It’s been too long and I won’t bore you with my
excuses. Let’s just jump right in. I’m ranting because too many weeks of
unfinished drafts have passed. So here
goes.
Greta is in kindergarten.
Gus is back at pre-K. Tilly is
pumped to have the house to herself.
Pause. This is where my head is
at on all three of my little people.
Gigi. I can
see how one may be dismissive about a child’s depth. Can you really discuss philosophy, religion,
politics, or fiscal responsibility with a five year old? A conversation regarding a “high brow” topic might
go like this:
ME: Greta, do you think NATO should get involved with the
Ukraine-Russia crisis? Where do you
stand? Should the U.S intervene?
G: What? Where do you
stand in a crane?
ME: No, Ukraine. It’s
a country in Europe. Remember, we looked
at different countries on the globe?
G: Uh, we live on Gawaine Road. Not in a crane - Dad.
On the other hand, here is an example of how Greta has
matured to the point where her thinking already fascinates me.
Weeks ago or maybe even months ago, Greta asked what it
meant to be dead. I pulled the classic
stall tactic of answering the question with a question. Why do you ask? She said her friend’s daddy was in heaven and
she was unsure what that meant. Sizing
up her brain with my fatherly x-ray vision, I was struggling with how to
explain my spiritual beliefs and thoughts about morality while juxtaposed
against my distrust of institutional religion.
After collaborating with THE WIFE, we settled on an explanation about
how all of us leave this world one day and we believe they continue to exist in
some way where they can watch over the people they love. (Not exactly my theory but acceptable enough as
a translation for the now.) THE WIFE and
Greta then started talking about angels with wings and I can’t help but think
Greta was imagining some kind of metamorphosis upon death into a Tinker Bell fairy. Greta then asked if our old cat Wally was in
heaven and the conversation steered into whether we’ll ever get another pet.
A night or two later, Greta was crying in bed so I went in
to check on her. She explained how she
was sad because she didn’t know how an angel could wear clothes with wings on
their back. I said something lame about
how you get special shirts or something with holes in them, which made Greta
feel worse because she wanted to know who cut the holes and then her concern
transitioned into a downward spiral about her celestial wardrobe. Long story short, I was amazed about how my
little girl was suddenly capable of considering the very deep concept – if not
the deepest – of life and death. And she
was thinking about it independently without provocation long after our initial
discussion.
This isn’t a “my kid is better than your kid” kind of
statement because I’m sure most parents out there have encountered similar
scenarios with their children. This is
just one of the reasons why I continue to love my daughter with all my
heart. Her manner of thinking and her
thoughtfulness are already blowing me away.
Over the last five years, Greta has morphed from a shy and
almost bashful personality into a more mature, outgoing, and confident
individual. She seems to have this
amazingly inner happiness where she is able to find joy in the simplest of pleasures. I love sitting at a table with her as she
colors a picture and I can hear her humming happy hums. I am so proud when I see Greta interact with
other kids without holding back so much anymore, laughing and playing and
pretending. Just being a kid. She is honest to the point where she
confesses to transgressions before we even discovered the crime. Best of all, she is kind, thoughtful, and
sweet.
And now comes kindergarten.
On one hand, I am so excited for her.
She loves to learn. She needs to
be stimulated by her peers and out of our house, away from the chaos of her
younger siblings and the distractions of television or iPads. She yearns for art and recess and friends and
music and reading. Greta is so ready to take
the leap to the next level.
On the other hand, I am so scared that this is when I begin
to lose her. I’m so reluctant to accept
that her development is officially traveling to a destination far away from me
where my influence will gradually diminish into hardly anything at all. I’m scared to death of the negative forces and
peer pressure that she will obviously encounter in life, but hopeful that she is
already savvy enough to make the right decisions. I suppose this reality is precisely what
every parent must endure when the school process begins because we can’t be
there for our kids all of the time.
Still, the realization of this inevitability I’m experiencing as a dad
is daunting because it is suddenly here and now.
For now, I’ll relish that Greta still cuddles with me on the
couch and tells me she loves me. Yep,
I’m gonna be a sobbing mess on her wedding day.
G-man. What
can I say that you probably don’t already know about my little man
already? No doubt, Gus is a people
person. This kid has an unquestionably
positive influence on almost anyone who crosses paths with him. It’s kinda crazy. You can see it in the eyes of those who truly
know him. He just has an uncanny way of
reeling people into his energy.
Adults from any of our circles call Gus by name. They may not know anyone else’s name in the
family but they definitely know his.
Even some strangers go out of their way to say hello if he and I are out
and about at a store or something.
Since Gus began attending Parkview (Manch peeps, I call this
place Parkside all the time) last year, I noticed how there are random little
kids who nonchalantly say “Hey Gus” as we’re walking by at the ice cream joint or
the playground or the tee ball field. Some
of them even come up and high five or hug.
It warms my heart because it makes me feel a little more secure that a
growing alliance of “safe” peers are out there who might look out for him in
the future when we’re not around to watch.
Still, I remind you, Gus is not without a devilish side. Many a time, Greta or Tilly come running out
of a room crying after some kind of altercation with their brother. And his new go-to saying that utters after he’s
convinced to do something that he was previously resisting is this “Okay,
fiiiine” saying that makes me laugh even though he’s kinda being a little punk. Even better, he’s started asking “Why?” after
any of my commands. As soon as I answer,
he just says “Why?” again. It drives me
nuts. Moral of the story, don’t let him
off the hook because of the charm and cute grin.
As for the barometer of where Gus is at developmentally, my
assessment changes daily. I’ve been
buggin out lately when it comes to dressing and undressing. At two and a half years old, Tilly will
disappear for a few minutes at any given time in the day, then re-emerge from
her bedroom dressed in some outrageous combination of snow pants and a tank
top, or a cocktail dress at six in the morning, or nude for dinner, etc. Meanwhile, at four years old, Gus still
struggles to get a shirt over his head by himself.
Situations like that make me feel like I’m doing a
disservice to Gus. Am I working hard
enough to challenge him? Am I
perpetuating a delay because I’m choosing to do something for him that he
should be doing himself? Even though
it’s faster and easier to just throw the pajamas on after a bath, I have to
remind myself – wait. Try to make Gus
put those pants on. Don’t let him coast
by putting on the clothes for him. Take
the extra five minutes and work with him to practice. It sounds easy on paper, but when I’m just
dying to get the kids to bed so I can finally clean up from dinner and
eventually sit down to chill out, the path of least resistance is to just jam
Gus into his PJ’s and move on.
Meanwhile, it seems like every time I suspect an area of
Gus’ skill set has plateaued or stalled, a situation arises the next day when
he contradicts my concern and reassures me that everything is headed in the
right direction. Something as simple as
announcing that he has to poop makes me smile and run to the bathroom with
him. After dinner the other night, the
girls were dancing and singing as our live entertainment for the evening. Kitchen utensils were microphones. Forward rolls and spontaneous ballet kicks
were aplenty. Next thing you know, Gus
goes running up there for his own turn to sing.
He immediately demanded that we clap at the end of the performance, then
marched triumphantly back to his seat.
Granted he smashed Tilly on the head with a wooden spoon on his way back
from the stage, but it wasn’t on purpose.
Of course, if it was on purpose that would just be typical brotherly
love anyway.
I can’t brag about this kid enough. He warms my heart and makes me proud. What else can you ask for?
The Tills. One
may have friends and enemies. Or besties
and frenemies. Or a nemesis. Tilly is my bestfrenemesis.
Tilly is kinda like a chocolate covered pretzel. Or a pickle with ice cream. Or cornbread and hot wings. Equal parts sweet and salty. My yin and yang.
When I get home from work, Tilly goes into a full sprint and
barrels into me. If I don’t position
myself defensively, her head is a missile into my (snipped) nuts.
At dinner, Tilly is likely to ask “How is ya day Daddy?” in
her ever expanding Mass. accent. I’ll
rattle off anything that might be interesting to her and the kids. Maybe, “I saw the key-tar Bear today.” Or “Uncle Tom and I had a coffee.” Distracted, I’ll miss that Tilly is stealing
the first sip out of my drink leaving some floaties behind as the cup goes back
on the table. If I do catch her in the
act, I might stop and look at her sideways like “Yo dude, what’s up with
that?” But she just continues with her
follow-up questions while jamming pink finger tips into my salad to steal some
feta cheese or a mushroom. She’s a thief
that smiles while she’s stealing from you.
The fiery temper, however, is still within a lightning fast
reach. Our wake up call every morning
typically arises with Tilly hammering away at her locked bedroom door (yes, I
installed the knob back into the door but backwards so we can lock her in)
demanding that she be released. If I’m
careless when getting the kids into the car, she almost always goes for anyone’s
seat other than her own. When I try to
cajole her into her car seat, the back arching and protesting ensues until she’s
finally wrestled into her straight jacket – I mean, the belts of her seat. Let your guard down in the kitchen and I
guarantee you’ll find her in the pantry like a raccoon in a garbage can
aggressively trying to tear open some prepackaged food product intended for a
lunch box.
But just when my buttons have been pushed and my RPMs are
approaching the red zone, Tilly will disarm me with one of her go-to comments: “Are
you happy Daddy?” The question always
make me check myself and take a breather.
She can see it in my face that I’m struggling to maintain
composure. She is so damn good at
reading body language or the temperature of a room, it makes me wonder if she’ll
be some kind of undercover cop or a diplomat or a teacher.
With every passing week, I feel my bond strengthening incrementally
more with Tilly. She can drive me
absolutely insane in one second yet in the next moment, she has won me over
with a kiss or a bear hug. I just get
her better now. I wouldn’t want her any
other way.
~~~~
So that’s where it’s at over here in our neck of the woods. To be continued, to say the least.
