Mama/Mamma

We have a four year old now, one who is transforming hourly into a very Big Boy. And a ten month old, who could probably eat a car if we fed it to him in small enough bits. Tomorrow is the last of Jonah's three parties, a joint one with another boy at school, with pizza and cupcakes and entertainment by the dads. I can't wait! Perhaps most of all because I don't have to do much for it other than get the pizza. Somewhere in there, I turned 39 as well. And I'm going to stay that age for the next ten years.

So, the yelling. I'd like to say it has diminished a bit. The anger, too. Maybe I've turned it down just a notch or two. Maybe I don't have the heart to yell at a boy who's in birthday mode. Maybe it's because when Jonah cries, Abe now starts crying in solidarity. Or maybe it's because Jonah's gotten more sophisticated, and has realized that he can call me on it. Last week he made an attempt to pour his own milk while I was in the other room changing Abe's diaper. I knew he would probably make an attempt, and I specifically told him not to. I came back to find a pool of milk on the table, Jonah soaked in it, and I started yelling almost immediately. Jonah started crying (which he typically hasn't, not until now), and saying, "Don't yell at me!" After cleaning it up, I may have also said something like, "Drink your damn milk." This also perturbed him and he protested, "Don't say that word!!!"

Could it be that I just needed him to grow up a little? Just a hair's breadth of growing up? After that episode I really haven't had the heart to get mega-pissed at him. He is also becoming savvy about "mistakes" versus pure naughtiness. And I can't really yell at him if he made a mistake, can I? So I guess we are going to give mistakes a wide berth for a bit.

A couple of nights ago, Jonah chose his Italian picture dictionary as bedtime reading. Maybe an odd choice, but not for my language-obsessed little guy (he has these dictionaries for Spanish and Hebrew, too). He asked us which one of us spoke Italian, and I raised my hand. He asked me to talk to him in Italian, and we wound up doing the entire bedtime routine in Italian. He loved it! And it was amazing to see how quickly he was understanding the things I was asking him to do. Then we settled down and I pointed out words and told him how to say them. It wasn't until later that I realized another possible reason he was so enthusiastic about his Italian Mom: She doesn't yell at him.

Italian--Moms--Yelling. This string of three took me straight back to my shared apartment on Via Aretina, in Florence, spring and summer 1992. My bedroom wall adjoined the kitchen of our neighbors, a family with two young boys. On a regular basis, the mother would be cooking and all of a sudden burst into angry invective at one of her sons (probably the younger one, as wailing would quickly ensue). I would lie in bed feeling awful for the little guy, and wondering how any mother could be so quick to anger at such a young kid.

Signora Vieri, I'm sorry I thought you such a bad, evil mom.

The silly season

As my friend calls it. All the parties, all the treats, all the wrapping paper to be carefully fitted over gifts, then ripped mercilessly off. Jonah's birthday (to be celebrated no fewer than three times, as usual), mine a week before (to be celebrated at all because I planned ahead and got a sitter!), Chanukah, and of course ubiquitous Xmas dopiness enveloping all, whether you wish it to, or not. Yesterday I took Abe to a Chanukah program at Jonah's school, the centerpiece of which was a drum circle for all the kids which told the story of the holiday. Each kid got to sit on a drum and play it. There were enough drums that I could snag one for Abe, who went to town. (Seems I've got TWO Little Drummer Boys... ba rum pa pum pum.)

Last night, Jonah asked to watch some old movies, and by old he means, last year. I queued up one where he was playing with a birthday gift, a wooden pizza set, right after turning 3. Before Abe arrived. What a chubby-faced baby he was! And what hit me like a ton of bricks was my voice in the background, patiently explaining to him how to put the toppings on the pizza, how to use the cutter. I was so sweet, so loving, not even a hint of edge in my voice. So it seems I was a good mom, and then went and had another baby and instantly transformed into a bitchy, impatient, angry one (with some help from Jonah who has inhabited Three-ness to the utmost for the past few months). I waited until after the kids were in bed to think and talk about it, and promptly broke down. I don't think I can stand to watch these movies again until we're past the dark age of 3, which I hope will be very soon.

But I'm not always so horrible. Yesterday I decided to take the kids to the library after the school event, and Jonah managed to walk all the way there and back, so Abe could nap in his little stroller sleeping bag. The vibe there wasn't too bad, considering that after-school hours there mean extra cops on duty in the youth wing. We got to have a snack in the library atrium and read a Richard Scarry book together and then go up to the phone booths on the 3rd floor so Jonah could go in and out of them a hundred times. When we came home, we watched the movies mentioned above, and came across one of Jonah dancing to the Pogues, also a year ago. I decided to put on the same song and watch him dance again, and it was so exciting to see how his movement has changed. He said, "The song is telling me how to dance to it!" How long until this creativity is snuffed out of him? Or can we keep it stoked somehow?