on your mark

Hank is into symmetry lately, which is just a bit unexpected because he’s usually the kid whipping up mostly innocent chaos and inciting brothers to join in:

Emptying all the plastic bowls in the kitchen and stacking them haphazardly right in front of the sink.
Upturning laundry baskets full of clean, folded clothes and jumping, repeatedly, on the pile.
Throwing ALL THE TOYS over the banister into the basement.

But this new task, a near daily occurrence, seems to be activating the more methodical, orderly genes in his little twisted helix. I know this is not the first outpost on some drab and unswerving path to an organized adulthood, but I have to admit, this intersection of independence and engagement baffles me a bit and pleases me more.

such good boys

Feeling proud and worried must be most parents' primary dueling emotions?
When I am not spinning fretful fantasies or dress-rehearsing tragedy, worried whether the boys will grow up to contribute to society, worried whether they'll grow up at all, I am just astounded at how remarkably kind and smart they are.

I wonder whether they're getting plenty of vegetables or too much television, enough sleep and ample individual attention? I wonder whether they will get along or get a job, whether they'll be happy for the successes of other people, whether they'll be happy at all.

When I stop awfulizing the future and look around at right now, I am struck by how bright and intuitive and empathetic the boys are. I notice them writing computer code and reading chapter books, being acknowledged as the nice kid at school and participating in things that challenge them and cheerfully completing chores at home. And also: trying not to touch power cords or Tide pods.

I've watched the way grandparents approach our kids, even just this weekend, not quite exempt from the agonies of parental worry but able to devote themselves almost entirely to amusement and appreciation. I want to do that more now, so I don't regret not doing it later.

I am determined to be delighted, a matter of my own perspective. Instead of brooding, instead of checking the baby monitor forty three times or sanitizing the hand sanitizer (true story) I want to watch the boys play with each other, witness their bravery and brilliance and be paying attention when they're polite without prompting. I want to let pride and amusement and appreciation win.
The boys deserve that, and more.

more light

Admittedly, the lens of faith can distort as much as it reveals.  Hard facts can (and should) be used to scrape that lens clean, or even carve and refine its shape so that it may transmit and refract more light.
- Kate Braestrup

"Deer" boy

Hank retells this very long, very consistent story based on an observation in the Clintonville back yard several months ago. After dinner outside one evening we watched two deer walk through a clearing into some brush. Since then, with wildly animated hand motions, he has recounted the scene at least a hundred times: Mama deer went away. Daddy deer went away. Bear went away. Cow went away. 
So, the scene, plus some embellishment.

He is still obsessed with shapes and Elmo, and newly interested in rainbows and reindeer and colors and counting and candles. He calls them "happy" and he talks about "happy deke" all the time, meaning birthday cake. He might lose his mind in March, when he gets his own...
He loves to sing the ABCs, and spells his last name B-T-Z!
His favorite books are Now I Eat my ABCs and Moo Baa La La La. Also Little Pea and Pouch. And Good Night Moon. He talks about the great green room and the red balloon all day.
He takes such good care of his babies. He pushes them in the stroller and gives them milk and shares his snacks and brushes their scalps with wooden spoons.

Hank is part Andy and part crazy, but so smart and fun, just the dearest, darlingest little boy. Truly. When he makes a mistake and we bend down to discuss it with him - it is NOT SAFE to unplug cords from the wall or play with dishwasher pods under the sink - he says the sincerest Hanky sorry.
He also says a million silly things a day, things I couldn't make up if I tried. It's like interpreting a Mad Lib. A really cute one.

He was a little feverish here ^ last week, which I think might be evident from his poor sweet face. Even sick, such a dear.

how to know it's January

 

One minute we're all raring to start fresh with resolutions, the next, wishing we could hunker down and take a nap... it's kind of a paradoxical month, isn't it?
We all talk about the weather. What else is there to talk about? Day planners? Diets? Please not politics.

Mittens hang in the mudroom and yesterday's boots bang around the dryer.
Hands are dry and cracked and a tube of lotion stands next to every sink.
On the counter a new calendar, in the fridge a fresh batch of chili.
Stray pine needles still populate corners and exfoliants crowd the shower shelf.
The dresser is full of fleece pajamas and the couch holds more blankets than boys.
Rachmaninoff and the Revivalists are streaming.
Serenity and On Guard are diffusing.
In the stroller, the baby's cheeks are the only visible part of him, greased to shining with salve (or red and ruddy in need of it).
On the nightstand a new novel, and a resolve to finish it before February.
There is salt on the street.
And in the van. And on the door mat.
And everywhere there is hope.

We're on it.

We had a really big list of things to do today:: hang curtains, mount the television, move furniture, fix a leak. Also fix breakfast and second breakfast and so on...
Meanwhile, although we did get shelves up and toys unpacked in the play room, Hank had his own agenda. And on it was not playing with aforementioned toys.

We’re still in that mildly mind-wrecking period of time when the smallest human in the house is making daily work of investigating every nook and cranny and identifying yet another potentially hazardous area in what we had previously considered a fairly safe space.

you can contain

One of my favorite quotes about grief is from Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet, where he wrote
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.