Angela Amman

The Adams Administration

a case of the MondaysI wish I could have stretched our weekend out into the week, at least until Wednesday or possibly Thursday. We ran around from place to place, which frazzles us all, but there were moments of stillness, too. We played The 5 Second Rule and got Halloween makeovers, went to a wedding, ate leftover pizza and then leftover desserts.

But weekends end. They turn to Mondays, and some days, the only song going through your head is “The Adams Administration,” a short song about the government descending into chaos in Hamilton.

This post could go political, but that’s not my intention. The reference truly happened because my kids request the Hamilton soundtrack a disproportionate amount, so most of the time, the lyrics unwind quietly in the back of my head. So, while the chaotic nature of the government weighs on my mind, this particular Monday I focused more on my own spiraling thoughts.

(Sidenote: You might find plenty of brain dumps and spiraled thoughts here during the next 6 weeks. I’m attempting one of my favorite goals again: National Novel Writing Month. This little corner of the world just might be the place I come to get rid of some of the rattling thoughts in my brain. You know, so I can focus on the not-so-rattling thoughts while I’m writing.)

The whole day consisted of stuttered starts and running late, stalled projects and almost-completed-but-not-quite tasks. I’m not even sure why I’m writing about them, except I was supposed to review a book today but can’t, because it’s unfinished in my Kindle app.

I’ll get it done — right after a lung-bursting sing-a-long.

Disclosure: I’d have to do research to figure out if the Adams Administration was, in fact, filled with chaos. I don’t have time today, though, due to the Adams Administration-ish-ness of my day. 

Quiet halls

The last couple weeks of summer brought bickering and laments of boredom. The weather hung gray and unpredictable over our heads, and I struggled to focus on anything while they struggled to transition to a new school year.

first day of school

They love school. They look forward to starting, eyes bright with anticipation for what the year will bring. The space between, though, feels heavy with almost-doneness and not-yet-startedness. We hear the clock ticking as we wander through aisles of school supplies and try on clothes to see what fits.

By the time the first day arrived, they woke up without alarms, though I did happen to start the hair dryer just about when I wanted them to awaken. We took pictures and double checked backpacks, and we walked a route so familiar we could all do it in our sleep.

After treading those same steps I’ve done so many times before, I should be used to the quiet when I return. I should relish it, maybe, and I probably will tomorrow or the next day, when I smooth over the transition of a new year. Still, when I saw their “first day” signs, tossed onto the ground from the porch, I paused.

I heard the camera click on my phone. It doesn’t seem loud most of the time, with chaos unfurling around me. It echoes today, though, and I hate that I can’t get the right amount of light into the frame. It glares or falls into shadow. I take the shot anyway and walk into my office.

In what will seem like moments, we’ll find our new footing. But for today, and probably for several days, I’ll miss them. And I’ll wish I would have had just a few more moments to capture summer’s light before it fades into fall.

ETA: Still haven’t found that groove, as evidenced by my posting of this today, two full weeks after I wrote it and had “add photo to post” on my list of things to do. I still think we’ll get there, I just need the earth to slow down for just a few days…

The gratitude project: Day twenty-eight

gratitude project

making bodily noises with his hands in between sinking my ships

Gratitude list: Battleship

Pretend play fails to hold my attention many days. I try to play when asked, especially because I realize how fleeting their worlds of make-believe are. And I relish the times the game evolves and becomes a conversation about friends or something bothering them or something they love.

Still, most days that magical bonding zone eludes me, and my mind wanders. I think of tasks I should be doing when I’m supposed to be a villain plotting my escape from a LEGO jail or walking a fluff of an American Girl pet to the pet salon.

Board games, though, hold my attention. Some days I have to play with my laptop on the table next to me, and the kids understand that, because the majority of my focus is turned toward them. In fact, I find myself abandoning work tasks because our games start moving too quickly to keep up with both.

We’ve always liked games, but I loved the transition from Chutes and Ladders to Clue, from Candyland to Battleship.

Dylan takes Battleship seriously. He sets up his board quickly, and makes sure it’s hidden from view if I need to get up to refill my water or grab him one of his constantly-needed snacks.

My own Battleship strategy needs a little tweaking. I guess a little randomly and a little by intuition, and that’s not really how the game works.

He guesses methodically and carefully, something I only realized late into one game as he systematically picked off my boats as I kept stabbing for his in the dark. Even though he’ll still curl against my side during reading time, he pumps his fists in triumph when he beats me.

I guess I have a little strategizing to learn.

The gratitude project: Day twenty-seven

gratitude projectGratitude list: Minecraft and little boy hands

I talked a little about what keeps Abbey busy when she’s exhausted summer-like activities. Despite her insistence on teaching him her favorite slime-making methods, Dylan’s only interested in making a new batch once every four times she invites him into her laboratory — otherwise known as the kitchen island.

When he needs a break from activities, he wanders over and asks, “Can I play Minecraft?” Sometimes, he can’t wait until I’m finished with a conference call, and he’ll draw me a little picture, complete with zombies and Steves, a note across: Can I play Minecraft now?

We don’t have a gaming system yet, something he reminds me about frequently, but we added Minecraft to an old desktop computer sitting on our dining room table. He presses buttons and moves around and builds. Faced with parents who don’t have a clue how any of it really works, he watches YouTube kids’ videos about how to get through obstacles or tricky situations.

He’ll talk about it incessantly some days.

Like slime, it surprises me a little that I find myself grateful for Minecraft, for a game that involves sitting in front of a computer instead of kicking a ball or soaking in the sun shining on our short summer season.

But he does more than play the game in front of the computer.

He builds LEGO scenes based on Minecraft. Of course, LEGO has Minecraft sets. LEGO knows its audience has a penchant for building and a weakness for certain types of pop culture.

He makes his own, too, though. He incorporates other characters into those scenes sometimes, and I see his make-believe world building skills shaping his time in the same way his sister plays with her beloved American Girl dolls.

Not all of the influence is purely positive. Left to his own devices, he’ll grab one of our phones and make a video of himself playing with his sets, much like the ones he’s come across while looking for help on the video game. His (imaginary) YouTube channel would be filling up quickly if it were real.

Even those, though, make me smile. I upload them to my computer, making a note to back up to the external drive. I want to capture this stage, to remember it when he’s moved past pretend play and videos only seen by a few eyes. His little voice comes through clearly, even when he’s not on the video. I marvel at his small hands, fingers hovering between the baby ones I once held and the deft, sure tools that craft his world.

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