Telling 2s

We are home. After a week long sojourn in Allentown, Pennsylvania with the grandparents, we are once again tucked back into the bungalow. The boys picked peaches, rolled in the sweet summer grass, rode horses, fed cows, brushed goats, rode a train, saw wild bison and deer, played on Sesame Street, rode down a huge water slide, went fishing, ate treats, chased their grandparents for hours and helped celebrate their great grandmother's birthday. A lovely, energetic week built around making memories. I wiped many little tears off two small faces today after our goodbyes.

I have been meaning to jot the following thoughts down for awhile. Needing to record them for Cubby to look back upon one day, especially if his children are anything like himself or his mother. Particularly since all of his children will eventually be two years old for 12 laughter filled, tear drenched months...

Two year olds.

A two year old can take down the most sensible, rational, patient adult in ten minutes, easy. Its true... year two stinks at times.

I have always strongly disliked the term "terrible 2s," I cringe a bit whenever someone throws that in my face while my two year old is screaming in the corner. I dislike the feeling of having to make some excuse for his behavior. I scratched the term "terrible 2s" from my Mommy vocab even while pregnant with the Bear, declining a relationship to the phrase all together.

And yet, I have seen the anger and frustration year two can bring. It needed a term in my mind. And no, for as well meaning as all the perky women who have piped up with "The TERRIFIC 2s!!!" I can not call it that either. At least not while I live with and care for a two year old twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. When I am their Sunday school teacher once a week I will think of it that way in my mind, but for now, "TERRIFIC 2s!" feels like a tall drink of false advertising.

I have settled on the "Telling 2s" for my Cubby. Because every reaction from him is telling me something about him. His tantrums are the greatest teaching moments for me as a mother. Those moments of frustration for him that can only be verbalized by a Mt Vesuvius of screaming, crying, and wailing. I am given a small window of opportunity to assess, react and then teach. A telling moment for us all.

For example: Cubs needs direction, guidance and trust. He needs me to trust him with big projects, then guide and direct him to finish them. He loves helping out and accomplishing small goals. Whenever there is a fit of tears on the horizon, it can almost always be averted by simply letting him help with some sort of menial task usually done by adults. I will clarify that we do not cave into his every whim or desire, especially if my sweet toothed boy is begging for more treats, we simply look for the Cubs-styled exit sign out of the situation. If he happens to learn a lesson on the way out the door, then praise Jesus.

This afternoon as we struggled with the herculean effort that is passing through airport security with three children three and under, I watched Cubby's line of thinking as he surveyed the scene. Well, I took in as much as I could while taking off 3 pairs of shoes, two laptops out of their cases, handled four bags and removed several jars of medication, and a few sippy cups for TSA. And that was only my share, folks. J was balancing the babe on one arm while working on two more bags, his shoes, belt and other odds and ends. Cubby stood, glancing at the line, and then staring at the stacks of bins.

Now my instinct at any and all airports is to spend every twenty seconds repeating "DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!!!!" Especially to Cubby, our button pusher, who pushes all the alarm buttons on elevators, makes a bee line for every fire alarm in sight, and is currently in the delightful phase of wanting to lick everything around him. But I could see the wheels turning in his mind today and my options were pretty obvious. I could let him start removing the plastic bins that held the germ content of a public bathroom in Calcutta or I could say no and drag him through the remainder of security and possibly onto the airplane at a dead weight screaming fit of rage. Hmmmm...a tough one, I know.

We let him pick up the bins. He helped us load our things. He stayed by my side. He waited patiently as our items were scanned and then helped put everything back together. He felt entrusted with responsibility and valued as a part of our family. He contributed to the journey and walked a bit taller next to his father. Did he also make a bit of a mess and slow things down a bit for us? Yes. But really, let the children make a mess. What are four extra minutes in the TSA line when there are tantrums to be avoided and little boys to raise?

I am over the halfway mark of the telling 2s and have had an earful of all the things Cubby needed to say. So far, I can honestly say that 85% (definitely not 100%) of the tantrums were well worth it. I learned hard and valuable lessons from them. They helped me learn about my son. He hit me over the head with his personality, learning style, character, sins, habits, and quirks time and time again.

I always smile a bit whenever other Mommies ask for advice on their two year olds. I wish I had some fool proof method for angelic behavior to offer them, but then if it existed, we wouldn't have the miserable joy of discovering our children in all their sinful human glory. I am glad not to have unearthed a secret instant remedy. I believe I would have spent all my life setting some ill placed, unattainable bar of perfection for my children. They would have gone through childhood misunderstood, uninspired and with the constant burden of feeling like they failed some misbegotten expectation.

So Cubs as you sit and read this one day... I ask of you as your mother... and for the sake of any grandchildren that inherit our passions and tempers...

Listen to the telling twos, they are the guide and map for the rest of those childhood years. And I have a sneaky suspicion, the teenage years as well. I love you and have learned immensely from and about you this year. Keep all this in mind and whatever your children plague you with remember this: You used to lick my shoes and pull the fire alarm, all in the span of fifteen seconds.

Books and Nooks

Hello. Its raining outside today. The proverbial cats and dogs are flooding the garden and our street front. Usually, the boys go a bit batty on days like today. But today, they are happily ensconced in the world of page and print. Cheerfully bouncing along the lines of A.A. Milne and Shel Silverstein.

I took full advantage of Border's closing sale and ended up coming home with about twenty books, eight posters, and four CDs. Three of the four CDs are vintage Sesame Street tunes which the boys are really loving! The book range from Dinosaur Encyclopedias to Architecture books to the newest cravings....all things cartography related...MAPS.

The Bear is often overheard reciting the names of his favorite dinosaurs. It makes my head spin at times, he knows around forty to fifty names I'd wager. Saurolophus, Ornatotholus, Ceratosaurus, Spinosaurus, Oviraptor, he can go on forever. We snatched this little A-Z dinosaur name book for about a dollar. He curled up with it on the sofa for a good half hour. Once in a while, his head would pop up and he would call out, "Mom? Mom? What is the name of this guy? What is he afraid of?"
Cubby is loving on ships and airplanes. I bought him an encyclopedia of each and he loves flipping through the pages as I call out the names of the different crafts and teach him the names of each feature. His little nose crinkles and his long lashes sweep down towards the pages as I hold him on my lap. I love snuggling a child in my arms when there is a big book on our laps. The child stills, the pages turn, and I can hear the wheels of imagination begin to churn.

Oh, boys and cartography. We are flooded with maps and the boys still can't seem to get enough. Map puzzles, books about maps, maps on the walls. The little explorers are fascinated with the world God has made.

This fantastic jigsaw book ended up being $3.00! It has eight puzzles inside stored in book form. The Bear is especially intrigued by Africa. He knows that our new baby cousin was adopted from Ethiopia and so he is ever curious to look at her home country. "Does B love coffee?" he asked with a furrowed brow. "There are pictures of coffee on Africa, Mom. I think baby B loves coffee!"

We ended our rainy day by baking some chocolate chip zuccini bread for Daddy and cutting out some ninjabread men for our little afternoon bookpaloozah. Cubs used his Robot measuring cups to assist in putting together the bread. He grated the zuccinis and ate several morsels of bittersweet chips. I think he could crack eggs all day...

My boys are tucked under big blankets as I type this. The rain is pouring outside, grey light streaming into the bungalow. I am excited to begin work on the boy's book nook later next month. It will be nice to have a small space for them to curl into with a book.

This rainy day really hasn't been so bad...

Little eyes are devouring the books strewn about them. Ninjabread crumbs cover their shirt fronts, hot cocoa has cooled into their little dinosaur cups. I am peppered with questions and warmth and love.

I don't think I want this particular rainy day to end.

55

She shared what she remembered with me a few weeks ago. The reception planned by the family, the food they served, the fact that her brother was not present at the wedding because someone had to guard their house at all times. The weather, the road, the types of fruit in season. Her ivory skirt and her best shoes and the run to meet her two friends that would stand witness. The groom was thirteen hundred miles away, waiting for her in the new country they would both call home. She was the lone bride on her wedding day. She shared the day and the celebration food with everyone around her but him. My Abuelita went before the judge and stood next to her future father-in-law and married my Abuelo by proxy.

She is telling me this story while we make croquettas together. We are rolling the ground, spiced ham into the proper form. Hands reaching into the large cast iron pot, scooping up the ham and repeating the long learned ritual passed between us, this generational rhythm, a synchronized history of food preparation. Our hands are the same hands really, I need only glance over to see what my hands will look like at age seventy. I am proud to have her hands. We roll and form, roll and form, she keeps telling me the stories.

The morning spent watching one final surgery at the village hospital, the hasty shower back in her dirt floor home, the tearful, heart wrenching goodbye to her mother. Abuela hopping on the bus from her village to Havana, traveling down the road to a city she has never seen. The following morning, February 9, 1956, she pulls on her traveling clothes and boards an airplane. Everything is foreign to her and there is a horrible storm that day. The plane shakes and she recalls the fear climbing up her throat and plummeting to her stomach again. She gives a small smile when she tells me that she was the last off the plane that day. That my Abuelo had stood there, anxiously waiting, wondering if something had happened or if she had changed her mind.

"What happened then?" I asked.

"He hugged me and handed me a large coat that he had brought for me. I've never felt so cold in all my life," she smiles again.

"Did he kiss you?" I need to know.

"Of course. He better have, I went all that way just for him."

"Were you very in love?"

She looks down at her hands, rolling and forming the croquettas, and her eyebrows lift slightly. She lets out a small sigh, "Oh, yes. We loved each other very much."

The heavy shuffle of feet comes down the hall, a slow drag of stubbornness, and he walks to the table and begins watching us as we work. He starts giving orders. Roll this way, form that way, use more breading. He turns and leaves again. Shoulders slumped, voice raised, arms seeking out great grandsons to hold.

"He taught me how to cook" she confides.

She had worked every day and never learned the most basic elements of cooking. That first meal in their new apartment had been a supper of rice and beans. He gagged and asked whether or not she was trying to kill him. She cried. He taught her how to cook.

He interrupts us several times, wanting us to do things his way. They begin to argue and I watch them. Wrinkled faces, work worn hands, once dark hair now shot through with white. I think of the miserable jobs they have held, the brutal sacrifices, the impossible mountains they moved to provide physical necessities for their children. The indelible mark they placed upon us by never once walking away from their Lord. I think of their entire lives pouring into one element that is us, our family, their children, their children's children, their children's children's children. The small bodies playing just one room away from their bickering. My children. My children who are watching television in a house with electricity, running water and a floor made of wood and not dirt.

I smile to think of what their love has built. They argue all the time. He is perfectly horrible to live with, and yet he is what holds it all together, he is the heartbeat and sinew and blood. He loves so fiercely, despite the brokenness and pain he came from, his hands cling tightly to the frays and he pulls them into himself.

They both grew up on that small island, the reality of third world poverty stained to their very core. They do not love extravagantly, with gifts and vacations and such. They love simply. To the depth and breadth of what they have, they give to each other. What are flowery poems and diamonds when one has known hunger and hard labor? There is no need for material surplus.

He is her anchor and she is his lodestar.

There is not a basic need unmet, they tend and provide and shelter. I have never seen one grab a piece of fruit without first offering half to the other. It is true love right down to the very last mango, even if they are both shouting at each other as they slice it.

We finish breading the corquettas and she wanders away from her stories, into the next room of her mind, something about prescriptions and a doctor's visit and warnings of mosquitos that bring encephalitis. We pack the food into bags and shoo the kids out of the house and into the cars. Everyone exchanges hugs and as we pull out of the driveway for our seven block drive home, they sit together on the porch wrapped up in fifty five years worth of marriage, watching the fruits of their labor and love drive away.

Happy Anniversary to my grandparents. 55 years together. I treasure every day that I have with you.