(S)mothering Much?

Woooooog....!

Oh, there you are. I was wondering what you were up to...

What's that you're doing?

Heyyyyy, cool. Those look good. You're actually working with your hands for once, good boy! It's a whole lot better than working with your mouth, no? Can I take a picture of that? Great job! You should do more stuff like this.

Isn't this better than just talking too much? Sometimes, when you talk too much and too fast I can hardly understand you. Your sentences are full of “and” and “but” and “so” and “then”. And everything you say runs together like “waway” soup. Sometimes Mommy wonders if you even breathe when you talk.

Which reminds me, what are you doing up so early on a Saturday? There's no school on Saturdays.

What's that? You're excited because school's out? Well, I guess I understand that, but why can't you wake up earlier on schooldays? Why does Mom have to pull you out of bed moaning and groaning and kicking out at her?

I thought you loved school. It's not like they torture you out there. Do they? No? Good. They'd better not. You tell Mom if they do, okay? I'll whup their butts so hard, they'll go flying to the moon.

Why are you laughing?

Yes, Woogie, I wuv you too.

Anyway, since you're up early, you might as well come down for breakfast. We have pancakes, and they're still hot. Your favorite!

What do you mean “later”? You can finish cutting that up after breakfast. That won't go anywhere, you can come back for them. Let me take just a couple more shots. There.

You know what, Woog? Mommy's worried about you. You're so thin and you don't seem to be getting any taller. Your cousin Ia's only three and she's nearly as tall as you are. Heavier, too. You need to eat a lot so you'll grow big and strong, instead of always saying “no thank you”, whenever you're given something to eat.

You're lucky you have food. Remember those pictures of the starving children I showed you? Do you want to start looking like them? You should be thankful you have lots of good food to eat. Other kids have nothing to eat at all. Show Papa God you're grateful by eating everything on your plate, okay?

Okay?

Okay.

Don't forget to make your bed before you come down. Fold your blanket properly. Make sure the bedcovers are neat.

Mom has to hurry or she'll be late for work. By the time I get back I expect you to have eaten lunch and taken a bath so we can take our siesta together, alright? Share your toys with Eli and don't make him cry. Remember, you're the big brother. You have to show a good example. Don't give Yaya a hard time.

What's that?

Oh, Woog (*sniffle*), of course I want to stay with you forever, but you know I can't. Mommy has to go to work. But I'll be back soon and we'll have our siesta together, okay? How's that?

Yes, Woogie, I wuv you too!

*hug*

Now, let's go down and have breakfast.

Woogie Does Hawaii

Woog was a nervous bundle of anxiety the morning we left for Robinson's for his school's annual field trip. On this one, the kids would be paying a visit to Greenwich to learn to assemble their own pizzas.

"I don't know how to make pizza, Mom," Woog worried for the umpteenth time. And in turn, I worried about him. My normally confident and excitable four-year-old has for some reason, recently developed a case of the nerves. He obsesses about the most inconsequential of matters and frets about everything, and nothing: the night's potential bad dreams, the size of his toast, that he might miss a certain children's party, the exact placement of the food on his plate (eggs on the left, fries at 10 o'clock, ketchup dead center). He even broods about events far off into the future.

All this feverish uncertainty in one so young has me frantically nitpicking through our methods of raising him. Are we too stingy with praise? Do we not acknowledge his efforts often enough? Are we remiss in building his self-esteem? Too tough about tough love?

The list is endless, and it piles up into the huge mountain of guilt that all mothers hoist about their shoulders, like Atlas bowed underneath the burden of the world. Don't we all just wish we could do more for our children, but somehow fall short of our own expectations in doing so? I continually bash my figurative head in for failing to be more patient, more loving, and more there (as opposed to thinking about the next thing on my to-do list while Woog tells me about the events in his day).

And so there we were, the worried pair of mother and son, standing before a packed throng of kids and parents grouped around a Greenwich outlet. "Don't worry, Woog, they'll show you how to do it." I assured him with a hug. But he looked at me with clear uncertainty and even managed a faint moan of distress before his teacher roped him over with an apron and stuck him with his name tag, "Owen".

I sighed with resignation and seated myself as near him as I could get, wondering if his agitation were a result of being a year younger and a good head shorter than most of the kids in his class.

More than 50 kids from the pre-school's morning classes were seated around wooden trestle tables and cordoned off from twice the number of parents who were either seated or standing and proudly directing all manner of digicams, videocams and phonecams (yours truly included) at their prodigy.

Woog exhibiting performance anxiety

The moderator was the store's young manager, Tito Al, who carried on with all the good-natured vim and vigor of a clown hosting a children's party. The kids held their own the best they could, up until Tito Al started on an enthusiastic if long-winded narration of Greenwich's history, it's sister stores and various other pizza-pasta statistics. Truly I marveled at their staying power, this huge group of four and five-year-olds, and alas, it was soon obvious that Tito Al had no kids of his own. At least none who were pre-schoolers itching to wiggle off their seats and create chaos. Which, with much aplomb, they soon did.

Woog leading the pack into chaos

The teachers herded their charges back into their seats, only to herd them off moments later, for it was time to make their way into the kitchens.

"Do not touch the hot ovens!" Tito Al bellowed into his headset mic, and most of the parents present exchanged amused glances at the edge of desperation in his voice.

A pizza-making demonstration soon followed (much craning of kiddie necks), and after washing dozens of kiddie hands, the Greenwich staff made their rounds handing out the pizza-making ensemble for Solo Hawaiian Pizza. Through all this, Tito Al pleaded with the kids not to touch their hair/pick their noses/suck their thumbs. He was, as expected, thoroughly ignored.

Spread evenly

The general babble died down as the kids enthusiastically set to work on their respective crusts. Spoons were dropped and liquid was splattered in globulous quantities, but they gamely plodded on.

"Do not lick the pizza sauce!" Clearly, Tito Al was losing it. Woog spared me hardly a glance.

Sprinkle all around

Tito Al's frantic exhortations not to gobble up all the cheese went mostly unheeded, and more cheese had to be brought. Indulgent parents called out encouragement to their preoccupied children, also unheeded.

A million years and some thirty minutes later, the finished products were carried off on trays to be baked. Woog shot me a glance of triumph and exhilaration, and a bright ray of relief banished the cobwebs of worry in my heart. Nothing to it, Woog, I silently mouthed at him, I knew you could do it. My son glowed.

Beside me, a group of concerned mothers debated on stepping in to assist the teachers and poor Tito Al as he personally supervised one parlour game after another in an attempt to keep the kids occupied while their pizzas cooked. The earlier vim and vigor had dissipated all too soon and the poor man was at pains to keep the smile pasted on his put-upon face. Clearly this one would think it over a gazillion times before even considering the giving up of sperm in the spirit of procreation.

An excited hum arose as the smell of oven-baked spiced ham and cheese wafted over to the famished younglings. Soon, the much-awaited Hawaiian Solo pizza and softdrinks were served, and the whir of cameras proceeded, thus:

"Owwie, hot, hot!"

Hawaiian Solo ala Woog

Forget the sugar content, I'm glad you have your confidence back

The morning's end saw us waving a fond adieu to an exhausted Tito Al and the Greenwich staff, the former I'm sure entertaining second thoughts about having the pre-school's afternoon classes over for a repeat performance. Too late, man, sorry. You're booked solid for the day. I feel for you, I really do.

And I followed in the wake of my happy son as he led the rest of the gang upstairs to invade the resident Toys R Us, where the pizza-stuffed and sugar-fueled kids commenced to wreck havoc with the Mega-blocks and the Chikko jungle gyms.

No matter. All's well that ends well. Until the next anxiety attack anyway.