Tea time

There is nothing that takes away the sting of winter than a warm cup of tea, though hot chocolate is a close second, especially when made slowly by scratch on the stove. Yet there is something about the lightness of tea, the barely-there-ness of its taste, that balances the harshness of winter: wind that sneaks through gortex and fleece and down all the same; dry skin that cracks and opens and leaves a nagging pain despite the Norwegian formula-lotions, udder cream, even olive oil treatments; the pile of snowpants, boots, gloves, hats, neck warmers, scarves that collects at the bottom of the stairs (and the ensuing ripe odor that the pile leaves behind if not ushered off to the dryer right away); and the dark afternoons that seem to creep up just after lunch. A cup of tea, timed just right, can ease the elements.

Yesterday I stopped over at a friend's house who, along with her sister, makes cakes and bottles of soap and sends the profits to a local housing advocacy group and to the East Asia Institute, the organization started by Greg Mortenson, author of Three Cups of Tea. I could have guessed from her website the scents of each variety, but she lives just down the block so I went to take a sniff before buying gifts for all the amazing women in our life. Of course she offered tea, and of course I accepted. Baby Koen snuggled and nursed while I let my to-do list slide to the afternoon and we all drank tea. I walked home with warmth: Koen under my jacket in his carrier, lightly scented soaps in my bag, and a cup of tea inside me.

At school, the boys have tea with their morning snack. They drink it out of earthenware cups and light a candle on the table. Dietrich isn't a hearty eater at school, though he does try everything, but he always drinks the tea. I can picture it calming him from the inside, out and preparing him for his outdoor adventures, his favorite part of the day. When the afternoon begins to drag on, I know that suggesting a cup of tea brings us all to the kitchen, gets us to sit down, and lets us regroup for the evening ahead. Its not that our tea times erase the hectic scramble of dinner-clean up-bath-bed, but as with the elements outside, it eases it somewhat.

And now the wimpers of that warm baby call, but maybe I will make myself some tea.

There are a lot of things having a new baby in the house makes hard to do -- writing this blog is clearly one of them. Yet I have so many fleeting thoughts throughout the day that I'd like to see what happens to on the page. Having a new baby somehow awakens the world around me in a new way too as if I, too, am seeing everything for the first time. I would like to write through the fog of the first weeks of Koen's life and how I had days of seeing through it clearly and days where the fog seemed to lift and fall all day day long. But there are so few moments when I have two hands to do anything.

Today Dietrich was picking at his peel-less apples while licking the peanut butter (into which he was supposed to be dipping) when he asked me to tell him the story of his birth. He watched my every word which made me reach for more details. It stormed that night, there were 28 babies born along with Dietrich and Elliott, we were so confused when who we knew to be baby B became baby A because, during my surgical birth, he was born first. He asked for it again, and again. When Ryan came home, he asked him to tell it so he could hear his version, his details. And then again, tell it again.

And then I heard the news, on facebook, that a professor from St Olaf died yesterday, too young, too much in the prime of his life, too great of a family to leave behind. The news of his death leaves a sting that reminds me the brokenness of this world runs deep. And so we need to tell the birth stories, the stories that give life and try even a little bit to describe that place where life happens -- not just the birth stories, but the times each day when something looks new or when we see something we've glanced before but for the first time really take a look, or give a listen. There are moments all day long ready to be birthed into our imagination and then told, and retold.

Blooming Vinca

We are in the midst of a low pressure system that has hounded us with rain and wind and now just more wind for the past three days. It feels like the beginnings of the hurricaines in North Carolina, only these winds promise to move out and leave behind them the crisp fall days that I have been quietly craving. When there are so many days of cold and damp and snow and ice ahead of us, I haven't voiced how I'd rather be cuddled up in fleece than still considering turning on the air conditioner. But now that fall seems up on us, I think it is safe to say I'm happy to see it, feel it.

Yesterday, however, the wind seemed to wear me down. So incessant, so loud. It was the first day that I really over-did-it since Koen has been born, and by the end of the day, I was spent. After finally reaching home, where I knew I would be for at least the next night and following day, I relaxed and shuttled Koen into the house. As I went back to get the boys, I noticed that our vinca plants were blooming. My dad and I had picked them up on a steep discount on a rainy day in late June. They did nothing all summer. They didn't die, but they didn't grow taller or show any color. They just sat there, plucked into the ground looking just as they had when I popped them out of their flimsy black containers. But yesterday, after a night of pounding rain and howling wind, they bloomed. One is purple, two others a fuchsia, another almost blue. I still hadn't had a great meal, and it would be a few more hours before sleep could overcome me, but these flowers welcomed me home, welcomed me to the end of a long day, and seemed to tell me it was okay to be spent, undone, unable to do it all. I went inside to our sweet baby boy, our tired but freshly showered big boys, and knew Ryan would be coming home in minutes.

I haven't checked to see if the vinca survived the winds from today. But I wouldn't be surprised. After all, they are only about 4 inches off the ground. Maybe they knew something we didn't back in June. Regardless, thank you, blooming vinca.

Meetings

I'm reading a book right now (taking a break from both novels and beautiful birthing stories) about our sense of time called Receiving the Day by Dorothy Bass. She has twins and is a theologian and writer who was first recommended to me when I was in div school. Five years later I am finding why she was recommended! One of the many gleanings I've had from her book is to think about our days as places of meeting -- how we meet the sun, wind, rain; how we meet our family members, our neighbors; how we meet the tasks we have to do and wish we didn't as well as those we would enjoy doing; and how we meet God in the midst of all those other meetings.

Something she another mother ask her kids before going to bed was, "how did you meet God today?" We have always ended nighttime prayers with thanksgivings, "what do you give God thanks for today?" Lately we've had a lot of gibberish and silliness after the question. Maybe it is having a new question, or maybe it is how this question is different. What does it mean to "meet" anyway? But as we've been asking it, I've been surprised to hear the answers. There are still responses of, "I'm too tired," but more often than not we get a glimpse at what it means to them to "meet" God in their day to day.

Tonight Elliott answered right away, "I met God today when I came out of school and saw you and greeted you in the hallway!" That is an answer I will tuck close by and one that will keep me looking for "meetings" tomorrow.

Crowded classroom

Just as the summer was winding down, the boys and I began making trips to the nearby school yard to play baseball and climb on the new, challenging, play-structure made for the 3rd-5th graders who go to school there. Elliott climbs, Dietrich has batting and base-running practice. On our last day there before school started the building was bustling with janitors making repairs, teachers setting up classrooms, and everyone catching up on their summer adventures. We could hear the chatter from the playground and peek into the classrooms. I was trying to focus on my pitching, but between baby resting on my tail bone and keeping half an eye on Elliott going down the slide without edges, I was distracted from the game, and drawn to watching what was going up on the walls in the classroom.

I first noticed this at our visit to our local elementary school last winter. Stacks and stacks of books, paper, materials, flip-boards, and laminated you-name-it line the walls of the classrooms. Does anyone ever sort through these stacks? Over the course of a year are all these materials actually used in some way? Or have they been there so long they have become part of the room, as unnoticed as the colors on the walls or the placement of the light fixtures? In the class I watched from the playground, the walls were covered with posters. One was a set of 12, the months of the year. They hung quietly next to the clock. Brightly colored scenes depicted children frolicking in the snow, digging up a garden, splashing in a pool, raking up leaves. The kids were colored appropriately to reflect the diversity of the kids attending the school, the faces all smiling. I pictured the teacher putting in the work order to have the months laminated, then carefully cutting them out and masking-taping them to the wall.

Maybe the children feel comfort seeing the same posters day after day and maybe the teacher uses them to mark the time as the year goes by, using a long pointer to reach up to each new month. Likely the stacks of materials lining the walls and files of materials stacked on the tables have no ill effect on how children learn. I know that our boys have created elaborate scenes of space travel and fire rescue despite the tall shelves of art supplies, games, and toys that mostly stand idle in their play area. But the effect it had on me was a question: what if all these materials are what make a crowded classroom? What if it isn't as much about class size as it is about class composition? How many materials do we really need to learn as is appropriate to a child's age? What if children created their own materials and took ownership in the contents of their room because it is their work? What if we took a break from the images handed to us from scholastic and instead let children create their own images of the months and seasons changing? What if we took a break from the flood of primary colors and smiling faces and laminated posters? Would a classroom freed of unused materials foster more creativity with the materials that are used?

In yesterday's NYT week-in-review Thomas Friedman suggested that American children lag behind children of other industrialized nations not because their teachers are inadequate or their schools lack funding but because students do not take charge of their education. He sighted large numbers of students who feel unmotivated and teachers frustrated with the lack of student motivation. He took our culture of instant gratification to task along with its fuel -- media, video, and computers. But in a crowded classroom, thick with materials, technology, and manufactured images can we be surprised that there is little energy for students to be innovative, creative, and responsible with their education?

Yet I know how hard it is to weed out what is needed, and what can be let go. Those shelves in our basement were part of an ongoing effort to free up some space to rearrange and make an office. I physically went back and forth on what to throw, what to keep. And I do not expect our load of recycled paper and cardboard that we let go of will make a difference in the next effort at recreating space travel. But it has already helped make space for new art on the walls.

Was that this morning?

I know it has been a long day when, despite my husband's attestation that indeed it was today I was in the dining room sipping tea and reading the NYT magazine at 4 in the morning, I do not believe him. Maybe it was the restorative sleep that mercifully took place between 5:30 and 7 a.m. when, after a brief screech about something-or-other, Elliott and Dietrich bounded into our bed. But somehow I had completely forgotten being awake at such an hour, reading about Deepak Chopra's latest book, the advice column, and starting an article that was way too long for the hour, probably something about education. It is just as well. Here's to not repeating the tea, reading, forgetting, cycle tonight. Though I have a new Christian Century that just arrived, so it wouldn't be the worst thing.

Winds of Change

My first autumn in Thailand I heard time after time that the heat and humidity would soon be over. We just had to wait for the day for it all to change. There would be a steady wind, dark clouds, and a hint of cool that day, and by the next day, winter would be here. Everyone told me this, but how could I believe such a drastic prediction (even though I had been there all of 3 weeks and they had lived their entire lives there)? But when I walked out of class one day and the wind had picked up, the clouds had accumulated, and there was a distinct breath of cool air somewhere out there, I waited to see if it would really happen.

Now, winter in Thailand is hardly "winter" in the Midwest sense, or even the North Carolina sense. But the change in the air is such a relief from the heat (and, I would learn after my first rainy season, rain) that it hit me as hard as the first dumping of snow, the green grass not to be seen again for months. And that it comes in a rush of a day or maybe two makes the contrast all the more stark. I was basking in the cool relief, and baffled that it had somehow arrived with such little notice.

When I experienced my second autumn, I was more prepared and less skeptical. It was later than the previous year, well into November, but it arrived in the same way. That year the arrival of winter coincided with the realization that I would be living my first years as an adult away from home, family, and many friends. Friends back home would be easing into jobs with health benefits, grad programs, relationships with potential of marriage, apartments and even houses they would fund by themselves. This may no longer be the case (see last week's NYT magazine article) but at the time I felt isolated and longed for the comfort of a paycheck, a syllabus, a box of furniture to assemble.

As the fall unfolded and I began to know more students, neighbors, workers at the market, and my lifeline of friends who were also volunteering post-college-graduation, the changes that seemed insurmountable when the wind was rushing through the rambatan trees outside my house held less emotional and spiritual space for me. The life I left behind held less of my imagination than the experiences I was in the midst of living. I began to trust that the relationships that held together while I was away would be those that held together through my adult life. Hindsight has proved just that.

This year our September has has a Thai feeling to it. Just a week ago I took the boys to the outdoor pool and I sank my ever-expanding belly into the cool water with a breath of relief. It had been sticky all day and the pool, once again, offered relief that lasted beyond our swim. The boys went down the slide, Elliott even jumped off the board, and they made their rounds of water play -- in the shallow end, in the deep, and then off to the sand box (repeat). A cold front moved through at the end of the week as Elliott and Dietrich exchanged their swimsuits for rain gear and their t-shirts for sweatshirts.

Today the wind blew small branches off trees and the streets are littered with leaves and acorns. The clouds hung as if they were from November. The windows in our house are open and the air is crisp and clean, but we had to close one during lunch as the wind gave us goose bumps. It seems only fitting that the world seems to be changing around us even as our day-to-day world is changing in our household. The boys are off to Kindergarten each morning, and in a few short weeks we will welcome another family member. Somehow, the seasons changing with us has encouraged me, and opened me to the wonder of change. Something in the crisp air and powerful breeze has given me strength to watch my little boys venture out on their own a few hours a day and given me even more excitement about welcoming another child into our lives. Not that I wouldn't mind a few more days of summer...

First Days

Justin Roberts is something of a family member in our household. His kids-themed songs set to creative rock-folk music weave their way into our collective mind daily. My mom says we should listen to more classical, and I agree, but I know that Dietrich and Elliott find comfort (and entertainment, but these days have been about comfort) in this music and its quirky rhythms. Yesterday on our way to the first day of school, the boys were silent, staring out the windows, as we made our way through Pop Fly, a CD named for a song about a kid stuck in the outfield and interested in just about everything besides playing baseball. Then Elliott asked, "Can we have track 9?"

I knew track 9 would be coming, as I knew it would from the first time I heard it last winter. Then, we were deciding whether to home-school, enroll in the local public school, or search for a half-day play-based school. The actual first day seemed far away. Track 9 is a song about a child's first day at school and how he has "giant-sized butterflies on that first day". Then the song turns to what his mom says, a turn I hadn't thought of, but that makes the experience real for parents who have years of padding between a first day of school and our lives now. We might vaguely remember what it was like to go to a new school, or start Kindergarten, and I know I still get butterflies when I've started a new job, or get up to preach, or hear the starting buzzer at a triatlhon.

But as parents what has changed our lives forever is the first day our kids, our babes-in-arms, came into the world with us. The song has the mom telling her child of his parents' butterflies on the day he was born. How they wished they could have a magic shell that would protect them as they held their new baby, how she wished he could have one for his first day of school. But the giant-sized butterflies she had on his first day in the world, and the ones he was feeling now as she opened the back seat door (and no doubt, she was feeling them, too!) are there to remind him that everything is going to be alright. They are big, strong, feelings, but they are powerful and are there to help us.

In the Moravian church there are scripture passages randomly selected for each day of the year on a three-year cycle. A second text is selected to accompany the first, usually chosen by a clergy member. Today's text are giant-sized butterflies for me, reminding me that in this small spot in the world where my life, my boys' lives, our family's life is subtly changing, God is here, in the midst of the butterflies:

The Lord is with me as a mighty, awesome one. Jeremiah 20:11 (NKJV)

John wrote: I was in the spirit on the Lord's day, and I heard behind me
a loud voice like a trumpet saying, 'Do not be afraid; I am the first
and the last, and the living one.' Revelation 1:10,17-18

You had me at "firestation"

Tonight we met the boys' Kindergarten teacher for the first time at our home. I've felt pretty at ease about our decision to enroll the boys in the Waldorf school this year, but meeting her added an unexpected peace to all of it. Not that there was a whole lot of peace during her visit -- the boys were excited to meet her and to show her their latest play interests, both at the same time, talking over and above one another and finally coming to a crescendo while we shared dessert when they caught a phrase and kept it going, louder with laughter each time. Before that, while Dietrich was explaining how the step stool, table, blankets, pillows, foam roller, and old car seat come together to make a hook and ladder truck, Mrs. M told us her youngest son also loves fire trucks and had an impromptu tour of station 4, just as we had earlier this summer. Something about sharing the love for a child who loves something that had slipped by my attention until having a child who loved it, set me at ease. I'm sure there will be bumps in the road and a period of exhaustion while we all shift our bodies towards a new daily routine, but I am excited for the boys to begin this adventure of school.

Now, for that peach crumble:

Inspired by tanyadennisbooks.com (Strawberry-Peach Oatmeal Crumble)

Peaches, cut into chunks
Strawberries, cut in quarters
A bit of water
4 cups total fruit, the ratios are up to you and what is in season!

1 C flour (3/4 C white, 1/4 C wheat)
1/3 C granulated sugar
1/2 stick butter
1/3 C old fashioned oats

Combine fruit and put in 8" baking dish. If using frozen fruit, omit water. Use fork to mix dry ingredients and layer over fruit. Bake at 375 40-45 min or until fruit is bubbly and top is light brown. Serve with ice cream -- yum!

Summer Veggie Manicotti

Thanks to our "farm", Vermont Valley, and to the boys' taste for manicotti noodles (both of them!) we had a great meal tonight:

Summer Veggie Manicotti

Boil water for manicotti noddles and cook according to directions (I used two boxes, plus one row from a third box). Save 5 cooked noodles for boys to stuff with just cheese.

1 Tbsp olive oil (it was probably less than that because I ran the bottle dry)
1-1 1/2 C chopped onion
1/2 kibassa or other sausage, cut into small pieces
2 red peppers, chopped
1 bunch swiss chard (or other dark green leafy veggie)

Heat oil & add onion. Cook 3-5 minutes. Add sausage, cook a bit, then peppers, cook a bit, and last the greens. Cover for 3 min or until greens are wilted (add just a little water for steaming). Remove from heat.

Mix together:
1/2 package shredded mozzarella (1 C)
1/2 C Parmesan cheese
1 package ricotta cheese

After rinsing cooked noodles, remove to a plate or cutting board to dry slightly. Stuff noddles with cheese mixture (I opened the sides, stuffed, then rolled back up and put in the baking dish seam-side-down). Pour veggie mixture on top. Top with sauce of your choosing and remaining mozzarella (about a cup).

Bake 25-30 min at 350, turning up to 375 for last 5 minutes.

Perfect bedtime or Michael's Frozen Custard?

Not that our bedtime was a scene tonight, which it can be when we miss the beautiful window of sleepy opportunity and pass into the carnal mysteries of being 5 and being overtired, but the boys probably could have benefited from a 7:30 bedtime. There were signs all day of caught-up fatigue. I actually heard these words as we were heading home from the splash park and errands: "I want to take a rest with you, Mommy." There were no requests for particular songs in the car. After rest when we were at the pool, Dietrich watched more people dive off the boards than he took turns jumping in himself. And there were no arguments about eating dinner.

We could have just sent them up to a bath, found pajamas, and called it an early night. But the humidity has left us, a breeze is keeping the mosquitoes away, and the sun is still high at 7 at night. So instead, we suggested getting ice cream at Michael's. "What?" Dietrich asked. "Ice cream, at Michael's. Do you want to go?" "Yes! I do!" "What?" Elliott asked followed by one more, "What?" from Dietrich. We left the dishes, found shoes, hopped on bikes, pedaled down to the custard shop, and ate sweet, creamy custard.

It was almost 9 by the time everyone was settled down, changed pajamas (it has cooled off, but not enough for fleece penguin jammies), dressed the bear in pajamas, sang to each other, fought about the direction of the fan, moved one child to our room and finally fell asleep. But in the archives of our life with little ones, we will remember the sweet, creamy custard and the bike ride. The perfect bedtimes? Can't think of any worth remembering even now. Never mind that my toe was crushed in a scramble to press the garage door button rendering me on a couch with an ice pack while Ryan told bedtime stories. But still, there will be plenty of time for perfect (or at least early) bedtimes this winter.

Maternity Yoga

It is usually not called that, but when Rob referred to it that way, I thought it was a good twist. I went to "prenatal" yoga last night at a studio a few blocks from our house. The first thing I noticed was the swept porch that invited me into an open room. Flip flops lined up under the bench and handbags dangled from the hooks above. A small line of cheerful women was formed at the restroom, the first feature our teacher pointed out to me. A row of dimmer lights hung on one wall, pegs for another class lined the other. We could see out to the street where college kids toted laundry to the building next door, but the tinted glass did not hint to them that the studio was filled with pregnant women. As Ryan and the boys dropped me off after T-Ball, they had never seen so many mommies-to-be at once, all heading to the porch.

It was my first yoga class. Many years ago, when I was training to get a Boston time, I would wake before the sun watching a DVD of three completely toned human beings stretch as they gazed over Montana mountains. It felt good afterwards, which was the only thing that kept me doing it. After the marathon, the yoga and pilates came and went in rhythm with the semester's work. I eventually could do the routine without the DVD and the mountains, but it was solely to keep me up and running.

Maybe yoga is meant to be shared in a class, because after last night I had a new sense of what it was about. Or maybe it is that since I'm pregnant, it feels even better to stretch and breath deeply and be still in my body. But I think the real power was simply being in the presence of a group of 15 other women approaching childbirth. Everyone in different stages of the journey, carrying different expectations of birth and parenting but all carrying a child. It was many of the same moves from the DVD but I felt rooted and connected, not just to the cushy mat under my bare toes, but to the power of childbearing that we all shared.

The mat I have in the basement has a train track, airport, small town, and football field on it. It works just as well as the roll-up mats I see peeking out of bike baskets as people make their way home from the yoga studio in the mornings and evenings. Maybe the energy of being with these women will be the encouragement I need to start up a practice again. And it just might keep me running, too.

8 pounds of cherries?

My first thought when I saw that we would be picking up 8 pounds of cherries tomorrow as part of our fruit share was: that is the size of a newborn baby! I just met with our potential doula, so baby is on the brain. But seriously, what are we going to do with 8 pounds of cherries? I don't even own a pitter. Can they be frozen? Pie? Sauce? The newsletter suggested keeping them at the back of the refrigerator. And then what? Maybe we should just eat them and forsake all other fruit for the near future.

When the boys were newborns, Rob took a week-long shift taking care of us and helping with his new nephews. He was mostly away from work, but he logged in for a few hours each day, usually at a coffee shop. But when he was at our house, he was changing diapers, sushing squaky babies, making dinner, mowing the lawn, and helping us laugh.

Somewhere in between work, washing burp clothes and playing Monopoly with us, he found time to harvest the fig crop. We hardly noticed the figs the previous year but this year, they were weighing down the branches and dropping onto the brick patio. Rob made it his project -- in the midst of keeping up with work back home, taking care of two 6 week-olds, and keeping two tired parents in good spirits -- to harvest the figs. All of them. He could have set up a stand and just sold them (and we would have had plenty left over) but instead Rob scoured the internet for recipes. Fig sauce (great over vanilla ice cream); roasted figs (great with whatever); fig saute; fig paste (not sure if this one ever happened); and of course just plain raw figs. We invited the neighbors over for ice cream and fig sauce multiple times and pushed seconds and thirds on dessert. We had figs on pancakes. We ate them raw. And they just kept coming in the door. We ate them for breakfast, we ate them for desert. I ate them in the middle of the night while pacing the house with Dietrich propped on my shoulder.

The plenty in our backyard was matched by the plenty in our house -- plenty of fatigue, plenty of crying from parents and newborns alike, plenty of questions as to how we would make it through to the next day. But we also had plenty of help, and encouragement, and love in the arms of brothers and parents and friends across the alley. We looked at the boys in our brief moments of clarity and marveled at their every move and that we had even made it this far. We learned how small we once were, how cared for we needed to be, how we still need care in our grown up lives.

I wonder if there has ever been a bumper crop on that tree like that summer. I hope someone is there to climb the ladder, pick the figs, and find new ways to eat them.

Our cherry pick-up is the day before we go camping -- with Rob. We will be limited to a small camp stove and an open pit fire, but surely we can come up with a way to work through a few pounds of cherries.

Caterpillar

I remember the confusion between brand names (Kleenex, Joy) and their bland counterparts (tissue, dish soap). It worked both ways, too. When ordinary things were also the brand name for something specific, I would wonder how they were related. What does a slowly moving creature with a lot of legs have to do with a bulldozer pushing dirt out of the way? When I was the boys' age (now 5, I really need to update this blog page), Caterpillar was both the most popular brand of dirt moving machinery and a sometimes furry creature that fascinated me as it crawled across sticks during its short life before it became something completely different. The dirt moving company is still around, but there has been enough competition (John Deere, Kobota) that we don't refer to every digger as a "Caterpillar".

So it wasn't a matter of confusing word meaning when Dietrich began making road ways on his painting of what was "supposed" to be a caterpillar. At a park this morning a florescent green caterpillar found its way to the strap of my handbag which was hanging off of a bench. When I put it there, I consciously made the strap shorter so that the pesky ants would have to work harder to get to the raisins that were inside. Instead, the caterpillar fell out of the tree and landed there, or somehow navigated the bench leg to get to the bag, and caught us all by surprise. A few kids came over to watch it crawl, slowly. We noticed its yellow stripes had a speck of purple at the tip, and that it had three tinier "arms" that must be for eating. I suggested that we remember what it looks like and when we go home, we could paint what we remember -- the colors, the stripes, the little arms. It took us two sticks and a weed (as Dietrich helped me remember tonight) to get the caterpillar off the bag and back into a tree. Then we were on our way.

We mixed up as close to florescent green as we could come. Elliott's patience was about at its end, so he quickly made a head, a body, and six legs, all green. Dietrich began making lines, globs, and square dots. I asked him what he remembered about the caterpillar, but he was clearly more interested in how the paint was getting on the brush, then on the paper, then being transformed on the paper by what he did with the brush, than in recreating the creature we saw. I pestered him a few more times, but then let it go. He was making roads. He laid the paint on think, then thinned it out, as a roller would do. He then took the black and put another layer on, the whole time explaining how roads are constructed. He watched as the smooth glob of paint became a stripe with tiny lines from the sponge brush. He covered the paper in roads before declaring he was all done.

On our table, all dried from sitting in the sun, is a small painting clearly of a caterpillar stuck on something black (my rendition). There is another painting of a huge caterpillar with a few stripes. And there is a series of roads, with a caterpillar hidden at the bottom.

Robots and the Psalms

I've never been one to sleep in. Even in college, when I stayed awake as late as my peers (though may have been dozing during every late night movie) I sprang out of bed with the sun. Ryan was even warned by college friends that this would be the case, and watch out, because she doesn't seem to notice that others don't share this communion with the sun. I was usually quiet, but would appreciate some company, in other words. Having newborns and babies and even toddlers wore away at this (once two college friends visiting our newborn twins were astonished to find me in bed at 11 am) but once we were all caught up on sleep, I returned to my sun up-sun down rhythm, more or less.

What does this have to do with robots or the psalms? Today Ryan and I were making coffee by 6 am and I was well into a NYT article on robotic teachers by 6:10. There are big dollars being spent to develop robots being designed to interact with children in such a way to teach them various things from social interactions to foreign languages to primary language. The catcher story is about an autistic child who sees a robot mimicking his behaviour. When the child withdraws, the robot draws him back by doing one of the behaviours he had exhibited. The boy sees the robot remembering his move, say, lifting a hand, and he responds. Having babysat for two autistic children, I appreciated the way this child was drawn in by the robot's reflective behavior. But the article goes on to show how robots are being programed to teach toddlers and babies vocabulary. The research shows -- gasp -- that the little ones were retaining 10-20 words after a robotic vocab session. Kids retain everything! Why wouldn't they from a robot? Robots are being "hired" as teacher assistants and the companies selling them are trying to get the cost down to less that 10K so they are affordable. Right now, they are close to entry wage for a real person assisting (24-34K). Maybe it is better than a video. These robots can change their tone of voice, their questions, their tactics, based on the students' responses. And the article admits that in many ways these robots are glorified toys (better than anything you can find at Brookstone). But using robots for teaching? Really?

A few hours (and pancakes, and arguments about clothing, and locating shoes) I was sitting on a wood pew next to a fidgeting child when the choir introduced the Psalm of the day: "Show me your ways, O Lord, and teach me your paths". Psalm 25, the teacher. Dietrich Bonhoeffer preached a sermon on just one verse from this Psalm. If I remember right it was the verse just following what the choir sang: "Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; in you have I trusted all the day long". The student stands before the holy and asks to be led. There is no agenda or standard or requirement save for openness to the ways of God and willingness to trust, all the day long. I always feel a sense of intrusion when I read or pray this psalm. Who am I to hear the longing words of this person who leans so closely to God? It feels too intimate, and yet, I long to be in that place of trust and openness where I let God do the teaching and leading.

I used to play this verse over in my head as I ran around the lakes in Minneapolis. It had a sort of rhythm to it that matched my foot strikes, or even made them faster. The words rolled around, "truth, and teach me". The end of the verse was both a challenge, "in you I have trusted all the day long" and a promise, that trusting in God for the day, whatever it held, was an option. But it is the verse that the choir sang, "Show me your ways, O Lord, and teach me your paths" that made me hear what was nagging at me, but I could not name, as I read the article about the robot.

A glorified toy is fine -- there is a market for just about anything automated and interactive. But a robot that is programed to anticipate and respond is hardly a teacher. Teaching begins with trust. It begins where the psalmist begins in opening herself to God. There is something deeply lost when teaching becomes measurable, achievable rather than relational and compassionate. The psalmist goes on to ask God to remember God's compassion and love, to forgive the sins of her youth and to remember her as she stands now, a student, trusting in her teacher.

Maybe tomorrow I'll open to the Psalms with the sun, and save the robots for dozing off.

All tired out

There is the day to day fatigue (and the amazing ability to fight it off) of being five with the running, rarely walking, to get trinkets and items that will make the latest space shuttle and its control panel ever more realistic, and the chasing down the side walk on the way to the store, and the climbing over the seat of the van while I am putting in the new booster, and the multiple trips up and down the stairs to get more things for who-knows-what and then there is the fatigue induced by a new activity: swim camp. The boys and their neighbor friend spent nearly 2 hours in the pool, then did crafts, ate snacks and ran around. On the 10 minute ride home, there was a sleeper. In the 10 minutes upon arrival, there was a pitiful meltdown. But then in the 10 minutes after we tucked our droopy faced swimmers into bed? There was still playing space shuttle!

I remember my mom countless times saying, "If I had only half the energy you had..." or "where to you get all of that energy?" or another variation referring to the combination of an abundance of energy and a disinterest in slowing down. I remember thinking, "what is the big deal? I don't feel particularly energetic!" But I appreciated my constant action being noticed, and watching her try to keep up with me. I never expected that I would witness the same phenomena: in the energy department, kids outlast their parents.

I don't think it is simply age, but the way we interact with the world that reshapes our feelings about our energy. It isn't enough for us to experience the world and then recreate it in our own way using whatever tools and toys and scotch tape we can find. For us adults, we are too busy judging the world, protecting ourselves and our kids, worrying about the next thing, and feeling guilty about forgetting what has already happened. It isn't enough for us to splash and slide and make hanging fish out of CD's and googlie eyes and make friends. We need to workout and worry about how our head will feel if we just jump (or dive!) in the water and where we will hang that fish once it comes home and can we now maybe throw out that painted paper lizard on the window that has faded into a mundane off-white?

No, for us adults we thinly spread out our energy over a field of endeavors and their accompanying worries. But it isn't always like that. No matter how distracted we can get, the world calls us back to experience it. It may be the yellow-orange sky after a mid-sunset storm passes by. Or it may be a friend calling to just say hello. For me, it was Elliott's thanksgiving tonight: he leaned his head back and gave God thanks for looking up in the sky.

I had forgotten what he said by the time I finished the kitchen and turned on the computer and hollered (for the third time) for them to stop talking and stay in their own beds. But now I remember, and I remember how my energy soared, just for that moment, even though I am all tired out (but happily willing to slow down!) as they are. And I am grateful, too. For being reminded by a child to look up in the sky, to see what is there, and just let it be.

Mile Posts

Today the boys had their first point-to-point bike trip powered by their own two legs. There was the expected complaining: "I won't bike on a crushed gravel path!" and the delayed getting-shoes-on before we left. Once we started there were some mosquitoes to contend with, but they weren't the only wildlife we saw. We watched a hawk fly up from the path to a branch, then off the branch and over a field. Cranes walked slowly through a marshy field and many chipmunks scrambled for cover in their path-side holes when we came by. We passed horse farms and cattle and rows and rows of corn that are already looking like September. Raindrops spotted our t-shirts by the time we reached the half-way point, but by then Elliott had adapted a Justin Roberts song to fit his 5-year-old interest in all-things-potty (I won't repeat the lyrics here, though they were pretty mild) and was pedaling along in such a rhythm I don't think he even noticed. My dad and I took turns keeping up with Dietrich while my mom shuttled a car (and could clock a workout pace on her way back) and met us for a few miles in the middle. When we reached the end of the trail, just 10 miles east of Madison, we found a restaurant still serving breakfast (though only for 10 more minutes!).

I remember a time when a seven mile bike ride wouldn't be worth changing out of flip flops for. But watching the boys meet each new mile marker made it as much of an adventure as my first 50 mile ride. Way to go, guys! Now, why did it take you an hour to fall asleep? What more can we do?

Happy 5th Birthday, Elliott and Dietrich!

I guess I will have to change the header on this blog as I am now the mother of twin FIVE year olds! I would love to write something reflective on the past year, how they've changed, how they've stayed the same, who we are that we weren't a year ago and who we are now. But honestly, living with two kids on the verge of becoming a new, exciting age, then witnessing the arrival of that age, then celebrating its arrival (a few times) is exausting and I'm ready for bed! But it is their day, and from how fast they fell asleep tonight, I know it has been a good one. Happy Birthday to both of you!

Fire Station #4

Inspired by the fire fighter outfit given to him by his cousin, Dietrich thought a trip to the local fire station would be a perfet outing for us today. Elliott was happy to go, too, though didn't feel the need to wear the gear: snowpants, red jacket and hat, ax, radio, and fire extinguisher. He left the inflatable hose at home. Elliott did bring along a plastic saxaphone and microphone he made with tinkertoys, also gifted from the same cousin. We were about to turn around and walk home when Lorenzo came to the front door of the fire station. He assured us he hadn't been sleeping and we weren't interupting anything, and he was happy to show us around. Delight from everyone: no tantrum from a well-overdressed child. We couldn't have asked for a more patient guide to show us the day to day of the station. A week ago we toured the same engine at a small festival in a park nearby, but seeing it in its garage, and having a firefighter to ask questions of, and wearing the outfit, made it all new again. We saw it all: the trucks, the fire pole (and demonstration), the kitchen (including a handmade table constructed out of a part of a bowling lane and propped up by old fire hydrants), the laundry facilities (are you kidding? Elliott was along!), the hose to clean the trucks (and opportunity for each boy to help spray the truck), a lights, but no siren, demonstration, and finally, a real, live call.

Sweet Summer Days

As strawberry picking is pretty much out for me this summer, the next best thing is picking up strawberries in our CSA (community supported agriculture) box from a garage a few blocks from us. I thought about buying shortcake to avoid turning on the oven, but instead justified that if we made pizzas AND shortcake, then steaming up the house would be not only for dessert, but dinner too. Needless to say, it was worth it. Dietrich climbed on the prep table and Elliott perched in a chair as we cut in a stick of butter, mixed up the white powders and wet everything down with half and half and an egg. The strawberries were half the size of the ones that can be bought in a store, but twice as juicy. I lopped off their tops, saving as much of the red as I could, nibbling around green stems when necessary. The pizza wasn't bad, either, but it was dessert that made the night. Even Dietrich ventured into eating a strawberry with his cake and whipped cream (out of a can, so it wasn't all from scratch!) I hear boys coming down the stairs for a new day, but an entry is an entry, right? Can I eat shortcake for breakfast, too?

Babies

Four lives starting out in four different continents kept us laughing and sighing as we saw how different and how similar early lives unfold. This documentary has no commentary, just subtle music and thoughtfully placed image cuts. We had just been to the perinatal clinic for a 20 week ultrasound of our baby. The nausea of the beginning and the kicks of recent weeks have all made it real to me that we're having a baby, but somehow seeing the profile of our little one really brings it home. We're having a baby!

Ryan had the rest of the day off, but it was pouring rain, and we were not up to the entertaining and playing referee required to spend the afternoon at home. Never having seen a movie as a family (except an IMAX at the museum), and already having babies on the mind, we went back to our driveway to catch a signal and find movie times, Babies being everyone's choice. Dietrich liked tucking his legs into the seats and nearly folding up. Elliott would have liked to help in the reel room, but settled into his seat, too. After a few questionable previews (ah ... but this is a PG movie, why the R previews?) we peeked into the lives of four families as they adjusted to life with a new baby. One family spent nearly no time indoors. Two mothers worked and sat and nursed side by side with their little ones as they played with whatever was near them. Two other families navigated city streets, walk-up and high-rise apartments, mommy-and-me yoga and music class. Their babies played with books, toys, and their parents' gadgets. The fourth family lived in a yurt where baby learned from (and handled the taunting of) his brother while his parents took care of cattle. All the babies experienced their worlds and mastered what they could. They learned to explore and eat and eventually, triumphantly, walk. The differences in sense of time and space could not have been more diverse between the families, particularly between the babies in the city and the ones in the rural areas.

After several minutes of the baby in Namibia, playing with the rocks while his mommy wove, the next frame goes to a baby playing with her daddy on the floor. But in the background is her mommy, resting on a couch, reading a book, "Becoming the Parent you Want to Be." I have read my share of books like this, to be sure. And there is always going to be part of me that wants to be a calmer, more energetic, more creative parent. But watching how the babies who grew up without books and classes and parents reading about being better parents became just as curious about the world as the babies who were read to made it all seem pretty silly. So here's to living in the outside world, watching our babies grow up, and enjoying them.

June. Time for Freedom.

Well, I have 84 posts and far more than 84 days have rolled in and out of our lives this year. But it is a new month, and there is always hope. Tonight the boys and I are solo, but we have a special guest: my parents' dog, Mogey. With this guest, we are treated to having the perfect excuse to rush out the door at our usual bath time, sans shoes and one child sans shirt, and go around the block. Because when Mogey needs to go, he just needs to go! We went down the bike path and the freedom of no shoes, no shirt made for spontaneous singing and laughing and twisting around into the grass. Their bare toes pattered down the path, along the grass, then up the ramp to a neighboring street. There was little in the air except invisible water droplets -- the birds were quiet, there was no wind tossing the leaves around, and the sky hung low. Mogey poked and prowled in the neighborhood dogs' favorite bushes, but obliged me when I said, "We have to catch up with the boys!" On our last block we met a couple returning from an evening walk who had stopped at Trader Joe's. Elliott asked his technical survey questions: "Do you have a satellite? Do you have a CD player? Does your phone have Pac Man?" While Dietrich caught them up on the fire a home suffered on our street. The man admired their bare feet and remembered a time when his feet could tolerate the pricks of rocks and sticks on summer evenings. Elliott pointed out that they are now wearing running shoes and socks for their walk. Ah, yes, look at that, they said. They gave Mogey an admiring tussle around his collar and marveled at his size for a shelty. Then we were all on our way; the couple home to their TJ's snacks, the boys and the dog and me off to our sticky but sweet feeling house, a bath, and the rest that comes after a summer day.

Whish Whish

By their outlandish behavior before bedtime, it's hard to remember earlier today, but both boys stopped their spin moves around the office chair to listen to the whish whish, whish whish of the doppler hovering over their baby brother or sister's heartbeat. Is that how the baby talks?, Elliott wondered. Dietrich imitated the sound for Ryan at dinner later. As soon as the beats were counted, and the doppler put away, they were back to spinning around the chair. But for that moment we were all caught up by the mysterious sound of a heartbeat from the womb.

When we returned home, there was a traffic jam in front of our driveway. Instead of being another idling car, we parked on the street. Would this be a good day for a lemonade stand? Why not? We had lemonade frozen from last summer and there was another hour before dinner and we were bound to have customers since it was nearly 90 degrees this afternoon (in May!). So we emptied the cash register and filled it with change. Elliott made a sign. Dietrich found his guitar (and capo) to play music (for free). There were left over lemon cookies in the cupboard. We hauled out the table and small chairs and plastic cups and a cooler of lemonade and waited for customers. The traffic jammers couldn't really stop to buy, but they gave us lots of smiles. Our customers came mostly from our block and a few heading home from the grocery store. Dietrich took requests. Each boy made about a dollar. A dollar and a doppler, quite an afternoon.

First tomato

There are some things worth paying for, such as the taste of tomato -- real tomato -- in May. They were grown in a hoop house, but they were the closest thing to an August tomato right off the vine I have ever tasted. I even shared with Ryan (and offered to the boys, but wasn't disappointed when they declined). When the scale showed that my tasty tomato would cost more than the bushel of spinach I had just bought, I was glad I only wanted one, but at the same time, happy to pay it. Two-fifty, after all, is less than a gallon of gas or an iced latte (which I did not buy in lieu of tomato). Set next to an all-beef brat from a farm down the road wrapped in a bun made on hwy Q near my parents' house, I couldn't be more happy with the first feelings of summer. The local dinner was topped only by the wiped-out boys who spent another afternoon at the children's park, this time with a cadre of almost-five-year-olds. The dirt and sand in the bottom of the tub is a small price to pay for an afternoon of exploring, no fighting, happy-to-eat-dinner boys.

Glenwood Children's Park

I have it on my list to read, but haven't yet read "Last Child in the Woods", a book about how structured time, structured play, and manicured yards are robbing our children of the intrigue, mystery and freedom of the outdoors. Many comments about the book have been that it is just depressing, but true.

Today I thought of the book as the boys explored a new-to-them park with their neighbor (who was thrilled to be the guide, even if I was playing along more than they were). There is a play structure nestled in the woods just steps off of the main bike path that goes through our neighborhood (and connects to the city loop). Until today, we hadn't ventured away from the swings, slide and teeter-totter. I didn't even realize the Glenwood Children's Park existed beyond the play structure last summer because the leaves were so thick by the time we were living in Madison, it couldn't be seen. But this winter I noticed the deep ravine had trails running through it and a small gorge with short but climbable cliffs. There is a ring of rocks and a fire pit. So when Dietrich asked to go down the ravine, I was more than happy to explore it. They climbed the steep drop off with the help of tree roots, found sticks to arrange, carved in sandstone, and challenged each other to climb up a steeper part of the ravine. At one point, Elliott couldn't find a hand hold and slid down, his belly exposed over the dirt. But he didn't mind. He just found a different route and went back at it. As we rode back home with our neighbors on the rush-hour traffic bike path, I felt as if we'd been gone hours, but it was only about 30 minutes. I felt that we had traveled far, but it was a short ride back home. Mostly though, I felt grateful that somebody had the vision when the neighborhood was created a hundred years ago to reserve this space for children to explore. There are no signs telling what you can or cannot do; no fences keeping kids "safe" from the rocks and steep banks. There is just the feeling of freedom. Their socks may never look the same, but I have a feeling there will be many pairs marked by the Children' Park.

Those Eyes

There are moments in almost every day that I feel I am among little adults. Little adults who can ride bikes, climb trees, clear their spot from the table, put on their own clothes, even switch the laundry (with a boost up to the controls and supervision). Then there will be an outburst of uncontrolled emotion, straight from the pre-verbal days, and I'm reminded that their little adult ways can only go so far, take so much, and hold it together for so long. But even then, even when I am my most sympathetic (as opposed to when I act as impassioned, and simply demand, loudly, that the crying-yelling-hitting stop), I expect them to use their words, hit only things that won't hurt anyone, and to calm down in less than a few minutes. Only later do I catch a glimpse of those eyes. For Dietrich it is his long eye lashes that flash me a reminder of the tiny child he once was, and still needs to be from time to time. For a moment he is the little one finding some peace at the breast and the bridge of his nose as gently sloping down his face as it was the day he was born. It is gone in a flash, but I've been reminded, returned to the person I was changed into when God entrusted me, and Ryan, to care for him. For Elliott, it is the cheeks just under his eyes that puff up just slightly, and are now speckled with a dusting of freckles. His blue green eyes look nothing like the bright blues of his baby days, but those cheeks are the same we first saw on an ultrasound image, the cheeks of the person we hoped and prayed and trusted would one day be our Elliott. Tonight he was so tired at dinner he rubbed his eyes and the tops of those cheeks. His harsh words for our dinner choices had given way to a sign that today he had played hard. When he stopped rubbing his eyes, his cheeks were pink, his eyelids droopy. I need to remember those eyes, those cheeks, and let them catch me in a moment of grown up expectations. And maybe remember that I, too, am in so many ways still so small, still growing up, still learning.

Sabai Siam

Facebook has started to reconnect me with some Thai friends the same day that one of the red-shirt government protesters was shot while speaking face to face with a New York Times reporter. The unrest going on in Bangkok, and in several outlying provinces, is hard for me to imagine. Historically, the take-over of the government is hastily, but peacefully, accomplished and a new set of officials are ushered in. But the past few years have yielded violent and widespread protests, far beyond the Bangkok-centered squirmishes that have marked Thailand's independence. For a place that is proud of its creature comforts, tantilizing array of food, and beautiful smiles, the violence of the past few weeks are shocking. Of course it is hard to know what the people in the provinces beyond the big city are thinking. Maybe life continues to be "sabai" and talk of family and feasting dominating the day. Or maybe this latest outburst of violence, in such close range of a foreigner, has awoken everyone to the danger of making change with coups followed by corruption instead of slow gains in honest elections.

Whatever the case, whatever will finally end this round of violence inflicted from multiple sides, I'm guessing people are longing for life to go back to normal, corruption or not. To eat a plate of som-tam papaya salad and lightly fried chicken dipped in naam jim sauce under the shade of a tree near a resovoir. To order noodles at a roadside stand and take a break from driving, dabbing off the sweet and sour juices with a half-sheet of pink napkin. To wait calmly, never a sign of agitaion, for a covered red truck to come by and take you where you need to go, for a fair price. To giggle over the sounds of a newly released Thai rock star at the open-air mall, dressed in white shirts, buttoned down with silver buttons decorated with the university's insignia, pressed slacks, and worn flip flops. I hope for my friend, and her little girl, that something of the normal, the sabai, returns soon and leaves in its wake a government committment to transparency and honesty.

Oil spills and algae solutions

The oil spill is weighing on all of us in our house, even those of us without driver's licenses. When I hear the amounts of oil in gallons, I can only think of it in terms of milk. It is the only thing I've seen in gallons, except maybe laundry detergent, but it is to clear to picture. So I imagine white plastic gallons of milk floating around and gathering up against yellow blockers. Much of the talk is about how this will affect the habitat and coastal areas in the future. But what about now? The hotel proprietors say they are doing better than usual with all the media covering and extra employees working to stop the spill. Spill seems like the wrong term. I again think of milk. And I have on more than one occasion cried or at least yelled over spilled milk (after the third glass, or just after a long day). The accident in the gulf warrants terms reserved for trauma, warfare. But using those terms might make us realize the impact of the now. How many fish, birds, and tiny critters who hold up their end of the food chain are now dead, unable to even decay because of the oozing oil engulfing their habitat? But we are wrapped up in it, too. I pumped the van full of gas at BP tonight, guilt oozing out of me. And it's not just cars. Even after cutting out oil based cleaners and soaps and watching where our food comes from, trying to get it as close as winter allows, I live in oil -- plastic containers, clothes, shoes, furniture, everything has some basis -- in either its contents, production or distribution -- in oil. On the rare occasion I wear hose, I call them my "petroleum pants", and can't wait to peel them off again. At least after we pumped our gas, we were meeting up with Ryan for dinner, who biked to work, biked to dinner, and biked back home, all in 40 degree weather and light rain.

After hearing us talk about the spill tonight, Ryan mentioned that there was technology being developed to make algae into jet fuel. Dietrich may want to get in on this. Here was his response:

"We could get a boat, or just rent one, and then go to Lake Monona, scoop up all the blue-green algae, put it in the boat, and make it into fuel!"

Maybe there is hope to get out of our oil-dependent lives, after all.

We all were there

Today I went for a run in the UW Arboretum while the boys were busy making top-secret projects at preschool (they have something to do with Mother's day, but I have to wait until Sunday to know what they've made). The native plant sale filled the parking lot with cars, but I saw exactly no one on the trails. I went through the pine forest first, which is quite small, then wound my way through lower, leafier trees on a narrow path. As I climbed a mild hill I noticed purple flowers scattered along the trail and their new green leaves tickled my legs. I thought immediately of the ticks we were bombarded by on a walk up north, but didn't see any evidence of them creeping on me. The light came in just enough to touch the undergrowth and something about the scene made me think of birth, that one thing all of us have been through. But it wasn't about the birth we are anticipating. I thought of how we have all been there. Karl Barth has a chapter on how our first "neighbors" are our parents, whether we know them or not. Somehow, we share that it common with one another. We are born, and we have near neighbors, our parents.

I thought especially of Ryan, whose birthday we celebrate tomorrow, and how he was once so small, just born. I obviously didn't know him (I was another 4 months from my mother birthing me and half the country away) but I can imagine him with his mom, his dad looking amazed at him. We get grown up so fast and it is easy to forget how fragile we once were, how dependent on others we needed to be. But just for a moment I considered someone I love as an adult as the child he was, the child that is still there. All the love we're given, all the hours spent on the floor playing with us, all the meals we refused to eat but have since come to love, it is all still there, living within us.

The flowers abruptly turned back to pine needles and the trees towered to the sky as I passed into another part of the arb.

Cinco de Mayo

Fiesta! We had a pinata at a park (never mind it wouldn't crack open, at least the candy could be extracted) and dinner at a new-to-us Mexican restaurant that just happens to have half price margaritas on Wednesdays. I think had I been able to drink one, I would have tolerated the three trips to the bathroom, the refusal to eat anything but french fries, and the incessant kicking from under the table with more grace. As it was, I was a bit grouchy by the time we left. But a meal cooked by someone else is still one less that I had to prepare, right? All is quiet now, as it always is eventually, and I've already forgotten about the kicking. But who doesn't love Mexican food? French fries, really? Oh well. Happy Cinco de Mayo, Mexico.

Belly Flowers

Today at the park Dietrich was surveying the other adults and kids on their experiences of riding monorail trains. He had at least one responder who had been on one. He went on to tell of his recent rides on the Las Vegas monorail, joined in by Elliott who shared the details of wheelchair accessibility for each stop and which hotels were the smokiest. There was no mention of why they were in Las Vegas (we were en route to southern Utah) or why we were in the smokey casinos (there is no way to get to your hotel room but straight through them) or what we did the other 9 days we were away (we explored the desert, mountains, rivers, caves of southern Utah!). Then again, Vegas kind of grabs your attention.

But I have no doubt that someday when they are sorting through the places their parents explored with them they will also remember the lava fields and slick rock and sand dunes and building a snowman while wearing shorts. On one of our hikes in Snow Canyon State Park, Elliott stretched his legs across the dusty trail and brought his chin to the level of a yellow flower. He squinted his eyes in the direct sun which pulled up his cheeks and made him smile. I had for a moment forgotten the page in his autographed copy of "A Walk in the Park" about Snow Canyon that talked about the belly flowers; flowers so small you need to get down on your belly to appreciate them. But there he was, putting all the pieces together. He may have been not wanting to hold a hand on the steep trail or incessantly talking about the functions of a calculator the rest of the day. But at that moment he showed us, right there on his belly, that being in the desert was all coming together for him. And I had almost told him to get up and walk.

So I have no doubt that there is more to life than calculators and elevator buttons for Elliott. That this green abundant world is also in his view. The day we returned he suggested having a hike every week in the Arboretum, which so far we have done. For now, I just have to put up with Vegas.

Garden walk

Every summer shortly after my brother and I arrived at our grandparents house for a week with them (and our parents had a week without us) we would be taken on a tour of the gardens. It usually started with the flower gardens that lined the hillside of the front yard along the alley that led to the garage. Day lilies marked the corners (we would later be searching them for foul balls during a baseball game) and perennials of as many colors as northern Wisconsin would allow covered the space in between. Different plants were pointed out, as were the ones that had deer nibblings but might make it yet. The flower tour oriented me to the way we lived for the week or two we would be in the Northwoods. We would be observing and noting, watching for birds and waiting for fish to bite. There was little TV except for the evening news and more importantly the weather report. The only games to rush off to were the ones we created in the yards with the neighbor kids.

After walking the length of the flower bed, we moved to the garden where years of dedicated year-round composting created a bed of nutrients that not even the naturally sandy ground could turn off. They grew tomatoes, squash, several varieties of peas and beans, beets and carrots. There were rhubarb stalks and feathery dill; a plot of corn and rotating rows of salad greens. Grandma would fill a shallow brown bowl with lettuce each night and top it with sweet onions or spicy radishes. Our tour winded down by the wood pile where we would hear the report of the wood burned last winter, and how much was already piled for the next. Later in the week we would find hiding spots behind the rows of wood, cut and stacked by my Grandpa and his friends.

When we finished the tour, we went to the front porch where we could see the highway traffic pass by and hear Grandma preparing our first meal of the week. We waited for the call to set the table while listening to crickets under the steps and the occasional car crunching over a gravel road. At the end of the week we would take the same walk, this time our parents along with us after they arrived for our return trip. This time, we would tell the flower stories as best we could and show them the compost pile and rows of corn and where we clean the fish and which vegetables were which.

Travels to Deserts and Forests

This is what happens when I miss too many days (weeks) of this exercise of writing something, anything, everyday. The deserts and forests get all mixed up and I end up writing vaguely about nothing. But something is better than nothing at all, and hopefully tomorrow I will be back for more. The daily writing fell to the wayside as I rode the roller coaster of nausea and fatigue, those two nagging but for me necessary, passages of change as my body grows a wee little being. That's right! We're expecting a baby the end of October. Needless to say, I had to let the daily writing go, as much as I hoped to look back on the year of truly daily writing as my friend who inspired this did at the end of her "Mother's Year of Gratitude" blog. So this will begin part 2 of writing something, anything, every day.

In mid April, we traveled to the desert to visit my aunt and uncle, my great aunt, and to experience the desert in the spring. Today, we returned from visiting my grandma and the dried-out forests and prairies of northern Wisconsin. The first is basking in what little rain fall and melt-off it receives and shouting out in its small flowers that speckle the road sides and catch my attention along the trails. The latter is begging for more rain after an entire month of nothing, not a snow flake or a rain drop, falling from the sky. But even there, spring will not be shut down. Next to the fire trucks parked at the ready for a call, impatient dandelions grow out of lawns that are greening up even as the lakes shores are wilting and boats struggle to find a place to get in.

Easter Tulips

I may have already written about this, but they are worth at least two entries. And since we are leaving on vacation tomorrow, it is probably the last day I will get to see their velvety glory. The first year in a new house has its ups and downs (ups: having a basement to throw toys into, even if it eventually becomes an abyss that needs a shovel to unearth; downs: realizing the side street is actually a lot busier now that the road construction in the neighborhood is over). But by far the best surprise was waking up on Easter morning and finding on the side of the street, the street that is busier than we like, a mounded bed of tulips opening their arms to the sun. They are more than your average tulip, though since we had nothing to do with planting them, I don't know what kind they are. They are low to the ground and have broad leaves that came up just after the snow melted. When they are open, the inside of the petals shimmer and reflect the sun so much that when I tried to take a picture, the light bounced right back. These are not flowers that want to be photographed, at least not by my point-and-shoot camera. Inside there is a dollop of yellow surrounded by a black frame that invites the bees to come, taste and see! We will miss their daily show while we're gone, and most likely they will be finished by the time we are back. But for their brief glory, and their Easter gift to us, we are grateful. Now, do you think our flowering tree can hold off until we get back?

Paschal Reflections

I should begin with, Happy Easter! before I launch into thinking about how we celebrate Easter, thinking back on last week and some conversations with friends. So a Happy Easter to everyone who celebrates it, and a Happy Passover to everyone who celebrates it. And welcome back colored petals of all varieties, please don't be intimidated by today's snow.

Our family Holy Week observances have varied from being at multiple services all three days (and even most Wednesday evenings in Lent) to missing everything but Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, which was Ryan's season during residency one year. A dear friend held off Easter dinner until he could be home so at least he could taste the celebration. I think our most committed year was the year the boys were in utero. The washing of the feet was especially heart-felt for me that year as it had been some time since I had been able to touch my own feet.

Of course since having the boys, evening services have been a challenge. Our first year in Chicago we wanted to alternate evenings so that at least Ryan or I could be at each night of Holy Week. But just as the service was getting underway, I paged Ryan frantically. "Dietrich can't nurse. He's wheezing! It sounds like this: 'heeet', 'heeet'. His heart is racing." I spent the rest of the night in a brightly lit ER room with a child who promptly stopped wheezing when he went outside, who contracted a stomach flu via playing on the floor, and who finally screaming to sleep during an unnecessary nebulizer treatment. On Maundy Thursday, we learned how to treat croup, but no one had their feet washed or gathered at the Eucharist.

This year, the same kid who kept us from Holy Week a few years ago made it to services all three (four, counting Easter Sunday) days. Elliott, Dietrich, my mom and I went to the noonday Maundy Thursday service where we were invited to gather at the alter, pray forgiveness, and be blessed by the pastor. Friday night Dietrich and I Sat in darkness and listened to the passion story sung in parts. Saturday we planned to all attend the Easter Vigil, if only we could all nap. The napping hour turned to roucus playtime, but when given one final chance, Dietrich fell asleep, determined to go back to church, and see the darkness become light. He and Ryan ventured off as I helped Elliott (and me) into jammies and brushed teeth.

When they came home, Dietrich was literally bouncing off the bed with excitement -- the fire! the candles! the organ and instruments! He witnessed the baptisms of twin babies and an adult. He tasted the first meal shared after the days of silence. He also heard a college kid in a car driving by, "I'm glad their dead!" thinking the gathering was a funeral procession. But amidst the excitement and confusion of the culmination of Holy Week, the liturgy stands for itself in saying what we cannot explain. And why would we want to?

The Easter Vigil is something still new to me. My first vigil was at St. Phillips Episcopal parish in Durham, NC. The darkness and fire and lighting the candles and all the readings awoken my senses, but I wasn't ready for the lights, the organ, the trumpets and the Easter lilies to suddenly appear out of nowhere. It was shocking to say, "The Lord is Risen!" when I had never said them before the sunrise. I came home and felt the Easter joy coming over me, and yet guilty for not waiting for the sun, the dawn, to be the light. I mentioned going to several services one year -- this was the year. I went to an Easter dawn service on the front lawn of a Moravian church. I do not recommend going to both Easter vigil and Easter dawn. But even if I was more awake, it, too, somehow wasn't right. I was missing the tombstones.

In all the years I'd celebrated Easter, with the exception of when I lived in Thailand (when Easter coincided with the Thai New Year celebration and meant I was doused with water on my way to church) I heard the Easter proclamation in a cemetary among the tombstones. We had a small band, we waited for the sun to peak over the crest of the hill, and the pastor began, "The Lord is Risen!" A liturgy of hymns and gospel readings followed, and a hearty breakfast after that. There were years that hail pebbles pinked off the xylophone bells I was playing. There were other years that we stood in fresh snow or the spring thaw. Most years we shivered. But it was always amongst the dead, waiting for the sun to rise or at least the sky to lighten.

It seems that both these practices, Easter vigil and Easter dawn are needed to keep the church from being too right in what it does. And maybe there is something to be said about keeping the Good Friday silence all the way until the first Sunday of Easter and sound out the trumpets then. The Easter vigil places the light of Christ in the hands of the people. It is up to them to bring light into the church, and into the world. It is Christ who offers all light after having seen all darkness, but it is Christ's followers who are charged to be light in the world that all too often chooses, or simply finds itself, in darkness. But to wait until the dawn, until the light has reached the world, reminds the church that the light has come to the world, it is not ours to create. And to say the proclamation among those who have died brings all the irony into focus.

So with that, we are well into Easter week. Elliott hums the Easter hymn, and Dietrich gets most of the words (though he was first belting out, Jesus Christ is Born Today, Ahhhhhhleluia!"). We grateful to be here, however we ushered in the light.

Good Friday

I've heard the passion story read by one person, by a few people, and even acted out. But I've never heard it sung until tonight. Dietrich and I went to the evening Good Friday service after each of us had a short, but renewing, afternoon nap. I told him there would be a chance to touch the cross at the end of the service, but I did not prepare him for the story of Jesus' death to be sung by a narrator, Jesus, and the choir. Not that he needed much preparation for that. He simply took it in. I needed it, though. As the slow melody of the story unfolded I noticed words, phrases, that I have not heard before, or at least had not heard in a penetrating way. It reminded me of reading in Hebrew, when each word had to be carefully parsed before I could imagine its meaning and put it together with other words. A phrase would take minutes to collect, a chapter would be a hard day's work. But as I learned to read, the slowness of it changed how I read the stories and how I saw the ancient images. Where I had imagined a fuller understanding, or a hidden meaning, I found instead a new world that was not masked by the English translations I'd grown up on, but a world that I read too quickly to see. Tonight, the sung passion moved me in the same way. When it came to the part where Peter denies Jesus three times, I kept hearing, "he stood there, too, warming himself...he was there, keeping warm." Oh Peter, I am so quick to judge you, but tonight I stood there with you. How often I would rather just keep warm than either risk becoming cold by asking hard questions or dare becoming enraged in confronting ingrained realities. Peter stood there, denying the one whom, just the day earlier, he was falling before in adoration, the one who was now being led off to be killed. And it is Good Friday, and that is where I stand, and stay, for a while longer.

Summer Air

Is this weather some kind of April fool's joke? How can it feel, even smell, like summer on the first day of April? As I perused the yard today, in flip flops (in Wisconsin, in April!) red edges were peeking out of their tulip stalks and daffodils that were looking like bunches of grass are bulging out at the top. The dusty beds needed water yesterday. Elliott was more than willing to help pour the watering cans and refill them. But we didn't tempt nature with attaching the hose.

We have an arched gate on the side of our house that leads to the backyard. The small wood door sits just off-level, making the latch nearly impossible to close routinely. Instead, we prop it on the cement to keep it open, or let the breeze hold it closed. Creeping up the side of lattice arch is a vine that I left alone last fall. Everything else -- except the trees and a few bushes, I leveled off to the ground. Most of it was overgrown anyway, and needed more pruning than I could do evenly. Now I check almost daily to see which of them have survived. Many have. One of the bushes I left alone, however, has a rotten root and is barely hanging on to the soil. It probably didn't help that we built a snow fort over the top of it.

The vine on the arched gate still has its crinkly leaves that never really turned yellow or red last fall. They just froze over and stayed on the vine. More than once I thought, as I was shoveling the walk past them, why didn't I just cut them down? I guess I'll do it in the spring. But yesterday as I passed through to get chalk or a rake or some other prop for the boys' impromptu front yard rock band, two shoots of green poked out from the brown, whithered vine. The buds were in the same spots as the dried out, frozen-over leaves, but plump and green. As I looked closer, the vine is covered with them. I plucked off a dead leaf easily, but am not about to do that for all of them. Somehow it will figure out how to cast off the leaves so the new ones can thrive. Somehow the vine will turn green and eventually flower, even as its leaves from last year return to the dirt. And it will probably endure the cool April showers -- even snow showers -- that are likely to pass through. Until then, it is out there enjoying a 70 degree evening, with a metal snow shovel still propped up against the imperfect gate.

2 Wheels for 2 Boys

I should add, 2 sets of pedals, because before this weekend, the boys have been riding on two wheels and using their feet to power themselves. They've been riding their "like-a-bikes" for two years and the seat posts are about as high as they can go, plus, Willy St bikes was having its annual sale. We bought two of the last ones in stock in their size. Dietrich picked out a blue and black frame, Elliott chose an olive green and red frame. But their favorite feature is the water bottle holder.

We went to a local playground but the main paved area was being used for a cricket match, so we started off in an ajacent parking lot with a slight incline. While I was still getting Elliott situated on the seat and talking about pedals, I saw Dietrich go foward out of Ryan's reach and make a loop around the lot, a smile stretched across his fearless face. Elliott's turn came today at a different playground (cricket continues all weekend, I guess) when I gently let go of his handle bars as he screamed, then laughed, and surprised himself, "I'm doing it! I'm riding my bike!" He wants somebody, preferably Ryan, to be right next to him, but he is off on two wheels.

It is the time of jarring contrasts. One moment the sun is hot on my back, the next a cold wind sends us back inside. Next week is Holy Week when we observe, even take part in, the death of Jesus and in the next breath we come out of that darkness and celebrate life, resurrection. Today I watched our boys pedal their first bikes on their own; last week we were shocked to hear of a bike accident involving three young women, two of whom we knew.

I've woke up more than once this week thinking about three high school girls in southern Illinois who suffered a tragic accident as they journied a 500 mile loop to celebrate their upcoming graduation. One of them lost her life. The others survived, but suffer injuries, and the loss of their friend. I've woke thinking of their parents and how they live through this. I've woke thinking of the long road of recovery and what is ahead for those who survived. I've woke and prayed for some kind of grace, a grace unknown to me, for the parents who lost their child.

Last summer one of the girls who was injured offered to help me make decorations for our church's summer Bible school. She was on her way out of town, overseas, if I remember right, but took the time to contribute to the kids' week with construction paper depictions of canyons, dessert plants and creatures. I was grateful for the help, and impressed that someone with so much going on, with plenty of reasons to sit this one out, chose to help anyway. When I met the other girl who survived the accident, it was a mid-summer evening, just before she was to leave for summer camp. She was excited to meet our boys, and her parents, one of whom was a colleague of Ryan's, invited us for dinner. She introduced the boys to ping-pong, and took multiple elevator rides with Elliott (which he fondly remembers when making up stories).

Both of them showed me a kindness for others that I did not know at their age, and am still learning. I've also woke to the thought of the reckless ways of my high school days and how relatively free we came through them. These girls were pursuing a dream, together, and found themselves in the midst of a nightmare. As they journey back home, to a home missing a friend and missing the fulfillment of their 500 mile dream, they will be welcomed with the same kindness they have given to so many others.

3 Days Out

I am woefully aware of how hard it is to write something, anything, everyday. I've just missed three days in a row, and tonight spent all my creative energy filling out an application form for Kindergarten. Explain the circumstances of your child's birth. Are you kidding? I paired down considerably, which was a healthy exercise for me. Describe the early days of your child's life. Again, you've got to be kidding. Have you ever been in a house with two newborn babies for 24 hours? Those hours were filled with painfully loud and shrill cries, and then silence that was so quiet, it made me startle. Then a leading question: what do you find unique or unusual about your child? It's my child(ren)! Everything is unique and unusual, can't you just see? One has been interested in mechanical buttons since he was 17 months old. If his age is adjusted, that is like an adult about to retire after having had the same job for her entire life!

As I said, all my creative energy has been spent in writing sincere answers that will wow the admissions staff so that next year the boys can (hopefully) have a nurturing place to play and meet some friends and share a snack and play outside. A place to grow as a child with other children, a kindergarten.

Chase

Four-year-old screams are not cute. Or quiet. Or easy to reverse. We had our share of them today: at a restaurant, at the suggestion of moving away from the CD player, at the delay of a print out of the titles on a new CD for his cousin. But with our emerging spring, I knew the end of the day would lead us outside. No matter if there was screaming before hand, we would get outside, and the edgy feelings of the day would pass. But I had no idea that they would pass into a joyful game of chase. Maybe it has been the snow cover, or the snow-pants cover, but the past few months there has been little chase. Today we couldn't get enough. Elliott ran ahead on the sidewalk. "Chase me, mommy!" Dietrich had his own thing going on with a much-missed stick he discovered in the yard now that the snow has melted, but he joined in eventually. How could he resist? The freedom of running mixed with the certainty of being caught. We chased all the way to the park, where the grass was a bit oozie, but the tire chips around the play equipment dry. And we even left the park without screaming, and chased all the way home, or at least until they found bigger sticks that acted as trains, making stops along the way.

Inbetween Times

The sky is stuck somewhere between a dense fog advisory and a pale showing of the sun that nearly casts shadows in the late afternoon. Sounds of wet come from the tires on the streets, winter boots in puddles, and the drips from the down spouts. The winter's wear is bearing its face. Our fence is crooked and the door won't close. Wrappers and newspapers are glued in cold wet to the muddied grass along our sidewalk. Tiny rocks from our shingles are peppered all over the deck as the snow slowly creeps away from its edge but insists on a small iced pile in the middle. A friend from just a 100 miles south posted that they were going to the park -- in t-shirts. We are still layered, even fleeced, and the parks are a soggy pit of ground up tires (the covering of choice in Madison). Just a few days ago I wrote of the emerging that we are living in, but this week we've taken a different turn to a place that isn't sure what it is, only that it can't stay this way for long. Or at least we have hope that it won't.

Greening of the Advertising

I admit it. I am a Marketplace junkie. Hearing the gong announcing the beginning of the show and Kai Rissdol's voice introducing the first tantalizing story makes my day. Or makes my time with dirty dishes something other than just time with dirty dishes (though seeing them all cleaned up also makes my day). One of the stories on today's program featured a journalist who admits to buying organic apple juice because it tastes good and is probably better for her daughter. She goes on to interview her yoga teacher who says that she is green because it is good for her and her family's health. If it helps the environment, all the better, but it is not her real concern (or motivator to pay more for green products). Not surprisingly, the ad industry has picked up on this and now even 7th Generation, a company whose advertising consisted of its products sitting, often lonely for competition, on the shelves of Whole Paycheck, is launching a TV campaign aimed at showing how mom's can best take care of their family -- by using their chemical-free products. Some environmentalists are disappointed, but the one interviewed for the show said that as long as it was getting people to treat the environment better, so be it.

And for the most part, I agree. If my reasons for being green stem from being a good steward of the environment, what does a little advertising hurt to draw in those who would otherwise be spending their money on chemicals that harm the environment? Of course there is the question of why do we need another ad campaign aimed at moms (hello, Proctor and Gamble during the Olympics?). After all, it is far more likely that moms will start buying products that do no harm to their loved ones than it is we'll see an ad campaign about the relationship between fertilizing lawns and farms and their effervescent neighboring lakes.

Ironically, I trace my green streak back to working on a golf course, one of the more chemically induced play fields of modern time. I had always enjoyed being outside, but when I began working with grass, dirt, tree limbs, leaves, and sticks, day in and day out, at ridiculous hours for a teenager, my relationship with the environment changed. It is true that my western sky watching was largely a search for a half day off of work (we couldn't work in lightening, though a steady rain in any temperature range was fair game). But I learned to appreciate how the clouds shifted as the day wore on. How the clouds of spring and those of fall spoke different languages. Walls of cloud scared me back to the maintenance shop on a slow-moving vehicle where we would wait out a storm, trying to believe there was a blazing sun just minutes ago. Grateful we were at least covered by metal roof and walls. Sticks and low-cutting mowers to not work well together, so every storm required meticulous clean up -- every limb, every stick needed to be cleared from tees and greens before they could be mowed.

And then there was the grass. It just kept growing. Granted, it had some help, but my dad tried to minimize the chemicals he used -- and exposed his two kids to -- on the golf course he managed. One co-worker mowed the longer grass that lined each fairway and curled around the empty spaces between holes. She started on Monday, and by Thursday afternoon, she could have mowed again where she had started. Her routine took countless miles each week on a diesel riding rotary mower with five blades. And each week, it started again. The environment, even this relatively tamed one, was relentless in its pursuit for life.

And somehow that pursuit of life, and working with my dad, and watching how his work was indebted to weather, impressed on me that the environment is something we care for, admire, and even fear. There is no way to advertise that. Any advertising asserts that we are in control. And if there is one thing that working outdoors taught me, it was that we are hardly in control of the sun, the rain, the wind, the all of it.

Food Fight!

I realized how far I've dipped into the feeding philosophy of "as long as they are eating something" tonight when I was thrilled at the prospect of sitting down with two of the three men in our house for dinner without a high pitched scream or stomped feet, or blank stares. Instead, Elliott and Dietrich plopped themselves in their respective spots at the table and even held hands to remember Lent and give thanks to God before we ate. The other side? We were all eating different meals, there was a cereal box between my dish (chicken, rice, and mediocre asparagus) and Elliott's (all the leftover noodles I could find and cheese, mixed together and warmed on the stove) because he can't stand the sight of meat, and Dietrich's "meal" was a cibatta roll with butter and milk. Later Dietrich ate two plates of rice and soy sauce. It was still white, but it was something other than pancakes, bagels, and cibatta rolls! I passed around cut up pieces of asparagus, a vegetable both boys used to chomp down to the woody ends, but there were no takers. We've long decided that bribery for colorful food was not helpful and there weren't any cookies in the house, anyway. But we sat and ate our respective meals, talked, and with the exception of a potty break and a spontaneous need to see something in the living room, stayed seated at the table. Dining delight!

I remember the challenge of the boys' first solid foods. It was just one more thing to do on top of naps, nursing, playing and keeping up with new mobility. I wanted homemade, organic, efficient meals that I could spoon feed to one and then to the other in a game of food-tennis. But at least they would try the crazy things I made. And they liked eating avacado mixed with plain yogurt and oatmeal -- no kidding! I thought food would be smooth sailing. A friend helped me balance offering healthy foods and having fun -- she had presented (and had a picture to prove it) her first daughter with a zuccini muffin and a candle when she turned one. By her second daughter, it was butter cream frosting and chocolate cake. (The zuccini baby just turned 18. The cake? Umpteen layers of ice cream and crushed chocolate candies. Both girls eat mounds of broccoli, salad, and other happy greens). And for the most part, one of the boys eats well-balanced, though pasta-heavy, meals. But I never thought I would be grateful for a non-complaining approach to the table, even if it meant three different meals on the plates. Thankfully, Ryan eats just about everything I make.

When I am tempted to fight about what to eat, I'm reminded of pumpkin pie and chocolate milk. Our favorite place to dine out when I was growing up was Ponderosa. It's a cafeteria-buffet-style family restaurant where we'd pick up our drinks and desserts and pay before we found a table and loaded our plates at the steam tables and salad bar. Except that my meal was complete by the cashier. I ate pumpkin pie and chocolate milk. And I loved it. I loved my parents for letting me eat it. I don't remember going to bed hungry and I grew just fine. Then again, I also liked eating liver and ranch dressing at home, so it wasn't pumpkin pie all the time. And I'm pretty sure I pushed my share of green food items around my plate while everyone else had finished eating. But something about that pumpkin pie and chocolate milk keeps me from pushing foods that are not welcomed, at least not now. Somehow growth happens. Somehow our tastes emerge and change and open to possibility. For now, we'll just keep passing around the asparagus.

Unlimited Horizon

Dietrich finished eating early and went into the other room to make a rocket contraption and sit by the fire. He listened to Elliott and me talking about the atmosphere and going through it to get to space, offering up corrections when needed. Then Elliott came up with this:

"Here's how I go to space. I just go to the end of the lake where the sky goes zup zup (cutting with his hand a right angle) and I put my head like this (tucking his chin as if to crawl in a tunnel) and reach out this high (stretching his arm up) and there! I'm in space."

How many times have I watched the horizon on Lake Michigan -- on a bike, running, driving (carefully), sitting on the beach -- and watched the end of the Earth as Elliott described? As I stared out at its beauty, its seeming infinity, all I could do was allow myself to awe at it. The horizon never looked the same from day to day, even during the steamy summer when a haze loomed over it or when the foggy late winter drizzle denied it was even there. It spoke silently of possibility, but did I really believe it? Elliott noticed it, too, bouncing along in the Burley, playing on the beach, climbing on the rocks at the Point. For me it was a matter of beauty and perspective; for Elliott the horizon as he described tonight was just out of reach but it holds the possibility of another world.

Now that I think of it, the world Elliott imagined may have also been inspired by a clever book called Katie Meets the Impressionists (James Mayhew) where a girl visiting an art museum climbs into the paintings and becomes part of the scene (sometimes finding herself in more than one painter's world). Whatever his muse, the image he gave is powerful. Why not just go to the end of the lake, reach into the horizon, and get where you want to be?

Getting Dressed

This is my daily challenge -- not finding something for me to wear, that is an entirely different story, one that usually comes up on Sunday mornings when my jeans with the hole in the seam and the Eddie Bauer fleece won't quite do. My daily challenge is not losing it with Elliott when it's time to get dressed. Or not helping with the items he can easily do on his own. Or not raising my voice when we are about to miss the bus. Or not holding a grudge about the getting-dressed episode for the rest of the day. Why is it so hard? When he was first learning where to put his body parts into the various holes in the clothing I had a lot more patience. But I've witnessed it! He knows where everything goes and can get all the parts in the right places (give or take a few tags in the front). But there are so many more interesting things to do: cuddling in his comforter and sheets sans ropa; oh, there's a book on the floor, does it have a table of contents? Yes!; And this book over here, where is the date due paper for it?; Oh, there is my brother getting dressed, would he like to wrestle? The distractions go on and on until I either cave in and decided getting to the bus and getting on with our day is worth enabling his behavior or until I hover over him and step by step ask him what is next. And then, being winter, we do it all over again once we're downstairs. Boots, snow pants, but no, honey, it doesn't work in that order, now jacket, where are your mittens and hat? Okay, let's go. We'll zip outside. At least it is warm enough for that. The competition factor works great for Dietrich -- all I have to do is suggest a contest or race and he is off! But Elliott would rather be in the sheets or a book than win anything.

Clothes for Sunday are sitting out tonight. Maybe he will show up for breakfast all dressed! Then again, maybe his lack of focus on getting dressed isn't so different from my own blank stares into the closet. Though no one is watching me, there are plenty of days that it takes me far longer to find something to wear than necessary. Almost everyday I forget socks or decide on different ones and have to dash back up two flights before leaving the house. It is the transition between the comforts of home and facing the world. Maybe that requires a little more snuggling for Elliott, or another look at a book, or one last run around the basement before he can put it all together and see the world today.