Category Archives: RowanTalk

Last first day of preschool.

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Rowan starts school today. In a few hours, his sisters and I will walk him into a new room at his old school. He graduated this year to the Hickory Room and a new teacher, leaving the Birch Room and its old teachers behind. Gratefully, there will be some familiar faces, some friends from last year who will move up along with him.

Doubtless, there will be some clinging, some longing to keep me close to his side. Maybe even some tears. His sisters will hug him and guide him to a spot to play, encouraging him with kindness and reassurance that all will be okay. Experience has shown this sadness will not last long after we’ve gone.

He will slowly warm up and jump into the mix, remembering old routines of outside play time, snack and lunch and then rest time. Later, when he spies us coming to collect him in the playground-known-as-the-outside-classroom, he will be reassured by the routine, relieved to know we have not forgotten him. He will either come racing toward me and jump into my arms with the world’s biggest smile on his face—the most frequent way this plays out—or delight in climbing the rock wall once or twice more, running around and reveling in his last minutes of play time. He will tell us he doesn’t want to leave and then my heart will be happy.

We have had a great summer. There were trips home to Pennsylvania to see family, to Maine to go camping, to Lake George to try fishing and tubing and swimming, untethered, for hours a day. There was learning to ride pedal bikes, for both Frances and Rowan, and showing fierce determination in wanting to practice day after day to hone their skills. There were countless hours Rowan spent swinging a plastic bat, earning fewer hits than misses, but loving every minute someone would give him some pitching time. His dedication astounds us sometimes. There was tree climbing in the front yard under Nora’s guidance and tutelage. There were hikes and kayak adventures and imaginary house-playing with babies and stuffies and tea parties. We even reached new heights in whining and complaining and being impatient, the likes of which we may not have witnessed with the girls. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten.

Although Rowan still relies on a lot of us to do things for him, like make paper airplanes, open yogurts, and have our bed available so he can still climb in every night at some point undetected, he is growing fast and becoming more and more independent.

I cling to him fiercely when he passes by and he’ll let me hug him, pick him up, and squeeze him. Sometimes I force it. He’s the only kid I can still pick up with ease and I know the day is soon coming when it’ll be a struggle.

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I know the goal of parenting is to nurture our babies toward independence. To help them become kind, self-sufficient citizens who will care for themselves and others. But it sure would be nice to keep them little, wouldn’t it?

I wanna hold your ha-ah-ah-ah-and. I wanna hold your hand.

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There is full-on Beatlemania in our house right now. It’s been the soundtrack to the second half of our summer, along with Rowan’s variations of the lyrics to the ditty commonly known as “Do you know the Muffin Man?” For example: Do you know the Ice Cream Man? The one who lives on Sprinkles Lane, of course. And then there’s: Do you know the Motorcycle Man? He happens to live on Muffin Man Lane. And finally, the ever popular Golf Man, who sometimes, like the Muffin Man, lives on Drury Lane, or when Rowan has difficulty pronouncing that—Journey Lane.

Our Beatlemania began when I picked up a Kidz Bop Beatles cover songs CD at the local library. The girls recognized two right away—Blackbird and Let it Be—since Liam had included them on a past playlist of bedtime songs. We listened to the CD nonstop in the car for two weeks. Nora wanted us to skip around to all her favorites, while Rowan wanted to listen to one specific song only on repeat, and Frances demanded to hear every song, without skipping, as she emphatically stated she loved them all.

When we are not in the car, the kids are either humming or singing Beatles tunes, or asking for them to be played on the various devices around the house. When I mentioned their Beatles love to a good friend recently, she told me about an animated kids’ show on Netflix called Beat Bugs, which includes Beatles songs in each episode. Naturally, they are addicted to that now too.

I’m excited for them to hang out with my mom in a couple of weeks when she comes to visit, so they can serenade her and she can sing along. I love that they love music that reminds so much of my mom. And I love that they love music that is timeless and just so, so good.

Nora’s favorite: Let it Be

Rowan’s favorite: Blackbird

Frances’s favorite: all of them

The evolution of a knock-knock joke.

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This past school year our family really got into jokes and riddles. Nora especially became a fan as her much beloved music teacher often read riddles aloud on the morning announcements, asking for kids to turn in solutions to him throughout the week.

She would come home and try to remember the riddles as she relayed them to us at dinner time. She would frequently leave out major details, leaving us all confused and very entertained in the process.

We stopped at the library several times to pick out some joke books, and the knock-knock ones quickly became family favorites. Even Rowan began to catch on and participate in his own special way.

His earliest knock-knock jokes all sounded like this:

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Pencil.

Pencil who?

Pencil go on a airplane.

————

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Cookie.

Cookie who?

Cookie go on a airplane.

He would repeat jokes using this formula, subbing in any object he happened to spy lying around for the thing that would be destined to go on the airplane. Although how the airplane came to be in the first place, I’m not sure I can recall. Eventually, potty talk won out, as it always does, and the same joke frequently turned out this way:

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Poopy.

Poopy who?

Poopy go on a airplane.

Sometimes we would even cut him off and supply our own airplane punchline, stealing away his predictable thunder.

Later, the jokes varied slightly, seeming to make more sense, although still not in keeping with the true intention of the knock-knock joke. These were of the sporty variety:

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Soccer ball.

Soccer ball who?

Soccer ball go in the net.

———–

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Basketball.

Basketball who?

Basketball go in the hoop.

———–

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Golf ball.

Golf ball who?

Golf ball go in the hole.

And on and on and on. Different sport. Different ball, or puck, or whatever, different goal. You get it.

I’m hoping this year, that if jokes become a running theme of our family dinners once again, we will get to experience further evolution of the Rowan knock-knock joke.

Heard around the house. The Rowan version.

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Me: “Who spilled granola all over the floor?”

Rowan: “My do it!” (then, after more consideration) “No me do it!”

And, another common breakfast conversation:

Liam: “Rowan, do you want raisins in your oatmeal?”

Rowan: “Yep.”

Liam: “And syrup and yogurt?”

Rowan: “Yep. But no mix it up it, daddy. No mix it up it.”

Liam: “Nope. I won’t mix it up it.”

Me: “Rowan, stop picking your lip.”

Rowan: “I not.”

Me: “And please put on your shoes.”

Rowan: “I mam. I mam putting on my shoes.”

Heard around the house.

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When your youngest child has difficulty pronouncing family names, yet no one can keep from poking fun at him.

Nora: “Rowan, say ‘Nora.'”

Rowan: “Nor-nor.”

Nora and Frances: (giggling)

Nora: “No, Rowan. Not Nor-nor. Nor-UH. Now, say ‘Nor.'”

Rowan: “Nor.”

Nora: “Say ‘Uh'”

Rowan: “Uh.”

Nora: “Good, now put them together: Nor-UH.”

Rowan: “Nor-nor!”

Nora and Frances (cracking up): “Nooo!”

This went on like this for about five rounds, each time with Rowan saying the parts correctly, but resorting to ‘Nor-nor’ when prompted to string the syllables together, much to the girls’ frustration and delight. Finally, he countered with Nor-NUH, which we all deemed was progress.

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And, while he can’t say his name correctly, he can certainly HEAR when his name is being said back to him incorrectly.

Nora: “Rowan, what’s your name?”

Rowan: “Oh-nin”

Nora (giggling): “Oh-nin?”

Rowan (also giggling): “No! ‘Ooooh-nin.'”

As if elongating the long /o/ sound somehow makes the silent /r/ more audible.

Nora (mockingly): “Oh, so your name is Oh-nin.”

Rowan: “No! ‘Ooooooh-nin.'”

Hahaha. We have a lot of fun around here. Poor guy. 🙂

Bedtime play.

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The girls were so tickled by my retelling of the events that led to their brother charging into their bedroom the other night, that I thought it best to capture the moment here before it’s soon forgotten. 

Typically, Rowan falls asleep nursing. Calmly and dependably usually. However, the past few days he’s been like a wild animal at bedtime. It could be due to the fact he’s overtired since we’ve been on vacation time. Or maybe it’s the opposite—he’s getting older and just doesn’t require as much sleep. Or maybe I can just blame it on my usual culprit—teething. Who really knows. 

Anyway, the other night, after Rowan had performed several acrobatic feats while somehow miraculously staying latched, he’d decided he was going to be finished with the nursing business, yet remain quite wide awake. 

We played a little game of turn-taking, with me asking him to put his head down and him saying a whiny ‘no.’ Then, he’d proceed to roll around on the bed. Following that, he crawled way down under the covers until he disappeared, popped his head out, and then crawled back in again. He also spun around in circles, breakdance style, stopping with his head at the opposite end of the bed and doing a few—nicely executed I might say—rounds of downward dog. 

Across the hall, he heard Liam begin reading bedtime stories to the girls and he stilled to listen. Then, he crawled backwards down off the bed and headed for the door, not wanting to miss out on any fun they might be having without him. 

“No,” I warned firmly. He disregarded me and walked to the door leading to the connecting bathroom. He jiggled the knob this way and that, unable to maneuver his small wrist the quarter turn necessary to pop open the door.

Not one to give up quickly, he tried the other bedroom door, which led to the hallway. Jiggle jiggle. Jiggle jiggle. No luck.

So, he climbed back into bed, which is generally a real struggle and fun to watch, with the joint effort of hands gripping the sheets and feet kick-climbing up the mattress.

Then, we began again:

“Rowan, put your head down.”

“No.”

“It’s time for bed. You need to close your eyes.”

“No.”

Roll around. Under the covers and out again. Spin, spin. Crawl backwards down from the bed. Walk to bathroom door. Jiggle jiggle. Doesn’t budge. Walk to hallway door. Jiggle jiggle. No luck. Climb and scurry back into bed. Repeat, repeat.

After about five rounds of in and out of bed, he finally managed to jiggle jiggle one of the doors open. He took two seconds to look back at me as if asking permission. I gave him a stern look, although how I wasn’t cracking up, I don’t know. He took my lack of words as a go-ahead, and wasted no more time. He headed off in the direction of the girls’ room.

I heard them all squeal when they saw him: “Rowan?! What are you doing in here?”

He was pleased as punch to be there, and did not appreciate at all being removed a minute later. As I had had quite enough of his bedtime shenanigans, I let Liam take over. Of course, he had Rowan to bed in under ten minutes then. “It’s because you don’t walk him around,” he explained when I gave him a disdainful look.

No, I don’t. It’s not the mother’s job to walk the kid around. It’s the mother’s job to nurse if she chooses. And if that doesn’t work, well hell if I’m going to do anything extra. 

Anyway, I climbed into bed with the girls and told them all about how Rowan jiggle-jiggled the doors about a hundred times, climbing back into bed between rounds, before opening one and making his great escape. Their giggles were proof they were so genuinely delighted by the imagined actions of their little brother. I couldn’t help but laugh along with them.

My son can successfully identify his penis, but not his mother and father.

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It seems I’ve fallen off the writing wagon. Last night I favored listening to an engaging Radio Lab episode. And the night before last I accidentally got consumed by looking at area rugs on my phone. Two hours later I decided going to bed was a higher priority than writing a blog post.

Tonight, I’m trying to fit it all in while the kids take a bath. 

Speaking of bath, let’s move on to the topic of tonight’s post. My currently naked son has been able to identify his penis for nearly a month. Wahoo!

Like most males, he’s fond of his manly bits. He likes to touch and explore his anatomy in between diaper changes, in the tub, and generally, any time he’s naked. I’ve been naming his parts for awhile now, and this is the only one which he can successfully point to or look at when I ask, “Where’s your penis?”

However, ask him where his belly button, or eyes, nose and tongue are, and he looks completely baffled. 

Also, it should be noted that, nine times out of ten, when you ask him: “Where’s mama?” Or, “Where’s daddy?,” he just puts his hands on top of his head. Doesn’t even look in the direction of the mentioned adult. The other one time he raises his hands straight up in the air— a vestigial action from his very first parlor trick “How big is Rowan?!”

Just perfect.