Vine-Ripened Keepers

In math, teachers introduce children of a certain age to "math families." This is when they are teaching basic arithmetic -- especially multiplication and division.

So a family would be 6 x 7, 7 x 6, 42/6, 42/7.

Tonight, with the back door open and letting some cool fall into my heated kitchen, hours after I fed part of my gathered clan dinner, in the bedroom I can hear one of my daughters singing all three of my grandsons to sleep.

Or at least she is singing to them, hoping they may fall asleep. The two older boys are so wound up about their reunion, they do not show any signs of being interested in sleep even as the last hour of September is rapidly approaching.

The bunkbed in the room where both girls are now trying to coax the boys to sleep dates from the 1980s, when these two 30-something mothers were tots themselves. One night, their little brother, barely older than their own sons are now, tried to climb the ladder to the upper bunk and fell hard to the floor in our flat on Ashbury Street.

He suffered one of several mild concussions in his youthful years, so I rushed him to the E.R. in his PJs, where a doctor asked him a series of questions to gauge his injury. I remember that Peter's answers amused the doctor, who though trying to be diligent, couldn't help smiling at the boy's obvious spunk.

"He's a keeper," he said under his breath as I carried my oldest son back home.

The doc got that one right.

Today, I took my oldest grandson, James, with me to pick up my own youngest daughter from school. He was instantly the hit on campus. She scooped him up and carried him around school on her hip, showing him off to administrators, teachers, students and parents alike.

He is all of two and a half, so this was a big deal for James. "I a big boy now," he kept repeating to me in his high little voice.

"Soon enough," I thought to myself. It all goes in an instant, a flash.

He is a keeper too. They all are.



Those who do not share the experience of watching their kids continue to play competitive sports beyond the Middle School years may imagine it is all a fun, cozy experience.

But the truth is that much of the time you are consumed with worry. Games like soccer at the high school level in a big city are not tea parties. These are big, rough kids playing at this level.

There is always a substantial chance that your son or daughter could get injured -- seriously.

So, first of all, you want to be present. Should anything happen, you want to be there.

I read the worry in other parents' eyes. We recognize each other even before we meet. Of course, we are happy for our kids, playing at this level. In life, all advances come through a funnel. Most fall aside; a few advance.

So we celebrate their wins and console them after losses.

We rehydrate them, run them baths, cheer them up, and encourage them to keep playing. But long after they are asleep, we are still tossing and turning about that near-miss, that elbow to the throat that sent him flying to the pitch, counting each second until he popped back up.

We inquire about the sore foot, the twisted ankle, that calf bruise, the cut above his nose, the split lip, the hip pointer, the shoulder that hit the ground hard after that vicious hit by the kid who drew a yellow card.

The answer is always the same: "It's fine, dad."

They are keepers too. All kids show us how to live. If only we could hear better, we would recognize the message: "Keep living your own life this way. Take better care. Bounce back to play another game tomorrow."

Tomorrow, here, literally means another big game against Mission High. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else on earth than watching my boy play in it.

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