Four

As Jonah moves into his Four-ness (and as I read the appropriate book in the Your ___-Year-Old series), I am suddenly struck by my closeness to and affinity for this particular age.

Four seems to be where I started remembering things, really remembering them. Not just the shirt, but what it felt like to wear it. Not just what my room looked like, but what it felt like to sit on the shaggy red carpet, surrounded by my mess, feeling at home in it. So I am assuming that Jonah is the same way, and that everything that happens from now on is going to stay with him.

Also lately I have noticed him repeating something either he or I have said, in a whisper, right after it is said. This is absolutely something I remember doing at his age, and I can't imagine he's seen me doing it (as I trained myself out of it long ago). Very trippy.

Another reason I'm feeling so connected to Jonah these days: our hair.

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?

Nine months of Abe

Dear, sweet, nap-deprived-due-to-his-brother Abe is nine months old tomorrow. Or as Jonah might like to say, 3/4 years old. And the checkup today showed him gaining weight and inches right on target. And the doctor said he was cute. Does she say that to all the babies? Maybe all the nine month olds?

Nine months is quite the age. I had previously thought six months to be the bee's knees, since that's when sitting up unassisted happens. No, nine months, with its locomotion (emphasis on the loco), long strings of babble, and discovery of FOOD! and DRINK! is really where it's at. We met a boy on the playground today who's the same age as Abe, and even though they look nothing alike, they both have these huge, liquid eyes that you could simply drown in. I could probably spend an entire morning gazing at Abe, kissing his soft cheeks, cooing, examining what food is currently plastered behind his ears, etc.

Except I've been treating my nine month old like a newborn, and that needs to stop. Today at the playground I actually PUT HIM DOWN ON THE GROUND to let him explore. I had never done that before. What the hell is wrong with me?! And now it's soon winter, so it will be too cold for him to do that much longer. But Jonah was a winter baby and somehow learned to walk (except that come spring, he had trouble walking on grass).

Jonah is the best big brother. I could never have imagined such tenderness and love between my two boys. They actually have fun together. Maybe it's the improved sleep, but I am feeling pretty grateful these days. I have two adorable boys, a loving husband who hasn't given up on me yet (six years of marriage next Sunday!), and a plan for what to make for dinner tomorrow.

It gets better

Maybe I shouldn't be appropriating that phrase (or maybe I should, lest it come to mean only one thing?), because this has nothing to do with coming out as a gay person. This has to do with coming out from under what felt like months (in reality maybe 2.5 weeks?) of very early wakeups from Jonah. 5:45 was starting to seem almost reasonable. 4:15 was starting to become too familiar. The constant was a loud, angry reaction to us telling him it was too early to be awake, and an ensuing wakeup from Abe because of the noise. I typically cursed Jonah silently from my bed and sent more level-headed Josh to hang out with him. We racked our brains trying to figure out the source: Going to bed too early? Too late? Eating too much or not enough? Night light angst? Bad dreams?

Last Wednesday, when he rose for the day at 4:15, I called his teacher at 8:15 to tell her he would not be coming to school that day. Embarrassingly, I broke down on the phone while speaking to her. And then, a half hour later, showed up to drop Jonah off to school. I'm not sure what I was thinking, threatening him with not going to school. He didn't really seem to care, he was so zonked. I thought maybe I could take him to the pediatrician, but when I called the office I just didn't have the nerve to say I needed him seen due to lack of sleep. Instead I left a message for a call back. And flipped through Ferber, anxious to find the missing chapter that would explain what was happening here. And couldn't nap myself, because I was on pins and needles, wondering when I'd get the call saying that Jonah needed picking up.

But somehow, he made it through the day. He was up from 4:15 a.m. to 7:30 p.m., without a nap. He was well-behaved at school. He was just really fucking sleepy.

The pediatrician called me that night. The one I tend to not like as much, being that she is rather gruff. I laid out the situation for her (she in disbelief that Jonah goes to school from 9-3, 5 days a week, like I was torturing him or something), and she said without hesitation, "He misses you. He's trying to get back some of the time with you that the baby gets now." Funny, my own mother said something along those lines when she visited a month ago. And I dissed her for it. Hearing it from someone other than my mother, I was more inclined to listen - just as when I struck out on my own in my early 20s and saw a dentist that had not been taking care of my teeth since I was 4, and he told me it was important to floss, I listened, and have flossed ever since. (For the record, the kinder, gentler pediatrician called back the next morning. She only wanted to talk Ferber, Ferber, Ferber. Go figure.)

Wednesday night I gave Jonah a bath (something I stopped doing when pregnancy made it too uncomfortable, and have continued not doing due to laziness). I read to him before bed. When he woke up at midnight, I took him back to bed and read to him again until he fell asleep. He woke at 5:45 and I got up with him. Thursday night, the same routine, no wakeup at midnight. I was up from 5 a.m. waiting to hear him, and he didn't wake up until 6:40. Same thing last night. I am so hopeful we have broken this bad cycle - stolen the seat, trashed the spokes, shredded the tires.

By way of showing me what is to be reaped when I sow extra time-seeds with my primogenito, Jonah did two amazing things today: drew the first stick figure we've seen him draw, on a birthday card for a friend (because it was a girl, he dispensed with his usual rollercoaster/train/truck mashup, and drew a princess for her), and even signed his name, after a fashion. Tonight, he sat at the computer for his usual post-dinner complement of Sesame Street clips on YouTube, then howled when I turned off the monitor, because he'd wanted to do some typing. I opened the multipage document we've been saving his typing to since he first started at the keyboard (age 2.5), expecting another long stream of binary or machine language. Instead, he wanted to spell words. He started with his first name, then his last name, then the name of a friend, then Abe, and finally (with assistance for the "au"), dinosaur. He sounded out the letters, located them on the keyboard, typed them. He can't quite read, but can type? It's blowing my mind.

Abe, not to be outdone, is cutting his two front top teeth at the same time. So Ferber is out the window lately.

Warming trend

The sun has broken through!

Jonah up at 5:40 today, saying Abe woke him up (well, he was crying, that is true). But strangely, it was a good morning. I tried to get Jonah to sleep more in my bed, and while the snuggle was welcome, he couldn't stop looking out the window. I released him to join Daddy and Abe. When I stumbled in at 7:15, I found a placid scene. Later, Jonah even dressed himself without my needing to be in the room. He was so proud when he came out, fully dressed, with only his shirt on backwards.

Yesterday at school he earned all four stickers on his rest time sticker chart, making me very proud of him indeed. I am starting to believe rest time makes him anxious, though, and it turns out about 80% of the class isn't actually resting, so I hope the teachers are going to make a change to the routine soon.

I'm sure that his name being called at the end of rest time is all he can think about, on his folding cot, in that penumbral classroom. I wish I could magically insinuate myself into the room, enfold him in my arms, and let him surrender to his exhaustion. But then, who am I kidding? I couldn't do that this morning, when it was actually me there, in bed, trying to get him to sleep. No, he is going to have to ride this one out himself.

Dispatch

Abe now says, "Mama." And he seemed to understand that we were seeing real animals at the zoo today which are the same ones he sees in his picture book at night.

At the nearly-deserted barn, the cow mooed suddenly, loudly, scaring the crap out of us. Jonah bolted, yelling, "We've got to get out of here!!!!"

So, what about this? I try to go for one day without being the cause (or one of the causes) of my son's misery. It seems so simple. Tomorrow, at school, his teachers are going to work together to try to figure out why he can't rest during rest time. Ummm, because he's afraid Mama hates him? I hope that's not it. Tonight I asked him why he thought he could not just rest, and he said, "Because I don't know how long I have to rest before the teacher says, 'It's time to get your shoes on. Rest time is over.' "