It’s kind of shocking that I didn’t have to ask anyone whether or not I was fit to have children. There was no course to take, no license to attain. I did not even have to reach a certain age to qualify, though I’m glad that I did wait a while after I was technically eligible.
Raising kids is so strange, so counterintuitive. You have to teach them to eat noodles, for example.
Though sometimes they insist on doing what you do instead of doing what you say.
It wasn’t until a little trial and error that Kato agreed he’s probably better off with a fork for the time being.
“But when will I be big enough for chopksticks?” he wanted to know.
I wanted to say it had something to do with reaching the age when one does not pick one’s nose at the table.
But I quickly realized the fallacy of that reasoning. I know plenty of chopstick-savvy people who are not above an occasional nasal forage. And so I let the matter drop.
Later that day (this is last Saturday, I believe), Robbi and her high school friends went to Philadelphia to watch the They Might Be Giants concert, leaving me to manage the herd.
We took a group vote and decided it was wholly appropriate to have a night on the town. And so we went to Procolinos for garlic knots and Greek salad.
And so we went to Rita’s for Italian ice.
If Robbi expected us to sit around moping, she was sorely mistaken. The kids felt like dancing.
But the dancing died down when the treats arrived.
There was plenty of sharing, which comforted me that we might be doing something right.
On Sunday morning, Alden got out her art kit.
And did a little painting.
Later that afternoon (Robbi had returned in the wee hours of the night), we drove ourselves over the Chester and took up temporary residency at the Queen Anne Bowling Lanes.
Alden was excited .
Kato was excited.
August hung on for dear life.
You may not know it, but bowling is a group effort. One person throws the ball, but no fewer than three others must be on hand to provide enthusiasm.
Kato had a pre-bowl shuffle.
And a mid-bowl shimmy.
And a post-bowl slide.
The result of all this “help”?
A spare for Alden.
For those of you who do not know, a spare in duckpin is a really big deal, one that almost requires a little bit of posturing.
Whether which eating implement to use at what age or how best to celebrate certain bowling accomplishments, it comforts me to think that I have some useful knowledge to pass along to my children.
After all, they are pretty much stuck with us for now.
They put so much faith in our hands. The watch us and they imitate. They try and occasionally stumble.
I’d like to say, “This isn’t quite safe, don’t try this at home,” but on the other hand, this is how we try to live, so why not teach them from the start?
For now, we’re here to catch them. And so their growing selves can stretch a tad bit longer than their reach.
I just can’t say if we’re doing it right. This part’s not covered in the manual, which we lost so long ago, anyway.
