My youngest boy who will soon be six, Danny Sam, has a major crush on an older girl. It has been going on since before he started kindergarten, when he first clapped eyes on her at his big brother's soccer practice. Perhaps it might never have developed into a crush if the older girl had not, in an attempt to win my oldest son's approval, said about his little brother, "Ah, he's so cute!"
Thereafter, any time she saw my sweet little Danny, she gave him a hug, stealing his heart by degrees.
Hmmpf.
It was then that Danny began to say that this older girl in his brother's grade - we'll call her "Adeline" - was his girlfriend. He was very confident in proclaiming it.
Not long ago he was coloring a picture for school, and I asked why the girl in the picture was scribbled over. He replied, "Because I only like one girl."
Who could that be? His dear mother? One of his classmates? No.
"Adeline," he stated as he continued to scribble.
Our little Romeo even declared one day that he had a true love. Someone, quite surprised to hear a kindergartner say this, asked him who that might be.
"Adeline."
Adeline-Schmadeline.
My husband joked that it's a pretty good match, because they're about the same height. (Adeline is a very petite girl.) We all laughed it up, of course, but I was beginning to feel like the domineering mother who believes no one is good enough for her son - certainly not a girl in middle school.
I've gone so far as to tell Berto that he had best tell his friend to stop toying with the affections of my little boy by hugging him and telling him how cute he is every time she sees him, but when he asks me if I really want him to, I always recant. What's the use anyway?
After all, Berto recently broke it to Danny that Adeline was seeing his good friend Michael. Daniel was downcast, heartbroken, but he soon cheered up.
"I'll win her back!" he declared. He then asked his papa if he could invite Adeline and Michael to his birthday party. Just what public humiliation he was preparing for his rival, we'll never know. His papa said no.
And so it goes on and on. For Valentine's Day he drew a picture of Adeline and him walking together with Cupid hovering above them, one of his arrows lodged in my little guy's heart. Where does he pick up all this love language? Is he reading Shakespeare behind my back, barely tolerating the simple bedtime stories full of dinosaurs and cute animals? For crying out loud, he's only six-years-old! What kind of romantic dramas await us in the future, I wonder.
A teacher's aide in Danny's class came up to me before school last week and said, "I have to tell you something Daniel said. It's so cute." I think she was surprised to see that I had previous knowledge and to hear my disgruntled clucks and grunts when she revealed that Danny said he had a girlfriend in middle school. I tried to act like I thought it was as cute as she did, but I probably failed. My daughter Ana explained that this has been going on for a while.
It's getting serious. Daniel recently told me that if I could give him a little cash, he could take Adeline to McDonald's. He is planning dates, and he seems to have forgotten all about poor Michael.
But no matter how often he declares his admiration for Adeline, I remain obstinate in my firm belief that no gal could replace his mama in our little fast-food-loving, older-woman-chasing Romeo's heart.
At least not yet, but who knows who might catch his eye when he becomes a first grader!
Showing posts with label Danny Sam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Danny Sam. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Monday, May 11, 2015
Short, mostly unedited: The Nap
Just a little while ago, my Danny boy was saying things like, "I hate this game," and, "I don't want to put that up. It's boring," and, "I am not tired!"
But he was tired. I was tired. And I told him point blank, "I'm going to set the timer, and you're going to rest with me for 30 minutes in Papa's chair."
I got him a cup of Cheerios. I read him Sleepy Time, Olie by William Joyce. Then I snuggled that big five-year-old boy, playing possum until he put his head on my chest and grabbed a fistful of my hair. I realized just how much my boy had grown as he rested on me, how tall since early December, the last time he took a nap. Only after I started to doze did I realize that he had indeed fallen asleep, and all was quiet except the stupid timer going off.
Now I miss him in this unusual stillness. Such is the paradox of a mother's life! We pray that our babies will go to sleep, grow up or become more independent and then are a bit sad when they do.
When Daniel was a toddler, nap time was an ordeal more often than not. I tried to put him down for naps in his bed, reading books and putting on soothing music, sitting on the floor with my back toward him to make sure he didn't try to get up as he often did when I left the room. I would try to be serene, impassive, keeping my voice soft and my reminders gentle, but the longer it took him to fall asleep and the more he tried to play, pull on my hair or get out of that bed, the more I could feel my insides knotting up in frustration. It was not a calming routine for either of us, as I sometimes ended up yelling at him or dropping him back into his bed none too gently. Then if he - at long last! - fell asleep, the stress would ebb but the guilt over our battles would come, and I would bend over to stroke his blond head and kiss his cheek softly, wishing I could pick him up and hold him and that we could always be in harmony with one another.
For all the articles I had read about children's need for sleep, it was only logical to assume they would want to sleep. But it wasn't so, it seemed. I spent months being frustrated every afternoon, praying my son would not give up afternoon sleep at two-and-a-half as his big sister Ella had done. At that period of our lives, it seemed like the whole mood of our day turned upon whether or not the boy took a nap or not. If he didn't, the early evening saw a tantrum apocalypse. I was stressed, because as any mother can tell you, we need nap time, too. If we go without that recharge break for a few days running, we become desperate and throw our own fits.
Of course, when my husband took over naps on the weekend, my little guy went down like magic. I often wondered what I was doing wrong. I would plague my husband with questions about just exactly what were his methods. But when I tried his strategies, I encountered the same frustrations as always. "It's because I'm not Mama," Matthew told me. "He doesn't play with my hair or try to climb on me. It's just Papa." That made me feel even more hopeless about fixing our nap time issues.
Until I finally went back to an old strategy of mine. It was the one I used for Berto and Ana, so close in age that they napped together on either side of me, sometimes kicking each other for invasion of space or giggling together from across the mama divide as I struggled to keep my eyes open reading a book. It was the one I used for Ella until she decided one summer that she couldn't stand to be left out of whatever her siblings were doing. My rediscovered strategy was to take Daniel out of his bedroom and to the rocking chair. I surrendered and ignored the people and books that told me my child shouldn't fall asleep in my arms, because he would become too dependent. Every afternoon I rocked and read to my youngest and then let him hold my hair as I tilted the chair back, and we both closed our eyes. Though he often squirmed for the first twenty minutes, the routine was much more soothing and loving for both of us, and my Danny fell asleep much easier and quicker. Sometimes I dozed off with him, for he was still waking us up a few times a night then. Once I revived, I slid gently out from beneath him to work on household projects, write or read a book.
That is how nap time was for Danny and I until he gave it up at the beginning of December. Today I remembered the old feeling of badly wanting him to sleep, holding him in my arms until he drifted off and then suddenly missing him in the strange quiet as I stroked his hair. I took a picture of my big boy sleeping on that trusty old rocking recliner, the one with the splitting upholstery that has helped all my babies sail to afternoon dreamland in my arms. I wanted to capture the moment, for Daniel goes to kindergarten next year. It may be the last nap he takes until college.
But he was tired. I was tired. And I told him point blank, "I'm going to set the timer, and you're going to rest with me for 30 minutes in Papa's chair."
I got him a cup of Cheerios. I read him Sleepy Time, Olie by William Joyce. Then I snuggled that big five-year-old boy, playing possum until he put his head on my chest and grabbed a fistful of my hair. I realized just how much my boy had grown as he rested on me, how tall since early December, the last time he took a nap. Only after I started to doze did I realize that he had indeed fallen asleep, and all was quiet except the stupid timer going off.
Now I miss him in this unusual stillness. Such is the paradox of a mother's life! We pray that our babies will go to sleep, grow up or become more independent and then are a bit sad when they do.
When Daniel was a toddler, nap time was an ordeal more often than not. I tried to put him down for naps in his bed, reading books and putting on soothing music, sitting on the floor with my back toward him to make sure he didn't try to get up as he often did when I left the room. I would try to be serene, impassive, keeping my voice soft and my reminders gentle, but the longer it took him to fall asleep and the more he tried to play, pull on my hair or get out of that bed, the more I could feel my insides knotting up in frustration. It was not a calming routine for either of us, as I sometimes ended up yelling at him or dropping him back into his bed none too gently. Then if he - at long last! - fell asleep, the stress would ebb but the guilt over our battles would come, and I would bend over to stroke his blond head and kiss his cheek softly, wishing I could pick him up and hold him and that we could always be in harmony with one another.
For all the articles I had read about children's need for sleep, it was only logical to assume they would want to sleep. But it wasn't so, it seemed. I spent months being frustrated every afternoon, praying my son would not give up afternoon sleep at two-and-a-half as his big sister Ella had done. At that period of our lives, it seemed like the whole mood of our day turned upon whether or not the boy took a nap or not. If he didn't, the early evening saw a tantrum apocalypse. I was stressed, because as any mother can tell you, we need nap time, too. If we go without that recharge break for a few days running, we become desperate and throw our own fits.
Of course, when my husband took over naps on the weekend, my little guy went down like magic. I often wondered what I was doing wrong. I would plague my husband with questions about just exactly what were his methods. But when I tried his strategies, I encountered the same frustrations as always. "It's because I'm not Mama," Matthew told me. "He doesn't play with my hair or try to climb on me. It's just Papa." That made me feel even more hopeless about fixing our nap time issues.
Until I finally went back to an old strategy of mine. It was the one I used for Berto and Ana, so close in age that they napped together on either side of me, sometimes kicking each other for invasion of space or giggling together from across the mama divide as I struggled to keep my eyes open reading a book. It was the one I used for Ella until she decided one summer that she couldn't stand to be left out of whatever her siblings were doing. My rediscovered strategy was to take Daniel out of his bedroom and to the rocking chair. I surrendered and ignored the people and books that told me my child shouldn't fall asleep in my arms, because he would become too dependent. Every afternoon I rocked and read to my youngest and then let him hold my hair as I tilted the chair back, and we both closed our eyes. Though he often squirmed for the first twenty minutes, the routine was much more soothing and loving for both of us, and my Danny fell asleep much easier and quicker. Sometimes I dozed off with him, for he was still waking us up a few times a night then. Once I revived, I slid gently out from beneath him to work on household projects, write or read a book.
That is how nap time was for Danny and I until he gave it up at the beginning of December. Today I remembered the old feeling of badly wanting him to sleep, holding him in my arms until he drifted off and then suddenly missing him in the strange quiet as I stroked his hair. I took a picture of my big boy sleeping on that trusty old rocking recliner, the one with the splitting upholstery that has helped all my babies sail to afternoon dreamland in my arms. I wanted to capture the moment, for Daniel goes to kindergarten next year. It may be the last nap he takes until college.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Forever Baby, Danny boy
I always get sad around my kids' birthdays. What a very selfish thing, I suppose...but I think about how this time will never come round again: the four-year-old giggles that lift my heart to the clouds with joy, the bedtime songs sung religiously each night, the great dance moves that always make me laugh, and the little blue-eyed, blond-framed face that gazes on me several times a day with abundant love and admiration. Ah, my forever baby!
Berto, my oldest, tells me I shouldn't call Danny Sam my forever baby; he already acts like my baby. Perhaps he's right. My little guy turns five this month and is going to kindergarten next school year. He has already been riding a bike expertly without training wheels for many months; he knows how to beat me at Skip-Bo Junior and Doodle Dice; and he plays soccer and football with his older siblings as if he were as big as they are. He has even had his first crush already, talking about marrying one of the daughters of my good friend, Holly, and saying he'll marry the oldest and then date the youngest (wait....what?!). Soon he'll be losing his first tooth.
When I think of Danny going to kindergarten late this summer, at times I want to celebrate and plan and then at other times I feel a panic attack coming on. Like now, for instance. Once he goes to school, I know there will be peaceful grocery trips where the words Can I have a doughnut? Please! Pleeeease? are never heard. I know there will be hours spent at the computer typing, a whole post unraveled seamlessly in a day, without a little man hanging on my back, begging me to play with him. And I do believe - I do! I do! - that I will finally volunteer at a favorite charity and get to a thousand projects around the house, like collecting and printing all the pictures from the last few years of our family's life to assemble into photo albums.
But then the questions and panic come upon the heels of my plans. Have I made the most of my time in these several months at home with Danny? Have I taken him to the park as often as I should have? Have I played enough games with him, pitched enough baseballs to him in the backyard, explored new places each week....uh, each month?
I haven't really. No. We've stayed home more than we should have while I've tried to be a better writer. I've fretted over the house and all its junk, working to clean it and clear it. I've missed out on sitting with him during library story time, because I always seem to forget or one of the older kids is home sick. Crying out loud, I've let him watch too much PBS while trying to write, read or while wasting my life on Facebook (even if it did partly have something to do with my writing hopes). Of all places, the grocery store was our most regular outing.
Breathe, I think, as I face my shortcomings in trying to be - at least quite often - an active, selfless mom. After all, I have played Red Light/Green Light. I've done my best to arrange regular play dates, even if they weren't at exciting places like the zoo or children's museum. I've read many, many books to him in the afternoon before he finally gave up naps in December. We have worked together on "home preschool": letters, calendar, addition. I've baked with him and danced with him. We have challenged each other in countless board games and have scaled numerous playground structures while playing tag. And I have simply held him, kissed his blond head and gazed into his absolutely adorable little blue-eyed face, still small enough to be nestled in the crook of arm. My Forever Baby I have cherished, even while knowing he will not forever be my baby.
While writing this post I remembered that today was library story time! Being spring break, I packed up all the kids, and Ella joined in story time with Daniel even though she preferred to be doing something else. We got to shake our sillies out, pretend to be monsters in a revised hokey-pokey, and stretch to snatch bubbles before they floated to the ceiling. Later I took the kids for a very rare treat at the mall, letting them all choose whatever unhealthy food court fare they liked. Then we let Daniel, now a wee bit too tall, play in the kids' play area one last time as Berto, Ana and I giggled, vastly entertained by all the little tikes' shenanigans. It was a good day. Sometimes it's all about serendipity and reminding yourself that motherhood is indeed a joy, one that needs your "all in" spirit.
Berto, my oldest, tells me I shouldn't call Danny Sam my forever baby; he already acts like my baby. Perhaps he's right. My little guy turns five this month and is going to kindergarten next school year. He has already been riding a bike expertly without training wheels for many months; he knows how to beat me at Skip-Bo Junior and Doodle Dice; and he plays soccer and football with his older siblings as if he were as big as they are. He has even had his first crush already, talking about marrying one of the daughters of my good friend, Holly, and saying he'll marry the oldest and then date the youngest (wait....what?!). Soon he'll be losing his first tooth.
When I think of Danny going to kindergarten late this summer, at times I want to celebrate and plan and then at other times I feel a panic attack coming on. Like now, for instance. Once he goes to school, I know there will be peaceful grocery trips where the words Can I have a doughnut? Please! Pleeeease? are never heard. I know there will be hours spent at the computer typing, a whole post unraveled seamlessly in a day, without a little man hanging on my back, begging me to play with him. And I do believe - I do! I do! - that I will finally volunteer at a favorite charity and get to a thousand projects around the house, like collecting and printing all the pictures from the last few years of our family's life to assemble into photo albums.
But then the questions and panic come upon the heels of my plans. Have I made the most of my time in these several months at home with Danny? Have I taken him to the park as often as I should have? Have I played enough games with him, pitched enough baseballs to him in the backyard, explored new places each week....uh, each month?
I haven't really. No. We've stayed home more than we should have while I've tried to be a better writer. I've fretted over the house and all its junk, working to clean it and clear it. I've missed out on sitting with him during library story time, because I always seem to forget or one of the older kids is home sick. Crying out loud, I've let him watch too much PBS while trying to write, read or while wasting my life on Facebook (even if it did partly have something to do with my writing hopes). Of all places, the grocery store was our most regular outing.
Breathe, I think, as I face my shortcomings in trying to be - at least quite often - an active, selfless mom. After all, I have played Red Light/Green Light. I've done my best to arrange regular play dates, even if they weren't at exciting places like the zoo or children's museum. I've read many, many books to him in the afternoon before he finally gave up naps in December. We have worked together on "home preschool": letters, calendar, addition. I've baked with him and danced with him. We have challenged each other in countless board games and have scaled numerous playground structures while playing tag. And I have simply held him, kissed his blond head and gazed into his absolutely adorable little blue-eyed face, still small enough to be nestled in the crook of arm. My Forever Baby I have cherished, even while knowing he will not forever be my baby.
While writing this post I remembered that today was library story time! Being spring break, I packed up all the kids, and Ella joined in story time with Daniel even though she preferred to be doing something else. We got to shake our sillies out, pretend to be monsters in a revised hokey-pokey, and stretch to snatch bubbles before they floated to the ceiling. Later I took the kids for a very rare treat at the mall, letting them all choose whatever unhealthy food court fare they liked. Then we let Daniel, now a wee bit too tall, play in the kids' play area one last time as Berto, Ana and I giggled, vastly entertained by all the little tikes' shenanigans. It was a good day. Sometimes it's all about serendipity and reminding yourself that motherhood is indeed a joy, one that needs your "all in" spirit.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Short and Sweet: The Big Bro
My son Berto made me proud on Saturday. I saw the love of God shining through him several times in his interactions with his younger siblings.
I will tell you that, as oldest siblings are quite likely to do, he often is hard on his younger sisters and brother, telling Ana to speak up, for heavens sake, and then telling all the younger kids to shush up in turns. He tries to parent them, scolding and sometimes boldly remarking that I don't discipline them enough. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms when Ella's teacher praises her for being so caring and responsible, murmuring that she should see how Ella Boo behaves at home. He barks at all of them to stop singing, dancing or watching him play video games. He tells Daniel to stop acting like a baby.
But then there are the moments when I catch him being the ultimate big brother. I pass by the recliner where he is letting Boo snuggle up to him to watch weekend TV. I see him playing football with four-year-old Danny and letting him win. I hear him advise Ana kindly and wisely about school issues.
And on Saturday tears came to my eyes watching my oldest boy's big heart manifest itself in little ways.
Ana and Berto play for their Papa's soccer team. During this past game a boy from the opposing team and Ana collided with each other. Ana bounced to her feet right away, so that she could help the other player up. He ignored her proffered hand, but Berto walked behind his sister and laid his hand on her shoulder. It was a momentary thing, but it expressed a good deal: Hey, teammate, glad you're okay; Don't worry about it; Come on, let's kick this game into gear!
We went to our good friend Kim's Halloween party that evening. Danny Sam is shy sometimes. He doesn't even want to stay for bubbles after library story time every week, because he would have to mingle too much, I think. At Kim's party he was too nervous to jump into the games. Berto, instead of running off with his friends to get started, encouraged his little brother to join the mummy wrap.
"C'mon, Daniel," he said, kneeling down and speaking cheerfully but gently. "You can wrap me up! You want to?"
No matter how many times he tried to persuade Danny, he couldn't get him to go. Daniel hugged the porch railing. I told Berto not to worry about it, and Danny called after him uncertainly, "Maybe later, okay Berto?"
When it got dark the huge piñata was hung for the children to admire, covet, and beat the carp out of it. Kim's husband Deane is an expert piñata manipulator. The children were blindfolded and got three swings a piece, but though a couple dozen superheroes, princesses and monsters took a crack at it, it didn't break. There were many swings that didn't connect to the bouncing, colorful ball. However, every time it hemorrhaged some candy, kids rushed in at their own peril while their compatriots were still batting. It was heck for us parents to keep swatting them back to a safe distance. We knew that once it shattered, those little pirates would pile on that grass, shoving each other out of the way, with wild abandon.
So it was no surprise that Danny was too afraid to get in on the candy-snatching mayhem when it showered out, despite the fact that parents were throwing extra treats into the mix from outside the commotion. He came up to Matthew and me, crying and holding out his treat bag.
"Danny, what's wrong?"
"I didn't get any candy," my little red-eyed fellar said, slumping into me.
"That's okay," I assured him as I held him close. "You brother and sisters will share with you!"
His little face was still droopy and dejected. Ella came up and gave him a piece. Two more older friends dropped treats into his hand. Then big bro showed up, the pop star kneeling once more by his little firefighter dude. I watched them as Daniel told Berto that he didn't get any of the candy. Berto listened carefully, said some soothing words, and then surreptitiously threw some candy behind Daniel's back.
"Look, Daniel!" he exclaimed. "There's some!" As Danny scooped it up eagerly, Berto cheered, "And you grabbed it all by yourself!"
That's when my eyes welled up. I looked up at Matthew. His eyes looked moist, too.
"He's such a good big brother," I said, leaning against my man.
We both gazed on our oldest with pride.
I will tell you that, as oldest siblings are quite likely to do, he often is hard on his younger sisters and brother, telling Ana to speak up, for heavens sake, and then telling all the younger kids to shush up in turns. He tries to parent them, scolding and sometimes boldly remarking that I don't discipline them enough. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms when Ella's teacher praises her for being so caring and responsible, murmuring that she should see how Ella Boo behaves at home. He barks at all of them to stop singing, dancing or watching him play video games. He tells Daniel to stop acting like a baby.
But then there are the moments when I catch him being the ultimate big brother. I pass by the recliner where he is letting Boo snuggle up to him to watch weekend TV. I see him playing football with four-year-old Danny and letting him win. I hear him advise Ana kindly and wisely about school issues.
And on Saturday tears came to my eyes watching my oldest boy's big heart manifest itself in little ways.
Ana and Berto play for their Papa's soccer team. During this past game a boy from the opposing team and Ana collided with each other. Ana bounced to her feet right away, so that she could help the other player up. He ignored her proffered hand, but Berto walked behind his sister and laid his hand on her shoulder. It was a momentary thing, but it expressed a good deal: Hey, teammate, glad you're okay; Don't worry about it; Come on, let's kick this game into gear!
We went to our good friend Kim's Halloween party that evening. Danny Sam is shy sometimes. He doesn't even want to stay for bubbles after library story time every week, because he would have to mingle too much, I think. At Kim's party he was too nervous to jump into the games. Berto, instead of running off with his friends to get started, encouraged his little brother to join the mummy wrap.
"C'mon, Daniel," he said, kneeling down and speaking cheerfully but gently. "You can wrap me up! You want to?"
No matter how many times he tried to persuade Danny, he couldn't get him to go. Daniel hugged the porch railing. I told Berto not to worry about it, and Danny called after him uncertainly, "Maybe later, okay Berto?"
When it got dark the huge piñata was hung for the children to admire, covet, and beat the carp out of it. Kim's husband Deane is an expert piñata manipulator. The children were blindfolded and got three swings a piece, but though a couple dozen superheroes, princesses and monsters took a crack at it, it didn't break. There were many swings that didn't connect to the bouncing, colorful ball. However, every time it hemorrhaged some candy, kids rushed in at their own peril while their compatriots were still batting. It was heck for us parents to keep swatting them back to a safe distance. We knew that once it shattered, those little pirates would pile on that grass, shoving each other out of the way, with wild abandon.
So it was no surprise that Danny was too afraid to get in on the candy-snatching mayhem when it showered out, despite the fact that parents were throwing extra treats into the mix from outside the commotion. He came up to Matthew and me, crying and holding out his treat bag.
"Danny, what's wrong?"
"I didn't get any candy," my little red-eyed fellar said, slumping into me.
"That's okay," I assured him as I held him close. "You brother and sisters will share with you!"
His little face was still droopy and dejected. Ella came up and gave him a piece. Two more older friends dropped treats into his hand. Then big bro showed up, the pop star kneeling once more by his little firefighter dude. I watched them as Daniel told Berto that he didn't get any of the candy. Berto listened carefully, said some soothing words, and then surreptitiously threw some candy behind Daniel's back.
"Look, Daniel!" he exclaimed. "There's some!" As Danny scooped it up eagerly, Berto cheered, "And you grabbed it all by yourself!"
That's when my eyes welled up. I looked up at Matthew. His eyes looked moist, too.
"He's such a good big brother," I said, leaning against my man.
We both gazed on our oldest with pride.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Not Again! or I Dream of Sleep
At night a little burglar comes to our door, he wrenches the gate I've wedged there away from the door jamb, lifts it over his head, breaks it across his knees and hurls it down the hall. Then he crawls into our bed and robs us of sleep by hitting his papa in the face and back and pulling my hair repeatedly to make sure none of us falls into a deep sleep for the rest of the night - heaven forbid!
So I gave up on the gate as a security measure for preserving my now most-prized possession and pastime: sleep.
We then simply told the little bugger - whose name happens to be Danny Sam, "You're not allowed to come into our room no matter what! You're too old. You're four-and-a-half-years-old!"
So last night he got up to use the potty and then staged a sit-out right outside our door where every twenty minutes for an hour beginning around 1 am he whined, "Mommy, I can't go back to sleep. I can't."
Firmly and sleepily I informed him that he must go back to sleep and on his own in his own bed, his brother being in the next bed and his stuffed tiger there to snuggle. Whereupon he whimpered, stomped to his room, flung himself against the wall and wept....until, revived - and just as I began to doze in hope - he came back to his NO! NO! I won't go! placard right outside our door and, holding it high in the dark, whined, "Mama, I tried. I can't go back to sleep! Can you snuggle me in the recliner?"
I gently told him that I could not; he is not a baby. (And to be fair, I calculate that I have spent years of my life in that recliner with sick, sleepy, unsleeping, or sleeping children.) Thus the whole whimper, stomp, and weeping phase began anew until my brain shut my body down about 2 am or so for self-preservation.
Can you guess my mood today?
Danny Sam was the first one up this morning. I'm not even sure he slept. In high dungeon I told him that he no longer has the right to disrupt my sleep at his age and that I will not tolerate it, so after using the potty he'd best just return to his bed and lie there in complete quiet until he falls back asleep. I have no sympathy, because he, his papa, and I sleep far better when we're apart.
Will this new policy work? Oh, I don't know, but I hold fast to the dream of a complete, unbroken night of sleep. My dream is there, a reality, somewhere in the future. I just know it.
But maybe it requires a steel door and ear plugs.
So I gave up on the gate as a security measure for preserving my now most-prized possession and pastime: sleep.
We then simply told the little bugger - whose name happens to be Danny Sam, "You're not allowed to come into our room no matter what! You're too old. You're four-and-a-half-years-old!"
So last night he got up to use the potty and then staged a sit-out right outside our door where every twenty minutes for an hour beginning around 1 am he whined, "Mommy, I can't go back to sleep. I can't."
Firmly and sleepily I informed him that he must go back to sleep and on his own in his own bed, his brother being in the next bed and his stuffed tiger there to snuggle. Whereupon he whimpered, stomped to his room, flung himself against the wall and wept....until, revived - and just as I began to doze in hope - he came back to his NO! NO! I won't go! placard right outside our door and, holding it high in the dark, whined, "Mama, I tried. I can't go back to sleep! Can you snuggle me in the recliner?"
I gently told him that I could not; he is not a baby. (And to be fair, I calculate that I have spent years of my life in that recliner with sick, sleepy, unsleeping, or sleeping children.) Thus the whole whimper, stomp, and weeping phase began anew until my brain shut my body down about 2 am or so for self-preservation.
Can you guess my mood today?
Danny Sam was the first one up this morning. I'm not even sure he slept. In high dungeon I told him that he no longer has the right to disrupt my sleep at his age and that I will not tolerate it, so after using the potty he'd best just return to his bed and lie there in complete quiet until he falls back asleep. I have no sympathy, because he, his papa, and I sleep far better when we're apart.
Will this new policy work? Oh, I don't know, but I hold fast to the dream of a complete, unbroken night of sleep. My dream is there, a reality, somewhere in the future. I just know it.
But maybe it requires a steel door and ear plugs.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
The baby, not a baby
"Danny," I turned to my littlest in the car, "say 'smooch your pooch'."
Smooch Your Pooch is a children's picture book by Teddy Slater and Arthur Howard. I'm glad we found it at the library, because I get to hear my little guy say the title whenever he wants me to read it. I told him to say it for his Papa as we were headed to his big bro's football game. It's so darn cute how he exaggerates the double oos. It sounds like, "Smeeewch yo peeewch."
He said it after I pleaded a couple times, and I clapped and giggled like Elaine watching those spinning tires in that Seinfeld episode. Then Danny started directing traffic.
"Papa, that means stop. Green means stop."
"What means stop? Green or red?"
"Red means stop."
"And what does yellow mean?"
"Orange means: go schloooow...."
Of course, it's orange to him, because orange is his favorite color. If I barrel through a yellow light, he likes to remind me that orange means "go schlow."
When he said "schlooow" Matthew and I mimicked his adorable pronunciation. I flashed him a big smile, and Matthew and I looked at each other to say, That is so cute.
It is, and he knows it. He's everybody's little darling in this family. He's the baby...except that he isn't a baby anymore, and he doesn't know that he isn't. My eldest boy, Berto, has warned me: "Mama, you have to stop treating him like that. He's going to think he's a baby forever!"
Yeah, alright, but I'm not the one who hauls him around the house pretending he's my six-month-old or my favorite puppy dog (big sisters Ella and Ana). I'm not the one who scoops him up to my shoulder and pats his back every time Mama is a meanie and disciplines him (that's Berto).
This week Berto, continuing his research in parents' influence on proper self-perception, asked his little brother, "Danny are you a toddler or a baby?"
"A baby."
Big brother raised his eyebrows at me with a tight, self-satisfied smile as if to say, See what you've done?
"I know," I replied. "And he isn't even a toddler anymore. Once they turn three they're considered preschoolers."
So Berto turned again to the infant Danny who was playing with his toys and questioned, "Are you a baby or a preschooler?"
"A baby."
He believes it, too. In another library book there's a picture of a baby in a red onesie decked out with yellow stars. The book asks, "Whose fingers? Whose nose? Whose toes are those?" Danny always answers, "A baby...like me! A circus baby!"
I held up my fingers to Berto and whispered, "See? He's two steps behind."
My forever baby.
Smooch Your Pooch is a children's picture book by Teddy Slater and Arthur Howard. I'm glad we found it at the library, because I get to hear my little guy say the title whenever he wants me to read it. I told him to say it for his Papa as we were headed to his big bro's football game. It's so darn cute how he exaggerates the double oos. It sounds like, "Smeeewch yo peeewch."
He said it after I pleaded a couple times, and I clapped and giggled like Elaine watching those spinning tires in that Seinfeld episode. Then Danny started directing traffic.
"Papa, that means stop. Green means stop."
"What means stop? Green or red?"
"Red means stop."
"And what does yellow mean?"
"Orange means: go schloooow...."
Of course, it's orange to him, because orange is his favorite color. If I barrel through a yellow light, he likes to remind me that orange means "go schlow."
When he said "schlooow" Matthew and I mimicked his adorable pronunciation. I flashed him a big smile, and Matthew and I looked at each other to say, That is so cute.
It is, and he knows it. He's everybody's little darling in this family. He's the baby...except that he isn't a baby anymore, and he doesn't know that he isn't. My eldest boy, Berto, has warned me: "Mama, you have to stop treating him like that. He's going to think he's a baby forever!"
Yeah, alright, but I'm not the one who hauls him around the house pretending he's my six-month-old or my favorite puppy dog (big sisters Ella and Ana). I'm not the one who scoops him up to my shoulder and pats his back every time Mama is a meanie and disciplines him (that's Berto).
This week Berto, continuing his research in parents' influence on proper self-perception, asked his little brother, "Danny are you a toddler or a baby?"
"A baby."
Big brother raised his eyebrows at me with a tight, self-satisfied smile as if to say, See what you've done?
"I know," I replied. "And he isn't even a toddler anymore. Once they turn three they're considered preschoolers."
So Berto turned again to the infant Danny who was playing with his toys and questioned, "Are you a baby or a preschooler?"
"A baby."
He believes it, too. In another library book there's a picture of a baby in a red onesie decked out with yellow stars. The book asks, "Whose fingers? Whose nose? Whose toes are those?" Danny always answers, "A baby...like me! A circus baby!"
I held up my fingers to Berto and whispered, "See? He's two steps behind."
My forever baby.
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