Month: May 2010

Hidden Talent

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The most annoying quirk that Wimmy’s developed is a habit of hiding from adults.  It began as a game that he does whenever we arrive or depart from preschool.  William (and usually Eleanor, too) finds some little nook or cranny to hide in, and even though I can see him, he won’t come out unless I scratch my head, shrug my shoulders, and say “Where did William go?”

Considering that the preschool is housed in a church, with numerous cloak rooms, potted plants, shrubberies, end tables, and the like, I usually have to say “Where did William go?” about a dozen times to get us out of there.

Once he climbed up into the choir loft and hid under one of the pews.  Took me forever to find him.

He’s even begun to bring this game home, finding some very out-of-the way spot and keeping quiet indefinitely, while the adults run ragged around the house, calling out his name and wondering if it is time to call the police.

William did this at his grandmother’s house last weekend, and stayed hidden for over 45 minutes, driving everyone to near hysterics.

I suppose this is also reflected in William’s new preference for taking naps.  We read a picture book about a little bear whose “special place” was under his bed, and after that William insisted on taking his afternoon naps on the floor under his crib.  This lasted for over a month, and it was great — he’d go right to sleep without an iota of fuss.  Then decided that he was tired of that, and prefers sleeping on the floor behind the big rocking recliner in his room.  Again, right to sleep with no fuss!  I don’t think he’s figured out that he’s free to go wherever he wants when he’s out of the crib.

He’s a fan of dark little cozy spaces, something which I remember enjoying as a child.  The only difficult part is William’s insistance that I sing him a lullaby about his chosen sleeping-spot.  It was easy to think of a bit of doggerel about “under the bed,” and a bit more challenging for “behind the rocking chair.”  But today, he wanted a song about the wall, and I’m afraid I was fresh out.

Wall . . . with you life is a ball . . . I give you my all . . . wall?

William of Orange

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William is old enough that his personality quirks are beginning to show. Here are some of them:

He’s the first of my children to show a preference for a particular color, and the color for him is orange.  I first noticed it when he would always choose the orange paper and orange paint at his little community art class.  Then, when I found a rack of children’s t-shirts on sale at the store, he insisted I choose an orange one.

William now has four orange shirts.  He also likes having an orange plate, bowl, and cup at meals.  The last time I set out the crayon box for him, he spent ten minutes finding every single orange crayon, then holding them all in one hand while scribbling on an orange piece of construction paper.  I might be sick of it if it weren’t such a novelty.  Neither of the other kids give a hoot about what color anything is.

Wimmy’s speech patterns also provide a rich source of interest.  He frequently chops two-syllable words into three syllables: “blan-ka-let,” “cho-co-late,” and “neck-a-lace,” which makes him sound like a miniature Damon Runyan character (“I was on my way to Lindy’s with Nicely-Nicely for some cho-co-late cheesecake, when two goons asked me about the stolen neck-a-lace . . .”

He also makes wonderfully adorable mispronounciations: “wackaroni” for “macaroni,” and “quesadaah” for “quesadilla.”  But, once again unlike his siblings, he gets furious if Brian and I mispronounce the words back at him.  “No, I saying ‘QUESADAAAAH!'”  he insists, pounding his chubby fists on the kitchen table.

Although, I think “wackaroni” is a far more accurate term for what comes out of the Kraft box.

My Mom Says It Should Have Been “Funeral Potatoes”

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In one month I’ll be attending a workshop for writers of books for young people.  It’s a highly recommended conference, and the tuition isn’t cheap, so I’m trying to work hard on my manuscript submission so I can get the best feedback.  Or, at least that’s what I’m hoping.  There’s always the chance that all feedback will be hopelessly non-useful stuff like “this paragraph has good flow.”  In fact, I had one writing prof in college who forbade everyone from using the word “flow” when critiquing a classmate’s work.  Really, think about it — all “good flow” means is “I was easily able to pass my eyes from one word to the next.”  Yargh.

I’m nervous and stressed out about this, which is causing me to work at a slower pace than usual, since I’m paying more attention to sentence-level construction.  My thoughts about my work waver between confidence (“Now that’s a metaphor a girl can be proud of!”) to dismal self-doubt (“I’ve just constructed a passage of dialogue wooden enough for me to beat my head against it”).

The stress is beginning to leak into my dreams.  A few nights ago I dreamt that a group of editors came to my house to discuss purchasing my book.  After spending a long time criticizing the untidy state of my house, they settled down in a circle on the floor of my son’s room to talk about particulars.

Most of them wanted to buy my book, but under one condition: they felt that the book would sell more copies if they changed its title to “Mashed Potatoes.”

Which I felt was silly.  Everyone knew that the title of my book was “Hash Browns.”  It would be too confusing to change it to “Mashed Potatoes.”

I woke up laughing at myself and wondering if I’d been eating too much starch.

Just for the record, my book’s title is The Blind Prince.  (There!  I said it!)