Author & Author (but not me)

Jacob has been writing stories for a while now, which comes as a surprise to exactly no one. He started a series of comic books early in the school year entitled The Adventures of Joe and Bob. You'll have to take my word that the books were more imaginative than the title indicates. He even had a marketing plan. The comic was to be a six book series. The first book was free. Each remaining book would cost $5. After only one classmate expressed interest in purchasing a $5 handmade comic book, Jacob abandoned the plan.

His next series was entitled Fartman. I read the first issue in which Fartman and his sidekick Beano defeated a cat thief. Their superpower also emptied an entire skyscraper in seconds. Fartman was confused about why the residents fled. Nick and I were impressed by his nuanced potty humor and he started a sequel immediately. Then he was sidetracked by a forgettable story, unfortunately. I am hoping that one day, Fartman will fly again.

His current projects include a story about a family who lives in a sewer and a biography of Mary Magdalene. The biography is actually a collaboration with a little girl who has had a crush on Jacob for a while now. Her family often sits a few pews in front of us at church, and she (not so) covertly looks over her shoulder at Jake. I suspect the collaboration was largely her idea.

So I was really not at all surprised to see a page covered with childish handwriting on the desk yesterday. Then I read it. "I love you, Sleeping Beauty!" Since Jake is convinced that girls have cooties and that he will never, ever be interested in doing anything yucky like kissing them, I was a little confused. I looked at the page again and noticed Nick's handwriting up in the corner. Claire had dictated to Nick, then painstakingly copied her own words. She can't read or spell, but she can write.

I started crying on Friday evening.

Jacob received his First Holy Communion a few Saturdays ago. He and his classmates have been preparing for months. I have been complaining. There were too many notes home, too many books to read, too many meetings, too much money, too much fuss, too much arguing about ties, too much too much too much. After all, I argued, this is just the first of many. It isn't that big a deal. The important thing is what happens for the next 80 years of his life. I kept working on whittling it down to size.

Then I went shopping for his gift. That was the beginning of the end. I was standing there in the huge Catholic Supply store (because I suppose it takes many supplies to be Catholic) with my mother when she said, "Christy, it's his First Communion."

My throat was closed by a seven pound lump and I whispered, "I know. I know!" I left Mom standing next to one of six special First Communion displays. I browsed through the crucifixes until I stopped crying. I went back to pick up a white embossed memento box and met Mom at the cards. As soon as I read the first card, I was off crying again. We eventually managed to actually purchase a few things and headed home.

The next morning, Jacob started trying to get dressed three hours before the big event. I told him that he could put on his brand new white shirt and tie no sooner than 9:05. He spent the rest of the morning wandering into the kitchen every 3-4 minutes to check the time. By 9:20, Jake and I were on our way out the door. The rest of the family was to meet us at church after the picture sessions were over. "Are you excited?" I asked him. He nodded, then slipped his hand into mine. He held my hand all the way to church. He's a big kid now but he knows that every once in a while, I still need him to be my baby boy.

Conversations

I have been very busy doing a lot of nothing lately. Actually, a lot of that nothing includes conversations with my children. Someone flipped a switch that turned my normally chatty children into extraordinarily chatty children. I have been reminding myself of the hours my mother listened to me and taking many deep breaths. I love the idea of talking with my kids. I love the results of talking with my kids. I love the occasionally fascinating conversational tidbits that only very small people can offer. I do not love putting down my work to listen. One day, I will be a good enough mother to listen joyfully. At the moment, I am only a good enough mother to listen.

Claire, two days ago, told me, "This doll's name is Dya. Not diarrhea. Dya." I'm relieved that she cleared that up for me.

Jacob confided, "Sometimes, when my friends are doing something wrong and the teacher knows that someone is doing something wrong but she doesn't know who, my friends get very quiet. I think that's like lying. I always speak right up and admit what I was doing." I didn't know how to respond to that one. I'm proud of his integrity. I also wish he had a stronger sense of self-preservation.

I walked Jacob home from his after-school program the other day. He gave me a blow-by-blow account of a special visit from an owl and a caretaker from the bird sanctuary. They dissected owl pellets. I was informed of the size, color, and contents of each pellet. I was also treated to a re-enactment of a kerfuffle while we waited at the corner for the light to turn. Jacob stripped off his backpack. "Somebody whistled and the owl got scared! He fluttered his wings! I was standing right next to him and I said 'AAAGH' and jumped like this!" He leaped backward into the light post, hitting the pedestrian call button with his back. The call button beeped, further surprising Jacob who then leaped sideways almost, but not quite, over his backpack. The backpack tripped him, causing him to stumble further sideways while his mouth was still talking, "Wow! Wow! Wow! Well, it wasn't quite like that with the owl!"

"Do you know how much I love you?" I asked Claire. She answered, "Yes. Eighteen hundred and fifty. That's a very big number." It is indeed a very big number, but not quite big enough.

Little Toughie Flies a Kite

We had a false spring over the past few days. It was warm and windy and beautiful. Everywhere I went, people were outside taking advantage of the weather. We were no exception. I spent more waking hours outdoors than in. The children were out even more than that.

Saturday evening, Nick told me about football in the backyard with the kids. I knew that they had been out there because I heard the squeals and giggles through the window. Nick told me that they'd been tossing the ball around and tackling each other. At one point, Claire snatched the football from Nick. She held it in her hand while giving the sinuous booty-shake that is universal among 4-year old girls - a sort of nya-nya-nya-nya. Then, in a moment of pure brilliance, she said, "You think you can get his ball from me, Little Toughie?" When I finally stopped laughing at Nick's portrayal of Claire, I determined that his nickname shall evermore be Little Toughie. I might occasionally shorten it to L.T.

Sunday blew in from Kansas. Jake took one look at the wind and unearthed the pocket kite that Santa had left for him. Unfortunately, Santa is a cheapskate. The pocket kite experience was a vast disappointment for both Jake and Little Toughie. It was such a disappointment that L.T. made the trek to Target to buy a bigger kite. He arrived home with a 55" Spiderman kite and a maniacal grin. "Jake! Let's go out into the backyard!"

"Erm, Nick..." Our backyard is a city backyard. It's large by city standards but only because we don't have a garage hulking back there. The entire backyard is scarcely larger than the footprint of the house. "I'm not sure there's enough room for this big kite back there."

"I know what I'm doing. It'll be fine. JAKE! CLAIRE!" I zipped my lip and watched them go out the back door, the kite tails stretching from out the back door, through the porch, and into the kitchen. I giggled when Nick shut the door on the ribbons.

I had just settled myself into a chair when Jake came running back into the house. "I've got some good news, and some bad news, and some good news. The good news is that we got the kite up. The bad news is that the kite got stuck in a tree. The good news is that Dad got it out." Little Toughie hollered from the back door that they were going to the park and thirty seconds later, I was alone and laughing.

Gulp. I just sent this note.

Good afternoon, Ms. Kindergarten Teacher!

Jacob has been talking a lot about the mice in your classroom lately. He told me a week or so ago that you offered to give them to him after the school year. Is that true? If so, would you be willing to let us have a trial run of caring for the mice over spring break?

Jake is really pulling hard for this at home, so I want to make sure that we all have the same understanding. I am not familiar with mice as pets at all and so am unwilling to just say yes to him. So if adopting the mice is a possibility, then fostering the mice might be a good idea.

Thanks!

Christy

UPDATE: Eeek!! It's not a misunderstanding. So I guess we'll be mice-sitting after Easter.

Meanest Mother Ever ™

On Thursday, I asked the children to clean their room.

On Friday, I asked the children to clean their room.

On Saturday, I asked the children to clean their room.

On Sunday, I asked the children to clean their room. Then I informed them that I would be entering their room with a trash bag in thirty short minutes. Everything on the floor would be put into the trash bag and then carted to the dumpster.

A short while later, I walked into the room to find a pile of toys on Claire's bed, a pile of toys on Jake's desk chair, and a pile of toys precariously balanced on top of the wheelie 3-drawer bin thingamajig. The actual drawers in the thingamajig were empty. There were still toys on the floor. I took a deep breath. "JACOBANDCLAIREYOUGETINHERERIGHTTHISVERYMINUTE!" Then I took another deep breath and told them to put the toys away, actually away where they belong, and I would be back in another hour with the trash bag. And I was rudely informed that I was the Meanest Mother Ever.

I should mention, perhaps, that I am frequently accused of being the Meanest Mother Ever. It has happened frequently enough that I have been able to determine that the A#1 best response to being called the Meanest Mother Ever is to say, "Great. I think maybe I'll get that put on a t-shirt and I'll wear that shirt everywhere I go with you. In fact, maybe I'll get several shirts, all in different colors, and a fancy one to wear to church so that everyone knows that I am proud to be the Meanest Mother Ever." The target child(ren) generally choose that moment to scream about how really really mean I am and about how they NOW KNOW that I truly am the Meanest Mother Ever. Then I force a grin because I'm mean like that.

I played some video games and took a shower and generally tried to ignore the wailing and gnashing of teeth that was emanating from the children's bedroom. Eventually, both children exited the room and claimed that it was clean. "Are you sure? Because I have the garbage bag and I'm not afraid to fill it." I made a feint toward the room and both children ran back into the room screaming. "Five minutes! Then I'm coming in!"

Ten minutes later, I went in with my bag. I went behind Claire's bed and started shoveling the pile into the bag. "Mom! Don't! Are you really going to throw that stuff away? Don't! You are the Meanest Mother Ever! I don't think this is going to work! I think that you should just send us to bed early! Doooooooooooooooooooon't!" I put in a teddy bear. "Dooooooooooooon't!" I put in a toy sword. "Doooooooooooooooon't!" I saw a piece of leg armor from the Prince Caspian action doll that Jake picked out as a reward after a particularly good week at school. I put in a frog instead. "Dooooooooooooooooooooooooooooon't! It's not going to work!" Jake spun around and around. I took advantage of the moment to shove the leg armor into my pocket, then shoved a handful of valentine's into the bag. Eventually, I had a bag filled with toys that I was more than happy to discard and a pocket filled with two pieces of leg armor, one prickly brush block thingy, and a mancala marble.

Later that day, I snuck back into the kids room when they were out of the house. I put the block and marble in their respective homes, and then carefully snapped Caspian back into his armor. After all, I have to protect my reputation.

It has been a very rough month.

Once upon a time on a bright and windy autumn day, an ogress and a goblin went for a walk in an enchanted wood. The goblin was especially crabby because he had broken his finger. His bandage was getting in the way of his favorite activities. He complained loudly and longly to the ogress as they entered the wood. The ogress ate the complaints, which made her grow larger. Unfortunately, complaints give ogres indigestion, so she was quite as unpleasant as the goblin. He complained. She growled. The trees shrank back from the path in fear.

After the pair had walked half a mile or so, they came upon a fork in the road. The ogress stopped for a moment to consider which path to take. The left path looked arduous but perhaps the climbing would rob the goblin of breath, thereby reducing his constant complaint. The right path was lovely, sunny, and wide, exactly the type of path that ogresses prefer. As she pondered, the goblin felt a memory tickle his miserable little brain. "Two paths in the wood. I took the less travelled," the goblin muttered. Ogres have very sharp hearing, of course, so the ogress recognized the incantation. "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by." And ever so slightly, the goblin and ogress began to change. They began to look more human. The ogress even smiled. Another traveler came down the path and veered left. The monsters decided to take the road less traveled at the moment and started down into the valley.

As they walked into the sunshine, the pair began to seem less and less like monsters. The ogre shrank down to human size. The goblin's beady little eyes grew larger and rounder. Their greenish skins gradually begin to look peachier. The goblin stopped complaining as the ogress shared a few discoveries with him: a tunnel under a mountain, a gnome's house in the base of a large tree, and a particularly fine walking stick.

Then, as they were almost out of the wood, the goblin placed his hand into the ogress' hand. As she felt around the big bandage for the small hand inside, the ogress remembered that she wasn't actually a monster at all. She was a mother. As the goblin looked up at the woman who was no longer an ogress, he remembered that he was really a little boy. So the woman and her son went back home where they shared hot chocolate and sandwiches.

Saved by the Earth's Tilt

This summer, Jacob learned how to ride his two-wheeled bike. He actually had the bike the summer before, but had taken a few bad falls to heart. He pulled it out again toward the middle of the summer and finally took off. Since then, we've hardly been able to pull him off the bike. He rides between breakfast and school. He rides when we get home in the evening. He begs to ride to soccer practice. He is on that bike every spare moment of every day.

We meet friends at a local park sometimes, and Jake has started doing tricks down the big hill. He starts off from the top, pedaling hard, then when he reaches full speed he pulls up his legs and turns side-saddle. His elbows no longer have skin and his bicycle has endured a few repairs. I've found ways to get to the park without the bike for the moment. I obviously don't want him to get seriously hurt. At the same time, it's exhilarating to see a boy in his element speeding down a hill, sure of his own invincibility despite scabby knees that prove otherwise.

Jake started campaigning for more freedom a month or so ago. We allow him to ride around the corner to the alley to the east and halfway down the block to the west. He's already chafing at the end of his leash, though. He wants to go all the way around the block. Nick and I told Jacob that we'd think about it. We encouraged him to follow the rules we've set so that we know we can trust him. For a month, he has meticulously followed the rules. He goes as far as the lines we've drawn and no farther. He stays out of driveways and the alley. He carefully pulls to the side to let pedestrians pass. He is ready to go around the block.

And now, thank God, it's getting dark very early. By the time we get home, change our clothes, and catch up with each other it is twilight and too dark for Jake to be outside alone. I feel as though I've been granted a reprieve. I get to keep Jake close to home a little while longer. But I know that in the spring, he's going to be off. I'll have to sit by the front window and hold my breath until I can see him again and know that he is safe. I'm hoping for a nice, long winter.

Gravity, the Trickster

Sunday afternoon, Jacob and I attended a Blue and Gold Banquet. It was my very first and it was a complete surprise. We had made a few decorations, so I was prepared for the pirate theme ahead of time (Seriously? Pirates? Do we want our boys to become rapists, looters, and pillagers? I do not understand why outlaws are held up as role models for our children.) but I was not prepared for the nearly life-size wooden boat constructed in the gym. Nor was I prepared for the three and a half hour agenda. I nearly fainted dead away but was saved by a swashbuckler who loosened my corset. Or perhaps it was just another parent who made a sarcastic comment. Either way, I caught myself before I hit the floor, er, the deck.

I gave Jacob a stern warning that he was to stay in his seat with his mouth closed. For Jake, that is quite possibly the most challenging request ever made. He can climb mountains, add two digit numbers, read chapter books, build an electrical circuit, but he cannot sit in a chair. With a valiant effort, he actually sat still in the chair for over an hour. Then, his body started rebelling against him. A leg jiggled. A butt wiggled. An elbow flapped. Then the chair folded with a metallic clang that echoed around the gymnasium and Jacob vanished.

Silence fell as everyone turned to find the source of the clang. Then, across the table, I saw two grubby hands and a cowlick appear. Jake pulled himself up, righted his chair, and sat back down. He looked at me, shocked, and said, "Huh. I didn't expect THAT to happen!"

A faint whiff of victory!

One of the greatest joys of parenting is that every once in a blue moon you can see into the future. It's a hazy, surreal experience that lasts but a moment. I had one of those moments on Friday afternoon. That moment smelled like victory.

I remember the day my mom went back to work. My youngest sister was in Kindergarten, and zeitgeist gave my mother the push she needed to put herself back into the larger world. It was a fruitful decision that led to a thirty year fulfilling career. She is retiring this year and frankly, she's scared to death.

We girls of the 70s watched all this carefully. We saw our mothers fearlessly pitting themselves against men and sometimes winning. We saw them learn how to demand more of our fathers, and saw our fathers grow into homemakers - or something resembling homemakers anyway. We heard people tell us "You can be anyone! Do anything!" out of one side of their mouths. Then we heard "You run like a girl" out of the other side. We heard that men and women were equal, then we saw our mothers going on strike in the home to get some help with the housework. And most importantly, as expectations for women broadened and grew, expectations for boys remained the same.

Right now, I'm seeing that boys are being given more options. As the boys of the 70s are growing up, they're making their own demands. Dads are choosing to stay home, work part time, or stay with a more traditional role. The important thing is that they are actually making a choice. I've never doubted that my daughter could do anything, but I'm glad to see that my son can as well.

On Friday afternoon, Jake was breathless with excitement. His class is studying biographies. They are reading books, writing reports, and presenting their report to the class - in costume. Jake chosen subject is a woman. And my little boy doesn't see anything wrong or demeaning or even worthy of comment about dressing up as an heroic woman in front of his class. To him, she's not a woman but a hero. My mother is frantic that he'll be humiliated. I'm not. I've got my crystal ball and I know that the future is full of choices for all of our children.

It hurt a little to say it.

Boy! If I see you reading that book for one more second, I'm going to come in there and take it away. Go. To. Sleep.

How low can I go?

At dinner last night, Jacob told me that he was going to build a robot to clean the house. My internal smartass (or maybe jackass would be more appropriate) rose to the surface and choked off the more sensitive aspects of my personality. "If you can build me a robot that cleans, I'll buy you a game console." That got a blank look, so Nick chimed in with "Nintendo!" Jake squealed, pushed his plate away, and leaped into action. That is the point where I should have stopped the train. Instead, I kept concentrating on my yummy sausage.

A few minutes later, Jake headed up the stairs. I manage to wrest my attention away from the keilbasa long enough to tell Jake to stay out of my toolbox and have a follow-up argument about exactly whose toolbox it is. For the record, it's mine. He stormed back downstairs. I passed up yet another appropriate moment to end the farce. Instead of coming clean about the probability of Jake actually constructing Mr. Clean, I suggested that Jake draw up some plans first.

A few more minutes later, Jake thrust a page ripped from a composition book under my nose. I glanced down to see a stick figure with a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. By the time I looked back up, Jake was sitting in the middle of the living room floor with a pair of scissors deconstructing a Diet Coke box with cartoonish speed. I foolishly asked him what he was doing and he said, "I'm making a motor for my robot. I really want that Nintendo."

My heart sank from my chest down my left leg into my pinky toe. "Um, Jake? You know that you can't really make a cleaning robot tonight, right? Robots take a long time to make. You need to learn about motors and stuff first. I'm sorry. I was joking when I made that promise and I thought you knew that." Jake threw himself onto the couch and sobbed. Before I could say or do anything else, he threw himself back off the couch and screamed at me. I couldn't even process what he was saying - I was too upset with myself for letting the whole joke get out of hand, or really, even for making the stupid joke.

Nick heard the screaming and thankfully put two and two together. He took Jake upstairs and they did some robot research online. Nick pointed out that no one had ever made a robot that can clean every mess, not even engineers with tons of experience. Jake came downstairs calmer, if no less angry with me.

Jake and I talked a bit more and came to an understanding of sorts. We're going to build a robot together. Maybe not a cleaning robot, but some kind of robot. I know next to nothing about motors and moving parts. I guess I'd better get to learning.

Architect in Training

Set Apart vs. Elite

After last week's brush with racism, I had a distinctly more uncomfortable encounter with a different -ism. Jacob has been talking about "publics." It took a little while to figure out exactly who these publics are. It took even longer to realize why Jacob thinks publics are worthy of disdain.

Every Friday, Jake's class receives a four page Scholastic magazine. A few weeks ago, the topic of the magazine was Constitution Day. I didn't save the magazine and I cannot seem to view it online, but I do remember a blurb about the separation of church and state. Jake's class talked a bit about the difference between parochial schools and public schools. He spoke about it at home a bit and we reiterated how different people have different beliefs. We also reviewed the reason that the Pilgrims came to America and how that influenced the founding fathers to guarantee freedom of religion. (I realize that it sounds a little far-fetched that Jacob understood all of this at such a tender age, but he went through a period of intense interest in the revolution when he was 5. When you combine that interest with Nick's historical bent and my complete inability to dumb down explanations, you get a kid who knows more about American history in the late 1700s than most adults. I highly recommend the book John, Paul, George, and Ben for fostering such interest. And for a few good belly laughs as well.) After that dinnertime conversation, I promptly forgot about the whole issue.

A frequent topic of adult conversation is the (lack of) quality of St. Louis Public Schools. With the exception of a few charter schools, the system is dismally inadequate. While the decision was easy for us since we'd always planned to send our children to Catholic school, many other parents agonize over the decision. Non-religious private options are few and far between, and are prohibitively expensive anyway.

I'm thinking the equation goes something like this: classroom discussion + overheard fear of public school system + comments from Nick and I about how lucky Jake is to be at his school = Jake's belief that the kids at his school are somehow better than the kids at the public school across the street. Clearly, we have to set the child straight. There is a huge difference between the quality of a school and the quality of children who attend that school. Funnily enough, the gospel from this weekend was about the Pharisee who gave thanks because he was better than his neighbors (Luke 18:9-14). I hope that Jake was listening during the homily because that's where we're going to start our discussion. He needs to understand that choosing to set oneself apart does not translate into being elite.

Erasers and Pencil Cases and Backpacks, Oh My!

I took Jacob, Claire, and my mother to Target on Saturday to purchase school supplies for the upcoming year. Claire was just there to make the outing slower and louder. I'm thankful, really, because back-to-school shopping is really too easy without a two year old sister (Nick has recently taken to calling her "the meth-head" when the littlies are out of hearing) to gum up the works. Grandma was there because Claire was there. Girl Baby doll, two library books, an extra cart, and a bag of goldfish were also there for Claire. I can't pinpoint the exact moment when running errands morphed into a full-fledged parade complete with sparklers and a clown car, but I'm pretty sure that we can never quite get back to a simple in-and-out trip.

List in hand, we hit the mobbed school supplies area. Then a miracle happened. I said, "You need 4 two-pocket folders, Jake!" Moments later, he handed me 4 two pocket folders. I tried again, "You need three wide ruled spiral notebooks!" We ran into a roadblock there because Jake didn't know what a spiral notebook was. But after a quick explanation, he tossed three of them in the cart. Then glue, markers, pencils, crayons. I almost cried right there next to the pencil cases (which were all the WRONG kind of pencil case, of course).

Jacob is growing up. A lot. This past summer, he has made such strides - great big leaping strides that cover furlongs. Sometimes, it's really hard for me to step back and trust that he will be ok without me. Other times, it's just a little trip to Target that shows me how very ok he is going to be. And then I quietly cry with relief while pretending to evaluate the girliness factor of pencil cases.

School starts one week from today. His backpack is chock full and ready to go. This year, I know that my little first-grader is going to be fine. I can't wait to hear all about the first day.

The Age of Misinformation

School starts in a week and a half! I told Jake last night that we would make a special trip this weekend for school supplies. I thought that he would be excited. He had been talking about being a first grader early on in the summer. I was quite surprised when I heard a small voice from the backseat. "I don't want to go to first grade. I'm scared. In first grade, you have to take math testes and they are hard."

After swallowing a few giggles about the "math testes," I asked Jacob what he knew about tests. He knew nothing, of course. Lack of knowledge has never done much to stop anxiety, though. We we talked a bit about quizzes and tests. I even gave him an impromptu spelling test. He passed it with flying colors (it may have been ever so slightly rigged).

Later, I told Nick about Jake's anxiety. I wanted Jake to have a little extra reassurance that all would be well. Nick emerged from Jake's room laughing and shaking his head. My spelling test had worked all too well - Jake is now concerned that first grade will be too easy.

Cookies, Goals, and Birthday Parties

First, a cookie for Carrie since she's a smarty-pants who figured out my fisherman crush. That picture made me laugh really, really hard. Second, Katie tagged me with a goal meme. Katie would do that because she's like all goal-oriented and productive. My goals tend to be smaller and simpler like:

1. Feed children every day.
2. Don't go batshit crazy until Friday.
3. Wear clean clothes.

But because I like Katie and because I strive to be all goal-oriented and productive, I'm taking it seriously. I tend to live day-to-day and while that's terrific for survival (which really, is a lot to ask of parents with young children) it's not so terrific for long-term happiness. So, I offer ten goals both personal and professional for an unspecified period of time. Hey - I'm writing goals. The deadlines will come later. Perhaps I should make setting deadlines one of my goals.

1. Start praying the Angelus morning, noon, and night.
2. Reduce my cursing to the truly necessary instead of an unsightly (unhearingly?) habit.
3. Figure out once and for all what I want to do with my life. Failing that, at least figure out what I want to do next.
4. Write the story that's been rattling around in my head for too long.
5. Reduce my television habit to include only shows that I really enjoy, instead of a long list of shows that are only okay. My time is worth more than only okay.
6. Lose enough weight that the image in the mirror matches the image in my mind.
7. Stop yelling.
8. Become a sql badass.
9. Personal thing between me and Nick that I'm not sharing.
10. Throw a birthday party without a panic attack.

And that nicely brings me to the last topic of birthday parties. I am skilled with the segue, no? Jacob's sixth birthday is on Friday. His sixth birthday party is on Saturday. In years past, I have prepared for Jacob's birthday party by imagining ever larger social catastrophes which will scar Jacob for life. Those catastrophes have never happened. Instead, I am likely scarring Jacob for life by allowing myself to become so tightly coiled that the tiniest problem could launch me to Mars. He wasn't old enough to remember the Great Cupcake Tantrum of his first birthday party or the This Isn't Performance Art This Is Me Losing It Because the Cake Is Not Yet Iced event that started his second birthday party. He is old enough to remember me freaking out over RSVP's, super hero masks, and the fact that I couldn't remember Spiderman colors from last year's party. This year, there will be no freak outs. I will take deep cleansing breaths. I will make lists of what needs to be done, have Nick check them, and then complete those lists in a timely fashion. I will remember that this is a birthday party, no more and no less. And when I feel the panic coming on, I will sing the Spiderman theme song.

Spiderman, Spiderman, Does whatever a spider can Spins a web, any size, Catches thieves just like flies Look Out! Here comes the Spiderman. Is he strong? Listen bud, He's got radioactive blood. Can he swing from a thread Take a look overhead Hey, there There goes the Spiderman. In the chill of night At the scene of a crime Like a streak of light He arrives just in time. Spiderman, Spiderman Friendly neighborhood Spiderman Wealth and fame He's ignored Action is his reward. To him, life is a great big bang up Whenever there's a hang up You'll find the Spider man.

Stop the Complaining!

Over the past few weeks, my fun-loving, active, comic son has morphed into a buzzkill. Actually, that's not a strong enough statement. It's more like Jacob is the (not so) mild mannered alter ego of Captain Buzzkill. His secret power is the amazing ability to find the negative in any situation, then point it out in the most noxious manner attainable by humankind. If I make macaroni and cheese and peas for dinner, he complains that I didn't put enough on his plate. If we go for a walk together, he complains that I'm walking too fast/too slow/in the wrong direction. If I pick out a book to read, he complains that it's boring. If I ask him to pick out a book to read, he complains that he can't find the book he wants to read. If we go hiking and happen to see an ultra-cool frog pond with a never-before-seen frog ruckus (after some discussion, I am uncertain whether it was a fight or some low-down dirty froggy type sex), Jake will complain that we didn't see enough frogs, that we are leaving too soon, and that he just wants to be home anyway because this whole frog hiking excursion was a waste of his precious time. If I throw up my hands and say, "I give up! Tell me what you want to do!" he will complain that I always force him to make all the decisions which isn't fair because he's just a little kid. First, we tried making gentle fun of him. Surprisingly, that's not a very effective technique for improving Jacob's behavior. Unsurprisingly, it is a very effective technique for reducing my stress level. Next, we tried pointing out that everything isn't rosy all the time. Stating the obvious had no effect. Which, upon further consideration, ought to have been obvious. Now, I'm trying to point out all the times that I am unhappy but not complaining about my unhappiness. This feels ridiculous and wrong. "Oh, look! We're having corn for dinner. I don't like corn, but I'm not going to make a big dramatic announcement about that. I'm not going to whine and sigh about having corn on my plate. I'm just going to politely taste the corn and keep my thoughts to myself." Oh, hmmmm. It appears that was a rather dramatic announcement. I didn't exactly keep my thoughts to myself. Instead, I painted myself as a martyr while simultaneously causing shock to ripple around the table. "How can you not like corn, Mom? Corn is good. Everyone likes corn. I like corn. Except I don't like corn on the cob and that's what you made and WHYOHWHYOHWHY did you put this nasty corn on the cob on my plaaaaaate? I'm not eating it. It's GROSS. And you know that it's gross because YOU DON'T LIKE IT EITHER!" And that, my friends, is the point where I pour myself another glass of wine and start daydreaming about throwing corn cobs at my beloved first born child.

He lost a tooth and then he lost it.

About a week ago, Jacob's left front bottom tooth started wiggling. A day later, the right front bottom tooth started wiggling too. Because I am a sick person who enjoys wiggling teeth and picking scabs, I checked the wiggle factor (wigglablity?) of the teeth several times per day. Jacob has been enduring my fascination with good humor for the most part. He has to put up with my quirks since I'm the only mother that he has. "Jake! Tell Mom your big news!" Nick said as soon as I walked in the door on Friday evening. Jacob was busy pretending to be a voyageur, so Nick had to tell me. "Jake lost his tooth!" "Wow! He lost his tooth! Where is it? In his backpack?" "No. He lost it. He LOST his tooth." I blinked at Nick. Le petite voyageur wandered into the living room and declared, "I lost my tooth! SEE!" He showed me the hole in his mouth. "I don't know where it is! It fell out or something." I blinked at Jacob, who promptly wandered out of the room again. I blinked at Nick. Jacob and I eventually wrote a note to the tooth fairy and put the note under his pillow in lieu of a tooth. The tooth fairy, being an exceedingly understanding sort, wrote a note back. She found a tooth in the school cafeteria. She was relieved to have placed the tooth with an original owner. Jacob chose to supplement the tooth dollar with a little cash from his piggy bank. He bought a harmonica. So, all's well that ends well, I suppose, especially if it ends with a musical score.

Ready...Set....

Jacob has a new hobby. He races cars. No, not toy cars. No, not a video game. No, not an imaginary game in the backseat while my heavy foot tries to bore a hole in the floorboard. He actually races against them. When he hears a car coming, he gets into a loose starting stance on the sidewalk near the middle of the block. His left foot is forward and the right back a bit for a good push. His arms are bent. His muscles are coiled for action. He looks back over his right shoulder. When the car reaches a set point, or when he just can't wait any more, he sprints to the stop sign on the corner. He is absolutely convinced that he will one day beat a car to the corner. The doting mother in me wants to pay the neighbor boy to drive slowly so that Jake can win.