Was had by Q today on the soccer field. I did not attend, as per my depressurizing philosophy of late, but here's what I hear from witnesses:
Q spent some time in goal and did not fare well there. They were shorthanded - a total of 6 players came today. There are 6 on the field at any given time in U-10 soccer. So our boys were going to be stretched thin, and Q spending 1/4 of the game in goal was part of that stretching. They scored on him three times.
But when he was not in goal, he was on fire, scoring three times himself - triple his highest production in any other game so far this spring. Once was a tap-in on a centering pass from Crow, another was a looooong, arcing, high shot, flat, over the goalie's outstretched arms and across the face of the goal from the right corner, that somehow clanged off the top of the far post and in, and the third was a beat-one-man-and-then-tap-it-in-with-the-outside-of-the-right-foot number. That's how they were described to me.
Crow, the fourth grader who's found his legs this spring, scored five times, and Brady, once.
Tally in totum: 9.
Lenox Gold scored 8.
This is one happy li'l eight-year-old we have a-snoozin' in our house.
Therafter, T and I went to the park and flew a kite. A Barbie kite she got as a party favor somewhere. Perfect day for it, and she was a natural, running when she needed to...At one point when we first started she let all the string out, only to realize that it wasn't tied to the plastic thing they wrap the string around. The string leapt away from her...
...and she reached out and CAUGHT IT OUT OF THE AIR.
MY DAUGHTER IS A NINJA!!!!!
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Yard Hijinks
Couple of things recently in the yard. First: T ran around with the digital camera (I alluded to this the other day) snapping pictures, and some of those follow:
Skittles and the soccer goal (which Q has been using like mad lately - in fact, he and I were playing while T shot these).
Me in the distance, T reflected in the window.
Me up close. Armed with beer and a Flip video camera, with which I was filming Q's repertoire of soccer moves. Tightly edited compilation to follow.
Q even upper closer.
Skittles crazy-uppest-closest.
T so ultimately-uppest-closest, the camera is actually inside her.
Fascinating subject matter.
Compare and contrast!
Artifact of another time. That time being a couple of minutes ago, when I was sitting on it in the "me-in-the-distance" picture.
The other thing: Woke up this morning to find that the expensive squirrel-proof bird feeder is not at all bear-proof:
Apparently, he knocked over bird feeders in the yards up and down the street. I knew I shouldn't have had it out, but it was hard to resist - there are so many great birds coming these days. Purple finches, rose-breasted grosbeaks, goldfinches... But in the last few, I should have heeded the signs that it was time to put them away. The bird attendance had really petered out - they have so much to eat in early summer, after all, and don't have to depend on the feeders. But the bears do:
Sons of bitches. He knocked over my birdbath and bent the steel pole the feeder hung from:
He tried to go after this feeder, too - you can't see the feeder in this picture, since I took it down, but it was undamaged, as it was hung up too high for him to get to:
I know he went after it because I found these against the side of the house under the feeder:
I was standing with my arm straight out when I took these, so he was probably a little taller than me when he stretches his head up. You can actually see them in the picture of where the feeder was hanging, too, if you click on the picture and get the larger version. Dirty pawprints, right up on the siding, one and two slats of siding above the level of the fence. He also fell or crashed through the bush on the other side of the fence there in his attempt to scramble up the fence and use it to hoist himself up to feeder level:
Durn lucky he didn't scratch up the siding. I showed all this to the kids, and to Janneke, when they all got home this afternoon, but none of them were as excited as I was. Figures. No one cares about me...
'Cept maybe her:
And, heck, if I got that, who needs anything else.
Skittles and the soccer goal (which Q has been using like mad lately - in fact, he and I were playing while T shot these).
Me in the distance, T reflected in the window.
Me up close. Armed with beer and a Flip video camera, with which I was filming Q's repertoire of soccer moves. Tightly edited compilation to follow.
Q even upper closer.
Skittles crazy-uppest-closest.
T so ultimately-uppest-closest, the camera is actually inside her.
Fascinating subject matter.
Compare and contrast!
Artifact of another time. That time being a couple of minutes ago, when I was sitting on it in the "me-in-the-distance" picture.
The other thing: Woke up this morning to find that the expensive squirrel-proof bird feeder is not at all bear-proof:
Apparently, he knocked over bird feeders in the yards up and down the street. I knew I shouldn't have had it out, but it was hard to resist - there are so many great birds coming these days. Purple finches, rose-breasted grosbeaks, goldfinches... But in the last few, I should have heeded the signs that it was time to put them away. The bird attendance had really petered out - they have so much to eat in early summer, after all, and don't have to depend on the feeders. But the bears do:
Sons of bitches. He knocked over my birdbath and bent the steel pole the feeder hung from:
He tried to go after this feeder, too - you can't see the feeder in this picture, since I took it down, but it was undamaged, as it was hung up too high for him to get to:
I know he went after it because I found these against the side of the house under the feeder:
I was standing with my arm straight out when I took these, so he was probably a little taller than me when he stretches his head up. You can actually see them in the picture of where the feeder was hanging, too, if you click on the picture and get the larger version. Dirty pawprints, right up on the siding, one and two slats of siding above the level of the fence. He also fell or crashed through the bush on the other side of the fence there in his attempt to scramble up the fence and use it to hoist himself up to feeder level:
Durn lucky he didn't scratch up the siding. I showed all this to the kids, and to Janneke, when they all got home this afternoon, but none of them were as excited as I was. Figures. No one cares about me...
'Cept maybe her:
And, heck, if I got that, who needs anything else.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Perfect Time for Bloggin'
And I'll tell you why.
First off, Janneke's watching "Impromptu", which I've already seen, and which kind of bugs me somehow. Too dated, I think. When a 1990 movie (or whatever it is) tries to look like 1890 (or whatever it is), all I can see is 1990 (or whatever it is). Or whatever.
Second, I don't have to scurry off to practice the guitar, because I already did that.
Third, I don't have to clean the house in anticipation of Mark and Ronadh and Pete and Deniese coming over tomorrow, because I already did that.
Furthermore, I'm highly energized and wide-awake because of all the exercise I got today.
And lastly, there's all that stuff I just mentioned to tell you about.
Let's go in reverse order, shall we?
The exercise: Got up around 5:45 (before the alarm, for which Janneke is still grateful), bounded out of bed, did my morning exercise routine (stomach and push-ups), stretched, and zoomed off to Brad's to meet up for a 6:30, seven-mile run up and over Stone Hill behind The Clark Art Institute in Williamstown. I had no idea that whole network existed back there, and it is fabulous. Brad and I had a great, great run in perfect weather - slightly overcast, turning sunny, not hot, not cold, just enough damp in the air to keep you breathing easily, ground in the forest just soft enough from the gentle rain that had just ended when I rolled out of bed. I mean, perfect. Nobody got injured, and we finished it off with a nice pseudo-sprint of sixty yards or so.
Home to find T still asleep - she'd gotten sick last night and was sleeping off her late and uncomfortable turn in bed. Q was up, though, playing his Gameboy, and Janneke was also at the breakfast table, glowing after the first night in the last five where she hadn't had to go to the recliner because of her nagging allergy-induced cough.
More exercise to be had at the dump. Or, more accurately, in preparing to go there; and then, upon returning, the mowing of the grass. I had to hurry a bit, as the weather was looking threatening, and I didn't want to be stuck with no chance to cut it before tomorrow, when the guests come. And of course one thing led to another and suddenly I'm pulling up wayward saplings, watering all the grapes I've planted along the fence out back, moving the compost pile, weeding out the gravel bed in front of our guest bedroom window...So bloody much to do.
And then there's tomorrow's guests. We're having all the local Irishmen (Ronadh and Pete) and their respective spice and offspring for a cookout tomorrow evening, and it's going to be grand. Big weekend socially in general - we were over at Brad and Betsy's last night for dinner. The kids watched "Mama Mia", which is one of Betsy's favorite movies these days. ("They call it a chick flick," she grumbled, disbelievingly. "Yes," I should have replied. "And they call 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre' a horror film.") Just a blast - kids engaged and well-behaved, and adults out on their new deck, shootin' the breeze. One of the highlights of the evening was when we began to express our frustration with the dance lessons T has been taking. We get letters reminding us of the dress code that the girls are to follow on their way to the lesson. It's just such mincing, infantilizing poofery, and Janneke and I can't take it much longer. Brad summed up his frustration with this line: "Dance is a pot up on the shelf of our culture for people to pour shit into."
Bull's eye.
On to the guitar practice, which I did after we got back from the park - where T, Q and I had gone around 4:15, having heard from Janneke that her final exam had gone long and she wouldn't be home for a while. (And where I discovered I can again do chin-ups without pain, so I did a few. That only took two years.) So when we got back from there, I grabbed a beer and the guitar and sat on the edge of our deck overlooking the back yard, where Q zipped back and forth, practicing soccer moves, T stalked the cat and Q and me with the digital camera and binoculars around her neck, and Janneke gazed out on all of us as she prepared supper. It was a grand twenty minutes or so, in which I learned a lot about the instrument. It's a real hoot lately to explore that darn thing more and more.
And that's how the day has gone, man. It was long, but not long enough, and now here we are, perched atop Mongo at its end, each doing his or her separate thing. Thank God for laptops...And, heck, for many, many things.
Shower time!
First off, Janneke's watching "Impromptu", which I've already seen, and which kind of bugs me somehow. Too dated, I think. When a 1990 movie (or whatever it is) tries to look like 1890 (or whatever it is), all I can see is 1990 (or whatever it is). Or whatever.
Second, I don't have to scurry off to practice the guitar, because I already did that.
Third, I don't have to clean the house in anticipation of Mark and Ronadh and Pete and Deniese coming over tomorrow, because I already did that.
Furthermore, I'm highly energized and wide-awake because of all the exercise I got today.
And lastly, there's all that stuff I just mentioned to tell you about.
Let's go in reverse order, shall we?
The exercise: Got up around 5:45 (before the alarm, for which Janneke is still grateful), bounded out of bed, did my morning exercise routine (stomach and push-ups), stretched, and zoomed off to Brad's to meet up for a 6:30, seven-mile run up and over Stone Hill behind The Clark Art Institute in Williamstown. I had no idea that whole network existed back there, and it is fabulous. Brad and I had a great, great run in perfect weather - slightly overcast, turning sunny, not hot, not cold, just enough damp in the air to keep you breathing easily, ground in the forest just soft enough from the gentle rain that had just ended when I rolled out of bed. I mean, perfect. Nobody got injured, and we finished it off with a nice pseudo-sprint of sixty yards or so.
Home to find T still asleep - she'd gotten sick last night and was sleeping off her late and uncomfortable turn in bed. Q was up, though, playing his Gameboy, and Janneke was also at the breakfast table, glowing after the first night in the last five where she hadn't had to go to the recliner because of her nagging allergy-induced cough.
More exercise to be had at the dump. Or, more accurately, in preparing to go there; and then, upon returning, the mowing of the grass. I had to hurry a bit, as the weather was looking threatening, and I didn't want to be stuck with no chance to cut it before tomorrow, when the guests come. And of course one thing led to another and suddenly I'm pulling up wayward saplings, watering all the grapes I've planted along the fence out back, moving the compost pile, weeding out the gravel bed in front of our guest bedroom window...So bloody much to do.
And then there's tomorrow's guests. We're having all the local Irishmen (Ronadh and Pete) and their respective spice and offspring for a cookout tomorrow evening, and it's going to be grand. Big weekend socially in general - we were over at Brad and Betsy's last night for dinner. The kids watched "Mama Mia", which is one of Betsy's favorite movies these days. ("They call it a chick flick," she grumbled, disbelievingly. "Yes," I should have replied. "And they call 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre' a horror film.") Just a blast - kids engaged and well-behaved, and adults out on their new deck, shootin' the breeze. One of the highlights of the evening was when we began to express our frustration with the dance lessons T has been taking. We get letters reminding us of the dress code that the girls are to follow on their way to the lesson. It's just such mincing, infantilizing poofery, and Janneke and I can't take it much longer. Brad summed up his frustration with this line: "Dance is a pot up on the shelf of our culture for people to pour shit into."
Bull's eye.
On to the guitar practice, which I did after we got back from the park - where T, Q and I had gone around 4:15, having heard from Janneke that her final exam had gone long and she wouldn't be home for a while. (And where I discovered I can again do chin-ups without pain, so I did a few. That only took two years.) So when we got back from there, I grabbed a beer and the guitar and sat on the edge of our deck overlooking the back yard, where Q zipped back and forth, practicing soccer moves, T stalked the cat and Q and me with the digital camera and binoculars around her neck, and Janneke gazed out on all of us as she prepared supper. It was a grand twenty minutes or so, in which I learned a lot about the instrument. It's a real hoot lately to explore that darn thing more and more.
And that's how the day has gone, man. It was long, but not long enough, and now here we are, perched atop Mongo at its end, each doing his or her separate thing. Thank God for laptops...And, heck, for many, many things.
Shower time!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Odds and ends
Friends, Romans, countrymen: Grab me a Coke. Long as you're going.
here's some dang photos, since I really don't have too much time:
Three-quarters of the previously-living Johnson-side cousins gather to welcome Finley, the latest and greatest.
T does her bit to do so personally, one-on-one.
And then Q. Mano a mano.
Don't think Big Brother doesn't want some of that.
And here's yet another for the album cover twelve years from now: Lice treatment a-go-go. Tell me they don't look sensitive and impassioned, yet somehow disinterested and perhaps a bit snarky. Just like true rockers ought to look.
Quick Hits: Q scored a goal the other day and was fired-up and snappy for about 30% of the game. the other 70%, he was his somewhat drugged-looking pseudo-self. And as far as he knew, I wasn't there. So maybe it isn't all me. Though he may have noticed a green Subaru Legacy just on the other side of the chain link fence, where a bearded man watched through binoculars and hoped fervently that there weren't any cops watching. But in a good way.
Q cracked open a new toothbrush the other day because he'd left his old one at Henry's house on a sleepover. You hit the button on the end of this new one and blinky lights go crazy for a full minute, serving as a timer. T thought this was brilliant, so she said:
"Can I use Q's toothbrush?"
"No, T, of course not. You can never use someone else's toothbrush."
"But his is cool, and mine isn't, and it isn't fair!"
"Well, that's just the way it is sometimes. There's nothing we can really do right now."
"How about this: I use mine to brush my teeth, but I just hit the button and watch Q's toothbrush to know how long to brush?"
She is a f___ing genius.
here's some dang photos, since I really don't have too much time:
Three-quarters of the previously-living Johnson-side cousins gather to welcome Finley, the latest and greatest.
T does her bit to do so personally, one-on-one.
And then Q. Mano a mano.
Don't think Big Brother doesn't want some of that.
And here's yet another for the album cover twelve years from now: Lice treatment a-go-go. Tell me they don't look sensitive and impassioned, yet somehow disinterested and perhaps a bit snarky. Just like true rockers ought to look.
Quick Hits: Q scored a goal the other day and was fired-up and snappy for about 30% of the game. the other 70%, he was his somewhat drugged-looking pseudo-self. And as far as he knew, I wasn't there. So maybe it isn't all me. Though he may have noticed a green Subaru Legacy just on the other side of the chain link fence, where a bearded man watched through binoculars and hoped fervently that there weren't any cops watching. But in a good way.
Q cracked open a new toothbrush the other day because he'd left his old one at Henry's house on a sleepover. You hit the button on the end of this new one and blinky lights go crazy for a full minute, serving as a timer. T thought this was brilliant, so she said:
"Can I use Q's toothbrush?"
"No, T, of course not. You can never use someone else's toothbrush."
"But his is cool, and mine isn't, and it isn't fair!"
"Well, that's just the way it is sometimes. There's nothing we can really do right now."
"How about this: I use mine to brush my teeth, but I just hit the button and watch Q's toothbrush to know how long to brush?"
She is a f___ing genius.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Another soccer update
Hey all - this weekend, I'm trying to kick the life out of a portfolio I have to get done for MA teacher accreditation, so it doesn't look like you'll get much out of me in the way of blog entries. But I do have a moment to just tell you this: Today, Janneke took Q to his soccer game while I stayed behind and took T to a birthday party. That is to say, no Papi at the futbol. And the results?
Janneke says he kicked heinie. Lots of good, aggressive moves, three shots on goal (none scored, though one, according to teammates standing there, should have been counted), hard-nosed play against an older team that played a very physical game. Great news.
Bad news, if what I want to do is watch - but great news in terms of his development.
T had no problems at the birthday party. She had me stick around for twenty minutes or so, then stuck her head out the back door of the house and shouted, "GO AWAY NOW, DAD!"
So there you have it. Neither kid wants me around - and both are probably better off for it. At least in these particular situations.
Back to portfolio-bustin'...
Janneke says he kicked heinie. Lots of good, aggressive moves, three shots on goal (none scored, though one, according to teammates standing there, should have been counted), hard-nosed play against an older team that played a very physical game. Great news.
Bad news, if what I want to do is watch - but great news in terms of his development.
T had no problems at the birthday party. She had me stick around for twenty minutes or so, then stuck her head out the back door of the house and shouted, "GO AWAY NOW, DAD!"
So there you have it. Neither kid wants me around - and both are probably better off for it. At least in these particular situations.
Back to portfolio-bustin'...
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Quick Update
Q now knows I'm not going to his game on Saturday. Doesn't really know why, but he knows. Things that Have, Probably Not Coincidentally, Happened Since:
Q has announced plans to spend a few minutes every day kicking a soccer ball so he "won't lose (his) skills".
Q has announced his latest eventual career aspiration: Soccer coach.
Q has played in two scrimmages in practice, yesterday and today, in which he was the only player on his team to score a goal. And in the second of which, and I am witness to this, he was hard-nosed, loose-limbed, speedy, graceful, and aggressive, running down people from behind and taking the ball away, zig-zagging through traffic, standing in idle moments while being coached with his hands on his hips, one leg cocked, listening but sizing up the other side at the same time instead of fiddling with the hem of his shirt and looking around for Mami or Papi. He is trans-frickin'-formed.
In other news, I spent the day at home today (dentist and doctor appointments), and so Janneke took advantage and went to the office early. I rolled out of bed around 7:10 and walked past T's room, where her bed was still a jumbled mass of pajamas, stuffed animals, and pillows. "Let her sleep," I said to myself. Q was in the kitchen eating breakfast. I greeted him and went to the living room to do my morning exercises.
On the floor, I heard the front door open. "Oh-oh," I called out, wondering what Janneke had forgotten. But Q, who could see the front door, cried, "T! What are you doing outside?"
I rolled over and stood up, and there was T, calm as can be, still in her pajama bottoms (she'd changed out of the top), wearing sneakers, with a jacket and her black "Madeline"-style hat on. "I just took a walk," she said.
Why in heaven's name I didn't get a picture I will never !!@#9*!@ know.
Q has announced plans to spend a few minutes every day kicking a soccer ball so he "won't lose (his) skills".
Q has announced his latest eventual career aspiration: Soccer coach.
Q has played in two scrimmages in practice, yesterday and today, in which he was the only player on his team to score a goal. And in the second of which, and I am witness to this, he was hard-nosed, loose-limbed, speedy, graceful, and aggressive, running down people from behind and taking the ball away, zig-zagging through traffic, standing in idle moments while being coached with his hands on his hips, one leg cocked, listening but sizing up the other side at the same time instead of fiddling with the hem of his shirt and looking around for Mami or Papi. He is trans-frickin'-formed.
In other news, I spent the day at home today (dentist and doctor appointments), and so Janneke took advantage and went to the office early. I rolled out of bed around 7:10 and walked past T's room, where her bed was still a jumbled mass of pajamas, stuffed animals, and pillows. "Let her sleep," I said to myself. Q was in the kitchen eating breakfast. I greeted him and went to the living room to do my morning exercises.
On the floor, I heard the front door open. "Oh-oh," I called out, wondering what Janneke had forgotten. But Q, who could see the front door, cried, "T! What are you doing outside?"
I rolled over and stood up, and there was T, calm as can be, still in her pajama bottoms (she'd changed out of the top), wearing sneakers, with a jacket and her black "Madeline"-style hat on. "I just took a walk," she said.
Why in heaven's name I didn't get a picture I will never !!@#9*!@ know.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Lopsided Anecdotal Evidence of Fragility
A week's worth of Williamstown, and I'm pretty well grounded again, though there have been some upheavals to keep me from feeling like I never left. Nothing serious, but when I'm thrown out of my usual patterns, I get very disoriented. And there's been a lot of that this week.
Sunday, a day after arriving back from Wisconsin, we took Q to his first spring soccer game, and last season's late-in-the-year tentativeness was on full display. You've never seen a more frightened and reluctant player - adept, now, at arriving JUST a moment too late to get a contested ball; booting any ball he comes in contact with away from himself as fast as possible; following attacking people from the opposite team at a trot rather than running them down like the Q of old. I held my tongue, but as I gradually convinced Janneke that he wasn't just tired, that he wasn't doing just as much as the other kids, it came over me: He's afraid to make mistakes. I think I'm intimidating him from the sidelines.
So I've resolved not to go to several of his games now. See if by not attending, I can help to readjust the space they take up back down to its proper size - reduce the importance of the games so he can enjoy them again. I think I prasied him too much when he was great, and gave too much advice when he wasn't, and now I represent the possibility of failure. It's too much for him - and we've been noticing a real tendency to climb into our laps like he's four again and straddle us, hugging and humming contentedly. He's clinging to his littleboyhood; bigness is starting to scare him a bit. Like the time he figured out there was no Santa Claus, and laughed about it...and then four months later, professed fervent belief again. Innocence is a difficult thing to let go of.
Then on Monday we got the call that Q had head lice. What fun. I got the call, actually - in class. They told me they hadn't been able to get hold of Janneke, and that Q would be waiting for me. I quickly arranged coverage and drove the 45 minutes home, convinced I was itching the whole way. Q launched himself happily out the door of the school the second he saw me, but I went back in with him to consult with the nurse a bit - and to have her check my own bald, but still sufficiently hairy (perhaps...?), head. She fond nothing.
So we stopped at the supermarket for a couple of the DDT shampoos they sell for such occasions, and I lathered Q up and set him down in front of Sponge Bob Squarepants while I scurried around the house, washing and disinfecting everything his head had touched in the last week or so. Such onerous labor, let me tell you - and it's our third bout this year. It's a bleedin' plague in Williamstown this year - we know four other families who've had it and have heard of a number more.
On one of my zoomings past Q, I noticed, suddenly, that he was crying! I sat down with him and asked him if the lice had made him sad. "No - me duele la panza." And that night he was vomiting, and the next day he didn't go to school. Janneke took him to work with her, and Wednesday he was still off, so I stayed home. (Though I had to blaze in at 5:30 and leave my plans on the desk for the sub, then zoom back and take over so Janneke could go to work.) Wednesday afternoon we took Q to his piano lesson, and while he took it I shot off to daycare and picked up T, so we could hit the doctor's office - and when we came back to the piano lesson, Ed, his brilliant teacher, told us he'd been able to do very, very little, between trips to the bathroom and heavy sighing. Poor little guy. We apologized to Ed and hit the doctor's office, and got everything confirmed: Virus, nothing really to do but keep him hydrated and wait it out. Which would be the plan for all of Thursday as well.
Janneke is at the end of her semester, and I'm at the beginning of the fourth quarter - so our stress levels are not at all similar. And she doesn't teach Friday, so if he had to stay then, it would be her day. So I stayed again on Thursday.
That day Q and I drove to Pittsfield to buy a new basketball rim, since the old one, which had come with the house, had given way. (Two years ago I replaced the backboard, which had rotted through; this year, the rim. Next year it'll be the steel arms that hold the backboard onto the roof.) Q's really a pretty darn good shot nowadays - though he could only work up about ten minutes of shooting before retiring back to Sponge Bob. So I stayed outside and went 1-for-22, something like that, and did some really spectacularly bad dribbling.
By this time I had no frickin' idea where I was, what day it was, or what my middle name was. I'd not really taught more than a class and a half in over a week, and was spending long, odd days at home while Q recuperated on the couch watching more "Sponge Bob" and I did yard work or practiced the guitar. And Q was only gradually getting better, able to eat a little more each day, still turning down most of the most basic of foods. Thursday night we were speculating that he might be milking it in the hopes of missing Friday school as well, and did so in German, so he wouldn't understand; then we switched back to Spanish, and Janneke said, "Pero manana, quiera o no, el come. Porque no se puede vivir asi." ("But tomorrow, like it or not, he's eating. Because you can't live like this.")
Which Q, of course, interpreted as "Q is going to die."
That led to another long session of gangly-legged nearly-nine-year-old spread-eagle on our laps, gently sniffling as we explained that that was not exactly what Mami had meant. He really is uncomfortable with getting bigger, I think, with becoming "too big to cuddle", as they say in "Raising Arizona". He felt OK Friday, and went to school, but he really lost weight those few days. He's stretching out, too, but we can't help but feel his back and his arms all the time now and fret over the couple of pounds he lost. He informed us early this afternoon that he didn't want to go to Sunday-night pickup soccer, and we readily agreed. Again, with the sports thing!
Because this afternoon, as he sat on my lap in the park, he said he didn't know how he was going to get enough money when he got older to buy a house. "WHAT?!?! Why are you worried about that?" And the explanation came that he wasn't super-good at any sport, so he would probably never be a professional, and wouldn't earn millions, so he wouldn't have enough money.
Oh!, the many angles from which we tried to gently debunk this latest misconception. I think he hears all his very-sporty friends talking about their bright futures in various sports - Eli, after all, is a superior baseball player; Sammy D and Brady are the MVPs of Q's soccer team (though, I'm telling you, when Q isn't worried about it, he is every bit on a par with them); Jay is an amazing goalie; Sean's Dad is a basketball coach, and he's already dribbling between his legs...Q, meanwhile, is A-OK at all of these, and the best in town at none. So naturally he's concluded that all his friends will be Rookie of the Year, and he'll starve to death.
We talked at him for a while, gently, until he said he didn't want to talk about it anymore - he wanted to play baseball. We grabbed the gloves and played a rousing game of catch, he, Mami, and I, while T finished up a play date in the park with her friend Hazel. Man...Their little psyches are such delicate things. It reminds me of one of the last emails my Mom wrote me before she couldn't any more:
"I remember all the time you were growing up, you were so tender hearted and I thought that I hope you toughen up as you age because you would be hurt by a lot of people who were ignorant and never think of anyone but themselves and howthey feel."
Chilling, the way that could be me, writing to Q. Peas in a pod.
Three nights in a row, he's woken up in the middle of the night and come to our bed to spend the rest of it with us. Tonight we drew the line, though, and said that if he needs comforting, one of us will go to his bed. Whatever the root cause of it, Q needs comfortin'. Luckily, it's what we most love to do.
Don't worry - I'll write about T as soon as she gets sick and has her psyche crushed. Shouldn't be long. I give it a week. Meantime, here's a little something to tide you over: T at ballet, practicing for her upcoming role as a lump of sugar:
Sunday, a day after arriving back from Wisconsin, we took Q to his first spring soccer game, and last season's late-in-the-year tentativeness was on full display. You've never seen a more frightened and reluctant player - adept, now, at arriving JUST a moment too late to get a contested ball; booting any ball he comes in contact with away from himself as fast as possible; following attacking people from the opposite team at a trot rather than running them down like the Q of old. I held my tongue, but as I gradually convinced Janneke that he wasn't just tired, that he wasn't doing just as much as the other kids, it came over me: He's afraid to make mistakes. I think I'm intimidating him from the sidelines.
So I've resolved not to go to several of his games now. See if by not attending, I can help to readjust the space they take up back down to its proper size - reduce the importance of the games so he can enjoy them again. I think I prasied him too much when he was great, and gave too much advice when he wasn't, and now I represent the possibility of failure. It's too much for him - and we've been noticing a real tendency to climb into our laps like he's four again and straddle us, hugging and humming contentedly. He's clinging to his littleboyhood; bigness is starting to scare him a bit. Like the time he figured out there was no Santa Claus, and laughed about it...and then four months later, professed fervent belief again. Innocence is a difficult thing to let go of.
Then on Monday we got the call that Q had head lice. What fun. I got the call, actually - in class. They told me they hadn't been able to get hold of Janneke, and that Q would be waiting for me. I quickly arranged coverage and drove the 45 minutes home, convinced I was itching the whole way. Q launched himself happily out the door of the school the second he saw me, but I went back in with him to consult with the nurse a bit - and to have her check my own bald, but still sufficiently hairy (perhaps...?), head. She fond nothing.
So we stopped at the supermarket for a couple of the DDT shampoos they sell for such occasions, and I lathered Q up and set him down in front of Sponge Bob Squarepants while I scurried around the house, washing and disinfecting everything his head had touched in the last week or so. Such onerous labor, let me tell you - and it's our third bout this year. It's a bleedin' plague in Williamstown this year - we know four other families who've had it and have heard of a number more.
On one of my zoomings past Q, I noticed, suddenly, that he was crying! I sat down with him and asked him if the lice had made him sad. "No - me duele la panza." And that night he was vomiting, and the next day he didn't go to school. Janneke took him to work with her, and Wednesday he was still off, so I stayed home. (Though I had to blaze in at 5:30 and leave my plans on the desk for the sub, then zoom back and take over so Janneke could go to work.) Wednesday afternoon we took Q to his piano lesson, and while he took it I shot off to daycare and picked up T, so we could hit the doctor's office - and when we came back to the piano lesson, Ed, his brilliant teacher, told us he'd been able to do very, very little, between trips to the bathroom and heavy sighing. Poor little guy. We apologized to Ed and hit the doctor's office, and got everything confirmed: Virus, nothing really to do but keep him hydrated and wait it out. Which would be the plan for all of Thursday as well.
Janneke is at the end of her semester, and I'm at the beginning of the fourth quarter - so our stress levels are not at all similar. And she doesn't teach Friday, so if he had to stay then, it would be her day. So I stayed again on Thursday.
That day Q and I drove to Pittsfield to buy a new basketball rim, since the old one, which had come with the house, had given way. (Two years ago I replaced the backboard, which had rotted through; this year, the rim. Next year it'll be the steel arms that hold the backboard onto the roof.) Q's really a pretty darn good shot nowadays - though he could only work up about ten minutes of shooting before retiring back to Sponge Bob. So I stayed outside and went 1-for-22, something like that, and did some really spectacularly bad dribbling.
By this time I had no frickin' idea where I was, what day it was, or what my middle name was. I'd not really taught more than a class and a half in over a week, and was spending long, odd days at home while Q recuperated on the couch watching more "Sponge Bob" and I did yard work or practiced the guitar. And Q was only gradually getting better, able to eat a little more each day, still turning down most of the most basic of foods. Thursday night we were speculating that he might be milking it in the hopes of missing Friday school as well, and did so in German, so he wouldn't understand; then we switched back to Spanish, and Janneke said, "Pero manana, quiera o no, el come. Porque no se puede vivir asi." ("But tomorrow, like it or not, he's eating. Because you can't live like this.")
Which Q, of course, interpreted as "Q is going to die."
That led to another long session of gangly-legged nearly-nine-year-old spread-eagle on our laps, gently sniffling as we explained that that was not exactly what Mami had meant. He really is uncomfortable with getting bigger, I think, with becoming "too big to cuddle", as they say in "Raising Arizona". He felt OK Friday, and went to school, but he really lost weight those few days. He's stretching out, too, but we can't help but feel his back and his arms all the time now and fret over the couple of pounds he lost. He informed us early this afternoon that he didn't want to go to Sunday-night pickup soccer, and we readily agreed. Again, with the sports thing!
Because this afternoon, as he sat on my lap in the park, he said he didn't know how he was going to get enough money when he got older to buy a house. "WHAT?!?! Why are you worried about that?" And the explanation came that he wasn't super-good at any sport, so he would probably never be a professional, and wouldn't earn millions, so he wouldn't have enough money.
Oh!, the many angles from which we tried to gently debunk this latest misconception. I think he hears all his very-sporty friends talking about their bright futures in various sports - Eli, after all, is a superior baseball player; Sammy D and Brady are the MVPs of Q's soccer team (though, I'm telling you, when Q isn't worried about it, he is every bit on a par with them); Jay is an amazing goalie; Sean's Dad is a basketball coach, and he's already dribbling between his legs...Q, meanwhile, is A-OK at all of these, and the best in town at none. So naturally he's concluded that all his friends will be Rookie of the Year, and he'll starve to death.
We talked at him for a while, gently, until he said he didn't want to talk about it anymore - he wanted to play baseball. We grabbed the gloves and played a rousing game of catch, he, Mami, and I, while T finished up a play date in the park with her friend Hazel. Man...Their little psyches are such delicate things. It reminds me of one of the last emails my Mom wrote me before she couldn't any more:
"I remember all the time you were growing up, you were so tender hearted and I thought that I hope you toughen up as you age because you would be hurt by a lot of people who were ignorant and never think of anyone but themselves and howthey feel."
Chilling, the way that could be me, writing to Q. Peas in a pod.
Three nights in a row, he's woken up in the middle of the night and come to our bed to spend the rest of it with us. Tonight we drew the line, though, and said that if he needs comforting, one of us will go to his bed. Whatever the root cause of it, Q needs comfortin'. Luckily, it's what we most love to do.
Don't worry - I'll write about T as soon as she gets sick and has her psyche crushed. Shouldn't be long. I give it a week. Meantime, here's a little something to tide you over: T at ballet, practicing for her upcoming role as a lump of sugar:
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