ABC Obsession

I few weeks ago, I could have said Caleb has a single obsession: letters. But his birthday changed all that. Now he's into trains and dinosaurs.

It took some digging to find this video. Caleb was 20 months old at the time. Proof of the former obsession.

Two Years of Memories

My son, you may wonder why I chose to highlight some of your weaknesses and weirdness-es in this post of things I want to remember. I hope you know I chose them because I love every part of you. My love for you is not perfect, there's still too much of me in the way of God's hand - but I know it is a lasting love. It will stand no matter what comes because it was born in me when you were born.

These are the things I want to remember about your second year of life.

Books. You are obsessed with letters. In turn, you have an obsession with books. I don't take credit for this habit, except in the genes I've passed on to you. A team of people have been reading to you since the day that you were born. An overwhelming exposure to language and your fascination with the alphabet help explain your exponential growth in language development. You can talk like a three year old. You already use full sentences and understand abstractions and representation in language. You also talk non-stop, which has, no doubt, contributed to your growth in this area. I blame the talking gene on your dad.

Here are some of your favorite books from this year:

Falling Down. While you're language abilities amaze us, your coordination and general gross motor skills are making normal progression. You may even be slightly clumsy. I'll take the blame on that one. The funny thing is, you don't mind falling down. You rarely cry or whine. You just pick yourself up. Sometimes you say "Oops a Daisy" or "Gotta be tough." I'm pretty sure I once heard you say, "The table bit me." Either way, I categorize that as unfazed.

Strangely, your general clumsiness - falling down while you walk across the room - does not seem to influence your sense of balance. You like to stand on small items: toys, benches, tennis balls, parking lot cement blocks - and you're pretty good at it! But on the days you're not, it's not a big deal, because you're used to falling.

Music. You want music 24-7. Guess what you like . . . hip-hop! You like to say "hip-hop" with an emphasis on the p's. As soon as you started talking, there was a word you would say that I could not - for the life of me, and despite my excellent translation abilities - understand. It kind of sounded like you were trying to say "butterfly." It took me a few months before I realized you were saying, "Spotify," which is the music website we use to play your tunes. You have your own playlist of songs which you helped select. Everything from rap to a song about chickens to Somewhere Over the Rainbow.

The other morning when we were eating breakfast and listening to your playlist, you said, "Music is food!" I tried to encourage you to elaborate, but you just smiled and bobbed your head and chewed. Regardless, that statement sums up your current relationship with music.

You play nicely on the piano, but only show an interest when I'm playing. The drums, however, are your forte. Also, you love to dance - one hand in the air and spinning in circles.

Overcoming Fear. For as physically strong as you are, certain unexpected things get you bent out of shape. You have a fearful heart. Anything new or slightly strange elicits one of several responses: (1) tears (2) shaking (3) the clinging-death-grip-hug (that's my favorite). Grandpa's moving Elvis clock freaks you out even though you have seen it regularly for the past two years. You don't like basements, fire detectors, bouncy houses (we've been working on this one though), animal noises at the zoo, new characters in familiar shows, mechanized stuffed animals that move or make noises.

However, the things you should be scared of don't seem to bother you. Heights, hot ovens, growling dogs, bees. It's hard to predict what will strike fear in you.

You are developing your own techniques to manage these situations. Avoidance, which seems the most natural, but also self-talk. One night when you were fearful at bedtime, your daddy prayed with you. He asked Jesus to be your comfort and security. You calmed down and said that Daddy had "Prayed the scary," which we knew meant he had prayed the scary away. Since that night, I have heard you say, in the midst of a new fear, "Pray the scary. Pray the scary." Just saying that seems to calm you down. As my Southern friends and family would say, "Bless your little heart."

Repentance. As parents, we are developing our own strategies and rhythm for dealing with tantrums, anger, and selfishness expressed in your pint-sized person. Consistency and explaining why we discipline you has helped keep us calm in the midst of your meltdowns and hopefully provided you with understanding. What we have noticed about you is a soft spirit. You are quick to repent and rarely need multiple corrections for the same behavior in the same day (screaming, which brings you much joy and me much consternation, is the exception). I pray that this doesn't change in you, and that you see modeled in us the grace and forgiveness God offers.

Tennis. Readers who know me may not believe this, but we have not pushed you to show an interest in tennis. It's always around you because you are always around people who play tennis. At first, you seemed most interested in balls - but what little boy doesn't like to throw balls around and chase them? Wimbledon changed everything. We watched the men's final together (ok, you were mostly playing with your letters while your dad and I watched), but when we would cheer for Andy Murray, you would join in too. A few days after the tournament, you started to say, "Hit like Andy" while you were swinging your racket. You got a good laugh out of us, but this single expression and association seemed to flip a switch in you. Now you're all about tennis and Andy Murray, who is apparently also good at dancing and helping ("Spin like Andy" "Helping like Andy").

My daddy used to say this to me, and now I say it to you, "I love you to the moon and back!"

Happy birthday, Caleb Lawrence Haske!

Motherhood, an Afterthought

Afterthough = An idea, response, or explanation that occurs to one after an event or decision.

Were you, like my amazing mother, a little girl who dreamed of motherhood? When people asked what you wanted to be when you grew up, did you picture baby blankets and soft cuddles, a precious little one in your arms? If that was you, I thank God for you, for your natural patience and nurturing spirit, your self-sacrificing and merciful tendencies. I know you face your own unique challenges in motherhood, the struggle with contentment and a nagging feeling that things are not as perfect as you dreamed they would be.

I am from a different camp. At 5, I wanted to be a veterinarian, then a doctor, a professional tennis player, a literature professor, an interpreter, a travel writer, a farmer. You get the idea. I had a lot of dreams and aspirations but none of them involved strollers, play dates, or planning the perfect toddler party. There are strengths accompanying career ambitions - I excelled in school, in athletics. I was a goal-setter, driven, ambitious, busy with pursuit. As with all things, strengths hold hands with certain weaknesses of character. In my case, selfishness, pride, judgment, harshness, a critical spirit.

Motherhood was an afterthought for me. It wasn't something I excluded from my future, but I never gave it much space. Now, as mother of an almost 2 year old, when days are long and filled with a particularly whiny voice, I ask, "Why is this so hard?" I scold myself for getting frustrated and exhausted so easily, for yelling at my son for making everything harder to accomplish, for wanting to give up over the most ridiculous things - spilled beverages or poop on the floor (ok, poop on the floor is serious, not ridiculous). In those moments I think, "Maybe this would be easier if I had dreamed of motherhood?"

I have only lived my experience, but having talked to other young mothers it seems no matter how prepared or excited you were at the start of the journey - even if you had dreamed of it from youth - motherhood is hard . . .

. . . and equally wonderful. A friend of mine from church (Harvest Bible Chapel, if you were wondering) with three kids reassured me during my pregnancy. We had been discussing our general disinterest in children (don't judge) and she said, "Laura, God will give you a special love for the children He gives you." Completely true for me. Only divine grace could explain the gift of love I feel for my son.

The sun was streaming through the window, dust particles swaying down invisible streams. Music playing. Caleb and I were "dancing," which means flinging our arms out, throwing our heads back and spinning in circles. I caught his eye mid-turn and he giggled. My heart expanded and I caught my breath, tears clouded my eyes. I turned away so he wouldn't see me crying over the wonderful.

Dog Bite - The Great Debate

You may have read my previous post about how much I've learned from my dogs, or this one, about having dogs and a new baby. Now I have one I wish I didn't have to write - the dog bite story.

In the world of thinking people, we tend toward paths of comfort. For some, black and white is the path of choice. Things are wrong or right. Good or bad. Others prefer a more considered path, assessing each situation, appreciating gray. I would say, I gravitate toward the black and white. Life is simpler, more easily managed. For example, the answer to a dog bite is easy. "Bye, bye, doggie."

Have you heard this before? Once a dog bites and breaks the skin, they'll be aggressive again. They'll have a taste for blood; it's like cracking open their primal wolf taste buds. They'll be unmanageable. Lost forever to the world of civilized pets. This is black and white thinking. Maybe there's science behind it, I don't know.

When I was 5 years old, our neighbor's sheepdog bit me. He was tied to a line in their front yard and dozing in the shade. Having recently watched this classic, I convinced myself the dog was a human in disguise and could talk.

I approached him on all fours, probably quoting lines from the movie. What was he to think? "This pigtailed creature is cornering me." "I'm defenseless!" "Why is she talking like that?" "Get away!"

He snapped. Not a hang-on-and-fling-her-around-until-she-stops-breathing snap, but the get-the-heck-out-of-my-space type that sends little girls to the hospital. It was my face, the left eye area to be exact. I remember the flowers and candy the church sent. I remember the neighbors.

They came with swollen eyes, fingers nervously touching other fingers. I remember quiet voices, hushed questions about what to do with the dog. My parents called me in and asked me. Did our neighbors need to "get rid of it?" "No!" "It was my fault, I thought he would talk to me . .  ." Commence blubbering and streaming tears.

The dog survived. As a kid, I knew better. Black and white solutions cannot be applied universally.

Well, twenty-five years later, I had to take a lesson from my five year old self when Toby, our grumpy old cairn terrier, bit my baby in the neck. I say baby, but he'll be two in a few months.

Caleb is a dog teaser, a bully. You can have your debate about nature vs. nurture, but I'm convinced we're all born sinners. Mean. Self-serving. We can have moments of great kindness, sure. But our natural instinct is to please ourselves, which sometimes means hurting others.

For my little boy, it pleases him to shuffle his feet right up against the dog and keep walking until he has the dog pinned in a corner or against a wall. Then, he falls on top of the dog. We have witnessed this several times before and corrected the little man's behavior and praised our dogs for their passive response. But one day, this dog had enough.

We were coming in from grocery shopping and my hands were full. Caleb came behind me, and Toby met us at the door. I heard a low growl and turned around to see Caleb "falling" on Toby and then the awful scream of my child. There was blood. Blood coming from the soft baby skin of Caleb's neck. There was terrible screaming and crying and I could feel the panic rising up in my throat.

I called my husband. I called my mom. I prayed. I cleaned up the blood and tried to put pressure against the wound. They came rushing in. Paul to hold the baby and calm his worked-up wife. My mom, the medical professional, to assess the damage. We decided we should take Caleb in. It was a precaution. No stitches needed. He's fine.

I am not fine.

My life didn't flash before my eyes in that moment, but Toby's did. His bouncing steps as a puppy, the way he snorts when he swims, the crazy look of hunger every time I bring him a bowl of food. This was the end of Toby. Black and white. You bit my baby. On the neck!

Heartless? I still feel cold inside sometimes toward him. This isn't the way it's supposed to be with man's best friend. I love him, but I can never trust him again.

As an adult with a leaning toward black and white resolution, getting rid of Toby would be easier. I can even create a story line that satisfies me: an older person living alone, wanting a canine companion who mostly eats and sleeps and is always excited for a walk. They nestle together in a big downy bed and snore in alternating rhythms. Sounds nice. Meanwhile, I don't have to give sidelong glances every time my son is in the same room as my dog or kennel Toby every time a visitor under three feet tall enters our home.

"He has to go."

"No! It wasn't his fault."

How will my son, the bully, learn to treat animals with care and respect? What happens when he corners the neighbor's dog? All the "what ifs" of future pain and circumstance play in my brain.

Are you waiting for the moral to the story? There isn't one really. Except life is hard. Decisions are easier if you live by formula. But what if formulas upset the balance of justice and encourage lack of character in your offspring?

Anyway. Toby is still here. Caleb isn't afraid of him, but keeps a distance. I still don't trust the dog I love. I still wrestle with the idea of getting rid of him. This is what happens when you choose gray. It's uncomfortable. It makes you think and write really long blog posts.

Love Note

Rest in steady rhythm of a swing,
twist and turn of key, a creak of the hinge
you are home. Heart met in arms
my day stilled as I sing.

Last night when we both had a list of endless tasks and deadlines, Paul and I stayed up to share a bowl of popcorn between us. He makes the best popcorn I've ever had, but what moved me was the conversation. Not the substance, but the feeling. I was a decade younger for the evening. Sure that I was loved, embraced, known as well as I could be.

Daily life has a way of pulling our eyes down. Watch your step. Keep moving forward. Do. Do. Do. Plan the meal, cook the meal, clean up the meal. Put clean dishes away, wash dirty dishes. Repeat. Diapers. Laundry. Dusting. It's not all fun and games, but the responsibility of being an adult has brought joys that don't come from child's play and lazy afternoons. The greatest, for me, is doing life together with my best friend.

I don't write them often enough, but this love note is for you.

Sliding Through March

This is a set up for the video at the end. We have watched it twenty times. That's a conservative estimate. The rest is a quick update. But really, the video is where it's at.

March came in like a lion. Put on your snow pants and chooks.*

         

*"Chooks: a word used in Upper Michigan, which refers to a knit cap sometimes referred to as a watch cap. It can also refer to any knit caps worn in cool weather. It is a Yooper dialect word which has no correct or standard spelling. Could be spelled chuk. It is from the French Canadian word, toque, which means the same thing. The Quebecois pronunciation is much like chook. The Anglo Canadians pronounce it toke, or took." (Urban Dictionary)

We had some emergency plumbing work done when we discovered that sewage was leaking under our house through our 100 year old corroded and holey pipes. After $6,000 (yikes!) we could rest easy knowing no sewage would be coming up into our basement (whew!).

This is what the process looked like. As a side note, you shouldn't give your lawyer a hard time for charging you a couple of thousand dollars to represent you. You would pay that to your plumber for two days worth of work. Just sayin'.

     
   
Baby C loves music. It's the first thing he asks for in the morning. He says "my soul, My Soul, MY SOUL." This is to let you know that he wants to hear 10,000 Reasons by Matt Redman. He also likes the hot dog song from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.

We found this toy train on Craigslist after we discovered it during our trip to Memphis, where Caleb visited his Aunt ZeeZee and Uncle Kiss. It is, hands down, his favorite toy to date. He plays with it several hours a day in many creative ways. We love you, little used-vtech-alphabet-train!

We still have our dogs. Paul bought them new toys while Caleb and I were in Memphis.

But really, this is what you have been waiting for. A scene from an indoor playground. This kid loves slides. He won't stop until you pull him off. Listen to him on the way down. Precious.

Don't you feel better for having watched that? 

House Warming

Not a single post in February. Blogging was not among my New Year's resolutions, but I know for some of my family, it's the best way to keep tabs on the Haske happenings. 

If you don't mind a wordless update, you can follow me on Instagram. Photographing life is less laborious than writing it down. It's clear from my instagram photos that my life involves a lot of time with this little person.

Finding time to blog has become more difficult because I started working almost full-time at our local community college, where I teach in the paralegal program. It's my dream job, so something has to give. Sorry peeps.

When we aren't working or chasing our little guy around, Paul and I are s l o w l y working on house projects. My intention is always to document these things, but I like to get my hands dirty. And I don't like to touch my camera with dirty hands.     

I am the resident painter. My secret weapon is my dear friend Laurie. She is full of energy, enthusiastic even in the morning hours and willing to work for a cup of coffee and catching up time. None of this would be done without her. 

The living room looked like a construction zone when we first bought the house. You could still see the tape lines on the ceiling and the blue plumb marks from the chalk line, which the previous owner used to line up the new can lights (I really, really appreciate the good lighting in the room). The lower half of the walls had been ripped out to re-run electrical (I'm guessing), so they were a different color than the green of the rest of the room. Laurie, Paul and I patched and sanded every inch of the room. The very LARGE room. It seemed to go on and on and on. Then we primed everything - ceiling and walls. Then we painted everything - ceiling and walls. And the ceiling and walls went on and on.

Laurie and I eyeballed a paint match  from a friend's Benjamin Moore color chart. We decided on Litchfield Gray. It's not really gray at all. It's a neutral tan, almost in some lights peach. But as soon as I have that thought, I dismiss it from my mind because there is something about peach walls that makes me feel ill. Then I convince myself it's leaning toward taupe. The reason we chose this color is because it matches the dining room and kitchen, which are connected visually. I wanted them all to be the same color, but I did not want to paint the dining room and kitchen too. So I tell myself it's taupe. Overall, it unifies the lower level of the house. This was my goal. 

Next - Caleb's bedroom. From gender-specific stripes to boring neutrals. That's the thing about decorating. You get to make it how you want it. I guess I want it very . . . boring. For Caleb's room, I chose Benjamin Moore's Timberwolf Gray. This went over a very (unacceptable-to-my-manly husband) pink.

I don't have many pictures of the interior, but the ones I do have were from a family house warming party. My Indiana family drove in, and my grandmother came to visit from Arizona (Hi, Grandma!), and my sister and brother-in-law came in from Memphis. Because I know she reads this and because she's beautiful, I thought you should see this picture of my grandma.

If you come visit us, and I hope you do. Remember, it's taupe, not peach.