the world of everett

If you're hoping for more about Everett, try checking out Blogging Baby, where I write about him often.

April 23, 2006 - the burgeoning boy -

I remember being pregnant with Everett, and I remember thinking about how well I would mother him, how he'd rarely watch TV and never play video games and how we'd spend the weekends mountain biking, maybe he'd be in the little seat on the back of the bike, maybe he'd have his own bike. We'd read poetry together and do endless crafty projects and bake cookies and dance to La Vida Loca.

And it's not that he's nothing like the boy I imagined. But things have definitely not gone as planned. Take TV for one, and video games, for two. He's spent this entire day either playing the games from his Best of Thomas DVD on the television, or on the computer. Or, complaining about it.

It was a beautiful, sunny, breezy April day. It was a Sunday, and we should have had a picnic or a bike ride down the waterfront or a roll down a hill. But something in him was fiercely committed to media today, and though I lured him onto the back porch for 20 minutes of soccer, he bathed in multimedia the rest of the day.

Although this disappoints me terrifically, this media addiction, I'm struggling to remember that I might have chosen a similar path when I was his age. And he is his own person. He's not me, and I'll never convince him to become a collage artist or a quilter or even a chef.

Please don't think that this is all he ever does, my spirited boy. Many days are spent running and running and running, around the house, around the park, around the track. We go on errands together and we race the four blocks to the grocery store - Everett getting in invisible starting blocks every 40 feet or so and asking me to get in mine. We dance together, and he studies the moves of other dancers, whether they be The Backyardigans or The Incredibles or the chorus on West Side Story. His execution is amazing, a dramatic and wiggly interpretation that always blows my mind (I'm signing him up for musical theatre as soon as I can afford it).

He loves to move, and even when he's sitting in front of the TV most of the day, he's never entirely still. And he loves to read books with me, but God forbid I steal him away from a good episode of Spongebob Square Pants to assault him with a book!

He's developing into his own little human being, and he's silly and dramatic and wonderful. But I'm doing almost nothing to effect the little soul I had so firmly in mind. He's his own sculptor, this boy, and my hands seem to barely touch the clay.

December 18, 2005 - why i took everett out of preschool -

I wrote about my decision to take Everett out of preschool at Blogging Baby. You should read it.

I'll say a few more things about my decision, here. I've been thinking a ton about it since receiving a bunch of supportive and interesting comments.

A few commenters mentioned when someone called the "tea party mentality" of many modern preschools. I think that mentality is thoroughly reflected in the Montessori programs I so wish my son was right for. I think that philosophy is firmly espoused by the teacher of the program Everett was a part of, as well as most of the children who attended.

Let me stop here and say that the tea party mentality is perfectly o.k. - for other parents. I admire it from afar. But I am not now, never was, never will be, a tea party parent.

I remember the weekend I decided I was ready to become a parent. I was visiting a couple that I'd only met a few times, friends of my ex-boyfriend's. They had a little boy, a redhead named Owen. He and I spent the morning chasing around the living room, much to his delight and the relieved sighs of his parents, 'cause someone else was helping him expend his energy.

I'm a little zany and energetic, I like to play games where I lift the boys up with my legs while I'm lying on the floor. They giggle wildly as I "fly" them around the mama sky. I let Everett jump on my back, sometimes, hurtling across the living room and landing on me, often knocking me over. I try not to get too mad 'cause if I was his age? That's what I would have wanted to do, too.

It's partly my fault and partly biology. My boys - especially Everett - haven't the nature or the nurture to channel their energy in a prim preschool class, four hours at a time, at this age. They need to take yoga and karate and track. They need to be getting their exercise, their nutrition, and a (*sigh*) better schedule.

I've been working so, so hard on the scheduling. It's not going super well. Today I was upset at Everett's daddy in the morning, he was too tired after working 'til 2 a.m. to get up for church. I needed his help, I wailed. Everett made a point of trying to make me laugh, told me he'd be good and not run off. He went to church and was good. He spent an hour chasing around the building with Simon, his favorite 11-year-old.

When we left, it was starting to snow, big excitement in the childrens' world. Everett was giddy. After he got too cold to dance around in the icy wonder any more, licking the air, and the steps, I asked if he wanted to go on errands with me. He did.

We headed out in the big important cold weather, talking about things and working together. We made it to Pastaworks (no wine bottles knocked off or broken... no screaming for candy... no unacceptable whining). We went to Powell's and he asked to go potty, going successfully without accident, even though we had to wait... then he only stayed 20 minutes, and agreed to leave without major complaint.

And then. Then Fred Meyer, the last little thing I needed. We were waylaid by the toy department. He wouldn't leave. I wouldn't stay all. day. looking at each separate toy. Cut to seven minutes later. I'm holding his limbs with all my might as he screams at the top of his lungs for me to let him go back to the toys. Cut to 20 minutes later. He's still crying, desperate, hot, sad. Another few minutes and he asks to "rest" on the floor. He's worn himself out. He wants me to pick him up. And everything is fine. He loves me, he puts his head on my shoulder sweetly. After 20 minutes of screaming, kicking, desperate anger.

We go home, we talk about it, I make sure he eats. I'm sure his blood sugar snapped and he couldn't control himself. If he was at preschool? This would have come out as agression toward the other kids, instead of at me. And instead of a terrific sense of embarrassment and concern that someone might call child services on me, I'd be left with once again having to feel terrible that another parent wanted to move her child from Everett's day so he wouldn't be such a bad influence.

For now, I think, he belongs at home. Where I can rule with an iron fist and a forgiving pair of shins. Where some days, I can let him sleep in and eat cookies for breakfast. Where we can use Nick Jr. and PBS Kids as preschool.

Plus, he can already spell his name and sing the alphabet song with perfect pitch. What more do you need from preschool?

November 4, 2005 - he's a really, really sweet (and zany) kid -

Everett seems to have turned an invisible corner in the past week, from terror to sweetie. Oh, he's still a sometimes-terror, just not an all-the-time terror.

For instance, his relationship with his brother has progressed from aggressive love mixed with full-on aggression to some actual loving tenderness. In the car, Everett's been getting more and more patient with Truman's occasional fits. In fact, he's singing to his brother when he fusses. If it doesn't calm him? He says, frustrated but still patient, "Mom! It's not working!" and keeps trying.

This is not the child I knew. As he cycles through the ABC song to a made-up ballad about where we're going, to nonsense words, and back to ABCs, I wipe away tears in the front seat. And vow to someday get a really expensive radio boom in the car so I can record this in hi-def.

I yearn to grab, hold onto the good moments, because the bad moments are so bad. I go back and look at photos of him, taken in those quiet moments between the two of us - when Truman was sleeping, or home with daddy. He's melancholy, soulful, yearning. He's got so much sadness wrapped up in his bombastic silly exuberance.

He gets up in the middle of the night, late, when I'm sitting at my computer (make-a-puter, it's still called), sobbing a little because he's alone, and scared. He comes down the stairs, cuddles, sticks his feet under my legs to keep warm. He snakes one hand under my bicep, or around my back. He begs for books, for more love, and I so wish I had a little more to give him.

November 02, 2005 - tales of a Halloween freak -

Everett so loves Halloween that it took us weeks to decide what he'd be. Finally he told me he wanted to be baby Jaguar (from Go, Diego, Go and Dora the Explorer fame). I had an idea. "Could Truman be baby Jaguar, and you could be Diego?" I asked, thinking of the vest I'd recently bought him to make him so, so much like Diego.

"We can both be baby Jag-water!" Everett said happily. And so on the eve of Halloween (literally, the late afternoon of Halloween day) I sat at my sewing machine with a yard of fake fur (jaguar? leopard? who knows) making tails and spots. It was terrifically cute, and terribly last-minute. Luckily, Everett had fallen fast asleep.

On any other day, he would have snoozed 'til 8, but tonight was Halloween, so I woke my little hobgoblin, fixed what little I could with his costume, and we headed out into the drizzle. He remembered the "trick or treat!" from last year but had to be coached on the "thank-you"s and on how not to respond to the well-meaning question, "oh, are you a little tiger?" (hint: it's not "I'm NOT a TIGER!" and, don't tigers have STRIPES people?)

Soon Truman was asleep and headed home with Auntie Erin while Everett learned grown-up sayings like, "oh, those are GREAT costumes!" to a group of eight-year-olds, and "actually, I'm a BABY JAGWATER." He got lots of candy and quickly figured out how to get the kind he wanted. The round kind (Reese's) was his favorite, although given the opportunity, he'd take a carefully-selected handful.

We trick-or-treated until the lights were starting to turn off and the signs "out of candy" became more and more frequent. As we turned the corner onto our street, Everett said in such a grown-up voice, "And I thought it was going to be more scary!" He can't wait for next year.

October 29, 2005 - the huge, inconceivably difficult, long, drawn-out potty training post -

We've been "working" on this potty-training thing for nearly a year now, or maybe an entire year. And I've learned a lot, it's been entirely frustrating, and it's not even over yet. I now have so firmly subscribed the the idea of potty training boot camp - I can't remember whose idea was it, maybe Jen's? or Stefania's? Either way, I'm sure we'll all be sending all future children.

We started talking about potty training when Everett was not-yet-two-and-a-half and I was hoping to get him into preschool ASAP. All the preschools I'd identified as my favorites, though, mandated potty training for their kids. While the definition of potty training varied - from "he's had one poop in the potty, once" to "mostly completely trained" - we were nowhere. Zero. Zilch.

We'd already obtained a potty, a potty seat that fits on the toilet, a potty book, and various anecdotes and stories of children potty trained at enormously young ages. Willow, his precocious friend three months his junior, had already pooped on the potty, lots. (She subsequently regressed thanks to the birth of her baby brother... but that comes in later.)

What I knew, from reading books and all those uber-helpful web sites, and from everyone who'd been there, was that potty training can't be forced. Kids just have to train when they're ready. What I also knew: stressful life events can delay potty training. Hmmm, what's stressful you ask? Maybe... a parent being gone for several months in basic training. Maybe... a pregnant mother. Maybe... a pregnant mother on bed rest. Maybe... said parent returning from training and causing a shift in the level of discipline. Maybe... a new baby being born. Etc.

[click through for the Rest Of The Story]

October 19, 2005 - misappropriation and cute saying day -

On Blogging Baby, I've declared it high time to record all those great misappropriations and cute sayings that will surely leave my mortal brain within the next seven minutes if I don't transfer them to bits and bytes.

September 05, 2005 - loving my three-year-old -

Three is such a rough age. I've discovered that antagonism that I pooh-poohed when Everett's language was still so sweet. I've come to the point where I actually fight with my son, where we look at each other, teeth clenched, eyes wide, tempers boiling. We're so much alike, both so stubborn, both so easily forgivable.

It's a constant pattern: Everett gets bored, or wants attention. He asks for it, quietly, with a minorly aggressive gesture. I don't give him enough, or fast enough, and it erupts. He hits me, or screams, or hits his brother. And we spiral. I shout, threaten punishment, turn off the TV, refuse to play his game. He tries some of his other tricks. I tell him "I'm done with you!" and move to take him to his room. He immediately kowtows, literally kissing my ankles (or whatever's in easiest reach).

I know what needs to happen here, and it's not easy - nor is it complex. Everett needs more, and better, attention. Although preschool will help - I think a more present mama will also help. I need to get organized, to do my work in short bursts, during naps and favorite TV programs. I need to then shut off the TV, avoiding those commercials that prompt "I want that toy!" (or even better, "I want...what is that? yeah, I want it!")

It's time for more, and better, activities. For park trips in which Everett really gets to play. For playdates while Truman's napping. For reading more books every day, for doing arts and crafts, for scheduled outings.

Oh, I'm not an awful mom, we bake together and read a lot and we've started to just lie on the floor and talk sometimes - about imagination, and fears, and made-up stories involving trains, ghosts, dinosaurs and dragons (yes, usually all in the same story). We dance and make up (terrible, tuneless, barely rhyming) songs. But I'm not doing it enough, and too often I'm saying, "when I'm done with my work we'll..." or "after Truman's done eating I'll..."

I'm not entirely sure that better attention is possible. But I sure need to try.

September 04, 2005 - preschool -

"What do you do at preschool, Everett?" someone asked at church today.

"Ummm...wash my hands, and play."

So it is. Everett is loving his new preschool, and he's learning stuff. Mostly, he's learned to wash his hands. He's also learned the finer points of red light, green light.

The hand-washing wasn't easy. Jenny, the teacher, insisted that he wash his hands before snack and lunch. And he wasn't going for it the first few days. He waited until he was absolutely starving, and wouldn't sit down. Finally, the fourth day, he told me on the drive to preschool, "I don't want to wash my hands before I have a snack." And that day, he did wash his hands, and it wasn't an issue again.

So far, he hasn't learned much (the curriculum begins this week). But he's loved it, and he's so good about putting things away before he leaves instead of screaming that he wants to take them home - and we've only had one major separation issue, and it wasn't the separation from me. It was separation from preschool. His second day, he screamed for 20 minutes before he'd let me buckle him in his car seat. Jenny patiently helped us, and I have to explain further because it was brilliant - and so, so not something that's easy for a parent to do.

Everett refused to sit down in his seat, and my strength could only manage to get him in the car; getting into the seatbelt was another matter altogether. Instead of making it a struggle of wills, Jenny picked a plum off the tree and offered it to him. "You'll have to sit down in your seat to eat it, though," she said quietly. "It's very juicy and it would be messy if you're not sitting down." When Everett refused to sit, she'd offer the plum to Ananya (her daughter), or me. We'd all eaten two or three plums each by the time Everett finally settled down and sat in his seat, of his own accord.

Here is why this works: the power struggle went away. It was no longer a battle between Everett and I to see who was stronger, and whether or not we could get his seatbelt on. It was a decision, that he was free to make, or not, about whether or not he wanted to eat a plum. A completely new issue that had nothing to do with leaving his beloved preschool.

Since that day, we haven't had an issue. He never wants to leave, but instead of me having to carry him kicking and screaming out of the door, we usually find a toy that he wants to hide in a special place for next time. He makes sure his toy is safe, and we're on our way. He's being so good. And then we get home... but that's another story.

August 24, 2005 - did I say something about potty? -

Well, Everett understands potty vernacular now. "I went potty, that means I get chocolate?" is his favorite refrain. Hershey's chocolate kisses were daddy's idea, and they have proved to be excellent bribes. Except. Except that they're limited to potty situations that fit Everett's parameters. For instance:

So, if we can just go around naked, and wide awake, and stay in our house for the rest of our lives, well, Everett is potty trained. Oh, that is, if he never needs to poop again.

In other words, Everett is not potty trained. Stefania suggests that I might need to spend some quality alone time with him - i.e. attention - to "cure" him of his accidents. While this might work, I've been sporadic at best.

July 30, 2005 - potty works, whee!-

Everett and I have been talking 'bout the potty for well over seven months now. I had this theory that he could be potty trained by two-and-a-half. Ummm, no.

We talked, we read, we sat him on the potty at all hours of the day, we begged, pleaded, bribed, and promised. I'd say we tried every method out there. Except: the naked method.

The other day I was supremely disgusted to discover that Everett had peed through his diaper. He's just too big to wear diapers anymore, I decided. Naked was the way to go.

For three mornings running, I tried leaving him naked after taking off his overnight diaper in the morning. Day one: he sat on the potty and told me his "pee is stuck in my pen1s." Yeah, that happens, don't it? Performance anxiety, I thought. Day two: he goes one minute sans diaper and asks for one. It's more convenient to be diaper-ful today, so I let him be.

And now we're at day three: in which he stays naked. His first effort, while I'm in the other room, is a partial success. Two (large-ish) piles of poop mark a trail toward the potty. I instruct him to sit on the potty for the rest, and sure enough: a golf-ball sized splot of poop. We clean up and praise him, giving him his giraffe stamp.

The rest of the day passes without accident, and entirely without bribery. He doesn't even ask for another giraffe stamp. Twice, he doesn't even mention that he's gone poop. I'm thinking about switching entirely to the matter-of-fact response to his potty success. I hesitate to count my chickens, but - eight hours, no diaper, no accidents. I couldn't be more pleased.

The naked potty training method rules. All hail the naked method. And all hail my three-year-and-two-week old who - in eight hours - is potty trained!

July 28, 2005 - inbidible-

The other day I wrote about our family lexicon at mama's site. And I have to put in a good word for my inbidible boy.

Everett has lots of go-to words for really good stuff. There are the "totally rad moves" and "was that a cool rad move mama?" from Backyardigans "surf's up" episode. Then there's "inbidible," which, as far as I can tell, is from "invisible" but means more like, "incredible," or "super-duper-totally-cool" or some such magical concept. Everett has to "do inbidible" and ask, "is that inbidible, mama?" and tell me, "you have to do inbidible!"

We're also learning about imagination, which is, as far as Everett knows, when the crab goes scratch-scratch at his window, trying to break the window and get in (a particularly vivid dream he had one night). And when the ghosts try to come out of the hole. And when the thousands of scary things happen, that aren't real. "Is that imagination, mama?" he says, inflecting liltingly and enunciating beautifully.

In my imagination, despite my constant frustration with Everett's temper and stubbornness, all the world is inbidible. Now, let's see some totally rad moves!

July 14, 2005 - thomas party-

I've promised Everett a "Thomas party" for his birthday in - whoa, I'm totally not ready for this - TWO DAYS! And it wasn't until late last night that I got around to sending out invitations for said party. Have I done anything to get ready? Umm, no.

Poor kid is getting a reverse case of second-child syndrome. Or maybe that's, first-child-who's-so-independent-and-mama's-working-hard-and-worrying-about- things-other-than-cute-invitations-for-his-birthday syndrome.

In any case, if you're wondering, Everett's birthday party will be held at the same place as last year - Kenilworth Park, 34th and Holgate, at the wading pool, this Saturday around noon. We'll be posting an invitation later today.

July 13, 2005 - i was scared of the clip!-

"I was scared of the clip!" That's Everett's opening line these days. He says it as a hello to Grandpa (even for the third time in two days he'd seen him). He says it when introduced to a "friend" at the park. He says it when asked if he wants stickers at Trader Joe's. He yells it to the people walking past our house.

He actually means "cliff." And the cliff in question was a spectacular one in the Columbia Gorge near the edge of which the Hood River Railroad runs. It was pulled, that lovely day in late June, by Thomas the Tank Engine.

We had been planning the "Day Out with Thomas" for months. Everett, as you probably know, adores Thomas the train. He knows all there is to know about Thomas and his friends. We thought that taking him on the actual Thomas train would send him over the moon. We thought he'd never stop talking about it.

Well, we were partly right. The cliff frightened him so much that it wiped out any glow from riding in a coach behind Thomas. Did he want to go ride on Thomas again? No. He was done. He still loves Thomas, he just has no desire to ride on his train.

The good news? Everett is so good at talking through his feelings. All the world's a therapist. I'm so proud of my little metrosexual...

July 10, 2005 - sleep stories -

"Mom, it's bedtime!"

Has a sweeter sound ever touched my ears? I think not.

Hard on the heels of our discipline crackdown, Everett has taken to going to bed in his own bed like an absolute champ. For those of you who haven't been keeping up, Everett's been sleeping with us in our not-so-royal queen-sized bed pretty much since birth. He spent a few uncomfortable months in and out of his crib, but he was always much happier with us.

Well, after the Incident a few weeks ago (this was the one where Everett, Truman and I were bussing in the evening and...oh, I can't even write about it, it's too painful...it involved lots of screaming, running nearly a block away while an entire busful of tired people waited, and a temper tantrum on the bus floor) I've decided that it is high time he went to bed every night in his own bed. At first I thought it wouldn't work out - that he'd be down in our bed by 1 a.m.

But the first night I had a talk with him, explaining how he was a big boy, and big boys slept in their own beds, and wasn't that cool! And the next morning I woke up and he was still in his bed.

It hasn't been like that every night, but he's almost unfailingly been going to bed without crying and carrying on. We work together to clean up his toys; I ask if he wants anything to eat or drink; we go upstairs and brush his teeth; we read a book and he lies down. There's a bit of begging and pleading for more books and toys to bring to bed, but it's not frantic, and I tuck him in and leave him happy. And he just falls asleep. That's it. No begging or crying or telling me his diaper needs to be changed (minutes after changing the last one).

It almost makes me feel like A Good Mama. And it sure makes for a nice hour or two before his brother gets his place in the bed for the night... Ahh, the cycle begins again.

June 25, 2005 - bad vs. good-

There's not an almost three-year-old in the world who couldn't occasionally be accused of schizophrenic behavior. Everett's no exception for sure.

See, we've been introducing a heavy dose of discipline into the mix. I've struggled to implement a "love and logic" parenting style, but given the way my patience has been tested over the past few months, I'm heading straight into the "spare the rod" camp. OK, I'm still using plenty of love, but punishment is coming a lot easier to me for sure.

So we've had to have lots of talks about how Everett has been bad (today, running away from me; hitting me with a stick; running away from me; screaming "no" when I told him to come back here right now; running away from me; hitting his friend Jackson for taking a train; running away from me. You see a theme here?). These talks often take place in his room, where he's sent for misbehaving. Some days, he spends a lot of time in his room. While he does have toys in his room, he knows he's being punished, and resists the room banishment. And he knows what he's done. Take today, when he'd been punished for running away when I was trying to get him and Truman in the car after our doomed visit to Jackson's house.

After Everett had been up in his room for 15 minutes or so, Aunt Erin got home, and went upstairs to put her things away. A few minutes later she came downstairs and related their conversation to me. "Are you putting away your books, Everett?" she asked. "I'm so proud of you!"

"I'm proud of me, too, but I'm BAD!" he said.

He's bad, and he knows it. Isn't that the first step?

June 19, 2005 - the haircut-

We were arguing, daddy and I, about my instructions. I said that he should ask the person cutting Everett's hair to "keep the curls but just make it shorter all over." Jonathan thought that wasn't necessarily possible and wanted a backup plan. What? Just cut it shorter, I thought, but no buzzcuts please!

Everett came back and he had his curls, all right. His bangs were barely touched - those bangs that always get in his face so the poor boy has to push them aside. Those bangs were long and curly. He also had a little bit of a point in the very back; the curls at the base of his neck had also been preserved.

He looked, I thought, like a 40-year-old woman. Or an angry rock star. A bass player, I think. Others say it's cute. What do you think?


everett, before and after the Haircut

June 7, 2005 - developmental sweetness-

I wish I could record all of our conversations. It's so hard not to laugh, sometimes, when he says something that really should make me mad, or sad, but only makes me want to guffaw.

Like today. I think this is a developmental step of about-three-year-olds, wanting to try out his parent's go-to phrases. The ones that are meant to end an argument. I was backing up daddy, saying that he either had to help his dad clean the room, and get a treat, or get no treat. "Those are your choices," I said firmly.

Right away he came back to me. "But you need to get me a treat, mama. That's your choices!" I had to hide behind my laptop screen, I was cracking up so.

Later he told me that he wanted to sit with me. "That's your choices, mama!" he said, firmly, cheerfully. Oh, dear.

The other thing I love right now is how he's verbally testing what's appropriate, when someone has crossed a line into wrong, or silly. And it's so cute how he's doing it. "That guy can't take off his clothes and sleep on that table, no! NO!" he says, giggling and shaking his head the whole time (I was Google imaging "drunk" for a story).

The way he says this? Is the absolute cutest possible thing you can imagine. It's cute, and silly, and happy, and just so smart. And the limits he's testing are so concrete, and so comprehensive. He's really trying to figure out what should and shouldn't be, and it's charming as all get-out.

May 28, 2005 - toddler ocd -

Do all toddlers suffer from some form of obsessive-compulsive disorder? We were discussing this at a birthday party today, where all of our children were displaying their unique desire for order, whether it be to avoid dirty hands at all costs or to organize all daddy's nails.

Everett has OCD in a big way. He has to have things set out just the way he wants them. He could scatter rocks all over the floor in a fit of exuberance, but when he works a puzzle, he first takes out all the pieces and lies them in a neat line, one after another, and works through the line one by one. I bought him a deck of cards at a resale shop ("52 great books") and he lined them up all around the edge of our coffee table.

He's like this with so many of his toys and belongings, even though his bedroom is typically a disaster area. Every single last bit of play food is in the oven, cooking endlessly ("it's not READY yet!" he'll wail if one of his friends tries to take the food out before its time). His trains can be found with all of the engines lined up next to one another, each one with its own coaches (and God forbid you lose a coal car, he'll be asking for it forever). His shoes are neater than mama and daddy's shoes, and he puts his own away.

Even when he makes messes, they are orderly messes. And if he drops a thousand little pieces of something, whether it's fish crackers or tiny bits of "coal" for his trains, he'll sob unless he's allowed to pick every last one up. I'm simultaneously delighted and maddened by his toddler OCD...but in the end, nothing charms me more than to wake up to a dozen little cars lined up next to each other along the edge of the mattress. "It's wake-up time," he'll whisper to me. Indeed.

May 24, 2005 - brotherly love -

Here's how the conversation about Truman goes.

Everett "Can I pet her?"

mama "Of course, you can pet him."

Everett pets Truman's head so softly

Everett "Can I give her a little hug?"

mama "Yes, you can hug Truman."

Everett gently puts his arms around Truman as he sits breastfeeding

Everett "But can I give her a little kiss?"

mama "Yes, you can give him a kiss."

Everett kisses whatever part of Truman is nearest him

How can you not weep big tears over that? And then, Everett jumps on the couch, barely missing landing on his tiny baby brother with all the weight of his 43-and-then-some pounds.

May 14, 2005 - becoming a big brother -

Everett's growing up. There's no doubt about that. Given his recent morph into a big brother, he's also regressing in some annoying ways.

I'm simultaneously delighted by his cuteness and grown-upness, and mourning the loss of my toddler, and frustrated over his complete lack of control-ability.

Take that word, "frustrated." Everett's been using that word, only it's variously "fraid" and "rated." And he knows exactly what it means. Like today. We went to the farmer's market, me for some strange reason thinking it would be possible to control Everett and carry Truman and some delicious farm-fresh delicacies. Not! Anyway, I would ask him to go my way, and he would yell that he was going his way, and stomp his whole body in his unique 3-year-old way, and tell me that he was "fraid with you!"

The big brother thing is simultaneously wonderful and terrible. He's terrifically sweet with Truman, asking if he can pet him, giving him hugs and kisses fit to beat the band. He wants to hold him and giggles over how cute his little feet and little toes are. But then...

He's terrible with mama and daddy, lashing out, having what seems like terrific separation anxiety if I so much as walk to the door with my bag. "I wanna go WITH you!" he'll wail. If anyone but me tries to comfort a crying Everett, or offer him something when he's tired, he'll scream, "NO, my MAMA!" and run around desperately searching for me, tripping over things and losing his way in his terror. He hits me. And bites me. And showers me with kisses and cuddles and has to touch me every minute. And then it's back to defiance.

And then someone will talk to Everett about Truman, and it's all sweetness again. "Do you have a little baby brother there?" a man at the doughnut shop asked. "No, it's just Truman!" he said happily.

I love the two of them together, but it's exhausting. I'm looking very forward to the day when they really can play together, and Everett knows I'm not leaving him for the new baby, and this is all over. When will that be again?

May 13, 2005 - catch phrases -

In my "is this normal big brother behavior?" conversation today, Everett's pediatrician asked me today if he had catch phrases. The statements he returns to again and again in arguments, his "final say." Boy does he.

May 10, 2005 - growing up? or not -

Today was our first solo outing, just the three of us. Everett and Truman and I went to Mabel's to meet Larissa for some pre-Sebastian knitting time.

I showed Everett the options for snacks - cinnamon roll, muffin, pie, lemon pound cake. "Would you like a cinnamon roll, a piece of pie, or cake?" I asked. "I like CAKE!" he responded, enthusiastically. "On a plate!"

We got cake on a plate, and he ate a bite or two. Then started asking to 'share' Larissa's chips. She let him share, and he proceeded to hand her one or two of her chips back. He kept asking to go up and look at the food some more. The first time, we nabbed the cinnamon roll (again to 'share' with Larissa - she got two bites). As soon as that was respectably picked-over, he wanted more.

What was left? Only a muffin. Reluctantly, I bought it and put it on a plate. He ate a tiny nibble from the corner, rolling his eyes in ecstasy. "It's deee-licious!" he says. Minutes later, we were melting down, all of us. Larissa was considering going into labor and Everett was considering a gigantic screaming fit.

So Everett and Truman and I went on a 'run' around the block. Everett was being adorable, telling me which trees were his size (the one I couldn't duck under) and which were mama's size. He just looked so big. And all of the sudden, he told me something about a "kitchen," only he said it right, not "chicken" as he usually calls it (he switches the consonsant sounds on most words that start with a hard "c" sound and have a "ch" sound in the middle, like "checkup" for "ketchup"). And I thought, oh, my little boy is growing up.

But then he switched right back to his old pronunciation, and went right back to being a little pill. I suppose I have some time, yet.

April 28, 2005 - big brother -

Everett became a big brother today! Truman was born at 6:24 p.m. today. He weighed exactly the same as Everett did at birth - 7 pounds, 7 ounces. He's also just as cute as Everett. Check out: Everett and Truman, compared.


all my boys

administrative note-during the fall, mama didn't keep everett's web site up very well, mostly because she put all her everett energy into daddy's letters and truman's journey. I may go back and reinvent the past at some point, just for fun.