Dis Way!

So, apparently, most of you people out there have something called an “internal compass,” which keeps track of whether you’ve turned right or left and keeps you from getting lost in Patrick Henry Mall even though it only has two long hallways and you’ve been going there for about 19 years.

And apparently it is not common for a 31 year old woman who has been, more or less, generally successful in life to still not actually know her right from her left without seriously concentrating, and even then only getting it right about 80% of the time.

So, if you have never made a turn and found yourself utterly confused because even though you can acknowledge that the buildings and scenery in front you look VERY familiar, you have NO IDEA where you have seen them before…then you might not get why the following information makes me breathe a huge sigh of relief.

When Eamon was less than a year old, we would drive down Jefferson Avenue to get to Target or Babies R Us, passing the entrance to Kiln Creek, the neighborhood where my parents live. Eamon couldn’t talk back then, but he compensated by making this weird fish noise that meant (why not?) “Grandpa.” One day, we passed by the Kiln Creek entrance and heard that fish noise from the backseat.

We just laughed. He couldn’t possibly know. My parents’ house is back deep in the neighborhood, requiring several more turns, and anyone, he could barely see out the window. Coincidence.

Well, that same coincidence happened so many more times that we felt sort of silly calling it “coincidence.”

So we figured, hey, he goes there every day. That’s why he knows.

But it turns out, Eamon knows a lot more than that. In fact, the older he gets and the more he talks, we have come to the realization that Eamon Wolfe always knows where he is. He not only has that internal compass, but I’m pretty sure he also has an internal birds-eye-view map. I admit that I just laughed when I heard that some people’s brains naturally work like this, since I can barely even read and interpret an actual map.

But I can come up with no other explanation for why Eamon always knows where he is and where he needs to go.

In fact, about three months ago, Eamon and I went to the Tabb area to visit a friend. We had never been to that area before. We came back on Victory Boulevard, a street that we often drive down, but from a direction we had never before taken (I have confirmed this with everyone who has opportunity to drive Eamon in their car). We stopped at the K-Mart shopping center at the Hardees, and Eamon immediately asked me, “Gym?”

I just sort of stared at him. The My Gym, where he goes once a week, was on the complete opposite side of this rather large shopping center. We could not even see it from where we were. But he knew. Finally, I said, “Um, no. Chicken.”

This happens a lot. As long as we have been somewhere once before, we can come at it from any direction and Eamon knows where he is. Moreover, even though he doesn’t know the words “left” and “right” yet, he has started giving directions by yelling, “Dis way!” and can lead almost any expedition quite faithfully…although it always ends up going either to Pet-Co, to see the cats, or to Toys R Us.

I feel ambivalent about this. On one hand, I am thrilled that he did NOT inherit my directionally-challenged brain. I won’t have to worry about him like my parents used to worry about me when I started driving: not because I wasn’t a good driver, but because I was forever getting lost…even in the parking lot of Target.

On the other hand, I am a bit embarrassed because I am realizing that my directional capabilities are on par with those of a two and a half year old, and Eamon will probably surpass me before he turns three.

And on the third hand, I’m just really, really glad that I will have someone in the backseat who can get me where I’m trying to go. Even if we always have to detour by a Toys R Us first.

Ha...Ha?

Aaron is out of town. Work is stressful. I am tired. But Life, it marches on. We must march on with it, though I think it is fair to stop the procession long enough to appreciate another Momentous Event in the Story of Eamon Wolfe.

Therefore, without further pomp or circumstance, I give you: The First Joke.

(Wait, one more aside. Before I tell you the joke, please remember: he is only 2 1/2, and we all start somewhere. Be kind in your judgment. End aside).

This joke was told on the way back from the zoo with my parents yesterday.

EAMON: Knock, knock.
NINI: Who's there?
EAMON: Ninon (Lion)
NINI: Ninon who?
EAMON: RAWR!

Okay, well, so the concept of a "punchline" is perhaps a bit elusive for our young comic, but he is trucking on nonetheless.

In fact, just this afternoon, he told his Second Joke.

Eamon had just put his alligator in his playhouse. He ran up to me, holding out his arms. "Where alligator?" he asked.

"Why, I don't know," I pretended. "Could it be...on the MOON?"

Eamon looked at me blankly. "Noooo," he said, slowly, as if speaking to someone of small intelligence. He pointed to the playhouse and said, "In house." He then took the alligator out of the house to show me, obviously worried that he had inherited half his DNA from someone who thought that alligators could somehow be magically transported from a playhouse to the moon.

A few minutes later, though, he hid the alligator in the house again, ran up to me, and repeated the process. "Where alligator?" he asked.

"I don't know..." I started.

But before I could finish, Eamon exclaimed, "On moon?!" He then devolved into giggles over what was apparently now *his* joke, therefore completing another Important First in the Life of a Comic: Reappropriating Others' Material.

If he keeps up with this rate, I figure that he will be doing open mic nights by Labor Day and have his own HBO comedy special by Christmas. Let me know if you want tickets.

Almost Learned Behavior

When I taught third grade, we spent a lot of time going over the difference between an instinct and a learned behavior. I tried to use as many examples as possible, and relate them to the children’s lives.

“How many of you have a younger brother or sister?”

Many would raise their hands.

“Raise your hand if your brother or sister was born knowing how to drink milk.”

They all raised their hands.

“That’s right. Knowing how to suck milk is an instinct. Now raise your hand if your little brother or sister was born knowing how to talk.”

They all giggled, but none raised their hands.

Well, we’ve spent plenty of time covering Eamon’s quest to learn to talk in this blog, but there is another related learned behavior that we have been working strenuously to teach our little man: manners. We sound (and feel) like broken records, always prompting him to say “please,” “thank you,” “sorry,” or “excuse me,” and it is starting (finally, months later) to pay off.

Unfortunately, though Eamon now knows these words, he sometimes misjudges how to apply them to social situations.

For instance:

AT THE GROCERY STORE
The bagger finished bagging our groceries and handed me the bag, so I said, “Thank you.” Eamon overheard these magic words, and piped in, “Thank you!” And then, just for good measure, added, “I love you!” Luckily the bagger just thought it was funny.

AT HOME
Eamon was watching a dinosaur show when my mother told him that I had come to take him home. Eamon, without missing a beat, said, “No thank you,” and resumed watching his show.

IN THE CAR
We were listening to one of my and Eamon’s new favorite songs (Janglin’ by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes), and I was dancing along. Eamon, with just a hint of pity in his voice, said, “No thank you dance, Mommy. No thank you.” And just in case I didn’t get it, he also threw in, “Please.”

Well, I couldn’t really blame him on that one.

Anyway, we’re going to keep plugging away. We will civilize this child yet. And if you see Eamon, please remind him to use his manners, okay? Thank you.

An Idiot's Guide to Exercise

The summer I was 10, I swam every morning for an hour during swim lessons. I rode my bike the mile or so back to the pool every afternoon and swam around for about 3 more hours. I think I was in pretty good shape then.

And that was probably the only time. I have what French scientists have recently identified as a genetic mutation of the 19th chromosome, also known as Canapé-Pommes-de-Terre Syndrome. This is a very serious syndrome in which otherwise perfectly healthy adults find themselves inexplicably drawn towards soft, fluffy places to sit for extended periods of time. There is no known cure for this syndrome, and various studies have found mixed results for treatment applications.

Nevertheless, I recently began a personal campaign to treat this affliction and described part of the process here. My desire has been fueled mostly by (in this order) the determination to get into a size 8 before all is said and done, and also to be healthy and live longer and all that rot. It’s a two-pronged approach, but in the blog entry I spent far more time discussing the healthy eating bit than the exercising bit and here is the reason: I suck at exercising. If Gardner ever identifies exercising as the 10th multiple intelligence, I would probably score a 32 on that IQ test.

I am actually amazed that I have yet to seriously hurt myself in this endeavor. And don’t think it’s through a lack of research. I’ve taken time to read plenty of websites and blogs on how to exercise (specifically jog), carefully digesting and considering every piece of information. Then I go to exercise, and I totally 1) forget everything I’ve read, or 2) think that I am some sort of Super Human to whom the rules do not actually apply. The only way I seem to remember anything is to expose myself to seriously embarrassing and/or painful situations in order to permanently scar the piece of information into my exercise-impaired brain.

All that being said, I will therefore share a few rules that I have (finally!) learned throughout the entire process:

1. DO spend the money on nice exercise clothes. Wearing your husband’s old boxers or exercise pants and a cotton t-shirt seems like a great idea until you remember about Newton’s Fourth Law of Motion: Chafing.

2. DON’T keep thinking that you don't really need to being water for a short jog. You are not immortal, no matter how many times you have seen Thor.

3. DO engage the services of a personal trainer. Mine is about 2 ½ years old. He sits in the stroller on our walknruns and shouts things like, “Run, Mommy! Go fast! No walk!” It’s terribly motivating but sometimes we have to stop and have the talk that if Mommy keeps running, she might possibly die, which means that Eamon would then be in charge of waking everyone up in the morning, feeding the dog, giving everyone their medicine, and driving himself to his grandparents’ for the day. That is an awful lot of responsibility for a young child, so maybe Mommy should just walk for awhile. That is why we call it a WALKnrun.

4. DON’T eat right before exercising. Just don’t, okay?

5. DO consider whether your ancestors came from cold-weather climates when planning your run. Just because you can comfortably jog in 75 degree weather with only 10% humidity does NOT mean that you can comfortably jog in 90 degree weather with 70% humidity. Listen to your body or else train your child how to dial 9-1-1.

6. DON’T forget to buy new exercise clothes when you go down a size. Unless you enjoy running down the street with one hand pushing a stroller and the other hand holding up your shorts so that you don’t expose the entire neighborhood to your Laundry Day underwear.


That’s all that I can think of right now. There are probably more rules that I have learned that I have already forgotten until I can manage to embarrass and/or injure myself somehow and remember them permanently. Hopefully, writing these few things down will help ascertain that they stay in my brain a little longer than usual.

Of course, those of you reading this probably had 1 of 2 reactions: either you are not exercise-impaired like I am, and you are now dubious as to whether I am actually bright enough to live; or you and I are of equal exercise-intelligence, and you have already forgotten everything that I wrote. Either way, happy exercising. I have to go do some laundry.

I Have to Think of a Title Too?

Here’s the reason I could never be a professional writer: because I can only write when there is other stuff that I should be doing instead. It’s like writing is my tawdry secret affair (that I then go and post on the internet). If I were to ever give up my day job so that I could just write…well, then writing would become my day job. And I would have to have a tawdry affair with the Angry Birds app on my phone instead. And anything that I did manage to write would be about nefarious pigs stealing eggs and birds launching themselves at the pigs in retribution. I have a feeling that plotline would get pretty old pretty quickly.

(On a side note: how long until someone in Hollywood gets the bright idea to make Angry Birds: The Movie? Maybe I should get around to writing that screen play. I could go all Adaptation, and write about a professional writer who can’t think of anything to write about except Angry Birds…it would be almost as existential as Curious George 2: Follow that Monkey. Which is a study in the internal debate between the Id and the Ego and finding a balance therein, which is obvious to anyone who has watched it 5 times in 3 days.)

But back to our topic.

Wait. What was today’s topic?

Oh right. Today’s topic is that I do not have a topic for today. It’s not that nothing is happening, it’s just that without deadlines from William and Mary looming over my head, I am afforded legitimate time to sit down and write. So of course, the only thought trickling through my brain is:, “Stupid pigs. They deserve what they get.”

But I want to update the blog because it’s been a week.

Therefore, here are a few totally unrelated stories involving Eamon (it is his blog, after all). I find them all rather endearing even though I fully admit that they have no real relevance or bearing on the greater meaning of life.

You’re on your own for that, I’m afraid.

(Then again, you always were. And if you were coming here as part of your quest for the meaning of life...well, you have bigger problems than my lack of a coherant story-line this week).


STORY ONE

Eamon is all-boy, and loves throwing things and banging things and smooshing things…but slowly, we are brainwashing him into acknowledging his softer side. (Okay, it’s mostly me doing this). It involves constant hugs and kisses and saying, “I love you,” but finally, he is not only reciprocating these emotions but sometimes even initiating them.

He’s still very much a boy, though. Hence this situation:

I was dressing Eamon after bath. I had managed to get the lotion and a diaper on him when Eamon suddenly hugged me, patting me on the back. “Be okay, Mommy,” he said sympathetically. “Be okay. Don’t cry, Mommy.”

I wasn’t crying, for the record. But I was a bit upset. And Eamon was trying to comfort me.

Of course, the reason I was upset was because Eamon had taken his pajamas and thrown them across the room about 2 seconds previously.

But that isn’t the point.


STORY TWO

We were eating dinner. Eamon smiled and said, “I wuv you Daddy.” Aaron smiled back.

“Oh no!” cried Eamon. “Teeth! Mess!”

“Does Daddy have some of his dinner stuck in his teeth?” I asked.

“Yes!” cried Eamon. “Oh no! Daddy dinner-teeth!”

And now, whenever anyone has anything stuck in their teeth, Eamon announces that they have “dinner-teeth.” Upon retrospection, this is a word that we have needed for years, because saying, “You have something stuck in your teeth” is far less efficient than saying, “You have dinner-teeth.” But it took a 2 year old to figure that out, to see what we adults have been missing for years. It’s like the Emperor’s New Clothes, only without any sense of poignancy or importance.


STORY THREE

Eamon has a rather limited arsenal of adjectives with which to describe his new observations. He does the best he can, though, and doesn’t mean to offend anyone as he attempts to discover and make sense of the world.

That being said: Nini, we’re sorry that he called your arms “soggy” the other day.


STORY FOUR

There really wasn’t a Story Four. But I figured my mom would want me to end on a different note. So give me a second to think of something else.

Um.

Okay, got it:

The other day while driving back from the grocery store, Eamon and I got stuck in some heavy traffic.

Eamon has little patience for this kind of thing. When we stopped behind a line of cars at another stoplight, Eamon announced, “No stop! Go, Mommy! Go! Drive fast!”

I explained that I could not drive through cars. Darn Physics.

“Too many cars!” he informed me. I agreed. But Eamon had a solution.

“Throw away, Mommy! Throw away cars!”

Apparently, my son sees me as a sort of traffic-induced Hulk-Mommy who can repeatedly heave thousands of pounds of steel from our path so that we can get home 5 minutes faster.

And while I have been working out recently, I am still short of any car-throwing aspirations.

But boy can I launch an angry bird at a pig.

And now that I have updated for this week, I must excuse myself. Those pigs aren’t going to destroy themselves.

*****************************************************
In keeping with the spirit of this blog entry, some pictures that have nothing to do with any other topic discussed here today:

The Sink and the School

Two days ago, our kitchen sink stopped draining. If we turned on the garbage disposer, the water from one sink would erupt from the other in a spectacular geyser of gunk. We realized we had to call a plumber, so we did, and while he was here, we asked him to look at the upstairs toilet that wasn’t filling properly.

He finished everything in about 20 minutes. He had to plunge the sink and replace 1 part on the toilet.

And we paid him the $150.

I should have been a plumber.

It was the second time today that I felt like I had missed my calling.

The first was when we went to visit the Montessori school down the street where we hoped to enroll Eamon this Fall, which you may remember from this blog entry. The Montessori process is this: first, you express interest. Then, you go and observe to be sure that it would be a good fit for YOU. Then, they meet with you and your child to make sure you would be a good fit for THEM.

Unbeknownst to us, we did this out of order. Eamon has already had his interview, and it consisted of him chasing bubbles and looking darling at the Montessori Spring Fair. Apparently, the Head of School was watching him much of the time and has already decided that he is a sweetheart. She is not wrong, in my completely biased opinion.

So when we observed today, it was really more to make sure that we were really sure that we were really interested. (Huh. I wrote that sentence and I’m still not sure I understand it.) Aaron and I both took the day off work and observed 2 of the ages 3-5 classrooms for about 30 minutes each.

And all I could think was: Hey! This is how I always tried to teach in my classroom! I should have been a Montessori teacher. I love the idea of giving kids choice and working with them at their own pace. I love the emphasis on consistency and respect and manners and the way the kids treated one another. Aaron also agreed that it would be perfect for our curious but active little man, who is bright but wants to work on what interests him at his own pace. The Head of School shared a few more of the Montessori philosophies with us, and all we could think was: Yup, that sounds like how we look at it. I guess we were always Montessori people without knowing it.

During this debrief, I finally broke down and asked, “Okay, we love it here, but when will you make the decision? You’re only taking 12 kids…do you need to meet with Eamon?”

The Head of School looked amazed. “Well, I’ve met Eamon. He’s delightful. He’s already on the list for the program, and definitely has a place here in August.”



So on August 29, Eamon Wolfe will attend his first day of pre-school.

Scenes from a Sunday

7:16AM: Eamons's Room

I enter the room. Eamon, lounging against a pillow, gasps loudly and points at the 16" T-Rex that somehow moved into bed with him through the night.

"Oh no, Mommy, Sharp Tooth in bed!" he exclaims, putting his hand over his mouth.

"Eamon Wolfe, did you crawl out of bed and get your T-Rex?"

He raises his eyebrows in a "Who me?" expression before dissolving into fits of giggles.



8:45AM: Target

"Good morning!" Eamon shouts to the clerk working the fitting rooms as he walks along, holding my hand.

"Good morning!" she calls back.

He holds up a green plastic ball that we picked up near the front of the store. "Ball!" he yells to her. "Gween ball!"

"Is that your green ball?" she asks.

"Yes, all right. Go pay now. Okay?"

"He's so cute," she calls to me.

"Come on, Romeo," I mutter. This is the third Target employee we have stopped to talk to. We have been in the store 7 minutes.



9:17AM: The Car

"Eamon, when we go to see Grandpa and Nini, you can show your green ball to them but then you have to let Nini take it and put it away otherwise their dog Socky might get it. His teeth will put a hole in it and then it will be broken."

"Oh no!" cries Eamon. He had a similar purple ball that he himself broke and he took it rather hard. This green ball is a replacement.

I attempt to check for understanding. "Eamon, why do you have to give the ball to Nini? What will happen if Socky gets it?"

He thinks for a minute and responds, "Socky break. Oh no!" More thought, then: "Nini buy new ball. Okay."

Every time I think I am a step ahead, I realize that he is three more ahead of me.




11:08AM: Mommy and Daddy's Bedroom

It is Aaron's turn to sleep in, and Eamon has been asking about him all morning.

"Where Daddy?" he keeps repeating, with his palms face-up in the universal "where" sign.

"Asleep, Eamon. He's sleeping."

"Oh," nods Eamon sagely. "Wake up Daddy," he then says and begins climbing the stairs screaming, "DADDY! DADDY! WAKE UP! EAMON COMING!" At this point I lunge for him, attemping to hush the screaming child who cannot understand why his father prefers to sleep occasionally rather than play with him constantly.

But finally, just after 11:00, Eamon is allowed to wake Aaron. Which he does admirably, climbing on the bed and pounding on his father's chest while screaming, "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"

But when Aaron finally does sleepily raise his head, Eamon has already scuttled off the bed.

Having decided he is not getting enough attention from his prone father, Eamon has wandered over to the bedroom mirror. "Love you, Eamon," he says, then kisses the mirror. And kisses it. And kisses it.

The love-fest is only broken when I finally yell, "Come on, Narcissus!" and Aaron scoops up the boy to get him dressed for the day.




12:29PM: The Food Court

Aaron stares blankly ahead while chomping on a yummy, yummy taco.

Eamon grabs Aaron's arm and shakes. "Wake up, Daddy! Wake up!"

I attempt to hide a snort in my turkey sub.




4:45pm: The Fresh Market

We stand in line to buy our steaks for dinner. Eamon announces to the cashier, "Eamon pay!"

She giggles. "I don't mind," she says. "You can give him the money and I'll take it from him."

"Well, we're not using cash, " I explain.

"Oh well, just have him swipe the card, then."

All we want are our steaks, and yet somehow Eamon has orchestrated a situation where we look like cruel parents if we don't give our 2 year old a run-down on debit card basics. Aaron sighs and shows Eamon how to swipe the card.

Eamon beams, and before anyone can say anything, announces, "Yay! Good job, Eamon!"

The clerk laughs. "Oh, he's so cute!"

As I push the cart out to parking lot, I hear Eamon say matter-of-factly, "Yes, Eamon cute."

Luckily, there are no mirrors around for him to kiss.




7:08PM: The Backyard

Eamon is enchanted with "umbreddas." He wanted to use one out at the store, but we feared for the ankles of passersby and therefore promised him he could play with the "umbredda" all he wanted at home. He does not forget such promises.















It was a simple Sunday. We didn't go anywhere terribly special or do anything particularly out of the ordinary. And yet, it is the type of day that you never forget. Every day with you seems like the most memorable ever, and for that, we love you Eamon Wolfe.

(But you already knew that, didn't you?)