I had to go pick up a pattern for a vest I've been asked to make, so Stitch and I headed to the store right after I got home. We were walking and talking.
"What's that new jump, where you pick in and hold your free leg out a bit?"
"A half flip?"
"No, this one," I demonstrated, much to the amusement of the passers by.
"Oh. That's a ballet jump," Stitch was laughing at me, too.
"That's a ballet jump? Really?"
"Yeah. And we started learning Camel Spins."
"Wait, what? Camel spins? Really?"
Stitch giggled. "Yeah."
"No way! Camel spins?!"
"Yeah! And the Shoot the Duck Spin."
"Sit spins?" (Okay, I saw these. There was a lot of falling. A lot.)
Stitch was excited. I bought the pattern, Stitch grabbed two bags of scrap trimmings for some reason, I showed my concept to my New Friend and Stitch made puppy eyes for some candy.We agreed to watch "Hop" over the weekend after the first Ice Show rehearsal, and came home to some lemon chicken soup.
I guess I need to watch lessons more often. I can't fathom Stitch doing a Camel Spin, really.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Three Qualities of the Effective Skating Parent
I've been at the rink a lot more lately. I came to the horrifying realization that for the past two weeks I've been there five days out of seven. I'm not really sure how this happened, but I'm pretty sure it's an accident based on the flop season of the college hockey team. Yes, that's what it is.
I'm enjoying watching Stitch learn and practice and become good friends with Gordon. I've debated bedazzling my work coat, and reflected on the finer points of different polar fleece weights. But mostly I watch other moms. I listen in the lobby, eavesdrop in the stands, and the colorful cast of paranoid people who surround me is endlessly entertaining. I thought that Pre-Alpha parents, flapping in the stands and screaming about swizzles was awesome, but Freestyle moms take the insanity to new heights.
Dads are less common but there, usually standing near the wall trailing a Zuca bag and sparkle soakers, looking dazed and lost, sometimes horrified as their daughters run around in skin tight clothes and short skirts. (The Hot Pants over the Mondor Tights look is becoming more common, I think it may overtake the Chloe Noels before winter.)
But the Moms are everywhere. At the Freestyle Level it's really no longer cool to watch all your child's lessons. On a Saturday session, the Parental Peanut Gallery is down to about a dozen, with the majority of the parents in the lobby. They're wandering around, chatting on or checking out their cell phones, drinking coffee (*cough*), pretending to read, chatting amongst themselves about what's in that dress bag and how cheap they got it ("It's custom, you know. I'm sure it cost her hundreds but I got it for eighty!"), and always parking their daughter's Zuca right against a viable seat on a bench, sitting next to it while they do whatever it is they do best. This is usually glaring around to see who belongs to who and what they think they're doing here.
As the parent of a young boy, I guess I don't warrant much attention. I talk to the Zamboni drivers and get ignored by most of the other moms. This is fine by me. I've noticed that Ms V doesn't get much attention either, so it must be a Boy Thing. But all this listening and observing has led me to believe that there are three qualities that make a Good Skating Parent, and the possession of and degree to which you have these qualities will be what assures your child's success in skating.
They are: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Paranoia, and a massive Trust Fund in your name.
There's no question that it's a sick bunch of individuals who gladly toss their children to skating coaches, only to take them home an hour later, covered in bruises and dried tears. I think the only variation is by degrees.
I'm enjoying watching Stitch learn and practice and become good friends with Gordon. I've debated bedazzling my work coat, and reflected on the finer points of different polar fleece weights. But mostly I watch other moms. I listen in the lobby, eavesdrop in the stands, and the colorful cast of paranoid people who surround me is endlessly entertaining. I thought that Pre-Alpha parents, flapping in the stands and screaming about swizzles was awesome, but Freestyle moms take the insanity to new heights.
Dads are less common but there, usually standing near the wall trailing a Zuca bag and sparkle soakers, looking dazed and lost, sometimes horrified as their daughters run around in skin tight clothes and short skirts. (The Hot Pants over the Mondor Tights look is becoming more common, I think it may overtake the Chloe Noels before winter.)
But the Moms are everywhere. At the Freestyle Level it's really no longer cool to watch all your child's lessons. On a Saturday session, the Parental Peanut Gallery is down to about a dozen, with the majority of the parents in the lobby. They're wandering around, chatting on or checking out their cell phones, drinking coffee (*cough*), pretending to read, chatting amongst themselves about what's in that dress bag and how cheap they got it ("It's custom, you know. I'm sure it cost her hundreds but I got it for eighty!"), and always parking their daughter's Zuca right against a viable seat on a bench, sitting next to it while they do whatever it is they do best. This is usually glaring around to see who belongs to who and what they think they're doing here.
As the parent of a young boy, I guess I don't warrant much attention. I talk to the Zamboni drivers and get ignored by most of the other moms. This is fine by me. I've noticed that Ms V doesn't get much attention either, so it must be a Boy Thing. But all this listening and observing has led me to believe that there are three qualities that make a Good Skating Parent, and the possession of and degree to which you have these qualities will be what assures your child's success in skating.
They are: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Paranoia, and a massive Trust Fund in your name.
There's no question that it's a sick bunch of individuals who gladly toss their children to skating coaches, only to take them home an hour later, covered in bruises and dried tears. I think the only variation is by degrees.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
The Toepicks Have it In for Us
Tonight I made it to lessons just in time to see Stitch wheeling a corner on an inside spiral, Gordon not far behind as the two boys were apparently racing the warmups. I relieved The Sitter, who said that Stitch actually did crossovers, as I had texted her in big letters "TELL HIM TO DO CROSSOVERS" just as I got out of work. Stitch and Gordon flew past us, sliding on their bottoms on Shoot the Duck attempts. Stitch went past the door, saying something about wanting a refund but I ignored him.
I gathered up the things and went to the Lobby to find a suitable spot to figure out what to do with myself for the next half hour. I'd finished my book, I didn't have a beading project, there wasn't anyone to talk to, so I got a Diet Coke and lingered by the window. Stitch saw me watching and rolled his eyes, so I assumed this was a "get lost" look. I wandered around, debating snagging a new book but I've already got two in the stack at home, plus another title I need to find. I watched the skateboarders outside and wandered back in, where Ms V caught me and started talking about her husband getting all ready for baseball season. Her car is apparently loaded with half the contents of Sports Authority, and she isn't sure what's going on, giving some horrendous figure he's spent on all this stuff.
I looked up, seeing Coach supporting Stitch by his backside. This didn't bother me, this is typical for Shoot the Duck, but then I noticed Stitch crying.
"Is he all right?" Ms V was suddenly concerned.
Coach's usual response to a fall is to give them hard looks until they get up, so either Stitch snowed her with a really good injury act or this is serious. Whatever it is, I need to intervene.
I get into the Rink and Stitch is performing his Lump of Pain Routine, so Coach is forced to shove him out of the ice door where he nearly keels over on me. He's all red faced, sniffles, crying and tears and mess and goo. "What hurts, where did you fall," I ask.
He cries harder.
"He fell on a spiral," Coach says. "He looked around and lost his focus."
Damn toepicks. "What hurts," I repeat, firmer to get through the tears.
Stitch indicates his knee, the same knee that got whaled by a bathroom door stall just a few days ago which earned him a band-aid and pity points from Teacher.
"Okay," I acknowledge. I send Ms V for an ice pack so she'll stop hovering, and I comfort Stitch. Coach goes back on the ice.
"Breathe, just breathe. Slow down. It's all right."
Stitch huffles and sighs, still gooey and red.
Other people nearby tell him he was doing great, but this just makes him madder.
"Stitch, were you looking for me on that spiral?" I ask him.
He nods.
"I thought I was bugging you so I left. I'm sorry."
He snuffles and buries his head in my scarf.
The lesson ends and Coach comes to check on him. "Will he survive?"
"Probably," I sigh. I figure this was partially serious, but mostly an act.
We leave and Stitch is sullen, angry, limping and hurt inside and out. Ms V keeps chattering and Gordon attempts to cheer Stitch by getting out toys and playing with his tiger soakers. I get off skates and put Stitch's shoes on backwards, which gets him finally talking. "Mom, you know those are on the wrong feet."
"Did I do that? That was silly of me... I guess I was listening to Gordon tell me about those cool toys."
Stitch looks over and Gordon's got some spinning top thing, which they both get absorbed in and suddenly the knee isn't so bad. Ms V starts dragging Gordon away, I pack up Stitch and we're off. Sort of. Stitch is limping dramatically out the door. "The pain, the pain..." he moans.
At that point I actually wished we had a Zuca. I'd have parked his little butt on it and dragged him out to the car. But I had to cajole and finagle him out, promising him a pillow for his leg and some rounds of Mario with dinner. I shut the car door and look back at him, still sullen. "Stupid toepicks," I say.
"Yeah. I'm going to grind them off on the sidewalk."
"Why not just pay attention next time. That will save me money on blades."
We get home and I set him up on the sofa, inspecting his hurt knee but finding no bruising or swelling. I put it up on a pillow just the same, bring him his dinner and we get massacred by Bowser and his Goombas for awhile. I offer him some Tylenol if it hurts too bad but he turned it down. I carried him to bed, put him in his pajamas and he settled in to read about birds and Junie B. Jones.
"Stitch, do you want me to watch your lessons?"
He looked at me. "Sort of."
"Well, if you want me to get lost, just do this," and I made a finger across the neck motion. "I'll leave."
"I can't do that if I have to hold my arms out."
"You never do that anyway."
He rolled his eyes.
"If you want me to stay, I will. If you want me to leave, that's fine, too. I stepped away today because I thought I was bothering you," I explained.
"You weren't."
"I'll keep that in mind. Just tell me what to do."
Still no bruising on the knee. This is actually a bit of a disappointment. One of the ways I cheer up a bad bruise is to make "Bruise People." Take an ink pen, draw around the perimeter of the bruise (the more bumpy, the better), add a face and stick some arms and legs out of it. Voila. Stitch gets a kick out of me drawing on him, and a collection of bruise people usually ends hilariously. At one point we had two cops and a fireman. I was really hoping for a Bruise Mona Lisa, but it looks like I'll have to wait. Oh well.
I gathered up the things and went to the Lobby to find a suitable spot to figure out what to do with myself for the next half hour. I'd finished my book, I didn't have a beading project, there wasn't anyone to talk to, so I got a Diet Coke and lingered by the window. Stitch saw me watching and rolled his eyes, so I assumed this was a "get lost" look. I wandered around, debating snagging a new book but I've already got two in the stack at home, plus another title I need to find. I watched the skateboarders outside and wandered back in, where Ms V caught me and started talking about her husband getting all ready for baseball season. Her car is apparently loaded with half the contents of Sports Authority, and she isn't sure what's going on, giving some horrendous figure he's spent on all this stuff.
I looked up, seeing Coach supporting Stitch by his backside. This didn't bother me, this is typical for Shoot the Duck, but then I noticed Stitch crying.
"Is he all right?" Ms V was suddenly concerned.
Coach's usual response to a fall is to give them hard looks until they get up, so either Stitch snowed her with a really good injury act or this is serious. Whatever it is, I need to intervene.
I get into the Rink and Stitch is performing his Lump of Pain Routine, so Coach is forced to shove him out of the ice door where he nearly keels over on me. He's all red faced, sniffles, crying and tears and mess and goo. "What hurts, where did you fall," I ask.
He cries harder.
"He fell on a spiral," Coach says. "He looked around and lost his focus."
Damn toepicks. "What hurts," I repeat, firmer to get through the tears.
Stitch indicates his knee, the same knee that got whaled by a bathroom door stall just a few days ago which earned him a band-aid and pity points from Teacher.
"Okay," I acknowledge. I send Ms V for an ice pack so she'll stop hovering, and I comfort Stitch. Coach goes back on the ice.
"Breathe, just breathe. Slow down. It's all right."
Stitch huffles and sighs, still gooey and red.
Other people nearby tell him he was doing great, but this just makes him madder.
"Stitch, were you looking for me on that spiral?" I ask him.
He nods.
"I thought I was bugging you so I left. I'm sorry."
He snuffles and buries his head in my scarf.
The lesson ends and Coach comes to check on him. "Will he survive?"
"Probably," I sigh. I figure this was partially serious, but mostly an act.
We leave and Stitch is sullen, angry, limping and hurt inside and out. Ms V keeps chattering and Gordon attempts to cheer Stitch by getting out toys and playing with his tiger soakers. I get off skates and put Stitch's shoes on backwards, which gets him finally talking. "Mom, you know those are on the wrong feet."
"Did I do that? That was silly of me... I guess I was listening to Gordon tell me about those cool toys."
Stitch looks over and Gordon's got some spinning top thing, which they both get absorbed in and suddenly the knee isn't so bad. Ms V starts dragging Gordon away, I pack up Stitch and we're off. Sort of. Stitch is limping dramatically out the door. "The pain, the pain..." he moans.
At that point I actually wished we had a Zuca. I'd have parked his little butt on it and dragged him out to the car. But I had to cajole and finagle him out, promising him a pillow for his leg and some rounds of Mario with dinner. I shut the car door and look back at him, still sullen. "Stupid toepicks," I say.
"Yeah. I'm going to grind them off on the sidewalk."
"Why not just pay attention next time. That will save me money on blades."
We get home and I set him up on the sofa, inspecting his hurt knee but finding no bruising or swelling. I put it up on a pillow just the same, bring him his dinner and we get massacred by Bowser and his Goombas for awhile. I offer him some Tylenol if it hurts too bad but he turned it down. I carried him to bed, put him in his pajamas and he settled in to read about birds and Junie B. Jones.
"Stitch, do you want me to watch your lessons?"
He looked at me. "Sort of."
"Well, if you want me to get lost, just do this," and I made a finger across the neck motion. "I'll leave."
"I can't do that if I have to hold my arms out."
"You never do that anyway."
He rolled his eyes.
"If you want me to stay, I will. If you want me to leave, that's fine, too. I stepped away today because I thought I was bothering you," I explained.
"You weren't."
"I'll keep that in mind. Just tell me what to do."
Still no bruising on the knee. This is actually a bit of a disappointment. One of the ways I cheer up a bad bruise is to make "Bruise People." Take an ink pen, draw around the perimeter of the bruise (the more bumpy, the better), add a face and stick some arms and legs out of it. Voila. Stitch gets a kick out of me drawing on him, and a collection of bruise people usually ends hilariously. At one point we had two cops and a fireman. I was really hoping for a Bruise Mona Lisa, but it looks like I'll have to wait. Oh well.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
What's the Buzz
The past three Saturdays, I've been up in the stands wondering what the objectives are to Pre-Freestyle. I have a pretty good understanding of the ISI curriculum, but this level isn't on it and I couldn't really place what the kids were doing. I get that there needs to be a "bridge" level and I support that, but it would help me as a good and supportive skating parent to know exactly what's up. No one seemed too interested in telling me.
Last night Coach was saying that Gordon needed to skate more, practice more. Ms V relayed the frustration of getting a small boy to practice independently, so I showed Ms V "The List" of moves, which I knew I'd have to revamp. Coach looked it over and then got me the testing sheet for the freestyle levels, circling the Pre-FS and FS1 lists. "Do that," she said.
Ah HA! I stuffed that paper in my pocket, my own map to lost pirate treasure! NOW I know what's going on! When I got home, how disappointed I was when I didn't have a clue what a backwards "Dogbone" crossover was.
The old testing sheets through the Alphabet levels grades kids on a black and white, pass or fail ("needs improvement" to be nice about it) basis. The Freestyle testing sheets are different in that you get a number grade, with 0 being "Suck" and 10 being "Medal Material." To pass a level, you have to get at least a score of 5 on each element.
This sheet also makes plain that the test you get at the end of each level isn't the real deal, that you need to hold membership in ISI, and talk to the Skating Director to schedule and pay for a formal test. Any tests over FS7 get done through the District. Again, why this can't be explained in the Alphabet levels is beyond me.
The stated objectives of Pre-Freestyle are as follows:
Entrance for Spin
Entrance for Jumps
Check Out Position
Backwards 1 Foot Glide on a Circle
Waltz 3 Turns
Power 3 Turns
Backward "dogbone" Crossover
All this makes perfect sense. Except the Dogbone part, WTF is that? I think I know, but then again I thought the Half Flip was a Ballet Jump for awhile.
Objectives for FS1 are:
Forward Inside Pivot (Stick your toe in the ice and spin around)
One Half Flip (that dig/hop/turn thing)
Forward Spiral
Two Foot Spin
Waltz Jump
Backwards Edges, outside and inside
Stitch is doing a lot of moves from FS1, so much so that Two Foot Spins are nearing my list of "things that if I see many more of, I will puke." Swizzle still tops this list. Backwards edges have their good days and bad days, much like forward spirals which can either be graceful as a boy can get or resemble an albatross struggling for lift off. The basics are still with us, with Stitch of the belief he's already good at forward crossovers so he doesn't need do them at all during warmups. (You try telling a stubborn little boy that there's always room for improvement. Let me know how far you get. In the meantime, I'll be in the stands, mortified.)
Power 3's I anticipate being a hurdle. There's just a lot of coordination going on that I think is hard for a little boy brain to process. Gordon's much better at the turns than Stitch is, and he's just as flummoxed. But that's okay. Summer is coming, and when he's not in the woods up north or camping with me, he'll be in the rink with Coach and they can work on it.
If all else fails, throw them into a program and he'll figure them out.
Last night Coach was saying that Gordon needed to skate more, practice more. Ms V relayed the frustration of getting a small boy to practice independently, so I showed Ms V "The List" of moves, which I knew I'd have to revamp. Coach looked it over and then got me the testing sheet for the freestyle levels, circling the Pre-FS and FS1 lists. "Do that," she said.
Ah HA! I stuffed that paper in my pocket, my own map to lost pirate treasure! NOW I know what's going on! When I got home, how disappointed I was when I didn't have a clue what a backwards "Dogbone" crossover was.
The old testing sheets through the Alphabet levels grades kids on a black and white, pass or fail ("needs improvement" to be nice about it) basis. The Freestyle testing sheets are different in that you get a number grade, with 0 being "Suck" and 10 being "Medal Material." To pass a level, you have to get at least a score of 5 on each element.
This sheet also makes plain that the test you get at the end of each level isn't the real deal, that you need to hold membership in ISI, and talk to the Skating Director to schedule and pay for a formal test. Any tests over FS7 get done through the District. Again, why this can't be explained in the Alphabet levels is beyond me.
The stated objectives of Pre-Freestyle are as follows:
Entrance for Spin
Entrance for Jumps
Check Out Position
Backwards 1 Foot Glide on a Circle
Waltz 3 Turns
Power 3 Turns
Backward "dogbone" Crossover
All this makes perfect sense. Except the Dogbone part, WTF is that? I think I know, but then again I thought the Half Flip was a Ballet Jump for awhile.
Objectives for FS1 are:
Forward Inside Pivot (Stick your toe in the ice and spin around)
One Half Flip (that dig/hop/turn thing)
Forward Spiral
Two Foot Spin
Waltz Jump
Backwards Edges, outside and inside
Stitch is doing a lot of moves from FS1, so much so that Two Foot Spins are nearing my list of "things that if I see many more of, I will puke." Swizzle still tops this list. Backwards edges have their good days and bad days, much like forward spirals which can either be graceful as a boy can get or resemble an albatross struggling for lift off. The basics are still with us, with Stitch of the belief he's already good at forward crossovers so he doesn't need do them at all during warmups. (You try telling a stubborn little boy that there's always room for improvement. Let me know how far you get. In the meantime, I'll be in the stands, mortified.)
Power 3's I anticipate being a hurdle. There's just a lot of coordination going on that I think is hard for a little boy brain to process. Gordon's much better at the turns than Stitch is, and he's just as flummoxed. But that's okay. Summer is coming, and when he's not in the woods up north or camping with me, he'll be in the rink with Coach and they can work on it.
If all else fails, throw them into a program and he'll figure them out.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Growing Up
Last night at public skate, Stitch brought his own copy of some Michael Jackson songs. Some old friends and new friends showed up, I sat in the stands to talk, looking up to watch Stitch dance and play. He kept watching me to watch for him, jumping his new jump and doing his new moves.
I got absorbed in the debate over the fit of some child's skates, looking up in time to see Stitch hop from one foot to the other, but trip on a toepick and take a hard dive on his chest. I could see what happened; he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him again, his mouth open and his eyes full of that momentary terror. I stood up, flashing my "OK" sign and when it wasn't returned I moved to the ice door. Stitch looked at me, mad as hell, his face red and tears in his eyes. He motioned for me to STAY PUT.
I sat down, my friend asking if he was all right. "I think so, but he's crying."
"He's still putting on a show for us."
"He is, but he's crying."
Stitch was still skating; spinning and lunging, fighting back his tears.
Friend shrugged. "He's all right."
And Stitch was. After awhile, he got over it. He came off the ice awhile later, still mad.
"Stitch, what's wrong? Are you okay? Do you hurt anywhere?"
He glared at me. "I'm fine."
"Then why are you mad?"
"Because when you're at a theatre, and someone falls, do you do this?" he made my "OK" sign. "No! You don't! That ruined my show! Don't do that!"
"Stitch, I'm your mom. I'm going to worry about you every time you fall; on the ice, on the playground, at home, everywhere. That's my job. I only do OK because you can't hear me out there, you know that. I just need to know that you're all right."
Stitch was mad for awhile longer, but went back onto the ice. Before too long he was smiling and playing with his friends again.
It even happened again, the same accident in the same way, and this time Stitch got up, flashed "OK" at me and kept going. I didn't even have to get up. As it turns out, I even missed a hard fall during lessons that day. It happened while I was in the lobby getting coffee, and I was sorely reprimanded in the car ride home. That night I felt his knees for bruises and his feet for blisters. His knees were dry, and I caught a red patch on his ankle from where the top of his boot had rubbed too much. He rolled his eyes at me as I put lotion and Neosporin on him. "This is my job," I said.
Little boys stop being little so fast. A few nights ago we were looking through the old baby pictures. "Remember the squirrel we took in?" I pointed to a picture. "That was the first one."
"What happened to him?"
"He was just a baby. We kept him for a few days until I could get him to an animal sanctuary. They let him go when he was old enough." That one was wandering aimlessly around a playground and balled between my feet. I picked him up and carried him home, where we fed him puppy milk to get him through those days.
"What about that other one?"
I found that one on the ground during a bad storm, sitting, soaked and growling at the world. "That one was just stunned after he fell out of his tree. He was fine after a few hours. I just let him go." Yes, that squirrel was fine, jumping around in the animal carrier I was keeping him in. I had to hold it at arm's length and dump it upside down for fear of him jumping out and back at me. Wild animals don't have much thought for a good Samaritan.
"Why couldn't we keep them?" Stitch asked. "They were cute."
"They were. But they didn't belong to us."
Ultimately, Stitch doesn't belong to us, either.
I got absorbed in the debate over the fit of some child's skates, looking up in time to see Stitch hop from one foot to the other, but trip on a toepick and take a hard dive on his chest. I could see what happened; he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him again, his mouth open and his eyes full of that momentary terror. I stood up, flashing my "OK" sign and when it wasn't returned I moved to the ice door. Stitch looked at me, mad as hell, his face red and tears in his eyes. He motioned for me to STAY PUT.
I sat down, my friend asking if he was all right. "I think so, but he's crying."
"He's still putting on a show for us."
"He is, but he's crying."
Stitch was still skating; spinning and lunging, fighting back his tears.
Friend shrugged. "He's all right."
And Stitch was. After awhile, he got over it. He came off the ice awhile later, still mad.
"Stitch, what's wrong? Are you okay? Do you hurt anywhere?"
He glared at me. "I'm fine."
"Then why are you mad?"
"Because when you're at a theatre, and someone falls, do you do this?" he made my "OK" sign. "No! You don't! That ruined my show! Don't do that!"
"Stitch, I'm your mom. I'm going to worry about you every time you fall; on the ice, on the playground, at home, everywhere. That's my job. I only do OK because you can't hear me out there, you know that. I just need to know that you're all right."
Stitch was mad for awhile longer, but went back onto the ice. Before too long he was smiling and playing with his friends again.
It even happened again, the same accident in the same way, and this time Stitch got up, flashed "OK" at me and kept going. I didn't even have to get up. As it turns out, I even missed a hard fall during lessons that day. It happened while I was in the lobby getting coffee, and I was sorely reprimanded in the car ride home. That night I felt his knees for bruises and his feet for blisters. His knees were dry, and I caught a red patch on his ankle from where the top of his boot had rubbed too much. He rolled his eyes at me as I put lotion and Neosporin on him. "This is my job," I said.
Little boys stop being little so fast. A few nights ago we were looking through the old baby pictures. "Remember the squirrel we took in?" I pointed to a picture. "That was the first one."
"What happened to him?"
"He was just a baby. We kept him for a few days until I could get him to an animal sanctuary. They let him go when he was old enough." That one was wandering aimlessly around a playground and balled between my feet. I picked him up and carried him home, where we fed him puppy milk to get him through those days.
"What about that other one?"
I found that one on the ground during a bad storm, sitting, soaked and growling at the world. "That one was just stunned after he fell out of his tree. He was fine after a few hours. I just let him go." Yes, that squirrel was fine, jumping around in the animal carrier I was keeping him in. I had to hold it at arm's length and dump it upside down for fear of him jumping out and back at me. Wild animals don't have much thought for a good Samaritan.
"Why couldn't we keep them?" Stitch asked. "They were cute."
"They were. But they didn't belong to us."
Ultimately, Stitch doesn't belong to us, either.
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