30: You

I snuggled into bed with you

early afternoon today

You yawned - I knew it was time

You cradled your blankie and rubbed the tag

while sucking your thumb

Your tell-tale sign

It was time for me, too

I don't remember much

past your yawn

your blankie

your thumb

I made it over the hill...

...and then woke up to you 

tapping my nose and 

finger-combing my hair

and giggling

One more tiny kiss on the hair

"Sleep tight"

and

"I'll set the timer and you can get up when it goes off"

and

"Make sure you're quiet enough to hear it..."

And you ran around upstairs instead

while I sat downstairs reading

So I invited you, again, to

"Stay in bed quietly"

"Just five more minutes"

and 

"Be super still..."

And guess what?

You were

For better than three hours

***

At dinnertime

you bounced downstairs

to notice the cookies on the cooling rack

"I was TIRED, Mommy!"

and 

"That was a goooooood nap!"

fell between cookie one

and cookie two

***

Sleepy you...

Funny you...

Growing you...

Blessing...you

Write on,

b

26: Pieces...

I think we were probably doing dishes, reflecting on the day, recapping ball games. That's when we noticed the house was quiet...

The elder little was upstairs working on his arcade.  It is the smaller little who sometimes...disappears.

"Grant?"

Silence.

"Where are you?"

Nothing.

We both walked the first floor, only to find this about a minute into our search...

A piece of hair here, a clump of hair there...

"GRANT!  WHERE ARE YOU?"

More pieces.

Big pieces.

Sections.

We turned the corner into the powder room to find him with orange safety scissors.

Up against more of his "yellow" hair!



"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

He offered, "I'm cutting my hair.*  Reid says I look like a 'goyl'..."

*Now, for your frame of reference, it is helpful to note that this blonde hair has been the source of many conversations over the past couple years.  I'm on team "let's not cut it -- he has curls;" my husband...well, opposes that team, and often asks, "Can you please just cut his hair?  It's time..."  I resist.  Every.  Single.  Time.  


I surveyed the damage -- large chunk of bangs, missing; even larger chunk of hair from his left side, missing.  Noticeably.

*Until this time...

"Tomorrow we'll get a hair cut after church.  This style needs some tweaking."

Together we shuffled over the living room carpet and also the wood floors to pick up the pieces.  My mind imagined the smaller little with one 'little boy cut.'


This morning, we tried to comb straggly strands of wispy blonde hair over the offending sections. The right side didn't hide the second bout with the safety scissors quite as well as we'd hoped.

So, as promised, after church we went for the long-awaited haircut.

The pieces fell to the floor, first large...and then small.  His 'do, shaped, in a way that only someone who truly knows how to cut hair, can.

"One little boy cut," Abigail proclaimed. She cleaned up his neck, preened his risky sections, and added, "I texturized it...you know, so it all blends in the best it can."

"I appreciate that.  You are really good at what you do.  Thank you."

We lifted the older-looking little boy from the car chair and stepped over the million little pieces toward the door.  Abigail began sweeping them into a pile.

A few minutes later, inside the car, Grant celebrated.  "Mommy, I like my hair."

"I do, too, Mr. Moo..."

Very grown up.


Write on,
b

26: He's growing...

He sits by my left elbow at the dinner table
piles of food come and go
stories do
teeth do, too
He smiles, it stays
longer with each passing time
as if to threaten the fits into
dwindling...they
dwindle
He sits by my left elbow at the dinner table

I saved the last bite for you.  
Want it, Mommy?  It's a good one...
Or, maybe, Grant wants it.
Want it, Grant?  It's a good bite.  The best onnnnnnne.

Thank you for making dinner tonight, Mommy...


Write on,
b

17: 'Old-fashioned' and 'new-fashioned'...

We waited for an opening in the steady stream of northbound traffic to turn left out of the neighborhood toward Target.  It was Wednesday after school.  Our coffee-date day.  So we began the five-minute drive by discussing our snack options.

R: Hey, Mom, when we go to Starbucks can I get an old-fashioned donut?

B: Sure, I think so.  Hey, what’s 'old-fashioned' mean?

R: Um, I don’t know.

B: Sure you do; think about it a sec.  What could be old-fashioned?

...

R: I know — buggies and horses.

B: Oh yeah?

R: Cars are 'new-fashioned.'  Buggies are old-fashioned because they came before cars.

B: What else could be old-fashioned?

R: Amish.  Amish are old-fashioned.

B: Why do you say that?

R: Because they don’t have power in their houses.  That’s old-fashioned.  

B: Sounds like it might be.    

R: A fire.  Cooking food on a fire is old-fashioned.  A stove is how we cook today.  A stove is new-fashioned.

B: What else?

R: Feathers.

B: Oh yeah?  What do you mean by 'feathers'?

R: Writing with feathers and dipping them in ink.  That’s the way people wrote before pens were invented.  That's old-fashioned.

B: Yes.  That IS old-fashioned.  

Good one.

R: Yeah, but then what would you do if you made a mistake?  Cross it out?

B: Maybe.  

R: You know what would be new-fashioned?

B: What?

R: Erasers.

B: Oh yeah?  How is that?

R: Because now that erasers are invented we can get rid of what we don't want on the paper anymore. We don't have to cross it out.  That's a big deal when you write letters.

B: So what do you know about writing letters?

R: Well, people used to write letters to communicate.

B: That's true.  Then they'd have to write them, send them in the mail, and wait for someone else to write them one back to find out new information.  Now how do people communicate?

R: They use their cell phones.  

B: Yep. That IS new-fashioned.

R: It is? 

B: Sure, it is.  When I was a little girl, we had a phone hanging from our wall in the kitchen.

R: WHOA.

Seriously?

B: It stayed in one place and if it rang, you had to run to answer it before it stopped. And then you had to stand in that spot by the phone while you talked because the handpiece was hooked to the phone with a cord that wasn’t very long and it wouldn’t stretch very far.  

R: REALLY?  THAT’S CRAZY!  That IS old-fashioned.

Fires for cooking; feathers for ink...phones on walls?  

Boy-mama tip: Just stick to the 'old-fashioned' donut...

Write on,

b

7: Team colors...

We stumbled into Kohl's, between Target and a date at Starbucks, with merchandise credit worth $21.85.  I had no agenda -- other than to spend every red cent -- however Reid may have disagreed.

With each step further into the boys department, I marveled at our good fortune.

Free money.
(Well, kind of.)

Yellow and red clearance stickers dotted stacks of fitness tops and pants.
(And more stacks.)

We started in the big boys section, with the orange long-sleeve shirts.  Orange has unofficially become our team color -- it seems like this section of my laundry sort paint pallet grows wider and wider -- so the elder little asks to have the one with a soccer ball, baseball, football, and basketball arranged in a neat square on the front.  I say, "Perfect," because at home we have the matching track pants.

Next, he went for the stack of lime green long-sleeve shirts.  It fits his favorite genre of clothing -- athleticwear -- and they still have it in L(7).  He's an L(7) now.  Big stuff.  This one shows a big soccer ball, front and center.  Playing soccer, namely practicing his moves as a goalie positioned in the center of our eating area/family room arched doorway, is how he's spent his winter months.  I say, "Perfect," because at home we have the matching track pants.

Then, we cross the ivory linoleum aisle into the little boys section.  At his advice.  "Mommy, you know what would be really cool?"  I stop.

Full stop.

"What?  What would be really cool?"

"Well, I was just thinking, it would be really cool if we could find the same clothes in Grant's size."

I found myself instantly back in the yellow hallway bathroom, just months earlier, listening to a crying little brushing teeth before bedtime.  Things like, "Can we just take him back to the hospital, Mommy?" and "It was so much easier before he came to our team" were said for the millionth time. This time, I had something to say back: "Do you ever think it might be your problem...?  I mean, sometimes I think you try really hard not to like your brother, and sometimes it seems like you might give him a hard time just for something to do."  He stopped.

Full stop.

Big, brown eyes betrayed the coping mechanism he labored daily to maintain.  He collapsed into my arms.

"You know, there is room for both of you on our team.  The four of us go together because God put us together.  He knew we needed each other to have fun, to live, and to grow.  So can we do that together?  All of us?  I promise...we will do great things if we work together.  It all starts with the decision to try.  Will you try?"

"Look!  Mommy!  Here is the orange shirt we found in my size.  They DO have it in Grant's size!  Let's get this, too!"  I say, "Perfect," and on the shelf below the shirt, the matching track pants are available in 2T.  We add them to our stack.

"Hey!  They have the green long-sleeve shirt, too.  Look!  2T!  That's Grant's size!"  I say, "Perfect," again because we have matching pants at home.

"This is so cool.  I know Grant will think it's neat to have clothes like my big boy clothes."

"I agree.  I think he will.  I think you may even like having clothes that match. You know, it was a generous suggestion to spend part of our money on some new clothes for him."

We find our way back onto the linoleum path towards the cash registers up front.  He arranges our items just-so on the checkout counter.  The saleslady makes eyes at Reid and she cooes, "Do you have a little brother?  You're going to match, Handsome..."

"We will.  They're team clothes!"

Here they are representing today...

Write on,
b

3: Close, yet far away...

I was in the shadows

fluffing the pillows 

organizing papers inside manila folders

dusting the antique buffet

whatever I could do to stay close

Yet far away

You see

I like the shadows

I like to know they 

can do it

while I’m not part of the mix

I like to know they

remember

my teachings

our teachings

His teachings

I want some apple juice, the smaller little requests

I can get that for you

Refrigerator doors swing wide

as do the cabinet doors 

He chooses the royal blue water bottle 

because of its flip top

because he knows the little likes to

remove lids and

make messes 

He fills it just-so

fastens the flip top and

hands it to the smaller little

Thank you

He’s learning

to be

caring

graceful 

gracious

They’re learning

to be

brothers

allies

friends

We’re learning

to be

patient

prayerful

(and sometimes)

passive

I was in the shadows

fluffing the pillows 

organizing papers inside manila folders

dusting the antique buffet

whatever I could do to stay close

Yet far away…

Write on,

b

Poodle? | Slice 4:31

He reads to me while we cuddle in bed tonight. "Oh, look -- these two words have the same letters at the end," I invite.  "Th-ink, P-ink," he reads with a smile while adjusting his favorite fleece-footed jammies.

Before saying prayers, we add this week's crumpled Weekly Reader to the book mountain overtaking my nightstand. Afterward, I kiss his soft cheek that somehow seems to grow a little more taut and tough each day.

"I love you to Poodle and back." He envelopes me with his chocolaty eyes as he spoofs "Guess How Much I Love You."

(Ummmmm....)

"You see, 'Uth' is over here (he points) and Poodle is waaaaaaay over here (he travels across the room to indicate distance). It's the farthest planet and that's a long way from us on 'Uth.' That's how much I love you, Mommy."

Approximation.

I love it. I compliment it at school and treasure it at home.

I'm awestruck that he loves me enough to compare his feelings to something as infinite as space. Again and again he amazes me with his charm, his candor, his connections.

"I love you even more."

And with that send-off, we creep down the carpeted hallway and into his bedroom for the last part of his bedtime routine: tuck-in.

Write on,
b

It's happening | Slice 2:31

From the shadows of our bedroom, he teetered behind the door and then out into the hallway's brightness. His blonde hair became golden under its cast; his eyes shone like the summer sky.  He giggled, moving his chubby fingers toward the door's edge and then disappearing again in series of herky-jerky movements. The door, still propped open by the puddling corner of his terrycloth hooded towel that hung from its handle, invited him to continue the game -- close, open, giggle, catch Mommy's gaze; close, open, giggle, catch Mommy's gaze.

Until one time, his over-confident hand shut the door. Like all the way shut. Like no lightness; no brightness. Like no serendipitous, stolen glimpse of Mommy. Like nothing. Nothing but a big, dark room fed by one tiny glowing crack stretching from underneath its wide stance.

He squealed; this time with less delight and more urgency, as if to say, "I mean it. Now, Mommy! Help!" Faster than a first-base runner I saved the day by revealing a sweet sliver of space between doors A and B. It grew bigger and brighter until finally more than one fleece-jammied foot peeked out.  

Round tummy shaking and arms outstretched, Grant chortled as he took quick, short steps toward me. I bent down. We laughed. His eyes twinkled.

I stood up, grabbing his velvety hand before taking a few steps toward his nursery to read bedtime stories.

A first.

In all of 16 months Grant and I had yet to hold hands walking side-by-side. Maybe it is more than the 'big boy' haircut he dons now, or the way he expresses understandable ideas and opinions.  Maybe it is more than the way I still see him -- a docile baby who will go anywhere, do anything.

He's coming into his own...
I'll watch.

It's happening.

Write on,
b