Coming of age

Yesterday, 3B asked Mama, "When I'm five, will I still be me?"

If he didn't know before that he was the son of a philosophy major, he does now.

He followed that up with a discussion of death, asking Mama if she would die and later asking if he would die.

She answered in as matter-of-fact of a tone as she could muster while silently contemplating the horrible thoughts the conversation was rendering before her mind's eye that yes, they would both eventually die.

As she girded herself for the upcoming discussion of mortality, 3B turned to his stuffed animals and announced, "Mickey's in the circus! C'mon, Mommy!"

Mama told me all this as we had dinner with our friend, Aunt A, and discussed the weather, which is apparently about to turn frightful. As a bike commuter, I have a keen interest in meteorological happenings in my neighborhood, so after everyone had either gone home or to bed, I set about finding my warmer layers for tomorrow morning's ride.

It was something I had to do anyway, having discovered on Monday that the temperature at which my current layers cease to insulate me sufficiently is 30 degrees Fahrenheit. My heavier pants--fine, call them tights if you must--were easy to find in my winter bike wear drawer. My additional thermal layer and heavier coat are similarly easy to find in their places in the closet. However, my warmer gloves were more elusive.

Were they in the hat and glove basket in the closet by the front door? Which hat and glove basket in the closet by the front door? Perhaps in my personal items basket in the closet by the front door? Hm. No, the only gloves in there were my standard dog walking gloves, not used since last winter.

Which got me to thinking that I didn't commute by bike last winter, and those gloves are too heavy to wear to work on the bus or Metro. I would have only worn those gloves when we visited the farm and when it got cold enough here--and in both places only for walking Barky, which required being outside for long periods of time.

I opened the second hall closet, the one closer to the bathroom, and there, in the pockets of my down coat, were my warm gloves, faithfully waiting for me to return to them. They had stayed there since my last winter dog walk, when none of us knew how soon I would lose track of them, and none of us knew that before he turned nine, Barky would no longer be, and none of us believed that just because everyone dies sometime, that this year one among us would die before his time.

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Leading with his axe

As a parent of two, one of whom is only three months old, I'm usually too busy or tired to write about how it is to live this life.

Fortunately, my family picks up the slack.

My brother just posted this nice video of 3B leading a bluegrass jam session through Puff the Magic Dragon. 3B did much the same at a birthday party this weekend where he found an unused guitar behind a buffet (seriously...I'm too tired to make up a detail like that), picked it up, started picking it (yes, I travel with a pick, just in case), and soon had a rapt audience of three-year olds and their parents as he ripped through the greatest hits of Rocknoceros.

The parents asked me if he was taking lessons.

When I worked in theater, I frequently reminded my boss that he couldn't pay me enough for some of the work I did--particularly the parts after midnight and between 60 and 80 hours per week. It was my way of reminding him, and me, that I was there not only for the money, but also because I liked the job.

So, no, 3B doesn't take lessons...from an instructor other than himself. Nobody is a better or more unforgiving or more demanding instructor than desire. 3B's lessons consist of listening endlessly to his favorite tunes and to any new music he can find and playing along whenever he can--much as my friends in high school and college learned every note of hundreds of songs.

But sometimes, it does help to have someone adjust your guitar strap and show you a few licks. Fortunately, we found the right spot for that, because, as my brother wrote:

It's not everywhere a three-year-old can go and get an eight-piece band to play a tune just for him, but my nephew has just the right mix of charm and genuine interest.

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Why we don't watch more TV

I admit that while I've been working through the evening, one of my greatest frustrations has been the storm outside--it's been so dense at times that it's prevented our dish from getting its signal from the satellite, meaning that I missed almost the entire Project Runway season finale runway show.

I know, I know, the pain I suffer, right?

It would be worse for me if I hadn't already gotten my fill of entertainment tonight from 3B, who not only painted me beautiful pictures today, but amused us all with stories and songs throughout the night.

And now "all" includes his sister, Jewel. Today, she was listening to and smiling at his antics for the first time. He responded by asking her to tell him a story. He and Mama stared at Jewel for a little while until she randomly cooed or grunted, and then 3B said to his sister, "And then what happened?"

She reciprocated by following him around the room with her eyes and lighting up any time he spoke or played a song. The interactions between them are the cutest communication I've ever seen. And so, really, when the satellite signal goes out, I'm not at all upset.

I can still see, in my mind's eye, my family talking, dancing, singing and laughing together. That's all the entertainment I need.

But, just in case you need something more, I give you excerpts from this evening's concert:

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Ansel Adams morality

This morning, Mama was driving 3B to school when she heard him gasp from the back seat.

"Mommy, I just saw a woman lighting a cigarette."

"Oh, really?"

"That's not good."

"No, that's not. It's bad for her body and it's bad for the air. It makes the air dirty."

"Why did she do that?"

"Well, we all make mistakes sometimes."

(pause)

"So she's a sanner."

(pause)

"A what?"

"A sanner."

(pause)

"Oh, you mean a sinner. Well, no, she's not a sinner, she just made a mistake."

This is probably funnier for those of you who know how churched up we are at the Bradstein Household, which is not at all.

3B has absorbed his morality from the best of sources: folk music. Specifically his love affair with Alison Krauss and her version of Down in the Valley to Pray with Ricky Skaggs and Doc Watson, who both pronounce "sinner" as "sanner."

Several months back, when the video was on high rotation in our house, 3B asked all kinds of questions about it, including What's a sinner?

We explained that a sinner was someone who made a mistake. We also added that sinners apologize for their mistakes. That may not be entirely correct, but it helped us convince a certain child that apologies are the norm.

Apparently, these messages stick with him. Not only is he good about apologizing, but it's been months since we watched that video, and he still connected "mistake" with "sinner."

Now all we need to do is introduce him to a morality with shades of gray.

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Bad parents, no biscuit?

Email from Mama

No gold stars for us:

1. There was school on Wednesday.
2. Today was pajama day.

Crap. Oh well.

Love

me

My reply

Two gold stars for us:

1. He got to go to a sold out Rocknoceros show.
2. He was the only kid not freezing his tuchus off at school today.

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