Nutty

My son brought home a stuffed animal last night in a bag with a composition notebook. He excitedly pulled the animal out, cradled it, and introduced me to it ceremoniously, as if meeting a newborn for the first time.

"Mom, this is nutty, nutty, this is my mom."

His eyes didn't leave the plush squirrel. He was smiling as he gazed. Immediately his little sister lunged for the toy, sparking in him such rage that I feared the thing would be destroyed. Finding another toy to balance out the scene, my daughter sat plotting while my son explained;

"You see mom, everyone in the WHOLE class takes a turn taking nutty home with them and then bringing it back the next day!!! Isn't that cool?!"

The first thing that popped into my mind was the rampant flu virus that has been gripping the county; runny noses, younger siblings, bathrooms, toilets, vomit, diarrhea, cooties, and general, unfamiliar filth.

The amber fur was the same color and texture as the floorboards of my 4 runner, underneath the matts.

After washing my hands, I asked for the rest of the story with this nutty squirrel. My son looked at me, confused. He started to explain the "everyone in the whole class" thing again, and I interrupted him by asking what the significance was. What's the point? Just spreading germs or is there something else?

"OHYEAH! And nutty has a journal!!!!! Everyone gets to write about their visit with him in the journal and draw a picture! It's soooo cool! C'mon!!! LET"S GO"

I took the notebook and scanned through the scrawled graphite script. Most of the kids mentioned snacking, video gaming, and watching TV with nutty. There were some pictures; mostly of stick people sitting on a couch. One girl wrote about going to her mom's work and taking nutty. Below she drew a picture of the local gas station with a gigantic squirrel in the window. One boy said that he climbed a tree with nutty, then he fell out and had to go to the doctor's office for an X-ray, and the following day his mother had to get nutty out of the tree. He described the squirrel's fur as "cold and crusty" when his mother brought it back inside. His picture was of himself with a cast, and nutty with a diabolical, furrowed brow.

I asked my son what he wanted to do with nutty. His eyes glazed over and he sat perfectly still.

"We could go to the park" I suggested. "We could ride bikes. Nutty could ride on your handlebars".

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhh gaaaahhh!!!!!! I don't want to do that. Do I have to?" He groaned. "I'm so tired and kinda hungry" he said as he made himself as flat as he could, his face buried in a pillow.

"I was just trying to think of some things that might make a good story for the journal, and that you could talk about to your friends. What would you like to do? Cause it really doesn't matter to me" I insisted.

As soon as I had said it, I realized it wasn't true. That toy needed to be shown a good time. Not video games, crap TV, risky tree climbing, but something fun.

My son looked at me pleadingly. "Please don't make me go to the park or ride bikes. All I wanna do is pop popcorn and play with leggos" he lamented.

Ok. We went to the kitchen and chairs were immediately scooted up to the counter in *precisely* the spot I needed to be. The children got as close to the gas stove as they could get as I ignited the burner, set the oily pot on top of it, and dropped three kernels into it.

Nutty was positioned leaning against one of my canisters. My son was speaking to him about hot oil and the importance of jiggling the pot constantly.

The kernels popped, and I added the rest of the corn, covered and shook the pot. The kids were elbowing each other in attempts to dominate the chair closest to the burner. They were both in between me and the stove. It was like something out of a bad parenting magazine.

My two year old started cry/screaming, and my 6 year old pushed her face, knocking her off the chair and onto the floor.

Popping kernels hit the lid of the pot three at a time, rolling in the steam and oil.

I made no attempt at consoling my 2 year old; mishaps such as these usually resulted in a drastic, transitionary device, such as a bath, a walk, a nap or the like, and since there was a steaming pot of oil and corn on the stove, I knew none such diversions were possible.

Her wails became louder and more bitter. She stood back up, grabbed the chair my son was standing in, and shoved it sideways towards the stove. My son fell towards the wall and started yelling at his sister.

Sensing a similar story as the tree-climber, I raised my voice level to "pissed" and directed the children to "leave the damn room, NOW", and I threw nutty through the doorway to the dining room, clear into the living room.

They yelled and bickered for a while, then became quiet. I could hear the familiar crackling sound of falling leggos as I salted and seasoned the popcorn. I lingered in the kitchen for a few moments munching popcorn and listening to All Things Considered.

After an impossibly long quiet stretch, my son came sprinting into the kitchen with nutty.

"Mom! LOOK WHAT WE MADE NUTTY!! LEGGO SHOES!! HE REALLY NEEDED SOME SHOES!!"

Two large boxes hung from the toy's legs. They were made using gray, blue and white blocks, and they had a "new wave" style about them. I was impressed with the craftsmanship.

"That is awesome!" I declared as I herded the kids back into the dining room. I set the bowl of popcorn on the table and my son began digging in it. My daughter was holding nutty above the wooden table, bouncing it, making him tap dance.

"Mom I love nutty." My son uttered. "I don't know how I'll be able to take him back tomorrow. I wish I could just keep him forever"

"What about all of your stuffed animals? You have froggy, piggy, beary, foxy, spot, stimpy, kenny, wally and daddy bear. What about them? Don't you love them?" I asked.

"No" He replied pitifully. "I hate all those toys" He whispered, looking down at the table, slowly chewing popcorn, one piece at a time.

the writing on the wall

As soon as I saw the graffiti on the ceiling of the picnic shelter at our local park, I knew my six year old son would see and be able to read it. Miraculously, he did not see it that sunny day, and we played on the monkey bars, then went home. Three more trips to the park came and went without notice of the scribbled "fuck you" inscription on the structure.

Last week we were at the park. The kids were at the swings begging me to come push them; something "fun" for the pusher for about five minutes in 100 degree heat, then it becomes an expectation leading to angry fits when not realized by the pushed. Rainer is never satisfied with my swing pushing; she constantly screams "higher, HIGHER", so her rear end leaves the seat for a moment, then she jerks the slack and wiggles back and forth till equilibrium is reached. It's horrendous! She's only two years old and 25 pounds at most. She isn't gratified with the swing set unless she nearly falls off, then catches herself, body dragging the ground as her seat dangles at her back as she clings, white knuckled, to the chains. After these experiences she doesn't enjoy simply swinging. She wants to have a "close call". Thrill seeker already, I guess.

So I was avoiding responding to the children's calls by sitting at the picnic table working a crossword puzzle and drinking ice water. They eventually gave up, and decided to throw rocks in the creek instead. Fox, red-faced and sweating, came running to me to take a drink of water. He sat on the top of the table and drank the rest, then laid back and stared at the raftered ceilings.

I knew what was coming next.

"Fuck You" he said slowly and clearly, then again, "Fuck You, Mom, what does Fuck You mean? It says it there", pointing upward.

Maintaining focus on my puzzle, I nonchalantly glanced at him, and tried very hard not to sound effected.

"Well; have you ever heard anyone say the F word, or F you?"

He said he had, and asked what it meant.

"The F word is a cuss word like damn, hell or ass, but it's much worse. People might ignore the other words, but NOT the F word. And if you say that to any of your friends and they repeat it in front of their parents, or if they get in trouble at school for saying it, they will tell their teachers and moms YOU taught it to them, then their moms won't let them play with you anymore and the teachers will think you're a bad kid."

Fox thought about it for a while mouthing the word silently to himself.

"Do you understand? You can't get away with saying the F word."

"Yes. I understand", he replied. "It would be really crappy not to get to play with my friends, and I don't think I'm a bad kid."

"Good, you aren't a bad kid, and you shouldn't even think about that word because the more you think about it the more likely it might slip."

"That would be really bad. Like a million bad. I would never say that, and that person didn't know how to spell the word you, so they just put the letter u. See?" Fox pointed again at the writing and lingered there for a moment before hopping down and scooping up a shirt tail full of rocks to throw in the creek. '

know it all

As we were sitting at the dining room table coloring yesterday afternoon my son, Fox looked at me and said "Mom, did you know that Jupiter has 63 moons and Earth has just one?"
"Doesn't Jupiter have 66 moons?" I asked.
"Nope. FALSE.", he replied, just as annoyingly poised as Donald Trump on Celebrity Apprentice.

"Where did you hear that?" I asked, referring to his Dwight Schrute-esque usage of the word FALSE, as that of an impartial critic.
"From my placemat you silly!" he chirped, wearing the proud smirk of condescension. I glanced at the placemat and noticed the publication date; MCMXCVII. Ah. Therein lies the answer to that problem.

Certainly you know that I didn't sign in tonight to dispute the alleged discoveries of Jupiter's moons, but to call attention to the phenomenon that is know-it-all-ism among 4-6 year olds.

Not too long ago, my son thought I was the end all of greatness. Every word that escaped my mouth was like the sound of breaking glass to him. He carefully considered conversation and remained silent. Only later would he recall and repeat the dialogue; questions emerging from the fertile soil of his mind, recently tilled with the induction of new ideas and concepts. Nestled within his wide eyes was a wonder so immense; so incredibly hungry for all things new. So pristine that notions of cynicism and pride would have arrived as cloaked strangers; unrecognizable as the child comprehends.

His desires were innocent; Learning, experiencing, loving, pleasing and helping. His expectations were surpassed by reality. Nothing was as wonderful and amazing as the process.

That being said, I am now grappling with the next phase in Fox's process which is much less endearing and sweet. My child behaves like a know-it-all 99% of the time. He asks a question, and 7 seconds into my response, he rolls his eyes and attempts to change the subject by way of a restroom visit or an outburst of noise. Righteousness is a constant motivator for him, but the method is lazy and he comes across as a turd.

Life has become a contest, all of the sudden. It's as if Fox woke up late one day and has been sprinting from one thing to the next ever since. The process has little meaning to him; the conquest and the domination seem to be at the forefront of his mind.

This weekend I tried to accomplish a few tasks I had been putting off, and Fox was climbing the walls. He came to me every five minutes with another crucial problem or desperate question to be addressed, completely indifferent of my activities. The last 30 minutes of my vacuuming the stairs was peppered with interruptions. Fox stood on the step I was vacuuming mouthing, "I NEED TO ASK YOU SOMETHING for an eternity. My expectation of impermeability by means of vacuum were squelched.

His eyes dramatically widened, he waited until I shut off the machine and addressed him.

"What's the problem?" I asked as impatiently as a woman vacuuming stairs would.
"Could you make a collage with me now?" Fox asked, sweetly.

"As soon as I'm done cleaning up I would love to make a collage with you." I honestly replied. (It's true! I would always rather be making a collage)

He shifted around on the step, clearly dissatisfied and I turned the machine off again and looked at him.

"I mean now now, Mommy. I want you to make a collage now.

This time I did the eye rolling and switched the vacuum machine back on and finished the horrible job at hand. An hour later I was finished, and I joined Fox at the dining room table.

"So what are we going to collage today?" I asked.

"I'm going to make question blocks and fire flowers and thwamps on this side, and you are going to make kupas on that side", he explained. I began cutting and hole-punching and gluing and before I knew it I had started a really awesome blue fish swimming over an earwig/eel.

"Mommy?" Fox warbled, "You aren't supposed to be making snakes right now. And don't put those on that side; I said to put them here" he said, pointing to a blank spot on his side of the page.

"Well what are you working on anyway? You haven't made any pictures since we sat down" I asked, genuinely miffed. Fox set down the hole punch he was stress testing with seven sheets of construction paper and sighed.

In his most "frustrated" voice he groaned; "Oh I don't know what to say! I'm done!", grabbed the pinking shears, then overly-gesturally crossed his arms.

I tried to engage him with another pinching bug, and he seemed excited momentarily. He made a few snips with the shears, then took a thumb loop in each hand and started manically snipping the scissors and making a machine gun noise.

"Please stop" I said firmly. "You are either going to hurt yourself or the scissors".

Fox tossed the scissors across the table, crossed his arms again and acted like I had just asked him to respirate without breathing. Time elapsed. I continued crafting. He continued sulking and complaining.

"What's wrong Fox? You were practically dragging me in here to craft with you and now you say you're finished and you haven't even made anything. What's up with that?"

"Exasperated and evidently fatigued, he shrugged and asked if we could get out the play-dough.

Looking around at the shreds and dots of paper, I expressed to Fox that I would rather he continued collaging since I had to start supper. He groaned and complained with reddened eyes saying "But I don't want to collage anymore! I'm through doing this!"

I said, "OK. Well let's just clean this mess up so we can start on another mess..." Before I even finished with my bullshit quip, he was out of his chair, emoting his utter powerlessness, his inability to help me (help him) clean up. It was distressing for him, obviously, but for me to see him so overwhelmed; so powerless in the face of challenge, it was devastating.

I tried convincing him that the hardest part was starting, and after a few minutes of tears and whining, he began picking up the paper.

After we were finished and the floor was "clean"* Fox remarked "It's true. Starting was harder than just picking all that stuff up. Picking it up was just kinda blah, blah, blah."

"Yeah", I agreed, "Not too many people love cleaning, but it's something that every single person is able to do. And the sooner you start the sooner you're finished".

He was quiet for the first time in hours.

* The floor wasn't technically clean, and it never is.

the most unfortunate name

Last weekend my sister-in-law came to visit and brought a big bag of VHS movies for Fox to watch. Included in the sack was Walt Disney's Robin Hood, a film that my brother and I watched millions of times during the 80s. Since Robin Hood is portrayed as a Fox, I assumed my son would love it, but I had no idea that he would want to watch the movie twice a day, starting the moment he awoke.

It has been frustrating, but also fun to relive the humor and music. Tons of details emerge which I didn't notice as a child. For instance: the name of the man responsible for the voice of the Sheriff of Nottingham's name is Pat Buttram. What an unfortunate name. What a shame that my brother and I didn't notice that in the credits, as we weren't big credit readers at that time. Buttram. That's just plain awful.

3/20/2008 Me and My Cousin

I just swiped these images off my cousins profile. She and I were together all summer long when we were kids. She turned 27 yesterday!

.."..">

Stephanie and I were content playing together, with or without toys for hours on end. When the weather was warm we spent most of the day outside, and if it was rainy we made the garage into a cat theater. Nothing like the Broadway production of Cats; more like a torture chamber for the population of ferrell cats which reproduced without reserve in my parents garage and sheds. I can’t remember ever being bored during the summer, and I spent the entire year long looking forward to meeting my Uncle Steve and Stephanie in Berea, Kentucky to bring her back to Asheville.

Our meeting point was approx. halfway between Asheville and Muncie, Indiana in the small town of Berea at a motor lodge called THE HOLIDAY MOTEL, not to be confused with the HOLIDAY INN. The only place to eat supper was at a place called the DINNER BELL, and we didn’t like it. It was a lot like a CRACKER BARREL, but more country. Imagine a wagon wheel motif with lots of gingham. Our step grandfather, Boyd would order fried liver and onions and shove his cornbread into his cold glass of buttermilk.

Stephanie and I would have been content if they had served breakfast at night, but they didn’t so we ordered heaps of mashed potatoes and butter instead of piles of pancakes with butter. As a child I was suspicious of anything with more than three ingredients, and anything fried. Most children’s menus have something fried with the word "fingers" in the name which I have always thought unwise. Heaven only knew what was inside the golden brown shell. Probably fingers.

Our Nanny (mom’s mom) let Stephanie and I run the show most of the time but when we screwed up it was bad. Nanny’s anger was the kind that made you wish you were born into life as an otter or a hawk. That kind of anger was rare and reserved to bad behavior resulting in fires, floods or trips to the emergency room. My brother has coined the term "Nannitude" for describing the severity of her extremes. Nanny was considered by others as impatient, but she taught Stephanie and I how to make frilly dresses for our Barbies, (everyone knows what a test that is) let us help her make fudge and even she even sat through our longest theatric productions.

Neither Steph nor I were bequeathed a sister so our relationship was as close as it got for us. Whenever we get together we have so many things to catch up on; I wish we could stop time and have our summers back.