The agony & the ecstasy of collective bargaining.

Today, maybe tomorrow.

They still awaken, most days, in our bed, squeezed between us, either a wall or a bridge. I don’t always like it, those pattering feet in the early early morning dark as they selfishly waggle under the covers, and then commence kicking them off. I get irritated and irritable. But I also know those little wiggly bodies won’t do it forever. Our Olders, selfishly, reside in their own beds the night through, and it probably is as it should be. Someday, perhaps soon, the current nightly migratory patterns of our Youngers will go from “most night” to “many nights” to “sometimes” to “occasionally” to…no…I’m not going to put it into words.

A reason.

What gets them up every day before 7am varies. This season of life, this month, it is…weaving. Yes, weaving. They have these little looms, courtesy of their grandmother, and they faithfully, carefully, have learned to use these, their little hands erringly moving yarn and thread through as they work on various designs.

Chores, far away.

One in Flash sweatshirt, one in pajamas, we clog our way to their grandparents’ garden a short ways away. Their grandmother is gone and we they I am tasked with helping water. They are actually willing helpers, when they are not distracted eating berries or apples or tomatoes off vines and trees and bushes.

Soundtrack for a Tuesday.

Matthew Ryan. His gravelly track Babybird from A Late Night Highrise is still one of my favorite songs of 2007.

The sounds of delight and giddiness over Countess Mum returning from work at 5.33pm.

Gamers.

There’s a game. A loud game. It involves popping a dice that jet engines around a little bubble in the middle of the game board, and each player goes that number of spaces around. Land on someone? They have to go back. Winner is the first to circumnavigate their four pieces all the way around. It is thrilling and loud, Game 7 NBA finals loud and thrilling sometimes. And it’s four kids, ages four to 17, no quarter given, alliances made and shattered, calories burned and egos bent and hopes broken.

There is a second round, post-supper, at the table, accompanied by popsicles. I decide to dwell on the energy of four siblings playing a game and not dwell on where the popsicle juice is melting onto, as they hover and dart over the game pieces.

This competition is exciting, and it is has been a major part of these summer days.

Forest Dwelling Animals

We head to the woods, the deep dark woods; a woods containing many strange and frightening animals. None more so than the two I am with, ages 4 and 7. One with a backpack, one with a magnifying glass, both with sticks, they ascend the trunk of a giant, sprawling yggdrasil tree that gives them dominion and vantage point over all living things in its scope. For this particular afternoon, I appear to be the only living thing in its scope, so therefore I am the one who is treated as gnat beneath a boot.

Eventually, a fellow predator joins them. He is 14, and shows them a variety of his skills, all of which involve types of pull-ups that they should be doing on trees.

When these activities wane, they move from forest to field. With their scientific apparatus, they creep carefully through the tall Pacific Northwest jungle grass that I have generously allowed to grow plentifully, rather than chopping or mowing. No doubt their gratitude is overflowing, were they not too busy hunting for crickets.

After various calamities, discoveries, injuries, insults, and cricket escapes, they return to the indoor headquarters and began weaving again. They are served a hearty farmhouse meal of spaghetti, fresh off our pasta trees.

Co-explorers.

I don’t know the particulars of their collective bargaining agreement, but somehow our 7-year old convinced his 14-year old bro to go out into the wilds again to hunt for crickets. Out they headed together and my heart was happy.

Reading.

The wonderful, wonderful Ramona Forever. This series…how it has aged, so well, is remarkable. Doesn’t mean every single sentence or idea. But the feelings of childhood, of community and family and perspectives on relationships…magical and inspiring, yet grounded in truth and realism. Thank you, thank you, Beverly Cleary.

Sample:
“The conversation of the grown-up sisters was filled with laughter, which puzzled Ramona and Beezus, who failed to see why having a baby was so funny.”

and:
”When parents were unhappy, the whole world seemed to go wrong.” (96)

Those little reminders.

Nemeses, not archenemies.

Our four-year old battles to keep his autonomy. Especially with his 17-year old sister currently. Their back-and-forth bantering, arguing, and trivial competitions are hilarious, heartwarming, and often very, very loud, as they insult and laugh at each other in dizzying fashion. At a certain point, she will inevitably grab him, hug him, or hoist him up high, as a result of her superior stature and age. The protestations are futile and furious. I warn her that this time is limited; that his time is coming and winter will be here soon. She laughs and whirls him around.

Assorted and miscellaneous

A late afternoon viewing, in part, of the 1960 classic Pollyanna.

The coughing. The coughing. Me too. This strain of…whatever it is, has hit hard.

A 4-year old getting a jump on the school year and carefully working on an activity book. Special interest: Connect the Dot puzzles.

A 14-year old playing chess. His ascension has been, to me, remarkable. The sport of chess is interspersed with the sport of jump roping, though he would be loath, I think, to refer to it as a sport. It is a step, a part of his overall fitness and jumping plan to increase his vertical. He is dedicated and inspiring.

I make Kashmiri curry for supper. I could have just said “curry,” but adding the specific type makes me feel like more of a culinary savant. Or at least culinary adventurer.

Tuck-in, in three stages

“Tell me another story about him!”
-A mischievous 7-year old, desperately wanting a bedtime story about his mischievous grandpa.

We finish watching Titanic with the Olders.

We have a tiny toy goat that screams. It is very, very obnoxious. I hide out in our 17-year old daughter’s room and wait for her to return in the dark. As she settles comfortably into her bed, I crank the little goat’s neck and he emits his scream, a scream that is eternal and haunting and obnoxious. She is terrified and had no idea I was in there, I’m so positive. Got her good. Because you know what? Dads win. They don’t get beat. Especially not by their daughters. Ever.

I need to keep repeating that to myself. Maybe it’ll come true.