Category: Mommy Mind

Me, my son and I. Thoughts on what I did, what I didn’t, and what if…

Djembes and Fried Chicken

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A friend in Chicago recently told me that there was a Scottish band by the name of Old Blind Dogs heading my way, and that they’d be at Caffe Lena soon. He advised we go, and asked we remember him to the band as the bouzouki player they jammed with in Flossmoor the day Bin Laden got knocked off. Ok, it was an introduction of sorts I suppose. The day had arrived, yet now I was losing my resolve to go. It seemed too expensive for us, plus I was rather pooped from my long day. I asked Elihu how he felt. I cited the pros and cons. I asked him on a 1 to 10 scale how he felt. He said 8. Then we pulled them up on you tube and listened. “Oh yeah, I wanna go” he said. “We gotta go, it’s a 10 now.” “It’s going to cost a lot” I warned, reminding him of our plans to build a new coop. “But I’ll always remember this!” He got me. That’s always been my ultimate gauge for making a decision. He was probably right. So I was off to clean up.

Caffe Lena is a tiny coffee house at the top of a creaky flight of stairs in Saratoga Springs which has been there over 50 years now. As a child I knew Lena, who was old by then, or at least to my young eyes looked as old and whiskered as a witch (I suppose everyone over 40 appeared this way). She was always kind to me when my parents would drop me off to hear a show. She’d wait at the top of the stairs and wave down to my folks, letting them know she’d keep watch over me. There’s a folk-art sort of portrait of Bob Dylan at the top of the stairs done on a piece of plywood, made on the occasion of his appearance there in 1960. The walls of the narrow downstairs hall are covered in ancient handbills of past performances under a thick, shiny lacquer. The bathrooms are tidy and their walls covered with happy graffiti. Elihu himself wrote in red sharpie on the night of his performance there last year. He had drawn a woodpecker climbing up the wall. Beside it he wrote “Elihu’s first open mic – 3/11/10” in a six-year old’s lettering. It was as much a right of passage for me as it was for him.

This time, Elihu counted the stairs as we creaked our way up towards the cozy room. I was ready to pay the steep admission, yet when they saw his size, the woman kindly offered to charge only $5 for his ticket. A nice way to start the night. Also, there were two unreserved seats right next to the drummer’s side of the stage. Wow. We’d gotten there early enough to find good seats, yet these were better than I’d hoped. It wasn’t a big place, yet Elihu can’t see much detail past ten feet, and so a table’s distance away can make a big difference in his experience. We were set!

The group’s bassist had been detained in Minneapolis by customs. I thought it a shame, both for the guy himself, and for the remaining trio. They’d have to fill it all up by themselves. I needn’t have worried. The three musicians created so much sound that the poor fellow was hardly missed. The drummer had a small setup; a large djembe sat before him, a deep snare to his left, then a high hat, a kick drum, another mounted djembe and two cymbals, one with a chain draped over it for sizzle. He also played a small talking drum which he could hold as he played. By mid-set Elihu was just not able to stop playing on the table. Even though our table partners seemed easy-going enough, I was worried that I might be the mom who thinks her kid’s so wonderful that rules don’t apply to him. “How bout just one finger? Like this.” I tapped with my index fingers on the edge of the table. Good solution, for a short while. Their energy was just too all-consuming. (At one point in a moment of inspiration he grabbed my arm and shouted in my ear “Mommy, I’m going to busk and make $25 and I’m going to buy myself a pair of brushes tomorrow!) The scene reminded me of years ago, when I’d go to shows with an egg shaker in my purse because sooner or later the music would become too compelling to resist, and I’d simply have to join in on something. Our neighbors were kind about it, but I was still unsure whether Elihu’s enthusiasm was too much. It was a great set, yet in spite of that Elihu was beginning to feel tired and he asked if we could go soon. I tried to distract him by calling his attention to something in the arrangement so that he’d forget about wanting to go; it was the first time I’d heard live music in such a long time and I wanted to stay. We made it to the end of the set, and the band announced they’d take a couple minutes’ break. Elihu and I made our way out.

The place is small, and the drummer was right there. Elihu stood before him and thanked him. “Do you want to see the drums?” the fellow asked. No doubt he’d noticed Elihu’s interest. The two walked back to his setup and had a little session. The drummer showed him his talking drum, and encouraged Elihu to try. He tried it briefly, but I could tell he was jonesin to get at the monster djembe on stage. “Go on” the man said, smiling kindly. Elihu ran the whole way round the room to get on the stage, and when he got there he sat down and began to play. It was a very loud drum, and he was playing a little rushed and scattered. I leaned in to encourage him. “Just do your groove, honey, you know, your thing“. He took a breath, then began.

Elihu grooved hard. He made a couple intentional false stops. He had the audience. He started up again. Not too long. Just enough. He slammed his hands down together in a final woomp. There. That’s it. The place went up in shouts and applause. During the whole thing I just laughed and laughed. Even though I know what he has, and how he’s gotten better, it felt just wonderful to have a whole room of people share in it together. What a moment. As we were leaving, the drummer gave Elihu a CD. I’d even considered buying one – something I’d seldom do – yet now here was another gift. Amazing. As I chatted my goodbyes to some folks at the ticket table, I noticed Elihu making small talk with the bagpiper – and the two parted laughing like old comrades. We smiled all the way down the stairs and onto the street.

A warm, weekend night in Saratoga is almost always a party. And so it was tonight. Before we’d gone to the show, we’d set an old dinner roll on the sidewalk outside to feed the sparrows with and found it still waiting for us. So we picked it up and headed around the corner into the alley in search of some birds. Hattie’s Chicken Shack was booming. People filled the restaurant. The old screen door creaked open and thwacked closed behind the crowds as they exited. We walked around to the back of the restaurant, hoping to find a late-night sparrow waiting for handouts, but it was too dark, too noisy, too Saratoga. There was a garden in the back of the place that was also full of people. The windows to the kitchen were open and faced the alley. “Look at all those guys workin so hard! They’re still slammed!” I said as I pointed to the chefs bent over stainless tables. One saw us and smiled. “Did you eat here tonight?” he asked. “Naw, a little pricey for us” I answered, smiling back. Truly, these days, it was a different Hattie’s. It wasn’t always so upscale; I could remember many decades ago when Hattie herself stood guard. Her ancient husband, a slight, bald black man was always in attendance, a towel draped over his arm. He was the epitome of gracious service. Many summer nights the restaurant was populated by only a few tables. The chicken was always the most delicious I’d ever had, anywhere. The cook shouted down to us from his window. “Want some chicken? Wait – just wait a second” he ducked back into the kitchen and returned with two drumsticks in his tongs, which he reached out the open window and handed to me. “They’re really hot, watch out”. I thanked him with a huge smile and a look of amazement. As I juggled the hot chicken, Elihu ran into a neighboring bar and came out with a pile of napkins. We made our way across the street to Ben & Jerry’s where they have large, freed-standing swinging seats for their patrons. Although it’s still a ‘new’ place in my mind, I realize that many local kids have grown up knowing this corner as if it’s always been here. My son will too. And so, it has become one of those defining little corners of the town. We sit to eat our chicken. We rock, we take in the perfect air. The sounds of bands come at us from distant bars. Bunches of big kids sit and check their phones. Couples walk by with their dogs. It’s a perfect night in town. We are in no hurry, and I wait for Elihu to have his fill. I don’t want to end tonight by telling him we have to go. We don’t.

But finally, it’s time. We get in the car, roll down the windows and begin to drive through the twinkling streets. We’ve brought along his djembe, and he plays it in the back seat as passersby look for the source of the sound. Soon we’re passing the mansions of North Broadway as we head out for the country roads. We put the CD in. It starts slow. “Where are the quarter notes?” Elihu asks. “There’s really no time yet, you can play what you like”. So he does. A freeform, expressive sort of playing. Then the groove begins. It fades up, and Elihu joins in. We are now winding through the dark on the last road to our house. The road twists and turns, it rises and dips. The music seems to grow with intensity as we come nearer to our home. Then we turn down the long driveway into the woods. When I bring the car to a stop, Elihu leans forward and gradually fades the track down to silence. We notice that Uncle Andrew has closed the chickens in their coop for us while we were out. It’s official, this night was perfect.

Elihu & Fraser of Old Blind Dogs at Caffe Lena

 

Learning of Woodcocks

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Birding, Low Vision Life, Mommy Mind2 Comments

Last night, as Elihu and I lay side by side in bed, lights off and awaiting sleep, he said to me “You know why I’m so glad to have you as my mom?”, to which I said nothing, letting a moment pass. “Because every day with you I learn something new”. And shortly thereafter, we were both asleep.

Tonite I’ve just drawn a bath, while he’s gone outside to watch the birds’ final visits to the feeder in the dimming light, a light which finally allows him to watch them without his usual dark red sunglasses, eyes wide open. He called to me, saying he heard a Woodcock in the neighboring field. “Please, Mommy, we have to go see him!” he begged. A bath will always be there. This was an opportunity. We grabbed our flashlights and headed out.

In the distance, the black silhouette of the hills stood out against the last light of day. The sun had been down for a while, yet there was still just enough light to see by. A buzzing sound, more like a lone cricket than a bird, sounded from the middle of the field. It was a short, raspy, buzzing sound that reminded me of a bug lamp zapping out a mosquito. It was intermittent, but his location was unmoving. After several failed attempts to locate the bird we hit upon a good tactic. I would scan the field with my light, eventually seeing the bird’s eyes reflecting back, two shiny retinal mirrors. Surprisingly the bird stood still as we carefully approached. I would get the bird in my spot of light and Elihu, lamp strapped to his forehead, would begin his approach. We made three good tries, the third time, although I was still a good hundred feet away, I was able to see the bird’s form. Elihu crept closer still, and finally, only feet away, he witnessed the bird fly up and away, my spot following the bird in the air as best I could. Impressive. A bird I might well go my whole life through without ever seeing (hell, without Elihu’s knowledge of his call I’d never even know I shared my world with such a creature) had just shifted something inside of me. I could just make out his strangely long bill in the light. His shape was so different, so unlike all the easily-spotted birds that we’ve almost come to take for granted. It was a grand moment. Elihu was elated. He cheered and laughed. We both agreed it was a perfect end to our impromptu mission and we began to walk back to the field’s edge, back to our cozy little house behind the tree-lined stone wall.

“I saw exactly what he looked like and now I can draw him” Elihu said as we neared the house. Clearly, the bath would have to wait a moment longer. Drawing, bath and call to Daddy follow. I am so tired now, I cannot keep my eyes open long enough to read to him from the Burgess Bird Book for Children. Instead, I lay on my side, facing him. His eyes cannot close. He stares at the ceiling. I know he is reliving the moment over and over. I can share it with him no more, and fall asleep.

Today, we’ve both learned something new. Thank you, my dearest Elihu. I’m so glad to have you as my son.

Mother, Mirror

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If I have come to live here for no other reason, I might consider the insight I’m given by living with my mother close by. While I have tried to discipline myself to see things from the half-full rather than half-empty perspective, my mother reminds me why this is still such a struggle for me. She is, inherently, a seer of the half-empty glass. And fundamentally, I think I may be so too.

“Nancy’s your mother?” people say with great interest. “What a great woman! I love Nancy!” they usually say. With too much back story to impart, and knowing it’s not really the point anyway, I usually smile and respond that yes, that’s what they all say. From an outsider’s perspective my mother is one upbeat person whose personality attracts. The same could be said about me too, I suppose. But as with anyone, there’s so much more to the person that is apparent at a first encounter.

The only person to ever bear intimate witness to the two sides of the Conant women was my near ex. He was quick to point out how similar I was to her. I would protest – for the woman I see is always muttering asides to herself under the martyred burden she constantly feels. My mother, when faced with new information, almost always responds with a victim-like disgust. It seems no matter what is offered, she feels it represents an unwelcome challenge and a burden that she herself will ultimately have to carry. And in light of the back story, I get it. Her own father left and began a new family cross town before he’d wrapped things up properly with her mother. This was in a pre divorce-as-common-occurance world. Her father hardly surfaced again in her life. This and more chapters help explain to me, at least, why she reacts as she does. In summary, she feels the world has screwed her, she has to fight for what she does have, and if she doesn’t do something that needs to be done, no one will. Whether she’s made her world fit her truth, or it existed like that in spite of her choices, I can see that many of her suspicions of the world have come true. After all, if she doesn’t work, there will be no bills paid. If she doesn’t make supper, Dad won’t eat. If she doesn’t do the laundry no one will. (Is this not the case for most mothers? I think we all have reasons to see our jobs as invisible and thankless at times.) But if she would just stay her knee-jerk tendency to groan about the prospects before she responded, she might find that things aren’t as doomed as she’s programmed to believe.

I don’t like to spend too much time in my parent’s house because of the thick and negative energy there. When my mother turns away from us, my father and I share knowing glances and shrug our shoulders in our shared powerlessness as she mutters to herself in the aftermath of what she’s perceived to be some gross wrong that has just been imposed on her. She lives on a vocabulary of passive-aggressive asides. When I try – sometimes ever so gently, sometimes in the anger of a shameful blowup – to call her attention to this, she takes it in without protest, but she never seems to hear me, or to get it. My near-ex said that my own negative tendencies (or the “Nancy” in me, he’d say) added to his desire to leave me. And to some extent I can understand this, however I’d offered that our situation was different; self-discovery and change was something I embraced, something I actively sought. I’d say we had tools and abilities available to us that our parents didn’t. He wasn’t moved. (His current girlfriend is to the outsider’s perspective a perennially cheery thing who, to me, seems to share some aspects of Betty Boop. Blonde, curly hair, a buxom figure and a super-high speaking voice that might do well in character parts, she is rather the polar opposite of me. Perhaps he needed to get as far away from the shadows of my essence as possible.) My parents are lost in the world of their own creation. At this late date there seems no desire to change. It’s not my business to enlighten them either.

So, in an effort to be a half-full person, I don’t try to impose my insights on my mother as a matter of course. Rather I study her. I notice her responses to things, and I reflect on how I might respond to the same. It helps me to see my own habits, and to understand what I’d do well to avoid. Seeing my mother, and how she lives in her own world has helped me to avoid going further down the poor-me path. In that we both share a story of father-leaving-family I can begin to understand how deep her pain goes. It’s a difficult assignment to turn this around, but I’m equipped and ready for the job. To choose up rather than down, possibility rather than hopelessness. I have a few tricks that I employ to help myself to see the reflection without wincing. My near ex once challenged me to replace ‘no, but’ with ‘yes, and’. It was a good suggestion; it’s a technique I come back to when I think I need some regulation in my outlook. I also realize that it’s easier to criticize than to complement (why is this and what does this say about we humans?) and so I curb my first reaction to express what’s displeasing, and instead, I offer my gratitude for what is pleasing.

And so I offer my gratitude for my mother and all she’s shown me about the world. I thank her for teaching me all the wonderful secret things that only a mother can. I thank her for the reflection of my own imperfections. I thank her for going before, and I hope that I can serve to resolve some of the issues that she’s labored under for so long. With the mirror of my mother I see who I am, and I begin to learn the things that I may yet become.

So Happy

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“I’m so happy and I don’t have to know why” shouts my son from his bedroom as he changes into his clothes for the day. “I’m full of it!” he continues. Now he’s singing the Woody Wood Pecker song as he rushes to the window to watch the birds outside. Love that kid.

Famous Seamus

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Mommy Mind, Pics1 Comment

Few can actually say they are in possession of a dead parrot. This is our beloved and late parakeet, Seamus.

His death was sudden and rather dramatic (and also cost $118 for a final attempt at reviving him with some sort of injected medical cocktail) and I found myself sadder than I would have thought at his passing. As I stood in the vet’s reception area, holding Seamus, who was neatly resting on a teal blue towel in a perfectly sized box, my thoughts turned to Elihu. Just as the woman behind the desk was handing me the brochure on how to talk to your children about the death of a beloved family pet, he spoke up. “Can we have him taxidermed?” he asked, without registering much emotion on his face. I recalled a little sign I’d once seen for a taxidermist’s shop up by the Greenfield hills and replied “Yes, I know a place.” I paused to consider the logistics. “We can go there now if you like”. He jumped up and clapped his hands in joy. With a disappointing audience of the somewhat humorless lady behind the counter, I threw the pamphlet over my shoulder in a ‘I give up’ sort of gesture, and we headed out the door with our ex-parrot in a box.

Note: Neither the mention of an ‘ex-parrot’ nor ‘how to put your budgie down’ is lost on my dearest Elihu. How much fun it is to have a child with that sort of twinkle in his eye, and that kind of material in his repertoire.

Famous Seamus the Taxidermed Parakeet

My Turn Soon

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My birthday comes nine days after my son’s. While I was technically in my thirties when I had him, for all intents and purposes I was forty. So it’s easy math. I’m forty years older than he. (Good thing, because I’m easily thrown off by simple computations. This keeps things tidy.)

I share my day, May 7th, with Tchaikovsky and Brahms. While my ex was never sentimental about his own birthday (he shares his with Mozart), I am always rather fond of mine, and have always chosen my movements through the day with gentle consideration. When I was in my teens I would visit a lily of the valley patch by the banks of a neighboring canal, and just sit there, in quiet. I have always set time aside on each birthday to be alone in nature of some form. I wrote a song for myself when I turned 17, and it’s become something of a tradition that I play it for myself on that day. It’s a little melancholic thing that expresses a nostalgia for things lost and almost lost, a mood that I often found myself in for many years of my early adulthood. Its sound brings me back to the memories of that home, how the afternoon sun would throw the trees’ shadows on the stucco wall of the piano room, the sound of the cars rumbling over the canal bridge as I sat alone in the woods…

I can hardly recount the things I’ve done on my birthdays past. I can recall only a few out of so many. One I do remember was my 6th birthday. And I remember it because my mother made pink lemonade ice cream cake. I wonder if Elihu might possibly remember a childhood birthday decades hence for some such detail. I remember my thirtieth – a nice gathering of both my day job friends and my musician friends. I wore a serpent bracelet around my upper arm. I remember thinking at the time that I was chubby and unattractive. Sheesh. Couldn’t wind that snake around my arm these days.

Elihu suggested the family go to the Wishing Well for my birthday dinner. I was pleased with this; it’s a place that hearkens back to a pre-expressway America, with a silver-haired waitstaff, a floor of sound-muffling carpet and a sense of unrushed elegance in the room. I’m glad he made this lovely suggestion, for I have no real desire to go anywhere, to eat anything, to do anything special. My life is absent of much heartfelt and zealous desire these days, rather my energy it turned towards my list of things to learn and make here on my homestead. While these goals do represent a desire of sorts, they don’t have the same inherent element of excitement and energy as say, performing might have. I’ve been trying to think of something that I might enjoy experiencing on my birthday, but so far nothing much moves me. I’d like to take a walk in the woods and have some time alone. I’d really love to have a hundred dollars and a couple of hours to browse through some pretty clothes in a store. Neither is an option, so I will try to accept the day as it presents itself. Accepting what you’ve got is really all you can do.

I always consider a birthday to be as much the mother’s as the child’s. And for that reason I’m glad to be living here next to my own mother. It’s nice to be here for ‘her’ day too. I just wish we weren’t such a financial burden on her; she’s the only one in the family with a real job. She’s pulling us all along, and in fact, it will be she who picks up the hefty Wishing Well tab if we go. I so hope having her daughter and grandson next door makes up for it in some way. Most years on my birthday I have mom recount the story of my birth. It was a barbaric time in 1963 as far as labor and delivery went. They actually strapped her wrists to the gurney as she labored. No comfort was given, no movement allowed, no nothing. I can hardly believe it. I’m guessing that folks might even have been smoking in her presence… My mother was rather progressive for a woman in the midst of a culture that embraced invasive birthing techniques and encouraged drug-assisted births. She was adamant about having a natural birth, and in this atmosphere, with no advocate on her side, she stayed her course. (BTW – what the hell is natural about being strapped down as you deliver your child or having your entire pubic area shaved before you give birth?) I like to have her recount it, because it’s my way of affirming that this day also belongs to her. Elihu himself, on his own birthday one week ago, said “happy birthday to US, mommy”. He knows. Ok. I’m on deck…

Morning After

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Yesterday we had Elihu’s eighth birthday party here in our tiny home. While I took to heart the advice of my almost-ex in response to his critique that I needed to be better about planning activities for kids parties, and sat up crafting some pretty darling home-made games the night before, they couldn’t have been more irrelevant. Whew! Talk about a party!

The scene and supplies: A modest four room ranch house, a couple dozen yellow balloons strewn about, dollar store 3 liter bottles of fake lemonade, a cake covered in frosting grass and dotted with eight peeps and candles, an incubator with several hatching eggs as well a brooder with several fuzzy chicks in the living room, a trampoline outside in front, a coop out back, and a drum set and wurlitzer electric piano downstairs. Instant party. Good thing some parents hung around – with inside, outside and downstairs all swingin at the same time, it wasn’t possible to stay on top of all the action. I can confidently say a very good time was had by all. I do hope this was the kind of moment in these young lives that will stand out in the lore of their youth many decades from now. I think it stands that chance. Every child got to hold and smooch a fuzzy newborn chick without being told his turn was up. Everyone got to see an egg being poked at from inside about as close up as possible. No bad seats, no long waits to get your turn. Everyone who wanted to bounce bounced. Those who wanted to try the drums did. And the chickens ran free around the yard for all to chase. Indeed, this was a fine party.

This morning the weather is beautiful, my son is sleeping in and another chick has just hatched. I am guessing that today will be one of those very fine, unscheduled, at-home days. I imagine Elihu will play with his new toys while I tend to the coop repairs. We Tauruses will delight in being home. With the memory of our happy yesterday still rambling about in our heads, we will work and play side by side as contented as any two people can be.

Birthday Angel

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It is early on the morning of my son’s eighth birthday. Lying on my right side I look at the clock. 6:38. Eight. Eight. I begin the new contemplation for today. What does eight feel like? Can I see all eight of those years at a glance and fully ‘get’ what it means? I feel I can, and for the first time in my son’s life, he seems to have the full history of a young person. A little of this, a little of that, and the discretion that comes with experience to be able to sort it all out.

When he turned five he turned to me, and in all earnestness said, “you do know that I’m more 45 than 5, don’t you?” Feeling his need to be understood, and indeed understanding just what he meant, I reassured him that I got it. I got it. Five was a year of turmoil. Looking back I believe that he felt trapped inside the body of a small kid. Deep inside he seemed to be so very frustrated by his own lack of ability, experience and knowledge. This may seem a bit profound a statement to make about a five year old, but I can tell you, as his nearly constant companion and fretting mother, I know this to be true. That year Elihu was prone to destructive explosions of rage that seemed to erupt right out of the blue. I have a scar on my left forearm of where he bit me. I’d meant to prevent him from breaking anything, as he was moving rather like a weed wacker – spinning his arms outward to take down whatever lay in his path – and so I wrapped my arms around him. As I held him fast, and as his rage found its last possibility of expression, in desperation to rid the torment from his system, he leaned over my protective arm and sunk his teeth in. That was the year we moved here, the year everything changed.

I had always thought I’d done a pretty good job of keeping things hopeful and cheery during this transition. I’d thought it much harder on me than on him. I’d lost my best friend of the past twenty years, I was giving up my friends and life, while my son had barely started to make friends, much less get into the rhythm of a ‘life’. This all may have been true, but at five, Elihu felt something was not right. I now believe the import of that year was not lost on this tiny person. While I may have told him initially that we were ‘going to visit grandma and grandpa for a while’ (and subsequently apologized many times for having duped him), I think he knew shortly after we arrived, that this was no visit. His life had just been changed, and he’d had no say in it. What was worse, he was tricked into it. (Even now, at eight, the fallout from this past chapter rises up and threatens him in the form of panic attacks, which we both approach head on, unwilling to allow the unsettled feelings to grow, as we work together – along with a softly listening counselor at the local family services office – to learn what feeds them, and to pick apart the issues and discuss them all in love and understanding.)

In his sixth year his rage lessened, and he began his life of birds in earnest. That was the year we came home from Tractor Supply with our first family of chickens. The photos I saved in his first grade memory book show the summer of a carefree young boy on a farm. (I squirm to use the term ‘memory book’, but it was created at the request of his first grade teacher. I admit I have felt great disdain in the past for those who would spend hours of precious time ‘scrap booking’, but I did learn that making a simple book that reflects the highlights of a particular year is a nice way of keeping the chronology correct, if nothing else. And there is actually plenty of ‘else’ as well.) There is a photo of Elihu, arms outstretched, running after our white Pekin drake, Joseph. It is filled with the joy of summer and a young boy’s pure, nature-driven heart. Yet by just looking at the photograph one wouldn’t know that this is a rare moment in which Elihu has ceased to hold his dark glasses tight to his head in order to block out the sun so he can see well enough to track the bird. One wouldn’t know the back story of our new life alone, without husband, dad. The tenuous day-to-day balance of need and supply isn’t apparent in the images. But the photos do remind us that many delightful moments did happen, and in spite of the back story, there were some truly happy times that year. A year of discovery, the door to our future was then flung wide open and we crossed the threshold, mouths wide open.

Elihu’s seventh year was one, I’d say, of transition. While five was small and not so well-equipped to do things, at six Elihu was becoming aware of what was needed in order to do things. Seven then, was putting it into action and finally doing many things for himself that he couldn’t when he was younger. And now, at eight, I realize that the door to that pure, innocent chapter of Peter Rabbit and Pooh is now beginning to close. This is the year when the magic of Santa may no longer hold. When the cracks in his tiny-child beliefs will become bigger and harder to ignore. I’ve always marveled that a kid who took such a scientific interest in his world, measuring wingspans and learning migration routes, could so easily believe that one man delivers gifts to every child on earth in one night. (That Santa delegates, and has a lot of elves helps to ease the doubt a bit.)

So here I am. Quite possibly the last birthday in which my son will believe that the presents sitting on the kitchen table in the morning were delivered magically, as he slept, by the birthday angel during the night. Eight feels like a long time now. No longer does it feel as if my son were born just a few short years ago. So much life has passed for us since then. Here is my son, small child no longer. Young boy today. In a few minutes I will wake him, I will tell him that when I went into the kitchen to make breakfast I found something. I will tell him in a quiet, wondering way – so careful not to overdo it – and then I will share once more, perhaps one final time, that breathless moment of delight when he sees the unbelievable sight before him. Happy birthday, my beloved Elihu.

Borscht Belt comes to Greenfield

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Elihu and I knew he would perform at his school’s talent show. I wondered what he could do; my first choice was his busking-inspired djembe bit. That was too informal for his taste. From the start he knew what he would do. He wanted to play drums and sing. A snare and a cymbal would get the point across just fine. He knew all the polkas well… Roll Out The Barrel and The Happy Wanderer were good choices. And the embedded one-liners were his choice too. Clad in an Austrian peasant shirt his father brought back from a European tour, he belts out the tunes and jokes without missing a beat – in spite of failing microphones. This kid is a showman, and his mama is proud indeed. The Catskills got nothin on the Adirondacks!

Homework and Bedtime

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Trying to get Elihu’s math homework done. Had a nice visit with some neighbors, met their horses and dogs, but it pushed dinner back, and consequently the math homework too. I pick it up and look it over and realize it’s a friggin craft project. This thing requires scissors, glue and the ability to see color. The first page involves coloring in even and odd numbered coins in a leprechaun’s pot, even in yellow, odd in brown. The color thing isn’t tricky here; yellow is light, brown is dark, and I’ve labeled most of his markers and pencils by now. The problem is that my son is an artist with high standards. I explain that his teacher simply needs to see that he understands the concept; he needn’t fret over the execution of the ‘coloring in’. “But I like to color” he says, diligently working at his second of nearly fifty coins. I give him two minutes – for that is as much time as it would take to separate even from odd – then I cut him off. Thankfully, he is most often a reasonable and intelligent fellow and he agrees without protest.

The second page required cutting out coins in another St. Patty’s day-themed handout. He was to then match the equation on the coin to the total on the paper, and glue the coin to the page.  We got efficient. I cut, I glued, he did the calculation.

The following page required several colors, and dozens of shamrocks to be filled in. I suggested he underline the appropriate shamrock in the correct color. He didn’t  bat an eye but went straight at it, surrendering the task of coloring in without a second thought. Good boy, let’s get this done. It is late, and he is yawning, but he did his math homework, and we made it without a scene. A triumph in the house tonite. He is getting ready for bed now, all is well.

Elihu just came to me with his completed homework, adorned with a full-color picture of a leprechaun. Buff-colored skin, black hat, silver buckle, red and white striped socks and green suit. This may seem a trifle, but he sees no color at all, and I am impressed he took the time to locate the colors, and that he knew which were the correct choice. He must memorize our use of colors, for to him they are merely shades of gray. I am proud.

Now we will get into bed and I will read a few chapters of The Burgess Bird Book for Children. A delightful tome, (and a first edition too – nearly 100 years old) replete with old-fashioned language and details that may seem uninteresting to most children of today. But thankfully, my son hangs on every word. I feel so lucky to have such a child. It goes without saying that I love him above all else, and I would add that I am grateful for all our moments together in this fast-waning time in his life. Childhood is brief, and I am treasuring every minute of his.