By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston
“Hey mom that door is pretty cool,” she shouted from the backseat where she insists on riding like I am her chauffeur. My daughter noticed doors. I stifled a sob of joy. Doors? you ask. Why would noticing doors make me happy-cry? Why do I care?
When I was a young girl, every year my sweet, kind and brilliant Uncle Bob, on break from teaching French at the University of Minnesota, would leave the Twin Cities and come home to Cleveland to spend a week with us. His visits were always fun despite the amount of cleaning we had to embark on prior to his arrival due to his dust allergy.
Uncle Bob wasn’t loud and gregarious like my mother’s brothers. He never tickled me until I peed my pants, gave me sloppy kisses, yanked my underwear into a painful wedgey or made raspberries on my belly, feet, back or any other available body part like my crazy uncles. I appreciated his quiet dignity and his sweet adoration of his only nieces.
Uncle Bob always involved us something educational. He never forced his knowledge on us. He was a genius at sneaking in information. On walks in the architecturally rich streets of Cleveland Heights, he would point out features on homes. He would show us artworks and use big words.
In fact, I never knew how much he had taught me in those years when he visited while I was old enough to understand and young enough to listen. It wasn’t until a decade or two later when I sat in an art history class looking at slides listening to the professor, that I realized all I had learned.
As we viewed slide after slide of architectural details, I became awash with my past. I felt like I was standing next to Uncle Bob as he pointed out dentals, balustrades, gabled roofs, Tudor style versus Colonial style homes, columns that were Doric, Ionic, or Corinthian and many more intricacies that made each home unique. I knew all of this stuff.
Going to college had been the scariest undertaking of my life at that point. Taking this class early on in my college career and feeling like I knew something the other students didn’t, gave me confidence that stuck with me all through my graduate studies years.
Once I became a parent, I vowed to expose my children to all there was to see. I wanted them to appreciate art, nature, architecture, everything. My childhood had been a rich one for all of my senses. Having a multitude of life experiences provided me with the knowledge that has made my life better.
I wanted that for my kids.
Over the years I have taken them to parks on hikes; art, history and science museums; different cities and towns; to oceans, rivers and lakes; zoos, aquariums and botanical gardens; concerts and plays; unique restaurants in many cities and countries. I have spent countless hours and dollars to make their young lives rich with experiences.
I want to say it was worth all the blood sweat and tears. I really do.
What Usually Happens
Hikes and walks resulted in complaints about being tired or hungry. Whines of my legs hurt, a bug bit me, this is boring, when is this going to be over filled the space between me and all the flora and fauna I tried to enjoy. As I pointed out birds and ferns they point out I was horrible for making them do this. Then someone fell and bled and we struggled back to the car sweaty, thirsty and grumpy.
Visits to museums were tolerated only if we went to the gift shop first and last. Plus, a trip to the café had to occur within the first thirty minutes. I’d walk around glancing at brightly painted landscapes as they bickered. I’d try to talk about Impressionism vs Realism, Abstract contemporary art vs Renaissance art, and the fun works with elements of Trompe-l’oeil. I shooed them away when they got too close to the million-dollar sculptures or reach to touch the paintings. I tolerated their whines about being bored and hungry even though we just ate. I bought them a twenty-dollar pencil or postcard that I knew would end up lost and forgotten in the bottom of some drawer or bin, and we’d leave.
Trips to the zoo were just expensive journeys to a playground. We’d walk in search of hiding, shy animals. After seeing the ear of an elephant and a sleeping tiger we’d go to the primate house and try not to gag at the smell and the flying feces. We’d run screaming through the reptile house terrified by the snakes and prehistoric looking creatures. Then, we’d spend the rest of the day on the slides and swings eating overpriced fried food. Inevitably one would exclaim, I’m bored. Can we go home?
Time by the water was fun when the girls were young. They would swim, splash, boogie board, search for rocks, shells and sea glass. Now, it is all about what snacks I brought, selfies and complaining about being too hot or I’m bored.
Concerts, movies and plays, when they were young, were torture. We made so many trips to the bathroom, I never knew what was happening. Since no snacks were allowed in some venues, there was nothing to shove in their gullets to stop them from bickering and complaining, I’m bored is this over yet. I’m hungry.
Long drives across the country involved me shouting at them over the music they fed directly into their brains via earbuds to look at all the sites just outside their windows. I pointed out landscapes, skyscapes, buildings, animals, airplanes, cars, anything to get them to appreciate the world around them. They would pull out one earbud, take a glance to appease me and then return to their glazed-over state of oblivion. Of course, they bickered and annoyed one another. Occasionally, I would fill with hope when one would call my name from the backseat. Ready to look at what they found interesting they would whine, I’m bored. Is there anything to eat?
Dining out was and is a favorite activity for all. We all love food. But, even this results in arguments. No, you can’ have pasta with cheesy bread and a side of fries. Yes, you have to have something green. No, you can’t have five sodas and dessert. Yes, you have to try something new. No, I’m not ready to leave. I don’t care if you’re bored. Upon returning home, they would inevitably ask, what is there to eat for snack?
Obviously, my kids found my goal to educate and entertain them mind-numbing, the opposite effect I was striving for. Plus, all of our outings rendered them famished. Aside from boring and starving them, I hoped my efforts would have had a bigger impact in their long-term.
Just when I was beginning to believe I failed, while on that drive, my daughter pointed out how every door on the houses in our town differ. She observed that some are pretty and interesting while some are just plain. Elaborating on her observation, I pointed out how a front-door can communicate so much about the people who live behind that door. A door can be welcoming, whimsical, or foreboding. I expounded on architectural details. It was a short talk, but she listened. She was interested or at least feigned interest.
She didn’t even ask for a snack. Uncle Bob would be proud.
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