Bothered

Has anyone been watching the coverage of the polygamists in Texas? I read this on MSN, and I am more than a little bothered. I am sad if these kids were being abused. I am also sad that mothers and children are forced to separate. I hope they prove or disprove something soon so it can be resolved. I can't stand the thought of tons of kids (lots of LITTLE kids)having to go through this without the comfort of their mothers. But if they were being harmed...

It is hard to find truth amid such blatant weirdness.

So...
Do you think that most or all of the children were in danger with their mothers (some agreed to leave the compound just to get their kids back, but were denied)? Do you think removing the kids indefinitely until it is all sorted out is the best option to prevent further abuse or risk of flight?

Manners

He has good ones. Really, really, really good ones.


Me: Toby, you shared your train with baby Charlie! Good Job!

Toby: Thank you.

Me: Your welcome.

Toby: Your welcome too.

Me: Uh...Thanks?

Toby: Your welcome.


Awkward.

The Hiding Place

When I was little I would crawl into my mom’s arms and press my face to her chest to feel the safety of her heartbeat. My legs would dangle over her lap as she chatted with a friend on the phone or sat at the kitchen table recounting the day to my dad over a cup of hot tea, her voice penetrating through my cheek into my skull. It was muffled and warbled through her skin, but so familiar, like it must have been when I was a miniature version of myself, stuffed inside her cozy womb, amidst a whooshing and bubbling world of darkness.

I loved her smell. Not the perfume, the harsh and intoxicating fragrances that always changed with her moods, but the subtle scent, like the one on her pillowcase in the morning. I breathed it in steadily while her hand unconsciously found its way to my hair and raked through the baby fine strands around my forehead sending tingles down my neck. Her lap was the best place in the world.

This afternoon when Charlie woke up from nap crying hysterically, I pulled him in tight and tucked his soft plum of a head under my chin. I shushed and hummed and bounced him around the living room. His squalls turned into sniffs that turned into silence as the last crocodile tear rolled down his cheek in lonely defeat. I kept him close anyway, relishing the warmth of his languorous body melded into mine. I let my fingers trace a path through his downy hair.

Will he remember this feeling? Way inside the inner chambers of his mind where all of the earliest memories are stored as feeble impressions, unreachable save for the day a smell or taste plunges in from the outside world and coaxes them forth as hazy bits of a dream? I hope so.

When I kiss the top of his head a smile emerges at the corners of his mouth. His eyes catch mine and for an instant they twinkle with the profundity of an old sage. I love you.

Member When?

Having a baby in the house has awakened Toby to a new dimension. It is called the past and it has proven itself a tricky little concept to squeeze a brain around.


He asks:


Member when I was in dat bed mommy? (Points at crib)


Member when I yoos to eat in dere mommy? (Points at high chair)


Member when I put my poop in my diaper? (Yes, I say with emphasis, since it was like two months ago)


Member when I was in a box at Big Toby's house? (He says after visiting our friends new puppies, to which I quickly say no, you were not ever in a box)


The past is complex.

No Comment

My Nose Are Runnin'

So... we have snot. Drippy, watery, streaming, spoil-my-enjoyment-of-the-spring-weather booger juice. "You do not seem ill," you may surmise. And you would be quite correct. However, when you are three, even the slightest of ailments cannot be borne alone, and I have been invited along as the guest of honor to pull his highness's Kleenex's from the box and gently squeeze the mucous from his crusty little nose. A privilege that begins with a not-so-sweet directive ("MOMMMMMMMYYYY!! MY NOSE ARE RUNNIN'!!") and ends abruptly absent a "thank you". It appears the prince feels snot is "yucky" and is therefore unwilling to touch any, albeit his own.

I graciously accept this esteemed position, and as evidence of my gratitude I wish to thank the following:

Thank you pollen for blowing yourself around our yard and up Toby's nostrils so that he and I can enjoy the subsequent sneeze-a-thon.

Thank you Kleenex for folding your product so efficiently into the box that my son's chubby little fingers are unable to remove you without my assistance.

Thank you baby Charlie for your superior ability in outshining your brother and removing more than half of the Kleenex's without struggle before rendering them useless with your ample drool.

And last, I would like to thank antihistamines everywhere for never making Toby the least bit drowsy but giving him the extra umph he needs to stalk me from room to room all day.

At the risk of sounding unappreciative, is it unreasonable to expect even a teensy weensy bit, just a smidge really, of autonomy from a boy who can touch a warty frog, stand barefoot on a public restroom floor, and eat green beans dipped in ketchup and ranch dressing mixed together without even the slightest hesitation? Am I asking too much??

The Funderstorm

I was given the book called Raising Children Without Going Insane by Australian Author Jane Evans. I thought, how apropos and I read and read until I was so tired that my mental narrator began to sound like The Crocodile Hunter which was really irritating. So I put the book down and went to sleep for the night.

But not the whole night... A storm blew in at four in the morning and regaled the entire house with unfortunately loud thunder and bright flashes of lightning. I wanted to roll over and stay asleep, I really, really did. I tried to ignore the panging in my stomach prompting me to go check on Toby who was probably frozen with fear under his covers gripping tightly to his stuffed dalmatian, Samson. I willed that he was sleeping soundly through it, snug as a bug, blissfully unaware of anything unusual. But I knew I was wrong.

Toby has an anomalous list of fears that ebbs and flows in intensity: bounce houses, large inflatable Christmas decorations for the lawn, getting his head wet (hence the buzz cut...), loud noises, and socks with holes. The other night he gave a sidelong glance at the yellow fire hat perched above a matching raincoat on his bedroom wall that I hung to accent his firetruck quilt. Mommy, I don't like that Toby, he whispered as if it were not an ornamental novelty but an evil alter ego, he no have eyes. A good mother would have removed it at once and explained that it didn't have eyes because it was just a hat and jacket, nothing more. But I was too busy marvelling over my son's imagination to be a good mother. If there is one neuroses this mom can appreciate its an over-active imagination. I spent my childhood dreaming of scrubbing the floors in Miss Hannigan's orphanage like Annie or riding on the back of giant flying dog with Atreyu in The Neverending Story. I would lay awake at night and terrify myself with all of the creepy things that might be lurking behind my own closet door. If I can't offer a cure, I can certainly empathize.

Most often, Toby's creative enterprises compel me to play along because he is just so sincere. I spent a month in the fall sweeping invisible "dinosaurs" from his path while commanding "Shoo! Go away" because it delighted him so much that I saw them too. To him dinosaurs, the very embodiment of evil, are not huge prehistoric lizards (and extinct), but knee-high and mechanically roaring like the toy T-Rex in his friend Kyle's bedroom. Therefore, in September, when I became the lone member of the Dino Extermination Squad, it didn't require any extravagant heroics on my part. And it was easier than wasting logical reasoning on someone who still maintains that Sodor is an actual geographic location.

But this night is different. Standing up to an invisible pest while already awake is not as self -sacrificial as rousting from a deep sleep in the wee hours of the morning to invite a wiggly, chatty three-year-old to share your bed. I slump over the edge of the mattress and drag myself to the bedroom door, but I am stopped by a whisper from Greg.

"Are you going to check on Toby?" he asks.

"Yes, I don't want him to be afraid," I say nobly.

"Well, neither did I so I went and got him already." And in the dark I spy a small quiet body snuggled safely in the crook of his daddy's arm.

"Mommy, the funderstorm made me skeerd," He says in a hushed, sweet voice. I crawl back in beside him and kiss his fuzzy, buzz-cut head. As I drift off to sleep I think of chasing dinosaurs and magical lands and the wonder of crashing thunder outside your bedroom window. I pull him closer to me. Sweet dreams little buddy.