Not SWAK, I hope
November 22, 2011
Every night, we take turns lying next to Owen at bed time, reading our requisite 2 books, saying prayers, and settling down. I love these quiet moments, because no matter how many times I ask what has happened at school during the evening, all the important stuff spills out in these bedtime sessions. Sometimes we have long talks about the state of the world, the differences between boys and girls (who underappreciate bugs, according to Owen), and what would happen if trees were made of chocolate. Important things. It sounds idyllic as I write it, and though it often is, it certainly doesn’t always go down that nicely. Some days are hard and full of hassles, and sometimes bedtime seems more like a welcome reprieve than a moment for bonding. But even then, Owen never ceases to surprise me.
We’ve been reading The Swiss Family Robinson at bedtime, and if you’ve read it, you might remember that there are some dry swaths–long natural histories of penguins, etc, etc. On just such a night, after just such a day, I was struggling to get through the chapter. Owen was wriggling about, and when I turned to scold him for not paying attention, he was looking up at me with a mischievous grin.
“What?” I said.
“Did you get it?” he giggled.
“No, what?”
“My stink letter. I just sent it.” And sure enough he did, his very own creation (aptly described, by the way).
The tension of the day slipped away, dissolved in laughter–and stink. Hallmark may want to reconsider their slogan. If so, I suggest “when you care to scent the very best…”
The Elegant Commute
November 4, 2011
Brian Green, author of The Elegant Universe and expert in string theory, said tonight on the radio that math was one of the keys to understanding reality. Math teachers everywhere should go out and put that endorsement on t-shirts (or maybe that would just be sad). Why nobody told me that in high school is beyond me. Certainly it would have tempered the frustration of geometry and the mystery of algebra. And while I know that Mr. Green was certainly not referring to my morning commute, I had to chuckle about how math and “reality” work in my life these days. You see, I was never a confident math student even though I loved school. And even now, words are my speciality. But on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I become a math queen as my mind calculates and recalculates how to get three people to three places in the shortest amount of time (and on time) while maximizing sleep, minimizing distance, and limiting caffeine.
For example:
A car, leaving at 7:23 a.m. and traveling at an average speed of 25 mph must deliver Person A to Point A which is five miles away. At 7:25, a train unexpectedly blocks traffic for 3 minutes at the 1.5 mile mark. How fast must the car travel (if all 3 remaining traffic lights are green) to make it to Point A by 7:35? And how much time does that leave to deliver Person B to Point B (3 more miles)?
Sometimes, the math doesn’t add up. My car still doesn’t have turbo drive (Oh Knight Rider, if I could only borrow your car just once!), so I know that unless I want to risk the wrath of the JCPD, I won’t magically appear on time. No problem, just recalculate…if I park at the main building instead of my office, it will take me 45 seconds to walk to the classroom. Perhaps 30 if I’m not wearing those blasted high-heeled boots.
It’s no string theory (I’m not holding my breath for a NOVA miniseries), but it is a little slice of reality. In fact, I realized this week that I sort of enjoy it–shifting into 3rd gear (25 mph folks) around the curve on Market Street, knowing when to turn onto a side street or go for the light. And even though the days when the trains and school buses and red lights throw a wrench in my perfect route, that’s okay too. The reality of those days is precious, too.
A Timothy Tale
Oct. 3, 2011
For many years I had a recurring dream in which my dad stopped by to visit. In my dream, I had just baked sugar cookies, his favorite. We would just be sitting down to catch up, when some unimportant thing called me to another part of the house. I always return to find a note saying he loved me and would see me soon. It’s been nearly 20 years since my dad died, and I always welcome that dream, however frustrating and fleeting, just for the chance to see his face again. In fact, I’ve been looking for him for years–in the faces of other men his age, in the mannerisms of the men who have similar interests or jobs, in the way my own mouth forms a crooked smile, and most recently, in the face of my own son.
Owen doesn’t look much like my dad, but he has many of my dad’s mannerisms. He is in every way his own boy. But especially in the last couple of years, I have often imagined what their relationship might have been. In the way that some men are men’s men, my dad was a kid’s dad. He wrestled on the floor with us, read to us, carted us to piano, and just generally loved us to pieces. He came home from work excited to see us. He played ball with us and swam with us and rode go-carts with us. He was proud of us–as ardent in his love for us as for my mother. For all of these reasons and many more, I know that he and Owen would have been fast friends.
This morning at breakfast, Owen said, “Mama, I’ve been thinking. When God gives us bodies that never die and no one is ever sick again, I think I’d like to get to know your dad. I think we might be best friends. And it would be so cool–Owen Timothy and Timothy playing.”
Like a note on my counter, saying “I love you, and I’ll see you soon.”
“Yes Owen,” I answered. ”I think he would like that very much.”
I would, too.
A Hope for My Daughter
August 17, 2011
Yesterday, while Violet was napping, I sat on the porch and read Naomi Riley’s astute review of a new book titled Cinderella Ate My Daughter by Peggy Orenstein. The review stood out to me because Violet’s arrival has me questioning the proliferation of all things princess. As I read Riley’s review, my own feelings about princesses began to clarify. I do not remember wanting to be a princess as a little girl. Once, I dressed up like queen Esther, but mostly because I thought she was awesome and smart. No one in my family called me princess or treated me like one, for which I should probably remember to thank them. I hope that no one ever treats Violet that way, either. But this is not to say that I want to ban fairy tales or femininity at our house.
Princesses are indulged, served, glorified, and often objectified. My hope for Violet is that she reach beyond those things, to serve others instead of herself, to cultivate character and depth rather than just physical beauty, to glorify God rather than to be glorified. Cartoon princesses live happily ever after, completed by Prince Charming and fancy dresses. But the truth is that real love is hard work, and that it is super hard to clean a toilet (or cook dinner or read a book) in tulle and lace. I want Violet to focus on the depth of true relationships, to know love that allows her to be all that she is, that helps her to become more than she dreamed.
I know I cannot stop the princess train from stopping at my house, and that’s okay. But I hope that when it comes, it brings along Julian of Norwich, Mother Theresa, Angela Merkel, Denise Levertov, Harper Lee, Georgia O’Keefe, and maybe even good old Queen Esther.
Catching Tigers
July 9, 2011
I love Wallace Stevens’ poetry. He, like William Carlos Williams and T.S. Eliot, attempted something new and fresh with poetry in the mid 20th century. And perhaps the mark of their success is that their poetry is still fresh to me every time I read it. One of my favorite Stevens poems is “Disillusionment at 10 O’Clock”. In a sea of white nightgowns in suburban type houses, an old sailor somewhere dreams of “catching tigers in red weather”. Scholars debate Stevens’ meaning–is he making a statement about imagination? Is he condemning the humdrum mediocrity of the middle class? Is he mourning the loss of creativity? I think it could any of these things or all of these things. But I’ve always liked to believe that he was happy for the sailor, that one didn’t have to be addled or drunk to access the “red weather” or to chase tigers. I’m the first to admit that I sometimes get lost in the white nightgowns, but it is wonderful to live in a place where the tigers are so near.
This morning, when given the choice to do anything–Owen chose to hike his favorite trail. It was a trail made even more beautiful by the fact that just a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have been able to hike it. I felt an even stronger kinship with the flowers and leaves that hang on through the winter to make a comeback every season. Along the way, Owen picks up sticks–each one with a unique ability to cut down trees, or make magical food, or paint. He is a constant and steady stream of story, babbling in harmony with water beside the trail. I love that he loves the trail. I love that he has favorite parts, that he knows what is coming next (the rhododendron tunnel, the clearing, the waterfall). I love that we have trekked it so often that we have stories to tell of the trail itself (remember when we fell in? remember when we saw the snake? remember when it was deep in snow?). And mostly, I love the imagination borne of sticks and rocks. We didn’t catch any real tigers (thank goodness!), nor anything else tangible. But I think Mr. Stevens would approve.
I hope you dance (but maybe not always like that)
June 29, 2011
This past weekend Owen and I attended the most lovely outdoor wedding. The bride was exquisitely beautiful, and the weather was perfect. Owen happened to be the ring bearer and two of his good friends were the flower girls. Owen has long proclaimed his aversion to marriage. He wants, for the time being, to “live with us” forever. And even though many adorable, savvy, and smart little girls have proclaimed a preschool betrothal, he prefers “being a boy” to “being a big man”. Watching him walk in with the groomsmen was heart warming, even if it was a gentle reminder that he won’t always want to live with mama and daddy, that someday another girl will be his “best” girl. As scary as that sounds to him, it might be even harder for me.
And when it came time for the first dance, he couldn’t wait to get to the dance floor. Since it was a “couples” dance and not many couples were taking the floor, I told him he could ask his flower girl friend, which he gallantly did (if somewhat awkwardly). They proceeded to the dance floor in what looked to be an “Awww” moment in the making. How adorable to see the flower girl and ring bearer innocently slow dancing with the bride and groom. But of course, that isn’t what happened. The flower girl knew what to do, and stood with her arms open waiting to dance. My son, MY SON, fell prostrate to the dance floor and began to do a strange worm-like breakdance. TO SLOW MUSIC. What ensued is a little blurry, largely because I was laughing so hard I couldn’t see.
Nostalgia abated, we headed for the car. The thoughtful bride made firefly jars for the kids, and on the walk we looked for twinkling takers for our little glass apartment. Owen chatted about the good job he did and about how good the cupcakes were. He told me he had a GREAT time at the wedding, and as I buckled him into his booster seat, he said, “If I ever get married, I am going to play only fast music. And the people can have as many cupcakes as they like.” (Note–this was not a critique of the food supply, but of his mama, who only let him have 2 cupcakes).
So I propose a toast:
My dear son, may you always dance to your own rhythm. And when (or if, if you prefer) you get married, may it be to a woman of equally independent spirit. I am sure that first dance will be blurry for me that day, not with tears of laughter, but certainly tears of happiness.
Welcome, Violet
June, 12, 2011
Even though she’s been here for 2 months already, this is one of the rare times when the house is quiet, and I don’t feel like crawling straight back into bed. These past few months have been hard–a particularly difficult pregnancy followed by a life-threatening delivery. It will likely be a full year from the time the two lines appeared in the window of the EPT that I begin to feel completely like myself again. I found myself wishing in those first weeks home for time to pass quickly, to get to the “good stuff” of the walking and talking. But in the immortal words of that sage Doc Holiday (from the movie Tombstone), “There is no normal life, there’s just life;” and so I learn again to quit waiting for “things to settle down” or “next summer when it will be more peaceful”. The best moment is this moment, right here. That moment is in the wee hours of the morning, as the baby girl’s frantic cry for hunger turns to the contented coos of satiated happiness. That moment is in the morning sunlight streaming through the window onto her sweet “glad to see you” smile. It is in Owen’s gentleness with this tiny person who changed his entire world.
And so, Miss Violet, I welcome you into our crazy life. My precious, humbly beautiful flower. You remind me that “days made of now” are sublime, like the summer blossoms themselves. My promise to you, dear one, is that I will savor them, savor you–you now, and you-to-be when we get there.
A Practical Kind of Magic
Nov. 29, 2010
The Christmas season is upon us, and with it comes a new discussion of Santa Claus. Last year, Owen declared that Santa was “like a superhero”–that he existed in movies and stories but wasn’t real. But this year, a combination of preschool and more susceptibility to advertising has weakened that resolve.
He seems unwilling to give up on Santa completely, even if he may not be completely convinced. After watching a Christmas cartoon special the other day–a cartoon where Santa uses his sleigh and reindeer to deliver all the presents around the world–he became a firmly skeptical believer. As he was going to bed he informed me that he did NOT believe in Santa’s sleigh. And reindeer don’t fly. He hypothesized instead that Santa must really have an airplane or a space ship, because there is no way Santa could get to all those places in a sleigh.
So this year, I suppose we will listen for a jet engine or perhaps the whirring of space technology. I just hope Santa doesn’t land on the roof.
And always very curious
Nov. 11, 2010
For the last few years, the main television show in our house has been Curious George, who is (as you may well know) a “good little monkey, and always very curious”. I am thankful to Ron Howard for directing a show that has been so easy for me to love (as parent and as a connoisseur of plot) and so helpful for Owen. Curious George is indeed very curious, but he is also genuine and never mean-spirited. The antagonist is never scary, but rather is often his own naiveté or inexperience. Since Owen had been able to talk, we have referenced Curious George as we attempt to explain all sorts of tough concepts–from leverage to metamorphosis.
I knew that someday Owen would outgrow Curious George, if nothing else because we have seen every episode multiple times. George is still a great comfort to Owen, and to be truthful, to me too. Just yesterday, though, on the way to school, Owen asked from the back seat: “Mama, what is cynicism?” I found myself referencing his new favorite show, Phineas and Ferb, to explain the difference between cynicism and optimism. And it worked. I don’t think Curious George has much to say about cynicism, and I’m glad. And I’m also glad that Phineas and Ferb are the older, human versions of that curious monkey. If George has to be replaced, Phineas and Ferb seemed poised to take up where he left off, with their happy adventures, their curious optimism, and their enthusiasm.
Thanks, George, for being such a big part of our house for these past few years. And has anyone seen Perry?
Survival of the Fattest
Nov. 9, 2010
Our dog Grendel is the most laid back 90-pound dog you will ever meet. He was part of our lives long before Owen came along, and we wondered just how he would accept a new baby into his domain of two rooms (you see, Grendel only walks on carpeted surfaces, and our house is full of hardwood floors. His territory is small, but manageable, just like he wants it). He did remarkably well, tolerating the invasion of his space, the inevitable exploration of his long tail, and even the period of “crawl under the dog before he notices” Owen was fond of for a few months. He did well, but he was never really enthusiastic about Owen–the vivacious puppy that would have loved a playmate was several years in the past.
Never enthusiastic, that is, until Owen began eating solid food. Then Grendel began to see the possibilities. Nearly every meal yielded him some wonderful treat; and then, Grendel began to sneak. As soon as we looked away, Owen’s snack would disappear. Grendel became the master of snack-sneaking and falling into a dead sleep to avoid detection. (Though it’s hard to miss the fact that the bowl is mere inches from his nose.)
But Grendel outdid himself a few days ago. The Halloween candy was too much to resist, especially since Owen left the bag on the floor. The bag filled with Hershey bars, Peanut M &Ms, Milky Ways, Reese’s Cups and Butterfingers. A whole bag of untouched Halloween candy. When we came home from church, the entire bag was gone. A giant whole in the side, a little slobber, and a tootsie roll pop were all that remained (the dog apparently has discerning tastes, or maybe he didn’t like the look of the lollipop stick). Everything else, vanished.
And if you’ve never seen a dog on a sugar high, it is something to behold. In fact, we were worried that this might be demise of dear old Grendel (but talk about “going out with style”). Grendel, however, seems none the worse for the chocolate–we might even dress him up next year and let him get his own bag full.
In the last few days, though, Owen and I have been reading The Encyclopedia of Dinosaurs. Nearly every page mentions the word “predator,” and I wanted to be sure he understood. When I asked him to explain, he said, “It is something that sneaks up on stuff or animals and eats it.”
I congratulated him and asked for an example to drive home the lesson. Thinking quickly and with Grendel in my line of sight, I asked, “What do you think dogs might be predators of?” Of course, I was thinking squirrels, cats, bunnies–all of which Grendel has chased in the past few days.
But without missing a beat, he said, “Chocolate.” Grendel knows his prey, all right. Who wants a squirrel when you can have chocolate? (The jury is out on chocolate covered squirrel.) He may live to see several more Halloweens, if he doesn’t see 100 pounds first.
