growingup
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How Tall This Fall?
You are viewing stuff tagged with growingup.
I don’t know who wrote this, but however old they were, it was wise beyond their years:
Sometimes people use “respect” to mean “treating someone like a person” and sometimes they use “respect” to mean “treating someone like an authority”
and sometimes people who are used to being treated like an authority say “if you won’t respect me I won’t respect you” and they mean “if you won’t treat me like an authority I won’t treat you like a person”
and they think they’re being fair but they aren’t, and it’s not okay.
I think you’ll see the poetry here. No need for an affecting soundtrack, the wind and the shoes in the grass serve just fine.
Out of nowhere, Essie says two word sentences to us. This helps us meet her needs and wants, until she runs out of the correct words. Then we’re back to sign language and grunts. We’re also seeing the advent of frustration, whose development I find interesting yet a little sad. This little girl who before would sit and try to do something over and over, showing perseverance but no frustration, will now get immensely frustrated over her inability to do something, typically something physically intricate.
As I scroll up the pictures on my phone, Essie gets younger, just like that.
As the days go by, she grows up, just like that.
A seven foot white pine Christmas tree, grown at the Kroeger’s family tree farm from which you pick it up, freshly cut for you, baled, and drilled plumb for a tree stand is $59, which I believe is an excellent deal. We went to get ours yesterday and marveled at the difference a year makes with Essie. Last year, Ess was in the Björn, reacting a tiny bit to things, and generally kind of just along for the ride. This year she is 16 months old and far more interactive: riding on my back in the Kelty, reaching out at trees she likes, drinking sips of apple juice in the warming house, beaming at people she sees. The long-needled trees like our white pine feel soft to the hand, and, as with anything she feels that is thick and soft, Ess says “maoww”, meaning that it feels just like her cat at home.
A startling, yet simple realization this morning: someday, somewhere, someone is going to be mean, or condescending, or hateful to our Ess. I don’t know, can’t know, can’t guard against when; and the circumstances around such a thing are impossible to anticipate, infinite in variety. And what’s more, apprehension and concern from me are neither beneficial nor constructive. So that will be tucked away. My job, then, is to love Ess into being, to (someday sooner than I want to admit) rest my hands on her shoulders and look her in the eye and tell her I’ll see her at home again, before she travels places I can not follow and takes risks from which I can not protect her.
It has been five years since I went flying off my bike. Five years. 60 months. I still wear the Patagonia jacket I was wearing when that accident happened; wore it today, in fact. That’s a testament to Patagonia’s quality, I guess. I still don’t like most of their color schemes for their stuff, which explains why my jacket from them is all black. But like I said, great stuff.
My father grew up in Rochester, Minnesota when it was considered the best place in the United States to grow up. Anchored by IBM, his neighborhood thrived during post-war prosperity; neighbors got together to make a pool — he recalls them pulling their lawn hoses out to it to fill it at the beginning of the season. Summer afternoons gave way to late nights of playing and inventing every game. Similarly, my mom grew up running about a safe and happy neighborhood, caring for the wild cats who befriended her and her siblings, driving Honda dirt bikes fixed up by her father in the field across the road from where they lived. Come to think of it, I don’t know as many stories as I’d like from my parent’s childhood.
I looked down while waiting at a stoplight today and somehow was surprised to see a wedding ring on my finger, dress clothes on myself, sitting in a car I own, coming from a full time job.
Where did the time go?
The ex-potato field felt empty but not desolate—lot stakes, light posts, and the bafflingly windy streets of modern suburbia were all in place. Ours was the second house in Brighton’s Landing, a development in what would soon become one of the fastest growing cities in the nation. I knew none of this context, nor would it have refined my picture of my place in the world—like any child, my life was defined by low walls and narrow vistas. But I did know we were moving, here, to this new house. I gazed up into the vaulted entryway, looked down at the unstained ornaments for the front window. My memories of this construction phase are spotty, but I know we visited regularly during dim fall evenings. I remember little from the days we moved, but the vast expanse of fresh carpet lodged in my brain. Perhaps because I was six years old and still close the ground. That was 1991, over 20 years ago.
I do weird things now, things I never consciously realized would be a part of my life. I clean trash cans. Sort mail. Go to the store to purchase toilet paper. Clean out the fridge. It’s fascinating that, though you have relatively little freedom as a young person, you have a very unique freedom from these adult responsibilities.