Cold Spaghetti

Last night, at Celebration in the Oaks:

“Paul, did you see that woman?  She had a violin strapped to her back!”

“What do you expect?  We live in New Orleans.  You never know when you’ll have a random act of violins.”

“Will, what do you think about us spending a few months this summer in a country where everyone speaks French?”

“I think that would be GREAT!”

“Yeah?”

“YEAH… we could go to MEXICO.”

“Mommy, can you get me something to read while I sit on the toilet?”

“You need something to read?”

“Yes.”

“Like, a magazine?”

“No.  A book.  Can you get the one in your bedroom that is about ducks?”

—

Before you go to snap judgments…

That Little Man, the one who wants to read about ducks while sitting on the throne, has silently endured an ear infection so bad that the pressure burst through the membrane of his ear drum and started leaking fluid out of his ear.  I noticed the dried fluid when we came home from his Christmas party Friday morning and within 30 seconds, had the doctor’s office on the phone.  Any thoughts on how painful it must be to have your ear filled with pussy fluid* with pressure so strong that it breaks through an organ?  (Okay, so probably that membrane isn’t an organ.  But wow, shouldn’t this at least be memorable in the short-term?  Cause an ‘ouch,’ maybe?)  I found photographic evidence of it from earlier that morning, from photos I took during the holiday party:

So, just to be clear: men who like to read about ducks on the can are tough.  T-O-U-G-H.

Oh, did I mention?  He wore a red flashing Rudolph nose from the party all afternoon, including through the entire trip to the doctor’s office — thoroughly mortifying the two teenage boys that he sat beside in the waiting room — and delighting everyone that saw him.  You know, while his little 5-year old head was leaking pussy fluid*.

That’s my guy.  Keepin’ it real.

(Last photo by Paul, who took the photo.  Photo by Paul showing Will wearing the stocking on his head, taken by Paul, who took the photo.  Just in case: that last photo?  Paul took it.  Thanks, Paul!)

* Meagan kindly noted my use of the phrase “pussy fluid” (not once, but TWICE) in this post and though it would totally be the right thing to, um, watch my phrase-ology, I just can’t bring myself to change it.  I just can’t stop laughing at myself.

Will came home from school to find my sketching supplies out with evidence that I had been using them.  He was curious and paused to look, then ran in the back to change clothes and work on the house with Paul — the call of power tools.

Then, 5 minutes later, he’s back inside.

“Mommy?”

“Will, dinner is going to be soon, so no snacks.”

“No, Mommy.  I don’t want a snack.  I want to draw.”

“What?”

“Draw.  Like you.”

Behold, internets.  I give you, MY SON.

What was that, you ask?  That sound?

It was the sound of my heart, breaking into eight thousand pieces a hundred times over.

“What color was your day today?”

“Pink.  I had a happy day today.”

“Oh?  What made you feel happy today?”

“Ummm… I don’t know.”

“One of your friends at school?  A game you played?”

“No.  It was lunch.”

Kate, the 30-month old talking flow chart, on the topic of Santa Claus.

“Where’s Santa Claus?”

“He’s at the North Pole.”

“Why?”

“It’s where he lives.”

“He’s in his house.”

“Yes, he’s in his house.”

“He’s not in my house.”

“No, he’s not in our house.”

“He’s not in my bed.” *

“No, he’s not in your bed.”

“He’s not in my closet.” **

“No, he’s not in your closet.”

“He’s at his house.”

“Yes, at his house, at the North Pole.”

“At the North Pole.”

—

* I wonder if us singing “You Better Watch Out” and the whole thing about ‘he sees you when you’re sleeping’ helped develop this line of possibility?

** This also has been brought up in our household before.  When we first told Will about Santa, he used to cry out at night because Santa was in his closet.

—

Here is more from Kate on the subject of Santa, speaking during dinner (Shepherd’s Pie and Tomato & Edamame Salad*) last night.

Kate discusses Santa Claus from Cold Spaghetti on Vimeo.

* It feels important to say this only to explain the colorful mass of mush sitting on the plate in front of her.

“I want to write books and make them all myself.  That’s what I want to do when I grow up.”

So announces Will toward the end of the trip back from Mobile.  He makes the declaration while producing the Ipod touch, where he has been typing for a solid hour… or so it seems.  It did not read like Hamlet, but I’m willing to bet that three monkeys with typewriters could have re-produced it.

“That’s great, Will” we said.  Paul added that I could help him write and make illustrations, that I was in to that sort of thing.

“Yes, Will,” I added, “I’ve kind of been writing a book online for the past 4 years… on The Blog.”

“I’ve been writing a long time, too, Mommy.  Since we left Granna and PapPap’s house… a REALLY long time.”

—

When we got home, Will asked to start his book.  This is what he wrote and drew.

Not to be left out of the fun, Kate made a picture, too:

The combined force of the holiday, the family, and the pending inevitability that Someone Else (aka: my parents) would show it to him first, we did it. We showed The Little Man Star Wars.

Parts were scary. Parts we had to explain. At one point, he asked to turn it off for a little while. It made me feel vindicated, in a way, to have to my point made about why we had wanted to wait in the first place. But at least now he knows, he’s been there, and we can move on. But there are some things that remain difficult to understand.

“Mommy, why did Darth Vader kill Obi Wan?”

“Well, they had a big disagreement and fought over it… but Obi Wan really didn’t die, he became one with the force… you know it’s all pretend anyway.”

“But why did they fight?”

“Sometimes that’s how people handle disagreements, in movies and in life.”

Quiet. Thinking. Squirming.

“You know that Mommy and Daddy believe that fighting is not the best way to solve problems.”

“Why?”

“Well, we just think that fighting hurts people and makes them want to fight back.”

“Then why do people fight?”

“Because… it’s what they know. It’s harder to think of other things to do when you’re upset. It’s easier to just fight.”

Pause.

(Tentative, in a whisper.) “Mommy, when you yell at me, it’s just like fighting.”

Quick, deep breath. Wipe away sudden tears.

“You’re right Will, it is. Let’s work together so that I can learn a better way, too.”

2008_10_10-katesingsfreirejacques (mp3)

This is very typical dinner conversation in our household. Kate chatters on and on about something, Will sweetly pipes up and does exactly what we ask of Kate, Kate tries her best to do the same (sounding like she’s providing back-up for Ozzy Osbourne), and then forgets what she is doing and starts talking about climbing mountains and eating monkeys.

Our Dynamic Duo. A little blurry, but you’ll get the idea…

“Mommy, I love you sweeter than the sweetest bullfrog ever kissed.”