It's going to rain tonight. I could have told you that even without looking at the forecast, because James and I are going to camp out in the backyard. But I looked at the forecast too, and my weather app says it's going to rain. J says camping out isn't a great idea.
Actually, my weather app says there's a 40% chance of rain. I'm willing to take that bet, so we're going to set up the tent once we get back tonight. If Pax were coming over, then the rain would be a sure thing. I saw Abby today briefly and she was in the throes of cutting teeth, so he might actually prefer sleeping out in the rain with James and me to getting up with a fevery one year old all night.
I'm sure George and Steven will be coming, and I told James that we were each going to bring an enormous stack of books out to the tent. I told him that we'd set up the lantern, and then we would stay up late reading together. I'm hoping that this means he'll read his books and I'll read mine, but I'd guess that there's a greater than 40% chance that he's interpreting that promise to mean, "Daddy will read my books out loud to me while George and Steven sit on his pile of books."
I've felt sort of trapped indoors for the past few days, because our neighbors moved out and the owner of the house has been gutting the place ever since. They've hauled away countless loads of scrap, two dumpsters worth of trash, and a dump truck worth of brush and bushes. It's nearly been enough to persuade me never to attempt landlording.
It will be good for James and I to spend the night out in the tent. I think he's a little less happy, overall, when I'm home for extended periods of time. I don't exactly know why, but there's something about having both parents in the house that bothers him.
It doesn't bother Owen at all. Owen laughs uproariously whenever anyone looks at him, so two adults means twice the fun. He's working on some teeth as well, but mostly he's just being sweet and trying to outgrow the perfect age. (The perfect age is when the baby is big enough to sit up safely on their own, but not big enough to crawl away and get into trouble.)
J is also doing well, aside from experiencing foreboding that her husband and three-year old are going to come trudging into the house cold and soaked at one in the morning. (Really, there's only a 40% chance of this.) She just bought some new summery clothes, so every time she comes around a corner she lights up the room in a new, completely unfaded, summery color. We're in the middle of a heated battle about taking her passport photo, and it's hard to stay angry at her when she looks so nice. I've had our passport applications completed for over two weeks, and all that remains to do is to take a photo of her according to the government guidelines (here, if you were curious) and to print out a 2X2. I put "photoshoot" on my to-do list two weeks ago, and she declined every time I offered to take her picture with my super-expensive, high-priced iPhone camera. Then I planned a whole evening around the theme of a photoshoot, which she brushed off. Then I started downright nagging her. Recently we've started giving James some daily chores in the form of post it notes on a chart that reads "James' Jobs." Today one of James' Jobs was to bug Mommy about getting her photo taken. She still got off to work before I was able to snap her picture. I'll get it eventually though. Well, maybe.
I'd say I have at least a 40% chance.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Signage
"Hey Ollber. Hey, hey, hey Ollber. You see that STOP sign?"
This is a typical conversation with James, although often he has it with me or J or Owen instead of Uncle Ollber.
"I do see that STOP sign. Can you see it?"
"I do. I see the P."
"I see it too. Now I can see the OP."
"Now I see the whole sign. S-T-O-P spells STOP."
"That's right, James, good work!"
"Fanks."
"Hey James, what does P-O-T-S spell?"
"That would spell POTS."
If nothing else, the child knows his signs.
STOP signs are his favorite, but also DO NOT ENTER signs. There are two DO NOT ENTER signs opposite us at the school across the street, and there are exactly six STOP signs within the two block walk that we take almost every day. It's very important to keep a sharp look out for each of these signs so that we can identify and comment upon each one. There's also one particularly odd STOP sign which leans significantly to the right. James is deeply concerned for this STOP sign and wonders when a big truck will come to fix it. So far, no luck.
He also has started to read road signs when we're in the car (which has been often lately) and yesterday he cried out in surprise from the back seat that "Oh, no! I forgot to look for the sign that has the letter A and it has the letter 2 next to it!"
I asked him what sign he was talking about, since we didn't pass an Exit 2A on the way to my church.
It was the exit sign off of 590 to Monroe Ave. You know, where we lived 7 months ago.
Best of all though, are his recognitions of the billboard advertisements for Wegmans and for Tim Horton's. He'll notice one and won't say anything for a moment, even though I can tell what he's thinking. Then we'll get something along these lines:
"Hey, Daddy?"
"Yes, James?
"I was finking.."
"What were you thinking, James?"
"I was finking what might be a good idea."
"What do you think would be a good idea?"
"I fink that maybe...maybe we should..."
"Maybe we should what?"
"Hey, maybe we should stop at Tim Horton's and you could get a coffee and I could get a Timbit, does that sound like a good idea?"
(That almost always does sound like a good idea, even though we don't always do it."
We need to make lots of stops at Wegman's, though. Because, in his own words, it's important that James eats his food "...so that I can grow bigger and be as tall as a STOP sign."
This is a typical conversation with James, although often he has it with me or J or Owen instead of Uncle Ollber.
"I do see that STOP sign. Can you see it?"
"I do. I see the P."
"I see it too. Now I can see the OP."
"Now I see the whole sign. S-T-O-P spells STOP."
"That's right, James, good work!"
"Fanks."
"Hey James, what does P-O-T-S spell?"
"That would spell POTS."
If nothing else, the child knows his signs.
STOP signs are his favorite, but also DO NOT ENTER signs. There are two DO NOT ENTER signs opposite us at the school across the street, and there are exactly six STOP signs within the two block walk that we take almost every day. It's very important to keep a sharp look out for each of these signs so that we can identify and comment upon each one. There's also one particularly odd STOP sign which leans significantly to the right. James is deeply concerned for this STOP sign and wonders when a big truck will come to fix it. So far, no luck.
He also has started to read road signs when we're in the car (which has been often lately) and yesterday he cried out in surprise from the back seat that "Oh, no! I forgot to look for the sign that has the letter A and it has the letter 2 next to it!"
I asked him what sign he was talking about, since we didn't pass an Exit 2A on the way to my church.
It was the exit sign off of 590 to Monroe Ave. You know, where we lived 7 months ago.
Best of all though, are his recognitions of the billboard advertisements for Wegmans and for Tim Horton's. He'll notice one and won't say anything for a moment, even though I can tell what he's thinking. Then we'll get something along these lines:
"Hey, Daddy?"
"Yes, James?
"I was finking.."
"What were you thinking, James?"
"I was finking what might be a good idea."
"What do you think would be a good idea?"
"I fink that maybe...maybe we should..."
"Maybe we should what?"
"Hey, maybe we should stop at Tim Horton's and you could get a coffee and I could get a Timbit, does that sound like a good idea?"
(That almost always does sound like a good idea, even though we don't always do it."
We need to make lots of stops at Wegman's, though. Because, in his own words, it's important that James eats his food "...so that I can grow bigger and be as tall as a STOP sign."
Monday, June 15, 2015
Fatigue (A Panegyric to Coffee)
It's about 1 PM, and I'm driving back from a morning rehearsal in Buffalo. I packed a snack to get me through the morning, but I just can't seem to keep my eyes open. I know there's a Tim Horton's about 10 minutes ahead at the travel plaza, but I think about all of the entries for "coffee shop" and "Wegmans" on last month's bank statement and I steel myself against stopping. If I can only drive for another hour, I can be home and make my own coffee. My eyes begin to close again, and I snap them awake. I hold one hand on the wheel, and roll down the window. I slap cheeks and shout at the top of my lungs. It's raining outside, and I'm getting soaked from spray on the highway. I roll the window back up and try to refocus on the podcast I was listening to. My eyes are closing again. I pull into the rest stop.
It's pitch black in our bedroom, and I roll out of bed with a full bladder. There's an empty tumbler on the nightstand that had been filled with scotch and ice as I read before bed. I shouldn't have stayed up so late, but I wanted to finish three chapters. I don't let myself look at the clock until after I come back from the bathroom. I readjust my glasses and find the display: 5 AM. I smile, then pull on a bathrobe and head downstairs. I'll have an extra half-hour to read this morning.
It's the final round of an audition in Charleston. I've been up since 6 AM, and it feels much later than 8 PM. It feels like I've been up for several days straight. I've been in dress clothes all day, an I was on a plane all day yesterday. I've already played two full rounds--the Promenade, the Ballerina, Mahler 5, Pines of Rome, some of the Bartok Concerto for Orchestra, then some Brahms, some Strauss, some Wagner, some opera excerpts--and that was just the first two rounds. I took aspirin, then waited in the practice room, feeling exhausted but wide awake with the nervous energy that it would just be an hour...forty-five minutes...thirty minutes before I played again. Then it was the final round. Heldenleben, Dvorak, more Stravinsky, more Mahler. And now I'm sitting on a folding chair in front of a screen holding a piccolo trumpet and looking at the first trumpet part to the Bach Magnificat. I've been playing all day, and the last three bars on this audition are an ascending arpeggio to a high concert E on piccolo trumpet. It needs to be articulated lightly, easily, playfully. My lips hurt, my teeth hurt, and my whole face feels like it's swollen.
It's 11 AM, and I'm playing with James. We just built our third marble run of the morning, and he wants to tear it down and build another one. The one that's on the box. I'm hungry and my coffee has worn off. I've been lying down on the floor to work on the marble run, and there are lots of other things I'd rather be doing. I need to practice at some point, I need to empty the bucket on the spigot out back, and there's laundry that needs to be folded and put away. But I won't be around in the afternoon, and this is my only chance to play with him. He's scolding me already for not paying sufficient attention, and I end up putting my head down while he tries to build part of the marble run on his own. My eyes don't open again until he lies down next to me and gets right in my face. Now he wants to play hockey.
It's pitch dark in our room, and I roll out of bed with a full bladder. There's an empty wineglass on the nightstand next to me from earlier in the night. I tried to stay up and read my Oxford book of Latin poetry. I'd been looking forward to it all day, but then Owen got to bed late and we had to spend extra time cleaning up the house because James' marble run was spread all over the dining room, and it was 9:30 even before we went upstairs. I don't look at the clock until I get back. It's 2:30 AM. I'd love to try to read some more, but I know that I need to go to bed.
It's 7:15 PM, and I haven't practiced yet. J agrees to take the kids, and I probably should put in a full hour. I know that if I don't put in the work to tackle some of the weaknesses in my playing now, I won't have the time to practice them once the orchestra kicks up again and I'm always in rehearsal, or need to give up practice time to learn upcoming repertoire. I put in 45 minutes, and the time flies by. Owen is howling upstairs because he's so tired, and James is begging J to go outside even though he's in pajamas. She needs someone to put James to bed so she can nurse Owen, and Owen can't go to sleep until I stop.
It's 5:30 AM, and I didn't get back from my concert until 11:45 the previous night. I meant to get up and go running, but I just roll over and turn the alarm off. I need the sleep.
I'm actually not a zombie most of the time. Thank God for giving to us mortals coffee, which gladdens the hearts of men. Coffee reads my books, plays with my kids, drives me to work, and practices my trumpet when this frail and mortal coil is too weak on its own to do any of those things. But, there is a limit. Like yesterday, when I feel asleep twice on Pax and Kylie's carpet. (I vaguely remember Abby sitting on my head at one point.) I don't know whether there is such a thing as a Natural Law or if it can ever be known properly, but maybe there is some cause for a Sabbath rest. That rest is a good reminder that no matter how hard I will myself upward and onward, I am mortal animal with breath in my nostrils and a belly that needs feeding. If I don't rest my animal self, it will retaliate with a soul-numbing fatigue. And then the coffee can only go so far.
I officially resigned my position at LCS today. Here's to more rest in 2016.
(Though probably still lots of coffee.)
It's pitch black in our bedroom, and I roll out of bed with a full bladder. There's an empty tumbler on the nightstand that had been filled with scotch and ice as I read before bed. I shouldn't have stayed up so late, but I wanted to finish three chapters. I don't let myself look at the clock until after I come back from the bathroom. I readjust my glasses and find the display: 5 AM. I smile, then pull on a bathrobe and head downstairs. I'll have an extra half-hour to read this morning.
It's the final round of an audition in Charleston. I've been up since 6 AM, and it feels much later than 8 PM. It feels like I've been up for several days straight. I've been in dress clothes all day, an I was on a plane all day yesterday. I've already played two full rounds--the Promenade, the Ballerina, Mahler 5, Pines of Rome, some of the Bartok Concerto for Orchestra, then some Brahms, some Strauss, some Wagner, some opera excerpts--and that was just the first two rounds. I took aspirin, then waited in the practice room, feeling exhausted but wide awake with the nervous energy that it would just be an hour...forty-five minutes...thirty minutes before I played again. Then it was the final round. Heldenleben, Dvorak, more Stravinsky, more Mahler. And now I'm sitting on a folding chair in front of a screen holding a piccolo trumpet and looking at the first trumpet part to the Bach Magnificat. I've been playing all day, and the last three bars on this audition are an ascending arpeggio to a high concert E on piccolo trumpet. It needs to be articulated lightly, easily, playfully. My lips hurt, my teeth hurt, and my whole face feels like it's swollen.
It's 11 AM, and I'm playing with James. We just built our third marble run of the morning, and he wants to tear it down and build another one. The one that's on the box. I'm hungry and my coffee has worn off. I've been lying down on the floor to work on the marble run, and there are lots of other things I'd rather be doing. I need to practice at some point, I need to empty the bucket on the spigot out back, and there's laundry that needs to be folded and put away. But I won't be around in the afternoon, and this is my only chance to play with him. He's scolding me already for not paying sufficient attention, and I end up putting my head down while he tries to build part of the marble run on his own. My eyes don't open again until he lies down next to me and gets right in my face. Now he wants to play hockey.
It's pitch dark in our room, and I roll out of bed with a full bladder. There's an empty wineglass on the nightstand next to me from earlier in the night. I tried to stay up and read my Oxford book of Latin poetry. I'd been looking forward to it all day, but then Owen got to bed late and we had to spend extra time cleaning up the house because James' marble run was spread all over the dining room, and it was 9:30 even before we went upstairs. I don't look at the clock until I get back. It's 2:30 AM. I'd love to try to read some more, but I know that I need to go to bed.
It's 7:15 PM, and I haven't practiced yet. J agrees to take the kids, and I probably should put in a full hour. I know that if I don't put in the work to tackle some of the weaknesses in my playing now, I won't have the time to practice them once the orchestra kicks up again and I'm always in rehearsal, or need to give up practice time to learn upcoming repertoire. I put in 45 minutes, and the time flies by. Owen is howling upstairs because he's so tired, and James is begging J to go outside even though he's in pajamas. She needs someone to put James to bed so she can nurse Owen, and Owen can't go to sleep until I stop.
It's 5:30 AM, and I didn't get back from my concert until 11:45 the previous night. I meant to get up and go running, but I just roll over and turn the alarm off. I need the sleep.
I'm actually not a zombie most of the time. Thank God for giving to us mortals coffee, which gladdens the hearts of men. Coffee reads my books, plays with my kids, drives me to work, and practices my trumpet when this frail and mortal coil is too weak on its own to do any of those things. But, there is a limit. Like yesterday, when I feel asleep twice on Pax and Kylie's carpet. (I vaguely remember Abby sitting on my head at one point.) I don't know whether there is such a thing as a Natural Law or if it can ever be known properly, but maybe there is some cause for a Sabbath rest. That rest is a good reminder that no matter how hard I will myself upward and onward, I am mortal animal with breath in my nostrils and a belly that needs feeding. If I don't rest my animal self, it will retaliate with a soul-numbing fatigue. And then the coffee can only go so far.
I officially resigned my position at LCS today. Here's to more rest in 2016.
(Though probably still lots of coffee.)
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Chess
The challenge is to still play by the traditional rules and moves while your toddler moves his pieces wherever. I have him in check, and he is almost to third base.
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Hockey Hockey Hockey
Sunday Evening
"James, would you like a present?"
"Oh yes, I would like a present. What is the present?"
"I'll show you in a minute. We got this for you awhile ago, and we've been waiting to give it to you. Should I get it from the garage?"
"Oh yes, you should."
......
"Hey, it's a hockey stick! And a ball and a puck!"
"It is, it's a hockey stick that's a little bit more your size. Should I open it?"
"Yes, let's open it! I want to play with the puck."
"Here you go."
"Thank you for the hockey stick, Daddy!"
Monday Afternoon
"Welcome home!"
"Thanks, how were things here all day?"
"I'm glad you're back."
"Did James want to play with his new hockey stick?"
"It was all he talked about ALL...DAY...long."
"Hey Daddy, you wanna play some hockey?"
"I do! I just need to make some coffee first."
"AIEEE!!!!! I need to play some hockey with you!!!"
Monday Night
"Okay, we can go over and play hockey in the parking lot one more time, but Owen needs to come to this time."
"Umm, Owen says he wants to stay here and do something by himself."
"Because he's too little to run around and play hockey?"
"Yeah, he says he doesn't wanna come."
Tuesday Morning
"Good morning, James. How'd you sleep?"
"Hey, can we play hockey?"
"Okay, James. Daddy has to take a break from playing for a minute."
"Why you need to take a break?"
"I need to use the bathroom. I mean, the locker room."
"Why you need to go in the locker room?"
"Because that's where hockey players go to the bathroom between periods."
"Hey Mommy, what you doin?"
"I need to use the bathroom."
"Be sure you stand up when you go in the locker room!!"
"Daddy, I think we need to take a break."
"James, I couldn't agree more."
"Let's do zamponis and clean off the ice while we wait to play hockey again."
Tuesday Afternoon
"No, we aren't going to play hockey again until the timer goes off."
"When's the timer gonna go off?"
"Not for another hour."
"Then we play hockey?"
"Then we can play hockey."
"Hockey hockey hockey hockey hockey hockey..."
"Hey Daddy, what you doin?"
"I'm still cleaning up down here in the basement."
"Hey Daddy, I got you a present. You wanna see?"
"A present for me? Sure! What is it?"
"It's under these blankets. Maybe you should open them."
"Sure, I'll unwrap these blankets. I wonder what the present could be."
"I wonder what it is too."
"Oh...it's all of your hockey gear!"
"It IS all my hockey stuff. Hey, you wanna play some hockey now?"
"James, would you like a present?"
"Oh yes, I would like a present. What is the present?"
"I'll show you in a minute. We got this for you awhile ago, and we've been waiting to give it to you. Should I get it from the garage?"
"Oh yes, you should."
......
"Hey, it's a hockey stick! And a ball and a puck!"
"It is, it's a hockey stick that's a little bit more your size. Should I open it?"
"Yes, let's open it! I want to play with the puck."
"Here you go."
"Thank you for the hockey stick, Daddy!"
Monday Afternoon
"Welcome home!"
"Thanks, how were things here all day?"
"I'm glad you're back."
"Did James want to play with his new hockey stick?"
"It was all he talked about ALL...DAY...long."
"Hey Daddy, you wanna play some hockey?"
"I do! I just need to make some coffee first."
"AIEEE!!!!! I need to play some hockey with you!!!"
Monday Night
"Okay, we can go over and play hockey in the parking lot one more time, but Owen needs to come to this time."
"Umm, Owen says he wants to stay here and do something by himself."
"Because he's too little to run around and play hockey?"
"Yeah, he says he doesn't wanna come."
Tuesday Morning
"Good morning, James. How'd you sleep?"
"Hey, can we play hockey?"
"Okay, James. Daddy has to take a break from playing for a minute."
"Why you need to take a break?"
"I need to use the bathroom. I mean, the locker room."
"Why you need to go in the locker room?"
"Because that's where hockey players go to the bathroom between periods."
"Hey Mommy, what you doin?"
"I need to use the bathroom."
"Be sure you stand up when you go in the locker room!!"
"Daddy, I think we need to take a break."
"James, I couldn't agree more."
"Let's do zamponis and clean off the ice while we wait to play hockey again."
Tuesday Afternoon
"No, we aren't going to play hockey again until the timer goes off."
"When's the timer gonna go off?"
"Not for another hour."
"Then we play hockey?"
"Then we can play hockey."
"Hockey hockey hockey hockey hockey hockey..."
"Hey Daddy, what you doin?"
"I'm still cleaning up down here in the basement."
"Hey Daddy, I got you a present. You wanna see?"
"A present for me? Sure! What is it?"
"It's under these blankets. Maybe you should open them."
"Sure, I'll unwrap these blankets. I wonder what the present could be."
"I wonder what it is too."
"Oh...it's all of your hockey gear!"
"It IS all my hockey stuff. Hey, you wanna play some hockey now?"
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Ice Cream
Is there anything better than an ice cream cone from the local stand at the end of a hot summer day?
There isn't, which is why we decided to get an ice cream cone from the local stand at the end of a cold summer day.
I had a meeting at church last night. Google maps is awfully helpful around rush hour, and I knew that I shouldn't attempt to take the highway through the city. Instead, I thought I would "save time" by going around the city on the outer loop. Long story short, now James asks J "did Daddy go the right way this time?" every time we make a turn at a stoplight. Google maps is awfully helpful.
The meeting was fine. I found J and the boys watching the church softball game out behind the parking lot. James was paying close attention and asking important questions like "Why is home plate dirty?" and "Is home plate facing the right way?" and "Is home plate white or black?" Owen was smiling at any old lady who walked by him and trying to bend backwards out of the carrier to make faces at them.
I asked J whether she'd told James. She said she hadn't.
"We need to get back in the car now."
"I wanna watch the baseball game."
"It's time to go."
"Why it's time to go?"
"We have a surprise."
"Oh! What's the surprise?"
"We can't tell you. Otherwise it won't be a surprise."
James thought for a minute.
"Hey Daddy, can you tell me?"
This kept up as we pulled out of the parking lot. We'd been to Lugia's the previous week after a picnic with O&K. James had ordered dark chocolate ice cream and a cone and had eaten with all the intense seriousness of a little boy who is blind to everything in the world except his ice cream cone, including the fact that his ice cream cone is dripping enormous black streaks down the front of his shirt. He finished last of course, and would hardly say a word to anybody until he had finished the final bites of the cone, clearly uncomfortably full and covered from head to foot in the sticky black goo. We'd stripped him out of his shirt, napkined him off as best we could, and he immediately fell asleep when we were driving back.
Last night he kept on asking what the surprise was. Finally he spotted the cow on top of the Lugia's building.
"Hey, is this the ice cream place?"
"It sure is."
"Are we going to get some ice cream?"
"We are! That's the surprise!"
He suddenly took on a serious and thoughtful expression.
"Oh...I hope I don't spill ice cream all over my SHIRT again."
He then turned to his baby brother in the backseat.
"Hey Owen, we're at the ice cream place? Do you remember? George remembers!"
(George wasn't in the car, and he hadn't been in the car for the previous week's visit either. But it's important that George remembers all the things that James likes to remember.)
The lines were short, since it was so cold. I tried a cherry pie ice cream, J ordered cake batter, and James got another type of dark chocolate, this time with raspberry dark chocolate pieces mixed in. We shivered on the bench as we ate, and J and I finished long before him again. He asked to eat the rest of his in the car, which we vetoed. We decided to walk to a sunnier spot to keep warm, and J held his ice cream as we made our way. She tried a bite, and then she gave me a bite, and then she took another. We both agreed that his ice cream was better than either of ours.
"Hey, what happened to all my ice cream?"
It turns out that a three year old DOES notice when three bites of his ice cream go missing.
"Umm...Mommy had a bite."
"But...where it go?"
"I ate it James...I'm sorry."
"But what happened to my ice cream?"
To his credit, he didn't cry or whine. He ate the rest of the ice cream and even said thank (when prompted) for the treat out. But I think we may owe him another trip to the ice cream stand.
Oh, darn.
There isn't, which is why we decided to get an ice cream cone from the local stand at the end of a cold summer day.
I had a meeting at church last night. Google maps is awfully helpful around rush hour, and I knew that I shouldn't attempt to take the highway through the city. Instead, I thought I would "save time" by going around the city on the outer loop. Long story short, now James asks J "did Daddy go the right way this time?" every time we make a turn at a stoplight. Google maps is awfully helpful.
The meeting was fine. I found J and the boys watching the church softball game out behind the parking lot. James was paying close attention and asking important questions like "Why is home plate dirty?" and "Is home plate facing the right way?" and "Is home plate white or black?" Owen was smiling at any old lady who walked by him and trying to bend backwards out of the carrier to make faces at them.
I asked J whether she'd told James. She said she hadn't.
"We need to get back in the car now."
"I wanna watch the baseball game."
"It's time to go."
"Why it's time to go?"
"We have a surprise."
"Oh! What's the surprise?"
"We can't tell you. Otherwise it won't be a surprise."
James thought for a minute.
"Hey Daddy, can you tell me?"
This kept up as we pulled out of the parking lot. We'd been to Lugia's the previous week after a picnic with O&K. James had ordered dark chocolate ice cream and a cone and had eaten with all the intense seriousness of a little boy who is blind to everything in the world except his ice cream cone, including the fact that his ice cream cone is dripping enormous black streaks down the front of his shirt. He finished last of course, and would hardly say a word to anybody until he had finished the final bites of the cone, clearly uncomfortably full and covered from head to foot in the sticky black goo. We'd stripped him out of his shirt, napkined him off as best we could, and he immediately fell asleep when we were driving back.
Last night he kept on asking what the surprise was. Finally he spotted the cow on top of the Lugia's building.
"Hey, is this the ice cream place?"
"It sure is."
"Are we going to get some ice cream?"
"We are! That's the surprise!"
He suddenly took on a serious and thoughtful expression.
"Oh...I hope I don't spill ice cream all over my SHIRT again."
He then turned to his baby brother in the backseat.
"Hey Owen, we're at the ice cream place? Do you remember? George remembers!"
(George wasn't in the car, and he hadn't been in the car for the previous week's visit either. But it's important that George remembers all the things that James likes to remember.)
The lines were short, since it was so cold. I tried a cherry pie ice cream, J ordered cake batter, and James got another type of dark chocolate, this time with raspberry dark chocolate pieces mixed in. We shivered on the bench as we ate, and J and I finished long before him again. He asked to eat the rest of his in the car, which we vetoed. We decided to walk to a sunnier spot to keep warm, and J held his ice cream as we made our way. She tried a bite, and then she gave me a bite, and then she took another. We both agreed that his ice cream was better than either of ours.
"Hey, what happened to all my ice cream?"
It turns out that a three year old DOES notice when three bites of his ice cream go missing.
"Umm...Mommy had a bite."
"But...where it go?"
"I ate it James...I'm sorry."
"But what happened to my ice cream?"
To his credit, he didn't cry or whine. He ate the rest of the ice cream and even said thank (when prompted) for the treat out. But I think we may owe him another trip to the ice cream stand.
Oh, darn.
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Teeth and Pencils
I've decided to start flossing more. I even put a reminder in my phone for 10 PM, in case I happen to forget when I'm brushing my teeth for bed. I'm realizing that I only have one set of teeth, and as someone who will be turning thirty very shortly I perhaps ought to do a slightly better job taking care of them. I even thought about buying some antiseptic mouthwash the other day when I was checking out at Wegmans. I looked at it and thought, "Who do I know that uses mouthwash? I don't think anyone in my family keeps it in their bathrooms, and I'm pretty sure J's family doesn't use it either...hmm. What are the benefits?" And then I felt old, and decided that I should definitely start flossing more regularly.
I was scolded pretty severely the last time I went in for a dental cleaning. (And they wonder why I don't come in more often.) The hygienist (who spoke in a discomfortingly thick Russian accent) also made snide remarks about how badly I needed orthodontic work, and I pleaded "professional trumpet player" to quiet her. She made me promise to floss more regularly, and I made a concerted effort for about a month, two houses ago. Then I was back on the maybe-once-a-month schedule for two years, until last Saturday. As of Saturday, I've been flossing every day, except for last night, because I was already really comfortable in bed and it was kind of cold out when the alarm went off in my phone and reminded me.
I scheduled James' first ever trip to the dentist for next week, and he sounded genuinely excited when I told him where he was going. (This will be the only time we ever get that reaction.) On the upside, though, he might get a cool prize. I remember getting a certain type of mechanical pencil that I'm not even quite sure how to describe out of the dentist's prize box. It came pre-loaded with individual leaded tops that you screwed in from the top (or bottom) end of the pencil, which you used to write. Then you would use the pencil until the lead ran out, unscrew the used-up tip, and screw a new one in.
Mechanical pencils were a great source of moral trial to me as a young child. I never was tempted to steal anything so badly as a nice-looking mechanical pencil. They were infinitely more satisfying to write with than the standard yellow number two pencils that required constant resharpening and tended to smudge all over the papers. I don't know if anyone else thought of them this way, but I regarded them as a status symbol of wealth and advantage as well. I treasured a mechanical pencil whenever I managed to acquire one, and if I thought I had an opportunity to pick one up off a desk or in the hallway that wouldn't be missed it was always an enormous struggle of will to leave it where it lay and be content with the smudgy yellow pencil in my pocket.
Nowadays I am morally. When my trumpet students come and forget their mechanical pencils on my stand, I don't even think about tossing them in my case and requisitioning them for myself. The same goes for pencils found at rehearsal, at church, and at school. I've ceased to respect them as private property and will stop at nothing to acquire them for my own gain. Part of this is J's fault.
I love my wife and hold her in enormous personal respect. In addition to being smart and beautiful, I think she's one of the most fair-minded and wise people I know. But she is a dirty thief when it comes to my mechanical pencils. If I leave a pencil out on my desk and she needs one for teaching or making a list, she doesn't even think about taking it. And then it disappears into her flute bag or purse, and it's never seen again. I've tried to hide my pencils behind books or in the secret crevasses of my desk, but she either finds them there or I hide them so well that I no longer know where they are either. If we're at Target and I try to toss a new package of mechanical pencils in the cart she'll look at me and say, "Didn't you just buy a bunch of those?" And the answer is that I did, but that someone who I dearly love has stolen them all and I only have one left.
I've confronted her about this in the past, including this morning. Her answers vary, and this morning it was "don't you usually write with a pen anyway?" This is true, and it's another luxury of adult life, that I can buy myself gel pens. But I use pencils to write in my books, and especially to mark up my music. I just ordered a big new pack of mechanical pencils from Amazon, and already several of them are gone. J took two this morning, and James was eagerly expressing how much he'd like to draw with them. I need to find some way to protect them before they've all disappeared. I've even attempted to develop a conscious habit of walking around with the pencils in my mouth, holding them between my well-flossed teeth, as a deterrent for those who would attempt to steal them from me.
But it doesn't work. Even my youngest is stealing my pencils. I don't begrudge them to him, though. He also is having teeth problems, in the form of a little white nub that's keeping him awake and sitting up with me instead of taking his nap.
I was scolded pretty severely the last time I went in for a dental cleaning. (And they wonder why I don't come in more often.) The hygienist (who spoke in a discomfortingly thick Russian accent) also made snide remarks about how badly I needed orthodontic work, and I pleaded "professional trumpet player" to quiet her. She made me promise to floss more regularly, and I made a concerted effort for about a month, two houses ago. Then I was back on the maybe-once-a-month schedule for two years, until last Saturday. As of Saturday, I've been flossing every day, except for last night, because I was already really comfortable in bed and it was kind of cold out when the alarm went off in my phone and reminded me.
I scheduled James' first ever trip to the dentist for next week, and he sounded genuinely excited when I told him where he was going. (This will be the only time we ever get that reaction.) On the upside, though, he might get a cool prize. I remember getting a certain type of mechanical pencil that I'm not even quite sure how to describe out of the dentist's prize box. It came pre-loaded with individual leaded tops that you screwed in from the top (or bottom) end of the pencil, which you used to write. Then you would use the pencil until the lead ran out, unscrew the used-up tip, and screw a new one in.
Mechanical pencils were a great source of moral trial to me as a young child. I never was tempted to steal anything so badly as a nice-looking mechanical pencil. They were infinitely more satisfying to write with than the standard yellow number two pencils that required constant resharpening and tended to smudge all over the papers. I don't know if anyone else thought of them this way, but I regarded them as a status symbol of wealth and advantage as well. I treasured a mechanical pencil whenever I managed to acquire one, and if I thought I had an opportunity to pick one up off a desk or in the hallway that wouldn't be missed it was always an enormous struggle of will to leave it where it lay and be content with the smudgy yellow pencil in my pocket.
Nowadays I am morally. When my trumpet students come and forget their mechanical pencils on my stand, I don't even think about tossing them in my case and requisitioning them for myself. The same goes for pencils found at rehearsal, at church, and at school. I've ceased to respect them as private property and will stop at nothing to acquire them for my own gain. Part of this is J's fault.
I love my wife and hold her in enormous personal respect. In addition to being smart and beautiful, I think she's one of the most fair-minded and wise people I know. But she is a dirty thief when it comes to my mechanical pencils. If I leave a pencil out on my desk and she needs one for teaching or making a list, she doesn't even think about taking it. And then it disappears into her flute bag or purse, and it's never seen again. I've tried to hide my pencils behind books or in the secret crevasses of my desk, but she either finds them there or I hide them so well that I no longer know where they are either. If we're at Target and I try to toss a new package of mechanical pencils in the cart she'll look at me and say, "Didn't you just buy a bunch of those?" And the answer is that I did, but that someone who I dearly love has stolen them all and I only have one left.
I've confronted her about this in the past, including this morning. Her answers vary, and this morning it was "don't you usually write with a pen anyway?" This is true, and it's another luxury of adult life, that I can buy myself gel pens. But I use pencils to write in my books, and especially to mark up my music. I just ordered a big new pack of mechanical pencils from Amazon, and already several of them are gone. J took two this morning, and James was eagerly expressing how much he'd like to draw with them. I need to find some way to protect them before they've all disappeared. I've even attempted to develop a conscious habit of walking around with the pencils in my mouth, holding them between my well-flossed teeth, as a deterrent for those who would attempt to steal them from me.
But it doesn't work. Even my youngest is stealing my pencils. I don't begrudge them to him, though. He also is having teeth problems, in the form of a little white nub that's keeping him awake and sitting up with me instead of taking his nap.
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