Thursday, March 27, 2008

While taking the long way to school this morning I hear Miles say: "Me found school bus store."

I look around but see only medical buildings.

He says it again, and points left. "Two bus store" is what I hear this time.

I mull it over. "Yeah?" I say, eager to acknowledge his eagle eye vision, but I am struggling to make sense of what a bus store is. Pizza Store is the pizzeria; Tractor Store is either Home Depot, Lowe's or Tractor Supply Company. I am befuddled by Bus Store.

This time, with more gusto, he says, "Brush Your Teeth Store, Momma, me found it. Back dare."

And then I realized we had just passed my dentist's office. Toothbrush store, that's what he was trying to tell me. I'd taken him with me last month for my check-up, my first in almost a year, and we walked out with two new toothbrushes in hand. We hadn't passed this way in some time.

Eagle eyes.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Consonant Confusion

This week, according to Miles:

Barn and farm rhyme. The terminal M sound is very prevalent in our language, at least in our home. Telephome! is what he calls when my handbag or jacket pocket chimes. Often he'll sing, "Wheels on bus go opem and shut..."

A shellph is what you might find Sally selling down by the seashore.

Chicken rhymes with turkey and baloney.

There was one more, I will post again when I can remember it.

For anyone who's counting, Miles has up to five babies in his belly. One is Jack, the other is Baby Jack, and three, four and five are as yet unnamed.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

A few months ago, Miles crept into bed with us at 6 am. He sneezed and I whispered “God bless you.” In his early morning creaky voice, he said, “Bleshyou too, Momma.”

Yesterday I chirped “Morning!” at the site of him in his footsie pajamas. “Morning toooo,” he lingered as he hugged me.

This afternoon, right before his nap, I told him how proud I was of the way he shared toys at a kiddy party we had just attended. I told him how I really liked his friends but that I especially loved him.

“You know why I super duper love you?” I asked, leaning in for a final kiss, hoping it would help send him off to sleep. “Because you are my son.”

“You’re my son, toooooooooooo,” he said, patting me gently on the back.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

On Thursday night I knocked over a reading lamp in our bedroom.

From downstairs, on the couch, Miles heard it crash.

He looked wide-eyed at his dad, clapped his palms to his face, and said, Fuck!

Damn me and my potty mouth.

Monday, March 03, 2008

One morning last week, I saw something that reminded me of my dead mother-in-law Lorraine. She passed away about a year ago. I still cry when I think of her.

I was in the closet collecting laundry when I saw a hint of a greeting card that she gave me years ago.

That’s all it took to get me hurling through time, re-living past moments and re-scripting last conversations.

In general I am so good about letting dying people go. Last week however, I was not so open-hearted about Lorraine’s departure. I was irrational. I was sad and lonely and angry. I re-felt the pain of the loss of her, my mom and my father.

I did not express my turmoil quietly or gracefully.

I scooped up an armful of dirty clothes and wailed through my sorrow. I headed down two flights of stairs toward the washer/dryer in the basement.

From the kitchen, Miles heard me.

He asked what I was doing.

I detoured to him and told him I was crying.

Why? he asked.

I stalled for a second, not sure I was ready to delve into the dead grandma topic.

“Because I’m sad,” was all that I could offer.

“You miss Chippuh, Momma?”

Oh my god, I thought. How closely this kid can read me.

Chipper is our pet cockatiel who died four months ago. Miles speaks only of the yellow bird in relation to his grandmother, and he recites how they live together in heaven. Miles has never brought up the subject of Chipper without being prodded.

To the best of my knowledge, Miles has never used the verb to miss.

My son's timing for dead bird chit chat was striking. Why didn’t he suggest “Boo-boo, Momma?” as he does when he sees me catch my finger in a closing door, or re-acquaint my toe with my bedframe?

To explain Miles's uncharacteristic show of empathy/intuition, I could say that he probably hasn’t seen or heard me weep aloud since the week Chipper died, and therefore associates my tears with yellow birds.

But I’d rather believe he thinks of Grammy and Chipper as one beloved, absent entity. I want to believe he took one look at my forlorn face and read my mind.

But that’s me. I’m pretty good at attributing SuperChild powers to my son.

DISCLAIMER: I am five months pregnant, and all observations I make today and this day forward should not, and can not, be used against me in a court of law.

Just to temper what I relayed regarding Miles’s outstanding empathetic powers, I need to disclose what he said a month ago, when I asked him what we should do with the new baby when we bring it home this summer.

I gave Miles some ideas such as "Give it some milk?" "Kiss it?" "Hug it?"

“Troe it in darbage?” Miles said full smile, lilting his palm toward our kitchen waste receptacle.

Since then I encourage Miles to kiss and wish the fetus good morning and good night on a daily basis.

I think we are making progress.

Today he shoved a small monster truck up my sweater, near the largest swell of my belly, and said it was for the baby.