Remember when you were a kid? And on the last days of school instead of doing anything that resembled schoolwork, you took inventory? And turned in your books? Played mind numbing games to pass those empty last days and hours?
That’s where I am.
Except I’m not in school.
Alternatively titled: (A Rambling and Essentially Incoherent Synopsis of the Last Several Weeks)
Be it ever so humble…
Nine days can seem a lifetime. Quite often, a lifetime is not enough. Time got the better of me. Spring break has come and gone and I miss it already. Oh it was tiring, don’t get me wrong. But in a good way.
The days and weeks leading up to the kids’ week from school were hectic at best. Frantic more aptly describes it.
Tiger Lillies
Last Month We Were Sledding That Hill
AAAARRRR!!!
Now That's Something You Don't See Every Day!
It was a bit overcast today. The wind really wasn’t blowing but then, it didn’t need to.
It was 15 degrees.
Damn the weather and damn the temperatures. There was snow on the ground and we had sledding to do!
Since compiling a list of reasons that I do not particularly care for winters in Ohio would actually read more like a Tolstoy novel, I have chosen a more random, disjointed approach for my little diatribes. I’ll share them as they make their way to the forefront of my mind that way you can feel the angst while it’s fresh.
I suppose the most compelling reason for me to hate Ohio winters is that they are not Louisiana winters. Though I’m not really sure that you can call a winter in Louisiana winter. It’s more like a harsh autumn with a smattering of “it’s almost cold enough for a jacket today”.
A smaterring from the kids over the past week….
“We’ve got to go to the store to get some more Motrin for Zander” Me to the kids on our way home from school.
“Welcome to my world, Zander!” Zia, the culprit responsible for using all of the Motrin the previous week.
“Guys, don’t sit so close to the fire.” Me to Zander and Zella who were seated with their backs against the fireplace grate.
“Is that why it’s burning?” Zander on realizing maybe dad is on to something.
“Zoë, you’re wrong.” Me to Zoë during a recent argument over the proper order for lighting the candles on our Advent wreath.
“How can I be wrong if I’m right?!” Her response to me.
As I pulled to the intersection I made sure to leave plenty of room at the crosswalk before me. I had seen the girl from nearly a block away yet was certain she did not see me. She had a spotter, though he seemed to be doing very little. Read the rest of this entry →
As weekends go–and so many do–this one past certainly went. But in a good way. Well, for the most part. For the first time in quite a while the slate was free of obligations, Zane’s flag football season having ended last week.
I would love to say that the season ended high, that the kids had fun and everyone went home having been bettered by the experience. Unfortunately, that is not the case. Read the rest of this entry →
Personally, I think schmarm is over-rated but you gotta admit, them’s some cute kids. Here’s a little montage I threw together of pics from the kids first days of school. Enjoy.
(My apologies to my sister-in-law who I made wait so long for these. Hopefully it was worth it.)
Can someone tell me again why we are having spring break? And who decided that this was going to be a good idea–especially after loading the caches with chocolate, gummy bears, cream filled eggs and all manner of high fructose corn syrup derivatives. Essentially, we give our children a speed ball and an empty week praying the weather will hold so that the high will be burned up out of doors. Yesterday, the first day of our spring break, began innocuous enough. We slept in. Relatively. I could have used another hour or four but then again, who couldn’t? I made my world famous, from-scratch pancakes and sausage breakfast. Children were laughing and singing and doing all manner of things that little people do when they are happy in the morning having been served the best breakfast in the world. They politely asked to be excused from the table and scampered away. Funny. They never politely ask to help clear the table and clean the kitchen. Ingrates! I digress.
My wife was busying herself for work and I set to the task of cleaning the kitchen. Not too much time had passed when I hear Zoë asking Zella, “Have you been playing in Mommy’s powder?”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard the question. Fact, I’ve posed the question myself, however not in the innocently inquisitive manner of Zoë. “OH. MY. GOD!!!! WHAT IN THE WORLD HAVE YOU DONE?! WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE THINKING?!!! AAAAAAARRRRGGG!!!!!!” Note the subtle differences in inflection. Zoë has yet to develop the angst. I think that’s because she doesn’t have to clean it up. The powder in the air was billowing from the bedroom door not unlike smoke from a house fire seeking a portal from which to continue it’s ascent upward. Through the haze stepped my little angel, Zella, completely white, dust plumes falling around her feet with every step. I was mute with anger. I ushered my little powderball to her bedroom, washed her and changed her. I then had the pleasure of cleaning the bedroom she had just covered with powder. It was not yet 10:30am.
About an hour into the task I shifted focus to laundry (I’m a multitasker, what can I say?). Besides, the bedroom floor was drying from the mopping I had just given it and I needed to move away from the crime scene. Zia and the twins were playing, innocently enough (so thought I) in the bathroom. Their laughter and squeals tempered my fury ever so slightly. Ever so.
The shrill scream let out by Zia was unlike any I have ever heard. She was mortified, frozen, save her vocal chords which were at this time producing such sounds that would chill even the heartiest. I dropped the clothes I was sorting into their respective piles (Yes, Honey, sometimes I do sort.) and twisting my knee in the process, ran to see what was causing Zia’s horror.
“Zia, what is it?” I asked limping to the bathroom door. She pointed. Zander, eyes wide with shock, realized the tactical error he had just made and was scampering to get out of the tub. Zella, sat watching, motionless, thumb in her mouth at the back of the tub as the water slowly rose toward her it’s progress slowed ever so slightly by the masses of stuffed animals that also occupied the tub space.
“They turned on the water!” Zia said. It was 11:30am. It’s going to be a long, long week.
Stimulating dinner conversation. I suppose it beats, “So, how was your day?”
Dad, you shouldn’t say stupid. It’s not a nice word.
I haven’t said anything in the last ten minutes. I’m eating. In fact, I don’t use that word. (Not out loud, at least.)
I know. I’m just saying, you shouldn’t say stupid.
(Zane steps in) Zia, you just said it two times.
No, I didn’t.
Yes, you did.
No, I told Dad not to say stupid but I didn’t say stupid.
You just did it again.
No, I didn’t.
Anyone else have problems reasoning with a three year old?
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.
Cabin fever and the daily stresses of five children can skew a persons perspective. Don’t believe me? Read this post. With the very best of intentions I had set myself to writing a pithy little anecdote to illustrate my point about how the effects of cabin fever will cause you to do things that you would otherwise have never dreamed of. You dear reader, God Bless you, were the recipient of some far fetched and totally out in left field story from my childhood about an extraordinary photo of a UFO in my local afternoon newspaper. The fever is powerful. It leads me and I, willing or not, must follow. I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better. But the walls are literally closing in around me, the ceiling compressing and the floor rising. With that preface, I’m going to try again.
I grew up in Louisiana. North Louisiana. Actually, it was Central Louisiana or Cenla as the natives refer to it but as a kid who seldom traveled anywhere, it felt like the north. And I was north of New Orleans and Baton Rouge. Not so far north that I could be considered a Yankee but not so far south that I could be considered a coon ass. I shouldn’t use that term. That is the typically derogatory term used to refer to the Cajun people of south Louisiana and I’ve got to admit, the Cajun people are truly the salt of the Earth. I suppose my point here is that I grew up in the middle of the state and it felt like the north to me. I’ve already lost my way again.
What I’m trying to say is that I felt that I was growing up in the North and the chill of wintertime affected me. Yeah, it used to get really cold in the winter time. This one time, I recall it got so cold that our grass turned brown for two whole months. Some of the leaves even fell from our trees. I had to rake them. Almost filled an entire bag. That was one long winter. One morning, it was so cold that I actually had to put on shoes to go outside and get the morning paper for my mom. My point here being that when the temperature dropped below 40 degrees unless it was absolutely necessary, I would not venture out of doors. The whole city essentially shut down. There were no emergency snow evacuation routes. There were no salt trucks and snow plows. We are southerners for Christ’s sake, we don’t do cold. It’s part of our charm.
So here’s where the fever takes hold of my logic. This past Sunday was a beautiful day. Beautiful is relative, I suppose. It was beautiful for a winter day in Middle America, America’s Heartland. The skies were fairly clear and more than once during the day the sun actually broke through the clouds. A nice layer of snow still covered the ground. We had our traditional Sleep Late Sunday breakfast fare of homemade pancakes and sausage. The kids were in rare form and a collective good mood. The game of chase each other as you run screaming like banshees throughout the house was rapidly getting under way and the decibel level of kid excitement was reaching its peak.
Then it happened. I caught a glimmer of sunshine as I was clearing away the dishes and stopped immediately. “OK, kids. Everyone outside.”
“What? We can go outside?”
“Yes you can. And…..you get to stay outside. The sun is out. Skies are clear. Go outside and have fun!”
“Hooray!! Dad, you’re the best.”
It wasn’t until long after they had disappeared screaming with joy into the yard that I felt the urge to check the temperature outside.
23.
Yes, I sent my kids outside to play with explicit instructions not to come back into the house until I called them for lunch and the outside temperature was twenty three degrees. But the sun was shining. No, I did not immediately call them back inside, they needed this and so did I.
At one point I checked on them to see Zoë and Zia hugging as they stood over Zane while he was playing with something at their feet. “How sweet. Where is my camera when these great little moments occur?” They were having a blast and the cabin fever was being cured right before my very eyes. To their credit, they stayed outside. I think they could feel the cleansing power of sunshine and fresh air. The balance of the universe was slowly being restored.
I called them back in for lunch and hot chocolate. Ten little blue hands, fifty little blue fingers, five little blue faces and about three quarts of frozen snot crusted on ten little blue nostrils. “Ddddaadd. Iiittt’sss ccccoolllddd out ttthhherrrre,” shivered Zia.
“But you looked like you were having fun. I even saw you and Zoë hugging at one point. And what was Zane playing with?”
“Dad. We weren’t hugging. We were trying to get warm,” Zoë chimed in.
“And Zane?”
“I was trying to build a fire.”
“All right Jack, drink your hot chocolate.”
Cabin fever…….But the sun was shining. You think children’s services is going to accept that?
The warm water tumbled over my shoulders, soothing, calming, satisfying.
If I could smell, I feel certain the lavender bubbles now scrubbing the grime from by body would have gone straight to my brain adding to the euphoria quickly consuming me.
As it was, it just felt good to be getting clean, so good I added a shave.
Yep. There’s nothing like a good shower to revitalize and invigorate tired, sore and smelly muscles.
Over all to soon, I stepped onto the warm tile floor and reached for my towel.
At this very moment the cheering began.
Zia, Zander and Zella rose from their seats on the window ledge and stood atop the box radiator
arms raised triumphantly with shouts of “Hooray for Daddy.”
“Thanks, guys. Now……can I have my towel?”
“Not until you take a bow,” replied Zia.
Suddenly, I felt dirty again.
*note to self–FIX THE LOCK ON THE BATHROOM DOOR!
