Archive for the 'Das Kind' Category
November 8th, 2008 by Blythe
I had no idea that Halloween is the best parenting day of the year. I’ll bet it even beats Christmas morning.
Last year Theo was old enough to wear a cute pumpkin get-up and visit Daddy in the office cafeteria, and that was about it for our celebration. Outside America, Halloween is gaining in popularity, but it’s more about teenagers and twenty-somethings wearing a bunch of black eyeliner and fangs and drinking a lot of blood-themed beverages in dark bars. That happens here too, but here it’s still mostly about the kids. Though I’d been led to believe that trick-or-treating had been moved to the malls or eschewed for backyard parties, and that in the big cities and evens small towns like my hometown, the pint-sized ghouls no longer haunted sidewalks on October 31st.
Boy, did I get some bad information. Maybe it was because of the gorgeous fall weather or because it was my first time out in about 25 years, but trick-or-treating was even better than I remembered it. The houses were decorated with pumpkin lights and chattering skulls, and kids from Theo’s age to teenagers were decked out as Harry Potter characters and baked goods (the three pre-teen girls dressed as cupcakes got my vote for best costume). And they were all so delighted to be there. The residents of the neighborhood were fantastic and kind, and we only encountered one cranky old guy who snapped, “I WILL DOLE OUT THE CANDY MYSELF, DON’T GRAB.” He probably saw some toilet paper in his yard the next morning.
Theo, dressed as a little green turtle, clutched his plastic pumpkin and toddled behind a gaggle of cousins from house to house in Nana and Grandpa’s neighborhood. He teetered up steep driveways and pressed doorbells and stood next to Luke Skywalker and Indiana Jones and the Snow Princess as they shouted TRICK OR TREAT (he never quite got the hang of that, but it didn’t matter). Then, when the bigger kids had each taken a piece of candy, he reached into the bowl, smiled up at the generous soul who had answered the door, brightly said “Thank you!” and scooped as much loot into his bucket as he could. One of his parents then leapt to his side, returned all but his share, and scooted him off the steps as he waved bye-bye.
Best of all was his wonder and thrill at every stage of the process. He loved his turtle shoes, he loved his pumpkin (in fact he keeps asking to sleep with it) and he LOVED the candy. No matter that he hasn’t really eaten any of it. CANDY CANDY CANDY he said as he peered into his plastic pumpkin. RUNNING RUNNING RUNNING he said as his short legs churned along the sidewalk behind his cousins. And HAPPY, he sighed, as Jeff picked him and carried him home from the last house on the street.
November 5th, 2008 by Blythe
Theo’s Election 08 from Blythe on Vimeo.
October 16th, 2008 by Blythe
I’m sure you are shocked to learn that Theo has a multitude of small toy cars, the Matchbox and Hot Wheels types that he clutches in each hand as I strap him into his car seat. They’re all different, of course – the orange loader, the yellow fire truck, the silver VW Bug convertible – and he has his favorites. I think we’ve actually purchased just two or three of them (the double-decker London bus, the bright green SMART car) and the rest he has received from visiting grandmas or kind neighbors. Remarkably, we did a good job of keeping track of all of them. I kept the blue hatchback in my purse and the orange construction vehicle in the diaper bag. Even with all the traveling we did, we never, to my knowledge, left a school bus or a tractor in a hotel room or an airport. Until recently.
The moment we arrived on American soil, those cars sprouted free will (Christine!) and drove off on their own, disappearing one by one only to be replaced by even more, or reappearing a few days later in a different part of town. I still have cars in my purse and in the diaper bag and all over the floor, but I don’t know which one is where anymore. We leave Nana’s house with extra cars and abandon different ones on the next visit. I try to pay attention, to make sure we’re not taking away what isn’t ours or orphaning our toys, but it’s a losing battle. Fortunately Theo just grabs whichever vehicle he stumbles across or is handed to him and plays happily, appreciating the bounty, playing no favorites. I’ve all but given up the fight.
I realized today that I feel like that about my whole life these days. Things in Germany, while not perfect, at least felt under control. Our little family had forged a self-contained routine. We went to the grocery store on Saturdays, we watched soccer on Sundays, we walked to the park when the weather was nice and stayed inside for days when it snowed. We webcammed with the grandparents on weekend evenings and checked in with the rest of our friends and family on email. Sometimes Theo and I went to a little playgroup, and that was a big outing. I didn’t even keep a calendar.
But here, we’re just overwhelmed with the possibilities. We could be unpacking boxes or calling the furnace company or going to the children’s museum or going to Target like I dreamed for three years straight. People are inviting us places! I have a date book with things written in it! It’s thrilling and sort of crazy, like having a whole new wardrobe and wanting to wear it all at once. But when we have a week like we’ve just survived – all three of us sick in bed for at least one day each – it makes me feel buried, like I can’t breathe, like I will never see all the people or open all the boxes or watch all the shows that my new DVR is suddenly recording on its own because I don’t have time to figure out how to program it.
Theo has a little playroom here in our splendid new home, a place for all his toys and balls and books and cars cars cars. Lately, when I suggest that he go in there and check out the new train table we got on Craigslist or stack up some blocks or drive one of those piles of tiny cars around the carpet, he gets teary and says “No toys! No toys!” And even though it seems ridiculous for either one of us to complain about all this good stuff, I understand just how he feels.
October 12th, 2008 by Blythe
October 2nd, 2008 by Blythe
My life these days can only be described as strange. The whole world is living with a background soundtrack of financial panic; the sounds of the stock market crashing, doomsday predictions and what-ifs about candidates in the upcoming election, dire warnings to squirrel away some money in a coffee can or the heel of your shoe. And here we are, spending literally hundreds of thousands of dollars (most of it belonging to our mortgage lender, eek) in a head-spinningly short period of time. We’ve bought two cars and a house (well, probably) in just the past six weeks and we’re poised to shop for several major appliances in the space of a few days. The outflow of checks with one or the other of our names signed at the bottom is shocking and yet we just keep churning along. It was all planned and budgeted and it would make sense if I were to explain it to you, but still. It feels a little like we’re heading over a waterfall, just sure that our raft will carry us safely to the bottom, while everyone shrieks around us.
Besides the financial oddities, we’re residing in a strange temporary/permanent world. On one hand, everything is temporary – first we were in a hotel and now we’re crashing in a family guest room, we get our mail at a PO box that is our only permanent address – but we’re planning for the long term like we’ve never done before. We kept telling our realtor we wanted a house we love so we don’t have to move for a long time. We wanted a car that would last. I went out and bought a zoo membership because of course we’ll be around to use it all year. After three years of knowing for sure that we were making relatively short-term choices, I feel like I’m playing psychic.
But I’ve found that the one thing that keeps everything else feeling slightly normal is Theo. No matter where we’re staying, he expects fruit and yogurt and cereal for breakfast. And he doesn’t care if we want to test drive some bargain car we found on Craigslist, when it’s naptime he needs to go to bed. When my head is spinning from one too many life decisions (cable? internet? cable internet? AAAAAGGGH!) I’m almost always interrupted by a small voice saying “Helicopter! Helicopter! Heavy?” just before my skull explodes.
This morning I completed a particularly surreal twenty-four hours that was capped off by triggering my own car alarm six times in a row (Hi, neighbors of my in-laws, aren’t you glad we found somewhere else to live?). I was wearily driving us home after stops at two different car repair shops (don’t ask) and pitying myself while my son shouted OUT OUT OUT from his car seat. We were passing a park and I decided, what the hell, let’s get out of this car and act like we live here. So we spent an hour or so sliding down the slide and yelling Wheeee! on the swings. And one of us almost expired from delight when a passing fire truck appeared and the firemen waved and then found us in the parking lot as we got in our car and sent us home with a plastic fireman’s hat.
It felt really normal, like that’s what moms and little boys do on warm Wednesday afternoons in October. So maybe we’ll do it again tomorrow, but without the car alarm.
September 23rd, 2008 by Blythe
Theo and I eat breakfast every day in the lobby of our hotel where there’s a big buffet. Each morning he sprints for the elevator yelling, “brekky brekky! go go go!” We learned early in our stay to steer him far away from the tempting buttons (including the lowest, most prominent ALARM button) to the back corner of the lift. He usually elbows his way past the other passengers when we land, to careen out the door, toward the food. His excitement about the possibility of sausage for breakfast (“hot dog hot dog!”) is eclipsed only by his enthusiasm for greeting every single person in the room. It’s like a little parade as he toddles past in his footie pajamas, waving to the left, waving to the right, stopping to catch the attention of some businessman who isn’t waving back and who is probably thinking he should have stayed somewhere that doesn’t allow kids or dogs or breakfast buffet parades.
He has befriended the hotel employees too, of course, and they all stop by our table to say hello. It’s lucky for us that he’s so friendly because on crowded weekend mornings when the elevator takes forever, we’ve found ourselves mysteriously ushered toward empty tables when the whole place seems packed, and there is always a high chair reserved for us. All that just because of a daily greeting. Though his little bald head and dinosaur-print jammies probably don’t hurt. We are still trying to figure out where he gets his outgoing streak since Jeff would really prefer not to talk to anyone, ever, and I describe myself as an introvert in extrovert’s clothing, meaning I know how to interact with people but it’s more my nature to lock myself in the bathroom until everyone leaves the party.
The past two days we’ve been approached during the Cheerios course by a grandmotherly woman who stops to commend me on Theo’s good behavior and outgoing demeanor. She must be hard-of-hearing because he spent thirty minutes this morning screeching “CHOO CHOO! CHOO CHOO!” every time the light rail train went past and flinging his yogurt spoon at the window. I just said thanks, even though my initial impulse was to tell her I’d like to take credit but I spend most of my time trying to get him to stop waving hello and goodbye and just get back in the damn elevator already.
July 26th, 2008 by Blythe
Warning everyone not to get too close to the stove.
Lining up all of his cars and yelling CHOO CHOO, then separating them and parking them in a row under the couch.
Smelling his own feet and giggling.
Repeatedly trying to convince me that he can climb the stairs by himself, when his little legs are not long enough even to step up a curb.
Holding a calculator up to his ear and saying “Hewwo?”
Figuring out that saying “Please” will get him almost anything he wants.
Using different dance moves depending on the tempo of the song.
Saying HUUUUUUG and then walking up and hugging people. Mostly people he knows, but I can see where this is headed. Soon he’ll try to hug the cashier at the grocery store.
July 17th, 2008 by Blythe
We spent last week on vacation, where Theo was showered with loving attention from his grandparents, aunts, uncles, both parents, and many cheerful French people who smiled and patted him on the head. He ate a bunch of stuff I’m not sure you’re supposed to feed to toddlers (smoked salmon canapes? crepe-wrapped sausages? pain au chocolat?), usually while wandering around the room with his mouth open, yelling “MORE MORE MORE.” He was awake when he was supposed to sleep and partying when he was supposed to be napping and sleeping in the car when he was supposed to be eating dinner. He even slept in our bed with us for two nights, something that sounds cozy and nice but he’s the kind of sleeper who bangs his head against the headboard periodically and tries to pluck out my eyelashes one by one while proclaiming “EYE EYE” at 2:30am.
We made it home on Monday, exhausted and well-fed and with suitcases full of filthy clothing. I spent Tuesday doing laundry and trying to get all of us back in our normal routine. All I really wanted to do was upload our photos and find a quiet corner to sleep off the Benadryl I’d been popping due to a head full of allergy snot. So when there was a screaming breakfast rebellion, followed by whiny writhing when naptime rolled around, ending with tears when I refused to relinquish the last few bites of my dinner, I was ready to walk out of the house and return to France, the land of built-in babysitters and puff pastry served with champagne. I think Theo was wondering why he couldn’t go there too, to the place where the snacks flow freely and one can just lie down and sleep any old place.
Today, we’ve both resigned ourselves to being home, and things are much better. There was nowhere to go but up.
July 2nd, 2008 by Blythe
Did I mention that Theo is finally walking? As in, taking steps, going from place to place all by himself. I had that Holy Crap moment a few days ago as I watched him stand in the middle of the floor, guzzle water from a sippy cup, then hand it back to me and say WATER. That moment when I realized I need to start calling him My Son instead of My Baby. As in, “My son is cutting his thirteenth and fourteenth teeth right now, so don’t get too close because he may unexpectedly shriek in your ear before gnawing on an article of your clothing.”
These developments should make our upcoming trip to France – including but not limited to a flight scheduled for maximum naptime upheaval, followed by a four-hour ride in a rental car of indeterminate size – a thrill a minute. Who takes a vacation just before an international move, you ask? Apparently, that’s the best way to go, since we spent four days in Vegas just before we moved here and now we’re off to a family wedding. The anticipation of a week of sipping wine and eating cheese while adoring family members chase after my toddler(!) has successfully numbed my anxiety about packing all of our stuff and tossing it on slow boat before boarding yet another transAtlantic flight, not to mention looking forward to several weeks of corporate housing and suddenly being thrust back into that world where people are going to ask me What I Do.
You won’t see much action around here for the next couple of weeks. I should be back to check in before the big Westward Ho!, unless I decide to just stay poolside and learn French.
May 5th, 2008 by Blythe
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Lately Theo has been expressing a preference for one of his parents. And by preference I do not mean clinging to one’s leg and being dragged across the floor, because that’s just how he expresses hunger. No, I mean when he wakes up in the morning he says “Daddy?” and when the phone rings he says “Daddy?” and when I say “What’s my name?”, he slaps my chest so hard I start to have breathing difficulties and he giggles and says “Daddy!”
My good friend Sandi tells me this is thoroughly normal. Her daughter just turned six, so my other friends of Advanced Maternal Age and I see her as a kind of oracle. She got pregnant before the rest of us and is now dealing with explaining what “giving the middle finger” means, and playing Little Mermaid board games while the rest of us are still hoping to get a full night’s rest.
Sandi’s daughter has always been close with her dad. We have been assured that this is an optimum scenario, since the least-favored parent status can come in handy when it’s time for bed and someone requires twelve stories before her tucking-in. I can see the wisdom in that.
I’ll admit, though, that I hope Theo remembers to call me Mommy eventually. According to Sandi, it will definitely happen. The drawing pictured above was posted on her daughter’s door recently, following a father/daughter disagreement. It depicts Daddy, running from his angry daughter, who is shouting “DAD OWT.” I think he’s officially been demoted.
See what we have to look forward to?
