On children and the past.

I ran across this photo as I was trying to do a little straightening in my study. There it sat, atop a box atop another box, under my table, a stray little rectangle. Two of my children, my oldest and youngest sons, taking a nap after church.

I remember when they were both younger, the oldest being such a kind older brother to the younger. Their closeness in this picture reminds me of that. That couch was a nap magnet, and the youngest boy, long and skinny but still small, could easily lay across the back cushions and fall asleep.

I had them. I had them as infants and for the years they were children and then young men.  And now, they are grown, and belong to themselves.

A friend and I were talking recently about having children. Her little boy is just a year and a half. The years when they were small I have only in memory, which is flickering and incomplete. I am grateful for those little bits of the past, honestly. It's never over, either, but there are moments that are over, so I'm grateful for the surfacing of a photograph, which can remind me of long Sunday afternoons when I was thinking about what to make for dinner, when they fell into sleep and I could see them at rest, with their own dreams and with each other.

Head in the game.

The question is which game? 

I have been

• playing with grandchildren.
• putting together a Star Wars Lego ship with C3PO and R2D2, as well as a couple of menacing stormtroopers.
• building a house for Buzz Lightyear.
• helping with packing, mainly by playing Zombie Grandma with the children in the backyard.

• eating the leftovers from a family (farewell) party.
• watching the weather in Phoenix/Tempe. (pro tip: it will be very hot.)
• watching endless episodes of The Killing.
• making gestures at other work--writing a very squishy outline for a chapter, for instance, or going to a meeting and nodding my head at the work I know I need to be doing, and will be doing, at least I think so.

I have a window open on my iPad to an article about Caedmon, who it turns out was in residence at Whitby Abbey before it was called Whitby Abbey. Caedmon, of Caedmon's hymn. (Dear reader, if it happened to have been you who clued me into the Caedmon/Whitby connection, I hope you will remind me that it was you.) I think I might write about this. I might make a digital story. I might write a draft of that chapter, with or without the outline, but definitely with my colleague.

All of this will wait, though, until I have driven to Phoenix in a UHaul with my sons, eaten road snacks and listened to road music, and helped to see them start in their new place.

[here, please insert the apt and fitting words I am not composing, even though I have tried, about all of this, about them going.]


This is the order of things, and this is where, pardon my preposition, my head is at.

Signs that a young person is living at home again.

I asked running son--who came home from the wide, dangerous world just before Christmas, then left to visit his dad in Lousiana for two weeks, but will be coming home again tomorrow for about 6 weeks until he races off again, this time to Beijing--what he wanted me to buy at the store. You know: provisions. Here's what he said:

Nacho Spicier Doritos
Frozen Pizzas
Ham and Cheese supplies
Tortillas
Tortilla Chips
Salsa
Fruit Snacks
Hot Dog Stuff
Are we out of Ketchup? I think so
Ranch
Gram Crackers
The Chapelle Show
Apple Juice
or some other exotic Juice

That should be good, thanks for looking out for me

You are totally welcome.

TAGS: provisions, signs, horrible food, food that cannot seriously sustain life, food that 20-something males eat, junk

Lessons you learn from your kids.

Lesson #376, 488: Let's say your son, who lives away from home, is gainfully employed, and who is in every respect doing well, happens to play a fair amount of Hearts on the computer in his downtime. There's an excellent chance that, when he comes home for a visit, he'll give you a shoot-the-moon clinic.