Speak n Spell

We’re lying in bed at 6:30 in the morning, pretending to still be asleep, when Zip prods our listless bodies commanding... "Det up, det up!” But then, he has a sudden revelation, and excitedly whispers “Oh, tutor!” hoists himself out of bed and goes tumbling into the other room. Oh tutor indeed. 

A child’s laptop has made it’s way down the hand me down chain and into our house. The box claims it’s educational, but all we’ve encountered so far is a frenetic robot who barks orders at our children “Enter the game code! What?! I can’t hear you!!! I’m still waiting.”  The boys bang furiously away on the keyboard doink, doink, doink, tiny brows furrowed, muttering the occasional expletive  “Oh!  Err!  Ha!”

“I.AM.GO.ING.TO.TEACH.YOU.YOUR.A.D.D.'S” My husband drones.

We let the kids play with it, as much to keep them off our own keyboard, and Tizzy proudly carries it around by it’s handle, periodically stopping to admire his grown up self in the mirror. 

When I hear it, I have flashbacks of Easter ’79, gliding down the highway in the back-seat of a Lincoln Continental with my mother’s boyfriend, appropriately looking like Jesus, his large frame sporting a caftan and huaraches, long golden curls cascading down his back, full 70’s beard framing his face. His minister father’s at the wheel, with his plump, cotton haired wife knitting at his side. 

I am deeply engrossed in my own laptop of it’s time, the Speak n Spell. 

“Spell Pee-ah-nis!” it orders. Shocked and titillated, not quite believing what I’m hearing, I continue to press repeat. “Pee-ah-nis, Pee-ah-nis, Pee-ah-nis!!!” echoes the mechanical voice reverberating through the quiet car. The car begins to excelorate, the sound of knitting needles click ever more furiously, and I continue to hit repeat, completely oblivious to the uncomfortable silence growing around me.Ultimately, mom’s boyfriend grasps my elbow and hisses into my ear “It’s pianist! A professional piano player! Now move on to the next word!”

I’m not sure how much the Speak n Spell actually taught me to spell. 

This current computer does nothing but drive us all crazy. I put it in the garage the other day, and you know what? So far it's gone un-missed.

A Bit of a Kid

Tizzy sighs: I’m feeling a little bit kind of sad.

Me: Oh yeah? Why are you feeling sad?

Tizzy: I’m just tired of being a boy.

Me: Really? What would you rather be?

Tizzy: Just, not a boy.

Me: Do you wish you were a girl?

Tizzy: No.

Me: Are you wishing you were a man?

Tizzy: No.

Me: What do you want to be then?

Tizzy: I think I just want to be a kid.

A day or two later

Tizzy: I’m just not a boy anymore, but Zip is. He’s only 5.

Me: Actually he’s two.

Tizzy: That’s right. He’s two, and I’m four.

Me: And on your next birthday you’ll  be five.

Tizzy: No, five’s not good, I think I’ll just like to be six.

Me: Six is good, and then there’s seven.

Tizzy: No, no, no. Then there’s eight. And nineteen. I think I’m just going to be nineteen. 

Me: Nineteen’s good...  keep at it, and someday you will be nineteen.

Tizzy: Yeah, but not just right now, right now I’m just going to be a kid. 

Later that day

Brad: SO, I hear you’re no longer a boy, I hear you’re a kid now.

Tizzy: Yeah.

Brad: You really are a big kid, think of all the big kid things you can do.

Tizzy: Yeah, but I’m not a really big kid, I’m just a little bit of a kid.

Brad:  O.K. you’re a little bit of a kid, but Zip's still a little boy.

Tizzy, eyes wide: Oh no! Zip's a HUGE kid! It’s just that I’m just a little bit of a kid.

His Shoes

We're reading The World Of Pooh, and Owl is busy explaining how they are going to Issue a reward, which Pooh mistakes for a sneeze, sending them both into a fit of confusion as to whether any sneezing is in fact taking place or not.

"Get it?" I ask the boys, "Issue, sounds a bit like Hetchu..." 

“Ahhh-ha-ha-ha” Screams Tizzy. “His SHOE’S?!!! That is SO funny mama! His shoe’s a reward!!! Oh that Pooh!”

“Iz funny- ‘Izz Shoe’s” Zip chimes in. 

Zip’s currently going through a bit of a shoe fetish. Tizzy recently had a birthday, and while Zip’s birthday, two months earlier, was a bit of a love fest, a gift for you, a gift for me, Tizzy's quite clear who’s gifts these are, and brother be damned. Unwrap a harmonica, puff a little tune, “Ahhh, look at these lovely new roller skates. These are my skates Zip! You have to wait ‘till you’re my age before you can have skates like these.” Hum a little riff. 

Zip follows Tizzy, as he skates down the street, head bowed low, staring at his socks, lamenting “Where’s Zip’s skates? Where are ‘dem?”

Back at the house, deflated and dejected, he busies himself with a bag of hand me downs that have been brought to the party, and pulls out an oversized pair of brown loafers. “Is Tizzy’s?”  Tizzy casts a dismissive look at the shoe’s and continues reeling away on his harmonica. “Is Zip’s?” I give him an affirmative nod and he perks up all aplomb. “Is Zip’s. Is Zip’s big boy shoes!” 

He has similarly acquired a pair of weathered leather sandals, which, when not being affectionately cradled, are actively being sought out. “Zip’s shoe’s? Where’s Zip’s big boy shoe’s? Ockh..here dem are!” He even insists on sleeping in them. We tuck him in at night, carefully fluffing the covers up around the rubber soles so he doesn’t end up in a tangled mess, and we tell him what a big boy he is in his big boy shoe’s and he smiles sleepily and whispers “Yes.” 

Then in the middle of the night, when he gets up seeking another sip of water, we're forewarned with a Thunk, slap, swish, slap, as he noisily makes his way down the hall.

His shoes. A reward indeed.

Pleased to Meet Ya!

In order to vacuum, I first have to consult Tizzy, who’s quite concerned for the safety of his feet. We settle him into my room, the only room that’s not part of the continuous loop that is our house, turn on a movie, and close the door. Since the last few years have been spent cleaning on Saturdays, while my husband engages him on various outings, I’m glad we’ve come up with this arrangement, as there are things, other than vacuuming, I’d rather do sans children. 

However, once Zip hears the vacuum, I have precious time to suck up debris before he bounds in, wrestles the hose from my grasp, and growls “I do it!” Sure this provides the perfect opportunity to start him young, and avoid ever having to vacuum again, but he’s not as thorough as I am, choosing instead to clean one section of the floor very, very well. I try to reason with him, but there’s no reasoning with a two year old, and vacuum together? That would mean we’d have to share. So I pick up stray toys, maybe wash a few dishes, and finally insist it’s my turn. Oh, the crying that ensues. Tizzy, quite sure the wailing’s due to the inevitable sucking up of toes, gingerly crosses the threshold and hollers “Run Zip, Run! I’ll hold the door for you!”  

Ahhh, brotherly love. They got off to a rocky start. Zip, and I, were ignored the first few months after arriving home to a 22 month old Tizzy. Wracked with guilt, I had to frequently remind myself that I did not invent siblings, just provided one. The months flew by, and the memories are blurry, but we’re making it work, this newish family. Now none of us can imagine a life without one another. In fact, two of us, can’t remember life without one another at all. They may not think alike, or always understand each other, but they have an alliance that’s stronger than anything I could create in their absence. It’s a work in progress, but now that they’re kids, I finally have time to write about it. Hope you enjoy taking part in the evolution, that is Zip ‘n’ Tizzy.