These Are Days

Several months ago, after talking about the "people in our neighborhood" during Ms. Marie's music class, I opted to quiz my almost five-year-old son about what vocation he might be leaning toward. Without hesitation, Thomas replied that he would like to be an artist. I have to admit, I was a bit taken back by his response. I figured he would choose something a bit more daring, something that might involve the use of a weapon or might be the impetus of courageous feats. And I feel like my assumption does have credence. After all, Thomas does seem to spend an extraordinary amount of his day playing or thinking about Star Wars and waging battles between good and evil. Nonetheless, at this point in his life, he aspires to be an artist and now when he is not busy constructing detailed Lego planes complete with multiple blasters and lightsabers or his new favorite structure (and mine too) - a ship with spider webs jutting off the sides containing prisoners of war like Asoka Tano (if you don't know who she is, you need to brush up on your Star Wars knowledge) - he is usually questioning where paper, pen and often blue tape (thank you Michelle Leichty) and scissors might be found.

Thomas' younger brothers too would love to demonstrate their artistic abilities, but this desire has been temporarily squashed by one very mean mother. You see, I am convinced that a pen or crayon in either Russell's or Elliot's hand will be transformed into a weapon of mass destruction. While their desire to "draw" may indeed appear to be well-intentioned and guileless, do not be fooled by the movement of their chubby arms back and forth in an imitation of coloring, it is a sham. Notice the gleam in their eyes, there is no doubt that they are planning devious acts.

And again, I believe this conviction is likewise founded. For example, last Friday, I innocently gave Russell a peanut, an ordinary item that unless you have peanut allergies cannot render much harm. But oh Russell, no sooner had I turned my back than he proceeded to shove the peanut up his right nostril. No amount of blowing could remove the peanut, so after calling Thomas in from the living room and giving him specific instructions to push his pointer finger into Russell's left nostril and tell Russell to "blow," I retreated upstairs and returned with a pair of tweezers and carefully dislodged the grievous item from his nasal orifice.

And then there is Elliot. For those of you who know him, I feel like I really do not need to say any more. I am convinced that this child will most certainly be the death of me. Last week as the temperatures escalated into the upper 90's, our air conditioner broke. Though we tried to put on brave faces and remind ourselves that many people do in fact live without air conditioning, the heat and the inescapable sweat ultimately became unbearable and we sought respite at my parents' for a couple days. In addition to frequently turing my father's oxygen machine off and then yelling, "BEEP!" my sweet Jelly Nut, after finding himself alone in the kitchen, proceeded to climb up onto my mother's table and relish in the white bowl of sugar he discovered. Apparently when my mother found him his face was smeared and sticky and he was sitting in a pool of the white granulated substance (oh where was my camera?).

The moral of my stories is, as Thomas likes to say, "you never know what is going to happen in the Johnson house."