runrunleap.com

Want to have some fun?  (Or earn yourself a few moments of silence in a frantic day?)  Tell your resident three-year-old who is demanding to see a school bus to “keep your eyes peeled.”

(Freeze.  Especially the eyes.)

(Pause.)

(Palpable electric current in the air as synapses fire while he searches his vocabulary and not-so-vast life experience trying to make sense of what he just heard.)

I wasn’t trying to be mean; I just tossed off the expression without thinking about how DB, living in the strictly literal world of Late Toddlerville, would attempt to interpret it.  I took pity on him and was starting to explain, when he quavered, “I’m keeping my eyes field” (or possibly “feeled” – I really have no idea).

In case you are now wondering (as I was) where this expression comes from, it’s not as colorful an origin as you might think.  It came into usage in print in the U.S. around 1850 and basically just means “keep your eyelids open.”  Well, duh.

Phew.  Something to write about that doesn’t involve You Know What.

I am going to give myself such a dope-slap when I realize I’ve actually published this post with that title.  As I said earlier, I’m an agonizer.  (“It’s cute!” “No, it’s offensive!” “No, it’s just lame!” “But you only have six readers!”  “Yes, but if I offend my mother and her friends, who else will read the blog?” Etc.)  But here’s the deal:  DB is in the process of learning important skills that will – if he is fortunate – serve him well for many years to come.  And in order to respect his privacy in this arena, I shall not be describing our adventures for all the world to read.  But since this topic is consuming much of our collective time and energy these days, we are on hiatus (not that you will notice, given our rather spotty publishing schedule).

Hello.  My name is Katherine.  And I’m an agonizer. 

Fortunately I have learned over time not to fret about EVERYthing; I no longer second-guess myself endlessly over, say, what I should have on my burger at Five Guys.  I still, however, spend a ridiculous amount of energy stewing over what I should be doing with my life.  At age 39 (close enough), I continue to ponder what I’m going to be when I grow up.  Assuming that “growing up” will happen someday.  If one of the marks of a mature person is that she does not run or leap through the halls of her workplace – which is neither hospital nor nuclear facility (which might justify the running) nor ballet school – then I’m not there yet. 

Oughtn’t I to be out saving the world, or saving the planet, or doing some marvelous thing to make my community a better place?  I know people who are engaged in these ministries, and they impress the heck out of me.  How do they do it, I wonder.  Where do they find the time and energy?  Aha, I finally realize:  they don’t have children.  The Dear Boy is not a high-maintenance kid, but he still requires (and deserves) most of my available resources.

Happily, I seem to have gotten a very nice Christmas present this year.  Maybe it’s that I got rested up over the holidays and therefore have a better attitude in general; maybe it’s the grace of God.  I’m starting to feel content with just being Mom, and it is a welcome change.  I may not be saving the world, but I am doing something constructive if I spend my time and energy raising my son to be a responsible citizen.  During this season of my life, while DB is small and I have a lot of influence on him, it might be okay to let it be my main purpose in life to take care of him.  When he goes off to college I’ll have plenty of time to end world hunger, bring peace to the Middle East, and earn a World Series title for the Chicago Cubs.

I knew the time would come that DB would grow out of his little-boy ways of speaking.  He’s all Mr. Complete Sentences now – the other morning he looked out the window and said, “Somebody is sweeping snow off the sidewalk across the street.”  No kidding.  Complete, grammatically correct, perfectly pronounced, and alliterative to boot.  My kind of kid.

But I’m going to miss his adorable inside-out pronunciation of the word “music.”  This peculiarity has persisted long after “kys” (where airplanes fly) and “sown” (that white stuff somebody was sweeping) were corrected.  On Tuesday, he started saying “music” and hasn’t gone back.

January 11, 2011.  The day the “meekis” died.

I will miss these sorts of exchanges when DB gains full command of English.

DB:  I help you fold the laundry.
Me:  You’re going to help me?  Can you match the socks?
DB:  I [mumble that sounds pretty close to "match"] the socks.
Me:  Here, do you know how to put them in pairs?
DB: [Puts his hand on the pile of socks, mashes it down.]  I smash the socks.

He then assumes the satisfied air of one who has said to himself, “my work here is done!”  And leaves the room.  (Gosh, mommy, why does it take YOU so long to fold the laundry?  I knocked that job out in seconds!)

My apologies to Barenaked Ladies for copping their song title for this post.  How crazy is this:  I have an alarm clock (hooray for cell phones) to alert me when it’s time to go to bed.  Even with the alarm, it’s rare for me to get to sleep early enough to log a full eight hours before the other alarm clock wakes me up.  Why can’t I go to bed?  I stay up reading even as my eyes blur and get sticky.  I start a complex organizing project at 10:30, or decide at 11:15 that I really need a meal.  And I pay for it the next morning (or evening, more likely, when I have no patience for DB when he wants “the pretty airplane book” read six times in a row, or when he makes me chase him around the interior of the car as I’m trying to get us into the house to eat supper).  I’m not some supple college student anymore; I need my sleep!

DB never wants to go to bed either.  “I not go to bed,” he says, looking up at me earnestly with eyes wide (perhaps to demonstrate how not-tired he is).  He doesn’t want to miss anything, and I don’t blame him.  “Play with toys” is fun; “go to sweep” is not.  But ultimately, he goes peacefully.  I’d love to think it’s because he is still young and uncorrupted enough to listen to his body, so I’m just gonna go with that.  (I’m too tired to come up with a better explanation anyway.)

So what’s my excuse for ignoring what my body is clearly telling me (I did mention ”sticky eyes”)?  Certainly not that I’m going to miss something.  My books and crossword puzzles – these are frequent indulgences – will not go away when I set them down.  Nor is there any danger of my organizing projects disappearing overnight, unless you count the nonzero probability that the piles should topple.  There’s nothing I watch on TV that can’t be obtained on the internet a day or two later.  I think the problem is that I like having time to do whatever I want, without the requirement of being productive.  After DB goes to bed, I still have chores and paperwork to do.  If I’m disciplined enough to postpone my leisure activities until my work is done, I still want to squeeze in that me-time even if it’s late.  Going to bed – even though it’s far more beneficial than staying up to read a semi-trashy women’s magazine – doesn’t count.

No pithy quote or neatly-turned summary phrase here.  I’m still trying to figure this one out.  Any other solo parents reading this?  How do you balance personal time and sleep?