I admit that the idea of a self-conscious "gratitude practice," much touted as the secret to happiness, has rubbed me the wrong way since I heard of it. I won't go into why, but you know what? I'll get over it.
Without further ado or apology, here is the working list of what Henry, James, and I are thankful for this week (I leave it to the reader to sort out the authors of specific entries):
1. Babies.
2. Food: Fruit! Turkeys! Chicken with pizza sprinkles!
3. Henry and James and Peter and all the other parts of the family. (Henry would like to note especially that this includes Grandmama. Auntie too.)
4. Knitting! Knowing how and being able to afford the yarn.
5. Flowers! In the yard and right here on the kitchen table.
6. Good books, and the ability to read and understand them.
7. Good shoes, and feet that don't hurt any more.
8. Dreams and mysteries.
9. Good places to go, like Griffy Lake, Lake Monroe, Wonderlab, and Banneker.
10. Places we haven't been to yet but can hope to go someday, like the Ocean, Afghanistan, Gary, Kotahoka (it's in the south and has a lot of oceans in it), Chicago, and the North Pole.
11. Friends: old ones, new ones, nutty ones, nice ones.
12. Friends: Isaak, Willa, Ida, Graedan, Josh, Oliver (except when he's being too rough).
13. A warm and safe house to live in. Not only that, but a second house that will also one day be warm and safe. Relatedly: big windows, tall ceilings, southern exposures, and pawpaw trees. And paint chips to dream over.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Monday, October 14, 2013
Brother to brother
Henry just took this picture of James, with the instructions: "Make a funny face."
Mission accomplished, as they say.
Mission accomplished, as they say.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
A learned herpetological dialogue
Me: James, do you want to tell Henry what you did this morning?
James: My went poop! In the potty!
Henry (not yet impressed, but willing to keep an open mind): How big was it?
Me: It was big!
James: Like a boa constrictor!
Sunday, September 1, 2013
My new favorite book
"So," I say one day last week after lunch. "I feel like drawing a picture of a gnome."
"Great idea, Mommy," says Henry, leaping up. I bring in a basket of crayons and paper, and he gets busy.
By the time I am ready to sit down, he has produced a picture of a one-legged gnome with googly eyes, a tripartite beard, and a properly pointy hat. I am delighted. Henry's usual subjects when he sits down to draw are monster trucks and Army tanks, produced by the score, and I will admit that to my eye they lack the human interest that reels me in.
I propose to color Henry's picture in, while he works on more gnomes.
"Now you make one," he says, offering suggestions for my composition as I work. "How about another gnome there? How about a gnome family?"
"Mommy! I know!" he says after a bit. "Let's make a book!" He runs out of the room and comes back with a stapler. We assemble our pages, and he staples them together.
"Let's call it Gnomes Book," he says. I tell him the letters, and he writes them down.
"Now we need letters for each page." I suggest he tell me what he wants each page to say, and I will write it down. We disagree slightly about the humor and interest of nonsense words, but once we're done, I have to admit that he was right. He suggests that I come up with my own words to go with the picture I drew, and I think we can all agree that this is where the story really flags. Still, Henry is so pleased with the idea of a tree stump house that he doesn't mind the dullness.
When we're done writing, he decides the plain back cover is wasted space, so with a practiced hand he sketches a gnome car. To avoid confusing the reader between the two covers, he also suggests adding "FRONT" where indicated. Finally, he wants the authors to sign their names.
"Mommy, I am so so proud of myself!" he says. We dance around the living room, and read the book three times in a row. James wakes up from his nap and comes to see what the fuss is all about. We read the book to him, and he laughs most gratifyingly at the right parts.
***
In other news, during my long blog silence, we have bought a house, and Henry has started preschool. And now I think we are all caught up.
"Great idea, Mommy," says Henry, leaping up. I bring in a basket of crayons and paper, and he gets busy.
By the time I am ready to sit down, he has produced a picture of a one-legged gnome with googly eyes, a tripartite beard, and a properly pointy hat. I am delighted. Henry's usual subjects when he sits down to draw are monster trucks and Army tanks, produced by the score, and I will admit that to my eye they lack the human interest that reels me in.
I propose to color Henry's picture in, while he works on more gnomes.
"Now you make one," he says, offering suggestions for my composition as I work. "How about another gnome there? How about a gnome family?"
"Mommy! I know!" he says after a bit. "Let's make a book!" He runs out of the room and comes back with a stapler. We assemble our pages, and he staples them together.
"Let's call it Gnomes Book," he says. I tell him the letters, and he writes them down.
"Now we need letters for each page." I suggest he tell me what he wants each page to say, and I will write it down. We disagree slightly about the humor and interest of nonsense words, but once we're done, I have to admit that he was right. He suggests that I come up with my own words to go with the picture I drew, and I think we can all agree that this is where the story really flags. Still, Henry is so pleased with the idea of a tree stump house that he doesn't mind the dullness.
When we're done writing, he decides the plain back cover is wasted space, so with a practiced hand he sketches a gnome car. To avoid confusing the reader between the two covers, he also suggests adding "FRONT" where indicated. Finally, he wants the authors to sign their names.
"Mommy, I am so so proud of myself!" he says. We dance around the living room, and read the book three times in a row. James wakes up from his nap and comes to see what the fuss is all about. We read the book to him, and he laughs most gratifyingly at the right parts.
***
In other news, during my long blog silence, we have bought a house, and Henry has started preschool. And now I think we are all caught up.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
The sweetest of sweet things
Although it hasn't been a nice week, I realized this evening that Henry and James each said things to me that are surpassingly, maybe superlatively sweet during it, so that at least is worth remembering.
Henry:
I was showing the boys baby pictures of themselves in knitwear. We looked through quite a number, including several in which I was holding one or the other of them. In a very offhand manner, which is what made it so dear, Henry said, "I like what you look like, Mommy."
James:
I was crying. Both boys hate it when I cry, and I usually try not to do it around them. (Not that I cry all the time! But it was a bad week, as I said.) James reacts by trying out his battery of winning ways. We play a game sometimes where he says "Bad Mama!" and I pretend to cry and when he doesn't like that anymore he says "Good Mama!" and I grin fatuously. So he will say "Good Mama!" or kiss me or say "I yuv you," all of which is of course exceedingly sweet and devastating. But this week he said something I say to him when he cries, and it just about overset me. "I here, Mama," he said, patting my hair awkwardly, "I with you."
Henry:
I was showing the boys baby pictures of themselves in knitwear. We looked through quite a number, including several in which I was holding one or the other of them. In a very offhand manner, which is what made it so dear, Henry said, "I like what you look like, Mommy."
James:
I was crying. Both boys hate it when I cry, and I usually try not to do it around them. (Not that I cry all the time! But it was a bad week, as I said.) James reacts by trying out his battery of winning ways. We play a game sometimes where he says "Bad Mama!" and I pretend to cry and when he doesn't like that anymore he says "Good Mama!" and I grin fatuously. So he will say "Good Mama!" or kiss me or say "I yuv you," all of which is of course exceedingly sweet and devastating. But this week he said something I say to him when he cries, and it just about overset me. "I here, Mama," he said, patting my hair awkwardly, "I with you."
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Tales from the apiary
I am engaged in a half-hearted campaign lately to ensure that Henry is dressed before he goes outside, at least in the front yard. Our back yard is insulated from the street by the fenced in area for the dogs, which is waist high in dock and surrounded by scrubby trees, so is quite private, but in the front there's no hiding. I'm torn, because I don't want to offend against community standards, nor or course do I want him to catch anybody's creepy eye, but on the other hand nudity is the natural next step now that I have fully embraced barefootery. Also, there are so many other more important questions to put my foot down about, and I really love our easy indoor-outdoor life at home in warm weather and do not want to take on monitress duty at the door.
Nor do I know quite what to say to justify the rule. I have been telling Henry that now that he's four and a half, he needs to wear pants in the front yard, which makes no sense at all, of course, but he has been surprisingly accepting.
So I was a little surprised today to catch him heading out the front door in the altogether. I was on the sofa. He was hovering behind the sofa's high arm.
"Henry!" I said. "You need to put on some pants!"
"I really, really don't want to," he said.
"I'm sorry," I said. "But you do. You're just too old now to go out without your pants."
"No, Mommy!"
"Why don't you want to wear pants?" I asked.
"Because I am pretending I am a bee." His face flushed with delight at his game. "And this is my stinger!"
He turned around, revealing a lacquered yellow chopstick, business end out (thankfully), protruding from his bottom.
Nor do I know quite what to say to justify the rule. I have been telling Henry that now that he's four and a half, he needs to wear pants in the front yard, which makes no sense at all, of course, but he has been surprisingly accepting.
So I was a little surprised today to catch him heading out the front door in the altogether. I was on the sofa. He was hovering behind the sofa's high arm.
"Henry!" I said. "You need to put on some pants!"
"I really, really don't want to," he said.
"I'm sorry," I said. "But you do. You're just too old now to go out without your pants."
"No, Mommy!"
"Why don't you want to wear pants?" I asked.
"Because I am pretending I am a bee." His face flushed with delight at his game. "And this is my stinger!"
He turned around, revealing a lacquered yellow chopstick, business end out (thankfully), protruding from his bottom.
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