B, G and J Day: Toppers

B:

The island in our kitchen is undersized.  There are at least 9 square feet on the side of it that need to be filled to keep the space from seeming awkward.  Right now, those feet are filled with a child-sized table, which has been of some use to us.

But now the kids are bigger, and they do their crafts and art work on the big kitchen table, and with increasing frequency, the kids have some kind of project going on the kitchen table when dinner approaches.

Ah, wouldn't it be nice to have a bigger island with a breakfast bar and tall stools so that we would have an additional place to eat meals if and when projects are launched on our table?

So began a few months of trying to trouble shoot and problem solve.  At one point, the idea got as big as replacing the entire island, which meant replacing all the flooring on our main level and also replacing all our counter tops.  We didn't want to go that big, but when it comes to home improvements, sometimes a chain reaction triggers.

The problem with simply replacing the top of our existing island with a bigger top than is already there is that it would be stupidly expensive to match the Formica of our other counters, a piece of granite would look ridiculous and a big ole slab of butcher's block came with an insane price tag. 

What. To. Do. . .  

We were the auction house on Friday to preview a set of shelves for our basement when I saw a huge desk with a beautiful oak top.  I mentioned to Bryan, "How about this for the top of our island?" 

He didn't scoff at me, per se.  But he shot me a certain look.  A certain purist, this-is-a-desk-and-who-takes-apart-a-perfectly-good-desk-except-those-who-do-not-properly-respect-furniture? look. 

Well, then. 

Not two hours later, we were at a furniture store, looking for a counter-height table that might work.  If we could find one the same width as the island, we could make the two abut, right? 

No such table at that store.  Nor anywhere on-line.

But I got to talking with the salesman about having a top custom made for the island from one of their furniture manufacturers.  Bryan caught the end of this discussion, knew that the salesman would look into it for me, and said, once we got to the car, "Well if you're serious about that idea, I think that desk at the auction would work."

Willing to take a desk apart, are you?

"Well. . . it's not an antique." 

He got the desk top (and the desk that is attached to it) for $20.  I'm fairly certain this is cheaper than the custom-ordered table top quote will be. 

G:

The kids and I went to a community production of Robin Hood the other day.  It was put on by the Academy of Children's Theater.  The production was excellent.  The script was a disaster, which means the play itself could not be great.  But still:  Good direction, quality performances.  It was impressive.

Gemma has seen other plays, you know.  And has never said much about them.  This time, with such a boring, talk-heavy, plot-less story unfolding on stage--one that was hard for me to understand, let alone Gemma--I thought I might have actually damaged any enthusiasm she might have one day for performance.

Instead, she said on the ride home, "That lady mentioned there are acting classes for children 6-9 and I am 7, so can I do that class?"

Huh! 

She brought it up again later, on her own, so I asked her why she would be interested in trying it.  She said, "I could learn new things and find out what acting is all about and make new friends." 

Huh!

So I signed her up.  Knowing how to speak in front of an audience, knowing how to take direction, knowing how to work with a cast to create a finished project--these are all really good Life Skills I'm glad to encourage.  Being in plays and musicals was one of the highest highlights of my adolescent years.  If Gemma tries it and likes it, I will drive her to as many rehearsals as she needs to attend.

She starts in January.

J:

Speaking of performances, our co-op had "Presentation Day" at which each child prepared and delivered an oral presentation on a bunch of different topics related to Colorado history.  It was amazing.  All these kids did a really, really super job.

In the middle of them, Joshua curled up on a bean bag chair to watch.  This was fine, except that he kept squishing his feet in and out, making the beans in the bag crunch.  The noise was distracting.  And rude.

I asked him to stop and he didn't.  It could have been that he didn't realize the noise he was making.  Or it could have been that he was just being a twit.  In any case, I made him leave the bean bag and come sit next to me on the couch.  This ticked him off. I had to bring him upstairs so the show could go on without us.

He eventually collected himself.  He eventually rejoined us.  The rest of the time with our friends was just fine.

Later that night, I was hugging him and I said, "We had kind of a hard day today earlier, didn't we?"

Josh said, "Yes." 

"Do you remember why it was hard?"

He said, "Yes, you made me cry when you wouldn't let me sit on that bean bag."

Hmm. . . 

"I didn't 'make you cry,' Josh.  I just told you that you couldn't sit there because you were making a distracting noise."

Hug continues.  Nothing is said.

But my point was not yet made.  "Josh," I began, gently, "Maybe today would have been easier if you had just obeyed Mommy right away." 

Now, I'm about to punctuate his answer in just the way necessary to communicate his exact tone:

He backed up from the hug, looked right at me and said, "Maybe it would have been 'easier' if you had just let me sit on the bean bag chair."

I got to tell you: I so admire his mental acuity for language. Only 4 1/2!!!!  And yet, his powers cannot be used for good unless we also train him up to be virtuous and to walk in fear of the Lord.  So I laughed.  Bryan heard all this and laughed.  And then the discussion continued. . .

Another related story:

One morning this week, Josh had been pushing the envelope with me.  You know how kids do that.  I called him on it, told him that just one more little thing would get a spank.  Now, please get dressed, both of you.

They were upstairs in the bathroom when I heard Gemma shriek.  A minute passed.  Another shriek.

"What is going on?"  I called.

Gemma reported, "Josh held the toothpaste cap up to the water and it sprayed water all over!"

Several minutes of drama and discussion ensued, in which we determined that he did it twice, that the first time was an accident, but that he chose to do it the second time on purpose.  And I spanked him. 

After a spank, my children need to tell me (or Daddy) that they are sorry, and we tell them that we forgive them, that God forgives them, that we love them so much, and we hug and the whole issue is completed.

But Josh wouldn't say he was sorry.  He kept clinging to this defense that "it was an accident," though I had already shown him that if he did it twice, it could not have been "an accident."

I sent him to his room to have some time to calm down and collect himself.

A few minutes later, he was out: calm and collected. 

"Hey, Josh," I said, and patted the couch next to me.  He sat there.  I said, "Are you sorry you sprayed the water the second time?"

And he said, "The water didn't get into the bathtub."

What?

"Gemma said the water went 'all over' but it didn't go into the bathtub.  So it didn't go 'all over.'"

I laughed and laughed and laughed.  Was I not supposed to?  I couldn't help it. . .

Finally, I explained what the phrase "all over" means.

To which he said, "But the tub is in the bathroom, so the water didn't go all over."

Heh heh.  Here's the difference between Joshua as a child and Amy as a child:  When I marshalled a defense like this--and I did it often--the people responding  to me were only ever irritated that I was "splitting hairs" (Mom liked that phrase) or "bickering," or something else of equal annoyance.  ("Oh, Amy! You always have to have the last word!") (No, you could have had the last word, so long as it had been "I see your point," or, even better, "You're right.")

When Joshua says these things to me, he is saying them to someone who loves a good argument!  Who loves to parse words!  Who is not the least bit bothered to have to present an argument of my own for why his does not work.  I can't wait to see this blossom in him.  I can't wait to help him develop and hone his skills in rhetoric and logic

And poor, Joshua.  He doesn't know that as these arguments arise,  he's never going to win with me anytime soon.  He is so out-gunned.

Bring it on, little boy!  I am delighted with you.  I am delighted to know that you spent your time in your room thinking of an argument to respond with.  (Of course, in terms of character, it's not great that he didn't want to take responsibility for his mistake, but we dealt with that.)  I am delighted that you sense the power of words and what they can be used for.

And one day, when you do win an argument with me, I am going to tell everyone all about it.