Yesterday morning, one of the three greatest things to happen to me over the past 4 years had a plate of hot cakes with me at the breakfast table, his request. This birthday we celebrated his transition from toddlerhood to childhood. A large bite for a mother to swallow, let alone digest. We had made cupcakes for his class but school was cancelled due to Ernesto's arrival and into the freezer they went until Friday. A recipe for playdough saved the drizzly day, and we made three batches of pastel blue, yellow, and green, which now sit on the counter combined into a single, salty turqouise lump. And TWO showers were allowed instead of the one-a-day rule. Wow. Talk about a fun birthday.Yesterday evening, when we tucked the kids in at bedtime, thanking God for giving us Evan, we realized we were thanking Him at the exact time he gave him to us just 4 short years ago; 7: 06 p.m.. For me, it was just one more display of His faithfulness and blessing in and on our lives.Happy Fourth Birthday, big boy!
Last Christmas my mom put a small, cube-shaped book in my stocking called The Writer's Block. It contains "786 ideas to jump start your imagination" and they're actually pretty useful.For a year it's peeked out of a basket on my desk shelf, mocking me. I've folded it open a few times and smirked at the suggestions inside, but have always dropped it back into the basket instead of using it. Enough of that. I dread my children growing up but I also welcome the idea of having more time to develop myself in one way or another. I'd love to learn to play a musical instrument, however wildly beyond me that may be. I'd love to research biblical topics of interest, read more biographies on all kinds of people, and learn more of the craft of writing and writing well. And while I have the rest of my life to do these things, I want to start the habit of them even now, in the craziness of mommyhood. Therefore, consider this your warning. If you start seeing a weekly "Writer's Block" post, just excuse it. Just know it will be my attempt to challenge my "inside the box" brain at the art of story-telling. I figure creative juice is probably like breast milk- the more you pump, the greater your supply. (And that analogy is a perfect example of why I need to keep writing.) But the first Writer's Block entry I want to post today isn't my own, but an excerpt from the book that amused me, a story that won a short-story contest that had to be 55 words or less, written by Jeff Whitmore, called 'Bedtime Story'-"Careful, honey, it's loaded," he said, re-entering the bedroom.Her back rested against the headboard. "This for your wife?""No. Too chancy. I'm hiring a professional.""How about me?He smirked. "Cute. But who'd be dumb enough to hire a lady hit man?"She wet her lips, sighting along the barrel. "Your wife."Writer's Block prompts-Jeff's story has it all- suspense, sex, betrayal, revenge, and murder- in a mere fifty- three words! Attempting one of these super-short stories is a valuable lesson in the economy of language- notice how much of Jeff's story is suggested, from the relationship between the characters to the gun itself. With this model in mind, craft your own story of fifty-five words or less.Do you know how hard that would be? Yeah right. And this is why Writer's Block always lands it's square butt right back in the basket.
While their brothers were in school Wednesday, Sydney and Madalyn had their first manicures. Iridescent pink. And purple... and white. (Hey, toddlers have a hard time making decisions, and 'a girl can change her mind, you know.') The fingernails were the first thing Madalyn showed Evan when he got in the car that afternoon, the first topic of conversation-
"Ohhh, they're sooo pretty, Madalyn," he said, much to her satisfaction. Then he turned to ask me if I would paint his like Madalyn's.
Shaun came home late that evening, after bedtime, so he never saw the nails that day. But the next morning he awoke to a plump, dimpled hand fanned in front of his face, as, understandably, showing off her finger nails was top priority that day, Madalyn's waking thought. Charmed, Shaun knew one thing was for sure- he'd never be woken up sweeter. That was the peak of his wake-up moments, right there. Not even a Christmas morning back in the 80's could top it.
I'm not a very girly girl I don't think. I mean, I like a manicure once in a blue moon. I like getting dressed up and having nice things but I don't enjoy shopping on any given day of the week. I have to be in the mood, and when I am, I get things done. I don't stop at every mannequin to oooh and aaah and assess things. Walk in, quick scan around, grab some hangers and I'm half way there. I don't like chick flicks just because there's a boy and a girl and a love story. I hated Ever After and Return to Me and Sweet Home Alabama and Maid in Manhattan, and countless others... (Okay so I never saw that last one, but I'm pretty sure I know where I stand on it.) But a good love story, one well-told and well-acted... Now that I love. Like The Notebook or Far and Away, Something's Gotta Give, When Harry Met Sally, My Big Fat Greek Wedding or The Cutting Edge. (So I've seen way too many movies, now that I think about it but that's beside the point...)The point. The point(!) is that watching Madalyn get SO MUCH JOY out of painted fingernails made me realize that if she's a girly girl, well then I will be too. Or to quote The Notebook since I just mentioned it; if she's a bird, I'm a bird. When she told me that her polish was almost all gone today I asked her if she'd want me to paint them again sometime. She muttered something about Shasta and her face showed it was a certain yes. Side note here: Shasta would be code for my friend Stephanie. For some reason Madalyn calls Stephanie by her dog's name, and has been so stubborn about it, no matter how many times she's corrected, that we've given up and Stephanie is officially Shasta to her. And it's so darn cute, the familiarity with which she says it, that who can blame us? Stephanie's kids call me Miss Donnell, so what does it really matter anyway, right? Aunt Shasta it is. But that was when it became clear to me, that moment when she muttered about Shasta painting her nails again with bright, hopeful eyes, that was the moment when I realized if she wanted us to paint each others nails every day for the rest of our lives I was game. If she wanted to spend several minutes of our lives talking about fashion, if my back ached while we dissected every shoe Dillards had on display, I would not only do it, I would enjoy it. If she loves Ever After, finds the screenplay to be deep and flawless (which I doubt she will, knowing there is a very rough and tumble side to her,) then so be it. If she likes every boy meets girl story, that's just peachy with me. I will even go so far to say that if she cries during a movie starring Jennifer Lopez, if she's reaching for tissues because J-LO has her that moved, then I will probably even cry with her. Because when I look at Madalyn, painted little fingernails and beyond, I see how much we're made of the same stuff. And she moves me.
This past month, let alone this past week, has been a time of milestones for everyone. Sunday Jack rolled over to his back for the first time, at just one day shy of 6 weeks. Tuesday Madalyn shed her diaper and we found her on the potty. Wednesday she found success- (and all of it without our prompting.) Wednesday was also the day Shaun started a new job, and Wednesday evening was when Evan began to fight his first battle with Strep Throat with a fever of 104.8. Me? I seem to just ride around on the coat tails of everyone else, and believe me, that ride is quite enough to occupy a person's time and energy. At times the ride is wild, like I'm just trying to endure those 8 seconds on a rodeo bull. It's definitely one of those seasons when you feel like you've just gotten your feet on the ground when the buzzer sounds again- deep breath, and- off you go for another round of it.
Madalyn's talking like a big girl all of the sudden. "Get it, get it, please" has turned into "Will you get that for me? Will you get that for me, mommy?" Other common "Madalyn phrases" such as oh, lookatdat!, I didit!, lookatme, oh mygoodness!, oh mygosh!, and oh wow, are slowly being injected into lengthier sentences, though she still combines certain words into one and has a unique rhythm to the way she talks with LOTS of inflection. But she is also speaking in the third person as much as Elmo; "Is that for Mednin?" And I is my. ("No, my do it," when she's exerting her independence.)My heart leaps and sinks at once when I listen to these changes because it's exciting on one hand, to watch her grow up, but also heart-breaking. I need to find that proverbial brick that my grandmother used to always say she'd put on my head to keep me from growing.
For all of her fiestiness, she's surprisingly polite. Everything is "oh thank you mommy" and "I'm sorry, I'm sorry mommy." I often have no idea what offense she thinks she's committed. She's also quick to bestow a "bless you" when you sneeze and an "are you okay, mommy" when you stub your toe. This makes her VERY hard to discipline because she really knows how to work you, how to turn on the shine. The other day I was shaking my finger at her in reproach and she puckered up her lips and kissed my wagging finger, "I'm sorry, mommy."At night, she'll get out of her bed and gallop into our room with her blankie between her legs saying, Lookatme! I'm on my biCYcle, with a real emphasis on that "CY." We're supposed to be stern and send her to bed with a frown, right? Well not me. How can you resist laughing at that sight? And for Shaun I become part of the disciplinary problem in that moment because I can't muffle it.About a week after Jack's birth I was sitting alone with her on the couch and wondered how she was adjusting to everything. She seemed fine enough."Did you know you're my only girl?" I asked her. "Evan's a boy and Jack's a boy, but you're a girl. And I am so glad I have you. I love you so much."The first few sentences she didn't respond, and just when I thought she had no idea what I was trying to communicate to her, a little voice spoke with utter sincerity from under my hug; "Thank you. Thank you much, mommy!"She's also showing a new side in her play. She carries naked baby dolls around a lot. We have clothed ones. She doesn't like those. But when I see her walking around with that naked baby tucked under her arm, I smile. I smile big because I got so much joy playing with my baby dolls when I was little- mixing flour and water for formula, rubbing real suntan lotion on them and feeding them Lite Bright pieces as vitamins- that I've always secretly hoped she would enjoy that sort of play, too. Last night she tucked a plastic Woody doll (Toy Story) in beside her on her pillow and snug under her comforter telling him to lie down, shhh, and go to sleep. And when I recently brought out a box of toys that had been packed up for a year, she was immediately drawn to the Little People that Evan never so much as glanced at. She immediately told me that the Mary figure from the nativity Little People was the mommy and went on to assign every person a part in the family. Also last night, while Jack slept and Shaun took Evan to an after-hours clinic, she sat on the porch with me and played pretend. It was the first time I'd seen her use her imagination all on her own- without Evan's orchestrating. They often watch an interactive show on television called "Little Einsteins" where the characters ask you to clap and sing to help them accomplish certain tasks. Last night she told me to sit down on the porch, "get in your chair, mommy," was the exact command, I believe, and we sat in lawn chairs and clapped our legs like the little Einsteins in their rocket. "Pat your legs, mommy. Pat! Pat, pat, pat, pat," she'd chant excitedly, (just like they do on the show to make the rocket take off,) "Blast off!" she'd yell, "We did it!!" Then she'd look through the screen from her chair, her chubby legs barely reaching the edge of the seat, and point out things as though we were looking through the windshield of her rocket; "There's a bird, do you see the bird? Do you hear it? I'm scared, are you scared, mommy?" and we sang the "dubbadubba" silly song they sing on the show to overcome their fears while shaking our hands.
See, Madalyn's our tv addict. So not only was this a special one-on-one moment, but also a great relief for me. I'm glad to know that she has an imagination and can use it. After so many months of Evan entertaining her I was beginning to wonder if this part of her brain was developing properly- or if it even existed.
Madalyn is to tv-watching as Evan is to nose-picking. That's right. That kid in the class that everyone steers clear from? That kid that is rumored to have lice and poor hygiene because of this habitual action? That Peanuts Gang "Pig Pen" stereotype?That's our son.
We've tried- (how we've tried!)- to get him to stop, but he doesn't even realize it's there, his finger. It's like it has a mind of its own and has taken up residence in his nose. I'm sure when his teacher gets word this morning that he has Strep, it will come as no surprise; 'well of course the kid has Strep- his nose is the classroom Petri dish,' she'll be thinking. And we've been trying to use this new opportunity to make it stop, telling him that's how he got sick. It's not working.As far as Evan's verbal skills, very little "baby" remains, and our conversation abilities have reached a whole new level. Only certain phrases show that he learned to talk just 3 years ago, like when instead of asking why can't I? he says why's it because I can't? which really makes perfect sense. It's just the longer route.He's also developed a fixation on the shape of my mouth, and when I'm upset with him he'll say "why's your mouth turned upside down? I don't want your mouth to turn upside down!"He's still very into imaginary play and when I got out the old box of toys I previously mentioned, he went after the doctor's kit and construction tools and has fixed every broken thing in our house with his hammer. (Even some not-broken things have undergone repair.)At night we sing Jesus Loves Me before bed and this month he's changed the verse to "Yes, Jesus loves me- right now- today- all the time- yes, Jesus loves me..." How can I describe how I love that, how it makes me feel to hear him sing that? Warm. Calm and warm.And just now he came in the room, lifted my shirt and said "your tummy's getting really little, isn't it," bless- his- heart. (Nevermind that "really little" means I no longer look like a hippopotamus since the baby's out, I'll take it just the same.)Evan's still really captivated with his younger brother and has a hard time keeping his hands off of him. He's also doing well in school and is getting the hang of the rules and routine. Wednesday I told him he could have cake for a snack if he was good at school. When I picked him up he ran to meet me at the classroom door asking, "can I have cake now?" Then he turned to Miss Eva and began to tell her all about the Kentucky Butter Cake he made with me and how if he was good he would get some. I tried to explain what he was saying, fill in the gaps for her, but Miss Eva said "Ohhh yes, we know. He's talked about the cake all day." (What? And she didn't find it every bit as charming the 198th time?)He's still enthralled with the processes of things, which probably explains his love for baking cake. He loves to talk about seeds and plants and how they grow. He loves to talk about seasons and what follows what, and what activities we do those times of the year. This morning he asked me if winter was when it was Christmas, when it gets cold outside and the holly berries turn red and we get the tree out and "put the plug in" and have a kids meal and then hot chocolate and then get out the "onmints."You know how you go through all this effort to make special memories for your kids and then wonder if they even will remember it? I don't think I have to worry about that with Evan. In fact, I think I should worry that he remembers too much. For example, I don't remember having given him a frozen tv dinner that night, but oh-ho he does. He also, apparently, remembers we had a fake tree. And wouldn't you agree that it has a way of sucking the nostalgia right out of the memory when he sandwiches the image of a frozen kids meal between hot chocolate and ornaments like that? Right now, I'm filled with pity for him, though. He doesn't ask for much when he's sick. He doesn't even act very needy. Madalyn gets downright demanding when sick- and so do I- but he just sort of turns into himself and becomes a quietly suffering introvert. A few moments ago he made his way from the couch, moving noiselessly behind me on his way to our bed, and is now asleep there. All without a word of complaint. He's burning up, and his throat must be killing him, from what the doctors said, but only once has he complained... when he pulled his top lip over his teeth like he does when he's trying not to cry and said, "I don't want to feel this way." As much as I wish hot chocolate for breakfast makes it all worth it to him, I know that it doesn't.I keep telling my friends that with all the change and recent curve balls, I couldn't have handled a difficult baby. Well God is good, and Jack is a jewel. Sleeping 6-7 hours at night and smiling now, too- always a wide open smile like Madalyn did. He not only has a soft spot, but he is one. One word comes to mind when I think of Jack: joy.That's the note I find myself landing on as I sit and hammer life out today... in the midst of the chaos and changes and exhaustion, one word still trumps the others: joy.
I think I forgot to mention that one of the very first pieces of information Evan gave me when I picked him up on that first day of preschool was that he met a girl. A girl named Valerie. Yesterday, a week later, my friend Stephanie started joking with another friend on the way into the preschool building about wanting to see this Valerie Ethan had been talking about."Wait- did you just say Valerie," I butted-in to the conversation, "I've heard about Valerie, too!""Yes, Valerie. Ethan described every clothing item that Valerie wore the other day.""She was the first thing Evan told me about last Wednesday.""Uh oh- do you think there's some rivalry going on over Valerie? That maybe Ethan and Evan are in competition here..."We entered the building to retrieve the boys with our eyes peeled on high-alert for this Valerie. Stephanie found her first, sellout. Philanderer THAT SHE IS, she chatted the mother up real good, but I took the opportunity to check out the girl... An olive complexion and brown ponytail, Valerie was pushing a thick layer of bluntly chopped bangs away from her forehead as though it had been a very tough day of keeping all the boys at bay. Cute. She was cute. Although, (psh!) I honestly didn't see what the big deal was. But while Stephanie was working her magic on Val's mom, Evan exited the classroom with Valerie's butterfly craft in hand. Talk about a literal upper hand! Thatta BOY! We'll show those Wattles where it's at. (Okay, so that was before I told Valerie's mom that Evan had her butterfly, before, like Drano, I washed every hope of him winning the girl right down the drain.)You see, Valerie was very disinterested in the art bearing her name, but her mother wanted it. WANTED. IT.I wasn't sure if the teacher wrote the wrong name, if Valerie gave it to Evan, or if he'd gotten it by accident. Evan had run out of the room saying, "Look, I made a butterfly!!" and he usually keeps on top of his creations in a very protective manner, so I assumed he might know what he was talking about. (After all, Ethan went home the week before with Evan's lunch items, so it was possible the teachers had written the wrong name on the wrong butterfly.) And as I was trying to inquire about all of this and get the facts, Val's mom said with a rather hurried expression on her face; "Well it does have her name on it."I probably flickered a few wide-eyed blinks at her before responding; before handing it over and waving her on her way with pretend casuality but thinking, Okay, lady! You want the pipecleaner-adorned coffee filter that bad, it's yours! And while Valerie couldn't have cared less if her mother had thrown the thing on the floor and stomped on it, Evan watched it depart down the hall from him with utter confusion. It was "that moment" for him; that moment just before the heartache sets in, before you realize what's just happened to you. I panicked, realizing what I'd just done, that "that moment" was about to hit. The guilt seeped from my sweat pores as I realized that Stephanie wasn't the sellout- I was. I quickly turned my attentions on Evan, who was looking up at me in bewildered betrayal; "Don't worry, baby, I'm gonna find your butterfly." The confusion lingered, as though he were trying to decide if he was supposed to be hurt or not, and WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU TO GIVE AWAY MY BEAUTIFUL COFFEE FILTER ANYWAY??It was true. I had whored out his valued butterfly like a heartless pimp- cast his pearls among swine- and for what? For what! What kind of message was I sending him? That you do whatever it takes to keep the girl you like happy... to keep her mother happy? NO. No WAY were we entering girl world on that foot. I had to make it right. And I would. If I had to plop down on a toddler-sized table with the craft box and make another one myself, I would make it right. If I had to take out Val's mother like a linebacker in the parking lot to get it back, I WOULD.But it didn't come to that because Miss Eva soon returned with Evan's butterfly. The one with his name on it. He happily took ownership of it and I found myself, in fact, very relieved to have not made a seen with Val's mom. It could've gotten ugly. Really ugly. And in the end, she would've been right. I would've been the emotional half-wit clinging to a coffee filter that said Valerie, and she would've been the reasonable one who just wanted her child's art project. And every day the word grace takes on a whole new meaning.
Monday was the big day, Evan's open house. And Wednesday, bigger still, the dreaded and feared "first day of school." Shaun kept the other two at home both days so I could focus on Evan. Monday we talked about how we were just going to look at his school, but when "real" school started ("in two more nigh-nights,") he would take his lunch and get to go on the playground- today we were just looking. We talked this over because I had a fear of him fixating on the playground before we even got inside and having a melt-down in front of his teachers because he wanted to go back and play on it. With VERY GOOD REASON I had this fear because that's precisely what he did... When we first entered the room he saw the crayons they had out and busied himself at the small table right away. He wasn't coloring-in the apple on his worksheet like the other children, though. He was mixing colors to make new ones; mixing blue and yellow to make green and red and yellow to make orange and then experimenting with new combos that weren't so pretty. (He's a chemist, okay? Chemists don't think between the lines. They're into messes and explosions and breaking the rules for the sake of discovery. Kind of like when I step into a kitchen.)The chemist hard at work, I had the opportunity to meet his teachers. There were two; Miss Tina and Miss... Sandy, was it? (I can't remember because she's going to be away on safari in Tanzania the first four weeks of school, and my brain seems to only hold on to "need to know" information now.) Filling in for her, though, was Miss Eva, who reminds me of my grandmother; sweet, kind and, although energetic for her age, nevertheless a doormat for 12 three-year-olds. They gave me worksheets and tried to engage Evan, who kept his face planted in his work and reluctantly repeated the things I told him to say to them; a dazzling first impression he made.His friends arrived and he was excited to see them for about 2 minutes and then came the meltdown I'd anticipated. Not just any old temper tantrum, but Evan at his worst, his absolute worst; "No I WON'T stay here. I DON'T want to be in this classroom. I want to be on the playground." As if saying the contractions more forcefully and LOUDLY would perhaps hike his chances of getting his way. (I would criticize him for this method except isn't that human nature... I do the same thing in adult ways, and when will we learn that being more forceful and stubborn won't make it more likely to go our way, already?)So he's having a fit, what do I do? I get him out of there as quickly as possible, and drag him around the corner without so much as a thought about the strong possibility of his arm coming out of the socket. I kneel down and say, "you are making me very sad. Do you want mommy to cry?"I did. I said that. Worst parent IN THE WORLD. (I already know, so no need to clarify that in the comments.) Nevermind that I really thought I might cry- there's never a reason good enough for using your child's emotions against him to discipline.And so then his anger turned into anxious tears of guilt. He can't even listen to fake crying or watch a cartoon crying without freaking out. And I hadn't been taking that into account when I said these things, so I hear myself backpedaling; "I won't cry- no I won't cry, but I am sad. You are such a nice boy and you're acting like a very not nice boy. Your teachers aren't going to want to watch you if you talk like that. You need to act like the nice boy I know that you are." None of this made any sense to me, even as I was saying it, and it certainly wasn't feeling productive or constructive, but these are the situations you find yourself in as a parent, when it feels like you're treading water just to stay afloat... just to try and keep your child from getting a frowning red dot by their name before school even starts, just to prevent the teachers from placing a mental "warning" label across their furrowed little forehead. And so as I squatted there, looking at him and feeling completely unqualified for the situation, it dawned on me: maybe this preschool thing wasn't going to be so hard on me after all. Because in that moment, in that moment I was ready to shove him back in the classroom and peel out of the parking lot on two wheels and never look back. So Wednesday morning came and Shaun, Madalyn, and Jack were sleeping when Evan woke me. We had all morning together, just the two of us, while the others slept. We talked about his lunch and I read him the note I was putting in there so he would know what it said when he opened it at school. We breakfasted, showered, dressed, and then- we went over the rules; the hand-out we'd received at the open house with all of the classroom rules. When we got in the car we talked about more pleasant things; what he might do there, his new lunch box, was he excited... then we pulled into the parking lot and lined up our Expedition next to the cars of his two other friends. The mothers made eye contact that spoke volumes. It felt as if we were lining up our horses and wagons on the border of a new frontier. At least we would have each other.The children- there were 4 of them starting their first day- spilled out of the bellies of the three vehicles like happy little bees, swarming and shouting over their new lunch boxes and backpacks. We took pictures just outside the door. My camera battery died. None of them even looked back. They flitted in the door, past the apples pinned outside that claimed their names, shoved their things in their labeled cubbies and went to work at the play dough laden tables. And we, we dragged our feet out the doors of the preschool as though we'd stepped in wet cement and were each 5 lbs heavier.But the time flew. Stephanie and I had coffee cake and Sydney and Madalyn tried to figure out what to do with themselves without their big brothers bossing them around and leading them astray. It took an hour or so, but pretty soon they were dancing on top of the picnic table on the porch together, and, it turns out, remembered how to misbehave on their own just fine.Jack slept through lunch while Madalyn and daddy and I had lunch. It was as if we were back to being a family of three again, and Madalyn loved the attention. We loved giving it to her. Before I left she dragged a Dorito hand across my white shirt and said, "Oh no! Yer shert! I'm sorry, mommy." Only a girl would understand the offense, I thought. And I didn't bother to change it before leaving, figuring I'd pick him up looking like that sooner or later, so it might as well be now.Miss Eva stood at the door retrieving the children one by one, and looking as though she'd been run over twelve times by a Semi. I pretended to calmly wait my turn but could hear time ticking anxiously by like a stopwatch in my inner ears. He was so excited to see me- I could tell by his face. But his first words to me were not "hi" or "I missed you" or anything of the kind, but rather- "I want my cup." That was just fine, though. I was so glad to see him I didn't care, but took his cup from his lunchbox and filled it to the brim at the first water fountain we came to.We sat in the Florida heat in the car in the parking lot, air-conditioning on full blast but doors open, and he told me about his day. He told me he listened to a story about a tiger. He told me he met a little girl named Valerie, and that he made a puppet- showed me the puppet's eyes and yarn hair and body. "And these are his five legs," he laughed at his own sense of humor, at the anomaly he'd intentionally created.Then I saw his mouth was bleeding and made him open it. A small chunk of his tongue was hanging and bleeding.
"Does your mouth hurt, Evan?""Nope," he sang.
"Are you sure,"I asked."I'm sure," he sang.And my mind cooked up three or four scenarios as to how he got it and it pained me to not know. I had also noticed his eyelashes were dried together when I picked him up and though I didn't want to fixate on the negative since he hadn't mentioned it, I couldn't resist but eventually ask, "did you cry at all today?""Yes, I did.""Why? What happened, sweetie?"And then the following was very disjointed and some words took 6 times repeating before the sentences came out. He told me he had wanted me, missed me. He said I wasn't there and he didn't like me to not be there. He wanted me. School made him want me. "But then I listened to a story about a Tiger, and then YOU CAME!"When I was in middle school I watched my dad perform some surgeries, one of them a total knee operation where he warned that there would be a loud crack as the bone split, like a tree cracking before it falls. That's exactly what my heart sounded when Evan said these things to me in the heat of our car, through flushed cheeks and pink baby lips.I held it together, though, and asked some questions and tried to reassure him that I would always pick him up. Eventually, after many questions and much patience, and from what I could gather, it seems he got thirsty or hungry near the end of class and tried to get his lunch box but was told not to. Then he was told to listen to a story and I would be there to get him in 10 minutes (this is what I'm piecing together.)My friend Dana later asked her daughter what happened with Evan in class and was told he had been hungry. For all I know, judging by his tongue, he could've had a good cry over biting it during lunch... or maybe both. Maybe he bit his tongue having the fit. I'll have to ask his teachers tomorrow. But let me tell you Dana got A LOT more information out of Aubrey than I did from Evan. She got a whole song, verse by verse. A song that involved subtraction. And somewhere therein lies the difference between males and females. Somewhere therein is the secret as to why Shaun thought it was funny to scare me with a prank at lunch, telling me I was ten minutes late to get Evan (and also providing a mental picture of him sitting alone on the steps with his lunch box waiting for me,) while I don't think it's funny at all. Therein lies the reason he can laugh about these milestones while I get choked up over the sight of Evan's name written on a red apple cut out of construction paper and pasted to a classroom door. That apple might as well be my heart pinned to the heavy wooden door. My bleeding heart.
