Learning Curve

While I was pregnant with Jack– and even before– I could imagine myself the mother of a wee baby. I love wee babies. There’s something so mystically important about a teeny little fresh human– no mistakes have yet been made, no hurtful words spoken, no opportunities missed… And there’s so much potential wrapped in a striped hospital blanket. The entire world might change on the future actions of that small body– but for now they are wee and helpless and mewing.

While I was pregnant I could not imagine myself the mother of a toddler. With only a few exceptions I had, to that point, found toddlers to be disagreeable little savages hellbent on destroying the world around them. They were sticky fingered, foul smelling little beasties with all the abilities to hurt, maim, and ruin and few of the mannerisms to set right the wrongs they might incur.

And then, of course, I had Jack and all my thinking changed. (Though I still think the rings of hell is most certainly any occupation that requires one to be in the company of a multitude of toddlers… enmasse they are still beastly.)

The speed at which he is learning and absorbing the world around him is staggering. Yesterday, when Robby reached out to take my hand to say Grace Jack’s little hands shot out, too– which is most remarkable because we are inconsistent in saying any kind of prayer at meals. He’s saying, “Ywecome” now, too, in his little ojibway-mandarin tongue. He’s heard us say it after someone says thank you and he wants in on the act. His milk, he’s learned, comes from the top shelf of the refrigerator.

Don’t get me wrong– his latest melt downs at the Sears Portrait Studio and the pediatrician are testament to his being Two. A Toddling Two at that. Yet it’s hard to blame him for getting frustrated at the world. I do, too.

I like the way God designed life to keep throwing stuff at us– at least the good stuff– because if we didn’t have faith that we were in good hands I don’t think any of us would be here. Jack wouldn’t– because, like I said, I couldn’t imagine myself with a toddler. Thankfully God’s imagination outranks mine.

Which End Up?

Sometimes life goes rushing past so quickly that it’s almost just a dull roar. Having a toddler in the house is good– focusing on Jack and Jack’s needs can at least tune out the other stuff.

His life is so simple it makes my heart ache. He is loved and tended and fed and watered and cleaned and bedded and clothed. He’s played with, sang to, protected, and heard.

Meanwhile, on the rushing fringe life is moving at breakneck speed– one dear friend is falling in love while another is crawling out of a messy, messy divorce. One family has welcomed in a tiny daughter while another pal is packing up the last boxes for her youngest who has flown the nest for another 6 states away. My mother is gearing up for another 2 and a half months on the other side of the Atlantic while Robby’s folks are on the verge of moving back into their winter house. My nieces are growing up so fast they’ve become a blur with their own schedules and priorities and worlds. The politics at work ebb and flow with the usual flotsam and jetsam tossed about in the wake of it. I am suprised to find that I’ve missed the last of the season’s blueberries.

This afternoon, after a morning of tumbling about in Jack’s “gymnastics” class, he was fractious with a cold that still has his little nose dripping and his moods erratic. I confess that I was all too willing to stop working and laundering and thinking about dinner to cuddle and play trains.

He’s a good little compass in the storm.

We’re Two!

Today Jack counted to 10 with me. I swear sometimes he holds out and just doles out new little skills and talents as I do his beloved mini-Fig-Newtons. For weeks he’s counted “8,9,10!” and most recently, “One! Too-ooo! Nine! Tee-en!” Today, at 2 years and one day, he spouted out the whole shebang. Silly kid.

I set up his new Thomas the Tank Engine wooden train today. GrandLady and Grandpa gave it to him and he’s quite pleased to sit in the middle of the little oval– which just fits him– clutching the two little engine cars. I’m allowed to play with the wagons and caboose but, apparently, not the little engines. Robby says it’s because I’m a girl. I want to go out and buy a third engine to see what Jack does when he has more little faced locomotives to protect than hands. In the meantime we happily made “Woo! Woo!” noises to accompany our train play. It’s not that different than Barbies though I do miss the tiny little shoes.

The other favored toy today was the little Fisher Price race track that his Aunt and cousins bought him. It makes funny (LOUD!) sounds when the car rounds the track– pit stop noises and squealing tires and the cheering of the grandstand crowd. Not a bad way to enter a room as I learned this morning when I walked in at the same time the car triggered the cheering noise. Yay Mommy!

And there was leftover cake. Always a good thing.

September 20, 2006

Dear JackRabbit,

Did I blink? Already another year of Life With Jack has zoomed by impossibly fast… how is it that tomorrow will mark your second year? You still seem so new to me– and your Dad.

It’s been a wonderful year, kiddo, with a new adventure every day. Learning to jump and run and climb and “read” (of course, you usually have the book upside down… but you’re getting the general idea) and feed yourself (this morning you really impressed me with your neatnik habit of waiting for the drips to finish before lifting the spoon towards your mouth). We’ve taken you all over the place– to visit Momma in France and to another Museum conference, a New Year’s Weekend Party (that you miraculously and mercifully slept through), Chicago, New York City, Canada, and poor Charleston. You and I have stomped in mud puddles and taken walks around the block holding hands and telling the barking dogs, “NO!” (well, at least you have…). You and your Dad have spent a year’s worth of weekend mornings letting me sleep in and having Boy Adventures watching Thomas (“Oh noooo!”) and ESPN.

You didn’t feel so hot today. You had a little fever and you were uncharacteristically clingy and whimpery and wanted to be held and snuggled. Thanks for that, little man, because Mommy needed a whole afternoon of smelling sweet baby smell and feeling you reach up and pat my cheek once in a while. I feel awful that you didn’t feel very good but I’m very grateful for the nice cuddle. And tonight you were back to rights with a big “Pa-cake!” supper… and your new Birthday Tent. You are too little to remember so I’ll tell you that the three of us crawled inside and sat with the little black dog reading your new Birthday Monsters book and giggling. We put together your Sesame Street puzzles and attacked poor Daddy and really, what better way could we celebrate the end of your Year of Being One?

Last year you figured out walking just in time for your Birthday… this year you’ve been “exploding” with language– all of a sudden, just in the last few weeks you’ve doubled and tripled your vocabulary. You’re a perfect mimic. It’s a little disconcerting– we’re really watching ourselves–. It’s strange to have a conversation with your Daddy and then have a third littler voice pop in. “Pa-cake,” “Mon-key,” “Bom-pa,” “nunee” [excuse me], “tan-u” [thank you], “Ogar” (Oscar-the-Grouch)… Last night you were restless and I ended up in your room in the rocking chair with you and a blankie. I sang, “All Through the Night” because it calms you down and you sang along, too.

I love watching you learn things. I love that you are so happy to discover a new word that we understand, too. Mommy loves words. More than words Mommy loves you– and loves being your Mommy. We’re supposedly heading into the Terrible Twos– but, I tell you, Peanut, that if the last few weeks have been a preview than we’ll do fine.

Sleep tight little prince– tomorrow we’ll make a bigger fuss than usual and eat AunT’s famous chicken noodle soup and your favorite tiny quiches but tonight Daddy and I will spend more than our usual time saying tan-u to God for letting us be your parents.

We love you so very much,
Mommy

Attack on CHarleston

On our vacation last week we had the good fortune to spend a few days in Charleston, South Carolina. We enjoyed the seafood and architecture and ambience… soaking up the salty accents and sweet pralines.

Jack is too little too have any memories of our visit. Years from now I imagine that he’ll come home from school filled with importance on learning about Ft. Sumter and relay it to his Daddy and I in the way that only a 11 year old can.

We’ll counter with this story… On our first night there we found a lovely hotel near the market area. Our room had high ceilings and hard wood floors, a canopied bed so high that little stairs were necessary. Outside was a 2nd story veranda. We’d had a marvelous meal of fried green tomatoes and fresh crab cakes. Daddy and I were happily full. Jack, on the other hand, was not a good eater that night and refused nearly everything but crackers, bread, and milk. It had been a long day of driving. The night was a perfect temperature for walking in the gaslit city. Jack, in his stroller, up far past his usual bedtime, took in the city with heavy lidded eyes. Robby spotted a little tobacco shop and eagerly entered to buy the cigars that Jack and I frown at. With Daddy happily esconsed in the humidor room, I wheeled Jacky’s stroller to the edge of the antique rug and sank down in a leather chair near a postcards/guidebook spinning kiosk. I picked out a few cards to send and flipped idly through the 3 guidebooks and still the Daddy was still choosing which cigars to buy. Jack started to fuss so I put the cards on the counter and unstrapped him from his stroller so he could stretch. It occured to me that we might hurry along the Daddy if the Daddy saw the little fists of his bored toddler beating the glass of the humidor door (or is that humidoor?)… Jack and I walked over to where the humidor opened onto another beautiful antique persian rug. The Daddy saw us and opened the door to show me his selections and Jacky lifted up his arms–and the first shots on Charleston were fired. Out from the depths of my small son’s thin frame came an eruption of milk now having the appearance of small curd cottage cheese. We were horrified. All three of us. Jack, who has NEVER thrown up in this grand a manner was frightened by the occurence. The Daddy, who stood in the door frame of the humidor room immediately recognized the impropriety of vomit in a humidor. And I, also unaccustomed to my son projectile vomiting, stood frozen in panicky thought. I had no extra layers to shed to catch the goo emerging from Jack but the Daddy had a t-shirt on under his woven shirt, “Take off your shirt! We’ll mop up the mess!” Jack, for his part, threw up again. The Daddy stripped off the only extra layer we had between us and went to scoop up the miniature erupting volcano of puke only to be hit in the ear, down the side of his body, splashing on to his flipflop clad feet and Jack’s shoes. Off came Jack’s shirt so that now we had a half naked spewing boy and a soiled under-shirted Daddy and a Mommy trying not to add to the mess while mopping up an amazing amount of spillage. The kind proprieters came rushing in– the stoic grandmotherly type and the appalled single man that won’t ever now have children. We took their generous offer of shop towels to sponge milky vomit off their lovely rugs and out of the humidor entry and off the wood floors… All while Jack kept wretching over and over into Daddy’s shirt and onto Daddy himself. After the worst was cleaned up we made a hasty exit– too hasty. I pushed the Daddy back inside to buy the cards and cigars– he picked up a few extra cigars in the process. Strapping the smelly boy into the car the Daddy wrapped up the vomity clothes into a plastic bag while I threw up in a curb outside of a bar. (The Daddy said he got some nice sympathetic looks from passing patrons who must have bemoaned the state of Northern mothers who apparently drink to excess in Southern bars.)

We Northern Aggressors might want to steer clear of gentile Charleston for a while. At least their tobacco shops.

The 5th 9/11

We’ve been on vacation– physically and mentally from work and the Everyday. It seems appropriate that this first Monday back to the “real world” would be the anniversary of 9/11 and especially bleakish.

What I really remember now– layered on the image of being at the site where the Twin Towers used to be– and the memory of my usual morning with Katie and Matt interrupted by our shared shock– are the days afterward. When it was still raw and unresolved in the media. I sat in our little sitting room upstairs and painted buildings for our Christmas village. Creating order and color while the television stayed tuned in to the latest information.

Someday, someone might find the dates written on the bottom of each completed little house or barn and wonder why I should be painting on those dates. I know that, in the past, I’ve wondered about old letters or diaries that seem to skip past some monumental date as though it were just another day of laundry or marketing. But I get it now. Each new paint spotch on my palette, each stroke of the brush, each bright new addition to my wintery town was one step towards feeling less frightened, less mournful, less stymied.

But that’s just what I remember.