The Admiral Benbow Inn

I used to think that the biggest challenge any relationship could weather was a trip to Ikea. But now I know the truth - it's building a kit playhouse.

Fortunately, Succotash, your father and I survived. On the first warm day of spring we busted out the power drills and the screws and the mallet and the hammer and the level and all that stuff and slowly assembled a cheap wooden playhouse from a kit of nearly infinite pieces, which is now nestled in the hemlock hedge. It has a little play sink and stovetop, and a doorbell and door, and you have decided that it is the Admiral Benbow Inn, just like in Treasure Island. We spent several hours this afternoon moving between there and the Hispaniola, before you became absorbed with watering the tulips, making mud, watering the tulips with mud, and other projects of your own devising. When you came around the corner of the garden yesterday - your grandparents had to pick you up so your Dad and I could finish the final touches, applying the flower pot holders and the doorknob, your whole face awoke with pleasure and you said "What's this?"

"This is your playhouse," I said. "Do you like it?"

"Yes!" you said, popcorning up and down, which is one of my favorite things to see you do. You do it when you are overwhelmed with delight.

We are discussing getting a mailbox, and possibly a hanging sign that says "Admiral Benbow Inn."

Springtime in the garden has begun.

Weaned

We did it, Succotash!

We nursed in the morning on March 10, before you left to go to school and I left to go to Houston for five days. A long trip. And since then we've largely stopped. I had one duct that was holding on - WHAT ABOUT THE BABY? it kept saying, and so I have had to pump a time or two to keep it calm. (Because I am neurotic, that milk is in the freezer. In case of what? The end of days?) You could tell, and sometimes rummaged under my shirt after it. "But there's milk in there!" you objected. We had some bumps, and some tears. 

A couple of days ago my stubborn duct was sore, and it was the morning, and you asked if you could nurse. It had been several weeks. "Okay," I said. "But this will be the very last time."

"Okay," you said.

Up went the shirt. You took a long sniff, like a connoisseur of fine wine testing the nose of a favorite vintage, and you settled in. But you were only there for a minute or two. Maybe there wasn't much left. Maybe you realized you were done. Almost an instant later you were up on your elbows wanting to play Jim Hawkins and start our day.

I am proud of us. Three and a half years! You turned three and a half last weekend, though we didn't really mark the occasion, busy as we were with Passover (22 people!) and Easter (church! Egg hunt birthday party! Bunny suit!), and the general pleasures of living in New England in spring. Yesterday you asked to see if you had grown. I am proud of you for being proud of yourself, for weathering this change. I am proud of myself for lasting this long - too long, it could be argued - and for keeping you healthy through a global pandemic, the anxiety of which hasn't fully left me even as the national emergency has slowly been called off. 

But now we are weaned. Your babyhood is over. You are, at long last, my little boy.