this is nine

He reads widely and writes constantly

his eyes swimming inside a soup of words 

his fingers flipping page after page

filling notebooks and his brain,

filling my heart.

maybe just assume we'll be late

I got everyone fed and dressed this morning (minus some shirt tucking, apparently) and wondered, on the way out the door, whether I should begin a new policy, texting instead only on the rare occasion that we might actually be arriving on time.

Playing

Hank pretends all day, from spying pirate ships with a telescope to playing a piano built from blocks to cannon-balling off the diving board into the pool.

His agenda pretty much looks like this:

Play.
Play more.
Play harder.
Pass out.
Repeat tomorrow.

boys will be... good humans

I took a bag of things to a neighbor one street over this evening, and walking back the older gentleman who lives across from us came out to chat. If I'm being honest, I was actually a little worried that he was upset about something. But he wanted to tell me what good boys we're raising. How glad he is that we moved in. How much he enjoys watching the kids play outside. How smart and polite they are, how kind.
And then he told me I was a good mom.

I want to be a lighthouse of a calm, a deserving mother. Someone who is able to focus energy productively. But when sophisticated thinking goes dark and defense mechanisms kick in, it's easy to forget that I am in charge of my own responses.
Sometimes I feel angry, but the news does not "make" me angry, traffic does not "make" me angry, my children do not "make" me angry -- I decide to feel it. Or not.

I want my boys to be angry sometimes. Not petty anger, but righteous anger - there's a place for that, isn't there? How, though, to explain whether it should spill out on the tennis court or the supreme court, the board meeting or the kitchen floor?

Instead of asking them not to get angry, I want to offer the boys practical alternatives, actions that help strong feelings dissipate, that make a positive difference in their day or somebody else's.
Like collecting a bag of October treats to "Boo" a neighbor, or baking apple cake to share with the grumpy old guy across the street. Like getting lost in a good book or finding time to write a note to a relative. Or to the principal / mayor / congresswoman.
It’s like a super power, really, the ability we have to shape our own intentional reactions.

What I've got to offer as a parent feels pathetically scattered. Be brave but don't be reckless. Regard boundaries but don't let go of dreams. Be fierce and opinionated but respect your parents. Don't let the world make you mad but get ANGRY.
Good thing part of my job is to show them they do not need to be perfect.
But mercy, please let them be kind.

among other things

with tremendous success

I'm not sure he could ever pretend to be without preference. 

But I am fairly certain that he will continue to right foot left foot his way into or one plus one his way out of anything.

Most of the time we know exactly what he means.

Puh puh puh church, he said, over and over again. Except the "church" part sounded like tut. And it was fairly out of context, as he sat building with magnatiles. So it took us a long time to understand what he was actually saying. 

When he gets frustrated because we don't understand, he tries to enunciate the initial sound, but it's always with the letter P, whether the word starts with P or not. Like puh puh puh diving board. Or puh puh puh solution. 

So, not particularly helpful. But super cute.