Bags for the People

We participated in a Bags for the People workshop with some other homeschoolers at the Mulberry Street Library a few weeks ago. I love this location for homeschool meet-ups because the familiarity is wooing P into a groove that jump-starts his social juices without the typical two hour transition. The dynamic duo that run this small company were so great with the kids, helping them with the sewing machines while still staying out of their way and giving them full creative license. P picked from the used fabrics and quickly designed his bags but then ambled over to play with a couple of boys while the machines were whirring with other workshop-ees.



It was positively adorable to see them, sitting on the wall, stage whispering. One of the boys was older and attempting to display his knowledge. P isn't privy to this sort of game, where you pretend to know more than you actually do and challenge others by name dropping anything resembling anything labeled "big boy." So when they took turns asking each other "which do you like better, Holeymoley Man or Jumping Crazy Villian," it was amazing to see the shift that slowly occurred. At first, the older boy would often pretend to know about some superhero or something, which was pretty cute in and of itself. P would easily answer "I don't know what "x" is" (he has no sense that a lack of knowing is shameful and I freakin LOVE that) and the older boy would blanche but often be caught, because he didn't either :) Then P's other buddy, another 5 year old, stopped copping the "oh, yeah, um, him" bit and started admitting his cluelessness too. After a few more times around the circle, even the oldest boys started confessing when he didn't know what something was instead of playing tough -and you could see the competitive tension drain and the laughing begin. It became very sweet and simple, each of them tossing out things they thought were cool and reveling in their agreement. Or, when they landed on something one or another hadn't heard of, they'd just shrug, smile and move on. I'm not dissing the thought of competition here, but jeez it was fabulous to see a bunch of little boys put away their pissing contest in preference for honesty and fun :)

Burr Boy

P discovered these while playing with friends in the park. He was beyond pleased with himself... for about five minutes ;) Needless to say, this was weeks ago and I'm still pricking the little pills out of random things.

Scavenger Hunting

For a buddy's bday we went on a scavenger hunt in the park. It was such a fun idea for the kids, culminating in a thermos of hot cocoa and lots of hopping and jumping in the cold. P had a grand time.

Mayday, mayday, the sleigh is losing altitude....

P, admiring the Rockefeller Tree on Solstice.



The fate of the ficus was determined. The child chose the magic. And E and I followed suit, per instructions.

This did not, however, mean we donned red suits or beards. Or specifically said, yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Clause. Nor did we listen for sleigh bells and leave out cookies (although the hypoglycemic mister may have appreciated that particular slight of sleigh.) The Little Man had no expectations, no knowledge of these traditions, so that cat stayed in the proverbial red velvet bag for one more year. We did, however, produce some proof. A present was placed under the ficus, signed by a Mr. C....

P has long dreamed of an electric train like he's seen at the holiday shows (indeed, he has painted and re-sculpted trains he already has to create something closer to his dream steam engine). The completely realistic tracks and the great black engines that whiz through mountain passes are unarguably dreamy. He specifically asked Santa for such a gift. I have researched these to no end. Sets garner glowing reviews from thrilled parents, mixed with the tentative thoughts of first timers with five year olds. Inevitably, they go something like this, "My five year old is as equally responsible as he is obsessed with trains. He has amazing dexterity and can focus for four hours. We just knew he was ready for this Polar Express set regardless of the over 8 age recommendation....Despite his attempts to be delicate, our darling destroyed multiple pieces before day's end... Buyer Beware."

Seriously, every review for the under 10 crowd said the same thing. And I've watched P, first hand, with the one's my brothers played with decades ago. Its not pretty, even when he's trying really hard to be careful. The shit's just breakable.

But his dream of a Polar Express train going around a glowing Christmas tree (er, goth ficus) didn't have to be entirely foiled. I found a wooden set that would join his present Brio collection with an adorable (and hardy) steam engine to boot. It even came with a sleigh bell, supposedly from Santa's very own sleigh. Thus, the plan for proof was hatched.

The child stayed up late, playing Santa himself. (Having now been around enough to know that there is such a thing as "presents piled high", the Little Man looked upon our sparsely laid under-boughs (Sparse because, seriously, every month is "Christmas" for this kid! I'm not going to restrict dreams and wishes to a commercialized bastardization of someone else's religion and then pile on the goods) and took it upon himself to right this apparently incongruous wrong. It wasn't that he showed any hint of expecting or personally wanting more, it seemed he merely thought our picture didn't match the picture society has shown him. So he corrected this by packing favorite toys into packages and labeling them. The outside of his gift labels featured "J"'s or "E"'s and the inside, a sly "S." ) Post present making, he turned in for a very short night's sleep...

Meanwhile, a little mid-night magic later and we were hopeful the ficus wouldn't disappoint. This was a hard decision for me though. I knew what it meant to set something new under that tree. But I kept going back to the first item on his Christmas list: "I hope you're real, Santa." I finally decided that this magic he wanted so badly, was a gift in itself, and one I thought I could give. Thus, the train encircled ficus come morning time...

The child awoke too early and too excited to possibly wait another minute. Yet he greeted us so sweetly with a whispered "Merry Christmas, Papa, Merry Christmas, Mama. Would you mind getting up? I'm ready to get up.") Upon seeing the tree, he was a bit overwhelmed, the magic manifest, staying just far enough away from his new Polar Express that, had I not seen the same reaction every gift giving holiday of his life, I would have worried we'd underwhelmed rather than over :) He quickly turned things around by handing out gifts to E and I, beaming. Then he turned back to the item in question, kneeling down for a closer look.

And then the questions really began. Who was it from? Did Santa really put it there? Could I hear the bell? Could Papa hear the bell? The first two were pretty simple, we'd let his imagination and desire form the answers. He so wanted to believe that the "What do you think, P?" that usually doesn't do diddly, was actually enough. The last proved trickier. Supposedly, only those that truly believe (in Santa) can hear the bell. If we answered "yes," it could simply mean that both our ears and the bell were in working order. Or, in his state of hope, we could be saying "yes," that we believed. Likewise, "no" could either mean we don't believe in magic anymore, or that the bell really is magical but our lack of belief means "no," we can't hear it ( a strict division between child and adult illustrated in the movie version of the book, as in many movies (which is why we all love Totoro so much!!!)). Without realizing the weight of my response, I automatically answered yes, since I could hear the bell and was bound and determined to support his dream sans lie. E surprised me by playing along beautifully and answering "no."

Slowly, he pushed his train around its tracks, noting each exciting detail. Then he moved on to his gifts from family (thanks again, family!) and as he returned to his steam engine, I moved to the kitchen to start breakfast. As he studied his proof, he chatted with Froggy, describing all the details. And then... he noticed one more detail. "Mama! MAMA!....... I think Santa bought my present at a store."

Uh-oh. The kid really hasn't been regaled with Santa stories, but he has heard there is a workshop with elves... "Really?" I asked innocently as I walked towards him. "Yah, um, Mama, look here."

And he pointed to the inside of the mountain the train can pass through to the the tiny, backwards "R," surrounded by a tell tale star, slightly raised in its plastic glory. I had so wanted to (as everyone eventually recommended - thanks for the thoughts!) give him space for his magic (of which we'd already "deprived" him for the last 5 years ;) that this Santa themed gift bought from a big box store wooed my in. Typically, I do my best to merge his wishes with earth friendly enterprises, but there are no small artisans sculpting renewably harvested Polar Express trains... so, it was the Toy's R Us internet deal for Santa this year ;) And dammit all if the kid hadn't figured it out. Elves shmelves.

It was at this moment that I realized how vested I felt in fulfilling his need for magic. He's such a logical kid. I remember changing his diaper before he was 2 and he was saying the cow in the book he was chewing on wasn't a real cow. A highly comical version of Magritte doing "Ceci n'est pas une vache" popped into my head and I laughed at an almost two year old having such an issue :)

So I stood there, looking at the logo, mouth moving silently, trying to remember the save all phrase with which my mother had armed me. Froggy thought faster. "Doesn't Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer start with an "R," Phoenix?" Unfortunately, Phoenix doesn't know who Rudolph is, so this didn't help matters any. My mind finally clicked onto my mom's phrase and I smiled. "Its a magical time, P," I weakly quipped and then I turned on my heels and ran back to my eggs. I could vaguely hear Froggy and P chatting further, but the cooking noises drown out the particulars. I heard lots of questions, repeating in endless iterations of the only one that seemed to matter. Do you believe in Santa? Is Santa real? Is this really from Santa? I heard Froggy talking about Frog Santa. Nevertheless, I thought we were safe.

And then an hour later he erupted with a "Mama! I found another clue!" Jeez, I hadn't even actually lied yet and that damn snowball was still rolling out of control. P met me at the table, waving a piece of train track. "This," he said dramatically, "is a piece of Thomas the Train track. NOT, the same as the rest of the set." He raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. I should have just done an equally dramatic "hmmm" and seen where his dreams led us, but that vested interest thing mixed noxiously with my inexperience at the lying (and determination to avoid specifically lying) thing and produced the tell tale shifty eyes blathering thing. "Well, the train tracks probably didn't fit around the tree and table the way it was imagined... and there was extra track just sitting here to make it all match up, so, um, it probably seemed like a good idea to make the track line up and, um, uh..." The child silently narrowed his eyes and nodded.

I dunno, but if the kid isn't set on it, next year we're further expanding our cultural studies and doing Hanukkah or expanding Solstice. This Santa shit is triiiiiicky.

Stay Out

I remember these signs from childhood. Typically, on one of my friend's doors, aimed at their younger siblings. Now there is one on our bathroom door. Aimed at...? I'm still not sure. You know, the kid spins these yarns in his head and sometimes I just can't keep up...

Like tonight. I was running exceptionally late starting dinner, due to the longest arctic trek to the grocer ever known (When the snowplows push all of that snow into heaping mountains along the sidewalk? Well, that's white, puffy, nirvana for this five year old. The Little Man narrated his way 15 blocks there and 15 blocks back, climbing, falling, grunting, grinning. Walking on the shoveled sidewalk standing beside those peaks never even occurred to him...) So, the soup base is threatening to burn (the UPS interruption was so well timed tonight) and the kitchen floor is decorated with every piece of sharply edged wooden fruit in existence (he's been cooking too, of course) and the cat is screaming some discontent about her dinner and I'm hopping around attempting Not to let the soup burn and chop other foods and ignore the cat and listen to the Little Man's story for BB, while dutifully delivering the lines P provides for his favorite pink monster, aka me. Typically not a problem (this isn't brain surgery, no matter how dramatically I paint my days..), I'm just unusually tired and feeling overwhelmed in my head - and so I say this to the Little Man. I ask for 2 more minutes to get the soup together and then promise person to person play. "But Mamaaaaaaa!" he woefully exclaims, "I could forget my story by then!" Good point :)

So, I probably missed the story for the door warning too (I know - this sounds like I'm such a shitty mama, spacing out stories by my precious babe. I don't mean to, I promise! I dream of running to the computer and speed typing as he rambles just to capture the phrases and the fascinations. (Today's favorite? "And then a feeling of dread falls over BB." But that's all I've got - the rest of the story was lost :) I try for eye contact and nods and repeated phrases... But by six o'clock sometimes, well, my wee brain appears full to capacity until I zone for at least 5...) And that stay out sign was an evening request, so...

Or, it's also possible, it's just a way to savor his new fascination with secrets. The quiet conveyance of classified information is listed as developmentally appropriate in the 5's book, but I assumed we would miss this since he isn't in kindergarten. Nope! Apparently there's something innate to this one, cuz the kid is captured by the quiet whisper. Its not mean spirited, in any sense. He's not looking and giggling, looking back and giggling. These are secrets. Something private. Something private that he's wiling to share, but only with This One Person. It's not exclusive really... and yet it is :) And, typically, it excludes Ethan. On occasion, when entranced by something he knows I'm uncomfortable with (like asking someone to give him their toy, for, like, forever...), then I'm excluded (d'oh! hiding from what he deems to be my disappointment? Or my interference? Either way, going to have to dwell on that one...)

These days, all secrets manifest the same here: A throaty whisper, directly into an ear, that is simultaneously impossible to understand and unbelievably ticklish. And it seems his sound gauge isn't set quite yet. The whisper is either pin soft, and thus totally inaudible, or a solid stage whisper that accidentally includes the excluded. As yet, 007 we are not...

As for the sign, I'll have to ask him the back story and hope he isn't hurt :) Apparently, it didn't play a very big role in whatever plot BB was playing, as its been hanging there for over a week with nary a word since. Oh, and he hasn't actually excluded anyone from the bathroom based on the secretive sign either, so its purpose really remains a mystery....

Dear Santa

Its that time of year again. And the Christmas books are starring front and center on every bookshelf we pass. Leering, jeering, teasing the Little Man with that Fat Man in the red suit. Oy.

After reading some holiday cheer last year, we had The Big Talk. Was he real, was he not real? P wanted the truth, and nothing but the truth. So I told him the peppermint coated truth about the Spirit of Santa and the Spirit of Giving and Santa's fab life in Storyworld and how lots of Mamas and Papas play Santa in the Real World, blah blah blah. No problem.

But now he's a year older. Everything changes in a year. Except for the bookshelves. So we read some books at the Strand last weekend and they got P to thinkin'. Is Santa really real?

I started with the no brainer, "What do you think, P?" But that's never enough in our house. Me? I think I lived in a fantasy land quite nicely as a child. This one, not so much. But at the end of the weekend, with Santa still on our minds, we cuddled in bed, chatting. He instructed me to leave no presents under our tree (our ficus tree, once forgotten and forlorn, that P rescued off of the street. Our 10 foot ficus that was found some Twenty Blocks from here. Our enormous ficus that almost ruined E's back carrying it up to our flat. The same ficus that seemingly brought the entire neighborhood out to greet us as we schlepped it home atop our wee scooter, in the middle of the street (since its height hit the tree covered sidewalks and ficus trees are notoriously picky about being bonked). Our ficus tree that now features a dino world in its large pot base. The same ficus tree P religiously waters every week, I religiously mist every morning and Danda religiously sleeps under every afternoon. That ficus tree is now decked out as what E deems "gothic Christmas," in blacks and whites and glittery birds. But I'm sure Santa would recognize it as the present bearing place to be....)

At any rate. We are to put nothing below the ficus. Its his little test. If something is below the ficus on xmas, then the LIttle Man will know, beyond a doubt, that Santa escapes storyworld. The other half of this equation is obvious. And I can imagine the LIttle Man's face if enacted upon. So I asked him if he'd be disappointed if the ficus stood alone on this hopeful occasion. Yup. He really, really wants Santa to be real. Great. So I am not to pretend to be Santa, yet the Little Man will be crushed if I do not.

So I asked him a generality. If there was something you wanted to believe in, but it wasn't real, would you want me to pretend it was real with you? I loved his response. "Well, I'd just want it to be real. But, yes, I'd like you to pretend with me."

I'm still not sure where that leaves our ficus in two weeks.

But yesterday, the Little Man sat down to dictate his letter to Santa. Its word for word, except for the occasional sentence I missed while I shook out my aching arm trying to keep up with his fast flying fantasies... In defense of its length, I kinda egged him on to dream big and share anything he was hoping for. Since almost everything is exciting to this five year old, I needed to mine for holiday gift ideas. Stealing from Santa, nice, eh? Anyway, I share it here because I remember so loving to read my youngest brother's (ok, brother in-law, technically:) Jace's Christmas lists:

"Dear Santa,
I hope you're real Santa. My toy list is:

Pogo stick, tons of Hess trucks, lots and lots of stuff for my kitchen, canned foods, boxed foods, ketchup, mustard, every type of food that's existed to fill my whole kitchen up. And I also want a toy sailboat that really works, that has a motor that goes really fast that Frogy, Big BB and Sock Monkey can fit in. And I want it to have sails, those flags that come off the top? But actually, it will be a motor boat. With a remote control.

And can you do one more thing? Can you get me the whole set of G.Stilton books, please, Santa?

Santa, can you get me a really big bottle of lemon mints, the one's I've been eating a lot? I want a new toy airplane of the one that broke yesterday. Some smoothies for my kitchen too. Some cups that fit it. And, Santa, can you come and fix my kitchen? No water comes out of the sink! Can you fix the handles? Turn 'em for the water to come on and off, on and off.

Lots and lots and lots of things for BB's doll house. And please. Get him lots of food. He doesn't have any food for his house!

And Santa, can you do this? A lego set that you can make trains out of that run on real tracks? And can you get me a Polar Express train that runs on tracks that has a switch that turns it on and a tunnel and trees. Lots of trees. And a big white mat to go under it to look like snow? And can you get some snowflakes for my trees, please?

And Santa, I never ever want anyone else to ever, ever die. Ever. No more mummies, no more ghosts. No more dying, ever. And can you get me a swing set too?

And a ton a TON of crystals. But not salt crystals. And can you please do this one more thing? Can you get me lots and lots and lots and lots of money?

Can you, Santa, do this? Please, Santa, oh please, get me a big, big, big Christmas tree? A humongous tree with lots and lots of decorations on it that will last forever. And when it dies it will just plant a new tree in its spot in the house.

Sorry, Santa, I've got to leave, but you can get another list another day. I love you, Santa, do you love me too? Send me a card and write on there if you are real or not. I hope you are real.

Love,
Phoenix."

He didn't really have to leave, there at the end. We were home the rest of the day. Either he realized I was running out of space on the page, or he finally ran out of wants. I'm not sure which :)





By the way: If anyone reading this had a kid with the same conundrum (wanting fantasy to be reality but wanting it to really be real!) shoot me a comment on how you handled it? I'm all ears here...

Gramps and Gramps are in the house

P loves living with Grams and Gramps part of the year. I mean, LOVES it. So it can be a bit of a rough transition back home, without them. Fortunately, they followed us up again this year for some well timed meetings! P and Grams had a great time looking at the holiday lovelies and Gramps and P had a delightful time gambling over dinner. But that's for another post ;)

Pistachios (said with disdain...)

I don't relish the weeks we experiment with nuts. But the Little Man loves kernels of all kinds, and its a sad thing to live without a love :)

So he bought a bag of pistachios in Kansas (on an outing with E;), but agreed to wait the week until we were safely ensconced in our home... where no one else would have to deal with us! Upon the decided day, he gleefully dug into the bag, so happy at the thought that they might join the reliable realm of pecans.

As you can kinda see in the pic above, pecans and pistachios remain unjoined :) He didn't end up eating very many, but his skin didn't care. Between the bruise (it doesn't show up so well in this shot) and the swollen, red, rashy eyes and mouth, the kid looked seriously uncared for. And though his suddenly argumentative and seriously irrational ways this week occasionally tempted me towards an uncaring thought or two... I'm finding it easier and easier (now that he's older and understands what's happening (and so do I;)) to hold him through his unrelenting frustrations and say "Its just the nuts, baby, feeling all nutty. It feels so big right now, but its gonna be ok." While this solves absolutely nothing, it gives him a light or two at the end of the tunnel like holes he digs himself into when he's reacting, and he's starting to understand and reach for the rope.

After just an evening and an afternoon of pistachios, he set them aside, himself, and hasn't touched them again. If only the little buggers got out of his physical system that fast ;)

Vespa Riding

When P wasn't hauling us around on the John Deere, we could often be found flying about on his Vespa. My non-child height precluded my participation up front in the diminutive Deere, so P was pumped to find I fit his minty green go getter. Grabbing BB, he squeeched up close to his handle bars and beckoned me aboard. There was something precious about sitting behind such a small body, wrapping my arms around my wee son's waist as he yelled "hold on!" Obviously, if I went, I was taking him down with me, regardless of how sizable he was feeling ;)

The electric motor blew me away. Fully charged, we travelled back and forth to the barn over and over again. Then P figured we better follow Barry Bobbit up the drive to the highway and check the mail for Grams. It was a sunny day, what the hay. We could push the darn thing back when the battery died.

But it didn't! It carried the three of us all the way up and back, racking up well over a half mile that afternoon. It was a very s-l-o-w half mile by the time we finished it, but we made it :)

That day, P also made some important discoveries. First, the turbo button on his scooter (this pleased him greatly). Second, he learned how to lean (and not lean) into a turn while going turbo (which pleased me greatly... If the below video doesn't make you want to run across the drive and swoop up his little body, then you have no heart I tell you! Well, despite the fact that I obviously did not do that ;) A quiet nod and smile (followed by a hearty chuckle:) was all he needed. But watching the video makes me want to hug him now!)

The fact that BB was the obstacle course almost goes without saying ;)

Man with a Plan

P always has a plan. Every second of every day, the kid has a plot prepared and can typically be found spewing instructions and cuing cards.

One day in Kansas, he beckoned me outside, carrying a Root Beer bottle he'd dug out of my mother's fridge. There was twine in his other hand and a plan on his lips. I was instructed to tie a trailer to his John Deere and then climb aboard with BB. P was taking us on a jaunty ride to a picnic spot. He hopped in, drove us around in circles (while Grams snapped a shot - thanks, Mom!) and then up and down the drive, eventually landing at a little table set out front. There he slid into his seat and pretended to sip his beverage, uttering, "Oh, Mama, isn't this a lovely day for a picnic?"

Our Orchid

Sweet Aunt Marielle put together a little birthday party for the Little Man at a bowling alley in Kansas. P was pumped, pie was purchased, it was an all around good time.

But a stark comparison was made by a very astute three year old that day. One that usually flies under my radar these days, comparisons having flown by the wayside a few years back. The Little Man is, well, a little different.

In a good way, of course :) But he isn't your average newly minted five year old that bounces into a bowling alley and bounds over to the balls with big strides. He doesn't wave to his extended family and laugh at their introductory jokes. When presented with an adorable 3 year old companion, he doesn't say hey and run to play. Nope. Not a lot of giggling and bounding around here :)

But he isn't shy. Not that I even know what the hell shy really is. But I don't think that's P at all. In fact, thinking about it reminds me of Cousin Travis' wedding. P was a wee babe just starting to walk, maybe 8 or 9 months? When family poured out of the ceremony and came to cuddle P, he shrieked. He hid, he dropped to his knees and fled.

So, when, a few years later, his sweet new friend (pictured above) repeatedly asked "Why isn't Phoenix talking?" at his birthday party, well, all I could think of was, "It's P!" "He's settling in" is what I told the cute questioner, but I don't know if this answer was actually satisfactory or not :)

I've mentioned his slow to transition ways. Hell, just the transition between sleep and life is still a tiny struggle for him on some days. The transition into a loud, bright space with lots of people speaking to him is enough to have his turtle head shell shocked into hiding. Its one of those traits I so wish I would have received an owner's manual for. His sudden and dire need to be carried into a store (after having happily walked for blocks) confounded me for years. And when he does use his own momentum, his motor stall in the middle of almost every new doorway has created more traffic jams than I care to count.

Looking back, these are obvious "transition" issues. But I'm a slow learner :) So slow, in fact, that I only just realized how alike P and I are. Upon arriving at a party, I will immediately begin, in a most busy fashion, some sort of business. Arranging, delivering, de-coating. Whatever is available. I see no faces, I barely toss hello's. I know this smacks of rudeness, but I just can't bring myself to assimilate into social gatherings quickly. Seriously, I get so overwhelmed I feel dizzy. Which seems just ridiculous to me :)

This busy bee beginning is my turtle shell. P's is perhaps less smooth (though I'm guessing mine seems strange too:), he remains quiet and watchful, typically behind my leg :) When we arrived for our Tday Schultz Extravaganza, the house was teeming with loving relatives. I bee lined (;) it to the kitchen, deliveries to be made and all. The child slinked into the empty basement. Not yet having my aha moment, a brief second of social angst hit me and I started to coax him upstairs in reply to relative's requests. Then it hit me. We had told him we'd head to the basement with him if he needed a break to wrestle or gather himself. He had, apparently, listened, and innately knew he needed this safe space for his transitional period. And as I sat in the dark with him, I breathed a huge sigh of relief too, only to suddenly understand our similarities. Duh! Well, I said I'm slow ;)

Eventually, our social juices get flowing and we are both annoyingly present at parties :) But the painstakingly slow speed at which we arrive at "normal" is obvious in P (and perhaps me, though I'll never know because all of my friends are too nice to tell me!) So slowly obvious in the Little Man, in fact, that a three year old noticed it, both on the Bday and on Tday.

Ahh, well, Mr. Slow To Warm eventually locked himself up with his sweet gal pal, giggling (her) and grinning (him). They held hands and ran around, both seeming "normal" before the party ended...

Anyway, the whole point of this post was to link this article. It is unbelievably fascinating. The title paragraph reads:

"Most of us have genes that make us as hardy as dandelions: able to take root and survive almost anywhere. A few of us, however, are more like the orchid: fragile and fickle, but capable of blooming spectacularly if given greenhouse care. So holds a provocative new theory of genetics, which asserts that the very genes that give us the most trouble as a species, causing behaviors that are self-destructive and antisocial, also underlie humankind’s phenomenal adaptability and evolutionary success. With a bad environment and poor parenting, orchid children can end up depressed, drug-addicted, or in jail—but with the right environment and good parenting, they can grow up to be society’s most creative, successful, and happy people."

It goes into much, much more than just this theory and is more than worth the read. Pondering P's similarities to his sensitive parents had me wondering. Where is it mentoring. When is it genes? When is it personality? When is it.... my fault? Hehee. So, of course, this line jumped right out at me:

"What happens at the dyadic level, between mother and infant, ultimately affects the very nature and survival of the larger social group.”

No pressure, really. No pressure at all in this parenting schtick...

Kansas Shenanigans

We've been so busy celebrating family and s-p-a-c-e in Kansas... The blog has been backseat, bigtime :)

There's just so much newness (and did I mention space?) to keep us occupied! Friends and family flew in from all over for Tday happenings. I'll try and toss up some updates over the next few days.

Until then, think of P, half human, half coiled spring. The child spent endless amounts of time flinging himself off of the center island at his father. The two would dance with danger, deviously daring one another to step further back, jump further... Typically, this was my cue to fold laundry :) But one night I stomached it to snap shots, per the child's request. A video was also in order, but that's another night's prep away!

And yah, that distance? It's as far as it looks.

Froggy Goes Hollywood

BB got some screen time the other night, so its time for fair turn-around ;)

P and E had a project a few weeks ago. They would make a movie with Froggy. Though P's plush pals are rather round characters, cardboard descriptions would follow thusly:
BB: The ever devoted younger brother who often misunderstands situations. He is scared of numerous things and is therefore fabulously fun to both torment and teach.
Sock Monkey: Hmmm, a little ornery, he's a yarn weaver, loving tall tails and chase based games.
Froggy: Well, basically, Froggy is a fuck. Seriously. He's ornery, tricky, argumentative, and when pushed to his limits, becomes "Super Froggy," the likes of which are not pretty.

From this cast, P has his choice of playmates, and yet, Froggy gets playtime. I don't get it. Well, I guess I do, a little:) When P picks Froggy, the gloves come off. Its jungle rules. Though I'll still hear him ask polite questions on occasion, or try to communicate cooperatively, generally there is just shrieking. Happy shrieks that evolve into pissed off shrieks, then foot stomps, then strongly worded directives to Froggy on how to be a better friend. When P picks Froggy, he has to be tough, stand up for himself, fight for his rights... and he can play a little rotten too :) Now, I just watched the clip below, in which (in typical sneaky Froggy form) Froggy appears to be a pretty nice guy, while the Little Man plays the part of hellion. Rest assured, this was all provoked, pre- camera roll. Well, mostly provoked...

Because, when the three of them decided to make a movie, P and Froggy fought all evening about how the movie would go. Which, basically, became the movie...

Halloween 2009

P, as I've mentioned before, is always P. Unless he is Woof-Woof, the imaginary dog that is P's only alter-ego. Despite finagling numerous costumes in the last two years, he will not wear them in front of anyone but me, and even then, only briefly. (One evening, sporting his bat costume, the Little Man realized it was near E's arrival time and was in a frenzy to remove the polyester velour. He hurriedly explained that Papa wouldn't know who he was! When I reassured him that Papa would always recognize his little boy, P asked, astonished, "How?!" He was a bat, for gawd's sake, how on earth would E figure him for a boy? :) Even with me, after a moment or two, he has to slide out of pirate garb to make sure I know its still him. While this has been a long standing habit, of late, its climbed to new heights.

In fact, I can no longer speak in any voice but mine or BB's. I'm prone to accents, funny voices, being a natural dork and all. P, however, will stand it no longer. If I slip into something silly, he claps his hands (his current physical exclamation point) and yells "Just. Be. Mama!!!!" Sometimes he even adds a foot stomp. Seriously, lately he gets lost so completely into his imagination, he can't see the neon signs pointing back towards reality.

Long story short, the kid wanted to Trick or Treat this year, but had no interest in sporting a costume. Yet, he knew it was expected and wanted to play by the rules. Tough conundrum. I mentioned he could accentuate something that is a part of him, rather than being something he is not. He could be an Explorer, a Painter, a Rock Collector... He suggested a paintbrush. Great! He suggested a Tree. Great! He suggested a Mountain, with hiking trails, a moose, a little river, lots of trees and a tiny BB, hiking on the trails. Chased by a bear. Ummm, not so great. So, of course, this is the one he wanted :)

Fortunately, when Halloween morning rolled around a day or two later, P wasn't in the mood to make a costume. He just wanted to ride Rody. Perfect! I said. Be a Rody Rider. So he was.

He greatly wanted me to accompany him Trick or Treating. I greatly wanted to go. But E is unable to make hummus, home-made pita bread and fancy brownies (P's requests for his first big Bday party, falling on the following day) so the roles were set and off they went. Fabulous Aunt Alicia and Uncle Seth tagged along and P, reportedly, had a great time.

He returned home with the rain and set to organizing and categorizing his new candy collection. He didn't unwrap a single piece of it, but trick or treated, over and over, with Froggy and BB, from his cardboard box "house" :) I'm fairly certain he was the only "Wody Widah" that day, and has received a number of blank stares when relating his "costume" choice. Next year, we'll have to pick something he can pronounce a little more clearly....

Kansas Car Car

P pulled the old red fire truck out of the basement the other day and was pleased to find his legs long enough to push the pedals. Outside, he instructed BB to follow along behind, which the monster gladly did. Then The Little Man grabbed his best buddy and plopped him on the back for a real ride. Moments later BB was, quite purposefully, knocked off. I kept the camera rolling. Were I a betting kinda gal, I could have placed good money on how the scene would unfold....

Warehouses

The Little Man still prefers swirls and abstracts, but every once in a while he has a story to tell while painting. He popped this out before we left town, catching me by surprise since he hadn't ever painted anything like it. He said it was a warehouse in the fall...

Seriously?

After dinner, as I wash the dishes and do normal motherly duties (not to say they couldn't be fatherly too - just that E hasn't seen P all day, so..), E and P play. Seriously play. There is shrieking, laughing, running, strange voices, toys everywhere and, quite often, at least one set of bruises per night. Typically, Froggy is involved for a while, until his, um, ornery personality pisses P off. Then there is typically a brief, imaginative break, during which E is not E. Like tonight (I'm sick and therefore get to skip matronly chores in lieu of butt sitting) I hear gruff voices and a child astride my husband's back saying, "Go find Grams, Bear, but you may not eat her." Then, shortly thereafter, "Bear, go find Froggy." And, whalah, E is busy doing two voices, alternating a falsetto Frog and a grizzly Bear. Occasionally P becomes so involved in the play that I hear E cry out in pain... The Little Man having chomped on the irritating Frog, forgetting Papa's fingers lie within...

Well, as I walked the laundry through the kitchen (back in Brooklyn, before our trip to Kansas) one night, there were the boys (seen above), doing... ummm, I don't know. But they were taking whatever it was quite seriously, no? I heard the word "guard" tossed around as I put up the towels...

P gets unbelievably frustrated with his father (they are two peas in a pod and therefore butt heads beautifully), I just hope he realizes at the same time how lucky he is to have such a perfect playmate.

I wish...

P has taken to safety pinning Medium Size BB to his pant leg for even more constant companionship and ease of reach...


Before leaving town, P and I spent an evening hanging out in Unions Square, watching the skateboarders. Feeling inspired, the Little Man flipped, jumped and flung himself from the stairs and bike ramps, eventually landing at the wishing fountain (by the Ghandi statue.) There, a little girl tossed in a penny. P was hot to make a wish too and started to scrabble for a penny from the bottom of the fountain, eventually tossing in one from my bag instead :) As he whirled his arm, he muttered under his breath, but all I caught was the word "BB."

"Whaja wish for?" was met with a "Its a secret, Mama." I patted his head and we headed towards E's office. Not ten steps further, P was gushing. "Ok. I can tell you, Mama. Do you know what I wished for?" Me, head shake. P, uncomfortable squiggle. "I wished for BB to be real."

My heart actually seized up on this one :)

P and BB are suuuuch good friends. Best friends, really. The only catch being that.... BB isn't real. I've gone back and forth and back and forth over the years, swaying between concern (is this totally loony???) to heralding its fabulousness (built in play therapy!) and more. I know its normal, especially for onlies, to have imaginary friends. And for kids to role play with their parents. And for certain dolls/toys to seem larger than life in childhood. (P actually believes BB to be magic. He's not one for anything non-factual, but one day we left BB in the middle of the playroom. When we returned, BB was under Papa's desk. P was beside himself with excitement. I had no explanation for the situation and P, ever the scientist, went through all possible theories and found flaws in each and every one - except for the most obvious. BB is magical, really and truly.)... Anyway, BB combines all of these childhood standards. Nevertheless...well, I don't even know. Just, nevertheless :)

So, here we are back in Kansas, and P and BB are having a blast exploring together. (I'd prove this with pics but.... we forgot to pack the camera card transfer thingamajiggy that gets the pics from the camera to the computer...) So, anyway, P and BB were enjoying their little slice of heaven yesterday, playing with this teeny tiny ladder from an old fire truck. The ladder stands about a foot tall by a few inches wide, with a few rungs, and P was putting it up against anything and everything and then wiggly balancing his way up. He'd then turn and watch BB climb up. Or, snatch it out from under BB as BB started to climb. Its always a toss up :)

As they skipped across the wall they had just scaled, I lost my hold on BB and he fell into the hedge below. And bounced. P looked on in surprise, then quickly swept BB up and tossed him into the hedge again. Again, the doll rebounded without sinking through the leafy top. The Little Man loved it. It was pretty funny to see, especially P's astonishment, so after a few more goes, I started to raise my camera to capture it all on video. As I reached for the camera it all went into slow-mo though, because I heard P mutter "Hey, I want to try that."

Do I raise the camera and capture what is sure to be utterly hilarious, or do I throw myself across the hedge to protect my kid? At the same time that my hands are working on the camera and my mind is working on a decision my mouth is trying to form the words "Stop!" and "It won't hold you!" Of course, the kid is waaaaay too fast for any of this. I accomplished absolutely nothing, no capturing of the kid or the camera and couldn't even spit out a warning, before he'd already taken a flying leap.

Needless to say, he didn't bounce. And it was, honestly, gut busting. I know that sounds awful, but he was fully clothed (read: padded), not very high up (its not a ginormous hedge or anything) and its a really leafy bush. By the time he cast a confused glance my way (wha? I didn't go boinga?) I was, well, already busting a gut. He instantly grinned too, seeing the humor in the situation. Then he shrieked, "BB!! Did you see that?!!!"

Ahhh, one of the pitfalls of having a 10 ounce, fluffy best friend. He bounces when he pounces on a privet. The Little Man, not so much....

A video free life...

I know this is in no way related to anything I mentioned in the previous post, but its been brewing for a while now. We've been video free for a little over three months here, and its about time for another babblingly, boring blog post anyway, so... ;) (Really, there's no way to sum up the whole subject in one post, but that won't stop me from trying...)


I don't know if I've mentioned it or not, but whole life unschoolers trumpet the tv. Along with giving kids the space to listen to their own minds (research what excites them) and bodies (eat what they want (in a well informed environment!), sleep when they want etc), the kids generally watch what they want, when they want, too. And this works well for many. But I've also read posts of woe on the unschooling boards from the moms of kids that are decompressing all day, every day, in front of the tube. I also hear the standard reply. Join them in their joy. Observe what they are learning. Relax and they will too.... I've read all of the material, I get the philosophy. I also get the Waldorfian demonization of screen time. The consumption and anti-marketing issue (Watch this trailer for Consuming Kids, the Commercialization of Childhood, its a fascinating five minutes). And the middle road theory. And the research that says its addictive. That it causes ADD. The theory that it isn't addictive. That it changes brain patterns. That it will make our brains evolve in new ways. That it will make us brain-dead. That it will make us jump into ponds. The list is endless...

Cuz there's a lot of material out there on "screen time" these days. Much more than in the early '70's. Both E and I came from families that embraced the boob tube. Unlimited viewing, hampered only by school time and activities galore. Our busy parents enjoyed watching something in their downtime, the large box (sans remotes in those days!) dominating both of our family rooms growing up. So, while neither of us grew up lolling in front of the small screen (school, music lessons, friends and sports as natural deterrents) it was a constant, benign presence, peacefully available without any shameful connotations. (I had a few friends with strict one hour per day policies and thought that highly barbaric ;)

So I appreciated growing up without screen stigmas. It was just never an issue in our house. Nevertheless, our college dorm rooms didn't feature any viewing equipment. And we were always too busy studying, working or having fun to ever sit in front of the common space TV during college. So, it disappeared from our lives at age 18, never to really reappear....

Because once married, we made the conscious decision to forgo the time sucker. We started with a family loaner (both families were quietly appalled that we would live sans small screen) that slowly accumulated more and more dust. There were too many books to read, too many projects to complete, too many interesting discussions to be had. And after four years without the box, it seemed kinda silly. Contrived. The news was abysmally inaccurate. Granted, we were limited by bunny ears, there are bits of interest and even intelligence floating in over the more expensive waves ;) But we realized we wanted something else on that particular shelf, that there really wasn't any room in our lives anymore for the telly. So, when in need of entertainment or an artsy infusion, we would happily flounce off to the theater instead. Our news came from various online sources lacking in funding issues ;) We weren't anti TV, we just didn't need one ourselves.

And that was the world P was born into. The child, of course, was busy being a baby, and nonplussed on the subject.

Then he turned two and received a video for his birthday. He sat with rapt attention, viewing cartoon animals bobbing in front of his baby face. He barely blinked. Video gifts slowly leaked in over the next two years, but he rarely ever asked to watch anything, leaving our little DVD player gathering more dust. It was a fun novelty for long airplane rides and a godsend for high fevers (his or mine;). As he rounded out his fourth birthday he started to pull out his player whenever the thought struck him. But his preference was always play and I typically took the hint for what it was : P needed more of me. More floor time, less cooking. More book reading, less playdates or park times. It was a big beacon that he was either feeling under the weather or in need of story input. I appreciated such a simple sign. And while unwilling to put down external limits (forbidden fruit syndrome mixed in with consensual living theory), I also wasn't going to suddenly order satellite without a formal request. Unschoolers can trumpet the tube all they want, I still couldn't shake the few hundred ;) plus years of evolution pointing towards sticks and play as the natural learning ground for human children nor all of the various studies and theories I'd read over the years.... So we found a synchronicity that ignored the theories and focused on connection and all was well in our world.

Then, last spring, he found the DVD section at the Mulberry Street Library. Suffice it to say, this exploration was a wild journey for us. E and I trying to find ways to help P navigate the new stresses regular video viewing involved (for example, he would completely stress about returning the videos to the library, leading him to obsessively watch his weekly pick the day it was due. This was metered, a little, by trying Netflix instead. Or there was the new stress of unwanted words and actions suddenly being introduced. They came to him as if the word of god, a solid example of the outside world. Ummmm, sorry, but as I've mentioned before, I have no interest in Pixar mentoring my kid's actions. Nevertheless, there it was and there we were attempting to explain why other's don't perceive the word "stupid" as a neutral term while still attempting to relay that this doesn't mean the Little Man has to feel injured by the words of other's. A slippery and thin line to walk across with a four year old.)

Yet we embraced the newness. P's world was widening and we grinned at his excitement and tried to appreciate the novel talking points. We grinned less as he camped on the couch, barking orders for food, drink, the toilet. His temper seemed shortened. He grumped at us and was unusually demanding and angry whenever (that rare moment) we were busy. Maybe he was going through a growth spurt? Further pondering the change, I felt he wasn't getting his usual level of connection with us, his new passion usurping our usual roles as Center of the Universe.

Workarounds were again embraced. The old approach of more stories and cuddle time wasn't cutting the mustard. We spent hours reading. I tried harder to view his new loves with him, to meet his needs for connection in the space he was currently ensconced. (Honestly, this was near torture for me. I'm going on almost 20 years without a TV and a reintroduction by Clifford the Dog is enough to turn anyone off the stuff. And it didn't work anyway. The insane ability to focus that P inherited from his father prevented that...)

But I wanted P's video viewing to be about him, not about me or my worries or my fears or some study's shaky conclusions. I'd had my chance to watch whatever I wanted when I was a kid and I decided to happily walk away from it as an adult for a multitude of reasons. I have some reeeeally strong opinions about the business of television and the marketing of our children. But this was all stuff I could share with E, leaving P to his own joys.

If only it had been joyous, I woud have kept believing that story, too. But after a couple of months, there was no denying it anymore. P had became noticeably out of whack. I had recognized a difference when he first started watching stuff, but since we typically pulled out the DVD player while traveling or sick, I had always chalked the post show wonkiness up to those factors. But we weren't sick. Or traveling. And it wasn't new anymore either. He wasn't happy after he watched a show. He was quite obviously agitated in fact. Jumpy. Grumpy. Food plates, couch cuddles, debriefing sessions, wrestling breaks, nothing seemed to be mediating his media madness.

So we had a long chat, the kid and I. I told him what I observed and asked if he felt it too. He did. I asked if he wanted to hear my history with television. He was excited (he adorably loves hearing stories about E and I:) I asked him if he wanted to know why I choose not to watch television. He did. We sat at the table, talking about our reactions, our likes, our irritants. We talked about different studies and different people's opinions. Approaches friends take, family takes, and what sort of approach our family should take. Because it was obvious, even to the four year old, that something needed to change.

And so he decided to give it up at home. To have our home space be about connection and play and family. I know watching a show together can bring connection to lots of people (E and I included), it just didn't work that way for P. At least not right now. And some people are really relaxed by video viewing. This was also untrue for P (and me, actually, too!) It was uncomfortably stimulating for him. It was also uncomfortably expansive for him. I've mentioned before how much P takes in, how very little he filters. We positively cannot listen to NPR or any news stations with P around, he will spend the rest of the day worrying about wars and the carjacking in California. He will quiz us about that one drug the elderly shouldn't take. And who is elderly. And when will he be elderly. And will there be dangerous drugs for him at that time?

Movies are the same for him. He wants to know why there is a villian. Why someone would do something "wrong." Our experience with Wall-E pretty much said it all on this subject. But just to be clear, he wasn't checking out Star Wars or The Omen here. I'm talking Toy Story, people. P was absolutely mortified that Hero Buzz pushed the villain down an elevator shaft. The crowning glory? The villain claims to be Buzz's father, Star Wars style. P was beside himself with fake laughter and pointed questions as he uncomfortably replayed that scene over and over again, attempting order and sense. But why wouldn't Buzz know who his father was? Why would he push him off of the elevator? Why was his father trying to hurt him? Do fathers really try to hurt their kids???? And he would replay the scene again. This could look, to the outside observer, as if the child was actually enjoying the show, couldn't get enough of it. Not so. It upset him greatly and he was watching it again in hopes of making some sense out of it all.

Yah, I know lots of kids watch the stuff and laugh. I know.

So, once the regular brain stimulant was removed along with the regular injection of intense themes, the Little Man settled back into his life of luxury. His DVD player is in plain site, along with his video collection. We've gone to the library countless times in the last three months. Yet he has never, not Once, said he wanted to check something out. During the first week or two, when I would start dinner and he would notice my missing spot on the floor, he would mention missing movies. But in a nostalgic, that filled my time, sort of way vs an actual want. Because they had, in the last few weeks, started to fill in his time. Instead of painting or playing when I had to shower or vacuum, he would just turn on his portable tube. Without any effort on my part, the damn thing had accepted the role of vacuous babysitter. And the child had grown (surprisingly quickly!) accustomed to never filling in his own space. Once those spaces returned, he filled them beautifully and joyfully. I honestly don't know if it was this return to productivity and explosion of creativity that brought him peace or the removal of something he found overly stimulating and confusing. Either way, the whole family has benefited from his decision, P first and foremost.

Meanwhile, we offered to take him to the movie theater whenever he wanted, to have that option available in case he ever felt a void. We all felt that if it was something special, out of the house, it might work. And we wanted to support his decision while helping him to feel a sense of abundance rather than loss. That he could make such a decision without feeling deprived or unable. "Ponyo" (a Little Mermaid adaption by Miyazaki) came out a few weeks later. We had all loved "My Neighbor Totoro" with its appropriate themes and gorgeous animation, so we chatted about it extensively, watched the previews, and decided to go for it. He was excited on the way in. He was visibly upset on the way out, burying his head in my hair, refusing to talk for twenty minutes :( But he claimed to like it, to want to see it again... So a few weeks later we did. His response was watered down, but confusion still reigned. I understood. A little girl leaves her family for a new one. The father "tries to keep her in a bubble" (P's translation) and is menacing. The mother is an absentee goddess. (This, from the child's perspective. From the adult's it makes more beautiful, complicated sense.)

So we continued with our video free life. Nevertheless, I couldn't quite kick the feeling that he had given it all up too easily. He's so swayed by my thoughts, could I have, inadvertently, removed something he loved, shamed him away from something he needed to explore? So E and I offered on different occasions to take him to a couple of other shows we thought he'd like. Every time, P chose to play instead. He showed moderate interest in "Where the Wild Things Are" after two friends chatted it up. I went to preview it and knew almost immediately he would hate it (the kid bites the mother and then runs off, this would be entirely unacceptable to The Little Man ;) So I reported back and he agreed it was not his cup of tea, for now...

So here we are. Newly minted at 5, right about when I thought videos would be making a bigger and bigger footprint in our lives and we've gone the opposite direction. And, surprisingly, quite happily so :)

Five is Fab too...

A lot has happened in the last two weeks. P lost his first (known) relative, had his first real birthday party, trick-or-treated in Brooklyn for the first time, trick-or-treated without me for the first time, started sleeping without me for the first time (with E instead), was overwhelmed by his first mob, and then flew to Kansas. Less novel playdates and lovely afternoons of joy (and occasionally confusion) separated all of these milestones. And a few more days will probably separate this post from more descriptive posts :) I just wanted to stop in and say it: P is 5.

He's been five for almost a week now. When asked, he says it feels just like four ;) And truth is, its just as sweet so far. He woke up on his birthday and noticed our new toilet paper hanging in the bathroom. The new grocery store sells a different brand promising to save the environment than the last one did, this one with a raised flower print. P has only ever seen plain potty paper. He unrolled a bit and held it out to me "Mama! Oh, Mama! This is Gorgeous! Isn't it beautiful! I love it!" It is in these moments that I'm suddenly confused as to how the small creature in front of me can ever heighten my hackles....

I wish I had birthday pics to share, but the shots are stuck on my camera until the transfer card is unearthed here in Kansas.... Therefore, one must pretend the very nearly five year old four year old shown above is, actually, five ;) Nonetheless, he did spend an hour watching this spider with me a few days before the Bday, and again after the bday, so its fairly factual ;) He's quite enamored with this large beauty (though BB was mortified to be held so close, separating window or no) and P has high hopes it will remain in his window until his return from Kansas.... And here I thought everything would seem so passe to a five year old, so very been there done that. Silly me. The kid is still smack dab in the awe stage, which is so awe inspiring to witness. I can honestly say it. I love five. Too :)

Eat your heart out, Richie Tenenbaum...

P, caught mid creation, working on a Thank You note to the neighborhood art shop he adores...

A Lower East Side Painting Gig

When our fingers aren't dripping blood from the numerous sewing projects overtaking our table (can you say Hello Kitty Sewing Machine Heaven???), we are scooting after the budding socialite's busy social agenda. I know, I know, get over it already. But after almost 5 years of strong papoose preferences, the child is really stretching his limbs, climbing out of the cocoon of maternal closeness, right into full on boyhood. Bam. Just like that.

So the pics are getting fewer and further between. I'm not sure mums everywhere want their kid's mugs making waves in cyber space (ok, its more of a low-tide action around here, but you know what I mean.) But P insisted I capture the large scale painting he and some homeschool buddies beautifully rendered on a chilly afternoon two weeks ago (hey, you want quicker updates, come do my laundry ;), so I tried for some practically peer-less shots.

And speaking of laundry. We count ourselves uber lucky. The days of schlepping to a Brooklyn laundromat are behind us, our machine hides in the kitchen, ready to spit in our sink when called upon. Wha? Yah. When this was first explained to me, I was almost shell shocked. On the vast Kansas plains there is space for what we like to call laundry rooms. And they are very separate from kitchen sinks. But post laundry-mat, the sink spitter sounded swell sans laundry-room.

Until I realized the dishes must always be done to run a load. And due to its substantial size in front of the sink, there's little hope to toss in a load and simultaneously cook supper. Additionally, after two shocking floods from the sink spitters mouth (for which we were fortunately present) I'm too fearful to start a load after lunch and pop out for a play date. The nail in the coffin is its volume. After a year of daytime running, with P screaming over it and the words "what? I can't hear what you're saying Phoenix" exasperatedly escaping me, we have found a fabulous solution. (yah, we're slow around here.) So its now a bedtime routine. The dinner dishes are done, the kitchen is closed, the spitter is spinning and with any luck, we are no longer chatting...

I've lost my point. Oh, yes. So while we felt crazy lucky when we moved in (our own washer!!!!), like all things American, we have grown haughty in our needs, we scoff loudly, yet enviously, when the words "laundry room" cross someone's lips. It is then that I (internally, lest the Little Man overhear any judgement or want and thusly follow my sad and selfish suit) sigh and picture large lawns, laundry chutes amid multiple closets...

(The truth is, I feel compelled to tell about the humorously annoying parts of city dwelling, since I sometimes worry the blog falls unevenly to the side of tra-la-la-ing an ideal life. Especially when the kid is kicking it with artists on the Lower East, painting his heart out on a random Wednesday afternoon...)



Cuz, honestly, as we wound our way back the labyrinth like passages to the open air studio, tenements rising above, art hanging everywhere, I had to pinch myself, yet again, that this was my life. I know that's pitifully un-cool, so very transplant of me, so lacking in affectation its embarrassing :) After being Brooklynites for years, P and I shouldn't still be shocked at the beauty of the Empire State building. But we are. And since the Little Man is still so, well, little, he's right there with me in his awe and appreciation (I have no excuse ;). And its fabulous fun to have a constant compatriot in veneration.

So, P played with the paint, detailed a gorgeous piece in handmixed purples and gold (gotta have bling!) and chatted up the resident artist. As we scooted to the sub, we stopped in a matzoh factory to watch the big machines whirl and turn, split some tasties with some friends, and then headed home to a hot bath.

At the end of the day, I love my sink-spitter, its our reality check for a crazy lucky life.

Tea for three

Its often said in our homeschooling circle that what we all really do here is "in the world schooling" rather than home schooling. This has become increasingly true for P this "school" year. Well, all of it, except the "school" bit ;) We're still rocking the mornings-at-home rhythm that works so well for the Little Man, but the afternoons find us out in the world, exploring, playing with friends and enjoying life, almost daily. There are so many amazing options in NYC for homeschoolers, that I'm trying to make sure P's days/weeks are balanced, bringing him the immense amount of input he craves without forgetting the importance of the plain ol' play that P so treasures, A healthy mix of imaginative toy worlds and all of the crazy questions they spark in the morning, followed by acrobatics class, group trips, library visits, garden gathering, leaf collecting, museum hopping and sing-a-longs later in the day. Fortunately, this very loose schedule leaves plenty of time for tea parties and birthday celebrations for our favorite pink monster.... For what would life be with out a party for BB?

(Fall table decor by Phoenix:)

I love 4

I know, I've said it many a time, but I love, love, love four. And its very nearly over :( I thank my lucky stars every day that I get to experience four each and every day, cuz its flown by too fast!

So, it got cold here recently. (Have I mentioned that I don't love cold? Give me warm and humid any day all year, please, but make it in Brooklyn :) So the Little Man and I pulled down our winter clothes from our top shelf... to find that nothing fits him anymore! He really is almost five...

Leaving a neatly boxed stack of hats and mittens on the bed and a fully clothed child, I carried E's sweaters to his closet (yah, the one by the kitchen - gotta love New York living!) As I returned to the bedroom a mere minute or two later, the child had already managed to strip down, toss everything out of the nice, neat box, find his mittens and favorite hat, don them and start doing a dance on the bed while chanting something unrecognizable. I didn't catch it in the shot, but he was also sporting a faux fur boa. Yup. I freakin' love four. I honestly can't imagine five being nearly this amusing.

Hooked by Red Hook

E and I have long thought we probably belonged in Red Hook. Though we had never been :) Affordable loft spaces by the water in an artists enclave with great views pretty much nails down our search criteria. The hitch - no sub access. WTF? Thus the affordable bit...

But then I heard word of a monument to food lying in wait by the water: Fairway. Post co-op, we found ourselves, finally, trekking to the area for a peek. Two scooters and an hour later, we arrived at a little slice of Sunday heaven.

There was an art show going on (this was weeks ago now, I am, once again, behind!) and the sun was shining. We zoomed through Fairway and fell in love (with everything but the horrible motto hanging out front. Shop locally buy globally or some such nonsense. Its true they have everything under the sun, but loosely buying into the local bandwagon seemed a cheap shot when surrounded by peppers from Chile...) E was officially off the hook for the co-op, as soon as P and I could finagle a way to this nether-region food nirvana...

Satisfied with the shopping, we scooted along the water, watching the boats and Lady Liberty. We explored everywhere, dark buildings, strange plant shops, weird gardens, tiny docks, winding our way around, hopping gates and slipping under fences when necessary.




P finds some undulating equipment to fly around on:



And it hit me how times have changed for the Little Man. Used to be, we skipped pretty much everything. Holiday parties, restaurants, neighborhood walks, museums. You name it, the Little Man was probably too squirmy and unruly to be happy there. He needed floor play and intense focus to feel comfortable. And here he was, sailing around the city all day long, happy as a clam. If we stopped to catch our breath and the view, he'd drop down and play in the dirt. If we were on the scooters for a long duration, he'd weave a web with me about BB, shouting up to me over the ambient traffic noise the plot highlights so that BB (er, me) could properly respond. E and I would rather explore than just about anything (well, naps reign pretty supreme for E too...) and we're able to do it again without any guilt that the Little Man is miserable. Happy happy joy joy :)