Pajama Party!

Two weeks ago, on my day off, the kids and I were bumming around the house. When the mail came, Gwendolyn received a gift of yellow M&M pajamas from my mom. She donned them immediately and declared that today was a Pajama Party day.

She also decided that winter hats were necessary as part of our pj ensembles. So Micah and I obliged and suited up.

The hats took a little explaining when Mommy got home.

~ emrys

The New Room

In an earlier post I wrote of the treasure hunt I set up for Gwendolyn on Christmas. Here is the promised post about the gift at the end of the trail.

Way back in 2008 I painted the room which would, for the first three years of her life, belong to Gwendolyn.  The arrival of our second child made us decide to convert the other half of that room (it's really a single room divided in two by a partition) into a new bedroom for Gwendolyn and hand down the orange-and-green room to Micah.

Seeing this change as an opportunity for artistic expression, I decided on a scheme for painting the walls in Gwendolyn's New Room. Rather than the circles and curves of the nursery, I preferred lines and polygons this time. For some reason which still mystifies me, Sara agreed to my proposal for bright yellow and purple.

After some brief work with ruler, pencil, and square, the painting began:

Because the project was a surprise, and because Gwendolyn's schedule and mine rarely lined up during the day, most of the painting was done at night, after she had gone to bed. I had to sneak through her room to get to the New Room. Because it was winter, the windows had to stay shut. Which means I'm in for it when they discover, twenty years from now, all the horrible effects of inhaling the off-gases from vinyl paint.

Below you can see that the former coffee table is getting its second life:

 What would a New Room be without the assembly of a piece of Ikea furniture? Nothing, I say! We got Gwendolyn a trundle bed which ought to last her until she graduates high school. Here's my lovely wife and brother doing the hard work while I wield the camera:

Et voila! The finished New Room, with new bed and linens bought for the occasion. (Note that the purple and yellow on the walls match the same colors on the comforter:)

Plus Gwendolyn gets Sara's heirloom dresser and mirror:

 I had to keep the New Room locked until Christmas day, even though Gwendolyn knew that something for her was going on behind the door. I suspect that even before she started her Christmas morning treasure hunt she knew where it ended. Here she is discovering one of the clues in her hunt (note the pink outfit given to her by her Best Friend Kerri):

 She was so excited that she almost literally bounced off the walls. This process was aided by the fact that her first move was to test out the spring in her new mattress:

 As an added bonus, the placement of her bed affords her a view over the driveway and front of the house. When she's old enough, she'll discover that it's safe to climb out her window onto the front roof, from which she can jump to the ground without hurting herself. (I discovered this about our bathroom window at my dad's house in high school.) Here's hoping she'll never need to use it that way.

 All of January, whenever someone came to visit the house, Gwendolyn would exclaim, "Let me show you my New Room!" That made all the vinyl paint fumes I huffed worth it.

I just hope she doesn't expect a New Room every Christmas now.

~ emrys

Making Memory

 

One month ago we started offering Cheerios to Micah. With eight incisors and a propensity to gnaw, he can crack the toasted Os or he can gum them over his budding molars. I say that we "offer" him Cheerios, rather than "feed" them to him, because part of his learning process is trying to pick them up from the high-chair tray.

Micah doesn't quite have down the coordination of his thumb and forefinger. When he goes for a toasty cereal bit, he usually pinches his quarry between the tip of his forefinger, the base of this thumb, and the tray surface. The porous cereal chunks stick to his skin, even if he doesn't have the best grip. With that sideways hold he can get it up to his face. At this point, however, a quandary arises: Since the Cheerio is not at the most accessible point on his hand (out between tip of thumb and tip of forefinger), how will he get it into his mouth?

The day is saved by the fact that Micah does not yet have any compunction about stuffing his whole hand into his mouth, even if it's an inefficient way to get that crumbly ring of oats.

The most fascinating part of this learning curve, to me, takes place away from the table. When I'm holding Micah--talking to him, babbling with him, walking him around the house--I see that his thumb and forefinger are quietly rehearsing their routine. Micah's eyes and attention may be on something on the other side of the room; but his forefinger and thumb are softly pinching and releasing, pinching and releasing. It's as if he's watched us show him how to pick up a toasty O, and now while they're not doing anything else, his digits are using the down time to master their moves. I imagine that they're forming the neuromuscular pathways that are second nature to us adults, who can pick nuts out of a bowl without looking a second time. Micah's on his way.

Always learning, always growing. I love it.

~ emrys

A Thought on the Church

A fair bit of observation, a good chunk of listening, and a lot of thought birthed this little piece. If you have responses, I'd be glad to hear them.

The Flood

or

Why the PC(USA) Is in Her Current Predicament

~ emrys

Shoveling in the Dark

One evening in December Sara got stuck in the snow on the way home from Norwich. I called friends (who were coming over for supper anyway) to rescue her, since they had snow tires and I didn't. With a prayer for their safety, I trusted that Sara would be delivered home soon.

However, the situation left me tending the kids solo with a driveway that needed shoveling quick. So I put Micah down for his evening nap, bundled up Gwendolyn, and We Two Elder Ones went out to shovel the driveway. I set the baby monitor next to the front door and looked around for the requisite equipment.

"This is my snow shovel," says Gwendolyn, picking up her green plastic beach shovel.

"Yes, it is," say I, going for the steel-handled adult-sized one.

"I also use it for sand and dirt," she says.

"Yes, you do," I say, meditating on the completeness of my daughter's observation. That shovel has dug up earthworms in the garden and poured foundations for sand castles at the beach.

I start hoisting lumps of snow and tossing them off the driveway. Gwendolyn trundles out to the middle of the drive and starts flinging bits of snow into the yard. About three minutes pass.

"Daddy, this is my snow shovel," says Gwendolyn, pausing in her labors. It's dark, and she is illuminated by the outdoor flood lights glowing on the snow.

"Yes, it is," I say, reminding myself that deja vu is common for parents of pre-schoolers.

"I also use it for dirt and sand," she says.

Usually the deja vu is not this precise. "Yes, you do, my lovely."

She returns to her labors. I make another ten feet or so of progress.

"Daddy," says Gwendolyn in mid-toss, "I use this shovel for sand, snow, and dirt."

"Yep," I reply, wondering if she's working on linguistic permutation.

Ten more feet and the same exchange happens. Then again. Six times she informs me, simply and clearly, of all the purposes to which her green shovel may be put. As if making a sales pitch to an amnesiac. And shoveling all the time.

We got the driveway shoveled enough for safe entry and exit. Sara made it home safely with our friends (thanks, Jaindls, for the rescue!). That night it kept snowing, so the next day would mean more shoveling. But no worries: as my daughter made perfectly clear, we had fitting and versatile equipment. Not to mention hard-working and observant help.

~ emrys

Above the Books

While hunting Christmas gifts for my brother and his wife last year, I came upon the following sign while perusing River Read, a wonderful independent bookstore in Binghamton:

Philosophy, Gender, Sports. I know that it is unfair to expect a logical sequence in book categories. But seeing those three words up against each other made me wonder about the connection between them. And then I got to wondering about the possibility of cross-category genres: I almost began searching the shelves for the book(s?) that fit into all three categories. There's one I'd like to read.

Metacategorical analyses: just another reason to visit your local independent bookstore.

~ emrys tyler

Eat First!

"Help yourselves to food, and welcome! Once you've dined, we'll ask you who you are."

Spoken by King Menelaus to Pisistratus and Telemachus in The Odyssey (Fagles translation, p126, lines 68-69).

When was the last time you had occasion to say, "Eat first, then we'll find out who you are"?

~ emrys

Circle Marks the Spot

 In our early years, our parents used to offer variations on the process of opening gifts at Christmas. One was the "Russian nesting doll" variation: We opened a huge box found under the tree only to reveal a slightly smaller box inside, followed by a slightly smaller box inside that, and so on.

 Sometimes the core of the nesting boxes had a small gift inside. Other times, the smallest box contained a clue as to where the actual gift, which might be as large as a bicycle, lay.

 My favorite variation, however, was the treasure hunt. The initial gift (or envelope) contained a hint leading us to the next clue, found somewhere in the house.

 As we got older, the hints became little riddles in themselves. We had to work out where the next clue was, which process sometimes took some trial and error.

 (My apologies for the sideways photos here; Blogger is messing up my formatting.)

 This year Gwendolyn's main gift from me came at the end of a treasure hunt. Since she's not adept at reading yet, Sara had the brilliant idea of making it a visual hunt. On the reverse of every colored circle was a photograph of the next colored circle at its location in the house. When Gwendolyn identified where the picture was taken, she could easily find the next circle.

What fun to follow an excited three-and-a-half-almost-four-year-old around the house as she found the clues! It was certainly worth staying up late to put the construction paper circles in place.

Next post: what was behind the orange and green doors . . .

~ emrys

Deviation

For the past ten years, I have made an anniversary gift for my wife out of the material assigned for that year (probably by Hallmark in a grand marketing plan). Last year's gift was made out of tin; my list then begins skipping every five years--I did not have a material for the eleventh anniversary. (I have recently been told that the material is steel--oy!)

The day of our eleventh anniversary last month we were committed to the annual caroling event with the youth of our congregation, which does not make for an exciting anniversary date. So we postponed the celebration until January. Last week Sara I and went out for supper at one of our better local restaurants, then met up with friends at another local joint for the best desserts in Afton. While we were together, I gave Sara her anniversary gift this year, something I've been planning since last winter: a Silver Star.

For eleven years I have been proud to be married to such a wonderful woman, full of dedication, industry, smarts, and love. Her superb sacrifice for the community after the flood of 2011 gave me an excuse to honor her a bit extra. Because the image and symbol are handy, I used the military honor of the Silver Star to mark it. Here's the text from the award that hangs now on our wall:

"In September 2011 Sara coordinated flood relief efforts operating out of Nineveh Presbyterian Church, working long hours under stressful and exhausting conditions. Meanwhile she continued to provide for the needs of a household which included one busy husband and one energetic toddler, all while in the throes of early pregnancy. She showed a character of perseverance, compassion, and patience under all circumstances. For these inspiring acts which would make any other husband jealous, Sara Jane Tyler is awarded the Silver Star."

Thanks, Sara Jane, for eleven years!

~ emrys

Just Watching

It's Monday morning. Sara's asked for time to work, so I've got the kids. Micah is down for his morning nap.

The morning has been the familiar inexhaustible litany of requests, exclamations, and cries from Gwendolyn. Then: something unexpected. She points to her gingerbread house, made with Granny in early December, which has been sitting on our counter for a month. I can't help looking at it and seeing mouse attractant.

"We have to put this outside for the birds and the squirrels." Squirrels still comes out like krurruls from my three-and-a-half-almost-four-year-old's lips.

I have no idea where she came up with this idea. I try not to let my happiness seem excessive. "Really?"

"Yeah." Matter-of-fact. As if everyone puts out gingerbread houses on January 14th for local fauna to eat. As if it's a Catholic feast day.

We don our boots, hats, and mittens. The air is cold. Right there, outside the kitchen picture window, we lay the cookie abode to rest, a hapless victim of nature. Then we come inside.

Without a word Gwendolyn retrieves her "oggles," binoculars made out of two mismatched paper towel tubes glued together and decorated with princess and butterfly stickers (magnification: 1X). She perches on a chair next to the picture window and peers through her binoculars at the gingerbread house, six feet and a world away on the other side of the triple panes. I sit next to her, gazing into the cold January sky.

"Daddy, you need your oggles."

I reach over to the counter and pick up my pair of toilet paper tubes with DADDY inked on one side. Gwendolyn made a pair for every member of the family, including Micah, how sees cardboard only as a fantastic chew toy.

Now we are partners in the watching, our worlds divided evenly into two circles.

 The gingerbread house sits alone against the pale green and brown of early winter, a steel blue sky showing no sign either of birds or squirrels. But we watch.

For ten minutes we sit in silence. Ten minutes: a blessed eternity in my life with a whirlwind preschooler, with no words, no whining, not even the quiet contemplative singing she often does. She is too focused to speak, riveted by the expectation that at any moment a flock of birds or warren of squirrels will appear in the field of her binoculars. The moment is full of gravity and hope. We are watching.

Just watching.

She is watching for the hidden beneficiaries of this unexpected winter treat.

I am watching, silent with joy, yet another facet of this ever-new life lit by our winter window.

We are watching, together.

~ emrys