fun in threes, sometimes fours
the boy
With unseasonably warm weather following several rainy days, we spend the afternoon outside. The Boy and I explore, expand our island, and have a generally great afternoon. K reads, talks to her family on Skype, talks to her best friend in Poland on Skype, and has a generally great afternoon.
Hel
New Year’s 2014
New Year’s 2016
New Year’s Eve
The idea was simple: twelve pictures to represent twelve months. It was something I used to do with the Girl, but with a full family -- wife, two kids, two cats, and a dog -- that quickly became unreasonable. I had twelve pictures and I wasn't even through a quarter of the year.
Then I began noticing a theme in the pictures, both the ones I'd selected and the ones I was noticing: maturity and independence. The kids working more, helping more, taking more on for themselves. The kids showing interest in things they'd never shown interest in before. Sure, there were lots of pictures of the kids being kids, but there were lots of pictures of kids growing up. Mowing, baking, reading, helping.
L finished elementary school and dove into middle school with eagerness. The Boy went from barely reading to showing an interest in chapter books and excitement at the prospect of reading them on his own. The Girl committed herself to singing in the church choir, now led by an Italian who was the associate choir director at the Sistine Chapel and has the girls singing most of their stuff in Latin these days.
There were some downs as there always are. One of Papa's sisters passed away unexpectedly, and our dear friend who was battling cancer and had been given four to eight weeks to live survived only a few more days. Bida is growing more and more pathetic (in the classical sense of the word), and with her slowly stopping eating and moving less and less, for the first time, K and I discussed the inevitable. Not for a while, that's true, but it's coming, I fear.
This year will bring even more changes. The Girl will officially be a teenager. I will begin the second half of my forties. The Boy will likely be eating more that K. The Girl will likely be taller than K. And no matter the other changes, family will still be family.
We have a cat who's so old now that I'm a little surprised she's still walking about let alone jumping on tables and the like. She's a rescue cat we got at least ten years ago, and at the time, the vet said she was four to six years old, which makes her fourteen to sixteen years old. She was rough to begin with, hence the name: "Bida" means "poor little thing" in Polish. With cats having an average lifespan of 16 years, this puts her right at upper limit.
She's completely deaf now. When she's on any surface that largely absorbs vibrations, you can sneak right up on her without even trying to do so. She has no idea what's going on around her, and I think it's only through the vibrations through our hardwood floors that she anticipates anything that she can't see.
She's lost all of her teeth except the small incisors at the front of her mouth. This makes for a pathetic moment when she gets angry -- say, when you're trying to get one of her many, seemingly endless clumps of matted hair out -- and she tries to bite you. Without her canines, there's simply nothing there that can actually do any damage or cause any pain.
Her claws are brittle and largely dull. She can't do much of anything with them but get them stuck in something she's trying to scratch.
Her body is withering away, and she's literally a sack of bones now. And since she's developed arthritis over the last few years, they are knobby and protruding hideously. Running your hands along her back, you feel each and ever vertebrae clearly.
She no longer grooms herself very much. This means her hair gets matted easily and thoroughly, and I've quite honestly given up on trying to get them all out. The only option is the nuclear option: shave her completely, especially her belly. We don't have the heart do that, so we do what we can. The other side of this is the odor that emanates from her: a long-haired cat who doesn't groom herself simply stinks for reasons that don't need further explanation. This is why we give her a bath on a fairly regular basis.
I mention all of this simply because I bathed her tonight and noticed, when she's completely wet, there's almost nothing there. She is literally nothing but a sack of bones, and I'm quite surprised she can survive like that.
"Has she not been eating?" I asked K, and apparently, she's turned up her nose at everything but human food. So I took her into the kitchen, still wrapped in towels from her bath, and made her one of her favorites: scrambled eggs. No salt, no pepper -- just a bit of butter and the eggs. She initially had some trouble finding it, but once she located the pile of eggs, she hunkered down for a long, slow meal. (With no teeth, it takes her a long time to eat anything.)
She's a fighter. Of our two cats, she's the one who's stood up to our dog from the time she was a puppy, and she's the one who, though defenseless, defends her territory fiercely while the younger, faster, stronger cat with deadly teeth and sharper claws runs. Bida knows she's a member of our family and refuses to let anyone forget it: she's always looking for a lap, always begging to be with someone.
"She'll outlive us all," K laughs on a regular basis, and she's probably right.
N and R came over for a little play time today after the Boy spent a couple of hours at their house this morning as K and I went to visit a dear friend who is in the final stages of a battle against cancer.
"The fight's gone. It's done," said our friend. And what a fight he'd put up: this summer I helped him with an addition to his home, and he worked with a chemo backpack on, pumping him full of pain to fight the ultimate pain.
Seeing the boys playing, with all their energy, excitement, and passion was jarring in juxtaposition. All three of those boys will, at some point, grow old and die, long after I've done the same thing.
That's what we all assume. We all wake up every day and work under that assumption without even thinking about it. We obviously can't paralyze ourselves thinking every day, "Something could happen this day that takes someone we love away from us," but a little reminder about our mortality is a good thing from time to time. It inspires us to do the little things that we might not have done because we're tired, we need to do something else, or we just have other priorities at that moment.
Perhaps that's what's just beyond the edges of the addiction to pain some athletes feel. I'm nowhere near that level, but three nights of running have left my muscles aching in a way that I almost look forward to the next run, the next shot I have at pushing through the pain, of bettering the pain, because I won't always be able to do that. There will come a time when I have to give up the fight, but each night I run, I can push against it.
Seeing that perseverance, limited though it might be, in my own children would be the purest blessing. One of the character traits I consistently see less and less frequently in my students is perseverance, or "grit" as edu-speak likes to call it these days. So many give up before even trying, convinced that they can't do it, persuaded before they even begin that there's no use in even trying.
It's a natural enough inclination, I think. I already see it in E: he sometimes gives up on something so quickly that K and I just look at each other, that concerned parent look on our faces simultaneously. So when E suggested tonight that he might want to join me on my run, it brought such a smile.
"But we'll run the whole time, Daddy," he said.
We did half a mile in just under seven minutes, with three short walking breaks and a lot of sweet, nonsensical chatter.
So I left for my solo run with a lighter step: the Boy took a little step toward becoming a fighter, toward realizing that that excitement in the creek with his friends can be found even in moments of pain.
Life is a collision of old and young. When you're young, all you do is dream of being old; when you're old, you often reminisce about being young. We can't have it both ways, but we always want it both ways.
For some reason, eleven was the age for me when I was E's age. It just seemed like the perfect age. Perhaps it was because eleven is the nearest age with repeating numbers -- 11 is cool, and 22 seems so far off as to be impossible.
Of course, when I was in middle school and high school, I couldn't wait to be sixteen. There was nothing about how the numerals 1 and 6 looked juxtaposed -- it was just the relative freedom of having a driver's license, even if one didn't have a car.
Eighteen meant adulthood, voting, and the like; twenty-one meant drinking; twenty-five meant a quarter century. And then suddenly, I really didn't care about age. It just didn't seem to matter. And then, age began bothering me, slightly. I turned thirty and realized, "Hey, I am so far from being a kid now that I can't even pretend anymore."
I know this extends into my near future and distant future: I'll be 50 before I know it, and then 60, and so on. But at this point, what's the point of thinking about it except to take stock in one's life and ask, "Is this how I want to be at age 45?" Couldn't I be in a bit better shape? Couldn't I spend my time a little more wisely, a little more conscientiously?
All this is brought into sharp relief by the fact that Nana is in rehab, a dear friend is struggling with cancer, and most of my peers and I are getting to the age that such worries are realistic worries or even realities.
And so I've begun jogging. I haven't run (without being chased) since I was in high school. I stopped after my freshman year because I developed what was diagnosed as shin splints but which still occur, thirty years later. Are shin splints a permanent condition? I could ask the internet.
Shin splints result when muscles, tendons, and bone tissue become overworked. Shin splints often occur in athletes who've recently intensified or changed their training routines.
That doesn't sound like me. Instead of worrying much about it, I went out and bought good running shoes and began running. Well, running for a bit and then walking as the burning along the sides of my lower legs becomes too great. Apparently whatever condition I have in my legs is still there, thirty years later.
Here's where the intersection of youthful recklessness and approaching-middle-aged cautiousness meet: do I stop or do I push through the pain? Right now, youthful recklessness is winning, and for a couple of nights now, I've just pushed through the pain, walking when it intensifies, running again when it goes away. And besides, that sweet burning in the quads hours later that tells you you're getting stronger -- that's too good to give up.
But I think back on the day, remembering the time we spent at the local trampoline park, the Girl learning some new tricks,
and my response to the question, "Will you be jumping, too?" and I realize that tension is as strong as ever. Would I have liked to jump? Not really. Every time I jump on our own trampoline in the backyard, the jarring makes my back ache. Would I like to jump with my kids? That's an entirely different question, but I decided to sit it out because of my worries about a sore back or worse later.
And yet, a few hours later, I went for a run knowing very well what might happen, knowing very well that if it did happen, I was going to push through the pain as much as possible.
Young and old, old and young -- the eternal conflict in us all.
Old and Young
The holidays' end always brings a tinge of sadness. All the anticipation, all the preparation, all the excitement -- all behind us now, gone in a flash. Sure, there's one last hurrah with New Year's Eve coming up, but that's just one evening. For us, it's never really had any tradition behind it like Christmas.
Tomorrow, K goes back to work, M and T return to Ashville, leaving C for a couple of more days. Life slowly transformed into the holiday season, and now -- boom! -- it's back to normal. But that's probably a good thing. Living this kind of life all the time would make it the new normal. We'd struggle to get through endless parties and celebrations just as we sometimes struggle to get through seemingly-endless weeks at work and school.
While waiting for breakfast -- a delicious quiche that a lovely student gave me as a Christmas gift -- the Boy asked a simple question: "Daddy, does Santa even exist?" The question took me unawares.
"Well, if he doesn't, how do you think you get those presents?" I asked in response after a pause.
"You guys do it!" he shouted with a grin.
I've always been a little reluctant about the whole Santa thing. On the one hand, it's harmless fun. On the other, it does necessitate misleading your child. I decided that this was the opportunity for which I'd been waiting to encourage critical thinking.
"Well, how could we figure it out? What kind of an experiment could we run to see?" I remembered Neil DeGrasse Tyson explaining the experiment his daughter ran with her friend to test the existence of the Tooth Fairy: they decided they simply would keep secret any lost teeth and see if the TF showed up. She didn't. Simple.
E couldn't think of anything, but we went through the logic behind the Santa story -- or rather, the lack thereof. Using a Socratic-type questioning method, reached the following conclusions:
When L joined us at the table, the Boy relayed the whole conversation to her, and she began apologetics for Santa.
I'm still not sure where the Girl stands on Santa. Surely she doesn't believe anymore, but we've never had a conversation about it. And it's just like the Girl to play devil's advocate in such a situation.
In the end, the Boy stood more skeptical on the issue, and we decided that, even if Santa doesn't exist, it's fun to pretend he does. Perhaps that's the best stance.
We should probably all be members of this club...
The Boy got several new toy trucks today, adding to his already-extensive collection of toy cars, trucks, bulldozers, tractors, and the like.
Only one thing to do after dinner...
The Boy found an old SIM card the other day and was convinced it was some sort of memory device. I, of course, played along thinking it might be a good way to transition into an actual treasure hunt.
Last night, K told E it wasn't a memory card. "It's from T-Mobile," she explained. I'd explained that the "T" was for technology, perhaps.
"Why'd you tell him?"
"One day, he might take it to school and tell everyone it's a memory card and someone will laugh and him and say, 'It's just something from T-Mobile.'"
Still, I persisted. Today, I shared with him the message that was buried in the memory card.
I had in mind hiding something in his copy of Green Eggs and Ham with the final half of the clue, an allusion to the ending in which Sam-I-Am promises to leave the protagonist alone if he'll just try the green eggs and ham.
I hoped the clue I had the Girl plant while we were walking in the park would help solidify the connection: "Agent Rex, are you Sam?"
When we first arrived, E was terribly eager to look for clues; he looked in the unlikeliest of places, convinced that the Game Master would hide clues only in hard-to-find locations. I looked down at his shoes, though, and realized it woudn't be the adventure I'd initially planned.
"Why did you put sandals on?"
"Because I couldn't find my shoes."
So I was constantly telling him to stay away from the remnants of snow, carrying him over spots where a puddle covered the entire path, and asking him, "Are your toes cold?"
When he finally reached the tree to which L had pinned the clue, he completely missed it because it just above his eye level.
When he finally found it and read it, he was perplexed. I knew I'd have to guide him toward Green Eggs and Ham, and I thought he could figure it out if we steered him that way deliberately.
We didn't succeed.
And then K came home and the Boy explained everything to her.
"Oh, like Sam-I-Am."
I'd considered texting her the details so she could respond just like that, but it was apparently not necessary.
Soon enough, the Boy was in possession of his third clue of the day:
Agent Rex, your mother doesn't have an agent name. I can't communicate with you until she has a name. When she does, send me a message in a manner I will explain at a later date. Until then, be brave, Agent Rex!
By now, though, the novelty of it was wearing off.
"This isn't a treasure hunt," he lamented. "It's a clue hunt."
True enough: Axel's dad has set up all sorts of treasures along the way; I'm just winging it with clues I write in Evernote so I can keep track of everything I've said for the simple reason that I'm still not sure where we're going.
"Maybe the Game Master will have us looking for stuff in Poland!" the Boy had said in anticipation of this summer's trip.
"Maybe!" I replied, wondering if I could string him along for that long. The answer came today: not with clues alone, silly amateur, not with clues alone.
Still, it was great fun, not only because the Boy had fun (at first) but because the Girl enjoyed being in on the secret.