posting soon

Dad and I often refer to you as a man trapped in a boy’s body: a man-child, I suppose. The other day we were talking about creation, memorizing the first lines in Genesis, when you stopped and asked, “if God hadn’t created people yet, how do we know all this happened? Who wrote all this down?” Your ability to form abstractions and longing to participate in adult conversation can often illude us (and other adult friends/family) into verbal spars or bunny trails; Tito admits he sometimes dreads bringing a Dr. Pepper over, knowing you’re going to lecture him on the “how bad Cokes are for you.” It’s ridiculous to say, but your mannerisms and language mimic adults so much that I think we all forget at times that you’re still a boy — in spite of your obviously boy-sized self. However, in moments when I catch you sucking your thumb (in spite of nasty-tasting stuff we put on your nail and your dentist’s disapproval) or crying due to your hurt feelings or laughing hysterically over some sort of bathroom humor, I glimpse the little boy in you — the little boy you are. Our lives are referred to as vapors, and outside of Neverland, growing up is our inevitable; so my want for you, sweet boy, is to revel in boyhood (where you are now).

I love you. I love the way you empathize with those around you or eavesdrop on conversations while still pretending to do something else. I love how eager you are to teach and lead others (even though your direction isn’t yet matured).I love your drama — the way your soul drips off of you like an over-soaked sponge. And in spite of your over-confident, even boastful nature, your heart is deep and tender; your zeal always provokes — mostly laughter though. This year, when you opened the skateboard and deep sea book that Dad and I gave you, you exclaimed, “Oh! I’ve wanted one of these my WHOLE life!” Fortunately, you only had to wait six years.

I love that you are my son. Happy, although belated, birthday.

Yesterday morning Kristen came over with all the ingredients to make your special spaghetti sauce. Who knew that yesterday, the day we chopped and talked and pureed and laughed and cried (from all the onions) creating this generational recipe — that exact day –you would go to be with Jesus. I smell a thousand memories in that sauce: an accumulation of large, loud family gatherings huddled around an oversized bowl of pasta, sausage, and meatballs. I will miss you, Grandma. I will miss your soft, wrinkly skin and deep green eyes that knowingly told the story of a hundred lifetimes. I will miss the fearsome spirit that dwelt beneath your meek 85 pound frame. I will miss your house. And although I can’t quite fathom what our family gatherings will look like without our iconic pillar of strength, I rejoice that you are in Peace now, that your lungs no longer labor, and that you no longer know fear, loneliness, or death. You are whole, resting in Life, Truth, and Love. But I will always remember. I will remember the way you displayed compassion on others when you assumed no one to be looking, or the way you would bashfully return compliments in your New York accent saying, “oh, get out of here.”  I will remember the way you greeted each of your grandchildren as though we were the only one. I will remember your quiet wisdom, stubborn tenacity, unrelenting support, and of course your never-ending treats. I love you, Grandma.

Who cares about all the reasons I can’t find time to write. Maybe we’ve been visiting family. Or possibly mailing the letter my 5 year-old wrote to Michael Bay politely demanding to know why Bay didn’t make Transformers 2 for kids. Maybe I was too busy asking Blythe for the mango that she was delightfully referring to as “her BIG penis.” Maybe I was clarifying for Burke who we obey after he had confidently answered ”Satan.” Maybe I was taking a moment to watch Olive roll over, squeal with delight, get her first haircut, or grow her first two teeth. Quite possibly I may have been on a long-overdue date with Mark in Houston watching Coldplay. Or having/going to/planning for a meeting of some sort involving people who love Jesus, home-school their kids, or like to eat food together. Maybe we were swimming. Maybe we were explaining to Liam why he couldn’t have my grandfather’s machete. Maybe we were commending Burke for standing up to people who might call him “coward” (as it happens in Call it Courage) or refraining from raucous laughter when he explained that he would do so by boldly saying “don’t call me Howard!” Maybe we were celebrating our now potty-trained Blythe. Or enjoying the way she replaces every “I” with “my” (e.g. “My like ice cream.” or the more recent favorite, “my-reka” instead of “Eureka”), or perhaps how she sometimes likes to discuss how “HUMAN it is outside.” Maybe we were reading. Maybe we were admiring Burke’s sculpted stegosaurus from clay or Liam’s pastel drawing of the polar ice caps or Blythe’s experiment in color with acrylics. Maybe we were sleeping. Not too much though. Anyway, here are some photos to document our busy existence.

I recently read an article about the specific knowledge of first graders. It proceeded to give examples of 6 and 7 year-old kids recalling vast amounts of facts concerning specific subjects they adore/obsess over: insects, star wars, astronomy, UFOs…etc. For Liam and Burke it’s dinosaurs, snakes, and sharks. We have actually checked out every book our library owns about sharks (even the books on shark attacks) seeing that Liam plans to become a shark specialist of some sort later in life. He (in all seriousness) recently referred to his ribs as gills, and when departing from a friend leaving for Haiti, rather than a casual good-bye, Liam warns, “watch out for puff adders (a type of viper). Just don’t turn over any rocks. Okay?” I suppose if he knew anything about the social/living climate of Haiti, he would realize there are far worse things to watch for than snakes. So although my little men can recall thousands of obscure facts, they often lack context. This little fact of my own helps explain why on one hand they can classify and describe hundreds of species (even extinct ones) or have conversations including 4-5 syllable words, yet regularly fail to recall how to wipe their own butts, tie their shoes, or share with their younger sister. 

Anyway, in order to feed the kids’ shark-loving appetites, we managed to squeeze in a little trip to the aquarium in Corpus while visiting some family. They all loved it. Burke’s face in the reflection of the shark tells more than I could possibly capture in words.

I quickly informed my disheartened 5 year-old son that in another 10 years he will be grateful that his teeth are NOT curling out of his mouth and around his jaw. For now, he will just have to trust me.

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In our home, we have attire reserved specifically for weddings. We refer to them as “wedding shirts” (even if we happen to wear them to an event other than a wedding).  This last weekend when Liam noticed me and Mark packing up our wedding clothes, he started a conversation that went a little something like this:

Liam: Where are we going?

Mark: To a wedding.

Liam: (his body sagging over in complete disapproval) Uhhhh.

Mark: There will be dancing there.

Liam: Rock and Roll?

Mark: I believe so.

Liam: (enthusiastically) Where’s my wedding shirt?

He is most definitely my son. And just to give you a little glimpse of some of their moves, here’s a brief video Aina took of the boys almost two years ago at my brother’s wedding. They give lessons, if you’re interested.

Mark:  Hey Liam, you want a powerball (granola treat)?

Liam: Sure. I’ll eat it in the vacant lot with my brother.

Mark: Hey, take one to Burke.

Liam: Okay. Oh — I’ll throw this wrapper away here so Burke doesn’t litter in the field.

Mark: Good idea.

Liam: (re-entering the kitchen after having left) Oh, I almost forgot something. (He opens the kitchen drawer and removes a book of matches.)

Mark: Whoa buddy. What’s that?

Liam: Matches.

Mark: (listening with raised eyebrows)

Liam: For a fire.

Mark: Nope.

Liam: Burke and I need to start a small fire in the field. Just a small one.

Mark: (shaking his head)

Liam: A really small one.

Mark: Every big fire starts out as a small one. You cannot EVER have matches without my permission, understand?

Liam: (meekly) yes.

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The source of  intervention and, in this instance, fire prevention: powerballs.

makes 40-48 balls      prep time: 15 min

• 1 c. peanut butter (if you use natural or organic pb, use “no stir”)
• 1 c. honey*
• 3 c. old-fashioned oats
• 1/2 c. ground flaxseed
• 1 c. chocolate chips
• 1 c. any combination of nuts and soft dried fruit

Mix the peanut butter and honey together until smooth. Gradually add in the oats and flaxseed. Add the chocolate chips and fruit/nut combo. Mix gently in a stand mixer or mush together with your hands (kids prefer the latter.). Use a small spoon or a cookie-dough scoop for size, and roll them into small balls. Use paper mini-muffin cups for presentation. Layer them in an airtight container using wax-paper. Eat them immediately, or put them in the refrigerator (my favorite) or freezer to limit stickiness.

*Using a cup of honey is too sweet for my taste; I’ll definitely limit it next time. But, I’m not sure yet how that will affect the consistency.

Enjoy!

We had just finished breakfast. Mark turned on some music, and we began our “normal” family business for the day. As I’m cleaning up in the kitchen, I think I hear muffled screaming. I go to the hallway; it’s not Olive. I figure it must be our neighbor’s dog who has a howl that resembles a screaming child. I step into the backyard — nope, not the dog, but someone is definitely screaming. “HELP ME! OH GOD — SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME! MY BABY!” Hearing this woman’s distress immediately caused my mind to spin will all sorts of conjured scenarios. And while my heart raced for my throat, I couldn’t seem to move my feet fast enough. I pounded on the window, letting Mark know that something is happening out front. We both ran and opened the front door, where we could now see the rueful woman anxiously pacing a corner of the courtyard across the street wailing and screaming. “OH GOD! PETER, HOW COULD YOU? SHE’S DEAD! MY BA-BY.” Mark looks back at me as he runs across the street, “CALL 911!” And just as he reaches her, she steps out from behind the iron fence…

holding her dead dog.

Now. I love dogs. I can even understand crying, maybe even wailing over a family pet. But, come on, if you’re going to WAIL AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS so that every neighbor for a quarter of a mile can hear you, at least specify my DOG! All she could manage to shrill at us was, “I’m sorry. But it’s MY BA-BY! OHHH GOD!”  I felt like a schmuck for how annoyed I was in that moment.

Speaking of endearing “pets,” we have chickens. Yes, you read correctly — chickens. And as surprised as I am to say/write those very words, I’m more pleasantly surprised by how much I like them. We went in with three other families to share fresh eggs. 5 at our house, 8 at another house. Mark and our friend Danny worked really hard to build their own coops, and last week, we were able to bring the little “ladies” (as we refer to them around here) to their new home. The boys promptly named their hens Henry and Peter. I had to later explain to them that all hens are female. “Not these.” They replied. “Because they’re named Henry and Peter, so they’re boys.” They’ve apparently not quite understood all of our conversations about anatomy. Anyway, everyone was happy until one morning last week when we awoke to find one hen missing and another eviscerated in the coop. That’s right. Murder. It was disgusting. Apparently the uneven terrain of our backyard had left a slight (about 1″) gap at one part of the coop. Enough access for something. That night, I looked outside, after hearing the hens “cheeping” like crazy to see a big, fat possum. Mark was out having a beer with a friend. I didn’t know what to do, so I threw a baseball bat at the possum, hitting him smack on the butt. He looked around, then focused back on the hens. I had to retreat inside, recognizing my defeat and how little I know about these types of over-sized vermin. Unlucky, he left. But, Mark is waiting for his return — with a machete and a ditch blade (seen in the last picture). We’ll save that for another post.  

Even today. A day that we find out that Blythe has a staph infection which requires excessive hot baths, ointments, and antibiotics (not to mention the glorious job of popping puss pockets on her butt cheeks), when dirty laundry seems never-ending, and our exhaustion seems resolute, yes, even today, Mark, I’m grateful to be yours (and theirs). I suppose “happy” is relative. But, I am –especially these 8 years with you. Even today. Happy anniversary, Love.

In spite of the recent, occasional desires to wanderlust off the edge of the earth, I’m still here — at times in my pjs until dinner or sitting among heaps of folded and unfolded clothes or beguiled by a trance-like stupor trying to remember exactly why I stopped drinking caffeinated coffee so many years ago or simply lost in our rat-race-paced life right now. Who knows? Nonetheless, I am here, and completely baffled that yet another month has passed. It occurred to me that while the first month in newborn-dom mainly entails that you survive, the second month always seems a little more daunting with the reintroduction of everyday life. You know, the kind of everyday-ness that must resume without regard to you having the time or energy but somehow has the power to make you feel “normal” again: grocery shopping, meeting with friends (in any capacity), cleaning or straightening the house (which lately feels like a lost cause), and so on. So naturally, what better way to simplify our new life than by packing everyone up and heading to the circus. (Thanks to the library giving the kids free tickets in exchange for reading books.) Admittedly, it was a little crazy and EXPENSIVE — $10 for cotton candy! Yikes. I suppose they justify the absurdity by packaging the delicious anomaly in a “cool” hat, which Liam promptly lost. Burke, on the other hand, disappeared the entire intermission into his own, lifting it enough only for his hand to deposit another fistful of billowy sugar. Delightful.  Blythe danced like a wild-child the entire first half and hated the cotton candy. She crashed at intermission. Five-week-old Olive handled our night on the town like a champ either sleeping, eating, or glaring at me wide-eyed. Really, we had a great time, from the dachshunds’ tricks to the caged-motorcycles to the crazy rope lady, and especially getting to enjoy all of this with our good friends, the King and Norvell families.   

Of course, we squeezed in a few Easter egg hunts at the beginning of this month too, which means we’ve spent the rest of the month dealing with the kids’ candy obsession. “Did I eat enough for a piece of candy?” “Why can’t I have candy for a snack?” “But I ate all of my breakfast!” You get the idea. Here’s some pics from the “hunt” at Mark’s aunt and uncle’s. As you notice Blythe made sure to bring one of her cell phones for the outing. This girl can talk. And she’s not even talking to anyone who can respond yet. A few weeks ago I had all the kids with me at Target, where Blythe found a princess Blackberry on an end-cap. She picked it up and proceeded to talk to ____ as we walked through the store. At one point the boys found the art supply isle and started to wander. Blythe, without skipping a beat, keeps the phone at her ear, simply sliding the mouthpiece away from her cheek, and lunges one leg toward the boys with her free arm pointing toward the cart, and yells “boys! get back over here.” She then proceeded with her conversation. Oh dear. 

Mark passed his 3 grueling exit exams last month, which means he’s FINISHED his M.A. in European History (with a 3.95, I might add — we’re so proud of you, mark/dad.). And not a moment too soon, seeing as he then had an enormous playground to erect in our backyard (courtesy the kids’ generous Popo and Jojo) before the entire Douglass family came in town to visit Scott & Diana, who were in town from Morocco: 11 large, heavy boxes of wood needing to be drilled and assembled and 25 building hours later, it too was finished, mostly anyway. At some point during this operation Burke ran by me exclaiming to Liam, who was riding his bike closely beside Burke: “Liam (sounding more like “We-um”), I already told you, I just don’t have racing legs!” Sorry kiddo, you must have gotten that from me.

day 1day 2day 3

We had a great visit with the Douglass family. It was so good to see everyone, Scott & Diana in particular. The young cousins and pint-sized aunts played hard together, as if they had seen each other just yesterday rather than 9 months ago. I love that about children. Here’s some pics of all the kids, including wading/swimming in the local sand volleyball court turned pool due to all of the rain. Yes, it was fresh, but still stagnant water.