Composed

The following pieces were composed by Henry, spelled by Peter, typed by Henry (and here transcribed by me):

I. 

FLOWERS IN THE EARTH AND RAIN.

WHEAT IN THE RAIN AND THE ICE AND THE SNOW.

BEES IN THE LEAVES

HENRY

II.

PIGS IN THE ARK OF THE ZOO.

PEAS OF THE WORLD.

RABBITS OF THE LAND.

HENRY

PEAPOD

I adore these. I am a firm adherent of Alfie Kohn et al. with respect to the dangers--impudence, really--of praise, but I received these with so much delight that I'm afraid Henry will keep Peter at the computer all day as he dictates lists of gobbledygook names, which is where he goes when genuine inspiration fails.

apropos des bottes

And in the midst of his labors this morning (lining up trucks under the table), Henry stopped to say, thoughtfully, "Mama, I'm not so much interested in the fronts of statues. I'm interested in the behinds of statues."
I know that the quaint sayings of children who aren't your own aren't necessarily all that delightful, but this one in particular captures a certain Dada quality in my daily life that I would like to remember.

Good Morning, Moon

James and I are up alone this morning, sitting on the sofa. I've been reading, and he's been rearranging stacks of books, pretending to nurse his stuffed kitty, filling and emptying a packing envelope with puzzle pieces, etc. The sky has lightened, but it's still early morning dusk, and James, who has paused in his labors a moment to stand on the sofa looking out the window, notices a faint fingernail sliver.
"Love moon," he says. I start to nurse him, and he pauses every minute or two to look out the window again and make his report. "Moon still there!"
I woke up this morning on the wrong side of bed, thinking angrily about a lot of unsolvable problems.  I wanted to be alone for half an hour before the boys got up, so I could keep on thinking angrily without distraction. I don't mean to suggest that angry thinking isn't a worthwhile pursuit, within reason, but the combination of a very small child and astronomy does make it dwindle down into something pretty small and postponeable.

Do you really want to know?

Henry would like us to have more children. He brings it up several times a week. I think he thinks a baby would give more scope for his kindness than his 2-year-old brother seems to, and he is at least theoretically interested in developing his kindness chops. I have explained to him that we are unlikely to have a third child, and that the five or six more he wants are definitely out of the question.

So yesterday he came up with this modest proposal."Every time you get too old to have another baby, we can get another mama to make a brother for me. How do you like that idea, Mama?"