fun in threes, sometimes fours
general
I see in the time machine widget at the bottom of the page that it was ten years ago today that I set the four-by-four posts in concrete to make the supports for our raspberry canes.
The canes are no more; the posts are no more; the carport is no more. Ten years and so many changes.
One week and so many changes.
We go from week to week without much thought most of the time. Monday comes, and we drag ourselves out of the bed and into work. Sometimes we're lucky and have a job that we enjoy, and we're eager to get to work. I'm fortunate that most Mondays, that's how I feel. But no matter how much we love our job, the week grinds us down, and Friday evening brings a welcome release. We make the most of the weekend, try to recharge ourselves, and head out into the world the next week.
We go through these weeks week after week, again and again, and each week brings some progress to whatever our goals and adventures might be, but after a while, everything just seems to blend together. Week after week, no single week seems to be different than the one that preceded it, or the one that proceeded it. Weeks pass like days which pass like hours, which flow by like seconds, which make the steady stream we call reality.
But every now and then, we have weeks that change everything made up of days that are constant little shifts that are made up of hours that are utterly unpredictable. And the reality we start those weeks with is completely different than the reality that ends the week.
When Nana had a pulmonary embolism two and a half years ago, the week she spent in the hospital afterward was just such a week. She should not, according to the statistics, have survived that first night. But she did. And any time someone survives like that, the week that follows is a week that realigns the reality of everyone connected to the survivor.
This has been such a week for us, ending in a trip to the ER. We make it into a room at the ER but have to wait for a while: there is an arrest issue on the floor, the nurse explains, and I have to ask for clarification: cardiac or criminal? It is, of course, the former, and I feel immediately stupid for asking the question.
The doctor comes in and asks Papa some questions. He sits behind me and talks to me about what's been going on. I show him some videos I shot. He's suddenly as concerned as I am. He orders some tests and tells me he's going to try to get the presiding hospital doctor to come in to see Papa.
While we wait, we hear a child outside crying as his mother tries to explain something he ate while crying at the same time. No one can really get the words out, but in the midst of it all, the mother is trying to comfort her son, calm herself, and talk to the doctor at the same time.
A nurse comes in and wheels out Papa as I reflect on the role reversal that's been building over the last two years. I recall an ER visit when I was in second grade and got busted in the face with a football helmet face mask because the coach was letting me run the workout with the other players even though I didn't yet have a uniform. Blood gushing everywhere, I required several stitches that evening. That was a week that changed a few things, but not everything: I refused to give up football even though my ability to practice was hampered. Curtailed even.
When Papa comes back in, he asks me where we are. I take his hand and tell him, giving his hand a squeeze and assuring him that we'll all be alright.
It reminds me immediately of what I used to say to L when we were nearing an argument over some petty triffle: "Don't worry, honey, you won't be thirteen forever."
"You always say that!"
"I'm not just saying that for your sake..."
Coming full circle in so many ways.
Taxi service today: E to scout camp at 8:00. L to volleyball conditioning at 9:00. Pick her up at 10:00.
I had just enough time to pick the first blueberries (or second I guess -- we did pick some yesterday) and to mow the neighbor's yard afterward before heading off to take L to sand volleyball practice (including going to pick up her partner). On the way home, a few errands. Then off to pick up the Boy from scout day camp. Back home to get ready for the swim meet.
He dropped his time from 36 seconds to 31 seconds. Great job! A victory regardless of how he stacked up to the competition.
And then a glance at the "Time Machine" widget at the bottom of MTS: a reminder that four years ago today was just as hectic, but it was in Warsaw:
I heard it as I went out for my run, heading out at 10:00 this evening rather than 9:00 because everything has been off today. I couldn’t locate it when heading out, but when I returned, there she was, perched on the powerline that supplies lines to our house and the neighbors’ house.
The morning — I am the taxi driver. E has to go to scout camp. L has to go to volleyball conditioning. Then L has to come home to get ready for orientation. (She got the job.) Then she has to go to that orientation. Driving, driving, driving.
After lunch, I head out and do some weeding.
I’ve no idea how many sweet gum saplings I’ve pulled up this year. I’d guess I’m nearing 300 or so. They’re everywhere. All of the sweet gum trees we have are in backyard, in the corner, where no one really cares about them. For whatever reason, the seed pods from them result in very few saplings. However, the pods from our neighbors’ trees — they’re particularly virulent, I suppose.
In the evening, it’s back to taxi service. L is participating in a summer league. In a city that’s about 40 minutes away from us when we leave for said league because the games start at six. Which means we’re driving in rush hour traffic. Which means the 20-mile trip can take up to 40 minutes…
An image from the late 1990s -- the kitchen I had in my first apartment in Lipnica. That mug on the right -- I still have it upstairs. The writing is just about gone, and if I were as sentimental as I used to be, that would upset me greatly as this particular mug was an unexpected birthday gift from a sophomore class of students. This means the kids who gave me that mug are now in their mid- to late- thirties, likely with kids as old or older than my current students.
The significance of this? Same as always...
L got a new pet -- a frog of some sort.
We were all happy and excited for her, eager to see the new beast.
She's been dreaming about this for some time, and she finally got it today.
If, of course, you can see the little stinker.
E had his first swim meet today. The team’s first meet was last week, but in classic E fashion, he wanted to go check one out before participating. For today’s meet, he agreed to swim one event: 25 freestyle. “I hate backstroke, and I really don’t know how to do breaststroke,” he reasoned. “And butterfly…” His voice trailed off to indicate it was a fantasy.
Since I’m finally able to find a little time with him at the pool, we spent a little time there these last two mornings working on improving his stroke. His kick was just knee action, which resulted in a lot of splash and very little propulsion. He sunk his chin into his chest, creating a large surface to plow through the water. He wiggled his upper body from side to side to compensate for his stroke rather than rotating his shoulders along his verticle (when standing of course) axis. All this combined resulted in a very inefficient stroke, so we worked to improve that a bit.
His event had three heats today, and he was in the last heat. I could tell as heat two prepared to go that he was nervous, having serious second thoughts about the whole project.
I’m fairly certain that if I’d walked over then and asked if he wanted just to ditch the whole thing, he would have enthusiastically agreed.
I thought he might be worried about the crowd. “I don’t like the idea of doing something I’m not very good at in front of so many people,” he confided in me this morning.
I thought he might be worried about coming in dead last. I feared he would: he really doesn’t have much swimming experience other than playing around, and some of those kids his age have clearly been swimming competitively for years.
I thought he might be worried about the starting blocks: I didn’t know how many times he’s used them, and to my knowledge, he hadn’t used them at all this summer.
It turns out, though, that he was most worried about being disqualified. “A and O told me that if you pull your head straight out of the water to get a breath instead of turning to the side, you’ll get DQ’ed,” he explained. “I really didn’t want to get DQ’ed.”
I assured him that was not the case even though it could very well be the case. “Whatever the case,” I thought to myself, “we’ll never know if he gets DQ’ed unless he’s a contender for one of the higher places.” In the end, he got second place in his heat. Granted, there were only two swimmers, but we laughed about that. “I’m just proud of you for conquering this fear,” I told him.
“Thank you,” he smiled, hugging me and telling me probably for the 100th time today, “I love you, Daddy.”