Paper Airplanes

Jackson didn't go to school on Monday. He was pretty sick for several hours in the morning. I drove back home late morning with some pedialyte drinks & popsicles. Ry greeted me in the kitchen with a toy car in his hand. "Hi Daddy, you home from work?" he asks with the confidence and delight of a two year old who already knows the answer but only just learned the words. I heard a little bell summoning me and I laughed, recalling all the privileges of a sick boy being cared by his mother. Jack was in bed, watching some children's show, a big smile on his face, holding his jingle bell from the Polar Express train he got last year. He gave me a big warm hug and didn't let go.

By afternoon, he was his bright self again. He will tell you that he got well by hydration and electrolytes from the pedialyte I brought at his mom's request. She'd explained to him how important they are for him. He's not afraid to use big words.

When I got home, there were paper airplanes all around the house. Mom and Jackson had discovered "The Dangerous Book for Boys" by my bed and had spent the afternoon together learning how to make paper airplanes and testing out the flight of each. There must have been 50 of them, like origami swans filling up our little house. Jack then showed me how to make them, and then we went on to make paper hats and paper boats.

Strangely, it had ended as a good day for our family and Jack's still making paper toys. Guess what's the subject of this Friday's show-n-tell.

I've been taking the boys swimming almost three times a week for the last month. The boys do a lot of jumping. Ry says, "one, two, tree", and jumps right in. Then I put him on the edge of the wall and he makes his way along the wall until he reaches the steps. He gets out and jumps again. Jack's improving his rudimentary swimming skills and Ry tries to imitate him. "Me go underwater," he says, water running down his mop of hair.

Mostly we play, but there's a few backfloats and glides. Here and there, I'll show Jack a scissor kick or a frog kick or a breast stroke, and maybe for the first time he thinks he can learn to swim from me. I like the time. Sometimes we'll end the swim with a warm jacuzzi and sit and talk. The boys are starting to walk instead of run around the pool, so I know they're finally listening to me, and there's a certain routine to showering and getting dressed afterwards. Rylee will commentate endlessly on what were taking off or putting on: his running shoes, which he wants to wear in bed, his T-Ball shirt, which he never wants washed, and his socks, which have to pulled up high. When he's in the dressing room, he's much more accommodating about everything. "Yes, daddy," he says agreeably. "Me good boy."

But one of the reasons I'm even writing about this is that Jack is coming around on some things. When we do this little activity, he watches out for his brother more, he showers himself and dresses himself like it's a competition, he asks for permission before he runs out of the dressing room for a drink of water, and he holds my hand again in the parking lot. He seems gentler lately and sometimes more mature than his years. That may be an illusion, I guess. I see the same thing in Ry, too, when all of a sudden he can't just be two. These boys are wonderful little guys. Cyndi knows that with all of her heart, of course. She's very proud of them.

Now we're in the middle of planning a trip this weekend to Silver City and the Gila, simply because we've never been. Maybe we'll also play at White Sands and go up to Cloudcroft.