trying not to sweat all the fall stuff

May my reaction to each situation be based on the most generous interpretation...

Tucker has a choir concert tonight. It starts at 8pm, basically bedtime. I think that adjustment is related to an athletic event. This is why we live here, I remind myself, so that every student can be involved. And there is something about listening to kids sing, the way it flushes out every bit of anything that is not love.

Tolliver's last baseball game of the season ended 6 to 7 -- with him safely stealing third base, poised to tie the game plus a bizzare call for out due to batter interference or something? But his team lost graciously and he went to the movies with RoRo and hasn't looked back. He wore "double drip" for good luck, and because he did make all three outs in one inning, the necklaces will return with spring ball.

On Sunday Hank noticed that dinner looked like a rainbow, except maybe we should have added blueberries - yellow rice, orange and green stir fry vegetables, pink salmon... After a second helping, and plenty of space to pause for a big, happy sigh, there was not a single color left on the table. Between bites, Hank had asked Tucker to explain what "advocate" means. Tucker did a lovely job defining the word and sharing an example via politics. There was one other word Hank asked for clarification around but I won't type it here. Andy did a nice job handling it. Thank goodness the boys know that everything is mentionable at our house!

Hank finished knitting a water bottle holder (his own design) at art club after school last Friday, but when he got home and tried to remove it from the loom it literally unraveled. He handled that giant disappointment with remarkable calmness. After help untangling the yarn, Hank has already knitted a new one and carried it to school this morning. He got to work on his Halloween costume over the weekend too. I did overhear Hank trying to explain JoAnn Fabric store to his brother: It's like the hardware store but for grandmas.

I mean, that's a generous interpretation, isn't it?

everything happens for a season

in memoriam

Dear Nora and Mac,

The boys and I made a list of things we loved and admired about your dad. We want to help keep his memory alive, so please ask us when you feel like hearing a story. 

When Kate was pregnant with Nora, Kevin went out for Wendy’s all the time. Kate was always hungry for fries or a hamburger or a frosty (maybe Kevin was too, actually) but he was willing to pick up the food she craved. 

You had a Saturday morning donut routine. I think Kevin located the best egg free bakery options in Columbus and he loved taking you there on the weekend when Kate had to work. I’m pretty sure he always let you get more than one donut. 

Kevin was a good science resource for the boys - when Tolliver had a theory about baseball bats going bad, Kevin explained the material structure of a metal bat could actually deteriorate after many hits, leaving the bat to hit less well… so, based on Kevin’s expertise, we did actually have to buy Tolliver a new bat ;) 

Kevin loaned the boys books and video games, and liked to discuss those things with them - Kirby, Mario Odyssey, Schroedinger’s Cat… He also asked them what they were reading (The Snouters) or playing (baseball, piano, marching band) and showed interest and encouragement. He shared videos of (and a book by) magician Joshua Jay - everyone’s favorite trick is the “t-shirt, duct tape and a dollar…" 

Although he never had formal music lessons, Kevin could sit down at the piano and play lots of things. He was very encouraging of the boys as they were learning to play, came to their recitals and asked what music they were working up. He often played the theme music to Halo… we think he was a nationally ranked player of that video game at one point! He really loved music from the rock band Guided by Voices. 

He loved Buckeye football and the Beatles. We used to go to an all day Beatles marathon in Columbus, where the band played every single song they wrote. It took twelve hours. You went too, tiny and wearing headphones. We’re not sure what his college football Saturdays looked like when he was a student, but he visited the Betz tailgate as an adult and was super pumped about the team. 

He often texted Tucker about Apple stock. He always used the rocket ship emoji to show the shares were skyrocketing. 

The first time we met Kevin was on a vacation to Lake Xichigan. Your mom and dad had just started dating and he joined Andy and all his guy friends on the deck. Your dad fit right in and made everyone laugh - the very first night the guys bonded right away (for some reason the guys all took off their shirts to compare the cotton-poly blend fabric compositions!) He was fun and funny! 

Speaking of funny, one of Nora’s baby gifts was a bath toy — an octopus manufactured with only six tentacles. He called it a hexapus. 

Kevin was such a passionate board game player, and introduced our family to many new games (Secret Hitler, Codenames, Skull). He helped the big boys complete an at home escape room activity, and taught Tucker to play Hive (Tucker has taught so many friends to play since - he can teach you too!) 

One Easter, during the Covid pandemic, Kevin helped create an egg hunt for Tucker and Tolliver and Hank. He hid eggs all over our yard - and it turned out that he hid some so well that the boys were still finding them the following year! 

We are likely forgetting lots of good stories, but this is a start. We will always, always help you remember your dad. He loved you so much. And so do we.

Aunt Jenni, Uncle Andy, Tucker, Tolliver and Hank

chasing summer

It has not rained here for days on end. The grass is dry and brittle and basically straw, the lawn a literal storm of dust. Leaves are falling already, waving goodbye to one season, but the sun is not finished with summer and neither are we. 

We spent one day basking in the opportunity to live off the land (meaning barely half an acre in a very land-locked city suburb). We had paw paws plucked from the side yard in greek yogurt for breakfast, the tropical scent enveloping the entire main floor. The boys discovered chicken of the woods at the base of one tree and wound up breading and frying the giant mushroom for dinner, dipping it in Cane's sauce and going on and on about how good it tasted. Right before bedtime, possibly as a sleep stall tactic, Tolliver determined to make a cucumber salad recipe that had been calling his name, with straight from the garden cucumbers and chili oil and rice vinegar, packing some for his lunch box for school the next day.

We made it to the pool one last time and spent another day at the lake. Perched on lawn chairs and quilts in the driveway, we watched Harry and the Hendersons projected on the neighbor's garage door. The kids turned on the trampoline sprinklers and filled the net with water balloons. There are vases of zinnias and dahlias on every flat surface inside. Even the cat is enjoying cold summer treats, all of us hanging on tightly to the best parts.

heightened intensity

There's a hawk in the backyard, hoping for breakfast. Windows all around the kitchen allow us to observe his efforts. He tries and fails, tries and fails, a single squirrel provoking him from high up a tree trunk.

The boys talk about safety day over cereal, explaining to Hank that the classroom garage door walls are bulletproof, explaining that the active shooter drills will have heightened intensity, hearing those words from a district adult but not quite sure what they mean. Me neither.

The flood of "last first day" back to school photos hit a tender spot. Celia would have been a senior this year. No one has acknowledged that, but I think incessantly about the way life might've unspooled in other directions. 

I feel almost as struck by lack of language as I do when it is used carelessly. It may be a symptom of loving words so much, too much. In a documentary we've been watching, an innocent man on death row said "What really distraughted me..." I don't know how to explain the experiences that live wordlessly inside my body. I cannot describe to the world that bittersweet flavor of healthy, growing kids. But I think I could use what really distraughted me...

Hank walks himself home from school now, and I feel less necessary. I fill the extra daytime hours power washing the patio and preparing meals, hiking with friends and rewriting booster bylaws, looking for harmony in the universe, trying to make sense of the yearning. A friend reminded me that weird sad feelings are a legit end-of-summer vibe.

So much of my energy used to be spent trying to hold together the center of everything. I love that I could do that, could try. I'm still here, working very hard to keep the boys happy and alive. I feed them constantly, but I don't always know how else to try. Try and fail and try again, hawkish and unrelenting. The very best projects may be the ones both challenging and hopeful.

Trailing me up the garage stairs Hank asked how a person could tell the difference between legs with muscles, and legs that are just fat, like they jiggle more? I should not have asked him why.

I know the stress I create by ruminating is not benign. Even without imaginary futures there remains a half-resolved mess of very normal emotions. I can look at myself with both grace and thoughtful critique. I can hold two things at once, I remember, devastated and grateful, jiggly and strong.