A Letter To Xander

Winging it

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 18:26:00 +0000

(Behind a bus, on the way to daycare.)
"Mom, why are buses so slow?"
"Well, they're big. Big things are slow."
"What about semis? Semis go fast."
"Yes, but they start out slow. They have to build up their speed. Buses could build up their speed too but they don't have enough room in the city."
"Oh. What about snails? They're small. Why are snails slow?"
"..."
"Mom?"
"...um, they're slow because they're...sticky."
"Sticky?"
"Yes. Hey, look at that, construction trucks!"

(I once asked your grandpa where the wind came from, and he was forced to answer, "From out of town". So I guess baffling your parents is a rite of passage.)

It's possible that we're a little damn happy to see spring

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 18:26:00 +0000

Take that, winter! [stomp]

Just do it. Not just a Nike slogan.

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 03:27:00 +0000

Right now you are dozing off to sleep, an hour past your bedtime, in a small tent that not only houses our couch cushions, but also has its own freakin’ foyer constructed of more couch cushions and some blankets.

That is the sort of kid you are; the kind that will not go to sleep without an elaborate production, increasingly specific demands to which we inevitably cave because, jeez, JUST GO TO SLEEP ALREADY.

Except for those days when you just say, “Okay!” when I tell you it is time to go to bed, and then you just…go.

You are bossy and demanding and irritatingly logical, and you have an unhealthy obsession with the words butt and peepee. You’re four, in other words.

You’re also stubborn as hell and resist EVERY SINGLE THING, you hate tags in clothing and have exactly 3 pairs of pants that you will submit to wearing. You remember things from 2 years ago but didn’t notice what I said five minutes ago. You have specific and completely arbitrary demands that change with the wind. You tell exhausting stories with frantic hand gestures. You lie.

I read Parenting Your Spirited Child and yes, some of that is you. Some of it is normal. Some of it is miscommunication: you told me for six weeks that you didn’t want to go to daycare in the mornings because you are “shy”. Clearly that is not the case, but it took me that long to realize that you just really hate mornings.

I can’t imagine where you get that from.

(I had to take a break in this post because you got up and decided to sleep in your bed after all, because you wanted someone to lay with you. This is part of your routine, but obviously I don’t fit in your pup tent. Then after your designated “five minutes” was up, you went back to your tent-and-couch-cushion-fortress.)

(Then I had to take a break to pour some wine and rub my forehead.)

I understand that you are four, you just want to learn and see and feel and climb the snow hill outside of daycare every single day. I try to be more empathetic, I try to communicate in ways that are non-threatening.

But for the luvva, SOMETIMES I JUST NEED YOU TO GET IN THE FUCKING CAR.

Navigating the pink and blue waters

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 03:59:00 +0000

“Wow, buddy, that’s very pretty,” I said, after you put the finishing glitter on your pink-and-purple digger.

“No, mom, he’s handsome,” you corrected me. “He’s a boy digger. Girls are pretty, boys are handsome.”

“Well, boys can be pretty, but okay,” I replied. Adjectives notwithstanding, I was pretty proud that you felt a ‘boy’ machine could be pink and purple and glittery.

“Girls are princesses,” you elaborated, “and boys are just…people.”

Okay, maybe there’s still some work there to be done.

Holiday Recap

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 03:40:00 +0000

We had Christmas.

Then we had Christmas again.

Then we went to the Science Center for New Years.

I’m tired. Is it time to go back to work yet?

Those bears are my kind of people

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 03:19:00 +0000

I sometimes witness other people’s kids getting asked to do stuff, and then they just do it. This usually makes me a little jealous and frustrated, because that is not how you operate.

Except…sometimes you do. It seems like it goes in cycles, this pushing back and arguing and resisting thing that you do, and this last cycle has been so long that when your father asked you to get dressed this morning and you just did it, afterwards he whispered to me:

“…That is not our kid.”

We had a hard time remembering the last occasion when you just did something, instead of arguing every tiny request, asking unrelated questions to avoid the topic, or ignoring us completely.

Then when I dropped you off at daycare, you thanked me, completely unprompted, for allowing you to put your boots on the boot rack. Your boots aren’t supposed to go on the boot rack, they’re supposed to go in your locker, but you like them to go on the boot rack. And because it is a rack for boots, I often let you. But that is certainly the first time you’ve ever thanked me for it.

I wonder, actually, if it has to do with your media consumption. It does seem as if your behaviour is somewhat influenced by whatever children’s show you’re choosing to watch at the time. I outright banned “Max & Ruby”, for instance. Max is an obnoxious two-year-old bunny who demands things in one-word sentences, and Ruby is an ineffective surrogate parent whose patronizing tone grates on my nerves. When you went through a period where that was all you wanted to watch, you began demanding things in one-word sentences.

(When I placed an embargo on Max & Ruby, I made the mistake of saying I didn’t like them. You demanded to know, “What have they ever done to you?”)

Lately, however, you’re reading and watching a lot of Berenstain Bears. I find them a little syrupy, but I can’t fault their morals or manners. I feel a bit dishonest skipping over the references to the Bible, but, whatever. I take no issue with Christian ethics when they’re in bear form, apparently.

It’s almost enough to make an atheist take their kid to church. Well, maybe bear church.

Now I just need to make that the entirety of your viewing and reading schedule for the next…oh, 12 years.

Just so we’re clear, it is the dog’s fault that I won’t make you large batches of salted play-doh anymore. Also, that you probably won’t be getting anything for Christmas.

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 14:35:00 +0000

(Fine, you will still get Christmas presents. I just feel compelled to blame as much as possible on that stupid canine.)

Growing pains

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 02:04:00 +0000

You had a growth spurt recently, which means we went through copious amounts of peanut butter sandwiches, and a couple of sleepless nights due to pains in your legs.

“Here, buddy,” I said on the third night, “Take some Advil so your legs don’t hurt.”

“Okay,” you said. “Mom, why my legs hurt?”

“It just means your legs are growing, bud. It’ll go away soon.”

“But I don’t want them to grow!” you said in dismay.

“You don’t?”

“No! I don’t want to grow big. I will lose these little legs!” you told me earnestly, clutching the legs in question.

I didn’t know quite what to say. Trust me, you won’t miss those little legs as much as I will.

Silence

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 16:34:00 +0000

I realize that I am not blogging much for you lately. It isn’t that I don’t have anything to say; I think it’s more that I say so much during the course of a day, that after you’ve gone to sleep I just want to sit in silence.

I don’t mean that in a negative way. I mean that you are four years old, and a source of constant amusement, and also a source of constant chatter. I answer your questions or help you find the answers as best as I can, but, sometimes it is exhausting. It isn’t a bad thing, it just IS.

I truly realized it this weekend. You and your father are away, with your grandmother, and the silence in the house is deafening. The dog doesn’t ask me if she can watch tv, have a treat, go outside, go downstairs, what’s that thing? Who’s that guy? The laundry doesn’t re-arrange itself after I’ve folded it, and I don’t have to give it warnings about its behaviour or remind it for the umpteenth time to say “please”.

I love it, the constant waves of your voice, watching your mind work with each small interaction, watching you put 2 and 2 together because of an answer I’ve given you. I love the answers you give back, your logic, the suppressed smiles your father and I exchange when you’re being cheeky. I wish I could capture every moment but I can’t, when I’m in it, I can just tread water and be carried along on the waves.

Sometimes it takes silence to lend contrast to how awesome the noise is.

Priorities

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 20:57:00 +0000

We had your birthday celebration yesterday, and as it does every year, it involved waffles and cake. This year I could actually ask you what kind of cake you wanted, and you told me you wanted a “hairplane” cake.

(We think “hairplane” is cute, so we say it back to you. You could probably pronounce “airplane” correctly by now, except that we’ve been reinforcing the wrong one.)

Well, I tried, sweetie. But I was kind of winging it and it ended up looking suspiciously like the airplane that crashed into the side of the the Himalayas and all the passengers had to eat each other to survive. All crumpled up and covered in questionable-looking debris.

“Cake!” you said when you saw it.

“Yeah. Um, what kind of cake do you think it is?” I said hopefully.

“Chocolate!” you exclaimed with glee.

Ah, children. Reminding us of the important lessons: Who gives a shit what it looks like? IT’S CAKE.

Four

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 03:07:00 +0000

What Four looks like in the morning:

"Mom, I don't want pants. No pants."

"I don't want that shirt. Nooooo! Light McQueen shirt! No, not that Light McQueen shirt!"

"I don't want breakfast."

"Mom, I watch? One more show?"

What Four looks like on the way out the door:

"I hafta peeeeee!"

"I want the other car."

"I need a plushie!"

"I'm hungrrrreee! I want breakfast!"

"Mom, I frozen. I frozen, I can't move."

"I need to run around the tree!"

"Chase me, Mom! Chase me!"

What Four looks like in the evening:

"Mooom, I'm huuunggrrrrrry. I'm staaaarvvving. I need a snack."

"No, I don't want dinner, I'm not hungry.”

"No bath."

"I go outside?"

What Four looks like at bedtime:

"I'm thirsty."

"I'm hungry."

"I want a bath!"

"Five more minutes, you said five more minutes!"

"Mom, jus' a minute, I'm doin' something."

"Mom, read me a book. Now read it again!"

"We play trains? Do a puzzle? Brush my teeth?"

"I need my other blanket."

"I'm scared."

"I want someone to sleep with me!"

"I sleep in the big bed?"

"I don't wanna sleep in the big bed, I sleep on the couch?"

At this rate, Four will last FOREVER.

And that is just fine with me.

Happy birthday, little man.

Absolutely, positively, 100% maybe.

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 21:02:00 +0000

We are calling it.

Potty trained.

Yesss.

Just in time for your 4th birthday.

*frantically knocks on wood*

*does rain dance*

*knocks on more wood*

*re-considers even posting this*

Grandpa

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 22:43:00 +0000

Early in August, your grandfather suffered a massive stroke and passed away.

I’ve been stalling about blogging it, because I don’t really know what to say. I still don’t, but I also don’t feel like I can overlook it, even temporarily.

I explained it to you, of course, as best as I could, where your father’s father – your “Melville Grandpa” – was. You knew why we went to the hospital - because he was there, and he was very sick; you knew that everybody was sad.

“Why is Melville Grandma sad?” you wanted to know.

“Sweetie, Melville Grandma is very sad because Grandpa died. Do you know what that means?”

You shook your head solemnly.

“It means that his body stopped working, and the doctors couldn’t fix it. So he had to go away…and he can’t come back. So Grandma misses him very much.”

“Oh, his body is broken?”

“Um…yes. Sometimes bodies break.”

You thought about this.

“My body won’t break,” you stated.

“No!” I assured you hastily. “No, your body is perfectly healthy, and so are Mommy’s and Daddy’s. Nobody else’s body will break for a very long time.”

“Oh, and Grandpa went away?”

“Yes, he had to go away, and he can’t come back.”

“Where did he go?”

“Um. Well. Nobody really knows, sweetie.”

You waited, unsatisfied with this answer.

“…but I’m sure it’s somewhere good.” I finished lamely.

(There are definitely times that it would be easier to be religious.)

You re-confirm the details with me almost daily, which doesn’t mean that you understand or don’t understand, only that you are 3 (almost 4! Gah!). You ask me the same questions about all kinds of things daily, to confirm that the answers haven’t changed. Or that I’m not lying to you.

I hope that we can tell you enough about your Melville Grandpa that you feel you know him, as you get older. I hope that you will have memories of your own that will stay. He loved you so much – and you brought him such incredible joy. His face lit up with every single thing you did – you were the highlight of his day sometimes, I think.

(You are pretty charming, although he didn’t have to potty train you.)

It isn’t fair, at all, that he won’t be around to watch you get bigger, go to school, hit a baseball, fall in love, all the rest of it. It isn’t fair at all that you won’t have him around to talk about trains, buy you gifts I’ve forbidden, show you how to mow the lawn, give you advice.

But he packed a lot of love into the first few years of your life, and that’s gotta count for something.

Pause

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Tue, 23 Aug 2011 03:59:00 +0000

We’re experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by.

Freeze these moments

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 21:18:00 +0000

Summer sort of has us in hiatus. It’s decided to put in appearance this year, so the past few weeks have been a repeating loop of fun in the garden, fun in the sprinkler, go for an ice cream, have dinner on the deck, recover in the air conditioning, turn on the sprinkler again.

Not so much with the blogging.

So I don’t have a lot to report. You drive me crazy every day, and I love you like crazy every day. You mostly go to the bathroom on the potty, except when you’re distracted or excited or feeling stubborn or just plain forgot.

Okay, “mostly” might be an overstatement. Still, we’re getting there.

You spend 9 hours every weekday at daycare, and I’m inclined to feel guilty about that except that you love it. You play in sand and water and paint and foam, you sing songs and learn and laugh and make and break friendships 5 times a day. Every once in a while you say you don’t want to go. Every time your father or I offers to trade places because man, who wouldn’t want to go there every day?

I feel like we’ve finally gotten into the “zone” as a family, with your father and I on the same schedule and happy with our jobs, with nothing major breaking or going wrong, with our parental ‘tag-team’ pretty much down pat. Sometimes, at perfectly normal moments, like getting ready in the morning together or sitting over dinner, I am so overwhelmed with how much I love our lives together that I almost cry.

So, nothing big to report.

And that’s just fine.

Happy Canada Day!

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 02:45:00 +0000

Let us all celebrate with bouncy castles.

And kitty faces.

But not, as some if us may have, by putting our 3 year olds alone onto a hay ride, with the expectation that said hay ride wouldn't, say, start leaving the grounds entirely, with your baby perched precariously on the rickety edge, bound for parts unknown, while you trotted ineffectually after it trying not to panic.

No, that's not very celebratory at all.

(You were unharmed and unfazed. Back in ten minutes. I, however, may have a few new patriotic grey hairs.)

I guess I should re-evaluate for summer

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 03:01:00 +0000

You: "Moooommmm, I'm hungry."

Me: "Xander, you're just stalling bedtime."

You: *eats entire chicken breast*

Me:"...Oh."

Your generation is just THAT technologically savvy

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Sun, 19 Jun 2011 21:51:00 +0000

I promise to stop blogging about poop soon. All you have to do is start pooping in the toilet.

Anyway. There has been some success with your ability to pee on the potty, but fecal matter is another story. I actually think you don’t like the feeling of hanging your bum over the toilet. In an effort to motivate you, I made the grave tactical error of promising you a new toy if you managed to perform.

(I should have known that was a mistake, as when I’d introduced the idea of a reward for potty performance originally, you spent an entire evening sitting on the loo, completely distressed at your inability to poop on command, exclaiming, “Come on, bum. Come ON!”, eventually sobbing on my shoulder because you waaaannntteed that caaaa-aah-aaah-ndy, until I proclaimed that I’d heard a little plop! I was sure of it! And let you have a tiny piece of chocolate, lest you rupture something.)

You sat on the toilet for an hour, trying to earn that toy. Eventually I distracted you with something else, and you hopped off.

You pooped in your diaper 5 minutes later.

“Okay, buddy,” I sighed. “Let’s change your bum.”

“I wanna poop on the potty, Mom!”

“Xander, you already pooped in your diaper. I don’t think any more poop is going to come out.”

“It will, Mom,” you insisted, mounting the steps to take your throne. “It’s just checkin’ its email.”

By the numbers

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Mon, 13 Jun 2011 02:55:00 +0000

Things you do that are cute and/or entertaining:

1. Insist we call you Littlefoot.

2. Deliberately misinterpret things we say, such as this morning when you were trying to talk your way out of eating with a fork, and your father said, “Look, I see your argument. But still, no,” and you replied, “Oh, you see it? Where is it? Is it back there?”

(Hard to discipline someone for impertinence when they’re making you crack up.)

3. Make up entire conversations between your toys.

4. Cry, “Mommy!!” with a thousand-watt grin when I arrive to pick you up.

5. Do things like climb into our bed because of a thunderstorm, wait until we’re positive you’re asleep, and then whisper, “Daddy? Smell my feet.”

Things you do that are not so cute and certainly not entertaining:

1. Whine. Stooooooooppppp with the whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiining.

2. Sabotage potty training at every turn, including sitting patiently on the potty for 20 minutes until I’m certain I’ve missed the cue, and then peeing on the floor 30 seconds later.

3. Act like an insane person when you’re tired or hungry. The maniacal laughter is unnerving.

4. Flat out ignore me.

5. Did I mention the potty training? Seriously, just poop on the goddamn toilet already.

Meh. We’ll call it even.

Precious

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 02:57:00 +0000

This past weekend we made a quick day trip to the small(er) town where your father grew up. Your grandmother maintains a collection of his childhood toys, and generally tries to offload them on us whenever possible. We told you that you could select ONE to bring home.

You picked the biggest possible one, of course, a G.I. Joe jet fighter.

You quickly became rather fond of it.

Really rather fond.

It’s worth $120 on eBay, apparently. But it’s worth way more than that to us and your grandmother to see you so happy to have it.

So. Yeah. It’s that time.

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Sat, 21 May 2011 03:20:00 +0000

On Mother’s Day, at the very end of the night, your father gave you a bath and I read some blogs or something. I heard voices from upstairs, and you came to the top of the stairs and yelled, “Moooooom, I pooped in the potty!”

Best Mother’s Day EVER.

We made a big deal out of it, you got a piece of leftover Easter candy. I thought – finally! Some progress on the potty front!

Except, the next night (because you always poop at about the same time, as one does), I said, “Let’s go sit on the potty, buddy.”

“No,” you said matter-of-factly, “I’m no pooping, mom.”

“Are you sure?” I said suspiciously.

“Yep!”

2 minutes later I wrinkled my nose and sighed in exasperation.

“Xander…if you were pooping, why didn’t you tell me so we could sit you on the potty?”

“I didn’t want any Easter candy,” you explained.

***

So. Yeah. That is what we’re dealing with. I do think you “get” it, it’s just a power struggle. You are not a morning person, so asking that you sit on the toilet as soon as you wake up is met with a snappish, “No!”. You will sit on it every other time of day, for a while, except that it always seems to time out to be…5 minutes before you actually do your business.

I’m looking into some kind of potty-training summer camp. They have that, right?

Mother’s Day

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Mon, 09 May 2011 03:23:00 +0000

Today was Mother’s Day, and you presented me with some tulips, my favorite.

“Those are Mommy’s favorite,” your father told you.

“I like tulips,” I agreed.

“Oh,” you said. “You don’t like one lip?”

Thank you for another year of love, learning, and laughter.

Even if you did insist today was “Mommy and Xander Day”.

But you can’t drive til you’re 16

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Wed, 04 May 2011 03:23:00 +0000

Now that I have a new job, and your father has a day job, we get to establish family institutions like this:

Saturday Morning Mario Kart.

It’s the grown-up thing to do.

Easter

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 03:19:00 +0000

This is the first year I’ve really “done” Easter, you know, with the hiding of eggs and stories of large home-invading rabbits. There were some logistics involved, since the dog would obviously snarf anything I hid faster than you could find it, so she had to be sequestered downstairs.

I thought you understood about the Easter Bunny, except, apparently you expected to see him. You didn’t really seem to get that he’d already “been” here, and had left you treats hidden around the house. I mean, why would he do that when he left half of the goods right out in the open, sitting in the easter basket you made at daycare?

So you picked up the egg that was immediately obvious, and another one that you saw, and then started to eat them.

“No, sweetie, the Bunny told me he’d hid ten eggs for you. There are 8 more!”

“Oh,” you replied. You seemed unconcerned with the proverbial birds in the bush, when you already had two in the hand. (This is probably a philosophy I shouldn’t try too enthusiastically to squash.)

“Don’t you want to find the other eggs?”

“Where are dey?” you asked.

“No, you’re supposed to look for them. The Easter Bunny hid them to make it fun.”

“I can’t find dem,” you informed me immediately, without looking. “You find dem?”

“I will help you look for them,” I promised, and then spent 20 minutes ‘helping’ you find 8 measly peanut butter eggs with encouraging words such as, “I hear the Easter Bunny likes to hide things near books,” and “Only 6 more to go!” and “For the luvva! It’s RIGHT THERE!”

You actually rolled your eyes at me at one point.

I think both of us enjoy eating them way more.

Size matters

noreply@blogger.com (Keely) — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 03:34:00 +0000

You relate a lot of things to size. Small things are always the babies, big things are the mommies or daddies. Big people, in your mind, are more competent. When you are feeling confident in your ability to do something, you will declare yourself a “big boy”. You tell me quite frequently that, “it’s okay, Daddy can do it, he’s a big boy.”

(Usually this is pretty cute. Once, when I was helping you play a video game, I flubbed a level and remarked, “Oh, Mama’s not very good at this.” You replied with, “Oh, Daddy is better at it? Because he is a big boy?” That was…not as endearing.)

Yesterday I got the dreaded Call from daycare: you had a high fever. I collected you immediately (you were lying on the floor) and took you home to fill you full of fluids and pain reliever.

It wasn’t quite doing the trick, though; your fever was still pretty high, and you started to get shaky and weepy, so I took you to the medi-clinic this morning. You’re not normally a big complainer. Despite all evidence to the contrary – red eyes, nose full of snot – you’ll usually declare yourself feeling “ok”. Shaky and weepy – and then, in the waiting room, crying about joint pain – is kind of a big deal.

The medi-zombie took the usual perfunctory look in your ears and throat, declared it an infection, and prescribed penicillin. Of course.

I got you home, dosed you with banana-flavored medicine, and installed you on the couch with movies and four different kinds of juice.

“Are you feeling better, buddy?” your father asked.

“Yes,” you answered, not very convincingly.

“Were you good at the doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you were. You’re a big boy,” your father said, conveying both confidence in your recovery and pride in your toughness.

“No,” you said in a trembly voice. “I am just smaller. And smaller and smaller.”

(You did look pretty small, there, for a few hours. But the fever came down and you’re back to being larger than life, telling me elaborate stories and arguing over bedtime.)