Music To My Ears

A couple months ago, I was listening to Atticus run through his nightly musical repertoire.  First the ABC's, followed by Jesus Loves Me, concluded by the Itsby Bitsy Spider.  As I listened to his little two-year-old-boy voice, I thought to myself, I should record this.  It's just so sweet, and one of those things I'll probably have forgotten about in a year.

Well, I didn't record it.  Now I'm kicking myself, because he sings those preschool songs in a much different way, just two months later. 

He's transformed the ABC's into a stylized, syncopated version of itself.  I'm sure if he could snap, he'd be busy keeping time with his fingers. 

"A-B/ C-D/E-F-G/pause/ H-I/ J-K/ L-M-N-O-P..."

You get the idea. 

If it weren't for the lyrics, I wouldn't recognize Jesus Loves Me.  It resembles nothing else so much as Alien Ant Farm's cover of Smooth Criminal by Michael Jackson.  Where before there was sweet melody, a slick white suit, and awesome choreography, (or maybe just the melody part) there is now only aggressive chanting.  It sounds like Atticus is just waiting for someone to try and suggest that No, Jesus does not love him.

The Itsby Bitsy Spider is the song that is the most unchanged.  He's so busy trying to get all the hand movements down and laughing hysterically when he knocks himself over with the force of his movement at "wash the spider out," that he doesn't concentrate too much on altering the tune.  He contents himself with singing it in his best and deepest love-child-of-James-Earl-Jones-and-Lauren-Bacall voice.  He can get pretty low.  If you've ever heard Derek speak, you know why.  And I haven't been a soprano since the 6th grade, when Mrs. Martin instructed me to go to the opposite end of the room in Walnut Valley Youth Choir.

Adelaide usually joins in when Atticus veers off the musical beaten path.  Unless he tries to mess with Switchfoot or a Disney song- some things are just sacred.

Wabbits

This is my vegetable garden.

It's not particularly big.  It's not particularly grand. But it is the equivalent of a backyard Leavenworth Maximum Security Prison.

Two- at certain places three- layers of fencing that is buried several inches underground.  Four feet high.  All I need is some razor wire along the top. 

The reason for all these vegetable-protecting security measures are those evil little vermin that scurry around our backyard, eating my flowers and vegetables, pooping all over the pristine snow in the winter. 

Since moving to Iowa, the Eastern Cottontail Rabbit has become my top adversary.  My first summer here, they ate my sunflowers, my pumpkins, and my beloved black-seeded lettuce.  I began staring out the back windows, muttering about those pagan rabbits and twitching every time I saw movement in the grass.  I solicited advice from family and friends- they recommended getting a dog, getting a gun, and setting out cat food with crushed ibuprofin mixed in to poison them. 

I started to think I may not have the most compassionate family and friends.  I am okay with that.

As I wasn't exactly subtle about my dislike of these backyard invaders, it didn't take long for Adelaide to catch on to my distaste.  I thought nothing of it until we saw a crushed rabbit on the street in front of our house, and rather than saying "Awww," or "Poor little rabbit," as I might expect a little girl her age to do, she did a fist pump and yelled, "Yesssss!" at the sight of the flattened gore. 

I tried to explain to her that I don't hate rabbits, and although I don't like having them in their yard, I don't mind rabbits in general.  She didn't seem to believe me, and now I'm starting to worry I've warped her little five-year-old brain.  As a result I've been spending an inordinate amount of time catching toads, earthworms, and other small animals, letting her and Atticus touch them and hold them, and talking about how God loves all his creatures. 

As a result, she now likes toads, frogs, earthworms, roly polies, and caterpillars- but still encourages neighborhood cats to slip through our back fence and "eat all the baby rabbits you want!" 

I would feel bad, but... I really don't like those rabbits.

M-m-m-m-m...

If it were up to Atticus, we would spend every waking moment of every day walking. 

Correction:  I would spend every moment of every day walking while pulling him behind me in the wagon.

As it is, we usually take two walks a day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon.  I try to make each one last at least thirty minutes.  Atticus usually spends that time looking around and being unusually quiet.  Caedmon is generally good, unless the walks stretch too long or we're in the sun a lot.  Adelaide likes the first ten minutes, then starts whining because I've made her walk and it's just not fair that her brothers get to ride in the fun wagon and she has to waaaaaalk. 

She usually stretches that last waaalk into at least four whiney syllables.  I could take our Sit'n Stand stroller and she could stand, but I like for her to get the exercise.  Plus that stroller gets really heavy when all three kids are in it. 

It's been pretty warm here lately, so it's nice to get out of our non-air-conditioned-heat-sauna house and enjoy the breeze.  Yesterday when I checked the weather online, I saw that it was 90 degrees outside here, but stopped feeling sorry for myself when I saw that it was 103 back in my hometown. 

I'm not sure how long it will take for Atticus to turn his love of going for walks into something to fear. 

Last week, I heard Atticus crying about an hour after Derek and I had put the kids to bed.  I marched up the stairs, opened the kids' bedroom door, and asked, "Atticus, why are you crying?"  He tearfully replied, "There's a m-m-m-m-" 

Here we go, I thought.  Another monster in the closet.

 "-m-m-m-marching band in the closet!"

"There's a marching band in the closet?"

"Yeah.  A scary marching band.  It scared me."

"A scary marching band scared you?"

"Yeah."

"Which closet is it in?"

He stretched out a shaky finger and pointed.  "That one."

During the last few weeks of the school year, in April and May, many mornings the kiddos and I would hear distant drumming.  It would get louder and louder, and Atticus and Adelaide would race down the stairs and onto the back deck to watch our local high school marching band as they walked past.  Adelaide would jump up and down, laughing, and Atticus would stare at them owlishly.  Marching bands began to crop up in their imaginary games throughout the day, and Atticus's new favorite book became My Crayons Talk, which features a "Grand, marching band!" 

So now, Atticus likes marching bands in the daytime and fears them at night.  I open doors to show him there are none hiding in his closets, nor are there any nefarious jazz bands or sinister string quartets. 

When I try to ask him about it during the day, he says robustly, "Marching bands don't scare me.  I not scared of marching bands."  And I say, "Good for you, bud.  You're such a brave boy."

Then I wonder what will lurk in their closet next.  An evil wagon, perhaps?

'Member That Time?

'Member that time (um, two weeks ago) when Adelaide and I were out weeding the flowers beds in the front yard and marveling at the size of one of our trees?  I don't know what kind of tree it is or exactly how big it is, but suffice it to say it's some kind of conifer and it is gigantic.  Adelaide started fretting that the tree might fall and smash our flowers, and I absentmindedly replied, "Honey, if you're going to worry about that tree falling, you should be worried about it crushing our house, not the flowers."  Now we get to hear her say things like, "I hope the tree doesn't fall and smash our house while we're at church," and "I hope the tree doesn't fall, smash our house, and kill us tonight while we sleep."



Don't you just love projecting your own fears onto innocent children?









Check out 'Member That Time Monday at the Van Voorst's.

Bibbidy-Bobbidy-Boo

A few weeks ago, I planted three little hills of Baby Boo pumpkins in the vegetable garden.  I put five seeds in each hill, and hoped all five would sprout so that I could keep the two strongest plants and thin the rest out.  Pretty standard, right?

So here we are, a few weeks later, and my seedlings are a couple inches tall.  I've been checking them every day, waiting until they look strong enough and I have some obvious front-runners.  Yesterday, I decided it was time to start thinning.  I straddled the fence surrounding the garden and finally made it in (the fence is a bit too tall for me), then crouched down and cast a critical eye on the first hill.  Just as I stretched my hand down to pluck the runtiest of the group, I thought I heard screams.

Little pumpkin screams.

Let me be clear.  I am neither a vegetarian nor a vegan.  I am not in any way opposed to hunting, as long you're not killing some endangered species.  Even then, I'm not going to be crying any rivers unless it's something really cute like dolphins or baby elephants.  I have no problem with killin' stuff.

Except, as it turns out, baby boo pumpkins.

Each time I reached toward those little pumpkin plants, I swear I heard wailing and screaming, and imagined their teeny tiny pumpkin roots clinching in fear, perhaps reaching for each other in a show of pumpkin solidarity. 

Eventually I worked up the nerve to pull one up- and immediately thought I heard more tiny screams and even a small voice yelling,   "Oh, the horror!  The horror!"

Then I told myself to snap out of it and pulled the rest up without incident, tossing each carcass over the fence with nary a compunction.

As I vaulted back over the fence and out of the garden, I shook my head at my own silliness, until... until...

... Until I came across the pile of victims.  And noticed that someone had gone and drawn a chalk outline around them.

Adelaide saw me staring in wonder, and piped up, "Doesn't that make an interesting shape, Mommy?" 

I stammered out a reply in the affirmative and admitted I'm going to have a heck of a time thinning out my zucchini next week.

The Joker

I am terrible at faking laughter.

It either sounds like I'm forcing a few wheezy chuckles out, or I get too enthusiastic and sound like I'm mocking someone.  This isn't much of an issue in my daily life- I've learned that if I don't think something is funny, I just have to smile politely, even if everyone else is laughing uproariously. 

A new problem has arisen.  Adelaide has started telling jokes.  They're not funny.

"Knock, knock."  Just those two words are enough to make my heart sink.  Being her mother, however, it falls under my realm of responsibility to play along.  So I reply, "Who's there?"

"Adelaide."

"Adelaide who?"

"Adelaide Crisler!"

First I try the restrained chuckle:  "Heh heh heh heh heh."

She's not convinced, however.  "Didn't you think that was funny, Mommy?"

"You know, honey, humor is such a subjective thing..."  I try not to lie to her, but I also don't want to hurt her feelings.

So she tries again.  "Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Candle made out of lightning."

"Candle made out of lightning who?"

"Cheese."

"HA HA HA HA HA HA!"  I try to mask my bewilderment by laughing like I've just heard the joke of the century.  What kind of punchline is 'cheese', anyway? 

I'm starting to think I've pulled it off, that maybe my fake laughter muscles are getting a little more toned, when Adelaide raises her eyebrows, looks at me sideways, and asks, "Mommy, what are you doing?"

"I'm laughing at your joke."

"That's not laughing- that's a weird yelling sound.  You kind of sound like you're hurt."

Perfect.

Memorial Day

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark the place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard among the guns below.

We are the Dead.  Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

-John McCrae