the great eight

About a year ago I read a book about parenting boys that claimed five-year-old boys were the lovers and at age eight they were beginning the downward spin into rebellion. I'm not sure what boys the authors were following, but certainly not mine.

My eight year old is an inventor, an artist, a chef, a dreamer, a helper, a sweet friend and as loving as they come. On Thanksgiving day, when he learned we were to contribute appetizers to a family dinner, he studied our on-hand ingredients and devised two original recipes. Who knew a tomato doused with cinnamon sugar could be so tasty? Or that cream cheese, hot cocoa and waffle cone would be the perfect compliment to a caramel apple?

On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, when we began pulling Christmas decorations out of the basement, he decided the Iron Man shrine on the wall leading upstairs needed to go. Then he sat and drew and colored a gallery of elves, a goose named Quacker (Santa's assistant) and Mr. Claus himself. We now have a lovely holiday exhibit to admire each night as we make our way to bed.

This week, he tagged along when grandma and grandpa took Elliott to a holiday party designed for special needs kids and their families. Later my mom told me how Liam walked all through the school with his arm around Elliott, how he encouraged him to go first and, when it came to games or crafts or whatever they were doing, let Elliott be the "star." My mom e-mailed me later that night, "I was so awed by him."

Last night after I put him to bed and we inventoried the day's sparkles and challenges and I scratched his back (because he still happily lets me), I came downstairs and emptied out his backpack. At the bottom I found a letter to Santa. I was surprised as Liam insisted on mailing a letter back in October detailing the exact LEGO sets he had his heart set on receiving. I figured he must have heard about something a friend was asking for and wanted to send an addendum. I was wrong.

No doubt, at some age we will begin the downward spin into rebellion. In the meantime, for as long as I possibly can, I will be relishing the great age eight and the lover who ended up being my son. I, too, am so awed by him.

the best days

Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. —Ralph Waldo Emerson

These are the days when we spend evening after evening hanging out with people we love, when we read books together and take naps in the afternoon, when we tidy and purge the house and it doesn't feel like a chore, when we cut down a tree and bring it home tied to the car roof, when we let little boys decorate and resist the urge to change things. These are the days when school and work don't compute, when meals are slow cooked, dessert is a given and no one rushes. These are the days they'll remember. And all I can think is that the way we feel about these days should be the way we feel about every day. Because if you can find the magic in the mundane and the busy and the struggle, you are really living a beautiful life. So far we're finding the best days at least one month out of the year. It's a start.

not what we expected

It's 4:30 a.m. and I'm sitting on the couch with Elliott who's getting his fix of peanut butter toast and Mr. Bean. Although he still requires a blankie, struggles to form answers to open-ended questions and says many of his words like he has marbles in his mouth, I have never met a five year old who enjoys and understands humor like Elliott. He sees nuances even most adults might miss. For a long time I thought it was a fluke, that somehow he was just made to laugh at most anything.

When Elliott was nearly two, a neurologist ordered blood draws to test for some of the most severe genetic conditions. She was deeply concerned that our non-talking, non-walking boy was never going to progress beyond the intellectual level of a three year old. The tests, of course, were negative, but the dread of that suspected diagnosis has never fully lifted.

Two weekends ago I pulled out a take-home project from school - a pumpkin his kindergarten teacher suggested we decorate at home and send back to hang in the classroom. I got out some stickers and markers and urged Elliott to do something to the pumpkin. We worked quickly as I knew Elliott would lose interest after a sticker or two and I'd have to restrain myself from decorating the pumpkin myself. When I could see he was finished, I suggested we write his name and I put a marker in his hand and held it in mine.

"No," he said adamantly. "I do by self."

"Okay," I shrugged, expecting a couple little lines and scribbles on the paper.

Instead, Elliott slowly and deliberately wrote out his name, all by himself.

I am embarrassed to admit that name writing, like reading and thoughtfully answering questions, is something I have doubted my son might ever be able to do. Which, I suspect, is the reason I cried when the last T was crossed.

Only God knows what each one of us is capable of. And I am humbled to have the great privilege of witnessing one child becoming so much more than we ever expected.

how about them apples?

(Before I begin, I would like to say a word to Instagram. Instagram, your new business model stinks. I took a slew of beautiful pictures of pumpkins and apples and my children over the weekend and you have made it impossible for me to save, print or even post those photos on my blog. I love how you make me look so much better than I am, but I am leaving you. All you care about is Facebook. I am so disappointed in you. Okay, now that I've explained why there are no fabulous photos shared here, on with the post.)

I’ve never been a fan of the shorter days or the colder mornings. Give me a bright and sunny 6 a.m. that’s fast-approaching a balmy 80 degrees any day of the year. Still, I’m a sucker for the changing seasons. The sudden transformation from green and brown to orange and yellow never fails to awe me. And the orchards overrun with pumpkins and peck after peck of apples inspires me every year.

The last two weekends we’ve visited two different orchards. For you local folks, Honey Hill Orchard in Waterman, IL, is worth the drive if you’re looking for the world’s best homemade apple cider donut, a pick-your-own pumpkin patch and some family-friendly activities like a hay-bale maze, petting zoo and tractor pull that are (unbelievably) free. If you’re looking for a very expensive three-ring circus that includes a giant plethora of country kitsch for purchase, a cop directing traffic in the middle of nowhere and a “fun” area you can hardly get out of without spending a week’s budget, check out Kuipers Family Farm in Maple Park, IL. (I should, however, note that my kids were crazy about the washing stations at Kuipers. We brought home some spanking-clean pumpkins.)

At both orchards I picked up a peck of Cortlands. Hands down (in my opinion), they make the best applesauce. Using my grandma’s recipe (which is nothing but the whole, peel-on, seeds-in apple), I immediately processed the first peck last weekend. The gallon of sauce lasted a week. I also made this delicious and very flexible breakfast apple crumble. I say breakfast because it’s low on sugar and it has oatmeal in it and it makes me feel better about eating dessert when the sun is rising. And my kids think I rock when we eat apple crumble for breakfast. (I used honey in it and exchanged almond meal for half the whole wheat flour. Hence the flexible part.)

I also tried something new with apples last week. And I am happy to say—especially to you people who are demanding new recipes (you know who you are)—it turned out pretty excellent. I will make it again, which is my criteria for putting the recipe into a post, as this blog has now become my recipe book and lately my reminder that I actually used to cook and bake stuff. Now it is proof that when apples are in season, I still do.

A pizza recipe with apples may seem odd, but the best recipes often are. This one’s no exception. (By the way, I know this recipe would benefit from photos, but thanks to Instagram, there aren't any. The final product looks like a muffin and functions like a calzone, in case that helps.)

Muffin-tin Meatball (or Meatless Ball) and Apple Pizza

1 recipe pizza dough (below) or store-bought dough (like Trader Joe’s)

6 meatballs (like frozen Turkey meatballs or vegetarian meatballs from Trader Joe’s)

1 apple, peeled and thinly sliced

6 T marinara sauce

shredded mozzarella (about 1 cup)

shredded parmesan (couple ½ cup)

egg

1 T milk

Separate dough into 6 pieces and roll out pieces individually to diameter of a large grapefruit. Set first piece in large, greased muffin tin compartment. A couple inches on all sides should hang over the edge. Fan out a layer of thinly sliced apple in the bottom and along the sides of the dough-lined tin. Put meatball, a tablespoon of marinara, a couple pinches of mozzarella and a pinch of parmesan on top of the apple. Fold over the excess dough to close the pizza pocket. Continue with the other five pizza pockets. Brush the tops of the six mini calzone-like pizzas with a mixture of egg and milk. Bake at 400 for 20 minutes.

For the dough:

Dissolve ½ teaspoon of yeast in ¾ cup warm water. In mixer with dough hook, stir together 2 cups all-purpose flour with ½ teaspoon salt. While mixing, pour in the yeast water. Continue mixing for several minutes. Dough should look and feel like pizza dough. Form into a ball and let sit for a few minutes before using.

it makes no sense

So, friends, every day do something that won’t compute. Ask the questions that have no answers. Put your faith in two inches of humus that will build under the trees every thousand years. Laugh. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts. Practice resurrection. —Wendell Berry

I had plans to pack as many chores and errands into a late Sunday afternoon as I possibly could. Clean laundry was wrinkling in baskets. Staples needed to be purchased for school lunches. Dinner should soon be started. The workweek was fast approaching.

But Liam had his own plans.

I attempted to hustle the boys into the car to run to the grocery store. But they wanted none of it. The two were in the backyard surveying a trench Liam had dug. And now Liam was instructing his young apprentice to go and collect some “poison” berries for the potion he was concocting to pour into the dirt crevice, which would apparently protect us against house brownies, gremlins and other mischievous fairy types.

It was a perfect late summer afternoon and I was now the ultimate gremlin come to break up their fun. As I closed my eyes to the warm sun, I considered my options. I could demand that they get into the car. I am the mother, after all. I could give up on getting to the store and go back inside to fold laundry and get a jump on dinner. Or, I could scrap all my plans for a productive afternoon and observe the nonsense going on in the yard.

Although it went against my plans entirely, I chose the last option. Liam lit up and, as he now considered me a co-conspirator, broke out his secret weapon should the salt-and-berry barrier fail.

So, that’s where the forks disappear.

Whether it's making secret potions and pitchforks to keep the bad fairies from entering the house or running gleefully for the park—the unproductive activity we did next—nothing my boys choose to occupy their time computes in a useful sense. Their joys are, in fact, completely useless. And for a productive, results-oriented mother, joining in and attempting to experience their abandon takes more effort than I care to admit.

To add to the nonsense, we have brought a dog into our family. Nothing could compute less. Another mouth to feed. More vacuuming to do. Earlier mornings to wake up and step outside—as winter approaches no less!

Yet already, the joy has increased ten-fold. Just the presence of a being so completely unproductive, so useless (in the traditional sense) has resurrected a purposefulness that cannot be found in baskets of laundry or trips to the grocery store. There is no making sense of love. And when we open our hearts to the clever nonsense of a boy who makes his own pitchfork, a useless trip to the park when there's loads of work to be done or a freeloading dog who makes the whole house happier, we get a glimpse of Wendell Berry's truth. 

What's the point of spending your whole life being productive and useful? Results are just results. The stuff that makes no sense... that's where we find the magic.

Welcome, Bella!

preparing for the week

I think this may be the longest I've ever gone between blog posts. It has something to do with being in a perpetual state of jet lag. Without the jet. Between a very demanding project that has turned my 12-hour work/commute days into 14-15 hour work/commute days, a boy who has been waking up in the middle of the night, multiple daily lunch preparations before leaving the house at 7, 6 or even 5 a.m. and the effort needed to tend to my family and maintain some semblance of friendship with the people I love, there has been very little time to write. Or think a coherent thought, which would allow me something to write about.

A couple of weekends ago in the kitchen, I had some thoughts as I listened to a great interview with one of world's leading geophysicists and spiritual thinkers on the meaning of humanity from NPR's On Being. Maybe I'm just starved for meaningful thought, but I was so moved by what he said, I stopped the podcast a couple of times to take notes. I was going to write about this, but I'm pretty sure the notes have been swept off the counter into the garbage.

I had also considered writing about music at one point and the strange emotional power it has over me, but then I figured that may have more to do with sleep deprivation. And if there is something meaningful there to write about, I am still at a loss to find it. Nonetheless, I invite you to listen to one of the very wonderful songs that makes me cry regularly.

I have also had an idea for a post about my ridiculous obsession with my smart phone, but I'm not sure I'm ready to be that transparent. So instead, I'll stick with my favorite topic (after Liam and Elliott) and write about food.

This weekend, between working and playing, I spent time in the kitchen preparing for the week ahead. In addition to clearing piles of accumulated papers (which have grown exponentially with the start of the school year), I cut up loads of vegetables and fruits and put them in containers so they would be easy to grab from lunches and snacks. Not rocket science, but it sure feels like a great and satisfying accomplishment.

I also made a big batch of bolognese sauce that we ate over spaghetti on Saturday night and over baked potatoes tonight. (This is a favorite recipe and one of the few meat dishes I make, using all local grass-fed beef and no pork.) Then, with some of the veggie scraps, I made homemade vegetable broth so I can easily pull together a minestrone or our delicious carrot soup for dinner later in the week.

Although I felt like a truck rode over me this morning (and not for any good reason other than the aforementioned jet-less jet lag), I managed to make my children some very healthy breakfast cookies. They went kind of nuts for them. I thought they were on the dry and tasteless side. Shows how depriving kids of sugar can make them overly excited for anything that bears the name "cookie." I will spare you that recipe. The broth, however, is a worthy addition, particularly with soup season upon us. If it inspires any great soup recipes from your kitchen, please share. I need more to write about.

Simple Homemade Veggie Broth

Celery (what's left after cutting up sticks)
Carrots (1-2 washed and roughly chopped)
Onion (1 large chopped plus the skin)
Other veggies (e.g., golden beet, washed and chopped; swiss chard stalks; just nothing gas-producing like broccoli, cauliflower or cabbage)
1 t salt
1 t thyme
1 t Italian seasoning or marjoram
10 cups water

Bring to a boil and simmer on low boil 30 minutes. Cool and strain into a glass quart jar.

school is where we practice being brave and kind

I heard a statement once that I think about all the time: “Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” How true and how amplified the day a new school year begins.

On Wednesday Elliott started all-day kindergarten at a new (to him) school across town, with a new bus driver, a new teacher and new friends. My stomach was in knots on Wednesday imagining how petrified he might be at all the newness, including eating lunch at school and interacting with a broader school community than the small self-contained Early Childhood pre-school class he was in last year. I felt like we were throwing him to the wolves. And I ached knowing I couldn't be there for him.

He survived, but not without a seizure-like episode that night (episodes which we now see so clearly are triggered by anxiety) and a full-on tantrum the next morning about boarding the bus. I should have known trouble was brewing when he marched off the bus that first afternoon and boldly declared, "I all done school!" Like he had tried it and found it not to his liking.

Sending him back put a little dagger into the heart I wear around outside. 

My son would love nothing more than to lie on the couch with his blankie and watch Alvin and the Chipmunks or play with his cars for hours on the floor. In a perfect world, his mom would be home 24/7, we'd take a daily trip to the pool and the ice cream shop and never visit a doctor. Going to school would be completely out of the question.

In a perfect world, I could put my heart back in my chest cavity. Instead, I ache and bleed for a worried, confused little boy who dreads hearing that "yes" there is school today.

But he has a wonderful teacher and has been put into a classroom where he can get the help he needs to succeed academically. As an added bonus, he gets to practice being brave. As much as it pains me to see him stretch, I know that the courage he musters will just add to the incredible beauty this boy already shows us.

Eventually he will like school. Until then, I just hope my heart can survive.

::
For all moms sending kids back to school this year, I highly recommend this wonderful letter Glennon Melton of Momastery wrote to her third-grade son. I read my own version of it to my third-grade son, knowing that he will meet many "Elliotts" in his school career.

It doesn't matter how smart my third grader is or how popular. It matters that he's kind, and brave. The brave that's not required but that can change the world. To practice bravery in all its forms and to extend kindness when it's not the cool thing to do—that is success in school.

the best thing about working is not working

After four consecutive days with some of the people I love most in this world, I am reminded of one of the great benefits of having a job: Time off is nothing short of heavenly. It is difficult not to fully appreciate being together when most of the time you are apart. It is difficult not to soak up every moment in the beautiful natural world when most of the time you're inside sitting at a desk. It is also difficult to go back to a working life. But, alas, a day of not working will come again. I can hardly wait.

he keeps us laughing

Although Elliott has a ways to go when it comes to creating original sentences, he is a master imitator. We have been warned told several times that between the crazy faces he makes to entertain us (and himself), his sense of comedic timing and his ability to mimic so precisely, we quite possibly have the next Jim Carey on our hands. Lord, help us.

Here are a few of the hilarious things coming out of his mouth these days:

:: When he gets frustrated, such as when his push mower (that he pushes all over town) gets stuck, he yells at it. “No, meanie!” he says exactly in the tone, say, his mother might shout no. It's probably about as effective with the mower as it is with the child.

:: One of Andrew’s phrases is coming back to haunt him. Elliott has been exerting his authority over the cats when they don’t obey him (which means all the time) by furrowing his brow and bending over them and admonishing, “You cheeky bugger!” My favorite, though, is when he gets frustrated with his dad and stubbornly admonishes him. When you hear this British phrase with a slight British accent coming out of the mouth of a five year old, it’s terribly hard not to laugh.

:: Speaking of laughing…the past couple of weeks we’ve been treated to a lot of mooning, accompanied with the bold command, “Feast your eyes!” I think he heard his brother say this once (who saw it in the movie Brave) and, not surprising to us, it stuck. The funniest part, besides the little white butt in the air, is that he knows he's hilarious and it just cracks him up.

:: Perhaps not as funny (to us) is the influence Ricky Gervais has has on our son. When Liam was born, a good friend of mine gave him the book That's Disgusting. Again, no surprise to us, it's become Elliott's favorite. Thus, we do not believe it is any coincidence that last week Elliott came to Andrew and earnestly begged him, "Dad, smell finger. Smell! Smell!" Just like a page out of the Gervais book, Elliott stuck his finger in the cat's behind. And he loved how "gross" it was. 

Oh, Lord, help us.

cake

To make the weekends a little more special, I've been trying to bake. I recently found a cake recipe that uses a 6 oz. yogurt container as the main measure, making it easy for a child to prepare the batter. So this afternoon, I enlisted Elliott's help and we whipped up the easy French yogurt cake. After a perfect dinner of BLTs (perhaps the only thing that keeps me from becoming a full vegetarian) and an after-dinner walk downtown to watch the Prairie State Cycling Series, a thrilling professional criterion right in our own backyard, we ate the Elliott-made cake with fresh peaches and créme fraiche while watching the Olympics. Pretty special, I'd say.

Yogurt Cake a Child Can Make
From Bringing Up Bébé by Pamela Druckerman

2 6 oz. containers plain whole-milk yogurt (use container to measure other ingredients)
2 eggs
1 container sugar
1 t. vanilla
Little less than 1 container coconut oil (or other oil)
4 containers flour
1 1/2 t. baking powder

Mix together ingredients. Spoon into greased and floured 9-inch round pan or cast iron skillet. Bake at 375 for 35 minutes. Batter will be very thick; cake will be very delicious.

thank you

Elliott never passes a dog without stopping to say hello. When he spots a dog, he does a little happy dance, quickly glances at me to make sure it's okay, trots over and stops dead in front of the owner.

"What his name," he asks eagerly before touching the animal.

If the owner answers, which is almost always, Elliott repeats what he hears and engages, either simply patting the dog's behind or nuzzling his whole face into the animal's neck.

Sometimes that's all he needs. Other times I have to call him away. He never complains or argues, and no matter how brief the encounter or how friendly or gruff the owner, he always, always turns back with a smile and a wave and calls, "Thank you!"

I don't know where he learned this. We have raised our boys to be polite but not excessively so. Elliott just seems to have a gratitude meter that surpasses most adults.

He doesn't always remember to thank when it's culturally appropriate to do so, such as when a friend shares a toy or his mom refills his milk. Instead he offers his thanks when it's most unexpected.

A couple of weeks ago we visited the doctor for Elliott's kindergarten check up. After the awful 48-hour EEG experience, visiting a doctor never comes without some level of apprehension. On most occasions now I can honestly tell him that we are "just going to talk" to the doctor who may also weigh him and tap at his knees and listen to his heart, and this calms him. (Although he will still ask hopefully every couple minutes, "I be done soon?") This time, however, immunizations were on the bill and I tried to clue him in without freaking him out, but his anxiety was palpable.

Elliott cooperated through the appointment but broke down as soon as he saw the nurse. I tried to hold him chest to chest on my lap as the now two nurses recommended, but he would have none of it. A third nurse was brought in so she and I could hold a screaming Elliott down while the other two did the injections. As soon as the ordeal was over, I snuggled the sobbing boy on my lap who fought the bandaids and any other advances from the remaining nurse like a wild animal. So we quickly got dressed to leave.

I took the hand of my sniffling, tear-stained-face boy and walked out of the exam room. As we got to the door, Elliott turned around and in the most pathetic, sincere, cracked voice called out, "Thank you, doctor," to our nurse.

I will never forget the shocked look on the nurse's face as she turned to my son.

"Oh, honey," she said, "thank you."

This is why I call Elliott my blessing boy. Even at his lowest, he looks beyond his own discomfort to make someone else's day. I don't know how he learned it, but his thank yous are a gift to us all.

i'm not fooling anyone

One of the best compliments I ever receive is when people tell me I remind them of my grandma Gaye. It is true that I inherited her height and her slender build, her deep love for family and her fondness for all things farm. But, perhaps, where I find her most in my life is in my cooking. Like my grandma, I am kind of a stickler about feeding my kids whole foods and seriously limiting the sugar. However, if I were really my grandma, I'd be grinding my own grain into flour and refusing to allow a stitch of sugar into my home. But let's be serious people, this is the 21st century in the suburbs.

My dad and his siblings love to joke about the cookies my grandma used to make. She would take a recipe and make it healthy, which meant replacing the white flour with whole wheat, the sugar with honey and the chocolate with raisins. Her children were not fans of her cookies. In fact, I believe they all felt a little deprived in the dessert department growing up.

But I understand my grandma. I've eaten her cookies. I didn't think they were so bad.

My son, in the short time he had with my grandma, adored the woman. He also politely ate her cookies, which is why I supposed he wouldn't mind when I finally broke down the other day and made some chocolate chip cookies with whole wheat flour and honey and packed them with zucchini.

I have to admit I didn't love these cookies at first, but I think they got better with age. Because when you don't keep a plethora of desserts in the house and rarely make sweet things, even a zucchini cookie is quite the treat.

Liam took his first bite and eyed me warily.

"Does this have honey in it?" he asked.

"Yep," I replied.

Another bite.

"Does it have zucchini in it?" he asked semi-shocked.

"Yes," I answered cautiously.

Another bite.

"Mom," he said with a surprised smile. "These are awesome!"

Not the response I was expecting. But what a coup. Even though I didn't grind the flour myself, I believe my grandma would be proud.

Zucchini Chocolate Chip Cookies
Adapted from a recipe by Camille Kingsolver in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life

1 egg
1/2 cup coconut oil
1/2 cup honey
1/3 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup whole wheat flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 cups shredded zucchini
1 cup mini chocolate chips

Combine egg, oil, honey, brown sugar and vanilla. Sift together dry ingredients and add to batter. Stir in zucchini and chocolate chips. Drop spoonfuls on cookie sheet and bake at 350 for 15 minutes. Makes 3 dozen.

because someday he won't want me like this

I am typing this post one handed while mama's boy snuggles on my lap. For the last 72 hours, Elliott has refused to let me out of his sight. He insists on keeping his shoes on so he can follow me out of the house on a moment's notice. Other than when he napped yesterday and Liam and I snuck out for a date at the movies, Elliott has gone everywhere with me since I've been home on vacation the last three days. He probably figures he'd better soak up all the mommy time he can before I start answering yes again to the pleading, daily "mommy no go to work today?" question.

Over the last few days, I've had some fairly grandiose plans. Papers to sort. Closets and drawers to organize. Garden to weed. Blog posts to write. Yoga classes to attend. Recipes to try. Instead I've spent most of my five consecutive days off sitting on the couch and in the pool with a five year old clinging to my neck, or running errands - very slowly - with the same child glued to my side.

But really, how can I complain? Accomplishing anything pales in comparison to watching the sweetest, friendliest, cutest boy in the world sleep in my lap or stop to greet everyone he sees. After all, blog posts can be typed with one finger. Everything else can wait.

blessing boy in the quiet service

"How often we are embarrassed to do and say the things that really affect us. Perhaps this is because we cannot defend ourselves while they are happening. Or perhaps we have a corporate agreement that we will not embarrass each other, even if that means never going very deeply into the things that matter most to us." —Barbara Brown Taylor

I struggle with church. For years I didn't go at all. And for years I felt guilty about it. I grew up in a family for which churchgoing was paramount. But I felt closer to God talking a walk in the park, teaching English to Polish immigrants, lying prone on my mat in shavasana. I felt that anything anyone said about God was inadequate and that too many spoke for God when it was clear they had their own agenda. I got the message that God is chiefly interested in religion and good behavior and that he could only be found within the four walls of a particular church. This bothered me. It still does.

But I still go. Because even though I know now that the whole world is God's house, I still often find him in church.

In the summer, though, we spend more time in the church outside. On the riverbank and under the stars. One reason is that the whole world feels so much more open to us in the summer. There is hardly time to drink it all in. Another reason is that there is no Sunday school in the summer and Elliott has no interest in sitting in the house we built for God when God's whole wide world is waiting. 

After missing for two weeks, however, I felt compelled to return for a Sunday. I decided that rather than go through the exercise of filing everyone into a pew only to have Elliott start talking loudly and crawling into the aisle so Andrew could take him on a walk around Geneva just minutes into the service, I'd go alone. 

I hadn't been to the early, quiet, contemplative service in a long time and felt that would be the right kind of worship for me. But when I got dressed Elliott became clingy. I knew when I told him I was going to church he'd be happy to stay behind. But he insisted on going. 

"But honey," I said with a concerned face. "I'm going to church."

He brought me his shoes. I sighed, knowing that I'd surely have to take him out and miss the sermon. What was the point of even going?

"Okay," I said. "If you really want to go. But you will have to be very quiet and sit until it's over. Okay?"

"Okay," he grinned.

I wasn't convinced. But I took some gum and his blankie and buckled him into the car.

Incredibly, he sat through the service, and other than a small string of self-induced burps, biting off the pew pencil eraser and several "I done soon?" rounds of questioning, he remained quiet and semi-angelic. He even put his head in my lap and cuddled his blankie for most of the sermon. It was the music, however, that won his attention. 

Our friend Jen sang a solo mid-way through the service and Elliott sat still beside me. When she was done a few people quietly said "Amen." Elliott, however, spontaneously applauded her. He repeated his glad, clapping approval after the piano solo during the offertory as well. No one joined him. It's not appropriate to clap in the quiet service. He couldn't have cared less. 

My son is never embarrassed to do the things that affect him and he certainly doesn't mind a bit about embarrassing others by doing them either. Whether it's walking repeatedly past a row of baseball spectators with his hand out for a high five (when most just look at him cock-eyed), yelling "hi geese" at the top of his lungs to every waterfowl he passes in his bike trailer or applauding in a silent room after a beautiful piece of music, Elliott bestows his blessings without a second thought. He doesn't take advice on what to care about, he just seems to know. He makes some people uncomfortable, but most catch a glimpse, I hope, of God's own audacity. Something that is rarely found within the four walls of the houses we build for God. Something that, sadly, we all knew when we were young, and then forgot.

Thankfully I have a blessing boy—who I took to the quiet service against my better, grown-up judgement—to help me remember.

summer's sweet spot

Last week my eight year old informed me that after "thinking for a very long time" he had decided that when he grows up he plans to be a baseball player. I could have told him the chances of that ever happening are extraordinarily slim and highly unlikely, but who am I to kill the dream? Instead, I said that was an awesome idea and I looked forward to watching all of his games. Because, seriously, I do.

Summer nights are never better than when they're spent in the pool or at a concert in the park. Catching fireflies in the yard, roasting marshmallows for s'mores and lying out in a tent under the stars, also contenders for the perfect late-June evening. But, truly, nothing says summer like pitching a folding chair on the sidelines of a ballgame and cheering for your kid and his team of ball-handling misfits, especially when a hit out of the infield is newsworthy, an out demands a standing ovation and a double play is an absolute miracle. And every kid, even on a losing night, gets his turn taking the game ball home.

Andrew and I have never pushed sports. Liam's interest in baseball, his enthusiasm for manning first base and donning the catcher's gear, his coolness in the batter's box and eagerness to be watched and cheered are actions and desires all his own. No one is making him suit up or putting career dreams in his head. He simply likes to play the game.

When Liam began baseball practice this spring and we learned he'd been assigned to the Braves, I told him my grandpa George, although he spent most of his life in Chicago, loved the Atlanta Braves. For some unknown reason, a huge sports fan and life-long coach, he'd chosen the Braves as his favorite baseball team. My son, who only knew of his great-grandfather through the fond stories my mom and I told, stood in the kitchen after his first practice holding his new cap and said, "I am going to do my very best on the Braves." And then added very seriously, "I'm going to make grandpa George proud."

I love that my son cares so deeply about playing well. I love that he waves to me from the outfield and runs to tell me to watch when he's up. I love that he plays for fun and, maybe a little, for the (unhealthy) snack some other parent brought to share when the game's over. I love that his hair curls out of his hat and that he has no idea that he's so darn cute in a uniform. I love that he's learning that playing smart wins the game. I love that he tries really hard. I love that he thinks he can make the dead proud.

No doubt about it, eight-year-old baseball is the summer sweet spot. There's nothing not to love.

disarming

I saw her out of the corner of my eye, hobbling on black heels, not quite stilettos, but close. A spandex animal print skirt, if one could even call it that, just barely covering her skinny bottom, a black tank dipping between her small yet surely growing breasts. My boys and I were sitting outside Grahams working on our cones. It was 9 p.m. on a Thursday in Geneva. Not the time or place to see a 13-year-old hooker. It was extremely difficult not to stare at her unabashedly, because that’s exactly what she looked like.

After taking in more of the scene, I noticed another two middle-school-age girls in tight short skirts on the bench across from us and another small group of them huddled around a gangly crew of similar-aged boys. The boys were sitting in Adirondack chairs eating ice cream. The girls stood in a semi-circle around them, eating nothing, their necks, arms and upper thighs awkwardly exposed. Not one looked like she was convinced the outfits were a good idea. Not one looked comfortable.

Do parents really let their pre-teen and barely teen daughters dress this way?

The parade of young female flesh troubled me, but other than gather the 8 or 9 girls together and conduct an intervention, I had no idea how to let them know that dressing and acting more than a dozen years older than you are won’t make you happy or desired the way you long to be. You are losing a free and beautiful hunk of your childhood, I wanted to shout. Don’t do it! Put those stupid heels back in your mother’s closet. Wipe that black eyeliner off, go find a tin can and a flashlight and get a game of kick the can going. At the very least, put some clothes on.

I continued eating my ice cream and glanced over at Liam. Just eight and self-conscious enough not to want to be noticed, he eyed the boys cautiously. Then he turned his attention to the black-heeled girl as she stood off to the side, arguing on her cell phone with a person I guessed was her mother. Piecing together the story, it sounded like a girl named Olivia was having a sleep over and the mother was not agreeable to the plans. The black-heeled girl wasn’t taking no for an answer. Frostily, she hung up and wobbled over the flagstones back to her friends on the bench. That’s when Elliott saw his opportunity.

Cone dripping, he blocked her path.

“Hi!” he said with gusto. “It getting dark out.”

She looked down at him disdainfully, but was clearly surprised that a five year old had spoken to her.

“Um, yeah,” she agreed. “It’s dark.”

She tried to step around him.

He stepped with her.

“What you name?” he asked with a goofy grin plastered on his face.

She furrowed her brow and shrugged.

“Haley,” she said.

At that moment, Elliott noticed his shadow, cast by the light pouring out of the shop. Double-fisted, he crossed his arms in front of himself, thrust out his hip, stuck out his tongue and said, “Blah!”

In spite of herself, Haley laughed.

Fueled by the attention and pleased with seeing his silhouette in the shadows, Elliott struck pose after pose, making the silliest faces and noises into the growing darkness. A small group of short-skirted preteen girls stood and watched and giggled. For one minute they forgot about longing to be noticed and liked. For one minute they let their guard down. They were kids again.

A van pulled up and the girls grabbed their overnight bags. Like newborn calves finding their legs, they awkwardly hobbled to the van and tumbled in.

We threw out our napkins and headed to our car.

“Ugh,” Liam sighed. “Elliott is so embarrassing.”

I smiled.

“Actually, honey,” I said. “I think sometimes he is just what everyone needs.”

Then I said a silent prayer for the girls—that they would remember what it felt like to forget about themselves for a minute and watch a human who is truly happy to be exactly who he is. Special outfit not required.

a means to mental health

Recently I was cleaning out a file box and came across a plain white sheet of paper on which was typed a list of important things I used to try to remember. The list came from a contemporary of my grandfather, professor and scholar Clyde S. Kilby who was known for his scholarship on J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. I have no idea where I found this list, if I typed it myself or if someone gave it to me. I just remember that when I graduated from college and was living in a little studio apartment, with absolutely no idea what I was going to do with my life, this list rescued me countless times. I can still picture it taped on the wall by my kitchen sink. I guess I had put it there so as I was being born into a life where I was equal parts lonely, excited and terrified, I'd be reminded to read it multiple times a day. I smiled when I found the paper, and teared up when I read it. These beautiful words are timeless and I've taped them up by my kitchen sink so they can rescue me once again.

A Means to Mental Health
by Clyde S. Kilby

1. At least once every day I shall look steadily up to the sky and remember that I, a consciousness with a conscience, am on a planet traveling in space with wonderfully mysterious things above and about me.

2. Instead of the accustomed idea of a mindless and endless evolutionary change to which we can neither add nor subtract, I shall suppose the universe to be guided by an Intelligence which, as Aristotle said of Greek drama, requires a beginning, a middle and an end. I think this will save me from the cynicism expressed by Bertrand Russell before his death, when he said: "There is darkness without, and when I die there will be darkness within. There is no splendor, no vastness anywhere, only triviality for a moment, and then nothing."

3. I shall not fall into the falsehood that this day, or any day, is merely another ambiguous and plodding twenty-four hours, but rather a unique event filled, if I so wish, with worthy potentialities. I shall not be fool enough to suppose that trouble and pain are wholly evil parentheses in my existence but just as likely ladders to be climbed toward moral and spiritual manhood.

4. I shall not turn my life into a thin straight line which prefers abstractions to reality. I shall know what I am doing when I abstract, which of course I shall often have to do.

5. I shall not demean my own uniqueness by envy of others. I shall stop boring into myself to discover what psychological or social categories I might belong to. Mostly I shall simply forget about myself and do my work.

6. I shall open my eyes and ears. Once every day I shall simply stare at a tree, a flower, a cloud, or a person. I shall not then be concerned at all to ask what they are but simply be glad that they are. I shall joyfully allow them the mystery of what Lewis calls their "divine, magical, terrifying and ecstatic" existence.

7. I shall sometimes look back at the freshness of vision I had in childhood and try, at least for a little while, to be, in the words of Lewis Carroll, the "child of pure unclouded brow, and dreaming eyes of wonder."

8. I shall follow Darwin's advice and turn frequently to imaginative things such as good literature and good music, preferably, as Lewis suggest, an old book and timeless music.

9. I shall not allow the devilish onrush of this century to usurp all my energies but will instead, as Charles Williams suggested, "fulfill the moment as the moment." I shall try to live well just now because the only time that exists is now.

10. If for nothing more than the sake of a change of view, I shall assume my ancestry to be from the heavens rather than from the caves.

11. Even if I turn out to be wrong, I shall bet my life on the assumption that this world is not idiotic, neither run by an absentee landlord, but that today, this very day, some stroke is being added to the cosmic canvas that in due course I shall understand with joy as a stroke made by the architect who calls Himself Alpha and Omega.

the beauty of a filter

I brought our camera to the lake this weekend but I never unpacked it. I've been too enamored with the Instagram app and the filters that can be applied to photos taken with the iPhone. In my mind's eye, the filters make each image warmer and truer. Like I'm seeing through something two-dimensional to something so beautifully multifaceted, something living and breathing. Like I'm capturing what is most essential about each moment. Like everything is precious.

Spending a long weekend in a house with fifteen family members requires its own kind of filter. Sisters and brothers, parents and in-laws, nieces and nephews. There was work to be done—path mulching and wood chopping, porch vacuuming and dock scrubbing, boat launching and screen washing. There were big meals to prepare and clean up. There were discussions that got a little heavy. Like most families, we don't all agree on the same politics or theology. And we're all a little stubborn and opinionated. But we like each other. A lot. And we like to be with each other. A lot.

So we apply a filter. We still debate and discuss challenging topics. But we do it remembering that the person in front of us is not two-dimensional but so beautifully multifaceted. That what is essential in the moment is not winning the argument or being right, but recognizing that a close-knit family you can laugh with and play with and raise your kids with is something precious. And that, in the end, everything is best viewed through the lens of love.

five

Dear Elliott,

Yesterday you turned five. What a fun and special weekend - all the more so because you knew we were celebrating you and because after three weeks of your questioning, we could finally say, "Yes!" You get thrilled over the simplest things like blowing out a candle or a card that plays a song. I love this about you. Nothing is too small to escape your notice or your delight. If I only had one quarter of your joie de vivre. And lucky me, because I live with you, I do.

In this last year, you have become quite the adventurer, daredevil and explorer. We ran across a carnival on the night of your birthday and you wanted to go on every ride. Watching you climb up the huge slide with your brother was incredibly nerve racking for your mama. You didn't think twice about it. Earlier in the day you not only happily tried fermented beet-garlic-ginger juice at a neighbor's house (when no other kid could could even be bribed to do it), you liked it and asked for more! Nothing phases you. Except maybe a bug in the house.

Today you brought five little friends on the train for a birthday adventure. You were beaming—a model train show, ice cream cones, presents, duck duck goose in the park. Your friends, your party, your favorite things. As much as you enjoyed it, you loved seeing your friends enjoy it. More than presents or treats or even blowing out that candle, nothing made you happier than knowing your friends would be along. The same goes for your mom. Every morning you ask me so earnestly, "Mama no go to work today?" And when I answer in the affirmative, the answer you don't want to hear, you ask the question again, with even more gusto. As if your repetitive asking of the exact same question in the exact same way, your very longing for my company, might elicit a different answer. It's heartbreaking to turn you down, but you recover like a champ. Your open-hearted resilience has been schooling me. You love people better than almost anyone I know.

Here you are five years old. You are as cute as can be. And you're a pistol. You love trains, taking endless photos and movies of yourself, pinching your brother, snuggling your blankie, making the craziest faces imaginable. You just learned to wear flip flops and will happily pee anywhere you see fit, including on the sidelines of a girls' soccer game and into the bathroom sink. You confidently ride the little yellow school bus every day and call the driver by name. You're such a fan of shaking your booty that one friend gave you a disco ball for your birthday. You are a clever, funny, daring, beautiful boy. I love you like crazy, my Incredible Mr. E, and feel so lucky to have you to teach me how to look at life through a better lens—a happy, people-loving, self-abandoning, life-embracing lens. You are a gem.

xoxo
Mama

rolling up our sleeves and saying yes

On Sunday Liam wanted a job to do. I suggested he and Elliott wash the car. And they did, with gusto.

When they were nearly finished, Liam asked me for the keys.

“Why do you need the keys?” I asked.

“To open the roof,” he said matter of factly.

“No, honey,” I said. “Not while you’re washing the car.”

“But, mom,” he pleaded. “I can’t get the roof clean!”

I wasn’t following him and my impulse was to just shut him down. I’m the mother after all. Water is being sprayed with a hose. Soapy rags are being tossed about. The car interior will surely get wet. Not a good plan.

I held my breath and resisted the urge to blurt out my mantra, “No. Not today.”

But we were having a good day and I say that far too often.

“Explain to me what you want to do.”

So we made an agreement. Hose off, shoes off. I opened the sunroof and Liam rose up through the open space and proudly went to work scrubbing the roof.

I say no a lot. It's practically become a reflex. But lately I've been seeing it for what it often really is —the easy way out.

I don’t want to clean up your messes, so “no.” I don’t want to risk the possibility of injury or accident, so “no.” I don’t want you (or me) to look silly, so “no.” I don’t want to spend the time, so “no.” I don’t want to think about this anymore, so “no.”

I have written about the importance of saying yes a couple of times—how much good it does for a child’s creativity and how much joy and pride it can elicit in a child who has been given a privilege or a responsibility. The problem for me is that saying yes doesn’t get any easier.

I still don’t want to clean up the messes or look silly or spend the time. I’m prone to laziness in this department. Plus, saying no makes me feels like I’m in charge.

But on May 11, 2004, I was blessed with a son who is not easily controlled, and not because he’s defiant or rebellious, but because he’s smart and compelling and a very skilled negotiator. He’s a risk taker and an inventor and very much his own person. He doesn’t happily take no for an answer.

I could squash him, and let me tell you, I have and I do. But this weekend he turned eight and as he stood with a sopping rag in hand asking to take his job to the next level, I saw that it may be time to try yes.

In her excellent new parenting memoir MOMumental: Adventures in the Messy Art of Raising a Family, Jennifer Grant devotes a chapter to saying “yes.” Through story and anecdote she reinforces the importance of letting out the lead and allowing a child to make his own decisions, especially as he gets older. She ends the chapter with this quote from playwright Jean Anouilh in his drama Antigone, “To say yes, you have to roll up your sleeves and plunge both hands into life up to the elbows.”

Not the flippant, thoughtless, "you finally wore me down," "get out of my hair" kind of yes, but the kind that's risky and messy. The kind that requires surrender. The kind that opens the door to really living.

My son reminds me daily that we have many chances to roll up our sleeves and plunge both hands into life. All it requires is a yes.