Matching Tracksuits

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.

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.

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.