The restless beast is stilled—momentarily

I believe in sharing. In theory, anyway. Which is why I'm barking at everyone I talk to today, why I'm muttering moody epithets to myself as I stomp around the house completing jobs, why I have been unsurprised to find myself visibly scowling each time I passed a reflective surface. I'm just sharing my cranky state. The weather stinks, it's mid-winter, I panicked this morning and canceled plans thanks to overly zealous weathermen, and now I have probably missed a perfectly good, sunny afternoon when I might have been out gallivanting... Huff, sigh, groan, growl.

It's been that kind of January, hasn't it?

Anyway, since I've been so eager to share my annoyance, frustration, and irritation with anyone who's willing to tune in, I should (on the flip side) also share something positive and delightful, to make up for my curmudgeon-ness. So, I will.

I had an absolutely fabulous time yesterday afternoon, in spite of snow and slush and icy gusts. My best little guy and I had a date—at the symphony.

Now, we don't go there often, although I'd love to. We've enjoyed the Pittsburgh Youth Symphony Orchestra several times, because it's fun and inspiring to see youngsters playing those instruments with such skill and aplomb. Plus (perhaps I should mention this little tidbit) the PYSO performances are usually free. Yep, gratis. That's double-plus-good for us.

But yesterday's show was a special treat, one that we'd been hoping would come around someday. You see, my son and I are huge John Williams fans. Yes, the John Williams who writes movie music. The true deserver of the moniker America's Composer. I love Copland too, people, but I think JW has him beaten. I do. Who cares what motivated the composition? Does it really matter that it was written to accompany scenes of a film? To me, that makes it even more awesome in a way. I know how it feels to paint a picture that I have chosen to render—and how much more difficult the task becomes when it must be made to order for someone else's preferences...

Anyway, when we heard about this show, even my husband looked pointedly at the two of us JW admirers, and suggested that we go. It was decided. And since my best big boy would be coming back from a weekend out of town on the day of the matinée performance, we decided that only Mom and Son would partake. Then, my charming kiddo stepped into the amazing kid arena by declaring he'd contribute allowance money to the seat purchase so we wouldn't have to sit in peanut heaven. So—I knew without a doubt that he really wanted to go.

We bought the tickets online, and waited for the big day. Which was yesterday, as you know. Even before we got inside the venue, we were met in the lobby by a brass ensemble's swelling performance of the Superman theme, and the music just got better and better. The concert was commanded by resident conductor Lawrence Loh, a gifted, youngish fellow who is also a self-proclaimed JW junkie. He was a perfect choice for the day, introducing each piece or even particular scene with gusto, background information, and an occasional prop or outfit. Loh morphed into a Jedi knight with light saber in hand for Star Wars; then, Professor Dumbledore himself used his "wand" to lead the symphony in selected Harry Potter musical selections. Loh was a fantastic master of ceremonies and maestro, and the perfect choice for such a rousing collection of memorable, heartwarming, bewitching tunes. He made no excuse for Williams' soundtrack niche, acknowledging only his greatness and genius. That gorgeous music filled Heinz Hall's soaring arches and intricate corners, and not a single classical music snob could be found. The adoring audience thanked both conductor and composer with rapt attention, roaring applause, and not a single peep from a cell phone.

The best part of the day occurred to me halfway through the first half, as I sat alternately wiping the corner of my eye (the opening notes of Jurassic Park) and grinning foolishly (Hedwig's Theme): I realized, with quiet shock, that I was sitting perfectly still. I wasn't wiggling a leg, or drumming a finger, or twitching my knee. I was just sitting. I was completely in the moment. Maybe that doesn't sound like such a big deal to you, but for me? A B-I-G D-E-A-L. I cannot sit still easily; long car rides are torture, meetings used to make me alternately yawn and weep, even long movies have become challenging. It just feels like a waste of time, my mind wanders, and my body yearns to move busily about, engaging in restless activity after restless activity.

But yesterday? That music washed over me with a physical presence, a calming aspect that I haven't experienced for months. It was splendid.

And now it's a precious memory. I wish I could have bottled the moment, the scene itself—not just the sounds, but also the smells and sights of that wonderful snapshot. And I wasn't alone. Everywhere around me, people were smiling. I haven't seen that for a long time.

Thanks, Lawrence. Thanks, John. For those two hours, I was completely at home right where I was. What a rare treat.

Another kid update

Every now and then, when the child is wearing me down with his constant rebellions about everything from when and what to eat down to where I’m permitted to park his Matchbox cars, I need to step away and think of all the very cute and funny things he does daily.

He gets in a mood for hugs and then delivers them generously, usually clutching my legs as I’m standing but sometimes partly strangling my neck when he’s at my level. He’ll say it, too, as he’s moving in for one: “Big hug! I gonna give you big hug!” With his dad, it’s “monster hug” but it looks pretty much the same. Sometimes his stuffed animals hug each other—apparently they all love each other tremendously, regardless of whether they’re friends in the real animal kingdom—so it’s nothing for Mama Polar Bear to seek out a tiny lamb instead of her own baby bear, and hug the sheep for all its worth. Teddy is also quite demonstrative, and the two stuffed kitties are extremely loving as well.

Speaking of Teddy, we’re currently operating on just one bear. The other, the “twin Teddy,” was inadvertently left at my sister’s house on Monday. We didn’t even miss him until the moment she called to tell me what we’d done. But boy, come bedtime, he was severely missed. Tears welled, lower lip pouted out like a shelf, and I had insane but fleeting thoughts of journeying out to get Teddy right at that moment. (Fleeting, like I said… it was after 9:30 pm.) I kept pointing out that we still had one Teddy right here, clutched in the boy’s arms. We even had a lighter colored stand-in Teddy, who looks much cleaner and better preserved but has all the same features as the others. Other Teddy was having a little visit at his cousin’s. He was fine; he was in good hands. None of this made one iota of difference to the child; the logic did not offer any comfort. It never does. Eventually, because he was exhausted, our boy clutched the single Teddy and his Ellie and fell asleep asking, “Why? Why?” As if I, in my terribly finite and flawed brain, could ever address such a monumental query.

(You’ll be happy to know that the next night was easier, and last night, the little trooper didn’t even ask where other Teddy was. No worries: we’ll get him back on Monday. Oh, the stories Other Teddy will have to tell about his big adventure!)

And now back to why: That, you see, is the very favorite utterance of our son. Every single thing I speak is met with, “Why?” Why is it lunchtime? Why must we put Duplos away? Why is it bath night? And why must we go to the store? As all you wiser mom-figures know, answering said “why” does nothing to end the exchange—it only fuels it, thus leading to more and more whys until your head pops off… or something like that.

I wait with bated breath for warmer days, and I hope and pray for a more willing potty training student, soon. Prayers on that front are most welcome!

And mostly, I thank God for this wonderful little person every day.

Quirks of the kid

Marcus turned 2 1/2 last week. His favorite trick this week? Why, inquiring about your day, of course. He’ll ask anyone, but he likes asking Todd and me best. Over and over. “Hey, how’s your day?” We’ll answer, and then not 30 seconds later, he’s asking again. “How’s your day?” We try to explain that this is unnecessary, even a tad rude--that it implies he's not listening to the reply. We try reasoning with him, explaining that he just asked us this question. He cracks up when we tell him this. He even beats us to the punch now, saying it for us: “You just asked me that!” Then he laughs. And, with a maniacal gleam in his eye, asks the question again.

And the kid talks nonstop. A couple of months ago, his favorite thing to say was “adin.” As in, when he’s being tickled, the tickler will stop and Marcus will say, “Adin?” because he wants to be tickled some more. It still slips out occasionally.

He loves names of things. Of animals. Of streets. Mostly he loves people's names; often, he is terribly reluctant to turn to the next page of a book we're reading until everyone has been named. I usually just give up and create names for each person in the picture. "Okay, okay," I'll say, "that one is Sophie, and that one is Fred, and this is Biff, and the dog is Sparky." Then he's happy; then we may turn the page.

He had an imaginary camel friend a couple of months ago. It was his finger—his pointer finger. The whole thing backfired on me one day as we sat at lunch; I was reprimanding him, and happened to point my finger at him as I scolded. I know, I know, not a good habit... I’m trying to stop. It does nothing to punctuate the scolding, anyway--as evidenced by this exchange:

Marcus informed me as I pointed that I had a camel too. “Mommy camel.”
“Huh?”
“Mommy camel. Mommy has camel too.” He pointed at my finger, pointing at him.
“No, I’m angry and I’m yelling at you.”
“Mommy camel.” Again he showed me patiently where my camel was, even reaching out to touch my finger. "See it? Mommy camel."
I gave up. It was like trying to reason with—a camel.

Sometimes his camel is accompanied by a baby camel (which is, conveniently, the pointer finger of his other hand--with that finger bent just slightly, so it's a tad smaller and shorter than regular camel). Was I this odd as a child? Were we all? Probably.

It's a darned good thing he's cute. God knew what He was doing, making babies, kids, puppies and kittens so adorable--it's their only hope for survival to adulthood.