The kids rolled out of bed around ten to six this morning. It wasn’t yet light, or else my eyes were still closed and I only thought they were open.
It’s good they were excited for school. Trevor starts preschool a couple days a week in another week or so. Campus is covered with students, too — and like clockwork, a cold front blows in, rustling the ivy outside my office window.
Good thing I love fall!
You might think this post is about Emma’s first full day of school, with lunch and recess and everything. It’s not. It’s about the butterfly garden at the Como Zoo — our visit to which was appropriately overshadowed by Gabe’s illness and sudden eruption in the zoo lobby. Jodi wasn’t convinced she wanted to go through the butterfly house, which looks like a giant monarch caterpillar made of yellow, white and black striped mesh. I thought the kids would like it, though, so we got in line. Turns out I may have liked it best.
I should mention that, as we walked from the car to the zoo, we followed a monarch flip-fluttering on the breeze, brilliant orange against the green of the trees along the walk. It sparked something in me — just for a second, I wanted to follow it.
So — we entered the butterfly garden, and we’re surrounded. Broad-winged blue butterflies. Little reds and yellows. So many you can hear their wing beats — so delicate we were instructed not to touch them or brush them off, so strong they dogfight the breezes and come out on top. We saw young butterflies courting, and an old giant with wings like frayed denim flap his death-dance in the shady dirt beneath the flowers. Each one seemed as lovely and surprising and unique as summer day — soaring or topsy-turvy, feasting or resting, brilliant or melancholy …
Quite a collection — of Lepidotera and long summer days. Hope yours was good, too.
I’m sticking my neck out a bit in hopes that Jodi and I aren’t alone in what happened to us today. Actually, today was all my fault. Allow me to explain …
We took the older boys to tai chi class, then all of us (the entire family, including Betsy), went to Como Zoo in St. Paul. It was hot, but we were drinking lots of water, and there was a nice breeze blowing. No worries, right?
Now, our kids are generally gung-ho for a visit to a park, a zoo, a mall, you name it – at least until we get there. The enthusiasm generally wanes after a little while of walking, and they start to complain they are tired, hungry, bored, etc.
So as we’re going through the butterfly garden (slow going in “bumper-to-bumper” pedestrian traffic), Gabe keeps crouching down in the path, sitting down, flopping around in front of people. And I’m getting after him about it, because I figure he’s getting lazy and grumpy and now is not the time.
Finally he basically sits on by foot, and I give him a light kick in the butt and say, “Gabe! Keep moving!”
Jodi puts her arm around him and asks if he’s feeling alright.
“He’s fine,” I growl.
We’re headed back to the car, but Jodi, Emma and Trevor need the rest room. Bren, Gabe and I decide to walk the little rainforest loop near the entrance. Halfway through, Gabe says, “Dad, I need to get out of here.” I look, and he’s pale as a milk jug – even his lips are white. We rush him out, sit him down, and give him sips of water. Jodi asks if he’s gonna be sick. He thinks a moment, then looks at me and says, “I need to get to the bathroom …”
We made it about halfway. I was trying to steer his through the crowd and keep my cupped hands in front of him. When he erupted, those big ol’ hands successfully made the mess twice as bad by keeping it close to us. Gabe’s shirt, shorts and shoes; my hands, forearms, and shoes. Once bystanders realized what was happening, the sea of people parted, and we made it to the bathroom … just in time to clean up.
There is no worse feeling in the world than to blame your child for something they didn’t do, except maybe to not recognize there’s something genuinely wrong until it’s too late. Combine the two, and it’s miserable. I apologized to Gabe. He thinks puking on me was pretty good revenge.
I had no topic in mind this evening, so I asked Trevor what I should blog about. He suggested I write about his name. So, here goes …
Our youngest is named Trevor Christian Thorp. Trevor was an Irish/Welsh name we both liked; in addition, it has good denotations: industrious and prudent. It apparently can also mean “great settlement.”
All of our kids have middle names of family significance – Brendan’s is “James,” after me; Gabriel’s is “Venjohn,” which is Jodi’s nearly unique maiden name; and Emma’s is “Rose,” after my dad’s beautiful mother who died when he was young. With Trevor, we struggled – the male family names to choose from were Kenneth, Daryl, Frank, Duane, Arnold and Firman. (I made a brief, half-serious, and ultimately unsuccessful bid for Bruno, which, along with Brownie, was my Polish great-grandfather’s nickname in America. His real name, Bronsilaw (BRO-nee-swaff), means “armor or weapon of glory; glorious protector” …) So we went with something that spoke to the values and faith of both our families – Christian.
And Thorp is, well, Thorp – meaning “small village or hamlet” in Middle English. Appropriate enough for small-town folk like us – and an interesting contrast to the alternative meaning of Trevor.
There you go, Trevvy! Brendan James, Gabriel Venjohn, Emma Rose and Trevor Christian – that’ll do, I guess …
We picked Betsy up at the airport this morning, then took the older boys to tai chi, and finally, to lunch at Annie’s Parlor in Dinkytown. Had burgers and fries, of course, except Emma, who had chicken fingers, and Trevor, who ordered a corn-dog. Once we had eaten more than our daily allowance of calories, we ordered two ginormous malts for the table to share. Hot fudge and wild blueberry. So good.
Trevvy wound up with blueberry and insisted upon using his straw, not the spoon. As a result, as he put it, “This ice cream is going down reawwy slow!”
Brendan finished his hot fudge and asked if there was blueberry left. There wasn’t – but I suggested that he might help Trevor finish his. Trevor, however, was showing no signs of letting up – until he decided he needed to use the restroom. I went with him.
When we returned to the table, Trevor took one look at his malt cup and said, “Hey! Who drank some of my malt?”
No one thought he’d notice. Everyone laughed.
Now, Trevor considers Bren his best buddy, and Emma is closest to him in age, so he has made it known that Gabe is his “last favorite.” He scowled, turned his squinty gaze to Gabriel and asked, “Gabe! Why did you drink my malt?”
“I didn’t!” said Gabe, and Brendan roared with laughter. “No, Trevvy – I did it!” he said.
Trevor looked at Bren, then a smile broke across his face. “Is it okay that Brendan had some?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Trevvy.
Gabe decided to test him further. “Actually, Trevor, it was me!”
The look of anger was instant and unmistakable on Trevor’s face. His buddy Brendan was fine, but not Gabe. Never Gabe. We all laughed again, and Brendan reiterated that he had, in fact, been the culprit.
* * * * *
Trevor finished with what Bren had left him, and he used his straw the entire time. We warned him he wouldn’t be able to get the blueberries out of the bottom of the glass, but he proved us wrong.
We all watched as a great gob of blue traveled slowly up the straw to half-way and stop. “See, Trevvy?” I started to say, but he was focused, his cheek drawing deeply inward.
Suddenly the berry burst loose, upward into his mouth, exploding into a delicious grin.
Archangel Stomp 