What’s In A Name?

A few years ago my youngest was learning his letters.  One of his teachers taught him that the Xs represented a kiss.  When he came home and told me about this, I taught him that the Os stood for hugs.  He was tickled with this information and made sure that his Daddy learned this vital information as well.

Months later he learned to write his name.  He came home that day and announced that he had a hug AND a kiss in his name.  He held up a school paper to show me just what he meant.  He showed me the X and kissed it.  He pointed out the O and then hugged the paper.  He was so proud.  “I am the only one with both a hug and a kiss in my name!!!” he crowed.

On this Mother’s Day, my youngest crawled into bed with me and handed me a card.  Inside he had signed his name and drew several Xs and Os beneath.  He had me kiss each X and hug each O, including those in his name, then he gave me a hug and kiss for each as well.  My heart swelled.

My sweet baby, my darling son.  True to his name, he is full of Xs and Os… and blessings every day.

Ball Games, Peanuts, And Creative Packaging

We went to a Braves Game this last weekend.  I am not a huge baseball fan, but I can certainly appreciate spending a pleasant day in the stands, watching our team play a good game, chatting with friends, and enjoying the beautiful weather.  Oh yeah… and the food!  It just isn’t the same without the hot dogs and peanuts.  It is a wonderful American tradition.

Whenever I go to the ballpark and see those peanut shells I am reminded of a cute story from years ago.  One of my best friends has a boy the same age as my oldest.  We’d taken both families to see the Braves play.  The boys brought their gloves in the hopes of catching a fly ball.  We parents brought in a large bag of peanuts to share.  The boys practically dove into the bag, selecting their peanuts, then setting about the business of cracking them open (without spilling the nuts inside) and popping them into their mouths.  After the initial surge of nut popping activity, my friend’s son seemed to slow down a bit, pondering his peanuts as he twisted them open.  Then, after opening one and eating the nuts inside, he held the shell up for closer inspection.  He turned it around and around, then turned to his Mom.

“How do they do that?” he asked.

“How do they do what, Butterbean?” she replied.

“How do they make the little waffles and get them around the peanuts?” he said.

That makes me chuckle to this day.  Peace to you all!

Crazy Elephant Stories

My younger son receives Occupational Therapy (OT) in school each week.  He has alot of sensory issues, gross and fine motor skills to develop, and of course tons of energy.  His school OT is a good professional and very creative.  She makes him work hard too - which he doesn’t always appreciate .

At the last IEP meeting, the OT tells us the following story…

The OT, in preparation for our son’s session, “messes up” her room, turning chairs over, moving desks, taking books off the shelves and putting them on the floor.  She does this so that she can ask our son to put everything back when he first gets to the room.  This gives him some deeper sensory stimulation and helps him calm and focus himself for the work ahead.

Our son, walking into the room, says “What happened!  Why is the room so messy?”

The OT tells him that an elephant came through the room and moved all sorts of things around - she needs his help to clean up.  Our son, suspicious that an elephant didn’t reallycome through her room, but willing to play along, gives her a look and then starts to put things back where they belong.  After half-a-minute he stops, cocks his head, and says “I have something to tell you about the elephant and how he came to school to mess up your room.”  Clearly he has concocted a story to help explain this strange occurance.

The OT, wise to my son’s story telling stalling techniques, tells him that now is not the time to tell stories, now is the time to work.  My son tries again with no success.  Eventually the room is put back to rights and they begin a more traditional exercise.  My son is a bit perturbed but settles in.

At the end of the session my son is preparing to leave the room to go back to his regular classroom when he turns at the door.  “I want to tell you a story,” he tries again.  He is determined to tell a story!

“What about?” she asks.

He pauses for dramatic effect then raises his eyebrows.  “About the CRAZYOT,” and placing hand on hip he grins and says “and YOU are the OT!”  Satisfied that he has made his point he flounces out of the room (as best as a first grade boy can flounce) and makes his way back to his classroom.  At this point in the story we all laugh, shake our heads, and agree that our son has quite a personality and flair for the dramatic.

Thank you to all of the crazy OTs and STs and PTs who work with our crazy kids and us crazy parents.  We couldn’t get through this without you.  Thanks for pushing us a little farther so that we can all achieve our best - especially when the elephants charge through our lives.

What is Dinah Doing?

You know how you can get song lyrics wrong?  You know how funny it is when someone else does it?  Take my younger son, who insisted that this little ditty was the “correct” set of lyrics to a section of the kiddy classic ”I’ve Been Working On The Railroad”… 

“I’ve been workin on a railroad, all the livin day!

I’ve been workin on a railroad, jus a bass a dime away!

Can ya hear a wiffle owin, aye uh a eary ih a born!

um a uh uh uh uh uh dah, Dinah bow ya born!

Dinah Warsh and Blow,

Dinah Warsh and Blow,

Di - nah Warsh and Blo - o - ow!”

Rather than working on the railroad, I think Dinah opened the west’s first Cut’n'Curl Beauty Salon… but that is a whole other post.  Peace to all out there!

Spring Break Musings 2

While on spring break on St Simon’s Island, we took to the beach one night to search out the sand crabs.  The two adults in our party who had grown up on the island swore that after the sun went down we would see so many crabs on the beach at high tide - we just needed to take a big flash light so we could see the crabs in the dark and avoid stepping on them.  We thought the kids would love it.

We strolled along the beach, sweeping the light to and fro, searching for the elusive crabs.  We kept walking… and walking… and walking.

“Where are the crabs?” one little girl cried.  “Why can’t we find the crabs?” whined one of my sons.  “Where are the @#% crabs?” asked a parent.

“I thought you said there would be hundreds of crabs out here,” a wife said to her used-to-be-an-islander husband.

“There are, there are, we just haven’t gotten to them yet,” he said.  The rest of us adults just rolled our eyes in the dark and kept walking while the children jumped and leapt with excitement.

Further on, one of the “former residents” stopped the light on a dark mass (which turned out to be a piece of wood) and the children huddled around it.  Out of the corner of my eye I spied something to the side of the crowd… could it be?  I stared hard, willing my eyes to sharpen their focus in the dark.  “Hey!  Over here.  I think I found a crab.”  They shone the light on my discovery and sure enough, it was a CRAB!  The children danced and the adults high-fived while one gingerly picked up the crab and put him in a large beach bag (we released him at the end of our walk).  We whooped and hollered (as us Southerners do when thrilled with life in general) and exulted in our success the rest of our walk.  We likely scared off all other crab wildlife (although we found a dead horseshoe crab, but being dead he didn’t seem to mind our noisemaking) as we didn’t see nary a one after that.

My children were so proud that THEIR mommy was the celebrated crab finder, that they felt the need to tell all others we encoutered the good news. 

My youngest shouted “My Mommy got crabs!” in the condo courtyard as we made our way back from the beach.  Some whooping and hollering came back in response from the late-night revelers on their balconies.

My husband, trying to cover his laughter, told my younger son that we should say instead “Mommy found a crab on the beach,” as this was more correct.  He told my older son that saying “Mommy had crabs,” wasn’t a nice thing to say - he would explain later.

We left our friends at their condo and I felt secure that the proud announcements and strange looks were over.  I was wrong.

The next morning at breakfast my younger son told his Grandma (who didn’t come with us on our beach adventure) that Mommy was on the beach and got crabs and that Daddy was trying to hush him because it wasn’t nice to say but that he thought it was really cool that Mommy had crabs.  He ignored our efforts to shush him as he proudly offered this up to his Grandma.  Once finished with his proclamation he beamed at me, pride spilling over in his eyes.

My mother-in-law raised an eyebrow and gave me a look as if to say “I suspected as much all along, missy.”

Spring Break Musings

During our kids’ spring break we went to St Simon’s Island.  While there we journeyed to Jekyl Island to visit the Sea Turtle Center.  It was fantastic - I highly recommend!

Fortunately for all of us, there are some wonderful (and very patient) volunteers at the center.  Want to know just how wonderful?  Well… they graciously put up with the following from my two precious boys…

Scene: I am paying for our admission while the volunteer selects passbooks for us. 

My younger son says to the volunteer “Your teeth look really really bad!”

My older son says to his little brother “You can’t say that to her!  She can’t help it.  She’s just really old!”

So proud.

Church Musings

My younger son is so verbal.

Sometimes we wonder why we ever taught him to speak (and then - why he speaks so LOUDLY). 

During the sermon while in church he pipes up with important questions like - “Mommy, why do your boobs hang out your chest?” and “Why is Pastor so old?”

As we walk up for communion/blessings he’ll ask ”Why do you get snacks and I don’t?” and, with wide eyes, referring to the communion wine, “Is that real BLOOD in there?”

Our favorite was when, during the sermon he called up to the pastor… “Are you done talking yet?”

A Budding Novelist

My youngest has had a school assignment to write a story.  This will, in a few weeks, be “published” in book form.  The little authors will have a class party where the parents are invited and the authors read their stories in front of everyone.

We’ll cross the reading-out-loud-in-front-of-everyone bridge when we get there.  We had to get through writing the story first.

Now let me make this clear up front.  My son has no problem making up stories.  He’s actually quite good at coming up with ideas and events to put in stories - quite an active imagination.  But we often are left wondering where he gets his, shall we call it, inspiration.  Sometimes his stories even ”inspire” questions from others about our home life - sometimes funny questions, sometimes not so funny.

We drafted his story this last week.  He would get going telling his story and I would type out his words.  I asked a few questions to get some more detail and we ended up with something like this…  There’s this Crocodile whose dinosaur friends are all dead, his parents are dead (this is where it turns into a Disney classic), he doesn’t know what to eat but does know what can eat him…  (okaaaay…)

He moves to a new lake where there are no Raccoons, Snakes, or Birds… and is trained on the Tuba and plays in victory parades.  (Tuba?  Where does this come from?  We don’t know anyone who plays the Tuba… Right after my younger son says this about the parade we have to shush our older son who tries to point out that crocodiles do not have the lip structure to play horn instruments.  After all, we tell him, we’re being creative.)

Eventually the Crocodile (whose name is actually “Crocodile” in case you were wondering) finds his parents (who aren’t dead after all, they just moved to a different lake - which turns this from a Disney movie to a twisted and dark commentary on child neglect, but thank God we’re… I mean they’re… still alive) and all live happily ever after.

I don’t want to change his story (although we did make some gentle suggestions), but I am curious as to what sort of looks we’ll get as my precious lovey (who, for the record, we cherish and love very much AND who we’ve never left at a lake, never starved, and always brought with us when we moved to a new house) reads his story to the rest of the class.  Should we expect a call from social services…

Or negotiate a contract with Disney?