Tennessee Delights

Into the Pool, Into the Night

One thing those in the know know is that I have imposed unreasonable expectations on Booker’s progress in the water. I wouldn’t say that I demanded that he swim perfect backstroke at age three. But I assumed that from the very start he would love swimming as much as I did as a child, and so I threw him in the drink at any opportunity, cold or hot, deep or shallow, salty or sweet, and was indignantly incredulous when he protested repeatedly.



He may have forgotten—but I have not—that, upon surveying the wide variety of aquatic behaviors on view at Lake Powell two years ago, he sagely observed, “Not all adults get angry when kids can’t swim.” Ouch.

Actually, what he said was, “Nem todos os adults get angry quando kids can’t swim,” because that was the mixture of Portuguese and English that came naturally to him in those days, when, after all, he was not much more than four.

Now he speaks mostly English, but remained profoundly ambivalent about swimming until well into this summer. One might say strategically ambivalent, if one were so inclined. We signed him up for “pre-team” with the amazing Coach Dale at the start of the summer, but he dropped out after two rain-soaked weeks. It looked like it was not to be.

But then we enrolled him in an easier group lesson, and the sun came out, and things changed. It took four weeks of lessons, but by the end of the session he was leaving his classmates in his churning wake and looking for new challenges.

He swam the 25 meters freestyle in his first meet last Wednesday, and he did not come in last. He competed again this Wednesday, and finished solidly mid-pack in the three heats of 8-and-under boys. He is now officially a Rock Creek Fin, just in time for the end of the season.

And he is now eager to get back in the water any chance he gets. Perhaps it was not so easy to swim while dragging around his father’s baggage.


I never had many illusions of molding Seamus. I am just trying to survive him and exercise some slight restraining influence. Tantrums have been plentiful lately, usually food or bedtime related, the most furious food-and-bedtime related. I am not entirely sure how, but the “nighttime snack” somehow became an institution in our household, a concession difficult to repeal. Occasionally Seamus will half-wake in the middle of the night, grousing, “I diyunt det my nighttime snat!”

If he had his way, he would subsist entirely on yogurt, graham crackers, bread with honey, bread with molasses, bread with cinnamon sugar and the occasional pretzel. To be honest, if he had his way he would subsist entirely on juice, but that really is out of the question. And sometimes we do insist that he eat some kind of balanced meal, your standard meat-and-two, withholding all of the above preferred items until the real business of dinner is completed.

Last week one of these struggles went well past normal “nighttime snack” hours. Booker was already in bed (dreaming of backstroke, no doubt), and Seamus still had not touched the pot roast, potatoes and carrots that had been so delicious at seven and looked, admittedly, hideous at nine.

Instead, he demanded yogurt, standing in the refrigerator—in fact attempting to climb into the inner recesses of the refrigerator—with such a sense of outraged entitlement that Mary was forced to carry through on her threat to give the yogurt to the neighbors. Meaning, of course, that she quickly marched out the front door, deposited the yogurt next to the doorstep, and came back in.

She had only had to resort to this mechanism once previously, about eighteen months ago, when Booker really could not let go of the idea of having a bowl of Nutella and nothing else for his dinner. On that occasion, we found the jar of Nutella behind one of the the bushes the next morning, where a band of ravenous squirrels had dragged it and had just succeeded in gnawing through the top when I deprived them of their hard-earned treasure.

So this time we knew we had to get the yogurt back from “the neighbors” before heading to bed ourselves. Seamus wanted to take care of matters for us.

He squalled and wrestled, declaring “I’m gonna go into the night and det that yodut from the neighbuzz! I'm gonna go into the night!”

It is so hard to be stern when you can’t keep a straight face.

Eventually he settled down and ate enough of the re-re-re-re-heated pot roast for all of us to claim some kind of dignity, and to retrieve the yogurt.

And then, on the other hand, there were the occasions when we would just strap him into the Britax and hope he calmed down somewhere on the road between here and wherever it became necessary to travel.



But that is all over now. Because we just gave the Britax away, and moved him up to a booster seat with a much easier seatbelt, one he can unclick himself. We are optimistic that it won’t take him too much longer to grow into this emotionally than it did physically.

Eternal Summer

Watching Booker over the first half of his summer vacation, it is hard to conclude that public school as it currently exists is anything other than a grim correctional facility where we send children to be restrained and molded into semi-productive drones.



Only now, in contrast to the exuberant bloom of summer, are the afternoon tempests of the school year recognizable for what they were—not merely the symptoms of enervation following a stimulating day, but the understandable reaction to a slow institutional crushing of the spirit.



Please, make no attempt to insist that the lad’s education is at stake. Education? Why, what could be more enriching than a morning picking blueberries on an exurban farm (one of the last not turned into condominia in the boom before the crash). Why this is education, I say: hands in the rich soil, succulent fruit ripening in the blazing sun, and a bucket of hard-earned gains destined for that richest reward, blueberry-lemon tart.


And this, I say, is true recess and recreation: the exhilaration of the season’s brisk baptism beneath its scorching glare. The body itself responds, stretching, rising, yearning.


Until August, that is. Then, at least some of us will begin longing once more for the spirit-crushing institution to open its doors once more....

What Would Leaf Do?

About six months ago Granda bestowed upon the boys a pair of hand puppets, one a hamster, the other a white mouse. Neither boy showed any interest in them at the time. After Booker’s brief fascination with Meerkat Manor, he returned to the world of machines and has rarely paid attention to any animal unless one threatens to bite his ankle. As for Seamus, we were grateful that he showed no interest in tormenting small animals, but that seemed to be the most we had any right to expect.


Then last week, casting about for any means of distracting the lad from an impending tantrum, I chanced upon the puppets, thrust a hand into each, and began a conversation between the two in suitably high-pitched, squeaky voices. He was transfixed. Hamster and Ratinho immediately became his favorite playthings, with the requirement that I take the role of Hamster, and he take Ratinho. Hamster’s consuming envy of Ratinho’s long tail and big ears clearly made him the more desirable avatar.

To call this the inauguration of a rich interior world would be an exaggeration, at least at this point. Dialogue between Hamster and Ratinho rarely gets beyond,
—“Oh, Ratinho, será que você realmente vai comer tooooodo esse queijo?”
—“Sim! I am going to eat up all that queijo!”
—“Tudo bem, então eu vou comer esse gergelim....”



But still, it indicated that although ferocious appetite for whatever is coming next and willful impulse remain his most apparent attributes, there is something more percolating somewhere in his imagination.



Further evidence of this transition came days later, when Seamus started talking about Leaf. Leaf was a friend he met at the playground.

—When?
—The other day, with Oscar.
—Was Leaf big or small?
—Big...but not that big.
—How old is Leaf?
—Leaf is three years old, a big boy.
—What did Leaf look like?
—Like a boy.

And when was it, exactly, that you met Leaf? On pizza day. Ok, well, where does Leaf live? He lives way way far away in downtown Silver Spring. Downtown Silver Spring? But that’s not far away, that’s just around the corner. No, the other downtown Silver Spring. Near the airport. No, near the museum.

—Really, which museum?
—The Museum of National.
—The Museum of National what?
—The Museum of National hussafuzz.....

—The Air and Space Museum?
—No, the Museum of National hmmmpppmm.
—The National Building Museum?
—No! The Museum of National!

Seamus and I spent Saturday morning wandering around looking for Leaf’s house. I contended that if we went to the playground near the library, Leaf might appear. Seamus was skeptical, and vindicated by Leaf’s continued absence. We decided to decamp to another playground, nearer the Museum of National.

—Leaf will be so happy when he sees us! We will bring him this water bottle.
—Maybe Leaf will be at the pool?
—No! He doesn’t like the pool!

As we drive aimlessly east of Silver Spring, Seamus spies another playground.

—There! I think that is the playground near Leaf’s house!

Leaf did not show. I think we just missed him.



Waiting for Leaf.

Don't tall me bonito

The Skuut is dead, long live the sprint frog. Seamus’s beloved Skuut bit the dust last week. Out for our usual morning constitutional, I heard the left front strut splinter just as Seamus came off the curb onto Porter Rd. There was nothing particularly violent about this last curb vault—it was just the cumulative stress of months of vigorous riding that finally revealed the true characteristics of a cheap Shanghai knockoff masquerading as a sturdy Scandinavian steed. No matter: within minutes I was googling away, looking for the least expensive replacement, which turned out to be the spring frog, as pictured. Luckily, the frog, and not the princess, came in at the lowest bid. He has in the past claimed to like green.



The new mount is quicker and higher-strung than the old, but Seamus tamed her in an afternoon.


And once again, the future is boundless.

Oi Sim Sim Sim, Oi Não Não Não

We were graced with a visit from Uncle Sean, Aunt Minou and Dexter last week, a quick stop on their way to North Carolina. Dexter regaled us with a Haydn theme, while I played with the scale model of the Capitol that Aunt Minou and Uncle Sean had bestowed upon Booker for his birthday. Everything seemed briefly civilized.


Then Booker had a moment to show off his keyboard skills, hunting and pecking Lightning McQueen in an endless youtube search. His kinpudr taym, as he renders it, is sacred.


The next day was Booker’s birthday party, once again at Wheaton Regional Park. Seamus, tilting headlong against the towering silver maples, emerged miraculously unscathed.


Mary’s cakes, a perfection of confection, of course.


Booker no doubt wishing for Mack, the big semi from Cars. For the first time, we have become the pawns of the evil empire’s merchandising strategies. We are bombarded daily with requests from both boys for more Cars paraphernalia. The flurry of birthday gifts, including more of the expensive little vehicles than any reasonable adult would imagine to exist, assuaged this pressure only briefly.

Y., Booker’s capoeira instructor, captivated the baixinhos, and soon had them all singing “Oi sim sim sim, Oi não não não,” the most basic capoeira corrido.


Throwing a capoeira party and inviting only your friends who have never before played capoeira turns out to be a great way to pass for a martial arts prodigy.

Just Press Random Buttons

This past weekend was the annual adventure in the Poconos, formerly known to Booker as the Coconuts, now occasionally known to Henry as the Pinocchios. We grabbed Booker directly from Field Day at Rosemary Hills, where he had spent the morning testing his skills in activities such as catching a scarf fluttering in the breeze and throwing a hula hoop over an inverted chair leg, which the attending volunteer parents repeatedly advised were not a competition, but just for fun. Then they adjourned to the grassy shade, according to Booker, for milk and vanilla wipers. What happened to tug of war? In Montgomery County, not only are all the children above average, they are all winners. Only during school hours, of course—in the semi-professional world of after-school sports, competition is cutthroat and hence strenuously avoided by the Bookman.



After a long slog in the Honda V, as Seamus calls it, we descended into the golden valley of Woodloch Springs and its acres of identical condos nestled amongst fairways, bunkers, and tick-friendly rough. As tradition dictates, the centerpiece of the weekend was the birthday celebration—Booker and Dexter, the two children with the closest birthdays, dispatched the candles.



Seamus looked on with the glazed visage of one who has taken too many dunkings in the frog pool. He promptly devoured all the frosting on his slice, leaving untouched the delivery mechanism of the cake itself. Energized again, he cavorted until 10:30, surfacing occasionally from the scrum to demand at the top of his lungs yemonade and wayameyon. If these requests were not delivered, he vowed, “I will hit you and call you dummy!” Let it not be said the boy does not make good on his threats.

He was happiest in the frog pool, only occasionally frustrated by the inability of other youngsters to remove themselves from the base of the giant plastic frog-tongue slide before he came crashing down upon their necks. The nearby indoor beaver pool, with its three water cannons offering maximum opportunity for hectic crossfire, was equally thrilling. Booker held his own in both environs as well, earning cherished praise from Dexter for his grace under pressure while manning cannon number two, fighting off blackguard pirates like Charlie and Henry. The ever-mystifying game of catch was more of a challenge, as Aunt Minou’s unerring vision reveals: as the disc approaches, Seamus prepares his hands, eye on the target, while Booker holds his arms wide in what might be considered the purely aspirational approach to the game, steadfastly watching the location from which the disc was launched.


There was so much to do that Seamus was only occasionally frustrated that he could not entirely keep up with the big boys. Looking around at the toddler-safe environs of the frog pool and discovering that his brother and cousins had moved on to more sophisticated pleasures, he ran after them to the lakeside beach. At a gallop he took the stairs to the giant slide that plunges directly into the lake, chasing vainly after the gang, only to be restrained by the loving hand of Uncle Sean and delivered in a stiff pose of reluctant compliance to the parental scold.

Back at the ranch the separation was more technological than physical. Robert, Charlie and Dexter slayed villains on their DSs. Henry, skilled beyond his years in electronic wizardry, provided the solution to Dexter’s frozen screen—and many of life’s difficulties—surveying the problem, scrunching his features and pronouncing, “Just press random buttons.” Success.

The climactic moment of the weekend, at least for Seamus and me, came not long afterwards. Robert came running to the top of the stairs, fighting against his nature to muster a countenance of grave urgency, shouting, “Something really bad is happening! Seamus is caught in the sofa-bed.”

Somehow, while the other five boys romped above him, he had crawled under the sofa-bed and wormed himself inextricably into its farthest confines. Robert, of course, was the only one to hear his plaintive cries. When I arrived and peered inside the evil machine, Seamus was doing an uncanny impression of Chris Elliott’s guy under the bleachers routine, prying unsuccessfully at the springs. Once we rousted the other ruffians we were able to extract him unscathed and no doubt unedified.



All boys managed to subsist on a diet mostly of cheez-its, hot-dogs and cake. On Saturday, Booker had his first slushy, described longingly by him as “that thing that my cousins have,” and then on Sunday had his second. Lucky boy. For the short term, that is probably most memorable for him. Once that novelty wears off, I hope he’ll remember the more enduring sensations of the gathering speed, the cold plunge into the dark waters, and the exhilaration of that first breath.



Should he somehow forget, the contributions of Aunt Minou, this week’s brilliant guest photographer, will be there to remind him, and all the rest of us.

I Don’t Like Fiction

Kindergarten draws to a close not a moment too soon for Mrs. B. As you can see from the photo, she is due any week now, and will soon have her own switch her focus from twenty-five petulant, demanding creatures to one. We were lucky to get through the school year before the blessed event—without Mrs. B’s loving encouragement, kindergarten might have been a disaster, but with her it was wonderful. Booker has grown considerably under her tutelage—he can read a little, add a little, tell stories a little. The greatest change is that he now understands that his is not the only perspective on the world, and the range of experiences that realization makes possible—humor, empathy, more strategic manipulation of his parents and his little brother—is now available to him.


He has grown in other ways, of course: as you can see, he is now six feet tall and climbing. He towers over his peers in the violin group, swaying gently like a skyscraper in heavy winds as they fiddle furiously beneath him.


He still insistently carves his own path through the standards of the Suzuki songbook, always always always starting up when everyone else starts correctly down, and building successive variations from that initial divergence. But it is less noticeable now, maybe because we are halfway napping through the recital, like most of the other parents.

Probably the most significant achievement here is that standing in front of a fitfully dozing crowd and struggling through “Go Tell Aunt Rhody” is no longer an agonizing experience for Booker.



He checks it off his list, collects his cookie, and moves on. What more can one ask?

Booker has also begun to separate the world of reality and invention. We were watching Angus Lost a few weeks ago—the tale of a curious Scot terrier who escapes his yard and has a rousting adventure about town—when Booker asked, “Is this fiction?” Well, kid, generally when the pet dog talks to the goat, its fiction, but I’ll let you make the call.

Not long afterwards, he determined his preference, telling Mary at storytime, “I don’t like fiction. I like non-fiction.”

That excludes the world of toy cars, of course. But that is another story.

We Will Have a Perfect Life

Grams, post-fall, partakes of Easter Dinner with the aid of her royal scepter

Kinderstrasse comes to Bookseaboomband

How long has it been since your last confession? As Grace Paley put it in “Wants,“ explaining to her former husband why she never invited the Bertrams to dinner, “But really, if you remember: first my Father was sick that Friday. Then the children were born, then I had those Tuesday-night meetings, then the war began. Then we didn’t seem to know them anymore. But you’re right. I should have had them to dinner.”


And we should have blogged at some point in the last two months, but first this and that, and then the other.


It all started well, certainly. The Kinderstrasse crew came to visit just before Easter, and cousins gleefully reunited. Glee took on an unsettling cast in the case of Booker and Clara, who moved with ferocious speed through the phases of courtship, engagement, disillusionment and recrimination. Within an hour of Clara’s arrival, they were giggling and google-eyeing. By day two, they were holding hands and whispering secrets. By that night, they were avowing their commitment to all who cared to listen: “We will have a perfect life!” They shouted, in unison. And then one or the other would say, “And the rest is secret,” and they would walk away cackling.

The rest of us tried to go about our business as usual, but so much affection was obtrusive. Seamus, bereft of his usual target for sneak attacks and easy provocation, was inconsolable, until he realized that Ava was the keeper of the key to all wisdom and joy, and became her groupie. To our relief, Ava tolerated and humored this adoration.




As in a Shakespearean comedy, multiple storylines of impulsively blooming youth unfolded against a verdant backdrop on our outing to the National Arboretum. We elders blundered along blearily like Dogberry and Verges, content to be minor characters, if not necessarily buffoons.

Grams’s arrival the next day promised to restore some order to the kingdom, and we feted her with viands and garlands. But things took a turn for the worse on the next grand day out: there in the shadow of the Washington Monument, fresh from a picnic of sopresatta and strawberries, crossing 15th street with a grandchild on either arm, Grams caught a heel on the curb and took a tumble. She ended up in GW Hospital with two shattered elbows, a condition that she insisted on treating as a minor inconvenience on an otherwise delightful trip, not to be spoiled by a mere four-day spell in hospital.


The rest of us were not always such good soldiers. Tempers frayed on the home front, and Booker snapped at Clara for interrupting him, baring his teeth and shouting with such sudden ire that tears sprang instantly from her eyes as if from a garden sprinkler. It is always sad to watch the end of an affair, even when it comes as no surprise and something of a relief.

The Kinderstrasse crew, their wisdom imparted—at least as much as we had the capacity to absorb—packed their bags and headed west, to be sorely missed. Aunt Layne arrived soon afterwards to help see Grams through the most fragile days. I know that they say double elbow-surgery is really no big deal these days, but you’d be surprised how it can crimp your style. Grams rose to the occasion, keeping a firm grasp on civilization with the assistance of the extra long-handled utensils fashioned by Big John before his departure.






And then before you knew it, Grams and Aunt Layne were gone, also, to be equally sorely missed, and we stumbled back into the everyday routine of brotherly bonding, a process known to require liberal doses of mutual antagonism.


It would be easier if Seamus were not such a pigsqueak, according to Booker, and if Booker were not such a dummyhead, according to Seamus. But then, we are all dummyheads now, especially at three in the morning, when Mommy is an old dummyhead, and Daddy is an old dummyhead, and bed itself, especially, is very dummy.

Batten the hatches when Hurricane Seamus is coming. We’ve considered it a wise investment to make sure Booker continues the capoeira, so he can defend himself. His batizado was the social event of the season, with a packed house on hand to watch Booker, aka Labrador, display his skills in the ring. For his efforts, Labrador moved up from the ivory belt to the ivory belt with bright orange tassels, which he gazed upon wide-eyed for the remainder of the day.


Luckily, they did not, as Booker feared, have signed seats, so we were able to alternate attendance at the capoeira marathon with shifts in the playground outside, where Seamus vented his frustration at being excluded from the ceremonies by swinging maniacally on the monkey bars.
Seamus had his own moment in the spotlight a few weeks later, at his graduation from pre-pre-pre K. The main event was a teddy-bear parade, in which each three-year old lovingly placed a favorite plush toy in a box and then towed it around the Great Hall by a string. According to Mary, the other tots strode upon the boards with the well-trained self-assurance of Miss Venezuela contestants. Seamus, after leaving a puzzling gap in the parade, wandered aimlessly about for a few moments, one hand towing his stuffed dolphin, the other holding his crotch. Appearing to take notice of his audience for the first time, he then turned to the crowd, removed his hand from his fly and—before Mary could breathe a sigh of relief—promptly stuck his finger up his nose.


But that was all so long ago. Summer is now here, and we seized the last day before the annual plague of mosquitoes descended upon Silver Spring to host an unforgettable churrasco, so we can pretend we are not yet entirely consigned to the wings.


There is no doubt who is now center-stage, is there? I had a dream last night that I was watching over Seamus in a twelfth-story apartment with a sliding-glass door leading to a railing-less balcony. Seamus stepped on something sharp, started to cry and ran towards the balcony. As I ran after him screaming stop, stop, he hurtled through the door, across the balcony and over the edge. I ran after him, vowing not to stop, and took the plunge. I landed on the soft cushions of the balcony one story below, where Seamus lolled about laughing. He then insisted on doing the same thing over and over, and I thought, does anyone else’s kid do this?

The young prince tyrant plots his next move. And the rest is a secret.