Stripper names need not apply

Sam and I decided we should probably start compiling a list of baby names for our next addition - a girl this time. Last night we solicited name suggestions from our two boys. I'll admit I expected at least a little bit of consideration for something as momentous as what their little sister will be called.

Paolo's contribution: Mama Jr.

Luca's contribution: Yo Gabba Gabba

Considering that Sam's number-one pick is Summer, its' safe to say I'll be picking this name, too.

My Hero

Picture it: Downtown Fayetteville, a hot Sunday afternoon. The kiddie race is about to start in the street at the annual Joe Martin Stage Race. The parking lot is roped off for vendor tents and the children’s play zone. My boys were not racing, as one is too young and one hates bikes, so they had the inflatable bounce house all to themselves. Paolo and Luca were hurling themselves around for all they were worth, while I watched at the entrance, cheering them on. Suddenly, I heard something odd: not a noise, but a LACK of noise. Before it dawned on me that the air blower hooked up to the four gigantic inflatables had cut out, the back columns of the bounce house collapsed. Paolo and Luca froze and stared at me in horror as the roof caved in on them. GET OUT, I yelled, BOYS, GET OUT, HURRY. Paolo was closer and managed to army-crawl his way to the entrance, but Luca was no match for the heavy canvas. I watched the tarp come down on him, covering his body until just his tiny hand was visible reaching out for rescue. I grabbed Paolo before he slipped out to safety. PAOLO, YOU’VE GOT TO GO BACK FOR YOUR BROTHER! With no hesitation, Paolo dived back in, grabbed Luca’s hand and pulled him free. I helped them both out onto the pavement, and we stood huddled together, staring in wonder at the puddle of canvas at our feet. A race coordinator sprinted over in full panic and asked, “Is there anyone in there?!” Hugging my boys tighter, I replied, “Not anymore.”

The rest of the day, that brush with disaster was top of Paolo’s mind. He didn’t brag about his own escape, but about how he had saved his brother. He was a hero now, actually, a superhero. If it hadn’t been for him, Luca would have been buried forever. "Just think," Paolo went on, "if I had never been born and Luca was your only son, he never would have gotten out." After assuring Paolo that his bravery was truly astonishing, I reminded him gently that I had been standing RIGHT THERE and would have helped Luca out if we’d been alone. And yet, I know how siblings work. Ten years from now, Paolo will probably still be reminding Luca, “You know, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be here.”

The Eve of Christmas Eve

It can be a little lonely spending Christmas without extended family, but we decided to stay home for the holidays this year and do it up right. It has been a month-long celebration of craft projects, holiday music, parades, Christmas lights, and at least a gallon of egg nog. Paolo picked out a beautiful tree, and Luca has left most of the ornaments alone. This is a big improvement over last year, when we just accepted that the bottom three feet of the tree would be bare. There have been a couple of decor casualties, like when Luca was mouthing an ornament and hooked himself like a fish, or when he shattered a glass ball on the tree by riding a car into it.

There have also been some amazing moments of family harmony. Every morning Paolo opens a new door on the Christmas Countdown Calendar to get the small square of chocolate inside, and every morning he breaks it in half and gives a piece to Luca. Paolo also makes sure, when rummaging through the giant container of cookies sent by Grandma, to select cookies with a chocolate kiss in the center for himself and his brother, and a plain cookie for me. If I weren't absolutely swimming in chocolates and cookies (and peppermint bark, and sugar-coated nuts, and coffee cakes) at work, I might feel slighted. There's something deeply warming about seeing two people you love so much love each other.

I don't have to work tomorrow, and my Christmas Eve to-do list makes me giddy: Play with the boys, pick up a freshly baked pannetone, make hot chocolate, wrap presents, and bake cookies for Santa. Mopping and laundry can just damn well wait until the 26th. If the weather reports are correct, we may even wake up to a white Christmas. If that's not enough to put stars in your eyes, I don't know what is.

Happy holidays.

Fully and Unmistakably Two

As we pulled into the garage one sunny and warm Fall evening, Luca asked for bubbles. We had been trapped inside for what felt like weeks due to cold, rainy weather, and soon the days would be shorter, leaving no post-work opportunities to play outside. I grabbed the bubbles, Paolo grabbed his new spring-action, light-up, humming genuine Anakin Skywalker light saber, and Luca grabbed an empty bleach bottle from the trash. He casually sauntered out of the garage with his mouth around the open top. I tried to scream, but the tongue I'd just swallowed blocked the sound. I checked his skin for burns and his breath for the smell of bleach, but fortunately, the bottle had been bone dry.

I stowed the bleach bottle in the rafters of the garage and walked back outside to see Luca with a terra cotta pot raised above his head, just before smashing it into another pot. I steered him away from that game, as well, and returned to blowing bubbles for Paolo. Luca then attempted to perforate himself with a steel tomato cage, concuss himself with a heavy shovel, before flipping open the outdoor electrical outlets. Please note that our garage is lined with toys: bikes, balls, buckets, tennis rackets, dump trucks, none of which are even remotely interesting to a two-year-old.

Finally, Luca climbed into my car and began twiddling knobs and flipping light switches. Now the car is generally off-limits, but damn it, he couldn't kill himself in there. So I left well enough alone, and he honked and flashed and steered merrily in what I had decided was the safe, nonthreatening cocoon of my car. Bubble-time ended (it's actually really hard to pop bubbles with a light saber), and Paolo and I headed back into the garage. Luca opened the car door when he saw his brother, and Paolo walked over to help him climb out. As I returned the bubbles to the shelf above the washer, I heard a slam followed by a scream.

I turned in horror to see Paolo's thumb stuck in the car door. By the grace of all that is good in the universe, only the tip of Paolo's thumb was smashed. No broken bones, no blood, just a whole lot of screaming and a black fingernail that is probably not long for this world. In case you're wondering what Luca was doing while I released Paolo's hand and ascertained whether we'd be headed for the ER, he was laughing and ejecting CDs from the car stereo.

That's what I'm dealing with these days. My dad thought I was joking on the phone the other night when I admonished Luca to get out of the microwave. Folks, I have a two-year-old. It's like being at war, with an enemy who doesn't speak your language or respect the rules of combat, who is so irrational, his next move cannot be anticipated but is certain to leave you slackjawed.

My love is like a green, green pickle.

Today marks the end of the first week at new daycares for both boys. Two weeks ago, their daycare shut down suddenly for financial reasons. This is the third daycare that has closed on us since we started depending on childcare services. I am the daycare widowmaker. To avoid boring you with the suffocating panic I felt the Friday afternoon we got the news, knowing I had no place to take my children the following week, I will simply say, it was not fun. Team Family pulled through, however, and after a week of Daddy Daycare with a few Take-Your-Kids-to-Work days sprinkled in, we found good situations for each of them. I have spent this first week nibbling my fingernails up to my elbows, but as it turns out, Paolo’s best friend from Kindergarten attends his summer camp, and Luca has not eaten anyone.

Sam has been watching the Tour de France for the last thirty-six days. Apparently, during the Tour, five extra hours are added to each day in order to provide twenty-nine solid hours of daily Tour coverage. Phil Liggett and Bob Roll narrate my dreams. Paolo is nearly as rabid as his father. He gets a kick out of the elevation maps and enjoys showing me easy days vs. hard days based on the category and frequency of climbs. I will discuss this further in the divorce paperwork.

Luca has developed his own language, and it is fascinating to me how it differs from Paolo’s verbal development. Paolo was all about animals and animal sounds at this age. Looking back, it wasn’t terribly useful for the purposes of communication, except maybe in a barnyard. Luca knows how to ask for things he wants, specifically, food. Even more specifically, ice and pickles. There is no disappointment, no meltdown, no rage that cannot be cured and calmed by offering Luca ice or pickles.

Linguistic quirks of note:

1. Anything liquid is “juice” (juice in a cup, juice from the garden hose, juice falling from the sky, juice in the toilet bowl).

2. Paolo is Fuh-Fuh. I had been dying to know what Luca would call his brother, just desperate to hear him call for his brother with his sweet baby voice. Paolo called himself Ba-doh before he could pronounce his name, so I figured it would be close to that. Instead, Luca chose Fuh-Fuh. Where did that come from? Is it an approximation of “brother”? I wanted cute, and this is not cute. It’s weird. What the fuh?

Three is old enough for a butt-whipping.

Me: Luca had a rough afternoon. His teacher said another kid pushed him down twice on his bad knee, and he won’t walk like he was this morning because his knee hurts.

Paolo: Oh yeah? When that kid gets older, like three, I’m gonna punch him!

Me: Paolo, I am so proud of you for wanting to protect your little brother. I am also happy that you know it would be wrong to rough up a little guy. Even though you’re mad at Luca’s classmate for hurting him, hitting is never the answer. Tripping is so much easier to get away with.

Five Days Without Video Games

After my last morose post on the ice storm and its aftermath, I wanted to share that it didn’t all suck. Although Paolo is perfectly capable of speaking for himself, he is a terrible typist, so I’m going to speak for him.

Tuesday. I woke up when it was dark because of green flashes in the sky and a loud rrrrrrrrr sound like an evil robot. I tried to wake Mama up to ask her what it was, but she was too grumpy. No school today. It rained all day long. We played hide and seek, but I did not play even one video game because we don’t have any electricity. I have to wear so many clothes because it’s cold in our house. Mama is making me wear even slippers. Daddy made us a campout in Mama’s room when it got dark, and we watched a movie on the DVD player. I have my own flashlight.

Wednesday. Daddy made oatmeal for breakfast, and I ate the sprinkles off the top. Daddy had a saw and he did works outside chopping down big branches that fell down. I was a helper by hitting ice off some branches with a stick and finding long icicles. A couple times, a branch fell really close to me. When Daddy got all the trees off the car we went for an adventure to see what happened to the world and to get Mama a radio. It’s cool because it has a flashing red light and a siren, but it doesn’t play Pink I’m a Rock Star. At darktime, I watched Ice Age 2 in the car with Mama until she said we had to stop because the car was almost out of gas. It looks like Ice Age outside our house.

Thursday. Daddy made pancakes for breakfast. We took Mama to work and then we were in the car a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long time. Daddy was looking for stuff but all the stores were closed or had too many people. We had Chick-fil-A for lunch and I played on the playground. Luca kept trying to climb up the stairs but I told him he had to be a big boy first so he had to stay in the little kid section on the bottom. We ate at the penguin barbecue restaurant for dinner and went to the grocery store. I only got to watch a little Teen Titans. I was listening for the rrrrrrrr sound because that means our electricity is coming back, but I didn't hear anything.

Friday. Daddy had to go to work, so Mama took me and Luca to see Stellaluna at the arts center. I was supposed to go with my class, but there’s no school today either. Stellaluna was about a girl bat, but the mama bird was the funniest, funnier than the baby birds. It wasn’t very good. Mama said I wasn’t being grateful, so I told her it was a little good. We ate dinner at Daddy’s work, and I got to play computer games. We went to a hotel at nighttime, and I watched a movie. Why does everyone else have electricity except us?

Saturday. I like our hotel pretty good. It has a treadmill in a room, and Mama showed me how to use it. I only fell down once. Luca stuck his hand in it and hurt his fingers so he can’t go back to the room, but I can if Daddy will take me. There is a TV so I can watch cartoons but sometimes Daddy wants to watch basketball. I don’t know why he is so mean.

Sunday. The workers finally fixed our house and we had an Electricity Party. We turned on all the lights and I played Sonic and Lego Batman video games all day until Daddy had to watch football. Luca and I had bathtime and then Daddy said I didn’t get to watch a movie tonight because we have electricity now and I have to go to school tomorrow. The end.

Thank heaven for little boys.

Thanksgiving is nigh, and I am thankful that I don’t have to go anywhere. Don’t get me wrong, we had a fabulous time in Florida last week. So fabulous in fact that Paolo is still pissed off to be back home where he asks on a near-daily basis for the location of the nearest Arkansas beach. He is not impressed that we have mountains instead. I almost won him over with snow, but he pointed out that his snow angels suck and got depressed again.

The era of toilet humor is upon us. Want to know what’s funnier than calling for your mom and, when she looks, bending over and pointing your butt at her? Nothing. And it doesn’t lose comedic value with repetition either. Last night Paolo was perched on the potty working out a dinner that had disagreed with him, when he yelled out, “Help! My butt is throwing up.” I’m not sure if that’s funny or gross. It makes me gag and laugh at the same time.

Luca has begun talking, pointing, and generally getting a whole lot better at communicating. The brain-melting scream is still around, but it is used much less often. It’s unsettling in that we have no experience with a happy child. We’re used to Paolo, who is thrown into a funk by the sun rising, so we’re a little unsure what to do with Luca and find ourselves shaking our heads gravely a good deal. Do you remember the part in Addams Family Values when the mini-Gomez baby woke up with bright yellow curly hair and rosy cheeks, and the parents were deeply confused? That’s us. He laughs for no reason at all. He beckons us to chase him and play telephone with a smile so bright it doesn’t seem human. His favorite activity, hands down, is sitting in things. In short, Luca is delightful. I’m starting to think he’s adopted.

But what about the children?

We have the same child, at two different ages. I thought Luca might be a different sort of kid, but then his hair turned blonde, and I knew. Luca has joined his brother in the 25th weight percentile, having decided that eating is overrated. At mealtimes, Luca's high chair sits next to Paolo's chair. I suspect this is a mistake. Do I really want Luca to model his table manners after Paolo, licking ketchup off his plate, agonizing over every tiny bite, begging to be finished, fake-gagging on his mashed potatoes? This is the same boy who has to be told repeatedly to stop taking the baby's food off the high chair tray. They both do that: they'll eat anything that isn't theirs. You know what else they do simultaneously? The dinnertime bowel movement. I'll be right in the middle of yelling at them to eat when one hotfoots it to the bathroom and the other one bears down.

Luca learned to crawl about three weeks ago. Not to be outdone, Paolo learned to crawl down the stairs headfirst. It's very Spiderman. To be honest, I'm a little disappointed at the baby's crawling. I had an all-too-brief spell of freedom between the sitting up and the crawling. I could plant the baby in the living room with bright, fun toys in arms' reach, and he was cool. Now, I sit the baby down, and he crawls after me. This is cute for about five minutes. When he does not crawl after me, he crawls over to pull the fan down on himself or choke on his brother's Legos.

Sam and I have lost the ability to baby-proof. When Paolo was a baby, we owned a chair, a TV, maybe a lamp. All the toys were Paolo's and, thus, baby-friendly. Now we have furniture, electronics with tasty, chewable cords, sharp Power Ranger spinners, microscopic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle daggers. When I look around at all the things in our house endangering a curious baby, I am ashamed and overwhelmed. We're not completely irresponsible, however. We've got Paolo acting as our baby-getting-into-trouble alert system. Is that wrong? He's really good at letting me know when Luca has pulled the vent cover out of the floor, and he is especially indignant when Luca has a superhero in his mouth. They are brothers, after all.

Brotherhood

The boys and I were outside enjoying one of the year’s first warm days. Paolo had the awesome idea of chalking targets on the driveway to bomb with water balloons. We were sketching bad guys from Paper Mario, naturally, when Paolo’s chalk jumped out of his hand mid-stroke and started rolling away. He swiveled on his knee to grab for it, which was a bad idea considering he was wearing shorts. He began to cry and carry on about his scraped knee and the tiny drops of BLOOD, dear Jesus, the BLOOD. Suddenly Gianluca, who had been perfectly content in my arms, started to cry. “Paolo, you have to stop crying. You’re making your baby brother cry,” I told him. In an instant, Paolo stopped crying, and a moment later, the baby stopped.

The two brothers stared at each other with identical solemn expressions.

“See? Gianluca was crying because he knew you were sad. He already loves you.” As ridiculous as that should have sounded to a four-year-old, Paolo nodded in wonder, never taking his eyes off his brother. The strangest feeling washed over me, part excitement and part foreboding. I saw my children’s hearts open up to one another; but with love comes vulnerability. When you love someone else, his or her happiness becomes necessary in part for your own happiness. Sam, Paolo, Gianluca, and me: we are all linked to each other now. Whatever happens to one of us happens to us all. It’s scary and beautiful, this family business.