The First Day

Yesterday was my last day as a 39-year-old. So, as the order of things goes, today I am 40. That's a big number and it makes everyone take stock. Why we do this is a mystery to me. But sure enough, I sat at the kitchen counter with my hubby last night and pondered the state of things.

I'm not melancholy about having missed out on something. Nor do I think I failed to capture my dreams or follow my passions. I've had an incredible career -- in fact many of them. Through the generosity of my dear husband I've pursued crazy, impulsive pastimes. I've hopped from occupational interest to occupational interest as I saw fit and prudent. So I'm not exactly sure why on that very last day I felt unfinished.

My kiddos are two of the most amazing boys to rule the suburbs. Really. Like all young men they are learning to learn, learning to lead, learning how they want to be loved. They are champions and scholars and I couldn't ask for better behavior. Considering who is raising them -- we are tickled pink at their stature. But they are growing up so fast. As they grow up, I know that soon they will step out. Step right out on their own and perhaps leave me behind.

So on this first day of the next decade I thought I would be a wreck. I'm not. I'm going about my day doing my usual. And I guess that is where the inventory of your life is. The importance. That which I cannot let go.

I walked my children to school in the gorgeous Colorado sun.

I watched from a safe distance as they settled into their own friend groups and giggled with their peers.

I sipped my coffee. Oh I love well-made coffee.

I answered the door to one of my favorite people of all time. A true gem of a friend.

I golfed with old friends and new friends.

I ate no less than 3 cookies before I ate anything else.

I raced to pick up the supplies for another creative project and saw the shining face of someone I really appreciate having in my life. Someone whose whereabouts on April 15, 2013, left me very concerned for her safety and well-being. I'm so grateful she's alive.

I walked my children home from school, encountering some of our favorite neighbors along the way.

I was carpool mom on the way to LAX, where I then sat high on a hill and watched my oldest son play a game I know nothing about.

I ran my car completely out of gas. Which only served to show me how loved I am. My oldest son sat with me and waited for the other half of our family to save us. It was actually really incredible.

I ate an incredible dinner, prepared by my husband and sons. The wine was good, the food was great, and the men at the table were good to me.

I wrote a little and I'll read a lot. My book and my bed are calling to me as I close this day -- this first day of the decade.

You know how you look back at pictures of your kids and you half smile? Your eyes get a little wet, and you stare in awe at the way their hair was so soft and their cheeks were so chubby. You may even point to the picture and say to them, "Gosh remember when you did that?" The zip of the years in front of you is staggering and you wish you could pause. At 40 -- this beautiful marker of a life well-started -- I realize the people who touch my life are looking back at their pictures and memories of our times together and grasping at the same passage of time. I have been fun. I have been fit. I've had long hair, short hair, gray hair (!). There was the pregnant belly, vacation sunburns, eyes glassy with drink, and a mouth wide with laughter. Not uncommon a heart broken with sorrow and a soul lifted up in good times. So yes, happy tears today because I remember when I did all that.

Wish There Was a Costume For That

I have hesitated to talk about Mason’s birthday. But now it’s been about a month and the sadness of it is either all dried up or just dammed up and about ready to overflow all over the place. He’s 8. Eight is great, unless you are the momma of said giant 8-year-old. Then it’s heartache on heartache as you try to pick him up one last time, fiddle around to find a comfy spot on the couch where you both can take a Sunday nap, or even when you realize though he still reaches for your hand on the way to school you feel like you’re holding a man’s hand.  He’s totally grown up.

His “friend” birthday party was a bit of a disaster. Though in late September, Colorado had record temps and our planned mini golf outing turned into a sun-baked whinefest where one boy scaled a porta-john and another one even barfed. His “family” birthday party got upstaged by a golf tournament. And then there were the costumes.

My children have always had a thing for dressing up. Mason especially loved costumes that uniformed him for his imaginary travels to space. While Coop was content in ninja digs and an occasional Power Ranger, Mason always looked for shiny suits and oxygen packs. If his costumes failed him, he’d just build some box armor from cardboard waiting for the recycle bin. After a short break from dressing up – so short I didn’t even realize we were on a break – the boys asked to dress up.

They were sitting in the back of my dad’s pick-up truck – a classic gas-guzzling vehicle meant to pull boats and snowmobiles, and climb mountains and stuff. My boys were fascinated. Not the type of thing that a lot of people around here own. The truck’s tailgate gave them access to the stars and they started dreaming. Next thing I knew they were trying to squeeze themselves into costumes that fit just a month or so ago.

I can’t overstate the squeezing. The costumes were REALLY small. My boys were REALLY big. And all I could do was stare at them, slack-jawed, and unabashedly shocked. But I was not sad.

Following their night flying through the cosmos on the wings of their creativity, I picked up the costumes, helmets, space packs, even a dinosaur suit and stuffed them in a box. I can’t overstate the stuffing. With not a single melancholy thought I drove them to the post office, slapped an address label on them and sent them on their way to Oregon.

Oh those costumes are so happy now.

But I am thinking about a boy with big blue eyes, feathery soft blonde wisps of hair, pink cheeks, and the sweetest, most inquisitive look ever possessed by a 2-year-old.  The baby who took himself so seriously, right from the start. The boy who consoled his big brother during time outs administered for being mean to little brother. And I’m thinking about how much he loved those costumes.

Last year at this time, I had all but given up on writing. I haven’t explained myself, really. But someone hurt my baby. In a moment of maladaptive behavior another student found a way to destroy my Mason’s spirit, his confidence. When I would try to sit down and write, all I could think about were sad things, sometimes hurtful things, things I wished I could say to bullies – imagined and otherwise. It’s unfortunate because as a result, I don’t have a very good record of sweet Mason’s 7^th birthday, nor our family’s recovery during 2013.

Mason wrote us a letter during that time. It started, “I need your help. I have some very big problems.” Then in great detail he recounted the ways in which he’d been tortured by a classmate. What I know now, with it all behind us is this: Mason helped us. He has grown so much this year and shown us the value of courage, kindness, and rising to the challenge. Per our tradition, on the eve of his 8^th birthday I tucked him in and said good-bye to 7-year-old Mason. As it turns out, it was the most gut-wrenching good-bye I’ve said as a parent.

The following morning I left before anyone else woke up. But first I stopped in and looked in on my beast of a boy – the 8-year-old who is head and shoulders above all the rest. I have so much comfort in my heart as I think about the changes in him. Well, that and a video of a new space explorer taking the costumes for a spin. 

  

The Cooperbowl

My son’s 8^th birthday was planned to fix all the ways in which he’d been disappointed at recess.

Picked last. Not picked at all. Rarely getting to try quarterback. Teammates making intentionally bad snaps when he finally got to try being the quarterback. Kids suck.

  

Clearly hearing about it in snips and bits over the past few weeks was really bothering me. Him, too. But The Coop really does let things roll.

I’m a bear.

And so that is how we came to rent a full indoor football field, name ourselves the commissioners of The Cooperbowl, and host what boiled down to an extended recess.

Oh did he have fun.

It was the first time we had planned to host our December baby’s party after Christmas, nearly three weeks after his actual big day. That might have been a mistake. But it was a nice change of pace. Or rather, the pace of the chaos in our house three weeks ago really didn’t afford the time for a birthday party.

After the running, and jumping, and sweating – my do boys stink – they sat down for some good ‘ol fashioned concessions and a quiz. That’s right, the Who-Knows-Coop-Best Quiz. Questions and answers that I’d like to keep:

Who is Cooper’s favorite football team? Broncos (it was the Jets until the 27^th of December).

What belt has Cooper earned in karate? Orange

What is Cooper’s favorite color? Green

Other than football, what is Cooper’s favorite sport? Swimming – though he first answered soccer (?!?!?!!?).

Who is Cooper’s favorite football player? Peyton Manning – though I know he loves Tim Tebow.

What is Cooper’s favorite special? P.E.

What is Cooper’s favorite book? Diary of a Wimpy Kid

There were some other questions I wanted to ask Coop. You know, my usual birthday interview. But it seems that all questions are answered with “butt cheeks”, “fart head”, or “I dunno”. I gave up.  

Planning a Party? Visit my sewing blog for resources. 

Interview with a 6-Year-Old

The boys before school, playing minecraft.

It's my aim to interview my children each year on their birthdays. But the thing with interviewing children is it has to happen when they want to talk about themselves. Otherwise each answer is: No, Yes, I Don't Know, Maybe. That sucks. So, you wait. Then you wait. Then you start to worry that their next birthday will come around before you complete the interview. And then you realize that you're failing at the goal to interview your children each year just like you are failing to take their pictures on the first day of school each year. And then... ahhh, then a nice Sunday morning comes along and your 6-year-old opens up. 

Well, actually not exactly. I lied to him. 

It started with the topic of parent-teacher conferences. I told him that I was about to have a conference with his teacher and I needed to be prepared to answer her questions to me about him. Would he help me prepare? Yes, he fell for that one. Here follows my short birthday interview with Mason -- a mere 10 days after his birthday. 

Picking his birthday pencil from teacher, he picked a St. Patrick's Day pencil.

Do you save your money? 
Yes, I'm saving my money from grandpa. 

What are you saving for? 
Hmmmmm. a LEGO. 

Which one? 
I don't know, yet. 

Do you know what donate means? 
Give something away.

If you were to donate your money, who would you give it to? 
Ben.

He must be very special to you. Is he your best friend? 
Yes, Ben, Crew, Ty and ... long pause ... that's it. 

In what ways are you generous? 
Being kind to other people. 

Who is the most famous person you ever met? 
What does famous mean? 

It means they did something important or funny or bad and then everyone talked about it so that when they go anywhere, everyone recognizes them. An example would be Barak Obama. 
I don't know. Maybe Max's mom (she's a a reporter, this answer is funny to me). 

A unintentional break from the interview:
Looking at a book titled, "Ain't Gonna Paint No More!" (Mason really likes the illustrations in this book and is looking at the page with a hand, painted green and made to look like the face of a monster with ants crawling out of the mouth). 

Mom, that would be so funny to color your hand like that. The ants look like they would... like they were marching on your hand. And then there could be dirt and stuff (he starts to air-draw around the hand as if he is seeing more of the picture than is there.) 

What's your favorite chore? 
Cleaning the bathroom. 

Really? 
Because I like cleaning with wipes and stuff. The upstairs bathroom, you know. But in the bathtub, you can't step in it and wipe. You have to put the wipe in, stand on it (then he puts his hands out as if he is holding himself up on the edges of the tub and motions to swing inside the tub). The edges you have to sweep yourself. Guess why? Every time you step on it if you clean something and then you step on it it's only going to get dirtier. 

OK, interview done. Go play. I love you. 
Oh hey mama, this is the playing cards song: First you draw, then you play, then you throw a card away. 

Who taught you that? 

Daddy.

And now, the day in pictures. 

Mason picked to have golf and dinner at our club.

Golf interrupted by worm hunting.

Handsome.

He's getting really good at this game.

Their other love at the club, running the hill.

1 candles, 2 cherries

May your wishes comes true.

Silliest brother, ever!

With Daddy

And Mama

Even the King has Chores

Presents Opening Time

Angry Birds PJs were well received, and total surprise.

Tweet Tweet!

And if you liked this... you'll like his 5th birthday, too. If you'd rather read about Cooper, visit his 6th Birthday.

Generous Heart

You know that awkward moment when the teacher puts you on the spot in front of 23 kids? Guh. Why do they do that? 

Mason's kindergarten teacher -- who we like very much -- invited me to be a part of a tradition she does during a student's birthday week. Basically it's some form of show-and-tell every day of an entire week. Gratefully she gave Mason a short week. 

I'm sure you can guess her reasons. During the presentation of his life on a poster board -- 5 years condensed into 10 photographs -- he stared directly at the poster board and read word for word the captions I had written. These captions said things like, "My brother Cooper and I built a replica of the Fukushima nuclear plant disaster." and "I volunteered to paint the cafeteria last fall." Come on, the kid was reading it having never rehearsed it! I was both totally proud and somewhat aching at the awkwardness.

His teacher wanted him to improvise, however, and was trying to get him to talk into a microphone. Hated it. But he endured. Oh that's when sweet kindergarten teacher said, "I'm going to ask your mom to list some of the reasons she loves you so much." 

Is this a test? Am I supposed to cry? Or am I supposed to let things just eloquently roll off my tongue like a Hallmark card? Pah-lease. I decided blubbering would be frowned upon. Basically I said, but I can't remember exactly what I said because I was mostly concentrating on not crying....

1.  When Mason was born, one of the reasons he stayed at the hospital (they had just seen his grotesque NICU picture) so long is that he had what is called a generous heart. Generous is a word we use when we mean big. He was born with a big heart and he still has a big heart. He is kind and gentle and generous of his time, and his things. He never wants to leave out someone. 

2.  Have you ever noticed Mason doesn't talk as much as some of your other friends? (Can I tell you how many times small boogery children point out this when I'm in the classroom volunteering?) And when he does talk he speaks very quietly? Well, I call this soft spoken and it is one of my favorite things about him because I know he listens to others before speaking. When he does speak, he means what he says. 

3.  And last, he's creative and I love creative people. 

And here is where Mason interrupted me and said, "What about those LEGO crayons?!?!" What a transition! Basically he gracefully got me off the hook and allowed me to stop talking and start handing out tiny LEGO men made of melted crayons. He then bragged about me while I bragged about him. It was excellent. 

Tonight, as tradition dictates, I tucked in 5-year-old Mason for the last time and said good bye. sniff sniff. Thankfully Mason, reassured me with, "I'll still be the same person tomorrow." And just as I'm wishing they didn't grow so quickly I'm reminded of a conversation I very recently had with Mason. 

He asked, "Mom, do some kids grow up and never leave their mom's houses?"

Tentatively I answer, "Yes. Why? Do you think you wanna do that?"

"Well, I been thinking about it. " And that was the last I heard of that. Until today when he twisted off the stem of his apple in 29 turns and declared that is when he would get married. Great. Idea. 

PS -- I'll be writing about the party on my sewing blog later this week.

Inheritance

This is the camera I looked into for about 19 years of my life. And those were the years I lived in Utah, Texas, Nevada, Wyoming and Idaho, went to Disneyworld, wore my first swimsuit, took my first steps, took off for my first day of school, even ran through my backyard sporting my first perm. That's the lens I gazed back at as some of my greatest milestones slipped away and my father watched them through the viewfinder and clicked a few judicious shots. Now in those days, of course it was film. So, you took a picture maybe two, not 1000. And you never really knew what shot you got until the entire roll was spent and you dropped it off for developing.

Use of the camera was rare enough; I knew that something was very special if I saw my father slide it in his pocket. I also knew he wanted to remember the event, remember me. The moments caught with a click and then the zip, zip, zip of him cranking the film to the next frame.

As sharp as I may be, my memory isn't. Some of my memories are really just memories of the photos taken and the stories retold. In fact, one of my favorite memories is a picture of my father that was taken with this camera. He was 19, single, living in Germany. Obviously, there was no me so it's not really my memory. But when I think about my father, sometimes that’s the image that comes to mind, not the way I most recently saw him.

About the same time I moved away and struck out on my own, my father stopped using that camera. As strange as it sounds, I started to worry about it. Where would it go? Would it be discarded? Forgotten? Destroyed? And then I decided I couldn't handle that. So, I asked my father if I might have it for my inheritance.

This year for my birthday, he sent it to me. (Don't worry; he's still alive and kicking.) He sent me the camera that documented flashes of my growing up.

The Rollei is not the only thing I inherited from my pop. I inherited his hair color, his strangely fleshy knuckles, and his running stride. I suppose there are a few other things, things that are obvious in photographs. But there also a few things that are not. Whether the gifts you inherit are waves of nostalgia skidding across your brain, pumping through your veins, or making your heart skip a beat they are yours to keep, create your life around, and sometimes pass on to the next line of warriors in your family. Learning the significance of each and how they bind us together and remind us how alike we are is what helps us survive the journey.

I knew I should have asked for the corvette.

Your Favorite Gift

This time of year a lot of folks belly up to the pulpit, or step on a box or just write in their annual Christmas letter about the true meaning of the season. So I’m here to keep it real.

Our oldest has a December birthday. And so it seems that we open presents all. Month. Long. It’s a virtual parade of LEGOs, puzzles, books, games, you name it, and we’ve seen it. And those gifts really do mean something to that little boy born in a month wrapped in tradition and dedicated to something much more magnanimous than him.

His little brother, too young to understand the weirdness of a December birthday, too sweet to care about the clout of the newest video games, and too kind to give anything but his whole heart gave Cooper his favorite gift.

Back in November when all the stores had Halloween costumes and candy corn on clearance Mason happened upon a small plush monkey that was dressed in a skeleton costume. The monkey looked like Cooper’s Mo – the original lovie – but in costume. Mason found this hysterical and immediately said, “We should give this to Cooper for his birthday.”

Because it was only a dollar I agreed and tossed it in the cart. In the coming month Mason would occasionally tell me he was looking forward to Cooper’s birthday then he would lean into me, put a hand to his mouth as if to tell a secret, and whisper, “Because of that surprise, mama.” I enjoyed the conspiracy from the point of view of Mason, but I also fretted that his brother wouldn’t find it as awesome as Mason found it. After all Cooper is actually getting old enough to constrain his requests to very mature gifts – scooters, NFL jerseys, a new chess board.

Then with just a few days before the big day Mason busied himself at the kitchen counter drawing and writing cards to Cooper. Without any help at all he drew a stick figure of Cooper wearing a party hat emblazoned with a 7, and spelled out Happy Cooper. He also wrote another note that simply stated, “I love you, Cooper.” Then he folded them into small little squares about ½” by ½” and asked me for an envelope. Instead I found an old box from Valentine’s day.

The box sent Mason over the edge. It was pink (which I thought would make him reject it) but it had a monkey with a heart on it. He squealed with delight proclaiming it was perfect and put all the notes he had drawn inside. Then he patiently waited for Cooper’s birthday.

On the morning of Cooper’s birthday, we started with an early breakfast and present opening. Cooper tore through new video games, a CU shirt (I know, vomit), and some other things he had wished for including $35 cash. And then he came to Mason’s gift. Mason’s little heart was so filled with love his chest was visibly bursting. And I braced myself hoping against hope that at the very least Cooper would be gracious.

Cooper opened the box of notes and read them carefully. He smiled. He said thank you. He gave that monkey in the skeleton costume a hug. All the while Mason grinned from ear to ear. I felt it was a success, but I brushed my feelings under the rug along with all the other commotion of the day.


You know the routine: classroom treats, 27 kids belting out birthday wishes, special stickers from teachers and the principal, all a very big deal in the realm of 7. In the quiet at the close of a long day, however, when I opened Cooper’s backpack and unpacked the remains of his lunch and homework I found a booklet.

It was a book stapled together by his teacher. Apparently something she does for all the kids on their birthday. It was a journal of sorts. He was meant to illustrate and write about his day. On the page dedicated to “Your Favorite Gift” Cooper had drawn a picture of the monkey, the monkey box, and the teeny tiny notes with a huge message.


Every day my children remind me that while I created them, and endured the discomfort of carrying them around in my belly as close to my heart as a womb can be for the better part of a year; they have their own thoughts, their own hearts, and their own amazing lives. This is the gift I open ever year on Christmas morning, and the day after, and the day after that, and every day forever more.





PS -- In case you are wondering, Cooper is NOT in Boy Scouts. That shirt is a hand-me-down that he loves.

On This Day, You Are 5

Our desire was that Mason would wake up to a surprise worthy of his adorableness. And at 7:30 a.m. we discovered that a life-sized bear can be just the surprise to render a 5-year-old speechless.

9:05
Drop off brother at school and begin a long walk and discussion that went something like this.

Mason:
Mom, I know what they do when people are about to die.

Me:
Really? What?

Mason:
Well, they bury 'em deep in the ground and put one of those gravemind things which are oval on top of 'em.

Me:
Do you mean gravestone?

Mason:
Then they squish their faces with dirt and they can't breathe so they turn green. And then they walk like this. (Pantomimes frankenstein walk with arms and legs outstretched and face stone still.)

Me:
Are you thinking of a Halloween decoration? Or actual dead people?

Mason:
Anyways, are we going to the museum?

9:50- 11 a.m.
Mandatory gym time.

11:20-12:40
One salami and cheese sandwich, and TV with bear.

1:30 p.m.
Museum of Nature and Science. Our first exhibit was the mummy room -- surprise surprise. Followed by the T-REX named Sue, which was scary. And finished with Space and then minerals.

3 p.m.
In the middle of the minerals exhibit Mason proclaims he's tired and would like to go get Cooper. As he's loading into the car I say, "So, how does it feel to be 5." He says, "I'm not actually 5. You have to blow out candles and sing Happy Birthday before you turn 5." Ummmmmm... was I supposed to get a cake?

5:40 p.m.
Start dinner. Mason has requested Macaroni and Cheese. It may be his birthday, but he is overruled and we settle for spaghetti and meatballs. Steve starts spaghetti while I start baking a cake and hunting for candles that say something other than CONGRATS!



8 p.m.
It's official.

PS -- A big thank you to our accomplices who have hidden this bear in their house since July!