The bleak midwinter, with anecdotes

At bedtime the other night:
Henry: James is cute, Mama.
Me: Yes, he is.
Henry: I'm cute, too.
Me: Yes, you are.
Henry: You're not cute. Daddy's not cute.
Me: No, we're not.
Henry: You're not like us.

***

James has developed a little shtick that is somewhere between fantasy play and an extended joke. It involves a little gray stuffed cat that he has grown attached to. "MY kitty-kitty," he says. When he wants to nurse, he says, "Kitty nuh (nurse)" and holds the toy to my chest before he takes a turn. This tickles him greatly. But last night, he didn't have the cat at hand. "Meow," he said. "Kitty nuh." He started to nurse, then pulled away to say again, "Meow," to make sure I got it.

***

We are sick again. Peter and I were knocked off our feet for the better part of a week, and James is awake 10 or more times each night, coughing. We were sick this time last year too, for weeks. I used to love winter, but right now, it feels like little more than a season of sickness and sorrow. I'm looking forward to spring, and also to one day loving winter again.

Fun with language acquisition

James is learning new words all the time, so he is full of surprises. Take yesterday, when I was reading one of his current favorite books, Each Peach Pear Plum, in which the reader hunts for hidden nursery rhyme characters. He found Mother Hubbard, who is bending over in her cottage kitchen so only her fairly voluminous backside is in view.
"Dere-ya-go, Mama!" crowed James. "Butthole!"

A good thing

When we went out this morning to take care of the dogs, Henry and James picked up a trowel and a hammer and started hacking away at the patches of ice left in the yard as the big snow melts. After a quarter of an hour, and with very cold hands, they were ready to come in.

"It,s a good thing there's ice for us to break up," said Henry. 

He seemed to find that wasn't quite what he meant to say.

"It's a good thing," he tried again, "there are people like me to keep the neighborhood safe."

I'll take it

The other morning, Henry asked me, "Mama, doesn't no sometimes mean yes?"

I have been spending too much time on Facebook lately looking at articles about rape culture, and thinking--well, no, thinking is not the word for it--that this was an opportune moment to teach my four-year-old a valuable lesson, I said reflexively, "Oh, no, sweetie, no means no." 

"No," Henry said, "I think no sometimes mean yes. Because when I asked James, 'Do you love me?' he said 'no.' But I think he does love me. So no might mean yes."

Tonight we revisited the same topic, and Henry had clearly been thinking about it in the meantime. "I think that no sometimes means yes," he began again. "I asked Jamie if he loved me and he said no, but I think he does love me. I think sometime he just doesn't want to tell me he does."

That nuanced assessment came at the end of the first really nice day we've had since Christmas. Whether it was the excitement, the irregular schedule and diet, my own tensions spilling over, or just the spark of Tonka trucks applied to the tinder of a child's bottomless desire, Christmas seemed to unleash a monster in Henry: he is not, in the ordinary way, an easy-going boy, but he has always regulated his aggressive acts--he may make James cry, and like it, but he clearly is capable of inflicting real injury, and doesn't. Except that for the week or so after Christmas, he did. Certainly not life-threatening, but it was real violence, and he was turning it on me, too, kicking with all his strength, and once or twice biting me--things he has never done before. I was, frankly, in despair. Peter's patience and sense of humor, which are usually my touchstone when I am frayed after long, difficult days, were more or less absent (it didn't help that he had come down with pink eye). My efforts at connected, respectful parenting seemed risible, and I was screaming, threatening, or bursting into tears almost as often as Henry. 

By New Year's Eve, though, I could see he was settling back down, and for the past week he has been back to his old passionate self--still volatile, and sometimes aggressive and demanding, but once again moderating the extremity of his reactions to James and to me, and lavishing us with sweetness and occasional acts of heroic generosity ("Look! I'm letting James play with my crane. Doesn't that make you happy, Mama?"). 

Today, though, was pretty much great. I don't think anybody screamed once, at least until bedtime (and that was Henry, not me!). I said to Henry as we were settling in to read a chapter of Farmer Boy that I had enjoyed the day with him very much.

"Yes," he said, "I was very friendly with James all day today."

"Yes, you were," I said, "And it was so nice! We were all so happy. Why did you decide to be friendlier with him?"

"Because it makes grownups happy. And it makes James friendlier with me, too."