Season of Wonder

What will we remember of this season, this year, this month?  The toys under the tree, or the laughter over the table with friends?  The way the cookies smell of cloves and cinnamon or buttercream?

Here's what I want to remember from this year--

Raphael, who is now three and a half, has awoken to the magic of the season.  He is a Christmas boy, and I imagine one day, he'll be the one with his house finely lit, complete with yard ornaments of wise men and a manger.  A very hip and jive version of Clark Griswald.  Tastful, not tacky.  And oh the magic!  It will be there, in his eyes, years from now, as they round and sparkle with the wonder of it all.  His sensitive ears tune into the music we play in our home, the Jawbone speaker blaring from its perch on the shelves over the TV, and Pandora chimes all the vintage Christmas favorites.   And "Jingle Bells" is his favorite.  His language is still choppy, and I need to lean into his words for meaning, but the joy is expressed through his chocolate brown eyes, and his dimples when he smiles with a gap in his front teeth.  Words?  Who needs words when you have so much joy spilling from those deep soulful eyes?  When the song comes on, he lights up and sings along with it, at the top of his voice, and mah-mah-mahing his way through the words when he doesn't remember them (as we all do, honestly).  And his new favorite song, "Let it Snow!" has been claimed, and he does reclaim it each and every time it's on, declaring "It's my song, Mama!"  How did he learn the words for that?  Who of us in this house have ever claimed a song like this?  None, but our dear Raphael.  Our sweet little man whose ears are so finely tuned, and heart so mildly forged, that he owns a song as if it has been stirred and baked from the ovens of his own toasty-warm heart?  His heart sings.  For me, this is part of the season's magic I inhale like perfume.  

The days have been long this winter.  Spiked with a surprise snowfall that shut down the city, and our efforts to sled at the park were greeted with dismal grass that had frosted over, winter has arrived.  The days have been frozen, chilly, and the fog as thick as soup.  After homeschool the boys romp outside, and I warm their Ramen for lunch (we be po' this year, just another year of living as starving college kids, again...still, and goodness knows there's no nutrition in that Ramen, but when I add some frozen peas, I feel better about it, and they feel full), and sometimes some hot cocoa with mini marshmallows in their matching orange mugs, or blueberry tea, to warm their cold little fingers when they come in from the biting chill of outdoors.

My Blueberry Tea Recipe
-boiling water
-frozen blueberries
-lemon or orange slices, whatever is in the fridge that day
-honey to taste
Stir with small Austrian coffee spoons, and serve with a Russian Tea Cakes or iced sugar cookies.  Make sure holiday music is blaring, it adds sparkle to the flavor.

Last weekend was chock full of joy for us.  Friday night as soon as Aaron came home from work, we changed and prissed up for a company party with Tia Kissy in Portland.  This is our third year going and the food and music, not to mention the company of amazing social workers serving severely abused children in the state of Oregon, we had a great time there, and were able to even get a sitter which in our book qualifies as a real date.  The next day we had our dear friends the Votrobecks out, and they brought a lasagna dinner, then we decorated about 100 sugar cookies, making sure they took home their share.  And Sunday, our beloved friends-dare I call them just friends, for they feel more like family-the Coomalas came out for the day.  How indulged!  Sarah and I prepared the lunch while the men tinkered in our dieing car--long story, epically long, and not very interesting at that, but the synopsis could be this: if our car was a horse, we'd have shot it three years ago.  But Jon, bless him, was such a help for Aaron to help fix our car so it would work, and Sarah and I were able to catch up, decorate gingerbread/"ninja"bread men, AND put three boys down for a nap while the guys worked out in the cold!  Superstars, that's what.  It felt like family, to settle in, hang out, drink tea, and share time.  I loved every moment, and was so sad when they had to go home that late afternoon, but so grateful for the memory.  That night we were indulged by our sweet friends the Grice who came caroling with their four beautiful children, bringing delicious chewy molasses cookies with song.  Raphael, who was in the tub and wasn't about to miss the moment, rushed down stairs, shiny wet from his bath and not wearing a stitch, to offer a very merry Christmas streak to them as they loaded up for the next house on their list.

These days I have grown lonely in the kitchen, and it seems only proper that the boys help me in the Christmas cooking.  For both sugar and gingerbread cookies, the boys have helped me.  How deeply does it tickle me when I get out the cinnamon, and rather than reach for a measuring spoon, they offer their cupped fingers, to measure as I do, because they have learned what a teaspoon looks like in the palm of the hand?  Many days I have put Raph down for a nap and as Andres rests in his room I have tiptoed to his door to peek in.

"If you pick up your toys, you can come downstairs and make (insert any sugary Christmas treat) with me."

He responds with an eager hustle of effort, and none too quietly stumbles down stairs to wash his hands and begin the baking with me, standing on a chair at my side, his cupped hand extended as I pull down the nutmeg from cabinet.  He does it all these days:  crack eggs, pour milk into the measuring cup (some things must be measured out properly, after all), work the Cuisinart mixer...he's a wonder boy, that one.  Both boys helped cut sugar cookies and gingerbread men, so mature and on-task in the kitchen.  I'm so blessed to have such great helpers!

What will I remember of this year as I'm gray and old so long from now?

Not the fact that we're broke, and stressed, and strained, and choked so full of humanity and struggle that we can't sleep at night.  Not that we find ourselves growing into an age that suddenly slows us down via energy or effort.  Not the Ramen and Cup-o-Soups that we call food, or the meager stash of dollar store toys high in our bedroom closet that we call stocking-stuffers, or the mess and filth of our rental that's a far cry from the magic of a Dickens' Christmas setting, not even the great void of family that I had when I was little, specifically my own family, especially now.  None of that will stand out when I wrap myself up tight in that shawl so many years from now, lost in my nostalgia of Christmases Past.

What I hope to remember is what warms me now:  the song in my son's voice as he blares "his song" from the depths of his lungs, the way Andres hops out of bed to hunt down the Elf every morning, the smell of cookies in the oven, and the laughter, story-telling, merry-making, and sounds of small boys who will one day be men.  And even then, even then, I will lean into them to see their then-large grown, manly hands cradle a teaspoon of cinnamon.

The Best Pep Talk

November has been a crazy month, and December doesn't seem to be less busy.  But NaNo is over, and although I didn't think I could do it, because we spent three days at Thanksgiving in Selah and became horrifically behind in my word count, like 8,000 words behind!  I was ready to throw in the towel, but my amazing husband encouraged me to keep trying, to meet that goal, and after typing out 6,500 words to finish, I was able to win NaNoWriMo this year!  Of all the pep talks the nice folks a NaNo send to my inbox, the very strongest and most profound came from my husband standing in the kitchen telling me to not give up, after having come so close.  His words, love, encouragement for NaNo are just part of the everyday, big or small, words, love, and encouragement he always shares.  I may have reached my 50K, but that man, because he's in my corner, and the very best man I've ever known, makes me a winner.

Finally, with NaNo out of my hair, I'm all about Advent.

I've been following this blogging mom, Oh Amanda, for nearly four years, and after that amount of time watching other bloggers have such success and so much fun with her ebook for Advent, I finally purchased the Truth in the Tinsel, with a 20% off coupon, and have set aside time each day to do our little Advent devotionals together.  It's perfect.  It lays out scripture, a small activity of creating a little ornament together that links to the days theme, and has devotionals for little kids to really have scripture accessed and understood.  It's very well done, and I'm so glad I finally dropped the dough to get the ebook, best less-than-eight-bucks spent this season, so long as I don't have to plan it out right now, what with homeschool, Advent, Elf on the Shelf, baking cookies, making cards and gifts, and other holiday events.  Each daily activity only takes 10-30 minutes, really as long as we want or need it to.  And it's something we can do every year for a while, so the money was well worth it!

Click here to visit Truth in the Tinsel.

Today, we did Day One together as a family, and that was special since Aaron could read the scripture and be able to participate, which won't always be the case as Aaron focuses on sending out three applications to PhD programs, finish the quarter, and take finals these next two weeks.  How that man manages is beyond me.  He works long hours at work.  He commits long hours to grad school.  And completing these applications is like another part-time job!  Ammmmaaaaaazzzzzzing.  God bless him.

So we put the tree up this morning, amidst merry Christmas music and periodic stressful moments regarding small boys and Grandma's heirloom antique glass ornaments.  This year, Raph absorbs it.  He loves it, and would lay under the tree all day, if we let him.  He was so excited to decorate, it just melts my heart to see the magic in his eyes this year.  Andres is stoked as well, and loved to help Aaron string the lights on the tree, historically having been my job!  He's getting so big so fast.  I can't believe, when I look at him with his handsome features, that he's my own son sometimes.

So the season of wonder is here, and it's so precious and fleeting.  I'm holding onto this joyous age when our boys are little and full of the miracle of Christmastime, holding on with all my strength, to relish it, to capture the sparkle of twinkling lights in their dark brown eyes, of the way their little fingers cling to a red shiny ornament, and the whimsical swirls of hot cocoa mustaches over their little lips.  This is the sweet spot.  This age, this season, this time of parenthood and childhood, is so very precious.

Signs

When Aaron and I were in college we avoided the sweltering heat one evening and ran to the movie theater where we could relish a few hours of air conditioning, and watch a movie that was touted to be the 'Jaws of cornfields'--a little M. Night Shyamalan flick that was slotted as a thriller movie.  But afterwords as I left the cool interiors of the movie theater into the oppressive heat of the summer night, what I realized was that it wasn't an alien thriller movie at all.  It was a metaphor about faith.  Omit alien and insert anything you like.  Cancer or car crash, lost job, or cheating spouse, whatever it is, it comes to us unwelcome, invading, confusing, and painful.  And in the midst of that struggle there are hints at something bigger, something sacred in the suffering, something drawing us into the powerful connective tissue of humanity, with small, darting glimmers of hope that keep our feet moving forward despite the mud and blood and tears.

Her husband suffered a brain injury, and her story speaks to all of us.

When I was a middle school Language Arts teacher I attended a workshop in a high school and that teacher had a poster on his wall with a quote that melted me.

"Be kind, for everyone is fighting a great battle."

~Ian MacLaren

It moved me because I wanted to be that person who had an awareness of the pains around me.   I wanted to see the troubled behavior as reaching out, as communication, as an SOS from someone as their ship is sinking.  Not that I thought could swoop in and save them, not that I had the perfect thing to say to remedy their pains or struggles, but that I could just simply be kind.  Be kind without judgement or condemnation.  Be kind and nothing else.  

Years ago I watched an interview with Oprah, and was moved at her insight about what every human being she has ever interviewed:

“I’ve talked to nearly 30,000 people on this show, and all 30,000 had one thing in common: They all wanted vali­dation. If I could reach through this tele­vision and sit on your sofa or sit on a stool in your kitchen right now, I would tell you that every single person you will ever meet shares that common desire. They want to know: ‘Do you see me? Do you hear me? Does what I say mean anything to you?’

Everyone wants validation, compassion, encouragement.  Everyone needs kindness because aren't we all in a fight, exhausted, wounded, troubled, crippled in some way?

Our family has been graced with powerful reminders to be aware of the people around us, of the flares they send out for help.   We are penitent for the judgements we have cast on others when our lives were clicking along beautifully and we were frustrated with them because we wanted them to just hurry up and be happy, get over it, move on because their struggles were killing our buzz.  At the time it didn't feel like that, but now, on the other side of experience, we see it for what it was.  

I feel especially sorry for responding to my brother this way years ago, my little brother Wade, who had consequences and circumstances that I had never had to deal with personally, and I wanted him to just get it together.  We were doing well at the time.  We were in a house, happily married, a new baby boy, in secure jobs, plugged in at church.  Why couldn't he just follow our model and do the same thing? The funny thing about circumstances is they are always theoretically applied.  We can say we know what we'd do in their shoes, but it's not true.  We can tell them what they should do, or how to handle their situation, or give them a stirring motivational oration that would move angels to weep, but that's not what anyone needs.  What he needed, what we need, what every single person needs, is kindness and validation.

I'm so grateful to the people in our live who have been graceful with us during this season of tribulation, and gentle, and kind, and validating.  There are no words to convey how your love has taught us how we want to be in the world.  

This article is what I needed today.  The story broke my heart, and spoke to my heart, and reminded me to simply have heart.

En Route

Fade In:  Night on the freeway.  Raining, wipers streak against the windshield.  KLOVE plays softly on the radio.  Red break lights illuminate faces in the car, boys getting restless in the back seat, mom anxious to get through the congested Portland traffic to pick husband from work.

Raph:  IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII love you, Mom.

Mom:  (sigh)  I love you too, Raphie.

Raph:  I love you AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH lot, Mom.

Mom:  I love you a lot too, sweetheart.

Raph:  Okay, stop talking now, Mom.  It quiet time.  Quite time NOW.

Back On the Horse & the Holiness of Garbage Trucks

I've been a naughty blogger.  Sporatic at best.

I actually created an epic photo video from the summertime to compensate for the vast drought of posts here for four months, and after hours and hours editing that masterpiece, YouTube nixed it because it detected the contents I used regarding copyrighted music.  Not like I would be trying to make money off it, just a digital scrapbook with sound, that's all.  I had given all the props right there on the video to each artist, and I even tried to make my blog private and YouTube was still all "no way, you filthy, rotten music stealer."  I totally get it, I really do love musicians, and value their art and craft, and really do have respect for their rights and all that.  But COME ON!!! That video was going to be the coolest thing since sporks, man!  So, currently it's vaulted in my computer, and hopefully I can alter it and share it here one day.  With uber cool reggae music nonetheless.

In the meantime, I thought I had better get back on the saddle with this blog and continue to chronicle the events of my family so one day my boys can read it and (hopefully) appreciate their childhood through my eyes, and draw new insights into adulthood and parenthood through my words and experiences.  We're still seeking miracles here, and it's still very messy.  So the show must go on.

Today was an average day where we took Papa to work and then rushed home to eat breakfast then dive into school.  And as we were trying to back into our driveway to get it all started, the garbage truck was blocking our route.  As my right turn blinker ticked away, we watched that giant truck extend an arm with perfect agility and clasp with two robot fingers onto our garbage can.  Somehow, for some reason, it was hypnotic, and we three each absorbed the slow, mechanical movements as it heaved the garbage off the roadside and hold it over the massive hole on it's top, releasing a week's worth of diapers, cat litter, laundry lint, and other unspeakably nasty things dismissed in a family's trash.  And it occurred to me that the man driving the truck was good at his job, and I waved at him, as did the boys, as he drove down the block with a kind smile on his burly face.  

I couldn't help but smile as well, and I suddenly wanted to hug that man.

What if we didn't have garbage trucks?  I know what that looks like first hand.  When we were in Senegal 5 years ago, we were mesmerized by the raw and rustic beautiful of sub-Saharan Africa.  But the population isn't capable of affording food or medicine or clean water to drink and wash babies in, let alone the luxury of a sanitation department to collect and dispose of waste.  And the land was decimated by not only poverty but filth as well.  And even way out in the bush, far from the cities with their weak but running sanitation efforts, the beautiful, iconic African landscape was ruined by trash.  Plastic sacks wrapped around and hung from ancient baobab trees, and soda bottles or cans lay where they were dropped or where the wind had swept them.  Little bits of cellophane fluttered like butterflies from branches of acacia trees, and donkeys lumbered around with plastic wrapped around their legs or suctioned to their mouths as they tried to graze around it.

Somewhere between Baba Garage and Theis, Senegal in 2009:  I took this shot from the van as we left the villages, the long road into the city, the airport, and home.  Sadly the trash litters the bush as far as the eye can see.

And I'm not saying this with any elitist Christian pity, or ugly American arrogance.  It's only an observation, a contrast of cultures and circumstances.  I mention Senegal because today I wanted to hug my garbage truck driver, I wanted to yank him out of that odoriferous beast with its didactylous arm, and squeeze the prunes out of him because he did his job well, and he did it with a smile, and a friendly wave at a mom who was anxious to get the long day going, and two little boys who were enchanted by the truck he operated with such ease, for making it look easy, for lifting three dark fingers in a small salute to us, and smiling inside that scruffy beard as he drove our trash away.

El Grito Festival '13

I love a full house.  Aaron and I are both from large families (I'm the oldest of four, he's the second of six) and so we rather enjoy being smooshed in close quarters with lots of people around, it's a norm for us, a cozy thing packed with nostagia.  I love the sounds of children rushing about and playing, and people lounging in the living room chatting, at the dining table recounting stories, or (as it happens in my house) hanging it the kitchen grazing around light conversation and laughter.  People and food just go together in my mind.   And since I've become a Villanueva, music has become part of that perfect equation, too.  These Villanuevas are really, truly, deeply, musical.  The improv jams they have sitting around a living room is remarkable, not to mention the extradinary variety of instruments they procure to do so.  I'm so blessed to have my boys exposed to such wonderful cultural and musical influences.

So when our brother in law in Spokane, Nic, told us he landed a gig for his Latin band, Milonga, at El Grito in Pioneer Square in our neck of the woods, and invited Aaron to play rhythm guitar with the band, it sent a flurry of excitement around the family.  They were buzzing.  They were bubbling over.  Tom and Rachel had just moved to Olympia from Cincinnati, and were eager to go to the concert, but needed a sitter for their beautiful two year daugther, and wanted to share one with us.  (The gig was from 9:30 to 11:00.)

So we invited them over for dinner and offered them the boys room to sleep in, as well.  I've always dreamed of a stocked guest room, something where guests can just plop down, kick off their shoes or whip off that bra and feel at home.   But these days, we relocate the boys to a makeshift bed on the floor of our closet in our room, and offer their room to our guests.  This summer we housed a dear writer friend of ours as she came from Eugene to the Willamette Writer's Conference, and she loved having a room of her own for three nights while here.  So it works for everyone:  we get to love on our guests, our guests get to feel at home, and the boys still have a place to sleep.  After Tom and Rachel responded with an elated "yes!" it just made sense for me to invite everyone here for dinner.  Now, bear in mind, that's nearly 20 people, including kids.  Everyone replied "great! what can I bring!" My answer, knowing this family as well as I do, is always wine.  Bring wine, folks.

Our dear friend Suzi, a woman of immense faith, stayed with us during the WW Conference in August.  I met her in my screenwriting classes last year, and it was so easy to love her.   She said she wanted to take what her daughter calls a "selfie" on her cell phone, and I'm so glad she did.  She's not only a very encouraging friend of my writing, but she's a amazingly gifted writer as well.  I hope to see her movies on the big screen one day. 

Then Mel, Aaron's other sister who lives with her hubby and baby boy in Spokane announced they would even be making the 6 hour trip down and wondered if they could crash here after the concert.  Without hesitating, we said of course!  Then we dandied up the office studio, and apologized for not having enough pillows and blankets, but the space was theres to have for the night.

The boys at their table in the playroom.  Their cousin's daddy is the band leader, Nic.  

My rule of thumb when hosting a dinner party for 15 people or more is keep it simple as can be, especially when there's kids.  And since we're scraping by right now, I needed to be real about the bottom line too.  So I cheated and just bought two gi-normous Marie Callender lasagnes, six bags of salad, more wine (because it's 20 people) and beer, and loads of tortilla chips with salsa, and not the wimpy kind, y'all, after all these are Villanuevas we're talking about.  Rachel was bringing bread, bless her.  And I did make a huge peach cobbler to smother with vanilla ice cream, so it wasn't all cutting corners out of bags and boxes.  Plus I love the smell of something sweet and cinnomony baking when guests arrive.

And it was a nice dinner, everyone loved the lasagne and the musicians got out their goodies and rehearsed a bit, and as soon as our sitter arrived and we loaded up and caravaned to Portland for the show.

What I love about Mexicans is that they know how to have a good time.   

This mariachi band was on stage when we got there and the crowd was practically slobbering with delight.  They were awesome.  I could see Aaron off stage warming up and by the look on his face these guys would be a tough act to follow.

Warming up, handsome guy!

Pride.  The music was BLARING and everyone was dancing!  It was a real fiesta!

I wish I had a camera that could have captured the raw energy here.  It was thumping and everyone at every age was there to party.

I've been blessed to grow up with my sister in laws over the last 20 years.    

It's midnight here, and are they tired?  No.  Is there music going?  Yes.

Mel is special to me, since she's the one who told her big brother to call me all those years ago.  Now she's a mommy of an adorable little tike, and he was a real trooper up so late.

Handsome music man! 

After the show, after the stage was cleared and the instruments and amps loaded, Mom and Dad went to their hotel room in Vancouver.  Nic, Rita and their little boy went home to stay with Tia Cris.  Everyone else came home with us.  And after a show you can't just go to bed.  Not in this family!  No, you go home and rummage through the left over lasagne, and grub, and reminisce.  So we all came home, slipped into our yoga pants, or sweats, and poured more wine, ate more munchies and gabbed until 3 am.  I loved that time together.  The next morning I was up at 7 making breakfast, because I told everyone it would be served at 9 am sharp, and like dinner, it was wonderful having the house full of family one more time before they all departed for their homes.

It happened by accident.

I was told two years ago when I bought my camera that it had a video feature, but I had never been able to get it to work.  I thought that since I bought it off the floor at Target (discontinued) for a killer sale price on top of a hefty markdown, that the video was just a dud.  But then at the concert, the music was so great, I was motivated to just start pushing buttons and see if perchance a video recorded.  It wasn't until I got home that I realized it had!  I have no idea how I did it, but despite the grainy, badly focused image and humming audio, it captured!  And all I could say was woh.  Aaron was having so much fun up there!  I've never seen him play like this, as it's such a departure from Bach and Villalobos, classical musician that he is, but he sounded good and looked good, too!  I loved this song, so I'm glad it recorded.  I was so excited and proud of Aaron, and grateful he had this awesome experience.  (Change the video quality to 720 when viewing it.  Big improvement in images!)

The Last Real Cowboy

I spoke with him last week.  He couldn't speak well, and he was no longer able to swallow food, and it was so clear that there were only days left.  Aunt Jodie had rummaged through the boxes of old photos in the closet upstairs and made copies for us grand kids, I had received them in the mail, wept at the image of my late grandmother, who could have been a silver screen siren, had she not been a battered, neglected housewife of an alcoholic cowboy.  As I flipped through the old photos, most of which I hadn't seen before, I stopped with a gasp at a shot of him as a young and reckless teen, dark and handsome in a rouge and dangerous way, and it occurred to me what an enchanting net he must have cast on my grandmother back then, on so many young girls at the grange dances, at the school sock hops, and eventually the rodeos, and bars.  Called a "dark" German, Hebrew to be sure, but that was all hush-hush for at least two generations before he was born, the little secret that arrived with our first ancestor from Wurtenburg, Prussia.  But goodness, he was a looker, my old grandpa in his day.  And so I called him, just to let him know I thought he was a heck of a lot prettier when he was younger, to rib him a bit, which, with him always translated to love. 

"I hardly recognized you," I lied, nearly yelling into the receiver because I knew he wasn't wearing his hearing aid.  I could hear him laughing, a faint, breath-like panting to let me know he caught the sarcasm.

"Yat," he agreed weakly.  "I suppose."

I couldn't talk long, and he couldn't endure much, laborious as it was to just communicate.  Just long enough to say I'm thinking him, and that I love him.

After nearly three long years of battling prostate cancer, he finally passed this morning peacefully in his bed in his own home.

My earliest knowledge of him wasn't really a face, but an energy.  A stark contrast to Grandma, who was bubbly, goofy, and affectionate, he was sullen, withdrawn, unreadable, distracted.  We four grand kids were careful around him.  He gave us our first horses.  He expected us to work the farm, and had better learn early how to ride, herd, cut, brand, rope, de-horn, and grow beef cattle like everyone else.  But riding with him was fun work.  He was a real cowboy, just like in the movies, and when we rode with him, we were in the movie too.

How I remember him when I was growing up.  Grandma and Grandpa with my dad and aunts in 1980.

I've always loved old photos, the ethereal, haunting images of a moment in history captured in a flash. I love them and hoard them when I can, so my kids can know their roots, the legacy they inherit, and also so I can remember, too.  It's hard to imagine my dad as a little boy with chubby cheeks and pudgy hands, smooth skin, and warm brown eyes like those of my own young sons.  It's even harder to imagine my grandpa fresh in life, even smiling, at the same season in life that I'm in now.

This must have been a wedding in 1956, because my great grandparents are wearing flowers, and everyone is dressed up.  My graceful grandma Luster in the center is holding Aunt Jodie, and my dad is in the back with his arm around Grandpa.    

But when I see him here, in fuzzy black and white images, I can find it around his eyes.  He suffered.  He struggled.  He had deep, damaging wounds.  He didn't have wisdom on his side, but goodness, he had experience.  He was born between miscarriages during the early years of the Depression.  His life was one shaped by strife and hunger.

Grandpa with his firstborn, my dad, in 1954.  

Some of my friends agree, but something happens when you are a mother of boys.  Suddenly, as if by a fragile invisible thread, all the boys in the world are your children.  Especially little ones about the same age as your own or younger, I feel responsible for each of them.  Aaron and I had an experience this summer that spurred us to seriously consider serving in foster care, or even adoption.  We have all this love to share, and there are so many, many little boys who desperately need it.  My grandpa was that little boy.

My grandpa here in overalls, offering flowers beside his older brother Dave and younger sister,  Zelda, in 1940.

I may have never had a relationship with him, but then he held his first great-grandson, Andres.  And I watched in a postpartum haze some profound and cosmic event unfold before my eyes as Grandpa held my brand new son in his arms for the first time:  he smiled.  For me at 28 it was the first time I had seen that man smile.  And for a man who scowled at me as a kid as a both a salutation and warning, he started to call me every week to check on "that boy."  We nurtured a fledgling relationship with Andres as a bridge, and once, well into his fight with cancer, we even talked for over an hour on the phone, and I treasure that conversation with him.  And then just after his 80th birthday this summer, he decided to be baptized, shocking all of us.

I'm so grateful he was able to meet my boys.  I'm so glad they helped him heal whatever had broken him so badly, so grateful that he and I became pals through them.  And while today I'm sad and grieving and missing him already, there is in a wide open field a new peace, and a new life without hurt or grief, regret or shame.  Only endless oceans of the ever-present glow and warmth of perfect and abundant love, grace, and renewal.

Jearl Heitzman, age 9 months, 1934.

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” Matthew 19:14

Andres' 1st Animations

At 4:10
The Adventures of Calvin is an adaptation from Andres' favorite comics, Calvin and Hobbes, where our beloved protagonist imagines everyone around him as an enemy, especially his mom (now I wonder what Frued would say about Calvin)...and with his trusty sticky darts ("gun"--ugh!  but he is a boy after all!), defends himself against the overwhelming foe!  Disclaimer:  sound effects are more violent than actual video.

At 8:08
The Andres Show is an avant garde piece with postmodernism aspects as well as echoes of classic beatnik elements, and as Andres himself told us, "it's a sing along."  It's fun, creative, and pushes limits of visual storytelling.  So, we encourage you to sing along if you dare!


Book Animation from PORTLAND COMMUNITY MEDIA on Vimeo.

Muck

The summer has been a difficult one from the get-go.  A good one, but difficult for lots of reasons I'm still working through, still choking on.  And today.  Today is one of countless days that I wish I had a mom.  I would call her up, ask about the farm, chat about dinner menus, and share this horrible day with her perhaps as I cry a little about it, wanting her nonchalant laughter to pour over me like salve, a soothing encouragement, compassion from a mother to her daughter regarding this bond we share, this thing called motherhood.  I would ask her many, many questions.   So I slip back into the recesses of my imagination and pick up the phone.  I dial her number, listen to rings, and pauses between rings, and hear myself breathing on the receiver.  And then it's her voice.  Her warm and so familiar voice that is trekked into my most primitive memories.  No stand-in or surrogate will work today.  Some days I'm a mom.  Today I'm a daughter needing one.  Today, like countless others over nearly five years, I just miss my mommy.

Homeschooling: The Journey Continues

My friend Sarah has a pair of jeans that I unintentionally complement her on each and every time she wears them. They fit her perfectly in cut and length, and look great with whatever else she's wearing.  However, if I ran to the store and bought her jeans in my size, I know for a fact that they wouldn't fit me as well as they do her.  They're her perfect fit, not mine.  (I'm still looking for my perfect jeans...another story for another time.)   Thank goodness there's hundreds of brands of jeans to select from.

This is how I feel about contemporary educational options for kids.  I certainly wouldn't tell a family what is best for them any more than I would proclaim the jeans that fit me perfectly would fit others perfectly.  Some families feel quite at home in public school, it marries their values and lifestyle well, and fits them.  It doesn't fit us at all.  There have been times I wish it did, so I could enroll and walk away, showing up to volunteer on Fridays or bring cupcakes for birthdays, or even to just get a break from the rigors of parenting everyday all day long, or dealing with homeschool curricula.  But in the end I have to listen to that still, quiet voice within and go with my instincts.   Luckily for us, it's the best time ever for alternative education.  It's not just public vs. homeschool anymore.  Nowadays you can homeschool, unschool or hackschool.  The options are as numerous as buying jeans, and as confusing.

One friend praises her Sonlight homeschool curriculum.  For three years I've studied Sonlight's approach, and have even interviewed her kids, to see if this angle aligned with our values.  I may have even purchased it had it not been for the $900 bucks a year I would have to fork over.  But now I'm so glad that I didn't commit to Sonlight, even if the money had fallen from the sky.  At the end of the day, Sonlight wasn't a good fit for us either.

Andres' last day of school was Friday.  After a year with the FLEX Academy program, we had plenty of signs along the way that this program of a homeschool/public school hybrid wasn't working for us, and that we wouldn't return the next year.  He cried as he put away dishes after school Friday, lashing out a me, telling me he doesn't have to let go of the things he loves, and he loves the people at his school.  Maybe I was riding the fence when I enrolled him, worried about taking on the whole burden of responsibility for my child's education.  All those years in college studying pedagogy and educational philosophy, history, law, and application according to a public school paradigm has (I confess) skewed my ideas and personal opinions/values on education.  Learning is a science, and the role of school is hone skills and prepare our children for participating members of society.  But how these children participate is lost in the muck.  And for the 8 years I was teaching language arts in public school, I behaved like a pseudo scientist, researching and collecting data from test scores, reviewing my materials and curriculum plans, adjusting for differentiation and special needs and administrative interests, and responding to various studies and trends sweeping the field, always with the outstanding and over-riding goal of...improving test scores.  The student wasn't a whole person with gifts or dreams or spirits (yikes!--remember separation of church and state!?)  The student was a hypothesis.

So I knew what it was like behind the curtain of public school.  When it was my time to choose a path for my kid(s), there was no contest.  Homeschool?  Sure!--as long as I can have a dribble of public school ideals included to keep things fun and interesting, oh, and to "socialize" them, because God knows the only real way kids can be socialized is through public school.   (Is my sarcasm translating?) And it was fun and interesting for Andres at FLEX, he brought home cute projects and made some little friends, but there was a good deal of it not beneficial to his personal growth, or our family's lifestyle and values.  Even the stress of implementing FLEX at home in September was epic, being that it was a convoluted curricula with countless communication fails from his program and an overall lack of support.

No, FLEX is not coming around for 1st grade.  But what was?  I was getting anxious about it, and as I had listened to friends on their own children's educational pursuits, be it public or home, I found that my personal educational philosophy was surfacing for the first time, and not the scripted one I had to memorize for my student teaching application in college, but a real-life one that I discovered in the eyes of my boys, and the invisible future they will live.

I've learned that I don't want my boys to simply participate in society.  Most people do manage to participate in some capacity on some level, despite the degree of education they've achieved, after all we're social creatures, we need each other.  But what I discovered this year is that I wanted my boys to be whole people, and content in life in all circumstances.  Not prototypes, or experiments, or drones, or togs in the system, but whole and content.  I got that far in developing my philosophy when two interesting things happened this week.

1)  My dear friend Rachel and I attended Columbia Virtual Academy's Road Show (open house) where we could flip through textbooks of various curricula they offered through their program.  The nice lady who acted as my guide really didn't know how to help me, and she was floundering when up came Rachel, who is just now wrapping up her 1st grade homeschool with CVA, and shared with me a wealth of helpful and insightful information from the materials she had used this year, to how they implemented them, and what the kids did, how they liked it, etc.  She pointed out several items written by Susan Wise Bauer, a name I've come across countless times via the 50 or so homeschool blogs I subscribe to.   For the first time I was able to look at her work in real life (vs. online) and I loved what I saw.  Bauer aligns with the Charlotte Mason (CM) homeschool method, which I read up on long ago, and shrugged off.  But here is real applicable curricula, laid out clear and easily followed, and I imagined that it would fit us pretty well.  And knowing that Rachel had used it and loved it was the final sign I needed to commit to a plan.

2)  My dear friend Sarah came over yesterday for Raph's birthday celebration (more on that another post!  how fun!) and shared with me some of her thoughts as she deliberated taking her son out of public ed, and going the homeschool route.  She brought up Charlotte Mason again (no surprise...the same names come around and around in this alternative ed culture, Montessori, Waldorf, CM, TJEd, etc...and Charlotte Mason has a vast following, with good reason).  Sarah mentioned Ambleside, a rich site with free curricula and materials, available for the CM method.   It's been years since I read up of CM, and now with some traction under my wheels in the homeschool department, I thought it was time to review her philosophies and see if it came close to my own budding view of things.

Sidebar:  When Andres was one year old, I knew a woman getting her Montessori teacher certificate, and I attended some workshops with her, curious as I was being a public ed teacher about this private school method.  I liked what I saw a lot, but I knew then it wasn't going to gel with our lifestyle or with Andres' personality.  And that particular woman had strong opinions about CM, not entirely positive ones at that, so I never really pursued deeper investigation.  I had been convinced (by that woman) that Doctor Montessori had discovered the magic method to reaching children, and Miss Mason wasn't even a mother, let alone a homeschool mom, and her Victorian-era rationale is out of date, out of touch, and backwards-thinking with diction like child "training."  (Maria Montessori would never dream of condescending to children with language like that.)  And that's the other thing with homeschooling.  For every praise a method gets, there's just as many in the way of criticism, which--while researching what to do with my child(ren)--the pros and cons have been very put-offish and added to my confusion, although it underscores my original point about individualized educational fit based on family needs, lifestyle, and values.

But God nudges.

Here comes Charlotte Mason again in face after six years of me shelving her method.  And this time I thought I had better respond to the nudge and look into CM one more time.  Because as my personal philosophy solidifies, so do the educational goals for my boys.

My family is mixed ethnically, so an all-American or anglo-centric approach isn't appropriate for us.  (That was one reason I shelved CM long ago, and looking so longingly at Montessori's great multicultural method.)  I don't want an overtly conservative, legalistic Christian curriculum that shuns the theory of evolution or fairy tales, although I do desire God and scripture to be not just what we do, but who we are in everything, including education.  I'm not impressed with pre-learner fads, like parents teaching their infants to read and/or memorizing math facts, since there's no evidence at all that these early learners have any academic advantage over students who learn to read at 6 years old (or 8 for that matter), which is what I assume these parents honestly believe (that or that their child is a prodigy), and for my objectives, learning reading, writing or math skills prematurely fails to demonstrate a correlation between that and becoming a whole person, or being content in life as an adult.   I want my boys to be open minded, able to see things from others' point of view in a humble and graceful manner like my oldest friend in the world, dear Shannon M, or my beloved friends, Sarah C and Sarah V, all having challenged me to open my eyes and continue to teach me the fine art of perspective.  I want school to be something that grows us closer as a family, synching bonds, and creating memories.   I don't want to "teach to the test," although I fully realize in this world subjugated by standardized tests they will have to eventually learn how to maneuver through those minefields as well.  I want them to be comfortable in their skin, have ownership of the things which make them unique and different.   And I want their education to include a deep respect for life, art, languages, culture, music, literature, and cultivate profound thinking and ideas.  These are my goals.  Now, how on earth to get there?  Is it possible?

But God nudges.  And in my research today on Charlotte Mason, I was struck by something she wrote to The Times in the early 1900s:

Anyone who wants to teach children needs to decide whether man is just physical, or something more. It can't be both ways, and even the most trivial detail of the school day will line up with one or the other of these two fundamental perspectives. One method is scientific education. The other is humane education. Both methods cultivate the senses and exercise the muscles, but for different reasons, and with a different goal in mind.

I feel that I'm being called down off the fence, and being made to choose.   With my goals and own personal philosophy surfacing, I must nail down a direction, and follow that still, quiet voice within me with heart, courage, and faith.

I don't believe in magic bullets.  I don't believe in one size fits all, utopias, or perfection.  But I feel that choosing an educational path is like jeans.  I think you can find a fit that matches your natural shape, and then break them in so that over time and with wear they curve where you curve, bend where you bend, and fit your beautifully unique form.

Mother's Day

"There are many virtuous and capable women in the world, but you surpass them all!" (Proverbs 31:29, NLT)

For the swollen feet, stretch marks, and other unpleasantries of bearing a human being in the cradle of your your body, for the sweat, pain, and recovery of episiotomies or cesareans while releasing that child from your womb, for the raw nipples, 4 am feedings, slurred lullabies whispered over fuzzy little heads, for remembering to pack diapers, binkies, wipes, burp-cloths, snacks, the pump or bottles, and the tippee cup on every outing, for changing your clothes with grace when stained with spit-up, for all those gag-inducing poopy diapers, or rage-inducing colicky nights, for the tears you wept adjusting, and the tears you wept in unspeakable joy, for the countless boo-boos you swabbed, bandaged and kissed, for repairing that favorite toy, and stealthily tossing the unrepairable ones, for playing the dropsy game ad nauseum, for making peanut butter and jelly or mac and cheese in your sleep, for playing taxi to all the summer camps, softball games, swim lessons, piano recitals, for the beloved heirloom damaged or destroyed, for all the "don't spit in your brother's face!" and "stop pulling your sister's hair!" and "stay in bed!" moments, for installing carseats, loading up strollers, and assembling and dissembling portable cribs in small spaces, for the first steps and first bike ride without your guiding hand, for the sticky stuff on the floors, the stains on the carpet, and smears on the windows, for the Mt Everest piles of laundry, for playing Tea Party or Legos or Uno with a tired smile, for planning birthday parties, sneaking Christmas gifts, and hiding Easter eggs, for all the spaghetti dinner messes, for asking "where are you going?" and "what time will you be home?", for saying "this will hurt me a whole lot more than it will hurt you" and mean it, for the uncomfortable conversations had with teachers or parents involving "really, my child did that?", for brave play dates in the rain, snow, or sweltering sunshine, for all the thankless, unnoticed, glorious, bloody, sweaty, marvelous moments that make you a stronger woman now than you were before you embraced that small body, and clung to it as if a buoy on choppy waters, because in that moment you realized how fragile life is, and that bond is something supernatural, life-sustaining, and galvanizing.  You're a mother.  You're strong, and beautiful, and graceful.  You sacrifice gladly, and pray more than you speak.  You're a warrior and an angel.  You're Mom, Mommy, Mama. 

God bless you, Mom, today and everyday in this, the greatest, most challenging and beloved journey, mothering.

Coming to the Surface

The past month has been obscenely hectic.  We had a St. Patrick's Day dinner with friends and Tia Kissie.  We hosted Easter at our house and the next day housed family from California.  And we visited the lower valley to  place Aaron's beloved Grandma Bea beside her loving husband, Grandpa Joe.  We helped my sister in law celebrate her 40th birthday in Tumwater, too.  To top it off the month has been peppered with bouts of the flu and this week, a cold.  And there has been no semblance of routine or normalcy since before Christmas.  To say it's been exhausting would be a cute misnomer.

We're completely bonkers at this point.  Clinical.  And for my part, I'm ready to check into a respectable institution for the mentally unstable primarily because the idea of someone else preparing my meals is enchantingly alluring.  It's been an endurance race like nothing I've ever gone through before, and there's no way to know when it will end.  Or if it even will end.

I usually start with Andres, as he's the first born, but I feel like I'll start with Raph today.  We planted a garden in a little tub on our patio with a baby sugar snap, a mint and a sweet basil starter.  I discovered that Raphael is an avid gardener!  He loves to water the "babies," as he calls them, and uses a tiny plastic watering can with fervor.  I've started to bake with him on Thursdays when Andres is at school all day long (the longest day of the week) and have tried to really appreciate the one-on-one time we have together.  Last week we played soccer at the park, made a new lemon cookie recipe together, and cuddled up to read books together on the sofa.  It was a chilly day with low gray clouds, so snuggling up with some good picture books, warm lemon cookies and hot blueberry tea was ideal.  This week has been sunny and warm, so it actually felt like spring.  Our cookie this week was suiting for the sunshine, and we made Fresh Strawberry Shortcake Cookies, a fun new recipe I found on Pinterest.  Raph helped cut the strawberries, and did a wonderful job.  They turned out super good, just like strawberry shortcake in a cookie!  I had a half a lemon left over from the recipe, and feeling like spring as it was, I squeezed more lemons to make my first batch of homemade lemonade.  I have to say, there is really nothing like it.  It was dee-lish.  So after our traditional Thursday meal of Totinos pizza for lunch, we enjoyed our scrumptious strawberry cookies with cold lemonade out on the picnic table. His language is coming along, and I'm loving learning about his manner and perspective.

After a year of hard work, Andres has finally graduated into the next level at swim practice.  This is the child who just last year screamed bloody murder when his face was wet.  He's now bobbing along, jumping in, and even doing back floats.  I'm proud of his work, but really excited that he's had his first real taste of pay-off, and the sensation that success brings when one overcomes something they don't like, something they don't want to do (yes there were some tears about going to swim practice, but now he loves it!), or something they are afraid to do--and swimming was all three for him.  This bolstered his confidence and I felt I had better strike while the iron was hot and get him into a piano lesson, as Aaron and I had been talking about the need for that, since we feel being musically literate is important in gaining skills overlapping in other areas of life.  Following my musician husband's lead, agreeing with him that piano is a really good foundational instrument, and that when Andres is 10 years old he can choose his own instrument.  We're so blessed to be able to have private lessons from a veteran teacher who not only had two boys herself (hence, she gets the creature of a boy), but she's also the mother of our dear friends from church, the Votrobecks.  She's been around Andres since he was tiny.  After two weeks of piano, I've seen him really focus and yes, although he can get a little distracted or squirrly, he practices well, and seems to enjoy playing.  When we practice on the old upright in the garage before bathtime, he'll point to the accompaniment at the bottom and say "you play that part when I play my part, Mom."  Poor kid.  I never learned how to play piano, only tenor sax in high school jazz band, and can't play that lovely accompaniment to duet with him.  Perhaps when Aaron's not doing homework or at class, he can duet with him.  But he feels really proud of his little Tick Tock song that he's working on, and I am learning with him.  I've also signed him up for a theater camp this summer, and an animated movie production class in Portland because this IS Andres, after all.  Speilberg, remember?  He's hankering for a taikwondo class, but seriously, I'm feeling like, no thanks, we're good right now.  Plus those martial arts classes like to meet twice a week, and that's too much for us at this stage.  Maybe next year.  We'll see.

I feel like we've arrived at this busy season of parenting, and life in other areas--like professional areas- is still adolescent.  I'm a failed middle school teacher unemployed, and Aaron's a staff accountant/college kid.  Yeah, it feels like that.  College.  We rent, we're constantly broke, our furniture is the same stuff we had in the dorms, and we cram for finals.  College, but with kids in the mix to keep us mildly insane on our toes.

On the side I've written a screenplay, and have started making friends and connections deep in the writing community in Portland.  I find that I really have a gift of storytelling, and others have been so encouraging, most loudly, my dear husband.  But my script's turning the heads from folks within the movie industry has been exhilarating  albeit a bit scary, and in classic Andria form, I have backed way down from writing just as it was getting hot.  The writing world can be dark, and Hollywood requires a sacrifice (of time, character, morals, etc. ...pick your poison).   I'm not wholly sure I'm ready for that, whatever it may be, but I know when I feel it's right I'll return to it.

Now I've also been dabbling in graphic design, having been asked to create a logo for a new 5k race our church is organizing to support our missions funds.  THAT has been a huge gift, a really wonderful experience in which I've learned a ton.  And Aaron encouraged me to save my paychecks from work to  purchase a graphic artist tablet...something that I've been lusting after for at least four years.  The caveat is that this will become a tool for me to build my ESTY shop, and open for business in August, fingers crossed.  I got the tablet in the mail two days ago and was ready to get to work, but Jumping Josepher!  It's a lot to learn!  These graphic programs are expansive and powerful, and I've just only scraped the first crusty layer of frost on the ice burg.

Aaron is rocking the casba at PSU and has stellar grades.  He's been offered several opportunities to apply for fellowships, and those offers came on the cusp of hearing from UW that he was not accepted this year into the masters of musicology program up there.  Honestly, it's a blessing.  It would have been so confusing.  He's nearly done with his masters here, and uproot midway like this would have meant all his classes would have to be retaken up in Seattle, and more loans.  So, Plan B: finish the MSM at PSU, then apply for the PhD at both UW and UO.  What that man juggles, between working full time, family full time, and grad school part time, is an amazing feat.  He handles it all with such grace and discipline, inspiring for me to witness, and I'm unspeakably proud of him.

That's been our last five weeks or so, and I'm just now, sick with a cold and all, finally coming to the surface.

Pep Talk

It's been a brutal, brutal week.  I really needed this pep talk from Kid President.  Maybe you do too.  Watch and feel inspired, refreshed, and ready to be awesome today.

Words

Today, just now when I opened the boys' door at 6:45 to greet them for the day, Raph came to me and wrapped his arms around my neck.  His language has been much delayed, having about 30 words at age three, far from textbook.  But I haven't worried about it, being a language acquisition scholar, I knew it would unfold when Raph's synapsis were ready.   And now it's happened, the language mechanism in his brain has flickered on, and his vocabulary has suddenly exploded.  Words he's never practiced, or ever muttered, are daily being added to his list.

But this dim morning in the dawnlight, as his small arms linked around my neck, I nearly wept when I heard his warm, heavy morning voice whisper in my ear:  "I wuv you, Mommy."

Eavesdropping

"A long time ago," you start.

I hear you, dearest, as I'm at the stove stirring the veggies in the pan, chopping broccoli, washing dishes.  Your voice comes to me through the soft Reggae music, and I can tell by the silence in the other room that you have captivated them, you have their undivided attention.  From my place as the kitchen counter, I imagine them leaning into your storyteller voice, their brown eyes round, mouths slightly open, pinned to every word.

"And if she looked at someone they would turn to stone."  I pause and tilt my head to hear you, too.  You're storytelling is only missing a camp fire, and flickering shadows.  Do you know how powerful your gift for storytelling is?

"But then, this one guy name Perseus, he loved Andromeda, who was supposed to sacrificed to a sea monster, and he decided he would rescue her..."

I wonder if you notice, at this part of your tale to our children, that it's in some ways our story.  Was my life to be a pointless sacrifice before you rescued me along your hero's journey?  It's our love story embedded in your voice, as our boys lean into you as I always have.

You are a remarkable man, dearest.  Our sons are profoundly blessed by you, and we all gather around you, listening, reveling, in the wonder you are.

Inspiring

This 13 year old boy's testimony on TEDx moved me to wonder:  what am I doing for my children's education?  Preparing them for a career, or preparing them for life?  I have a lot to learn, and a lot to let go.

Accomplishing Dreams

Indulging a moment of pride for one of my former students, and now, friend.  Minseon came from Korea an 8th grader in my ESL class years ago, and I tutored English for years privately at her home throughout her high school years.  Here is a link to an article on her featured in the Columbian in 2010, a piece I read over and over, most lovingly.  Now, she's well on her way at Whitman.  Hear her incredible talent and hard work as the flute solist at 19:27.  Congrats, dear friend.  The sweat and strain were worth it.

Little Cars

Our annual Branding, 1989.  Fifteen cowboys rounded up 250 head of Grandpa's free-range cattle, vaccinated, castrated, de-horned,  and branded them with his J-Lazy H hot iron.  Here my dad in the maroon sweatshirt runs the shoot, and Grandpa, putting away his can of chaw, looks towards the camera through his dark sunglasses.  

Long ago, two young kids had three babies during the greatest economic depression our country has ever known.  One of those kids, the middle boy, was Jearl, my grandfather.  The family moved to Washington as migrant workers in the thirties, and eventually settled on a twenty acre chunk of land in Granger, and farmed. 

Grandpa was a hard working farm kid, who fell pray to several accidents that brushed him up close to death.  He had been plowing a field when the tractor on an incline fell over on top of him.  He had been working with a horse when it spooked and kicked his mouth and nose in, leaving a horrible scar reminiscent of a hairlip.  Grandpa wasn't interested in school, but I know he took piano lessons at one point.  He was more interested in girls, parties, and making money.  He had a mysteriously dark complexion, one we know now stems from a Jewish heritage, but at the time his deep brown eyes and curly black hair turned the girls' heads. One such head turned at a dance one night, as Grandpa with his extraordinary two-step skills made a pretty young girl named Luster swoon.  They were soon married and had three babies of their own, the oldest, my father. 

But the story is not a happy one.  Grandpa was a hard man in desperate times.  He was raised to be tough and strong, and became jagged and abrasive.   Unlike Grandpa Jose who was embedded in a thriving Mexican culture and Catholic community, Grandpa Jearl was a loner, pushing away would-be friends, embarrassing to his family in most social situations, drunk, lewd, dangerous, careless.  

I grew up with him being quiet and scowling.  I'd hear him and his cowboy friends exchange jokes that didn't make sense to me, but I assumed (rightly) not to repeat them at school.   I thought he was rock solid.  Unbreakable.  Unfeeling.  Until I was sixteen when my grandma was slowly dying of cancer.  I saw him kneel beside her, the band of his Stetson hat imprinted in his hair, and softly wash the drool from her mouth.  And then he left the room angrily wiping at his eyes.  

Years later he quit drinking, and his first great grandchild was born, our Andres.  Although grandpa has been unapologetically racist, even around  my husband, he drove three hours the day when Andres was born, just to meet him.  He held Andres more, caressed him more, than he had ever done any of us.  I wondered who this man was.  He was still quiet, but the scowl had vanished.  He had softened.  And warmed.  

Tenderly, so carefully, adjusting Andres' cap the day after his birth.

He sat admiring him.   Long moments passed in silence, a reverie.  

Andres' first Christmas.  Grandpa gave him all sorts of toys, little cars and this Eyore.  

Grandpa gave Andres his first tractor ride at one. 

Grandpa came down for birthdays or Easter, or no reason at all.  He started to call me out of the blue to see how Andres was doing.  Every couple of weeks, he'd check on him.   Grandpa had not even talked to me more than five times in my entire life was now calling.  

"How's that boy doing?" he'd ask.  His voice was still gruff.  But it was the message that melted my heart.

After Raph was born, the phone calls grew more numerous.  Dad would bring him down to us as we were so locked down in our lives, our schedules, our stuff.  Grandpa would sit and watch them play, smiling at them.  Smiling!  And laughter would roll from his chest as the boys wrestled about on the floor, playing with the little cars that Grandpa was so careful to always have when he showed up for a visit.

Grandpa gently propping Raph up for a picture.

"How's them boys treating you?"  As I shared the stories of my children with Grandpa, about how mad I was about something or how they were driving me crazy, he'd just laugh.  Everything they did tickled him.  They overjoyed him.

When we found out he had cancer, it wasn't a surprise to us that he refused treatment.  Slowly he lost the things he's had around him all his life.  He sold off his horses.  He sold most his cattle, reserving twenty for beef.  He gave away his dogs, holding onto the last, a sweet Border Collie named Belle, as long as he could until even she had to go.  His energy to run a cattle farm was zapped.  And Dad did the best he could to make sure Grandpa was eating and sleeping, but Dad works full time, and runs the farm full time, and as Grandpa needed more intensive care, my Aunt Jodie, retired Air Force nurse, came from Spokane to stay after Grandpa had suffered several serious falls alone in the house.

Aunt Jodie brought him down to visit us on Saturday.  Shockingly, he was a shadow of the big, tough man I grew up with, a looming figure of a cowboy atop a partially-wild quarter horse surrounded by a gangle of border collies, his henchmen ready and eager to obey any command.  Saturday he was thin, brittle, shaking.  He leaned against a walker and needed three adults to help him move.  But he had brought cars for the boys.

"We had to stop at WalMart and get these little cars on the way down," Aunt Jodie said to me, watching as Grandpa carefully selected a car for each boy, then watched with a toothless smile as they feverishly ripped off the packaging and squealed with delight to have a new Hot Rod.  "It took all his energy to just get out of the car, but we had to get these cars."

I don't remember much of that visit, except the way he reached down to hug the boys goodbye.

"You listen to your mama, now, ye hear."

 I heard the farewell in his voice, in his message, and intercepted his meaning.  He meant it to be his parting words to them.

I'm not sure I'll ever know why he was so angry most of his life, or why his life was so hard.  He's softer now, but still amazingly tough. But I'm humbled at the dignity he demonstrates as he faces these days at the end.   He's showing me how, even as we draw up close to the last door, and place our fingers lightly on the knob, we are ever-growing, always-changing beings, right up to the final open.   And more importantly he's shown me how a redeeming love as big as the sun can nicely fit into a great-grandson's hand, driven around on the linoleum with great joy, crashing into shoes and dinosaurs with loud explosions, and laughed on from above.

My Pink Heart-Shaped Flag

Something happened when Raphael came along.  I became acutely aware that I was suddenly the only female in the house.  Now, I'm a farm kid, and have failed in most efforts at feminine charm, lack desired petite physique and soft-spoke attributes not withstanding, and was less of a princess as a child and more of a tomboy book worm.  And pink and lace and flowers and fashion, among other girly trappings, always seemed alluring, yet sadly unattainable, uncomfortable.  I was, and remain for the most part, big, loud, and brown.  But when Raph was born, something like a little blush rose budded within me.  As I looked at my husband and my sons, I was overcome with a fierce love and pride for my clan of men, and that little rose burst open.  For about ten days of the year, I embrace that rose, and let my pink, heart-shaped flag fly!

And I enjoy treating my little ones when I can, and for our family, creating little celebrations in the void of celebrations, making something special that isn't necessarily so by itself, gives me an opportunity to create special memories for them.  I do hope that when they are grown they have harbored and treasured these days as I have.  And maybe, even as they roll their eyes at my silly antics, they'll feel warmed by my love for them anyway.

Disclaimer:  Obscene use of hearts and pink and candy below.  Reader is warned, and I am hereby not responsible for any sugar comas, cavities, pink ODs, and/or {heart} attacks.  

So it started out with an evite to Aaron's sister Cris, aka Tia Kissie as the boys call her.  The evite was from Andres and Raphael, requesting the pleasure of her company on Saturday night, the 9th of February to a Love Party.  To which she promptly replied "yes!"  Then we had a lot of work to do, and not much money to do it with.  Enter stage right:  Pinterest and Dollar Store.

I've made chocolate heart-shaped sugar cookies with light pink frosting for three years and it wouldn't be Valentine's Day without them.  The boys and I mixed up the dough, and wrapped it to chill in the fridge overnight, and the next day when Andres was at school, Raph and I worked the frosting.

He's getting so good in the kitchen, such a wonderful helper, my Raph.  Notice his new hairdo?  He initiated that at the end of January while I was sick with the Rota Virus, begging Aaron to euthanize me, little Mr. Man helped himself to the hair sheers in our bathroom and butchered his bangs and sides.  He looked like a burn victim, and although I was so thankful that he didn't lose an eye or snip his ear, we all lamented his Little Lord Fauntleroy curls.  We'd ask him "Raph, were did your hair go?"  He'd shrug and say "all gone," then we'd pretend to cry about it.  He'd rush to us, throw his arms around us in a comforting way, smiling and laughing because clearly we were the only ones grieving his beautiful, trademark fro.  Such a bummer.  I digress.

We are a playdough house, and by that I mean we love us some playdough around these parts.  The Gingerbread Playdough we made at Christmas, completed with the gingerbread cookie cutters from the dollar store, not only smelled so fresh and wonderful it made your mouth water, but had an amazing texture that enchanted the boys for literally hours at the table.  So we set about making Valentine's Day playdough, a creamy chocolate playdough and sweet strawberry playdough duet, which smelled absolutely like a dessert, and made some more good use of the heart cookie cutters.  Thankfully they know not to eat the stuff, no matter how yummy it smells.  Seriously, how many more years of this playdough thing do I have before (God help me) babes and cars and social media take over their free time?  Not many.  The years are flying by, so I try to keep it fresh and creative, and perhaps cultivate a couple of future Michaelangelos in the process.

Yes, even I love playdough.  Honestly, it's soothing and stress-relieving, and it's something I love doing with the boys.

Raph loved making little choco marshmallows that he called "hot cocoa," since that's where they go, and Andres made Cupid arrows.

With those little hands occupied, I was able to create some more decorations to our meager Valentine's Day collection.  Being VERY aware of our financial constraints, I limited the decorations to using whatever I had laying around, and allowed a couple bucks splurge at the Dollar Store for fake roses and a ball to glue them onto for my topiary in my Gramma's milk-glass vase.  I made a garland when I was pregnant with Raph and this year wanted to add some Cupid's arrows.  They were free since I had all the materials, and I think they turned out pretty cute, spinning over the table, pointing at random victims of love.

After the decorations were in place, I set about getting the menu right, and if it couldn't be pink, red, heart-shaped or strawberries, then it wasn't on the list.  Last year I had an amazing Borsch, one of our family favorites, so perfectly fuscha and absolutely delicious, but tragically staining (beet roots are healthy for you and used as a clothing dye, little did I know at the time) and found out when Andres sprayed his bowl over the table on accident.  That was NOT going to be on the menu this year!  The year before last I made a heart shaped meat loaf (my first Love Day Party when Raphael was tiny) and now that we're pretty meat free in this house, and Tia Kissie is a complete vegetarian, I needed to find something without meat, but still met all my Mandatory Love Day Menu Requirements.  I found the heart shaped ravioli idea on Pinterest that fit the bill, and filled them with my own cheesy spinach and artichoke mixture.

The day of the party, Andres helped me create a welcoming Love Party sidewalk art display for Tia when she came a'knocking.  He asked me to draw the heart shapes so he could color them in.  He did a good job and was quite proud and eager for Tia to come.  I insisted his hearts were very good, but he felt more comfortable just coloring rather than drawing them out.  Actually, his hand-drawn hearts are quite dear.

My sweet guy.  

After lunch we did a family craft to display on the patio doors, and then when Raph went down for a nap, Aaron and Andres helped set the dessert and dining tables.  Aaron was finally able to light the candles, and we waited for Tia to show up.

Getting ready...

I thought it would be sweet (no pun intended) to use edible paint made of powdered sugar, water, and food coloring to mark a place setting at the table right onto the plates.   

The boys loved the Cupid Arrows from jelly candies and pretzels. 

Once it was all set out, and we were all twitching to dig into those cupcakes and strawberries covered in white choco, Tia showed up, and the party could start!

First thing first, as soon as she walked in the door, Andres had to get Tia up to date on the latest developments in his "epic."  

For the wee ones, sparkling cider.  For the big kids, spumante bubbles with strawberry nectar.  It made such a pretty blush pink color and was misleadingly sweet.    

Time to wash up for dinner!  I adore this shot, two handsome guys.

Love Party 2013 Dinner Menu: 

(Heart-Shaped) Spinach and Artichoke Ravioli in a Vodka sauce

Strawberry Almond Spinach Salad

(Heart-Shaped) Sour Cream Biscuits
Cherry Almond Cupcakes
Chocolate Sugar Cookies
Chocolate Strawberries
Various Heart Candy Galore

After dinner there was a lot of playing around in the mirror with the mustache straws and "Love Goggles." 

The straws never lasted to the milkshakes I had planned, but they proved to be more exciting than just drinking straws!

Then the night slowly wrapped up, each of us quite full from dinner, which turned out delicious, and the cupcakes and cookies and candy all very much nibbled.  We sent Tia home with a lot of treats and feel so glad we were able to shower her with love, as she deserves, and to able to give my men a special night showing them my (glittering, heart-shaped, pink and red) love for them all.

When Valentine's Day rolled around, we had Red Velvet Milkshakes that were to die for, topped with Redi-Whip, of course.  I can't remember the last time I bought that and think it was the first time they've ever had it, because it was a like food item they had just discovered.

Andres LOVED the Redi-Whip.

Wild Kratts on PBS after rest time and Red Velvet "shake-shakes" as Raphael calls them. 

Andres had loot from his VDay in school to share with Raph, and I got them tiny chocolate boxes with Super Hero juice drinks.   Andres was so generous to share with Raph.

I had to work in the nursery at church on Valentines night, but before I ran out the door with an apple for dinner, I had to do one more special thing for my special guys on Valentine's Day.

Yes.  I did.   And I think they loved it.