Vacation, science camp, and squabbles

It is mid-winter break, the kind of time I should relish because, back when I was working full-time, a week off school meant having to scramble to find a place for the kid(s). But seriously, who thinks it’s necessary to have a vacation in February?

So the truth is I’ve signed up C for three days at a nearby science camp; I drop him off, and we both know immediately that he’ll be happier there, amid building toys and messy experiments and other five-year-olds, than he’ll ever be cooped up inside with me for three solid days.

My parents are visiting, so they spend the morning playing with Z, whom they have suddenly become enamored of now that he speaks in sentences, says things like “guzenteit,” and cuddles up on the couch to read books. Z, being the second child, has never received so much unadulterated adult attention in his life. I actually read several articles in the New York Times. Then my parents spend a solid hour squabbling over whether they’ll take the train or rent a car to Washington in the impending storm. Apparently squabbling is an important aspect of the human condition, as I’ll soon learn.

Z and I go to pick up C, and he is all abuzz about the different layers of the earth, something I vaguely remember learning about and realize I need an instant refresher in. He produces three projects from the day; Z eyes them excitedly. Big brother’s art projects are always good loot. Then at home C shows off the “prize” he won for “being a good partner” on the “nature walk” and immediately I am cursing C for winning anything for any good behavior because Z goes ballistic over this tiny red flashlight and even though C says he’ll give Z his next prize I make C share this one because not sharing it means Z is rattling the baby gate and screaming and stomping and writhing on the floor. After a while I hide the red flashlight in C’s dresser but it doesn’t matter because Z stumbles on the gray ball of “earth” that C has brought home. Z takes the ball in and out of its container. C declares his ownership of the ball. Z pokes at the ball. C declares his pride in it. And then the ball becomes like some sacred religious object. The kind that starts wars. Z moves the container around the house, putting it in different perches, and C tries to reclaim it. C moves the container. And Z moves it somewhere else. And then I start to make dinner and I turn around and Z is slowly demolishing this little ball, this replica of earth, this token of hard work, and there are tears and two kinds of brooms and a change of clothes. The ball goes away. And after dinner Z rifles through C’s dresser looking for a pair of sunglasses (why not?) and stumbles on the red flashlight. Tomorrow, I tell C, I’ll keep your spoils in your backpack.