Hurt

Yesterday, Hunter had a stomach bug and a high fever, so Jerry took Wilder to school. He told me last night, when he'd gotten home from work, that dropping him off had been unexpectedly emotional. Watching Wilder's first-grade class walking into school, and drawing the inevitable parallels ...

I got what he was saying, but I didn't really get it until this morning, when Hunter was feeling better and so we resumed the norm of H and I taking Wilder to school.

As we walked up, I saw a lot of moms giving their kids lingering hugs. Taking their kids faces in their hands and telling them how loved they are. I, too, gave W an unusually long and tight hug, kissed his head and told him all the usual stuff (be good, have fun, make wise decisions, remember how much I love you ...) and he trotted off to get in line.

I looked around for Hunter to make sure he was still nearby and, seeing him, I looked back to Wilder. And there he stood, with all his first-grade buddies. And I started to cry. It was such a spontaneous response and I instantly wanted to stop — not because I was embarrassed (hell, all us soccer moms, and quite a few dads, are crying a lot more these days, I'm pretty sure — but because I didn't want any of the kids to see me. They need to feel safe at school, and seeing your mom or someone else's mom fall apart outside the school doors doesn't help that.

As I tried to pull myself together, I saw tear-blurred images of innocence. Pink and lavender coats. Little boys huddled around one another, mostly likely discussing all things Ninjago or Skylanders. Backpacks with kitties and Mario. Missing front teeth. Little-boy hair sticking straight up and tangled little-girl hair. Laughter and boisterous talk.

For fuck's sake, what the hell is going on? And how do we make it stop? How do we keep our kids safe in a world gone increasingly mad?

Please stopping is a SKILL, people

Scene: Me, singing Bob Marley

Hunter: PLEASE STOP. Stop singing.

Me: Why? You know, I help pay the mortgage around here. And I'm 40 years old. I think I've earned the right to sing in my own house. Plus, I'm a pretty good singer when I try.

Hunter, silence. And then: Yeah, but I'm a better "please stopper."

Hmph.

Brothers

I've been taking the boys pictures every six months — February and August — since Hunter's first August on Planet Earth. In my mind's eye, they became beautiful framed photos that I could put on the walls so that when I'm an old lady, I can look at them and miss them and forget all the hours upon hours of torture they've put me through. (Note to adult Wilder and Hunter: Well worth it!)

But my mind's eye does not always make it to reality, especially when you spend a lot of time moving, and then moving again.

Now that we're in our forever house (or at least until the boys go off to college and I can start traveling house), I finally gave my mind's eye mass and volume and then put that mass and volume up on the damn walls.

You can see in the third picture down in the photo on the left that Wilder has his arm around Hunter. And in every picture since. This is not forced or staged.

Brothers. Love them. Love that they love each other.

First day, first-grade notes

Wilder walks into school with his friend, Gavin. Photo by Michele Nakari.

Today was the first day of first grade. Wilder was excited to go back to school (well, at least until he found out his brother was going swimming without him while he was there) and was as collected as can be until we turned the last corner.

Kids everywhere. Bikes. Scooters. Kids getting dropped off in cars. Etc.

"I'm a little scared," he said.

"You OK?" I answered.

"Yeah. Scared, but still mostly excited."

Looking "very handsome," as he requested when I fixed his hair.

So on we went. He saw his principal near the front door and wanted to swing near her to say hi. On our way, we were singing some silly little made-up song together. When we got about 20 feet from her and a bunch of fifth-graders whose new job it is to help the flow of the drop-off lane, he says to me: "Shhh. That's enough now."

We say hi to the principal and go on our way. At some point he's grabbed my hand and is clinging pretty tight to it. As we're getting ready to turn the corner toward the back of the school, where they all line up to go in, I glance down at his hand and ask him: "Are you sure you want to be holding my hand?"

"Oh, right." Jerks hand away. "Thanks, mom."

Sometimes it's your job to keep them close. And sometimes it's your job to help them realize they can get a little further away.

My heart both hurt and soared to see him heading into that building. The first day of the next 12 years of going to school every single weekday. It will be a lot less time with that boy that I have loved more each day of the last 2,500 days or so. But he's getting more independent, more comfortable in his own skin, making a little life of his own. And, as someone who has cherished and fiercely guarded my own independence my whole life, I can't help but be so proud and happy for him.

I might post some more photos as soon as I get them downloaded and edited. Sometime this week I'll post more about Hunter and the adventure we're getting ready to embark upon. He's never had me to himself, and it couldn't come at a better time. 

Baseball chronicled

Yes, I am a blogging fool today. I figured since I've basically neglected this space for so many months, I may as well try to pump some life back into it. I plan to post a couple more times today, if the day doesn't get the better of me. We now have a long list of to-dos: work out, take Betty to dog park, go to regular park, lunch, quiet time and then paint.

So below are some photos from Wilder's baseball season. I was his head coach, which was a position I never really felt suited for, but it got more comfortable as the season wore on. And, luckily, I had about five parents who acted as assistant coaches for me.

These photos are taken by my good friend Michele Nakari. She is an amazing shooter. Her son Gavin is Wilder's buddy and Gavin was on the team, too. I'm so psyched to have these memories, so thanks, Michele! Most of the shots are of Wilder, but there are a couple at the end that I just love.

Wilder tags out a runner. This was HUGE.

At bat. He struggled so much at the beginning of the season, but by the end, he was hitting at almost every at bat. I was a proud coach and a prouder mama.

Go buddy!

Headed for first.

High-fiving a coach.

High-fiving another coach (aka "Mom")

Nice baseball duds, eh?

I love this shot so much.

I love this one, too, mostly because I look like a real coach in it. Wilder looks scared, but he wasn't. I was explaining to him that since no one was on second base, he did not have to run unless I told him to. I told him to, he scored, yay!

This is me consoling one of my players, John. He was bummed that he struck out, I think.

When I interviewed for the (volunteer) coach position, the rec coordinator asked me what I hoped to accomplish as a coach. I gave all the usual answers, then told him I hoped the kids would have fun and make lasting friendships. He said no one had ever given him that last bit as an answer before, that he really loved that and that he could tell I was a mom. I think this picture proves that we met that goal. :-) It was, I think, our second to last game.

Brave Wilder

A couple of weeks ago, the boys and I met some friends up at the Broomfield library for a program about space. I can't remember who the speaker was, but a younger scientist guy from Boulder. He was great with the kids and the program was pretty great, too.

At the end of the program, they allowed a limited number of questions from kids in the audience. They chose them all at once and the kids were asked to come line up by the microphone. Wilder's hand immediately shot up. I knew it would. Wilder has a crazy curious mind and asks the best questions. He constantly has me learning new stuff.

So he walks over to the lady with the microphone and somehow ends up first in line (probably because he "cut" — he's delightfully curious, yes, but also completely oblivious to what or who is around him most of the time).

I see him there with that little microphone held up to his face. My heart pounds for him. I am horribly afraid of speaking in front of a huge group of people I don't know.

Anyway, you can see in the video how he did. He told me afterward, "I was scared, but I did it anyway. It took me awhile to get my question out, but I did it."

That boy is not only crazy curious. He is crazy brave. "I was scared, but I did it anyway" ... that is a theme with him right now. I'll tell the roller coaster story another time ...

This morning ...

This picture has nothing to do with this post, but I know most everyone who comes here really comes for photos and not my ramblings, so here are two lovely photos of both my handsome boys. And later today I will be posting more photos from the last few months, including some baseball photos from Wilder's season and more. So come back!

This morning, I had just barely cracked my eyes open and decided to roll out of bed when I heard a voice hollering from our family room downstairs.  "MAMAAAAAAA!?"

I could tell it wasn't an urgent matter, so I ignored it. You see, Wilder has this habit of being EXACTLY LIKE ME and yelling through the house to get someone's attention. A habit I picked up from my own mother. A habit that I abhor in my own self and that I'm trying to break for both Wilder and I. (Jerry, reading this now, is marveling at what he thought was a giant dollop of hypocrisy: "Huh. I didn't realize she knew she does this too.")

Anyway, back to this morning. Wilder continued to put a high-decibel voice to my name. Repeatedly. So I finally gave up and yelled back, willing to have this very loud, multi-level conversation.

"WHAT?"

"(unintelligible YELLING!!!")

"WHAT???"

"IS MY BIRTHDAY IN THREE MONTHS????"

"YES. A LITTLE LESS THAN."

"YES!! AWESOME!!!"

End of conversation. I have no idea what that was about or what prompted it.

So I went on my merry way, doing what I believe 99 percent of the population does upon awakening: I had to pee. Hunter shows up at the door.

"Mama. Who is going to make my coffee milk?"

(Aside: Yes, I let my 4-year-old have a tablespoon of coffee laced with sugar and milk each morning. Go ahead — judge. But I started drinking coffee when I was 4 and look how I turned out. Perfectly fine. Although now that I think about it, this post seems to not be making any point other than that I've let my kids develop my very own bad habits. Oh well, there'll be therapists when they grow up, too.)

So back to H's coffee milk.

Me, in a mood to screw with him now that both boys have made the mistake of actually expecting me to answer questions before my first cup of coffee: "I don't know! Who will make your coffee milk for you???"

Hunter, giving me a look that screams *duh woman you're so dumb*: "You."

Me: "I don't know if I can. I'm not in charge."

You see, Hunter has taken to telling me that I cannot possibly be in charge because PAPA is in charge. He's bigger, you see, and also — presumably — male. There is a definite lean toward sexism in this house lately, with Wilder telling me last week after I declared that one half of two police officers seen talking to each other was a woman. No, women can't be police officers, they insisted. To which I invoked that classic parenting tactic known as giving them a choice: They could either choose to believe their mother that women can indeed be police officers or I would march their butts back there to meet said female police officer and let her know they don't believe she has the chops for her job.

They chose to believe. Good boys.

Anyway, back to coffee (this really is rambling, eh?)

Hunter: "You are in charge. Papa went to work, so now you're in charge."

Me: "But Papa didn't give me permission to make your coffee milk for you, so ..."

Silly me. Thinking I might actually either make a point with Hunter or get him to at least admit that I am, on very often occasion, IN CHARGE DAMMIT. But, alas, this is Hunter I'm dealing with, so ...

"Forget it. I'll make it myself." And off he goes.

Now that right there is a habit of mine I'm proud he's picked up: stubborn independence. 

That Voice You Don't Hear Anymore ...

Despite not having written much about her here since her death, I think of my friend Karen daily. Miss her daily. Wish she were here every day. Wonder "what the hell ..." and "why the hell" and all those things.

Karen and I, CU, 1990 (oh the hair ...)

Tonight, I called her husband, Eric. Since school ended, I've only seen Karen's girls once or twice and I miss them. For those who don't know, Eric has worked his tail off since Karen's death to ready their house for selling so that he, Reagan and Peyton can be closer to his parents and other family. He put the house on the market in early June — it sold in five days. He'll soon be closing and moving, to where I don't know yet. But though he and R&P will still be close enough to visit often, they won't be quite as close. Reagan certainly won't be going to 1st grade five minutes from my house.

Anyway, I called to invite E and the girls over, or to have him drop them off here if he needed some time alone or wanted to do some packing, etc. It's the first time I've called Karen and Eric's home phone since she died. I figured Eric probably wouldn't answer (I screen most of my calls and kind of figure everyone else does, too) ... ... ... and yet ...

I wasn't prepared at all to hear Karen's voice still on the answering machine. Her warm "Hey ..." right at the beginning there.

It socked me right in the gut. To be able to pretend, for a millisecond even, that she's not gone. That I won't ever hear that voice again they way that I want to. When she said, Hey ...," I wanted to say "Hi, how are you? Where have you been? What happened? Why can't you just come back?"

Grief is like that for me. It pretty much reduces me to the mentality and questions of a 5-year-old. Can't you just COME BACK, dammit?

Anyway, I left a message, but not after having to pause for a long time to try to collect myself. I didn't want to hang up, although I almost did. Instead, I left a message, my voice wavering and tears on the ends of my words. Hung up and lost it.

Then it's always to the keyboard. Must type to deal. Must share to deal.

When I sat down, it occurred to me that I never posted the eulogy I spoke at Karen's memorial. I almost did at the time, but it didn't feel right. Karen was a very private person, and it felt too soon and too raw and too something I probably can't define.

But I want to post it now because it speaks so much to how I felt about that girl. I hated writing it, I hated getting up in front of people to say it through tears, I hated that it took that damn occasion to say those things about her, as opposed to to her, while she was still here.

But when I wrote it, I wrote it with so much love and laughter and yes, probably a quart or so of tears.

Anyway, here it is. For you, K, again. Miss you so much.

I met Karen when she was Karen Nalezinek — the new girl at McPhee Elementary, in Lincoln, Nebraska, in the spring of 1979. We were 7 years old. On her first day of school, I was assigned the task of showing her around, pointing out where the library was, helping her navigate the lunchroom, that sort of thing.

I’m pretty sure that was the last time it was ever me showing Karen how things worked in the world.

From then on, it was so often the other way around. Karen was my North Star of a friend. She was dependable. She was constant and consistent. Always there, whether it was for guidance, for advice or just to listen. Karen was a really good listener.

In college, we sometimes jokingly referred to her as “mom.” And I think she sometimes secretly loved it.

But I don’t want to give the impression that Karen couldn’t have fun. She could be a serious person, someone who sat back and observed what went on around her — but she could also, in a big way, let loose. And when it happened, it was like being given a gift. When I think about some of the most fun I’ve had in my life, Karen was usually right there beside me. There will never be a time that I’ll be able to hear the song “Baby Got Back” and not thing of Karen, with her huge smile, cutting a major rug.

Her presence and her friendship are so deeply woven into the details of my life that I find myself wondering how I’ll go on without her … we were going to celebrate our 40th birthdays together in Palm Springs in March, along with these girls beside me. I can’t yet fathom that she won’t be there.

Karen was, to put it quite simply, just like a sister to me. I loved her with my whole heart, my whole life. And I know, because of Eric and the girls, that she was so incredibly happy when she died. There was nothing more she wanted from this life than to be with them, and I want them to know that they are not alone — that they are loved by so many people and that we will walk beside them through this.

That Karen was so happy and blessed when she left us gives me so much comfort. We should all be so lucky, and we should all have the good fortune to have had a friend like Karen Emily Nalezinek Mraz in our lives.

The Essence of Wilder

I'm still lying in bed when Wilder walks groggily into my room. "Mama, where's Papa?" "He's downstairs." "Oh." He turns around and starts to wander off in search of Jerry. And then ... "Oh, Mama!" He flies across the bed, puts his little long arms around my neck and gives me a squeeze and then a kiss. "I'm sorry, I almost forgot." Because that's just the way Wilder is. Such a sweet, sweet boy.

In which I inadvertently teach my kid the word "ass"

Yesterday, Wilder woke up and started chattering to me about how if you took the letter "c" of "crook" you'd have "rook." If you took off the "c" and "r" you'd have "ook." Etc. As an aside, let me explain that A) Wilder apparently thinks things he learns at school are things I have never heard of in my life; and B) Wilder never stops talking these days. He follows me around the house in a stream of consciousness that is at times brilliant, at times hilarious and, of course, at times EXHAUSTING.

Seriously. Try listening to a 6 and 1/2-year-old talk about the things inside his head all day. I guarantee you that most of it is the mutterings of an mad person in a nuthouse.

At any rate, this "take the letters off and this is what you get" was clearly something he had been thinking about a lot.

So later in the day, we went to the park and were heading back to the car to go home for lunch. Hunter was being Hunter — all "let me look at this roly-poly for 10 minutes and quit telling me to walk, woman!" He was also in ultimate sulk mode because his friend Calder was still at the park, riding his bike WITHOUT TRAINING WHEELS AND WHY WOULD I NOT GO HOME RIGHT NOW AND TAKE HUNTER'S TRAINING WHEELS OFF AND BRING HIS BIKE BACK SO THAT HE COULD RIDE WITH CALDER?!?

See those all-caps? That is what it's like living with a mercurial 4-year-old. Also, I have been suggesting for months that we take Hunter's training wheels off and he usually reacts as if I'm plotting to kill him. So there's that.

And you people wonder why I indulge in the occasional massive glass of wine ...

So anyway, let's just say I was trying very hard to keep my exasperation in check and herd two boys — one babbling non-stop and one yelling at me that he had a bug on the bottom of his shoe, and me yelling back that it was because he had stomped said bug (I mean, really ... duh.  C'mon Hunter, how is this not obvious to you?) — back to the car.

I was desperately in need of something to make me laugh.

Enter: Wilder.

Somehow, the word "glass" came up.

Me: What happens if you take "g" off of "glass?" 

I was trying to direct his constant yapping into something more educational.

Wilder: It's "lass."

Yeah. You see where this is heading, right?

Wilder (loudly): And if you take off the "g" and the "l," it's ASS!

Me (furtively looking around to see if any of the parking lot denizens had heard. Yep, they had.): Well, that's right. But that's actually kind of a bad word that grown ups say, so let's not use it too much, OK?

Wilder: What?! What does it mean??? (He MUST know what all words mean these days.)

Me: It's a bad word for "butt."

Wilder ponders this for a second. As we walk right by a woman getting into her car.

Wilder: So if I said "Hunter has a BIG FAT ASS?" ... that's how I could use that word?

You can't imagine how many times I was asked, "Mama, why are you laughing so hard?" in the next 30 seconds.

Yes son, that's right. It would be a proper use of "ass." Well done.

My new ride

I am officially an adult now. A soccer mom stereotype. Go ahead. Laugh at me. My 22-year-old self is. And I keep telling that lazy hooker to shut up and go have another beer.

Above is my new car. Really, it's our new car, but Jerry has ceded it to me, since I haul those two gigantic boys around with me most days. We traded in his Land Rover (he mourns; I silently sing "Hallelujah!" over and over again) and now he drives my Explorer (or Exploder, as he calls it — again, more mourning).

I am not the type to fall in love with cars. I don't fall in love with most things material, really. Any object in this house is always at risk of being tossed to the curb if I find it in a place it should not be more than once. I do not form sentimental attachments to things.

But this car I am getting very, very fond of. Tonight, as the sun goes down, I am already planning on picking up CO 128, heading toward CO 93, drinking in the beautiful light and the Flatirons view, turning up the music very loud, holding Jer's hand and listening to my pajammied little boys chatter in the back seat.

It is the Friday night plan of a boring 40-year-old woman.

Shaddup, 22-year-old self. I don't even think you have a car.