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