Suburban Home Beset by Plague

The recent spread of “The Gunk” made its way into the home of the Wolfe family approximately 10 days ago. The first to be struck with this harrowing illness was Eamon Wolfe, 2.

“He started with the sniffles,” reported Kathleen “Kate” Wolfe, 30, and Eamon’s mother. “We thought it was nothing. We were wrong.”

The sniffles soon turned into a trickle which sources say then became a deluge of snot on Saturday, February 20.

“We had to get more tissues,” explained Eamon’s father, Aaron Wolfe, 37. “A lot more tissues. The lotioned kind.”

According to his father, Eamon weathered the illness like a “trooper” and a “champ,” attempting to smile and play despite a racking cough that would drop him to his knees in bronchial fits.

But no matter how valiantly he fought, by Sunday morning Eamon proved not to be winning his war as infection set in. After several calls to health insurance companies, Eamon was admitted to a Patient First where he received antibiotics for his first ear infection. Sources indicate that Eamon was “a very good boy” who did his best to sit still in the waiting room.

“Thank goodness for smart phones and Dinosaur Train on YouTube,” said his mother.

With antibiotics on his side, Eamon made a slow but steady recovery.

That Sunday evening, however, disaster struck again when Kate succumbed to a second bout of the stomach flu. She had been ill with the same virus earlier that week. After five days of subsisting on bread and soup, Kate thought she had made a full recovery.

“I was wrong,” said Kate, who then sighed and returned to heating up more Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.

During this time, Aaron was the sole man left standing in the Wolfe family, the last beacon of health. He had Presidents Day off and then stayed home again with a still recovering Eamon on Tuesday. Reports indicate that Aaron was up several times during these nights with Eamon, who would cough to the point of dry heaving. Aaron let Kate sleep while he tended to the sick child.

For his efforts, by Wednesday the cold virus had spread to Aaron. By Thursday, he was sent home from work and told to rest.

“These are dark days,” explained Kate. “But we are sticking together as a family and pulling through.”

Last reports indicated that Eamon’s cold was back to the sniffles, Aaron felt somewhat better after finally getting some sleep, and Kate had increased her diet to include turkey sandwiches without any significant relapse.

“At least one good thing has come of this,” reported Kate. “Eamon has learned several new words: doctor, medicine, tylenol, tissues…”

I Like This Kid

Last Sunday, we took Eamon to a nearby Jurassic Park to see the genetically engineered dinosaurs.



Okay, well, actually, we took him to the Richmond Children's Museum. Which was awesome.

And Eamon was awesome.




If you don't have a Children's Museum of some kind in your area, this is a tragedy (I mean, assuming that you have children). The one in Richmond wasn't really so much a museum as a huge, fabulous playroom. There were playrooms set up like grocery stores, giant dinosaurs, huge sandpits, and an apple tree with pickable "apples."

Kids could basically just run free (followed by their adults, of course, who were more like interlopers into this strange, magical world of imagination realized). Eamon had a blast.



Of course, sometimes we felt the need to play a little, too.



The one thing Eamon really didn't like was the giant outdoor sandpit. While other children were happily rolling around in the sand, acquriing sand in all sorts of fascinating cervices, Eamon just kind of stood in the middle of it all, almost not daring to move.

"What's wrong, buddy?" we asked.

He looked around and shook his head.

"Mess," he told us solemnly.

"Well, yeah," I said. "It's a sandpit."

"Dirty," he said, sounding a bit put-out.

"Buddy, that's the point," said Aaron.

Eamon thought about it for a minute before reaching a conclusion that pretty much summed up his feelings about the entire idea of a giant sandpit: "Back inside."

So, I guess the beach is out this summer.



Eamon most loved the apple tree. We gathered those apples into our bucket over and over.

My favorite part, though, was watching Eamon interact with the other children. He easily "played" with the other kids (as much as 2 year olds can play with each other; it's mostly parallel play at this point). If a child had a toy that Eamon wanted, Eamon simply waited until the child was done with only the gentlest of reminders needed. If another child wanted the toy that Eamon had, Eamon would immediately give it to the other kid and find something else to do--often without any adult prompting.

At one point, another girl around Eamon's age tripped and her grocery cart full of "food" spilled all over the floor in front of Eamon. He had been running to the play school room, but stopped and began to pick up all her food and put it back in the cart for her. She eyed him distrustfully the entire time, as if he were helping only so that he could take her toys.

He finished putting away all her food, then just ran on to the school room.

At no point had anyone asked him to help. There was absolutely nothing in it for him--in fact, it kept him from his destination.

He did it just because, well, that's what Eamon does. He helps.

Well, as long as you're not having a crisis in the sandpit. That might be asking a bit much.

An Ancient Art Form Reads This and Weeps a Little to Itself

Good morning. In an effort to up the artistic integrity of this blog, this morning I shall regale you with Saturday morning thoughts—the haiku version.

Please try to contain yourself.

Ahem. Here we go:

I want to tell you to
Stop but you are so cute when
You jump on the couch.

Why did you just take
Off my shoe? And why are you
Tickling my toes? Ack!

You cover your ears
When something is scary and
It just melts my heart.

My head is heavy
With so many facts jumbled
About dinosaurs.

Kiefer Sutherland—
The Great Longneck Migration?
Really? Really? Why?!

But I think you would
Enjoy it if you just tried?
Let’s watch Glee now, please?

Okay, really, now.
Stop jumping on the couch. Stop
Before you—oops. Ouch.

There, there. You’re okay.
Would some toast and berries help?
Yum, yum. Love you, too.

Stubborn as a Green Mule

Aaron is stubborn.

I can be quite stubborn when I need to be.

So, by all rights, we shouldn’t have a kid as much as a mule.

(You saw what I did there, right? Because “kid” is the name of a baby goat, which is also a type of animal, so it’s funny because…oh never mind. My co-workers keep telling me that if I have to explain my jokes, they aren’t really jokes at all. Sorry. Here is a picture of a cute child to make you forget all about it.)

But Eamon…he isn’t terribly stubborn.

Consider, for instance, the dinosaurs. Eamon, as the more savvy readers out there might have inferred from my cryptic clues, kind of “likes” dinosaurs (you know, in the same way that he sort of “likes” food and sleep and air). When I try to get Eamon out of the door in the morning to go to my parents’, he often tries to take his entire bucket of dinosaurs. And if you don’t let him, he cries this miserable, whiny little cry.

“Eh heh, eh heh,” he cries melodramatically, as if you have told him that his dog has to go live on a “farm.” He cries the entire way out the door. “Eh heh, eh heh, deedore, deedore!” He cries as you buckle him into his carseat. “Eh heh, eh heh, eh heh!”

And then you turn on the music…and he starts to dance or “sing” or pretend to make his Lion dance or sing. Deedores? Huh?

In contrast, by Eamon’s age I was apparently throwing temper tantrums in which I would scream for 2 hours, following my mother from room to room crying at the top of my lungs, throwing myself onto the floor dramatically until, exhausted, I would finally pass out, sleep, and wake up like it had never happened. My mother never gave in, and she never did anything to encourage it…I just had a temper and once I lost it, I couldn’t be coaxed back. Around the age of 5, I finally learned enough control and figured out that golly, these temper tantrums never seemed to work, and I stopped. Nevertheless, it was a hard won war for my poor parents.

Now, Eamon might just be a late bloomer…but so far, he just doesn’t have that level of stubbornness in him.

Except for one thing: colors.

Eamon does not want to learn his colors. Oh yes, he’s knows his entire alphabet. He knows what sounds all the letter make, and for some of his letters, can even tell you a word that starts with that letter. He can recognize all his numbers through 9. He knows all his animals and can make sounds for most of them. He recognizes and can name most shapes. He’s a smart kid.

But everything? Everything? Everything in the entire world is: green.

Go ahead, ask Eamon. The grass, the sky, the cars, my hair, Eamon’s skin, the dog? They are all green.

Oh, I know what you’re going to say. “Maybe he’s color blind, Kate? Maybe you’re being too hard on this poor little color blind kid?”

He’s not color blind. I am 97.85% sure of this. One day a few months ago, we were in my friend Charmaine’s classroom. She has a SMARTBoard (an interactive whiteboard and projects whatever is on your computer) and it has 4 markers, which all look exactly the same except for being four different colors: red, green, black, and blue. They go into 4 separate bins that also all look exactly the same, except for each being red, green, black, or blue.

While we were in Charmaine’s room, Eamon found the markers and immediately removed them from their color-coded bins. He mixed them all up, and then without hesitation put them back in their correct bins. He did this about nine times in a row. There is no way that he could have known which marker went in which bin except to be able to see the colors. This was not coincidence.

But even that doesn’t convince you of his stubbornness on this one issue, how about this? We have a red RAV-4. This is an actual conversation he and I had yesterday in the parking lot.

ME: Eamon, look, there’s our red car. Our car is red. Can you tell me what color our car is?
EAMON: Gween!
ME: No, baby. Our car is red. We have a red car. What color is our car?
EAMON: Gween!
ME: No, Eamon. It’s red. Can you say “red?”
EAMON: Wed!
ME: Great! You said red! Just like our car! Our car is red. What color is our car?
EAMON: Gween!

I gave up after that.

At some point, he’ll decide he wants to learn his colors.

Right?

Vindication

“Abby! Running! Rabbit! Tree! Fall!”

That, my friends, is a synopsis by one Eamon Wolfe of Abby in Wonderland, a Sesame Street DVD.

“Mimi! Come on! Ceratops! T-Rex!”

That is how he asks to play with dinosaurs.

Yesterday Aaron, Eamon, Nesta, and I piled in the car and headed to Colonial Williamsburg. As we stood outside the Blacksmith talking to our carpenter friend Ayinde (or “Uncle In”) Eamon would run up to any arriving visitors. “Hi!” he would shout at them.

They would greet him with a slightly bemused expression.

“Dog!” he would say, pointing to Nesta. If they did not immediately respond, he would further explain: “Woof!”

At which point, most people would smile politely and nod to confirm that yes, that was indeed a dog, who probably did go, “Woof!”

Realizing that he needed to pull out all the stops, Eamon then pointed to me. “Mimi!” he exclaimed, and by way of elaboration: “My Mimi!” The visitors and I would then awkwardly exchange hellos. Before Eamon could introduce everyone else, however, the visitors always hurriedly decided that they would rather see the blacksmiths than the carpenters and would run into the building, the look in their eyes suggesting that really, they had not spent $58.95 a ticket just for the privilege of meeting our family.

If you haven’t read this blog, you probably don’t realize the enormity of all this chatter. Six months ago, Eamon had stopped all attempts at speaking or even syllabilizing. He relied totally on sign language for any communication. He understood everything we said and signed about 50 words, so we were pretty sure it wasn’t a processing issue.

I finally decided to push for having his tongue frenulum clipped. Aaron and others supported it, but I was the one out there leading the charge. And leading the charge…is kind of lonely. And it’s definitely scary. All you can think is: but what if I’m wrong? What if I’m wrong and it doesn’t work and he still has to have speech therapy and I put my baby through all the trauma of surgery for nothing? What if I just get written off as one of those crazy, interfering mothers who is so dramatic and paranoid? Even worse, what if I actually am one of those mothers?

But we did it, mostly because the potential benefits outweighed the downsides. Even if it didn’t work, and he still had speech issues, at least we would know that it was NOT because of something structurally wrong with his tongue, and that would be major clue to what we needed to do to help him.

Almost immediately after the surgery, Eamon started syllabilizing again. And slowly…he started to talk. At some point, he realized that he could now get his tongue out past his lips, and started sticking his tongue out all the time. We must have looked insane—the only parents in the world excited when their child stuck out his tongue. Eamon and I would walk all around Target sticking our tongues out at one another. We were the recipients of more than one raised eyebrow.

And then, about a month ago, Eamon started really TALKING. He went from one or two words here and there to narrating most of his day. It used to be that you would tell him a word and he would try to say it, and if he didn’t say it perfectly the first time, he wouldn’t try again for weeks. Now, he’ll try it and almost always says it well enough the first time that it immediately becomes part his vocabulary. Moreover, he has started saying words without any prompting at all—words we didn’t even realize he knew.

And he’s starting to say words with more than one syllable, like “Ceratops” for “Triceratops.” When you consider where we started, this is amazing.

But what I think makes me most proud of my baby is that fact that he’s started talking to other people.

You see, Eamon isn’t shy. He would smile at others, make silly faces at them, bring them toys and play with them…but he wouldn’t talk to anyone outside of our immediate family. It’s hard to be sure, but I think he was embarrassed. Eamon is very socially aware, and I have no doubt that he saw how the rest of us talked, and knew how he didn’t talk, and made the decision that it was better to just keep quiet and pretend to be shy when it came to speaking.

It broke my heart just a little.

But now? Now Eamon has figured out how to use his tongue. He can say words. He has more or less caught up with kids his age, and continues to progress at such a rate that I no longer worry about or even consider possible speech therapy. He says most things pretty well, and after this weekend, it seems that he is no longer embarrassed to show off his speech to other people.

And for the first time, I’m glad that I led the charge. I have no doubt that there will be lots of landmark decisions in being a mom, decisions that will cause stress and heartbreak and more than a little sleep loss. But for this one, at least, I can finally rest.

I was right. Chapter closed.

Lovesong for David Mamet

While some may consider the use of the word “never” far too daring, in this one instance let it ring true: never has there been a more moving, a more heartrending tale of the frailty of existence--made all the more poignant with its gentle suffusion of hope and friendship. Of course, I could be referring to none other than Deedore! Halp!, the latest dramatic masterpiece from that young prodigy, E.M.B. Wolfe.

This work of genius no doubt springs from a mind greatly entranced with the profundity of platonic passion and sincerity; it is a strike against those ruffians of darkness who incline towards alienation and angst. With a dialogue so rich and complex it folds backwards on itself into simplicity, the theme of transcendence through universal togetherness wafts through the soul of this masterpiece in a delicate yet effervescent wave of sanguinity.

Take, for instance, this scene:

Setting: A Rock. Or cliffs. Or something quite dangerous looking.

Characters:

Spike, a stegosaurus (played by E.M.B. Wolfe)
Cera, a triceratops (played by E.M.B. Wolfe)
Foot, an apatosaurus (played by E.M.B. Wolfe)
Tiny, a pteranodon (played by E.M.B. Wolfe)
The Rock (played by a trash can)

Cera walks over to the rock and promptly gets stuck behind it.

CERA: Halp! Halp! Guys! Halp!

SPIKE: (with a quickness) Oh no! Cera! Stuck! Halp! Guys! Come on, guys!

FOOT: (Running! Fast!) Guys, come on!

TINY: Pull! Guys! Pull!

SPIKE, FOOT, TINY: ARGH!

CERA: Yay! Fwee! Guys! Fwee!

Spike, in his excitement, wanders over the rock and gets stuck.

SPIKE: Halp! Guys! Halp!


Because he acts with a verve usually reserved for those fourteen to twenty times his age, upon witnessing such a riveting portrayal, it can be hard to remember the mere 25 months this dramatic star has lived on Earth. The combination of his literary genius and the sheer vitality of his performance leaves no doubt that E.M.B. Wolfe's inestimable talent will shine for years to come.

E.M.B. Wolfe at dress rehearsal

Love That Man

Love That Boy
by Walter Dean Myers

Love that boy,
like a rabbit loves to run
I said I love that boy
like a rabbit loves to run
Love to call him in the morning
love to call him "Hey there, son!"

He walk like his Grandpa,
Grins like his Uncle Ben.
I said he walk like his Grandpa,
And grins like his Uncle Ben.
Grins when he’s happy,
When he sad, he grins again.

His mama like to hold him,
Like to feed him cherry pie.
I said his mama like to hold him.
Like to feed him that cherry pie.
She can have him now,
I’ll get him by and by.

He got long roads to walk down
Before the setting sun.
I said he got a long, long road to walk down
Before the setting sun.
He’ll be a long stride walker,
And a good man before he done.


(Okay, well, Eamon doesn't eat cherry pie because he eschews with a firm hand almost all sweets, and he doesn't have an Uncle Ben. But the rest is all pretty accurate.)

************************************************************************

Aaron Wolfe is a rock star.

Just ask his son.

They first met approximately 2 minutes after Eamon plunged head first from the womb to the world. The doctor people placed Eamon on my chest, and Aaron came over and said something mundane, like “Hey there, buddy.” And in that instant, Eamon learned to swivel his head so that he could stare at his father with these intense eyes that said, “Oh my gosh. You must be my daddy. I love you and your work. Please let me be your BFF and follow you around and do everything that you do because seriously, you are the coolest guy ever.”

It’s easy to see how Eamon came to that conclusion. While I was pregnant, Aaron would read to Eamon every night (yes, through my stomach, but I don’t think that bothered either of them). He read things like The Arsonists Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England, or John Hodgman’s The Areas of My Expertise, which are creative and quirky and cool. Meanwhile, during the daytime Eamon listened to me teach 4th graders how to do long division.

With a choice like that, you can see why he decided to idolize his father.

And his father has not yet failed to disappoint. Daddy (or, currently, the Daddy known as “Dee’DA!”) is fun. He wrestles. He can throw Eamon around like a pairs-figure skater and (this is important) catch him, too. He always has a smile and a sweet word for his son, who loves, venerates, and worships his father with pure, unmasked adoration.

Eamon’s mother, meanwhile, does things like fix him dinner and cut his toenails.

(Eamon does not like to have his toenails cut. As far as I know, I am the only person who has ever had the privilege of this chore, and yet strangely he does not esteem me anymore than he does anyone else because of it.)

Another person might be jealous of the bond that Eamon has with his father, but for the life of me, I can’t work up that emotion. I love that Aaron and Eamon have this special relationship. I know that Eamon loves me, even if he doesn’t necessarily idolize me like he does his father. I’ve taught too many kids who had conflicted or nonexistent relationships with their fathers…I’m just so glad that Eamon has this wonderful male figure to help guide him through life, who understands where he’s coming from, who can have “The Talk” with him, who is already coming up with ways to teach the kid to pee accurately while standing (trust me, folks, I would have never thought of these ways, or even that I needed to have them)…who is a Good Dad and can teach my son to be a Good Man.

And as for me, well, Eamon and I will always have his toenails.*

I’m pretty sure that one day...that will count for something.




*Not literally. For heaven’s sake, I don’t mean that we keep them or anything.




Aaron, for some reason, was far more interested in eating his dinner than posing for blog pictures.



Eamon, however, could be cajoled into smiling...



...as long as afterwards, he could pretend to give his father a nice long drink of pepper ("Yum!" Eamon reminded Aaron to say after finishing.)



"You gotta hear this one song. It'll change your life, I swear."




"He got long roads to walk down
Before the setting sun.
I said he got a long, long road to walk down
Before the setting sun.
He’ll be a long stride walker,
And a good man before he done."