Easy Street

I totally slid by in the costume department again this year since Finn chose to go as Darth Vader for the third year in a row and Shea still allows me to dress her in her brother's old costumes.

Surely, the center cannot hold. Next year I'm envisioning severe karmic payback, when both kids request extravagant, detailed costumes to make up for my recent waltzes down Easy Street. I expect lots of hand beading, face painting and the like.

Or I could always try to sell them on the classic simplicity of bedsheet ghosts.

Finn, naturally, loved Halloween. He shifted into second gear on his trick-or-treating strategy this year, realizing that the quicker he moved between houses the more candy he could accumulate. More than once we had to urgently grab the nape of his cape to redirect him to the safety of the sidewalk instead of into the possible peril of the street, so excited was he to advance to the next house and a fuller treat bag.

Focus, little fallen Jedi.

Shea was frightened by some of the scarier get-ups she saw the older kids wearing ("Halloween costumes are meanies!" she proclaimed -- her standard attack against anything she's not particularly fond of), and didn't really understand the whole trick or treating concept. Sure, she was happy to take candy from strangers but in between each house she would ask me, "Mommy, can we go to Halloween now?"

As if HALLOWEEN was a destination, an event, and all this candy grabbing was really cramping her party time and surely her party people must be expecting her by now?

Finally, there was the climactic candy throw, wherein each kid emptied their grab bags out on the dining room table and gushed with glee at their incredible takes. It's ALL MINE! I'm gonna eat this one right away! No, this one! No, wait -- this one! And this one tomorrow, and this one for snack, and this one on Friday, and...

Yup. That's it. This year, maybe for the first time since we became parents, Halloween was actually easy. It was fun. No tantrums, no fighting, no complaining about itchy costumes, no ripping headpieces off, no stopping to breastfeed or change diapers.

I'd better start practicing my beading skills toot sweet.

All A Girl Really Needs

Pumpkin costume? Check.

Light saber? Check.

Purple marabou pumps? Check.

The Softer Side Of Evil

Finn: "Mom, I'm the best Darth Vader because I look out for all the little sisters."

Look Upon My Works, Ye Mighty, And Despair!

Still Inexplicably Drawn To The Dark Side

Now That Would Be A Great Jedi Power To Have

As you know, Finn's a huge fan of the Star Wars series. Well, most of it. Because he's still only three, many of the intense fight scenes, especially those involving the sinister Darth Vader, still frighten him--even though he knows EXACTLY how they will play out and that Luuuuuuuuuke will be just fine.

Whenever these intense scenes come on the screen, though, it's as if he's never seen them before and he usually requests that we either fast forward through the anxiety-producing footage or turn the film off entirely. I always oblige him; I remember watching Star Wars in the movie theater when I was seven and hiding behind the seat in front of me when things got hairy, so I know what type of delicious anxiety he's tasting.

So we fast forward through the "bad parts." A lot. And, during those times when he's decided to turn the box off entirely, I usually offer him a Teletubbies book or nursery rhyme puzzle just to cleanse his little Jedi palate with some traditional juvenilia.

Yesterday afternoon, as I took the kids for a walk through the neighborhood in the double jogger, we came upon two women walking three dogs. Although the dogs were tiny and leashed, Finney immediately tensed up, pulled his legs to his chest, and began to tremble slightly. (In the real world, Finney's also more than just a little afraid of dogs.)

And this was his distressed directive:

"Mom, fast-forward this part! Quick! Go to the other side of the street in fast-forward!"

In Japan, Today Is Boys' Day

Mastery of the light saber--"not as clumsy or random as a blaster, an elegant weapon from a more civilized day"--is a critical component of Jedi Knight training.

Still On The Mend

Just as I predicted, it's been a long week of recovery, with lots of time indoors together. We've done every last puzzle, read the same books a dozen times over, and watched all our favorite DVDs an embarrassing number of times.

(Quick aside: Have you ever had to answer this question every week: "But why did Anakin turn into Darth Vader?"* It's an answer as loaded and complex as Truman Capote, one filled with subtle shades of giving in to the dark side, embracing his anger and hatred instead of following the nobility and honor of the Jedi order, and not finish his vegetables at dinner, by the way, depending on the mood I'm in when asked.)

To make matters worse, the sun came out yesterday in a full springtime blaze, beckoning us to walk to the park. Within minutes of Finn scaling the jungle gym I knew we weren't quite ready, as his still sickly lungs caused his little body to convulse in coughing-fit spasms. We quickly retreated, defeated, back to the loft, where we settled back into Day 6 of Getting Better.

Needless to say, I'm looking forward to the weekend.

* Finn asks this question repeatedly because, 1) he's three, and the three-year-old rule book clearly states that all questions directed to your mother must be posed a number of times equal to the number of minutes she was in labor with you, and 2) although we've allowed him to see, with a parental chaperone with him on the couch at all times, the original Star Wars (Part IV) in its totality and parts of V, VI, I, and even II (he tells us to forward past the scary parts, like when Darth Maul fights with his double-sided light saber or when Hayden Christiansen, bless his pouty lips, tries to act too much), we've deemed part III to be much too violent and graphic and will probably hold off on letting him view it until he's about 26.

What this means, unfortunately, is that his narrative cycle is completely fractured because he's never seen for himself how/why Anakin becomes Darth Vader. We keep hoping our descriptions of the metamorphosis from dark to light, from good to evil, will suffice, but his curiosity keeps this subject close enough that we discuss it constantly. He also wants to know if Darth Vader gets sick, which makes me giggle because I imagine Mommy Vader leaning over her boy, feeling his masked forehead for a fever, then trying to somehow fit the dropper full of bubblegum-flavored antibiotics through his sleek mask into his pie hole.

The Angel Descends

By the way, can you guess who finally decided to wear his halo--along with his Start Wars t-shirt and Darth Vader sneakers--on Christmas morning?

Trendspotting

First the good news: Finn loves preschool. He loves his classmates, his teacher, playtime, story time and crafts. Each morning after he wakes up he inquires if today is a school day; three days a week he’s ecstatic, two days a week he’s disappointed, and on the weekends the question represents the only time he’ll address me directly, as Johnny’s home and I can’t be wasting my time on idle chatter, woman, when my Papa’s here to play with me! Duh!

Now onto the frustrating news (or comic news, I suppose, for everyone who’s not his Virgo mother). The complete version of the sentence above should have been written like this: Finn loves preschool—as long as it falls between the regularly scheduled school hours of 9am and 12:30pm. After that time, all declarations of love become null and void.

For some reason, the same little boy who chatters non-stop all day long and has lately earned himself the nickname “Captain Volume” due to his success rate in waking his sister up from more than 90 percent of her naps while doing so, flat-out refuses to participate in any extracurricular social or holiday activities at school. The trend began back in October, when the school hosted its fall carnival a few nights before Halloween. (Perhaps you’re familiar with my October 27th post?) I thought his overall apprehension to participate was explainable by the fact that, in the dark, the school’s otherwise familiar and comforting surroundings appeared spooky and intimidating.

But that quaint theory was quickly shattered upon our arrival at—and Finn’s immediate boycott of—the school’s Thanksgiving banquet. This festive spread, held in BROAD DAYLIGHT, featured a long banquet table where miniature pilgrims and Indians dined on sliced turkey, fruit and biscuits. Finn wouldn’t even sit with his classmates—you know, the ones he laughs and plays with each day at school without issue—let alone wear the feathered headdress that he had made himself just days earlier. He clung to my leg while we watched his friends eat—and the suddenly shy boy no wear-um fancy headdress.

So I harbored great optimism when I overheard Finney practicing his Christmas carols around the house last week in preparation for the school’s annual Christmas pageant. Some of the more outgoing students at school, the ones who are able to bring themselves to speak aloud among mixed company, volunteered to be part of the nativity scene. The rest of the children, including Finney, were to play a chorus of angels, dressed all in white with silver garland around their waists and halos on their heads.

The first sign of festive fallout materialized a day or two before the show when Finn said to me, “I don’t want to be an angel; I want to be Darth Vader.” I let him know that Darth Vader probably didn’t make an appearance at the first Christmas, but I assured him that he could play any type of angel that he wanted. “I want to be a race car angel, then,” he retorted, speeding off in one long screech around the kitchen corner and out of sight. Great, I naively thought. Problem solved.

Are you predicting how this turns out, yet?

The night of the show, as John and I attempted to dress Finn in his pageant costume, you would have thought we were trying to outfit the lad in a straight jacket lined with porcupine quills instead of an oversized Hanes beefy tee by the way he writhed in protest. Despite our most earnest attempts at coercion and pleas for compliance, Finnegan morphed once again into a holiday humbug and a pillar of shyness, rigid and unmoving. No silver garland belt, no halo, no way. I don’t wanna. No race car angel. No angel. No nothin’. Even Grandma, who with Opa was in attendance to witness their grandson’s first holiday performance, couldn’t work her magic and persuade him to join the heavenly host of toddler angels.

So, together as one big family, we watched the charming Christmas pageant unfold from the 14th pew of the school’s chapel. Finney too, who was still being held in all his unrelenting resolve on the sidelines by Grandma.

Afterwards, from the safety of the parking lot, Finn assured us that, yes, he would definitely participate next year with his classmates. Yeah, that's right, I'll do it NEXT YEAR! Especially once he noticed that all the little angels, shepherds, animals and even the baby Jesus himself came back from the pageant chomping on the candy canes they had just been given by Santa.

If This Is Three, Four Should Be A Riot

Memorable Things To Come Out Of Finn Yesterday:

Memorable Comment:
"Mom, you're Darth Mom."

Memorable Observation:

During a sudden bout of diarrhea, Finn exclaimed,

"Mom, my poop's making castles in the toilet!"

Memorable Idea:
While killing time on the potty, take almost an entire roll of
toilet paper off its cardboard spindle and swirl it into one big ball.

Stuck In The Middle With You

For years I had heard how hard two-year-olds could be: Beware the terrible twos. Wait until he's two. Two is harder than one and one combined. And all sorts of other abstruse warnings and strange math.

Frankly, though, I find three to be a far more perplexing and exasperating age. Three is too old to rest comfortably in the mother comforts of toddlerhood, but too young to fully embrace the autonomy of boyhood. Three is able to defend the what, when, and how of his argument, but is unable to remember why he objected in the first place. Three is trustworthy enough to leave unattended for a few minutes at a time but is able to injure himself in new and excruciating ways even under a watchful eye. Finally, and probably most significantly, three is too old to nap every day but not old enough to go entirely without, which makes three extremely cranky by day..., well..., three.

Below you'll find a recent example of the great divide that is three, complete with photos.

Here's a shot from last night's Fall Carnival at Finney's preschool, where he dressed up in his menacing Darth Vader costume and mustered up a convincing face of equal parts venom and bravado, channeling Anakin Skywalker as he finally embraces his inner badass and gives in to the Dark Side.

Now, here's another shot of Finney just 30 minutes later, when he was too timid to partake in the carnival's CAKE WALK. That's right, walk slowly in a circle with other children for a possible shot at fresh baked goods. No way, man, I ain't going. How about bowling for prizes? Nope. Temporary tattoos? Forget it. Face painting? Are you high? The only way we got Finn to participate in any of the activities at the carnival was to--you guessed it--provide significant security detail, meaning Grandma Emely had to carry him around in her arms on the cake walk.

Don't get me wrong; I'm in no hurry for Finney to grow up. (I mean, have you noticed just how many pictures I take on a daily basis in an attempt to capture and keep close these youthful moments? It's almost criminal.) And I'm fully aware of and sympathetic to the complex changes he's going through this year. I've realized, though, that if three is the adolescence of childhood, the tender time between babyhood and boyhood, I've got a precocious thirteen-year-old girl with her first case of PMS on my hands.

P,S, For those of you familiar with this blog, you'll also notice that three wants to be both Darth Vader and a kitty cat--on the same Halloween.