Curious?
Since he was born, my oldest son has shown a most remarkable proclivity for being JUST LIKE ME. Even before it was really possible. I mean he looked JUST LIKE ME pretty much right after getting wiped off by the nurses. That broke my heart, but just as a consolation, his face has become so much like his mother's that if you photoshopped out the hair, and put his face over my wife's, well, the resemblence is so close, that even my-wmil would be confused. (that's code for "my wonderful-mother-in-law", for those of you who don't regularly receive e-mails from her yourself).
Anyways, since being wiped off, he's shown the same sorts of compulsive needs that his slap-happy-pappy has, for example: cleanliness of the hands. Ordliness of food during presentation, dislike for very surprising noises, tendency to isolate self in quiet modes of self-enlightenment and entertainment, pleasure in performing for an audience, verbosity, mechanical skills beyond his maturity, a strong preference for order and routine to surprise and adventure, a gift for sarcasm and a tendency to respond to things emotionally before intellectually (not sure about that one?). And he's just 4 years old.
About three and a-half years ago, I began to notice that my attitude toward the world was drastically darker than it should be. I was frequently tired, and always felt sick and nauseous. After a year of living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, my wife started encouraging me to consider talking to a counselor, or perhaps talk with our doctor about starting a pharmaceutical therapy to ease me back out the blackness. Since that time, my perspective on myself has been changed quite a bit.
I have recognized in myself, among many, many things, a strong inclination to worry. Not like I’m worried it’s going to rain, more like, I’m worried that this bronchitis is actually lung cancer. This nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach is nausea, and while I’m playing on stage, I’m going to throw up. In the laps of the front row. That’s how it started. Then I started having little panic attacks-I’d imagine showing my son the waterfalls where me and my brother used to go swimming, and I’d jump off a cliff into the water, and he, trusting my judgement and not realizing that he doesn’t know how to swim, would follow me down and get carried away in the current. Nevermind that the “whirlpool” is over 1500 miles away.
I noticed something else: I keep things. Not like mementos from valentines day in grade 2. I mean boxes. Empty boxes. Boxes from appliances I’ve purchased, tools, whatever. I don’t know why I think I might be able to use the cardboard for something-I may need to prove to someone that I bought something from such-and-such a store. I don’t know. I keep little chunks of wood that just appeal to me on an aesthetic level. I keep stuffed animals that are ugly and deformed, just because they’re from my childhood. I keep rocks. I don’t know why. I have bottles and bottles of cologne from a prior life, when I wore cologne. Why?
We recently moved our youngest son, age 2 this week, into a room with his elder brother, aged 4. We’re expecting a new little baby in 2 months, and have a 3 bedroom house, so…
Tigger (that would be #1) has formed a …habit, shall we say, of packing all of his worldly possessions into a Diego back pack and carrying it around, everywhere, all the time, even wanting to wear it to the dinner table and to bed. He’d been doing this for awhile this summer. Actually that’s where it started for him. We thought we were going to sell our house, and were working like mad fiends. Trying to help us, my wmil (see above) was watching the boys at night so that me and my (radiant) wife could work late into the night without disturbing their sleep. Hence the Diego backpack.
This past winter though, I was so tired of always having to consider the needs of 2 boys (and a backpack), that I took it from him and started to empty it out on our kitchen table, just to see what was so important to him that he needed to carry it like the bag lady from the dump in the old Jim Henson movie, The Labyrinth. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. Inside this youth’s backpack: a pair of fire-engine poofy slippers, a coloring book, another coloring book, with coloring pencils, a shoebox, stuffed with “Cars” hotwheels, a Lightning McQueen t-shirt, and another smaller backpack, containing Matchbox sized Thomas the Tank Engine railroad cars, his toothbrush, and several sundry items. I’m sure there was more, because when all the various containers had been emptied of their treasures, over half of my dining room table was covered with stuff. Some of the stuff in the backpack(s) had been given up for LOST! Seriously.
Today, after much disputation over properties and property rights, after a bite, a hit, a tractor snatching, a toe-stubbing, a head/neck squishing, and a rude awakening via biting of the foot, I watched, virtual tears in my spiritual eyes, as Tig packed up his bag again. I watched him as he packed it so full I was certain it would either burst, puking forth all it’s contents in a colorful plush puddle, or the kid would give up on the zipper. Well, I told you earlier, he has mad skillz, and somehow, after several minutes of manhandling and finessing, he managed to persuade the zipper to traverse the entire course. The bag sits now, at the foot of his bed as he naps, nary a wrinkle or a crease. It is packed so full of crap that the fabric is actually developing a rather unnerving elasticity.
Oh God. How can I raise him up so that he doesn’t suffer like I have? Can I teach him that he can’t control the world around him? That control is something you forever fight for, and never gain? That the frustration that breeds the fight only feeds itself until there’s nothing else left?
Can I love him enough that he won’t need to? Does the need to pack his bag up like this come from a feeling of being threatened? Can I insulate him from that? Will taking away the backpack teach him resilience in the face of perceived helplessness? Dependence on God’s Spirit? Or will it only cause him to feel an even greater need to hoard? To carry? To lose something that’s right there with you all along?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
National Lampoons family vacation
Wow. You wouldn't believe the week I've had. Well. Maybe you would. You know, if you ever think you might be running out of things to ponder on, travel. With a kid. Or two. And make them big enough to potentially walk on their own, if the muses should so inspire, but small enough to demand carrying (on a 23-mile walk--"well, it's on the same concourse").
I believe that I have mentioned in a previous post that I grew up a million miles from here. That observation proved true this week. We flew out to visit my family and had a very eventful week, with many conversations, a couple of introductions, and a couple walks down memory lane. But I have to tell you about flying. and landing. And elevators. And dinner. I'll be brief. (snicker)
The day took forever, but having said that, the story's actually pretty short. I suppose that's a credit to the fact that for most of the day (for-ev-er) we were belted into a Costco-sized soup can 6 miles in the air and hurtling through the Earth's atmosphere at the speed of "are we there yet?".
We woke with anticipation. Our flight wasn't absurdly early, so there was no rush. Which didn't suit the boys at all. They were all zipped up and tapping their blinky-shoes. Annoying. Not the shoes. The tapping. And whining. And suggestions that we should leave soon to go to the airport, about going to gramma's. Lots of suggestions. Tigger has lots of ideas. All the time. So he's just bustin' to get us out of there. Fortunately, I had decided to bottle the 5 gallons of beer that I'd made the week before, so that it could get to carbonating whilst we were travelling. So Tig helped me with that. Thank goodness for that beer, or I don't think he'd have made it to the airport.
Bags loaded into the Grand Caravan (I know, macho-machine--hey-it's candy apple red with a 3.6 L engine-that's right, 3.6, not 3.3 like most). Check. Stuff. Check. Ok. Houston, we are go launch. So we got to the local international airport (I'm not sure, but I think it's international by virtue of all the cocaine, heroin, and crystal meth that's flown in and out of here), to catch our flight. Did you know that the seats on those little planes are attached to the floor of the plane with regular old looking nuts and bolts? One pair to a corner. Hmm.
I once heard it said that the oxygen masks that are supplying oxygen are intended to narcotize the wearers more than anything. Since pure oxygen makes you a little loopy. Hmm. Sounds good to me. In fact, it seems to me that you should be able to choose to have those available for use in-flight, just for kicks. Or maybe, as a device to tranquilize screaming children. Or their parents.
The first flight was pretty short. In fact, I'm not sure it qualifies as a flight, as not everybody got their peanuts. It was more of a trajectory. Now, Tigger just sat in his own seat, but Mongo had to sit in a car seat. Have you ever tried to carry all six grocery sacks, the gallon of milk, AND open the storm door, get out your keys, unlock the front door, herd your kids back onto the porch from the wet grass that needs cutting, drop your keys....that's how I felt trying to help my very pregnant wife, and two kids onto the puddle jumper, whilst scraping paint on all sides with the kiddie chair, and my ginormous backpack.
...
I should tell you that Mongo has this weird fear of elevators. In fact, I don't think it's the elevators so much as that creepy feeling of motion that you get when you're in them, but can't actually verify that you're moving because there's no visual reference of motion available. It just spooks him. So our expectations for take-off weren't real great. I should also tell you that I wasn't sitting next to him. So the first flight was a blast. For me and Tigger. Mama can write her own account.
Anyways, we got to our first stop, and deplaned (more paint-scraping), and started to head to our next flight. We were pleased to know it was on the same concourse, so we shouldn't have to go far to get to our gate. However, "they" failed to mention that the one concourse, actually covered 3 different area (codes) in the airport, incorporated a food court and a mall, a small apartment complex, another mall, a small suburb, a parking lot, train station, ferry terminal, nascar speedway, a museum exhibit on space travel and the Jetsons, as well as a tribute to the Spotted Owl. And that it was roughly 23 miles and currently the longest concourse in the history of the entire universe.
So. Off we go. At least there are moving sidewalks. And after all, it is just one concourse.
...
Apparently we'd flown to another continent (or perhaps just found an extreme end of the one concourse) because virtually all the cab drivers (for real, there were actual cab drivers in the airport terminal) seemed to be speaking a different language (of course, it may have been that I'm an Iowan in Minnesota--Boo, hiss, haahhh!). And to be honest, it rather seemed as if they wanted a different fare. I'm not sure if it was me (see previous post on poor grooming), my very pregnant wife (who is in fact radiant and beautiful), my two boys (who may or may not have been wrestling with each other, wiping snot on or off of something, or throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the concourse walkway), or all the baggage (2 rolling suit-cases, two laptops-yeah, yeah, stuff it-we're snobs, ok?!-a kiddie seat slightly smaller than a smart car, plus my gigantic back-pack/suitcase/manpurse, AND the diaper bag---note: diaper bag is for Mongo, who is 2, not for me!). ANYWAYS we finally hailed a cab driver and started along on our way.
Now, I didn't check my watch or anything, so I can't tell you exactly, but it was about 2 hours later that we arrived at our gate (and that was without any pitstops or tourist shopping or anything, and I think we missed the rush-hour commuters) at the other end of the concourse. We boarded promptly (more paint-geez! I think some idiot at Boeing measured a kiddie seat and made the seat TOPS that far apart, and then for fun, tapered the arms out about 1/2 inch or so).
Take off went very well again, and the meal was outstanding. I'd never tasted nuts like that before (caaaaaaaa-reful). And the ginger snap palate cleanser was marvelous. I skipped the dessert port because I didn't think I could handle that kind of decadence while airborne, and not regurgitate. Speaking of regurgitating...kidding. Nobody got sick. Airsick, I mean. There was the persistent threat that swine flu would consume the plane, forcing us to reroute to either Mexico or the North Pole whichever was closer for quarantine purposes. Homeland Security can never be taken for granted, ever again. Even from the pigs, those lousy...pigs. Wait a minute-is that racial profiling?
Anyways. Flying was so tremendously exciting (I mean, can you imagine anything more exciting than that tray table? I mean, it seriously just flops down?! right out of the back of the seat? And then it goes RIGHT BACK IN?!!! DAMN) that nobody slept. By that, of course, I mean, my kids. And my wife. And me. And pretty much rows 38 through 45. That's right. Row 45. Our seats came with a bungee rope and a parachute. "Can I help you with that car seat, sir?" "NOPE. (Grunt) Got it. (sound of rusty metal being twisted and wrenched on, followed by sound of heavy breathing, more grunting, and walking on broken glass, peppered with a small, but surprisingly audible voice tearing through everything else asking if "this is the right row? do I sit here? Poppa? Are you coming? Where's my seat? Is that Mongo's seat? Poppa? Poppa?").
It was just about a 3 1/2 hour flight. Things were going pretty good until we got to western Montana. But then that's pretty much the story with any vacation, isn't it? What is it about western Montana that even objects flying at tremendous speeds and high altitude are not immune? That's when we started getting the hops. Not like basketball. Like crack. Like, if I don't get up and run right now, this tin can might implode all around me, and crush down to a size small enough to fit into my brother's old baby spoon. Do you HEAR ME? Yes. Yes my son, the whole plane can hear you. And possibly the pilot through the intercom. Going backwards through the speakers to his microphone. And then travelling via sound waves through his jaw bone to his inner ear, where his little ear timpani drum is doing paradiddles like a freak monkey and an organ grinder. Yes, I hear you.
...
We crossed two time zones. As fascinating as that may not appear to the frequent traveller, it made quite the impression on me. And Mama. Dinner couldn't come fast enough. Seriously, if it flew at our faces half as fast as the plane had flown through the air, it wouldn't have been quick enough for my boys. What can I say. They eat. Except the times when they refuse to eat. Which is usually in public, or at a guest's house, or anytime Mama has actually spent time preparing something really, really good. Other wise, I mean they are just eaters. Or at least admirers of full plates of food.
We got to her hotel (she was staying over for two nights for a work conference while the boys and me went straight up to my moms), and boy howdy, it was N-I-C-E. Right on the pier, in the heart of downtown, and with (mandatory) valet parking. Punks. I HATE that. Why would I tip somebody to park my car in such a fashion that I would have to pay them in order to find it again? Well, having (not) parked the car, and since the boys were threatening to go into full-ape in the lobby of this wonderful establishment, I decided right then and there that we'd have a nice meal in the hotel restaurant before parting ways. Whoops.
...
First thing: There was a giant fish aquarium at the maitre'de's post. Note that I say "was". Boy number one believed that it was a "whack-a-mole". I assured him quite firmly that it was not. Not that it mattered to him whether it was or was not. We decided to make a reservation (read: warning) and go put Mama's bags in her room. Being very (radiant) pregnant we didn't move fast enough, and they just took off. Running. STOMP! (repeat, repeat, repeat). One boy runs quite well. The other one labors quite a bit. He works just as hard as the other, and makes possibly more noise. But it's like confusing lots of activity with productivity. He's all wobble and wail, and windmill, but finally doesn't run much faster than he walks. Once we'd restored proper guardianship of the boys and the hotel management decreased the terror-alert level, we sauntered back down to the lobby and headed to the restaurant. #1 took a few more knocks at the giant size Whack-a-Mole, and then got dragged to our table. All sorts of fancy stuff to play with there. Including the lights, which hung from the ceiling down to about 4 inches above the table top. Brilliant. Real mood-setter.
#2: Seafood. Probably should have seen that coming. I really don't like seafood. Now, when I say that, you probably think Salmon steak, fillet of fish, cod, whatever. Crab-legs? No. Remember: classy establishment. We're talking spine of swordfish, marinated in squid urine, with a dash of cool Puget Sound kelp. Sorry. Not that classy of guy. In fact, I'm SO not that classy of a guy that I walked in here with my two slobbery kids, wearing jeans and a too-big T-shirt, with 3 days growth on my face and my hair standing straight up from all the times that I've run my hands through my hair today. Seriously out of place. Felt like a logger at a beauty pageant. In a ballroom.
Then the kids turned on their A-game and it was brawling, leaning, laying out on the benches, gathering up all the silverware into a pile and then banging on it. I'm talking ketchup on the floor (clear oak), table (finished mahogany, perhaps even wenge, couldn't tell 'cause it was stained so dark), benches (they weren't real leather, were they?), and maybe even on the wall (paneled cedar).
CHECK, PLEASE.
And good night. Two boxes, last slurp of coffee (mmm.) And away we go. That was the first day of our family vacation.
(smile).
...
I believe that I have mentioned in a previous post that I grew up a million miles from here. That observation proved true this week. We flew out to visit my family and had a very eventful week, with many conversations, a couple of introductions, and a couple walks down memory lane. But I have to tell you about flying. and landing. And elevators. And dinner. I'll be brief. (snicker)
The day took forever, but having said that, the story's actually pretty short. I suppose that's a credit to the fact that for most of the day (for-ev-er) we were belted into a Costco-sized soup can 6 miles in the air and hurtling through the Earth's atmosphere at the speed of "are we there yet?".
...
We woke with anticipation. Our flight wasn't absurdly early, so there was no rush. Which didn't suit the boys at all. They were all zipped up and tapping their blinky-shoes. Annoying. Not the shoes. The tapping. And whining. And suggestions that we should leave soon to go to the airport, about going to gramma's. Lots of suggestions. Tigger has lots of ideas. All the time. So he's just bustin' to get us out of there. Fortunately, I had decided to bottle the 5 gallons of beer that I'd made the week before, so that it could get to carbonating whilst we were travelling. So Tig helped me with that. Thank goodness for that beer, or I don't think he'd have made it to the airport.
...
Bags loaded into the Grand Caravan (I know, macho-machine--hey-it's candy apple red with a 3.6 L engine-that's right, 3.6, not 3.3 like most). Check. Stuff. Check. Ok. Houston, we are go launch. So we got to the local international airport (I'm not sure, but I think it's international by virtue of all the cocaine, heroin, and crystal meth that's flown in and out of here), to catch our flight. Did you know that the seats on those little planes are attached to the floor of the plane with regular old looking nuts and bolts? One pair to a corner. Hmm.
...
I once heard it said that the oxygen masks that are supplying oxygen are intended to narcotize the wearers more than anything. Since pure oxygen makes you a little loopy. Hmm. Sounds good to me. In fact, it seems to me that you should be able to choose to have those available for use in-flight, just for kicks. Or maybe, as a device to tranquilize screaming children. Or their parents.
...
The first flight was pretty short. In fact, I'm not sure it qualifies as a flight, as not everybody got their peanuts. It was more of a trajectory. Now, Tigger just sat in his own seat, but Mongo had to sit in a car seat. Have you ever tried to carry all six grocery sacks, the gallon of milk, AND open the storm door, get out your keys, unlock the front door, herd your kids back onto the porch from the wet grass that needs cutting, drop your keys....that's how I felt trying to help my very pregnant wife, and two kids onto the puddle jumper, whilst scraping paint on all sides with the kiddie chair, and my ginormous backpack.
...
I should tell you that Mongo has this weird fear of elevators. In fact, I don't think it's the elevators so much as that creepy feeling of motion that you get when you're in them, but can't actually verify that you're moving because there's no visual reference of motion available. It just spooks him. So our expectations for take-off weren't real great. I should also tell you that I wasn't sitting next to him. So the first flight was a blast. For me and Tigger. Mama can write her own account.
...
Anyways, we got to our first stop, and deplaned (more paint-scraping), and started to head to our next flight. We were pleased to know it was on the same concourse, so we shouldn't have to go far to get to our gate. However, "they" failed to mention that the one concourse, actually covered 3 different area (codes) in the airport, incorporated a food court and a mall, a small apartment complex, another mall, a small suburb, a parking lot, train station, ferry terminal, nascar speedway, a museum exhibit on space travel and the Jetsons, as well as a tribute to the Spotted Owl. And that it was roughly 23 miles and currently the longest concourse in the history of the entire universe.
So. Off we go. At least there are moving sidewalks. And after all, it is just one concourse.
...
Apparently we'd flown to another continent (or perhaps just found an extreme end of the one concourse) because virtually all the cab drivers (for real, there were actual cab drivers in the airport terminal) seemed to be speaking a different language (of course, it may have been that I'm an Iowan in Minnesota--Boo, hiss, haahhh!). And to be honest, it rather seemed as if they wanted a different fare. I'm not sure if it was me (see previous post on poor grooming), my very pregnant wife (who is in fact radiant and beautiful), my two boys (who may or may not have been wrestling with each other, wiping snot on or off of something, or throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the concourse walkway), or all the baggage (2 rolling suit-cases, two laptops-yeah, yeah, stuff it-we're snobs, ok?!-a kiddie seat slightly smaller than a smart car, plus my gigantic back-pack/suitcase/manpurse, AND the diaper bag---note: diaper bag is for Mongo, who is 2, not for me!). ANYWAYS we finally hailed a cab driver and started along on our way.
Now, I didn't check my watch or anything, so I can't tell you exactly, but it was about 2 hours later that we arrived at our gate (and that was without any pitstops or tourist shopping or anything, and I think we missed the rush-hour commuters) at the other end of the concourse. We boarded promptly (more paint-geez! I think some idiot at Boeing measured a kiddie seat and made the seat TOPS that far apart, and then for fun, tapered the arms out about 1/2 inch or so).
Take off went very well again, and the meal was outstanding. I'd never tasted nuts like that before (caaaaaaaa-reful). And the ginger snap palate cleanser was marvelous. I skipped the dessert port because I didn't think I could handle that kind of decadence while airborne, and not regurgitate. Speaking of regurgitating...kidding. Nobody got sick. Airsick, I mean. There was the persistent threat that swine flu would consume the plane, forcing us to reroute to either Mexico or the North Pole whichever was closer for quarantine purposes. Homeland Security can never be taken for granted, ever again. Even from the pigs, those lousy...pigs. Wait a minute-is that racial profiling?
...
Anyways. Flying was so tremendously exciting (I mean, can you imagine anything more exciting than that tray table? I mean, it seriously just flops down?! right out of the back of the seat? And then it goes RIGHT BACK IN?!!! DAMN) that nobody slept. By that, of course, I mean, my kids. And my wife. And me. And pretty much rows 38 through 45. That's right. Row 45. Our seats came with a bungee rope and a parachute. "Can I help you with that car seat, sir?" "NOPE. (Grunt) Got it. (sound of rusty metal being twisted and wrenched on, followed by sound of heavy breathing, more grunting, and walking on broken glass, peppered with a small, but surprisingly audible voice tearing through everything else asking if "this is the right row? do I sit here? Poppa? Are you coming? Where's my seat? Is that Mongo's seat? Poppa? Poppa?").
...
It was just about a 3 1/2 hour flight. Things were going pretty good until we got to western Montana. But then that's pretty much the story with any vacation, isn't it? What is it about western Montana that even objects flying at tremendous speeds and high altitude are not immune? That's when we started getting the hops. Not like basketball. Like crack. Like, if I don't get up and run right now, this tin can might implode all around me, and crush down to a size small enough to fit into my brother's old baby spoon. Do you HEAR ME? Yes. Yes my son, the whole plane can hear you. And possibly the pilot through the intercom. Going backwards through the speakers to his microphone. And then travelling via sound waves through his jaw bone to his inner ear, where his little ear timpani drum is doing paradiddles like a freak monkey and an organ grinder. Yes, I hear you.
...
We crossed two time zones. As fascinating as that may not appear to the frequent traveller, it made quite the impression on me. And Mama. Dinner couldn't come fast enough. Seriously, if it flew at our faces half as fast as the plane had flown through the air, it wouldn't have been quick enough for my boys. What can I say. They eat. Except the times when they refuse to eat. Which is usually in public, or at a guest's house, or anytime Mama has actually spent time preparing something really, really good. Other wise, I mean they are just eaters. Or at least admirers of full plates of food.
...
We got to her hotel (she was staying over for two nights for a work conference while the boys and me went straight up to my moms), and boy howdy, it was N-I-C-E. Right on the pier, in the heart of downtown, and with (mandatory) valet parking. Punks. I HATE that. Why would I tip somebody to park my car in such a fashion that I would have to pay them in order to find it again? Well, having (not) parked the car, and since the boys were threatening to go into full-ape in the lobby of this wonderful establishment, I decided right then and there that we'd have a nice meal in the hotel restaurant before parting ways. Whoops.
...
First thing: There was a giant fish aquarium at the maitre'de's post. Note that I say "was". Boy number one believed that it was a "whack-a-mole". I assured him quite firmly that it was not. Not that it mattered to him whether it was or was not. We decided to make a reservation (read: warning) and go put Mama's bags in her room. Being very (radiant) pregnant we didn't move fast enough, and they just took off. Running. STOMP! (repeat, repeat, repeat). One boy runs quite well. The other one labors quite a bit. He works just as hard as the other, and makes possibly more noise. But it's like confusing lots of activity with productivity. He's all wobble and wail, and windmill, but finally doesn't run much faster than he walks. Once we'd restored proper guardianship of the boys and the hotel management decreased the terror-alert level, we sauntered back down to the lobby and headed to the restaurant. #1 took a few more knocks at the giant size Whack-a-Mole, and then got dragged to our table. All sorts of fancy stuff to play with there. Including the lights, which hung from the ceiling down to about 4 inches above the table top. Brilliant. Real mood-setter.
#2: Seafood. Probably should have seen that coming. I really don't like seafood. Now, when I say that, you probably think Salmon steak, fillet of fish, cod, whatever. Crab-legs? No. Remember: classy establishment. We're talking spine of swordfish, marinated in squid urine, with a dash of cool Puget Sound kelp. Sorry. Not that classy of guy. In fact, I'm SO not that classy of a guy that I walked in here with my two slobbery kids, wearing jeans and a too-big T-shirt, with 3 days growth on my face and my hair standing straight up from all the times that I've run my hands through my hair today. Seriously out of place. Felt like a logger at a beauty pageant. In a ballroom.
Then the kids turned on their A-game and it was brawling, leaning, laying out on the benches, gathering up all the silverware into a pile and then banging on it. I'm talking ketchup on the floor (clear oak), table (finished mahogany, perhaps even wenge, couldn't tell 'cause it was stained so dark), benches (they weren't real leather, were they?), and maybe even on the wall (paneled cedar).
CHECK, PLEASE.
And good night. Two boxes, last slurp of coffee (mmm.) And away we go. That was the first day of our family vacation.
(smile).
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