30 July 2006
Five will get you Seven
This entry will make more sense if you first read: And Zen What: they not big
Are you back? Ok, then.
Today I told the kids about Seven, starting with Five.
Because today was registration day, I had a stretch of time alone in the car with Five. So I snuck up on the topic by starting a conversation about what he remembers about his life in China.
He remembers playing with the babies, clapping his hands for them, carrying them on his back (I'm not sure what this means--piggyback rides, probably), helping to "train" them to walk. He remembers one with "eyes like mine, Mom," but that it was her "left eye that can't see hardly at all and her right eye that sees a little bit."
(This has me foxed, until I ask him to point to my right eye; when he points at my left, I realize that he doesn't get the "mirror image" effect--so when he said her left eye, he meant her other left, and that makes her eyes exactly like his.)
I tell him that she is the girl who is his new little sister.
"But what if she's already chosen, Mom?"
Chosen.
It's gotta be asked: "What does 'chosen' mean?"
"They get all her stuff that is hers, and then they go shopping and she gets more stuff that is hers, and then the lady that is the boss and the lady that is the judge (she's bossy, Mom) come and give her all her stuff and then they go. And she doesn't come back. And we stay there."
I assure him that China and the boss and the lady that is the judge who is bossy have all already promised that Seven is his sister forever and that I am her Mama forever just like I am his Mama forever.
He wants to know if he will be in bed when she comes. Maybe, I say.
He wants to know if it will be December. Maybe, I say again.
Then he wants to know if she will count as one of his presents.
No, I say, people aren't presents. She will be one of the family forever.
She is your sister already, I say again.
Yahoooo! he says. Then wonders if he can still carry her on his back. I remind him that she's not a baby, not like when he was there, that she will be 3 years old when she comes home.
"Oh. Well, we will see if she's too heavy or not," he decides, judiciously. "One time I dropped her accidentally. Good thing we were on the mat."
He asks for (and gets, needless to say) permission to teach her Braille, to teach her words, to show her where things are. Right now, at the table, he's drawing pictures for her, writing her new name on them, "so I can start teaching her her name, Mom" he kindly explains to me.
Of course I remind him every 5 seconds that it will be a long time before she gets here (for an excited child, "a long time" is any amount of time longer than "already happened").
He's making a book, a birthday book, for her. Every page is a concept, carefully planned: one is to show her that the sky is blue; one will show her how green the grass is; one will show her how to spell her name.
He's so happy--this is so important to him I can hardly get my mind around it.
"I'm gon' take care of her. She will listen to me," he says, "she knows who I am."
Are you back? Ok, then.
Today I told the kids about Seven, starting with Five.
Because today was registration day, I had a stretch of time alone in the car with Five. So I snuck up on the topic by starting a conversation about what he remembers about his life in China.
He remembers playing with the babies, clapping his hands for them, carrying them on his back (I'm not sure what this means--piggyback rides, probably), helping to "train" them to walk. He remembers one with "eyes like mine, Mom," but that it was her "left eye that can't see hardly at all and her right eye that sees a little bit."
(This has me foxed, until I ask him to point to my right eye; when he points at my left, I realize that he doesn't get the "mirror image" effect--so when he said her left eye, he meant her other left, and that makes her eyes exactly like his.)
I tell him that she is the girl who is his new little sister.
"But what if she's already chosen, Mom?"
Chosen.
It's gotta be asked: "What does 'chosen' mean?"
"They get all her stuff that is hers, and then they go shopping and she gets more stuff that is hers, and then the lady that is the boss and the lady that is the judge (she's bossy, Mom) come and give her all her stuff and then they go. And she doesn't come back. And we stay there."
I assure him that China and the boss and the lady that is the judge who is bossy have all already promised that Seven is his sister forever and that I am her Mama forever just like I am his Mama forever.
He wants to know if he will be in bed when she comes. Maybe, I say.
He wants to know if it will be December. Maybe, I say again.
Then he wants to know if she will count as one of his presents.
No, I say, people aren't presents. She will be one of the family forever.
She is your sister already, I say again.
Yahoooo! he says. Then wonders if he can still carry her on his back. I remind him that she's not a baby, not like when he was there, that she will be 3 years old when she comes home.
"Oh. Well, we will see if she's too heavy or not," he decides, judiciously. "One time I dropped her accidentally. Good thing we were on the mat."
He asks for (and gets, needless to say) permission to teach her Braille, to teach her words, to show her where things are. Right now, at the table, he's drawing pictures for her, writing her new name on them, "so I can start teaching her her name, Mom" he kindly explains to me.
Of course I remind him every 5 seconds that it will be a long time before she gets here (for an excited child, "a long time" is any amount of time longer than "already happened").
He's making a book, a birthday book, for her. Every page is a concept, carefully planned: one is to show her that the sky is blue; one will show her how green the grass is; one will show her how to spell her name.
He's so happy--this is so important to him I can hardly get my mind around it.
"I'm gon' take care of her. She will listen to me," he says, "she knows who I am."
