With Papa
the girl
Second Grade Performance
Morning Outing
Three Picture Evening
First there was the tea party. The prototypical cliche little girl game, the tea party has never really been a frequent occurrence in our house. I’m not sure why it made an appearance today. But there they were, all sipping tea.
Then there was the homework. Reading comprehension. “Go back to the text,” I reminded L time and time again. “Go back to the text. Don’t try to answer the question from memory.” And so as the Girl progresses through school, the things I say in the classroom start popping up during the homework sessions.
Finally, the kids in bed, K and I turn to cooking. “We haven’t had rosół in a while,” K said some time ago, and so tonight we cook that Polish favorite that’s really an international soup. After all, what is pho in essence but chicken noodle soup, which is exactly what rosół is. Sort of.
Out at Last
F. Boyle, in his homily during the vigil Mass yesterday, spoke of being haunted by our former selves, of casting a backward glance over our shoulders at our younger selves and feeling shame, feeling disgust, or framed positively, feeling we’d grown. It reminded me of my own past, in more than one way. Just this week I was glancing through old journal entries, thinking to myself, “My my, how could anyone put of with my arrogance?”
It was around that time when I first read Bill Brown’s “Strangers.” I’d worked as an intern at a poetry review just before graduating college, and one snowy afternoon in Poland a couple of years later, I received a package of recent publications from the editors. Among them was The Art of Dying.
Strangers
Seventeen split my tongue
like a pet crow’s, shrill,
mimicking, irreverent,
ignorant, and shamed.My glances were foul
balls, my hopes were
shooting stars, I was
batting zero.I ate spaghetti
with a pitchfork, picked my teeth
with an ax, wrecked more cars
than a test dummy.I measured out love
with tweezers, was as humble
as a chainsaw, and when my sincerity
was challenged,cracked open my heart
like a coconut, the pure
sweet insides for all
to taste and marvel.My hands were foxes,
my thoughts shot blanks,
my smile was as sweet
as plastic grapes. My dreams were strangers
who stood on a dark bridge
hiding their eyes from
the sun.I was angry at my dead
father, I was hunting
Jesus on the cover
of record albums.And one of the strangers
on the bridge? It was just
me three years older, tongue
sewed together,mouth clamped shut,
army-mummed, staring down
on seventeen, wonder where
the hell I’d come from.
So as Fr. Boyle spoke, I thought of that poem, thought of the “I” who first read them, how much more like strangers I was compared to him than Brown’s speaker could ever be as a twenty-year-old looking back at his seventeen-year-old self. So many changes that I’m almost embarrassed to meet myself in my journal entries. So full of myself, so sure I was so painfully intelligent, so superior to so many.
And then, out of the blue, I thought of a band that I’d once had a flickering interest in, a band that I bought one single album by and decided instantly that I didn’t really like them at all, began wondering why I even bought the album as the band — the Sugarcubes — never really received much airplay. A little research and I found the “hit” from the album I bought was a little number called “Regina.”
A few clicks on Spotify and I was listening to it again, wondering why in the world I’d bought an album that, as far as I could tell, didn’t have a single redeeming song on it, an album that is to me today a laughable piece of trash. Undoubtedly one of the worst albums ever recorded. But when it came out in ’88 or ’89, I thought it was decent. I tried to like it. I wanted to like it. Part of that was, I guess, not wanting to have the feeling that I wasted money on a CD that I’d never listen to again.
All these things were tumbling around in my head this afternoon when we went out to the park after essentially an entire weekend in the house. A sick mother, a semi-sick daughter, a recovering father, and a boy with a seemingly endlessly running nose simply need to stay inside and rest, but that is ironically tiring. So off we went this afternoon for a little time in a new park. I found myself wondering how I’d view my forty-year-old self in another twenty-five or so years. Would I see myself as I see my late-teen self? My early-twenties self? It seems both likely and impossible.
Snowy Fall
We have snow this first day of November. Halloween it began snowing, and I was in bed with Emil, who woke at five this morning and whom I coaxed back to sleep by convincing that that Mama was on her way, when K came in and said, “You know it’s snowed?”
At first I thought she was coming in to crawl into bed with the two of us, but in fact there were three of us: L woke up at some point around seven or so and crawled into bed with us, so when K walked in, the first thing I said was, “You know, we don’t have room for you, too!”
Of course there was no more sleeping — the Boy was up, the Girl was chatting with him, and we were all huddled together in E’s big bed, so there was no turning back. The day had begun.
Besides, the Girl’s doll needed a diaper change, and the Boy was more than willing to take on the task. But like so many things — like our story telling effort from the afternoon — the whole activity doesn’t hold the Boy’s attention for long.
It’s partly due to his age no doubt. In fact, what’s more surprising than how frequently he loses interest quickly is how often he can become completely engrossed in some activity — drawing and playing with cars most often.
Blocks can often hold his attention, but when it’s time to build — to really build — he’s not the one you want around. He likes destroying as much as building. No, more than building. The Girl, though, has rediscovered Legos, and this afternoon we had a little father-daughter building time. Nana saved some of my old toys, and most sensibly she saved all my Legos, so the Girl and I dig in to build a food crusher for when she’s playing animal hospital.
By this time, the snow was long gone and the wind had kicked up. It always makes me a bit nervous, especially considering how close some of the huge oaks in the backyard are to our house. Given they’re size, they could likely do some serious damage to our house if they fell at just the wrong angle.
But it’s not our own trees that worry me most, but a large oak in our neighbor’s yard that could potentially take out our whole upstairs. And by the late afternoon, the wind was constant, and the trees in the were swaying violently.
But eventually, the sky cleared, the wind disappeared, and the most unexpected first day of November in memory passed into evening, snacks, baths, serenades, and sleep.
Halloween 2014
Miś
A daughter of some Polish friends recently decided that she had outgrown an enormous plush bear that she had cherished for some time.
What to do with it? Goodwill? It’s a thought, but there’s no guarantee that the new owner will truly appreciate it.
And so she hit upon a simple idea: give it to L.
E, though, has also become completely obsessed with the teddy, miÅ› in Polish.
They seem to have the same obsession, though.
And so it’s a wonderful way to spend the last few moments of the evening before bath time. Until L decides she wants to take it back to her room.
Split Duty
The Girl had a birthday party to attend. It was to include her favorites: a dear friend and art.
I, meanwhile, spent the afternoon with the Boy, doing our favorite things.
Pumpkins
Denver Downs
Still
Most of the day has been in a blur. Everyone moving, though E starts with a bit of reading.
No time until it’s evening, when K makes a deal with me: “Look after the kids now, and I’ll get dinner ready.” The Boy was already swinging, so I just kept up the rhythm, adding our little distinctives.
For example, the swing likes to break, it seems. At the top of the arc, it just stops, gets hung up on something. I push, I tug, and finally when I give it a bump, it gives way and continues on its way.
Another little trick: the foot grab. It’s a delicate little move because the Boy’s head seems like it could just pop back and crack the top of the swing seat if I’m not careful. It’s the kind of move we do once or twice during a session, then I instantly regret it, because the Boy just wants more.
And of course the Girl’s insistence that it’s her turn causes more worries than a broken swing ever could: the Boy knows the broken swing is just a silly game, whereas the Girl’s turn is not.
Rainy Autumn Day
Rain, rain, rain. It poured, then drizzled, then paused, then repeated. All day.
“I guess we have a lazy day,” K laughed as we realized our original after-lunch, after-nap plans of going to a local pumpkin patch were not going to happen. We watched a movie, played games, did school work, chatted on the phone, took a nap (at least one of us), and finally, in the late afternoon or early evening, decided enough was enough. The advantage of having a park nearby.
Today’s Story
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.”
Autumn Saturday
Forward and Backward
There is no corner to turn. To admit that to myself, to get myself to see that clearly and accept the implications of it as a teacher — that was the trick. One good day does not a corner make; one week of good days do not a corner make. When dealing with a class filled with troubled kids, there’s no six steps forward; there’s no question of three steps forward. Ever bit of forward momentum comes with drag. The drag of habit. The drag of need. The drag of peers.
And so just because one day is almost blindingly good, with 96% of recorded behaviors being positive, doesn’t mean that the next day can’t be a dismal failure, relatively speaking.
That only makes coming home all the sweeter. Though we take steps forward and stumble backward occasionally, I know there’s someone standing behind to catch the stumbles, to encourage, to accept. When the Boy has several accidents in daycare, the family is there to encourage him to do better.
When he comes home wearing the same thing he wore as he walked out the door that morning, it a cause for celebration, and we celebrate.
That’s not to say that my students at school don’t have support somewhere. It’s not to say their parents are somehow inferior. But the facts remain: some of the at-risk students I teach experience a daily school life that is so different from that of our daughter’s that it’s positively foreign.
What explanation fits? There are those with horrible parents who don’t support them, but I haven’t met many. No, scratch that. I haven’t met any, because they don’t come to the school. Most of the parents, though, seem caring, seem supportive. Who am I to judge, to suggest that their behavior is somehow different in private?
It’s the wrong question, though, because the cause, whatever it is, is something outside my control. What is in my control is how I treat them. And more importantly, what is in my control is how I treat my family.
Polish Mass Sunday
Nearly-Autumn Saturday
Friends from Asheville came down today. Friends? Well, almost family it seems. After all, M is E’s godmother, and that, according to M’s daughters, make them at least half cousins with L. We headed downtown for some ice cream at Marble Slab (where else?) and a walk around Falls Park, which included wading in the Reedy. There was also some duck feeding, but that nearly turned into disaster as the ducks grew braver and decided to go after E’s cookie as well as the crumbs we were tossing.
Back home, a first: Nana and Papa gave us a campfire ring some weeks (or was it months?) ago, and we finally put it to use, building a small fire in the backyard in our heretofore-unrealized holidy-motif fire ring.
It just seemed right to have our inaugural bonfire with a group of Poles.
Fast Forward
Sometimes it seems life with the Boy and the Girl is on fast forward. This is especially true of the Boy, now that he’s talking and giving us more than the mere glimpses we used to get into his developing intelligence and personality. This morning, as I was preparing coffee to take to work, I hear,
“Daddy, can I try it?”
It’s a common refrain: the Boy wants to try everything. In that sense, he’s the polar opposite of L, who hates to try anything new.
“No, little man, this is coffee. It’s hot, and it’s got caffeine. You’re too young to drink it.”
He thought for a little while, then asked hesitatingly, as he often does when he’s turning something over in his thoughts as he speak, “But when I’m bigger?”
Fast forward to the post-dinner cleanup. K was talking to the Boy and for some reason — some of those little conversations start so harmlessly insignificantly that it’s difficult to recreate them in the evening — said something like “B, as in bottle, as in big, as in…” At which point the Boy took over, with boy, baby, and a few others.
Everyone Gets a Turn
In the backyard, everyone gets a turn on the swing, even if they don’t fit. Everyone gets a chance to chase the cat, even if there’s no hope of catching her. Everyone gets a moment to cry, even though only a few want to.