‘Sometimes you should not be the one to help.’
These are non-linear recollections of a day and how they will remain special buried in my memory’s filing cabinets, but secured here just in case.
Mismatched.
The bicycle is too small. It is far too small. It does not fit. It is the price, perhaps, of being a middle child, or a third child, or of existing at age six at a point which has been difficult for me to provide dedicated training to getting him on a full-size, correct-fitting pedal bike. It’s on me, not him. That being said…
…SLOW DOWN! I screamed angrily at him as he hurtled past at the speed of six hundred something.
I CAN’T! He shrieked back as he blew up and down the concrete slopes, violently hurling himself and his two-wheeler down the stairs, his mohawk helmet providing just enough cranial support to assuage my concern.
At a certain point, as he whizzed across the skate park, I became less concerned about his head and more concerned for my feet; his seeming ability to pop up everywhere and crash into me unawares was a combination of quantum physics and Looney Toons.
I want to get him on a full-size bike with pedals. Yet I also question whether he will ever again achieve the level of exultation and joy reached on this rainy morning, on his woefully undersize little pedal bike, his smile cracking the air all around.
Meanwhile.
His younger brother stood by, resolutely, emphatically irritated at being forced to ride a bike when his heart was already at the library.
It’s not even open yet, I reminded him.
Skate parks are for this and this and that and that.
Eventually the bikes went back and the art supplies, paper, and books came out. In relative silence we drew, and drew, and scrawled and scribbled until I read a small stack of the big pile I brought out,
And I love the opportunities you can create by taking your favorite activities on the road, making the mobile, and placing them into different environments.
What we most desire : musings of a 6-year old on the road.
You know what acrually sounds really good? He asked as we pulled next to the library. What’s it called, umm, jello, I think? That sounds good because I haven’t tried it before and it sounds good because I want to try it since I haven’t tasted it and it looks good and mama already told me there’s different types.
The Library.
Yes, the historical perception of libraries are as staid, quiet, solemn places of academia and reflection and learning and books, and yes, that is one Janus-face of libraries and yes, that is sometimes good,
And yes, the modern reality of libraries is that they can also have pockets of loud, exuberant patrons expressing excitement over the discovery and re-discovery and exploration that is infinitely contained and expanding within the world’s books, and perhaps using it for any other of other functions as well: research, playing, art, studying, talking, perhaps even…reading.
I’ve loved to observe the different levels of independence our kids go through in gaining confidence in libraries; the ways they will prompt each other and push each other and eventually find the courage to go to the front desk, peer over, and ask - often in in tandem - the question they want to ask. Do you have any art packets in? Do you have any books about ____? Can I please borrow some crayons? Et cetera.
Often the questions they need to ask are questions I could answer or help with. But why?
It is one of my favorite things to see them trotting around the stacks, a library assistant in tow, helping them out.
I love that so much.
I want to be the go-to guy, one of the first persons our kids come to with questions about anything.
But sometimes you shouldn’t be the one to raise your hand, even when you know the answer,
And sometimes you shouldn’t be the one to answer a question, even when you know you can help.
Because sometimes part of helping is letting someone else help.
The falsehoods and memory lapses that leave us gasping for breath.
Can we please go eat lunch somewhere inside? We’re not really, uhh, outside people.
He said, trying to keep his 6-year old face straight.
Let me get this straight, I said: You’re longing, and pining, and wishing for a scenario in which you could eat…inside?
Yeah. He said happily. Wouldn’t it be fun to just eat inside somewhere?
Tell you what, I said. I’ll compromise. We’ll eat under a roof.
It’s raining, he pointed out helpfully.
Well that changes things, I said. In that case, we’ll eat under a roof.
And we did.
The River.
We continued to the water. One was ecstatic about the possibility of finding crawdads. The other was disconsolate about this plan. The latter’s lack of enthusiasm did not deter the former, so we found ourselves river-side, searching for crustaceans and arthropods and creatures of any type; none were to be found, but…
…but we found rocks. Pretty rocks! Orange rocks. Smooth rocks and sharp rocks and lots of rocks.
“Is this a sedimentary rock?” The disconsolate one asked, forgetting for a magical period of time his disconsolate irritation at being herded down here.
I believe so, I said, handing it back and watching him stuff it down his raincoat.
Bridge Over the River Why?
Everybody is good at one thing in life, and the one thing I’m good at - really good at - is building bridges. I’m going tell a brief and short version of what happened. The brief and short version is that there was a giant creek, but as I am a person of hope and vision, I could see that it was fordable. “Fordable” means crossable. Barely so.
Lest you get the wrong idea from what I’m about say, let me say that the building of this bridge was a dangerous undertaking, and the fact that two boys ages 3 and 6 forded the large creek before I built the bridge should not lead you to believe it was less than perilous. One small variable, although largely insignificant, is that they wore rubber boots. I was wearing my nice hiking shoes that were very nice for the first three minutes I wore them until a goblin-child stomped muddy feet all over them. They no longer look new, but I did not want to fall in for two reasons:
It could be very, very dangerous if I fell in because as I stated, it was a big creek that would require some deft engineering and balancing of gargantuan logs.
It would leave my feet wet if I fell in.
Skipping to the end, I will simply say that I built this bridge as Frank Lloyd might build a bridge; that is to say I built it right. I did it right and I did it well, and upon checking it for maximum safety before embarking on the perilous crossing, I cautiously, courageously stepped out onto it.
What happened next is not up for debate, and I would encourage you to not seek out alternative descriptions of the event from other witnesses. What happened was that somebody must have moved one of the giant logs I had assembled, because I tumbled off, deftly catching my balance enough to save me from serious calamity, but not enough to prevent me from tumbling in, fully clothed, all the way up to my ankles, almost.
In the end, my shoes were wet, but my body and my pride were intact, because I know I built a good bridge, and I handled a terrible mishap quite well, all things considered.
Again, this story is much better without alternative interpretations of this event floating around, so I strongly suggest you stick to my reliable account and consider it canon.
The Playground.
He is two, maybe three, in camo.
She is of Russian descent, 20s, I catch a few syllables as she laughs with him and shows how to use monkeybars,
Then returns to her phone,
Finally deciding to leave; she decides.
The vote has been cast, there is one elector, the decision is final, but not final to fifty percent of the population.
He kicks bark chips angrily and looses a torrent of syllables I do not follow.
She picks him up and their exit is a mix of grace and ignominy; it is reminiscent of a different outcome not so far back in which the mother was played by The Law and the boy was played by another childish, though not as charming or playful or articulate boy; a different boy in a larger body; that departure however, was fully ignominious.
Happily, this little boy will likely return to the playground of play, and sadly, the other little boy appears likely to return to the playground of democracy, where he will continue kicking bark chips and screaming epithets largely unintelligible, until, I hope and pray, he is carried away, again and for good, from the playgrounds of power, once again.
In the end.
In the end, we’re together, and we eat pasta and do driver’s ed and ride more undersized bikes and read books and fix hard drives and read chess and FaceTime with a musician just back from New York City.
In the end, in the end.
In the end, I frequently think about the roadtrip of emotions and feelings and observations that each day takes us on,
And in the end I don’t want to remember everything.
There are some days where I see more of some of my family than others and those are the seasons of life; some seasons and some days you are up closer with some than with others, but in the end,
In the end, we are together in this season, and we share the joys and frustrations and sadnesses and hilarities of the parts we didn’t experience together, and they get mismashed up, each of us to have different slices of today and every day to remember and unconsciously curate for our future.
I want to remember little pieces of the little, and grab hold of them, and keep them precious.
Like these.