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.

Thomas shows his true colors

We were on the way to see friends in Lanchester (the photo isn't from the same day, but you get the idea--that's Thomas's pal, Lili), and the usual chatter floated up from the back seat. Everyone seems to have something to say these days. Iain's mind is full of the Great Agon, good vs evil, on a cosmic scale. He is constantly battling  an evil emperor of some sort or another. Anna talks about friends from school, or scenes from her favorite films.

On this occasion, however, Thomas had the floor, as it were. With Thomas, one never knows whether it will be battles or football that will capture his imagination. But usually, it's pretty easy to guess where his tales are headed.

Not this time. 'When I'm a little older', he began, 'I will write some books'. He went on to explain that, when he had written them, he would take them outside ('on a sunny day, so they won't get wet'); he would write the titles on them, and the prices. And when he had sold them, and collected the money, then what?

'I will keep some of the money for myself', he explained. 'And I'll give the rest to people who don't have any.'

I'm still smiling.

Extraordinary time

I did pack up all the Christmas decorations dutifully by 6 January. Really. But somehow the boxes have not been returned to storage. So this morning Anna retrieved the box with the creches, and carefully arranged the scene, focusing the attention of all the figures on (in her words) 'the baby Jesus'.

Sometimes we wonder what Anna picks up from all that goes on around her. I suspect she doesn't miss much, though. And maybe she is wiser than I am: just because it's time to take down the tree doesn't mean we should shift our attention from the reason we celebrate Christmas.

a milestone of sorts

I suppose every child does it at one time or another, and Iain chose today: he cut his own hair. When I said that we would take him to get his hair cut this weekend, he protested: 'I already did it myself!' True, but when it isn't so carefully combed (and in such a blurry picture), he looks remarkably like a 4-year-old with a receding hairline.

And I expect I'll be finding bits of his hair for several days to come.

Self-sufficiency 101

From the study, I heard a strange noise. Anna had disappeared down the stairs several minutes earlier, and it was just about time to check on her. The noise, while not alarming, was puzzling enough to warrant immediate investigation.

Anna was coming up the stairs as I started down. The strange noise I had heard was the sound of her clothes against the wall as she came up, hands full. What she carried was remarkable: half a bagel, spread fairly neatly with peanut butter, and a cup of milk about 3/4 full. She had decided that she needed more breakfast, I suppose, and without a word had found what she needed.

Now the rule is that we don't take food (certainly not peanut butter or cups of milk) upstairs. So, after expressing my amazement at her initiative, I suggested that we take the bagel and milk down to the table. You did this all by yourself, didn't you? I said. She beamed down the stairs at me, as I carried her plate and cup towards the dining room. 'Yes.'

Not a drop of spilled milk, not a stray smear of peanut butter anywhere. Anna sat with me at the table, carefully using her napkin and smiling broadly. She didn't eat that much of the bagel, but I didn't mind. Who would have thought that some peanut butter could bring so much joy to us both?

A different sort of Saturday

All three of the children enjoyed our Saturday outing today: we attended the baptism of our good friends' baby. I admit to being a little apprehensive, knowing that the Orthodox liturgy would take some time. Fortunately, there were lots of children present, and all the grown-ups were pretty laid-back. This was especially helpful as I finally had to take Iain to the font and show him the water while the baby was being dressed again after the immersion. He was desperate to see it.

Iain was especially full of questions, once things got going. What's that? The font. What's in it? Water. What's it for? To baptize the baby. Are they going to take his clothes off? Yes ...and so on. The chanted liturgy was brilliant, and kept the children's attention. They were fidgety, of course, after a while, but nowhere near as unruly as I had feared. Iain's questions kept up in a steady stream, as the baby was undressed. (All the while, I was grateful for Fr Andrew's introduction to the liturgy, so I knew what was happening and what would happen next.)

Before the baby was immersed in the water, he was anointed with oil. Not just a cross marked on the chest, mind. The two priests and the baby's godparents anointed him with oil as an ancient wrestler (Fr Andrew's image, not mine): his whole body was covered with oil! Baby did not like this. Up until that point, he had been remarkably calm, given that he was handed over to his godparents at the beginning of the liturgy, and his mum stood a little ways off. (Anna was considerably upset by the amount of crying that ensued in this particular stage, sensitive soul that she is.)

Iain watched this activity with a very keen interest. What are they doing? Anointing the baby with oil, before he goes in the water. Are they killing him? Fair question, I thought, given how much he's crying. Of course I thought for a brief moment about the theological complexity of my four-year-old's question, but said simply: No. Baby was immersed three times in the water, protesting all the while. Afterward, he was anointed again, this time with a very small brush (to make the sign of the cross with oil on his ears, eyes, etc.). Iain asked, Why are they painting the baby? It's part of the anointing.

He doesn't like being painted, Iain observed gravely. I nearly laughed out loud. No, I said, he doesn't.