Little m Long a

The evenings are long but not nearly enough.  Silent and still.  But likewise, not nearly enough.  Fatigue has taken a stronghold and is poised, ready to declare victory.  Of what I’ve yet to determine, still it rages on.

I am stirred each morning by Guaraldi but would prefer the sun.  The sun gets to sleep in.  There’s things that need being done and I can’t wait for a lazy ball of gas to illuminate the day.  There’s coffee to consume, lunches to prepare, notes to and from.  Breakfast.  Shoes to find.

Children who read and play games long into the night and far beyond bedtime do not appreciate morning reveille.  My bugling is not what it used to be.  It never was.

The excitement of the first days of school has waned, tempered by the fact that their waking hours are defined by light and by rest both of which are seriously lacking at such early hours.  I’m tired, too.  But I don’t have time to be.  My voice rises with each plea for them to.

“Please get up!  We’re going to be late!”

Today was different.  A bit more buzz, a tad more electricity.  Eager anticipation with a hint–ever so barely noticeable–of trepidation.  There were words of encouragement from Zane.  Comforting words from an older brother that knows.  Who has been there.  There were last minute tips from Zoë.  Little things.  How-to’s and what-not-to’s.  Instructions from an older sister that would do well to heed her own advice.

Zia just shoved them and told them to stay out of her way.  No special treatment from her but I suppose they didn’t expect any.

Today Zander and Zella, started preschool.  A milestone in a lifetime journey filled with stones and many, many more miles.  They stepped from the house dressed in the new carrying their Spiderman backpacks.  Their heads full of dreams.

The other children in the class were immediately friends and buddies and the classroom was their domain, their wonderland. They moved with confidence, self-assured and at-ease.  There were no tearful goodbyes or clinging,  no long drawn out negotiations.  There was no hesitation, no cause for encouragements or reassurances.

They never looked back–they didn’t need to.

They were ready.

Today, Zander and Zella started preschool and I can’t help but think of Zane’s words this morning to his little brother.  “Zander, you look different….  Bigger!”

He is bigger, man.  They both are.

Intents of an afternoon carefree and lazy at the pool were abandoned quickly.  Lightning and frolicking in a 55,000 gallon electrical conductor should never be paired.  Home, however humble, is always more appealing than death.  It’s 15 minutes, more or less, but sufficiently far for a fast moving front to pass us by.

To our good fortune, we drove to where the storm had been.  We drove toward sunshine.  To puddles shimmering in light.  Kids scattered to where they were comfortable.  There were no instructions, no expectations.  Wet clothing tossed on the floor, a trail of towels from the door to the stairs.  Insouciant disregard for order.

Games were resumed.  Chapters completed.  Art created.

And silently—alone—he rode.  Slow and methodical on a continuous loop in the drive.  Content in his own thoughts, comfortable with my presence.  He never stopped to ask what I was doing, nor I he.

He rode.

It wasn’t long before his little brother joined.  Also silent.  Equally content with whatever thoughts might fill the head of a three year old boy.

He too, rode.

The two of them spent what seemed an eternity circling the drive.  Passing each other.   Determined.  Methodical.  Silent.  A silence broken only by the occasional convergence of tire and water.  A chorus  of cicadas.  The closing of the shutter on my camera.

I longed to be inside his head–their heads.

I didn’t ask.

They never offered.

I feel honored, though, to have been allowed the audience.

“Could I have another zwer-wink, please?”

“Zander.  It’s a D.  Say it.  Dah  Dah  Dah.  Dah-Rink.”

“Zwer–”

“No!  Dah.  Dah.  D.  Say the D.”

Zander has problems with diction.  Certain letters and words he is just unable to articulate correctly.  I blame his fingers.  Namely the fact that he continues to suck them and essentially has learned to speak with his fingers in his mouth.  His tongue is so used to forming words around the fingers that even when he takes them out–you can’t tell the difference.

It drives me nuts!

And so went our little lesson this evening during dinner.  He wanted another drink and I wanted him to pronounce the word correctly.  We tried.

And tried.

“Dah—-rink.  Dah–rink.  Dah-rink.”  I tried to get him to repeat it with me.

“Dih Dih Dih,” he forced from his lips.

Zoë chimed in, an attempt to help. “You could say  der—rink!.  Der.  Der.  Der.  Der—rink.”

“Or you could just say——drink!”  Zia offered clearly fed up with the whole exercise.  “Just give him some more milk, Dad.”

He crashed into the car.

He crashed into the garage.

He crashed into the basketball post.

I tried to be encouraging and made a mental note to get more Bandaids.

He crashed into the dog.

He crashed into his sister.

He crashed into the fence.

I offered a few pointers and tried to recall if there were ice packs in the freezer.

He crashed into the grass.

He crashed into the tree.

He crashed into nothing.

Clearly, his frustration was peaked.  I offered more words.  He glared in a manner that told me I should stop talking.  This was something he was just going to have to figure out on his own.  There was no amount of instruction, encouragement or hand-holding that was going to make the process any easier.

I feared he would quit.  Just give up.  Let emotion get the better of him.  But he kept at it.  Determined.

And then it happened.

He didn’t crash.

He sat up tall in the seat, gripped the handlebars and just pedaled.  No crashes.

Zane learned to ride his bike–sans training wheels.

A late bloomer, I know.  We took his trainers off at the end of last summer, but he just couldn’t get the hang of it and refused to try, fear of failure having bettered him.  Fear of crashing, really.

This time though, he was determined.  Resolved to conquer.  And with each turn of the pedal his confidence grew.  I could see it in his body, in his posture, in his face.  The farther he pedaled the stronger he grew.

We went to the park where the wide open spaces would only fuel his confidence and push him farther.   We rode our bikes around the cinder path, laughing and cheering all the while.

Zane learned to ride his bike.

We celebrated with ice cream.

All in all, it was a pretty good day to be a kid.  It didn’t suck to be a parent, either.

“Three….four….,
what comes next, Zander?”

“Se-ven.”

“No, Zander.  It’s five.  Five comes after four.”

“Oh,” and letting out a mischievous giggle he exclaimed, “there’s a red
truck!”

Maura had been diligently working with Zander putting together a puzzle
and then counting the pieces.  Zander apparently was not
cooperating.  To him, life is a game and must be treated as such
at all times.  He’s a happy kid and content.  Learning to
count is not one of the barometers by which he measures success.

And he’s pretty much OK with that, much to the dismay of Maura and me.

Zane happened into the room and asked what they were doing.  Maura
explained to Zane that they were working on counting and learning
numbers.  And then she added, “Zane, you need to help your brother
with his numbers so he can learn to count and be as smart as you are.”

Zane paused for a moment, looked at his brother, chuckled and said, “Uhm, yeah…..He’s not gonna be that smart.”

We passed in the hall, two tired souls weary of the repetitiveness in which we find ourselves.  No morning pleasantries.  Eyes diverted.  She moved steadily toward the laundry, a bundle in her outstretched arms.  I continued about the business of folding and sorting.

As she returned, I called out almost questioning, “Zella?”

“Dad,” her simple, flat reply.

“What’s going on?”

I knew the answer but for some reason felt the need to ask.

Then, raising both arms and letting them fall to her little naked side in a manner that let me know she was just as frustrated as I, she said, “I peed in my bed….Again!”

Oy!!

Enjoy your St. Patrick’s Day.  I’ll be doing laundry.

Today, Monday August 25 is the first day of school. I have two children in elementary school this year. Zoë will be starting Second Grade and Zane will be starting the First Grade. After Labor Day, Zia will begin Pre-K attending three days a week Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays in the mornings. For me, this is big. Real big.

I offer my kids to strangers, trusting that they will do the right thing. That they will care for my children as I do. I’m sending them to school. I should feel a sense of relief and relish the freedom gained if only a few hours worth. It’s not that easy.

As we transition some of the daily care of our children to members of our community—namely the educators we have entrusted to supplement and augment the fundamentals we have been teaching at home, concerns manifest. I worry. I fret. I pray that my children will be safe and that their love of learning and their love of life will continue to be nurtured.

I’m sending their teachers a little note…..

Dear Mrs. Teacher Lady,

Good morning and welcome to our school. (I know, that’s something you should probably be saying to me but really, with what I’m paying you guys in tuition, I kind of feel I have the right to call it MY school.) I trust that you had a wonderfully relaxing and enjoyable summer vacation. I know my kids certainly did.

We both knew this day would arrive, though I’ve got to be quite honest, I wasn’t expecting it quite so soon. It seems we had just gotten into a really good summertime groove. That’s OK. We had fun and now are ready for school to begin as I’m sure you are, also.

You may recognize my kids, having seen them around. In the coming months you are going to have the opportunity to intimately know my children. I’m sure that it will not take you long to realize that my little Zoë has an incredibly free spirit. She is an absolute bundle of joy and energy, she loves life and loves laughter more. She’s as smart as a whip but sometimes will need a little push because challenges tend to intimidate her.

Zane is not shy, don’t be fooled. He’s intense and will absorb every word you utter. Be careful what you tell him. His heart is larger than yours and mine combined. He’s a good kid. He’ll never back down from a challenge. Nothing is beyond him and he has no fear of the unknown.

I present them, Zoë and Zane, pure, eager and excited about learning. I expect to have them returned to me in the same manner. Your task is epic, your responsibility enormous. If I felt for one second that I could do what you so willingly do each day, believe me, I would. I know, though, that teaching is beyond me. Though unable myself to provide perfection I expect it from you. Sorry, but that is your lot.

I don’t expect you to do it alone though. I am here. My wife is here. We have committed to provide the greatest quality education possible and will do anything in our collective power to see that goal achieved. We are in this together.

Take care of my Zoë and of my Zane.

Because I have trusted you, they will, too. Do not forsake that trust.

Sincerely yours,

ELamaze

Ed Lamaze

Wife:  That doesn’t look good together.

Me:  I know but I couldn’t find anything else.

Wife:  What about a dress?

Me:  She refused to wear a dress.

Wife:  She’s two, Ed.  She’ll wear a dress.

I left the room at this point in search of other acceptable clothing for her highness, Miss Zella.  I had already been to the attic once this morning.  Maura made her way into the room to offer up the green dress, the same green dress she had refused me just moments ago.

**cue the screaming—lots of screaming—a whole lot of screaming—screaming similar to I just ripped your arm off and hit you with the bloody end screaming**

I can’t be sure, but I think I heard the words, “NO!” and “I don’t like that!”

Several times.

The whole exchange took but a few seconds.  My wife exited the room with the green dress in hand, half smiling, fully shaking her head in disbelief at Zella’s exertion of her newly realized fashion independence.  She looked at me, waiting, knowing it was coming.

Me:  You were saying…..

He said he’d be alright, that everything was fine.  He barely looked back.  Then he turned and ran up to me, jumped into my outstretched arms and gave me a hug and a kiss.  “That’s for later.  I hope you have fun,” he said to me.

I was torn between celebrating the occasion or nonchalantly passing it off as commonplace.  I chose the latter, hoping that by not drawing too much attention he wouldn’t feel overwhelmed.  I feared he had yet to grasp the reality of what was about to take place.  In his small voice, childlike and innocent, he reassured me.  Confident.  He was ready.  He’d be fine.

Two weeks ago, Zane turned six years old.  Tonight, he is away from me, from Mom, from sisters and brother.  He is away from us all for the very first time.  He is spending the night with his aunt and uncle who, for his birthday, got him tickets to see the Clippers, our local minor league baseball team.   First pitch was not until 7:05pm and therefore he is staying with them and will return home in the morning.

He told me before I left that he’d call before I went to bed, “you know.  To make sure you’re OK and to tell you goodnight.”

As promised, he called.  I lied and told him everything here was great.  (I miss him terribly.)  Then he broke my heart.  I asked if he had scored any autographs (tonight was autograph night with Major League greats on hand to sign).  He matter-of-factly said, “Yeah.  I got them all.  Two times.”

“You got them to sign twice?” I asked.

“Yeah, I got one for me and one for Grandma.”

My little boy is away from me tonight, for the first time.  He’s not concerned about being alone, though.  He’s too busy trying to do something nice for his grandmother and making sure that I’m OK without him.

She’s asleep now, a pattern of slow rhythmic inhalations and exhalations intermittently disrupted with a soft sniffle.  She’s already forgotten the reasons she started crying those memories having vanished with hugs and I’m sorrys.  She’s resting .  At peace.  So why aren’t  I?  Why do I find it so difficult to forget, to forgive to start anew?  My stomach aches, my head hurts, my heart beats heavy and I torment myself with disparaging analysis of my own worth.   I have failed her.  I’ve failed them all.  I’ve failed myself.  My execrable behavior has left me demoralized, ashamed.  She’ll wake up tomorrow joyous, excited to start another day.  Carefree and happy.  I’ll rise apprehensive, still doubting.  Anxious to prove that I can be better.  That I am better.

It doesn’t matter what happened or why.  That is past.  What matters is that there are never good excuses for bad behavior.

Drink, customarily my deliverance, is past as is the majority of my debasement.   I’ve nowhere to turn.  Although addicting and somewhat soothing, I scarcely consider Java Chip Frappuccino intoxicating or for that matter, escape.  And proclaiming, “I’ll take a Grande Java Chip Frappuccino with 2 extra shots of espresso, whole milk and yes—I want whipped cream on that” doesn’t quite seem to convey your total self loathing and utter frustration quite like, “Holy F***!  I need a drink!”  That, and the fact that there’s Grey Goose in the cabinet, not Starbuck’s.

It beckons.  Softly.  Silently.  The voice of an old friend.  Like a lover.  At times it screams loudly.  Taunting.  Daring.  Like a lover.  Either way, the voices are omnipresent.  My will is tattered, beaten down and  San Pelligrino doesn’t burn like vodka did.

The emptiness of the room was short lived.  I had really only a few short moments to stand absorbing the vastness of the space.  Void the result of my dismantling.  Piece by piece, screw by screw.  Zoë helped with the project with what little time she had before leaving for school.  Zane took over when she left ably carrying out the bulk of the work as in Zoë’s absence he was senior.  Good fortune for Zia that there had been a two hour school delay otherwise she would have been entrusted to tasks she probably is not ready for.  But she cheerfully assisted when asked carrying things here and there and generally keeping the twins occupied and out of the way.  Generally, I say because more than once I had to inform Zella that she was holding the hammer backwards or ask Zander to please bring back the screws. 

It was a family project.  Rightly so, I suppose as our subject had directly affected each one of them.  Comfort….  Warmth….  Security….  Serenity….  Peace….  Rejuvenation….  Exploration….  Laughter….  Tears….  Sunrises….  Moonlight….    Five perfect children….  Seven and one half years….

They write books that tell you what to expect.  Poop is not always brown, or solid but usually stinky.  They made diaper pales for this.  Ears sometimes hurt.  They made antibiotics for just such occasions.  Feelings sometimes hurt.  They made hugs for these times.  Band aids have magical pain relieving powers.  Keep plenty on hand.  Sometimes your baby gets hot.  They make Tylenol for this.  Babies goo-goo, toddlers fall down (a lot), kids can scream (real loud).  All these things they tell you in books.  But there’s something missing.

Babies grow up.  I suppose that since this is something the writers of these books assume that we as parents expect, they don’t have a whole lot of information on how to handle that.  The guide books give all sorts of advice about what the kid is supposed to be doing and when they are expected to be doing it.  What they left out is what I am supposed to do when they get there.  How am I supposed to handle the transition, the transformation, the inevitable?  They didn’t tell me that when my kids grow older I would miss their innocence, their infancy, their past.  They didn’t tell me that I may hurt.  They assumed that my expectation that my children would grow up meant that I could handle it. 

Friday morning, the twins celebrated their second trip around the sun.  They sat in a chair without their booster seats to eat cake and ice cream.  They tore open presents with a fervor.  They said things like, “Please,” and “Thank You.”  And later that evening, they went to bed. 

In their new beds.

Friday morning, with the help of my children, I dismantled the cribs.  Seven and one half years a part of the room.  Comforting first Zoë, then Zane, Zia, Zella and Zander.  Now stored neatly in the attic next to boxes of onsies and infant outfits long since forgotten.  The emptiness of the room was quickly filled with the seeming enormity of twin beds making it seem much smaller than it actually is.  And much more grown up than I am actually ready to handle.  My kids are growing up.

I’m not ready.