Thursday
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4/6/05
The Big Payoff
Picture, if you will, a crisp, sunny Saturday morning in February. There is a foot of fresh snow on the ground, the sky is a perfect crystalline blue, and the birds are singing. Ah, I'll bet you can even smell the fresh pine and wood smoke in the air in such an idyllic setting, can you not? Well, this is not just any Saturday morning however; it is 1996 and I am holding a mildly cranky seven month old as my Lovely Bride closes the front door behind her as she leaves for yet another tax-season Saturday of work in the city.
She will be gone for the day. All day. My first-born son and I peer out the front window with a vaguely forlorn air as her car recedes into the distance until it finally disappears around the corner. We are alone. Utterly alone.
Then, the squirming begins. I make soothing noises. He understands them for the empty promises they are and the battle begins in earnest. Offers of Cheerios and juice are made, and just as quickly rejected. Barney is made to appear on the television, but on this particular morning the purple dinosaur's advances are spurned out of hand by my little theater critic. Threats of incarceration in the playpen and swing-chair are out of the question; I know I wouldnt be able to bear the shrieks of righteous indignation at such confinement. Our eyes narrow as we face each other down.
What a difference nine years makes. This morning the sky is again a perfect crystalline blue and the birds are singing; yet my first-born and I have just wrapped up a very different routine. He has spent his morning getting dressed, packing his knapsack and wolfing down a few waffles in preparation for climbing on the big yellow bus that will whisk him away to a classroom full of other fourth graders where he will presumably be taught things the adult world feels he should know.
So, as I watched the school bus pull away this morning I was again struck by how much richer and satisfying our lives have become as our two boys have grown. Indeed, dealing with verbally accomplished bipeds is worlds easier and, quite frankly, a lot more gratifying than trying to connect with an infant who is perpetually frustrated at being unable get up and go where he wants to go or say what he wants to say.
We connect in so many different ways now; there are books and movies we all enjoy, we exchange ideas about what they're learning in school, they now enjoy sharing adult food such as steak and seafood, and trips to museums such as the Met are satisfying for all involved.
And even better, after I help them with their homework this afternoon there will be just enough time for some batting practice in the back yard and maybe even a little two-on-one basketball in the driveway. It really is a hell of a great payoff.
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|
4/6/05
The Big Payoff
Picture, if you will, a crisp, sunny Saturday morning in February. There is a foot of fresh snow on the ground, the sky is a perfect crystalline blue, and the birds are singing. Ah, I'll bet you can even smell the fresh pine and wood smoke in the air in such an idyllic setting, can you not? Well, this is not just any Saturday morning however; it is 1996 and I am holding a mildly cranky seven month old as my Lovely Bride closes the front door behind her as she leaves for yet another tax-season Saturday of work in the city.
She will be gone for the day. All day. My first-born son and I peer out the front window with a vaguely forlorn air as her car recedes into the distance until it finally disappears around the corner. We are alone. Utterly alone.
Then, the squirming begins. I make soothing noises. He understands them for the empty promises they are and the battle begins in earnest. Offers of Cheerios and juice are made, and just as quickly rejected. Barney is made to appear on the television, but on this particular morning the purple dinosaur's advances are spurned out of hand by my little theater critic. Threats of incarceration in the playpen and swing-chair are out of the question; I know I wouldnt be able to bear the shrieks of righteous indignation at such confinement. Our eyes narrow as we face each other down.
~ ~ ~
What a difference nine years makes. This morning the sky is again a perfect crystalline blue and the birds are singing; yet my first-born and I have just wrapped up a very different routine. He has spent his morning getting dressed, packing his knapsack and wolfing down a few waffles in preparation for climbing on the big yellow bus that will whisk him away to a classroom full of other fourth graders where he will presumably be taught things the adult world feels he should know.
So, as I watched the school bus pull away this morning I was again struck by how much richer and satisfying our lives have become as our two boys have grown. Indeed, dealing with verbally accomplished bipeds is worlds easier and, quite frankly, a lot more gratifying than trying to connect with an infant who is perpetually frustrated at being unable get up and go where he wants to go or say what he wants to say.
We connect in so many different ways now; there are books and movies we all enjoy, we exchange ideas about what they're learning in school, they now enjoy sharing adult food such as steak and seafood, and trips to museums such as the Met are satisfying for all involved.
And even better, after I help them with their homework this afternoon there will be just enough time for some batting practice in the back yard and maybe even a little two-on-one basketball in the driveway. It really is a hell of a great payoff.
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