And We Laugh

Cal's and my relationship has reached a really fun stage.  The kid doesn't really do much to get under my skin, other than dealing with his "issues" with general neatness and cleanliness (uh, yeah, does he HAVE to wipe his mouth with his shirt?); but even that has become fun.  I see food dropping from his mouth as he eats and I stare.  I mean, what else am I supposed to do?  I stare.  I am amazed at how unfazed he is by it.  With every crumb and clump of sauce that fails to stay in his mouth, I think about how much work is ahead of me.  My general verbalized response to this is, "Cal, you are never going to have a girlfriend if you continue to eat like that," said as I shake my head from side to side.  This is naturally followed by his wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve... or neck of his shirt... or just not at all.

Anyway, on Sunday, I was all over him about changing his socks before we went to, well, kind of my boss's boss's house for an afternoon of a little work (she and Dan had some Rebuilding Together planning to do) and a little socializing, with drinks, of course.  Why it was so important to me that he change his socks, I don't know.  I didn't have any facts to back this up, but I envisioned them being the same socks that he had worn to school on Friday and then again on Saturday because the kid only has a couple pairs of socks that he actually likes to wear.  Why wouldn't I think they were three days in to being worn before being washed?

So it was getting close to our target time to leave for their house, and I said for what may have been the fiftieth time, "Cal, did you change your socks?"  He responded by insisting he had put them on fresh that morning, but I wasn't listening.  I insisted again.  And he responded this time by coming to me, his arms outreached, and saying with his sweet voice as he hugged me, "I love you, Mama."

I got sucked right in, hugged back and reciprocated, "Aw, I love you, too, Baby Bear," setting the whole sock thing aside.  He does this.  He knows how to pull on my heartstrings.  All he needs to say is, "I love you, Mama," and I'm done.  Wear whatever you want, even that shirt with spaghetti sauce on the sleeve and Cheetoh juice on the neckline.

I told him this, that he just needs to tell me he loves me and I'll forget any issues I might be tackling with him; and he laughed, a playful yet devious laugh.  He all-encompassingly knows exactly what he's doing.  I'm a sucker for that kid.  For now, it's fun.  Battling dirty socks and food-stained shirts just gets overtaken priority-wise by enjoying a good hug and laughs with that Leatherkid.

We laughed again on Monday night during reading time.  Dan and I are back to the read-two-books-to-Ella-together-followed-by-reading-one-book-to-Cal routine.  Lately (where "lately" seems like the last two years), Cal chooses to read his Lego Star Wars book, which usually means he and I lie side-by-side at the head of his bed, Dan lies across the base of it, and I read the book to him.  Every once in awhile, Cal says that he wants to read, which, of course, I oblige.

The book is very worn and damaged (this is the one I threw against the wall a month or so ago), posing a challenge to bedtime reading as pages frequently fall out of it.  Despite its condition, this book gives the readers a good sense for how the Star Wars characters evolved, who trained whom, who moved to the Dark Side of the force, who killed whom, who descended from whom, and, in the case of the droids, who made whom.  It also describes the spaceships and general modes of transportation and tools for battle.  All of the aforementioned in their Lego forms, of course.

I wouldn't describe it as a funny book, though some of the cartoon talk bubbles have some witty banter.  There is one page that, when Cal and I hit it, makes us laugh because I just can't pronounce the word the way it's supposed to be pronounced.  It's about a spacecraft, the Executor, which seems like an easy word to pronounce but really isn't... on which syllable does one put the emphasis?  I inevitably pick the wrong one and, even after a lot of thought, awkwardly say it with the emphasis on the second syllable, "ExECutor," you know, the person who executes a will.  Cal laughs and corrects me by saying with the emphasis on the first syllable, "EXecutor," you know, the person who kills, or executes, people.

Executor excerpt

Monday night, Cal read that page.  We both giggled when he first arrived at it, knowing full well what was ahead of us.  It was early on that he came across the word, said it just as he usually does ("EXecutor") and then smiled.  Thinking he had said it incorrectly and I had caught him, I said, "wait..." and then bounced the word around in my head a few times before realizing he had said it correctly.  We laughed at the notion that I had thought that I had caught him saying it incorrectly.  As if.

Yes, despite my not-so-excited reaction to the news that he has selected it as his bedtime book again, reading this Lego Star Wars book is fun... or can be fun.  He has clearly read it an estimated million times.  Either that, or he has a freakishly good memory. Or maybe it's both.  I say this because when we hit the pages

Bounty Hunters, page 2

Bounty Hunters, page 1

Monday night that provided Darth Vader's notes (data files) on the different bounty hunters he was considering for the job of hunting down Luke, Cal recited the notes for each hunter either close to or exactly as old Darth had written them himself.  That one about Cad Bane (right) he nailed word for word with no help or leads from me.  Amazing.  And we're not always talking everyday, easy peasy words, either.  Cal laughed at my reaction to his being able to recite virtually word for word all of content from these pages; and that, in turn, made me laugh with him.

We really do have fun together these days, Cal and I.  Dirty socks, food-stained shirtsleeves, mispronounced words in a kids' book, amazing memory -- on the surface, these don't seem like funny things; but they are.  At least, Cal and I find a way to laugh about it all.

Cal's Hug

Not that I ever question our having two kids, even having to endure all of the lunacy that raising them entails, but tonight I experienced one of the benefits of having two of my own flesh and blood in our house.

I came home from a busy, tough day of work and tried to exchange pleasantries with Ella who was sitting at the island in our kitchen and frantically typing on her "Discovery Kids" laptop.  Yes, I tried.  She didn't bite and eventually grunted a frustrated response that had nothing to do with me... or anything, for that matter.  I don't remember what it was about, other than nothing that had anything to do with her, me or Dan, who was fixing dinner at the stove at the time.

I really just wanted a hug from her.  She gives good hugs.

Rather than sulk and be sad that my kid wanted nothing to do with me, I immediately asked where Cal was.  "In his room," Dan said.  He barely had the words out of his mouth and I was calling for Cal.  "Baby Bear?!" I called.  No response.  Dan followed by announcing that it was time for dinner; and, with that, I heard some footsteps and eventually saw Cal bounding down the stairs.  He was smiling.

"Hi, Mama!" he exclaimed through his big smile.

"Hi, Baby Bear!" I replied, my arms outstretched and inviting him into them.

He ran to me and wrapped his arms around my neck.  I wrapped mine around his torso and and then around his butt and picked him up to fully enjoy my much-needed, big-hearted hug from my firstborn.  It was a long hug and made me smile.

And that is a benefit of having two kids.  When one wants nothing to do with you, you can always turn to the other and just try again.  It won't always work, but the odds of getting something good from a child increase exponentially when you have two.

Things That Make Me Smile

A couple of days ago it was Friday and the end of what was a long week of work.  So much done, so much to think about, so much yet to do.  Next week will surely be not much different, possibly even worse.  But it's all good -- I'm not complaining.  I'm enjoying it.

Friday has turned into "beer train Friday," which, as its name suggests, involves drinking a beer on the long train trek home.  Usually, it's just a friend and I; every once in awhile another friend joins us.  Once, it was just I.  And every time, unless they're sold out, my choice of beer is the Two Brothers Wobble IPA.

Halfway through my beer during Friday's ride home and while talking with my friend, I felt happy.  I don't know exactly why, maybe it was the IPA, maybe it was the good end to the workday that I had, maybe I was overtired and delirious.  Whatever it was, it was the inspiration for this post -- a list of things that make me happy.

1. Drinking IPAs.  This has been my beer of choice for awhile now and lately has been the only type I drink.  Except for the Rebel IPA, I haven't had an IPA that I haven't liked.  I don't know if it's bad that I don't drink a variety of beers, but I don't care because IPAs make me happy.
2. Ella, reaching the end of the lane at swimming.  I watch her "make pizzas," kick, flip to breathe, crawl and dolphin kick her way from one end of her swimming lane to another, and I do enjoy witnessing that.  The best part of her trip down the lane, though, is when she reaches the end.  She goes under for a bit, explodes out of the water and smiles a toothless smile so big that you know that she is having so much fun.  That she's having fun and showing it makes me happy.
3. Dan getting a well-deserved raise. That Dan recently got a good raise was entirely his doing.  He works hard and sensibly and is productive.  His customers, both internal and external, appreciate the care and attention that he gives their accounts.  He takes on additional responsibilities above and beyond what is expected of his role. If his work ethic and product don't say enough, Dan also verbally regularly reminds his management of how valuable he is to their organization.  They hear him and have no choice but to reward him.  I am proud of him for this, and this makes me happy.
4. Talking with Cal about Michael Jordan.  I never pass on an opportunity to tell Cal that Michael Jordan is the best basketball player EVER.  I believe it, and I want Cal to know how good Jordan was.  Just yesterday, I reminded him of this.  I told him, "Michael Jordan was better than LeBron James.  He was better than Steph Curry... well, not as good a shooter as Curry but better all around."  Cal then asked me if he was better than "that guy who scored 100 points in a game," and I responded, "Wilt Chamberlain?  Yes, Jordan was better than Wilt Chamberlain."  As I talked with Cal about Jordan, I got excited tears in my eyes.  I was happy.
5. A run to the United Center at lunch.  Every once in awhile, I am able to escape work at lunchtime and go for a run to the United Center and back -- two miles there, two miles back.  It's a perfect distance with good distractions (including a statue of the aforementioned thing that makes me happy).  It really is an escape, and I always feel better having done it.  This run makes me happy.
6. The Leatherkids' artwork.  Not that I like the sheer volume of this (I get anxious

   

   One of my favorites of Cal's

   just thinking about it), but so much about the Leatherkids' artwork they bring home everyday makes me smile. Sometimes, I think it's brilliant, and it lands in a frame; other times it touches my heart, like when Ella writes "Mommy" somewhere on it.  I love that she thinks of me during the day when we are apart.  This makes me happy.
7. A full moon on a clear night.  Sometimes when I know it's a clear night and when everyone but I (is that right, Dad?) is asleep in the house, I step out onto the deck and look up at the moon. (I also do this on my walk back from the end of the driveway after taking the garbage out, which doesn't sound as glamorous.)  If I'm lucky, it's full.  It's dark outside.  It's quiet.  The air is especially refreshing.  The contrast of the moon's light against the dark sky is striking.  I take it all in and smile.  And then I think about the millions of people who could witness the moon at the same time if they chose to and wonder who actually is.  All I do know at that moment is I am, and what I'm witnessing makes me happy.
8. The Leatherkids, fast asleep.  They are not talking or talking back.  They are not making noises with their mouths or their bodies.  They are not wiping their mouths with their shirts or or just not sitting still.  They are still.  Perfectly still.  I watch them breathe for a few seconds and then look over their entire bodies.  I marvel in their existence.  I made them.  I kiss them and smile, a sure sign of happiness.
9. The Leatherkids getting along..  They may push each other's buttons and yell at each other.  They may push, kick or hit each other.  They may each shed tears over the other's doing.  And they may say that they "hate" one another.  But that's just part of being siblings.  I know that because I regularly witness the two of them interacting and laughing, playing off of one another, genuine joy expressed by their eyes which are looking at each other.  I love this.  They are friends, and they do love each other.  This makes me happy.
10. An unexpected compliment and show of appreciation from a co-worker.  To be honest, I work hard at my job for myself and sometimes for my co-workers who I also know are working hard toward the same goal.  If I don't think I'm doing a good job, I am not happy with myself, even if others think I'm doing just fine.  I don't seek or need praise from co-workers or managers.  But I tell you what: when, out of the blue and without a clear trigger, my co-worker tells a room full of people how much she appreciates the work that I've been doing and how helpful it's been to her team, I feel pretty darn good.  This happened on Friday, and I'm still smiling about it.  This made me happy.
11. Sunset behind the Chicago skyline.  I love this City and its skyline.  I can look at it

    

    Sunset behind the Chicago skyline

    and know what's going on between the buildings, having lived there for many years and worked there for even longer.  It's familiar.  It's alive.  It's beautiful.  It's now a far trek, but I love that I get to go there every workday to feel, share and witness it.  What a fantastic symbol of the City, made even more fantastic by a sunset.  This makes me happy.

So this isn't an exhaustive list of things that make me happy, just ones that came to mind during the timeboxed window I gave myself before starting to write.  I wanted ten but did eleven because I like odd numbers.  And I am happy just having written about these.

Bananagram Fun

I had another rough... let's call it day with Ella yesterday, and somehow righted the proverbial ship in the evening by asking her if she'd like to help me fix dinner.  I "needed" "help" cleaning and mashing the potatoes and pouring the baked beans -- her choice over lentils -- into the pot to heat up.  As she cleaned the potatoes, I poured myself a much-needed, much-deserved glass of wine and enjoyed it.  Honestly, despite still recovering from our... let's call it fight, I enjoyed that time with Ella, too.  It's not that it wasn't without its stresses (spilled cat food, potatoes flying everywhere while mashing, beans dripping from the serving spoon); but they were expected from an unskilled 4-year-old, and one who was eager to help and learn.  It also helped that we both had the right attitude, listening to and content with each other.

Anyway, we came up with some alternate seating arrangements for dinner.  With Legos pieces sorted by color in piles everywhere, our typical options for dinner tables were taken.  Instead, we decided she and Cal could eat at their little red table that we'd place alongside the kitchen island, where Dan and I would eat.  Ella then excitedly carried the red table and chairs into the kitchen on her own and proceeded to set our dinner places with plates, spoons and napkins.  Why just spoons, I'm not sure, but it didn't matter.

And then we ate.

After dinner, Dan had gotten back to Star Wars Lego set assembly duty, with Cal kind of participating.  I was on post-dinner kitchen duties, and Ella was running around.  Dan distracted her with the question, "Boopers (that's his name for her, short for Belly Boopers), do you know how to spell MIX?"  She scrambled to the pantry looking for something and after a bit of time scrambled back to Dan saying, "M-I-X" as she did.

Kitchen duty complete, I noticed that Ella had carried the yellow, banana-shaped bag of large Banagagrams into the family room, which is next to the kitchen. I asked her if she could spell MIX with the letters, and this led to an attempt to work on her sight words. I don't remember what I tried first, but I eventually got to the "AT" words -- there are so many, and I felt like I could get her to sound and reason them out.  We did AT, CAT, BAT, SAT, HAT, FAT... possibly more.

Eventually, it was bedtime; and I decided to end our Bananagram fun by finding and then laying out the letters:

(I really wish there were punctuation marks in these Bananagram sets.)

Anyway, Ella and Cal wanted to do their own... let's call them phrases.  Ella went first and assembled this:

(I love that she used a couple of the words that we worked on a few minutes earlier!)

And then this was Cal's gem:

(I'm still letting him sound things out when spelling and not worrying too much about misspellings; but I did tell him the correct way to spell RETURN after taking this picture.)

Their phrases made me genuinely laugh.  Leatherkids + Bananagrams are a fun combination!

A Good Book Spoiled

We watched a few episodes of Scooby Doo tonight.  As the kids watched one of them, I found myself watching them.  They were eating their dinner at the time, pizza from our favorite pizza place and what's become a staple for Family Fun Friday.  Eating it was automatic.  They were intently focused on the show, hearing every word spoken by Fred, Daphne, Thelma, Shaggy and Scooby and every grunt or growl made by the bad guys. They laughed, and they laughed again.

They had clearly recovered from last night's debacle of bedtime reading with Mommy.

Truth be told, I haven't recovered.  I'm still hurting.

I wish I had their resilience.  I suppose I am grateful for at least that.  At least they were able to get over it, have good days and still love me.  I believed them when they told me that tonight.

I'm not mad at them.  Not anymore.  Any anger I had was initially released when I threw their books across the room and against the wall by Ella's closet and then stormed out of her room.  As I did so, I announced, "no books" and noticed that the back cover of Cal's book had torn away from the spine and pages had spilled out.

I went to my room to breathe.  I cried.  A few seconds later, I heard a small scream.  I had to go back to make sure nothing was wrong, other than my awful reaction to their excessive complaints about my apparently flawed plan to read to them.

Cal had noticed his book, his treasured Star Wars book, had fallen apart and was crying about it.  I didn't like that my baby was hurting; but apparently the throwing of their books didn't say enough.  I had something important to say.  I had their full attention; and without even thinking, I gave them a tearful, verbal beatdown complete with a choice swear word or two.  I will never again claim ignorance to where they learned that swear word they'll surely say.  The theme was a good one -- it doesn't fucking matter who's book gets read first.  My two babies sat next to each other on Ella's bed and watched me the whole time I laid into them. The typically incessant talkers didn't speak one word.

Feeling finished with my message, sad and tired, I picked up Cal's book which was now in shambles and headed downstairs to get some packing tape.  I brought it back upstairs to my room and, with my eyes wet and my hands shaky, started to repair the book.  I taped the back cover back on the book first.  I saw but didn't acknowledge Ella standing in my doorway watching me.  I then worked on the spine and last taped some still loose pages to their neighboring pages.  My repair job was good but not good enough to not have a regular reminder of tonight's happenings.

I walked toward the door and told Ella to go back to her room, and she did so without complaint.  Cal was in his room already, so I went there to drop of his repaired book and tuck him in.  I gave him a kiss, apologized for yelling, told him I love him, told him good night and left.  He told me he loves me.

I was sad.

I walked to Ella's room and was asked to read her a book.  Numb and feeling like I owed her this, I picked up her Snow White book and read it to her with no enthusiasm, inflection or interest.  I wondered if she noticed this.  I don't think she did.  She was content.

Once finished reading, I did the same with Ella that I did for Cal -- kissed her, apologized for yelling, told her I love her, told her good night, turned on her music and headed toward her door.  From her door, I turned to her for our routine exchanging of verbal and signed "I love yous" followed by blown kisses.  And I turned and left.

I don't feel bad about my reaction.  I've learned that I am human.  Things like that are going to happen every once in awhile, and I'm okay with that reality.  I needed it.  Being okay with it doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt, though.  Did I have to break Cal's book?  Oddly, that's what hurts the most, not so much the breaking of a book but the breaking of the book that he loves and takes good care of himself.

I'm not looking for a positive in all of this or a better approach to being an effective mom. I don't want any criticism but would fully expect it. I am (was?) still hurting about a bad five or ten minutes I had with the Leatherkids last night and wanted to write about it.

Namaste, Daddy

I got home from work last night just after 6:30pm.  From the garage, I walked past the laundry room, through the family room and into the kitchen.  Not a soul was around.  It was quiet.  Peaceful almost.  I peeked into the microwave and saw a covered bowl of food and figured it was the meal that I had suggested to Dan that we have for dinner.  It was a quickie, one that I knew I could whip up and serve to the troops without cutting into bedtime.  “I’ll fix it when I get home,” I told Dan.  “If you want, you can get the noodles going,” I added.  Turns out, he did all of the fixin'.

I turned to the kitchen island to take a look at any schoolwork that Cal brought home that day.  This has been the routine that Dan instilled in him – arrive home, take off shoes, grab papers from folder in backpack and bring them to the kitchen for Mommy and Daddy to see.  There wasn’t much new to see last night.

I had been home for a few minutes now, and I heard a ruckus at the top of the stairs.  Not a bad ruckus, the kind where Dan or I might need to get involved to break up.  It was really just some stirring.  Shortly after I heard that, my two Leatherkids came bounding down the stairs, showered and already in their pajamas.  They were both smiling and came right to me to give me a hug.  Ella also puckered up and gave me a kiss.

We were all smiling at that moment.

Things are happening for me at work.  I’m working on a pretty big project and playing a big role in it.  This has demanded a lot of my time and brain cycles.  I take later trains home; once or twice a week, they're so late I only see the Leatherkids and Leatherdaddy asleep in their beds.  When I do see them and am actively participating in dinner, showers and bedtime, I’m whipping my laptop out and logging in shortly after getting them into bed.  Instead of complaining about the demands of all of this, I’m embracing it and really loving it.  There’s nothing to complain about!  Why is that?  Partly because of the company and the positive transformation it’s gone through over the past year (I believe in it), partly because of the people with whom I’m working (they’re great), and partly because of the work (it’s interesting and challenging).  I’m working hard and thinking right; and my commitment to this effort is paying off for me, not that that payoff is necessarily why I’m working so hard at it.  20+ years at this company, I’m finally doing something I really believe in and enjoy.  I’ve historically been a late bloomer, so maybe it's no surprise that this is happening to my career now.

To do this, though, requires a commitment from Dan to carry more of the parenting weight during the week than we have grown accustomed to until now.   Some of this we talked about; others we just kind of fell into.  He hasn’t complained and may have embraced it himself.  He’s doing a great job with the kids.  The scene I encountered when I got home from work last night is not uncommon – all under control and on schedule.  Routine.  Namaste.  I laugh about the number of times in the past that he arrived home from work to complete chaos – me in the kitchen fixing dinner later than desired, the kids (still in their clothes from their days) running from room to room with that toy shopping cart and ridable Pooh plane or possibly beating each other with their plastic hockey sticks, all of us yelling at each other.  That just doesn’t happen under Daddy’s watch.

Tomorrow is NHL Rivalry Night.  I'll be working late and at some point while doing so, imagining the Leatherkids and Leatherdaddy, fed, showered, jammied and curled up together on our bed for what's become a special moment for the three of them on Wednesdays during the long hockey season.  You're doing a great job, Daddy.  Namaste.

At Last, We Skated

It finally happened.  Months (I dunno, maybe even years now) after the seed was planted to make a trip to the local roller rink for some roller skating/blading, we finally made it there... well, two of us did, anyway.  And it was pretty excellent -- lucky for me, I was one of the two who made it.

I lived in my roller skates for a few years as a kid.  I would never claim to be super skilled and know what I was doing; but I was serviceable.  During trips to Main Street USA, the local rink that was operational during a part of my childhood, I was skilled enough to be on the rink for all varieties of skates -- counterclockwise all skates, backward skates, clockwise reverse skates and couples skates.  I doubt I ever joined a skating race for fear I wouldn't do well; frankly, I don't remember those ever happening.

When I wasn't at Main Street USA skating, I was skating around our neighborhood in my white skates with orange wheels.  I even had light blue and pink yarn balls looped through my laces -- fancy, I know.  It wasn't uncommon to see me servicing my paper route on my skates with that monster-sized newspaper bag strapped around my body. I remember pretending to be in a band, complete with tennis rackets for guitars and buckets for drums, where I was wearing, yes, my roller skates.  I even climbed the oak tree in the front of our house on Eureka in my roller skates.

It's been many years since I last skated, but it was so much a part of a few years of my childhood that I can easily recall how much fun I had in my skates.  That it took me so long to get Cal over to the skating rink near our home is surprising and disappointing and can only be explained by either being too busy or too lazy... or a little of both. 

Dan and I had the day off from work and Cal the day off from school in recognition of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday.  (I learned later that Ella's school actually was open.)  We decided yesterday that we'd take the kids to the local rink this afternoon for a nice family outing.  Unfortunately, Ella woke up crying early this morning with an earache which was initially soothed by some Tylenol but that came screaming back just before we were going to leave.  So instead of the roller rink, Ella and Dan stayed home to rest before her doctor's appointment to confirm her ear infection.  But Cal and I still went.

So I'd never been there (Cal had).  I really didn't spend my time thinking about what it would look or feel like; so when I pulled into the lot full of SUVs and vans and saw the plainest of buildings lacking any updates in the past 30 years, I really wasn't surprised.

My expectations of the inside were immediately set to match the outside, and they were met.  To get in to the rink, we had to first pay a man sitting behind the window situated between the doors to the outside and those to the inside.  I told him it was my first time there and didn't know what I was doing.  He asked me if we both needed skates, which we did, and then told me it'd be $20.  "Do you take Discover?" I asked.  "We do," he replied.  This was surprising to me -- I fully expected to have to pay cash by the looks of things.

He instructed me to turn right once inside the doors to pick up our skates.  I am nothing if not a good instruction follower.  Five minutes later, Cal was wearing rollerblades... oh, sorry, inline skates, and I was wearing some traditional roller skates, nothing like my white skates with orange wheels and light blue and pink tassels.  These things were probably as old as the rink itself.

I wouldn't say I was worried about skating, but I did wonder how natural I'd be in these things.  Turns out, it's much like riding a bike.  I also wondered how much I'd need to help Cal.  He had gone skating with school a couple of times; but I had never seen him skate, so I didn't know what to expect.  He wasn't tentative at all and rolled right on to the rink. where he spent the bulk of his time looping around the lane closest to the center oval (other than the oval itself).  He wasn't completely sure of himself, but he wasn't shy about skating.  He managed to stay on his feet most of the time, a few times with some good saves, and fell only a handful of times.  Frankly, I fully expected to be back at the skate rental window exchanging the inline skates for the four-wheeled variety after our first trip around the rink.  But that never happened.

Time and time again we rolled around the rink.  Sometimes I was behind or next to him, other times I was trying to lap him only because I got ahead of him too much to hold myself back.  I read his cues and kept my distance -- I don't think he felt like he needed me or wanted me to necessarily be near.  He wanted to be alone.  I really didn't mind that because it gave me a chance to be on my own, too.  I had forgotten how calming and soothing rollerskating can be, even among all of the people with constant stimulation and constant dodging of the reckless or those unsure of themselves.

Though most of our time there was spent "all-skating," there were a few breaks to change things up.  Once we found ourselves circled around Will and Michaela to help them celebrate their birthdays.  Another time, we found ourselves trying to skate backwards.  And then there were the races.

When I heard the announcement that there'd be races, I turned to Cal to tell him that we needed to get off the rink because they were setting up for these races.  I had no intention of joining and assumed Cal wouldn't either.  But then, bless his heart, he said, "Mommy, I wonder if I'm the fastest."

He wanted to race and actually thought he could win.  I know my kids are not lacking in confidence, and normally this works for them; this time, I didn't know if it was a good perspective.  I really didn't know what to do -- encourage him to get out there and race and just do his best or protect his feelings and drill into him the reality that he probably wouldn't even come close to winning and might even finish last?  Without thinking, I kind of chose both.  I initially responded to him, "well, Cal, I don't think that you're the fastest" and just left it for him to interpret that however he wanted.  When it came time for the inline skaters to race, I let him decide if he wanted to do it or not.  Without batting an eye or uttering a word, he headed out onto the rink.

And you know, I wasn't worried.  I wasn't hurting for him.  I wasn't hoping that he just wouldn't fall.  I wasn't hoping that he'd just not finish last.  I wasn't hoping that he'd just finish.  I knew he'd finish last, and it didn't matter -- he was participating because he chose to participate.  Who am I to tell him not to?  Who am I to tell him how he'd feel? Who am I to deny him an opportunity to try and fail... or, better, try and have fun trying? I was so proud of him.

I watched him skate awkardly to the starting line and awkwardly stop once he got there. And then I recorded the race.  He was the last off the line.  He fell early.  He dropped back farther and farther behind as the race went on.  He finshed last among ten, maybe more kids who participated.  He technically didn't finish it, I think only because he had been forgotten or maybe even because he didn't know what the finish was.

Off the rink, he rolled himself down to me.  He was smiling, clearly okay with the race results.  I couldn't not have loved him more or been more proud of him at that moment, and I told him so.

And then we got back on the rink for an all-skate and continued to skate until it was time to leave.  With our skates returned and our shoes on, we headed to get our coats and he told me, "Mommy, I finished fourth.  I was so close."  Hmm... fourth?

I still think I might have some work to do on his expectations and perspectives, but he's still young; so I'm going to let this play out for a bit.  As long as he keeps trying and isn't destroyed by not winning, I think he'll figure things out.  I think.  This is yet another parenting thing that I'm making up.  I really have no clue what the right thing to do with this is.  I'm good with this approach for now.

And I'm good with that roller rink -- can't wait to get back!