apart. The coughing has just yanked on the abdominal muscle incessantly and pulled at the tight bit of scarry tissue there. But heed this, oh ye who might consider ELECTIVE cesarean: It’s not a teeny little scar. It’s a big, honking, baby-sized scar. Mine is a big sweet smile that stretches almost from hip to hip across the top of my pubes. I wouldn’t give it up in a heartbeat, representing as it does the gateway into the world for those three awesome Sonars. And scars heal, but they don’t always heal in predictable ways, and I have to think that doing your best to push that kiddo out au naturale has less of a chance of leaving you feeling like your stomach is being split in two every time you catch a bad cough.

On the up-side… I wrote 63 pages on a script that was a lot of fun until it ground to a screeching halt with the onset of ILI. ScriptFrenzy ends tonight with the page count thus. I am really proud of what I wrote, and proud of my ability to crank out ideas and words when the universe conspires to grant me healthy working conditions. The story is one that I think I will work into novelly form rather than trying to finish the script on my own time. I really encourage any of you who started a script (ILEANA!), even if you only wrote one page, to head over to the ScriptFrenzy site before midnight local time and enter a page count. Do not discount the warm fuzzy power of the page-count widget, even if you only enter the number 1. Okay, full disclosure, the page-count widget for NaNoWriMo is more warm and fuzzy, but ScriptFrenzy is on a budget. Still!! Your page-count is awesome and it is yours! A year ago, could you have imagined that you’d even try a script? It’s so cool.

*sigh*

Ok, back to disclosures.

April (hereafter known as the Month of the Endless Demon Virus) was a bitch. I am having a seriously hard time feeling good right now. It would be easy to blame it on the bad bout of viruses, the long slog between getting myself and the rest of the family nominally healthy over the past few weeks. Spiced with the disappointment about falling short of the writing goal. But the truth is, I think I was struggling with enthusiasm and satisfaction even before The Month of Endless Demon Virus went awry.

I am trying to remain hopeful. My family is awesome. I have good people and good things in my life. (count yourselves among them) I know this. I am trying to remember to be patient. To let myself heal. To get through all of the sick drugs and start eating normally again. To not get frustrated when I can’t do all of the things that I normally do.

The patience is a struggle for me.

While I wait around trying to be patient, I’m trying to do a few things that might help things along. I’m taking all of my medicine (which is thankfully almost finished). I’m trying to eat good food and drink gallons of water, and a lot of chocolate. On the theory that my body might be missing something, but I can’t figure it out because I can’t smell or taste anything yet, I am planning to bring home a variety of flavorful foods from the grocery store tomorrow, including some spicy nori rolls with wasabe, the fixings for lasagna with Italian sausage, the fixings for a key lime pie, a jar of hot salsa and some good tortilla chips, and a bag of doritos. Yeah, ok, the doritos might be a bit redundant with the tortilla chips. I’ll get a coke instead. Right now, I am enjoying my first beer for three weeks. It is good. Heck, maybe I’ll even get the ingredients to take up the Yummy Mummy’s hot dog challenge. If I can manage to breathe, I might even run.

Sonar X5 has counseled (sweet child) that I should try doing something crazy. With a wrinkled-nose-smile and a giggle he shrugged off specific suggestions though, so I’ll have to get back to you on that one. Sonar X3 suggested that it would help if everyone tried to be nice. Hear hear. Sonar X7 suggested the lasagna. Partner suggested a strategic application of hot oil, though the language he whispered in my ear was much more colorful.

Bring it on. I’ll try it all. It would just be so nice to feel a little bit good for a change.

So spill it. What do you do when you feel a little blue? What strategies and rituals and tips do you employ for a little warm fuzzy, for a little bit of good when everything else gets you down? I’m only asking because I suspect the next step might involve velcroing the children to the wall and throwing plates, and nobody really wants me to be THAT person. Not even me.

A Moment of Silence

The sling formerly known as Blue (2004)

My next-door neighbor is a new grandma (again). She’s keeping the wee one from time-to-time and asked me today about the baby sling I used to carry the Sonars in. She’d like to make one.

There are no new Sonars planned around here, and I’ve slowly given away most of our baby things as they’ve gotten bigger. The slings I have been unable to part with. I have three. Two that I used (one padded and one unpadded ring sling), and one that Partner used (a gigantic padded ring sling). I have pulled them out several times, thinking to give them away to someone who will use them, only to tear up and shove them back in the drawer.
Green and poufy (2000)
This morning though, I pulled them out and tossed them in the washing machine (they are dusty), thinking that I’d lend them. Neighbor could borrow them and I could help her figure out how to use them before she makes her own. I count this as growth.

When I pulled them out of the dryer (seriously, the padded one would take eight months to dry in 80% relative humidity), I found one lovely fluffy green one, one smooth technicolor one (my favorite in the heat down here), and the fragments of what used to be a light blue fluffy one.

The fabric, worn by years of wearing, washing, sitting in the sun on the back dash of the car, being spit-up on, pooped on, chewed on (no, not usually in that order), swam in, slept in, slept on, leaked on, sat on, wrapped around, dragged around… well, the fabric was finished, and came apart along the entire length of the sling.

Better in the washer than holding a babe, I say. But still, my heart flip-flopped a little bit when I thought of all the hours I toted the three babies around—each one regularly until they were at least 12 or 15 months old, and occasionally well up to and even past 2 years—in that faded blue piece of cloth.

None of the Sonars are babies anymore, none would fit in the sling, nor do I think I could heft them for very long even if they could. Still, like a fabric echo of the physical closeness of their babyhoods, I could hold that sling in my hands and remember physically what it was like. Could still smell, even after many washings and a layer of dust, what we smelled like, that breast-milky, warm-baby smell.

*sigh*

My melancholia lasted about 42 seconds, though, before I took out the seam ripper and started disassembling it. Wondering if I can take the fabric and make it into something else.

An echo of an echo.

Technicolor Wrap (2005)

A Calculus of Silly

Overheard:

Sonar X5: (gigglingly skeptical) That’s completely silly.

Sonar X7: (serious and thoughtful) Nothing is completely silly. Some things can approach complete silliness, but nothing is 100% silly.