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Posts Tagged ‘Rollie’

Back to School

Tuesday, September 4th, 2007

I cannot believe that I dropped off my little Tiller for her first day of school today. Okay, not real school, but the Mommies’ Morning Out program. She goes Tuesdays and Thursdays for three whole hours. She was so excited to put on her big girl backpack. Keep your traps shut about the fact that it is Rollie’s hand-me-down backpack; He got a brand spanking new Diego backpack for his birthday, and it just seemed ludicrous to throw the old one out, so I just crossed out his name and put hers on the backpack. I also drew her a nifty flower to girl it up a little. Then I felt guilty for not drawing anything on Rollie’s backpack, so I drew him a car. Two more fun things about being a Mom – 1) You can guilt yourself about just about anything where your kids are concerned and 2) You will need a Sharpie. Often.

Both kids got out of the van, with Todd’s help. He followed us over to school for her first day, since we did it last year for Rollie’s first day. Yes, Todd is the best Daddy ever. They were so cute, with backpacks and raring to go. They humored me while we took some pictures to commemorate the big event. Rollie was cracking me up, saying hello to the Pastor and to his friends from last year. We took him to his classroom first. He went right in, found his hook, hung up his backpack, and started playing. He said, “Hey guys!” when he walked in the room. Tiller followed him in at a run, with her backpack too big for her body, and mimicked big brother with a very cute, “Hey, guys!” to the big kids in Rollie’s class. Luckily, she was not upset when we put her in the room with kids her own age.

We walked her down to the room, and the door was shut. She went right in, starting to play before we could get her backpack off her. We showed her where her hook was and hung up her backpack, because she wasn’t able to reach the hook yet. She went right back to playing with cars. Todd and I said bye-bye, and slipped out. No tears, not even a glance.

Then I went to meet Lisa for coffee and unadulterated adult conversation (can adult conversation be unadulterated?) for over two whole straight hours. It was good. Really, really good.

We Did It! Kept One of These Critters Alive for Four Years!

Monday, August 27th, 2007

Dear Rollie –

I cannot believe that you are four years old today. It seems like just yesterday that I was lying around taking naps, and anticipating your arrival. If only I had known how drastically my life was about to change. You turned everything upside down from the moment you arrived, and I will never be the same.

In the last year, you started school for the first time. You just went three days a week from 9-noon, but it was so hard to drop you off that first time. You were so excited, with your little backpack. I don’t know why I worried – you did great, and you made lots of friends, and you loved going to school. You didn’t get in too much trouble, although I did have to go pick you up one time for biting. I was mortified. We talked about it, though, and you never did it again. Your teacher at the beginning of the year was Miss Michelle; you loved her, and sometimes you didn’t want to leave school and would hug her legs and cry and scream when I came to pick you up. After Christmas, they moved the three-day kids into a different class and your teachers were miss Reshma, who was from India, and Miss Janice. Both of them were very sweet to you, and liked you very much, although you went through a difficult stage there for a while. You were pushing a lot. That was our fault, though, because we let you watch the movie, “Cars.” It was a movie about a racecar, and in his races, he and other cars would bump each other, and you started bumping other people in real life, including your friends at school, and your little sister. Any time you ran into someone, you would say that it was “bumping.” We took the movie away when we (finally) realized the movie was causing the behavior.

Your friends at school are Jackson, Reese, David, Ezra, Zoe, Shruthi, Toby, and Sarah. I loved to come pick you up and see you playing happily on the playground. I always had to bring home a pile of artwork that you did at school. The box in my closet is about to explode, it has so much artwork in it. I don’t know what I will do when you and Tiller are both going this coming Fall. The teachers last year always said that you were very smart and doing well with your ABCs and counting and letter sounds. I am very proud of your intelligence and how quickly you learn things, and I know that you are going to be reading in the next couple of years; I cannot wait to see your excitement when you realize that reading a book is like opening a door to a whole new, unexplored world. I look forward to discussing books with you, and to seeing what subjects you get excited reading about.

Your favorite things to play right now are cars and trains. You are a pro at riding your tricycle, and Daddy and I finally got you a new bike for your birthday. It is a Huffy Rockit, and it has flames on it. We took you to the park to ride yesterday and you did great. You were a little scared, and had a few wobbles when your training wheels went off the sidewalk, but if I walked beside you, holding the end of the handlebars, you were confident. If I let go, you would cry and scream for me to hold on to it again. I admit that I was annoyed that you were too scared to try it, but I was proud that by the end of the outing, you were riding without me helping you, and riding ahead of Daddy, Tiller, and I. You showed us how you could ride in circles, and you were so proud of yourself. I know that years from now, I will wish that you need me more often, that I will want to hold on to your handlebars, or help push you up the big hills, so to speak, but I know that part of being your Mama is watching you become an independent little boy.

You received other stuff for your birthday: A bunch of matchbox and hot Wheels cars, an Auburn shirt (I am hoping you will grow out of that ugly thing pretty soon), a game with a monkey, a football set and a cool die-cast truck from Uncle Mark. Uncle Lyle got you a racetrack for your cars, and a cool Snoopy Snow Cone machine. Grandma and Papaw Palmer got you a baseball glove and tee with a whiffle ball and bat. The glove looks so small, and yet it is too big for your hand. We are taking them to the Lake for Labor Day this weekend, and I am looking forward to playing some catch with you and Papaw (when we’re not watching the Dawgs play, of course – Football season starts this weekend!) Your party was a cookout at our house. We filled the kiddie pool up for swimming, and had hot dogs, hamburgers, cake, and ice cream. All of your Grandparents were here, but Meemaw and Pop couldn’t make it. Uncle Mark and Aunt Lisa were here, and also Uncle Lyle. Aunt Denise was sick, and Aunt Suzanne and Uncle Wade couldn’t make it because they had baby Luci on Friday. That’s right! You and Tiller have your first cousin. I am a little sad that you don’t have a cousin closer in age, but you and Tiller are such partners in crime, that I know you will always have each other to play with. Other people at the party were: Harmony, Gabe, and baby Chase; Ned, Vanessa, and Scarlett; cousin Adam, and Jenny and Addie; Matt Stewart showed up in time for a burger, cake, and ice cream.

Let’s see, what else happened this year? Your vocabulary has rocketed. I am amazed when you ask me things like, “Mama, what are consequences?” and you really caught me off guard last week, when you asked me how babies get out of their Mama’s tummies. For the record, I just told you the truth – babies come out of their mama’s vaginas, kind of like when they go pee pee. You looked confused and then asked me if the baby went into the toilet. You like to say that things are “crazy” or “cool.”

You are a great big brother. You teach Tiller lots of games, and you are pretty patient with her, even when she is a complete pest. You both love to dance, and to sing. Your favorite songs this year have been: Just about anything by Kings of Leon, although your favorite is probably “Charmer.” You love to sing to Sufjan Stevens’ “Chicago,” The Decemberists’ “Crane Wife 3,” and Lily Allen’s “LDN.” You totally rock out to MC5’s “Kick Out the Jams” (I am a good mom, and always do something to distract you from the first line, so that you won’t learn that one) and The Stooges’ “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” Your favorite song to dance to is Peter Bjorn and John’s “Young Folks.” The big dance move you do is what we call “The Big Dance.”

You finally potty-trained this summer. I was frustrated as all get-out, and then one day at the lake, you just started pooping on the potty all by yourself. It was like you decided to finally do it once we gave up trying to teach you. I think you may get a little bit of obstinancy from both your Mama and your Dada. Whatever. I am just glad that I am not changing two diapers anymore. You still wear one at night, and during naps. Not that you nap anymore. Unless you fall asleep in the car, or you are sick. I get pretty frustrated with this, because it means that I never get any alone time during the day, but I know that I will miss our afternoons together when you start school for real.

I really, really try to cherish every moment with you, and I think that I do a pretty good job of checking myself when I am not making the most of our time together. Right now you are sitting next to me watching Diego while I type this. Tiller is sitting next to you. You are wearing a purple, plastic lei that you got at the gym this morning, Thomas the Tank engine underwear, and an Auburn shirt. You just turned to me, yawned, and said something about Baby Jaguars.

I cannot believe how much you are the center of my world, how much I love you, and how fast you change. Lately, you have become more pouty when you are mad at us, and sweeter, to the point of saccharine, when you are trying to show us affection. If you are mad at us, you will tell us “You are a joke!” which we reprimand you for, but secretly think is cute. You also sometimes say that “I am not loving you today.” That one hurt the first time you said it, but now it makes me laugh, because you would have to do a whole lot more to make me not love you back. I don’t think I could love you one iota less. I think you yourself have summed up my love for you: You have taken to telling us, when you are being sweet, that “You are my heart, mama. You and Daddy are my hearts.”

I think that people who are not parents cannot possibly understand the all-encompassing love a parent has for their children. It is a double-threat, a totality of body and mind. It is a love that occupies my mind at all times, even stealing into my dreams to wake me in a terror. It is the physicality of the love, though, that awes me so; the physical sense of feeling sick when you are hurt, or even at the thought of you being in pain. The knowledge, fearless and involuntary, that I would take a bullet for you without a moment’s hesitation. I know that I would kill for you, or die trying. I guess it is biology, a primal instinct to preserve my offspring, but I also like to think that there is a bigger power in our world and that it is fueled by loves like the unalterable love that I feel for you and your sister. You are my heart, sweet Rollie, and you will always be my heart.

Happy Birthday,
Your Mama
Annie

The N-Word: The Playground Argument

Monday, August 20th, 2007

It took me a day to digest this incident. I think the N-word has so much power that it would be remiss of me to blog about my thoughts on it all willy nilly.

Yesterday, Todd and I took the kids to the Fellini’s on LaVista for lunch. We Beat the Baptists, as my Dad always called it when I was growing up. As a kid, after Church on Sundays, we would be ushered quickly out of our Methodist (Baptist Lite) church, and herded to the cars, all of us except Dad just wishing we could go home and change out of the damn panty hose and do something fun with the rest of our Sunday, before the 60 Minutes clock started ticking. Not Dad, though. He had one goal in mind: Beat the Baptists to Morrison’s. I may not attend church anymore, but Dad and I have more than a little in common with one another. I still like to Beat the Baptists if I am having lunch out on a Sunday.

We went into Fellini’s and ordered. As we waited for our order, we watched Chelsea and Liverpool play soccer on the large TV. Business was slow, as we had beat the Baptists soundly, and the cooks were standing around watching the match, too. Rollie will usually narrate any sport that we watch on TV, even if he doesn’t even know what sport it is. I would be lying if I said I didn’t filter out about half of everything he says in a day, but Todd and I both were interested when he said the following:

“What is that black man. . . blue shirt doing?”

Todd and I looked at each other questioningly, as if to say, “have you heard him say anything about a person’s color before?” We live in a pretty diverse neighborhood. On any given day, there are a pretty equal number of White and African American kids on the playgrounds nearest our house. Same breakdown at the kids’ center at the YMCA. Not once has he ever asked me why some people are one color and others are another. It just hasn’t happened. It is not for his lack of curiosity, because he has been curious about people in wheelchairs, and he has (quite loudly) asked why the people at the next table in a restaurant are “so big.” (As I have said before, parenting is not for the faint-hearted.)

I whispered to Todd, “Maybe he just got confused about the color of the jersey.”

Todd replied: “We’re lucky he didn’t use another word.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“He heard a new word at the playground a lot yesterday.”

Todd proceeded to tell me about their trip to Kirkwood playground yesterday. They had gone over there, because Brownwood Park was being used for a family reunion. This is a common occurrence, but it is kind of difficult to keep up with two kids by yourself in a mass of people, so he thought he’d be able to better keep up with them at Kirkwood. Turns out there was a family reunion at the Kirkwood park, too. The family reunion was for an African-American family.

Todd said that there were kids of all ages there, and that the boys on the playground were liberally using the N-word.

“You mean there were teens using it?”

Nope, kids. Kids under 8, under six even. He nodded seriously to affirm that yes, there were children using the N-word to each other on the playground.

I looked at Todd aghast.

Todd said that Rollie didn’t seem to notice the word at all, but anyone who has a young one learning to talk knows that just because they haven’t said something doesn’t mean it hasn’t been soaked up by their little sponge brains. Exhibit A: Car runs a red light last year and narrowly misses my van as I am taking Rollie to school. I slam on brakes and mutter “Asshole.” I look in the rear view mirror and Rollie seems oblivious to the word. Thank God. I get to school and get out to take Rollie in. As I open the van door, I say hello to the woman who works in the church preschool office, who is parked next to us. The door slides open to the sound of Rollie singing, “Asshole, asshole, asshole.” Kids have perfect comedic timing. Impeccable. It has been 48 hours since Rollie heard the N-word on the playground, and it has not surfaced, so I am thinking we dodged a bullet with this one. At least, he dodged a bullet.

Me? I feel like I was hit with a silver bullet right through the heart. I have such strongly held emotions about the n-word as it is, but to have my child enmeshed in the discussion makes my blood boil. Three-year-olds should not be presented with the n-word. I am sure there are PhD students writing their dissertations on the origins and power of this word; how on earth is my child prepared to digest the meaning of the word?

I am well-educated. I understand that many African Americans feel that they have taken this word back. I think it is a stupid argument and that people who use the word are ignorant and that the word itself is so fraught with pain that I cannot fathom why someone would want to use it, rather than let it be buried by the sands of time. But I do not think that I can remotely understand what it is like to be African American, and so I tend to just think that it is a word that I myself will never utter, and that my children will never use.

But when I imagine people using the word with one another, taking the word back, so to speak, I imagine that it is teenagers and adults who wield the word; Never in a million years did I imagine that children, some my own son’s age, would be using the word on the playground. I shudder to think what would have happened if my son the sponge, with a love for the sound of new words on his tongue and for the plays on words that he so adores, had heard those boys calling one another the N-word, and in his childlike naivete and playfulness, had called one of them by the same word they were calling one another.

What, pray tell, would have been the reaction? I know what my husband would have done. He would have gotten down on his knees and firmly told Rollie, looking him in the eye all the while, that this is not a word that we EVER use. But how do you explain the pain and history of such a word to a three-year-old? How do you explain to a child, one that does not even seem to see the color of skin, that it is alright for one color of people to use the word, to throw it around like a ball at play, but for others to even utter the word is unacceptable?

What would be the reaction from the other children if Rollie had uttered that word? What would have been the reaction of their parents? I would like to think that the parents’ reactions would be one of understanding. But in this racially-charged city (and to say that Atlanta is not preoccupied with race is naivete incarnate), I fear that the parents might assume that this is a word that my son learned from us. I am glad that it didn’t come up. At times, I prefer being an ostrich, head in the sand. There are some questions to which I don’t want to know the answer.

All I know is that I have never liked the word, and I have never used it. I was raised that it was ignorant to use the word. I have never understood why people would want to use it, most especially those for whom the word has such a terrible past. The thing about the word, though, is that it has a terrible past for us all, doesn’t it?

I will teach my children that the word is unacceptable and that its users are ignorant. I am sure there are African Americans who would find fault with me calling them ignorant for using the word. I don’t know what to say to them; I just know that my heart hurts for those children who know not what they utter on that playground. My heart hurts for my own son, who came so close to having his first introduction to the word, an introduction that I wish would never happen, much less when he is three. I only know that I would be much happier if we all let the word go.

I am one of a multitude of people who have thought about the word, or written about it. My treatment of it here is superficial and barely skims the surface of the myriad ways this word works and thrives and undermines and causes harm in our society. But in everything I have read and watched and heard about this word, I have never found a single argument against any of us using the N-word that is quite as compelling as the playground argument:

Is this a word that we want uttered on our playgrounds? Is this a word that we want little African American boys teaching to their white playmates?

Afternoon Surprise

Friday, July 27th, 2007

Not to be confused with Afternoon Delight.

My sister was bummed out about various life stuff and so she came over to destress. Why you would come to the home of two kids under four to destress, I have no idea, but she is a strange cookie.

Anyway, I never even ate breakfast, and then she had me convinced that I should drink a margarita with her, before I had even had lunch. She really had to twist my arm. Ended up having lunch, two margaritas, and hanging out all afternoon in the backyard with the kids, and the two dogs. (She brought her new pup, and once again, I forgot to snap a picture of her.)

The best part was kicking the soccer ball with Rollie. When you have a baby, you just never really let it sink in that they will grow up, start talking, and be able to kick a soccer ball with you in the backyard. It was a little surreal – Just me and the boy, kicking the ball back and forth and talking and laughing.

Might have been the margaritas, but I think it was more that he is just growing into such a nice little boy. Into someone that in twenty five years or so, I might actually be friends with.

A Sad End to an Idyllic Aerie

Tuesday, July 24th, 2007

Things came to a sad end here this morning. A few years ago, we planted Evergreen Clematis at the base of our porch, and trailed the vines up the pillars and along the edge of our porch roof. As evidenced by the name, the vine is evergreen, giving us green foliage right out our window, all year long. The Clematis blooms, with big white flowers, once a year, for an all-too-brief period of time.

The plus to this Clematis has been the unexpected families of birds who have set up shop in the vines. Clematis is strong, and it is strong enough to hold a nest where it runs across the corners of the porch. At one time, we had three nests, all bustling with birds. Okay, it isn’t all zippity-doo-dah; The birds occasionally swoop at us as we try to get in our front door, but it has been more than worth it to hear the babies chirping in their nest as we sit in the rockers on the porch at day’s end.

This morning, as Todd was leaving for work, and I was being roped into a game of trains with Rollie, Todd knocked on the window from the porch, a disappointed look on his face, and then pointed down at the porch floor.

“The Birds?” I asked?

Todd nodded. He held two fingers up.

Just Saturday night, Todd and I were sitting on the porch, having a couple of beers after the kids went down, and before Todd went out to see bands (lucky bastard). We sat in the fading light, and as we did, a bird kept swooping in the side of the porch, a worm in its mouth, then flying back again to sit on the fence next door. She would sit there, trying to look nonchalant about not being able to get us to move. We took pity on her and moved to sit on the porch steps, away from her nest.

It wasn’t readily apparent what happened to our birds. The two babies were just lying on the ground, and they had been there long enough that the ants, who also live around and in our porch vines, had come to take what was there, swarming all over them. There was no sign of Mama Bird. My heart hurts for her. I wonder if she has moved on, this once idyllic aerie no longer holding any joy for her.

We brought Rollie outside to see the scene, and talk about what happened to the birdies, and how they are going to Bird Heaven, where they can fly fast and forever, without having to come down for a rest, where the worms are plentiful, and the nests are safe.

Why, Yes . . .

Thursday, July 5th, 2007

That was my almost-four-year-old son spectacularly showing his ass in the Barnes and Noble at Edgewood Retail District. He was the one running up and down the aisles from me (as I dragged his poor sister along by the arm) and screaming at the top of his lungs, “Don’t get me! Don’t get me! Don’t get me!” and then screaming, “Nooooooooooonooooooooooooo. Nooooooooooooooooooo. Nooooooooo!!!!!!!” as I dragged him kicking from the store, with an embarrassed look on my face, muttering “I’m sorry” to every patron we passed along the way.

My apologies to anyone who suffered permanent hearing loss, or who will need therapy before deciding to have children of their own.

The perpetrator is now sitting in his room, thinking about the consequences of his behavior (No storytime, no haircut.)

Look, Mama

Sunday, June 3rd, 2007

“Look, Mama,” Rollie says from the kitchen table. I am sitting at the computer in the den and I can’t see him. “I made something!”

[momentary pause]
Me: “As long as it isn’t a mess, that’s awesome.”

Memorial Day. Lake. Again.

Wednesday, May 30th, 2007

We pretty much go to the lake every Memorial Day. Especially now that we have kids. It is free, sunny, and not home.

Todd and kids with vintage Coleco Turtle pool (mine and Leelee’s as a kid). Yes, I watch too much Antiques Roadshow.
Tiller and Rollie in Pool. If I could only get both of them to look at the camera at one time, much less both to smile.
Some pastimes are classic and affordable. Like blowing bubbles, running races, and eating melon in the grass.
Tiller wearing “Grandpa’s Sidekick” hat.

Hope everyone had as lovely a holiday as ours.

Field Day

Monday, May 21st, 2007

Yep. You heard me.

“Field Day.”

Conjures up some memories, doesn’t it? Hot May days, red clay on your tube socks, popsicles, tug-of-war, relays, and ice cream. My friend Vanessa, a schoolteacher, gleefully tells me come every May about what they call Field Day at her school. I think she enjoys watching me roll my eyes. I kid you not, they call it “Personal Record Day.” Because God forbid that we might have kids who are actually winners over other kids, because . . . well, then there would be losers. We wouldn’t want to teach our little ones that sometimes people win, sometimes they lose. Even worse, what if they were to learn that classic lesson about being a gracious loser? Nope, much better to let them run around a field like chickens with their heads cut off, achieving nothing, learning nothing, but with their precious self-esteem intact.

Oops. Totally got off the subject. This was about Rollie, and about his first field day. In his own words.

I Hate Nature

Saturday, May 19th, 2007

I thought that I liked nature, but I was wrong. We got home late last night (9 pm, go ahead and snicker – Todd and I already had a good laugh at ourselves and the sorry state of our Friday nights) and put the kids down. They usually go to sleep between 7:30 and 8:00, but last night didn’t go down until 9:00. I foolishly thought this might mean I’d get an extra hour to sleep in this morning. I will never know if that was possible now, because at 6:30, Rollie came into our room complaining about a little noise that was “making me not sleepy.” After much discussion, during which I may have been still partially asleep, we came to the conclusion that we have a Goddamn woodpecker.

Little fucker. The woodpecker, not Rollie.

I hate nature.