This Competitive Spirit

How can Tucker hold his fork just like Robb, when he hasn't seem him do that in over a year? 

He just looked at me exactly like Robb would have.  I just said something to which the answer was obvious.  He knows that look already.

We play a marathon of MarioKart; Tucker will take the liberty to not only prepare the game's setup, but also to choose the characters and vehicles he knows we each prefer, so all we must do is pick up the controls he has arranged on the coffee table in player order. 

He's pretty sure that he thinks through things more thoroughly than I do.  He may be right, on occasion.  He raises his eyebrows in the same way that Robb did, the expression that says, "Betchya didn't think about that, didya?"

He is his daddy.  Through and through.

And I understand his growing personality because I studied his daddy's so closely, because I loved him so much.

Somehow, each of them is less a puzzle to me as I learn to know them more.

Tucker has a highly competitive spirit.  He does not get this from me.  I wish I were remotely competitive; I think this may come in handy.  But I'm not.  Robb was. 

This competitive spirit has begun to get the best of Tuck sometimes.  A darker side of him emerges when he's losing at something - either against someone else or himself.

I carefully chose my timing to talk about this.  I learned when I was married to his dad: timing is everything with such topics. 

"Hey, Tuck?  How come it's so important to you to win?"

"Because I just like to."

"But what happens if you don't win?"

"I don't like it."

"What if somebody else wins?"

"Then I want to play again so I can win."

"Hey, buddy?  You know who else was like that?  Daddy.  Daddy loved to win.  And sometimes he loved it too much.  He had to work really hard to be kind when he really wanted to win."

"Daddy liked to win?"

"He did.  And sometimes he didn't win."

I didn't go into great detail, especially with regard to the ramifications in our home if his beloved Buckeyes took a hit.  But I assure you: Robb had to work really, really hard to be kind when he wanted them to win.

I see Tucker's shoulders soften with this new knowledge of how he is like his dad.  It could be easy to memorialize Robb in a shrine of perfection, and the boys could grow up thinking they live in the shadow of a man who had it all figured out.

I just needed Tuck to know: Daddy had a hard time with that too.

Best Christmas Pageants Ever

The boys are pros at the Christmas Pageant scene.  

Two years ago, we had a cow and a (self proclaimed) pig.  Tyler wasn't really in the pageant at age two, but he was convinced he should be.  He even stepped up to the microphone afterward and said, "Merry Christmas.  I'm Tyler.  I'm a pig."

Last year, we had a 'shepherd' and a 'long road.'  

Tuck was so delighted to see his daddy sitting with me in the second row - he cried when he saw Robb.  "My Daddy!"  It was the first time I saw my son cry tears of joy.  Robb scooped him up and said, "Of course I'm here, buddy.  Of course I'm here."

This year, I cheered for the wiseman.  He delivered his line flawlessly.

 

 

 

That's sacred space, next to those Christmas trees.

Well done, little wise men.

It's not just a role to play.

You are my heart's joy.

Their Only Parent

I think I feel most overwhelmed with single parenting when I am worried for my children. 

I sit at this coffee shop, and I cry over their hearts, their learning, their impulses, their grief, and their needs.  With nobody to say it to, nobody who will carry this quite as deeply as I do, though few come very nearly close.

I am their only parent.

Today, my heart aches for Tucker, who has always learned differently than other children, absorbs silently, and shows little of his knowledge to the people who need to know.  I ache for the spirit in his heart, the needs of his mind, the wounds in his soul.

I ache for Tyler differently, on different days.  Today, my heart bleeds for Tuck.

And then I am reminded that I am not their only parent.

His Creator knows his heart.
His Counselor knows his worries.
His Father holds him close.

And this is the God to whom I pour my heart today,
that He will allow the world to see my son
only as his gracious Father allows others to see him.

I am his mom. 
I am not alone.
Neither is Tucker.

He Throwed Up

Tuck woke me up around 3:30 AM.

"Mommy, I think I'm going to throw up.  Will you watch me?"

Watch isn't the verb I would have chosen. Help?  Yes.  Pray for?  Certainly.  Encourage?  You betcha.  Hug?  Repeatedly. 

But watch?  Especially if you merely suspect it's coming, and we need to wait for the premiere?  And it's the middle of the night?

A better mother might have sat beside him and stroked his brow until the sun came up.  This mom hooked him up with a glass of water and a bowl to catch his contents, gave him a strong dose of sympathy, and asked him to keep me posted.

An hour later, he came to my bedside with the bowl in his hands.  Now filled.  (I need not go into further detail.)

He said, "Mommy, look what I have.  I throwed up."

I sat up groggily and quickly took the bowl he thrust my way.

"I'm sorry I couldn't wait for you, Mommy.  I just really had to throw up, and I thought, 'Mommy will be so happy if I throw up in the bowl.'  And so aren't you so happy?"

Yes, sweet boy.  In a very odd, maternal way, I am so very happy you captured this mess in one self-contained place. If vomit must come our way, you handled it well.  Way to be thoughtful, Mr. Top Bunk.

I also told him, since he is now six, that he need not wait for me if he feels like he needs to throw up.  He can handle it on his own, especially if he has clues before it happens. 

It's a big boy thing, kiddo.

Six years in Five Pictures

Tucker brought an assignment home:

Complete a timeline of your life story, with five pictures and simple captions.

Now this is an excellent assignment.  Brilliant, really.  Personal, timely, and filled with learning objectives about self, milestones, and sequencing.  They will hang their timelines in the hallway, and their oral presentations begin this week.

(Why didn't I do this when I was a teacher?)

Six years in five pictures.  That's a significant task, and it calls for some seriously careful selection.

Here's what we came up with.

Tucker was born.

Tucker became a big brother.

Our family went to Disney World.

Our family went to the mountains.

Tucker is in kindergarten.

And this brings us to today.  

We chose not to post Robb's death as a milestone.  Not because it isn't one, but because there's a lot more to Tucker's daddy than the fact that he died too soon.  Robb was in every picture except the current; he was present for every milestone except the current. 

I asked Tucker, "What do you want to say if someone asks about Daddy?"

"Well, he's not here anymore."

"Oh, but he was here.  And he's still in our family.  You can talk about him if you want to."

Tucker smiled.  "I will.  He's my dad."

I don't know if someone will ask.  I don't know if Tucker will choose to tell that part of the story.  But I wanted him to know he could. 

It's his timeline.  His life's story.

A Birthday Inspired

Dear Tricia,

So, Tuck's birthday reminds me of a great story that I don't think you've ever heard. Others have for certain, but I think you will cherish this little nugget.

Jason and I were married for a long time, really long depending on who you ask, before we even considered the thought of children. The truth is Jason didn't want children at all, and it certainly wasn't something I could see myself enjoying.

In fact, we were the last of our closest couple friends without children. They had all gone the way of parenthood several times over. Every time we visited to meet and adore the newest little bundle, we left with the greatest sense of relief that it wasn't us!

We would ride home and talk about how weird new babies were, how much work, how much money - how MUCH everything a baby is - and how grateful we were just to be us. We almost always talked about how they look like aliens.  We commended each other on how hard it is to lie and say 'oh, she's beautiful,' and then get in the car and remark that you need a full cup of coffee before looking straight at her.

We were also well aware of the cases of a couple who hasn't particularly figured out how to be a successful couple, and so they decide that having a baby will somehow help this scenario.

But then.
Then we came to see you.
And Robb.
And Tucker.

He was brand new and peachy and angelic. He was wearing a blue and red onesie, wrapped in a yellow, snuggly blanket.

And, he. was. perfect.

And you were so natural, as if there had never been a Tricia not holding this baby.

And Robb was beaming. Literally.

If you could see the photo from my memory, there is light emitting from your joy. All three of you. Like when the clouds have sun behind them.

We got in the car and it was quiet. We probably got all the way to I-25 before there were words. And then Jason said, "That wasn't terrible."

And I said, "Yeah, that was weird."

He said, "I've never seen a man so content. That man was made to be a dad."

There was dialogue of how perfect Tucker was, how parenthood somehow seemed to further enrich you (this was puzzling at the time), how you guys were going to be amazing parents, how he was the luckiest baby on earth.

Whether it was you two, your solid marriage, your delight in the gift of this child, how beautiful you made it all look - whatever it was, that was the first time it wasn't scary for us.

And on that day, the tiniest spark of hope was born in both of us. Our son was born 12 months later.

That's a pretty big change of heart for two people who weren't even considering having children. I consider Tuck's birth to be a divine appointment, for my own selfish reasons. :)

Happy Birthday, Tucker.  You changed the world.

~ Jenn S.

She captured us in some of our happiest days.  However sleep deprived, we felt like we were staying up all night at the best slumber party ever. 

(The balancing act got {*much*} harder later, but those first few days were bliss.)

Now this is a beautiful story. Indeed, a nugget I will cherish.

More Years than the Fingers on One Hand

This is a song for my sons for when they understand it:
You know how life is full, you know we couldn't plan it.
Your dad and I prayed for strength and understanding
for things we couldn't see or comprehend.

This is a song for you, to carry in your pocket:
take all our love with you in all the paths you walk in.
I can't say your life will always go like it should,
but I can say that God is always good.

And when the cold wind blows, like I know it will,
and when you feel alone, like I know you will,
and when the cold wind blows, like we know it will,

Don't let your love grow cold.

~ Sara Groves, Song for My Sons

Happy Birthday, my six-year-old.  

You are more years than the fingers on one hand.

I love you, my 

laughing, 

smiling, 

thinking, 

careful, 

insightful, 

loud as a train,

gentle as a breath,

hug of a boy.

Show me what six looks like, Tuck.  

It looks great on you.

My Son Wants to Play Ball

"Mommy, for my birthday, I want a baseball, and a bat, and a mitt."

My eyes sting. What is he going to do a with a baseball? He doesn't have a partner to play with.

A boy learns to play with the constant banter of throw and catch in the backyard. His dad teaches him to swing. His dad teaches him how to wear the mitt on one hand and secure the ball with the other.

His dad teaches him.

This little boy wants to play. And it's not that I don't want to be the one to teach him. It's that I can't. These jacked-up eyes do not assist in catching a ball, hitting with a bat, lighting a candle, cutting a string, or painting my toenails. Any of the above can happen by accident, but not usually without incident.

But my son wants to play ball. Baseball, please.

A fellow parent solved this one for me. "Oh, this is an easy one. Get him a T-ball with a string, so he can hit the ball as hard as he wants and it will always come back. As for catching and throwing, get him a pitching net. He can throw and catch for hours, all on his own."

And so I will. Because I am up for an easy fix for any one of these sneak attacks.

And because my boy wants to play ball.

Girls Chasing Boys

My kindergarten boy is being chased on the playground.

By little girls.

Little girls giggling in their blue dresses, he tells me.

I have not told him what this means, but I know all too well from doing my own chasing and giggling two dozen years ago.

And so it begins.

New Beginnings

Bring it.

May they learn today.
Names, routines, rules,
confidence, security, integrity.

May they grow in wisdom and stature,
in favor among God and men.

Let's do this thing, guys.

Thunderstorms

The sky was dark and ominous. Clouds were looming.
Tuck was playing a computer game at the kitchen table. He looked out the window.

"I need to close the windows."

"No, it's okay, kiddo. It's not raining."

"But it's going to."

"But it's not yet. And the fresh air feels nice."

"I don't want to hear the storm."

"But it's not storming yet, Tuck. Let's keep the windows open for as long as we can."

He couldn't be still for more than 15 seconds, so worried about the storm, the rain, and the open windows.

Admittedly, I was rolling my eyes a bit at this oldest son of my husband. Robb was forever prepared as a boy scout.

He installed carseats when I was six months pregnant.

He brought rattle snake salve on a family hike.

He winterized our house at the end of August.

Prepared, prepared, prepared.

He had two weather stations installed in our home, since he moonlighted as a meteorologist. He had an app on his phone for up-to-the-minute weather reports, and he always knew what the high/low of the day should be, along with the barometric pressure.

I married a scientist. And his love for weather patterns definitely helped me with the daily decisions of cute cardigans and shoes.

If the sky turned slightly grey, Robb was ready. Batten the hatches, and close all the windows.

And here sat his son, telling me the same.

When I finally conceded, he rushed around the house closing every window he could reach. And I heard him shout from my bedroom, "Mommy? Mommy! There's water on the floor in here..."

He was kind not to use a sing-songy, I-told-you-so voice.

Turns out, it was a storm of the sideways variety. The water was pouring in horizontally with such gale forces that it had soaked not only the carpet, but also eight inches of the bed.

(This is not the first time this has happened. I have long ignored the warning signs. I made Robb crazy with my nonchalance about such things.)

Oopsie daisy. Towels, please.

The thing is, Tuck was always young enough (and short enough) to be exempt from the window closing frenzy when summer storms arrived. It wasn't his job.

But he took it very seriously yesterday.

I'm not making any formal statements about theology or communication in the hereafter.

But it wouldn't surprise me very much if Robb was watching the clouds, whispering to Tuck,

"Hey, buddy, tell your mommy to close the windows.
Tell her again, Tuck.
I know. Tell her again."

A Routine Procedure

A 'routine procedure' is not routine when the patient is in my family. When the patient is my son. When I must hand him to the surgeon without my husband to wait with me and pretend not to worry in the waiting room.

There's very little that's routine about general anesthesia, when it's my son who will be unconscious.

This is the dialogue happening inside my mind.

Instead, you might hear me say, "So, hi there. Tuck had his adenoids removed on Tuesday morning. He's recovering well, thank you. It's a routine procedure. He's doing great."

All true. But it's still not routine. Not for me.

My understanding of adenoids: draw an imaginary line straight back from the nose. Draw an imaginary line between the ears. Where the lines intersect: Hello, Adenoids.

Tucker's were huge. 19 mm. I'm not a specialist, but that's a sizeable portion of the inside of his five-year-old noggin'.

Their absence should help with his nasal passages, speech needs, hearing, snoring, chewing with his mouth closed, and perpetual runny nose. Makes sense, really: remove those golf balls, and there's gotta be some room for productivity as a result.

The surgery was painless, the recovery has been smooth, and the doctor said it all went just as he had hoped. The beauty of adenoids is that there are no dietary restrictions and little pain in the aftermath. (Thank you, Lord, for blessings great and small.)

But the worst part of the whole thing was the anesthesia process. I hadn't planned to go back to the OR with him, because I've done that before and I don't love it. Tuck has had surgery once before when he was 13 months old, and that doctor presented the plan as a smooth transition: I would carry my sweet baby back to the operating room, hold him while he slipped off to sleep, and the whole process would be peaceful and gentle, mostly for Tuck since his mommy would be right there until he arrived in the land of dreams.

It really wasn't like that. There was wiggling and crying and restraining and masks involved, and suddenly my baby boy went limp in someone else's arms, and I was escorted to the waiting room to sit until further notice.

So, I didn't really want to sign up for that again. My mind is a little bit overloaded with mental images involving people I love, and I had decided I would let the doctors and specialists handle this 'routine'.

Except then they asked me if I planned to go into the OR as he fell asleep.

And it suddenly occurred to me: if I don't go, he'll be by himself. It can't ever be said of me that I chose the easier path, which thereby forced my son to take the harder one.

"Yes, yes, of course. I'll stay with him until he's asleep."

Tuck was absolutely brave and resolute. And the medical staff were the most impressive professionals I could have hoped for. They wheeled him into the operating room, transferred him from the gurney to the operating table, laid him back, and talked to him about the mask he got to wear and the pretend trip he would take to outer space.

In my scrubs and mask, I held his hand as he listened to the anesthesiologist send him into orbit.

"Here you go, Tucker: prepare for lift off. Okay, you're up in the sky, passing all the airplanes. Going through the clouds. We're getting into outer space now, passing the international space station. You're going higher and higher and higher and higher... and you're almost to the moon..."

I waited for him to drift off to sleep, peacefully.

Instead, in a sudden jolt, his arms flew straight up in the air, and his eyes bolted wide, and he said, "Wait! I have to tell you something!"

"What do you need to say, buddy? I'm right here. Tell Mommy."

His eyes rolled back, his head relaxed, his jaw fell open. And his arms stayed extended straight into the air.

And the nurse said, "Mom, this is totally normal. Absolutely normal."

Are you freaking kidding me?!? This is how it goes? The shouting, eyes bulging, the flying, wiggling arms - these are all normal?

"Totally normal. His brain has just checked out, and you have a sleeping boy. Give him a kiss, momma. And we'll see you in an hour."

Oh. My. Word.

I did as I was told, and they walked me to the waiting room, where I sat with my mom and a friend of ours.

And I relied on the 3x5 cards in my purse to refresh my mind with words that are true when few other things promise to be.

I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand, and says to you, "Do not fear; I will help you."

When I am afraid I will trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I will not be afraid.

I have set the Lord always before me.
Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken.

"Tucker's Mom?"

"Yes? That's me..."

"He's doing very well, ma'am. The procedure is finished, he is starting to wake up, and we would like for your face to be the first one he sees."

"You're finished? It's done?"

"All done. He did great."

He did great. We did great.

"Yes, please. Take me to my son."

~~~

"So, hi there. Tuck had his adenoids removed on Tuesday morning. He's recovering well, thank you. It's a routine procedure. He's doing great."

Invincible

In our home, the loft overlooks the living room. There is a high ledge where the first story opens up to the second. Tuck climbed over the ledge, letting his feet dangle 16 feet from the floor.

The first time, I responded firmly and with great emotion, helping him to understand how terrifying that was for me, that if he fell from the ceiling he could break bones or even die, how our family is already too small and I do not wish for it to get any smaller.

Strong words, but all true.

I really thought the message hit home. I mean, why would he want to evoke that in me again? Really?

And then last night, my mom was reading a bedtime story to Tyler, when she glanced up to the ceiling. And she saw the bottom of Tucker's feet.

He had done it again. There he sat, carefully perched.

And then came the task of responding with urgency, not panic, getting my attention but not alarming Tucker, thereby causing him to lose his balance.

She said very evenly, "Tricia, Tucker is over the ledge. He is sitting on the top with his feet over the side."

One need not be prone to anxiety to respond to such a scene with shock and horror. Last night was not a pretty night in our home, neither in words nor tone, as he attempted this for the second time.

This morning at breakfast, we revisited the event. I had to make sure he understood.

"Tuck, do you know why you got into so much trouble last night?"

"Yes, because I was being dangerous when I climbed over the wall, except it wasn't dangerous for me because I didn't feel afraid."

"Afraid and danger are not the same thing, Tucker. You can be brave and still be in serious danger."

And suddenly I heard the very I words I was saying to him. I heard them for myself, not just for him.

'Afraid' and 'danger' are not synonymous.

I can think of many times in the last six months when I was afraid, terrified, shaking in terror, but there was really no danger at all.

I can also think of many times in my last three decades when I felt strong and confident, oblivious and unconcerned, although danger lurked closer than I could imagine.

They are not synonyms. They don't always feel the same.

Sometimes you just have to take somebody else's word for it.

Added Security

Uncle Rob is pretty great. I think we can all agree.

When he carried Tucker way up high, Tuck insisted on holding on to Rob's face, cheeks, eyes, or chin. That's the only way he felt secure.

Uncle Rob had a few issues with this process: distraction, obstructed view, and occasional pain. Fair enough.

At one point, after peeling Tucker's hands off his eyelids one more time, Rob set Tuck down in front of him.

He knelt down and said gently, "Hey, Tuck? Have I ever, ever dropped you?"

"No."

"That's right. And I never, ever will."

It's true, Tuck. You can count on your Uncle Rob.

He hasn't ever let me down, either.

At Some Point

"Mommy, I really have to go potty," says the tall one who is nearly ready for kindergarten.

The shorter one, with downy red hair and a spirit all his own, is playing quite contentedly in the restaurant playground. He shall not be moved.

And yet the tall one must go. Must. Go.

I debate in my mind. Do I take Tyler away from his concentrated imagining, demand his compliance, and traipse him to the bathroom?

Do I ask Tucker to please, please just wait a few minutes? We'll go, all of us, in just a while?

Tucker says, "Hey, I have an idea. How about if I just go by myself? I promise to be so careful, to wash my hands, and to come right back. Okay, Mommy?"

The truth is, I would have been confronted with this dilemma even if Robb were alive. But his absence seems so vast in moments like these. A boy cannot always go to the bathroom with his mom. And he's four short months away from turning six. At some point... at some point...

At some point.

"Okay, kiddo. Come right back."

I watch him walk with confidence, navigating tables, trash cans, and people until he makes it to the boys bathroom in the back of the restaurant.

And my mind begins to race with the stories I've heard of things that happen to unaccompanied children in seemingly safe places.

I watch Tyler climb and play.

I pray for Tucker.

"God, be the Defender of the weak. Be the Father to the fatherless. Give me wisdom with the one I can see, and protect the one who is out of my sight."

Really, that's what I pray every single day. Begging the words again and again, even when my mind has stopped hearing the words. My heart still breathes them.

Minutes passed. More minutes. Too many.

Or maybe not an inordinate amount. But too many for my comfort.

And he came back. In one piece. Undisturbed, untouched.

"Mommy? Want to smell my hands? All clean."

(Who in their right mind wants to smell a little boy's hands when he has returned from the bathroom? Well, I do. They know I'll ask, so they always use soap. A risk, I know. But it has only backfired a couple of times.)

"Way to go, sweet boy." I ruffle his hair as he runs to join his brother.

We did it.

One more first.

Kindergarten

I registered Tucker for kindergarten today. Kindergarten.

Robb and I had talked long and hard about the decision of which school to choose, a decision that is new to parents of our generation. Back in the day, so I'm told, your elementary school was entirely dependent on the map of your city, and only the wealthiest made choices outside the natural option.

Now, there is public, private, charter, open enrollment, homeschool, co-op... the list goes on and on. We had decided weeks ago, for many, many reasons, that we would send our sons to the school around the corner, the one three blocks away. We looked at all our options, and we felt confident in our decision. And I love that we decided together.

Today was the day.

I was a teacher before my kids were born, and I taught kindergarten, specifically. So I confess, I may have entered with a slightly askew list of expectations. Not that my way is the only way, but I did have a brief checklist of items that would meet my approval.

Our new elementary school hit a homerun.

Warm. Open. Inviting. Organized. Colorful. Kids' artwork posted everywhere. Print-rich environment. Registration happened in the Media Center, a room filled not only with stacks and rows of books, but also art sculptures, paintings, couches, and pillows.

Sign me up. Or, rather, sign him up.

I came prepared with the dozens of papers required for this entrance into the world of real deal school. I thought I was all set.

"Ma'am, it looks like we're missing one. We'll need you to fill out just this one more page."

A basic page of info.

Until.

"Does the child live in a one-parent household or a two-parent household?"

Oh. Oh, my. I never planned to give this answer.

It's these little shocks that bring me to my knees.

I completed the form.

I registered my son for kindergarten.

It is the first real step we've taken to plan for the next season. The belief that the next season will come.

Kindergarten.

I didn't want to do this without his dad. In a one-parent household.

Search and Rescue

We went out for lunch today. The first time in 19 days. Wendy's.

It was a bumpy lunch, but we did it. Their new style of french fries are food for the soul, I promise you.

On our way back to the car, Tucker dropped his kid's meal toy in the parking lot. It rolled under a car.

He stood there in the snow, frozen in shock, his eyes welling with tears. "My toy."

I knelt in the gray slush, and I crawled under the car. My knees and gloves were soaked. The toy was barely worth a dime.

But I reached it.

We couldn't bear to lose one more thing.

Planting Seeds of Brass

Look out, brass section. We've got one coming your way.

Stuck.

Tuck found himself wedged between the shoekeeper and the wall at McDonald's.

I wish I could tell you he was retrieving a shoe,

but really he just climbed the thing like playground equipment,

slid down the other side,

and found himself swallowed whole.

And then we got the giggles, him and me,

trying to heave him without leverage.

It was no small task.

Maybe some moms just go to McDonald's.

Alphabetical Interpretation

Look who can spell his name with Wiki Sticks. :)

And look who else.

Check out the arms on that E.