The other day I spent about 40 minutes in my den standing in front of the wall of windows that look out onto my backyard.

I was not standing there in amazement watching agile squirrels with spring fever jump from branch to branch like acrobats.  I was not taking in the beauty of budding trees or the glory of the changing seasons. No, I was untangling six tightly wound little clumps of nylon cord to six ventian blinds that cover six windows.

The knotting was not the accidental tangling that sometimes occurs with ventian blind cords. The knotting was the work of an evil sailor with wicked boy scout knotting skills. 

Later that day I asked Sean how the ventian blind cords had gotten tangled up so badly.  “Regan?” he quickly suggested.

“I don’t think it was Regan,” I said. “Besides, she hasn’t been here since last week.”

“Um… Kendall? I think it was Kendall.”

“Kendall is only two.  She’s too short.  Besides, this is an inside job. It would have been done by someone who has the time and the means.”

At that point, he shrugged his shoulders and ran away.

When you are an only child you have to oursource the blame.

Mommy can I have some more grapes?

No, you’ve had plenty of grapes.

Oh. (long pause for dramatic effect)  I thought you loved me.

No.  Not really. I never really liked you that much.

Are you teasin’?

Yup. Just kidding.

So.  Can I have more grapes?

Still no.

Saturday afternoon, Sean and I were reading one of his little DK Reader books about how frog eggs turn into tadpoles turn into frogs. I told him that a lot of things start out life looking like tadpoles besides frogs – chickens, rabbits and even little babies.  And then we looked at a book that shows a developing fetus – and in many ways in the earliest stages, it looks remarkably similar to a tadpole.

“Wow,” Sean said in awe as he peered at each of the pictures. “That’s inter-westing.”

After thoroughly inspecting the last picture of the doctor proudly holding up a newborn baby, he said, “I’m glad I didn’t turn out to be a frog!”

“Me too!” I said.

That woulda really surprised the doctor, not to mention sullied my good reputation.

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Definitely not a frog.

Sunday afternoon was especially lazy here at the House of Antique.  It was cloudy and gray and cold outside, which suited my mood. It was a perfect day for turning inward, shutting the world away and hanging out with my small tribe.

I sat at my desk in the kitchen simultaneously watching Sean play in the den while I half-heartedly read email and tried not Google glycosuria.

“Mom,” he called to me, “come in here and play pirate with me.”

I did not want to play pirate. I wanted to sit at my desk and nurse my anxieties. I wanted to stew and worry about what might happen in the coming week.

“Well, I don’t really know how to be a pirate,” I said, hoping he’d ask his father instead, who without question would make a much better pirate. 

But he would not be dissuaded.

“C’mon mom, I’ll teach you!”

“Oh? Is there some sort of pirate training that you offer?”

“You don’t need any training!” he said rather scornfully, “You just walk like a pirate, you just act like a pirate – you just BE a pirate!”

That was the best advice I had heard all day.

At that moment, I vowed that I would not allow future worries to rob me of present joy.  I closed the lid to my laptop.  I walked away from my desk and my future worries and into the den to be a pirate.

In the coming week I will walk like someone who has her stuff together, I will act like someone who has her stuff together – and maybe, just maybe, I might just BE someone who has her stuff together.

And if I can’t pull that off, then I’ll just walk like a pirate.

Apparently, just as in Las Vegas, what happens at school stays at school.

When I pick Sean up from school, he does not like me to ask him what he learned that day or if anything noteworthy happened.  This line of inquiry literally seems to pain him. Literally.  The expression on his face, it’s as if his gall bladder has suddenly gone bad.

He’ll usually heave an exaggerated sigh and look out the window and change the subject.  It’s like he’s in the witness protection program from 9am to 1pm and if he tells me what he’s doing during that time, he’ll have to kill me.  Ironically, I think he knows that not telling me anything kills me. And oh how he lords that over me in his 4-year-old power play way.

Yet I can’t stop myself from asking.  I must get him to tell me something.  Anything.  Did you play on the playground? Did you ride on the see-saw?  Did you eat your lunch? Who did you sit next to?  Were there other children there?  Did the teacher talk about anything?  Anything? Anything at all?

The other day, on the way home from school, I tried reframing the question about ten different ways to trick him into giving up some information.  With skills like that I could probably get me a job as an FBI interrogator. For those many times when the FBI needs to get a 4-year-old to spill his guts.

Finally he gave an exaggerated sigh and said, “Look mom, we talked more about the letter L okay?”

To which I responded.

“Oh.”

It was a riveting conversation.

Antique Daddy and I made the decision early early on that we would present Santa Claus as someone who is not real, but as a character from a story, like Lightning McQueen or Builder Bob.  The reason behind our thinking is that Sean is a bright little boy and it was going to take entirely too much verbal tap dancing to keep up the ruse for very long and we are tapped out.

Nonetheless, there is just something about a 4-year-old that wants to, and mabye even needs to, believe in Santa Claus. And this year, I think he is trying to reconcile what he would like to be true versus what he knows is true.

The day after our visit to Santa, on our way to school, we had this conversation in the car:

Sean: Some of the kids at school think Santa is real, but we don’t believe in Santa Claus, do we mom?

AM:  No, but we do believe in the things that Santa Claus represents like love and…

Sean: And presents.

AM:  kindness and… 

Sean:  Presents.

AM:  looking after those in need and…

Sean: Presents.

AM: Yes Sean, we believe in presents.

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Dude, you’re a man in a red suit and my parents are making me do this.

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Oh! Did you say presents Mr. Claus!? I’ve been verrrry good!  What kind of cookies do you want to go with that milk?

Last year, for Christmas, Sean wanted a Peemo boat. I searched high and low and consulted the internets and soothsayers, but nay – no Peemo boat was to be found in all the land.  To this day we still have no idea what a Peemo boat is.

This year I wised up.  I gave up on my powers of subtle discernment and the day after Thanksgiving, I just handed him the circulars from Toys R Us and Target and told him to circle what he wanted.  He flipped through the pages indifferently.  Nothing seemed right. Occasionally he would say something like, “Oh that’s nice” or “That might be okay” but there was no jumping up and down or hyperventilating as I would have done had my mother handed ME the ads and said circle what you want.

Then one day recently, we were in Sam’s Club and he saw the toy of his dreams.  He gasped. He clutched his heart for dramatic effect. He hyperventilated.  His bottom lip quivered as he pointed to a gigantic, hideous hunk of plastic in the form of a pirate boat and announced that that was it!! THAT! Was what he wanted for Christmas! And he jumped out of the cart and affixed his eyes to it like a Golden Retriever and he may have even panted and drooled.

I was relieved to know what he wanted and where I had to go to get it. I was not relieved at the thought of spending $70 for 4×4 hunk of plastic that would occupy substantial square footage in my den, especially since my den is not done in pirate or plastic.

So I spent the rest of the week scouring the internets for other kinds of less hideous, less large, less plastic, less expensive pirate boats — lesser pirate boats in all regard, pirate boats that would go better with my den, maybe a gay pirate boat done tastefully in warm woods tones and damasks.

I ultimately ended up with a Fisher-Price model that I found at Toys R Us for about $24. Yes, it is plastic and hideously colored, but small, not 4×4.  And that was the end of my Christmas shopping, yay for me!

Later that week, I asked Sean what he wanted for Christmas, secretly looking forward to already knowing the answer, to knowing that I had already scored a pirate boat and that it was at that very moment stashed away in the garage awaiting his glee and delight.

He cocked his head and gave it a minute of consideration before reciting a lengthy list.

“I want a scooter, and some ice skates, a Lightening McQueen set, a whistle….”

“And a pirate boat? How about a pirate boat?”

“Um, no not really.”

“Really? I thought you wanted a pirate boat.  You’ve been talking about a pirate boat.”

“Well, I changed my mind.”

I think Christmas is as good a time as any to learn about disappointment, don’t you?

Yesterday morning, Sean climbed up on the kitchen counter and grabbed his gigantic bottle of Flintstone candy vitamins.  He started twisting and spinning the childproof cap and I reflexively grabbed it from him to open it, because you know, he’s a child and it’s a childproof cap whereas I am an adult and have adult super powers which include but are not limited to opening vitamin bottles and wiping up stuff.

Hence.

He, being like his mother, hates having something grabbed out of his hands and reflexively grabbed it back from me.

“No thanks Mom! I’ll do it myself!”

I put my hands up defensively.

“Okay, whatever dude,” I said walking away.  “Knock yourself out,” I added, cheerfully thinking that little exercise in futility would keep him busy for a while netting me a little uninterrupted coffee-drinking and newspaper-reading time.

I wasn’t two steps away when I heard the cap of the bottle fall to the counter, and then, “Mom, wanna a vitamin?”

Do NOT underestimate the power of Fred and his little vitamins.

One of life’s big thrills for Sean since he was a little bitty guy has been watching the trash truck.   On trash day we listen for the growl and grind of the big truck to alert us to their impending arrival and then we run to the front windows to watch the beauty and magic of waste management.

Last week, Sean was busy playing in the den and didn’t hear the truck, so I excitedly called him to the front windows.

 ”Sean! Look!  Here comes the trash truck!” I enthused.

He ambled into the dining room and with his hands on his hips.  He watched the garbage men hoist our refuse on to the truck and then drive away.  When they were out of sight, he turned to me with an expression of pity and boredom and said evenly and sarcastically, “Well, isn’t that neat? [you simple simple easily amused woman]”

And then he ran off to attend to more esoteric matters.

The thrill of the trash truck might be gone for him, but not for me.  I know what’s in those bags.

We got a letter from the pre-school last week stating that all three-year-olds must be potty trained in order to attend school in the fall.  This fall – the one that arrives in two weeks according to the school calendar.  Which is still summer.  Remember the good old days when fall had something to do with the Gregorian calendar and leaves falling, blah blah old lady rant blah?

They do not indicate if they will refund our deposit if we are unable to meet their stupid arbitrary deadline.  But I’m guessing not.

The pressure to potty train, it’s just so… not helpful for my own intestinal issues.

Nonetheless, we’ve made a little progress on that front. We have had some measure of success. We still have a ways to go, if you will — or even if you won’t — but we are working on it.  At this point, it’s a matter of will, not skill – a will that makes iron look like warm butter.

Many times a day, I enthusiastically enumerate to Sean the many benefits and privileges of wearing big boy undies.  And I sound as though I am trying to sell him an annuity or something equally useless.  If I were calling myself on the phone with this fabulous offer, I would hang up on me. Really.

The stupid arbitrary deadline has turned me into some sort of slimy incentive-wielding used car salesman.  Whereas normally, I’m not that slimy.  Oh the depths to which I have stooped in the name of potty training.  There is nothing that I have not promised that boy in the last week.  The incentives have increased from gummy bears and plastic dollar store crud to a bicycle.  But apparently, even at that, I wasn’t aiming high enough.

This morning, when I gave him the “poo poo on the potty” pep talk and promised him the moon and the bicycle of his choice, he listened intently and like a little executive, he nodded slightly while making a little church steeple out of his hands.  “Well, I want to be in charge of the world and drive the car,” he countered. And then he walked away from the bargaining table. “What’s it gonna take to put you in these big boy undies today?” I called after him.

On the other hand, he may be 16 by the time I get him potty trained, so handing over the keys to the car shouldn’t be a problem.