I just want you to know that I thought twice before mentioning the larvae.

This morning at breakfast Charlie was telling us about going to the school library, and he offhandedly mentioned "getting into our quiet caterpillar."

And I was nonplussed.  Because AAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Once I'd finished screaming and clawing at my thorax, all panicky and GET IT OUT!  GET IT OUUUUUUT!, I slowed down my hyperventilation long enough to ascertain that he was talking about lining up with his classmates and progressing silently through the halls, a many-legged file of docile locomotion.

Oh.  That.

And then he dove to the floor to illustrate what he meant by "criss-cross double applesauce," and contorted into a fractal.  Kindergarten is kind of awesome.

Charlie's having fun.  He talks only about the minor things -- the nifty timer the teacher uses during their rest period, the name scramble she wrote on the board -- which leads me to believe that the major things are so far taking care of themselves.  Although he admitted being nervous before his first day, chattily confiding it to everyone at the bus stop, I think some of that is falling away, eclipsed by the allure of the new, and seeing old friends on the playground, and having an egg salad sandwich and chocolate milk for lunch every day if he wants to.  Which, you know, hey: dream big, kid. 

Of course, he did casually mention that just in case "something upsetting" ever happened before lunchtime, it would probably be okay, because he could just tear into that egg salad sandwich, "and that will make me feel better!"  So there's plenty that leaks out around the edges.  Last night after supper I made him release the daddy longlegs he'd detained a couple of nights before.  He likes to collect pets from around the yard, a snail here, a spider there, and keep them in his room.  I've maintained a very firm rule, which is that no invertebrates are suffocating horribly on my watch, so he gets to keep them for a day or so before being required to spring them.  (My other firm rule is that I do not re-use the Tupperware once it's been shit in by crickets.)

Each time, alas, he has cried, and this was the worst one yet.  "It's so hard to say goodbye to a friend!" he wept, mirroring back to me what I'd mirrored to him before, when he bitterly mourned his first slug.  "It just hurts...so...much!"  I acknowledged his feelings, soothing him, agreeing, reminding him that it was okay to be sad -- indeed, that it was fitting.  I probably encouraged him a little too much, in fact, because the next thing he said, escalating into keening, was, "It makes me so sad...to lose such a lovable daddy longlegs...and on my second day of kindergarten, too!"

Soooo I'm thinking there just miiiight be some unarticulated anxiety squirming around inside him. 

Any other first-day-of-schoolers here?  How'd it go at your house?

There. That's all sorted, then.

Flew scare

Oh, God, your stories!  If you haven't read the comments on my last post yet, do.  You will probably never travel again, but you'll laugh.  You'll cry.  You'll stand in awe at the resilience of the indomitable human spirit.  You'll want to kick an airline or two squarely in the nuts.  And you will probably never travel again.

Did I say that twice?  Well, it bears repeating, with swears.

There was sweetcoalminer's kid running off through security.  There was KCC's trip, so bad that "at one point, I think I would have licked someone with ebola to make it end."  Jen's stomach-turning crab cakes, reminded me of a trip my aunt took, which included an immediate neighbor unwrapping and then eating a whole fish.  I felt such sympathy for Jo and her roaring constipated baby — Ben did that, too, this time, but only in the airport.  Bea's story, which was appalling overall, had me laughing, weakly and in horror, at the very phrase, "pink diarrhoea."  J's trip to her father's funeral shocked me; my condolences on your loss, J, but also on the inhumanity you endured. 

Carrie made me laugh helplessly: "Turns out that in an attempt to free the poor formula-stained, Cheerio-encrusted car seat from the drudgery of a week in Pittsburgh, the kind folks at Jet Blue sent said car seat to Las Vegas."  Cathy made me hope that the woman in her story sits next to the gentleman from LMM's story on a future flight.  Awesome Dr. Mama did a stranger a solid while a child was, ah, doing a liquid, and contributed a wise perspective: "In a way doing it solo is a little bit better because at least you don't end up hating your partner as well as your children and everyone else on the plane."

I'm impressed by Elizabeth's husband, reeling with fever, changing an RV tire in the heat; I'm made of weaker stuff because installing a car seat in the Louisiana sun nearly killed me.  I snorted aloud at Leslie's motherfucking snakes in a motherfucking backpack.  I tensed up as I read Suzanne's story, hoping that the unthinkable — her grandfather knocked down by security personnel! — didn't turn into the unendurable.  Wren's trip to India wasn't funny in the least, though I confess I laughed when she said, "The whole ordeal was horrific. So we're going to do it again."  Aggh, and poor CS — not only was her story hair-raising, she gave us the indelible image of archaeological proctologists one day extracting fossilized sticks from outraged fellow passengers.

I read these stories quickly in bits and snatches while I was away, not because I was using my iPod to do it, although I was, but because with the return trip ahead, I couldn't bear to spend much time imagining myself in anyone else's place.  I'm cringing anew at your stories today.  I don't know how you made it through — Reese made me laugh when she said, "I was a vodka tonic away from throwing myself out the emergency hatch" —  but I'm very glad you did.  Thank you for reliving the magic.

I'm almost embarrassed to tell you that our trip...was fine.  We had to run through the connecting airports on the way there, but Charlie was like a tiny O.J. Simpson.  (Remember the sprinting years, not the stabbing ones.)  Newark airport gave me a new appreciation for the power of adrenaline; nothing makes me go all turbo like stepping off the jetway to hear the final boarding call for the next flight, 80 gates away.  Improbably, we made it.  Finally seated and belted on that plane, I was so pumped I could have lifted the fully packed airplane and hurled it to its destination.  In Houston, changing planes involved long stretches on foot, a train, and two buses — by the end I wouldn't have been surprised to see a sign that said, "Proceed to Gate A309 Through Jagged Glass-Littered Crawling Tunnel" — but I was going to make that flight if it killed me.  Seemed like I pushed that stroller through the very corridors of Hell, but I gate checked it with no trouble and we got on all flights without incident.  Unless you consider my exploding aorta an incident.

When it comes to flying, Charlie is a pro.  He buckles up, intently examines the safety information card, and then ferrets out every item in the SkyMall catalog that promises either danger to children or covert surveillance.  He reads a book, another book, still another book.  He eats every snack I've packed and sips his ginger ale with the rarefied pleasure of a sommelier — airplane rides are the only time he's allowed soda, and he takes full and joyous advantage of the beverage service.  He listens to music, and he has recently graduated to watching a cartoon or two on my iPod during the last draining leg of a trip.  This time Charlie was nothing short of perfect: he hustled when I needed him to, with no complaining.  He entertained himself happily while I was occupied with Ben.  He held Ben's hand when I couldn't, often without being asked.

Ben — well, Ben did great.  Oh, he needed constant engagement, snack story story drink toy toy toy toy snack stickers toy toy stickers snack snack, but I expected that.  (I never understand why parents who travel with small children even bother to pack a book or magazine, much less whip it out in flight; during the rare moments Ben didn't need my full attention to stave off whimpering or seat-kicking, I was too frazzled to do more than loll against the seat back, headrestborne ebola notwithstanding.)  There was no excretion of note, except in the one airport where we had a long layover, and no real crying, though I admit I interrupted more than one escalating whine by cramming his fusshole with cookies.

And it was such a good visit, aside from the fact that visiting Louisiana in August is like burying your face in the aromatic crotch of Ignatius J. Reilly: oh, sure, it sounds good, but...  But.  Although it was too hot and soupy outside to do much more than wander out, gasp, clutch your faltering heart, and stumble back indoors, we had a wonderful time.  Both kids were aces.  My grandmother's doing well, and loved playing with the boys.  My mother, hey, you know how I feel about seeing her.  We saw my uncles and most of my cousins.  Worth it, of course, as I'd known it would be.

And, damn it, I'm running out of time to write here this morning.  It's killing me because there's more I want to talk about with you.  There's this story about a judge blocking federal funding for embryonic stem cell research.  There's our upcoming home visit — home visit, y'all! — from Charlie's kindergarten teacher, later this afternoon.  There's Alexa's book, which you really, really need to read now if you haven't.

But all I have time to add is my thanks.  I always love hearing your stories, whether about serious stuff like infertility and loss or about more mundane challenges like how to keep from cockpunching a snotty flight attendant or a nasty fellow passenger.  Several of you said you were now afraid to travel after reading everyone's comments, and I agree.  We should be. 

My best advice, after you finish with the practical tips like snacking your kids into a coma and carrying three full outfits for every traveler, plus a waterproof rain suit and a Shop-Vac, is this: stay scared.  Let that fear inform your every action.  Maintain a condition of energizing terror.  That state of catlike tension will tell you to pack way too much, which might be just enough.  It'll propel you through airports as if your Maclaren were an Acme rocket sled.  It'll let you make that Elmo finger puppet dance, you whoreson, dance, for the whole interminable flight.  Then, if it turns out to be...not that awful..., as my trip did, you will feel lightheaded with relief.  And maybe gratitude, too, since you've seen how bad it can be.

Come fly with me

I was standing in a convenience store in front of the racks of single-serving snacks, trying to decide between a cereal bar boasting 30% More Juicy Floor Sweepin's and a granola bar promising High Fructastic Flavorgasms in Every Bite.  The clerk noticed my indecision, I guess, because in a surprisingly courtly fashion he asked if he could help me find anything.

"No, thanks," I told him.  "I'm picking out snacks to take on an airplane with my kids."

"In that case," he said, "may I recommend horse tranquilizers?"

Tomorrow Charlie, Ben, and I are flying to Louisiana to visit my family.  I am terrified.  I flew with Charlie when he was this age, but by then he'd flown several times already, enough to be used to it.  And I've flown with Ben and Charlie as a solo adult, but Ben was much younger and markedly less...everything...than he is now.  Although Charlie's behavior on airplanes never caused a problem — I do not consider inopportune excretion behavior, per se — Ben is a different kid under different circumstances, and I'm well aware that as far as that particular kind of luck goes, my number is up.

It's a crappy trip and I'm dreading everything about it, from the time my alarm goes off at 3:45 AM tomorrow morning to the time we arrive at my grandmother's house.  The thing is — and this comes up in every discussion I've ever witnessed about the numerous difficulties of traveling with small children, which usually features angry travelers claiming kids shouldn't be taken onto airplanes until they reach some arbitrarily decided age of reason, like, what?  — I know it's worth it.  There's nothing either kid could do en route that will make me think it'd be better to stay home than to take my sons to visit my mom and my 91-year-old grandmother.  (Don't get any ideas, Charlie. The escape slide thing is played out.)

So I will master my own fears — airport sprints; delayed flights; irritable toddler; airplane bathrooms and the mysterious blue fluid appertaining thereto — and go.  If you happen to be traveling through any of four airports tomorrow, or on any of three airplanes, between the hours of 6 AM and Holy Jesus Fuck We've Been on This Plane for Days, and you see me trudging down the concourse pushing a stroller and dragging a kindergartener, smile!  Say hi.  Wave.  And ask me for some of my horse tranqs, because tomorrow I'll be packing.

What's your worst travel story?  By the end of the day tomorrow, I may need to be reminded how much worse it could have gotten.

Troupers

Not to belabor the point or anything, Acclaimed Traveling Youth Circus, but if it's all the same to you, could you please stop coming to town on the day my father died?  It's getting kind of old.

If I hadn't already written it, I'd write that post today.  The feelings are the same, though thankfully somewhat muted.  I think it's getting better.

Last year I couldn't watch the performers without wanting to wave my arms in panic and shout, "Watch out, Hyperflexible Tween!  Duuuuck!  Here comes Deeeaaaaaaath!"  Not in the literal sense; they seemed adequately belayed.  But in the metaphorical: they are all so young, crackling with vitality.  They're unfazed by their mistakes; they pick up that juggling club or that unicycle or that Spangled Throwing Moppet and go on with the act.  They've mastered that performer's bravado, and, God, I just eat it up.  Watching their faces, smiling and intent, it's possible to imagine that sadness hasn't touched them yet.  And it will if it hasn't already, of course, so last year I sat there tense, worried on their behalf.  This year that feeling was fleeting.  I recognized several troupers this time, kids I've seen each summer for years now.  They're all getting better and growing up.  They're all going to be okay.

Mostly, I am, too.  This year I cried a few times, discrete, instead of for three hours straight. This year my kids were just who they are instead of bittersweet reminders.  This year I forgot the tickets we'd held the year my dad died en route, and how I'd frantically tried to give them away as he lay in the hospital dying.  I only just remembered them now.

I wonder if the day will come when I watch the circus with simple careless enjoyment.  I don't know if I'm not far out enough yet, or if I've somehow escaped the horrible moment where you think of a loved one and realize the memory is fading, where you helplessly notice he's slipping farther away.  That fresh burst of grief hasn't come.  I have to assume it will.  It wouldn't surprise me one bit if it comes while I sit there in the stands.

Antipescetarianism

God, it's just so funny, the way a two-year-old rages.  There were three separate tantrums today, the most notable just after dinner.  Ben had pronounced himself all finished, shoving his plate away resolutely, fish uneaten and asparagus ignored.  The rest of us went on with our meal, more or less tuning out Ben's impatient bleating.  We'd freed him from his booster seat, because although we're working on increasing the length of time we expect him to stay at the table, Jesus, who can listen to that for long?

He took his cup and fork into the kitchen, and we kept eating while he buzzed laps around the dining room.  Charlie, who's intensely fond of anything you can haul out of a body of water, up to and probably including a still-writhing kraken, asked for more fish.  Since Ben's portion was untouched, Paul took it off his plate and passed it over to Charlie.  Ben noticed and stopped in his tracks mid-lap.  He drew a breath, flung himself to the floor, and, holy shit, it was like Fishamagoddamngeddon.

"My fish!" he hollered, beating his heels and fists against the floor exactly like every caricature of a toddler you've ever seen, only redder and louder and practically levitating, so forceful was his wrath.  He hadn't wanted it earlier, and he certainly didn't want it now, but worse than the prospect of eating it was seeing it passed along.  "My fish!" he bellowed, doing a furious centipede [video]. (Note: Despite the song's eponymous promise, no one in the video actually does the centipede, and I don't know what the hell the tiger's doing there, because it's all like, "Wait, so this soundstage isn't 'Union of the Snake,' then?" and speaking of snakes, I'm pretty sure that blinky-eyed cobra is just phoning it in...from beyonnnnd the graaaave.  But ignore me because I admit it: I know nothing of art.)

Anyway, it eventually occurred to Ben that he wanted his fork back.  So he ran over to the kitchen, keening the whole way, and tried very hard to get it from the sink.  But the kid's still knee-high to an InSinkErator and of course he couldn't reach it, and it just got worse and worse, funnier and funnier.  I'm not sure what he wanted his fork for — to stab his perfidious father? to excise the fish from the gullet of his brother? — but it sure wasn't so he could eat any Arctic char.  Paul eventually gave him a fresh utensil, which Ben immediately jammed back into the drawer with a frenzied howl.  "No fresh fork!  No Dad give my fork!  No way!"  Luckily he made it off the tile and back onto the rug before once again hurling himself into the canonical position, face down and flailing.

By this time Paul and I were practically weeping with suppressed laughter.  I don't know, maybe I'm not supposed to find it funny, this turbulence over not-even-Ben-is-exactly-sure-what.  But it strikes me as...can I say cute?  I can surely say dear...how passionate he feels, how baffled he is in the moment, how much he needs our help to get him through it.

And of course we did help him, insofar as it was possible.  I made one last offer of the fish that remained on his plate.  When he set the plate flying with a single perfectly judged kick, Paul scooped him up, still screaming, limp with outrage, and kept him upstairs until bathtime.  Despite offers of stories, songs, and for all I know hookers and smack, Ben continued to yell for a good fifteen minutes.  He occasionally made a break for it, heading for the top of the stairs, loudly announcing his intent to go downstairs.  Why?  "My fish," of course, which he had no intention of eating, then or during the meal.

At the moment the tantrums don't faze me.  It's so clear to me that he's not in control, that it's not a question of discipline, his or ours.  Maybe there's something else we should have done besides largely ignoring it then removing him from the scene — you think?  Right now I'm just pleased, and I must say sort of surprised, that I didn't laugh out loud.

...

Charlie is in love.  Today it's his kindergarten teacher, whom he met when we visited the school today.  "Doesn't she have a kind face?" he sighed later, out of the blue, holding the school's photocopied picture of her near to his throbbing heart.  This weekend it was Oro, whom he met briefly at her workplace.  "I didn't know she'd be that nice," he said breathily.  "Now she's in my heart.  When I'm older I'll probably marry her."  This is an improvement, I believe, from his previous plan, which was to marry me.  (Our love could never be, I told him.  "Why not?" he asked, aggrieved.  It's obvious, kid, to anyone with eyes: you're simply too good for me.)

...

I have posted Charlie's self-portrait everywhere else, so I might as well stick it here, too.

Let's just say the digital camera Paul bought Charlie has been a worthwhile investment.

...

Charlie was asking about some friends who don't have kids.  He said, "What's the point of a family if there aren't any children?"  And what could I say to that, except, Whoa, hey, bloggable moment?