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.

nothing to complain about

Every morning from train to office I pass four or five homeless men, most holding cardboard signs summarizing their plight. For a few months I randomly handed out dollar bills when I could. Sometimes now I think ahead and offer a bottle of water or the fruit I bring for my breakfast. But mostly I just walk by and feel kind of sad and useless that there’s nothing significant I can do.

Yesterday as I turned from Wacker onto the Franklin Street bridge, I caught the face of a man I hadn’t seen on previous commutes. Clearly wilting from the unexpected September heat and in need of a shave, he stood against the scaffolding with a warm, friendly gaze and a piece of cardboard on which he had simply penned, “Smile,” in bold black letters.  

It was so surprising to see this sign and the man who held it, I couldn’t help but meet his gaze and give him a huge smile.

Near the end of the train ride that brought me into the city that morning, a woman ran through the cars calling urgently for a doctor or a nurse. Moments earlier the conductor had made a similar announcement over the intercom. Two women sitting across the aisle from me commented loudly how the woman running through the car should get the conductor to make an announcement.

“He did make an announcement,” many of the passengers noted to them.

They hadn’t noticed because they had spent the entire train ride complaining to each other. About a co-worker who slacks off and doesn’t get reprimanded. About a teenage son who always leaves the car tank empty. About something shoddy one of them bought and had trouble returning. About all the work they do that no one notices. About the train schedule. About the heat.

The ladies were dressed nicely and clearly had good jobs. But whatever their lot in life, they appeared to be utterly miserable. It seemed like their only enjoyment was feeding off the other’s greatest woe of the moment. A conductor’s call for help didn’t even move them.

Don’t get me wrong. I know how easy it is to complain, to get bogged down by the small injustices of life, but the contrast yesterday morning between two middle class women and a homeless man gave me pause.

Although not widely recognized, September is devoted to childhood cancer awareness. The only reason I know this is because we have friends whose son died of cancer just shy of his second birthday. Every day this month my friend has been posting links on Facebook to stories of families whose kids have or had cancer. Some of these kids are right in the thick of their treatment, some are in remission, and some, like my friends' son Gabe, lost their fight with this wicked disease.

Every night on my train ride home I read the story of the day. The stories hurt and sometimes I end up in tears. But I am compelled to read. Even with the hell the parents and kids, many of them babies or toddlers, have been through, not one complaint makes it onto the page. Instead, in every story, there is, amazingly, an element of thankfulness. The stories help me gain the things those women seemed to be lacking yesterday morning: perspective, empathy, awareness and incredible gratitude.

Last night when I got off the train I so easily could have gotten into the car and complained about how long the commute was, how it's getting dark earlier, how hot it still is, how tired I was. But all of those thoughts faded away when I saw two boys hanging out of the car windows shouting, “Hi mom!”

I have a vehicle, a house, a job, a beautiful, healthy family. I have absolutely nothing to complain about.

So, for the second time that day, I gratefully accepted the homeless man’s gift. I got into the car and gave my husband and my kids a huge smile.

***

I encourage you to read the story about my friends' son Gabe and their experience with childhood cancer. The story is beautiful and heartbreaking. I believe knowing stories like Gabe's make us all better people.

cookies revive the blog

Over the last eight weeks I have started and left unfinished three different blog posts. With the job, freelance work, family, school craziness, taxes, early risers (need I say more), my head is just not in the game. I think I have something to say but as I start writing, I can't get my thoughts together. Thankfully, inspiration has not disappeared completely. I still remember how to bake.

Tonight I had a hankering for peanut butter cookies. I never make peanut butter cookies. I don't even know how the butter and peanut butter ended up on the counter. And then the egg and the milk. The flour. I had the ingredients. Mostly.

We don't stock much in the sugar department anymore. In fact, some (particularly an 8 year old I know) think I am getting a little crazy about cutting out sugar. Andrew still uses sugar in his coffee, because he likes to poison himself like that. But tonight I thank him. I pillaged what I could from his stash and then got the strange idea to substitute a banana for the rest. A banana's sweet and goes nicely with peanut butter. Could be insanely brilliant. Could be weird but edible. Could totally flop.

The verdict? Well, I am writing this post. The first in nearly two months. You do the math. Then do the recipe. You can thank me later.

Peanut Butter Banana Cookies

1/2 cup butter
1 cup creamy peanut butter (no sugar, of course)
3/4 cup sugar
1 medium ripe banana
1 egg
1 T milk
1 t. vanilla
1 1/4 cup flour
3/4 t. baking soda
1/2 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt

Cream butter, peanut butter and sugar. Mix in banana until totally blended. Mix in egg, milk and vanilla until creamy and smooth. Stir together dry ingredients in separate bowl and stir into peanut butter mixture. Drop by tablespoons onto lined cookie sheets and bake at 350 degrees for 10-11 minutes.

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.

embrace

"Here's the thing about trains, it doesn't matter where the train is going, it matters that you decide to get on." —The Polar Express

I have been thinking a lot about a word for 2013, a little exercise I've done at the beginning of every year since I've had this blog. Looking back I find it kind of funny that of all the words I've chosen, I am not any closer to achieving anything than when I started. I still forget to breathe all the time. I need to simplify more than ever. Considering all I'd like to accomplish this year, a little intention would be helpful. And, especially due to some darker days lately, I really need to be sunshine. Because I have basically accomplished nothing, I will just take that as a sign that I choose really good words. And that I am very aspirational.

For a few days I've been trying to find a word that encompasses all that I'd like to do this year. I'd like to write more and start knitting again. I'd like to clean more and save more and play games with my kids more. I'd like to complain less. But I've realized I can't just will myself to do these things.

Sitting on the couch with Elliott this morning watching The Polar Express for the thirtieth time in as many days, it occurred to me that despite his limitations, as far as I can tell, my five year old doesn't wish his life were different. He doesn't have a laundry list of things he'd like to do. He also doesn't simply accept where he is, he embraces the challenges and opportunities in his life with gusto.

I, on the other hand, am all about acceptance. I have accepted the fact that we have some major financial troubles that will take a while to set straight. I have accepted the fact that I have next to no free time anymore. I have accepted the fact that my house is disorganized and stuff needs to be purged. I have accepted the fact that my five year old wakes up at 4:30 a.m. almost every morning. I have accepted the fact that writing the book in my heart will now take a herculean effort. I have accepted the fact that my son may never thrive in a traditional school setting. I have accepted the fact that the 29-year-old girl who used to gaze at me in the mirror is no longer there. But here's the thing about accepting, it usually comes with a bad attitude. Just because I've accepted these truths about my life, doesn't mean I can't whine about them or be pissed about them or wish my days were different.

Acceptance and joy rarely go hand in hand.

Every morning I give Elliott an awful concoction of whole-food supplements our chiropractor has determined his skinny little body needs to thrive. They taste horrid but he doesn't understand how to swallow them whole. So I crush them up and try to mask the flavor in smoothies or yogurt. This morning as we watched Polar Express, he put a big spoonful of his vitamin-laden yogurt in his mouth and looked over at me.

"This good," he grinned, bouncing with a bizarre pre-dawn energy that doesn't seem to fill any other human I know. "Thank you, mommy."

What a crazy kid. His yogurt is terrible. I know, I've tasted it. But for some strange reason, Elliott does not reject it (and I know from the occasional times he does turn up his nose that he knows it's gross). The stranger thing is that he doesn't just accept it either, which is how his brother faces undesirable tasks and challenges—he'll do them, but grudgingly. Instead, Elliott embraces his lot in life. He finds the joy where the rest of us would find something to complain about.

And so I have decided to claim 2013 as the year to be more like Elliott. I claim 2013 as the year to embrace my life, the challenges and the opportunities. To stop whining and feeling sorry for myself. And, thanks to the example of my son and his favorite movie, no matter where the train is going, to decide to get on—with expectation, gratitude and joy.

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.

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.