Whitman

A day in the life

See this charming boy delivering flowers to his mother? Oh he was very dear this morning, for about an hour or two. Slept until 8 (after a 5:15 am wakeup crying that I had forgotten to put him to bed – so exhausted was he last night that apparently he blacked out during the extended prayers/ghosts-go-away-dance/repeated requests for water, etc, etc, etc that I did in fact perform).
As you can see by lunchtime things were going downhill precipitously. Whit and Grace played “dog” for a while, including putting Whit’s Halloween costume from 2006 on him (which still, alarmingly, fits). I was making lunch and I could hear her ordering him around upstairs, and I asked, “Gracie? Are you playing dog?” And she answered cheerfully, “Yes! Whit likes this game!” Okay. I had some flashbacks of similar bossing around I did of Hilary – Hils, I’m sorry!
During “quiet time” I just wanted to read my excellent book. The children kept on emerging from their rooms with requests and issues, each one smaller and more ridiculous than the last. I kept getting more and more annoyed. I was reminded of a woman my parents knew when we lived in Paris. Every afternoon she took to her bed to read for a while. During that time she kept a wet washcloth in a basin by her bed. If any of her children ventured into her room, interrupting her reading, she would smack them in the face with a cold, wet washcloth. I thought this was horrifying for a long time and now think it’s somewhat genius (in much the same way “you must be mistaking this for a democracy” has gone from statement that makes me cry to rallying cry)

After quiet time, while Matt played tennis, I took both kids out on their bikes. They wanted to go to the “dog park” which has a big paved circle to ride around. They quickly ditched their bikes in favor of climbing the tree. Whit began to scream randomly at Grace every few seconds. I told him if he yelled again we were leaving. He yelled again. We left. I walked down the street trailing a crying, screaming 4 year old, face red and wet with tears. It was awesome. I gave him one more chance at another playground nearby, which he promptly forfeited by screaming/whining/crying (who knew such a fantastic hybrid existed? oh believe me, it does). I then dragged him by the hand, pulling his bike with the other hand, down the street to the car.

I’d say he conservatively wailed “Mummy!” about 400 times in less than an hour. As I was getting dinner ready and he whined my name yet again I finally snapped on him. “Whit!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, “If you say my name one more time I am going to go absolutely apeshit on you!” He was visibly startled at my screaming (which makes it seem like more of a rarity than it sadly is). But then I could see the little wheels turning and he said, “Mummy?” He continued right through my blowing up, “Argggghhhhh!” asking, “What is apeshit?“

He ate almost nothing at dinner and then screamed some more. Finally he fell into a spellbound stupor in front of Scooby Doo and was asleep in his bed by 7. He regained a little ground with me tonight by choosing “Goodnight Moon” as his bedtime story. Oh that book makes me ache with nostalgia and awareness of how fleeting it all is. Plus now he is sleeping which we all know is my absolute favorite state for children.

Still, not my finest day or his. Am hoping those catlike, land-on-all-fours-after-jumping-from-roof, Darwinesque reflexes kick in tomorrow. The ones where he throws me a bone when I think I can literally take no more. I imagine those of you reading this who are moms know what I mean. After four straight nights of hourly waking he’d suddenly sleep from 10 to 4. After days of screaming (like today), he’ll be an outright charmer for a day or two and make me forget the incessant whining. I chalk it up to sheer survival instinct.

Landslide

The first 90 minutes of my day today perfectly illustrate the potent combination of randomness and emotion that defines my current life.

Whit emerged from his room wearing his Tonka tee shirt, shorts, a plastic Police helmet, and wielding a paper towel roll that had clearly been repurposed as a gun. He leapt out into the hall (I was sitting at my desk, right there) with the kind of energy and frantic gun-pointing that I associate with the Law & Order folks breaking into an apartment that the dangerously armed perp might still be hiding in.

After Eggo waffles, Whit begs to bring his paper towel roll gun to camp and I refuse. “But it’s just cardboard, mummy!” he pleads. I give him a “don’t BS me” glare and he huffs, “Okay, fine! But I want it here when I get home!” before throwing it down by the door.

Grace made her own fashion statement today in pink madras bermuda shorts and a size 2T Elmo tee shirt (both short and snug). Adequately sartorially styled, the three of us piled into the car to go to Starbucks and then camp. I almost don’t need to mention, so regular an occurence has it been this summer: it is pouring.

As Whit is climbing into the car, slipping around in his too-small hand-me-down rainboots (I encouraged him to wear crocs, he insisted on the boots, more on that later) I scooped out of his seat a handful of puffy My Little Pony stickers that had been favors at last weekend’s birthday party. I shoved them into the pocket of my raincoat to surreptitiously throw away, gambling that he had forgotten about them.

After Starbucks and the drive-through ATM, we head to Grace’s camp. She is singing along with alarming comfort to the Black Eyed Peas’ “Boom Boom Pow.” I asked her how she knows every single word and she shrugs, “We sing this at camp.” When did she turn into a teenager? Glancing in the rearview mirror, I see her long, tanned legs dangling towards the floor and feel as though I can see her fourteen year old self in her six year old body.

“Gracie, you know how we are going out for a special dinner tonight at the American Girl Doll store? With Caroline and her mummy?”

“Yes, today is the day!” (she had been counting down, no joke, on an hourly basis since I told her about this plan on Monday).

“Well, do you mind if we go a few minutes early and you do one errand with me?”

“Oh, mummy, I’d be delighted!” Again with the mini adult language.

After we drop Grace off, Whit and I head over to his camp. This is across town and takes a surprisingly long time in the rush hour traffic. As we sit at a red light, Landslide comes on the radio. I am flooded with emotions, and tears fill my eyes. Thoughts run through my head about change, people growing older, life moving ahead, and how much I fear uncertainty and the unknown. I reach over and pull on a pair of big shades (I always have one at the ready, part of my wrinkle mania), never mind the pouring rain.

Whit is happily oblivious to my little emotional attack in the front seat. I am navigating through back streets like the local I am, avoiding as many lights as possible, peering through my tears and my dark glasses, when I hear, “Hey, Mummy! Good way to go!” This causes a laugh to break through my sudden gloom. My son is opining on the best way to snake through Cambridge so as to avoid traffic and lights. For some reason this strikes me as hilarious.

When we arrive at camp, Whit pitches a small fit that he doesn’t have his crocs on. He whines, loudly, “Oh, mummy, you are just not a good mummy! You forgot to bring my crocs!” I grit my teeth and continue pulling him by the hand through the crowded parking lot, choosing not to even rise to the bait. They know how to pull the strings, these children of mine! Moments after arriving at the purple room he is happily scampering around in sock feet. Fine.

And now I am staring out the window at the downpour, thinking about how every hour of my life seems to contain an amalgam of puffy stickers, venti nonfat lattes, and crashing waves of emotion and melancholy.

What is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail thru the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Whit, Whit, and more Whit

This morning, as usual, Whit dressed himself.
Camouflage hat, size 18 months Princeton tee shirt, exercise pants, and red plastic Old Navy flipflops (from, I believe, the girls section). Perhaps a sad statement on my life, but one of the highlights and things I look forward to most each day is what Whit emerges from his room sporting.
At swimming he again wore his manly pink swim shirt, apparently choosing pink goggles to best complement it.

After swimming I guess he wanted to offset all that manly pink with some weight lifting. I’m frankly impressed that my flyweight could hoist these dumbells. Guess he did some sets & reps.