Simple rewards

(Note: Henceforth, my progeny will be known as ‘Fritz’ and ‘Donna’. These, of course, are not their real names, but their chosen pseudonyms, so that their mother may blog about them without their names popping up on Google one trillion times. The deal is I can only say things that are true and I must keep the mention of embarrassing incidents to a minimum – which is not to say they would ever do anything to embarrass themselves or their fine parents. They are, after all, perfect children, by sole virtue of the fact that they’re mine.)

Kids. They eat a lot. They cost money. They’re a LOT of work. Nowadays, mine are both taller than me – and they’re better at a lot of things than I am. I would not dare challenge ‘Fritz’ (still trying to get used to that) to any sort of memory game. The kid can store 80 gazillion gigabytes of data in his brain, alongside five entire play scripts written in Shakespearean English. I would not challenge ‘Donna’ to a racewalking competition because she would scorch my butt and all I’d have to show for it would be shin splints. I would not dance in public next to either of them, because they are Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers graceful and I dance like Elaine from Seinfeld.

How many thousands of hours did I spend driving them to the studio or theater, to races or soccer games? Or standing in the wings during a performance, costume change in hand? Or shivering in the stadium stands during a track meet while being pelted with sleet, when their first race was at 9 a.m. and the second one not until 3 p.m.?

In truth, it doesn’t really matter. It’s what my parents did for me, and theirs for them. It doesn’t matter if the kids remember to say ‘thanks’ every time I do something for them. Sometimes in life, it should just be the doing that gives us joy.

“The reward of a thing well done is to have done it.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Until later,

Gemi