Some recent quips for the scrapbook:
Me to Steve: "I am so ready for the weekend."
Bry, in response: "Well, it's not coming yet!"
***
In the midst of a conversation between Steve and I about how I had done a lot of screenings for National Depression Screening Day at work: "Mama, why were you screaming?"
***
Steve to me: "Here's the issue..."
Bry, in response: "Mama, here's the tissue..."
***
This kid is always listening...and ready to contribute his $.02 to the mix!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Cloudy with a Chance of "I want to go home!"
Today we (along with Nana and Gong-Gong) took Bry to his first movie in a theater: Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. The verdict? Mixed. Bry sat, rapt, through the commercials and the 40,000 previews (really, theaters, do you need that many previews before a 10:00 am showing of a kids' movie?), and actually, about the first 45 minutes of the actual film. When his attention started to wane, he slid off my lap and wandered up and down the aisle, first trying to get all of the empty seats to stay down, and then hiking up and down the lighted stairway with Steve looking out. An hour in, he whispered, "I want to go home. I don't like this place." Nevertheless he stayed burrowed on my lap until the end credits rolled. Kid's a stickler for finishing things.
Afterward, when asked whether he liked the movie, he announced unequivocally, "Yes!" When asked whether he would prefer to watch a movie at home or in a theater, he exclaimed, "At home!" Which probably translates to about 400 more home viewings of Calling All Engines, the Thomas and Friends masterpiece that, well, let's just say is a marked counterpoint to the kinds of things I'm usually contemplating as a grad student.
Afterward, when asked whether he liked the movie, he announced unequivocally, "Yes!" When asked whether he would prefer to watch a movie at home or in a theater, he exclaimed, "At home!" Which probably translates to about 400 more home viewings of Calling All Engines, the Thomas and Friends masterpiece that, well, let's just say is a marked counterpoint to the kinds of things I'm usually contemplating as a grad student.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Bryson at EHS
Steve here. This one's a bit different. As part of the "Back-to-School" festivities at my high school this Fall, my co-worker and I were given the task of introducing new teachers. Long story, but we put a video together. And of course, we had to enlist the help of our kids. Here's one segment of the video with special guest star Lydia. Enjoy!
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Preschoolers Use Forks
It's been about a month since Bry started preschool. It's been one big awe fest (mostly for Steve and I). Each day, we get an email from Bry's teachers outlining the day's activities. I've been carefully archiving these, though I'm not entirely sure why. Perhaps when Bry is 16 he'll want to know how on Tuesday, September 15, 2009, his preschool class had a dance party, rockin' out to "The Freeze" and "The Beanbag." When we ask Bry what on earth "The Beanbag" is, he responds in a sing-songy shriek, "I don't know!" his voice pitching up and down like a ship on the high seas.
Already, he's perfecting the art of teenage ironic ignorance, minus the irony (for now).
The random snippets about his days that he does share spontaneously are almost always convoluted bits of information littered with exclamation points: "Preschoolers use forks! But sometimes they eat finger foods! And sometimes they use spoons!" I can't help but find the way he speaks about himself and his preschool compatriots in the third person endearing.
All in all, Bry seems happy enough with school. Some days he doesn't want to leave, because he's so engaged in digging/driving/splashing/creating/being. A couple of weeks ago he soberly told Steve something along the lines of, "Before, I didn't like it when you went to work. But now I like it when you go to work, because I like to go to school." We smiled, and sighed with relief. All is well. Whew.
Already, he's perfecting the art of teenage ironic ignorance, minus the irony (for now).
The random snippets about his days that he does share spontaneously are almost always convoluted bits of information littered with exclamation points: "Preschoolers use forks! But sometimes they eat finger foods! And sometimes they use spoons!" I can't help but find the way he speaks about himself and his preschool compatriots in the third person endearing.
All in all, Bry seems happy enough with school. Some days he doesn't want to leave, because he's so engaged in digging/driving/splashing/creating/being. A couple of weeks ago he soberly told Steve something along the lines of, "Before, I didn't like it when you went to work. But now I like it when you go to work, because I like to go to school." We smiled, and sighed with relief. All is well. Whew.
Monday, August 24, 2009
School
I don't have enough time to do justice to Bry's first week of preschool, so I'll just throw some pictures and sentences out and see what comes of it. Last year, I started the tradition of first day of school pictures, a practice which is sure to grate on Bry by the time he gets to junior high, but for now, is fun. This is what he looked like on his first day last year:
And this year:
I'm tolerating this picture thing, for now.
But I'm not gonna sit still for you.
He's like, a whole year older and everything.
So far, a week into things, all appears to be well. He cried a couple of days when Steve dropped him off, but according to his teachers, he's been coming out of his shell bit by bit. They told us about how he played on the "train" at Van Cleve Park, shouting out destinations, while a classmate, Colin, provided the soundtrack: "Toot toot!" and about how he updated everyone on the trucks that visited our block following the tornado last week. He was engrossed in a round of "If You're Happy and You Know It!" one day when Steve picked him up. We brought parsley from our garden for Miguel, the class guinea pig, whom Bry sometimes mistakenly calls a "guinea bunny."
Our kiddo, a preschooler. It still boggles the mind.
And this year:
I'm tolerating this picture thing, for now.
But I'm not gonna sit still for you.He's like, a whole year older and everything.
So far, a week into things, all appears to be well. He cried a couple of days when Steve dropped him off, but according to his teachers, he's been coming out of his shell bit by bit. They told us about how he played on the "train" at Van Cleve Park, shouting out destinations, while a classmate, Colin, provided the soundtrack: "Toot toot!" and about how he updated everyone on the trucks that visited our block following the tornado last week. He was engrossed in a round of "If You're Happy and You Know It!" one day when Steve picked him up. We brought parsley from our garden for Miguel, the class guinea pig, whom Bry sometimes mistakenly calls a "guinea bunny."
Our kiddo, a preschooler. It still boggles the mind.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Whistleblower
Yesterday, Steve, Bry, and I took an impromptu trip to the Minneapolis Central Library via: (1) the light rail and (2) Au Bon Pain. The light rail was a major hit, though Bry insisted that it had a steam engine. The library was a veritable treasure trove of truck-related books, of which we brought home more than our share.
Lunch at Au Bon Pain was nice too. Steve and I polished off our sandwiches at a semi-normal pace, and then waited for Bry to gnaw through his egg and bacon bagel for approximately the next 80 hours. He is a sloooooow eater.
So Steve and I were waiting, amusing ourselves by commenting on the younger, hipper, more fashionably dressed crowd that congregates at lunch joints downtown. In the one .05 second window during which neither of us had our eyes on Bry, we were snapped out of our reveries by a sharp TWEEEEEET!
See that cord around his neck? Just before we left on our outing, Bry spotted an errant whistle, nestled amidst the mound of camping flotsam and jetsam waiting to be put away after our recent canoe trip. I tweeted it for him once, he loved it, and wandered around the house for several minutes, mostly slobbering into it, but occasionally producing a little tweet-tweet.
During lunch, either Bry did not feel that Steve and I were paying adequate attention to him, or he felt we were just a little too relaxed. At any rate, during the aforementioned brief window of not monitoring his every move (he was seriously taking forever to eat that bagel), Bry drew the whistle to his lips and produced an earsplitting TWEEEEET! that stopped every single conversation in that restaurant dead. I was too mortified to look around very much, but Steve reassured the other patrons and the restaurant staff that all was well. According to Steve, after the onlookers realized it was Bry who had blown the whistle, they were all smiles.
After he got over the initial upset of thinking that he had done something wrong, Bry was all smiles too, saying, "That was a good little joke."
Lunch at Au Bon Pain was nice too. Steve and I polished off our sandwiches at a semi-normal pace, and then waited for Bry to gnaw through his egg and bacon bagel for approximately the next 80 hours. He is a sloooooow eater.
So Steve and I were waiting, amusing ourselves by commenting on the younger, hipper, more fashionably dressed crowd that congregates at lunch joints downtown. In the one .05 second window during which neither of us had our eyes on Bry, we were snapped out of our reveries by a sharp TWEEEEEET!
See that cord around his neck? Just before we left on our outing, Bry spotted an errant whistle, nestled amidst the mound of camping flotsam and jetsam waiting to be put away after our recent canoe trip. I tweeted it for him once, he loved it, and wandered around the house for several minutes, mostly slobbering into it, but occasionally producing a little tweet-tweet.During lunch, either Bry did not feel that Steve and I were paying adequate attention to him, or he felt we were just a little too relaxed. At any rate, during the aforementioned brief window of not monitoring his every move (he was seriously taking forever to eat that bagel), Bry drew the whistle to his lips and produced an earsplitting TWEEEEET! that stopped every single conversation in that restaurant dead. I was too mortified to look around very much, but Steve reassured the other patrons and the restaurant staff that all was well. According to Steve, after the onlookers realized it was Bry who had blown the whistle, they were all smiles.
After he got over the initial upset of thinking that he had done something wrong, Bry was all smiles too, saying, "That was a good little joke."
Friday, August 14, 2009
Sunrise, Sunset: The Sequel
The summer is rapidly coming to a close. I'll be starting my internship (and hopefully my final year of this godforsaken doctorate), and Bry will be starting preschool on Monday.
Yup, preschool. (Insert some version of: Noooo! Mah preshus baybee is getting old! here). Last week, Steve, Bry, and I schlepped over to the U of M childcare center to do an "intake" meeting before Bry starts preschool. Five minutes into the meeting with his teacher, I knew we were in trouble. The signs that Bry is once again growing up faster than it feels like he's supposed to were all there. Bry played in his new classroom, while Steve and I were inundated with paperwork with titles like, "Dress for Success" (outlining age-appropriate clothing) and "All About Me" (a document for us to complete with Bry that discusses, among other things, his favorite color (blue), and if he had any wish, what he would wish for (pasta and fruit)). We were also handed a 30-page thick "curriculum" that demonstrated to us just how far behind we've been letting Bry slide this summer.
I kid.
But there were moments when Emilie, Bry's new teacher was talking, and Steve and I glanced sideways at each other, wondering if we hadn't accidentally signed Bry up for the 7th grade, instead of having him join the "younger preschooler" set. Mentions of things like social exclusion, teasing, overuse of "potty language," "increased independence," and place cards at breakfast, snack, and lunch (so teachers can control who sits by whom) set Steve and I reeling.
Later, when we got the tour of the classroom, we found out that Bry will have access to all manner of toys, like scooping beads in the sensory table, funky pyramidal blocks, and get this - paint - whenever he wants. Again, Steve and I glanced at each other and were all, "Are you sure that's a good idea?" The preschool playground sported a gigantic climbing structure, a DIY "treehouse" fashioned out of sticks tied to a platform, enormous sand pits, a box of dirt whose sole purpose is to be turned into mud, and an honest-to-goodness bike lane. All of the paved paths winding through the playground had arrows indicating the correct flow of traffic (an upgrade after one too many tricycle collisions). The teachers flood the slide with the hose on hot days so the kids can have a "water slide." There is a class pet, Miguel, a slightly overweight guinea pig. The kids go on field trips - to the city wading pool across the street, a neighborhood grocery store, and the nearby "train bridge."
Sounds like a heck of a good time, doesn't it? It almost seemed as if Emilie was trying to offset the heartache of things like social exclusion and teasing by waving her hands and exclaiming LOOK AT ALL THE FUN STUFF WE DO HERE! Steve and I were not fooled. Sure, we think Bry is going to love about 98% of preschool. But thoughts that other kids might be mean, or that Bry might have his feelings hurt were excruciating. The ongoing realization that Bry is growing up and away made both Steve and I ache, and long to keep him little, just a little bit longer.
Yup, preschool. (Insert some version of: Noooo! Mah preshus baybee is getting old! here). Last week, Steve, Bry, and I schlepped over to the U of M childcare center to do an "intake" meeting before Bry starts preschool. Five minutes into the meeting with his teacher, I knew we were in trouble. The signs that Bry is once again growing up faster than it feels like he's supposed to were all there. Bry played in his new classroom, while Steve and I were inundated with paperwork with titles like, "Dress for Success" (outlining age-appropriate clothing) and "All About Me" (a document for us to complete with Bry that discusses, among other things, his favorite color (blue), and if he had any wish, what he would wish for (pasta and fruit)). We were also handed a 30-page thick "curriculum" that demonstrated to us just how far behind we've been letting Bry slide this summer.
I kid.
But there were moments when Emilie, Bry's new teacher was talking, and Steve and I glanced sideways at each other, wondering if we hadn't accidentally signed Bry up for the 7th grade, instead of having him join the "younger preschooler" set. Mentions of things like social exclusion, teasing, overuse of "potty language," "increased independence," and place cards at breakfast, snack, and lunch (so teachers can control who sits by whom) set Steve and I reeling.
Later, when we got the tour of the classroom, we found out that Bry will have access to all manner of toys, like scooping beads in the sensory table, funky pyramidal blocks, and get this - paint - whenever he wants. Again, Steve and I glanced at each other and were all, "Are you sure that's a good idea?" The preschool playground sported a gigantic climbing structure, a DIY "treehouse" fashioned out of sticks tied to a platform, enormous sand pits, a box of dirt whose sole purpose is to be turned into mud, and an honest-to-goodness bike lane. All of the paved paths winding through the playground had arrows indicating the correct flow of traffic (an upgrade after one too many tricycle collisions). The teachers flood the slide with the hose on hot days so the kids can have a "water slide." There is a class pet, Miguel, a slightly overweight guinea pig. The kids go on field trips - to the city wading pool across the street, a neighborhood grocery store, and the nearby "train bridge."
Sounds like a heck of a good time, doesn't it? It almost seemed as if Emilie was trying to offset the heartache of things like social exclusion and teasing by waving her hands and exclaiming LOOK AT ALL THE FUN STUFF WE DO HERE! Steve and I were not fooled. Sure, we think Bry is going to love about 98% of preschool. But thoughts that other kids might be mean, or that Bry might have his feelings hurt were excruciating. The ongoing realization that Bry is growing up and away made both Steve and I ache, and long to keep him little, just a little bit longer.
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