I'm sitting there with the tutor who is explaining that my kid needs some physical action to help him work out his thought process while he's sitting still. Something repetitive, that he can do without even really thinking about it.
I look down at my fingers twirling themselves around imaginary yarn despite the fact that I've left my knitting in the car.
I have no idea where he gets this from...
Damn, but this parenting gig is hard.
It's like scaling a loose sand dune sometimes. Just when you think you have a handle on it, the ground slips underneath you a bit.
It's hard not to take the report cards and progress reports as a grade on my parenting abilities. It's hard to know how serious to be with a six-year-old about his academic aspirations. When to listen to experts, and when to plant your feet and push back at them. There is no separating emotion from these sorts of discussions. Scientific objectivity is out of reach.
Conversation with the youngling:
"Remember that thing you were telling me about 'i' pants?"
"'I' pants?" Kids change topics on you at random and with frequency. We were talking about toothpaste two seconds ago. I have no idea where he's going with this.
"Yeah, you know, the blue ones?"
"Blue 'i' pants?" I've got nothing. I look at my husband. He shakes his head no. He doesn't have a clue either.
"Remind me."
"That make your eyes look blue."
"Eye-pants?"
Last week my kid had a check-up with the pediatrician which resulted in a flu shot. My six-year-old calmly sat flipping through a book while the doctor and I discussed the matter. Too calm, I thought, which I figured was due to a malfunction in the universal translator. When the doc went out to get the nurse with the pointy needles, I explained that the words "vaccination" and "injection" in this case were synonymous with "shot" and received more the sort of reaction I had been expecting. Hysterics.
"Why do you have two computers?"
The end of the school year and the beginning of summer camp have left a half day gap in the middle which has landed my 5-year-old next to me, dangling off the arm of my office chair like a monkey.
"It's one computer, little fish. See down there under the desk? I have two monitors." He examines the blue glowing light on the CPU for a bit.
He pops back up. "Everyone here has two monitors," he notes, turning in a circle in the middle of my small workgroup. "Why?"
"Because we're that cool."
I've had to do this a couple of times, and I hate it.
And I'm pondering through the tears that I'm crying over my cat's body why it is that I've had blood relatives, with whom I've shared genes and Thanksgivings, whose deaths have affected me less than this little mammal that I'm handing over to the vet now, and is that right or is that wrong?
Or is it just what it is?
And all I can do is hope through the tears that my kid won't ask how kitty died because I've already resolved not to lie to him but I don't want to tell him mommy paid the vet to do it.
And so I'm back from outerspace from Disneyland.
The kid's first trip was awesome. He did Space Mountain right out of the gate (and by his own insistence, I might add). When he got off he was cool, collected, and a little wobbly. He said it was a little scary on the fast part and he didn't need to do that again. "Maybe when I'm six."
Fair enough.
Buzz Lightyear's Astroblasters was probably the biggest hit, everything involving 3D glasses was very cool, and the Haunted Mansion was proclaimed not scary at all.
I had my first 2nd Amendment debate with my son recently at the kitchen table. I was eating breakfast. He had finished his cereal and was shooting at invisible robbers with a contraption built of legos.
“You know, kiddo, I don’t think guns belong at the breakfast table.”
“But, Mommy, I’m... I’m... What’s that word that means ‘saving’ but it’s different. Like what Superman does?”
“Defend?”
“Yes! I’m defending. The robbers want your cereal. I’m defending you.”
Great.
I walked Luke to an aisle at the back of the fabric store. Surrounding us were bolts of brightly colored fabric in neat rows and columns nearly to the ceiling. I spun him around to face the wall of felts.
"This is Robin Hood Hat fabric."
My son's old green play hat, which has served us well on adventures from Neverland to Sherwood Forest has grown too small and today we were questing for a replacement. This one was to be a Robin Hood hat.
Two Robin Hood hats, actually.
Luke requested an ewok costume early in the year and remained adamantly stuck to that idea, and to the fact that the ewok should have a bow and arrow. Shawn and I did a divide-and-conquer on this one. He played with sticks and I wrestled with fur. Behold the ewok!
