Category Archives: Kids

Is it Hard?

His left hand was still swiveling in a pool of water on the kitchen counter, when he touched my side with his right. “Is it hard,” he wanted to know. “Is it hard to be a mother?”

“Hard?” I heard myself sigh. “Is it hard?”

I did not know how to answer for a million women. Because what is hard? Collectively what…is hard? When I looked down at my boy’s brave face, the side of it tipped earnestly toward mine, I realized he had not asked a million women.

He’d asked me.

But…where do I begin? I mean, what’s not hard? Picking your nose with your pinky? Flushing a public toilet?

But I asked him instead, “is it hard to serve others?”

And he shrugged. He thought it probably was.

And so I asked again, “Is it hard to pick up underwear that isn’t yours that’s been under the piano for six days? Is it hard to restraighten the shoes in the laundry room you just straightened, only half of them yours, without anyone noticing? Is it hard to finish abandoned bead crafts, fold all the blankets from the fort, snap your fingers to keep the cat out of the kitchen? Is it hard to hope for a ‘thank you’ and not get one?”

Is it hard?

And he answered for both of us, “sometimes.”

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When One of us Hurts

Our daughter was seventeen months old the day she tripped tottering up my mother-in-law’s driveway. The day she chipped a triangle out of both front teeth. The day I sobbed as if they’d been my teeth.

The dress she wore holds no memory for anyone. Anyone except me. I remember its blue, cotton bottom and its white polka dots. And I remember the feel of her broken teeth in my fingers. Like slices of almond. Fragile. And soft.

I wept that day. Wept for my little girl’s smile. And I grieved her precious teeth.

I am grieving again.

This morning my boy, my boy who who begged with hopeful eyebrows for just a little more time to play, to hang upside down on the bars by his knees and to twist and untwist himself as he’d done a hundred times, he’s hurting. My boy whom I consented could play for five more minutes and who in the very last moment of the last minute as I called with my hand to come, landed with a bar to his front teeth, collapsing three of them.

He cries angry tears, full of ‘what-ifs’ and ‘I-should-haves.’ And I try to soothe my boy with words that do not soothe me. “At least they’re baby teeth.” “You’ll have a brand new smile.” “Mommy loves you.” You’re going to be okay.”

But neither of us feels okay.

At home I cradle my boy whose ice cubes and tears sog my sweater. His sister silently gathers blankets and pillows and builds him a bed on the couch. She kneels where his head rests and whispers words just for him. His daddy kneels too.

We are silent a moment, loving our boy. Loving his whole being. Loving the person inside.

And for now it is enough.

It is. Enough.

Heart to Heart

He stands in our bedroom doorway draped like royalty in the blanket he drug from his bed.

Have I remembered, he wants to know. Remembered about this morning?

And I have. Remembered.

And so with love weighting each syllable, I pat the middle of our mattress and say, “Come on, son. Come up by mommy.”

And he does.

With a gentle left hand I smooth and part his hair. I pull my boy close to me with my right and wait as he nestles his rib cage closer to mine. There are a weekend’s worth of kisses to catch up on. And so as he gabs about wheelbarrow rides with cousins and the bath with jets at Nannie’s house, I press my lips to the sides of his head.

He is still a moment before he says, ”Can you hear it?”

And I listen with my hand on his chest.

“It’s my heart,” he whispers. “It’s going beep…beep beep.”

We might have stayed there another minute–me, my boy, his beeping heart. But his love tank was full.

And it was his stomach that needed me now.

The Eavesdropper

The job of tucking in kids that kept springing from their beds was over.

Sort of.

And so we sat. My husband in the chair against the wall. And me Indian style atop our bed. We talked in low voices, my day, then his.

Until we heard it. The creak of a small boy leaving his bottom bunk.

In seconds our son appeared in the doorway, his face mostly asleep. “Would it be okay,” he grogged, “okay if I just rest?”

We shrugged. Resting was still a kid in his bed.

“Cuz I just know,” he explained, “I just know what you’re saying is gonna be interesting and I can’t turn my ears off.”

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Raising a Boy

There was a whump from upstairs. A body tarzaning off a top bunk. Or a fan falling, as it were. From a top bunk it was never supposed to be on.

Only I learned it was the fan because my son, his bottom lip leading the way, found me in the living room and half-whispered, half-squeaked his apology. “I choosed poorly,” he said. He eyelashes flicked tears and  his head sagged another inch.

I listened to the poor choice and then asked that he scrape the fan into a pile that we could look at later.

Because it wasn’t about the fan.

But about my boy. My rough and tender boy. My boy who has inherited self-deprecation. My boy who does not need stern words, who crumbles at stern words. Who needs instead my dependable arms. And a piece of my shirt to wipe his snot.

My boy is the one confiding to his sister that he wants to run as fast as a cop.

And he’s the one waving for his gym teacher’s attention, only to say softly, “I love you, Miss Trinnelle.”

He’s the one with a boogered pointer finger. And the one sighing for the return of our grandmotherly next door neighbor. He’s the one with the stamina to yank weeds for an hour with his daddy. And the one pleading to help me bake.

Rough.

And tender.

This is my boy.

Rough-and-tender.

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I Feel Pretty

I can tell it makes her feel pretty. The purple dress.

The purple dress she has worn unabashedly for ten occasions without a breather–church, school, Easter, school, church…

The purple dress she blow dries her hair for and turns sideways in the mirror for, first this way and then that and then another time this way. I say only once, “run down and show your daddy,” because she does. She slips from the door frame with happy pony tails–one on each side–and bounces down the stairs to find her daddy’s praise.

It isn’t just the dress, though. It’s the shoes. The far-from-sensible sandals that click and clack against the wood floors. The ones whose inch and a half white heels wobble with every step and threaten to throw her to the ground. The ones she pretends are as soft as slippers.

I shrug as we leave. “You’re sure you’re okay? Your feet are gonna make it?” And she nods confidently, though a pair of tennis shoes sits beside her.

As we hustle between stores, she clips and clops to stay close. She loses the dainty steps and strides like a sprinter, focused on the finish line. I tell her we can drive across the parking lot to the next store, and she looks at me with a face that is ten years older. “It’s just right there,” she says. And so we do. We clop and click across the black top, her hand swinging in mine, her smile lighting a path for every step.

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Out of the Box

Twelve Novembers ago, Troy and I spent our first married Thanksgiving with my sister and brother-in-law in Seattle in their mildewy starter-home the size of an egg carton. Just the four of us. We huddled around a card table with floor heaters, dealing hands of Euchre and Spades from dawn to dinner. At 9:30 a.m. my sister jumped to grab the pies from the oven, and I followed for moral support. At which time my sister cocked a giddy eyebrow and said, “why don’t we just eat pie right now?”

Um.

Heh.

I didn’t have an answer. My 26 years of rule-following sort of paralyzed the Thanksgiving dare-devil in me, and I wondered if we really could. Eat pie, that is. Hot pie. Right now.

But then I nodded. And I laughed. And I felt something well within me. Yes. Goll darn it. Yes. Yes, I did want pie. A lot of pie.

At 10 a.m.

Which is how it happened that we forked down pumpkin pie for breakfast hours before the turkey even met the oven door.

The things is, I’ve not forgotten that feeling. That unsuspecting joy. That joy that came from shirking conventionalism or in-the-box thinking.

And though it has nothing to do with Thanksgiving or pie, I got that feeling again–that giddy joy–on Monday and again on the days that followed when we pulled The Book of Virtues off the shelf and did a little unconventional learning.

You see. What I’ve learned about my daughter is that she needs to do something horribly distracting (to me) with her hands as she listens. Like flicking her pencil in circles. Or quietly graffiti-ing our dining room table. Or picking paint off the wall. Something.

But I’ve also noticed that she has a gift for expressing what she learns with her hands.

And so we tried…getting out of the box.

While she gathered ten scraps of anything from around the house, I opened The Book of Virtues.

Here’s what it looks like. A big thing. And within it are stories and excerpts of stories and biographies and poetry organized in categories of faith, courage, self-discipline, perseverance, friendship and so on.

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Together we read an excerpt by Sarah Bradford on the life of Harriet Tubman called The Moses of Her People. It was several pages, and yet, not long enough.

There were so many possible tangents.

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Only I asked that she take her scraps and create. With her fingers.

Something. Anything.

Twenty minutes later she tells me this is Harriet following her guide, the North Star.

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We did the same today. Collected scraps. Read a passage together. Let it simmer. And then created.

This piece, The Captain’s Daughter, tells how no one–not even the captain–thinks his ship can withstand the storm. But then the captain’s daughter asks, “Isn’t God upon the ocean, just the same as on the land?”

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And from scraps…the story.

And I’m giddy. Again.

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Different Lenses

My attention was on the elderly gentleman, sunk solidly into the seat of his motorized shopping cart and leaning with his left arm into the refrigerated section for a half-gallon of juice. He didn’t need my help. But I watched anyway. Watched and waited. Watched like I might with my own child cutting an apple with a steak knife. And waited…just in case.

The man’s weight hung on him like a sixty year burden. Only heavier was the burden he carried within. His eyes said so.

But it wasn’t these my son noticed.

As the man beeped his cart into reverse, my son’s head spun to find the melody. As the cart whizzed unsteadily past us, my son’s hand beat against my side. Had I seen it? he wanted to know. He pointed reverently after the man and the scooter. “That,” he sighed, “was one fast ride.”

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Silk Tie-Dyed Easter Eggs

I hope it wasn’t irreverent to be sifting through ties at the Goodwill on Easter Eve at ten ’til closing. Because there was the lot of us, concerned, suddenly, that we hadn’t done a single Easter craft, holding up into each other’s faces splotchy ties, ties with paisleys, ties with zig-zags. Until we had two we could collectively shrug weren’t that bad.

It was then mentioned on the ride home that we had no eggs.Which turned into a stop at Fred Meyer. Which turned into buying more than eggs “since we’re here.” Which turned into rolling home after bed time with wired children and zero time for an egg craft anyway.

Which is how it happened that we remembered our ties on Thursday–four days after Easter–which, was just as well.

If you’ve done this before–dyed eggs with silk ties–then you know that you don’t need much in the way of tangibles. A couple of 100% silk ties, an old t-shirt, scissors, eggs, twist-ties, vinegar, and a pot of water. But add to that list a hefty dose of patience and perseverance and this could actually be fun. With children. Heh.

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Alright. Here’s one of our sweet purchases.

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What we’ve got to do first is take the tie apart. A pair of sharp scissors makes this easy.

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If the tie’s got a piece of fabric on the inside, toss that. Or give it new life by handing it to someone who can recycle just about anything.

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Double check that the tie is 100% silk. Then clip off that little tag, too. The dye for the eggs will come from the silk. Which means that if you’ve got something else that’s 100% silk–a blouse or underwear, ahem, those would work too.

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Now we’ve got to wrap the UNCOOKED eggs in a piece of silk. Which is about as easy as tearing open a bandaid with one hand. Nothin’ hard about that. Until that’s you with the bandaid. And one hand.

The problem is that the egg is happy being mostly covered in silk. It’s getting the whole thing dressed and ready that requires a bit of perseverance and a few wrestling moves.

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Here’s our first egg wrapped in silk and held with a twist-tie.

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And here’s our second.

A thing to note is that the ‘good’ side of the tie–the most colorful side–is what we want to wrap the egg in. The darkest print should be against the egg.

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The eggs get wrapped one more time. This could mean using old dish towels or sheets. We went with an old, white T-shirt.

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And there it is. All ready.

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Since we’re down one egg to a ‘woopsie,’ we’ve got eleven eggs all double-wrapped in our basket. We’re just going to carry those right into the kitchen.

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To our pan of water, we’re adding 1/4 cup of white vinegar.

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Then we’re adding our eggs and bringing the water to a boil.

When the water boils, we’re turning the burner down to low and letting the eggs simmer for 20 minutes.

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Then it’s time to pull the eggs from the water and see what happened.

And the coolest thing? It’s usually nothing we expected.

Brown and pink? Um…okay.

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Here’s our whole batch.

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From the blue and gold tie, we got this design.

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And from the dark-purple and blue, we got this. Wild.

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So what do you do with a bunch of pretty eggs?

Well…

You set up shop in your living room.

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And you sell them to your sister.

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Easter eggs for sale.

Pretty Easter eggs.

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Easing into Saturday

In the four ‘o clock hour, I flung the covers quickly at the sound of my son sobbing. I squished into his bottom bunk and lay facing him, my right arm pressing him to me.

“A sad dream,” he cried. “Really sad.” He sobbed, agonized by his own thoughts. And I soothed with whispers; I loved him with every pore of my being.

In the five ‘o clock hour, I tapped out. And my husband held our boy until he breathed easy in his sleep.

By the seven ‘o clock hour, our son had bounced out of bed with an empty stomach and could be heard plucking things from the pantry.

By seven-thirty, he’d butted through our bedroom door with the report that the cat had caught a bird and brought it into the house.

At seven thirty-five, the update came that the cat had actually caught two birds and the one in the house was still alive.

At seven forty-five, my son dangled a plastic Fred Meyer bag above my pillow and assured me not to worry. He’d caught the bird.

At seven fifty, the final bird report came. It’d clung to his finger, he said, before it ‘flewed’ away.

At eight a.m., I took a shower. It, uh, seemed the right thing to do.

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