Samless
I've promised Sam some blog posts while he's leading a Conservation Photography travel class in the Southwest. He left yesterday.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, Allison Clare started sobbing: I miss my daddy already! [He was still within view.]
With typical maternal fruitlessness, I said: But think about how much fun Daddy will have, and we'll get to hear all about it when he gets back. And we'll do lots of fun things too.
AC: All I can think about is all of the times of Daddy and me together!
She's been telling everyone that Sam is gone. Strangers in line behind us at Target, people walking their dogs past our house (fortunately, I knew them). This is her typical m.o. but I do wonder whether it's wise to advertise that the man of the house is gone. So far, she hasn't told anyone that knows where we live that we don't know, so I guess it's fine. She tells them, "My daddy is on a trip and I really miss him. He went with his classmates." Somehow this conjures for me the image of Sam holding onto a rope with a bunch of five-year-olds, walking respectfully through a museum, led by their kindergarten teacher.
The baby, though he's been obsessed with Sam lately, seems to be doing fine. I got out a toy shopping cart of the girls' today for him, and he loved pushing it around. Like an old man who is unsteady on his feet and needs a walker, he can walk where he wants to go as long as he has something to push across the floor to aid his balance: kids' chairs, his walker (which he is not actually sitting in), a stepladder, whatever. But then he got another idea. He walked himself around to the side of the cart, looked into it, and made some urgent sounds. He looked meaningfully at me. I shook my head: You can't get into that one; it's just a toy. He made more of the same sounds, pointing into the cart and tipping his head into it, then looking at me. I shook my head no again. His face went sad and he pointed again and made sad sounds and frustrated sounds. I picked him up and hugged him: I love you, Little Guy. I couldn't help laughing at how much he communicates without words and how clearly he expresses his desires.
When he wants a snack, he'll cross the floor on his tummy, wrap his hands around my ankles, and kiss my feet. I'll pick him up and he'll extend a regal arm toward the pantry. I open the door and he chuckles with pleasure. But not when the goldfish pretzel bag is not in its correct place. Then he points at the empty spot and makes urgent sounds: Oh no! I hold out other snacks; he shakes his head no. He might point at something else, or I might need to dig out a fresh bag of the pretzels. Then he beams and bursts out with a guffaw of glee.
He's similarly enthusiastic and specific about fruit, sometimes pointing to what he wants, shaking his head no if I begin to cut it, and rewarding me with grins and little happy revving sounds when I hand him the whole thing (banana chunk, large strawberry, etc.) to eat out of hand (a hand that is inevitably about to be covered in fruit and then rubbed into his hair).
Little Bean is doing fine, although she's had trouble falling asleep for the last few nights (she goes through nights like this periodically)--lots of wailing. Tonight I told her I'd check on her every few minutes and that assurance seemed to help, but it's hard to know what to do.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, Allison Clare started sobbing: I miss my daddy already! [He was still within view.]
With typical maternal fruitlessness, I said: But think about how much fun Daddy will have, and we'll get to hear all about it when he gets back. And we'll do lots of fun things too.
AC: All I can think about is all of the times of Daddy and me together!
She's been telling everyone that Sam is gone. Strangers in line behind us at Target, people walking their dogs past our house (fortunately, I knew them). This is her typical m.o. but I do wonder whether it's wise to advertise that the man of the house is gone. So far, she hasn't told anyone that knows where we live that we don't know, so I guess it's fine. She tells them, "My daddy is on a trip and I really miss him. He went with his classmates." Somehow this conjures for me the image of Sam holding onto a rope with a bunch of five-year-olds, walking respectfully through a museum, led by their kindergarten teacher.
The baby, though he's been obsessed with Sam lately, seems to be doing fine. I got out a toy shopping cart of the girls' today for him, and he loved pushing it around. Like an old man who is unsteady on his feet and needs a walker, he can walk where he wants to go as long as he has something to push across the floor to aid his balance: kids' chairs, his walker (which he is not actually sitting in), a stepladder, whatever. But then he got another idea. He walked himself around to the side of the cart, looked into it, and made some urgent sounds. He looked meaningfully at me. I shook my head: You can't get into that one; it's just a toy. He made more of the same sounds, pointing into the cart and tipping his head into it, then looking at me. I shook my head no again. His face went sad and he pointed again and made sad sounds and frustrated sounds. I picked him up and hugged him: I love you, Little Guy. I couldn't help laughing at how much he communicates without words and how clearly he expresses his desires.
When he wants a snack, he'll cross the floor on his tummy, wrap his hands around my ankles, and kiss my feet. I'll pick him up and he'll extend a regal arm toward the pantry. I open the door and he chuckles with pleasure. But not when the goldfish pretzel bag is not in its correct place. Then he points at the empty spot and makes urgent sounds: Oh no! I hold out other snacks; he shakes his head no. He might point at something else, or I might need to dig out a fresh bag of the pretzels. Then he beams and bursts out with a guffaw of glee.
He's similarly enthusiastic and specific about fruit, sometimes pointing to what he wants, shaking his head no if I begin to cut it, and rewarding me with grins and little happy revving sounds when I hand him the whole thing (banana chunk, large strawberry, etc.) to eat out of hand (a hand that is inevitably about to be covered in fruit and then rubbed into his hair).
Little Bean is doing fine, although she's had trouble falling asleep for the last few nights (she goes through nights like this periodically)--lots of wailing. Tonight I told her I'd check on her every few minutes and that assurance seemed to help, but it's hard to know what to do.
posted by Tara | 10:11 PM
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