Balancing Act

My son turned nine recently, and since his birthday fell on a Saturday, I decided to make the whole weekend about him. So, really, it was a typical weekend at our house--but with gifts.

First up was an ice-themed Friday night: ice cream and ice skating. So after a trip to Baskin Robbins for a pre-skating scoop of florescent-colored sherbet, my folks and I took him to the local ice rink. I approached the skate rental window and asked for skates for my son and me. They handed over hockey skates for Jesse and figure skates for me. I snorted and looked at the kid at the window, wondering what gave him the impression I was coordinated. I can’t even stand up in figure skates; the thicker blade of the hockey skates at least gives me a fighting chance.

Jesse has been obsessed with hockey since he was very little, but we don’t make it to the ice rink very often, and I remembered why a few minutes into the experience. It took him a while to get comfortable on the ice, but once he did, he began throwing himself against the plexi-glass that lines the rink and yelling "body slam!" every 10 yards. Then, once everyone’s eyes were on him, he’d complete the performance by slowly and dramatically sinking to the ice.

My dad and I kept trying to get him away from the sides of the rink, and Jess was fairly accommodating until my dad tried something new. He came up behind the kid and tried to lift him off the ice, but they both ended up on their backsides. Jesse was not amused. "My way’s more fun," he scolded, heading back to the wall.

The next night was the big birthday dinner, and since Jesse couldn’t come up with any ideas for his own dinner, my mom and I made an executive decision: fondue. It’s never too early to hone your fondue technique, we reasoned.

Although he’d never experienced fondue, Jesse thought it sounded like fun. Jess plunged an experimental chunk of bread into the cheese, tried it, and nearly gagged. Apparently, even with the maturity of another year under his belt, Velveeta still beats Gruyere.

He was much more interested in the chocolate fondue that followed. He came up with all sorts of things he liked to dip in the chocolate: marshmallows, strawberries, brownies, his spoon.

The following day, we tackled another birthday wish he had, which was to replace his loft bed with a regular, ground-level bed. Not because he was tired of it or thought he was too old for a loft bed. It was for the cat’s sake. Yes, he wanted to completely overhaul his bedroom so the cat had easier access to him at night.

Actually, it’s not as crazy as it sounds. This is the situation we faced when we adopted Jazz last summer: In the middle of the night, when she wasn’t sticking her wet nose up one of my nostrils, she would sit in Jesse’s bedroom and plaintively meow because she couldn’t leap up to his loft bed.

Then we had a flash of brilliance. We covered a two-by-four with carpet and leaned it against the loft so Jazz could safely and comfortably climb up to the bed. The cat scoffed at our efforts, however, and just kept up the middle-of-the-night noise.

So my dad spent a couple of hours ripping apart the loft bed he had constructed two years ago, hauling the pieces outside, and spackling the wall where bolts had been. Then, we installed a regular bed in his room. Jesse was thrilled.

After his first night in the new bed, I asked Jesse how he had slept. "Not good," he said. "Jazz’s meowing didn’t keep me up, but she kept crawling under the covers and attacking my feet. Maybe this bed wasn’t such a good idea."

Nostrils flaring and eyes flashing, I glared at him. And he quickly retracted his statement. At least it’s good to know The Look still works on a nine-year-old. Happy birthday, son. TPW