The Girl likes blue. When we told her that we would be moving her into the computer room, which is just a touch smaller than her room, she was distraught — until we told her we would repaint it and she could choose the color.
Monday we worked on the trim. Yesterday, I roughed in the walls, painting the edges so I could attack it today with just a roller.
Of course there was a temptation, and I did succumb to said temptation…
Today we embarked on the most time-consuming aspect of our little house project: painting. As we always do, we misjudged — or rather I misjudged — just how much more work we had to do before we could begin painting, and I was confident we would end the day with the first coat on both the trim and the walls.
First and hopefully last, for we bought paint that the clerk swore required only one coat, and no primer necessary even when changing a wall from a dark earth tone to a light blue. Still, I was hoping that even if we had to use a second coat, we could have the first one on today.
By the time we took a watermelon break in the late morning, we still hadn’t cracked open a paint can. By the time we do get painting, the Boy is in bed, the sun is high and hot, and the prospect of painting glossy white paint in blinding sun necessitated not only a hat for the head but sunglasses to protect the eyes. And since I’m not sure about the quality of L’s (which is a shame to admit), I gave her a pair of my old sunglasses and my hat — and suddenly she looked older.
As with yesterday’s helping, the Girl’s help in turn required some help. Still, fewer runs than the deck painting session.
Back inside, K and I worked to finish all the white in the house. I know this is the second photograph I’ve taking of K in this very position, but I was unable to find the first. Were we painting the living room? Repainting the living room? Painting the study-soon-to-be-L’s-room? They all seem strong possibilities, reminding me once again of the cyclical nature of working about the house.
Some of my earliest memories, when I was just a toddler, involve helping my father. The first house I lived in with my family was a brick ranch with a sizable lot behind it that was mostly overgrown and wild. At some point my father decided that leaving it fallow was a waste and that he must put the land to work. If I recall, the plan was to plant peanuts. But that involved clearing the land, and lacking any heavy machinery for the job, he did it by hand, with me “helping.” My helping is not such a clear memory, but I’d bet it was mostly getting in the way. I know I was most effective as a messenger, asking my mother to prepare a cup of coffee for Dad as well as a cup of “coffee milk” for me. Or maybe I just remember that because I heard my parents tell the story so many times. Such are first memories.
A few weeks ago, it was the Girl’s turn to help. She was actually quite helpful. Sure, I had to go back and correct some places where she’d put too much stain on and created runs, but that was easier than doing all the work myself, and the joy she got from helping was all the more priceless.
Today, as I got material ready for L’s big room change, the Boy comes down the stairs with his careful step, sitting on the bottom and watching me for a moment before rising and asking the question of the day.
“Help you, Daddy?”
What can a two-year-old do that’s truly helpful? Nothing. What can I do to help him feel helpful? Everything.
I give him a sealed bag and ask him to open it. He struggles for a while before asking, “Help me Daddy?”
In the end, I find some extra parts and a pair of needle nose pliers and ask him if he can pick up the spare parts with the pliers.
It keeps him occupied and filled with joy for at least twenty minutes.
It’s been going on for almost a week now, this bi-yearly deck project. It’s taken a bit longer each time around, and while I try to tell myself that this is because of unforeseen rain, lack of materials, or something similar, I suspect that the speed with which I do it contributes. The cleaning and staining of the the deck is something that works best during hot, clear days, and these days, I work about forty minutes to an hour, and I feel compelled to go back inside and cool off.
Getting a helper today was really an unexpected treat. First, there’s the help. Sure, there was the learning curve. And yes, yes, I did have to go back and correct some runs — it’s the poor girl’s first time, for heaven’s sake. What do you expect?
But for a beginner, she certainly showed she was a quick student with a good eye for detail.
The second reason, of course, is the simple fact of who my helper was: to have your daughter be willing to help without any cajoling or bribery is a precious thing. Okay, there was a reward, but that was after the fact, after the agreement to help, after the work was done, but she didn’t know about it when she agreed to help out.
The proof: disappointment when I told her she was done.
“Well, can I paint this?” she asked. “What about that?” I finally found some work for her, but not enough to fill the time I had left rolling stain onto the floor, so she just sat and chatted with me.
The Boy loves to help as well. His independent streak is a bit more developed than his skills are, and he often insists, in Polish, that he do something alone (“Sam!” he says), but that desire is there, and we can easily channel it.
Some days it’s as easy as channeling water; other days, not so much. But that’s what being two is all about.
“G, oh G, why did you do this?”
I was in the kitchen, having just returned from taking out the compost and checking on our garden — removing suckers from the tomatoes, looking in wonder at just how prodigious our cucumber plants will be, winding our bean stalks around the twine they’re supposed to be wrapping themselves around — and so I was confused. “What did I do?”
“You mixed the dirty clothes in with the clean.”
“No, I didn’t. I was in the garden.”
All eyes fell on E, our little helper.
The heavy rain of Sunday
produced a mini-terraced backyard.
Fortunately, it didn’t result in a flood like a year ago.
Another unbelievably sunny morning. Perfect for what we’d planned for the day: spring planting, which the weather and our schedule has put off for two weeks.
First task: purchases. We drove across town to our favorite nursery to pick up veggies and flowers, but the Boy decided that he must — simply must — run like a maniac.
“E, if you don’t stay with me,” I explained, wondering how much he understands. At what point can a child understand cause and effect? Certainly not his age, but we must begin at some point. “If you don’t stay with me, we’ll go to the car.”
He ran off; we headed to the car.
The Boy spent the rest of the visit fussing in his car seat; I spent the rest of the visit listening to the Magliozzi brothers on Car Talk with accompanying screams, cries, and general tantrum-related noises from the back seat.
In the meantime, the Girl picked out flowers with K, always drawn to the most expensive flowers: six, seven bucks for one. In the end, K bought her one expensive flower — a lovely blue and white blossom that is completely unknown to me and will be for all time, as inept with flowers as I am — and several less expensive but equally lovely varieties.
The rest of the day was a furry of preparing the raised beds (which took most of the rest of the morning), and planting, planting, planting. Then came the grilling, grilling, grilling. And more time with the grandparents.
And finally, after the bathing, bathing, bathing, some relaxing for K and me.We finished up a Coen brothers’ film (Inside Llewyn Davis — how can a protagonist be so utterly unlikable?) and then just sat on the couch, TV off, the sounds of the evening pulling us to bed, though for me, not so directly.
A good day.
I’ve always had a strained relationship with lawns. They’ve always seemed like something that’s better in theory than reality, because until recently, I’ve never really experienced a decent lawn. Growing up, we had a spotty front yard that invited weeds to fill in the blanks in the spring or simple bare earth. I’m not sure which was worse. Still, it made for a frustrating mowing experience: it’s hard to hold a straight line when the only thing sticking up are a few blades of grass and some dandelion stems. As such, I disliked mowing — the front yard at least. The backyard was decent. No, I just hated mowing: it was too hard to worry about straight lines (I am a bit OCD about that) and keep the power cord out of the way. Indeed: the first lawn mower that I used was our Sears electric mower, a fantastic idea that resulted in extension cords striped with black where I’d run over them. It’s not lie a gas mower running out of fuel, those sputtering, gasping final rotations of the blade that let you know you’d better hurry up if you’re to get to the end of the row before the thing dies. Running over the cord with an electric mower leads to instant silence, and since there was no way I could fix it myself at age twelve or so, it meant the end of mowing until dad returned.
That was a shame, for as I grew older, I came to appreciate the meditative quality of mowing and to enjoy the challenging of maintaining an always-straight line. By the time I was in high school, mowing the lawn was a positive joy, at least in the backyard, where the grass was dense and only thinned as it neared the back property line. Forcing the grass to submit to my will, I’d keep my eye on the front outer wheel, making sure it ran just to the side of the wild, unkempt grass. My best friend (also a fan of mowing) and I came to call such grass “conquerable.” He’d drop me off after school, sticking around for some basketball, then comment as he left: “That’s some really conquerable grass,” he say, almost enviously. I’d do the same when the situation was reversed. We couldn’t hack our way through Amazonian undergrowth, but we could reduce the height of grass by half in a split second.
Now, mowing my own grass in my own yard, grass that I’ve struggled with dethachers and aerators, grass that I’ve spent hours weeding, grass from which I’ve probably thousands of Sweetgum saplings from overly-neglected spiky seed balls, it’s positively Zen-like. The belt for my push-mower’s assistive drive has now broken for the second time, and the struggle only increases the reward. I mow a different pattern almost every time: left to right, front to back, diagonally this way, diagonally that. And no matter how tired I am when I make the final push, no matter how soaked my shirt and cap are, I’m always a little sad to be done.
A bright blue sky this morning, with the small, new leaves providing contrast, made it a morning full of bleary-eyed promise. That makes it sound like I really didn’t know what we would be doing during the day, that it was just promising. I knew exactly what I would be doing; K knew precisely what she’d be doing. I had a pile of mulch, a never-ending gift, that I was determined to spread through the entire universe (so it seemed I’d have to do to get rid of ten yards of mulch — ten yards! What was I thinking?)
We got an early start: with the Boy waking at seven in the morning, we were eating breakfast by half-past, and I was out taking care of a couple of small projects before tackling the mulch.
Still, with the morning sun giving the kitchen a golden glow, it was hard not to get excited about the morning. Right — whom am I kidding? We could have all used more sleep, all but the Boy.
Still, that blue sky, that warmth. I am lucky: all of my work in K’s and my division of labor is outside work. K stays inside, cleaning, cooking, helping L with her Polish lessons. So I really couldn’t complain this morning: blue sky, good coffee, work outside. Besides, my exhaustion was all my fault, staying up too late yet again on Friday night.
In the afternoon, Nana and Papa came over to help out. Papa sat with the Boy on the couch for who knows now long, playing cars, sometimes struggling to decipher the words that K, L, and I so easily understand.
We’ll make a video of it at some point, then find ourselves surprised in a couple of years when, watching old videos, we can’t understand him ourselves.
The Boy has learned a new word: mulch.
It’s the endless pile. I’ve been working on it for two evenings, and I don’t feel I’ve made a dent in it. Jesus had the fishes and loaves; I have a pile of mulch.
Being a parent means learning to let your kids learn. It’s an age-old adage, but some days illustrate it more clearly than others. Or perhaps some days I’m just more aware of it happening around me.
Eight o’clock. The Girl decided she wanted finally to have her yard sale. She’d made the sign long ago, and every weekend, she’d been asking when she could have the sale. This morning, she decided she could wait no longer.
No advertisements on light poles on nearby streets. No cash to make change. Just a girl out in her front yard with some random items for sale: some toys she no longer played with, some books she no longer read, E’s old stroller, the bike she’s decided is too heavy and we’ve decided is too difficult for her to ride.
In the end, she sold one thing for one dollar. K and I of course foresaw all of this, but there was no convincing her, and we realized there was really no need even to try: this was a lesson best learned through experience.
More lessons: all one needs to have a rollicking good time for most of the afternoon is an empty cardboard box large enough to fit a seven-year-old and some paints for decoration. One of the neighborhood kids seems more in tune to screens than his own imagination. I found myself wondering what he would have done if he were visiting when W and L pulled out the box and began working. Perhaps he would have found it boring. Perhaps he would have jumped in and tried. The advantage of spending all your time in front of a computer game is that you can do it alone; the advantages of playing in a cardboard box — more significant. Some of my own students’ lack of imagination is simply stunning, so I was pleased to see so much joy coming from something so simple. Pleased, but not too surprised.
Yet another lesson: building a draining system for the newly installed blueberries was surprisingly quick and surprisingly easy. For once a project took me less time than I was expecting.
The Boy learned a thing or two as well. His obsession with trains has been waning, replaced by an obsession with Bob the Builder. Every single time he sees a dump truck or any other piece of heavy equipment, he begins his mantra, based on the Bob the Builder theme song. “Bob the Builder — can we fix it? Bob the Builder — yes we can!” For the Boy, though, it’s somewhat truncated. “Bob the Builder” becomes “Bob-beaw” while “Yes we can” has mutated to “S-N!”
So as I finished up a little mini-project — so small it was barely worthy of being called a project except for the fact that I had to head to the lumber store this morning — I thought I might make him a little training ground. With some effort, managed to squeeze the trigger, so to speak; with a bit more effort, he managed to hold the drill; managing both at the same time was a bit much for a twenty-three-month-old.
And after lost interest in the screws but before he lost interest in the drill, he relearned another lesson. A fall was probably inevitable, and his tears were more from the frustration of falling than anything else. I knelt down to talk to him — the typical dad “shake it off, big man” type thing — and I realized I was still holding the camera. Click. (Well, not so much a click with a digital camera, and with shutterless digital cameras now emerging it will soon be silent, but I can’t think of a proper onomatopoeic word to describe the sound of the D300’s shutter sliding open and snapping shut.)
“Why would I take a picture of my son in tears?” I thought. And tonight, going through the pictures, I learned the next lesson of the day: it’s a fragment of our daily reality, the tears of a toddler. Something I’ll forget as it morphs into the tantrums that will continue from now until age thirty. Or forty-one in my case.
The final lesson of the day: K and I can get so much more done when Nana and Papa spend the afternoon with us, helping out with the kids, helping out with this or that aspect of planting Asiatic jasmine or sealing a poor construction. The list of accomplishments today is impressive, but more significant, the learning.
We got a hammock the other day. Not really sure why. L wanted it; K thought it was a fun idea. So now we have one.
Which thrills L to no end. The Boy is less sure of it, but he might warm up to it.
The Girl’s hair definitely gives it a thumbs up, to mix metaphors.
Sun comes up, it’s Saturday morning, and the gray sky suggests that we won’t be doing much more than sitting at home — as if gray skies mean such a thing. Just because we’re rained in doesn’t mean that we can’t find work to do. Two kids, a house, one parent a teacher — there’s always something to do, something to fix, something to begin, something to complete.
I make the coffee and think of a song, an album I hadn’t listened to in ages. Cowboy Junkies. Somehow the perfect group for this morning. Calm, somewhat monotonous, almost boring in the perfect way something could be boring.
The kids and I get ready to go out shopping — a quick trip that serves two purposes. We get the things we need, like sundried tomatoes for the coming week’s salads, and we leave K alone in the house to clean.
“I like it. It’s calming, almost a meditation.”
Must be a Polish thing.
We arrive home, entertain the kids, force some Polish down L’s gullet — those Polish lessons are getting harder and harder, K swears — and eat some lunch, and then the sun comes out. Followed by me. I have ten cubic yards of dirt to compact at the end of the driveway to prepare our latest blueberry patch. And a yard to mow. And a million other things that I can’t quite get to. The Girl goes to a friend’s house to play, then brings him back to play some more. K brings the fed and napped Boy outside while she cleans the van we’ll soon be selling — hopefully — and suddenly it’s evening. I stand at the grill, turn the chicken, turn the corn, and watch the sun on buds in the tree tops turn golden as Nana and Papa entertain the kids and vice versa.
Eight fifteen. “What do you say I go upstairs and draw the bath?” I whisper in K’s ear as she finishes up dinner dishes.
“Sounds good.”
And tonight, all dive in.
All. Including our brave, curious, playful kitten.
Much to everyone’s delight.
Soon enough, kids are out, and I’m making the Boy’s bottle, then playing guitar for him as he drifts off to sleep. I sit on the bed, then lie on the bed, suddenly to be awakened.
“Who fell asleep first?” K laughs.
Hard to tell.
“Movie?”
“Are you kidding?”
Not really, but I know that there’s not much point even starting it. She’ll fall asleep within the first half hour, and by then, I might be interested enough not to want to stop.
“You’re probably right,” I say.
“Coming to bed?”
“No, I’ve got one more thing to do.”
“Oh, look!” Babcia exclaimed, “they’re x’s!” I can’t recall the Polish name she called the little weeds growing in our front yard, and I don’t have a clue what they’re called in English. I call them weeds. She calls them flowers.
They have blossoms, so they’re flowers; they’re unwanted, so they’re weeds.
Which means just about anything could be a weed for someone.
About the only time I was indoors all day was for this shot, taken as I was finishing up my coffee and heading out to
In short, a perfect spring Saturday.
Nothing about the house makes sense, but it’s obvious it was once the best house on the block. Or at least it wanted to be. In the days before McMansions, this must have been something of an intermediate step. But a strange one.
The addition at the back of the house is almost as big as the house itself, but there seems to be little living space in it: the top floor is one enormous room with a wall of glass that overlooks the swimming pool; the first floor is a series of garages.
But what’s more impressive than the garages is the brick wall and cement pads around the entire property. A double-course wall complete with lights, it must have cost well over several thousand dollars when it was made decades ago. And there is no backyard: it’s all been cemented — another several-thousand-dollar project.
It just doesn’t add up: You’d expect to peek over a wall like this and see some great mansion, something Chateau-like. Instead, it’s just a typical suburban brick home from the seventies, a home with a large addition but no central air as evidenced by the multiple window-unit air conditioners.
According to the realtor sign that has been in the front yard for years, it’s now under contract. K and I walked during the snow break last week, discussing much of the ideas above.
“It’s in such bad shape, though,” she sad, looking at the rotting wood and the remnants of previous owners.
Perhaps the house is worth it, despite its dire repair, just because of the brick work.
Sometimes, rooting about in the crawl space, taking care of mold in anticipation of new insulation being put in, you find something you just wish you hadn’t found. Like a dead bird. Or something worse.
Saturday is usually a day of hustle and bustle in our house, a day of constant movement and seemingly unending motion.
Yard work, repairs, cleaning, cooking, child care, soccer games, shopping — it makes the day pass in a flash. And I never really notice just how busy we usually are until we aren’t. With both kids a bit sick, today became a stay-at-home day.
And except for some cleaning and a bit of cooking, with some grading squeezed in here and there (40 out of 50 complete) and the Girl’s Polish schooling, it was an uneventful day.
It’s hardly something to complain about, though. Nothing on occasion is just fine.
It’s been a project we’ve wanted to complete for a very long time. It’s been something that’s shifted up and down our priority list. But eventually, we reached a point that either we get the lower portion of the driveway redone or what was unpaved would end up down the hill after repeated rain.
The great thing about it is that it included a bonus: not only is it a great place to park a car now (obviously), but it’s also a great place for everyone to roller skate, to ride a scooter, or to engage in a million other wheeled- and non-wheeled- activities.
