Friday, September 25, 2009

Play Date

Birdie had his best buddy Evan come over. They decided to try on clothes and put on a fashion show. I played the radio while the boys strutted out from behind a curtain, sporting an array of baseball caps and tee shirts. Birdie giggled while he wore two different shirts encircling each arm. A lot of hugging, squeezing, and unfettered declarations of devotion took place: "I just love you, you are the best friend ever!"

Evan asked: "What if I lived with you and Birdie and you had three kids instead of two?"

"That would be fun." I giggled. "But I think your mom might miss you."

Evan thought about that and said: "How bout if we just have a sleepover? Can we?"

"Sure."

"Yay!" the boys squeal, grabbing each other's arms and jumping. "When?"

Can these little boys please hang on to just a bit of the boisterous six-year-old in themselves as they inevitably grow into men?

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Fallen, Scraped, Skinned, and Bumped

The afternoon that Birdie wore the Crocs to school, he emerged from his classroom with a large band-aid on his temple, staring at me with soulful, moist hazel eyes. He handed me a slip of paper. It was a note from the nurse, informing me that Birdie has fallen at recess, scraped his elbow, skinned his knee, and bumped his head.

"She tried to call you," Birdie said.

"Are you all right?" I asked. I had turned off my cell phone during a meeting; that must have been when the nurse called.

"I have a headache," Birdie said. There are tiny blood droplets staining his shirt.

"I saw him fall," his teacher tells me. "It's those Crocs. I have some, and I know you really can't run in Crocs."

Well, they have to be better than flip-flops, right? Now the footwear issue is a safety concern! From now until his college graduation, I will consider it my duty to be sure my kid will wear shoes to school.

Friday, September 18, 2009

CLOX

Birdie is tough. What he says usually goes. The last time I was victorious in the power struggle was when I succeeded in prying him off my sore breasts for good. He went from breast feeding to bottle feeding and has not forgiven me since. The latest battle is over appropriate footwear for the first grade. He insists on flip-flops. Winter is coming, and he has to wear flip flops. It is pouring rain, the street drains are flooded with a foot of dirty water, and he is wearing his flip flops. He has PE, is riding a scooter or climbing a rock wall, and he insists: "It is OK! I can wear these!"

At the latest foray to Payless Shoes, Birdie stood horrified before the racks of size-one shoes: "They all have tongues! I do not wear shoes with tongues!"

At REI I purchased Crocs, the silly rubber clogs, hoping for a compromise, to at least have his toes covered while his feet flop around without support. So today he wore them to school, instead of the flip flops. But the morning was not argument-free. No, he does not wear socks, they are too itchy. No, he does not wear shirts that have tags, buttons, a wrinkle or spot of dirt on them. It seems to be a matter of grave principle. A stack of rejected shirts lies in disarray now, just minutes before the first school bell.

"I guess these are ok," he acquiesced once he slipped on the pricey rubber shoes.

"You like the Crocs, good," I said in a friendly way.

"Mom! You are supposed to say CLOX, with an X at the end!" he scolded.

Fine.