Okay, it's been a couple of months since I've written anything here, so this blog is just about kaput. Who knew that getting a real job would take up so much time ...?
But the kids are still pretty damn funny, so I'd like to keep writing it. The interruption probably has more to do with me spending less time with the kids than with me spending more time with work. Though the preceding sentence is horribly written, hopefully you get the point. What I'm trying to say is, it's not just that I'm busy, it's that I don't spend as much time with the boys anymore – and that's why I don't find as much to write about.
And that's not a good thing.
So here's a funny one-liner from the master of one-liners that's been bouncing around in my head for a week. We were sitting outside on the deck enjoying a family dinner, when Micky – that's the incredibly annoying dog – began whining with his nose about 6 inches from Matthew's plate. Matthew, who is now 6 (I've actually missed two birthdays since my last post ...), was mostly ignoring the whine.
In a playful mood, I asked Matthew: "What is Micky saying?"
He turned to the dog, looked at him, then looked back at me and said: "I don't speak squeak."
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Thursday, May 24, 2012
'I wanna a new pet'
Matthew seems to enter the room when I'm in the deepest of deep sleeps. Last night, he wasn't even in the room when he ripped me from one of those deep sleeps.
Somewhere deep in my dream state, I heard sobbing. I jolted awake, discombobulated, half-conscious of my surroundings. The clock said it was 4:48 a.m. I slid out of bed and stumbled toward the bedroom door. As I reached the door, a small boy, wrapped in his favorite Thomas the Tank Engine blanket, padded down the hallway and into the room while weeping. "I wanna a new pet," I heard him cry. "I wanna a new pet!"
"Go to the bathroom," I told him.
No, it's not the typical response to a weeping child in the middle of the night, but I am endlessly practical. I didn't want him climbing into my bed and falling asleep with a full bladder. Without question, he turned, walked into the master bathroom and peed, crying the whole time.
As he walked back out, I decided to follow my own advice, and I headed into the bathroom. As we passed, I said, "we can talk about a new pet in the morning."
He instantly stopped crying, looked up at me and said, "What are you talking about? I didn't say I want a new pet. I said I fell out of bed."
"Oh," I said. "Well, go to bed."
Since the tears were over, he climbed into my bed, I followed him in, and we both went to sleep.
I hope he doesn't think I'm getting him a new pet.
Somewhere deep in my dream state, I heard sobbing. I jolted awake, discombobulated, half-conscious of my surroundings. The clock said it was 4:48 a.m. I slid out of bed and stumbled toward the bedroom door. As I reached the door, a small boy, wrapped in his favorite Thomas the Tank Engine blanket, padded down the hallway and into the room while weeping. "I wanna a new pet," I heard him cry. "I wanna a new pet!"
"Go to the bathroom," I told him.
No, it's not the typical response to a weeping child in the middle of the night, but I am endlessly practical. I didn't want him climbing into my bed and falling asleep with a full bladder. Without question, he turned, walked into the master bathroom and peed, crying the whole time.
As he walked back out, I decided to follow my own advice, and I headed into the bathroom. As we passed, I said, "we can talk about a new pet in the morning."
He instantly stopped crying, looked up at me and said, "What are you talking about? I didn't say I want a new pet. I said I fell out of bed."
"Oh," I said. "Well, go to bed."
Since the tears were over, he climbed into my bed, I followed him in, and we both went to sleep.
I hope he doesn't think I'm getting him a new pet.
Don't shoot McDonald's
Since our family could use some good news these days, I'll try sharing some lighthearted family moments. This one happened a few days ago, when Josh made me smile.
I had taken the boys for a double-fun trip to Target and Lowe's. The highlight of the Lowe's trip was the purchase of a line trimmer, so I can finally knock down the two-foot-high grass around our yard. The machine was packaged in a long narrow box that didn't quite fit in the carriage, and it kind of resembled a large cannon.
The older boys were pretending the box was a huge gun, and they were shooting home improvement objects throughout Lowe's. Colin just stared at them in bewilderment, and they kept blowing things up.
When we loaded the huge gun in the car, it draped from the third row (where Josh was sitting) into the second row (where Matthew was sitting). That gave Matthew perfect access to point and aim the gun wherever he wanted. He was targeting and destroying things along the way, while Josh had his head buried in a book.
In perfect Josh fashion, without looking up from the book, he said clearly, "Don't shoot any McDonald's, cuz those are my favorite places."
I had taken the boys for a double-fun trip to Target and Lowe's. The highlight of the Lowe's trip was the purchase of a line trimmer, so I can finally knock down the two-foot-high grass around our yard. The machine was packaged in a long narrow box that didn't quite fit in the carriage, and it kind of resembled a large cannon.
The older boys were pretending the box was a huge gun, and they were shooting home improvement objects throughout Lowe's. Colin just stared at them in bewilderment, and they kept blowing things up.
When we loaded the huge gun in the car, it draped from the third row (where Josh was sitting) into the second row (where Matthew was sitting). That gave Matthew perfect access to point and aim the gun wherever he wanted. He was targeting and destroying things along the way, while Josh had his head buried in a book.
In perfect Josh fashion, without looking up from the book, he said clearly, "Don't shoot any McDonald's, cuz those are my favorite places."
Friday, May 11, 2012
Colin was a rock star today
I find unexpected moments to be proud of my children. An insightful comment, a surprise gesture, a challenging question – all can trigger silent pride.
Today, it was a trip to the doctor.
Colin went to see a pediatric cardiologist because another doctor detected a heart murmur during a recent exam. We've been told heart murmurs are relatively common in children, but there was some anxiety nonetheless.
Colin was a rock star.
We spent nearly two hours in the office. Three doctors listened to his heart, silently moving the stethoscope over his bare skin. They stuck eight or more sensors to his chest, stomach and legs for a complete EKG. They put him through a 15-minute echocardiogram, asking him to lie on his back with blue jelly smeared on his chest while a technician watched his little heart beat, beat, beat.
My pride swelled during the echocardiogram. I'll never forget the image of his little body, suddenly looking so long from head to toe, stretched on that table.
Colin was wearing gray corduroy pants, with gray socks. His shoes were off. So was his shirt.
His tiny, bare chest showed the scars of his young life – the one-inch slice where a G-tube once protruded; the strange, purple-blue mark that's been there since birth; the outie belly button that guarantees he will never be a swimsuit model. Lying on his back, still as can be, he quietly looked around the room as the woman slowly circled his torso with the magic wand. For a full 15 minutes, he did everything she asked without a whimper. He sat up. He tilted his head back. He straightened his legs. He lay back down.
Colin has always amazed us. This kid spent nearly three months in intensive care. He went under full anesthesia half a dozen times. He had a double hernia repair. He had a G-tube. He had supplemental oxygen, a helmet, full leg casts, a bar between his feet, a walker, ear tubes, physical therapy, occupational therapy and speech therapy. Now he has a heart murmur.
All those trips to doctors, all those procedures, all those pokes, pricks and prods, all have toughened him up. All prepared him for a two-hour trip to the cardiologist.
Colin was a rock star today. Once again, he made us proud.
Today, it was a trip to the doctor.
Colin went to see a pediatric cardiologist because another doctor detected a heart murmur during a recent exam. We've been told heart murmurs are relatively common in children, but there was some anxiety nonetheless.
Colin was a rock star.
We spent nearly two hours in the office. Three doctors listened to his heart, silently moving the stethoscope over his bare skin. They stuck eight or more sensors to his chest, stomach and legs for a complete EKG. They put him through a 15-minute echocardiogram, asking him to lie on his back with blue jelly smeared on his chest while a technician watched his little heart beat, beat, beat.
My pride swelled during the echocardiogram. I'll never forget the image of his little body, suddenly looking so long from head to toe, stretched on that table.
Colin was wearing gray corduroy pants, with gray socks. His shoes were off. So was his shirt.
His tiny, bare chest showed the scars of his young life – the one-inch slice where a G-tube once protruded; the strange, purple-blue mark that's been there since birth; the outie belly button that guarantees he will never be a swimsuit model. Lying on his back, still as can be, he quietly looked around the room as the woman slowly circled his torso with the magic wand. For a full 15 minutes, he did everything she asked without a whimper. He sat up. He tilted his head back. He straightened his legs. He lay back down.
Colin has always amazed us. This kid spent nearly three months in intensive care. He went under full anesthesia half a dozen times. He had a double hernia repair. He had a G-tube. He had supplemental oxygen, a helmet, full leg casts, a bar between his feet, a walker, ear tubes, physical therapy, occupational therapy and speech therapy. Now he has a heart murmur.
All those trips to doctors, all those procedures, all those pokes, pricks and prods, all have toughened him up. All prepared him for a two-hour trip to the cardiologist.
Colin was a rock star today. Once again, he made us proud.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Josh is so helpful. He was working on a puzzle a minute ago and Colin was having a great time kicking Josh's puzzle pieces. "Stop it, Colin!" Josh yelled. "Stop it! Stop it!"
Then he solved the problem by picking up Colin, carrying him across the house into the bathroom and handing him the toilet plunger. I turned around to find Josh instructing Colin on how to plunge the kitchen floor.
"Okay, Colin?" Josh asked.
"Yaaah," Colin said.
And Josh ran back to his puzzle quite satisfied with himself.
Then he solved the problem by picking up Colin, carrying him across the house into the bathroom and handing him the toilet plunger. I turned around to find Josh instructing Colin on how to plunge the kitchen floor.
"Okay, Colin?" Josh asked.
"Yaaah," Colin said.
And Josh ran back to his puzzle quite satisfied with himself.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Kids are weird
An hour ago, the two older boys emerged from their bedroom, post-shower, in identical, green truck pajamas. "Daddy, can you tell us apart?" asked the boy who was six inches taller and 25 pounds heavier than the boy standing next to him.
"No, I can't," I said.
"Well, I am so hungry all the time I could eat all the food in the whole entire world," the big one said.
"Well, that sounds like Joshua," I said.
"Yup, that's me," said Josh, then he ran downstairs to make himself dessert.
Matthew followed him down, and before Colin and I could get there, dessert was well underway. They had taken out a half-gallon of Breyer's vanilla ice cream and were scooping it into separate bowls. Then Matthew took his bowl, put it in the microwave and set it for four minutes. He stopped it with 3:20 to go. "Wow, it's never been hot before," he said while staring down at the soupy mix.
Next came oyster crackers. As I watched in awe, Matthew pulled a package of oyster crackers from the drawer, ripped it open and dumped it in the ice cream bowl. "Really?" I asked him. He just looked at me. Next he got out the gallon of milk and poured milk on top of the ice cream and crackers. Finally he sat down to eat.
Josh followed his lead, also putting the ice cream in the microwave and then pouring milk on top of it. No oyster crackers for Josh. After two bites, Matthew said to himself, but loud enough so we could all hear, "Actually, this isn't very good."
"Mine is so good!" Josh said while devouring his vanilla soup. Colin of course screamed for his own bowl. I set him up between his brothers with a nice dish of cold ice cream and a plastic spoon, but a minute later the spoon flew across the room and hit me. Apparently Colin was having a hard time scooping cold ice cream with plastic, so I forgave the spoon-throwing and helped him finish the bowl with a fresh metal spoon.
The final noteworthy moment was at the very end of the night. Jenn was upstairs with Josh and I was downstairs working on the kindergartner's homework. Colin climbed down the stairs, saw us doing homework, and wandered into the kitchen. He came back a moment later with the electric mixer.
When we finished Matthew's homework, I told the boys it was time for bed. Up we went — me, Matthew, Colin and the mixer, firmly lodged in the boy's grip. I said goodnight to Matthew and brought Colin into his room. He walked to the crib, lifted up the mixer and dropped it over the bars, onto his mattress. I turned out the light, sang one verse of "Twinkle, twinkle little star," then put Colin into the crib. In the dark, he reached out, pulled the mixer close to his chest and curled into a ball. I fluffed out a blanket, let it fall over the boy and the mixer, said good night and left the room.
I haven't told Jenn about it yet. I probably should before she goes to check on him and discovers a kitchen appliance in the crib. But I won't. It'll ruin the surprise.
"No, I can't," I said.
"Well, I am so hungry all the time I could eat all the food in the whole entire world," the big one said.
"Well, that sounds like Joshua," I said.
"Yup, that's me," said Josh, then he ran downstairs to make himself dessert.
Matthew followed him down, and before Colin and I could get there, dessert was well underway. They had taken out a half-gallon of Breyer's vanilla ice cream and were scooping it into separate bowls. Then Matthew took his bowl, put it in the microwave and set it for four minutes. He stopped it with 3:20 to go. "Wow, it's never been hot before," he said while staring down at the soupy mix.
Next came oyster crackers. As I watched in awe, Matthew pulled a package of oyster crackers from the drawer, ripped it open and dumped it in the ice cream bowl. "Really?" I asked him. He just looked at me. Next he got out the gallon of milk and poured milk on top of the ice cream and crackers. Finally he sat down to eat.
Josh followed his lead, also putting the ice cream in the microwave and then pouring milk on top of it. No oyster crackers for Josh. After two bites, Matthew said to himself, but loud enough so we could all hear, "Actually, this isn't very good."
"Mine is so good!" Josh said while devouring his vanilla soup. Colin of course screamed for his own bowl. I set him up between his brothers with a nice dish of cold ice cream and a plastic spoon, but a minute later the spoon flew across the room and hit me. Apparently Colin was having a hard time scooping cold ice cream with plastic, so I forgave the spoon-throwing and helped him finish the bowl with a fresh metal spoon.
The final noteworthy moment was at the very end of the night. Jenn was upstairs with Josh and I was downstairs working on the kindergartner's homework. Colin climbed down the stairs, saw us doing homework, and wandered into the kitchen. He came back a moment later with the electric mixer.
When we finished Matthew's homework, I told the boys it was time for bed. Up we went — me, Matthew, Colin and the mixer, firmly lodged in the boy's grip. I said goodnight to Matthew and brought Colin into his room. He walked to the crib, lifted up the mixer and dropped it over the bars, onto his mattress. I turned out the light, sang one verse of "Twinkle, twinkle little star," then put Colin into the crib. In the dark, he reached out, pulled the mixer close to his chest and curled into a ball. I fluffed out a blanket, let it fall over the boy and the mixer, said good night and left the room.
I haven't told Jenn about it yet. I probably should before she goes to check on him and discovers a kitchen appliance in the crib. But I won't. It'll ruin the surprise.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Josh makes a funny
I took the two older boys to a crowded Target on a rainy Sunday afternoon. We made a deal. They had to behave in the store in order to get a treat afterwards – Skittles for Josh, lollipop for Matthew.
They behaved exactly as expected. They ran through aisles. They elbowed each other for carriage positions. They grabbed boxes I told them not to. They fought. They wrestled. They bumped into other people. They blocked aisles. They screamed. They left me. They rolled on the floor. They knocked things off shelves.
They were the most rambunctious children in the superstore, but all things considered (rainy day, distracted father, loads of temptations), they were fine. I wanted to drag them by their ears only a couple of times, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been.
Once we were settled in the car, they asked for their treats. I said no. I told them they hadn't really earned them. They whined, so I told them they could still earn them by doing two things. They had to help me carry the bags into the house. And they had to solve a riddle.
"What's the riddle?" Matthew asked.
Before I could speak, Josh said, "What's mean and grown-up? And has three boys that don't listen?"
They behaved exactly as expected. They ran through aisles. They elbowed each other for carriage positions. They grabbed boxes I told them not to. They fought. They wrestled. They bumped into other people. They blocked aisles. They screamed. They left me. They rolled on the floor. They knocked things off shelves.
They were the most rambunctious children in the superstore, but all things considered (rainy day, distracted father, loads of temptations), they were fine. I wanted to drag them by their ears only a couple of times, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been.
Once we were settled in the car, they asked for their treats. I said no. I told them they hadn't really earned them. They whined, so I told them they could still earn them by doing two things. They had to help me carry the bags into the house. And they had to solve a riddle.
"What's the riddle?" Matthew asked.
Before I could speak, Josh said, "What's mean and grown-up? And has three boys that don't listen?"
Friday, April 20, 2012
Goodbye to a family friend
The heart of this story begins about a year ago, not long after my parents bought four goldfish plus a tank for the boys. We were changing the water in the tank one day, a mildly complicated procedure that takes place in the boys' bathroom.
We were nearly finished, and I was ready to transfer the fish from a metal mixing bowl back into their tank. Matthew asked if he could do it. Since he's a responsible young man, I allowed it. Using a net, he scooped a fish from the bowl, but he scooped too hard. When he lifted the net, his adrenaline surged, and he flipped the fish, end over end, about five feet in the air. It landed with a thud on the tile floor of the bathroom.
I quickly scooped him up in two hands and dropped him into the tank.
Things didn't look good. The fish twitched occasionally but mostly floated in the tank. He drifted through the water, nearly upside down, with one fin lightly moving. If not for Matthew, I would have ended the fish's life right there. I assumed he was dead or dying, and there was nothing we could do about it. But Matthew as so distraught, I couldn't dare flush him down the toilet right then and there. I told Matthew we'd wait and see, but I had absolutely no hope. I expected to find the fish floating dead the next morning.
Amazingly, we found the fish swimming the next morning, and over the next couple of days, he recovered. He was clearly damaged – his body swelled in the center, and that broken fin never really worked again. You could easily recognize the fish. He looked like he had swallowed a marble. Matthew called him the short, fat one. But he lived.
He lived for the past year, in close quarters with his three friends, swimming awkwardly, but swimming. When I watched him, I knew he was struggling – struggling more than a tiny goldfish should. But he lived.
Yesterday morning, I was in the shower when Matthew came into the bathroom. "Daddy," he said. "That fat fish is acting funny. He's swimming to the top and then floating down."
"That's what he does, Matthew," I told him. "He always swims kind of funny."
Matthew left, I got out of the shower, got dressed and went through the day. I completely forgot about the fish, and we never checked on him. It wasn't until bedtime, when I was tucking in the boys (Jenn was at work), that I thought about the fish. I looked in the tank and there he was, floating upside down, no life at all.
Matthew saw me looking. "What's he doing" he asked. "Nothing," I said. "He died."
Matthew was quiet, then he started asking questions. "What happened to him? Are you sure? Which one is it?"
We talked, and I told him I had to take the fish out of the tank. "Is that okay?" I asked him. "Do you want to watch?" I told him I was going to flush the fish down the toilet. He seemed remarkably okay with that, so I got the fish net and scooped up our short, fat, broken friend. But as soon as the fish was taken from the water, things changed.
Matthew rolled over on his bed and began sobbing, tears pouring into his pillow. I sat down next to him, the dead fish dripping water onto the rug and began rubbing his back. I knew I couldn't flush this fish; he needed a proper burial. So I stayed there on the bed and talked to Matthew.
"You know what I do when someone dies?" I said.
"What?"
"I think about all the good things," I said.
"Like what?" he said between sniffles.
"Like about how this fish was a survivor. He was a fighter. How we thought he was dead, and he fought and he fought and he fought, and he lived. He worked harder than the other fish to swim. He worked harder than the other fish to eat. But he lived. He was a fighter."
"Is that the fish that fell on the floor?" he asked.
"Yes, it was," I said.
"How did that happen?" he asked.
I couldn't believe the question. It was like he had distanced himself from the event. "Well, it happened when we were moving him back into the tank. It was a mistake," I told him, without reminding him that he was holding the net when it happened. That news unleashed a new torrent of tears, his head again buried in the pillow.
Listening to his brother weep, young Colin climbed up on the bed and wrapped his arms around Matthew's head. From the other bed, Josh began trying to console Matthew, in words oddly familiar.
"You know what I do when animals die?" Josh asked.
"What?" he said, face still buried in the pillow.
"I think about good animals, and how good they are, and the good things they do." Josh said.
"Like what animals?" Matthew sobbed.
"Like fish that fight," Josh said. "And dogs that are good. And rabbits ..." The speech unraveled a little bit, but Josh's heart was in the right place. He was being sweet.
By now, Colin had stopped hugging Matthew and was mostly stepping on his head, so I pulled him off his brother and told Matthew I'd be back in a few minutes to check on him. I put the fish in a tupperware container, put Colin to bed and went back to the boys' room. Both were asleep.
At breakfast this morning, I told Matthew I was going to bury the fish. I asked if he wanted to help. He said no, but he asked where I was going to bury him. "I'm not sure," I said.
"Will you bury him deep and put a circle of stones on top?" he asked.
So that's what I did. In a hidden corner of our yard, under a circle of small stones, lies the toughest goldfish I've ever seen. Matthew seems okay and appears to be moving on. He asked if Grandma and Grandpa would buy him a new goldfish. I expect they will. But he won't be like this fish. This fish was one tough son of a bitch. May he rest in peace.
We were nearly finished, and I was ready to transfer the fish from a metal mixing bowl back into their tank. Matthew asked if he could do it. Since he's a responsible young man, I allowed it. Using a net, he scooped a fish from the bowl, but he scooped too hard. When he lifted the net, his adrenaline surged, and he flipped the fish, end over end, about five feet in the air. It landed with a thud on the tile floor of the bathroom.
I quickly scooped him up in two hands and dropped him into the tank.
Things didn't look good. The fish twitched occasionally but mostly floated in the tank. He drifted through the water, nearly upside down, with one fin lightly moving. If not for Matthew, I would have ended the fish's life right there. I assumed he was dead or dying, and there was nothing we could do about it. But Matthew as so distraught, I couldn't dare flush him down the toilet right then and there. I told Matthew we'd wait and see, but I had absolutely no hope. I expected to find the fish floating dead the next morning.
Amazingly, we found the fish swimming the next morning, and over the next couple of days, he recovered. He was clearly damaged – his body swelled in the center, and that broken fin never really worked again. You could easily recognize the fish. He looked like he had swallowed a marble. Matthew called him the short, fat one. But he lived.
He lived for the past year, in close quarters with his three friends, swimming awkwardly, but swimming. When I watched him, I knew he was struggling – struggling more than a tiny goldfish should. But he lived.
Yesterday morning, I was in the shower when Matthew came into the bathroom. "Daddy," he said. "That fat fish is acting funny. He's swimming to the top and then floating down."
"That's what he does, Matthew," I told him. "He always swims kind of funny."
Matthew left, I got out of the shower, got dressed and went through the day. I completely forgot about the fish, and we never checked on him. It wasn't until bedtime, when I was tucking in the boys (Jenn was at work), that I thought about the fish. I looked in the tank and there he was, floating upside down, no life at all.
Matthew saw me looking. "What's he doing" he asked. "Nothing," I said. "He died."
Matthew was quiet, then he started asking questions. "What happened to him? Are you sure? Which one is it?"
We talked, and I told him I had to take the fish out of the tank. "Is that okay?" I asked him. "Do you want to watch?" I told him I was going to flush the fish down the toilet. He seemed remarkably okay with that, so I got the fish net and scooped up our short, fat, broken friend. But as soon as the fish was taken from the water, things changed.
Matthew rolled over on his bed and began sobbing, tears pouring into his pillow. I sat down next to him, the dead fish dripping water onto the rug and began rubbing his back. I knew I couldn't flush this fish; he needed a proper burial. So I stayed there on the bed and talked to Matthew.
"You know what I do when someone dies?" I said.
"What?"
"I think about all the good things," I said.
"Like what?" he said between sniffles.
"Like about how this fish was a survivor. He was a fighter. How we thought he was dead, and he fought and he fought and he fought, and he lived. He worked harder than the other fish to swim. He worked harder than the other fish to eat. But he lived. He was a fighter."
"Is that the fish that fell on the floor?" he asked.
"Yes, it was," I said.
"How did that happen?" he asked.
I couldn't believe the question. It was like he had distanced himself from the event. "Well, it happened when we were moving him back into the tank. It was a mistake," I told him, without reminding him that he was holding the net when it happened. That news unleashed a new torrent of tears, his head again buried in the pillow.
Listening to his brother weep, young Colin climbed up on the bed and wrapped his arms around Matthew's head. From the other bed, Josh began trying to console Matthew, in words oddly familiar.
"You know what I do when animals die?" Josh asked.
"What?" he said, face still buried in the pillow.
"I think about good animals, and how good they are, and the good things they do." Josh said.
"Like what animals?" Matthew sobbed.
"Like fish that fight," Josh said. "And dogs that are good. And rabbits ..." The speech unraveled a little bit, but Josh's heart was in the right place. He was being sweet.
By now, Colin had stopped hugging Matthew and was mostly stepping on his head, so I pulled him off his brother and told Matthew I'd be back in a few minutes to check on him. I put the fish in a tupperware container, put Colin to bed and went back to the boys' room. Both were asleep.
At breakfast this morning, I told Matthew I was going to bury the fish. I asked if he wanted to help. He said no, but he asked where I was going to bury him. "I'm not sure," I said.
"Will you bury him deep and put a circle of stones on top?" he asked.
So that's what I did. In a hidden corner of our yard, under a circle of small stones, lies the toughest goldfish I've ever seen. Matthew seems okay and appears to be moving on. He asked if Grandma and Grandpa would buy him a new goldfish. I expect they will. But he won't be like this fish. This fish was one tough son of a bitch. May he rest in peace.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
'You two make babies?' ... Ummm ...
I should know better than to joke with Matthew around. But sometimes I can't help myself ... and look where it leads me.
At dinner tonight, Colin was having another of his screaming bouts, where he wants something, and to get our attention, he shrieks until we can't ignore him any longer. This time, he was screaming that he wanted more milk. We were able to figure that out because he was slamming his empty milk cup on the table.
As we slowed him down and reminded him to use sign language, he cooperated somewhat. He signed: "more" and "please." He skipped the "milk" sign, but we let it slide.
Matthew delights in pointing out absolutely everything in the world around him, so he made it known that Colin skipped "milk." "How do we know what he wants more of?" Matthew asked. "He only said 'more please.'
"Maybe he wants more brothers," I said. This is the conversation that followed:
Jenn: "Well, that's not going to happen."
Matthew: "Why?"
Jenn: "Because this is it. This is the whole Pickering family. There won't be any more of you."
Matthew: "How do you know?"
Me: "Because we decided not to have any more children."
Matthew: "You two don't make babies."
Me: "Yes, we do."
Matthew: "How?" ...
... [painful silence] ...
Me: "... Um ... We ... Ummm ... "
Then I just gave up. I laughed and looked at Jenn. She was laughing at me. She offered a vain attempt at an explanation, something having to do with God blessing us with children and we deciding we didn't want any more, but she couldn't get through it. She started laughing, too. Matthew stumped us again. The question was never truly answered. We moved on to critiquing Josh's table manners.
I gotta go now. I need to find that parent instruction manual; the one that tells you how to handle those types of questions from a child like our 5-year-old.
At dinner tonight, Colin was having another of his screaming bouts, where he wants something, and to get our attention, he shrieks until we can't ignore him any longer. This time, he was screaming that he wanted more milk. We were able to figure that out because he was slamming his empty milk cup on the table.
As we slowed him down and reminded him to use sign language, he cooperated somewhat. He signed: "more" and "please." He skipped the "milk" sign, but we let it slide.
Matthew delights in pointing out absolutely everything in the world around him, so he made it known that Colin skipped "milk." "How do we know what he wants more of?" Matthew asked. "He only said 'more please.'
"Maybe he wants more brothers," I said. This is the conversation that followed:
Jenn: "Well, that's not going to happen."
Matthew: "Why?"
Jenn: "Because this is it. This is the whole Pickering family. There won't be any more of you."
Matthew: "How do you know?"
Me: "Because we decided not to have any more children."
Matthew: "You two don't make babies."
Me: "Yes, we do."
Matthew: "How?" ...
... [painful silence] ...
Me: "... Um ... We ... Ummm ... "
Then I just gave up. I laughed and looked at Jenn. She was laughing at me. She offered a vain attempt at an explanation, something having to do with God blessing us with children and we deciding we didn't want any more, but she couldn't get through it. She started laughing, too. Matthew stumped us again. The question was never truly answered. We moved on to critiquing Josh's table manners.
I gotta go now. I need to find that parent instruction manual; the one that tells you how to handle those types of questions from a child like our 5-year-old.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
It turns out that's happening. Colin aspires to be like his older brothers. Yet I wonder if that's always a good thing.
I snapped this photo at breakfast this morning. As I've written about before, Matthew has developed a slightly bad habit of sitting in front of the heating unit underneath the kitchen sink in the morning. His older brother gets dressed first thing in the morning, but Matthew stays in pajamas until the bus is minutes away. It's gotten to the point where Matthew actually eats his breakfast on the floor, in front of the heat, under the sink, in his pajamas, demanding that we fill his cereal bowl and hand it to him. He eats bowls of cereal, bagels, English muffins, bananas, etc. while sitting on the floor. And I've let this happen.
As of this week, Colin is a full-fledged student. So Colin is now on the same schedule as the older two. Unfortunately, he's also following some of the same routines as the older two. This morning, when I gave Matthew a banana to start his breakfast, he took his usual seat on the floor. Colin demanded the same privilege. As a pushover, I obviously gave in.
The photo shows Colin and Matthew starting their day eating breakfast on the floor. Little brother is taking after big brother. Bad habits continue. Dad enables them.
When it came time for a bowl of cereal, we were able to get Colin into a seat at the island. He sat next to his brother Joshua, and I was glad to see a more proper form of eating.
Of course, the brotherly influenced continued, and the two of them – the massive 7-year-old who looks 10 and the tiny 3-year-old who looks 2 – began fighting. Colin grabbed Josh's spoon. Josh yelled at him and gently hit him. Colin hit him back. Josh yelled. Colin grabbed his spoon. Josh gently hit him. Colin hit him back ... I began to think maybe Colin would be better off on the floor, for a quiet bowl of cereal next to his other older brother.
Older brothers ... are we still sure this is a good thing?
Monday, April 2, 2012
Another milestone for a very special boy
Our youngest son reaches a milestone this week.
When Colin turns 3 next Monday, he will transition from the care of Early Intervention Services to the Rehoboth public school system. This morning, his physical therapist, Lorna, came for the final time. It was emotional.
Lorna began working with Colin when he was just a few months old, just weeks after he came home from an extended stay in the hospital. You see, Colin spent the first 10 weeks of his life in the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) at Women & Infants Hospital. It took about six weeks to diagnose that Colin has a somewhat rare genetic disorder known as Myotonic Dystrophy.
When he arrived home, Colin was strapped to a Pulse-Ox monitor so we could always track his pulse and oxygen level. A tank of oxygen sat close by, along with a suction machine so we could unclog his airway if necessary.
In those days, Colin was just a limp, tiny body of arms and legs on the floor. Jenn and Lorna would like on either side of him trying to get him to turn his head, then to lift his head. It took months.
Lorna would lift his dead arms and dead legs, stimulating the muscles, making him work for the first time. She saw him wear his first set of leg braces, to stretch his Achilles tendons and position his feet correctly. Then came a larger set of braces. Then full leg casts, which went mid-thigh to his toes. He looked like the victim of a horrible car crash.
She saw him pull himself up on the couch for the first time. She saw him grasp a walker for the first time. She watched him slide along behind it, then finally learn how to hold himself up and take his first steps. She saw him walk his first true steps unaided. She saw him start to "run" – a kind of hip-swinging, knees flailing, teetering-on-disaster gait that is all Colin.
Today she watched him run around the family room, kick a soccer ball, step over obstacles and duck through a hoop. She led him across a balance platform. She pushed him to go further.
But today she mostly played with him and laughed with him. It's an emotional day. Lorna says goodbye to Colin today.
Early Intervention works with children like Colin until they turn 3, then the public schools take over. A week from today, Colin will be a full-fledged student, receiving heavy doses of speech, physical and occupational therapy at the same elementary school where his two older brothers go.
It's an emotional day for us, too. Lorna has done wonders with Colin, and Colin has done wonders with us. On Saturday, the family took part in the 2012 Muscle Walk for the Musular Dystrophy Assoc. Colin walked a lap and a half around the indoor track at Providence College. Several other young boys rode around the track in motorized wheelchairs. I nearly cried a few times watching them drive and Colin walk.
The line between walking and riding is fragile. We had no expectation for Colin. He could easily have been the one in the wheelchair. I thank God he's not.
I also thank people like Lorna, my wife Jenn and the rest of the team who pushed Colin to where he is today.
I hugged Lorna goodbye a minute ago and then came back up here to finish typing and wipe away the tears. We've come a long way together. Thank you, Lorna.
And thank you, Colin.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Why are kids sometimes so funny when they're so bad?
Josh and Matthew dumped their box of Matchbox cars – which is about 200 cars – at the top of the stairs. Sitting in my office I heard the unmistakable 'bang,' 'bang,' 'bang' of cars bouncing down the stairs.
"Guys, I don't want you throwing cars down the stairs," I called.
"I'm not," Josh said.
Having played this game 100 times before, I know how it goes. The choice of verb is critical. In his mind, he's not "throwing," he's doing something else. Until you specify the right action, he won't stop.
"Okay, I don't want you pushing cars down the stairs," I said.
"I'm not," Josh said, as another 'bang,' 'bang,' 'bang' echoed into my office.
Already tired of this, I cut to the end: "Okay, Josh, what ARE you doing with the cars?"
"I'm just getting them down the stairs."
"Guys, I don't want you throwing cars down the stairs," I called.
"I'm not," Josh said.
Having played this game 100 times before, I know how it goes. The choice of verb is critical. In his mind, he's not "throwing," he's doing something else. Until you specify the right action, he won't stop.
"Okay, I don't want you pushing cars down the stairs," I said.
"I'm not," Josh said, as another 'bang,' 'bang,' 'bang' echoed into my office.
Already tired of this, I cut to the end: "Okay, Josh, what ARE you doing with the cars?"
"I'm just getting them down the stairs."
Friday, March 23, 2012
I'm sorry, son. Please don't put me in timeout.
After the big yellow bus brought the day's shipment of child-sized mayhem back to our quaint, quiet neighborhood today, things started to get a little rowdy. That's not unusual. Things typically get a little rowdy in the streets and yards, particularly on my property.
Today, a gang of half a dozen young people, including my two oldest, were playing a variation of their favorite game. I don't think it has a name, but I can somewhat describe it. It features pirates/zombies/leprechauns who chase/hit/shove each other while screaming/crying/insulting in my house/yard/garage. Select any combination of the preceding words, and you get a good sense of what it looks and sounds like every day between the hours of 4 and 6 p.m. at the Pickering estate.
In today's game, the sacred object was a video camera which apparently started in Josh's possession but then ended up in Matthew's possession. After the swarm circled the house, ran into the garage, left the door to the kitchen open, tore through the house, spilled papers on the floor, ran out the front door, left that door open, circled the house again and ran up the deck stairs, Josh had had enough. He stopped, grabbed a three-foot heavy log from the pile of firewood, lifted it in two hands above his head like a weapon of Medieval destruction and started pounding up the deck stairs in search of his brother.
I'm not sure if he intended to scare his brother or simply bash his skull in, but at this point I opted to intervene. I asked him to stop. He didn't. I ordered him to stop. He didn't. I screamed at him to stop. He didn't. I unleashed the ultimate-Daddy-scare-the-crap-out-of-the-kids scream. He stopped. I told him to put the log back into the pile. He hurled it into the grass. I screamed for him to put the log back into the pile. He did.
A couple of hours later, after more zombie, screaming, crying, hitting "fun," it was time for dinner. The boys were now inside and I was trying to clean up the junkyard that is my property. I had just wheeled Josh's bike from the next-door-neighbor's driveway back into our garage (I know, I'm an enabler), and parked it in the corner with the helmet hanging from the handlebars, when I saw the very same bike lying in the backyard. One of our boys' delightful friends had decided to hop on the bike, ride it through the yard for no apparent reason and dump it out back before running inside to watch TV. (And if this all sounds like borderline chaos, it's only because it is.)
So let's just say I was a little peeved when I stomped over to the bike, hopped on it and decided to ride it back into the garage. As I turned the corner into my driveway, where my next-door-neighbor friends were enjoying a cold one (yes, I had one too at this point), the pedal snapped off the frame of Josh's bike. I tried to fix it, but it was bent and busted. I felt a little stupid, but these things happen.
When trying to settle the boys down for dinner, another version of Josh-hit-Matthew, Matthew-hit-Josh, Josh-hit-Matthew unfolded. As Matthew ran away from him, Josh picked up an arrangement of dried flowers and hurled it at the fleeing middle son. That's when I snapped for the second time.
My loud, screaming speech made a lot of good points about the logic of throwing household objects and the pointlessness of endless vengeance, but most importantly, it included one of my favorite lines, which apparently I use too frequently. "Josh," I said. "Think with your brain! Was that a smart thing to do?"
The point of this whole blog post is coming soon, so thank you for sticking with me this long. Later in the night, when Josh was cleaned, dried, dressed and charming, he asked me to go downstairs with him so he could have dessert. I agreed and we went down to the kitchen together. While he was eating two Oreos, I had to go into the garage, which reminded me of his bike.
"Josh, I'm sorry I broke your bike pedal tonight," I called to him. "But I can fix it."
"How did you break it?" he asked.
"I was riding it, and I shouldn't have," I said.
"Daddy, think with your brain!" he yelled.
I laughed out loud, walked over and hugged him. I told him that was one of the funniest things he's ever said, and he's right, I wasn't thinking with my brain. I have no idea what got into me.
Today, a gang of half a dozen young people, including my two oldest, were playing a variation of their favorite game. I don't think it has a name, but I can somewhat describe it. It features pirates/zombies/leprechauns who chase/hit/shove each other while screaming/crying/insulting in my house/yard/garage. Select any combination of the preceding words, and you get a good sense of what it looks and sounds like every day between the hours of 4 and 6 p.m. at the Pickering estate.
In today's game, the sacred object was a video camera which apparently started in Josh's possession but then ended up in Matthew's possession. After the swarm circled the house, ran into the garage, left the door to the kitchen open, tore through the house, spilled papers on the floor, ran out the front door, left that door open, circled the house again and ran up the deck stairs, Josh had had enough. He stopped, grabbed a three-foot heavy log from the pile of firewood, lifted it in two hands above his head like a weapon of Medieval destruction and started pounding up the deck stairs in search of his brother.
I'm not sure if he intended to scare his brother or simply bash his skull in, but at this point I opted to intervene. I asked him to stop. He didn't. I ordered him to stop. He didn't. I screamed at him to stop. He didn't. I unleashed the ultimate-Daddy-scare-the-crap-out-of-the-kids scream. He stopped. I told him to put the log back into the pile. He hurled it into the grass. I screamed for him to put the log back into the pile. He did.
A couple of hours later, after more zombie, screaming, crying, hitting "fun," it was time for dinner. The boys were now inside and I was trying to clean up the junkyard that is my property. I had just wheeled Josh's bike from the next-door-neighbor's driveway back into our garage (I know, I'm an enabler), and parked it in the corner with the helmet hanging from the handlebars, when I saw the very same bike lying in the backyard. One of our boys' delightful friends had decided to hop on the bike, ride it through the yard for no apparent reason and dump it out back before running inside to watch TV. (And if this all sounds like borderline chaos, it's only because it is.)
So let's just say I was a little peeved when I stomped over to the bike, hopped on it and decided to ride it back into the garage. As I turned the corner into my driveway, where my next-door-neighbor friends were enjoying a cold one (yes, I had one too at this point), the pedal snapped off the frame of Josh's bike. I tried to fix it, but it was bent and busted. I felt a little stupid, but these things happen.
When trying to settle the boys down for dinner, another version of Josh-hit-Matthew, Matthew-hit-Josh, Josh-hit-Matthew unfolded. As Matthew ran away from him, Josh picked up an arrangement of dried flowers and hurled it at the fleeing middle son. That's when I snapped for the second time.
My loud, screaming speech made a lot of good points about the logic of throwing household objects and the pointlessness of endless vengeance, but most importantly, it included one of my favorite lines, which apparently I use too frequently. "Josh," I said. "Think with your brain! Was that a smart thing to do?"
The point of this whole blog post is coming soon, so thank you for sticking with me this long. Later in the night, when Josh was cleaned, dried, dressed and charming, he asked me to go downstairs with him so he could have dessert. I agreed and we went down to the kitchen together. While he was eating two Oreos, I had to go into the garage, which reminded me of his bike.
"Josh, I'm sorry I broke your bike pedal tonight," I called to him. "But I can fix it."
"How did you break it?" he asked.
"I was riding it, and I shouldn't have," I said.
"Daddy, think with your brain!" he yelled.
I laughed out loud, walked over and hugged him. I told him that was one of the funniest things he's ever said, and he's right, I wasn't thinking with my brain. I have no idea what got into me.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Random Matthew conversation of the day
The conversation while driving to Saturday morning gymnastics class:
Matthew: "Do bus drivers drive buses all the time?"
Me: "No."
Matthew: "What do they drive?"
Me: "They have their own cars."
Matthew: "Why don't they drive the buses?"
Me: "Because they don't own the buses."
Matthew: "Who owns them?"
Me: "The school owns them and it pays the bus drivers to drive them."
Matthew: "So someone tells the bus drivers they have to drive the buses?"
Me: "Yes."
Matthew: "Does the principal tell them they have to drive the buses?"
Me: "Yes, she does."
Matthew: "So Sue doesn't own the bus she drives?" Sue is his bus driver.
Me: "No, she doesn't."
Matthew: "Some people own buses."
Me: "No, they actually don't."
Matthew: "Yes they do. We drive by a house, and there's a bus in the driveway."
Me: "Well, yes, I guess some people own buses."
Matthew: "I knew they did."
Matthew: "Do bus drivers drive buses all the time?"
Me: "No."
Matthew: "What do they drive?"
Me: "They have their own cars."
Matthew: "Why don't they drive the buses?"
Me: "Because they don't own the buses."
Matthew: "Who owns them?"
Me: "The school owns them and it pays the bus drivers to drive them."
Matthew: "So someone tells the bus drivers they have to drive the buses?"
Me: "Yes."
Matthew: "Does the principal tell them they have to drive the buses?"
Me: "Yes, she does."
Matthew: "So Sue doesn't own the bus she drives?" Sue is his bus driver.
Me: "No, she doesn't."
Matthew: "Some people own buses."
Me: "No, they actually don't."
Matthew: "Yes they do. We drive by a house, and there's a bus in the driveway."
Me: "Well, yes, I guess some people own buses."
Matthew: "I knew they did."
Friday, March 16, 2012
How do you fit a square post in a round hole?
Here's the Matthew question of the night:
"Daddy, why are we the only ones in the neighborhood with a lamppost?"
"Because your mother wanted one and we paid a lot of money for it."
"How much?"
"A lot."
"How did you dig a square hole for it?"
Pause. Big smile. Laughter.
"I didn't. I dug a hole, then put the dirt around it. It only looks square."
"Oh, yeah. That makes sense."
"Daddy, why are we the only ones in the neighborhood with a lamppost?"
"Because your mother wanted one and we paid a lot of money for it."
"How much?"
"A lot."
"How did you dig a square hole for it?"
Pause. Big smile. Laughter.
"I didn't. I dug a hole, then put the dirt around it. It only looks square."
"Oh, yeah. That makes sense."
Thursday, March 15, 2012
I am a living, breathing broken record.
I never wanted to be the proverbial broken record, but I am. Here is a 100% true and accurate accounting of the things I say every single day of my life. Every single day. Every. Single. Day.
6:30 a.m.: "[In a loud, angry whisper] Guys, be quiet, Colin is still asleep!!!!!!"
6:32 a.m.: "[Still in a loud whisper] Quiet down!"
6:40 a.m.: "Josh, turn down the radio. It's too loud!"
7 a.m.: "Josh, you can't carry down 30 books every morning. Five books!!"
7:01 a.m.: "Josh, you can't pour the cereal that high. There's no room for milk."
7:10 a.m: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:15 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:20 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:25 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:30 a.m.: "Matthew, you need to eat breakfast."
7:35 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:40 a.m.: "Matthew, you need to eat breakfast."
7:45 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:50 a.m.: "Matthew, you're running out of time. You need to eat now."
7:55 a.m.: "Guys, at 8 o'clock, breakfast is over."
7:56 a.m.: "Matthew, eat!"
7:57 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading and eat!"
7:58 a.m.: "Josh, what are you doing?"
7:59 a.m.: "No, Josh, it's too late for a second bowl."
8:01 a.m.: "Matthew, get dressed."
8:02 a.m.: "Matthew, get dressed."
8:03 a.m.: "Josh, make your bed."
8:04 a.m.: "Matthew, get dressed."
8:05 a.m.: "Josh, your bed."
8:06 a.m.: "Guys, the bus is coming soon."
8:07 a.m.: "Matthew, get dressed."
8:08 a.m.: "Josh, your bed. And teeth. Bed. And teeth. Bed and teeth. Bed and teeth!!!!"
8:09 a.m.: "Matthew, get dressed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
8:10 a.m.: "Josh, your teeth."
8:11 a.m.: "Josh, don't suck on the toothbrush, brush."
8:12 a.m.: "Josh, brush!"
8:13 a.m.: "Josh, where does your toothbrush go?"
8:14 a.m: "Josh, get your coat on."
8:15 a.m.: "Matthew, hurry up!!"
8:16 a.m.: "Matthew, get on your coat, put on your shoes."
8:17 a.m.: "Matthew, the bus is coming! Coat! Shoes! Now!!!!!"
8:18 a.m.: "Guys, stop it!"
8:19 a.m.: "Guys, stop it!"
8:20 a.m.: "Josh, don't kick the mailbox!"
8:21 a.m.: "Matthew, don't kick the mailbox either!"
8:22 a.m.: "Josh, stand still [as the bus is approaching and he's running into the street in front of it]. Josh! Stand still!!!!"
8:23 a.m.: "[Muttering to self as bus rolls away] Sweet heaven, thank you."
8:25 a.m.: "What, Colin?"
8:26 a.m.: "What, Colin? What do you want?"
Fast forward to the end of the tranquility, when that bus rolls back into our lives.
3:44 p.m.: "Hi guys, how was your day?" Silence. Not even a hello.
3:45 p.m.: "Josh, you can't walk around the house eating crackers. Sit down in the kitchen."
3:46 p.m.: "Matthew, where do your coat and shoes and backpack belong?" [They are typically strewn about six inches inside the front door, as if a force field yanked them off as he sprinted through the doorway.]
3:47 p.m.: "Josh, sit down when you're eating."
3:48 p.m.: "Matthew, put your shoes, coat and backpack away."
3:49 p.m.: "Josh, two snacks is enough."
3:50 p.m.: "Matthew, do what I ask! Now!"
3:51 p.m.: "Josh, no more snacks!"
4 p.m.: "Josh, we have to start your homework."
4:02 p.m.: "Josh, we have to start your homework."
4:04 p.m.: "Josh, we have to start your homework."
4:06 p.m.: "Josh! Homework! Now!"
4:07 p.m.: "What, Colin?"
4:08 p.m: "What, Colin? What do you want?"
Fast forward to bedtime.
7:30 p.m. [A naked Josh is dancing around his room.] "Josh, put on your pajamas."
7:31 p.m.: "Josh, can you put on your pajamas please."
7:32 p.m.: "Josh, put on your pajamas please."
7:33 p.m.: "Matthew, put on your pajamas please."
7:34 p.m.: "Josh! Pajamas!"
7:35 p.m.: "Matthew! Pajamas!"
7:36 p.m.: "Josh, where do your dirty clothes belong?"
7:37 p.m.: "Matthew, please put your dirty clothes in the hamper."
7:38 p.m.: "Guys, clothes!"
7:39 p.m.: "What, Colin?"
7:40 p.m: "What, Colin? What do you want?"
7:55 p.m.: "No, that's it. That's enough books. Time to brush teeth."
7:56 p.m.: "Guys, let's go. Brush teeth."
7:57 p.m.: "Matthew, get down here and brush your teeth!"
7:58 p.m.: "Josh, don't suck on the toothbrush, brush."
7:59 p.m.: "Josh, where does your toothbrush belong?"
8 p.m.: "Matthew, let's go, get into bed please."
8:01 p.m.: "Josh, we don't need that many lights on."
8:02 p.m.: "Josh, that's too many lights."
8:03 p.m.: "Matthew, please settle down."
8:04 p.m.: "Good night, guys. I love you."
I realize I sound like a horrible father, who nags and screams and yells too much. That's only because I am. And they're the reason I am. I hope when they read this someday, they'll realize how they turn me into a horrible person. And then they'll decide they never want to become broken records, too. But they will. It's inevitable. Gotta rest now. I have a full day ahead of me tomorrow.
6:30 a.m.: "[In a loud, angry whisper] Guys, be quiet, Colin is still asleep!!!!!!"
6:32 a.m.: "[Still in a loud whisper] Quiet down!"
6:40 a.m.: "Josh, turn down the radio. It's too loud!"
7 a.m.: "Josh, you can't carry down 30 books every morning. Five books!!"
7:01 a.m.: "Josh, you can't pour the cereal that high. There's no room for milk."
7:10 a.m: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:15 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:20 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:25 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:30 a.m.: "Matthew, you need to eat breakfast."
7:35 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:40 a.m.: "Matthew, you need to eat breakfast."
7:45 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading, you need to eat."
7:50 a.m.: "Matthew, you're running out of time. You need to eat now."
7:55 a.m.: "Guys, at 8 o'clock, breakfast is over."
7:56 a.m.: "Matthew, eat!"
7:57 a.m.: "Josh, stop reading and eat!"
7:58 a.m.: "Josh, what are you doing?"
7:59 a.m.: "No, Josh, it's too late for a second bowl."
8:01 a.m.: "Matthew, get dressed."
8:02 a.m.: "Matthew, get dressed."
8:03 a.m.: "Josh, make your bed."
8:04 a.m.: "Matthew, get dressed."
8:05 a.m.: "Josh, your bed."
8:06 a.m.: "Guys, the bus is coming soon."
8:07 a.m.: "Matthew, get dressed."
8:08 a.m.: "Josh, your bed. And teeth. Bed. And teeth. Bed and teeth. Bed and teeth!!!!"
8:09 a.m.: "Matthew, get dressed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
8:10 a.m.: "Josh, your teeth."
8:11 a.m.: "Josh, don't suck on the toothbrush, brush."
8:12 a.m.: "Josh, brush!"
8:13 a.m.: "Josh, where does your toothbrush go?"
8:14 a.m: "Josh, get your coat on."
8:15 a.m.: "Matthew, hurry up!!"
8:16 a.m.: "Matthew, get on your coat, put on your shoes."
8:17 a.m.: "Matthew, the bus is coming! Coat! Shoes! Now!!!!!"
8:18 a.m.: "Guys, stop it!"
8:19 a.m.: "Guys, stop it!"
8:20 a.m.: "Josh, don't kick the mailbox!"
8:21 a.m.: "Matthew, don't kick the mailbox either!"
8:22 a.m.: "Josh, stand still [as the bus is approaching and he's running into the street in front of it]. Josh! Stand still!!!!"
8:23 a.m.: "[Muttering to self as bus rolls away] Sweet heaven, thank you."
8:25 a.m.: "What, Colin?"
8:26 a.m.: "What, Colin? What do you want?"
Fast forward to the end of the tranquility, when that bus rolls back into our lives.
3:44 p.m.: "Hi guys, how was your day?" Silence. Not even a hello.
3:45 p.m.: "Josh, you can't walk around the house eating crackers. Sit down in the kitchen."
3:46 p.m.: "Matthew, where do your coat and shoes and backpack belong?" [They are typically strewn about six inches inside the front door, as if a force field yanked them off as he sprinted through the doorway.]
3:47 p.m.: "Josh, sit down when you're eating."
3:48 p.m.: "Matthew, put your shoes, coat and backpack away."
3:49 p.m.: "Josh, two snacks is enough."
3:50 p.m.: "Matthew, do what I ask! Now!"
3:51 p.m.: "Josh, no more snacks!"
4 p.m.: "Josh, we have to start your homework."
4:02 p.m.: "Josh, we have to start your homework."
4:04 p.m.: "Josh, we have to start your homework."
4:06 p.m.: "Josh! Homework! Now!"
4:07 p.m.: "What, Colin?"
4:08 p.m: "What, Colin? What do you want?"
Fast forward to bedtime.
7:30 p.m. [A naked Josh is dancing around his room.] "Josh, put on your pajamas."
7:31 p.m.: "Josh, can you put on your pajamas please."
7:32 p.m.: "Josh, put on your pajamas please."
7:33 p.m.: "Matthew, put on your pajamas please."
7:34 p.m.: "Josh! Pajamas!"
7:35 p.m.: "Matthew! Pajamas!"
7:36 p.m.: "Josh, where do your dirty clothes belong?"
7:37 p.m.: "Matthew, please put your dirty clothes in the hamper."
7:38 p.m.: "Guys, clothes!"
7:39 p.m.: "What, Colin?"
7:40 p.m: "What, Colin? What do you want?"
7:55 p.m.: "No, that's it. That's enough books. Time to brush teeth."
7:56 p.m.: "Guys, let's go. Brush teeth."
7:57 p.m.: "Matthew, get down here and brush your teeth!"
7:58 p.m.: "Josh, don't suck on the toothbrush, brush."
7:59 p.m.: "Josh, where does your toothbrush belong?"
8 p.m.: "Matthew, let's go, get into bed please."
8:01 p.m.: "Josh, we don't need that many lights on."
8:02 p.m.: "Josh, that's too many lights."
8:03 p.m.: "Matthew, please settle down."
8:04 p.m.: "Good night, guys. I love you."
I realize I sound like a horrible father, who nags and screams and yells too much. That's only because I am. And they're the reason I am. I hope when they read this someday, they'll realize how they turn me into a horrible person. And then they'll decide they never want to become broken records, too. But they will. It's inevitable. Gotta rest now. I have a full day ahead of me tomorrow.
Monday, March 5, 2012
The Matthew Mind
The fact that I drove Matthew to school today is a story in itself. The short version is that the most stubborn child this world has ever seen, decided 30 seconds before the bus arrived that he needed his red gloves. I told him the gloves were in the car. He ran to get them, found only one, and refused to get on the bus. I began dragging him down the driveway toward the bus, but gave up. He literally dug in his heels and refused to move, so I waved the bus driver away.
Fifteen minutes later, still fuming mad, I was driving him through Rehoboth's country roads to school. We passed the Christmas tree farm where we tag and cut our tree every year and Matthew said, "Do you think they're planting new trees?"
"I'm sure they will soon," I said.
As soon as I said it, I started thinking about their re-planting program. I wondered how they decided where to plant, whether they planted an entire field or one tree at a time, and how they planted with all those stumps and roots in the ground. Matthew broke my train of thought with this question: "Why do they leave all the stumps in the ground?" I paused, surprised by the realization that my 5-year-old was going through the same thought process I was.
"That is a great question," I said. "They must take them out. But they probably wait until the spring, when the ground is a little warmer."
That answer satisfied Matthew and we rode for a few more minutes in silence. As we approached the school, there was a long line of buses and minivans, so we had to stop and wait.
"What do the bus drivers do after they drop off the kids?" Matthew asked.
"What do you mean?" I responded.
"After they go to school and all the kids get off, what do they do the rest of the morning?" he asked.
"Maybe they go home and wait," I said. The answer probably did not satisfy him, and I expect someday he'll ask the bus driver what she does all morning. That's just the way his mind works – the most stubborn, inquisitive, infuriating and fascinating mind I've known. That's the Matthew Mind.
Fifteen minutes later, still fuming mad, I was driving him through Rehoboth's country roads to school. We passed the Christmas tree farm where we tag and cut our tree every year and Matthew said, "Do you think they're planting new trees?"
"I'm sure they will soon," I said.
As soon as I said it, I started thinking about their re-planting program. I wondered how they decided where to plant, whether they planted an entire field or one tree at a time, and how they planted with all those stumps and roots in the ground. Matthew broke my train of thought with this question: "Why do they leave all the stumps in the ground?" I paused, surprised by the realization that my 5-year-old was going through the same thought process I was.
"That is a great question," I said. "They must take them out. But they probably wait until the spring, when the ground is a little warmer."
That answer satisfied Matthew and we rode for a few more minutes in silence. As we approached the school, there was a long line of buses and minivans, so we had to stop and wait.
"What do the bus drivers do after they drop off the kids?" Matthew asked.
"What do you mean?" I responded.
"After they go to school and all the kids get off, what do they do the rest of the morning?" he asked.
"Maybe they go home and wait," I said. The answer probably did not satisfy him, and I expect someday he'll ask the bus driver what she does all morning. That's just the way his mind works – the most stubborn, inquisitive, infuriating and fascinating mind I've known. That's the Matthew Mind.
The big boy and the baby brother
On Sunday, Jenn was working all day, so I was balancing the demands of all three boys. Josh was nagging me to let him watch a movie, but I made a deal. I told him he had to do family stuff first (a trip to the playground) and then he could watch TV during Colin's nap.
After lunch, Colin was contentedly playing with a baseball bat and ball when Josh decided enough was enough. He grabbed the ball and said, "Colin, do you want the ball? Do you want the ball, Colin? Come on, baby. Come get the ball."
I was still cleaning up dishes from lunch, so I allowed Josh to lure his baby brother upstairs. After five minutes, I decided to check on them. While walking up the stairs, I could hear Josh singing: "Baby, baby, come with me, let's learn our ABCs. A, B, C, D, E, F G ..." I turned the corner into Colin's room and found the scene pictured above, with Josh "rocking" Colin to sleep. Colin's face held a mixture of fascination and terror.
I thanked Josh and took over from there. After 176 books, Colin went down for his nap. Josh turned on his movie. Matthew and I sat in the dining room to play Monopoly (yes, a kindergartner crushed me in Monopoly, bankrupting me in about 20 minutes, so much for business school ... ).
When Josh's movie ended, he pounded over to our Monopoly game (it was round #2 and Matthew was once again dominating), he tried to play banker, but he got bored. After making 16 trips into the pantry and refrigerator for snacks, Josh disappeared upstairs. I thought he had gone to his room, but then I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. I looked up to see Colin's body, held like a sack of potatoes, carried step by step down the stairs and deposited in the front foyer. Josh had woken him up, dragged him out of the crib and carried him down.
Colin looked bewildered, but he wasn't crying. I paused for a moment, torn between anger (I wanted to scream at Josh) and amusement (the two of them were so cute together). I calmly asked Josh if he remembered how I felt the last time he did this, when he woke up Colin an hour early. "I checked the clock and it was time for him to get up," Josh said.
He was right. It was close to time for Colin to get up. So Matthew went back to world domination in Monopoly, I went back to forking over millions in rent payments to my 5-year-old, and Josh took Colin into the kitchen to give him some snacks.
It's kind of nice to have a little helper around the house, but I can't give Josh too much credit. After all, his actions are entirely self-motivated. He lured Colin to sleep because he wanted to watch TV, and he dragged him out of the crib because he was bored. Colin is basically a plaything for his older brother. But at least he's a protected plaything. Despite his enormous strength and brute will, Josh is gentle with his baby brother. So we've got that going for us.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
'We should not keep this boy'
Just heard the best line of the day from Josh. He was taking a shower, and from the other end of the house I heard him yelling. It wasn't a panicked yell, so I took my time getting there. When I entered the bathroom, I could hear better.
"Daddy! Daddy! Look what Colin's doing. He's putting them all in here!"
"All what?" I asked.
"Look at what he's done!"
I pulled back the curtain and saw a pile of sopping towels and facecloths piled on the bottom of the tub. Colin had been opening the linen closet, grabbing piles of clean towels and cloths, and tossing them into the shower.
"Coliiiinnnn!" I yelled while laughing. Then Josh chimed in.
"See, Daddy. He is not a good baby. We should not keep this boy."
"Daddy! Daddy! Look what Colin's doing. He's putting them all in here!"
"All what?" I asked.
"Look at what he's done!"
I pulled back the curtain and saw a pile of sopping towels and facecloths piled on the bottom of the tub. Colin had been opening the linen closet, grabbing piles of clean towels and cloths, and tossing them into the shower.
"Coliiiinnnn!" I yelled while laughing. Then Josh chimed in.
"See, Daddy. He is not a good baby. We should not keep this boy."
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Compliment one, insult the other — Dad makes amends
I hurt my son's feelings tonight. I knew I had. I didn't know it consciously, but I knew it.
We were driving home from dinner at TGI Friday's, all five of us in the minivan, and I was telling everyone how helpful Josh had been the last couple of days. Josh, the oldest, has been doing little things to help, like making pancakes, letting the dog in or out, cleaning up toys or carrying things from one floor of the house to another. Yesterday, because I was bored, I cut down a damaged tree, chopped it into logs, hauled it out of the woods, split it and stacked it. Near the end of the process, I dragged the older boys outside to help haul and stack.
"Josh, you've been so helpful," I said. "And yesterday with the firewood, you were my best helper."
The car was totally dark. Colin was in the second row, and the older two were in the back row. There was a blue glow from the corner of the car where Matthew was sitting, head down, staring at his Nintendo DS game console. He doesn't play a lot of video games, but for some reason he got hooked on 'Super Mario' today, and he played for about five hours, off and on, whenever he got a chance.
As soon as I called Josh "the best helper," my eyes darted to the rear-view mirror, and I saw Matthew's head flick up quickly, then back down. He went back to playing and I went back to driving.
We arrived back home, unloaded the leftover food, the coats, the shoes, the bags, the boys and ourselves, and almost everyone went upstairs to get ready for bed. Matthew stayed downstairs playing Nintendo by himself. I was getting out pajamas and closing curtains when I felt an urge to find my 5-year-old. But as I turned around, he walked into the room and flopped down on his bed. We were alone in the room.
I lay down beside him and said, "Tell me about the game. Are you getting far?"
"It was so weird," Matthew said. "I beat the king and got to the next level, but then it put me back at the lower level."
I told him I'd check it out the next day to see if we could figure out what was happening, then I wrapped my arm around him and said, "You know I love you, right?" I felt his head nod underneath my arm, then he said, "It hurt my feelings when you said Josh was your best helper."
Knife to the heart, twist, remove, stab again.
"I'm sorry I hurt your feelings," I said. "I didn't mean to. It's just that Josh was a great helper yesterday, and well, you went and made mud castles ... But that's okay. That's what a boy is supposed to do. And that's what you love doing. Making mud castles is more fun than carrying firewood, so I understand. I love you, and you've always been a great helper. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."
We lay on the bed and talked some more, and I talked a smile back onto his face. He went to bed happy.
Thinking back on it, I realize how much Matthew means to this family. Because of his personality, Josh commands a lot of attention. Because of his needs, Colin commands a lot of attention. Matthew is so damn easy, he gets a lot less attention, and we sometimes take that for granted. Just by being himself, Matthew's a great helper. I should tell him that more often.
We were driving home from dinner at TGI Friday's, all five of us in the minivan, and I was telling everyone how helpful Josh had been the last couple of days. Josh, the oldest, has been doing little things to help, like making pancakes, letting the dog in or out, cleaning up toys or carrying things from one floor of the house to another. Yesterday, because I was bored, I cut down a damaged tree, chopped it into logs, hauled it out of the woods, split it and stacked it. Near the end of the process, I dragged the older boys outside to help haul and stack.
"Josh, you've been so helpful," I said. "And yesterday with the firewood, you were my best helper."
The car was totally dark. Colin was in the second row, and the older two were in the back row. There was a blue glow from the corner of the car where Matthew was sitting, head down, staring at his Nintendo DS game console. He doesn't play a lot of video games, but for some reason he got hooked on 'Super Mario' today, and he played for about five hours, off and on, whenever he got a chance.
As soon as I called Josh "the best helper," my eyes darted to the rear-view mirror, and I saw Matthew's head flick up quickly, then back down. He went back to playing and I went back to driving.
We arrived back home, unloaded the leftover food, the coats, the shoes, the bags, the boys and ourselves, and almost everyone went upstairs to get ready for bed. Matthew stayed downstairs playing Nintendo by himself. I was getting out pajamas and closing curtains when I felt an urge to find my 5-year-old. But as I turned around, he walked into the room and flopped down on his bed. We were alone in the room.
I lay down beside him and said, "Tell me about the game. Are you getting far?"
"It was so weird," Matthew said. "I beat the king and got to the next level, but then it put me back at the lower level."
I told him I'd check it out the next day to see if we could figure out what was happening, then I wrapped my arm around him and said, "You know I love you, right?" I felt his head nod underneath my arm, then he said, "It hurt my feelings when you said Josh was your best helper."
Knife to the heart, twist, remove, stab again.
"I'm sorry I hurt your feelings," I said. "I didn't mean to. It's just that Josh was a great helper yesterday, and well, you went and made mud castles ... But that's okay. That's what a boy is supposed to do. And that's what you love doing. Making mud castles is more fun than carrying firewood, so I understand. I love you, and you've always been a great helper. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."
We lay on the bed and talked some more, and I talked a smile back onto his face. He went to bed happy.
Thinking back on it, I realize how much Matthew means to this family. Because of his personality, Josh commands a lot of attention. Because of his needs, Colin commands a lot of attention. Matthew is so damn easy, he gets a lot less attention, and we sometimes take that for granted. Just by being himself, Matthew's a great helper. I should tell him that more often.
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