Young and Younger

Before Peter and I walked out the door last Saturday night, I encouraged our babysitter, Camille, to watch the Olympics with the kids. I shared my love of the games with her; how I had fallen for them back in 1996.

I started rattling off the heroic names and gilded moments that exemplified the magic for me.
Kerry Walsh and Misty May winning gold in the debut of beach volleyball ...
Uh huh.
Gary Hall Jr., the shadow boxer. Amanda Beard and her teddy bear.
Uhhh ...
Michael Johnson and his gold cleats. Gail Devers and her nails. Carl Lewis and that last long jump.
Hmm ...
Kerry Strug. Kerry Strug?! The girl who landed her vault on one foot because she had sprained her ankle? Nothing ringing a bell? America's games. Atlanta, 1996. Come on!

Oh.
Oh my gosh, you weren't born yet. Right?
No.
When were you born?
1999. 

Oh wow.

I was in eighth grade during the 1996 Olympics. And I remember them like they were yesterday, particularly the gold medal night for the U.S. Women's gymnastics team. My brother and I had accidentally knocked over a lamp in the sun room hours before, and were then and there banned from watching coverage as punishment. I snuck down to the basement to watch though. I mean, come on.

I was a senior in high school when my babysitter was born; 18 years of life behind me. When she said 1999, I felt so old, aging myself in front of corporate America's talent of the future. But in that moment I also felt a little sad for her - she had missed a lot of great things in the 80s and 90s.

***

Last weekend, I also attended two birthday parties: two reminders of just how old, or young I am. One of a five year old in Hinsdale. The other of a 90 year old in Chicago.

First, Mary's friend Audrey turned five in fairy tale fashion. Butterflies decorated trees around a table set with pink china, hydrangeas and grassy place mats. The little girls, with wings fastened to the back of their party dresses, sipped pink tea at the fairy tea party, ate butterfly cookies and licked the icing off their slices of cake. They made magic potions, gathered around to hear fairy stories, and of course opened presents.

It was the cutest birthday party I had ever seen and I thought how awesome it was to be a little girl in the age of fairies, Pinterest, and Amazon.com. When I was little, we dressed in smock dresses, played pin the tail on the donkey and drank liter cola at birthday parties. I aged myself again.

The next day, we celebrated Shirley's 90th birthday party at the Chicago Yacht Club, right off of Lake Shore Drive. Always a boater, it was the perfect place to bring together her family and friends. As we toasted this special woman, ate, drank, cut the massive cake and ate some more, I thought of all the things Shirley could say that would unveil her age, and remind me of my lack of experience in this world.

Say ...  

I went to the movies during the Great Depression, when they only cost a quarter.
I went to college and became a nurse just as World War Two ended.
I saw the healing tranquility and elegance in the white capped Zermott, which I painted while visiting post-war Europe.
During the Cold War and Civil Rights movement, I found my inner peace through yoga. And have been practicing it ever since.
I hosted parties on our boat in Burnham harbor when there were just a few boats docked in the Lake.
I've lived in Western Springs since it was a dry town, and it was cooler than it is now back then.
I went on a world tour when air travel was still elegant, when cities were less crowded, and when time moved a little slower.
I have seen the world change and then change some more. I have watched kids and grand kids and now great kids grow. And despite some of the terrible pains along the way, I have found beauty and joy in it all. And if the world is going to keep accelerating, than I'm going to keep moving and shaking along with it. Because in her words, 'age is only a number. You can all get older, but I won't.' 

The next day, I texted her some of the photos I had taken, and she responded immediately.
Thx.

  
      
     

Sometimes, the world (or maybe its just corporate America) positions aging as a bad thing. And with it, we don't want to reveal that we saw something live, before it was well known, first. But I think age should be a pride point, and the experiences that we have collected over years should not only be celebrated, but tapped into.  

And Shirley's life to date, at ninety, is certainly something to listen to, learn from, and revere. 

Lo. 

And to my Dad, whose special day I'm missing this weekend; a very Happy Birthday! We love you! 

Happ-eeeee

Last weekend, we celebrated the Fourth of July, fireworks, food, family (those with us, those away from us and those above us), and two new additions to Bobby's vocabulary:
Home.
And ...
Happy.

He first said 'home' when we were bike riding on Friday evening. The outing had gone too long for his rumbling tummy and he was getting fussy. He slowly rounded his lips, huffed out an 'h' and drew out the o-o-o-o-o-me. H-o-o-o-me, h-o-o-o-me, home, he said over and over again, proudly confirming that he had conquered the imperative word that meant food, milk, and his cherished owl named Hoo Hoo. 'H-o-o-o-me, Dadda, Dinner.' (Dinner was a newbie too.) So home we went. 

***

Despite his somewhat serious stare at times, Bobby is generally a very easy going, happy, albeit wild little boy. And there are many things that make him extra enthusiastic.

Like birthday parties.

His daddy. And getting too close to touching his 'hot. hot. hot.' grill.

Picnic Food.

Snack Food.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner food.

Treats. And more, more, more treats.

Company and saying cheers to them.

Water. He loves water.

Hugs and squeezes and most of all the tickle machine. He loves being tickled and laughs for the world to hear.

While his smile and giggles have communicated his contentment to me for the past 17 months, he said, 'happy' to me while we were driving in the car last weekend.

I responded, 'Are you happy, Bobby?'

'Happ-eeee, happ-eeee, happ-eeee.' he said, over and over again, because it takes repetition to own that word once and for all. I wondered if he truly understood the emotion associated with it; his smile told me, yes.

While he's been learning a new word or two each day, he's also been tying together the ones he already has into coherent statements.
Hi Mommy.
Hi Daddy.
Bye, bye, Bunny.

Big bear.
My turn.
Show. Show.
My turn.
Wa wa.
My turn.
No, No, No!

Up airplane.
Up moon.
Nigh, nigh.
Nigh, nigh.

Train choo choo.
Truck, beep beep.
Tunnel, echo!
More tunnel, echo!

Donut. Donut. Donut. Donut. (Thank you, Debbie.)

So I'm hoping it's just a matter of time before he'll figure out that happy and home go together. That despite the crazy, uncertain, complicated, and yes, scary world that we live in, home will always provide happiness. Which in today's society is no small task. It's not easy to strip away the stress of the work day, the grief from the headlines, and the uncertainty of what's next. But you have to try.

Keep it alive through date night, summer reading, a morning run, sleep, more sleep, breaks, more breaks, find the comedy and irony in it all (if you can), grasp onto your faith, share your views of hope and above all love everyone in your sphere of influence as much as humanly possible. Because if not from home, if not from your community, where else are the seeds of happiness and love going to come from?

Lo.