When Toby and I went on a walk out to the soybean field this morning, Toby spotted a new creature—a red eft newt (an adolescent red spotted newt). It was gorgeous—a bright, stunning orange with spots. It stood frozen for a solid 10 minutes as we examined it and talked about it and I took photos of it. Eventually, the newt put himself into motion… verrryyyy slow motion. He slow-moed his way to the underbrush lining the path and we waved goodbye.
Toby and I continued on our walk, discussing how lucky we were to have seen a new creature. Then he piped up with, “I’ve eaten newts, before, Mom.”
“Um, Toby, where on earth have you ever eaten a newt? I’ve certainly never served you one before,” I replied.
“Oh, we had them all the time at Pooh Corner [his pre-school],”
I paused. I mean, Pooh Corner didn’t serve the healthiest of menus for lunch (Toby has eaten a corn-dog there), but I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around the cook, Tina, serving up some small lizards to the toddlers.
“What are you talking about, Toby? I don’t think you ate newts at Pooh Corner,” I said.
“Yes we did!” he replied. “They were really good. They were wrapped up in a kind of bread. A rectangle of bread wrapped around them. We had them for snack.”
My instant mental picture was of a newt prepared pig-in-a-blanket style, pastry wrapped around its torso with tiny legs peeking out of the edges of the pasty. I was even more baffled.
“Do you mean pigs in a blanket? Like little hot dogs wrapped up in bread?” I asked.
“NO, THEY WERE NEWTS, not hot dogs” he replied, clearly annoyed with me. “But they were kind of black.”
So now my visual is of a charred newt nestled in pastry and served to my child. This was becoming a bit surreal. I was a bit speechless, trying to figure out what sort of normal, non-reptilian food my son could somehow be mistaking for a newt.
Toby expanded his description a bit. “They’re kind of fruity. They taste really good.”
My lightbulb went off. “Toby, did you mean Fig Newtons????”
“YES, Mom,” he said, both exasperated with me and a bit triumphant that I was finally on the same page as he was. “Newts!!!! Fig Newts. They’re so good”
I cannot tell you how relieved I was to discover my son was referring to an iconic cookie rather than to a pastry-wrapped reptile. Then I was almost weak-kneed with laughter. He was a bit puzzled about my amusement. After all, he hadn’t had visions of charred baby lizard wrapped in crescent roll.
This afternoon we made our monthly sojourn to the Mecca of Wegman’s to stock the shelves, and I made sure to pick up some Newts. We each had one for ‘zert tonight after dinner.
It’s really difficult to describe what it was like to send #thetoby off on the bus for his first day of kindergarten. Terrifying. Nerve-wracking. Full of pride.
I know, parents do this every fall. And buses and schools are expert at hosting and directing these tiny lost creatures that are new kindergarteners. But this was MY KID. And that’s a whole other ballgame.
Toby definitely had questions about school. They ranged from the extremely valid (What do I do with my backpack on the bus?) to the totally random (Will they have toilet paper in the bathroom?). He had one total freakout meltdown last week when he ended up dissolved in tears saying he was worried about making new friends and he didn’t want to leave Pooh Corner (his daycare). Totally valid. I actually expected a few more of those as the first day of school approached, but little man kept his cool and was pretty chill about it all.
Toby was super thrilled to be able to bring his lunch to school, and he made very sure I knew he wants “his sandwich” EVERY DAY. “Every day forever, mom.” That sandwich, the one he asks for every weekend? A peanut butter/honey/Swiss cheese/salami combination. I cannot explain the genesis of this creation, but it’s been his go-to sandwich for a while now, to my horror.
Yes, that’s not two sandwiches, it’s one. Salami and peanut butter. Swiss cheese and honey. All four mushed together between multi-grain bread. Toby has been very annoyed that at Pooh Corner they made him eat Mac and cheese for lunch when he just craves salami/cheese/peanut butter/honey every day. Who’da thought? The major bonus of this sandwich is that I can pretty much guarantee no other kid will want to trade Toby for it. That one’s all his.
On the first day of school, he ate a full size (two slices of bread) of “his” sandwich and most of the vegetables I sent, leaving only left a few cucumbers and carrots. “It wasn’t that I wasn’t going to eat them—I ran out of time,” he told me. Typical. He eats like a stoned sloth—tragically hungry but just not moving fast.
We had to go stand in the driveway 25 minutes before the bus was due. He was THAT excited to ride the bus. “They really don’t have seatbelts?” he asked in wonder. When she pulled up, he marched right up the stairs without a bit of hesitation. The driver had to tell him to turn around and wave to us. At this point, my heart felt like hamburger. My little creature was fully prepared to board that bus without a backward glance. I was forcing myself to not follow him right up those stairs and hug him one more time. As they pulled away, I sobbed. It was like I was waving goodbye to my little baby for the last time, since that offspring on the yellow projectile hurtling its way north was now showing definite signs of self-sufficiency.
I just could not imagine my kid navigating his way from the bus to the classroom ALL BY HIMSELF (yeah, yeah, they have adult supervision, but it wasn’t me!). I was worried that he would let shyness take over and not participate. I felt enormously better when one of the teacher’s aides from the school (who had been the infant room head teacher at Toby’s daycare when he was an infant) commented on an Instagram post that she’d seen him in the hall smiling and looking happy. Whew. Nothing like a little spying on your kid.
When the time came for Toby’s bus to return and drop him off, the sound of a diesel engine coming down the road had me sprinting across the front yard. So when John turned in the driveway in his work truck, he had a fleeting moment when he thought I was so glad to see him that I was running to him in joy. I quickly disabused him of that notion and resumed my bus vigil.
But all the worry was for naught—Toby came home and played it super-cool. “Yeah, it was good.”
Well, he wasn’t super cool right away. When that creature came down the bus stairs, the best I can describe the look on his face is shell-shocked. He had a thousand-yard stare. It was obvious he’d been a bit overloaded. Then came the revelation that explained it: “Mom, those people just didn’t let me nap. They didn’t even let us rest a little bit.”
Toby is his father’s son—John requires about 10-12 hours of sleep a day in order to be at all functional, and I fear Toby takes after this quirk more than my “oh look, I got 5 hours last night!” proclivities. So a day of new adventures with zero chance to snooze? Asking a bit much of #thetoby. I’m worried what’s going to happen after a week of no-naps!
When the thousand-yard stare faded, the stories started. The explanation of the sign language they need to use when asking to go to the bathroom or to talk. The stories about the books they read and the “rules” they learned. And on and on. Bottom line is that he had a great time. The bus was definitely the highlight (“It was bouncy!”). But he enjoyed the whole day and is eager to go back. Whew.
I might stop crying when the bus picks him up by the end of the week.
Honestly, I really thought that when I made one of my kid’s dreams come true, he’d point to something other than chocolate chip cookies as “the best part” of it. But that’s the joy of a 4-year-old—it all comes down to the sugar.
Toby has been DYING to fly on a plane for quite a while now. He would see me leave for work trips and ask when he could fly on a plane. I always said, ‘Someday!’ cheerily, which, oddly, wasn’t much consolation for a 4-year-old. So, when an old college friend of mine who lives in Seattle (and so we very rarely see each other) said she was coming to the East Coast with her daughter, I saw the perfect opportunity—spend some time with her and satisfy Toby’s plane craving. Little did I know that what he picked as “highlights” of the experience would totally surprise me!
So I snapped up two tickets on direct flights between Richmond to Boston and planned a whirlwind 48-hour journey. Toby, needless to say, was pretty darn thrilled. #understatement You should have seen him wrangling my wheeled carry-on bag (which probably outweighed him) to the car. He packed 10 books and a few tractors and he was set to go. #havetractorswilltravel
We got to the airport and parked. (He was also kind of blown away at his first parking garage experience. It’s the little things, apparently.) The elevator with the glass wall was also a big hit. We trundled through the airport and on the way to security, Toby stopped in his tracks. “MOM! That’s a racecar! In the building??!!!!” One of NASCAR driver Denny Hamlin’s old cars was parked by the escalators advertising the Richmond NASCAR race. Toby was pretty much blown away. “Take my photo by it, Mom!” Not the tourist attraction I anticipated, but I went with the flow. “That was so cool,” Toby muttered as we continued on. Consider the bar set high.
He was enthralled to see the planes taxiing around. I answered a lot of questions. We boarded and settled into our seats. He behaved like a little pro, dutifully fastening his seatbelt, little legs crossed in front of him when he wasn’t gluing his nose to the window looking out. Considering how screen-free his life is, he was pretty excited to see a personal TV screen right in front of him on the back of the seat.
Then, during the pre-flight announcements, they described the snack options they’d be handing out. “We have a choice between blue chips and chocolate chip cookies,” the flight attendant said, instantly filling my child with delight. He turned to me, eyes wide. “THEY SERVE COOKIES ON PLANES?” he asked with awe. So yes, take-off and the views were fun for him, but when the snack basket came down the aisle, his day was complete. He is his father’s child.
The only thing that might have eclipsed the cookies in his view was when we descended through the clouds, which filled him with joy. But then they served cookies again on the return flight, which did not include clouds. So, cookies won as what he’ll remember from his first flight. It just goes to prove, you can try and predict what makes a preschooler’s day and you will never, ever be right.
So here’s my version of the 48-hour trip, followed by Toby’s version. They vary slightly:
We landed, picked up our rental car, and navigated around downtown Boston to the USS Constitution. After a quick trip through the museum, we went on board and had a grand time checking out the cannons, hammocks and deck.
Chilly but cold! Then we drove to another Mt. Holyoke classmate’s house in a suburb of Boston, Toby met her two daughters, we had a lovely dinner, and I put him to bed.
Day 2, we woke up to Seattle friend and her daughter having arrived in the middle of the night, had breakfast and hit the road to visit Mt. Holyoke. Had a nice time walking around campus, had lunch there, and drove back. In the afternoon, we killed time a bit with a walk to a local playground, then went out to dinner and then it was bedtime again.
Day 3, we got up (thankfully this morning, Toby decided he could actually sleep past 5:30. Until 6:30 this time! In a household where no-one stirs until about 7:30. This is when our early morning routine at home backfires.) and hit a Panera to meet up with another MHC friend and her kids, then dropped Seattle friend and daughter at the train station and carried on to the airport.
Toby’s version:
We saw a NASCAR car inside a building!
The TSA guy told me he liked my haircut.
There were chocolate chip cookies on the plane. Seriously, COOKIES on the plane. Cookies, people.
We saw a big boat. It had lots of cannons. It was cold. They put 450 people on that boat, but all those people are dead now.
Mom’s friend’s kids have really good Lego sets.
The mountain was closed. (Toby was really looking forward to climbing Mt. Holyoke like we did last summer on our trip, but it was closed for the season.)
I got to eat ice cream TWO TIMES in one day. Once at lunch and once at dinner. Two times, people.
Slime is cool. I want some. (Slime/putty was a constant with all the older girls. Toby was intrigued, especially with the noise putty that farted. #boyalltheway)
I did the monkey bars!
I slid on my butt down the skateboard ramp. It was cool!
Mom’s friend gave me a super-cool book and a monster school bus toy! (Big hits, both.)
We got a flat tire on the way to the airport.
We flew home and there were cookies on the plane again and I watched a fishing show on the TV.
Seriously though, we had a fantastic time. Toby adored hanging out with my friends’ girls, who were 9, 10 and 11. He was, in a word, smitten. I will never forget the second morning, when they were reading books at the breakfast table and he went to get his Level 1 reading book about an egg and proceeded to very proudly read it aloud to the very unimpressed girls. He was trying so hard to impress them. Welcome to the world, kid. He also might need to hone his conversation skills, as apparently he thinks asking “What’s your name?” over and over again is scintillating dialogue. Again, definitely his father’s child.
So, #thetoby’s first flight is in the books. And I know now that if we book any more tickets, I’d better have some chocolate chip cookies handy to keep up the standards.
Nota bene: You can’t fool a 4-year-old. Don’t even try.
A few weeks ago, we attended Toby’s cousin’s first birthday party. Toby’s grandmother tried to give him a gift bag, but John and I are pretty firm in our belief that he needs to learn that there are times he doesn’t get gifts and it’s all about someone else for a day. So John intercepted the green bag full of goodies, but not before Toby had for literally 10 seconds seen what the 1-year-old’s sister’s identical bag contained. Toby made no protest when the green bag was whisked away.
That green bag found its way into our car somehow when we went to leave the party, so when we got home I stashed it on a chair in our dining room and it sat there for weeks, in full view. I forgot about it. Someone else didn’t.
Much to his credit, Toby never asked about that bag or its contents. He just lived his life in peaceful co-existence with it.
Then Easter rolled around. My husband is, shall we say, “thrifty.” He decided to cannibalize the green bag’s content to use as Easter basket goods for Toby. It contained a cute little toy pet carrier with a dog and cat in it and a Koosh ball. So he just plopped them down among the fishing supplies and jelly beans.
Toby was overjoyed with his Easter loot. He loved the fish hooks and powerbait. He adored the longhorn cow figurine to join his barnyard collection. And when he came across the toy pet carrier complete with tiny dog and cat, he exclaimed, “Oh good, this is just like the one in that green bag! Now I’ll have two!!!!”
Ba dum bum. Busted.
So now he keeps asking to have the damn matching toy from the green bag. I’ve successfully distracted him so far, but I don’t hold out hope that he’s ever going to give up on it. After all, this is a kid who tonight, on the way home from swimming lessons, just casually said to me, “Mom, do you remember that time I was done with swimming lessons and you and Dad were there but when I came out the door you weren’t there and it made me cry?” (We were talking and missed that his class was exiting the pool area. It took us approximately 10 seconds to get to the door.) AND THAT WAS TWO YEARS AGO. This is the only time I’ve heard of him remembering it. That nugget of guilt-induction has just been lingering in that brain.
So I imagine that at some point I’m going to have to come clean about the Easter re-gifting. Because he is Not. Going. To. Forget. Never try and outwit one of these mini-humans.
Either that, or he actually knows what we did and is just next-level evilly trolling us. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him. Just yesterday he said very quietly, “Where IS that green bag?”
I’ve decided that a 4-year-old’s brain is the very definition of Random Access Memory. Seriously, EVERYTHING is stored up there and it comes back to the surface at the oddest times.
Tonight Toby came with me when we took Turtle to the vet (she’s fine, just getting treated for Lyme). I couldn’t get an appointment on short notice, so we attended the vet office’s “walk-in” hours in the evening (translation, total mayhem. There were puppies, over-enthusiastic Aussies, a parrot, a rabbit, and a yowling cat in the waiting room, which was standing room only).
Because of the chaos, the tech brought us back to the treatment room, which they were using as an overflow exam room. There were multiple vet techs re-stocking the drawers and medicating the dogs staying the night and a couple of other dogs and their people in there. The table next to us held an adorable puppy with a first-time dog owner family complete with mom, dad and two young kids. Toby listened in as the vet gave them the usual spiel, which included information about worming. He was intent and very interested.
By any chance did you happen to see that AWFUL video that circulated last fall with a vet squeezing maggots out of a dog’s skin? (Warning, link to GRAPHIC video if you missed it and have an iron stomach.)
Well, it’s one of my worst-Mom-ever moments, but Toby watched that maggot video over my shoulder last fall when I first saw it. I didn’t know quite what I was in for until it was fully underway and by then it was too late to avert his eyes. He asked some questions when the video was over, but in general it seemed to have far less impact on him than on me.
I should have known he stashed follow-up questions in the recesses of his brain to summon forth in a blaze of embarrassment when I least expected it.
Yep, the innocent heartworm lecture the vet gave the neighboring puppy family triggered Toby’s maggot memories. And so began the very loud questions, overheard by all. I’ll add that by this time, the vet looking at Turtle was with us, a plus one for the humiliation.
“Mom, do you remember that video of the worms in the dog’s skin we watched?”
The puppy mom shot me a look.
“What were those worms called? Were they heartworms?”
“No, they were maggots.” Ninety percent of the room shot me a look.
“Mom, there were a LOT of maggots. Like infinity maggots. And she just squeezed the dog’s skin and they popped out.”
“I know that video!” piped up Turtle’s vet. “Is it the one I’m thinking of? You let him watch that???” she said.
“It was inadvertent, I mumbled. “Really, he doesn’t even get to watch TV.”
She nodded with a weird look on her face. “Sure, no Thomas the train, but maggot-extraction is just dandy” was what the look screamed.
“Mom, were the maggots ALIVE?”
“Mom, how did the maggots get there?”
“Mom, what IS a maggot?”
“Did that dog’s skin heal? Did it need a band-aid?”
“Did it hurt the dog? What does having maggots in your skin feel like?”
“Mom, what do the maggots eat?”
At this point, puppy mom had desperately covered her children’s ears and was mentally stabbing me. The vet was doubled over laughing, and she actually took over educating my child about maggots, letting him know they eat flesh (I’m sure I’ll deal with that fallout in the grocery line or something) and they grow from larvae kind of like butterflies (and he’ll never draw a butterfly again).
The lesson here? NEVER assume your kid has forgotten anything. And just accept the fact that they’ll dredge up the most probing questions about the most humiliating topic at the most inopportune time.
I can’t wait until he has questions about reproduction.
Every now and then, there comes a certain point in parenting when you realize you’ve been totally had. It usually happens when you’re feeling pretty good about this whole parenting thing. Like, you nailed a pep talk or helped him work on a new skill. You pat yourself on the back, proud of your savvy and being ahead of the game.
Then there’s a moment when you realize that you’ve simply briefly forgotten that it’s actually the sub-four-footer in the house who’s driving this bus. And half the time he’s so sly that you can almost feel the driving wheel in your own hands before he reminds you that driver seat’s not yours.
Toby’s been pretty good about getting dressed by himself lately. I can leave him in his room unsupervised with his dresser and he eventually comes out adorned in relatively sane choices most of the time. Granted, his choices are pretty limited, but he’s got a pretty good handle on the basics of covering the necessary areas with fabric.
The one thing he seems to always need help with is the snap of his jeans. He waddles up to me with his belly stuck out and asks, “Will you snap it, please?” (Did you really believe that? HA. He usually just grunts and points to his midriff area. He’s all man, this one.)
It’s logical. He has small hands and it’s an odd angle to get leverage. I can see why he might not be able to get the snap totally closed.
And since his brief flirtation with using his fly for potty breaks has been postponed until a later date, he has to pull his pants down and ergo unsnap the snap every time. (He was all gung-ho to use his fly to pee, and he was relatively proficient at it, but apparently he started a revolution at school and it looked cool and every little boy wanted to use their fly and there were varying levels of proficiency…. let’s just say that I was taken aside and asked to delay the fly-usage level of development. Sorry ladies.)
The other night after he’d gone potty and washed his hands before dinner, he came downstairs unsnapped and completed the routine. I duly leaned down and snapped his jeans button, then asked with genuine curiosity, “Who does up your button after you pee at school?”
His reply? “Oh, I do it myself,” in a breezy, offhand tone as he waltzed away.
Ba dump bump. Illusion of any upper hand just went poof.
My only consolation? For a few days, until he figures out some new trick, I’ll feel smugly superior when I tell him he blew his cover and he needs to snap himself up. I’ll enjoy it, for as long as it lasts.
“You’re sure you want to go in there? There’s lots of spooky stuff in there,” I queried a bulldozer-clad Toby as I hauled him down the main street of Middleburg in his wagon on Halloween eve. (Dad makes a pretty awesome costume, but the materials tend to weigh down a 4-year-old.)
It was pitch dark. He was already a solid hour past bed-time and oddly brave with rivers of sugar coursing through his veins. “I definitely want to go,” said Toby with steel in his voice. We were trick-or-treating in a group with a few older children, who had scampered down the driveway of the house with the amazingly elaborate haunted house set-up in the front yard. I was unsure that Toby could handle the smoke, surprises and costumed people popping out from behind bushes. But his will must be obeyed, and being the “OKest mom” that I am, I wheeled him up the driveway.
Halfway up the driveway, we were side-swiped by a tall man in a mask revving a chainsaw and wielding it in the general direction of people. Toby blanched a bit, but said he wanted to continue. We rounded the turn to the front yard and made a little loop around the attractions—a smoky graveyard, a wolf-headed creature with red eyes, things hanging from tree branches. It was genuinely spooky for me. Toby’s eyes were about to pop out of his head.
“Do you want to go up to the porch and get some candy?” I asked him. “Nope,” he replied, shrinking down into his bulldozer a bit.
Then the kid dressed as a ghoul popped out from behind a bush and screamed unintelligible things right into Toby’s face. My bulldozer turned sheet-white.
“Mom, I want to be ANYWHERE BUT HERE,” he said to me quite firmly.
“Yes sir,” I replied and hot-footed him and his wagon-propelled bulldozer costume out to the driveway. We turned the corner… and were met by the chainsaw again. “MOM, THAT’S NOT SAFE. THAT’S NOT HOW YOU USE A CHAINSAW!!!” Toby told me. 10-4 buddy. We zoomed past the chainsaw-twirling demon.
At the end of the driveway, Toby considered us safe. He started breathing again. He told me he wanted to wait for the older kids. We were out of the “in-your-face” scaring zone, so I parked him and we waited a bit.
Then the guy dressed in rags started scraping a shovel up and down the asphalt driveway, kicking up sparks and making an alarming grating sound. I began wondering if I should have put Toby in pull-ups, because I think he might have pooped his pants.
“WHAT IS HE DOING, MOM??!!!!???”
I explained that he was just making noise to spook people, and Toby decided that was it, we needed to find a new neighborhood to pilfer candy from. We hightailed it back down the blocks to his grandparents’ house, where he had a glass of milk with Grandad, ate some cookies, and told them ALL about his night. If Grandma questioned my parenting skills before, that pales in comparison to what she must think after her dear grandbaby told her I’d wheeled him by a chain-saw wielding maniac.
Then came the car ride home. And the QUESTIONS.
“Why was that guy not using that chainsaw the right way?” “Why wasn’t he holding it safely?” “Was he going to cut people up?” “Why were there so many spiderwebs everywhere?” “Dad needs to teach him how to hold a chainsaw.” “And why was that guy scraping a rake on the driveway?” “Do you think there are going to be marks on the driveway from that?” “Do you think the people in the house are going to be mad when they see the marks in the morning?” “Why did it make little fires when he did that?”
Then the kicker, “Mom, why did we not get candy from that house?” I explained to him that he’d declined the offer to hit up the scary house for copious amounts of sugar, but he insisted I’d misheard him. “I was scared, but I wanted candy. I don’t know why you didn’t let me get candy there.” The scorn in his voice, dear readers. This from a child with about 5 pounds of candy on the seat next to me on the way home for his father to eat.
He has now asked me about 20 more times why I didn’t let him get candy from that house. I’m sure he’ll ask me 20 more times. Hey, I guess it’s better than “Why did you take me into a ridiculously inappropriate situation for a 4-year-old?” I’ll take a little candy grumpy. Twenty years from now, he can tell his therapist about the chainsaw.
It was a question piped up from the back seat as our car rolled into the first hotel parking lot of our trip. Considering that the atmosphere in the car was pretty thick with tension given that this was the 18th hotel we’d called looking for a room, it inspired a welcome giggle in both John and I—one that immediately flushed the ‘I told you so’ mood out the window.
You see, I might be parenting the only person who’s learned the phrase “yadda yadda” from an obscure ’70s song instead of from an episode of Seinfeld.
“We’re going to keep our kid screen-free,” was John’s and my battle cry while we were awaiting Toby’s arrival and reading parenting blogs and imagining what amazing parents we’d be. Anyone who’s been down that road knows that most of those battle cries are immediately drowned out by the reality of placating a tot-sized tyrant. But by some weird twist of fate, we have succeeded that that one goal—after he turned 4, Toby has begun to watch 30 minutes of YouTube videos on Sunday afternoons when he’s had a good weekend (John found a 1980-ish series called Mighty Machines that has them both transfixed), but otherwise his only contact with electronics is FaceTiming with relatives.
But then we planned a week-long vacation, driving to Lake Placid, N.Y., via the scenic route and back again. That’s HOURS in the car with a 4-year-old. There is only so much coloring a kid can do and 20 questions a family can play. Something had to give in the electronic sphere.
Enter my father’s iPod. It’s pretty ancient, and very definitely outdated technology, but he was willing to give it up ever since I gifted him with an old iPhone to use as a kitchen timer and music archive (seriously, those are my father’s only uses for a cell phone.). Toby inherited the iPod, complete with my father’s extremely eclectic playlist loaded on it. Think Beatles and Zac Brown Band and Allison Krauss and Joe Cocker. Heavy on the folksy, even heavier on the obscure. I Amazoned up a pair of headphones for the munchkin and bam, he was entertained for hours. Well, more like 30 minutes, given the battery life of the ancient iPod.
After Day 1 of iPod exploration, Toby had a few questions. The most pressing was the meaning of “yadda yadda,” since he’d discovered Dory Previn’s lyrical vocal stylings in Dad’s playlist.
Not familiar with “Yadda Yadda” the song? (Shocker!)
This is one of my dad’s favorites, and a true stalwart of my childhood. The words to Yadda Yadda and Dory’s other “hit,” “Twenty Mile Zone” (I’ll let you Google that one yourselves) are etched forever in my mind, having been listened to and sung so many times in my youth. You know, just like “Rocky Raccoon” by the Beatles. I was not exaggerating when I described Dad’s music tastes as “eclectic.”
The song became even more of our family lore when my cousin, a budding filmmaker and visiting one summer, overlaid the “yadda yadda” chorus over footage of my father and his two brothers having one of their epic existential arguments about how to solve the world’s problems.
So, the fact that out of the hundred or so songs on that iPod, Toby zeroed in on that one was quite hilarious and also kind of heart-warming. Thank God, because I needed something to distract us from the travesty of a hotel we were about to spend the night in.
In daily life, I’m a planner. I like to know what I’m doing each minute of the day, and I get twitchy when things go off schedule. Apparently, once I go on vacation, that tendency goes out the window. We hit the road on Saturday morning for New York, planning to see some sights along the way—our only existing hotel reservation was in Lake Placid on Monday night. The shit started to hit the fan when John asked what our route was the night before we left. “North,” I told him. I’ll leave the rest of the conversation to your imagination.
So we headed north the next morning, and made our first stop in Gettysburg. Gorgeous, thought-provoking, and very difficult to explain to a 4-year-old. As we pulled out of Gettysburg, John expressed an interest in seeing the “Delaware Water Gap,” whatever that is. (I still don’t know, for reasons that will be obvious later.) He said, “Have you found us a hotel along the way yet? It’s Saturday night, so rooms off the interstate might be hard to find,” he added.
Pshaw, I thought. I’m a die-hard traveler. Making reservations hours ahead of time is for pansies. We’ll just get to where we want to stop for the night (just south of the whatever water gap) and find a room. Easy peasy.
So, as we approached that water gap area (which was eminently more remote and in-the-middle-of-nowhere than I anticipated), I fired up my Hotels.com app. I searched for a room for 2 adults, and…. just one came up. At a “Pocono Palace Resort.” Intriguing, I thought. It looked swanky, and relatively affordable. There was a hot tub in each room, but only king beds available. I didn’t see any sign of a cot available or pull-out couch. We had to stash Toby somewhere. I re-started my search, adding a child to my criteria.
Poof, the available room disappeared. Color me even more intrigued. I went directly to the hotel’s website. It was there that I saw the writing on the wall. “Romantic rooms, champagne glass whirlpool hot-tubs, COUPLES ONLY.” Ding! Went my brain. I’d come a few clicks from booking our first night of family vacation in a seedy shag-spot.
We got a good laugh out of it then, and an even bigger one when we actually passed the Pocono Palace sign from the highway and the tagline was “Get your summer lovin’ here!!”
In retrospect, sleeping three to a king-size vibrating bed and bathing in a champagne glass hot tub may have been preferable to what actually went down.
The only available room via Hotels.com OTHER than the Pocono Palace was ABOVE the Delaware Water Gap, which meant that we drove through this apparently remarkable tourist destination in the pitch dark. “Looks pretty!” I chirped to my very grumpy husband as the headlights occasionally highlighted a scenic spot. It was about 2 hours past Toby’s bedtime (honestly, and John’s) by this point. We were having a ton of fun.
We emerged from whatever the Delaware Water Gap is (It just looked like a road through a forest next to a river to me, but I promise we’ll go back in the daylight sometime John.) and Google told me how to get to our hotel room. The hotel had, let’s just put it this way, seen better days. Anyone who knows me knows how skeeved out I am by a clean, new hotel room. This. was. not. that.
But we were all beyond tired. So, after Toby exclaimed, “This room is stanky!” we all settled in and I averted my eyes from the water stains on the ceiling and I didn’t touch the floor and I covered the remote with the ice bag even though we didn’t touch the TV and I inserted myself into the bed by sheer force of OCD-quelling will.
We woke the next morning all in distinctly better moods, I swore to reform my hotel-booking ways, Toby fired up “Yadda Yadda” on the iPod, and away we went.
The other day, Toby walked up to me and handed me his much beloved tin full of change. “It’s all my money. It’s for you to buy a horse,” he told me in that incredibly endearing pre-schooler lisping voice.
Is it possible for your heart to both clunk to the bottom of your chest and soar at the same time? Mine did both, simultaneously.
I am somehow raising a child who has a huge, giving heart. He told us the other day that a friend of his at school doesn’t have a flag shirt, and since he has two, he wants to give one to this other kid. He also wanted to give another friend a boogie board, because “he doesn’t have one and I love mine.”
I know this is also indicative of his age and phase, but it’s damn cute and enchanting and I’m going to enjoy it until he realizes he’s an only child and all the things are his and only his.
There are signs that a sly yang does exist to balance out the sweet and generous ying. After all, I know that kid has a stash of dollar bills, including some 20s and 10s, and those haven’t been offered up for equine procurement yet. He may be sweet, but he ain’t dumb.
So yes, my heart exploded with pride and joy at the spontaneous generosity and thoughtfulness displayed by this mystical creature I somehow spawned. And I’m writing this partly so I have something to read when he’s 13 and incorrigible—something to remind me that he once daily broke my heart with joy.
But if I’m brutally honest, that single moment also flipped some kind of switch in me.
For the past six or so months, I’ve been closing in on myself a bit. I feel lost without a horse, a bit wandery without a glossy hide to groom, a personality to unravel. Like my touchstone that kept me “me” has been stashed away and hidden somewhere.
There’s been a lot going—family worries, work stress. I don’t have a “tribe” of friends to turn to in those times. The people I’m closest to are kind of virtual friends—too far away to have much actual real contact with on a regular basis. I’ve been gone from Middleburg for long enough that my go-tos there have faded a bit. And I’ve been useless at developing new friendships that go beyond the “acquaintance” level in the recent years. (I’ve read enough Scary Mommy confessional posts to know I’m definitely not along in my feelings of isolation as an introvert mom!). Bottom line, I don’t really have anybody non-family or non-work checking in and making sure I’m OK or to whom I can vent. Which is 100 percent my fault, but it’s still tough.
So, I’ve turned inward. I’ve soothed with food. I’ve sat in front of my computer and seethed about politics and the state of the world. I haven’t been able to count on a long walk out into a field to catch a horse, or a quiet grooming session, or a nice long hack to clear my mind as I always did before. I haven’t had my happy place.
The result is that I’ve become quite… “fluffy” shall we say… and not as happy a person as I should be. I don’t look in mirrors. I retreat within myself at every opportunity. I said I wanted to get a horse again, but I wasn’t saving money or getting myself fit in order to achieve that. It was like I was self-sabotaging my own goals. I’d lost my “mojo” as they’d say.
But I’m determined to get it back. When Toby handed me that tin full of change, it made me realize that he deserves a mom with mojo. He’s willing to give me at least his spare change, if not his cold hard cash, to help me achieve a goal he’s heard me discuss. And up to that point, I hadn’t invested even the spare change out of my pocket—virtual or literal—in the effort.
So, I’m on a hunt for my mojo. I’ve finally found an exercise class that motivates and energizes me. I’ve given up (some, I’m not perfect!) bad habits. I’ve started saving money.
I don’t know if this will actually result of a purchase of an equine in the near future. That’s my hope, but there are a lot of hurdles to jump on the way there. If I do, I’m going to find a way to use Toby’s $3.76 (rough estimate) to seal the deal.
And if I don’t figure that one out, that’s not the end of the world. I’ve started the process of finding a new happy place—one that’s not at the end of a leadshank, but inside myself. That mojo of mine is out there somewhere, and I’ll find it.
The best part is that I have this little creature to keep reminding me what’s important. The other night I went to exercise class and when Toby asked John where I went, John said, “To get rid of some of the junk in her trunk.”
The next morning, on the way to daycare, Toby asked me out of the blue, “Did you get your car clean last night? It doesn’t look any different.” It took me a solid five minutes of asking questions to puzzle out where that question came from. But even though he really, really doesn’t understand the metaphor yet, I think he’s kind of happy the junk’s on the way out.
You might wonder how I found myself googling “Does George Strait have bulls?” when I got home from the grocery store tonight. I myself found myself wondering that. Not as much as I wondering why I googled if John Denver had a cat (spoiler alert, google doesn’t know), but close.
But when you have a 4-year-old intent on understanding the world in your back seat, and you’re a captive audience pinned to the driver’s seat, some mighty interesting questions get hurled your way.
Toby and I spend a lot of time in the car together—usually at least 40 minutes a day, sometimes more. For some of those trips, he’s quiet and we share the occasional observation about the world. For many more of them, it turns into a game of 200 questions that borders on the ridiculous. Today, my friends, was one of those days in spades. Let’s walk you through the progression that led me to googling George Strait’s livestock preferences (and by the way, he does own a ranch, and he does compete in team penning, so my post-google answer for Toby was, “Yes, George Strait has bulls.”
After we got in the car after an epic grocery shop expedition, the radio was tuned to a country station (or, as Toby refers to the genre, “cowboy songs.”). Carrie Underwood was crooning away, and Toby asked, “Is this a cowboy song?” When I said yes, he yelped, “But she’s a cow GIRL. Do cowgirls sing songs?” Yes.
“Does the cowgirl have cows?” Probably
“Does she have bulls?” Possibly
“Do her bulls have antlers?” I would imagine so, and they’re called horns when they’re on cows.
“Do cows and bulls have horns?” Yes
“Are cows different than bulls?” Yes, cows are girl cows and bulls are boy cows.
“I. DID. NOT. KNOW. THAT.” (Accompanied by evocative arm gestures. His mind was blown.)
“Why did Keith’s [our neighbor’s] bull not have horns?” Some people cut off the horns
“THEY CUT OFF THE HORNS? HOW???” It’s like cutting your fingernails
“Does she have horses? Does she use her horses to rope her bulls” Yes, perhaps, and I don’t know. Maybe!
“What was the name of that cowboy singer who died before Spork died?” (*Somehow for Toby, our cat Spork’s passing and John Denver are inextricably linked as the only two deaths he seems cognizant of.) John Denver is his name
“Did John Denver have a cat?” It’s possible, but that’s something I’d have to look up.
“Was his cat with him when he crashed his plane?” Probably not.
“Where did his plane crash?” California
“No, where. Into a mountain?” No, into the water. (I have done a tad more research into John Denver’s life and death than I ever imagined I’d do, given Toby’s deep love for the topic.)
“You can’t die from crashing into the water. A shark must have eaten him.” OK
“Did John Denver have horses?” I believe so
“Did he have bulls?” Possibly
“Who’s the guy who sings about the cowboy riding away?” That’s George Strait
“Does HE have bulls?” That I do not know, but it’s possible.
“Mom, WHY you not know that?” (I believe this question was rhetorical and a thinly veiled criticism of my breadth of knowledge. How quickly he forgets the cow/bull revelation.)
That, dear readers, covers approximately 3 minutes of our 40-minute car ride/interrogation today. Other topics ranged from whether “Band” is Zac Brown’s last name and if the Zac Brown knows that Toby really, really likes the Chicken song, to how when HE gets a bull, it’s going to buck so fast I won’t be able to take a picture of it.
Yes, there are times my brain hurts from the rapid-fire stream of consciousness questioning. It can be frustrating, but I know he’s just shaping his understanding of the world. And every now and then he asks a question that makes me take a whole new look at how I see things. All it takes is 4-year-old eyes questioning how the world works to really lay bare a bit of hypocrisy or ridiculousness.
And while I really don’t think knowing if George Strait has bulls on his ranch is essential to Toby’s development, I never want him to stop asking questions. So I will answer the best I can and thank the lord there’s google so every now and then I can knock his socks off with a good answer.
Life, love and ridiculousness with Captain, Toby, Turtle, Biscuit and Spork
The Toby 