back rubs, head scratches and legacies...II

I thought about lungs for a moment. I thought about Tigg, standing there about 4 steps up. He was looking at me in the eye because of his elevation. It's not difficult for me to imagine that he is 10 years older, because his face has lost most of its infant roundness for a more angular, skinny boy look. Very Dennis the Menace, in my mind at least.

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I grew up in Bellingham, Washington. Moved there when I was almost 5. My fifth birthday was just a few weeks after we moved into the red house on the corner. I can count backwards from there, matching memories to stories. We lived for 6 months in a rental house while my parents looked for a house. Before that we lived in a northern Seattle suburb. I remember quite vividly how that house laid out, and the yard. It surprises me when i look back, at how well I actually remember the double sided fireplace, the bathroom in the hall way, the smell of the basement where my dad and one of his friends made wine (and once, a very BIG mess). I remember the yellow light that came into the living room because of the corrugated plastic roofing over the deck. There was a pass through from the long, galley kitchen into the formal dining room.

I digress. A little. I remember the color of the curtains in my bedroom. They were an olive green. I remember the headboard of my bed. And the rocking chair in the corner is still in my mother's dining room.

I remember one evening, tagging around my mother and father's legs while they talked. I must have asked a question about what they were talking about, because I can remember my Dad leaning down. He explained to me, probably 4 years old, how a budget balanced, that you had to have as much money coming in as you did going out. He told me that if you spent more than you had, you were running a "deficit economy." It was something I've never forgotten. There have been many other moments like that one, but none of them have the singular clarity of that night.

Beyond knowing that our government was spending money it didn't actually have, my dad taught me something that night that he probably never anticipated. He dropped a couple of big bills in his legacy fund. The lesson I took away, I realized many years later, was that kids are capable of understanding much more than we often give them credit for, and they want to understand what we (adults) are talking about. And that it's never a bad time to explain something profound. He loved me by explaining things to me. I think, given what similarities I've seen with Tigger, that I probably asked a lot of questions. Like, constantly. And not silly questions, but rather, questions that demand answers, whether the answers end up being serious or silly.

I choose to answer as many of Tigg's questions as I can. Sometimes I say "I don't know," because it's ok not to know or understand everything, and I want him to know that, both for himself, but also for his father.

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So there he is. "What are lungs?" I told him to take off all of his clothes, leave them on the stairs to the attic, and get his underwear'd butt out on the front porch. I confess, I allowed him to think he was going to be severely punished.

When I arrived on the screened porch, his face reflected dread. When I pulled out two sandwich bags, and handed him one, he looked pleased and puzzled. He can do that. He's got it down pretty good.

I put the bag to my mouth and filled it with air. Then I sucked it out. He did the same thing. Then I told him to look down and take a big breath. He did. I could see him getting the picture when I filled my bag again, and put it over his chest and explained that his lungs were bags in his chest that filled up with air. Then I showed him the veins on my arm. He knew about those (*see "bumps and scrapes, nicks and gashes" in the latest edition of Merriam-Websters), and I explained that his lungs were filled with little pockets where blood could go by and pick up fresh clean air to take to his feet and his arms and his fingers and stuff.

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I rub Mongo's tummy because I loved it so much when Dad paid me that attention. I ALWAYS think of my Dad when I scratch his back, or his tummy. I think of how, in thirty years, he might be rubbing some little boy's tummy, and thinking back to when his papa, with his rough, carpenter's hands, used to rub his tummy.

I give Tigger his detailed explanations because I love my Dad. And this is something I can do to help my boys know their grandfather-my Dad. It's his legacy to them. and to me. And maybe it will be part of my legacy to them. It's simple things...

back rubs, head scratches and legacies...

My boys go down pretty early in the evening (according to friends).  We start putting them to bed between 7 and 7.30.  Tigger's been going to bed later and later though these days, what with the sun being up late and all.

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Tig hates having his head scratched.  I don't think it's vanity about his coif.  I think it just messes with his sense of order.  The feeling of his fairly stiff hair getting put out of it's regular place screws with his chi.  His ontological experience.  His groove.  Yo?

Mongo doesn't mind it a bit.  In fact he seems to cherish it.  He has very long straight hair.  It's finer than Tigger's.  Since he was just a few weeks old, I've noticed that gentle fingers on his face, across his eye-brows, down the bridge of his nose, and through his hair brings him peace.  Tigger will fidgit and lash out trying to restrain whatever is trespassing on his person.  Mongo, well, he just looks out into space and sucks on his thumb.  

Well, I love that.  It is a burden to me that Tigger dislikes it, because touch is one of the ways that I enjoy showing the boys my affection for them.  So I just have to find a different, more meaning-filled way to do it with Tigg.  But for Mongo...well, he gets a lot of foot rubs and head scratches.

I was laying next to him in his bed last night.  Laying down with Mongo is kind of a commitment.  You see, it's on the floor.  Now, I suppose you're saying, "Well, it wouldn't stay up on the wall, would it?" but I mean only that there is neither frame nor box-spring beneath it the mattress.  Just floor.  So it's far enough down that you don't just go down, and pop right back up.  You know?  Yeah, maybe you do...

Well, I was feeling especially maternal and laid down with Mongo to scratch his head for awhile.  The roman shades were down, but it was still very light outside so the room was far from dark.  Just soft, filtered light.  I ran my fingers over the top of his head, and across the side, over and over and over again.  He just laid there, blankie and thumb in their traditional locations, as he blinked up at the ceiling.  He eventually pulled his shirt up, and I began making circles on his chest and tummy with the flat of my hand.  All this time, I was looking at my 2 year old son, and loving him, and thinking of my dad, dead 4 years to the week, and missing him...

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I remember laying in my bed, being five, eight, ten, twelve years old, and loving when my dad would come in and sit with me.  I don't remember any conversations, but I'll never forget how rough his hands felt on my soft skin.  Not ever.

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Yesterday I was trying to install a ceiling fan & light in the boys' room.  Grr.  Don't know how, but the fan worked, and not the light?  What?  There's one switch (it's a dual switch)!  One hot wire in, two hot wires out?  Should work.  But it doesn't.  Still.  Anyways, I had some floor boards up in the attic so that I could put the hot wire for the fan in (previously there was only a light so I needed two hot wires instead of just one) and the door to the attic had been open and closed several times during the day, which awoke a new interest in the attic in Tigger.  Well, in the three or four minutes that I spent digging through a box of switches in my garage, he managed to get his 4 year old self up there and into a pile of blown-in insulation from 50 years ago that was piled up in a far corner of the attic.  I caught him coming back down the stairs.  He was covered, head to toe, with soft grey lint.  "Attic dust," I called it.  

I was beyond angry.  I'd told him prior to this not to go up there, that there were floor boards missing in places, nails sticking out of other places, NO floor in yet other places, and LOTS of "attic dust" which was bad for his lungs.  

He looked at me, forlorn, resplendent in his repentance, and with giant precious moments eyes, and slumped shoulders, looked at me and asked, "What are lungs?"

...