it makes no sense

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

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

But Liam had his own plans.

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

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

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

So, that’s where the forks disappear.

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

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

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

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

Welcome, Bella!

preparing for the week

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simple Homemade Veggie Broth

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

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

school is where we practice being brave and kind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the best thing about working is not working

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

he keeps us laughing

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Lord, help us.

cake

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

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

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

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

thank you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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