Woog (and Mom) Keep The Faith

Woog moans, forcing his eyes open to the sight of me shaking him gently awake. He turns his head to one side and sees Eli grinning a good morning and slobbering all over the nose of his Tigger plushy ("Tighh," Eli says, "Tighh.")

"Mom," Woog pleads , "did I wake up early?" His desperation is so palpable I wish I could reassure him.

I glance at the clock. 7:00 AM. "No Woog," I say regretfully into his hair, "because here I am, waking you up."

He is crushed. And I am crushed at his disappointment. Only Eli, still chewing on Tigger's threadbare snout, is oblivious to the swirling emotions in the air.

"But I prayed to Papa God last night to help me wake up early." Woog looks ready to cry.

Oh dear.

I'm in a pickle here. How do you reaffirm your child's budding faith and support him in accomplishing the first ever worthwhile goal he's set for himself?

I feel his tortured angst. Who else but a son of mine would beat himself up over imagined wrongs, and carry lengthy grudges over imagined slights. All in the first hour of waking up.

Like me, Woog is not a morning person. He is a struggling little sleepyhead who goes through an elaborate stretching-in-bed-before-thoroughly-waking-up ceremony, and an even more elaborate dawdling-over-breakfast-to-savor-every-bite-whilst-talking-nonstop ritual, before rushing to school at the unholy hour of 8:00 AM.

His parents and his teachers have been on his case for the last three years. Whether it's been our earnestness in convincing (nagging) him, or his classmates' teasing that's inspired him, we cannot tell, except that a couple of weeks ago, he suddenly decided he would ask for wake-up call assistance in his nightly prayers. "I'll dream about waking up early, Mom," he announced. How he has unwittingly stumbled upon motivation-through-visualization, I haven't an inkling. Needless to say, I am so freaking proud of him.

And I would like to tell him about my struggle for self-disicipline and willpower, and the terrible horrible battles I've fought through the years against sleepiness, laziness and half a dozen broken alarm clocks...but in the same vein, I am determined to shore up his trust and reliance on Papa God, upon Whom this family puts a lot of stock on.

"Woog," I proceed cautiously, "I know you feel bad about not waking up early, but didn't you wake up before everyone else the other day?"

A sniff. He remembers.

"Sometimes Papa God answers your prayer with "yes". Sometimes, when it's not good for you, He says "no". And mostly, when He wants you to be patient, He says "wait."

Woog is puzzled by this, "but I can't hear Him, and I prayed twice last night." My sweet innocent! He probably expects this huge booming voice issuing edicts from heaven.

"He'll speak to you in your heart," I tell him, with the beginnings of inspiration, "you'll hear Him there. And I promise, you'll feel much better. You just have to learn to listen with your heart."

At this point, I get over the feeling that I'm winging it, lost in the turbulent sea of parenting. It gets harder to present a front of competent authority as my child grows older and starts to question the world around him, and sometimes I feel like a fraud, conning my way through with fingers crossed, hoping against hope I'm doing/saying/showing the right thing, but somehow in the middle of my explanation, The Competent Authority spoke. And He spoke in my heart.

"Papa God wants you to learn patience, Woog. And to keep on praying to him. And if you can't wake up early, He'll send me to wake you up."

Woog is smiling, wriggling out of his pajamas. The idea of mom waking him up in the mornings appeals to the remaining fragments of babyhood in him. I send up a brief prayer of thanks. One morning scene deflected, a trillion more to look forward to.

Meanwhile, Eli has abandoned a poor damp Tigger and turned his attention to opening and closing Woog's cabinet, his fingers in squashing proximity to the slamming door. I rush to the rescue once again, this time feeling infinitely more capable.

Self-reliance? Sure. Reliance on Papa God's parenting skills? Even better.

And wouldn't you know? Woog got to school early today.

His Dumb Mother

Incident Number One

Sunday grocery shopping. Heap stuff on cart and leave Atch to pay for loot. Lead boys to pizza stand for snack. (Great job, mom. Ruin their appetite an hour before lunch)

Instruct Woog to hold table. Bring baby to kiosk and get the two-in-one special (cheap mommy, too).

Woog wolfs down share. Baby struggles, whines, keeps reaching for stool. (You can't sit by yourself, Eli, you'll fall off). Baby threatens mini-tantrum.

Exasperated. Plop baby down on floor to fend for himself (Fine, do whatever!) Baby grasps stool top and goes cruising down the way, shoving stool before him. Resembles miniature geriatric geezer - pushing futuristic walker. Woog laughs. Mom laughs. (Oh, so that's what you wanted, such a dumb mommy I am).

Atch returns laden with grocery bags in time to see baby plodding a hundred meters away, unsupervised, stool in the lead. Atch laughs. Until unsuspecting shopper nearly stumbles over baby. Atch totes us home, disgruntled.

Incident Number Two

Sunday afternoon. Watching Son of the Mask (dumb film, but there's super-toddler in it - boys are riveted). Woog gapes. Eli gapes. Mom....gapes.

Baby starts to whine, restless. Mom lifts shirt and absentmindedly shoves baby's face into chest. Baby is quiet. For a time.

Baby smiles, looks up from mom's empty flaps of skin. Utters words: 'Kee-'kee...

Mom looks down, smiles at baby, turns attention back to super-toddler flattening Loki's head with metal trash bins.

.....'Kee-'kee.... chlurp...chlurp...chlurp...

Yes, Eli, 'Wuv-wuv.

Chlurp...chlurp...chlurp...'Kee-'kee! (listen to me, ya dumb mom!)

Yes, Eli, 'Kee-'kee.

Baby starts to cry, 'Kee-'kee, 'kee-'kee!

Atch peeks in from kitchen. I think he wants his milky. His milky. The one in the bottle?

Oh? Oh. Ohhhh! 'Kee-'kee! His milky! (Where's ya brain, mom?)

Mom runs to fridge and gets bottle. Hands to starving baby.

'Kee-'kee, baby smiles around nipple ( I forgive ya, mom).

_________________________

Waiting for incident number three. They say dumb-dumb stops at that number.

We hope.

Bumble-Bee and Sam Witwicky vs. John McLaine

Atch is so puzzled by the fact that Transformers was a million years better than Die Hard 4. He finally admitted this to me one morning on the drive to work and I laughed my head off (Come on, Atch. This is Michael Bay we're talking about. Against an old bald guy? Hello?)

I'm still laughing. Atch is not amused.

I'm Ok, You're Ok...We're Ok!

Selecting a subject matter for this post is getting me into a tizzy.

I could write about how Woog startled me off my seat the other night by reading three-letter words. All. By. Himself.

I know, I know. At his age, it's not that big a deal. I mean, he is five years old. And it is about time he's hurdled this milestone. After all, the rest of his class started reading a year ago, and I've let up on pressuring him about this. Woog does not respond well to stress, no sir. He flutters about in a panic like a chicken without a head. Not a pretty sight.

ADHD. Dyslexia. They came floating over our heads during homework nights when even tried-and-tested Mr. Phonics gave up on us. I despaired at his despair over my despair. Going round and round in a vicious circle. And then finally, out of the blue, while studying short letter e, he went and read four columns worth of words. Some hesitation, yes. But he got them all! And he beamed this wide wonderful smile that speared me right through the center. He reads! He reads!

(background sound: "...and the crowd goes wild!" Roaaarrrrr!)

And although I continue to float in the euphoria of that moment, I don't think I want to write about it just now. Too new and too precious, that.

Let's see. I could write about the dengue scare Eli gave us last week. He woke up with a fever and a half-dozen red spots on his dusky skin. Hasn't he been vaccinated against the measles? Checked his baby book. Yes he has. Gave him paracetamol drops and went to work.

But horrors! A client came by to transfer his memorial plan to his four-year-old daughter who succumbed to dengue the night before. The poor child! It was too late for transfusions. And the symptoms he described sounded terrifyingly familiar. I rushed to the phone forthwith. Shaken, Atch agreed for us to bring Eli to the hospital for blood tests over lunch. Oh please let his platelets be ok, please let his platelets be ok.

The epochal wait at the hospital frayed our nerves and pummeled at our growling tummies. Eli didn't help matters any by screaming his head off each time someone tried to take his temperature, or listen to his heartbeat. By that time, he was totally covered in small dull red dots. My poor spotted son!

Atch and I were nervous and irritable, mostly at each other. Not a good sign in a marriage trying to hurdle a frightening crisis (but that's another story). Finally, a hugely obese guy in a scrub suit approached with a syringe. The blood test. At the sight of him, Eli let out his horrendously grating wail, not letting up until Jabba-the-medical-technician actually left his field of vision. I doubt my anxious son even noticed he was pricked.

Two hours later I was on the phone again, begging the hospital for lab results (oh please let his platelets be ok, please let his platelets be ok.). And allelujah! It was a viral thing. Fever rashes, not dengue. Thank you, Papa God!

We're still recovering from our scare. Don't want to write about this, either.

Hmmm. What about Atch's improved response time at night whenever Eli cries out in his sleep. No more grumbling, no more whupping, no more "Eli, #$%&^ shut up!" These days, he sometimes manages to shove a bottle into his son's mouth. Viola. Instant silence. One time, he even got up and changed a leaky diaper. (Atch, is that you?)

Early morning mining expedition

But that isn't the point at all. Right this moment my family is doing great, and I don't know where to even begin. I could wax eloquent. Or I could just put up a smiley @:). Neither can describe my utmost gratefulness.

I know, I know. This can all change in an instant. But that doesn't alter the reality that right here, right now, we are truly blessed. And for this, I give thanks.