Thursday, August 6, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
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.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
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.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
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.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)