Driving home from preschool:
“Today we play on the playground.”
“Oh, how nice!”
“Yeah, we play Mama’n'Daddy’n'Brudder’n'Sister”
“Ah. And what do you do?”
“We run around. And Daddy fell down, and he died.”
“. . . Really?”
“Yep, dead.”
“Oh. . . . Were you Daddy?”
“Nope, that’s C. We just laugh.”
“As do I. When your father falls down. And dies.”
“Yeah. I have applesauce bread now?”
A few years ago blogging was a new thing. It didn’t even sound like a legitimate word: more like a drunken slur or a fifth grade science experiment gone wrong (like that cornstarchy stuff that’s hard till you touch it and then it’s all wilty-like: wacky). But now, now blogging is an old hat that’s hanging up on the hat rack with the likes of the English translation of the Bible and EVOO. So as one surfs the world wide web, one notes certain themes at certain times of the year. Come February, things are pink. Fourth of July? Exploding pictures. And October, well, that’s all muddy and orange from the obligatory trip to the pumpkin patch. Which we engaged in. Because we’re mavericky Americans: yes, we are.
Hooded Squash Wrangler and a Plastic Bag: I sense squash abductions are afoot. Run, pumpkins! Er, *roll*, pumpkins, while there’s still time!
When touring a pumpkin patch, a place to celebrate God’s bounty, what does one come across? Hay, mud, tractors, the remains of the farm’s two largest pumpkins after having been dropped on a car in order to smash them all to smithereens, pumpkins, corn mazes: you know, God’s bounty.
Professional Squash Wrangler at Work. Can you hear the cries? “No, not me, take that other pumpkin! He’s much rounder! I have so much more life to live: why? Why take such a young one? WHYYYYY??????!!!??????” Which is why Professional Squash Wranglers wear hoodies: to muffle the cries of the innocent.
Where does one go after a heartless bout of Squash Wrangling? A fake teepee, of course.
Hmm: look at the log cabin and learn a bit of history? OR wander off to the fence by the Giant Ravine and throw sticks into it. You make the call.
Aw, look: they’re enjoying God’s Bounty.
OR they’re on a recon mission to figure out how to Karate Chop! God’s Bounty.
They’re on to us! Abort mission! I repeat, Mountaineer, abort!
RUN AWAY!!! RUN AWAY!!!!
After surviving the glory of God’s Bounty, it’s best to eat of it: Spiderman-shaped artifically-flavored high fructose corn syrup gummi snacks: God is the *BEST*!!
Heavens above! The flowers and pumpkins have faces!! What kind of freaky farm are we on?!! I know we’re close to the Willamette with its five legged frogs, but seriously! And, uh, Mr. Turkey, did you note that shiny object close to your noggin? We are not afraid to talk about the realities of being God’s Bounty on this trip: no, sirree!
Kinda like that goo I talked about before: touch a Professional Squash Wrangler, and he collapses.
Only the Professional Wrangler of the Professional Squash Wranglers could, well, wrangle all the wranglers into a group non-wrangling shot. And with a smile on her face. Because she enjoys God’s Bounty. And because she gets to send all the other enjoyers of God’s Bounty to their respective bountiful abodes and not have to deal with an afternoon of non-napping wranglers. Or something like that.
Dear Son J,
It’s been a while since I’ve done an update with you, eh? Normally I would say that you were oblivious, but today I found you nosing around on Flickr, looking at pictures of your brother. How you got there, I’ll never know. But you did note that there were lots of pictures of your brother – that’s only because he sits still, Love. And earlier today while I was watching a *car-ay-zee* video, with your brother on my lap because he had just woken up, you looked at me and said, “Is there room, Mama? I think there’s room! I think I see a spot!” and promptly scootched your tookus on my free knee to enjoy some quality viewing time. Then, at lunch you fell apart when your father needed some Throne Time and took your brother to give me some peace (Abe doesn’t get much bathroom time because bathroom doors are to be closed. At.all.times. Lest someone start blessing the house with his fairy toilet brush wand, or opening that one non-child-proofed drawer, which blocks the door, and then mama and baby start wailing when the cries of “Please, baby, just shut the drawer and I can get you out!” are more interpreted as Open the Drawer Wider and Wail and Scream). I told your dad that I think you’re feeling left out. I can’t imagine why, since I’ve only mentioned stories about Abe pretty much since I started this missive. :S
You are a darling boy, did you know that? You have very definite likes and dislikes, and oftentimes your likes get overlooked and your dislikes are focused on. So for your birthday, I decided it was Do Things JJ Likes Day in which I entertained your (mostly) every whim.
So we went to Freddies. It was as though Fate deemed it Your Day as well, because lo and behold, right next to my parking space, was this contraption:
Which I have nevereverevereverever let you ride in: once the door has been opened (like giving the federal government power), it’s near impossible to close. “Mama! I ride in the bus! Please! It’s my birfday . . .” How can I say no to that, or these precious drivers – look out!
Miss Michelle, cashier over self-checkout extraordinaire, usually gives you stickers. But today, ooooh today, you got your own Freddie’s Rewards Card, which you refer to as your Fred Card. And stickers: can I tell you how many stickers I have littering my car floor? They’re so worth it, though: have you ever seen better looking cheeks? Freddie’s should be paying you money for advertising.
Then we went to the Dollar Tree because you wanted, you needed, your little heart’s cry was for one thing: a balloon. And so, you got one.
Then off to Chapters for milk with sf vanilla syrup and a green gummi worm. But first, randomness in the ‘berg. You know how you see weird things and think, “Gosh, I wish I had my camera sitting on my lap?” Presto.
Again with the spoiling: your classmate’s mom who works at Chapters lets you pick the color of gummi worm. And points out where the Star Wars books are: what more does a boy need?
Oh, that’s right: friends! To drink milk with! And read Star Wars with! And make guns out of the totally-not-gun-making-material building toys. Sigh.
Where else does Judah like to go? The toy store. Yes, we have one in town. Yes, we’ve been there on a regular basis. And yes, we’ll be going back.
But the fun doesn’t stop there! Off to the pet store! To play with turtles and find Nemo and not look at the puppies that desperately wanted to be taken home (oh, it hurt me inside. But I managed to stay strong: my arms were too busy taking pictures and pushing around strollers and making sure people avoided stepping in turtle poop to reach my wallet).
It’s good to have a tribe to hang out with.
During lunch you got to take pictures. Again with the doing things that you like that you don’t often get to do without hearing “Ack! Put it down! Slowly! Gently! No, it doesn’t bounce!”
Naptime: not your favorite. So you just bounced around playing with balloons and watching “Wachael Way!”
Until Dad came home and then, special treat, off to Wendy’s for Dinner with Dad! Oh, the love of Wendy’s runs deep with this one (as with ones before him).
Special treat: one of the specialist treats of all – SURPISE VISIT FROM UNCA MATT! Almost every day JJ asks if he can see Unca Matt, and almost every day it’s, “No.” I know I should try to phrase it in a more positive light (melancholy’s need all the postivitity they can get), but seriously, how many ways can you say, “Nuh uh. Not today. Maybe later. He’s at work. He’s at home. He doesn’t live here. He has to be a functioning adult and can’t spend all day running into walls and falling over with you, as much as he would love to.” Only so many.
Unca Matt fed into the all-consuming frenzy that is Star Wars, introducing our very first Action Figures. And JJ can already provide the music for them to “lightsaver” to (ah, the Death March. It may be the death of me).
He also hooked up JJ with some more love – the love of Mario, the love of Wii, the love of baseball, and the love of gaming.
Quite an epic battle took place, one that details the outcome quite obviously (and typically, at least when it comes to physical games – coordination is not our strong suit).
When I asked you what you wanted for your birthday, you responded, “Um . . . a cake! With candles. And fire. And balloons.” “What type of cake?” “Uh, purple?” So I complied.
And it was enjoyed.
Darling boy, I can’t believe you’ve travelled around the sun four whole times! Some days seem to go sooooo sloooooowly. But then there’s those times that I blink, and all of a sudden you can read words like “apple” and “computer” (a coincidence?). This past Sunday at church someone was talking about your child being “a blank slate, or rather a book for you to study”. I realized that I’m an observer, and I love pouring over the lines of your life: watching you run amuck with your tribe, seeing you squeal as you hit a Wii home run, catching you showing Abe what hand on Obi Wan best holds the “lightsaver”. I don’t feel that I get to do it all that often, though, because while I’m an observer, you’re an interactor. And right now one of your favorite people to interact with is me. Sometimes I see that as an annoyance: how can I observe when you’re talking to me and already asking if Dad’s coming home for lunch and it’s only 10:15? Then there are those times that you won’t let me just observe, but you force me to interact in this life, to be present and active and doing. You aren’t content just knowing about things; you must be doing them, and you want to bring all your people along with you to do them as well. I don’t always interact well, son, and for that I apologize. Thank you for being persistent with me, for drawing me in (sometimes kicking and screaming) so I can live in the lines of your book. You are my sunshine boy.
Love, Ma
If it’s possible to catch him at all . . . .
Summer is coming to an end, and this week begins our Reality That is the Preschool Year and All That Comes with It (if this week is any indications, a lot of Kashi bars and string cheese and blue corn chips). Last spring we received a notice that JJ’s current school would be taking a sabbatical; thus began the great scramble to find some sort of organized education for our little extrovert. Phone call after phone call of “We’d love to have JJ! His birthday is what? Past the cutoff? Well, we have a junior class. He’s been spelling for how long? Oh, well, you have fun finding a place for him!” It seemed so early to already be miffed at the system that is American education.
Enter Beloved Teacher L who has been teaching for many, many years and has a classroom on her property in the country where the children can have lessons in the orchard and is very classical in her teaching style and has a two . . . or three . . . year waiting list. Gimme gimme please. “Oh, but I’m all full: I only take 12 students.” Sadness. “But . . . I’ve been thinking about taking one more . . . .” Pleaseohplease. And hurrah! Her husband, who I used to work with, will be helping her out, and JJ was in!
We’ve been talking up school for quite some time, that it was on the 9th (“in nine months!” somehow was his interpretation), that many of his friends from last year (about 2/3′s of the class) would be there but not all (which is fairly confusing: “where is JonahBraden?” – inseparable boys in many ways), that it will be three days a week instead of two (“no fanks!” was his polite response), and that we would be shifting from morning to afternoon class (shaking both of our worlds).
Yesterday JJ decided to practice getting dressed for school during his Quiet Time. First, last year’s soccer shirt is sure to make an impression. It shows his fun and sporty side:
Oh, but that’s not enough. For those times when he needs to look a little dressier, a little more suave, his new shirt from Aunt Karla that he got for his upcoming birthday:
Go BSU! But wait: what happens if he needs to get his sport back on? That is his more dominant side. Oh yes, another soccer shirt:
When asked why one would put on three shirts during Bang Things Alone in Your Room Time, JJ responded, “Because I can, and because it’s coo, and because I wike (like)’em.” ‘Nuff said.
In the end we (I) decided that we (he) would be too restricted by the multiple layers of fabric, so it was decided to don another outfit. Here his is lounging with his Memory Book from last year’s preschool, a good little Irishman honoring the old before moving into the new.
Backpack still works:
And still in swinging condition:
While it might take a while to get the new routine down, JJ’s up for the challenge.
So is Abe, although what will he do with all that free time?
Somehow I think he’ll manage.
We managed to arrive ten minutes before the fifteen minutes of arrival time before school starts. And we were dressed! And fed! And hydrated! But oh, that’s right: school supplies – even though I stocked up and even bought doubles of most supplies, I left them all nicely packaged in our hall closet. And so Dren starts off the year with a big black mark on her report card.
Things aren’t so dire, however. I brought the school supplies when I picked up him, and when I pulled up, he was playing a game running around holding his friend J’s hand – tender! JJ got a good report when I asked (and in fact she says she doesn’t “tattle” to the parents unless the kids do something *REALLY* naughty. Hurrah: I may leave preschool this year holding my head high rather than slinking away in shame for report after report of time out, cause man, my neck was getting achy from drooping so low), and JJ enjoyed “coloring and playing with A and J and D and O and J and D and K and doing red light with the bee!” (Red Light/Green Light with a puppet). Both JJ and Abe are contained in their approrpriate Quiet Time Places, and I will be restocking the snack bags, water bottles, and getting the Kashi bar out of my hair (man, they’re sticky).
So we end sending well wishes to our beloved friend Ryan who cracked his head open today (who is in Beloved Teacher L’s morning class) which happens to be his birthday: boo. My brother did the same thing when he turned two (cracked head on his b-day, not going to school for the first time), and he turned out okay, don’t you think?
So my sweet friend, probably the only person who checks here minus grandparents who are contractually obligated, mentioned that she missed reading my blog. What? Someone misses new posts on this site?!! Say no more! Like a puppy who hears the words “go byebye”, that’s all I need to get me writing again.
Though I know a ton of witty stories have happened in the past few days . . . weeks . . months (quickly wiping the dust off with my shirt sleeve, hoping no one noticed), I can’t really think of any right now. Because my bebe is sick. JJ has been out with the stomach flu since Monday. Today is Thursday. That’s a looong time to be sipping water, and hurling, and licking a popsicle, and hurling, and biting a banana, and hurling. So long that I didn’t even realize it was Thursday and that he’s been sick almost all week: the gloriousness of the days just run together.
Hubby asked if I was going to call the doctor this morning, and mentally I thought, “Why? So I can haul him down to a doctor’s office for all of us to get infected and have them tell me there’s nothing they can do, and by the by, the new germies we picked up in the waiting room are free”, but I said, “Uh, no, I don’t know what they could do.” But then when the offer to have a popsicle for breakfast was refused, I picked up the cell right then and there.
“May I speak to a nurse?”
“Is this in regards to you?”
“Nope: my son’s been throwing up since Monday.”
“Monday?!!”
“Well, Monday night.”
“We’d better get you an appointment!”
“Uh, I’d rather just talk to a nurse if that’s okay.”
“Oh . . . well, I guess I can send a note back.”
“It’s just that I’m not sure if I should bring him in or not and figured a nurse could tell me.”
“Yeah . . . ”
Just then and there, I was bequeathed the “La Crappola Madre of the Year” award. No, I haven’t posted it up in my house yet: I’m just revelling in its beauty.
Right now JJ’s hanging out in bed. Awake. My son. Awake. Lying there. Not tied down. Not threatened that if his toes so much as touch the ground that he will never get to play LegoTableStarWarsGames again. My son has *never* done that willingly. Yep, things are not looking so great. The nurse, who talked to the not-Beloved-Dr.-Tami-doctor, who almost delivered JJ, since our Beloved Dr. Tami takes Thursdays off to polish her Rockin’ Mama of the Year award, said that I’m supposed to give him Pedialyte (which he won’t drink because he doesn’t like juice. That’s my low-carb kid!) and then go on the B.R.A.T. diet (tasty) and then slowly reintroduce dairy. So much for his request for “yogret” this morning (thank you Springfield Dairy which sponsors Sesame Street).
I just want my baby to keep some liquids down. It’s a simple request, one that I often take for granted. That, and to magically uninherit my & my father’s hurling genes – we’re olympic-worthy hurlers. It’s just horrible seeing veins pop out of your baby’s neck as he grips on the toilet so his feet don’t come off the floor, cause I know what he’s feeling (and so does Granddaddy – ugh – the bulging eyeballs).
So, Michelle, that’s probably not what you wanted to read during your lunch hour. But at least you’re getting a lunch hour! And hopefully we’ll have some non-fluid-oriented stories to share soon. Won’t that be lovely.
The holiday season brings all sorts of joy and cheer. The loveliness of watching folks who rarely shop attempt to navigate the store. And better yet, the foolish mortals who think they can work the self checkout without regular usage. The happiness of school programs where parents stuff kids into uncomfortable clothes and then expect them to perform like the carrier monkeys that they are, except all they do is stand front and center with their hands firmly placed in their pockets and their lips locked shut. Why this position cannot be assumed while working the aforementioned self checkout in a curious question of nature. The pleasantness of tykes being hyped up on a constant stream of available crack sugar and then acting out when their schedules are completely turned topsy turvy, they’re given tons of attention, and then they keep hearing “stand straight! stop moving! be quiet! but say thank you!”
And then there are the photos. Oh, the photos. The pictures in front of the Christmas tree. The pictures before the opening of presents. The pictures during programs and Santa visits and tree cuttings and Christmas parties.
We happened to catch one set of pictures with the boys that are actually pretty cute. They’re from Little A’s dedication (one blissfully lovely holiday day).
Little A: You really want me to sit? Sit up? Sit up with JJ? Alone? In a chair?
Both: Are we cute? Are we done? Is that all?
JJ: I wonder how far I can push Little A over before he rats me out.
Little A: Why are you kissing me?
JJ: Cause they told me to.
Little A: Seriously? Since when did you start listening to them?
JJ: Listen: it’ll make them stop taking pictures faster.
Little A: I dunno: Ma’s got a twitchy photo finger.
Brudders.
JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »
After getting up with the preschooler twice and the mad roll-overer three times in the beginning, middle, and end of the night, it can be easy to be a bit . . . how shall we say . . . cranky? But my friend Meredith posted a wonderful practice of listing her favorite things. And so I shall list my favorites as well as the favorites of the wee folk in the house in an attempt to realize they do enjoy things and are not just out to get me.
Starting from the smallest in body size:
Orley
Little A
Jacks
JJ
Dren
JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures, Mama Musings, Random Remarks | 1 Comment »
Allo, y’all. I didn’t think anyone read this here ol’ blog anymore until I stopped posting: questions starting popping up like, “WHERE ARE YOU?” and “HAVE YOU RETURNED TO THE LAND OF THE DIGESTING?” and “DO YOU KNOW THE WAY TO SAN JOSE? (LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LAAAA)”
Thank you for the questions and comments. I have returned to the ‘dee having spent ten days at Chez Grand’rents in the valley. Events that took place:
Unfortunately, heaven had to get back to the real world, so we shuttled back down home to life as normal. Which has consisted of a toddler who is “‘wake! not sleep! no sleep!” and an infant who has relearned to poop and also has an unhealthy attachment (aka any attachment – his older brother never cared – kinda freeing) to Mama. But the dog is happy to be home and resuming his cat stalking duties, and Orley was so excited to have me to sleep on that he couldn’t wait for me to get to bed last night following me into the bathroom while getting ready for bed, trying to climb on my lap while I was peeing. “Seriously, woman: ClimbIntoBed.”
Even though JJ will have missed two weeks of school by the time he returns, his learning hasn’t stopped. Oh no: we are an experiential learning kind of family. As shown by the following three scenes:
SCENE 1: Kitchen
Helping Mama make cookies.
Mama: JJ, open up the cupboard and hand me some chocolate chips.
JJ: [Pointing to salt which is a generic brand] – Mama, FredMeyerStore!
Mama: Very good, JJ.
JJ: [Pointing to chocolate chip bag]: FredMeyerStore!
Mama: Yes, JJ.
JJ: [Pointing to corn syrup, vegetable oil, plain shortening, butter-flavored shortening, etc.]: FredMeyerStore! FredMeyerStore! FredMeyerStore! FredMeyerStore! FredMeyerStore!
Mama: Yes, thank you, I am a cheap shopper. Rub it in some more.
Scene 2: Downstairs at Hubby’s computer
Mama: JJ, please back away: I’m trying to email.
JJ: [Handing me a receipt laying on Hubby's desk] Mama, paper!
Mama: Yes, thank you.
JJ: Home Depot! Dad went to Home Depot! I wanna go to Home Depot. [Insert boy making noises of drills and saws and other things I can't describe].
Mama: Ah, your dad’s family would be so proud. Now if only you can make noises of chemicals mixing together and exploding, then all the males on both sides would be tickled pink.
Scene 3: In the kitchen
JJ: [Laying on the counter, grabbing a cook book] Mama, what’s that say?
Mama: [Too lazy to look] What do you think it says?
JJ: Food. Network.
Mama: [Taking a look] Nice work! . . . . I think . . .
So you know how you watch movies and think, “My life is so not like that”?
Well, not that I run a bookstore — but I did work in a library. . . .
And not that I met a blind date online that developed into more of a relationship — but Hubby and I did connect initially a great deal through the world wide web. . . .
But when your son wanders around saying, “F-O-X spells ‘fox‘” but doesn’t do that for any other words, and you never taught him how to spell ‘fox’, you have to wonder . . .
[And I don't even own the movie! Now that's some powerful osmosis that takes place in utero].
When I was in high school I decided that I was never going to have children: I would be a horrible parent, and why contribute to the overpopulation of the earth? But to continue on the family line, my *brother* should have kids. And they would be adorable, and his firstborn would be a boy named “Aidan” because I loved that name and it would be “Aidan and Auntie Dren,” and we would be bestest of buddies, because everyone knows it’s much more fun to be the aunt that the primary caregiver.
Well, he didn’t have kids (yet). But I did. And so did his friends. One of which named his firstborn “Aidan,” who now goes to school with my firstborn.
If you’re my brother, that collision of worlds along with the oddness of the reality of adulthood will just blow.your.mind. If you’re not my brother, you can just look at the oh-so-cute boys carrying their pumpkins around in grocery sacks, just like every other good American preschooler.
You are currently browsing the archives for the JJ Jawings category.
