Cookers: the growing menace

Recently a very good friend of ours visited from Miami and, since she had a craving for Indian food, we were happy to indulge her with a trip to our favorite local Indian buffet (which we rarely get to frequent these days). We had a pleasant meal, enjoying curry and conversation and even the overcooked, cold gulab jamun which Logan quickly identified as "bald ice cream." After we paid and while we were waiting for our friend to return from the restroom, Logan caught sight of the bowl of after-meal seeds that aficionados chew to cleanse their palates. He saw his mommy partake and so, of course, he had to as well. In the process he spilled a spoonful on the table. I walked over all cool and calm and said, "I wonder who made that mess?" Logan dropped his eyes for a moment, lost in thought; after a few moments, he met my gaze once more and said: "Maybe it was the cookers!*"

* cooker (noun): in Loganese, this refers to one who cooks (not to be confused with the standard english 'cooker' which refers to a piece of hardware used in the cooking process), i.e. a cook or chef.

"What am I doing??!"

That could well be my motto since becoming a father (and I'm guessing that Nina would confess to asking that question at least once since becoming a mother), but what I'm thinking of right now is something Logan used to say. He used to jump around and shake back and forth like a flounder flung up on dry land (except that, unlike the flounder, Logan would do so on his feet). To top it all off, he'd have this curious grin on his face and ask "What am I doing?!!" Nina and I could never figure out the origin of that charming dance, but we got LOTS of laughs out of it. Now, within the last couple of days, Shay has taken to doing something similar. Just last night, for example, while Nina and I were watching some fine NBC Olympics' coverage, Shay pulled up on the coffee table, directly between the television and N and I. She looked at us coyly and then commenced to bobbing up and down and swaying back and forth. Very Loganesque (though with not quite the same 2-year old boy's intensity). So now I'm wondering: is she aping something she's seen N or I do? (and did Logan do the same?) Or did she learn it from Logan (they do look at one another quite frequently at mealtimes, and Logan has been known to make some noise and motion while eating), leaving Logan's acquisition the only remaining mystery. Everyone loves a good mystery, I guess. And as long as I can ask "What am I doing??!" there's guaranteed to be some in all our lives.

Where the (little) wild things are

Anyone who has had the manifold blessing (and by manifold I mean what sometimes seems like equal parts blessing and curse) of raising two children will recoil in fear when I dare to write the two words that must be uttered in hushed, sibilant tones: sibling rivalry. Yes indeed, how the words do inspire dread in the hearts of the initiated. And so, too, for Nina and I (it just struck me that I had been calling her "my wife" in the earlier posts, as I imagined for some reason that this was all in some sense anonymous -- until I remarked upon the subtitle of our blog, just another example, as Nina would say, of me being me). As I was saying, so, too for Nina and I. We've been struggling mightily of late with this sibling rivalry thing, and at times it's threatened to beat us. But the beauty and wonder and outright pride we have in Shay and Logan always saves us. And just the other day, a ray of hope split the leaden skies of another difficult day. Logan was in his high chair and Shay, enraptured by his sing-songing laughing presence as she usually is (he's her big brother after all, and until he starts hitting her the spell is unbroken), enraptured she turns from what she's doing and starts crawling toward him. Logan's eyes turn and fix on her, eyes that sometimes fill with a stormy, thundering desire to push or hit or knock down. His eyes fix on her and fill with sunshine, filled like twin fountains by that unquenchable ray of hope; he looks at her and says, "Here comes the Little Wild!"

Nina and I look at each other, our own eyes feeling the warmth of the words. I'm not sure who said it first, but there was an "Awww!" and then a "how cute!" and then the clouds, the scaly armor of the leaden day, began to fall and disappear. There was hope in the Roy-Lewis household, and Logan himself was leading the charge.

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?