Gingerbread Man

I spent the week and much of the weekend entirely consumed with John and Abigail's story. More about love and friendship than I realized, it has evoked tears and laughter and prompted me to plan a trip to visit their home in Quincy. Their story has truly touched my heart and I'm indebted to David McCullough for making it accessible through his book. Their love letters, which are passionate and numerous, particularly during the periods in their lives when they were apart, even compelled me to take time to add a line to my own love story, one I share with Jason. Arranging a date night meant, for the boys, a long overdue sleep over at Auntie and Uncle's, and an extended stay for Gingerbread Man.

Gingerbread Man first came into our lives about two weeks ago when I pulled out Christmas gifts my Aunt Ann had sent for the boys. I often save these for January or February when we're stuck inside and could use a new toy or stuffy to play with. A few weekends ago this situation presented itself. The plush consistency and irregular wrapping were a sure give away - they were stuffed animals, and I knew their appeal could go either way.

It's impossible to know which stuffy the boys will bond with, and which will be tossed aside. What makes one stuffy the sweet favorite who gets carried and cuddled, another a mean spirited bully who needs to be

separated from the others, or another void of any personality, and thus not given a second thought, is a beautiful mystery.

When the iridescent red paper was peeled away it revealed two stuffed bears, one white and one brown, each topped with a Santa hat and clutching a small gingerbread man. Possessing that intangible quality that makes them lovable, the bears were immediately introduced to our large family of stuffies, and were embraced by all.

Later that evening, as I read aloud the latest installment of Klondike Kid, Four sat on the floor with his new bear, discretely up to something. When he jumped up with scissors in one hand, Gingerbread Man in the other yelling, "He's free! He's free! I freed Gingerbread Man!", we knew we were witnessing the beginning of a special friendship. It came as no surprise, then, that before the boys came home from their sleep over with Auntie, Four announced that Gingerbread Man would stay behind "to keep Auntie and Uncle company, so they won't be lonely".

The first stuffy to have a private sleep over with Auntie was his much loved Lobstery. Auntie was instructed to feed Lobstery cheese and brownies, and to allow him to sit on her shoulder as she cooked so he could watch. From this was born Auntie's idea of creating the Lobster Blog, in an effort to keep Four abreast of his stuffies' adventures while in her tender car. While we await this blog, I will relay their experiences and the pictures Auntie sends via this new tag, Lobster Chronicles.

This weekend the instructions regarding Gingerbread Man's diet and care were no less specific than those for Lobstery. Gingerbread Man is to eat, of course, cinnamon. He will also eat pancakes, as long as they are made with his favorite spice. When, on Monday afternoon, Four realized he had forgotten to provide Gingerbread Man's napping schedule, he quickly called Auntie to report this information.

That Four selects only his most loved stuffed animals to be cared for and nurtured by Auntie and Uncle, and that the idea was his alone, is just the sweetest thing. He is giving them the most precious gift he can give - a stuffy that he loves and that brings him joy. And this separation makes his heart grow fonder, as he wonders out loud what they are up to at Auntie's house.

6 candles?

I'm not generally weepy over birthdays. We all know time goes by quickly when we're watching our children grow and change. But this number caught me by surprise.

Of course I knew Five was turning Six. I know what year it is and though I may not always appear sane, like the time I called my friend crying from the closet, or the infamous grocery store incident that led to my husband doing the shopping for a month straight, I do actually have myself pulled together most of the time. So when you ask me my kids ages, I will respond appropriately.

Six, I would say. Four and six. But on Five's sixth birthday this year our remodeling project was in full swing (it still is), so auntie offered to make the cake and have our small family party at her house. She made a decadent, round, double layer vanilla cake, all from scratch, even the frosting. The body and layer of the cake was covered with creamy vanilla and the top and bottom were lined with delicate chocolate flower petals. She arranged the candles in two sets of three. Two sets of three. When it came time for cake, my sister lit the candles and then I offered to bring the cake to my birthday boy, in hindsight perhaps I was stealing her thunder, she did all the work, after all. But as I began singing Happy Birthday, I looked down at this incredible cake and saw the candle arrangement for the first time. I counted in my head. I counted again. While still singing, I whispered to my sister, "You put too many candles on the cake."

She looked down, confused, and said, "There's six."

"I know," I said, still singing.

She looked at me, differently now, and I detected I deeper sense of confusion, even worry. "He's six," she said with gentle firmness.

I had reached the table at that point, and put a smile on through my tears. I cried all the way home.

Outwitted by my four year old

This morning I glance up from my laptop to find my son pulling apart the tuna fish sandwich I have just made, at his request. He has taken the top off and is beginning to pick at the tuna with his fingers. I let out an audible sigh, a mixture of exhaustion and frustration that I often feel but seldom express. When did I become a slave to this small child? I try to muster a kind voice, one void of judgement and disappointment, but instead it comes out flat, and it sounds like someone else has spoken.

"Please don't pull your sandwich apart."

He looks up at me. His huge brown eyes are framed with thick, black lashes. He looks like a little man, a miniature of his father. He purses his red lips. This is one of his signature expressions. He has an array of such gestures. He crinkles his forehead and squints his eyes when he is angry, or pretending to be, in an attempt to make what he calls "angry eyebrows." When he's being thoughtful, he brings his right hand to his chin, stroking it with his thumb and pointer finger, the same motion his father makes while stroking his beard.

Now his pursed lips form the familiar word, "Mom."

Sometimes when I hear this word I'm reminded of when my oldest was first beginning to speak. I was on the sofa, drifting between sleep and the only slightly more mindful state that was my reality. The baby was sleeping and my oldest, all of twenty-one months, was playing with trucks on the large braided wool rug in the living room. I became aware of the word "Mama, Mama," being repeated over and over again, but all I could think was, Why does he keep saying that word? That's not my name. Now I turn whenever I hear that word, or any form of it, coming from any small mouth. It has not just become my new name, it defines me in every way.

"Mom," he says again. "Do you want me to act like myself?"

This is something I have been saying to him now and then, when I notice him behaving like a friend of his. Now he's using this to his advantage, setting me up.

"Yes, of course I do."

"Well," he announces in his sweet four year old voice while stretching his arms open and over the table, in a laying-it-all-on-the-table gesture, "this is what I do."