My Level of Awareness

I have never made a big deal about potty training.  Harry has always made each transition on his own, and usually early.  However, Harry lagged behind in two things - talking and using the potty.  He made up for his speech delay with a vengeance - he is now more verbal than any child in his age group.  But he has been completely indifferent to the concept of indoor plumbing.

Right at the point that I despaired he would ever show interest, my son, completely on his own,  removed his own diaper and used his potty three times in the last two days.

Of course, he also ran around the house naked afterward, eluding all attempts to replace said diaper.  I guess I should be grateful that his nudist tendencies are working in my favor.

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 I am sorry.

I love you.

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One glorious week in paradise with my men. 

Beach.

Sun.

Kisses.

And a little Magic. 

It just doesn’t get better than this.

More to come…

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…with any luck I will be far more relaxed.  Okay - those who know me in person can stop laughing hysterically at the thought of using my name in close proximity to the term “relaxed.”  It does happen, you know.

Tonight, I leave for Jackson, MS, and the in-laws, and, on Sunday, I will be flying my way to sunny Orlando, FL, where I will spend seven days in a resort condominium with several of my good friends.  And, hold on your your socks - I have nothing, and I do mean NOTHING planned. 

Let me repeat that with emphasis - I, Robbin, have not scheduled a single activity.  I have not bought tickets.  I have not checked calendars.  Nada.

There are vague plans involving the Magic Kingdom, the beach and the volcano pool at the resort.  I have packed the appropriate towel-in-the-sand reading material and sun block.

If you are incredulous about this, I should remind you that I backpacked across Europe, by myself, with nothing but three changes of clothing and a Eurail pass, without the benefit of a single hotel reservation.  I pretty much decided the night before where I wanted to end up in the morning and I slept a couple of nights on train platforms while trading personal possessions with other traveling young Americans and Swedes (for some reason, Scandanavian students make up a disproportionate number of young European backpackers).

So for those of you who think I am incapable of either spontaneity or a placid state of mind:

Poopy on you.

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Today, while I was reading Whymommy of Toddler Planet, I was reminded of one of my favorite quotes on faith:

 When you have come to the edge of all light that you know and are about to drop off into the darkness of the unknown, Faith is knowing one of two things will happen: There will be something solid to stand on or you will be taught to fly.

~Patrick Overton

At one point we all stand with our toes on the edge of the abyss and we leap.

 And fly. 

Go and give her some faith today. 

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I may be one of the few people trying NOT to think back six years ago.

Not that I am callous.

 Or unsentimental.

It’s just that I will be on a plane.

To Washington DC. 

And back.

I hope.

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A few weeks ago, The Wonder Place, our local kid’s playplace-extraordinaire, celebrated their first anniversary.  We braved the long lines (they had to cut off the line when they reached maximum capacity) to take Harry.  Radio Disney DJ-ed the celebration and there was a celebrity guest appearance.

By Elmo.

Actually, by a very small adult in one of the worst Elmo suits I have seen lately.

But that didn’t matter to Harry.  Elmo’s entrance was greeted with all the awe of the second coming. 

My son turned into an Elmo groupie bordering on obsessed stalker.   I don’t think the poor Elmo-clone could get two feet without Harry grabbing him, jumping on him, or pulling his fur, with a constant excited refrain of squeals and “ELMO, MY ELMO!”

 At first I was mortified.  But there’s nothing like being in the shared company of equally chagrined parents to dull the embarrassment. 

Harry still managed to find the time to:

 Get stuck,

Get wet,

Get high,

Get dressed,

Get away,

And get dinner,

All in the process of his search and destroy Elmo mission.

So, just sing with me:

La, la, la, la…

La, la, la, la…

If you’re a parent, you know the rest…

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Don’t all your best portraits come from Chuck E. Cheese?

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Lest you think that the blogless funk that I have been in means that I have been moping about my house, tethered to the sofa, eating cartons of Ben and Jerry’s, I wanted to put your thoughts to rest.  First, the supply of Ben and Jerry’s is rather limited around here.  Second, I am more of an Haagen Daas fan.  Third, short of being at death’s door or under anesthesia, I don’t think I have ever spent more than 15 minutes without being in motion.

I have been taking serious stock of the state of my life, and jettisoning some mental baggage that had been sitting around for some time.  In doing so, a little space was freed up to consider those things that I always thought about doing that I just never managed to get around to. 

Like playing the violin.

My music education isn’t completely lacking.  I am a fair enough singer.  Like every other kid in the NY school system in the 70’s, I suffered through learning to play the recorder in music class.  I can play guitar (badly).  I play electric bass (less badly).  And once upon a time I took three years of flute lessons - which I hated with a passion.  The decision to enroll me in flute was based solely on the justification that the flute was the cheapest instrument to rent, and we were poor.  My brother got clarinet (flute being a little too “girly”, even for budget-conscious parents), and I envied him.  I learned to play on his, and might have actually gotten good at it, if he hadn’t given up on it after three months.

In short I have played five instruments, none of them very well.  But I never got the chance to play the one instrument that I really loved.  The violin. 

From the strains of Bach to the Irish fiddle to Hungarian folk music, I love it all.  So close to a human voice, the violin sings like no other instrument in a voice that goes straight to the soul.  I have wanted to play violin since I was eight years old.

Yesterday, almost thirty five years from the first time I ran my fingers across the varnish of a violin at show-and-tell in my third grade music class, I put a bow to the strings of my own.  And something came out that sounded more like actual music and less like a cat screeching than I had the decency to expect.

Not ready for Bach, by any means.

But I was thrilled.

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