I raise my sons
Little Abel has been feverish; his napping has been so fitful, he hasn’t remained asleep when I’ve tried to separate my body from his. Today he was less ill but just as unable or unwilling to be separated from me. The household chores have suffered; my reading and writing “projects” have suffered; Abel’s napping schedule, such as it is, has suffered. In the afternoons, I’ve had to haul him, at his groggiest, down to the block to retrieve Samuel from the bus.
Samuel brought home a workbook of optional math exercises. Most days, I force him to complete a few pages. He screams bloody murder but then settles down and does them easily enough.
Surprisingly, Daniel, the middle child, is not neglected. He finds ways to claim attention. Every day, he and I discuss the English and Spanish alphabets: he firmly believes in che, elle, and erre, although the Real Academia Española disavowed them as letters in the mid-1990s (the ch, ll, and rr combinations still make distinctive sounds). Whatever YouTuber has been instructing Daniel has not been keeping up with the Academy’s prescriptions. Alas, Daniel stubbornly believes YouTube, not his father. His Spanish is therefore overcomplicated. His approach to reading in either language is downright glacial. He can sound syllables out but has to pause to lecture me on every letter. I tell him it’s no way to form words, let alone whole sentences. What would really suit him is a language of pictographs and ideographs. His calligraphy is rather good; he might learn to design type before he reads it.
Abel and Daniel are good friends most days. They play and bathe together. Daniel has given them superhero bathing names: Soap Man and Bubble Man. Abel likes to pour water out of the tub and onto the bathroom floor.
When Abel is old enough, I’ll take them all outside and force them to run laps around the track that belongs to the school down the street. The two younger boys, especially Daniel, already like to run around the backyard shed. They didn’t like it before, but I persuaded them with reverse psychology or some such trick.
Samuel brought home a workbook of optional math exercises. Most days, I force him to complete a few pages. He screams bloody murder but then settles down and does them easily enough.
Surprisingly, Daniel, the middle child, is not neglected. He finds ways to claim attention. Every day, he and I discuss the English and Spanish alphabets: he firmly believes in che, elle, and erre, although the Real Academia Española disavowed them as letters in the mid-1990s (the ch, ll, and rr combinations still make distinctive sounds). Whatever YouTuber has been instructing Daniel has not been keeping up with the Academy’s prescriptions. Alas, Daniel stubbornly believes YouTube, not his father. His Spanish is therefore overcomplicated. His approach to reading in either language is downright glacial. He can sound syllables out but has to pause to lecture me on every letter. I tell him it’s no way to form words, let alone whole sentences. What would really suit him is a language of pictographs and ideographs. His calligraphy is rather good; he might learn to design type before he reads it.
Abel and Daniel are good friends most days. They play and bathe together. Daniel has given them superhero bathing names: Soap Man and Bubble Man. Abel likes to pour water out of the tub and onto the bathroom floor.
When Abel is old enough, I’ll take them all outside and force them to run laps around the track that belongs to the school down the street. The two younger boys, especially Daniel, already like to run around the backyard shed. They didn’t like it before, but I persuaded them with reverse psychology or some such trick.