Owen

Being James

So James and Owen are in preschool. They go five days a week, 9-11:30am. They seem to love it. (I love it.)

They’re excited to go in the morning. They’re all smiles when they climb up into the van when their day is done.

They sing the songs they learned. They tell me about the rug work they did, the books they listened to, the snacks they ate.

They eagerly show me their papers.

Owen:

James:

Owen (apparently he can write his own name and cut out bats):

James (this is about as much as he can get done without moving on to something else—in fact, I’m rather impressed with his “skeleton” above):

Today, Andy observed for a few minutes before going to work. Here’s a picture he took, of Owen and James “sitting” on the blue line:

I know you’re not supposed to compare but seriously, all of this cracks me up. Because here’s the thing: I’m not worried about James. Truly, I’m not. Give him a puzzle meant for 8+ and he’ll sit and concentrate, finishing it. Give him anything he shouldn’t take apart and he’ll expertly dismantle it. Give him a pile of tracks and he’ll put together an elaborate, working system. All the rest of it? Well, he just does things on his own time, in his own way.

OK, so maybe if by spring he’s still bringing home papers with only scribbles on them, I’ll worry (a little). And if one of his teachers tells us he’s being disruptive while (not) sitting on the line, we’ll talk with him. If any of this becomes a problem, we’ll deal with it.

But for now, carry on, little man. Carry on.

“If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.” —David Carradine

My Dad’s Retirement

Work, for my dad, started early—in life and in the day. He grew up on a hog farm in Lewisburg, Ohio. He helped with the hard work of the farm, and my grandparents paid him and his siblings for the work that they did. He went to college, taught, got a master’s degree and taught some more. He was good at his work, but he never let it define him. Case in point: In 1982, he started working for McGraw-Hill Book Company. I have postcards from the early 80s from places like New York City—places my dad traveled for work. I remember going to the airport with him, getting on his plane and stepping into the cockpit. I remember a pilot giving me my own pilot wings. I remember watching his plane leave the airport and I remember the excitement of postcards in the mail. I don’t know if I simply associate Harry Chapin’s “The Cat’s in the Cradle” with my dad’s decision to leave his district manager job or if the song truly influenced him but he did leave it after three years. And most of his career, from 1985 to 2013, was spent with Great Oaks Institute of Technology and Career Development, most recently as Vice President of Business Operations. He did a lot of good there.

In June, he retired.

We attended a banquet for all the Great Oaks retirees late this spring. His speech made me teary.

And then in June, Kyle from San Francisco, and Katy, Tom and Colleen from North Carolina, came to town to celebrate.

These were some of the best summer days and nights.

We celebrated many things that week. We had dinner at A Tavola followed by cake and gifts at our house to celebrate Father’s Day and my mom’s birthday.

Our immediate family toasted and gifted my dad after dinner at Troy’s Cafe. My mom gave him two engraved bricks that both say “But it’s Baseball! Gary Gebhart”—one’s at home, the other, at Great American Ball Park.

For weeks beforehand my mom gathered one word from people who know my dad—one word that describes him. She then made The List.

The List
caring
major league
sincere
genuineness
animates
thoughtful
worker
lists
builder
fanatical
awesome
smiley
OBT
stupendous
committed
loyal
trustworthy
quick-witted
magnanimous
friendly
organized
considerate
realistic
smiling
farmer
finisher
comfortable
conscientious
industrious
tenacious
Kotter
nice
loving
egalitarian
friends
baseball
glasses
passionate
kind
right
quick
interesting
helpful
respectful
genuine
witty
cute
card-maker
dedicated
baseball guru
photographer
inspirational
detailed
pliable
humorous
high-fives
perspicacious
dependable
late
funny
brotherly
Xenia
generous
Carnac the Magnificent
courteous
kind-hearted
diligent
fun
sports guru
brilliant
hospitable
family
supportive
selfless
beloved

The next day family, friends and colleagues attended a party at my parents’ house.

My dad and brother-in-law spent days preparing Detling Field for a ballgame. We played a bit but then …

a downpour.

Still, an enjoyable day, complete with Eli’s BBQ sandwiches for all.

Now my parents are both retired. My dad still works, but it’s work of his choosing. He gardens. He works in the yard. He works out. He attends services at First Unitarian Church of Cincinnati. He volunteers at the Freestore Foodbank. He tutors a kindergartener once a week at South Avondale Elementary School. Every week he and my mom go on a date—Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill, Findley Market, a concert in a coffee shop. Next weekend they’re going to Colonial Williamsburg to see the Threads of Feeling exhibit with my grandma and my sister and her family. They went to Hawaii.

My dad stopped by the other day, after tutoring, just to hang out, to play tickle monster with the kids, to be beat in Bingo. This time for him is so incredibly well-deserved. And I’m just so thankful to be a part of it.

“Don’t simply retire from something; have something to retire to.” —Harry Emerson Fosdick

James & Owen’s “Concert”

About 10 minutes ago Owen and James ran downstairs and started shouting something about a concert.

“What?” I asked.

“We have a concert for you!” they said. “Come upstairs to our concert!”

They were so excited.

And so was I. How imaginative! They did it all on their own! And I had heard no screaming for the 30 minutes prior so they did it together happily, nicely—no fighting at all.

We got to their bedroom door. It was closed, with a little tag hanging from the doorway.

How cute, I thought.

With great fanfare, they opened their door to …

this.

“Ta da!” they said.

“It’s everything in your room in a big pile,” I said.

“Yes!” they screamed. “It’s our concert!”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “When does the concert start?”

“This is it! This is our concert! OUR CONCERT!”

“So this big pile of stuff in your room is the concert?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to clean the concert up?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When we’re done with the concert.”

“Is the concert over now?”

“Yes.”

I left.

I still don’t understand.

And instead of hearing the concert being cleaned up, I hear things being added to the concert.

“Owen! There’s another blanket! Put it in the concert!”

“Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.” —Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

James & Owen’s 1st Day of Preschool

I have a lot I want to write right now but it’s too much. I can’t put my thoughts together. Sometimes, three-year periods bear little change. Others start with you in the NICU with two little people who—combined—weigh less than your cat and end with you watching them walk down your front walk wearing backpacks.

This picture pretty much sums up the morning. James has just found out that we aren’t going to be in preschool with him (we thought this had been made clear much earlier—apparently not). Owen (who is usually our more timid child) is thrilled.

Check out their personalized handmade backpacks. Andy’s aunt Susan made them by request—contact her here if you’d like backpacks, totes, diaper bags, clothes—she can make anything. (The boys love their backpacks. Thanks again, Aunt Susan.)

At one point Owen clenched his fists and just stood on our porch shaking his arms—he was so excited.

James is (sort of) smiling here only because I was making an absolute fool of myself in our front yard, trying to get him excited/cheer him up.

We drove.

James cried.

“Preschool will be fun, James. OK?” Owen said over and over again.

At Country Hills Montessori (the same preschool Sophie went to—the one we fell in love with) we were supposed to kiss, hug and go. Owen knew what to do as soon as he walked through the doors—where to put his backpack, where to wash his hands … Sophie had talked through all these steps with both Owen and James all summer long.

Owen didn’t look back.

James clung.

“What should we do?” I asked one of the teachers, who was at his level, holding her arms out to him.

“Kiss, hug and go,” she said.

So we did.

After I peeled his fingers off my wrist.

We heard the sound of his cry all the long walk back to our van.

(Parenting can be hard.)

The first day was only an hour long.

I spent it at Fort Thomas Coffee, with a latte, coffee cake and a copy of Meg Wolitzer’s The Interestings.

I have long designated this future kid-free time as time to work on my freelance projects, excited about the possibility of not editing at midnight. But today, this first day, I designated this time as mine.

I didn’t read, though. I wondered if James was still crying. I uploaded Instagrammed first-day-of-preschool pictures to Facebook. I wondered if either had had an accident. I ate my coffee cake. I wondered if James was still crying.

And then it was time to pick them up.

Mrs. Richter gave me a thumbs up while helping load another set of twins into a mini van in front of me.

They had done well.

They came out, all smiles and waves, wearing the same clothes I had sent them in, excited to tell me everything—excited to go back.

I thought of the NICU, the times I kissed, hugged and had to go. How hard that was. How hard this was. And then how OK and, ultimately, good it all was, too.

The night before, my parents stopped by for a last summer hurrah—Coney Island, Skyline, Graeters. My mom gave me a gift—a beautiful Liberty print handkerchief, with hand-rolled and hand-sewn edges. (It has since seen some use.) And a card, with this written on it:

“Opie: Cage sure looks awful empty don’t it Pa?

Andy: Yes son, it sure does. But don’t the trees seem nice and full?”

My Eyes

I recently had a routine physical examination with Dr. Owen Uhl. As he was peering into my (dark brown) eyes with his toy ophthalmoscope he said, “Hmm. They’re a little bit chocolate-y. But that’s OK.”

“In nothing do men more nearly approach the gods than in giving health to men.” —Cicero

Flashback

Every so often I still catch Owen giving Sophie this same look.

“There’s no other love like the love for a brother. There’s no other love like the love from a brother.” —Terri Guillemets

Tonight.

This picture was taken at 5:22pm. Sophie woke them up at 6pm. They immediately started crying. We whispered softly to them. Scratched their backs. Dinner was already on the table, on their plates, parmesan cheese sprinkled on top, their favorite drinks in their favorite cups.

They started screaming.

And then kept screaming until 6:55pm.

Whenever I asked James what was wrong (which, obviously, was that I woke him up) he just screamed at me. Owen, at least, tried to talk although it didn’t make sense. I think he was dreaming and his dream was clashing with reality, which was just making him more angry.

Eventually, after a long story about a curvy track involving his Legos, he told me he wanted watermelon and carrots for dinner.

This was, actually, a somewhat reasonable request but I had already made dinner. And our rule is this: You must, at the very least, try a bite before requesting something else.

I reminded him of this rule.

He just screamed some more.

Finally (imagine a lot of time passing here) he decided to try a piece if I carried him to the table and if I fed it to him.

Whatever.

I did.

(It had been 55 minutes.)

Owen: “I don’t like it.”

Me: “So you want watermelon and carrots?”

Owen: “Yes.”

As I was spooning out the watermelon onto a plate …

Owen: “Wouldn’t it be funny if I ate all my pasta with my watermelon and carrots because I like it?”

I paused. And silently screamed inside my head.

Me: “Yes, Owen. Very funny.”

He ate some more. He ate his watermelon, his baby carrots and his pasta. James, who had been eating as well, got up and came over to where I was sitting, which, at this point, was on the couch.

James: “How many bites do I have to eat to get dessert?”

Me: “All of them. Your whole plate.”

He flipped out.

Me: “Fine. Ten bites.”

(Remember, 55 minutes.)

Owen: “How many bites do I have to eat?”

James: “Ten.”

Owen, sobbing again: “But I want to eat the whole of it!”

Me: “What?”

Owen, still sobbing: “But I want to eat the whole of it!”

At this point Sophie came down the stairs, wearing only her underwear.

Sophie: “Do you know what I really want? What I really want is … why could I only have five of those stars?”

Me: “Because you’ve had plenty of treats today. That’s plenty for dessert.”

James: “DID I EAT ENOUGH FOR DESSERT?”

Owen: “Did I eat enough for dessert?”

Sophie: “I want more stars!”

“Everybody knows how to raise children, except the people who have them.” —P.J. O’Rourke

From Owen & James’s Room, 9:07pm

Owen: “Stop petting me! I’m not an animal!”

James: laughing

Owen: “I said stop petting me! I’m playing people! I’m a people! NOT AN AMINAL!”

James: laughing

Owen: “A PEOPLE! WE ARE PLAYING PEOPLE NOW! NOT ANIMALS! STOP PETTING ME!”

a moment of silence from both of them

James: crying, and then “Mama!”

“What strange creatures brothers are!” —Jane Austen

A Walk in the Woods

This morning was gorgeous. We left the windows open overnight and as such, our house was filled with outdoor morning sweetness—chirping birds and cool breezes.

The children’s attitudes, however, were less than gorgeous. There was whining and crying, and fit-throwing when Andy left for work.

In my mind, I couldn’t understand how they could be so cranky when so much outside beauty was pouring through the tiny holes in our window screens. I knew this line of thought was unreasonable but still, I was irritated.

So, I decided to immerse them into the beauty of the day in way I haven’t yet attempted with all three of them by myself.

“We’re going hiking,” I said.

Their moods instantly improved.

We went to Tower Park, only a couple minutes from our house. I knew they had trails there as we, as a family, had walked some of them during Fort Thomas’s annual jack-o-lantern walks. But we had never hiked them on our own.

The kids loved it. They pointed out everything—mud, sticks, different leaves, bugs, squirrels, the sound of an owl.

And then, we spotted them—two beautiful deer watching us, perched on a ridge just above us. (I failed to bring my camera and was only able to capture sunlight with my phone.) The kids were quietly ecstatic, trying their hardest to be quiet so as not to scare the deer away.

We continued hiking and like something out of a children’s book, the deer followed us, we down below, they on the ridge above.

We walked through the woods for a good half hour, which was about the time I started to wonder if my assumption that the trail would loop was, perhaps, incorrect. I called Andy. He tried to figure out where we were on the trail map. I told him where we started. He said that was impossible, according to the map. So the four of us turned around, walking back the way we came.

Sophie led the way, yelling back to us every time she encountered something we might want to know about.

“Here’s a rock bridge!”

or

“Balance on this tree root!”

or

“Don’t step in that mud puddle!”

James fell on a rock once. Owen forgot to watch out for that mud puddle and ended up with a mud-soaked sandal. Sophie loved to lean precariously over edges while I fretted.

It was perfect.

Parenting ruts are so easy to fall into—especially in later summer when there is no school and vacation has come and gone. But then, a morning like this morning happens. A morning when you discover a treasure in your own backyard, in your own little town, in our own little world, previously unknown.

“In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.” —John Muir

A Rookie Move

One of my children: “MOM! Can we paint?”

My bone-tired thought process: Letting them paint by themselves will give me at least 5 minutes of alone time on this couch.

Five minutes later:

“No matter how calmly you try to referee, parenting will eventually produce bizarre behavior, and I’m not talking about the kids. Their behavior is always normal.” —Bill Cosby