Fearfully and Wonderfully

My son is fearfully and wonderfully made,
but this week I learned that he has a learning disability.

What was a delay when he was two,
when my silent boy could not speak,
is a disability when he is six.

Children are most vulnerable to speech and language problems between the ages of 2 and 6.  Statistically, the chance of improvement diminishes after this window. 

My son is six and a half.

Way back when, way back then,
he couldn't find his words.
The same is true now.
It's called anomia. 
We all have it to a certain degree.
It's when  you say, "Can you give me that, um, that.... um..." and you snap your fingers until you remember the word pencil.

This happens to my son in his every sentence.  For all of his life, he has understood every word anyone has said to him.  But he often cannot retrieve the language to reply.  He knows what he wants to say, and his words fail him.

He is smart.  Every expert has agreed: oh, there is knowledge inside that boy.  Deep knowledge.

Yesterday, he said, "Mommy, can you write my name on my football so it doesn't get lost?  And can you write it on the red part, because if you write on the black part, then... then... then... (insert long pause)... then the letters will ... will be... (insert second pause) ... be camouflaged."

He is an expert at synonyms.  He couldn't think of the phrase "won't show up," so instead he danced around the idea until he found the word 'camouflaged.'

Two days ago, he said, "Mommy, can you please explain to me why I can't hear God's voice?"

My son is a thinker. 

If you're patient,
if you listen without distraction,
if he knows he's not rushed,
he'll talk to you.

My son has a long history of learning differently than other children.  This week, we enter our second jaunt down the path of the Individualized Education Plan.  The experts, the collaboration, the diagnostic testing, the signatures, the puzzle pieces and building blocks to help my son to communicate.  I couldn't ask for a better team of advocates who know the laws, the systems, the assessments, and -- most of all -- Tucker.

I've done this before.  But there's a difference. 

Last time, at the end of the day, when Tuck was nearly two and we learned there was a reason we hadn't heard his voice, Robb said, "Hey, babe?  He's smart.  We know he's smart.  Let's show the world what kind of smart he is."

I miss my partner, the one who knew this boy as well as I do.

I signed my name.  Yes.  Test my son, in every way you deem best.  I trust you.  And I know him.  And he's about to blow us all away.

My son is fearfully and wonderfully made. 

Period.

I'm Here.

I lay down next to Tuck sometimes as he's falling asleep.  Nighttime gets the best of him sometimes... of both of us, really.

He closes his eyes, almost asleep.  Then he opens them slowly, pulling himself awake again, just to make sure I am still here.

I am still here.

He wants to go to sleep; he is so very tired.  But his imagination mocks him, telling him that if I am out of sight, then he has lost a second parent. 

He starts to roll over with his back to me. 

"Mommy, when I say your name, and then I don't say anything else, can you just say you are here?"

"I can do that, buddy."

He rolls over.  He tests me.  "Mommy?"

And then nothing else.  That's my cue.

"I'm here, Tuck."

"Always?"

"Always."

Twenty Questions

It was a late night ride to the airport.  Jammies on (almost) everybody.  I was banking on them falling asleep. 

They even warned me as such: "Mommy, we might fall asleep."  No worries, kiddo.  Rest your weary head.

A few miles down the road, one of my sons asked, "Mommy, why did daddy die?"

"Because he got really sick really fast, and the doctors couldn't save him."

"Yes, I know that part." He has heard this answer before. 

"But why, Mommy?"

His brother joined the inquisition with solidarity.  "If God is powerful, why didn't he save our daddy?  If doctors couldn't heal him, why didn't God save him?"

An important question, my little men.  When children have encountered this degree of tragedy, they are not assuaged by simple, pat answers.

"I don't know, guys.  I really don't know why God didn't save him."

"Did God want Daddy to die?"

Okay, God.  I'm going to give this my best shot.  Please speak through me.  Only you know the answers.  And my kids are asking.

"Honey, God didn't want Daddy to die.  I don't think God wants anybody to die.  I think he wanted us to live in a perfect place where nobody gets sick or dies.  He created a perfect world - do you remember who lived there, in his perfect garden?"

"Mary and Joseph."  A good guess.  Another biblical couple, much more at the forefront of our minds this time of year.

"No, it was Adam and Eve."

They pipe up to tell the story, their words and impatience tripping over each other.  It's hard to differentiate who knows which part of the story.

"And God forgot to tell them they couldn't eat from the tree, and the snake said they could, and all snakes are bad and want us to do bad things, and they ate the apple because Eve said so."

Um, sort of.  Give or take a few important details.

"Well, guys, God didn't forget to tell them not to eat from that tree.  He told them.  And he asked them to obey.  But the snake tricked them, and they chose to eat the fruit even though God told them not to."

"They didn't obey, Mommy."

Ah.  These are terms we understand.

"Right, kiddo.  They didn't obey.  And as soon as they took a bite of the apple, God's perfect world wasn't perfect anymore.  Sin came into the world when they disobeyed, and sin has been hurting people ever since.    Daddy didn't die because he sinned, but he died because there is sin in the world.  Sin makes us sick.  It makes us sad.  It makes people die."

"Did sin make Jesus die?"

Oh, these questions.  Where is a theologian when I need one?

"Well, Jesus died to rescue us from sin.  But God didn't save Jesus from dying, and he didn't save Daddy from dying.  God let it happen."

"And two other men died with him." 

"With Daddy?"

"No, with Jesus."  Someone has been looking closely at the pictures in Sunday school, I see.

"They did.  And one of them said right then, right before he died, that he believed Jesus was saving the world.  And Jesus said, 'Okay, then, I'll see you soon.  When you die, you'll be with me in heaven.'"

"And so that man is in heaven?"

"Yes."

"And so is Daddy?"

"Yes."

There was silence in the car.

"Okay, Mommy."

Thus concluded twenty questions that countless people invest their lives studying.
 
(And I had thought the little boys would fall asleep.)

Married Swings

Tuck and I like to swing together at the park.  When the swings synchronized, back and forth, back and forth, he said, "Look, Mommy.  Our swings are married."

When we lost our matching rhythm and began to simply pass each other in the back and forth, he said, "Sometimes swings don't like to stay married."

An interesting word picture, my boy. 

"Tuck, did you know I was married once?"

"Yes.  To Daddy."

"I liked being married to him."  Even when our swings weren't perfectly aligned.

"Why?"

"Because he was a lot of fun."

"Yeah, but he died, Mommy."

"I miss him, Tuck."

And just like that, our swings began to match again.  I said, "Oh, Tucker!  Look!"

He gasped and looked over his shoulder to see what had caught my eye.  "What, Mommy?"

"Look at our swings - they're matching again."

"Oh, they're married. I thought you saw Daddy.  I thought Daddy was here."

"Sorry, buddy.  He's not here."

"I miss him, Mommy.  He died so fast."

"Yes, he did."

A Wrinkle in Time

I am not a re-reader of books.  I am not a re-watcher of movies.  Once I know how it twists, turns, and lands, I don't often feel compelled to revisit.  I think there are so many good books and movies out there - I should see them all once before I begin a repeat tour.

But I am rereading A Wrinkle In Time.

Because (by now you must know) I love all things Madeleine.  But really because sometimes God places books in my hands, in one way or another.  I believe this is one of those.

I contend that this is one of the most brilliant books ever written, and the Newbery folks were inclined to agree. 

In this reread, I am nearly undone by the parallels.  Meg and Charles Wallace have lost their father so suddenly.  They don't know where he is or how to get to him, but they know they must.  And they have to fight 'the powers of darkness' to get there.  Their journey is long and scary, and although adults have equipped them with wisdom and tools, the adults can't do the living for them. 

And so they fight: for truth and goodness, for each other, and for their dad. 

The boys don't like that I'm reading this book.  It's an older print, the pages are yellowed, and the cover is frightening.  Tucker calls it 'the bad guy bible.' 

(He believes every book I read is some form of the bible.)

I was reading as they swam, and Tucker got out of the pool to sit by me.  "Can you read that out loud?"

"Why, buddy?"

"Because I want to know what his voice sounds like."  He pointed to the red-eyed moon face on the front cover.  How endearing that he believes that my read-aloud would be a perfect inflection of the characters' voices.

"Well, it's kind of a scary book, Tuck.  But I'll will read it to you someday, I promise.  Maybe when you're ten."

"How about when I'm seven?"

"No, I think ten will be better."  Or maybe twelve.

"It's too scary for me?"

"A little too scary for a boy who is in kindergarten."  But really, kiddo, that sentence is true of so much of this greater story we are living.

My answer sufficed, and he splashed into the water again.

The thing is, there's so much in this book that is true for him, so much that could equip and empower him.  Or, the tangible depiction of the 'powers of darkness' could make him feel even more like his life is spinning out of control.  I can't risk that.

So we'll evaluate again in a few years.  And for now, I'll read silently.  And find myself undone.

"How is she?"

"Tuck, how is your mom?" a teacher asked him during his lunchtime.

"She's beautiful.  And when she gets dressed up for church, she looks like a princess."

Seriously, who taught him this?

I mean, really, Tuck. 

"How is she?  She's beautiful."

I love this boy.  I could gobble him up. 

Holding out for 32

Tuck ate his last piece of birthday cake.  It was turned backwards on his plate, so the 6 was upside down: a 9.

"Ha.  Look.  I'm nine."  Quick wit on occasion, that boy.

"Tuck, you'll be a great 9-year-old.  That will be good year.  And 7 and 8.  But let's do six.  I like six."

"I do, too."

"I liked every year differently, Tuck.  Well, 31 didn't turn out so well."

My mom chimed in.  "Neither did my 29," her age when her dad died.

"But how old are you now, Mommy?"

"I'm 32."

"32 will be good, Mommy.  It will be better.  I'm holding out for 32."

Good call.  Fingers crossed.

Gender Specifics and Foreshadowing

"Why are mommies girls?" Tyler asks me.

"Because God made us that way."

"Yes, but why?  I want to know why you are a girl."

I wasn't sure how far we were going to take this: philosophy, anatomy - this questions lends many directions.

"When I was a baby inside Grandma, God decided that he wanted me to be a girl.  And girls are the ones who grow up to be mommies."

Tucker piped in, "Yes, and when God made you into a girl, he had two little boys on his mind.  He thought, I want to make two very good brothers, so I need to make their mommy now.'"

Just when I think he's not listening, he drops a nugget like that in my lap.

You are right, sweet Tuck.  When God made me, he was thinking about you.

"Um, hey, God?"

"Dear God, Thank you for this food, and please help mommy not to get angry and shout at us. Amen."

Bowed heads then raised and hands reached to begin the meal.

"Hey, Tuck, do you know why mommy gets angry sometimes?"

"No," he said, serving himself a sizable portion of grapes - only the purple ones, setting the green ones aside.

"I don't just get mad for no reason. I get angry when I have to say the same things over and over again because my children don't listen to me."

"Oh. I see."

"So maybe you could pray instead that God will help you to obey so Mommy won't have to say the same thing a million times and then lose her patience?"

"Okay. Everybody close your eyes."

All around the table, we closed our eyes. Take two.

"Um, hey, God? Could you... could you help all of us... the kids, Mommy's kids... to be happy? Amen."

I nudge his elbow and whisper to him, "And to obey."

"Oh, yeah. And to obey. Thanks, God."

If we're going to preach in the prayer, let's make sure we cover the facts of the situation. Include everyone at the table who needs prayer, please.

But what about Second Grade?

There is a true and honest honeymoon that comes with the start of a new school year. I know it well; we are long time acquaintances.

Tucker is hooked on all things kindergarten. I put a happy little note in his lunchbox:

I love you, Tucker. XOXO.

When he brought his lunchbox home, he showed me the note he thought his teacher put in there for him. "Look, Mommy, she loves me."

She does, buddy. And so do I. And to be clear, that's my handwriting. There are some things I'm willing to share the credit for, but it turns out I hold the current status for putting a love note in his lunchbox. ;)

Tucker comes home talking a mile-a-minute. He tells me about his friends, about recess(es), about the numbers he wrote, about who had a good day or a whiny day, and all about what he ate first, second, and last at lunchtime.

At the end of his second day, he said, "I do really like kindergarten. But I'm a little worried about second grade."

"Why, kiddo?"

"I don't think I'll be able to read those signs they have in second grade."

"Well, we don't have to think about that yet. You can settle into kindergarten and do your best, and by the time you're in second grade, I know you'll be ready. But we don't have to worry about it yet."

"But why shouldn't I worry about it? I want to talk about it."

That's so, so, so his daddy. That is quintessential Robb, the attitude that says, "I feel like I have a pretty good handle on where I am right now, but I see something looming ahead that might be a bit of a curve ball. I'd like to know what I can do today to be ready for that milestone."

That's the heart of the man who installed the infant carseat when I was still in my second trimester. Preparation today makes for success tomorrow.

I am raising his son. Well on his way to list making, preparedness, and thorough thinking.

So, we talked about it. Because I loved his dad well, and I learned that sometimes it's just good to talk about things that still might be a few years away.

"Inked"

"I will betroth you to me forever;
I will betroth you in righteousness and justice,
in love and compassion.
I will betroth you in faithfulness,
and you will acknowledge the Lord.

Hosea 2:19-20

***

I am betrothed to the Lord forever.
I am betrothed in righteousness,
for he has made me holy and whole.
I am betrothed in justice,
for he will create me as he intended.
I am betrothed in love,
for he holds me in his heart.
I am betrothed in compassion,
for his eyes look gently upon me.
I am betrothed in faithfulness,
for he never lets me go.
I will acknowledge the Lord.

~ t. w.
12.20.2010

***

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

Isaiah 41:13

***



***

"Hey, Tuck, look. Mommy has a tattoo. Be careful, buddy, it's a little sore."

He touched it gently, carefully tracing the letters.

"It's okay, Mommy. God will heal it."

"He will. But it will always be there."

Such wisdom in his words.

It's okay: God will heal it, but it will always be there.

Words of Affirmation

This morning, Tucker and Tyler joined dozens of children on the stage at church, to lead us in the songs they learned this week at Vacation Bible School.

Tyler was nervous as anything. He really just wanted to stay with me.

(This is not typical Tyler behavior.)

Tyler leaned hard into Tuck, a real, live security blanket. I was so proud of Tucker: he stood beside Tyler, encouraged him, and even stroked his head.

I longed for a camera to capture this image of brotherly affection, even for a moment. I counted on the many around me to tuck this mental picture away and remind me that it really happened.

Tyler eventually gave into the pressure, and he came marching down the aisle to sit in my lap and watch from a safe distance. But he gave it a try.

Tucker stuck it out, singing through every song. (He did no motions, naturally.) Only once, he came off the stage once to say, "But Mommy, I'm really thirsty."

Sorry, kiddo. No drinks on stage.

(Why is it that everyone else's children seem to simply stay put on the stage while mine insist on all the coming and going?)

On the drive home, I affirmed Tucker for his excellent encouragement to his little brother.

"You were so kind to him, Tucker. He was really nervous, and you helped him to be brave. You said, 'You can do it, Tyler. You can do it.'"

"Well, I also said, 'Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Don't touch me.'"

Weird

I was getting ready for bed, ready to end the day.

And then I heard Tucker shout from his top bunk:

"I think it's so weird that Jesus died on the cross!"

I laughed… Did he just say it's weird? That's an interesting word choice.

I walked into his room to clarify. There he sat, with his picture Bible open to the story of Calvary, the three crosses lined up on a hill.

"See, Mommy? It's so weird."

Weird.

Well, It is, kind of. I'll give him that.

Weird that it's the story of grace and life and love.
Weird that anyone has ever been crucified.
Weird that it's something I believe in.
Weird that it happened with me in mind.
Weird that it's all true.
Weird.

He's right. I mean, do you know anyone else who has been crucified? Who has risen from the dead?

It doesn't happen every day.

"It is weird, Tuck. You're right. It's a lot to take in."

Pretty weird.

Top Rankings

"Tuck, you should try these deviled eggs. They were Daddy's favorite."

"Mommy, you were his favorite."

Sensitive Questions

As we walked out of Costco today, I handed my receipt to the kind man at the door: The one who checks to make sure I haven't stolen any items in bulk, draws a line through the list of items on the front of the slip, and doodles a happy face on the back.

It's the standard exit procedure.

This time, Tucker said, "Why do you not have any hair on your head?"

Oh, dear. This could go one of two ways.

Either the man is sensitive about his baldness, and we've just crossed a delicate line and into awkward territory.

Or he's prepared to answer a curious little boy with innocent (albeit personal) questions.

As he handed me my receipt, he made direct eye contact with Tuck. He said, "I'll tell you what, kiddo. When you're in the shower, just be sure the bottle says Shampoo. Not Nair."

He winked at me. Adult humor in the presence of preschoolers.

Well played, kind man. You impress me.

(And bless me.)

Best Surprise

I planned a great afternoon for the boys. Lunch at their favorite spot, then an afternoon jumping on inflatables, followed by milkshakes. Lots of face time. Lots of fun, laughter, and us.

I put on my game face. I told myself, no sadness today. Put it behind you. Show them your joy so they can find theirs. Joy. Claim it. It's yours.

Happy Mom. Come on, Tricia. No sadness today.

I picked them up from preschool with a spring in my step, eager for our fun afternoon of rejuvenating togetherness.

I said, "Guys! I have the very best surprise for you!"

Tucker's face lit up.

"Oh, Mommy! Is my Daddy alive again?"

Oh. Oh, my. My stomach fell; my chest ached.

"No, sugar. But that would sure be a great surprise."

And suddenly, my plans for us mattered not. Because it wasn't Daddy.

I get that, my little guys.

It's hard to make it matter, when it just isn't Daddy.

Two Mindsets

"Good morning, guys. Hey, sleepyheads... good morning to you."

I whisper to them as I wake them, and I raise the blinds an inch to gently let the sunshine in.

"Hey. Hey, you two. Handsome ones. Good morning. It's Thursday. That's an important day. Time to wake up."

They rub their eyes, thinking, yawning, stretching.

"Today you have preschool, then lunch, then swimming, then soccer. And that is a big day."

Tucker bolted upright on his top bunk.

"Soccer? Today is soccer?! I'm late for soccer! I'm late!" Instantly, he began climbing down the ladder, ready to put on his jersey and head out the door. The boy loves soccer.

"No, kiddo, you're not late. It's not a game day. You have practice tonight."

Tyler furrowed his brow and groaned. "Soccer practice? We have to start that all over again?"

Two different mindsets.

I'm pretty sure I'm raising an athlete and an artist.

Similarities

"Mommy? I have lots of angel kisses."

(Our family's term for freckles.)

"You sure do, Tuck. You know who else had lots of freckles? Daddy. He had them everywhere. He had them on his hands, his arms, his legs - he was covered in angel kisses."

I watched Tuck study his hands, arms, and legs. "Look, Mommy! I have them too! Even some on my knees!"

"You do, buddy. You're like daddy in lots of ways."

"How else am I like Daddy?"

"Well, Daddy was very kind, and so are you. And Daddy was very smart, and so are you. And Daddy loved babies, and so do you. And Daddy was very handsome, and so are you, kiddo."

His face held a gentle smile of pride, as if I had just handed him a mantle of identity.

"I'm like my daddy."

"You sure are, buddy. And so is Tyler. In lots of ways."

And by God's grace, may you be men of integrity, leaders in your community, committed dads, rooted in faith, and may each of you become an honorable husband who cherishes his wife.

Please. Be a lot like your daddy.

Questions.

Tuck and I went on a date. McDonald's. He ordered (with coaching) and paid (with a gift card), and he carefully carried our tray to the table. A hamburger, fries, and the coveted item: a chocolate milkshake. It's really what makes it a date.

Never too early to teach a little man how to treat a lady.

"Tuck, let's chat. Let's play Questions."

"Okay, Mommy. I'm ready."

I love his little, proud smile. It's a subtle one, but moms know subtleties.

"Who do you like most in your preschool class?"

"I really like Chase and Max."

"Yeah? What do you like about them?"

"I like to play Monsters on the playground."

"Well, that sounds like fun. What's your favorite part of preschool?"

"Playing Monsters. With Chase and Max."

(I see a theme.)

"Is there anyone you don't like as much?"

"Amanda. She's too fluffy."

Fluffy.

"Well, she might not be able to change that. It's okay if you like some people less than others, but try to be patient with the things people can't change about themselves. Fluffy is hard to change."

He offered the universal nod to maternal advice on friendship. We each ate a couple of french fries.

"So, Tuck, tell me something that makes you happy."

Smile. "Transformers."

"Oh, me too, kiddo. Excellent choice. Tell me something that makes you mad."

"When Tyler takes my Transformer and says it's his."

"Fair enough. Brothers do that sometimes. That would bother me, too."

French fry. Milkshake.

"How do you feel when it snows?"

"Happy. I love snow."

"How about when it rains? How do you feel?"

"I don't like rain, but I do like a storm."

"Me, too. Thunder, lightning, all of that good stuff... Hey, Tuck, how do you feel when Mommy cries?"

"I feel sad. Because I know you miss Daddy."

"I sure do miss him. I cry sometimes because my heart is so very sad, and I wish he was here."

"But he's in heaven, Mommy."

"I know, kiddo. I love that for him. What do you think he's doing right now?"

Tuck eyed his milkshake. With a far away smile, "Maybe he's drinking a milkshake."

"He sure could be. They have the best milkshakes in heaven. I just know it."

He took a long sip of his, just for good measure.

"Tuck, does anything make you afraid?"

He thought. "When you cry."

"I thought so, kiddo. Sometimes you cry when you're sad, and I'm the same way. I just feel sad because I miss Daddy, but I'm still Mommy, and you're still safe."

"Okay."

"Do you have any questions you want to ask me?"

"Hey, Mommy?"

"Yes, buddy?"

"I think I just really want to eat my french fries."

"Fair enough, kiddo. Let's eat."

Digital Era

Tucker got a (kids' version) digital camera for his birthday in September. Really, he just wanted to be able to snap pictures and see them on the screen.

Today, he was scrolling through some pictures on there, since we've never deleted any. Who knows the picture journey that camera holds?

With a gasp, he ran to me. He showed me a picture of Robb, with his back turned, standing at the sink and washing dishes.

Tuck had seen that as memorable in the moment, and he snapped a picture.

"Mommy, look! It's Daddy! He was alive then."

"He sure was, kiddo."

"I miss him, Mommy."

"Me, too, kiddo."

"But now he's in heaven. All fixed."

He sure is.