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.