Creating a family activity that satisfies each individual is parenthood nirvana. Generally, one person’s needs in a group are being met while the other’s desires are in a holding pattern, usually pacified with a toy, a snack, or a future promise.
Finding that bliss of a family activity proves ever elusive.
I have lived alone with my two children in downtown Jersey City since their dad died from cancer complications six years ago. Bob, my husband and their father, named both of our children. He chose Rhapsody because it means “a new and original work based on existing themes.” Bob chose Bucky to honor Buckminster Fuller, an original thinker of the last century who created geodesic domes, cinder blocks with holes in them, and the word “synergy.”
Our apartment has a small terrace facing downtown Manhattan and the Hudson. I love to sit there in the morning while my children sleep in. I watch the tugboats, read, plan my day, and write.
The terrace floor has been battleship gray for three years, and it’s dirty. Rhapsody, my 9-year-old artist, and I came up with a plan. We would paint the terrace floor ocean colors with floating flowers.
Then Bucky, my 7-year-old, spoke up, saying, “Hey, that’s only your idea. I’m family too. I think we should paint the world on the terrace floor. Then it’s all our ideas.”
I told Bucky I was glad he spoke up and that it was unfair of me to exclude him in the terrace renovations. Then my agreeable daughter Rhapsody pointed out that Bucky draws great yellow school buses. Bucky stood and smiled. She continued, “What if Bucky painted a yellow school bus, I paint flowers around the bus, and you paint clouds?”
After measuring the terrace and a discussion of colors, we went to Home Depot and bought the paints: black, yellow, white and sky-blue. We started with a coat of sky-blue and all three of us loved rolling the paint on. I kept hearing “Can I do this part? Is it my turn yet?” The vocabulary was a pleasing symphony of sound.
Bucky put himself in charge of testing when the floor was dry, while Rhapsody and I noticed that a table that was made by a sculptor friend of mine needed a face-lift too. The table base was of a woman’s torso from shoulders to thighs. Rhapsody painted her sky-blue and it looked much better. She hadn’t had a fresh anything in 10 years.
Then I suggested that Rhapsody put a yellow bikini on her. She did it with glee and added a belly button pierce. Then she asked if we could put a tattoo on her belly. The Ying Yang symbol floated into my mind. Their dad once held a dinner party for 24 guests. The main course had two dishes with two sauces that were fashioned to look like the Ying Yang symbol. We went to the computer, printed out a picture, and Rhapsody painted a little black-and-white one on the torso’s belly.
The next day, Bucky outlined in black his school bus and put it on a long black road, while Rhapsody painted a sun in the corner. He gave the bus two wheels and three windows with thick strokes. Rhapsody thinly outlined her flowers, giving them five teardrop petals in black. She filled them with white and added three yellow dots in the center.
Bucky asked me to fix his tires, which were too fat. While he was at school, I did. An hour later when I looked at the school bus, it looked wrong.
When I picked up my kids from school, a friend of mine handed me a six-foot package wrapped in brown paper. “What is it?” I asked. “Giant leaves,” she answered.
When Bob and I had honeymooned in Italy, we had bought a two-foot aqua umbrella stand that was painted with colorful umbrellas and raindrops. So after my friend gave me the leaves, I positioned this stand on the terrace, put the gift leaves in, and we were in the tropics while looking at Manhattan.
That night, Rhapsody was adding more flowers when I left the terrace. I heard a crash, a scream, and then tears. The wind had knocked the umbrella stand over, which knocked the white paint all over the yellow school bus and the sky-blue floor. Rhapsody had banged her knee out of fear.
I got her to the couch, kissed her head, and ran for towels. I begin mopping up the white paint while saying, “Ohhhhhhh, I wish this didn’t happen!”
I was proud I wasn’t swearing – my mother would have sworn. My son lay on the carpeted floor on his belly, rocking back and forth, moaning.
I kept sopping up the white paint while hearing Rhapsody’s tears and listening to his cries – wondering how to help both. I asked Bucky to get his sister a bag of ice for her knee. He replied, “I’m so sad about my school bus. I worked hard on it.”
I told him that yes, he did, and I was trying to save it. He kept moaning. She kept crying. Again I asked him to help his sister, and in frustration, I cursed at him. I instantly felt very un-proud.
Finally, I got most of the paint up. Then I spent time hugging Rhapsody before touching up the terrace. The next day I recoated what needed brightening. I filled the palm tree vase with dirt. Both kids were proud and the terrace looked great.
When and where can we three do this again?, I think. – Kate Kaiser
Jersey City resident Kate Kaiser is a frequent contributor. Comments on this piece can be sent to: current@hudsonreporter.com.