Days 5 and 6

Day 5

It's official - the blog is being seen by others. Not too surprising, you can't keep gold like this a secret for too long. I wasn't exactly planning on spreading this out far and wide, since I've struggled in the past with keeping a personal, diary-esqe tone in my writing when I know in the back of my head it's being read. Why put it online in the first place, you might ask? Got me stumped there, fair play.

Days five and six were half days, so to speak. Some solid time reading and writing, afternoon naps, leftovers and light, light house chores. I don't do all that well with free time. I knew these days would await me before the trip was booked, so I can't quite complain, though it's a challenge all the same. How do you have a proper vacation? What's the right amount of self-motivation needed to enjoy a beer at the end of the day? Besides spending as much time with family as possible, what's the end goal of a six-week holiday? The blog provides some structure, and writing sucks just enough to be considered  productive. 

I get on with day five with leftover nachos at nine thirty.

Becca and I spent over three hours talking on FaceTime. A bit excessive for some, but honeymoon stage and all that. I sure welcomed the company. With Pete and Lynn taking care of Lenny I hadn't much else to do until around four, so I was able to touch base with the gal pal and talk through everything going on. Shoot the shit, make goo-goo eyes, all that sappy stuff. I won't go into much more detail than that.

Living in another persons home can be strange, but even stranger is when you've seen the house over FaceTime calls for years. It's a bit like stepping into a movie, you feel like you know where everything is until you start doing basic life stuff like putting dishes away or aiming for the toilet seat. Their sink downstairs is a kid's length; I often spill water on the floor when I wash my hands which is training me to avoid peeing all together. 

It took a few tries to get the toilet to work, too. On that first fateful use, when the poorly timed flush was unable to hide the colorful evidence of shameful dehydration, I yelled at the top of my lungs towards the poor, porcelain throne "ARE YOU TAKING THE PISS?!" Then we all laughed and laughed, because in Australia, that's a hilarious pun. You'll get that when you're older.

In the late afternoon, when Jacki and the boys got home, we loaded back up and headed to the golf course while Jacki hit the front nine for her league. The rundown I was given was that I'd be watching the three boys, along with two of their friends of the same age. It's a bit nerve wracking, sure, but I've been a counselor for years and I'm sure they'll mostly entertain themselves. Luckily I wasn't on my own, or more accurately, I wasn't really on the hook at all. They had a babysitter there already named Xanthie (Spelling?), a nice, patient girl in high school, who was being paid to make sure the kids didn't off themselves. I spent a bit of time watching Lenny put his toy truck on the play pen, lounging in a chair and regretting my choice of a long sleeve shirt. 

Letting someone else have all the fun isn't quite my style, though. I'd like to say I was driven by the understanding of limited opportunity, that's a bit less weird than the truth, which is that I genuinely like being the adults who's playing footy with a bunch of kids. My shadow self is a elementary school gym teacher, I reckon. I brought an American football as a gift, a bit on the nose for their American uncle, which certainly came in clutch as a great activity for a half hour. 

There are plenty of comparisons to be made between Rugby and American Football. I've never been a bit football guy, though I like sports well enough, so I think I can speak a bit objectively here. In terms of pure competitive value, Rugby is a clear winner. A squad of nimble behemoths smashing into each other, wrestling without any real breaks, wearing zero mandatory protective gear. Beautiful, muscular animals. A terror. The closest attempt to reach a platonic ideal of athleticism and sport. Rugby 1 4: Football 0.  

Football has two clear advantages, though. It's much more commercialized. Timeouts, turnovers, team changes and extra points are all opportunities to sneak in a commercial for beer or trucks or beer or Doritos or, sometimes, even beer. In watching some footy on the telly (Rugby on the television) I noticed the lack of commercials, which was great as a viewer, but it clearly impacts the economics and career viability of these poor GMO blokes destroying their bodies and neurons twenty seven times a season. Look at this American, with his flimsy, rippable paper notes, judging the financial institutions in another country. It's true, though. Rugby 4: Football 1. 

The big difference, and actually relevant to my time, is the viability as a pickup sport. In my situation of having six kids and one adult, Football might be the ultimate game. While there's less constant action, the act of lining up for each play gets kids stoked. A bit of anticipation and planning is good for them. Two hand touch probably exists in both sports, but I can imagine it's tricky to keep the feel of rugby without the constant tackling, manhandling, and maiming. Giving a competent adult the football as "permanent quarterback" keeps the game on the rails, allows plenty of breaks which limits injuries, and prevents moments of the best players getting all the attention throughout the game. Every kid gets a chance to make a play and feel special. One kid in particular joined us for about three plays, and luckily I gave him the chance to make a catch before his dad called him to leave. I'm not unique in enjoying the ability to give kids that deep gratification of successfully making a catch. His dad saw it, too. That's the juice, ladies and gentlemen. Rugby 4: Football 4. 

I also taught the kids spud, which I'm not sure is a thing over here. If you'd like to spread the game further, just reach out to me. This blog is not where I highlight rules of childhood games. Basically, you throw a ball up and call a number, and if your number is called you catch the ball. Everyone else runs away, because when the number-called-kid catches the ball they yell "Stop!" and everyone freezes. The catcher takes four steps, spelling "S-P-U-D" Then tries to peg someone with the ball. If it hits them, a letter (SPUD and you lose) and if they catch or dodge, the thrower gets a letter. If a number is called that is unowned, or owned by a player who's out, then its a "GHOST NUMBAAHHHH" and everyone has to touch the ball. Last gets a letter. Well, shit, looks like I just explained the whole rules. Go nuts, aussies.

Ate at the golfie then grabbed a decaf coffee and groceries on the way home. Started watching "Boy eats universe," or something along those lines, then headed to bed. Day five in the books.

Day six: A lot of the same. More leisurely, in fact. I woke up, did some writing and reading, took a nap around noon. I can get used to this. There's a balance in managing a blog, though, between finding time to read and finding time to live my life. I'm surely doing well so far, but what about when I'm not on vacation? Is that why people write fiction? Do I have that sort of creativity in me, to create nothing from something, or am I honing my entire creative skillset around synthesizing humor and meaning from a critical mass of life experience? What if I run out of shit to do? None of this crosses my mind yesterday, only now as I write this, which also begs the question of why I keep changing between present and past tense. Also, that's a misuse of begs the question.

The blog self-cannibalizes. We press on.

I enjoy my alone time until Jacki gets home, which I also enjoy, but it does mean it's no longer alone time. I welcome it, six hours is plenty. I start on dinner early, pasta with turkey meat, vodka sauce, then mozzarella and basil on top for a ten minute melt in the oven. It came out so good, and it was tailor made to be something the adults and kids alike would enjoy. Look at this masterpiece, would ya?

Unreal. The fuckin' kids don't fuckin' eat it.

Lennox is off the hook, he's barely twelve seconds old. Huxley is a picky eater and resistant to my particular brand of bullying. Eat it, just eat it. Stop being a pussy. Eat the fucking food, bro. I'll be sad if you don't eat it. I'll break up with you if you don't try. I'll kill myself unless you take a bite. None of it worked, not even the paddle. A stubborn, emaciated little seven year old.

Callan, on the other hand, is a bit of an ass-kisser. A sweet child who's discovered the dopamine feedback loop of doing the right thing and getting praise. He understands the nice lies he can tell to be told he's a good eater (and, therefore, being better than his older brother) without actually needing to enjoy the food he's eating. After Huxley refuses a bit of the MOTHER FUCKING PASTA AND CHEESE AHHHHH, Callan raises his hand dutifully. "I'll try it!" You sure will, bud. 

I bring the fork up and he takes a bite. The microsecond the food touches his mouth he puts his thumbs up, raises his eyebrows, and makes an exaggerated  "MmmHMMM!" Liar! You didn't taste it, you just capitulated! A warm reception to my culinary efforts must be earned, you brown nosing little weasel! I appreciate the kindness, surely you don't deserve much chastising, but your compliments caked in duplicitous appeasement! Two sides of the coin, these little bastards are. One denies opportunity, the other denies verity. They both deny themselves, and both an affront to their poor uncle. More food for me, I suppose. Though I demand satisfaction. They will eat my cooking before my time here is up. 

I've calmed down. 

I don't eat much either, though, since we have "cardio tennis" at 6:15. I've been wanting to get into tennis for a while, even before reuniting with Becca who's a certified pro (played in high school,) so I'm eager to get going. We get to the clay courts and it's a wonderful 45 minute workout of running, drills, and different games. I feel like a kid again, though without the shitty side effects of being placed there against my will or feeling insecure about missing different shots. I'm the only boy in the squad of ten, besides the coach. I felt welcomed and accepted, and made some solid shots too! It confirmed that tennis is going to be a solid sport for me, and I can't wait to go every week that I'm here.

More importantly than anything was a ten minute stretch right before the workout started. The older boys joined us, mostly to putz around while the adults did their thing. I took a moment to try to teach them to juggle. We have time to get it right, thirty-some odd days, so I'm taking the approach of a short lesson in constant spurts. Huxley is my main focus, though Callan showed promise and is a bit better at focusing in general. Hux just picks things up quick. He's a talented kid with the attention span of a t-shirt, in so far as he can pay attention to something only if it's literally stuck to his chest. When he likes something, though, he locks in. I can truly relate. We start with the easy motion of throwing two balls up, one hand to the other. It takes Huxley about five throws before he gets his first one. Another six, he's getting them consistently. Callan makes some progress, too, but only in getting the balls up to the same hand. I'm proud of them, and it's only day one. We'll get there.