a domestic miscellany

Iain wins the prize for creativity and obedience this week. Well, that's true most weeks, but never mind. We hold out hope that his siblings will copy his cheerful attitude and at least appreciate the fantastic tales he spins. His two most precious moments of the last week or so:
(1) several days ago, I gave a very specific instruction to the children before I went upstairs to gather my things in preparation for the morning school/work run. Don't tip out the legos; we need to leave in a few minutes. (I admit that may seem somewhat arbitrary to those who don't mind coming home to a living room floor covered in brightly colored plastic rectangles and squares. I am not one of those people.) Within seconds of clearing the top step, I heard the familiar sound of the lego bin being turned over. At exactly the same moment, I heard a lovely little voice saying insistently, 'but mummy said no!' I can't remember whether Iain prevailed over his brother, actually; I was just so pleased that he had heeded the instruction I didn't care whether the legos were all over the floor. Some things are more important than a tidy living room.
(2) Yesterday, Iain had to have two immunization injections. He wasn't pleased when I explained to him where we were going and why, and there were some tears on the way to the doctor's office. When we arrived, we read his new favorite book, which I had just received from amazon that morning. (This was my first read-through: Captain Pike looks after the baby was a nursery book, not one we had at home. I recommend it.) Our turn came, and we found the right door (eventually), and a very kind nurse met us. She was much gentler than the last nurse we'd seen, and I was glad. I was as traumatized as Iain after the last round of immunizations--and that only invoved one needle! He sat still, though, in spite of his tears. Afterward, he observed the tiny dot of blood that showed through the little band-aid the nurse had applied. What's that? he asked, then answered his own question: it looks like blood. I nodded. Well, that's very interesting, he said. Trauma over. By the time we got home, the jabs were a part of a new story he made up about some pirates and a sea monster (who, incidentally, bit one of the pirates in the leg).

The prize for most thoughtful action of the past five days goes to Thomas. Last Friday evening, he amused himself by testing me on his spelling words. Since I didn't miss any, he got some help from Daddy and from our friend, Mim, in creating a spelling test certain to stump me. I managed vicariate and catacrestically, but was eventually tripped up by 'gymkhana'. To be fair, I had no idea what it was, and my strategy for spelling it came from having grown up with words derived from Spanish and various Native American languages. The next morning, Thomas presented me with a piece of paper, on which was written the word 'gymkhana'. Just so you don't forget how to spell it, he explained.

I shall endeavor to work it into my next bit of academic writing.

Champions

It was a rite of passage for both of us...

Although Thomas refused to go to gymnastics club this term, on the grounds that he was one of only two boys in it, he insisted on participating in the competition at the local leisure centre. This particular venue is a kind of gymnastics central for Durham, and the gym is fully equipped with big, springy floors and all the requisite equipment. Because the kids competing had done all their practicing in school halls, the events were limited to floor and vault. A good thing--I can't imagine Thomas coping well with a balance beam, and I wouldn't be able to watch him on the parallel bars.

Not only did Thomas insist on taking part in the competition, he wanted an audience. Fair enough, I suppose, though it wasn't high on my list of desirable events for the afternoon. I would probably have said I was too tired--but that turns out not to be a problem. Watching tumbling by 6- to 11-year-olds who haven't had much training or practice isn't particularly taxing, nor does it require any intellectual effort. (The main thing required, in fact, is the ability to refrain from saying things like, 'point your toes' and 'stick your landing'. I may not be able to explain the off side rule in football or tell you the score of the last Newcastle vs Sunderland match, but gymnastics was my thing when I was Thomas' age.)

Despite my initial ambivalence, I was glad I stayed. St Godric's school won the competition (in all three age groups) and Thomas was delighted with their victory. Everyone had a chance to hold the trophy, and Thomas made certain he took his turn. Sure, I had to sit through lots of awkward tumbling, and Thomas's share of the spotlight might have been 5 minutes out of 90. But it was worth it to share the joy with him, and that's why we do these things, isn't it?

History lesson

Yesterday morning, Thomas asked, 'Who started the wars?'--as if there was one culprit responsible for all of them. 'Which war?' I asked. He was able to narrow it down: World War I and World War II, he wanted to know. As to the first, I said, it's fairly complicated. (I did remember something about Archduke Ferdinand being shot, but any connection I might be able to make between that event and WWI would be a bit dodgy, to say the least.) Let's ask Daddy when he gets home. (I enjoy these history lessons as much as Thomas; Lewis always tells a very good story. Before Thomas, I asked the questions, and I like the stories twice as much now that he's old enough to appreciate them as well.)

So, after supper, I reminded Thomas of his question. 'For that', came the response, 'we need a map'. Lewis proceeded to tell the story, weaving in the bits I knew and filling in all the details linking Gabriel Prinzip to the war that engulfed Europe. Truth be told, I was more interested in the boys' response than the story: I know I can get a refresher course in WWI history on any given evening. (Fortunately Lewis is incredibly patient, and doesn't mind telling the same story over and over...which is good, because otherwise he would refuse ever again to tell me about the rise of Islam.)

About WWII, I was able to help. Thomas, in fact, knows the answer to that one, and will tell you: Hitler. Yesterday morning, though, he continued. 'So,' he mused, 'it was the Germans'. 'Well, I said, not all the Germans supported the war. There was this famous German named Dietrich Bonhoeffer...' I began. Thomas wandered out of the room carrying his lego-built gun, completely uninterested: obviously this part of the story wasn't going to involve any shooting.