Little m Long a

I stepped on a moonbeam at the top of the stairs last night.  The damn thing nearly tripped me.  Funny thing, moonbeams.

That actually has nothing to do with anything but for some reason I felt it needed sharing.  My world seems to be spinning at an alarmingly fast pace as of late.  Not out of control, mind you, just faster.   I’m struggling to keep pace fearful that I’m going to miss something important or at the very least fail to recognize that something significant is happening.

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Zane’s science teacher stopped me in the lunchroom yesterday, said she just had to let me know about what he had said in class.

“Oh Lord,” I audibly muttered.

Seems the discussion of the day involved something about adequate fluid intake.  The teacher had asked the class, “does anyone know what it is to be dehydrated?”

My mind immediately flashed to a morning just a few weeks earlier.  I had just picked up Zia and the twins from their morning classes and was loading them into the car.  I was literally standing in the parking lot–mere feet from the schoolhouse door when my cell phone rang.

It was the school nurse who was calling to let me know that Zane was in quite a bit of discomfort and I should probably come and get him.  Seems he was constipated.  (The problem was immediately resolved upon arriving home for in the comfort of familiar facilities he was able to rid himself of the offending load.  Yeah, I checked my kid out of school so he could go home and poop!))

Anyway, Zane and I had a long discussion about making sure he drinks plenty of water and keeps himself  adequately hydrated so that this doesn’t happen again.

So when the teacher asked if anyone knew what it was to be dehydrated I just knew Zane would be regaling the class with his tale of the reluctant turtle.  I suppose I was a little bit relieved when she said Zane had immediately piped up and said, “I’m not for sure.  But I know your pee gets real yellow.  And orange!”

Towards the end of last spring, in the final days of the school year, Zane brought home a styrofoam cup filled with dirt.  Two tiny green seedlings were pushing their way from the center, barely visible above the dirt.

“What’s this?” I asked calling to mind a similar offering from Zoë at the end of her first grade year.  That little plant died a horrible death having experienced the extremes of sustenance and thirst.  Heat and bitter cold.  It was difficult to watch.

“It’s a sunflower!  We planted them from seeds in class and now it’s going to grow.  I’m gonna help it!”

I feared the worse, my optimism jaded by past experience, though I tried to remain positive.  “That’s great, buddy.  We’ll have to make sure to take care of it.”

Take care of it he did.  When the plant grew too large for the little cup he transplanted it into a larger planter at the foot of the driveway.  Diligently he watered the plants throughout the summer.  And incredibly, amazingly, the plant grew, continuing it’s ascent upward above the smaller plants already mature in the pot.  It thrived under the careful attention given from a little boy that knows of no other way than to whole-heartedly care.

Just this past week, it bloomed.

I have to say that there are few things more rewarding than to experience the joy of a child, proud from having accomplished.  And I can’t help but think every time I see these little sunflowers at the end of my driveway that I am peering into the heart of a kid that’s filled with good.

Zane lost tooth #5 last night.  He really lost tooth #5.  Says he never felt it come out.  Said he may have spit it down the drain while he was brushing his teeth.  It’s quite possible he swallowed it with dinner.

He was pretty upset that he was not going to have anything to leave for the Flossie, The Tooth Fairy.  “How will she know?  What do I leave her?  Maybe if we left her a cookie.”

“Buddy, I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave the Tooth Fairy a cookie. (Though they were fresh baked chocolate chip and I can’t imagine the tooth fairy not enjoying one–or several.)  Why don’t you leave her a note.  I’m sure she’ll understand.”

And so he did.  And she did.  And the balance of the universe was restored.

Minus one lower right incisor.

Thirsty for things that are beyond his realm, far and above what little boys should be concerned.  He looks at the world around him with a discerning eye.  Inquisitive.  Seeking more.  His world is concrete and solid.  Uncertainty and grey confuse him though they do not deter.  Frustrated but never discouraged.

He is confident.

He absorbs the world around, processing and analyzing.  Hours may pass before the questions start.  They are always well thought out and often difficult to answer.  Be prepared.

He plays with bugs and mud and fashions weapons from sticks and broken toys.  He throws his ball to no one and tackles them as if they were.  He is engaging in a crowd, content with solitary.

He laughs and you can not help but join him.  He is in a place where you wish to be, where you need to be.

Seven years passes in but a moment.

I once had a little boy.  Face of an angel.  A cherub.  A little boy that hated carrots and spewed vomit like a child possessed.  It made him no less endearing.  That little boy is gone, long since replaced by the young man before me now.  Face of an angel.

How do you encapsulate the essence, the wonder that is a boy becoming?  My words are certainly insufficient.  My heart inadequate.  Fortunately–none of that matters to him.

He’s happy and therefore I am.

Happy Birthday Wildman!

(Zane turned all of seven on August 1.  We’ve been celebrating all week!)

Related Posts:  A Boy and His Mission

We took a little fishing excursion during our trip to Hatteras.  This school of dolphin was about as close as we got to anything resembling fish.  It was a bit cloudy and the fish just weren’t biting.  It’s just as well, seeing this school of dolphin was seriously cool!

Not to mention—Zane got to drive the boat!

We had intentions of catching dinner for the entire family–all 20 some odd of us.  What is it they say of the best laid plans?

All I can say is that it’s a good thing there were plenty of seafood markets readily available.

Why is it that when history repeats itself—it’s usually in a bad way?

We made it back from our vacation last night.  Late last night.  In fact, if one were to be a stickler for the technical you could say we made it back from our vacation very early this morning.

The kids, of course, slept most of the latter hours of driving and woke only slightly later than their normal waking time.  I woke, tired, still very sore from the drive and a week of getting pounded by relentless surf–I know, boo hoo–to a very long list of to-do’s.

Unloading the car, unpacking the suitcases, laundry, sorting, groceries, etc.

All I wanted was a nice cup of coffee to get the morning and my day kicked off.

I was greeted, instead, not with a “Good morning, Dad!” but a rather somber “Dad.  I’m sorry to tell you this, but—-

Zane broke your coffee pot.

Again.”

It is now official.  Vacation is over!

He crashed into the car.

He crashed into the garage.

He crashed into the basketball post.

I tried to be encouraging and made a mental note to get more Bandaids.

He crashed into the dog.

He crashed into his sister.

He crashed into the fence.

I offered a few pointers and tried to recall if there were ice packs in the freezer.

He crashed into the grass.

He crashed into the tree.

He crashed into nothing.

Clearly, his frustration was peaked.  I offered more words.  He glared in a manner that told me I should stop talking.  This was something he was just going to have to figure out on his own.  There was no amount of instruction, encouragement or hand-holding that was going to make the process any easier.

I feared he would quit.  Just give up.  Let emotion get the better of him.  But he kept at it.  Determined.

And then it happened.

He didn’t crash.

He sat up tall in the seat, gripped the handlebars and just pedaled.  No crashes.

Zane learned to ride his bike–sans training wheels.

A late bloomer, I know.  We took his trainers off at the end of last summer, but he just couldn’t get the hang of it and refused to try, fear of failure having bettered him.  Fear of crashing, really.

This time though, he was determined.  Resolved to conquer.  And with each turn of the pedal his confidence grew.  I could see it in his body, in his posture, in his face.  The farther he pedaled the stronger he grew.

We went to the park where the wide open spaces would only fuel his confidence and push him farther.   We rode our bikes around the cinder path, laughing and cheering all the while.

Zane learned to ride his bike.

We celebrated with ice cream.

All in all, it was a pretty good day to be a kid.  It didn’t suck to be a parent, either.

Sometimes, they are just words.  They should have meaning.  Depth.  Instead they are hastily formed without emotion, little more than making sure the spelling is correct.

My head was full this morning of thoughts and ideas.  Words to express how truly grateful I am.  How fortunate I am.  Emotions muddled.

Words like–my greatest joy–mute when I tried to speak them.  Others like–my true, my purpose, everything, beautiful, happy were left swimming in my head.

These words and more I wanted to shower upon you this morning,  This day that is yours.  This Mother’s Day.

And now it’s too late.  For nothing that I could say or pen will ever compare, let alone compete, with the outpouring of genuine emotion that came from our dear son, Zane.

“Dear Mom,

Thank you for working so we don’t have to live in the street.”

How am I supposed to compete with that!

The behavior chart is a daily exercise.  The squares of the calendar weekdays are filled, always green. A monochromic reminder that the boy is for all practical purposes–good.  These are things I know.

The sheer repetitiveness of the drill makes it easy for me to gloss over, to ignore it’s presence in the reams of paper that are couriered to and from the schoolhouse.  But like a trained monkey, I initial each square, occasionally offer a few words of praise and place the paper back in the folder.

I can’t imagine having to address behavioral issues with Zane at school.  Sometimes, though, I secretly long for variety, a different hue in the seas of green.

Careful what you wish for.  I’ve heard that before, but where?

Oh yes, it’s in my byline.

Yesterday’s behavior chart was alive with color.  Greens, yellows and reds.  Red is the really bad one.  Shocked (though smiling on the inside), I asked for an explanation.

In return I got a sullen face and silence.  He knew but wasn’t saying.  I asked again.

Nothing.

I seem to recall accusatory words like, “you know” and “your silence is the same as lying.”  There were other words, words with consequential meanings attached.  Words like “you had better” and “time to think.”

I don’t care about what he did at school or what happened.  I really don’t. I know if it was really egregious, I would have received a note from his teacher.  There was none.  It’s all benign stuff and typically classroom unruliness, the exercise is designed for the kids to gauge their own behavior on a daily basis and own up to it.  They fill out the chart.

What bothers me is his unwillingness to stand up and tell me what he did.  To do the right thing.  He said he can’t remember.

He’ll have plenty of quiet time to clear his head when he gets home.

“Three….four….,
what comes next, Zander?”

“Se-ven.”

“No, Zander.  It’s five.  Five comes after four.”

“Oh,” and letting out a mischievous giggle he exclaimed, “there’s a red
truck!”

Maura had been diligently working with Zander putting together a puzzle
and then counting the pieces.  Zander apparently was not
cooperating.  To him, life is a game and must be treated as such
at all times.  He’s a happy kid and content.  Learning to
count is not one of the barometers by which he measures success.

And he’s pretty much OK with that, much to the dismay of Maura and me.

Zane happened into the room and asked what they were doing.  Maura
explained to Zane that they were working on counting and learning
numbers.  And then she added, “Zane, you need to help your brother
with his numbers so he can learn to count and be as smart as you are.”

Zane paused for a moment, looked at his brother, chuckled and said, “Uhm, yeah…..He’s not gonna be that smart.”

Remember the old saying, “Teach a Child to Fish?”  It works equally as well with a grill.  I’m just saying–that was some of the best grilled chicken we’d had in a long time.

Related Posts: Teach a Child to Fish

Zane:  Hey, Dad?  Can we start going to church a little more often?

Me:  Well, sure.  I suppose that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.  Why do you ask, though?

Zane:  Because, Lent starts tomorrow and I just thought it would be a good thing to do for Lent.

Me:  (Thinking about what a good kid he is.)  You’re absolutely right.  We should make an effort to go to church more often.  So Lent, huh?

Zane:  Yeah.

Me:  So, Zane—-What are you giving up for Lent?

Zane:  (Pausing just a moment to think, looked up with a sincere smile and proudly announced…)      CARROTS!

He is all boy!  He loves sports.  Especially football.  He will immerse himself in anything athletic absorbing facts and stats.  It’s not all bad.  He’s learned geography by identifying teams (college and pro) and their locations and placing them on a map.  He can count by sevens faster than any first grader I know.

And in true all boy fashion, he will cringe and moan, covering his eyes at the big kiss scenes of any movie or show.  When his aunts come to visit, he will run and hide when they ask for a big kiss and wipe them off should one happen to sneak in a peck.

All boy.


He is also the sweetest little boy that you could ever happen to meet.  And every once in a while will let his man-shield down just far enough to expose his inner goodness.

Last night was just one such instance.

Zane dropped his shield long enough to indulge his sisters, Zia and Zella, in a rip roaring game of Pretty Pretty Princess.

God, I love that kid!

Mondays aren’t so bad after all.

The kids had a few minutes this morning after breakfast and before having to leave for school.  In an unprecedented display of solidarity all five sat quietly and enjoyed almost eight minutes of television.  Sometimes eight minutes is just enough time for me to realize that I am indeed very fortunate.