Kids

Cursing the Disco

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A few sleepless mornings ago, my gloom was closing in on me so tightly that if I had started lighting candles to keep from cursing my darkness, I could have burned down our house – no small achievement when you consider it’s mostly concrete.

We’d come home late from a sad trip the night before.  I knew the upcoming work day would likely go long, to be capped off with an evening session of  ‘Are You Smarter than a Seventh Grader’ with Thing1 (complete with commentary by Thing2).  I was exhausted before I even got the kids up for school.

But the insomnia that was the door prize that came with my depression turned out to be a blessing (or a curse if you ask Thing1).  As I tossed and turned counting the minutes of sleep I wasn’t getting I suddenly remembered that there was a pile of new, unplayed songs on my iPod.  As I  had mapped out our trip a few nights before, I’d clicked back-and-forth between iTunes and the map site, absentmindedly clicking the ‘Download’ button here and there.

The thing I love and hate about iTunes is that it’s so dang easy to engage in a little retail therapy without wondering where to hide the bags or if I want a song badly enough to be willing to dust it later.  That’s how I ended up with 30 new songs in the time it took to print my maps and reserve a hotel (I think that’ll hold up in court).

So with an hour to myself before I needed to get the kids up, I hopped out of bed and pulled my purchases into a new playlist, hoping the songs would be safer than using fire to fight off my funk.

I find that when I’m in a bad mood, I tend to get a little nostalgic about my music choices, and my indulgence in retail therapy a few nights before was not a sign of a good mood.  And, when I saw that bunch of Earth, Wind & Fire tunes for $2.99, I clicked on it.  I love those songs because they evoke memories of my dad’s mix tapes painstakingly recorded on reel-to-reel, as well as images of the god-awful clothes of that era that are still preserved in photographs for eternity and future blackmail.  But, as anyone who’s heard the songs knows, they’re also killer dance tunes as Thing1, my twelve-year-old (much to his horror) was about to discover shortly.

I got my playlist loaded and synced just in time to push the kids out the door.  Most mornings Thing1 is the arbiter of musical taste in the car.  He’s currently in a two-year Beatles and Stones phase, and when Boogie Wonderland came on, his hand automatically moved to the forward button.  But I was ready for this and intercepted him.

“Leave it,”I ordered with the mock seriousness it takes to command his obedience.

“Okay, Mom,” he laughed, pretending to be in awe of my display of authority.  My mood brightened as we jokingly argued about my musical choices.  I turned up the volume, and, in the rearview mirror, I could see six-year-old Thing2 in his carseat bopping his head happily to the beat.  It was infectious, and I started dancing a little too.  I knew I might have lit one too many candles at that point.

Real fear crept into Thing1’s eyes, and I knew what was going through his mind.  Would the song end before we hit the school parking lot?  Would Mom hit the rewind button?  Would Mom still be drive-seat-dancing when we arrived?

We got closer to town and the song switched, but to Thing1’s chagrin, there were no Beatles tunes in the on-deck circle.  Thing2 and I continued to dance, though I restrained myself a bit as we got closer to town and the traffic got thicker.

“Mom.”  Thing1 murmured as we turned onto the school street.  “Mom.” He grew insistent as we got closer.  A stalled line of cars came into view ahead of us as we approached the school, and my own dancing ceased.  Thing1’s confirmed belief is that his authority over my behavior is in direct proportion to his proximity to middle school, but in reality, I just remember how much middle school sucked, and the threat of my dancing or singing in public is an empty one.  Today, though, it would have been fun to keep that fire burning a little longer.

I drove him up to the door and wished him a good day.  I told him I loved him, and as he climbed out of the car, shaking his head, he muttered what so many young people climbing out of Pintos and Pontiacs shaking under the weights of dancing middle-aged moms with too many choices on the eight track or cassette must have muttered before him: “I hate Disco.”

The Conductor

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Every six-year-old has wondered – if not aloud as he’s being sent to bed then surely as he feels Mom’s eyes boring into his back as he’s heading into school – if there is not some top secret shindig that needs only his absence to begin.  Our six-year-old (nicknamed Thing2 for his super human chaos creating capabilities) has certain wondered it (he intimates it every night at 8 PM regardless of his level of exhaustion), but yesterday, as we were taking down the Christmas decorations, he decided that he would be in charge of any shindig that happened in our cave at Minister Hill.

It all began when I was crumpling up some of the paper snowflakes I’d hurriedly cut out to cover this year’s oversized tree.  Appalled that I would so casually dispose of such a seemingly intricate decoration, Thing2 cried out and grabbed the crushed paper from my hand.  His gaze fell on the other crushed casualties of my Christmas clean up, and he scooped them into his arms protectively.

“Mo-o-m!”  He protested, “I wanted to save these!”  And he moved them to another table for resuscitation and rehabilitation.

“You can save them if you get them out of the living room,” I said, moving on to remove the strawberry walnuts we acquired from a friend this year.  Thing2 stared at me for a minute and then asked if I had any tape.  I did, and the tape and snowflakes disappeared into the room he shares with his older brother.  A few minutes later he reappeared to claim the chains of paper ginger-people.  I was not paying attention when he made his third decoration retrieval trip, but on the fourth or fifth trip, I noticed the decorations on the table were fewer in number, and I realized someone had misinterpreted the goal of the tree takedown.

As it happened, he had simply come up with his own purpose because as I began to unwind the lights from the tree and re-knot them before packing them away, Thin2 reappeared in his shinest red superhero cape and announced that there would be a party on the lower bunk at 2:30PM.  Thing2 went from me to Thing1 to the Big Guy issuing his invitations, not waiting for RSVPs before he moved on.

“Okay, Honey,” said Thing1 and I.

“What can I bring?” asked the Big Guy, raising his head from the recliner in the den.  And Thing2 knew he had found the right victim/guest.  Thing1 and I turned back to disemboweling what was left of the tree and sweeping up the carpet of needles, completely oblivious to the party preparations that now began directly behind our backs.

The Big Guy helped Thing2 tape up a few party decorations and arrange a few chairs below the lower bunk.  He even helped Thing2 find a few snacks to serve at the party.  Finally, when the time for the party rolled around, the Big Guy whipped up a few cups of hot chocolate and told Thing2 to summon his guests.

We entered the room, festooned with discarded Christmas decorations and (I can’t believe it either) cleaned up.  Thing2 was already dancing to the music that continually plays in his head, and when he saw us enter, motioned us to the spots he had picked for us.  We enjoyed our hot chocolate and candy and cheese doodles for a little while, chatting and laughing.  Thing2 even offered to go get my iPod so we could all dance (I put a stop to this as his creativity has already claimed the lives a one or two pieces of electronic equipment), and when it was over, he thanked us for coming. And last night, as he passed out and was carried to bed, he snored secure in the knowledge that a shindig might commence when the bedroom door closed, but it wouldn’t top anything he could come up with.

Keepin’ the Small Town Faith

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Thing1 and the Big Guy had just headed off to Hubbard Hall, our local community theater and art center, to take part in a Holiday and Christmas reading.  Thing2 and I were headed to the library in Arlington Vermont for a visit with Santa.

We had missed seeing Santa at our town’s Christmas party (it’s a village of about 300 that is sort of a bedroom community next to the bustling metropolis of Arlington, VT), and I knew Thing2  really wanted to see him this year.

 

He is six. He asks questions all the time about everything, and Santa lore is uppermost in his mind this week, as it is with every child under the age of 12 (believers and non-believers alike).  As I guided the car down the dark muddy road, he asked how did Santa’s sled fly. I knew the tried and true answer of “magic” would not suffice. He had already begun hypothesizing. Would it have jet boosters?  Did the reindeer have some sort of special feed? Then he began asking who St. Nicholas was.  Were he and Santa the same person? Where did Santa come from?  I knew what the next question was.

I’ve been down this same road with these same questions before.  It seems like only yesterday that Thing1 was asking them.  Thing1 is a born skeptic.  However, Thing2 is more than willing to look for the magic in everyday items and events, so I thought we would keep the magic of Santa going a few more years before logic and skepticism threatened it. But as I drove I wondered if this would be our last year.

Thing1 has been well aware of the fact of the myth for many years, but he was willing to play along – after all it’s in his best interest.  As he’s grown older, he has enjoyed playing Santa along with us, helping us keep the story going for Thing2 by advising us to use special wrapping paper and even what should go in the stocking.  But I am not ready to surrender Santa on behalf of Thing2 just yet. Part of me knows that with the end of that bit of make-believe goes a special part of his childhood, as well as this magical phase of our parenthood.

The questions grew increasingly challenging, and I was relieved when we pulled into the parking lot at the library. The parking lot was crowded, the library was hosting Santa story hour, along with a Christmas basket lottery.

We climbed steps, and Thing2 asked, “Who’s playing Santa is here”.

“Santa, of course,”  I answered.

“No it’s not mom.”  Thing2 appeared very knowledgeable suddenly. All the Santa lore he had cleaned from years of Christmas specials on TV  briefly came to bear now as he authoritatively told me, “Santa sends his helpers.”  I didn’t know how to combat this so I listened to his theories until we got to the door and went in.

We were slightly late, and I was glad.  Santa had already arrived (no need to explain the lack of arriving reindeer – they were parked in back according to Thing2) and was getting ready to read The Night before Christmas.

Suddenly Thing2’s air of authority dissolved.  He clutched my hand pulling me closer to the front of the crowd to get a better look but was unwilling to go with his best friend to sit on the floor to hear Santa up close and personal.  Thing2 was silent through the story, his arms wrapping around my waist occasionally.  The story ended, and Santa invited the children to come sit on his lap and tell him their hearts’ desire for Christmas. Thing2 and I got in line, and he waited politely, his grip on my hand tightening as we got closer and his doubts shrinking with the line.

But this Santa was about to banish every last shred of doubt from his mind.

Thing2 watched his best friend climb on Santa’s lap. Then his little brother and little sister climbed on. Thing2 began to dance nervously.  A few more seconds and the last child in front of him was  finished attesting to their own good behavior for the year. Now it was Thing2’s turn.

Santa called Thing2 by name as he lifted him on to his lap. My first-grader appeared only mildly surprised. Then Santa told him he was sorry he hadn’t seen him at the Christmas party last weekend, and Thing2 was silent.

He stared at Santa, his list forgotten. Somewhere in his mind the acknowledgment was forming that Santa might actually see him when he’s sleeping and knows when he’s awake. Santa asked him if he been good this year.  Thing2 thought about that carefully for a moment and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.  He closed his mouth and looked at me for confirmation for the answer he wanted to give.  “He’s been very good this year,” I said.

Santa called him by his name again and said, “Well that’s wonderful to hear.   And has your brother, Thing1 been good too?”

Thing2 nodded solemnly and said,  “We’ve both been very good.”   Santa laughed, and Thing2 finally screwed up his courage and told Santa his wish list.  Then he wished Santa a Merry Christmas and hopped down.

We drove home talking about his visit and the Christmas basket we’d won for Grandma.  We talked about the kids he’d played with until we stopped to pick up some vittles at the Country store.

Thing2 bounced through the door of the establishment and immediately fixated on a toy the store’s owner had put out on one of the counters for display.  He played while I waited for the food and paid.  I picked up our bag and called to him to move along.

“I’m playing,” he responded with a mischievous smile.  Normally I would answer this type of insurrection with military efficiency and discipline (which, for some reason they don’t always take seriously), but tonight I reached into my arsenal for a new weapon.

“Remember,”  I said, “Santa’s watching.”  Thing2 instantly straightened up and walked calmly to the door, and I reminded myself to feel ashamed of my ploy once I had him buckled in.

“Is he really watching?”  Thing2 asked as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“He is in this town,” I answered.  And that was the end of the questions as we drove out of sight.

If I Didn’t Laugh

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I got up at 5:00 AM this morning, but my mind was not on my keyboard.

Instead, I was thinking of my lovable mutt, Katie, who had been locked in the mudroom overnight.  She had returned home just as the sun and the mercury were falling, reeking from a game of ‘I dare you to rub in that’.  It was too late to give her a bath, but at 5:00AM this morning, I knew something would have to be done and the knowledge that I would be the one to do it whatever it was.

So instead of doing something useful or soothing (like writing), I wasted time in the reading room playing iPod Scrabble.  The pup was quiet, the kids were quiet, and there I stayed almost until it was time to launch the morning school routine.  Sadly, avoidance therapy didn’t make the dog smell any better.

The boys and I managed to get out of the mudroom without inhaling too much of the stink. I actually found some comfort in the routine of hustling them into the car, scraping the windows, and attempting to break the sound barrier to get them to school on time.  The ride home was much slower, and the closer I got, the slower the car seemed to go.

I knew Katie would need a bath, and I knew it would be a soaking wet dirty job that had to happen inside.  I knew the country store stocked all sorts of useful pet supplies (the owners are mushers and religious about quality dog products), so I stopped in on the way home.  I tried to drag out the shopping trip, but there was an online meeting at 9:00AM, and I knew the bath had to happen soon.

I got home feeling vaguely depressed and with the nagging feeling that I wanted a vacation.  As I wandered through the house, getting the bathroom ready for a canine client and finding an extra leash and an old towel, however, my grooming plan began to form, and my spirits lifted a bit.  I knew I would be soaked when the bath was over, and I doffed my clothes on the bed.  Wandering from room to room, I thought once again how grateful I am that the only things outside our sliding windows are trees, and I wondered if my sense of propriety was about to reach a new low.  It was.

I had everything ready and was about to open the mudroom door and leash the dog when I remembered we had garbage bags in the cabinet.  Figuring one of them would make a great poncho, I reached in and pulled out a 30 gallon bag.  It looked big enough to shield my girth from water, but there was still a problem.   It was clear.

By the time I had ripped a neck and arm holes in the ‘poncho’, I was chuckling.  Katie didn’t mind my fashion faux pas nearly as much as she minded being popped into the tub and scrubbed down.  I was now literally elbow deep in the job I had dreaded all morning, and for some reason, I was smiling as I washed and soothed.

I know some folks might say it was just getting the thing over with that made me smile.  There’s probably some truth to that, but, as I tore off my rated-R dog-washing poncho, a little part of me decided that truth doesn’t have to be stranger than fiction to be funny enough to get you through the day.  But sometimes it helps.

The Story of a Half an Hour

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A few days ago we reached a new low in our parenting lives.  Or not.

Thing2, my first grader, is my social butterfly and my superhero.  He is a flitter and a flyer, particularly during homework time.  So on Thursday, after ordering him back to his chair for the thirtieth time, the Big Guy got a seat belt, plopped our wriggling six-year-old into his booster seat (which he doesn’t really need anymore), and looped the belt through the strap holes on the plastic seat.

The homework got finished in fifteen minutes.

I never thought I’d be belting my kid into a chair over a non-safety related issue.  But as I finally sat down to write at 5:26 AM (26 minutes late) this morning, I had to admit at least a little of Thing2’s fear of sitting was inherited.

I did get up at the appointed hour this morning, and, in my mental rule book, I had placed writing above everything except getting dressed (we’ll see what happens in the summer if the next diet resolution holds into spring).  Today I was even more efficient and decided my nightgown was fashionable enough for the back room.  But as I walked out toward the study and into the kitchen for a shot of caffeine, I had no idea what I was going to write.

So I stirred the coals in the wood stove.   They were nearly gone, and I decided a quick trip to the wood pile for a handful of kindling wouldn’t really cut into to my time too much, and I got my shawl and shoes and went out for a minute.  The cats greeted me, demanding a minute of head-scratching, and I obliged until the draft in my nightgown reminded me that my desk area was much warmer.  I got back to the kitchen at 5:08 and loaded up the stove, still wondering what I was going to write.

Thankfully, at 5:11 Nature called, and by 5:15 I was headed back to the kitchen for my caffeine.  The fire wasn’t catching, but as I bent down in front of the stove to play with it, I suddenly heard the Big Guy moving around down the hall in the bedroom.  I knew I had to appear productive so, instead of trying to start a fire that would heat the study by 7AM (when chef and chauffeuring duties call), I decided to pull on some warmer clothes.

At 5:24, I headed to the fridge again for my first infusion of caffeine.  I went back down the hall to my desk, shut the door to the study, still wondering what to write – let alone draw.  The light of my swing arm lamp illuminated the thermostat (70 degrees) just enough to let me know my fruitless quest for fire had been completely unnecessary.  But at 5:26 AM, as I was sitting down, I started to wonder if Thing2’s seatbelt would fit me.  And, suddenly, before the laptop screen had even lit up, I knew what to write.

Circus Homeworkus

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Thing2, my six-year-old, is a miracle of motion.

I am watching him flit from couch to chair to table to hall with a soaring grace that would put any trapeze artist to shame.

Sadly, his first grade teacher has yet to incorporate acrobatics into any homework assignment.  But I figure I can get another sip of soda before tackling my daily feat of daring – talking his head down to the kitchen table while making sure his spirit continues to soar to the ceiling and beyond.

Waiting to Exhale

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Thing2 – Cheese, as he wants to be called these days when he doesn’t want to be called SuperDude or SpiderMan – is six.  He’s been six for all of two weeks, but he seems to understand that, as his birthday approached, we were crossing a divide – at least when it came to our bedtime routine.

Cheese co-slept with us while he was nursing, and, when he transitioned to his own bunk in the room he now shares with Thing1, his 12-year-old brother, I adopted the practice of lying down with him at bed time.  I did this with Thing1 for a short time, and it seemed to smooth out the rough spots as he became more independent.  With Cheese, however, at least one of my reasons for this routine was selfish.

Thing1 is already taller than I am, and, while he still needs hugs and comforting when he’s down, I still marvel at how quickly he went from my arms to my lap and then to the world at large.  I know it is going even more quickly with Cheese, and when he embraces his independence, this special time will be gone forever.  The next epoch will be just as special, but our quiet time at night gives me the chance to be mindful of this one – of his arms around my neck and of the melting of a smiling imp into a serene slumbering angel.

As his birthday approached, however, our routine became more and more brief – he doesn’t need help getting ready for bed.  Increasingly the routine consists of Thing1 and Cheese giggling as they brush and wash and bustle into their bunks.  They whisper their secrets in the dark and then, more often than not, snoring replaces the giggles before I have a chance to sit down for a snuggle.

This is as it should be, but five is not six, and even six still needs a snuggle some nights.  As we move closer to the divide, however, even our snuggle time has changed.  The giggling does not stop merely because Mom is there.  Often I spend as much time shushing as snuggling, and it is always at bedtime that I get to hear the newest phrase Thing1 has acquired ‘on the playground’ before dutifully passing it on to his brother.

It was when the first phrase of the evening emanated from the top bunk last night that I realized that I was about to be relegated to a role on the sidelines of the bedtime routine.  Thing1 was already giggling when I kissed him goodnight, and the grin on Cheese’s face should have been a clear sign that my presence could only amplify the silliness.  I had just wrapped Cheese in a hug as the first classic line floated down from the top bed:

“Beans, Beans, the magical fru -”

“That’s enough,” I interrupted before Cheese could learn any new poetry.  But Thing1 began again, and I could feel Cheese beginning to quake.

I shushed.  They giggled.  I shushed again, and quiet reigned.  But not for long.  This time, the line was a whisper, and I found myself working not to chuckle.  Cheese held his hand over his mouth, and I knew even the hint of a giggle from me would send them both over the edge.  So I held my breath.

Thing1 knew it was time to quit, and for a few minutes I only heard an occasional squeak as he suppressed a laugh.  Cheese quickly lost his fight with sleep, and I was finally able to breathe without a giggle and without contributing to more chaos.

I stood up and gave Thing1 another kiss on the head before heading back to the living room for grown-up time.  But as I walked out to the bright kitchen, I exhaled again and my smile faded.  I knew that the boys had begun adopting their own routine, without my help.

There will be more silliness and snickering from the bunk room, and we’ll chuckle as we listen to their whispering. They will become more independent in this routine, just as they have become during the day.  They are both a long way from true independence, but we are at the end of an era, and I think I am already missing it.

Metamorphosis

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As my son stands in the doorway of our cluttered mudroom, his clothes soaked to the skin from an afternoon of tubing down the Battenkill and jumping in ponds, it occurs to me that we have become hillbillies.

To be sure, we have created the right atmosphere. There’s the perennial appearance of our thirty-year-old mercedes on blocks; the woodshed built for strength but impermanence for the benefit of the tax assessors; the garden that sometimes looks like a weed sanctuary and an ever-evolving parade of animals streaming through a mudroom littered with shoes and skates and garden implements.

And, in spite of our diminishing efforts to stay connected to trends and the city, life and location have conspired to turn us and our kids into hicks .We have learned the difference between hay and straw. Our kids picky about when their peas are picked. They have developed an affinity for dirt and allergies to soap (so they claim). They have never slept a day on a set of matching sheets or worn a color-coordinated outfit to school.

Living on a mountain far from many friends has taught us to find enjoyment close to home and our kids to find fun in the forest. Bills and a sparse employment landscape have taught us all the value of financial security but also that people without it still have value. We have learned to make do and to be happy doing without. Watching neighbors share food,money, and labor has taught us all to do for others and when to lean .

As Thing 1 and I debate whether he should leave the wet clothes (made filthy by a day of cheap, low-tech fun) outside or in the mudroom, I come to the conclusion that being a hillbilly is a pretty good thing.

 

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