Your Children's Shoes

It happens more and more, as the boys get older.

Like, say, on Tuesday, as my little guy's School of Rock practice gave me time for both work and a long contemplative walk.  It was a beautiful evening, the perfect close to a summer-hot day, and I took the time to be in the world.  For an hour and a half, I walked slow and easy, tasting the air, feeling the breeze on my face as I walked with my Maker in the cool of the day.

 As that walk returned me to the School, I was met by the sounds of a smokin' hot jam pouring from the open windows of the second floor studio.  Solo guitar and drum, it was, and it was fat and tight and seamless.  The guitarist was spreading a sweet frosting of licks over some deep complex syncopated chocolate percussion.  A passer by in front of me, an older gentleman on an errand, stopped to listen.  I recognized the drumming.  This is my progeny?  The fruit of my loins?  How can that be?  I can't do that.

Or yesterday, as I volunteered to help sell tickets to my older lad's opening night.  It was his first high school musical, You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown, and he'd ended up as Charlie.   My wife and other family were in watching, but I'm seeing the performance tonight and next week.  So as other eager parents left us over-staffed out front, I once again went for a walk, this time with the little guy.

We returned mid-way through the first act, and I couldn't help but peer in through the window of the theater door.  I watched the big guy launch into a song, one of his solo numbers.  It was great, not just sung but acted, sung in a softer and more childlike voice that nonetheless carried to the whole room.   My typical hyperanalytic tendency to anxiously deconstruct that which is most precious to me found itself shut down.  There is nothing at all wrong with this, said reason, impressed despite itself.  My heart just stayed quiet and swelled.

In the theater, my wife told me she was kvelling so hard she felt like she would die.  We both had the same thought.  I couldn't do better than this.  I couldn't even approach this.

This is the toddler banging away on Tupperware in the kitchen?  This is the preschooler stomping around like a dinosaur?

It reminds me of those shoes, the ones still left out by the kitchen door.

They've gotten bigger and bigger, until my feet slip into the largest ones like I'm a kid again, stomping around in my father's dress shoes.

Sick Kids

I'd been planning on a productive day Monday.  With one paper down for my upcoming D.Min. season, there's still several hundred pages of reading and prep to do for the next paper.  Between that and errands and laundry, it looked to be a busy one.

But the morning was an unusual swirl of entropy, even by the chaotic standards of a typical Monday.  The little guy was as slow as sludge.  It was grey and cold-drizzly.  The coffeemaker managed to produce about half a cup of black fluid that tasted mostly of burnt rubber before it seized up and died.  Not that I didn't consider drinking it, but the potential for self-poisoning outweighed the morning yearning for coffee.

And the big guy loped into the kitchen, fed himself, got ready, and then announced that he felt off.  Just cold, he said.  Really cold.  His temperature got taken, and it was normal, and so off to school he went.

With the kids away, I snagged some coffee from a local beanery, some for me and da wife.

Then the call came from the school.  First period, he'd gotten the shakes, been excused from class, and was now in the clinic running a fever of around 100-101.  Could someone come pick him up?

Sigh.  Yet another time when having a part-timer in the household has come in handy.  So off to get him I went.

There in the clinic he sat on the disposable paper-covered bed, shaking and a bit bleary eyed.  He was a bit slow to respond, but got himself together.  The whole way home his body shook and his teeth clattered, and he slumped over in the seat.

Once home, I helped him out of the van and he stumbled into bed, where he lay shuddering, eyes bloodshot, clearly hurting.   Taking his temp with our notoriously inaccurate in-ear thermometer, it first hit with a 105.6, which was a bit let's-please-not-have-to-go-to-the-ER.  Then 104, and 104.1, which was a bit more like it, but still raging.   I dumped some ibuprofen into him, and applied a wet cool cloth to his head for a while.  I then paced around for a while, too concerned about his temperature to focus on much else.  A half hour passed, and then an hour, after which I gave him acetaminophen to ladder the antipyretics.  Gotta get that fever down.

I realized, while doing this, that he hadn't been sick like this for at least two years.  Two years ago, he was a kid.  A big kid, but a kid.  Now, though, he stands a few inches taller than me, and is a great solid slab of a lad.  Not quite at his full grown height, but getting there.  He is no longer a child.

Recognizing this, it was different caring for him, and yet the same.  I told him what I was doing and why. I told him what the meds were doing, and why I was so focused on keeping his head cool.  When helping an ill adult, you owe them that.

Yet as he slept, and slept, and his temperature began to normalize, well...the relief felt much the same as when I could just pick him up in my arms.  

And I couldn't help but check his temperature, just once, the way I did when he was tiny, with a father's kiss to a blessedly cooling forehead.