I don’t remember when my warrior princess’ hand fell off. She was down to one leg by then, but she hadn’t lost the other yet. When I met her, she was buried in a box slated for donation. Someone had mistakenly hauled her out with the detritus of a 30 year school psychology career when my predecessor left.
It’s easy to confuse tools of my trade for toys. They are. I also have work dinosaurs, and a work Minion fart gun. Warrior princess was part of a set of action figures used to test play and interaction skills in children being evaluated for autism. I may be giving away trade secrets, but this sliver of the test goes like this: “Here kid play with these toys.” I dump out a zip lock bag full of toys and figures and then three or more adults stare casually at the child and record what happens.
When her leg first detached, my students’ reactions were
fascinating. Their response to my one-legged
lady became my own test within a test.
(Don’t tell the people who standardized it.)
Did they inquire about her?
Did her missing limb bother them?
Did they construct a story about it?
Did they attempt to fix her? Did
they ignore her in favor of the toy wrench or shovel that are also part of this
section?
Sometimes, warrior princess was sent straight to the hospital in a toy ambulance half her size. Sometimes, an industrious kiddo would try a DIY repair with the toy wrench. Sometimes, her brokenness was too upsetting to bear and she’d be cast aside.
This lasted for years.
Most children I have evaluated for autism have met her. I would venture some of my colleagues who
regularly observe me administer this assessment think that the broken doll is
intentional. She’s an institution.
But at some point, she lost her other leg and her hand and became just too broken to be of use. I kept her because I’m a weirdo and because I’d challenge anyone to hang out with the same humanoid object for a decade and refrain from anthropomorphizing it just a touch. I replaced her with a supple, bendy Wonder Woman. In retrospect, that might make me a bad feminist.
I tossed the chunks of my broken friend into the bottom of
my already too-full work bag.
And I forgot.
I didn’t immediately think of her when I discovered the
broken and missing hand on one of my nativity figurines this December. Again, I’m not sure how exactly she came to
be missing her right hand either, though I have at least two promising leads
anytime anything is broken in my house.
You can’t leave Jesus’ mom all busted, and you certainly throw her in the trash. I wrestled with the idea of a Frankenstein-like repair on the Blessed Virgin. But for me, my warrior princess is no less holy, and the end result was something sacred made whole, so I glued it on and matched the paint.
My Christmas decorations are long gone now, whisked away
with the zeal known only by those with January birthdays. But I can’t make myself pack this one
up. She’s still out and March is
knocking.
She’s for every day now.
She is mother’s love, but her hand has worked for so many children. She’s a tough in the softest way a warrior can be. She reminds me of the balance I seek. She reminds me of the blessings I have, and the blessings I can be. She reminds me of so many wonderful people I know.
She reminds me to be grateful that I do not have to choose.
Everyone in my line of work knows it helps to have a visual.
Wes was born during a full moon on winter solstice. If any kid deserves a birthday with mystical gravitas, it’s him. He loves the mythology that culminates at the solstice. Right now, he’s reading about the Norse gods. He appreciates the significance and he always has. Which is weird, because he’s only nine. Lots of things about Wes are unusual, but not only because of his age.
When he was very, very young we, as many parents did, used
to spell things to each other when we didn’t want our children to
understand. Because that took forever,
we quickly switched to another method where we used the fanciest or most
pretentious words for mundane things.
Here’s an example. “If you’re
amenable, let’s assemble and venture for provisions.” We meant, “If it’s cool with you, let’s go to
the store.” That stopped working around
the time Wes was three.
I love to watch people who don’t know Wes very well have
their first conversation with him. I
collect their facial expressions. Holy shit, this kid is for real. It reminds me of his sparkle because I am
lucky enough to be around it all the time.
It’s not just that he’s bright. Wes
has the effortless weight of sincerity behind him. He has learned from the master communicators
on both sides of the family tree. He
knows how to make people feel heard.
But he’s a nine-year-old kid and he’s definitely not above a
good five minute soliloquy on Beyblades while I’m trying to shower. He’s downstairs right now launching them into
each of his five stadiums and rating their performance on a 1 to 5 scale to
determine the best environments for each of his custom creations. He won’t forget what he learns.
He pretends with his whole body and imagines grand battles
and heroic victory. Wes pours over books
of beasts and delights in imagining creatures.
His favorites are made of water and earth. They are defensive types that don’t start
wars, but are more than happy to finish them.
He likes peace and balance.
He’d rather not fight, but he feels things deeply. And he sees unfairness to others before he
notices it on his own plate. The
asterisk to this, of course, is Malcolm.
His little brother, in the grand tradition, is a truly gifted pusher of
his buttons. But in general, Wes doesn’t
complain if he thinks it will hurt someone’s feelings. I worry that he won’t speak up for himself,
but he hasn’t had that problem so far.
Wes is relentlessly positive, brave, and enthusiastic. He has ridiculously good hair. He writes
amazing poetry and songs. He loves being
on the robotics team. He is responsibly
caring for his pet snake, the chickens, and the dog in the morning and is
saving his allowance because he isn’t sure what he wants yet. He practices guitar without being
reminded.
It’s difficult to be anyone’s parent, but I am lucky in the worry that being his mother brings. The pain and the privilege of raising you Wesley, is my worry that that world will change who you are. Everyone you meet will be better if it doesn’t. I love you, sweet boy. Happy birthday!
I had gotten a speeding ticket the week before. Texts and calls were still getting lost in
the universe. Maybe the washing machine
repair man had really tried to call? Something
was in the air on this morning too.
I am a school psychologist who works for specialized
programs for students with significant special education needs. These programs are housed in our local
districts and sprinkled all over the damn place. I drive to see each student. I dip in and out of a new environment every
time I finish one task and begin another.
There is a unique flavor everywhere, and usually that’s something I
enjoy.
Unless everything is on fire.
This happens sometimes.
Blame it on the full moon or whatever else you like, but sometimes, it just
blows up at once. Ask teachers; they’ll
tell you.
I have a weird job. Literal angry poop throwing and snotty grateful sobbing hugs are not every day occurrences, but they are on the menu. Neither of those things happened on this particular day and the events of that day were no one’s business but the people who were there. But yikes! Everyone was bathed in cortisol. Adults were upset. Kids were upset. If my day was happening in a bubble, it would have been a fine enough day. It was sure as hell not.
And that is how I got my second speeding ticket on the same
damn road, going even faster the second time.
The officer was just as young.
This time, I cried. I
do believe we had a full conversation, but I mostly remember repeating, “I was
just trying to help.”
Two tickets. Not my
finest work. The message could not be
more literal.
Slow down.
I really, extra suck at this one, which is why I received
such quick remediation.
No. Really. Slow the fuck down.
I was just trying to help.
I am not sure what help would have looked like in any of the situations I was in that day. I sometimes find myself standing in the middle of someone else’s storm armed with a graduate degree and decade of experience and at a total loss about what in the world to do in the next moment.
Crisis feels like crisis in my body, whether I am at work or
not. That is not to say you don’t want
me on your team if your student is in crisis.
I am not sure you would know what was happening with me if you were
standing next to me. Every other
professional I know is also in possession of a human body. It’s not just a me thing. I do my best work in a crisis when I use what
I am feeling to help other people understand what they might be feeling.
Empathy is absolutely invited into my vehicle when I roll
out with my test kits and clipboards every morning. She can even drive sometimes. But not when she is up to her eyeballs in
yuck and wants to go 19 over in a school zone.
I need to some work on self-regulation if I’m going to let her make
choices like that. I need one of her
sisters to drive while she gets her shit together.
She’ll be fine.
There’s probably even a french fry under the seat somewhere
if she needs a snack.
When last we talked, I was making for the safety of my office after an emotional, but not unusual work morning, only to find myself with the police in hot pursuit.
I pulled into the drug store parking lot. My sedan looks and smells like kids eat french fries in it. The detritus of my passenger seat includes a minion fart machine, a light up wand, a pokey wooden massage roller, bags and reams of tests, my own child’s pokemon underwear and a half squished box of kleenex. It’s a little bit embarrassing.
The officer was younger than me by far, and he smiled at me. I was going 17 over in a school zone. He asked for my license and registration. I played my hand, because I am not an idiot. As I rummaged in my poorly organized glove box, I admitted that, “I’m a little flustered, officer, I am working and I’m running late.” I gestured with my eyes at the mountain of educational shit riding shotgun. The officer scanner my car and we played do you know what the speed limit is on X road, and I sheepishly admitted that I had perhaps estimated incorrectly.
And then something about his entire body shifted.
His jaw set.
I saw him change. The guy now in front of me said things like, “step out of the vehicle, M’am.” and he meant it.
“Ma’m what’s in the box?” I was taken aback by the question. I waited for him to clarify before I moved. I told you about my car. He was going to have to be more specific. “The red one.” I guessed he meant the tin treasure chest for small prizes students sometimes earn for working with me. I then did something I will reflect on for a long time. I shrugged and opened the box, revealing a plastic corner for a half assembled styrofoam glider that the officer told me looked like a syringe.
I had nothing to lose by opening the box. This was not a box full of dildoes. Its contents painted me in a favorable light. It did not feel risky to reach for it. I was upset, but I was not afraid. I had no reason to think the officer would not give me the benefit of the doubt. I know of countless instances where officers in my community have dealt with hugely stressful situations with great professionalism and I had every reason to expect every officer in my neighborhood to behave as such. I knew that even though this officer was on alert and I was giving off crazy nervous energy, my best bet was to reach into my cluttered passenger seat and allow him access to the box. I choose to do it even though I know that I have the right not to.
I don’t know what I would have done under different circumstances. I don’t know what I would have done if I had felt afraid, if I hadn’t trusted that this officer viewed me favorably or if something had been in that box that I wouldn’t have wanted to show him. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t had somewhere else I really needed to be. I get to reflect on these things. I don’t have to. I don’t live in this compare and contrast. Will this person give me the benefit of the doubt? I don’t usually have to ask myself. It’s not fair, but it’s true. I am not done thinking about this.
There is some small justice in the world. No one hauls ass passed a high school during lunch time in front of a cop and deserves to skate on about their day. I still got a ticket for five over, but the officer helpfully explained how I could erase this infraction by taking a class and smiled at me as I pulled away. My washing machine was delivered later with only minimal swear words proclaimed about the navigation required when big things are moved about old houses. It’s gleaming and giant and I am thankful for the ease at which we can replace things that are too costly to repair. The heavens opened up and poured after they arrived but before they left and the machine came in dry. It rained, but nothing quite like the inch that was predicted.
Everything was quiet. What a garbage day. I drank some wine.
It is dangerous to decide that you have learned your lesson.
When we left off, I was on my way to my first appointment of the day trying to ward off fate with a cup of coffee. Our house had no power, but most of the town was fine. The restoration time displayed online was steadily being pushed back, the heavens were scheduled to dump an inch later that day and we rely on a sump pump. What can you do but keep doing your thing?
My first student was a delight. School was in full swing. Kids were accessing good supports. In building A, my student used a written schedule to understand what I asked of him, chose a reinforcer to work for and used a token system to understand how close he was to earning his reward. He used a timer for a set amount of access what he earned, and then completed more work. He knew what was going to happen. I knew what was going to happen. It felt good.
As I drove from building A to building B, I called the power company. The representative informed me, in the clipped and tired tone of someone who chronically finds themselves with a dearth of answers to reasonable questions, that she had no more information what was available on their website. She didn’t even laugh when I joked that I really just wanted to know if I needed to be angry at a squirrel sad about an accident. She was absolutely just no fun at all. Martha, or whoever, acknowledged that It was true that a job that takes longer than estimated is an indicator of an unusual problem. She heard me invoke the weather forecast, but she was so sorry, there was nothing more she can tell me. Was there anything else she could help me with today?
I texted my husband and winced, knowing I was not sending fun news.
In building B, my student finished up his last session by branching out and choosing a reinforcer outside his preferred interest. The point was math, not writing, so I wrote and he told me his answers. I made plans with his teacher to come back the next week to work on some reading assessments. As, I signed out of the building, the school secretary fretted at the impending storm and lamented that the fun run scheduled for that evening was all but certain to be rained out. It would not be easily rescheduled.
I checked my phone on the way out the door. No missed calls, but a voicemail from four minutes ago. The Lowe’s delivery guy was not pleased that no one was there and was going to wait a few more minutes. This was the second of a myriad of missed texts, images, and phone calls that have been causing incidents of havoc for most people I know lately it seems. The week before, our wonderful daycare provider had missed my texts to arrange care and caused a needless and frantic evening. I raced towards home. On the way, the driver lamented that they had tried to call me, had knocked, but no one was home, and could I please hold while he talked to someone about what could be done? I waited, I drove, I prayed he would still be there. Mac had no more clean pants. He came back and told me that he would have to come back later that day, after their next delivery. There would be pants.
Probably.
“I wish this had gone differently and I bet you do too.” The delivery guy did not disagree. We hung up. What had just happened?? I missed no calls. Maybe the concrete walls of the school messed up the reception? Maybe he dialed the wrong number the first time? Maybe he was covering his ass? Maybe my phone was on the fritz? Maybe the universe ate his call? Who knows? I sighed and planned to stop in to my office and change out my materials instead of rushing home.
“Mommy! Why can’t I see anything?” The five-year-old had been waking up at 4:38 a.m. for most of that week. Who knows why? The power had gone out while we were sleeping. I found him a flashlight and tucked him back in with two books. I checked to make sure our phone alarms were set and that they had full batteries. Consumers reported 200 customers without power in a narrow band down a main road and estimated that our service would return around 7 a.m. I tried to go back to sleep.
When I gave up and got out of bed, the estimate for power restoration was 8 a.m. We did the morning by candle and flashlight. The boys ate dry cereal and I did the best I could with my makeup. We had extra time because no one was distracted by NPR or Youtube. Because our washing machine had puked the previous weekend, Malcolm had to be convinced to wear corduroy pull ons from the bottom of his drawer. In true If You Give a Mouse a Cookie fashion, the little one greeted Friday in a llama print shirt, clip-on bow tie and hair that stuck up in the front. He insisted on rain boots to complete his look. We all knew a storm was coming.
When we pulled out of the driveway, the estimated time for restoration was 9 a.m. Dropping off the big one was uneventful. However, due to circumstances beyond the control of mortals, my two elementary-aged children attend school in the same district, but attend two buildings. This would not require gymnastics of executive functioning on most days, except for the fact that the buildings are ten minutes apart and keep hours within five minutes of each other. As of the first day of school, the entire city is under construction. If I ever get arrested, the best odds are that something went down in the pick up and drop off line.
We have a routine that works unless something minute happens, and we made it to our second destination just in time to give my poor friend a heart attack. She observed my child, who every other day, like, ever, rolls in with bedhead and track pants, skip inside with a tie and concluded that she must have missed the memo about picture day. The joke is on her; she thinks I know what I’m doing. Her baby girl was doing her, after a lengthy conversation about whether a long top, athletic shorts, and cowboy boots were the right call for mid October. I just love them both.
I downed some much needed caffeine before seeing my first student. I checked my phone extra because the new washing machine was being delivered between an oh-so-specific window of eight and noon. Because I had a relatively flexible schedule that morning, and because I like to live dangerously, I trusted their promise of a twenty minute warning before delivery.
My husband texted to worry together about the inch of rain predicted that day and the new restoration estimate of 11:45 a.m. Would we be able to run our sump? Our property backs up to a river. The basement flooded when I was pregnant with Malcolm. The resulting mess instigated major drainage redesign to the tune of several thousand dollars and half our yard exhumed. Flooding is an understandably touchy subject. Many people in my town have a touch of flood trauma. Our town includes several rivers, and has been flooding with increasing regularity. The sun was still shining, but we knew enough not to trust it.
I don’t hate that this birthday present doubles as a Halloween costume!
Malcolm turns five today. He wanted a million things for his birthday, and his requests changed every time he was asked. It depended on what was interesting to him in the moment you inquired. One request never wavered: the dinosaur suit. Anyone who is surprised by this has probably not met this child. Of course he found something larger than life, and equal parts ferocious and goofy.
The rest of his gifts include robot fish, wooden cooking toys and a big jar of craft supplies. Mac understands things by manipulating them. He is a builder and a chef. He delights in using the mixer and measuring ingredients. He doesn’t always want to eat the cake. He’s not that big on carbs. He learns by doing. He builds things to understand how they work and he won’t undertake a job unless he thinks he can do it effectively.
When you give Malcolm your full attention, he glows. It feeds him. He can suck you down a conversation rabbit hole, even when you think you are being very careful. It may or may not be deliberate. I have to warn his babysitters about this at bedtime especially. Bedtime is a great time to ask, “Why don’t dead things poop?” Malcom’s language is just catching up to what he has always understood. I never know what Malcolm is going to think, which is part of what makes conversation with him so enticing. I’m curious.
Malcolm knows what he thinks right away and he’s probably not going to change his mind. Helping him navigate moments where what he thinks doesn’t matter is one of the great challenges of parenting him. He’s extra stubborn when he knows he’s right. He told me once that he noticed that his face looks mean, even when he’s just feeling regular. He goes all in. He has an extra gear. The resulting resting bitch face is not something most preschoolers key in on introspectively. I asked him if that bothered him, and he replied right away, “No, that’s the way God made me.”
His teachers report that he’s well behaved at school and plays with everyone. This is and is not a surprise. Malcolm at home is a wild thing. He jumps out from behind corners and climbs the furniture. He cackles with delight and shakes his bare butt at you. He smells freaking terrible a good portion of the time and I’m never sure why. His fingernails are dirty and his hair is still baby fine and sticks up at odd angles. He has food on his shirt. But Malcolm’s mirror neurons are something to behold. His fashion sense is plugged in to the zeitgeist. When we go somewhere together, he usually picks up the environmental expectations before I do. On the playground, he often assembles a flock of kids around him, and they’re usually playing whatever game he’s into. Malcolm plays family about as often as he plays chase at school. He has a prospect for a wife, and they have agreed to have children, chickens and a greyhound. They have agreed to treat each other “tenderly.” He really is tender. He still snuggles into his grandmothers’ lap and falls right asleep. He likes it when you kiss his hair. When he was a toddler, he used to reach over to the high chair next to him, and hold hands with a peer who often cried during meals. It seemed to help.
I don’t know anyone else like this sunny wrecking ball. That’s a lie. He’s all sorts of things from people I love shaken up and twisted. He has my mother-in-law’s social magnetism. He has my father in law’s mechanical mind. He has my father’s intensity. He has my mother’s warm heart. He has my intuition. He has his father’s sense of mischief. He is all sorts of things I never saw coming. He is my baby. My baby is five, and he’s unfolding into such a force of nature. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Happy 5th Birthday, Malcolm Paul. Heads up, everyone else.
I don’t remember meeting my husband. I don’t really remember falling in love with him. I just was. Though we didn’t date until college, our love story is some real life Cory and Topanga shit. Kiel and I were born four weeks apart and our parents ran in the same circle of old friends. Our hometowns are about an hour apart, but we spent countless weekends and vacations camping, sledding and playing frisbee golf before it had its own specialty supply stores. Occasions of all kinds were marked for our parents and their friends to get together and remember they were still themselves. The story goes that I took my first steps at such a gathering. He was there, probably running around, already more coordinated than I was. I have always known him. He has always known me.
When I was seven, maybe eight, his parents invited mine to rent a cottage on a large inland lake about an hour away from either of us. We spent one week together every summer, and later two because one wasn’t enough for anyone. We tried to spend three weeks once, but two turned out the be the magic number. The cottages were small, togetherness was a necessity. We entertained countless friends and visitors, holding court in the beachless lawn. I read a book a day, tanned, tubed, water skied and napped. Kiel fished. After he went fishing, he usually made a snack and went fishing again. Days got away from us. Despite the most earnest of intentions, I would often spend an entire day without finding the time to accomplish polishing my toes, the single goal I aspired to achieve until its completion. The time was blissfully unstructured.
Time at that sparse cottage is one of those magical things. Kiel’s family still goes, though the cottage my family used to occupy is no longer for rent. Nothing about the place on Chippewa Lake looks holy, except for the oil painting of a grey man with folded hands above his austere supper. He’s been there for at least 25 years. When I arrive, I sweep my eyes over the meager furnishings, looking for the changes. Is there a new couch? New carpet? There are always a few new things, but never too many. The place is a constant punctuation, the backdrop for everything that has happened. Every year passes through.
I wrote this story for 11th grade English. The prompt was: Write about a person or place of significant influence. The exercise was meant to mimic a college application essay, but I was way too artsy to follow directions, which is probably a very common style of college application essay, now that I think of it. My husband and I were not in a relationship and would not be for a few more years. We were both dating other people, but I wrote about him. I wrote about him because the feeling of being known so effortlessly was important and rare. I didn’t understand the gravity, but I felt it. I am either someone who is a little spooky like that or someone who is incredibly good at getting what she’s after. I would prefer that people think both are true.
After 10 years of marriage and a million more quiet moments, I think about this one often. We have a lot fewer of those these days, and we have plenty of stories that don’t belong on a sweet anniversary post. We’ve been married for ten years. There have been some shit storms. That is possibly a big fat understatement. But I know who he is, and he knows who I am, and that is as close as I can come to explaining our secret to making it work.
(This PDF viewer is tricky; there are two pages here. Hover over the document to click through!)
The freckles in question, and an inside out dog ear, also both of my nostrils. Turns out this spot cannot be photographed without a full view up one’s nose.
I only kind of checked my schedule last week. It’s August and I’m about as untwisted as I’m going to get before I let the new school year frenzy creep up and eat my zen. My kids attend quite a bit of day camp in the summer. There are a lot of awesome opportunities in my town and a lot of them fit my kids’ interest. There’s nature camp, robotics camp, theater camp, Pokemon camp. Every year when the push to sign up comes out in freaking March I wonder if I’m overscheduling my kids. Every year, I remember the summer before and sign up for one more. My kids get a lot out of camp, and I get a lot of them being at camp. (See my previous complaints re: the punching.) It’s nice to have different permutations of family members in the house during the summer. When one kid is at camp, there are special activities for the child at home. When both kids are at camp there are naps and Netflix.
Last week my schedule said that Wes and wizard camp in the morning and Mac had nature camp in the afternoon. Wes and I rolled in to the Community Center and Wes enjoyed the free breakfast provided there while I went to check him in. I was feeling pretty cool. We had attended camp there already this summer and we had a routine we liked. The bemused teenager in charge of the sign-in binder informed me that wizard camp was an afternoon session. Sometimes, when you’re really anxious, and a kind of benin mistake like this happens, it’s a relief. It felt like: oh, good, here is the inevitable mistake, and it’s not a bad one. I have a much higher watermark in this domain. I vowed to come back later, congratulating myself for not having mixed it up in reverse and missed a day of camp by arriving in the afternoon.
So we rerouted the day. We were in the next town over, with Mac at a doctor’s visit because his superpower is being inconveniently ill. It was late morning and we were waiting on the doc when I got a call from the Center for the Arts wondering why Wes wasn’t at wizard camp. I had taken Wes to the wrong facility and I would have figured it out way sooner if we didn’t have a cross town Harry Potter camp rivalry that week. But it wasn’t really fixable at that point. We’d make it to camp the next day. We didn’t have a choice. It didn’t matter how I felt about it.
Two years ago I proudly arrived on Wednesday for a three day camp that I believed ran until Friday. It began on Monday and Wednesday was the last day. We had billed it as the last cool fun thing to do in the summer. Ugh. The picture above is from the awesome, fun adventures we had on the days we had blocked for camp attendance. Wes hit the jackpot on I can’t remember what in the arcade and won a ton of tickets. We went to a million playgrounds. We had a ton of fun, but it wasn’t the purest-spirited bonding time. I felt super guilty and it colors that memory.
Wes was fine. He was fine then, and he was extra fine when I messed it up this time. When he was in Kindergarten, he told the story of my scheduling mistake to other adults who had made a mistake: our photographer when she mixed up the dates, his teacher when she forgot something, everyone. Only Wes could throw me under the bus in such a sweet way. See everyone, if it could happen to my mom, it could happen to anyone. We all make mistakes sometimes. I think the lesson of universal human fallibility is worth taking the time to teach our kids. I think this especially because I very recently fucked up. Nonetheless, I think it’s good for my kids to watch me mess up sometimes. It’s important for them to know that these things happen to everyone. Or they happen to me. And I’m hoping it’s not just me.
It is the middle part of summer. This is the part where I’m kind of bored and very anxious that summer is going by too fast. My kids are good kids, but they have had enough of each other. There has been enough downtime and we’ve used up a lot of our great ideas for entertainment. They can be alone for an ever tightening window of somewhere between ten minutes and thirty seconds before earnestly trying to kill each other. The games that make them want to kill each other are the games they love the best. From upstairs, where I am definitely not sleeping anymore, thanks, it mostly sounds like everything is fine and then the big one is screaming at the little one. The little one is sneaky and I know better. They just don’t see the world the same way.
Wesley is my squish-hearted eight year old. He is kind first if kind is possible. Wes is earnest and conscientious. He organized a student group called “Litter Dominators” in the first grade and has been spearheading playground cleanups with his friends for more than a year. He has requested that I stop signing him up for organized sports. Wes prefers guitar, theater and robotics at the moment.
When he was a baby, strangers would pause in the grocery store and listen to him talk. He has always loved language. His humor has always been wordy too. He is quick witted like his father and his on-the-fly puns have been making me genuinely laugh for a long time. I just about fell off the dock when he dubbed the four-stepped swim later at the cottage a “good quadrilateral.” He rolled his eyes at me when I made him define quadrilateral. I don’t know why I was surprised when he could.
He came into the world overwhelmed by the sensory input of it all. He still pulls a blanket over his head when he’s in the living room and prefers not to stack social engagements so that he has time to be alone. Wes retires to his room for an hour every evening before bed and studiously divides his time between twenty minutes of guitar practice, twenty minutes of reading, and twenty minutes of free play where he may draw, write a story or imagine. He usually plays his favorite podcast in the background. He was thrilled when we told him he could read until he felt tired because it was summer. He keeps checking to make sure that he isn’t up too late because his book is really good.
With Wesley, gifts are easy because he loves things with his whole heart. We had so many intense phases. Wesley has loved sea creatures, dinosaurs, prehistoric mammals, pokemon, harry potter, greek and roman mythology and rocks. Wes pours over the guidebooks to his Pokemon, skylanders and other anthologies and memorizes facts and battle stats. He likes to know everything there is to know. His interest is sated by volume and obscurity. He sometimes absorbs information without digesting it. I will never forget the look on his preschool teacher’s face when he told her that Australopithecus (a very early human ancestor) mated face to face. He had no idea what that meant, and I hope he’s not only kid whose parents were too late to consider the uncomfortable conversations necessitated by that part of our child’s voracious consumption of BBC nature programs. Wes strives for authenticity. When he was in preschool, his plastic animals were under the stewardship of a generic action figure “Super David Attenborough” and he always attempted a Brittsh accent. He cannot squash the instinct to correct anyone who has used a term incorrectly. It’s the worst, but my husband would like you to know that he gets this from me.
Wes is into epic tales of good and evil. He likes to go to the backyard and imagine these battles with his whole body. He makes sound effects, bends, twists and darts. He often gets so excited by an idea that he runs out the door to go pretend it out right that second. He likes elemental battles that work a bit like twelve dimensional rock paper scissors. He prides himself in knowing how it all works. He has started to invent his own board games.
Cheaters and rule breakers offend him personally. He likes the rules because he likes to know what to expect. The rules are the bones of the world. They come first. The better you know the rules, the more fun the game. Anyone out to skirt the rules is out for a bigger share of the pie than they deserve. As soon as the rules are broken, the offender is trying to take something from someone else and Wes will not have it. An infractor’s awareness of the rules does little to mitigate the offence. The games he likes are complicated. It is easy to break the rules accidentally. Enter little brother and their bi-hourly screaming match about why Mac’s early Beyblade launch was “so not fair.” Beyblades are Japanese battle tops and I hate them, how I hate them.
Malcolm is four and a half. He came into the world uncomfortable. He had a club foot and wore casts and braces. He had a floppy windpipe that caused squeaky breathing. He produced a poor immune response to pneumococcal bacteria and was constantly battling infections. He coughed and puked nightly for years. If you met this child during this time, you never would have known. It’s why it took such a long time to have his medical concerns appropriately addressed. He was climbing the walls and charming the medical staff and he looked completely fine. He holds nothing for the back half. Malcolm will party until he cannot party anymore and what happens after that is not pretty.
Malcolm is intense. He once told me, “I think my face looks mean when I’m not thinking anything.” Not many four-year olds are troubled by their own resting bitch face, but that’s Malcolm. He’s aware. His interest is fleeting and unpredictable. Mac’s favorite toys have included a brown ball of string, a small stuffed dog, plastic lizards to be used exclusively in the bath, freebie orange sunglasses from a brewery, and an ever growing stash of plastic easter eggs. He likes to tie fake leashes to scary stuffed beasts. I am never really sure what Malcolm will like, but Malcolm knows right away. Malcolm has never been into baby stuff. When he was little, I remarked often that he hated to be addressed in motherease. It annoyed him to be treated like a baby, even when he was a newborn. I was the only one screaming “duuuuuude.” across the playground to rebuke my toddler. He has always known that farts are funny. He insists that I sunscreen his entire butt just to be safe. You never know when it might be out, and a red crack would be the worst.
He was later to talk, and I often have the sense that Malcolm’s language is catching up to his thoughts. When Malcolm imagines, he creates systems. “What if there was a dinosaur suit with a button inside that granted one wish? I would push the button and wish for a ton more suits. Then I would get in the suits and make my wishes. The suit would have a stomach and it would roar and I would use my human voice to tell people it was just a costume, unless I needed alone time and then I would roar and maybe you could come inside and sit in the stomach with me and you use your human legs to make the dinosaur legs work.” that’s what I remember from the drive to nature day camp this morning. He is full of what if.
If you give this child an inch, you will give him a mile and he will make sure you like doing it so he can see if he can get two miles next time. He is exercising the boundaries partly out of curiosity about where they are. He respects a hard limit, but he will work until he reaches it. “But what about, but how come, but last time, but remember when, but before you said.” He will come with proposals designed to negate your most obvious objections. “Can I drive this car outside if I wipe the wheels with this towel when I’m done so it’s clean?” Malcolm is a strategist. He is making a mental map of the rules of the universe, the REAL ones, and he is doing it by sonar. He is pinging out behavior and tailoring his response to whatever he gets back.
My child that treasures the rules above all else has little patience for his brother who likes to figure out the rules by systematically nudging them. I am incredibly lucky that the personalities and birth order are not reversed. There are plenty of peaceful moments. They amicably collaborate on occasion. They are capable. Despite their efforts, their play is punctuated often by, “Wait, Ow! No, Mac! Not like that! We’re not doing that anymore!” Wesley makes rules and Mac challenges them. Over and over again. Swords, robots, dinosaurs, whatever. Wesley explains the game, Mac corrupts it. Wes sets up a battle, Mac turns into a tornado. Usually there is more angry exclaiming than there is punching, but there is not no punching.
If another child, any child, is entered into the equation, my children typically revert to kids I am mostly happy to claim in public. It’s magical. But seeing friends means I have to put it on pants so it doesn’t always happen. I’m not really worried about the fighting. I had a little sister. I like her much better now than I did when we were eight and five. I know it’s normal. I am sure I fall somewhere in the reasonable parameters of where I intervene and where I let them figure it out. I’m mostly just fascinated. I know these kids better than I have ever known anyone. Watching them piss each other off in their own unique ways is its own twisted parenting joy. I will not pass up an opportunity to be entertained. Or I will try not to. I’m not going to pretend that I don’t scream for some quiet on the daily. It’s really, super loud here. And we are all here. A lot. It’s July.
