I didn’t blog last night because I got home late. I’d gone out with Amy and Heather, to celebrate Amy’s birthday. We went to dinner, then to Borders bookstore. We usually go to the fabulous independently owned local bookstore, Tattered Cover. But that’s downtown, and Heather didn’t want to stay out too late, so we opted for the McBookstore down the street.
We laughed and ate too much and I for one bought too many books. And if I had sat down and blogged instead of diving into one of the books I bought (didn’t come up for air until I finished it at 2:30 a.m.), this is what I would have said.
Friends like Heather and Amy are a gift. I truly believe only women can understand this dynamic. When I am with friends like these, I find my voice. They listen, and because they know so much of my stuff, they hear things beyond what I’m saying. They knew, for instance, why I hated our waiter on sight, and they called me on it. I didn’t even realize why until they said it (then it was obvious, and anyone who knows my history already knows why. Not that deep, but I can be dense).
When I am there, with friends like these, I find myself expressing thoughts I only dimly knew I had. It’s like a free write, following the current of conversation, only to discover yourself somewhere you never expected. Light bulb moments.
If I sound self-absorbed in describing what my friends give me, it’s only because I don’t want to speak for them. But I believe the process is reciprocal. We come together to form more than we are apart. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.
So since last night I’ve been contemplating the great gift of women friends I’ve been given. There’s Amy and Heather, and the whole of women’s group at church, members past and present. Kim from college. Mom. Women who have stood with me, strengthened me. Made me laugh.
We rock.

Although there are very few minutes of the Fourth left, I have to confess my attitude on this holiday. I hope none of my many loyal readers are offended or put off by this, but I have to be honest here.
I love America.
I know, childish. Looking at how we treat the rest of the world, even how we treat our own citizens at times, our checkered past, our shadowy future, our disproportionate consumption of the world’s resources, how can I be so simple-minded?
But I am.
When I was sixteen I was an exchange student to New Zealand. Great place. Beautiful and clean, astonishingly so. I went there as a kid who had bounced around quite a bit. I figured people were pretty much the same all over, and I could live practically anywhere. I mean, I’d lived on some fairly odd American soil. How different could NZ be? At least they spoke English.
And they actually weren’t all that different. Just another collection of people, with all the accompanying strengths and weaknesses. I enjoyed being there, interested in all the differences and similarities. But I never quite felt at home, never quite settled in.
About a month after I got there, I went on a camping trip with the 6th form (11th grade class). Now, the expectations of students in New Zealand are a bit more…intense then you might find here. A camping trip there, I soon found, was something more like a forced march. Lord. With great whacking packs on our backs, we hiked, and hiked and hiked, for days. I don’t mean strolling and chatting, I mean lines of sweaty kids, grimly making their way through the wilderness. I had a lot of time to think.
And what I thought about was my unease in this country. I considered what bothered me. Was there something wrong with the society I had found myself in? Or (more likely), was there something wrong with me? I thought a lot about me. I was 16.
Before long, it hit me. New Zealand was fine. There were great things about it. But it wasn’t mine. As simple as that. I could spend the rest of my life weighing the pros and cons, the good points and bad about each nation. But America was mine. Like a mom, spotting her own child’s goofy hair sticking up out of a crowd. Her heart melts for that one. Her own.
I spent the rest of that trip singing patriotic songs in my head. At the campfire that night, someone jokingly asked me to sing my national anthem. I jumped to my feet and sang it with great fervor. And passable accuracy. Because I meant it.
The year I spent in New Zealand was amazing. I hold that place pretty dear. But it’s just not mine.
Happy Independence Day.

Summer is really here now. We’re knee-deep in swim lessons. It’s a delight to see Max taking to the water fearlessly this year. Last year he was a touch more timid. He managed to finish one three-week session of lessons. More or less. After the first week or so he started hopping out of the pool and trotting over to me midway through his 30-minute lesson. We could usually coax him back in to finish the lesson, but not always. Then, when the second session started, he simply refused. He’d sit right down on the concrete and look at everyone with that special Max mulishness. I decided not to push it. Give him some time, I figured, maybe next year.
Much to my surprise, I was right. From the first day of lessons this summer, Max has loved it. He says he wants to take swim lessons for the rest of his life. The next six weeks will have to do. It’s starting to feel like the rest of my life. Four days a week of lessons, half an hour for each boy. Raphael excluded. They only have those parent-n-tot lessons for kids his age. Some baby is always screaming through their entire half hour, panicked by all the water. Torture sessions. At least, for those of us on the side of the pool, listening to the screaming. I don’t think the babies like it either.
Tre is doing marvelously, of course. He started in a class that was a bit too advanced for him, but doesn’t seem to mind having been switched to the “lower” class. He’s just glad we finally got him goggles. He got to wear them in the lesson, and is now pretty sure he did everything perfectly. That’s a quote. He really is amazing. I’m usually fairly blasé about him in the water, but occasionally I’ll catch a glimpse of him, swimming across the deep end, and it stops my heart. GRAB HIM, I think, before I remember that he’s fine. He’s a great swimmer and he’s just doing what the instructor tells him.
Raphael loves the baby pool. It’s only about a foot deep, and bathtub warm. He’s getting pretty comfortable in it, squatting down until the water laps at his ears. He charges around, swiping pool toys from the other kids, and mostly has a wonderful time. But occasionally he tips over and I splash over to snatch him up. He splutters and coughs while I say calm, happy, reassuring things. Can’t have him getting a phobia. Meanwhile, I end up needing my Lamaze breathing to calm down.
About half the moms at swim lessons drive me bonkers. If I have to listen to one more mom whine at her kid to “get out, now, please, now, I mean it, now, come on, I’m getting hungry, aren’t you hungry, ok I’m leaving then, I’m going, come on, aren’t you hungry, we’ll go to McDonald’s, look, I have your favorite towel, come on, I mean it, please” – well, someone’s getting a swat. And it’s not the kid.
It’s amazing, the amount of things necessary for swimming. The towels, the toys, the juice boxes, the sunscreen, the snacks, the goggles, the swim diapers. The organizational skills to get everyone there and home again should earn me some kind of award. Ok, I did lose one beach ball, but I didn’t really like it anyhow. It kept rolling out of the van in crowded parking lots. So you could say I donated it, I didn’t lose it.
There I am, a packhorse and CEO of summer, four times a week. I slather them with the proper SPF, get everyone in their suits and to the classes on time, and hover over Raphi while his plays in the baby pool. In return I get a damp butt from trying to perch on the side of the pool, a wicked farmer’s tan, and seven total weeks of life-disrupting schedule.
Ahh, who am I kidding? This is life.

This from today’s Rocky Mountain News: “The spiraling number of cats found eviscerated in and around Denver is attracting media attention from around the world.” I’m reading this and I’m thinking, cats? Not really, right? Somehow I’ve missed the spiral up until now. I was unaware of cat mutilations in our area. Up to 39 by now, according to this article. And another eleven were found in Salt Lake City, although the cops don’t know if the two cases are related. The article went on to say that “the cats were mutilated with what appears to be surgical precision. In many cases, the cats were missing their organs and appeared to have been drained of blood.”
Now I’m really freaked out, and I wish Claire, our beautiful stupid cat, would come back inside. She’s out there somewhere, hunting. She’s quite the huntress. Why, every night she tries to catch the goldfish, often banging her nose against the aquarium glass. She’s beautiful. She’s stupid.
And she’s precious, at least to our odd assortment of family. Raphael loves to chase her. Max loves to feed her, pet her, and lie down next to her in the sunlight. Tre loves it when she comes to sleep on his bed at night, although he would prefer she not lie in the very middle of the bed. Mom and Dad and I love to laugh at her goldfish hunting exploits. I love the way she visits me every night while I blog. She jumps up on my lap and sits for a while, and then she’s gone, leaving a healthy dose of white cat hair behind.
The thought of someone out there who could cut Claire up with surgical precision is a tough one to grasp. The chill down my back, though, says it’s true. Another face of evil. I know, melodramatic. But I believe in the existence of evil. Beyond human failings, beyond mistakes. Evil.
And now I hear the soft flap of the cat door, and Claire is back. She brushes against my legs. I pull her up onto my lap to hear her purr. My shirt is already covered with cat hair, and my nose is tickling. Yet I’m satisfied. Evil may be out there, but some nights it’s enough just to know all your loved ones are inside.

If you have small children, and you take them out in public, this has happened to you. A sweet grandmotherly type has approached your darlings, admired them effusively, and then taken you by the elbow and dispensed the advice. You know the advice. “Enjoy these years. They grow up so fast. You just blink and they’re gone.”
When I’m in a particularly irritable or irreverent mood, I respond by widening my eyes and breathing in an awed tone, “Really? Just blink, you say? Tell me, how do you do that – EXACTLY?”
But the truth is, they’re right. They do grow up so fast. I do my best to enjoy these years. I really do. It’s something of a balancing act. I mean, you can’t enjoy these years so much that you don’t ever stop to find their shoes. You have to stop partying long enough to make lunch, things like that.
So I try to stop and play the games when I can. I listen to the re-hashing of conversations they had with their friends until I could cry from the boredom. I say, “Who’s there?” to every joyful “knock-knock!” even though the jokes almost never make any sense. I watch with them, I laugh with them. I enjoy these years.
It doesn’t work. They still seem to be growing up.
I see it the most in Tre, probably because he’s the oldest. Breaking new ground. For instance, when we were on vacation. We stayed with my Aunt Kathleen and Uncle Larry, in a house that was filled to the rafters once you added the six of us. Tre ended up sleeping on a couch. In a room that was several rooms away from me. In a strange house. And he did just fine. It didn’t bother him one bit.
Today, at the pool, he was having trouble with his goggles. He brought them to me to fix, but on his way over to me started following another mom. He was looking at the goggles, and she must have looked like me out of the corner of his eye. I was calling out to him, but he followed her almost the whole length of the pool. Now, this is just the sort of thing that would have once freaked him out, looking up to find a stranger beside him. I couldn’t run after him because Raphael was in the middle of the baby pool. So I watched anxiously. Finally, he glanced up and realized this woman was not mom. He laughed, apologized to her, and trotted back to me. “Silly me!” was his only comment.
Tonight I crept into his room to watch him sleeping. At nearly eight years old, I suspect he’s out of the range of SIDS danger, but I still like to listen to him breathe. He was lying there, with his many special blankets kicked carelessly to the side. Gone are the days when he couldn’t sleep without his fingers tangled up in his lovey. Now he doesn’t want his friends to know he even has one. I’ve seen him hide it under his bed. I’m not allowed to kiss him in front of his friends anymore, either. But I can while he’s sleeping, and that’s just what I did. I smoothed his sleep-damp hair back, and kissed his forehead, and enjoyed this time.
I hope I remember this when I’m a grandmother. I hope when it’s my turn to give the advice I say, “Enjoy these years. It won’t make them go any slower, and it won’t make it any easier when they fly by. Just do it.”

I’m not sure I’m mentally up to a coherent blog, so I thought I’d treat you to a potpourri of musings from the trip. Snapshots, if you will.
Wesley did get married. Her husband is not named Jesse after all, but Dustin. He seems like a very nice guy. Cried like a baby when his dad stood up to toast them, and you’ve gotta love that. Wesley was easily the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen, and everything was just gorgeous. Classy.
During the reception we discovered a dancer in the family. The music started, and Max just couldn’t help himself. He dragged me out on the dance floor, and whew! He gyrated, stomped, spun, jumped, laughed, and wiggled. I’ve never seen him dance like that. Heck, I’ve never seen anyone dance like that! He danced for hours, it seemed. Moves welled up from within him, and at one point he shimmied over to me and announced with glee, “I am so GOOD!” And he was.
When we left the wedding, we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge and through San Francisco. This was about 7 p.m., and the fog was pouring over the hills. Tre looked out the van window and worried it might be a forest fire. It did look like the smoke that lay over all of Colorado last summer during the forest fires. But I assured him that it was just fog, and he was transfixed. It quickly enveloped us, and he gazed out at it, murmuring dreamily, “It’s like a cloud. All those droplets, and they’re condensing on the van to make raindrops.” I tried to point out that we were on the Golden Gate Bridge, which is a big deal, but he just wanted to get out and feel the cloud. I guess no one ever said my kids would have passions that make sense to me. At this point I’m deeply regretful that I didn’t find a place to pull over, so he could feel the fog. I was scared of all the San Francisco traffic I couldn’t see.
Raphael would NOT sleep in the pack-n-play I had so carefully provided for him. He hated it, and screamed as soon as he was placed in it until I rescued him. Then he would hiccup and sigh those shuddery sighs of a child who has been very upset. I’m not a perfect mother (see above), but I couldn’t do that to him again. So he slept with me. Watching a child fall asleep is like watching a well-filmed nature documentary. A wild creature in its natural habitat. Raphael would lay there, looking around and humming little noises to himself. Then he would start to drift off, so he’d raise his arms over his head and clap, trying to fight off sleep. Eventually, his arms would drop, and his eyes would close, then pop open, then close…then pop open. He’d shake his head, and rub his nose with a fat little fist, but it was no use. The eyes would drift closed again, and he’d be gone. Until far too early an hour in the morning, when he’d spring up, unbelievably happy.
We went to the beach one day, and the boys had a wonderful time. Tre and Max got out in the waves with their Appa and boogie boards, and came back all dripping and shivering. I kept thinking they’d want to leave. Surely. Soon. But no, they wanted to go back as soon as they warmed up a little. And Dad kept taking them back into that cold water. God bless ‘em all, because I sure don’t get it. At one point Max was sitting on the sand, wrapped up in a towel. He was gazing out at the waves. He looked so contemplative that I wondered what he was thinking. I sat next to him and put one arm around him. We looked out at the timeless motion of the water and I asked, “So, what do you think of the ocean, honey?”
“Great,” he replied, “it’s good for spitting in.”

Well, despite the many joys of California, spitting and otherwise, it’s great to be home. I’m exhausted.
Weemees.

My children are all asleep. The house is quiet, except for the swish of the dishwasher. The cat just brushed past my leg, then glided away, seeing I had the keyboard on my lap. I have the time to blog. I have the ability. I just don’t have the ideas.
(crickets)
See? Nothin’.
I think my mental energy is used up in preparing for the upcoming trip. All six of us are off to California, to witness the vows of my baby cousin Wesley and her intended, Jesse. (I think it’s Jesse. Yeah, Jesse. Right?)
Wesley getting married. Jeez, I still think of her as a chipmunk-cheeked four year old. Not that she’s that much older than that. She’s either 21 or 20, I’m not sure. All grown up…more or less. Not that I’m judging, not at all. If anyone knows, I know that getting married is a gamble. Maybe they’re too young. Actually, they’re definitely too young. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they won’t have a wonderful, long and fulfilling marriage. My prayers will certainly be that they will.
I remember the day I got married. Dad and I were waiting to walk down the aisle when a family came in a little late. I had been a nanny for this family when I was in college. Their youngest was about six months old then, and that day he walked past me, a standard little boy of about four or five. I watched in amazement as they made their way to sit down.
“Dad,” I whispered, “I used to change his diapers!” He squeezed my hand and whispered back, “Big deal. I used to change yours.”
I guess you’re always young to someone.

Less than a mile from our house there are some horses. Quite a few horses, maybe 50. It’s a rent-a-horse deal. Whenever we drive past the horses I am sure to point them out to Raphael because he gets so excited. It’s gotten to the point that if Raphael isn’t in the car and I don’t point them out, one of the other boys reminds me.
“Look, Mama. The horses!” I guess they figure I’m so interested in them usually, they’d hate for me to miss them.
When Raphael sees the horses, he erupts into a celebration of horse.
“HOORSEES!” he shrieks, “Oh, wow horses! I see tails! Hello, horses! Wow horses!” Then, as we drive away, he waves vigorously. “Goo-bye, wow horses.” And we all repeat after him,
“Goo-bye, wow horses.”
When children come into your life, they change your vocabulary forever. When Tre was about three years old, whenever it was time for his multi-vitamin, he said the same thing, “Oooone byemien.” Holding up one chubby finger in front of a solemn face. See, we had talked about how many vitamins he could have and he knew it was one. To this day I don’t think any of us can take vitamins without reciting,
“Oooone byemien.” Fortunately, none of us takes vitamins in public, or we’d all look entirely nuts.
When Max was two-ish, he was helping me tuck Tre in bed one night. (Max has never been much of a sleeper, and went to bed at 11pm or so until I finally gave up on making him take naps.) As we turned to go, I instructed Max,
“Tell Tre night-night.” And he parroted,
“Night-night.”
“And tell him sweet dreams,” I continued. He chirped,
“Weemees.”
Now, do you think anyone around here can go to bed without a chorus of
“Weemees?” Certainly not!
I’m certain that children affect the portion of the brain that processes language. Words that the rest of the world uses are swapped out for your own family jargon. The change is irreversible.
Tonight I experienced an odd sandwiching of jargoning. We have a family recipe that we enjoy every summer, Fruit Slush. It’s a mixture of strawberries, bananas, grapefruit, and orange juice, mixed together and frozen. It’s better than it sounds. When it’s been sitting on the counter long enough to go all juicy and melty, and you scrape jagged ice crystals of fruity sweetness into your bowl…it’s better than anything sounds. Well, when I was about two, I called it Flush. Naturally, that became the family name for it. I’ve always had to think carefully before I offer some to a person from outside the family. “Would you like a bowl of Flush?” just doesn’t sound all that appetizing.
Tonight we had our first bowl of Slush for the summer. Raphael was very wary of it at first. He stared at the spoonful I held out as though I were in the habit of offering him poison. But I convinced him to taste it, and he quickly saw my side of the matter. Enough that he climbed up in my lap and ate practically all of mine.
“Do you like that Slush?” I asked in that inane language development way moms of young children have. He nodded, peering into my bowl.
“Raphael? What is that?” Mom asked. I could see the interest in her eyes, and I watched Raphael to see what he would say. Would his jargon replace my jargon? We waited. He looked up and said,
“Flush.”

And so it shall be.

Wow horses couldn’t drag any other name out of us.

So there I was, on my way home. I had spent the day at the homeschool convention, and it had been a good day. My mind was awhirl with all the ideas, the encouragement, and the sheer possibilities. On the passenger’s seat next to me was a stack of curriculum that I couldn’t wait to get home and page through.
I stopped at a light and watched the birds. During the summer in Colorado birds occupy the intersections. Swallows, I think. Swift little things with elegant tiny curves of wings. They hunt the bugs that congregate at intersections. Something about the air being warmer there.
Anyhow, these birds swoop and dive and generally make a spectacle of themselves at the intersections all summer long. Perhaps this is true of all cities’ intersections. I don’t know. I’ve just come to be aware of it here, in the last few years.
I love the swallows. I lean way over to peer up into the sky so I can see their gymnastics. I glance around to see how many other people are appreciating. I glow with love for those who do.

But then the light changed, as lights will. I drove on, and glanced to my left. Where I saw the building. The building I had gone to with my ex to get our marriage license, nine years ago. Although my thoughts had been miles away from HIM and the memories and all of that stuff, there I was. Jolted in an instant back to that life. To everything that was supposed to be. Remembering how bad it all went.
I am stronger by far than I once was. All I did was take a deep breath, steady my heart, and drive on. The rest of my day was fine. The air at the next intersection was still spangled with swallows. I turned deliberately back to thoughts of the future. It was just a dark spot on an otherwise stellar day.
That’s the thing about divorce. It looks like freedom, but it’s not. Not really. The relationship goes on.

But only until death do you part.

I don’t know if any of my legions of readers read the comments or not. This particular blog is in response to some comments left yesterday by my big brother Josh. Catch up if you need to.
Ok, Josh has brought up a good point. Sort of good point. At least, an issue that seems to be there. In people’s minds.
When am I going to start dating? I mean really, the divorce has been final for almost a year. Final for a year, so that must mean he’s been gone for nearly two years. Time to get on with life, right? People ask. At first it was just people who are morons and have no idea how painful a divorce can be. But as the months passed it became actual intelligent people. People I trust. And respect. Lovingly, gently, they want to know, when am I going to start dating?
Well, I have many good answers to that. My kids have had enough upheaval in their lives. I don’t see the advantage of putting them through the emotional turmoil of wondering about the guy Mama’s out with. Especially for Tre, that would be very hard. And who says going on with life means snaggin’ me a man? My life is full. I have friends who mean the world to me. There’s this whole writing thing. And homeschooling (don’t give me grief, Josh). I have much meaningful stuff to do. Which leaves me happy. And busy. Did I mention busy?
Pretty good answers, no? Well, as Josh is probably itching to point out, they are all also a load of…less than truth. Not that they aren’t true. They are, but they sure aren’t the whole truth.

The whole truth is it’s awfully scary. I haven’t been on a first date in over a decade. I remember those days. They sucked. And it’s a whole lot safer here, sitting in a dark playroom in the glow of the monitor. I’ve had enough upheaval for…ever.
I am protecting myself with some very good objections.
So ok.
I talked to God about it. We’ve come to an agreement. For everyone who is wondering, this is the deal. If God sends me the guy, I’ll go out with him.

Now, for Josh, this isn’t a great answer. He claims not to believe in God. Much like he once claimed not to have any doubts about his faith. Sorry, Sha. Best I can do.