Hanging onto innocence

For how long, nobody knows

Over the weekend we went to the Berkshires and stayed in one of the last remaining gems of an Airbnb that I believe to be left in the tri-state area. Jacob and I had also stayed there in December, and had a gifted night on account of minor plumbing issues. We took the kids hoping it would snow while we were there. Snow, or anything nature-given, seemed like respite from the impending inauguration.

The house had the relative sparsity of being both recently renovated, and owned by a childless couple. The walls exhibited the paintings of one of the owners, visibly inspired by the geometries and lines of Agnes Martin, if Martin had embraced color and saturation. In the large, main room, formerly a schoolhouse in the 1800s, the ceilings soared thirty, thirty-five feet, with handsome exposed beams crossing east to west. There were two couches, a gas stove, a dining table, a candelabra, and a small selection of art books: Andy Goldsworthy, Donald Judd, Agnes Martin among them.

I relished the openness. All the lights were on dimmers. There were so few things, mess barely seemed possible. We lit the candles; the peacefulness an occasion.

Upstairs there were two twin beds, impeccably dressed in hand-embroidered quilts, linen duvets, and decorative pillows that one might call darling. It’s the kind of bed-making I used to Pinterest in my twenties, when I thought an important part of marking my adulthood had to do with the stylings of my bed, and the way that when I was an adult, I would have the luxury to layer a bedspread and a duvet and a quilt, each with complimentary patterns, colors, and threadcounts.

It turns out that I’ve never had a bed like this, but I like staying at a place that affords so many decorative pillows. One of the kid’s beds has a pillow in the shape of a wide open eye. The other has a pillow in the shape of a spiderweb, with a tiny embroidered arachnid stuck between threads.

Ada looks around upstairs and says, defiantly, “This doesn’t really seem like a fun house for kids.” I ask her why and she says, “You know. It needs more things. It’s kind of boring.”

She opens her backpack, which is entirely full of things that she is so relieved she packed: fidgets, stuffed animals, assorted bookmarks, four books, markers, a drawing pad, a maze book, various stretchable and squeezable objects, multiple issues of Kazoo magazine, a flashlight, a headlamp, a wallet, a toy sound machine, a water bottle. She starts to distribute the objects all over the room, placing things on every surface, then looks around to admire the entertainment she’s provided herself.

Notably, there is no TV.

The next morning, by the time I wake up, the kids have folded upwards of forty paper boats. Ada has taught Julian how to do this, and he sits on one of the couches, exclaiming that this is the most fun he has ever had in his entire life. The sink is full of water and there’s a boat floating in it. Julian is using his not-that-smart knockoff Apple smartwatch to time how long it will take the boat to sink, while announcing a lot of facts about the Titanic’s destruction. As each minute passes, their ecstasy grows. 8 minutes. 9 minutes. 10 minutes. It seems insane to all of us that paper, flat, sinks almost immediately, but paper, folded, could last over 10 minutes upright.

It sinks at 10 minutes, 49 seconds—slowly, then all at once.

delightedly folding paper boats

We do a second test, where each family member writes their name on a boat: one green, two blue, one orange. Whose will last the longest? Two of the boats last around 15 minutes, and the other two last so long that after forty minutes, we decide we need to change out of our pajamas. Ada is drawing while waiting, and intermittently peeking at the sink, and Julian is racing around the house with his watch, giving everyone updates on the boats’ progress.

The weekend’s earnestness continues a lot like this, by design. We go tubing, and to a museum where after grumping about the length of the car ride to get there, Ada is inspired to draw and draw and draw, and begs to come back. We have a family game night as a snowstorm rolls in and play many rounds of Sushi Go and Monopoly Deal. The kids do any number of victory dances. Ada asks why Mariah Carey is famous and we play all the hits off of “Music Box.” We take turns picking songs. We eat Cheetos, sliced apples, and some overpriced organic mango snacks, and then at bedtime the kids ask what we are having for dinner and we heat up pizza from the refrigerator.

It is, as we all know, the night before MLK day and the Inauguration. It’s very hygge in the house, but also Jacob and I are both intermittently reading headlines and both trying not to. I’m relishing—deeply envious even—of what I think of as my kids’ utter innocence.

I’m envious that they’re not consciously cultivating inner quiet. They’re not thinking about how hard they need to focus in what we now call the “attention economy.” They’re okay staring at paper boats in a sink for an hour. They’re okay sitting in a closet, empty but for pillows and blankets, devising theories about whether the house is haunted or not. They are not trying to fight distraction or intentionally avoid information. They don’t have to filter to self-preserve; they’re acting out of a more animal sense of joy, pleasure, and desires, where not knowing isn’t ignorance.

I’d like to keep them in this protected little shroud, but also know that’s privileged, naive, and truly impossible, which I hate.

In the morning we wake up to a blanket of snow. Temperatures have plummeted but it’s sunny with blue skies, and the yard is glistening. The kids suit up and head outside while Jacob and I clean up the house, gather our things, wash the dishes, and—occasionally—scroll on our phones and show each other reels. The inauguration is minutes away. Do the kids not feel this sea change? Outside they are making snow angels, and breaking icicles off of the underside of the car. They brush the snow off the rugged bark of two giant oak trees in the yard. I’m wondering for how long what you don’t know can’t hurt you. It’s definitely not forever, but it is still for today.

---

Recommendations:

• To watch: Inspired by the books in the house, we watched the gorgeous 2001 documentary about Andy Goldworthy, Rivers and Tides (available for free on Youtube or on Prime). It’s a perfect meditation for these times. I also learned there’s a sequel, Leaning into the Wind, from 2018, that I haven’t seen yet, but am very excited to.

• To watch: Queer. I’m curious what people think. I suspect the source text (by William S. Boroughs) was very challenging to turn into a script and the writing felt patchy, but loved the styling and visceral quality to this movie and seeing Daniel Craig in a non-007 role. Lots of heat, just like Challengers.

• To listen: We listened to at least 10 episodes of Grimm, Grimmer, Grimmest, the podcast for kids telling some of the original Grimm’s fairytales. Great storytelling + high quality production. The kids couldn’t get enough.

• Mag for kids: The kids are both loving Kazoo magazine, which have themes like Brave, Weird, Fun, Clever, etc, and are full of tons of games and activities. While technically “for girls,” both kids love them.

• Also to listen: This episode of Song Exploder with Adrienne Lenker about her song, Sadness is a gift. So beautiful.

• A good soup for cold days: chicken + rice noodles in coconut lime broth.

• A better breakfast: I went down a TikTok rabbit hole on overnight oats (lol) because I needed more substantial breakfasts before tennis practice, but now make them all the time. Here’s my go-to recipe: 1/2 cup oats, pinch of cinnamon, 1 tablespoon flax meal, 1 tablespoon chia, chopped dates. Mix. Cover in milk of choice. Add heaping spoon of peanut butter, a little maple syrup, and a heaping spoon of yogurt of choice. Mix again. Let sit at least 12 hours, ideally a bit longer. Eat with extra yogurt/berries on top.

Recommendations, pls: where’s your favorite not-overly-touristy place that you’ve visited in the summer?