The Day The Dreaded Box Appeared

One by one, they began to pop up in the places we visited.

First, it was the dentists' waiting room, where the children had always happily read books and played with toys.

Then, it was the mall, where a train table and imagination had always been a welcome distraction for our family on a cold winter day.

Next, it was at our swimming lesson spot. The quiet waiting room had been a place for us to catch up on coloring or alphabet puzzles.

And so I ask you, Society: do you want me to raise children who have interests beyond television shows? I ask you, Society: do you see the magnetic power of video and know that you are cultivating slow but sure addiction in each of your tiny members?

Turn off the box. Put it back in your storage room. Save the mothers a fight and allow our children to learn to while away their waiting moments playing, talking, and thinking.

In the Year of Kindergarten

Down for the count with pneumonia, which means mandated resting for me.  I have been slowing down.   (Almost had to read that again to believe it myself.)  I am taking time to watch the birds and write a bit.

For my to-be-Kindergartening Boy, Frankie

Just up the road.
You walk into the arms of people I know.
And you run home.  You run to embrace me.
You are mine.
Almost time to let you fly,
little sweet boy.
Share your endless laugh and big joy with a greater world!
You have so much to give!
I am so blessed to have held you this close so long.

For Jimmy, Age 7 in 2015

For Jimmy, Age 7 in 2015

In the year before golden, a boy lay in a cave, reading to himself about superheroes.

He biked down the block, racing from one end to the other, to see which of his best friends was home to play.

He carried a piggy bank up and downstairs, jingling the coins and wondering if the was the same amount of money saved today as yesterday.

In the year before golden, a boy helped to potty-train his little brother.  His mother heard him teaching oh-so-quietly and kindly.

He asked himself and others what Heaven would be like.

In the year before golden, a boy shared with his big brother and sister.  He forgave easily.  He loved deeply.

He believed that great things were possible, even when other people told him they were not.

In the year before golden, a boy with an impish grin wiggled and danced to Uptown Funk and everyone in the car smiled and laughed.

He begged his mother to take the swim test at the pool, and took it one, two, three times, speaking up and asking the lifeguard to open up a test lane, PLEASE, so he could earn the wristband.

He tested to see if his front teeth were loose.  They were not.

In the year before golden, a little boy learned to skip rocks with his Dad.   He wanted to try everything, it seemed.

He sang timidly and beautifully at church and in the car.  He did not know his mother was listening.

He sped down the waterslide and his skin grew so dark that people wondered if he had just come back from a sunny vacation.  He would have answered them, but he was already running off to a new adventure.

In the year before golden, the boy’s heart was so strong that he comforted people, even grown-ups, when they felt sadness.

The boy was a super hero, but he didn’t know it yet.  His mother saw his cape fluttering in the wind.