Even the badish days count for something

Some days just turn out to be not all that good. Some days are dreary and cold and dark and tired. Some days were meant to just slide by unnoticed, or at least would have been better that way. Maybe it's the longing for spring, maybe it's the return of winter, or maybe it's not weather related at all, but today was grouchy. The sky, the people, the animals, even the inanimate objects in our home were grouchy, and they didn't have eggplant at the market. We didn't exercise, we didn't make bread, we're lucky we made it to the store, which is saying something since we were up and ready for swimming in time for a class that turned out not to be scheduled for today because the rest of the world is on spring break. Spring? You've got to be kidding.

When we feel this way, which thankfully isn't often, we usually turn to books but today we turned to writing, after the store and a short afternoon nap, that as. Calvin wrote poems and I wrote an analysis of the book I finished last night, Bailey's Cafe, getting to three pages before I started wondering what was the point of writing something nobody was likely to read. Maybe the point was the relaxation, or the way I could write while secretly watching Calvin meander through his own poetry over the top of my computer (because I found years ago that I write like I talk—too much—and if I write my ramblings by hand my fingers are sore all the rest of the day and I can hear the felling of trees in rainforests everywhere, so now only my journals are hand written). Writing our lives, I'd like to think. Spending the in between times on writing our lives, so that even the badish days count for something.

A legacy in the making

We finished the castle today. After a week in the making it was a glorious moment followed by much castle play.

We also went to a stage performance of Peter Rabbit that was fun, but didn't catch Calvin's imagination the way previous plays have done. That's okay with me; Peter isn't one of my favorite characters or stories anyhow.

Then, all week Calvin has looked forward to my dad's retirement party, and tonight it was finally here. Being at Gandy Dancer he got two chances to see trains going by right outside the window, and even though we were there for hours he was happily entranced by the puzzles, books, and art materials we brought for his entertainment, as well as by the the people who spoke to him and the slide show of his Grampa, shown over and over again. I was proud of him. That's what parents do, isn't it? Feel proud of their children.

All of my life my parents have continually reminded me of how proud they are of me. Children take their parents for granted, and as I watch Calvin I know that's exactly the way it should be, but tonight, watching the slide show and hearing others talk about my dad was a different view. I never thought much about him in his job. He has always been my dad—I knew what he did for a living and knew he was good at it, but at home he was my dad and that was what counted. To me. To so many others it was his integrity at work that counted, and the quality of his working years was obvious in the joy of memories, and sorrow at loss, of those present tonight. It wasn't news to me, but rather a spotlight on the previously un-noted, and it was my turn to be proud of him.

At the end of the evening, as we stood in the foyer waiting for our car, Calvin chatted lightly with one of the greeters about trains and dinner while he donned his sweater for the ride home. I wasn't paying much attention, but I heard her ask him his age and tell him that she had a two year old boy at home. On our way out the door she said to me "He's adorable, so healthy." I thanked her and said goodnight, but it wasn't until we were almost all the way home that I realized exactly what she had said to me, and recognized the immense compliment. "Healthy." It still rings in my ears as a resounding commendation. Full time mom's don't have regular performance reviews, something I often lament to my fully understanding mother.

But then my father has often commented to me that very few people ever leave behind legacies in their place of work, that if we wish to leave a lasting mark on the world that mark must be made in our children, and in our children's children. Tonight we saw the legacy my father leaves at work—and he is likely to be one of the few who is not quickly forgotten—and that other legacy, the one we are all creating, who is now a healthy, inquisitive four year old boy.

There's a connective fiber somewhere in here, a strong thread about pride, families, and legacies, but though I started with it in mind I can't seem to find the end again in order to tie it up. It's leaving me with an unfinished feeling; no witty wrap-up, no full circle comment. Or maybe that's the metaphor in and of itself.

We made a castle this morning.

Too soon, too soon

We finally went to Egypt today. After we practiced piano, read some Oz, straightened some things around the house, went to story time, shelved in the library sale room, exercised, had lunch, and made dinner (for the crockpot), we finally entered Egypt. And in so doing talked about the difference between ancient and modern. Then we read some of the myths or stories of Ancient Egypt. Then we talked about the pryamids and about mummies. And you know what? That's actually a lot of talk about death. Mummies are dead, and all those ancient people are dead, and Seth actually murdered Osiris. Sometimes I plan things through very carefully...and then miss the forest for the trees, as I found out later in the day.

It was a good day here, and I don't mind dark and rainy days, but by evening the rain was snow again and the temperatures were falling. I look towards the spring flowers still adorning our table after our weekend party (which failed to actually summon spring) to keep my spirits up, but I miss last night's fog. Fog is mysterious and allows you to believe you are anywhere on earth. Anywhere, because suddenly you have no neighbors. Plus it reminds you that the air is warm enough to hold moisture, and the melting snow is filling it to the gills (ha ha).

Late in the day, after some extra cleaning and finally shrinking our table back to size after the dinner party, I checked on Calvin, who was in the other room after having finished his own chores of emptying the trashes (tomorrow is garbage day) and feeding the pets. He was "writing" a story as part of his "acting out a story" (how he refers to all of his play acting or pretending) about a cat who had been killed. The people who loved the cat very much didn't know what had happened and he was writing a sort of memoir so that they would, and so that the cat could be remembered.

Clearly he is thinking deeply now about death, and his story is reminiscent of one we (very mistakenly) saw on a video about rhinos last week, when three of the rhinos were tragically killed by poachers (and if I had known that was part of the video rated for kids his age I would never in a million years have borrowed it from the library as part of our Africa exploration). We talked about this cat, the circumstances of his death, and about the people who loved him, for quite some time. Calvin was clearly sad, affected. I was horrified.

He is working through some things that definitely bothered him, and now I have to worry that I have erred irreversibly. Would talking about death with regard to Egyptology have been so bad if it was not coming immediately after that oops of a video about rhinos? Would the video about rhinos have been given a second thought if it had not been followed up by talk of mummies? My instinct tells me that regardless this is healthy development—finding a way to work through an upsetting issue by "writing" about it, something he used to do by "interacting" with his imaginary friend, Mouse. But my heart tells me it is broken. Is he not too young to have to work through such misfortunes? I cannot protect him forever, but wouldn't it have been okay at least until he was five?

Traveling

Today was all about traveling the world. We ate breakfast in the kitchen, we practiced piano in the sitting room, then we spent the rest of the day traveling through distant lands. Mostly Africa. We did laundry in Zimbabwe, visiting Victoria Falls, then we toured Namibia to watch the elephants (via Eyewitness video).

We flew through all the continents of the known world, compliments of our newest game, The Amazing Mammoth Hunt.

When we tired of the known world we excaped to the fairy lands of Oz. Calvin added a new review to his journal, and we started the next book in the series.

And when we came back to earth we camped by a river in a Lego village, back in Africa on another safari. I hope some day I can say that of my real life—back in Africa on another safari.

Goodbye Lighthouse Cafe

We got up kind of early this morning, or actually not got up early but got dressed earlier than usual (for a Saturday) in order to have breakfast one last time at our local cafe.

I don't know yet what we'll do for our morning meal on book sale days when I have to be at the library before 8:30. Those were the days when we would enjoy coffee and breakfast as a family, along with all the older gentlemen who have probably been doing this for years, sitting amongst the drawings and pictures of lighthouses from around the world. The U.S.? Maybe even Michigan. I don't know, but they had lighthouses, and big fishtanks, and unlimited coffee, and pancakes no better than I could have made at home but just as laden with pecans and without the preparation or the dirty dishes to clean after. We will miss them.

We had nothing, absolutely nothing, on our schedule for this weekend, and that's exactly why we were busy all morning, not making it home (and back into our pajamas) until lunchtime. That was one breakfast and two library trips later. We came home lugging an armload of books about Africa, two videos about Africa, and the next Oz book, plus two Jim Arnosky books that we scored at the Ann Arbor Library book sale. I love that their sale is open every weekend, but visiting regularly could be a dangerous proposition.

I'm pretty sure the highlight of the day was becoming pawns in the afternoon. The pawns in chess, after all, are meant as foot soldiers or pikemen. After making shields and swords Jon and Calvin chased each other around the house while the dogs and I took refuge in the corner.

The boys played Qwirkle. Saturdays for us are a lot about soaking up daddy time.

And we watched a video of four different Anansi tales. For doing nothing it was a full and wonderful Saturday. Relaxing, enjoyable. Especially because there is a Sunday to follow it.