Meet the Bulldozer

No harm could come from a little one with a face like this, right?

Wrong! Just wait until he doesn't get his way and he swings at you. Or he doesn't want to hold your hand, so he bites it. Or he doesn't want his diaper changed, so he kicks you in the gut. Or he doesn't want to be held, so he head butts you so hard you think your nose is broke. Shall I go on?

Even here-see it? That mischieviousness in the eyes and grin? He goes from this (L) to this (R) in five seconds or less. Impressive.

Help. My son is a brute, and I have the bite marks to prove it.

Don't get me wrong and think he's a little sociopath. C. isn't much worse than the average male toddler. I've even met little girls who were far worse. Far worse. Like Gabriella from daycare. She was 14 months old, and not a day went by where she didn't manage to rip a chunk of hair out of the scalp of another toddler. And if that didn't get her her way, she bit, drew blood and laughed about it. No apologies. And there's one of J.'s peers at preschool who hits kids on the head with heavy objects whenever the teacher isn't looking and then lies about it.

At least C.'s outbursts are motivated by logical frustrations: I want that toy; I don't want to go to bed; I don't like this food, etc... And he ALWAYS gives his victims big hugs and kisses and says he's sorry. No, no! Not sociopathic. Remorseful and compassionate.

I've taken enough child development classes to know that this is a phase all toddlers go through that is spurred by lack of verbal expression and one year old maturity. I mean if you only had the know-with-all of a one year old, couldn't speak more than five words, and someone took your cool new race car, what would you do? Naturally, go hit him upside the head with a block. Still, it's hard for a mother to watch her son use his immense physical strength, determination, and independence in hurtful ways.

We've tried time-out, swats on the hand (though swatting for swatting quickly become a fun game for him, and frankly this kid is so strong I cry mercy long before he does). I've ignored it when he's attacked for attention and overly praised positive behavior. If I had a quarter for everytime I said, "Gentle touch," I'd be a millionaire. Our last tactic: the baby doll. He says, "Baby DaDa" (a concept he came up with all on his own, by the way). Somedays he won't leave the room without that baby, feeds the baby, puts the hat on the baby, covers the baby with a blanket, buckles her into the car seat... He is very gentle with the baby. If I were the psychologist Tim is I'd say he was acting out some replacement issues about Tim leaving, but I won't go there. The point is: he's sweet with that baby all the time. He's sweet with real people about 90% of the time. And that remaining 10% is rough! Maybe if the baby told him to eat his carrots he'd pinch her too. Who knows.

So moms, what have you done in this phase that worked? Anything? Or do I just wait for the verbal to catch up with the emotional, and the phase passes? Actually, I think it's better than it was 6 months ago, though he is much stronger now so the outbursts seem worse. Regardless, I'll take any idea you have to prevent one more head butt to the nose!

Rest in Peace

Mstislav Rostropovich.

I have a trunk of Tiffany memorabilia. Sounds fascinating, I know. But in that trunk among a marriage tea set that was given to me in Japan by a Japanese friend before I married Tim; a dried rose from high school that an artist gave me in an Italian restaurant in Montmatre, Paris; some love notes from elementary school; and a stuffed teddy bear my grandma gave me that says, "You're my guardian angel" when you press his tummy, there is a St. Louis Symphony ticket stub from 2000 that says, "Mstislav Rostropovich."

I went to that concert alone. (Dad didn't want to go; long classical music perfomances aren't his thing, and Tim was in basic training.) I sat in the 6th row, center, and I remember breathing very little, blinking even less, and thinking it was nice that I was alone. I didn't have to share my attention with anyone. Sitting alone, so close, on those red velvet seats, I was afraid shifting my legs would disrupt him. HIM. Slava. The one for whom Shostakovich wrote concertos. The one who was kicked out of Russia for standing up against communism, and played the cello with just as much defiant force. It was a powerful evening.

Rostropovich died today at age 80. He led a full life, and contributed much. He will be missed.

Here are some links if you care to hear him. The first link is Rostropovich playing the Bach prelude. It is the piece from which you know you have arrived as a cellist; the first of the difficults. He, of course plays it better than me, and arguably better than anyone, though most would say Yo Yo Ma owns the Bach suites.

The second link probably requires Real Player on your computer, but it is of Rostropovich playing an exerpt of the piece composed for him by Shostokovich, the Shostokovich cello concerto. Even Yo Yo Ma said of the Shostokovich at first hearing, "It is physically impossible to play". I agree. Though Yo Yo eventually mastered it, I never got beyond the first five bars.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU_QR_FTt3E&mode=related&search=


http://emiclassics.com/classic_archive/releases/rostropovich1.html

Peek-A-Boo!

Our neighbor's little dog, Snowflake, and our dog, Moon, have dug a hole under the fence together. Thankfully, it isn't big enough for Moon to crawl through, but Snowflake is a regular guest in our backyard. One of C.'s favorite things to do is get into that hole, stick his head through to the neighbor's yard, and say, "Boo!" I do try to discourage that, as he could get his head stuck or nipped in the nose by little Snowflake. He's just as thrilled to shout, "Boo!" whenever Snowflake peeks into our yard, though. I'm glad the little things still make him so happy!

Gone again

(Thanks for taking our impromptu family photos, Sara!) Tim left this morning for this year's big deployment, and everything went off without a hitch until. . . Tim couldn't find his badge. Cool shiny things tend to disappear around here, like keys, cell phones, and top secret special agent badges. Tim finally found it in a Tonka dump truck in the toy box about 2:00 am. I wonder how it got there? Good thing he was up anyway trying to finish all of his grad. school homework for the next week or two!

We've spent the past few days explaining to the boys that Daddy has to go to work for a long time. Here's some snippets of our conversations with J. lately:

J.: "Ouch! No kiss!"

Tim: "I have to grow out the scratchy beard for work, Judah, but I'll kiss you really gentle so it won't hurt."

J., holding up three fingers: "Daddy gone three days?"

Tim: "A LOT of days. More fingers than you have."

J.: "Daddy jump out airplane?"

Tim: "The plane will land, J. Daddy's not going to jump this time."

J.: "Judah go A'stan. J. go airplane."

Tim (ignoring my, "see what you've started?" glare): "J., you have to stay here and take care of C. and Mommy. You have to be the little man, OK?"

J.: "Yes, Daddy. Li'l man."

We told them that while we wait for Daddy to come home we'll get to go see Papa and Mimi, Lolah, Uncle Steve, Great Grandma and Great Grandpa, and Granny.

So, the day arrived, and we dropped Tim off on base in the pouring rain. Immediately the boys started crying, "No want Dada go A'stan! Daddy home. No want A'stan!" I re-explain it all: he'll be back; he has to go to work; you have to be strong little men and help Mommy take care of the house; we'll visit grandparents, etc. They calm down a bit, and then J. starts, "Papa's house. Night-night in the car? Go Papa's house?" And C. starts "Laloh! Laloh!" (how he says, "Lolah"). I tell them that that trip isn't planned for a couple of months yet; they need to finish school first. Then the tears start going again. . . "Papa's house! No want Daddy go!" Urg.

An hour later, peacefully at home:
Tim calls from the green ramp. He forgot his laptop charger. Can I bring it to him?

You're kidding?

I load everyone back into the car, with the laptop charger. Expectedly, J. asks, "Long time all done? Daddy home?"

"No, long time is not done." We repeat steps 1-3 from above, suffer more screaming, crying and confusion, but they are now thankfully sleeping soundly in their room. Whew!

We'll miss you, Timmy! Be safe.

What's He Saying?

Remember that Friends episode where Phoebe swears that the lyrics to that Elton John song are "Hold me close, you're Tony Danza..." when really it's something about a "tiny dancer"? I've heard that song a hundred times since, and I'm convinced that Phoebe is right. He's definately singing, "Hold me close, you're Tony Danza".

Fast forward to recent times: This catchy little tune is showing up in all sorts of commericials. Car comericals, Big Lots commercials, even on the radio as a regular song. But WHAT is he saying between the Doot DOO do do do's? That has been the question in our house for some time! On the Big Lots commercial, he's clearly saying, "You never know" doot DOO do do do... And I relunctantly admit now, Tim, that he appears to be saying, "Phenomenon" doot DOO do do do...on the radio, and maybe that car commerical too.

Well, to settle this once and for all, last night we tracked down the source. And lo and behold-look what we found! How's this for nostalgia and roll on the floor humor? So THAT's what he's saying! This is C.'s new favorite video, by the way. Doot DOO do do do! Doot DOO do do....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-MW4TgdKoYo

Ode to a Gnome

Ode to a gnome, a garden gnome,

a wise wizard that sits

on a throne of mulch

or grass or dirt or stone

A hat red like an over-ripe

tomato squshed into place

a mushy sombrero

The garden gnome guards

the home with quiet authority

peeking under mushrooms

sweeping moonbeams with a broom

into a pile of purple clovered charms

that keep the hexes of fireants

of red splotched spiders

crabgrass fingers and beetles

away.

_____________________________

Thank you, J. and C. for helping me finish this garden area in the front yard-at least for this year. We can add to it each year.

We joked about who's done a better job-Tim with the lawn or me with the landscaping. But in his defense, it's very difficult to get a lawn going when you've only lived in a house in the fall and winter one year, and the summer another year out of the three years we've lived here! And we live in the sandhills which means that our topsoil is actually, well...sand. To have a lawn, you have to import topsoil, have all the sand removed, and plant sod. It's an expensive ordeal, and since very few people go to that trouble around here (unlike the midwest), we don't feel bad about simply mowing our weeds every week, giving the boys their sand shovels to play in the front yard, and letting it go.

Here's a couple of pictures of the final project. I'm not a gardener by any means, and I fully expect half of this to be dead in a week. But for today, it looks alright, I think! Thanks, Janne for the info. on which plants are and are not perennials.

C.'s favorite part is the turtle he picked out.

Whenever C. loves something,

he has to go over and kiss it!

Happy Spring and Happy National Poetry Month!