Mother's Love Begotten
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Hunter

Double digits.  Dear Readers, seriously.  Young people don't have ten-year-olds.  But you know what?  Someone asked me today if it made me sad that my oldest baby was about to hit ten.  I replied, No.  I like him better now.  And it's not that I didn't ever not like him (wow, how's that for negatives).  I mean, obviously.  It's just that Hunter has grown to be so personable.  You know.  A young person.  Egads, a young man. 

Hunter's birthday is tomorrow.  That means that it was ten years ago tonight that I was childless for the last time, as in not a mom.  I can't really remember what that was like.  I don't really care to.

Last week Tobey threw his mac-and-cheese.  This doesn't really bother us much; it's par for the course with a toddler.  Food being tossed is a fact of life.  The bowl, however, landed upside-down on the neighboring chair - making it fair game for edibility.  After I scraped the spilled dinner off the chair and back into the Blues Clues bowl, I grabbed a fork and, standing against the kitchen counter as I have come to do during meal times, began to eat it.  Hunter walked in and immediately offered, "Mom?  I can eat the spilled stuff.  You have mine."  I had to pause my fork and get a good look at my son.  When did he get so grown up? 

As I think back through the last year, I can come up with countless times when Hunter has caught me off guard with his deep compassion.  His maturity.  The time I sat down to dinner as everyone else was finishing, and he sat there until I'd taken my last bite so I wouldn't eat alone.  His attempts at diapering his younger brother - which, by the way, were a hoot, but the effort was endearing.  We even occasionally got notes sent home from the teacher, praising him because she caught him trying to boost the esteem of his peers.

Not to mention the many times when he sensed in me a need for a shoulder to cry on, a soundboard, a hand to hold, a friend.  His is a subtle gift, this way he adjusts his demeanor to be simultaneously in the foreground and out of the spotlight, like a trusty sidekick.  He hovers just long enough, with those blue eyes penetrating through me, so that I feel him inviting me, waiting for me to open up.  When I finally do, Hunter is truly listening.  His replies are genuine and insightful, and it fills me with awe how many times I've relied upon the sage wisdom of my own son. 

Today Hunter's class went on a field trip.  When I picked him up at school at the end of the day, I took one look at him and sensed he had something to say.  Half-way down the hall I stopped and turned to him.  "You have something to say, don't you?"  Hunter nodded slightly.  I waited.  "I left my sweatshirt behind somewhere today.  How did you know I wanted to tell you?"  Because of what I learned from you, kid.  Because you taught me how.

Ten years ago, my water broke.  My heart awoke.  And I met for the first time the person I'd known all my whole life.  I've always said it:  Somewhere, whether it was in God's heaven or in a lifetime prior, Hunter and I?  We were already acquainted.  Happy Birthday, young man.  You just keep getting better every year. 

In the Name of the Father
Mood:  happy
Topic: Hunter

It was a reminder of how observant Hunter is, or else a reminder that we spend a lot of time in church.  As the son of the choir director, Hunter has been subjected to many a worship service.  During all of them, it is apparent he could not be more bored.  He swings his feet or whines to go or (more commonly) buries his nose in a book.  If he's sitting with me by the choir, we've been known to get a good game of Hang Man going.  He is not, shall we say, engaged in church.  And, naturally, Audrey and Hunter have spent many a ride home being lectured about appropriate behavior - particularly noise level - at church.

Yesterday was a busy day of errands.  After running to Target for some Valentine's Day shopping - including the clever boon of trinkets to fasten to the kids' class Valentines, rather than candy (it's so unoriginal) - I was fighting myself from driving the van to Panera.  It wasn't in the budget, the schedule, OR in my diet.  Damn, times three.  But:  Bread.  We covet it.  We are bread eaters, as in hold the butter.  And it has sort of become a custom to bring home a loaf of Panera Country Bread after a day of shopping.  Yet, I drove on. 

In Wisconsin during the winter months, the roads are treated with a salt solution to melt ice.  The effect of this on cars is twofold:  Our vehicles first get seasoned in the white grime, then get an icing of slush.  Which ironically freezes to the undercarriage, mirrors, and body.  (How does the salt grime melt the ice on the roads but not the slush on the car?  It's a great mystery.)  Also during the winter in Wisconsin, we residents get accustomed to the ridiculous cold.  So that when the weather warmed from -20 degrees F on Monday to a whopping 12 degrees yesterday, it was truly a heat wave. 

And so I drove the van through the car wash.  Because that's what you do in Wisconsin when the weather warms to 12.  It scared the bejeebies out of Tobey, that car wash did - just like it has frightened the dickens out of all my Blond Kids at age 2.  You have to admit those big twirling mops look just like aliens attacking.  And then they SQUIRT SOAP right at the window, inches from your head!  Thus, I end up holding on to whatever part of my 2-year-old I can reach from the driver's seat.  I must admit to a sick pleasure in seeing the look on the kids' faces when they realize they're in the car wash:  It is so darned cute.  Scared witless, sure, but in such a Mommy-I-love-you-and-you're-all-I-have-in-this-world-now-will-you-SAVE-ME way.  Undoubtedly it is the same look of devil-possessed jealous lovers before they pull the trigger.  So, you know, I keep it in check. 

Anyway.  Bread.  As I drove out of the car wash, staring me in the face was the Great Harvest Bread store.  The draw of this store is its small, quiet parking lot facing a wall of windows.  This means I can leave Tobey in the running van, lock the door with my spare remote, purchase a loaf of Harvest White, sample a slice of Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip, and make change, all with Tobey clearly in view and a few paces away.  Sometimes we moms forget what it's like to use both hands to carry merchandise.

So.  Bread.  Hunter found it on the counter when he got home.  Upon eating a slice, he made the comment that it tastes like the church's Communion Bread.  (It sort of did resemble the round loaf on the altar.)  Then Hunter got out cups for Audrey and him and poured juice.  He placed the bread and juice before Audrey at the table and began, "On the night Our Lord Jesus was betrayed..." and continued with the entire Communion service, verbatum.  It was amazing.  He broke the bread.  He held the cup aloft.  He told the story of the Lord's Supper in flawless form.  And he communed with his sister - the same one that gets on his nerves and peed on his GameBoy and sticks her tongue out at him.

Dear Readers, a holier Communion there could not have been:  a 9-year-old boy serving the Lord's Supper to his little sister at the kitchen table. 

Additionally, two parents who are starting to grasp just what the 9-year-old hears when it doesn't look like he's listening.  We're just lucky that this time it was, you know, consecrated.

Deep Thoughts by Hunter
Mood:  bright
Topic: Hunter

About Santa.  Hunter, age 9, is at the age where it is natural to question the existence of Santa Claus.  His understanding of science is overcoming his belief in things magical.  Yesterday with just him and me in the van together he began asking questions.  Is Santa real?  Does he really live at the North Pole?  Does he really deliver toys in a flying sleigh?  Is he someone special just for children? 

Not wanting to take the wind out of Hunter's sails just days before Christmas, I opted to respond with a bit of history regarding the Saint Nicholas, who lived in what is now part of Turkey, and how he was generous to poor children.  He became famous and as he was celebrated in other lands, his name was adapted to the languages of those lands.  One such name was Sinter Klaus.  As the name was brought to America by European immigrants, it evolved to Santa Claus.  As for the bit about the white beard and the red suit, well, that might be an exaggeration.  The North Pole?  Probably not.  Who he is and where he is matters not, for every child will see him according to who and where that child is.

Hunter thought for a moment before replying.  "Mom?  Are you telling me that Santa is a Turkish European Eskimo?"

"Maybe."

"Ok.  I think I can believe that."

The concept of Peace. 
Hunter: Mom, if the whole world wants peace, then why is there war?

Me:  Everyone has a different idea of what peace should be, and how we should attain it.

Hunter:  But everyone in my school wants peace.

Me:  Oh? Are any of them Republicans?

Hunter:  What?

Me:  Nevermind.

Hunter:  I wish Martin Luther King, Jr. were still alive.  Then he could make everyone have peace.

Me:  No one can make anyone have peace.  Force and peace are contradictory.  MLKJ spoke about peace so that others would think about it and want to start peace within themselves.

Hunter:  So it's up to us to figure it out ourselves?

Me:  Yep.

Hunter:  How long ago was Martin Luther King, Jr.'s famous speech?

Me:  At least 40 years ago.

Hunter:  Oh.  So when you were just a kid?

Me:  I'M THIRTY-THREE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Hunter:  [thinks]  Do wars start sometimes because someone says the wrong thing?

Me:  You better believe it, kid.

One more photo
Mood:  happy
Topic: Hunter

In case you're wondering, I've been going through old photo albums this week.  Every year at Christmas, my mom puts together a DVD of pictures, essentially like a TV slide show, for the family's entertainment.  So as I've come across a few gems, I've shared them with Mom and with you here. 

Allow me to present this sweet photo of Hunter, taken two years ago.  He had gone pheasant hunting with his dad (perhaps that goes without saying), and the look on his face is fabulous (also goes without saying?).  After coming across this photo in the piles of them I keep in drawers, waiting to be organized, I stuck it in a frame.   

 

Redefining "Weird"
Mood:  don't ask
Topic: Hunter

The good news is that Hunter's birthday with grandparental involvement went better than last year.  The bad news is that Hunter's genetic heritage involves some pretty serious weird. 

So sit back and read the tale of the one infuriatingly weird event surrounding celebrating Hunter's birthday with the grandparents.

---

My parents are obsessed with their labrador retriever ("Sadie").  It is for Sadie that they travel around in a coach bus Dad converted into an RV.  (Have you seen the movie "RV"?  There is a bad driving scene that reminds me of Dad.  If you've seen it, feel free to cringe along with me.)  That way, Sadie can comfortably travel along with them away from home.  So my parents park this coach bus/RV in our driveway every time they visit. 

Note:  My folks actually have 4 labradors, but the other 3 they will sometimes board at a kennel.  Sadie, however, "would never do that."  In a nutshell, they have a neurotic dog because they are neurotic dog owners.

Hunter has been wanting to go to the Science Museum of Minnesota (St Paul) where a traveling exhibit called Body Worlds is going on.  So we decided a birthday would be the perfect excuse to go.  We informed Mom & Dad of this and in fact felt sure that they would love the idea of meeting us in St Paul and not having to board their dogs overnight - as it could be a day trip for them and for us.  My parents instead preferred the option of parking their bus in our driveway for two nights, with the stated intention of us "all driving over together" to St Paul. 

"All driving over together" turned into us driving over in the van, and Mom and Dad bringing the bus.  To downtown St Paul. 

No alternative would suit them, and all because they couldn't bear to be apart from their dog for the hours required to drive there, attend the exhibits, and drive back.  We offered our own dogs' indoor/outdoor kennel, but it wouldn't do.  We offered to empty said kennel of our own dogs so Sadie could have her own space.  Wouldn't do.  We offered for one of the vet techs from Jason's clinic to come out and babysit the dog.  Wouldn't do.  We offered to hurry a lot once there.  Wouldn't do.  We suggested that maybe Sadie really could be unattended for a few hours, but that TOTALLY wouldn't do.  And we suggested that perhaps a dog's bladder accident was an easier mess to deal with than navigating a bus through downtown St Paul.  WOULD NOT DO.

So at 3:00 my parents started their bus, idling it for an hour, and fumigating our house with smelly deisel fumes.   Then we boarded the kids into their bus - because to them it's a novelty.  Jason and I took the van so as to have a sort of shuttle available between parked bus and museum parking ramp (in which the bus would never fit).  And we all headed to St Paul.  Kinda sorta all of us together.

We hit St Paul at 5:00.  We drove straight past the museum and went looking for bus parking.  Which led us to a lot across from the sports center, a lot that looked perfect in size and shape and availability, were it not for the sign stating no buses or RV's.  Which we didn't see until inside the lot.  Which was impossible to turn around in with a bus.

And in which St Paul's KSTP Channel 5 News was setting up for live broadcast. 

So.  We have two vehicles trying to read each others' moves.  An embarassingly large RV driven by a neurotic dog owner.  Limited turnaround space.  And we have the wonderful timing of a live broadcast taking place about ten feet from where Dad parked. 

Do you see where this is going?  BIG BUS + CONFUSED DRIVERS + LIMITED SPACE = NEWSANCHOR ABOUT BEING RUN OVER ON CAMERA.  AND ME SLINKING FAR, FAR DOWN INTO MY SEAT.

I don't *think* we made the news.  But I know we made the news nervous. 

In the end, we found a parkside street with ample space for a bus.  And we had hours of fun in the museum with the birthday boy.  The kids left the gift shop with loaded arms, and at 9:00 p.m. - way past bedtime, but it was a birthday - we returned to the bus, rolled out the red carpet for Sadie's potty break, and, blindly following the bus in front of us, headed home.

IN THE WRONG DIRECTION.

---

Dear Readers, Body Worlds - a display of plasticized human cadavers - was tasteful and entertaining.  But in this family of biologists (and, you know, weirdos) the impact was lost on me and my veterinary husband, M.D. father, nurse mother, and scholarly 9-year-old.  Audrey, however, was completely freaked.

As for getting ourselves turned around to head east instead of west toward home, Jason and I had the distinct privelege of driving so deep into the worst part of town that we got to personally witness a police raid on the way back to the interstate.

God?  Great sense of humor.  Ha ha.  Now.  Will you please show off for someone else for a change?

Birthday Eve
Mood:  happy
Topic: Hunter

This time of year can't help but evoke some things in me:  the memory of my water breaking, the rainy night we drove to the hospital, that giddy sense of excitement, those first twinges.  The nurse holding my hand and Jason counting backwards from ten.  The doctor's "It's a boy!" and the phone calls and visitors.

And that tiny, soft bundle, all 7 lbs of him, swaddled in my arms. 

That tiny bundle is now barely smaller than I am.  He's a karate-kicking, book-reading, reptile-studying video game junkie of a 3rd grader.  With two younger siblings.  My, how he and I have changed.

Tomorrow there will be the surprise presents and the appearance of grandparents.  The singing "Happy Birthday" and the blowing out the candles.  And he'll be officially 9 years old. 

Hunter told me yesterday that the sad thing about turning 9 is that now some of his early memories are distant memories.  I know what he means.  It was a long time ago - we were different people in a different stage of life - when I brought him home to the 2-story farmhouse in Iowa.  It was long ago that we boarded a plane for Oregon to visit the student Jason on his internship.  Or loaded a Jeep with our meager belongings and drove to Pennsylvania.  Or told Hunter that he was going to be a Big Brother for the first time.

Being nine means being on the cusp of Growing Up.  He's on that exit ramp from childhood, and we both know it.  This is probably our last year of Santa.  And toys, well, they're being replaced by books and video games and things of the Older Boy's mind.  Or else bigger toys. 

Nine years.  And in some ways, forever.  I've always felt like I knew this kid before I conceived him.  His is an old soul, and somewhere - whether it was in God's creating clasp or a full lifetime before - we were connected.

Today's Hunter is a kid full of compassion, fairness, integrity, and intelligence - a remarkable intellect with a casual wisdom that still startles me.  He loves Frosted Mini-wheats and hates hamburgers.  He'll fill his 3rd grade reading requirement for the week in one evening.  He loves his brother and loves his sister, although that last part he only admits aloud on special occasions.  He can tell you the name of any spider, reptile, or amphibian; has taught himself other languages; would sooner die than kiss me at school, but will still hold my hand walking down Main Street; worries too much; does great impersonations; draws his own comics; and although it's for him that I put the emergency instructions by the phone, he barely bats an eye under pressure. 

I could sit here and make my predictions of where all that will take him.  But I'm content, I think, to just be happy about who he is now, and the fact that his soul resides here.

Super Natural
Mood:  happy
Topic: Hunter
Yesterday we delivered Hunter to church camp. He'll have three days, two nights in the great outdoors amid good Christian people.

Hunter has a mom who works for the church, but aside from that, there isn't a lot of religious rigmarole enforced at our house. We don't collectively bow our heads before meals unless it's Thanksgiving. My approach to the bible is as much scholarly as worshipful. And shove Jesus down my kids throats? No thanks.

My own Christian coming-of-age was full of religious college dorm mates who tsk-tsked at others, particularly if those others looked like they were having fun. They used religion as a means to look down their noses at the actions of people, sometimes me. Every other word was "Jesus" and they prayed with a snobbish, look-at-me fever; they blessed their meals, they blessed their homework, they blessed themselves, they blessed their underwear. They prayed over everything at such an alarming rate that I had to wonder, is God really interested in all this crap? If this were my child, I'd be all LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE and go do something real like get drunk with a whore. The Big G probably wouldn't use Fuck, but you have to wonder if somewhere our Bible-toting Christian friends got off the mark. Seriously, what good does it do to announce the gospel with such ferocious condescension as to cause the ignostic world to roll its bloodshot eyes?

In fact, it rather smacks of those pesky Pharisees who dogged Jesus for healing on the Sabbath.

No, I'd rather experience life fully - booze, dancing, sex and all; is that not a compliment to The Holy Creation? Cool bounty, God. Loved it all. Great thinking on the whole human body thing. And the beer? Wow! To do less would be like attending your best friend's dinner party and eating only the ice. Right?

But what did it for me, what triggered my religious gag reflex, was the utter blasphemy of Questioning God. How DARE I wonder aloud if evolution had a hand in our present-day existence. Don't even THINK about learning French without acknowledging the tower of Babel. Hear the Easter story with a skeptic raised eyebrow? Forget about it. And don't acknowledge, no - close your eyes! - don't even LOOK at that Da Vinci Code book. (I've read it. So there.)

Dear Readers? The very reason I believe in God is because every day, EVERY DAY, I say to him, God? Yeah, I'm still hung up on what I think of you.

This is typically followed by an inner feeling of That's ok. I'm not sure what I think of you either. How about we just give it our best shot together?

And this, Dear Readers, is faith in its purest form. How could it not be? It is this very essence that keeps me from panicking in pretty much any situation.

Jesus, well, that "rose from the grave thing" is moot for me anyway. He was a pretty cool guy with a lot of ideas I respect. Heaven or not, count me in.

So when I was helping Hunter pack for his church camp, and we discovered his kid's bible was a little too incomplete on some of the New Testament books, I loaned him my bible with a Don't even THINK about losing this lecture. My notes are in there. See? In the margins. And here's where the New Testament starts, and here's a cross-reference for some of those verses, and let me show you the index, etc. Yep, your mom knows her way around a bible. Good luck, Kid. It's hard as hell. Er, hard as heck. Why? Because you're smart, and smart people always want to know more.

And sooner or later, the only "more" you get to know is the stuff you find out when you grow still and, with eyes skeptically narrowed, whisper God? Yeah, I'm not so sure about you...

Dr. Westcott, I Presume
Mood:  bright
Topic: Hunter
With the influx of end-of-the-year papers and report cards came the results of Hunter's basic skills test from April. The results? Way above average, as expected. But the two jaw-droppers for me were the 97% in Language and the FRIGGIN MAXIMUM SCORE POSSIBLE in Science. According to the chart on the back, Hunter is scoring at a 4th grade reading level, a 3rd grade mathematics level, an 11th grade language level, and a 12th grade science level. Did your eyes pop? Ok, my first thought was there is something wrong with this scoring system. There very well could be a loose way of interpreting this sheet in my hand. But there is no doubting that bar graph with the sky-scraper marks.

The funny thing is that two days ago, I got his physical ed report home. If I put the two reports together, one can just about see a concert-master violinist with glasses, a pocket-protector, and a Star Wars obsession.

Hunter's cartoon
Mood:  cool
Topic: Hunter
My favorite page from "My Earth Book!" that Hunter made at school:

Chumminess
Mood:  happy
Topic: Hunter
I had the opportunity yesterday to spend some one-on-one time with Hunter. Following karate class, he and I walked through downtown Menomonie, perusing book stores (a common love of ours), ordering pizza, and generally taking in the lovely May Saturday. A younger boy remarked at Hunter's karate uniform, and we all know how 8-year-olds like to feel like superhero ninjas. And Hunter and I even did something that has become a rarity with each advancing year: holding hands. Quite possibly for the last time in casual public.

The day was nothing fancy. But as we climbed back into the van with our pizza, Hunter remarked that it was the best day ever.