Bry's Wake up Routine (archival footage)

Steve here. This next video is rather old. I made it last February, in fact, as a side project while putting Bryson at Work together. At the time, I didn't think it was that good and therefore didn't bother to post it. But watching it again several months later, I have decided that I was wrong.

There was a brief period when this was pretty much how every morning began for us. Bryson was just beginning to talk, just beginning to walk, and just beginning to become slightly more independent. Watching it brought back a flood of memories and reminded me just how much he has grown in the past 7 months. So if you bought the Bryson at Work DVD, consider this your bonus feature.

Cannin' with the Bry

Steve here. It's been a while since I've posted a video. I would like to blame my busy summer work schedule, but, well, you'd see right through that. The reality is that I have taken hours and hours of footage this summer and the prospect of sifting through all of it and condensing it down to a 3 minute video has been a bit daunting. Laziness has also surely played a role. At any rate, here is the first of what I hope will be several videos highlighting Bry's summer adventures. This footage resulted when Bry decided to "help" us unload the dishwasher. Enjoy!

Last Days of Summer

This is going to be a reminder (especially for mama) of how beautiful Minnesota can be in not-winter. We decided to take advantage of the waning warm weather by strolling around Grand Avenue this morning and visiting approximately 17 toy stores. And CVS, after Bry spotted the "jack-o-terns" in the window. After Bry didn't nap this afternoon, we hit the beach with Aunt Sheila and Uncle Mike for one last go at the sand and water before it's all snowed under. Sigh.

School: The Verdict

Note: I wrote this post last week, but forgot to publish it. Things have changed (for the better!) since then, and I'll write an update, but I thought I'd post this anyways, 'cause it definitely fit for the first three weeks of school.

It's painful. And it's also wonderful. So I guess if you average it out, the verdict falls somewhere in between.

The painful part is at dropoff. Bry hates, hates, hates being dropped off at school. He's gotten into the habit of emphatically saying, "Stay home!" in the mornings as soon as it looks like I'm starting to pack up. Pretty much every day he also pleads, "No thank you, mama work." In other words, "Don't go!" It's heartbreaking. We get through the 20-minute drive in high spirits as Bry calls out the changing traffic lights, "Green! Go!" tells me when we're almost to the freeway ramp, and looks out for every manner of truck imaginable: dump truck! excavator! bulldozer! cement truck! garbage truck! semi truck! oil truck! tow truck! mail truck! Fed Ex truck! (yes, really) crane! bucket truck! And so on. As we pull up to the building, Bry's excitement at glimpsing the two trailers that are permanently parked in the parking lot (it's not quite as country as it sounds) is quickly eclipsed by his dawning realization that mama is going to take him into the building and leave him there.

Some days he tears up a little as we're getting out of the car, but recovers when he sees the trash can outside the door. What can I say? The kid likes trash cans. We say hi to the fish in the lobby and sit on the climbing steps. Then we walk past the "red room" where the babies are, to the "green room," Bry's room. Outside the door we examine all of the art that's been posted and find Bry's drawing on the wall. Then we go into the "foyer" (this daycare is particularly fond of naming all of the different areas), where I fill out Bry's daily sheet, sign him in, and try to untangle his limbs from my body long enough to put his coat in his cubby.

At this point, the fact that mama is leaving imminently must become very, very real for Bry, because he asks, nay, demands, "shirt! blanket! lion!" and frets while he warily scopes out the other kiddos in the room. We still haven't worked out a good goodbye routine. The teachers are great at trying to coax Bry into joining whatever activity is going on - scooping sand in the table, reading stories, drawing with chalk - but Bry's response is always the same: "No." Eventually, after we've read a story or built a tower, I let him know that I need to leave and most days, one of the teachers has to physically take him from me, and I leave as he's crying out. Most days I make it to the parking lot before I start tearing up myself.

But, for the past few days, I've waited out of Bry's line of sight, and he always calms down within about 30 seconds of me leaving. His teachers report that he is content, busy, chatty, and at times, sensitive, especially when other kids are noisy or crying.

By the time Steve or I pick up Bry in the afternoon, he's usually engrossed in whatever he's doing - digging in the sand, going down the slide, stacking blocks - and not so interested in leaving. This is heartening, but the mornings, well, the mornings are still difficult. Someday he'll get used to this, right? We hold out the hope that someday, the pain of leaving won't be so acute. We think to ourselves that that hope is for his sake, but really? Really, it's for our sake too.

First Day of School

Bry started at his new daycare today. We had been talking up the experience with Bry for weeks, highlighting the kitchenware and trucks that he would be able to play with in this mythical land called "school." On our intake visit, we were taken on a tour of the facility, Bry included, and when he glimpsed the TWO play kitchens and ginormous sand pit outside, it was all we could do to drag Bry away from the place with only the promise that he'd be able to return, someday.

Every night before bed, Bry and I snuggle in the rocking chair for "dreams," which mostly consists of me recapping highlights from his day and sometimes, speculating about what fantastical things he might dream about that night. Usually, doing "dreams" consists of rehashing endless kitchen play sessions, during which Bry cooks up cumin-pepper-ketchup-salmon cookies (he's got limited ingredients in his kitchen), or recalling every single piece of construction equipment Bry has ever seen. Once, I made the mistake brilliant choice of spinning a tale in which an excavator knocked over a water tower (thus incorporating Bry's two current obsessions in one grand tale). That was maybe six weeks ago, and he's been talking about it (and willing Steve and I to make it happen - but that's a different story) ever since.

So, for the past few weeks during "dreams," I've been talking with Bry about all of the exciting, awesome, supercool things he would get to do once he started school, with the hopes that my relentless propaganda would win him over. I referenced our intake visit over and over, citing the pots, pans, and colanders that Bry would get to play with ("Two colanders! Stack them!" he always reminded me). I worked in bits about the giant sand pit and Bry filled in the rest on his own - "Dump trucks! Two! Bucket truck! Fill! Sand! One shovel!" I'm not sure why Bry always insisted that there would just be one shovel, but I went with him: "One shovel!"

Last night, before his first day at school, the anticipation was at a fever pitch. We talked about Bry's new teachers and the other kids. We talked about eating at a table and drinking from a cup with no lid! About digging in the sand and playing with the blue pots! About how he might feel scared or sad or overwhelmed, but that he could hug his magical shirt of sleep to feel safe and happy. "Safe, happy," he repeated.

And this morning, we finally went. I stayed with Bry through the morning, and we left shortly after lunch. At breakfast, Bry sat in the teeniest chair imaginable, scooping applesauce off of a plate and dribbling it all over himself. He bussed his plate and cup to the sink and lined up to have his hands and face washed. He endured the disappointment of leaving behind the already beloved pots and pans to have his diaper changed and sunscreen applied. He reveled in the time outside, scooping shovelfuls of sand into assorted vehicles and the gas tank of a toy lawnmower. (Meanwhile, I had sand dumped onto me by various children, carried on semi-coherent conversations with three kids in the under-three-foot set, and helped right one top-heavy kid who toppled over face-first into the sandbox.) Bry then endured the disappointment of going back inside, washing his hands, and sitting down for lunch. He had about 5000 orange slices, two bites of quiche, and one bite of beets for lunch. The whole time, I watched my little boy getting a little older as he learned new routines, tried new things, and navigated the social sphere. I comforted him when he got knocked on the head by an overzealous kid wielding a plastic pan and my heart hurt a little when I thought about not being around to console him following future, inevitable hurts at school. It ached a little more when I thought about not being able to do "dreams" in as much detail with him, because so much of his day will be unknown to me.


Is he too young to be forced into growing up like this? I don't know. Is this what parenting is all about? Sending off your kids with as many reinforcements and reassurances as possible, and then hoping that it's enough? Hoping that you can help them when you're around and that they can advocate for themselves when you're not? Simultaneously wanting them to grow up and longing for them to stay small? I'll stay with Bry again tomorrow morning, to help him recognize that school is a safe place, and then I'll leave him in the very capable hands of his teachers, with the hopes that I've given him enough to go out on his own in this small way. I realize that this moment of letting go will be followed by many more moments of letting go, and that Bry will probably come to love this daycare as much as he loved his last one, if not more. But, since we try hard not to give Bry the message to buck up when he's feeling sad, perhaps we can give ourselves the same latitude now, by grieving this one little loss, this letting go of our little man.

The Minnesota State Fair: Come for the Food, Stay for the Thrill of Seeing It All Through a Kid's Eyes

Sadly, summer seems to be winding to a close. We visited the state fair today, which highlighted the ending of lazy days swimming at the beach, playing in the sand, and sleeping in until noon. Well, the first two at least.

Being the jaded, old people that we are, neither Steve nor I had been to the fair in several years, always grumbling about the exorbitant costs and the toll taken by trans-fat-laden foods on our aging bodies. But this year, we decided we had to make the trek for Bry, and we were richly rewarded for our efforts by the unbridled enthusiasm of the kiddo at nearly everything we saw, from the tractors and trucks:

Drive! Drive!

To the giant slide:

(Bry and daddy are in the lower right corner.)

To the food:

Torn! (i.e., Corn!)

Being an equal opportunity enthusiast, Bry also proclaimed the virtues of every trash can, street sweeper, balloon, and various letters and numbers that he spotted. We of course visited all of the animal barns, glimpsing numerous "sheeps," bunnies, horses, cows, pigs, and randomly enough, pigeons. Who knew that pigeons were such a big exhibit at the fair? Because we had spent roughly 45 hours ogling and climbing all over various farm tractors, "eh-vers" (excavators), dump trucks, and "buh-doze" (bulldozers), Bry was listing a bit by the time we got to the animals. We chose to forge ahead, bravely skipping naptime in the service of further educating Bry in the art of sounds made by various farm animals. Bry proved his mettle in recalling that sheep say "baa," cows say "moo," horses say "neigh," and pigs say "oink, oink!" Bry seemed most impressed by the rabbits for reasons beyond our comprehension. He carried on lengthy conversations with the quivering fur balls, saying, "Hi bunny! Doing? Sleeping! Eating Casey food! Hopping!" (i.e., "Hello rabbit, what business are you carrying on at the present moment? Oh, I see, you appear to be sleeping. And you over there, you're dining on some delicious chow that resembles cat food. And goodness, the hopping! Bravo! Carry on, then.") (In my head, Bry converses in a British accent. Not sure why.) As Bry was falling asleep tonight, he mumbled, "Hi Bunny!" to himself over and over.

I'd say our fair experience was a success. In short, to shamelessly steal a major credit card company's marketing slogan:

Fair admission: $22
Assorted foods on a stick: $38
Watching your son enjoy the fair for the very first time: Priceless.

Uptown Art Fair

We all got out to the Uptown Art Fair on Sunday, which, according to Steve, was "Mama's Outing" (for the year).


We perused a lot of art we couldn't afford and learned what the most interesting aspects of an art fair are from the perspective of a one-year old:

Mail truck!

Box!

T! (Bry noticed the 'T' in the sign)

Pot! Crayons! Giant!

After documenting all of these extraordinary sights, my camera battery died, so I didn't get to photograph the "helmets" (glass fish) or the "balls" (extra-large photograph of marbles) or the "giraffe" (wire sculpture of a person). It's probably just as well. Now when I drag Steve and Bry out to the art fair again next year, they won't have as many visual reminders of how badly they don't want to go.