For Your Entertainment
David and I are both musicians and singers, and had hoped our love of all music would pass down to our children. It most assuredly did, in spades.
I listened to lots of music while pregnant with each child, more for myself than their well-being. I was an easily-stressed pregnant mama, and the CD “When it Falls” by Zero 7 was an instant blood pressure-reducer for me. I sang “Somersault” to each of the boys as infants. Even now they calm down when I either sing or play it for them. There’s a simple magic in music, and it helps to soothe my savage beasties.
All three boys have an innate love of music, and each has expressed his own musicality in a unique way.
Kieran is my music baby. He has been bopping along – in perfect rhythm, I might add – to music since he was two months old. He can play the harmonica and the recorder, and is drawn to any microphone within reach (we have several). At 17 1/2 months he is already singing daily, rotating a greatest hits of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” the original Batman theme and the Spongebob Squarepants theme. Spongebob is his favorite.
I have the most amazing video of a 16-month-old Lennon dancing like a tiny frat boy to songs by The Faint and The Killers whilst wearing a Baby Gap pumpkin hat. His favorite songs alternate between the theme from Thomas and Friends, “Hurry, Hurry, Here Comes The Fire Truck” and “What Do You Want From Me” by Adam Lambert. He sings nonstop in the van, to the point I often wish he had a volume control so I could hear him better from way in the back seat.
Jack, too, adores music. At the ripe old age of six months he was rocking out in his high chair to the Ramones and hasn’t stopped. More often than not, Jack likes it loud with a driving rhythm. He’s the one after my own 80’s alternative-loving heart. Jack loves Lady Gaga. He adores Adam Lambert. Yesterday in the van he made me play Kesha’s “Tik Tok” five times in a row before we moved on to the more soothing strains of They Might Be Giants. He requests Depeche Mode and New Order on a regular basis, and I am certainly not going to deny him that.
All three of my children stop dead in their tracks for various commercials from The Gap and Target and AT&T. They are drawn to the phone spot featuring Cat Stevens. I am concerned that someday they may insist we purchase a lawn mower based solely on the fact that they were seduced by a tune in the ad.
There are endless studies of how music helps children grow and learn, not to mention how it works wonders with children affected by autism. We have surrounded the boys with music from birth in all forms – toys that sing and play songs, cds of tunes we can tolerate ad nauseum and musical instruments so they can exercise their inner jazzbos. We have an awesome African drum they love to bang on and irritate our neighbors. They play harmonicas and recorders and keyboards and guitars. They sing into microphones, sometimes using actual words. And yes, we let them watch shows that feature music.
I’m not ashamed. I’ll admit it. We are a television-loving family. I wish I could tell you that each show my children view is specifically jpre-screened and researched by me for educational content, but that would be a big fat lie. In the early morning we pile onto the couch and watch Spongebob, all gleefully singing the song (baby leading the way). When Spongebob is over, we all sing along with Dora. The backpack song is another of Kieran’s favorites, and he will joyfully sing it out whenever he sees a backpack: Target, The Container Store, the park… if you have a backpack, get ready for a serenade.
Our favorite, though, hands-down, is Yo Gabba Gabba. If you haven’t yet experienced the magic that is Yo Gabba Gabba, you’re missing out. YGG was created for parents like us. Not just parents of music-loving children, but parents who love music. Real music, and not just tunes sung by talented backpacks or, heaven forbid, purple dinosaurs. I get teary listening to my children sing songs by The Roots about loving their family. Or making beats with Biz Markie. Or learning to draw with Mark from Devo. Or singing about loving all living things, parties in their tummy, sharing, brushing their teeth, not biting friends and caring for babies along with The Shins, The Aquabats, Solange, The Ting Tings, The Faint and more. Not to mention the awesome songs sung by the main characters themselves, creatures straight out of the dance clubs of my youth (and the stage shows of The Aquabats). The amazing minds behind Yo Gabba Gabba have tapped into magic, and we approve. (follow YGG on Facebook here)
As you’ve probably gathered reading this blog, my husband and I are endlessly entertained by our children. We take great joy in everything they say and do (ok, almost everything), and there is nothing quite like hearing your children sing. Songs they’ve heard, songs they’ve made up, songs you’ve taught them. My children sing often, especially Jack. Whether by autism or a miracle of genetics, Jack has a mind like a steel trap and doesn’t forget much, if anything. This includes his favorite songs, which he sings for his own enjoyment. He likes to share, too, when the spirit moves him.
The spirit moved him recently while his daddy was napping on the couch. Startled, David awoke to Jack’s face pressed right up to his, singing, “I’m here for your entertainment!!”
Oh honey, you have no idea.
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I have three boys, ages 4 1/2, 3 and 17 months. I could end this post right there and leave more than a few of you with knowing laughter. I feel like I should include the general populace, though, so I’ll continue.
Life with three boys is not the life I had envisioned. My entire life I dreamed of being a mother, and I always assumed I would have at least one girl. Boy/s, too, but always a girl. As it turns out, my younger brother got the girls. Four of them. And I have the boys.
My older brother has two boys and a girl (now in their 20’s), and I can still recall the day he told me he had obviously been out of his mind to have two boys so close together. Little did I know I’d have three children – boys, no less- spaced almost exactly the same as his.
I was thrilled when Jack was born. I was tickled when Lennon was born. When we found out we were expecting child number 3, I was once again overjoyed, but made a pact with myself: if this child was a girl, then yay. If this child, however, was another boy, then that would be it. We would have an adventure with 3 boys. No more babies, no “trying for that girl.” And so it would be. People still ask if we’re done, if we’re “really sure,” and I can say definitively yes. We are on an adventure. And boy, what a ride it is.
Girls have their own challenges. They are particular. They are advanced in a lot of ways, and they will break your heart into a million pieces in a million different ways. They also require a lot of upkeep in the form of shoes and clothes and pretty pretty princess ponies or things of that ilk. Yes, I’m generalizing, but you get the point. (And for the record, as a child I only needed the shoes and the ponies. Ok, and the clothes.)
Boys, however, are a breed of their own. Boys with sisters aren’t fully in their own element, but boys with brothers? Stand back, it’s on. And a family of all boys? Well, let me tell you from my vast four and a half years of experience, it’s something to behold. My boys are the sweetest children I’ve ever met. They are also just a little evil. Maybe it’s because they can melt my heart while simultaneously ruining my favorite Christmas ornaments. Maybe it’s because they destroy everything I hold dear, including my ability to remain angry. They constantly amaze me. And they constantly remind me to expect the unexpected.
I see photos of my friends’ children’s bedrooms with pretty beds and little play tables and bookshelves and things hanging on the walls. I come back to reality thinking of what my children would do to those rooms. Currently my two older boys live in a bedroom furnished with two toddler mattresses on the floor, a paper lamp hanging from the ceiling (whose days are numbered), and a couple of pieces of Jack’s artwork that are hung just out of reach. For now. They have no curtains anymore. They have no bookshelves. They have no toy bins that can be stood on without collapsing (thank you, IKEA). Their carpet bears the markings of what trouble two small boys can get into in the span of an hour of unsupervised “nap time” (their closet is the only storage in the apartment, and it is usually locked… unless someone forgets). It is splattered with paint and crayon and organic substances that make me glad on a daily basis we don’t have to pay to replace the carpeting in this apartment.
I used to wonder if we were the only ones who had to move all of the toys into our cramped living room. If we had the only children living in a barren cell with only their blankets and trains to soothe them at night. If our walls, covered from floor to 4-year-old height (and a tall one, at that) with crayon and chalk murals, were the shame of the playground. Of course, none of this is true. Although late night viewings of Sh*t My Kids Ruined definitely soothes my soul.
I also wonder how big a role autism plays in this scenario. If Jack were a neurotypical child, would we be able to have bookshelves? Would I be able to give them the bunk beds I’ve been dreaming of without the fear of them flying through the air from the highest point? Would I not constantly live in fear of them breaking their bedroom window with a sippy cup (again)?
I’ll never know. And yet, somehow I do know. I had brothers. My older brother is seven years my senior, so my main memories of him from childhood were stories my mother told me. Stories about writing his name on things with bodily fluids. I also get stories from him about my nephews, who while angelic, were also quite destructive. I have witnessed for myself the holes in the walls, the broken bedroom doors, the tables sawed into with innocent “toy” saws.
I witnessed my younger brother’s antics firsthand. A room filled with creatures from the local pond (I vividly recall my cat chasing baby frogs down the hallway). My dollhouse vandalized and my poor dolls defiled. And yes, I watched him leap from his second-story bedroom window to the ground below. He was fearless, and had a glint in his eye that said “stand back world, I’m here to conquer you.” And he did. He jumped any and everything with his bike, and later, his skateboard. He set things on fire, usually in his bedroom. And after he promised my mother he would not go skydiving, he did it anyway, and told her about it afterward. He was, and is, all boy. A boy who is now raising four girls. Karma usually has the last laugh.
I see the same glint in each of my boys’ eyes in varying degrees. Jack has it, but it is measured. He needs to feel out his surroundings before he masters them. He also has my innate ability to question authority. His favorite new thing is to do something “bad” on purpose, then look me in the eye and ask, “are you sad?” Hm.
Lennon is all my younger brother, with my lack of grace. He is my trailblazer, showing Jack the way. He goes down the slides face first, scales the rock walls with ease. He is often the one I catch literally flying off the couch. He also falls down or trips or runs into things approximately 17 times a day. I’m hoping he gains some focus before he joins the X-Games, as I’m certain he will.
Kieran is still a wild card, but is already displaying a blend of Lennon’s adventurousness with Jack’s acumen. Baby gates that still keep Lennon contained (albeit mentally more than physically) mean nothing to Kieran. He scales every surface he can, and if he can’t, he pulls toys and chairs around to serve his purpose. He plays on the dining room table regularly, because honestly, it’s just easier than spending my day pulling him off of it. It’s just a matter of time before he surpasses his brothers in giving me heart palpatations, I’m sure.
I am a mother of three boys. One has autism, which may or may not enhance the situation. I’m guessing it would have been a wild ride anyway.
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I caved. As proud as I was of my amazing ability to style my own child’s hair, I had to turn him over to the professionals today. Remember how I said it would sometimes take me a full week to get Jack’s hair the way I wanted it? Well, the week turned into several, and I finally had to admit that all of the tweaking and pruning was turning him more into an art project than a finely-groomed young man.
I took advantage of our ABA Sunday outing so I’d have Christine as reinforcements. After our weekly (ok, semi-weekly) trip through the local Target, we walked through the courtyard and got the boys some smoothies. As they sipped their mango drinks and flitted around a water feature, we dropped it on Jack.
“Hey Jack, let’s get your hair cut today!”
“No, thank you.”
“Yeah! It’ll be so much fun!” How could it not be more fun than having Mama poking and cutting bits here and there every single day indefinitely? The thought of getting it over with all at once had to be appealing.
“No, thank you.”
“Yeah, we’re going to get your hair cut. Yay!” He was less amused, but he didn’t throw a fit. With Christine there he seemed resigned to his fate.
We should stop a moment and explain Jack’s relationship with Christine. Christine is an ABA – that is, she provides in-home behavior therapy. We work on sharing with siblings, toileting, not throwing tantrums, and just generally being a good guy. We also go on an outing once a week to help Jack acclimate to loud noises, crowds, and the scary beast known as “any potty that’s not the one at home.”
Jack listens to Christine. He does what she says. Christine has replaced me as “the hammer” at home. Now, instead of threatening a time-out or removal of a beloved toy, I pick up the phone and offer to call Christine. That usually has him falling in line right quick. So having Christine with us at the local Super Cuts was a stroke of genius on my part (and I’ll take those wherever I can get them, thanks).
Thankfully, the Super Cuts wasn’t busy, and a lovely soul named Vanessa gave me a slight nod of understanding when I explained about Jack’s sensory issues. I can’t explain how wonderful it is to anticipate a situation and have someone ready to handle it without question. She had obviously dealt with sensory-sensitive children before, and stepped right up without qualms.
Vanessa had him up in the chair and was cutting away in no time flat. Jack was so relaxed with her he even let her use the blow dryer to get the hairs off his shirt and neck. He ended up with the cut I had intended to give him, but am functionally unable to do so.
(I would also like to point out that he still has a lot of hair, unlike every time I’ve sent him with his Daddy for a cut. For some reason daddies are unable to walk a stylist through a cut, and can only come home exclaiming, “but she said they HAD to cut it that short! It’ll be fine when we wash it!” Um, no, it will not. Washing one-inch long hair only makes it clean, not coiffed.)
We were in and out in under 20 minutes, with all children happy as clams. That is, except for Lennon, who insisted he, too, was in need of a haircut. He is not. Yet.
Will I take scissors to Jack’s hair again in the future? Yes. I cannot lie. I will most likely trim it here and there until he is once again beyond my meager talents, when I will trot him into the Canadian equivalent of Super Cuts. And hope we have someone as wonderful as Vanessa.
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I adore logic. It makes sense, it’s nice and simple, and it’s my favorite part of most standardized testing. Jack likes logic, too. Of course, so do most young kids trying to make sense of the ridiculous language most of us speak here.
English is tricky, even for native speakers, and quite often it doesn’t stand up to logic. Just ask any poor soul in an ESL class the grammatical difference between tough and trough and through. Seriously, ask them; they might actually know. I’d explain it, but it’s giving me a headache.
The early years of navigating the treacherous grammar waters can create some of the best stories from childhood. Every parent has a story wherein their child has said some hilariously inappropriate thing in the quest for perfect grammar (and please, share them below!!).
When you add autism into the mix, the logic and the learning collide with fascinating results. I really need to start making a list of all of the wild things Jack comes up with. Like today, where he told me that he is “THE man,” and I am the “WHOA-man.” I’ll take that. It’s very “So I Married An Axe Murderer.”
Sometimes it’s a simple observation that will fly by if I’m not paying attention. On our walk this weekend, I was lucky to catch one that made me stop in my tracks.
We were admiring flowers as we walked down the street, noting the beautiful, bright yellow roses. Above the roses were Birds of Paradise that for some reason were really drab instead of bright orange and red.
“Those Birds of Paradise aren’t the right color,” I noted. I’d never seen them like that before.
Without missing a beat, Jack smiled. “The roses are the left color.”
Why yes, yes they are. I love that kid’s mind.
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I’m having a hard day. Lennon is snuffly and cranky. Kieran is needy. Jack is in limbo at school, since his BI (Behavioral Interventionist, or Special Friend as Jack calls him) left last week to continue graduate school, and his behavior has been erratic. And by erratic, I mean whoa nelly, we’re in for a bumpy ride.
So today is testing my patience. I have a headache. I gave the children pancakes for lunch. I am thisclose to nap time. All I have to do is put on diapers, make some paper airplanes, tuck in the children (who will get up the minute I close the door anyway), and go lie down with the baby. I have finally convinced Jack that even if he is not tired, he “needs his quiet time.” And mama does, too.
There is screaming. Some joyful, mostly angry. It is brain-piercing.
Then, in the middle of it all, Jack sings out. “Hey, ho – let’s go!!”
How am I supposed to stay frustrated when the kid busts forth with The Ramones?
Ruined a perfectly bad day.
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