Four Things

There was no snow on the ground this morning, as my children had hoped.  Just frost.  And a lot of sunshine. Which, when translated, still means it’s time for snow pants–minus the snow.  And which meant that anyone breathing outside certainly couldn’t do it in secret.  Not even the dog.  Who, this morning, stood at the back door, an inch from the glass pane and panted.  And who prompted a phrase I’d not heard before until my son said,  “Look at Heathrow’s clouds.”  And behold, there were clouds rising from the dog’s mouth and nose.  I’ll be darn.

Then…completely unrelated and possibly as unimportant, I’d not previously known what a near-theme park experience our van could be.  Say, if you spend an hour and a half running around in it before actually leaving for grandma’s house–another three hours away.  But my son knows.  I came out to the garage with another suitcase to load in, and to clean out a dog’s dream worth of snacks from the floor, and there he was deep in the glove compartment, completely satisfied with his discovery of the bandaid box.  He was only four bandaids in, having peeled and wrapped them around each finger.  And, well, I do not know what happened once I went back inside.  I could barely think.

On the road, the same child who hung his right leg over onto his sister’s lap 43 times and poked her with his finger until she’d nearly bitten it off.  And who had talked of potties and diapers and all things closely related ’til he couldn’t laugh anymore.  His sister either.  That child.

That child…then had a sniffing contest with his sister.  By which time my husband chirped, “gee, I wonder where they get that from.”  (Only he says that because he also wishes he could smell when a fly perspires in the next room).  Acute olfactory senses here, people.  But anyway, there were our kids displaying another proud moment in the van, sniffing each other ’til they couldn’t breathe.  Two minutes.  Maybe five.

Then despite successfully peeing in the toilet at our potty stop in Cle Elum, our son would find it unnecessary to find the toilet at grandma’s house.  And…would…consequently pee in his orange sweats.  Twice.  Which I hadn’t thought possible either.

But it’s been a learning day for me.  I think I’ll spare you the rest.

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Van Church

I don’t know what prompted the Sunday school lesson in the backseat of  the van today.  Or if it really was one.  But we were hardly on Meridian St. heading south from the Y, when my six year old held her brother’s hand and spoke in this calm teacher-like voice. “You’re perfect, bud.  Your skin is perfect.  Your body is perfect.  And,” she breathed,  “you’re perfect because you’re a child of God.”

Only he was quick to blurt his offense. “I’m not a child, ” he said.  But she aptly answered, “Yes, you are.”  And then continued, “we’re both children.  We’re children of God.”

“I’m not a child,” he insisted again, clearly missing the finer points of the sermon.

And so she asked,”then what are you?” 

And he answered as one putting the matter to rest, “I’m an ice cream cone.”

“Then are you made of ice cream,” she asked?

“No,” he said, as he laughed at her ridiculous question.  “I’m made of people.”

By which time she bust a gut.  And I pulled into our driveway.  Completely enlightened.

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Me Likey Your Soul Patch

It wasn’t that dinner was completely lame or that we had nothing to talk about.  It’s just that this stack of yellow post-it notes was also on the table.  And well, if one person can tear out a mustache and a soul patch.  Ain’t no reason we all can’t.

Only the notion of each of us in our staches does strange things.  We are no longer ourselves.  We speak new languages.  Or the same one with a crummy accent.

“Jefe’, would you say there are a plethora of post-it notes on the table?”

“Si, El Guapo.  There are a plethora of post-it notes on the table and the floor.”

“Jefe’, would you say it’s bed time for the small ones in beards?”

“Si, El Guapo.  And I would add that your new mustache is looking less guapo all the time.”

And then a soul patch or two would unstick itself or fly off in mid-run to the mirror.  Or someone would tear themselves out new accessories.  Or we’d realize we’d torn up a whole stack of post-it notes for, uh, entertainment.

Only *shrug* it wouldn’t matter in the least.  We’ve certainly paid more to laugh less.  Just not tonight.

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Peeing the Straight and Narrow

“Mommeee.”  His voice was quivery.  “Right here.” I answered.  And then asked, “You all right?”  I was just inches away, but the blue door between us made it difficult to see anything but his bare buns and his underwear at his ankles. And that was squinting through the crack.  He shuffled to the lock and let me in.  And then he pointed to the wall behind the toilet and cried. “I peed there.”  He was right. Dripping down the wall, coating the flusher and most of the seat was a potty stream only another male could be proud of.   And though I wanted to blurt, “um… how did you manage that,” I leaned his head on my leg instead.  “It’s okay, bud,” I heard myself say.  “You worry about your drawers there, and I’ll clean this up.”  Then armed with half-ply toilet paper and half a smile, I dabbed away. 

The third stall at the YMCA would need a little more TLC, say with gloves and a sponge.  But my little guy’s conscience was clean.

And well, I could live with that.

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When Love is a Purple Pair of Bun Huggers

I was in the tenth grade when the word “side-out” still meant something in volleyball and when our uniforms all had long sleeves and were tucked into the equivalent of a woman’s swimsuit bottom.  Maybe you’ve seen pictures.  Or *shudder* maybe you wore them, too.  We called them bun huggers.  And why they ever entered the sporting world, I won’t even bother to ponder.

Only as a sophomore wavering between the junior varsity and the varsity, I had two pairs.  One for each uniform.  Which was more than I could keep track of on the weekend of our jamboree in Spokane. 

Now, if you live in Wenatchee like I did, then you know a trip to Spokane in a car pressing the accelerator takes three hours.  A bit longer on a bus.

Which is why when my dad showed up in Spokane on that Saturday morning in the wake of the bus carrying a small brown lunch sack without a lunch in it, and said, “your mother found these in the wash machine and knew you’d need them,” I nearly fainted.  I was barely on the varsity.  Barely worthy of wearing what was in that sack.  And barely able to understand my dad’s six-hour gesture to hand off a pair of purple bun huggers, so I could play.  In uniform.  

But I’ve realized that there are more things than that Spokane bun hugger trip that I may never understand.  Uh…like my parents leaving their house in Wenatchee at 2:15 this afternoon, driving for three hours… to see us for two hours… and then driving home for another three.  The math alone on that is terrifying. 

Only those two hours, like my dad’s two minutes, weren’t a waste of their time.  It’s simply how they live.  It’s how they show their love. 

And when they’ve got love to pour out…

Ain’t no trip too far.

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The Letter “A”

Sometimes my impression of an event seems so indelible that I don’t even bother to write it down. “I’ll never forget this,”  I’ll say.  Only I do.  Forget.  And well, life moves on.

I do not remember when my daughter began to read.  Only that I can scarcely remember when she didn’t.  Nor do I remember when she first wrote “DAD” in wobbly capital letters on a blue post-it note and stuck it on our mirror.  I only have the post-it tucked away.

And so yesterday, as I emptied our freezer onto the kitchen floor, my son got busy at my feet on his Doodle Pro.  Or someone’s Doodle Pro.  And the only thing I was worried about remembering was why I’d opened the freezer in the first place.  Until he showed me this.  An “A.”   His first “A.”  The “A” he’d said he’d drawn for me.  The “A,” by circumstance, I could not keep. 

But said I would remember.

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Simple Science

Last year my daughter and I bothered to make a little volcano out of salt clay.  We let the thing dry for days–a step we’ve never bothered with since. ( But we were direction followers then). And then with a little acid and alkaline we watched the thing explode.  And then we watched it again. And then we went and got her brother and shared the good news with him, as we could only keep so much fizz to ourselves.   And then eventually we tossed the thing, as there was little else we could do with a wilted homemade volcano.

But an impression was made.  And my kids have never forgotten the bubbles that erupted from our pathetic clay.

Which was why for five minutes of sheer awe, I was willing to bring out the vinegar and baking soda again.  And pretend that that glass was Mount St. Helen’s.  I only ask that you pretend that you do not see that binky on the counter.  It’s not really there.  heh heh.

Here we are adding more baking soda to our already-erupted glass of vinegar. Which is fine. Only my kids would ogle at this ooze for hours.  If they could.  And we’d set some kind of record for consuming a jug of vinegar and a twelve pound bag of baking soda in the same afternoon.  Only I sense that’s not practical.  At all.

And though I could do without the mess, I realize I do not want to rob them of the pure joy they experience with this simple science. 

Here we are four minutes in and this is the tenth addition of soda.  Or the twentieth.  But the Pavlov response is the same.  Utter excitement.

“Do it again,” they both squeal.  And so we do.  We must.

 And then on the off chance that we’ll need the last drip of vinegar for something equally worthy, we pet the last of our bubbles and pack our stuff away.

For another time…no less.

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For the Love of the Library

God bless the Pierce County Library System.  And, uh, my perpetual fine.

Because without a steady rotation of books in our house, we’d be staring at walls.  And some of them aren’t that interesting.  The walls, that is.

This is us yesterday.  Our original outing didn’t include the library, but we ended up there.  And, well, we found a few Garfield books we couldn’t live without.

Sometime last spring, my daughter found one of those half-horizontal comic books at my parent’s house.  The light blue cover had nearly disinegrated and the binding was wigging with dental floss strands or something like it.  But she’d sat in my parent’s pink chair with her legs up under her and had laughed herself nearly sick at Garfield.  It hadn’t mattered that the pages had been bought 25 years before or that each one came loose as she turned the pages.  She’d hiccup and then laugh all over again. 

If only Garfield were really that funny.

And this certainly isn’t to laud Garfield as a quality read.  Or say that it’s not.  Only to mention that my six year old couldn’t stop thanking me for finding these books yesterday.  Her brother, too.

For my son, the pictures don’t let him down.  He can point and giggle at Garfield’s big eyes the whole ride home.

And even though he’s not reading on his own yet, he can’t wait until he can. 

Which is why he wants to know what is so funny when she spits out a loud “bah!”  “Show me, sis,” he says.  And she would.  Only she hugs the book close to her, and says, “it’s not the pictures this time, bud.  It’s the words.”

Which is why it doesn’t matter that it’s Garfield. 

Only that her enthusiasm for reading has infected him.

And, well…

may they never be cured.

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Immeasurable Love

I don’t know how to quantify love.  Only that we try.  We say to our son and daughter, “I love you so much.”  And we stretch our arms as wide as they’ll reach.  And even wider the next time.  In fact, sometimes we really get into this, threatening to snap our shoulders near off.  And then if it’s our daughter, she’ll say very cleanly, “thanks, mom.  I love you, too.”  And either lean her head into my waist or merely keep reading.

But our son is all about our visual understanding.  Which is why his legs are spread as wide as he can get them, seconds away, it seems, from springing a hip.  And he says with great emphasis, gesturing with both hands at his legs, “and I love you this much, mommy.”

And it is not so much the width of his legs or the location of his underwear that must be quantified.  But the swelling of my heart.

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When Tic-Tac-Toe is Actually Worth Playing

I have never found the fun in tic-tac-toe. Ever. Which meant I certainly wasn’t going to buy a glorified variation of it.  Until I did.  But this isn’t tic-tac-boring-toe.  It’s Gobblet Junior. A game someone put a lot of thought into.  A game with depth.  A game that takes but a minute or two to play.

It goes like this.

Somebody’s yellow.  And somebody’s red.  I’m playing with my daughter who’s decided she’s red and I’m yellow.  I can live with this.

The board has as many spaces as tic-tac-toe.  Because the objective’s the same–to be the first to get three of your men or markers in a row.  Then it’s over.  Only you play again.  And again.

Each of us has six men–two Big guys, two Medium guys, and two Small guys.  Which is where the complexity of the game really is.  As well as any confusion. The big guys can gobble the medium or small guys.  The medium guys can gobble the small guys.  But you’ll see.

It doesn’t matter where you start or which man you start with.  Only that once you pick up a man and place him on a circle, you don’t get to change your mind.

My daughter went first and placed her big guy (she’s red) in the corner.  I played my big yellow guy in the middle.

She went ahead and played her other big guy right beside her other guy.  Which means she’ll win if I, say, fall asleep on my next move. 

I’m tired, but I’m still in this thing, so I place my medium guy in the corner to block her win.  It also puts me in position to win, if she doesn’t notice.

But she does.  And since she can move any of her men at any time, even the ones already on the board, she chooses to move her big guy from the corner to block me. 

 Which means that for my turn I can move any of my men.  I choose to bring another guy on.  And when I place him in the bottom corner, it’s not looking so good for her now.  Uh…at all.

She chooses to block my diagonal win option by placing her medium guy in the corner.

But it isn’t enough.  I win with three on the side.  I could’ve brought in one of my men that I had still on the sideline, but I went ahead instead and slid my big guy in the middle over to complete the line. Just a matter of preference, which does nothing to change the outcome.  Slick, eh?

And that might’ve taken 35 seconds.

So…New Game now.

She goes first in the middle with her big guy.  I go beside her with mine.

She plays her second big guy in the corner.  Forcing me to do something.

I block her with a medium guy.

Her big guy gobbles my medium guy.  Which is totally allowed.  Now the two of us have to remember what’s under there (my yellow guy).  I cannot move that yellow guy now until she moves her big red guy off of him.  And she may or may not do that.  So he’s temporarily stuck.

I play my medium guy in the corner.  Technically, I have more men on the board.  You just can’t see one of them. 

On her next move she gobbles up my other medium guy.  Also allowed. 

So what we don’t see now are my two medium guys beneath both her big red guys.  She’s also in a position to win.

But I block her with my second big yellow guy.  And look, now I could win.

Only I’m not sure why she did what she did.  But she moved her big red guy off of my medium yellow guy and placed him in the corner.  It looks like she could win.  Only it’s not her turn anymore.

Which is about the time that she has no idea why she did what she did either.  But I get it.  I’ve been there.  Only I was playing her dad.

So with little fanfare, I grabbed my smallest piece and placed him in the winning middle square.

And since the only thing long about this game is someone taking pictures of it, there’s plenty of time to wipe your nose all over the pieces. 

Here’s our last Game.

Her red. Me yellow.

She goes for her medium guy in the corner.

I gobble her medium guy with my big guy.  And set myself up for the win.

She temporarily checks out and places her big red guy in the corner.

But it’s easy to do.  To miss the obvious because you’re thinking of your next move.  And so I win again.

Which is when she reminds me of the first few times we played…back when I couldn’t figure out how to win.  Against her then five-year old self. 

But I’ve surpressed those days.

Sort of.  And whip up on her now every chance I can.

Heh heh…if only that were true.

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