Making Lemonade

So this morning, I was at work at my new job. (Discount retailer. Toy department. Part time. Just for the holidays.) La-la-la, straightening the shelves, taking the frozen pizzas someone left on a shelf to the grocery department’s ruined items section, disposing of the can of silly string someone sprayed all over the aisles, watching a grandma help two kids pick out their Christmas presents, finding places to shelve newly-delivered toys. Standard stuff. Pretty pleasant, in fact, early in the morning with next to no one around.

Except, see, the two kids with the grandma were a little girl of six, and a little boy who seemed to be between two-and-a-half and three-and-a-half. Prime tantrum age, right? And he didn’t understand at first that they weren’t there to buy a toy, just to look and to form a little wish list.

So naturally there was a bit of, “No, we’re not getting that today.” The girl took it in stride, and the boy seemed to, but a few minutes later they were an aisle over from me, and I could hear Grandma getting on to him again, more harshly. “Why can’t you be like Meredith? She doesn’t have to whine when she can’t have something! Why you gotta throw a fit!”

I hadn’t heard any fit thus far, just the cry of outrage that many a thwarted toddler will give. A few minutes later, they passed close to me, in the main aisle. And the little boy is chasing along, clearly unhappy, and being told only, “No! You better just act right. We’re not getting anything today! You be good or I’ll never take you anyplace again!”

At which he falls to his knees, crying with hurt feelings on top of his frustration.

So Grandma says to him, harshly, “You better get up from there or I’m going to kick you where it counts!”

And I’m standing there straightening a shelf not 20 feet away, trying not to be too obvious about the baleful glare I’m sending her way. If she had actually laid a hand (or foot!) on him, I’d have called Child Services; I’d have liked to do so anyway, but I know there’s little they can do about verbal abuse. I want to be shocked that she didn’t care that I was standing there listening, but I’ve seen too many people who think this is an acceptable way to discipline children to be truly surprised.

So tell me: what would you do? Has anyone out there found a way to intervene in a situation like this that will actually leave the adult thinking about what it is they’re doing? Because I can’t stand being only a witness to this scene. Fifteen hours later, I’m shaking with a protective fury for that boy.

Too tired to even root out a picture, quote, or link to share. Good night.

I had a dye day on Monday. Surprisingly, the only person who’s questioned my brightly-coloured hands in the days since is my son.

Tomorrow, I should be able to retrieve them from the studio and re-skein them. And then… it can all begin.

I still haven’t been eaten by a dinosaur. And how are you?

In the middle of dinner tonight, after a brief silence, Acorn spoke up.

“I like living lots,” he informed us.

Confused, we agreed that that was good. He continued:

“Because when the dinosaurs were stepping on cars they ate a lots of people. I’m glad I didn’t get eated by a dinosaur.”

So are we all, darling boy.

A few nights ago, Acorn requested “silly songs” as we drove home. I thought “18 Wheels on a Big Rig” might amuse him.

I was rewarded with the purest of laughter, a new way to delight my boy, and an earworm that just won’t die. The part where you count in Roman numerals is particularly stuck in my head: two days and counting of just eight bars of music, stuck in a permanent loop. That, incidentally, was the part that made Acorn laugh hardest.

It was worth it.

Today, I taught the first class on what I believe I’ll be calling the Seaglass Hat. Today was meant to be the only session of the class, but of my three confirmed students and two maybes, only the two maybes actually got to be there today. At least one of the others will be there next week, so I’m hoping the others can as well.

The pattern will be coming soon. I’m reworking the crown decreases for the smaller sizes.

A camera couldn’t have captured the image: a small person, huddled just inside the door of a dim bedroom under a red flannel sheet. Sound asleep.

“Mommy?” he says when he wakes. Then his face crumples as he remembers. “Mommy, it was too late.”

I know what this means: time to clean the boy up before preschool. I’ll change his sheets later.

Vaguely I wonder why he didn’t come get help in the night, rather than sleeping on the floor. It is only after the morning rush that I think back on that scene. He slept near the door, not beside his bed. The sheet was draped halfway across the room toward the bed. And then I understand.

He was coming — sheet clutched around his shoulders — to find a grownup. And was so tired, he lay down where he was and went back to sleep before he could open the door.

Migraine = No coherent post.

Believe me, I tried to write one. It didn’t even make sense to me.

Oh yeah. It’s November. Can’t go to sleep without a stop by this place.

Maybe it’s not such a good idea to blog daily while working two and a half jobs and mothering a four-year-old?

Nah.