Maggie's vocabulary

Maggie invented a word while in a foul mood today.

"Stop it, you're just making me ornerier!"
[Would that be ornery-er? Not sure how to spell it.]

She cheered up after a meal and a nap. Then she told us,

"I was just being silly when I said those ridiculous things."

Who wears the pants?

Overheard today by a fly on the wall during our family's lunch...

Maggie: Why does Dad always get to pray before meals? [not true, by the way, but never start a land war in Asia and never argue with a 4-year-old]

James: Because Dad is the head of our family.

Jennifer: Oh really? Who says?

James: Me. The oldest male in the family is the head.

Jennifer: So, if Dad were gone, would you be the head?

James: No.

Jennifer: You know, James, in some times and places, that is the way it was. If Dad died, people would say to you, "Young man, you're the head of this family now. It is your job to take care of them." Would you like that?

James: No, that would be hard. I wouldn't like being a dad and having to drink coffee.

Maggie: So the head of the family gets to pray most of the time so Dad prays

Jennifer: What? Why do you say that dad is the head of the family and not mom?

Maggie: Because he gets to work first.

[So apparently, last fall when Jennifer taught the morning classes and "got to work first," then she was the head of the family. That makes it a pretty tenuous position in our household.]

Parenting woes

"Mom, something happened at school today that is still bothering me."

Groaning inwardly, I fought the urge to roll my eyes and instead slowly finished smoothing the covers around my seven-year-old. You see, my son suffers intermittently from what I once heard described as "Eeyore Syndrome." It usually hits at bedtime, and involves a view of the world that everyone is somehow against him, and causing him grief for absolutely no reason or provocation. It is particularly perplexing to me because it is not all the time. Thus, I never know when to take a complaint seriously, or brush it off as something that he will have forgotten by the morning.

"Do you want to tell me about it, James?"

"Trenton has been beating me up at recess almost every day."

"Really?" My mom antennae have just gone up. This is my baby, after all, and I bristle even against my own will at the idea of someone trying to harm him. But I try to remain calm and cautious. I have learned that I can't rush in with both guns blazing; sometimes the story doesn't hold up to the tagline, and sometimes James is not an innocent participant. "Well, that doesn't sound very nice. What do you mean by "beat you up?"

"Well, today at recess he held me down while Gabe and Elizabeth screamed in my ears as loud as they could."

Now I am starting to lose my dispassionate interviewer mindset. I breathe slowly to remind myself to get more of the story. "Well that is a very strange thing to do. Why do you suppose they would do that?" Of course, James has no idea why.

I continue to query him.

"Did it hurt when they screamed?" Yes, definitely.

"Did they know you didn't like it? Did you tell them?" Yes.

"And you can't think of anything you might have done first that would make them want to treat you like this?" No.

"And you say that Trenton has been beating you up other time?" Yes, lots of times.

"Did you ever find an adult on the playground to tell about this?"

James gave a typically vague answer to this one. "Well, yes, but she said she didn't see it and she didn't know who Trenton was. She said I should point Trenton out to her, but it is really hard to do that from across the playground, and then it was time to go inside."

"Did you tell an adult about the screaming in your ears today?"

"Well, I tried. I hinted to the parent on the playground that my ears were really hurting."

"Hmm. You know, James, you have to be more direct than that. I don't think the person you told would have had any idea what you were talking about from that."

James nodded and agreed with me, if reluctantly, that he might not have been clear enough. But there was more. "Well, another day, Trenton held me down while Elizabeth and a bunch of other girls kicked me in the hindquarters."

Okay, now I am starting to lose control myself. Someone is holding down my seven-year-old first-born, a child who is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh, and letting him be physically abused. I read Lord of the Flies once upon a time but I have never had to live through it. Was James?

"And did you tell an adult about this?" Yes. Of course, I don't know now how direct the report was, based on James's earlier comments, but he says the adult on the playground didn't seem interested in helping him solve the problem.

I have to buy myself time. "Well, James, I am really sorry to hear this is happening. It is never okay for people to treat each other like this. I am glad you told me about it. I will talk to your teacher about this tomorrow and try to find out what we can do to solve it, okay?"

James, feeling somewhat consoled, now drifts off to sleep. I am not so fortunate. Instead, I ache.

I ache for James, who must witness the injustices of the world at such a tender age. I ache for myself, feeling incompetent to handle the challenges of parenting now that they are more complicated than just hugging a screaming infant to my breast, waiting for the sobs to pass away. I ache for the loss of my own mother just over a year ago. I feel with the certainty that only accompanies an untestable hypothesis that she would know just what to do; how to find the right balance between protecting the cub and letting him grow up a little on his own.

Perhaps most resignedly, I ache for humanity. Why does Lord of the Flies have to be even a partially accurate portrayal of our baseness, so that even second-graders have the bullying instinct to gang up on each other and cause harm?

John's words at 21 months

John is 21 months old, and his language has just exploded. Actually, he has been very verbal all along, just like James and Maggie were. The difference is that we haven't been able to understand the vast majority of the paragraphs he spouts off all the time.

Now, he likes to spend about 20-30 minutes each morning frantically bringing books and pointing at everything, impatiently waiting for someone to tell him the words to name everything. His words now include (and I am sure I am forgetting many):

Mama, Mommy
Daddy
Ba-Pa! (Grandpa)
Kee-Kee (Uncle, especially Uncle Jim, but occasionally Uncle Jeff)
John

sa-sa (pacifier)
tickle
Uh-oh!
Oww! (he has really learned the melodrama for this one. I have watched this child through multiple blood tests lay still and unperturbed. He barely flinches for a shot. But when I tried to cut his hair, you would have thought I was eviscerating him. Change a dirty diaper when he isn't in the mood, and it sounds like he has been tossed in the Lion's Den. Never just a wordless crying; always a carefully enunciated "oww" designed to express maximum hurt and pain.)

I-wanna-see...Oh.
I-want-that
I-need-that
I-want-more
I-want-milk
bite
I-want-a-bite
side (as in other side, when nursing)
cookie
cracker (includes pretzels, chips, and all crunchy snacks)
sa-sauce (applesauce)
cheese
cha-cha (broccoli)
cup
hot

NO
huh (yes)
Hi! (uttered cheerfully to anyone he walks past in public)
bye!
thank-you

'Lo! (phone, as in "hello")
truck
garbage truck
ball
car
boat
bike
door


shoe
sock
eye
ear
nose
hat
head
coat
'side (outside)

dog
meow (cat, or similar-appearing animals, like rabbits)
kitty
baa-baa (sheep, or several other farm animals like cows)
quack-quack (duck)
fishy
turkey (learned this with delight when he saw a wild turkey at close range)

Weaning?

John appeared nearly done with nursing by Christmas 2009 (at 18 months), showing interest less than once a day and only for about 5 minutes at a time. Then, Jeremy gave me a 4-day-trip for a Christmas present. Somehow, John knew, and began nursing again, with a vengeance. In the week leading up to my trip (at the end of March, when John was 21 months), John nursed multiple times a day, up to a half-hour at a time. Yes, he was sick, with an ear infection, fever, and possibly a virus also. But this still seemed timed as if he knew what I was up to in leaving town.

Jeremy reported that John was just fine for the 4 days I was gone. He would ask for me when he woke up, and look around a bit, but then got on with his day just fine. So, I thought he might be done when I got back, and he was over his illnesses. I arrived home late at night, after all the kids were asleep. The next morning, John saw me and asked to be picked up. He was acting groggy and cuddly, as is normal for him when he has been awoken by the household noise before he is really ready.

John asked for his "sa-sa" (pacifier), which I couldn't immediately find. After two or three requests, I decided to delicately test the water. I whispered in his ear, "Do you want some milk?" I got no response. A moment later, he repeated, "I want sa-sa."

"So," I thought, with mixed feelings, "he really is done nursing." I held him a while longer as I helped James and Maggie get ready for school. It was a good 5-10 minutes later, when his quiet little voice said, "I want milk." I wanted to be sure I had heard him correctly, so I asked, "Do you want your pacifer?" He looked at me with a stunned face, then did something I have never seen from him before. He put his fist in the air, and pumped his arm, in the style of "Rah, team, fight!" from the MSU fight song. While making this new gesture, he shouted at the top of his voice, "I WANT MILK!"

Well, I guess he just needed a few minutes to warm up to the idea. Since then, he has been back to 20 minute daily nursing!

kids say...

John:
John has lately decided that hat is his new word of choice...especially at mealtime. He likes to pick up a dish, upturn it over his head, and proudly announce, "Hat!" If only he wouldn't always manage to find the ones with fruit juice or maple syrup in them.


Maggie:
We went to the afternoon (5 pm) church yesterday - a smaller, shorter, slightly more informal service, with no "Children's Worship" time for Maggie's age (preschool - first grade). Thus, she sat through the whole service with us.

I was feeling really impressed with her (and of course, by implication, with myself, her wise parent), that she was participating so well. When we entered the sanctuary, I asked where she would like to sit, and she enthusiastically picked the front row. When it was time for singing hymns, she asked me to tell her the words ahead of each line so she could sing, too. And she actually belted out most of the lines, missing only the ones that I couldn't tell her in advance. I found that saying the upcoming line during the end of the current one being sung is no small feat! She sat still for the prayer, then at the conclusion, joyfully gave the only audible "Amen" coming from the congregation.

Then, the sermon began. She began to wiggle a bit. Finally, she whispered in my ear, "I'm bored."

Sitting right in the front row, I began to fear that the pastor could hear this mournful plea. "Hold on, honey, and try to listen. It won't be too long, now," I whispered right into her ear, hoping I was inaudible to everyone else.

"But the pastor uses words that I don't understand."

"Yes, I know. Shhh..." I am now turning a bit red and hoping no one can hear us. I am thinking this is just a boiler-plate complaint of a child who isn't following all the logic of the complex theological arguments being made, and is too tired and restless to sit still and try to pay attention. Her vocabulary is fine, after all, even for a four-year-old.

"Mom, I don't know what he means by old creation and new creation."

Wow, that caught me up short, and properly reprimanded me. She was paying attention all right. In fact, better attention than I was paying. I was busy wondering if anyone was overhearing our conversation. She was really listening. And being honest. I started to listen more carefully myself. It wasn't just a 4-year-old who would have trouble with the vocabulary. Which of us grown-ups in the church really understood what we mean by saying things like, "sanctify these gifts, the bread of life and the cup of salvation," or "grant that we may be for the world the body of Christ, redeemed through his blood, serving and reconciling all people to you?"

Could I succintly define old creation and new creation for her? Well, maybe eventually. And I understand that is the point of using such words, of course. We as a church use these big words all the time, as a necessary shorthand. A pastor could never finish a sermon if he or she always tried to fully define words like redemption and sanctification. SoI don't mean this as a criticism of the pastor's sermon. A more complex vocabulary lets us be more precise, and more concise, in communicating a topic. And yet, we don't communicate at all if we never stop to explain what we really mean, even if it means being less concise, and maybe even less precise. Maggie had a lesson for all of us that day.

James, while driving home from church:
"Mom, what is 36 + 9?"

Dad:
"Well, what is 6 + 9?"

James:
"15"

Dad:
"So, what is 36 + 9?"

James:
"45! Hey, Mom, I know what 1 + 2 + 3 + 4+ 5 + 6 +7 + 8 + 9 is ... 45! "

(Hmm, not at all where I thought he was going with that first question. At least now I know what he thinks about when he gets bored with a sermon.)