"We're surrounded by trains!" Michael announced yesterday, when we traveling into the city for "Take Your Daughters and Sons to Work Day." Every year my company puts on different events for employees' children; they usually include a financial education component, a talk by one of the senior executives, and a volunteer activity to benefit a local charity. I looked left and right out our train windows and, he was right, trains were surging by on each side. Elizabeth looked up and then went back to her magazine.
After I picked them up from the formal events of the day and gave them lunch at the company cafeteria, I brought them back to my office. Elizabeth found some pens that she liked and drew "snapshots" of my desk and the rest of my office. Michael played some electronic games. I took them into the archives, where they helped inventory some papers and filled out a donation form. And, the highlight every year, they hunted out the old IBM Selectric and laboriously typed out notes to their dad.
Both children have grown much since last year, and not just the three or four inches in height. We've especially been able to see the effect of future puppy-ownership on Elizabeth. Without being asked, she helps round up the cats for their twice-daily doses of antibiotics. On the weekends, she tracks whether Michael has fed them. She has been cleaning her room, clearing the floor of anything small that the puppy might swallow, in anticipation of its sleeping next to her bed for the first few nights. She takes the initiative to help in setting up the table for dinner. She occasionally even volunteers an opinion, a feeling, or a thought.
The change in Michael is less profound. He doesn't much welcome change, ever, and our bringing a canine into the house is no exception. He often says that Jack is his best friend, and that the cats will have to live upstairs as long as we have a dog. But he loves the services at New Skete and, back when we were looking for a parish to join, strenuously advocated our attending services there-despite the seven-hour roundtrip. Typical of Michael, though, there are few things about which he doesn't have an opinion, and the puppy's future name is no exception. He liked April when Elizabeth first mooted it as a name weeks ago. We've been holding fairly regular brainstorming sessions. We drew up a list of names of Miyazaki heroines, honing them to Kiki and Haru. Michael, "But I like April, I think it's a great name." Peter mentioned Chaka, after one of his favorite singers. Michael: "I like April, what's wrong with April?" Unrelated to the dog, I was talking about the name Josephine; Elizabeth shortened it to Josie. It's her new favorite contender, which she mentioned to Peter. Michael, overhearing, said, "But I like April."
But the main thing, I think, is to remain open to various names. You never know until you meet someone, what his or her name should be. Our children were known as Bébé for the first three days of their lives (they were born in Geneva), until we could see what they should be called. That may be difficult to get across. Michael this evening announced: "I don't like the name Josie." At least he's changed tacks.
Tonight we'll watch a PBS special about the history of dogs in the world; tomorrow we dose the cats and climb in the car to New Skete.
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