getting in the way

After two well-meaning checkers leaned over their registers at the store this afternoon to quiz Gabriel on his plans for Halloween, and he - with a world-class pout on his face, arms crossed, and eyes downcast - mumbled something about being a superhero named Bug Boy, we walked off across the parking lot and I asked him how he felt about talking with grown ups he didn't know.

I don't like it! Grown ups should not talk to me.

Why not?

Then came a moment, as he climbed into the backseat, replete with a weariness that a four year old should not yet know: silence, then a deep, heaving sigh, followed by eye-rolling. With these gestures he basically said must I explain the obvious to you? Again? ...and then resigned himself to the task.

Mama. I only like to talk to kids my own age who are my friends. Younger kids hit and kick because they don't know better. Older kids tease and taunt. And grown ups are just...annoying.

A world run and inhabited by four year olds! Can you imagine it? I sort of can, after a day of apple-picking with Gabriel and his friend Wyatt yesterday. There would be a lot of bathroom humor. I mean, a lot. Playing with sticks would be required for at least 2 or 3 hours a day (consequently half the citizenry would be missing an eye). Most of the time would be spent in make believe, everyone's clothes would be impossibly dirty, and hugs would abound, whether or not both participants were interested in a squeeze just then.

Gabriel and Wyatt hadn't seen each other in a long time and so the excitement level was high for our orchard adventure. On the way there, the boys talked pee and poop and cracked each other up for nearly an hour, after which point (thank goodness) I successfully introduced a game of 20 questions. That worked for awhile, until they started asked questions like "Is it an animal who...poops on your head?"

Oh man. Funny stuff. I admit, it was hard not to laugh, watching them delight in each other. They sprinted past the Braeburns and Staymans with sticks, pretending to be ninja samurai warriors and occasionally diving under trees to avoid enemies invisible to these old eyes. They spent an hour chasing each other through the straw maze, guffawing like mad. And the only challenge on my end was keeping their impulses towards naughtiness in check.

They seemed to want to push the envelope with me constantly. They'd encourage each other to disobey. At first I was a little baffled. What were they getting out of it? Then at one point Gabriel wandered over and sat down in my lap, clearly needing a break. Wyatt looked at him with horror, as if he'd been betrayed. Gabriel!! Come back here! he called from the lip of their pretend witches' stew pot, bunches of grass in his hands. Come on!!

Then I got it. I was a threat to their twosome. When you want to identify so completely with a friend, parents really get in the way - even if they're not literally in the way. The very fact of a parent's love can cramp your style, even at age 4.

And so it begins. We provide the security, the unconditional safe space in whose confines they can grow and hopefully become the people they are meant to be - yet part of that becoming will inevitably involve a thousand moments of distancing, rejecting, and separating from the love we offer. They come back and go away, over and over, practicing.

I am tickled by Gabriel's capacity for friendship. So much so that I didn't mind being the bad guy yesterday. But oh my, did it ever feel good when he snuggled up next to me for a story at bedtime!

 

say yes

This weekend the weather was fantastic, but the golden light that colored everything and everyone wasn't just about the perfection that is October sunshine. Last Thursday I went to the annual fundraiser for the nonprofit I work with, Seeds 4 Success. Some of you may remember when I wrote about meeting the executive director last November, how we shared so many connections and then later discovered that our parents had been friends in Dallas when we were babies and toddlers, so many years ago.

My family left Dallas when my dad got a job as the associate minister at the Unitarian Universalist church in Providence, RI, which put an end to backyard hang-outs with the Snells. Thirty-two years later, I was heading towards a table full of enticing appetizers at a fundraiser when a man with gray hair and a warm, open face reached out and touched my arm. 

"Meagan?" 

I was feeling inclined to love everyone at this event - all supporters, staff, and volunteers at one of the coolest nonprofits ever - so I figured he must be a friend, albeit one I didn't recognize. Then he told me that before the party, he couldn't quite remember my mother's face, but the minute he saw me he knew just who I was, because I looked so much like her.

And then I knew exactly who he was. My dad's old friend. Jess's dad. Bill. 

Oh! It was a gift, it was extraordinary, to hear him and his wife Laura tell stories about spending time with my parents when they were nearly ten years younger than I am now. How often do we hear first hand about our families before we were old enough to remember? My mom, at home with a toddler, apparently developed a penchant for hot dogs. She told ghost stories. My grandfather invited them to a party at his house and the guests included all three of his wives (two exes and current) who apparently all got along amicably. Bill and Laura were astounded. Who wouldn't be?

It was already as if God had given me an unasked for, unanticipated gift when I met Jess and learned about our family connection. The gift grew and grew on Thursday night, and it gave me a shivery, charged feeling. At a certain point  I realized my mom was coming into town on Friday, and I asked what plans Bill and Laura had for the weekend. 

Not much, they said - just their granddaughter's soccer game on Saturday morning. Which was exactly what my mom had planned on Saturday morning - her grandson's soccer game. Addison and Gabriel's games turned out to be at the same time, on adjacent fields, and my goodness, we were all able to stand around together in the chilly sunshine and talk! The amazing thing is that we did nothing to put this all in motion. We only had to say yes, to agree, to accept the gifts we were being given.

It's strange to think that if Jess and I hadn't connected, all those grandparents would be cheering along the sidelines in another town, another time, thirty years after starting a friendship with babies on their hips, and not recognize one another. But maybe not - after all, Bill recognized me, a perfect stranger. They'd probably have figured it out.

Later during the weekend, when all had settled into more regular routines, I was thinking about our meeting on the soccer field and was visited by a vision of my dad there with us. Loose-limbed, goofy, laughing at the sweet absurdity of four year olds chasing a ball straight off the field, cheering a little too loud for Gabriel, poking ridiculous fun at Frances when she complained of boredom, giving big bear hugs to Bill and Laura. It hurts sometimes when my mind goes there involuntarily - imagining what life would be like today with him in it. It's not hard at all, which is a kind of comfort, because I still know him so well. And thanks to meeting Jess's parents over the weekend, now I know him just a tiny bit better.

Oh dear. Telling you about that has me crying. A bit of lighter news: Frances made pancakes all by herself. She was so very proud! And both kids ran around in bare feet in the warm weather on Sunday, looking sweet and summery while I did yoga on the back deck and stared up in triangle pose at the green boughs moving gracefully in the wind above, and just like Amos the mouse, I felt thoroughly akin to it all. 

nitty gritty

Our kitchen floor - more than any surface in our house - is regularly stomped on, slid across, spilled on, and generally abused in every imaginable way. Yet, mop-averse mama that I am, I rarely pay any attention to it. Like, almost never. It's a sad state. (A certain friend of mine and loyal reader with hard-working German roots would be horrified.)

But we have - in theory - two small laborers who live rent-free upstairs and I decided it was time to give them the job of cleaning the floor. The last few weekends, I've set them up with soapy buckets and, per their request, played "It's a Hardknock Life" at a startlingly high volume, over and over. Then I leave them to it.

It's wild. They get sopping wet, they dance, they slide, they use every dishtowel and rag in the house, and it takes about an hour. Yesterday, things got so out of control at the end that I had to send them upstairs for a five minute time out, during which I hastily pulled out the mop, ran it over their uneven work, and hid it behind the fridge before calling them back downstairs. I didn't want to demoralize them.

Because despite their crazy approach to cleaning, they do take pride in their work. This year is our most scheduled yet with children, and in keeping with that, we have introduced regular chores in a more routinized way. It's a good thing, and they have taken to their new duties relatively well, but...for a sometimes lazy mama, it can be a daunting enterprise, this chore enforcement business.

Because let's face it, when overseeing a four and seven year old, one has to tolerate sloppiness, slowness, incompetence, and dilly-dallying taken to stunning heights. I believe in chores. I believe in shared family responsibility for the work of maintaining a home. I believe in the dignity of domestic endeavors! But lord, it can be tedious to impart these values.

So, can we get down to the nitty gritty? The challenge seems to be finding tasks that are realistically accomplish-able yet require some effort and will impart that real feeling of pride when done with care. I will tell you what our kids do. Then will you tell what your kids do, how you approach it, and if you ever go crazy in the process?

Right now, the kids take turns every morning putting away the silverware from the dishwasher (this works pretty well), set the table most nights, and help clear. Bed-making is nonexistent, but mostly because I can't figure out how to teach them to make their rather challenging beds (Gabriel's is a bunk bed with difficult tucks, and Frances's is a day bed with the same problem - metalwork on three sides. Advice welcome on this one.) On weekends they pick up their rooms (torture) and attempt the above-described floor cleaning.

Please weigh in! I can't be the only one of us interested in reading about the chores other kids are doing, and with what degree of success/family harmony. Our investments of time and energy at this age will - hopefully - pay off later. So...how is it working in your house?

her favorite brother

About a month ago, Gabriel changed his tune. For weeks he'd been praying fervently for a little brother (usually while his sister sat next to him, face screwed up tight, hands clasped, praying just as fervently for a little sister ... which made a charming scene, two miniature duelers silently, furiously competing for God's attention). But then, out of nowhere, he decided he wanted a sister too.

Huh? Mike and I suspected this was yet another case of Gabriel deciding it was best to placate his big sister's passionate desires and minimize conflict. Probably if he prayed for a little sister too it'd be in the bag, and then his Didi would be so very happy!

Well. We have an ultrasound scheduled this Friday, at which point we will likely know whether this baby is a little brother or a little sister. Last night before bedtime we were all on the big bed talking about it, and Gabriel set us straight about why he changed his mind.

"If it's a brother, I won't be Didi's favorite brother anymore. But if it's a sister, I'll still be her favorite."

Oh. Mike and I looked at each other, speechless. These two have been a pair for so long! The impending change is already rippling through all of  us in ways we are quietly discovering and absorbing, one moment at a time.