school is where we practice being brave and kind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the best thing about working is not working

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

he keeps us laughing

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Lord, help us.

cake

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

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

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

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

thank you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i'm not fooling anyone

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

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

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

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

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

Liam took his first bite and eyed me warily.

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

"Yep," I replied.

Another bite.

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

"Yes," I answered cautiously.

Another bite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

because someday he won't want me like this

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

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

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