Conversation before bed the other night

"Sometimes I don't feel like me," you said as we climbed into your castle loft bed together to snuggle and read books.

"You don't? What does feeling like you feel like?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think I'm you, Mama!"

"I think I have a pretty good sense of who you are. But how you feel being you is probably different from what I think. What does it feel like, to be you?"

"When I close my eyes I see all kinds of pictures and things."

"Really! Me too."

"Really?"

"In fact, I'll tell you a secret. Whenever I am writing a book, all I'm doing is making a detailed picture in my mind and then writing down what I see."

"Maybe you can write down what I see?"

"All you have to do is learn how to write, and you can write your own stories yourself. It's fun!"

A Kindergartener

 Hello Succotash! You are at school right now, with a bright spiky backpack we got at Luna Luna in New York and a blanket in the shape of a shark for rest time and the stuffed armadillo that we got on a trip to Texas with you when you were five months old. We made the move to Baltimore almost three weeks ago, and so far I think it's going really well. Your dad and grandparents went down first while you and I lingered in Mustard House and went to farm camp (well, you went to farm camp, and I hurdled logistical logjams to get your playdates with your favorite friends and our favorite grownups before we left). Then you and I hopped on a plane and flew down. You had find your seat day, where we met your teachers and found your cubby and explored your classroom, and then you had three days of half days. Last week was your first full week, with rest time and lunch and everything. And this week you start the cool after school activities that we signed you up for - Little Chefs and Inventors. You have started making friends, including a sweet kid you met on the playground named Ernest, and Axel from school. 

You love your new room, and your own bathroom, and your bed shaped like a castle, with a slide. Many nights you have just slept all the way through in your bed, which is amazing. I feel like I can already tell that you are growing. Something in your turns of phrase sounds more kidlike. And the other night at dinner you didn't want to do the preschool brain quest trivia cards - because you are NOT a preschooler!

Also, I forgot to note that you are down one tooth! A few weeks before we left, you developed your first loose tooth. The tooth fairy was all set to preserve it in a little cute bottle with a stopper to put in the bourgeois display cabinet alongside your mother's baby teeth (not weird at all, I'm sure), but what should happen? One morning you woke up, and the tooth was gone! We searched the bed, we searched the floor, we looked on the stairs - nothing. Our current theory is that you swallowed it. You and I wrote a letter to the tooth fairy explaining what had happened, and happily she understood and left you a dollar anyway. (Side note - much debate in my extended family over the proper going rate for a lost tooth, with estimates ranging from a quarter to ten bucks). 

Your dad and I are beside ourselves with how much we love Gilman for you. Much as we loved Montessori for your growth as a person, and a friend, we are so excited to see what Gilman will do for your mind. You are turning into even more of a tinkerer. I brought your gear and water tube bathtub toys, and have enjoyed observing as you take them apart and then fit them back together, working on projects. You want to use your time in the inventor class to design a contraption that will lower a hat directly onto your head. I hope they let you do it.

You are still very tall, and very muscly, and yet share your parents' antipathy to sports. The other night we went to a pizzeria that has skee ball. There was another 5 yo boy next to you, who rolled a twenty after a lot of coaching and encouragement from me. You? You rolled a 290. I couldn't believe it. 

You are currently obsessed with the movie The Sandlot ("you're killing me, Smalls"). PopPop dreams that this means you might want to play baseball. Your dad and I think you just like movies about boys doing boy stuff without grownups around. But who knows? You are blooming and changing under our very eyes. And I have never loved another being as much as I love you. 

Five and a Half

Happy Spring, my Succotash! It's been a crazy few months, and I'm sorry I haven't been blogging about you as much as I wish. We are closing in on the last several weeks of Montessori, and I think you and I were both a little wistful at the Spring Tea this year. You were an impeccable host, taking down my tea order and bringing me a little plate of tasty sandwiches. Later we will make fairy bread, which is bread with butter on it and covered in a thick layer of sprinkles, so thick it almost turns into frosting. 

You are doing well at swimming, and continue to be hale and strong and also theatrical, obsessed with costumes. Last night we went to Maddie's and you wore a PFD, just because. You also brought a new book all about snakes. You are deep in a Greek Gods phase, and when you went to Farm Camp at Appleton for April vacation you made a fast friend named Asa, who is 6, and who is also obsessed with Greek myths. One night at bedtime not long ago you and I had a whispered conversation in which you confessed you were nervous about our move to Baltimore, that you would miss your friends and were worried you weren't going to make new ones. It's interesting to me, watching you prepare yourself for this big coming change. We are going to give you two birthday parties, one early one in August so you can invite all your Massachusetts friends, and one in October, your real birthday, when we can invite your new Kindergarten classmates.

Like you parents, you are something of a night owl and don't much like getting up in the morning. You are still being picky about food, subsisting almost entirely on chocolate kids protein shakes, buttered pasta, sunbutter and jelly sandwiches, and avocado maki (of course). You are excited for Camp Devereaux, though our summer is looking unusually travel intensive for us -  a week in Fire Island at your aunt's house, then later on a week and a half in the UK for my graduation (with your grandfather, God help us), and later you and I will go with Emily and Anne and their kids to Cabo San Lucas. Fortunately your last week before our move will be back at Farm Camp, which you love, and Asa will be there too. 

I'm also nervous about our move, for many reasons you aren't privy to, being a little boy. We have lately bought a second car, dubbed the Blue Oyster (in part because you were briefly obsessed with the Grim Reaper, making us play Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper" on repeat and also your father tried showing you The Seventh Seal, which you didn't finish, but most five year olds don't make it that far into Bergman on their first try). I look at our summer schedule and my mind boggles. It seems shorter and faster than before. I am already stunned that at your next birthday, you will be turning six. 

The same age as Eloise.

Springtime

I have fallen down on my baby blog entries! I'm sorry Succotash. I fear I've spent more time parenting than chronicling. Right now you are at reading playgroup, as we figured out that Montessori method is not really connecting the dots for you. I am at a cloyingly feminine tea room, and I will pick you up in fifteen minutes.

News: you got into Gilman!!!! My huge project of the fall was a success! You also got into McDonogh and Boys Latin, and were invited to reapply to Park. I am so proud of you I could just about explode. We have plastered Gilman stickers all over the huge battery powered moon rover that your favorite uncle brought to Christmas, and which you enjoy driving to the fort and around the neighborhood. Your dad worries about the battery range, but I've been very impressed with your ability to navigate narrow passages on sidewalks, and even pull off a three point turn (albeit with some direction). I might even get your dad to agree to put one on the Red Menace. You are excited for your new big kid school, and though you had initially wanted to attend "Daddy's school," you came around when Daddy confessed to you that he had actually always wanted to go to Gilman. It's up the street from our new house, and they love exuberant boys there, just like you. Also, they're not fools - they bring in 30% of the class at Kindergarten, and they probably took one look at your tall and muscly self and someone thought "wide receiver." We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. The football bridge. God help us.

More news: You can write your first and last name! We practiced a lot making valentines for your class (you still call them "valentimes"), and then one night you started writing them both in the fog on the shower door. 

Obsessions: yesterday you dug a blue fishnet out of the garden shed that you found abandoned on the beach last summer, greeted it like a long lost relative (there were kisses), brought it indoors and even took it into the shower with you. When I asked you what you loved most about the fishnet, you said that it could be anything as long as you used your imagination. Fishnet, jousting lance, sword, walking stick... the possibilities are endless. 

Other obsessions: Vikings. Lots of reading about Vikings, dressing up in a Viking cloak, Viking helmet, Viking shield, Viking axe (many of these Christmas presents from your indulgent aunt). I met a woman on a work trip to New York last week who, upon learning of your obsession, insisted on meeting me the following day with a miniature Viking someone had given her. You have named him Tiny Man (your dad pronounced it "Tinniman"), and he is presently attending reading class with you, with I hope not too disruptive results. 

You are excited for your own room in the new house, but still really prefer sleeping with us in the "big bed" to sleeping in "Charles bed" on the floor. You love snuggles, and drink them up to fall asleep and also adjust to being awake in the morning. I know I have to support your independence, but I just love snuggling you so much, it's hard to hold the line. Your dad is out of town this week, and I've been feeling hugely stressed due to a combination of my doctoral defense coming up next week, and other grownup things that are at times necessary but hard, so the temptation will be to put up only token resistance and fall asleep wrapped up in your gently sleeping arms. 

You still love Manatee and Baby Faff and the Paddington that we bought in Paddington Station on our trip to the UK last summer. 

You like to explain things by saying "So you see...." which your Montessori teacher thinks is hilarious.

Your best friends at school are still Penny (your fiancee), Dylan, the Boy Charlie, and Lily, but you also are partial to Holden and Alistair, who are younger. You're still friends with Paul from school last year, and with James up the street who also loves the olden times and dressing up. 

Overall, you are a fascinating growing person. I could not imagine loving any human being more than I love you.

Christmas is Coming

"What do you think Santa is doing *right now*?" This is a question you have asked me a couple of times, usually when we are getting ready for bed. We theorize that he is probably hard at work with all the elves finishing toys. 

You are very into Santa this year, and have big plans for us on Christmas eve. You want to decorate the house (we are having a little tree trimming party next week), you want lights, you want to make a gingerbread house. You have special Christmas jammies and sock and elf ears. 

Turns of Phrase

"It's a smooth as a thousand midnights," you said about something recently, though what you were describing hasn't lodged itself in my mind as much as your characterization of it has. 

Also, this morning, when I asked you if you were in the air next to your dad before you were born, as you have claimed to have been in the air next to me, you said "No, I was a shooting star, with a face."

Nighttime

You told me you didn't want snuggles, but wanted to lie in your bed and listen to Harry Potter. So I climbed into my bed, and did word puzzles while Harry Potter played.

I heard rustling.

I peeked and found you looking at a book.

"What book is that?" I asked. "Are you looking at the cover of Harry Potter while you listen to the story?"

"No," you said. "It's this one." You showed me the cover. It was a paperback of Annie Van Sinderen, a ghost story I published ten years ago or so.

"Oh, that's my book," I said, surprised. "Why are you looking at that one?"

"I don't know," you said. "I want to cuddle it."

"Why?"

"Well you see, Mama, if I cuddle a book written by someone I love, then it's like I'm cuddling them."

I came over to your bed. I gave you a kiss. We tucked the book under your pillow, and I gave you Manatee to hold because he is soft, and then I lay down next to you until you fell asleep.

Back to School

You are growing, my Succotash. You have just begun your official year of PreK at Harborlight, which will be your third in the same classroom, with Miss Sue and your friends and Monty the rabbit. I realized just after you and your Dad left this morning that I forgot to pack your nap blanket. I wonder how it will go?

Last night was a watershed moment. We've introducing the idea of you sleeping in your own bed at last. We set up the trundle bed, which I used to sleep in when I was very small, and on which all my sleepover friends crashed throughout my entire childhood. It's been a bit bumpy, with you missing our snuggles and claiming you just needed a break. I promised you that you would get all the snuggles that you needed at bedtime and in the morning, but that you would sleep better without snoring grownups.

Well guess what? Last night you drifted off to sleep in my arms in your bed while I read to you from the Great Illustrated Classics version of Moby Dick. You had a bunny nightlight, glowing red, and a little sticky dinosaur thing that you won as a prize for being so good at the dentist, whom you have named "Mr. Squishy," watching over you. You had Manatee and Henry the Dog (gifted to you when we checked in to our hotel in London at the beginning of the summer), and Chompy (crocodile won with Cora at the fair on Martha's Vineyard last month) and the as yet unnamed red dragon given to you by Claire when we went to play in castle ruins in Wales. I love that you love stuffies. I pulled up the comforter, tucked it around your shoulders, watched you for a few more minutes (I do that, you don't know it, but I do), and then you slept. All night. No wakeups, no crying out. You slept alone in your bed for the entire night for the very first time.

The first time we tried this, about a year or so ago, I missed you terribly. I don't know if I would have parented this way in the absence of a global pandemic in your babyhood, but for a long time I felt constitutionally incapable of having you sleep in another bed, away from my arms, where I couldn't immediately smell your hair and feel your breathing. Fortunately you and I were aligned in this respect. 

I can tell that you are ready for more independence now. And I am ready too. I am so proud of you.

Another thing - yesterday was the last day the pool was open for the season, and I sat shivering in a bathing suit while I oversaw your play in the baby pool during All Out. A small mob of other kids were there, splashing, whining, shouting, snatching, ignoring their parents when summoned for lunch. You were so absorbed in practicing holding your breath, floating on your stomach with your goggles on, looking around, doing projects of your own devising, that all the chaos rolled right by you. You are a self-determined little person. You keep your own counsel. I admire that about you. Not a follower or member of the mob, is Succotash. 

But a growing little boy all the same. You are still four, but only for another month.

Swimmer!

Yesterday at the yacht club pool you climbed up onto the diving board without any floaties on and jumped in! I was treading water waiting for you down below, and the moment you disappeared under the water was, not gonna lie, terrifying. ("No really for real for real, I'm not lying, for real" as you sometimes say). But up you paddled, breaking the surface with a huge grin, and half swum, half climbed onto me as we paddled our way to the side of the deep end. 

"Mama, did I make a big splash?" you asked. Yes, my Succotash, the biggest! Your first real cannonball. You really are a big kid. How did that happen?

Then you held the side and "monkey walked" all the way around the edge of the pool back to the stairs. You spent the rest of the afternoon climbing out of the pool and jumping back in, climbing out and jumping back in, until you were so exhausted that you almost fell asleep in the car on the way home. 

"I need more relaxing time!" you wailed when we pulled up at the house. But we made it home, and you played in the shower while I warmed up leftovers for burritos, and we had a nice dinner with Grandpa before going upstairs to finish The Muppet Movie.

"Sparkling muscatel," you quote to me. "One of the finest wines of Idaho."

You have taken to claiming that you passed your swim test. I'm not sure if this is a literal thing that happened at day camp, or a reference to a plot point in "Jabari Jumps," about a boy who decides he is ready to jump off the diving board.  

This is your last week at Devereaux day camp, which I think has been largely a success. Next week, another set of half days of the Peewee program at Gatchells Playground, and then we have a week of Appleton Farm Camp. And then friends some to stay, and then it's back to school. Change is in the air. But summer isn't over yet. 

Some jokes you have told lately

"What do you call a three humped camel? PREGNANT!"

"Why did the teddy bear not eat his dessert? Because he was already stuffed!" 

"Wanna hear a squirrel joke? I forgot to bury a nut for winter and now I'm DEAD! It's funny because the squirrel is dead."

Summer of Succotash

"Mama, can I be a writer too when I grow up? And at the end of every day, when I'm finished writing, I can come over to your house and tell you what book I wrote."

You said this to me as we walked from the Red Menace to your Pee Wee group at Gatchell's Playground this morning, where you are doing a week of day camp run by Parks and Rec. Today is tie dye day. You have grumbled after your first two days of playground camp, but it's only a half day long, and you get indulgent grandparent time after. 

It's been a busy start to the summer for us. After you finished Montessori in mid-June, we took you on your first ever trip overseas, to England for ten days.

We landed in London and stayed at a fancy place near Buckingham Palace, wherein you promptly developed norovirus and we spent a miserable 36 hours surfing on rivers of barf. "I hate England," you said, and we really couldn't blame you. We traded off lying with you in the room while you drifted in and out of sleep and watched Garfield on your travel tablet, while I had a couple of meetings and at one point your dad went to a museum. But! Our inauspicious beginning was soon shaken off.

First, we passed through Paddington Station and obtained a real Paddington Bear on our way to the train to take us to Hereford, just outside of Wales, where my high school friend lives with her family. We stayed at the Green Dragon Inn, which we think was very grand one hundred years ago, and which now is cooled by a lazy oscillating fan and open windows facing the street across from a karaoke bar. We roamed the streets and you enjoyed shouting "pigeons!" and chasing them with abandon and glee. The next day we met up with my friend and her two children for a day that was nothing short of magical. You and Edward both enjoy dressing up. Edward was 11, Imogen 9, and the three of you ran riot in the ruins of a castle in Wales, surrounded by a real moat choked with weeds and lily pads. We explored towers and threw pebbles down sinkholes and climbed crumbling staircases, and then we all stopped for a picnic. We obtained a costume of chainmail (the first in several costume elements acquired on our travels). Then we drove to a hedge maze. You and Imogen disappeared instantly, and I couldn't find you! I stopped by the observation platform to ask another mother if she might be able to see a small boy dressed in chain mail, as I was worried you would be scared being separated from me. HA. Instead you an Imogen solved the maze faster than the rest of us! I was pretty blown away. And THEN we took you to an arcade for the first time, where you discovered some kind of water gun zombie shooting game with your dad, and the pleasures of earning tickets, and Edward and Imogen even consented to ride the tiny spinning teacups with you. That night we adjourned home for pizza and the grownups talked while you introduced Imogen to Peter and Wendy. It was a truly marvelous day.

We also had fun in Lincoln, looking at churches and castles, and then we went on to Nottingham for the full Robin Hood experience. Nottingham castle was torn apart during the Reformation and rebuilt as a ducal estate, but that didn't stop them from having a wonderful Robin Hood exhibit, with interactive archery and stick fighting games, actors hypothesizing about the historical antecedents for the Robin Hood stories, and also a playground nestled in a shady glade. We obtained a Lincoln green Robin Hood tunic and matching hat with a real feather. And we visited Ye Old Trip to Jerusalem public house, which supposedly was a 12th century waystation for knights about to leave for the Crusades. We checked out several Robin Hood statues, chased pigeons in the market square, and read Robin Hood stories on a walking tour. We also stayed in a strange Gothic revival guesthouse on the University of Nottingham campus, also cooled by oscillating fans, with our own dining room downstairs for breakfast. We explored the woods behind the house, and pretended it was Sherwood forest. We didn't find Robin's last arrow, but we looked pretty hard. 

From Nottingham we went on to York (actually, I think we went on to Lincoln, and then York), where we walked castle walls, added a quiver to your Robin Hood costume, explored a mock Victorian streetscape, rode a carousel - your first time on a horse that moves! It was a big moment - and most importantly, went on a time machine (your words) back to the Viking era. This was at the Jorvik Viking Center, where we rode a Jurassic Park like tour ride through highly detailed, uncanny-valley-dwelling Viking animatronics. It was actually better than I expected, and I suspect this might prove to be one of your core memories (that and the zombie water guns, of course). By the time we reached York you had moved from "I love England" to "I'm going to live in England when I'm a teenager!" You and I played in a park while your dad visited another church, and then met us in a funny cafe inside a gatehouse on an ancient bridge. We stayed in a sprawling hotel by the train station, with a pool in the basement where you and I played with Muppet Babies. 

Then it was back on the train to London, where we had dinner with your dad's cousin Eren and his wife, and you and I went to bed early. We ticked off so many things from your "L is for London" book, including riding on a real double decker bus. Then a very long plane ride home where we were bumped to the snazzier class and you were given a free sack with sunglasses inside. 

Now we are settling back into summer in Marblehead, having survived a first week of Devereaux day camp, our July 4 party, and a long visit from Kett and Peter, where you and Peter mostly played together wonderfully but also drove each other slightly nuts. Such are friendships. It's exciting, watching you build these relationships on your own, really for the first time. We have finally reached the point of "you guys go play while we cook," and "hey guys! Dinner's ready!" During our party you and Peter and James up the street all dressed in 18th Century pirate regalia and ran riot with Nerf guns, including periodic bellowing raids delivered from the back porch. 

We haven't taken you sailing yet, as I've been on a varnishing tear and we've had to pull out the rotting plywood in the cuddy. But soon. I have a dissertation to write and you have day camp to attend. Today is tie dye day and I'm curious to see what you come home with, arms painted in stripes. You are growing, and changing, and a wonderful traveler.

"Mama, can we go to Paris next?" you asked. Yes, my Succotash. We can.

Adventure

Last Friday we picked you up from school and went on a road trip. You were excited to drive on the freeway, since we never get to go fast. Lately you've been thinking a lot about Spiderman, and so you are full of ideas for ways that the Red Menace (our name for our Toyota RAV 4, because we are hilarious) can morph into a superhero car, either by spouting wings, or driving straight up walls, etc. etc. We were on our way to Exeter, New Hampshire for the Exeter Lit fest, a small potatoes thing that my publicist put me up for, and which I normally would have done just myself in the afternoon without bothering to stay. But instead I got us a snazzy room in the Exeter Inn. It had a suite, and it had the biggest jetted bathtub you had ever seen. After we had dinner in the restaurant, you played in the tub for something like three hours. It was epic. 

The next day was trickier. You are generally a good traveler, but the weather didn't help - it's been cold and rainy for months now, as global warming has taken what used to be snow and turned it into dispiriting frigid rain. We went to an event at the library for kids as part of the lit fest, and your dad and I were joking that instead of the two children's authors just... you know... reading stories, they gave presentations on where their ideas come from, and how you get a children's book made. With Powerpoint. It was like being at a McKinsey deck presentation. "Now if you'll turn to page two in your packets, you will see that...." No, it wasn't that bad, but we did bail early and go find a playground. And then we found another playground. We romped through damp snow as a cold drizzle poured down gently upon us.

We had checked out of the inn already, so even when you started to lose it at the taqueria and were desperate for a nap there was nowhere to take you. You and your dad dropped me off at the town hall for my panel and then drove around while you snoozed. 

My panel - "New England in literature" - was tiresome and boring. Partway through, while the author to my right ranted about how too many new people are streaming into Maine, I saw you and your dad sneak in the door. You left almost immediately. It turns out you left because you were so upset that I didn't come down off the dais and run over and immediately give you a hug. Which, of course, is what I wanted to do. I would always rather hug you than sit on some dumb panel about New England literature. You were so upset, though, that you were still made at me even after the panel was over and we were together again. 

We dropped you at your grandparents apartment and then went to a fundraiser for Montserrat, where your Godlessfather Brian is the newly installed president. We had fun, chatting with people, we bought a cool photo at the auction, we had snacks, all was right with the world, and then we went and picked you up. 

I don't know exactly when I had the sinking realization that we had made a fatal error, but I believe it was on the drive from your grandparents back to our house. 

I realized that I had not seen Baby Faff since bedtime the night before. 

I didn't pack Baby Faff. You are too little to remember to check for things, for the most part, and so you hadn't packed Baby Faff either. Your dad had checked the whole suite, but not *in the bed.* Baby Faff tends to get pushed down under the covers. My heart sank. We got home and I immediately hid in the bathroom to call the inn. Have you found Baby Faff? No answer. I left a message. Then I sent an email. Please please please, help, we forgot Baby Faff! I looked at you, happily romping around upstairs, and realized I had to tell you that we had left Baby Faff. The trick is, Baby Faff is pretty small. He's easy to overlook. Some stuffies are large, they contain multitudes. Baby Faff is a small secondhand beanbag with a little tail and a charmingly lopsided face. With terror I realized that Baby Faff might never come home.

I started to cry. "Charles," I said, "I have to tell you something. I made a mistake."

Your face took on a brave cast, but also started to crumple. "This is why, Mama, we have to be careful with things that we love."

"You're right," I said. "I'm so sorry." We held each other, sobbing. When your Dad arrived upstairs he was baffled to find us both weeping as though someone had died.

Of course, someone had died. Not Baby Faff, though I do "make his voice come," as you put it, and you will often discuss your day and your concerns more freely with Baby Faff than you will with just me. I was really sobbing for your babyhood. Baby Faff was with us in Puerto Rico when you turned three, our first trip after lockdown, when we all finally got COVID. He was with us in New York. He went with you and me to Houston. Baby Faff was a handmedown who arrived in a box of other giraffe stuffies from the Vermillion kids, but something about him - his smallness, his softness, who knows what - made him more special even than his Mama Faff and Daddy Faff. Maybe it's because Baby Faff is so clearly you, the object on which you can project your own worries and concerns. Recently, while watching the Toy Story where Andy is doing off to college and gives his special toys away, you informed me that Baby Faff would go to college with you. 

You fell asleep and while you snored I frantically searched the internet for a simulacra of Baby Faff. I failed to identify his precise brand and make and model, or whatever the distinguishing characteristics of stuffies are. And anyway, you would have known the difference. There is only one Baby Faff. We slept that night with Manatee alone. 

The next morning you and I got up early, leaving your dad to sleep, and we went to the family room to watch Spiderman. Then I sneaked to the kitchen to make coffee and call the inn again.

And - heavens be praised! THEY HAD FOUND BABY FAFF. He was safe and sound at the front desk. What time would I like to go pick him up?

Two hours round trip later, during which I listened to five chapters of a now-forgotten John P. Marquand novel, I returned, Baby Faff in hand. I think I was more relieved than you were, though you did ask Baby Faff if he had made friends with the other stuffies in the lost and found. Then we all had a nap together, exhausted by so many emotional highs and lows. When you feel asleep, Baby Faff was in your left hand.

Today there is a solar eclipse, and it is also your half birthday. You are four and one half years old. There is so little I can control for you. So little I can really safeguard, or make happen. But at least this one time, with one little well-loved baby giraffe beanbag stuffie came home for you. Some faith in the world restored. 

Progress reports

Well, my sweet Succotash, I continue to worry about what to do to help you at school. Everyone at your Montessori means well, but I'm increasingly convinced that you need to be in a place with a smaller class size, and maybe with more structure. More than anything, I want you to be in a place where your uniqueness is celebrated. They couch everything in therapyspeak, about how you "continue to be supported" in this circumstance, and "continue to have opportunities for growth" in other places. I can't help but think you must sense that you're not fitting in to their schema. You seem happy and confident there, which I guess is good. I don't know. I think you are spending so much emotional energy trying to keep yourself together that you don't have any bandwidth left for learning. This is why you can memorize whole 150 page books verbatim, but can't reliably remember which color is yellow.

I'm signing you up for lacrosse, where an enthusiasm for sticks and for hopping up and down and for throwing really hard and even mowing some other kid down might actually get you praised instead of disciplined but in a way so mealymouthed everyone pretends it isn't discipline. 

I love you so much. I see your openmouthed smile and I want to shower you with kisses, and I wish I could just explain it to you. I wish I could be like, look, I know so much of this stuff is boring. I know most people aren't that interesting to talk to. I'm not going to sit here and lie to you and pretend that everyone in your class is nice or worth knowing. That wasn't true in my class, it wasn't true for me. It's not even true for me now. But the fact of the matter is, you just have to cope. You can be angry. That's fine. But you can't hit people. You can need more space for yourself. But you can't get it by shoving. You have to use your brain, to secure your space. Your life will be more pleasant if you can find a way to make friends. Not with everybody. But with a few quality people. I wish I could just have a conversation with you about it. But you're only 4! 

Soon we are getting you a neuropsych evaluation. I suspect it is going to tell us that you have ADHD. I don't know what that will mean in terms of school or parenting or whatever. But I have it in my head that what you really need is a boys school. One that looks at your energy and vivacity and mile-a-minute allusions and ideas and imagination and says, yes! Yes! You are a wonderful bright kid who just needs some extra guardrails to help you cope! Also, go play lacrosse! Run some kids down like a locomotive! Do it!

I'm frustrated that your speech therapy seems to be making no difference whatsoever. Increasingly I feel that therapy is a scam. I don't know. How the heck do they measure outcomes for this anyway? 

Some funny things you've said lately: You confuse "Empire" and "vampire," so you say "Empires suck blood from ladies' necks." Which is kind of true, in a way. 

You're resisting learning the alphabet. I don't know what to do about that. 

Essentially, you are stubborn. Like your parents. You want to do what you want to do, and nothing else. Just like your parents. 

I'm worried your current school sees only your behavior, and not your potential. That's what it comes down to. I need to figure out how to get you somewhere that will see all your infinite, astonishing potential, and unleash it. 

Travel

 Needing a change of scene and craving friend time for both of us, I scooped you up and we flew to Houston for February break, just the two of us. I got you your very own suitcase, with a built in scooter, which was really genius. You loved it, quickly mastered steering, and could largely handle your belongings yourself. And when you were tired, as you sometimes were, you could ride and I could push you and my own suitcase with relative ease. It felt freeing. You are in that cusp moment, of still part baby in some respect - needing snuggles, still reaching for my breasts for a stealth grope or kiss out of strong somatic memory for when they were the source of all comfort, still liable to an occasional meltdown when too hungry or too tired. But then, who among us isn't? And you are also a great companion now. 

I packed our schedule with playdates for you, and it was actually marvelous. We went to the zoo. We exhausted ourselves but refused to miss riding the train. We tried napping but it was too exciting staying at my aunt's house. We saw Grandpa play a piano recital. We played in a backyard fort. We hit playgrounds. We went to friends' houses. At one of them you ran around wreaking havoc with a water gun while I gave a phone interview to some magazine in Florida, and then we all ended up back in the pool. Then you and two friends dressed in full pirate regalia and ate buttered pasta while watching Muppet Treasure Island and I sat outside on an elegantly lit patio and spoke with adults. We even went to a color museum with Grandpa, playing with huge balloons, throwing confetti, dancing with headphones on, and wading through the biggest ball pit I have ever seen in my life.

I was exhausted by the time we made it home, but I'm so glad we went. We got sun, and fresh air, and wore shorts, and went swimming, and ate different food (that part was a little hard on your tummy, poor guy), and had so much practice just being with other people.

Maybe it's my disillusionment about not getting into Shore. I am furious at them, still, weeks later. You are testing at benchmarks ready for Kindergarten a full year early, Succotash, with the exception of knowing your letters. We're going to have you checked for dyslexia, as I've noticed that to you lower case p, b, d, and q all look the same. I'm sympathetic - they look the same to me too. Don't worry, we'll sort this out. But I have to tell you, I have never felt a rage as pure and unadulterated as the fury that gripped me when I felt that an institution was standing between you and the opportunities I want for you. I have no wish to be a snowplow parent. I love watching you push yourself. Take little risks. You're liking climbing more, you are testing your independence. I'm excited for you. I felt like you grew up, a bit, as we traveled. Your brain drinking in different experiences, different places, different people.

It's all left me thinking more seriously about Baltimore. A city. A real one. With art, and culture, different people, different food. If we moved there, you wouldn't have to miss your dad two days a week. They have schools there that seem to understand boys, and I'm increasingly convinced that your boyness is part of why you haven't been well understood by a school yet. We could keep Marblehead, still have our summers here, still have sailing and summer camp and nothing says you couldn't go to boarding school for high school if that's what you wanted. There is a community of writers there. Universities. A bigger world. 

But it's a big change. 

I don't know. We'll see. 

Theories

You, last night: "Mama, you know where I was before I was born?"

Me: "Where?"

You: "I was air! See?" *points at picture of me in college* "There I am! I'm the air right next to you."

Coziness

 A new year! Yesterday we had a lazy day while you had a sniffle and your dad's arrival home was delayed by a huge snowstorm. We awoke from a long nap to discover the snow was finally here, and put on our snowsuits and went outside anyway even though it was getting dark. I pulled you on your sled around the garden, and then up and down the sidewalk, then we stopped to shovel and salt the sidewalk, and we decided we needed to go sledding, so I pulled you to the fort and we made snow angels and ran around and threw snowballs and played.

This morning your dad was finally home. "Daddy! You missed all the snow fun yesterday!" you said.

Lately, like your mother, you have been resisting getting out of bed before your due allotment of snuggles. You tend to wake up, ask for a chocolate milk, and then want to lie under the covers a little longer.

The other day you were snuggling with your dad, and he asked you if you were ready to get up.

"No," you said. "I still have some coziness to get out."

I love that idea. That you get so full of coziness, and nothing will relieve it but snuggles.

Tomorrow is your visit to Shore Country Day. I'm worried about how early in the morning we will have to get up, and am wondering about the ethical and parenting implications to using leftover Christmas Godiva chocolates as a bribe. We shall see.

Holidays

"Can I tell you the reason I had to come into your bed last night?"

"Sure."

"It's because kids have these things called realities."

"Realities?"

"Yes. They're like these tiny things that live inside your bones."

"Okay."

"They live mainly in the bones in your feet. And they're like eyes. I have one here." *points to the third eye spot on your forehead* "And last night my realities made me come in here."

I'm sorry I missed Thanksgiving notes for you, my Succotash. I am afraid that I had a book come out right before Thanksgiving, and then I was on the road for it, and my work ate my brain. For Thanksgiving this year we had kind of a big crowd actually - Ginger and Brian, Rhod and Vicki, Ama and PopPop, Miss Margie and Mister Bob, and us three. I put out your great grandmother's silver and all the old linens, and it was really quite beautiful, even after one of the leaves of the breakfast table collapsed and doused Vicki with red wine. 

Then for Christmas we had Grandpa and Aunt Rachel and her new boyfriend Dave staying over, and on Christmas day we added Ama and PopPop and Uncle Eli and Aunt Jenny - newly engaged at last! - and the volume of presents rained upon you was truly staggering. By far the biggest hit, however, was a George Washington costume, with a waistcoat and tricorn hat and bootlike leggings which you then wore for two days in a row. As I write this now one of the buttons from the waistcoat sits next to my laptop, waiting to be sewn back on. I got some pretty great pictures of you by the cannon at Fort Sewall. You also got some long knee socks which I think are technically meant for soccer, but which you have decided are "stockings" to wear with your clothes from "the olden times." 

Right now you and your dad are on your way outside to play with your new remote control car. Other items of note: you and I appeared in the first annual Old North "no rehearsal Christmas pageant," which was less chaotic than I was led to expect. You and I were sheep, and to be a sheep you determined to wear your rabbit costume, which still fits two years later. You actually informed me that you were a "Wererabbit," and that you were going to burn the meeting house down. Your father was very proud.

As we were getting ready for dinner on Christmas eve I had to put in you in a time out. Why? Because you were so insistent on being allowed to play with your great-grandmothers fragile silver coffee pot that you tried to throw a chair when I wouldn't let you. So, in some sense, though this was our first Christmas without my mother here, your penchant for delicate decorate art objects means she was here all the same. I offered you a silver sugar bowl or creamer instead, but you were adamant that it had to have a *lid.* I tried to explain, while you were in time out on the stairs, that it was so fragile even I am not allowed to play with it. You were mournful in your promises that you wouldn't break it, and I tried to assure you that I believed you, but that it was *so* fragile it would be hard not to break it on accident, and that we wanted to keep it safe for you to give to your children. As I said this, however, I heard the lunacy of it - we had to keep it safe so you could also tell your children they couldn't touch it? Is that a ridiculous position? Maybe it is. I don't know. I'm doing my best here. The salient point is, you really love sterling silver hollowware from 100 years ago. 

Today after church we walked the Murphys home - there was a lot of infighting among them and whining from you because you didn't have a hat and didn't want to go to the grocery store - but we survived and obtained buttermilk and black eyed peas for me to make for luck tomorrow. I haven't made black eyed peas in several years. I secretly worry it's this oversight that has contributed the horrors unfolding in the Middle East right now. So many horrid world events have unfolded in your short life span. I would give anything for 2024 to be a year of boredom and lack of news. That's my wish for us, and for the world at large - no news. Please, God, no news. 

You are getting more willful, but are also struggling with the tension between your growing desire for independence, and the anxiety that brings up in you. You will loudly announce you are not afraid of ANYTHING, but haven't been able to go longer than two hours sleeping in your big kid bed alone. You want to do things yourself, but haven't figured out that some things require practice before they can be mastered. You deal with your social anxiety by pretending to be someone else, which on some level I don't understand, though of course I do the same thing, but in my work, and also in my professional persona, which is related to, but different, from the person I really imagine myself to be. We are applying to Tower and Shore for you for next year, hoping a smaller class size and a more teacher-led curriculum will give you the calmness and structure that we suspect you really need to feed your voracious, observant, and introspective brain. We should know by February if either of those is happening. 

So. Here we are, on the last day of 2023. You are four years and almost three months old. I just had to step away for a moment to have a huge throwdown with you because you wanted someone to go to the bathroom with you and read a book. I'm in the unfortunate position of having to teach you that the world does not exist for your entertainment and convenience. You don't like it one bit. I don't either, frankly. But while I try to erect a scaffolding around you that makes you feel safe and secure, well loved and known in your community, I am also keenly aware that the world can be a cold and unfeeling place. And I want you to be safe and secure in yourself there, too. Because I love you more than anything in the world. 

Birthdays and Serious Charles

We have just survived the longest long weekend of our family life, though I think it was largely a success. 

First, we all came down with Preschool Plague, and your Dad and I are *still* not over it almost two weeks later. Then your Aunt Rachel came up to visit for the weekend, bringing a cowboy costume, a firefighter costume, and sundry vintage Fisher Price toys, which caused so much delight for you that we still haven't opened your birthday presents days later because I'm sort of concerned you'll get spoiled. 

On your actual birthday we had a pirate theme party with lots of kids from the neighborhood, adults who love you (Miss Margie! Uncle Eli! the Naughtons!), your new best friend Ryan (a sweet little guy you met through T ball), and your favorite babysitter Abby (who you used to call "my big kid with Crocs"). We had a treasure chest pinata and bad grocery store sheet cake decorated by Rachel and punch in plastic coconuts. And - my poor Charles! - you had a terrible time. You got a freak paper cut from one of the blow-up swords and it launched you into a full on meltdown which took you out of the party for upwards of half an hour. I felt terrible. The truth is, I think I responded in a very similar way to birthday parties when I was your age. The anticipation, the pressure to have a good time, the attention, the noise - it's a lot for a sensitive person, which you avowedly are. I think next year we will give you more control over what kind of birthday celebration we have. Once it thinned out a little and it was quieter and down to just a few kids, you actually started to play and have a good time. 

Uncle Eli stayed over, and the following day we undertook a massive quest. We packed up your knight costume and drove an hour and a half to King Richard's Faire, the annual Renaissance festival in Carver, MA. Fortunately your dad and Eli had read up ahead of time, and so we managed to get there early enough to actually get a parking space. We explored a charming mock medieval village, gawked at all the grownups in crazy costumes, waited in long lines for everything (once behind a group of kids named Odin, Freya, and Raven - this is a whole situation, I'm telling you), and saw - joy of joys! - an actual mock tournament. I was pretty impressed by those guys, no lie - it takes some gumption to shatter a lance on another guy while cantering, and then throw a sword into a bale of hay while in motion. A couple of the knights were even adept at stunt falls, and threw themselves backwards off of their horses to the ground. Unhorsed! We cheered. We booed. It was good fun. Then you and I waited in a long line to ride a pirate ship swing thing that you move by pulling ropes. Waiting was tough, but we pushed through and then you had a huge smile on your face. By then it was time for bad overpriced pizza, and shopping for a sateen cape for you pattered with a gold lion's head. I was grateful your dad talked you out of the wooden swords. Man, all you wanted was a wooden sword. But you like shiny dress up capes better. On the drive home you fell fast asleep.

Another notable development - on the night of your birthday you informed me that you were a big kid now, and you were ready to sleep in your own bed. We tucked you into the antique twin that is in the nursey - the same one I slept in, and Grandpa slept in, and my grandfather slept in, and everyone slept in, going back to - we estimate - around 1820. It has a horsehair mattress and carved pineapples under the cannonball posts, and it creaks. Fortunately I can still fit in it with you. You've fallen asleep in there three nights running. To be fair, each night you have rejoined the big bed sometime between midnight and 4 am. But I'm pretty impressed with your decisiveness. This is the second time you've just made up your mind that you are going to do something, and then done it. (The first was potty training.) 

One of your favorite books the past couple of days is a book about a baby robot who wonders what love is, called "Love, Z." It's a library book from school, and last night you were heartbroken because it had to go back to the library. But I've ordered a copy for us. One night in your big kid bed we were reading it, and you remarked while looking at the different robots, who all have differently shaped heads balanced over differently shaped bodies, that the robot with the round head and round body would have a hard time balancing their head. 

"Why is that?" I asked you.

"Because with round things, when you touch them, they only come together in one place," you explained. Which, to be honest, blew me away, Mr. Perception of Geometry. Dang. 

This morning you were playing with a calculator that was part of Ryan's birthday present to you, and you decided to pretend it was a cell phone.

"I am Serious Charles," you informed us. You and your Dad sat on the sofa in the kitchen being Serious and taking meetings. You answered the phone and said "Hello? No. Yes. I'll meet you there at eleven. Bye."

My very serious Charles is a big four year old boy now. And I try to tell you, every single night, how proud I am of you. And how very much I love you.

Sartorial

 Today for Montessori you chose to wear:

1. Jean shorts

2. Red "Support Texas Bookstores" t-shirt

3. Red Mount Gay Rum Figawi 2019 hat, signed "To Railmeat" by the crew, as it's the first race you did when you were in utero.

4. Vineyard Vines whale belt kitted out with CYC keychain repurposed to serve as a scabbard, with bright green foam sword.

5. Light up red spider cowboy boots

And on the way out you announced that today you were Sir Gareth of Orkney as a kid.

Well, one thing's for sure - you are definitely my son.

Social Awareness

 You have started to come up with ways to persuade us to do things.

This morning I told you that this afternoon after school we are going to have a playdate with Ryan.

You got all excited. "Will I get to go into the basement and play?" you said.

"Well," I told you. "I think today what's going to happen is Ryan and his brother AJ are going to come over to our house. You get to show them some of your toys."

"Oh!" you said. But then you put on a face of extreme concern. "But Ryan might be disappointed that we don't have any Nerf guns."

You, my crafty son, are very keen to be given a Nerf gun.

"I think it'll be okay," I assured you. "After all, he doesn't have as much vintage Fisher Price as you do."

"Oh yes!" you were relieved. "He likes Fisher Price. We like the same things, because we are best friends!"

I can't wait to see your next move in the great Nerf Gun Scheme of 2023.