growing
Catch!
February Sunday
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.
Feeding and Sleeping
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.
Final Night
One last night without K and the Boy, which means one last morning without K and the Boy. While L and I missed them terribly, a lot of good came from our single-parent experience. With a little extra work and planning in the evening, the morning ritual has been cut substantially. Having to do double duty in the evening mean pushing some tasks onto the Girl, so she can now complete the evening bath project, from drawing the water to dressing, without any help from an adult. Life in generally has just grown a bit more streamlined — at least the redundant, daily things that we tend to push through to get to the more interesting stuff. And yet we’ve also re-discovered that those redundant, daily things that we tend to push through can be the interesting stuff: the eternally relearned lesson.
Counting
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.
Counting Fears
It all began with a Magic School Bus episode. Yes, that’s right: an episode of the Magic School Bus terrified the Girl at the end.
“There was a ghost!” she explained frantically. “You couldn’t see it. It was a ghost on the telephone but you couldn’t see it. You could just here the voice.” She collapsed into my arms. “I was scared!”
Afterward, she was terrified to be alone. And to go upstairs alone while I was downstairs — out of the question.
We’ve been through this countless times. I take her around the house; we look in each room and confirm that there’s nothing — nothing — to be afraid of. This time, I took a different, slightly sarcastic approach. We walked around the house, and suddenly I shrieked in terror.
“Don’t go in there! Do not go in there! There’s a, a bed in there!” I turned around, then more horror. “Oh no! It’s a door knob!” I pivoted and fell to my knees. “Oh! Oh! Another door knob! They’re everywhere, and they’re terrifying!”
Then I stopped and looked at L. “It’s terrifying, isn’t it?” A slight smile was on her face.
“No. It’s a door knob.”
I stood up, and we went from room to room — the same game, again and again.
“Oh no! A towel!” and I ran out of the bathroom. Soon, she was positively giggling.
“And so what in the world is there to be afraid of? Isn’t it a bit silly?” I asked.
“No, you’re silly!”
One fear down, one to go.
This one has pleasure on the other side — what kid doesn’t love riding a bike?
Despite a few setbacks, it didn’t take too long to regain her bike balance.
Friends and Siblings
Of late, the Girl really enjoys playing with the Boy. Not pestering him; not hanging on him; not kissing him mercilessly. Playing with him. Granted, she still does all those things: she gets a little carried away with her affection. (But then, who doesn’t?) Still, there’s been more developmental play of late, trying to get the Boy to do this or that. More gently some days than others, but still. Improvement is improvement.
40
Four thoughts, one for each decade:
The Banner
There was a banner across the entrance to the house when my mother’s cousin turned forty. “Lordy! Lordy! C’s forty!” It seemed to be such a big deal, her turning forty. She was aghast, horrified. Or at least she pretended to be.
I was more curious about the banner they might hang the next decade: the only thing I could think of to rhyme with “fifty” was “nifty.”
U2’s “40”
Thirty
When I turned thirty, I had a party. Not a lot of people; not a lot of food; not a lot of anything except dancing and the other thing that goes along with Polish parties.
It was a fun and funny night, with my best friends and my then-girlfriend, now-wife.
Being Forty
Doesn’t feel like being thirty-nine. Or twenty-nine. But who would have thought it would? Or should?
Morning Sky
Some mornings, you’re lucky. You wake up. You wake up and see the sky. You wake up and see the sky filled with clouds. You wake up and see the sky filled with clouds and hear the rain.
And in spite of all the gray, you’re happy.
And then you realize you can trick yourself into doing it every morning.
And then you realize it’s not a trick.
Bounce, Swing, Jump, Run
The Boy wants to stand. Just like the Girl at this age, he pushes up into a wobbly standing position any and every time he has enough support.
We discovered tonight, though, that unlike L, the Boy loves the strange, hang-in-the-doorway bouncer that we got from who knows where or whom.
He liked the effect of jumping, bouncing here and there. He liked the effect of swinging, the gentle motion causing him to squeal his “I’m thrilled silly” squeal.
But mostly, he liked to swing his legs wildly. That boy’s going to be a runner, I tell you.
There and Back
When the Girl was much younger, much smaller, and much lighter, we spent a lot of time down at the swing. L could pass whole afternoons in the swing if she would have had someone there patient enough to push her that long. If took the time, I could find pictures of me pushing her, Papa pushing her, Dziadek pushing her, friends pushing her — anyone who came for a visit, down there by the small creek that forms the boundary between our property and the neighbor’s, pushing, pushing, pushing. Higher, higher, higher. That was the formula.
Today, we took the Boy down for the first time.
It must be genetic — his love and fascination were instantaneous.
Superpowers
If you could have one superpower, what superpower would you choose? Why?
—Plinky
The Boy is working on his first superpower. It’s an amazing feat of balance, coordination, and timing — and something we all take for granted. It’s a cliche now to say that walking is nothing short of controlled falling. Yet the Boy can’t even crawl yet, let alone stand, let alone walk: even with support, he wobbles and sways.
So he is indeed working on superpowers.
The Dog Next Door
The plan was simple: it was Sunday; the Girl and the Boy had been inside most of the day; there was still a bit of light left and some power in our small camera’s battery — a walk seemed in order. We reached to top of the driveway and it became immediately obvious that the walk wouldn’t occur.
It had nothing to do with the impromptu photo session; the weather wasn’t a factor; the Girl wasn’t complaining that she was too tired. No, nothing as complicated as any of that. It was simply that Max, the neighbor’s dog, was out, taking his owner for a walk. Max would make the perfect companion for L: they’re both hyper, hyper, hyper, to the point of carelessness and frustration.
And so they leaped and ran, rolled and barked (yes, both of them), and the walk never got any further. I stood chatting with our neighbor, a retired gentleman who seems more like a third grandfather to L at times than anything else, and we both remarked at how quickly both the kids are growing.
“We’ll be heading out to Missouri,” he said as the conversation drew to a close, “to spend Christmas with our son and his family.” And I realized again — how many times will I realize this? probably countless — that within two blinks, we’ll be saying the same thing about L and/or E.
“We’ll be heading out to X to spend Christmas with our daughter and her family. Our son and his family are supposed to meet us there as well,” I’ll tell our neighbor, asking him to keep an eye on our place.
And marveling as he turns to walk away at how recently I did the same.
All photos by the Girl.
Giving
The Girl has surprised us of late with her generosity, spending her own money to by a copy of her favorite non-fiction book — she’s always keen to point out that it’s non-fiction — for her friend. She continued today, buying presents for a handful of friends and family from the school Gingerbread House Gift Shop (I guess a Christmas time fundraiser).
When we returned home, she was eager to dig out the wrapping paper and begin layering sheet after sheet on the gifts.
The Boy, on the other hand, is still exploring the more basic giving: the gift of joy.
Attention
The Boy now focuses his attention, follows objects of interest, and consequently loses interest. Unless it’s food.
The other day, I was getting ready to feed him his soup. It was still a bit too hot, though, so I set it to the side of his chair and turned my attention to the tea bag that was making my cup of tea a dangerously unsavory mess. The Boy, not to be distracted, followed his food. And stared for a good long time.
Up the Street
I grew up in a closed environment, literally. There was one way in or out of our housing subdivision, a fact that was of great solace to my mother as I was growing up: now strangers just “passing through.” And so I had almost complete freedom to go wherever I wanted in our neighborhood while growing up.
The only rule was that I had to be able to hear Dad whistle and get back within a reasonable amount of time.
I wish we lived in such a neighborhood now, for every time the Girl is outside playing alone, I’m a little edgy. It’s unlikely anyone would be just “passing through,” and it’s unlikely that anything would happen to her. Yet Amber Alerts, urban legend, and the Jaycee Lee Dugard case make a slightly paranoid father like me more so.
And so when she heads up the street to visit a friend, I stand at the end of our driveway and watch her head up. The friend’s parents do the same when he (or they) come back down to our place. It’s a simple enough matter, but I watch her bouncing up the street and realize, not for the first or last time, that she’s growing up, that she’s journeying from home and toward independence with a rapidity I’d been warned about but doubted for myself. And it will all repeat itself with the Boy, but I’ll be more prepared by then. I hope.
Barbie Bike
It took her a while to save up the money, and in the meantime, she had to learn how to wait patiently.
And for a little girl who is obsessed with all things Barbie, the effort and time involved in opening the package was almost too much.
But in the end, she got it open, and then I began clipping this and that anti-theft string and band.
And we sat for a while pondering why they put the drive train on the left side, and why bikes generally have them on the right to begin with.
Growth
WordPress’s automated permalink creator tells me that this is the fourth time I’ve titled a post “growth.” I suppose the real surprise is that, given the fact that we have two kids, I haven’t used that title more often. It’s a constant refrain in the house, among friends and family, even acquaintances.
“How she’s grown!”
“How he’s grown!”
Still, for K and me, that growth is gradual. Parents get used to seeing their children daily and the incremental changes disappear into the blur of everyday reality until we suddenly see something that shows, pointedly, how much a child has grown.
Like stumbling on an old picture.
At six months, he spills out of the chair he barely fit into at six days.
Entertaining
With some help, the Boy can now sit. He casts his eyes here and there, his attention drawn to this sound or that motion, and his arms or legs are constantly in motion. It seems like it would be a good match for the hyper Girl.
They sit together, banging anything and everything, both delighted with the racket.
The difference comes later, when the Boy has a moment alone and sits silently, almost contemplatively, for a seemingly impossible length of time. The Girl wouldn’t last three seconds.