On the Edge of the Crowd

The boys and I attended Transportation Day this morning. It's an event put on by a local church preschool, and involves a parking lot full of every kind of vehicle imaginable, as well as some of the heroes who drive them (garbage truck drivers, policeman, school bus drivers, etc.). A number of my mom friends invited us and I was sure that Evan, my two and a half year old, would absolutely love it.

And, he very likely did. But, his method of enjoying the day was so vastly different than most of the other children there. The other boys and girls clambered over each other trying to get in and out of the different cars and trucks. They were allowed to start the siren on the police motorcycles and to make the stop sign move on the school bus. High times for little people!

Evan stood, stock still and silent, in the middle of the parking lot. His head swiveled slowly and he studied each vehicle in turn. His hand never left mine. I tried several times to prompt him into a closer inspection, but he shook his head 'no' each time and continued to watch. (Christopher, my center-of-the-action baby, was in the carrier on my chest and squirming madly to get out and crawl in the direction of the shiny lights.)

After an appropriate observation period, Evan agreed to walk to the playground next to the church. Once there, we stood still at the edge and watched. (Lest you think my child never gets out, I can assure you that while a parking lot full of trucks, buses and automobiles might be novel to him, a playground is surely not.) Evan held my hand firmly and watched. And watched and watched. After ten minutes of watching, I was able to gently coax him toward a bouncing plastic horse and from there to the slide. From then on, he melted into the crowd of preschoolers with no reservation.

But, as I stood and watched him from the edge of the playground I reflected on how much he is like me, and how I have so carefully disguised this part of myself. The fact is, I am a very shy person. My husband didn't believe this for the first couple of years he knew me. I have worked hard to overcome my inherent fear of new situations and new people. When I was working, my job revolved around being outgoing. Personally, I meet new people frequently and enjoy our conversations. But, in my heart of hearts, I would much rather stand in the center of the crowd silently and take it all in, or linger on the edges until I am comfortable.

Having grown through this metamorphosis I have no qualms about Evan's always-slow warm-up period, or his frequent wish to observe new things from a distance. I am respectful of his need to enjoy things in his own way and at his own pace.

While I was watching Evan, several of the moms I knew spotted Christopher and me, and we all chatted comfortably for a few minutes. Piled back in the minivan and headed home for lunch, it occurred to me that while I had loved seeing them, I was also secretly grateful for the quiet minutes I was able to spend holding my little boy's hand and taking it all in. And grateful to see a secret part of myself in him.

Date Night

Flashback. Same mall parking lot, same time of year, same red-haired, blue-eyed boy. Date night with Mama. That time he was three or so, and the date was just a run to the mall for ice cream on a glorious spring evening. As we walked hand-in-pudgy-little-hand through the parking lot, I observed aloud, "Oh, Davis. Isn't it a beautiful evening? The air is warm, the sun is just going down..." "Yes," he agreed, and then he added in a wistful voice, clearly absorbing the spirit of my thoughts, "and cars and trucks..." My dear little guy was as entranced with the parking lot full of shiny metal vehicles as with the warm air and the birds overhead, and it was a delight to be with him then.

And tonight. Now is a lanky six year old boy. Same gorgeous red hair and beautiful blue eyes. His hands are no longer pudgy in the least, but I hold one in the parking lot nonetheless. It's not really necessary anymore, but I'm not telling. Tonight, date night for the two of us involved a game of tennis followed by shopping for summer Crocs, a visit to the bookstore where he talked me, rather easily, into a new chapter book, and then, finally, the ice cream. Over the course of the evening we have happily chased tennis balls, many of which he hit rather impressively, and talked in the car about how everybody sometimes feels self-conscious and debated the merits of red versus orange crocs, deliberated long and hard about which book to buy and which ones might be too scary, and then decided together that the gummy bear topping would go best on strawberry ice cream, not the chocolate. It's a sweet time with my boy yet again. As the evening ends, we find ourselves in the parking lot, crowded with shiny metal vehicles. It is again a lovely spring evening, but this time it is Davis, my observant boy, who looks up and gasps. "Oh, Mama. Look at that sunset." And I do look at the sunset, and I'm so glad for those gorgeous colors in the evening sky. Really, though, what makes me even gladder than the sunset and the warm air and all the shiny vehicles for miles around is the strong and growing hand still holding mine.

Effects of the Eighties

We were in the car on the way to school, listening to Mute Math's latest (Armistice. Have you heard it? If you haven't, you should get it. It kicks our corporate boutakis over here at the Stevenson house), and I was dancing, as any normal commuting mother should when listening to Mute Math's latest offering on her way to work.

It's tricky to dance in the car, but it can be done. It is trickier still to dance while driving but, yes, I can do it. Mostly with my head.

Which is why Emma Grace pipes up and says, "Mom, how can you do that thing with your head?"

And I'm thinking-- as anyone does who is dancing in the moment and so therefore is not really aware of How or even What one is doing but is just aware that one Must Do-- I'm thinking, "I don't know," and suddenly I'm wondering what I was doing with my head and maybe beginning to come up with an answer when Everett makes answer for me, his voice sounding above the volume of the song,

"Emma, Mom was around in the eighties. She knows how to do things like that."

And I really don't know what that means. No Idea.

My Little Scientist

Sam left a couple of Bibles at church accidentally this weekend. When I asked him if he had managed to recover them, he said yes; they were right were he had left them.

"That's the nice thing about having our own building," I replied. [Until this fall, our church didn't have its own building but rented a school. You never knew where--or if--you'd find something left behind.]

Luke chimed in right behind me. "That's the nice thing about gravity. When you put your books down, they stay right there instead of floating around in space."

crumbs

I took the couch cushion outside to shake out all the graham cracker crumbs from a certain four-year-old's snack, saying "You're such a little mess-maker!"

I came back inside, replaced the cushion, and my sweet son said, "I'm the mess maker but you're the mess clean it upper."

Nail on the head, little boy.

After School Debriefing

The pick-up line at my son's homeschool program is long and there is a procedure to follow. Pull your minivan up to some cones. Your child spots your car, runs for it, jumps in, and you pull away quickly before he/she is belted so the next minivan can pull in. We homeschoolers live on the edge.

Today, my small son jumps in with great concern. "Mom, Mom, do we have any peas at home?" Momentarily disconcerted by the question, I tune in and mentally rifle through the frozen-vegetable drawer: "Yes, babe, we do."

Then I see that in his hand is a...creation. A cluster of grapes bound in Saran Wrap with toothpicks sticking out of most of the grapes. On the end of each toothpick is a pea. A couple of peas have been lost; thus, the dramatic need for replacement peas.

While making sure I do not collide with another minivan as I pull out and simultaneously supervising the belting of the seat, I ask the obvious question.

"So, what's that you made today?"

Pause. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"Did you start a new unit today?"

"Yes."

"So your creation is part of the new study?"

"Yes."

"But you don't know what it is that you made."

"No."

Oh. And from the rear-view mirror, I observe him starting to take the toothpicks out of the grapes, passing the remaining peas-on-toothpicks around for his sisters to enjoy. Then the grapes are unwrapped and passed around, too. As we arrive home, all that is left of this great, if somewhat undefined, educational experience are some toothpicks and a shred of plastic wrap.

Tonight at dinner a thought occurs to him. "Maybe we're studying robots, Mom?"

birthday cake

My son's fourth birthday is approaching in February, and I thought I would give him the opportunity to give me some input on what kind of party he would like. The conversation went something like this:

me: "Benjamin, what kind of birthday party would you like to have when you turn four?"
B: "I don't know."
"Well, think of something you like, maybe."
"I don't know."
"What kind of would you like on the cake?"
"Birthday cake sounds good."
"Well, what picture would you like on the birthday cake?"
"Oh, mama. Or Grandpa B. Grandpa B."