{Star Wars and Sunshine}

He wanted a Star Wars party with his friends. I said yes. He began to list (in great detail) the many light saber games and duels he planned to stage. I started to pray for sunshine. We both got what we wanted.

Friends, let me tell you something. The Lord cares about the small details in our lives. As we prepared for the party, I prayed that it would be special for Aidan and special for his friends. We pulled our ideas together, and Aidan wrote plans and "bulletins" like crazy (he wanted to hand out programs).  But I still wasn't sure what to do about party favors. I searched Pinterest for ideas and quickly ruled out the option which involved the mother dressing up as Princess Leia. I saw something about using swim noodles as light sabers, but they looked too floppy and I wasn't sure how they would work.

Well. Two days before the party, I had an hour to zip into Fred Meyer and come up with something. I prayed. Often when I go shopping I pray for wisdom and decisiveness (I desperately need both). This time I prayed that a really fun idea would pop into view. And fast. Almost immediately, I saw the noodles. I pulled out a lime green tube and the wheels began to turn. We could cut them in half. And decorate them with duct tape. Boys love duct tape. Voila! A craft and party favor in one. Thank you Lord.

The day dawned beautifully, and Aidan's eyes shined the entire time. The light saber creations and ensuing battles and games were a hit (literally), and I was extremely thankful that Jamie had a few youth group game ideas up his sleeve that could be turned into Jedi training experiences. We weren't wanting for diversions, that's for sure.

As Aidan finally bid his friends goodbye, I again thanked God for the day He orchestrated and for the boy we celebrated. From the friendships and sunshine right down to the "bulletins" that Daddy helped print and the lime green noodles that became super fun light sabers, the Force certainly was with us. And I didn't even have to dress up like Princess Leia.

{Double Digits}

I didn't think he'd ever fall asleep last night. Way too much excitement. But he finally did, and I was at last able to tip-toe into his room to leave a "pillow present" for my almost ten-year-old.

A note slipped under our door this morning (much too early, I might add) confirmed that he not only received the gift, but that he loved it. Such a simple note, but I love what it captures about our Aidan: his spontaneous heart of gratitude, the joy he finds in simplicity, and a bit o' wit to boot.

Last night, as he fidgeted and squirmed in anticipation of the big day, he reminded us every few minutes that this was his last such-and-such as a nine-year-old. His last dinner. His last bite of dinner. His last good night. And his last bedtime blessing. Then, as I blessed my still nine-year-old, he, in his sweet, comical wisdom advised me, "Savor the moment, Mom!" And so I did:

The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious to you. 

The Lord lift up His countenance on you and give you peace.

This morning as I looked through the birthday pictures, Phil Wickham's Beautiful started to play in the background. Tears threatened. I thought of the beauty that it is to raise a child. The beauty that it is to be loved by a child. And the beauty in knowing that it's happening. Right now.

Once again, I find myself heeding my son's advice: Savor the moment, Mom.

{Order}

Aidan recently got it into his head that it would be most efficient to group his LEGO collection by color. I calmly smiled and said, "What a great idea, honey."

Inwardly I performed a number of gravity defying leaps and pirouettes. My child. Creating order. Hallelujah.

I quickly devised a plan to acquire some cute little, Pottery Barn-perfect canvas bins in which to store these delightfully organized bricks. In the mean time, Aidan resorted to shoving each pile into separate gallon sized zip lock bags.

It was tedious. Too tedious to wait for the perfect bin.

So when I found some serviceable little plastic bins at the dollar store, I snatched them up.

My plan morphed just a tad, and I soon envisioned his shelf lined with these substitute bins. I would alternate the bins: blue, green, blue, green. Yes. That would be so pleasing to the eye. Each bin would have a darling printed label naming the LEGO color contained within. It would be a thing of beauty. My heart skipped a beat just thinking about it.

When I brought the bins home, however, it became quite clear that Aidan had a plan of his own. No sooner had I deposited the bins in his room than he began to dump the contents of each LEGO bag. Much to my horror, he also grabbed a green Sharpie and started labeling those bins. On his own.

Without the cute little labels I had envisioned.

I mourned for a period. It took every ounce of willpower in my possession to let this child create his own order and to smile over the work that he was so proud of. And to watch that green Sharpie desecrate the surface of the tidy bins. Which were not placed in alternate order by color, but grouped by color.

The nerve.

Of course, I could have said, "Aidan, this is how we will arrange your LEGOs." And that would have been the end of it. But I knew that this would also have been the end of his contribution to the order. And I truly wanted it to be his work, his order. His growth.

So I stepped back, bit my lip, and witnessed the continued attacks of the green Sharpie.

Later that afternoon, when I returned to see the completed project, I was more than thankful that I had let go. I was given a window into his world through which I could see what "order" means to him.

It was clever the way his labels ran on like a sentence, each color or description followed by a comma as though the bins were all attached to one another like box cars on a train. The final bin was labeled with a description of its contents followed by a squiggly little period:

Oh, this child. To think that I would to force my own order into his world.

Sometimes our plans for order are good. And sometimes letting those little ones around us make their own order is even better. It's all a part of growing up. Especially when Mama acknowledges that they really are big enough to wield a permanent green Sharpie.

{King of the Day}

He turned nine this week.

This boy who is probably developing a permanent curve in his back from being hunched over LEGOs for hours on end.

This boy who still jumps up and says, "Watch this, Mommy!" His scientific mind always creating, undaunted: "Just because of my smartness I might know it."

This boy who seems to think that if he adds the phrase "a bit" to a sentence it somehow grants him immunity. Such as a recent comment to me, "You're a bit big."

Or (horror of horrors) a lovely comment to his piano teacher (aka his grandmother) during lessons: "Your breath smells a bit like borscht."

Ahem.

We celebrated this child on Wednesday. As Miss Kate said, "You're king of the day, Aidan!"

King Aidan chose pancakes for breakfast. For dinner? Steak, baked beans, and cole slaw. He's his father's son.

The dessert request was rather specific, too. Chocolate cupcakes with blue frosting and mint chocolate chip ice cream. I didn't complain.

We gathered round the table and I opened the book that chronicles snippets of time long past. Here I've recorded kid words and phrases and antics. We go back on special occasions like this and laugh over what once was.

My heart aches a bit though, too. To hold nine years in book form and to see how quickly it's all sped by. Right down to Aidan's own prophetic words at age five: "When I'm nine I'll forget this day and what I said."

I wrote it down that day. Sure enough, we did forget the day. But we kept at least one line of words. Words keep.

We kept other words, too. The words that reminded us of the time that he walked into the kitchen with marker all over his face. When questioned he casually shrugged, "I just wanted to look awesome."

Words are powerful. I turn to the page that holds words of a five-year-old Aidan who sighed, "I'm glad that you're my mommy and that you're here."

Something catches in my throat. Tears blur my vision and I know exactly what my words would be, should they be written down this day.

I'm glad that you're my son and that you're here.

{Candor}

"Mom? Are you able to get up on my bed?"

Aidan nimbly scrambled to the top bunk, eager to show me one of the new additions to his LEGOs poster wall.

"Can I just kind of perch here on the edge?" I proposed.

"Sure." And he went on to explain in detail (and in a tongue that sounded rather foreign) all about the various characters and accoutrements splashed across the wall.

After I did my best at being an interested mommy while clinging pathetically to the rail, a certain question nagged. Why was he wondering if I would be able to climb up on his bed?

Did he think I was too old? Too uncoordinated? Not agile enough?

It rankled. I had to know.

"Aidan? Why did you ask whether or not I'd be able to get up on your bed?"

The candid child flatly stated, "You're a bit big."

They say that ignorance is bliss. They're right.

{Mr. Willowby's Christmas Tree: A Book Review by Aidan}

In my last post I mentioned that my children would wake up on Friday morning to find a wrapped Christmas book awaiting them. I happened to find four books at Goodwill, each correlating fairly well with my kids' ages and interests.

This first Friday book, although enjoyed by all, was one that matched Aidan's personality quite well. So he got to unwrap the book. He also asked to read it aloud, which was a delightful treat.

Speaking of delightful, Mr. Willowby's Christmas Tree proved to be just that. I'd never heard of this story, but upon scanning the pages in the store earlier this week, I could easily tell it would be a hit. It was.

And now I present for your enjoyment, a review. By Aidan himself.

Mr. Willowby's Christmas Tree is written by Robert Barry. It's about a man who gets a Christmas tree, but it's too big. So he cuts off the top and gives it to the maid. But it's too big for the maid, so the maid cuts off the top and puts it in the trash. Timm the gardener thought it was too beautiful to throw out, and he brought it back home. His wife thought the tree was too big, so she cut off the top and threw it out the window.

The tops keep being taken and cut off by Barnaby Bear, Frisky Fox and Benjamin Rabbit. Then Mistletoe Mouse finds that it's the right size and brings it home and puts on a star made out of cheese.

I liked Mr. Willowby's Christmas Tree because it's funny how all the animals take it and cut off the top until the mouse takes it and doesn't cut off the top. I think six, seven and eight year olds would like this book. Maybe a bit younger kids would like it, too.

~Aidan

How about you? Does your family have any favorite Christmas stories?

Lessons Learned on the Drive Home

Aidan was being punished. This meant that he could not stay home with his older brother and hang out. He had to ride in the car with his mother and drop off his sister at the gym. He didn't take it very well. What angry child wants to be stuck in a vehicle with no one else but a mean old mom?

But as we meandered home after dropping off Bethie, his demeanor changed. Sometimes solitude isn't such a bad thing. He emerged from his self focus and began to converse quite pleasantly. He even suggested that we take a different route home.

“Mom? Can we take the road by the produce market?”

“Sure, honey." I smiled. I like that route, too. I wondered about his reason for choosing it. "Why do you like it so much?”

He wrinkled his brow and crinkled his nose. “It’s just so . . . lifey. You know," he nodded, "lots of life."

I knew exactly what he meant. Lake Road winds through beautiful evergreens alongside Lacamas Lake. It's green, it's growing and it's . . . well, it's lifey.

Aidan went on to explain why he doesn't care for the other route. "The freeway has too many cars, and you can’t see stuff. Like if a raccoon crossed the road, the cars would just have to hit it.”

Yes. Sometimes there are too many cars. You can't see stuff and you miss out on the life. Lots of life. Sure, the highly traveled roads might offer the quickest way home. But don't we prefer the towering greens, the glistening blues and the prospect of a non-squished raccoon in this life? I believe we do.

I think of Robert Frost's lines,

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

We pulled into our neighborhood, and Aidan piped up again, "Can you drop me off at the corner?" I was a little surprised and hesitant until I saw that he meant the corner that was only one house away from ours. I smiled at my lifey boy, thankful for our time together, thankful for a glimpse into his heart, thankful for the road he'd chosen. It made all the difference. "Yes!" I answered. Then with a grin I challenged, "I'll race ya!" And he ran all the way home.

What I Need

"Do you need a pen or a pencil, Mommy?" Aidan eagerly asked.

I shook my head and absently muttered, "No, Honey," keeping my eyes on the math worksheets that my son was avoiding.

He tried again. "Do you need a pen or a pencil, Mommy?"

And again I kept staring at the work before us and dismissed him. "No thank you, Sweetie. Let's get this math done."

And then I looked up. Standing before me, grinning widely, Aidan had a pen and pencil balancing on each ear, reporter style. He didn't really want to give me a pen or a pencil. He just wanted me to look. He just wanted me to smile.



It's true that I don't always need a pen or a pencil. But I do always need to look. For it's only in the looking that I find the smile.

Headstands, Rattlesnakes and Pumpkin Pie

The number around the dinner table dwindled as the children excused themselves one by one. One child, however, was in no hurry to leave. He had things to talk about. Nothing in particular, but everything a possibility . . . . Jamie and I sat, entranced, as this eight-year-old boy talked, and talked and talked. It was as though he was transported to another realm, and we were invited to travel along and witness his stream of consciousness.

When Aidan falls into this mode, which is rather frequent, his blue eyes deepen and he actually gets that "faraway look" that you read about. He's not dreamy-whispy, though. His pulse quickens and his eyes widen. He enunciates slowly, then pauses and stares for dramatic emphasis -- not to bring attention to himself, but to let the importance of what he's just said sink in. He delivers his store of information then flows unceasingly from one thought to the next.

Sometimes I'm fast enough to jot down his conversations. I've even been known to say, "Slow down! Can you sat it again? I need to write this stuff down." He happily obliges.

This afternoon, as I visited with my grandma on the phone, she referred to that "faraway look" that Aidan gets and that way his mouth has of twisting when he's particularly enthusiastic about something. So I share here with her and with you some of the wide-eyed, twisty-mouthed gems that we've recently enjoyed:

*We've had a very wet spring (as Miss Kate recently grumbled, "I told you it was going to be a sad spring!") When the sun actually appears, the children are beside themselves with joy. The other day, I had Aidan check the temperature as part of his math assignment. He came back shouting, "If the temperature blobs up 30, it's gonna be 100!" And that was the end of the math lesson. There was no keeping this boy indoors on a rare sunny day.


Math is more fun in a blanket fort.

*Speaking of math, Aidan wanted to be in tip-top shape for a timed fact sheet. He came up with what he considered to be a helpful preparatory procedure: "If I do a headstand, it will get my brain all popped up!"

*One of the things I appreciate about Aidan is his cheerful disposition. He finds the good and camps there. Take, for instance his recent bout with the sniffles. He ran in from blowing his nose and happily said, "Listen to me smell, Mama!" (Heavy, sustained breathing inserted here.) "Just half a snort every breath!" Now that's what I call cheerful. Thankful that it's only half a snort when it jolly well coulda been a whole one.

*I received some good advice from Aidan yesterday. He was eagerly sharing with me his discoveries about the most venomous snakes and could I guess what they were and this is how Jeff Corwin holds a black mamba and so on. But the most important thing to remember is this: California Kingsnakes eat rattlesnakes. Because of this, "You better not dress up as a rattlesnake for Halloween and go on a search for the California Kingsnake." You've been warned. Don't do it.

*Today Aidan was on a stream of consciousness roll. The following was delivered without one pause: "Mom? Can I have a whole peanut butter and jelly sandwich? In triangles? 'Cause it's just like eating two pieces of pumpkin pie. Which I can do. When are we going to have pumpkin pie again? Guess what I'm going to have in a year for my birthday dessert?" I finally had a chance to speak: "Ummm, pumpkin pie?" Aidan smiled and confirmed, "You are right."

If you're ever in need of some entertainment, please stop by. Aidan will gladly converse with you on any and every topic. Just one warning: you might feel a bit out of breath when he's done sharing. Even if you haven't uttered one single syllable.

Pajamas, Pennies and Slingshots

Aidan twisted and contorted, trying to put on his footed sleeper pajamas. What he failed to realize was that his right leg was in the left pant. He thought it was rather amusing and suggested, "You should write about this in your blog, Mom." And that's all I have to say about that.

What I really wanted to tell you, in case you were wondering, is that a penny, when tucked into a slingshot by a little boy, might get spun 'round and 'round and 'round. The spinning might take place in the living room. And that penny might accidentally be released. If that happens, the glass in a nearby picture frame just might shatter. The very same glass that's been shattered twice before.



It just might happen.

So a word to the wise: watch your pennies, watch your slingshots, and above all else, watch your little boys.

Oh -- and always make sure that your right leg is in your right pant. It's just better that way.

A Conversation

Aidan: Mommy? What's a tat?

Mommy: Well, it's a very delicate kind of stitch, like knitting or crocheting . . . .

(Aidan's brow furrows in confusion. Mommy decides to gather more information.)

Mommy: Um . . . . Where did you hear that word, Sweetie?

Aidan: You know, it's in Jesus Freak: "I saw a man with a tat on his big fat belly."

(Pause. Mommy is pretty sure the gentleman with the protruding midsection is not sporting a doily.)

Mommy: Oh. Never mind. That would be short for tattoo.

(The light dawns. Aidan is relieved to know that DC Talk has nothing to do with lace.)

My husband thinks I'm so weird.

Waking to Gratitude

I forced myself out of bed this morning after sewing way too late. That's what tends to happen on birthday eves. But I knew the cinnamon rolls had to be in the oven so we could share birthday breakfast together before Jamie left for work.

I washed my face, shuffled out of the room . . . and I was greeted by gratitude. A white sheet of paper lay on the floor outside our bedroom door. My dear Aidan's scrawl proclaimed, "Thank you!!!" Folded on the inside was the succinct sweetness,

Dear Mommy,
Thank you for the pteridactal!
It's sooo cute!!
Aidan

He had found his pillow present. He was thrilled with the little stuffed dinosaur. And his first response was gratitude. Written gratitude.

As I prayed with my eight-year-old tonight, I thanked God for a son who began his day saying thank you. A son who smiled all day, a son who attacked me with hugs all day, a son who jumped for joy when I said we would do science for his birthday school work, a son who has brought us eight years of sheer delight.



Like Aidan, I can't help but write the gratitude. And this boy has reminded me of the beauty and holiness of a day that begins with thanksgiving.

From the #800s . . . .

*A fresh blanket of snow
*cancellations
*smiles first thing in the morning
*daddy on guitar
*son at the keyboard
*laundry away!
*re-organized school room
*just enough eggs
*finding the perfect gift
*son putting away the groceries
*country roads
*snow on distant hills
*Winnie-the-Pooh with Avery
*little girls in pink leotards
*tiniest buds on the trees
*the first crocuses
*an eight-year-old boy

Oh, Aidan. Continued.

You've heard it before. He makes me laugh. There was a dry spell for a while and I thought, "Oh well. Guess he's done being weird."

And then tonight I peek into the bathroom just to make sure he's actually in the tub, scrubbing the bod. He's in the tub, alright. Upside-down, feet in the air. Head submerged, blowing bubbles like crazy. A perfect 10 headstand, just like his Noni taught him.

So the update, just in case you're wondering: He's totally not done being weird.



P.S. There's no picture to verify this behavior. You'll have to take my word for it. Please accept the charming shot above instead.

P.P.S. I'm pretty sure that Noni had nothing to do with him attempting this maneuver while submerged.

New Kid

There was a new kid in school today.

He called himself Transformer.



He was a little intimidating at first,



but he ended up being surprisingly good-natured and docile.

Once he figured out how to use his eyes, he buckled down and got right to work.



I wonder if he'll be back again tomorrow.

Oh, Aidan. Further chronicles involving artichokes, a trash can and karate.

The other night I went to check on Aidan while he was taking a bath. He's usually pretending to scuba dive whenever I pop my head in on bath night, and, sure enough, he was submerged and swimming as much as a kid can submerge and swim in a bathtub. The only difference this time was that he had added goggles to his ensemble. Or maybe I should say goggle. I think that's what they're called when there's only one gog. His head surfaced and he squinted through that gog with a bewildered and disoriented look on his face. He must have really been taking his dive seriously.

Indeed, Aidan has a unique outlook on a number of things. I give you the next installment of Aidan's quips and queries.

*The other evening, Aidan asked what we were having for dinner. When I told him we were having Chicken in a Hurry, he was less than thrilled: "So it's a dead chicken and artichoke hearts? I don't like any of those things."

*A recent conversation with dad included the following remark: "I don't think I'd take karate because I don't like getting hit in the face and I like to protect all of my parts."

*The guys were watching a college football game. The marching band at halftime really made an impression on Aidan: "Boy, those guys all sure know their shapes."

*Aidan was feeling a bit under the weather. He asked if I would take his temperature, "'Cause I don't feel awesome, like I usually am." I took his temperature and tucked the sniffly boy in bed. After checking to see that he had a box of Kleenex and a trash can nearby, I prepared to leave the room. He wasn't satisfied. "I feel like I don't have enough supplies." I wasn't sure what more I could offer. He suggested that medicine might help. "I like Tylenol . . . ."

*I found my bedroom trash can in a rather warped state of being after the above mentioned sniffles had run their course. Naturally, I went to Aidan to do some questioning. He confessed, "I wanted to see if it was the kind of metal that was hard or the kind that squishes. It's the kind that squishes."

Stay tuned. I can almost guarantee that there will be more where that came from.

Oh, Aidan.

Aidan finds a new use for my tea cozy.

I have dozens of notebooks lying around. A few of them are dedicated solely to my children's quirky phrases and "isms." Lately, Aidan has been on a roll. I wish I could follow him all day with a video camera. He's a funny kid. His comments start out heading in one direction. Then he takes a seemingly sudden detour and finishes his thought with a totally unexpected line. His deadpan remarks kill us. I thought I'd let him kill you today, too.

* One afternoon, Aidan came down wearing my heels. My eyebrows shot up and he explained, "I wanted to see what it will be like when I'm nine." He figured that's about how much taller he'd be in two years. As he wobbled off he assured me, "I'll be more balanced, though."

* Again he approached me one day, out of the blue. He got really close to my face and asked, "How are my freckles comin' along?" (He's really hoping to be blessed with sprinkles like his sister, Bethie, and cousin, Ethan.)

* A little while ago we were pulling out of the parking lot at Ross. I saw a very distressed man wringing his hands and wandering aimlessly. I wanted to help, but felt somewhat uncomfortable since I was alone with the children. When I noticed that he was talking on a cell phone and also interacting with a person parked nearby, I figured he could at least summon help if need be. My help probably wasn't necessary. I explained all of this to the children, wanting them to understand the importance of exercising both compassion and safety. I continued by saying that I might have felt more comfortable helping a woman. I was proud of my gallant Aidan who said he would help a woman, too. His reason, however, left me speechless. "I would only help a woman because a man is smarter than a woman and would know what to do."

Just you wait, 'Enry 'Iggins. Just you wait.