Just In Case

I had the great gift tonight of playing Apples to Apples with my three young sons. I heard their infectious giggles and gazed deeply into their sparkling eyes.  They swatted each other with pillows and argued over who deserved to win.  I sat on the couch, marveling at Matthew's glossy hair, Ryan's broadening shoulders, Connor's enormous coffee-brown eyes.  I slowly realized that I was scrutinizing them with a camera-like eye, trying to memorize their birthmarks and breathe in their Honey Nut Cheerios scent, taking note of the length of their fingernails, making mental sketches of the particular tilt of their heads and each crease of their eyelids.  I was trying to etch them into my brain like a stone carving. Indelible. Indestructible.  Forever.

Just in case.

Yesterday we were reminded of our vulnerability in the most horrifyingly brutal of ways.  That sometimes stewing sickness and pain bubbles to the surface and roars to life in a flash of gunfire that cuts down the very core of innocence.  That sometimes safe places are not safe.  That those most precious to us can be destroyed and taken away without reason or warning or care.  

Yesterday morning, twenty mothers and fathers poured milk on cereal, put pink barrettes in their daughter's hair, found matching socks, packed lunches that were never eaten, put crayoned homework in folders that never got turned in, kissed tops of heads and rosy cheeks and said goodbye - never once thinking that it would be their final hug, the last warm kiss.  I cannot begin to understand what the parents and families of Newtown are enduring.  I do not know what it feels like to be plunged into that kind of hell.  But I do know how deeply a mother loves her son, how dearly a father adores his little girl.  

Newtown parents, my youngest is seven and is in first grade.  I did all the same things for my child yesterday morning that you did.  It never crossed my mind that it might indeed be my last kiss goodbye. But now it will. In tribute to your gorgeous darling sweet babies, it will.  The lives of your tiny children were ripped away but we will not let it be in vain.  I will squeeze tighter, laugh louder, take more time with, read the extra story, snuggle "just for five more minutes."  I will love even more fiercely and ferociously and without boundaries just as you will always love your precious, irreplaceable, shining children.  They will live on in our collective hearts and in mine.  Indelible.  Indestructible.  Forever.

Lessons in a Laundry Basket

Last week, while driving west through the rolling hills of Ohio on the last day of spring break, I glanced out of the window to see an old Chevy being driven by a young man, no more than 19, I'd say.  He was alone in the car, save for a duffel bag and a white laundry basket in the back seat, filled with neatly folded clothes. Looking at the laundry, a vision washed into my mind of the boy's mother, caressing each college jersey, burying her face into the collars and breathing in deep.  I felt her longing to catch a whiff of her baby boy, indulging some ancient animal instinct to detect your pup's scent.  I saw her tenderly matching the seams, making the creases, stacking the shirts (some of which she'd never seen. Where did he get THIS? she wondered), making tidy piles of worn jeans and favorite t-shirts, matching socks and discreetly tucking away the gray boxer briefs at the bottom of the basket.  I could see that she was happy to perform this task, and she felt needed in an old familiar way that she never thought she'd miss. After all, so very many baskets of clothes were washed, folded, stacked, delivered to bedrooms only to sit and be turned back into shapeless piles of dirty laundry over and over and over again. Then, suddenly, as her son packed for college, panic (!) washed over her as she watched him stuff those very clothes into the duffel, to be taken to some foreign drawer in some room in some place where she would not be.  To be taken with him, away from her.

I watched him drive.  He looked content, at peace.  His handsome, smooth jaw was set and his dark brown eyes gazed forward with purpose and concentration. It was probably his dad's old car, I surmised, and he was thrilled to be its new proud owner, entrusted with her care.  He looked rested, buoyed by a week of sleep and home-cooked food.

He looked ready.

It was in that moment when I realized that all we are doing as parents, every single lesson and word and struggle and hug, all we are doing is getting our children ready.  And our ultimate task, if we are lucky, is to send them on their way.  We must allow their wheels to roll away from us, smile and wave and blow a kiss goodbye, all the while our hearts breaking open, glowing with pride and sorrow, and with a silent burning prayer on our lips that eventually, once in a while, they'll take the exit back to you.

Even if it is just to do laundry.

A Sensitive Boy

He eagerly approached me from across the school blacktop, gingerly holding something in his hand with reverence.  "Look Mom,  it's a worm!  A true sign of spring!"  Sure enough, curled in his little palm was a soft, rosy earthworm, forced up from the soil by a recent rain shower.  We welcomed the creature with joy and talked for a moment about the warmth of the morning and how lucky we were to find this little fellow.  Connor showed the worm to a friend, who carefully examined him and shared in my son's admiration.  They even came up with a name for him, Squiggly.  The bell rang, so Connor quickly found a place off of the busiest part of the path, bid Squiggly goodbye and ran along into the building.
Another boy, seeing what Connor had done, ran straight to the spot, peered down at Squiggly and yelled, "Oh, gross! A worm!" and squashed it into the pavement.

Thank God Connor was already inside the building.
I'm not sure what I would have said to him otherwise.

"A sensitive boy."  This description was used to describe one of my sons, and I found it hard not to push back against it with umbrage.  "Yeah, and?!" I wanted to say.  Why is this a problem?  Why is it not okay for a boy (in KINDERGARTEN, for God's sake!!!) to sometimes cry when he is sad?
It seems to me, in light of recent news events, that we could USE a few more sensitive boys around here, who, if they don't have their sensitivity bullied/beaten/teased/shamed out of them, just might grow up to be sensitive men!

Wisconsin Rep. Don Pridemore, New Orleans Saints coach Sean Payton, and of course, George Zimmerman are just three examples from this week's news of particularly hideously behaved men.  Trying to explain to my 11, 8 and 6 year olds (who sometimes watch Sports Channel) what a "bounty system" is over breakfast made my stomach turn.  Yes, kids, rich and famous athletes you see on TV really were this mean, stupid and selfish.  Yes, they tried to hurt each other on purpose and get paid for it.  No, it wasn't an accident.  Yes, they kept it a secret and did not say they were sorry when they were caught.  They lied about it until they had to tell the truth.  Yes, grownups make very bad choices sometimes.  Yes, I know he was their coach.  Yes, he should have known better.  Much, much better.

Thankfully, none of them seem to know about poor Trayvon Martin yet, so I haven't been forced to discuss that tragic travesty with them.  Yet.

Here's the deal.  We cannot change the world with one wave of the wand. However, we can each work our own magic little spells and collectively send a tsunami of sensitive, caring children (read: love) into the universe.  Please, mamas (and of course, papas!), uncles and aunts, grandparents, friends, siblings, teachers and coaches, consider this: the next time you are faced with a child who is emotional, teary, frustrated, or hurt, remember the power and impact of your words and think carefully about what you say.  The difference between "Stop crying - you're not a baby" and "I see you are sad.  I am here and will listen when you are ready to talk" is huge.  It shapes a soul.

One of my proudest parenting moments ever happened this year.  I received an email from a mom who I hadn't met yet.  Her son had gotten hurt on the playground at school.  Apparently, Matthew came over to him, put his arm around his shoulders and waited by his side until the teacher arrived.  She was so touched that my little boy cared about her son in his moment of hurting and wanted me to know.

I consider myself incredibly blessed to have boys who are compassionate, caring people who have compassionate, caring friends.  When my heart breaks after reading appallingly violent and senseless news stories, I try to use that pain as inspiration and continue to encourage my sons to be open hearted, to forgive and yes, to be sensitive.  For I do not see it as a flaw.  I see it as hope.