The Psychics Were (Almost) Right

DISCLAIMER:  I generally do not place an enormous amount of stock in the messages of tarot cards, horoscopes, or psychics.  I see them all for what they are–enormously entertaining, occasionally insightful, and always intriguing. 

That being said, about, oh, six, seven, or eight years ago (who can keep track of time?), on two separate occasions, I had visited two different psychics–purely for entertainment, of course.  The first was in Salem, Massachusetts, the other months later in Newport.

Both psychics told me that it was my fate to have “triplet boys.”

I always carried that little nugget of coincidence in my back pocket, sharing it with a few friends along the way whom I thought would find it interesting.

My three sons–not triplets, but a trio of boys fate brought together to be brothers.

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Intriguing?  At the very least.

(A HUGE thank-you to Deanna DiMarzio, who photographed Oscar, Edgar, and August recently at Brenton Point Park.  Her website is www.deannadimarzio.com).

Dreamer from Newport

As a parent, when someone “gets” your child, it just makes everything so easy.   A shorthand can be employed, knowing glances and smiles shared.

 When the person who gets your child happens to be one of your child’s teachers, well, you just know you’re in the right place.

This afternoon when I picked up Edgar from school, his teacher, Miss Dawn, handed me a book that she felt belonged with–and now possibly to–Edgar–Dreamer from the Village, the story of Russian painter Marc Chagall. 

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Dawn has worked with Edgar now for a month, witnessing daily the way he interacts with the world and with materials–artistic and otherwise.  She remarked that today as Edgar studied the water in his cup he seemed to be seeing something more than what other people see.  When I asked him later what he saw, he said, “The water droplets were dancing and talking to me.” 

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Edgar does see more than what others see–and so, too, does Dawn.  And I must express once again my gratitude that the forces of the universe have brought them together. 

 

A Work in Progress

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Events of the last twenty-four hours have driven me to feel compelled to put down in writing my perspective on Oscar’s temperament and personality. 

Though I am his mother, I can regularly lift the veil of maternal affection that creates the essential blindspot parents have toward their children and see where there is room for improvement.   I know he needs to work on–as I suspect most five-year-olds (and, perhaps, most people) do–issues that fall under the umbrella of self-control: his reaction to setbacks, the filtering of his language, his social graces and patience.

But this writing is not about where he needs to improve.  There is so much that is amazing about Oscar, and that is what I want to highlight.   In five years, he has grown into one of my favorite people–and not only because he is my son but because of the young man he is becoming.   I truly and thoroughly enjoy spending time with him and am awe-struck by him regularly.  He is one of the most loving, open, and giving human beings I have ever met.  He is theatrical, musical, creative, and a natural-born storyteller.  He is highly verbal and a riveting conversationalist and has a charismatic wit that belies his young years.  He is alternately sensitive and confident, friendly and pensive.  He has a smile that lights up a room and beams when he knows he has done something well.  He is forgiving and portrays a maturity that is at times shocking.  He is curious and loves to learn and has a memory that can’t be beat. 

And when I look at this package–the person Oscar is and is becoming–I know that he doing just fine and that the lives he has touched and will touch will be richer for his presence.  We are all works in progress; but I think it is important that when we reflect on what needs to improve–in ourselves and in others–that we pause first to remember what is wonderful.

What Matters Most

Every once in a while and thanks to an enormous stroke of luck I am able to snap a photo that winds up truly taking my breath away.  This is one of them.

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This is actually one in a series of five photos of a riveting conversation between Don and August.  And I am reminded when I see their respective expressions that this is what matters–these simple moments that are anything but simple.

Can’t Be Rude

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I need to make a promise right here, right now to each of Edgar’s future dates as well as to the staff of any restaurant he frequents that I am endeavoring with all my might to civilize him at the table. 

Edgar eats with his whole body.  And for him, any interaction he has with food is elevated to an event.  But occasionally his overzealous eating translates to a colossal mess.   I do my best to suggest, cajole, reason; and sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. 

And tonight it didn’t.

I asked Edgar to simply eat his pizza . . . not eviscerate it, paste the table with its sauce, talk to it.

He told me that he had to talk to it because–and I quote–“It’s a talking pizza.  And if I didn’t talk to it that would be rude.  I can’t be rude.”

He can’t be rude, and I’m pretty sure I can’t win. 

Oh, well . . . at least it’s on record that I tried!