When we first moved to this neighborhood, 3 years ago, we decided to be civically minded and join the neighborhood association. 4 months later, we went to our first meeting in the dining hall of the Russian Orthodox Catholic Church. I remember sitting in the meeting, doodling because I am completely incapable of paying attention to anything, when I heard a booming voice come from the other side of the room. A larger than life man, who greatly resembled Santa Claus dressed entirely in black, had begun to talk about one of the many times the city had tried to run rough shot over our little neighborhood. One of the many times he and his amazing wife, president of the neighborhood association, had stomped their feet, written letters and showed up to every meeting they could to get it turned around. And they did. They usually did. He loved this neighborhood completely and tirelessly, along with everyone in it.
After the meeting, he was introduced to us as Father Joe. He was the priest at the little Catholic Orthodox Church and the king of all Eastern European jokes you could possibly think of. The man had impeccable humor, and an even greater laugh. The kind of laugh that was positively infectious. Of course, most of the time, I wasn’t sure whether or not to feel bad for laughing at jokes that began with, “There was this Polack…”. And, really, pretty much all of his jokes did.
When I received the email earlier this week saying that he had passed, my stomach flipped. It just didn’t seem possible. I mean, he’s Father Joe, for goodness sake. He’s not the kind of guy that just gets sick and then that’s it. He’s the kind of guy that’s supposed to live until he’s 120, telling hilariously horrifying jokes and blessing babies the whole way. He’s the kind of guy that makes the world spin for everyone and everything around him. His passing was not one that fit him. Although, I don’t know what would have, short of a gigantic earthquake at the exact moment it happened. It seems as thought we should have felt his passing, not heard about it.
I don’t know what the church, this neighborhood, this whole city is going to do without such a great man. He loved this community more than one could imagine, and he loved everyone in it. He was sincere. He was heartfelt. He was everything you’d expect a good Father to be and we were so, so very lucky to have known him.
Tomorrow we attend his funeral and, while it’s extremely hard for me to ever think of it as a joyous occasion, I know that for him it is. He is with his Father, the God he dedicated his life to. And I’m hoping, because I know he is, that at least one person, at some point, says, “So, there was this Polack…” Because I picture him, at that moment, smiling at God and saying, “I have an even better one…”
We’ll miss you Father Joe. This neighborhood is going to be missing a giant piece of it’s heart, and so is everyone who knew you.
Yeah. I know. The kid needs friends. You should have seen the look on his face when I suggested we make cookies after reading “the mouse eating a cookie book”.
It was similar to this, only less cheeky.
It was nothing like this. This is his, “Put away the camera” face.
So is this.
The pouring of sugar is a very serious job. Clearly, by the look on his face, he took it as such.
I know. Sharp inhale. He’s attempting to pick that up with one hand. That heavy, full of hard to clean-up, sticky, powdery brown sugar. WITH ONE HAND! Every mom of a toddler is every so slightly terrified and wondering why I didn’t put down the camera.
I did. That’s why there’s no picture of him pouring in the brown sugar. Although, he did end up using both hands by himself. He hates messes much more than I do. I find myself regularly telling him, “It’s okay to get messy. Really, it’s fine!”
To which he regularly responds, “No. No, it’s not, mommy. I need to wash my hands.”
And that’s how I’m regularly chided by a 2 year old.
Back to the one-handed cookies.
Which he handled exceptionally well.
There was a minor hiccup, however, when he (using two hands) spilled a little flour on the kitchen island.
Feel free to sharply inhale again. He certainly did.
I said, “It’s okay.”
He said, “THE TABLE IS DIRTY OF FLOUR! MY SHIRT IS DIRTY OF FLOUR! MY HANDS ARE DIRTY OF FLOUR! OH NOOOO, MOMMYYYYYYYYYY!”
We had to take a hand wash, table wipe and shirt cleaning break.
I spent the time between the 2 year old OCD break cleaning up break and this picture trying to stave off the boy eating the dough straight out of the bowl. We had to have a talk about raw eggs and salmonella.
He didn’t want to touch dough. Ever. Again. But he did want to “wook at dee cookies in dee oven!”
And he did. A lot.
Can I ask a favor? Could we all pretend like that cookie isn’t clearly burnt? Could we pretend like I didn’t get sidetracked trying to convince that sleepy faced child up there to take a nap while he screamed no because he wanted to see the cookies again and again and again?
Thanks.
While it’s clear the rousing “BOOM! BOOM!” is what is the cause of his love for “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom“, I’m convinced that Sonlight’s suggestion to make cookies after reading “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” is the main reason he fell in love with this book. We are positively loving Sonlight right now.
I did. I gave up on Letter of the Week. While it’s clearly a wonderful curriculum, the amount of prep work involved was just too much for me. I ended up skipping weeks because we couldn’t make it to the library or because I didn’t have time to get the printed stuff together. Then, once the hubs got his new job (WOOHOO!), I just couldn’t bring myself to spend the only day we had alone together, as a family, doing prep work. With a mind better suited for pre-planning, it likely wouldn’t have been much of a problem. Unfortunately, I am a lazy ass with untreated ADD my mind just doesn’t work that way. So, I gave up and went on a search for something a little less prep intensive.
I needed something “The Boy” friendly, something that wouldn’t be 10 miles above his head but also wouldn’t bore the heck out of him (harder than you’d think with a 2 year old beginning reader), and secular. Now, I have nothing against religious curriculum in general. I just want to be the one to walk that path with my son. I don’t feel comfortable having anyone or anything else take that role, in any way, shape or form. And, after a whole lot of searching, I came across Sonlight Curriculum. While it’s clearly evangelical Christian in nature, it’s also easily adapted to be secular and it’s extremely well put together. In addition, we were able to find a good combination of cores to fit The Boy’s needs. It was wonderful. So we ordered it.
Since they’re located in Littleton, the package came in exactly one day. That didn’t stop me from refreshing the FedEx tracking page over and over and over and over again while having horrible, threatening thoughts towards the driver every time I saw him drive by without stopping. I was moments away from chasing him down the street, barefoot with a 2 year old in arms, screaming like a banshee. The only thing that kept me from doing it was that I might not be able to get the package to the county jail.
I do not deal well with waiting.
The box managed to come about 2 minutes after I found the boy napping like this…by himself:
Did I mention he was napping by himself? Without me? No, “MOMMY!!! COME HOOOOOLD MEEEEE!” No, “MOOOOMMY!! COME READ ME A STOOOORY!” Instead what I got was, “MOMMY! GO GO GO! GET OUT OF HERE! I’m going to nap with my baaaaaaaabies!” While unsure whether to be offended or proud, I saw the FedEx man leaving the gate in the front yard. The quandary was quickly forgotten and replaced with, “Should I open this before he wakes up?”
Which I did. Because I’m horrible and evil and enjoy stealing the joy from my son’s life.
Give me a little credit. I only pulled out the Instruction Guide and blinded myself to everything else. Replacing the papers exactly where they were and closing the box back up.
And, thank goodness I did, otherwise I might have missed the, “A BOX FOR ME?!” moment and this:
“WOOK AH AAH DEEZ BOOKS, MOMMY!! DER MY! OOOH! WET’S WEED DIS ONE! OOH! DIS ONE! WET’S PWAY WIT DIS ONE! DIS BOOK HAVES CAPS FOR SALE! AND GOODNIGHT MOON!” We read at least one story from every book (except the 101 Bible Stories) that moment. We played with every single thing there was to play with. It was so many kinds of awesome, I can’t even begin to describe…I guess I did. Verbosely. Sorry about that.
We’re officially beginning on Monday, and if he’s even half excited as that up there? We’re going to have a really, really good week.
The Boy’s done pretty well with weaning. The few times he called for caca (what he inexplicably calls nursing), he would quickly forget if I asked if he wanted to draw or talk about sharks. He only wanted to nurse when he was sleepy and, shortly before turning 2, he’d turned into an, “I can sleep anywhere, during anything, in any position” toddler. Nursing was becomeing less and less necessary.
A couple of days ago, he was having a particularly hard time going to sleep and wouldn’t stop screaming about caca despite my attempts to redirect. So, I told him that we could try it, and made sure he knew I wasn’t sure it was working anymore.
He tried the first side (latching okay after having a particularly hard time trying to remember how to), said, “Nope, let me try the other side caca.”
He tried the second side, “No…Too bad. Now you can hold me.”
And I swear to God I nearly cried. I tried to spend the next few days thinking it was okay. He pretty much stopped asking for caca or caught himself when he started, asking to be held instead. He had figured out that caca wasn’t working, and so had I. While he seemed okay with it, I am really not.
I’ve tried to ignore feeling crappy about it for the past couple of days but I came very close to being a sobby mess while making breakfast this morning. After all the work I put into being able to breastfeed, I feel like it was suddenly taken from me. Unfairly taken away from me.
I shouldn’t feel that way. I spent the previous 2 weeks being proud that he wasn’t trying to nurse constantly. I watched my breasts become less and less swollen as the days went on. I had to expect they’d be dry eventually.
I didn’t, though. I didn’t expect there to be a time where he’d try it and there’d be absolutely nothing. I didn’t expect such a clear and concise end of such an important and tumultuous time together. It would’ve been easier if it had faded. I don’t do well with abrupt endings.
As I sit here rambling and trying not to cry, The Boy’s laying with his head on my shoulder, proclaiming, “I love you, mommy. Let’s read a book in bed before nap time.” While my immediate internal response is to stifle the gigantic blubber that’s building in my chest because that sentence recently had “caca” in place of “book”, I also have to try to remember that this is just a new chapter. We cuddle instead of caca. We talk instead of nurse. He snuggles into my shoulder instead of my chest. It’s different, but it’s not the end.
And then I think of that smile he’d give when he was nursing. That great, big, loving grin and…well, I’ve got to go track down some tissues. This is not going to be easy on me.
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