A good bad day

 

There really are three dogs here if you can see June Bug hiding in the upper left.
When we consolidate our households, all three will be living here. Cricket and June Bug
are King Charles Cavalier Spaniels, bred to be placid and quiet. Quite a puzzle for Sophie
who wants them to run and play with her.  But she calmed down nicely.

No blog last night because I was just too tired after a family visit that lasted later than I thought. My oldest son, Colin, arrived about ten with his two children—Morgan, almost eleven, and Kegan, nine. The cousins were ecstatic to be together, and Christian and Jordan had come to greet everyone--and brought their dogs. So we sat and talked—about their new swimming pool, about our plans for the cottage, about the world in general. At 47, Colin is a handsome man in good shape, and I am so proud of him—and love him dearly and so welcome his infrequent visits. They live in Tomball, northwest of Houston, and this weekend his wife kicked them out of the house (his words) so she could have a girls’ weekend.

Jacob spent the night but was up early for his baseball game. His parents came and collected all three children, while I let Colin feed them and I slept late. He’s an early riser anyway.

Cousins at the baseball game

When they were gone, Colin went for a run, and I dressed and piddled at my desk. We headed out about ten or so to get the x-ray of my hand the doctor had requested—but the doctor’s orders had not arrived at the x-ray place so no go. Colin was already confused by this city he’s grown up in—I took him back roads to Hulen to avoid zoo traffic, and he said, “We’re on Hulen. How did we get here?” Asked where Old Granbury Road was and I told him not anywhere close. Then I took him across a new bridge over the Trinity where the land is mostly undeveloped but you know it will sprout offices and apartments within a year. Apparently Neiman Marcus is going in out there. Colin said you could tell plans are big because there were four huge cranes. We circled around by the new Press Café where there’s a Farmer’s Market on Saturdays, and he said, “Fort Worth is looking just like Austin.” High compliment.

Jacob’s game went to ten innings and then they lost by one point—bitter. But we all met for lunch at Carshon’s Deli (Colin won’t come to FW unless he can have a Rebecca sandwich). I had a half Reuben, and everyone got to speculating on why the specialty sandwiches all had girls’ name beginning with R. We forgot to ask but I’m sure there’s a story there.

After lunch Colin and his children headed for Frisco for a visit with Jamie and Eden (Maddie and Melanie were in Boulder); Jacob and his family went home; I worked at my desk and then took a long nap. By the time I got up Jacob was playing with the boys directly behind us, and Jordan had assigned me to order them pizza, which I did.

But now it’s evening, and my foot hurts, and my ambition, enthusiasm, whatever goes downhill in direct proportion. I have powered through fixing myself some pasta and am hoping Jacob will bring all the pizza detritus to the kitchen for me. Hard to carry things with a walker. I have ordered a new one which has a seat, a carrying basket, a hook for my purse, and—greatest of all—a cup holder. It doesn’t exactly say “Wine” on it but I’m sure that’s what it’s meant for.

Last night a friend of Jordan’s was here and in the course of conversation said, “I hope my children take such good care of me.” Tonight my thought, despite my pity party over a painful foot, is how fortunate I am to have children who take such good care of me. With people my age, a broken hip is often the beginning of the trip down the slippery slope, but this is not a hip—it’s a hairline fracture of the fibula—and I am determined to be of good cheer and ride it out. Six weeks in a boot!

All Saints Day and a baseball jersey crisis--it's all part of the day

Very proud to say Jacob did an outstanding job on his first run at being an acolyte. Suitably serious but didn’t run down the aisle to get it over with, kept the flame lit in its taper, and lit the candle with steady hands. His mom tells me he was really nervous, but it didn’t show. Today was not a traditional service. A special chamber orchestra and the Chancel Choir performed Gabriel Fauré’s Requiem throughout the service—absolutely magnificent music, so wonderful that I sat back and let it wash over me.

But as a result, the acolytes didn’t sit in the chancel. Jacob sat in the first pew right in front of us. I was so proud of him I kept wanting to reach out and ruffle his hair (that would have made him indignant) or just touch him. But he was such a concentrated study in self-control that I restrained myself. Confusion at the end, because the signals to leave weren’t what he’d practiced, and he and the other acolyte ended up carrying their lit tapers through a crowd of people down that long aisle. I had a moment of worry that they’d set someone on fire, but all was well.

The morning started with a phone call from Jordan: where was his baseball jersey? He last saw it in my bedroom, and if we didn’t find it he couldn’t play in the championship game. Great guilt! I looked, even went through the laundry hamper searching for a white jersey. Finally called the woman who had cleaned for me Friday—contrary to what my regular lady told me, this one did not have much English. She promised her son would call in 15 minutes, and he did—between us we worked out that it was indeed in the hamper but was dark blue. I threw it in the washer and hung it out to dry while we were in church. Crisis averted.

After church we wanted a quick lunch. Went to Esperanza’s down the block—wrong move. Sunday after church is their busiest time, and we didn’t finish eating until two. Jordan took off to go to the Cowboy game, and Christian and Jacob and I came back to get the shirt and look for his hat, now also missing. I thought I knew where it was in my office, but it wasn’t there. Christian found it, fallen between the small stand and the floor. Another crisis averted. Life with nine-year-old boys is, well, amusing at the least. As they left Jacob was getting a lecture about not leaving things strewn all over my house but collecting and taking care of his belongings. Wonder how much good that will do?

The rest of the day was a lovely lazy Sunday. I’m reading Susan Elia McNeal’s Mrs. Roosevelt’s Confidante and enjoying it, though as fiction it takes real liberties with fact. Still, the early days of WWII in DC are fascinating and the plot is fast-moving. I’m having fun. A nap, and a bowl of stew from last night in front of the fireplace. What more could one ask on a chilly evening? November is really here.

Hope it’s a good week for everyone.

The whims of children

Future slugger

I have a nine-year-old grandchild in residence for a couple of days. Tonight, Betty (he calls her Aunt Betty--don't think he realizes there's no blood tie) and I planned to take him to Fuzzy's where he could have a cheese quesadilla with a side of guac and I could have those wonderful ground beef tacos I just rediscovered. So he got in the car from day camp and asked brightly, "Are we going to the Tavern? That's what  you said last week."

Last week I had my taste buds set on the Tavern and he cajoled us into grilled cheese at the Old Neighborhood Grill. I guess maybe I laid down the law, but this week, when my mouth was set for Fuzzy's, he wanted the Tavern. Guess where we went?
The Tavern is not a sports bar but they have four or five TVs, mercifully soundless, going. Jacob, as kids his age will do, turned his back and ignored us. Until Aunt Betty mentioned that Matt Carpenter (Cardinals?) lives two doors from her. My goodness, did that get his attention. He chattered for the rest of the meal about he was going to meet a real baseball player, etc. Betty reminded Jacob that the real baseball player was on the road and probably wouldn't be back until late October, but I don't think he comprehended the time span. This child, who does well enough in school but doesn't always apply himself as much as he could, can reel off baseball statistics, players, history...you name it!
And that shells with cheese that he didn't like last week? He ate every bite and loved it. 
Jacob's mother, my youngest daughter Jordan, often looks at me and asks, "What happened to you?? You never would have let me get away with
that." (Whatever it is at the time.) I sent her a Facebook picture the other day that said, "Some kids are spoiled because no one will spank Granny." I don't know if that's the problem or if I just have one determined, stubborn child on my hands. I swear he's going to be a lawyer--I used to say that about Megan, my older daughter, and she would protest, "Mom, don't program me." Guess what? She's a lawyer today.
But Jacob has an argument for almost everything, and I'm afraid he gets his way too often. But then again, what's the sense of denying a child just to prove you have the power to do that? Reminds me of the advice a minister gave me years ago: "Choose your battles." When it's a really big deal, I usually win the Jacob battle.