Super Tripp is 5!

Super Tripp is 5

"Who has a birthday?" I exclaim, stepping into my daughter's living room, a few shopping bags tucked under my arms.

"I do!" Ollie shouts. "I have a birfday!" He thrusts his small hand in the air.

"It's my birthday," Tripp says, "Not yours, Ollie." 

"But, I have a little something for Ollie too," I say quickly, watching a turbulent array of emotions flood the face of my youngest grandson.

I produce a box of melamine bowls, each decorated with colorful swirls representing a different planet.

"My bowls!" Ollie shouts. "My pwanets!"

"Maybe we can share, " Tripp suggests.

Ollie gets busy naming each planet: "Earf! Jupituh! Uranus!" and then stacks them in order, beginning with Mercury, which is closest to the sun. He explains that it takes Mars 88 days to orbit the sun. He's two and a half. His favorite planet is Saturn.

Tripp, the birthday boy, opens his presents: a planet matching game, a book of Greek Myths deemed "too scary for bedtime" by his mother, a stomp rocket, a book about saving sea turtles, and Geo Bingo. 

As Tripp begins to place all the planet cards face down, his mother declares that there are too many pairs, and suggests each boy pick his favorites. All of the planet cards are Ollie's favorites. He needs his Jupituh.

Tripp and I start a game of Geo Bingo. After turning over a card, I read the name of a country such as South Africa, and Tripp scans his board looking for the matching yellow shape and using the first letters of the country's name as a clue. When I have 5 in a row and am poised to proclaim a win, a look from his mother makes me shut my mouth before any words escape. 

"Mom," she reminds me, "He wins, not you."

Ollie abandons his game of appropriating all the plastic tubs of Play Doh to join us at the table. I roll Play Doh into a ball to make Saturn. "I need my rings!" Ollie tells me. I roll a series of snaky shapes and Ollie wraps them around Saturn, singing his planet song. 

Dinner is tricky. Both boys eat apples. Katherine and I are having organic pizza. Tripp does not like pizza, because the sauce is spicy; even after it has been meticulously scraped off, the thought of it touching his lips makes his face crumple. Ollie likes pizza, but not cheese, so he will eat crust. They both eat clementines, but only if they are referred to as oranges. Tripp eats smoked salmon. 

"Remember? I introduced him to it at Easter," I say.

"Yeah, thanks for that," my daughter responds. "He ate an entire package yesterday for breakfast. You owe me $36.50."

The theme for Tripp's birthday party is SUPER HEROES, so Katherine lets each boy put on a cape and chase each other until bedtime. The name of this game is "WAIT FOR MEEE!!"

*

At 6:30am on the following day, I bring croissants for breakfast. The boys are at play and their mother is finishing the capes for the birthday party. Each child will have a cape with his/her initial on the back. When Katherine holds up Lila's cape, Tripp is so overcome with love he has to dive beneath the dining room table.

Sadly, Tripp is sick. He has been dosed with Advil, which momentarily helps him to feel better. Well enough to don his cape and fly around the room in pursuit of Oliver.

"You have to rest," his mother says.

"I don't want to rest," Tripp moans. His eyes are ringed in light brown, his nose is drippy, and he coughs, carefully, into his elbow.

"You can't run," his mother says.

"I am feeling very sad," Tripp says, his chin dropping to his chest.

"How about you try walking slowly?" I suggest.

Tripp scuttles bent over in a tripod position as though playing wheelbarrow. "Like this?"

His mother is cutting felt circles. I am making Play Doh "neat" balls for Oliver to go with Play Doh pasta and spaghetti, which Ollie is mixing together with the planet cards from the match game in the glass bowl his mother has been using to cut circles.

Tripp is bleating, and his mother threatens to call the party off unless he takes a teaspoon of medicine.

"Call the party off," he says tearfully.

"Or we can go back to the doctor," his mother says.

"Go back to the doctor," Tripp says.

"This is ridiculous," his mother sighs. "Would you like some ice cream to take with the medicine?"

"Okay."

Ollie and I are fascinated. First Tripp takes a bite of ice cream, then a sip in which his tongue barely touches the medicine, if at all. The entire ritual takes 20 minutes.

Next we fill 14 goody bags. Tripp wants a yo-yo, and as I'm showing him how to use it, half of it falls on the floor.

"Oh, no!" he wails. "My yo-yo!"

"I want a yo-yo!" Ollie demands.

"They're kind of chintzy," I comment to Tripp. "That's why yours broke."

Ollie's yo-yo falls to the floor in two pieces.

I start telling Katherine an interesting story about golf, and she says, "I really can't have you talking to me right now."

The boys and I discuss the Andromeda Galaxy, Little Ghost Nebula, comets, the Hubble Telescope, the Mars Rover, and the atmosphere.

It's only 8:20am. The party isn't for hours.

*

Granny Run

Nora has to have her appendix out today...

any chance you can come down?

Is this a paid position?

I bound at the first opportunity to see the boys: fling cosmetics and workout clothes in an expensive multicolored Tumi overnight bag and drive 4 1/2 hours to Long Island listening to 60s on 6 or a variety of TED podcasts.

What's your ETA? 

90 min?

Awesome. Godspeed.

LUNCH?

No thanks.

Ha!

I'll make you avocado toast.

My daughter is terribly busy working on a new project for her company that is frightfully hush-hush. 

"I don't even know why I ever tell you anything," she says. "You are the worst at keeping secrets!"

"Only within the family," is my response.

After the obligatory begging for details, I feign complete disinterest, which results in a hint: "You can google Oheka Castle in Newsday."

"You can't tell me about something that's been published in Newsday?"

"That's correct."

When I arrive, my daughter is putting Ollie down for a nap, which leaves Tripp and me free to do whatever we want. She is gone in a blur of chic and heels.

"What shall we do first?" I ask my eldest grandson.

"Let's go into the playroom and find something."

"Okay."

We discover paints in a plastic tub, a rainbow dotted smock, brushes and paper. I am tasked with mixing the paints, fetching water to rinse the brushes, spreading newspaper, and taping down the large white sheet of drawing paper. Tripp uses each color just once. ("I already used blue.") When he's finished, he prints TRIPPs WO

                                                                                                                                          RLD on a rendering vibrant with red, yellow, orange, and green.

Next, he's a zooming butterfly, turquoise wings spread. ("Mommy and Ollie and I made this costume," Tripp reports proudly.)

I am introduced to Sailor, his nursery school class take home stuffed Golden Retriever. The idea is that he and Sailor are photographed having various adventures together, which he writes about with Mommy. This week Sailor hid in a large wicker trunk with other stuffed friends, wore a cowboy hat, and was dangled out the car window.

Tripp and Sailor and I are getting Carvel.

Are you kidding me?? Ollie is asleep upstairs!!!

Oops! 😜

After a quick check on Ollie, we trundle outside to practice some yoga. We do Downward Dog, Tree Pose, Mountain Pose, Running in Dizzying Circles Pose, Hopping on Alternating Feet Pose, and Lying Down Pose.

"That's actually called shavasana," I explain. "It means Corpse Pose in Sanskrit."

"What's a corpse?"

"A dead body."

"Actually, it's just called Lying Down Pose, not Corpse Pose."

We kick the soccer ball, and Tripp is just showing me his moves on the scooter when we hear the seductive jingly chimes of an ice cream truck. We dash to the front of the house just in time to see the braking taillights disappear down the hill and out of sight. We are crushed.

"I really, really wanted ice cream," Tripp murmurs, head bowed.

"Me too," I sigh. "I bet he'll be back though."

"When?"

"I think he's just making a practice run."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he's letting everyone know he's back for the season so we can be ready with our money when he drives by again."

"Are we ready with our money?"

"We are," I say, producing a $10 bill.

"I am just going to stand right here on my Waiting Rock," Tripp announces. We wait together, taking periodic breaks to listen for Ollie and to practice more advanced yoga, such as Running Away From a Dangerous Bug Pose and Avoiding the Stinging Bee pose.

We wait and wait, and whenever we hear the elusive canned jingle, our hopes rise.

"Here he comes!" one of us shouts, but the silly ice cream man never does return, and we give up and go inside and talk about a new cartoon called PJ Masks, which features a gecko and possibly an owlet.

"I think you mean TJ Maxx," I suggest, as in perhaps the gecko suit he wants is found at the box store.

"No, Beauma, it's PJ Maksks," Tripp corrects me. "PJ Maksks."

"PJ Masks?"

"Yes, PJ Maksks."

"I think you have an extra "sks" in there."

We are both giggling when Mommy arrives, an unrestrained sort of joy that occurs on a lovely spring day when we are playing and playing and not minding so much if there's ice cream or not. It's all in the waiting.

*

Watching My Words

I'm sitting on a folding chair watching Tripp wield a small lacrosse stick. A hanging net separates me from the group of boys and their two coaches as they run drills on spongy green indoor turf. Tripp prances through a series of hula hoops, carefully cradling the ball.

"Knees high, boys!" urges Coach 1.

They are to stop behind red, yellow and blue plastic cones, place a foot forward, and heave the ball at Coach 2, who is playing goalie. The ball flies roughly 4 feet.

"That's it, boys!"

They bend their knees and scoop the plastic balls and run in circles like a herd of unruly wild ponies. Some of the boys lie down on the turf. One or two yawn. Each time Tripp runs by me, he waves. I film him with my iPhone so I can message his Mom, who is home with the flu. In my excitement, I confuse photo with video on the camera AP, and catch fuzzy snippets of Tripp in his red shorts and grey tee shirt, poised mid-gallop, stick aloft.

I notice him fiddling with his nose, and beckon him over.

"What's wrong?" I ask him.

"I have a stringy booger."

"That's okay, " I say reassuringly. "It's fine; there's no blood."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. Now, go on back out there."

When I turn around, a lacrosse mom with long blonde hair has taken my seat, and has turned it in toward a circle of younger women. Really? I think.

After practice, Tripp leans against me and sips from his water bottle. His small body is damp.

"I think we can play some games," he says, looking toward an arcade in another room.

"Okay, how about just one game?"

He chooses a racing car and gives the wheel a few quick spins.

"I think we can get some candy," he says.

"I think not," I tell him.

He holds my hand as we walk toward the car. 

"Can I play with my Bat Cave that you gave me when we get home?"

"Of course you can," I reply. "Maybe Ollie can play too."

"No, I think not," says Tripp.

When he's buckled into his car seat, and I'm backing out, a few of the skinny lacrosse moms are standing in the middle of the parking area, gabbing.

"Okay, you dumbos, how about moving out of the way?" I mutter.

"I do not like that word you used, Beauma. It makes me very sad," a mournful voice calls from the back seat.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said they were 'dumbos'."

"They are my friends," says Tripp. 

"I'm so sorry," I repeat, "But, say, are you ready to get some soup for Mommy?"

"Chicken noodle?"

"Yes."

"I like the kind with extra noodles."

"What music shall we listen to on the way to the store?" I ask.

"Cheerleader," replies Tripp promptly. "It's my favorite song."

We listen to Cheerleader six times in a row, and then find the chicken noodle soup with extra noodles, a packet of Ricola, and a bag of orange clementines at Stop N Shop.

When we get home, I tell his mother what a big help Tripp's been hefting the net bag of clementines onto the scale and through the scanner.

"The scanner? How do you know about a scanner?" his mother smiles.

Tripp shrugs. "I just do."

We have grilled cheese sandwiches and Tripp and his mother and Ollie slurp chicken noodle soup with extra noodles. Then we sit in the warm November sun and blow bubbles.

"BUBBLES!!" Ollie squeals. "POP!" and "BYE BYE, BUBBLES," he sighs as they float filmy and rainbow colored up into the sky and out of reach.

*

We Can't Be Naked at the Beach

As Federer battles Djokovic at Wimbledon, I'm watching the boys at the beach while their mother smacks a basket of tennis balls with a dreamy dark haired pro named Leo.

The boys fill buckets with sand, a respectful distance from two bigger boys.

"I have that same bathing suit at home," says the older boy, Hugh, pointing to Tripp's blue and green surfer shorts. Tripp's got on his navy blue Crocs and a white tee shirt. Ollie is wearing red and white trunks, a blue polo shirt and tiny Crocs like Tripp's.

We drift toward the edge of the Sound, poking at seaweed and shells with sticks, picking up and discarding stones, then wade in up to our knees.

I show them how to rub special sienna colored stones together to make Indian paint.

"Cock," Ollie says, offering me two large shiny black rocks. "Big cock!"

"He wants you to throw them," Tripp explains.

"Do horseshoe crabs bite?" he asks after a moment.

"I don't think so," I say, "and they are older than dinosaurs."

"Whoa."

A wavelet topples Ollie, who is hunkered down splashing with his hands.

We whisk off his shirt and I hurry to put on a dry one before his mother sees.

When Ollie starts to pull down his bathing suit, Tripp admonishes, "No, Ollie, Mommy says we can't be naked at the beach."

"How about going on the slide?" I say hastily. "Ollie, slide?"

"Yeh, side," Ollie agrees in the voice of a pint-sized mafioso. "Over dere." 

Two lithe young women with long brown hair and matching red one-piece suits stroll by.

"Hey, Tripp!" they say. "Going swimming?"

Tripp drops to the sand.

"Are they your counselors?" I whisper. Tripp is a Minnow.

Tripp stiffens, and I remember when his mother was four, and a certain blonde lifeguard named John Ames captured her heart. Side by side on the throne of the lifeguard chair they perched, twirling their silver whistles. Katherine's feisty, salty, sandy body wrapped in a beach towel, her hot tears at summer's end.

Ollie walks the perimeter of the play area in the shade cooled sand. "A, B, C," he chants. "1, 2, 3. Q."

"I don't go on the monkey bars," Tripp tells me. He climbs to the top of the play structure where I am to catch him as he jumps, flip him upside down and swing him to the top of the slide.

Ollie places one bare foot on the trunk of the shade tree and looks up. 

"Tree," he says, pointing.

"I think he's looking for his family," I say to Tripp.

We have croissants and blueberry muffins and lemonade for breakfast, seated at white picnic tables in the children's area.

"Let's go watch Mommy, " I say.

Ollie makes for the dock and open water but Tripp herds him back toward the tennis courts. "Buh!" cries Ollie, when he spies the neon yellow tennis balls blanketing the court. "BUH!" 

His mother throws a few over the fence to us.

"I'm thirsty," Tripp says. "I need some water."

"Beauma can get you some water," Katherine says pointedly. 

Ollie heaves both tennis balls into the Sound.

"Uh, oh," he says.

"Let's go back to the play area," Tripp says.

"Okey doke."

"Beauma! Is this a big boogie?" Tripp asks, halting to investigate the inside of his nose with a forefinger. He shows me a small crusty speck.

"No, it's not a big boogie."

"Good, because a big boogie means I might get a bloody nose."

"Well, that is definitely not a big boogie. No worries."

"EEEEEeeee," screeches Ollie. I grab him under the belly and we streak across the lawn away from the men's doubles tournament, past the "Adults Only" porch, leaving their mom a few minutes of peace.

"How about a pop, Ollie?" I pant.

Mid-screech, Ollie stops kicking. "Pop?" "POP?" 

"Yes," Tripp and I say. "POP!"

"Yeh, pop," Ollie agrees. "Over dere."

Gossamer

Mom and I are taking a slow turn around the neighborhood. She's wearing navy blue slacks, beige shoes that close with velcro, and a pink shirt with black dots. Her pale blue eyes are skyward, focused on another reality just beyond this one, peopled with shadowy figures. She traces the shapes, shops, and shoes she sees there in the air with her fingers.

A  trim, petite, perfectly coiffed elderly woman makes her way to us slowly on her walking stick. 

"Hello!" she says brightly, "It's so wonderful to see you, Helene." She pats my mother's hand, and Mom slips briefly into autopilot: "Wonderful to see you," she responds.

I spy an errant silver hair on my mother's slacks and pluck it off surreptitiously. 

The woman, Mrs. McBean, has a tiny perky terrier named Pablo, also perfectly coiffed. I'm suddenly ashamed of my hiking shorts and flip flops, the traces of recently tinted eyebrows that make me look - I'm convinced - like Eddie Munster.

Liz, Mom's nurse, says, "Oh, look, Mrs. Victor, it's Pablo."

"Volka?" Mom frowns, scanning the skies.

"Pablo," we repeat.

"Well, dear, I'm off to play bridge," Mrs. McBean says.

My heart aches for Mom, who played duplicate bridge regularly with her pals. Now her pals are mostly gone. There's faithful Winnie, 98, who comes for lunch on occasion, and Nancy from the church, who comes Sundays to give communion. Mom frets over reading her part of the lesson, and if her anxiety persists, she watches Frank (Sinatra) on utube, gently tapping her fingers in time to Fly Me to the Moon. A private concert.

Rosie calls occasionally from Florida, her frail voice whispery soft. It's a privilege to witness the tenderness between them, the gossamer connection of 70 years.  

We go as far as the mailbox and turn slowly toward home. Liz is careful, patiently pushing the wheelchair ever so slowly, so Mom doesn't get disoriented and think she's pitching forward.

I cut a big bunch of vivid blue and violet hydrangeas and put them right before her eyes, but she doesn't register them. At least not today. I resist the urge to say, "They're right here, Mom. See? See?"

First They Took My Hippopotamus

I lead Ollie, clutching a small bag of Pirate Booty up the steps of the smallest slide in the park, seat him and give him a bit of a push to start him off.

"Whee!" I say.

"Whee?" His mother's eyes swivel toward us. "Mom, Ollie has never been on a slide, and he has food in his mouth."

We have spent the morning playing naked hide-and-seek (Tripp being the only one without clothes,)  dashing through my living room, hiding, then jumping out and shrieking BOO! until we are breathless. We have had an Exploration Walk around the neighborhood, Ollie splashing through puddles in his tiny Crocs, and discovering the flag pole, and learning to say "grass." Tripp bears arms: tiny plastic nunchucks ("Not numchucks, Beauma,") and sais. 

Tripp is heavily into Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and has at least one turtle and its accompanying weapon on his person wherever we go. (Michaelangelo hitched a ride on the tram when we went to feed the goats at Hildene.) It is constantly "GO TIME" for the heroes in a half shell and a certain four-year-old. I find myself exclaiming "TURTLE POWER!" throughout the day.

Back at the park, Tripp has rediscovered the slide he christened "the waterspout" last summer, while Ollie explores sand.

"Do you remember how you made me sing "Itsy Bitsy Spider" while you went up and down?" I reminisce.

"Yeah," says Tripp. "Do it now."

"Now?"

"Yes." He points to the opening of the waterspout. "Lean down there and start singing as I climb up."

"Okay," I sigh.

We rehearse until I get the timing just right: I must sing the part about the spider going up slowly, pause while the spider rights itself within the waterspout, raise the volume of my voice for "DOWN came the rain," and raise my arms in a circle for the sun.

Then it's time for the bigger slides and joining other children.

"I ate my hotdog already," Tripp informs a little girl by way of introduction.

Ollie practices climbing up and down the stairs and shouts, "Go! and Yay!" with full body quivering ecstasy each time someone slides down. 

"You got this, Beauma," his mother directs from the picnic towel.

Ollie rides astride my lap, his tiny face crinkly with joy. WHEE!

"Go FI!" Ollie yells. "Go!"

"Slide," corrects his mother.

"Yeah, FI!"

Tripp is sitting in a disconsolate heap on the wood chips.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"First they took my hippopotamus," he points at two small children, one with mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth. "Now, they're on my triceratops."

"First, it's not your hippopotamus," I explain. "It belongs to everyone who plays at the park."

"Well, can you get the bug off when it's my turn?"

"Sure."

Later, while Ollie naps, Tripp and I zip to the bookstore for a treat.

"Do you remember coming here last summer?" I ask as we walk inside. Tripp has my hand in his right hand, and a transformer version of Donatello in his left.

"At what age was I?" 

"You were three."

After conversations with Erik, Jess and Fran, we emerge with a Lego Turtle Van Takedown.

"Oh, only 6 to 12 pieces," Tripp reads on the front of the box.

"Actually, that means this is for 6-12 year-olds. There are 368 pieces," I say, envisioning a long afternoon poring over Lego schematics.

"Well, actually I'm a big boy, so we can do it, Beauma."

*

Speaking of the Cold

  "How are you, Mom?" I ask.

  I've made a fire, I've made lemony lentil soup from Thug Kitchen. I've trained for an hour lifting a round 25 pound weight over my head as I lunged my way across the gym floor. I've done dead lifts, a variety of planks with and without twists, tricep dips, oblique twists, squats. I've pushed 450 pounds up into the air with my legs. I've walked/jogged 3.1 miles, made a smoothie with powdered whey and fruit. I've drunk water, ginger tea. My Blueprint Cleanse organic juices are lined up in my fridge. This is my fortress, these are my momentary assurances of power and invulnerability. 

My mother's voice, frail today, makes me wilt like a yellowed celery stalk, my belly soften, my heart judder. No matter the weights lifted, the cleanses taken, I can't prevent the thought: What will I do without her? How will I survive?

"I was at this party," she says. "A big party, and I was trying to get home. Finally I found some people and I could leave, but it took about five hours."

Awhile ago, I would have tried to change the conversation's scope, the topic. Frightened, I would have said, "That was a dream, Mom. There was no party."

"Was it a nice party?" I ask. I can picture crowds of people in fancy dress milling about the grounds of her club. Couples sit together on a stone wall; beyond is the golf course. In the distance, a few stalwarts are heading in, bags slung over their shoulders. Early evening. Rosy sky.

"Well, it was, it was big and we all had to bring a little bit of money..."

"Oh, it sounds like a charity event," I say.

"Yes, it was, a good excuse for a party..."

The conversation is short today, no talk of the books I'm reading. We speak of the cold.

"Oh, yes, we've had a storm," Mom says. "Little clumps of snow."

Abruptly, she says, "When are you coming?"

"Next week," I say, thinking: After training, after lifting some more weights, when I'm strong.

"I love you, Dearie," Mom says.

"I love you, Mom, very, very much."

"Take good care of yourself," I say. "Stay bundled up."

*

Sepia Tones

Tripp and his mother and me tumbled outside into the gentle fall morning to play soccer. When his sneakered feet hit the grass, damp with dew, Tripp's small back stiffened and he looked down.

"In 5, 4, 3, 2, 1," his mother joked, watching for his reaction.

"Oh, it's wet, " Tripp declared, but then he was off racing in circles like a puppy, darting and weaving.

"Catch me!" he shouted.

"I'm gonna GET you!" I bellowed, chasing him, scooping up his joyous squealing body and spinning him in circles.

"Let's play in the driveway," I suggested.

Tripp ran and ran, kicking the soccer ball with either foot up the slope of the driveway and down.

"Goal!" he shouted, or "I DID it!"

"You did it!" we yelled.

He avoided a particularly treacherous looking corner of the driveway where the soccer ball inevitably rolled, where a clump of menacing yellow maple leaves had drifted, their glistening wetness posing an inexplicable threat to a boy of three.

"Get it, Beauma!" he demanded pointing to the ball centimeters away.

To demonstrate my athleticism, I trapped the ball with my feet and jumped, flipping the ball toward him.

"Okay, never do that again," said my daughter, bent at the waist and snorting.

"That hurt my feelings," Tripp said sorrowfully.

"But, why," I asked, snorting myself. "Why did it hurt your feelings?"

"They're talking about feelings at school," my daughter clarified.

"I have to go pretty soon," I said to Tripp.

"Why?" he asked.

"I have to drive all the way back to Vermont."

"But, not right now."

"No, we can play a bit more first, and then you can wave to me from the steps the way you always do."

"Okay, Beauma. Watch me!"

*

Driving along the lane to my mother's house, I come upon the small wheelchair procession. Mom is swaddled in a blanket, a brown fringed shawl wrapped around her shoulders. I roll down my window as the three women approach the car.

"It's your daughter, Mrs. Victor," Lynn says, her long blonde hair tumbling over her face as she bends down close to my mother's ear.

"It's Amy," I hear Liz the nurse prompt.

My heart lurches.

"Hi, Mom! I smile and eagerly search her eyes for a glimpse of recognition, finding confusion, vacuity.

Back at the house, Liz brings me an aluminum chair with a pink seat then disappears, while Lynn shuffles boxes in the garage.

I sit near my mother in the sun. I touch her still, soft hand. I rest my hand on her arm. I rub her back. 

"Oh, hi," she says.

Her head droops as she dozes. I weep silently, wishing to reclaim the past as it was and as I wish it had been.

"I love you, Mom," I say. I kiss the top of her head. We sit together in the warm sun. I've been asking myself to remain open and curious about this winding down of a full, full life. I want to capture this moment in the sun, the pale golden leaves fluttering down around us, the two of us.

*

Wadduh Wadduh Everywhere

It was simply poor timing that just as Tripp and I emerged from my car in front of the cavernous Long Island Children's Museum, four school busses filled with excited campers in emerald green or banana yellow tee shirts were lining up outside the door.

"I want to go back to my house," Tripp said, shrinking back from the clamor.

"Oh, no, buddy, this will be fun!" I enthused.

Once inside, however, the noise was amplified in thunderous, booming echoes. The shrieks and giggles of happy kids was deafening. As lines of wriggling giggling children snaked through the ground floor, Tripp buried his face in my shoulder.

"Too youd!"

"It is pretty loud," I agreed, hastily purchasing our tickets. "Let's go see what's outside."

As I placed Tripp on the floor, he swiveled instinctively toward the museum's shop. "I sink it is not too youd in there," he said.

"Let's check outside first."

Just beyond the door was a sandpile with buckets and shovels, and beyond that in a secret bower was a wooden bench surrounded by plants and flowers. On the bench was a book. The book was "The Itsy Bitsy Spider," (the long form) containing the words to Tripp's favorite song. As we sat together and read, a young male counselor strode by. "The Itsy Bitsy Spider?" he asked. "Dude, I love that story."

We explored a bit and discovered an amazing area of pumps and shower heads that released water when one tugged the end of a rope.

"Wow!" I exclaimed.

"Too wet," said Tripp, waggling a finger.

"Let's just see," I said, guiding his small body through a gate. There was a stream with gurgling water in which one could wade, a series of sluice gates that could be raised and lowered to let orange and red plastic fish and boats slide down, and wheels to turn and buttons to push to move water down spouts. There were  aluminum buckets to fill.

A small band of sopping wet toddlers splashed happily about, observed by parents.

"Too wet," Tripp said, drawn in spite of himself to a wheel like the wheel of a sailing ship which he began to spin, watching as a small trough filled with water.

"Hold my glasses," he ordered, doffing his purple shades. "There is a yot of wadduh."

"I like his look," a dad observed, "Especially the collar turned up."

My grandson was wearing his khaki shorts (over big boy space ship underpants,) a green polo shirt with the collar just so, golf socks, and brown canvas sneakers with velcro tabs.

"No, my wheel," he said as a little girl with long brown hair appeared to his right.

"Can we share?" she asked.

Tripp looked doubtful.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Lily."

"Lily, this is Tripp," I said.

Lily and Tripp shared the wheel, then turned a crank which moved a pulley to which small canvas bags were attached. The canvas bags scooped water from another trough, then released it into a bucket.

"This is how some people have to work together to get water," Lily explained.

"Why?" Tripp asked, not minding that the front of his green polo shirt was now drenched.

"Because they live in different places where it isn't so easy to find water."

"Why?"

"Because water doesn't come out of the tap."

"Why?"

"Why don't we take off your shoes and socks," I interrupted.

"No."

"If we take them off, you can splash in the stream and lift the sluice gates."

A few minutes later Tripp was standing on a block of wood lifting gates and watching as his blue plastic boat sped down the current. He returned to the wooden wheel to fill pails and empty them.

"Watch me," he said to Lily.

"Where's my number 5?" He turned to me.

"What number 5? The pails don't have numbers on them," I said.

"I need my number 5!"

Lily and I looked at each other and began to search for a pail with the number 5 on it. After examining 8 to 10 pails, we found it. A pail with a tiny 5 stamped upside down on the bottom. Lily handed it to Tripp without a word.

"What are you, Rainman?" I laughed.

"No, I'm Tripp!"

"I know you are," I said, and kissed the top of his head,

When Tripp was completely soaked I led him over to a chair and removed his shirt and sleeveless white  undershirt.

"Oh, no," he protested.

"You don't need that undershirt," I said, knowing it to be a peculiar penchant of Nora the nanny. "It's too hot." I used the undershirt to dry his feet.

We wandered back inside and into the shop where we purchased a new tee shirt, and after circling a few dozen times, and I had counted to 5 slowly, Tripp grabbed a microscope. And a ball. And a brightly colored octopus that clanked when shaken.

"How about just the microscope," I said.

"Okay, Beauma."

We ventured into the bubble room, grabbed some colorful fruit snacks from the cafeteria, called each other on phones from my childhood, entered a room with lots of drums and xylophones that could be beaten incessantly, and then into a room with SHHhhhhh written on the walls and round comfy looking cushions, which led one's grandmother to suppose it to be a quiet room.

"Let's sit here for a bit," I said.

BABABABOOOOM! WHOO! WHOO! BOOM! CHUGGA CHUGGA!! burst from unseen speakers. Purple and pink strobe lights began to flash.

For a small boy sensitive to noises, this was catastrophic. We were o-u-t  OUT of there.

"That was very scary," Tripp shuddered.

"It sure was," I said.

We wound down a suspended bridge and jumped into a pile of sand. There were sand dunes and beach grass and a table ringed in sand that could be covered and then scrupulously raked off with a small rake. Gentle lights pulsed. Tripp wore his shades.

"A few more minutes and then it will be time to go," I said.

"I'm cleaning," Tripp said. He stood between two girls who poured sand onto the table's smooth plastic surface as Tripp raked crisscrossing patterns. Crowds of children whooped and shouted around him, but my damp, sandy grandson was blissfully oblivious.

*

The Park and Other Things

"Why don't you take Tripp to the park?" Katherine suggested after breakfast. He had picked delicately at some scrambled eggs and managed a few hesitant bites of sausage.

"Is it spicy?" he had asked, his blue eyes narrowed.

"No, it's not spicy at all," his mother said reassuringly.

"It's not spicy?"

"No, in fact it's sweet," Katherine said.

"It's sweet, not spicy?"

"That's right," I echoed. "Not spicy, sweet."

"Oh!" said Tripp, stiffening in his seat.

"What?" I asked.

"An ant! Get it!" A speck the size of a freckle was scurrying along the perimeter of Tripp's Color-a-Mat fire engine placemat.

I put my finger down to the ant, which crawled on board as Tripp shrank back quivering.

"It's just a little creature," I explained.

"Oh, boy, here we go," Katherine said, feeding Ollie a peach, some egg, sausage and granola.

"...And I'm just going to put him outside so he can find his little ant friends."

"Why?"

"Because an ant has just as much right to exist as we do."

Tripp followed me outside where, after releasing the ant onto the deck I pointed out the small stone Buddha that Tripp's Uncle Will had given me.

"The Buddha taught that all beings should be honored and protected, even ants."

"But why?" Tripp asked. He placed his hands on the stone statue, as if to lift it.

"Careful, Kiddo," I said. "It's heavy."

"I think it is not," declared Tripp.

*

After turning the handle to raise and lower the large green umbreya a few times, after sitting in each of the four wrought iron chairs, having artfully avoided anything moving, be it ant or infinitesimal fly (or anything wet) that might potentially threaten bodily harm, we were ready for a jaunt to the park.

Tripp wore his khaki shorts, red, white and blue sneakers, his blue polo shirt with the color turned up just so, and his purple shades.

"What are you doing to yourself?" Tripp inquired, as I hopped on one foot around the mudroom trying to pull on a tennis sock.

"It's a tennis sock," I explained.

"Why?"

*

"What shall we do first?" I questioned when we had reached the green expanse of the park. "The slide? The tire swing? The sand box?"

"I think the tire swing."

I lifted my grandson onto the large black rubber tire, reminding him to hold on tight and began to push.

"Spin me, Beauma!"

"Okay! How's this?" I asked, rotating the swing first in one direction, then the other. I pointed out the skate park, the pool and the young female lifeguard who was readying the pool vacuum.

A look of consternation crossed Tripp's face as he swiveled his head toward the menacing red plastic coil.

"She's not going to vacuum near us," I said hastily.

"I don't want it," Tripp said. 

"No problem," I said.

"Faster, Beauma!"

"You got it."

"No, slow down, Beauma!" 

"Okay!"

"I want to go on the slide!"

"Great!"

"The water spout!" Tripp bellowed, having dismounted and zipped full speed, blue sneakers flashing toward a curved grey plastic slide attached to a wooden platform with tunnels, and a shaky bridge, ladders, rings and several types and heights of blue plastic slides.

He approached the partially covered grey slide from the bottom, which did indeed resemble a water spout, and began to crawl inside. From above came the muffled order, "Sing, Beauma! Sing the Itsy Bitsy Spider!"

"What, now?" I called, glancing around.

"Yes! Sing Itsy Bitsy Spider right now!"

"Can you ask nicely?"

"May you pease sing Itsy Bitsy Spider right now!"

I bent down and began to sing, "The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout," as the spider unexpectedly emerged at the bottom of the spout, turned and began to inch its way up again.

"Again, Beauma!"

"The itsy bitsy spider..."

"If you stick your head inside, it will really be loud," a nearby mother volunteered.

We played this game until other children began to want their turns, and the spider became agitated, waving its arms and declaring it was HIS slide, and had to be carried off to a quiet place to discuss sharing.

Ollie and I are ready to join you! Katherine texted.

"Okay, how about a few minutes in the sand box, and then we can go and get Mommy and Ollie?"

"No!"

"You can play with the trucks for a little bit, and then we'll go get Ollie and Mommy and come back."

"Right now?"

"Well, sort of, but we might want to get a picnic first."

"No, but I mean can we come back to the park right now?

*

Are We There Yet?

"I need my umbreya!" Tripp says.

Raindrops have started to spatter just as we have pulled into a rest stop off the Taconic Parkway en route to Vermont for the 4th of July weekend. While my daughter changes Ollie in the back of the car, Tripp and I skip inside to choose snacks. Tripp holds two fingers of my right hand and has his tiny blue flashlight to light the way. It's 7:30am.

"Oh!" he says. "Don't go in the wet," he warns me, stepping carefully around a smallish puddle. His choices, after a painfully slow circuit of primarily expensive junk food are a bottle of pink "yemonade," a bag of maple flavored pretzels and M&Ms.

"Are you sure your mother lets you have that pink juice? It looks like it's full of sugar."

"Oh, yes," says Tripp.

"What is taking you two so long?" his mother asks, Ollie riding on her hip. "All of that can go back," she directs us.

"No-o!" Tripp says.

Deftly, Katherine substitutes a Cliff Bar for the pretzels and water for the sickly pink juice. I hide the M&Ms.

"I told you," I whisper to Tripp, "that your mother probably wouldn't approve."

"She was not entirely pleased," he murmurs thoughtfully.

"It's from a book," Katherine explains over her shoulder.

"Whydough?" He asks as we run, run, run back to the car.

"Because it's not healthy."

"Why?"

"Because it's full of sugar."

"But why?"

"Because..."

"How about a movie?" Katherine interrupts, once everyone is buckled back into car seats.

"I want 5 Little Monkeys!" Tripp shouts.

"How about asking nicely?"

"Pease may I have 5 Little Monkeys?"

"Yes," we agree.

"5 Little Monkeys right now?"

"As soon as it is humanly possible."

My job as navigator is to press the repeat button on the DVD player several hundred times, so 5 Little Monkeys can play indefinitely - or for the next 2 hours. I am to adjust Tripp's headphones, which keep slipping, locate his flashlight, offer choice morsels of Cliff Bar and Pirate Booty (not the green kind), feed Ollie organic Os, hand Ollie various toys, but not the Incy Wincy Spider book, because Tripp wants it, make noises and faces, uncap water bottles and offer condolences when the water bottle cap sails out the window.

"Oh, my cap!"

"It's okay, we can substitute another one for that one when we get to Vermont."

"Why?"

"Because the original one flew out the window."

"Why?"

"We're nearly to Beauma's," Katherine interrupts.

"In Vermont?" Tripp asks.

"Yes," we answer.

"Is this Vermont?" says Tripp, surveying his surroundings.

"As soon as we see the green sign welcoming us to Vermont," I explain, "We'll be in Vermont."

"Why?"

"Why is there a sign? Why is there a place called Vermont? Is Vermont simply a state of mind? Why are there clouds? Why do little boys ask so many questions?"  Katherine and I joke.

"Is this Vermont?" Tripp demands, pointing to a field.

"Almost, buddy!"

"Is this Vermont?" Tripp asks pointing to a man on a bicycle.

"Just about!"

"I want to go to Beauma's!"

"We're nearly there!"

"In Vermont?"

"Yes!" we say.

"Why?"

Soon after, we arrive in Manchester, spent.

"Is this Vermont?" Tripp wants to know.

"Yes! Yes! Yes! This is Vermont!"

Tripp indicates a traffic circle, the bookstore, pedestrians, small, possibly quiet children in strollers, and parked cars. All of it is Vermont.

"But, where is Beauma's house?"

"We just have to go through town, make a left, go down a big hill, make another left, go up a big hill, bear left and we will be at Beauma's," I say in an effort to be specific.

We glide into the driveway, Katherine backing up a bit because she has run onto the grass, while Tripp sighs happily, "I just yove Vermont."

*