the boy
Sunday in the Park
L has had the same best friend, E (for the sake of simplicity, Big-E), for five years now. They met at preschool, thus bringing our families into a closer orbit than would have otherwise naturally occurred: play-dates became dinner with both families, or even a short vacation together.
Five years, for seven-year-olds, is virtually eternity. It stretches even longer than the endless nights of childhood when we simply can't wait until morning.
"How long until morning?" we as mom, and the resulting answer might as well be expressed in scientific notation.
So every now and then, the two families get together for an afternoon at the pool, dinner, or perhaps an afternoon at the park. The five kids have great fun together, the parents chat and take turns tag-teaming with each others' kids ("E, slow down!" "Big-E, you interrupted her!"), and in the end, we all return home satisfied. What's not to love about an outing that gives the kids great joy while simultaneously exhausting them?
Over the past year, though, a second connection has developed. E has been in the same preschool class as E (gosh -- this is getting confusing: three kids with the initial initial "E." Let's just call her "Lady-E"), and when we asked E if he was excited about seeing Lady-E today, he smiled hugely and said, "Taaaaak!" (The question was posed in Polish: he's much better about answer in the same language than L is at this point.)
So L and Big-E zoomed ahead on a scooter and bike respectively while E and Lady-E tended to hang back on their less speedy models. And I (initial for the middle child, not me) sort of hung in the middle, like a middle child would.
We saw some lovely views, including a beaver dam,
had fun pulling our vehicle when we got too tired to ride it,
and had a nice picnic to fill the bellies and stop the complaining.
E and Lady-E are now the same ages (roughly: Lady-E is about a year older) as L and Big-E were when they met. And while five years have passed in the interim, none of us could have possibly believed how quickly it would have gone. Five years for a seven-year-old -- forget about it. You might as well be talking the age of the universe.
Five years for any of us? It's a flash, a blink, a second degree, a mere half-a-decade.
It's absolutely nothing. Indeed, for us, the passage of twenty years has become nothing. I see on social media that a twenty-year-old beauty contestant boldly wore an insulin pump with her bikini (never mind the ethics of judging someone's worth or beauty -- oh, never mind), and I think, "Twenty years. That makes it 1994. I was starting my senior year of college."
These kids are still learning how to control their arms and legs: college seems like an impossibly distant reality for them, but for us, it will just be a blip. A few birthdays, a Christmas or two, and suddenly this child or that is packing up to head to this or that college.
I keep writing about this because it keeps becoming more and more obvious. "Hold on to these moments as they pass," sings Adam Duritz in "Long December," and the older I get, the more that rings true.
Great Smoky Mountain Railroad
Day two, we messed up. We turned a vacation into a trip, complete with deadlines and alarm clocks.
Not that these are bad things, or that the outing itself — a trip on the Great Smoky Mountain Railroad — was a waste.
There was lots to see, including a quarry that absolutely fascinated the Boy.
Not to mention the simple fact that we were on a train: it’s hard to over-estimate the excitement of a little boy who loves Thomas and Friends almost as much as he loves Bob the Builder, and to combine the two was a moment of sheer perfection.
The views weren’t bad either.
But we decided, in the end, that perhaps it would have been better just to hang around the camp site — to keep it a vacation.
Garbage Truck
The Boy loves cars. I mean loves cars. He has a sizable collection of matchbox cars (yes, that is a brand name but like Kleenex, it’s come to represent the object in general), mostly thanks to Nana and Papa, and among these cars is a garbage truck. A favorite. And that explains his interest in the following exchange.
- The Boy
- Garbage truck coming today?
- The Tata
- No, not today. Tomorrow.
- The Boy
- Tomorrow? Tursday?
- The Tata, in mild shock
- What did you say?
- The Boy
- Garbage truck not coming today?
- The Tata
- No, no, what day did you say tomorrow is?
- The Boy
- Tursday
- The Tata
- And today?
- The Boy
- Wesday
In the car, I tell K about this conversation.
“Really? Where did he learn that?” she wonders aloud in Polish, turning to E in the back seat and asking, “E, who taught you this?”
“E!” he squeals.
Sunday at the Beach
A simple idea when you live only three hours from the beach: a call to Ciocia M and a Sunday at the beach is set. And so M arrives Saturday and early Sunday morning, we pack everyone into the car and head for the Isle of Palms just outside of Charleston. And soon almost half the passengers were asleep.
When we arrived, it seemed as if we’d foolishly rushed off without checking the weather. After all, a storm just passed through the region. But we did — really we checked. There was a ten percent chance of rain. But we should have played the lottery today, because we were good with slim odds: we weren’t on the beach more than half an hour before it began raining. We took shelter, dried off, changed clothes, and had our picnic in the back of our van.
The rain passed, the puddles called, and with everything put away, we decided to take a walk on the beach. The rain had mainly stopped, and it seemed foolish not to take the chance.
But the Girl could only go so long before beginning to beg to be able to change back into her swimming suit. She headed off with K to the car,
and E, initially terrified of the ocean and only slightly less so by this time, trudged off after them, not looking back to see if anyone was following along with him.
The Girl headed back to the water,
and the Boy sat with the ladies to watch.
None of us really worried about it: after all, L followed through a similarly trajectory through fear to obsession with the ocean. And while we couldn’t convince her even to approach the water the first time we were at the beach, it wasn’t long before she loved it. Loved it.
And so we tried with the Boy, taking him out in our arms, then convincing him to stand with us.
He took less time than the Girl, though, to become acclimated then filled with joy.
“This is fun!” he squealed.
At this point, there was only one thing left to do: I headed back for my suit and the Boy’s and we got in the water together. While it was fun for a while, though, I am not Mama — nothing can compare to Mama, and so he tended to linger with her.
Saturday in July
A little bit of tickling: the Girl loves to be tickled (within reason, for she is very ticklish), but she’s only recently learned the difference between tickling and gouging. As far as the ticklishness goes, though, she clearly gets it from her mother.
A little bit of chess: the Girl is learning how to play, and the Boy is fascinated with the pieces.
And a little growing: another moment where we can see just a glimpse of what L might look like in five or so years.
a
Downtown
The first time L saw fireworks, she was terrified. At least that’s what K told her as we were walking down Main Street this evening on our way to watch Greenville’s surprisingly modest fireworks display. It’s been a while since we’ve seen fireworks. For a while, the Girl was terrified of them. Then the Boy came along, and it was just not a good idea, we thought (though I saw some awfully small babies out tonight). And one year, K was sick. Or perhaps we were in Poland. Or maybe all three.
Tonight, though, we were determined to head downtown to watch the fireworks. We made it with time to spare, found a surprisingly quiet spot to sit and wait, and did just that.
The Boy sat calmly through the short show, the Girl was thrilled, and I was just happy we got in and out of such a crowd so relatively easily.
Knock Knock
The Girl has recently become obsessed with knock-knock jokes. Her favorite:
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Interrupting pirate.
Interrup–
Argh! I interrupted you!
Amusing the first time.
She tried to tell the banana one — you know:
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock knock.
Ad nauseum until the end:
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange you glad I didn’t say “banana” again?.
In my naivete, I corrected her telling, and now it’s an endless cycle of those two jokes.
An aside: the Boy has grown to love — and I mean adore — peanut butter spread on banana slices.
Another aside: the Boy doesn’t say “and.” It’s rather like the name “Anna.”
The other day, on the way somewhere, the Boy tries his first joke from the back of the van:
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Anna peanut butter!
The kid has a future in comedy, I tell you.
The Wheels on the Car
Go round and round.
The driver of the car says, “Sing a little more quietly, please.”
The Boy in the back says, “Hi there, Tata!”
The kids in the car listen to Frozen together.
Well, not quite metrically accurate, but you could probably make it fit.
Helping
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.