Month: April 2013

A Rare Sighting

Blog 4 12 2013

The older – and supposedly more mature – they get, the more opportunities Thing1 and Thing2 seem to find to argue.  They argue over who’s crossed the line in the middle of the back seat.  They argue over who’s spent more time on their computer.  If someone asked them what color of the sky on a sunny day, they would argue over that.   I’m not throwing stones here – my sister and I argued full-time right up until we moved out of our parents’ house so that they could only experience sibling un-rivalry from afar, but the crazy thing is, for Thing1 and Thing2, it wasn’t always that way..

Thing1 spend most of his fourth and fifth years begging us for a little brother, and we spent most of those years trying to at least meet him halfway (he happily ignored our warning that he could end up with a sister).  When Thing2 entered the picture, he was almost happier than we were.  Thing1didn’t just want to hold his baby brother, he wanted to read to him.  He was there to make sure Mom didn’t pick out a lame first Halloween costume, and the protectiveness didn’t stop when Thing2 got older.   From giving his little brother courage on Trick-or-Treat night to helping out with Thing2’s T-Ball team.  Nowadays, however, there are more than a few nights when we have to remind Thing1 and Thing2 that they actually love each other.  There’s even a few nights when we have to remind ourselves of it.

Thing2 has been having a tough time at school recently.  Most nights the dinner conversation turns to talk of a child who has been needling him for sometime and whose antic seem to affect Thing2 much more against the backdrop of the death of his teacher earlier this year and a subsequently more chaotic classroom.  Last night our discussion about Thing2’s experience and resulting behavior came to a head at the dinner table.

Thing1 listened quietly as we tried to get his little brother to open up and reiterate our expectations and unconditional support.  Thing2 cried and talked and cried a little more.  Dinner ended and we retreated to the couch.  Thing1 got up to clear his plate and patted his brother on the back.

“I wish I could go to school with you tomorrow,” he said in a low voice.  Thing2 squirmed in his chair, turning to bestow a smile on his brother before wrapping his arms around his waist.  It was quiet at the table for a minute then, as our boys inadvertently reminded us how they really do feel about each other.

Thing1 was still balancing his plate as the hug quickly went from sincere and sweet to a test of Thing2’s squeezing ability, and the moment was over.  They’ll find something new to argue about this morning, and they’ll forget that moment.  But it did happen.

Half-full

My favorite stories are the ones where people come to their reward after great struggle.  Tribulation becomes a path to growth or enlightenment, helping the hero or heroine see and not just achieve the love or live they covet with fresh eyes.  My life isn’t filled with tribulation, but it is filled.

From 7AM till bedtime, I am chauffeur, cook, tutor and maid (some days).  But for two precious hours every morning before the sun rises, I am awake and off-duty.  I write.  I draw.  I bask in quiet and calm that might not be quite as appreciated without a little chaos in the background.

Quite Contrary

I adopted my philosophy of picking my battles carefully about the time my oldest son began toddling. I was working fulltime outside our 200 year-old farmhouse that needed constant maintenance, and I gave up the dream of being SuperMom pretty quickly. Somehow, however, it never struck me as ironic that I also began gardening in earnest about that time.

We had just moved to Vermont from Germany, and most of my gardening experience was limited to growing tomatoes in containers or whatever would grow in the shady ‘yard’ that was the sole selling feature in our first basement apartment. But when we got to Vermont, the little gardening itch I’d scratched with a few potted flowers turned into a full-blown rash and, noticing that most people in our new town had gardens to mitigate grocery bills or give their families fresher food, I decided this was a battle I was going to fight – no matter how unrealistic.

The first year was actually pretty successful. I started with the Square Foot Gardening method whose claim to fame was that even someone like me who prefers pushing buttons to reading directions couldn’t screw it up. The think the garden books don’t tell you is how easily a little bit of success can inflate your head and your plans for the next year, and within 2 years I was tending a 40×40 garden. It’s battle I still can’t concede. Every spring I tell the Big Guy I’m going to trim it down, and every year dreams of a pantry stocked with dried soup makings result in more beds going in.

This spring began with the same resolution to confront my gardening addiction.

“I’m just going to plant perennial veggies in the big log,” I told the Big Guy. I made plans for a few smaller year-round salad beds, and that would be it. It took three days for that resolution to falter (although still a better track record than any of my dieting resolutions).

Six-year-old Thing2 is just discovering the church of baseball and is religious about getting the family outside for a nightly game of Catch in the Little League pre-season. In the early part of the season, Catch actually resembles a different game I call ‘Fetch’. Sunday night it was my turn to fetch, and as luck would have it, the ball had landed near the garden. I walked over, visions of the new, lower-maintenance plan in my head and noticed that the beds were all mostly ready for seeds and seedlings.

“You know,” I said, wondering who had turned in the garden so efficiently last fall (I didn’t remember doing it) and ignoring the fear that crossed the Big Guy’s face as it does whenever he senses I have a new idea, “I think I may just rotate my plan from last year.” I tossed the ball to our older son and turned to get a better look at the beds.

“What?!?” I heard the Big Guy yell the question. I looked at him and realized the loud query was the result of a plan unheard and not rejected. I repeated my idea, expecting the baritone voice of reason to set me straight. But just as it it’s a woman’s perogative to change her mind, it’s a man’s to surprise her every once in a while. “That’s a great idea,” he said, “why not plant more?

And Sometimes It’s Just a Tutu

Most of the little bit of picking up that gets done around here gets done by yours truly.  I’m well past the ‘It’s not my job’ mentality, but every once in a while I like to use the naturally  messy petrie dish we call home as, well, a petrie dish.  My contribution to behavioral science this week consisted of observing how long a discarded sock would remain on the floor under a child’s chair before somebody – not me – was motivated to move it to the hamper.  By Saturday morning the sock under the chair was in danger of evolving into a life form, so, before we headed out to breakfast at our favorite diner, I notified the troops that we would be cleaning when we got home.  Little did I know that out of drudgery could come enlightenment.

There’s nothing like the threat of impending chores to bring out the best restaurant manners in our boys, but not even the carefully folder napkins in their laps or a moratorium on Sound Effects Theatre on the way home from breakfast were going to save them yesterday.  Before they settled onto the couch, the Big Guy and I issued marching orders.  Ignoring their declarations of exhaustion, we dispatched twelve-year-old Goliath to walk the dog and assigned six-year-old Thing2 the task of removing toys from the living room.  Our stipulation that they could not be relocated to his bunk (on it or under it) produced a rebellious frown, but he said nothing and set about his task.

The Big Guy began cleaning up green plastic Easter grass, as I tackled the kitchen.  I was loading the last plate into the dishwasher when I realized it had become very quiet.  I looked around for the boys and noted that Goliath(Thing1) had filled the wood bin and was dutifully putting away videos.  All traces of resentment had disappeared as he finished and asked, “What next?”

As I gave him another task, however, I wondered what had happened to Thing2.  Toys had disappeared from the coffee table in the living room.  Boots were no longer strewn across the floor.  But my ordinarily animated six-year-old was strangely silent.  I checked his room, but it was still an empty mess.  I searched the other end of the house until a grinning Big Guy came to get me.

“You have to see this,” he whispered.  I followed him to the kitchen, camera in hand, thinking the cats were doing something funny.  The Big Guy led me around the kitchen island to peer into our pantry where Thing2 stood on a step-stool scrubbing the counter top in a yellow tutu.

“Wow,” I exclaimed as I snapped a quick photo, “you are doing an fantastic job.”  The cleaning butterfly in our pantry looked up at both of us, a smile painted on his face.

“I cleaned the whole thing,” he said.  “And next I’m going to do the counter out there and on the other side of the room and…” and he hopped off the step-stool and flitted to his next task.

Thing2 has many alter egos.  Most of the time he’s some form of wig-wearing superhero I like to call SuperDude.  He’ll stuff his sleeves with muscles and fairy wings before leaping over a couch with a single bound as he goes forth on his mission to eliminate boredom and from our lives.  Today, however, there was just the outfit he’d worn to impress a waitress at the local diner and the yellow tutu.

Later, I wondered what had prompted such a toned-down costume and asked him who was cleaning the pantry yesterday.

“That was me mommy,” he answered.

“That wasn’t a superhero?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.

“So how did you settle on the tutu for a cleaning outfit?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me as I tried to divine my six-year-old’s fertile imagination.

“I was putting away the toys in my clothes drawer and couldn’t fit everything in,” he said.  “And I saw the tutu at the back and knew it didn’t belong there so I got it out and decided to wear it so it didn’t have to go on the floor.”

Assured by my stunned silence that his logic was sound, Thing2 turned his attention back to the TV, happily leaving me to hover between the wistful acknowledgment that he might be out-growing his alter egos and the recognition that we’ve just begun to discover our youngest son.

 

I’m Not Tired

It’s after nine and too late to start another movie. Six-year-old Thing2’s dance has devolved from frenzied leaping and spinning into climbing onto and sliding off of the couch, but he is not tired. The Big Guy puts in the Sound of Music, fast-forwarding to the end of the intermission.

The music swells, and Thing2 twirls on the floor before climbing up to snuggle between me and his older brother who has sandwiched himself next to the Big Guy on a sofa meant to hold three thinner adults. There’s another slide-and-climb maneuver before Maria is told to go climb her mountains, but by the time she returns to the von Trapp embrace, Thing2 has settled into mine, his eyes closing for a minute.

“I’m not tired,” he breathlessly exclaims through what I could have sworn was a snore as he shakes himself alert. He explains he meant to laugh and then sneezed. There’s another slide-and-climb. Baroness von Schrader is dumping the captain about the same time Thing2 begins examining my hand that’s holding his smaller one. Then with a burst of energy, he rolls from sofa to momma, clinging to me like a baby chimp. “I’m not tired,” he mumbles as he closes his eyes and, looking more two than six, finally surrenders.

Maria is singing in the background about nothing coming from nothing, and, as I savor this moment that is becoming all-to-rare and wonder what the heck I ever did in my own wicked past to have earned it in the first place, I am anything but tired.

Friday Good

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“Be Afraid” read the headline on Good Friday afternoon, and I obeyed.  Without reading any further, I let the super-sized red letters on the headline burn themselves in to my soul.  I gave into anxiety, and I knew I had no one else to blame.  I was the one who had clicked on the link when I should have been working.  

And, once I clicked, I couldn’t tear myself away.  The bees were dying.  We’re at the brink of World War III with a tiny country on the other side of the globe, and there was plenty of pestilence to go around.  Thankfully, work inundated me with enough work again to prevent any festering of my worries, and by the time I had time to click on news again, it was time to feed the family.

Cooking for dinner seemed about as pleasant way to cap off a nine hour day as a root canal, so I decided to ring up East Arlington Takeout.  Birthed just this winter, this little restaurant stepped in to fill a void created when one of our old favorites closed down due to recession and retirement.  I dialed and a decidedly young voice answered.  I knew it had to be a daughter of one of the owners.  Despite her youth, she calmly and professionally took my order, asking the appropriate questions and let me know it would be ready in twenty minutes.

My anxiety was gone as I headed out.  I was still tense from work and lost in plans for the weakend, thought, and  I took my worries to the EAT.  I wouldn’t bring them home.  

Located in what used to be a convenience store, the takeout place consists of two halves.  One half is the kitchen and prep area.  The other half is a waiting area for customers and kids.  Near the window and door of that half sit a counter and register, but behind shelves laden with pizza boxes are a few couches and a TV where the owners’ children hangout and do homework. 

It’s not a sit-down restaurant, but it has already become a popular local hangout.  We’ve made it our go-to place on Friday nights, and I’ve started looking forward to it for more than the food.  Everytime I walk in – even on weeknights – it’s hopping. Last Friday night friends I know from both boys’ schools.  I saw people I met while working weddings once upon a time.  I saw their kids pitching in and hanging out.  I saw their kids’ friends pop in to watch TV.  And I saw a small business,at the ripe old age of three months, becoming an institution.

I think I really felt a little magic  as I got back into my car and watched the tableau through the windows framed by the dark blues of late winter dusk.  I love seeing a small business defy the odds and experts.   When you see one taking off in its first three months and building a devout following, it’s inspiring.  It’s even more inspiring when you know it’s the culmination of the dreams of moms and pops you know – not just some faceless corporation.

I pulled out of the lot feeling good about our purchase as I always do and not just because the food tastes good and got me out of cooking.  As I drove home, I though about missiles pointed at us, about cyberattacks, about dying bees, and all the other things in the world I can’t control (maybe we’ll help in the bee area this summer).  But, as the smell of a custom made italian sub permeates my car, it soothed me, reminding me of the little things I do influence.