Lift Up Your Hearts!

Yesterday we also went to the neighborhood playground, Heather and I walking, and Jonathan sometimes pulling, mostly riding in, the little red wagon which had last seen service on Independence Day as the water wagon for the Greater Geneva Grande Award Marching Band.

The playground has been modified several times since our children pitted my maternal instincts against my desire to let them explore freely. Fear of lawsuits clearly drove the removal of our favorite tall, curving slide, then the great merry-go-round, and most of the climbing equipment. These were replaced by lawyer-safe, wimpy, plastic constructions, more suited to a McDonald’s than a park and of minimal interest to any child over three. So I was thrilled to discover that yet another metamorphosis had occurred, and the new playground equipment is great! It retains many of the safety features of its predecessor—constructed of cooler materials set on a soft, flexible base—but definitely provides a challenging environment. The play set labelled for five to 12 year olds actually was for the most part too challenging for 22 month old Jonathan, and the set for younger children provided sufficient adventures in climbing and sliding. My only complaint is that neither had a brachiation ladder, which is high on my list of bare minimum playground equipment, but the addition of a small version of an indoor climbing wall almost made up for that lack.

Today we went to a different playground, where Jonathan opted for vestibular stimulation in the form of about 20 minutes of continuous swinging, which also provided good exercise for the pushers, since even the slightest slowing down of our efforts provoked the imperious command, “Fast! Fast!”

The pool continues to be a big draw here, with Jonathan swimming as much and as often as he can convince someone to swim with him. Ah, the delight in having time and opportunity to observe the learning process! Since the YMCA has regrettably abandonned the wonderful Infant Swim and Gym program that we enjoyed, Jonathan is not as competent in the water as his mother and aunt were at 22 months of age. But he is taking full advantage of this opportunity to narrow that gap.

What impresses me most is the benefit of allowing him freely to explore the boundaries of where he feels comfortable. This involves both not pushing him and not restraining him. The latter category included allowing him to play freely at the very edge of the pool. He would walk around the brick border, stopping occasionally to paddle his hands in the water, or to play with water toys. He was supremely and amazingly competent at knowing his limits and his center of gravity, sometimes leaning out over the edge, sometimes lying down on his stomach so he could safely reach further. It reminded me of the times when our children would climb fearlessly on the playground, not only to the tops of the apparatus meant for climbing, but also those that weren’t, including the swing sets. Sometimes I would have to sit on the bench, eyes glued to my book, allowing myself only occasional peeks at their activity, in order to keep my fears from infecting them. Of course with him near the water we had to watch Jonathan all the time, but Heather showed admirable motherly restraint as she let him explore.

And equally admirable restraint in not pushing him to experience more than he was ready for. She would periodically offer him opportunity to explore new skills: “swimming” while firmly supported by Mommy’s hands, swimming between Mommy and Grandma—which amounts at this point to little more than being passed from one set of hands to the other—hanging by his hands from the side of the pool, jumping in, floating on his back, lying on his back on the steps, blowing bubbles in the water. He was only comfortable with the first of these, and she never insisted.

He loved to sit on the steps and play around, and here the learning process was most obvious. Gradually he, himself, extended the range of what he was comfortable with. A great breakthrough was discovering that he could hold himself up with his hands on a step and let his legs float freely behind him; from this position he could kick his legs enthusiastically and experiment with the motions of swimming. He would push himself slightly deeper, slightly further away from the security of the highest step, coming back periodically to the safest position, as if to reassure himself that he could always get there if necessary. He experimented with jumping into the water, from a sitting position, being caught by Heather before he face went under water—most of the time. Occasionally he would end up further in than intended, and would take in some water. He handled that well, not fussing, but retreating to a more secure level of play before regaining courage and reaching out again.

Yesterday afternoon he had exhausted everyone’s desire to swim except Grandma’s, whose desire to stay warm and dry was outstripped by her desire to please and observe him. This time he spent a lot more time playing on his own, not being sure yet that Grandma was a reliable substitute for Mommy when it came to holding him in the water. So he experimented, and played, and I watched. (And fetched the rings he kept throwing in to me.) He played for hours. At one point we both were out of the water, and he played for a long time with the pool brush, sweeping both the pool and the deck. He played, that is, until he noticed that I had wrapped a towel around myself: “No towel! Go swimming!” and back we went to the pool with renewed enthusiasm. That was his response every time I suggested he might want to go inside and get dressed.

After one such scare that I might make him go inside, Jonathan suddenly decided, completely on his own, to try out many of the experiences we had introduced him to earlier. He flung himself off the steps into my arms so we could “swim.” He wanted to swim to the side, then to the other side, “other side, “other side.” (Head still above water, but legs and arms flailing.) Upon reaching each side he happily held on for several seconds while I let go completely. He asked to swim to the steps, then for me to help him “lie down on steps.” This put him in the floating position, with his ears under water and his feet floating freely, but with his head and back securely on the step, and my arms holding him. After trying this for a few seconds several times, he announced, “self,” and lay down without being held. Then he wanted to do the same on the second step down, which meant that I had to hold him, as he was really floating completely—so we drifted away from the steps and floated around in the pool! He never did relax, and is not close to true floating on his own yet, but what a tremendous step he has taken. Heather prepared the soil and planted the seed; unobserved, Jonathan tended the growing plant; I was privileged to be there to see the bud begin to open!

Jon has graciously lent us Heather and Jonathan for a week! They arrived yesterday. I met them as they were descending the escalator; Jonathan saw me and shouted, “Grandma!” quickly followed by “Dad-o?” We reassured him that he would see Dad-o after we drove home. On the way he announced, “Aunt Jan't 'Pan!” He knows we’re associated with Aunt Janet, but he can’t see her this trip because she’s in Japan.

By the time we arrived, Jonathan was asleep, so he didn’t get to see Dad-o until he awakened. When he did, he walked into Dad-o's office for a joyful reunion, though he was quickly distracted by the view from Dad-o’s window: “Swim!” At this point I was at the grocery store, so he had to wait about 20 minutes, but as soon as I returned I heard, “Grandma home! Go swimming!” So we did.

Jonathan was a good sport about getting out of the water before he was ready, and about eating our pad thai dinner with chopsticks. At first he called a piece of shrimp “mushroom” but adopted the corrected name as soon as I informed him. After dinner we went shopping and Jonathan now has a lovely new pair of running shoes—a.k.a. sneakers.

After we pulled into the garage, Jonathan asked to be able to “’tend to drive.” So I stayed with him in the car while he took over the driver’s seat and pretended to drive. All went well for a while, as he talked about fastening the seat belt, and pointed out to me that his feet couldn’t reach the pedals. He steered, and adjusted the knobs, and learned how to turn the overhead lights on and off. Then the garage light, which is turned on when the door opens and turns itself off after a while, suddenly plunged us into darkness. I turned on the car light, but Jonathan was unsettled enough that he decided it was time to go inside and find Mommy.

Then I made a mistake. I asked him to stay where he was while I got out of the car and turned the garage light on so we could see to get into the house. The mistake was in shutting my car door. I turned on the light, and Jonathan, in his effort to open his door, locked himself in the car! I wasn’t really worried, since the keys were inside the house with Heather, but tried to talk him through unlocking the car. He knew exactly what to do, and kept pressing the button, but he was pressing it in the “lock” position. Finally, through chance or thought or instruction, I know not which, he pressed it to “unlock,” and we went into the house.

There are several contrasts to their visit a year ago. For one thing, Daddy's not here, and for another we're not locked down by a hurricane. We’re sad about the former, but the latter is a great improvement. This year, Jonathan made himself at home immediately with the toys in “Jonathan’s Cupboard," took them out, called them by their names, and began to entertain himself for long periods of time, providing delightful running commentary along the way. His language and vocabulary have grown so much, even since we saw him in July. Heather and Jon’s habit of not modelling baby talk is evident. One exception is “choo-choo train,” which he occasionally uses instead of “train.” He picked that up from a book; some authors have a lot to answer for.

One of Janet's classes was discussing the causative have, such as "I had my hair cut" and "I had my bike stolen." She noted that the latter can make it sound as if the person caused his bike to be stolen, though that is not the way it is normally used. That set me thinking. To me,

I'm glad I learned English as a child, when accepting such subtleties was still easy! Any comments, grammar experts?

It began when I said to Porter, "I'm riding to the post office; do you want to join me?"

The post office is less than two miles from home, so as part of our effort to make our gasoline supply last as long as possible, I had decided to go by bicycle to mail an important package. Porter was happy to come, but suggested we continue on and see how far we could get on the nearby bike trail. Bear in mind that our bicycles had seen but little use for a long time. Intrepid or foolish, we filled our water bottles, figured out how to work our new helmets, and took off.

For those to whom this has meaning: we crossed over the I-4 bridge! And went a bit further, to one of our churches, then turned toward home. I'd like to tell you how exhausted I was when I finally glided into our driveway, and how every muscle in my legs was throbbing...but Janet climbed Mt. Fuji this weekend and I'm sure after I read her report I'll feel a little silly...and a lot wimpy.

It was a lot of fun, though.

It was a triathlon, in an out of shape, over 50 sort of way.

We still haven't been able to fill up the cars since the gas panic Wednesday night. Not that we tried very hard, but the one station we pulled into on our way home from choir rehearsal Thursday night was out of gas. (It's not that our choir meets two nights per week; we sing with two churches.) So instead of driving to the park for our thrice-weekly run, on Friday we rode our bicycles.

1. Ride to the park.
2. Run (or walk/run in my case)
3. Ride home.
4. Jump in the pool.

Works for me.

The terrifying power of panic to disrupt and destroy was best illustrated this week in Iraq, where the stampede provoked by rumor of a suicide bomber killed and injured innocent people in numbers exceeding the wildest expectations of any individual with a bomb in his backpack.

As a far-off planet reflects the fiery sun, panic made its power known here on Wednesday, also. Driving to choir rehearsal on Wednesday night, we could have filled our gas tank easily at any of a number of stations along the way, for the price of $2.69/gallon. On the way home it was a different story. While we had been happily singing, word began to spread that Florida was running out of gasoline. The Orange County School District cancelled all non-essential bus service (sports, field trips) and announced that even with the cutbacks parents might have to begin driving their children to school in another week. This was enough to convince half of Central Florida that they needed to buy gasoline, NOW. Those calm, quiet gas stations we had passed earlier in the evening now had lines of waiting cars that stretched for blocks, and police officers on site to keep order. Prices had jumped at least 10 cents per gallon. A few stations had no lines—because they had run out of fuel.

We chose not to join the snaking lines, trusting that our 3/4 full gas tank would see us through until the situation stabilized. During hurricane season, the recommendation is that you don't let your gas tank get below half full. Maybe that's a good idea year 'round, because it wasn't Florida's disaster that caused this shortage.

Even before Hurricane Katrina, when we were paying around $2.55 for a gallon of gasoline, the adjustments made necessary by the increased price fueled many a news story. From the tone of the reports, one would think we were in a crisis of terrible proportions, but their content was encouraging. People now had to think twice, it was said, before making a trip by car. They were combinging trips, carpooling, using public transportation, walking, and riding bikes. All of which looks like good news to me.

News reporters, it seems, are most enthusiastic when reporting bad news, and love to expand problems into disasters. I don't believe you can call our fuel problems a crisis, even post-Katrina, any more than I believe we have an obesity crisis, although most Americans are undeniably overfed and underexercised.

Nonetheless, I will use the media's terms and make the encouraging prediction that if we don't interfere with the process too much, the energy crisis may go a long way toward curing the obesity crisis.

If you have contacts in the Mississippi area, please check out this friend's plea for locating missing relatives.

Pressure is increasing on schools to remove that nutritional disaster called soda from their vending machines and replace it with healthy fare like water, juice, and milk. In response, the soft drink manufacturers, not to be caught with their profits down, have succeeded in spinning milk into soda. Take a delicious bottle of milk, add sugar, artificial flavor, and sometimes even carbonation, give it a name like Milky Way, Starburst, or Bubble Blast, and voila! — a drink no calf would recognize.

Schools are happy; they can continue to expect income from their highly profitable vending machines. Soft drink companies are happy; they've found a way around the threat to evict them from campus. Apparently even mothers are happy, as they are finding this an easier way to get some of the benefits of milk to children who whine for breakfast soda. So why am I such a grumpy old lady about this new trend? After all, I do love hot cocoa, an early form of sugared, flavored milk, and I'll admit a cup of steaming Milky Way flavored milk on a cold night sounds delightful. Two things, I suppose: There's a difference between an occasional cup of cocoa and having fat-laden, artificially flavored sugared drinks several times a day; moreover, I am saddened at the realization that so many of the next generation are growing up with no knowledge of the delights in drinking plain, cold, smooth, perfect-with-a-plate-of-Grandma's-cookies milk.

By this time last year we had already experienced our first major hurricane, Charley, but Frances, Jeanne, and Ivan were September storms. Now we are not even into September, and we are up to K in named storms, with Tropical Depression 13 forming in the Atlantic.

Unless she takes an unexpected turn, the bull's eye of Katrina's target is New Orleans, but even far-away Pittsburgh is preparing for trouble, fearing heavy rains will cause flooding and trouble for the area's dams. Last year the remnants of Ivan made quite a mess of Western Pennsylvania. Our friends in Ohio and Indiana may be in for some rough weather, too. But it's New Orleans that needs our prayers most at the moment.

In England, Darren and Debbie Wyatt are fighting in court to save the life of their 22-month old daughter, Charlotte, who is severely handicapped. Charlotte is no Terri Schiavo, with her parents and her legal husband in disagreement over her medical care. The Wyatts' battle is with England's medical and legal system, with doctors who insist Charolotte has no "quality of life," and a court ruling giving the doctors authority, against her parents' wishes, to refuse to resuscitate Charlotte if she stops breathing.

Bottom line, though no one is admitting it: The United Kingdom's socialized health care system is financially strained, and it costs too much to keep Charlotte alive.

Unquestionable reality: Some types of medical care are expensive, and resources are not limitless.

Critical Question: Who should make medical decisions for you and your loved ones? Some would say the ultimate authority should rest with some form of government, whether legislative, judicial, or a medical review board, because otherwise the limited resources will end up going to those with the most money rather than those who are most deserving. I would argue that someone who doesn't have enough money for medical care has room for appeal: insurance, friends and family, charities, other governmental programs, fundraisers, pleas to the general public. It may not be easy, but there is room for hope. Where can you turn when an institution, under the influence of philosophies that may differ vastly from your own, decides that you—or your child, or your parent, or your spouse—no longer deserve to live?

Focusing on Charlotte's quality of life, or on what decisions you would make were she your own child, only distracts from the vitally important issue: Who has the authority to make life and death decisions for you and your family?

If you believe that we can trust governmental and institutional authorities to make the wisest decisions, I have a public school system and a war in Iraq to sell you.

We awoke to our first hurricane warning of the season: Hurricane Katrina is heading towards South Florida, but that doesn't mean we're in the clear. It doesn't look like anything we need to worry about, but it's worth noting. I observe that the first hurricane warning comes one letter of the alphabet further than the last hurricane warning of last season.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, Typhoon Mawar is aimed straight at Janet, and it's a lot stronger than Katrina. I'm trusting the mountains will remove some of its fury before it reaches Kofu. Classes have been cancelled for the first two periods tomorrow, although the teachers still have to come to school.

This has been going on long enough I'd better post a notice here: our phones have been out since some time after 3:30 p.m. today. This is the biggest problem we've ever had with our almost entirely delightful AT&T CallVantage Voice Over IP service. It's not a local problem, as other CallVantage customers in the midwest and on the west coast have reported the same problem. Apparently when you call us, you get the "All circuits are busy" message. If we try to call out, we have a dial tone, and the phone appears to dial, but the connection is never made.

We can still access the Internet, except for getting our phone messages; we can't access the CallVantage site, which also tells me this is a major problem, and that it is AT&T's, not ours.

I'll post here when service is restored. In the meantime, I have my cell phone on, and you can post messages here (via comments) if need be.

After lunch we used our United Arts two-for-one card to visit the Orlando Museum of Art and their new M. C. Escher exhibit. I’ve been a fan of Escher's works for as long as I can remember. The travelling exhibit is from Portland, Oregon, and most of the prints were anonymously lent. The collection represented works from the obscure to the famous, from all periods of his art. University of Central Florida composer Stella Sung created the ambient music for Orlando’s presentation of these works, and the exhibit was complemented by a video presentation of Escher-inspired animations created by UCF students.
Since the museum is not far from the Winter Park Borders, we stopped there instead of at the one near home for me to use my 30% off coupon. That Borders just happens to be in the same plaza as the Cheesecake Factory…so we had “dinner” there: the incomparable Avocado Eggroll appetizer, and the Fabulous Chocolate Mousse Cake dessert. The Cheesecake Factory is high on the list of my all-time favorite restaurants, and their Avocado Eggrolls epitomize my idea of what makes eating at a restaurant worthwhile—absolutely delicious and much too much work even to attempt to reproduce at home.