OINKtales

This morning, I went to the Echo Center with my oldest son, Liam, and 18 of his third-grade classmates to learn about “Ecology, Culture, History and Opportunity” in the Champlain Basin.

We rode in a school bus, which was louder than I remember it being.  Much louder.  But it was worth it—if only to observe the following exchange:

“What are these pictures examples of?” asked the Echo Center instructor brightly.

Blank stares. Scuffling feet.  I glanced over at Liam to find him surreptitiously trying to retrieve a plastic ax from under his seat (it was a prop).  Realizing that she had stumped the crowd, the instructor started the word for the kids, drawing the syllable out in a sing-song, “It’s PUH….”

You could almost see the light bulbs popping over their heads.  “POLLUTION!” they screamed.

“Uh, no,” she said, looking startled, then deflated.  “I…was looking for…POPULATION.”

Same difference, really.

All I wanted was an hour of quiet time. And my children (even though they were both clearly exhausted) flat-out refused to nap. It’s moments like this that I wonder: Do they really belong to me?

Sleeping is one of my special gifts. I can sleep anywhere, anytime. I have fallen asleep in airplanes, in restaurants, under the piano of a large hotel, in bowling alleys, on top of a freezer. It is only rarely that I have difficulty sleeping. This is one of those times.

Since the beginning of my last week at Work, I cannot sleep. I cannot fall asleep and I cannot stay asleep. The caffeine that I am addicted to may be a contributing factor but let’s take a closer look: My fingertips are raw. Literally. They are a mass of tiny open wounds, all but one self-inflicted. I am a nail-biter and when I am anxious, I am a skin picker. I systematically destroy the skin surrounding my nails until it is an oozy, bleeding mess. It’s disgusting and I know it. Usually I can limit myself to just one or two fingers—typically my thumbs. Right now, all my fingers are in play.

Yes, I’m aware of how lucky I am to have this opportunity to be with my kids. I get it and I am thankful. This should have been an easy decision. And yet, it was, and is, difficult for me to make this choice. It IS the right choice for me as well as for my family. I truly believe this. It’s just that in some small way, I can’t help but feel as though I’m quitting on a part of myself.  It’s hard being a mom.  It’s hard to make a career.  Reconciling the two halves of the whole might be the hardest of all.

Boys are different from girls. This is a truth I have only really understood since having kids. Anyone who tells you otherwise has not had enough on-the-ground field experience. Boys and girls are just wired differently.

With that in mind: I had to give Henry a little anatomy lesson this morning (he is my youngest at age three). I found him perusing his eight-year-old brother’s Justice League book, which Liam had purposefully kept away from him. Henry was intently studying one page, so naturally, I went over to see what he was looking at. It was a picture of who I presumed was Wonder Woman’s nemesis — a scantily clad woman with an extraordinary bosom.

“What are you looking at, Henry?”

Henry removed his thumb from his mouth, nodded at the picture and said, “Sheeth got big hipth.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes. “Can you show me where her hips are?”

He pointed at her exploding pectoral area and said, “Right there!”

“Those are her breasts, Henry. Her hips are here, just like your hips are here,” and I grabbed him by the hips and turned him away from the picture to face me. I smiled winningly at him. He immediately squirmed away to look at the book again.

“Well, Mommy, then sheeth got big breathts.”

I sighed. So much for distraction. “Yes, Henry, she does. And I think that’s enough Justice League for today.”

A boob man at age three.