Otto Fox Wilder
There comes a time in every rightly consructed boy's life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure. - Mark Twain
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A question from the backseat –
“When was I born?” Otto Fox asks. “Was I born last? Was I the last baby?” I tell him he was. He was born last. He was the last baby. Pitifully sad noises. Sniffling. “What’s wrong, little son?” “Oh,” says the sad little four year old voice. “I don’t care for being last.”
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I’m blaming his father for his spunk.
Sometimes I have to ask myself, “What kind of ship am I running over here anyway?” (That’s a phrase I actually use, but now that I’m seeing it in type I think it’s a pretty silly phrase. Running a ship? Is that a thing people do?) We were at a friend’s house a few weeks ago for our co-op and Otto and his buddy came trekking in from their outside play. Another child walked in ahead of the two rascals and said, “There’s a mess in the yard.” Yes. There was. A heap of ripped up white packing peanuts covered the green grass. Otto stood in the kitchen. Packing peanut…
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The Beautiful Burden of Fatherhood
This is a picture of the weighty privilege of the calling of Fatherhood: Otto Fox Wilder. Four years old. He hears Kevin open the front door. Otto slaps his boots on his size 12 feet and leaps out the front door, literally jumping directly into Kevin’s footsteps. He reaches for his dad’s hand, grins a wild straight-toothed smile and says, “Wherever you going, I going too.”
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pause.
We’re sitting on the kitchen floor. Me. Boy. Puppy. First one crawls into my lap. Then the other. And I know whatever plans I had have just vanished. The boy. White hair grown longer than his collar and every time we’re together my dad reminds me that I should have his hair cut. He’s clinging to his cruddy yellow blanket and patting the puppy. The puppy – he’s brown and shiny and snuggled in for all he’s worth and I can’t stop rubbing his short coat. My legs are itching to stretch and my right foot is asleep. I’ll endure. There’s no way I’m going to be the first one…
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instead of this ……. that –
I don’t think I’ll tell you about how Otto Fox threw up at lunch today. Instead, let’s just ponder how cute he looks in a fall sweater.
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The Two Nights Baby Timmy Was Missing.
Two long nights. For two very long nights Baby Timmy was missing in action. Baby Timmy. Otto’s precious sleeping/living/hang out blanket. (If you’ve ever seen Baby Timmy, you know “blanket” is a bit of stretch for that tired, tattered bit of has-been blanket.) But he loves it and we love Otto and so, by default, we all love Baby Timmy too. (It’s funny, of course. We worked to wean sweet little Mo-Town from her long-ago blanket addiction. But young Sir Otto’s blanket affection has never even been called into question. Some might say it’s because with Child Number Six parents are more lenient. Or more exhausted. Or worse at their…
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when play imitates life
These are the best conversations …… “Want to play with me momma?” “Sure – what should we play?” “Okay. I’ll be the son and you be the mom.” Umm. Alright.
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night song to my boy
Lying in bed beside you. Your four-year-old hand resting in my forty-year-old one. Tiny voice. Tear-stained cheeks. And I love them both – voice and cheek. The door open to night breezes and stars glowing. You’re chattering. Pushing sleep with blinky eyes and your slow-down speech. And suddenly it’s quiet. Sleep has won. I close my eyes too. The stillness sounds like rain and the evening changes as rapidly as your speech flowed minutes earlier.
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Otto Fox Wilder says …..
Otto has always been trailing along, carried along, tagging behind on Nature Walks since he was born. And he listens too. Whenever we leave our home we pass a small field full of wild flowers. Without fail, he spots the lovely delicate favorite of both of ours – Queen Anne’s Lace. And he says, “Look at the Queen Man’s Lace, Mommy!”
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o.t.t.o.
Four. Four is good. At four you sleep nearly twelve hours every night. You don’t poop in your pants and you can last an entire day with no nap and remain basically happy. At four you’re affectionate and you’re smart and you think Mommy is really funny. You can eat meals without assistance and you save your funniest grins for my eyes only. When you’re four you still ask me to sing you lullabies at bedtime and you think my voice sounds pretty. When you’re four you find comfort in my arms and you think a matchbox car is a treasure. And when you’re four and you take a very…
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a poem inspired by a poet.
Our last official school field trip was to Carl Sandburg’s house. If you perchance recall, I didn’t write the post I intended because I was overcome with distraction from the bittersweet surprise of my youngest son’s seemingly overnight growing up. The post I intended to write was more like this: First we toured the house. (I want to own his farm, Connemara. I want to save up/steal/inherit/find in a brown paper bag on the side of the highway an absolutely ludicrous amount of money. Then I want to use all of that money to purchase the land from the current owners – the National Park System. Then I plan to kick…
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The Knock Knock Joke Strikes Again
I’ve been recording the ludicrous and hilarious knock knock jokes that our kids deliver for a while. Wilde Otto Fox has officially joined the ranks of Joke Maker too. Delivered on the front porch, full audience of family members, spoken without the appropriate use of consonants and in an adorable cute four-year-old voice: Knock Knock. Who’s there? Footprints. Footprints who? Awww – my parakeet is dead!
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Friend: Five Minute Friday
It’s Friday. I’m jumping over to Lisa-Jo’s blog and joining Five Minute Friday again. Five minutes of writing on an assigned topic – no second-round editing. The topic is Friend. Go. _____ This year marks the year my children have developed real friends. Friends I think they will remember. Oh yes, we’ve been blessed with buddies like cousins and relatives and the family that will be and is the ebb and flow of our relationships together for life. (And those friendships are tight and wonderful.) But this year seems to be the year my children have made comrades amongst their peers. That they even have peers. Otto has friends. He talks…
