Thursday, January 31, 2008
Jail and Death
These are the topics, evidently, that preoccupy Max and Boo. In carpool line. On the way to the ranch. While splashing happily in the bathtub. For anyone who hasn't been there, I suppose jail is quite a mystery. In our family, that mystery is augmented, perhaps, by the fact that we pass a penitentiary nearly every week on the way to and from the country.
And death. Well, what bigger mystery is there than that? Is a person who dies really gone? Like all the way gone, or maybe just gone somewhere else? And where exactly might that be, that other dimension? Pretty darn mysterious, like the UFO sightings in Stephenville, but with far greater personal significance. At least I hope so.
I do my best to approach the boys' questions in a matter-of-fact way. Not like a friend's sister who, when her young son asked her, "Mommy, am I going to die?" burst into convulsive tears and sobbed, "You'll have to ask your dad about that!" (A distressing thing it is to contemplate the death of your child.)
Yesterday after we dropped Max off at school, Boo had prison on his mind.
"Mommy, when will Max and I go to jail?"
"Never, honey. Jail is only for people who make really, really bad choices."
"Then what about Timmy? And Will?"
I'm holding out hope that there's still time for Timmy and Will, both 4, to turn their lives around.
And death. Well, what bigger mystery is there than that? Is a person who dies really gone? Like all the way gone, or maybe just gone somewhere else? And where exactly might that be, that other dimension? Pretty darn mysterious, like the UFO sightings in Stephenville, but with far greater personal significance. At least I hope so.
I do my best to approach the boys' questions in a matter-of-fact way. Not like a friend's sister who, when her young son asked her, "Mommy, am I going to die?" burst into convulsive tears and sobbed, "You'll have to ask your dad about that!" (A distressing thing it is to contemplate the death of your child.)
Yesterday after we dropped Max off at school, Boo had prison on his mind.
"Mommy, when will Max and I go to jail?"
"Never, honey. Jail is only for people who make really, really bad choices."
"Then what about Timmy? And Will?"
I'm holding out hope that there's still time for Timmy and Will, both 4, to turn their lives around.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Insomnia
I envy my husband and younger son. For each of them, I'd wager that the average timespan between lights out and deep, satisfying sleep is no more than 96 seconds.
The other half of our family is not nearly so lucky. Max is plagued by sleep difficulties, and I can sympathize. For many years, I used to lie awake scrolling through an endless list of worries, occasionally peeking at the clock to calibrate just how little rest I might eke out before sun-up.
What gets in Max's way is hard to say, beyond that he can't keep his body still and his mouth closed long enough to drift off. In my experience, it is awfully hard to fall asleep while walking or talking.
I've tallied thousands of imaginary sheep in my day, sometimes with success, so this evening I suggested that Max try counting to two hundred. From the room next door, here's what I overheard in rapid staccato:
"Ten, twenty, thirty, forty...
Ninety, one hundred, one hundred and ten...
Three hundred forty, three hundred fifty, three hundred sixty...
Seven hundred twenty, seven hundred thirty, seven hundred forty...
Nine hundred eighty, nine hundred ninety, a BILLION!
Mommy, I counted to a BILLION and I'm STILL not asleep!"
The other half of our family is not nearly so lucky. Max is plagued by sleep difficulties, and I can sympathize. For many years, I used to lie awake scrolling through an endless list of worries, occasionally peeking at the clock to calibrate just how little rest I might eke out before sun-up.
What gets in Max's way is hard to say, beyond that he can't keep his body still and his mouth closed long enough to drift off. In my experience, it is awfully hard to fall asleep while walking or talking.
I've tallied thousands of imaginary sheep in my day, sometimes with success, so this evening I suggested that Max try counting to two hundred. From the room next door, here's what I overheard in rapid staccato:
"Ten, twenty, thirty, forty...
Ninety, one hundred, one hundred and ten...
Three hundred forty, three hundred fifty, three hundred sixty...
Seven hundred twenty, seven hundred thirty, seven hundred forty...
Nine hundred eighty, nine hundred ninety, a BILLION!
Mommy, I counted to a BILLION and I'm STILL not asleep!"
Monday, January 07, 2008
A Belated New Year's Wish
What started as a year-end Christmas communique to friends far and wide and has become something more. Now I find that I write it for myself, as much as anyone. I write it to reflect on what's important and to remember the year that is gone. I labor over it. I start and stop. I edit it in my head as I try to fall asleep. And eventually, I have to let it go. You've heard some of these stories before, but probably not wrapped in this package with a bow on it. So here it is. Farewell 2007, and Happy New Year!
What’s the nicest thing I can say about 2007? It has put what matters most into perspective. The year closes with all of us healthy and content, making the bumps along the way seem far less important. Here are a few of the clips from our highlight reel.
Max has begun to read. On the way to school last week, he was examining the newspaper. From the back seat, he shouted, “Hey, this says ‘six’!” Except from the front seat, what I heard was, “Hey, this says ‘sex’.” My head began to swim, wondering what to say next to our precocious kindergartner. “Six,” he continued. “S - I - X.” I exhaled, thankful for the temporary reprieve. But the fact is, Max already has big plans—swim team, Tae Kwon Do, kissing girls, Mad Science, a green VW bug convertible, marrying Ashley…or maybe Avery. As he rushes headlong into his life, how I wish I had the power to arrest time.
Boo is losing his beatific curls, and we all miss them. Like Sampson, the loss of his locks has presaged other changes. From cooperative and unfailingly kind, Boo (4, going on 14) has begun to develop an attitude. Just this morning, he was taking credit for helping me make breakfast. “You did?” I asked, incredulous. “Yeah, I was supervising.” Despite a promising future in middle management at Dilbert’s company, Boo still aspires to be a farmer. I’m just crunchy enough to enjoy the idea of growing and harvesting a family’s worth of produce each year. But I’m practical enough to know that if we had an organic garden, an organic gardener would need to come with it. So while I respect Boo’s passion, a farmer’s life is hard. Then a friend described her son’s zeal for all things military: the camo gear, the machinegun sound effects, the militarized zone in the driveway. Now Boo will be getting a hoe for Christmas.
Our family said goodbye to Speckle the Bullfrog. We caught Speckle at the ranch when he (or she) was a tadpole-on-steroids. One day, Max ran into my room cradling the limp frog. “Speckle’s dead!” Boo trudged alongside his brother: "This is so sad." I resisted the urge to fling the lifeless amphibian down the commode and disinfect Max’s hands with Lysol. This was an important moment, the death of their first pet, and his passing deserved respectful treatment. "Boys, we need to bury Speckle." Max said solemnly, "I'll find a shovel." Ever thoughtful, Boo added, "We need to have a ceremony." "What's a ceremony?,” asked Max. "We need to honor Speckle, and thank God for sharing him with us for a little while." Boo continued, "And we need to say the good things we'll always remember about him." (How did my then three year old know such a grown-up thing? I swear we do not take him to funerals for recreation.) The boys chose a flower bed, dug a hole, laid Speckle in the ground, and covered him with soil. It was my turn. "God, thank you for your amazing creature, Speckle. We're so glad we got to care for him and watch him transform into a beautiful frog. Speckle was a good frog, and we’ll miss him. Thank you for all your miraculous creations, even us. Amen.” Boo smiled. "Nice ceremony, mommy." Then the boys bolted into the house to build airplanes.
On Labor Day, we attended the annual celebration at the country club. A Texas gully-washer had reduced what would have been a throng of revelers to mere handfuls, which is precisely why we went. The face painter drew animals on all four of the boys’ cheeks. The clown stalked them, making balloon characters on request. When the photographer asked to snap our picture, we obliged. And that's how our smiling faces wound up in the club newsletter. We are not people who ordinarily appear in its glossy pages. We do not attend the member/guest golf tournament, the fashion show or the debutante ball. But there were fewer than twenty people at the event. Who else were they going to show? A few days later, Max stumbled across our picture. Studying it proudly, he shouted, "We're famous!" If the only thing for which I'm known is being Max and Boo’s mom, that is fame enough for me.
After seven years in start-up mode, Lee’s company shifted into gear by signing two Fortune 300 clients. My dad was cured of cancer. I had surgery a few weeks ago, and the biopsy results came back in my favor. For all this and more, we’re still celebrating.
None of these stories is really new; they’re simply new for us. New beginnings and milestones worth honoring. Death and loss. Love and gratitude. These are the things that connect us all. Across miles, across years, we still feel near you. As we count our many blessings this year, we count you more than once. Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah. And may God bless us all.
What’s the nicest thing I can say about 2007? It has put what matters most into perspective. The year closes with all of us healthy and content, making the bumps along the way seem far less important. Here are a few of the clips from our highlight reel.
Max has begun to read. On the way to school last week, he was examining the newspaper. From the back seat, he shouted, “Hey, this says ‘six’!” Except from the front seat, what I heard was, “Hey, this says ‘sex’.” My head began to swim, wondering what to say next to our precocious kindergartner. “Six,” he continued. “S - I - X.” I exhaled, thankful for the temporary reprieve. But the fact is, Max already has big plans—swim team, Tae Kwon Do, kissing girls, Mad Science, a green VW bug convertible, marrying Ashley…or maybe Avery. As he rushes headlong into his life, how I wish I had the power to arrest time.
Boo is losing his beatific curls, and we all miss them. Like Sampson, the loss of his locks has presaged other changes. From cooperative and unfailingly kind, Boo (4, going on 14) has begun to develop an attitude. Just this morning, he was taking credit for helping me make breakfast. “You did?” I asked, incredulous. “Yeah, I was supervising.” Despite a promising future in middle management at Dilbert’s company, Boo still aspires to be a farmer. I’m just crunchy enough to enjoy the idea of growing and harvesting a family’s worth of produce each year. But I’m practical enough to know that if we had an organic garden, an organic gardener would need to come with it. So while I respect Boo’s passion, a farmer’s life is hard. Then a friend described her son’s zeal for all things military: the camo gear, the machinegun sound effects, the militarized zone in the driveway. Now Boo will be getting a hoe for Christmas.
Our family said goodbye to Speckle the Bullfrog. We caught Speckle at the ranch when he (or she) was a tadpole-on-steroids. One day, Max ran into my room cradling the limp frog. “Speckle’s dead!” Boo trudged alongside his brother: "This is so sad." I resisted the urge to fling the lifeless amphibian down the commode and disinfect Max’s hands with Lysol. This was an important moment, the death of their first pet, and his passing deserved respectful treatment. "Boys, we need to bury Speckle." Max said solemnly, "I'll find a shovel." Ever thoughtful, Boo added, "We need to have a ceremony." "What's a ceremony?,” asked Max. "We need to honor Speckle, and thank God for sharing him with us for a little while." Boo continued, "And we need to say the good things we'll always remember about him." (How did my then three year old know such a grown-up thing? I swear we do not take him to funerals for recreation.) The boys chose a flower bed, dug a hole, laid Speckle in the ground, and covered him with soil. It was my turn. "God, thank you for your amazing creature, Speckle. We're so glad we got to care for him and watch him transform into a beautiful frog. Speckle was a good frog, and we’ll miss him. Thank you for all your miraculous creations, even us. Amen.” Boo smiled. "Nice ceremony, mommy." Then the boys bolted into the house to build airplanes.
On Labor Day, we attended the annual celebration at the country club. A Texas gully-washer had reduced what would have been a throng of revelers to mere handfuls, which is precisely why we went. The face painter drew animals on all four of the boys’ cheeks. The clown stalked them, making balloon characters on request. When the photographer asked to snap our picture, we obliged. And that's how our smiling faces wound up in the club newsletter. We are not people who ordinarily appear in its glossy pages. We do not attend the member/guest golf tournament, the fashion show or the debutante ball. But there were fewer than twenty people at the event. Who else were they going to show? A few days later, Max stumbled across our picture. Studying it proudly, he shouted, "We're famous!" If the only thing for which I'm known is being Max and Boo’s mom, that is fame enough for me.
After seven years in start-up mode, Lee’s company shifted into gear by signing two Fortune 300 clients. My dad was cured of cancer. I had surgery a few weeks ago, and the biopsy results came back in my favor. For all this and more, we’re still celebrating.
None of these stories is really new; they’re simply new for us. New beginnings and milestones worth honoring. Death and loss. Love and gratitude. These are the things that connect us all. Across miles, across years, we still feel near you. As we count our many blessings this year, we count you more than once. Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah. And may God bless us all.
