cast: E__ - 12; P__ - 11 ; K__ - 9(ish?); S__ - 6(ish?); J__ - 9 mo.
Fun with the bratii was had this year on two occasions while they stayed with their parents at my parents' house this holiday. On Sunday, Xmas day observed, J__ and I met, discovering many common facial expressions, vocalizations and gross gestures. We communicated a lot, saying who knows what but apparently enjoying it. By today - when my sister hosted a new year's eve party at our parents' house for whoever on her huge mailing list was in town (as it turned out, not too many, but with a bevy of additional kids) and available for 9 hours - J__ was comfortable enough with me to grab my fingers to pull herself upright. And comfortable enough standing there with my fingers to permit her mother to fetch a camera and then actually mug for the shot. Then, as her mother turned away, she decided to let go with all of her hands at the same time. I fleetingly imagined the scenario in which, at my touch and out of the view of her parents, J__ should first stand, and then take her first steps, right then/there! So, out of consideration for my sister, I pushed her over and told her never to trust anybody, and her mother came over disapprovingly to stop the crying jag. Seriously, I did not push her over. I did experience the fantasy developmental milestone scenario. But, in fact, when J__ let go, she was not properly balanced. I had been trying to keep one finger in her no longer grasping hand, and was not ready for her to fall, but did manage to, not particularly gently, catch her. We were both surprised by that too.
I have, for many years, told myself that the first and only piece of advice I ever give to any of my nieces or nephews should be "Never believe a word anyone tells you," because I enjoy paradox, suspect confrontation of paradox to "develop the mind," and have severe notions about language and knowledge. But I also don't want to be consensually viewed as a monster, and have, as long as I have imagined the scenario (which, I think is inspired by some comedian's bit about how he taught his son a valuable lesson about trust) assumed that any witness to my delivery of that little bit of advice would perceive me as such. I have thought to rationalize it or mitigate the monstrosity by imagining the delivery to occur when the child is so young as to presumptively lack language, but it doesn't help much. I think, ultimately, I may have said it to K__ at some point in squirming-on-back infancy, but cannot remember for sure. If I did, I believe the monstrosity to have been softened by many additional and much louder vocalizations over the years.
I told you that story so that I could tell you this one.
I think the foregoing sentence is some bit of a standard segue in an old vaudeville era comedy routine, of the "take my wife . . . " and earlier than the "...and boy are my arms tired!" variety, speaking of old comedy bits. I like to use bits of standardized comedy bit as my contribution to the antihumor movement, my pontifications and manifesto on which detailed and tediously unfunny approach to rehashing used comedic tropes I'll mostly spare you now.
I think when I last saw S__ she was not making declarative sentences of multiple words to people she was not comfortable with. I am a person that starts out - to S__ particularly, but maybe to some degree to most of them in their younger years (and perhaps most everybody) - strange and threatening and rapidly develops into a familiar comfortable one punctuated by moments of mutual astonishment and terror. I got a lot of partial sentences interrupted by some more familiar caregiver or proxy's admonition to her to "use your words" and followed by coy, expressive silence. You may also recall, Dear Reader, hearing her described on previous occasions as being immensely cute and knowing it. S__ elected to speak, at all, late enough to encourage those so inclined to worry, so I was mostly happy with the fragments. This time she ran right up to me and positively ranted sentences before anyone else in a crowded (and busily distracting) house could get to me.
She was startlingly chummy from the outset: During the rubber band war against her brothers, she was my staunch ally, smuggling me much ammunition. Of course in that conflagration, she picked the right side, as I had vastly superior weapons technology and proficiency. In the end a truce was mostly achieved: They elected not to annihilate me out of existence, and I elected to teach them the mystical arts of finger-gun style rubber band gunslingin'.
P__ and K__, my nemeses, had been using some object such as a chopstick or pen held in one hand to brace and aim the rubber band, stretched back with the other. (I think one uses an object instead of simply the other hand's index finger or thumb to try to avoid pain, although with some degraded coordination of points, but am not certain). This is, generally, clumsy and slow. But both had, previously, been exposed to the finger gun method, had tried their hands at the art. S__ had the most to learn, and made the most progress. She also is the one who may lack the strength, fine motor skills and broad fingertips that are a prerequisite. Finger gun style, the aim is intuitive with no moving parts, and it is typically faster, offering, additionally, the possibility of multiple successive shots before reloading in addition to a free hand for grasping or defense. In comparison, it may be like the difference between the muzzle-loader and the double-barreled shotgun (in practice, more than two shots per hand is quite difficult).
So I pretty much kicked their asses. I intimidated them with positioning and the occasional pair of fast, well aimed shots, harried their positions and confiscated and sabotaged their pens/chopsticks as circumstances permitted, all the while being carefully followed by S__, pockets full of rubber bands and several in her hands, saying "How do you do it?"
Having driven off my antagonists, I would turn to tutoring her in this venerable art. Which was confusing because she kept switching hands -- my father, as you know, among other despicable classes, is a member of "those who are left-handed," a much maligned, abused and disregarded group; once, years ago i was roundly (and perhaps rightly, heh, er, correctly) chastised when I took some implement from K__'s left hand and put it in his right hand, unthinkingly, or, thinking something biased if not outright bigoted, and I learned to try not to do that -- and she had other difficulties mimicking my actions I am at a loss to describe or explain -- maybe confusion between mirror-style and side-by-side comparisons; I think I favor side by side (and thereby continued dominance of the right-hand dominant). But as though naturally; not for ideological reasons.
Do you know the finger gun rubber band technique? At risk of setting off echelon keyword alarms, and incurring the wrath of the Secret Brotherhood of the House of Elastic War, and at risk of condescending, I'll tell you: Get a rubber band. Hold your dominant hand in front of you with the palm up and fingers pointing away from your body. Loop the band over the outermost knuckle of your pinky finger so that it hangs perpendicular to the plane of your hand. Holding the band taut in that relation to that knuckle of that finger, close the pinky and the two adjacent fingers against the palm, fist-like, so that your hand, still palm-up, assumes the widely known finger gun shape (a sign language L). Pull the loose end, with your nondominant hand along the inside of your dominant forearm toward the crook of the elbow . . .
[It occurs to me now that the old vaudeville segue "I told you that story so that I could tell you this one," mentioned above, may not have been meant literally but ironically, even way back then in corny ol' vaudeville. That is to say that maybe, instead of using the statement sincerely between comedic bits linked by a common element, punchline, set of expectations or theme, as I had always assumed, perhaps the vaudeville comic of yore used it with brash insincerity merely to fill time -- or signal transition to the audience -- between completely unrelated bits, as I, until now, would have assumed to be illustrative of the principles and ideals of antihumor. Now, perhaps antihumor would be best served by a comically pedantic bit about the actual history and usage of "I told you that story . . . " linked by that statement to some other bit, actually and truly evoking elements or aspects of aforementioned history and usage, and itself exemplifying the principles and ideals of antihumor, such as the long bit ending "and boy are my arms tired." (I haven't got a "take my wife" bit worked out antihumor wise, and haven't consumed enough of the trope in sincere old-timey comedy to venture a go: Research!). Anyway, when I first said that phrase, above, I meant it sincerely - there is a tie-in to the story of S__ -- hell, there's even a "take my sister" bit planned (but it's no substitute) -- it is just that it looks less and less like I'm going to get to it in this continuous period of consciousness, and this is one of those writings...]
. . . then turn your dominant wrist so that the palm is facing down. And, with your nondominant hand, loop the band around the ball of your thumb and along your index finger to the tip. Place the tip of that finger in the loop of the band as close to possible to opposite the loop held by the pinky, so that the band is held by its own tension around the base of the thumb. Point. Release pinky.
We began this process over and over, both mirror style and side by side. Most times we were promptly attacked again by our rearmed and regrouped antagonists, and the lesson was interrupted as I suffered some hits and collected loose ammo. P__ and K__, man-children [men-childs?] of a family with several generations of servicemen apparent, seem to have learned some of the arts of combat. They instinctively divided and harassed me from different directions, attempting also to meet and otherwise coordinate actions. But I was a guerrilla with greater mobility and a fantastic arsenal of accurate armaments that are quick to deploy and maintain: I disrupted their little meetings and drove them from the field again. Before returning to the lessons.
Ultimately, before the truce was reached, S__ did fire one or two rubber bands using the technique, though, as the day progressed she frequently demanded further instruction, and became less capable. For my part, while there were no actual blisters, there was a good deal of resulting friction irritation to my fingertips.
You may also recall that my parents didn't love my sister once I had been born. And the one about where the apple lands in relation to the tree.
Several times during Xmas observed S__ became for one reason or another less than entirely happy with the world. Did I mention that she has learned to and does not hesitate to use her words? In addition to knowing she's cute, she knows that authority to issue instructions to her adheres only in her parents, and will so inform the unfortunate utterer of a statement in the imperative mode. I don't know that my examples will be associated with the appropriate statements, but I irked her to the point of ire on at least two occasions. Patently, everybody else did too (except, perhaps, "Daddy").
The children play music. In their extreme youth, P__ and E__ took piano lessons, briefly. I understand from the Christmas letter that S__ studies violin, P__ trombone, and Sister told me that K__ will be playing french horn. Anyway, S__, who as a toddler had liked to dance to live music, more or less regardless of the qualities (or quality) of a particular piece or rendition, and also liked to stand at the piano playing sequences of notes that sound maybe insightfully related (we all do that thing: that "did you see that, she reached for a pen, she'll be a writer like me!" thing, don't we?), still likes to stand at the piano playing now even more seemingly maybe insightfully related series of tones.
She also likes to do it while other people are playing the piano, but she does not like for the piano to be played by another person while she is doing it. The two states sound superficially analogous, but clearly are not. Who started playing the piano solo might be a factor, as might who is nearer the center of the piano (as that's where the principal seat is).
Anyway, when she encouraged me to play, I bravely and quite uncharacteristically tolerated her modern experimental modifications to my mediocre renditions of classical (and jazz) masterpieces for several songs before acquiescing to her request to sit on the principal seat. She permitted me to play a bit in the higher registers - I mimicked and copied her, and she recognized that I was doing that and repeated and modified phrases for an enjoyable while. But when I moved to the "servient" seat, set before the lower register keys, and contributed down there, she would have none of it, demanding with persuasive vigor to have the piano to herself. But I think she began to pout just about the time I stopped trying to play too.
It may have been at that time - my mother and Sister and I were on the floor paying attention to J__ - that she wandered away briefly before returning with a pitiable air to announce generally that she wished she didn't have brothers, and she wished they had never come here, and to advise J__ to "never believe anybody." The crack about "not coming here" earned a rebuke from her mother, who must remember similar and even more expressive statements and behaviors at her own maternal grandparents' home as I do. But I was delighted by the advice, and took my chance to both patronizingly agree with the whiny child and deliver to J__ my own parallel and much contemplated bit of advice in circumstances that would not appear monstrous to my mother and sister: "That's right, J__," I said, "Never believe a word anyone tells you."
Significantly enough later so that her complaints would be unrelated (except, I'm told, by their common cause - tiredness), she came and sat near me on the other side of the room from the football game watchers (the males but me, and sporadically, Sister), to announce generally her latest set of complaints. I like to think that she sat next to me because I had earlier demonstrated myself to be sympathetic to the nice public display of self pity, but I was an offender too. She sat down next to me and said "I told on . . . " and named her brothers, her sister and the baby, before pausing and starting over "I told on everybody!"
This intrigued me, because, when your complaint is with everybody, whom do you tell?
So I asked, "Really? Did you tell on everybody?"
"Yeah."
"Whom did you --?"
"Daddy."
"Surely you didn't tell on everybody."
"Except Grandmom."
"Your sister, E__?"
"Yeah."
"Obviously your brothers."
"Yeah."
"I know you didn't tell on your mother."
"Yes I did."
"No you didn't."
"Yes I did."
"What could your mother have possibly done to deserve getting ratted out?"
"She doesn't love me."
And what can you say to that, but "Well you've got that in common."
(What I had done wrong, this time, was to not let her operate the remote control of her brother's brand new remote control robot-ish toy thing, the well-being of which my conservative and cautious experiments at the controls threatened, instead referring her request to her brother, the owner. I didn't need her to tell me that.)
Today she was sweet again (heck, she was probably sweet again that evening, and I lose track of sequence), and mostly distracted by other children or media.
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