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Posted in holiday
My wife and I are hanging decorations and lights for Christmas inside. I had planned to put lights up outside like my perfect neighbors did yesterday while it was sunny and dry, but of course I waited until today to do it, while it is rainy and cold. That is how it goes here.
I’m standing in front of a window, reaching up to nail a brad in place to hang a wreath.
I can’t quite reach comfortably, so I stretch out tall and hammer in the brad without actually being able to see it.
It doesn’t go well.
“Razzle frazzits!” I say. Or words to that effect.
I try again. The brad slips sideways and drops to the floor, out of sight.
“Blast it!” I shout.
One more time. I flatten my fingernails instead of hitting the brad.
“Dagnabbit!” I bellow.
“Why don’t you just get a stool?” Michael’s mommy suggests.
“I don’t want to!” I grouse. “There’s no place to put a stool here!”
“Just move things,” she says, calmly.
“That’s too hard!”
“Really?” she asks.
“Yes! It’s much easier to stand here and reach and then say bad words,” I say.
“Whatever you say,” she says.
And once again my absurd, man-style reasoning is thoroughly reduced and dissolved by my wife’s simple observations. But she loves me anyway.
This year Michael decided to be a pirate. And by “Michael decided” I mean that Michael’s mommy called out a number of costume options while Michael threw Legos in the air and sang to himself about Grim Grinning Ghosts until his mommy made up his mind for him.
I found it amusingly coincidental that Antique Mommy has a four-year-old son who is also a pirate this year, but who has a real grip on the concept. Of course, pirates seem to be to this generation what Davy Crockett was to that of the 1950s, which means half the kids who came to the door were pirates. And nearly every kid that came after 9:00 was over 15 and didn’t bother with a costume at all.
Michael, on the other hand, was much more interested in walking through the fog that crept through the “graveyard” in our front yard.
If I had a nickel for every time I asked him to get out of the graveyard and stop kicking skulls around, I’d have a lot of nickels. Michael did have a great time trick-or-treating, and he did manage quite a haul. Fortunately he decided he doesn’t like Almond Joys. Daddy made the ultimate sacrifice and ate them himself. Oh, the agony.
Here’s a shot of our yard at night:
Hope everyone had a great Halloween.
Now: get yourselves booted & spurred for Thanksgiving, the rapidly crumbling dike that is the only thing keeping the holiday shopping season from running roughshod over Halloween.
Be sure to save some candy for the trick-or-treaters. At least the starburst or bit-o-honeys.
Since we didn’t have all the kids the weekend before last, my wife asked me whether we should postpone Father’s Day observance until just this last weekend, and I agreed.
And as far as I’m concerned, it was more than worth the wait.
My first surprise was in the morning. Before the girls woke up, I was standing at the kitchen sink scrubbing a pan in preparation for breakfast, dreading the bi-weekly struggle to convince them to go with us to church. Our rule with the kids is that you can either go to church or stay home and be expected to complete some onerous chore. Figuring it’d probably be the latter for all three, I started mentally making out a chore chart.
At about that point my wife came bounding downstairs and into the kitchen with a big, perky smile.
“Hi. What’s up?” I said.
“Guess what? All the girls are going to church today.”
“Really? All of them?” I said, incredulous.
“Yep. All of them. They’re getting ready right now.”
“You got them up and convinced them to go?”
“Yep!” she said, smiling hugely.
“You’re good!”
Wow, things are looking up already, I thought.
After a relatively pleasant breakfast we all piled in the car and headed off to church.
Michael was dropped off at Sunday school, and the girls came with my wife and me into the sanctuary for the service. Not only did the girls stand with us for the worship music, but they all sang along. Hallelujah!
After stopping by Starbucks on the way home, my wife asked me what I wanted for dinner, and reminded the girls that they were all going to pitch in and make dinner so that I didn’t have to.
“And while we’re making dinner, you can work on your new blog template,” she said, knowing that was on my mind and that I needed time to actually sit down and draw it up.
Another Hallelujah!
We spent a quick afternoon working on the yard, mowing, sweeping, pulling weeds. All the girls had a job to do, and each one did it well. B mowed the lawn and emptied the clippings on the garden for mulch. She even went over the lawn twice to be thorough. Noting this extra effort, I was a little concerned that someone had swapped out my daughters for changelings.
My glee in the day’s unfolding dimmed only slightly when my wife informed me that there was a great deal of moisture under the kitchen sink. Being Mr. Fix-it, I answered the call swiftly and maneuvered myself into the cramped cabinet to determine the cause. It wasn’t the disposal this time, thank God. No, it was the hot water supply line. Tightening the coupling didn’t solve the problem, so I dashed out to the hardware store to pick up a new line. I had to hurry home because the sprinklers would be coming on soon; I’d set them earlier to come on at 2:00 PM so I could find a leak I knew was there from last season.
Sure enough, just as I pulled back in the driveway, the sprinklers were on and the water jetted out of the ground over the leak. They shut themselves off after two minutes just as I’d set them to do, long enough for me to spot the leak and mark the spot for later repair.
Inside, I quickly replaced the supply line under the sink and dried up the mess. No more leak. Ba-da-bing. Then I headed outside and repaired the leak in the sprinkler pipe and re-buried it. For once in a lifetime, my plans worked out just beautifully. Score two for me!
Satisfied with my capable self, I headed inside to check my email.
Just as I sat down my wife announced that it was present time. At that, my daughters came down the stairs loudly chanting in pseudo-Polynesian and carrying two entirely wonderful tiki-head garden planters. The menacing grins and primitive carved look of these planters made them perfect for our patio décor. My wife suggested that we could use them to hold up tiki torches outside.
“I love them! These are absolutely great!” I exclaimed, completely delighted. I set them up outside, one on each side of the patio steps, and jammed in several torches. Perfect.
Soon it was time to start dinner. Everyone had a job: My wife would orchestrate the crew and run the tater tots station, sister B would run the grill, sister L would prepare the table and sister S would make the salad.
Michael’s job during dinner preparation was to be a source of distraction and interruption. Having gotten up way too early, and after taking an insufficient nap and becoming bored with every toy he owns, he was in prime condition for a champion whine-fest.
While his mother and sisters buzzed about in the kitchen, he stood in his booster chair and turned around to face them.
“Mama? I want sausage!”
“Not now, Michael,” she said. “Just give me a minute.”
He threw down his arms and dropped his shoulders dramatically. “But then I’ll have nothing!” he said, hopelessly.
“In a minute, Michael.”
“Uh, I want some yellows!” (these are fresh-made corn tortillas that I usually make when it’s taco night)
“Just hang on, Michael,” his mother said.
He jumped up and down, whining. “I need juice!”
Meanwhile, I sat at my spot at the table and pencil sketched my new template and smiled, feeling entirely free to work on my pet project unfettered with guilt or other responsibility.
As the heady scent of scorched tallow from the burgers on the grill outside wafted in and mingled with the equally pleasant aroma of crisping tater tots, my wife announced that it was time to move to the patio table.
Now, despite the fact that it is nearly the end of June, we hadn’t yet had a day this year in which we could fully enjoy our outdoors. It’s either been too cold, too windy, or too rainy. Or all three. Such is life in Portland.
Today was different. It was summer in all its glory. Warm, but not too warm. A light breeze, but just enough to be pleasant. A rich blue sky punctuated with only a few puffy and utterly non-threatening clouds. Glorious.
The patio table was arrayed with placemats and coasters, forks and napkins, condiments and drinking glasses. Overhead, the market umbrella was bedecked with several strings of colored lights. And on the pergola I built for the deck, a canopy of wisteria leaves draped down. Into these I’d strung faux wisteria blossom lights, providing a colorful finishing touch.
Michael was already in his seat. He asked that the lights be turned on. I was only too happy to comply with that.
When everyone had served themselves and sat themselves down, Michael reached out to suggest that we all join hands. We did, and he said: “Now, we’re a family.”
I offered the meal’s prayer, smiling at Michael’s assessment.
One of my daughters said it would be nice if we could have music on. I didn’t have outdoor speakers set up yet (project for later in the summer), so I just put on a Hawaiian music CD in the house and turned it up to reach a comfortable background level outside.
Between being surrounded by my very cheerful loved ones, comfort food and a relaxing environment, dinner was entirely delicious on so many levels.
True, the burgers were plain and ever so slightly undercooked, the salad consisted of chunks larger than a mouth could ordinarily accommodate without assistance, and Michael maintained insistence that it was his day. But every last bit of it was seasoned with the outpouring of love my family showed. I didn’t have to lift a finger. My dinner was served to me, my water was refilled, dessert was offered and I felt like the master of all I survey.
All too quickly, dinner was done. The kids cleared their spots and disappeared inside. Michael ran off to watch SpongeBob for the thousandth time that day. The sun sank in the west and the glow of the lights overhead grew more enchanting.
Then L came out, whisked away my plate and soon returned with a miniature tub of Ben& Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie and a spoon, just for me. She, my wife and I sat outside and chatted, soaking up the last glorious bits of day before time came to take my daughters back to their mom’s and put Michael to bed.
It was a wonderful day, one that will be long remembered.
Usually I find my writing inspiration in the lessons I learn when things go wrong. But every once in awhile, I get to cruise through the day with everything going just right.
Michael must have slept well last night.
At midnight his sister woke up but didn’t drag him out of his room. Instead, she knocked on our door. I was blissfully unaware of all of this; my wife told me about it later, how sister was having trouble sleeping. I didn’t actually find out what it was that my wife used to put said sister back to sleep, but it worked. And Michael’s slumbers went on undisturbed.
So this morning he got up extra early.
I happened to be heading out of our bedroom when I heard the unmistakable sound of Michael hurriedly galloping downstairs and thumping around in the family room.
When I got there, I called out “Michael, what are you doing up so early? There’s nobody down here yet.”
I saw him poking around over by the fireplace, looking in the bookcase and under the couch.
He turned and looked at me sadly.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I want to find eggs,” he said very plaintively.
The poor little guy had decided that it was time for Easter again, and that if he got up early enough he’d find more eggs.
“Michael, Easter was two Sundays ago. You’ll have to wait until next year to find eggs.”
“But I want to,” he said sadly.
I offered him some sausage and cereal instead. He was good with that.
Maybe I’ll hide a few eggs this weekend, just for old times sake.
Well, it was a great game. My team lost, but that’s okay because they played hard. Okay… the defense played hard. Neither team’s offense quite matched the other team’s defense. There were some spectacular plays, though, like the one where Eli Manning managed to uncoil himself from a certain drag-down sack and pitch the ball to David Tyree, who despite being completely covered, somehow caught it with his helmet and kept control of it while landing on his back. That was history-making kind of amazing.
Michael gave us quite a few highlights here at home though too. Some great plays. Some big action. And certainly more offense than we saw on the field in Phoenix.
Earlier in the day, I had tried to get Michael interested in throwing the football around at noon to help him burn off a little energy and maybe get excited by the game. He’d have nothing to do with it. Didn’t care in the least. Wanted to watch Sleeping Beauty instead, and cover up the TV screen with his blankie. Since it was hailing outside, there wasn’t much point in trying to drag him out there to play. Our backyard becomes an arctic quagmire this time of year, and the thought of squishing through the lawn while being pelted by hailstones didn’t appeal to me. So I did the dishes while Michael bugged his mom. Eventually she had him help her make chocolate chip cookies.
Later, while Michael napped, I got a cheery little fire going in the fireplace and helped my wife get snacks and goodies arrayed on the table.
Soon it was game time, and Michael’s uncle T and cousin O showed up, ready to watch the game. Cousin O is just nearing two, cute as a button and follows Michael around everywhere. According to T, she chatters about him constantly when she’s not here. I should note here that “uncle” T is actually my stepdaughter S’s father, and thus “cousin” O is actually S’s half sister. Since Michael is already half brother to S, that would actually make O his quarter sister. If I have my math right. But it’s easier to say cousin, so that’s what we tell Michael. After all: you don’t need to explain everything to a three-year-old (that’s my new favorite quote).
Kickoff. The game was etching its way into the books as the Giants ran the ball down the field. But you can go to SI.com for the recap of that game.
Only here will you get exclusive coverage of the highlights from our game field:
First quarter, at about 2:21: Michael pleaded with me to put on Sleeping Beauty instead of football. He was very accommodating, though, in responding to my bemused “No” with “After you’re done?”
5:40: When prompted to go play with cousin O, he stood right in front of her, bent down to align his face with hers, and said “Want to go play bowling? Come on!” He took her hand and led her into the living room for a rousing game of Silly Six Pins. It was incredibly cute.
Around 11:10: Michael and O quietly dropped into a parental attention trough and slipped away unnoticed. We were only alerted to potential trouble when my daughter L came downstairs and asked “Is O supposed to be upstairs?” I quickly bolted up the stairs and opened the door to Michael’s room. “No, no, no, we don’t,” I said to both of them. They had the most innocent little looks on their faces as they filed past me. As they headed down, Uncle T was coming up the stairs to rescue his precious little darling from my scheming son, who had essentially taken a girl upstairs to his room and shut the door. I never would have thought I’d have to worry about that sort of thing in this decade.
Half time: My wife had spent game time going through our old filing cabinet and several boxes of miscellaneous paper in an effort to streamline and re-organize. Thus began the great Super Bowl Half time Old Papers Burning Show. There were some great colors and some huge flames as brochures from 1993, useless magazine clippings, baby formula coupons and ancient investment prospecti met their ultimate demise in the fire.
30:31: Michael decided to get in on the action by tossing the football in the general direction of uncle T who was, strangely enough, watching the game and not Michael. The pass was incomplete, and the ball landed square in the popcorn bowl sending a flurry of popcorn in all directions and knocking over the one glass of milk on the table left by his older sister B, spilling said milk and nuking all the paper plates on the table. Fortunately the potato chips and onion dip were spared. Michael’s sister was not, though, and had the pleasure of being crossly summoned downstairs to clean up. We have since enacted a new family law: no unattended food or drink.
43:10: Michael blasted in from the living room to report that the TV isn’t working. This troubled me, owing to the fact that we don’t have a TV in the living room. As I rose to investigate, my wife quickly cleared up the mystery: it was my new retro-style combination turntable/CD player/stereo that he was concerned about. As I neared the room I could see that not only was the unit on, but that the lid was up and the CD holder was sticking out. Cousin O was trotting around flapping the large neoprene disk that usually covers the turntable, and in the other hand had my Island Steel Drums CD encircling her index finger. “You need to fix it. It needs bratties,” Michael said. I carefully replaced the platen cover and put my CD back in its case, and gave Michael a commensurate admonishment to NEVER, EVER TOUCH IT AGAIN!!!
43:25: Michael’s mom, deducing from the above melee that direct parental supervision was necessary, popped Michael’s Fisher-Price CD into the machine and launched the first annual Toddler Dance Party. It was toward the end of the game that I came in to find them flapping their arms to the “Chicken Dance” while they marched about Michael’s plastic slide. Lord, that woman deserves a medal and a pay raise.
All in all, a very good game. I ate way too much junk, got socked by my daughter for rooting against the Giants, began considering the fact that Michael might be returning cousin O’s crush, and re-confirmed that I have the best wife in the world.
Here it is, Christmas Eve Eve, my favorite day of the year for some reason. I like December 23rd; it’s I’ve generally gotten all my shopping done by now, and close enough to Christmas to be tinged with excitement without the weight of it being Christmas Eve itself. I have time to spare, time to slack, time to take in neighborhood Christmas light displays, and time to make cookies and fudge and other yummy Christmas treats.
Today, while I was in the midst of ruining a batch of fudge (note to self: never, ever try to make a double batch of fudge. It just never works), upstairs things were going off beam quickly.
Michael had dragged me up stairs a while before to play with his toys in his room. Okay, I thought. No problem. I can do that for fifteen minutes while the fudge cools enough to do the final stir.
We played with his blocks for a few minutes. This meant that for about twelve seconds, we played interactively with his blocks, and for the remainder of the time, he chattered at the blocks individually before putting each one in his little musical block bus and then tugging it around in a circle.
Soon my wife came in carrying a load of books, and sharing a gripe about how little our daughters were helping out today. They moved about as quickly as a glacier and paid about as much attention to whatever chore they happened to be assigned to.
After some thoughtful nods and exchanges of weary sighs, I announced that I had to continue my work on the fudge downstairs.
My wife continued her work with the books, putting them away in order of size and shape, while Michael played with his blocks. She likes to maintain a good deal of order and will take whatever opportunity presents itself to organize the section of the home she’s currently occupying. There are several kinds of books: chunky, tall, thick, paper-backed, spiral-bound; the categorizing possibilities are innumerable. But she made swift work of placing them in well-thought-out order, albeit one that she knew deep inside could not survive for longer than a day or two.
Meanwhile, Michael’s ennui toward his blocks had reached its zenith, and he wandered off in search of fresh sport. The open door to his sister’s room was practically an engraved invitation to misbehavior, so into her room he did venture.
“Michael! You come out of your sister’s room this instant!” His mom called out without breaking her concentration.
Then he shut his sister’s door. This was a very bad sign, his mom thought.
“Michael, get out of her room!”
Silence. Michael might have giggled inside his head at this point; it would have been fitting.
At this point, his mom’s alarms forced her to break from her task in order to extract him.
She opened the door and was greeted with a waft of fragrance. Michael stood, looking up at her, wide-eyed and utterly innocent, though thoroughly busted, with a dripping bottle of perfume that he’d located, opened and emptied upon himself in a matter of mere seconds. “Etherea,” the label read.
“Michael! What have you done? Get out of here!” She grabbed the bottle, steeping her hand with whatever odorous substance remained. Michael scurried past her, into his own room, trailing a current of scent. “Where’s the lid? Michael!”
“You get your little butt out of that room,” Michael sassed, from the safety of his own.
Resolute on finding the bottle’s cap, she searched the room and ignored his flood of rudeness. He continued his tirade unabated. “You hear me? Get your butt out of there!” he said.
Finally, she located the cap under a few layers of blankets. The thought flashed through her mind: “He managed to open the bottle and hide the lid in twelve seconds?”
She capped the bottle and returned it to the nightstand, and then returned to address her wayward son.
“Michael, you are not to sass me! You are not to go into your sister’s rooms! I am the parent and you are to listen to me!”
Her final emphasis was a quick but relatively benign swat on his posterior.
Suddenly he realized just how wrong he had been. That, or he was sad at being busted by his rarely cross mother. Either way, he started bawling big time. He clung to his mother’s leg and cried.
Hearing this from downstairs, I quickly ascended the stairs to find out what was going on.
“What sort of horrendous evil has been perpetrated on Michael this time?” I asked, mildly amused at the turn of events.
She turned to look at me, her eyes still brimming with vexation. She thrust her hand out at me like a traffic cop.
“Smell! This is what I have to deal with!”
“What on earth happened?”
She told the entire sordid tale.
“So that’s why he smells like an old lady,” she finished.
She was right. Whatever fragrance “Etherea” was, it was probably not something they sold at Macy’s for a hundred fifteen bucks a bottle. It was more like something you’d detect gracing a knitted afghan.
I could easily see the stains on his shirt where he’d coated himself.
“How do I get this off my hand?” My wife asked.
I thought quickly. Hmmmm… it’s probably based upon some sort of volatile petroleum product, or an acetate…
“WD-40. Try that. Just spray it on, work it around a little and then wash it off with dish soap,” I suggested.
After finishing up with that, she came by for a second sniff test.
Nope, it was still there. Only now it smelled like WD-40 too.
“Now your hand smells like a little old auto mechanic,” I said, chuckling.
She was not amused.
There was enough of that stuff to really permeate the house; it even smells downstairs. I’m hoping by next week the scent will have dissipated.
Failing that, we’re going to have to all knit shawls and learn to like watching Matlock.
This is the first year that Michael began to understand the glycemic glory that is Halloween. His holiday fervor had been building up for several weeks, since I’d been reading the Berenstain Bears’ Trick-or-Treat story to him every night, and as we’ve been putting up various Halloween decorations.
We had every intention of dressing him up like Napoleon, since we’d failed to make that happen the year prior. But with the ever-consuming struggles of day-to-day life, there was just never enough time or strength to get to that costume.
So we dressed him as a ghost. Correction: his mom did. It was her idea, and her efforts. She bought a sheet (of a meager 250 thread count), concocted a plan, snipped here and there, ran a few hems under the sewing machine and in what was for all the world like fifteen minutes, Michael was all set with a ghost costume. I was amazed.
A little face paint and a white long-sleeved shirt and he’d be all set to go.
For days leading up to the 31st, he asked if it was time for “trickee treats”.
When I started setting up the spider lights over the entryway and hung the skull chandelier by the door, he asked me if he can go “trickee treats” tonight.
While he carved his pumpkin (actually, his mom cleaned it and carved it; his contribution was countless small holes where he repeatedly and viciously stabbed it with a pumkin-carving awl), he asked whether it was time for “trickee treats”. When we raked the front yard and I set up tombstones, a giant spider-web, a fog machine and atmosphere-enhancing spotlights, he asked if we could pleeeeeeeease go “trickee treats”.
Finally, the big night arrived. And it was grand chaos. While there’s never enough time on a day-to-day basis, tonight even less so. I had to be sure all my props and effects were in place; I had to cook dinner; I had to be sure to man the door when people came; I had to get my own costume going (15 bucks at Goodwill for a jacket, shirt, pants and shoes which I very carefully and gently torched, hacked, ripped and grimed up to complete the “freshly-clawed-out-of-my-grave” zombie look), and be sure that my wife didn’t stroke out trying to help the kids with their own costumes.
Before going out himself, Michael took some pleasure in helping out. He loved handing candy out to kids, particularly the ones he was eye-to-eye with. There’s something magical about being able to drop a handful of chocolate in another kid’s bucket. And he never ceased being alert for approaching trick-or-treaters: “I think someone’s coming!” he’d say, even if there were only leaves blowing around out in the street.
I had a lot of decorations up this year, including a seven-foot-tall “menacing butler” we nicknamed “Lurch” standing in the entryway. His job was to hold a tray of severed fingers in a pool of blood, and to say things like “Please help yourself to these finger foods,” to approaching trick-or-treaters. This made many of them turn and leave. Michael loved waving his hand in front of the little light sensor to make him speak one of his many phrases. In our bedroom window upstairs, my wife and I had constructed a ghost out of cheesecloth soaked in Rit whitener, which glows very effectively under the two fluorescent black lights that flanked it, out of sight. Coupled with a small fan to cause the ghoulish raiment to wave about in true wraithlike fashion, it was an artful creep fest. It prevented Michael’s older sister from entering our room even under threat of punishment. But to Michael, it was nothing more than a curiosity. I was assured that Michael was unimpressed with the horror we’d created of our home.
But even though he appeared to be perfectly good with all of the spooky decorations we’d set up, we discovered that he hadn’t quite grasped the pretend nature of the whole thing.
In the living room, next to the candy cauldron by the front door, I had lit some special candles in a spider web-festooned candelabra. They were white tapers that dripped red; obligatory gore for the season. In a previous year these same candles had toppled over onto my oldest daughter’s plate of spaghetti as we had dinner; she was unable to bring herself to eat spaghetti for months.
So before taking the kids out on their appointed rounds, my wife took a shift watching the door while I sat down to eat dinner. I was joined by my step-daughter, her dad, her step-mom and her half-sister. They had come to visit and go along with the trick-or-treating since they live in a rural area.
I hadn’t gotten three bites into my meal when we heard Michael cry out from the living room. I heard my wife call my name in a pleading, but not urgent voice.
And then Michael ran into the room bawling.
He came right over to me, motioned for me to lift him up to my lap. He heaved huge sobs, barely able to catch his breath, let alone speak. We all mused what might be the matter, whether he’d bitten his tongue, burned himself, got his finger smashed or got in trouble for touching something.
Michael was not offering any suggestions as to what might be wrong, choosing instead to continue his hitching weep.
Finally, his mom called out from the entryway: “Michael, it’s all better. I put bandies on them.”
Michael hopped down, obviously relieved, and ran into where his mom was.
I called out to my wife: “Honey, what did you put band-aids on? What got hurt?”
She came into view, stifling a laugh.
“The candles. He thought they had gotten hurt because they were bleeding,” she said.
We all burst out laughing.
Poor Michael, the sensitive soul, he has empathy even for wax.
Epilogue: Michael collected about a quarter-full bag of candy from the neighborhood. He has opened nearly half of it, and eaten nearly half of what he’s opened. As of this writing, he has still not come off of his sugar high.
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Posted in holiday, inscrutable, michael
I’m hoping to guide Michael along the right path, to train up my child in the way he should go.
Because of divorce, my two daughters don’t live with us full time and so I was not able to regularly encourage them in the custom of bedtime prayers while they were still little. As such I feel a greater sense of urgency with Michael, and we have a habit of saying prayers every night.
Michael is really cute about this, and if perchance I don’t get on my knees quickly enough after turning out the light, he’ll remind me we need to say a prayer. We thank God for the day and all the fun that was had, for good food and friends to play with, and for sisters. We ask God to bless Mommy & Daddy and sisters and extended family members. And Michael invariably adds one other thing.
A bit of background: This fourth of July really made an impression on him. It always has, ever since he was an infant.
In 2004, when he was only a handful of weeks old, he screamed and cried when Mommy & Daddy & sisters went outside to watch the fireworks being blasted off in the street by the neighbors. We couldn’t believe he’d be at all interested or tolerate the noise and flashes, but when his grandmother took him in, he pitched a fit. As soon as she brought him out, he quieted down and was still while we lit off one firework after another.
Every year, we brought him out to see them.
This year, he was allowed to hold a morning glory, very carefully, with Mommy and a running hose right close by.
And this year, he burned the heck out of his fingers trying to pick up the molten slag that dripped off of a sparkler. Before we could stop him, he said “look at the pretty!” and reached down to pick it up.
Luckily his mom, being a pediatric nurse with 17+ years of experience, scooped him up immediately and got cold water and then proper burn treatments on his finger. He was okay, no infection and no lasting marks but a couple of nice blisters.
But it really solidified his relationship with fireworks. He was not afraid, but instead was captivated.
We got some really good ones this year, too. Here in Oregon, we’re limited as to what kinds of things we can set off: nothing that explodes, and nothing that launches off the ground. But we have a ton of things that make all sorts of cool displays. Especially since Daddy has the bug to drive all over town looking for obscure, no-name (but legal!) fireworks stands to find obscure, amazing fireworks. One of the ones we got this year was called Vesuvius, I believe, as it spat out big gobs of orange fire while blasting purple sparks out the top. It’s truly amazing to watch. And because Daddy loves fireworks too, we lit them off on the days leading up to the fourth. Night after night, we’d set up a few, light them off, and “ooh” and “ahh” for half an hour. Sometimes the neighbors would light off a few too.
Unfortunately for Michael, the big night came and went, and even though daddy held a few in reserves for New Year’s Eve, it was pretty much the end of fireworks season. Michael was crushed, thinking that our new trend is to light fireworks off every night.
And he’d ask me every night if we’re going to light off fireworks, and I’d have to tell him every night that the Fourth of July is over, and he’ll have to wait for next year.
So began his traditional addition to every prayer: “and fireworks.” Every night, during prayers, he thanks God for fireworks. Our prayers go something like this:
Daddy: “Dear God, thank you for today –“
Michael: “-and fireworks”
Daddy: “and for playing with friends,”
Michael: “-and fireworks”
Daddy: “and for the yummy food,”
Michael: “-and fireworks”
Daddy: “and for sunshine.”
Michael “-and fireworks”
Daddy: “God bless Mommy,”
Michael “-and fireworks”
Daddy: “And God bless Daddy,”
Michael “-and fireworks”
Daddy: “And God bless my sisters,”
Michael “-and fireworks”
Daddy: “And cousins, and grandma and grandpa and uncle,”
Michael “-and fireworks”
Daddy: “and God bless Michael…”
Michael “-and fireworks”
(etc.)
I have tried to explain to him that one mention of thanking God for fireworks is enough, and that they don’t need blessing.
I could just picture the Lord Jesus teaching His disciples how to pray, tossing in “and fireworks” once or twice. I’m not sure if His disciples or the early translators of the ancient manuscripts would have truly grasped the deep meaning of His prayer had he done so.
Michael knows, though. I’m sure Michael thinks God is up there in Heaven right now working on more fireworks for next year.
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Posted in holiday, inscrutable, michael, parenting