Friday, June 29, 2007
Saint Nick
Max and I attended the Swim Team Banquet last night. It was the first time he'd worn a coat and tie. He was so proud of his grown-up attire that he actually wanted to wear it to summer camp today.
While Max and I were celebrating our mutual perseverance this month, Boo was home with Grandma Nancy. Tonight I learned more about their evening together.
From the warning track in left field, Boo threw in this zinger: "Do you believe in Santa Claus?"
Hmmmm....
Nancy was in a pickle. What do Lee and I convey to our kids about Santa Claus? With one seemingly innocuous response, might she unwittingly betray our beliefs, our values, our wishes?
"I believe in the spirit of Santa Claus."
Bravo.
I read an article once about how parents could approach the subject of Santa Claus in a way that might leave their children feeling less deceived as they grew older. The author suggested that parents speak in terms of the Story of Santa Claus. To younger children, the story would be more literal. But gradually, as kids matured, the tale would become just that...a tale, with characters and a plot and a message.
That approach makes sense to me. I saved the article.
"What about you, Boo? Do you believe in Santa Claus?"
"Sometimes."
Interesting. What a human dilemma. I believe. Or maybe I just want to believe. And if I have doubts--any doubt at all--then do I really believe?
Wasn't it Paul who once said, "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief."
While Max and I were celebrating our mutual perseverance this month, Boo was home with Grandma Nancy. Tonight I learned more about their evening together.
From the warning track in left field, Boo threw in this zinger: "Do you believe in Santa Claus?"
Hmmmm....
Nancy was in a pickle. What do Lee and I convey to our kids about Santa Claus? With one seemingly innocuous response, might she unwittingly betray our beliefs, our values, our wishes?
"I believe in the spirit of Santa Claus."
Bravo.
I read an article once about how parents could approach the subject of Santa Claus in a way that might leave their children feeling less deceived as they grew older. The author suggested that parents speak in terms of the Story of Santa Claus. To younger children, the story would be more literal. But gradually, as kids matured, the tale would become just that...a tale, with characters and a plot and a message.
That approach makes sense to me. I saved the article.
"What about you, Boo? Do you believe in Santa Claus?"
"Sometimes."
Interesting. What a human dilemma. I believe. Or maybe I just want to believe. And if I have doubts--any doubt at all--then do I really believe?
Wasn't it Paul who once said, "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief."
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Red Badge of Courage: Part 4
Today Max announced, "I'm not afraid to go to the swim meet any more."
That alone would have made the first swim season worthwhile.
But there's more.
Backstroke. Final heat of 5-6 year old boys. Only three lanes occupied. Gun sounded.
Max looked like a swimmer.
Face out of the water.
Arms straight. And moving.
Feet kicking.
Max touched the wall first.
Earned a blue ribbon fair and square.
For more than effort.
Then freestyle.
All six lanes full.
At the quarter mark, the boys are bunched together.
At the halfway point, it's still anyone's race.
Max is breathing to the side.
Face back in the water.
Kicking.
Everyone finishes together, more or less.
Max's ribbon is maroon.
But he swam a helluva race.
After the meet, as we prepared to head home, Max asked for a little more time.
"I want to go tell Peter he swam a good race."
Peter, Max's classmate, who in some ways is a man among boys. Knows how to play poker. Can break a board with his hand. Swims in the first heat with the 6-year olds.
"Because I want to be a good sport."
Yep, the season was definitely worth it.
That alone would have made the first swim season worthwhile.
But there's more.
Backstroke. Final heat of 5-6 year old boys. Only three lanes occupied. Gun sounded.
Max looked like a swimmer.
Face out of the water.
Arms straight. And moving.
Feet kicking.
Max touched the wall first.
Earned a blue ribbon fair and square.
For more than effort.
Then freestyle.
All six lanes full.
At the quarter mark, the boys are bunched together.
At the halfway point, it's still anyone's race.
Max is breathing to the side.
Face back in the water.
Kicking.
Everyone finishes together, more or less.
Max's ribbon is maroon.
But he swam a helluva race.
After the meet, as we prepared to head home, Max asked for a little more time.
"I want to go tell Peter he swam a good race."
Peter, Max's classmate, who in some ways is a man among boys. Knows how to play poker. Can break a board with his hand. Swims in the first heat with the 6-year olds.
"Because I want to be a good sport."
Yep, the season was definitely worth it.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Red Badge of Courage: Part 3
From June 19:
Since the last busted swim meet, Max has taken a lesson. Coach Jose's guidance was simple: (1) On the backstroke, use your arms and keep them straight. (2) During freestyle, breath to the side, put your head back in the water, and keep kicking. I don't know whether Max improved, but I felt better with something concrete to work on.
At today's meet, Max focused on Coach Jose's advice: arms straight and moving. Except they were moving in slow motion. Emphasis on SLOW. He looked like he might have been doing water ballet out there--an adagio. And when eventually he finished, his maroon ribbon was waiting.
Hoping for better on freestyle, I situated myself at the end of Max's lane, and he waved at me from the on-deck chair. I waved back. A few seconds later, he hurled himself into the water and began to swim. About four strokes. Then his head popped out of the water like an otter and he grabbed the lane rope. The other swimmers were at the half-way point. Max had gone half that distance.
I stood up and yelled, "PUT YOUR FACE BACK IN THE WATER, AND KEEP KICKING!!" Just like Coach Jose had instructed.
Max broke into an enormous grin and raised his thumb high in the air. As if to say, "I'm okay, mom! I'm having fun! And I hear you!" I think I could see his eyes twinkling all the way through his goggles.
And he proceeded.
In fits and starts.
Breathing to the side.
Face back in the water.
Still kicking.
Long after everyone else had finished.
He touched the wall.
The crowd in the bleachers erupted into cheers.
His coach leaned over, offered Max a hand, and hoisted him out of the pool.
"Good swimmin', buddy."
He handed Max a blue ribbon.
Since the last busted swim meet, Max has taken a lesson. Coach Jose's guidance was simple: (1) On the backstroke, use your arms and keep them straight. (2) During freestyle, breath to the side, put your head back in the water, and keep kicking. I don't know whether Max improved, but I felt better with something concrete to work on.
At today's meet, Max focused on Coach Jose's advice: arms straight and moving. Except they were moving in slow motion. Emphasis on SLOW. He looked like he might have been doing water ballet out there--an adagio. And when eventually he finished, his maroon ribbon was waiting.
Hoping for better on freestyle, I situated myself at the end of Max's lane, and he waved at me from the on-deck chair. I waved back. A few seconds later, he hurled himself into the water and began to swim. About four strokes. Then his head popped out of the water like an otter and he grabbed the lane rope. The other swimmers were at the half-way point. Max had gone half that distance.
I stood up and yelled, "PUT YOUR FACE BACK IN THE WATER, AND KEEP KICKING!!" Just like Coach Jose had instructed.
Max broke into an enormous grin and raised his thumb high in the air. As if to say, "I'm okay, mom! I'm having fun! And I hear you!" I think I could see his eyes twinkling all the way through his goggles.
And he proceeded.
In fits and starts.
Breathing to the side.
Face back in the water.
Still kicking.
Long after everyone else had finished.
He touched the wall.
The crowd in the bleachers erupted into cheers.
His coach leaned over, offered Max a hand, and hoisted him out of the pool.
"Good swimmin', buddy."
He handed Max a blue ribbon.
Red Badge of Courage: Part 2
from June 14:
The forecast calls for thunderstorms this afternoon. Today's the second swim meet, and I'm praying for a Texas downpour.
Max doesn't want to go. He's been agitating for me to spring him from swim team, even if he has to forego summer camp. Believe me, we both want a reprieve.
4:15. The skies have been darkening all afternoon. Time to load up. Lee swings into the driveway. The first drops splatter across my windshield. I consider waving a white flag and returning to my kitchen.
As a child, I remember most things coming to me with relative ease. Schoolwork. Piano. Ballet. I don't know that the idea of gutting it up, commiting myself to seeing the thing through, even when it got unpleasant and difficult, ever solidified itself in my brain. I recall avoiding a couple of classes in college--subjects that really interested me--because I'd heard the professor was particularly difficult. Magna cum laude? Yep, but I got it by being a wuss.
That this was my reality didn't fully smack me in the forehead until I met Lee. He tells a different story. While people in his field refer to him as a bona fide genius, he claims to just work harder than the other guys. He's the man who got a Chemical Engineering degree in 3 years, after his advisor said that such a thing was physically impossible. Who took computer programming books on our honeymoon. Who hasn't had a vacation longer than a 3-day weekend in seven years. When he says he works hard, it isn't just lip.
What Lee remembers growing up was the sage advice that if you always take the path of most resistance, you'll end up with more options.
I want my children to understand that. I want to know it, too.
I buckle up and head for the swim meet. A deluge meets us half way. We park. The rain turns to a fine mist. I take Max's hand as we navigate a herd of SUVs.
"Mommy, I'm going to try to be very brave."
And so am I. But I don't say so. "Of course you are. And you're going to try your hardest, aren't you?"
"Uh huh."
I grab a chair underneath an umbrella. Max limps through an anemic warm-up lap, clutching the rope regularly as other swimmers pass him in his lane.
The meet begins.
Boys backstroke is called.
Max tries to manuever his way forward in line but is held in his rightful place at the back of the pack by a vigilant coach.
He's in the "on deck" chair.
The horn sounds. Over the loud speaker:
"A major thunderstorm is just east of us, heading our way. The meet it cancelled."
We turn to look over our shoulders. The sky is black.
I find Max. We race to the car as the rain starts.
"So how'd you feel when the meet was cancelled and you didn't get to swim?"
"Kind of disappointed."
"Me, too."
The old me--who doesn't want to suffer, who wants to spare my kids the pain they need to grow--is also kind of relieved.
But I'm getting tougher.
And so is Max.
The forecast calls for thunderstorms this afternoon. Today's the second swim meet, and I'm praying for a Texas downpour.
Max doesn't want to go. He's been agitating for me to spring him from swim team, even if he has to forego summer camp. Believe me, we both want a reprieve.
4:15. The skies have been darkening all afternoon. Time to load up. Lee swings into the driveway. The first drops splatter across my windshield. I consider waving a white flag and returning to my kitchen.
As a child, I remember most things coming to me with relative ease. Schoolwork. Piano. Ballet. I don't know that the idea of gutting it up, commiting myself to seeing the thing through, even when it got unpleasant and difficult, ever solidified itself in my brain. I recall avoiding a couple of classes in college--subjects that really interested me--because I'd heard the professor was particularly difficult. Magna cum laude? Yep, but I got it by being a wuss.
That this was my reality didn't fully smack me in the forehead until I met Lee. He tells a different story. While people in his field refer to him as a bona fide genius, he claims to just work harder than the other guys. He's the man who got a Chemical Engineering degree in 3 years, after his advisor said that such a thing was physically impossible. Who took computer programming books on our honeymoon. Who hasn't had a vacation longer than a 3-day weekend in seven years. When he says he works hard, it isn't just lip.
What Lee remembers growing up was the sage advice that if you always take the path of most resistance, you'll end up with more options.
I want my children to understand that. I want to know it, too.
I buckle up and head for the swim meet. A deluge meets us half way. We park. The rain turns to a fine mist. I take Max's hand as we navigate a herd of SUVs.
"Mommy, I'm going to try to be very brave."
And so am I. But I don't say so. "Of course you are. And you're going to try your hardest, aren't you?"
"Uh huh."
I grab a chair underneath an umbrella. Max limps through an anemic warm-up lap, clutching the rope regularly as other swimmers pass him in his lane.
The meet begins.
Boys backstroke is called.
Max tries to manuever his way forward in line but is held in his rightful place at the back of the pack by a vigilant coach.
He's in the "on deck" chair.
The horn sounds. Over the loud speaker:
"A major thunderstorm is just east of us, heading our way. The meet it cancelled."
We turn to look over our shoulders. The sky is black.
I find Max. We race to the car as the rain starts.
"So how'd you feel when the meet was cancelled and you didn't get to swim?"
"Kind of disappointed."
"Me, too."
The old me--who doesn't want to suffer, who wants to spare my kids the pain they need to grow--is also kind of relieved.
But I'm getting tougher.
And so is Max.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Red Badge of Courage: Part 1
From June 12:
Max is a confident child. If asked, he just might tell you that he's an expert at everything. Were he a grown-up, we'd call him either unrealistic or delusional. I've been trying to impress upon Max that no one is an expert at everything. But I'm just his mother. Only the school of hard knocks will bring some people back down to earth.
For the month of June, Max is participating in day camp at the neighborhood club. Most of the kids at camp also join the club's swim team. Swim team is a significant commitment for children and parents alike. The kids practice an hour a day, four days a week. Two evenings a week, they have meets against other clubs. In the 5 - 6 year old bracket, children swim backstroke and freestyle. The fastest kids swim first, against each other, and each heat gets progessively slower. The genius of this system is that even in the final heat, the least accomplished swimmers have a chance to finish first. Every child who swims gets a ribbon. Even if it says "Sixth Place."
I was slow to sign Max up for swimming lessons. Many of his peers have been making weekly treks to swim class since they were 2. Max started last summer, a few months shy of 5. By September, he'd begun to practice strokes and work on diving, although most of his attempts were gasp-inducing belly-flops.
We resumed swim lessons this spring, and Max was ready to learn. As he made steady progress, he leapt to the erroneous conclusion that he was an excellent swimmer, maybe the best in the whole wide world. So when his friends began talking of swim team, Max begged to join.
I was reluctant. (1) I wasn't convinced Max could traverse 25 meters. (2) I wasn't ready to have our summer schedule revolve around swim team. (3) I was afraid that if he floundered, his confidence would be shaken and he'd be spooked around water. I wouldn't wish my own fear of the water on my boys, and because we spend so many weekends by a lake, I need for my boys to become confident swimmers--much more confident than I.
Max persisted about swim team. Caroline was doing it. Braxton was doing it. Jackson was doing it. Piper was doing it. Still I hesitated. I talked to the coach.
"Let me watch him swim."
Without hesitation, Max plunged into the pool and flailed happily at the water.
"He's more than ready."
I capitulated and signed him up.
After practice on Day 1, Max tried to tender his resignation.
"I don't really want to be on swim team. I'm not so good at swimming." Max had finally smacked up against a limitation. Clint Eastwood would have smiled.
The voice inside my head screamed: "No problem, Max. Let's just wait til next year."
But that is not what I said. Because coming from an estrogen-dominated family, my instincts can sabotage the larger mission of raising little boys to become big men.
With coaching from baritone voices around me, I managed to say the hard thing:
"Max, remember how badly you wanted to be on the swim team? You've got to finish what you started. You're part of a team, and the team is counting on you. You're not a quitter. So go out there and try your best. I want to see your arms and legs in that water swinging and kicking like a madman. And most of all, have fun."
"Okay." The pep talk seemed to hit home.
"I'm scared."
"What are you scared of?"
"I'm scared I'll drown."
I examined the ribbon. "2007 Swim Team. Sixth Place."
Max self-corrected. "I mean, I won sixth place."
What would be the point in mentioning that sixth equals last?
"Did you try your hardest, Max?"
"Yep."
"Did you have fun?"
He gave me the thumbs up sign. And he was off to find a lollipop and wait for the next event.
Max's resilience amazes me. I'm reminded of a school function at which Max began to take a much-anticipated first bite out of a brownie. Before the cookie reached his mouth, half of it crumbled to the floor. Max stared for a moment at what he'd lost. I waited for a melt-down. Max shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well. It's a good thing I have another half!"
I went in search of an eyewitness to the race.
"Kim, I somehow missed Max's race. How'd it go?"
"Maybe it's for the best that you didn't have to watch."
Kim was so right. Better to have missed it. And the backstroke was the stronger of his two events. I began to dread freestyle.
No sooner had I found a place on the bleachers than the first drops struck my hat. Huge drops. Splat. Splat-splat. The sky opened and began to pour itself out, with rain Noah would have recognized. Hundreds of people scattered, searching for cover. Max and I managed to find each other. I wanted to know how the race had gone from within his own skin.
"So what happened out there, Max?"
"Mom, I could hear you cheering for me!"
Sometimes nothing good will come from admitting the truth. "Honey, I was yelling for you at the top of my voice." (And I would have been, too, if I'd known he was in the pool.)
"And I thought I heard daddy, too!"
"He was cheering, too."
"Did you hear me?"
"No, sweetie. What were you saying?"
"I was saying, 'You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.'"
"No, I couldn't hear you saying that."
"That's because I was just saying it to myself."
My heart nearly shattered at the thought of Max--incapable of finishing the lap ahead--coaxing himself on against the impossible, hurtling himself into the water, and thrashing like his life depended on it. If that isn't courage, I don't know it.
After a half hour, the rain subsided. "Max, time to get back in line and get ready for the next event."
"I don't want to. I want to go home."
"The meet's not over. You've got to get back over there with the rest of your team. They're waiting on you." I forced the words through my teeth.
Max returned to his place. The meet resumed. Then, thunder in the distance. Meet over. I can assure you, no one was happier than I.
My mom tells the story of how I came home from first grade one day and announced, "I'm the best reader in my class." I remember that. We were dubbed "bluebirds," and there was one other person in the group. Sharon Gore, with flaming hair. Mom admonished me not to brag. When Max innocently exaggerates his own abilities, I sympathize with her urge. Swim team is helping Max realize he's not an expert at everything, without me speaking a word.
Ordinarily Max won't sleep until I've sung him lullabies and rubbed his feet. But this night, Lee stuck his head in the door after Max had snuggled between the sheets.
"I'm proud of you, son. I know you did your best today."
Max was asleep before I reached his room. His maroon ribbon hung in the place of honor above his bed.
Max is a confident child. If asked, he just might tell you that he's an expert at everything. Were he a grown-up, we'd call him either unrealistic or delusional. I've been trying to impress upon Max that no one is an expert at everything. But I'm just his mother. Only the school of hard knocks will bring some people back down to earth.
For the month of June, Max is participating in day camp at the neighborhood club. Most of the kids at camp also join the club's swim team. Swim team is a significant commitment for children and parents alike. The kids practice an hour a day, four days a week. Two evenings a week, they have meets against other clubs. In the 5 - 6 year old bracket, children swim backstroke and freestyle. The fastest kids swim first, against each other, and each heat gets progessively slower. The genius of this system is that even in the final heat, the least accomplished swimmers have a chance to finish first. Every child who swims gets a ribbon. Even if it says "Sixth Place."
I was slow to sign Max up for swimming lessons. Many of his peers have been making weekly treks to swim class since they were 2. Max started last summer, a few months shy of 5. By September, he'd begun to practice strokes and work on diving, although most of his attempts were gasp-inducing belly-flops.
We resumed swim lessons this spring, and Max was ready to learn. As he made steady progress, he leapt to the erroneous conclusion that he was an excellent swimmer, maybe the best in the whole wide world. So when his friends began talking of swim team, Max begged to join.
I was reluctant. (1) I wasn't convinced Max could traverse 25 meters. (2) I wasn't ready to have our summer schedule revolve around swim team. (3) I was afraid that if he floundered, his confidence would be shaken and he'd be spooked around water. I wouldn't wish my own fear of the water on my boys, and because we spend so many weekends by a lake, I need for my boys to become confident swimmers--much more confident than I.
Max persisted about swim team. Caroline was doing it. Braxton was doing it. Jackson was doing it. Piper was doing it. Still I hesitated. I talked to the coach.
"Let me watch him swim."
Without hesitation, Max plunged into the pool and flailed happily at the water.
"He's more than ready."
I capitulated and signed him up.
After practice on Day 1, Max tried to tender his resignation.
"I don't really want to be on swim team. I'm not so good at swimming." Max had finally smacked up against a limitation. Clint Eastwood would have smiled.
The voice inside my head screamed: "No problem, Max. Let's just wait til next year."
But that is not what I said. Because coming from an estrogen-dominated family, my instincts can sabotage the larger mission of raising little boys to become big men.
With coaching from baritone voices around me, I managed to say the hard thing:
"Max, remember how badly you wanted to be on the swim team? You've got to finish what you started. You're part of a team, and the team is counting on you. You're not a quitter. So go out there and try your best. I want to see your arms and legs in that water swinging and kicking like a madman. And most of all, have fun."
"Okay." The pep talk seemed to hit home.
The day of the first meet arrived. Max balked.
"I don't want to go to the swim meet."
"Why?""I'm scared."
"What are you scared of?"
"I'm scared I'll drown."
I was scared, too. But I choked back my fears, at least in front of Max. "Not a chance you'll drown. Too many people will be watching. Now go out there and give it your best."
The meet is a six-lane circus. 200 swimmers in identical team suits, many disguised behind fluorescent goggles. Even more siblings and parents milling around the pool. The starting horn firing off every couple of minutes. Coaches and timers and ribbon-handlers and cheering and proud parents tossling the drippy heads of tired children.
Because of the ranking system, I knew Max would be one of the last 5-6 year old boys to swim. So when his age group began backstroke, I went to summon Lee, who was trying to keep Reed entertained. Back at poolside, I saw a child resembling Max thrashing impotently in the middle of the pool. But there were a couple of dozen of 5-6 year old boys still waiting to swim, so I knew it couldn't be Max.
I scanned the anxious faces of the boys on deck. No Max.
Either he'd decided to hide, or that was Max in the pool. Max who hates to wait. Max who probably cut in line, oblivious to the consequences. He'd been competing against 6-year old dolphins.
The heat was over. I'd missed it. I went to pick up whatever pieces needed repair. Emerging from the throng was a beaming Max, holding aloft a maroon ribbon.
"I won second place! I won second place!"I examined the ribbon. "2007 Swim Team. Sixth Place."
Max self-corrected. "I mean, I won sixth place."
What would be the point in mentioning that sixth equals last?
"Did you try your hardest, Max?"
"Yep."
"Did you have fun?"
He gave me the thumbs up sign. And he was off to find a lollipop and wait for the next event.
Max's resilience amazes me. I'm reminded of a school function at which Max began to take a much-anticipated first bite out of a brownie. Before the cookie reached his mouth, half of it crumbled to the floor. Max stared for a moment at what he'd lost. I waited for a melt-down. Max shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well. It's a good thing I have another half!"
I went in search of an eyewitness to the race.
"Kim, I somehow missed Max's race. How'd it go?"
"Maybe it's for the best that you didn't have to watch."
My heart skipped.
"What happened?"
"Well, he hadn't gotten very far, and then he got tangled up in the ropes, but it took awhile for one of the coaches to dive in and help him, so he was just stuck out there struggling."Kim was so right. Better to have missed it. And the backstroke was the stronger of his two events. I began to dread freestyle.
No sooner had I found a place on the bleachers than the first drops struck my hat. Huge drops. Splat. Splat-splat. The sky opened and began to pour itself out, with rain Noah would have recognized. Hundreds of people scattered, searching for cover. Max and I managed to find each other. I wanted to know how the race had gone from within his own skin.
"So what happened out there, Max?"
"Mom, I could hear you cheering for me!"
Sometimes nothing good will come from admitting the truth. "Honey, I was yelling for you at the top of my voice." (And I would have been, too, if I'd known he was in the pool.)
"And I thought I heard daddy, too!"
"He was cheering, too."
"Did you hear me?"
"No, sweetie. What were you saying?"
"I was saying, 'You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.'"
"No, I couldn't hear you saying that."
"That's because I was just saying it to myself."
My heart nearly shattered at the thought of Max--incapable of finishing the lap ahead--coaxing himself on against the impossible, hurtling himself into the water, and thrashing like his life depended on it. If that isn't courage, I don't know it.
After a half hour, the rain subsided. "Max, time to get back in line and get ready for the next event."
"I don't want to. I want to go home."
"The meet's not over. You've got to get back over there with the rest of your team. They're waiting on you." I forced the words through my teeth.
Max returned to his place. The meet resumed. Then, thunder in the distance. Meet over. I can assure you, no one was happier than I.
My mom tells the story of how I came home from first grade one day and announced, "I'm the best reader in my class." I remember that. We were dubbed "bluebirds," and there was one other person in the group. Sharon Gore, with flaming hair. Mom admonished me not to brag. When Max innocently exaggerates his own abilities, I sympathize with her urge. Swim team is helping Max realize he's not an expert at everything, without me speaking a word.
Ordinarily Max won't sleep until I've sung him lullabies and rubbed his feet. But this night, Lee stuck his head in the door after Max had snuggled between the sheets.
"I'm proud of you, son. I know you did your best today."
Max was asleep before I reached his room. His maroon ribbon hung in the place of honor above his bed.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Please Slow Down
Max is 5 going on 25. His thoughts often turn now to adult concerns like moving into his first house (he'll feel a little happy and a little sad), traveling the world (how soon can he start), whom he's going to marry (no one until he's lived on his own for a long time), and what car he's going to drive (a "fresh grass" green VW bug convertible).
To my great relief, he will occasionally regress. This weekend we were socked in with torrential rains. As we like to say at the ranch, there's no such thing as a bad rain in June. The lake is replenished. The hay meadows get a much-needed drink after the first cut. The summer swelter is mitigated about 20 degrees. And waking to the sound of raindrops tapdancing on the metal roof is the definition of bliss.
Rain also changes the rhythm of our life at the ranch. In place of swimming and riding and going on off-road adventures, we draw and play card games and make ice water footprints on the porch.
Saturday afternoon, Max climbed onto my lap. I scooped him up sideways, like when he was an infant. He started giggling.
"Max, isn't it amazing that I used to carry you around like this when you were a baby, and now you're already 5 years old?"
"Yeah!"
"You know what's even more amazing? In 5 more years, you'll be 10, and you'll barely fit in my lap!"
More giggling.
"And 5 years after that, you'll be 15, and you'll be bigger than me, and I'll be able to sit in your lap!"
Max was clearly delighted at this idea. He squirmed out of my lap and ran upstairs to finish some important growing up business.
Boo had been hovering nearby. He approached me, face buckling with distress, and planted his forehead on my thigh.
"I'm so sad, mommy," he wailed.
"Oh, honey, why?"
"I don't know!" Tears coursed down his velvet cheeks.
But I had a suspicion.
"Sweetie, are you sad about the idea of growing up?"
"Yeah!"
"What makes you sad about that, Boo?"
"Because then I won't be a kid any more!" He continued to come undone.
I tried to put up a brave front, say the right things, comfort Boo and assure him that he still had lots of time to be a kid, but the truth is, I don't know which of us was more devastated at that thought.
To my great relief, he will occasionally regress. This weekend we were socked in with torrential rains. As we like to say at the ranch, there's no such thing as a bad rain in June. The lake is replenished. The hay meadows get a much-needed drink after the first cut. The summer swelter is mitigated about 20 degrees. And waking to the sound of raindrops tapdancing on the metal roof is the definition of bliss.
Rain also changes the rhythm of our life at the ranch. In place of swimming and riding and going on off-road adventures, we draw and play card games and make ice water footprints on the porch.
Saturday afternoon, Max climbed onto my lap. I scooped him up sideways, like when he was an infant. He started giggling.
"Max, isn't it amazing that I used to carry you around like this when you were a baby, and now you're already 5 years old?"
"Yeah!"
"You know what's even more amazing? In 5 more years, you'll be 10, and you'll barely fit in my lap!"
More giggling.
"And 5 years after that, you'll be 15, and you'll be bigger than me, and I'll be able to sit in your lap!"
Max was clearly delighted at this idea. He squirmed out of my lap and ran upstairs to finish some important growing up business.
Boo had been hovering nearby. He approached me, face buckling with distress, and planted his forehead on my thigh.
"I'm so sad, mommy," he wailed.
"Oh, honey, why?"
"I don't know!" Tears coursed down his velvet cheeks.
But I had a suspicion.
"Sweetie, are you sad about the idea of growing up?"
"Yeah!"
"What makes you sad about that, Boo?"
"Because then I won't be a kid any more!" He continued to come undone.
I tried to put up a brave front, say the right things, comfort Boo and assure him that he still had lots of time to be a kid, but the truth is, I don't know which of us was more devastated at that thought.
Friday, June 15, 2007
It Feels Like What?!
For as long as I can remember, I've slept in T-shirts. Big, soft, shapeless T-shirts. Souvenirs from races and conferences and friend's 40th birthday parties. Practical and comfortable, but not very feminine.
After the revelations this week that my children can't distinguish a dress from a bathing suit, I've decided to try to reconnect with my feminine side. (I know, I know--that's usually reserved for guys, but I think I may be in need of some remedial work here.)
Last night I located some of my lingerie in a bottom drawer where it's been living in a witness protection program since shortly after our honeymoon.
(I don't mean to suggest here that anything criminal happened on our honeymoon--only that the lingerie seems to have been in serious hiding ever since.)
I must say, the silky pink nightgown actually made me feel a little girlie for a change.
This morning, Max was out of his bed before I was out of mine. He came into my room, where it was immediately apparent to him that I was not encased in a T-shirt. He slowly caressed the slippery satin.
"Mommy, why are you wearing this?"
"Well, I think it feels good. So I like wearing it."
"Hmmmmmmmmmm."
Max evidently agreed.
"Mmmmmmmmm," he rhaposized. "It feels like shampoo."
After the revelations this week that my children can't distinguish a dress from a bathing suit, I've decided to try to reconnect with my feminine side. (I know, I know--that's usually reserved for guys, but I think I may be in need of some remedial work here.)
Last night I located some of my lingerie in a bottom drawer where it's been living in a witness protection program since shortly after our honeymoon.
(I don't mean to suggest here that anything criminal happened on our honeymoon--only that the lingerie seems to have been in serious hiding ever since.)
I must say, the silky pink nightgown actually made me feel a little girlie for a change.
This morning, Max was out of his bed before I was out of mine. He came into my room, where it was immediately apparent to him that I was not encased in a T-shirt. He slowly caressed the slippery satin.
"Mommy, why are you wearing this?"
"Well, I think it feels good. So I like wearing it."
"Hmmmmmmmmmm."
Max evidently agreed.
"Mmmmmmmmm," he rhaposized. "It feels like shampoo."
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Any horse but a clothes horse
No one has ever accused me of being a clothes horse. Okay, maybe I was consumed for a couple of high school years, when I admit to keeping a chart in my closet lest I inadvertently repeat an outfit during any three week interval. But for heaven's sake, people, that's been more than 25 years. These days I subsist on a steady diet of T-shirts and casual pants, all machine washable and rarely ironed--and none so precious that being used as a human napkin after a boy finishes a plate of spaghetti would ruin my day.
A couple of years ago, after Boo graduated from spit-up school, I commited to upgrade my look. For Christmas (at my request), my husband bought me a session with an image consultant, who purged my closet of clothing from several decades, outlined a basic wardrobe to work towards, and (best of all!) handed me an item-by-item list of what to buy, at what store, and how to accessorize it. I don't like to shop, but I am pretty damn good at following instructions, and for a few months, I think I succeeded in developing a more put-together look. Several times a week I managed to assemble entire outfits, complete with jewelry or a scarf. I even changed my purse a couple of times a week.
And then I began to backslide. The boys had more activities. I immersed myself in building the garage apartment and making wholesome meals and eradicating rats.
(Funny aside: Today Max was reviewing his artwork that covers the walls of the playroom. One piece--a painting exercise in color blending, with three mice as its subject--had fallen off the wall. Max picked it up, studied it, and declared, "This painting is about the animals that drove mommy crazy for the last 13 months!" So it was only 4 months, but it FELT like 13 months--and evidently, not just to me.)
But I digress. I was saying that I'd fallen off the sartorial self-improvement wagon. The fact is, most days I give very little thought to what I wear. And I guess that's taking an unexpected kind of toll.
Our schedule today revolved around the swimming pool. Max had sports camp this morning, swim team practice this afternoon, and his very first swim meet this evening. The weather was a scorcher. So I abandoned my usual capris and zipped up a skirt--simple, brown, flared, with lavendar top-stiching. When Boo arrived home from a swimming lesson of his own, he stared in my direction.
"Mommy, are we going swimming?"
"Not right now, sweetie."
Well, is that a bathing suit?"
"No, honey. It's a skirt."
Soon it was time to return Max to the club for the swim meet. Just before we headed out, I slipped on a fresh sundress and straw hat. This time it was Max who was confused.
"Mommy, is that a bathing suit you're wearing?"
"No, darling, it's a dress."
Note to self: Must wear feminine attire more often; children ought to be able to identify basic articles of clothing before starting grade school.
A couple of years ago, after Boo graduated from spit-up school, I commited to upgrade my look. For Christmas (at my request), my husband bought me a session with an image consultant, who purged my closet of clothing from several decades, outlined a basic wardrobe to work towards, and (best of all!) handed me an item-by-item list of what to buy, at what store, and how to accessorize it. I don't like to shop, but I am pretty damn good at following instructions, and for a few months, I think I succeeded in developing a more put-together look. Several times a week I managed to assemble entire outfits, complete with jewelry or a scarf. I even changed my purse a couple of times a week.
And then I began to backslide. The boys had more activities. I immersed myself in building the garage apartment and making wholesome meals and eradicating rats.
(Funny aside: Today Max was reviewing his artwork that covers the walls of the playroom. One piece--a painting exercise in color blending, with three mice as its subject--had fallen off the wall. Max picked it up, studied it, and declared, "This painting is about the animals that drove mommy crazy for the last 13 months!" So it was only 4 months, but it FELT like 13 months--and evidently, not just to me.)
But I digress. I was saying that I'd fallen off the sartorial self-improvement wagon. The fact is, most days I give very little thought to what I wear. And I guess that's taking an unexpected kind of toll.
Our schedule today revolved around the swimming pool. Max had sports camp this morning, swim team practice this afternoon, and his very first swim meet this evening. The weather was a scorcher. So I abandoned my usual capris and zipped up a skirt--simple, brown, flared, with lavendar top-stiching. When Boo arrived home from a swimming lesson of his own, he stared in my direction.
"Mommy, are we going swimming?"
"Not right now, sweetie."
Well, is that a bathing suit?"
"No, honey. It's a skirt."
Soon it was time to return Max to the club for the swim meet. Just before we headed out, I slipped on a fresh sundress and straw hat. This time it was Max who was confused.
"Mommy, is that a bathing suit you're wearing?"
"No, darling, it's a dress."
Note to self: Must wear feminine attire more often; children ought to be able to identify basic articles of clothing before starting grade school.
