Trev

Trevvy On The Verge

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Our youngest turned five on Sunday. Hard to believe he’s headed to kindergarten in the fall. In lieu of photos, here are a few written snapshots from the weekend.

* * * * *

Dozens of boisterous children are shouting, giggling, scrambling over the intricate jungle gym playground at the campground where our church group was staying. Above the din, a lone low growl rises to a roar. The small knot of grownups I’m standing in turns to stare as Trevor mounts the tallest tower. He throws his head back, pounds his chest, and roars at the trees and the sky and no one in particular.

* * * * *

It’s bed time, and Trevor and I go into a single bathroom to brush and get ready for bed. Trevor has to pee, and there is no divider between the sink and the stool.

“Dad,” he says, his voice dramatic, “DON’T … LOOK … to the SIDE!”

I smile and shake my head. “Alright, little man,” I say. “But we’re both guys here, so it’s not that big of a deal.”

He thinks a second, then says, “OK, Dad — LOOK … to the SIDE!”

I glance to the left. Trevvy is grinning up at me, peeing with remarkable accuracy as he does so.

“See?” he says. “That’s why you’re not supposed to look to the side!”

* * * * *

On the way home from the camp on Sunday afternoon, we’re asking Trevor what he would like for his birthday dinner. The menu: stringy spaghetti noodles (you know, the ones that look like lines), grapes and spinach (for the people who don’t want grapes), and garlic bread.* For dessert: brownies with white frosting and red and blue sprinkles.

* * * * *

We went to Mass after spaghetti and garlic bread and before brownies and presents. It’s been a busy weekend, and Trevvy falls asleep in minutes. He’s our preschooler on the verge, stretched full length on the hard wooden pew, peacefully sucking his thumb …

* * * * *

* Trevor genuinely likes fresh spinach, and eats it as finger food, leaf by leaf.

Wish Flowers

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

We were walking the sidewalk along Selby Avenue toward Dark Raven Studios, where the older kids practice tai chi. Here and there, a tree grew along the walk, skirted in weeds and dust. In the center of the street a crow pecked crumbs from discarded cellophane, hopping first to one side, then to the other, as the occasional car passed.

I snuffed a breath through my stuffy nose and grumbled inarticulately. Only the crow seemed to hear, and flapped to a nearby lamppost.

Then Trevor said, “I know why there are so many wish flowers today.”

Wish flowers? I thought. I looked at our youngest. He was gazing at a clump of ragged dandelions, which had shed their jaunty yellow caps to bare their graying heads to the breeze

“There are lots of wish flower because last week there were lots of dandelions!” he said, pointing to the balding stems.

Today a weed; tomorrow a wish. So much I’ve forgotten about wonder. So much to learn.

Trevor’s Ambitions

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We spoke to Trevor last night about his ambitions — we had friends over, and they were asking the kids what they aspire to be when they grow up. Trevor said he wants to be an “army man, a police officer, a cowboy,” or (and here he smiled a little, shy smile, like he was showing us a glimpse of his soul) a “hobo swordsman.”

We questioned him further. Most questions were met with a small, inscrutable smile. He was infinitely patient with us. Apparently, if you grasp “hobo” and grasp “swordsman,” you’ve pretty much grokked his life plan. He likes trains, likes blades, and true to the hobo spirit, appears little concerned with a roof, or food, or money.

The world doesn’t have enough — or perhaps any! — hobo swordsmen, don’t you think? A story is emerging: Zatoichi-meets-Kwai Chang Caine-meets-The Twilight Samurai: a vagabond dressed in threadbare clothes, with only a sword to his name, riding the rails, righting the wrongs …

I already have the cover of the graphic novel sketched in my mind. I can write; who can draw?

If you haven’t seen The Twilight Samurai, check it out. One of my favorites. More heart and fewer arteries than typical samurai movies.

Trevvy Figures It Out

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Our youngest, Trevor, spent most of his Friday at the home of a friend who is pregnant. Exactly how he knew she was pregnant, I’m not sure, but apparently partway through the day he approached her, sized up her belly, and said, “You got a baby in there.”

“Yes, I do,” she said.

He looked at her belly again. “Sometimes if people eat a lot they look like that, too,” he said.

She laughed. “Yes, I guess they do.”

He hesitated a moment, then said, “Maybe that’s how you get a baby in there!”

Four Kids; Four Tidbits

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Blogger’s Note: Thought I’d share a little bit about the family from the past few weeks. Just random stuff. Little things …

I was digging through a closet and found a stack of National Geographic magazines from the turn of the century (the 21st Century, unfortunately). The April 2000 issue has an open-mouthed great white shark on it, and as soon as I saw it, I had a flashback to when Brendan was about three years old. I flipped it open and found a feature story called “Yemen United.” I flipped several more pages and found a full-page portrait of a dark-skinned, graceful Yemeni girl, her face more African than Asian, with deep brown eyes, wearing a purple headscarf with black flowers, a colorful floral-and-stripes dress, and a beaded necklace and silver rope chain around her neck.

I showed the cover it to Brendan. “Do you remember this?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he said. “We watched a show about those sharks.”

I open to page 52. “Do you remember this girl?” He is confused by the question and shakes his head no.

“She was your first crush,” I tell him. “When you were three, you used to find the shark magazine every night, look through it until you found this picture, and tell this girl, ‘Good night.'”

He looks embarrassed. “Really?” he asks.

No reason to be embarrassed, Bren. She’s beautiful.*

* * * * *

The Easter Bunny brought the kids Night at the Museum on DVD. Sunday afternoon, Trevor said he couldn’t wait to watch “Hotel After Dark.”

Later in the day, one of the kids said something about the Easter Bunny laying eggs in our house. He or she quickly changed it to hiding eggs, but the whole deal got a big laugh .. and got Trevor thinking.

“I know!” he said. “What if it was Christmas time, and Santa was a polar bear that laid presents!”

* * * * *

After Mass the other day, Father M called Gabriel (and the rest of us) into the vesting sacristy to give Gabe something. Because our middle son thinks he may want to be a priest when he grows up, Father had hinted that he had communion set of some sort for Gabe to practice with.

Gabe was so excited, but almost had to be pushed into the sacristy because it felt “off-limits” — like he was backstage without a pass. Father turned to him, smiling, and presented him with a long purple cleric’s stole, which appeared hand-woven south of the border. “You must always kiss it before you put it on,” Father said, and Gabe nodded, wide-eyed. Then Father gave him a large brown stoneware chalice and paten with the Words of Consecration on their rims. He took them, and stared, and said next to nothing.

Jodi and I both thanked Father, then coaxed Gabe to do the same. He did, haltingly. “We don’t use clay in this church,” said Father, “but this is a real set. Someday, when you’re ordained, you’ll get your own set, but you can practice with this one.”

Gabe said nothing, but nodded. “I think he’s in shock — a little overwhelmed,” I said.

As we walked to the car, I told Gabe that I had thought Father was going to give him some sort of kid’s set: a tin cup and plate, or something. “This was very generous of Father,” I said.

“Dad,” he said, “when I didn’t say anything right away, it was because I was surprised, and overwhelmed, and a little disappointed all at once, because I thought it would be gold, and it wasn’t. I didn’t know it was a real set.”

I told him that I understood how you get something in your head, and when it comes out differently, it can disappoint. “But remember Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? When Indy had to pick the right Grail and drink from it, but if he picked wrong, he would die? Of all those beautiful cups, which was the right one?”

Gabe’s face lit up. “The carpenter’s cup!”

“Right — the clay cup. Jesus wasn’t rich man, and neither were his disciples. He wouldn’t have had a gold cup!”

You should see him now: he kisses the stole, puts in on, and carries his chalice and paten with such care!

* * * * *

Emma has been working for several weeks, 10 to 15 minutes a night, to read Beverly Cleary’s Runaway Ralph. It was slow going at times — a “stretch” book from the get-go, since she’s just finishing first grade. But she insisted, persisted … and today got 10 out of 10 on her Accelerated Reader quiz, which means she understood what she read. Yeah, Rosie!

* * * * *

* I’ve search the Web over, and cannot find this photo, and I don’t feel right about scanning it. The photographer who shot it has books of famous National Geographic portraits and photos, including this famous Afghan girl. He does good work, and I’m sure he protects his copyrights.