Day 277

Some things about yourself are just hard to hear... but you appreciate the fact that someone has had the courage to say them. 

Tonight, just after bedtime (read: when Julian whined so convincingly that he was hungry that I started to believe him and let him come downstairs for a snack), I sat across from him and asked him a question I've asked him several times before.  This time I asked in an objective, curious - you might even say professional (recall: I am trained as journalist) - way: 

"Why do you so often ask for Daddy to read you books? Is there something I could do better when I read you books?"

Jules, peeling a clementine over his "Sunny Days" placement, glances up, and very seriously says this: 

"Mom. I should tell you: Some people are just not good at different voices. You can't talk like Grover. Dad is just like Grover. So I like him to read me books and pat my back."

This kid, I tell you, is very perceptive. I do suck at voices. And I know it. A few years ago in the Spielpalast Cabaret, I played Mika, a dancer, a coquette, a poor Polish girl - who basically turned out also to be mute because speaking with an accent, even speaking in a voice that wasn't my own, on stage, made me self-conscious. Very self-conscious. 

I'm not self-conscious using different voices to read to the boys. I am merely incompetent. Completely incompetent. I'll start off using a deep slow voice for Toad and switch to my normal tone when it's time for the narrator to talk. Then I try something dapper and peppy for Frog... but I can't nail it down. It's sort of a cross between Toad, myself and Humphrey Bogart on novocaine. Point is, the kid is right. I am "not so good at different voices." Jon's spirited storytelling style trumps my lame nighttime "reading" routine big time. Of course, Jules wants him to read the books.

The good news is that Jules not only provided an explanation for his parent reading preference, he also offered a prescription for improvement (when I asked him if I should practice). 

"Yes, Mom," he said. "You should practice. I'm going to tell you how long you should practice."

"Ok..."

"You should practice for 100 years." 

"I can't practice for 100 years, Jules."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Why can't you practice for 100 years?"

I chose my words wisely because (if you read this blog you know) I still have much to learn about discussing death with children. 

"I don't have that much time, Jules."

"Why? Because you might die?"

I nod slightly.

"Well then practice for 16 years," he said. "You should get a good Grover voice by then."

I can't make this shit up. Seriously. 

Day 191

Today, in the mad rush that is our standard morning routine, Jules went missing. We found him out in the driveway shooting hoops. Jon gave him a stern "you can't leave the house without telling us" talk and hung out with him and Kai outside while I finished packing little boys' lunches and locating my keys. (The latter of which is also part of our standard morning routine. Pathetically so.)

Ten minutes later, the boys and I piled in the Swagger Wagon and headed to school. En route, I felt the need to discuss further the idea that exiting the house unannounced (when you're four) is verboten. I wanted Jules to realize why we have this rule: It's a safety issue. We're not unfair dictators. 

Jules got it. Totally. And since things were going so well, I decided to tack on a new lesson: the "don't talk to strangers" spiel. Which is a tricky topic for me...  a person known to gather the entire life story of a friend of a friend of a friend at a party, a person who recently introduced herself to another young family because of paths crossing repeatedly around town. (Hell, when you're riding on the same tractor at Shelburne Farms for the third time, you should be on a first name basis, no?)

This is the only kind of weapon we shoot 'round here.

Anyway... Jules's response: "What's a stranger?"

"Well... it's a person you don't know," I told him. "And it's not a good idea to talk to people you don't know when mom or dad isn't around."

Even as I delivered this message, I wasn't sure it was quite right.

"Because they're bad guys?" he asked.

"Well because they might be people who do bad things." I am not speaking confidently. I wish I'd read up on how to handle this talk before launching into it.

"Do you and dad have guns to fight the bad guys with?"

Guns?!? WTF?

I explained that, no, Daddy and I do not have guns. That we do not fight people. That fighting is usually a very bad idea. Because people get hurt. 

Eventually, he tired of this topic and we started looking for people walking dogs. 

We live in a hood with a bunch of seven-year-old boys (really great seven-year-old boys, I might add) who, I suspect, play "gun games." I assume that this is where might be learning about guns. I don't know. What I do know is this: I do not want my boys playing games that involve pretending to shoot people. Ever. Fellow parents, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this topic, whether they're aligned with mine, or totally not... 

PS: For the record, this isn't intended to be an opinion piece on gun control - which certainly can be a complicated issue. But the idea that preschoolers can somehow absorb the idea that shooting bad guys is simply "what you do" deeply disturbs me. 

  

Day 106

"Mom! What are you doing to yourself?" 

Not just what are you doing - what are you doing to yourself. Jules is alarmed. Horrified. Confused.

"Why are you pinching your face like that?" 

I am plucking my eyebrows.

Maintaining well-groomed brows without the help of a professional is trickier than it sounds. One moment, you're a tweeze away from perfect arches; the next, you look like you might have gotten too close to your birthday cake. So I use a light touch. (Side note: Waxing is worse and I have a passport - the one I carried from 1999 to 2009 - to prove it.) But this morning, waiting for Jules to finish brushing his teeth so that I could go in for the final chomper sweep, I noticed that I was NOT in danger of overplucking. On the contrary, I was in perilously close to a faint unibrow.

But I'd never even considered that plucking your brows might seem kind of, well, barbaric. And I realized that if I'm going to do things like pluck my eyebrows when I tell my kids that they shouldn't pinch each other or bite their friends, I'm going to have to figure out a succinct and satisfying explanation for why people do things like rip their hairs out one by one with a pointy metal appliance. Obviously, I'm not there yet.

Today, I'm grateful for a new perspective made possible by Julian's fresh eyes.

Day 94 - 95

"I think that they won't let us squeeze the cow's penis today..." 

Jon is standing at the counter, flipping oatmeal pancakes; I'm helping myself to a cup of coffee, which clearly I'm going to need for this conversation. We steal a sideways glance, both confused by Julian's 7 a.m. statement.

"Huh?" I need some clarification. 

Jules continues, "To get the milk out. I don't think that we'll get to see the cows today." 

Ohhhh.... 

Finally brave enough to meet eyes, Jon and I share a quick smile. Quickly, I look away, moving the conversation along because I don't trust I can keep from dissolving into hysterical laughter. (For the record, we've already covered "what makes a mammal" with Jules - we hit the farm often and I nursed both boys. Still, it would seem we need a refresher.)

"Jules, I think you're probably right about the cows. But we're going to see the sheep and baby lambs," I tell him. Lambs. Baby lambs is totally redundant, I know, but I can't quit saying it. "And Maite is coming us. YAY!"

***

Maite is Julian's best friend at school. Every day for the last year-and-a-half, they've been hugging each other to the ground (literally) each morning, snuggling and fighting like cats through the day and then skipping out to our cars, holding hands, each night.

In two days, Maite is moving back to Italy. Jules hasn't said he's upset about it but there have been signs: difficult drop-offs, touch-and-go moments at school. So Jon and I have been trying to prep him: We're talking about how we'll talk to Maite on the computer, how we'll write her letters and send her pictures from Vermont. He's fine - we're the ones who seem sad - he's most interested in whether Maite will send him presents. (Oy.)

***

So today, we visit the farm, we see the "baby lambs." We pet Penelope the donkey and we head home for pizza and play time. All the while, Jules and Maite are, well, Jules and Maite: all snuggly and sweet with each other one minute, bossy and aggressive the next. 

Then, while they're arting it up at the kitchen table, Jon and I overhear this:

Jules: "Are you sad because you're going to Italy? Are you going to cry?" 

Maite: "No. I am going to Italy. I am going to get notes from everyone and then I am going to come back someday." 

Jules: "But are you going to cry?"

Maite: "No. I am going to Italy."

When it was time for Maite to head home, Julian decided he didn't want to ride along with Jon; instead, he wanted to stay home and "play bubbles" with me. On her way out, Jules gave Maite an orange bottle of bubbles. 

Once Julian and I were alone (Kai was napping), he took the wand from his (red) bottle and pursed his little lips to create a parade of iridescent orbs - which he chased down with the wand. Then, he watched the bubbles pop, one by one. He did this again and again. Then he burst into tears. "I want the orange bubbles. Maite is going to take them to Italy and I want them back." 

Oh, bud, I totally know what you mean. And here's what I would have told you if I could have trusted myself not to cry: 

You're going to have to say goodbye again and again and again. But you're also going to get to say a lot of hellos, and meet a lot of new people and see a lot of new places and things. (Like baby lambs!) The trick is to not let yourself get so lost in the intense emotions of the goodbyes and hellos that you miss all of the awesomeness of the in-betweens. Which totally isn't easy. That I know. 

Day 43

Today, I read a wonderful post about Martin Luther King Day on The Captain's Log... Tales From the Poop Deck, a blog written by a Alvin Anthony, a friend from Allegheny. Alvin's posts are usually laugh-out-loud hilarious. This one is more serious--but so beautifully written.

The piece is generally positive but in the early paragraphs, Alvin describes the discrimination he experienced in grade school. Specifically, he talks about "being called 'boy' (which doesn’t seem like an insult until it is shouted in your face or accompanied with spit or an attempt to trip/push you don a flight of stairs)."  This called to mind an experience I had as a freshman at Allegheny--one that made a big impression.

It was spring semester of my freshman year and I was TA for a chem lab designed for humanities majors. (Basically, it was the coolest science class ever)... I was making the rounds through the benches where people were huddled in twos over some piece of equipment (a centrifuge? a microscope? Who knows?)... "How are you girls doing?"... "How's it going?"... "You guys need anything?"....  and then....

"You boys doing OK?" One of the guys I was addressing--his name was Ed--gave me a strange look, told me they were doing fine, and then a few minutes later he pulled me to the side. I don't remember exactly what he said (to be honest, I'm having a hard time remembering Ed's last name) but it was something like this: "Nicci, it's pretty obvious that have no idea, but using the word 'boy' to address a black male is really derogatory." He explained why. At that moment, I felt like a total idiot for not knowing this and I feel really badly for possibly having offended someone. Two someones. (At this moment, I'm wondering why I was even calling men and women, who were mostly a year or two older than me, "girls" and "boys.") I must have looked supersad/regretful, etc., because Ed immediately tried to make me feel better by saying (again I don't remember the exact words), something to the effect of, "Don't sweat it, I know you're not a bigot but I wanted you to know because I don't want you to make the mistake again when you're talking to someone who might not know that you're a cool person."

I was--and still am--so very grateful that Ed took the the time to educate me, kindly and discreetly, about something I should have known. Certainly it would have be easier ignore it and just write me off as a dumb fluff-chick. That day, I learned the disgusting history of that one usage of "boy." I also learned that, just like you should tell someone she has cilantro stuck in her teeth, you should let her know (nicely and directly) when she's saying something that is so very wrong. Even--or especially--if she doesn't know it. So, tonight, I thank you, Ed [I'm Sorry I Forget Your Last Name] from Allegheny.

Day 9

Allow me to write the book of what not to say to young, inquiring minds.

Conversation that occurred while I was strapping the boys into the car this morning:
Jules (who's been around lots of pregnant ladies recently): "How do babies pop out?"
Me: "Well, sometimes they come out of your belly. Like, when you were born, the doctor cut my tummy and then sewed it back up."
Jules looks horrified.

Me: "It didn't hurt though." (Well, no, because I was numb. And, um, high.)
Jules looks confused.

Me: "Sometimes they come out like poop...." (Whaaaaaaa? Where am I going with this?)
Jules smiles a la "surely you're shitting me, Mom."
Me: "...But through ladies' vaginas."
Jules: Oh. (As if everything suddenly makes sense.)

Oy.

This conversation took me back to the day when, visiting my grandparents at the cemetery, I told a two-year-old Jules that the markers showed where there were "people under the ground."

I would be grateful for your facts-of-life book recommendations.