Cold Spaghetti

Everything is on hold this week as we throw ourselves behind the efforts to get Abeona House open. It will be the first new daycare/preschool to open post-Katrina, an effort almost a year in making. How hard can it be to open a daycare in New Orleans? Rocket science may be easier. Or, at least, less stressful and frustrating. Paul has done a great job in helping with the many construction projects that need to be completed before inspection on Thursday. He’ll blog about these. The picture above is the mammoth handicap ramp. Next hurricane, we’re weathering it under this ramp. Renee and I watched kids today while parents worked outside. The babies aren’t featured in the picture above. Lesson: child-watching is much more difficult when age ranges include babies.
“I flying!”
Abeona House Child Discovery Center! (With Paul in the front working on the stairs.)

I went with my gut today and began to use the words “penis” and “testicles” with Will. Paul wasn’t around for most of the day so he has yet to learn of my independent decision. It will take some work to get Paul in line with the phraseology; this is the man who somehow got Will to use the word “bubbie” to ask to nurse.

I’m still curious to what other parents have done or what other people grew up saying… maybe it’s time for an informal playdate survey!?

Consumption of blueberries may lead to very, very black, loose stools from preschool age child. Proceed with caution. (Don’t have a freak-out… like I did this afternoon.)

We are getting closer and closer to actual potty training. Which means we have a serious choice to make: How do we teach Will about private parts?

And more importantly: What do we call those parts?

All the information I’ve found says to use the real words (penis, vagina, vulva). In truth, I agree with this completely. I have no problem using those words, explaining what our private parts are for (tolieting and making babies) and being clear that these parts are private, to be touched only by yourself, a close caretaker during washing, or doctor.

Still, we resist. Maybe it’s because we have been parents long enough to know that those words will surface in terribly embarrassing moments once they’ve been unleashed. Or maybe it’s because we’re just uptight. Either way, we stayed up late into the night last night discussing possible alternatives.

We were throwing out sounds and making up words to represent “penis,” when I suggested “zombo.” Paul immediately giggled and said, “Oh, no. Not zombo.”

“Why, what is ‘zombo?'”

“You don’t know? Come with me to the computer.”

If you are like me and have not been introduced to zombo, please, stop reading and go directly to www.zombo.com. If you do not, you will be cheating yourself. Go to the website and be confused. Be sure that your volume is on. Give it a good 5 minutes or so.

After being introduced to 15footstick‘s early-internet WTF?! joke, we decided that, if we went with made up names, zombo would totally be our word for penis.

Which leaves us in a quandry. Should Daddy have a zombo? (We’re not sure what Mommy should have. Top choices include “pente” and “bunky.”) We like zombo so much that we’re having a hard time doing what we think is right (i.e.: using the real words.) We actually can’t remember what words we learned as kids, although we both agreed that they were made-up words and not the real stuff. So would it really be that damaging to use made-up words? Or should we just stick with the real stuff and deal with the laughs it might bring in mixed company?

If Rick Blaine had lived in New Orleans and not Casablanca, he would have had the opportunity to say this a lot.

Last night we enjoyed the Pfister Sisters at “The Big Top,” an art gallery/funky space/music hall/non-profit arts education center. They have “Friday Night Music Camp” from 5-7 with live music and art projects for kids. Our Music Together class met there last night. Will made a hip little glue-paper-cutout design on origami paper and everyone got their groove on to the swing-back songs. (Note: that little boy is not Will, but he was pretty darn cute staring up at the stage!)

Early this morning, we followed up the previous night with another art project: foam stickers. Will *loved* them.

Then we had our last summer session of Music Together. Paul joined us early on, which is great because it allows us each to take a kid. About halfway through the class (once Will got really crazy) Paul left to finish a project for Abeona House in the next room. After class we hung around to speak to Renee (the music instructor, an Abeona teacher and our friend), nurse Kate, change a poop, and catch-up with some Abeona events.

An example of how living is New Orleans is not all beads and cake: Paul’s project was to add rails to a changing table to “bring it up to code.” The table was a donation from another, very well established and respected preschool, the Newman School. It had been used there for many years. But because that School has been around for awhile (and has a history of serving the “society” generations), they are somewhat extempt from all the bullshit Abeona has had to deal with. To show the ridiculous level of the “code” — this particular changing table is actually deeper than the other with-bar changing tables in the House, yet the inspector refused to let us open without adding bars to the table or removing it. Rather than throw it out, Paul volunteered to put his woodworking skills to it, using scrap wood we had in the back. Hopefully, Paul will blog soon about some of the other hoops Abeona has had to jump through; he can tell the stories better than me. Seriously: New Orleans is an AWESOME place to live. If it weren’t a completely unique, amazing experience, no one would put up with the crap we have to deal with to live here.

I digress. After class, as is our tradition, we headed down a few blocks to Oak Street Cafe. Friendly staff who know us, eat up our kids, and serve great food. Plus the NOLA charm of live piano, blue plate specials, local coffee, and neighborhood style — we love it.

Paul is juggling in the park with the NOLA juggling club and the kids are napping as I write this. I’m not sure what this afternoon holds, but we’re off to a great start!

“I working.”

Will has a Jack-in-the-box at my parents’ house. It is a standard model with “Jack” dressed in a clown-inspired hat and suit, with cartoons of clowns juggling and unicycling on the sides. When he turns the handle and Jack pops out, Will always calls out, “Daddy!”

My Mother made the slip of calling out, “that sucks a big one!” when she overcooked bacon in the microwave this morning. Will, who was happily playing on the porch, conveniently decided to get involved in that moment: just as the words escaped Granna’s mouth, Will came charging into the kitchen shouting, “that sucks big one!” I looked down and shouted, “PEANUT BUTTER”, my distraction tactic to keep Will from repeating less-than-desireable phrases he hears from his mother’s family. Usually Will compiles. Today he just looked at me and repeated, “that sucks BIG one!” He put special emphasis on the “big,” as if to gently remind me that this phrase was now perminently saved in his personal lexicon. Thankfully, I kept my follow-up response (Damn!) to myself.

A few months ago, Will was Determined to Do Everything Himself. This included feeding himself, combing his hair, putting on clothes, and brushing his teeth. Lately there has been a huge regression of these behaviors: he asks to be fed, for someone else to brush his teeth, and doesn’t complain when one of us goes after his hair.

Kate is back to her super-pooper status. 5 big ones today; 4 of which overflowed up the back. This is an indication that we probably need to switch diapers to ones with a more cinching waist. We recently went from Pampers Swaddlers to the less expensive Pampers Baby Dry… I think we need to go either go back to Swaddlers or into Cruisers. Baby Dry does a great job on holding in leg leaks, but the waist doesn’t have the same give.

3: Poopie diapers from each kid
4: Outfits for Kate
3: Minutes Kate spent in the pool before the sun came out
5: Times I helped Will to swim to the bottom of the pool to pick up one of his toys before the whole thing freaked me out too much
2: Bandaids Will has had on his fingers
2: Times Will watched “National Geographic Really Wild Animals: Ocean” while pretending to be a shark
26: Sweet Pickles books that currently serve as Will’s primary reading choice

I struggle at each day’s end. Tucking Will in to bed, we sing songs. Usually I take requests, given by suggestion. “Would you like…. Hushabye Mountain? Goodnight My Someone? Loverly? I’d Do Anything? Surrey with the Fringe on Top?…”

Lately, Will smiles his sly smile and offers some faux titles based on his current obsessions. “How ‘bout Monster Song? Shark Song? Dinosaur Song? Tarantula Song?”

Some nights, I do my best to make up a song on his chosen theme. But even on those nights, we end with a song from our established repertoire.

Sometimes, he sings along. Sometimes Kate is there in bed with us, curled up in between. Sometimes, she sings, too.

No matter the song, or the singer(s), Will always follows up our lullabies with requests of cuddles. He asks specifically “to cuddle Mommy” and expects this cuddling to be all-night, or at least until-he-falls-asleep.

I always cuddle for a least a few minutes. Then the struggle begins. Kate gets fussy and needs burped or walked. Paul has asked me to help him with a project after Will is in bed. Laundry needs to be folded, dishes to be done, cats to be fed, trash to be taken out. Maybe I want some time to be Alone. These trivial tasks compel me to move. The stuff of life creeps into my head and pulls me away from the pillow I share with my son.

I know in a few years, years that will pass so quickly that I will forever be asking how they passed by so fast, I will long for these nights. I will miss my child that asks for his mother to cuddle him to bed. Miss his arms pulling me to his side, resting his head on my shoulder.

Will, waking up from his afternoon nap: “Where’s PapPap?”

“PapPap’s at work, honey.”

“Oh, need to wait here for him.”

“We do?”

“Yeah. I gotta go t’ golf course. Gotta hit balls with PapPap.”