If you know Teri, you know that she loves—in no particular order and to varying degrees—her family, sweat pants, Jesus, TLC, and Amish people. It’s been said that she and her mom once successfully stalked Central Pennsylvania on the hunt for the Amish. So it was a joyous event when, on the return trip from Cape May, we saw some Amish folk at a Somerset rest stop. (They presumably have accepted fast food pizza and Cokes into their lifestyle...if not yet zippers.) Owen shared his mother’s fascination with the Amish, but did not share his mother’s tact (tact--like the time when I had to snap a picture of her as she was strategically placed to maximize the Amish people-filled background at, ironically, a different rest stop). Owen—always at maximum volume—this time while pointing, quizzically asked, “Who’s that cowboy? Who’s that cowboy?” Straw hats, cowboy hats—close enough.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Number Three
The title wasn't meant to raise the hopes of anyone wishing for Caleb and Owen to have a younger sibling, nor was it to cause consternation for anyone who shirks at the idea of Owen as older brother. You'll see.
Owen picked this past week to take the plunge into underwear. That's great and all...but we were at the beach, hundreds of yards from the nearest toilet. Seeing how such advice would lead to a lifetime of confusion, I fought the urge to tell Owen that it's okay sometimes to pee in the ocean. To compound matters and to increase the frequency of our beach to hotel shuttle service, Owen was suffering from, what is known in medical circles as, diarrhea. So Teri and I took turns lugging the kid back to the hotel for him to take care of his newly found business.
The first time this ritual took place, Owen--with his volume at its max--excitedly re-appeared on the beach scene with this proud proclamation: "DADDY, I POOPED ON THE POTTY AND IT WASN'T DIARRHEA!" The Jersey shore, no doubt, shared our joy if not our embarrassment.
A couple hours later, Owen informed us once again that he had to make another pilgrimage. Teri once again accompanied the bladder-challenged boy (so I exaggerated the "took turns" part mentioned above).
When the pee-clock (the clock that sounds an alarm when the time it takes to pee has ended and suggests more formidable business) had expired in my head, I said to Caleb, "It sure has been a long time. I hope he didn't have to go number two."
Caleb, with the sincerity of Hamilton Porter eating a s'more while reflecting on a conquest of the beast, said, "Yeah...or number three."
I knew one. I knew two. Three? I thought there were only two.
(At a whisper, since most at the beach was aware of Owen's situation) I asked, "Caleb...what's number three?"
(At a whisper, taking my cue and perhaps still embarrassed by his brother's declaration) Caleb stoically responded, "Diarrhea."
How high does this numbering system go?
Taking the Last Shot
When I got back from a run today (I'm just telling the story, not "subtly" boasting that I ran, as seems to be the norm on Facebook), Owen was in the driveway and Caleb was serving a Napoleonic exile in a timeout chair in the garage.
After minutes (four years in kids' years), the outcast ashamedly emerged from his prison making eye contact with only his Crocs.
"Caleb, what happened?" I asked while I, along with a jury of his peers, perched on the driveway wall.
Caleb, speaking into his chest, mumbled, "Aiden (his seven year-old pal) won two basketball games in a row. And I cried" ("threw a tantrum," in the words of his mother who is often a better judge of such reactions).
"Caleb, you can't cry because you lose two games in a row. Think of the Pittsburgh Pirates."
Mom then informed me that he and Aiden were actually on the same team; they were playing against, well, no one. (As an aside, I used to demolish those same guys too in the same way that the Globetrotters thrash the Generals.) Aiden, however, hit the game winning shot in both games. Caleb didn't drain the game-winner. And not since Scottie Pippen has there been such a reaction to this situation.
"Caleb, that's okay. Some teams have certain guys that always shoot the big shots. Like Kobe or LeBron. But they have teammates, like..." Somehow I knew Cal was not going to be impressed with "Luke Walton" or "Wally Szerbiak" completing this sentence. Dead end. Abort. After all, I think I did just call Aiden Kobe and my own flesh and blood...Luke Walton.
I continued..."Or Caleb, in volleyball when the setter...Owen, who's NA's setter?"
Owen, seated next to me reveling in the fact that his brother and not he--for the first time since February, 2007--was getting in trouble, answered "Michael Krepp."
Stunned at the accuracy and quickness of the response, I paused, then moved on, "Yeah, Michael Krepp, has to set the other guys. He doesn't get to hit (not true, and I was waiting for one of the twerps to point out the fact that Michael can turn on the second ball as well as anyone...but they did not.) He has to set the other guys. So Aiden made the shots but you got the assists."
We all reflected. I felt satisfied in my analogous teaching. Caleb likely felt confused that he now has to set the ball to his teammate on the basketball court. And Owen, at three, felt the dual joy of not getting in trouble and knowing who was setting for the NA Tigers.
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