Mommy's Pen

A writer's notes on family

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Broken Leg Chic

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There is an episode of the Simpsons where a professional yo-yo team visits Bart and Lisa’s school.  There is music and laser lights and they can make yo-yos do anything. They are the embodiment of glamour — according to the elementary school set. Every kid gets yo-yo fever; it’s all they want to play with or talk about. The camera pans to Mrs. Crabapple: “I am so sick of yo-yos.”

Right now at Nora’s school it’s not yo-yos, it’s broken legs.

A little girl in Nora’s class broke her leg about a month ago while riding her bike, pretty badly from the sounds of it.

And now she is a rock star.

When we pick Nora up from aftercare, most days there are a room full of kids limping around. Every play silk is a cast.  Every stick is a crutch. Every chair is a wheel chair.

“Mom, Jane can do this,” she says holding one leg stiff and hopping along on the other.

“Mom, Jane can stand on her leg without her crutches now.”

“Mom, Jane’s getting her cast off tomorrow, so don’t ask her how her leg is doing because she’s getting the cast off.” (I don’t think this was true.)

A few nights ago, Nora spent no less than twenty minutes attempting to wrap a small silk handkerchief around her calf. I finally helped her wrap it, as our bedtime routine was being delayed.  Then a walked away for a second and heard her, in tears, telling her daddy, “Mommy didn’t do a good job wrapping my leg at all.”

So he helped her re-wrap it, and she hobbled up to me and said, “I broke my leg,” and then, after my mock horror, “Just kidding, I’m just pretending.”

I have a hunch that the only people sick of broken legs are little Jane — and her parents.

 

Note: Jane is not her real name, as I didn't ask permission to
use it before writing this post.

Mockery: It Runs in the Family

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Ben’s parents were visiting Portland last week. It was a beautifully simple visit: just time spent sitting by the fire, putting together puzzles with Nora and working on sewing projects at the dining room table.

At one point, we had to temporarily clear all the sewing stuff off the table so we could eat. The sewing machine was placed on the floor behind my mother-in-law, Debbie.  She commented that it was still on, and she hoped that someone wouldn’t step on the pedal and send the machine into fits.  I shrugged, thinking Nora was the only risk of this happening, and she was on the other side of the table.

We all chatted as we finished up eating when we began to hear a low mechanical hum.

“What’s that noise,” Debbie asked.  “Do you guys hear that?”

It was not a sound my house usually makes, so I looked under the table.  Debbie had her foot just barely touching the pedal of the sewing machine, causing it too hover in the ready-for-action-but-not-quite-driving-the-needle-down mode.

“You have your foot on the pedal,” I said, and we all laughed that she had been the one to set it off, after pointing out the danger in the first place.

A few more minutes passed and Nora suddenly stomped her foot on the floor and then said, “What’s that noise?”

We all paused, then broke into near hysterics as we realized that Debbie was being mocked by her four-year-0ld granddaughter. She made a noise herself, then asked what the heck it was.

“Well, what do you guys think — is mockery nature or nuture?” I asked.

Debbie was pretty sure it was nuture — though she blames her son — not me. (Which is not entirely fair, I assure you.)

What do you guys think: nature or nuture? Have your kids ever mocked their grandparents?

 

Wrapped Around Her Finger

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“Mommy, do you have any string?”
“I’m sure I do, what kind of string?”
“Um, like yarn. Fat yarn.”
“Yes, I have that. Why don’t you grab your blue yarn, it’s in your room.”
“Well, I want to use that only for finger knitting only.”
“Well, what do you want this yarn for?”
“For wrapping around my toes.”

Remember that? I can remember taking a piece of string and wrapping it methodically around my finger until the tip turned purple. And being warned repeatedly by my mother and father of the folly of this. I even remember tears and panic at not being able to get the string off fast enough when my finger started to hurt.

“Why do you want to do that?” I ask casually, because I can’t for the life of me remember why I did it.
“Because it’s fun.”
“Well, it’s really not good for your body. You could really hurt your toe or your finger by wrapping string or yarn around it.”

I say this, and I know it won’t matter. I’ll find her, sometime soon, wrapping a string too tightly around one of her tiny appendages.

Because this is what kids do.

Kindergarten Yogi

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Somehow, Nora and I have fallen into the awfully good habit of doing a bit of yoga before bed. It may have started as a stalling tactic on her part, but it’s backfiring on her, because she’s been falling asleep much faster lately.

Lest you imagine the two of us locked in a synchronous Vinyasa flow, let me give you a glimpse of what our practice actually looks like.

“Mommy, we need to do our yoga.”

“Well, we’re running out of time, do you want to do yoga and skip story time?”

She nods vigorously.  We head to the living room and I light a candle and place it in the middle of the room then switch off the lamp.  I try to get her started with some breathing exercises and she cuts me off.

“Mommy, you showed me a lot of poses, so now I’m going to show you some, alright?”

She is seated cross legged and she places her hands on her ankles with her elbows pointing out and grimaces. Like a yogic body builder showing off her biceps.

“This is called ‘muscle pose.'”

Now she lets herself fall on her side and places an arm under her head and the other hand is curled on the floor in front of her. I follow along.

“Mommy, see how your hand is flat?  You need to curl your fingers so your bones strengthen. If you don’t curl your fingers your bones won’t strengthen.”

Still on her side, she stretches her arms and legs out at a 90-degree angle from her body.

“This is called ‘crinkled dog’ pose,” she calmly explains.  “And you know what else doggies do?  When they wake up, they do this –” she smacks her lips repeatedly, “–they do that because they’re trying to clean their lips. They got dirty from the carpet.”

I nod as I smack my lips, thinking that an imperfect yoga practice is the most beautiful thing that’s happened to me today.