We left berries on some nearby porches, too, just in case.

After blueberry pancakes out back, we chase them, all four of us running in circles.  Barefoot, they're on fast, sturdy limbs and I find myself wishing to catch them and hold on, a sense of urgency before their legs become longer and lankier, before their bodies don't fit on my lap.  They squeal.  I can still smell syrup in their hair.

Do boys grow faster in the summer, I wonder.  I sit and flip through a catalog, thinking maybe it's the loamy, fertilized soil their toes sank into this spring.  I stand in search of weeds, spot one, bend over to pull.  Occasionally the boys stop what they're doing, step out of their imaginary worlds.  I look up and notice at some point they've also stepped out of their shorts.  Someone wraps his arms around my legs.  Leg hugs are my favorite.

Although we visited the blueberry farm before brunch, there are days we do not ever depart from home, or even from our pajamas.  Just being in the backyard is an activity.  Andy grills meat to fill his breakfast bucket for the week, the boys build "cabins" and paint mazes and catch insects.  Something hits their collective funny bone and they sound like a pack of wild hyenas.  They tell me, though, that they are pirates, and I see their shirts attached to sticks, like flags.

Someday, I assume, they will stop shedding their attire, will stop streaking through the yard, from kiddie pool to hammock to bounce house to soccer ball to scooter.  Will stop screeching.
For now, it's fine.  With half-hearted apologies to our neighbors.
Love should be loud.  And first grade will come fast enough, forcing them back into clothes.


Red, White and real cute


what's fragile

They are machines made of flesh, these boys.  Sturdy legs and beating hearts.
Minds that do not stop, eyes lit from behind.  Oxygen in, perceptive interrogation out.
I watch them and become again aware of what miracles they are, so well put together, so alive.

My children are constant reminders of what’s fragile and what’s robust.
And more often then not, it’s the very same things.


supremely good

It's been a good weekend to celebrate thirteen years of marriage.
This was the little getaway car we drove the night of our wedding.  And by "we drove" I mean I drove, after Andy made sure ALL the champagne bottles on every table were empty.  I had to dig my way through my dress to find the steering wheel.  I'm not sure I had a single thing to eat that day and after visiting with guests and dancing and drinking ALL THE CHAMPAGNE, we decided we were hungry.  The only place that was open that late was Taco Bell, so we drove through.
And last night we pretended to do it again.
Minus the champagne and the chili cheese burritos.


Let go

A friend mentioned not long ago that when he and his son build Legos, they follow the package directions and he glues the set together as they go.

Most of the time, if Tuck gets new Legos, he sets right to work building whatever it's meant to be.  But it never stays together long, because he's already imagining other ways for the new pieces to be used.

There are as many ways to do things - to parent, to play - as there are Legos in the world.

Flat surfaces all over our house are covered with creations, windowsills lined with them, rugs strewn with them.  Tuck pursues Lego-ing with a passion.  He’s created a gallery of delicate structures, small colorful bricks stuck together to form whatever his mind conceives.  I am a little ambivalent about it all.  I mean, I love that he's using his imagination, and I am genuinely impressed by his work.  And I am so happy that he is happy.  “Cool!” I tell him when he shows me a new one, but a cascade of conflicting emotions nibble at me.

I've wondered several times this summer whether I should've pushed him to play a sport, signed him up for soccer, registered him for swim team or kept him in karate.  What's the purpose, though, besides making friends and staying active?  He does those things already.

My role as his parent is to support him in becoming his authentic self, not to guide him too far in the direction I want him to go.  And I don't necessarily want him to be the football MVP.  But when my instincts tell me his authentic self makes someone else uncomfortable, I am less confident in my conviction.  Still, there is really no reason for me to try to change my child's interests.  His intensity is a gift, I think, and I thank my lucky stars he has it.

All I can do, really is be the mom he needs today, to let go of the idea that I will determine much of my child’s future, sure of the fact that participation in things like little league or Legos will not have lasting effects.  I value freedom and personal responsibility, and respect the boys' rights to direct their own lives, benefiting from my guidance, I hope.

I celebrate his creativity, and the myriad ways to be a boy in the world, more, even, than stars in the sky.
Or Legos on my floor.
the desk in his bedroom, his favorites displayed (safe from the vacuum, and his little brother)
a gas station
a hang glider
an Angry Bird robot "eggbot" and a space ship
a playground with water features
a snow-capped mountain
a "scary Halloween scene"
 some zip-lining guys
*I took these photos over the course of about one week.



We cancelled cable months ago.  A year ago?  Two years ago?  I don't know.  I don't miss it.  The boys are thrilled to spend time places where they can catch an episode of something on Disney Junior, but for the most part, if they have screen time at home, they choose a "rectangle movie" streamed through Amazon Prime from their section of saved titles, shows like Popular Mechanics for Kids.  We still borrow lots of DVDs from the library too,  "Bill the Nye" most frequently.
And sometimes they just pick up a book instead.

Slowly, we've sent television sets out of our house, donated, sold, garaged.  Most recently we removed the one from our bedroom - it hadn't been turned on in months and I was tired of dusting it.  And now we have a big blank wall.  And I've been dreaming about how to fill it.

With cows?
Or flowers?  More flowers?  Even more flowers?
Or calm colors? (bonus, local artist!)
With confetti?!
Or words?

Or maybe with a print from our own camera, one from our Arizona trip or something?

We're leaning toward blues and pinks, yellows and golds, still lots of white.  Several small prints, or one large canvas, or some combination.
This is what we'll see when we wake up in the morning, assuming it's after the sun has risen, which is actually not a very safe assumption.
For reference, the arrangement around our headboard, above.
Notice we *still* haven't found something for that bright pink frame...

And the blank wall we'd like to fill across room, below.
The dresser is tall.  Like chest height.
Thanks for your input on the decision.

This post is sponsored by Minted.  Have you seen Minted's new Save the Dates?  We're celebrating thirteen years this weekend.  If I had it to do over, I think I'd still stick with the same loose star theme.  And I'd for sure choose the same guy.


Inside Out

So we burned her body and now it's ashes?  But actually, our bodies are made out of ashes.  And stars.  And dinosaurs and vehicles and grass.  Everything is in us, really.

He's right.  Smoke is a suspension of particles, billions of carbon bits, trees and televisions, kitchen sinks and wounded soldiers, drifting.  Ashes to ashes.

Can you still get bacon without killing the pig? Like instead of slaughtering it you could just pull the bacon out of one side?

He still has a little to learn about life and death.
Don't we all.
We took the boys to see Inside Out this week.  It was fabulous.  Huge themes, epic imagery.

The movie deals poignantly with way people manage feelings.  Perhaps most movingly, the film portrays memory and the way we often desperately hold on to it.  Memories play a really big role in the show, how they are created and stored, how they can influence our personalities, how we either retain or discard them.

I doubt the boys grasped every subtext, but the story led our family to some conversations about joy and sadness working together.
One large message is that sadness and fear and anger are valuable, and that emotions are often intertwined.  Although Joy is the main character, she may not be the heroine.  In the movie (mild spoiler alert) Sadness is compelled to touch some joyful memories, adding a layer of melancholy to them.  Just like in real life.
It's a powerful notion for kids and parents alike, the idea that sadness is natural and necessary and not always equal to unhappiness.
Talking with Tuck about the internal landscape of our brains, about emotions coexisting and memories crumbling and fading away, my own mind reached back to places that may be dangerous to go with an achy heart.  Do parents of dead children ever construct fake memories, I wonder, idyllic scenes that may not have actually taken place, through some surreal and unreliable lens of retrospect?

Sometimes I am guilty of living in a memory, a real one, I think, making tents and tiny houses to camp out there for too long.  I remember looking at his tiny hand resting in hers, remember feeling delighted and robbed for them both.  They had a rare gift that came at a cruel price.  He had no idea what was about to happen.  And we had no idea how to tell him, what to tell him, whether to tell him.  Your sister’s body is very sick and her brain is dying fast.  He was not quite three.  We wanted to be honest, but also to preserve their overlapping days without burdening our precious little boy with grown-up grief.

He's known grief though, he's fought off angry and afraid both in the same breath.  Sometimes we did it with him.  Sometimes we still do.  Sometimes we ignore it, pretend it away for a few minutes, maybe longer. Other times we wallow in it, allow it to wrap us up.

She was our happiest sadness, we agree.