Time Out, Spaghetti, and Baby Jesus

A couple of years ago when our oldest two kids were toddlers, their Gram, who had been a preschool teacher in a previous life, thrilled the kids with a sweet Christmas craft. Using Quaker oatmeal containers (and don't all good preschool crafts begin with Quaker oatmeal containers?), they created little mangers for Baby Jesus, filled them with straw, and placed a perfectly-sized baby inside. Little Davis and Zoe had a wonderful season of playing with the baby Jesus and his cozy manger.

When, sadly, it was time to put away the Christmas decorations, I carefully wrapped and packed the mangers for use the following year. The baby Jesus? He stayed in circulation, a decision I have come to regret.

In the years that have followed, "Baby Jesus" (for he retains his name despite his lack of contextual manger), has become fully engaged in the life of the Kirk family babies. And may I digress here to inform the patient reader (hi, Mom!) that our gaggle of babies includes the unfortunately named "Mafen" and "Spaghetti." I'm highly concerned about the nomenclature of my future grandchildren. But more on that another time.

So, Baby Jesus being an integrated member of the Tribe of Babies, I regularly hear comments such as, "Mom! Look at Baby Jesus doing a cartwheel!" or "Mom! I just dropped baby Jesus in the sink!" or "Mom, Baby Jesus and Mafen are having a cage fight. I think Baby Jesus is totally going to take her."

Humorous, yes, but in that uncomfortable even-though-the-DaVinci-code-was-sort-of-an-entertaining-book-I-don't-think-Baby-Jesus-should-be-marrying-Spaghetti kind of way. If you know what I mean.

Next topic. Emma Kate. She's two, almost three, and boy, has she had a summer. In the span of 14 days, she potty trained, moved into a big girl bed, and gave up her pacifier. The trifecta of change. When a girl can no longer pee in her pants, sleep in a cage, or suck on a binkie, she's got to do something to express her feelings, so express she has.

But wait, there's more. Bye-bye nap. Take two hours of sleep from her life, add exhaustion to the miasma...well, let's just say we have considered some lovely boarding schools for toddlers.

We, being enlightened and veteran parents, have recognized the stress of transition and exercised additional patience with her, at least in our best moments. (Our best moments occur at least once a week. We're good like that.) Despite our sympathies, within appropriate developmental limits, she is expected to obey her parents. It's hard. We know that. She would rather not. We know that, too, and even identify. But, believing it is in her best interest to develop this skill, we have held her to the standard.

Thus, she's spent about 1/3 of her waking hours in time-out, carefully and deeply considering, (even though may look to the untrained eye like she's just yelling her head off) ye olde fifth commandment about honoring her parents so that she may live long. I really like that last part.

Now, our dear girl is a non-stop talker. As the summer has worn on, her primary topic of endless one-way conversation to to all those under her domain: the importance of obedience. There aren't many that fit the category of "under her domain", but if you do, chances are that you, too, have been relegated to time-out on the bottom step recently. Today, the pool toys were all given firm discipline and were sent to the pool-equivalent of the "bottom step of doom." (We don't really call it that. "Hell" has a much zippier ring to it.) Fascinating stuff as a parent, to see your words and actions reenacted and directed to the pool noodles and plastic sharks.

It has actually been encouraging and amazing to watch her begin to process this obligation she has to obedience. In the midst of this, be not concerned. We delight in her and laugh with her and read to herand play with her. She is joyful and chatty as ever, fearless as she jumps off the diving board, overjoyed to be a ballet student in her sister's "class", curly blond hair now long enough for a little ponytail, endlessly playing CDs, singing songs, and doing the hand "lotions." So she's a happy, loved girl. She's learning.

Now for the moment you've all been waiting for, the magical moment when I bring these diverse threads together. It happened this evening as we were preparing for a quick errand, the whole family to pile in the car for an exciting ride to the auto repair shop. All of the children had chosen a companion for the car ride. Davis had his Chickie, Zoe had her Mafen. Emma Kate was in a tight spot. She had a recalcitrant subject to deal with.

Finally she announced, "Well, Baby Jesus obeyed me so now he is allowed to go for a ride in the car."

Lighting flashed. I'm thinking Baby Jesus better get back to the manger, and on the double.

Something for a Song

They've asked me to write them a poem, my boys have. In four-four time. And it will not, in fact, be so much of a poem as it will be song lyrics, lyrics written for the music they have already written during one of their music sessions in the basement.

They are on their instruments a lot lately: Will on the guitar (acoustic or electric) and Everett on the drums. Will plays even more frequently, as he broke his ankle five weeks ago and so has missed baseball season (well, he played in two games) and can't (for the time-being) juggle his soccer ball. Everett's visits to the drum set are more dutiful, but he's broken through a barrier of some kind. His teacher reports being consistently impressed by our guy, who is inventing new rhythms (imagine!) and Really Enjoying Himself.

And now they've written a song. At least one, maybe more. I don't know how many, in truth.

But they need lyrics, so they've asked me.

I've given it some thought, of course. My writing has fallen off in recent weeks: my bi-weekly visits to the Larger Project, visits which have sometimes rendered as many as 1000+ words and other times fewer than 200, have been almost non-existent in this last month; and the month ahead, which includes end-of-school activities and the senior trip to NYC and honors project symposiums, not to mention countless papers to grade, doesn't seem to offer much in the way of writing time. June, I tell myself. June is the month for me.

But a poem can't be that hard, right? Poems are short. Easy. Ha. Well, I've tried my hand at poetry, at stripping away my language to its essential roots, at finding the word that encapsulates and crystallizes, the mot juste, as my dear old writing professor would say.

Writing poetry-- good poetry-- is Very Difficult Indeed.

Still, I have thought about it. And what comes? Bill's hands, resting for an unnecessary moment on my shoulders just after he's tied or buttoned something for me. My back is to him and I am knowing his hands there for just a moment before I am tearing myself away, racing through breakfast and out the door for another day at school. What comes is Emma Grace stretching, her face contorting in that wrenching twist that means drawing her out of sleep. I am sitting on her bed, talking softly to her, trying to wake her into another day, and I am thinking-- as she subconsciously draws the back of her hand across her face-- that she woke just like this when she was a baby. What comes is Everett on the new swings in our backyard, going there voluntarily before and after dinner, trying with his feet to reach the newborn leaves that dangle before and behind him. What comes is the leaves themselves, newborn, that make that sound when the wind comes.

Can I make that into a poem, do you think? And can that poem be song lyrics? And would those be words sung by adolescent or nearly adolescent boys?

On the Edge of the Crowd

The boys and I attended Transportation Day this morning. It's an event put on by a local church preschool, and involves a parking lot full of every kind of vehicle imaginable, as well as some of the heroes who drive them (garbage truck drivers, policeman, school bus drivers, etc.). A number of my mom friends invited us and I was sure that Evan, my two and a half year old, would absolutely love it.

And, he very likely did. But, his method of enjoying the day was so vastly different than most of the other children there. The other boys and girls clambered over each other trying to get in and out of the different cars and trucks. They were allowed to start the siren on the police motorcycles and to make the stop sign move on the school bus. High times for little people!

Evan stood, stock still and silent, in the middle of the parking lot. His head swiveled slowly and he studied each vehicle in turn. His hand never left mine. I tried several times to prompt him into a closer inspection, but he shook his head 'no' each time and continued to watch. (Christopher, my center-of-the-action baby, was in the carrier on my chest and squirming madly to get out and crawl in the direction of the shiny lights.)

After an appropriate observation period, Evan agreed to walk to the playground next to the church. Once there, we stood still at the edge and watched. (Lest you think my child never gets out, I can assure you that while a parking lot full of trucks, buses and automobiles might be novel to him, a playground is surely not.) Evan held my hand firmly and watched. And watched and watched. After ten minutes of watching, I was able to gently coax him toward a bouncing plastic horse and from there to the slide. From then on, he melted into the crowd of preschoolers with no reservation.

But, as I stood and watched him from the edge of the playground I reflected on how much he is like me, and how I have so carefully disguised this part of myself. The fact is, I am a very shy person. My husband didn't believe this for the first couple of years he knew me. I have worked hard to overcome my inherent fear of new situations and new people. When I was working, my job revolved around being outgoing. Personally, I meet new people frequently and enjoy our conversations. But, in my heart of hearts, I would much rather stand in the center of the crowd silently and take it all in, or linger on the edges until I am comfortable.

Having grown through this metamorphosis I have no qualms about Evan's always-slow warm-up period, or his frequent wish to observe new things from a distance. I am respectful of his need to enjoy things in his own way and at his own pace.

While I was watching Evan, several of the moms I knew spotted Christopher and me, and we all chatted comfortably for a few minutes. Piled back in the minivan and headed home for lunch, it occurred to me that while I had loved seeing them, I was also secretly grateful for the quiet minutes I was able to spend holding my little boy's hand and taking it all in. And grateful to see a secret part of myself in him.

Date Night

Flashback. Same mall parking lot, same time of year, same red-haired, blue-eyed boy. Date night with Mama. That time he was three or so, and the date was just a run to the mall for ice cream on a glorious spring evening. As we walked hand-in-pudgy-little-hand through the parking lot, I observed aloud, "Oh, Davis. Isn't it a beautiful evening? The air is warm, the sun is just going down..." "Yes," he agreed, and then he added in a wistful voice, clearly absorbing the spirit of my thoughts, "and cars and trucks..." My dear little guy was as entranced with the parking lot full of shiny metal vehicles as with the warm air and the birds overhead, and it was a delight to be with him then.

And tonight. Now is a lanky six year old boy. Same gorgeous red hair and beautiful blue eyes. His hands are no longer pudgy in the least, but I hold one in the parking lot nonetheless. It's not really necessary anymore, but I'm not telling. Tonight, date night for the two of us involved a game of tennis followed by shopping for summer Crocs, a visit to the bookstore where he talked me, rather easily, into a new chapter book, and then, finally, the ice cream. Over the course of the evening we have happily chased tennis balls, many of which he hit rather impressively, and talked in the car about how everybody sometimes feels self-conscious and debated the merits of red versus orange crocs, deliberated long and hard about which book to buy and which ones might be too scary, and then decided together that the gummy bear topping would go best on strawberry ice cream, not the chocolate. It's a sweet time with my boy yet again. As the evening ends, we find ourselves in the parking lot, crowded with shiny metal vehicles. It is again a lovely spring evening, but this time it is Davis, my observant boy, who looks up and gasps. "Oh, Mama. Look at that sunset." And I do look at the sunset, and I'm so glad for those gorgeous colors in the evening sky. Really, though, what makes me even gladder than the sunset and the warm air and all the shiny vehicles for miles around is the strong and growing hand still holding mine.

Effects of the Eighties

We were in the car on the way to school, listening to Mute Math's latest (Armistice. Have you heard it? If you haven't, you should get it. It kicks our corporate boutakis over here at the Stevenson house), and I was dancing, as any normal commuting mother should when listening to Mute Math's latest offering on her way to work.

It's tricky to dance in the car, but it can be done. It is trickier still to dance while driving but, yes, I can do it. Mostly with my head.

Which is why Emma Grace pipes up and says, "Mom, how can you do that thing with your head?"

And I'm thinking-- as anyone does who is dancing in the moment and so therefore is not really aware of How or even What one is doing but is just aware that one Must Do-- I'm thinking, "I don't know," and suddenly I'm wondering what I was doing with my head and maybe beginning to come up with an answer when Everett makes answer for me, his voice sounding above the volume of the song,

"Emma, Mom was around in the eighties. She knows how to do things like that."

And I really don't know what that means. No Idea.

My Little Scientist

Sam left a couple of Bibles at church accidentally this weekend. When I asked him if he had managed to recover them, he said yes; they were right were he had left them.

"That's the nice thing about having our own building," I replied. [Until this fall, our church didn't have its own building but rented a school. You never knew where--or if--you'd find something left behind.]

Luke chimed in right behind me. "That's the nice thing about gravity. When you put your books down, they stay right there instead of floating around in space."

crumbs

I took the couch cushion outside to shake out all the graham cracker crumbs from a certain four-year-old's snack, saying "You're such a little mess-maker!"

I came back inside, replaced the cushion, and my sweet son said, "I'm the mess maker but you're the mess clean it upper."

Nail on the head, little boy.

After School Debriefing

The pick-up line at my son's homeschool program is long and there is a procedure to follow. Pull your minivan up to some cones. Your child spots your car, runs for it, jumps in, and you pull away quickly before he/she is belted so the next minivan can pull in. We homeschoolers live on the edge.

Today, my small son jumps in with great concern. "Mom, Mom, do we have any peas at home?" Momentarily disconcerted by the question, I tune in and mentally rifle through the frozen-vegetable drawer: "Yes, babe, we do."

Then I see that in his hand is a...creation. A cluster of grapes bound in Saran Wrap with toothpicks sticking out of most of the grapes. On the end of each toothpick is a pea. A couple of peas have been lost; thus, the dramatic need for replacement peas.

While making sure I do not collide with another minivan as I pull out and simultaneously supervising the belting of the seat, I ask the obvious question.

"So, what's that you made today?"

Pause. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"Did you start a new unit today?"

"Yes."

"So your creation is part of the new study?"

"Yes."

"But you don't know what it is that you made."

"No."

Oh. And from the rear-view mirror, I observe him starting to take the toothpicks out of the grapes, passing the remaining peas-on-toothpicks around for his sisters to enjoy. Then the grapes are unwrapped and passed around, too. As we arrive home, all that is left of this great, if somewhat undefined, educational experience are some toothpicks and a shred of plastic wrap.

Tonight at dinner a thought occurs to him. "Maybe we're studying robots, Mom?"

birthday cake

My son's fourth birthday is approaching in February, and I thought I would give him the opportunity to give me some input on what kind of party he would like. The conversation went something like this:

me: "Benjamin, what kind of birthday party would you like to have when you turn four?"
B: "I don't know."
"Well, think of something you like, maybe."
"I don't know."
"What kind of would you like on the cake?"
"Birthday cake sounds good."
"Well, what picture would you like on the birthday cake?"
"Oh, mama. Or Grandpa B. Grandpa B."

If Not Always, Then At Least Maybe Sometimes

I've always loved reading aloud to my children. I began, in fact, when William was still in utero (yes, I was one of those mothers), but took it up in earnest when he was newborn and we were alone in the house together for hours at a time. Rather than watch mind-numbing television during those many nursing sessions, I cradled him with one arm and held a book with the other and read aloud to him.

We began with the poetry of A.A. Milne-- you know, the creator of Winnie-the-Pooh-- and went on from there to read all of the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. I would sometimes laugh out loud as I read those delightful tales, and remember William leaving off nursing to stare at me, wondering why in the world I was laughing.

The reading continued. When nursing a second newborn, reading aloud was the perfect activity for my then two-year-old William, and I employed it again when it was an infant daughter in my arms. Of course by that time I had little ones at each elbow, but it worked well nonetheless.

And reading continued to be The Thing long after nursing. Reading was a major component of our homeschool, an important activity for before bed, a good way to start the day, and a great thing to do when the natives were restless: in those late-in-the-day hours before daddy came home, when the children were overtired and it was too late for a nap, when they had commenced to argue. Remedy? Read. Read, read, read.

It's been harder, in recent years, to do this. School schedules, sports schedules, homework demands mean that I'm not reading to all of them at once and, on some evenings, I'm not reading at all. And then there's the problem of which books to read: how to find something that works for a girl who's eight and a boy who's thirteen, not to mention the newly-eleven-year-old who also has Definite Opinions. Yes, it can be tricky. It can be, in fact, easier not to do it.

To say that this doesn't make me sad would make me a liar; to say that I don't recognize the certain inevitability of it all would do the same.

*sigh*

And then last night they were all being herded towards bed. Bill had gone out for a little bit, the boys were off brushing their teeth, and I was tucking Emma in. And then I saw it, its weary binding peeking out at me among the many selections on Emma's bookcase: The World of Pooh. I decided to give it a try.

The boys were called in; we made space on the bed. And then the four of us lay there and I read aloud Chapter VII In Which "Kanga and Baby Roo Come to the Forest, and Piglet Has a Bath." And my children (some of whom aren't, really, children at all anymore)listened and they listened and they laughed.

We all laughed. We laughed quite hard. The laughing made it difficult, in fact, at Certain Moments, for me to read At All. And when that was over, they asked me to read Certain Moments over again.

This was So Good.

I don't know if we'll keep this up. Not all of the chapters are quite as funny as Chapter VII and, with school starting up tomorrow, we'll be back in the thick of difficult schedules. But I wrote this here for posterity, for maybe (at the very least) me: on January 3, 2010-- despite their ages and some indications to the contrary-- the Stevenson children were not grown up. Not Entirely. Not Yet.

to take your shoes off, or not?

Moms, you know the pain of keeping your house clean, right? Never ending and wearing you out. Well, I wanted to get your thoughts.

I personally think it is rude to wear your shoes in someone's home. Someone's home that they have probably just cleaned up to have you over (even if it is the "fake" clean). I have taught my kids to take off their shoes upon entering someone's home and they always do (in fact they kick them off and they go everywhere which perhaps is just as rude as leaving them on). I have battled with: should I ask people to take off their shoes when they come in my home? should I leave obvious signs that I would prefer that? like a sign that says, "Thank you for removing your shoes." or a basket with a sign on it that says, "I want to hold your shoes for you." or some such thing. I always have my shoes off in my home and generally ask little kids that have just tracked through my very muddy yard to take their shoes off, but feel hesitant to do the same thing to their parents.

Now, I know the argument of "you should care more about the person than your floors", and I do, really, I do. My floors will clean. It is much harder to "clean" hurt feelings. I am good with that. If someone feels strongly about it or you are uncomfortable with your socks or your feet are really diry, then please, feel free to wear your shoes.

So, I have battled this for quite some time. Even before having kids who eat things off of my floor. Is it rude to "encourage" people to take off their shoes, is it rude to just automatically take off my shoes (and my kids shoes) upon entering a home (perhaps they would rather have my dirt then be exposed to the bottom of my feet)? Tell me your thoughts and if you are a "shoe taker offer" like me, then tell me how you deal with it...

Just a mom trying to eliminate the ever increasing need to clean my floors...

boy? or girl?

A few weeks ago I was in the McDonald's drive-thru (yes, it was one of those days when lunch was on the run!) and I was paying the attendant. I should also tell you that Benjamin has been on a "boy or girl" kick these days, desiring to label every person he meets into the appropriate gender.

I never realized that this is sometimes ambiguous. That is, until I was paying the cashier through the drive-thru window and heard Benjamin pipe up from the backseat, "Mama? Is that a girl?"

No, it was not a girl.

Somedays...

I am just not so sure I will survive having a boy....

Confession: On Reading

I love to read.  (Feel free to read on.  This is not the confession referenced in the title of this post.)

When I was a little girl, the thing I was most often in trouble for was "having my nose in a book"(quoting my mother here) and therefore being slow to do chores, acknowledge guests, etc.

It seems that Evan, my two year old, has inherited this love for reading.  When I clean up our family room every night, I find his books everywhere.  They have been known to slide under my feet while I am driving.  And, we have had to explain -- more than once -- why books can not be brought into the bathtub.  (I know about those laminated books, and yes, we have some, but I refuse to get more.  I must draw the line somewhere.)  

 Evan's love of books is enabled by our willingness to read aloud to him.  Which we do.  All the time.  

This morning, I sat down to nurse my four month old.  Just like always, Evan came running over with a stack of books he could hardly carry, giddy at the prospect of a half an hour of a captive mother.  And, right on top: The Complete Adventures of Curious George (all 399 pages -- yes, I've looked).

So, here in the safety of other blogging mamas, I will own up to the dread that this sight inspired in me.  And, I will make my confession: I no longer love to read.  At least not when it involves reading aloud.

Some Perks of a Classical Education

The children and I spend our days in a classical Christian school-- they as students and I as a teacher in English and humanities. This is our fourth year there, and we like it for ever so many reasons.

Back when Will was in the 5th grade, I was delighted and truly impressed with his speech on Junius Brutus during Greco-Roman day. Our 5th grade spends their entire history study on the pillar of our Greco-Roman tradition, and Will owned his role well. He made and wore his Roman toga, but added to it a good amount of Caesar's blood in the form of red paint. His (memorized!) speech was impassioned, articulate, and accurate, and I was sure I was glowing in my seat there in the second row.

After all, a good portion of our 9th grade humanities curriculum has to do with the Greeks and Romans: we go from Homer to Alexander all the way to the fall of the Roman Empire. Currently, I'm waist-deep in The Odyssey: the man of pain has returned to Ithaca, and-- Woe to you, suitors! There will be blood.

So it all seemed especially current when, tonight at dinner, Emma Grace announced that she's been playing Gaia during recess. She and some of her classmates have taken on identities from Roman mythology, and her role as goddess of the earth entitles her to some significant authority. Everett asked her what she does as Gaia, and her answer came quickly, matter-of-fact: "Kill people," she said.

But the best moment of them all might have been the one that came a week ago, when my music-loving Everett came to me where I was folding laundry. "Mom, listen to this," he said. And he proceeded to sing the tune of "Song Number 2" by Blur. But the words weren't the ones that Blur penned. No, they came instead from Everett's 5th grade study of the Trojan War and the tragic ending of King Agamemnon, when he returned after ten years of fighting to find he had an adulterous wife. Everett and one of his friends had made the story fit Blur's song, so the words went like this:

I'm Clytemnestra (do-do... do-do-do-do)
I killed my husband (do-do... do-do-do-do)
It wasn't easy (do-do... do-do-do-do)
But nothing i-his....

I think they've got it.

They Left the House at Half Past Nine, At Half Past Nine in Rain or Shine. The Smallest One was...Jesus?

Longest post title ever, I know.

Tonight Eliana sat down to "read" me the story of Jesus' birth. She was doing quite well, remembering phrases such as "Mary, you will bring forth a son," and other such non-toddler-ish verbage. And then she got to the part when Joseph takes his family to Egypt to escape Herod: "God told Joseph in a dream to take Mary and the baby to Paris."

Apparently Mary needed to be up on the latest fashion (she was a teenager, after all)and Jesus, well he liked good croissants as much as the next guy.

Joyeux Noel.

tired of mom already....

My middle one is a girl, 4 years old. She has a lot of personality and never fails to speak her mind or crack me up. Today I pick her up from preschool and as we are walking out, I ask, as I always do, "So, tell me about your day today."

Today's response: "Seriously, Mom, do we have to do this?"

wondering what that will look like in 10 years...

because i want to remember

(cross-posting, because i couldn't figure out where i wanted to post it--thus the lowercase--sorry!)


this is what i love about six.

my big boy--all four feet one inch, fifty-two pounds of him--can climb the climbing structure at school--all the way to the top--without hesitation. gap-toothed, jeans-wearing, soccer-playing, two-wheeler-riding, own-shoe-tying, rough and tumble boy, he is. funny (funny!)--making up jokes that even make sense (sometimes). curious--about everything, really, but especially about math recently (multiplication, division? piece of cake. it's square roots that really interest him these days). consumer of books--yes, long chapter-ish ones like the lord of the rings, but also sweet picture books he'll still read over and over.

i love that he still loves those picture books. and he still loves being read to, even if he reads faster than dad does. and, thankfully, he can climb that climbing structure one-handed...because he still wanted nothing more than to take the class "pet," a lion named cuddles who had his turn to spend the weekend with our family last week, all the way to the top with him. and he definitely wanted dad to take a picture of him up there with cuddles.

that's what i love about six.

From Dust Thou Art...

I know that for many people, the onset of dementia changes their personalities drastically. A co-worker of mine described how her children could not believe that their angry grandmother had truly been a kind and patient mother until the confusion of Alzheimer's altered her.

My husband's grandfather, though, is a different case study. "Grandfather Kirk" was a missionary in Brazil for 40 years. He and his wife raised four children, all of whom continue in their faith and remain married to their original spouses. Now, I don't think Grandfather was perfect in his early days. By most accounts, he was a bit hapless and depended heavily on the common sense of his wife to keep things rolling along. He was, however, steady and faithful in the things he believed and I don't think he's leaving his kids with any excessive emotional baggage. (Oh, if such an epitaph could be applied to me...)

Grandfather's dementia has progressed now to the point that he does not know his children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren. He does remember his Portuguese, and his Bible, and his manners. He is unfailingly polite. He welcomes us kindly and hospitably when we visit, and is obviously delighted that these kind people have come to see him. The fact that he is not exactly sure who we are does not seem to bother him a bit. He hosts us with aplomb.

His connection is most clear and sweet, however, with Emma Kate. She turned "two in September" ( that's her age, if you ask her), and she, too, is not real clear about who Grandfather Kirk is or why we're visiting him, but she's delighted to see him nonetheless. He makes funny animal noises, and he has some stuffed animals in his room, and that's all the raw material they need to start a wonderful conversation. It is, to those of us on the outside of their world, hilariously stream-of-consciousness and non-sensical interaction. But Grandfather is taken with her chubby, clear-eyed sweetness, those blond curls, her willingness to trust him, her approach, her chatter, her arms flung around his neck. She brings him books and they look at the pictures together, talking earnestly of the adventures of Corduroy. He asks her, repeatedly, how old she is, and she never tires of answering, with delight, even, that she is "two in September." As her older siblings hover shyly nearby, more aware of the loss of Grandfather's faculties, Emma Kate is aware of no loss, only of the presence interesting and engaging person who seems to like her.

And in their interaction, two human beings are connecting in some essential way that often gets obscured by pesky considerations like remembering someone's name or what day of the week it is. She loves him, because he's there, and he loves her. And he loves her, because, even in the depths of dementia, her sweetness and openness and vulnerability call forth the love that still resides in him, which, by God's grace, has not been lost along with so many of his gifts and capacities and memories.

Those two are living their lives at opposite margins-- one at the beginnings of awareness and one at the end of it. There is some incredible clarity in those outer margins, some things they know that we wise and able and "with-it" people who are in the middle of the journey can't see. For a few minutes in a small nursing home room today, the most powerful force on the planet was unleashed between two of the most unlikely people. By day's end, the conscious memory of that moment is likely erased from their minds. But I was there, and I remember, at least for now.

The Halloween that...Wasn't

Yesterday, I had everything ready for a great Halloween.  We had scouted out a nearby neighborhood that was ideal for trick or treating.  The costumes were prepped and ready.  The weather forecast was ideal -- warm, with rain expected much later around midnight.  And, my sister, her fiancee and his sister and husband were stopping by early to see our little costumed cuties.

And, then, today, a number of factors conspired to unravel my perfectly laid plans:

Factor 1: Evan (almost 2) was terrified of his handed-down lion costume when we tried it on for a trial run this morning.  In fairness to him, this is an older costume (they don't make 'em like that anymore), it is quite realistic, and I made what turned out to be a critical mistake of marching him directly to the mirror when I put it on him.  

But, not to be dissuaded, I developed a back-up costume after rummaging through drawers and closets.  Evan could be an adorable Army soldier garbed in an odd assortment of camouflage and with a darkened face.  

Factor 1 averted.

Factor 2: Evan woke up from his afternoon nap in a rare and horrendous funk.  The usual tricks (book reading, lining up dinosaurs, a cold cup of milk) fell flat quickly.  Even lighting the candle in the jack o' lantern outside failed to perk him up.  I nursed Christopher (3 months) and watched Evan writhing and whining on the floor...and hoped for the best.

Factor 2 was still a factor.

Factor 3: My sister and her assorted companions were supposed to arrive at our house around 4:30.  I planned for an hour long visit, dinner at 5:30 and off to trick or treating.  Our visitors did not, however, arrive until 5:30.  Dinner was already getting cold on the stove when they came in.  Evan was still fussing for unbeknownst reasons.  

I mentally revised my time frame.  We would skip the costume parade for Aunt Katie et al., in order to save time (and, hopefully, to avoid any further Evan meltdown).  I nursed Christopher again, a little early, figured we'd pop the chicken back in the oven to re-warm it and enjoyed our abbreviated visit.

Factor 3 averted.

Factor 4: Just as we sat Evan down to his dinner, with plans to rush him through it as quickly as possible, I heard something outside.  It was...rain.  Pouring, torrential rain.  Apparently, the weather forecast had gotten the timing a little wrong.

Factor 4 was definitely a factor.

Evan seemed completely unaffected by the abrupt end to our trick or treating plans.  He was - finally - happy and chewing contentedly on his green beans.  Christopher, however, had an early meltdown and needed to be nursed again, and put to bed.  He never wore his adorable pumpkin costume.  And Evan never wore his camo.  

By 8:00, we had two sleeping boys, two unwrinkled costumes, and no candy to nibble on.  And, Mommy and Daddy were the ones who were disappointed.