Right. Moving on then.

Everything in this entry really is true. Everything usually is.

Last night was the first Monday Night Football gathering of the season. We all came together at Ron and Kara's for sloppy joes and corn on the cob: Ron, Kara, and Daphne (aka Daffy or Daf); Kim (no Sabino), Antonio (aka Pepe), and Diego (aka Susan, though that's not going to last); Jeremy, Jennifer, Harrison (aka Hank), and Emma (aka Scout); Kristin, Roger, Ian (the only kid without a nickname), and Tristan (aka Tee); Jeff, Steph, and Noah (aka Zigzag); Mary, Steve, and Elizabeth (aka Curly or EJ); J.D. and Kris (the only childless couple).

Once upon a time, we watched football; now we watch kids.

The older kids brought their bikes. Ian has a BMX bike that's far too large for him, but he loves it, and he can pedal it if only awkwardly. He'll grow into it, and the bike will end up lasting him for years. The driveway wasn't large enough to accommodate the kids' sweeping circles, though, and they kept riding into the street. When the adults put an end to that, tears weres shed. Hank, especially, wept at the injustice of it all. I tried to distract him from his woes by playing ball.

The front lawn became the very image of chaos: balls flying through the air, kids jumping on each other, squeals and peals of laughter. Tee refused to share his ball. Scout pounced on him and tried to pummel him. Zigzag tried to kick the biggest ball, but the older kids picked it up before he had a chance. Hank threw smoking pitches: good accuracy and good speed for a four-year-old.

Tee and I played catch. We underhanded the ball back and forth across the lawn. Then, in the chaos, I smacked Pepe with my backswing.

He fell to his knees, and then bowed his head to the ground. He whimpered.

I tossed the ball to Tee and then knelt down beside Pepe.

"Are you okay?" I asked, but he only sniffled in reply. He pressed his head to the earth. I rubbed his back, trying to comfort him. I wasn't sure where I had smacked him—face or gut—but I knew I had smacked him.

"Antonio," I said, dropping the nickname, "Are you okay?" He sniffled again, and whimpered again. He was trying not to cry.

Then he declared, "I'm looking for bugs," as if that had been his intent all along. But he wasn't really—he was kneeling there, his forehead pressed to the grass.

"I'll look for bugs, too," I told him, and I started digging in the grass, pushing the blades and roots aside to examine the black earth beneath. I hadn't expected to find many bugs, but instead I found an entire microcosm!

"Look!" I said, pointing at a snail and a white worm and a tiny spider all gathered in the space of a square inch. "Look, Pepe! Look at the bugs."

He sniffed again. Then he lifted his head a little and peered at the little patch of dirt. He moved his head close to mine. "What is it?" he asked. And I told him that there were a snail and a white worm and a tiny spider. "What are they doing?" he asked, an so we began to speculate.

He pulled aside a patch of grass and looked at the ground beneath. "Are there any bugs here?" he asked.

"Let's look," I said, and we did, and there were.

Hank came to join us. We looked for bugs.

Then the fathers came out and said, "Who wants to ride their bikes to the park?" and all of a sudden bugs were of secondary importance.

Maybe the best way to help a child deal with his woes is to make him forget them by refocusing his attention.

This doesn't work well with cats.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2005 — Halfway Down the Stairs   In which I am addicted to audiobooks. I play chess with Harrison. We watch The Muppet Show.

2004 — I Dreamed Once More of Berma   On the cruise, I waw able to take a bite out of Within a Budding Grove, the second of Marcel Proust's seven-volume novel.