After a visit to my parents' house this past weekend where we celebrated my nephew's 13th birthday, my stepmom told the story of my 3-year-old nephew's recent sojourn as THE GREAT WORM HUNTER. Evidently with great intensity, he dressed up in full-on safari gear and headed out to hunt the great North American Earthworm, which was absolutely fine until he accidentally FOUND one, which was not apparently on his plan. We had a good laugh over this very serious and resolute child freaking out entirely when he actually found his quarry.
And that would be a funny story all by itself. But it's even funnier in combination with Noah's encounter with a worm on Sunday.
We'd gone to the synagogue for Sunday school and the book fair, and Noah was enjoying a chance to run around the halls, particularly the long stretch of hall between the sanctuary and the rabbi's office. Now, nobody really expects to find an earthworm halfway down a carpeted hallway, but perhaps this one had a contribution to the tzedakah box, because he was well on his way down the hall when he and Noah crossed paths, and Noah stepped on him. Mr. Worm coiled up in indignation, while Noah levitated about 2 feet above him and screamed in abject horror, like he'd just seen the most terrifying thing that ever walked the face of the earth. Well, this seems to be the case -- and I carried a shrieking, horrified, full-body-tense child out of the hallway into the lobby to get away from the Terror-Worm. We found Daddy and requested that Daddy please remove the evil monster from the building to protect us, which he promptly did -- but then didn't come back in, but got waved in to take part in a blood drive, leaving Noah absolutely convinced that the Death-Worm had "gotten" Daddy.
After a few minutes, though, I distracted him and thought we were making good progress to a full worm recovery, but silly me -- I was experiencing a false sense of accomplishment. Because about every 20 minutes, Noah tensed up and began reliving the whole worm experience, telling me very seriously and shrill that "Mommy! A worm! I step onna WORM! STEP on him! He SKEERED me!" and then went into wailing again.
This lasted all day. At 10:00 last night, the last hurdle to going to bed, WELL after his normal bedtime, was a quick check around the bedroom to make sure ONE MORE TIME that there were no evil child-eating worms lurking in wait for him to go to sleep. And NO worms in the bed.
Worms. Who knew? Well at least I know that he's not going to go eat them if something doesn't go his way....
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Thursday, November 09, 2006
I am my son's "pink blanket."
This morning, as I dropped my little boy off at day care, he demanded that I "sit inna chair!" -- and seemed to think that this command should last all day. He turned to one of his fellow daycarites and said "Where you Mommy, Nonathan?" They discussed this for a moment, and concluded "Mommy at working." Pretty good chatting, I thought. "Honey, Mommy has to go to work too -- I'll see you tonight," I told him. "No! You sit inna chair!" He climbed up onto me, to make sure I didn't go anywhere.
And then the snuggling began. Now, how is it that he knows to snuggle just when I'm most resolute to leave? It starts by pulling my arms around him, and rubbing his face against my inner arm. Soon he rivals the cat in his face-rubbing and purring routine -- he spins and climbs up on me and rubs his cheek on my face, or turns upside down and begins rubbing his face on my leg, while his feet flail around my head. He is a skin-rubbing fool. When we're home and my shoes are off, eventually there's a moment when I fear that he's going to gouge his own eyes out with my toes -- that's where I continue to draw the line. No toes in eyes. But the rest of the face-rubbing? Pure bliss.
I remember when he was a tiny little 7-pound bit of goo, formed into human shape by the footie-outfit that contained him, and couldn't remember how to go to sleep. Something told me that he needed a physical sensation, to help him remember to relax and succumb. I began to stand next to his bassinet, which was on our dresser, and very gently stroke his face from his forehead to his chin, and murmur quietly to him to go to sleep. Slowly, slowly, the pressure of my fingers got lighter and lighter, and my voice quieter and quieter, and eventually he was out. More than once, I feel asleep myself, and awoke as I hit the ground, standing there next to his bassinet, stroking his face.
I guess this instinct came from my own childhood. I, you see, was a Linus-child. There is a story that the infamous "pink blanket" was the blanket I came home from the hospital in, a gift from my grandmother's employer and close family friend. It was pink and very thick, and had a silky border that was pulled off and discarded over time, and without it I could not exist. I remember taking it with me on trips, folded up in my suitcase on airplanes for safekeeping. I remember as a girl of sleepover-age deciding that it was necessary to cut a section the size of a handkerchief out of one corner that I could hide in my sleeping bag, because I simply couldn't sleep without it. I remember visiting my grandmother one time and catching a cold, and having a visiting friend of my grandmother's say "she's just got fluff from that blanket in her nose." And there was the time we headed off on a long car trip, and were over an hour away before I realized that it wasn't in the car. My father pleaded with me: "If you can go without the blanket for this trip, I will buy you the biggest stuffed animal we can find." I was a very literalistic child. That gingerbread man was probably as big as I am now, and may very well still be in my parents' basement. Nevertheless, I was glad to get home to my blanket.
Because there was something that was brainstem-level soothing about having it, about putting my face against it. Something very much like rubbing my face against a person I loved.... Almost like going into a meditative state, or being hypnotized. It opened up the twilight between awake and asleep, something that we're pretty familiar with in my family, to last an eternity -- that blissful feeling of "Ooooh, I'm about to fall asleep but I can enjoy hovering here for another minute...."
And so in the great scheme of "things I've given my son," one of the ones that gives me the most satisfaction, really, is that sensation. That feeling of rubbing your face against something that makes you feel safe and secure and loved. I've been worried that he didn't develop a "lovey" like so many toddlers do -- but I get it now. *I* am his lovey. His "pink blanket."
I can't think of a better thing to be.
And then the snuggling began. Now, how is it that he knows to snuggle just when I'm most resolute to leave? It starts by pulling my arms around him, and rubbing his face against my inner arm. Soon he rivals the cat in his face-rubbing and purring routine -- he spins and climbs up on me and rubs his cheek on my face, or turns upside down and begins rubbing his face on my leg, while his feet flail around my head. He is a skin-rubbing fool. When we're home and my shoes are off, eventually there's a moment when I fear that he's going to gouge his own eyes out with my toes -- that's where I continue to draw the line. No toes in eyes. But the rest of the face-rubbing? Pure bliss.
I remember when he was a tiny little 7-pound bit of goo, formed into human shape by the footie-outfit that contained him, and couldn't remember how to go to sleep. Something told me that he needed a physical sensation, to help him remember to relax and succumb. I began to stand next to his bassinet, which was on our dresser, and very gently stroke his face from his forehead to his chin, and murmur quietly to him to go to sleep. Slowly, slowly, the pressure of my fingers got lighter and lighter, and my voice quieter and quieter, and eventually he was out. More than once, I feel asleep myself, and awoke as I hit the ground, standing there next to his bassinet, stroking his face.
I guess this instinct came from my own childhood. I, you see, was a Linus-child. There is a story that the infamous "pink blanket" was the blanket I came home from the hospital in, a gift from my grandmother's employer and close family friend. It was pink and very thick, and had a silky border that was pulled off and discarded over time, and without it I could not exist. I remember taking it with me on trips, folded up in my suitcase on airplanes for safekeeping. I remember as a girl of sleepover-age deciding that it was necessary to cut a section the size of a handkerchief out of one corner that I could hide in my sleeping bag, because I simply couldn't sleep without it. I remember visiting my grandmother one time and catching a cold, and having a visiting friend of my grandmother's say "she's just got fluff from that blanket in her nose." And there was the time we headed off on a long car trip, and were over an hour away before I realized that it wasn't in the car. My father pleaded with me: "If you can go without the blanket for this trip, I will buy you the biggest stuffed animal we can find." I was a very literalistic child. That gingerbread man was probably as big as I am now, and may very well still be in my parents' basement. Nevertheless, I was glad to get home to my blanket.
Because there was something that was brainstem-level soothing about having it, about putting my face against it. Something very much like rubbing my face against a person I loved.... Almost like going into a meditative state, or being hypnotized. It opened up the twilight between awake and asleep, something that we're pretty familiar with in my family, to last an eternity -- that blissful feeling of "Ooooh, I'm about to fall asleep but I can enjoy hovering here for another minute...."
And so in the great scheme of "things I've given my son," one of the ones that gives me the most satisfaction, really, is that sensation. That feeling of rubbing your face against something that makes you feel safe and secure and loved. I've been worried that he didn't develop a "lovey" like so many toddlers do -- but I get it now. *I* am his lovey. His "pink blanket."
I can't think of a better thing to be.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Halloween is "skeery" and evil.
Last year's Halloween was unmemorable, except for a little boy half-dressed in a Piglet costume sliding around on the hardwood floors in little padded pigletfeet. This year, though, he knew what he was into, I think.
Dressed as Mr. Bones, Noah struck out to "git canny." And get candy he did. Our entire block did their darndest to send us home with more candy that we had to give out, I think, and he wasn't done yet -- we headed off to the next street, and he gamely walked up to a strange door... And then the severed head in the bowl spoke to him. It wasn't just "dross," it became "skeery."
Back home, he poured his earnings onto the floor like a tiny miser and in a moment when no one was watching, he picked the ONE THING that he could unwrap himself and ate it, and that was it. "CANNY!" Oh, the screaming when we explained that he couldn't eat all of it right then, and indeed we did want him to eat dinner. Oh, the wailing when we emptied the plastic pumpkin and gave him back two or three pieces that he could at, and then evil Mommy wouldn't let him refill the pumpkin from the bowl she was using to give candy to other kids we DIDN'T EVEN KNOW who came to the door! Oh the gnashing of teeth each time someone came to the door and more candy left!
After a short stint of screaming it out alone in his bedroom, a huffing little boy came back downstairs to join us, and there was no more discussion of candy -- he ate a little dinner, watched JUNGLE BOOK with me while I caught up with missed work from earlier in the day, and trundled upstairs to crawl into bed.
But it's clear to me now -- chocolate is the work of the devil.
Dressed as Mr. Bones, Noah struck out to "git canny." And get candy he did. Our entire block did their darndest to send us home with more candy that we had to give out, I think, and he wasn't done yet -- we headed off to the next street, and he gamely walked up to a strange door... And then the severed head in the bowl spoke to him. It wasn't just "dross," it became "skeery."
Back home, he poured his earnings onto the floor like a tiny miser and in a moment when no one was watching, he picked the ONE THING that he could unwrap himself and ate it, and that was it. "CANNY!" Oh, the screaming when we explained that he couldn't eat all of it right then, and indeed we did want him to eat dinner. Oh, the wailing when we emptied the plastic pumpkin and gave him back two or three pieces that he could at, and then evil Mommy wouldn't let him refill the pumpkin from the bowl she was using to give candy to other kids we DIDN'T EVEN KNOW who came to the door! Oh the gnashing of teeth each time someone came to the door and more candy left!
After a short stint of screaming it out alone in his bedroom, a huffing little boy came back downstairs to join us, and there was no more discussion of candy -- he ate a little dinner, watched JUNGLE BOOK with me while I caught up with missed work from earlier in the day, and trundled upstairs to crawl into bed.
But it's clear to me now -- chocolate is the work of the devil.
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