Happy (much belated) Holidays

 

Neglectful me, I forgot to post holiday wishes to all.

In my defense, it was busy.

College Questions

 The Boy is at college, his first year.  Loads of new experiences for him, and conundrums.

Sunday night I got a call from the Boy.

“What kind of salt do I get to soak an ingrown toenail?”

“Epsom salts. E-P-S-O-M.”

He responds, “Yeah, I’m at grocery store and I can’t find that.”

I think for a long second and then, “You’re in the spice aisle, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s in the medicine section kiddo.”

“Ohhhhh.”

It Never Fades

The photo to the left has been on the sidebar of this blog since I began it more than 15 years ago. It shows me on our patio holding the Boy shortly after his birth.  He lies sleeping, swaddled, in my hands as I look down at him. My wife took the picture 18 years ago today, Tuesday, April 12, 2005. 

There is a distinct story that accompanies the image.  The night before as we sat in the family room - my wife, my mother, the Boy and myself - I heard the sound of gushing water from somewhere in the backyard.  I went to the door leading to our patio and in the darkness I thought I could barely see what resembled a geyser in the far garden bed of the yard. I went outside and as I got closer it was indeed a fountain of water, 10 feet or more in height shooting straight up. further investigation showed a faucet hose bib pipe had somehow cracked and water, at full pressure, was pouring out of it.

I raced to find the shut off for the sprinkler lines but when I did it was rusted into the open position. I worked for 10 minutes to get it closed, applying WD40, only to discover once I did that the hose bib, for some stupid reason was connected, not to the sprinkler valves, but to the main house line (which explained the substantial water pressure involved.) So my only option to stop the flow was to turn off the entire water main to the house.  I returned to the pond that now existed at the hose bib and determined I could not fix it in the dark and would need to wait til morning.  I cautioned the rest of the house that we would be without water until it was repaired, so don't flush or think about showering.

The next morning I assessed the damage and the job ahead. The crack was below grade and would require digging out the pipe.  The ground surrounding it could best be described as a swampy mudpit.  I headed to the hardware store for supplies and returned as the rest of the house was waking.  With shovel I began the miserable task of digging out that mess, and clearing the pipe to begin the repairs.  It was awful as my feet sucked deep into the muck and I quickly became caked in the stuff. Having never repaired PVC lines before I classically had gotten the wrong size pieces for repair and had to return to the hardware store.  It would be the first of three more trips to the store as I could not seem to get the correct items, or pipe dope, or whatever. What should have taken no more than an hour ended up taking nearly 5 hours to complete.  

I struggled through the process, adding coat after coat of mud cake to my body, covering my arms and legs and face and hair in the gunk. Just keeping the pipe clean in order to securely repair it was insanely difficult as muddy water kept seeping down around it.  I became more and more frustrated.  But the worst part was the swelling anger I felt that all this time it was taking was time I was not spending with my son.

Since his birth 20 days earlier I had become enamored of the kid, spending all my time, with him, or around him, or holding him, or just staring at him.  It was narcotic, and I never wanted that feeling to end. Yet here I was stuck in mud to my knees, needing to get this fixed to let water flow again into my home, and the longer it took the less time I had with my Boy.

When I finally finished, it was roughly one o'clock and I was a swamp thing from head to toe.  I informed my wife the water was back on and we could now flush and shower.  She looked at me and suggested I shower first.  I accepted her offer, but as the the earth washed off me in that shower I could not ease my anger.  I just wanted to get clean and see my son.

I dressed and went to our patio, breathing deeply.  My wife brought the Boy out to me and put him in my arms, before heading to shower herself.  As I held him, despite finally having him in my arms, I was still seething.  The universe had robbed me of 5 hours I was supposed to get with him, had stolen time I would never get back.  That anger was blocking the endorphins I should be loading from being with him. So I tried calming myself.  I told myself it was only 5 hours, I had plenty of time left.  And I began listing the time in front of us: 

it would be a month before he could focus on anything further than a foot in front of his face; 

it would be 3 months before he could even sit up; 

6 months before he ate solid food; 

a full year before he might walk; 

perhaps 2 years at least before he and I had anything resembling a conversation; 

3 whole years before he was out of diapers; 

more than 5 years before he began kindergarten; 

there was an inconceivable 18 years before he went to college.  

I had plenty of time, I told myself. These lost 5 hours, and anger, would fade from my memory.  "Relax." Slowly I found the anger receding, a calm returning. That was when my wife emerged and snapped the picture you see. 

But all that was a lie.  

Those lost 5 hours did not fade. There was not plenty of time.

  

He turned 18 last month. He leaves for college in the fall.  I spent more time with him in the last 18 years than most fathers are ever privileged enough to be allowed. And it wasn't enough.  Every moment with him mattered. Every lost moment is painful. There was never enough time.  

The only "good" that emerged from that turmoil 18 years ago today was the sense that I couldn't waste any of it - that every single second with him, and later my Girls, must be treasured. He was only 20 days old and I knew it was going by too quickly. I was warned for the coming years. That is why the image has rested on this page for all these years - as a reminder to fight for, and cling tightly to, every bit of time allotted.

For that, at least, I am appreciative (despite wanting those 5 hours back.)

From Us, To You

 

Seeing Into the Distance

I pick the Girl up from summer school around 12:30.  She is taking PE this summer to get the last year of it over all at once.  My wife usually drops her off on the way to work and I nab her at the end of class.

I get there early.  Pickup is a awful - the main artery to the school is a hellscape and the school parking lot a nightmare. So I park a VERY long block away, under the shade of overhanging trees and wait. I bring something to read. The New Yorker is a nice choice, but of late I'm re-reading Elisha Cooper's memoir, Crawling, about the first year with his firstborn daughter, who was born just a year and a half before our Boy was born.  

I'm not the only one who opts to avoid the traffic hell.  There are a few other parents with pickup duty who have discovered my spot. They park there too and wait, cracking their own books. Part of the reason I get there early is to beat them to the shady spot. 

Once school lets out I watch as the kids make their way up that long block from us.  You can see them at a great distance. The space between us is an enormous athletic field, unobstructed by trees. I make out the Girl, as always, five minutes before she arrives, spying her across the expanse, through the chainlink fences. I think, even at this distance, I can see her huge smile, but I definitely recognize that walk: that confident, effortlessly happy, saunter she has mastered. 

I'm fortunate that she always seems to be in front of the pack, only passed by the kids with faster transport - scooters, skateboards, bikes. There are two boys who ride by daily on motocross bikes, both of them with black backpacks and black baseball caps, flying in single file. There's the boy on the fat-wheeled bike who leisurely lumbers his way past me, always seeming a little out of control. Behind him comes the kid who, for some unknown reason, removes the front wheel of his bike and straps it to his backpack before doing a wheelie all the way home. We pass him later, a mile down the road, the front fork still high in the air, peddling madly in "Hi Ho Silver" mode.

Across from me there's a mom who always parks her minivan on the other side of the street. She waits as I do, though perhaps a bit anxiously I've noticed, until her son arrives, around the same time the Girl makes it to the corner. The son, 15 or so, is in a wheelchair that is sleek and sporty, wheels tipped in towards his torso at the top of their circumference. When she sees him she she exits the minivan, pops the back and waits for him to finish the short distance from the corner to her car, before helping him load the chair and get in. The two of them seem to have been doing this a while - seem to have a system now.  I find myself curious about his circumstance: How long has he been in a wheelchair? What happened? Even though I would never ask, when her eyes meet mine I nod and smile, trying to be friendly, trying let her know I empathize and understand. But, of course, I don't understand. There is no way I can.

There is so much about our kids that we "have been doing for a while, that has a system" - IEPs or 504s, doctor appointments, MRIs and CAT scans, back braces and therapists.  We rarely discuss it with anyone anymore, rarely share the day in/day out aspects of it.  After 12 years it just is.  And there is also the sense on our part - not necessarily unwarranted - that most people won't get it. 

A decade ago K was talking to someone about the kids - about the cardiologists, and orthopedists, and ophthalmologists, and rheumatologists, and the dislocations and subluxations and general pain the kids experience daily.  The person she was talking to nodded sagely and said, "My cousin's youngest has ADHD so I know exactly what you're going through," before spending 20 minutes discussing her cousin's difficult days.

No one can know, not really, about what's become routine now, very much part of who we are, now.

The Girl has an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon next week. She has been out of her back brace for nearly a year.  The expectation was she would be fine and at her age she should see no more curvature added to her scoliosis. However, last February at a followup the curve had gotten worse.  The appointment next week is to see if that worsening has continued. If so, she will go back in the brace, or possibly face surgery to fuse her vertebrae.

She mentions to me on the way home from school that her friend with scoliosis saw her surgeon last week and due to the worsening state, spinal surgery is scheduled for her next month.  All of this weighs on the Girl's mind. Why wouldn't it? 

The Girl hated that brace, hated spending 18 hours a day in it for 18 months.  But she never whined, she never complained, she followed the routine.  She wanted it over with and was aware that sticking to the rules meant it would come off sooner and never return.  Now she fears that it didn't matter, that she will be back in it, potentially off and on for the rest of her life. Or worse, spinal surgery.  So I hold her as she cries, listening to this tough-as-nails kid with that amazing saunter as she weeps and l just hug her, helpless to do more.

I find myself thinking of the mom in the minivan, waiting every day to pop open the back of the van, to help the son she obviously loves into the seat. Is this what she imagined all of it would be? I think of Elisha Cooper, whose second book was about that same firstborn daughter - about when she was diagnosed with cancer at age seven, and the emotional turmoil that entailed. Did he ever suspect what was in front of him? 

I think of all the new parents that look into their newborn's eyes, fall in love in that oxytocin rush, idealizing a perfect future for that baby, and I wonder if they ever imagine the things that may be lurking, the changes that will happen. How could they?

Every moment of being a parent is magic - every single moment - and I wouldn't trade one for anything, but how would we ever become parents if foresight gave us any inkling of what might be coming?   

The Boy & the Girl & the G

It's funny.  I titled this post "The Boy & the Girl & the G", but that's not correct.  It should be titled, "The Man & the Woman & the Young Lady" because that's what they've become. In what feels like an instant my little ones have become grown. 

Wow! and Ow!

They are preparing to make their way in the world.  I couldn't be prouder of what they've become, and couldn't be more excited for what they will accomplish.

But...

I can't help but ache.

The Boy and the Girl both received performing arts awards over the weekend.

Not to be outdone, the G is prepping to head off to a "by invitation only" science camp to start the summer, where she'll join other girls  her age exploring the wonders of the world.

Oh, and the Boy has a sweetheart, whom he adores (as we all do.)

Would that I could have spent the rest of my days carrying them on my hip, but that was never an option.

At some point they suit up, hug you as tears well in your eyes, and with a mighty flap they take flight.

The Kindness of Strangers

Nearly 14 years ago, when I began this blog, I wrote a post (actually the 2nd post I ever did) about trying to find a copy of a book for a friend.  That book, Crawling, by Elisha Cooper, was a memoir of his first year parenting his first-born daughter.  I had read it shortly after I became a stay-at-home dad and found it compelling, and wonderful - a touchstone for me as I wrestled with my anxieties and joys along the way.

In 2016 Mr. Cooper published another memoir, Falling, chronicling his experience when his oldest daughter was diagnosed with cancer at age 7.  Never maudlin, that book laid bare his emotions and helplessness in the face of every parent's worst fear.  It's an extraordinary slice of one family's life. At the time I read it we had been coping with our own medical terrors (though nothing as life-threatening as theirs) and that added even more fuel to my sense of kinship with Mr. Cooper.

Elisha Cooper is normally a celebrated children's author who also does wonderful illustrations.  He is a Caldecott honoree, and his most recent book, River, was on the New York Times' list of the year's best children's books in 2019.  

I'm a collector of children's books.  Having done a lot of reading to my kids over the years I developed a small stable of favorites: Kevin Henkes, Kate DiCamillo, and Eleanor Lattimore (a distant relative). Mr. Cooper is included as well.  His lovely books hold a place of honor on our bookshelves, even if now my kids have long passed the age for them.

Last spring I reread my copy of Crawling.  It was still wonderful, though it carried a whiff of nostalgia for me as it conjured up memories of my first years raising my kids.  Those years feel both distant and very immediate now, and I was so grateful for the breadcrumbs to those memories that Crawling provided.  I was so grateful in fact, that I did something I have never done before:  I wrote Mr. Cooper a fan letter, thanking him for his books and sharing what they had meant to me and to my family.  I had no address for him, but was able to locate his FB page and sent it via message.  I hadn't really expected a response - had only written because I wanted to say thank you.

I sent the message in July, and to be honest, had forgotten about it completely.  Then, last Thursday evening, we returned home from a play that the Boy and the Girl were in and to my surprise there was a message from Mr. Cooper.

In it he apologized profusely for the delay - he rarely gets on FB and had not seen it until that day.  He said he was touched by my appreciation of his work and our family's love of his books. He told me his oldest daughter (who is cancer-free now) had started college this year - he had spoken to her just that day.  He added a request for my mailing address to send us a book to apologize for his lack of response, even if unintentional, and wished us his best.

I wrote back to tell him that even though a book would be highly prized in our home, it was entirely unnecessary - I had written him originally only to offer my gratitude for his works.

Yesterday a package arrived in the mail.  It contained two books: Yes & No, and Big Cat, Little Cat, each with lovely inscriptions and doodles.

We are awed by his kind act.  

Thank you, Elisha.

Sentimental? Yes.

It Beats

15 years ago we found out we were expecting our son.
This is for him.

Memorial Day

Today marks 28 years since I lost my little brother.  So I offer this memory of him (I’ve posted this before).

When we were kids Lee could be conned into anything. Regardless of how dumb or dangerous it was, he could be convinced that he could do it.

Near our home was a huge empty field.  We often rode our various bikes up there and used abandoned construction materials to build ramps that we then would jump our bikes over.

On one particular day, when I was 13 and Lee was 11, he and I, along with two friends, built just such a ramp.  It was enormous.  We took trash cans and laid them down in a line at the end of the ramp and proceeded to ride with great fury up the ramp and leap the trash cans.  The first couple of cans we took turns, each of us making our approach and flying over the obstacles.  As more cans were added the difficulty increased and the threat to life and limb became more daunting.  Eventually all of us but Lee bowed out.  He was not dissuaded.

On his attempt at five cans he barely cleared the last one.  As we cheered his landing he rode back to us and said that was it - he was done.  But we wanted one more can.  We coaxed and cajoled him - “You can do one more, c’mon, try it.”  Finally, he was convinced.

We laid the sixth can out at the end of the line.  He walked up and down those cans, mentally measuring the distance.  He climbed on his bike, a beater of a thing made of equal parts heavy beach cruiser and chopper handlebars, and rode half a block away.  He turned the bike and stared at the ramp.  As we yelled, “let’s go, let’s go,” he began to pedal madly.  It seemed to take forever for him to get to us, but once he did he was flying.  He hit the ramp and launched at the top like a rocket.  We gasped.  As he cleared the obstacles his rear wheel clipped the end of the last can.  That shortage was his disaster.  He became Knievel at Caesar’s Palace - he and the bike tumbling as one, head over heels, like a ragdoll. He came to a stop in a cloud of dust.

We raced over to him and pulled him from the wreckage - the bike frame had split in two.  Blood dripped from his nose and knees and elbows.  Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with dirt and blood.  He stood there crying, looking at the broken bike, and the ramp, and that last evil can.  And then he looked at me.  Without saying a word he began limping away, toward home.

Panic set in for me.  He would walk in the house, explain to our parents what had happened and I would be dead (my only thought at that moment was how much trouble I would be in.)  I yelled after him, “Lee! Lee!’  He ignored my calls.  “Lee,” I screamed, “Where are you going?!”

He stopped and turned.  He wiped the bloody snot from his nose, and through his tears he said with a fierce determination, “To get the other bike.”

And he did.

And he jumped that last can.

And that was my little brother.

November 13

There are milestones - landmarks - in children's growth and then there are milestones.   Stupid as it seems today is the anniversary of one of them.  On, November 13, 2006, eleven years ago today, the Boy was permitted to watch television.  See, I told you - stupid.

He had been kept from the tube throughout infancy.  He wasn't plopped down in front of it, his numb gaze transfixed.  We didn't even watch it when he was in the room.  I'm not pounding my chest with superiority; it's just a choice we made.  We just thought the world should give him a taste of its wonders before he got lost in the flat void.

However the day arrived when we felt he was ready for limited and controlled viewing.  I sampled loads of children's programming before settling on, what at the time was, PBS Kids Sprout, a relatively new cable channel with limited advertising (aimed not at kids but at caregivers) and relatively quiet shows that for the most part were reruns of PBS shows. Sesame Street, Sagwa and their kin made up the programming.

So on that day I let him have that hour and I observed him carefully.  Intrigued, but not overwhelmed, he watched... and enjoyed.  The timing of its introduction into his development was pretty good.  His own imagination and play was supplemented, but not replaced, by what he watched.

Sprout as it existed then was a regular part of our home for a number of years after.  Its sounds echoed through the house in the late afternoons and evenings and those familiar theme songs and shows can draw up memories for all of us.  It continued playing long after all three kids had passed its target age.

This last September Sprout changed to Universal Kids.  It had been coming.  Comcast bought out PBS and other partners a few years back, upped the ad content, increased the programming of merchandise-oriented shows, and basically abandoned that which had made Sprout uniquely suited to younger viewers.  That's life, I guess.  We had it good for a while.

It's been a sad farewell to yet another bit of magic from that part of their lives.

So, here's a clip from that very day 11 years ago (he actually watched this that day.)

Tomorrow

It's 1:00 am.  I just woke up and can't get back to sleep.

Today is the 78th anniversary of Kristallnacht.

The people have spoken before...

6 Years Gone

It was 6 years ago today, following a week of stubborn refusal to exit the womb, that the monkey made her appearance.  

If kids are amusement park rides, then the Boy is a carousel (round and round), and the Girl equals the bumper cars, but the G is without a doubt the roller coaster.  She of the highs and lows, of the crushingly fast turns and gravity-defying loops.  It's not called G-force for nothing.  She's an E-ticket and worth every minute.  

Here's every birthday since (because otherwise I wouldn't believe it has all happened).

Happy 6th, Butternut.

Merry Christmas

From us, to you

Blink

"How did it get so late so soon?"

 - Dr. Seuss

Tomorrow is a milestone, a minor one in the grand scheme of things, but a milestone nonetheless.  Tomorrow is the first day of school. It is also the first day when all of our offspring will be participants in it.  The Boy begins 4th grade. The Girl begins 2nd. The G enters kindergarten. So there you have it - the last of the fledglings will take her first real steps outside the nest. She will be following the first two who have already opened their feathers, stretched out, and tested the thermals.

Flash forward a decade and the G will be entering her sophomore year in high school, the Girl will start her senior year, and the Boy, the first of our brood, will begin his sophomore year of college. Assuming there is no boomerang, our son has already passed the halfway point of the time he will share our home.

But 10 years seems time enough, right?  Down the road three thousand six hundred fifty days feels distant, doesn't it?

Or does it?

10 years ago today was a Friday - Friday the 13th.  My wife and I had lived in this house for a mere 7 months, having moved here from points north. We had been together more than 7 years by that time and were just a couple weeks shy of our 3rd wedding anniversary, which we would celebrate in Hawaii. We were an unencumbered pair, with no real responsibilities beyond a cat and a couple of dogs.  Our time was our own and we indulged it freely, whether with travel, dining out, movies, or often just a picnic.  We were free and time was on our side. Yes, time was our ally, matched our rhythm, allowed us to savor, to reflect, to breath.

On that Friday 10 years back we were expecting guests, the Triple Ds - Dan, Deb, and their five year old daughter, Dharma.  They were among our first visitors since our move. Dan, an architect, would offer up his help for a planned remodel of our new home.

It was an otherwise ordinary weekend of old friends coming together with perhaps too much wine. It was only punctuated by my wife's unusual queasiness throughout, and an injury to my knee during a picnic hike.

Though by the calendar it was long ago, I remember every single detail of that weekend - remember them all acutely.  It feels as if no more than a week has passed.  I remember our guests' late arrival 10 years ago today, the bruschetta growing soggy on the dining table for them.  I remember Dan stretching his measuring tape that weekend, here and there.  I remember sitting in the chair of our living room, my knee wrapped, and mitigating the pain with a good vintage. I remember Deb stepping out on the patio repeatedly to remind Dan they needed to leave, and Dan placating her - "Yeah, in just a bit" - before returning again to our conversation. I remember the deviled eggs my wife made on a whim the day of the trio's departure and the fondness I felt both for my wife and those eggs. I remember it all despite the 10 intervening years.

We didn't know it then, but that innocuous weekend marked the beginning of something.  Our life was forever changed from that point on.  The injury to my knee turned out to be a torn ACL. But that nausea my wife felt over that weekend? It was morning sickness.  Exactly one week after that day 10 years removed from this one my wife and I were informed that a child, our child, was growing within her.  A new volume was about to be penned in our story.

The decade since has been a cascade of change. We welcomed the Boy, and then the Girl, and then the G.  Our nightstands groaned under the weight of well-thumbed copies of What to Expect When You're Expecting and The Expectant Father and Dr. Sears. We devoted hours to finding the perfect diapers or safest carseat, were overwhelmed by cute onsies and adorable mobiles. The house was flooded with shape sorters and strollers, diaper wipes and Caillou, teddy bears and board books - nearly drowning us - and then, in a breath, that tide receded, denuding our home of all that precious driftwood. Birthdays and Christmases and milestones melted their candles, burned their bows, and raced by.  For years we slept with small humans upon us and beside us, but their imprints are now long faded from our bedding.

Over those 10 years our home's often deafening music receded to nothing, supplanted by the luxuriance of extemporaneous lullabies and bedtime books, memorized word for word. And oh, all those idealized first words, lost teeth, and potty times.  Bandaids and hugs became commonplace, gently soothing little wounds. We planted trees, built playhouses, and marked our children's palms in concrete. Baby bumps and breast pumps. Fridge pictures and freezers of milk.  Tears, vomit, poo, and countless readings of Good Night Moon.  Nina and Star and plasma cars.  Purple buckets and dino nuggets. Bouncy seats and mommy meets. Rationed Pez and Simon Says.  Wiping yet another bum, and "waiting for the hot to come."  From pull-ups to piano lessons, jumpers to jump ropes, "yogi-dogis" to yearbooks, we piled up these perfect fallen leaves only to watch helplessly as they scattered in a whirlwind of seasons flying by.

We have marched through preschool and into grade school.  Playgrounds have been conquered, nightmares banished, training wheels abandoned. Self-consciousness has been kept at bay, protecting the fertile ground of whimsy, fairies, songs and wonder.  The magic of Santa and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy prevailed triumphantly before being mortally wounded this year (at least for the oldest) by life's most indelicate cruelty.

Though these past 10 years have seen us indescribably joyful at our children's births and lives, we have also deeply grieved the deaths of those pets that began the decade with us. And there has been more to weep.  My grandfather has passed. My wife's father - my children's only grandfather - was lost just this last spring. Our time has been scored by geneticists, cardiologists, therapists and ER visits; scarred by the stumbles, mumbles and dislocations, the broken windows and the broken backs that prompted those encounters.  Our great, unbridled happiness over the last decade has been countered with a series of crushing blows that initially caused us utter panic, and then depressive dismay, and finally resigned shrugs.  It's as if the universe uses the laws of physics when meting out life to us: for every action there must be an equal and opposite reaction.  Balance in all things, I suppose, but it has at times felt too cruel.

All of this has happened and so much, so much, more since that weekend of reunion a decade ago.  It is far too much to hold in the flutter of 10 years.  It overflows.  And it has gone by so fast.  I blinked, and ended up here.  How does so much happen so quickly?  This is not a case of regret, it isn't another chorus of Cat's In the Cradle.  I didn't miss anything.  I was here the whole time.  And still there wasn't time enough.  Had I avoided sleep for the decade I still could not have taken it all in.

All of which begs the question: what of the next three thousand, six hundred fifty days?  As the kids shake off the last of our cuddles, and begin their climb towards adulthood, how do we catch it all? If the last decade hurtled by how will we cope with what's ahead?  How do we slow it down?  How do we wrap it up, rope it, leash it, stop it?

How do we keep from blinking?

I don't know.  I doubt anyone does.

But I do know these tears make it hard not to.

The Pool

It's been a regular feature here for nine years. Every summer. Through its many incarnations (a different one every season) it has cooled the offspring almost every day during the torrid summers here.   It has provided them with a respite from the heat and reason to laugh and splash and run and otherwise indulge themselves. It's probably saved a few baths as well.

Many of our neighbors have in ground pools.  They are, if not a standard real estate feature, then at least a fairly common one.  The Valley gets hot and pools are how residents here beat the heat.  Most of the pools aren't even heated, depending instead upon the sun to take care of that, and the sun does. 

Our house has no pool, so the inflatable variety has been our only option.  They have been purchased usually in late May and we have generally been fortunate enough to have them make it through an entire summer (one year it took three purchases to get to September).

The first year, when the Boy was a year old, saw the classic round model, easily inflated and filled.  His summer that year was a wet one (and carefully watched.)   His first unassisted steps took place in that pool on the Fourth of July, practice for the dry land walking milestone that followed 8 days later.

The following year, as if to make up for the dullness of the previous year's model, I went all out.  An inflatable water park with a slide and ring toss, a basketball hoop and a rain curtain.  It was a hit with the kid and though initially fearful of the slide he eventually made the big climb and indulged himself.  It was almost daily.

In 2008, the new pool reflected his growing interest in dinos/dragons and featured two slides that he could utilize.  The poor design of the pool meant that once inflated neither the head nor the tail stayed on the ground, but I doubt he noticed.  That year, for her introduction to water recreation, the Girl got her own small pool complete with an inflatable sunshade.  In contrast to the Boy's crazed water fest she was often found contentedly sitting in her pool, sucking her finger.

The next year the realization that it would be shared by two kids meant that a large (and therefore) more pedestrian pool was called for. Deep and long, it easily accommodated two active children.  That model pool became the standard from then on.  Every year since it has been the one we spent our hard-earned dollars upon (in either green or blue.)

Fortunately it proved large enough to keep three of them content once the G joined the fray.


Today I filled the pool for probably the last time this season.  School begins in three days and even though the weekends are a possibility it seems we spend little time with it on Saturdays or Sundays.  This year has seen a substantial drop in interest with the pool.  The girls still get excited when they see me fill it, but rarely request it.  The Boy shrugs his shoulders at the opportunity; he would rather go bike-riding with the boy next door.  As a result, this was likely the last year to include the early season run to Target for "the pool."

I find myself sadly sentimental about this "passage" (as I am about a lot of things regarding the kids of late.)  I will miss the constant smell of sunscreen.  I will miss the exhaustion-provoked naps that followed their splashing.  I will miss their screams of "Make It Rain!" as I thumb the hose-end and chase them about the yard.  I will miss running a towel over their heads and the tangled mass of child hair left in its wake.  I will miss the sound of their laughter as I make snacks to appease them when it is time to come in.  I will miss the constancy of towels drying in the sun every late afternoon.  I will miss the clumped mass of grass clippings floating there at day's end.  I will even miss the exertion from dumping the last of the water that failed to drain or, patch in hand, the frustration of desperately seeking the most recent hole.  I will miss the sincere "thank you" that soundtracked the filling of the pool, and the joyful, wet, hugs after.

But mostly, I will miss my kids being little kids, because all too quickly they just aren't anymore.

8 Years Ago Today

A visit to the grand parents.

Seasons Change

Hmmm...
It was more than 6 years ago that I began this blog.  Nearly 3 years since I last posted.  But in those initial three years of blogging there were more than a thousand posts.
Ahh, heady times.

Life got in the way.  The litany of family upheavals, the usurpation of fast updates via Facebook, the sense that I was writing rather than living, and the passing of the personal blog into its little corner of history all led to the abandonment.  It wasn't just me.  Most of the blogs I linked and followed have tottered down the same dusty trail - Curry, Blaize, Steve, etc have packed it up and chucked it in.  Only Banks maintains his corner of the blogosphere.

The funny thing is, I find myself referring back to this blog regularly.  It acts a repository of memories and history from that time: a little diary of my life - my family's life.  It's surprising how often it reminds me of something I would have forgotten entirely had it not been for this documentation.

So...
After much internalized debate I've opted to start again, to try to make the dots connect with some degree of regularity.  Years from now, as my memory becomes even more corrupted, perhaps this will be my map back.  This is a new season for our lives.  They aren't little kids anymore.

In the meantime,
People grow...

Comes Around Once A Year

A repost for this day.

The phone rang while I was shaving. It was quarter of seven in the morning, but a phone call wasn't uncommon at that hour. I would frequently get early calls from the office to let me know if there were problems waiting for me when I arrived. However, after the long Memorial Day weekend I really didn't want to start the week with issues. RC got the phone. She said it was for me. "Is it Tracy?" I asked as I walked to the phone. "It doesn't sound like her," RC answered, sotto voce.

"Hello?" I said putting the phone to my ear.
"Lex?" asked the voice at the other end.
"Yes."
"You don't know me, Lex. I work with your mom. My name is Rick," she said.
"Hi, Rick," I said.
"Kind of a weird thing to ask, I know, but do you know how to get a hold of your mom?"
"Uh, I think she's still in Washington. She took a long weekend there with a friend," I answered.
"Yeah, we can't reach her."
"I have a phone number she gave me. Let me get it." I flipped through the pad next to the phone and recited the number to her.
"That's the one we have, but no one is answering," she said.
"I'm sorry, that's all I have. They probably took the phone off the hook."
She was quiet for a while.
"Are you still there?" I asked, finally.
"Lex, I know we've never met, but I have some bad news." she said quietly.
"Oh," I said, a little confused, "What happened?"
"There's been an accident," she said.
Oh God, I thought, one of my grandparents has fallen and broken a hip. Great.
"I feel weird telling you. I've never met you," she said, obviously nervous.
"Well, you know, just tell me, I guess," I said, a little befuddled.
Her voice broke. "Your brother was in an accident yesterday."
"Lee?" I asked.
"He... he was killed."
"What?" I said quietly.
"Lee was killed."
"What?" I said, a little louder.
"An accident, yesterday, Lee was killed."
"What?" I yelled.
"On his motorcycle, yesterday, in Denver. I'm so sorry."
"What!" I screamed.
RC stood next to me and asked me what was I talking about. I said the words: "Lee is dead."
RC screamed, "Oh God!" and collapsed against the wall before sliding to the floor, her head in her hands. I turned back to the phone. Rick was just saying how sorry she was. I don't really remember listening to her much after that. I just remember mumbling, what, over and over again; a gut-wrenching mantra.

There was for me the sense of walking on a seabed in an old diving suit, the clunky lead boots tied me to the muck below as my body's buoyancy fought to push me to the surface. It felt like I had forgotten the helmet and I could not breath.

That phone call came 18 years ago today, May 29th, 1990. It was a stone thrown in a pond, changing everything, the ripples of which continue even now. Of course, it wasn't the phone call that did the changing; it was the previous day's death the phone call reported that did the destruction. Although Lee died on that Memorial Day, it's always felt to me like he died the day after, during that early morning phone call. It was as if all those whats I kept repeating were my desperate attempts to save him: a verbal defibrillator that failed.

By September of that year I would be running through most of Europe on a three month odyssey to escape that which I could not fix, could not manage away. It was a failed solution, the first of many, from alcohol to hermitage; none of which could make the pain stop (I even made a bitter and angry list, pages and pages long, of everyone that I thought a more just universe should have killed before him - in hindsight, a rather funny roll call).

For so many years after his death I saw the loss of my brother, my dearest, closest friend, as something I must get over - must move beyond - as if it were separate and distinct from myself, some obstacle thrown up in my path to be pushed aside or navigated around. That proved impossible, not just because my grief was so devasting, but because it would not be left behind. Only when I realized that it would always be with me did I see my way forward. The tragedy would be a sledge I hauled behind me for the rest of my days in exhaustion, or even an anchor that eternally tethered me to a horrible moment; or I could pick the grief up, pare it down, and stow it in a pack, to be carried forever as part of my baggage. I choose the latter; better to bear it on my back than drag it through the dirt.

Over time its added weight has strengthened me and expanded my endurance. The weight also means I move more deliberately and, on some days, more painfully, but I move. As I grow older I find, like backpacking through the mountains, I must rest more frequently as I tire more quickly. On the worst of days it can make me gasp for air, but that, at least, is breathing.

My son's middle name is my brother's first. My Boy looks very much like his uncle and his best qualities - his sweetness, his empathy, his laugh - remind me of his namesake. I see my sibling every day in my child. That makes the load both heavier and lighter. That is my life, after.

So, today, it is with me, as it is every day, and like that heavy backpack in the mountains I must shift it as needed to ease its burden, to maintain my balance, but I can not leave it behind. It is part of who I am and who I will always be.

And, on this day, I miss him, a lot.

Our Year

The Year Ends - 2010 from arlopop on Vimeo.