The gondola

“One of the important keys in understanding the remarkable smoothness of a Five-year-old is that he has an almost uncanny ability to judge what he can and cannot do… With tremendous accuracy he judges what things are and what are not within his ability, and he tries only what he is sure of.”

-Louise Bates Ames, Your Five-Year-Old

I have been reading my book about 5 year-olds and was struck by this statement.  What a lovely quality, to know yourself and live in this truth.

Normally, I would say that the years of my life have brought me to a place where others might describe me with these same words.  I know myself and live comfortably within my limitations.  As I was reading this statement and thinking about WJ, I found a deep pleasure in knowing that this time in his childhood would be characterized by such peace.  I was thinking about how I would need to be certain to trust him in these coming months as he declared his limitations.  I had noticed already a new bravery in some instances and also his matter-of-fact rationale for passing over an opportunity.

But then we saw the gondolas and I forgot to trust him, and even worse, I forgot to trust myself.

We had set out for one last summer getaway out at a discounted off-season ski resort.  Everything was perfect.  As we batted around ideas for our final morning, sipping hot coffee out in the Adirondack chairs and enjoying the cool morning and the view of the mountain, Dave noticed that the gondola lift was running.  It was carrying mountain bikers up the hill to their treacherous trails.  Dave had read that one could purchase a ticket to ride on the gondola lift.  For fun. 

I know myself.  I know that there is no way such a ride would be fun. Nevertheless, we wandered over to the bottom of the hill to investigate.  I think maybe I thought that we would find it was only for the bikers.  Or maybe that there would be an exorbitant fee that would offend the frugal sensibilities of my Dutch husband.

But I think mostly I was just trying very hard to honor my husband, to respect his ideas for our plans, to participate in one of the things that he finds enjoyable.  There are wonderful benefits reaped from our opposites-attract kind of relationship.  But sometimes it just gets us in trouble.

Looking up the mountain at the gondola cars waggling up and down on the limp wires, I mumbled that I didn’t think I could do that.  And WJ echoed.  No.  Not fun.  Not for us.  But Dave was talking to the operator, who had lifted his eyes begrudgingly from a book, and had taken out his wallet.  Four dollars for all three of us.  What a bargain. Dave was stepping on.

WJ and I followed aboard.  The doors closed.  There were no seats and no window panes.  The floor was a grill and the green whizzed by underneath.  I held on with both hands and Dave lifted WJ up so that he could have a better view.  Dave asked me something, something like, “Isn’t this fun?”

I began to chuckle but it turned immediately into the hysterical laughing of an up-too-late junior high sleepover.  I couldn’t stop; I gasped for breath; tears streamed down my cheeks.  The laughing lasted only a moment, though.  It quickly changed to outright sobbing.  I called out the name of the Lord, and not in vain, as the gondola car swayed. 

WJ was worried too.  I tried to comfort him.  “We are almost at the top!” I exclaimed with false composure, “When we get to the top we will be halfway finished!” 

“But going down is more scary!” he replied.

As if he had to tell me.

When WJ began to sob too, I pulled myself together.  “Do you think there is a way to walk down?” I asked Dave hopefully.  Maybe, was his reply.  As the gondola slowed into the station at the top of the mountain, Dave called out to the teenagers supervising to learn that we could probably walk down.  Probably was enough.  We stepped off of the ride.

It took forty-five minutes to climb down from the top of the mountain to the valley resort.  It was a steep, rocky fire road, littered and overgrown.  Have I mentioned yet that WJ was wearing Crocs?  It felt like we were searching unprepared through the wilderness for help after abandoning a broken car.  Our hike felt somehow desperate. 

But my feet were on the ground and I became myself again.

Slowly WJ became himself again too.  He spotted a frog and chased it.  Then a moth and a very fuzzy caterpillar.  In one of the happier moments of the walk, he took my hand and said, “I wish I could be like Daddy.  I wish I could like the gondola ride.”

I wish that too. 

Sometimes a five-year-old knows himself and his abilities but, for the love of the one he admires, he pretends as best he can to be someone braver.  It can happen to you when you are thirty-six as well.  Sometimes you can pretend hard enough.  But sometimes you have to walk back down the mountain.

Honey pistachio biscotti

In case you were wondering, pre-shelled pistachios are worth every penny.  There was blood. And both of my thumbnails, as well as the nail on my right index finger, have nearly separated from my flesh.

Last night I settled in the kitchen while my husband got WJ into bed.  I was super excited to try this biscotti recipe from Ellie Krieger on The Food Network.  

First things first: shell the pistachios.  It turns out that in order to arrive at one cup of pistachios, one must shell half of the bag of nuts.  The boys finished bath, snack, story, prayer, and back-rubbing.  WJ was fast asleep.  Dave wandered into the kitchen.  I had nearly filled the 1/2 cup measuring cup.   The recipe calls for a whole cup. That’s two 1/2 cup measuring cups. His fingers stretched out, reaching toward the fruits of my labor. “Mind if I take a few of these?”

You can imagine how the rest of that interaction went, but it was lucky for him that I was wounded.

Next time, I will pay the extra money, drive the extra drive, make the extra trip.  I have learned my lesson. After finishing the shelling, I walked away from the kitchen, putting off the baking until the light of morning changed my attitude.

With my fingers covered in Band-Aids, I cautiously returned the recipe today.  It uses partly whole wheat flour, partly honey for sweetness, and entirely olive oil.  No butter. Very heart-healthy.  And there is lemon zest, which adds a nicely bright flavor.

As I mixed the dough, WJ hovered at the mixer, sticking his nose as far into the bowl as he could from his perch on his stool.  “I just can’t stop smelling that! It smells too good!”  He was right.  It smelled like a perfect cup of tea.

The dough was kneaded, shaped into a large slab, and slid into the oven to bake.  So far, so good.  Since the word "biscotti" comes from the Latin biscotus, meaning twice-cooked or twice-baked, my work was not yet finished, After cooling from the first bake, I sliced the slab of cookie into biscotti and baked again.  The cookies were flipped halfway through the second baking and emerged out of the oven, toasted and golden.

My cookies are a bit chunkier than Ellie’s.  Hers seem more crisp and delicate. 

I will slice them differently next time.  This go-around I missed the direction to cut on an angle.  And after the first bake, the dough was a little too crumby for 1/2 inch slices.  I also think I kneaded in too much extra flour before baking; that might explain my struggle with slicing. 

Or maybe it was just the Band-Aids.  

Play dates and coffins

“Mom! I need a perfect coffin!”

Never have words sounded so sweet to a mother’s ears.

We are having a play date today with a child who will be in WJ’s class this fall.  This is the third such play date since returning from our summer travels.  Today we took the biggest leap.  This young friend and WJ have not really had much interaction yet at all.  The first play date was with a classmate who is also waiting a year to begin kindergarten, the child of a dear friend of mine, a child WJ has played with many times before.  The second play date was with twins, who until recently were our neighbors.  While the three had never had an official play date, the twins were very familiar faces.  

I must confess that I was a little worried about today.  It felt like a turning point, officially switching over from one class to the other.  WJ was nervous too.  I spend yesterday afternoon trying to distract him from his instinctual plan to hoard his toys; he was making a mental list of everything the new friend would not be allowed to use.

But this morning his new friend arrived and it took nary a minute for the two to discover their connections.  Costumes primarily.

First they were doctors and operated, albeit unsuccessfully, on WJ’s favorite stuffed pal, Doggie.  The new friend did not seem turned off at all with WJ’s need for a funeral afterward, although he did fiddle quietly with the doctor tools while the eulogy droned on.  Who could blame him, really? Now they have found knight costumes (Number One on yesterday’s list: Toys Not to Share) and are poking at each other’s shields playfully with drumsticks, since our swords are still MIA.

Making connections for your child before school begins is a smart idea if you can swing it.  I believe it is going to help us go from dwelling on who is missing from his new class to a healthier focus on who will be present. 

Choose carefully and choose only a few.  If you are not certain about which children would be wise to pursue, it is highly likely that a teacher from the school, someone who knows the children who will be in the class, would be glad to make suggestions.  Call the school to leave a message for him or her or, if you have time to plan ahead, ask for ideas before the school year is over.

While the idea of making new friends was monumentally terrifying, both for WJ and for me, these playtimes have largely turned in to giant love fests.  They are helping us both begin to see this change with anticipation rather than with regret.