five morning vignettes

Morning 1:

Bram calls from his room. “Mama!”
Me: “Yes, Bug?”
Bram: “Come here; I am lonely!”
Me: “Come to me, Baby. Your brother is asleep on my arm.”
Bram, after some silence: “Do you remember the tablets??”
Me: “Um, Moses’s tablets? Yes…”
Bram: “They say not to fight.”
Me: “They say to listen to your parents.”
Bram: “They also say to be kind.”
I go to him, smiling. We share the sweetest snuggle.
When Lou wakes up and stumbles in twenty minutes later, Bram looks up at him and says, “I got mama out of bed with the ten commandments.”

Morning 2:

I wake up to the feel of hard, cold metal hitting my head. It is Lou. He is hitting me over the head with the old-fashioned Winnie the Pooh alarm clock I bought for him. The irony of this is not immediately clear to me. As I rub my pounding head, he says sweetly, “Good morning, mama!”

Morning 3:

Bram calls from his room. “Mama!”
Me: “Yes, Bug?”
Bram: “Nothing. I just wanted to be sure of you.”
I go to him.

Morning 4:

Lou is laying behind me. He begins to trace his fingers up and down my back and side to side, in the shape of a cross. He says, “I am giving you a blessing.” Then he whispers, “The Universe Dances.”

Morning 5:

Bram comes in to my room in the early morning and crawls into bed.
After a minute, he asks: “Mama, when is your birthday?”
I say, “July 10th.”
He says, “Okay, what is your favorite animal?”
I think for a minute and say, “Maybe wolves? I like the way they are in community together.”
He says, “Okay. So for your birthday, I’m going to ask Pomo to help me buy you some wolf shorts. Black, fuzzy ones. Does that sound nice?”
“Yes, Bug. Fuzzy wolf shorts sound like the nicest.”

 

these boys

Today, like so many of us, I drove my big kid to school: in Bram’s case to his final year of Montessori preschool. He was nervous and reluctant, and also curious. He ran out the front door and kicked rocks around the driveway for awhile. He wanted to listen to Cloud Cult’s “Transistor Radio” on the way. He sang along, like always. I said, “That journey his grandpa sends him on? That’s like your journey, Bug.” I watched him gathering his nerve in the rearview mirror. I listened to him slow his breathing.

I’m writing this from a table in the coffee shop where I wrote a lot of my dissertation. Where we came after we lost E. Where we brought B the first time we left the house with him. That was a lifetime ago: two lifetimes, literally, for my kids. Not long ones, but of course we’d do well not to measure life by length.

At four-and-a-half, Bram is a firestorm of passion, focus, curiosity, and brave imagination. He is self-conscious about his physical abilities: nervous on playgrounds and critical of how he runs and bikes, as if someone has told him he isn’t good at those things (though to my knowledge no one has). He holds back nothing on the creative front, and is steady in his confidence in himself as an artist. If he asks you to describe some recent experience, to remind him of a detail from an encounter, it’s so he can go home and draw it. He’s a storyteller: he tells tales silently, with colored pencils, for hours; with Legos in deep concentration; in a loud, dizzying voice as he spins around the house. He is a careful and kind brother, son, grandson, and friend. He holds his fingers up in the shape of a square to tell me he loves me. I think he’d make eye contact for hours.

When I told him that some people think we are all of the figures from our dreams – so he’s not just the little kid who’s scared; he’s also the beast chasing the little kid – a smile stretched across his face for whole minutes. When I asked him if he wanted to finish a drawing he had started earlier in the day, he said, “I don’t want to, mama, I need to. An artist needs to finish what he starts.” He told me on a walk to the library last week – out of the blue, at an intersection – that he wants to be a baker, a construction worker, and a priest when he grows up. This would surprise no one who knows him.

At two-and-a-half, Lou is a wild and beautiful creature. His will is fierce and seems to come from somewhere profoundly deep within him. He is built mostly of courage and curiosity, and he’s like a cat: capable of immense and startling acts of love and loyalty, but on his terms. Once while working together with Play-Doh, he said – without even looking up – “I miss you when you’re at work, mama. I love you too now.” We just kept working. He has a head full of blonde curls, lashes that go on forever, and the last vestiges of the skinny bird arms and legs he had at birth. We still call him Birdie, and it still fits.

He is maddened by any suggestion of passivity: he wants to push the stroller, cook the food, wash dishes together, turn all the pages, get himself dressed, put on his own shoes, and fasten his own seat belt: “not you, not you!” If you look away for a second, he’ll sneak off to the snack drawer and situate himself on one of the benches at our dining room table with an absurd number of pretzels or graham crackers. If you call him from another room, he’ll run to you full force, shouting “My am coming!!” He is rarely cautious, though he avoids deep water and new people, and he constantly asks me to drive more slowly. Like his brother, he loves teases and inside jokes, and his eyes light up when he’s in on something. His favorite song right now is Josh Ritter’s “Cumberland.” It is entirely possible to imagine him living happily in the country. If you pretend to forget song lyrics and sing them wrong, he’ll say, every time and with endless delight in his voice: “not like THAT! Like this!” and sing them the right way. He’ll repeat this as many times as you’re willing. If he’s sad and you offer him a diversion, he’ll often say, “Okay. That would cheer me up.” If you’re sad, he’ll offer you pretend strawberries until you smile. Strawberries, every time. His favorite game is the Run-Hug, which his Pomo invented. It is exactly like it sounds.

This is a picture Bram came home and drew after meeting a girl he found magical. She is seven, and a dancer. Those marks are the colors he’s decided are good for making skin tones. He is always working on craft. Those are her hands folded in front of her body. She’s Native American and was wearing traditional clothing: those are feathers, moccasins, and bells at the bottom of her dress.

Neah by Bram Age 4.jpg

This is classic Lou.

14068420_10154283435807870_2216950742855452022_o.jpg

This is a drawing Bram did of our church awhile back. Every time he sees it (hanging in my office), he says quietly to himself: “I need to do a new one.”

12654599_10153758306857870_656691214003885220_n

These are tombstones the boys made when – as is his way – Lou killed a fly and – as is his way – Bram cried over its smashed body and made us bury it. Lou gave this task the cursory attention that he sensed his brother would require. Bram wrote this on his: “Dear God, did the fly have a good life? Was it sick or was it not? [Something illegible to me.] In your name we pray. Amen.”

13958123_10154283436072870_417697734706961561_o

And this is a typical market Saturday: Bram with his best friend, Clara, sure of their little world together; his brother following behind: ever curious about B & C’s activities, but also absolutely on his own quest.

13466495_10154117472102870_3734780075528492011_n

all hallows’ eve

The only sounds I hear right now are wind picking up outside and rain leaking through the roof and landing in a metal pot in my entryway. This relative quiet means that the rest of my family has fallen asleep together upstairs: a rare group nap in anticipation of a late Halloween night. I’m alone on the sofa with a thin blanket, and it’s cold in here. I could turn the heat up, but I’m struck by the not-unpleasant sense of porous boundaries, of the outside getting in. The rain, and the wind, and the cold. This is always true, I think. This fluidity. Walls don’t offer the kinds of division we pretend they do. But I’m not always as willing to see it as I am today.

I’m brewing a second small pot of coffee. The lunch dishes are still scattered on the table, and I’m trying just to notice this. Noticing is a big thing lately. Noticing how little I understand time, with its wild variations: fast, slow, racing by. Other wild variations are a big thing lately too: my mood, my wife’s kindness, all of our trust. I suspect that my awareness of these swings is an ironic product of being settled. We are all safe to feel the complexities. Of being a preschooler. Of being a toddler. Of being married (in happiness. in frustration. in resignation. in gratitude.). Of being parents of young people and all of the young-people needs. The too.many.things that we are, so that life is crowded even when it’s pared down and simple. And so we swing, all of us, right now. From euphoric love to resentment and resistance. From surety to restlessness. From desperate need to rejection. All of us, with the wild variations, and with time refusing to steady itself.

I’ve been wanting and wanting to write. Writing, though, is a kind of standing still, and stillness seems to be what life is most unwilling to yield these days. And yet. There’s a lot to say. When I think about this space, I can’t really think about readers anymore. This isn’t because I don’t still love the sense of community, or crave it. I do. But I’m unsure of what I offer that is worth receiving by anyone who isn’t one of us. And I’m not even sure what I mean by one of us. Maybe I mean the kids one day. Maybe I just mean me. Anyway, I can only write here as a keeping of some kind of record. For later. For when there’s time to stand a little more still and listen to the way things were when there wasn’t time to really hear. And if this space is worth something outside of that, then that something can stand on its own.

So, for the record. And anything else this might be worth.

The house. We’ve been in this house for coming up on two months, and we were right. It is right. We’re getting to know it. It is a creaky old house. You can’t move around here without everybody knowing about it. It has other surprises too, of course. Beautiful morning light. An expansiveness that must be about something other than square footage. A kind, inviting feel that has kept people here through the ages: it’s almost a hundred years old and we’re only its fifth family. Our pathways here are far from worn, but they’re being created. The fact of living here is no longer startling. And I’m in no rush to learn the secrets this space holds. I understand marriage enough now to let the complexity of this new undertaking unfold.

12063770_10153507091507870_6179408139311710495_n

1958278_10153550545417870_4638170925645242731_n

12108932_10153543162467870_6511873897371695358_n

12115784_10153539450667870_1978320062362903471_n

12043160_10153495829627870_4602380779143831392_n

12002178_10153495829522870_1992841006201268004_n

11014959_10153495841492870_1200074293962803936_n

And the Birdie. Who is determined and willful and emotionally vast. Who is as physical as a high-speed train. And who is a nurturer: of me, of Bram, of his stuffed bunny, Henry. He has a sense of humor that the rest of us lack, and it sets him apart, and it makes us grateful. He is eager to please us. He delights in the world, and is every bit as watchful as his brother has always been, but less reluctant. He doesn’t love music yet, and he doesn’t always love books. He is affectionate as a cat is affectionate, which is to say: on his terms. For these reasons, he has made me work much harder than Bram ever did to figure out how he wants to be loved. But, oh, when he feels seen by one of us, he lights up. He is a small, radiant lighthouse. And he surprises me everyday.

12088472_10100112763654705_1274946827822750491_n

12063895_10153507057197870_112693027049402005_n

And Bram. Bram, who studies life. Who burrows into it: all depth, that kid. Who draws for hours without a break. The same creatures over and over. Who wants to read the same long books until he’s mastered them. He does not live on the surface, and so surfaces startle him. School is still hard: not the work of it, but the light relational part. He is discomforted by the presence of more than he can process at once. He is every bit the storyteller that he’s always been, and the same narratives still drive him: good vs. evil. Americana. Love and defeat. I can’t imagine he’ll ever be good at small talk.

12043097_10153552853137870_2904199915376211868_n

12096609_10100111758129785_4570942139405564665_n

And happiness. Sometimes I think: this is what it feels like to live your values. To be happy, and exhausted, and bewildered, and broken, and flooded with grace. I think I’m happy because I’m made that way, and not everyone is, but I also work hard to live a life that is in keeping with what I sense to be true about the world. And that is work, but it also offers a contentment that I imagine (remember, even) is hard to come by otherwise. So: this class- and race-diverse neighborhood. A devotion to the mystery of liturgy. A commitment to using my spirituality in action. Food ethics. Marriage. Patient and positive parenting. Compassion. Grace. Love. Surrender. Surrender. Surrender. The rewards not of immediate pleasure, but of investment.

12039544_10153506884397870_8028974126762367898_n

11219693_10153543708797870_3619671517440760923_n

12046690_10153508319402870_1718673979433784515_n

12063288_10153507091442870_3658250676982067614_n

And God. A couple of weeks ago, I sat at a downtown, outdoor cafe, only a couple of blocks from St. Luke’s, with the best staff imaginable. And the sun was shining down on us and there was easy camaraderie and good food. And someone mentioned that winter is coming. And someone else said that the town’s only real shelter can’t meet our need. And someone else looked around and said isn’t it a shame to have all these buildings down here and all of them shuttered. And then: a conversation about resources. And J just finished a month long diaper drive: gathering 24,000 diapers, which is enough for 500 families for a week. Because diapers are expensive, and necessary, and not covered by any of this nation’s fiscal safety nets. And Sara Miles started the food pantry at St. Gregory of Nyssa in San Francisco fifteen years ago this week. So, God. And Jesus. Christianity, to me, is never about charity. Never. It is always about remembering that we are all welcome at the table, and that means coming to the table and bringing what we have. And that what we have isn’t a reflection of who we are. It just is. So we give. And we take. And none of that makes us better or worse. All it makes us is God’s. And blessed, of course. And under obligation to one another not because we are more or less fortunate, but because we’re what we have of God. We’re what we have. We are as porous as my house is today. I don’t know. Maybe one day I’ll figure out how to tell this story.

12107084_10100114963605985_1575197362428464977_n

In the meantime, Bram will be Robin Hood tonight. Which is perfect for him, my small prince of thieves. And Lou will be Little John: his brother’s devoted fellow. And I will be Maid Marian. And J will be the Sheriff of Nottingham: no justice without the unjust. And our block will filled with trick-or-treaters from the neighboring streets, which aren’t so safe, and some of the neighbors here will bemoan this, and I will give thanks, once more, for the failures of boundaries. How they make us all more human. And tomorrow, guided by our liturgical calendar, we will celebrate the saints: sing their names in a litany that will take my breath away. And Monday we will honor the dead. We’ll put Emmett Ever’s ashes in the columbarium at St. Luke’s: at once a gesture of honor and of release. Her name will be etched in gold in a room whose smell I cannot describe but cannot stop loving.

And we’ll go on praying, and questioning, and misunderstanding, and being misunderstood. I am well over a third of the way through reading the Bible in a year. And I can’t be one of those people who wishes for my children’s growth to slow down because their growth is the most viscerally sacred thing I know. And I will keep wanting more stillness. And keep not making choices that would bring it to me. And I will stay grateful for this good and pretty life full of complex, beautiful, frail humanity.

12140846_10153527202312870_5497703801494374414_n

a small mile

One week from tomorrow, we will leave our little cottage behind. We will drive away from the place that both J and I have lived longer than we’ve ever lived anywhere else, and we won’t live here anymore. We will leave without a puppy-cat who moved in here with us, but with his sister. We will leave with two boys who were conceived of, conceived (mostly), and brought home here, and whose entire conception of home is these walls and floors and smells and colors, and this air quality. And this view. We’ll take E’s ashes with us, and the boy who isn’t Saul will still be turning three somewhere, and it will never matter to him that we’ve left the house that was once his home. After packing up with a good half dozen generous parishioners helping, we’ll drive our rented U-Haul one small mile away, to a modest and lovely house in a working- to middle-class neighborhood that has beauty, and that speaks to our values.

And then we’ll live there instead. With one chalkboard wall in the kitchen for meal planning and family notes and boysie creations. With the color of saffron on the other kitchen walls, and a mostly working fireplace, and original wood floors, and a finished attic with wide pine floor planks. With double the square feet we have now, and double the bedrooms, but nothing grand except that it will be ours, and we will be privileged to have it, and that alone is grand. We’ll paint the door the slate color of my wife’s eyes, and we’ll finally buy a sofa, and a low bed frame. And a college kid and his dad are making us a farmhouse table and two three-seat benches. Bram will find a big box of real Legos (given to us by another generous parishioner) waiting for him in his room: his first foray away from Duplos and into big-kid-ness. Big-kid-ness in a room that, I pray, he’ll get big in. The driveway has an old basketball hoop, so someday we’ll go to a store and come home with a basketball and that will be countless hours of our lives. Some other day we’ll have saved up enough money to finish the basement and buy a pool table, and that will be other hours. There’s a deep freeze in the basement, and a small canning room with perfect rows of glass jars, all of which is lovely in its simplicity, and its pragmatism, and the care that it implies. The people we’re buying the house from ran a small neighborhood church in the living room for five years, and though some of our perception of Christianity differs from theirs, the house seems to carry with it those hours and years of praise, and dedication to service, and love of God and community, and that feels like a gift to inherit. Today my mom texted to say that she’d picked up the first season of Life Goes On at a garage sale and did we want to borrow it. So maybe J and I will watch some of that as we muddle through whatever it means to leave and mourn – as four individuals and also as the animal that is one family – a set of walls that is jam-packed with memories. To let time pass. To get to know a house to whom we are strangers.

This little cottage knows heartbreak. Probably the new house does too. Certainly it does. Like this cottage, it was built in 1927. I like to imagine the family who built it. Their laughter and their failures and their frustrations. They loved this city of mine. Of theirs. I like to imagine the other ways in which our lives collide in spite of the years. The house holds all of those secrets, and I respect it for knowing what I never will. But I never imagined heartbreak when we moved in here, and that’s not true now. Instead, letting myself fall in love with a new home feels like a way of accepting what we’ll face inside of it. The suffering and the joy. The firsts and the lasts.

This cottage and this blog have been homes of mine for all these years, so it seemed necessary to honor the one I’ll leave behind in the one I’ll carry with me. Thanks for granting me the space to do that. Here are some photos of our cottage-dwelling boys by way of tribute.

11695774_10153329790987870_1870315415357657534_n

11012884_10153322609182870_827457185637299676_n

11707613_10153322609142870_2591599711073130537_n

11051772_10153338594612870_6822982542636009482_n

11846555_10153408054802870_786933985671217335_n

11884978_10100102191192005_3275349101943987220_o

discernment and dreams and maybe some madness

I got a doctorate before figuring out that my strongest calling is to raise a family. We had to live in this town a long time before we felt anything like certainty that this was our home. And on the relationship front? Before we met each other? Well, let’s just say that we both made decisions that lacked wisdom. My guess is that most (all?) of us feel this way. No matter how clean it looks from the outside, finding one’s way must usually feel like a complicated, experimental mess full of failures and missteps and confusion. That’s one of the things that’s been such a blessing about this space: how much it has (you have) helped me sort out the mess.

Because I have learned this about myself, I’ve been wondering a lot about discernment lately, praying about it and wondering. But it finally occurred to me that this time, I actually think I have it. This time, things feel sort of clear. Only here’s the funny thing: I think they also seem a little nuts. A bit absurd. Out there. Wackadoodle as (for some reason) Bram likes to say. What’s been holding me back is not a lack of discernment but a fear of being misunderstood and questioned and assumed to be crazy.

I mean, in less than half a year’s time, we have fallen in love with an Episcopal church, with (I can only imagine how laughable this seems to lots of our academic friends) God, and with the service to which we feel newly called. I have fallen in love with my wife, again, on the other side of breaking apart to make space for a new family member. And I have fallen in love with the possibility of homeschooling.

There’s a lot to write about the God piece, but I feel bumbling and inept when I try, so I guess I’m not ready yet. But the homeschooling? It is thrilling to consider. I find myself daydreaming about things we could do.learn.explore.build.create.discover. Daydreaming and smiling a lot of the time. In February. In Michigan. Which you have to know is saying something.

Learning has never been anything but deeply pleasurable, inspiring, and delightful to Bram, and I feel overwhelmingly protective of that privilege. We’ve recently cut B back to just three mornings a week of Montessori preschool because we all just thrive when the pace stays slow. So cutting way back – and next year taking the formality of school completely out of the equation – could mean that when we’re really focused on reading, or letter work, or puzzles, or storytelling, or drawing, or building, or just PLAY, we can do whatever it is until it’s natural to stop. The days when we pull that off – when we’re just not on a schedule – bring us few meltdowns and lots and lots of belly laughs and glee. And sleep (the boys wake up on their own every day, so they’re well rested). And food (which deserves its own post). And interests. Can I tell you how much Bram’s interests are not mine? And not J’s? He has no pop culture under his belt (I mean, I think he thinks that Johnny Cash and Pete Seeger and Jesus and Harold (with his purple crayon) are the world’s biggest celebrities). He asks everyone who enters our home (with absolute adoration): “Have you read Journey and Quest??” Right now we’re reading Rushdie’s Haroun and the Sea of Stories and he is over the moon about Haroun, and Rashid the Ocean of Notions, and Butt the Hoopoe, and Iff the Water Genie. When he’s into something – whatever it is – he is all in: he wants to draw it, perform it, read about it, create new stories about it, ask questions about it. He never tires. So my sense is that he’s well suited to a kind of unschooling model in which we can immerse ourselves for a week or a month or two months into whatever it is: instruments, or American folk history, or geography, or oceans, or carpentry. Even broad topics like quests and fencing and stained glass and God.

I have this dream. We homeschool. Three kids. Jax teaches them French and money management and political geography. All kinds of other things. I teach, well, whatever we want to learn about. Whatever. We take community classes when they come available: we learn plumbing and electrician work and construction. We learn about solar panels. We build small things. And when each kid is around fifteen, the whole family builds them a tiny house. A small home on a trailer. We build the whole thing. We just: we buy the wood and we build. And when they go off to college, or to live off the land in North Dakota, or to learn a trade like farming, or even to travel for whole months at a time? They just take their home with them. A place they built. And all the knowledge of how to build. And the confidence of being people who can build. And the memories of growing up a family that let them see all of that about themselves, that discovered it alongside them. They live rent-free until they’re ready for a home. They could get through grad school only paying a small fee to park the thing in someone’s back yard. They could be that much nearer self-sufficiency in case the world, or this country, or their own peculiarity ever required them to be. It’s a nice dream. And life doesn’t usually play out the way we think it will, but this one feels worth at least walking towards with a big heart and plenty of hope, doesn’t it? I mean, even if it seems like I’ve gone a little mad?

small deaths and resurrections

Maybe it’s my age.

Maybe it’s these small children and their unequaled talent for making every day (hour. moment.) a roller coaster. No better metaphor for the soaring, giddy love and the stomach-dropping worry (and none more haunting for me, lover of the ground).

Maybe it’s the narratives of Christ newly at work in my mind and my heart.

But whatever it is: all I see, everywhere around me, is life as a series of tiny deaths and resurrections.

Friendships that collapse under the weight of too-different lived realities and selfishness and small failures of heart and word, only to swell and rise again in surprisingly sweet ways.

Hopes for hard-earned dream jobs vanishing in a phone call and taking self-worth with them as they disappear. New – smaller, humbler – hopes rising in the bruised places that remain. Hopes that hurt to the touch, that make you wince, and yet.

Feeling like you must be doing something wrong raising your sons because: why are they so violent? Sword, stick, mean guys, hunters. From whence – in my quiet, simple, peaceful home – does this come, this obvious failure, this obvious failure of mine. And then a call. A book on its way. A setting down of old narratives (always) and an embracing of what is and must always have been: an attraction for power that I cannot feel but that I must make space for. That I must, even, love. And then I do, suddenly. Love.

The ebbflowebbflowebbflow of marriage. Marriage with young children. Marriage, which dies. Marriage which is miraculously reborn in a look or a letter or twenty minutes, finally, of eye contact and a shared blanket. Not a trip or a date or a romantic gesture, but a shared blanket and a little bit of truth. Marriage, which is sweeter than I could have guessed, not in spite of the deaths, but for them. Not less sweet, but sweeter, though also so much like a bruise. Like the place in my spine, my mid-back, that is always sore to the touch, but which I long to have touched.

Defeat. Triumph. They come hourly. They go. They stay, some of them, layering on top of one another until they form a mountain on which you stand, often feeling alone. A mountain from which the world just looks different. Not better or worse, but so different.

Another year in this humble gift of a house with the snow piled up outside and the sun shining. Shining today. More liminality, and another chance to learn to accept it as the only thing that won’t ever go. Dreams clung to. Dreams discarded. Dreams wrenched away. Dreams you never would have thought you’d dream rising into your heart and surprising your mind. Making you smile. Making it all new again. Scaring you again.

Boys that belly laugh and boys that hit and boys that cry and boys that kiss. Heartbreak and gratitude at turns. At once. The work of trying to notice. To just notice. To die and come back again and just notice.

dream chasing and a Bramble-Bug turns three

Ten comments to my existential-crisis-post of last week. Ten thoughtful, wise, loving comments. Thank you for that; you are deeply wonderful. Even the fact that – with your busy lives and your kiddos and your not enough time – you take the time to READ these meanderings is a gift.

Anyway, many of you are saying: do the community work. And that’s full of wisdom. My only thing is: I really don’t multitask well. At all well. When I have lots of little two- to three-hour things to do in a week – hell, when I have even two of them – I feel distracted. And when I feel distracted, I am not my wholly present self. And when I’m not my wholly present self, I panic. And I feel like I’m failing everyone. I don’t know how working parents do it. Even my wife: I watch her and how she moves in and out of roles and I feel at once impressed and disoriented. It took me a long time to see this part of myself – and even longer to stop judging it – but there it is: I lack a certain fortitude when it comes to balance. And hear this: I know what a privilege it is even to KNOW this about myself. It means that I’ve been allowed to step back. To do one thing at a time. It means that others have taken up the slack for me: in money making, in activism, in life. It is an indulgence. But I am easily knocked off my game, and I am scared of taking on a two-year responsibility that could chip away at my already shoddy equilibrium. So I’m not sure. But I have one more week to decide. At any rate, your comments warmed me. And lots of them made me laugh, as when a mama over at Queer Conceptional said “you sound like the sort of person who gets satisfaction out of the chasing of dreams, and there is value in that.” Yes: the thing I’ve most learned about myself through this journey of parenthood: I lack practicality. For better or worse – and make no mistake, it’s often for worse – we are dream chasers. J is better at covering that in herself than I am, but I sometimes think we’re unfit for practical life. But we’ll see. I’ll read your comments through a few more dozen times.

In terms of chasing dreams: we have a three-year-old KID in our house now. Yesterday was January 19th. A big big day in our little little house (Emmett Ever in 2011 and Abram Adrien in 2012, of course). It came on the heels of J taking part in a three-day anti-racism training. I hope (hope pray hope) she’ll write about that here soon. My mom spent the weekend with me and the boys (such a joy, and SO generous of her). B’s party is next weekend – I’m making these for a small gathering of our most beloved locals; we’ll all build snow-creatures outside before coming in to eat them – so this weekend and his actual birthday were all pretty low-key (a good thing since we’re all lousy with head colds). B had his first-ever Montessori walk around the sun on Friday, and we all got to watch. He was just pure light from being so happy. Then my mom gave B an incredible set of liquid watercolors (thanks so much for the recommendation, Erica!), and we spent the bulk of the weekend creating. Here are a couple of process and outcome photos; more to come on these, and why you should invest in them if you can at all.

Their first experiment:

10407092_10152913586557870_232310595583487034_n

The hearts we made with glue, salt, and watercolors: the big Bram-Bubbie-Mama work of the weekend. B will spend the next few weeks writing his name on the back of each of these, and then we’ll use them as Valentines. I am in love with each one, and with the memories I have of watching my mom and son make them.

photo 2

photo 1

And here’s a photo of what our birthday kiddo saw when he came downstairs yesterday: a handmade banner, a Winnie the Pooh balloon, and the magical dollhouse that came to him courtesy of his Grandmom (J’s mom), his Pomo, and his Mama. It used to belong to our most beloved children’s librarian (Mr. Bill. You’ve probably heard of him. He must be quite famous.) which makes it doubly wonderful. We have somehow amassed nineteen dolls to live in this two bedroom house, so J has taken it to calling it the “Lesbian Duggar House.” She is (adorably) less reverential than me.

10933924_10152918627697870_8649519048300651612_n

Anyway, Bram is three. Lou will be one before we know it. J knows even more about the catastrophe that is American racism, but she is all kinds of fired up to use (and sometimes silence) her voice in the service of ending it. These head colds won’t last forever. I thought I was too sick to keep caring (alone) for these kiddos today, but then B went to school and I had a meltdown from missing him. They are nice, these reminders that you’re right where you should be. I look forward to the day when we can do really meaningful service work with the boys on MLK Day, and I think it’s magical that sometimes B’s birthday will fall on that day. And we get to share our lives with these boys. These brothers, who are ever learning. I just can’t begin to understand the grace of it all.

10501834_10152906745187870_9117358140987021797_n

10404214_10152906774382870_5568520349397924240_n

10922713_10152911878772870_5946208740571492181_n

10888360_10152906751887870_8517869338795972429_n