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.