Because the World Spins a Little More Thoroughly When KiKi's Got the Wheel

Last night, Aunt Kiki gave Finn her first bath. Well, she's had baths before, and she generally smells quite nice. And Finn, of course, has had baths before, and he occasionally smells quite nice. But Kiki has never given Finn a bath. Ergo, the firstiness.

I started the bath water at 8:30 p.m. (note the time), with the full intention of giving my kid his bath. But when he demanded those services of KiKi, I reluctantly (and yet with a speed that would impress even Wally West) handed over the reins to this most cherished duty and ran to take full advantage of this pocket of rare time.

I cleaned.

(Hey, I heard that. A little quieter with your your disapproval, please. I'm trying to write here.)

The bath could've gone a lot of ways. You see, Finn is an unpredictable taker of the baths. He prefers, for example, to be a splasher, not a splashee, and if any trace of tear-inducing or even tear-free shampoo or really even just water shimmies near his eye, he will scream. And I use scream in that blood-curdling-thrice-the-force-of-the-Wilhelm scream-to-which-chocolate-must-be- administered-immediately sense. It could've happened. And if Finn screamed, odds are good KiKi would scream back and then I would be out of chocolate and that is simply no good.

But, we must be honest. Finn really wasn't our concern.

You see, I've had my eye on Aunt KiKi. She's been helping me hold down the fort this past week (and as of yesterday, quite literally, as a 20 ft. blanket and couch-pillow fort took over our living room). I've seen her sneak peeks at Finn's toy dinosaur eggs, glee-ing out at every crack. I've heard tales of their Monster game, where Finn chases her (the monster) with his toy chainsaw, for something like 45 minutes. I've witnessed her roll-race down our grassy hill. I was there when she made Finn and his blanket into at least six pizzas, five burritos, and one cream puff. And I've seen her fall prey to the manipulations of a four year who'd rather play with her than take his nap. (Sure, she apologized, but she wasn't winning any awards for that performance.)

So Finn really wasn't the one to worry about. KiKi really takes her godma role seriously, in that very unserious chase-the-blanket-turned-into-a-tail way that gets Finn's supergiggles going.

But since I didn't hear any screams from either boy or aunt, I just kept going, changing the sheets on the bed, putting the laundry away, dusting the lamps, mopping the bedroom and hallway hard woods, cleaning baseboards, re-alpha'ing our 400-volume library, regrouting the tile, detailing our car.

Wait a minute. What were they doing in there?

And that's when I finally looked at the clock. It was 9:20. Almost a full and quite pruny hour of bathing--for Finn and KiKi's jeans alike. And where I sincerely doubt my son was irreparably damaged by such a thorough "cleaning," I do wonder if KiKi will ever be the same. If her sparkly eyes and bubbly giggle were any indication, I don’t think she’ll mind.

(Although she may have permanently de-aged about 20 years.)

A Boy and His Dinosaur

Today, you turned four years old. Four. Way past babyhood and just a few very assertive steps (re: Year of the Tantrum) out of toddlerness.

You are officially a Kid.

And you prove that everyday. Just a few months ago, you used to "womb"; you'd cling to my leg when we entered your classroom, burrow your head when you met new people, and go grinning catatonic when someone asked you a question. But now, you boldly order your own chocolate milk (obviously free of my socially debilitating shyness), rush to play with your friends with nary a glance back at mama, crack jokes, and even cop a little sass now and then.

You just don't need me as much anymore. I mean, I'm no longer a food source. You can do your bathroom duties pretty much on your own. You can even roll your own sushi. And I have to admit, because I'm all about the admitting here, that it stings. But just like when you get booboes, it only hurts for a little bit. You tear up a little, complain a little, maybe whine a little. I offer to apply a little mommy magic, to kiss the hurt away for you. More and more often you decline and just go straight for the Incredible band-aid, because you understand that it's a part of the game, that it will only hurt for a little bit, that the pain goes away and you come out of it with a killer bruise and story. You come out of it a little stronger.

(Or maybe you're just after the sticker?)

And you've certainly given me plenty of stories over the past year (remember the box?)--and plenty of not so metaphorical bruises. But even the figurative bruises ain't so bad, because I'm starting to see what happens on the other side.

As you let go of my hand or my leg, you start to work your way through your little piece of the world. And I love to watch you weigh it, consider it, laugh at it, stomp it, or save it from an aggressive bird.

And then I love to see you come running back to grab my hand and show me what you've found.

A Happy That Can't Be Held Down

Last evening, after first desserts (because there were seconds), Finn and I headed outside for a game of pretend baseball. We have a "real" bat and a "real" ball (both made of some kind of foam-y material that only hurts bad, instead of emergency room bad, when Finn whacks me on the head with it), but Finn prefers this game of pretend pitching and pretend hitting. I think it's because he can hit the ball, bounce it off the moon, and catch it.

My child, the imaginative micromanager.

Before we got to the pretend baseball field (a stretch of sidewalk in front of somebody's house who I'm sure has issued the crazy on us), Finn got stalled in some butterfly giggles in our yard, giggles that stopped me in my tracks. And as anyone who knows me well can testify, I am a victim to my own momentum. I am Newton's first law incarnate. So to have a mere giggle stop me and turn me around. Well, you needed to hear that giggle.

It's hard to describe it without resorting to cliches: it was like tiny silver bells, it was like warmth and innocence and pure joy, it was unrestrained, unrehearsed, unexpected. It was as if he had been filled up with pure happiness and just a few drops planned a last minute escape over his edges, like champagne bubbles floating up and then skipping over the edges of an overpoured flute.

(I thought that analogy would go over better than the heady beer image I'm really thinking of.)

Pock That!

Every year (well, the past two years), we trek over to Kansas to celebrate Easter Saturday. And every year (again, just two), we dig out the plastic eggs, fill them with sugar, and drop them in our friends' yard to the joy and ferocity of youth. And every year (count 'em, one, two, stop), we engage in the age-old (much more than two) tradition of Egg Pocking.

Yes. Egg Pocking.

When we joined this tradition, we had no idea what the h-e-double-g pocking was. Barry and I come from the lofty traditions of egg rolling, something involving eggsand spoons, egg-smashing-on-heads, egg eating, egg deviling, egg fertilizing (not a public sport, but you should've seen the typo I had on that).

But what and whence the pock?

The pock starts with a NCAA-styled playoff chart (and if you know me, you know I love charts, which means that pocking must be a good recreational fit): opponents listed down the side, inwardly cascading playoff matches, to a final four, and dynamic duel (I know, I made that up), to an exuberant win.

I suppose it doesn't have to start with a chart, per se. That could just be my reading. It could just as easily start with the bowl of hard-boiled eggs.

Each pocker, then takes an egg from said bowl, holds it like you would a fat dart, faces off against an opponent, and then taps or smashes the egg into the opponent's egg in an attempt to pock it, or avoid pocking it.



(Is "pocking" the act of trying to pock or being pocked? This is where I lose the thread.)

Nonetheless, the objective: to be the last uncracked egg standing. In a weird and inexplicable play of physics, only one egg will be pocked in any egg-to-egg standoff. (Yes, you're right. In completely explicable play of physics, eggs can't stand. It's a figure of speech, folks.)

If you're lucky, you'll make it through the rounds to stand Egg Supreme, and maybe, if your hosts are generous, you'll win something like this.



Which now adorns our buffet because, yes, our offspring matched youthful ferocity with wisdom and skill to rock the pock.

And if you're really lucky, you'll have a Harry in the game. You know, so you can call him Harry Pocker. (Oh yes, I did.)

We are that lucky.

Freaky Friday

I'm not saying our leaky faucet is leaving Madonna stains or that our fiberoptic Jesus has recently escaped the cupboard we keep him in. No miracles. No bold strokes of divinity.

I'm just saying how gosh-golly fun it is when life imitates art--


--and how large our son's head is.

This Is a Metaphor-Free Zone

I woke up at 3 a.m. this morning, realizing that I had crashed out on Finn in the middle of What Is Easter? and Spring Easter Bugs, two appropriately seasonal gifts from his Godma K.

What was supposed to happen? I was supposed to read the books, have a nice chat and song (usually one I have adapted from my favorite Shakespeare play. I know. Complete goob) and then get up, brew myself some Tibetan Eye of the Tiger, and work diligently on one of my client's projects until I hit epiphany or insanity. Often, I can't tell the two apart. I don't know that you necessarily should.

That didn't happen. Not so much.

Instead, I found myself at 3 a.m., with a book in my ribs, one in my calf, and one in my ear; with drool (I'm not absolutely sure whose) in my hair; some kind of heavy, round object (oh, that's a head) on my foot; and a few panels on a brochure left to write.

I can tell you, that was a bona fide extrication, my friend. I can tell you that with complete confidence, but, uncharacteristically, without metaphor. (Yes, me, at a lack for metaphor.)

But I can also tell you, again with complete confidence, that I love my job.

D-e-a-t-h

Yes, we've taken to spelling things out for Finn.

"Hey Barry, how about a m-o-v-i-e?"

"I think I'm feeling like a little p-i-z-z-a. You?"

"The c-h-i-l-d is throwing a holy f-i-t. Shall I t-h-r-o-w him down the laundry c-h-u-t-e?"

Of course, because we're new to this, every spellout requires a couple of beats (okay, minutes) for our brains, ironically well educated, to compose letters into words we think we recognize, sometimes to interesting miscalculations. But that, my reader, is a blog for another time.

The high-scoring spellout for this past week has been d-e-a-t-h. I'm not sure what specific occasion sparked this word in this particular week. Last summer, we had to put our cat to sleep. We kept Finn out of it. While Barry talked to the vet, I distracted Finn with a walk across the street to the pet store. That led, in a subsequent visit to our fish, who died last winter. Finn, then a few months older and we thought more mature to handle the life cycle, was brought in for the "funeral." He didn't seem upset, didn't question.

But for some reason, this week, Finn's been questioning the life here and after.

It started in the library with a book called Josefina, based on the real-life clay sculpting of Josefina Aguilar. It's supposed to be a counting book. You know, Josefina molds three clay houses, six babies and the six mamas that hold them. When we get to eight, Josefina creates eight calaveras (skeletons). Finn asked about the skeletons, what they were, who they were, why there were, where they were. And then, will I die? will you die? I don't want to die.

And so, we initiated the d-e-a-t-h spelling policy, unless directly confronted.

So tonight, Finn started asking about my grandparents, and, according to previous agreement, I took him on. Where are they? Where did they die? How did they die? Where are they now?

Where's heaven?

Is it by the pet store?

From Whence Chicken Broth, Father?

We're making lunch and Barry's concocting some of his famous jasmine rice. He sautes onions, then the actual rice. He then adds some rosemary and soups it all up in chicken broth, instead of water. A flavor sensation.

Finn likes to help in the kitchen and because he is three and a human, likes to ask questions. Today's chicken broth stumped him.

"Is that apple juice?" he asks.

"No," Barry answers, "that's chicken broth."

"What's chicken broth?"

I can field this one. I hand Finn an apple and jump into my lecture: On Being and Juiciness.

"Chicken broth is like apple juice," I start. "Apple juice comes from the juice of apples. You mash the apples and the juice is what's left behind. Chicken broth," I can already see my mistake, but forge on, "is the juice from chickens."

Thankfully, Finn was too busy choking on his apple to come up with a retort.

Joss Whedon Is My Master!

Barry, to Sarah: "I met with Ben and Josh today to talk about our project."

Finn, interrupting, per usual: "Ben is Violet's dad."

Barry: "Yes, Finn."

Finn: "And Josh sounds like Joss."

Barry: "Who's that?"

Finn: "You know, poppi, Joss Whedon, Buffy's dad."

In the Wake of Books

Maybe it's time to describe Finn's book fetish.

First, our bedtime routine, and this well incontrovertibly reveal what smashing good parents we are:

1. We brush teeth.
2. We potty. Everyone. Modeling is important.
3. We read books.

And that's where our good parenting ends. Because as any good parents knows, you want your child to become more than you are. So they can pay off your lavish Ikea debts in your old age.

Tonight's selections: The Little Giant (with Angelo de Gianti and Osvadlo di Curti) and No More Monsters for Pets. Or some such. We like to read two. And keep it to two. Ours is a child who will keep us reading until the wee hours, if he has his way, and that's just, well, bad. Too much book learning can hurt your eyes--and your brain. You just to need those nip book smarts in the bud. That's what we say. Often. And loudly. And even in public to, oddly, very few snickers.

But we do compensate our illiterate ways by letting Finn take books into bed. Not the best idea we've ever had as far as finding a happy, restful toddler in the morning, but we're thinking if he stays up late reading, then we can stay up late drinking and everybody is equally cranky when the household awakes to the blazing sun in our east-facing house at, now, 6 a.m.

So, it's all strategic. Yes, that's what it is. Strategic.

By books into bed, I'm not talking one or two. I'm talking sixteen. Yes, Finn pilfers through some sixteen books, maybe more. We find books stashed underneath the covers when we change his sheets. Comics, fairytales, picture books, Frazier's The Golden Bough, E.M. Forestor's Aspects of the Novel (one of his recent favorites). He doesn't discriminate.

For someone who doesn't "read"--and he's the first to admit he can't, but I seriously doubt his self-asessment--he likes him some serious literature. He'll spend a good hour or two or three flipping through books and talking his way through pictures or not. He'll even call us, hours after we've thought he's been dutifully asleep, to fetch a David Foster Wallace that's slipped behind his headboard or to ask us what "bawling" means.

We started this enterprise, this child rearing, wanting to develop our child's love of stories. In the parlance of pedagogy, we've developed a print-rich home, magazines piled on the coffee table (that's now buckling under the weight), magazines filling a bucket by the toilet, amply stocked bookcases and backseats, cookbooks that line every inch of counter space, comic books gingerly spread on any available flat surface.

We've got books, granted many that go unread between the hours spent blogging and watching Heroes and BG and calling KiKi and Alan to discuss the aforementioned. Oh, and work, too. Yes, we work. But we do have books, lots of them, to fill the time should cable and Sprint Nextel networks give out.

But now, despite our best efforts to promote books as decoration or hypocritical claims to culture, we can't get the kid to go to sleep because he wants to "read." I've taken to given him an extra 30 minutes to "read," and then I literally have to unscrew his light bulb. (Which is immediately followed by a click-click-click and a lamenting, "Poppi? Poppi?") I have become the Evil Witch of Lights Out, the one who has to tell my son that reading time is over.

Our child is now doomed to become an artist or a writer or a pursuer of multiple advanced degrees, despite our best efforts to get him to follow in someone else's footsteps.

Portrait of an Artist as a Three-and-a-Half Year Old Boy

This post is long overdue. (And just plain long.) I shall remedy that oversight and overdewiness forthwidthit.

First, you must understand that the following statement carries no bias, no traces of fierce pride of parenting. It is said with honesty, with carefully observed scrutiny, and using the powers of analysis that I hold as a published art critic.

My son is a frakking art genius.

And after three years of studious art making, it's damn well time we present to the world his first retrospective.

So here I offer you, the birth and evolution of an Artist. (Notice the capital "A." I don't capitalize willy nilly. I apply that not with hippy liberalism, although I have been endowed with lovely, curvy hips, but with compassionate conservativism.)

Finn is a deliberate artist. Since his earliest encounters with pen and paintbrush--his artistic tools of choice--he has always held them gingerly, resting them in the crook between his forefinger and thumb, never full-hand gripping them with the violent passion of most toddlers.

He works in phases, exploring media and technique until he has utterly exhausted their allure. First, it was pens, then paints, markers, pencils, playdoh, and most recently he has returned to pens--this time branching out into red gel--in what we call his Blood Phase. He has dabbled in crayons, but never fully committed. I suppose the quality waxes too uneven. And crayons are just so common, aren't they?

His first notable study of color and form came in his Circus Period (ca. 2004/5). He had been applying thick swabs of paint to large pieces of butcher paper, crawling and walking around it, exploring all its edges from nearly every perspective. That kinetic dance of paint left him besmeared. And he never looked back.

We'd strip him down to his diaper, and let the happiness in.

Arms, tummy, calves, thighs, feet--Finn would end up totally covered in paint (notably one of the only times he'd work with multiple colors on one "canvas")--and come out the other side looking like a top candidate for the cover photo Bradbury's Illustrated Man (or the more popular and current Ink).

His gross motor skills turned fine in his American Flag Period (ca. 2005/6). And I have evidence of its exhaustive exploration in more than half of my Moleskine. He drew in journals, mine mostly, stitching and looping delicate lines. He called it his American Flag. We still can't figure out why. I would describe it as curvaceous grids. He'd start with a Rubenesque circle and then cascade semicircles, tiny and large off that central form.

His Neoclasssical Period spun off of those first explorations in form. He started coloring in his "flags," drew his first rocketship, and then promptly moved to coloring books. Here, he was more concerned about mastering form than about bold applications of color. Marvel Superheroes, Superdog and friends, All-Star Sports, Spiderman--all these books reveal, page after page, a deliberate application of just one color, markers, sometimes crayons, often pen that, uncharacteristic for his age and without urging from us, stayed within the lines. This, to date, marks his most profilic creations.

Finn then took a break from these flat fields of deliberate color and moved to scultpure--legos, playdoh, and puzzles--and even dabbled in a little performance art, a tribute to his Circus Period. In hindsight, this detour pushed his boundaries of self-expression and creativity, getting him off of the page and on the stage. He traveled inward, and like the Romantics who rebelled against the didactic forms of their Neoclassical brothers, he broke out of the lines and into the realm of pure color and emotion.

In Finn's Albers Phase, he moved away from the big sheets of butcher paper and the formula of color books to small sheets of notepaper, scraps of napkins, anything that would hold pigment. He'd chose one color--purple, red, yellow, brown, something bold--and cover the paper with it, leaving just a little white space at the margins. From those bold and uniform applications of colors, he immediately went minimal: just a line, just a curve, just a thought. Delicate, always deliberate, and expressive of his attempt to lose or find control in a single mark.

But not even that would contain him, for the past two days, Finn has returned to the pen. He's kept the boldness--red gel--but returned to the scrutiny of what can only be described as a culmination of his artistic expressions.

He's even more meticulous, yet even more brazen with his red gel, bleeding his color into forms and onto paper, claiming the violence of his toddler years and yet tempering them with restrained (com)passion.

Knock, Knock

We have entered the joke phase. Well, the attempt at joke phase. A sample:

Finn: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Finn: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Finn: Banana grace.

And again.

Finn: Knock, knock.
Me: Who's there?
Finn: Orange.
Me: Orange who?
Finn: Orange it's cold outside.