| Home > Journal > Naptime Meandering or Hyper-Hyphenation Caused By Too Much Coffee |
| Naptime Meandering or Hyper-Hyphenation Caused By Too Much Coffee | | Date Created: Aug 28, 2006, 01:45 PM |
I have finally located the camera, but lest you start thinking I am Superwoman, I haven't taken any pictures yet. So I promise pictures of the guys will be coming up soon. Just think, this way you will really be able to tell how much they've grown. Sorry for the lame attempt at looking at the bright side. It's something I'm trying today.
Today has actually gone pretty well for a Monday. God forgive me for being happy when James' swimming lesson was cancelled due to a pool problem and thank you God for giving me the wherewithal to put on a passable show of aw shucks disappointment. I had a lot of things to do today, and I haven't gotten to most of them. But I did accomplish the two largest items on the list so please don't remind me of the rest while I bask in my glory and drink my cup-of-coffee reward. The two biggest things were taking a load of stuff to Goodwill and taking a load of stuff to a consignment shop. I have to tell you I do have scruples over these trips. Especially making them in the same day. The nicer stuff I take to the consignment shop where I might actually make some money from it. The not-so-nice I put in the other seat to take to Goodwill. This is really bad. I promise I'm not thinking, oh the poor people will take whatever they can get. It's more like, I'm sure there's someone really crafty out there who can get these old switchplates looking really good. Ugh. There's no getting out of it. And I have donated several nice pieces of china and crystal to Goodwill. And not just because the consignment shop is closed on Sundays. Right. Okay, I'm revealing too much and you're probably thinking I'm not only a questionable mother but questionable citizen of humanity as well. Insert positive thinking here. Ok. Just think, the more callous and greedy I seem the better you can feel about yourself being not quite as callous and greedy as I am. And speaking of greedy. How thankful I am to have our new really big and comfortable house. AND YET, the consumption-addict/must-have-it-all-to-compete-with-my-beautiful-new-neighbor-who-has-two-gorgeous-girls-a-husband-and-makes-bank-as-a-lawyer in me still rages on. I finally have a room for just me and my books. I try really hard to call it "our" (meaning belonging to Will and me) but somehow it always comes out "my" office. My books are unpacked and surrounding me like a little crumbly wall of ruins in the middle of a field. Some I haven't seen in years. Some are waiting as we speak for some really crafty person to pick them up and learn about the history of blackface minstrelsy or women evangelists in the late 1700s. In upstate New York. Yes, I managed to give some of my college books away. To the obscure-American-Studies-topics-starved shopers at Goodwill. But that still leaves a whole heck of a lot of books. So instead of soaking in all their good vibes and all the good Friday and Saturday nights I had cuddled in bed with them, all I can think about is how good they would look on matching bookcases. Who is this Pottery Barn-minded crazy person!? I've never had matching bookcases. My poor mother's house is riddled with a motley collection of bookcases--added periodically during my childhood and adolescence to accommodate my growing collection. Maybe motley is the way to go. It's not as if anything else in my life matches. It's not as if I've ever cared. Or maybe since books are what I really care about (besides my family, friends, and readers, of course!) I can stomach going to the effort to organize them and take care of them and keep them looking good. But, maybe I should let the books take care of themselves for a while. It would probably be a good thing if I focused more on organizing, taking care, and keeping the boys looking good.
James' new room, though, is finally up and running! It is a bright blue color and has a poster of South Carolina fishes, a nautical chart, a blue rug, an old map of Florida, a picture of a row boat, a motorboat, and a print of dolphins. I think he really likes it! George's is coming together. It looks clean only because we have to keep all of his toys in baskets because they must be removed every time he naps or goes down for the night. He cannot not play! And all his books are in the hallway, too, because we had to put his bookshelf down on the ground sideways because he liked to smack it every time he passed it and we were worried after one such slap it might fall over and crush the little guy. My aunt gave him an awesome framed photograph of zebras, though, and we hope to hang it up tonight. His walls are a dusty shade of yellow, but I like to think of it as the color of the African savanna. John's room is a caramel brown. He has new cowboy sheets my mom gave him. When he saw them on the bed for the first time he ran in and said, "They're beautiful!" And to him I think they are. He also has some cool Norman Rockwell prints of a boy and his dad through the seasons doing things like raking leaves and fishing. His favorite picture is this really old framed poster from my grandmother's. It's taller than John, and I have it leaning against the wall so he can study it. It's called "Military Uniforms Through History." It has ancient Egyptians, Romans, Moors, Knights. And of course ends with Union and Confederate soldiers. John LOVES it. His favorite soldier is one in full armor with a pink feather in his helmet. While my grandparents visited the other day John had his plastic helmet, shield, and baseball bat and sword-fighted my grandfather in helmet (perched on top of his too-big head), shield, and tennis racket. I thought I was being a correct mother to take the swords out of the set but it turns out boys of all ages are extremely creative when it comes to weaponry.
So life in the new house is good. Today. The boys have been really bad lately, though, in general. I think it's just the adjustment to the move, testing all the boundaries of the new place, new rules, and my even more poor than usual organization. I wish I were more structured, organized, clean. But I cannot get my mind to think that way unless it involves categorizing and alphabetizing my books on matching shelves!
The worst day last week was really really bad. The boys were asking me to get out of the house into the car to "go somewhere." I needed shelf paper and light bulbs so Wal-Mart seemed like a good idea. The boys got into the cart--everyone standing up so they could fit. But they seemed okay with it. I picked up the tubes of shelf paper--two of them--and rolled along to find light bulbs. George and John snatched up the tubes and suddenly they were "binoclars!" More like spyglasses, but fine. At this point before James even knew what was going on I should have gone back and gotten a third 3-dollar tube of shelf paper, but I didn't, and before I knew it, James was trying to take a tube from George. I said something like, George has it now but you can have a turn next. James went ballistic! I mean screaming, stomping, hitting, trying to climb out of the cart. And don't think George and John sit silently by. John says, "No, James! Bad James!" George says, "No fussin', James! No fussin' this day!" (He forgets the word "today"). And stomping and hitting and waving of tubes. But there was no way I was going to go get a third tube. Don't forget these guys come by their hard-headedness naturally! People started to stare, and part of me was thinking, "I know you have children, you fish-eyed fool, so show a little sympathy to a sister!" Only one pair of nice woman showed any sympathy; the rest curled up their bottom lips and furrowed their brows. I took James out of the cart and said he could walk. But he wouldn't stand up. He crumbled to the floor. This is a move I did not know existed until I was a mother. The melt into the floor like the wicked witch of the west who suddenly weighs a hundred instead of 27 pounds. I couldn't even grab onto him except around the belly which with James always induces an equally loud to the screaming cough attack and obligatory face reddening and eye bulging. All of this equals me in the tupperware aisle with three screaming boys, one screaming and squiggling all over the floor and the cart and my body, Will in a meeting and unreachable on the phone. A passage from the dr-recommended book "Making the Terrible Twos Terrific!" came to mind and I thought with relief there was an answer. Until I remembered the entire passage. When in this situation, you are supposed to abandon the cart and all of its contents in the store and immediately leave. Presto. Except that how on earth could I even get to the car with my three screaming mimi's without the cart? They weren't exactly going to calm down and hold hands out of the store, across the parking lot, and to the car. And I already had a few items in the cart, some securely in the surprisingly strong grasps of George and John. If I tried to whiz out of the store with the cart the alarms would go wild and I'd be even more embarrassed. There was nothing terrific about the moment, the remembered advice, or the fact that the threes aren't that terrific either. So I just pushed through. There's a new country song, that I don't necessarily love, but has been coming to mind lately. It goes "If you're going through hell, keep on going, don't slow down." So I threw James back in the cart and pushed it out of the aisle into the main thoroughfare of the store and headed to the check-out. My head held high I acted like I had three little angels with me or better yet as if they weren't there at all. I didn't fuss at them, threaten, or beg them like I'd been doing. I just pushed the cart and prayed there wasn't a long line at the check out. I don't know what made them shut up but they did. We pulled up to the check-out line and they even picked up all the items out of the cart and placed them onto the counter. And as I punched in my pin number Georgie says loud and clear, "I like Target."
The next day I decided the guys weren't ready to go on another shopping outing and our outings are pretty limited to places with shopping carts. So I decided we'd do the best thing anyway, which is to enjoy our own new backyard. Have you ever met a little child who doesn't like to go outside? I never had. But let me introduce you to James. It's true if there is a mosquito within two miles it will hunt down James and not bother anyone else. James could get sunburn in a blizzard. He gets overheated very easily. BUT. So we go outside. John promptly makes an "arrow and bow" (he's Robin Hood) and George makes a little den for his plastic zebra in a hole in the big tree. James screams, "NO, MOMOE! No! No! Let me in! Let me in!" Making sure the whole neighborhood knows I beat him and lock him outdoors. While I sit on the big tree limb and try to ignore him--because this is the only thing that even sometimes works with him--he runs back and forth between the two back doors rattling their knobs and pulling as hard as he can to get in. Especially with all the moving stuff and unhung pictures and hammers and things around, I don't think it's safe to let him stay inside while we play outside. On the other hand, John will shrivel up and die if he can't run outside and work up a sweat. And the zebras wouldn't survive without George outside tending to their "caves" and the trees they like to sit in. After about 20 minutes James calmed down and we went to the front yard. James sat on the porch in the shade while the rest of us played. My heart really broke for James. I can appreciate how hard it is for him to wrest control of his emotions. He sat calmly, but every few minutes he'd quietly call out to his brothers, "Are you finished playing outside, George and John?" and "It's about time to go inside, George and John?" and "You're ready to go inside, George and John?" His voice cracking and hopeful. But what to do? Outside is fun and healthy and necessary. Do I force James to be outside? Do I let him stay inside? If I force him am I sending the message that athletic and robust is superior to interior and intellectual? If I let him stay inside am I saying he can't handle it outside but the other guys can? Am I isolating him? Enforcing the idea that he's the odd man out? And am I setting him up to be addicted to computer games or even contributing to potential obesity? On the other hand if I force him outside am I trying too hard to break his will and mold his personality? At what point is a parent supposed to step in and guide the child and at what point does the parent say hey, this is who he is and we gotta appreciate that and go with it. Am I looking after JAMES' health and happiness or my idea of what makes a healthy and happy little boy? The moral dilemmas! Any suggestions/advice are gladly accepted!
So there you have it. The ramblings of a half-mad woman battling borderline addictions to caffeine and Michelob Ultra...But hey, on a positive note...I'll have to get back to you. Someone's awake! |
|
|
