Anyway, rain mixed with the scent of cherry blossoms is one of the reasons I believe in God, I think. The other day I went for a run while Suzannah had track practice, and as I ran along the sidewalk back towards my house, I actually jumped into the air just to touch the blossoms on the branches of the trees that lined the street. I felt like a nine-year-old, but they were as soft as they looked.
So Suzannah is doing track at her school this spring. We approach this the way we do gymnastics; in no way do I expect her to be a natural, but she has fun. I like what she seems to be learning: teamwork, listening to a coach, becoming more confident, pushing herself to try new things and do her best without worrying about competing, and sticking with something. I can tell you right now that I’m probably doing sports wrong. (Well, I’ve been told by Parents Who Know that I am doing sports wrong. But I’m sure it’s also pretty clear that I don’t care.) I know we're supposed to get our children into soccer or gymnastics or dance or whatever will be THEIR THING by the time they can write their names so they can continue in high school and be “good” or whatever and blah blah blah, I’m very sorry but our children just do not have those parents. They can tell their therapists all about it someday, but no, I am not going to try to get my five and eight-year-old children into “serious” athletics. I want them to play, I want them to enjoy being active, and I want them to try new things. There’s plenty of time left in their lives to devote to competition, and if somehow we’re stifling their natural athletic ability, well, like I said. Therapy. And anyway, they’re my children, so let’s be honest -- what are the actual chances? Matt is a more natural athlete than I am but he also cares not one bit about sports, preferring his exercise in the form of running and hiking. We’re nerdy folks who like to read and play in the park and tromp around in the mountains and swim. I think we model healthy exercise habits, and I think we’re playful people who also enjoy incorporating those things into our lives. If either or both of our children turn out to be gifted athletes who thrive despite our shortcomings, I imagine we’ll do our best to support/nurture/keep up with them.
Anyway, for now, Suzannah is doing track. I pick her up from practices and she is red-faced, her damp hair clinging to her neck. She’s smiling. I ask her if she had fun, and she says yes. I suggest that maybe we come over to the track some afternoon and run around it together a bit and she shrugs and says, “Okay, sure!” And then she wants to go home and read.
And she’s still doing gymnastics. I honestly can’t see her doing competitive gymnastics ever, really, but you know what? I love that she still enjoys it in her third year, and I love that she will do things on the bars this year that she was too scared to do last year. That she was too scared to do just a few months ago. And she’s proud of this. She looks over and sees me watching her do this thing, and her coach high-fives her and gives her a hug, and her smile just lights up her whole beautiful face. This is what I want her to get out of these sports: that she can do a thing that scares her a little. That she can do more than she could last month. That she learns what her body can do.
Her life, God willing, will be long. There is time for her to find and grow into her passions. For now, I want her to push herself, yes, but I also want her to play.
In other news, she’s reading all the time, really almost every minute she’s not eating or sleeping. I gave her the first Harry Potter book about a month ago with the silly idea I’d let her read one or two each year. We all know the first few are lots of fun but they get progressively darker and more complex, and I thought spreading them out a bit would be the best approach. Then again, I read the Harry Potter books as they were released and didn’t have the luxury of getting wrapped up in the entire series all at once. Suzannah finished the first book in two days and reached immediately for the second one, and then the third, and then the fourth. She’s taking a break now to read other things, but clearly my “read these books until you’re fourteen” plan is not going to work. Which is fine, really, because I generally don’t censor her from reading anything she picks up on her own. I know that what she’s not ready for will go over her head, and I just hope, of course, that she’ll come back to them later if that’s the case. And Harry Potter is the sort of story that rewards rereading anyway.
Isaac is five years old and so much boisterous boy love I can hardly stand it, even though his way of loving on me is to kiss me sloppily all over my face and then screech, “Okay, I’ll just stink my armpit on you!” My husband’s amusement is my clue that this is not actually something my son will grow out of, not really. (Tonight I reminded Matt about the time we went out for fish and chips once, years ago, maybe before we were even married, and as I reached for the malt vinegar he said, “Mmm, feet!” He laughed, pleased with himself over a decade later.) He loves Ninja Turtles, and Power Rangers, and playing house at daycare. Recently his daycare provider sent me a text at work, sharing the conversation she overheard during playtime:
Isaac: I have to go for a run, girls. I will eat dinner when I come back.Matt was delighted. For that matter, so was I.
Ashley: Okay! I am baking a cake!
Isaac: I am back. I have to take a shower, then I can eat.
Ashley: The cake is ready!
He loves stuffed animals in a way Suzannah never really did. Suzannah, as a very young child, was just as likely to sleep with her toy wooden toaster, pizza cutter, or favorite plastic comb as she was a teddy bear. Isaac, however, falls asleep every night with one of his stuffed animals hugged tightly to his chest and several others arranged in the bed with him. When I tuck him into bed at night I like to crawl right in with him until he shrieks, “Mommy! You’re layin’ on my stuffed animals!” Beagle is a great favorite, but he also loves his aardvark (my child has a stuffed aardvark! Thank you, Becca!) and Happy, his penguin from Build-a-Bear, one of his only stuffed animals with a name. And, frustratingly, he often requires some tiny little stuffed animal that neither Matt nor I have seen in weeks (“I need my tiny blue penguin from the zoo!”), one that will ultimately be located in his box of gears or trains an hour after bedtime.
But there’s such a sweetness in him. He is my cuddler, the child who is prone to grabbing my arm and kissing it with wild abandon for no reason. When I tiptoe into his room to kiss him after he’s asleep I just want to bury myself in his soft, vaguely potato-scented neck. I soak up every second of this, because I know how fleeting it is. (Suzannah has imposed a very strict kissing limit, which I find terribly sad. So I admit, I tiptoe into her room, too, and kiss her forehead after she falls asleep. But she’s still so compassionate in her denial. The other night I said, “It just makes me so sad that you hate it when I kiss you!” and she patted my head and said, “Oh, poor Mommy. I don’t actually hate it.”)
Blue or not, it’s impossible not to bask in gratitude when I write about these two. Oh, these two.
No comments:
Post a Comment