Names Shmames

I really don't remember whose name I said.  I thought I said Tyler's name.  But they heard differently.

Anyway, it went down like this.

"(Insert son's name), would you please get us some napkins for the dinner table?"

"Nope," said Tyler.

I set down my fork.  I look at my youngest offspring.

"Tyler, after I fixed this meal for you, it is respectful to say thank you and to do what I ask you to do."

Tyler says, "You asked Tucker to do it."

"No, I asked you to do it."

My mom whispers from her end of table, "I heard you say Tucker."

"You did, Mommy.  You said, 'Tuuuuuuccker!'"  he mimics in a sing-song voice.  I'm most sure I didn't say it that way.

I then notice that Tuck is no longer at the table, but he is getting napkins for each of us.  Because apparently I asked him to, and apparently he is obeying.

"Thank you, Tucker.  And Tyler, if I had asked you to do it, then you would have obeyed, right?"

"Nope."

Then my point remains.

For crying out loud.

Meat in Heaven

"Mommy, is there meat in heaven?"

"Yes, I think there probably is."  Probably.  I'm not really sure.  I instantly think of a dozen arguments either way.

"Will we eat?" 

"Yes, all the best foods.  The Bible talks a lot about the dinner parties.  They're so great in heaven."

"Is there poop?"

"No, I don't think so."  I do think the whole idea of waste management in general is a product of the fall.

"Does Daddy have any clothes to wear?  Because he left them all here.  Like that red shirt that he wore when he died.  I liked that shirt."

He was wearing a red shirt.  I remember this, too.

"I bet Jesus had all new clothes for him, buddy."

"When will I die?"

"Probably not until you're a very old man."

"Like Poppa?" 

"Even older than Poppa."  Tyler's eyes grow wide with wonder.  Even older than Poppa.

"I don't think Daddy will remember me."

My heart catches.  I have worried that the boys wouldn't remember Robb; I had not thought to worry about their worries that he wouldn't remember them.  The worries multiply at an astounding rate.

"Oh, Tyler, yes.  Yes, he will remember you.  No matter how old you are, no matter how old he is, as soon as he sees you, he'll know you.  You're his boy."

Tyler smiles his bashful smile, the one that says, I don't really want you to know how happy that made me just now.

"Will I get to do whatever I want in heaven?"

"Well, the good news is that you'll only want to do what God wants you to do, so yes, you'll be allowed to do anything you want."

He smiles bigger.  This place sounds better and better and better.

Pillow Talk

"Tyler, you are so great."

"Mommy, you are so great."

"Tyler, you are so much fun."

"Mommy, you are so much fun."

"Tyler, I'm so glad you're my boy."

"Mommy, I'm so glad you're my girl."

"Tyler, you're a great four-year-old."

"Mommy, you're... a really big four-year-old."

Backward Encouragement

Ice skating is our new hobby.  We love it.  And I promise you, a couple of times now I didn't even have to lace up my own skates - they were on their own.  With some ups and downs, naturally.

But, I happen to know that everything is a little more fun when someone wants to do it with you, so sometimes I join them.

"Ha-ha, Tucker's falling down more than me-ee."  Tyler says this in that teasing, sing-song voice that seems to be innate to the four-year-old learning curve.

"Tyler, in our family, we are kind and encouraging."

"What is encouraging?"

"It means you say something nice, like good job."

"And what if I'm not encouraging?"

"Then you can hurt someone's feelings."

"I can hurt their heart?"

"Yes." 

"And what if I'm not encouraging to myself?"

"Then you can hurt your own heart."

He looks down at the zipper of his snowpants.  "Sorry, heart."

"So, I say, 'good job?'  That's encouraging?"

"Yes.  That's a great start."

"Okay."  Pause for thinking.  "Tuck, you are really good at falling down.  A lot."

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.)

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.

Details

This dinner was provided by the following sponsor:
a friend who makes real-deal-for-reals-oh-my-word mac and cheese, and she also makes the same variety of sugar cookies.

Personalized.

Tyler ate his and said, "How did she know our names?"

"Love is in the details, kiddo."

"But how did she know your name?"  He paused and then answered himself.  "Love is in the details.  And I name my turkey Bob the detail."

"Wolf! Wolf!"

"Tyler, tell me something you learned about at school today."

"We learned about toilets and eyeballs."

"Tyler."

"We really did.  For real.  In real life."  He smiles with that twinkle in his eye, the one that's pressing to see how much I'll believe.

In Tyler's mind, the question, "What did you learn in school today?" translates to, "Please make up a pretend story about anything in the world."

His other answers have included:

"We ate mosquito soup."
"We learned about worms on spaceships.  They went to see God.  He was wearing a red vest."

And he always caps it off with, "For real.  In real life."

I said, "Tyler, let me tell you a story about a boy named... um, what was his name..."

Tucker says, "Tucker?  Or Tyler?  Did he have our names?"

"No," since I think it's better if they learn a fable about someone else now and then.  "His name was Peter.  And Peter lived on a farm with many sheep, and it was his job to protect the sheep from the wolves that wanted to eat them.  If a wolf came nearby, he could shout, 'Wolf!  Wolf!' and his family would come running from everywhere to help him protect the sheep."

The boys listened with rapt attention.

"Well, one day Peter was out in the pasture, and he felt lonely and bored.  He remembered the plan that would bring all of his family to him, so he decided to pretend there was a wolf.  He cried, 'Wolf!  Wolf!' And sure enough, his family came running.  They said, 'Peter, Peter!  What's happening?  Are you safe?  Where is the wolf?'

"And Peter laughed and said, 'Just kidding.  I was just kidding.  There's really no wolf.'  And his family went back to what they were doing, but they asked him to only call him if there was really, truly a wolf."

They were listening.  They barely even blinked.  I continued the traditional story, with round two of the boy's joke, when he cries wolf yet again.

The boys cast knowing glances to each other.  Surely nobody in our family would be so foolish.

"Well then, a few minutes later, a real wolf came!  And he was growling and snarling and showing his sharp teeth, and Peter became very afraid.  He cried, 'Wolf!  Wolf!'  But because he had not been telling the truth the other times, his family thought he was teasing them again.  They didn't believe what he said, and they didn't come to help Peter.  And the wolf gobbled up all the sheep."

I pause for dramatic effect.

"Tyler, what do you think we can learn from this story?"

He pauses.  For dramatic effect. 

"Knock-knock."

"Who's there?" I ask, thinking he may come out with something profound, masked as amateur standup comedy.

"Banana." 

"Banana who?"

"Aren't you glad I didn't cry 'wolf'?"

Oh, my word.

For Starters

The boys were sprawled out on their tummies, making a mural with highlighters, stamps, and glitter glue.  I listened in on their chatter.

Tucker said, "Tyler, I want to draw a picture of you, but I don't know how."

Tyler directed him.  "Well, first draw a happy face."

First and above all, Tyler is happy.  It's the first thing he wants you to draw.

Annie

We popped popcorn, filled cups with orange juice, pulled the couch into the middle of the living room, loaded up on pillows and blankets, dimmed the lights, and tapped into Netflix.  I introduced the boys to Annie, in all of her curly charm.

Twenty-five years ago, my brother and I watched this movie on a seemingly endless loop. (My mom thinks she may have watched it once in its entirety.  This blesses me deeply to realize that she had other things to do while we were watching TV.)  The lyrics and dialogue are hidden in my subconscious mind, and they emerged throughout the evening.  Thankfully, the boys don't yet believe this kind of commentary takes away from the movie experience.  They are simply impressed that I seem to know Annie's friends.  And her every word.

We streamed Netflix through the Wii, and the movie sometimes got ahead of the download.  So we had to be patient while the screen paused to 'retrieve.'  Long about the tenth time we were staring at a still screen, I was the one who became impatient.  Surprisingly, the boys were really fine with the wait.

Tyler said, "Mommy, this is not that bad.  You know what's bad?  Touching hot lava.  This isn't that bad."

True.  Thank you for the perspective, four-year-old.

The thing about Annie: she brings with her the word 'orphan.'  She gives us things to talk about.  Questions to ask. 

"Annie misses her mom and dad, because they died.  She wears that necklace because it reminds her of them."

"She lives in a big house for little girls because she doesn't have anyone else to take care of her.  Who would take care of us if Mommy died?" 

There is little safety in promising I won't die, since we sure didn't think Robb would.   So we talk through Plans B, C, and D.

When your world has been torn, it's hard to believe the seams will stay together for long.  It's good to know there's a plan.  They can follow the scenario to the darkest path, and they can still know there is a plan. 

They were captivated.  They woke me the next morning to say, "Mommy, let's talk about Annie."  We have been reenacting scenes all week long, and I will purchase the sound track soon.  Tyler has been marching around the house singing "It's a Hard Knot Life."

They found their due love for her.  Plus, it doesn't hurt that her name is written in the sky with fireworks. 

Battlegrounds A and B

Tyler has chosen two battles today:

a. He will not get dressed.

b.  He believes our earth is really one of two, and we live on this one because the other one exploded.

He's especially insistent on Point B.

A PreK friend of his has proven this contention, and Tyler is holding fast to it.

"It's true, Mommy.  The other earth exploded.  In real life.  It's true."

Well, I don't think it is.  But of the two debates placed before me, I choose to battleground A.  It's really the more pressing of the two. 

I'm willing to relinquish his ideas of celestial evolution, just for today. 

Put on your shirt, kiddo.

Like Dry Bones, he says.

We were listening to Michael Gungor in the car.  (I'm a fan.)


The song held these lyrics:

My soul cries out, my soul cries out for you.  
These bones cry out, these dry bones cry for you.

A word hardly passes Tyler's ears that he hears it and wants to know what it means.

"Mommy, what does that mean - my soul cries out?"

"It means that sometimes we are so sad that our hearts cry out inside us for God to help us."

"What does that mean - dry bones?  Why do they say that?"

Well, this is a tricky, abstract something to explain to my four-year-old.  But I did my best.

"Well, when someone dies, their bones dry up because their skin is gone and there is no food to keep them strong.  So, when a person is so sad, like in this song, then they might say their bones are dry, and their soul is crying out."

I know.  Not a stellar definition.  But we were on our way to the grocery store.  I didn't have Ezekiel or Jeremiah or Lamentations at my fingertips.  It seemed to suffice, and he tucked these definitions away.

One thing I love about Tyler is his ability to store and apply vocabulary.  These new phrases emerged, in classic Tyler fashion.

"Mommy, I am so angry with Tucker that my soul is crying out like dry bones."

"Mommy, please don't leave me alone at bedtime.  I really don't want my soul to cry out."

Way to use and apply, kiddo.  I believe you now own those words, of all phrases to choose.

Silly boy.

One and The Same?

"Mommy, when you get to Disney World - oh, I mean, heaven - will you run to Daddy and hug him?"

The boys are pretty sure the two places can't be terribly different from one another. 

I think they suspect Daddy is hanging out all day on Splash Mountain.

Carefree for a Moment

5:21 AM  - "Hey Mommy?  I'm not worrying about anything right now."

Thank you, Lord.  I'll take the hit on the sleep meter just to know my sweet boy took a break from worry.

"I'm so glad.  I love you, Tyler."

"I love you, Mommy."

A Million Sundays

Yesterday, on the way to visit a favorite friend, Tyler was lamenting how long it had been.

He said, "I haven't been there for a million Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays stacked all the way up to the sky."

My young poet. I could listen to him all day.

(I often do.)

Together in our Separate Spaces

We were in the car together for a really long time. Snuggled up in the backseat, me in between their two carseats as I balanced the DVD player on my knees.

(But I certainly didn't give it enough space to push my book out of the way.)

Their hands clamored on me.

That's nice for a while. The interlocked fingers, their counting my freckles and veins, tracing my fingernails as they've done since they were infants. I study them when they sleep; they study me when I sit still beside them. We know each others' details.

But then there's also the pushing and shoving and spacelessness that comes with sitting in between two little boys for hours on end.

I finally and suddenly reached my limit, wanting to spread out in a space all my own.

I muttered to myself, "Oh, my word. Someone has been touching me all day long today."

Tyler gasped. "Oh my goodness, Mommy! Who on earth has been touching you so much?"

Well, sweet boy, for starters: you.

He realized neither that it was him nor that I could perhaps reach my capacity.

Unanswers

"Look at that alien, Mommy. He only has one eye."

"True. One big one."

"I think God only has one eye, Mommy. Do you think he has one or two?"

"Well, we were made to look like him, and we have two, so I think he has two."

"Can he see us?"

"Always."

"Can Daddy see us?"

"I'm not sure, Tyler. Maybe sometimes."

"Can he hear us?"

"Well, I'm not sure, but I talk to him sometimes, and you can talk to him if you want to."

His eyes darted around the room, silently exploring the parameters of the life we know.

Almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Hey, Daddy? Could you come back, please?"

Learning Objectives

He has spent one day at PreK, and Tyler is a pro. He's got it all down.

As I tucked him in tonight, he said, "Mommy, do you know how to read?"

"I do."

He frowned. I think he wanted to be the first one in our house to know how for sure.

"But do you know how to write?"

"I do."

He added a furrowed brow and folded arms.

"Fine. But you definitely don't know how to wait."

These must be the three academic goals of pre-kindergarten: read, write, and wait.

And clearly he intends to excel at all three.

I applaud these intentions.

Bigger Than The Mall

"Mommy, remember when we played horsey and Daddy let me ride on his back?"

"I sure do, kiddo. You and Daddy had lots of fun together."

"Do you think we can play that again when I get to heaven?" His face lit up over the very idea.

"I bet you will, Ty."

"Is heaven big?"

"It is. Bigger than any place we've ever been."

"Bigger than the mall?"

"Yes."

"Bigger than Disney World?"

"Even bigger than Disney World. And even more beautiful."

"And Daddy's there."

"Yep. He's there."

Missing in Action

"Tyler, where are your listening ears this morning?"

"Well, you see, Mommy. They went for a ride in the sky. But they know my name, and they know where I live, so I think they might come back."