Eleven Years Ago

Two days ago, my brother Paul became a father.

And it happened in the same hospital, in the same city, where exactly eleven years ago today, I became a mother.

Seeing the photos and following the Google+ updates as he and his wife, Betty, step over the threshold into a new life with tiny Charlotte Kate [daddy a student; mama putting him through, just as we were then] makes it seem impossible that only eleven years ago, that was us. Having arrived at the finish line of the pregnancy, bursting through the tape with a dramatic birth story, we were awakening to the fact that we had really only made it to the starting gate. In the grip of love and fear, our journey with our son began.

Just as theirs is now beginning.

When we left Brigham and Women's Hospital with our bundle in arms two days later, how could I imagine that eleven years would bring us here ... to this?

This boy is over halfway to official adulthood.

In two years, he'll be a teenager.

In five years, he'll have a license to drive.

He is a brown belt in tae kwon do.

He may not know it, really, but his best friend is his sister, who listens to everything he has to say (which is quite a bit) and loves him unconditionally.

He love Legos, Star Wars, and especially, Lego Star Wars.

He likes to have his dad around, and has stated as much.

He's quite artistic, with a distinct flair for the dramatic. (Including dramatic distaste for haircuts.)

He is learning perseverance, diligence, acceptance, table manners. All in due time.

And because of who he is, we are not who we were eleven years ago.

Welcome aboard, my brother.

And happy birthday, my son! 

Look Back at Me

Our one car was in the shop today. This meant that after weeks of nearly ceaseless activity, we had a day of going absolutely nowhere beyond the neighborhood pool. This was quite wonderful, really -- enforced, temporary withdrawal from the outside world. And two things happened as a result:

1. Ian -- almost eleven years old -- had to ride his bike to swim team practice. This involves a 1.5 mile ride each way, crossing a major street. Daddy practiced the route with him the night before, I escorted him to the intersection and saw him safely across on the journey out, and he called me on his cell phone when arriving at and leaving the pool. (Yes, he has a bare-bones cell phone. It became a necessity when we let our land line go.) 

He was apprehensive. So was I, although I didn't say so. But he did it. And tomorrow will be easier. In a summer of milestones, we've made another crossing. Hooray!

2. Walking home from the pool like little frying ants under the sun's determined glare, Caroline asked me to carry her. Now, she's five. A bit old to be toted like a baby, don't you think? A sardonic "You've got legs!" was on the tip of my tongue.

But I leaned down, scooped her up, and told her how far I could carry her. "Okay, Mama," she agreed. She wrapped her damp arms around my neck, laid her bleach-blonde head on my shoulder, and gently kissed it. And just for a moment, on the same day that one child took a leap forward, another one made time stand still.

Was it the last time I'll carry her like that -- even just for fifty yards? That's the bittersweetness of watching them grow and letting them go -- while some milestones arrive with great fanfare, many simply whisper their way in and out, so that we only know in retrospect that that moment -- photographed if we're lucky, but more likely not -- was a goodbye. And we wave at their disappearing smoke trail, knowing that their future looks too bright for them to ever think of looking back.

Every Child Needs a ... What?

So, every child in America needs an iPad, eh?

That may or may not be the case, but if every child had an iPad, who would be motivated to make his own out of aluminum foil?

With all the essential apps? (Fruit Ninja, Angry Birds, DoodleBuddy ...)

And even the requisite trademarks?

Case closed.

Har, har, har. Sorry 'bout that.

I Get No Respect

Oh, look. How cute. My five year old started writing a story. What a budding genius. Remember, I taught her everything she knows. I found the first line on the floor last night. Let's take a closer look.

"Mom had gas."

Oh. Never mind.

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Last night as I tucked the girls in, Caroline asked, "Mom, where does the word 'strawberry' come from?"

Me: "I don't know. It's kind of a funny word, isn't it, since there's no straw in the berries. Maybe we can find out by looking it up in the dictionary."

Caroline: "No, I think we can just ask God."

*************************

Caroline, with utter certainty: Mom, Pongo [our puppy] is a Christian.

Me: Oh, really? How do you know that?

Caroline: Because he has a cross on his belly!

*********************************

I found the following text messages on my phone this morning.
Me [or should I say, a message originating from my phone]: I love pizza.
Tim: Hi Ian.
"Me": Ian?
Tim: Oh you mean this isn't Ian? I'm sorry. I thought he had your phone. He's pretty tricky that way. Do you want me to order pizzas tonight?
"Me": Yes that would be nice.
Tim: OK. Please call me to discuss raising allowances for the kids.

What can I say? I  married a man who wasn't born yesterday.
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Boys 2 Men

A friend was over at our house yesterday with her three boys, who were tearing around the house with my boy, engaging in heated battle. In other words, Nerf Gun nirvana.

My friend and I talked about the Dilemma of the Modern Boy. Or perhaps, the Dilemma of the Parent of the Modern Boy. It can be summed up as follows: We want them to read great, enriching books. They want to play video games.

Are you with me on this?

This is a hot topic with nearly every parent-of-a-boy I know. Nothing gets the eyes rolling faster, the angst level in the conversation ramped up higher. And we all agree, we can restrict the video games and screen time until our hair stands on end, but the bottom line is, the more you make something a precious commodity, the more it becomes, well, precious. On the other hand, they clearly need limits. I know of what I speak.

My friend related a conversation she'd had with her middle son. She'd made the stump speech most of us have made at one point or another: "You know, J., a long time ago, people didn't have ANY electronics for entertainment, and they still managed to have lots of fun."

His response was telling, "Yeah, but Mom, they had creeks to explore and Indians to watch out for and real guns to shoot!"

Here's what we concluded: Boys today have the same drive they've had wired into them for thousands of years. They need excitement. They need that feeling of being in a groove, preferably lubricated with adrenalin. They need the joy of achievement. In the words of Daniel Pink, they're seeking purpose, flow, and mastery. (Girls seek that too -- maybe just differently. Generalizing here.)

And what do video games provide them with? Purpose, flow, and mastery. Structured, reliable, unemotional feedback. The opportunity to defeat enemies and obstacles, and to conquer their previous skill level. There's some adrenalin in there. There's the bonding with, and recognition from, peers.

Last year Ian and read aloud the wonderful book Little Britches: Father and I Were Ranchers. We both recognized how Ralph, the main character who literally comes of age in the course of the book on the Colorado frontier, had his deepest needs met by learning the art of ranching and contributing to his family's living, riding herd with the cowboys and earning his dad's respect. This kid was not bored. As a ten year old, he worked long days all summer minding the neighbor's cattle -- alone. His family needed the money. He needed to learn what it would mean to be a man. (See also, Secondhand Lions.) 

My friend and I realized how hard it is to provide our boys with this kind of experience today. We live in neighborhoods with yards. Labor that contributes meaningfully to the family's welfare and gives them a sense of purpose, flow, mastery is scarce.

So we do our best -- giving them chores (cleaning toilets isn't stacking firewood, but it's a whole lot better than nothing), taking them to Scouts, sending them to camp or whatever we can. We do our best -- working from a whole new script we're writing together, hoping that boys can still be boys, trusting God for the men they will become.

(Some photos courtesy of Stefani)

How to Kill a Mockingbird

This is what happens when you get a bunch of award-winning popcorn-selling Cub Scouts together for a Caveman Dinner at the park. They use no utensils, spaghetti & meatballs are served along with jello, pudding, and whipped cream, and an all-out food fight quickly ensues. It's pure, unadulterated mayhem. 

That's Ian with his pal Sawyer, by the way. And normally I don't share other kids' full names in cyberspace, but I simply have to tell you that Sawyer has a baby sister named ... Scout Evangeline Stone. How cool is that?! Scout Stone. I can see her name in lights one day.

It tickles me when Sawyer explains her name as, "You know, like in How to Kill a Mockingbird." There's something about that "how" that just cracks me up. Like it's an instruction manual (Step One: Load Pellet Gun, etc.) rather than a Great American Novel.

When we discussed this at dinner last night, I explained to the children that To Kill a Mockingbird is a book about a black man being unjustly accused of a crime, and that they would read it some day. The Professor noted that he read it when he was twelve.

At which point Martha StewartCaroline's face lit up with an idea. "Hey!" she told her Daddy, "For your next birthday, the theme could be To Kill a Mockingbird!"

I think Harper Lee just rolled over in her grave. Birthday Express, start your engines.

Stars in His Eyes

           (Shhhh ... Quiet on the Set!)

If you send your child to a free (remember how we love that word) two-day workshop at the Apple Store, and he learns to use iMovie, you may unleash a monster.

He may spend hours on the computer writing a script entitled "Attack of the Nerf Marauders," prominently featuring various Nerf weapons.

You may remember that by jingo, your very own next door neighbor is not only a tenured professor of screenwriting at UT, but also a person who has had several scripts snapped up by the hungry Hollywood beast. (Same neighbor also went to Harvard with, and wrote for the school newspaper with, Peter Sagal from WaitWait Don't Tell Me! How cool is that?!)

That neighbor may agree to look over your son's script to give him some pointers. He may also send your son the screenplays of various movies such as Shrek Three and Ratatouille, so your son can see how the big boys do things.

You may start to wonder whether it would be appropriate to bake your neighbor a Gratitude cake.

Your child may begin rounding up his buddies and neighbors, even pestering the more reluctant ones out of their ever-lovin' minds until they agree to join the cast.

You may get into a long, thought-provoking discussion with your son's friend about violence in movies.

You may start to plot how to eliminate some of the less comely parts of your home from the cinematography of your child's film. You may fail.

Your child may make big plans to post his video on YouTube and tell everyone from his great grandparents to the grocery store cashier how to find it.

Then he may announce that he "used to want to be a scientist, but it's turning out that I'm more of a filmmaker."

You may respond by filling his head with dreams of IMAX movie-making. You could even let him listen to James Cameron's TED talk about how his early fascination with science fed his later film-making genius -- even though you don't let your child watch Mr. Cameron's films.

You may conclude that as you strew opportunities along your children's path, you can never quite predict where the spark of passion will light.

And that knowledge may comfort you as you find the eighty-fourth nerf dart of the day lying on your path.

Maybe.

Are We Insane?

Before I show you the following pictures, a brief disclaimer: The answer to the question, "Are We Insane?" is, beyond the shadow of a doubt, "It's entirely possible. Probable, even."

Behold the very messy birthday party of a certain ten-year-old boy! The theme was "All Out War."

Activities:
1. Assembling and decorating water-zookas.

2. Using water-zookas to shoot down a fleet of paper airplanes.

3. Team water-balloon transporting -- no hands allowed! Successful teams get to throw cream pies in The Professor's face!

4. Water-balloon toss

5. Thirty seconds to eat as many M&M's out of a plate of whipped cream as you can with your hands behind your back

6. All-out war, using water-zookas, shaving cream, silly string, and water balloons. Let the record show that yours truly joined in the fun.

7. Dirt cake. Utensils optional.

How did we possibly make this ten-year-old dream come true without losing our ever-lovin' minds? Come closer and I will whisper to you our secrets.

1. This was a drop-off party. Our property does not have enough space for fourteen kids going bananas and fourteen sets of parents trying to make small talk and stay dry and cool. Only two parents stayed, and they helped out.

2. The Professor was in charge of planning and executing the activities. He did so in concert with two single guys from our home meeting, David and Jesse. Another friend, Steve, grilled all the hotdogs. We are currently writing David, Jesse and Steve into our will. Up to half our kingdom, guys.

3. I made really simple, eat-with-your hands kind of food.

And when the party was over, two of Ian's buddies spent the night and they hardly slept at all because they all felt the need to wake up at four a.m. to continue playing his new Wii Games but that is just something you do when you're a kid and so we didn't hassle them about it and we weren't even too late to our church meeting the next day even though the kids were like zombies and so all's well that ends well, The End.

The Pinewood Derby

The other day Ian announced to us his intentions of becoming a Grand Master in tae kwon do AND an Eagle Scout.

I'd say the scouting venture we began this year has been positive. And I'm actually glad that we didn't join up when he was six, since I have a feeling that blush would be off the proverbial rose by now. Instead, he's enthused about Cub Scouts and has his sights firmly fixed on joining a Boy Scout Troop a year from now. And the activities he has access to through Scouts have certainly enriched our homeschooling.

Saturday's pinewood car derby was no exception. Here's Ian waiting his turn with two of his buddies. The friend in the middle is Sawyer. The friend on the left is Jack. The guy trying to manipulate their destinies from behind is Jacob.

No. Just kidding. The friend on the left is actually Timothy, and the innocent by-sitter would be Anonymous. Sorry. I'll get Lost with my private jokes now.

This is the face of suspense, my friends.

And this is a blurry photo, but I had to post it anyway, because it totally captures the moment -- the ecstasy, the completely life-changing exhilaration of winning a heat in the pinewood derby.

He won three out of four heats, but somehow didn't make it into the championship round. That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.

Of course, how disconsolate can you be when you have faces like this cheering you on?

We brought Sawyer home with us for the afternoon when the race was [finally!] over. He's a real character. I listened to the two boys carrying on in the back seat, essentially talking AT each other, just barely waiting until each finished a sentence before the other chimed in with the far more important thing HE had to say. (Do you know adults who still do this?)

About two minutes away from, Sawyer suggested that he and Ian walk the rest of the way home in order to reduce our carbon footprint. I pointed out that while we are always -- always! -- desirous of reducing our carbon footprint, I would have to drive the van the rest of the way home, regardless of their presence.

Kids. There's nothing quite like 'em, the whole world wide.

What I Cannot Be, a.k.a. Thankful Thursday

Do you ever feel overwhelmed by the sheer breadth of things you need to teach your child? Everything from character to personal hygiene to long division to why Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon to how to pump on a swing -- man, sometimes that just feels like a tall, tall order. There are moments when I feel like a one-woman band, and am absolutely positive that one of the snare drums on my back ain't gonna get hit, baby.

Especially since we homeschool. I can't fall back on, "Oh, her teacher will cover 'how to put on your jacket without bunching up your sleeves' or 'how to play in a group without excluding anyone.'

But then I have other moments, probably the truer ones, when I realize that there are things I'm not meant to do, areas in which I cannot suffice -- and that's a good thing.

Last Saturday, my eldest participated in a Bible Quiz competition with his AWANA club. He and one other boy represented the fourth grade males for our club, and I'd love to say we studied hard every single day, but I'd been lying to you. See discussion above.

But he did prepare decently, and on Saturday we shoved off at some unholy hour for the competition, armed with bagels and cream cheese.

He did well in the multiple choice round -- I know, since I was a scorekeeper (not for him).

Then came the bright lights, the big city -- no, just the bright lights. Of the stage, that is. About twelve boys, perched on the stage in front of a sanctuary full of beaming onlookers. All armed with buzzers that would light up a screen when pushed. First one to buzz in gets to answer. Only word-perfect answers accepted. (Oh, in case you're wondering, participating in the Quiz was totally his choice.)

And he did pretty well -- but not as well as he wanted. He answered three questions and got two wrong (minor wording issues), which meant he had to leave the stage. The moderator could not have been more kind and encouraging to the kids, letting them know that any effort they made was worthy of praise, and the audience applauded every attempt, successful or not.

But my guy -- oh, he was not pleased. As he slid into the pew next to me, I could see the puffy eyeballs glowing Grief Red. Other kids may have accepted defeat with equanimity, but that's never been the name of his game. As I opened my mouth to begin my sympathetic chat about his going up to bat being the whole point, and some kids not even taking a swing, but if you swing sometimes you hit and sometimes you miss, blah blah blah, three adults swooped in. Three leaders from our club, dedicated parents who show up week after week to shepherd these kids because they care and they're called, period.

One of them's tall. Really tall. Like maybe 6'5". He leaned in, made contact with those tearful blue eyes, and spoke seriously to him.

"Ian. You have NO reason to hang your head. You got up there and gave it your best. You hid God's word in your heart, and that's the whole point. We are all very, very proud of you." Each word flew like a balm-tipped arrow, finding its mark in a disappointed heart. The other two adults spoke a few more words of encouragement to my son, as I wiped my own tears of gratitude away.

Within ten minutes, my boy was sitting, dry-eyed, in the hallway playing with another boy on his DS. He never said another word about that supposed "failure," and neither did I.

It was unnecessary. As it turns out, I can stop worrying about that snare drum. The Lord may have extra work getting this truth through my thick skull .... but there are plenty of other players in this band.

P.S. This photo was taken immediately after the competition. Would you ever guess that it's the boy on the RIGHT who didn't do as well as he'd hoped?

Boredom (aren't you hooked?)

Confession: Although I have been a mother for over nine years now, I still find a certain level of anxiety stealing in when I see my children doing this kind of thing in the middle of the day:



This terrible urge to intervene, to hover, to give them something Productive to do, something Educational to fill their time, rears its ugly head, even when the three R's are checked off and they've indicated no dissatisfaction with their apparently idle state. It's like a disease, this boredom-phobia that threatens my more sensible instincts.

But since I HAVE been a mother for over nine years, I am learning to master this impulse. To remember that one of the greatest gifts of a true childhood is that of TIME. Time to quite literally watch the clouds go by. Time to cultivate "the inward eye/which is the gift of solitude." (Name that poet!) Time to connect with their Creator.

Two minutes after I snapped that photo, the boy grew quite excited over the shape of a cloud: "It's like a frowning man wearing a sombrero!" We tag-teamed the cloud identification thing for a while, sharing a few belly laughs, and ended up drawing our finds in sidewalk chalk on the driveway (since the girls were already drawing ships and knights). Not because it was productive or educational, but because we both wanted to, and it was fun, and childhood is fleeting.

It's not about winning

I love this about Eliza.

At the AWANA Games on Saturday, some of the most savory aspects of her personality were on display, proving that you can be a natural optimist without being a laid-back person.

This child is NOT about speed. We just don't do anything fast. So imagine, if you will, a human train of six little girls, racing other groups around a large circle in the middle of a gymnasium. My daughter is, inexplicably, positioned at the forefront of this group. As other groups jog more or less in sync around the circle, Eliza, beaming, leads her train in a WALK. The the other girls are bunched up behind her, trying to step on the gas, but their fearless leader continues to walk. Parents beside me are shouting, "Eliza, RUN!" but apparently all she can hear is that "Gosh, people are shouting MY name! Hurray for me!"

She was the picture of blissful innocence. And later that day, while Ian complained about his "horrible" performance at the games (his evaluation, not based upon fact), Eliza responded cheerfully, "Well, I must be pretty good at the games, because everyone congratulated me afterward!" Pause, then afterthought: "Even though we came in fourth place [out of four]."

What's not to love about that attitude? I so hope she hangs onto it, that ability to just enjoy the experience and accept her best effort as an unqualified success.

Let's be honest, she gets it from her father. Whereas with my son? All I can say is, we're in this journey together, buddy.

Boy, Crazy

This is how you know you're raising a real, live eight-year-old boy.

Morning: Earnestly and un-self-consciously shares with his Sunday School class about a very genuine experience he had of God calling him (they're studying God's Calling in the Old Testament). I think it's OK to share, in general terms, that he felt God calling him to complete a task that he had left halfway done.

This proves beyond all shadow of a doubt that THERE IS A GOD.

Afternoon: Practices diving in our empty-nester friend Dori's backyard pool. "Diving" involves some highly creative, let's-embrace-the-water-like-a-long-lost-friend belly flops. Beams with pride at his own accomplishments, and mercilessly badgers cajoles his mother into diving with him. Since she strives every day to fend off middle aged stodginess, she eventually yields.

Night: Plays Weapons and Warriors with father, convincing mother again to join in. Tiny plastic cannonballs zip and zoom all over the room as we assault one another's forces. The boy offers mature commentary in his inimitable style ("I'm sure glad I anticipated how good Daddy would be at this!"). But lest we be deceived, after the game, as one parent -- who is not I -- engages in some accidental celebratory flatulence, the boy lets out a whoop of exultation: "THE WINNER TOOTED!!!"


(Dh posted a nice review of the day, and his own rise to new heights of maturity, over here.)