Month: February 2013
Climbing, scooting, homework, making friends with the cat -- it's all part of the evening ritual. And with an infant, that ritual paradoxically includes the unexpected.
And a little boy who goes from silly and giggling to sick and crying in a matter of a few evening hours is one such exception, which trumps everything else -- especially a silly blog.
I took an old lens last night -- a 50mm 1.8 from an old Nikon -- and put it on our D300 body. I don't know why: the thing didn't work with our D70, so why would it work with our newer model? Simple: the D300 has an aperture lever, which means I can actually dial in a given aperture and the camera knows which setting I've selected and can compensate the exposure accordingly.
The results were shockingly sharp. It's too bad the thing is virtually impossible to focus with the lens being manual everything and the camera lacking a focusing plane.
It's another reason to love Nikon: a 20+ year lens works with a modern, digital SLR.
The Nexus has become a favorite of L's: she is consistently aware of the battery status and always willing to give a friendly reminder when it's getting low, which would be daily if we let her use it as often as she would really like to. She learned quickly how to install new games, uninstall boring apps, and customize various aspects of the desktop -- for lack of a better term. Promoting interest in all things tablet, in other words, is not a problem.
What is a problem is fostering interest in all things spiritual. Well, in anything spiritual. Perhaps it's a function of her age as well as her super-hyper personality. Still, we try. We have nightly prayers, but that often turns into something of a spiritual/mental wrestling match. We go to Mass regularly, but she's always more interested in the playground afterward than anything happening during Mass.
It occurred to me the other day that perhaps joining the two might be fruitful. I installed Laudate, a Catholic missal/prayer/encyclopedia/everything app on both her and my account, and showed her a couple of our nightly prayers this morning after breakfast.
"What's this?" I asked.
She began to read, "G-l-o-r -- Glory be!" She was eager to continue reading: "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. Amen." And then, without prompting, without a word from me, she crossed herself: "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit." (She can't seem to remember to add the proper "of's" in that prayer...)
We read another, and it was the same. Odd, how ritual forms without us really realizing it. Odd and hopeful.
As for the rest of the day, it was a fairly typical Sunday. Some posing for pictures in her new church clothes, a gift from her godmother in Poland.
And some play time with an ever-dearer friend up the street, W. K and L introduced W to "Super Farmer," a Polish game that really requires no Polish language skills at all -- just a bit of forbearance when an unlucky throw of the dice wipes out all of one's livestock.
That in itself took a bit of acclimation for the Girl. The first time she tossed "wolf" and lost everything, there was a complete breakdown -- crying, shouting, pouting, stomping. Tonight's final game, the loss of everything brought a calm, "Oh well," and a gentle passing of the dice.
And where was the Boy throughout all of this, the prayers, the games, the chaos? It all happened during his two naps, leaving him inconveniently out of all the photos. He didn't seem to mind.
With K and the Boy back, things are returning to normal. Which is to say, there's more mess -- why does doubling the child count quadruple the mess? -- and more noise. The mess, well, I could live without; the noise is the best soundtrack to my life I could imagine.
When K returns from Poland, she always brings gifts from the family for us all. (It makes it sound like she's often going to Poland alone when in fact this was just the second such trip.) This year's theme for the Girl: logic games. One in particular, sort of an ever-changing maze, has captivated the Girl. She sat this morning at the refrigerator, twisting and turning the various mechanisms, making this and that pattern. The Boy, on the other hand, was thrilled with the bagel wrapper and his newly discovered skill of scooting around in a circle.
For her part, K brought back a new love of good old fashioned Polish rosol.
A whole chicken, some parsnips, carrots, and celery, and several hours of slow simmering produces the ultimate comfort food.
Comfort food now for all of us.
He sits on my lap, Friday night and he’s tired. His head resting on my chest, he slowly opens his mouth as the spoon approaches. The pureed fruit in his mouth, he mushes it against his gums, swallows, and looks up at me. His glassy eyes stare off into the distance, and a balled fist slowly comes up, rubs an eye to the accompaniment of a little fuss. I feed him the entire jar of fruit, and it’s clear that he won’t last much beyond the last bite. Within a few minutes, we’re upstairs, his head on my shoulder as I pace about the darkened room. Moments later, he’s asleep.
The great honor of being a parent is being present in those moments of ultimate trust, those moments that make us so very mortal. I am responsible for two of his most basic, mortal needs: food and a quiet, safe place to sleep. As the Girl grows more independent, these needs come less immediately from my hands: she takes food out of the refrigerator for herself; she prepares her own snacks and even helps with her own meals. It’s easy to take those basic responsibilities for granted with her. But with him, K and I are still everything — for a while.