... This is your Christmas on drugs

Anyone who knows me well or who's been reading here for a few years knows that A) my mom died 10 days before Christmas many years ago; and B) I get VERY blue this time of year. And bonus — C) Many, many years ago, my mom and I sat in a hospital in Lincoln, Neb., and watched as my grandmother slowly succumbed to sepsis, dying two days after Christmas.

In case you've never seen anyone go septic, let me tell you: It has got to rank up there as one of the worst ways to watch someone die. IT IS AWFUL. I've seen it twice and hope to never, EVER see it again.

So, yeah. Just not my favorite time of year. I usually fall into a very deep funk that I end up clawing my way out of sometime between right after Thanksgiving and early January.

And I am really happy to say that this year is different.

For starters, we started decorating a couple of days after Thanksgiving, and over the course of that weekend, we put up all our decorations (not many, mind you — a self-professed Scrooge does not acquire much in the way of holiday festivity), went and bought our tree, and put up a record number of lights outside the house. We even took the boys to a Christmas movie and, afterward, drove them over to a nearby park and ran in the cold and crispy darkness under all the lit trees, laughing and enjoying watching the boys scream with utter joy.

And I did not shed a single tear. And I think I can safely say — and Jerry would confirm — that I didn't even get a little grumpy.

It's a damn Christmas miracle.

No. Really.

So why the change? Well, there are probably a few reasons, chief among them the fact that for the better part of a year, I have been taking anti-depressants. It's probably not something I should be announcing on this here blog, but I'll be damned if I feel the slightest bit of shame or embarrassment about it. Here's the deal: I was sad. I needed help. I finally — FINALLY — went out and got some.

Depression is something I have suffered from my entire life, or at least my entire adult life. It's a bitch to wake up one day and know that life is gonna suck for an indeterminate amount of time. And to know that, for approximately six to eight weeks at the end of every year, you're gonna want to crawl under a blanket and not come out.

At best, that's what it felt like.

And last year was pretty bad. So, at the end of December, I just decided enough was enough and I was going to take control of my life. I've done that in more ways than one this year, and it has had some interesting effects and led me down some interesting paths, but it started, I believe, that day when I finally acknowledged that I needed help. And if that help was gonna come in the form of a little white pill and a few of my hard-earned dollars going to the evil pharma-industry, then so be it.

If you suffer from depression, let me encourage you to take the same steps I did. I mean, it's not like I walk around all day singing about lollipops and envisioning happy puppies jumping under rainbows. Good god, it hasn't changed me THAT significantly — I'm still prone to making sarcastic remarks without the slightest provocation, I still get grumpy, I'm your girl if you want to sit in a public place and make fun of people, I still roll my eyes at some of my wonderful husband's Pollyanna-esque worldviews — but it has changed my world significantly.

And chief among the visible evidence of that change is that I have enjoyed this last week very much. I've enjoyed watching the boys delight at every little colored light, every jingle bell. Smiled as they played with the Christmas village that belonged to my mom. Felt a rush of excitement as Jerry climbed a 30-foot ladder approximately 30 times to string lights up near our roof.

I am a little sad, to be honest, to be leaving my fellow members of the Scrooge Club behind. They are the minority this time of year, and it was a pretty fun group of people to be aligned with (the depressed are often wickedly funny, you know ...).

But I can't say I miss the black fog.

So there's my Christmas gift — good drugs that work. I need nothing else.

And I think Rogene Scott would be pretty damn happy about this development.

Brain explosion

This'll be quick, because I didn't get enough sleep last night, and I need to nap before going out for dinner with a friend tonight, but ...

Wilder's brain is exploding lately.

A little backstory: Yesterday, after we came home from school, I opened up Wilder's backpack to find his homework for over Thanksgiving week. They wanted us to work with our kids on writing stories. Essentially, they are to draw pictures from their days and then write a couple of sentences about it. I thought, "Hmmm, not sure he's ready for this. Should be interesting."

This morning, my niece Allie came over to watch the boys. When we got back, they were in our backyard. I went out to say hi and there was Wilder, writing a sentence on the sidewalk: "The big monster had wrath" — or, "The bing mostr had ratth." (The homework notes stressed that spelling is NOT important — what is important is that they are learning to express themselves and feel confidence in their abilities to tell a story ... as a writer myself, I love this.)

At any rate, I was very excited that he'd taken that initiative on his own w/o any input from Jer or I. He continued to think up words and spell them the way he thought they were spelled. He even wrote "Thanksgiving."

I know this is normal for kids ... it's just really so cool to experience your own kid doing it.

Just now we got home after a trip to the Butterfly Pavilion and after lunch the boys ran outside to play for a bit. Jerry went to check on them and then came and got me: "Kris, come see this picture Wilder is drawing."

For the first time, he drew a picture of a person complete with a head, a torso, two legs, two arms and feet. This is a first. And for a boy who just last week told me he couldn't draw a picture of a bee, this is pretty cool. His art teacher gave him very high marks on his report card, and I think he's getting a lot of confidence both from her and from school in general.

I should also mention that Hunter is writing all kinds of letters now and even spelling his own name. He never spells it correctly, but the point is he trying and his handwriting is amazingly legible for a 3-year-old.

I'm gonna go take some picture of all this and post later. I'm just being a proud mom. Indulge me :-)

The wily reframing of meaning

"Servant! ... SERVANT!!" This is Wilder, yelling like Ghengis Khan.

Silence.

"SSEERRVVAANNTT!"

Me: "Whose you're servant?"

Wilder: "You."

Me: "Um, no. Not on any level."

Wilder: "OK. Hunter, you're my servant!"

Hunter: "Nope. No I'm not."

Wilder, adopting a matter-of-factness quality in his voice: "Um, Hunter ... servant means you're a really good master."

Hunter: "Oh. OK. I'll be the servant."

Wilder, continuing his dictatorial tone: "SERVANT! COME HERE!"

A herky for W (figuratively ... I can't actually do herkies!)

A full week of two thumbs up. Wilder is hitting his kindergarten stride, and I couldn't be more proud. More bumps in the road will come, but for now, we're on smooth ground and we're feeling good about it.

Dear older Wilder: Never forget what a great kid you are. You consistently rise to the challenge. You listen and you make changes. You know you can be a leader and you're working toward that.

I love you, kiddo.

That's all.

Banner day

I try not to come on here too often and brag about my kids. But today was an exceptionally good day, especially for Wilder, so I'm gonna give him some public kudos.

First off, we had our very first double-thumbs-up day at school. I do realize that pretty much every day should be that kind of day at school, but he's been struggling with the transition ... so much so that there have been multiple principal's office visits and a string of emails back and forth between his teacher, the principal and Jerry and I trying to figure out the best course of action.

Anyway, without going into too much detail about how this has transpired, let's just say it started off mildly amusing, then I got frantic and very stressed, then I realized all I could do was all I could do, and as long as I was doing that, it would all turn out OK eventually.

We're not there yet, but we made a great stride today. He had a fantastic day, so much so that his teacher seemed in mild shock about it. It's our first double-thumbs-up day, and it's a pretty big deal for all of us — especially after about eight weeks of fingers crossed and silent intonations of "oh please don't let him have done something awful today ..."

So yeah, that was great. But that wasn't the coolest thing Wilder did today ...

So, where we grocery shop, there is a relatively new bagger named Danny. Danny has Down's Syndrome and, I found out today, he also has quite a stutter. I really feel for this kid. On the other hand, Danny is hilarious. He picks up each and every food item you buy and studies it intently. Then he either puts it in the bag with no fanfare, scowls furiously and tut-tuts whatever it is you're forcing him to touch and then puts it in the bag, or — this is the best part — he tosses it aside and refuses to bag it. He never talks ... he just silently judges you.

It is a freakin' comedy routine. Unintentional, I know, but nonetheless it cracks me up. I try to get in his line just to see it.

So today, he started off the same way. He picked up my bread choice, studied it, wrinkled his nose a bit and put it in a bag.

Then Wilder decided he wanted to help Danny, so he started handing him our groceries. At first, the kid was flustered. It was messing up not only his rhythm, but it was screwing with his ability to judge my purchases. I tried to gently tell Wilder that Danny had his own way of doing things and he should let him do it himself. But Wilder would not be deterred, and Danny became rather charmed by this kid who was trying to help him. By the end of it all, Wilder was handing him almost everything he put in the bag, and Danny was trying to tell me his life story (it was honestly very hard to understand him with the stutter, so I regret I cannot report any of it here).

When we left, I told Wilder it was nice of him to help bag the groceries.

"That guy seemed like he might be having a hard time," Wilder said. "So I wanted to help him."

It made me proud. Wilder has never really seen people's differences as something to either make a remark about or be frightened of, and I love that about him. In fact, when Danny was telling me his life story, I couldn't really understand a word he said, and I was feeling pretty awkward and frankly was also looking forward to getting out of there.

But not Wilder — he was just shoving onions and breakfast cereals in his face.

Love that kid.

PS. Of course, it's not really true that Wilder never notices differences. As we were preparing to catch our plane the other day, he saw an airport employee wheel a woman onto another flight's boarding ramp. "She needs a ride because she'd old," he says. "And that makes her slow." Then he looked around and remarked: "Uh oh, there are a ton of old ladies getting on our flight. This is gonna take forever!" I looked sheepishly at the woman sitting across from us. "It's OK," she said with a smile. "I'm just glad he didn't look at me before he said that."

When Lady Gaga and Photo Booth collide

The Summerlands Grandma

Yesterday was my mom's birthday. She would have been 68. In December she will have been gone 11 years. In totality, grief gets easier with time. In fleeting moments, or at times when her wisdom or love is much needed, not so much. I can still miss her as much as I did as I sat in that hospital room with her that last time and watched her take her last breath. Grief ... it's like an old healed wound that's much too prone to reopening. An old cliché, but one that hits it on the head.

So yeah, her birthday. And then there's also this situation going on right now — something that I can't decide if I should write about or not. A situation that could benefit from her living, breathing presence. Her wit, her wisdom, her ability to tell me to calm the hell down and stop freaking out so much. She told me many, many times in my life that I was being too hard on myself, and I suspect she would tell me that now.

Anyway, none of that is either here nor there. The point is that because of these circumstances, I am missing her. Very, very much. And because of her recent birthday, I have been talking to the boys more about her. And then there is this not-so-little fascination that the boys and I have with the song "American Pie" right now. They tell me the line, "This'll be the day that I die" — it saddens them. And the softer, slower melodies at the beginning and end of the song sadden them, too. But their love of the rest is enough to account for repeated plays. I think they also love that I sing my freakin' heart out every time that song is on. They try to sing along.

But yes, the talk of long-gone grandmothers, the theme of death in what is currently their favorite song. Well, it all leads to big things on the minds of small people. Yesterday, as we sang and rode home in the car, Hunter asked me three times: "Mama? Did my grandma die? Does she live in the Summerlands now?"

We call heaven "the Summerlands." It's more evocative, I guess, and more grounded in realistic language for the boys — and so that's what we call it. And I suppose I'll call it that when they're older, too. I like it better than "heaven," though truthfully I don't believe in either. But boys ... they need to believe until they are old enough to make up their minds in other ways.

And believe they do. Tonight, as I watched TV, a freshly bathed Hunter carried one of my old flip cell phones downstairs and handed it to me.

"Here, Mama. Call your mama." (He didn't even say call Grandma ... he said "call your mama.")

"Oh honey, I wish I could."

"You can, Mama. It's a special phone. It can call the Summerlands."

"You are so sweet, Hunter. But I don't think I have that number. I wish I did. I really do, kiddo."

And so, just when I thought I could not miss her more ...

There is no good way to end this post.

Brotherly Love

I'm listening to Wilder and Hunter play in Wilder's room right now. And I hear this, from Hunter:

"It's OK, Wilder. Really. It's OK. Don't cry. I love you."

Man, they make my heart melt sometimes.

Worry

Wilder heard the song "American Pie" a couple of weeks ago, and he's been singing and humming the main refrain ever since. You know it:

So bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And good 'ol boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singing 'This'll be the day that I die ....'

Today, on a drive to a nearby place to play, the boys and I decided to listen to the whole song. And, of course, that refrain is repeated many times throughout the song, along with many other lyrics. We're nearing the end of the song, as well as nearing our destination, and Hunter pipes up loudly from the back seat:

"Mama? What's whiskey?"

The whole damn song and that boy asks that question. I mean, he could ask dozens of other things. What's a Chevy? What's a levee? What's a swelter? What's a fallout shelter? (This post is starting to sound very Seussian ...)

Anyway, the fact that he asked about whiskey explains a lot in terms of why Jerry and I worry about him sometimes. He has this knack for zeroing in on the very thing you hope he won't. Like how he grabs my friends' breasts sometimes. He could touch their hair, or ask them what color eyes they have.

But nope. It's the breasts.

Sigh.

So I answered his question: "It's something grown-ups drink sometimes."

H: "Can it make you sick?"

Seriously, how does he know this stuff?

"Yes, honey. It can make you sick. Very, very sick."

Oh Hunter honey ... I am going to have to keep a very, very close eye on you. Because you remind me of me. And that scares the living daylights out of me.

Remembering 9/11

I was sleeping in a friend's house on 9/11, having just attended the wedding of another dear friend, when my friend's mom called to wake us up to tell us the awful news. We were supposed to get on a return plane to Dallas that day. I remember sitting on my friend's bed and later on her couch, in disbelief, tears following tears for most of the day. Jerry and I stayed in Denver for, I believe, five days longer than planned. I went back to the Rocky Mountain News to work for a few of those days … it was all I knew how to do in times like this, with news like this. It helped. But one memory shines through from that time: Upon returning home on a plane a few days after the horror, I felt like everyone on that plane was somehow bonded. We all agreed before takeoff that, should something bad happen, we'd all open up a major can of whoop-ass together. We sat next to a woman in her 80s who was on her way to South America for volunteer work. She also pledged to smack the hell out of anyone who might be on the plane to do us harm, and I liked her immediately. She told us she would spend the night in the airport, on the floor, waiting for her next plane. No way, I thought. We took her home with us, and she spent the night and took us out to breakfast the next morning. We kept in touch for a couple years after that, but have since lost touch. I think everyone on that plane that day gave each other a little piece of returned faith in humanity. Ten years later, I miss that feeling of being in this together, for better or for much, much worse. Wish we could get a bit of that back.

PANIC

I think I can safely say I now know the true meaning of that word.

Wilder has school on Fridays; Hunter does not. So we all three walked into school this morning and, when we got there, Wilder did what he usually does, which is throw me his backpack and run off to play on the playground. Some of the other kindergarten moms have commented on this, on how totally unafraid he seems and how independent he is. A lot of the other kindergarteners stick close by their moms or get into line and wait. Anyway, this morning, Hunter initially went with Wilder, but when a bunch of kids started showing up, I grabbed H and we went to wait for the school bell to ring. At Wilder's school, they line up with their classmates and their teachers come out to get them, so when the bell rings, all the kids stop whatever they're doing and run to get in line.

So the bell rings. And I start looking for Wilder. The last week or so, he's been slow to get moving once he hears the bell, so this morning I talked to him about how I needed him to speed it up. "Okay," he said, and that was that.

So I'm looking for him. And waiting. And ... nothing. He's not headed toward his line. So I grab Hunter's hand and we start heading for the playground. He's not there.

I walk as fast as having a 3-year-old in tow will let me to make sure I didn't miss him getting into line. Maybe he's already there? Nope. His teacher looks at me and mouths, "Where's Wilder?" I tell her I can't find him. "You lost him?" she asks. OK, now I feel like crap and I'm starting to really freak out. Thanks.

So she tells me to go look more and she's going to take the kids in and come back.

I head back to the playground and — of course — sirens start going off a couple of blocks away. I frantically search all the nooks and crannies on the playground, hollering his name as loud as I can. It was at this point, I think, that I gave into pure panic and fright. I could not get those sirens out of my head. I was torn between running toward them and running toward the school office, and I thought: "I have to call Jerry!" So I grabbed my phone to call him.

And a strange number came up on my screen.

"Hello???"

"Hi, is this Kristi? This is Anna at Birch ..." Pause.

It was all I could do to not scream into the phone: "DO YOU HAVE MY BABY!!!!???"

"Wilder is here. He cut himself above the eye and ... garble garble garble ..."

Of COURSE the phone is breaking up.

I tell her I'm on my way and start heading toward the office.

It's at this point that I realize I've totally freaked Hunter out. "Is Wilder OK? Where is he???" he starts asking me.

I assure him his brother is fine, and then I see Wilder's teacher, heading toward me. "Did you find him?" she asked. Genuine concern on her face now, so I'm forgiving the "You lost him?" comment.

Anyway, she gets me into the school and I cut through the building, fighting tears, to get to the office. There's the boy, looking very small and vulnerable with a slightly bleeding cut above his eyebrow, dirt on his face, sitting there while the principal fixes his glasses. She hands me a tissue. Hunter hugs his brother. All is OK now and yet I can't stop crying.

A friend of mine just called and asked why the person who took him into the office didn't try to find me first. Here's what I think happened: A lot of the older kids, their parents just drop them off at school and head off. And Wilder looks so much older than a kindergartener, and I think someone just assumed he didn't have a parent there. And then the principal, who knows him (there's a story for another time ...), saw him and had someone call me, knowing I would probably be totally losing it.

So now I'm home, and it occurs to me that while we were walking to school this morning, Wilder gave me one of those fuzzy dandelion flowers and told me to blow it and make a wish. Well, I've been in a funk this week ... a pretty major one. Not sure why, but it happens sometimes this time of year. My mom's birthday is coming up and we just moved into a new house and my kiddo started kindergarten and I miss her. I want her to tell me it's OK that Wilder has already been sent to the principal's office (again, another story ...) and I want her to help me pick out paint colors and all that. So when I blow that dandelion fuzz, I wish this: "Let this funk go away and let this be an awesome day."

Sometimes, it takes a little perspective to realize again how amazing and easy you actually have it. My kid is fine. He's safe, and nothing else — nothing else — matters.

So yes, the funk is gone. Thanks universe, for answering my wish in such a awfully instructive way. I am paying attention, I promise.

Oh, and one more thing ... remember that cut above Wilder's eye I told you about? Guess what today is? Picture day! Yep, my little guy's gonna look like a tough little dude in his kindergarten school picture. This makes me kinda happy.

Kindergarten Eve

Wilder starts kindergarten tomorrow. I wish I had more time to write a blog post, but we are moving this weekend and I am in last-minute mode. Or, as my father would say: The alligators are nipping at my ass.

So I just want to write a bit about how proud I am of him. He has already weathered a lot in his short life. Going on his fourth house, his fourth school, two states, the introduction of a very mercurial baby brother ... it's OK, Hunter, I'm mercurial too, btw.

At any rate, I will reflect on all this change and madness next week. But I am quite sure that tomorrow, as we go through our morning routine and as we drop him off in his classroom at school, that I will have to use every ounce of willpower I've got to keep myself from crying. He is not entirely unaffected by all this change ... he's more nervous and scared than I've ever seen him in approaching a new situation. Which is still not that much — but for him, enough to make me hurt for him. So if I cry ... well, no good.

So I'll hold it together. And then I'll bawl after we leave. And then I'll just pack some more.

Life goes on. Love you so so so so so so so much, Wilder. Good luck tomorrow kiddo.

The new Casa de la Familia Scott

For those of you who are interested, here's a picture of our new house.

It doesn't show the inside, but it will eventually have white walls, gleaming hardwoods, kitchen cabinets painted with a nice modern and sophisticated color, and all my (eventually) mid-century modern furniture. It's not a MCM on the outside (hello columns!), but I will make it freaking kick-ass on the inside, little by little. Believe me, I've already been ALL OVER Etsy planning my purchases.

Check it out! How much does that cat mugshot rock? And those coffee tables ... WANT.

Also, note that the driveway is pretty much a full-size basketball court, so we will be mounting a basketball goal up above there as soon as we're able. And an aside to my brother Jay: "You. Me. H-O-R-S-E ... it's on!"

You can't really tell from the pictures, but the back yard is pretty awesome. It has a nice deck with a sun shade, a great patio for relaxing with a cold drink or having dinner al fresco (the sellers have even sold us their patio furniture), and a built-in grill for charcoal-fired dinners. We're hoping to move the pretty shed off to the side of the yard so we can set up soccer goals and such back there for the boys to go crazy with. Yep, that back yard is gonna kick some major ass six months out of the year.

Wilder's damn good questions, Vol. 3: What is the biggest thing on Earth?

Tonight's question was just that: "What is the biggest thing on Earth?"

I didn't know the answer to this, so I had to look it up. It's the earth's atmosphere.

"What's atmosphere?"

Luckily I had done my research and answered this with more than "the stuff we can't see that surrounds the earth."

This all turned into a discussion of science: fungi, bacteria, animals, plants, etc. We found out there's a fungus that is actually the largest living thing on earth. It's referred to as Armillaria ostoyae, the honey mushroom, or — my personal favorite — humongous fungus (which is also what I'll name my band should I ever form one).

We also talked about the biggest dinosaurs: Argentinosaurus is thought to be the largest (the seismosaurus and ultrasaurus are common guesses, as well).

It's pretty cool what you learn when you have a kid that asks questions like this all the time. There's a worm called the bootlace worm that washed up on the shores of Scotland in 1864. 180 feet long. Yuck.

Next we'll be breaking out the microscope and ordering bacteria slides, because he's DYING to see stuff like this.

He watches the Science Channel a lot now.

Lord do I love my little geek. So handsome, so smart and so very sweet.

Wilder's damn good questions, vol. 2 (and some answers)

Or attempts at answers, I should say.

As Wilder was going to bed tonight, he fired off a barrage of questions, presumably to avoid actually having to shut his eyes and attempt sleep.

And so it goes:

"Hey mom, what would happen if there was no grass in the world?"

"Well, no one would ever get high," I responded.

Kidding.

"There would be no cows," Jerry said.

Wilder: "What would happen if there was no ground?"

Jerry: "Everyone would fall to the center of the earth and burn up and die."

Yes, he actually said that.

Me, casting a dirty look at Jerry: "OR, we'd just all have to swim because the Earth would be covered in water." (Thoughts of 'Waterworld' now in my head ... dammit!)

Wilder: "What would happen if there were no mouths?"

Me, before Jerry could tell him we'd all starve to death: "What would we eat with, what would we talk with, smile with, laugh with?"

Sometimes, it's best to answer these questions with a question, I've discovered.

"What if there were no noses?"

"What would be breathe with, smell with?"

"What would happen if there was no hair?"

"We'd be pretty cold."

"What would happen if there was no light?"

"It would be very dark and scary. That's why we have electricity and the sun and even the moon gives us light." (Yes, I know that's actually still the sun's light ... knowitalls.)

"What if there was no sun?"

"Well, we'd die. Everything on the Earth would die."

Crap, now I'm answering him like Jerry! Quick ...

"But the sun's not going anywhere."

"Umm, Mom ... you need to go pee. Go pee."

He's right, of course. I'm dancing around his room like a mad woman, waiting for the questions to end. He always knows, just like his father does, when I have to go pee. And he permits me to take leave so that I can. He's sweet like that. Also, I don't think he wants me peeing on his floor.

So that was the end of the night's questions. I'm pretty sure if my bladder had not saved me I'd still be up there answering more, probably something along the lines of "What if there were no galaxies" or "What would happen if the Universe imploded?" The longer the line of questioning goes on, the more fatalistic it tends to get.

By the by, Jerry just came downstairs and announced, quizzically, "Wilder's very concerned I'm going to fall into a fire and die."

Uhh ... dude? Duh.

Anyway, you'll notice that I'm now being addressed as "Mom." Jerry is still sometimes "Papa," but he's also "Pop" a lot more now, too. And that tooth he lost a couple of weeks ago? The new one has already popped through the surface.

And kindergarten starts in a month.

Sneef SNEEF. Our boy is growing up ... so fast.

Wilder's damn good questions, vol. 1

I'm going to try to make a series out of these ... these questions that Wilder asks us on a regular basis now. They are almost always, in my opinion, thought-provoking.

A few that I remember from the past few days:

"What would the sun taste like?" (And, of course, "What would the moon taste like?")

"What is bigger than a giant?"

"What is smaller than a piece of dust?"

"What is God? Where is God?"

"What would happen if there were no people in this world?"

"What would happen if all the birds died?"

"What would happen if there were no cars in this world?"

"What do ants eat?"

"What would it be like if there was no food?"

"What is sunshine made out of?"

"Who makes the wind blow?"

"Hunter, why do you sit in the middle of the stairs when people are trying to walk through here???"

That's all I can remember for now. More to come, no doubt — he's a very curious kid.

Heartache

Funny morning. For some reason I woke up wanting to hear Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." So I put it on, and the music player happened to already be on repeat, so the song just kept playing over and over again. Have you ever paid attention to the words of this song? It's genuinely heartbreaking, and the lyrics have quite a deep meaning for me. So there was that ... the repetition of the song left me feeling more than a little fragile as I headed out to take the boys to school. (Yes, I could have just turned it off, but there's something about a song like that ... I just can't do it.)

When I got to the school, I saw a couple embracing just outside the school door, the woman wiping away tears behind sunglasses, her husband whispering in her ear. You don't have to be a rocket scientist to know what this means — any mom who's ever had to leave her baby at a new place for a first time ... it is so amazingly hard.

The boys have been going to this school since last September and I've never seen that at this particular school before.

So Wilder and I dropped Hunter off at his classroom and headed down to the east side of the building where Wilder's class is. You have to walk by all the other classrooms to get there. Wilder skipped ahead and I saw a father rounding the hallway's bend with a look in his eye. And, sure enough, I rounded that bend myself to see another mom, that man's wife, in tears. Only this time she was a Middle Eastern woman, her head and most of her face covered, and I could only see her eyes. And I could hear her little boy, probably one year old, sobbing behind the closed door, and her, unable to walk away yet, standing outside that door and looking at her boy through the tiny window. And I looked at this mom's eyes and oh my god it broke my heart. I just wanted to go give her a big hug.

And how strange that I've not witnessed that particular scenario one time in 10 months and then twice in one day ... I feel for those women, and it also reminds me of how incredibly deep our bonds with our mothers are. And now I'm sitting here missing mine so very much. Ten years and my mom's utterly unavoidable absence can still elicit this much heartache.

Anyway, by now I'm sure both of those moms are fine. But I'm a wreck. Damn you Cohen!

Addendum: One little detail I left out — as we saw that second mom, Wilder was walking down the hall in front of me singing "Hallelujah." I love that kid.

Memorial Day 2011

I think it was 1967 when my dad, Jon P. Scott, went to Vietnam. That means that before I was born in 1972, all the members of my family had already sacrificed, knowingly or unknowingly, quite a bit.

There was Dad, of course, a member of the Air Force who spent his tour in Vietnam driving transport trucks, which were often a target of the enemy because of the important things they carried. He risked life and limb nearly every day doing his job and serving his country.

My mom, Rogene, was pregnant, raising one preschooler to-be on her own. She gave birth while my dad was serving his country and then parented both Tara and Jay alone for the better part of a year. As a mom of two boys similar in age difference to my sister and brother, I know how very, very difficult this would have been for her. It's important to note she was around 24 years old at this point. I front a lot like I'm some tough girl — believe me, I have NOTHING on Rogene Scott.

My sister, Tara, at the very wee age of 2, saw her daddy go off to war. Anyone who's ever seen a little girl with her father knows how hard this must have been for her.

And Jay, my brother, didn't meet our dad until he was 8 months old. I try to imagine Wilder or Hunter not meeting Jerry until then ...

And they all sacrificed these things because my dad felt the importance of serving his country, even at the risk of losing his life. So today, Memorial Day, I just want to recognize the things that they all sacrificed. It's easy 40-something years later to gloss over these facts and think, "Oh, that was all a long time ago ..." But it shaped our family, both then and even now, I think. And, as that lucky third child born in 1972 oblivious to it all, I just want to tell my Pop, sister, brother and my much-missed Mama how much I love them.

Master Sunshine and DJ Moonbeam

Umm, Jonas Brothers they are not.

So, Wilder and Hunter have been regaling Jerry and I with their "music." It involves what appears to be thrash-metal/punk songs composed by Wilder, with titles such as, "I Almost Saw the Fire" and "ThunderDrums." Hunter throws in his support and backing vocals — mostly a remix hardcore version of the Scooby Doo theme song, followed by beating the nearest toy (in this case Buzz Lightyear) into a pulp with his "guitar."

So, yeah ... not the Jonas Brothers. But based on what just came out of Wilder's mouth, maybe Liam and Noel Gallagher. Hunter was trying to nail down a drum solo, and W hollered "You're RUINING MY BAND!!!!" at him.

ADDENDUM: The title of this post is an inside joke, but a very poor band name, so if anyone has suggestions, by all means ...

The Brothers Scott Bi-annual Photo Shoot

Every February and August, I try to take pictures of the boys together. I think as they grow older, I'll be so happy I did this. I hope they treasure them someday, too.

So today we took some pictures. It's so hard to get them to sit still, but we usually manage to get a few decent shots (out of dozens). Soon I'm hoping to get some of pictures printed and put up in frames in our house. So let me know which your favorites among this bunch are.

Hope everyone is well!

Hunter: Taking poops, talking fancy

I feel I can say with some certainty that my near future contains no diapers at all. Hunter has pooped three out of the last four days on the POTTY. If there is not a dance that exists in the world that celebrates solely the act of a toddler finally catching on to the toilet concept, someone should invent one.

In other news, Hunter, who hates for me to wear my hair in a ponytail or bun, told me yesterday: "Mama, take your hair down. The sun doesn't shine on you when you wear it like that."

As Jerry says: "That kid's got a real inventive way with words." I hope I've got a future writer on my hands ...

Monday rambling

Well, here I am getting ready to take boy No. 2 (W) into the doctor with what I assume is strep throat. Hunter had it last week (along with an ear infection, poor kid), and now it appears it's made its way onto the next kiddo. We've gone a long time without anything major, illness-wise, so I'll just keep this in perspective. It can ALWAYS get worse.

And, in fact, life has been pretty good lately. Wilder is going through one of those periods when he seems to think the sun rises and sets upon me. He tells me he loves me about 10 times a day. He told me last night he wanted to marry me when he grows up (a little odd, I know, but I think this is a normal declaration for boys?). Yesterday, at the shoe store, he found this gigantic heart necklace that he was absolutely despondent that I wouldn't let him "buy" for me (I told him that my birthday is coming up and he and his papa would have to go shopping and he could pick me something out then). "But I love you so much, Mama ... I want you to have this big heart necklace!"

Just so darn sweet.

Not much else is going on. I'm hitting the home sites hard again looking for our future home. Discouraging. I know we'll find something, I just really want what I want this time (given that I hope we don't move again for many, many years) and am having trouble finding it. Actually, I did find the perfect house for us, but unfortunately I don't have a couple extra hundred thousand dollars lying around. Darn.

Oh well. Hard work will prevail. Seems to me it almost always does, and home-searching seems to be my second part-time job these days. So we'll see.

Gotta take the kid to the doctor. Signing off ...

Buddies ...

Here's a great picture of Hunter and his friend Peyton on the tire swing at the park yesterday.

More hiking in the snow

A link to some pictures from our latest hike.

Pretend games

Right now, as I type, the boys are playing one of their favorite games to play together. It involves gathering almost all the pillows and blankets in the house (including couch cushions, bed linens, etc. ... it'll take us quite awhile to return them to their original destinations later), and then making "beds" for themselves on the floor or elsewhere (right now, Hunter is on the floor and Wilder is on the train table).

I have no idea why this game appeals to them so much, or why it is they get along so well (mostly) whenever they play it. I guess it has to do with Wilder being happy to take the lead and play the "nurturer" who puts his little brother to bed, and Hunter being happy to be doted on by his big brother.

And I like it because they are quiet when they play it and, for the most part, they get along. Which, of course, doesn't always happen. They're pretty typical brothers in that they love each other immensely, but just can't seem to keep themselves from screwing with each other's heads most of the time.

Anyway, I just wanted to make this post so that, when they're 17 and 15 and doing whatever it is that boys that age do, I can remember that they played this little game. It's so sweet.

Brrrrrrr

Thirteen degrees outside (feels like 4 degrees with windchill) and the boys are out there romping in our snowy back yard. I have no doubt this will end with some tears, but for now, at least, they're having a ball. Oh, and Betty's out there, too. That dog loves her some snow.

UPDATE FOR PHOTOS:


Playing in the snow.


Wilder peering in the window at me.


The boys found this guy on our deck railing. I have a sneaking suspicion someone I'm married to put him out there to be found.

That's a lotta love

Wilder: "I love my Little Puppy very, very, very, very, VERY much. And I love YOU even more than that!"

Wherein I rediscover the beauty of loaned books

Here is a sight that warms my heart. It's Wilder and Hunter, totally immersed in their library books.

Now I'm embarrassed to admit this. I love words, love a well-crafted story, love illustration, love typography, love design. And I've NEVER taken my kids to the library. Well, there was that one time when Wilder was 1 and I took him to story time and he acted like a crazed psychopath on crack. But I've never taken my kids to the library to just pick out books, pour over them, hang out and smell that amazing smell that comes from having thousands of books in the same building. God I love that smell. When I walked into the library today I literally closed my eyes, smiled and inhaled as deeply as I could.

So now we live pretty much across the street from an amazing library. It's on the same campus as where the boys go to school, and it's been recommended to me by quite a few people. So today I finally decided that enough is enough -- all kids should grow up going to the library and experiencing the wonder that is checking out any book that tickles your brain fancy and taking it home for a week or two. When I was little, I remember my mom taking me and how I LOVED (like, "love" isn't even strong enough a word) to bring home a gigantic stack of books.

We had a great time, saw friends from school and left with 11 books and four movies. It's so great that you can get so many wonderful DVDs from the library now. I know, I know ... I'm late to this particular party, but my enthusiasm is nonetheless in the extreme.

So now I have my card, both the boys have their own library card and we are set up to go at least twice a week (the boys are signed up for library activities on Wednesdays and Thursdays).

Incidentally, one of the reasons they're so happily collapsed in our family room reading books right now is that I dragged them on a very long hike this afternoon. Wilder collapsed on the porch when we got home, proclaiming: "I'm EXHAUSTED!!" My job as a mother is done for the day (pretty much ... there is that part still where I have to feed them).

He loves me, loves me not

A few weeks ago, Hunter would hardly have anything to do with me. "Go away," he'd tell me when I tried to talk to him or cuddle with him. "I love Papa." Of course I hated it, but I knew it was a phase. Last week sometime he started telling me he loved me AND Papa (and sometimes he'd throw Wilder in there for good measure). And then this week, he's all about loving Mama again, sometimes even telling Jerry to go away and professing his love of me. Lately he's even been spontaneously professing his love for me out of the blue.

"Hiding" in bed under the covers. Whisper: "I love you Mama."

Coming up to lean against the computer chair as I work. "I love you, Mama."

Walking through the room I'm in. "Hey Mama ... I love you."

This morning, as Wilder is putting his coat on to go to school, Hunter asks: "I don't go to school today?" Jerry says, "Nope. It's your Mama Day." He gets this goofy grin on his face, walks over to me, sidles up between my knees and wraps himself around me.

It's pretty great.

On Monday he started in a new classroom at his school. It's bigger, with more stuff and older kids, new teacher, all that. We built it up as new toys, new friends, lots of fun, etc. And I expected that it would probably go off without a hitch. I think we're pretty lucky in that both our kids handle change well. Wilder, in fact, has been acting like he's the persecuted one because he DIDN'T get to change classrooms. So anyway, after we'd gotten Hunter settled in his new environment and I'd given him a kiss and hug, told him I loved him and would pick him up later ... all that ... Wilder and I are walking out to go to his old, boring classroom and Hunter runs toward us. "Mama!?" A look on his face that I can't place. Is it panic? Oh no ...

But no. He just wanted another kiss and hug. "I love you, Mama." And turns around, runs back into his class and finds a toy to play with.

A new year, with SNOW!

It finally snowed big here in Colorado. Yesterday we headed out to sled at a nearby park in what, with windchill, had to be temps close to zero. It quickly became clear that Hunter is a cold-weather kid, and Wilder, with the declaration that, "My EYEBALLS are cold" and a few tears, is not. Not yet at least.

Here's a picture of them before we all got so cold we high-tailed it home to lay under blankets and cuddle (well, maybe just Wilder and I ...):



Today is a bit warmer, with a high of 20ish. The boys and I bundled up and took a nice long walk in the snow in the open space behind our house. At one point, a massive bald eagle flew low right over our heads. It was AMAZING.

This afternoon we are taking the sled across the street to what is affectionately referred to in this neighborhood as "Kill Hill," a VERY steep sledding hill. The sky is a deep blue, the air is crisp and the snow is glistening. THIS is why we moved back here, in part.

Happy New Year. May much love, light and good fortune fill your lives in 2011. I'm sincerely just hoping for more sleep. ;-)