On Thursday, the boys made Welcome Home signs for our newest little friend, Baby Davy. Simon’s picture was of Jake (on the left/bottom), Baby Davy (in the middle), and Joie (on the right) dressed as “injas” [ninjas], hiding under a giant tree.

I snapped this shot as he was almost finished. He added a few more details and signed his name, and then I took the dictation of what he wanted the sign to say: “Welcome home, Jake and Joie, and especially welcome home, Baby Davy.” (Ian’s sign, which you can see a corner of at the top of this photo, had a similar theme—he loves to be like his big brother—and said, “Welcome home, Baby Davy. Happy having a new baby.” I’m not sure what all ended up in his final draft, but in one version he was drawing multiple circles, and when I asked him what they were, he gleefully explained, “I’m making Baby Davys!”)

What I found incredibly interesting—besides the fact that drawing a family of ninjas seems like such a quintessentially “boy” thing to do—was that Simon didn’t paint the ninjas from the start. He first painted the people as he normally would (stick figures with giant heads) and then added the ninja costumes later: “Okay, now I have to camouflage Joie.” “Why?” “Remember? They are ninjas!” I love his four-year-old logic.

In other news, I have been quilting again. My friend Kerri came over the other morning to talk quilting, and I have been rather obsessively reading about quilts (specifically about modern quilts), thinking about quilts, and, yes, even working on a quilt ever since.

I started this one almost eight years ago, shortly after Jason and I got engaged. The goal, of course, was for it to be done by our wedding. And, yeah, so seven + years later, it’s not done. And, actually, I am kind of glad because I am going to change it up and make it truly unique. I suppose it might be more dramatic to blog about it when it is all finished, but, let’s face it, even though I’m on the quilting kick now, it still might not get done (not trying to be pessimistic, just sayin’), and then even if I do actually finish it, who knows when/if I’ll get around to blogging about it. So I’m doing it now while it’s on my mind.

Someday I will tell the story of how my friend Erin and her mom, Judy, taught me to quilt. It’s definitely been a stable interest/desire of mine to keep quilting, but I generally lack time and gumption to actually do, rather than just dream. Also, I love to start projects; this is a well-known fact about me. Following through is harder.

So this particular quilt, my unfinished wedding quilt, was intended to be a Double Irish Chain. I have all the blocks made (81 of them, in fact), and all that was really left was to sew them together to create the top. But as I’ve been inspired by more modern quilts, I started thinking about how I could make these traditional blocks into something a little more reflective of my current tastes. I also wanted to come up with something that had meaning for our family, something that was unique to us. The result ended up being a collaboration with Jason, which in itself adds meaning. We played with a couple of different layouts, but this was the one that I was most pleased with.

The two crosses at the top represent Jason and me, and the three across the lower half represent the kids. I really like all the negative space, but, good grief, quilting math is hard, and I won’t be sure I got it all right until I sew it all up. I’ll also need to add a border (or three) of the neutral fabric to make it bed-quilt size. I haven’t planned the back exactly yet, but I do have 41 minus 13 of the darker squares and 40 minus 12 of the lighter squares plus many dark and medium would-have-been-border strips and various measures of the neutral fabric. I’m thinking I will do a nod to the traditional layout of the double chain but also incorporate some modern elements. It’s a work in progress for sure.

Ever since “A” week at his preschool, Simon has taken a special interest in acorns (we collected a few to take for Show and Tell that Monday). A few days ago, he found that a couple of his treasures had cracked open a bit, and he wondered if maybe that meant they were ready to grow. So to test his hypothesis (thank you, Dinosaur Train), he and Jason (with Ian tagging along, if I remember correctly) headed out to plant the seeds.

The next day as we were shuffling kids out the door and into the van to get to church, Jason and Simon took a quick detour to water the acorns. As Simon headed back toward me and climbed into his carseat, I could tell something was wrong.

“Did you water your acorns, buddy?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They were dug up. The sqwooowuhs [squirrels] stole them.”

(And I just have to pause here a moment to laugh at how quick my temper flared and how incensed I was at those darn squirrels. What right did they have? Those were NOT! THEIR! NUTS! A fierce and swift mother love is triggered at the slightest injustice—perceived or actual—done to my child).

“Well, silly squirrels. How do you think they knew they were even there?”

He paused just long enough for me to know that he was really considering the question, and said, “Well, maybe they hear-ed me and Daddy talking yesterday when we planted them. . . . Or maybe they smelled them.”

“Well, shoot, buddy. That’s disappointing, huh?”

And I thought that was probably the end of it.

[A few minutes later, from the back of the van] “Mommy? I think we can build a remote control robot, and then from inside the house you can just push a few buttons and the robot will make a really loud noise to scare the sqwooowuhs: a Real Dinosaur Roar!”

Jason and I laughed and told him that sounded like a good idea and that maybe he could invent that kind of remote control robot. Then Simon and Ian happily spent the rest of the ride to church plotting their revenge on the poor squirrels with ever-more-imaginative devices. By the time we arrived, they had thought up some kind of remote control (of course) knight/volcano that runs on “gas and water and pizza, but not fuel” and that swings its sword at the squirrels and pours hot lava out of its mouth.

I think the real takeaway here is that I have a lot to learn about boys.

We were finally on our way to the park to meet our friends. It had been a hurried morning, and I had already changed my mind three times about whether and where we would spend the blazing hot morning outside. Since breakfast had been sketchy (in a moment of later-to-be-revised-planning, I thought we would be coming back home to eat), I stopped at Scooters to supplement the dry cereal the boys had brought along for the ride. I ordered an iced tea for me and just one muffin to share among the kids (my two boys and Tasha’s kids).

Simon was not happy with my plan. He protested loudly and mournfully. I don’t remember exactly how it all went, but I do remember being exasperated and saying something like, “Simon, you will either share the muffin, or I will give it back to Scooters!” He launched into a ridiculous fit of unintelligible wails, punctuated with clear “I don’t WANT to share!“s and “it isn’t FAIR!“s. Obviously, this was not the time to have a heart-to-heart about the value of sharing and empathy, and, well, he couldn’t hear my yelling over his own, so I held tight to the wheel and tried my best to tune out his weeping and gnashing of teeth (I may or may not be exaggerating that in my memory of the incident).

And then, somewhat abruptly, he stopped thrashing and howling. I’ve learned not to look gift silence in the mouth—or directly in the eye—lest it flee. I drove on.

After a minute or two, he said to me, “Hey, Mommy? Do you remember when you said that I’m the kind of kid who says he won’t and then he does it?”

Yes, I did remember. Almost two full weeks before, we had been at Rebecca’s house. When we were getting ready to give the warning signal that we were getting ready to think about leaving, Rebecca asked Simon to pick up one of the toys the kids had been playing with. He didn’t do it right away, and after several minutes she made a comment to me that it wasn’t such a big deal. I responded that I was pretty sure he would do it. You know that story that Jesus told about the two brothers in the vineyard where one said he would do it but didn’t and one said he wouldn’t but did? Simon says he won’t, but then does. Almost every time. (And, yes, he did pick up the toy that day.) I actually didn’t remember that Simon had even been in the room. He made no indication at the time that he knew I was talking about him.

“Yeah, buddy. I did say that, didn’t I?”

“I said I wouldn’t share, but I will. Daddy says you always have to do the right thing, even when you don’t want to.”

Even as I am writing this out, another week or two later, it still makes me catch my breath. What a tremendous responsibility we have, and what an unbelievable privilege. This is not the first time I’ve been reminded that the kids are listening all the time. Seriously. ALL the time. Nor is it the first time that I’ve heard something repeated with freakish accuracy (for better or worse) by one of the boys and had no doubts about its source. That Simon not only listened to what I said but also took those words so much to heart was hugely encouraging and, of course, a little frightening too. The implications are as humbling as they are obvious.

In the days that followed it occurred to me that Simon really latched onto that particular phrase—“the kind of kid who . . .” I wondered if it could be useful. My Grandpa Johnson always said, “Tell kids they are good, and they’ll be good,” and I believe that, almost without qualification. I tested it out with some obvious ones: you’re the kind of kid who shares with his brother; I want you to be the kind of kid who says “Sorry” when you hurt someone, even if you didn’t do it on purpose. And, sure enough, it was—and continues to be—a helpful way of communicating expectations without resorting to pleading and cajoling. That is, as a parenting tool, it’s working. (So far I haven’t overused it, I don’t think, but you can see how it would be really tempting: you’re the kind of kid who picks up his toys without being asked to and does his own laundry; you’re the kind of kid who makes Mommy an iced coffee and plays quietly with your siblings so Mommy can read.)

But (or maybe I should say “and”) as I’ve reflected on this, I’ve been wondering where to go from here. For a four-and-a-half-year-old, it seems completely appropriate. But as he matures, I don’t want him to get stuck in being “the kind of kid who” anything. . . . Well, unless you count being the kind of kid who loves Jesus and obeys his Mommy and sleeps in his own bed all night.

As we were getting in the van, buckling in, and preparing to drive blast off:

Simon: Calling all astronauts!
Ian: Aaasstronauts, where aaarrreee you?
Simon: Come in, astronauts!
Ian: Aaasstronauts! Where aaaarrreee you?
Simon: Okay, let’s go!
Ian: Let’s fly this thing!

Later, after many exchanges on our “radios” (baby monitor/remote control/phone), including fixing the landing gear, brakes, and flat tires several times and bouncing kisses and hugs off of the rearview mirror:

Simon: Astronaut Mommy! Come in, Astronaut Mommy!
Me: Astronaut Mommy here. What do you need, Astronaut Simon?
Simon: Watch out for the bad spaceship flyers!
Me: Okay, I see them. I’m going to try to lose them.
Simon: Don’t worry. The bad guys can’t see me. I’m covered in hugs.
Ian: No worry, Mommy Astronaut, I covered in [unintelligible].
Me: You’re covered in what, Ian?
Ian: In [unintelligible]!
Me: You’re covered in *ideas*? [Because that would be awesome].
Ian: No! [Unintelligible]!
Simon: He says he’s covered in trees.
Me: Trees?
Ian: Yeah, trees.

A sampling from the last week . . .

From Simon (4 years old):

How strong is God? Is he bigger than a tornado? Could he pick up a tornado and put it back down? What if the tornado’s only this big [makes a little fist]? We could let it in the house, and all the people would say, “Oh, what a cute little tornado!”

What does it look like inside our tummies? Is it light or dark?

How does the plane tell the pilot where to go? Is there a mouth in there?

From Ian (2 years old):

[After trying urgently to get Jason’s attention in the car]: Dad! Dad! Dad! Do people have wings?

Are you going to be a daddy, Mommy?

I have a poopy diaper. Jesus can help me?

Me: I’m thinking of something green.
Simon: A tree!
Me: That’s right! Your turn.

Simon: I’m thinking of something yellow.
Me: Is it something you drive?
Simon: No.
Me: Is it something you play with?
Simon: No.
[Several more questions, all answered with “no.”]
Simon: It’s corn!

Me: Okay, Ian, it’s your turn buddy.
Ian: My turn! I’m thinking ‘bout ants. . . .

Me: Okay. I’m thinking of something red.
Simon: That’s my favorite color!
Me: I know, buddy.
Simon: Is it my lawnmower?
Me: Nope.
Simon: My lawnmower is red.
Me: Yep, but that’s not what I’m thinking of.
[Several more rounds until he guesses correctly.]

Simon: I’m thinking of something brown and bushy. . . .

Ian: My turn! I’m thinking ‘bout my faaavorite color. Broooowwwn.
Simon: I’m thinking of something brown.
Me: [After narrowing it down.] Is it a train?
Simon: It’s not the train, but it’s close. It’s what the train runs on [without waiting for me to guess]: the tracks!

Ian: My turn! I’m thinking ‘bout brown. My faaavorite color.  I’m thinking ‘bout brown trains.

One of the ways that Jason and I are very, very different is in how we approach food. I love to experiment and am ever trying to cajole my family into eating “the same thing” but a more healthful version. Jason is opposite: if he finds something he likes, he sticks with it—he does not see the point in deviating from the tried and true. To his credit, he does always try what I make—and will keep his opinions mostly to himself for the boys’ sake. My latest attempt was (the really delicious, in my opinion) Black Bean Brownies. (FWIW, Jason prefers Betty Crocker’s Frosted Brownies.)

Jason: Interesting.
Me: Do you like it?
Jason: I don’t not like it.
Simon: What did you say?
Jason: I said, “I don’t not like it.”
Simon: What does that mean?
Jason: It’s called “diplomacy.”
Simon: What does that mean?
Jason: It means I’m trying to be nice.
Simon: Oh. It kind of sounds like you don’t like it.
Jason (to me): You’re loving this, aren’t you?

Ian: Knock knock.
Me: Who’s there?
Ian: Owl who?
Simon: [Interrupting] Knock knock!
Me: Who’s there?
Simon: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Simon: Knock knock!
Me: Who’s there?
Simon: Banana.
Me: Banana who?
Simon: Okay. Laugh this time!
Me: [Laughing.]
Simon: You say, “Knock knock.”
Me: Knock knock!
Simon: Who’s there?
Ian: It’s Mommy! Hi, Mommy.

A summary of our drive home tonight:

Simon: Mommy, let’s do knock knock.
Me: Okay.
[Long pause.]
Simon: You say, “Knock knock.”
Me: [Racking my brain for any knock knock joke I can remember.] Okay, Knock knock!
Simon: No, wait. I’ll say, “Knock knock.”
Me: Okay.
Simon: Knock knock!
Me: Who’s there?
Simon: Wait. You say, “Knock knock.”
[Repeat indecision and confusion about who should start the joke for a full ten minutes.]

Me: Knock knock.
Simon: Who’s there?
Me: Owls.
Simon: Owls who?
Me: Right. Owls hoo!
Simon: I was supposed to say that.
[Repeat various parts of this and the one other knock knock joke I know (banana, banana, banana, orange you glad I didn’t say ‘banana’) for several more minutes, sometimes with Simon starting, sometimes with me starting but no one ever managing a full and correct joke start to finish.]

Simon: Knock knock.
Me: Who’s there?
Simon: Banana!
Me: Banana who?
Simon: Poonie!
Me: What?
Simon: Banana Poonie!
Me: Um. Okay.
Simon: Knock knock!
Me: Who’s there?
Simon: Tractor Poonie!
[Repeat “Poonie” punchline with anything that catches his eye for the next several minutes.]

[I tell the owls joke again and try to explain why it’s funny.]
Ian: Knock knock! Who dare?
Me: Who’s there, Ian?
Ian: Knock knock! Who dare?
Me: Okay, Ian. Knock knock.
Ian: Who dare?
Me: Owls.
Ian: Yeah! [Laughs hysterically.] Knock knock! Who dare? Poonie.
[Repeat all exchanges in random order until both boys fall asleep.]

Simon, after holding Clara for 45 minutes this afternoon: “Mommy, can you take her now? The ankle of my arm hurts, and I’m hot because she’s such a snugglebug.”