On Saturday, a trip to the music store to get strings turned into a trip to get 6 more: Ford asked for his own guitar and we flat out bought him one. And do you know what? He’s picked it up like a natural. Here he is playing Mozart’s Minuet in G. Minus the Mozart. And the minuet part. But the G–he’s got that,, and I can’t believe how his fingers are already able to wrap themselves around the fretboard to play a chord. It’s amazing.

On Saturday, a trip to the music store to get strings turned into a trip to get 6 more: Ford asked for his own guitar and we flat out bought him one. And do you know what? He’s picked it up like a natural. Here he is playing Mozart’s Minuet in G. Minus the Mozart. And the minuet part. But the G–he’s got that,, and I can’t believe how his fingers are already able to wrap themselves around the fretboard to play a chord. It’s amazing.

Austin awoke and fell back to sleep again tonight under the clouds; it was invigorating. It was the first noticeable cold front of the season. Please do not notice that I was taking this picture while driving.

Ford has a new piece of jewelry, the hydroxide molecule ring. Actually, it’s a small keyring with, oh, I don’t know, some sort of ball attached to it. Something like that. And I wasn’t driving when I took this picture, I was at a stoplight. Anyway, he removed it from a little chotchkie that Damon brought home, put it on his finger, and asked me what kind of molecule it looked like. Ford is into molecular models, atomic models, skeletal models. I can thank Bill Nye. Thank you, Bill Nye! You rock! Except when Ford is bouncing off the furniture at 4pm, when I am so very tired in the afternoon, proclaiming (no, shouting) that he is an electron. But it was very cute when he dissected his birthday balloons into protons and neutrons. Of course, the whole bunch of them was the nucleus. Thank you, Bill Nye!

The last of the Gayfeather is in bloom, but most has gone to seed and left to drape the new stars:…

the grasses.

The Muscadines are ripe,

and the Beautyberries are shouting.

Today was Ford’s blue+green+robot+fish+Fourth Birthday Party. All of the pre-party freaking out was worth the post-party glow, as you can see:

Oh, I was fit to be tied until the guests actually arrived. From there, it was, well cake. But even the cake-decorating stressed me out.

However, it was a success, measured in burps.

And blurs.

Today was Museum Day in Austin, when all the museums are open to the public, free of charge. Most of them also hosted fun kid-centric activities, like making seed balls and collages at the Ladybird Johnson Wildflower Center. Because it was noon, and white hot outside, we decided to head on over for some masochistic martyrdom at the Wildfower Center, where we could either bake to death outside in the beautifully landscaped terrace or pressure cook till our eyes popped out in the Little House, aka Little Barely-Air-Conditioned Room Where the Children Hang. So we decided to share the best of both worlds, and I took Ford to the House while Damon and Chas kicked back in the brick oven.

Lois Ehlert is in town, and while she was signing her picture books that we left at home, Ford and I made Leaf Man-inspired collages:

While working on them, I paused to take a break and admire all the children at work on their collages. Ford had squirted huge silver dollar-sized dabs of Elmer’s glue onto his paper and stuck, very gingerly atop it, thin strands of dried grasses. It was so cute. An eight year-old across the table scanned this and then looked at me, scrunching up her face, and asked “Why did he use such a big glob of glue?” Before answering, I smiled, immediately thinking of the way Ford and I laugh together at Chas’ “mistakes” all of the time, and the way he in so many words, asks the same of Chas when he makes a “mess.”
“Oh, Chas! What are you doing?” Ford will say, and laugh in a very infectious way.

With all the company we’ve had the past week or so, it has been easy for me to forget what it’s like being around Ford, when he is not competing for attention between one or more babies. His enthusiasm, when he is engaged, is really unbridled. Unbridled engagement. That sounds weird.

Today we rediscovered the Austin Nature Center. In May I took the boys there, but we didn’t make it past the first tier of exploration; today, we stepped throught the back door and into the rest of the museum. It’s such a gem! They have a collection of native animals in the form of a miniature zoo, so the kids can see a coyote or a ringtail or coati or raccoon walk feet in front of them. No annoying cotton candy vendors along the way. It’s small, shaded, and in the middle of town. There were several trails adjacent to the animal enclosures that we earmarked for later. Today’s focus was the outdoor dinosaur dig.

Ford asked a ton of questions about the Pleisosaur fossil model. “What bone is this, mommy?”
“It’s a phalange, but look how many there are on his pointer finger!”
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,”
I ask “How many are on your pointer finger?” I help him identify them:
“One, two, three..”
“Three! That’s not quite as many as the Pleisosaur, huh?”

“Mommy, what’s this bone?” Points at some kind of wrist bone.
“That looks like a wrist bone, maybe a metacarpal?”
“Where is my metacarpal?”
I take his hand and poke around towards his wrist, nearly in the same area. “Right in here are several metacarpals. But in your hand, the wrist bones that you feel are actually part of your arm bones!”
“What are your arm bones called?”
“The radius (I point to the bony prominence on the distal radial head) and the ulna (yada yada).”
He lays his hand down upon the “fossil” remains.

Chas kept crawling in and out of the Pleisosaur mouth. He does that a lot. I mean, he’s not particular to Pleisosaur fossils, but if there is a cozy nook then he must rearrange the contents so that he can wedge his round bottom into it. He will systematically throw Hot Wheels out of the toybox until none remain in the small box, then squirrel around inside the box like a restless dog until he’s comfortable. And then he’ll sigh, sometimes clap. And then claps some more. And grunt, smiling. It’s very cute.

Ford is an expressive, independent kid, and I’ve never tried to squash the juice out of him by making him “draw things” or label his art. Naturally, I would think, his artwork would be as it usually appears: more evocative than representational. He usually begins a piece by slowly dabbing and stroking the paper with paint, and then begins to get physical with the medium by testing the limits of the brush against brute strength(how hard can I jab the brush into the paper? how many times can I do this over and over again before something gives? this feels GOOD!) until finally, his piece resembles a meteor storm or a hurricane, or a dance, or a race. His work is never static.

I was in a funk after Jim and Alis left, feeling vaguely cathartic, venting, and extremely tired, when I began to sob. This consumed Ford, and he began to offer to buy me various things which he thought might make me happy again. I told him that I didn’t really want him to buy me anything, but that I would appreciate a drawing instead. And continued to decompress, although I was charmed by his efforts.

About five minutes later he came upstairs and handed me this drawing. It is, according to him, a picture of me and I am smiling. Notice the long arm, of which my left is longer (I am left-handed) and the petite legs. The smile is uncontrived, very nice. This is his first fully representational drawing that he initiated on his own. And all for me, it is mine. Granted, I am not praising his newfound mastery of realism, but instead just amazed at how he has restrained this capability he already apparently has in order to be true to his art, to nurture his expressive style. I’m very proud of that.

Parenting is hard work, but proof of God. Otherwise I would have barehandedly killed Ford today. Stronger forces exist outside the realm of my patience. But oh, the demons within. I mean, how else am I supposed to react to our new residents Jeckyll and Hyde, where five minutes after retorting “That is not a good idea. bitch.” he murmured, “I want you to sleep with me, mommy.”
Yes, the “Terrible Twos” was a cakewalk. This, people, THIS is the Fucking Fours.

Ford and I visited the Montessori school at the end of our block yesterday morning. It was poised, pretty, just bubbling with children. They practice strict Montessori method, and I was impressed with the industriousness and self-reliance of a 4 year-old girl as she swept collage remnants with a child-sized broom into a child-sized dustpan. The place glowed with purpose and warmth and Ford (and Chas, for his part) seemed to enjoy it very much. In fact, he didn’t want to leave. He was attracted to station after station, wooden baskets and utensils, glowing freshwater fish tank and sunny windows facing the children’s vegetable garden.
But there are no openings until June 2006.
This might be our opportunity in disguise to travel this year and shuffle the boys out of the country for a little exploring, while we still can.

I feel as if I’m waiting for Them to come take Chas away. With conflicting travel plans coming from more than three loved ones, I find myself pushing Chas’ birthday celebration nearly two weeks following his actual birthdate. Is it so much to accommodate everyone’s schedules that they might be able to join us in celebration, or am I reluctant for Time to take away Chas’ First Year away from me, with all of the poignant milestones? He’s not going to be a baby once he passes his First Birthday, but a toddler. It’s not fair that decades of dying are preceded by the short, enthusiastic pant of life in that first year here.

The Austin Children’s Museum hosted “Bubble Day” this afternoon, for which we have been planning to attend all week. There was a special shirt Ford selected to wear, and a priority given to this event over all other appointments, even eating. We left Houston in the rain last night in order not to miss it. And Ford has been talking about it all week, All Week.

The entire visit, Ford whisked among the exhibits like an ER surgeon urgently attending triage, objective and meticulous, testing each demonstration and lingering where he saw fit before moving onto the next interest, oblivious to everyone else but with growing receptivity towards taking turns, nonetheless.

Chas, sometimes clapping with pride, figured out all of the baby room puzzle exhibits, but he petered out quickly along with my aching feet.