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First Game

Saturday 10 September 2016

The Boy is not an overly aggressive little fellow. He likes to play by the rules. At preschool, he got upset last year when other children took off their shoes because it was against fire code. I suppose the teacher mentioned that, and he just remembered it. So the idea of stealing the ball, of going into the herd of four-year-olds that chase the soccer ball around the field and do much of anything -- that's not his style.

Much of the time he was in, the poor fellow was frustrated. He'd insisted on wearing an undershirt, and in the heat of the morning, it had become terribly uncomfortable. Then there was the fact that he didn't quite even know what to do -- I'll take partial blame for that, as we really didn't do much more this week than practice taking the ball from each other in an effort to overcome the inevitable timidness that all four-year-olds face when playing soccer.

The real heartbreak occurred when, in an effort to defend, after he'd gotten his fortitude up and was engaging with the other players, he accidentally defended the ball right into his team's goal. I've mixed feelings about games with four-year-olds counting self-goals. On the one hand, it's the game. Learn the game at a young age. On the other hand, it was my son. Naturally, no one said anything, and I'm not even sure his own teammates realized what happened. And fortunately, a young man on E's team was a real master (for four-year-olds) and scored two goals to make the first game end in a tie.

After the game, though, everyone was tuckered out. Well, almost everyone.

Śpij, kochanie

Friday 15 January 2016

“Daddy, I want to go to sleep.” And so I put up the book, turn off the light, and start the music.

The Boy rolls over on his back, and I rest my arm along his back, running my fingers through his hair gently. He stops moving, his breathing slows, and within moments, he’s asleep. Still I lie, continually stroking his head, rubbing his back. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and sinks deeper.

W górze tyle gwiazd,
W dole tyle miast,
Gwiazdy miastu dają znać,
Że dzieci muszą spać.

Just listening to the Polish lullaby gets me thinking of all the twists and turns it took to get me to this moment in which I’m listening to a song in a language I never dreamed of learning, thinking how appropriate the lyrics — “Above, so many stars / below, so many cities. The stars let the cities know / That it’s time for children to sleep” — are some nights when the Boy tosses and turns and turns and tosses as my Polish wife puts our daughter to bed in the next room. All those little twists and turns, those seemingly insignificant decisions that led to meeting, returning, dancing, flying — all the things that led to the present moment, the present family.

“It was fate,” some might say. “It was the hand of God,” others might rejoin. “It was a happy sequence of accidents,” still others might insist. Fate, accident, God — whatever the cause, I’m grateful for all the steps, trips, and slips that led to this moment. Remembering that on a regular basis, I think, is the key to happiness.

For Granted

Wednesday 30 December 2015

This evening, K and I finished out the day watching Iris, a film about the British writer Iris Murdoch. I know little about Murdoch, and I've never read any of her work, but the film stars Dame Judi Dench, so I thought it couldn't be that bad, and it really wasn't. Dench does a good job, as always, and it's a tough thing, I would imagine, portraying a lively mind sinking into Alzheimer's. It got me to research Murdoch, though, and I found a curious quote attributed to her about marriage:

I have a strong memory of an interview between Murdoch and the writer A.N. Wilson in which, when asked about her marriage, she replied: “Oh well; I love, and am loved.” She also informed Wilson that the benefit of marriage is being able to take the other for granted. (Source)

The article is entitled "The secrets of Iris Murdoch and John Bayley's unconventional marriage," and the article reveals that "She was apparently very sexual, and not only with John; he, perhaps, was less interested in matters carnal." In short, she had multiple affairs, apparently fairly openly, throughout their marriage. In the film, Murdoch says to Bayley early in their romance, when he has just discovered her unfaithfulness, which she freely admits, that he just has to accept her as she is. She's not willing to change for him, in other words. While that might be admirable in some areas, in sexual promiscuity I find it a bit selfish, and I found myself wondering at the end of the film if that's what she meant in the interview (I researched as the film uncoiled) about being able to "take the other for granted."

I take so much for granted it's not even humorous in the slightest. I take for granted that I will have a dry place to stay when the rain pours and pours as it has for the last several days. I take it for granted that I will walk up and see my wife and children in the morning and carry on my life like normal. I take for granted that I can slip downstairs late one evening, occasionally light a cigar and pour a little libation, and write.

I take for granted that my family will have food to eat, and that if, after returning home from inspecting the neighborhood during a let-up in the downpour, we decide to have mac and cheese for lunch, that we can do just that. And I take for granted that I can take all these things for granted.

And that is probably why I have always been somewhat obsessed by time and its passing. Like so many others, I get into the habit of taking things for granted, and when they come to an end, as this year is or as our extended holiday break is, I realize unconsciously that I've taken it for granted and not made the most of it. At least I did. Having children changed that to a degree

I learned to be aware of each passing moment because it was just that, a passing moment. This is especially true since the birth of E. The Girl's first years showed me how one can grow accustomed to -- take for granted -- the little quirks a child exhibits as she grows and then suddenly, one realizes that the child has outgrown that quirk.

Now I'm still obsessed with time, but the obsession has changed. No longer do I find myself thinking, "This wonderful experience is ending, and I'm not sure anything coming will ever be as magnificent as this," for that was how I framed my taking-for-granted nature. Instead, I find myself shocked at how quickly time as passed, regretting slightly the moments I've taken for granted and more determined not to do it any more.

Tuesday

Tuesday 04 August 2015

I always maintained that Tuesdays had nothing going for them. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not about to suggest that Mondays have a lot going for them, I would continue. Mondays, though, have the force of the weekend behind them and the sheer necessity to get going. You push through Monday like you push through a two-kilometer, 5% grade climb at the beginning of a long bike ride: it’s not pleasant, but you still have the energy to do it, so you just do it.

Wednesday carries the advantage of being the mid-way marker of the week: make it through Wednesday, and it’s all downhill from there. Thursday is almost Friday, and Friday is Friday. Only Tuesday has nothing going for it.

This all carries the assumption that the only enjoyable part of the week, the only part of the week really worth enjoying, is the weekend. In the summer, for a teacher, that just isn’t true: every day is the weekend in a sense. Every day can be a day of exploration, a day of getting stamped with anti-bug, anti-wild-attack-cat antidotes. Every day can include some discovery and rediscovery with one’s children.

That’s the easy part. The challenge is getting that to carry over into the school year, to think, “‘Tuesday has nothing going for it’ is nonsense because all days have something going for them.”

To live each day as if, given a choice of any day in your life to relive, you chose today.

At this point in the year, less than two weeks before the kids head back into the classroom, I’m always confident that I’ll succeed. Last year, that confidence didn’t even make it through the first week of school, so challenging were a couple of classes. But in the end, that too is a choice.

Today’s Story

Sunday 05 October 2014

He squirmed out of my arms, twisting to the floor and then placing his hands on both knees before looking me straight in the eye.

"Daddy, I'll be a good boy," he pleadingly whispered. The fussing, playing, and general chaos around us in the crying room made it difficult actually to hear him, but he was only repeating what he'd been saying for the last several minutes. "Daddy? Daddy? I'll be a good boy."

We'd returned to the crying room after trying to sit as a family in the church proper for the first time. Last week, during Polish Mass, when E and I sit alone, he'd managed it perfectly. He had motivation: Mama was singing in the choir, and he simply wanted to be able to see her clearly. "If you fuss at all, if you get up and try to wander around," I'd warned, "we'll go right back to the crying room." And he'd been golden.

"Maybe we can start sitting together again," K had suggested after Mass.

It's been a long time since we all sat together. K tends to take the Boy to the crying room to avoid any unpleasantness for our pew-mates; I take the Girl to the nave (if it could be called a nave in a church of such semi-circular modernity). I offer to switch off with her, but K always insists on taking the Boy to the crying room.

Today, then, we tried it. The processional was fine. We made it through the first reading with few problems. But by the time we'd reaching the Gospel reading, it had become too much, and so I took our sweet boy to the crying room and found a seat in the back corner.

"You didn't behave very well."

"I didn't behave well?" He always takes a statement and turns it into a question.

"No, you were squirming, rustling papers, distracting others." He looked at me. "You have to be a good boy to sit stay there." He climbed into my lap.

"A good boy?"

"Yes, a good boy. We'll try again next week, but for today, we're staying in here?"

"Staying in here?"

"Yes, staying in here."

He put his head down on my shoulder for a moment, then began.

"I'll be a good boy, Daddy."

I explained it again. He accepted it. And again he stated, "I'll be a good boy, Daddy."

Yet he usually is. And the Girl is usually a good girl. Certainly I could complain about this or that: the Boy can be horridly stubborn, and the Girl can be achingly hyper. There's more, and while I feel at times -- and K concurs -- that I focus on the negative with our children more than the positive, if I'm honest with myself, they're good kids.

So why did this "I'll be a good boy, Daddy" stick with me all day? Perhaps it was the tragic echoes of what that could imply: visions of abuse and children blaming themselves for their father's evil behavior -- perhaps it was the shudder that went through me when I imagined our children facing something like that. Maybe it was just the plaintiveness of his repetition, the seeming hopelessness in his voice at times. Whatever it was, felt more drawn to him, and to our daughter, than usual, because I think I heard another echo in that: "I'll be a good Daddy, boy."

Pavement

Sunday 10 August 2014

Just down the street from our house is another street -- typical of suburbia, I know. But this street is different. It's freshly paved, smooth and inviting, and it has just enough of a slope that anyone can enjoy riding up and down it.

And so of late, we've taken to doing just that: E on his four-wheel pusher, the Girl on her new bike or her scooter, I on my bike, and usually K on foot.

Occasionally we meet neighbors there, either by arrangement or by accident. Some are more enthusiastic about the activity than others; some ride with more abandon than others; some leave me shaking my head in wonder. Up and down, up and down, races and gentle rides, laughing and literal screaming ("That's not fair!") -- it becomes a little microcosm of childhood.

I have my own memories like this -- summers on bikes, hills that are a pleasure (as well as hills that are hellish), riding with friends.

Seeing my own children follow those same paths brings a smile.

The Delicacy of Sharing

Saturday 17 May 2014

Teaching our daughter to share has been a constant challenge, as I'm sure it has with most parents. L likes and even expects others to share with her, but getting her to return the favor -- that's always been a trick. A few events of the last few days, though, makes me think we've made real progress.

Friday, we were to meet a friend of hers from her first grade class at the end-of-the-year school party, a carnival with a few rides and some games scattered about the school ground.

"We're supposed to meet at six at the silly string!" she told us, countless times.

We arrived at the silly string area -- a roped off portion of the field where kids ran about spraying aerosol string on each other -- at the appointed time, but no friend. We got a ice treat, went on a few rides, and then suddenly discovered L's friend, also Lilly.

With her mother's blessing, Lilly went off with L and me, but before long, she'd run out of tickets.

"Daddy," L said with a grave expression. "Give me the rest of the tickets. I want to slip them with Lilly."

The second episode: today, during L's preparation time before ballet portraits, I sat with E at the table to do his albuterol breathing treatment, but he was having none of that.

"No! No! No!"

No amount of cajoling, explaining, or begging could help.

L came to the rescue, offering the Boy use of our family Nexus so he could play his favorite game, a vehicle-based shape-matching game.

He sat patiently for the treatment, playing his game and clapping furiously whenever he finished a round.

"Bravo!" he cried, as did I, though for both L and E.

Finally, in the evening, mowing the yard after almost two weeks' neglect, I came upon a patch of matted grass, so I headed in for the dethatching rake. As I returned, I noticed a curious patch of dry grass with bits of gray about it. I walked over, pulled the grass aside, and found a burrow of baby rabbits.

L came over to get a peek, and Papa brought the Boy over.

"What an odd place to burrow," I said. Indeed, for it will be a disaster if our cat finds it, which is not as likely as it might seem given her age and general laziness.

Still, I'm happy to share our yard -- for once, it's an animal that seems harmless.

Tears to Mama’s Eyes

Tuesday 25 March 2014

By the doors to the restrooms in E's daycare room there is a small chair, blue with yellow legs and arms. With its slightly reclined back and arched seat, it looks almost like an Adirondack chair. It would seem likely the teachers put the chair there to provide children waiting for the restroom a place to sit until one realizes that the name of the group is "Toddler 2," which means every child in the room is around two years old: not many children that age likely are using the restroom by themselves. Perhaps it's a timeout chair.

The Boy, however, made his own unique use of it last week, his first week in daycare. Because we wanted to slip him into the new routine gently, K took him to the facility in the morning then came during her lunch break to take E back to the house and Babcia, where he napped, lunched, and played until I returned. K's arrival always coincided with the preparation time for the children's nap. As the children pulled their mats into place and arranged their blankets, all with the teachers' help, E sat in the yellow and blue chair and waited for K.

This week, however, he's been going full days. Two days down, and things could be going better. What a stressful experience for a little kid, and K and I both feel a little guilty for putting him through it. We justify it to ourselves: he'll be stronger for it; he has to go through this at some point; he'll soon be enjoying it. We justify, but that doesn't do much when the teacher tells us that every day at nap time, E still trundles over to the yellow and blue chair, sits down, and waits for K.

Dressing the Boy

Tuesday 18 February 2014

I usually end up dressing the Boy after a bath. Not always, but usually. It's one of the times he's most chatty, and his developing bilinguality shows often, as does the linguistically-hybrid nature of our family.

"Who's my misiek?" I ask after he's pointed to a teddy bear on his sleeper and proclaimed it to be a "misiek." He smiles. I ask again: "Are you my misiek?"

"Tak!" he joyously replies.

Time Machine

Monday 10 February 2014

One of the great aspects of WordPress is the fact that one can incorporate the work of others into one's own site through plugins, widgets, themes, and various hacks. One of my favorite additions is the "Time Machine" widget I have installed on the right toolbar, which draws posts from the current day of previous years.

The "Time Machine" widget shows me that Babcia was here during her first visit in 2007, and Dziadek was here in 2008 for his one and only visit to the States. Babcia is back with us now, her fourth or maybe even fifth visit to the States.

The "Time Machine" widget has also shown me that we had a snow day on exactly the same day several years apart.

It also let me know that we've now had a particular camera lens (that I'm thinking of selling) for five years now. I would have guessed three.

In a sense, that's what this blog is all about anyway: a time machine. I look at pictures of the Boy, pictures of the Girl and think, "That was last weekend, photos I put off because of Kamil's big win." And then that "last weekend" is "last month," "last year," "years ago."

And then I write about that continual surprise yet again.

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