Mr. Max and Boo

A Suggestion for Mr. Maliki

2009-01-25T15:44:00.000-08:00

NPR was low, but audible as we backed out of the driveway, bound for school. The boys and I had been engrossed in a conversation about who-knows-what, and my mind wasn't registering the latest report on a bombing in Baghdad. A child was talking about her loss of childhood, how she couldn't leave the house to play, how her father had been killed last week.

Max asked, "Where is that happening?"

I snapped out of my fog.

"In Iraq, on the other side of the world."

"Why are people killing each other?"

"Because they disagree about things they think are important, like who gets to be in charge, who gets to make decisions."

There's been a lot of talk around our house lately about the process of electing a new President and the magnificence of an orderly transfer of power. Time for more elaboration.

"Around the world, people have different ways of resolving things when they disagree. In some places, like here in the United States, we elect people who make decisions for us. And if we don't like the choices they're making, we can vote for someone else next time. In some other places, people who disagree fight to resolve their disagreements."

"And whoever is the last person alive gets his way?"

"Sometimes. Or one of the groups gets tired of fighting and gives up or gives in."

"Why don't they just play 'Rock, Paper, Scissors?'"

Why, indeed?

Memorable

2008-08-14T20:50:00.001-07:00

With a 4-year old, it's hard to know exactly what vacation memories we're making. Will Boo remember picking apples, feeding chickens, petting baby water buffalo, or crossing the wobbly, wooden suspension bridge? One thing's for certain...where their memories are concerned, the boys never cease to surprise.

Remember the game "Battleship", where you tried to find your opponent's ships using coordinates on a grid? The 2008 knock-off features paleontologists searching for dinosaur fossils. Not quite ready for a real match-up, Boo was decorating his grid this evening with white and red flags.

"You see here? It's a big fire! In Cowichan Bay! And everyone's safe because there's a whole mile between each of these markers!"

Cowichan Bay. Two blocks of waterfront shops, a few dozen sailboats, and a bakery and cheese shop worth another 2000 mile trip.

Now how did that name register in Boo's 4-year old brain?

Speaking of sneaking...

2008-03-31T19:18:00.001-07:00

As pre-schoolers go, Boo is something of a culinary marvel. He could survive happily as a vegetarian, particularly if allowed the occasional indulgence of wild salmon. When I roast a head of cauliflower, I have to slow him down to stop him from eating the whole thing. And on more than one occasion, he's consumed an entire pint of blueberries in a single sitting. (He should have some mighty fine brain cells....)

But in addition to his virtues, he's cultivating a serious vice: candy. I've had a can of white icing in the refrigerator ever since the kids used some as mortar to make igloos out of sugar cubes. It was on the highest shelf, tucked out of sight. But when I walked into the kitchen this afternoon, Boo was scampering off the stool, clutching the sticky blue can and a spoon. I gave him an accusatory glance.

With downcast eyes, he stated his case: "I opened the refrigerator, and it just popped out."

When dinosaurs roamed the earth

2008-03-29T21:38:00.000-07:00

We spent the morning in the kitchen, the boys serving as test marketers for my new business/folly. They were decorating dinosaur shapes, and Boo had just glued a speckled egg (aka a dried bean) in the anatomically correct location on an ankylosaurus.

"See, it's a mommy ankylosaurus," Boo explained casually.

Something about that, or perhaps something completely unrelated (and I sincerely hope so), got Max thinking. "Mommy, what did you learn back in the old days when you were in school?"

Hmmm, let me see if I can remember back that far. Ah, yes, the fog is lifting a bit, just over a herd of dinosaurs, and I do have a few, dim memories of childhood.

"Well, honey, I learned a lot of the same things you're learning about now, like reading and math and science, sort of."

"But you didn't learn words like 'oviparous', did you?"

Sheesh. No, oviparous was not on our kindergarten word list. Even today, it would have gotten me tossed from a spelling bee.

Having children is humbling.

In oh-so-many ways.

From an Old Soul, Age 4

2008-03-28T17:20:00.000-07:00

We were on the way home from family/margarita night, and I was feeling much lighter than I had an hour ago. Which left me in a far better frame of mind for Max's backseat volley:

"Don't you think you'd be happier if you had only one child?"

This is one of those moments when you turn the question on the questioner. But before I could, Boo piped up from the other booster seat.

"No, Mommy Wouldn't!!!"

Returning to Socrates: "So Max, can you tell me more about what you're thinking???"

"Well, I think you would, because then you wouldn't have to do as many dishes."

Okay, now that makes some sense to me.

Boo's parry: "Yeah, but you wouldn't have as much love."

More dishes, more love. That's an easy trade-off.

Easy-peasy.

How To Win Friends and Influence People

2008-03-12T03:46:00.000-07:00

The boys are working hard to learn how to get what they want. It's a skill all humans seem naturally to want to cultivate. Among children, tried and true tactics include whining, badgering, threatening (as in, "You are ruining my whole life, mommy!"), and the good, old-fashioned tantrum. If direct methods fail, there's another tack: sneaking. Evidently, it's not only for children. Just ask Elliot Spitzer about that.

Boo, in keeping with his mostly-sweet demeanor, is polishing another approach: kissing up. A couple of weeks ago, we were in the throes of our favorite family skirmish: trying to get the boys to pick up their mess. After my repeated efforts failed and the boys were sleeping like angels, I grabbed a trash bag, as I had warned, and took every last lego, train car, magnifying glass, block and dinosaur off their floor. In the morning, they didn't even notice.

After a couple of weeks, Boo had a flicker of memory.

"Mommy, what happened to all of my big farm animals? I can't find them."

"Remember when you and Max didn't clean up your room? And I told you I would take away whatever was still on the floor when you went to bed? Well, I did, and they're mine now."

"But, but, but...," he stammered. "I want them back!"

"You'll have to earn them."

"OH, YEAH?!" I readied myself for the coming threat.

"Then I'll PICK YOU A FLOWER!"

Good thing I was in the front seat so he couldn't see me smile.

"You're going to have to do a lot more work than that to earn your animals back."

"Hrrrmmph! THEN I'LL PICK YOU A WHOLE BUNCH OF FLOWERS AND BRING THEM TO YOU IN A VASE!"

Not exactly what I had in mind, but a charming offer nevertheless.

Fury and Pragmatism

2008-02-18T18:26:00.000-08:00

Boo wasn't ready for bed. The hours we spent today romping outside in San Diego-like weather weren't enough. The bedtime show didn't suffice. The bath was too short. The art projects were unfinished. We were having a trainwreck of an ending to a blissful day. Standing before the sink, his pout erupted into angry tears.

"You are the worst mommy EVER, and I'm never speaking to you AGAIN!"

I brushed vigorously for quite a while. This gave him time to reconsider his position.

"But I AM going to speak to you at breakfast. Because you know that I'm ALWAYS HUNGRY."

An early Valentine

2008-02-10T20:32:00.000-08:00

I think rainbows are magical. Yeah, yeah, I know there's actual science behind them, but they're still a delightful surprise. Because even when you chance upon sun and rain at the same time, most often you don't get a rainbow--which, to my mind, makes the rainbows you do get...well, magical.

I've seen a few rainbows in my life that were amazing enough to remember years later. Like the one in Ireland, arching over a verdant hill laced with sheep. I wouldn't have been at all surprised if a leprechaun had sprung from behind a stone wall and skipped across the road. Or the morning at the ranch when we'd planned an early get-away and rose before dark to feed the horses. With a magnificent Texas thunderstorm approaching fast, we raced to beat the deluge. As we reached the final gate, heading west, the first fist-sized spatters hit the windshield. At that moment, the sun broke over the eastern horizon, casting one of God's most spectacular rainbows ever against the slate thunderhead.

We were in the country again today, where the boys were frolicking like lambs in the spring-like weather. Max was wielding a garden hose, alternately tormenting me and his brother. Then he bowed the spray in the opposite direction and yelped with joy.

"Look, mommy, a rainbow!"

"Max, it's so beautiful! I love rainbows!"

"I know, mommy. I made it for you. It's your Valentine."

This is one rainbow I think I'll remember forever.

This just in...

2008-02-01T18:22:00.000-08:00

The boys were tucked into bed this evening when I overheard Boo telling Max about his day:

"I tried to tell Lexie that she had a baby in her vagina, but she wouldn't let me."

There are many times when I make a conscious decision to let something slide as a parent, but this was not such a moment. I walked to Boo's bedside.

"Boo, would you tell me again what you said to Lexie today?"

Oh, how I hoped Boo had been trying to convince Lexie that there were lots of babies in North Carolina. First time ever I've actually wished for hearing loss.

"I told her she had a baby in her vagina, but she wouldn't let me."

"Well, honey, Lexie doesn't have a baby inside her. She's too young. Only grown-ups have babies."

"Oh, yes she does! But she didn't want to hear it."

"So what did she do?"

"She put her hand over my mouth."

"Hmmm. Well, it sounds to me like you got off easy this time."

Next time it may be a fist. And let's not even think about what Lexie's dad might do.

Jail and Death

2008-01-31T15:59:00.000-08:00

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.

Insomnia

2008-01-22T18:38:00.000-08:00

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!"

A Belated New Year's Wish

2008-01-07T19:50:00.000-08:00

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.

Brotherly Love

2007-12-31T19:59:00.000-08:00

The rivalry between Max and Boo continues to escalate. Initially, most of the animus originated with Max. But lately, Boo has been playing catch-up. Yesterday morning, in typical fashion, Boo-the-Early-Riser crawled into bed with us for a snuggle. Beaming sweetly as he stroked my cheek, he seemed at his most angelic. I was overcome with motherly adoration.

"Boo, do you know how much I love you?"

"No, mommy."

"I love you more than there are stars in the sky."

"Really? More than everything?"

"Yes, Boo, more than everything."

"Even Max?"

Brotherhood

2007-12-26T20:50:00.000-08:00

My mother-in-law, the educator, psychologist and child-development expert, has pointed out that even siblings raised in intact households do not grow up in the same family. The oldest child has a markedly different view of his or her family than the youngest, and heaven help the unfortunate ones caught in the netherland between the two. You don't have to listen to my mom and aunt recall too many tales from childhood to realize the wisdom of my mother-in-law's perspective.

That this principle holds true in our family has been obvious for some time. Christmas morning was just the latest venue for observing it. Boo unwrapped a mock-up of the space shuttle, complete with solid rocket boosters, fuel tank, astronauts, and a countdown clock. "I've always wanted this!", he shouted. And then, without taking a breath, he volunteered, "I'll share this with you, Max!"

Contrast this with the present Max made at school for our family: a midnight blue Christmas ornament stamped with his small snowy handprint. Each finger had been embellished with black Sharpie to depict the members of our family. "Look!" he observed, without any trace of self-consciousness. "Here's Mommy and Daddy and me and Harley and Cassie! I didn't have room for Boo!" He pointed to the leash drawn carefully between thumb and forefinger. "And I'm walking Harley!"

Let's see. Boo reflexively offers to share his most prized Christmas present with his big brother. And Max edits Boo straight out of the family portrait, relegating him in status to just beneath the family dogs. Is the dichotomy comical or poignant? I suppose that all depends on whom you ask.

The Littlest Angel

2007-12-20T21:23:00.000-08:00

Boo's teachers are well-known for their love of art. During November, his class collectively painted a totem pole. Well, it was kind of a modern totem pole. Deconstructivist, really. Passing by the room, you might not have recognized those four stacked cardboard boxes for what they were. But once a curator explained the primitive piece, it was unmistakably a totem pole.

Against this backdrop, Boo announced this week that his class had a major role in Chapel. The children were going to be angels, Mrs. M. was going to be Mary, and there was going to be a Real Baby Jesus. Boo was tickled at the beatific role he was expected to play.

Boo: I'm going to be an angel, and I'm going to have a silver silo, because all angels have silos. We made the silos at school.

In any place Boo would call heaven, there are going to be silos. Or was a more likely explanation that the children were portraying special angels--the angels of mangers and barn animals and shepherds and sheep? Surely they would have silos, too. And if anyone could make silos, it would be the children in Mrs. M's class. Maybe they were like the totem pole, only rounder and painted silver. The whole silo business was a bit of a mystery, but then, there's no shortage of mystery when it comes to the virgin birth.

As Chapel began this morning, Boo's class filed quietly into the sanctuary, each 3- and 4-year old wearing a shiny tinsel halo. One little girl's halo slipped awkwardly over her eye, causing her to look for all the world like the littlest angel in the story, the one who couldn't keep her halo on straight. The service was heart-breakingly sweet, and the kids performed like pros. Except when Boo, in a burst of spontaneity, announced that there were THREE DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS. And for good measure, in case anyone missed it the first time, he informed us all over again. (Never mind that it is actually five days until Christmas--that is a superfluous detail.)

After the service concluded, proud parents rushed forward to give their kids a squeeze. When I reached him, Boo was beaming with excitement. He pointed to his head.

"Mommy, do you like my silo?!"

The Decider

2007-11-24T08:53:00.000-08:00

One of my most vivid olfactory memories is of my parents' medicine cabinet. The scents of orange-flavored children's aspirin, menthalatum, rubbing alcohol, bandaids and other medical marvels mingled in an unforgettable incense. For a short time, the medicine cabinet contained Flintstones vitamins. How we talked mom into such a sugary frivolity, I'll never know. Perhaps the same way my kids talked me into Dinosaur vitamins.

The most popular children's vitamins today, at least among Max and Boo's friends, are gummy bear vitamins. But a quick analysis at Costco proved that Dinosaur vitamins pack more nutritional punch with less unwelcome sugar. So Dinosaur vitamins it was. My kids were pumped.

Dinosaur vitamins come in three flavors: purple triceratops, orange brontosaurus and red tyrannasaurus rex. Of course, color-challenged Boo sees purple as blue, his favorite color, so for quite some time, he was purely a triceratops kind of guy. When we started to run short of the horny beasts, I started presenting him with wider options. But sometimes the daily decision is more than a wee child can bear. That's when Boo pulls out a page from Max's playbook. With index finger moving to and fro, Boo encants:

Eenie meanie chipsalenie
Ooh ah tumballini
Atchie catchie Liberace
We pick you!

His finger lands on one of the prehistoric reptiles. And sometimes he simply gobbles up his prize.

At other times, though, his finger hovers above its mark. Then it begins to move slowly among the animals, like the pointer moving magically around a Ouija board. And after a spell, sometimes lengthy, he decides. I've heard it said that when Winston Churchill was confronting a difficult decision, he would choose an alternative and then guage his reaction to it. Following in distinguished footsteps, Boo seems to have discovered this mighty wisdom at an early age.

Initially, I was exasperated. Such unnecessary nonsense! It was a vitamin, for heaven's sake, and I had dishes to wash, snacks to pack, shoes to find, teeth to brush, and carpool line was queueing up at school, while we hadn't yet pulled out of the driveway.

Then the thought struck me: This will pass all too soon. In another week or month or season, Boo will grab a vitamin (or not) and be done with it. So now I study his beautiful face, eyelashes flitting back and forth, as he concentrates on making the only decision that matters right now.

Boo's Eggcellent Choice

2007-11-21T18:40:00.000-08:00

Over the last few months, the boys have grown increasingly partial to the ranch, making our return home more and more unwanted. To sweeten the deal, we've adopted the unfortunate habit of treating them to ice cream as we leave town--that is, if they're still awake when we get to the interstate. (After all, you can't very well transport of Nutty Buddy 100 miles and still enjoy it at the end of the trip.) One of the many glories of hour after hour of fresh air, dirt, sun and water is that the kids are pretty well spent by the time we pack to leave. After 15 minutes of jostling on the dirt road, they're often asleep before we make the turn for home. Sometimes, they're long gone before we even cross the cattle guard and lock the gate.

Such was the case with Boo on Tuesday. When he awoke in our driveway, he was inconsolable.

"I WANT ICE CREAM! WHERE'S MY ICE CREAM? I NEED ICE CREAM RIGHT THIS MINUTE!"

And so forth for a good 15 minutes. I tried bargaining, but without many chips, it was a losing battle.

"Applesauce?"

"ICE CREAM!"

"Raisins?"

"ICE CREAM!"

"Pancakes?"

"ICE CREAM!"

He continued to wail. I started the laundry.

In a few minutes, Boo brightened.

"Mommy, I know what I can have instead of ice cream!"

"Great! What do you have in mind, honey?" I clenched my teeth and waited for the unacceptable. Like chocolate cupcakes.

"SCRAMBLED EGGS!"

"Oh, Boo, that's a PERFECT alternative to ice cream! What a FABULOUS IDEA!"

Three organic, Omega-3 enriched scrambled eggs later, we were both happy.

Mommy Dearest

2007-10-21T17:01:00.000-07:00

On the way home from the ranch this evening...

Boo, with authority: Mommies are a kind of monster.

Me, nervously: What did you say, Boo?

Boo, with greater conviction: MOMMIES ARE A KIND OF MONSTER.

Me, wracked with guilt over what kind of damage I might have unwittingly inflicted on my 4-year old: Do you really think so, Boo?

Boo: Yes. And mommies live in the desert.

Me, awash with relief: Boo, do you mean MUMMIES?

Boo: Yep. Mummies.

Not to be confused with mommies.

Boo: And mummies live in the desert.

Me: Ummm......you've got part of that right.

Not exactly alive, those mummies.

Max: Egypt, actually. And they're wrapped in toilet paper.

This idea makes Boo start to giggle.

Boo: Yeah, booty paper.

More giggles. Ordinarily I'd probably have reprimanded Boo's word choice, but I held my tongue.

Because I do not want to a monster. No, no, no. I do not.

46

2007-10-11T19:23:00.000-07:00

How sweet to have reached a stage where, without any prompting from their dad, my kids spring from their beds on October 11, shouting, "Happy Birthday, Mommy!" We spent the afternoon baking and icing a chocolate cake for the occasion. Concerned that 46 flaming candles might trigger the fire alarm, I scripted "46" with 23 candles. Al Gore would have been proud.

The boys struggled to contain themselves until the evening celebration, leaving fingerprints too numerous to count in the icing. When at last the candles were lit and the climactic moment arrived, Boo exclaimed: "Mommy, you're Sixty-Four!"

"No, sweetheart. Just forty-six."

Max chimed in. "So you'll still need our help to blow out the candles!"

It took all three of us, but somehow we managed to stanch the blaze.

All's Well

2007-10-08T21:00:00.000-07:00

"Which of us is going to die first?," Max asked on the way home from the ranch yesterday.

"Honey, none of us knows the answer to that question. Only God does. He has a plan for each of our lives, and we don't know what it is."

"I think I know," Max responded. "I think Daddy's going to die first. And then you. Then me. And then Boo."

"That may be so, or maybe not. None of us knows for sure."

On any other day, this might have been just another conversation with a curious six year old. After all, last week Max wanted to know whether people die really fast or slowly.

But it wasn't just another day. I was awaiting the results of a biopsy. And I was terrified.

Last Tuesday I'd had my annual mammogram. Because I've had recurring pain for years, I also have an ultrasound on the left side. I changed radiologists a year ago because I'd heard too many stories of missed tumors at the other hospital. When I saw Dr. Huygen for the first time last December, we went through the expected motions and he declared me good to go.

This year was a different story.

"Your mammograms look completely normal."

"Great."

"Let's take a look at the ultrasound."

Several minutes later, after careful examination: "Everything looks just fine."

(Long pause.)

"I want to take a look at the other side."

Other side? Who said anything about the other side?

One swipe later: "We're going to biopsy that."

What on earth just happened?

"Did you just have a hunch?"

"Yeah. I just had a feeling. The mass is very small, 7 mm, so if there's a problem, we caught it early."

Holy cow. On Friday I was back for more. But not before I learned more distressing news. Irregular borders. Indistinct margins. Small spots of calcification. I knew enough to know none of this was good news.

As I waited, shivering, the nurse explained what would happen. "And after he's done, he'll tell you what he thinks." Really? A radiologist willing to express an opinion to the patient. How extraordinary.

Dr. Hugyen entered the room. He checked my wrist band. "You have a birthday coming up!" 46 on Oct. 11. "How are you celebrating?"

"One of my dear friends is coming from Chicago for the weekend."

What I didn't say was that of the three couples she was coming to visit, two were already in the throes of cancer treatment.

"And we're getting ready for my son's birthday on Monday."

"How old will your boy be?"

"Four."

"I have a three year old son, too. Do you have any other children?"

"Another son. Just turned six."

"Me, too."

"So I have some idea what it will be like at your house when you get home."

He laughed and finished up.

"So, Dr. Hugyen, what do you think?"

He paused for a long, long time. Coughed nervously. Then spoke in a calm, measured way.

"I'm concerned it's cancer."

He paused even longer.

"I'd say the chances are about 50/50. Either way, it has to come out. The blessing is that we caught it early. Because I wasn't asked to look at this side. Sometimes medicine is science, and sometimes it's art. Sometimes I just get a feeling, and I've learned over the years to trust that feeling, because I've been right too often."

A radiologist with ESP. As blessings go, it doesn't get much better than that.

"Your results will be in by Tuesday, but call on Monday, just in case they get here quicker. You're going to be okay. Because your boys need you."

Now I was staring into one of my worst fears. Third, actually. Because I started making a mental list.

1. Burying one of my children, especially while they're still children.
2. Getting bitten by a snake.
3. Getting cancer, especially while my children are still children.

Now I know that's not rational. Because very, very few people in this country die of snakebites. Fewer than ten per year, in fact. You can tell it's my #2 fear because I actually read things like this on the internet. But they're my fears, damn it, and I can rank them as I please. Which reminds me of my friend who's undergoing chemo, and he needs a stem cell transplant soon, and what he's most afraid of is having to get all of his childhood immunizations afterwards to rebuild his immune system. Not logical, but still real.

So when Max started asking questions this weekend about which of us would die first, it meant something entirely different to me than it would have the week before.

At 6:20 this evening, Dr. Hugyen called. Just from his tone of voice, I could tell he had an early present for me.

"I just received your results. I knew your doctor probably wouldn't get them until tomorrow, and I didn't want you to worry for another day. Plus I love delivering good news."

I'm not sure what he said from there, but I did catch "benign."

"It does have to come out, so your doctor will be calling you to suggest a surgeon. Happy birthday, Mrs. Hightower. And to your son, too."

So I'll be having surgery in the next couple of weeks, and make no mistake. I will be the happiest patient in the O.R.

Almost Famous

2007-10-06T17:26:00.000-07:00

It seems laughable to me now, but as a kid, I wanted to be famous. I didn't contemplate some of the nastier realities of fame, like gossip columns and papparazzi and slanted or sensationalistic media coverage. I just wanted to feel important. I wanted to be seen and known and remembered.

For a long time, I channeled my hunger for external validation into professional success. I got a rush out of appearing in newspaper articles. I enjoyed being asked to speak at professional conferences. I was proud of being promoted to Senior Vice President. But I was deeply dissatisfied with the overall trajectory of my life. When Max was born, I was eager to walk away.

On Labor Day, we attended the annual celebration at the country club. A Texas gullywasher had reduced what would have been a throng of revelers to mere handfuls. Which is why we went to the club. We had the place to ourselves. The face painter drew fanciful animals on both cheeks of each boy. The clown stalked them, making balloon characters upon 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 the kind of people who ordinarily appear in its glossy pages. We do not attend the debutante ball or the fashion show or the member/guest golf tournament. But there were fewer than twenty people at the Labor Day party. Who else were they going to show?

I'm kneeling between the boys, relaxed and content. Max looks directly into the camera, a silly, artificial smile splitting his freckled face. Boo glances shyly to the side. Just a mom and her kids, looking astonishingly like themselves in every way.

This afternoon, Max stumbled across the picture lying on the coffee table. He studied it proudly.

"We're famous!," he shouted.

If the only thing for which I'm ever known is being Max and Boo's mom, that is fame enough for me.

The Cycle of Life

2007-09-27T19:35:00.000-07:00

My friend Robin, the mother of three boys, warned me this would happen. Before I had kids, I'd always sworn there'd be no bugs, reptiles, or rodents in my house. At least not voluntarily. She assured me that that would change when I had kids. That I would change.

The day Lee and the boys caught the tadpoles in the lake, I discovered that Robin was right. Mind you, these were not the tadpoles of my own childhood--black specks the size of pencil erasers that we found in ditches on rainy summer afternoons and condemned to death in makeshift "ponds" dug into the gumbo soil of our back yard. No, these were tadpoles on steroids, with inch-long bodies and twice as much tail. Humongous bullfrog tadpoles. Max began to draw pictures of them.

"Can we keep them, mom? Please! Please! Please!" Like his father, Max was persistent in his tenacity.

I relented. "But we have to find out how to take care of them, and next Saturday we'll bring them back to the lake to release them."

In honor of their spotted tails, Max dubbed them Speckle and Speckly. Experienced horsemen give newcomers to the horse business a piece of sage advice: Never name a horse. An emotional attachment begins with a name, transforming farm animal into family member in a flash of anthropomorphic magic. We now had two additional pets.

We awoke the next day to find that Speckle had sprouted tiny webbed feet overnight. I think I was more excited than the kids.

Back home, on the internet, I was dismayed to learn that the tranformation from tadpole to bullfrog can take between one and three years. "Years?!," I gasped. "I've got 2 kids, 2 dogs and 11 horses to care for. I'm unable to make a commitment to attend a child's birthday party next week. How could I possibly agree to care for yet another animal for three years?!" I warned the children not to get too attached.

The next day I found myself at Petco, purchasing a shallow aquarium and tadpole food. The boys lined half the aquarium with rocks so that the Speckle and his colleague could crawl out of the water when their lungs demanded air rather than water.

Speckle grew knees. Knees! Out of nothing, Speckle suddenly found himself with bones and joints and gross motor skills.

The week his class studied frogs, Boo took the tadpoles to school for show and tell. Other teachers asked if we could bring more tadpoles from the ranch to share with their classes. I promised to try.

At home, the boys created stations for the tadpoles, just like at school. Rock station. Eating station. Water station.

In the meantime, Speckle grew front legs. Then he climbed out of the water and onto the rock station in the morning. As his tail began to disappear, I tried to prepare the boys for the inevitable.

"Right now, Speckle is using up his tail in order to grow into a frog. But when his tail is gone, he'll need to eat live animals like mosquitos and worms. We can't have live bugs flying around our house, so this weekend, we're going to have to take Speckle back to the ranch and release him in the lake. That way, Speckle can make babies, and we can catch them next summer and watch more tadpoles transform into frogs!" Max was forlorn, but he understood. We began to get ready to tell Speckle goodbye.

So I was unprepared for the commotion from the kids' room when they got home from school today.

"Mom, Speckle's dead!"

"What?"

"His eyes are blue, and he was floating upside down in the water."

Max came into the room, holding the limp frog in his palm.

Boo trudged along side his brother. "This is so sad."

I controlled myself. I didn't shriek about what horrible germs might even now be migrating from Speckle to my older son. Nor did I fling the lifeless amphibian down the nearest commode and flush him into oblivion.

This was an important milestone: the death of their first pet. Marking the passing of its life deserved respectful treatment.

"Boys, we need to go into the back yard to bury Speckle."

Max said solemnly, "I'll find a shovel."

Boo said, "We need to have a ceremony."

Max replied, "What's a ceremony?"

I chimed in. "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 does my three year old know such grown-up things? I swear to you that we do not take him to funerals for recreation.)

Max deposited Speckle on a soft cushion of toilet paper. Then I disinfected their hands. Several layers of skin later, the boys chose a flower bed and dug a shallow hole. I gently placed Speckle in the ground and covered him with soil.

"God, thank you for your amazing creature, Speckle. We're so glad we got to know him and care for him and watch him transform from a tadpole to a frog. Speckle was a good frog, and I hope he had a good life. We will miss him. Thank you for all your miraculous creations, even us. Amen.......Boys, is there anything you'd like to say now about Speckle?"

Boo smiled. "Nice ceremony, mommy."

They bolted back into the house to build robots or draw racecars or make an animal parade.

R.I.P., Speckle.

Progress

2007-08-29T19:24:00.000-07:00

With the advent of kindergarten, we've turned over a new leaf:

Max is doing chores.

Daily.

It began as his idea. We've had a magnetic chore chart for some time, but after anemic results the first few times we tried to use it, the idea was put in a holding pattern until a few more clouds of immaturity lifted.

A few days ago, Max remembered the chore chart. Asked that I get it down from the top shelf in the closet. Had me read over the more than dozen chore choices.

He decided on seven.

Among the finalists was "Pick Up Toys." I was elated.

Day One: all seven chores were completed with delight.

Day Two: seven chores were completed with zeal.

Day Three: six chores were completed with equanimity.

Day Four: Max balked at the idea of picking up toys.

"I don't have to put up these blocks. Boo got them out."

"Yes, and he's going to help, too. But you've got a job to do, so let's hop to it."

Max grabbed the robotic claw from his closet and began to pick up blocks one by one and deposit them in the box. With 200 blocks strewn across the floor, a long evening stretched before him.

"It's not fair. I didn't make this mess."

"I know, honey."

"Mom, now I know how you feel."

I think I actually hurt my face with my grin.

Back to School Rituals

2007-08-22T18:31:00.000-07:00

The boys were tucked in early this evening, with hair still glistening from baths and outfits laid out at the foot of their beds. The sun set on summer today; school resumes tomorrow. For Max, it's one of the public milestones: First Day of Kindergarten. Uniforms. Lunch in the cafeteria. Kids ranging in age from 5 to 14 jostling through the halls. It's a big step, and not just for Max. I wanted to mark the occasion for us all. After lullabies, I conducted a short interview.

Me: How are you guys feeling about going back to school?

Max: Scared and excited.

Boo: Mmmmhmmmm.

Me: What are you looking forward to most about going back to school?

Boo: The farm animals and the animals and the building things.

Max: Seeing my friends.

Me: What will you miss most about summer vacation?

Max: Can I go first?

Me: Sure.

Max: Seattle. And the Aquarium. And the farm and the dog and the goat.

Me: Boo, what will you miss the most about summer vacation?

Boo: Seattle. Aunt Kimberly and Uncle Paul.

Me: We miss them, don't we?

Max and Boo: Yeah.

Max: And Lyra and Serei and Sasha. And picking blueberries. I only ate two. And Boo ate, like, a thousand.

Boo: Yeah, eating the blueberries right off the bushes.

Me: It was a great summer, wasn't it?

Max and Boo: Yep.

Max: Hugs and kisses?

Me: Good night, sweet prince. I love you so.

Max: Sweet dreams.

Me: Sweet dreams. I'll see you in the morning.

It's been only 10 minutes, and there's nothing but silence emanating from their room. I think I'll go start the pancake batter for tomorrow morning.

Tough Guy

2007-08-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

Maybe they've come down with a mild case of back-to-school anxiety, but by breakfast time this morning, the boys were at each other's throats. As the final straw, Max destroyed the African savannah that Boo had painstakingly created in their room. Boo stormed into the kitchen and began to disintegrate.

"Hey, Boo, what do you think you might do about this?"

"I. Don't. Know!"

"Could you use your words and tell Max that you didn't like what he did?"

"I did that already."

Hmmmmm. Maybe this wasn't really my problem to solve.

"Well, how else might you handle it?"

Tears banished, Boo perked up.

"I could do like you told me to when we were playing with our new friends at the school."

Oh, really?

Boo shrugged.

"Yeah. I just could toughen up."

And he trotted back towards the bedroom.

Last week, I had arranged an afternoon playdate with a mom and twins who are new to the school. We wound up in the well-airconditioned lunch room, letting our four boys chase two stray beach balls. Max was being particularly feisty with Boo, wresting one ball from his arms even when the other was within easy reach. In response, Boo was flailing about as if someone had just pulverized his last toy. Perhaps because my new mom buddy (who happens to be a preschool teacher) was a witness, I resisted the urge to dangle Max from the ceiling by his shoe laces. I put my arms around Boo and heard a calm whisper I barely recognized.

"Boo, if you're going to get this upset every time Max takes something away from you, you're going to have a long and difficult life. Maybe what you need to do is just to try to toughen up a little. Okay, buddy?"

I paused. Waiting. For screams of protest from Boo.

Instead, his mood brightened.

"I think I can do that, mommy!"

And he trotted off in search of the other ball.

It was a brief exchange. A few seconds, maybe. I didn't give it another thought.

But Boo did.