Pan

All of our children share a room, the master bedroom, in fact. When my aunt Mimi came to live with us, we had to switch things around to make room in our little house. So she took the little boys' room, Dawn and I moved into the big kids' room and all the kids into the master. I took to calling it the nursery. Storm DID NOT think that was cool. It's been really good for them, though.

They've learned patience and teamwork. They've learned each other and bonded in ways that can only happen when 2, 3 or 4 children are openly defying their parents together. After midnight. With flashlights. And candy. They have had late night conversations that I only dare to imagine. They have slept in every combination in every bed in the room. They have switched pajamas. They have switched pillows and blankets. They have rearranged wall hangings. All of it TOGETHER. And even when I have been ready to pull my hair straight from its weary roots, I have reveled in their adoration for each other.

Dawn and I always said that we thought we would just know when it was time for Storm or Faith to move into his/her own room. And that day has come. Tonight will be Storm's first night in his own room, which means that he has spent his last night in the nursery. And I am sad.

He is my first little boy. My greatest challenge. The sweetest and most difficult of my children. The most easily hurt. The most sensitive and the most senseless. My eight-year old enigma.

The age difference between Storm and Faith (3 years) has finally become more of a distraction than a strength. Faith finally has more in common with William and Ray than with Storm. Storm is interested in big boy things, the itty bitty legos that hurt like hell when you step on them, chapter books, Erector sets. He wants to watch shows that have kids as the main characters instead of farm animals. He wants to watch Dirty Jobs and Mythbusters instead of The Backyardigans and The Wonder Pets.

So now I suppose he's also my first big boy. And I have yet another room rearranging day ahead of me. Tonight I'll tuck him in and remind him to turn off his lamp. I'll check on him later and take the book out of his hand. I'll close his door and briefly pause before heading into the much quieter nursery. And for just a second, I bet that I will miss the chaos. The pirates and the indians, my lost boys, my Pan.

Mystery Solved

Nurture vs. Nature. It's an age-old question, and one that is bound to come up in the lives of my children. Storm and Faith are fathered by the poster child for the American Melting Pot. He most closely identifies as African-American. William and Ray are fathered by a pasty white Brit. Unfortunately, the children don't see them as often as any of us would like because the guys are both in the Army and have spent so much time overseas.

It's an interesting arrangement, no doubt. We get LOTS of questions and avoid many others. My favorite? "Which ones are yours?" And I say, "All of them." And Bitchy Ignoramuses say, "No, I said 'Which of the children are yours?'" And I say, "Yes, Ma'am. And I said, 'All of them.'" And they say, "Oooooooooh!" in a sing-songy way that betrays both their surprise and disapproval. I cut my eyes, smile and twirl Faith's hair around my finger.

So I spend a fair amount of time studying my children. I not only revel in their smiles and squeals and questions and answers; but I LOOK at them. I look for Dawn and Big Storm in Storm and Faith. I look for myself and Jack in William and Ray. Physical features are easy, but still need to be catalouged. The kids like to talk about where their eyes came from and how they got their toes and "who has hair like me." It's also good for the guys, I think. They need to hear about the obvious presence of their DNA when all else fails. Storm looks EXACTLY like Big Storm - perfect smile and Fred Flintstone feet, and William and Ray ARE Jack from the neck down - narrow shoulders and soccer-player legs.

What plagues me, though, are the weird habits and preferences/obsessions. One, in particular, really irks me. I have watched Storm do this for a couple of years now, and have been close to throwing-up for a couple of years now. He twitches his nose and then, with his palm parallel to his face, starts with the tip of his middle finger and rubs his entire hand and forearm up his face. This behavior has been a total mystery to me. I have NEVER, in my entire life, seen anyone else do this. Until tonight.

We found a new-to-us beach dive. Open-air, fresh seafood, good beer on tap, a little band - our kind of place. The kids were playing on the beach and Dawn and I were enjoying a rare moment alone. I was in mid-sentence when her nose started twitching. Her strong, capable hand came up; and as I held my breath and did my best to keep my eyes from popping out of my head, she performed the manuever.

Damn!

That's one less thing I can blame on THEM.

.

Why do we own a shoe rack? Part II

This morning, my children were engaged in the daily race to find their shoes before Dawn picks them up shoeless and carries them to the car forcing them to wear "school shoes" when they get there. (This is one of the perks that we pay for with our plasma at the private school. If our children refuse to get dressed in the morning, we are encouraged to bring them in their pajamas. The teachers will then lead them to the bathroom, hand them some clothes and instruct them to stay there until they are properly dressed for school. I gotta tell you, each of the kids has only had to do that once.) This morning it was Storm who was hopping around in one shoe. Faith joined in the hunt in a rare show of sportsmanship. I was changing Ray's sizeable and mushy load when I heard Faith running down the hall screaming, "Storm! I found it!" She slid to a halt right at the door of the bedroom and slung the shoe right into the poop.