The moment has nearly come: Sound asleep, but in less than an hour, Mr. 12, Prominent Teaching Assistant of Science and Most Fantabolous Game Player of All Screens, will shred his outrageously worn out caterpillar skin and become Mr. Teen.
Gulp. Do I need to run?
It is odd, to be in a different country than your own on it's very special national day. "Are we really celebrating 4th of July?" asked Mr. 12, concerned that a) we'd immediately be less Norwegian b) we'd not be sincere patriots here, which would mean we'd be spectators, not celebrators.
In Norway, people dress up and wear new, fancy clothes or the national costume for the 17th of May. In the US, people wear whatever is comfortable, sandals, shorts, dragging their beach chairs, food and flags to the most popular celebration places. Although we blend in with either group on these days, I've always felt like the 4th is not my day, I'm welcome, yet I don't belong to the group. But take the patriotism away from it's context, and we're all the same.
On the 4th of July 2002, I watched the military fly in formation over the Charles before the fireworks, while Bush's voice sounded from the speakers, talking about September 11th.
Something strange happened. I wasn't really listening to Bush's hustling voice: I was watching the crowd watch the formation, and thinking about the pilots and what they must have felt seeing this crowd down there. Feelings rushed through my body and suddenly, I felt completely patriotic.
It is well known that European's don't exactly admire Bush. It is not a secret that we often think the US is awfully self-centered, either. But I could not stop this feeling of being connected , the feeling of wanting the best for everyone, and realizing that this can only happen if people are together, reaching out to each other, accepting each other's flaws and problems as we move forward. It doesn't matter what nation we're tied to, this is about something bigger. And no matter where we are in the world, there will be one day designated to remember this.
So, dressed in shorts and sandals, Mr. 12 and I blissfully celebrated the 4th of July together with a few other foreigners just like us, in the middle of thousands of Americans, with lots of bagels, firework and connectedness.
Pouring rain bounced tranquil music off our windows. The wild, bushy green garden outside and the worn out, old wooden look inside brought Mr. 12, Sir Orange Flaggytail and I far away from our apartment in suburban Cambridge: Opening the backdoor to the garden, we thought we might find a tropical forrest, with no snakes. Or a sea. A harbor, an eternity of time. Sir Orange Flaggytail scratched the door, impatiently.
"He has heard of water rats," said Mr. 12.
I long for another, drowsy, perfect yesterday.
School is out! Congratulations to Mr. 12, who got himself some juicy A+'es in Math and Science, racking up quite a collection of A's in the other subjects.
...some good genes there, if I dare say so!
"Frostey" came for his weekly tudoring early yesterday. Taking a break from our usual work on a "HomeStarRunner" inspired flash movie called "Swedish Fish", we were making very cool IM icons (link forthcoming!).
After a while, Mr. 12 walked in, browsing around the living-room while Frostey and I were working. "What are you looking for?" I asked, trying to be helpful. Frostey kept working, very focused. Mr. 12 stared blankly at me, offering no answer, but it was clear from the way his eyebrows were squinting that the chance of me being helpful was not something he was counting on right now. Somehow, although Mr. 12 had said nothing bad at all about this, I felt like I needed a come back line. "Are you looking for a mummy kiss!?!?!?" I hinted, tossing him a big, sloppy dose through the air.
Before this invisible slush of love would have landed on his cheek, Mr. 12 escaped into safer waters while letting out a deep, bearlike "iiiiik" tainted by some fairly heavy ounces of disgust. Frostey (11), not taking his eyes off the screen, had not missed one bit of the action: "I can't believe he is in puberty still" he commented politely; as if to comfort my sorry feelings in case it hurt being rejected by a Mr. 12.
"Oh! Are you not anymore?" I asked surprised, but what I meant was something more along the lines of: "What! I've been your teacher for 2 years and NOW you tell me that you have grown up!" Clicking away at his icons, Frostey afforded me only a quick, impatient glance. "Of course I am - I'm still in p u b e r t y" he announced, pronouncing puberty slowly and clearly, as if it was the most profound word there was in his vocabulary and yet at the same time without wanting to reveal too much excitement over the condition. In lack of something better to say, and possibly because I've forgotten what puberty is like, the silly question "Well, how does *that* feel?" fell out of my mouth.
"It....." Frostey hesitated, thinking carefully about it. "... it is S W E L L" he announced, while Mr. 12 slid into the kitchen where he washed off any trace of the invisible mummy kiss.
...very tasty." This was Mr. 12's conclusion after I told him about how the cat was smashing his little paws at the bathroom window hoping to get to a terrified, little squirrel balancing quickly on the fence outside, and how two joyful, Siberian Husky dogs on the run gleefully shared a less fortunate squirrel before being found and brought home, all this very same morning.
About 9 years ago, in a clothing store, Bergen, Norway: I'm pushing an empty stroller with my left hand. Mr. Three or so is holding tight onto my right hand, strutting along behind me. I park the stroller and begin to browse a rack of lovely sweaters. On sale, too! Yay.
Suddenly, a plump thump behind me. Mr. Three or so is stretched out on the floor, face down, hammering his small fists into the ground. All the shoppers turn around as a whimpering crescendo of frustration escapes his angry mouth: ".....it smells like CLOTHES in here!!!"
Today, Eastgate Headquarters, Watertown, USA. I'm e-mailing some people, asking them to review books for TEKKA: Mr. Twelve sits behind me, working on some cd packaging (or is he merely toying with the static from the plastic? Spring Break is every parents joy.)
Me: Today, we'll go and get you some new clothes.
Mr. Twelve: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhfffff
Me: But you need you pants! You always blame me for growing out of your pants.
Mr. Twelve: pffffffffffffffff (eye roll to the left, more pffffffffffffff, eye roll to the right, ending in devastating silence)
Me: .....isn't it better that you come so you get the pants you like?
Mr. Twelve: It is better that I not come and this is a declarative sentence.
Morning
The sound of a laundry bag being dragged down the stairs to the basement awakes me. Thump, thump, thump. A click. Whistling. An even purr from the machine ascends through the floor. Light feet are running back upstairs.
I rise and walk to his room. Soda bottles tucked away in bags. Backpack rearranged. Bed made. Window opened for fresh air. He smiles towards me, holding up books, working on some kind of order in the bookshelf.
Lunch
Floors mopped. Surfaces dusted. From the kitchen, I see him in there, two thin, long arms neatly folding clean clothes. He stacks them in his closet. More whistling. I'm reading.
"Can I get you something?" he asks sweetly, all dressed for the cold outside in boots and a jacket. I slip $6 into his hand and would like eggs, sugar, and, why not, some milk. The door closes with a little bang behind him. He is in a hurry. I put away my books and prepare for crepes. In my room, I stumble over more clean laundry brought up from the basement, carefully arranged to be put away in my own closet.
"You were short $0.56!" he exclaims upon his return. "Oh dear! I owe you!" I sigh. He smiles overbearingly, tilting his head charmingly: "It's on me. Don't you worry."
He walks up to me and slings his arms around me. "I love your hair, mum", he whispers softly in my ear.
My heart swells: I've raised a gentleman.
But he hugs me tighter and whisper more: now will you please use your credit card and subscribe me to Runescape? Please?
With a little help from Win, Mr. Twelve and I finally have a gingerbread house!
