He is black or white; off or on; yes or no. There is no grey, stand-by, or maybe in his world.
He is such a big boy now. Somewhere in the past few months he shed his baby soft skin. His hair is no longer soft and fine, but thick and often in need of a hairbrush. He says he is “a kid” and I have to admit that he is right. He is the consummate big brother; protective of “his baby” telling me that it is his job to “keep him safe”.
He wants so badly to be independent; yet to be reassured that we will always be there for him whenever he wants us. Much of the time, when he needs to get something, he’ll just go and it do it himself; dragging a chair around the house to reach high places or stating matter-of-factly that “I need a stick” to fish something out from under the couch. Other times; he will act utterly helpless claiming “I can’t” in a sad no-nonsense voice when we tell him to pick something up or get it himself. In the mornings, he gets his breakfast.himself..most often strawberry yogurt for which he must pick out and retrieve his own spoon. When he is done, he tosses the empty container in the recycling; pausing in front of the side-by-side recycling and trash bins to read, “Rrrr…eeee…cycling” off the label to assure himself that he chose the right receptacle. We were at the park a couple of weeks ago and I told him to get ready to go home when he simply began to walk down the path towards our house. I stopped him, and he protested, informing me that “I know the way home” and while I am quite sure that he does, I made him wait for me to take his brother out of the swing before we all walked home together. While he insists that he is a big boy he will ask me to carry him into bed “like a baby” at night. When I was unable to do so a few night ago (I was nursing his brother) he collapsed into 45 minutes of sobbing on Jeff’s chest, shooting looks of betrayal in my direction. After I finally was able to put the baby down and offer him hugs and kisses he pulled away, still hurt, admonishing me “Don’t do that Mama”.
He has an opinion. He’ll tell you where he wants to go (or more often, that he doesn’t want to go anywhere). He knows what he wants to do. He’ll even tell you what his brother and what his stuffed animals want (as if our household is a democracy where by getting them to support his opionion the majoirty will rule).
He wants to do whatever it is that the grown-ups are doing. “Can I help?” is a frequent question in our house. Before we can even say “Yes!” he is putting on his shoes and heading outside to the compost pile or dragging a chair across the kitchen to stand on while we cook. He especially loves to bake and is now quite accurate at pouring ingredients into the bowl without spilling. I am teaching him the proper way to whisk and to fold and he loves to work the food processor. We make bread almost daily and he always asks for a hunk of dough to make his own creation. In the past two weeks, his hunk has been a “jackhammer”, a “saw”, a “weed whacker”, and a “shovel”. After rising and baking they all look to my untrained eyes like lumps be he carefully explains to me after they emerge from the oven, “See here, this is the point…”
He is always busy. Legos are still his favorite toy, although lately he has been more interested in learning to play games and in activity books than toys. He is learning to play chess with Jeff, I taught him “Connect 4″ (and he has actually beaten me when I have been somewhat distracted by his brother) and he is quite good at “Go Fish”. Tonight we sat in front of the fireplace after his brother was asleep and played game after game of “Go Fish”. He would literally vibrate with excitement when he realized that one of us was holding a match to his cards.
He loves to pretend. He plays a version of hide and seek that he has (for reasons I do not fathom) named “Sack in the Poke”. He tells me stories involving snowstorms, monsters, flying, and frequently his stuffed giraffe, Sally. He has a recurring pretend scenario of going to “housey work” in which he packs a lunch and trots off to another room of the house to do his “work”. He plays doctor with his stuffed animals and a medical kit I foraged for him out of our first aid supplies. He has an excellent bedside manner and will compassionately inform his animals that they have “Migas” (a made-up disease of his own creation that according to him attacks the eyes and then progresses to the stomach). He will then sadly inform them that they need a shot, but that “it is just a little poke”. Sometimes our rugs are shark-infested waters or sometimes the dining room chairs are set up as a store selling marshmallows and chocolate. Sometimes I am an anklyosaurus and sometimes he is a tiger. It is so much fun to hear what he comes up with.
He adores stories, both oral and in book form. When he is sad a surefire way to cheer him up is to tell him a story of an event from my childhood – he enjoys the ones with blood and injury the best. He tells stories of his own making as well, informing me in advance whether it is a “real story” or “just pretend”. He listens with rapt attention to long stories such as the classic Dr. Suess books I have started to read him, on occasion, even longer chapter books and I can hardly wait until he is old enough for Harry Potter. Since we gave up nursing he has become quite attached to his “cuddle story” – a story of his choosing that we read before nap and before bed. I am attached to it too – it’s a lovely way to send him off to sleep. He is reading on his own now; sounding out words as he unlocks the magical code that is written language. He reads out the colors listed in his activity books, beaming with pride when he figures out which one reads “blue” and which one reads “black”. He looks at the juice box and announces with excitement, Mama, it says apple on this!”
He asks big questions. He seems to have realized that the world is a very big place and has a need to figure out how he fits into it. We’ve talked about birth and death. He can now tell you what happened to the dinosaurs. He wants to know what the future will hold. As we were putting away his Christmas ornaments in his box, I explained to him that he would take the box with him when he grew up and had his own Christmas tree. He was enthralled by the concept and told me, “When I am a Dada you will come to my house for Chirstmas. You will live far away from me so I will come pick you up. I will drive you to my house. My kids will come too. We will watch DVDs in the car. Not the DVDs we have now, but new ones. The DVDs will have changed. We will put the ornaments on my tree. You can help me.” Sounds good to me – although I wouldn’t mind if we lived close to one another.
He is, finally, a fantastic sleeper. I can hardly believe that the same boy who was utterly incapable of putting himself back to sleep for nearly three years now wakes up in the middle of the night, gets a drink of water, and then settles himself back down. He has a lot of trouble “turning off” to fall asleep but once he is in dreamland he sleeps like the proverbial log. He especially loves to nap, happily sleeping two or even three hours in the afternoon, sprawled out in his bed in his underwear looking for all the world like a tiny frat boy. The napping can be a bit problematic – he still needs one – but not too much or he’ll be up until 10:00, 11:00, or even midnight. I don’t mind too much. He is, like me, a night-owl; getting his second wind after the sun sets.
He remembers everything. At Target he recalls taking a walk there with our friend Conner over a year ago, how they shared Snappea crisps under the gazebos. Although he hasn’t been to school since November he remembers his classmates names and what they liked to play with. He talks about going to see trains with his Papa and about a summer day at the beach with his Grandma Linda. Most impressively and disturbingly he remembers his first daycare – which he left at 21 months old, informing me that “We watched Sponge Bob during nap”, asking “Why did I have to go there?”, and then breaking my heart by telling me “I didn’t like it there.”
He brings me the greatest joy and the deepest frustration.
He is amazing.
He is my “Bee-Bub”.
He is my Thomas.
Thomas has a friend. Her name is Sally. She’s about eight inches tall. She’s fuzzy. And she’s a stuffed giraffe.