A Sunday morning apart: the Boy and K in Poland, the Girl and I in the States, linked by technology that makes the distance literally disappear. We talk about developments here; we talk about developments there. L and I miss them terribly; everyone’s falling in love with E’s constantly joyful demeanor. We suffer a little bit that others might enjoy what we are tempted to take for granted. It’s more than one thing to be thankful for.

At Mass, I find myself thinking of the communal nature of Catholicism as expressed in the opening lines of the Confiteor:

Confiteor Deo omnipotenti,
et vobis fratres,
quia peccavi nimis
cogitatione, verbo,
opere et omissione:
mea culpa, mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa.

It is those first two lines that get me thinking: “I confess to Almighty God / and to you, my brothers and sisters.” Sin in Catholicism is a public issue, a community issue: we sin against each other as often — if not more — as we sin against God. Indeed, sinning against each other is sinning against God: there’s really little difference in a sense. Yesterday, while L was packing up her things from her friend’s house where she spent the afternoon, the friend’s father confided in me that L said to him that I’d been fairly grumpy lately. “He’s had a lot of stress,” our friend explained to our daughter. “Grumpy” might be a euphemism for sinning cogitatione, verbo, opere et omissione.” “In thought and in word, in what I have done and what I have failed to do.” It is true: lots of stress in life of late, much of it left unmentioned here. Still, no excuse. And so I have another thing to be thankful for: a daughter who can talk comfortably with a friend’s father, and a friend who will tell me what she said.

After Mass, lunch. There’s really no question what to cook. L has several foods she adores: Ukranian barszcz is her absolute favorite, but that’s something for K to prepare. I cook shrimp, marinated in a bit of soy sauce and garlic, sauted in butter. It makes her day.

“Cook it like this every time!” she says.

“I do,” I laugh in return.

I steam some broccoli, lightly sauteing it in butter afterward to add a bit of creaminess to the flavor, and even though L swears she doesn’t really like it, she eats seven or eight spears. It’s probably not the broccoli that does it, though. Most likely, it’s the “Yum” game. It’s as simple as it sounds, but it gets her eating broccoli. It doesn’t really work with other food, though. Still, she eats broccoli. Another thing to be grateful about.

After lunch, we play a little while — tickling, the Bear Game, and a handful of other improvisations that have morphed into regular “games.” After a while, I head to the computer to do some preparatory work for tomorrow’s school day as she watches a couple of episodes of Martha Speaks. 

We consider a bike ride, but since it’s in the low forties, a walk in the park seems more sensible. Besides, there are always the physical challenges along the jogging/walking path to entertain us. One exceptionally long monkey bar set up proves overly challenging. She tries to make it through the whole course, but drops halfway through. “I’ll try it next time,” she says as she starts walking down the path. Then she stops, turns around, and says firmly, “No. I’m not giving up.” Tenacity in one’s child: the count increases yet again.

A little further down the path, a bit of love-struck vandalism.

“My?” the Girl asks. I explain they are initials.

“Like ‘Michael Young.’ Yours would be ‘LS.'”

“No,” she corrects me. “LMS. That’s just ‘my.'” She can read and make some sense of the world of writing surrounding her. More thanks.

We continue along the path to the fenced dog run that has a sculpture by the entrance titled “High Four.” The Girl reads the sign, gives the dog a high four/five, then climbs him.

“Under the picture,” she says as she settles into a comfortable seated position, “Write ‘climbed up alone by herself.'” As we walk away, she suggests an addendum: “climbed down alone.” Pride in accomplishments — it’s a day of thanks.

Further down the path, a boulder. She virtually leaps on it though it’s stomach high, and then noticing its shape, crouches down, growls, and proclaims, “The Lion King!” A child with an astounding memory and great imagination. It’s almost to the point that I need not count anymore: I’ve had enough to be thankful this one day to last me the rest of the week.

Just down from the boulder, L watches as a young man goofs on the parallel bars, then tries them herself. She’s unable to do the arm bends he did (twenty of them — his girlfriend stood by counting), but she figures out something else to do. Ingenuity. That’s what, a thousand things today that remind me how much I have to be grateful for?

Across the path is an inclined sit up station. She strains and manages to do one sit up. Yet I know what she’s had on her mind this whole time: the massive playground that we walked through in order to get to the walking path.

“After our walk, if you do a good job and you’re not fussy, we can spend some time in this playground.” Nary a peep, not a single “When can we go back to the playground?!” Could she be finally learning the benefits of delayed gratification? It would be too much to ask for. I’ll take with joy this small advance.