I just walked downstairs and caught Ford dipping his grubby little fingers into the cake batter. Notice that he doesn’t look spooked or guilty. He’s not trying to hide a thing.

What more can I say? The kid just rocks. And he’s got it all figured out.

A giant live oak tree stood in arabesque on the hill above the creek, a proud centenarian but with arms so long and weary they dug back down into the earth for relief. While the sun sank behind it without saying goodbye, as it does on these arid, cloudless days, Ford and Chas cavorted among the branches. Ford wanted to climb higher than possible, satisfying each inch up the tree with laughter and a hearty jump back down. Chas, for his part, interested himself mostly with the mulch around the base, a dusty combination of dead leaves, acorn bits, bird guano and the small particulates of decomposing plastic gelato spoons from the chi chi grocery store nearby. I cringed as he faced the wind, gleamed with joy and flung a handful of detritus into his face by accident. Mycoplasma, Avian flu, corneal scratches buzzing through my head while Ford demanded “Look at me now, Mommy! Look, Mommy! Mommy, look at me!” I quickly scan Chas, while Ford hops back down to the ground.

No harm done, no tears. Ford looks back up at the heart of the tree, a perfect vortex of boughs and tailored for sitting, tempered and rounded from a century of children. He turns to me with raised eyebrows, and asks me to lift him up to the top. I remind him of my jammed thumb, my short height, and promise that Daddy can help him up next time. A couple walks by, the man understands Ford’s gesturing without hearing a word. I tell Ford that I approve, the man can help lift him up to the top of the trunk. As the man lifts him, I watch every ounce of Ford’s enthusiasm diminish instantly in proportion to height. Tenatively, the man releases his hold on Ford, and enables him feel his presence atop the grand oak, above our heads. Perched so high, he claws that trunk like a castaway cat riding dark seas. While his eyes help round out the terror, his voice says it all, as he quivers his shaky plea,
“mommy can you please get me down?”

Friday at Bull Creek. Cattails.

Scientists.

Philosopher.

Thrill seeker. (Fording the frigid stream in mocassins)

Considering Botox.

It’s New Year’s Eve in Houston, and over the buzzy drone of Chas’ snoring I hear little groups of people hollering one block away, the rat a tatting of firecrackers and guns, and the horn of a freight train downtown. Our house and much of our block is asleep. But if you walk barefoot out onto the front porch, and sit on the swing, you can see Christmas lights smiling at the raucous din of nearby celebration. The turning of a new year unfolds as I swing back and forth in the stillness. The family of gliding squirrels is probably shaking on one of the grand oak boughs above me as bottle rockets whine above them.

Being a homebody on New Year’s eve never felt so luxurious. I think I got over being homebound on New Year’s eve four years ago when we made Ford.

Cheers to that and a new year!

For starters, you get interrupted quite a bit when you read to them. And it’s not always the “Why?” kind of questions. Sometimes, you have to play dictionary. If you read “The Night Before Christmas” to them, you might get a “What the hell is a sugarplum?!” or a “Bloody Hell! How do you know what the elves know?!” Other times, interruptions are more the result of commentary, which is endless, throughout the day and every day. Try reading the Grimm classic tale, “The Bremen Town Musicians,” as I did the other morning:

A certain man had a donkey, which carried the corn-sacks to the mill indef-
“Nutsack!”
-indefatigably for many a long year; but his strength was going, and he was growing m-
“Nutsack!”
-he was growing more and more unfit for work. Then his master began to consider how he might b-
“Nutsack!”
-He bagan to consider how he might best save his keep; but the donkey, seeing no good wind was blowing
(snickering from Damon across the room, acknowledged)
ran away and set out on the road to Bremen.

“Nutsack!”

He’s so miserable in the other room, with his flu. I feel horrible about not being able to comfort him. So while he rests now in his bedroom I thought I’d share a few moments of Ford (over the past couple of months) with Linda, my mother-in-law, who remarked that she’s only been able to see the back of his head.

Ford endured an hour of driving in the cramped back seat of the puny Golf car, ready to puke out his heart, when we stopped in Smithville and paused before turning around and returning home. We were driving to Houston for the annual Lights in the Heights, which is a Christmas tradition in my old neighborhood. Mom and Dad had a bell choir on the front porch. The street was closed off. We looked forward to bundling up, boozing up, and towing the kids in a red wagon through the neighborhood, saying hello to old friends.

Poor kid. It broke my heart to watch him tough it out. He is the bravest little boy, so careful not to puke anywhere but into his little yellow bowl. Remembering to say please when asking for a towel. It reduced me to tears when he asked whether the pediatrician’s office that we were taking him to this afternoon was “the one with all the toys where we went when Seti (our old Jack Russell) bit me when I was trying to keep him off the bed because mommy was nursing Chas?”

Chas has been playing with words. He watches my mouth pronounce his favorite words, and he is eager to repeat adn repeat:Ball, mamamamamama, dee dee (which means “baby doll” to him), dog, hieeeee (hi), bye-eeeee (bye), bah-bah (basketball), and various barn animal sounds. His favorite monologue is the repetition of the word “hot.” He repeats, “Haaaa-Tuh, haaa-tuh, haa-tuh” for himself to hear. He enjoys the way it feels. It’s sweet to watch him circle about the house, signing and saying the same word in a happy, meandering trance. It’s a layer of music.

The other layers include the IndiePopRocks simulcast, set on low. I think Damon enjoys the living soundtrack. It’s mellowing.

And then there is Ford on electric guitar and Damon on Ford’s classical guitar. They sit beside one another, playing guitar-babble of their own. Of course, it sounds nothing like babble, but it’s the same little dance. They are feeling out for sounds they like. Ford has the advantage of not having to develop and fortify his ego right now; he is at a wonderful stage in his life where these things are already robust. So he sits there, exploring the sounds that he makes without the want to play like another, or sound like another. At this point, it is only sound. It’s like learning how to talk; he and Chas are very much on the same page, in that respect.