“Take that!”
“And that!”
She was an easy target. Her reflexes have little definition and she’s easily distracted with false moves. I alternated stabs from ribs to stomach and back again. She was powerless against my superior swordsmanship.
She fought gallantly though, without fear. Laughing in the face of defeat.
Maybe it’s the magnitude of deeply significant events. Could be my complete lack of mental capacity. Maybe I’m finally manifesting the negative consequences of poor choices at an earlier age. Or maybe I’m just forgetful.
The raccoons, Zander and Zella, turned four years old yesterday. Four. Years. Old! Customarily on each childs’ birthday we recount the day of their birth. The details surrounding how each child came screaming into the world. The kids love it, so much so that the stories are often repeated throughout the year.
I should be able to recount the twins’ birth with ease. A multiple birth after having been through multiple births should stand out. And yet I have great difficulty doing just that.
“Dad! Dad! There’s a noise! We heard a noise upstairs!”
The twins, bright eyed and animated as ever came running into the kitchen. They clutched my legs, trembling.
“What do you think it was?”
(I knew exactly what it was. I had overloaded the washing machine—again—and as it tried to start it’s spin cycle began to shake pretty strongly.)
Something caught my eye when I was looking at the picture of Zella I used for yesterday’s post. Anyone else happen to notice her outfit?
Yeah, that’s right. My little girl was rocking a striped shirt with polka dot pants. Because in addition to being a computer whiz at the tender age of three she also dresses herself. I take solace in the fact that at least the base color of each garment matched.
Though she was probably wearing white shoes.
4 + 4 =
What a difference a year makes!
Not to worry. This is not one of those sappy reflective posts where I recount the milestones of the year gone by and look longingly and hopeful to the year ahead.
Rather, I just happened to snap a photo of Abbey and Rusty surveying their kingdom as the kids were enjoying the snow earlier this week.
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.
The contest is officially—–OVER!
And I win.
You are looking at the newly crowned Parent of the Year. Thank you. It is an honor.
I’ve been doing plenty throughout the year to ensure that my name was listed among the finalists, but I think I pretty much sealed the deal this afternoon.
As afternoons go, this one had been pretty lazy. No plans, no agenda and even less motivation even if there were. Need an idea of just how lazy? I watched golf. On television. Yeah, that lazy.
Turns out we needed a few items from the grocery so I packed up the kids and off we went. Cereal, juice, some fruit, milk. Speaking of milk. Has anyone else noticed an overall drop in the ppg (price per gallon)? It’s usually in the $2+ range or on sale at $1.98 with your plus card. Today, one gallon was $1.77. The half gallon was 0.79 cents. Why?
Why can I get 2 half gallons of milk–or eight, as the case may be–and pay 0.19 cents less per gallon than if I just bought one whole gallon–or four? I don’t get it.
Anyway, the list was short and I was relieved to be getting out of the store for under a c-note. That’s a banner grocery day in our house. I paid for our items, had them bagged in our reusable recycled fabric bags–it’s a little something I’ve been trying to do–and we made our way to the car.
As is the norm, the kids hopped in and began fighting while I unloaded the groceries. After it was emptied, I returned the cart to it’s proper storage location in the parking lot, made way back to the car, started it up and backed out of the parking space. While backing out, I turned around to make sure I wasn’t going to hit anyone or thing behind me and that’s when I noticed it.
An empty car seat.
Right smack dab in the middle of the row.
“Where’s Zella?”
Zoë actually looked down at her lap as if she might have been hiding there. Everyone looked towards the empty seat and then each other.
“I don’t know,” was the collective response.
So I pulled back into the parking lot, unloaded the kids–what kids I had left with me–and back into the store we went.
I found Zella in very short order. She was standing at the service desk looking ever so adorable, talking with the lady at the counter and another customer who was looking quite frazzled. I nodded, smiled and said, “She’s mine.”
“Oh, thank the Lord!” the woman exclaimed. “I was so worried.”
“I’m so sorry to have troubled you,” I said and thanked the woman for looking after Zella.
“Zella, what happened to you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. It’s a pretty common response around our house. But by using it in this instance I could tell that the event had absolutely no effect on her. She actually seemed surprised to see me back so soon.
“Well, let’s go. We need to get back home before all that milk goes bad.”
“Wait, Dad! Wait! My sticker.” And she pointed to the woman coming back our way.
The woman with the smiley face sticker and what appeared to be–
my trophy.
Parent of the Year—because I left my kid in a grocery store.
A brief excerpt from a “conversation” between Zander and Zella yesterday evening.
Zander: It’s sand.
Zella: It’s rain.
(Truly, Zella had the upper hand in this little exchange for it was indeed rain. Zander’s argument had it’s merits, though, as we were in fact on the beach. Sand was plausible.)
Zander: It’s Sand!
Zella: It’s RAIN!!!
And so it went for quite some time, this back and forth, to and fro dialog between the real and the imagined. Tempers flared but no blows were exchanged. This time.
Then Zella did it. She pulled the girl card. You know what I’m talking about. Every so often in an argument a girl will toss out something so absurd, so unrealistic, so far removed from anything logical as to leave a guy completely at a loss for response. He is rendered essentially mute.
Zander: It’s RAIN!
Zella: It’s a Cow.
Argument over.
(We are vacationing this week in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. My posts this week–what few there may be–will be brought to you via the painstaking and very arduous task of entering them on my cell phone. Please be patient and tolerant of spelling and other errors.)
From the bench I watched as the kids played, excited to be in a new park. The thrill of unexplored slides, swings and ladders fueling their excitement. I watched as they played, proud for their confidence.
I watched from the bench and I saw Zella take the little girl’s hand and, smiling, walk with her toward the slide. The innocence of a child so willing and so accepting. I could feel myself smiling, too.
And almost as quickly I could feel the smile fade. I began to notice that the little girl, probably five, maybe six, was no longer helping Zella, but dragging her. She spoke harshly without consideration. Zella’s face had in a moment turned from happiness to one of fear and apprehension.
Calmly, I walked to where the girls stood on the steps leading up the slide and I called Zella to me. And then I leaned just a bit closer to the little girl. Closer so that I could speak emphatically without raising my voice.
“Tell you what, kid. I think it best that you find someone else to play with while you are here at the park. Do no talk to my daughter. And certainly do not touch her, again.”
The little girl did not say a word but looked at Zella and then back at me in a manner that almost asked, “Or what?”
So I leaned in just a bit closer and almost whispered.
“You think I’m kidding? If I see you touch my daughter one more time, I will rip your tiny little arms off and bash your fucking skull. Do not touch my kid!”
The girl said nothing, but turned and ran toward her mother on the other side of the playground. I smiled at the woman and waved as I mouthed the words, “Your daughter is a bully.”
Clueless, she waved back.
I returned to my bench and resumed a conversation I was having with another mom.
“That little girl is not very nice,” she said when I sat back down. “I’ve been watching her.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to have any more trouble with her.”
A little something to get your week kick started. It’s cheaper than therapy.
When was the last time you tried a kazoo?
Duty dictates that I stand at the ready. On alert. Prepared. I wait for the “all clear” or “I’m done” before performing my assigned tasks.
A double check from me, a confirmation that indeed the deed is done and I’m allowed to swoop in and complete the necessary paperwork.
As I helped Zella to the potty the other evening she began. Then, through clenched teeth, furrowed brow and intermittent periods of breath holding and straining she looked up at me and waved me on.
Shooing me from the bathroom she said…
“I’m gonna need some alone time.”
As a parent, our mettle is tested constantly. I’d like to think that one way we earn our parental badges of honor is how we respond to the constant barrage of questions posed by our kids.
How much information is necessary to impart? Are specific details necessary? Has the question actually been answered? Does the child understand the answer and have they been enriched by the answer provided? Is an answer necessary at all or does the question warrant deeper, more significant moral teaching?
Every once in a while they throw you a curve ball. They’ll toss out a question that you are really not prepared for. True valor is earned in the trenches.
Take Easter Sunday and this question posed by Zella.
“Mom, can you help me find my sword so I can kill Zoë?”
How do you respond to a question like that!? How would you? Maura was clearly taken off guard and unable to immediately respond. (She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.)
I was forced to step in and take control. In my most fatherly voice, summoning every ounce of seriousness I looked my little daughter directly in the eye and said, “Did you look in the basement?”
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.
Tripping With UpTake
