Going Downton

Two things here. If you don’t watch Downton Abbey (and you probably should!), this won’t be much fun. And, if you do or might watch Downton Abbey but haven’t gotten to the third season—well, I will try to tap-dance around spoilers.

I missed the first season of Downton Abbey on PBS, but I heard so much about it that I thought I’d give it a whirl. Needless to say, I was instantly addicted.

I kept doing this: “It’s over? How long’s the next episode? Forty-two minutes? That’s not even an hour. It’s only 10:30, so I can watch it.”

Then Big A. got involved—but as a spectator only, the first season. When [SPOILER ALERT] O’Brien moved the soap, I started screaming at the TV. “Oh, no, she DI-DN’T!” I may have used a naughty word as well.

My husband called to me, “What are you watching in there—football?”

Season Two came along soon after that and he started casually sitting on the sofa at some point Sunday night, just ending up there before it began. This cracks me up because, generally, any period piece with British accents puts him to sleep. He calls them “I’m just a bit tired” movies/shows—a tribute to The Remains of the Day, of course.

He stays awake for Downton Abbey, though. And, at the end of last season, he seemed a little shocked to find out we had to wait until January 2013 for the next one.

So far, this season has been really fun. Like everyone else, we enjoy Matthew and Mary. During the first episode, we realized that might be because Mary has some traits that remind us of our own daughter. She’s both persistent and dramatic, for starters.

When Mary burst into tears and left the table the night before her wedding, Big A. and I just laughed ourselves silly, having watched S. do the same thing at our table earlier—well, except S. curled up in a ball on her chair. (In case you’re wondering why she was sobbing, you should know that we’re not cruel to S. any more than anyone is to Mary. I think Little A. looked at her or something.)

The best part was last night, though, episode two. Big A. and I have taken opposite sides of the Matthew/Mary debate. [I’m trying to avoid spoilers here.] Although he goes to extremes, I understand Matthew’s point of view; Big A. does not. He’s all with Mary on this one! I even tried to get him to put himself in Mr. Swire’s position, but no luck.

So when it came time to decide at the end of episode two and Matthew looked like he would continue to be stubborn, Big A. said, “If I were her, I’d just hit him in the head right now.” Not two seconds later, most of you know what happened.

Mary says, “If you [spoiler deleted]…then I shall have to beat you about the head.”

So there’s no hiding that we get into our DA watching. Then, as we watched the previews last night and the credits rolled, Big A. turned to me and confessed the real reason he resisted the show in the first place.

“I can’t believe you’ve got me watching a British soap opera.”

But, come on! Scenery, architecture, clothes, drama, intrigue, repression, love, biting sarcasm (wit, not vulgarity!)—if you’re going to watch a soap opera, THAT is the way to do it.

The (Beginning of the)End of the Innocence

Our kids don’t like bad guys. Neither of them. They tolerate none at all. Our movie viewing choices have been severely limited since S. first learned to speak enough to tell us this. They both, at separate times, freaked out during The Incredibles, yet—oddly—they’re fine with Dumbo.

I think it’s at least partly because they have vivid imaginations. We recently coaxed/tricked them into watching The Princess Bride and then had to have a full-on, in-depth, detailed discussion of how exactly the real people pretended to do all the stuff in the movie, particularly the holocaust cloak and the R.O.U.S. that Westley kills.

And, especially in the case of Little A., I don’t think they’re crazy about suspense. In a couple of movies, he has run out of the room when things got tense. This includes the fire swamp scene in The Princess Bride. He ran out yelling, “This is the stupidest movie EVER!” And came back ten seconds later.

He just needed a little breather from all the emotion.

I love books; both the kids love books. Big A. and I still read to the kids every night—the boys just finished reading E.B. White’s classics together; S. and I are working our way through my collection of Diana Wynne Jones. And, given all the hype, I knew S. would be interested in Harry Potter.

Now, I love Harry Potter. I want my family to read it; I want to share that magic with them. (Book magic and wizarding magic!) But…

Harry Potter kind of has the mother of all bad guys.

So I didn’t encourage or discourage S. when it came to HP. This summer, though, she and Big A. ran out of chapter books to read and, since Big A. had been wanting to read HP, they dove in together. I did warn Big A. that it got “dark” in the later books.

Well, inevitably, S. wanted to read the books faster than a chapter every other night. About halfway through Goblet of Fire, she asked to go solo. I gave in, fairly certain that she’d WANT her dad to read with her by the end of the book. She got through the book by herself, but she definitely seemed a bit shaken—and perfectly willing to wait for her dad to catch up before tackling book five!

I have such mixed feelings about this. I don’t want her to know how horrible it is possible to be. Kind of like Jimmy Buffett, I hope that “some of the things I’ve seen, maybe she won’t have to see.” But I do want her to be empathetic. I do want her to know that you never know anyone’s whole story, that the people she meets maybe fighting dragons far scarier than He Who Must Not Be Named.

In the end, I fall back on my parenting “things I know for sure.” I know that if she’s old enough to ask the question (or read the book), she’s old enough to hear the answer. And I know that I’d rather she face these things for the first time when her dad and I are here to help her out. She has to do the actual learning, but we can support her.

I’m not sure she’s really figured out what she wants to ask about evil and death yet, but I do know that there is a bad guy in the picture now.

As with everything, I’m in awe of the growing person she is, but also wistful for the innocent baby she was.

How NOT to Sleep

First of all, make the weather miserable. Those of you who live elsewhere, feel free to burn me in effigy. But I hate summer. I moved here for love, not the weather. If I don’t get to wear sweaters in January at least, I’m going to be cranky.

So, it’s been that really annoying temperature here, where it’s hot enough to be gross, but not hot enough to set the air conditioning off—especially at night. And it’s humid. So by morning it feels like the showers have been running all night, steaming the place up.

Hard to sleep in that.

Second of all, add a healthy dose of stress and resultant “gerbil-wheeling” thoughts.

Hard to fall asleep when you’re doing that.

Then add a strained hip flexor that feels fine most of the time, but shoots pain across your hip every time you roll over.

Hard to sleep with that.

Then, just as you drop off to sleep, have your five-year-old run screaming into your room. (He NEVER does this.)  “THERE ARE BUGS IN MY EAR! THERE ARE BUGS IN MY EAR!”

You’re not going to sleep through that.

Yes, the weather means mosquitos are still out. One solitary, slow mosquito was haunting the wall near Little A.’s bed. We dealt with it and tucked everyone back in. And we all went back to sleep until…

TOTAL CHAOS

Piercing beeps, shrieking son running into our room, daughter hollering, “What? What is it?” and husband jumping up like a scalded cat.

NO ONE slept through that.

So, once we turned off the earsplitting alarm that Little A. set for midnight and turned on while playing with the clock yesterday, we tucked everyone in and all dropped off to sleep. I changed MY alarm from 5:25 to 6:00am—I decided to run in the sun rather than wake up early. Sleep over running comfort!

Then came the icing on the cake. I haven’t gotten around to calling the exterminator, so we have a rodent in our attic. The critter did his normal morning commute over our ceiling at 5:37am.

(They don’t weigh much—how are they so loud?)

I didn’t sleep after that.

The only good thing about the night? I have this fantastic mental image of my son running into our room. It’s pure imagination, since I couldn’t see. I picture it like this:

 

 Have you ever seen one of those guys run? Seriously. That's how I imagine Little A. running.

And I have this fantastic mental image of my husband leaping out of bed in shock. Like this: 

  This makes me laugh. I love my imagination.

Young Spock

I gave Little A. a haircut Saturday, and I’ve been startled every time I look at him since.

No, it’s not a bad haircut. It’s not even a Spock haircut. But he’s been growing a lot lately, and the new ‘do does expose his more mature forehead, eyebrows, and eyes. And he does look uncannily like the young Spock in the newest Star Trek movie.

The resemblance has ambushed me enough lately that I started thinking about it. On the surface, no one could be less Vulcan than my son. He giggles at Chip ‘n’ Dale, for Pete’s sake. And he is not repressed by any stretch of the imagination.

We had a great day on Saturday. We went to our friends’ party and Little A. reveled in boy-world for the afternoon, digging, swinging, and climbing. He greeted the adults, didn’t break anything, and didn’t fight with the kids. He also made me super nervous—and, ultimately, really proud—by swinging on a tire swing for five minutes with a petite, pretty girl a year or two younger. He swung patiently and gently, without one rough move, brutal holler, or potty word. That alone made it a great day!

Sunday even started well. Little A. helped put away Christmas decorations, even wrapping and packing the figures in the family manger scene. But…then the excitement and anxiety about going back to school took over. The yelling, arguing, contradicting, fidgeting, squirming, and general destructiveness set in.

By bedtime, Big A. and I were doing everything in our power to avoid any kind of conflict with him while still actually parenting. We’d reached the point where we were tag-teaming him in about twenty-minute shifts. As one of us got that I’m-losing-it-and-hanging-on-by-my-fingernails edge, the other would step in.

So clearly our Little A. is both emotional and open about it—not Vulcan. He’s pretty intellectual, though. Our lunchtime discussion today ranged from the habitats of spiders to what spiders are found in Florida to horseshoe crabs and how they lived before dinosaurs to whether or not dinosaurs could tell lava was hot and, finally, to the differences between four, fourteen, and forty. Every night, when I check on him before I go to bed, I pull a pile of books out from under him. Usually he’s fallen asleep with his cheek stuck to an open page.

So he’s brainy—that’s a little Vulcan. Then I remember that Vulcans came to revere logic because their strong emotions led them to grief. And the latest Star Trek movie does a fantastic job showing that Spock rebelled as much as Kirk, perhaps even more effectively. Isn’t his response to the Elders as satisfying as any punch Kirk lands? “Then, as I am half human, your record remains untarnished.” Kapow!

All of this makes a nice distraction when I’m trying to teach Little A. something and he looks at me with his big brown eyes and deep-thinking, expressionless face. I keep expecting him to say, “This is your thirty-fifth attempt to elicit a [logical] response from me, Mother.”

And that’s the whole crux of the matter. He’s smart enough and passionate enough to be a Vulcan. So what the heck did the Vulcans do to calm down? And how can I teach it to Little A. before he starts fomenting civil wars on our planet?

Just kidding about the civil wars.

I think.

Catch Up

I’ve got Roger Day’s ketchup song going through my head today. On top of being pun-ny, it’s got a catchy tune. It’s officially known as the “Super Secret Mystery Track” on Ready to Fly—check it out here.

So, the kids have gone back to school and it’s catch up day. I remember a time when a day was all I needed! In college, I could just go zero-to-sixty one day and catch up on everything I’d been blowing off. A few years after college, I could take a day and clean my entire (studio) apartment and catch up on my bills. When we were first married, I could come back to work after vacation and catch up in one good day of hard work.

You can see part of the problem right there—I don’t do that zero-to-sixty thing so much anymore. Plus “a good day of hard work” is hard to find. There are bound to be significant chunks of day devoted to The Management of Children. And, while no one will deny that’s hard work, it’s not getting anyone caught up. In fact, raising children often feels like the opposite of progress—running on a treadmill, emulating Sisyphus, bailing with a teaspoon…you pick your image.

I’m not going to get caught up today, and I’m okay with that. Christmas has been put away, the house is (relatively) clean, I’ve got some good STD lists going—that stands for Stuff To Do. And yes, I use the initials because they make me laugh. And they’re shorter. But mostly because they make me laugh.

On top of all that, I worked out today and then achieved the Mommy Trifecta! Yes, folks, my personal grooming today included a shower with hair wash…and shaving…and nail care! The Mommy Trifecta!

I suspect my brother stopped reading about there. But who cares? It’s a catch up blog.

I’m about out of time to sit down and write—time to go pick up kids. Hmmm. There’s a lot more of “picking up” than catching up in my life these days. I sense another blog coming on. Better go catch up on my coffee.

I’ll catch up on my sleep when I’m about sixty!

Zooming Ahead

Stopping to build a fairy house.

Nearly a year has passed since I first observed our family biking and their various “bike styles.” We took a family ride this week, and very little has changed. Still, it’s amazing to contrast my memories of last year with our recent ride.

Both children have gained, predictably, height, coordination, and confidence. Just looking at their long legs—barely fitting this year instead of barely reaching—makes me feel the passage of time. I concentrate on my pride in their confidence, feeling a twinge of nostalgia for their childish wobbles, then letting it go.

Face it, they’re a lot of fun these days!

A thousand words about Big A.

Little A. has fully embraced his boyness, and shouted happily during the entire ride. He started off shouting the name painted on his bike, “Here comes MAJOR DAMAGE!” When we got to the bumpy sidewalk, he shouted, “Now we’re going on Test Track!” The rest of his joyful noise consisted of that nonstop stream of words, nonwords, and sound effects boys exude.

I’m happy to say that he no longer drifts off road because he glanced at something interesting, but he did wipe out (in a hill of fire ants!) because he was “swerving” too hard.

I tell you, stay off the road in about eleven years! He also drives his remote control car from the other room (ie, without looking) and plays any kind of driving video game by deliberately crashing into walls, obstacles, and other cars. He’s 99.9% accurate, too.

S., always physically strong and confident, tackling challenges headfirst and on her own, has come back to her center. She had a “shy” period in kindergarten and first grade, recovered in second grade, and has now resumed Ruling (or thinking she does) The World. She didn’t even protest if her brother gained on her position in the lead; she just cut him off. ‘Nuff said.

I pedaled contentedly along behind them, marveling at how they raced forward under their own power. I’ve carried them in my arms and in slings, pushed them in strollers and pulled them in wagons, but now… This year starts with a taste of things to come.

My resolution? Enjoy it while I can.

The cow's just there because they're trendy. No, really, this is our neighbor cow. We try to stay on good terms. Can't imagine why!