Sunday, November 29, 2009
Fillipo
Pete and I chose our first born's name carefully. We wanted something distinctive, ethnic and simple. It is his name, a perfect match for his strawberry blond hair, twinkly eyes and alabaster skin. But today he told me that if I'm going to make a habit of this blog thing, he wants me to grant him a little anonymity and refer to him here as Fillipo. It's so darn funny, I'm gonna go with it.
5. You must wear pants in the living room.
Yesterday my son Ethan disappeared for about an hour. Pete was going to go pick out a Christmas tree and went to the neighbor's house where E was playing to see if he wanted to come along. Thing is, Ethan had not previously asked if he could play inside the neighbor's house, and while he was there he was playing an M-rated video game. When he heard Pete's voice at the front door, he scurried out the back, fully expecting that if he'd been caught he would have been in trouble. He would have been. He was flagrantly breaking two rules (1. No going inside friends' houses without checking with Mom or Dad first; 2. Only E- and some T-rated video games). When he took off he left his jacket behind, so then he was breaking a third (3. No playing outside without some kind of jacket when the temperature is below 65 degrees).
Pete came home, figuring E had probably come here directly, but there was no sign of him. Inside about 20 minutes, we both had driven through our small neighborhood twice, calling his name and instinctively fearing the worst. There are several ponds in our sub-division. Railroad tracks are just the other side of a fence and up a sloping embankment. Four lanes of traffic separate us from the neighborhood where some other friends live. And he wasn't wearing a jacket. I counted on Ethan using his head and avoiding the trouble zones, but my mind went where it went.
Neighbors started spilling out onto their porches, some to observe, some to engage. Liam got on his bike (without a jacket - eye roll) and checked adjacent sub-divisions. Liam's guitar teacher, who was just wrapping up Liam's lesson when the drama began, joined the search. Nothing. So Pete called the police.
So just imagine for a second the kind of mental over-drive that creates. I mean, if the cops can't find him, can he be found? I paced the sidewalk, held Liam tight, kept my cool. I declined the option of going too far down the dark tunnels and I did not cry. I gave a police officer a description (Bears jersey, navy sweats, Bears Crocks) and showed her a picture I'd taken less than 90 minutes earlier. I considered the world that is my beautiful, dangerous Ethan.
Ethan has frequently been called things like, "A Handful." His entire life has had an intensity to it - lengthy hospitalizations as an infant, multiple injuries and ER visits, and a wicked-super-cuteness and sharp sense of humor that make him - to me anyway - completely irresistible. He's charming. He's a little mysterious. He is a rascal and he definitely has gotten away with a lot. He's also really empowered by the possibilities of independence and self-reliance. He’s confident, cocky even, but y’know, it ain’t braggin’ if it’s true. He’s a good little athlete and he’s smart. There’s a lot to be confident about. But he’s EIGHT. And I’m his MOM. So DUDE. There will be limits, and I will set them and when you push them, negotiations could get ugly.
Not only did I not cry, I may have even giggled a little, somehow expecting that this whole thing would resolve itself soon and become the latest chapter in the Book of E.
And sure enough, as fast as it came to a boil, it was over.
It's a strange thing, seeing your baby get out of the back seat of a squad car. His face went from frozen hard to blubbery squish as he ran across the street and into my arms. He didn't want to tell me where he'd been. He was embarrassed. I held him tight and we sat on the curb. He listened intently while the cop informed him of the trouble he'd caused (I thought she was a bit much, honestly, but I guess that's the cops' whole gig). I took my jacket off and wrapped it around him and then he began his confession. He'd been hiding in some bushes. He'd seen us drive right past him, heard us calling. He was afraid and pissed off about the trouble he'd most likely be in. Without a doubt, he knew he'd broken rules 1, 2 and 3... and as scary and real as the experience of his missing was for Pete and me, the experience of hiding was certainly scary and real for Ethan.
What I wanted then was a sweet, soothing kind of reunion. Some quiet, some tears, some apologizing and some forgiveness. Wrrrrrrrrap it up! But what I got was a tired, cranky, hungry little picky eater who agreed to try something new (cheese pizza - big whoop) but then turned up his nose and demanded an apple. Our house was so full of frayed nerves! One parenting drama bled into the next (and pretty swiftly turned into a marital thing too - natch), and the day just kept escalating. Weird! Really weird! Slamming doors and tantrums all around! (4. No slamming doors.)
Ethan went to bed hungry and upset. I just felt sad. And I had to wonder, what was he so afraid of that sent him running off in the first place? When I lose my temper I yell - and admittedly, the sound of my voice is pretty unpleasant when it hits a certain level. When our wills collide, I've been known to resort to a smack across his butt, a weakness of which I am deeply ashamed. Pete yells too, and frequently booms, "You're grounded!" (This pisses me off no end, because I'm invariably the one who ends up having to oversee the house arrest. Feels like I get grounded too.) Maybe it was simply that Ethan knew he'd been caught and there'd be something about that to deal with. I don't know what he made up about himself, about us, about the whole situation. I think the perceived threat was way scarier than the real thing, but from Ethan's view, who cares what I think? Thing is, whatever he does think, I know he's more than just a naughty kid and we are more than reactionaries. There is an opportunity for some transformation here as long as there's a willingness to bring it forth. I fear the growing pains - his, mine and ours - but I love this little boy so much and all I want for him is joy and adventure and the full expression of all that he is. Negotiations could get ugly.
This morning I fantasized about slices of toast with strawberry jam. I figured Ethan would be just hungry enough to go for it. He opted for two bowls of cereal... and then he threw up. A few times.
The next parenting drama. And life goes on.
Pete came home, figuring E had probably come here directly, but there was no sign of him. Inside about 20 minutes, we both had driven through our small neighborhood twice, calling his name and instinctively fearing the worst. There are several ponds in our sub-division. Railroad tracks are just the other side of a fence and up a sloping embankment. Four lanes of traffic separate us from the neighborhood where some other friends live. And he wasn't wearing a jacket. I counted on Ethan using his head and avoiding the trouble zones, but my mind went where it went.
Neighbors started spilling out onto their porches, some to observe, some to engage. Liam got on his bike (without a jacket - eye roll) and checked adjacent sub-divisions. Liam's guitar teacher, who was just wrapping up Liam's lesson when the drama began, joined the search. Nothing. So Pete called the police.
So just imagine for a second the kind of mental over-drive that creates. I mean, if the cops can't find him, can he be found? I paced the sidewalk, held Liam tight, kept my cool. I declined the option of going too far down the dark tunnels and I did not cry. I gave a police officer a description (Bears jersey, navy sweats, Bears Crocks) and showed her a picture I'd taken less than 90 minutes earlier. I considered the world that is my beautiful, dangerous Ethan.
Ethan has frequently been called things like, "A Handful." His entire life has had an intensity to it - lengthy hospitalizations as an infant, multiple injuries and ER visits, and a wicked-super-cuteness and sharp sense of humor that make him - to me anyway - completely irresistible. He's charming. He's a little mysterious. He is a rascal and he definitely has gotten away with a lot. He's also really empowered by the possibilities of independence and self-reliance. He’s confident, cocky even, but y’know, it ain’t braggin’ if it’s true. He’s a good little athlete and he’s smart. There’s a lot to be confident about. But he’s EIGHT. And I’m his MOM. So DUDE. There will be limits, and I will set them and when you push them, negotiations could get ugly.
Not only did I not cry, I may have even giggled a little, somehow expecting that this whole thing would resolve itself soon and become the latest chapter in the Book of E.
And sure enough, as fast as it came to a boil, it was over.
It's a strange thing, seeing your baby get out of the back seat of a squad car. His face went from frozen hard to blubbery squish as he ran across the street and into my arms. He didn't want to tell me where he'd been. He was embarrassed. I held him tight and we sat on the curb. He listened intently while the cop informed him of the trouble he'd caused (I thought she was a bit much, honestly, but I guess that's the cops' whole gig). I took my jacket off and wrapped it around him and then he began his confession. He'd been hiding in some bushes. He'd seen us drive right past him, heard us calling. He was afraid and pissed off about the trouble he'd most likely be in. Without a doubt, he knew he'd broken rules 1, 2 and 3... and as scary and real as the experience of his missing was for Pete and me, the experience of hiding was certainly scary and real for Ethan.
What I wanted then was a sweet, soothing kind of reunion. Some quiet, some tears, some apologizing and some forgiveness. Wrrrrrrrrap it up! But what I got was a tired, cranky, hungry little picky eater who agreed to try something new (cheese pizza - big whoop) but then turned up his nose and demanded an apple. Our house was so full of frayed nerves! One parenting drama bled into the next (and pretty swiftly turned into a marital thing too - natch), and the day just kept escalating. Weird! Really weird! Slamming doors and tantrums all around! (4. No slamming doors.)
Ethan went to bed hungry and upset. I just felt sad. And I had to wonder, what was he so afraid of that sent him running off in the first place? When I lose my temper I yell - and admittedly, the sound of my voice is pretty unpleasant when it hits a certain level. When our wills collide, I've been known to resort to a smack across his butt, a weakness of which I am deeply ashamed. Pete yells too, and frequently booms, "You're grounded!" (This pisses me off no end, because I'm invariably the one who ends up having to oversee the house arrest. Feels like I get grounded too.) Maybe it was simply that Ethan knew he'd been caught and there'd be something about that to deal with. I don't know what he made up about himself, about us, about the whole situation. I think the perceived threat was way scarier than the real thing, but from Ethan's view, who cares what I think? Thing is, whatever he does think, I know he's more than just a naughty kid and we are more than reactionaries. There is an opportunity for some transformation here as long as there's a willingness to bring it forth. I fear the growing pains - his, mine and ours - but I love this little boy so much and all I want for him is joy and adventure and the full expression of all that he is. Negotiations could get ugly.
This morning I fantasized about slices of toast with strawberry jam. I figured Ethan would be just hungry enough to go for it. He opted for two bowls of cereal... and then he threw up. A few times.
The next parenting drama. And life goes on.
Friday, November 27, 2009
procrastinating
So much to do... but I can't tear myself away from Say Yes To The Dress. Are these gowns with sheer bodices for real?
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