You're Bothering Me!

This morning I was alternately reading to, and being read to by, my son. Cars and Trucks and Things that Go. After about 5 minutes, what my son wanted to go was me. "Daddy, you're bothering me!" he said and got out of my lap and sat down beside me. A few minutes later: "Daddy, move! You're bothering me!" Since when is sitting there, listening proudly, bothersome?! I'm sure something I was doing was bothering him, but for the life of me I haven't yet been able to figure out what. One thing's for sure, his reading doesn't bother me. Far from it. Sure he's just getting the hang of figuring out how letters go together to recapture the sounds of speech, but give him time. Of his desire and his skill, I'm prouder than I can say. His love for books is something that his mom began to nurture almost from the moment of conception, and we have a wonderful picture of him with a book in his lap when he's WAY too young to know what's going on. Or was he? I think my wife had it right when she got those books out early. You just never know when Goldbug might enchant the ear for a lifetime.

Not so fantastic....

....when you're called upon to collaborate in causing your child pain. Your almost-11-month old daughter can't understand why you're squeezing her, hugging her as tight as you can, all so that someone else can put a needle in her arm. Aren't hugs and squeezes meant to protect from pain? or, as a last resort, to force that unwelcome interloper away? "Because the doctor said so" and the trusty cliche "It's for your own good" -- I'm glad she can't understand such things yet, because even thinking of saying them clarifies for me just how hollow they must sound to a child who CAN understand. 'What could be better for me than NOT being hurt' is how I think I'd respond if told it was for my own good. 'And who is this Doctor you prate on about? She doesn't make my breakfast or my lunch or my supper. She doesn't change my diapers or read me stories. No, I think it's because YOU said so, because you're always going on and on about how great it is to do what you say.' And were she to say these things, my beautiful daughter, were she to listen to my empty rhetoric and say such things, she would be right. None of it could have happened without me. An accessory before, during and even after the fact. I am, in a single, heavy, suffocating word: guilty.

But maybe she does understand. If I've learned anything in my time as a father, it's that children often do understand more than we imagine. Not only that, they sometimes understand more, period. And if she does, this magical creature who lit upon our existence nearly a year ago and who has ever since made of our lives a fuller nest, if she closes her bright eyes to nap and in a moment of dream-towed insight understands why, I hope she forgives me.

Humor

The two words, when spoken in conjunction, guaranteed to make Logan dissolve into a fit of giggles:

"Fruit barber."

Snack

You'd think I would learn. I have spent a lot of time out with Logan. We've gone to many, many parks, playgrounds, play-groups, play-dates. We've gone multiple times to the zoo, the children's museum, the mall, this store, that store, restaurants, bookstores, train-table-places—in other words, we have lived among the world, people. We are out there.

And I'm a good mom. I am. I pay attention to my children. I (usually) listen when Logan is talking. I read books to him. Sometimes I yell, but at least I always feel badly about it. I praise him when he accomplishes something. I try and let him figure things out for himself. I make sure he gets exercise, nutritious foods, no TV, etc.

And yet there is one thing with which I am still not up to speed. Picture it: We are at the zoo. The day is bright, sunny, a few clouds drifting lazily overhead, a light breeze coming in off the lake. The animals are meandering about, Logan is energized and ready to run—all is as it should be.

And then it hits. Usually about 10:00-10:30am. They come from the hills, bearing Tupperware containers and juice boxes. They drag out insulated lunch boxes and individual packages of crackers. They have fruits and vegetables all cut up into perfect bite-sized portions. They have organic granola bars, string cheese, trail mix with raisins. They are the Snack Moms.

And...there's me. Holding Logan's sippy cup of plain water while he gazes longingly at the lucky, lucky children sitting on benches as their mothers lavish upon them animal crackers and veggie puffs.

My friend Suzanne is an amazing Snack Mom. When we are out, she always has something healthy and plentiful in her bag - dried cherries, almonds, clementines, crackers. When we go to her house, it's a veritable cornucopia of elegant snacks - croissants, cinnamon buns, chocolate cookies from the bakery. Logan adores her.

But me? I am...I confess...a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad Snack Mom.

It's not that I don't want to give him snacks. I don't mind snacks (as long as they're nutritious and not consumed too close to lunch or dinner). It's just that it's not one of the things at the forefront of my mind when we go out—it's way behind water, hats, sunscreen, wallet, keys. I just forget. He's always eaten more than enough at breakfast and lunch that I figure a snack isn't really necessary.

And yet—oh, the joy it brings him when he actually DOES get a snack. Usually from another mom. Because I forgot. So when we joined a new Moms group for a play-group at the park, about halfway through the morning out came the drinks and snacks. And my beloved only son looked up at me with his luminous dark eyes and said plaintively, "Mommy, I want a snack."

I gulped, remembering that I'd even managed to leave his water in the car. "Uh, I don't have a snack."

"But I want one."

I patted his head and whispered, "We'll go home and have lunch soon."

"But I'm hungry."

I could feel the stares. I was frantically trying to think of another way to placate him when another mom took pity on me and said sweetly, "Would Logan like a fruit bar?"

Would Logan like a fruit bar? Is winter in Wisconsin cold?

"Logan," I said before he could lunge for the fruit bar box like a tackling football player. "Would you like a fruit bar?"

"Yes," he said, and I swear I heard foreshadowing of a teenager's "what do you think" tone of voice.

The other mom handed over the fruit bar, to my profuse thanks and Logan's endless relief. I will go to sleep at nights thinking must bring snack, must bring snack, good lord, don't forget the kid's snack.

My new aspiration, in addition to best-selling author – Outstanding Snack Mom.

Generosity

ME: Logan, Saturday is Miranda's birthday party.

LOGAN: Yeah.

ME: We have a book for her, but should we stop and get something to add to her present?

LOGAN: Yeah.

ME: What would you like to get her?

LOGAN: Maybe a guitar!

ME: That might be a little big. Can you think of something else we can get for her?

LOGAN: Maybe some kind of garbage or something like that.

Hurricanes

En route to the mall the other day:

LOGAN: Daddy, see that big building? That's where you go to work.

WILL: Right, Logan. What do I do there?

LOGAN: You work on the hard problem.

WILL: The hard problem on what?

LOGAN: Hurricanes.

WILL: Do you know what a hurricane is?

LOGAN: A hurricane is made of candy.

Huh? Part 2

Logan after eating a free ice-cream from Ben and Jerry's:

"I forgot to nurse my baby this morning. My baby's name was Tree. Tree Book Center. Your baby is still here. But my baby blew away."

What exactly do they put in that ice-cream?

Morning

It was apparent to me a long time ago that my son is a morning person. He is cheerful in the morning. Like, CHEERful. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he bounds out of bed with a smile on his lips and a song in his heart. Or the other way around. Whatever.

Now that Logan is actually sleeping through the night on a regular basis, Will gets up with him around six (actually, more like Logan runs in and wakes Will up) and they "hang out" before starting breakfast. I usually stagger out of the bedroom between six-thirty and seven, and Logan yells, "Hi, Mommy! Good morning, Mommy! You wanna come play wif me? You wanna do Play-Doh wif me? You wanna come get on the airplane wif me? I have two suitcases!"

My response falls between a bleary-eyed grunt and a muttered, "Why don't I smell coffee yet?" Needless to say—and call me Mommie Dearest, if you must—no, my beloved son, I really don't want to play. I could care less about Play-Doh. I don't want to get on an airplane. I want a shower and breakfast, and I want it now.

Given Logan's and my wildly divergent strains of thought where morning is concerned, I was rather dreading Will attending a conference these past few days because it meant I was on morning duty. My nights with Shay are still not great and involve a lot of waking up, so while I feel pretty good, I'm not exactly getting eight hours of soul-soothing sleep here. So I went to bed kind of dreading what was to come.

And sure enough, right at six, in comes Mr. Sunshine, tugging at the bedcovers and loudly announcing, "Mommy, it's time to get up! It's turning into daytime! You gotta wake up! It's turning into daytime!" My hasty, "Shh!!" went totally ignored, so I had to haul myself out of bed while trying to keep Shay asleep since trying to "get on an airplane" with the two of them at six AM is not my idea of a good time.

The good news is, and I'll say it again because it's been VERY big around here, Logan is actually sleeping through the night (not waking up ONCE), which is really a blessing all around. If you can get past the six AM Play-Doh and airplanes.

On Crying

Conversation on the way home from preschool:

LOGAN: Mommy, sometimes babies cry.

ME: Yes, they do.

LOGAN: Sometimes babies cry and sometimes children cry. And sometimes Rainbow Room children cry.

ME: Yes, they do. And you know what? Sometimes even mommies and daddies cry.

LOGAN: (in a "you're so joking" tone) No.

ME: Yes, they do.

LOGAN: No, Mommy. Mommies and daddies don't cry. They only talk.

ME: They do?

LOGAN: Yeah, mommies and daddies only talk. Only babies and people cry.

Huh?

Logan in the backseat of the car en route to the mall yesterday:

"Mommy, sometimes when I was an animal I ate a lot sometimes."