CHAPTER ONE
The evening started innocently enough. In the den, Eamon played a cheerful game of “Oh no!” with his new Cookie Monster balloon. In the kitchen, Mimi toiled over the Culinary Circle rotisserie chicken she had recently ensnared from the Farm Fresh.
“Eamon! Dinner!” called Mimi.
The little feet pitter-pattered into the dining room. Mimi hoisted the small child into his booster seat and then sat down to join him for what they both expected to be a pleasant dinner.
They could not have been more wrong.
As they ate and discussed the day, Eamon chattered carefreely about his, “Bawoon! Cookie! Bawoon!” while Mimi thoughtfully agreed that as far as Cookies went, it was definitely a balloon.
BANG!
Mimi and Eamon stopped mid-chew.
“Did you hear that?” Mimi whispered.
“Bawoon!” Eamon whispered back.
“No, I think it was coming from the air conditioning vent,” Mimi said, laying down her fork.
“Vent,” agreed Eamon. Then, for good measure, in case she had forgotten, “Bawoon.”
BANG!
“We can check it out after dinner,” Mimi said, trying to sound as if she was not a bit worried, as if there were always loud banging noises coming from the air conditioning units.
“Check out,” nodded Eamon as he put another raspberry into his mouth.
BANG!
They finished dinner quietly, both listening for the banging, which progressively grew more intense. Finally Eamon, realizing the gravity of the situation, pushed the remainder of his berries away from himself, looked at Mimi, and announced solemnly, “Check out.”
It was time.
Mimi went to the garage and found the tools they would need: a flashlight and a flathead screw driver. Meanwhile, the banging continued, as loud and raucous as ever. Together, Mimi and Eamon crept over to the vent and put their ears up to it.
Something was in there.
Banging around.
And it was definitely a something, not a someone. It sounded like a block, or a small dinosaur or a…
“Bobbin,” announced Eamon.
“A what?” asked Mimi.
“Bobbin,” repeated Eamon.
“What the heck is a Bobbin?”
But Eamon didn’t answer.
Carefully, Mimi unscrewed the vent. Holding their breath, not knowing what they would see, both peeked in their heads.
There was nothing there.
“Hewo!” yelled Eamon. “HEWO! Come out, Bobbin! Hewo! Come out!”
But no Bobbin emerged. Mimi shined the flashlight, but could see nothing but an empty vent that turned a corner. Whatever was banging in the vent was definitely farther in the vent than could be seen with just a flashlight.
“There’s no way to find out,” Mimi finally admitted in defeat. “Short of crawling in there, there’s no way to find out what’s banging around.”
Eamon nodded in understanding. He took a deep breath. “Crawl in,” he said, and dropped to his knees.
“NO!” cried Mimi, grabbing him by the diaper as he threatened to disappear into the dark. “I didn’t mean YOU should crawl in. I was just saying that we can’t find out what is banging around tonight.”
Reluctantly, and each with an eye on the vent, they settled back to discuss the bawoon, which was still very Cookie. The banging slowly began to subside.
Just when they thought everything was getting back to normal, the door front flung open.
EPILOGUE
Aaron came home, spent about 15 minutes trying to put the world’s most difficult screws back onto the grate cover, looked at me and announced, “I love that you THINK you can do stuff like this…”
“If you hadn’t come home right then, I would have put the grate back on and you would have never known.” (This is probably untrue.)
“How the heck were you going to figure out what it was anyway? There’s no way that you can see.”
“I was going to reach in there.”
He just stared at me.
“What? I would have turned off the A/C first.”
In summary, the Bobbin still has not been found, though the A/C vent finally stopped banging. I am no longer allowed near the screwdrivers, and Eamon tried to take his bawoon to bed.
COMING SOON: The Wolfepack Mysteries #20: The Case of the Popped Bawoon
10 April 2011
Hero
Many a time I am driving when I suddenly hear screeches of “Halp! Halp!” from the backseat, and I swivel my head around just in time to watch one dinosaur save another from…the carseat? I don’t know. Something disastrous anyway. Eamon then calmly assures me, “Ceratops okay, Mimi. Ceratops okay.”
Well, thank goodness.
Sometimes, though, situations require more direct intervention. Yesterday, for instance, my dad was helping to child-proof Eamon’s room (Okay, we’re late on this. Moving on.) Unfortunately, this was made very difficult by the Big Orange Monkey of Doom and his Medium-Sized Black Gorilla Sidekick of Destruction that kept “attacking” us. Luckily, we had a three foot tall hero in our midst. Before they could do any damage, Eamon would leap onto Doom & Destruction (yes! At the same time!) and wrestle them into submission amidst a lot of grunting and shouts of “Oh, no, monkeys! Eamon halp! Eamon halp!”
Through a serious force of effort, over the course of about 10 minutes Eamon managed to drag the recalcitrant stuffed animals from the room, making us safe forever more from crazy stuffed monkeys. Peace reigned, and Eamon assured us that we were “Safe, safe,” until about 15 seconds later when, looking rather bored, he apparently spied those tricky monkeys trying to re-enter his kingdom, and the battle began all over.
Sometimes, though, crises happen outside of Eamon’s imagination. But in all his exploits with carseats and stuffed monkeys, Eamon has trained for this. When danger erupted, he was not found wanting.
The setting was this: a warm, peaceful day just before dinner. Eamon was outside playing with a family friend in the backyard, saving his dinosaurs from the Slide of Terror. I set the table for dinner while Aaron got drinks from the refrigerator.
While reaching for the iced tea, Aaron accidentally knocked a bowl full of raspberries, which fell to the floor and shattered.
“FURK!” yelled Aaron (except one of those letters was actually a C).
The sound of the breaking bowl had not been quiet. It rang out through the backyard all the way to the slide. Eamon gasped. Trouble! Afoot! Not silly, made-up dinosaur trouble, either, but real life crisis! This was it.
In the midst of picking up raspberries, I suddenly hear from the backyard, “Daddy! Eamon halp! Eamon halp!” I ran outside, and there was Eamon, running bravely towards the house.
“Eamon!” I said, meeting him at the door. “Daddy broke something, but he’s okay.”
My proclamation slowed Eamon not a bit, and he kept resolutely climbing the stairs onto the porch. “Broken! Eamon halp Daddy! Eamon halp Daddy! Broken!”
I blocked the doorway into the house. “Eamon,” I tried to assure him. “Daddy’s okay. You can’t come in because he broke glass, and it could cut you and hurt you."
Eamon looked at me warily. If the situation was so dangerous, then surely I should let him in. He could halp. But I did not budge from the doorway.
He shook his head. “Daddy!” he finally whimpered pitifully. “Daddy broken!”
Realizing that he was worried about his father because he had mixed up the message and incorrectly interpreted that his DADDY was broken, I finally picked Eamon up. I took him inside and showed him his father, who was fine except for being highly annoyed that he had to pick up the shattered remains of the bowl.
“See, Eamon? Daddy’s okay. The bowl is broken, but Daddy’s okay.”
It was at this point that I realized that our pint-sized hero had pooped his pants. Considering that he does this every day, I was willing to take it as purely a biological necessity rather than a reaction to fear. Regardless, I took him upstairs to change him, thus ending the entire episode.
Or so I thought.
Later that evening after Eamon’s shower, I was putting on his jammies when Eamon suddenly looked at me. “Daddy okay,” he told me thoughtfully. “Broken, daddy okay.”
“Yes, daddy broke something, but he’s okay.”
“Broke glass.”
“Yep. But he’s okay.”
Thoughtful silence, then, “Yes. Daddy okay.”
Then this morning, after a peaceful night of sleep, Eamon awoke with cries of “Daddy! Daddy!”
Strange, I thought, because he usually calls out for me after a night of sleep. But apparently his night had had its share of crisis remembered.
I went in and the first thing he said to me was, “Daddy broke.”
“Yes, Daddy broke a bowl last night.”
“Daddy okay,” he assured…me? Himself?
“Yep, Daddy is still okay.”
And I realized…while it just seemed like a silly bowl to us…Eamon was really WORRIED. And yet, despite all his worry, he had bravely rushed in to…?
“What would you have done, anyway?” I asked Eamon. “If I had let you into the kitchen, what exactly do you think that you would have done to help?”
But he didn’t answer. I’m pretty sure that if he could articulate it, the answer would have been something along the lines of, “Whatever needed to be done.”
Quite simply, he would have Helped. Because that is what Eamons do.
By airplane...
By horsey...
By boat...
To save what is important...
Well, thank goodness.
Sometimes, though, situations require more direct intervention. Yesterday, for instance, my dad was helping to child-proof Eamon’s room (Okay, we’re late on this. Moving on.) Unfortunately, this was made very difficult by the Big Orange Monkey of Doom and his Medium-Sized Black Gorilla Sidekick of Destruction that kept “attacking” us. Luckily, we had a three foot tall hero in our midst. Before they could do any damage, Eamon would leap onto Doom & Destruction (yes! At the same time!) and wrestle them into submission amidst a lot of grunting and shouts of “Oh, no, monkeys! Eamon halp! Eamon halp!”
Through a serious force of effort, over the course of about 10 minutes Eamon managed to drag the recalcitrant stuffed animals from the room, making us safe forever more from crazy stuffed monkeys. Peace reigned, and Eamon assured us that we were “Safe, safe,” until about 15 seconds later when, looking rather bored, he apparently spied those tricky monkeys trying to re-enter his kingdom, and the battle began all over.
Sometimes, though, crises happen outside of Eamon’s imagination. But in all his exploits with carseats and stuffed monkeys, Eamon has trained for this. When danger erupted, he was not found wanting.
The setting was this: a warm, peaceful day just before dinner. Eamon was outside playing with a family friend in the backyard, saving his dinosaurs from the Slide of Terror. I set the table for dinner while Aaron got drinks from the refrigerator.
While reaching for the iced tea, Aaron accidentally knocked a bowl full of raspberries, which fell to the floor and shattered.
“FURK!” yelled Aaron (except one of those letters was actually a C).
The sound of the breaking bowl had not been quiet. It rang out through the backyard all the way to the slide. Eamon gasped. Trouble! Afoot! Not silly, made-up dinosaur trouble, either, but real life crisis! This was it.
In the midst of picking up raspberries, I suddenly hear from the backyard, “Daddy! Eamon halp! Eamon halp!” I ran outside, and there was Eamon, running bravely towards the house.
“Eamon!” I said, meeting him at the door. “Daddy broke something, but he’s okay.”
My proclamation slowed Eamon not a bit, and he kept resolutely climbing the stairs onto the porch. “Broken! Eamon halp Daddy! Eamon halp Daddy! Broken!”
I blocked the doorway into the house. “Eamon,” I tried to assure him. “Daddy’s okay. You can’t come in because he broke glass, and it could cut you and hurt you."
Eamon looked at me warily. If the situation was so dangerous, then surely I should let him in. He could halp. But I did not budge from the doorway.
He shook his head. “Daddy!” he finally whimpered pitifully. “Daddy broken!”
Realizing that he was worried about his father because he had mixed up the message and incorrectly interpreted that his DADDY was broken, I finally picked Eamon up. I took him inside and showed him his father, who was fine except for being highly annoyed that he had to pick up the shattered remains of the bowl.
“See, Eamon? Daddy’s okay. The bowl is broken, but Daddy’s okay.”
It was at this point that I realized that our pint-sized hero had pooped his pants. Considering that he does this every day, I was willing to take it as purely a biological necessity rather than a reaction to fear. Regardless, I took him upstairs to change him, thus ending the entire episode.
Or so I thought.
Later that evening after Eamon’s shower, I was putting on his jammies when Eamon suddenly looked at me. “Daddy okay,” he told me thoughtfully. “Broken, daddy okay.”
“Yes, daddy broke something, but he’s okay.”
“Broke glass.”
“Yep. But he’s okay.”
Thoughtful silence, then, “Yes. Daddy okay.”
Then this morning, after a peaceful night of sleep, Eamon awoke with cries of “Daddy! Daddy!”
Strange, I thought, because he usually calls out for me after a night of sleep. But apparently his night had had its share of crisis remembered.
I went in and the first thing he said to me was, “Daddy broke.”
“Yes, Daddy broke a bowl last night.”
“Daddy okay,” he assured…me? Himself?
“Yep, Daddy is still okay.”
And I realized…while it just seemed like a silly bowl to us…Eamon was really WORRIED. And yet, despite all his worry, he had bravely rushed in to…?
“What would you have done, anyway?” I asked Eamon. “If I had let you into the kitchen, what exactly do you think that you would have done to help?”
But he didn’t answer. I’m pretty sure that if he could articulate it, the answer would have been something along the lines of, “Whatever needed to be done.”
Quite simply, he would have Helped. Because that is what Eamons do.
By airplane...
By horsey...
By boat...
To save what is important...
04 April 2011
Social Graces
Mission Statement: Through a series of social exchanges with a variety of people fitting all demographics, we will teach Eamon Wolfe how to interact positively in society; both exhibit and embody the qualities of a “little gentleman;” and follow rules for a variety of situations.
Vision Statement: Eamon Wolfe will say “please,” “thank you,” and “you’re welcome” (aka, “The Manner Words”) appropriately and consistently, as well as voluntarily help others when feasibly possible, and be considerate of the feelings of others in intent, word, and deed.
Social Interaction Evidence #1
Location: Gym Class
Description: Eamon sat quietly during circle time despite the fact that other little boys were running around and not paying attention to the rules, with only a few squirms and longing looks. He helped during clean up time and told all gym instructors “thank you” after they helped him complete the activities.
Result: Success!
Social Interaction Evidence #2
Location: NY& Company Store
Description: Eamon charmingly and without prompting told the clerk “thank you” when she got us a dressing room, therefore earning us the biggest and nicest dressing room. Someone was in the dressing room next to us, though, and Eamon was desperate to see and meet her, so he kept trying to duck his head under the wall out of curiosity. Each time I hissed at him not to stick his head into someone else’s dressing room, and he grudgingly complied. In line to buy the clothes, Eamon danced to entertain the 20-something year old girls behind us, smiled at the clerk, and told her “thank you” after we paid for our purchases.
Result: Success. Mostly.
Social Interaction Evidence #3
Location: Subway
Description: Standing in line at Subway, Eamon tried to share his triceratops toy with the manager. The manager was so impressed that he gave Eamon a free chocolate chip cookie. Eamon reverentially carried it over to our table, proudly announcing, “Cookie! Cookie!” to anyone who came near. When I asked Eamon if he wanted to eat the cookie, he shook his head. Eamon does not actually like chocolate, and I am allergic, so the cookie remained uneaten.
Result: Sweet, but somewhat wasteful success.
Social Interaction Evidence #4
Location: The pool locker room
Description: After swim class, another mother brought in her little 2 year old girl to change into street clothes. The little girl was very cold, and kept making this low moaning sound to exhibit her displeasure. Eamon looked at her and brightly exclaimed, “Cow!” because he thought she was intentionally attempting farmyard sounds. I whispered that yes, it sounded a little like a moo, and Eamon then shouted loudly at the girl, “Cow! Noisy cow!”
Result: Embarrassed apologies and our quick exit from the locker room
Social Interaction Evidence #5
Location: Busch Gardens Land of the Dragons
Description: There were few people at Busch that day, so Eamon was able to walk onto all the rides without waiting. He told all the attendants “thank you” after being prompted. On the little cars ride, we realized after strapping him in that no adult could ride with him, nor even stand near the cars while he rode. We anxiously exited the area so the ride could start, worried that he would either be upset that we were gone, or possibly try to stand or otherwise free himself from restraint during the ride. Instead, he smiled and stayed seated the entire time, proving our fears completely unfounded.
Result: Parental pride, toddler fun
Overall recommendations based on evidence: Plan progressing nicely. Continue to implement at every possibly opportunity and results will become more consistently positive. And really, she did sound like a cow.
Vision Statement: Eamon Wolfe will say “please,” “thank you,” and “you’re welcome” (aka, “The Manner Words”) appropriately and consistently, as well as voluntarily help others when feasibly possible, and be considerate of the feelings of others in intent, word, and deed.
Social Interaction Evidence #1
Location: Gym Class
Description: Eamon sat quietly during circle time despite the fact that other little boys were running around and not paying attention to the rules, with only a few squirms and longing looks. He helped during clean up time and told all gym instructors “thank you” after they helped him complete the activities.
Result: Success!
Social Interaction Evidence #2
Location: NY& Company Store
Description: Eamon charmingly and without prompting told the clerk “thank you” when she got us a dressing room, therefore earning us the biggest and nicest dressing room. Someone was in the dressing room next to us, though, and Eamon was desperate to see and meet her, so he kept trying to duck his head under the wall out of curiosity. Each time I hissed at him not to stick his head into someone else’s dressing room, and he grudgingly complied. In line to buy the clothes, Eamon danced to entertain the 20-something year old girls behind us, smiled at the clerk, and told her “thank you” after we paid for our purchases.
Result: Success. Mostly.
Social Interaction Evidence #3
Location: Subway
Description: Standing in line at Subway, Eamon tried to share his triceratops toy with the manager. The manager was so impressed that he gave Eamon a free chocolate chip cookie. Eamon reverentially carried it over to our table, proudly announcing, “Cookie! Cookie!” to anyone who came near. When I asked Eamon if he wanted to eat the cookie, he shook his head. Eamon does not actually like chocolate, and I am allergic, so the cookie remained uneaten.
Result: Sweet, but somewhat wasteful success.
Social Interaction Evidence #4
Location: The pool locker room
Description: After swim class, another mother brought in her little 2 year old girl to change into street clothes. The little girl was very cold, and kept making this low moaning sound to exhibit her displeasure. Eamon looked at her and brightly exclaimed, “Cow!” because he thought she was intentionally attempting farmyard sounds. I whispered that yes, it sounded a little like a moo, and Eamon then shouted loudly at the girl, “Cow! Noisy cow!”
Result: Embarrassed apologies and our quick exit from the locker room
Social Interaction Evidence #5
Location: Busch Gardens Land of the Dragons
Description: There were few people at Busch that day, so Eamon was able to walk onto all the rides without waiting. He told all the attendants “thank you” after being prompted. On the little cars ride, we realized after strapping him in that no adult could ride with him, nor even stand near the cars while he rode. We anxiously exited the area so the ride could start, worried that he would either be upset that we were gone, or possibly try to stand or otherwise free himself from restraint during the ride. Instead, he smiled and stayed seated the entire time, proving our fears completely unfounded.
Result: Parental pride, toddler fun
Overall recommendations based on evidence: Plan progressing nicely. Continue to implement at every possibly opportunity and results will become more consistently positive. And really, she did sound like a cow.
01 April 2011
"Go!" (Working Mom Edition)
6:15AM: Run down the hallway as the spaceship continues to hurtle uncontrollably closer to Unodrin’s surface, caught in the gravitational pull of the giant, rocky world. Slam the panel to open the door to the Control Deck while the alarm screeches in the background. Realize with a sick dread that the door is jammed, your heart beating in time with the strident alarm and…
6:16AM: Open eyes. Oh my God! The alarm! How long has it been going off? Why didn’t you hear it? Slam the clock and jump out of bed. Late! Forty-five minutes late! Mentally add up how much time you have to take a shower, get dressed, get everyone up and dressed, drop everyone off at Grandpa and Nini’s…no, it’s not enough time. Something will have to go. Hair! Doing your hair isn’t essential, right? How bad can it look?
6:18AM-6:28AM: Realize that a sick opossum crawled into your bed overnight, ate off all your hair, then curled up and died on your head. Doing hair no longer an option but a necessity. Break out the flat iron, anti-frizz serum, and hairspray in an attempt to do damage control.
6:28AM: Give up. Put in a messy bun.
6:30AM: Burst into child’s room. Wake up! Wake up! Come on! We have to go! Child! WAKE UP!
6:32AM: Get child milk.
6:33AM: Give dog her medicine. Feed dog.
6:35AM: Deposit half asleep child with his half asleep father. Turn on Dinosaur Train while they both stare blearily at the screen.
6:40-6:50AM: Shower. Dress.
6:51AM: Check weather report. Choose Child’s clothes. Get diaper.
6:55AM: Go downstairs. Give husband his medicine. Throw Child’s clothes at husband and run back to kitchen to get lunch together while yelling that you’ll be ready in 10 more minutes and the kid better be ready to go at that time, too, and also the upstairs toilet isn’t working and can husband either fix it or call a plumber, or better yet just text you if he can’t fix it and you’ll call the plumber and HUSBAND, WHY ARE YOU STILL SLEEPING?! EVERYBODY WAKE UP! We have to GO, people!
6:56-7:05AM: Put on shoes, jewelry, coat. Search madly for Child's shoes, and that really important paper you need for work. Put dog on leash.
7:06-7:08AM: Wrestle about 10 dinosaurs out of Child’s hands. Bribe Child with Mardi Gras beads to get him to follow you out the door. Yell over your shoulder that you love your husband. Try to get out the door while not tripping on the child or the dog and carrying your laptop and your purse and your lunch and that really important…
7:09AM: Run back in for that really important paper.
7:10AM: Coerce the dog to jump into the back of the car.
7:11AM: Chase the child around the car yelling that he better stay put because you’re really late and you’re serious and we have to GO already!
7:12AM: Text Child’s Grandma: Omw. Running late. Will do drive-by drop off. Have Diet Coke ready, pls.
7:13AM: Start trip.
7:15AM: Sit at first stoplight.
7:17AM: Sit at second stoplight.
7:18AM: Sit at third stoplight.
7:21AM: Oh, for the love of…
7:24: Arrive at E’s grandparents’ house. Grandparents are assembled and ready like finely tuned racing car team. E’s grandfather gets the dog out of the back while Grandma gets Child and hands you Diet Coke in one seamless move.
7:26: Drive madly (but safely!) to work.
7:35: Get stuck behind a school bus that stops every 30 feet.
7:44: So close to work! You’re going to make it on time!
7:45: Huh. There are, like, 3 cars in the parking lot.
7:45:30: Oh, it’s the Friday before Spring Break, isn’t it?
7:46AM: Run in the door, really important piece of paper in hand.
7:46:30AM: No one is there yet.
7:47AM: Get an email saying that your boss has decided to take an early break, and that meeting today will be rescheduled to after Spring Break, and you can just give her that really important piece of paper when you all get back.
7:48AM: Put head down on desk.
7:52AM: Get text from Husband: Toilet fixed.
Well, it wasn't such a bad morning after all.
Fin.
Child! Glad you like education, and reading, etc., but for heaven's sake, let's go get dressed now!
No, not THOSE shoes. Hey wait, that's my missing red shoe! Where did you--no, nevermind. Go get YOUR shoes.
6:16AM: Open eyes. Oh my God! The alarm! How long has it been going off? Why didn’t you hear it? Slam the clock and jump out of bed. Late! Forty-five minutes late! Mentally add up how much time you have to take a shower, get dressed, get everyone up and dressed, drop everyone off at Grandpa and Nini’s…no, it’s not enough time. Something will have to go. Hair! Doing your hair isn’t essential, right? How bad can it look?
6:18AM-6:28AM: Realize that a sick opossum crawled into your bed overnight, ate off all your hair, then curled up and died on your head. Doing hair no longer an option but a necessity. Break out the flat iron, anti-frizz serum, and hairspray in an attempt to do damage control.
6:28AM: Give up. Put in a messy bun.
6:30AM: Burst into child’s room. Wake up! Wake up! Come on! We have to go! Child! WAKE UP!
6:32AM: Get child milk.
6:33AM: Give dog her medicine. Feed dog.
6:35AM: Deposit half asleep child with his half asleep father. Turn on Dinosaur Train while they both stare blearily at the screen.
6:40-6:50AM: Shower. Dress.
6:51AM: Check weather report. Choose Child’s clothes. Get diaper.
6:55AM: Go downstairs. Give husband his medicine. Throw Child’s clothes at husband and run back to kitchen to get lunch together while yelling that you’ll be ready in 10 more minutes and the kid better be ready to go at that time, too, and also the upstairs toilet isn’t working and can husband either fix it or call a plumber, or better yet just text you if he can’t fix it and you’ll call the plumber and HUSBAND, WHY ARE YOU STILL SLEEPING?! EVERYBODY WAKE UP! We have to GO, people!
6:56-7:05AM: Put on shoes, jewelry, coat. Search madly for Child's shoes, and that really important paper you need for work. Put dog on leash.
7:06-7:08AM: Wrestle about 10 dinosaurs out of Child’s hands. Bribe Child with Mardi Gras beads to get him to follow you out the door. Yell over your shoulder that you love your husband. Try to get out the door while not tripping on the child or the dog and carrying your laptop and your purse and your lunch and that really important…
7:09AM: Run back in for that really important paper.
7:10AM: Coerce the dog to jump into the back of the car.
7:11AM: Chase the child around the car yelling that he better stay put because you’re really late and you’re serious and we have to GO already!
7:12AM: Text Child’s Grandma: Omw. Running late. Will do drive-by drop off. Have Diet Coke ready, pls.
7:13AM: Start trip.
7:15AM: Sit at first stoplight.
7:17AM: Sit at second stoplight.
7:18AM: Sit at third stoplight.
7:21AM: Oh, for the love of…
7:24: Arrive at E’s grandparents’ house. Grandparents are assembled and ready like finely tuned racing car team. E’s grandfather gets the dog out of the back while Grandma gets Child and hands you Diet Coke in one seamless move.
7:26: Drive madly (but safely!) to work.
7:35: Get stuck behind a school bus that stops every 30 feet.
7:44: So close to work! You’re going to make it on time!
7:45: Huh. There are, like, 3 cars in the parking lot.
7:45:30: Oh, it’s the Friday before Spring Break, isn’t it?
7:46AM: Run in the door, really important piece of paper in hand.
7:46:30AM: No one is there yet.
7:47AM: Get an email saying that your boss has decided to take an early break, and that meeting today will be rescheduled to after Spring Break, and you can just give her that really important piece of paper when you all get back.
7:48AM: Put head down on desk.
7:52AM: Get text from Husband: Toilet fixed.
Well, it wasn't such a bad morning after all.
Fin.
Child! Glad you like education, and reading, etc., but for heaven's sake, let's go get dressed now!
No, not THOSE shoes. Hey wait, that's my missing red shoe! Where did you--no, nevermind. Go get YOUR shoes.
26 March 2011
Across the Universes
Driving home on I-95 on a Friday afternoon: torturous. I left Fairfax at 3:30PM and by 5:15PM, I have only made it the 45 miles to Fredericksburg. I do a lot of deep breathing, telling myself to relax, that I will make it. I figure that if I concentrate hard enough, I can will myself into a parallel universe where the traffic clears up just after Fredericksburg and I make it home by 7:00.
About five miles past Fredericksburg, the traffic clears up.
This parallel universe doesn’t look too much different, except for the startling amount of cars that are no longer in my way.
I thank the heavens above that some fabulous government official somewhere proposed some sort of legislation that upped the speed limit to 70. I hope I voted for him or her. It’s only five miles faster than the previous 65 mph limit, but 5 miles counts a lot when you’re counting the minutes.
I see a road sign telling me how many miles to Newport News. I do the math. I am going to make it. It is no longer by dint of sheer willpower, either, but confirmed by physics.
At 6:45PM, I pull into the driveway. I yank up the parking brake, grab the keys out of the ignition, and jump out of the car. I race into the garage, and into the house and…nothing. No one.
I stand dumbfounded for a minute. Did I jump into a parallel universe too far from my own? One where no one is waiting?
Then I hear the sounds. Laughter. Shrieking. Splashing.
I run upstairs.
And there, in my bathroom, fresh from a bath and being swaddled in a towel by his Opa, stands my little man. The little man for whom I would— I did— happily traverse universes, defy I-95 traffic, and make it home for bedtime.
He looks at me, his hair wet and his eyes sparkling. I expect him to scream or run to me or hop, hop, hop with joy, but he just gives a slow smile. “Hi, Mimi,” he says, casually.
“Hi, Eamon,” I say, trying to also appear nonchalant, even though I want nothing more than to sweep him up into my arms and kiss, kiss, kiss him.
“Bath,” he tells me carelessly, in case I hadn’t noticed.
“Are you ready for bed?” I ask, trying to mimic his off-handed manner but not really succeeding.
He thinks about it. “Yes, okay,” he says after a moment’s reflection.
I take him into his bedroom and we put on his diaper and jammies. He allows me to sneak a few kisses but makes it known that really, there are more important things to be doing. He picks out some books and I read them. I do the voices, and he laughs, then we brush his teeth. I lift him into his bed, and he grabs his Grover doll and Lion and says brightly, “Night, Mimi!”
I kiss the top of his head. “Goodnight, Eamon. Sleep well. I love you.”
But he is already playing with his Grover as I turn out the light.
I go downstairs and talk to Eamon’s Oma and Opa, Aaron’s parents. They update me on everything from the last few days while I was out of town (Aaron was gone as well, but hasn’t made it back yet).
Meanwhile, on the monitor, I hear Eamon restlessly talking to himself, turning over, trying to sleep, and failing. He doesn’t cry out, so I give him time to see if he will soothe himself to sleep.
After about 45 minutes, I take pity. I take some rice milk in a sippy cup and give it to him while we sit in the glider. As he sucks down the milk, he curls himself into my arms. I lean the glider back as far as it will go. He finishes his milk, and cuddles farther into my embrace. Sitting there with him curled up in my arms, clinging to me as we rock gently, I am briefly transported back to the universe where he is still a tiny newborn, dependent and free with his unabashed love and devotion.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes, he breaks free and sits up. He looks at me. “Mimi,” he says quietly. “Tired. Bed.”
“Are you ready to go to sleep now?” I ask.
“Yes.”
For the second and last time that evening, I gently lift him into his bed. I tuck him into his blanket, his Lion nestled up to his neck. His heavy eyelids dip dangerously low over his eyes as he sleepily whispers, “Night, Mimi. Love you.”
This time, he is asleep before I leave the room.
In the morning, we will wake up and we will play games, sing songs, and talk of dinosaurs while we read books about dinosaurs. He will go outside, and get angry, and be sorry, and hug and snuggle and dance. He will learn new words and dazzle more people with his smile…and every minute, my little boy will inch closer and closer to the tall, strong, generous, charismatic man he so longs and is destined to be.
But tonight, briefly and despite his best efforts, he was still my little baby.
I love you, Eamon. You are my everything—my every universe— and I am glad I am home.
About five miles past Fredericksburg, the traffic clears up.
This parallel universe doesn’t look too much different, except for the startling amount of cars that are no longer in my way.
I thank the heavens above that some fabulous government official somewhere proposed some sort of legislation that upped the speed limit to 70. I hope I voted for him or her. It’s only five miles faster than the previous 65 mph limit, but 5 miles counts a lot when you’re counting the minutes.
I see a road sign telling me how many miles to Newport News. I do the math. I am going to make it. It is no longer by dint of sheer willpower, either, but confirmed by physics.
At 6:45PM, I pull into the driveway. I yank up the parking brake, grab the keys out of the ignition, and jump out of the car. I race into the garage, and into the house and…nothing. No one.
I stand dumbfounded for a minute. Did I jump into a parallel universe too far from my own? One where no one is waiting?
Then I hear the sounds. Laughter. Shrieking. Splashing.
I run upstairs.
And there, in my bathroom, fresh from a bath and being swaddled in a towel by his Opa, stands my little man. The little man for whom I would— I did— happily traverse universes, defy I-95 traffic, and make it home for bedtime.
He looks at me, his hair wet and his eyes sparkling. I expect him to scream or run to me or hop, hop, hop with joy, but he just gives a slow smile. “Hi, Mimi,” he says, casually.
“Hi, Eamon,” I say, trying to also appear nonchalant, even though I want nothing more than to sweep him up into my arms and kiss, kiss, kiss him.
“Bath,” he tells me carelessly, in case I hadn’t noticed.
“Are you ready for bed?” I ask, trying to mimic his off-handed manner but not really succeeding.
He thinks about it. “Yes, okay,” he says after a moment’s reflection.
I take him into his bedroom and we put on his diaper and jammies. He allows me to sneak a few kisses but makes it known that really, there are more important things to be doing. He picks out some books and I read them. I do the voices, and he laughs, then we brush his teeth. I lift him into his bed, and he grabs his Grover doll and Lion and says brightly, “Night, Mimi!”
I kiss the top of his head. “Goodnight, Eamon. Sleep well. I love you.”
But he is already playing with his Grover as I turn out the light.
I go downstairs and talk to Eamon’s Oma and Opa, Aaron’s parents. They update me on everything from the last few days while I was out of town (Aaron was gone as well, but hasn’t made it back yet).
Meanwhile, on the monitor, I hear Eamon restlessly talking to himself, turning over, trying to sleep, and failing. He doesn’t cry out, so I give him time to see if he will soothe himself to sleep.
After about 45 minutes, I take pity. I take some rice milk in a sippy cup and give it to him while we sit in the glider. As he sucks down the milk, he curls himself into my arms. I lean the glider back as far as it will go. He finishes his milk, and cuddles farther into my embrace. Sitting there with him curled up in my arms, clinging to me as we rock gently, I am briefly transported back to the universe where he is still a tiny newborn, dependent and free with his unabashed love and devotion.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes, he breaks free and sits up. He looks at me. “Mimi,” he says quietly. “Tired. Bed.”
“Are you ready to go to sleep now?” I ask.
“Yes.”
For the second and last time that evening, I gently lift him into his bed. I tuck him into his blanket, his Lion nestled up to his neck. His heavy eyelids dip dangerously low over his eyes as he sleepily whispers, “Night, Mimi. Love you.”
This time, he is asleep before I leave the room.
In the morning, we will wake up and we will play games, sing songs, and talk of dinosaurs while we read books about dinosaurs. He will go outside, and get angry, and be sorry, and hug and snuggle and dance. He will learn new words and dazzle more people with his smile…and every minute, my little boy will inch closer and closer to the tall, strong, generous, charismatic man he so longs and is destined to be.
But tonight, briefly and despite his best efforts, he was still my little baby.
I love you, Eamon. You are my everything—my every universe— and I am glad I am home.
13 March 2011
"Go!"
Eamon can be demure.
When he meets an adult for the first time, especially if she’s a pretty girl, he often acts shy. He lowers his eyes and pretends that he is afraid to talk to her, so that when she inevitably gets him to smile, she thinks that she has somehow won his affections. (Just so you know, ladies, it was all an act. He was always going to smile at you).
Eamon can be cautious.
We went to a new playground, and I asked Eamon if he wanted to go down the slide. He looked at it closely, surveying it. He twisted his mouth thoughtfully before finally deciding, “No.” When I encouraged him, offered to go down with him, asked him to just try it, he gave a big sigh and said, “All right. Tummy.” Which meant that he was going to go down on his stomach, feet first. This is the only way that he will go down most slides these days, because 1) he can use his hand slow or stop himself if he starts to get going too fast and feels out of control, and 2) if he does get out of control, he’s going to land feet first and not get too hurt.
But one thing Eamon is not—he is not a pushover. Not when it comes to anyone or anything.
Eamon and Aaron went to the park yesterday while I did our taxes (looking back, I am realizing that I pulled the short stick on that one).
The day was beautiful. The sun shone and it was warm enough for coats to be left behind.
Once set free from his carseat, Eamon ran excitedly to the jungle gym equipment. He climbed up the stairs and headed toward the slide.
Unfortunately, a group of girls around the age of 10 or so, were roosting on the slide. They giggled and acted silly, as 10 year old girls are wont to do.
Normally, Eamon would flirt with these girls, winning their attention and their hearts. He would take them around the playground, holding their hands and directing them where he wanted to play.
But today, these girls were blocking the slide. And he wanted to slide.
He marched up to the girls.
“Go!” he yelled at them.
They looked at him in surprise, but continued giggling and most importantly, not moving out of the way.
“GO!” Eamon yelled again, this time pointing to show them that they should be going down the slide, not just sitting at the top of it.
This quieted them a bit more. The fact that a three-foot, thirty pound toddler was attempting to throw his weight around befuddled them.
Eamon gave them one more warning: “GO!” He then turned around and began maneuvering into his usual tummy sliding position.
Before he had a chance to crawl over the girls, which he assuredly would have done, they shrieked and went down the slide.
And Eamon went down the slide, smiling and happy, into the arms of his waiting father.
That battle was won.
But the war for the slide was not over.
Eamon ran back up the stairs. This time, a boy of around 12 years stood in his way, again blocking the slide so that no one could use it. Eamon marched up to him as well. There they stood—a 2 year old staring up at an adversary much taller, much heavier, and much older. The face-off commenced.
Now, Aaron was not standing close enough to hear the conversation that took place between Eamon and this boy. All he knows is that it ended with the 12 year old screaming, “I am NOT a baby!” and then running away.
Eamon, looking nonchalant about the whole thing, went down the slide.
Now, I have my own theory about what really happened. My child’s command of the English language is pretty limited, and he’s very literal. To Eamon, only people smaller than him are babies, and he doesn’t know that calling someone bigger a “baby” is an insult. In fact, I don’t think he even knows what an “insult” is.
So I am guessing that he didn’t actually deliver any smack talk. What I think must have happened is that either 1) Eamon said something completely different that the kid didn’t understand and misheard, or 2) the kid had a B on his hat or shirt or something, and Eamon, who really loves letters, announced, “B! B!” which sounds a lot like “Baby.”
Regardless, though, what impresses me is that at no point did Eamon shrink from confronting children five or six times older. He didn’t run. He didn’t cry. He didn’t hit or scream. He didn’t pretend like he didn’t care and just wanted to do something else anyway. He didn’t even find his parents to solve the problem for him.
He just…handled it.
And like that, the slide was his. He slid and slid to his heart’s content.
That was all he ever really wanted.
When he meets an adult for the first time, especially if she’s a pretty girl, he often acts shy. He lowers his eyes and pretends that he is afraid to talk to her, so that when she inevitably gets him to smile, she thinks that she has somehow won his affections. (Just so you know, ladies, it was all an act. He was always going to smile at you).
Eamon can be cautious.
We went to a new playground, and I asked Eamon if he wanted to go down the slide. He looked at it closely, surveying it. He twisted his mouth thoughtfully before finally deciding, “No.” When I encouraged him, offered to go down with him, asked him to just try it, he gave a big sigh and said, “All right. Tummy.” Which meant that he was going to go down on his stomach, feet first. This is the only way that he will go down most slides these days, because 1) he can use his hand slow or stop himself if he starts to get going too fast and feels out of control, and 2) if he does get out of control, he’s going to land feet first and not get too hurt.
But one thing Eamon is not—he is not a pushover. Not when it comes to anyone or anything.
Eamon and Aaron went to the park yesterday while I did our taxes (looking back, I am realizing that I pulled the short stick on that one).
The day was beautiful. The sun shone and it was warm enough for coats to be left behind.
Once set free from his carseat, Eamon ran excitedly to the jungle gym equipment. He climbed up the stairs and headed toward the slide.
Unfortunately, a group of girls around the age of 10 or so, were roosting on the slide. They giggled and acted silly, as 10 year old girls are wont to do.
Normally, Eamon would flirt with these girls, winning their attention and their hearts. He would take them around the playground, holding their hands and directing them where he wanted to play.
But today, these girls were blocking the slide. And he wanted to slide.
He marched up to the girls.
“Go!” he yelled at them.
They looked at him in surprise, but continued giggling and most importantly, not moving out of the way.
“GO!” Eamon yelled again, this time pointing to show them that they should be going down the slide, not just sitting at the top of it.
This quieted them a bit more. The fact that a three-foot, thirty pound toddler was attempting to throw his weight around befuddled them.
Eamon gave them one more warning: “GO!” He then turned around and began maneuvering into his usual tummy sliding position.
Before he had a chance to crawl over the girls, which he assuredly would have done, they shrieked and went down the slide.
And Eamon went down the slide, smiling and happy, into the arms of his waiting father.
That battle was won.
But the war for the slide was not over.
Eamon ran back up the stairs. This time, a boy of around 12 years stood in his way, again blocking the slide so that no one could use it. Eamon marched up to him as well. There they stood—a 2 year old staring up at an adversary much taller, much heavier, and much older. The face-off commenced.
Now, Aaron was not standing close enough to hear the conversation that took place between Eamon and this boy. All he knows is that it ended with the 12 year old screaming, “I am NOT a baby!” and then running away.
Eamon, looking nonchalant about the whole thing, went down the slide.
Now, I have my own theory about what really happened. My child’s command of the English language is pretty limited, and he’s very literal. To Eamon, only people smaller than him are babies, and he doesn’t know that calling someone bigger a “baby” is an insult. In fact, I don’t think he even knows what an “insult” is.
So I am guessing that he didn’t actually deliver any smack talk. What I think must have happened is that either 1) Eamon said something completely different that the kid didn’t understand and misheard, or 2) the kid had a B on his hat or shirt or something, and Eamon, who really loves letters, announced, “B! B!” which sounds a lot like “Baby.”
Regardless, though, what impresses me is that at no point did Eamon shrink from confronting children five or six times older. He didn’t run. He didn’t cry. He didn’t hit or scream. He didn’t pretend like he didn’t care and just wanted to do something else anyway. He didn’t even find his parents to solve the problem for him.
He just…handled it.
And like that, the slide was his. He slid and slid to his heart’s content.
That was all he ever really wanted.
One day, when I am King of the Slide, all children shall ride freely without worry or woe...and none shall stand in the way of their sliding. And that day...that day, my friends...is TODAY. Rejoice, and slide freely, children everywhere!
09 March 2011
One Minute
I am starting a movement, a call to action, and I urge concerned citizens everywhere to adopt this cause. Start a Facebook group, Tweet it, email your state representatives, because this one is important:
We need more hours in the day.
Well, I do anyway.
Between family and work and graduate school (in order of priority), I have approximately 30-45 minutes a day to myself. And that time can be spent 1) reading, 2) working out, or 3) writing this blog or other pet projects. These are all things that I need to do to stay sane and healthy. Each one, really, deserves at least 30-45 minutes unto itself.
But there is only enough time for one a day. And sometimes, when a project is due, or I'm sick, or someone else is sick, that time just disappears. And all you can do is hope that tomorrow will be better.
And don’t talk to me about multi-tasking. Research has shown that there is an inverse relationship between the quantity of things people are doing and the quality with which they can do them.
So I figure one logical answer is for there to be more hours in the day. I am currently pushing for 30, but am open to negotiation.
The other answer would be to expand the hours that we have so that they are longer.
For instance, this past weekend, Eamon, Aaron, Nesta, and I all went to Kiln Creek Park. One of the baseball fields was free, so we claimed it as our own. I let Nesta off the leash so that she could run. Aaron and I kicked around a miniature soccer ball while Eamon ran after it shrieking, “Mine! Mine!” Afterwards, we all sat together on the ground.
The sun was hidden behind the clouds, but the weather was warm with a light, cool breeze.
I ran my fingers through the soft grass.
I watched Eamon and Aaron wrestle and giggle.
And for that minute, there was no work. There was no graduate school. There were no bills and no past due assignments. There were no obligations, no worries.
Time stopped.
For a minute.
Okay, screw the extra six hours a day campaign.
I would settle for just one of those minutes each day.
We need more hours in the day.
Well, I do anyway.
Between family and work and graduate school (in order of priority), I have approximately 30-45 minutes a day to myself. And that time can be spent 1) reading, 2) working out, or 3) writing this blog or other pet projects. These are all things that I need to do to stay sane and healthy. Each one, really, deserves at least 30-45 minutes unto itself.
But there is only enough time for one a day. And sometimes, when a project is due, or I'm sick, or someone else is sick, that time just disappears. And all you can do is hope that tomorrow will be better.
And don’t talk to me about multi-tasking. Research has shown that there is an inverse relationship between the quantity of things people are doing and the quality with which they can do them.
So I figure one logical answer is for there to be more hours in the day. I am currently pushing for 30, but am open to negotiation.
The other answer would be to expand the hours that we have so that they are longer.
For instance, this past weekend, Eamon, Aaron, Nesta, and I all went to Kiln Creek Park. One of the baseball fields was free, so we claimed it as our own. I let Nesta off the leash so that she could run. Aaron and I kicked around a miniature soccer ball while Eamon ran after it shrieking, “Mine! Mine!” Afterwards, we all sat together on the ground.
The sun was hidden behind the clouds, but the weather was warm with a light, cool breeze.
I ran my fingers through the soft grass.
I watched Eamon and Aaron wrestle and giggle.
And for that minute, there was no work. There was no graduate school. There were no bills and no past due assignments. There were no obligations, no worries.
Time stopped.
For a minute.
Okay, screw the extra six hours a day campaign.
I would settle for just one of those minutes each day.
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