Sunday, June 29, 2014
The way we live now
Camptown Races as arranged for electronic keyboard has just played for the 247th... 248th... 249th time since I woke this morning, while James dances in a circle around the living room ad libbing worker lyrics (e.g., put the gravel right there, hammer, hammer, hammer!, workers eat oatmeal). Please... send... help...
Monday, June 16, 2014
Portrait of the artist as a very young man
The boys were drawing this morning while I did laundry.
Henry came into the back room to show me his picture of a bus.
"Who's this?" I asked, pointing to the driver, who was something of a cipher.
"James."
"And this?" pointing to the passenger, a much more vivid character who was grinning maniacally.
"James!"
We went into the green room to discuss it with James, the original.
"Oh no! James, what's wrong?" cried Henry.
James was lying on his side between the folds of the comforter, arms outstretched and back arched in an ecstasy of despair, moaning.
The paper he had been drawing on was cast aside and his only reply to Henry was a louder moan.
"James?" I asked. "What is it?"
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
"I ... don't ... know ... how ... to ... draw ... a ... hammer."
Henry came into the back room to show me his picture of a bus.
"Who's this?" I asked, pointing to the driver, who was something of a cipher.
"James."
"And this?" pointing to the passenger, a much more vivid character who was grinning maniacally.
"James!"
We went into the green room to discuss it with James, the original.
"Oh no! James, what's wrong?" cried Henry.
James was lying on his side between the folds of the comforter, arms outstretched and back arched in an ecstasy of despair, moaning.
The paper he had been drawing on was cast aside and his only reply to Henry was a louder moan.
"James?" I asked. "What is it?"
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
"I ... don't ... know ... how ... to ... draw ... a ... hammer."
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| This morning in the treasure chest, before wrestling with his demons. |
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Mother's Day
I would prefer to be the sort of person who doesn't care a bit about Mother's Day, but the fact is I really like being feted by my family. I hope I never turn into the old woman stewing over the flowers no one sent me, but god only knows what I might come to.
At any rate, today I had no grounds for complaint, however unreasonable. I was surprised at breakfast with a perfect mix of presents: something the whole family stands to benefit by, something improving for me (it's both annoying and encouraging that Peter believes I can organize myself into writing a bestseller), and something purely indulgent. Henry and James and I dug up some raspberry starts to take to Mom, and Henry helped her plant them. And this afternoon...
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| ...I got to lounge in bed reading an enthralling book... |
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| ...and then to make shepherd's pie for supper at a pottering pace. |
Too many people I care about are spending their first Mother's Day motherless this year, and as I know from the infuriating lousiness of Father's Day, it needn't have been a holiday observed in one's particular family to hurt like hell. It might escape my nearest and dearest, with whom I am far too often tetchy, but I am thankful--only the word doesn't cover it--down to the grubby soles of my feet for my sleepless, tearful, mud-crusted, transforming, and surpassingly sweet experience of motherhood. And I am equally grateful for my own stubborn, moralizing, cranky (I come by my tetchiness honestly!), nutty, wise, and loving mom.
Geology field trip
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| Hunting for fossils at Sherwood Oaks park, inspired by his first celebrity hero, Dr. Scott. |
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| More interested in chucking fossils than in hunting them, as of yet. |
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Overheard on the near west side
James, to Peter, as Peter was holding him wrapped up in a towel after his bath: "May I zip about?" I received this with so much enthusiasm the first time that it has already become a catchphrase with both boys.
James also now habitually runs naked from the bathroom after washing up and declares, "Here comes a fresh, clean guy!"
Henry, who has embraced science, to James: "How many atoms do you think are in a grain of salt?"
James: "Twelve."
Henry is also very interested in considering what objects of various sizes might look like to a flea. "This boot would be like a house to a flea!" "This house would be like a skyscraper to a flea!" "A skyscraper would be like a million hundred mountains to a flea!" Peter also enjoys this line of speculation, and he and Henry discuss with interest how many fleas, standing one on top of another, would be as tall as the tire on the neighbor's pick-up truck, and whether a flea's height, properly measured, should include its legs, and how it might feel to be the flea at the bottom of the stack.
James also now habitually runs naked from the bathroom after washing up and declares, "Here comes a fresh, clean guy!"
Henry, who has embraced science, to James: "How many atoms do you think are in a grain of salt?"
James: "Twelve."
Henry is also very interested in considering what objects of various sizes might look like to a flea. "This boot would be like a house to a flea!" "This house would be like a skyscraper to a flea!" "A skyscraper would be like a million hundred mountains to a flea!" Peter also enjoys this line of speculation, and he and Henry discuss with interest how many fleas, standing one on top of another, would be as tall as the tire on the neighbor's pick-up truck, and whether a flea's height, properly measured, should include its legs, and how it might feel to be the flea at the bottom of the stack.
Next time, how about you take them out for ice cream?
I was sort of desperate all weekend for solitude and costume drama, so after dinner tonight, Peter took the boys for a walk--in Rose Hill Cemetery--while I enjoyed, modestly, half an hour of B-list BBC. As soon as they returned, Peter slung Henry over his shoulders and carried him into the bathroom for a sorely needed hair-washing. James came and joined me on the bed.
"Mommy, what is in that black thing in the cemetery?" he said.
"What black thing?"
"Henry said it has bodies in it. Why do people's bodies get buried when they die? I don't want to get buried."
"Oh, well, sweetie--"
"Am I going to die, Mommy? I hate dying, you know."
"Oh, darling, yes, everybody dies. But it probably won't be for a very, very, very long time."
"Will Daddy die? But I like Daddy!"
"Yes, Daddy will die."
"Will you die, Mommy? Will Henry die?"
"Yes, sweetie, all people die, everyone of us will die one day. We hope it will be when we are all very, very old."
"But I don't want to get buried. I don't want to go in a hole."
Here I tried to propose some distinction between body and spirit--the inner James--in a fashion too piffling even to attempt to transcribe.
"But I love my body!"
"I love your body too!" I said, and gave up trying to do anything more in this conversation than doggy-paddle.
"I hate dying!"
"Dying is sad, but, somehow, somehow it really is all right. It's just what is."
"But you know, Mommy, workers sometimes go under the ground to dig pipes. So maybe I like to go in a hole, like a worker." James can be persuaded these days to do almost anything, if only you can make him believe it's a worker-like thing to do.
The only possible end to this shattering conversation was a shameless love-fest, which duly ensued. Ten minutes later, both boys and I were playing a game that involved their riding in the air on my knees, demanding to know if they could eat butts, eyeballs, and poopoo for breakfast, to which I replied in a voice like Geraldine McEwan that the only acceptable options were eggs, oatmeal, and yogurt, on "gurt" sending them flying into the air. Hilarity abounded. Five minutes after that, James found his before-bed snack of plain yogurt one too many for him, and I had to stop him as he was trying to subdue the gobbet that was dribbling down his pajama front by smearing it onto the floor.
In the past three days, I have seen a Facebook meme in which Steve Jobs's success in business is attributed to his remembering often that he would die and have also read in a book about depression that the Dalai Lama is so kind because he has meditated on death every day since he was eight. My experience is that is perfectly possible to think often and poignantly about death and dying--I do and have for decades now--to much less remarkable effect.
"Mommy, what is in that black thing in the cemetery?" he said.
"What black thing?"
"Henry said it has bodies in it. Why do people's bodies get buried when they die? I don't want to get buried."
"Oh, well, sweetie--"
"Am I going to die, Mommy? I hate dying, you know."
"Oh, darling, yes, everybody dies. But it probably won't be for a very, very, very long time."
"Will Daddy die? But I like Daddy!"
"Yes, Daddy will die."
"Will you die, Mommy? Will Henry die?"
"Yes, sweetie, all people die, everyone of us will die one day. We hope it will be when we are all very, very old."
"But I don't want to get buried. I don't want to go in a hole."
Here I tried to propose some distinction between body and spirit--the inner James--in a fashion too piffling even to attempt to transcribe.
"But I love my body!"
"I love your body too!" I said, and gave up trying to do anything more in this conversation than doggy-paddle.
"I hate dying!"
"Dying is sad, but, somehow, somehow it really is all right. It's just what is."
"But you know, Mommy, workers sometimes go under the ground to dig pipes. So maybe I like to go in a hole, like a worker." James can be persuaded these days to do almost anything, if only you can make him believe it's a worker-like thing to do.
The only possible end to this shattering conversation was a shameless love-fest, which duly ensued. Ten minutes later, both boys and I were playing a game that involved their riding in the air on my knees, demanding to know if they could eat butts, eyeballs, and poopoo for breakfast, to which I replied in a voice like Geraldine McEwan that the only acceptable options were eggs, oatmeal, and yogurt, on "gurt" sending them flying into the air. Hilarity abounded. Five minutes after that, James found his before-bed snack of plain yogurt one too many for him, and I had to stop him as he was trying to subdue the gobbet that was dribbling down his pajama front by smearing it onto the floor.
In the past three days, I have seen a Facebook meme in which Steve Jobs's success in business is attributed to his remembering often that he would die and have also read in a book about depression that the Dalai Lama is so kind because he has meditated on death every day since he was eight. My experience is that is perfectly possible to think often and poignantly about death and dying--I do and have for decades now--to much less remarkable effect.
Friday, March 21, 2014
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