Don't Know Much, But I Do Know Some

Here we sit, you and I, across from a table at the bookstore. I am struck at how quiet and peaceful we both are. I peek over my newspaper and see you engrossed in your new book, "Don't Know Much About the Presidents" (funny, since clearly you do). “Hey Mom, John Tyler had a lot of children," you say. "Did you know that? FIFTEEN children! The most of ANY president EVER! Isn't that amazing?"

I agree that’s pretty phenomenal, not to mention excessive. "What's excessive?" you ask and I tell you it means an awful lot, a real lot, like he had his own basketball team of kids. You like that and laugh.

Then later, in the car, "Mommy, will you and Dad ever be together again?" I take a breath because it's time and you are smart and you deserve more than half-truths. No, I say, your dad and I will never be together again. Your eyes fill and you bite your lip. In a flash I see a glimpse of the young man you'll become — sensitive and strong and so much your own person. I pull the car over and climb in the back seat with you. I tell you it's okay to cry and you do, holding me tight. I do too because I was you, six not seven, and I know how much this hurts, will always hurt. If I could make this hurt go away, if I could I would, but I can't I can't and it's not fair, so not fair.

You look up at me and say, "But I know there's something I know. The love. There's a lot of love. You love me and Daddy loves me." And I rumple your hair and tell you Absolutely. No question. Yes, always. And then you're done and you ask if we can get to the library already.

We need more books on presidents, you see.

A Most Patient Cat

It's hard to remember how scared of cats my kids used to be. Ever since we added this love to our family, there has been a thaw. John often gets down on the floor with the T-cat and squints into his fur. Sam likes to dress him up.

Troy is a willing model. As long as he's in the thick of the action, he's happy.

(Just don't forget to scratch my ears).

Sam, who has memorized every U.S. president as well as the political party to which they each belong, says, "Look Mom, Troy is a Federalist. Like John Adams!"

There is dignity in toilet paper.

Otter Facts

"Otters are fun creatures to watch and they are highly intelligent."

—from Top Otter Facts, otter-world.com

My child is in love with otters. Lately Baby Einstein's Neighborhood Animals has been on high rotation around here. Who knows what it is about the otter that is fascinating him so, but he's been taking more photos of the TV screen (*note new image count: 1,067):

And he was so adamant that I spell OTTER for him that he spelled it all by himself after I told him that if he did he could have chocolate ice cream.

Last night after I had tucked him and his brother into bed, I heard his little feet scurry across the room. He had pulled a book off the shelf and had torn out the page on Otter Facts. When I went back up to investigate, well...

... he read it to me. He stumbled over "often" and "webbed" and "waterproof." But he read it to me.

This morning he brought me paper and a crayon and said "Mommy draw otter." I looked at him and said "No. John draw otter." And then, even though it was 6:30 a.m., or perhaps because it was 6:30 a.m., I said, "John…Paint otter?"

"Paint?" he said. And so there we sat — did I mention it was 6:30 a.m.? I handed him a brush and paint and water. He caught my gaze, unsure. I told him he could do it and  a split second later he began. He painted. 

Fact: Otters are pretty darn cute. And intelligent. Not unlike this child.

The Paintbrush

Oh, John. After years of making Mommy spell words for you, of pulling my hand and insisting that I draw pictures for you (in crayon, in pencil, on paper, on the computer, once in the sand), after an eternity of my being Chief Scribe — now you're ready to do it yourself?

The watercolor paints are new — we have not cracked them open since Christmas — so when you brought them to me with a paintbrush and said "Open Blue?" I took in the situation and your earnest face and thought, Well? Let's give it a shot.

Of course I hoped that you would paint yourself but I wasn't optimistic. I mean there's precedent and it usually ends up being me. But still, I got a cup of water and showed you the basics: dip brush in water, mix brush in color, paint on paper. I waited for the inevitable "Mommy paint?" but instead you pushed me away and started coloring in a hot air balloon. Like I was in your way! (I was, I hovered.)

How did I not figure it out sooner?

It's the medium. It's the amount of strength required of your little hands, of your fingers. Painting is fluid and smooth. Your body does not protest or resist or get in your way (like with the crayon or the pencil or even the marker). Painting allows you to execute one smooth movement after another.

It's not (as I sometimes wondered) the repetitive nature of having us draw picture after picture for you. It's that YOU want to be able to draw yourself. And we're as close as you're able to get.

And then it dawns on me that this must be what it's like when you try to talk. I see how you struggle to find words when it's so plain that you want to communicate something — your body doesn't have a paintbrush to help it find expression. And just like when you make Mommy draw for you (i.e., be your hands), you stop in your tracks and cry. Or flap with frustration. I see how frustrating it must be.

What if the answer to both is... painting? So I've decided: No more crayons or markers. We are filling this house with paint and easels and smocks. Let's see what you're trying to say, baby.