Slipping Through My Fingers

A few weeks ago I allowed my oldest son to walk to a new friend's home to play. Even though he was in our neighborhood and I was watching him from the upstairs window the whole time, he did have to cross two streets. I watched him skip off, stooping down to check out a rock or pick up a leaf, looking first right, then left, then right again before running across the street. He arrived in his friend's driveway and I watched his friend's mother smile at my son, taking over my watch.

Last month my oldest son arrived in the kitchen after exiting the bus all a twitter with the news that he and a few friends from the bus were forming a singing group. He spent the next few days writing songs, the bulk of which was actually pretty good. Two weeks ago he was working with a different group of friends to clean up the playground for Earth Day. He made flyers, created a list of what needed done and recruited helpers. I have no clue if he actually picked up any trash. But he looked good on paper!


He can ride his bike without me standing in the driveway,watching. He isn't allowed to cross the street or go all the way around the block, and he has to come back and check in every so often, but he is out there, alone. And I am in here, totally freaked out. I hover in the kitchen, hoping to catch a glimpse of his bike helmet over our back fence. I pace to the front door, watching for him to ride past the house. I pray. "Please keep him safe. Please help him to make smart choices when he is out there without me."

There are times now, in just the right circumstances, that I will let my Soaring Seven Year Old go to the bathroom by himself in public. Not everywhere. (Not at, say, Walmart. NEVER at Walmart.) I have taught him how to speak to a server and order his own meal. We have given him lessons in manners and purposely provided him with opportunities to use his newly acquired skills. We have modeled and praised and gently corrected. Yes, we are raising a super smart, very inquisitive, straight A student, but raising a man, raising a person of substance, is what is really important to me.


Last night my husband's extended family got together at a nice restaurant for a Mother's Day dinner. My Soaring Seven Year Old sat at the other end of a very long table, laughing with his cousins. I sat with my sweet husband and sisters and brothers in law, with my newly minted and very sleepy five year old on my lap. It took every ounce of strength I had to stay in my seat and not hop up to make sure all was well down there. He sat in his seat, wearing a bright yellow golf shirt and khaki shorts, his black hair somewhat spiky and his dark brown eyes sparkling. I watched him chatting with his cousins, all around his age, give or take a few years, all boys. I watched him order his drink, and then read the menu, ordering his own meal. I wanted to ask if he had said "please" and "thank you", but I stayed quiet. I wanted to leap up and move his cup of chocolate milk away from the edge of the table, but I didn't. And the cup stayed in place. I watched him eating a fruit salad and then pizza. I wanted to jump up and cut his pizza, reminding him that the plate would be very hot. But I didn't. And he was fine. He waited for his food to cool and then he did just fine pulling the pieces apart. He laughed with his cousins and grandfather. He stayed in his seat. He came over to me to ask if he could use the restroom and, once, just for a hug. (dear sweet boy, he missed me!)

The server complimented us all on our well mannered boys. This is what it can be like, I thought to myself. This is where our future is going. And it was nice. I was able to eat without the weight of his seven year old body pressing into me. I was able to talk to other adults. But as nice as it was, and as proud as I was of my oldest son, a part of me was sad. I am watching my baby boy slip through my fingers, as he grows into the man I had prayed he would be. I held on to my youngest, my tiny Frustratingly Fantastic Five Year Old. He will not go so easily into independence. He will need more guidance, a watchful eye for much longer. It is exhausting to think about, really. But last night, as I watched my oldest son navigate his world without me, I held on a little tighter to my youngest. Before I know it, he will be slipping through my fingers as well.

We Have to Lead

When my oldest son was a toddler we ended each fun filled day with a prayer. He would stand in his crib, tiny hands clasped together, and repeat after me.

"God bless Daddy".... "Daaadddy!"  "God bless Mommy"... "Mommmmy!"  "God bless your teachers at school"... "Teachers!"..... and so on. We moved from blessing our family and friends to praying for more specific reasons as our young son grew. It was nice, really, to end each day with a thank you and a prayer.

And then we brought our new son into our lives, and we ended each day with a glass of wine. And, frequently, a few tears. And don't get me wrong, there were plenty of prayers. But our family prayer time fell off the radar screen as we struggled with every.little.thing. with our new son.

Fast forward to this summer, the summer of the "gimmies". Even though our oldest son attends a Christian school and regularly attends church, he is still, after all, a six year old. And six year olds have an inward focus and an ability to compare themselves to others. Never mind that the "others" they are comparing themselves to might be characters on TV, with toys and fun unobtainable to most families. Never mind that my son wants for nothing. He still wants for everything, know what I mean?

It was time to bring the focus, all of our focus, back to others. Away from ourselves. I was guilty of it also. I have spent the past two years looking inward as well. Over these past few years I have friends who have suffered marriage loss, death, and ill parents. I have friends who have lost children, either through pregnancy loss or an  interrupted adoption. I have friends who have had illnesses and surgeries, job losses, career confusion. I have immediate family members who did not receive my best. And how can I expect any more from my young son than I am willing to give myself? Clearly, a change was needed.

A few days ago we all gathered on our bed- both boys, my husband and myself. We turned off the TV, put away the phones, walked away from the toys and spent some quiet time upstairs, hanging out and playing Uno. After our games were done but right before we shuffled the youngest off to bed, I sent my super six year old out into the hallway to check the new "prayer board" I had hung on the wall just outside our bedroom door. He stood in the hallway and read off the prayers tacked to the board.

New school year
All of our teachers- first grade, preschool, daycare, china school
Alex's progress in therapy

Three prayers. We sat together on the bed and prayed, as a family, the prayers listed on our board. The persevering preschooler didn't make it through them all and wandered off, but he was there at the beginning, and it was a start. A move in the right direction. If we don't lead them, if we don't step out of our comfort zone as parents, they will not just magically "get it" one day.

The next day my super six year old asked me for a piece of paper and a thumb tack. When I asked why his answer shocked me. "Remember that kid at daycare who is always standing by the door, crying for his mommy? I want to add him to our prayer board."  He took the paper, asked me how to spell the boy's name and carefully printed it out. he stretched up to the board and pushed the pin into the paper, securing his prayer in place.

"When did you think of adding him to our board?", I asked. "Yesterday. I saw him hugging the door like he does and thought that we should pray for him. You know, he isn't like me. He doesn't think like me. I thought he would feel better if we prayed for him."

We have to lead. It does not come easy for me, these open displays of faith. But we have to lead, because they are watching.

China and Russia were trying to take us down

When I think about last night I smile. Not when I think about bedtime. Not when I remember the tiny toddler angry in his crib, kicking the already broken side rail. Not when I try to figure out why he went from happy guy to angry baby in the blink of an eye. But before that, at dinner time, awesome.

I remember when my tiny toddler wouldn't even come to the dinner table. Then he would show up in his chair but refuse to participate in anything meal related. He would scream, on purpose, during the prayer. He would lunge across the table trying to grab things from his brother. He would throw his food on the floor. And, sometimes, he still does.

But last night, when I asked who wanted to say the prayer, fully expecting my little guy to remain silent and my super six year old to step up, his hand shot up in the air. My tiny toddler wanted to say the prayer? Alrighty then. He clasped his hands, fingers laced together. He brought them over his head and started singing. "God made rainbows, God made rainbows, sunshine too, sunshine too." He brought his still clasped hands down under his chin. "Now we say our blessing, now we say our blessing. Amen. Amen." Every word was clear. Every word was respectful. He wasn't shouting the words or purposefully being loud. He was praying. I turned from watching my young son and locked eyes with my sweet husband across the table. Both of us had tears in our eyes. A 20 second prayer. A moment of quiet in the loudness that is our lives. A glimpse at a calmer future.

After the super six year old was finished eating and the tiny toddler was done staring at his "oatmilk", (this is how he says "oatmeal" and it is his new go to food. He doesn't really eat it, but he wants it and he likes stirring the brown sugar into the bowl of steaming oatmeal.), the boys left the table. I asked them to please go upstairs and play, something they usually do not like to do without me. This time, off they went. A few moments later I heard footsteps on the stairs. Giggling. Whispers. I could tell that the super six year was in command. Orders were whispered in the dark of the dining room. I jumped as loud pops sounded behind my kitchen chair and then I heard clatters as the suction darts fell to the floor. We were being shot at!

Suddenly a dart flew through the air over my sweet husband's head and stuck to the red and brown checked wallpaper. Then a dart hit my husband in the head. He got up from the table and staggered over to the sofa in the living room, falling over, dead. Much to the delight of the boys. I sat at the table, laughing along with them. My sweet boys. They were using their imaginations. They were playing together. They were working as a team to take us down. They were on a spy mission and they played their spy game for a long time.  Together. China and Russia were trying to take us down.

When I am carrying the tiny toddler like a football under my arm out of daycare because he won't walk. When I am turning up the radio to drown out his screaming and when I am dodging projectiles being thrown at me from the backseat because I forgot to remove his shoes when we first got in the car. When I am angry and frustrated and think I can't do this a moment longer, I will remember last night. I will remember how I felt when I heard my tiny toddler singing the meal time prayer, his voice strong and clear. I will remember his smile when he got through the whole prayer. I will remember how happy everyone was when they boys were on their spy mission. Sometimes it seems as though the mountain is insurmountable, but last night the hope was strong.