Makers

Dear Roan,

The true practitioners of maker culture are not hipsters or basement engineers or Etsy-obsessed crafters. They are toddlers. Toddlers are intensely fascinated with the way things work. Watching you operate the salad spinner, the blender, the juicer, watching you build a train track and string together your magnetized trains, helping you roll out dough and push the cookie cutters in hard, I remember that the world used to be a fascinating place, full of mystery and intrigue but quite possibly understandable, until I reached a certain age and was completely overwhelmed by modern enigmas like the fax machine.

When you are upset, or hurt, or in the throws of a minor tantrum, it is often the promise of making something that brings you back from that dark place. You like to talk about the process - getting out the juicer, putting it together, opening the fridge, getting the carrots, washing the carrots, cutting the carrots, pushing the button, taking off the top, putting the carrots in, making a loud noise (your favorite part), drinking the carrot juice (your least favorite part), and cleaning up. The process seems to fascinate you much more than the end result. Most of the time, as soon as the carrot juice or smoothie is done, you look up at me and say, "again?" After you sprinkle the cheese on the ravioli we've made for lunch you immediately ask, "make more lavalolis?" When I make risotto, a rice dish that has to be stirred constantly, you sit up on the counter top and give it your full attention. My risotto was never so effectively stirred.

Roan, you and I read a lot of books about trains. You are enamored with steam engines, and really don't care about the electric trains or monorails. And I get it - everything about the steam engine is easy to see, coal is the power source, it's in the tender, and you shovel it, and the train coverts it to power and moves, making steam along the way. Electricity will never be as exciting. It's not as outwardly visible, nor does it require as much human effort to operate. I am going to guess that you will love dirigibles. You are more genuinely Steam Punk than most of the books I sell.

Here are some of photos of you making stuff.

Making carrot juice

Making a smoothie

Making sugar cookies

Making play-dough

Grandparents - part II

Grandma and Grandpa Lyons came all the way from Texas to attend Roan's 2nd birthday party, on November 6th. The party itself lasted 2 and a half hours. Barbara helped with all the setup and clean up. Roger was the party photographer. We started with an art project: fall leaves made with contact paper and shredded tissue paper. You can see how well that went from this photo:

After art we had music. Pete from Music Together came over with his guitar and a bag of instruments. Roan treated him like a visiting dignitary. He kept climbing on the couch next to Pete, smiling at him and shouting his name to everyone. He couldn't believe that Pete, a real live rock star, was sitting on his couch, in the flesh. Here is Ro shaking shakers with Dad:

The party even had a theme. The theme was Thomas the train. Jay bought things like banners and these Thomas the train hats from a website called TrainParty.com . It has become a running joke how much money Jay spent at TrainParty.com

Pete, rocking out. I am the only one wearing a Thomas hat.

We ate pizza.

The next morning, we arrive at the Opening Presents stage of the birthday party. Grandma and Grandpa Lyons gave Roan a lot of Matchbox Cars.

Holiday Card

I intended to make a photo/video Holiday Card. Instead, I've created an extremely indulgent collection of pictures/videos of Roan over the course of 2010.

Enjoy!

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

Preschool

We aren't totally sure what Roan does there all day, but pictures like this suggest he doesn't miss us at all.

What Pedals?

Grandparents - part I

It's that time of year when our apartment is overrun by senior citizens bearing gifts. It's Roan's birthday.

My parents came first. After packing all of Roan's presents, they actually didn't have any room in their luggage for stuff like clothes, which is why my father is wearing his MACS' sweatshirt in every single photo.

At The Top of the Rock, Roan gazes longingly at the Lego truck he can't open, my mother gazes southwest, out across the city, in the general direction of all the clothes she left behind.

Eric McClure: the only man in New York City wearing shorts.

Bike ride in Prospect Park

That yellow speck on the horizon is my son's helmet. He broke away and rode for freedom. Team MACS' never had a chance.

Eventually we caught up. We threw some leaves.

My parents commune with nature. Look closely and you will note that underneath her kangaroo sweatshirt, my mother is also wearing a MACS' sweatshirt.

Roan and Mia, at Mia and Taj's Halloween birthday party. In the background, my father, and the ubiquitous MACS' sweatshirt.

Choo Choo Halloween

Puzzle Man

Around the preschool, Roan is getting a reputation. A reputation as someone who loves puzzles. His teacher starts to tell me about his puzzle obsession, and of course I am interested in anything Roan related, and I am doing my best to pay attention, but...

I have this habit. When a conversation is full of text book phrases I go into a sort of translation mode. I mentally dumb down anything elaborate into something simple and catchy. So when Roan's teacher goes on and on about Roan's puzzle savvy in her Masters-Degree-in-Early-Childhood-Development terms I tune her out and think: Puzzle Man.

Puzzle Man's powers include undivided attention to putting together any puzzle ever devised. His single-minded focus is his greatest strength, but also his greatest weakness. Should a puzzle piece go missing, Puzzle Man will become distraught, even angry. The puzzle must be completed. He will not to be distracted from this mission. You will bribe him with other games, fruit, even ice-cream, and his will not even look at you except to insist that you produce the missing puzzle piece. You will explain the puzzle piece could be anywhere, under the stove, outside in the sandbox, downstairs under the couch, in the dark and dusty reaches under the bed and a thorough search would take hours, possibly days, and who wants to go to so much trouble when there are so many other puzzles to complete, so many slides to slide down, so many swings to swing on, and hey, shouldn't we go to the playground? And Puzzle Man will fix you with his steely gaze, undeterred and untempted, point to the spot where the missing puzzle piece belongs, and make that exasperated question mark noise that sounds like "eh?" and means, "Mom, we need to find it."

Back at the preschool, Roan's teacher smiles at me, somewhat expectantly. I have a bad feeling I've missed a conversational cue, it is probably my turn to say something with the words "executive function" or "synapse" but I've been checked out, daydreaming about Puzzle Man: The Halloween Costume. It's an awesome vision, but I let it go, and listen to her tell about the time that Roan commandeered all three teachers to scour the room for a lost puzzle piece. Eventually, they found it. Puzzle Man clapped, then dumped out the pieces and started all over again.

Apples and Bananas

Week in Review

Shabbat Abba

Making the challah

Expired rice

Daddy swing

Mushrooms

There are a lot of mushrooms in our backyard. They seem to grow most vigorously after it rains. Our neighbor says they are okay to eat, but we are not so sure...

Seize the Day - Essay #4

*What motherhood means to Pamela, mother to 4-month-old Eva*

Being a mother means thinking about writing this essay for three days before there is actually time to do it, writing half of it, and then trying to write more, piece by piece, for several weeks after the fact before it is actually finished.



Being a mother means an ache in my heart when I leave her in the morning and a bizarre sense of accomplishment and focus at work that I hadn’t expected, and feel guilty about regularly. Motherhood is conflicting emotions. When I pick her up at the end of the day, I want to smother her with hugs and kisses and smack the nursery director in the face as she coos with my daughter and recounts just how much fun they had together all day. When we are alone her simple smile fills up my heart and my eyes, with tears and I ask myself how I can leave this creature to be taken care of by someone else. After nearly four months, motherhood means being spoken to and yelled at in a language I can't yet understand- an endless guessing game of getting to know each other. It means founding her fan club and keeping it going for the next hundred years. 



Being a mother means sacrificing (in whatever form sacrifice may come), without question, for her; putting her needs before mine. My pre-motherhood fetish for shoes has turned into a nearly obsessive attraction to tiny little ones for which I have to convince myself she’ll grow out of too quickly to be worth buying. So, perhaps I have not become completely selfless, because her happiness gratifies me and gives me an indescribable satisfaction.

A sense of time and mortality have come over me, that I’ve never felt before. Absolutely nothing is forever and everyday is to be cherished and not just floated through as the current carries you. And time. There is never enough. You can't borrow it, steal it, save it, lend it, let it collect interest, get it back from a friend to whom you lent it, or earn more of it for something good you did. But, you can waste it. Being a parent brings new meaning to the cheesy maxim 'live everyday as if it were your last.'

Eva grabbed one of the toys hanging in the baby gym, held it in her hand and stared at it for the first time yesterday and it'll never happen again. I can only hope that her father or I will be present for as many of her firsts as time permits, even the small ones. The realization that I will not live forever may have scared the hell out of me only 13 months ago, but fear is not an option anymore. I have to accept and prepare for this fact. She must have everything she needs. I need to teach her love and independence and loyalty; all the important lessons in life, and of course not to smack the nursery director just because you may be jealous of her.

*Pamela* *October 9, 2010* *510 words*

Fishey Lyons

*A post from Jay*

Roan got his first pet this week. His preschool was explaining the seven days of creation (don’t get me started on this), and in order to explain the sea teaming with sea creatures, they gave him a goldfish. In abstract this seems like a great idea – something I'd expect an enthusiastic young teacher to come up with. The reality… well.

I picked Roan up from school, and he ran to me with his usual big smile, giving me a hug and a kiss – a routine that will end one day, but for now is one of the bright spots of my day. He started babbling like crazy, telling me all the things he did at school, a bunch of mumbling interspaced with “color” and “school” and “sing” and “outside” and "soup”. He then started saying “fishey” and “fishey home”. I looked up, and there was his teacher, holding his fish in a clear, large plastic jar.

His teacher had told Cameron about the fish plan in the morning, so I was prepared. The fish already looked a bit sick, not surprising considering the size of his jar and that it was littered with way too much fish food, that it was almost 80 degrees in the school, and that Roan and the other kids had probably been playing with him all day. I scooped him up along with Roan’s things and we headed home. Unfortunately, Roan wanted to hold the fish, which caused a bit of jar shaking before I was able to convince him that the fish needed to sit in his own seat with a seat belt that snaps, just like Roan does. On our drive back I asked him what name we should give his fish. Roan responded, after much pondering, “Um… Fishey!”

After a bit more shaking while I tried to parallel park, we transported Fishey to the kitchen table. Roan sat at the table and had his snack, watching Fishey intently. Unfortunately, I hadn't had the time or the energy to pick up the proper gear (a large tank with things inside that Fishey could use to hide behind), so I switched him from the plastic jar to a Tupperware bowl filled with water at the proper temperature, and then went back to work, leaving Roan with Elizabeth, his new baby sitter.

When I got home later that day I noticed the tell-tale tilt of a fish on his last legs, angling 45 degrees, with his mouth almost out of the water. I quickly moved Fishey to the corner of the table, behind a picture frame, so that Roan wouldn’t catch sight of him. Throughout the rest of the evening Roan would ask me every few minutes about Fishey, and I would respond that Fishey was resting and could play later.

After dinner, some chasing, Wonderpets, teeth brushing, hand washing, books, serenading and finally sleep, I went over to the Tupperware bowl, each step filled with worry. Unfortunately, my fear was confirmed. Fishey was dead.

I teared up a little. I love all animals, and I was crushed that Roan’s first pet didn’t even last the day. I knew the odds were against Fishey from the start, but I had desperately wanted him to pull through. Looking back, I knew I could have done more to save him, which made me even more frustrated. I did make sure that Fishey got a beautiful burial at sea though.

We’re going to get a dog soon, and I know that Roan will likely forget all about Fishey and will consider this dog to be his “first” pet. But every time he says “Fishey?” or “Fishey home?” over the next few days, and he’ll ask plenty, my heart will ache a little.

Fishey Lyons - RIP

Some Photos

Washing Blankie

Post Nap Popsicle

On Top of Hay Mountain

Hay Ride to the Orchards

Apple Picking

Hay Ride - the return trip

The New Perfect - Essay # 3

*What motherhood means to Carmela, mother of 14-month-old Raphael*

I was worried that motherhood would become something so all encompassing that I would be stripped of my former identity; my sense of humor would vanish, and I would be reduced to a haggard spit up-soaked slave to my child. My career would no longer be important, and conversations with me would be reduced to insipid pureed mush. Fortunately, motherhood has been none of these things.

Nonetheless, motherhood has made me realize that you cannot always be an overachiever. I now willingly accept “good enough.” Life has been stripped down to the essential; decision making is a constant battle between “necessary” and “nice to have.”

I realize that brunch can be served with just waffles and fruit salad, with eggs, bagels, lox, and the fragrant aroma of homemade cinnamon rolls existing only in my nostalgic memory of pre-child Sunday mornings. I forgive myself for not cleaning the bathroom before houseguests arrive, and I accept that, until Raphael is old enough to stir a pot or grab a bucket and a sponge, a heavy dose of pragmatism will be required.

Motherhood is, however, holding a small piece of perfection. For an ephemeral moment, I can look at my son and love everything about him. For a blissful moment, there are no character flaws or complexes. My entire being smiles as he shrieks with glee when the wind tosses his hair in all directions or when he sticks his hand out to feel the rain. I laugh when he teases me by popping his thumb in his grinning mouth, just to have me take it out again and again.

For the past 14 months, each day has been better than the previous one. Each day I wonder what new discovery Raphael will make. When I’m away from him, I daydream about something he might like to see or do. I imagine him smiling his gummy grin, with just the slightest hint of self-satisfaction. I picture him turning his head and looking back at me, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, as he heads at breakneck speed for some forbidden corner of the apartment.

I see his personality evolving, and I see parts of myself and my husband. As a mother, I want to protect him from the inevitable things that come with growing up: hurt feelings, disappointment, frustration, and anger. I can’t stop myself from imaging him as a little boy or young man and wishing that I could protect him forever. If only, somehow, I could make him a little less shy, maybe a bit less critical, and perhaps a touch more patient than his parents.

Most of all, though, I hope my little child stays perfect for just one more day.

*Carmela* *October 6, 2010* *450 words*

The Motherhood Equation - Essay #2

*What motherhood means to Francesca, mother to 2.5-year-old Bianca*

They say that the bond between a child and a mother is the strongest possible bond there is.

I’m a full time student and my husband is a stay-at-home dad. I’ve found that motherhood as it’s defined by society is being the center of your child’s care and the center of your child’s life. Being the one your child looks to first when they’re hurt or tired.

I don’t know anything about this kind of motherhood.

When my daughter is sick or hungry her dad is the first person she wants. When she asks me to run with her around the house, it’s for her to run away from me and for her dad to “protect” her. When I hold her in my arms, staring into her beautiful dark brown eyes and fondly ask, "are you my baby?" she answers with a coy smile, "no, daddy baby."

I laugh and pretend she’s made a funny joke, because I know that’s the right thing to do. She only speaks the truth of her experience. She is daddy’s baby.

I feel left out at times. Sometimes when we’re out shopping she won’t let me push the stroller because she wants daddy to. Sometimes she asks for milk, but doesn’t want me to give it to her because she needs daddy to.

I’m working toward a Ph.D. in cellular biology. I’m not even sure if it will earn me a decent paying job when I graduate. I’m scared to death I’m working so hard for little return on investment later.

But sometimes when she hears me come home, she runs and jumps on me and gives me a big hug. Sometimes when I hold her she puts her hand to the side of my face and says "mommy beautiful hair." Sometimes it feels like she’s really mine.

My most favorite time with my daughter is when daddy isn’t around. I urge him to go to rugby practice as much as he can. I try to convince him to spend the weekend at a friend’s house. Why? Because when it’s just me and her I am mommy. She wants my attention. She’s excited to be with me and wants me to play games with her. Sometimes we go shopping or just play outside, it doesn’t matter. It’s just fantastic that she is enjoying her time with me.

And if I have a week or two off, it gets really good. She’s so excited that I’m home everyday and by the end of the week she’s coming to me as much she goes to him.

Motherhood comes down to time spent. The more you put in the more you get out. But it also means sacrifice. Sometimes motherhood is sacrificed to give our children a home and an enriched life. Though they may not understand our absence now, they will be proud of our hard work later. That’s what I hold on to when daddy’s baby doesn’t want me around.

*Francie* *October 5, 2010* *490 words*

Love Hurts - Essay #1

*What motherhood means to Sarah, mother to 6-month-old Scarlett (aka Scout)*

Motherhood is falling in love. Some days, when I’m too tired to be very interesting, my daughter and I lie in bed together and just stare at each other. I kiss her forehead and her cheeks; she pulls my hair and tries to eat my nose. I sing her songs; she screeches in my face and punches me. Though it may sound like a one-sided romance, I know that when she rakes her teeny nails across my face, she is really expressing her total and unwavering devotion to me. (And maybe she is reminding me that it’s time to find the nail clippers.) Ah, the passion of a new relationship. Will it be like this forever? No chance.

Right now, our relationship is uncomplicated. Every morning when I lift her from her crib, she looks at me like she can’t believe her luck that it’s ME again. Sometimes she sees me and just laughs (this might be because I haven’t brushed my hair in a few days), and other times when I’m holding her to my chest, I look down to see that she is gazing up at me quietly.

It doesn’t matter that I’m tired, that my hair looks like this, that when I do make it to a yoga class I spend the whole time thinking of all the other things I should be doing. My baby needs me, and my reward for meeting her needs is the brilliance of a smile that turns her eyes into little rainbows, and the sweetness of her contagious giggle. Sometimes it’s also the sweetness of pureed peas being flung at my pants.

But someday she’ll realize that I am always there, and the excitement created by my very existence will fade. We will enter a period of familiarity, that natural progression of even the fiercest love. She will reject me, fight with me, tell me everything I’m doing to annoy her and ruin her life. She will do these things because she is secure in my love for her. But I’m certain that won’t make it any easier to take.

And I suppose that this is motherhood, too. The fact of loving someone so intensely, and then having her grow up and away from you while you can only watch. Already she is changing so much, becoming more independent, putting tiny touches on her burgeoning personality. The things she couldn’t do yesterday—she can do them today. And she’ll just keep becoming herself, a person who I don’t even entirely know yet, a person who will most definitely be taller than me.

So today, in this moment, what I feel most about being her mother is grateful. So incredibly grateful for this time we have to just stare, to sing, to squeeze the soft part of a chubby arm (I really should get to yoga more often.) Our love may grow and change, along with my daughter, but it will definitely last. I do hope there will eventually be less punching.

*Sarah* *October 3, 2010* *500 words*

Read more fabulous posts from Sarah here and here.

Breathless - my motherhood essay

Motherhood is never having enough time. You never have enough time for yourself: to do those morning sit-ups, to match your clothes or to even have bought matching clothes in the first place, to fix your hair, to read any of the articles you want to read, to read the Sunday Times on Sunday.

It is official: you will now have to give up on those far-fetched life goals like writing a novel, riding your bicycle across America, living a life of meditation on some deserted mountaintop, because you may have thought you were busy before but now, really, you truly don't have the time.

The only moments when time slows down are those endless nights when you are trying to get your son to sleep, singing Ani DiFranco's 'Tis of Thee over and over, because that song has somehow become your go-to lullaby in times of deep distress. At times like those, time just about stops.

The most heartbreaking part? You don't have enough time for your son. You keep thinking you will get to this place where you can stop and take a breath and realize that everything, for the moment, is just perfect. But then you realize that moment already came and went. For just one second after he ran into the neighbors' yard and pulled out their pinwheel and, over his shoulder, gave you such a smile of accomplishment that you forgot about what a rush you were in. It came for 15 fat seconds when he woke up from his nap calm and talkative and let you run your fingers through his hair. It came for nearly a full minute, when he leaned his heavy head against your chest as you read him One Fish Two Fish. It flashed on and off when he climbed into bed with you and your husband and you took turns tickling him.

You were too busy to see these moments for what they were and now he is asleep and the day is gone and tomorrow, tomorrow will be something brand new. He might stop doing that ridiculous thing where he insists that you tell him and every item of clothing he is wearing to "come on," before he will walk down the street with you ("come on hat, come on pants, etc."). He might stop calling the color "orange" "juice." It could be weeks before you realize he stopped doing these things, and you will sit glassy eyed and wonder what else you might have missed.

Sometimes you will be lucky enough to realize you are living a perfect moment, right now, but it won't last long. You will want to freeze time and bottle it, the way you can capture his pudgy hand print with acrylic paint and paper and save it forever. But you can't. There is never enough time to take it all in. There is barely enough time to breathe.

*Cameron* *October 1, 2010* *490 words*

Motherhood - call for submissions

I watched this terrible movie the other night - "Motherhood," with Uma Thurman and Minnie Driver. Uma Thurman is a harried mom trying to plan her 6-year-old daughter's birthday party while taking care of her 2-year-old son. She lives in the West Village, about a mile south of Chelsea, where we lived with Roan until he was nine months old. And let me tell you, New Yorkers are nowhere near as rude and hostile to moms as they were to Uma. The stuff that happened to her was just over-the-top unbelievable, the dialog ridiculously malicious. And the worst inconsistency: Billy's Bakery is NOT open until midnight. They close at 10PM. BELIEVE ME PEOPLE, I WOULD KNOW.

During all this, Uma (an aspiring writer) is entering a contest where she has to write 500 words on what Motherhood means to her. The most horrible thing about the movie? After despising every minute of it I actually cried at the end, when she reads her entry. Because despite the fact that she's a loathsome character, that last little snippet rang true to me. There is nothing more shameful than being brought to tears by a movie that is so easy to make fun of. When did I become such a softie?

What's even worse is that I am actually inspired by this atrocious movie to enter the pretend contest and write 500 words on what Motherhood means to me. Unlike Uma, I'm not giving myself a deadline. And, I think it would be really fun to hear from the moms who read this blog. Here is my plea: Moms, I know you are busy and have about 8 million other things to do that are a lot more important, but, will you take some time out of your day and send me 500 words on Motherhood? To the moms who have grown children who no longer live at home: I can't imagine that you are all that busy, so really, you have no excuse not to enter.

To put it in perspective, 500 words is really short. By the end of this sentence, this post will already be 375 words long, and didn't it just fly by? I'll post any entries on the blog, or link out if you've got your own blog (or you want to post elsewhere). There will be a prize! If you enter, I will buy you a Billy's cupcake. Though, if you live far away, I might just have to eat it for you too. Hell, you don't even have to be a mom to enter. I would love to hear back from you, all of you, wherever you are!

The quality of my entry will be dependent on the length of Roan's nap... to be posted soon!

New Camera!

Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3,...

Fake smile

Pancake Sunday

Chivalry: not dead for the under 2 set

Last Days of Summer

Lavallette from Cameron McClure on Vimeo.

Last weekend we went to the Jersey Shore. We stayed in a town called Lavallette, in a house just one house away from the boardwalk, where you could hear the ocean from our bedroom. The house belongs to Rachel, who is Michael's mother. Michael was Jay's best friend, and is who Roan Michael is named for.

It was a quiet weekend, as the season officially ends after Labor Day, and the recent storms may have discouraged visitors. Roan rode his bike up and down the boardwalk, played on the beach, ate his first homemade Bouillabaisse and his first funnel cake, went to an aquarium, and rode all the carnival rides he was tall enough for. The most exciting by far was the Crazy Bus, which was fascinating for him to watch but terrifying for him to ride.

I'm in between cameras at the moment, so we brought the video camera along. Unfortunately, most of the carnival footage was shot by my husband, who is undeniably terrible with a video camera. The footage lurches around, randomly zooming in and out, and coming to rest on such intriguing visuals as my husband's shoes. But the commentary nearly makes it worth watching, as there are gems like, "ugh, I'm gonna have to stand up now," and "not so good at this camera thing." He tries to interview Roan after each ride, Eric McClure style, but Roan blows him off every time.

Here is the best 15 seconds from the Crazy Bus:

Crazy Bus from Cameron McClure on Vimeo.

Preschool

Roan,

Last Wednesday was your first day of preschool. I'm sorry about the photos, which are all from last year, but I waited until the last minute and then the photo machines at CVS and Rite Aid were both out of order. I'm sorry about your lunch box, which is an old black insulated bag that came free with my breast pump that I tried to spruce up by writing your name on it. I'm sorry you don't have a Mitzva note, in all honesty, I really don't understand what that is. And I'm sorry if I screwed up the Tzedaka; I think I may have provided you with more pennies than you can lift.

Preschool doesn't seem to be as stressful for you.

That first morning we rode Frankenbike all the way down Prospect Ave. and when we got to the preschool you pointed and smiled and said, "school." We locked up the bike and saw Morah Ahuva and you walked right up and gave her a big smile. We were early, and you stuck your hands and face to the glass and waited for the doors to open. When they did you went inside and forgot all about me. I told you I was going to work and you said, "okay." Just to clarify the situation I told you that you were staying at school and you said, "yes" in a patient way, as if I were a slow child. You were too busy to even look at me.

Here is what we know about your first day: you only got upset once, and were easily calmed with some bread. You ate all your snack, most of your lunch, and didn't nap. You played well with the other kids and shared toys. Your teachers said you were a good counter; you knew all the numbers when they counted to five, and said them all ahead of time.

As for me, I rode Frankenbike back up Prospect and parked it downstairs. I took my work bag and walked to the R train, stood on the platform and cried. Everything is happening too fast. The other toddlers had never been to daycare and clung to their parents, and while I was proud of your independence it reminded me that there will come a time when you won't need me at all. There was something in the tone of that "yes" that said, "go on, Mom. I've got this." I kept replaying that "yes" over and over, until it seemed like the sound of you reassuring me was echoing off the station walls.

***

Today was your second day of preschool. I figured out the Mitzvot notes, got all the photos printed and finally bought the right smock, though you're stuck with the cheerless breast pump lunch bag for another week at least. Daddy picked you up and your teachers told him how smart you are. They even asked if there was an intellectual in the family. An intellectual! They talked about how focused you are, how good you are at puzzles, how much you like to fix things. This is such a difference from the Russian daycare, where we eventually stopped asking for information, as all they ever said was, "Roan strong," and positioned their arms in the universal sign for big muscles.

Daddy and I are still adjusting to the new routine. The sheer number of Jewish holidays is stunning. Sukkot starts on Wednesday, so today is your only day of preschool this week. You made some art for the holiday, which is currently hanging from a shelf. But who knows, maybe we will build our own sukkah in the backyard. Now that you go to preschool, maybe you can teach me how.

Roan on his first day of preschool

More

"More" is one of Roan's favorite words, second only to "no." If I only had two words to describe his general temperament they would be: No. and More. Whatever it is, he either wants nothing to do with it, or wants it in unlimited quantities.

Every once in a while he uses "more" in surprisingly touching ways. When Jay drove Grandma and Grandpa Lyons to the airport I stood out in the middle of 22nd Street, watching their car roll down the hill, with Roan kicking and squirming in my arms crying, "more, more, more!" He wanted more time with his grandparents. I carried Roan inside and calmed him down with some books, but he still would look up at me every so often and say "more," only now it had the inflection of a question. He was finally coming around to the idea that he might not get what he wanted, even though he had gone to all the trouble of verbalizing it.

And to think that somewhere on the other side of the city, over a river and across a bridge, his grandparents were speeding toward Newark International Airport in a beat up '97 Acura. Were they thinking of their only grandson, longing in a more reserved, more articulate way for the very same thing that he did: for more? Perhaps. But like star crossed lovers, it could not be. The grandparents were whisked away to Texas, and the Robot was stuck in Brooklyn, reading stories and whimpering, until he recovered the presence of mind to ask for more of something else.

Puffs I think it was. More puffs.

The Man Downstairs

Roan,

The summer before you turned 2 there was a flaming Nicaraguan salsa dancing Ph.D. student living in our basement. His name was Yader and you thought everything he did was a-mase-sing (to use a Yader-ism). You mooched his breakfast, introduced him to all your trucks, and bullied him into reading you book after book. He was very friendly and patient and engaged you in conversation at a time when all you did was grunt and point. He was an extremely loud washer of dishes and prone to lengthy high pitched giggling fits, neither of which ever disturbed your slumber. He greeted you every morning by saying, "wha happened, Ro?" On his last day here you gave him a big hug and a framed piece of art you painted in his honor. We worry that you miss him, especially at breakfast and dinner time, which the two of you almost always ate together. But you never had a word for him so we don't know how you feel.

By the time you are old enough to see us as real people and not just your parents, you will no doubt be overcome by how dull our lives are. Many nights we are happy to just sit quietly together, doing nothing. We know how boring it will look to you. We know it will be years before you realize what an accomplishment it is, to sit still and be content. You will probably vow to never be so complacent. You will certainly wonder if we were always so boring.

Let it be known that during the summer of Yader we were exciting. We rode our bikes to parties, had backyard barbeque's, and regularly drank too much after you went to bed. Your Dad joined a beer club and got a new tattoo. One time your Mom forgot her keys and came home so late that Dad wouldn't wake up and she had to break into her own backyard, like a ninja. We never stayed out all night, but we knew people who did (Yader did, once). And, we participated in the very unparental activity of having a roommate.

Let the record show that we were pretty damn cool.

For parents.

Mimi and Pops

Roan has finally settled on names for Grandma and Grandpa Lyons. Here they are at a pier in Red Hook, just outside Fairway, perfectly blocking the view of the Statue of Liberty.

Serious Business

Last weekend Grandma and Grandpa Lyons came to visit, and on Saturday we went to a water park so Roan could play. Except you'll notice that he's not "playing" - he takes his duties at the water park very seriously. We don't understand what he's doing, but you can see from his intensity and focus that it's quite urgent.