Happy Halloween

So Conner came home from school yesterday and tells us, "It's Halloween!" And we're like, "Uh, no, it's not." We totally blew him off.

Then John is outside and runs into our neighbor, who has had his entire lawn decorated as a cemetery for weeks now, complete with a boulder-sized inflatable spider and gargantuan skull.

He invited us to stop by later for their annual neighborhood gathering; they all hang out by the haunted garage and cook hotdogs over a fire. So John's like, "Isn't Halloween tomorrow?"

Color us ignorant, but we don't have to be hit over the head twice. We learned that in this area if Halloween falls on a Wednesday, Friday or Sunday, it's celebrated the day before. Wednesday because of church, Friday because of football games, and Sunday -- well, duh.

Even if John hadn't run into our neighbor we probably would have caught on pretty quickly when the trick-or-treaters started showing up by dinnertime. We struggled to get the little ones to eat a few bites of dinner before we gave up and got them into their own gear.

A couple of weeks ago I had asked Conner if he wanted to look for a costume and he professed zero interest. Of course, last night he declared he wanted to go trick-or-treating after all, which you absolutely do not do without a costume. That's the ultimate tacky. So Conner thought of going out in one of John's uniforms. And I'm like, uh, don't you think it's a little too cold to go swimming? Then I remembered that I had recently come across an old uniform of mine, which is only barely too big for my preteen son and quite a bit less inappropriate for him to wear as a costume. If it weren't for the tennis shoes, he might look a little too legit.

Sean-Peter got tired of taking pictures pretty quick. We assured him we would get going in just a minute.
Okay, all better. What a stinker.

We just went up and down part of our street, and it was more than enough.

Man, does this town get into Halloween. We did go by our neighbor's and enjoy their cookout and haunted garage. They seemed fascinated that this was the little ones first real Halloween experience, and the kids enjoyed the good luck of living next door to a couple that really go all out. Can't wait to see what they do for Christmas.

Another Glimpse Into the Life of Olivia's Mind

After seeing a rainbow on TV:

"I love rainbows!"

"Who made rainbows?"
"God did!"
"Do you remember why?"
"He made them for our sins, to make them happy again!"

Ummm. Interesting angle. Maybe I'll start thinking of my chocolate stash as "my own little rainbow".

Crib-Free Woes

Several days ago I stole a few minutes while the little ones were in the bath and rearranged some furniture in Sean-Peter's room in preparation for taking down his crib. He had independently gone cold turkey to sleeping in his big-boy bed and it seemed obvious that there was no turning back. And I was anxious to free up the space.

All I did was move the foot of his big-boy bed to the adjacent wall and put his nightstand next to it. I was going to break down the crib, too, but I had brain cramp and forgot the steps for safe deconstruction, so I decided to save that part for John.

When the kids got out of the bath I made a big show of Sean-Peter's room, which I had newly straightened up, and especially pointed out his bed, which I had newly decorated with Conner's former bedspread and sham. It all looked so comfy and cozy I almost laid down and slept on it myself. I was banking on Olivia going along with the wonder, joy and excitement, and she did not disappoint. She brought Sean-Peter along with her and he immediately began jabbering on excitedly in that unintelligible way he has.

It was all going so well. Until I hollered out to John if he was ready to take down the crib. Sean-Peter's jabbering immediately took on a decidedly distressed tone, and it seemed apparent by his panicked gutterings and gesticulations that, if he could talk he would be saying, "Not my crib! You can't take down my crib! That's my crib! Don't take down my crib! Noooo!"

But since this came out mostly like, "Ng BAP! No ng BAP! Mm-mm-mm-BAP! My ng BAP! Noooo!" I decided some interrogating Sean-Peter style was in order.

"Sean-Peter, do you still want to sleep in your crib?"
"Uh-huh." This comes out more like "Uuuuh". It's all in the intonation.
"Sean-Peter, don't you want to sleep in your big-boy bed?"
"Uuuuh"
"Sean-Peter, do you want to sleep in your crib again?"
"Uuuuh"
"Sean-Peter, do you want to sleep in your big-boy bed?"
"Uuuuh"
Um, okay.

"John!" I hollered again, "Ix-nay on the rib-cay!"
"Yea, I got that!"

About a week passed until we deemed it safe to try again -- this time with no open discussion and without Sean-Peter in the room. John took it down last night and put it in our room temporarily, with the intention of storing it downstairs after the kids were in bed. Only he forgot.

Sean-Peter didn't bat an eye when I put him to bed last night; didn't even notice the absence of the crib in his room. But when my little alarm clock walked into our bedroom at Oh-6-early this morning, instead of the usual, "Ma, uh(p)!" I heard stifled sobs. John came out of the bathroom and tried to console him, but he was bereft. He had spied the pieces of his crib and was standing in front of them, an epitome of abject grief, eyes overflowing.

"Do you see your crib, buddy? Is that why you're crying?"
"Uuuuh."
"Okay, buddy, it's okay. It's just broken. But daddy will fix it, okay?"

Ah, trickery. But it worked. Sean-Peter is often surrounded by things that are inexplicably broken. "Daddy fix it" he can understand. All will be okay.

He may be ready to grow up, but not quite ready to let go. That makes two of us, little buddy.

Since I don't sleep with my camera, I couldn't capture his sorrow this morning for posterity. But he gave me opportunity later on to catch a similar moment.
But I still don't think we're going to give you your crib back, buddy.

"Life Is Good" by Conner, Part I

When Conner was a preschooler his backseat chattering often went like this:

"Mom, how much longer?"
"Mom, what's 3+3?"
"Mom, how many more minutes until we get there?"
"Mom, how old are you?"
"Mom, how many is that?"
"Mom, what time will the clock say when we get there?"
"Mom, what's 4+2?"
"Mom, how much longer?"
"Mom, how many more minutes til we get there?"
"Mom, now how many more minutes?"
"Mom, what time will the clock say?"
"Mom, what time will it be when we get there?"
"Mom? Mom? Mom?"

I can still hear that last part ringing in my head.

This consistent and persistant pattern of questions, this obsession, led me to turn it back on him and make it into a game. "What time do you think it will be when we get there?" I would ask, and he would make his guess, and I would make mine. Then he would change his guess to be closer to mine. Sometimes he would ask if he could have my guess. So I would change mine, but then he would second guess his guess, which was actually my original guess. This would continue until I declared a moratorium on guesses.

Numbers were his thang, if you get my drift. Made for some scintillating conversation, I tell you. Ah, the memories.

This continued into elementary school -- up until Olivia joined us in the car, so far as I can recall, and finally provided another distraction from the backseat. Olivia was a player from the beginning.

Right after Conner turned five we moved from the DC area to western Texas for 10 months while John completed some training. And I became a full-time SAHM for the first time since Conner was a baby. Losing my income was balanced out by John's promotion, not paying over $700 in daycare, and the lower cost of living. And it was such a blessing to have that year home with my son, my only child (is that possible?), the last year before he started school. Perfect timing, really. Divine intervention at its finest.

I thought I should try to carry on some pre-K education with some of this time we had. Since he seemed to have the numbers thing down, I thought we should focus on reading. I even got some ideas from my aunt and sister, elementary teachers themselves, about how to introduce independent reading by making "books" with repetitive words and stickers that he picked out. Going through these would last about 10 minutes, by which time he would simply say, "Can we be done now?" He much preferred playing "Trouble" or something else that gave him an opportunity to count to his heart's content.

I wasn't concerned about his inability to read before he started kindergarten. He seemed to know his letters well enough. He obviously didn't have a learning disability or anything that kept him from being able to read: he simply had no desire to.

And he learned soon enough once he did start kindergarten. Conner always did thrive in a structured environment with some healthy peer pressure; one reason I have never been sure that home schooling would work well for us. He simply looks around, sees that most of the other kids are doing this reading thing, so he does it, too.

Once he was in school, it didn't take long before I heard comments from his teachers about his knack with numbers, and pretty soon they were joined by comments about his natural interest and ability in science. Math and Science. That's what I kept hearing. So not my thang, but, hey, I'll go with it.

This didn't change when we moved to Italy and he transitioned into Italian school in the third grade. First, of course, he had to, um, learn Italian. And, naturally, the easiest subject to transition to in a foreign language is math, the Universal Language and all that. Then it wasn't too long before I heard the expected feedback that he sure took to science, too. Yes, yes, I know, that's my son: math and science.

During his three years in Italian school, we made some effort at home to keep up his English instruction. I mainly did this by requiring him to read in English --because although my son readily learned to read once he started school, he never did become a reader. Much to my chagrin. Because this is something I really, truly, do not understand. Having him resist reading -- for enjoyment! -- has always felt so wrong to me. But then, John is not a reader, either. So I just resign myself and sigh. Oh, and maybe complain a little out loud.

I also had Conner write emails. This became surprisingly interesting. When someone doesn't readily sit down and get lost in a good book, you wouldn't think he would readily sit down and compose a letter. But he did. And he enjoyed it. When I would suggest that he take some time to write an email to grandma, say, or to his dad who was away to wherever, he would sit down without complaint and type out excruciating letter after excruciating letter.

And he asked questions. He asked how to spell things, and whether a word meant what he thought it did. And he paid attention when I corrected his sentences for clarification before sending the email. He cared. And, to top it all off, I was starting to enjoy his writing. He really seemed to have a knack for it. I made extra effort not to correct every little spelling or grammatical error that I found lest I stifle his creativity and bring out his perfectionist tendencies. I just wanted him to write.

So for three years his English instruction consisted of inconsistent instruction at home in the very loose form of informal emails and forced reading for fun. Oh, and they did have "English" at his Italian school, which centered around singing songs and labeling rooms in a house and learning that the person working in the kitchen is a "cooker".

Then one day, later on in the fifth grade, he came home from school so happy because of a writing assignment they had had. He was so proud of himself because he was one of the few students (or the only one?) who was not sent back to his desk to revise or add anything to a story they wrote. I had him translate it for me, but honestly I cannot tell you what it was about anymore. I just remember thinking that, yes! it's not just me and he's really got something here.

All of this has been leading to Conner's first project for his English class here. If you're still with me, congratulations! Now you get to read some really fun stuff from a burgeoning writer in the form of a 12-year-old boy. They had to put together a notebook, "Life Is Good", a compilation of pictures, essays, poems, etc. For the "Letter" below they were told to write to a person, place, or thing. Conner wrote this to his bed right after we got our house, but before we got our stuff (and were still sleeping on air mattresses).

"Life is Good" by Conner

Letter to My Bed

Dear Bed,

I like you more than any other item in the house. You're so big and comfy. You're always there when I'm sad and I need something to lay on. If only you could talk, give massages, and serve lemonade, now that would be cool. I love to bounce on you, but my mom doesn't like it at all, you probably don't either. On the bus I always look forward to seeing you. Without you I wouldn't have that soft feeling when I go to sleep. The only bad thing about you is sometimes you let me roll of you, that doesn't feel too good.

I know you still on a boat (cause we just moved) but you'll be here soon. If you think you got it bad, you're wrong, I have to sleep on a mattress, which is kind of like sleeping on the floor. Without you, I would be waking up every 4 hours (like now) and not being prepared for school the next day.

You've enhanced my life in so many ways. The covers that lay on you keep me warm and make sure I don't wake up freezing. You've also given me that extra soft feeling that the bed alone doesn't have. Mattress, you've made sure I don't sleep on the springs and let my back receive all that pain. Feet, you've made me feel so high and important. You've also kept little siblings from getting on the bed and messing everything up. You're all so important and special to me.

He got a perfect score on this, and I hated to burst his bubble when he thought that meant it was perfect. He actually caught an error in it himself when he reread it after he brought it home, but I didn't make a really big deal about it. I'm actually not too sure how picky I should be. I do correct certain things no matter what: they're/their; its/it's. Pet peeves like that. But mostly I just think it's darn good story telling, and isn't that the main thing right now? I mean, how much grammar are you supposed to be shoving down their throats at this age? Especially for a boy who's just reentering an English school system?

I come from a family of grammar nazies, and I do intend to pass on those traits to my children as well. But for now, for at least five minutes, I just want Conner to transition to American school and enjoy his new-found love of English. Because, truly, it is so much fun to witness. I'm not sure why the teacher did not point out any of his errors, but for now I am going to assume that she just wants to encourage his writing, too. And it is fun, isn't it? Stay tuned for more to follow...

A Glimpse Into the Life of Olivia's Mind (and endless possibilities...)

On the outside, she's a fireman...
But in her imagination, the possibilities are endless.

"When I'm done being an astronaut, I'm going to be a ship's captain!"

You go, girl. Ah, the possibilities...