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.