The Post-Preschool Experiment, Day 1: Report of Subject #1

My captors have isolated me with a tiny humanoid. It looks innocent--indeed, its appearance evokes in me a kind of atavistic instinct to nurture and protect it. It seems in all ways like living flesh but I think it must be a construct of some kind as no living thing could be so indefatigable and relentless. It has recently gone into some kind of resting mode; perhaps I will have an opportunity to examine it more closely, though its resting platform is guarded by two beasts, small furry creatures it calls "dogs," which, though small, make ferocious noises and are possessed of fangs.

I do not know how long the resting mode will last. I must write quickly.

I have learned that when the tiny humanoid utters the nonsense syllable "mom," it is seeking my attention. Using this attention-seeking strategy, which becomes louder and evolves into the two-syllable "mommy" if I do not respond quickly enough, it issues contradictory requests and disconnected pronouncements at intervals of approximately 6-10 seconds at all times when not in resting mode. I am obligated to respond to these requests although it is not possible to fulfill them all. I do my best to comply although I am exhausted by the effort.

I do not know what the tiny humanoid is capable of; I fear its punishment. Sometimes it arms itself.

And it is a master of disguise.

It seems to have an "argumentation" subroutine installed which leads it to reject every proposal I make or proposition I utter. Its programming is clearly sophisticated, yet a bug in its code causes it to misunderstand the word "no" or any other negative response as permission to proceed. My only respite comes when it turns its attention to the other beings that share our enclosure, these "dogs." They do not speak but also demand my attention and care, as do some minute caged creatures the tiny humanoid refers to as "hamsters." In addition to the other challenges I face, I must protect these creatures from the tiny humanoid's depredations.

I do not know what purpose my torment serves: amusement for some hidden observer? some scientific purpose? punishment? I only know I must endure. Perhaps someday I may return to the life I knew before. Dreamlike and half-remembered, it nonetheless gives me hope. In the meantime, I ingest vast quantities of a stimulating sugary beverage with which the food cooling unit is stocked, and visit the personal hygeine cubicle as often as possible. There I may gain a few precious seconds of peace before my tiny tormentor tracks me down. The sound of its voice calling "mom" from the other side of the door fills me with dread. What will it ask of me next?

The Literature Scholar Has a Baby

Earlier tonight I found myself poking around in e-mails I sent to friends when Word Boy was a baby. By then, I was three years out of grad school in English Literature, but I still had this tendency to bring my talents to bear on any literature I encountered. Which at this time--June 29, 2004--was Blue's Clues:

The Lego Savant is watching Blue's Clues. It's one of those weird episodes where Steve hints that his life is not perfect: in this one, he feels sad because he never finds the clues first. But it's his fate never to find the clues first, but to wander around like an idiot saying, "What? I need to tie my shoe? You wish you had some glue? For lunch, we're having stew? Oh, a clue!" It should be impossible for him to imagine any other option, because this is a given in his world and it cannot be changed.

Never mind how strange the episodes are where Joe comes to take over--again, there should be no hint of an outside world, or that anyone could come and go from Steve's weird little life with his talking furniture and crazy dog. And yet, one day he gets a phone call from his brother who is coming to visit. And then Steve escapes from the enchantment, leaving Joe to live his weird life--exactly as Steve lived it. Joe says and does everything exactly as Steve did. Again, it's very strange when Joe is being taught how to do it all--it opens up the possibility that things don't have to be done that way, and emphasizes their strangeness.

But that's just me: "The introduction of Joe underscores the regimentation of life at Blue's house, where no deviation from any given behavior is tolerated, whether the 'Blue's Clues' hand motion or the dance that goes with the 'Think, think, think,' song. Yet the fact that Joe can come from outside the world of the narrative--and that the man-child Steve can escape the two-dimensional cartoon neighborhood in which he has resided, stepping back into the flow of time which surrounds it--creates a rift in the narrative through which the text can be deconstructed to reveal its malleability and artificiality."

And on July 20, 2004, Green Eggs & Ham

The Lego Savant loves to rhyme. A lot of times, he makes a rhyme work with nonsense syllables: this morning he came up with something like, "Here's a string, ropey-dopey; famma gamma scopey-scopey." But a couple of weeks ago he produced this couplet which he liked so much he has often repeated it:

It was dark in the night
So I turned on the light.

He has picked up the habit of anapest from Dr. Seuss. Dr. Seuss is a master of the anapestic foot, two unstressed followed by one stressed syllable, which looks like this:

on the FIF teenth of MAY, in the JUN gle of NOOL
in the HEAT of the DAY, in the COOL of the POOL,
He was SPLASH ing, en JOY ing the JUN gle's great JOYS
When HOR ton the EL e phant HEARD a small NOISE

That fourth line starts with a two-syllable foot, but that's OK. That's the kind of thing poets do. I think you could teach scansion to college freshman using Dr. Seuss. If anyone taught scansion anymore. Which they don't. Not since the death of formalism.

Anyway, you'll notice that the Lego Savant's little couplet is anapestic: It was DARK in the NIGHT so i TURNED on the LIGHT. His literary influences are showing.

Did I ever tell you about the time the Lego Savant had made me read him Green Eggs and Ham so many times that I got bored, and to amuse myself I used the book to explain "narrative arc" to him, and who the protagonist is (the un-named Green Eggs and Ham Hater) and who the antagonist (Sam-I-Am) and what is the rising action and and what is the climax and what is the denouement. "Green Eggs and Ham," I told him, "is nearly Aristotelian in its adherence to the form." He was impressed. I think he was two.

The Lego Savant, at three, had his own ideas about books:

Today, the Lego Savant chose In a People House. I said, "Oh, that's a good book."

Lego Savant: Except the end.

Su: The end? Where the people come home and throw the mouse and the bird out?

The Lego Savant: yeah.

The Lego savant studies the cover: Maybe in another book, the people come out to the yard and come up the tree to where the bird is and the...the...the...what's that?

Su: A mouse.

The Lego Savant: and the mouse and they invite the bird and the mouse into the house. I think that's what happens in another People House book. We should get that book. They have it at the library with the trains, but not at the library that just has the legos.

You know how you always hear parents saying, "I wish I'd written down some of the cute things my kids said"? I will never have that regret. I wrote something like 500 single-spaced pages in the year after the Lego Savant was born.

OK, I have to share one more thing, that has nothing to do with books, because this is one of the most hilarious things that has ever happened to me as a mom. It is now August of 2004:

It's 5:50 p.m. A recent IM from Raider has told me that he is heading out of work and will pick up a baguette at the bakery to have with dinner. I am on the couch nursing Word Boy and reading a novel. The Lego Savant is next to me, playing with a little motorized train engine about five inches long and maintaining a running commentary which I have mostly tuned out, so although I hear it, it doesn't register when he says, "I'm going to cut your hair." The next thing I know, the train engine is on my head--affixed there by my hair, which has been wound around and around its axle (I presume). It is pulling a big hunk of my hair, it really hurts, and the train engine is perched on my head at a jaunty angle like a little hat from the 1940s. I say, "Lego Savant, I know you didn't know it would do that, and you didn't mean to hurt me, but I want you to go to your room and wait there quietly until your Daddy comes to get you."

And then I have to sit there with the train attached to my head until Raider gets home, wondering whether he is going to have to shave a hunk of my hair to get it off, and considering whether I will wear a scarf or a hat until it grows back in.

I am happy to report that Raider was able to rescue me by running the wheels backwards to unwind my hair, and although I have a tender spot, I also still have my hair.

I'm so glad it was nearly time for him to come home, and that he had the car. Can you imagine if I'd had to drive to pick him up with a red engine on my head? Choo-choo! "Hi, honey. I need you to meet me in the parking lot in 10 minutes. Bring scissors. I'll explain when I get there."

And people wonder why I shaved my head for three years. Raider used to have long hair until the Lego Savant reached the hair-pulling stage. It's just safer this way.

I Hear This Will Be a Real Event This Summer in London

I missed a day of blogging yesterday. My excuse is that I was sick, and I spent the day rotating between napping in my bed, and reclining in the big chair, doing a TV marathon on Netflix and crocheting this little cutie:

I thought I'd make it up to you all by doing two posts today, but I am still sick and I doubt I'll actually write two complete posts. So I thought I'd share something from the archives. "Farina Endfen" is an anagram of a dear friend's name. When I wrote this, she had a son 14 months older than mine (she still does), and I thought of her as infinitely capable and also much bolder than I am (I still do). "Senna Spun" is an anagram of a real name of mine that I rarely use; there is little less satisfying than anagramming "Su Penn." Our personae in this little vignette seem very true to our real characters to me.

I wrote this back in 2001, when I was the mom of a single six-month-old. Of course, we didn't call him the Lego Savant back then, but I thought I'd try to be consistent with my recent, belated, half-hearted attempts to protect my children's privacy.

Here we go:

I was just changing the Lego Savant's diaper and reflecting happily on how much quicker and more efficient I am at it than I used to be, and I thought, "Hey, this would make a great event in the Mom Olympics." It would look like this:

BOB: Welcome back to the Mom Olympics on ESPN2. I'm Bob Smith, your host, and with me in the booth is Vera Bera, mother of six and three-time gold medalist. Vera, what's our next event?

VERA: Bob, we've got the poopy diaper change, and you can almost smell the excitement in the room as the event technicians bring in the babies. And there's Senna Spun, our first contestant, just entering the arena.

BOB: Vera, can you tell us a little bit about the event?

VERA: Sure, Bob. I see that Spun has chosen a fairly simple change, Compliant Bottle-Fed Baby on Home Changing Table. That change is only worth an 8 out of 10 at best; it's a conservative move for this newcomer from the midwest. Wait; I see she's opted for cloth diapers. We'll see some inflated scores there from the Natural Parenting and Attachment Parenting judges; clearly Spun is counting on that.

BOB: What kinds of things can the judges deduct points for?

VERA: Well, Bob, Excessive Use of Wipes is a common penalty, as is Poop In Unauthorized Locations. For instance, if she lets the baby's heels get in it or has any on her hands when the change is done. Oh, she's started. I see she's removed the baby's socks. Again, a conservative move--she would lose points if the baby needed new socks or a new outfit, but it will cost her in time.

BOB: She's done! She's putting the socks back on! That was quick!

VERA: And done well. I didn't see any major deductions, but she'll have a hard time taking a medal if she can't be a little bolder than that.

BOB: And here are the scores... that's got to be a disappointment.

VERA: Well, the quality of the sport just isn't what it used to be. In my day, every serious competitor at the national level had at least four children in at most six years; now it's all mothers-of-one. In 1978, I had to perform a near-perfect Simultaneous Bowel Movements of 8-Month-Old and Two-Year-Old in Car With Light-Colored Upholstery While Running Late to Pick Up Four-Year-Old From Preschool to win my second gold, but the multiple-child events have been completely phased out in recent years.

BOB: Here's the next contestant. What can you tell us about Farina Endfen, Vera?

VERA: Well, Bob, this Montanan and former social worker is known to followers of the sport for her risk-taking tendencies. Rumor has it she's been working on a new change that could set the bar higher than it's ever been before in single-baby competition. But will she risk it? She's the favorite to win this event, and with Spun scoring low might not want to take unnecessary chances....Oh, my God!

BOB: Vera, the crowd is just exploding out there as Endfen's change is announced.

VERA: Yes, Bob, I can hardly believe my eyes. Endfen has opted for Non-Compliant Toddler with Stomach Complaint in Public Restroom with No Changing Station. It's the four-minute-mile of the poopy diaper event. We hear she's achieving a 50% success rate with it in practice, but no one has ever seen anything like it at this level of competition before.... They're bringing out the baby. Listen to him howl!

BOB: Spun's looking a little shaky on the sidelines, there.

VERA: And well she should be, Bob. She's got to be kicking herself for not trying at least Clean, Well-Lit Public Restroom, Forgot to Re-Pack Diaper Bag After Tuesday's All-Day Shopping Trip, a change she's had good success with in regional competition. I'd say she's lost her chance of medaling here today unless something goes terribly wrong on Endfen's change.

BOB: And what would that take? I assume Endfen's change is worth a full 10 out of 10.

VERA: Yes, but the risks are enormous. She'll be on her knees on a damp floor, remember, and the baby is non-compliant and has loose bowels. She's risking Baby and Mother Both Need New Outfits, the second-largest penalty in the sport after Baby and Mother Both Need Bath.

BOB: Will Farina Endfen make Mom Olympics history? Stay tuned--we'll find out right after this important message from Huggies.

Portrait of a Marriage by the Light of the Microwave

So, when I go to the Festival of Faith & Writing, I drive back and forth between home and Grand Rapids. It's about a 75 minute drive, cheaper than a hotel, and I listen to music or an audio book and generally enjoy myself. One night during the most recent festival in April, I get home late, just as Raider is getting ready to go to bed. I can see how tired he is, how ready he is to sleep. But he also wants to hear about my day, so he follows me into the kitchen to listen to me chatter as I pack the next day's lunch.

I discover that the hoagie rolls are frozen, so I wrap one in a paper towel and pop it into the microwave to thaw. Raider watches me as I press a few beeping buttons and then START.

We are facing each other, and I see his eyes cast sideways at the microwave and then come back to rest on me. Very quick. Hardly noticeable. You would not have noticed it. But I have shared my life with this man for almost 19 years, and I see that glance, and I know what that glance means. It means that I have not microwave-thawed my hoagie roll in the way that he would have done it. He suspects that his way is better. Therefore, he has advice to give me on the subject of microwaving hoagie rolls.

He has also shared his life with me for almost 19 years. He know that I do not want to hear the advice he has to give me. He knows that after starving children, persistent urban and rural poverty, and wanton environmental destruction, there is almost nothing I hate more than unsolicited advice.

He has a habit, this person I love, of making little suggestions about the way I do things. He likes to walk into the kitchen while I'm cooking and stir my sauce, or center the pan more perfectly on the burner. In the car, he wonders why I don't take Service Rd. to Trowbridge and get on 496 instead of going down Okemos Rd. to 96, since the Service Rd. route is just that little bit quicker--he knows, because he has timed it. And so on.

Someday, when he is dead, I will remember his habit of helpful suggestions. I will miss it. I will stand in the kitchen unpacking the groceries and weep because there is no one there to point out that I bought the wrong kind of salsa, or to ask whether I chose the tortillas I did because the store was out of the "good kind."

But, in the meantime, it just drives me nuts.

So. He feels the urge. It is strong, this urge. An instinctive drive, like the one that makes the butterflies migrate or the mother bear protect her cubs. The primal urge to say something to me about the choices I make--the poor choices I make--in hoagie roll thawing. But he knows I don't want him to say it. I am watching him feel the urge. He is watching me watch him. We can both feel the force of it. There is tension in the air; it crackles between us. He is fighting the urge as the seconds tick down on the microwave's timer.

The urge cannot be defeated. He speaks. "Are you familiar," he says carefully, "with the auto-defrost feature?"

"I am," I reply as formally as a witness in Federal court. "I use it quite often."

"Ah," he says.

There is a pause. The microwave's hum is the only sound in the room.

"I really missed you today at the conference," I say. He starts to smile; he knows what's coming. "You are so easy to love at a distance."

And then we're both laughing. And then we are in each other's arms.