Conversations with Milo

I have many things to share with you, dear reader(s), and I will, don't worry. But, in the mean time, I leave you with this snippet of conversation, which captures the verbal and rhetorical advances he's made since I last wrote. Milo, after throwing a colossal fit and weedling his way into being rocked to sleep: "Mama, I like to rock."

Me: "I like to rock, too."

Milo: "I like rocket ships. Do you like rocket ships?"

Me: "I do."

Milo: "I don't like bugs. Do you like bugs?"

Me: "I like some bugs. Ladybugs are bugs. Butterflies are bugs."

Milo: "No, they not."

Me: "They are bugs."

Milo: "No, they not — I like them. Can you sing a song now?"

I grasped mentally for a song about bugs, then defaulted to Beatles without explaining myself to him, but felt superior nonetheless.

Can I Go With You?

I will write a lot about the smart, strange, sweaty world of Hong Kong later this weekend. For now, I can I only write about the through-the-looking-glass-of-the-web-cam-via-skype moments that defined my relationship with my family for the last two weeks. The 13-hour time difference was just right: I woke up just early enough to see them off to bed every night. Jason told the kids they had to say goodnight to the sun so I could say hello to it in the morning. This occasionally worked. Milo got so used to seeing Lauren on the web cam with me that he went from wondering "Where you friend?" (as in, where's that auburn head that normally pops up on Skype?) to asking, "You have Lauwen?"

Jason would just put the computer on the kitchen island so I could watch and hear them play. Milo would do occasional drive-bys to the camera, and when I'd sign off in the mornings to go work or play (so they could go to bed), he'd ask, "Can I go with you?"

Child - Good Hair, Partially Potty-Trained - Best Offer or Free (Austin)

Craigslist won't officially let you sell children, but, at current writing, I am willing to let Milo go for a really good price on the black market. Milo, a student of the Lu school of dramatic arts, is  just a turban and some eyeliner away from his close-up, Mr. de Mille. Only he doesn't fully speak English and he still poops his pants.

Seller would also consider rental.

[It's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests or other children. Because we have plenty of those already.]

A Sampling of Today's Conversations with My Children

Exhibit AOn the way to school, Milo went on this diatribe made up of animated, complex and unintelligible sentences. As best I could tell, his narrative had lots of action — I made out several "...and then..." statements where he was stringing together descriptions of things that happened. He also seemed to convey strong feelings of injustice and outrage: scowling, pursing his lips, shaking his hair and, at one point, saying, "NO, I don't like that!" Then, to close, he explained, "Lucy MY sistoe. She not you sistoe. You her mommy and you my mommy and she my sistoe!" And then he looked at me in the rear-view mirror expectantly. Like he wanted applause for his monologue.

Exhibit B After we dropped Milo off, Lu stuck her head out of Harry Potter long enough to notice that we were driving past T3, my old (and still beloved) agency. She asked about our friends that still worked there, and I talked about a few people, including "Mr. Lee and Ms. Gay," whom Lu remembers not just as my bosses but as great hosts who always showed her a good time (and continue to invite her out to the ranch).

About ten seconds later...

Lu: Mom, what does gay mean?

Me: Well, it's a name, like Ms. Gay–

Lu: I know, and Mr. Gay, the second grade teacher, but I mean, the word. You know?

Me: Well, you know how Dad and I love each other romantically — we are together? Do you know what I mean by that?

Lu: Uh huh.

Me: Well, sometimes men and women love each other, like Dad and I do, and that's being straight. And sometimes people who are the same gender love each other [I go on to enumerate the many friends and family members in our tribe who are gay], and that's being gay.

Lu: Oh.

When I Am Old

Lately, I have found myself griping about being old, but it's only vanity talking. This weekend, I saw what old looks like. And I want some of it. We had a Ratliff-Major family reunion and celebrated the birthday of Minnie, who turns 90 in August. I started to refer to her as "Aunt Minnie," but quickly dispensed with that, as she is my first cousin twice removed, not my aunt. What's more, her own children and grandchildren call her simply Minnie, because "how much cuter of a name than that do you need?" Indeed.

Minnie retired from her pediatric practice in Chattanooga less than two years ago, after nearly 60 years taking care of children of every class and color. She went to medical school at a time when the secretarial pool was a high ambition for women, joining her male cousins in a strong showing of physicians throughout the family. She reminds me very much of Uncle Bob — the shape of her chin, her jokes, her direct manner.

Minnie uses a walker, but she thinks it was the skiing that did her knees in, not old age (she gave up skiing in her 80s). She is a bit concerned about Lu's allergies, and recommended something (Claritin? I wish I could remember because I need free medical advice). She thinks Milo seems just fine. She says it's okay if Jason and I have just two children, because we are busy, and the ones we have seem good. She loves music. She is doted on by her brood of bright, sweet, talented people — the kind of people I like to have as friends and am lucky enough to call cousins.

Minnie has done so much. And she is not done.

When I am old, I want to do all the things I love doing — loving, mothering, traveling, working, being a friend, cooking, exercising, making fun of you — until I am done. On my 90th birthday, I want to be by the creek in Wimberley, doted on by the bright, sweet, talented people I love. I need to check with my cousins first, but I bet you will be invited.

Sneaking Around 101

Tonight Milo went into our bedroom, and I followed along, because we were playing, and I assumed I was invited. And also it is my bedroom. After I crossed the threshold, he stopped short and said, "You go out there," pointing to the door. He has been deliciously clingy for the past 48 hours that we've been home from Europe, so his sudden desire to be alone was fishy. Then it dawned on me...his sudden desire to be alone with the television. He said again, "Mom, go out there. Shut the door." And I said, "Milo, are you going to watch TV?" And he tucked his chin and looked up at me through overgrown blond bangs and said, "You go out there." "Milo, we're not going to watch TV right now." Then, defiantly, he turned on the TV, I turned it off, and the whole exchange just fell apart hysterically.

I was torn between feeling thankful that he hadn't been able to lie and thinking, "Dude, be less obvious and you could maybe get away with it."

Pee School

Milo potty-trained himself in one day! He is the stuff of legend at his preschool: Miss Jess told Jason that Milo was potty training prodigy (we're going with "POTTIGY!"). The kid spent a whole day in various train/mouse/superhero undergarments that he, on the whole, did not soil — his first real day of potty training at school. This after a Sunday of no less than seven (7) pairs of drawers. I'd hear him across the house yelling, "I GO PEEPEE!" and sprint...only to arrive to a warm puddle and a wry smile: "I peepee." Indeed. I need a laundress.

8

Lucy is eight years old! I started this post with maudlin and graphic recollections about what I was doing at this very moment eight years ago, but I decided instead to write about Lu. We think a lot as parents about our role in helping our children become good people, and with this in mind, I surveyed my child:

Lu is a highly relational creature. A billboard we drive by, a story on NPR, something they’re reading in language arts, weather reports, overheard conversations between adults: she is always trying to relate the information to experiences in her own life. Making connections is her most persistent narrative.

When Lu says something, she will repeat it until you have responded in some way (and nodding your head doesn’t count). She wants to be heard.

She argues and negotiates constantly. Jason has banned the word “wait” from our family vocabulary and if he could ban “but,” I think he would. This kid is ready for the Supreme Court.

She empathetic and kind and melodramatic and impulsive. She is both flamboyant and nuanced in her communication. She reads social cues well. She cares about other people, but she wants to (and likely will) have her own way.

Her curiosity is exhausting (to her and to us). Her creativity is boundless (ask to see the wallet she made out of duct tape).

She is an optimist with a consistent capacity to forgive. She can be in a wailing heap on her bedroom floor over some injustice of the mother regime one minute, then saying “Mom, can we start over?” the next.

Knowing how much I admire and love the person Lu already is, I am forced to reconsider my job as a parent: maybe I’m not supposed to help her become anything, but to keep safe all these great qualities so she can be, into adulthood, all that she already is.