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Saturday Afternoon Ice Skating

Our first ice skating outing of the winter was a tentative success. Even though Little Boy still cannot stand — let alone move — on his skates unassisted… even though grievous injuries were sustained by both Mr. P (ow, his aching back!) and I (bruised hip when I purposely careened to the hard ice to avoid cutting off my suddenly-prone son’s hand)… even though the urban outdoor skating rink forgot to turn on the music after the second zamboni break, afterwards Little Boy professed to “love” skating.

“I love it, but I want to be able to skate by myself!” he said on the way home.

So do we, Little Boy. So do we.

I spin you round and round and round...

Zamboni Break

Zamboni Break

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By Meredith – January 20, 2013

In Flew Enza

The flu epidemic has landed in our house. Yes, Little Boy — whose immunity and imperviousness to diseases beyond the sniffles was always a source of pride for me — now has the flu.

Everything was fine…

I left work on Thursday night at 5pm — groggy and disoriented from the Tuesday jetlag that roused me at 2am to answer emails, make to-do lists, and complete mindless work tasks. After my first day back at the office – a day filled with meetings and reminders about how much shit I have to do — I just really, really wanted to go home, have a beer, and foam-roll my legs. With that in mind, I was committed to taking Little Boy to the children’s library before it closed at 6pm, because nothing (except an iPad) keeps him more independently occupied than a fresh pile of library books.

At the daycare, I entered his classroom to find Little Boy extremely occupied playing with one of his besties. He didn’t want to leave. Him and his friend made a raucous game of it, pretending to hide him and saying “Little Boy’s not here!” I had to use my firm voice to convince him to put his jacket on, and he raced through the hallways and to the car, talking excitedly about his day (so-and-so’s daddy picked her up early; he liked his lunch; he went outside one time with his snow boots).

He was filled with spunk and life, and I remember hoping he’d cool down a bit. Be careful what you wish for.

Until…

After stopping at the library and checking out about 20 books, we got in the car. “Mama, I’m cold,” he said. “I want the hot air on!”

“It’s on,” I told him.

“I’m cold!” Then, more alarmingly: “My head hurts!” He repeated these things on the way home. When we got upstairs, he laid down on the living room shag rug and asked me to read books with him. I obliged, reading two books before getting up to tend to other domestic responsibilities. He stayed on the rug, looking fatigued and asking repeatedly for more hot air. Most parents would be clued in by then that something was wrong, but since he was still recovering from jetlag, I figured he was just tired. I’ve never dealt with a sick Little Boy before.

He said repeatedly his head hurt, so I gave him the only medicine he’ll willing take: a chewable baby aspirin.

Then I noticed he was shivering. I felt his forehead and it was hot, so I took his temperature: 102.

And then…

I called the after-hours doctor at his practice and told her about the temperature, the chills, the headache.

I mentioned I gave him a baby aspirin. She reacted as if I told her we went to downtown Providence to party with strippers.

“Never, ever give a child with a fever aspirin!” she said. “Haven’t you ever heard of Reye’s Syndrome?”

I had, in fact. But I had no idea what it was. I was a newbie parent who has never had to deal with a sick kid and probably just gave him a serious disease. I began to panic. “What should I do? Is he going to be okay?”

She backed off on the aspirin, saying side effects were exceedingly rare but still sounding incredulous that I’d do such a thing. She also was amazed that I didn’t have any children’s ibuprofen or Tylenol in the house. After giving me dosing instructions for those, she left me with “If he wakes up tomorrow with a temperature, bring him in. It could be the flu.”

His fever went down after taking the ibuprofen, and he seemed momentarily revived. He wasn’t hungry — very uncharacteristic — so I lured him to the table by heating up our emergency freezer pizza. Both Mr. P and I were doting on him excessively. Although I don’t like to see him sick, there’s something endearing about how weak and reliant he was. Poor Little Boy!

Delirium set in…

The fever was back Friday morning: 102.5. I emailed my boss that I’d be working from home. And in fact, I really did get a lot of work done because he slept most of the morning and I couldn’t really do anything but peck quietly away at my computer. When he roused, I’d beseech him to drink water, which he did. No food, though. The doctor’s appointment was at 2:30. He was so tired I carried him to and from the car. The waiting room was packed. Everyone looked at the beaten child in my arms and covered their mouths. We waited about 45 minutes to actually see the doctor; she quickly diagnosed the flu. “I could give him a swab test, but my recommendations would be the same.“ Tylenol, ibuprofen, and a prescription for Tamiflu.

When I picked up the Tamiflu at CVS, I also splurged on a Transformer toy, figuring I would need incentive to get him to drink liquid medicine. But, it turned out not even a Transformer could lure him to drink the Tamiflu. We tried to lure him with logic, with concern, with firm voices, with bribes, and even by mixing in a healthy (ha) dollop of Nutella. But it still took about 30 minutes before the Tamiflu was in his stomach.

Aside from his medicine, the whole day all he ate was: two bowls of chicken soup, half a banana, two bites of leftover pizza, and two bites of his favorite French cheese.

The medicine helped control his fever, but when he sleeps he sometimes moans deliriously. And each of his moans sounded like: Mommy… mommy, mama… mommy… mama…

Recovery?

Saturday he woke up with a little more life in him. Still no appetite (he merely picked at the blueberry pancakes Mr. P made) but at least he wasn’t sleeping deliriously all day.

Sunday he was even better. He went to Drumlin farm, because I figured some fresh air would be good for him and lessen the chances of spreading his germs. He ate more food and the spark returned to those marvelous eyes.

Today, he is 80% back to normal. If he really did have the flu, then I’m rather bedazzled by the speed of his recovery… and grateful that no flu symptoms have manifested in Mr. P or myself. For now.

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By Meredith – January 14, 2013

Epic Ski 2013

It was a rough, rough ten days in France. Each day we roused ourselves at 7:30am, took the long 5-minute walk into the village to buy breakfast from the boulangerie, suited up in our skiing gear, took Little Boy to his 9am morning ski class, headed out onto the slopes and skied in the bright 40-degree sunshine on 4+feet of soft snow, returned home for a quick lunch that usually involved salad and charcuterie, skied the afternoon, returned home and showered/zoned out, and then spent the nights eating, drinking, and hanging out with friends and family. Rough. (Really, I am freaking exhausted, but in a relaxed, smiley way).

Ski School

Little Boy resumed his skiing education. Last year he spent a week tolling around in the garden, where preschoolers learn to stand on their skis and snowplow. If we went by the ski school’s intended trajectory of curriculum, he would be back in the garden again this year. No way! Not this kid, who has skied red trails on Cannon Mountain. We asked to advance him two levels so he’d be taking ski lifts and snaking down blue trails in a line following the instructor. Since his natural instinct is to go straight and fast (and I have to chase after him yelling “Turn! Turn!”), this type of discipline is exactly what he needs.

His class was originally scheduled for 2-4:30pm, which was perfect for our schedule, but after the first class the school informed us they were combining sections and he’d have to go at 9am. Which, given the late dinners and jetlag, was really hard. The only way to rouse him from bed was to allow him to eat eclairs for breakfast. Chocolate eclairs stuffed with chocolate cream, to be exact. (Head hanging in Mama shame.)

Ski School

Happy Student

I noticed that when the instructor greeted Little Boy, he added an “ette” to the end of his name. In English this pronunciation is phonetic, but in French it’s not phonetic and in fact makes it a feminine name. I also heard him call Little Boy “ma puce,” a pet name literally meaning “flea” that is sort of like “sweetheart” — a term you wouldn’t typically use for a boy.

I didn’t think much of it until Mr. P came home from the drop-off on the last day, chuckling as we buckled into our ski boots.

“The instructor called Little Boy a girl,” Mr. P said. “He said, ‘Come on, girl!’ Little Boy looked at me and said, ‘Daddy, he just called me a girl!'”

We laughed about this. Little Boy’s skiing attire is extremely blue and boyish, so it remains a mystery why the instructor thought he was a girl.

The most feedback about his skiing came via Mr. P’s father, who usually picked him up at 11am while we skied. Little Boy (boy! he’s all boy!) was doing great, especially considering he was with kids who were 1-2+ years older. He was putting on his skis by himself, working towards parallel-ski turns (as opposed to snowplow turns), and keeping up with the class. But, the instructor said that because he is so young, his little legs would have trouble keeping up with the next level.

This worried me that Little Boy would not be receiving a medal during the week-end medal ceremony. In French ski school, not every child is guaranteed a medal if their skiing isn’t up to the school’s standards — a philosophy that I agree with intellectually, but fret about when applied to my child. What would happen to his self-esteem if he left the medal ceremony without a medal?

At the medal ceremony, when his class was called, Little Boy hurried to get to the raised center of the medal podium (like he had seen his 6-year old cousin do minutes before). The instructor gave out medals to two children, then announced that a third would not receive a medal: “He does not do the parallel-ski turns. He will have to repeat the class.” Wow. He announced this in front of roughly 30 people, including two children dressed like yetis. Dear Lord, I fear for that boy’s self-esteem.

Little Boy received his medal, though. Relief. He took it for granted though, so maybe not getting a medal would have been incentive to ski his little butt off.

Medal Ceremony

La cousinade

Most of Little Boy’s skiing education came after school and lunch, when Mr. P and sometimes I would take him and his 6 year-old British-French cousin out for 2-3 hours on the slopes. The cousin comes skiing 3 times a year, so he’s pretty good and he knows the slopes, including where to go off-piste.

Off-piste= off the sanctioned trails, either in trees or across tree-free snowy terrain. I’m not a fan of off-piste skiing, though everyone in France does it and many of the classes take students off-piste. I’m scared of trees and rocks, scared of encountering a sudden cliff, scared of popping out of the woods and into another skier. Skiing on piste is harrowing enough for me.

So, the boys were always going off-piste, chasing each other through the trees, and giving me a lot of stress. It was hard to keep track of the two of them. Most little kids follow their parents/adults down the slope, but they both plowed ahead of us and disappeared into the woods. I tried to be relaxed about it — at least they were having fun — but it was challenging.

One late afternoon, the cousin disregarded our instructions to go to a specific ski lift and instead went further downhill to another ski lift. We had no choice but to ski down to him. We would have to take that ski lift to another ski lift that would be closing in 15 minutes, and if we didn’t make it, we would have to ski home via a 2km-long flat road (oh, poling it home on the flats with little kids… not fun). So, as we inched up the lift, I ordered the boys to stay on-piste and to go as fast as they could to our desired lift. I repeated my orders as we got off. The cousin took off like Bode Miller and I raced to keep up with him. Little Boy tried to keep up but his skis are rather small. Still, Mr. P couldn’t believe how fast he was going. Zoom. We made the lift and continued on our way home.

The cousins

Zoom!

Little Boy getting timed

Little Boy descending a steep part with Mr. P

Are you better than a 4 year-old?

I was bragging to my father about how good his grandson is on the slopes, and he asked, in all seriousness, “Better than you?” Hmph, let’s not get crazy. I’m sure somewhere, like in Austria, there is a 4 year-old skiing prodigy with the requisite strength, balance, and stamina to ski better than a 35-year old woman — an ultramarathoner — who has been skiing for almost 8 years. I’m not a phenom, but I can (slowly) negotiate an Alpine black slope. I’d probably be even better if I wasn’t using 15 year-old skis donated by Mr. P’s aunt, which compared to today’s modern skis are little better than narrow planks of wood, and if I still didn’t have a lingering fear of heights, as well as vivid paranoia about getting blindly clobbered by some hotshot French 20-something snowboarder as I take wide turns vertically across the slope (which in fact did happen on the second day, leaving me with a sore neck for the rest of the week — not sure if it was from the force of the collision or from when his snowboard ran over my head.)

Anyway, I’m getting pretty good. On our last day, when everyone else had already returned to work and school and the slopes were empty, Mr P and I took a series of lifts to the glacier (this is the same glacier that we were supposed to run during La 6000 D, but they closed that part of the course due to torrential rain). Much better to ski down a glacier than run up a glacier.

Descending the glacier

Enjoying a vin chaud on the glacier (the dog barked angrily at Mr P for some reason)

Skinny Skis

On a few days, I returned to my XC skiing roots and hit the flat trails with my skinny skis and iPod. I timed myself on my favorite 15 KM loop (around 80 minutes on nice groomed tracks, 95 minutes after a night of light snow that I had to power through). I did this twice on New Year’s Day, which was the only cloudy/overcast day on the whole trip. Yes, I XC skied for exercise and to torch the previous nights’ fondue or raclette, but though it’s physically difficult, gliding through the snowy hushed woods is the easiest workout I know.

I know what I want to be when I grow up: a recreational amateur XC skier.

Les Piétons

In the clouds (momentarily)

Descending home on a lift from the XC Ski Trails

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By Meredith – January 11, 2013

Early Christmas

We returned home from our whirlwind Christmas trip to Pennsylvania via Amtrak on Christmas night. The train was my idea; I suppose I harbor romantic notions about rail travel, plus I’m still traumatized by our drive home from Pennsylvania Christmas two years ago during an ice storm. Mr. P had never taken an intercity train in the US and was curious about how it compared to Europe. His assessment? Slowww. As the train idled in yet another Connecticut city we never heard of, I could tell he wanted to be speeding along the highway in our car, so I went to the cafe and bought him a beer (can’t do that in a car!)

Overall, the train was an okay experience; the major downfall is we were unable to carry Little Boy’s presents down to PA for the ceremonious Christmas morning unwrapping. What to do? We didn’t want to open them when we returned Christmas night at 10pm, so Little Boy returned home from preschool last Friday to find all the presents under the tree. He didn’t question where the presents came from, or why he was opening them now instead of Christmas morning, or why the wrapping paper is the same as the roll he saw me with the previous night. Apparently inquisitive minds buckle under the prospect of unwrapping presents.

The red Power Ranger

A kiddie bow and arrow

We did a similar thing last year, when we had an early Christmas before we left for France. But last year he didn’t really understand Christmas; this year, he tracked it with an advent calendar and has an improved sense of the holiday in general. The incongruity didn’t seem to hit him until the day after Christmas, when he tearfully wondered why Santa didn’t come to our home on Christmas. “He knew we weren’t here!” I explained, reticent to point out all the mysterious presents he had opened before Christmas.

A co-worker of mine said that a lot of kids happily ignore the illogical aspects of the Santa myth, but Little Boy is not one of those kids. He wants answers.

More profound than his need to thoroughly understand Santa’s modus operandi is his glumness at no longer being in Pennsylvania. The trip was too whirlwind for him; on the drive to preschool on Wednesday, he asked constantly for his grandparents, his uncle, his cousins… the drop-off was very emotional and he made me promise to pick him up early. Since 4/5ths of the office is on vacation, this was easy for me. But when I arrived in his classroom that afternoon, he looked up from his “work” (frolicking in a pop-up tent shaped like a bus with no fewer than 5 girls — nearly all of the boys are out this week) and said, “I don’t want you to pick me up early!”

Overall, Little Boy is satisfied with his glut of presents and the whole Christmas thing. But he doesn’t understand why it can’t be Christmas every day. And, as I pack away the artificial Christmas tree, snack guiltily on my replenished office chocolate stash, and begin to implement a Toy Management Plan for Little Boy’s room… I don’t understand why it can’t be once every two years.

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By Meredith – December 28, 2012

Oldies but Goodies

I’m anticipating getting a new phone soon from my Santa Baby, so I’ve been clearing off the old photos from my current phone and reveling in Little Boy’s former littleness. Here’s some pics from his first year home.

First Apple Picking, Fall 2011

Going to the Beach! Summer 2011

Ferry to P-town, Summer 2011

Trains with Grandpa, Fall 2011

First Hayride, Summer 2011

Shaving, Spring 2011

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By Meredith – December 18, 2012

Most Disappointing Santa Ever

Little Boy was so excited to go see Santa. We encountered our neighbor while leaving the house, and he announced proudly:

“I’m going to see Santa!” The neighbor indulged him by exuding excitement and envy. Because he was pretty darn excited.

But oh. Mom FAIL by choosing a Santa who appeared at the Winslow Homer house in our local environs. I can’t decide if he was senile or a founding member of Belmont’s own John Birch society.

Little Boy returned home very cool about Santa. I think he decided Santa’s a jerk.

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By Meredith – December 15, 2012

Good Karma Marriage

I was flipping through a freebie parenting magazine that I picked up in the lobby of the library when I came across an article about “good karma” marriages. I read the teaser lead-in question out loud to Mr. P:

“If you could marry the same person all over again, would you?”

“What?” he said, looking up from his whiskey and database-communing daze.

“If you could marry the same person all over again, would you?” I repeated, standing up and extending my arms laterally in an exaggerated flourish, as if to say: Who wouldn’t want to be indentured to this marvel of chubb for a lifetime? (Note: This is an exaggeration. I’ve actually lost 4 pounds since I’ve stopped running and started swimming. Sure, most of the weight lost is probably from atrophied leg muscle that I had accumulated after a season including 3 marathons and 2 ultras… but my torso has never looked slicker.)

He looked at me. “That’s not the person I married,” he said.

Ah. Four, almost five years later, he can still crack me up when I least expect it. That’s what sold me. I can emphatically say yes, I would.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And now for something completely different: Photos from our weekend trip to the deCordova musuem. Kids+modern sculpture go together pretty well.

Little Boy with his Masterpiece in the "Art Experience" Kid's Room

Making Music

File under: Pictures NOT to send the birth family

Classic Father-Son-Birdman Pose

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By Meredith – December 11, 2012

Family Swim: The Warm Waters of Parenthood

On a cool, gray Saturday, with rain dampening the mood, I decided to take Little Boy to the indoor pool at my gym for the family recreational swim block. Meanwhile, I gifted Mr. P a rare treat: three uninterrupted hours to watch the new James Bond movie, which he returned from declaring it “the best Bond ever”—a statement I greeted with the appropriate level of skepticism.

Family swim takes place in the therapeutic pool, a toasty, near-hot-tub-temperature haven typically reserved for elderly or mobility-impaired swimmers using an arsenal of flotation aids. During these hours, the pool transforms into a cacophony of children’s laughter and shrieks, which I imagine must be jarring for those trying to maintain their usual tranquil routines. (Seriously, why do pools seem to compel kids to scream? Is it the echo?)

Little Boy and I arrive and navigate the family changing area. “Are you excited to go swimming?” I ask him. “No,” he replies matter-of-factly. “I will be excited when we are in the pool.” Fair point. After a quick pre-swim shower (a state-mandated ritual, which I silently judge others for skipping—looking at you, hairy-back guy), we briskly bypass the cooler lap pool and sink into the therapeutic pool’s welcoming warmth.

Swimming with Little Boy is one of those rare parent-child activities that strikes a perfect balance: something we do together, yet he entertains himself. He adores the water, happily spending chunks of time retrieving dive toys, attempting to balance on a kickboard, or blowing bubbles. Sometimes he clings to my back as I swim or initiates a game of “monster” (formerly known as “beluga”). He’s developed a surprisingly adept underwater doggy paddle, surfacing occasionally for a quick breath before diving back down. Above-water strokes are still a work in progress, but his love for the water keeps evolving.

As I watch Little Boy frolic, I couldn’t help observing another family: a father and his 6ish daughter and 4ish son. He was giving them a swimming lesson. Both of the children seemed scared of water; one of them would sit on the shallowest of steps while the father taught the other one. When he would switch, the child whose turn it was would howl in protest: “I don’t want to! No! No!” He instructed them to hold onto a floating barbell while kicking. Oh, he was all about the kicking… “Kick! Kick! No, your back needs to be straight! Point your toes! Stop bending your knees!” (All of this is very hard to do when half of your torso is above water). If they managed to sustain a kick that was up to his standards, he’d say “Very good! You’re swimming!” This continued for about an hour and wow — in comparison to every other kid in the pool who was happily playing, those kids looked miserable.

I’m not here to critique anyone’s parenting; it’s admirable to see parents actively engaging with their kids. It’s clear this father cares deeply and wants them to succeed. Yet, as I watch, I can’t help but feel grateful that Little Boy’s relationship with water is one of delight rather than dread. He’s learning through play, discovering the joy of movement in water on his terms. Swim lessons may be in his future, but for now, his enthusiasm is a gift. Who knows if he’ll ever take up swimming as a sport—and honestly, who cares?

Toward the end of our swim, I notice a woman with her young daughter smiling at me repeatedly, their expressions warm and almost eager. At first, I return the smiles, albeit awkwardly. Later, the little girl approaches Little Boy, handing him a few dive toys he’d been playing with earlier (and which I’d made him share with other kids). “She wants him to have those,” the mother says, adding, “Her English isn’t that good.”

Suddenly, the puzzle pieces fall into place. The woman—blond, in her forties, with her blond little girl—had seemed biologically connected to her daughter. But as I listen to the girl’s childlike, accented English with snippets of Russian, it clicks: she’s newly adopted.

Those radiant smiles take on a deeper meaning. They’re the smiles of a parent still basking in the joy of finally bringing a child home after the endless paperwork, bureaucracy, waiting, and travel. Her pride, her excitement, her sheer happiness are palpable. I smile back, this time fully understanding.

Big smiles to that.

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By Meredith – December 9, 2012

First Tracks

Last weekend was our first skiing excursion of this season (and I’m only now writing about it because I’ve been busy cramming for next week’s final exam… what happens when a former English major with only an anecdotal understanding of business takes a grad-level Project Management class with a bunch of 20-something MBA students? She gets the second-highest grade on the mid-term and the second-highest grade on the term paper. Why? Because unlike seemingly everyone else in the class, she actually did the assigned readings. Goodness people, life is not that hard.)

Oh yeah. Skiing. We decided to go skiing on Sunday, so we drove out to the Berkshires on Saturday mid-morning with a vague idea that we’d spend some time hiking in one of the state forests near our hotel. We had a picnic lunch and lots of cold-weather gear, as it was a windy, cloudy 40-degree day. On the drive out Little Boy played with my work-issued iPad until he began to feel carsick, and then complained bitterly at how long the drive was taking (2 hours). When we pulled into the parking lot for the randomly-chosen October Mountain state forest, he was actually excited that we’d be going for a “walk in the woods.” The trail was gradual and ultimately not very steep, although the leaves covering the rocky trail made the footing tricky. It took us about 45 minutes to go one mile, and though we had attained no view we decided to stop for lunch. When we stopped moving, we really felt the cold. I fretted about what bad parents we were when Little Boy told me his hands were so cold he couldn’t hold his sandwich, and we huddled together as I fed him. When we finished eating, of course we headed back to the car. I think it’s good for kids to be taken out of their comfort zone once in a while, but there’s a fine line. Little Boy recovered nicely in the hotel swimming pool, where he romped for a solid two hours (and would still be there now, if he could). Eventually we made our way to an upscale pizza restaurant and then headed back to the hotel for a relatively early bedtime, as the slopes awaited!

The next morning after the breakfast buffet, we geared up. Little Boy still fits into last year’s bib, jacket, gloves, helmet, and boots, which is a huge parental triumph. We drove about 20 minutes to Jiminy Peak, which had one major lift open that provided access to a few trails of man-made snow. Unfortunately, the only trail coming off the lift was somewhat flat and subjected to a blast of bitter wind that made downward progression a battle. Little Boy did not like this! He clung to Mr. P on the first run and was cautious on the second and third runs, and then demanded to go back to the car because he was cold. Mr. P took him inside the lodge while I took a few more runs. By the time I went inside, Little Boy was ready to go again. And again. He fell a few times (mostly while stopping) but overall he is really good for a little kid. Sometimes he “forgets” to turn and goes straight down at a terrifying (for me) speed. He discovered a few “jumps” on the side of one of the trails and became fanatical about going over them. He is totally going to be one of those teenagers doing terrifying (again, for me) things at the terrain park.

We took a few more breaks over the course of the day, but had a lot of runs between 10am and 4pm. When it was time to go, Little Boy was very sad. Incredible! What stamina those little legs have, to be able to do snowplows all day long. Mr. P and I were both exhausted (though it is very tiring skiing slow and keeping a 4 year-old on his feet). Ah, the vigor of youth, and the ravages of age.

Alas, no pictures, as it was too cold to take off my gloves.

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By Meredith – December 2, 2012

Drawing Turkey

Little Boy’s interest in coloring has blossomed in the past month, to the point where we have to literally drag him away from his crayons, markers, and pad of paper (of which he has gone through three) when it’s time to eat or go to school. While knowing that kid’s interests are fickle, it’s still tempting to wonder if he’s more of a creative type than we originally deduced. We always imagined he was a burgeoning engineer, with his fixation on machines, patterns, and insatiable curiosity to understand how things work. “Great, another nerd in the house,” I would sigh, secretly pleased.

But, I am thrilled to see him so into coloring. He is meticulous, thoughtful, and very careful about everything he commits to paper. Some of the designs and color choices were astounding. Then, we realized he was essentially copying drawings from other sources — books, magazines, etc. For instance, here is his interpretation of a Thanksgiving card my mother sent:

After we realized he was reproducing the artwork of others, we try to encourage him to “draw what you want” and not be so concerned about copying exactly what he sees. But, it looks like he may be an engineer at heart after — he prefers doing things to spec.

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By Meredith – November 22, 2012