Eli's--and others'--antics

Last Saturday we took a daytrip to Lutherstadt-Wittenberg, the city made famous by, and later renamed for, Martin Luther. It was here that Luther allegedly nailed his ninety-five thesis to the door of the Schlosskirche in 1517; here that he preached the first sermon of the Reformed Church in 1521; here that he married a former nun, taught at the university, raised his children, and sent forth a torrent of fiery pamphlets and polemical books that remade the German language and divided the European continent. We visited all of these Reformation landmarks, and a small but impressive animal park besides.

Needless to say, the girls loved this last site the best. The animal park had a goat pen, and the girls were allowed to go inside and pet the goats, including a pair of adorable baby goats. Katharine cooed over the babies but cowered before their parents. I had to hoist her up to safety more than once. Eli loved all of it. She plucked out some grass that grew between two rocks and fed it to the goats. After we left the pen, she fed some to herself. We gently invited her to think about what sorts of substances might have been showered on that grass.

Toward the end of our ride home we had to switch from a regional train to the Berlin S-Bahn. Just as we were reaching our S-Bahn stop, Eli dropped a bead under the bench. No matter how many thousands of beads we have floating around our apartment, Eli prizes every bead individually, and like the young man hurling star fish into the ocean in the timeless tale of youth sacrament speakers, she was determined to save this one—connection or no connection. Eli flung herself, face first, under the bench, deftly navigating the narrow space between the bicycle of one passenger and the elevated feet of another. She contorted her slender frame into impossible positions, stretched her arm with a virtuosity that would inspire Inspector Gadget’s envy, and finally clutched the precious bead in the clasp of five loving fingers. “Eli, what are you doing?” asked Julia prosaically. Eli, feeling her heroism disparaged by such an unromantic question, fired back: “What does it look like I’m doing?!?! I’m grabbing my bead!!!! Why do you think THAT is so CRAZY!!!???!!!???” It was an impassioned speech, but most onlookers agreed that Julia had a point.

We did make our connection, but not without another scare. As we made our way toward the escalator toward our local S-Bahn line, we realized that someone was missing. “Where’s Eli?” I asked. We all looked round for a panicked moment before Lia spotted her, staring hypnotized at the flashing lights of a well-placed billboard. Apparently Eli wasn’t the only one dazzled by the lights of the S-Bahn station. As we waited for our train a couple minutes later, we noticed a fellow forty yards or so down the platform, spinning round relentlessly with both arms extended. He may have been mad. Or he may have been engaged in vigorous calisthenics, which Germans undertake in the oddest of places.

On Sunday, during our ride home from Church, I was standing next to the subway door while Eli sat next to a stranger on the bench next to me. My thoughts wandered for a moment, but I was returned to earth by the realization that the stranger next to Eli—a girl, presumably about twenty—was playing some sort of racing game on her iPhone—and that Eli was observing this game with her face about four inches away from the screen. Eli’s neighbor had headphones on and was oblivious of her spectator. Eli could not understand my suggestion that she was acting amiss. “What?” she cried. “I’m just watching!”

A couple nights ago, after tucking the girls into bed for about the fourth time—I should specify that I was tucking one of the girls into bed for the fourth time, though Katharine might object to my mentioning her name—Eli called out to me an earnest admonition. “Daddy!” she hissed. “If you ever come across a frog or a spider, DON’T KILL IT!!! It may be that a witch turned me or Julia into a frog or a spider.” I assured her that all frogs are safe with me, but she’d better hope no one morphs her into a spider . . .

This morning while Lia was making breakfast, Katharine came trotting serenely into the kitchen, inconspicuously opened the cupboard under the sink, smilingly removed the roll of garbage bags, then flittered merrily back to her bedroom. Suspicious, we all thought together, and Lia followed after to investigate. She found Katharine standing in the playroom like a messenger of state. She rolled out some garbage bags like a scroll and solemnly read out: “Every girl is invited to a royal ball on Wednesday—BY ORDER OF THE QUEEN!!!” And that, alas, is why I can’t finish this post. I have a ball to get to, Lia’s orders.