Behind my desk sits a tall white dresser. It's not an expensive dresser. It's not an old dresser. It is a spare dresser, however, and it's loaded to the gills with photo albums and loose photos I've yet to get into other photo albums.
One weekend not too long ago, we pulled some of the collection out. Logan spent well over an hour marveling over how tiny he had actually been.
And I spent the same duration marveling over how tiny he no longer was.
In just a handful of hours he'll wake up. He'll rub the sleep from his eyes. He'll blink until the clock comes into focus. And then, deciding it's an acceptable time to let free his proclamation, he'll wake up the rest of us with the news that he is indeed an official 6 year old.
In the hot days of summer 2002, Logan spent a lot of time clad in a simple cotton onesie, lying on his back admiring clouds and blades of grass. Today he spends hot summer days mastering the latest video game, trying to perfect his "underwater hand stand" and striving to solve the ever-baffling mystery of riding a bike without training wheels.
Back then he took the world in through those big inquisitive eyes that seemed to dissect the unknown into small manageable pieces. Today, well today he's the same - the unknown just got bigger. Confronted with something new, Logan will study it with a fierce intensity. Sometimes the hands start to move - mimicking the motion of an item's internal mechanism or the way an insect moves. He may even whisper a particular math problem or phrase to himself over and over. When he's done that film of concentration leaves his eyes and he refocuses on whatever else surrounds him. He may have left "the zone" - but whatever it was that got him locked on is now etched in that little head of his.
Logan spent those early days visiting Grandma at her office - a non-profit organization in town. Perhaps the place rubbed off on him. Logan's a regular volunteer by his own desire. He gives time to everything from Meals on Wheels to fundraising walks and food bank collections.
He's an adoring brother who will also, at last from time to time, readily wish his sister would take a permanent vacation to someone else's house. He says this, often with a growl and a rage in his eyes over something or other she's attempted to do to him, but he'd be lost without her. He's always there with a pep talk or a hug when she needs them most. He's her champion and her best friend. Her "Brubee."
He's a good friend, not just to his little sister, but to any kid that comes into his orbit. He's the sort of kid that stops his own race to help another up from the ground. He's the one that's on the bench cheering his team mates even when he's having an off day. He's a kid that doesn't let a little thing like "language barriers" get in the way of some good play time. His philosophy is, "English? Spanish? French? Hey, a Lego is a Lego. Just smile nice and build."
He's a perfectionist and sometimes that's really hard. Things come easy to him and sometimes that's a road block. When something doesn't come easily he's quickly discouraged. There's a tight rope walk we work to master - bolstering his esteem over the tasks that need a little extra work on his behalf while keeping him level headed and realistic.
When Logan was a baby he discovered certain sounds and actions could trigger a cascade of laughter from the grown-ups around him. Little has changed. Logan has a sense of humor and enough self-awareness and confidence to apply that sense of humor wisely. Usually.
Sometimes he struggles to meld the two contradictory aspects of his personality. He can be reticent to change...almost to the point of unease. Yet he's terribly adventurous and curious. He's a serious soul that is a jumble of nerves as he leaps into new situations. He tends to lean back on reserved to almost rudely silent when walking into new places or meeting new people. Yet, he yearns to discover and explore. He looks forward to new opportunities with zeal and he relishes the chances to grow from them. He happily stand before a classroom full of peers and their assorted grown-up types to perform magic trick after magic trick. Moments later, however, he'll stare down an adult he does not know well refusing to speak more than a few words and most certainly not willing to shake their hand.
He loves numbers. He loves to tally up columns of them and then slash that total by subtracting even more digits. He likes to challenge himself with multiplication and he's decided that division might be worth his while. For fun he plows through pages of math workbooks levels ahead of what he's expected to have mastered. And he wants even more.
He's downright enamored with science. He declared himself a future doctor well over 4years ago...and he's sticking to it. Sometimes he even challenges his own doctor. And sometimes he's even right.
He's reader that lacks confidence in his own abilities. He reads well. He reads with inflection and even in varying voices associated with different characters. He doesn't always realize he's doing it. He sometimes doubts he can. He's a phonetic writer that has been known to slam down his pencil and declare "those people that made up the spelling rules" tremendous poop-heads. I struggle not to say "Well sometimes I have other names for them."
Above all else, however, he's my little boy that's not really so little any more. He's six. Just six. Little, although I'd not tell him that. He's just six and the proud owner of two, count them with him, two "grown-up" teeth. His face already slightly more mature for having sprouted them.
There are certain times the light catches his face or a particular way he smiles and I can see that small 6 pound, 13 ounce baby he once was. There are other times, even at this young age, when the shadow catches his jaw just so or the small furrow of his concentrating brow creases a particular way that I see a hint of the man he'll some day become. When he burrows his head into that hollow just above my shoulder and below my chin each night at "tuck-in", I know that even when that very routine becomes passes, the light and creases will still play these tricks on me. Who he is, who he was, who he will become - they'll all reside in that same face, under that same red hair every day I see him.
And, I also know that who he was, who he is and who he will be, will always move through this world as my hero. My inspriration. My masterpiece - who took the reigns and helped to sculpt himself.
Showing posts with label logan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label logan. Show all posts
6.30.2008
2.28.2008
Fairy dust and milestones
Some milestones come and go marked only by some momentos or photographs. Some leave lasting changes - sitting unassisted, first steps, first words, first teeth. Then there's the milestones like the one Logan marked today.
Logan was about 6 months old when the first edges of a tooth broke through his gums. We have pictures of that baby smile with little white, sharp edges flashing out of pinky flesh.
Nearly 5 years on the nose from the emergence of that first tooth, that very same baby tooth began to wiggle. Today, that baby tooth fell out.
Understandably the boy is estatic. He's told nearly everyone he knows today with plans to tell the rest when he sees them tomorrow. He went to bed with high hopes of waking up to find photographic proof of what the tooth fairy sculptes with all those colleted teeth and a gold coin waiting for him. He's gleefully traded in "Mr. Wiggles", the nickname I gave him, for a new nickname, "Gap." He's anxious to wear the new long-sleeve tee that is emblazoned with this nickname. (Of course, remarkably it looks much like the logo of a certain clothing chain. Imagine that. Let's all give thanks to the clearance rack.)
In his young mind this is huge. This is on par with the first day of Kindgarten and that day way off in the future when you get your driver's license for the first time. This is a right of passage.
Of course, his view of it really isn't off the mark is it?
It was easy to still see him as that 'little kid' who was part of the little ones in the school even though the bus took them to and fro. It was easy to see him as a bigger version of what he's always been. Yet today the tooth became a symbol, a reminder that there's more to it than that. Today he lost a little piece of babyhood to make room for the next stage of his life.
I've been told that his face will change as those big teeth move in. Those remaining vestiages of his 'baby-face' will make way for his next rendition. The process still lies ahead of us, certainly. This is but one tooth. And yet, it's the first step.
Tommorow he'll wake, giddy to find his golden coin, his note, a toothbrush and some "fairy dust" (aka star shaped glitter.) He'll enjoy another day of showing off his new look and then he'll begin pulling and pushing on his other teeth - waiting. Hoping. Ready for step number 2.
Logan was about 6 months old when the first edges of a tooth broke through his gums. We have pictures of that baby smile with little white, sharp edges flashing out of pinky flesh.
Nearly 5 years on the nose from the emergence of that first tooth, that very same baby tooth began to wiggle. Today, that baby tooth fell out.
Understandably the boy is estatic. He's told nearly everyone he knows today with plans to tell the rest when he sees them tomorrow. He went to bed with high hopes of waking up to find photographic proof of what the tooth fairy sculptes with all those colleted teeth and a gold coin waiting for him. He's gleefully traded in "Mr. Wiggles", the nickname I gave him, for a new nickname, "Gap." He's anxious to wear the new long-sleeve tee that is emblazoned with this nickname. (Of course, remarkably it looks much like the logo of a certain clothing chain. Imagine that. Let's all give thanks to the clearance rack.)
In his young mind this is huge. This is on par with the first day of Kindgarten and that day way off in the future when you get your driver's license for the first time. This is a right of passage.
Of course, his view of it really isn't off the mark is it?
It was easy to still see him as that 'little kid' who was part of the little ones in the school even though the bus took them to and fro. It was easy to see him as a bigger version of what he's always been. Yet today the tooth became a symbol, a reminder that there's more to it than that. Today he lost a little piece of babyhood to make room for the next stage of his life.
I've been told that his face will change as those big teeth move in. Those remaining vestiages of his 'baby-face' will make way for his next rendition. The process still lies ahead of us, certainly. This is but one tooth. And yet, it's the first step.
Tommorow he'll wake, giddy to find his golden coin, his note, a toothbrush and some "fairy dust" (aka star shaped glitter.) He'll enjoy another day of showing off his new look and then he'll begin pulling and pushing on his other teeth - waiting. Hoping. Ready for step number 2.
12.21.2007
Oh to be 5
It started out as one of "those" days. I was up before the rest of the house. Normally that's not a bad thing. It usually means I have some quiet time to read email or take in a few pages of my book without being climbed on. Today, however, there was no relaxing. Today there was baking to be done.
A lot of baking.
We'll gloss over the nitty gritty with this - sometime between getting two kids dressed in clean, ironed clothes, getting one kid to and from preschool, getting two kids fed lunch, two loads of laundry and taking out the trash so one balking back Daddy didn't have to do it, I managed to coordinate a 5 year old in the cutting out and baking of 4 dozen sugar cookies and three loaves of "from scratch with no bread machine" raisin bread. And ALL of that was before I located lunch for myself at 1pm.
I was not very full of "the Christmas spirit" right about then. I was cranky. And I still had a classroom full of kindergartners to face at the "cookie decorating station." Yeah, so not happy I decided to volunteer to run a center at this thing.
At 1:30 Grandma and I signed ourselves in at the school office. We carried our bundles down the hall to the room - the room that was oddly empty of loud 5 and 6 year olds.
The teacher was bustling around the empty room prepping. That's when it hit me. The kids were at the Media Center (back "in the day" we called that the library) for their Friday special. She had us come in early so we could set up without anxious, boisterous kids underfoot.
In total there were nearly as many grown-up helpers as there would be children - some of us brought along grandmas. We joined the teacher in bustling. I was fighting the urge to grumble. This mom-of-kindergartner thing can be a lot of work.
Then the noise started to build.
Twenty-one kindergartners hours away from a week off with Santa arriving days into the break are hard to contain. They erupt into the room with waves of energy proceeding them.
It's contagious.
This was my fourth afternoon this year in the classroom - my third afternoon "working" the party. Logan's teacher is big on parent involvement and we love her for it. These are kids I'm getting to know. Big eager faces, giddy at the idea of spreading frosting on cookies that they can then load up on chocolate and sprinkles. I mean really, heaven, right?
These are kids who realize "skating" on school linoleum floor in their socks is about as much fun as one can have. Kids who think shoving giant cotton balls around a few cardboard boxes is a great way to build an indoor snowman and who still get giddy over the idea of making reindeer food.
These are kids that helped to revitalize me today. Kids that remind me that sometimes even though it may seem overwhelming, the preparation for and the time spent simply 'being there' is the best gift of all.
For them. And for me.
A lot of baking.
We'll gloss over the nitty gritty with this - sometime between getting two kids dressed in clean, ironed clothes, getting one kid to and from preschool, getting two kids fed lunch, two loads of laundry and taking out the trash so one balking back Daddy didn't have to do it, I managed to coordinate a 5 year old in the cutting out and baking of 4 dozen sugar cookies and three loaves of "from scratch with no bread machine" raisin bread. And ALL of that was before I located lunch for myself at 1pm.
I was not very full of "the Christmas spirit" right about then. I was cranky. And I still had a classroom full of kindergartners to face at the "cookie decorating station." Yeah, so not happy I decided to volunteer to run a center at this thing.
At 1:30 Grandma and I signed ourselves in at the school office. We carried our bundles down the hall to the room - the room that was oddly empty of loud 5 and 6 year olds.
The teacher was bustling around the empty room prepping. That's when it hit me. The kids were at the Media Center (back "in the day" we called that the library) for their Friday special. She had us come in early so we could set up without anxious, boisterous kids underfoot.
In total there were nearly as many grown-up helpers as there would be children - some of us brought along grandmas. We joined the teacher in bustling. I was fighting the urge to grumble. This mom-of-kindergartner thing can be a lot of work.
Then the noise started to build.
Twenty-one kindergartners hours away from a week off with Santa arriving days into the break are hard to contain. They erupt into the room with waves of energy proceeding them.
It's contagious.
This was my fourth afternoon this year in the classroom - my third afternoon "working" the party. Logan's teacher is big on parent involvement and we love her for it. These are kids I'm getting to know. Big eager faces, giddy at the idea of spreading frosting on cookies that they can then load up on chocolate and sprinkles. I mean really, heaven, right?
These are kids who realize "skating" on school linoleum floor in their socks is about as much fun as one can have. Kids who think shoving giant cotton balls around a few cardboard boxes is a great way to build an indoor snowman and who still get giddy over the idea of making reindeer food.
These are kids that helped to revitalize me today. Kids that remind me that sometimes even though it may seem overwhelming, the preparation for and the time spent simply 'being there' is the best gift of all.
For them. And for me.
10.07.2007
Reality check
It was sleepover weekend for the boy. He left the house Friday afternoon shortly after exiting his school bus and he returned around dinner Saturday. He came bounding out of his grandparent's car with a pillow-case safety pinned around his neck and a brightly colored "TA" emblazoned upon one side of it.
"And you are?" I said, curious about the identify of what was clearly the world's newest super hero.
He had named himself. His own imagination picking over potential word combinations until he could settle upon the one he thought the world was most sorely in need of.
"I am . . ." he bellowed, pausing slightly for the appropriate amount of dramatic impact, "Think Before You Act Boy!"
Ah..ok. Yes.
He leapt up the front steps like they were small stones upon his path and practically flew into the backyard where his father and sister waited to greet him. The grandparents and I followed him. We watched him leap up on the children's plastic picnic table - setting his feet apart just so and his arms held out before him about shoulder level.
"Logan, don't stand on the table. Get down," said Daddy, weary already of what he knew has been an ongoing battle.
Logan, in all his five-year old-I-can-call-the-shots-myself glory, simply reset his feet into a new stance and smiled.
"Logan, down. Now," said Dad as he tacked on the coming consequence for the refusal to listen.
I walked over, quietly, lifted the superhero from his perch, holding him out horizontal to the ground and flew him to safety. I flipped over the small table and placed it in my dying vegetable garden.
"Clearly," I whispered to him as he glared at me, "Think-Before-You-Act-Boy has run into some kryptonite."
"And you are?" I said, curious about the identify of what was clearly the world's newest super hero.
He had named himself. His own imagination picking over potential word combinations until he could settle upon the one he thought the world was most sorely in need of.
"I am . . ." he bellowed, pausing slightly for the appropriate amount of dramatic impact, "Think Before You Act Boy!"
Ah..ok. Yes.
He leapt up the front steps like they were small stones upon his path and practically flew into the backyard where his father and sister waited to greet him. The grandparents and I followed him. We watched him leap up on the children's plastic picnic table - setting his feet apart just so and his arms held out before him about shoulder level.
"Logan, don't stand on the table. Get down," said Daddy, weary already of what he knew has been an ongoing battle.
Logan, in all his five-year old-I-can-call-the-shots-myself glory, simply reset his feet into a new stance and smiled.
"Logan, down. Now," said Dad as he tacked on the coming consequence for the refusal to listen.
I walked over, quietly, lifted the superhero from his perch, holding him out horizontal to the ground and flew him to safety. I flipped over the small table and placed it in my dying vegetable garden.
"Clearly," I whispered to him as he glared at me, "Think-Before-You-Act-Boy has run into some kryptonite."
9.29.2007
And she said with pride. . .
Our school district sponsored a "fitness carnival." It was organized by the High School peer education group and open to anyone in a district elementary school. Races were held by gender and grade level.
As soon as he heard about it, Logan wanted in. Ever since he saw one of the high school's track teams running down the road for practice, he'd been determined to race. This morning he got his chance.
Going in Logan knew three things:
1. Students placing 1st, 2nd and 3rd got a medal.
2. Anyone else crossing the finish line got a ribbon.
3. He'd be running in the last race of the day (Kindergarten boys) and as a 5-year old with a summer birthday, some of the runners along side him could easily be a full-year or more older. And that means, they'd likely be bigger and faster.
He went into this race determined to at least run the entire 1/2 mile and get himself a ribbon. He'd happily take a medal, but as long as he crossed the finish line without walking or breaking, he'd have met his goal.
The whistle blew - he ran. Roughly a 1/4 mile in, Logan was nestled comfortably in the middle of the pack. He saw something that either no one else saw, or no one else cared to admit they saw. Another boy had fallen down and was having trouble getting up as the tangle of 5 and 6 year old legs ran around him.
Logan slowed his pace as he approached. He stopped. He stopped long enough to hold down his hand and help that boy up. With a quick pat on the kid's back, he confirmed the boy was ok. The boy took off running, calling a thank you over his shoulder as he went. Logan nodded and picked up speed. He had paused. He had stopped, but he didn't care.
The closer he got to the line, the faster he ran. In the end, he came in roughly 33rd in a field of over 50 boys - neither first nor last. Smack in the mid-section.
Yet, in the end, I think he was the one that really won. He met his goal. He ran the entire length except for that one short break when he reached down a hand to be the good sport.
On our way home I pointed out that he was the Lightening McQueen of the race - the one that voluntarily lost time off his own pace to make sure another contestant stayed in the game. Logan, the child that's been quite vocal about pursuing a particular vocation since he could talk, laughed and then said with utmost sincerity, "Mommy, that's just what doctor's do. I was running. I was racing myself and I was practicing being a doctor."
Is it any wonder why that kid is my hero?
As soon as he heard about it, Logan wanted in. Ever since he saw one of the high school's track teams running down the road for practice, he'd been determined to race. This morning he got his chance.
Going in Logan knew three things:
1. Students placing 1st, 2nd and 3rd got a medal.
2. Anyone else crossing the finish line got a ribbon.
3. He'd be running in the last race of the day (Kindergarten boys) and as a 5-year old with a summer birthday, some of the runners along side him could easily be a full-year or more older. And that means, they'd likely be bigger and faster.
He went into this race determined to at least run the entire 1/2 mile and get himself a ribbon. He'd happily take a medal, but as long as he crossed the finish line without walking or breaking, he'd have met his goal.
The whistle blew - he ran. Roughly a 1/4 mile in, Logan was nestled comfortably in the middle of the pack. He saw something that either no one else saw, or no one else cared to admit they saw. Another boy had fallen down and was having trouble getting up as the tangle of 5 and 6 year old legs ran around him.
Logan slowed his pace as he approached. He stopped. He stopped long enough to hold down his hand and help that boy up. With a quick pat on the kid's back, he confirmed the boy was ok. The boy took off running, calling a thank you over his shoulder as he went. Logan nodded and picked up speed. He had paused. He had stopped, but he didn't care.
The closer he got to the line, the faster he ran. In the end, he came in roughly 33rd in a field of over 50 boys - neither first nor last. Smack in the mid-section.
Yet, in the end, I think he was the one that really won. He met his goal. He ran the entire length except for that one short break when he reached down a hand to be the good sport.
On our way home I pointed out that he was the Lightening McQueen of the race - the one that voluntarily lost time off his own pace to make sure another contestant stayed in the game. Logan, the child that's been quite vocal about pursuing a particular vocation since he could talk, laughed and then said with utmost sincerity, "Mommy, that's just what doctor's do. I was running. I was racing myself and I was practicing being a doctor."
Is it any wonder why that kid is my hero?
9.05.2007
Let the photo do the talking
The bus just left about a half-hour ago. He had us at the bus stop 40 minutes early!! He was excited. So was I. Then I came in the house and called my husband to tell him our "baby", our first, our son had offically begun his Kindergarten journey.
I got voicemail.
And then I cried.
I'm speechless, and besides, the preschooler (who will start on Friday) is demanding I help her paint with watercolors. Instead I'll let the photos speak for me:
I got voicemail.
And then I cried.
I'm speechless, and besides, the preschooler (who will start on Friday) is demanding I help her paint with watercolors. Instead I'll let the photos speak for me:
7.31.2007
Uh oh
In one month the kids each start their first year in school - one in "big kid" school (aka elementary) and the other in preschool. But this is not what has me a bundle of raw nerve endings. What is? The bigger kid is taking the bus in just a month. The bus.
The bus excites him. It's big. It's yellow. It's not got Mommy on it.
The bus is unnerving me. It's big. It's not got Mommy on it. It's requires the kid to get off and find his own way to his classroom - the kid that can spend oodles of time deeply contemplating who knows what.
I had been semi-successful in talking myself down from this parenting cliff of mild anxiety. "He's not the first kid to take the bus to Kindergarten. *I* took the bus. I survived. . . granted one day I missed the bus on the trip home and I had to wait in the principals office for my mom...but that was Mrs M's fault. The kid across the street takes the bus. Her mom says the driver is fabulous."
Slowly I was feeling less unhinged.
Then I made the mistake of talking to Logan. We talked about Kindergarten and what he was expecting it to be - all the while he worked to shoot his sister with the imaginary laser from his finger tip. Part way through the "getting closer to school!" conversation we stumbled upon the big, yellow, mommy-less bus.
"Hey, I have an idea," he said to me, taking a cease fire as Megan continued to attempt dismantling one of his Transformers. "You can drive next to the bus when I take it."
"I don't think I can do that, Logan," I replied.
He didn't answer at first. The wheels were turning and he was working through the wrench I had just tossed into his carefully crafted plans.
"How will I know where to get off for school?" he asked.
"Well, honey, I think that'd be pretty obvious, right? I mean you get off when you get into the parking lot and see the school building and the driver says 'Ok, everybody out!' or whatever it is the driver says now-a-days," I told him.
"Ok. . ." he said slowly, "But, how do I know when to get off when he takes me home?"
"Logan, sweetheart, you get off when you see home."
"Yeah, but what I'm too short to see out the window?" he asked, clearly looking to find a way to convince me to play escort to the big, yellow, mommy-less bus.
Yeah. I'm back to being unnerved by the bus.
The bus excites him. It's big. It's yellow. It's not got Mommy on it.
The bus is unnerving me. It's big. It's not got Mommy on it. It's requires the kid to get off and find his own way to his classroom - the kid that can spend oodles of time deeply contemplating who knows what.
I had been semi-successful in talking myself down from this parenting cliff of mild anxiety. "He's not the first kid to take the bus to Kindergarten. *I* took the bus. I survived. . . granted one day I missed the bus on the trip home and I had to wait in the principals office for my mom...but that was Mrs M's fault. The kid across the street takes the bus. Her mom says the driver is fabulous."
Slowly I was feeling less unhinged.
Then I made the mistake of talking to Logan. We talked about Kindergarten and what he was expecting it to be - all the while he worked to shoot his sister with the imaginary laser from his finger tip. Part way through the "getting closer to school!" conversation we stumbled upon the big, yellow, mommy-less bus.
"Hey, I have an idea," he said to me, taking a cease fire as Megan continued to attempt dismantling one of his Transformers. "You can drive next to the bus when I take it."
"I don't think I can do that, Logan," I replied.
He didn't answer at first. The wheels were turning and he was working through the wrench I had just tossed into his carefully crafted plans.
"How will I know where to get off for school?" he asked.
"Well, honey, I think that'd be pretty obvious, right? I mean you get off when you get into the parking lot and see the school building and the driver says 'Ok, everybody out!' or whatever it is the driver says now-a-days," I told him.
"Ok. . ." he said slowly, "But, how do I know when to get off when he takes me home?"
"Logan, sweetheart, you get off when you see home."
"Yeah, but what I'm too short to see out the window?" he asked, clearly looking to find a way to convince me to play escort to the big, yellow, mommy-less bus.
Yeah. I'm back to being unnerved by the bus.
7.07.2007
One of those blatant Mommy-brags
Logan's been tinkering with his shoe laces in recent months. He gets about as far as a string of knots before he throws his hands up and announces the task of tying a bow simply impossible. He'd given up trying, having informed me that he would only be wearing Velcro for the rest of his life if I refused to tie shoes for him. Thankfully, he gave up that idea. Something got him motivated Friday morning, although I'm still not sure what:
6.30.2007
Has it been 5 years?
It's 4am on June 30th. Exactly 5 years ago at this very moment I was willing the nice man that puts in epidurals to come back and remove mine so I could finally get some sleep. There are two things different tonight:
1) I have no epidural to be removed.
2) One of the causes of my insomnia is now 5 and doing laps for the bathroom and water instead of causing excruciating labor and birthing pains. :)
There are plenty of things the same though. Just now the boy emerged from the dark hallway. "I'm not tired any more," he lamented. I walked him back to his room with the strong suggestion that he was indeed tired and the thought that he was not tired was more like excitement over the presents he was anticipating.
I sat on the edge of his bed running my hand over his hair as he lay against my shoulder. I kissed the crown of his head gently and whispered softly. He gazed at me for a moment and then humored me by closing his eyes. A satisfied and peaceful wave moved across his face even though it's not yet brought sleep. That's not a whole lot different than those first moments of his life 5 years ago.
Willing him to sleep then was as effective as it is right now - I hear him singing himself to sleep which, to me, is utterly counterproductive. He disagrees. Then again, typing this at 4am is not doing much for my own slumber, so who am I to talk?
Last night after the kids were both breathing deeply in sleep, I released 10 helium balloons into Logan's room with another 6 balloons inflated by my own hot air to drift around his floor. We hung streamers down from his door frame and placed a small pile of gifts at his seat at the kitchen table.
Bruce shook his head and laughed a little as I made myself dizzy blowing up those latex balloons. "I hope they don't expect this every year here on out. Friend birthday party, party when he wakes up in the morning, family surprise party in the afternoon...."
"But he's 5!" I said, as if that should be enough. "Five is special. And the balloons come from the dollar store. Cheap."
Logan has already, obviously, noticed the balloons and the streamers. I'm sure it's not helping his sleep anymore than the singing is. He also likely suspects the "surprise" party this afternoon since he all but requested it last week, "My party with my friends was nice, but some day it'd be nice to have a surprise party. I've always wanted one. I've wanted one my whole life!"
Wow. He *is* now 5. Really, truly 5. That's just a lot to wrap my brain around at this moment. Five. He's the child I had given up the idea of having. He's the embodiment of love that seemed just *this* far beyond my grasp. He's the daily reminder of what miracles can enter our lives when we least expect them.
Logan has grown into this person that finds new ways to turn me to mush every day. He's got an amazing sense of compassion and generosity that moves through him with ease. He's got a wacky sense of humor and a quick mind that compliment each other well. He can be fiercely independent one moment and dreadfully dependent the next. He's a bright boy that wavers between over-confidence and nerves the way a child his age often can.
He's curious - the same quiet hard stare he had as an infant still crosses his face as he studies something new. It makes me think that even as a baby he was cataloging the world around him. He's got a memory that gets me in trouble. He's got a zeal for learning that I pray remains with him throughout his life.
Today Logan is a person that I'd enjoy being with even if we didn't share a gene pool. He's a fun kid. He's a sweet kid. We have a genuine good time together.
This boy who has moved from being that wiggling, reactive bundle of need to being a person is defining his own way - pulling away from his parents little bits at a time even as he fights to hold on tight with both hands. He's cuddles one moment and then "Don't kiss me here Mommy! People can see you!!!" the next.
You often hear (or read) people refer to motherhood as having your heart travel outside your body. It sounds a little cliche and trite sometimes and yet, as I watch this person who lived within in me for 9 (long!) months, I know that such a sentiment falls short of the reality. Giving birth is watching a piece of yourself take on it's own life. Motherhood is a constant process of watching this piece grow away from you - of having the courage to let it form its own identity and praying that as it refines itself over time it still has the desire to speak to you.
1) I have no epidural to be removed.
2) One of the causes of my insomnia is now 5 and doing laps for the bathroom and water instead of causing excruciating labor and birthing pains. :)
There are plenty of things the same though. Just now the boy emerged from the dark hallway. "I'm not tired any more," he lamented. I walked him back to his room with the strong suggestion that he was indeed tired and the thought that he was not tired was more like excitement over the presents he was anticipating.
I sat on the edge of his bed running my hand over his hair as he lay against my shoulder. I kissed the crown of his head gently and whispered softly. He gazed at me for a moment and then humored me by closing his eyes. A satisfied and peaceful wave moved across his face even though it's not yet brought sleep. That's not a whole lot different than those first moments of his life 5 years ago.
Willing him to sleep then was as effective as it is right now - I hear him singing himself to sleep which, to me, is utterly counterproductive. He disagrees. Then again, typing this at 4am is not doing much for my own slumber, so who am I to talk?
Last night after the kids were both breathing deeply in sleep, I released 10 helium balloons into Logan's room with another 6 balloons inflated by my own hot air to drift around his floor. We hung streamers down from his door frame and placed a small pile of gifts at his seat at the kitchen table.
Bruce shook his head and laughed a little as I made myself dizzy blowing up those latex balloons. "I hope they don't expect this every year here on out. Friend birthday party, party when he wakes up in the morning, family surprise party in the afternoon...."
"But he's 5!" I said, as if that should be enough. "Five is special. And the balloons come from the dollar store. Cheap."
Logan has already, obviously, noticed the balloons and the streamers. I'm sure it's not helping his sleep anymore than the singing is. He also likely suspects the "surprise" party this afternoon since he all but requested it last week, "My party with my friends was nice, but some day it'd be nice to have a surprise party. I've always wanted one. I've wanted one my whole life!"
Wow. He *is* now 5. Really, truly 5. That's just a lot to wrap my brain around at this moment. Five. He's the child I had given up the idea of having. He's the embodiment of love that seemed just *this* far beyond my grasp. He's the daily reminder of what miracles can enter our lives when we least expect them.
Logan has grown into this person that finds new ways to turn me to mush every day. He's got an amazing sense of compassion and generosity that moves through him with ease. He's got a wacky sense of humor and a quick mind that compliment each other well. He can be fiercely independent one moment and dreadfully dependent the next. He's a bright boy that wavers between over-confidence and nerves the way a child his age often can.
He's curious - the same quiet hard stare he had as an infant still crosses his face as he studies something new. It makes me think that even as a baby he was cataloging the world around him. He's got a memory that gets me in trouble. He's got a zeal for learning that I pray remains with him throughout his life.
Today Logan is a person that I'd enjoy being with even if we didn't share a gene pool. He's a fun kid. He's a sweet kid. We have a genuine good time together.
This boy who has moved from being that wiggling, reactive bundle of need to being a person is defining his own way - pulling away from his parents little bits at a time even as he fights to hold on tight with both hands. He's cuddles one moment and then "Don't kiss me here Mommy! People can see you!!!" the next.
You often hear (or read) people refer to motherhood as having your heart travel outside your body. It sounds a little cliche and trite sometimes and yet, as I watch this person who lived within in me for 9 (long!) months, I know that such a sentiment falls short of the reality. Giving birth is watching a piece of yourself take on it's own life. Motherhood is a constant process of watching this piece grow away from you - of having the courage to let it form its own identity and praying that as it refines itself over time it still has the desire to speak to you.
6.10.2007
Milestones
Five years ago I was huge. I was perpetually hot. I was swollen so badly, it's amazing the woodpecker that thinks the vinyl on my neighbors trim is yummy did not try to snack on my ankles. My blood pressure was starting to creep to the 'danger zone.' I had a month left to go before life changed completely. At least in theory.
On June 28th, 2002 I would check into the hospital a very pregnant woman with pregnancy induced hyper-tension. On June 30th I'd simply be woman that to used to have high-blood pressure and who had a nifty excuse for not fitting into last year's summer wardrop. I'd also be holding the smallest human being I'd ever seen.
Logan wasn't as preemie. He was considered full-term albeit born before his due-date. He was not "small" as newborns go. He was decidedly within the realm of "average" size - and yet he was the first person I'd ever seen within seconds of birth. Those long, tiny fingers that wrapped so very tightly around my own. Those eyelids that would press so tightly together at the first hint of light. The toes that would spread and stretch if you rubbed the arch of his foot.
He was an alert baby from the get-go. Those big blue eyes staring not just at you, but into you. Logan always had the "wise old man" look from the start. The gaze that made you feel as if he knew all he needed to or could at least take in enough to fill in the blanks for himself.
He was a happy boy. When he cried it was clearly for a reason. He was rarely fussy for the sake of being so. As he grew he displayed a natural curiosity about most things, albeit a comfort level in having someone tackle the mundane for him. I mean really, he *could* dress himself a lot sooner than he actually did so with regularity. . . but those buttons got in the way of some really good play time.
He's not "quite" five yet - but he may as well be. Yesterday was his birthday party - quite early in the grand scheme of things and yet just the right time. The early celebration meant avoiding "summer vacation overlap" that can crop up for "summer babies." He had a nice group of 5 friends from school join us for cake and loads of play. I sat back marveling over how 5, 5-year old boys (or close enough to 5 yrs old) could get along so well. Granted, all of them need to perfect the "Look before you swing the plastic bat and whack the other guy in the head instead of the ball" concept.
Tomorrow I will take Logan to preschool one last time. I'm not sure if I'll manage to do so without tears. He's grown so much these two years at this school. He's made friends that did not involve my 'blind playdate' intervention on his behalf. He's grown more independent in ways it's hard for me to fathom him doing as I look at those earliest photos of him lying with clenched fists and knees pulled in tight to abs.
It's almost not the same person.
And yet it is.
Today, when he tips his head, wrinkles his brow and scrunches his nose as he envelopes himself in the deep concentration of study, I see that same little child. The one that could furrow a brow as he shifted weight from side to side in an attempt to flip over. When Logan's smile takes full possession of his countenance, I see the infant that would fill with pride over getting his toes in his own mouth or at sitting upright for the first time. When he struggles with a new task, shaking fists in frustration before trying again, I see the boy that would take a first step and fall, only to lift his arms for help up so he could give it another go.
This is just a new beginning in what is still the beginning of his life. This milestone, this prime moment for reflection, will likely be dwarfed by future moments - 'bigger' graduations, dates, cars, jobs, marriages, etc. This is nothing in the grand scheme, and yet it's everything. It's standing at the end of an era and start of another.
It won't be a last day looking to the walls of these classrooms to identify the 'right' art project. In three short months Megan will begin her tenure in that same arena. And yet, it is *his* last time and for some reason, that's hitting me more than I expected it would.
On June 28th, 2002 I would check into the hospital a very pregnant woman with pregnancy induced hyper-tension. On June 30th I'd simply be woman that to used to have high-blood pressure and who had a nifty excuse for not fitting into last year's summer wardrop. I'd also be holding the smallest human being I'd ever seen.
Logan wasn't as preemie. He was considered full-term albeit born before his due-date. He was not "small" as newborns go. He was decidedly within the realm of "average" size - and yet he was the first person I'd ever seen within seconds of birth. Those long, tiny fingers that wrapped so very tightly around my own. Those eyelids that would press so tightly together at the first hint of light. The toes that would spread and stretch if you rubbed the arch of his foot.
He was an alert baby from the get-go. Those big blue eyes staring not just at you, but into you. Logan always had the "wise old man" look from the start. The gaze that made you feel as if he knew all he needed to or could at least take in enough to fill in the blanks for himself.
He was a happy boy. When he cried it was clearly for a reason. He was rarely fussy for the sake of being so. As he grew he displayed a natural curiosity about most things, albeit a comfort level in having someone tackle the mundane for him. I mean really, he *could* dress himself a lot sooner than he actually did so with regularity. . . but those buttons got in the way of some really good play time.
He's not "quite" five yet - but he may as well be. Yesterday was his birthday party - quite early in the grand scheme of things and yet just the right time. The early celebration meant avoiding "summer vacation overlap" that can crop up for "summer babies." He had a nice group of 5 friends from school join us for cake and loads of play. I sat back marveling over how 5, 5-year old boys (or close enough to 5 yrs old) could get along so well. Granted, all of them need to perfect the "Look before you swing the plastic bat and whack the other guy in the head instead of the ball" concept.
Tomorrow I will take Logan to preschool one last time. I'm not sure if I'll manage to do so without tears. He's grown so much these two years at this school. He's made friends that did not involve my 'blind playdate' intervention on his behalf. He's grown more independent in ways it's hard for me to fathom him doing as I look at those earliest photos of him lying with clenched fists and knees pulled in tight to abs.
It's almost not the same person.
And yet it is.
Today, when he tips his head, wrinkles his brow and scrunches his nose as he envelopes himself in the deep concentration of study, I see that same little child. The one that could furrow a brow as he shifted weight from side to side in an attempt to flip over. When Logan's smile takes full possession of his countenance, I see the infant that would fill with pride over getting his toes in his own mouth or at sitting upright for the first time. When he struggles with a new task, shaking fists in frustration before trying again, I see the boy that would take a first step and fall, only to lift his arms for help up so he could give it another go.
This is just a new beginning in what is still the beginning of his life. This milestone, this prime moment for reflection, will likely be dwarfed by future moments - 'bigger' graduations, dates, cars, jobs, marriages, etc. This is nothing in the grand scheme, and yet it's everything. It's standing at the end of an era and start of another.
It won't be a last day looking to the walls of these classrooms to identify the 'right' art project. In three short months Megan will begin her tenure in that same arena. And yet, it is *his* last time and for some reason, that's hitting me more than I expected it would.
5.24.2007
I'm digging five
The boy will be five next month. The very, very end of next month. There were times during the last two years one might have wondered if he'd live to see the day. We had a glimmer of hope earlier in the year when we attended back-to-school night at the preschool. The little hand-outs they had available summarizing 3, 4 and 5 year olds promised a calming and cooperative stage at 5.
There were days I clung to that promise like a water-logged lost-soul on the open sea clings to a life raft.
Don't get me wrong, over all Logan is a great kid. Really. He's got a great wit and a deep compassion - but sometimes that gets tucked neatly behind his mother's sarcasm and his father's selective hearing. Combine that with a sister who fully embraced "terrible twos" and is shaping up to reinforce my long held belief that "three is worse than two." You can see why sometimes my sanity was in doubt.
Yet lately there's been a change in the boy. He's been calmer. He's pushed back less. He's demanded infrequently. He's begun to pitch-in without being asked or reminded. He's sudenly much more interested in being helpful and giving than he is in 'having it all my way right now.' In short, he's fulfilling that little 'developmental sheet' prophecy.
Now, let's be honest. I stopped reading after the 5 year old sheet because sometimes I like living in ignorant bliss. I can sit and pretend that those tween/teen years are not going to make 2-3-4 look like a cake walk. I can stick my fingers in my ears chanting "La-la-la-I-can't-hear-you" when you try to tell me that there are still going to be 'rough' days at 5 or "just wait to see what he learns in school."
Ignorant bliss. Do you hear me?
I'm going to sit and relish the moment when the days are good much more often than they're challenging. I'm going to enjoy this time when our biggest struggle is whether he reads the first line to me or I read it to him. I'm going to hoard the lot of kisses and cuddles I get today because I already see that it's coming to an end (we are already forbidden to fuss and "snuggle" in public.)
So far 4 11/12ths, as Logan will declare himself, is making 5 look mighty fine.
There were days I clung to that promise like a water-logged lost-soul on the open sea clings to a life raft.
Don't get me wrong, over all Logan is a great kid. Really. He's got a great wit and a deep compassion - but sometimes that gets tucked neatly behind his mother's sarcasm and his father's selective hearing. Combine that with a sister who fully embraced "terrible twos" and is shaping up to reinforce my long held belief that "three is worse than two." You can see why sometimes my sanity was in doubt.
Yet lately there's been a change in the boy. He's been calmer. He's pushed back less. He's demanded infrequently. He's begun to pitch-in without being asked or reminded. He's sudenly much more interested in being helpful and giving than he is in 'having it all my way right now.' In short, he's fulfilling that little 'developmental sheet' prophecy.
Now, let's be honest. I stopped reading after the 5 year old sheet because sometimes I like living in ignorant bliss. I can sit and pretend that those tween/teen years are not going to make 2-3-4 look like a cake walk. I can stick my fingers in my ears chanting "La-la-la-I-can't-hear-you" when you try to tell me that there are still going to be 'rough' days at 5 or "just wait to see what he learns in school."
Ignorant bliss. Do you hear me?
I'm going to sit and relish the moment when the days are good much more often than they're challenging. I'm going to enjoy this time when our biggest struggle is whether he reads the first line to me or I read it to him. I'm going to hoard the lot of kisses and cuddles I get today because I already see that it's coming to an end (we are already forbidden to fuss and "snuggle" in public.)
So far 4 11/12ths, as Logan will declare himself, is making 5 look mighty fine.
4.20.2007
Well look at that
Last night I attened a program through our school district on Kindergarten curriculum and readiness. I learned a bit about what to expect and how to help prepare the boy child for his upcoming school year.
I also learned that my little boy born in 2002 is about to become part of the class of 2020.
I know. I'm odd. This amuses me though. . .once my eyes stopped tearing up.
I also learned that my little boy born in 2002 is about to become part of the class of 2020.
I know. I'm odd. This amuses me though. . .once my eyes stopped tearing up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)