Interview With a Six-Year-Old

"I'll just stick with fruit tonight." 

"You don't want any of your birthday cake?"

Granted, the cake was an oddly shaped remnant of a chocolate volcano leftover from yesterday's party, impaled with a blue candle that Jules had just extinguished and a icing smeared "flame" that, in its prime, flared from the top of the volcano.

"Nah... I ate too many sweets yesterday. It wouldn't be good for my tummy." 

And with that, he headed into the other end of the room and started paging through the instructions of his new Hobbit Lego set, the one designed for 9-13-year-olds. Skipping the fruit all together. He zoned into his building, while the rest of us dug into messy, second-day sweets.

"Do you think he's sick?"

I ask Jon. I'm not kidding. Earlier in the evening, when Kai—newly four and newly obstinate—had whined and banged and yelled that HE wanted to help excavate the triceratops from Julian's new dinosaur dig set, Jules invitingly offered, "sure, I think I need some help brushing right here." He'd sounded more like a parent—or a patient preschool teacher—than a big brother. Minutes later, when Kai tossed the tiny Ikea table to the floor, sending the plastic (or clay) ball flying across the room (in a crazy-angry-entitled way that made me think of Leonardo DiCaprio in Celebrity) Jules calmly looked at me and said, "did you see what he did?"

I did not remain calm. I raised my voice into an almost-yell and I told Kai... well, I told him that he could not have any cake later. (Which turned out to be a total lie. But this blog post is not about my bad, weak, parenting choices; it's about Jules—and the maturity he's seemed to have developed overnight—so never mind.)

Fast-forward past the dinosaur-dig-ransack, past dinner and no-cake, past the Lego-making and the showers. Now Jules decides that he would, indeed, like some birthday cake—a bit of chocolate and a bit of vanilla. "Tiny, tiny," he says, like a 40-year-old woman. I serve it up, set it on the table and sit across from him. With my phone. Because I'm going to interview him. On his 6th birthday. Because that's what a whole bunch of posts on Pinterest suggest that a good parent should do. And conducting interviews is something in my wheelhouse, unlike most other things suggested on Pinterest. 

"Can I interview you?"

"No." 

"Why?"

"Because it's annoying."

And so it begins... But he doesn't actually sound annoyed—just honest, and mostly kind. And so I keep going.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"A dinosaur digger," he tells me.

"A paleontologist?"

"Yes." 

"You don't want to be a cake maker?"

It's my attempt at a lame joke because I can't think of a next question. And because I'm looking at him eating cake.

"Mom. That's called a baker." 

"Ahh... yes."

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Mom?"

"Um, a mom?"

"No, what do you want to BE?"

I tell him that a mom is most definitely a thing to be, all by itself, but that I guess I could also say a writer. He likes that answer. So then I go on to tell him that this is what writers do—or what some writers, the ones who are also called journalists, do. They interview people. 

"What if you don't want to be interviewed?" he asks.

"Well you just decline. You say, no thank you."

Julian nods and continues to savor his cake, silently, while watch him—so big and so little and, to me, so beautiful—silently. Olin comes around the corner. "Julian just declined an interview," I tell him. "Oh, I always decline her interviews," Jon tells him, laughing. 

"Well some people find my interviews charming." I say this feigning that I am offended—and am pleased that Jules picks up on this nuance. He knows I'm kidding. As for the charming part, I'm not actually sure this is true. 

"What's 'charming'?"

I love that he asks when he doesn't know the meaning of the word. Every time. 

"It means nice... fun."

I'm not actually even sure if this is the most accurate definition. 

"Oh, I think they're fun. But sometimes I just don't feel like talking, Mom."

Well played, Jules. Well played. You're growing into a pretty cool little-big dude, my boy. 

Living in the Future is Sometimes a Matter of Survival

Most of this cold, windy and rainy weekend, we spent trying not to kill each other—literally exerting great effort to not bark or yell (often unsuccessfully), push, shove, kick or kinesphere-invade (often unsuccessfully). Yesterday, I did a long muddy run (with three fantastic women). Jon and Kai did a T25 workout. Jules wrote a book about it—and, by that, I mean, yes, he recorded the details of Jon and Kai's exercise session in his field "diary."  In which all notes are spelled phonetically. (It's pretty awesome.) Both boys escaped out a birthday party sidedoor. It was not cool—but I get it: they had anxious energy to burn. They were quickly captured. Shortly after, both boys fit in some training runs for the Yam Scram—through the aisles of Gardener's Supply. The employees were very kind. We quickly rounded up the track team, paid for our purchases and left for home. Where we forced the boys to do jumping jacks and lift weights.

This morning, the boys swam at their lesson with Annie. Then, with two friends, they did some more Yam Scram training sprints, down the long hallway of the office building that houses the pool (and my office). Screaming like wild men. Straight past the yoga studio where a Kundalini class was just beginning. They were ushered home. Where they prompted began a game of evading kinesphere-invasions. A game that involves much tattling and crying. One kid was directed to the basement for a private yoga session. Then Jon did a T25 workout. Or maybe two. Then everyone geared up in snow gear and headed out for a sleet hike. (Yes, it was sleeting.) We spent almost an hour striding through slush and ice (me, in slippery rainboots) in an attempt to—I'll say it again—not kill each other. One kid, one adult and one dog loved this. One kid and one adult did not. The not-liking-hiking kid cried—understandably, because his boots and socks were soaked through. The liking-hiking adult carried him piggy-back for the rest of the hike. The liking-hiking kid asked the not-liking-hiking adult for a piggy-back ride, too, because "IT'S NOT FAIR" for only the soaking, sobbing kid to get carried. She obliged, in her slick and slippery rain boots, gingerly stepping over slush and ice and snow, miraculously not biting the mud.

Upon arriving home, cocoa was serving and the formerly crying kid soaked in a lavender-scented jet tub, which turned his attitude right around. For 15 minutes. The not-liking-hiking adult was instructed to go to yoga—at the same studio the shrieking kids sprinted past earlier in the morning. She gratefully obliged, as there was much swirling energy to be tamed.

In other news, we got a bunch of seeds and a new grow light. We are so excited that it's March 30. Officially spring!

Breaking Ball Jars Vs. BPA

Newsflash—You shouldn't give this to your kid:

The glass. (Seriously? C'mon now.)

YOU go ahead and drink your wine out of a Ball jar (wine enthusiast friends: you might feel a little better to know what's in there is Three Buck Chuck). And you go ahead and use that photo-ready, budget-friendly juice jar to pack your yogurt parfait or that perfect portion of oats to make at work (both brilliant ideas of friends). Or screw on a Cuppow! and call it a trendy vessel for your green smoothie or iced latte. Bake preciously presented sweets in your Ball jars. But don't hand them to your 3 or 5-year-old who suffers restless leg-and-arm-and-hell-it's-the-whole-body syndrome. 

The first time I become aware of the dangers of Ball jars was via email—a note from Julian's teacher informing me that the 4 oz. glass jar in which I'd sent grapes, possibly even halved so he wouldn't choke (the ridiculous irony - he's FIVE), had broken. Jules was devastated because he thought I'd be mad. She'd sent the note so I'd make sure he knew I wasn't upset with him (man, I'd better lighten up if this is what he thinks). Really, what I think she'd really meant to say was this: "What the f*ck is wrong with you, sending glass jars in backpacks with a kindergartener?" But she's a super-nice person so she sent what she sent. With a smiley face—to make me feel better. Thing is, the dangers of glass shards hadn't even occurred to me. I've produced two magazine features on how BPA kills (or something like that) and, thus, have a complicated relationship with plastic. I shared this story with a (kidless but apparently far more sensible) colleague who nodded knowingly and, a few days, later handed me some stainless-steel canisters. (Thanks again, B!)

You'd think I would have learned from this lesson. But no. I've continued to give my children beverages in Ball jars, "tightly supervised," of course. So when Kai carried his water cup (glass Ball jar) with him from the table to the bathroom to brush his teeth last night, I thought nothing of it. When he set it on the back of the toilet so he could stand on the seat to look in the mirror while he brushed, I thought "gross." And when got into a tiff with Jules over who got to squeeze the toothpaste first and swept the glass to the floor with a flailing limb, I was all "oh SHIT" (silently and for that I give myself much credit) and whisked them both out of the room so I could clean up the scattered, shattered glass. I did a thorough job, I thought, with wet paper towels and all. I meant to go back to double vacuum after bedtime. I forgot.

Tonight, Kai, refusing to be corralled for bed, ran into the bathroom and wedged himself between the toilet and the wall (again... gross!)—then pulled out a bloody foot. Slashed, with a shard. We bandaged him up and he seems to be just fine. I'm a tad traumatized. Guilt-ridden.

So if you see my kids in the next few weeks, or months, or years, out, sitting at a fancy table sipping from stainless-steel water bottles, eating their halved grapes, you'll know what's going on: I'm overcompensating. 

Homework is Superfun

"Did you like homework when you were a little girl, Mama?"

I love the way he says girl—his R's are still the little-kid kind, articulated in a way that's not quite right but entirely age-appropriate, according to my sis, the speech-language pathologist.

Under my watch (read: restoring him to a seated position every time he cartwheels off the chair) he's completing his first homework assignment, one that prompts him to write in little squares things about himself: what he's good at (digging rocks), what are his hobbies (puzzles, museums and hiking), what kind of ice cream is his favorite (maple and vanilla) and what places he's visited (Pennsylvania, North Carolina and Cape Cod). His responses to this assignment seem to lend evidence to my theory that this  little guy is going to dig school.

What sort of makes sense. I did. And so did his dad.

"Yes, Jules, I liked homework. I still like homework. Learning things is super fun, don't you think?"

"Yes!"

What I didn't always like was sitting in a chair, still. What I didn't like was being quiet. Memorizing and regurgitating facts whose importance I couldn't really place in the real world. Focusing on information that felt static. Having to try to concentrate in a silent space. I still struggle with these things. And I think someone else might too.

I've heard amazing things about our community school—and I hope they're all true. I think it's important to know things, a lot of things. But I think it's even more important to be curious enough to explore the space all around the stuff that's known and imagine how you might fill in what's missing, to seek out the synergies that allow for evolution—and to know when it's time to shut the books and play music in your underpants.