Snow Days and Sinus Infections

This winter has been a strange one, to say the least.  Aaron, content in his new job here in town (rather than across the river), often comes home for lunch, which is always a treat.  But then December and January were unusually icy and we even had snow on the ground for a week.  A whole week!  I think in all, Aaron had 3 snow days called in by his office.  We're so grateful that it's a government job, and that he's salary, so he wasn't risking his life to go to work so he could make hours as he did for 10 years before.  I, on the other hand, have pretty much been sick since October, fighting one cold after another.  All that down time has been hard with school, and now teaching CC on Thursdays, being sick at all is more a nuisance than anything.  It seems that being sick for two weeks brings everything to a screeching halt and then I have to hustle to get caught up, which incidentally runs down my already lame immune system, causing me to get sick again.  So much of this winter, in short, has been spent inside, sick or iced in.  All this time inside is starting to get hard, notwithstanding the ample time together as a family and the fun play in the snow.

The boys.  The snow.  Wow.  I'll never get over it, their red cheeks and running amok, tracking up the snow and throwing snowballs at each other.  It's always a magical thing to behold when it snows, and something comes over all of us, that blanket of white on everything.  Suddenly we're all children in a snowfall.  This year they made the cutest snowman on the picnic table with the first snow, more of a powdering or dusting.

But now that we're in February, and things are slowly teetering towards returning to a semblance of normal once again, spring is around the bend.  This weekend is our family Valentine's Day.  In the past, I've gone over board on making heart shaped calzones, cookies, cupcakes, or heart shaped meat loaf with pink mashed potatoes, and everything from the straws to the red velvet milkshakes and candy dish full of pink and red kisses, or sparkling cider with maraschino cherries...pulled all of the stops, I tell you.  And this year, as I've been sick this week and am just now coming out of it, I'm making a chocolate bundt cake with steeped golden raisins and cranberries, grated ginger, and a decadent chocolate ganache, and perhaps I'll pour some sparkling juice to sip on as well.  We'll see.  But nonetheless, winter is wrapping up, and as always, I look forward to a better one next year.

Flying Together

Yesterday.
I was laid out, feeling pretty low, and forced the boys to play outside.  It was a beautiful autumn day, crisp and clear, our little yard full of golden, crunchy leaves.  Andrès came in early and was playing at the schoolroom table, and Raphael stayed outside, playing with his imaginary friends.  He poked his head in several times, sharing little bits of his world with me as I sat unmoving and aching in my chair.

I had a migraine that I had been fighting for a couple days, and it was painful to talk, let alone blink.

"Momma," he said on one occasion, "do you see all the leaves?  There are so many leaves, leaves all over the ground."

"I did, they're so beautiful, aren't they?"  It was hard to talk.  Painful to keep my eyes open.  I had a small, razor sharp migraine that I had been fighting all day, and just blinking was enough.  Turning my head required effort.

Another time:

"Momma, I think there's a eagle in the tree.  Do you hear it?"

He left the sliding door open ajar for me to hear, and sure enough there came a shrill cry from a nearby branch just outside.  I couldn't look, but I doubted it was an eagle.

"It's probably a hawk," I muttered.  I hated feeling so helpless.  I wished I could leap up and play with him in the leaves and sunshine and cool, October breeze.  

"I wish I was bird, Momma," he said, looking up into the tree outside with his big brown eyes full of wonder and wishful fantasy.  "And I wish you were a bird, too, then we could fly together."

"Yes, sweetheart," I replied.  "We would fly together."

And just like that, the wishes of my 6 year old son lifted me out of my body and suddenly he and I rose on a breeze, feathered and light in the golden October sunshine, riding through clouds.  

Morgan Mourning

I had wanted a dog.  A big dog.  The kind that pull sleds over ice and snow in Alaskan wildernesses.  I wanted a husky that could sub as a couch, something monstrous and soft and loving. But we were only in our second year of marriage and living in married student housing in college, and pets were definitely not allowed.  Especially not the vision of plush canine wonder I was fantasizing about.  As it drew closer to Valentine's Day, I thought what harm could it be if we smuggled in a kitten?  A small one that we could hide?  So with that wicked, rebellious plan, I decided to visit the local pound, and rescue a kitten.  Again, what harm could come of it?

The pound in this particular red-neck college town was pretty bleak, it turned out.  Stealthily side-stepping the dog wing of the pound, I found myself in a small room with a wall of cages.  Most, thank goodness, were empty.  But there was a cage with six mewling kittens, black and white, and adorable, as kittens inevitably are.  Then there was a cage with a smallish, greasy gray cat that smelled decidedly of urine, and finally a cage with a mildly obese orange tabby that had a large "adopted" sign hand-scratched on a piece of paper attached to his cage door.  As I wandered back towards the coveted cage full of kittens, the greasy gray reached its front leg at me, swiping at my arm as if to get my attention.  It worked.  I paused in front of its cage, trying to ignore the smell, while it purred and rubbed the bars of its cage with its head and body enticingly as though saying "please pet me."  I pushed my fingertips in where this pathetic animal maneuvered to rub itself against them, a vain and desperate effort at getting affection from me.  I glanced at the kittens, tumbling and playing, tugging on ears and chasing tails, all their cottonball glory, and then back to this thing that was probably sick and full of worms,  but unmistakingly full of something else.  Some kind of radiant warmth.  And without permission, that creature looked me in the eyes and without any words at all said,  "I was wondering when you would show up."

Well.  I couldn't take this thing home.  It wasn't the short-hair kitten that my husband had reluctantly agreed to.  I walked to the desk where the lady in the pine green uniform sat scratching in paperwork.
"How long do you keep animals before they're destroyed?"

"We euthanize after 5 days from being brought in."  She didn't look up.

"How long have the kittens been here?"

"They were brought in yesterday.  They'll go fast.  Kittens always do."

"What about that gray one?  How long has it been in here?"  Finally she looked up and sighed, as if I was asking her to something extraneous.

"I dunno.  Three, maybe four days."

A kind of crunch happened in my heart.  If it was on day four, then tomorrow was its last chance to get a home, and with a cage full of kittens next door, who would give that scrawny, smelly friendly one a second look?

I went home empty handed that afternoon, and my husband shrugged.

"It's your choice," he said.  "Get the cat you want.  As long as it's not a long-hair.  And it won't sleep in our bed."

That next morning, the sunlight poured into the bedroom, a bright and chilly day at the end of February.  Morgan.  The German word for morning danced in my mind, and in the warm sunshine spilling over my blankets.  I knew the cat I was meant to get.

The catch was the pound required renters had to provide permission from their landlord to adopt, and since ours most certainly would say no, we called on a friend whose landlords in fact allowed cats, and they feined to adopt in our place.  When I returned my friend to point the cat out and pay for it, the animal had dramatically changed.  It was in the back of the cage, limp and disconnected.  The same cat, but entirely different.  It had given up.  When it saw me, it laid there watching me unblinking, and I felt a ping of regret.  I felt I had lost it's love and affection overnight.

The pound didn't let me carry it home.  They sent it to the local vet office and had it fixed, which is where I picked it up a day later, still doped up and dizzy from the procedure.  It turned out to be a female, and Morgan seemed to be the perfect name for her.

I had bought the necessary items for being a cat owner, and feeling very pleased to bring it home to a full dish of water and food, and a shiny new litter box, I set out to immediately give her a good wash, as she was even greasier and smellier than I remembered.  A bath was priority.

Without warning, and feeling very much as though I had gotten away with my cat-smuggling, scheming crime, something pushed me into the wall.  It seemed that the wall was wobbling, and it felt, after it had passed, that something huge had hit our complex.  Forgetting my new cat, I ran outside to tell what I imagined would be a campus truck driver backing into the corner of our house that he was in big trouble, and wondering what kind of damage I would see because of the impact when I got there.  But there was no one there.  No damage to the side of the house.  Nothing.  But as I looked, the house actually swayed one way, then the other, before slowly settling and stilling.  Later I found out it was called the Rattle in Seattle, a 6.8 earthquake that we felt all the way in central Washington, but at the time, I was confused, and returned to find I had left my front door open and in the entry way was the greasy cat, sitting in the sunshine like her namesake, looking at me as if to say "you saved me from the pound only to let me die in an earthquake?"  I looked at her apologetically.  The door was open and she hadn't even crossed the threshold.  She didn't bolt for freedom.  For the second time in so many days, she had waited for me to come back.  

I filled about 3 inches of warm water in the tub and carefully put her in.  She looked at me with wide eyes as I poured water over, but purred loudly and let me lather her up, as if she knew it was for her own good.  Smelling fresh and sweet, I wrapped her in a blue towel and snuggled with her on the sofa, her motor roaring against my chest like my grandma's gas stove.  I loved that old gas stove.  It was God-awful to look at, but it worked powerfully to warm up that drafty old shack, and had a hum that lulled me to sleep like magic.  Morgan's purr, it turned out, was like that old gas stove, and with her spooned in the crook of my arm, we drifted off to sleep.

We woke up when my husband came back from school, eager to share his account of the rattle that interrupted his music class that morning, and ready to meet the cat that patted my shoulder in the pound.

Proudly, I unwrapped her, now warm and dry, and purring as ever, and to my horror, she had nearly tripled in size.  How could I have missed her long, long hair when I washed it, I'll never know, but with the grease gone it was over four inches long and as thick and dense as wool.  She even had long hair growing between her toes and ears.  It was a positive shock, and my husband was not too keen on that, even though I adamantly told him it was not a long-hair when I picked it out.  But she stepped across my lap and onto his, pushed her head into his hand and, as she had done with me the first time in the pound, demand affection from him.

"She's pretty friendly," my husband admitted after getting over the long hair mishap.  "But she can't sleep in our bed," he reminded me.  I nodded.  Of course, I thought.  Animals in bed with us?  Yuck.  And this cat with all it's hair was sure to be bad news.  She followed us everywhere, to the kitchen, to the bathroom, to the office, she just needed to be with us.  That night, as we crawled in bed, she jumped up on our crisp white comforter from our wedding register, and promptly nestled between us, her low hum of a purr rolling all along, and after circling several times, she flopped down between us and began to make biscuits on my husband's shoulder.   He pet her and she responded with a kiss on her knuckles.  I gave him a one-shouldered shrug, and he sighed.

"Just for tonight.  After this she needs to learn to sleep on the floor."

She slept with us for the ten years after that night, nestled between us.  I would sing a silly chant as I carried her to bed with me, and she would spoon against me once we were snuggled under the covers, her gas oven purr lulling me to sleep like no other lullaby.

She slipped away June 1, 2001 on the floor of our living room in front of the doors with Andres and I flanking her, stroking her and whispering loving words to her.  She wasn't just a cat.  She was a soul in our family and there will never be another like her.

We cremated her and planted a spider plant for her in memory of her.  I wrote more on her story at the blog "The Crooked Treehouse," and how we supported our grief from the loss of her.  It's been four months and we're still missing her.  We'll always miss her.  There will always be a Morgan shaped hole in our family, in our hearts.

Morgan wasn't just a cat.  She was family.  She was love and tender comfort, a friend and grandma, a companion who knew before we did that we were meant to spend her life out together.

Sleep well, old girl.  We will always love you.

Standing with Capsicum in Socks in the Driveway

Today has been reflective, as it goes when the boys are at their school.  I did some writing this morning when I got home from taking Aaron to work and some errands, and then after lunch went grocery shopping.  Alone.  It's different without my little guys trying to help, or knocking stuff off shelves, or picking on each other, or asking for all kinds of treats.  It's just me and my squeaky-wheeled shopping cart, and I can mosey and read labels, contemplate a new variety of tea, flip through a magazine in the checkout isle, and all of it without the constant hum of activity my little boys produce when they're with me.  I relish it and miss them simultaneously.  I walk through the baby isle just to remember it wasn't so long ago that I practically owned stock in the baby isle.  Now diapers are long gone, bottles, burp cloths, the beautiful bonding of nursing...all those things that seemed so hard--AND WERE--but so precious, as well.

After groceries I picked them up from school and on the way home heard all about the Pokèmon cards that Brian had given Andres, and how Andrew and Daniel took Raph's Joker toy in class today, and Andrès saw the whole thing, expanding on his side of the story.

"So what's the plan today when we get home?"

"Well," Andrès started in an authoritative voice, "I'm going to do dishes then clean the Cannonball's water, then go play at Hawthorn's house."

"Yeah," said Raph from the very back seat of the minivan, ever a loyal lieutenant to Andrès.

They have a little friend from school, Hawthorne, who has moved in next door, and he spent a good deal of time at our house this summer, although I only allowed Wednesday for friends to come over.  I sometimes had 7 kids here running amok during July and August and I couldn't have handled that everyday, so I limited it to one day a week.  It worked out well.  But now Hawthorne has all the video games and we have none, so he invites the boys to go over, and they do for an hour or so.  Like all signs of maturity on their part, I welcome it and grieve it, celebrate it and lament it, at the same time.

As I unpacked and stealthily hid the special candy that will be tucked in stockings by Santa, Raphael had TP duty (opening and delivering rolls to fill all three bathroom's TP baskets), and Andrès did his chores as promised.  When Cannonball was back happily in his bowl, they rushed to get their shoes on.  I realized that I must have had them on my mind because I got them a new caffeine free tea called Sugar Cookie Sleigh Ride to have with their snacks in the afternoon, a box of hot cocoa with a fresh bag of mini marshmallows, and a case of ginger beer to go with our pizza dinner on Friday.

"How long can we stay?"  Andrès asked in a rush past me.

I did some math in my head because I wanted to hit the bookstore and get a book for school tomorrow, calculated driving time there and shopping time, and allow driving time to get Papa from work.

Before I could answer Raph was already out the door at the mailbox, spinning around in the cold gray day with the sweet look of joy on his face.

"Raph," I called to him from the house, rushing after him with produce in my hands, "Wait for your brother!"

Andrès burst out the door onto the lawn, the wind blowing his long hair in his face, turned to me.

"When do you want us back?"  He called.

"Four fifteen, not a minute later!"

"Okay Mom!  I love you!"  And he blew me a little kiss.

"Love you Momma!" Raph called out over his shoulder, hand in hand they ran.

"I love you, too!"  I called back to them.

Then they were gone, vanished around the tall bushes that separate our property from Hawthorne's.  I could see flashes of them through the branches, running to ring the doorbell, and watched until I couldn't see or hear their voices any longer.  Then it was just me and the green bell peppers in my hands, and my feet cold on the cement.

Missed Time

It's been a long time since I've sat down to chronicle the life and times of our young family.  I didn't mean to drop out like that, but it's been a whirlwind since Aaron graduated, and we've all been trying to find our new balance.

Last year Andrès was in 2nd grade in home school with Evergreen Flex Academy, Cub Scouts, soccer, and choir at church.  Raph was in preschool in Ms. Audrey's class and his nemesis, Braxton, who according to Raph, was a real trouble maker, and he always updated us on what sorts of naughty things Braxton did at school.  Both of our boys were in a Spanish class on Saturdays in Portland, right next to a really cool up-cycled art supply store named SCRAP that had yarn-bombed trees in the front and jelly-fish hanging from the ceiling inside made of bottle caps and rummaged plastic parts.  And from February to May, both boys were in a Christian-based home school co-op on Fridays.  It was--needless to say--a very busy year.

Raph turned five (!!!) this spring, and since he's in love with a pair of cowboy boots, we decided to have a big cowboy party.   He hadn't had a big party since his 3rd, and this one, the big 5, needed to be memorable.  Everyone came and we were so glad for it!  He's starting kinder this year, but I intend to have him in kinder next year too, as he's so young.  I'd rather have him graduate a young 19 year old than a young 18 year old!  He's having a blast and loves Ms. Poston.  At home we do calendar work, practice writing, counting, sounding out letters, and have just starting reading.  He's not yet there, but I'm sure next year he'll be rocking!  I'm amazed at how good his handwriting has gotten, and how well he knows the sounds of the letters, and even learning to count up into the teens and twenties on his own.

Andrès turned nine this summer (again-!!!!) and had a small celebration for his birthday with his friend Nat and an apple pie rather than cake and ice cream.  Simple and small.  It was exactly what he wanted, but I hope that we can do something really sweet and special for his 10th next year.  He's started 3rd grade with a new teacher this year, Mr. Peterson, who seems to be a good fit, so far.  Andres is doing great in math!  I've been so worried for the past three years, because 1st grade he hated it, 2nd grade wasn't much better, and this year we both had found that he gets it and might even like it a little.  He's done a great job catching onto multiplication, which I was totally scared of teaching, but he's caught on quite fast.  He's learning Latin, and doing a superb job, and still loves history and all things Roman.  We've started doing geography and blob mapping in the classical manner, as well as started cursive handwriting.

I can't help but feel distracted by the pressures of the day, mostly financial, and try so hard to focus on my little boys.  They're just growing so fast, and I'm dizzy at the speed at which time flies.  Honestly, living as we do as homeschoolers on one income with one car has been a massive, unspeakable financial sacrifice.  And the stress of making ends meets has not only burdened us, but crippled us at times.  I wish I could ingore it, and just focus on my little guys, but it impacts them and what we're able to give them.

So far this year, we've held back on signing them up for any extra curricular activities, other than Andrès in choir and K2 at church.  This is first year in K2, and he LOVES it.  Meanwhile, Raphael is in the nursery playing with Abram and Joshua and he LOVES that.  I've been wanting to get Raph into basketball and Andrès into flag football, but our money situation has been so dire that it's all been put on hold.  I struggle with the guilt of that, like maybe we've hindered their growth somehow because they're not in all these activities like American kids are these days.  But for our family, and for so many reasons, it's just not in our cards.  And not once, for the record, have they ever asked to be in a sport, so it's not that they are pining for it, but I feel it's my job to expose them to skill-building opportunities, and as a homeschooler, I feel extra pressure to "socialize" them, too.

Aaron's searching for a better job, and has been since the summer.  He's looking for something in the non-profit sector, something that not only gives him a raise which he needs and deserves, but something that he can believe is doing good work in the world.  I pray that he lands that new job soon, for his sake and our family.

I look at my boys and marvel at them.  They're smart, handsome, talented, and above all, the sweetest, most tender-hearted little men I've ever met.  I'm so honored to be their mother, and so sad that I can't be the mother I wish I was for them.  And I see my husband, who still makes me laugh and still shows me an unconditional love so profound that breaks my heart.  I don't deserve this sweet, sweet life.  But I am so grateful for it and so humbled by it.

Mastered

This spring was an inferno of stress and distress in nearly every countable way.  It all culminated with Aaron's graduation in the middle of June, and that began our slow but eventual recovery into the world of "normal," as close as our family can ever be to "normal" anyway.

Words simply fail me.  There's no English equivalent to express how proud I felt of Aaron when I saw him in his full cap and gown, his honors ropes, his Greek medal, his dedication yoke...no words.  Not only have I watched this man from the beginning of his academic journey, but I've walked it with him.  From that first quarter we lived in married student housing when he asked me to help him read the notes on a sheet of music for his first year theory class, to now transcribing 500 year old vihuela tablature and rewriting it in contemporary standard music notation for a chorus.  The man demonstrated unspeakable strength, supernatural strength and endurance, as he not only supported this family single-handed for the past three years of grad school, but also worked full time as well--and graduated in his masters program with a 3.9 GPA.

I'm glad our boys get to witness their father's hard work and dedication to pursuing his dream, and I've been blessed to see the man become someone closer to the person God has called him to be.

Four Years

I'm truly baffled by the span of time between then and now.

 How can four years seem simultaneously brief and epic?  So much has changed since you came into our lives, yet I can't imagine our lives without you being part of this family's cataclysmic evolution.  Like a stained glass window with glowing shards of brilliant colors welded together with lead that can only truly show the art when the sun is out--you are that sunshine to me, to this family.  There's a holiness in you, a low, glowing, warming holiness that humbles me.

Since the moment I held you, your soft chocolate curls under my chin, I felt fully content.  You have gentle spirit, like your Papa's, and your grace and pensive nature are lovely to behold.

sweetness

the siren's call

because who needs pants in the rain?

so often there's a halo of light on him... or emanating from within him

river walk

here's my pensive boy

I miss these curls.

My wonderful wild, magical son.

Halo on the 4th of July

Pooltime!  And again, a halo.

One of my favorite images of Raphael.  This when he was about two, and so perfectly reflects his dear and precious soul.

Riding his little trike at three.

This is why I love boys, and he epitomizes BOY.  Wild, free spirited, glowing, and strong!

Making some serious art.  Raphael has an artist core, musically, visually, he sees things lost on most of us.

Winter 2013, he loves the snow, what a daring boy, my Raph.

Giving his homies, Leo, Mikey, Don and Raph (the other one) a shout out.

"I gotta draw, Mom.  I just need to draw."  What he said upon waking up one morning.

Seriously, the angels are jealous of this boy's sweet heart.

You're not super until you're 12th Man Super!

I love this shot of him crooning "Pizza Angel" over the cinnamon while we made breakfast on the day of his 4th birthday.

Canvas is a precious commodity in our house, and on his birthday he got to paint.  He wanted a shark, which I lined in ink and he carefully painted.  He's gotten so good at painting, and he works so hard to be careful and even meticulous. 

Proud artist showing his upside down shark.  What a wonderful job for such a little man on his 4th birthday!  He has a gift, and we're wondering how he'll use it as he grows up.

My little man mocked up tough-looking for the camera.

Opening his gift from mom and dad on his birthday.

Sprinkles and bunting for a four year old boy.  He has the Heitzman sweet tooth!

His sweet face.  

I wish we had been able to have the awesome "Cars" birthday party that I had been planning.  I had created invites, and gotten RSVPs from friends and family.  But with Aaron's testing schedules and school schedules, it was not going to happen.  So for his big 5th birthday, I'm cooking up something special for my boy.

Raphael, there are so many ways you bless us each day with your grace, there are so many reasons why I'm so overjoyed that you're my boy and that you are in our lives, warming us with your sense of humor and your tenderest of hearts.  You have completed our family, your are the table's forth leg, and without you, sweetheart, the rest of us couldn't stand up!  We love you so, sweet boy.  God bless you, and may this year, your forth year, preschool and swimming lessons, new friends and new teachers, be a year filled with healthy, happiness, and sweet glowing childhood memories and joy.  

A Leader

This came today in my email box from Andres' teacher at FLEX.  There's no words for the comfort and joy it gives me to see him through her eyes when I'm not there to witness him in his raw spirit.

Andria,

I'm not sure if you know this but Andres is a favorite in our class and students fight over him.  He always leads free choice activities and generally has 4 or 5 kids reenacting Roman wars.  Its nice because he uses his powers for good and often tries to come up with fair ways to divide his time between his friends and always encourages everyone to play together.  You have a great leader on your hands!

Of Phoenicians and Bubbles

As I read from the history book, Andres nestled against me on the sofa.   He stared outside into the blistery snowdrifts scattering about, and the wind pummeling the window.  He was captured, completely still, listening as if there was a movie behind his eyes, which I'm sure there absolutely was, as if he blinked he would miss something.

"Have you ever used a straw to blow bubbles in milk?"  The text prompted me, which engaged him, jolting him out of his reverie.

"Yes!"

"Well that is what made the ancient Phoenicians the best at glass making.  They invented glass blowing, which they used a long metal pipe and dipped it into the sticky, melted glass, then they blow air from their lungs through the pipe into the glass, making a bubble at the end.  And no one else had done it before, and no one at the time was doing anything like that.   They were the best glass makers of their time."

Later at the end of our chapter, there were review questions, and one of the first ones seemed to be the most easy.

"What were the ancient Phoenicians the best at doing?"

Without skipping a beat, he blurted out, "Blowing bubbles in their milk!"

Naturally, we both cracked up, because of course we knew what he meant, but the visual of blowing milk bubbles was too strong of a schematic link, and it came to him without censor.

Later that night at the table, we were sharing our day with Papa over dinner, and Andres recounted the story.  At the line where he fumbled, he burst into a giggle that quickly escalated into a chuckle, then before we knew it, we each were laughing around him, even Raph who was just moved by Andres' laughter and couldn't fully appreciate the punch line.  It was so silly, the idea of these advanced ancient people blowing bubbles in their milk!  The more he thought about it, the more he laughed, and we followed suit.  It's the best kind of contagion, his laughter, and we were all blissfully infected.

It is hard, the home school thing.  It's work, and it's time, and it's a give-a-thon akin to nursing, or potty training or any other intense part of parenting, but can be, and slowly is becoming more fun.  I love it.

When I can remember not to take it all too seriously, when I can remember that being his teacher is my J.O.B., when I can remember that he's still oh so young, and I should be impressed that he not only knows how to say "polytheistic," but can describe the ancient Romans and Egyptians as being such, I am humbled, and fearsomely inspired by who he is.  Not who he will become one day, but as he is now, he is amazing.  He is a marvel.

When he laughs his trademark heart-moving laugh, and his dimples pierce his almond cheeks, and his deep, keen eyes are pressed into dark-lashed crescents, the symphony of him as a person moves my soul.

And it's my bet he's right.  If the Phoenicians were best at blowing glass, then there's a mighty good chance they were also the ancient world's best at blowing bubbles in their milk.

And the Academy Goes to...

Andres has been watching homemade Lego movies since last summer, and for Christmas all he wanted were the tools to make his own Lego movie, specifically Roman Lego Movie.  Well, I can imagine Santa, like us, had a very hard time finding those Roman Legos, and got him Knights and Castles Legos instead, which he plays with as if they're Romans.  When he saw his friend Samuel's cute Lego movies, he immediately had me email transcribe his email message to Samuel via Samuel's mom, Rachel, asking Samuel to teach him how to do his own movies.  So they spent a morning creating this movie at Samuel's house, and then we came home to put it all together!  He's so proud, and eager to make more!

My Raphael

The problem was this.  Raph didn't want to do school with us.  He's only three, after all, and although some research shows that early academics within certain social-economical demographics as soon as a kid has cut his first tooth does help with overall academic success later in life, I feel that for our family it's not necessary.  I wanted Raph to have a sweet childhood, and allow him to be little and play without choking him full of data.  That will come, surly, but now, right now, he's only three.  And I want to honor him by letting him have this golden time to be just a little guy, and discover his world on his terms.

He wanted to play with Andres, but couldn't when we were doing school.  School, three solid hours at least of focused and dedicated teaching, meant Raph was playing by himself or watching PBS.  I've usually been pretty persnickety about screen time, and letting him watch three hours of TV a day, even having the TV on for that long, drove me absolutely nuts.  Also, there seemed to be a massive inequity, while Andres got all my attention for that length of time, Raph was required to play by himself or indulge in TV.  So we changed our home school plan back to FLEX, allowing Andres all day on Wednesday to be with friends, and a day for Raph and I to connect and do some fun stuff together.

It's been a good change for all of us, although I won't use the curriculum FLEX gives us, and plan to purchase the curricula from CVA, because it's just that good.  Andres has become madly fascinated with ancient Rome and Greek cultures.

"Mom," he said one day, "I don't want to study Spanish anymore.  Can I study Latin?"

Sure thing there, seven year old son.  You want to study Latin, let's do it!  So I found him a wonderful curriculum at our local library, of all places.  What luck!  It's been fun for me, too, and to see him giddy to learn this new (ancient) language has been nothing short of wonderful for the both of us.

But the transition has been best for my relationship with Raph.  Wednesdays while Andres has been at a brick and mortar school,  we've been able to do things just he and I, and I feel that connective thread between us is viable again, less fragile.  We have so far created the little practice of going to the library, then going swimming at the gym.

Our Raph, as I've said before, is designed to be in water.  It's his favorite place.  He's taken baths close to two hours long, until the water is chilly, and his fingers have pruned, but it doesn't bother him in the least, with his selection of Batman toys and a random Hot Wheels, he's content as any fish.  It's a vision to behold, since he was less than one year old, when we took him to Seaside when he saw the ocean stretching to the horizon, he waddled towards it as fast as his newly used legs could carry him, an expression of determination and focus I hadn't seen in his eyes until then.  And he rushed into the lapping waves like a baby turtle, propelled to go there, driven by some innate command to run into the water and relish it.  

Now we go to the pool, his most favorite thing in the week, and we play in the water, and ride the river, and he rolls around as stealthily as an otter, or sea lion.  His need to be submersed in water hasn't lessened over time, in fact, it's grown more independent, and there are times that he pushes my supportive hand off him, and he doesn't struggle or flail in the water, he just sinks, his beautiful brown eyes wide under the surface and staring at me as he slowly descends to the floor of the pool, his curls billowing around his cherubic face, little bubbles escaping his open mouth smile, before finally reaching our for me again to be pulled to the surface where he sucks in a gulp of air.  You must breath air, my little fish.  I confess it's a little disturbing to see him like that under water and sinking with his eyes focused on me, and I always feel relief when he finally reaches for me, ready to surface.

His new thing that I've rather mandated he learn is to hold on to me as we count to three before sucking in a breath, holding our noses, and with him on back and his arms around my neck, we submerge, swimming a length of the pool before finally popping up at the other wall. He amazes me, and I wonder how God will use his passion for water, what purpose will it serve this little man, or the world?

Raph's favorite thing is helping me cook.  I remember when Andres was this age and the chair scraped from the table over the linoleum to the stove where he eagerly awaited instructions, and it eventually broke my heart when his interest to help faded.  Here comes my Raph now, when he sees me at the stove, rushes to a chair where he scrapes it across the floor to crawl up and stand by my side, eager and ready to cook.  Sure there are mishaps, such as yesterday when we were making cookies (our favorite thing to cook) and the Kitchen Aide was full of creamed eggs, butter, vanilla, and sugars, when we had just added two cups of flour, a couple teaspoons of baking soda and a cup of oats when he too eagerly flipped the power switch from 0 to 9 before I could stop him and, you can imagine, it looked as if it had snowed in our kitchen, and Raph and I were spooks looking askance at each other through powder-coated eyelashes.  But then there are those small magical moments when last week he and I had made vegan Peanut butter cookies together (vegan because we were out of milk, butter, and eggs, and I happen to have an awesome vegan cookie cookbook for just such moments--they were the best peanut butter cookies ever, btw), and my job was to roll the little balls of dough, and his job, with his long-pronged fork raised and ready, was to embellish the cookies, first this way, then the other way.  He felt so big and grown up, and after I showed him that we wanted the little boxes and lines on the top, he created his own adorable Peanut butter Cookie Calling Card, by gently pushing down one of the tiny boxes left by the fork indents.  One little peanut butter cookie dough box in each cookie, smashed.  He was so proud.  He calls them Cookiebutter Cookies.  And he still talks about that day, and our special moment together.

I'm trying to get better at capturing these moments with him, and so I rushed to our camera where the batteries were dead.   I'm left holding the image of his little pudgy index finger so carefully pressing a tiny piece of dough flat into the cookie as a treasure in my heart.

I've taken to babysitting on Fridays for my friend, Staci, and her sweetheart of a little boy comes out to play with the boys.  It's been a double win for us because we love having her little guy over, but also I get a little cash, which we so desperately need.

One week I was able to take that cash and with a coupon Raph and I went to the zoo, for the first time since he was 9 months old.  And it was spectacular.  He marveled at everything, especially the fish.

Our day at the zoo.  He loved the Arapaima (huge fish) display in the Amazon house.  These guys above are trout.
But still cool.

We had a blast, and he was so fun to play with.  Afterwards, we used some of that cash to actually go to Burgerville for our lunch--I KNOW!  A real restaurant, just he and I, and we had a little date.  We've never done that, and would never be able to afford it had it not been for that babysitting gig.  It was a momentous day for us both, and we loved it.

He's quite a joker, too our little Raph, and his sense of humor is so much like Aaron's.  But this week he's said two little things that I need to jot down to hold onto for years to come because I thought they're cute, and they cracked me up.

One evening I got him out of the tub and started to rub his wet curls with the towel, a thing he has always loathed, and he blurted out "Stop, Mom!"  I looked at him shivering cold and wet.

"Honey I need to dry your hair a bit."

With sudden authority and a touch of gravely tenor to his voice he replied, "Don't dry my hair, I'm BATMAN."

I thought it was a good effort at stopping me, and as I chuckled at him, pulling rank as it were, he shuffled away to his room, his Bat-Hair Bat-Dripping Wet.

Then the other day after lunch I sat at the table with the boys as they finished their salads.  I was annoyed, as it sometimes happens after eating roughage, and covered my mouth to discreatly remove the culprit.

"What's wrong with your mouth?" he asked with a mouth full of food.

"I have something in my teeth," I admitted.

He shrugged and shoveled another mouthful of salad in, then asked, "Is it a spider?"

I laughed out loud at that, and told him no, I didn't have a spider stuck in my teeth.  But he was concerned, and wanted to get to the bottom of it.

"A tarantula?"

"No, not a tarantula."

"A bug?"

Seriously, what does this kid think I have in my mouth?  Finally I told him it was just a bit of lettuce, but he wasn't convinced.  He just kept eating and looking at my teeth with skepticism.   He's a fierce arachnophobe, and for some reason he jumped to the worst case scenario, a spider stuck in my teeth!

It's rough at times, naturally, and Aaron and I are spread very, very thin in all things right now, it can be hard to really enjoy the tiny little miracles, the precious fleeting moments, but I pray that I delight in my boys as they're little for only a short while, and they are indeed from heaven, so rare and special, the sparkling stars of my life.

Thank You

When I opened the door Monday afternoon to get the mail, I nearly stepped into a huge bag of gently used, brand-name clothing for boys.  Beside it was another huge bag of gently used name brand boy clothing, some still with tags, and a massive, heavy box loaded with a superb selection of delicious and healthy pantry items, and nestled in among it all was a medium gift bag with fresh Comice pears, just starting to blush, and fragrant, perfect clementines.  After looking around, up and down our street to find the proprietor of such a profoundly generous gift, and even examining the concrete in our driveway for any tracks or clues (always fancied myself rather Nancy Drew-like) only to find nothing left behind, I carried it all in and place it on our kitchen table, marveling at the enormity of it all.  Tucked into one of the clothing bags was a small, simple card, left anonymous, in a elegant red felt-tip script.  I had to read it several times, for the tears had blurred my vision.

God knows it's been a year of strife and struggle here, and the waning has began wear us down like sand rubbing on wood.  My faith has grown brittle, and my hope has thinned.  Sometimes I feel myself becoming bitter and pessimistic, which I resent, but can't wash away.  I'm exhausted by hoping for things to get better sometimes.  As if hope is like some kind of unicorn or mermaid, a mythical beast that teases me to chase it murky, uncharted forests, leaving me feeling baffled and lost when I finally come to senses and realize it was just a figment of my imagination.

But that massive load of love that someone most carefully deposited on our doorstep, that was real. Real as oxygen, and made hope tangible again.  And so I see God working in the people around us, reminding us that we are taken care of and loved, and not to give up, gives us meaning and recharges us, drives our courage and focus, and challenges us to be more attentive to His voice and His nudge.

Thank you, to my mysterious donor with really good taste in clothing and food.  Thank you for the thoughtfulness and generosity.  Thank you to all the people who have been so loving and thoughtful this past year, taking time to share tea, or have a playdate, help fix our car, or coming out and pray with us until 2 am.  Thank you for leaning in to His voice, and for modeling to us how to be in the world.  God bless you and your family!

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.