Oh Worthington, Why Have You Forsaken Me?

Yesterday morning I was happily baking with my boys when a cop walked up to our door. I watched him walk up the driveway, looking at our two vehicles and peering into our garage. Our garage is a little sketchy looking, I must admit, and the garage door was opened. It is packed with old metal working and wood working equipment, and Craig is currently “spooging,” a word that makes me blush but apparently means cleaning rust and paint off of metal objects using a car battery and a large tub of some sort of liquid. I’m lucky the officer didn’t ask me about that, since it looks like someone is up to something sketchy.

The cop informed me that one of our neighbors called to report our vehicles because they don’t have Ohio license plates. I told the cop that we are Alaska residents since Craig has always been a student. The cop seemed to imply that we should be Ohio residents, that we shouldn’t live in Worthington, and that I’m a bad mother all in one conversation.

“You need Ohio plates and Ohio licenses in order to establish Ohio residency,” he said.

“Well, my husband is only doing a postdoc, sort of a temporary internship,” I told him, since he clearly didn’t know what I was talking about.

“So he has taken a job here and you have lived here for a year?” he asked.

“Yes, but we are Alaska residents and we intend to return to Alaska after he is done with his schooling,” I answered.

“Well, your tags are expired on the jeep,” he went on, “and Worthington has an ordinance against junk vehicles, even parked in your own yard,” he answered.

Okay, I understand that our Mercedes isn’t much to look at, but a junk vehicle? I just drove it to Target a few days ago! Of course, I didn’t want to tell the officer that because we aren’t carrying insurance on it since we try not to drive much. But it was a hot day—too hot for walking two miles there and two miles back—and Craig had taken the jeep somewhere, an unusual situation since we don’t drive much these days.

“Well, we don’t drive much which is why we forgot about the tags on the jeep, but we’ll take care of that as soon as possible,” I answered.

“Well what if you want to take your kids to the movies or on a trip?” he asked.

I was starting to get annoyed. I’m getting in trouble for trying to conserve gas and for having an ugly car? And what, I’m a bad mom because I don’t take my kids on road trips?

Going back to his residency speech, which I really don’t think is his business, he asked, “Do you work in Ohio?”

“No, I stay home with my kids,” I answered.

“Well, you have purchased a home,” he stated. There aren’t a lot of rental homes in this community.

“Actually, we just rent,” I replied.

Beyond the annoying police officer who made me feel like an awful, unsettled, poor, non-working mother, there is the whole issue of a neighbor reporting our vehicles. Why would anyone care? It must be someone who doesn’t like us for some reason. Someone who is annoyed by the junk in our yard—junk which, by the way, pales in comparison to junky yards in Alaska where we are from.

A month or so ago I met a woman at the park who had a big impact on my perception of Worthington. I was finally feeling a little settled here, recognizing the assets of our community, and then I met a woman named Margot who clinched my appreciation for this town. She is originally from Maine and then had moved to Boston, finally settling here. Her path, so similar to my Alaska, Chicago, Worthington path, made me feel automatically close to her. And then she said to me, “Worthington is just like a warm hug—it cradles you. People here are so nice and friendly.” And after she said that, I was beginning to believe that Worthington, Ohio was embracing my family and me.

And now I feel like Worthington is mad at us. It doesn’t like our lawn that is a little too long, our ugly (but functional!) car, or our garage that is jam-packed with crazy stuff. Oh, Worthington, you have betrayed me! Your embrace has become a sea of closed doors, nosy people peering through windows, self-righteous citizens who drive gas-guzzling vehicles to the farmer’s market to purchase expensive gourmet pies.

Weaning

Happy birthday to you, Henry! Your wonderful present is that you no longer get to do the one thing that you love more than anything, the one thing you ask for when you are afraid or hurt or lonely, the one thing that is only yours in this household where you wield so little power and control.

Don’t you know you are such a big boy? You are so big now! You use the big boy potty and ride a big boy bike! And you don’t get nursies any more! Yay!!!

To be fair to myself, I decided to try the cold turkey method out as a test. I figured that I could always go back to letting Henry nurse. But when I asked him if he wanted to stop nursing after his third birthday, he said yes. So I decided to go with it and give it a shot. So we talked it up, Craig and I.

With Luke, child-led weaning worked out. The philosophy worked with the child, and with a few gentle nudges from me, Luke weaned at two and a half.

But Henry wasn’t showing many signs of cutting back. And he persisted in waking up every morning at 4:45 a.m. with the hopes of scoring a hit off the nursies, even though I supposedly night weaned him a year and a half ago. I guess he has been hoping all this time to convince me that 4:45 is the morning. And the whining for nursies at any and all times of day was doing me in.

And, I’ll admit, part of my desire to wean has been that no one around here, from what I can tell, nurses a kid that can talk. And Henry can certainly talk.

“Mom, can I have my nursies?” he yelled across the library one day.

And, “Can I tell the nursies that I love them?” once when we had friends over for dinner.

The cold-turkey method has gone really well, actually, with only a few episodes of whining and begging. I have generally been able to distract Henry.

But part of me worries that I’m doing some sort of damage. He has started sucking his thumb a little bit—albeit halfheartedly and in imitation of Luke—and the other day, a month after his birthday, he looked earnestly into my eyes and asked to nurse.

“I have been waiting and waiting and waiting. Is it time for nursies YET?”

He is a persistent child.

And This is the Reason I Was Feeling Nostalgic

For a little while—about fourteen hours or so—I thought I was pregnant. And this was surprising and overwhelming and also really wonderful. It made me think a lot about babies and toddlers and go back and look at a lot of old pictures of Luke and Henry when they were wee little things.

But let me go back and tell this like a proper story.

First of all—and I’ll be purposely vague here, since I know my dad reads this blog—let me just say that it is probably not a great idea to order free samples of birth control over the internet, especially if it is a type you have never used before, and then attempt to use it after drinking several celebratory glasses of birthday wine.

So in the back of my mind I knew that there was a slim possibility of pregnancy. And I’m okay with that. I have been very ambivalent for the past year about having another child. On the one hand, I appreciate the rhythm that we have found in our lives as of late. We are finally feeling somewhat settled here. And our two active, outgoing boys keep us on our toes, to put it mildly. But. But. As much as I fear morning sickness and the pushing stage and, well, newborns in general, I long for another child.

But Craig doesn’t. Oh no, not one bit. Whenever the topic of another child comes up, Craig states, unequivocally and without hesitation, that he does not want any more children. Period. End of discussion.

And you know, when I discovered that the free sample appeared to be partially malfunctioning a few weeks ago, I did mention it to Craig. But I mentioned it to him mildly, while thinking, “Hmm, this may be my chance for a little accident.”

But of course, I never really thought I would get pregnant. I didn’t begin noticing any signs of pregnancy in the weeks following the free sample incident. But then I hurt my toe.

On the day that I got pregnant with Henry three years and ten months ago, I stumbled and fell and bruised my little toe very badly. And then, a few days after the free sample episode, I dropped a coffee cup on my big toe and thought I might have broken it. I still can’t wiggle it properly. So I thought it might be an omen.

When I was telling a friend about all of this, she asked, “So what symptoms of pregnancy are you having?”

“Hmm, well,” I paused. “There’s the hurt toe.”

Neither she nor Craig thought the toe was a clear indicator of my pregnancy, but I was growing increasingly convinced.

I finally took a pregnancy test a few days later. For some reason, the urine didn’t seep properly into the testing windows. I don’t think I held it flat. But I couldn’t waste ten whole dollars! So I pulled it apart and spread the urine onto the testing area. Hygienic, I know. By this point I was annoyed and convinced that I had ruined the test, so I threw it away. But a few hours later, I dug it out of the trashcan.

And I saw two lines.

Granted, the whole test was disassembled and the lines did look a little unusual. Thinner than I remember the lines on a pregnancy test. But two lines.

And I cried. A lot. Because even though I thought I wanted another child, I knew, in that crystalline instant, that I didn’t really want another child NOW. Because the thoughts that filled my head were of all the things I wished I had done before getting pregnant again. I wished I had gone to the dentist. I wished I had gotten myself established more firmly in my writing. I wished that I had gone to Hawaii to visit my friend Jenny. I wished I knew more about the homebirth climate in Ohio. I wished we had a little more money. I wished I had spent more time with Craig before the crazy hormones kicked in. And oh, how I could feel those hormones ALREADY. Of course I was pregnant! I was feeling extra hungry, very weepy, just a bit nauseous.

And then I heard Craig puttering around the house, whistling to himself. He sounded so happy. And I knew that he would not be terribly pleased to find out we were having another child. And that made me really sad.

Finally I got up the nerve to tell him, and he was kind and excited and also very worried.

It is funny how we form our identities. How we begin to believe something about ourselves and are then able to make it so. Not that I made myself pregnant that night, but I truly believed for that one night that I was pregnant. I cradled my little belly, which is really just leftover padding from the last two, but for that night was my third child. I couldn’t sleep at all—those pregnancy hormones, you know—and I was up often to use the bathroom. I snacked on crackers at midnight when I started feeling queasy. I read up online about various midwives in the area, and, after reading about one in particular that seemed very good and also affordable, I chanted her name as a mantra to the rhythm of my breath to ease my nerves and help myself finally fall asleep: “Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy.”

Well, I’ve already given away this punch line: I was not—am not—pregnant. I bought a multi-pack of pregnancy tests the next morning that have since confirmed several times that we are not expecting another baby.

It was an emotionally draining night, certainly. But it helped me to clarify what I want for our future. I think it also helped Craig open his mind, just a little bit, to the idea of another child.

But what it did, more than anything, was awake in both of us the possibility that our life together could dramatically change at any moment. Much more, really, than the addition of another child. But to us that felt huge, because for the most part, we have always made plans and they have worked out. As Craig so charmingly put it in his stunned ramblings right after I told him I thought I was pregnant: “We aren’t the kind of people who have accidents like this.” But we could be. I would go so far as to say that we are, because there are certainly accidents and surprises in store for us in our life. Not because we are any particular kind of people, but because we are people. We are human.

So for now I’m just looking at old pictures of Luke and Henry and thinking again about the softness of newborn skin and the satisfying weight of a baby in my arms.

Feeling Nostalgic

Taking Care of Each Other

Sunday, June 15 was my birthday, which coincided with Father’s Day. I was born on Father’s day, and so every once and a while this overlap occurs.

When I woke up, I wanted to be nice to Craig, it being Father’s Day and all. And I knew he would be nice to me since it was my birthday. I told him that I would take care of the kids for the morning and I would cook him a nice dinner. I asked Craig if he would watch the boys while I went for a pedicure and if he would help the boys bake me a cake. He pleasantly agreed.

Mid-morning, Craig sat with the boys outside for an hour—not even his scheduled child time!—while they all made me birthday cards.

As I started making dinner that evening, I told Craig that I had a surprise for him—a large and fancy beer from Whole Foods. And Craig reached up onto the top of the fridge and pulled down some expensive tequila that he had gotten for me.

Later that evening when we were talking to Craig’s parents, I heard him say, “Well, it is Ser’s birthday, too, so we took care of each other,” apparently in answer to the question about what we had done to celebrate Father’s Day.

His answer really struck me to the core, because I realized that so often we don’t take care of each other. We usually don’t start each day wondering what we can do for one another. I start the day scheming about what I can get Craig to do so that my day will be pleasant, and he starts the day staring into space and thinking about who knows what he thinks about in that spacey yet excessively rational mathematician’s head of his.

And so often, we get stuck in the same circular arguments that all come down to this: who works harder, whose work is worth more, and whether each hour staying at home with the kids is equal to each hour spent outside the home earning income for the family. And when I write this down we sound so petty and ridiculous—which we are, sometimes, but also we both care about living in a way that is mutually satisfying.

In all of my long-term friendships, the dynamic has been much more what can I give rather than what can I get. But sadly, too often I find myself wondering what I can get from Craig.

I’m sure that much of this is normal and natural. Craig and I feel the need to be more careful with each other, I suppose, to work out patterns that are sustainable, while with friends we can be more carefree with our generosity. We leave friends at the end of the day. But with one another we must work out a rhythm that is repeatable again and again for the rest of our lives.

But if we were to take care of one another a little more, engage in carefree generosity more often, this forbearance might just become joy. Think of that. The moments of happiness and flickers of delight might just settle in and take up residence here in this, our shared life.

My Little Monkey

Collectables

Luke and Henry are obsessed with collectables. I’m not sure of the origin of this term as they use it. The first time I remember hearing it was in reference to the half of a very large marble—the size of half a small apple—that Luke found in a stream bed one day over the winter. Luke obviously found this particular collectable, but Henry begged for it and then cried bitterly on and off for hours—hours!—when Luke refused to give it to him.

From what I remember, this ushered in the era of collectables in our house. And what an era it has been.

The boys are always on the prowl for collectables. For a while, the sought-after collectables were tiny plastic spheres that we kept finding all over our neighborhood. These spheres, about the size of half a raisin, have no holes and so cannot be beads. I really have no idea what they could be. But the boys wanted them, and wanted them bad. They each have about ten in their collections.

Ahh, these collections. I bought each of the boys a basket to set at his place at the table, since this is where the collectables always wind up. These compartmentalized baskets are now full, bursting with small sticks, unidentified plastic disks, shreds of colorful rubber and rusty hunks of metal.

I am not a saver. Craig is. In fact, I would go so far as to call him a closet packrat. This must be his fault.

The era of the collectables seems to be coming to an end. But I must admit, as much as I hate the mess and the rubble, as much as I long to sweep the overflowing baskets into a waiting trash bag, my boys’ habit of collecting has opened my eyes to some of the hidden riches just lying on the ground. Where I would have seen just asphalt, I now see colorful bits of potential; where once there was only grass there is now a hidden realm of undiscovered treasure.

Do We Look Alike?

Okay, here's a random blog post, and I actually do hope to write something about my amazing little sister some day, but until then, I just have a question: Do we look that much alike?

All her life, my sister--ten years younger than me--has been told she looks SO MUCH like me. People in the small community where we grew up are always accidentally calling her Ser. It has alway bugged her, but whenever we are out together and people tell us we look alike (or even, on occassion, ask us if we are twins!!!) I feel hugely flattered. Because I'm getting old and she's not.

But I have a theory that it is more related to mannerisms and striking family resemblance than anything. And also, we used to wear similar glasses.

So what do you think?

Why a Mommy Blog?

Before I started this blog, I didn’t fancy myself a writer. I mean, I knew I could write—I wrote hundreds and hundreds of pages of literary analysis in graduate school—but I thought of myself as an academic writer. A literary critic, perhaps. But since I decided not to get my PhD or become a professor, I basically figured that I was done with writing.

I started this blog a year and a half ago after my friend Jenny kept telling me that I should. I was always telling her stories about my boys’ shenanigans, and she thought I should write them down. Maybe she thought they were good, or maybe she just wanted me to stop talking so much so she could get a word in edgewise. I didn’t really take her seriously, but I did have one little problem: Jenny is a night person and I am a morning person. And so one morning at, oh, about 4:45 a.m. when I got up for the day with Henry (after waking to nurse him 11 times) when I really wanted to tell some stories about my horrible children, I started the blog.

I’m glad now to have a record of my kids’ lives. Especially because I am not much of a photographer. But what I have found remarkable is the amazing way in which writing these stories has helped me to see my children more clearly. As I write, I analyze their actions and turn our every day life together into narrative.

And what is really interesting to me is how telling these stories has actually changed my perception of my life with Luke and Henry. When we are having a horrible day—or when it isn’t even so bad but I’m sick and tired of watching their puppet shows and cutting crusts off of sandwiches and reading books—I begin to make meaning of it all. I see the moments of humor, the hilarity in the absurd, the way Luke hitting his brother fits into the theme of the day or the way that Henry’s confusing story demonstrates his interesting use of language.

When I’m on the lookout for stories, everything becomes more interesting. I can see our life through the eyes of someone else.

You know the way that time softens the edges of experience? The way that once our babies are walking we can’t quite remember how tiring it was to lug them around all day? Writing about my children and my husband and myself helps me to see us all through this softened lens a little sooner.

The Stuff of Imagination

Henry is entering the age of fantasy. He creates worlds inside his own imagination. He can often be found playing in a corner of the house with whatever objects happen to be lying around. The other morning, he held two cheerios in his hands, using them as puppets.

“Are you my mama?” one Cheerio asked of the other.

“Yes, you are my little boy,” answered Mama Cheerio.

As the conversation between baby and Mama Cheerio continued, I remembered Luke, around the age Henry is now, telling long and fantastical stories. But Luke’s imaginary world always seemed more anchored in big, mythological narrative. Luke’s plot lines involved good and bad guys, rescues, the slaying of dragons. Greek myth.

Henry’s imagination is sometimes just bizarre.

The other day I asked Henry to please stop kicking me. Without missing a beat and without a hint of a smile on his face, he asked, “Or you will throw me into a lake?”

He often comes up with ideas whose origins I can’t imagine. While we were driving a couple of weeks ago, Henry saw a man in his yard using a weed whacker.

“What is that man doing?” Henry asked.

“He is using a machine to cut weeds in his yard, but it is not for children to use,” I answered.

“I used that once when I was a man,” Henry replied.

“Oh, you were a man?” I asked.

Again, without so much as a pause, Henry explained, “One day a fairy turned me—poof!—into a man. And then I used that machine.”

While Henry’s fantasy world is often confusing and seemingly random, it has occurred to me that it reflects Henry’s personality in the same way that Luke’s narratives reflect his. Henry has always been riveted by details, personal interactions, tone of voice. Henry focuses on people, often so intently that he runs into walls, tumbles down stairs, trips on his own feet. His legs are covered with bruises.

This morning, the boys each put on a puppet show. Luke’s involved knights slaying dragons, then conquering the Cerberus to enter the underworld. (Yes, Luke owns a plastic Cerberus, the three-headed guard dog of the underworld of Greek Mythology. It was at the top of his Christmas list the year he was four.)

Henry’s show featured three dragons. And yet there was no slaying.

“Green dragon, will you be on my team?” one green dragon asked another.

“Yes. We are two mans on the same team,” the other green dragon replied.

Then a red dragon stepped in: “Can I be on your team?”

“Yes,” the first dragon replied. “We are a team with two green mans and one red woman dragon.”

And that was the show, folks.

I think that Henry’s focus on human interaction and nuance might be why he has been so much more interested in princesses and clothing than Luke ever was. Henry is intrigued by gender. He sees the differences between girls and boys and men and women. He is interested in teams, in what kinds of people are friends, in what type of people do what types of things.

How wonderful that I have one child to help me focus on the vistas, the overarching narratives, the archetypes, the myth, and another child who will turn my gaze toward the nuances of individual human emotion and interaction, toward the butterfly on the flower right before my very eyes.

Memorial

I visited Chicago a couple of weekends ago, and it was bittersweet. Bittersweet, but less so than when I visited last fall. Because gradually, with the pace of the year that has unfolded behind us in this slow town, I have come to feel a sense of belonging in Worthington, Ohio. Our family has found a new rhythm that works in this new town.

When I was in Chicago, I took a walk down to Lake Michigan. And I walked to the beach where I often took my little boys to swim in polluted water. My heart ached because there were pieces of them left in that sand, pieces of their younger selves. I looked for sea glass to bring home to them to add to their collection that they built from this very beach. Each wave that crashed to the shore erased a little more of their younger selves.

It isn’t Chicago that I miss so much anymore, but that time in our lives. I don’t want it back, but I ache for its passing. I don’t miss this view—a beautiful lake whose polluted water stretches toward skyscrapers on one side and factories on another—but for what happened here, which was nothing much. We splashed in the water while I barked orders for the boys to keep their mouths shut so as not to ingest the water. We scooped sand into buckets. We looked for treasures. I cradle the sea glass in my palm and will my memories into the blue, the green, the creamy white.

Last Monday we took the boys to a Memorial Day parade in our new town. As we were leaving the house, one of Luke’s good friends from school was passing our yard on his bike. He and his mom and sister decided to park their bikes in our yard and walk to the parade with us. Along the way, we met up with our neighbors and their three boys.

That pack of boys sat perched on the curb, jostling one another and joking and dancing when they discovered that they were sitting on an anthill. With ants in their pants, they wiggled and laughed and the sun shone down upon their heads. They unabashedly held hands, still young enough for this little boy gesture of friendship. They cheered for the horses, the fire trucks, the old men dressed in clown costumes.

And I stood behind them, holding my own private memorial. For one day, even next year, perhaps, I will stand in this same place and my heart will ache for this day. When Luke won’t hold hands with anyone anymore or Henry becomes terrified of clowns, I will miss this very spot on the side of the road, not a beautiful vista, but an everyday plot of dirt and pavement and grass and ants that holds a part of my boys’ childhood.

The Queen of the Park

Henry likes “pretty” things. Sparkly. Pink and purple. Shiny. Multi-colored and polka dotted. I find this trait quite charming. I let him wear a dress when he was 13 months old and he took a fancy to one in a pile of hand-me-downs. I bought him the polka-dotted flare leggings that he wanted from Target in the fall, and he has worn them at least once a week since.

But Henry also loves to play “like a boy.” He loves to wrestle and swordfight and play heroes and villains and run around the yard. He climbs like a maniac and rides a bike with no training wheels. He covets Luke’s bin of “special” superhero toys.

So I was somewhat taken aback when I returned home from Chicago and I presented him with the Bionicle that I brought him and he rejected it. Yes, these Lego toys are too old for him, what with their weapons and clear emphasis on fighting—not to mention small and easily lost parts—but he is obsessed with Luke’s Bionicles, and so I bought them each one at the Lego store while on my trip. But Henry wanted none of it, and since I had to stop at the grocery store on my way home from the airport, I told him I would give the Bionicle to a bigger boy and he could pick his own present.

I was happy to see that Kroger was having a big closeout on many of their toys, and I directed Henry toward some that I thought he might like (and that were conveniently marked down.) I pointed him to some Lego sets, a game or two, a talking Elmo (I was magnetically drawn toward the $9.99 price tag, down from $45.99). But Henry was not interested in my suggestions. He wanted the furry princess phone. It is pink and covered in sparkles and each button has a coordinating princess who speaks when her button is pushed. It cost the same as the Elmo, so I didn’t say no based on cost. I didn’t say no because it is a huge hunk of plastic electronic junk. No, I refused to buy this toy for Henry because he has had one previously. Yes, that’s right, Henry fell in love with this particular toy last fall when we were visiting my friend Jenny, and—imagine this!—she was all too willing to send it home with us when her daughter wasn’t looking. But after Henry played with it for a few weeks he forgot about it and I was able to sneak it away to donate to the thrift store.

After much discussion and negotiation in the toy aisle, Henry finally settled on the sparkly princess crown and earrings. I suggested many other options, ones that I thought he would play with more, but he was insistent that he needed the crown, and for five bucks I decided it was fine by me.

I find Henry’s love of “pretty” things so sweet and innocent. I also think this trait is a beautiful sign of his own personality, something that he doesn’t get from Luke, he certainly doesn’t get from Craig, and he doesn’t even really get from me (I’m more into cords and clogs than rhinestones and polka dots). But here’s the thing that worries me a bit: I also cling to Henry’s sometimes-unusual taste in clothing and toys because I don’t want to turn into every other person around me in this town. And the reason this worries me is that I don’t want to use my kid as my counter cultural mascot. So I try, I really try, to remain as neutral as possible about these things.

I almost got rid of Henry’s polka dot flares yesterday. I almost sent them to a friend who has a little girl. But Henry saw them sitting in a pile and said, “I want to wear those pants today!” So he did wear them to his gym class at the local community center, and there I heard a woman correcting her grandson who called Henry a boy: “No, I think that is a girl. She’s wearing little girl pants.”

And later, that same day, Henry rode his aqua and purple bike, the Huffy Sea Star that used to be Luke’s, to the park. And a young girl, probably nine years old, said, “Your little girl is so pretty!” So I said, “Oh, he’s a boy, but thanks!”

Once all the other kids left the park, I told Luke, “Now you are the king of the park!” And Henry said, “And I am the queen of the park!”

Oh Henry, my darling queen of the park, may you always wear whatever you like and ride your Sea Star with abandon, the wind in your hair and joy on your face. May you never be the mascot for anything but yourself.

Mother's Day

I have been meaning to post about Mother’s Day ever since, well, Mother’s Day. But time got away from me (including a lovely solo trip to Chicago) and now I am finally doing it.

This was the first Mother’s Day that anyone besides me seemed to take much notice. My lovely husband has many, many good qualities—such as being a great fixit man and shedding many an unexpected tear at sappy commercials—but celebrating minor holidays (anything besides Christmas and birthdays) is not one of these.

But Luke was finally excited this year about Mother’s Day. He has been a child slow to empathize with others. I worried a lot when he was younger because he seemed to think only of himself. I know this must be developmentally appropriate for a three year old, but I sometimes thought he seemed unusually self-centered. I remember him running into someone on his scooter and being more worried about the scooter than the person he hit, for example. But finally he seems to sometimes think of others and what might make them happy.

And so leading up to Mothers’ Day, Luke asked me what I might like. He told me he would clean the house. And he hinted that he was making me an extra special gift.

And let me tell you, it is extra special indeed.

At school, Luke filled in and illustrated a book for me. The first page is pre-labeled, “me and my mom,” and Luke drew a lovely picture of me looking strangely like an alien. I am blue and my hair looks remarkably like antennae.

On another page, the book says, “My mom and I go . . .” and Luke filled in, “to the moves.” Above the words, Luke drew a picture of monsters and wrote, “Da ov the ded.” Because, you see, Luke’s fantasy mom, the alien, would take him to a movie called Day of the Dead.

On another page the book says, “My mom and I like to . . .” and Luke wrote, “skatbord.” The alien mother also likes to skateboard with her son.

And yet another page says, “My mom and I read . . .” and Luke wrote “horr.” Now, lest you be concerned that Luke fantasizes about reading books about whores with me, he does not. He does, however, wish that I would read “horror” books with him, whatever those might be in his childish imagination.

I love this book, not only because of the time that Luke took to make it for me, not only for the way that it reveals his interests and demonstrates his writing skills, but because it reminds me of the human trait that is not quite empathy and that I am forever demonstrating myself: projecting ourselves onto others. When I want to do something nice for Craig, I make him a nice meal or bake him something. And he is a man who would eat a pile of beans every night for the rest of his life and be happy. I’m the foodie in our family.

And I am especially guilty of doing this to my children. It is so hard to see them for what they are without seeing myself in them. Part of this is unavoidable. We are wound up in one another in ways that we will never pull apart entirely. And I wouldn’t want us to.

But as Luke grows more and more toward a richer understanding of what it means to love others for what they are, I hope I can, too.

A Moment

It is impossible to describe the beauty of some moments in life, especially in the parenting that is my life right now. So much of my day is marked by prodding, discussing, packing, organizing, managing, explaining. But then there are moments of pure joy, moments of mundane life that crystallize into something purely lovely.

A few days ago Luke, Henry and I were driving to the local community center. It was raining outside. The late springtime green was lush in the wetness, even more so against the slate sky. We were listening to a mixed tape that Craig made at least a decade ago.

A song by Modest Mouse came on—I can’t even describe it because I don’t know enough about music, really, but a reviewer described their standard sound as filled with “twisted melodies, dense arrangements and off-kilter lyrics.” I really like Modest Mouse, and Luke has ever since, at age two, he fell in love with the song “Third Planet.” (For those of you who know Modest Mouse, Luke believes that the lyrics say, “I’ve got this thing that I consider my only art, JUMPING people over,” because Craig and I sing it this way really loudly. And those of you who don’t know Modest Mouse can probably guess what JUMPING is standing in for.)

I remember when I was pregnant with Luke and I was riding in the car with some friends and their young children and they were listening to the indie rock band Sebadoh, and I felt sad. I don’t know why, exactly, but it had something to do with my idealized notion of what it should be like to raise children while protecting their innocence.

As I parent, protecting my children’s innocence seems less and less important to me. I don’t want them exposed to things before they are ready, sure, but it has become clear to me that my children are flawed and human and, too, that they have their own interests and tastes. And, when I can, I want to enjoy and celebrate those things. I want to rejoice in their love of indie rock and Japanese animation and superheroes and capoiera and monsters.

So a Modest Mouse song came on, and I said, “I love this song,” and a blissed-out Luke sighed and said, “Yah, me too.” And Henry, sweet, Luke-loving Henry looked to Luke to see what Luke thought and then said, “Me too. I love this song too.” And the energy between us and from the song was beautiful and haunting and the weather outside was lovely and melancholy and we arrived at our destination but not one of us wanted to get out of the car until we listened to every last note of that song. We sat in the car in silence, loving the song and each other, while outside it rained.

Trying to Be Cool

Dead Meat

Does anyone else remember the expression, “You are dead meat!” I remember saying this, probably back in elementary school and most likely to one of my little brothers. I don’t think I ever thought about what a horrible thing it was to say. I must not have been a very thoughtful child. Or perhaps I forget my own thoughtfulness.

Luke, though, certainly understands the ramifications of such a statement, for dead meat has been one of his moral conundrums since he was a wee little guy. At age two, Luke became a vegetarian. I don’t now remember how the conversation came about, but the inevitable day came when Luke asked about meat, and learned that “beef” was really a sneaky way of saying “cow,” and so on and so forth. I suspect that most children do not have this conversation with their parents at age two. Henry, meat lover that he is, has never thought to ask where it comes from. But while Henry is physically precocious, Luke is—hmm, how shall I characterize this particular trait?—philosophically precocious.

So, after learning about the origins of meat at age two, Luke became a vegetarian. Granted, he didn’t eat a lot of meat to begin with. He liked hot dogs at the time, though. Craig told me I should just go ahead and let Luke eat hot dogs, that Luke wouldn’t know the difference. That seemed mean to me, though, and so when Luke would ask to buy hot dogs at the store, I would tell him what they contained and ask if he would prefer the ones made of soybeans, which he did. We never really found a brand of soy dogs that we liked, but we both agreed that Trader Joe’s soy corndogs were pretty tasty.

Complicating Luke’s understanding of meat is the fact that we are from Alaska, where many people hunt and fish. His grandpa and his daddy do. I have never personally shot an animal, but I have butchered a moose. I tell Luke that daddy and grandpa only shoot animals they want to eat, and that they feel thankful that the animal gave its life so that we could eat.

Lately, Luke has been more concerned about appearing “cool” to his peers, and more preoccupied with things that I believe he is learning from his classmates. Lately, he has wanted to “play sports.” He asked me to buy him a soccer shirt, and he is now enrolled in a basketball class at our local community center. A few days ago, when one of his friends was over at our house, we were talking about favorite foods. I mentioned something about Luke not eating meat.

“I eat meat,” said Luke. “Tons of meat.”

I can only now think that Luke was trying to seem cool, but I didn’t pick up on this at the time.

“No you don’t, Luke. You only eat beans and nuts and cheese,” I said.

“Mom, I eat tons of meat in my room!” Luke said emphatically.

“Oh. What sorts?” I asked.

“I eat cow and pig and moose and caribou,” he said.

But I can’t think that Luke’s perception of meat has really changed all that much. Yesterday morning, he illustrated and dictated the words for a new page in the Star Wars Book he was writing:

Inside Jaba the Hut’s palace, the unlucky droids saw the slug-like creature, Jaba. “Greetings,” he said in a heavy voice. His minions danced for him while he ate dead meat.

Theological Miscommunication

During church my children try to whisper, but often forget. Even when they remember, it is usually a stage whisper so that everyone around us can hear their thoughts on our faith.

“Mom,” Henry asks, pointing at an icon of Jesus on the cross, “What’s this guy doin’?” I promise that he has actually seen this icon before, and we have, indeed, talked about this important moment upon which our faith hinges.

“Hey Mom,” Luke says, trying to get my attention from across the carpet. “What is that box?” he asks, pointing at the fancy wooden box up on a front table that holds donations. “Is God’s heart locked in that box?”

When someone’s cell phone rings, Henry says, “Mama, what is that?” I try to mouth “cell phone” at him since I am several feet away, but Henry doesn’t hear correctly and asks, looking puzzled, “It is mother earth?”

On Holy Thursday, the day that we commemorate the Last Supper, Henry strikes up a conversation with an acquaintance: “Excuse me? Today, one of Jesus’ friends frayed him,” Henry says, forgetting the word “betrayed” that I had used to explain this holy day to him. Perhaps I should have considered a more concrete, child-friendly word. But somehow, I can’t bring myself to tell my children that Judas was “mean to Jesus.” I already have problems with the cartoon-illustrated children’s bible that they own and love.

I’m realizing, like my friend Nancy pointed out in the comments section of my last post, that my children don’t care that much about church itself yet, but care that it is something that is a part of our family routine. They see us valuing our faith, and so they follow along. We, as their parents, are the most god-like presence to them, which is wonderful and scary at the same time. Because clearly, if I wanted to, I could teach them that mother earth frayed God and placed his heart in a locked box.

A Holy, Holy Friday

Today is Good Friday for those of us in the Eastern Orthodox Church. We call it Holy Friday. For reasons that I can never quite remember involving the moon and the date of Passover, our Easter, which we call Pascha, can fall anywhere from the same day as to a month and a half later than Western Easter. This year it is the latter.

Over the last six years, my practice of Orthodoxy has been challenged. My kids came into the picture and changed everything. Before I had children, it was easy for me to be Orthodox, at least on the surface. There are a lot of services, but they are beautiful and nourishing and follow a lovely rhythm and pattern. I enjoyed church for the most part, and found it fairly easy to attend regularly, participate in services and church life, and, all in all, to be a "good member" of the church. As I said, my children have changed all of this. To be precise, they have smashed it to pieces.

Attending church is a burden to me now. I do not enjoy it at all. I like visiting with people at coffee hour. I am glad I am able to take communion. I am happy that I am exposing my children to church. But I am not able to pay attention--I can't listen to the words or appreciate the beauty of the services. I am in the back, sweating as I chase Henry around or attempt to hold nearly six year old Luke. I am asking Luke no, please not to sing his own version of the trisagion hymn that involves the word poop. I am instructing the children on how to pop the whole cracker in their mouths so it doesn't make an annoying crunch that makes everyone turn their heads in the middle of a quiet moment. I am running Henry upstairs to the potty at regular intervals. Craig is there, helping, of course, and thank goodness for that. But still.

I know that this isn't a new story. Every parent in church is struggling with his or her kids. I just always wonder if everyone else feels so overwhelmed and saddened by the prospect of yet another wrestling match with their children during church. It isn’t even that my kids are so bad. Their behavior is what is to be expected from energetic, spirited boys ages two and five. It is me: I can’t let go of the notion that I should be enjoying myself in some way, and that I should be contributing to the prayerful ambiance in church rather than detracting from it.

As if ambiance is really what the spiritual life is all about.

I don't know how, exactly, the experience of this struggle with the practice of my faith is affecting my interior spiritual life. I know it is what is required of me right now. But I don't know how nice I'm supposed to be to myself when we take our kids to services only on Sunday mornings, and only three out of four Sunday mornings at that. Am I supposed to be gentle and kind with myself? Or am I just a big, big wimp who is backsliding in her faith because things got a little tough? I really don't know. I haven't had, or haven’t made, a moment to really reflect upon it. I think my practice has been so meager that I'm afraid to delve into my interior life for fear of what I might find.

Last year, we attended even less Lenten services than we did this year. And when Holy Week came around, the week leading up to Pascha that is filled with services every day, we didn't go at all. Finally, when Holy Friday arrived, I decided to load the kids into the car that afternoon and fight Chicago traffic so that we could attend the Vespers of Holy Friday. During this beautiful, solemn service, the icon of the crucified Christ is removed from the cross and placed on a shroud. The priest and his helpers process around the church holding this aloft. Then, one by one, the members of the congregation prostrate themselves before this shroud and icon. Luke loves the drama and beauty of all of these services surrounding Pascha, and, traditionally, so have I. And so even though Craig couldn't come with us, and even though I was in charge of two little boys, ages one and four, I was hoping that the challenges would be worth it.

I underestimated the Friday afternoon traffic, and we arrived late. The four parking spaces in the back of this downtown Chicago church were, of course, taken. Signs on the street in front of the church posted that there was to be no parking from 4-6 pm, that cars would be towed. But I hoped that the service--which started at 2:30--would be over by then, and I figured that I could slip out a few minutes early if I needed to.

Of course, I didn’t have a working watch, since I hadn't replaced the battery that died in my watch right after Luke was born. Did I mention that having kids has introduced chaos and inefficiency into my life?

So I didn't have a watch, and the service was progressing. I was rather exhausted and sweaty, my usual state during church with my two boys. But as we approached the burial shroud portion of the service, my heart felt content. Both the boys were enraptured by the drama. We were kneeling; the choir was singing a burial dirge. I had a moment where I was actually able to meditate on the words that were being sung by the choir. I felt that God was rewarding me for struggling to make it here, that a still, small voice was saying to me, You are okay, you are loved, you are trying.

And then I heard a disorienting voice in the back of the church speaking loudly once, and then louder still, pulling me out of my moment of meditation. "Cars are being towed!" said Fr. John, the other Fr. John that was not serving. Standing beside him was his wife and my good friend Jenny.

Everyone was confused as to what he was saying and why he was talking loudly during this solemn moment of the service, and so he spoke again, even louder over the sound of the choir: "Cars are being towed out on the street. If you are parked out there, you must move!"

Someone shot a sharp look at Fr. John. Someone else said "shhhhh!" I realized that I needed to leave or I would be stranded in downtown Chicago with two little boys and no car. I was in the front of the church and so, while the priest who was serving continued with the procession, I made quite scene gathering my toys, diaper bag, and children and then rushing out of the church.

When I made it out onto the porch, Fr. John and Jenny grabbed my kids and said, "run!" I saw the tow truck driving toward my car, alone on the street. I rushed to it, hopped in, and pulled around the back of the church where all of the spaces were still taken. Of course. Because who would come to the Vespers of Holy Friday and leave before the procession with the shroud?

Fr. John and Jenny came around the back of the church and agreed that all I could do was head home. And so we drove home, me crying for the futility of it all.

But I guess it wasn't futile. There was the effort. There was the moment of peace. There were my children's rapt faces. And there was the kindness of two people who, for all appearances, weren't acting like a very good priest and priest's wife, shattering the solemn and prayerful ambiance of the service with such mundane and worldly concerns.

This Holy Friday I hope I can focus on my inner life, leaving the surface behind. And I’m carting my kids to the Vespers of Holy Friday again today, trying to leave my expectations behind. Well, I guess I have one: I expect I won’t get towed, since our parish in Columbus has ample street parking.

My Two Publications

Last week an essay of mine was published on LiteraryMama, an online journal of "writing for the maternally inclined." I'm very excited, since it is my first publication since a poem of mine appeared in Highlights for Children Magazine when I was six. My poem back then:

Autumn

Lots of leaves
Falling from the trees
And sometimes a little breeze.

But the thing I like most about fall
Is the crackling noise the leaves make.

You can see how my writing has changed since then by reading my essay HERE

That Second Child

Henry always does what Luke is doing. Henry learned to ride a scooter when he was about a year and half old. And now, at age two (okay, three in June) he has learned how to ride a "big boy bike." Potty trained. Biking. Now if I could ever get him to stop nursing . . .

The Lazy Parents' Guide to Potty Training

My parenting philosophy is this: take the path of least resistance. Is it difficult to wean your child? No problem! There is this great thing called child led weaning that I dig. Does your child wake up five times a night? Do you pass out when you lay down to comfort your child? That's okay! There is this traditional practice called the family bed that I think I recall might have a great deal of research in its favor. Of course, the verdict is still out in our family regarding whether these practices are actually easier in the long run. Henry, nearing age three, still nurses. Luke still wakes up many nights. And don't even get me started on Henry's supposed night weaning, since, a year and a half of sticking my guns later, he still seems to think he can convince me to nurse him during the night. We'll just call him persistent.

But potty training. Our kids--both of them--have been a breeze to potty train. And our method is this: We don't put them on the potty at all unless they ask or we happen to think of it, which is about once a month. We start this at about age two. Then, around age three (Henry 2 years 10 months, Luke 3 years 2 months) we get sick and tired of paying for diapers. We get sick and tired of changing diapers. We tell the kid in questions that when the pack of diapers runs out, there will be no more diapers. And you know what? With both kids, they have been almost instantaneously potty trained. Luke had virtually no accidents. Henry has had a few here and there, but he basically has it down.

So we have parenting bragging rights: we are really, really good potty trainers. Everyone has a gift, right? Maybe we should become potty coaches. I think it helps that we don't own anything nice and we aren't afraid of bodily fluids winding up on our stuff.

And we can honestly say that our kids are really easy . . . to potty train.

Some Ramblings on Language

“Well, I never!” says Henry, angry with me because I want to do an exercise video before I let him watch the DVD he checked out from the library.

Where, exactly, did my two year old learn to express his anger with the words and intonation of a prim schoolmarm?

And then later, in baby talk—angry again over something I’ve now forgotten—he says, “Me never! Me never!” Bratty baby meets offended 50’s housewife.

Both Luke and Henry seem to try on phrases, ways of speaking, and emotions conveyed through language. Luke is often in a sullen 80’s skater phase: “Duh!” he says to Henry, “You freak! I’m like, totally awesome dude!” But then, moments later when surprised, he says, “Goodness gracious!”

“Crimeny!” they both proclaim.

Much of what is reflected back to me is my own attempt at trying to clean up my mouth. After both boys (Henry not even two) went through a phase of yelling “Dammit!” I became more aware of my own ways of expressing frustration.

“CRAIG! Gosh darnit! Crimeny!” I yell. “Why didn’t you do these dishes like you promised?” Really mad, I yell, “For goodness sakes!”

As Luke approached age two, I often discussed the idea of the terrible two’s with my friend Nancy. She wondered if Luke would have as many tantrums and troubles as some children do at this age since he already had an enormous vocabulary.

But Luke did have tantrums, huge ones that sometimes lasted for the better part of an hour. And now as I remember that time, I think it was because Luke experienced such intense emotions, and no possible words could ever describe them. And this is true even to this day.

“Look, Mom,” says Luke. “This is my barrage of bombs,” he declares about the pile of small dirt balls he is creating. So articulate and creative, this son of mine!

But later, when I force him to abandon the plans he has made to drag a table and chairs half a block out to the small grass island in the middle of the court we live on so he can play a game he has devised called “Arctic Circle,” he turns purple, screams, wails “Ma ma!” He kicks the wall and yells, “I’m going to kill you!”

Sometimes “goodness gracious” just isn’t enough. Really, nothing is. And so I cuddle down with him and read him a book, because there are no words that will solve this problem.

Soccer Mom Status Report

Okay, I have not yet gotten a minivan, but I have made some progress in my journey toward soccer mom. Breaking news: I am the proud owner of a glue gun. Now, I am not crafty by nature. For instance, scrap booking will never be in my future--I don't have the patience or the organization for it. I have several unfortunate 4-H sewing projects in my dark past, one of which still circulates the close-knit community in which I was raised as a maternity dress. And I have a large bin containing fabric scraps and two completed quilt squares that I worked on in my early teen years. But the boys and I checked out a book on nature-based crafts, and they are begging to make totem poles and gourd rattles and arrows from scraps around the yard, so I felt a glue gun was a necessity.

On the vehicle front, I am moving up in the world, even though I have yet to attain that minivan. We have had a good week with our cars. Craig FINALLY got our jeep fixed, which has been up on blocks, sans tires, since December. Although the broken down car look really worked with the overall landscaping theme in our yard (I like to think of it as creatively trashy) it is good to have something to drive besides our diesel Mercedes, since diesel is up to $4.20 per gallon. I do always feel classy driving our Mercedes, especially since I cleaned out all of the old Starbucks cups (see! I could be a soccer mom!) and bailed two gallons of water out of the bottom of the car. There is a hole in the roof of the car and we have had torrential March rain showers--although there is something so whimsical about donning rubber boots for a car trip.

So, okay, I might be biking or jogging Luke to a soccer game, or arriving in a loud and smelly Mercedes. Oh, right, except that he has no interest in soccer. Every few months we get a catalogue in the mail from our local community center advertising available classes. Luke doesn't want to take soccer. Nor is he interested in swimming lessons, the other common destination for a minivan. Last term, Luke enrolled in "Superhero Spectacular." Next term he wants to take a class about spying. Even Luke's more mainstream interest in "ninja moves" has morphed into a near-obsession with capoeira, a strange, dance-like martial art. Not that I don't think it is cool. It just doesn't help us fit in.

Henry is my more mainstream guy, I think. Craig is always going to be an idiosyncratic mathematician. Luke is always going to push the envelope. But Henry. I can definitely see him as a soccer player. Of course, at the rate he is going, he will be running around the field talking faster than he can run. I don’t remember this with Luke. Is there a verbal diarrhea phase of language development? Oh, and Henry still has his little “crossed wire” problem where he just randomly cannot remember certain words and so substitutes other, inappropriate words in their place.

“Mommy, remember that fing? That fing we give to Cleo?” Henry asks. I don’t know any Cleo.

“Who is Cleo, Henry?” I ask.

“My friend Cleo, when we went to the party? The fing? The little fing we talk wiff? What that fing?”

The only party I can remember is a birthday party for our little friend Laura.

“Do you mean Laura, Henry?” I ask.

“Yes, Laura. The fing? The fing we talk wiff? That little pink fing? Cleo get it and talk wiff it?” Henry goes on. And on. And on. And I still have no idea what the “fing” is.

“And Cleo fights with her sister about the fing? The fing that is called . . . I can’t know,” he pauses, finally. “Cleo and her sister fight, and fight, and fall down.” He pauses again, looking into the distance as if remembering.

“But God loves us anyway!” he finally proclaims.

Yes, in addition to the verbal outpourings, the forgotten words and the strange substitutions, Henry likes to provide his patient listeners with an (often baffling) moral to the story.

I have heard that to realize a dream you must first see it in your mind. So here is my soccer mom aspiration: We arrive at the soccer field in our bio-diesel Mercedes. Because of fueling our car on waste fast food oil, we smell like McDonalds, so that works in our favor. Henry runs out to warm up while Craig sits in the bleachers reading a woodworking book and Luke sulks around in the shadows spying on people. The game starts. Henry gets benched for talking too much. I strike up conversations with several of the moms around me, and, lo and behold, I hit it off with someone. Because I won’t ever be a soccer mom, not really, but if I just keep working to find my place in this new place, I might finally do it.

And there’s always Cleo. She’ll be my friend. And if not, God loves me anyway.

On Dead Squirrels and Other Theological Quandries

"I like some things about God, and other things I don't like," Luke told me last Sunday, after I informed him we wouldn't be going to Church due to the 20 inches of snow that had fallen the day before.

"Oh, really," I said casually. Luke has a radar for hot-button issues, so I always try to play it cool with him.

"Yah," Luke went on, which was what I had been hoping for with my noncommittal answer. "I like that I get to go to heaven to cuddle Dock Ock," said Luke, speaking of his dead guinea pig. "But I don't like sitting still and being quiet in church."

* * * * *

"Sometimes we do bad things, but God loves us anyway," Henry informs me, out of the blue.

"Yes, Henry, God loves us very, very much," I answered.

"Up to here, Henry!" Luke said, stretching his arms us as high as he could reach. Then, taking his "good older brother tone" that he takes on rare occasions, Luke continued. "God is like our Daddy. Isn't that cool, Henry?"

Henry agreed, as he always does with Luke.

"And God is like our mommy!" Luke went on. "God is our Daddy and our Mommy. And he made us and gave us to Ser and Craig."

* * * * *

There was a dead squirrel in our path a few days ago, causing a great deal of curiosity in and excitement for the boys. And then the next morning, strangely, there were two more dead squirrels in the street right by the path where we found the first. Within the hour, they had been smashed and bloodied by passing cars. This pushed the boys into dead squirrel obsession.

"This playdough is squirrels," Henry said, breaking a hunk of playdough into smaller pieces. He threw it on the floor. "Now you drive and make squirrels bloody." So I walked over the playdough. "Now let's play again!" said Henry.

Also, Henry spent the morning scouting squirrels, both from our window and our front porch, and each time he saw one, he asked, "That squirrel alive? That squirrel not bloody?"

Later in the afternoon they wanted to visit the non-smashed squirrel, and so I puttered around the yard while they looked at it. They were under strict orders not to touch the squirrel, so they just talked to it.

"Squirrel?" Henry asked, "You dead? Why your eyes open?"

And Luke, in a crooning voice, said "Hey cute little squirrel. I'm sorry you died. I wish I could pet you. But you are in heaven now. Can you say hi to Doc Ock for me?"

Learning to Bike

Luke just learned to ride a bike without training wheels over the last few days. He is hugely excited and proud. Yesterday, after he had successfully ridden around our court for about five minutes without stopping, I said, “Luke, why don’t you stop while you are doing so great? You can end in victory!”

Earlier in the practice session, Luke had crashed and the handlebars had left a nasty bruise on his cheek. Predictably, Luke had not handled the pain well. I was hoping—for his sake, my sake, and the sake of the neighbors—that he wouldn’t crash again.

“No mom!” he yelled, expressing, I believe, his whole life philosophy in this one phrase: “I’ll ride until I crash!”

What About Henry?

So Aunt Mara asked, commenting on my last post, what about Henry? What was his reaction to the big Magic Cup truth?

Well, I don’t really know. He was likely sitting at the table, waiting for his dinner, listening to his brother cry. I know that he didn’t quite understand what was going on. But, to tell you the truth, I don’t remember what he was exactly, because I was so focused on Luke. All too often, this is the case.

Luke is such an intense child that a lot of my energy is focused on him. I try to pay attention to Henry as much as I can, but I often am dealing with the more pressing situation: Luke. Even when Luke isn’t crying or yelling, I often ask Henry to be more flexible because Luke is so rigid.

The other day when we were at Trader Joe’s, Luke and Henry wanted balloons. There were none that were ready to go, but the checker offered to blow some up. He described the available colors, none of which were both boys’ preferred red, and Luke chose blue. Henry, misunderstanding, asked for red. The checker convinced Henry that yellow was a nice alternative. A few minutes later, the checker emerged from the back of the store with a red balloon and a blue balloon. Anticipating trouble, I told the boys what was going on. As expected, Luke began to become agitated.

“Henry,” I asked, “Would you prefer a blue balloon? Blue is the color of Superman.”

“Okay!” said Henry. Problem solved.

Except that part of me feels guilty for doing this kind of thing again and again. Will Henry remember these situations and resent Luke and me? Feel as though he was always being tricked? That his desires were always being denied?

Maybe. But Henry has found ways to put his foot down. Often, quite literally.

Henry has been having huge temper tantrums lately, a few a week. And even though they are a huge pain and very loud and very long, you know what? I’m glad. Henry is such a people pleaser, such a giver, that I’m glad he can make demands sometimes. And when he is tantruming like this, Luke usually rises to the occasion, acting more mature than usual.

So what about Henry? He is finding himself. He is often along for the ride. He was a part of the magic cup story, but it wasn’t his story. He is finding his way, figuring out how to make his own magic.

The Magic Cup

I’m in support of anything that creates magic and joy in childhood. I don’t have any hang-ups about Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. I could even get into the oft talked about gnomes at Luke’s Waldorf preschool. My parents always upheld the traditional childhood myths for my siblings and me during our childhood, and I have no traumatic memories of discovering the truth and feeling betrayed. I think that they answered any of our questions with, “I wonder, “ and “hmm.” They let us believe and half-believe as long as we wanted to, and must have finally admitted the truth when we clearly knew ourselves. I don’t even remember learning that Santa Claus wasn’t real.

In addition to Santa Claus filling stockings, St. Nicholas filling shoes, the Easter Bunny hiding treats, and when it is time, I’m sure, the Tooth Fairy exchanging teeth for money, in our house, Daddy can pull money out of ears. Luke has always played this game with Craig, and I was never totally clear on whether or not Luke believed that Craig was truly performing this amazing feat. Nevertheless, this has been a fun game in our house for many years.

The other night, as usual, Craig was playing with the boys after dinner while I did the dishes. I began to hear a lot of excited noises coming from the boys’ room, but ignored it. I enter the room after dinner only when necessary. But soon, Luke came racing out of the bedroom, face red with excitement.

“Mom!” he yelled. “We have a MAGIC CUP! It gives us things! Come and see!”

So I was off to the bedroom. Clearly this was more exciting than the ear trick.

“Remember,” I heard Craig saying as I entered the room, “The magic cup can only give us things that are already in the house.”

“Yes, we know!” replied Luke and Henry.

“Okay,” said Craig, holding a plastic cup adorned with aliens. “Magic cup, magic cup, give us a prize,” he began in a singsong voice. The kids began chanting with him.

“Magic cup, magic cup, give us a BIG surprise!” they all intoned. Then, as Craig tossed the empty cup into the air, the kids chanted a high-pitched “ahhhhhhhhhhh!” with rapt smiles looking up into the air.

This part was a bit uncomfortable to witness. Craig made it part of the trick so that he could slip a toy under the cup while the boys were busy looking up, but they were on their knees, looking up and chanting. It seemed like a bizarre religious ritual, especially when I looked into their flushed, spellbound faces. It seemed to me that I was witnessing a Pentecostal, consumerist, magical rite.

I would like to say that I stopped this somehow, or that I walked from the room. But when the magic cup gave Luke a piece of candy and Henry started crying, I went to the candy stash—Craig couldn’t leave the room easily—and got a treat for Henry, which I then snuck into Craig’s pocket.

That night, in bed, the magic cup was all Luke and Henry could talk of.

“Maybe the magic cup will give us some toys tomorrow! Toys we don’t already have!” Luke said.

“But Luke, remember? The magic cup can only give us things we already have in the house.” I responded.

“But the cup is magic! I’ll bet it will give us some new toys tomorrow if we say the words really loudly,” said Luke.

“Hmm,” I responded, “I wonder.” Then I let it drop.

But during our prayer before they boys went to sleep, Luke added, “Thank you, God, for giving us our very own magic cup that will probably give us some new toys tomorrow.”

After the boys were asleep, I mentioned to Craig that I was feeling a bit uneasy about this whole thing. “After all,” I said, “You are totally manipulating their emotions.”

“Oh come on!” said Craig, “It is just a game. They are having fun. It is like Santa Claus.”

“Yes, maybe, but Santa Claus is a cultural tradition,” I retorted. “WE didn’t invent him as a completely random lie.”

Craig shrugged, and so I dropped it.

* * * * *

The next morning, the magic cup was the first thing on their minds. Since Daddy was still asleep when Luke left for school, the boys had to wait until Craig got home from work to play with the magic cup again. But all afternoon, they mused on what fun might await them when Daddy returned. Of course I tried to encourage them to think realistically, but there was no reasoning with them. I finally began to ignore them, as I was becoming too uneasy. And besides, I thought, Craig started this, let him work it out.

But I smelled disaster in the air.

When Craig arrived home, the boys greeted him with shouts of excitement. He told them to wait for him in the bedroom. As Craig puttered around fixing himself a drink, putting away his coat and shoes, I whispered my concerns.

“I don’t think this is a good idea. They are too excited. They think they are going to get new toys,” I protested.

Again, Craig brushed my concerns away and headed into the bedroom.

As I was washing the lettuce, I heard increasingly loud shrieks.

“You didn’t talk loudly enough to the cup! You need to talk louder!” Luke ordered, his pitch growing increasingly high with every word.

A few minutes later I heard crying.

Craig came out of the room to tell me what was going on. Apparently, Luke was convinced that the magic cup could be more magical if Craig only performed the ritual correctly.

“You see!” I hissed at him. As Luke’s cries and screams issued from the room, my own blood pressure seemed to rise. “This is where your lies and emotional manipulation have gotten you!”

Craig was trapped between a screaming child at one end of the house and a seething wife at the other. He had nowhere to go, and so he admitted defeat, heading off to tell Luke the truth.

A few minutes later, an angry and tearful Luke came out for dinner with the rest of us. Craig had apologized and had told Luke the truth.

A few minutes into dinner, Luke asked, “So, all those times when you pretended to pull money out of my ear? You were just fooling me?” Craig admitted that this was true.

“So how did you do it?” Luke asked. As Craig explained, I began to realize that if Luke asked about Santa Claus right now, we would have to admit the truth. The conversation that Luke and Craig were having was quite lovely, actually, and they talked a bit about how you can’t just ask God for whatever you want and have it granted.

But a bit of Luke’s innocence disappeared that night, and I certainly wasn’t ready to leave Santa Claus behind. Thankfully, Luke was distracted, and the conversation ended there.

Every day, a bit of the magic of my kids’ childhood slips away, and the growth and understanding that takes its place is amazing to witness. But I hope I can keep a little of this magic tucked away for them, in a cup, in a wish, in their hearts.

Other February Happenings

The boys defy gender stereotypes by playing with their toy kitchen.


We admire the cool shirt Uncle Peter bought for Luke, which he inexplicably found at an open-air market in Camaroon. (This says, "Luke is his best friend." Peter did not have this specially made, and it was the only one there.)


Luke celebrates his half birthday with homemade spiderman cookies (and a few flowers.)


A tree falls on our car!

February Days

I have hit a bit of a writer's block. Here's why, I think. First of all, Jenny and Julia, among others, have been writing such succinct, themed, lovely posts, and my mind just feels mushy. Well, actually, that is a bit wrong. I have several quite lovely pieces that I have written, but I feel that I can't post them for various reasons.

Also, I have been editing that piece that will appear in Literary Mama this summer, and that has been wearing me out. I don't know about this whole publishing thing.

And, too, there is the fact that I have been cooped up in the house with the boys because of bad weather. It is a February thing, I guess. I met January determined to get outside, face the nastiness--and I also had that trip to Seattle to look forward to--and now February just drags on and on, with snow and cold, cold wind and freezing rain. I feel trapped in a repetitive cycle of sibling squabbles, piles of laundry, and pools of melted snow. And somehow, all this indoor time does not equal more writing. Not at all.

Love Note to Craig

Those of you who know my husband need no explanation for this to be funny: He is now the faculty advisor for the Argentine Tango club on campus.

For those of you who do not have the pleasure of Craig's acquaintance, this picture should suffice.

Craig is an introverted, gruff, animal-shooting, hairy, sarcastic mathematician. But he is also a man with a well of kindness underneath it all. So when his colleague asked Craig if he could be the faculty advisor for this tango group, Craig couldn't say no. He told me that he made it very clear that he would not, under any circumstances, be doing any tango.

Craig's colleague, however, does not speak English very well. And Craig is sometimes--how shall I say it?--less gruff than he aspires to be. So I got a phone call on Friday from this professor, asking when we would be attending Tango lessons.

"Craig?" I asked in shock.

"You and Craig, I was assuming," said Craig's colleague.

"Well, we don't have a babysitter for the kids so I'm not sure," I stalled, not sure what Craig had said to him. Maybe Craig hadn't said no firmly enough, or had given the stock answer of, "I'll have to talk to my wife."

"I know," the professor offered helpfully, "You could come on Saturday nights, and Craig could come on Sunday nights! We are short a man on Sunday nights, and besides, learning to dance is kind of like learning a language."

At this point, I started to discreetly giggle, but the man went on. "If you learn while dancing together, you will only be able to speak the language of dance to one another. If you learn individually, when you come together in the tango it will be that much better."

"Well, yes," I said, "I'll mention that to Craig." I had some idea of what Craig might say if I used this as an argument in trying to convince him to tango. You see, there is some small possibility that I might be able to convince Craig to tango with me, but without me? Not a chance.

After I got off the phone, Luke asked, "Mom, what is the tango?" So we looked it up on YouTube. Not just tango, but Argentine tango. I wanted to know precisely what it was that my husband might be doing. I can't describe this dance very well in words, but let's just say that I'm still laughing, two days later, as I imagine Craig performing it.

But, really, I will have to discuss it with him more. Maybe he wants to dance. Craig has whole worlds inside of his head, of which I'm only acquainted with bits and pieces. When you look at his beard, hear him speak, you might not imagine that he was the guy in high school that danced with the awkward chubby girls in Russian class folk dance practice that everyone else avoided.

But he was that guy. And he danced well, and with joy. Oh, he'll mock me endlessly for writing this. He'll laugh at me in his sarcastic way and go down to his workshop to hammer something. But I know there is a tango going on somewhere inside of his head.

Identity, Half-Birthdays, Eighties Cartoons

Luke loves to play Go Fish these days. After winning two hands in a row, he asked, "Am I like a Go Fish champion?"

"Yes, Luke, you are really good," I responded.

"I think maybe I will practice and practice and then I can win Go Fish competitions!" he exclaimed, warming to his topic. "I will have Go Fish trophies!"

My son, CIA field agent and Go Fish gold medal winner.

* * *

The other day I asked Henry, "Are you the apple of my eye?"

"No," he laughed. Then he did his cute, trademark shrug and said, "I'm just Henry."

Luke, on the other hand, ever since Craig yelled the following at him for being so bossy, refers to himself as "the king of the world."

* * *

Henry is obsessed with She-Ra, Princess of Power. Does anyone remember this cartoon from the eighties? I let him check it out from the library because it has the superhero-type stuff without being too violent. There is no "sassy talk" like there is in a lot of current cartoons, and there always seems to be a "good message." Of course, there is a wealth of realistic body image discussions to be had, but that is another topic for another day.

Oh, I'm listening to it right now, and I forgot that there is a public service announcement at the end of each episode. Oh, this is really worth another post. I'll leave it at that for now, but let me just leave you with this teaser:

She-Ra's horse transforms into a unicorn when she activates "the power of gray skull."

* * *

Luke celebrated his half birthday at school yesterday, since his birthday falls in the summer. All of the kids made him cards in school. One little girl wrote, "I love you," on his card. She is a little, scrawny thing in glasses. As Luke and I read this one together, I thought he would say something mean. He does not, after all, let me hug or kiss him in public any more, and he does say "duh" regularly. (Don't even ask me where he learned this.)

"Well," he said, "I think I love her, too." Oh my goodness. I didn't ask him what he meant, because it was just too sweet and innocent to discuss.

Lately Luke has more and more moments like these: moments where, all at once, I can see his prickly shell and his melting heart.

Interview With A Dreamer

It is 9 am and already, I realize, I’m dreaming big. Or indulging in ridiculous fantasy. I’m not sure which.

A few days ago I got a sort of acceptance for an essay. The piece was (provisionally) accepted by a non-paying online publication, Literary Mama, and they want to make some editorial suggestions. They want me to be “willing to work to make this excellent piece even better.”

You would think I was publishing a book for all the dreaming I've been doing.

The first fantasy that popped into my head was that I would finish writing the short story about the high school girl with insecurities, it would be accepted, I would continue to write for young women and eventually found an online journal—akin to Literary Mama but for teenage girls. This would be after writing several essays for the Literary Mama, then being invited to write a regular column, and then working as a (finally paid) editor for one of their departments. You know, the kind of person that makes editorial suggestions to emerging creative writers.

Later, I caught myself in the car giving an imaginary interview. I had already answered several questions when I realized what I was doing.

“Well, when I was in academia, I always said I wasn’t a creative writer. And I still do love literary analysis. But that is what book clubs are for, right?” I laugh with my imaginary interviewer.

“It is such a luxury to be able to work from home, what with the kids. When I was finishing up my Masters Degree in English, I just decided that I did not want to live in a household with two academics. It took me a while to find my niche after that, but I believe that I have.”

“Well, certainly,” says my interviewer. “As your body of work proves.”

* * *

I am not generally a big dreamer. I’m not a pessimist, but not an optimist either. I don’t usually see the glass half full or half empty; I tend to believe that I should take a drink of water before I decide what to think. Perhaps it isn’t even water at all.

When I was late in labor with Henry, I was contracting every five minutes and barely able to talk, and yet I said to my friend Heidi, “Can you take Luke? I mean, we’ll see if I’m even in labor at all, but take him just in case.” Such are the statements of a tentative dreamer.

I remember what a joy it was to begin spending time with my friend Jenny, who truly understands the pain that comes in the package of life, but who still chooses to dream big, almost every day. I watched her grow as a freelance writer—because she is a great writer with unique vision, yes, but also because she believes that nothing is off limits. In the time I was her neighbor, Jenny sent articles off to all kinds of publications, sent show ideas to Oprah, wrote a children’s book, started a novel, and wrote two Everything books, among other things.

And from the first day I met her, Jenny has encouraged me to write. Even when she didn’t know if I could write. I would relate my latest co-sleeping adventure with Luke and Jenny would say, “What a great idea for an article! You could submit that to Mothering!” I never really took her seriously. But she persisted in making these kinds of comments for five years.

Last year after Jenny started a blog, upon her encouragement I started one too. Jenny persisted with her “when you begin publishing” comments, and I guess they have started to sink in. She has recently been dropping "when you publish your first book" casually into our conversations.

Jenny has been living in Kona for a few months now and recently someone asked her, “Can’t you live somewhere a little more realistic than paradise?”

I think paradise is the perfect dream for Jenny.

And writing a book, editing an online journal, and giving regular interviews are the perfect dreams for me.