what you have for breakfast?

This weekend Elliott made it his mission to find out what every soul within earshot ate that morning. Friends, family, librarians, cashiers, random grocery shoppers we passed in the aisles. His approach was so bold and so perfectly innocent, I swelled with a mixture of pride, awkwardness and heartbreak each time he asked his well-rehearsed question.

"What you have for breakfast?"

Most of the people he bravely accosted had to get him to repeat the question. Probably a combination of the consonants missing at the ends of words and the fact that a five year old had never thought to ask this of them before. But everyone gave him an answer.

"Ooooh," he'd always respond. As if it were the first time he had been told toast or oatmeal.

Although I recognize this line of questioning as Elliott's way of making a connection with everyone who crosses his path, I also think he got a lot of pleasure out of answering the question the few times it was tossed back to him. He'd proudly say he ate a cookie. I would step in to explain. It's not really a cookie. It's a healthy cookie. More like a muffin. A healthy muffin.

But it really doesn't matter. My son is going straight for a meaningful exchange. None of that small talk. No simple hellos. What were you doing this morning before you put your face on for the rest of the world? You know, in your pajamas, your real self? How well did you fuel yourself for the day? Me? I ate a cookie. Oh, and here's my irresponsible mother. The parent who gave me a cookie for breakfast. Bye.

"So, what did you have for breakfast?" the checkout lady at the grocery store, our last public encounter, asked this afternoon after Elliott had brazenly drilled her on her own morning routine.

"A cookie!" Elliott practically shouted.

"Wow," said the cashier, glancing at me. "Aren't you lucky!"

I resisted the urge to explain and simply smiled and handed her my money.

Every day this kid teaches me something beautiful. Today I learned that connection matters far more than appearance. And that cookies make a very happy breakfast.

Elliott's (Healthy) Breakfast Cookies

2/3 cup honey
1/4 cup coconut oil
2 eggs
1 t vanilla
1 T orange zest
1/3 cup raisins, dried cranberries or chopped dried figs
1/3 cup chopped nuts
3/4  all-purpose flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 cup oat bran
1/4 cup almond meal
1/2 cup shredded coconut (we use unsweetened)
1/2 t baking soda
1/4 t cinnamon
1/8 t ginger
1/8 t nutmeg

Blend honey through nuts. Stir together dry ingredients and incorporate into wet ingredients. Drop large spoonfuls onto lined cookie sheets. Bake 12 minutes at 350. Makes about a dozen large cookies.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

from the style files

Recently I was listening to a conversation between two female colleagues who were discussing the difference between their styles and the taste of their significant others. Both childless, they agreed on the merits of a good throw pillow and bemoaned the fact that they had to slipcover good furniture because of pets. But both clearly had pretty stylish-sounding condos.

One of them turned to me and smiled.

"So, who decorates your house?" she asked.

"Well," I said, thinking hard. "No one."

A mishmash of handed-down antiques and garage sale furniture, sun-faded curtains and framed kid art, our home reminds me of a cross between Trainspotting and the Golden Girls. Okay, so it's not that bad, but it's so completely not my style and, yet, I fear it has become my style.

This weekend as I looked around, however, it occurred to me that the real answer to the question, "Who decorates your house?" is, "My children."

Maybe someday I will have the time, energy and money to care again. To find my style and take back my home. In the meantime, I'm going to try to celebrate the fact that my home is odd, eclectic and creative, and that thankfully blankets are plentiful and transparent tape is cheap.

Liam's "dog's" sleeping quarters, in the corner of our dining room.

The Iron Man obsession plastered across the wall leading up the stairs.

Where every stuffed animal in the house finds shelter, and mom finds the pillows from her bed.

10 happy things

:: First visit to our favorite local farm since late fall. The donkey hasn’t changed one bit. Neither has the world’s biggest fan of donkeys.

:: A poignant letter about first love, applicable to all love, written by a famous author to his teenage son. Truth wrapped in tenderness.

:: A boy who knows no decorum. When he passes gas and I ask him, “What do you say?’ He answers with gusto, “I toot!” When he’s outside and needs to pee, he just pulls down his pants and goes, even on the sideline at a girls' soccer game.


:: Pulling out the long-forgotten dress-up bin, and spending an entire Saturday morning trying out every possible combination.

:: How a profound disability is transformed into breathtaking genius, and greatness gets turned on its head. Set aside 10 minutes to watch. You won’t be sorry.

:: A sandwich that’s fancy-restaurant worthy. It's good. Really good. (My friend – who I convinced to make it – recommends chutney in place of the Dijon. I love the Dijon and honey-baked ham.)


:: Recipe from a young chef whose strange concoctions have finally made their way onto paper.

:: Two days off work for the Festival of Faith and Writing, and the anticipation of inspiration and seeing a bunch of people I love.

:: A piano in the house. Beautiful music from a budding a pianist and the one tune his mother plays, over and over, with hopes to one day to branch out to this.

:: 40 ideas for keeping a holy lent that would be really good to just practice all the time.

on the heels of a difficult day

I should be grateful. Every day, no matter what. I have a beautiful family. I know almost nothing of suffering and death. I live in a house. I have food on my table. For these facts alone, I am the 1%.

But some days, I am beleaguered by comparison. I am weighed down by worry. I long to be rescued. I struggle not to cry.

No matter who you are, how much money you have, how much you are loved, how much faith you have, life is difficult.

Today, for no great reason, other than a ridiculous tax bill and a deep longing to be home with my boys, I lived on the edge of tears all day.

But I remembered the words I took from the sermon yesterday: Fear nothing and go forth. And what a friend reminded me: Think of your gifts. I repeated these words to myself until life as something difficult transformed into life as something beautiful.

I chose to redeem the day by being thankful. In no particular order, these are just a few of the beautiful things I am grateful for:

:: Trees and bushes ripening in neon green and white and pink.
:: A warm coat and comfortable shoes for a long, chilly walk to the office.


:: An almost five year old who is passionate about exploring the world and bringing us with him, sometimes leading the charge with his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t have a care in the world. (And he doesn’t.)
:: Dear friends who e-mail, text and buy me Starbucks to remind me I’m not alone.
:: Two full back-to-back days of sunshine.


:: The magical world of ponds and creeks and forests.
:: A husband who does laundry, cleans up a lot of poop and finds me sexy and beautiful even when I feel old and tired.
:: Reading aloud to little ears.
:: An almost eight year old whose earnest imagination and longing to believe melts the heart of a mother who told him the Easter bunny wasn’t real.

until I get my groove back

Aside from sitting in the same chair eight hours a day, the most difficult adjustment to having a full-time job is feeling weary and unmotivated and needing more sleep. My midnight to 5 a.m. routine doesn't cut it anymore. I can hardly bear to look at my to-do list. I feel pretty uninspired.

I am waiting to get my groove back. To do the things I wish I had the motivation to do. To purge the closets and make the yard pretty. To write a book and build a platform. To sew skirts and make curtains. To organize a million little things.

In the meantime, when I'm home, I'm soaking in the little people who are full of energy and wonder and joy. I'm not getting much done, but that's okay. I'm discovering that sometimes when we accomplish the least, we do the most. It's the stuff no one else can see. It doesn't improve my house, my wardrobe, my bank account or my mind. But, in the end, it matters. Maybe more than anything else. At least, when I'm laying on the couch watching Mr. Rogers Neighborhood with my favorite four year old or heading to the park for the third time on a Sunday, that's what I'm telling myself.

the raindrop prelude

Every weekday now I am away from my boys and every weeknight I could swear my youngest looks older. In the 12 hours I am gone, Elliott ages, noticeably. I feel the small ache that comes from missing out. I miss out on the silly faces, the nonsensical comments, the lunch menu, the potty successes, the belly laughs, the enthusiastic greeting off the bus and the begging to watch "train show" or go to the park. But I almost never miss out on bedtime.

When I was home most of the day, bedtime was more of an after thought. I'd whiz through a couple books, say a short prayer, put on the music and turn out the light, anxious to head downstairs and have a break.

These days bedtime has a different flavor. I savor the ritual. I look forward to reading and snuggling in bed, to asking Elliott about his day and asking God to fill us with his love. I relish hearing the storybook rhymes, the gentle breathing of a boy drifting off to sleep and the music of the classical lullabies CD we never seem to replace. I especially love the music.

Almost always Elliott falls asleep right before Chopin's Prelude, Op. 28, No.15, fondly known as the raindrop prelude. And because I am laying with him now until he drifts off, I almost always, instead of heading downstairs to get my break, stay snuggled next to my sleeping boy for at least the next 6 1/2 minutes until this piece is over.

Although spending full days away from Elliott reminds me so poignantly how time marches on and how I have no control to stop it, this Chopin Prelude allows me to go backwards in time and hold it still, precious and unchanging.

About fifteen years ago I took piano lessons. I progressed slowly because I've never really had a musical gift and because I never really practiced much. I did, however, dedicate myself to one particular piece - Prelude, Op. 28, No. 15. It was the one and only piece of classical music that I could play (nearly) flawlessly. I was crazy about it. A few weeks before I was to play in a piano recital, my maternal grandmother died. She was one of the most important, loving, creative and stable influences in my life as a child. I adored her.

I don't remember how it happened but somehow, since I missed the piano recital, I ended up playing the Chopin piece at my grandma's memorial service. The memory is vivid: from how I dressed to the intense emotion that made my hands shake and my tears fall on the keys. I have never delivered anything with as much passion or confidence as I played that piece. And every time I hear that Prelude I remember exactly how I felt: full of life and full of grief, full of passion and completely broken, loved and lost.

I am truly surprised I didn't spontaneously combust.

Often now I have a twinge of this same emotion. My baby is growing up and I'm missing it. I am both thrilled and devastated. Loving the changes and mourning the loss. Soon he will be a boy that today's me can barely recognize. My hands shake and my tears fall on the keys at the very thought of it.

But if Chopin has taught me anything, it's that I wouldn't want it any other way. To hold back, to temper our sorrow and our passion, our grief and our love is not living. We're just going through the motions, counting down the hours until we get a break.

I cannot stop my child from aging anymore than I can prevent any of the great losses I am sure I will suffer in my lifetime, whether I am home when they happen or not. I could worry and I could fear. I could just cut my losses and quit. Instead I come home every night and read and pray, snuggle and listen to Chopin, remembering that letting go and playing with everything I've got won't stop time but it will make the time I have rich and beautiful and worth remembering.

p.s. i love you

In the blink of an eye, my life has radically changed. Instead of long, leisurely weekday mornings getting breakfasts, making hot cocoa, drawing baths, playing board games, checking email, emptying the dishwasher and policing screen time, I am out the door at 6:40 a.m. to catch the train to Chicago. Although Elliott remains my faithful alarm clock and early morning companion, it's highly unlikely that I will ever catch a glimpse of Liam on a weekday morning. Age seven is the new sixteen.

The first morning I was gone, I scribbled Liam a quick note on scrap paper. He wrote me back that day. So I decided to get a notebook and collect our daily notes back and forth.

This morning I was running late and forgot to write. Liam, apparently, was a little heartbroken. But he faithfully wrote his note anyway.

I have always been a huge fan of the love letter. It's the writer in me, and the romantic. Although it is only day four of this new long-term adventure, I figure if my boy and I can keep up the note writing for at least a few months, I'll be grooming a little Shakespeare, and coming home after a 12-hour day to the best words I can imagine.

a charlie brownish kind of day

Homeschooling has its drawbacks. I haven't written much about it, but for multiple reasons, we took Liam out of school after Christmas break to spend the rest of the year learning at home. Liam was and has been 100 percent on board, but holidays just aren't the same. Yesterday we made some cute superhero suckers to give to a bunch of Liam's good friends and Elliott's classmates. Elliott excitedly came home with reciprocal valentines from all his friends. Liam delivered his suckers after school, but other than cards from parents and grandparents, he came up empty.

The day wasn't a total bust. We enjoyed fancy hot cocoa and waffles with strawberries and whipped cream for breakfast. We made special heart cookies and delivered them to friends and neighbors who have had a darker than usual February or who are just simply alone today. And Liam spend the late afternoon with a couple of his best buddies.

But tonight there were tears. It's tough to be left out, even when it's not at all intentional. He just wasn't part of a classroom valentine's day party this year. And it's tough to be the mom of the boy whose mailbox went empty. It just isn't always enough to have your mom tell you you're great.

Nothing breaks my heart like putting to bed a kid who's sad. Although I know there's bound to be the fair share of heartbreak in our future, I feel partly responsible for today's. Maybe I should have emailed some neighbors and told them Liam would be giving valentines to their kids, hoping they'd all set one aside for him. Or maybe we should have gotten involved in some homeschool group. (But since we've only planned this as a half-year venture, we haven't pursued new friends.)

Tonight, I came downstairs feeling sad myself. Andrew had just finished lessons, so I told him about the day and what a trooper Liam had been yet how he cried when I put him to bed. Andrew headed upstairs. After a few minutes he came into the kitchen.

"He's fine now."

"What did you say?" I asked.

Andrew smiled. "I gave him five dollars."

As much as it sucks to be sad, and sucks even more to see your kid be sad, throwing money at disappointment doesn't seem like the best solution. But apparently it works. Still, I'm looking forward to next year when we'll continue our traditions of having fancy hot cocoa for breakfast and making treats for lonely neighbors, but when we'll also have a classroom of valentines to sort through at the end of the day. Because after a year without, a boy understands what a gift a full mailbox is, Justin Bieber and Barbie cards included.

suspended animation

Darkness greets us morning after morning, the earth lays dormant and I wait and wait to hear about a job. My whole life feels suspended, not moving, like we're treading, going nowhere. Then, suddenly everything changes. A streak of pink in the early morning sky, buds on our lilac bush and, good news, a great job! All of these gifts were there, under the surface, waiting for their time. It's the waiting part that threatens to suck the life right out of me.


Because of my boys, I pulled out our traditional valentine decorations this weekend. For a few years now we have suspended construction paper hearts all over our living room and dining room. I wasn't in the mood to put them up, but now that they are there they make me smile. In a fallow time it works to just go through the motions. Do something that brought you joy before and see where you end up. It certainly helped when we were decorating that Elliott kept trying to reach the ceiling and would look up awestruck, saying, "Wow, that's pretty! Wow, that's cool!" (Those chubby cheeks help, too.)


I also had an urge to sew over the weekend. Nothing complicated. I just found some red and white fabric in my stash and cut out some hearts and some squares for pockets and stitched them on bias tape.


The banner of love hangs over my kitchen sink to remind me to smile and look up and be thankful for the simple things. Some days that small task is easier than others. Yesterday, very difficult. Tonight, the gratitude overwhelms me.


And then, there are valentines. Glue and stamps, stickers and tape. Little paper gifts for friends and for each other. Our table has been left as an unending art project. If I don't clean it up, they go back to it and dream up new ways to cut paper to say I love you. And on the dark days, come what may, love is the gift that keeps us going.

friday haiku

seventies disco
is not what I imagined
my children would love

winter walk

Tuesday was balmy by Chicago standards, so after school I cajoled the guys into a walk to the library and the grocery store. Liam forged his own path through the snowy grass. Elliott stuck to the snowless sidewalks but insisted on pulling a sled. Mittenless, he dragged the faded red plastic sled every leg of the journey. Passing drivers smiled at us as we trudged along. Geese flew overhead. Ice occasionally crunched beneath our boots. The day gradually darkened. My snow clomper stuck to his chosen path; my sled puller refused gloves or help. Up and down the hills they trudged, until nearly two hours later we arrived home.

Some days my kids frustrate me. They are irrational. I am irrational. I just want to close up shop or scream. Most days, though, I am awed by them. Their determination, their humor, their sense of adventure and purpose. They grow me and make me smile.

As we took our winter walk I was poignantly reminded that this won't be happening much anymore, this freedom to just gather them up and go out. I'm interviewing for full-time jobs now because more than impromptu afternoon adventures we need a regular salary and benefits and the security consistency brings.

I will miss these moments so much, my heart aches. I wonder if recognizing their eventual loss is part of what makes them so special. And if having fewer moments of simple togetherness, like walks with the stubborn boy pulling the red sled, will make me cherish them even more. That's what I'm hoping.

right outside our backdoor

Every year or so my college roommate Lauren and her husband come to visit. They run along the Fox River. They ride our bikes. They walk to town. And Lauren never fails to shake her head and say, "Girl, you live in a little paradise here."

I wish I lived like this was true. But too often the dishes pile up, I'm stressing about a work deadline, or it's deep into February and my home turf feels anything but magical. I think how nice it would be to live in the mountains or on the beach or somewhere in Europe. But that's just me trying to escape the ugly parts of me. Laziness. Boredom. Discontent. Not the best reasons to move.

Over the last few months, thanks to my husband's newfound passion for fitness, we have been riding bikes a lot. Nearly every day either me or my husband straps our four year old into the bike trailer and takes off along the Fox River. This breathtaking trail is, quite literally, right outside our backdoor. We ride by the Japanese gardens and the old windmill. We spot ducks and heron and cranes. We stop at parks with an exquisite view of the river. All this for the price of, well, nothing.


We've also been visiting the ballpark. Less than three miles away from our backdoor a Class A minor league baseball team entertains fans for the cost of a movie ticket. Our favorite Cougars game was one we attended with our neighbors Jae and Denton and my boys' beloved little friend Kyle. We ate hot dogs, drank beer and cheered like crazy as our team almost pulled it out in the ninth inning. And we watched our kids watch the fireworks. This is another reason why we live in paradise. So many people we love live here, too.


Speaking of people we love, another neighbor has been leaving big bags of apples right outside our backdoor all season. She is getting older and can't keep up with them anymore. As a result, I've processed more than 20 quarts of free, organic applesauce. I have enough of my mennonite grandma in me to know this: a generous neighbor with an apple tree is reason enough to call my home town paradise.

No matter where you live, be it a city, a suburb or a small town in the middle of nowhere, there is a marvelous world right outside your backdoor. Rivers and trees. Parks and baseball fields. People to love. So, rather than sit around longing to escape somewhere better, go out and look around. I'm betting you find a little paradise just waiting to be discovered.