26: Pieces...

I think we were probably doing dishes, reflecting on the day, recapping ball games. That's when we noticed the house was quiet...

The elder little was upstairs working on his arcade.  It is the smaller little who sometimes...disappears.

"Grant?"

Silence.

"Where are you?"

Nothing.

We both walked the first floor, only to find this about a minute into our search...

A piece of hair here, a clump of hair there...

"GRANT!  WHERE ARE YOU?"

More pieces.

Big pieces.

Sections.

We turned the corner into the powder room to find him with orange safety scissors.

Up against more of his "yellow" hair!



"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

He offered, "I'm cutting my hair.*  Reid says I look like a 'goyl'..."

*Now, for your frame of reference, it is helpful to note that this blonde hair has been the source of many conversations over the past couple years.  I'm on team "let's not cut it -- he has curls;" my husband...well, opposes that team, and often asks, "Can you please just cut his hair?  It's time..."  I resist.  Every.  Single.  Time.  


I surveyed the damage -- large chunk of bangs, missing; even larger chunk of hair from his left side, missing.  Noticeably.

*Until this time...

"Tomorrow we'll get a hair cut after church.  This style needs some tweaking."

Together we shuffled over the living room carpet and also the wood floors to pick up the pieces.  My mind imagined the smaller little with one 'little boy cut.'


This morning, we tried to comb straggly strands of wispy blonde hair over the offending sections. The right side didn't hide the second bout with the safety scissors quite as well as we'd hoped.

So, as promised, after church we went for the long-awaited haircut.

The pieces fell to the floor, first large...and then small.  His 'do, shaped, in a way that only someone who truly knows how to cut hair, can.

"One little boy cut," Abigail proclaimed. She cleaned up his neck, preened his risky sections, and added, "I texturized it...you know, so it all blends in the best it can."

"I appreciate that.  You are really good at what you do.  Thank you."

We lifted the older-looking little boy from the car chair and stepped over the million little pieces toward the door.  Abigail began sweeping them into a pile.

A few minutes later, inside the car, Grant celebrated.  "Mommy, I like my hair."

"I do, too, Mr. Moo..."

Very grown up.


Write on,
b

23: Wisdom...

Tonight Grant asked if there were bees inside the family room lamp.

My head tilted toward his.

He said, "The light is on, Mommy."

I said, "Yes.  It is."

He said, "Then there have to be bees in there."

I asked, "Why?"

He said, "Because you said there are bees in the plug-ins."

My head tilted again.

He said,"If the bees are in the walls they have to be in the lamps, Mommy."

I said, "Riiiiiiight.  We shouldn't touch either the plug-ins or the lamps."

He said, "Buuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

Write on,

b

11: By the numbers...

I slid across the bed and melted into it during bathtime

The slice didn't get written

The ideas flowed again after both boys were in bed

The slice didn't get written

The elder needed some encouragement to sleep

The slice didn't get written

I sat up in bed and opened my laptop

The slice materialized

One slice

Three beds

Eight lines

Two heavy lids

One white flag

Write on,

b

3: Close, yet far away...

I was in the shadows

fluffing the pillows 

organizing papers inside manila folders

dusting the antique buffet

whatever I could do to stay close

Yet far away

You see

I like the shadows

I like to know they 

can do it

while I’m not part of the mix

I like to know they

remember

my teachings

our teachings

His teachings

I want some apple juice, the smaller little requests

I can get that for you

Refrigerator doors swing wide

as do the cabinet doors 

He chooses the royal blue water bottle 

because of its flip top

because he knows the little likes to

remove lids and

make messes 

He fills it just-so

fastens the flip top and

hands it to the smaller little

Thank you

He’s learning

to be

caring

graceful 

gracious

They’re learning

to be

brothers

allies

friends

We’re learning

to be

patient

prayerful

(and sometimes)

passive

I was in the shadows

fluffing the pillows 

organizing papers inside manila folders

dusting the antique buffet

whatever I could do to stay close

Yet far away…

Write on,

b

8: The variables...

The day had been bright and warmish....snow melted, socks were put away in favor of ballet flats, and after church Saturday night we found ourselves at a local pizzeria with a handful of other parents with other littles.  As the sky turned from cool to warm and then all the way to black, we chomped on the dinner we called ahead to order.

We thought we were being responsible; hungry kids and little wait time should make for a happy family.  And smooth meal.

But, somehow, that simplistic math...with no variables...ended up including a few.

Like the fact that our five-year-old sighed and grimaced while waiting for the hot pie and breadsticks. A grand total of five minutes.  But that wasn't quick enough to suit his exacting standards.  Luckily the pie arrived before his grief came full-term.

Like the fact that the pizza joint has arcade games and they were just a few feet from our table. "Mommy, can we PLEASE play the game now?" and "After we are done eating, remember?" composed the bulk of our dining banter.

Like the fact that I was lucky enough to have the exact change for him to play 'the claw' game with my husband --- just once --- after stubby pieces of crust were all that remained of the once grand pie. But then that wasn't enough because the elder little only won two Tootsie Rolls instead of a big, glamorous prize from the display case.  

Like the fact that he doesn't even like Tootsie Rolls today, so he stood beside our table crying, throwing his hands, growling, and then hurling a wadded up napkin at an unsuspecting dad engaged in casual conversation at the next table.  His kids were playing arcade games while their pizza baked. They kept running between table and game, table and game, delivering their candy winnings. In good spirits; laughing.  The parents laughed, too, as they talked about all things --- trivial and important.

Like the fact that when the elder grew increasingly upset, so did the smaller little. And they were both crying.  At our small four-top table with one high chair shoved in the back corner.  Beside the games. And everyone turned around to look, sometimes sheepishly, sometimes with rapt engagement.  We were the only entertainment; everyone else's kids talked, ate, giggled, smiled, and stared.

Like the fact that I quietly ushered both boys outside to wait on the sidewalk while my husband paid. You know,  to avoid any other unsightly fits, outbursts, etc.  Even as we exited, I felt their eyes fixed on our little troupe.  We caught our breath in front of the floor-to-ceiling window that canvassed the narrow storefront.  I knelt down.  In a calm, quiet voice, I talked with the elder little about the napkin situation. He listened, his chocolate eyes melting into mine.

Like the fact that in full view of everyone inside the pizza restaurant and a couple two feet away getting into their car, he snipped my comments down to a more palatable proportion by winding up and smacking me on cheek.  Hard.  Before I could even see it coming.  Underneath the eye that squints a little more when I break into a smile.  That side of my face smarted, as did the inside of my cheek which I chewed to avoid the ugliness that my flesh wanted to spew all over the sidewalk and anyone who would listen to my hurt and empathize with my embarrassment.  Like a statue, I stood staring out at the passing cars bumping along the brick street.

But none of this compared to the wound festering inside my heart that seems to grow a little more each day.

We've tried praise.  We've tried sticker charts.  Programs.  Incentives.  Rewards. Yelling.  Not yelling.  Taking toys away for a period.  Time-outs.  Time-ins. Time-outs downstairs.  Time-outs upstairs.  No trains.  No TV.  More time with mommy. More time with Daddy.  Fall soccer.  Winter soccer.  Explaining.  Not explaining.  

I always think, Are we the only ones dealing with this brand of pervasive inflexibility and impulsivity?  Because again at the restaurant beside all the happy kids, I felt that way.

After the shortest bedtime routine ever for the elder, I googled it.  We can't be alone in this.

And most assuredly, the first article I read described my son perfectly...and this one led to a string of others.  The formal search term, five-year-old tantrums.

It is a real thing.
And we aren't alone.
And we can get past this.
And he is still one of the neatest kids I know.
And he's fiery, but what his passion could someday accomplish...

Maybe another variable for the list above is that the other kids and other parents were just moments away from their control dance...

Write on,
b