Preserving Faith

My great grandma, known to the masses as simply Granny, was an Okie who moved up from the Dust Bowl in '32 to work in the fields in the Yakima Valley.  She miscarried four babies from malnutrition while digging for potatoes, but three, including my grandfather, survived.  I remember her large hands as white as chalk forming dough for blackberry pie, and the way her blue eyes looked at me when she was up to no good in a game of Double Solitaire.  She was from an era where children ate lard sandwiches if they were lucky, and nothing was wasted.  Nothing.  She made tea towels from flour sacks (in her day made of cotton) and up-cycled (before up-cycling was trendy) old issues of Reader's Digest into matching Mr. and Mrs. Santa Clause for Christmas gifts.  I watched her make noodles for chicken dumplings, and butcher a chicken for the same pot.  She tossed the head, the feet, and the innards to the cats at the barn, and used everything else, even the feathers (once cleaned) went into pillows.

So it was no wonder that her canning skills were top notch.  She would snap beans all summer long, canning batch after batch of beans to stock the shelves in her cellar.  I would go in to view the beautiful array of colors through glass quart jars, the red orbs of bing cherries or the perfect pink shade of strawberry rhubarb jam, the sunset colors of peaches and apricots, russet colored tomatoes, deep dark grape juice (the best I've ever tasted, ever), jellies of every kind imaginable, and pickles in bright green (she called "bread and butter pickles" but we know them as sweet), and other countless items that she had so carefully collected, processed, canned, labeled, and stocked.  She was keeping food for days when it would be needed, for those unavoidable thin days.  She had survived the Great Depression.  She knew what it meant to be hungry.  I've read somewhere that the raw, angry feeling of starvation never goes away, like a phantom it lingers in the mouth and mind.  Granny was sharp as whip.  She'd tell you so herself, as she cheated her way through a pleasant game of cards.  She knew that there would be a day when she would feel hungry again, and she was always getting ready for it.

I'm not sure how to be ready for this upcoming upheaval in our lives, how to stockpile our faith shelves for the road we're embarking on.  We've done it before, thrice to date, and each was before we were parents.  The first time we left our small town of Sunnyside to live in Seattle in 1996.  I had just graduated high school and was following a handsome young man that I had a crush on 300 miles away to the Big City.  Then again in 1999, after I married that handsome young man, we moved from Seattle to Ellensburg to complete our undergraduate degrees, mine in English, his in music.  In 2003 we moved from Ellensburg to Vancouver where we established ourselves as working adults, bought our first home, and had our beloved sons.  And now the tug of another educational pursuit turns our heads back to Seattle, uprooting our family to a new place for Raphie's preschool, Andres' elementary experience, our marriage, our home.

Our faith is challenged to move.  We know we can't stay where we are, and we know deep down it's a benefit to our boys to chase our dreams, passions and gifts, in the belief that this is what we were created to do.  Don't we want them to do the same when their times come?  To follow their bliss?  To chase down their dreams?  Right now my faith is strong.  I know this is the direction we've been called to move in.  But when faced with getting in that U-haul truck and walking away from this life and this season in our lives, will it be there?

Presently the verdict is still out as to whether Aaron will complete his masters at PSU then apply for the PhD in Musicology at UW, or just apply to the masters in Musicology as a masters transfer then apply to the PhD while there (which means the past year and half of grad level classes will be tossed out and need to be retaken at UW--grrrrrr).   All of this is of course banking on the pipe dream that he gets accepted at all, and I have the utmost belief (faith?) that someone as talented, skilled, committed and dedicated to his art will be, so I am preparing my heart and mind for the inevitable move.

Despite the initial excitement around moving to Seattle, there's sadness, too.  To leave our home of ten years, our friends who have grown into our family, the customs and traditions--indeed our small world--that we've created here, being removed from it and changing is depressing.  To take the boys away from their friends that they love like brothers and cousins is heartbreaking.  To be apart from our friends whom have become closer than sisters and brothers is painful.

This is big.  We've never lived together in one place longer than we've lived here.  Our boys have deepened the roots we've laid down, and it's hard to accept the idea of transplanting them, or expelling them from such a nurturing, loving nest in our community.  It won't be easy.  But I pray that it will be a blessing to each of us in many ways as we set out on this journey.

Will it be there?  I wonder.  Will my faith be there on those thin days when I feel my shelves are bear?

Great Grandparents: Raleigh and Zelda Heitzman in 1980.  Me with the pumpkin and my newly born brother Wade.  

My Heroes

Congrats!

My dear friend Sarah is one of my favorite writers.  Ever.  Her voice and imagery are vivid and refreshing, and her storytelling has a magical, transportive quality, where you slip into the pages and find yourself immersed in her world.  

These last several years, as she's been pounding away on wrapping her memoir featuring her life in Japan as first an exchange student then an English teacher, I've had the immense privilege of reading her drafts.  And they've moved me to laugh, to blink back tears, to be whisked away on her journeys with her in her storytelling, always grieved the last words have been read, and always wishing for more.

I'm feeling much like a proud little sister after she sent me the link to one of her stories, "Zithering Away," published this September in a Hong Kong-based literary journal, Cha.  It's one of my favorite pieces from her memoir that I've read to date, so perfectly told, so gracefully conjured, and a most lovely work of art.  It's a profound joy to see all her hard work come through to fruition.

Omedatou, Sister.  I'm thrilled for the rest to come!

Baking With My Boys

My dad is a really good cook.  Really good.  He can make a biscuit and gravy breakfast that makes you glad you got out of bed.  On other days, his own crepe recipe with strawberry filling, topped with fresh whipped cream, is like having a decadent dessert first thing in the morning.   He invented a shrimp taco recipe that should be a menu feature in some high-end Mexican restaurant.   He taught me how to scramble eggs and make pancakes when I was seven.  And I believe that because he was so great in the kitchen that it's no wonder both my brothers grew into men who not only know their way around the kitchen and can follow recipes, but can create their own gourmet food showcasing their individual tastes.  Wade could have his own cooking show!  He has these enormous hands that kneed bread perfectly and easily, his bread always the fluffiest and most delicious thing on the table at Thanksgiving.

I started cooking with Andres when he was two and a half.  Aaron was taking a class on Saturday mornings, and not knowing what to do with a two year old by myself then (much like now), I fell back onto what I know best:  food.  Andres, in classic Andres form, learned fast and was soon quickly instructing me around in the kitchen.  "Needs more vanilla, Mom."  Whenever he saw me in the kitchen at the stove, I'd hear his tiny body pushing a chair over the linoleum from the table to stand beside me at the counter.  "What are we making?" he'd ask.  He did have a little burn early on, nothing serious, but it was small enough to make me grateful that he learned to respect the dangerous stovetop.  Now I'm starting to allow him to work with "real" knives, as opposed to butter knives, and so far he's demonstrated an amazing caution and skill with them.  He's very good at cracking eggs, and I've dubbed him my Official Egg Cracker, assigning him the task as much as possible.  And I adore the way when a thing is done he'll look at me with his sparkling brown eyes and say, "I think we should have a taste test now, Mom."  He's even learned basic fractions in the kitchen, recognizing whole, half, and quarter measurements.  And it's adorable that he's learning to measure seasoning like me, pouring first into the palm of his hand to then sprinkle over something or toss into a recipe.  The kitchen's showing me it's such a rich place to teach so many things!  Cooking with him remains a great joy of mine.

Raphie is getting introduced to cooking now as well.  He's still in the wee butter knife stage, but he's slow to learn HOT.  He'll touch the pan on the stovetop first, burn himself, then look at me in pain and ask "hot?"  So I allow these closely monitored little burns to hopefully sear (no pun intended) it into his memory that "hot" actually hurts.  The fact that he has an unnaturally high pain tolerance doesn't help in this case.  But he can pour a cup of milk, and he can spoon the flour mixture into the KitchenAid to be creamed with the butter and sugar.  He's getting there, and I know he'll be great.

One thing I want my boys to have is a fond memory of cooking with me, hip to hip at the counter, tasting, chatting, musing over a recipe or how something is coming along, overall spending time working together and connecting, because it's a treasure for me to have this time with them.  And I know they too will grow into men who are confident and content in the kitchen.  I wonder if one day they won't be repeating, "Go slow and low, then accidents aren't likely to happen," or other little mantras I chant to them as we cook together in the kitchen to their own children one day.

This year I've decided to make Wednesdays "Baking Day," although it may not always be baking.  But so far we've started our morning after breakfast with a book, then a craft, then we get cooking, all relating to the week's theme.  This week's theme was leaves and apples, and we had a lot of fun going on leaf hunts and making wonderful art, and we learned why leaves change color and fall this time of year, and Andres and I have continued to do the regular big kid stuff of reading, writing, and math curricula (still snubbing history and science) when Raph's napping.  We've also learned about Johnny Appleseed and it turns out he's quiet an interesting fellow.  I didn't get to all the apple crafts I had in mind, but I did happen to prepare and actually pull off a wonderful mini apple pie experience with both boys.

We started off "taste testing" Red Delicious, Gala, Granny Smith and Golden Delicious, and discussed the different flavors and textures each one had.  Andres was super careful with his "real" knife as he diced the apples after I had pared them.  Raphie used a tiny dull kid's knife from Ikea to pretend to cut some of the apple skins I gave him, but ended up mostly eating them.  Then we all participated in assembling the crusts, Andres cutting out the circular bottoms and fall-themed shapes for the tops, Raphie tried to cut some shapes, but ended up sampling various bits of raw crust dough instead.  Raph shined, though, when it was time to measure the spices and flour, into which Andres poured the diced apples, then Andres mixed and carefully spooned the fruit into the shells.  I helped him with the tops, then  we put them into the oven and Raph helped me clean up.  And seriously, is there anything sweeter than the smell of cinnamon and apples baking on a warm and bright October day with these two amazing little men at my side?

Fun With Photoshop: Hip To Be Square

I'm trying hard to chronicle the little good bits of this stage in life.  There are plenty of not-so-sweet nuggets that I intentionally omit from this journal, after all this is about "seeking miracles in the mess," and although I have messes and struggles, and not-so-great mom moments, I do hope I can enjoy these guys as they are in this season of their life, because it's going so fast and God knows I'm not the one with a memory (Aaron's the Memory Keeper, and Shannon, too), I try to collect the small things I (or they) may wonder about one day, pilfering through the daily doldrums to cherish the fleeting and wonderful little glints of their childhood.   

It was as hard to foster a love of reading in Raph as it was easy with Andres.  But it seems that Raph has finally caught on, and now we unbook his bed each night as we do with Andres. Our house rule is that no toys can go in bed (plush animals aside) after we read to them in bed and say prayers, but books are welcome.  They have a bit of time to "read" in the low light cast from the hall and it's a calm, quiet time to ease them into dreamland.  

Andres has mentioned to me several times that he's not into "cute stuff,  just cool stuff" now,  so the departure from picture books to early chapter books has begun.  And Raph has just discovered superheros and is all agog with anything relating to them.  We were finally able to break the code for his synonyms for Batman (Dut-Dut) and Superman (Dee-Dee) and they stem from the songs he sings for each character.   He's musical, ya know.   I'm so proud of them with their noses in books.  I've wanted to capture their blooming love of reading at this stage in their lives, but more importantly bolster their own pride and ownership of reading.  

I love the big posters at the library showing off librarians posing with their favorite books.  I thought it would be fun to make posters for the boys, showing them that they are readers, and bibliophiles like their mother, and it's good and right and even cool to read.  And as I created them, I thought how fun it would be to do this annually to watch their taste mature with them.  We're getting them printed out and framed for the house (somewhere, not yet sure of wall space) but I'm so proud of them, my wonderful little reading men!

Introducing: Emma

"I made a new friend today, Mama!" he exclaimed as I picked him up this afternoon from his day of elective classes including Young Authors Class and Crafting Class.  We try to really make a point that the world is full of friends to meet and make, and it's like a treasure hunt finding them out and cherishing them.

"She's right there," he said as he buckled up in the back seat.  She?  I looked to the sidewalk where the children were waiting for the slow stream of parents in their various vehicles to creep up and collect them one by one under the teachers' ever-watchful eyes.  "Emma's the one in the purple shirt."

I saw just the back of her head with a blondish pony-tail pulled into a rubberband and wispy tendrils falling over her ears and neck.  She wore a faded lavender tee shirt and equally faded jean shorts with denim ruffles at the hems.  She was talking with expressive gesticulations to the teacher in her line, and I only got a glance and the overall impression that she was a spirited little girl.

"I'm proud of you for making friends with a girl.  That's a big boy thing to make friends with all different kinds of people," I said over my shoulder as we  drove on.  We've had some little issues with him in the past not including girls in play or treating them respectfully.  He's expressed that pink is stupid, glitter is stupid, princesses are extra stupid (except for Princess Leia, of course), and above all, girls are not as cool as boys and can't be friends with boys.  As you can imagine, this was very distressing.  I was deeply worried (in my extreme, over-the-top way as I do) that we were raising a bigoted male supremacist little boy who would grow into a bigoted male supremacist man who would never get married, and would become a lonely hermit in a house full of cats and comic books kept in protective vinyl covers.   Aaron, on the other hand, said it was a boy thing and he'd out grow it.  So to learn today that Andres had made a friend with a girl was (in my mind) sort of like North Korea giving South Korea a hug.   If I had bottle rockets laying around, I would have set them off in celebration.

"Yeah, she drew me a picture."  He pulled a crumpled up piece of paper from his backpack and passed it to me. At a stop light I looked at it.

"That's me," he said pointing to the boy figure.  "I drew the Lorax, and she drew me."

But what struck me was not only did she draw Andres as a stick figure with his hair in his eyes and a nice little smile, but under that she drew a large heart with an arrow going through it, and had written inside the heart was a single word: LOVE.  He didn't even notice it until we got home and he was gushing over her picture and he started reading it out, and looking at me with a puzzled expression, a bashful grin spread across his lips.

"She's a good writer," he said putting the letter back in his back pack.

His first love note from a girl.

So it begins.

The Boy Behind the Name

Raphael Lukas Villanueva

His name is angelic.  It's ancient Hebrew origins can be translated roughly to mean "God Heals."  And it's true to his character.  He's completed this family perfectly, he's soothing.  Some people have asked us why we didn't give Raphael another "A" name, worried that he'll be left out, as if we named Andres to fit in or match us.  It wasn't vanity, it just happened that way, and Andresjose Amadeo has an awesome one-of-a-kind Old World Castilian name that honors both sides of his family.  It's rather fitting that that initials for our first child are A. A., mirroring our own first names, and even more so that it happened to be so on accident.

But Raphael Lukas came to us after crisis and loss, and we were given his name early in his pregnancy.  It wasn't until after Raph was born that we realized how perfect his name was.  Something akin to a phoenix.  Beautiful new life rising from smoke and ashes.  According to the Catholic Church, Archangel Raphael is the patron saint of doctors, travelers, lovers, sick people, blind people, young people, those afflicted with mental illnesses, and shepherds.  And Luke is our favorite gospel, as through his writing we can see clearly how he was so tender-hearted and real to life.  Paul called Luke the "beloved physician," and he was in fact a healer.  Of course, we didn't know any of this when these names were given to us.  And it didn't occur to me until about six months ago that his initials R. L. mirror exactly our middle names (Reymundo and Leigh).  He's not left out at all.  He's been given a holy and awesome name weighted with hope and responsibility.

Raphael, I worry, gets the short end of the stick sometimes in our little quartette.  His easy-going nature lends itself to be easily taken for granted.  He's two, so there's that, but overall, he's a very cool guy.

Since Andres was at school this week, three hours a day Raphael and I have been spending a lot more one-on-one time together.  It's been such fun to see him bloom into a person who is not only soothing and easy, but has a personality that cracks us all up, and a heart that's pure gold.  He absolutely loves babies, and sometime gets in trouble for playing a bit rough with them in the nursery at church.

As a student of language acquisition, I've really enjoyed both boys' stage of verbal output.  It's such a window into their little psyches!  I know that according to the textbook, he's delayed in his language skills, but if it wasn't for the book Scientist in the Crib that I read for a college class on language development, I'd be a bit worried about the number of actual words he can produce.  He talks a lot, frankly, I can't understand most of it.   His words are still onomatopoeic in general, like "maow" for kitty, or "woof-woof" for dog.  And if it has a beak it's a "quack-quack."  Dinos are "rawr!"  Anything with wheels is "rhoom" and "yummy" is food.  He's pretty clear when he says "don't want that," or "night-night" but still doesn't know which answer to give to a question (especially if he doesn't understand the question), and will usually default to "no," which is pretty smart, if you think about it.  Other than the symbolic sounds of things, there are other words he uses that don't quite make the connection, but thanks to his older brother, The Translator, we've been able to deduce that "dut-dut" is Batman, "dit-dit" is Superman, "wah-wah" is a fish, and "dah poopy" is the diaper, regardless if there's poop in it or not.

Lately, he's been punking me.  Yes.  Punking.

"Raphie," I say as I notice an ominous bulge at the back of his diaper.  "Will you please come here?"

"No."

"Do you have poop in your diaper?"

"No, Mama, (undecipherable babble) quack-quack in dah poopy!"
Translation:  No, Mother, but I happen to have a duck in my diaper!

His eyes sparkle something wicked mischievous, and his little cheeks dimple with a huge grin.  I laugh (because it's funny!) and ask again if he has a poopy diaper.  He goes on to include each barnyard animal in turn, and even dinosaurs and fish, or sometimes Batman or a car in his diaper, each time both of us bursting into laughter, before I ask again.  Funny guy!  He's like his daddy in that he's so clever and has a roaring sense of humor!

He's been praying at dinnertime, too.  This melts my heart.  He speaks softly, slowly, reverently, as we hold hands over the food, and he rambles on and on, with no end in sight, like he's giving the Pope a benediction.  His words are mostly nonsensical, but it's the heart and tone in his prayer that makes me shut my eyes to the tears welling.

One day that Andres was in school this week we went to the park and found Wish Flowers, or more commonly known as dandelions (unless you're a home-owner, then they're called weeds).  And is there anything more adorable than a two year old blowing the dandelion seeds with puffed up cheeks and stern effort?  As they drifted out into the big world, he lifted his pudgy little hand and said "bye-bye baby!"  Indeed, seeds are babies, too.

And he's a Villanueva.  By that I mean he'll come to visit us one day when we're withered and gray, maybe even bringing his own children, and have in the trunk of his car his guitar or whatever his instrument will be, since he's predestined and arranged at the genetic level to show up and make music, like they all do.   Tonight Andres was having a hard time going to sleep, and asked if Aaron (practicing his chops downstairs) could play guitar in their room to comfort him.  Aaron started strumming in the key of D and Raphie, laying behind the bars  in his crib started singing, to Aaron's amazement in the perfect key of D as well.  It was bluesy and soft, but he had a song in his heart, and he was singing it out!  And he sang and sang!  God bless him.  He loves music.  It moves him, and it's beautiful to see.  Aaron was deeply affected by that moment, singing a gentle duet together in the dim room as Andres finally nodded off to sleep, so impressed that Raphie was vocally tuned in.  I pray these two can grow their music up in our home like a garden of sound.

I took him to the community pool yesterday before we picked up Andres from school and I've never seen anything like his pure and unadulterated love of swimming.  Where Andres was timid and fearful of the water (and still largely is) Raphie leaps into the water like an eager frog.  He doesn't wait for me to catch him, and doesn't cling to the edge of the pool.  He's at one with the water.  He loves it.  Loves it.  He jumped in with his little man chest puffed up, climbed out and jumped in again for forty minutes straight yesterday.  I stood there mostly unwanted but still mostly needed to help him as he surfaced then rushed to the edge to climb up and jump in again.  I wish he had a little more respect for water, because of the danger factor, but there's something adorable about about a small little boy leaping with great joy into the water with wide eyes and a dimpled smile.  As much as he's a typical funny, gentle, musical Villanueva guy, I'm glad to see that he has my profound love of water flowing strong and deep in his viens.

It's been great having a little time each day together to play and bond, just the two of us.  He's so fun, and has a strong yet gentle spirit like his Papa.  The first day was like an awkward first date.  I had played trains with him, did two puzzles, and read three books in the first hour, then was out of ideas.  But he's been a good teacher, again like his Papa, being easy and gentle, forgiving and encouraging.  I'm sure he knows I'm learning how to mother him without Andres around, and he shows me a lot of grace.