Sassafrass

Taking leaps

 

 

I love this photo so much. It's difficult sometimes to take a step back and see, really see, how much he is growing. I can tell by the pants, which seem to shrink on him in one week, one little trip through the wash. I can see it in his face when he sleeps, the outlines of the man he will grow into. I can feel it in his gangly legs and the quick kisses where he used to linger and cuddle and curl into me. But then I see a photo of him as a baby and think, "He was so tiny and he's so big now!" and then see him alongside older kids and think, "He's so tiny still!" It's hard to know. I'm his mama, so my vision is blurred.

There on the sidewalk while we walk, side by side, I see how he is stretching. And then he took this jump, what seemed like a huge leap but was really not that far at all, and he was taller than I am, even in heels. 

It will come too soon, I am sure. I see what's ahead in these shadows. Clearer than in the mirror or face-to-face.

Summer: almost there

This was all I needed yesterday, to see this flower mid-bloom and blood red. Big, swollen heart leaves in-waiting all around it.

OK, I needed this and some extra hugs from my boy, who barely wrapped his arms around me, then ran off down the street. He was so free in his body, legs getting longer every single day and arms flailing in the air. I loved watching him from so many steps behind. 

When I bent to take a picture of this peony -- is that right? -- he ran back, stopped when his shins were touching mine and leaned in to see my view from behind the camera.

"Pretty," he said matter-of-factly. "Get that one, too."

He pointed ahead at another. Then waved his hands toward a tidy row of pansies.

"A few of those,  too."

This is how I like my summer evenings. Even if it means a stressful day, my head full of mama worries and money concerns and questions about how we will spend our vacation and if I am all caught up on that project and where my tax paperwork is hiding, I am happy with a summer evening that ends like this. Business and busyness interrupted as we make our way through the neighborhood at our own pace, talking about the day, standing in silence over a row of flowers, waiting patiently for the full bloom.

Meeting of the men

Today, I fly to see my love.

The early-ish days, hiking 

New Year's Eve, not quite 2012

 

And my brother who happens to live 20 minutes from where the Not Boyfriend is in training.

1979

Last summer at the zoo

And my sweet nephew.

Earlier this year, clearly loving me best of all

Last weekend, waiting patiently to share his cake with me

 

And they will all meet for the very first time.

Ohhh, how will this go? How will I divvy up all those hugs? I'm selfish about my time and squeezes with all three of them.

 

Last summer

Lil E's not happy with me for going while he is at his dad's house for the weekend, not pleased this will all happen without him. 

"What do you think Uncle Seth and the Not Boyfriend will think of each other?" I asked this to distract him from his disappointment.

"Well, they both have glasses," he reasoned. "And they both are smart."

"Yes," I answered, expecting more. "There's that."

And that's all there is. Until I touch down and run out to see these guys, waiting for me in the humidity and sunshine.

So I guess that's exactly where we'll begin.

Summer before spring

Spring hasn't even hit the calendar and yet we have barely had any winter at all. I'm not so un-Chicagoan as to jinx it all and put our winter coats away but I'm letting the sunshine hit my pasty-white legs and fade my gadillion-dollar dual-processed hair as often as possible. 

That means I'm also giving in to the small child's incessant begging for summer silliness -- watergun show-downs and playing tag at the park before dinner and eating more ice cream than usual. Why not? Next week, we will probably be shoveling snow. 

This afternoon, he was set on a watergun battle with my parents, allayed only by the opportunity to "earn cash" from Grandma by picking up sticks in the backyard. I told him I'd meet him at their house and bring over the Ziploc full of tiny squirters after his chores were finished. He was so afraid I'd open water-fire on him when he answered the door, I could hear him squealing from the other side when I rang the bell. My mother cautiously opened the door, and there he was in the dining room, squeezed back into a dark corner with a plastic chair held up as a shield.

His worries were premature. I hadn't even filled the water guns. In fact, I made him prep them all and hand them out fairly (such an only child, always trying to take two and leave someone totally defenseless) and then I unleashed the fury. My mom was soaked within minutes and my dad ruthless fired at my head while I reloaded in the trash can full of hose-water my mom left on the front porch.

We had so much fun, laughing and perching behind tiny trees in the neighbors yard as protection (unsuccessfully). We refilled and reloaded until we were all worn and very wet. All, but Lil E, who wanted to keep on until dark.

We did this all last summer -- drenching each other with super-soakers and surprising each other with stray water streams through car doors and after school -- and it's just come a bit earlier year.

Which gives me plenty of time to let the fear of being sprayed down fade away and then show up at the front door with my own water theatrics -- crazy-cold hose-water-filled dollar-store guns blazing all over my boy who thinks he's the one with the smart strategy.

Watch out, son. It's going to be lonnnnng and crazy season. And hasn't even officially begun.

 

New favorite places: City Provisions

I've been meaning to stop in for ages, and last weekend, in between errands and a manicure and lady-talk with another single mama friend, I finally made it to City Provisions Deli. 

It sits on Wilson at Ravenswood, very close to where I once devoured fried ice cream in the dark booths of Zephyr, in a space that is open and airy and full of light. There are big, heavy stripped down tables, counter service and plenty of smiley, knowledgeable staffers to deliver your food, tidy up after you and ask if you are having a wonderful day. 

Lucky seven

"I can't believe I am all these ages and have lived all these years. I feel like I was just born." 

That's what he told me -- earnestly -- the night before he leapt into seven. It was just after I told him the story of his birth, as I always do on the eve of his birthday and as my mother always does on the eve of mine. 

"The day you were born was the happiest day of my whole life," I said, just as earnestly.

"It was?! Even with all the great and happy times we've had together?" 

"Oh, yes. Because it was the first one," I kissed his forehead. "It's what got all of those happy times started."

Ten September 11ths

A decade ago, I sat on a train to downtown Chicago, having just seen the second plane hit the Twin Towers, listening to a very young woman wonder out loud why the airports were such a mess, why there was such chaos. I wanted to tell her what was happening in New York, but she'd just landed in my city from there. She had no idea. I couldn't be the one to tell her.

Hours later, my coworkers and I were nervously evacuating our building, a few short blocks from Sears Tower. We were afraid, like many others, it would be next to tumble. The streets were busy, people were confused, and so a kind coworker said she'd drive me home, not wanting to send me into the tunnels of train. The expressway was a calm, deep breath. It was empty, like everyone around it was waiting for the center of our city to implode next.

I didn't go home.

7 women I can't wait to see at BlogHer

Last year, there was a big old Shine shabang at BlogHer and it was phenomenal to see the women lined up to share their own stories of transformation that became many, many inspirational videos for the You. Reinvented program. This year, I'll be there on my own -- no video crew, professional hosts, make-up artists and gorgeous white leather ottomans. As much as I will miss that spotlight shining down on dozens of women being filmed, I am so grateful to be fully present to meet up with women I know and only see a few times a year and to meet others for the very first time.

Here are the ladies who've made my checklist for BlogHer '11, just a few short hours away:

Mommyfriend's a sweetie-pie looking blond mama who really truly sang the words "punk ass trippin but it's alllllllllllriiiight" on a vlog post today. See now why we need to meet in person? Oh yeah, and when I texted her the first time, she sent me back a photo of a hot pair of red patent leather sandals and apologized profusely for her unpainted toes, which just means I will be running into her arms as soon as I spy her across the gigantor exhibit hall of squealing bloggy ladies.

Amy from Using Our Words is delightful, wise, and somehow wrangles two boys and baby girls with grace, laughter and enough time to actually leave comments on other bloggers' posts. Crazy, right? She is the mama with the good advice who isn't afraid to say screw it and host her own DIY daycamp in the backyard.

Lindsay from Suburban Turmoil and Clever Girl Cat from Wishbone Clover and I saw a lot of sites together in New Orleans a few months ago at Mom 2.0. But it was when Lindsay leaned her pretty-dress self over a pirate bar with lots of uh-uh-uh music and video poker machines blaring and politely ordered us "three Purple Voodoo drinks...with extra voodoo, please!" that the very corners of the love triangle were sealed. I am not sure how much voodoo exists in San Diego, but I am quite sure that if Cat, Lindsay and I are ever alone together on cobblestone streets, we shall find it and drink as much of it as we can possibly ingest (which in the case of the New Orleans grape booze slushy, totalled about an inch each).

Lia from Mama Starting Over. As it goes, some of us become single mamas in the time between blogging conferences. After heart-to-heart IMs, emailed check-ins, and advice poured back and forth on Facebook, I am really looking forward to giving my lady Lia a wink and a smile in person.

Karen from Chookooloonks is a woman on a mission and I am sure she will be incredibly busy at BlogHer. But I loved connecting with her when we sat on a panel together at Mom 2.0 so much that I will be very happy just to wave at her from my seat ten rows away at a session where she is undoubtedly speaking again. Some women just make you want to be better by being around and I do think Karen's one of those ladies.

Charlene from CrazedParent. OK, this is a cheat because Charlene's been one of my closest bloggy lady friends practically since the beginning of all blog time. Also, I had dinner with her a couple of months ago and we've been on a texting frenzy this whole week. But it has been two years since I was at a conference with Char, lots has happened for both of since then, and I know we will rile up something fabulous or hilarious or completely life-changing or all three while we're there together.

This little child of mine, I'm gonna let him shine

You might think this child of 6 and 5/6th years doesn't have a single $119-Lego set, or even four, stacked in his room, unopened except for the precise little tear in the corner where small hands snuck out all the guys and left the parts to be assembled at some point, hopefully before another Christmas arrives.

You might also think he has not a single ball or bat or bubble machine or giant collection of half-used sidewalk chalk.

You might assume he is without a scooter, bike, two wagons, three one-bladed and one dual-bladed light saber and countless constructed out of cardboard wrapping paper tubes, pipe cleaners and a small prayer that the aluminum foil scraps will enable them to be conductors of the Force.

You very well could conjure up sympathy for this small boy, who seems to be without a small pool, a sandbox, a sprinkler and seventeen plastic trucks mere steps away from where he stands.

You may well think any and all of these things, looking at this picture of a kid who cannot let go of a red plastic dollar-store bucket. He wears it as a boot, he wears it as a hat. That's all it takes apparently -- $1.09 with tax -- to keep this kid happy and laughing hysterically for hours.

And when I'm torn at Christmas about whether to feel guilty or like the smartest lady in the world for wrapping those de-guy-ed Lego sets back up, remind me of this moment. Whisper to me that if I put a bucket instead of a bow on top of that stack of gifts, he'll be too busy dancing around with it affixed to his person to even notice all the Ewoks and Clone Troopers are long gone.

Remember when I said I wondered if he was gifted?

You know those moments when you just smile, nod, and pray....

that the strange tendency will pass or that the quirk was not, in fact, inherited from you.......

or that this lapse in his otherwise clear brilliance will fade with a sudden recitation of the presidents (in reverse order)...

or maybe a jolt of algebraic genius (that you will have to only assume is completely correct)? Oh hell, I'd be fine with him reciting all the words to the "iCarly" theme song at this point.

You know those times Venn diagram that outlines parenting your child (yes, you must claim him -- damn the gap-teeth and tiny eyes and deep dimples for making it so!)...

shows a tiny but unmistaken sliver where "laugh" and "cringe" intersect...

and you think, is this hilarious or alarming, brilliant or bucket-headed (or -footed -- it counts)?

That was this afternoon, in parents' backyard, a thousand degrees outside, and this was the show (carnival or cirque?).

 And I admit (not just that I had a Diet Coke and rolled up my t-shirt slieeves -- craaaazzzaaaay!) that I did a little giggling, a bit of cringing, and then I thought,

hey, whatever freak show this kid's in, as long as he performs with this much pride...

I'll be his biggest, loudest, teared-up, kooky, blissed out fan.

 

 

 

Keep going (you know you want to):

• What if he's gifted? What if he's not?
• On Bieber and black belts
• This is who he wants me to think he thinks I am

Dinner companion

I don't care if it is a thousand degrees outside, I am blissful sitting in the full sunshine on my porch, looking out over the neighborhood, across to the potted herbs growing in mismatched pots all around me, into the trees with branches that hang right over us, and over at my boy.

We eat dinner out here often in the summer months. It's easy to slide plates of sausages and potatoes, salmon and veggie kabobs, chicken and corn right from the grill over to our little table. It also makes me feel like I am getting some time outside after spending my days tapping away on laptop and overwhelmed by conference calls and shuttling between school and the Tae Kwon Do studio.

Last night, the sun was very hot, but the light fell perfectly across Lil E's chestnut hair, totally and stubbornly over-grown, especially for the warm-weather months. He said the sausages I grilled up were too spicy (reminding me of him as a baby, trying new foods and exclaiming, "PICY! PICY, MOMMY! PICY!"). But he happily ate his broccoli and rice and mustered through a few bites of the spicy stuff.

We talked about his day, the last week of kindergarten (reminding me of his first day of kindergarten...just yesterday, wasn't it?). We talked about some silly dog tale with the ongoing storyline we've stretched out for weeks now. We talked about vacations he will take with his dad and then with me this summer.

It was pleasant, calm. The birds were chirping. Our feet were bare. Our bellies were full. A trace of air conditioning slipped out of the porch door and gave some relief. We did not feel rushed. If this was a welcome from summer, she did it right this year.

See Lil E's little muffin feet with the rounded toes and deliciously gushy tops?

I always wondered where he inherited them from.Until I saw this photo right here.

 

Raising him bi-baseballish

 

If you come from Chicago, you're allowed to waffle over things like gyros or Italian beef, L or bus, inner Drive or outer, Lincoln Park Zoo or Brookfield. But what you're not supposed to waiver on is where your baseball loyalties rest.

Except in my family. I grew up on the north side, a straight shot on the bus, three miles from Wrigley Field. By those boundaries, we were bred to be Cubs fans. But my dad was always a Sox fan. That was cheered on by the fact that the Sox gave out free tickets to kids who read a certain number of books over the summer. Since I always read tons of books over the summer, that meant gloriously free Sox tickets, fireworks lighting up the southside sky, and my dad pretty damn happy at the end of our family row.

We were so close to Wrigley, though, that we still sat in the bleachers during summer games, occasionally wrapped in coats and hats and drinking hot chocolate and other times sunburned and slurping up ice cream already melted inside the wrappers. We still cheered loudly, still rooted hard for our team, still made my dad pleased we were out at the ball park.

This back and forth and my dad's preferences spanning such a stretch of expressway across the city led to some very awkward moments when out-of-towners asked whether the Cubs or Sox were our team. (Chicagoans didn't ask because they assumed our address told them all they needed to know.) I'd hem and haw at this answer, giving some kind of mumbled, "Ummm...both", hoping no one around me would razz me for it.

Then, it came time to introduce Lil E to the game. I got tickets easily last year from some friends with great seats at Wrigley. We had a great time. My dad explained elements of the game to my boy with a seriousness reserved for grandfathers and grandsons and lots of shelled peanuts between them. My mom taught him the words to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" and I showed him how delicious cotton candy is, even on a very humid day.  A Cubs fan was made.

As we headed out, my dad leaned over to me and said, "And now we've got to get this kid to Comiskey."

Perhaps you know it as the now-U.S. Cellular Field. My dad refuses to call it that only with exaggerated disgust at today's branding standards after he's referred to it as Comiskey.

Lil E did make it to a Sox game with his dad. Then the balance shifted back when we returned to Wrigley for another Cubs game. It was 2-1 and I was unsure how it'd play out this summer.

Tonight, we evened the score. We headed to Comiskey...I mean, U.S. CELLULAR...to see the White Sox take on the Mariners. We got a sweet deal that included time at the patio, where patrons get food and drink included with the ticket price. It's eye-level with the field, so we ate hot dogs and ribs and watched the teams warm up. We were there with one of Lil E's favorite buddies and her mom, and the kids clung to the fence and we all yelled at the players to throw a ball to the small Sox fans.

Lil E's buddy's mom had already caught one ball, so we needed the other kid to get one, too. And they complied...eventually. Everyone around us cheered -- most loudly, the lady next to us who'd been yelling like crazy on behalf of our kids. The kids were so happy, tossing the balls to each other, being the goofy that only six-ear olds can be, and drinking too much soda.

Then, a kind groundskeeper who'd seen the kids earlier from the other side of the fence while he lugged equipment off the field, snuck up behind the kids and silently handed them each a ball. There was a pause all around us. Even the raucousness from table of college kids playing drinking games a few rows over seemed to fade. The kids were wide-eyed and a little stunned. We said many thank yous. More cheers. More tossing. More goofiness and soda.

By the time we made it to our seats, the kids were full of adrenaline and there was no way any of us were going to pay too much attention. They giggled and played in the empty seats and we chatted and periodically cheered on one of several really good plays. There were trips to the bathroom and a few stops to run under the water sprayer and a moment to watch fireworks explode in celebration of a Sox home run. We made it five innings and called it a night.

It was great. We had so much fun. And all I could think as we pulled out of the parking lot was, "Now when am I going to get that boy back to see the Cubs?"

Sassy Single Mom Style: Favorite spring-to-summer tops

Sassy Single Mom is a new feature to help mamas, especially those doing raising kids all or mostly alone, to feel good, look fabulous and be mindful of budget -- because sometimes a killer pair of wedge heels, some good-ass jeans, a scrumptious snack or quick tip on how to get more sleep can take you from surviving to sashaying.

 

Here in Chicago, we jump from wooly-sweatered May days to spaghetti-strapped summer days. There's not lots of in between. On one gorgeous, 80-degree break from the rain and muck last week, I embraced all the happiness of summer by purchasing a few new tops that I can layer under little jackets and floaty cardigans now and strip down to when the temperature gets back to a happy place (hopefully, soon).

The Steal

First, I purchased this little henley tee from Old Navy. I'm picky about their clothes, simply because I've found some inconsistencies in sizing and durability in the past. But once I realized this top fit me in a small, I put all that aside (what size inconsistencies?). It's a gauzy, soft cotton but not too clingy. I love the way it lays, perfectly framing a big, chunky necklace or tucking under another layer without being bulky or obtrusive. I chose a crisp white color (here, it's shown in Palomino, which is six dollars cheaper on sale -- score!) and paired it with dark jeans and my red, red shoes. I'll be wearing it with little skirts and, if I'm feeling brave, tie shorts this summer. It's $14.94, and I may be going back for the same style in a few more colors.

 

A Bit More Spendy

I love that there are sequins dotting bags, espadrilles, and even cardigans for spring and summer. I'm also not afraid to totally overdo it when it comes to shine, which is why I am wearing my gold petal-sequin tank more now than when I got it about a year-and-a-half ago. Mine is from LOFT but this one is almost identical. From Calvin Klein, it comes in the loveliest soft pink and this strangely named olivine for $79. Do a little search to find one that best fits your curves, budget and hot date-lifestyle. I'm wearing mine these days with a skinny red patent belt and (oh yes, again) my red patent shoes, topped with the cropped brown leather jacket I got at the same time. The belt fits at the hip so there's a bit more shape to the tank but I'm not afraid to rock it with some tight old jeans for that effect either.

An Investment

I really wish this photo did this silk dolman-sleeve top justice. From CAbi - the Tupperware-party way to sell a line of clothes to wine-drinking ladies running around in their bras and skinny jeans like it's 1995 during sorority rush week -- this Gypsy top is $118. But I have to tell you, loves, it looks fabulous on, draping the girls just so and tucking in at the hips so that no suck-in, Spanx-like tanks are required. It's more than I'd normally spend on a top, but given the shiraz-a-flowin', it's a good thing my credit card left in the shape it did. I'll be dressing this up for a night out to dinner and pairing it with jeans (oooh, maybe even the daring white ones) and heels for days when I want to step up the jeggings uniform.

 

What sassy little tops are you loving this spring?

We're breaking out of our own zoo: Madagascar Live

Several days a week, after homework and snacks and catching up on the day, while frantically finish up work and before I spend no more than 17 minutes throwing together some kind of high-fructose-free dinner for Lil E and me, you will hear the snarky "WHAT.EVS" and shrill laughter and same dialogue I have heard more times than my own name coming from our television. Why? Because, for a half-hour on those days,"iCarly" has invaded our home and taken over my small child's brain. How will you recognize these are THOSE thirty minutes of hell if you are a parent already immune to those telltale sounds of terrible children's networking? By the perma-eyeroll affixed to my face.

But, damn, it makes him happy. And laugh. And learn words like "idiot" and "dating" and "pizza tacos."

What makes us both happy are those shows that we both can agree on. There aren't many. "Phinneus & Ferb" is the clear animated winner. "DIrty Jobs" makes both mama (rrrr) and kiddo (ewwww) happy. Then, there's the one Lil E STILL, five years after he first heard it, believes is really truly sincerely called "America's HOME Funniest Videos." And, of course, there's The Penguins (capitalization so necessary).

I saw every single "Penguins of Madagascar" that lives onDemand at least three times before I saw the movie "Madagascar." That was key. The sarcasm, the references to classic novels and gangsta rap, the 23 perfectly timed minutes of laughter that it took my coffee to kick in on Saturday mornings -- all very necessary for me to be prepped to watch the movie I once STRONGLY suggested would be totally awesome to see with Daddy.

By the time I was ready, Lil E knew all the dialogue. I actually had to beg him to see it, even make it seem like he was participating in some altruistic Movie Education of Mommy project. He bought it. The plea, that is. I had to pony up for the movie. (Note to self: Up allowance so there are enough quarters in the kid's jar to pitch in for exorbitant onDemand kid's movie prices.)

I laughed. The out-loud kind. I even danced to the damn "Move It, Move It" musical mindworm. I loved it.

So when I read that the whole sha-bang was going to be performed on stage, right here in my city, I felt like we had to go. I mean, it's clearly critical for my development of post-Bambi animated cinema appreciation. Plus, I've been reassured there's dancing to that one song (shhhh) in the aisles.

And if he asks, I'll say this show was for him so I'm sure not to pay back any debts when the "iCarly" crew's live show comes to town.

 

We were kindly given complimentary tickets to this show. But I wouldn't list it here if I didn't think it was a great fit for many of you with kids or weird obsessions with stage shows.  Tonight is opening night! Shows continue through this weekend in Chicago and in other cities.For more information about “MADAGASCAR LIVE,” visit www.madlive.com. Find “MADAGASCAR LIVE” on Facebook by visiting this Facebook page. Tickets, which start at $20, are available on www.ticketmaster.com.

 

Please be assured, I will always give honest, accurate reviews and will never be paid for a positive opinion. Y'all are way too savvy and valuable for that business.

 

 

 

Looking for love

 
Once you stop to notice one, the hearts seem to appear everywhere. This one turned up on my salad plate during a divine little dinner at my favorite little spot over a very intense conversation with the Not Boyfriend.

Lucky for me, there was laughter along with those big topics, an incredible entree to top the first course, and a lot of flavor in that bite of love there in the corner.

On Bieber, black belts and (maybe...possibly...oh, who cares?) being gifted

I admt it. I was afraid to publish this post, this long and winding wondering about whether my boy is gifted or gifted enough to go to a gifted school or if it even matters at all. It was honest but it seemed pretentious. It felt like one of those first world problems no one really wants to hear about, like how your fridge died and you lost seven pounds of grass-fed organic beef from Whole Foods. WHOLE FOODS, people! Or how your cable went out and you missed the last crucial twelve seconds of the Real Housewives reunion. THE HAIR PULLING-SOBBING PART, friends! Or how your six-year old was one of 35,000 children in Chicago to MAYBE GO TO A DIFFERENT SCHOOL! I wanted to write it but I also wanted to take my $7 latte to the very back seats of the indie coffee place to read my Brain, Child magazine and just shush it.

I didn't feel comfortable posting a link on Facebook, didn't really tell any of my mama friends I had these thoughts in my head. Instead, I just took the boy back for his second round of tests, tried to relax into the present-momentness of not knowing where the boy will be in school next year, and just drive to the damn place, sit through the boring hour, and ask casually and calmly how it went.

"This was easy," he assessed as we crossed the long parking lot of puddles and slush after the test. I pushed down the excited leap in my heart to hear that. It's crazy, that reaction. "This time, they didn't just read the question ONCE before you had to choose an answer. They read it twice."

"And that was better?" I asked. You know, as non-stage-mothery as I possibly could. I was shoving aside images of myself threading his eyebrows and forcing him into a spray tan booth.

"Well, yeah, because if I yawned, I wouldn't miss it." And so there it was, the logic. Fine logic. Logical logic. Hearing the question is, after all, key to filling in the tiny little bubble with a slightly oversized pencil. My child is clearly a hearing overachiever. Unless iCarly is on. Or there's a Lego guy in his hand. Or we have to be anywhere seven minutes ago. OK, scratch auditorially gifted.

That day called for celebration, regardless of whenever those tests arrive (which could be any time before he graduates from college as it is CPS). Earlier that morning, he'd already scored big with a jump-side kick and a nod from Tae Kwon Do teacher during belt testing that moved him up in rank to cheetah belt.

Maybe it was the high of performing on the mat that gave him calm confidence as he walked into the auditorium where he'd be lined up with other kindergartners testing into school programs around the city. Maybe it was exhaustion of warming up with monkey jacks and doing sequences that require more focus than even scaling across the top of the playground monkey bars.

Maybe it was a familiarity with the moves he and his classmates were called on to do by the Tae Kwon Do teacher or in taking the second round of Scan-Tron tests. Whatever it was, he felt good, accomplished. He looked proud, happy. He was tired and wearing a yellow headband over his bedhead.

We went out to lunch first. He was resistant, but gave in to eating something other than mac and cheese as soon as I asked him details of how each kick and knife-hand strike felt to do. Then we napped, long and hard, both of us groggy when we woke up as the sun was setting, expecting it to be morning. And finally, we went to see the Justin Bieber docu-drama. In 3-D. (Spoiler alert: He's totally going to get that Oscar.)

My pride allowed me to pay for the $12.50 tickets without wincing, but only because my purse was packed full of leftover Christmas stocking candy and water bottles filled at home. My own geekdom -- let's call this teen pop star giftedness, shall we? --enabled me to pull the 3-D glasses on, pull my boy tight, and squeal at the wispy-haired Christian crooner from Canada work red and purple high-tops for big crowds of imaginary teen girls he reached out to with a 3-D beckoning wave. OK, there was no squealing. But there were tears.

I know, I know. I should be ashamed. Quieter about that. Think about withholding such personal information.

But what got me was...well, the whole day. And this kid with the voice and the moves and the drive that seems to come from deep within, raised by a seemingly sane and centered single mom, kind of spoke to me. The people around him -- his mother, his grandparents, even the kid-like goofy guy manager and body guard and assistant -- all spoke to their concern about what kind of man he would become, about wanting to raise a kid who could be a kid and still one day grow into a responsible, caring, good man. That got to me.

 
The child next to me may not ever fill Madison Square Garden or be accepted into a gifted school or become valedictorian or earn a black belt. Or maybe he will. No matter what dreams he sees for himself or what he achieves, I will always be concerned about how it is impacting him, who he is becoming, what man will grow out of this small child with big sights.

But I promised myself, sitting there with his head pressed into my shoulder, intent eyes behind 3D glasses, headband, bedhead, lips mouthing the words, "baby baby bayyyyyybayyyy oooohhh", that I won't let all of what comes tomorrow distract me from seeing what's shining today.

And in that moment in the dark theatre, the light was very bright.

The light was, however, turned up a bit too high later that night when he emerged perhaps prouder than he did with that cheetah belt, in  this shirt (thanks, Mom and Dad!).

Funny is smart, right? I know, I know. This kind of funny is just six. And so is that kind of seriousness. And also the starry-eyedness.

And you know -- and I really do know -- that's all this kid has to be. RIght now.

What if he's gifted? What if he's not?

We crowded into a small auditorium on the IIT campus this afternoon, a Sunday during a time when Lil E would normally be sound asleep in one of the weekend naps we still luxuriate in. But today, bigger plans than resting up from a weekend at his dad's were at work. We were assigned the time to test Lil E for gifted programs in the Chicago Public Schools.

I'd been downplaying the whole thing since we were given the timeslot. At first mention, he asked if every kid in his class would be tested, said he was nervous and didn't want to take the test.

And maybe he doesn't need to take the test. He goes to a good school -- a very good school with some great teachers and an amazing, award-winning art teacher and a committed gym teacher who keeps the kids in stitches. He has a lovely kindergarten teacher and is still connected to his outstanding preschool teacher there. It has magnet status and the climate seems to be ever improving.

Still...I wonder. Is in the right the place? Will this school give him what he needs to really to fluorish? Will he be challenged? We've already spent two-and-a-half years in this building. But have we landed?

He was well-prepared for kindergarten but I worry that it's too easy for him. Perhaps that sounds pretentious. It's not that he isn't learning and doesn't love it. He is, he does. Some people might scoff and say that it's only kindergarten, that it's tying shoes and forming letters. I disagree with that. This is the foundation, the beginning of many years, the time for setting expectations and igniting those sparks that become a much bigger love for mathematic equations or constructing bridges or molding clay or building furniture. Is that loaded? It is. I know it is.

This child has had a reading explosion, jumps at the chance to count money, can spend an hour drawing and writing stories, is excited to learn about almost anything. I don't want that thrilling, furious momentum to stop. I don't even want it to stall. Just as every child has a checklist of talents and adeptness and wonder, I imagine most parents will do everything they can to keep that moving along.

This is what I can think of to do -- pursue a school that's more intense, where he's challenged more. Who knows? He may not fall into that category of gifted. He may not get into one of the schools we've applied to. He may not go even if he does. Opening the door, considering the options, that's what feels incumbent to me as a parent. As his parent.

I tried to counter his anxiousness with comments about it being fun and no big deal, but the worried look on his face told me he wasn't convinced. I gave him an early nap, packed a lunch for him to eat in the car so he could sleep as long as possible. Sitting in his car seat with a Tupperware with half a ham sandwich, a few pretzels and apple slices left, he let out a meek, "But Mommy, I am scared."

I asked him to tell me more.

"I've never been to this place." I told him I hadn't either. This part was new for both of us. BUt I would be there.It would be fine. We'd figure it out together.

We did, finding our way in the snow and person-high piles of slush into the visitor's parking lot and then the auditorium full of parents and children. I smiled to myself as we settled into our seats. Child after child was hunched over maze books and activity books and chapter books. A mother behind spoke a little too loudly, "I BET THIS WILL BE EASY PEASY LEMON SQUEEZY!" while a father down the aisle from us poured over the disciplinary book "1-2-3 Magic". An older sister of a kindergartner worked seriously on a report with a library biography of Jimi Hendrix on her lap. One parent talked on her cell phone for the entire two hours we were there, her other children yelling out and hitting each other in their seats. Other parents had a serious pow-wow on the state of the schools. It was contradictory. It was intense. We were right in the middle of it.Literally, figuratively.

Lil E finished his lunch and asked me if he could draw while we waited for his group to be called.

"My number's a six!" He whispered that to me, flashing the card he was supposed to carry with him. "It's my favorite number!"

HIs favorite number is always the age he is, and I think he was recognizing the good fortune of that shiny plastic beckoning to be brave. He drew a volcano, a man making his way toward it. The figure was grasping on to his head and around the lava and smoke, he wrote, "HOLD ON TO YOUR HATS!!!!" Lil E loves exclamation points. And fire. Also, drawing x-eyed death and people throwing up in buckets, but I tried not to put that into the gifted testing universe.

It calmed him. When his group was called, he hopped up, we kissed goodbye and we hurried off to join the other five- and six-year olds in a long line to a classroom where they would "circle things" and "solve puzzles" and "give out very best guess if we didn't know the answers." I ate chips from the vending machine until he came back and told me, chipper and engaged and maybe even excited, about the test he spent over an hour taking.

Before bed, he told me more, sharing some of his frustrations ("I really think they should read each question more than one time") and accomplishments ("on some, I didn't see the answer I really knew it was, so I circled the one that seemed the most like it") and questions ("are they going to send that little book back if we want to keep it?").

We have almost two months to wait until a letter arrives telling us his percentile among all children in the country tested with this particular tool. In Chicago alone, about 35,000 children were tested. There are clearly far fewer spots in our city's gifted programs and schools. Until then, we go about life as it has been, leaving all those worries and all that wondering in the auditorium where they were shared, understood. We go back to school tomorrow, where I will help Lil E out of his snow gear and he will rush blissfully into his classroom. 

For now, there are no decisions, no pressure, nothing out of our current ordinary. Should Lil E be on a trajectory to a new school, he will still be the kid who regularly appears naked and wielding a...ummm...light saber, who knows every word to "Hey Soul Sister", who cries when I make him put a quarter in the Potty Talk Jar. And the truth is, no matter what school he attends, what program he's enrolled in and curriculum he is making his way through, I will worry about whether he's bored or overwhelmed, is whipping through work or paying close attention, is curious and happy and immersed and loving to learn.

This realization strips away the stress of circles and percentiles. It lets Lil E just keep on being the kid he is, and allows me, even in the brain spinning I do late at night, to keep being the mother I am. Whether Chicago Public Schools deem him gifted or accepted elsewhere or not, it's really just the venue that may change. There's a chance that change could carry its own anxiety and bravery.

For now, though, I see what he's capable of already, who he is. What he will become, I believe will be magnificent, and I believe that because I am his mother. Not the teacher, not the labeler of gifted or great kid.  I'm not concerned about whether he'll get the big G go-ahead. I just want to know he is sitting at a desk -- or clamoring around in a gym or bubbling up stuff in a lab or caked in glue in a studio or not eating his carrots in the cafeteria -- in a school I feel confident in. That I feel confident is where he should be.

Similar to what he did, whisked off in a college campus classroom with a long line of other children and without me, we will wait for the word, look at all our options, take our very best guess and move on to the next thing.

Someone Else's Words Wednesday: What you say before it all turns to nasty gray slush

The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. 

 

You go to bed in one kind of a world and wake up in another quite different,

 

and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found? 

 

 

 

~J.B. Priestley

The weather's great. Wish you were here

This child, who I never thought would know the meaning of the term "snow day"  -- the one who loves being pummeled by snowballs as much as he loves devising his own sneak snow-attack, the one squeals to put on snow pants and cares less about the hot chocolate than making snow angels until his extremities are numb -- bounded through the blizzard this afternoon.

We were breathless, climbing mounds of shoveled snow and leaping off park equipment into waist-high banks. We laughed. We flicked flakes off of each other's eyelashes while our pants and gloves were caked in pieces of ice. Our noses ran.

We spied the deepest wells and highest drifts we could see on our block and raced to see who could fall into them first.

And when our fingers felt frozen and the scarves and gloves and boots and down coats were drenched, we went inside and crashed hard into a deep, deep 45-minute sleep.

Our neighborhood is still piled high with snow, the streets still quiet and mostly impassable. Inside, tea mugs and Legos and granola bar wrappers and damp socks are strewn about, the other marks of a snow day that could take longer than the snow plows to clean up.

 
Hours of boring and antsy and making time pass were all worth that hour outside, though. And the bliss that only comes when there is nothing but a stretch of fresh white snow and an afternoon to plow through it with footprints and snowballs and straight-edged ambitious shovel marks, the rare snow day for a city kid -- that's worth its weight in cold.

When it rains, it snows

I didn't believe it, even after the weather warnings and news blasts, long after the rumor of the first Chicago Public School closing in twelve years, not even after my dad called to tell me to hunker down. I thought this snowpocalypse, as it was being called, was simply hype. Or possibly, the meteorologists' big union play for more screen time. I peeked out my window periodically throughout the day and scoffed. We'll see, Chicago. We shall see.

And then, just moments before the time we kept hearing it would land, it really did come. The Blizzageddon. The snOMG. The Blizzard of Oz. The Snow Throwdown. A snowgasm.The Blizzaster. SNOWPRAH.

Twenty inches of snow fell on our city. And just as we always do, people found a way to cope just when the city seemed to be coming apart at the seeams. People who'd waited in a hellatious traffic jam on Lake Shore Drive for hours and hours -- some rotating time in strangers' vehicles to help each other conserve gas -- finally abandoned their cars and headed home, leaving a parking lot lining the lakeshore with its 18-foot icy waves and blowing snow.

Businesses closed. Trains slowed. Buses plodded along, packed full of people. Eventually, the busiest intersections from our neighborhood to the main arteries of downtown were abandoned. It was eery.

And then came the lightening and thunder and more wind that blew the tree branches so low that they scraped across our frosty windows. Blightening. Blizzfusion. Thundersnow.Visibility was nearly nothing. When I peekd out at the night, I could only see a dusting of snow in the street. But up against the cars were drifts climbing as high as Lil E.

It felt as if this city, the one we compare to big shoulders, was swept up by millions and millions of fragile snowflakes, countless breaths of wind off the lake, collisions of warm and cold air above us, misfires of electricity. All of it together was haunting.

 
This morning, our building looked wedged in among the snow drifts from the alley, through the gangway, all along the sidestreets, up on to our porch. We were held tight by snow and winter and forces much bigger than kindergarten schoolwork and little plastic shovels and media hype.

OK, I was wrong. It came. It came big and loud and dramatically. But what it became was quiet and beautiful and even serene. And I admit, I love it all.