Little m Long a

Like a rock star, her arrival is signaled with squeals of joy.  Like a paparazzi clamoring for a shot, a pose, a one or two line blurb to use for copy.

“MOMMY!!!”  “MOMMY, guess what!”  “MOMMY, look.”

They do not tire in their quest for a moment, a glimmer of attention.  It is understandable, I get this.  Her busy schedule keeps her away from the house more than she would care to admit.  It’s the nature of her job.  And quite frankly, I’m sure the kids tire of my constant badgering–Stop that!, No!, Get that out of your mouth!, Do not hit your sister!, No, you may not put the cat in the dryer!, I don’t care if he’s wet, I said no!, And don’t even think of using Mommy’s good……towels! Ugh!!

I could go on.

Yesterday, we went to the pool.  Maura met us there after her shift.  The kids went ape crazy in an effort to display the fruits of their labor having toiled at the pool countless hours this summer.  Shout’s of, “Mommy, watch this!” and “Mommy, Look!  Look at me !!” echoed throughout the pool deck.  With pride, we took it all in from our lounges near the shallow end of the pool.  Then Zia offered…..

“Mommy.  Do you want to see my most spectacular (she actually used that word) jump from the diving board?”

Maura:  Well of course I do.

And off she scampered.

Beaming, I watched as my little girl climbed the steps to the diving board, skipped to the end, bounced twice and plopped into the water.

Maura:  Isn’t she supposed to be wearing her bubble?

After about a second or two, Zia’s little head pops up.

Me:  Yes, she has it on.

Zoe:  Uhm, Dad, no she doesn’t.

Me:  Sure she does.  (Looking towards Zia)  Doesn’t she?

I looked down at my feet, and sure enough Zia’s bubble lay there in a heap.

I began a slow trot towards the deep end where Zia’s little head was just bobbing in the water.  A tiny cough.  The lifeguards were standing at the board watching the scene unfold.  One of them asked, “Isn’t she supposed to have her bubble?”

Me:  Uhm, yeah.  She can’t swim.

In a spit second the other guard tossed his shirt and dove in to save my now sputtering little girl.

Safely at the side of the pool I asked, “Zia, did you forget something?”

Zia:  Yeah.  (smiling ear to ear) Let’s do that again!  But this time (pointing her finger up as if to remind herself) let’s use my bubble.

And she did.

Later Zane made the observation, “I’ve never seen the lifeguards have to jump in and save anyone……That was cool!”

A brief conversation after breakfast Sunday morning as we prepared to go to church.

Me:  Zia, I need you to get dressed.

Zia:  Can you help me?

Me:  Sure.  What do you think about this dress?

Zia:  Yes, yes, yes.  I like that one.  Can I wear my brown shoes?

Me:  They don’t really match the dress.  What about your white ones?

Zia:  Well, they’re too big.  The brown ones are just right.  I think I’ll wear the brown ones.  Don’t you like the brown ones?  I like this  dress.  Please don’t brush my hair too hard. It hurts when you brush it too hard.  Can you tighten my shoes?  Are we going yet?  It’s raining, we’re gonna get wet.  We should get the umbrella.  It’s in the garage.  My dress is going to get wet.  My hair is going to get wet.  Where is Zoë?  We can’t leave Zander.   Come on Zander, let’s go.  I like this dress……

Note to self:  Zia is no longer allowed to have extra syrup with her French Toast.

I file them in like little ducks.  Everywhere.  It’s a scene of repetition, an endless replay loop of loading and unloading, filing in and out from car to door and back again.  I’m kind of used to it now.  It’s commonplace.  This morning I had some information to pick up from the church office.  I’ve been conned into leading the 3-4 year old class at this year’s Vacation Bible School.  (God bless my mother-in-law!)  And so each morning next week I’ll be leading a group of 3 and 4 year old children in their daily Bible School activities for St. Mary’s Catholic Church.  It’s kind of funny.  My sister-in-law said, “Wait.  Aren’t you Methodist?”  “It’s worse than that,” I replied.  “I’m Baptist.”

So as I pick up my information packet this morning the woman at the church office proclaims, “My, don’t you have a lot of helpers.” To which came the following responses:

Zoë:  I help a lot.  I made Daddy’s coffee this morning.  (She did.  And it was great.  Irish cream–freshly ground beans.)

Zane:  I help, too.  Sometimes I make the coffee.

Zia (speaking in her loudest outside voice that begs to be heard above the clamor or four siblings):  I don’t do anything.  I’m just cuteness!

She’s got a point.

Let’s see.  Do we have everything we need?Hey, guys.  Can you stop that, please?

Cat food..

Dog food…

Bird seed….
(Why don’t we call it bird food?  Really.  We’re feeding the birds this stuff not growing birds.  We don’t plant the seed we put it in handy little feeders and the birds come to eat it.  It’s bird food!)

Guys!  Please stop that.

Help me out here.  Did we forget anything?

Milk….

Cereal….

*Cue the crash*

Guys!!!

*Cue the screaming*

*Cue the blood*

OK.  So we forgot gauze bandages and…

Band-aids…..

That’s right.  In the check-out lane Zane and Zia were having a little wrestling match.  One thing lead to another,  Zane tackles Zia and she slams her head into the metal storage bin.  I had to head over to the pharmacy department and get bandages to patch her up in the store before we could leave.  Turns out, it was just a small cut and only needed two stitches.

My wife put them in herself.  I made a stop by the ER where she works (she was fortunately off of work) and picked up a suture kit and some supplies.  We did the procedure at home all “Amish style” with Zia laying perfectly still on the bed biting a bullet and screaming her head off.  But she didn’t move.  Brought back fond memories of when I used to assist my wife with procedures in the hospital where we first met.  Good times!

Stitching completed, I headed downstairs to get a band-aid.  Through her sobs she told my wife, “I…hope…sniff..it’s a colorful one.”

It was.

Yellow.

A small front made it’s way through our fair city yesterday.  Nothing significant.  No harsh rains or drastic temperature changes.  Nothing inclement.  Fair winds and warmer weather.  My son bounded through the door, home from his morning kindergarten class and immediately spied the kite.  Why it was there or from where it came I’ve no idea.  He was a man on a mission.  The wind was blowing.  We had a kite.  It needed flying.

To the yard we ran and in no time Spidey (it was a Spiderman Kite) was sailing above us occasionally looping and dipping only to surge back high above.  But not high enough.  I instructed Zane to run inside and get the other spool of twine.  Two hundred fifty feet is fine, for a beginner.  We were seasoned having logged a grand sum of ten minutes.  We were going higher.  In no time he was back and the extra 500 feet was quickly attached to the end of our line.

We watched in awe as the little blue kite sailed higher and higher.  Then, it happened.  Stillness.  Calm.  The wind stopped only for a moment but long enough.  Spidey raced head-first towards the ground, twine trailing behind and inevitably looping branches in it’s path.  The wind kicked back up and Spidey responded climbing back into the sky oblivious to the fact that midway in the tether there was a snag.  Amazingly, the little kite continued its journey upward.

Zia, having been an assistant the entire process began to express concerns about that fact that the kite, though flying, was actually stuck in the tree.  Zane would hear none of this talk and continued his dance manipulating the kite with the occasional tug of the string.  Unfortunately, at this point in their grand adventure, I had to leave to pick up Zoë from school.  Zane and Zia were on their own.  Zane assured me he could handle it.  Zia said nothing but her eyes rolled in disbelief at Zane’s overconfidence.

As I was returning with Zoë, I spied the little kite swinging from the branches of a tree—beyond the road, across the river from our house.  The conversation as relayed by my wife went something like this:

Her:  Guys, are you coming in?
Zane:  Mom, we’re flying the kite!
Zia:  Zane!!!  It’s stuck in the tree!
Zane:  No! No it’s not.  It’s flying.  It’s not stuck.  (hopeful, tugging at the string now completely slack in his hands)

Significantly long pause——-

Zia:  Actually…it is!