Ever since Popeye has met his paternal grandfather, Papa Brown, there seems to exist this binding love connection between them. His eyes light up when he spots him- or any man with a slight resemblance to him. The poor soul's disappointment when the face is not that of the strong, balding man with the hardy laugh but a stranger.
Sometime around six months Harrison proudly began to utter the words "pa pa pa pa." Papa Brown has since been in heaven. As soon as Popeye lays his eyes on him the letters emerge. "pa pa! pa pa!" and curls onto the mans chest with a satisfied smirk.
Slowly though... the words "papa" have come to be an identification not just for that man but for ANY man. Constantly in public Popeye points to strange men and then forms his hand into his sign for question, a fresh palm up beside his face and asks, "Papa?"
Sometimes I swear that kid is daddy hunting. Pointing to strangers he calls out, "papa!" and when the man doesn't respond the confused child looks at me and questions, "papa?"
It doesn't stop there. He must investigate: are you a papa? At the Children's Museum this past Autumn he went up to every man, hands out for them to hold him and constantly uttering, "Papa? Papa? Papa?" Their wives send me screw-faced looks. Apologizing in my mind to the women I make attempts to retrieve my son. (Don't worry honey, I like'm with teeth. You can keep him.)
Back at a "Fun Foods" station I distract Popeye with plastic bananas.
"Banana?" I offer.
"Papa." He insists, pointing at a short, slightly rounding father of a blond toddler.
"Thats not Papa."
"Papa!" he growls.
The rounding mans wife sends me a steeley look as the man smiles.
(You can keep THAT one and his belly too...)
Yesterday at Target Popeye and I are making our way through aisles. A greasy haired, wrinkly clothed man who smells of one part body order, one part vodka and one part well worn tennis shoes walks beside us. "Papa?" Casually, I try to pass off my sons advance. "No, silly. That's not papa." I don't make eye contact with the man. My child's small hand waves and smiles. "Papa!" Flattered the man waves back. "He's so friendly!" (Please, Harrison... I'm pleading in my mind at this point. Can't you at least pick a clean one??) A woman walks past and waves to the greasy man, "Hi, Bill! How've ya been?"
So the greasy man has a name. Bill. Greasy Bill.
Greasy Bill waves back, "oh, just making new friends."
GREAT. Now we're all friends.
My son yells, "papa!"
The man repeats, "So friendly! Just like his momma."
Perhaps I was exhausted of these papa scenarios; or maybe I'm apprehensive that Greasy Bill is making a Greasy pass at me. Likely with far too much enthusiasm I quip, "I'm not friendly."
Greasy Bill's expression droops. Apparently, I've disheartened Greasy Bill.
My goal now being two fold, 1. Repair any hurt feelings and 2. ESCAPE, I say, "Have a nice day! Stay warm!" Popeye and I make a hard right into the home repairs aisle. We have no intention of doing any home repairs in the near future.
Speaking of the near future, I think it may be in my best interest to make the one hour drive on Sunday to remind Popeye who the real Papa is...
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Reflections
Life can't always be so black and white, can it? Had you told me five years ago that this is where my life would be today- would I have believed? More thoroughly- would I have swelled with the pride that I swell today? Exhausting nights, plans hinged on minut details of organization, barely time to eat, 6am mornings so that I can get my beautiful son to the daycare that I can barely afford, early enough that I can depart work in advance to pick him up by 4:15- the goal being to be home by 5, in my own bed by 9. 26 and going strong as the lead of a two man team: him and I against the world.
I'll never forget the first silent moment I spent with him. All family gone following a long day of physical dispatch. The nurse, Mary, had placed this smooth skinned wonder in my arms. Looking into his blue eyes, he stared back as he struggled to focus on my exhausted semblence; I spoke directly to him. "It's you and me, son. You and me against the world. Are you ready for a battle?" I like to believe that little wriggle was his accession to the task at hand. 12 months in and he hasn't let me down.
Daily, I reflect on all the unexpected blessings he offers me. His presence has allowed me to slow down and appreciate what I never imagined I would find in a single mother scenario: freedom. Freedom not defined as it was 2 years prior where I would sleep in til the last minute arriving to work wrinkled and still half asleep. I'd linger about in after hours sometimes in a dark scene, sometimes in my own dark spirit trying to figure out exactly what my mission was on this earth. Freedom no longer defined as my ability to act foolishly with my life; instead, to explore the opportunity I have at hand through my mind and capabilities. Perhaps God saw my wandering spirit and sent this boy as a guide to me, not the opposite. Suddenly I waken each day with more then a mission- but a calling. I never imagined a calling could be so... loud. That kid has some vocals!; his singing gibberish a room away.
If only he knew how he brought me out of the desert through a journey of fear and unknowing to the a place I never knew could exist. Satisfaction within myself. Maybe then he would know why I sing.
I'll never forget the first silent moment I spent with him. All family gone following a long day of physical dispatch. The nurse, Mary, had placed this smooth skinned wonder in my arms. Looking into his blue eyes, he stared back as he struggled to focus on my exhausted semblence; I spoke directly to him. "It's you and me, son. You and me against the world. Are you ready for a battle?" I like to believe that little wriggle was his accession to the task at hand. 12 months in and he hasn't let me down.
Daily, I reflect on all the unexpected blessings he offers me. His presence has allowed me to slow down and appreciate what I never imagined I would find in a single mother scenario: freedom. Freedom not defined as it was 2 years prior where I would sleep in til the last minute arriving to work wrinkled and still half asleep. I'd linger about in after hours sometimes in a dark scene, sometimes in my own dark spirit trying to figure out exactly what my mission was on this earth. Freedom no longer defined as my ability to act foolishly with my life; instead, to explore the opportunity I have at hand through my mind and capabilities. Perhaps God saw my wandering spirit and sent this boy as a guide to me, not the opposite. Suddenly I waken each day with more then a mission- but a calling. I never imagined a calling could be so... loud. That kid has some vocals!; his singing gibberish a room away.
If only he knew how he brought me out of the desert through a journey of fear and unknowing to the a place I never knew could exist. Satisfaction within myself. Maybe then he would know why I sing.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Green Bean Bottoms
Ronald Reagen once said, "You can tell a lot about a fellow by his way of eating jellybeans." I can't help but wonder what you can tell about a fellow by his way of eating green beans.
Feeding Popeye is one part of parenting that I thought I would take great joy in. Afterall, I often enjoy a hearty meal myself and have been quite looking forward to sharing this undertaking with my son. Oh, the fluffy daydreams of exposing Popeye to the many fine foods available to his palatte! I imagined a glowing kitchen, sunlight streaming in from the windows, as I sweetly spoon yummy babyfoods between his plump lips; Popeye taking in every morsel - the two of us laughing and playing joyously as he begins a life of sustenance.
Ok, that may be a bit of an exaggeration but all the same lets just say that the introduction of fine foods definitely looks nothing like that vision.
My pediatrician suggested that we begin with a bland rice cereal mixed with formula. This pursuit, while discouraging at times, has gone par for the course. After manuevering the spoon through little hands and legs (yes, legs, as Popeye has discovered that he can get his feet in his mouth) I feel quite accomplished just getting a morsel near his mouth. When a drop makes it not only on his tongue but doesn't flow back out onto his chin I typically can't help but shout, "hurray!" The hurray likely isn't my best idea as this brings a ricey smile to his lips and the cereal emerges back into sight. Sigh.
But compared to our green bean enterprise this weekend I consider the rice cereal a valiant success. Following a few weeks of cereal the pediatrician had suggested introducing some vegetables such as green beans. I was quite excited to begin this part of feeding as I can't help but wonder what he thinks as I continually feed the bland cereal. I think that Popeye agreed because once he got a taste of the greeny goodness the remainder of the bowl went quickly. However, it was the way that it came out which discouraged me. Shortly after we cleaned up the green masterpiece that covered his lips, cheeks, neck, fingers and of course, legs, I laid Popeye down for his night time siesta. Typically he is out around 8 and isn't heard from again until approximately 3:30 and then asleep again until, fingers crossed, 7. This night, however, was slightly different.
Poor little Popeye. He woke up every hour with stinky green bean burps and flatulance -not to mention bloodi curdling screams. Apparently the green beans weren't quite... settling. After a long night of burping, farting and screaming we both awoke to a swampy suprise. The green beans had gone right through him! By right through "him" this also includes his diaper, pajamas and my bed, which I had brought him into at around 2:30- after about fiften trips to his crib. Poor little Popeye. He seemed just as horrified as I was when his little exploring hands discovered that he had green bean bottoms.
I think we'll stick to rice cereal for the rest of this week...
Feeding Popeye is one part of parenting that I thought I would take great joy in. Afterall, I often enjoy a hearty meal myself and have been quite looking forward to sharing this undertaking with my son. Oh, the fluffy daydreams of exposing Popeye to the many fine foods available to his palatte! I imagined a glowing kitchen, sunlight streaming in from the windows, as I sweetly spoon yummy babyfoods between his plump lips; Popeye taking in every morsel - the two of us laughing and playing joyously as he begins a life of sustenance.
Ok, that may be a bit of an exaggeration but all the same lets just say that the introduction of fine foods definitely looks nothing like that vision.
My pediatrician suggested that we begin with a bland rice cereal mixed with formula. This pursuit, while discouraging at times, has gone par for the course. After manuevering the spoon through little hands and legs (yes, legs, as Popeye has discovered that he can get his feet in his mouth) I feel quite accomplished just getting a morsel near his mouth. When a drop makes it not only on his tongue but doesn't flow back out onto his chin I typically can't help but shout, "hurray!" The hurray likely isn't my best idea as this brings a ricey smile to his lips and the cereal emerges back into sight. Sigh.
But compared to our green bean enterprise this weekend I consider the rice cereal a valiant success. Following a few weeks of cereal the pediatrician had suggested introducing some vegetables such as green beans. I was quite excited to begin this part of feeding as I can't help but wonder what he thinks as I continually feed the bland cereal. I think that Popeye agreed because once he got a taste of the greeny goodness the remainder of the bowl went quickly. However, it was the way that it came out which discouraged me. Shortly after we cleaned up the green masterpiece that covered his lips, cheeks, neck, fingers and of course, legs, I laid Popeye down for his night time siesta. Typically he is out around 8 and isn't heard from again until approximately 3:30 and then asleep again until, fingers crossed, 7. This night, however, was slightly different.
Poor little Popeye. He woke up every hour with stinky green bean burps and flatulance -not to mention bloodi curdling screams. Apparently the green beans weren't quite... settling. After a long night of burping, farting and screaming we both awoke to a swampy suprise. The green beans had gone right through him! By right through "him" this also includes his diaper, pajamas and my bed, which I had brought him into at around 2:30- after about fiften trips to his crib. Poor little Popeye. He seemed just as horrified as I was when his little exploring hands discovered that he had green bean bottoms.
I think we'll stick to rice cereal for the rest of this week...
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Another Mom Blog...
So apparently there are a million of these in the world... A million blogs written by the silent moms. The unheard progenitors reaching out to connect with the world beyond their quiet chaos of pacifiers, puke, soccer practice, early mornings, late dinners, exciting beginnings, unfinished projects, new words, belated sentences, unmopped floors, full beds...
But there's only one M. And no doubt, theres only one Popeye. That being said, this is the beginning of Popeyes and my project. Perhaps amist the pacifiers and puke and early mornings and late dinners (or no dinners) it may wax unfinished as well. But when is a life story ever finished? Even in the lapse of death the history of a life and the markings left behind never conclude what has been.
This is Popeyes adventure.
As I write this, I can't help but be curious: what is ever to come of all these stories, these blogs, if you will, that float out into the public doman. In no other generation has there been the opportunity for us to detail our adventures, not just mommy adventures but many different kinds of adventures, in such careful detail. Will our children one day be able to look back and see the struggles that their mothers wrote for the world to see?
In the case of the mommy bloggers: these details are far too often of childrens incontinence and their mothers fight for identity beyond motherhood. Will our children turn various colors of chagrin as they one day see their own tales of childhood horrors spread out for the world to devour like a buffett of embarressment? Eventually I can see a field of psychology being dedicated to the damage done by blogging. "Sorry, dude. I can't come over tonight. Got to go talk to my Blog-chiatrist." Oh the innocent ways we scar our children... I hope, instead, that our children will be able to grasp their mom's stories and embrace all told as a document of their mothers love.
And so, Popeye, if you are reading this in place of studying for some college exam in the distant, but likely not that distant, future, I sincerely apologize in advance. Rest assured: I'll pay for your therapy.
But there's only one M. And no doubt, theres only one Popeye. That being said, this is the beginning of Popeyes and my project. Perhaps amist the pacifiers and puke and early mornings and late dinners (or no dinners) it may wax unfinished as well. But when is a life story ever finished? Even in the lapse of death the history of a life and the markings left behind never conclude what has been.
This is Popeyes adventure.
As I write this, I can't help but be curious: what is ever to come of all these stories, these blogs, if you will, that float out into the public doman. In no other generation has there been the opportunity for us to detail our adventures, not just mommy adventures but many different kinds of adventures, in such careful detail. Will our children one day be able to look back and see the struggles that their mothers wrote for the world to see?
In the case of the mommy bloggers: these details are far too often of childrens incontinence and their mothers fight for identity beyond motherhood. Will our children turn various colors of chagrin as they one day see their own tales of childhood horrors spread out for the world to devour like a buffett of embarressment? Eventually I can see a field of psychology being dedicated to the damage done by blogging. "Sorry, dude. I can't come over tonight. Got to go talk to my Blog-chiatrist." Oh the innocent ways we scar our children... I hope, instead, that our children will be able to grasp their mom's stories and embrace all told as a document of their mothers love.
And so, Popeye, if you are reading this in place of studying for some college exam in the distant, but likely not that distant, future, I sincerely apologize in advance. Rest assured: I'll pay for your therapy.
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