A-B-C Read to Me

My five year-old has done something amazing and beyond belief this month. He is reading. Somehow, he went from knowing his ABC’s to suddenly being able to look at those letters and decode words. Even though his two brothers before him have learned to read, this is still a miracle to me. Not long ago, he began haltingly pointing to each letter and painstakingly sounding them out, then slowly, with my help, mashing the sounds together to create a word. This week, a switch has been flipped. The letters have become words, the words are sentences, and the sentences are a story. Best of all, he knows that he is doing something amazing. He’s walking with extra swagger.

Last night, as I was reading to my older sons (we are currently engrossed in Mary Amato’s hilarious book, Snarf Attack, Underfoodle, and the Secret of Life: The Riot Brothers Tell All), the five year-old wandered into the room where we were reading and politely, but pointedly cleared his throat.

We stopped reading and looked at him.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he said very formally, “but I want you to hear something.”

From behind his back, he whips out a beginning reader booklet, photocopied by his kindergarten teacher. It is all of four pages long. He clears his throat again.

I see the nine year-old brother rolling his eyes. He is anxious to continue Snarf Attack and does not like this unplanned intermission. I cast him a glare, and he catches my meaning: Don’t ruin this moment for your brother. His eyes unroll.

Five year-old clears his throat one last time and begins.

“I see a fan for me. Look at the little fan ...”

We listen attentively. When he is finished, we clap appreciatively. Nine year-old is feigning politeness; my applause comes with a definite welling up of tears and a leap in my heart. My baby is reading. A whole new world of possibilities have opened up to him. He’s earned a huge piece of independence, and it can never be taken away from him.

The new reader, satisfied with his public reading, takes a deep bow. “Thank you,” he grins. And just like that, he turns on his heel and is gone. The momentous occasion is over, and it is time to return to the zany antics of the Riot Brothers.

Down the hall, I hear my youngest son swagger into the room where my husband is, playing with our daughter. “Dad,” says our young reader, “I want you to hear something …”

One Is Not Always a Lonely Number

This morning, I am enjoying my first real alone time in thirteen years. Since becoming a stay at home parent when my first child was born, any time “alone” has come about by freak accidents (all the children napping at the same time, for instance) or by begging and bribing a friend to take my children to their house so I could get something done, like meet a deadline, or go to a doctor’s appointment.

This morning, for the first time ever, all four of my children are in school. At the same time.

Granted, this will only happen two mornings a week for me. My son just started morning kindergarten, and my daughter just goes twice weekly to a 2 year-old preschool. But quite honestly, I don’t know if I could handle any more aloneness for the time being. I’m going to have to ease into this slowly.

Most luxurious for me has been sipping my morning coffee, brewed in a French press coffee pot, doused with Vanilla Spiced Rum creamer. Every sip has been piping hot. Nobody needed their nose wiped or diaper changed while I was drinking it. I sat, and sipped.

The first hour of my alone time, admittedly, was spent doing some practical, utilitarian tasks. I’ve balanced our checkbook, I’ve updated a website that I’m in charge of. I’ve marked down some important dates on our family calendar, and I’ve filled out a form that was needed for my son’s school.

Hour two is all about me. I’m doing my favorite thing, which is putting words to a page, and then, folks, I’m going to take my piping hot coffee to the couch, put my feet up, and I’m going to read a book. A book that doesn’t have pictures. And I might get a whole chapter read (maybe two!) without interruptions.

Oh yes, I could definitely get used to this.

Don't Let the Bed Bugs Bite

When it comes to bedtime, I’ve failed miserably as a parent. I am embarrassed to say that all four of my children, from infancy onwards, just never quite get to bed at a decent hour. My mommy friends tell me their kids go to bed at reasonable hours, like 7:30 pm. To add insult to injury, they usually tell me that once soundly tucked in bed, they remain there for 12 to 13 hours until they wake the next morning, refreshed.

My children obviously had a secret meeting in which they all agreed to keep Mommy and Daddy awake for as long as possible. Our first child was the worst, mostly because my husband and I were living a bit like hippies, working a bunch of part-time jobs, my husband going to school. It was a regular occurrence that he and I would be up late, typing up articles, transcribing interview tapes or editing a newsletter (me), or writing a paper or studying musical scores (him). Our little boy, only one or two at the time, would just stay up late with us, often past midnight, playing with blocks. It seemed to make sense that we were all on the strange schedule together.

That was my excuse then. Now, I don’t really have one.

The kids no longer stay up past midnight, but they DO stay up late. For instance, my 5 year old is often the one who reminds my husband and me that our favorite show is on -- at 10 pm. Does that make us bad parents?

But it gets worse. Our kids often fall asleep in our bed. I know, I know. I’ve read all the parenting books, and they all say that’s a big no-no. The little ones, teeth brushed and jammies on, climb into our bed and snuggle in between me and Daddy. We read stories, we sing songs, we talk about our days.

The truth is, I don’t want it any other way. My oldest is a teenager now. He is growing up, doesn’t need snuggles from his parents like the old days. I know that this stage won’t last forever. And I also know enough now to forget about the inconvenience, the fact that it’s a bad parenting technique. I love little kiddoes in footy pajamas, nuzzling up next to me and whispering, “Good night, Mama. I love you.”

I love the fact that I can lift them up, heavy with sleep, and smell their hair and feel their even breathing against my neck just before I lay them in their own bed and tuck the covers tightly around them.

Good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the bed bugs bite.