bentangle

It is interesting how much emotion can be conveyed with a small amount of words.  For instance, this morning as I was getting ready to leave the house I called up the stairs to everyone to let them know that I was leaving for work.  Each of my family members replied in turn in their own unique ways:

Grasshopper: BYE DADDY, I LOVE YOU!

Cricket: I belong to you, Daddy!

My wife: The money is on the table.

The last sounds odd out of context, though in truth there was no immediate conversational context to it – my wife and I just have a very down-to-earth relationship and have a knack for picking up random long-dead conversation threads and/or answering each others unasked questions.  But the tone of each response reflects much greater depth of the emotions behind them than the words themselves convey.  My kids are full of exuberant, idealistic affection for the father that they only see in passing in the morning and for a few hours in the evening. My wife, already in the trenches of dealing with getting the kids ready for the day, sticks with purposeful messaging (the love we share is known, implied, and not in need of constant reinforcement).

I can’t help but wonder sometimes, when in my own life the level of emotional openness and heightened expression that my kids seem to exude had faded.  What are the factors that delay or expedite this process?  When should I expect my daughter to transition from her current puppy-dog phase to something more similar to the cynical teen that I’m sure she might become?  Should I try to stave it off or just accept what comes?

The oddity of it is that it is so dissimilar to my own attitude I find myself sometimes wondering if we are really related.  I wouldn’t necessarily call myself cynical (though I certainly maintain a healthy level of cynicism), but I’m definitely a picture of nonchalance.  A perfect example of my cool under pressure demeanor is one that is often cited by my in-laws – usually around Thanksgiving.

The event in question happened during a Thanksgiving about a decade ago at my wife’s aunt’s house.  While my aunt-in-law and several other of the matriarchs of the family were buzzing about the kitchen and the majority of the men and children where engrossed in whatever football game happened to be on, I walked through the dining room to grab a snack from the kitchen island on the other end of it.  As I did so, I noticed that one of the drip candles that were on the table seemed to have dropped a piece of wick and as a result a circle of the tablecloth about two inches across had been charred and was slowly edging wider by some very low flames.  I calmly walked into the kitchen and asked my aunt-in-law “Aunt Ann, your table is on fire.  Do you have a pot holder I can borrow?” to which she responded with a flabbergasted “What!?”.  While she wended through the people in the kitchen to get to the dining room and see what I was referring to, I grabbed the first thing I could find to handle the task – a damp dishrag.  By the time I got back there, she and two of my wife’s cousins were watching the now soda-can diameter ring of fire in abject shock.  I skirted around them and patted the fire out with the dishrag, blew out the candles to avoid any possible recurrence, and grabbed a couple of sweet gherkins from the pickle tray and went about my business.    The rest of the ladies seemed to bustle about it for a while before the table was retrimmed and the commotion reformed in the kitchen where it previously resided.  Many of the men didn’t even seem to notice anything had happened.  But my aunt-in-law tells the story of it almost every year.

Anyway, I know that I am somewhat unique in my lack of excitability.  But there are times when I wish a little of it would rub off on my kids (and perhaps at moments my wife as well).  While I appreciate the positive end of their heightened emotional state, the negative side of it is rarely much fun.  Cricket is a picture of indecisiveness – she can easily waste a half-hour trying to decide whether pink or yellow shorts go better with the brown shirt she is wearing (and then throw on leprechaun socks).  Grasshopper will have a 20-minute stand off over not liking green beans (including throwing silverware and having a tantrum across the house) before finally eating a forkful and realizing he loves them.  The trouble with family drama seems to be the balance – keeping the levels of comedy and tragedy in line and not pegged at 11.

I wish I could say that I was sitting comfortably and at ease as I write this.  But that is, for the time being, not possible.  I currently feel generally like I’ve been kicked where it hurts, and the feeling is likely not going to go away for a while.

See, this morning I took action on a decision my wife and I have made regarding the growth of our family – namely that it is done growing.  So after having talked to my doctor and then a urologist, this morning I went under the knife (more like a needle, a scalpel, and a cauterizing gun).  The procedure was pretty simple (note the use of the word simple, not easy) – in less than an hour I was in and out and on my way home.  Unfortunately within that hour I had to be cleaned, shorn, injected with Novocaine, and have things pushed, pulled, and poked around (parts of which were performed by a nurse so burly that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see prison tattoos on her arms).  Of course, as the doctor is going through these steps he is also chatting with me about things like work, computers, etc.  While I appreciated the distraction, it is hard to concentrate on talking about what my company does while someone is trying to shift things into position by hand.

The good part of the aftermath is that my wife was kind enough to have the kids at her mom’s house for the day.  The last thing I need right now is Grasshopper being the Kamikaze ninja that he often seems to pretend to be all over me as I try to sit and relax on the couch.  The down side is that it is almost too quiet around here – I have a feeling the day will tend to drag out as a result.  Though I’m not really willing to sacrifice my safety and comfort in the name of making the time more interesting with the kids around.  I’m sure I’ll manage to keep myself occupied.

Another down side is that this is not the only medical concern I have to deal with right now.  I potentially have at least two more procedures to endure in the near future related to other issues.   For one, I seem to have a tooth that needs to be pulled and replaced with an implant (neither of which I’m looking forward to).  Secondly, I have a kidney stone that is about an inch in diameter that will need to be surgically removed (at least I won’t have to pass it).  If I were an optimist, perhaps I would feel good in the fact that I’ll have an excuse to use up some vacation days before the end of the year (though not really in forms that could be considered enjoyable).

So, barring any unforeseen complications with today’s events, I am highly unlikely to have to worry about having any more children.  While there is no doubt that I love the two I have, two is a fine number to have (and I’m not really up for another infant – I’m done with diapers).  In a world growing as rapidly as it is, I’ll stick with breaking even in my own contributions to it.  And now I can just sit back and enjoy what I have (aside from some temporary discomfort).

Last night as I’m kneeling on my son’s floor waiting for his stuffy sniffling to transition to the stuffy mouth-breathing of sleep, I found myself pondering the number of times I’ve found myself in such a position – apparently enough to know that neither sitting nor lying down would have left me in a comfortable state when I left.  These moments are much fewer than they’d been in the past; at times my wife and I practically took turns sleeping on his floor.  Now it is once a month on average at most.

Grasshopper’s sleeping woes have typically been just what one would expect from a toddler:  afraid to be alone, afraid of the dark, afraid of the sound of the washing machine on the other side of the wall.  In the past few months he had resorted often to sleeping on his floor claiming he was scared of his bed.  His bed, mind you, is a happy, plastic fire engine, so I wasn’t really clear of what there was to be afraid.  But it was easier to setup a couple of comforters on the floor as a mattress than to delve into the motivations of a 3 year-old, so we accommodated him and went about our activities.

For the past few weeks it had escalated to the point that his mattress sat on the floor for him to sleep on and I was close to sliding his fire engine bed out to the back yard as play furniture.  But as I contemplated this plan, I realized that I should really address the root problem rather than work around it (after all he was running out of floor space).  So I put his bed back together and we attempted a return to relative normalcy.  Of course, that very night as I attempt to settle the troops, he starts to get anxious and claims that he is scared.  So I ask what it is that he is afraid of.  As it turns out, he is afraid of a shadow that his night light makes on the wall as a result of a hump on the side of the bed along the wall.  So I grabbed something firm and rectangular, wedged it alongside the mattress to block the dip where the hump shadow was visible and – voila! – problem solved.  Unfortunately the object I grabbed was a picture frame which I didn’t realize actually had glass in it, so yesterday there was a clean-up issue.  But now the frame has been replaced with a blanket and a pillow and all is generally leveling out nicely … until allergies kick in.  It is always something.

Seeing the bedtime drama I still experience with Cricket, I know that the end is not yet in sight.  But it is at least getting easier to diffuse.  And soon I may never have to sleep anywhere but my bed … unless my wife has something to say about it.

Fruit flies, that is.  I somehow gained them last weekend while my wife was away and by mid-week despite our best efforts to thwart them, they became a plague upon our kitchen (still not sure what they were drawn to).  I began to think that I may have to share residence with them long-term and considered whether they could somehow pull their weight around the place.  But after a couple of strokes of ingenuity, I managed to reclaim my keep.  My remastery was a three-pronged attack involving (a) ‘humane’ traps (not that I really cared for their welfare) of old veggies and vinegar in bowls covered in perforated plastic wrap, (b) inhumane traps (fly strips) and (c) a vacuum with a long hose – the latter proved to be the game-changer.  There are a few survivors, but they won’t last in the long game.  I’ve got their number.

In other news, we are doing our best to squeeze what juice we can out of what remains of the summer.  Yesterday we treated ourselves to a dessert of evening pool time.  We bought a membership in for the summer and I think that it was only the third time I’ve personally made it there.  I did get the chance to see the fruits of my daughter’s swimming lessons.  Her general swimming and treading water has improved a lot (still room for growth, but she has more confidence at it) and I got the treat of seeing her jump off of the diving board about a dozen times (the last two of which she actually attempted to dive and succeeded in belly-flopping).  My son, who chickened out of his lessons 3/4 of the way through the first session, still sticks to hit comfort zone.  I guess I should look on the bright side – he has never seemed overly concerned about how he compares to anyone including his sister, so perhaps peer pressure won’t be all that heavy a factor with him later in life (one can hope).

In continuing our summer fun and not to be daunted by the stormy weather, today (I guess yesterday by the time this is posted) we spent the day at Giggleberry Fair (an indoor play place in Peddler’s Village).  The kids had hours of fun, my wife got tons of pictures, and I got pelted a lot by foam balls and dragged through many spaces not meant for upright, full-height adults.  Granted it was a blast, but by the end my neck and knees ached, my hair was slicked and my shirt semi-saturated with sweat, and my thirst nigh unquenchable.

But now the temperatures seem to be going back into the miserable range (and there is that pesky thing called work), so our summertime adventures will be dwindling as the start of first grade looms on the horizon for Cricket (and Grasshopper will too be returning to preschool, though details as to where have yet to be worked out).  So I return to the grind, mindful that there will be storms to be weathered and some share of pests, but fully prepared to dive in and slough off what missiles life shoots my way.

On the suggestion of a family member, I recently read an older sci-fi/fantasy novel called Jack of Shadows by Roger Zelazny (the person recommending it is an English professor who loves Doctor Who, so it is easy to give his recommendation some credence).  I am being accurate in labeling it both science fiction and fantasy as it takes place in a distance future where the Earth has long since stopped rotating (to be more accurate, it is in synchronous rotation) and while the residents of the day-side have continued to advance in science, the dark side has taken to the arcane arts and maintains a feudal society based on seats of magical power.  In this world, the protagonist, Jack of Shadows, was born of the twilight zone and as a result has magic that is rooted to shadows themselves rather than any geographical location.

In this story Jack, a thief, finds himself quickly at odds with some daysiders that results in his death (which seems to merely be a temporary inconvenience).  When he returns to being, he takes on a long-term mission of vengeance against those that wronged him.  This journey leads him on a quest for power which, as we all know, corrupts.  But Jack was never really the good guy to begin with, so a turn from shady to deeper shadow is not all that out of character.

While the story was a rather short novel, the world that Zelazny imagined in it had a lot of potential for further exploration and was well thought out.  Though it showed some of its age in the portrayal of technology.  For instance, Jack ends up spending some time dayside using up computer time at a university.  Given that the book was published in 1971, it is no surprise that computers could hardly be depicted in any other way than as mainframe systems that process data and spit out print results.  And one item that struck me as odd was the use of candles as the primary source of artificial light everywhere.  I guess electricity was not likely distributed well darkside, and dayside there was hardly need of lights if there was window access, but it seemed a little odd and was something on which the author failed to elaborated.

Generally though, I rather enjoyed the story.  It was a far cry from most of what I’ve grown accustomed to reading lately, but definitely in a good way.  It has led me to consider broadening my literary horizons – perhaps by reading more of Zelazny’s works.  But we shall see what lands on my reading list next.  A bunch of co-workers (many of which have Nooks) have expressed an interest in starting a small book club where we actually read in coordination.  If that happens, it will likely shape my reading list for a time and I may find myself peppering those reviews with notes from the group.  And as always, I’m open to suggestions on new books.