THE “WHAT HAPPENS IN THE BATHROOM OUGHT TO STAY IN THE BATHROOM” EDITION
With 4 small children, let’s be real: a lot of our household’s goings-on revolve around – ahem – “bio breaks” (as they’re called in the corporate world).
*****
A, while actively pooping on the potty: I like your brown* eyes, Mom. I like your eyes.
January, 2022, 2 years old
*I have decidedly blue eyes
*****
Me, from the kitchen, loudly calling to C in a high, sing-song voice as he scoots around the living room making faces and grunting noises: what are you doing?? Are you pooping, little love? Are you pooping??
A, from somewhere far in the distance, also loudly but in a suspiciously strained tone: yeah.
July 2022, 3 years old
*****
Me: *closes door to the bathroom*
A, immediately following, from the hallway: Mom! Where are you, Mom?!
Me: I’m going to the bathroom. Just a minute, please!
O, knocking on the door: Mom?? Are you in there??
Me: yes, boys, I’m going to the bathroom. Can I have a little privacy, please? I’ll be out in just a moment.
(not even 2 seconds later)
A, forcibly rattling the handle of the bathroom door: but why are you not done yet, Mom?!
July 2022, 3 + 4 years old
This week, effectively a getaway up north with O, has been wonderful. With just the two of us, after work/camp hours we moseyed over to a park play date with friends, deployed all the beach toys without certain brothers demanding O take turns, and enjoyed an indulgent sushi dinner at a restaurant with a dress code (aside: does a Mickey Mouse sweater qualify as business casual?). But there was one thing we’d been talking about since the bros left on Sunday: a beach bonfire with s’mores.
Tonight, the final night of our week away, was go-time. I had been hyping it all week. I had kept the skewers unpacked and out all week for this one night. O had successfully resisted raiding the marshmallows and bars of chocolate all week in anticipation of this evening.
Well, among the many things Dave & I tag-team for efficiency’s sake… evidently starting a bonfire is one of those things. On many an evening, I have put the boys to bed and walked outside to enjoy a cocktail over our patio bonfire. Unfortunately, until tonight, it did not quite occur to me that I have never, in fact, started said fire.
So there I am, setting up our beach’s fire pit with pre-cut beach wood and — let’s be real — a bona fide fire log… or two. I brought my Bic lighter. My 4 year old is excitedly remarking that he hopes I can roast the marshmallows quickly so he can eat his s’mores. But it’s windy. It’s so, so windy. I burn off the first fire log’s wrapper and nothing has caught. I think maybe it’s the lighter that’s not holding a flame? So I pull my 4 year old away from his cache of sweets and go back to get a new lighter. But when we return, it’s the same result. And even with me shielding the wind with a few flatter planks of wood, and starting a new fire log, and explicitly reading the instructions on where to light the fire log… it’s a pretty sad showing until the wind extinguishes it entirely.
At this point we’re over 30 minutes into our venture, with nothing to show for it except that O has consumed much of our chocolate, wandered away to explore the riverbed rocks and see if the local ducks are home, and asked to call Dad to tell him he wishes he “was here to roast the marshmallows faster.”
But then I catch a break, and the fire log lights properly, and the wood on top catches and… I’m just saying, I give Tom Hanks a run for his money in this scene.
We ate exactly 2 s’mores (because that’s all that was left of the marshmallows), and I felt as though I was robbed of something primal when I had to use lake water to quell the last of the wind-swept flames 15 minutes after this picture was taken.
I feel as though I should not count this as some kind of survivalist achievement, and yet I can’t help but close the day thinking… Bear Grylls might need to watch his back.
Related: unspoken arrangements in partnership // quality 1:1 time with a child.
After a wonderful week+ on vacation, O & I are hanging “up north” — just the two of us — as he was the only bro to get into a local day camp. The ability to work remotely, with my child safely engaged in outdoor activity for the entirety of the day, from the comfort of our home-away-from-home sure sounds ideal, but in practice, I was anxious on Sunday night as I prepped for the week.
For starters, O is our second born, and, while he is uncannily brave in moments when he needs to be, he’s not used to trailblazing without his brothers. In addition, he tends to freeze under pressure, so while many children may cry crocodile tears that evaporate as soon as their parents walk away, O is at risk of becoming inconsolable and retreating into a place of forlorn unresponsiveness for an extended period unless he has pretty undivided attention of someone aiming to resolve his woes.
All this to say, I was nervous about Monday morning drop-off at a camp that sounded promising but to which he had never been, particularly as he’d be going completely solo.
As a result, O & I conducted a reconnaissance mission on Sunday and came to scope out the camp. We puttered around the grounds and remarked on all the cool features, including winding trails through the woods, promisingly titled cabins (“library,” “workshop”), and beautiful beach section.
We then went to the store to pick up meal fixings per his selections — his first brown bag lunches! He chose: half a jelly sandwich, Pringles, applesauce, strawberries, baby carrots, and Mario fruit snacks. For snack, we froze yogurt pouches and packed them with goldfish crackers.
On Monday morning, he was in good spirits, and I resisted the urge to get frustrated as I wrestled him (literally, including fear of head injury as he thrashed about in a ticklish fit) to apply his base layer of sunscreen. We marched over to the check-in tent and made our way to the corral where the kids were playing until start time. O was just beginning to show signs of anxiety when a friendly little girl showed up behind us and asked where she was supposed to put her backpack. I clarified that we were told either one was fine, but that we were putting O’s with group A. She happily placed hers next to his, and told him she is “5 and a half years old.” O quietly replied that he’s “4 and a half,” and a friendship was born. I encouraged them to go together to the music garden a counselor had pointed out, but they quickly got bored and she instead showed him the way to the jungle gym, where they played with a 6-year-old who was wearing the same dinosaur “sweaty pants” (Target acquired) that O absolutely loves in his own wardrobe.
I let him know I would be heading out to work soon, gave him a kiss and a hug, and only loitered another few seconds before I walked away with him monkeying around with his new friends on the playground behind me. I tossed my bag (which had covertly housed his favorite stuffed Ankylosaurus in case of emergency comfort need) back into the passenger seat, and drove back home until 4pm pickup.
I guess after 4.5 years of being consistently impressed by this unassuming kid, I shouldn’t be surprised that he delivers in a pinch. On the other hand, it would be hard to overstate how happy I was to hear his joyful report as we drove home from the first day. Clearly he had a wonderful time, even if all he could specifically remember from his itinerary was that he “went swimming and had a snack.”
And if that wasn’t evidence enough of a busy day well-spent, he also spontaneously demanded to know “why are we not sleeping yet??” at 7:30pm that same night. By 7:35, he was sound asleep with “Anky,” resting up for his next big day at summer camp.
O is 4.5 years and has an endearing pattern of speech. In some ways, it’s genuinely wrong, as in his use of “-ded” as a past-tense suffix to present tense verbs: “I already knowded that!” In other ways, it’s close-but-not-quite, as in “when you told me I couldn’t have ice cream, you cracked my heart, Mom.” And finally, presumably because we live in a house disproportionately overrun with Y chromosomes, it’s a little fuzzy in terms of the grasp of female pronouns: “is that sher bike?”
Recently I’ve noticed an uptick in his use of similes. I started keeping track of a few because I found them fascinating — both because these are things that are interesting enough to him that he wants to comment on them, and because the things he compares them to are so wildly unlike the subjects themselves.
- A piece of popcorn is “like a squid”
- A Cheeto is “like a star wars ship docking”
- A Cheeto (same meal) is “like a meteor”
- A cloud is “like a bear”
- He likes my hair because it’s “like a rainbow!”
- My water (filling from the refrigerator unit) is “like a sonic ball jumping over and then speeding away”
- While learning how to work with a partner to fold a large blanket into halves, he excitedly announced that the trick was “you have to make it like a giant squid”
From the mouths of babes, as they say. Evidently if you look hard enough, many things around you are akin to squids.
THE “MOM HAS EVERYTHING UNDER CONTROL” EDITION
Dave was traveling for business recently, so I was single-momming and – proudly – made it to all morning bus stop drops with 4 x children dressed, changed, fed, limbs attached, and on time. On the other hand, the following statements were also made during the course of the week:
*****
O, happily skipping away from the bathroom in the final minute before we need to leave for school: the toilet is clogged, Mom! So you need to tell Dad!
4 years old
*****
O, solemnly from the backseat of the car, upon hearing the total of our McDonald’s order: wow. That’s a big number.
*****
Me: *increasingly testy, raising my voice to obtain answers to repeated questions as the boys talk over each other*
J, sincerely: Mom, do you need more sleep?
6 years old
***”*
Like I said. Totally under control.
THE OUT AND ABOUT EDITION
*****
Dave, pointing out signs for J to practice reading as we drive: look, J, another Applebee’s.
J: oh, yeah.
Dave, pointing at hospital across the road: and that’s where O, A, and C were born.
J: was I not born there?
Dave: no, you were born at a different hospital because we didn’t live around here yet.
O, pensively: I was born in… an Applebee’s.
April 2022, 4 years old
*****
Me: O! Oh my gosh, where did you find an arm?! Go put that mannequin’s arm back on her body wherever she is!
April 2022, 4 years old
*****
(Loudly, in the stall of a crowded public restroom)
O: I like your underwear, Mom!
Me: oh! Well, thank you.
O: I really like your underwear, Mom! It’s like princess underwear!
The large group of women waiting in line as we exit the stall: 🙂
February 2022, 4 years old
4 boys, 4 anecdotes that perfectly describe their respective dominant personality traits. See if you can guess who is who: J, O, A, or C.
1: this bro innately prefers all things off-brand: Donald over Mickey, Luigi over Mario, even secondary colors like green over primary blue.
2: this bro is the “domino that won’t fall” according to his teachers. When the entirety of his class successively wakes from nap-time cranky or crying, he is – without fail – smiley and content.
3: this bro is a living study in developmental conflicts between impulse, logic, and responsibility. Immediately following losing his temper with a friend, he will be receptive to conversations around empathy for his friend, and then – completely of his own volition – run over to said friend’s house to apologize in person for his actions.
4: this bro comes home with the following note from his teacher — after a class assignment that would have been counted complete if all he had done was simply scribble a few lines using the crayon of his choice.
Answers: (1) O (2) C (3) J (4) A (of course).
