Bathtime; speech patterns; Orwell, pt. 2

Sick kids today. Right now they’re feeling OK; they’ve been medicated and bathed. Samuel has been granted six more minutes in the tub. I don’t want him to drown, but I don’t want to sit by the tub all that time, either. I’m a busy guy.

Sing to me, I tell him.

(I want him to make noises while I’m out of the room.)

No.

Sing “The Greatest Adventure.”

No.

(Alas, Samuel is no bathtime Pavarotti.)

I keep suggesting songs for him, he keeps saying no, and then it’s time for him to get out of the tub. That’s one way to do it.

Now the boys are chowing down on sandwiches. They wouldn’t eat the chicken noodle soup I cooked earlier tonight.

I usually drain the water out of it, says Karin.

Indeed.

Uh, says Daniel.

He means Ziva. He’s picked up the habit of saying only final syllables (or, in some cases, vowel sounds). If I put him to bed, he’ll say er, meaning pacifier. Suppose he’s talking about planets. He’ll say Nus. I’ll have to use contextual clues to figure out whether he means Venus or Uranus. He knows how to say full words; he’s just awfully casual.

Samuel, on the other hand, distinguishes every word, every syllable, every audible letter, with the utmost care. No “Mairzy Doats” for him.

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More Orwell. I’ve reached his Spanish Civil War essays. Not having read Homage to Catalonia – or any survey of that war – I find myself pretty badly out of my depth as to what all the different parties were trying to achieve. But then, Orwell’s point seems to be that the conflict was largely misunderstood outside of Spain, and that the few who did understand it used it for their own ends, as propaganda.

Interestingly, as the volume’s content becomes more complex and abstract, Orwell’s tone gets angrier. Traveling to Spain and fighting with a haphazardly chosen militia must have been a whole other kettle of fish than going, soused, into the clink for a few hours with burglars and embezzlers.

Ziva’s remarks (as told to Karin)

For the first time, Jasper and Ziva have acne on their chins – a common ailment for cats. We may have to buy expensive medicine for them. Jasper, especially, seems irritated. He’s been picking fights with Ziva.

In retaliation, Ziva sings “Old MacDonald” like this:

Old MacDonald had a farm;
E-I-E-I-O!
And on that farm, he had two cats;
E-I-E-I-O!
One was beautiful and nice
(E-I-E-I-O);
The other, mean and fat and rude!
E-I-E-I-O!

(As told to Karin.)

There is a great deal of this sort of lyricism in our household.

Sometimes, the ditty is sung “Old McTender,” not “Old MacDonald.” The motive for this is not altogether clear.

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Again, Ziva speaks:

“Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy.”

Karin: “Oh, yes, Ziva?”

Ziva: “I learned these words from my good friend, Leland Palmer.”

(If Ziva actually were to say these things, I would worry that she was unhinged.)

The end of camp-time

Brianna is quite the little Queen Bee. She has so many friends at Brown City Camp that they have to compete for her attention. Sometimes she and just one or two of her friends come into our cabin; but then the others locate her, and our cabin is filled with teen-aged girls (the boys are too polite, or too shy, to join us).

Inevitably, feelings get hurt. There’s only so much of Brianna to go around, and she doesn’t always distribute herself most equitably and lovingly.

This is a difficult thing to manage. It’s difficult for adults. It’s even harder for the young. They’re only beginning to grasp that personal relationships come with duties as well as benefits – that more is expected than a spontaneous reaction of the heart. It’s painful to watch Brianna charm people but not fully embrace all who are charmed.

Still, her uninhibitedness serves her well during a Q&A session about creation vs. evolution.

“Good Christians disagree about this subject,” begins the pastor, and then he spends the rest of his time explaining why Young Earth creationism is clearly the right – the righteous – option.

Brianna is his sole dissenter.

“My name is Brianna,” she says, “and my grandparents are _____ and _____, who have been coming to this camp for many years” (there is a murmur of approval). “And I just want to say that I don’t believe in Young Earth. But when I get to heaven and see Jesus, if he says, ‘The world was created in six days,’ I’ll say, ‘Praise God!’ And if he says, ‘The world was created through evolution,’ I’ll say, ‘Praise God!’” (The pastor glares.)

Her mother and Karin & I are very pleased. I’m reminded of myself, of my own youthful outspokenness. (Whether I was equitable and loving, I don’t recall.)

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The next day, Karin & I return to South Bend. We listen to the Twin Peaks soundtrack, to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and to my playlist-in-progress, “Stalker Songs,” which has melodic, soft music and vaguely unsettling lyrics. (And not all of its songs are about stalking: some are about mugging, or about being mugged.)

When we go into our house, Jasper is very happy to see us. He meows and meows and eats half of Karin’s sandwich and dashes around the house for about an hour.

Karin goes to the Social Security office and changes her last name. It’s her decision. I’m glad she’s doing what she wants, not what I want.

I love Karin better all the time. It’s a delight to wake up next to her.

And I love Jasper, who this morning did the waking up.