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I’ll Have Ye Walk the Plank!!

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No, this isn’t a post about using Facebook in Pirate mode, though we’ve all done it for about five minutes before it got annoying.  If you have no idea what I’m talking about, then go do it now.  If you are thinking, “What is this ‘Facebook’ thing she’s talking about?” then I applaud your ability to live under a pop culture rock for this long.

The boy LOVES pirates.  And not just ANY pirate, but Captain Hook, the mother of all pirates.  Captain Hook holds a special place in my heart, because he was the monster that my parents terrified me into submission with.  For example, “If you don’t go to sleep right now, we’re going to send Captain Hook to get you!” Of course, telling me that if I didn’t go to sleep I’d be attacked by my worst nightmare was basically a great recipe for turning me into the insomniac I am today.  Once, I am told, I got so scared I refused to leave the house so my Dad told me that Captain Hook had moved to Hawaii.  This was all fine and well until we took a flight that required us to change planes in Honolulu.  I refused to get off the plane, convinced that Captain Hook was waiting for me at the gate.  My Dad told me that he had moved to Australia.  I still haven’t been to Australia.

Back to today, we’re generally a pacifist household, and don’t have any toy guns or weapons in the house.  We were once at a flea market and saw a two-year old in a stroller with a very lifelike machine gun, which was shocking.  Still, I’ve ceded some ground on this and acknowledge that there’s no way to keep a four-year old boy from making a gun/sword/machete/cat-o’-nines/brass knuckles out of whatever available objects he can.  So I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him disappear for a while and then return with this creation, modeled the following morning before he went to school.

That’s him as Captain Hook.  The hook is created from an old Quaker Oats container, a table football goalpost, and plenty of tape.  The sword is drawn and then cut out of cardboard.

The outfit is just what he happened to want to wear to school that morning, and not associated with Captain Hook in any way.  I guess you’d call it a sherwani dhoti? Indians, help me out here.  The kids are often completely insanely dressed by the time they get to school, as I generally let them pick out what they want.  My philosophy is that if it is weather and activity appropriate, why not?  I have on occasion stepped in to tone down the ridiculousness, I admit, but not often. I sort of love it.

And the pirate love has inspired some great artwork! Check out the drawing below, which I think is quite impressive.  Captain Hook, pirate ship, alligators, all in one place!

And I’m only the tiniest bit scared.

Musings

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I was going to write about how difficult the boy has been lately.  Defiance, tantrums, and disrespect are just the beginning.  He also thinks he’s always right and won’t believe anyone that he’s not unless it’s disproven by another source.  For example, he recently insisted that summer comes before spring, and nearly threw a fit when I tried to tell him otherwise, and STILL didn’t believe me until I pointed it out to him in a book of his.

But then tonight he asked me something that made my heart skip a beat.

We’d actually been having a nice evening, playing with blocks and walking outside.  Out of nowhere, he turns and asks, “Mommy, do kids die?”

I was momentarily stunned–not the question you expect from your four and a half year old son.

“Why do you ask, honey?” I inquired.

“I was just wondering.  Do they?”

I have a general policy of not lying to children, but trying to tell them the most appropriate truth for their age.  “Well,” I said cautiously, “Sadly, yes.  Sometimes kids get sick and die.”

“Oh. Mommy, do you ever want me or my sister to die?”

Holy crap.  “Never! I love you both so much, it would make me so sad if you died.  It would break my heart! I don’t want you to die until you’re a very very very very very old man.  Why are you asking this?”

“No reason.  I was just wondering.”

I couldn’t get any more out of him than that.  He doesn’t know any kids that have died, certainly hasn’t seen any movies that feature kids dying.  Still, the whole thing shook me up a bit.

As I thought about it more, I think what happened is this–we’ve been watching a lot of nature videos lately, and of course, something always gets eaten.  Tonight we watched one where a lion killed and ate a baby zebra, and I wonder if that got the wheels in his head spinning and making the connection between baby zebras and baby humans.  So much for Discovery Channel being safe watching ground.

How do you all deal with the little ones asking about the big D?

730 days

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The girl turns two years old today.  This means that, give or take, she has eaten about 400 waffles (faffels!), given 200 kisses, used 4,825 diapers (take that, environment!), and has watched maybe 20 hours of TV thus far (she never misses “Tool Academy”).  Every night she has heard me sing “All You Need is Love,” or Eric sing “My Darling” (by wilco, of course) and recite the Loving Kindness mantra.  She’s incredibly loving and sweet, especially towards her big brother, whom she usually awakens with a back rub and a kiss on the cheek.  She’s also a feisty little scavenger, and will try to steal your food from you by looking as cute as humanly possible and saying, “BIIIIIITE!!!!!” as loudly as she can.  Her morning ritual is to name all the animals in her crib before allowing you to take her out: “Beaaw!” (Bear) “Rabbit!” “Efant!” (elephant) “Srufa!” (Scruffy).

She also loves to sing, and usually wakes up and sings to herself in the crib for quite a while before she wants someone to come get her.  She also sings as she goes about her business, as you can see in this video below.  It’s done with a super secret stealth technique, because if she were to SEE the video camera, she would march over and demand to see the baby inside.

Happy birthday, little girl! We love you and hope you keep singing the rest of your life!

Garden–Help!

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Remember last year, when I talked about putting the garden in the front yard?  Well, the time has come to start! We’ve ripped out most of the sod, leaving some grass in to act as a path.

And by “we,” I clearly mean Eric.

Here’s the thing–the way I approach most things is just to start them and figure it out as I go along.  I’m not much of the planning sort.  This has tended to be how I do just about everything–knitting, parenting, and this garden.  So far it’s worked out, but I’m realizing now I don’t really know much about how this will work! So I’m asking those of you out there who are much better gardeners than  me for some advice.  Here’s the front lawn as it is now, picture taken at 10:30 AM:

I definitely envision a squash/cucumber tepee in the center (#12), and some shade flowers or lettuce in #1 and #13, which will be pretty along the walk.  But what to do with the other sections?  Each one is about 3′ x 3′ in a wedge shape and the sun is coming from the south.  I know it doesn’t seem like a ton of sun, but we got decent veggies in our backyard last year and that patch only gets about 4 hours of direct sunlight daily and this is much more.  Some shade is cast by a large pine tree that we’ll be trimming, so I’m not worried about that. (I am worried, though about thieves,  animal and human.)

Thoughts? Suggestions? Am I crazy? Anyone else out there with a front lawn veggie garden and how did it go?

Hey Jealousy

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First of all, I would like to reassure all of you that peace was restored after that crazy night.  The boy slept in his bed all night long, the girl went down at 6:30 into her crib and was not heard from again until 6:30 in the morning, and both adults slept in the same bed all night.  Maybe the planets were just misaligned…

On another note, my parents sent me this travel itinerary for the next 2 years.  How is this even fair?  Hmmm…I wonder if we should join into any of them…I’ve always wanted to go to Ulan Bator…

To expand (or click on above pic)-

Here is the list of 2010/11 travel plans:
1. Denver, CO.
2. China
3. Prague/Budapest/Belgrade/Sarajevo/Zagreb/ Dubrovnik/Split/Ljubljana
4. New York
5. Salt Lake City/Moab/Arches National Park/Canyonlands National park
6. Denver, CO
7. India (two trips: Kerala and Orissa/Bihar/Varanasi/Kujhraho/Jansi)
8. Chile/Argentina/Brazil
9. Denver
10. Vancouver/Victoria/Prince Rupert/Prince George/ Vancouver/Seattle
11. Moscow /Ekateringburg/Novosibirsk/Irkutsk/Ulan Ude/Ulan Bator/Beijing
12. Denver
12. New Zealand/Australia
Let me know if you would like to join in any adventure!
/Dad

Go Mom and Dad!! I love having such adventurous, curious parents, and it’s certainly where I get my love of travelling.  There’s a Marathi saying: “Paya la bhingri” (excuse the cracked up Marathi) which roughly means: “Having spinning tops on the bottom of your feet.”  My parents used to use it to refer to me since I never seemed to settle down, but I think that they are the ones that it clearly applies to now.

Anyway–I have to go renew my passport.

Girly Girls and Boy-ey Boys

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I wasn’t sure when gender identity is established in kids, but I’d thought it happens pretty young. Turns out that the initial establishment of gender identity happens at 18 to 30 months! While it takes a few more years to fully mature, I was surprised to learn that it begins that early.  I wonder how much of that has to do with how we treat and dress boys and girls differently, even from birth.  I always thought that I could just dress the girl in the boy’s hand-me-downs, and while the overall effect is adorable, you realize exactly how gendered kids’ clothing is from the get-go. Here’s a pic from a recent weekend day. Eric thought she looked like Jeff Tweedy dressed this way. (Of course, Eric sees Jeff Tweedy in everything, in the same way that religious fanatics find images of Jesus in toothpaste splatter.)

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Before I had kids, I assured myself that I would raise children in a open fashion, without making a boy do only “boy things” and vice-versa.  Some of this is ingrained in society and impossible to escape. Look closely at toy advertising–it is rare to see a typically gendered toy (such as a doll) being played with by a boy, or a Lego X-Wing fighter set played with by a girl.  There has been some progress, in that I’ve seen toy kitchens advertised with boys and…well…that’s all I can really come up with.  Disney is not about to use boys to market its “Princess” line.

Still, I think that it is generally more accepted now for girls to do things that have traditionally been the realm of boys, such as sports, whereas it is frowned upon for boys to engage in girl activities, like ballet.  It is interesting that the circle of possibilities has expanded for girls whereas it remains relatively narrow for boys.  Some of this can probably be attributed to feminism and its effects (Girl Power!) and some of it can likely be explained by homophobia.  For instance, the boy is into many things that are  “girly,” like wearing glittery barrettes.  I cannot tell you how many people have told me, only half-jokingly, that I should be “worried” about my son, as if having a gay child would be something dreadful.

For the boy’s birthday, I bought him a dollhouse as he had been asking for.  I found a good deal on a nice wooden house with matching furniture and proudly gave it to him on his birthday.

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He took one sad, disappointed look at me.  I thought he was going to tell me that he didn’t want it because it was for girls.

Instead, he wailed, “But Mommy! It’s not pretty enough!!”

That’s my boy.

Hapa

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Friends of ours recently gave us the book Part Asian, 100%Hapa.  It’s a pretty cool little volume in which there are simple, stark faceshots of people who identify as mixed descent and their responses to the question “What are you?” that they likely receive on a daily basis.  Of course, my kids will have to deal with this as well, especially as both of them appear very blended and are not immediately identifiable as one particular ethnicity.  Part of me thinks that as time goes on, this will become less of an issue as more mixed couples have children.

A bigger question I ask, though, is what ethnic culture are we raising our children in? How do I want them to understand what it means to be Indian? What does that even mean to me?  Growing up, I never really had a lot of Indian friends, despite living in a very diverse community.  I often found that the younger generation of Indian kids often had a lot of the same restrictive boundaries that I felt the older culture to have.  The community can be very disapproving if someone does not fit into a relatively narrow box.

As children, my parents would drag my sister and I to various celebrations and events.  These were largely meaningless to me then as religious events and really were more of an excuse for a social gathering.  I cannot tell you what one does for Diwali other than light firecrackers, nor what one does for Holi other than throw paint on other people (which was really fun, the one time I did it).  Neither Eric nor I are religious people in the least, and I don’t think that taking the kids to Temple would acheive anything since, quite frankly, I couldn’t tell them what was going on. While I speak Marathi (just Google it if you don’t know what it is) and can even sort of read the Devanagari script, I’m far from fluent and wouldn’t be able to teach the kids the language.  I’ve learned most of my Indian mythology from picture books that I’ve read to the kids.

Many of the blogs and articles I came across while doing a quick Google search on the topic deal with (most often) black/white children and the one that I found about an Indian/White child involved a man who was an Indian immigrant, which doesn’t really apply to me.  Most of the other ones I found I just don’t relate to. There seems to be a fair amount of literature for children who are adopted across cultures/races, but not as much for first-generation kids raising children with a partner of another race.

There are clearly things that I was raised with that I want my children to have. Among other things: a respect for your elders, a respect for family, a respect for education, and of course the delicious food!  I want my kids to travel to India and know what it is like there.  Is that “Indian enough”? Or does it not really matter in the ever more blended society we are inching towards?

This post is woefully inadequate in terms of all the issues I’d like to bring up, but is long enough already so I’ll table those thoughts for another time.

July 4th or, Why They Wear Helmets

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This post is a bit belated, I know.  Anyway.

Every fourth of July there’s a children’s parade here in Denver.  The boy rides his push bike and it’s a lot of fun.  At the end of the parade is a picnic and a bouncy castle!  Last year they had free ice cream cones, too.  This year they had a 250 foot long ice cream sundae and handed people spoons to dig it out of a communal trough.  We found this sort of gross and left before the kids started clamoring for a spoon.

Of course, it can also be fraught with peril, as this video demonstrates:

After a very quick recovery, the boy was good for the parade.

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Part of the fun of the parade is that it’s a community gathering, and as such you run into many friends and neighbors.  We ran into some good friends of ours who are the parents of  one of the boy’s closest friends since infancy.  At the park afterwards, they played together.

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On the grid

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Happy!

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Bouncy Castle

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Slide races

The water balloon toss was fun, too.  You can just see the boy’s toes and hand in this picture on the right-hand column about the fifth person down, bright green shirt.

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And the girl just hung out on the sidelines in her pre-walking days, finding other people’s smartphones and chewing on them.

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This is our second year now and I think it’s going to be a yearly tradition, at least until the kids tell us they’re too old or cool for it.

History repeating itself

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When I was about, oh, three years old, apparently I snuck into the bathroom while my mother was taking a nap (and thought I was, too) and managed to get my hands on her makeup and end up covering myself and the bathroom with it.  Quite literally red-handed thanks to the lipstick, I vigorously denied touching her makeup at all.

A few days ago, I got proof that the force runs strong within my family, at least when it comes to mishaps involving cosmetics.

Having put the boy to sleep in our bed as per usual, Eric and I went downtairs to watch the somewhat forgettable yet moderately entertaining “Bollywood Hero.”  About an hour later, Eric goes upstairs to check on the kids, and shortly yells downstairs “You have to get up here right now!” Worried that some mortal ill has befallen our children, I race upstairs, only to find the bathroom covered in plum nail polish.  It is dripped onto the tiles and sink, dried on the sink handles and bowl, and there is a puddle of it in the middle of the bathroom spilling over onto the grout.

I go to see the boy who is sleeping in our bed with the cover pulled up just over his hands.  I wake him up and he brings his hands out from under the duvet, entirely covered in dried nail polish.  He also has a few streaks between his toes. I can’t help myself–I start laughing, because the situation is just too ridiculous for words.  We get the boy in the bathroom, who keeps answering “I don’t know” or “I didn’t do it” to all queries, and Eric intermittently yelling at him.  Initially I use nail polish remover but then realize that I don’t want my child to get acetone poisoning so I just scrub his hands and feet and get it off of his skin as best as I can.  We get the boy to sleep in his own bed and then finish cleaning up the rest.

Trying to figure out what happened, we trace the drops of polish from the bathroom, over the carpet, to the nightstand, which we find has polish dripped all inside the drawer.  Our nice Room&Board nightstand, no less.

To then piece together what happened, the nail polish was in the nightstand for some reason (Eric’s side, I might add) and the boy just HAD to know what it was.  He must have opened it, it started to spill, and then I can just hear his little brain going, “Oh shit oh shit oh shit” (or whatever sanitized toddler version he speaks in his head) and get it into the bathroom as quickly as possible, where he dropped the bottle on the floor and created the puddle, and then tried to clean it up with his hands, only to find that it dried on his hands and all surfaces.  Panicking, he gave up and went to bed, carefully covering his hands with the comforter, and hoping we wouldn’t notice.

The aftermath:IMGP2499

Modern Love

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Every Sunday in the New York Times Sunday Styles section is a regular column titled, “Modern Love.”  Often this details the trials and tribulations of adult relationships today and usually ends with some profound revelation that has changed the life of the author.  Why I read this every week is beyond me, especially when I find them to be so self-serving and boring most of the time.

Sometimes, though, like this week, the focus is on relationships between parents and children.  These pieces always get to me and often cause me to tear up.  Sunday’s piece was about a man who recalls a tense relationship with his father and yet wonders at the easy relationship his father has with his son, currently 3 years old.  After learning that he too had had a playful time with his father when he himself was that age, he muses about the fun he currently has with his son.

I savor those moments, but worry now that Seth will scarcely remember them. Perhaps memories of early years were never really meant for sons, for whom growing up requires a kind of forgetting. Perhaps they are really for fathers, to wrap ourselves in when our sons begin that long, slow fade into adulthood.

This hit me pretty hard.  I mostly remember a lot of screaming fights with my parents growing up, battles over independence and friends and god only knows everything else.  I can’t really say that I have a lot of happy memories of growing up, though pictures tell a different story.

I see the same strong-willed tendencies in the boy, and am already bracing myself for a difficult adolescence.  It scares me to think that all the fun, joyous memories we are creating now will evaporate in his consciousness and he, too, will grow up with memories only of struggles at home and not love.  I suppose this is what is meant in that childhood is for parents, as a sort of buffer zone of memory to protect us from the inevitable door-slamming and verbal salvos that await as children navigate the tricky chrysalis of growing up and emerge (hopefully) to find their way back home.