friday haiku (and a happy birthday)

fourteen years ago
this sweet face changed everything
hearts split wide open

::

A couple years ago we had all of our old camcorder tapes put onto DVD so we could finally sit down and watch the hours of video we shot when Liam was little. Some of my favorite footage is of 3-year-old Liam serenading his months-old brother with a little red Gibson Flying V electric guitar plugged into an amp. Liam is strumming away with full intensity and no melody whatsoever, sing-shouting about gorillas and ham sandwiches.

We've joked about sending the footage to America's Funniest Home Videos, but undoubtedly no one else would find it as endearingly hilarious as we do. As the mom of this intensely passionate and creative boy, watching the video always puts a lump in my throat. How did I get such a crazy-cool kid?

Today this little firecracker continues to amaze me. He still puts that same intensity into his guitar practice, but the sounds coming out are whole lot more melodic. He spends a couple hours a week glued to the piano bench, draws with exquisite precision, flips seemingly effortlessly on the trampoline and blows us all away in his understanding of mathematical concepts and theories. But he's not one to tout his abilities. Although at first glance the videos of Liam at 3 years old may have told a different story, this boy has never been one for the spotlight. He's not a performer. He just does what he loves.

Because his baby brother has had developmental and medical needs that have taken a lot of time and emotional energy, Liam hasn't always gotten his fair share of attention and probably shoulders more responsibility than most kids his age. Sometimes it kind of sucks. But the quiet compassion and insight he shows seems pretty uncommon in boys his age.

I'm so grateful for this kid. His kind heart, resiliency and wisdom beyond his years. These are the qualities that truly amaze me. Happy birthday to my little rockstar. I suspect you'll put a lump in my throat forever.

a friday poem that's not a haiku

Before leaving for a quick getaway last weekend, I grabbed a little notebook that I hadn't picked up in awhile but knew had some blank pages available. I figured I may actually have time for a coherent thought and didn't want to miss the opportunity to write it down. Upon opening the notebook during my flight out of town, I was reminded that this was where I had labored over a few poems in the first half of last year. Being that those were the weeks and months after very viscerally experiencing my mom's death, it should have been no surprise the poems were all about dying. But, jeez, I thought, how about at least one verse on lovers or sunrises? I guess I didn't have it in me.

After noticing the theme and observing all the crazy cross-outs and side writing, I laughed to think how any other person flipping through these pages would surely think it was the work of someone with major issues. And a strange fascination with death. Still, I couldn't help editing one of the poems that had some potential. In the end, I think the poem is about love and how fiercely it binds us together.

::

Fear of Flying

The day before your 13th birthday
I took off
and landed twice,
willing away images of crumpled fuselages and smoldering wreckage.
I never feared flying until I pushed you into being.

At what age does a child skate on unscathed from the death of a mother?
When is it safe to be gone?

Not when I can still coax out the details of your day,
read aloud in your darkened room,
make your lunch or rub your back,
invited.
Plenty of duties no longer need me—
showering, dressing, cleaning your room.
A quiet distance grows.
But 13 needs a mom
maybe more than 2 or 5.

So I pray to the gods of turbulence and steel
to give me one more birthday
and one more
and one more
until you're an age where losing a mother isn't a deafening silence
where no one can reach you,
but just a whisper of sadness
that you breathe in and out each day
and move on.

out of the mouth of my 9 year old

All the recent funny conversations with Liam. Someday I'll be so glad I wrote them down. Hopefully he will, too.

::

Liam: I think I know the answer to this, but I just want to ask. Can we paint our house purple and green diagonal stripes?

::

Liam: It feels like it's getting to be winter. I just love winter. I love snuggling up with dad with salt and vinegar chips and dad has a beer and I have a Coke.

Me: When has that ever happened?

Liam: It hasn't. It's just my dream.

::

Liam: I wish nudisting wasn't against the law?

Me: Nudisting?

Liam: You know, walking around naked.

Me: Why do you wish that wasn't against the law.

Liam: Because then deciding on a Halloween costume would be so easy.

::

After explaining to Liam that a good friend of ours is an expert in Feng Shui, Liam wanted to know more about it. We explained that people hire experts like our friend Bill to rearrange furniture and select new paint colors in order to improve the energy in their homes.

Liam: They pay him?

Me: Yes.

Liam: How much?

Me: I don't know. Probably a couple hundred dollars.

Liam: (sighs) I can tell you what to do. Just paint everything bright colors. You don't even have to pay me.

::

Coming inside after playing with his best friend Ava, Liam complained that he scratched up his hands.

Me: What were you doing?

Liam: Hitting the broom.

Me: Why were you doing that?

Liam: Ava and I were pretending. I was holding the broom upside down and hitting the straw part like it was Ava.

Me: Why in the world would you pretend to hit Ava?

Liam: Because it's a lot better than pretending to kiss her.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

the tooth fairy responds

So, this morning we learned that the tooth fairy's given name is Evensong (since she only comes out in the evening and some say her voice sounds like music). She lives in an uncharted land (although, by her writing style, I'm guessing a British colony). She is happy not to be asked her age, and what she does with all those teeth remains a mystery. (Be sure to read Liam's letter if you haven't.)

Oh, and the tooth fairy writes in cursive. Those wanting to banish this skill from school curriculums take note. Future generations of tooth fairies will be crippled if we eliminate fluid handwriting from our children's skill set.

Although he doesn't look like it (but serious face was the only way to get a clear photo), Liam was thrilled to receive her hand-written note (sprinkled with fairy dust, no less). And apparently, he spotted her on the stairs this morning, disappearing in a flash of light.

On the walk to school, he told me that if he had wanted to, he could have reached out and grabbed the tooth fairy before she vanished.

"Why didn't you?" I asked.

"Because, mom," he answered with grave seriousness. "Arthur Spiderwick's Field Guide says that fairies have very sharp teeth. You don't want to mess with them."

May he please believe forever.

a note found next to a sleeping boy

Liam went to bed with a paper and pencil tonight. He felt a note to the tooth fairy was in order. I thought it would be a one-liner not an inquisition.

::
Dear tooth-fairy,

At school to day, we had suckers for a late Halloween treet, and wile I bit into the sucker I acsedetly swolod my tooth, because I had a loose tooth! By the way, my name is Liam. (Lee-um) What is your name besides tooth-fairy? Where do you live? And what do you do with all thows teeth? 1. Do you collect them? 2. Do you put them in new born baby's? Or 3. Do you put them in a mishene that makes them into one big tooth? What do you do with them? Also, are you a he or a she? I am seven year's old. I know it is not polite to ask older people how old thay are, so I will not ask you.

From Liam Bordoni

friday haiku

sometimes you capture
the perfect moment, two boys
who love to hold hands


{Liam at the ballgame with his young neighbor Kyle.}

first day

Yesterday it was back to school and, for Liam, the start of second grade. I could go on and on about how I can't believe my kid is already adding triple digit numbers in his head and deciphering all the big words Andrew and I spell to each other. How he has his own desk and can tie up his gym shoes and pack his own lunch. But then there's this other side of me that can believe it. The side that perceives that actual passing of time. I mean, it's been 2,661 days since he was born. In that length of time he has clearly honed his camera smile.


Liam has also seen the "girl next door" nearly every one of those days. Although they continue to end up in different classes and are cootie-bearers by virtue of their very gender, they remain comfortable and constant friends. I loved seeing them walk together on the first day of school. I am not sure Liam and Ava will ever be more than friends. Their siblings, however, are another story.


Elliott adores Mia, and that is really an understatement. He regularly throws open our windows to giddily shout and screech to her across the street. "Hi, Mia!" "Hi, Mia!" "Hi, Mia!" Walking their siblings to school was simply an excuse to hold hands.


Although this boy looks silly and fun, it's tough to get an answer out of him that isn't "yes" or "no" or "nothing." What did you do today? Nothing. Did you have art? No. What was your favorite part of the day? I don't know.

On the way to school this morning (day 2) I tried a different line of questioning. "What was the first thing you did when you walked into your classroom yesterday?" "Then what?" "Then what?" It worked! I heard about "backpack chores," where they put their lunch boxes, and the back-to-school game they played (in which he apparently named "recess" as his favorite subject).

Now I just have another 150 odd days or so this school year to pull out information. It'll go by so fast and drag on forever. I hope I never forget it.

two black belts in the house

This is my husband. In two months we'll celebrate our 10th anniversary. After ten years of living together day in and day out, one would think I'd know so much more about my spouse, that there would be few surprises. Wrong. This man amazes me daily. Yesterday he became a Tae Kwon Do Black Belt. Considering Andrew has never played a sport in his life, this is an unbelievable accomplishment.


This British guitar-playing, bangers-and-mash-eating man also has never owned a pair of running shoes, until this summer. Nearly every day for six weeks (for the first time in his life) he ran. Here he is finishing two miles for his black belt testing, side by side with his son.


This seven year old is my boy. Three years ago he would sit on my lap in his little Tae Kwon Do uniform and refuse to join the class. Today he is the most determined, hard-working, graceful kid on the floor. You can not imagine how inspiring a Tae Kwon Do form can be until you see Liam executing the movements to Wind or Thunder or Positive Power. This kid was born to do forms. Oh, and he can kick pretty well, too.

As of today, there are two Tae Kwon Do Black Belts in my home. I couldn't be prouder (or feel any safer!).

After the hundreds of hours these two have put into their practice and training, they fully deserve the reward. And a little rest. Because a black belt, they tell me, is just the beginning.

lessons from the lemonade stand

For days Liam has been asking to do a lemonade stand. Yesterday in sweltering humidity and 90 degree temps we pulled it together. Throughout the process there were many teachable moments that included math, manners and plain old common sense. I realized that I often assume too much about what my seven year old knows. Here are a few of the things "we" learned.

:: Count your change. Liam wanted to have change ready, so he thought he'd take out his bank (probably $10 of coins). It took a while to convince him that he might like to know how much he made from his lemonade stand and that this wouldn't be possible if he didn't know how much he was starting with. I gave him the option to tally every cup he sold or start with $2.00 in coins. He wisely chose to count the change. When he totaled up the take at the end of the night and easily subtracted the $2.00, he looked at me with that wow-you're-really-smart look and said, "That was a really good idea to just start with $2.00." I could totally homeschool.

:: Keep your prices low. Much thought went into pricing the lemonade. $1.00? 50 cents? 30 cents? Liam thought through all the options and finally landed on 25 cents a cup. This way "people who didn't have a lot of money" could still buy some and people who did have a lot of money could buy two cups. The great surprise was that there were people who paid a buck or more anyway. "I wasn't expecting tips," he said bewildered.


:: Decide on hiring practices. Liam asked one friend to help him man the stand and decided he'd pay him some of the money at the end. He wasn't, however, planning to hire the neighborhood. I heard him tell one friend, "It's okay if you want to pour it, but I'm not going to be able to pay you." Apparently no one minded working for free.

:: The customer comes first. When the first paying customers showed up for their lemonade, Liam poured a cup and started drinking it. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Having a drink," he said. I explained that he needed to take care of his customers first. "Oh," he said, like this had never even occurred to him.


:: Don't give away what you sell. This was advice my dad gave to me years ago, and although I don't always follow it, I've never forgotten it. Very kindly, Liam's friends paid for their drinks. His little brother, not so much. We brought water out for all the workers, though. That helped.

:: Keep your expectations in check. When the money was totaled last night, Liam's first response was to be a little disappointed, "I thought it was going to be $100." $100? For a three hour lemonade stand? So we figured out how many cups of 25 cent lemonade one would have to sell to earn $100. Quickly, he saw that $24.75 was a serious haul, from some seriously generous lemonade drinkers, including neighbors, guitar students and the postman. Of course, Liam wanted to run the stand again this afternoon. When I helped him see how much he'd need to spend to buy new supplies (as his nice mom wouldn't be footing the bill again) and pay the help, that it would be hot and humid again, and that his generous customers might have spent all their money at the stand yesterday, he decided to go swimming instead. Smart kid.

friday haiku

poking at dead fish
is more fun than water slides
or carnival rides

what he's loving

:: Valentine's Day. And the anticipation of a party where you get cards and candy. A clever monster valentine box that a boy can get behind (thanks to inspiration found on The Crafty Crow). A strange new shyness about girls and the significance of valentines that will be "sent" and received. We're not in preschool anymore.


:: Performing. The much-anticipated first piano recital. He didn't want to do it. Didn't want to do it. Did it beautifully and actually liked it. So much so he willing gave a private encore for his aunt and uncle who missed his performance by one student. At this point, mom is loving that Indian Song will be retired.


:: Looking like Justin Bieber. Bangs brushing his lashes; ears hiding under the side fringe. I tried and tried to convince Liam a haircut was in order this weekend. I even bribed him. But he pleaded. Apparently a girl in his class told him he looks like Justin Bieber now. And when he came downstairs for school this morning he was sporting a Harley t-shirt and leather jacket his cousin Sam handed down. I felt a tinge of sadness that my window of influence over dress choices (like last year's heart shirt) has closed. But I could tell he felt like a rock star. So I put down my scissors and my inner critic and gave him the thumbs up. Then I acted like a groupie and swooned and tried to hug and kiss him. He pretended to be annoyed by me, but I know he liked it.

intention #3: write letters, with a pen

Recently I received a beautiful hand-written letter from a woman from church thanking me for the things I write here and a sweet card from my aunt, just because. I found a note of encouragement from my sister-in-law in my mailbox a week ago and a thank you from my step-mom. I am always surprised by how touched I feel to get a letter or note from someone in the mail. To know that someone put some real thought and time into me means a ton.

I am not the best at sending letters myself. But I am trying to be better. I am starting with thank you notes and I am getting Liam going on it, too.

Today we wrote a couple of overdue thank you notes for Christmas gifts. Liam added his unique touch to each one, and cracked himself up each time, such as, "Dear Aunt Tim and Uncle Liz." I love that kid. But it was his last note that really got me.

He insisted that he wanted to write to his good friend Ian whose birthday party he just attended last weekend. I started to say that we needed to finish our thank you notes first, but it was clear he wasn't going to be pleased with that response, so I let him use our nice stationery and write his note. The result was precious:

Dear Ian,
I just want to say hi. Say hi to Andrew for me. Thanks for the Nerf gun. The party was awesome!
Love, Liam

If Ian is anything like me, he's going to feel incredibly special that his buddy Liam took the time to write him a letter. And not because he was due a thank you or because it was a holiday and everyone else was doing it, too. But just because Liam had an impulse to say hi, I'm thinking of you. I appreciate you. I liked your party favor.

As is often the case, I want to be more like my son when I grow up. I'm glad he's here to show me the way.

the boy has a plan

On Saturday, Liam spend hours designing a new LEGO set. Then, he disassembled it, found a box, put all the pieces in it, created packaging and taped it up. 100% on his own. There are no step-by-step directions, but there's a nice drawing of the completed structure. All the pieces are in the box - including 14 minifigures! - and it can be yours for $39.99.

This boy is so determined and focused and creative, sometimes I think there must be a 30 year old in that body somewhere. I am amazed by him. We have broken it to him gently, though, that this set probably will not sell. He's okay with that.

He's onto building mini LEGO robots. How cute are these? (Note, however, they are not so cute 10 minutes before it's time to leave for school and the boy is not dressed and has not finished his breakfast but has snuck back to LEGO land to finish another robot. Mom yelled this morning. Felt kind of bad about it. Need to figure out a better morning plan that allows for LEGOS and gets us to school on time, without the yelling. Any suggestions?)

something not to master

In the beginner's mind, there are many possibilities,
in the expert's mind, there are few. –Suzuki Roshi

By age four or five, life becomes focused on mastery. We learn to ride a bike, field a ball, read, subtract, and on and on. The hours of exploring and experimenting and imagining become limited. During the school year they dwindle down to nearly nothing.

Enter music. For the past six months Liam has been taking piano lessons. One might imagine that piano would be one more thing to master. One more constrained and tedious activity. It could be, I'm sure, but we discovered Miss Carol, the most wonderful piano teacher, and she has been teaching Liam something far more important than the technicalities of the instrument. She has been nurturing his creative and experimental soul. She has been opening up a world of musical possibilities.

What Miss Carol does is both simple and unique: she appreciates. Liam sits throughout the entire lesson - other than the times he is actually playing a piece he has practiced during the week - and plays around composing little runs and flourishes. Miss Carol might be writing in his notebook or putting a sticker on a piece he's successfully completed, but she is always listening to what Liam's making up. Sometimes it's dissonant, sometimes melodic. Sometimes sweet, sometimes wild. She never tells him to stop. She notices interesting note combinations and points them out. She sits back and shakes her head like she's amazed at what he's doing. She tells me I should record him. I can tell she wants to bottle what he's doing. He is not trying to get something right. He's doing something far better, something he's hardly allowed to do anymore, something so essential to discovery and expression. He's creating something inspired, something new.

But here's the thing. My son is not a Mozart. He doesn't sit down and whip out a sonata. But he has passion and interest and incredible creativity. And no one has ever tried to correct his free-flowing ideas. Music just pours out of his heart and is edited by his own ear. On the piano, when he's composing, he beats to his own drummer, and it's heaven to him.

With Miss Carol, who is a very accomplished composer, he is learning technique, but not for the purpose of mastery. He's collecting tools he can eventually use to enhance his creativity and expand his expression. I can see how easy it would be to make piano one more thing to master, to squash that beautiful imagination for the sake of perfection. Instead, we have a teacher who is nurturing all the possibilities held in my passionate little beginner. A teacher who recognizes the joy he exudes when he plays. A teacher who knows what would be lost if she made him sit up straight and only play what's on the page.

When everything else is becoming boring or tedious or too hard for a six year old whose days are packed with things to learn and accomplish, the piano saves us. May it never become another thing to master.

and he's off...

This is Liam on his way to the first day of first grade. The skipping was not staged. There was no place he'd rather be going. I tried to relish the moment so I can remember that he really was thrilled to go to school once. Like when we're off to the first day of seventh grade.


Getting to school at 8:30 a.m. is a bit of a rude awakening for a six-year-old teenager who is usually waking up at that time. Obviously we don't have a hairbrush in our house. Or an iron. Luckily grunge is in.


This is Liam at the end of his second day of first grade. He changed into this outfit to go to the school ice cream social in the evening. I tried to talk him out of it, seeing that the Hawaii 5-0 shirt kind of clashed with the preppy plaid shorts. But he just shrugged and said he liked it. This is why I love shopping at Good Will. My son has his own sense of style. I don't get it, but when it costs $2.50, what I think is irrelevant. The bonus is I can easily locate him in a crowd. And he still looks mighty happy.