Building Your Team (a Lesson From Pop Culture)

I found myself taking lights and garland off the tree the other night. Mr. Magoo, now two years old, was still up after a late evening nap. He had been watching me go back and forth around the tree as I unwound and untangled string after string of lights, and when I was on the far side of the tree he would say, "I can't see you, Mom." And fake surprise on my return to his side of the tree. 

We all need...

He finally laid down with his covers at about midnight. I worked on. The newborn - Marble - had fallen asleep as well and laid nearby on a Boppy pillow on the floor. I have always enjoyed the "mid" shift, from before I was in the Navy so many years ago. Comes from being part of a big family, I guess. It is a somewhat magical, thought-producing time of night when everything is quiet, there is no one asking questions or looking for attention and your mind can wander.

Happy Birthday, Buttercup!

Happy Birthday, Buttercup! 

Purple: a stunning color on you, and your 2nd favorite, after blue

Buttercup is dictating the color choices on the post today because today our "Lonely Only" (Girl) turns 3. She is so spunky, smart and articulate - and such a great joy to have in our lives. I wrote her birth story out last year, so this year, I'm writing a letter - mostly of advice - but really just in a vision of the kind of Lady she'll hopefully one day be.

Dear Girlie,


In spite of not watching TV, you get your "screen time" in by doing "Letters" on Microsoft Word, watching Starfall or Netflix videos or sneaking off to steal time on your brothers' Nintendo DSs. It cuts down on how many commercials you see, but somehow "princess" has started to creep into your vocabulary. We're working hard to change princess into Queen. 

First Flight - Video Review

My mom works in a small shop in Tacoma, Wa, called Chirp & Co. When we visited at Thanksgiving, the boys did all kinds of cool home school stuff. They made their own walking sticks, helped with stocking and customers, painted their own birdhouses, etc. There were actually several more workshops upcoming that we would have loved to attend, but alas, the vacation ended and we were pulled back to "real" life back in Maryland.

BUT one of the last things Mom gave me to pack and take home was a lovely little video sold in her shop called First Flight: A Mother Hummingbird's Story by Noriko and Don Carroll. We didn't get around to watching it until just this past Tuesday. What was just a 45-minute video for me, turned into an impromptu science and art lesson that lasted several days! First, here is a brief synopsis from the back of the video box:

Overcoming Frustration

What to do with a six-year-old who is frustrated from learning to tie his shoes? Make him do it again. Grit and Grin and tie it again. And again. And again. OR end up tying shoes for a 30-year-old man (???) Yeah. No.

Each of my three older children are different in this way. Maestro has had a lot of experience at things coming relatively easy for him. With music, he has never had to really press through frustration because he "gets it" on the first or second try. It's just his thing. Smeagol, on the other hand, has long had to work for every. single. step.

Better for Boys

This morning, I was rudely awakened from a rather interesting dream. In the dream, I was staying in a hotel with some others - and for some reason we had several "extra guests" in this very nice hotel, so we had to move them from room to room to keep them from being discovered. That was just the weird part. The interesting part was happening to move by a table on which was laid a dozen different foods, mostly pastries and confections and snack-type foods, and one rather curious mailbox.

The food, it turned out, was quite tasty, but wholly organic and with very little in the way of sweeteners - "healthy" snacks. The mailbox was what has stuck in my mind though. It was blue and made of the same sort of material that is used on ranches to pen in the animals. A sturdier metal of some sort. It had hinges on either side, about mid-way down the body of the piece, as well as at the "regular" spot to allow the door to open and midway down the back panel. The side- and back-panel hinges were not the sort that allowed the pieces to open, but they allowed the box to "give" when pushed at (or hit.) Curiously - and I wasn't able to figure out the purpose for this part - there was a black sort of rubber "bumper" bar at the top of the front. The door was more squared off than the standard rounded top as well.

The company putting it out was called "Better for Boys" and their premise was to offer items that are better for their health (and would therefore, help keep more boys off of medication for ADHD diagnoses) or items that can stand up to the abuse a boy, or group of boys, puts on an object. I can imagine more of what might be sold by such a company: walls or wall paint that can stand up to graffiti (or that can wash itself!), the malleable mailbox, bunk beds that double as climbing walls... you get the idea (and the reminder that I have three boys of my own!)

Lord knows that with four children and a fifth coming, I don't have the resources currently to start such a company - but perhaps it would make a good future home school project to design some of these items! So barring a company to create and sell items such as these, the question then becomes is it good for us to offer boys items that will save them from their natural instincts? I mean this question more in the sense of offering them items they can all-but destroy vs. teaching them, and expecting them, to have self-mastery and self-control over their natural impulses to act out in ways that make items such as these necessary and tempting to society's young men.

I would not suggest that it is never right for boys to be boys. When ours were young - very young - they were climbers (and still are!) To keep them moderately safe, we went to IKEA (marvelous place for some things, including kids' toys!) and bought a ladder designed to be attached to an interior wall, along the studs. We put this in their room right next to the book shelf, so they can pull out their books without pulling the shelf over at the same time! The ladder is no longer next to the shelf, but it is still in the room. The boys don't use it so much any more. It is not high enough for them now, it seems (how they grow!) but Buttercup is on her rise to stardom as a Champion Edens Climber.

I delight in watching her reach these same milestones that her brothers did at about the same age (under two.) It scares the heck out of parents at the ... (pick one) ball field, grocery store, playground, etc. She climbs whenever she gets the chance. Though rare, she even manages to give me a bit of a jolt every now and then. But we taught her early on to climb stairs fairly safely so we are slightly more confident in her ability to follow her joy in this. Does this immunize her from the possibility that anything bad will happen? No, but perhaps it is better to help them remain safe through use of moderately safer equipment than to remove the equipment all together.

Our boys though have missed out on many of the old playground toys that we had as children because of an overzealous society wanting to protect from every aspect of possible harm. No longer do we see see-saws (or teeter-totters, depending on where you grew up!), merry-go-rounds or metal slides. My kids are probably happier without the metal slides, but a part of me wishes those other bits of fun were still around and we hadn't sterilized everything so much. What we have now are spaces that make it more difficult to run off their energy and their need to move; we've insisted that they sit in a room all day and try to think while being still (for my Smeagol, that seems almost impossible!). We've watched them struggle to comply, and then put them on medication for not being able to maintain focus under such circumstances.

So the answer to my original question - whether it is better to teach them to behave or to offer them objects that can withstand potential misuse and abuse - lies pretty squarely in the middle. Over time, teach them to stay still, to think, to contemplate. Also find ways to give them freedom to run, jump, climb and to take a few risks so they can reason out for themselves how to avoid danger. This balance is what they need to grow, and with a little guidance from us they will be the bright stars they are meant to be. If we learn to stop ourselves from rushing to "talk to someone" or fix things when they make poor choices, and to avoid bringing them out of the tree when they get a little higher than our stomachs like, they will learn lessons that will help them all the days of their lives. The tendency of children to get into slightly risky situations is both the gut-wrenching fear, and the joy, that comes from being parents as we watch them grow and thrive.

Whose blessings? His... or mine?

May I "dedicate" a blog post? Are there rules against that sort of thing? If there are, I reject them and dedicate this post to my mother. She has often used action, rather than words, to teach important lessons in life. Today I had the opportunity to use one of those lessons myself. I hope to one day find that my children are as moved and inspired by my deeds as I am by hers. So here is the story - and the lesson - behind my dedication.

I was in a Panera transcribing some interviews for the books I am working on. As I sat in one of the leather seats to the side of the restaurant, I had a plate of food next to me and was eating it a little at a time as I worked. Nothing much, half a sandwich, half a cup of soup, a coffee.

After being there for about 45 minutes, a man came over and sat down in the leather chair opposite mine. He had a tan canvas bag with him, somewhat frayed around the edges. He was wearing faded jeans, an old long-sleeved shirt on a day that was around 85, and no socks under his worn white tennis-shoes. He had a beard that was trimmed, but still scraggly -- longer than a goatee and more gray than black. His hair was similarly colored and just as unkempt, though he was not too dirty looking.

The man didn't say anything to me - he just sat and looked at some generic picture on the wall over my head. It wasn't a very exciting picture even, just something to look at while he contemplated... something. At the time, I had headphones on and was trying to focus on my work - the voices on this recording are particularly muffled in places and it has loud background noises in others. I felt rude sitting with my hands covering my headphones to block out as much ambient noise as I could.

It was hard to focus as the man sat across from me. Some part of me wondered whether he might need a bit of spare change for a meal. Various scenarios (excuses?) as to why I didn't need to talk to him or offer him a bit of kindness passed through my mind. Maybe he's just sitting there thinking of what he wants to order. I don't want to embarrass him by offering him money when he doesn't need any. Maybe... Maybe... Maybe he's just enjoying the air conditioning.

Yeah, I know, I was stretching on so much of this. Suddenly the man saved me from myself by getting up and going around the corner to order. Whew. He was just making a decision. In my heart, I knew I was wrong. I knew I should have and could have offered him the little $5 that I had. What really stopped me? Cowardice.

Knowing that my heart was speaking to me, even as I tried to ignore it, I jumped up to peek through the pillars toward the cash register where the man was making his order. How much did he have? Was he counting out change to pay for everything? Having lost my glasses over a month ago - and not taking the time to get the prescription renewed yet - I looked with squinty eyes, trying to tell what was going on.

I have countless stories of times when I have watched my mother as she offered a kind word, food or some recognition of humanity to someone often considered "less than." She and my sister came to visit us this past spring. One day, we were driving along and trying to decide what to do with the last two slices of pizza she was holding in the box on her lap. Wouldn't you know that just at that moment, we stopped at a red light and she happened to see a man getting ready to cross. He didn't look indigent or "in need," but he was pulling a suitcase behind him and looked a little haggard and tired. She offered him the last two slices of pizza and he accepted gratefully. As he left our car window, he seemed to move with a lighter step.

So there in the Panera, I said a little prayer (I'm fond of that these days): If I'm supposed to give that man this money, Lord, let him sit back in front of me with only water to drink. Then I'll offer him my money for coffee.

Sure enough, here came my man, tan bag, plate in hand, with a little freebie cup of water. He sat down and began to eat his toasted blueberry muffin and I searched myself for some way to open conversation without coming out and saying, "Hey, do you need some money?"

So finally, I said, "Their blueberry bagels are really good."

In a soft tone, characteristic of one who is down on his luck and who is trying not to come to the attention of the rest of society - one who has been scorned and ridiculed for who he has become, my man said quietly, "Yes, they are." His voice was so soft that I could barely hear him.

I (lamely) said, "My husband's favorites are the Asiago Cheese ones...." Just a nod this time, a small one. Lady, don't pity me. "Hey, do you want a cup of coffee to go with that? They're really good with a hot drink to go with them."

Again, barely audible, "Yes, thank you, I would." (Or I think that's what he said!)

I pulled out the money that I had gathered from my pockets a few minutes before, when I was snooping... uh, squinting through the pillars, and offered them to him. He rose and left his bag and plate while he went to buy his cup. He returned a moment later with an empty coffee cup in hand, the smallest size they sell, and offered me back my change. There is an honest man for you - take no more than you need...

During that same springtime visit with my mom, I was in the library at a meeting. Inside the meeting room, there were sandwiches and other goodies to eat that few people were partaking of. My mom sat outside in the lobby area reading books to our daughter and youngest son. As she sat there, a man who is often seen around town happened to walk in. My friends and I have seen him in the local bookstores as well. Often he appears dirty, he dresses differently than "the rest" of us; people tend to give him wide berth. My mother looked him in the eye and smiled. She asked him if he was hungry, did he need or want something to eat? As it happened, he thanked her and said he was okay, and I had seen a TV interview of him online just a short time before. He is not homeless, nor is he penniless, but he does have a disability and he uses biking around town and wearing unusual outfits to help with his uncontrollable tendencies. How many of us, though, think to even ask? How many of us fail to offer that kindness simply because we are unsure, embarrassed or ... (insert 100 different reasons here.) She has shown me that same example through the years.

I have no excuse - my example has been set for me many times.

My Panera Man sat and enjoyed the steaming coffee and the bagel, rose and left without another word to me. He did not want my pity or charity, he asked me for nothing. But I was blessed by the encounter. I was reminded of what I have to offer and that I am obligated to do so. In the end, it is up to the individual to decide who was more blessed by the encounter: the Panera Man... or me?