My three and a half year-old son got to do two things this week that really rocked his world.
The first was bringing his parents to pre-school for Visitation Day. In reality, it was Visitation Hour. It was sweet — circle time, the songs, sharing the whole routine with all of the parents (the dad whose car I almost stole last week was not there, thankfully). My son was assigned the calendar and weather job, which he loved and dutifully performed — further reinforcing my belief that he will grow up with the same affinity for tracking storm fronts as other people in my family (you know who you are).
Then it was craft time.
Can I just make a side confession? We’re not craft people in Fordeville. None of us. Books? Check. Toys? Of course. Outdoor play? We’re there. But you’ll never find me spreading out an assortment of sticks, pine cones, glue and glitter for a rainy day project. Maybe if my kids showed interest, I would — and maybe, someday, that will be the case. But now, they don’t even like the sight of a crayon — never mind cutting, drawing or gluing. This could be my genetic contribution. Craft stores freak me out. The whole scrapbooking phenomenon leaves me confused. Jewelry making sounds dizzying.
But there we were, The Uncrafty Three, trying to make a simple cut out project. My husband and I feigned interest for the sake of the group activity at hand, but my son was having none of it. Let’s be clear: If there is not a train, other vehicle or some type of novice engineering (paternal genetics at hand there) involved, no dice for him. So he snuck off to the side with his dad to take on serious high-rise construction matters while I completed the craft trauma.
If my hands hadn’t been covered in glue, I would have taken a photo of our ridiculous family craft end product for your entertainment. It could easily double as an All Points Bulletin to permanently keep me from ever leading any scouting troop in America.
I always find it fascinating to see how pre school teachers operate — and I love the women who teach at my son’s school. They are doing God’s work with a room full of three year-olds and, in truth, getting my son to fall in line. He has a pretty serious stubborn streak and they are great with him. This picture cracks me up because my son (in the red shirt) is in his class line-up but he’s all, “Hey, let’s cause some trouble” with his accomplice in the rugby shirt — and that kid is all, “I can take a meeting next week to discuss this further.”
I loved seeing him in his element at school — he’s himself, both the good and the, uh, less obedient, but he’s also a little different — feeling out how to socialize, where his niche is — and, largely, how to avoid arts and crafts. It was great.
The second big to-do for him this week was our invitation to the third birthday party of my dear friend’s son in the city this morning. We were excited to see them and celebrate — and also ride in on the train. This journey on NJ Transit was like a Disney World vacation for my son. He was utterly mesmerized.
Even if the noise got to him a little.
He was glued to the window, talking of tracks, hopper cars, quarries, smelters (don’t ask me — I’m still learning about this stuff). Also, Jersey Haters, here’s some visual fodder for any stereotypes of the state that you have embraced. Admittedly, this route is not our best foot forward.
The party was held at a DIY pottery place — which was so great — though it forced the Anti-Crafter to emerge for the second time this week. So he left me to paint his plaster stegosaurus, while the extent of his crafting was assessing the color composition of the M&Ms bowl. But no matter, he loved the opportunity to torture everyone with his tales from the rails.
In all of our fun at the party, we ended up missing our train home, which meant having to kill an hour in Penn Station — not really Manhattan’s finest attraction. On cold days, and particularly on weekends, all brands of Special Crazy come out of the woodwork there. As far as I can tell, it’s where Giuliani exported all of the shadiness that he purged from Times Square. And he sent the city’s collective smell of urine to reside there as well. Good times. In my head, I had just one prayer: Please, God, please — Do not let this child tell me that he has to use the bathroom while we’re here. I beg you. I don’t have a HazMat suit in my bag.
But I’m not afraid to coat my kid in Purel from head to toe if I have to.
Thankfully, it didn’t come to that. I distracted my son and his bladder with a cheesy NYC souvenirs store in the station to pass the time. I told him he could choose one vehicle to take home, which he carefully considered for about six minutes.
It was a big decision.
He was in Transportation Heaven, while I tried to block out the distinct scent of pee.
But that’s OK. I had two great events this week with my beloved genetic Anti-Crafting partner.
As a fellow utterly-hopeless crafter, I’m hoping you can also confirm or deny being utterly hopeless in a few other parenting categories:
1. While driving with the kids, choosing between cheesy childrens’ music or my iPod playlist (which may or may not include Cee-Lo’s big hit.) I generally go for the latter.
2. Being a “class mom” – volunteering for snack time, helping plan the school auction, etc. etc. I can’t do it. And I really don’t want to. But my guilt makes me swing between two beliefs – either the rest of the moms don’t work full time, or I hate my children and don’t care about their education.
3. Limiting my kids’ television time to 1 hour a day. I use that hour up as I’m showering, putting make-up on, fixing their breakfast and getting them dressed every morning before I leave for work. Television shouldn’t be a babysitter. But it can certainly be an assistant.
Okay. I’m done now. If you have any of these things in common with me, please share. If not – at least we have non-crafting to keep up connected.
We were always meant to be great friends. I knew this years ago and it is further affirmed as of now.
If there were a more elegant response than “big ass ditto” to everything you said, I would word it as such. And if it makes you feel better, I even got my family hooked on the Cee-Lo song (radio-friendly version). Full story here: http://wp.me/p14mJk-8k
Great post! And thanks to commenter Kim above for taking away some of my own guilt. My son is at a stage where music and singing and dancing are dumb. He only listens to ditties from the hockey arena. It’s pretty much a lot of da-da-da-DAH-da-DAH CHARGE and the freaking chicken dance. I promptly bought him his own iPod and loaded every stadium song ever created onto it because I think his childhood will be a lot better if his mother is not carted away to an asylum.
I also am not a crafter, though my mind has lots of ideas that my hands can’t translate into existence. My son avoided all things craft-related, preferring to focus on the mechanical, until recently. He’s 11. He hated to color and cut and glue. Imagine my surprise when we received a letter from the school district indicating that one of his art projects had been selected to hang in the Administration Building. It was a water color and I was absolutely stunned by how good it was. Go figure.
Let’s hear it for the anti-crafters, and hats off to Kim H for absolving our collective guilt over the other items 🙂
Great shot of him looking out the window of the train — it’s so wonderful (and peaceful) when you catch them lost in thought like that.