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.

Good Riddance, and Good Night

2007-08-16T19:38:00.000-07:00

Our annual pilgrimmage to Seattle was a smashing success with all three members of our tribe. We've been replaying the highlight reel ever since we set foot on the plane home. The zoo, the aquarium, the organic farm with farm animals for Boo, wild blackberry bushes for me, and for Max, a dog that would actually fetch, the ferry, the children's museum on Bainbridge Island, watching the float planes land on Lake Union, the zipcord at Ravenna Park, nectarines from the farmer's market, blueberry picking, blueberry pancakes, blueberry muffins, handfuls of blueberries straight off the bush--it's hard to choose a favorite adventure, and not just for the kids.

The only painful legacy of the trip is getting the boys back on a regular sleep schedule. Our more-or-less smooth routine fell victim last night to a perfect trifecta of problems: (1) a two time zone change travelling east, (2) the rare luxury for the boys of getting to sleep next to me (or better yet, grandmother Babee!) for a week, and (3) long, Benadryl-induced naps on the plane.

At midnight last night, the boys were still awake.

This would be less problematic were it mid-June. But school starts next week, and with the advent of kindergarten, Max will need to rise and shine by 6:30.

Well, maybe not shine. Max wakes up like a teenager--under great protest.

So exhausted was I at midnight that I did the unthinkable--allowed them to pile in bed with me at home, since Lee was on a business trip. Both boys were asleep in 2.4 nanoseconds.

We started bedtime preparations much earlier this evening. 7:45.

5:45 Seattle time.

Neither was ready, but I was motivated.

As Boo sprung in and out of his bed like popcorn, Max temporarily assumed the role of Third Parent. It's a job he likes.

"Boo, if you get out of bed One More Time, you'll have to sleep in the playroom for a week!"

"How long is a week, Max?"

"A week is, like, a year!"

Sounds like wishful thinking to me....

Locks of love

2007-08-07T19:56:00.000-07:00

The energy in our house has been in steady crescendo this week as the boys have looked forward to tomorrow's flight to the west coast. By this evening, it resembled a Rolling Stones concert in volume and frenzy.

As I packed for three, straightened up the house, scheduled Max's birthday trip to Sea World, arranged delivery of a new dishwasher after a month of dishpan hands, and scheduled repairs and painting to avoid small fingerprints on kitchen cabinetry, the boys acted out by upending box after box of freshly-organized toys. I took down six-month's worth of art work in the playroom to make room for new Kindergarten masterpieces, only to find Max pulling out files to review of his archived art from years past. One step forward, two steps back.

Finally, in an attempt to douse their wildfire energy, I tossed both boys into the tub. Boo was first to emerge.

Over the summer, Boo has been undergoing a bittersweet transformation. Come to think of it, there's nothing sweet about it. It simply breaks my heart.

For more than a year, Boo has been blessed with a halo of golden curls. Think Rubens cherub. Beautiful, stop-strangers-on-the-street whisps. When the Gulf Coast air is at its hot and muggy worst, Boo's perfect ringlets are at their angelic best. A cosmic consolation prize.

But Boo's hair is getting darker and straigher. With a few more months and a shorter cut, Boo's locks might become utterly unremarkable.

I've been in a strange stage of denial, scrunching his hair vigorously after each bath and contemplating products like "curl activator." For my three year old.

This evening I decided that either I need to seek professional treatment, or I need to make peace with the strands on Boo's head. After his bath, I pulled a comb from the top drawer.

Boo doesn't do combs. Combs have always made Boo's hair look goofy--frizzy, wild, practically levitating from his head. But not this evening.

We stood in front of the mirror. I began to gently stroke his hair, some to the left, some to the right, forming a part where only curls had been. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!"

His protests were vigorous.

Then he crumpled to the floor.

"Hey, Boo Bear, time for pjs."

"No pjs!"

"Hey, buddy, what's the matter?"

Silence for a good long while. Then:

"I need my curly hair (pronounced 'hay-yer')."

Boo is nothing if not a Texan.

"You do?"

"Yeah (pronounced 'yeah-yuh')."

"Hmmm."

"Because I don't look like me."

He sounded wrecked.

"Oh, sweetheart, you'll always look like you. Your eyes, your nose, your smile, and your sweet heart. There will only be one you, and I'd know you anywhere."

"But Babee won't recognize me without my curly hair!"

Now he was wailing.

His beloved Babee, from whom we've always told him he acquired his curly hair. If he no longer wore her hair, the hair they've shared for as long as he can remember, would he still be her Boo?

I wanted to sob, too.

"Would you like me to put the curls back in your hair?"

"Yeah-yuh."

I scooped him into my lap and lovingly tossled his hair. It made for a somewhat messy composition, straightish on top, ending in fusilli curls. Like a teenager growing out a stale perm.

What's wrong with denial for just a while longer?

Birthday Business

2007-08-05T19:28:00.000-07:00

As a general rule, Max embraces the school of thought that more is more. At bedtime, he ritually arranges a couple of dozen stuffed animals above, around and atop his horizontal form. He has never seen a toy in the Back to Basics catalogue that he doesn't Love/Want/Need. And for his fifth birthday, his invitation list grew to 37 before I finally cut him off.

In contrast, Reed ascribes to Mies Van der Rohe's philosophy that less is more. He selects a single stuffed animal to accompany him to sleep. ("It's all I can hold.") After a birthday party on Saturday, he politely declined the regulation-sized soccer ball that was being offered as the "goodie ball." The invitation list for his next birthday party consists of his two best friends. Period.

But Max has limits--limits that even he is beginning to recognize.

Max's birthday is only six weeks away, and the topic of his party has begun to suck much of the oxygen from our house. Theme, location, invitation list, present wishlist--Max's preferences have changed nearly as often as the date on the calendar. (This is why a wise friend once cautioned me never to buy a Halloween costumer until October 24.)

Initially, Max decided that he only wanted to invite the three members of last year's carpool, plus an additional friend from the neighborhood. "Not like last year's birthday," he implored. "There were too many people!" Glad he remembered that on his own. I'm recalling the sight of Max, clearly overwhelmed, pulling a large plastic tub over his body and disappearing. "I'm a turtle," was his rather transparent explanation.

But recently the invitation list had begun to show signs of project creep. At last count, he'd reached 16, with some obvious omissions that would be realized as soon as school starts.

On the way home from the ranch, as the boys slept, I made a counterproposal to Lee.

"What if we offered Max the chance to go to Sea World instead of having a birthday party? He's been begging to go."

Lee jumped aboard the plan.

I crossed my fingers.

This evening, after Lee had gone to bed, I broached the subject with Max and Boo.

"YES YES YES YES YES YES YES!!!!"

"Now you understand the trip would be instead of having a birthday party?"

"YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES!!!!!"

"And you still want to do it?"

"YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES!!!!!!!"

I pulled up the website. The boys' exuberance escalated.

I breathed a sigh of relief. No birthday theme. No entertainment. No decorations. No goodie bags. No extra housecleaning. No last-minute helium balloons. No giant birthday cake for 50.

But Max was in a different place, imagining a day filled with orcas and sea lions and penguins and belugas and sharks and Clydesdales. (Yes, Clydesdales. Where was the asterisk that said, "Which of these animals doesn't belong in the sea?")

Then Max had another epiphany. "Maybe we can see Andy! Andy lives near Sea World!"

He had been one of Max's best buddies from school. His family moved this summer. Max hasn't stopped talking about him.

"Yep, that's where Andy is."

"But I don't know why."

"You don't know why he moved?"

"No."

"Well, his mother grew up in San Antonio, and they moved to be closer to her family."

"Her family?" Max looked puzzled.

"Yep, her mom and dad. Andy's Babee and Poppi."

A knowing look passed over Max's face as the significance of Andy's larger family took hold.

He grinned. "And what about his Aunt Kimberly and Uncle Paul?"

With no party to plan, I can hardly wait to celebrate Max's birthday. Now if we can just figure out how to build him an airplane-shaped treehouse....

Can't Say "No"

2007-07-25T23:07:00.000-07:00

I don't recall ever seeing a bag of potato chips in my childhood home. As a girl, I treasured summer days when I'd run next door for lunch with my best friend. There, in a corner of the pantry, sat an enormous golden cannister of Charles potato chips. My appetite for them was insatiable, their salty crackle a perfect foil for a tuna sandwich and a cold glass of milk. In my teen years, my flirtation with Charles gave way to a serious affair with Ruffles. I'm still hooked. I only see Ruffles a couple of times a year, but every time, I embarass myself around that red, white and blue bag.

Several decades ago, I recall being told that the secret to remaining faithful in marriage was never to put yourself in a situation where you would be able to cheat. So like my mom before me, I don't keep chips in my house. I do it so my kids can't gorge on junk food. And neither can I.

Every other Tuesday, my playgroup gets together for dinner. (I started to say "my kids' playgroup," but the truth is, the moms preserve the group for our own sanity.) When the weather cooperates, you'll find us at a park. But thanks to our soggy summer, we recently found ourselves at a bowling alley. My memories of childhood bowling are pocked with frustration and the visceral THUD of gutterballs. But bowling alleys have come a long way in 30-something years. Retractable rails now run the length of the lane, so that even a 3-year old can send a ball caroming from side to side until it makes contact with pins. An added benefit of all that weightlifting and running and sliding and jumping is that my kids usually fall asleep on the ride home.

Yep, on rainy days, bowling rocks.

So there we were at the bowling ally, awaiting pizza delivery for dinner, when someone nearby spilled a bag of Cheetos. I didn't see the accident. Didn't hear it. Just turned to find both of my children crawling around on their hands and knees...

eating Cheetos...

as fast as they could stuff them into their mouths...

OFF THE BOWLING ALLEY CARPET...

looking like crazed little drug addicts.

Surely, wherever you might have been, you heard me screaming. And trying to resist the urge to pour disinfectant into their flourescent orange mouths.

They lived.

But the incident got me thinking about my approach. You might call it "abstinence only." They might not be able to eat crap when they're at home, but when the opportunity arises? Well, they haven't learned a thing about self-control.

I have plenty of friends who've chosen a different path. Chips and candy and ice cream around the house. Their children partake some. And then they stop.

I wonder what that would look like?

I'd have to learn myself, too.

Saint Nick

2007-06-29T19:15:00.001-07:00

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."

Red Badge of Courage: Part 4

2007-06-26T19:42:00.001-07:00

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.

Red Badge of Courage: Part 3

2007-06-22T20:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Red Badge of Courage: Part 2

2007-06-22T03:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Red Badge of Courage: Part 1

2007-06-21T23:49:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Please Slow Down

2007-06-17T19:48:00.000-07:00

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.

It Feels Like What?!

2007-06-15T18:08:00.000-07:00

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."

Any horse but a clothes horse

2007-06-12T19:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Not Vegan Yet

2007-05-08T22:05:00.000-07:00

"What's for dinner, mom?"

Max awoke hungry from a long, fever-induced nap at 8:30 Saturday evening. I pulled the leftovers out of the refrigerator.

"Chicken, tortellini with pesto, corn on the cob and broccoli."

"Is it a real chicken?"

"Yes, honey."

"You mean it's a real chicken?"

"Yep."

"Really?! A chicken, the farm animal, you know, the kind that Boo likes?!"

There was a long pause as Max ruminated.

When the boys have raised questions about the origins of food, our conversation has resembled the following:

Dad orders a steak.

Boy: What's a steak?

Dad: It's meat.

Boy: Is it chicken?

Dad: No, it's beef. Beef comes from cows.

Mom orders a porkchop.

Boy: A forkchop? Does it come from forks?

Mom: A Porkchop. It comes from pigs.

Boy: And ham comes from a hamster.

Mom: Thankfully, no. It comes from pigs, too.

Boy: What's a hotdog?

Mom: A hotdog is.....ummmm.....honey, why don't you order the cheese sticks instead? And then you can have ice cream for dessert.

For children--and perhaps for any of us who think on it long enough--the idea that what's for dinner was recently Wilbur or Bambi or Elsie is not so easily digested. I recently heard that most kids go through a stage where they reject any food that used to have a face. Sometimes that stage lasts a lifetime. So on Saturday evening, I braced for Max's repulsed response, recalling favorite vegetarian entrees as I waited.

"COOL!!!! Boo, did you know we're eating a Real Live Chicken?! Only it's Dead?! With No Feathers?!"

I guess the spinach cannelloni can wait another week.

Who's the Boss?

2007-05-07T19:37:00.000-07:00

Lee and I were delivering buckets of grain to hungry horses Sunday morning while the boys occupied themselves in the gator. When we returned for hay, Max and Boo were busy dividing up responsibility for the world.

Max: I'm the boss of you.

Boo: And I'm the boss of babies.

I chimed in.

Me: And I'm the boss of both of you.

Boo: And daddy's the boss of you.

(You could probably hear Lee laughing all the way in Seattle.)

Lee, whispering in Boo's ear: Let's just keep that between you and me, okay?

Color My World

2007-04-30T19:01:00.000-07:00

Just when I think I've adjusted to the idea of my kids being color blind, one of them will shake me out of complacency with an unexpected curve ball. Saturday morning, en route to the farmers market for the season's first blueberries, we were playing "I Spy" in the car.

Boo said, "I spy something green."

After exhausting the usual suspects--trees, grass, bushes, leaves, street signs, stop lights--we asked for another clue.

"Inside or outside the car?"

"Inside."

There wasn't much green to be found inside the car, so we surrendered.

"What did you spy, Boo?"

"Mommy's hair!"

I was transported back to the day last fall, when the idea was just beginning to dawn on me that the kids might be color-deficient, when Boo asked me with utter seriousness, "Is a horse's mane green?"

If someone would just salve the small pinprick to my heart, I think I could find it within me to laugh.

Metamorphosis

2007-04-27T18:46:00.000-07:00

On Friday nights, we frequent a local hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant. Reincarnated from the site of an old Whataburger, our neighborhood dive has gained statewide acclaim. Is it a coincidence that the worries of my week seem to dissipate as quickly as the ice in my margarita? This evening we were finishing dinner when Max piped up.

"Hey! I can turn my finger into a Christmas tree!"

"Really?"

"Just watch!"

Slowly Max snaked his index finger through the remainder of his refried beans, then rolled his fingertip in his Mexican rice. Satisfied, he held his finger aloft, admiring the orange flecks adhering haphazardly to his sticky flesh.

"See!," he shouted proudly. "It looks like Christmas ornaments!"

Through the magic of tequila, what would have been an Emily Post infraction before a margarita can be transformed into pure hilarity after one.

I needed that.

Hickory Dickory Dock...

2007-01-22T12:03:00.000-08:00

Several nights ago I had a bad dream involving a rattlesnake. When I awoke at 3 a.m., I heard noises. Overhead. Coming from the attic. First there was scratching (which my groggy subconscious could easily have mistaken for a rattle). Then there was squeaking. Then rustling and skittering and thumping like small animals doing a floor exercise in our rafters.

Last week's cold snap had all of the neighborhood rodents looking for a fireplace, a down comforter and a hot toddy. And evidently they're like homing pigeons--once they've got the map to your place, they just keep coming baaaaack.

In the morning I called the nice pest control people. They were due out this afternoon.

Yesterday morning, as I was getting ready to make breakfast, I noticed that our guests hadn't been content with the upstairs accomodations. Or maybe they just got the munchies in the middle of the night.

Because they'd made their way into our kitchen, where they'd left (ahem) evidence of their visit. On our stove. I'm teetering on the brink of Too Much Information here, but I'll just add one other salient point: the evidence suggested that we weren't dealing with your run-of-the-mill field mouse here. Nooooooooo. That would be too simple. Too tolerable. Too pleasant.

What we've got on our hands...no, thankfully, not our hands...what we've got in our midst is one...no, way more than one...several....I'm having a really hard time expressing this without resorting to expletives that I abandoned more than a decade ago...VERY BIG , NASTY, DISGUSTING NOCTURNAL ANIMALS THAT LIKE TO CARRY THE BUBONIC PLAGUE. Living in our house. With us.

After I finished screaming, I spent the next four hours disassembling the Viking range right down to the tubing and scrubbing every square inch of it with soap and bleach and a wire brush.

And I still may never cook on it again.

Anyhoo, I explained to the kids that we had unwanted visitors. Mice, maybe, or rats. That they could not, under any circumstances, sleep on the floor until the creatures were gone from the house. That they could no longer take food out of the kitchen (should have been a house rule, oh, about 5 years ago) lest they unwittingly become snacks. And that the Mouse Man was coming on Monday, and he would (surely...oh, please, dear God) make everything better. Even more than the cashier who carded me, I was tempted to hug him just for showing up.

For my five and three year old boys, the whole business of rodents in the house was electrifying. In a good way. The Mouse Man? At our house?

They had to tell the other kids in carpool.

As the news leaked out on the way home from school, I stole shamed glances in the rearview trying to gauge children's reactions. I could just imagining their mothers, shuddering with repulsion, forbidding little Johnnie and Stevie and Katy from ever, EVER setting foot in our house again.

The rodent disclosure was embraced with enthusiasm.

"We had mice in our attic once!," Johnnie said.

I'm embarrassed at how relieved I was.

"Yeah, and did you know that a mouse trap has a really strong pincher on it?" This from little Katy, no relation to Johnnie.

"And you put food in the trap and when the mouse goes to eat it, the pincher pinches the mouse's head." She was quite knowledgeable about the mechanics of a mouse trap. I began to feel a little giddy.

"And then the mouse goes to jail."

"No, it doesn't!," countered Johnnie. "It goes to heaven."

"Nuh, uh!," Katy insisted. "It goes to mouse jail."

Well, then. I guess that takes all the fun out of it for my kids.

By the time we arrived home, Max and Boo were still bursting with excitement over the Mouse Man. You'd have thought we'd gotten a new pet.

"Let's make a mouse trap!," Max shouted.

The kids have seen a mouse trap left over from my home-extermination job after the garage apartment was completed. I contemplated putting a few of them in the attic before bringing in the professionals, but the prospect of a very pissed off rat or opposum up there convinced me otherwise.

The boys vanished into the playroom.

A few minutes later, they were ready to show off their inventions: "Come see, mom!"

Max had positioned three pieces of wood upright and side-by-side, like toy soldiers.

"If one mouse walks in front of this piece of wood, and another mouse bumps into this piece over here, then the wood will fall and SMASH the mouse!" Max was clearly pleased with himself.

"Good thinking, Max." I examined the mechanism for awhile. "But what if there's only one mouse?"

"WELL, when the mouse squeezes through here, I'll push this piece of wood and it will be booby-trapped and it will knock over this piece and SMASH the mouse! It's kind of like dominoes."

"Wow! So will you have to be there in order to get the mouse?"

"I'll hide behind here." He demonstrated his mouse-hunting technique.

"Hmmm, mice are nocturnal...."

"But I'm not going to stay up all night...."

Relieved, once again.

Meanwhile, Boo had been sitting at the table, patiently cutting a rectangular piece of paper.

"Here's my mousetrap!" He held up the paper, creased in the middle, and worked it open and shut with his thumb and fingers. "It's called the Clam."

"Mine's called the Smasher Domino!"

"The Clam is really going to work."

"I think the Smasher Domino is better."

"Do you think the Mouse Man will need our traps?"

Maybe so, sweetheart. Maybe so.

Playgroup

2007-01-15T14:53:00.000-08:00

Max first dipped his toes into the educational pool when he attended a program at our church for two-year olds. The class consisted of ten children from nine families. Eight of the little royals sat confidently atop the birth order throne. Six moms were pregnant again (the mother of the twins with a second set of them, Lord help her), and a seventh had a babe in arms. Some of us stayed home with our kids; others worked (and worked and worked) both outside the home and in. Elementary school teacher, professional fundraiser, money manager, journalist, physical education teacher, office manager, attorney--we were brought together by our children. But we weren't especially close that first year, at least I wasn't. When one mom suggested we form a playgroup as the school year drew to a close, I participated more from lack of alternatives than enthusiasm. How could I have known that over the next two-and-a-half years, these women would save my sanity more times than I can count? With spur-of-the-moment babysitting when I was running a sick child to the hospital. With meals when my husband was incapacitated for weeks with a herniated disk. With confessions from the toddler wars. All slathered with self-deprecation and a thick shmear of laughter.

Here's what I just didn't understand: All mothers are not the same. Even within the relative homogeneity of my little sphere, there's a broad band of parenting practices out there, from sugar content to television content. So it's reassuring and restorative to find a handful of parenting soulmates, people whom you like and trust, people who don't compare and compete, people whom you'd entrust with your kids as surely as your own mother.

That's how the group came to be at our house this morning, whiling away the hours over coffee and bagels. The kids crafted flags, loosely interpreting (deconstructing?) the flags of other countries and augmenting them with Mickey Mouse and SpongeBob stickers. They decorated gingerbread men and ate some of their parts. All 15 of us squeezed into the playroom and danced--the Twist, the Monkey and the Swim, followed by an exuberant rendition of the Hokey Pokey. Nine children played one round of alphabet bingo; the girls stuck around for a second. And between the structured activites, the kids managed to invent plenty of spontaneous fun, with Legos and construction tools and a mystery box fashioned from a cardboard box, duct tape and old tennis sock. Granted, some of the entertainment involved walls and the PlasmaCar and produced a soundtrack much like a bowling ball making its way down Lane 8. All in all, though, I judged the morning a big, messy, glorious success. For a nanosecond, I even imagined homeschooling my kids, as long as the rest of the gang promised to show up, too.

One mom called this afternoon just to share her son's thoughts on the day. His feedback was particularly poignant because this child and Max have had their difficulties. Serious and shy, he became the frequent victim of Max's aggression. As each boy worked through his own inner dilemma, the other served as his perfect psychological foil. Max struggled with whether to dominate his peers or to belong, even as the other child battled his conflicting urges to defend himself or withdraw. But today that seemed like very old news. As they arrived home, the boy asked, "Mom, if we ever live somewhere besides this house, could we live next door to Max?" Truth be told, no compliment could have pleased me more.

The Eye of the Beholder

2007-01-14T19:01:00.000-08:00

Perhaps it would be like this even if Max and Boo weren't so dissimilar. Maybe it's how siblings start to differentiate themselves. Maybe, unconsciously, they're creating a Hobson's choice for their conflicted mother.

The bottom line is, if I ask a question of my kids, I'm guaranteed different answers.

Want peanut butter and jelly or turkey and cheese sandwiches for lunch?
Peanut butter and jelly.
Turkey and cheese.

Want to play outside or inside?
Outside.
Inside.

Want to go to the park or the zoo?
Park.
Zoo.

Nowhere is the kids' cosmic divide greater than when it comes to breakfast. Boo comes down squarely in favor of waffles; Max is unabashedly a pancake man.

For most of their rivalries, I'm Switzerland--don't take sides and couldn't care less. But in the breakfast wars, if I'm doing the cooking, I side with Boo. The world's best waffle recipe (I think from Food and Wine's 25 best recipes of all time) would tip the balance by itself. But the fact that any extras can be frozen and reheated in a few short minutes, with the same superlative results, makes any debate on the matter moot in my book. By doubling the recipe, I can bank on six ethereal waffles ready any day of the week.

We didn't budge an inch from the house this weekend, which gave us plenty of time for morning baking. On Saturday, Boo got first dibs. When Max learned his breakfast fate, he was nearly inconsolable. The only thing that salvaged our morning was the promise of pancakes on Sunday. This morning, he held me to it.

To increase the entertainment value, I sculpted letters out of the first batch of pancakes: M A X, B O O. The boys were tickled. Oblivious to the limitations of the craft, the boys demanded more: "I want farm animals!," insisted Boo. "An elephant and a lion and a zebra!," shouted Max.

For the next course, with Mickey Mouse in mind, I pooled two large dollops of batter on the griddle and tried to drip smaller blobs in the "10 and 2" positions. The "ears" weren't exactly symmetrical, nor were they positioned to resemble any animal I've seen recently, but with a gleeful flourish, I slid their flapjacks onto their plates: "Here are your animals!"

Both boys squealed with ecstasy. "It's a koala bear!" Max insisted. "Mine's a chicken, isn't it?," queried Boo. I might never have conjured up that description myself, but who was I to deny Boo his farm animals? "It sure is, honey!" Happily, they began lopping off fluffy ears and tails.

"More animals!," they demanded through their sticky lips. But I was reaching the end of my artistic rope, and I was ready for some pancakes myself. I poured three easy circles on the griddle, contemplating how to assuage their disappointment. Then I had another crazy idea. Even as I laid the golden orbs on their plates, I wondered whether they'd be on to my trickery.

"What animal is that, Max?"

"An elephant?"

"No."

"A snake?"

"No, look again."

"A chameleon?"

"What animal rolls into a ball, and we see them at the ranch?"

"An armadillo! You made me an armadillo pancake!" He couldn't have sounded more excited if I'd let a live armadillo loose in the kitchen.

"And what is yours, Boo?"

"A goat?"

"No, it's a kind of bug."

"An insect?"

"Close."

"A caterpillar?"

"Closer. It's a bug that rolls into a ball."

Max chimed in: "A doodle bug, like we used to see at the bakery!"

Now the boys turned their rapt attention to my pancake. Never mind that it looked 100% identical to both of theirs. "What animal is yours, mommy?"

"I know, I know!" exclaimed Max. "It's a turtle with it's legs and head in its shell!"

Like a Rorschach test, or searching the passing clouds, what we see is what lies within.

Unscheduled

2007-01-11T19:31:00.001-08:00

Mindful of the pitfalls of overscheduling children, I've made a conscious effort to modulate the kids' activities. Last semester, Max had a group tennis lesson on Monday, and both boys had gymnastics on Wednesday, as well as swimming on Thursday until the weather turned cooler at the end of October. Maintaining this "limited" schedule meant that Max had to forego art, drama, baseball, soccer and Tae Kwan Do, all activities in which he has expressed an interest and in which a number of his friends participate.

For me, there were two primary benefits to the activities we did choose: (1) Someone else participated in my daily efforts to entertain and exhaust the boys, and (2) I got to see other moms, which sometimes served as my only adult conversation during the day (not including the cashier at the Starbucks drive-through). My kids had more unstructured time than some of Max's friends who have lessons and sports games five or more days a week. But even so, I sometimes questioned whether I was doing the right thing by them. It never crossed my mind that I might not be doing the right thing by me.

This semester, I'm taking a different tack. No scheduled activities. Not until March when we'll resume those all-important swimming lessons. When the time came for the kids to return to school, I wasn't ready for them to go back. (That's a first.) For starters, we'd had a wonderful Christmas vacation, with the boys better behaved than ever before. Moreover, it's the last semester before Max starts Kindergarten, which will more than double the number of hours he spends at school each day. So perhaps I'm feeling a bit clingy.

In just two weeks, here's what I've learned.

1. My kids are not pining for lessons. Max recently asked when he could go back to swimming, but other than that, they have not seemed to miss them.

2. I have ample time to play with the kids, grocery shop, make dinner, do the laundry, and tidy up the house because I'm not driving around the city several afternoons a week.

3. My kids find all kinds of wonderful things to do around the house, some of which involve me, and many of which do not. Making astronaut helmets. Building tents and teepees. Turning couch cushions into clubhouses. Painting rocks. Playing "rain" (clothing optional, umbrellas and hose required.) Learning to balance each other on an improvised seesaw. "Mountainclimbing" on the slide, with one of the boys on belay. Setting the table. Cleaning up their room. Making muffins. Baking banana bread. Reading books. Using their imaginations. Exercising their creativity. Participating in the sweet rhythm of family life.

4. My kids are tired and ready for bed earlier than when we were busy with activities. Some days they even ASK to go to bed. (I am not making this up.) Maybe because they've had plenty of time with each other and with me. Maybe because I have more time to establish a consistent late afternoon/early evening routine. And let me just add that when they kids are asleep by 7:00 or 7:30, it's all good.

5. The time I spent with other moms was not particularly satisfying--short in duration, with multiple distractions and interruptions. I don't miss spending time with them nearly as much as I imagined I would. And for those I really miss? We need to do lunch.

6. The people I've really missed are my kids.

Love at first sight

2006-12-31T22:18:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I went to the grocery store for routine weekly shopping: mounds of produce, chicken, tamales, pasta, bottled water, raisins, granola, Amy's pizzas, OJ, milk, yogurt, pesto, tortillas and a six-pack of beer. Nothing out of the ordinary, except the kids weren't in tow (a factoid which I suspect is integral to the rest of the story).

I was rummaging through my purse for keys or reading glasses or something when the check-out clerk mumbled something indecipherable.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Are you old enough to buy beer?"

Some sound that might have resembled laughter sputtered from my lips.

"Um, well, I'm forty-five?"

He looked at me with incredulity.

"Are you serious?!"

"I'm afraid so."

Granted, I was wearing what could pass for college uniform of blue jeans, T-shirt and clogs. My grey roots didn't betray me, having fallen victim to a recent home touch-up. Maybe some credit goes to my newly shaped eyebrows, which I'd carefully copied from Oprah's website after reading that every time she has hers done, the tabloids write that she's had a facelift.

Or maybe the poor guy was just having an off day.

I've always looked younger than my age. (When I was in law school, a pre-pubescent boy mistook me for a fellow middle-schooler and asked me to dance.) During my twenties, I was embarrassed each and every time I was carded. But on Friday, it was all I could do not to kiss the cashier.

Problem Solved

2006-12-11T21:41:00.000-08:00

"What was your favorite part of school today, Max?"

"We acted out my story."

Each Tuesday and Thursday, one child in Max's class gets to create a story all his own and cast each of the characters. The following day, the Chosen act out the script for their classmates. Whether the characters are princesses or pirates, the exercise teaches that every child is an author. And that good stories contain conflict and resolution.

Max wrote his story a few weeks ago, but its debut was delayed by his illness, then Thanskgiving. Today his drama finally opened off-off-Broadway.

"What was your story about?"

"A giraffe, a bear, an owl and a farmer."

"So what happened?"

"The giraffe got out of his cage and went into the woods. The bear saw the giraffe and scared it. The bear and the owl tried to eat the giraffe, but it ran back to its cage and was safe. Then the farmer went into the woods. The bear and the owl ate the farmer. Then the zookeeper took care of the giraffe."

"Interesting story, Max. So who played the giraffe?"

"Ryan."

"Who played the bear?"

"Dylan."

"Who played the owl?"

"Me."

"And who played the farmer?"

"Andrew."

Now the story took on real meaning. Andrew is Max's oldest friend (though not his best). They've known each other since they were a few months old, having met at a Montessori mom-and-me class. Since then, they've shared school, gymboree, swimming, and gymnastics classes, as well as a multitude of playdates and parties.

Enter Dylan. Dylan joined the boys' school last year and has been an object of Max's affection since she hit campus. But she and Andrew live a stone's throw from each other and are nearly inseparable. They carpool. They play after school and on weekends. Their moms rely on each other for emergency babysitting. And if that weren't enough, they seem to adore each other. Or at least Andrew adores Dylan, and Dylan enjoys being adored. (Quite a powerful position, Dylan has already learned.)

Max wants Dylan. Does he want her because she's fascinating and admirable? Does he want her because she seems so disinterested in him? Does he want her because his buddy has her? Who the heck knows. But make no mistake...he does want her. How do I know?

A recent conversation:

"Mom, I'm feeling a little shy about getting married."

"Why, sweetheart?"

"Well, I've never been to a wedding before."

"That's okay, Max. You'll get to go to plenty of weddings before you have to be in one."

"But I don't know who I want to marry."

"Well, you've got lots of time to decide."

"But I do like Dylan...."

Dylan, who seems to be taken for now. And so Max's subconscious threw them together on stage, where he managed, with Dylan's participation, to dispatch Andrew.

"Did you find a way to get rid of Andrew?"

"Yep."

"So you could have Dylan all to yourself?

Max nodded and smiled.

Helpful

2006-12-08T01:53:00.000-08:00

At one of the wonderful parenting seminars I attended at the kids' school, our instructor explained that as a normal part of their development, children cycle through periods of equilibrium and disequilibrium at approximately six month intervals. When one of my kids has been testy for days on end, I'm reassured that biologically speaking, this too shall pass. Once you've added more than one chick to the nest, though, family dynamics get a lot more complicated, in part because your children's developmental trajectories oscillate like overlapping sine waves. In our house, Max is riding the crest of cooperation that accompanies age five just as Boo is descending into the valley of darkness that is age three and a half. I try to comcentrate on Max's spirit of helpfulness.

I recently found myself in the W.C. without a shred T.P. I decided to enlist Max in my dilemma.

"Hey, Max, could you go into your bathroom and bring me a roll of toilet paper?"

"Sure, mom."

He appeared moments later holding a pristine roll of paper towels. I imagined his thought process as he searched the cabinet beneath his sink.

White? Check.

Paper? Check.

On a roll? Check.

Never mind the 11" by 11" quilted squares. And then he dispensed a dollop of five-year old wisdom:

"Now don't use too much!"

"DIRTY"

2006-11-26T06:17:00.000-08:00

That was the comment on the parking stub when I retrieved my car from Texas Children's Hospital. Evidently the valets make notes for themselves to better distinguish one vehicle from another. And what was most noteworthy about my car was that it was Unclean.

DIRTY.

As if God himself had rendered judgment.

Never mind that I'd spent the last eight days tending to a pitifully sick child. No one cared to mention that the oil is changed regularly, the tires freshly balanced and the engine, she still purrs after nearly 100,000 miles. Nor did anyone remark on the emergency preparations so thorough that we could survive for several days if stranded (hypothetically, of course) in a blizzard or hurricane evacuation.

DIRTY.

It was true, of course. But I felt the same sting of shame as when my housekeeper remarked about my home, "I may be poor, but at least my house is clean." (Am I the only one who sees the irony in this? My housekeeper complaining about the condition of my house...you know, given that I pay her to clean the bloody place?!)

With two kids, two dogs and 4,000 square feet, I could spend every waking moment of the day maintaining my house to Mommy Dearest standards and torturing my kids into various neuroses in the process. But I choose otherwise. I choose puzzles and painting. I choose planting seeds and harvesting citrus from the backyard. I choose homemade waffles and meatballs and banana bread. I choose Go Fish and Goodnight, Moon.

After the kids are down for the night, the choices aren't any easier. Wash clothes or write Christmas cards? Restore order to the playroom or read a book? Sweep or sleep?

I think I'm making the right choices for my family and my sanity, but still. The dust and disorder that builds up in my house and car bugs me. Infuriates me. Makes me absolutely crazy. Because, you see, I'd love to have a house that gleams from light fixtures to baseboards. I'd love clean-enough-to-eat-off-of floors. I'd love windows that are utterly transparent. I'd love a place for everything and everything in its place.

But I have to choose.

Ann Richards famously said, "I didn't want my epitaph to read, 'She kept a clean house.'"

Neither do I. But I do so wish it were true.

Mom Was Right

2006-11-25T18:54:00.000-08:00

It wasn't enough to be born with fair Irish skin. During my foolish--make that my really stupid teens, I added baby oil and an occasional nap under a 70's era tanning light. Not that I ever tanned, of course. Instead, I pre-paid my dues for the skin cancer club with a few blistering sunburns and joined the waiting list.

Now older and wiser, I'm nearly hypochondriacal about changes to my skin. In September, when a small, pink blemish near my right temple didn't clear up as it should have, I speed-dialed my dermatologist.

"How long has this been there?" she asked.

"A couple of weeks."

"Is that all?" (Evidently, I am a little hypochondriacal....) She pulled out the bright lights and magnifying glass for a closer look.

"Yeah, and I was due for my regular check-up anyway, so I figured this was a good reason for an appointment.

And it was. A biopsy and a week later, I had my first case of skin cancer. If you get to choose, basal cell carcinoma is the cancer you want. Slow growing. Never metastisizes. Has polite table manners, too. Given what people I love have endured in the name of cancer, I hardly deserve to appropriate the term. But still, mine needed to go. I was referred to a plastic surgeon.

Using a lifetime of well-honed avoidance techniques, I gave little thought to what an excision might entail. In my four and a half second analysis, I'd concluded the procedure would be a dressy version of the biopsy--a little numbing here, a little scraping there, a tiny band-aid, perhaps in a designer color, and I'd be on my way. I'd even demoted the whole business from "surgery" to "procedure."

Then, too, Max has been sick. Really, really sick. Pink eye, followed by an ear infection, which led to an allergic reaction to antibiotics, leaving him more vulnerable to (what is probably) pneumonia. Yet he has managed to face doctors and needles and hospitals and X-ray machines and a counterful of medicines with quiet courage. So who was I to whine about a little out-patient procedure?

The first thing the nurse did when she came to prep me for surgery was to ground me. GROUND ME! There are some things I don't want to know, and I have elected thus far not to google this, but as best I can tell, the doctor wanted to make sure I wouldn't be electrocuted if there was any static electricity in the room when it came time to cauterized my head.

This was my first clue that I was not having another biopsy.

When you're (blissfully) numb, and when you close your eyes like the See No Evil monkey to avoid the glint of needle or scalpel, what takes over is your ears. I will not describe the noises involved in the surgery because I don't want to imagine how those sounds related to my own flesh. But I do have more sympathy for people who opt for a little pre-op valium.

My second clue that this was not another biopsy was when the nurse returned from Pathology ("clean margins"--what beautiful words) and declared, "Now it's time to repair you."

To this point, I hadn't envisioned myself in need of restoration. But I was. First the doctor elongated the divot so that it resembled the shape of an eye and the "lids" could be pulled closed. And then he began to stitch, clip, stitch, clip, stitch, clip...until I lost count. As wounds go, mine is very tidy--more invisible zipper than railroad tracks. It's still a little tender, but it's done. And for that, I am very thankful.

P.S. The moral of this story? Mom was right. And I am the new posterchild for sunscreen.

Rendered Speechless

2006-11-12T19:03:00.000-08:00

This afternoon I was playing dinosaurs with Max and farm animals with Boo (simultaneously) when Max hurled this one in from left field:

"I want a little sister."

Initially I didn't take him too seriously.

"Who would you like to have as a little sister?"

"I don't know her. I want her to come from inside your tummy."

"Mmm hmmm."

A few months ago I picked up a rather well-known book called "How to Talk So Your Kids Will Listen and Listen So Your Kids Will Talk." I vaguely remember this as technique numero uno, and now seemed like an appropriate time to use it.

"I know what I want her name to be."

"Mmm hmmmm?"

"Red Rose."

"Mmmmmm hmmmmm."

I just couldn't think of anything else to say.

But someone's got to do it...

2006-11-08T19:03:00.000-08:00

Max earned himself a day off from school today by coming down with a case of pink eye. Rather than learning about the changing of the seasons and corn and Hiawatha, he got to accompany me on a trip to the hospital to pick up x-rays. As we were waiting for the elevator in the parking garage, I gave him the job of remembering on which floor we were parked. Walking toward the hospital building, it dawned on me that this was where Max had been born. His only return visit was for Boo's birthday party two years later.

"Max! This is a very important building. Do you know why?"

"No."

"It's where you were born! It's where I got to see you for the very first time!"

"No way."

"Yes way. And did you know that Poppi actually designed this building?"

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not."

"Neat building."

"Isn't is incredible that Poppi designed this building and then something like twenty-five years later you were born here?"

"Yep. What floor was I born on?"

"The third."

And so it went as we headed for Radiology, signed out my films, and made our way back to the parking garage.

"Hey, Max. Do you remember what floor we parked on?"

"The third."

"Good job, Buddy. Now we won't get lost."

Max sighed. "It's hard being in charge of everything."

My Latest Compulsion, in Draft

2006-11-05T21:08:00.000-08:00

I've become a compulsive planner. As neurotic behavior goes, it's pretty harmless. And it has some fringe benefits. But it's still neurotic. Want to know just how compulsive I am? Lee took the kids to the horse pasture this morning for a couple of hours, and after I cleaned up the house, I started working on the kids' carpool schedule. For next year. No, no, not next semester. Next year.

After I'd worked through a couple of permutations, I started writing my Christmas letter. I know, I know. It's not even Thanksgiving. But last week I saw a fully decorated Christmas tree. (Consider the source--it was in a store.) And I know people whose neighbors have already hung their outdoor holiday lights. I started feeling anxious and maybe even a little behind. Then, too, I've written so little this year that I feel stale. Stuck. Struggling. I've missed writing and the reflection that goes along with it. So I began. I don't write a Christmas letter every year, but when I do, I try to avoid a boring, banal recitation of family accolades and ailments. It goes to our friends from college and grad school who are scattered across the country, and most of whom we haven't seen since our wedding. I'm not satisfied yet with the beginning, or with some of the transitions, but I've begun. And at least I'm in the right year. Here's a draft:

Lee and I couldn’t have gotten more dissimilar children if we’d ordered them. Max (age 5) is an explorer, an imp, a rogue, and a negotiator. After returning from a stint in outer space, he plans to live in a tent in Africa, protect animals, and visit us occasionally. Reed (age 3, a.k.a. Boo) looks like the cherub model for a Rubens painting and usually has the disposition to match. Likes to serenade us with “Jesus Loves Me” and “Home on the Range.” Boo aspires to be a farmer. Probably will marry his high school sweetheart, too. (He’s taken a pass on Max’s voyage to outer space. No gravity? No, thank you.)

Gregarious/shy. Distracted/focused. Energetic/calm. Exuberant/cautious. Chaotic/orderly. Chocolate/vanilla. The boys are yin and yang, except for this: They both love all things construction—tools, vehicles, hardware stores, dirt piles and orange cones on the side of the road.

I suspect they contracted construction fever from us, because we’ve been in a building frenzy this year. I’ll spare you the details because you’d be bored and I’ve finally recovered. But for our trouble, we have a lovely garage apartment for Lee’s mom, horse facilities for our herd, and major landscaping projects completed at the ranch—bulkheading, concrete steps for swimming and fishing and launching the kayak, a sandy beach when the lake is low, and a clearing for an organic garden and orchard as soon as we find energy enough to plant.

Lee’s other construction project—his enterprise risk management software—continues, too. I will not say again that the software is nearly complete and that marketing is priority #1 for next year. No. I will not. Lee’s attorney says that he often sees prospective clients, in the throes of a midlife crisis, toying with the idea of starting a company, or leaving their spouse, or getting a sports car. His job, as he sees it, is to talk them into buying the car. Now that’s some good legal advice, I think. Unless you absolutely, positively, will regret your life if you do not start the company. And so Lee did. He’s a million lines of code into this thing, and there’s no turning back now.

Shortly before Max’s fifth birthday, I told him the story of the day he was born. In summation, I said, “Your birthday was one of the best days of my life.” I expected Max to be pleased that his arrival meant so much to me. Instead, with the wisdom of a Tibetan monk, he asked: “But what about all the other days?”

We’re just back from the ranch, where Max and Reed have collected fall leaves, swung on the gates, constructed chain reactions with dominoes, bobbed for apples, caught tadpoles, and made sand angels in the arena. Lee’s living his dream in the start-up world, and I’m living mine raising kids at home and horses at the ranch. No doubt about it—today has been one of the best days of my life.

Because it’s the one I have.

Lee and I think of you often. We miss you. We tell stories about you. We want our kids to meet your kids. Come visit. Bring your children, even if (especially if!) they’re old enough to babysit. Come join us for a weekend at the ranch—it’s like summer camp, with better sheets.

Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. A safe and prosperous New Year. And God bless us all.

Spanglish

2006-10-09T19:56:00.000-07:00

Because they hail from a state whose population will be predominantly Latino in the near future, I'm happy that my kids are surrounded by opportunities to learn Spanish. The boys' pre-school begins lessons in Spanish in the two-year old class. Our housekeeper gives them instruction two days a week. And they pick up a smattering of words and phrases from children's shows such as Dora the Explorer and their new favorite, Handy Manny. Handy Manny features a handyman ably assisted by his tools, including Pat, Stretch, Squeeze, Turner, Phillipe, Dusty and Rusty. Lots of counting occurs on Handy Manny, a practice which the boys like to replicate. But trying to acquire a second language can produce some curious results, like this one today as Boo stored his tools in his toolbox:

"Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete, ocho, nueve, diez, once, doce, Saturday, catorce...."

Like Night and Day

2006-10-02T20:16:00.000-07:00

In the playbook of sibling squabbles, Max and Reed have found a new pawn: lullabies. I'd already finished our usual routine: Swing Low, Sweet Chariot (a/k/a Sweet Cherry) and "Animal, Animal," sung to the tune of Lullaby and Goodnight. The kids employed one of their favorite stalling tactics--begging for more.

I started in with "You Are My Sunshine."

"No sad songs!" Max demanded.

I went with "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star."

"That's a baby song," Max protested. "I want you to sing us a song we've never heard before. Ever."

Boo offered his opinion: "No! I want you to sing us a song about farm animals!"

It might be a forgettable moment, were it not so emblematic of the differences between my two boys. Max, who is all about The New Thing. Next vacation? Africa. South America. Australia. Next pet? Hamster, parrot, snake. Sixth birthday party? At the zoo's reptile house. Trip to Saturn. Volcano in the back yard. And Boo, who just wants the tried and true, like a pair of faded blue jeans. Farm animals. Construction vehicles. And "I don't want any friends at my birthday party."

Their tendencies are as familiar to me as the two faces that share a mirror each morning: Max's curiosity and restlessness so like my own; Boo a psychological replica of his father, steady and focused.

Yearning for some small Something New, I sat with Max's request, trying to retrieve lullabies from my rusty jukebox of a memory.

Kum-ba-ya.

That's as far as my free-associating could take me.

I've got a pretty good hunch it's not even a lullaby. But I found myself immersed in sweet memories of campfires and guitars and sleeping bags and shooting stars. I would have paid someone to seranade me then and there.

I sang a verse, and Max seemed satisfied.

"Someone's sleeping, Lord. Kumbaya.
Someone's sleeping, Lord. Kumbaya.
Someone's sleeping, Lord. Kumbaya.
Oh, Lord, kumbaya."

But Boo not so much.

"I don't want a song about llamas! I want a song about farm animals!"

Llamas? Who said anything about llamas?!

So I improvised the next verse. "Someone's farming, Lord...." I pictured people in faraway places, India and Ethiopia and Haiti, trying to coax sustenance from moody patches of land. As I sang, I meant what I said.

"That's not a song about farmers!," Boo bellowed.

Max, on the other hand, had been lulled into a fast sleep.

So I changed key.

"Old MacDonald had a farm. EIEIO."

"Mmmmm." Boo's relief or joy or comfort or victory was audible.

Horses, ducks, chickens, cows, sheep, goats, pigs, donkeys, and turkeys later, I summoned Old MacDonald's bull.

"You already said cows!" Boo shrieked.

Did I mention what a pleasurable stage it is, the almost three-year old? Whoever coined the term "terrible two's" just hadn't gotten to the three's.

Once again, I had to put some mental muscle into the task.

"And on that farm he had a frog...."

Boo smiled and soon slept.

Two boys. Night and day.

Happy Birthday To You

2006-09-16T22:09:00.000-07:00

I was roused at 7:02 by an exuberant yelp from just beyond our bedroom door:

"I LOVE BEING FIVE!"

So began Max's birthday festival, customized by the birthday boy for sheer delight. A telephonic race with Babee to get dressed, first-ever allowance, a sugar cookie, pancakes and french toast for breakfast, a pilgrimmage to the zoo, even the reptile house, a carousel ride, lunch at Chic-Fil-A, where kids can play on an air-conditioned playground rather than being shackled to their seats, games and science experiments and a high-tech plasma car, dinner at Babee and Poppi's house, chocolate cake, a much-desired telescope, and a sleepover with Babee.

Really, what's not to love about being five?

Just imagine...

2006-08-19T21:27:00.000-07:00

We've been suffering through the hottest week of the summer, which caused us to forego our usual weekend at the ranch. This morning, mom and dad agreed to last-minute babysitting duty, affording Lee and me one of our once-a-quarter-whether-we-need-it-or-not dates. The plan was for Max and Reed to head for Babee's house around 6:00 and for us to pick the kids up after a movie or dinner.

Max had other ideas.

Shortly after lunch, he began packing for Babee's house. Mid-afternoon, he emerged from his room, struggling under the weight of his backpack.

"I'm ready for my sleepover at Babee's house!"

"Uh, Max, that wasn't the plan. You're going to Babee's house for dinner, but we haven't talked to her about your sleeping over."

"I'll ask her when I get there. But I've packed my underwear and clothes and pajamas. Just In Case."

Max grinned like the cheshire cat. He's got a pretty good idea how irresistible his charms can be. Especially to Babee.

"Oh, no! I forgot something for my sleepover!"

Max bounded down the hall and reemerged clutching a pink and lavender Scooby-do sleeping bag that was, oh, maybe four and a half feet long.

"I need this sleeping bag for Poppy, so he can sleep in the same room as Babee and me!"

Picture, if you will, a small boy and his grandmother sleeping soundly on a spacious bed. The child is stretched diagonally across the mattress, one leg draped possessively across his beloved Babee. During the night, he rouses briefly, then rolls closer to his grandmother's side, sheets wrapped tightly around his body like a prince's robe. At the foot of the bed, on the cold terrazzo floor, the boy's grandfather lies curled in a fetal position on a thin, nylon sleeping bag. He does not sleep, nor dream. He waits for the moment when he might resume his rightful place between the fine cotton sheets and take his rest.

Max's imagined solution might have its comic limitations, but I choose to see something more. In the midst of Max's unabashed love affair with Babee, Poppy has entered his mind, and without being banished to the guest room or Siberia. Now that's progress.

Boo's Prayer

2006-08-13T20:11:00.000-07:00

Boo's love of food might be rivaled only by his love of farm animals. So it was fitting, then, that when we returned home from Seattle, having visited the hands-on barnyard at the marvelous Seattle Zoo, Boo offered up these words of thanksgiving:

"Dear God,

Thank you for the grass for the cows to eat.

Thank you for the hay for the horses to eat.

Thank you for the corn for the pigs to eat.

Thank you for the shirts for the goats to eat.

Thank you for the barns.

Amen."

Let's Make a Deal

2006-07-10T21:50:00.000-07:00

Max has been agitating for a pet for the last couple of weeks. He brings up the issue about every 6 minutes--over breakfast, in the car, during his bath, and even, this evening, while sitting on the potty. Some people might think that two dogs and eleven horses qualify as pets out the wazoo, as certainly I do, but Max is dissatisfied. He wants a real pet--a hamster or a turtle or a guinea pig--that he can call his own. Here's a transcript of our latest negotiations on the way to the ranch:

Max: Mommy, I want a pet.

Me: Max, we've had this conversation before.

Max: But I still want a pet. I just saw a pet store, and I bet they have good pets.

Me: Here's the problem, Max. I've only got so much time in the day, and frankly, I'm pretty busy taking care of you and Boo and our house and the thirteen animals that we already have. So here's the deal. I can either take care of you and Boo, or I can take care of your pet. Which do you choose?

Max: I choose a pet.

Me: Okay, Max, so who's going to make your meals and wash your clothes and drive you to school and play with you?

Max pondered some of the larger implications of his decision. Then his face brightened.

Max: Hey! I've got a plan! You can take care of my pet, and daddy can take care of me, and I'll take care of Boo!

Lee, from the driver's seat: Can I make a trade? I'd like to volunteer for the hamster.

Not yet...

2006-06-13T19:18:00.000-07:00

After dinner this evening, we headed to the playground for a short romp. Max and Boo had been entertaining each other, with a little assistance from their dad, when Max became distracted. He was sitting astride a large tubular slide, and Reed was teasing him from inside it, when Max craned his neck over the opening and peered up the ramp.

"Mommy, there's a little girl up there and she's about Boo's age!"

Yes, and she was adorable to boot, with flaxen curls encircling her angelic face.

"My name's Max. What's your name?"

No reply. Just a coy giggle, and Max was hooked.

After chasing each other up and down the slides, they jostled on the spring-loaded see-saw. Max sought to win her favor by balancing fearlessly on the see-saw and dismounting with (in his words) the biggest jump ever.

And then it came time for us to leave.

"Mommy, can we bring her home with us?"

Oh, Max, maybe in another 25 years.

On Death and Dying

2006-05-18T18:43:00.000-07:00

According to the experts, children become aware of death sometime during their fourth year. So I was not yet prepared when Max first queried me about death last summer. He found a lifeless butterfly in the backyard and brought it to me, cradling it carefully in his small hands.

"This butterfly is old," he announced somberly.

I wasn't entirely sure what he was thinkng, since we had never discussed the subject of death, so I merely confirmed his prouncement. He carried on as if nothing particularly significant had transpired.

A couple of hours later, after we'd come inside, his thoughts flitted back to the butterfly.

"Mommy, why do butterflies die?"

And so began Max's journey to understand death, to the extent any of us really can.

As best I can tell from Max and his teachers and fellow moms, the topic of death and dying looms large on the preschool playground. Being killed by the T-Rex during a game of "king of the dinosaurs," discussing whose parents or grandparents may have died (or not), playing dead under the monkey bars--such are the terms with which four-year olds grapple with one of life's ultimate mysteries.

Occasionally, Max broaches the subject with me, never failing to catch me just a little off guard.

"If you died, who would be my mommy?"

Max flung this question my way as I was getting the kids ready for bed last night. I tried to suppress my own terror at the idea and assumed the most matter-of-fact tone I could muster.

"Well, Max, if I died, you wouldn't have a mommy."

(Okay, in hindsight, I might have crafted a more sensitive answer, one that offered him more comfort, but you don't always have time to edit the perfect response.)

Max appeared to be soaking in this revelation as I braced myself for his distress. He paused for another moment. Then his face exploded with unexpected exuberance.

"I know!," Max nearly shouted, unable to contain his glee. "If you died, then BABEE could be my mommy!"

I guess I don't need to worry about that contingency any more.

When Less Is More

2006-05-11T20:13:00.000-07:00

As my life with a husband, two sons, two dogs, two houses and eleven horses (not to mention a self) has grown increasingly complex, I've often imagined that I could manage it all, with finesse and good humor, if only I could find the Right System. (A friend pointed out that maybe what I really need is the Right Assistant....) As one part of my organizational odyssey, I've consolidated all of my lists into a single notebook, which serves, for the most part, as the repository of everything from grocery lists to wish lists to funny things my kids said. And I don't leave home without it.

But today I made a big change. Didn't take the notebook with me. Didn't look at my "to do" list one single time. Didn't stop at the end of the day to gauge how much I'd accomplished, or what I'd try to bite off tomorrow. Instead I spent the afternoon with my kids. Really with them.

I read an article last night about "Zen parenting." We're not talking rocket science here, just mindfulness. Paying more attention. Being in the moment.

After tennis, Max plopped in front of the t.v. for a little decompressing. I sat down beside him, inspired by a recent suggestion from Daniel Pinkwater to watch what your children are watching on t.v. and notice how long before you're either engaged or wishing you were washing the cat.

After 15 minutes, I could sit no longer.

"Max, I'm bored."
"Me, too," came his unexpected reply.
"Let's go do something."
"How 'bout building a sailboat?"

We did, together.

And so we passed the remainder of the afternoon, building and reading and chasing and dancing and laughing.

When the time came to make dinner, the kids started to retreat to their room. "What if you stayed here and kept me company instead?" I asked. "Each of you could build a tower." I pulled from the cabinet five plastic boxes, a red dinosaur cup (think baseball game souveneir, only from a child's birthday party), and a sippy cup. They set to work. "What's another way you could make the tower?" More activity. "Can you think of a way to do it so that the largest box isn't on the bottom?"

With dinner in the oven, we hit the backyard. While I served as general contractor, the kids built a house from bricks discarded during the ongoing construction over the garage. I turned down their request to install the brick roof (too hazardous for little fingers!), but Max quickly resolved the design delimma by fashioning one from twigs and leaves. We hit tennis balls off the T-ball stand. Watered the pumpkin plants that began as seeds in Max's Christmas stocking. Noticed the orbs, like shiny green marbles, forming on the orange tree. Then I flew them on my feet, just as I remember my parents doing, until Lee arrived home for dinner.

Afterwards, as I was doing the dishes, Max loped back into the kitchen and gave me a gratuitous hug. "I love you, mom," he whispered as we exchanged bear hugs. Then back to his room to continue a landscaping project with four inch Tonkas.

Was it a coincidence? When I tried to get less done, when we rushed nowhere all day, when I didn't raise my voice--not even once--the kids cooperated more. Argued less. Listened better.

"Teeth time!", Max volunteered, and ran off to take care of bedtime business all by himself.

When I passed by their room again, Max was sound asleep. But Boo called out to me: "I want my blanket." As I tucked it beneath his chin, he grinned, "I had a fun day." No doubt about it. Something had gone very right.

I stooped to give Boo a butterfly kiss on his cheek. He chortled in that deep, throaty way that is the embodiment of pure joy. I gave him another one on his nose. More laughter. "How about one on this side?" he asked, pointing to the other cheek. I obliged, then wrapped up our love fest with an eskimo kiss. But Boo wasn't satisfied.

"And how about a giraffe kiss?"

Very right indeed.

So Much For the Manger

2006-04-17T21:08:00.000-07:00

When we get older and have some life experience behind us, we tend to forget what it's like to Not Understand. We can only process information in the context of what we already know, but as adults, we know a lot.

Add to that the fact that most of us adults have the luxury of remaining in environments about which we've accumulated the most information. I don't spend weekends trying to survive in the wilderness, nor have I traveled to places with strict contraints on what women are allowed to do. Were I to undertake such an adventure, I'd have wisdom enough to know there's a lot I don't know, but I'd still be disoriented. Probably make some mistakes, too.

Because their life experiences are so much more limited, children are always bumping into experiences they can't understand. They then try to squeeze that new information into the framework of what they already know, such as it is. Which is how it is that things like this happen.

At Lee's mother's house, where we celebrated Easter, Boo came across a nativity scene that Nancy had chosen to leave out after Christmas. The three small figurines are devoid of facial features or other details, save for the staff in Joseph's hand. Boo studied the clay figures for a moment, then picked up the one that represented Mary and showed her to me.

"Mommy, this one is kind of like you."
"Really, Boo? Why do you think so?"
"Because she's the mommy."
"I see! I think you're right."
Then he picked up another. "And this one is kind of like Daddy."
"Because you think he's the daddy?"
"Yes."
Boo picked up the Baby Jesus.
"And this one is me in the bathtub."

From a Different Cloth

2006-03-23T22:29:00.000-08:00

I should have known Max was getting sick long before I noticed his bulging lymph nodes. Tuesday evening, after the boys finished an early dinner, Max refused to take a bath. I gave him a choice between bath and bed, and he opted for bed. It was 5:30.

With misguided self-congratulation, I attributed Max's fatigue to the exhilerating day we'd spent together. In honor of his spring break, I'd planned a custom itinerary with Max's interests in mind. First stop was the Museum of Natural Science, which was hosting a special traveling exhibit about dinosaurs. Then we picnicked in Hermann Park, followed by a trip to the zoo. Perhaps I claimed credit for Max's droopiness because I was so utterly exhausted at the end of the day. Little did I know that Max's body was being engulfed by the illness that would translate to a 104.9 degree fever by this afternoon.

Without any competition from Max Tuesday evening, Boo received personalized tuck-in service. He chose the books, the toothbrushing venue, and even, in a surprise move, the tucker-inner--his dad.

Sometime later, I popped my head into the boys' room to admire my sleeping angels. But Boo was still awake. I went to his bedside to kiss him goodnight.

"Mommy, will you sit in the rocking chair and sing me some lullabies?"

Over the last year or so, our nightly lullaby selection has been culled to a handful: "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot", "Lullaby and Good Night", "You Are My Sunshine", "Summertime" and a lovely benediction sung to the tune of "Edelweiss."

"Okay, Boo, what lullabies do you want to hear?"

"'Sweet Caroline' and 'Who Let the Dogs Out.'"

Remember the Johnson-O'Connor aptitude test that evaluates the usualness--or not--of a person's way of thinking? (For those who may not be familiar with Johnson-O'Connor, it's an interesting and informative tool for people beset with career indecision or malaise.) The format of the test is basic word association: I say "ham"; you say the first word that comes to mind. If you say "eggs" or "cheese" or "sandwich", your thought patterns are considered similar to most people's. But if you say "pineapple" or "toss" or "peanut butter", you're deemed odd..., no, I meant to say unorthodox. Out-of-the-box. Inventive. A maverick.

By whatever standard someone might devise, surely "Sweet Caroline" and "Who Let the Dogs Out" rank as idiosynchratic lullabies.

I must say, I love that about my Boo.

Oedipus is alive and well

2006-03-22T19:23:00.000-08:00

For over a week, Max has been looking forward to a sleepover at Babee's tonight. As a general rule, I withhold from Max information about those activities about which he's likely to be most exuberant--birthday parties, visit to the zoo, trips to the ranch, and most of all, sleepovers at Babee's house. My motivation is largely selfish: I avoid the persistent pestering that is Max's outlet for anticipation. But I also do it to protect Max, in a way. If circumstances change, as they often do with kids, I've spared him a dose of disappointment.

But this time, Max was loaded with knowledge, and he was singleminded in his enthusiasm. So much so that he called Babee--all by himself, mind you--at 6:37 this morning. (Independence in a 4-year old is a mixed bag.)

So I thought it was a ploy when he balked at going to gymnastics this afternoon. "My feet hurt," he protested. "And my throat. But they won't hurt at Babee's tonight." Then I took an earnest look at Max. The pink patches beneath his eyes accentuated his droopy, faraway look. I ran my fingers under his chin and down his neck. He winced. The bulges in his neck were not only palpable, they were visible, giving him a passing resemblance to an NFL linebacker. The thermometer registered 101.6. Max had just forfeited his sleepover.

Surely it was a sign of just how bad Max felt that he didn't resist my suggestion of a nap. He and I curled up together in his bed; Boo, alone in his own bed, eyed us longingly from across the room. Soon we all succumbed to sleep.

But Boo's memory is proving to be quite durable--not unlike his dad's.

When I tucked him into bed this evening, long after Max had retired, Boo asked me to lie down beside him, his first such request in many weeks. Warding off the chill of a late season cold front, we snuggled beneath a mound of blankets, giggling. We exchanged eskimo kisses. And then Boo bestowed me with the most beatific smile.

"I feel soooo safe, mommy."

"I feel safe, too, Boo."

"You make me so very, very happy."

"Oh, Boo, you make me happy, too."

These are the indescribably delicious moments of parenthood-- sweet, tender, as close to heaven on earth as I'll ever know.

And then he continued. "Renember (sic) daddy?"

"Of course, sweetie. Isn't your daddy the best daddy in the world?"

"I'm going to eat him all up, and then he'll be gone."

Boo smacked his lips a few times in apparent satisfaction, and, having dispatched his imagined adversary, fell fast asleep.

With friends like these...

2006-03-13T18:21:00.000-08:00

One of the most-requested songs in carpool is Jimmy Buffet's ode to meat, "Cheeseburger in Paradise." While the six of us were howling our way through the lyrics last week, one of the kids asked what "carnivorous" meant. I explained that the word came from "carnivores," a concept with which Max was already familiar. With a happy chirp, Max volunteered this astounding news: "One of my friends died, and he was a carnivore."

My heart skipped a beat. Had one of Max's classmates died? Recently or long-ago? How could I have missed or forgotten such a terrible tragedy?

"You know, my friend, T-Rex? He liked to eat other dinosaurs."

Glad we didn't have him over for any playdates.

It's been awhile for me, too...

2006-03-09T18:20:00.000-08:00

At bookclub last night, my friends were comparing notes about their teenage children. Angela's son had just betrayed his older brother by divulging the secret of his first kiss. Erin recently coached her son through making dinner for his girlfriend's parents for the first time. Sarah is reeling from her children's questions about sexual activities that I didn't know existed. Whatever anxiety I might have about my kids, it pales in comparison to what lies ahead.

That certainty somehow made this innocent moment even sweeter. Yesterday afternoon, Max and two of his classmates went to the park while Boo and I ran errands. We retrieved Max only when I was sure that sufficient boy energy had been released back into the universe. As I was strapping Max into his carseat, I noticed an abrasion on his knee.

"Did you scrape your knee on the playground, honey?"

"Yep."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yep."

"Do you want me to kiss it?

"Yep." When Max is reduced to one-word sentences, fatigue is getting the upper hand.

I gave his knee a perfunctory peck. "Does that feel better?"

"Yep."

Then, Boo chimed in, his voice full of appreciation: "Mommy, you're a good kisser."

I could barely stifle my laugh. When was the last time you heard that?

Center of the Universe

2006-02-26T19:29:00.000-08:00

A couple of nights ago, Max earned himself an early bedtime by tormenting his brother one time too many. Max didn't protest his punishment; in fact, he was serene and cooperative as he tucked himself into bed. I had the feeling he was relieved his day was over.

As I kissed him gooodnight, Max asked, "Did you and daddy have me because you wanted a baby?"

"Yes, we wanted a baby more than anything, and we're so very glad we got you." Whatever Max was working through in his mind, I was certain this explanation would reassure and comfort him.

"Then why did you have Boo?"

(As someone who came in second in birth order, I've never pondered the psychological conundrum that confronts the first child. "If my parents really think I'm the bee's knees, why are they calling in the second stringer?" When we were expecting Boo, my mother-in-law couched the firstborn's understandable confusion in these terms: Imagine Lee were to come home this evening and tell you that he loved you so much that in a few months, he'd be bringing home another wife. Oh, but there's more. You are going to love her. And she will be your best friend. Uh, not so fast, buster....)

When I recounted Max's question to my favorite mental health professional, his retort was swift: "So you would grow up knowing that you aren't the only person in the world."

Now that's a good answer. So far, though, Boo's existence doesn't seem to have produced that effect on Max.

Take, for instance, our dialogue this evening as Max and Boo were settling into bed after an exhausting day at the ranch. Last night, the boys were indulged with an unexpected treat. Not only did Babee babysit; she actually spent the night. On a futon between the boys' beds. With Boo snuggled against her right side and Max draped across her left.

Because we've been gone all day, I hadn't secreted the futon in the hall closet before the boys got in bed tonight. The implication of that futon lying smack in the middle of their room was obvious. The only question was which child would ask.

Boo: "Mommy, will you sleep on the floor with us?"

Max: "Yeah, mommy, will you? Will you?"

Me: "You guys had a great time having a sleepover with Babee last night, but I'm going to sleep in my bed tonight and you're going to sleep in your beds."

Max: "Wait! I could have a sleepover at Babee's house tonight."

Me: "Well, Max, I'm sure Babee would love for you to have a sleepover at her house soon, but not tonight. It's bedtime."

Max: "Hey! I have a great idea! We could go Babee....Max....Babee....Max."

Me: "Hmmm, that sounds like a pattern."

And an interesting one at that, the idea of Max alternating between one night at Babee's house and the next at home.

Max: "Yeah, Babee could sleep over here one night, and then I could sleep over there the next night, and then she could come back over here."

And in Max's world, it was indeed a perfect idea. As if no one else might have any feelings about that arrangement at all--not Poppi, neither his dad nor I, not even Babee herself.

If you're big enough for the job of Center of the Universe, why, really, would you want to do anything else?

Preschool sing-a-long

2006-02-19T19:14:00.000-08:00

My favorite thing about Max's carpool is music. For Christmas, one of the moms compiled some tunes, cut a CD, and decorated the cover with a picture of the four carpool kids. A psychoanalyst might puzzle over the free association that produced this strange amalgamation: Feliz Navidad, On the Road Again, Cheeseburger in Paradise, the Vida Loca, the theme song from Dora the Explorer, My Favorite Things and the yodeling song from The Sound of Music, I'm Hooked on a Feelin'.... But no matter. The fact is, the kids so love the music that it has become a staple of the carpool drive.

One eager child shouts out a request: "Number 19!"

At the top of their voices, they serenade Caroline with an ode seemingly written just for her:

"Where it began, I can't begin to know.
But then I know it's growing strong
Was in the spring
And spring became the summer
Who'd have believed you'd come along
Hands, touching hands, reaching out
Touching me, touching you
Oh, sweet Caroline!
Good times never seem so good!"

Then, "Number 20!" And in unison, they shout,

"Who let the dogs out?
Woof...woof...woof...woof.
Who let the dogs out?
Woof...woof...woof...woof.
When the party was nice, the party was jumpin,
Hey! Yipeeio!"

All the way to their nice parochial school.

You might think that hip hop would be somewhat inaccessible to Boo. But you would be wrong. Yesterday, from the back seat, he improvised in perfect rhythm:

"Who let the cats out? Meow...."

A Map of the World

2006-02-12T19:27:00.000-08:00

In the interest of their dignity, I try to be circumspect about what aspects of my children's lives I write about in this blog. (Regretfully, I know from time to time I may err in judgment, even when I've worked to be conscious and conscientious.) It seems to me that bathroom matters are so personal and private that in general, they should be allowed to transpire beyond the public view. The truth is, though, that genuine hilarity happens as children learn to use the loo. For example, flushing sometimes seems to get confused with basic telephone etiquette, perhaps because both are such great mysteries to the average four-year old:

"Bye-bye poo poo. I'll miss you!"
"Bye-bye pee pee. I love you!"
"Bye-bye poo poo. I'll see you tomorrow!" (Oh, I sincerely hope not.)

Today, Max's budding interest in cartography spilled over to the bathroom. Having summoned me after a minor mishap, he made an unexpected discovery: "Look, mommy, my pee pee looks like Australia! And there's Tasmania, too!"

Twinkle, twinkle

2006-02-12T18:51:00.000-08:00

Max attended his first birthday party at the Museum of Natural Science this afternoon. The party room in the basement held a surfeit of riches for Max, including an aquarium with clown fish and butterfly fish (I thought this was just Max's appellation until I googled it...) and anemones and corrals, and an assortment of land creatures (real ones) ranging from hedgehog to corn snake.

The rug at one end of the room was emblazoned with a map of the world, and Max soon appropriated it for his own entertainment. Leaping from continent to continent, then crossing the high seas, Max shouted out each destination as though he were Magellan himself, discovering new worlds: "Look! I'm on Australia! Now I'm on Africa! Samantha's on South America! And I'm on Texas, in North America! I'm in the Atlantic Ocean! Now I'm in the Indian Ocean!"

Then Max lit on the compass, which on this particular map was shaped like an eight-pointed star. He was standing in the South Pacific, somewhere in the environs of Easter Island. "Now I'm in Bethlehem!," Max shouted. "Bethlehem?" I looked quizically at Gildy, Samantha's mom. She didn't miss a beat. "The star of Bethlehem. He's on the star."

Decisions, decisions...

2006-02-11T19:51:00.000-08:00

Two of Max's classmates are celebrating their birthdays this weekend, and today Max and I had to choose gifts. From the stockpile in the closet, I deemed three suitable for either child: (1) Hullabaloo, Max's favorite floor game; (2) a large bouncing ball with handle, similar to the one Max uses to emulate a kangaroo, and (3) a nifty new game that involves excavating dinosaur bones with a pair of tweezers. (Remember the game "Operation" from our youth? Just substitute the skeleton of a T-Rex and you've got the picture.) Here's how Max sized up the options:

Max: Let's give Andrew Hullabaloo.

Me: The only problem, Max, is that we gave him Hullabaloo last year.

Max: Oh. Then let's give Hullabaloo to Will.

Me: Great.

Max: And we can give Andrew the bouncy, bouncy ball.

Me: Remember how much Andrew loves dinosaurs? He's even having his birthday party at the Dinosaur Museum (a/k/a The Museum of Natural Science). What about giving him the dinosaur game?

Max: You know, you have to try out a present before you can give it to someone else. That's the rule.

Me: Is that so?

Max: Yes, so I need to try out the dinosaur game. Can we open it now?

I could see that one coming a mile away.

Ruminations from the bed

2006-02-10T18:08:00.000-08:00

As I was putting the boys to bed this evening...

Max: Why do we have beds?

Me: Because it's more comfortable to sleep on a soft bed than on the hard floor.

Max: But why do we have covers on beds?

Me: To keep us warm when it's cold.

Max: But why are beds so long?

Me: Well, your bed may seem long now, but one day you'll be so big you'll be able to touch the top of your bed with your head and the bottom of your bed with your feet.

Max: But I'm touching the top of my bed with my head right now.

Me: That's true, but you're not touching the bottom of the bed with your feet.

Max: But if I move down, then I can touch the bottom of the bed with my feet.

Me: But then you won't be touching the top of the bed with your head.

Max: Oh.

Reed: I have sharp claws and teeth. I want to be a dinosaur when I grow up.

Max: But dinosaurs are extinct.

Reed: Then I want to be a zookeeper when I grow up.

Max: There can only be one zookeeper, and I'm the zookeeper. You're going to be a bullrider.

Reed: Oh. Right. A bullrider or a farmer.

Ah, just exactly as any mother would wish....

Not so fast...

2006-01-30T18:54:00.000-08:00

Max reminded me today that when it comes to children, progress doesn't happen in a straight line. We were getting ready for the arrival of a friend's older twins (yes, two sets of twins, one fraternal, one identical--what are the odds of that?), and the playroom was a big mess.

Me: "You guys need to clean up before Will and Grace come over to play."

Max, thinking I was out of earshot: "Boo, if you do it, I'll cheer for you." And in a deep, throaty voice reminiscent of frat boys rooting for a football team, Max began to chant: "Clean! Clean! Clean! Clean! Clean!"

It had to happen, but not this soon...

2006-01-29T20:23:00.000-08:00

"Mommy, I want a gun."

Max's announcement from the backseat this morning hit me like a rifle kick. We've never discussed guns, nor, to my knowledge, has Max ever seen one. I tried to sound non-chalant.

"Max, do you know what a gun is?"

"It's a special kind of stick that shoots out fire."

"Mmmm, that's interesting. Do you know what a gun is used for?"

"Yes, someone takes it away from you and throws it over the fence."

And that might be exactly what I'd do if I found Max with a gun.

"Where did you learn about guns?"

"At school. From Peter and Gabriel."

Ah, Peter and Gabriel, the source of other unwelcome input as well. Like lollipops in carpool. And "I don't like the crust on my sandwich. " "I want my own Christmas tree in my room." At least Max missed the day one of them graphically described how to field dress a deer.

Some days it's enough to make me contemplate homeschooling.

But not for very long.

Declarations of Independence

2006-01-26T19:11:00.000-08:00

Max has been full of surprises lately. Last week after his bath, he walked into his room and declared, "This place is a mess!" Then he proceeded to pick up every dinosaur, train car, cowboy hat, construction vehicle and ball and return it to its proper home. (Perhaps this wouldn't seem so remarkable were it not from the child who, for much of his life, has tried to shirk duty on the clean-up crew with this exaggerated sigh: "I'm starting to feel a little tired now...." Only a couple of weeks ago Max dismissed my request to pick up the birthday candles that he'd strewn across the kitchen floor, saying, "That would be a good job for Boo!")

There's a wonderful woman at Max's school who regularly buoys me with her wit and wisdom. Perhaps I cling with such hope to her advice because she once offered me these comforting words: "As a parent, you only have to get it right 40% of the time for your children to believe they had a happy childhood." I'm thinking of her now because she also cautioned me that when it comes to raising kids, there's no such thing as "turning a corner." Because there are hundreds of corners. So I've been careful not to expect dramatic changes in behavior overnight. And then it happened again.

Last night after dinner, I turned around to find Max perched atop the kitchen table, carefully spooning the remainder of the fruit salad into a plastic box. As far as k.p. duty goes, I've never asked Max to do more than carry his plate to the sink. But in a spontaneous burst of helpfulness, he'd noticed what needed to be done and figured out how to do it.

And then this evening Max announced that he wanted to fix dinner and he didn't want any help. His autonomy lasted right up until the moment he needed an ingredient that was beyond his reach. Even then, though, he insisted that I not look at the table until he was ready. Finally, he summoned Boo and me to dinner. Waiting at each of our rightful places, on the table Max had set all by himself, was a bowl of Special K cereal and a turkey and cheese sandwich flavored with a thick smear of mayonnaise. After dinner, Max and Boo crawled onto the island and wrung the juice from a Cara-Cara orange for dessert. Then Boo and I polished off a ruby-red grapefruit plucked earlier this week from the backyard tree. For Max, it might have been the perfect meal. For different reasons, I think I'll remember it for a long, long time as well.

Winter Wonderland

2006-01-17T18:43:00.000-08:00

Max has the heart of an explorer. I've mentioned before Max's fascination with Africa and India, Australia and Madagascar. Lately, Max has been ruminating about Antarctica. He recently chose the icy continent as the theme for his next birthday party. (How, exactly, I'll pull that off in a sweltering Houston September is anyone's guess. I'm willing to bet, though, that he'll have generated a dozen new themes before we have to lock in on one for good.)

A few nights ago, Max asked me to help him fashion penguins out of plain, white printer paper. After a few lame attempts, I asked him to bring me a picture of a penguin. He fetched the children's atlas that I'd given him for Christmas and turned to the pages featuring Antarctica. When it comes to art, I do better with a "go by." Penguins, it turns out, are wider than I'd imagined, with thinner wings (or are they flippers?). In any event, I churned out a few plump birds before Max requested one sliding on its belly. I managed to improvise a little.

Next Max asked for snowflakes. Last winter, I discovered a fine set of instructions for making paper snowflakes. While most of the process is beyond Max's abilities, he loves to execute the final step himself, carefully unfolding the crisp seams to reveal a magical, lacy hexagon. We cranked out a half dozen paper ice crystals in short order.

Now satisfied, Max disappeared into his room, emerging only to ask for tape. After awhile, my curiosity got the better of me and I headed down the hall. From his doorway, the fruits of Max's labor were evident. Across the far wall in purple crayon was an arctic landscape, dotted with penguins. And on the downhill side of a snowy mountain was a horizontal penguin making like a sled.

"My room is Antarctica!," Max exclaimed proudly. "Will you hang the snowflakes over my bed?" That night, Max slept in a winter wonderland of his own making.

Thanks-giving

2006-01-11T20:17:00.000-08:00

My astute husband has said (lovingly, I'm sure) that I'll read anything, and my favorite genre of the moment is parenting tomes. On the side, I keep a stash of organizing and housekeeping books--my guilty little pleasure--but that's an illness for another day. I'm particularly enamored with two recent reads, Parenting with Love and Logic and The Blessings of a Skinned Knee. Last night I went to hear the author of the latter book, Dr. Wendy Mogel, speak to a large gathering of parents. She had many wise things to say, including the need for parents to counteract a culture that perpetuates the lie that happiness comes from obtaining more and more stuff. Not exactly a novel idea, but on the mark nevertheless. The antidote she offered was gratitude. So this evening, before I sang lullabies to the boys, I teed up the topic.

I want the two of you to know how grateful I am that you are my children. I'm so grateful for our wonderful family. What are you grateful for Max?

I'm grateful for animals and rainbows.

And what are you grateful for, Boo?

(After a brief pause...) Food. (This from the child who doesn't miss many meals.)

My turn again. I'm grateful for snowflakes. And for beautiful places, like the ranch. And for our home and the roof over our heads. How 'bout you, Max?

The world.

What are you grateful for, Boo?

Food. (Evidently, he was not kidding the first time.)

I'm grateful for Harley and Cassie, and for horses. Max?

Books. Books about the world and fossils and dinosaurs and animals. (Through the darkness, I could see Max's face. He was smiling.)

Boo?

Coach Alicia (his new gymnastics instructor). And Coach Doug (his old gymnastics instructor)

Now all of us were smiling. And as this grateful mother sang, her grateful children slept.

The Next Science Project

2005-12-30T18:43:00.000-08:00

Since he was quite small, Max has loved science experiments. He's predicted that a key will sink and a pencil will float and then tested his hypotheses in a big mixing bowl. He's learned how to create green and orange and purple by blending inky drops of food coloring in a water glass. He knows that a magnet will pick up a paper clip and a spoon but not a rubberband or a toothpick. Some day Max is going to create an amazing science fair project. And in the process, I'm afraid I'll be about as useful to him as flippers on a tennis court.

A couple of weeks before Christmas, Max asked to make a time machine. He wanted to see for himself whether crocodiles really lived at the same time as the dinosaurs. For several days, he beseeched anyone who would listen to take him to the toy store for the necessary parts. Finally, Babee broke the disappointing news to Max: it isn't really possible for any of us to go back in time. His dream shattered, Max abandoned the idea of time travel.

But he continues to search for answers to life's big questions. Walking to our car after dinner, he pointed out a lone star peeking through some fast-moving clouds. (It's the middle of Houston, people. You want the Milky Way or an entire constellation? Better take a long drive.) The star got Max thinking.

Max: Why are there meteors?
Me: Well, there are lots of rocks flying around in outer space, and that's what meteors are.
Max: And some of them crash into the earth?
Me: Well, most of them aren't anywhere close to the earth. And the ones that come close to us usually fly right by without hitting anything.
Lee: Or they burn up in the atmosphere before they reach the earth.
Max: But some of them hit the earth?
Me: A few of them do, yes.
Max: And that's why the dinosaurs died? Because a meteor hit the earth?
Me: That's right. A really big meteor.
Max: I want to see a meteor.
Me: Well, sometimes we can see meteors at night, when they're big enough and close enough to us. That's what shooting stars are.
Max: Oh. I want to see the planets, too.
Me: That would be interesting, wouldn't it?
Max: Yes. I want to see Saturn.
Me: Saturn! It would be incredible to be able to see Saturn, wouldn't it? Saturn's a very special planet. Do you know why?
Max: It has round things around it. Like circles.
Me: Right. They're called rings. And they're beautiful.
Max: We need a telescope so we can see the rings around Saturn. Mommy, can we make a telescope?
Me: Max, what a wonderful idea! That sounds like a great project for you and your dad.
Max: And the telescope needs to have a camera attached to binoculars.
Me: Good thinking. So then we can take pictures of the things that we see far away through the binoculars.
Max: Right.

I've got good news for Lee: at least a telescope will be easier to make than a time machine.

Dear Santa,

2005-12-08T15:30:00.000-08:00

During the Thanksgiving break, Max was invited to join a carpool. Now every morning and three afternoons a week, Max rides shotgun with three of his chums. For Max the Gregarious, this represents a quantum leap forward in his quality of life. Drives to and from school have become comedy central. And the fact that I see other moms every day with so little effort translates into many more after-school playdates for Max. In his view, Max has arrived at the Show.

My feelings about carpool are more mixed than Max's. I relish the additional time at home, without the pressure to get both kids into clothes and out of the house and into the car and under the freeway and over the railroad tracks and to school on time. I enjoy observing Max alongside three other kids his age and to get a glimpse into their little community. I'm tickled to get to engage the whole gaggle of kids in whimsical fantasies about where we might be headed other than to school and back. But I miss the time alone with Max, or with Max and Boo, when we'd discuss what happened at school or play silly word games or just be together in silence. As my friend Libby said long ago, the hardest thing about being a parent is helping your child grow away from you a little more each day.

This week as I drove the kids home from school, I decided to ask the bunch of them about their day at school. My query about each child's favorite part of the day didn't elicit much response, so I got more specific and asked what they'd drawn during art. (Because they're kids, I'm going to take some license with names here.)

Olivia: I didn't draw. I painted a candy cane.
Peter: I drew a gingerbread man.
Gabriel: I drew a Christmas tree.
Max: I drew an apotosaurus.

Interesting. Had the class been given a holiday-themed assignment that Max simply ignored? Or were the other children borrowing inspiration from classroom decorations or a book that had just been read? How had Max's apparent non-sequitur come about? Perhaps he was contemplating a flying, red-nosed apotosaurus.

I continued: "I think I see a pattern here. It sounds like many of you may be thinking about Christmas. What is each of you hoping to get for Christmas?" No sooner had the question left my mouth than I regretted it. I disliked focusing their attention on the material aspects of Christmas. I disdained the possibility that they might begin making comparisons amongst themselves about toys--how big, how much, how many. It was not the message I wanted to send. But is was too late.

Olivia: I want a scooter and some candy.
Peter: I want a jeep and a car and some candy.
Gabriel, hesitating for a moment: I want some candy.
Max: I want seeds.
Me: Seeds, Max?
Max: Yeah, you know, pumpkin seeds, so that we can plant a garden.

There are so many things I love about Max, but now I get to admire him, too. I admire that he's unique and uninhibited. I admire that he's unswayed by the chorus around him. And I admire that he operates on his own terms. There may be nothing I'd rather give a child than a sense of himself sturdy enough to withstand the bumps and bruises that life invariably bestows. Hang in there, dear Max.

The Law of Unintended Consequences

2005-12-06T20:22:00.000-08:00

Two days a week, after I take Max to school, I have a 30 minute hiatus before Boo is due at church school. Some days that's enough time for me to order, and receive, a decaf grande non-fat latte with one package of white sugar and chocolate powder on top. On other days, Boo and I head straight to St. Luke's, arriving long before the 9:00 bells ring (the church bells, of course). Then our ritual involves a detour to the library, which, I'm happy to report, still houses a familiar-looking card catalogue. My own memories of the church library are fond ones, as both a refuge from the confines of the pew and a repository for Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mysteries. I loved those books.

Boo's current literary taste runs more towards farm animals, with particular deference to If You Give a Pig a Pancake. In case you've missed it, the book is a whimsical exploration of what might ensue should you happen to serve flapjacks to a passing swine: If you give a pig a pancake, she'll want syrup to go with it. And then she'll get sticky and want a bath. And then she'll ask for bubbles and a rubber ducky, which will make her homesick and she'll want to go visit the farm where she grew up. So she'll go to your room and get a suitcase from under the bed. And so forth.

I was reminded of this book as our evening unfolded like this:

If you give a kid spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, he'll throw up on your white bedspread.

While you're trying to salvage the linens, he'll climb onto the dryer.

While he's on the dryer, he'll get his hand stuck in a bimetal can. (That would be the can that was on its way to the recycling bin when he threw up on the bed.)

If you extricate his hand from the can, he'll refuse to go to bed. (But no cuts, thank goodness!)

And so it went, from 7:00, when Max slid easily into bed, until 9:30, when, in spite of himself, Boo fell asleep.

I'd have happily settled for a sticky pig.

Where the Wild Things Are

2005-12-05T18:08:00.000-08:00

On the way home from school last week:

Max: Mommy, am I going to be a daddy some day?
Me: I don't know, Max, but I hope so. Would you like to be a daddy some day?
Max: No, I want to be a zookeeper.
Me: Well, you could be both.
Max (sounding incredulous): Really?!
Me: Yep. And actually that would work out quite nicely, because they have a lot in common.

Next time, I might try a glass of wine with that whine

2005-11-26T21:38:00.000-08:00

Hallelujah, it finally rained yesterday! Just the excuse I needed to stay home and cocoon. Since we'd been away for a couple of days, and with my housekeeper now out on maternity leave, I was consumed with the routine washing, sweeping, wiping, folding, hanging, sorting and straightening, all while trying to knock out the non-tree-related Christmas decorations. Did I mention that Lee was at the office, so there were also two small children to amuse?

By the end of the day, I had an epiphany: keeping kids entertained indoors is all about making messes. Cooking waffles together means powdered sugar footprints on the island and barstools and floors. Making an anachronistic jack-o-lantern on the pumpkin's final voyage to the trash means lots of slimy seeds and squishy pulp. Indulging the kids' adventure on a pirate ship means rearranging the 11 pillows on our bed more times than I can remember. When you're 4 and 2, fun equals mess. I tried to go with the flow.

At moments, though, my housekeeping efforts directly conflicted with the boys' play. I had washed linens and was trying to wrestle the waterproof mattress cover and fitted dinosaur sheet onto Boo's bed when he came into the room and began a ferocious round of whining. I hadn't noticed that someone had commissioned the small ladder that once housed pumpkins on the front porch. It now served as a diving board from which the kids could hurl themselves into the "swimming pool," which had become overrun with prehistoric reptiles.

"Not my bed!," Boo protested, his nasally screech evoking the same feeling within me as fingernails on a chalkboard. "That's my swimming pool!" About a dozen times.

The parenting class I took this fall recommends that parents charge--either toys or money--for listening to whining. But in the moment, I hadn't remembered that approach. Instead, I tried to enhance Boo's self-awareness, with the ridiculous notion that with raised consciousness, he might opt for a sunnier approach.

"Boo, do you remember what that tone of voice is called?"
"No."
"It's called whining."
"No, mommy, it's called sad."

So much for consciousness-raising.

My World Travelers

2005-11-20T22:00:00.000-08:00

Max loves maps. Like a true-blue Texan, he has been able to recognize his home state for longer than I can rememeber. But I'm surprised by some of the other places he now identifies on a globe, such as Africa, South America, Australia, India and Madagascar. (Were you to inquire about that last one, he might shrug his shoulders and say with nonchalance, "You know, because it's where lemurs come from.")

On Friday, Don and Shelly came over for dinner and what Shelly and I sometimes refer to as "kid therapy." Think "fur therapy" without pet dander and "retail therapy" without a credit card bill. On a bad day, Max's giggles and Boo's kisses rank high on our list of mood-elevating substances.

After dinner, Max, who was feeling adventuresome, announced, "I'm going to India." He headed for the kitchen to pack, then returned to display his preparations. First, he showed us a large ziplock bag filled with ice, because, as he explained, "It's hot in India." He also packed several days worth of goldfish in a crush-proof container. "Good idea on an international flight," I thought to myself. Then Max put on his Indian headdress--the one with feathers and corn kernels and beads that he'd made at school while learning about pilgrims and other early Americans--because, after all, he was going to India. Wrestling his backback across his shoulders, he began tromping down the hall.

His younger brother ran after him anxiously. "Wait for me, Max!"
"Boo, where are you going?," I called after him.
Confidently, Boo replied, "Africa!"
Naturally, the destination of choice for any two year old.

Simply Irresistible

2005-11-13T23:22:00.000-08:00

I'm taking a parenting class at Max's school this year, and I've noticed something curious. Conflicts between pre-school aged children and their parents generally exist on one of three biologically-imperative fronts--eating, sleeping and elimination. I'm fortunate that my sons are hearty, healthy eaters, and that the one that has graduated to underpants seems psychologically unscathed by the process. (As for me, I came through Max's potty-training with only minor trauma.). Our major battleground is bedtime.

As is so often the case, when it comes to sleep, my kids are cut from different cloth. Max flips and flails like a trout on a riverbank right up until the moment sleep overtakes him. It's easy to tell when he's finally unconscious because his body actually ceases to move. When Reed takes to bed, he's a study in peaceful repose. Many nights I've believed him to be asleep for some time, only to find his eyes open, watching me. Although he's calm, he wants company, both for "lights out" and at each of the 3-4 hour intervals when he wakes during the night. He's picky, too--neither the company of his father, nor his brother, nor either of our devoted dogs will do.

The universal axiom for easing bedtime struggles is to establish a consistent bedtime routine. I'm the first to admit that repetition hasn't always been something I relished. (For many years, I believed that a trip wasn't a real vacation if I'd been to my destination before.) But I'm beginning to appreciate the virtues of routines, particularly where my kids are concerned. By now, our evening cadence has become so familiar to them, and perhaps so reassuring, that they will prompt me if I skip a step, inadvertently or otherwise.

On his first day of school this fall, Reed began a ritual that translates beautifully to bedtime, and someday soon I hope it improves our sleep. He squeezes me tightly, saying, "Hug." Then he pecks me on the cheek, saying, "Kiss." Another squeeze: "Big hug." Another smooch: "Big kiss." And so forth another 5 or 10 or 15 times, until he feels sufficiently loving or loved. We follow this with a Waltonesque round-robin:
"Good night, Boo."
"Good night, mommy."
"Good night, Max."
"Good night, mommy. "
"Sleep tight, Max.
"Sleep tight, mommy. Don't let the bed bugs bite."
"Sleep tight, Boo."
"Sleep tight."
"Sweet dreams, mommy."
"Sweet dreams, Max. I love you."
"I love you."
"Love you, Max."
"I love you, too, Boo."

At this point, Max usually flops about for a few minutes and drifts off. But Reed continues to talk: farm animals and related noises, every person, dog and horse he knows by name, beverage requests, what he did that day, what he wants to do tomorrow, on and on in a burst of impressive verbal acuity. I know now that he is likely to talk until I issue an ultimatum: I will stay in the room with little boys who keep to their beds and remain quiet.

For several days, I stuck to my pledge. And then Boo changed his tactics. If Max is the master of charm school, Boo is his eager disciple. Lately, when I've drawn the line in the sand, Boo begins to gently stroke my hair, whispering, "Mommy, mommy, mommy." And sleep or no sleep, who could walk away from that?

My Highlight Reel

2005-11-06T22:21:00.000-08:00

I've loved highlight reels ever since I was a child, when I would struggle to stay awake long enough to watch the halftime show on Monday Night Football. Perhaps it's not surprising, then, that one of my routines with the boys is to ask them about their favorite experiences each day. I like this game for a number of reasons: It allows me to glimpse a little of the world through their eyes. It stimulates their ability to reflect on their lives and identify what makes their hearts sing. And I hope that it cultivates in each of them a lasting spirit of optimism and gratitude.

This practice has become so habitual that I often find myself wondering about the best part of my own day. Many times, I find those moments in unexpected places. Friday was the annual school fair, and on the way to campus, I bumped into the mother of one of Max's former classmates. She had her hands full, with her son on one side and one of Max's new classmates on the other. As we greeted each other, her son exclaimed, "That's Max's mommy!" Without a moment's hesitation, the other boy said exuberantly, "Max isn't hitting any more!" Nothing that child might have said could have made me happier.

The Hero

2005-11-01T23:09:00.000-08:00

Max and Reed often resemble lion cubs at play, jostling, tugging and rolling on top of each other until one gets hurt or tires of the game, or until the watchful lioness breaks up the commotion. Being big and coordinated, Reed is now a competent adversary, so who will get the better of whom is no longer a foregone conclusion. Max's tactics tend to be rougher, though, and any given race or chase may culminate in a shove to the younger brother's back while he is in mid-stride. A couple of weeks ago Reed's forehead had the imprint of a concrete sidewalk to prove it. I might be more concerned about the quality of their play were it not for the fact that they are so clearly enjoying themselves, right up until the moment of pain.

Relationships are like prisms, beautiful and mysterious and complex, and I glimpsed another facet of theirs this evening.

I had taken the boys to a park to meet our playgroup for dinner and a good romp. Playgrounds are fascinating social laboratories in that they allow children to explore, among other things, their own power--both physical and psychological--and its limits. Want to swing across the monkey bars, but can't gain enough momentum to reach the next one? Want to ride someone else's bike when she's unwilling to share? Want to join a game of soccer with older kids who consider you a nuisance? On the playground, children experience accomplishment and failure, inclusion and rejection, dominance and passivity, long before their intellects can grasp those concepts.

The great playground experiment becomes more interesting with children as different as Max and Reed. For Max the Intrepid, the park provides an endless supply of new playmates and adventures. Reed the Timid has recently begun to articulate a litany of fears: firetrucks, trains, barking dogs, the dark, our housekeeper, his room, monsters, thunder, and the men hammering on the house across the street. For him, the park is a daunting landscape of the unfamiliar. Half an hour elapsed before Reed summoned the inner resources to relinquish his grip on my knee and interact with other kids. (Was it merely a coincidence that it was my friend's one-year old twins who coaxed him out of his shell? Perhaps even small children can tell when a relationship is non-threatening.)

His legs finally beneath him, Reed began to explore. I watched from a distance as he scaled the playground equipment and headed for the circular slide. As he was crossing the platform, he was confronted by three boys, all Max's age. They sized him up, surrounded him and began to taunt him. I couldn't hear their words, but by tone of voice alone, their intent to intimidate him was unmistakable. Reed's face buckled. Tucking chin to chest, he began to cry.

I started to intervene, but Max beat me to it. He scrambled up the ladder and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother. "Stop saying that!," Max ordered. "He's smaller than you, and that's not kind!" The other boys dispersed. No hitting, no shoving. Just one little man, in a display of 4-year old courage, defending his fearful brother.

In Reed's eyes, was Max a hero this evening? I can't say for sure, but I know that he was in mine.

My Other Child

2005-10-25T10:33:00.000-07:00

For a couple of weeks in September, Max balked at going to school. Out of a class of 16, only three children from his class last year are in this year's room, and none were his real buddies. He missed his friends, but he really mourned for Alison, Brennan and Sophia. So I was greatly relieved when Max began to mention the names of new classmates: Elizabeth, Ella, Dylan, Samantha. (That all are girls, once again, is not lost on me.)

On the way home from school yesterday, Max announced, "Dylan is my twin."

My ears perked up. "What does that mean to you, Max?"

"It means we'll be friends forever."

No worries...

2005-10-24T23:13:00.000-07:00

One of my friends from my days at the bank is a woman whose life has been unconventional and adventurous and whose wisdom I have always admired. Of the many things I enjoy about Maureen, her stories about parenting Nick resonated with me long before I joined the motherhood sorority. Nick is now in his 30's, a handsome, accomplished scientist with a passion for tutoring underprivileged kids at an acclaimed charter school. When Nick was in high school, like millions of other teenagers, he expressed himself in part through his tresses, which had been, at various times, green, purple and fashioned into a mohawk. When I asked Maureen how she had abided some of Nick's more outrageous hairstyles, she replied pragmatically, "If your kid is polite, does well in school, avoids drugs, and hangs out with friends you like, you don't worry about hair."

I filed away her response in a mental folder labelled Adolescent Years of Unborn Children. Fast forward a decade. For over a year, Max has stubbornly resisted my attempts to tame his hair into something akin to order. I've become accustomed to the odd strand or the belligerent curl, even as I wish for better grooming.

This morning when Max awoke, the cowlick on the back of his head seemed to have burst into spectacular plumage. (Had you been browsing through his well-loved Animal Encyclopedia, you might have noticed a passing resemblance to an African crown crane.) Buoyed with confidence from the parenting course I'm attending, I ventured a new tack:

"Max, do you want to brush your hair yourself, or do you want me to do it? It's standing straight up in back like a porcupine!"

Without so much as a glance in the mirror, Max rebuffed me. "No way, mom! It's my 'Show and Tell'!"

Perhaps you're wondering how this potential stand-off ended. I took the page from Maureen's playbook, swallowed hard, and permitted Max to go to school with quills. By the time I picked him up three hours later, gravity had reduced the height of his unruly sprig, but by no means had it worked magic. As Max's teacher opened my car door, I couldn't resist a defensive remark. "Did Max show everyone his hair for 'Show and Tell'?" Mrs. Richards shook her head and laughed. "He reminded me of a boy a few years back who had five cowlicks all over his head. Every day he came to school looking like a gerbil."

A Breath of Fresh Air

2005-10-07T22:16:00.000-07:00

September is, I think, the cruelest month in Houston. From all around, cultural stimuli suggest that fall has arrived. Children return to school. Stadiums fill with football teams and fans and marching bands. Store windows boast tweeds and sweaters in autumn hues. Psychologically, after a seemingly endless summer, Texans long for relief.

Despite calendar photographs of amber aspen leaves, despite our fervent wishes, September betrays Houston with more summer swelter. This year she mocked us, too, with blistering temperatures that exceeded August's usual wrath and a glancing blow from a hurricane that compounded misery all along the Gulf Coast.

So you might have heard the collective sigh today as Houstonians threw open their doors to the first temperate weather of the season. Parks were filled with scampering children and their beaming parents, many shivering in the overcast morning. After weeks of insufferable heat, it's hard for many of us to imagine that layers and jackets and bluejeans really are, once again, the order of the day.

I ventured into the cool air this morning with Boo in my arms. His eyes grew wide. He looked skyward and began to wave his hand through the air as if welcoming home a long lost friend. "Cold!" he exclaimed in awe. I imagine his young mind couldn't even recall such glorious weather. "Do you like the cool air, Boo?" He nodded enthusiastically. Don't we all? Ahhhhh....

Hold the castle

2005-09-26T17:42:00.000-07:00

It's not every month that I get to orchestrate a birthday festival for Max, followed closely by a hurricane evacuation, but now I've got much catching up to do around here. Flash back to the week before Rita, when Max was proudly announcing to everyone he saw that he was turning four.

When I picked Max up from school the day of his birthday, he was sporting a new necklace. It featured an asymmetrical red star adorned with multi-colored sequins, beads and glitter. Max explained that it was his birthday star, and when we arrived home I asked if he wanted to hold on to the necklace. Max's reply was unequivocal.

- Of course!

- What should we do with it? Should we put it on the Christmas tree?

- No, we should keep it for my next birthday.

- That's a great idea. What does your birthday star mean to you?

- I don't know.

- Perhaps it means that your birthday is your special day?

- Yeah!

- Did you know your birthday is special to me, too?

- No, why?

- Because your birthday was the day I became a mommy.

- Not a princess?

- No, sweetheart, even better than a princess.

Criblessness: Day 2

2005-08-27T21:57:00.000-07:00

Boo did not nap today. No, that's not technically true. He slept in the car for 10 minutes while we returned home from a busy morning outdoors. And many hours later, he took a 5 minute snooze as we drove to dinner. He was so exhausted when we reached the restaurant that I expected him to sleep through dinner, stretched across the booth. But he fought our suggestion to remain flat, choosing to struggle into a somewhat vertical position next to his father. From across the table, I watched in amused sympathy as his eyelids began to flutter, then droop, then sag. Boo began to list almost imperceptibly to the left, and Lee, feeling Boo's imminent collapse more than seeing it, shifted his arm to catch his fading son. Boo nodded off for another minute, only to rally when the cheese enchiladas arrived.

So with just 17 minutes of nap under Boo's belt today, I was anticipating that he would crash early. Well, I suppose he crashed, in a manner of speaking, but it was more like "crash and burn" than "hit the hay." We sacheted good-naturedly through our bedtime routine, but as I laid Boo into bed, he demanded more rocking. I decided that I would need to hold firm, lest Boo spend the rest of the night in and out of bed. I recalled Supernanny's bedtime technique: cuddles and kisses the first time; "it's time to go to sleep" the second time, and from then on, just return the child to bed in a perfunctory way--no eye contact, no communication. It worked every time. I was feeling inspired.

As I began to apply her bedtime technique, I could almost imagine the Supernanny film crew careening through the house in pursuit of my son and me. No sooner would Boo's head hit the pillow than he would spring upright, slip off the bed, and charge down the hall, screaming, "More rocking! I need mommy!" Pretty soon, I began a running tally of return trips to bed. Four...five...six... Max, who was already in bed, began to feel the stress of the situation and put in his two cents. "Mommy, I think Boo wants you to rock him some more." Nine...ten...eleven.... "Boo, stay in bed. I'm right here, Boo. You can go to sleep now." Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen.... "Mommy, why don't you sit over there in the black chair so Boo can see you?" Twenty-four...twenty-five...twenty-six...twenty-seven. Boo had now been completely hysterical for 15 minutes, and Lee could take no more. "I'm going to rock him for awhile," Lee said, erasing the work of the past 30 minutes. Safe in his father's arms, Boo quieted down, but at the expense of Lee's compromised neck. After a few minutes, Lee asked me to take over. And Boo knew as well as I did that he'd won this round.

I hadn't cradled Boo for more than 5 minutes when he said sleepily, "Bed." As I settled him gently onto his new dinosaur sheets, he asked for the blanket from his crib. When I returned with it, Boo was fast asleep.

The First Time

2005-08-26T23:28:00.000-07:00

Boo escaped today. He wasn't in danger, at least not in a cataclysmic way. But he resisted mightily after I put him down for his nap. After 20 minutes of protest, I heard his voice growing decidedly louder. He'd finally done it! He scaled the crib and emerged triumphant from the confines of his room. "Boo, how did you get out of your crib?" I asked. Max was quick to answer for him: "He took a lesson from me!"

Must I tell you that this does not bode well for the future of naps in our house? Every attempt to put Boo down will now be subjected to his personal litmus test: "At this very moment, do I feel like sleeping or not?" Boo defied a nap until about 4:30, when I found him limp in a comfy armchair. I transferred him to his crib, where his body succumbed to exhaustion. But not for long. Two hours later, he appeared on the patio, his muscle memory obviously having programmed "how to spring the crib" for all time. For the sake of his well-being, Boo's crib days are officially over.

This evening, I tucked Boo into his new twin bed, poised directly across from his brother's. Max was ecstatic about the development. "Mommy, now I won't have to go into your room any more because Boo's here with me and I'm not scared. Now we need a new baby to sleep in the crib." (Ha! Enough said.)

We then began what is sure to become an elaborate new bedtime ritual. I tucked Boo under his covers and snuggled stuffed animals around him, hoping to keep him from rolling out of bed in the middle of the night. Next it was Max's turn. Boo called me back to his side of the room. "Hug!" he demanded. "Kiss!" (How could you not comply with such a tender request?) Then we borrowed a page from the Waltons: "Good night, Max. Good night, mommy. Good night, Boo. Good night, horse. Good night, dog. Good night, Harley. Good night, bed." I turned down the light and slipped out the door. "Mommy, I'm not afraid of the dark any more," Max said to my back.

It wasn't long before I heard Boo's unmistakable footsteps skittering down the hall. "Boo, do you want to sleep in your crib or in your new bed?" "Bed." "Okay, then, you need to stay there."

The next time I checked on the boys, I found Max piling mounds of toys onto Boo's bed. "Do you know why I'm putting these toys here?" "Why, Max." "So that Boo doesn't have to get out of bed to play with them." "Well, that's an interesting idea, Max, but Boo isn't going to play with toys right now. It's bedtime. Now get in your bed. You need to set a good example for Boo." "I'm going to teach him!"

When I heard footsteps in the hall yet again, I intercepted Boo as he reached the den. He headed for the bookshelves and began collecting. "Boo, if you keep getting out of your bed, I'm going to put you back in your crib. Is that what you want?" "No," Boo replied, heading back down the hall. A few minutes later I went to survey the boys' bedroom. Boo was carefully arranging his collection of horses and dogs around him, right down to the copy of Brown Bear, Brown Bear, opened to the page bearing the blue horse. "What do you want?," Boo asked. (On the road to mastering pronouns, Boo has taken the detour on which "you" and "I" are transposed. And it's easy to see why, isn't it? I ask Boo "How are you?," and somehow he's supposed to glean that the appropriate response is "I am fine." I hear this most often when Boo looks up at me with outstretched arms and pleads, "Carry you!") So when Boo asked, "What do you want?," I surmise he was really asking, "What do I want?" And then he proceeded to supply the answer: "This horse and book and dog and blanket and dog and pillow." Out slipped an inventory of his bed's contents, now arranged to his satisfaction.

"Good night, sweet Boo, I love you so."

"Good night. Love you."

The first smile, the first hug, the first "love you"--now those are "firsts" for the ages.

More of the Darndest Things

2005-08-26T22:41:00.000-07:00

On the way to school this morning:

Mommy, I know a new bird.

You do?

Yes, a cedar waxwing.

Oh?

Do you know what's different about a cedar waxwing?

No, Max, I really don't.

They feed some of their food to other cedar waxwings.

Why do you suppose they do that, Max?

Because maybe they have too much food.

It's kind of them to share their food, isn't it?

Yes.

Would you be willing to share some of your food,Max?

NO WAY!

(So much for "teachable moments.")

*****

In the last couple of weeks, Max has become an exuberant builder of blocks and legos and lincoln logs. This afternoon his construction prowess took an unexpected turn: I was summoned to witness a tower of dinosaurs that he'd somehow managed to assemble. A large T-rex was riding on the back of a brachiosaurus, a parasauralophus protruding from its jaws. A small brontosaurus was perched atop the brachiosaurus' head. The brachiosaurus' back was nearly invisible, thanks to two dozen dinosaurs of various shapes and sizes protruding from one another at angles in seeming defiance of gravity. The jumble appeared to be an odd experiment in structural engineering. I was curious about Max's construction techniques.

Max, how did you get all the dinosaurs to balance like that?

With my imagination.

*****

When Max awoke up from a nap (small miracles!) this afternoon, he was despondent. He padded into the living room where I was working, curled himself into a compact lump on the floor, and began to sob.

You're not my friend any more!

Why is that?

You hurt my feelings.

I didn't intend to. How did I do that?

I wanted to stay at school. I'm going to run away.

Oh, no! I'll miss you. Where are you going?

To my room. I'm going to close my door.

*****

With increasing frequency, Max and Reed entertain themselves and each other, and nowhere is this more true than the bathtub, particularly with bubbles added. If I'm lucky, bathtime is self-contained amusement for a good half-hour, and I can sit nearby and read while they play. Good for all concerned.

I was immersed in post-revolutionary France when I looked up from my book to find Max standing in the tub, relieving himself into the red stacking cup. Ordinarily, Max would get out of the tub to use the more traditional appliance, but it just happened to be the perch on which I was engrossed in my reading.

I asked Max what he was doing, although frankly it was pretty self-explanatory, and after he'd described the nature of his dilemma and the solution at which he'd arrived, he announced, "I'm proud of myself! I used my brain to figure it out! "

Brotherly Love

2005-08-14T20:54:00.000-07:00

The boys and I were driving home from errands yesterday around lunchtime. Boo, who doesn't miss many meals, grew cranky and began to chant, "Lunch. Lunch. Lunch." Not far from home, he suddenly grew silent. I checked the rearview mirror: Boo was fast asleep. Max caught sight of Boo's nodding head, too. "I think he's dreaming about tomatoes," Max said, alluding to the fact that Boo eats them like candy. I voiced my concern that if Boo slept too long in the car and then woke up for lunch, he might forego a real nap afterwards. Max rallied to my aid: "WAKE UP, BOO!" His brother gave no response. "Oh, well," Max sighed philosophically, "more for me!"

While I Was Out....

2005-08-11T22:10:00.000-07:00

My housekeeper/nanny, Araceli, almost quit this week, all because of Max. On Monday, I left the kids with Araceli for an hour and a quarter (notable only because it was such a short period of time). While I was away, Max kicked and hit Araceli, hit and pinched her daughter Karen, and told them both that he didn't like them and wanted them to leave. When I showed up, Araceli had had enough. Mind you, she's 6 months pregnant, already with a sizeable waistline, and if memory of my own pregnancies is any guide, I'd say her patience is just about shot anyway. She was sullen for the rest of the day, and I took both kids and got out of her hair. The next day morning I told her I wasn't sure she was going to return, and from her response, it was evident that she'd actually talked to her husband about that very possibility.

What I took from this episode is two-fold. First, I need to start looking for back-up help immediately, because I don't know that I can count on Araceli being around much longer. Second, Max is overdue at getting his impulsiveness under control. He and I had a stern conversation about how unacceptable his behavior toward Araceli was, and Lee followed up on that theme when he got home, to which Max replied, "You don't know. You weren't there." Clever, perhaps, but also mighty impudent.

So I'm approaching Max this week with greater scrutiny and less tolerance. We had several incidents yesterday in which Max ignored my requests and warnings. I drew a line in the sand: push or hit or take something from Boo one more time, and you'll be having dinner in your room and spending the remainder of the evening by yourself. Next thing I knew, Max had emptied the entire contents of Reed's plate onto his own, so he was dispatched to his room.

And the wailing began.

"I don't want to be by myself! I want to be with you! I want to play with Boo! Let me out! I won't do it again!" And so forth, for about an hour. He would escape from his room, and I would carry him back. At one point, as I walked by Max's room, he grabbed my legs and sobbed, "I'm not a bad person, mommy!" (That one almost did me in.)

"No, you're a good person, Max, but you've made a lot of bad choices today. When you treat people unkindly, they don't want to be around you. I told you what would happen if you took something else from Boo today, and what did you do?"

"I took his dinner."

"And I'm so very, very sad that you did that. I'm sad because I know you want to play with us, and I'm sad because I miss you. I sure hope you make better choices tomorrow."

Eventually, the tears stopped, and eventually, Max remained in his room on his own. As I walked passed his room again, Max said philosphically, "It's better to be kind to people."

"I agree, Max. When you're kind to people, they want to be around you, and you get to do more of what you want. I think you've learned a lot today."

Sometimes I wonder whether Max, at his most disruptive, isn't begging for limits, limits that will reassure him that for all his precocity, he really isn't in charge. On my third pass by his door, Max's disposition had softened further. Climbing between his dinosaur sheets, he offered up this surprising assessment: "Today wasn't a bad day, mommy. Today was a good day. I'm ready to go to bed." It was 7:00.

The Pony Sleeps Tonight

2005-08-08T22:34:00.000-07:00

Out of necessity, both of my kids are becoming Lyle Lovett fans. The only artist to whom I regularly listen, Lovett often rides shotgun on our travels to and from the ranch. The boys' growing attachment to Lovett has begun to surface in unexpected ways. This evening we were heading home from dinner with the First Class Playgroup, a lively gang comprised of the kids and siblings from Max's St. Luke's classroom. Tonight's gathering was hosted by the parents of Max's pal, Liam, and his little sister, Fiona. I was strapping the boys into the car when I realized that one of the children had morphed into a budding pickpocket. I confiscated the plastic thermometer from Reed and returned it to its rightful owner. By the time I made my way back to the car, Max had begun to sing: "She's my one-eyed Fiona. She's my one-eyed Fiona. She's my one-eyed Fiona. She's my one-eyed Fiona." This is not one of Lovett's better known tunes, nor one we've heard recently, but it obviously made quite an impression on Max, perhaps because he could so easily free-associate to the adorable, blond Fiona whom he knows and likes. (Surely, being "one-eyed" has no meaning for Max, a deficit that will continue unfilled for the time being.)

No sooner had I turned the car for home, than Reed began to beg for "Pony." Pony is short-hand for "If I Had a Boat," Lovett's fantasy about a solo voyage astride his seafaring horse. So insatiable is Reed's thirst for the Pony Song that the final chord has not yet faded before he is clammering for it again. To placate an insistent child, I've actually tolerated the Pony Song a dozen times in a row. Max frequently interrupts Reed's demands for Pony with his own request for the "Texas Song," a tune about a man who abandons his girlfriend on the side of the road because she doesn't understand the Texas mystique. As we drove home, the boys began to volley requests across the back seat:

"Pony!"
"Texas!"
"Pony!"
"Texas!"
"Pony! Pony! Pony!"

With words sure to transcend Reed's relentless request for a song, Max replied, "Let the pony rest, Boo."

Souvenirs

2005-08-04T22:04:00.000-07:00

This evening dad came over for our post-vacation exchange. Dad returned a bottle of Children's Motrin, Max's hooded sweatshirt, a pair of child's scissors, our well-worn copy of Where the Wild Things Are, and three dozen photos from the trip to Seattle. As quid pro quo, I sent dinner for dad and mom, whose unfortunate memento from the trip is Max's fever.

When Max spied the stack of pictures on the kitchen counter, he descended on them. Max has already been gripped by the perhaps-universal phenomenon of searching photographs for his own image. Slowly Max fingered the pictures, offering a narrative behind each one: "That's me and Babee and Boo picking blueberries. That's Uncle Paul and Kimberly at their house. That's Boo hiding in the curtains." Halfway through this exercise, Max experienced a revelation noteworthy only because it emanated from someone not yet four: "These pictures are helping me remember!"

Having finished his initial review, Max rummaged through the photos now strewn across the island. After careful editing, he selected two. In one, a black penguin floats in an aquamarine pool, its neck craned backwards for a moment's preening. In the second, Max stares enraptured at a young woman in red dancing to a banjo's tune. "These are my favorites," he announced, whereupon he carried them to his room and tucked them beneath his comforter, perhaps to come alive again in his dreams.

Mr. No

2005-07-22T19:06:00.000-07:00

For much of the last two weeks, Boo has been missing. In place of my sunny, easy-to-please baby, someone has transplanted an irritable toddler. For hours on end, he'll answer my every question with a whiny "no." And if I commit the sin of filling the wrong cup, expect for him to hurl himself to the floor for a no-holds-barred tantrum. When he behaves this way in public, as he has become fond of doing, I feel the need to explain to people in close earshot, as if to ward off their unspoken criticism that something is wrong with Boo that I'm simply ignoring: "He's almost two." Older women, in particular, invariably meet that explanation with knowing, sympathetic smiles.

During our bedtime routine, I've begun to reach into my bag of tricks from a couple of years back and offer him a choice. After he finishes with milk, he can continue to rock for awhile, or he can choose bedtime. Interestingly, he sometimes opts for bed. This evening, though, he requested, "Rock." Usually at this juncture, he drapes his body across mine like a cheetah in a tree and goes limp. But tonight, he had another request: "Sunshine." I had not yet crooned "You Are My Sunshine," and Boo was keeping track. Still hoarse from last week's illness, I croaked through the chorus. Again, Boo asked, "More sunshine?" and we continued on together. Eventually, I told Boo it was bedtime. He replied, "More milk." I told him that there was no more milk, but that if he was still thirsty, he could have either water or apple juice. He grinned at me: "Orange juice." He was jerking my chain, but I can bear that brand of good-natured defiance any day. Boo settled for water, then settled in for sleep.

My One and Only

2005-07-21T22:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I could not have told you with certainty that Max knew Boo's real name. Around here, the younger son is known as Boo, or Boo Boo, or Mr. Boo. I'll sheepishly admit that on occasion, I still refer to him as Baby Reed, this despite the fact that he can speak in complete sentences and undress himself and serve tennis balls overhand. But he's still the shortest stack in our house, and to my ear, "Reed" sounds like the name of someone who might be leaving for college any day. So for now, I generally reserve Reed's legal name for doctor's appointments and school forms.

This evening as I was tucking Max into bed, he was pondering his relationship with Boo.
"I take care of Reed," he said somberly.
For a moment, I wasn't entirely sure of whom he was speaking, so I asked Max how he took care of him.
"I'm nice to him, and I pet him softly. I chase him when he runs. And I share my toys with him. That's how I take care of him."
Max layed his head on my chest. "And I also love you, mommy."
"I love you, too, Max."
"You're my only mommy."
"And you're my only Max."