An apologetic little boy

"Mea Culpa Mama!"

I’m learning that 2-year-olds translate what you’re saying into its most literal interpretation. An example:

We never really had cause to teach Kostyn how and why we say “I’m sorry” until Evan’s arrival. Because with Evan’s arrival came the very occasional acts of pushing Evan, and ramming cars into Evan’s limbs, and scaring the bejeezus out of both Evan and Mommy with sudden, failed attempts at body-slamming Evan. So I would talk to Kostyn about how such things might hurt his baby brother, and we certainly don’t want to hurt him, and we learned about apologizing for doing things we shouldn’t have done or didn’t mean to do.

That’s the part that stuck, and now he seems to understand “I’m sorry” as a phrase used whenever something happens that wasn’t intentional. So I’ve got a kid who calls out “Sowwy!” to no one in particular when he trips as he’s running around the table. And he calls out “Sowwy!” when he drops one of the half-dozen cars he’s trying to carry upstairs. He even apologizes to his toys. “Sowwy giraffe!” he says when the tiny plastic toy falls over on the carpet, even if he is nowhere near the animal when it happens. And when his brow is furrowed as he’s trying to build some complex bridge/tower with his blocks and part of it topples, he apologizes. To the blocks. Because the blocks toppling over wasn’t supposed to happen, people. It wasn’t what he intended. “Uhh, sowwy,” he says in frustration before trying again.

On one hand it’s endearing, hearing his sweet little “Sowwy!” On the other hand it’s embarrassing, especially in public. How Joan Crawford must I seem to the neighbors, to have this little toddler who falls and scrapes his knee crying, “Sowwy Mama! Ohhh, sowwy!!” or to the parents at the playground who overhear my son apologize every time his own elbow bumps into a piece of playground equipment? “Oops, sowwy!” Half the time I just want to apologize to him for screwing up the meaning in his little brain.

So sowwy Kostyn!

The world's next Thriller?

I’m sitting here watching the live Michael Jackson memorial service on TV (I didn’t plan to ... I just got sucked in), and I’m wondering who’s next. Who will be the next unfortunate, blessed, gifted, tragic, flawed human being we catapult to a level of superstardom we don’t yet know exists? Who will we spend 20 or 30 years exalting and denouncing, heckling and applauding? Who will garner this type of massive, star-studded, televised memorial service filled with famous faces talking about a man many probably hadn’t had direct contact with in years?

I wonder who will mesmerize my boys the way MJ’s Moonwalk mesmerized my friends and I. I wonder who Kostyn and Evan will dance to in the living room when they’re 10 and still be dancing to in their 20s, and even 30s. For my mother, it was Elvis. For me, Michael. I can’t imagine another artist following in those footsteps.

Who will the world chew up and spit out and grab again and again, until the artist has become less character and more caricature, until his demons are uncovered and his world crumbles from within? Whose oh-so-very-unconventional home will be viewed as a spectacle, and then a shrine?

In today’s world, where you can be a celebrity for doing absolutely nothing noteworthy, where you can be famous for having no talent, how bright must a star shine to stand out? How innovative must an artist be to come up with something that really does thrill us like Thriller? Are there Moonwalk-type moves left to show the world? Is it possible to once again reinvent the very definition of entertainment the way Michael Jackson did, again and again?

I wonder.

Epiblogues

1. Naomi Williams died in her sleep in the early morning hours of July 1. Her family was with her, and so many of our prayers will continue to follow her....prayers for her family, and for her peace.

2. One or two people have asked me in passing whether I scored a “date” with Potential Playdate during that last storytime session. I did not. (Story of my life...) She totally hit on Kostyn and I again (“Oh my God, I was watching your son during the songs and stuff and he’s So Darn Cute! And by the way I cannot get OVER the fact that you had a baby three months ago. You look like you were never pregnant!!....”) but alas, no date. The best either of us could muster was a “Well, looking forward to seeing you at the next Storytime session in the fall.” The search continues....

3. The quest for the perfect pop-up camper (and by “perfect” I mean “super-cheap, but not so cheap that the damn thing breaks before we leave the driveway”) continued after our last disappointment. In a surprise turn of events, our landlord offered us $100 for the clunker. We took that money and a few hundred more bills that we really don’t have to spend on such childhood dreams and bought yet another pop-up off Craigslist. After two successful outings I’m ready to report that the third time’s the charm! This one’s a tiny speck of a thing, sleeps six, with a little attached awning and a two-burner stove and sink and icebox and the best part is it actually, you know, pops up. We love it! Towed the little bugger to NY last week, where the darn rain nearly waterlogged all our camping plans but we still managed to squeeze in one good campfire. Photos to come.

4. A couple weeks ago Evan rolled over from back to front. He also laughed out loud for the first time (at his brother, with whom he is completely in love). I wrote both in his baby book. :)

Father's Day Gift

I realize the dust hasn't even settled on my last post, but I couldn't wait to post these pics because they're just too friggin' cute.

For Father's Day Kostyn (with Mommy's help) made Daddy a frame from him and Evan. It was his first foray into the colorful, messy world of finger painting (with real paint ... we'd only ever used pudding laced with food coloring before) and he had tons of fun.



Then yesterday while Chris was out I took some pics of the boys together. I only took five photos and four of them came out great! I couldn't believe both boys were so cooperative; the whole thing took less than 2 minutes. Here are the best three....







And the finished product, which Daddy (of course) loved...

To the men in my life

I penned this poem several years ago, and the lovely thing is I don't really remember who I wrote it for first -- my father or my husband. I know both were given copies of their own (with slight pronoun changes) ages ago.

It's not a great poem but it means even more to me today, seeing Chris as a father and my dad as a grandfather to my boys. Because now I am faced with the awesome privilege and challenge of making sure Kostyn and Evan turn out like their daddy and their Pop-pops. Reminding and rededicating myself to that goal will be my gift to all four of them every Father's Day.

Women always end up
marrying their fathers.
That's what they said.
And I'd look at his goofy grin and say,
Not a chance.

And then I grew up and started to see
the simplicity of his philosophies
Family. Love. Commitment.
And I'd look at his kind eyes and say,
Well, maybe parts of him.

And then I met you.
And I see your sweet, sweet disposition.
The strength that comes with
standing again after life knocks you down.
And the quiet passion you have for what's important
Family. Love. Commitment.
And I look into your heart and say,
Thank God I'm as smart as Mom.

Naomi Williams is living on hugs and hope. Join her.

Jack and Chrissy

When you see my cousin Chrissy and her boyfriend, Jack, you think they’ve been ripped right out of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. They’re both tall, athletic, lean, tanned and, let’s get right down to it, beautiful. Then you spend five minutes talking to them and you realize their insides match their outsides: Beautiful. It’s lovely how these two found each other, started dating in college and are now both making a go of it as teachers and high school coaches in New York.

Jack’s sister, Naomi, is equally beautiful. She’s 29 and married with a 2-and-a half-year-old boy named Jake. She owns a successful photography studio in Jacksonville, Fla., and looks like she should be in front of the lens, not just behind it. A charmed life, no?

No.

Because a few months ago she bent over to put a plug in an electrical socket and heard a “pop,” which led to an MRI to confirm a compound fracture in her spine, which led to surgery being scheduled, which led to pre-op testing that found cancer. A lot of cancer. Stage 4 metastatic melanoma that had already spread to her lungs, bones and pelvis. (Forgive the horrendous TV reference I’m about to throw out here, but if anyone still watches “Grey’s Anatomy,” Naomi’s got what Izzy Stevens was diagnosed with this past season.)

Naomi and Jack

Before I had kids, I was not afraid of dying. Part faith and part denial, perhaps, but I just never worried about it. But now. Now I can’t bear the thought. I have two tiny, innocent little boys whose lives are dependent upon mine. OK, I suppose that’s not literally true. I know if, God forbid, something happened to me, loved ones would step in and surround those two boys with such tender loving care that they might never feel a minute of loneliness. But it wouldn’t be my tender loving care. They wouldn’t know my love.

They wouldn’t know me.

That’s what gets me every time a plight like Naomi’s crosses my radar screen -- that my boys are so young right now (... just like Jake ...), if I were whisked away to heaven tomorrow would they remember me? Would Kostyn’s memory of his mama eventually fade to nothing? Would he somehow retain the words to the silly songs only he and I sing? Would he ever see a mole on someone’s face and think about how he used to gingerly touch the tiny one on his mother’s face, just below her lower lip, and say “Mama mole”? Would Evan have any recollection of my voice, my scent? Would either of them hear one of the songs we dance to a lot and be able to conjure up my image in their minds? Would they feel a pang of something missing in their hearts?

Or not?

I know it’s an incredibly selfish place to wallow, but there it is. The thought that crushes my soul. And when I think about Jake and Naomi, my heart aches for them in a way I couldn’t have truly felt two years ago.

Naomi and Jake

Chrissy told me tonight that after a successful benefit last weekend for Naomi, which she was feeling well enough to attend, things suddenly have gone downhill. She’s in the hospital battling even larger, painful lesions on her pelvis and spine. The cancer is overtaking her lungs and is showing up on her liver now, too.

All I can do is cry and pray for this woman I’ve never met, and for her child I’ve taken in as my own in my heart.

I’m relaying all of this not to depress you, but to ask for a call to action.

If you are a person of faith, this family could use the prayers.

If you are a person of means, they could use the donation.

And at the risk of sounding trite, if you are a parent, your children could use more hugs. Like, now. Even if they’re tucked up in bed. Even if they just threw a screaming fit and are in Time Out. Even if you just hugged them 5 minutes ago. Hug them for Naomi, hug them for Jake, and hug them for every other family whose happily ever after gets suddenly called into question.

For me, this tragedy is a reminder to give my kids every drop of tender loving care I’ve got, every day, knowing that God will supply more for me tomorrow. I don’t want to squander any of it, or save it up for later. I want to give them so much today that they have no option but to savor such a priceless bounty — their own mother’s love — in their little hearts, forever. No matter what tomorrow brings.

To read more about Naomi and her plight (she was also featured on ABC News) check out the Pictures of Hope Web site.

In defense of empty baby books

I have a secret for all you kids - young and old - whose baby books are basically empty. It’s for the middle children whose parents can never seem to remember when you started walking or what your first word was. It’s for the babies of the family who don’t have any photos of themselves before age 7. Basically, this is for anyone who wasn’t born first.

C’m’ere....lean in.....shhhhhhhh. OK, here it is:

Your parents might not have documented your infancy the way they did your older sibling’s. But on some level, whether they’d admit it or not, they enjoyed it more.

OK, so maybe that’s a sweeping generalization, but it’s true for me. Evan is 3 months old, which I find hard to believe and my laptop’s hard drive find’s darn near impossible to believe. By this time in Kostyn’s infancy the ol’ Mac’s memory was bogged down to near-capacity with photos and video clips of him doing nothing more than staring wide-eyed at the flash or wiggling his limbs involuntarily. I actually had folders of photos categorized by weeks. “Kostyn’s 3rd week.” “Kostyn - Week 5.” How long I thought I’d keep up that charade, I’ve no idea. We also wrote long flowery letters to him every week in his baby journal, and took monthly notes for his baby book about his tiniest developments.

Evan’s first three months have been, to put it delicately, not documented quite so diligently. I think I’ve written in his baby journal three times, and two of those entries were penned when I was still pregnant. I have one specially named photo folder for him -- “Evan’s first week.” Nothing after that is labeled. I’ve cracked his baby book open exactly twice — once so the nurses could put his footprint on the appropriate page, and once in an attempt to start filling in such important details as “My Mommy’s name is...” Admittedly, I didn’t even get very far with that endeavor.

When I think about all that I feel a little guilty, naturally. But then I realize that I am experiencing Evan’s first months in an entirely different way than I experienced Kostyn’s. And not just a busier, more distracted way, what with having two butts to wipe and two mouths to feed and a toddler running around, chattering nonstop. Nope, it’s a (shhhhh!) better way. And I ain’t puttin’ that in no baby book.

Things are different this time because I am different. There are no first-time mom jitters hampering me from relaxing while I’m holding the baby. There’s much less second-guessing about my parenting style, which allows me to just do what feels right and to hell with those on the opposite side of the spectrum. And there’s even a neat little reserve of infant-related information in my head, which translates to way fewer trips to Google to try to figure out whether what’s happening at any particularly puzzling moment is normal or cause for concern.

From Day 1 with Evan, my arms knew how to hold a baby. My body knew how to soothe a fussy newborn. I hadn’t just read about the “5 S’s,” I’d lived it. I was better at swaddling him and burping him and even clipping his tiny fingernails.

I’m also more relaxed about the bad times. When he’s having a total meltdown, I know that sometimes babies just melt down. I know that it is not my personal failing as a mother if I can’t quiet him in the first 3 minutes. And just as babies sense a mother’s tension, they also sense a mother’s calm, which I’m sure is a big part of why Evan cries so much less than Kostyn did.

I think because of all this I live “in the moment” more with Evan than I did with Kostyn. Sure, we savored Kostyn’s every coo, and we took a gazillion photos and noted every milestone and talked endlessly about how Kostyn was just perfect right then and we couldn’t imagine what the next day or year might hold. But this time around my perspective on time is different. I see the example every day, running around my dining room table, of how quickly that next day and next year come. Those little onesies give way to big boy T-shirts in the blink of an eye.

I know I’ll have some explaining to do one day, when Evan stumbles upon Kostyn’s baby journal and realizes we wrote so much more to his big brother than we did to him. In my defense, I guess I’ll say that instead of being jealous of Kostyn, Evan should be thankful for him. Because Kostyn “broke me in” as a mom. He worked hard to get my arms just right for rocking and my lap just right for reading. He helped me memorize all the lullabies that I would eventually sing to Evan. He taught me a lot, as a good big brother should, about how to care for his little brother.

I’ll tell Evan that in these early months I didn’t have much free time, and I didn’t want to squander it scrapbooking and journal-writing. Instead I spent every free second I could basking in his tiny smile, inhaling that intoxicating baby scent coming from the top of his head, and generally enjoying him as he enjoyed me. He’s a happy guy, and I’m a happy mom. Baby books be damned.

E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G spells STOP!

Kostyn knows four words that he recognizes and can spell. “Kostyn,” “Evan,” “love” and “stop.” This is great fun, particularly in the car where we have to linger at every stop sign so he can wave his little finger toward each letter and announce each with excitement, as if he didn’t just read the same damn thing 2 blocks back. “S-T-O-P. This spells ‘Stop’!” he says with great pride.

And I admit, I’m proud of him. Smart little bugger, he is. But I think what I love most is that he loves letters and words and spelling so much it doesn't matter to him that 99.8 percent of the time he doesn’t actually know how to read what he spells. He just defaults to “stop”:

As he hands me the box of crackers I asked him to get out of the pantry: “R-I-T-Z. This spells ‘stop.’”

When we go for a walk around the block and he has to s-t-o-p at every sign in someone’s yard. “G-A-U-G-H-E-N R-E-A-L-T-Y. This spells ‘stop.’”

And my personal favorite, which occurred yesterday at the grocery store when he pointed wildly at several of the illuminated numbers at the checkout counters and "spelled" them: “8-7-6-5-4-3. This spells ‘stop.’”

It's gonna blow the kid’s mind when he starts to understand this whole “phonics” thing we’ve been doing...

The doctor will *cough, hack* see you now...

I’m instituting a new rule in my life: I will no longer go to doctors’ offices where the people wearing the uniforms don’t look at least moderately healthy. They don’t all have to be triathletes; I know “healthy” comes in all shapes and sizes. But I shouldn’t have to worry about whether I might need to perform CPR on my own doctor as I watch him huff and puff his way down the hall.

I tried a new family practice a couple weeks ago because I need to find someone local who can monitor my thyroid. (As an aside, why does it seem like the ailment I’ve had for almost 3 years is suddenly trendy? Every time I turn around I meet another woman who’s having her thyroid checked.) I picked a doctor after perusing several MD bios online and finding one who seemed competent, and close.

His personality was mildly annoying (dude, when I say I just moved here and really like the area, you don’t need to spend 10 minutes telling me how much better Philly is....), but what really got me was his midsection. It was large. Like, shirt buttons-stretching-fabric large. And I find that sort of hypocritical. I mean, I know doctors are busy and they work long hours and there’s a lot of stress and strain involved in the business of having other people’s lives in your hands. It’s not like I expect my doctors to look like Michael Phelps or Brad Pitt (Wait...). But if they’re going to stand there and ask me how much caffeine I consume and whether I exercise regularly, they better look like they could answer those questions in a positive way themselves.

And the nurse, well, she was even worse. She was skinny, but that sort of hard livin’ skinny, with horribly stained or missing teeth. Missing.

Today when I had to return for follow-up bloodwork I saw the culprit of her horrendous mouth and leathery appearance. As we were pulling out of the parking lot she was exiting the office on her lunch break, already puffing away on a cigarette.

Watching a health care professional smoke a cigarette is insulting. It made me feel like an idiot for giving these people my time, my medical history, my blood and, most of all, for putting my health in their hands. Because becoming a nurse or doctor takes thousands of dollars and thousands of hours of schoolin’, and if after all that you’re still too stupid to apply what you’ve learned on yourself, well then all the summa cum laudes in the world couldn’t make me trust you with my own physical well-being.

Maybe those doctor rating Web sites should include more important information than medical association affiliations. “Dr. John Doe graduated at the bottom of his class from Barely Accredited University, and completed his residency at East Nowhere Medical Center. But at age 55 he still runs a 7-minute mile, is a lifelong non-smoker, practices yoga four times a week and sponsors the local farmer’s market to encourage the consumption of organic, locally grown produce.”

Sign me up, Dr. Doe.

I’m just sayin’.