Sassafrass

Easy is good

Aside from the introductions and polite questions about work and the military, someone listening in to the dinner and brunch the Not Boyfriend and I shared with my brother and his family would have not guessed it was the first time we were all together. It was easy and calm and all the things you hope when men you adore have an inaugural hand-shake. 

I chimed in to the conversation here and there, but it was hard to take my eyes and attention and tickling fingers away from my nephew. 

"I need lipstick!" he called out, running to me in tiny-sized New Balance tennies while I put gloss on my own lips.

And even though he refused to add his own feet to our traditional shoe photos, later he decided it was time. 

"Aunt Jessie," he said emphatically, holding his sneakers up toward me, "now take picture of my shoooooes."

Oh, how I love being called Aunt Jessie.

While my brother and the Not Boyfriend discussed my brother's complicated engineering projects, my nephew and I donned ladies' sunglasses and lip gloss, posed for silly-faced pictures, practiced the word "disgusting" over and over, and snuggled in a booth until he absolutely, positively had to sit on his mommy's lap to lick the ketchup off of his hamburger bun. 

The next day, when he defied my many attempts to take his picture while he was already pouting, I just loved on him more. The four of us -- my brother, his wife, the Not Boyfriend and me == laughed at the orneriness we all relate to, gave hugs and said goodbye too soon.

I wasn't sure what to hope for this meeting. But it was as it should be and I happy there will be more of this as our lives wind together in the months ahead. Next time, though, Lil E will make the whole scene complete.

 

 

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.

What happened when I told the boy

The Not Boyfriend and I have been discussing these plans for him to move to Chicago for some time, vaguely at first and then in more detail. We'll take it slow, we've agreed again and again. He will move here and we will learn what it is like to date in the same city. Eventually, we'd like to share a home (but not closets). First, we'll tend to the transition.

I told a few of my friends. Shared the information with my parents and brother. But I kept the news casual, in that vague space until it was time to share it all with Lil E. When he knew, I knew it would all be crystallized and real.

No more one days and maybes. Stuff that we could mark on the dry-erase calendar propped on our kitchen floor. I knew the conversation was coming but I couldn't plan it.

Then one night a couple of weeks ago, we were eating dinner and talking lightly about something that happened during the day.

"I have something to tell you," I said. He looked up. He loves news. "The Not Boyfriend has decided to move here. To be closer to us."

The light in his eyes turned up. His half-smile shot out to the corners his dimples make on his face. 

"OH! This is so great!," he blurt out. "Because you will be happier and I will be happier and he can get to know Grandpa and Grandma more and it's going to be so great!"

I couldn't cry. I was smiling too wide myself.It was time for him to talk.

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"Because...we're all going to be happier. And he can stay here sometimes and we can stay at his house sometimes. And you can have someone to be with when I am at Daddy's and we can all hang out together."

He was saying all the words. The ones that may have been prompted. The responses he may have thought I wanted to hear if I asked more questions. But he was saying them all on his own.

"So while he is at his training for the National Guard, you and I have a very important responsibility to help him in his move. We need to find him an apartment. Can you help me with that?"

He was quiet for a moment, so I took my turn. 

"He asked that you help me because your opinion is important."

"Oh YEAH," he interrupted excitedly. "Like maybe his place can have room for some of my Legos. Or a room where I can spend the night if I want to."

How had he known this was the discussion? We were in sync.

"Would you like to do that?" I put it back to him.

"Yes. And like, maybe sometimes, we can hang out there or here," he went on. "Either place."

"And he'd like an apartment that can fit a big dining room table," I told him. "Where we can have dinners and invite our friends."

"Maybe some of my friends, too?" he asked. "And their parents?"

"Yes, of course," I answered.

"Yeah," he said, and spooned another bite of mac-and-cheese into his mouth.

The next day, we visited my parents. The sun was bright in the living room and Lil E dumped a bag of soft blocks he has loved since he was a toddler out on to the floor. He pulled Lego Clone Troopers out of my purse to play in the foam structures he built.

"Tell Grandma the news about the Not Boyfriend," I whispered.

His head popped up.

"He's moving here! And Mommy and I are going to find him an apartment with a big dining room so we can have dinners there and he can cook. And Mommy will be happy and so I will be happier, too."

My mom squealed like she hadn't known.

"This is so great for all of us," she said. Lil E nodded at her, then turned to me and flashed me the face he uses for private, across-the-room communication -- a closed-mouth smile, eyes soft, then a wink.

It is all coming together, I thought. 

It won't all be easy. The fear still resides in there. Tough moments and trying talks are ahead, I am quite sure. But I will hold on to that private smile, that "You will be happier. And I will be happier..." tightly, and with two hands. 

This summer we will be seeking a new apartment together. Not one that he and I will live in more than a night or two at a time. But one that will hold more than a bin of toys or a few stray Legos, a lipstick and a hair band. Our hearts will be there, gathered around with the Not Boyfriend's and our friend's and all those beats of hopefulness for this next place we meet.

No more talking about being 40. OK, maybe just a few words

I woke up to a small voice in the other room.

"Mommy, may I get up? Happy birthday!" 

He rushed in as soon as I said yes, the gift bag in his hand rustling. He snuck under the covers and got close.

"I'm sorry I wouldn't admit I made a mistake," he was referring to a meltdown he'd had the night before. It was emotional and exhausting and I told him there wouldn't be birthday celebrations unless he was able to apologize. I'd been worried for hours after he finally fell asleep I'd have to stand my ground. Stubborn feels even worse on birthdays. For both of us. I sighed deeply.

"Now will you open your presents?!"

"YES!" I squealed it. I couldn't help it. He is a wonderful, thoughtful gift-giver -- opinionated and careful about his choices and keeping them a well-guarded surprise.

I lingered over the card but he was anxious for me to open each gift wrapped in white tissue paper. A floral scarf ('you've been wearing scarves a lot lately and daddy and I noticed"), pink and purple earrings ("dangly, like you like them"), pink and purple wooden bangles ("you can wear them like a bracelet sandwich!") and purple sunglasses ("fancy like you!"). 

I squealed more. He often chooses pink and purple gifts for me. 

"Will you wear them today?" he asked. He seemed tentative.

"OF COURSE!" And I showed them all off during my photo shoot on our way to a breakfast date.

He adjusted the tiara on my head, leaned in close and whispered, "I can see your halo."

I would have teared up but then he laughed. He was making a pop song joke more than a compliment. But I took it as both.

After breakfast, we went to parent-teacher conferences and looked through book after book of class photos and his stories and the pages of his research notebook. There was a birthday song from my brother and happy wishes from my nephew ("Love. You. Aunt. Jessie. Hap. Birday. Aunt. Jessie."). I beamed even brighter.

My next wish was to paint pottery. I didn't take a single photo because we were each so intent on the details of our piece. He painted a gnome figurine ("to stand next to the laughing Buddha I painted last time") and I made a mug with our mugs drawn on == his, mine, and the Not Boyfriend's. 

And then it was time for dinner. No arguments about dressing in church clothes, no fussing about what might be on the menu that he'd want to eat. Just confidence that it would be great because "all day has been so fun, so dinner will have to be fun, too!"

 

I chose Le Bouchon, a recommendation of the Not Boyfriend's and a perfect, cozy little spot to sit in the sunlight with my parents over an early dinner of Wagyu steaks with a rich cognac peppercorn sauce and a cocktail with St. Germain (my new favorite) and creme brulee (my old favorite) and chocolate mousse for dessert.

There were lovely and generous gifts and it all ended too soon when it was time for Lil E to go to his dad's house for the night. He kissed me goodbye and I dialed up the Not Boyfriend on Skype.

He's nearer in miles while he's in a specialization training for the National Guard for four months, but his schedule and phone reception and the rigorousness of this temporary life makes it feel like he's in a different country altogether. I ached to see his smile at the end of my big day and when I did, it made it all settle in.

He'd sent an astounding gift in a delightful card days before. What was inside each will stay between us but the outside...well, I think he should stick around for this decade. Perhaps longer. Yes, definitely longer.

Nothing magical needed to happen. Unless you count that light radiating from deep within, just to be with all my loves, just to breathe easy and enjoy so many good things. Even the apology and achy parts felt OK. I have a long, long time to iron all of that out and lots of pink and purple to wear while we do it.

Forever Young: best 40th birthday cocktail ever

 

Oh, who cares that it's Monday and I'm posting a drink recipe?! Take a few ibuprofen and keep reading, friends.

When I put the call out to The Facebook for suggestions of pink cocktails with gin that could be dispensed from something classier than a scrubbed out garbage can but didn't have to be shaken in 6-ounce pours every four minutes, I knew there was someone who would take the challenge seriously. Of course, it was Ilina of Diry & Noise. 

Ilina posts drink recips every Friday that make me suck down my afternoon coffee with a fervor that would probably give anyone standing near my desk the idea that I am perhaps maybe probably pretending there is more than cream in that cup. She and I, we should be neighbors. But we're not and I don't ever open the liquor that waits patiently in my freezer with frostbitten caps, hoping some impromptu party will happen. So instead, I read and guzzle coffee and Ilina leads a glamorous life of cocktail recipe experimentation and happy  hour envy. 

The good part is that when the party did happen, Ilina was still there for me. She threw out ideas and recipes and it was this one that caught my eye. She calls it the Writer's Block. I liked the gin and lime part and was intrigued by the St. Germain. When a few other friends recommended St. Germain, I knew I was on the right path to signature cocktailing of the pink and ginny -- and St. Germainy -- kind.

Here's what we mixed up in big batche -- simple, delicious and so pretty. I raise my glass -- not now but once or thrice at my party -- to Ilina and all the others who made this not-coffee cocktail find its way to my celebration.

Forever Young

1 part gin (ohhh, how Hendricks delights, and we chose Bombay Sapphire this time)

1 part St. Germain (smell the elderflower, so fragrant)

4 parts sparkling pom juice (it adds a lot of richness and is so delicous, we upped the proportion from three parts to four)

A bit of seltzer (it was that or call a long line of cabs to wait outside my apartment)

 

Some chose to top it off with prosecco (lovely), all had lime garnish.

I added frozen raspberries and pomegranate seeds to the dispenser. They were pretty but clogged up the spout and then made sipping a little less than ladylike. Still, they made the blood-red (not so pink after all) drink look summery and delicate.

 

The 40th birthday bash: For the record, I AM STILL 39

My mom has this fear of dying the week before her birthday. Sure, I inherited her flair for drama about things like this. But really, this is not an example of that fine quality. She says that when people die dramatically just before a birthday, news reports always round up.

She can point out specific examples of this that go back years. Like when a woman in Chicago sadly died when icicles fell from a downtown building and crashed into her car's windshield. She was out in the city with girlfriends, celebrating her birthday. 

"A woman died downtown today," my mom recalls the anchor saying, "one day shy of her 30th birthday."

"SEE?!," I remember my mother saying into the phone. "It's like I say. You can't even die with the dignity of that last day of being 29." 

And so, please God, if I kick it before all the dishes from this party that are currently soaking in my kitchen sink are dried and put away, please let the nice lady in the blond bob and huge lapel pin tell the world I was still 39. 

My parents threw me this party that no one was sure I'd want to have since I haven't exactly embraced this whole WOOHOOOO, 40! time. But I am not a lady who will pass up the opportunity to throw down pink sequins and create a signature cocktail. Not even for a birthday year that feels bigger than I am. 

So my mother laid out a spread -- pulled pork sandwiches, quesadillas, salads, cupcakes from Dinkel's. I rallied guests to help mix up batches of what my dad insisted on calling the Forever Young (for the record, ladels of it will make you feel Wayyyy Old in the hungover hours, so be wise and hydrate like you never did when you really were young).  There were fifteen people in the my home who I really adore and for a few hours, there wasn't any worry of what I age I was...about to turn.  It was just fun and these were just my friends and family and those were just sparkly dollar-store glasses and plastic rings and tiaras and wands nested in a hot pink boad I definitely do not pull out of the closet enough.  

Oh, and there was a new pair of shoes for the occasion. Ridiculously high, crazy-neon suede heels that make a downstairs neighbor insane and make short ladies look delightfully leggy. Those shoes may have made the rounds to a few other ladies' feet late in the evening.

There was laughing and raunchy stories and bottles of prosecco popped after gallons of the Forever Young faded. After my parents slipped away and my friends left, I stretched out in bed with the gift bags left there for me where the coats and purses once were.

There were many thoughtful and unnecessary and wonderful gifts. In one envelope marked "for your spirit," one friend put a gift certificate for five yoga classes (ahhh) and in another marked "for your habit," she tucked a gift card at a favorite shoe shop. There were delicious smelling bath stuffs, a big floppy Samantha-esque sun hat, a credit at the shop where Lil E pores over Lego watches while I study cases of carefully-made bangle bracelets and handmade clutch purses. 

I felt an ache of loneliness. I wished the Not Boyfriend was beside me while I laughed at the cards and untied the ribbons. I would have loved my girlfriends to stay just a little longer. My apartment felt empty. Lil E had checked in on a call, asking loudly over the sound of my 40th Bash Soundtrack blaring Gotye and then Michael Jackson, followed by Nicki Minaj and Nine Inch Nails, how it was going, what we were doing and if we were having fun. But that felt more than hours earlier.

It wasn't a bad ache to feel. Those people who'd been in my living room, drinking gin from a dispenser and eating my mom's cooking know me have known me for years, some decades. They know me from camp, high school, grammar school, the first parents' meeting of preschool. Life and parties and weddings and divorces and births and our kids' kindergarten graduation have happened and things are pretty much the same between us as they were when I was 37, 27, 17, 7. 

That ache is familiarity and love and wanting more time together in the future. It also may have been a bit of gin and pomegranate juice working itself over on my emotions. But mostly it was lovey-gooby stuff. 

I was exhausted. But I thought about the icicle lady just before I fell asleep. I prayed for her 29-year old soul. Then thanked my lucky stars for my 39-year old self and all the good people who are with me, even after they are gone.

 

Five until 40. (And furry after 40)

I'll just put this out there -- I haven't been doing well with turning 40. The email I sent to my family saying that my one birthday wish was to not have to endure any old jokes? Yeah, that was a real thing. A real thing that apparently none of them read. 

The person giving me a hard time has been Lil E. He already thought it was hilarious to put a significant quiver in his voice, shake his hands over an imaginary cane and say old-goodies like, "Ehhh, sonny?" and "Dagnabit!" It was funny for a while. Then just fine. And finally, I asked him to stop. 

"It hurts my feelings," I explained. He couldn't get it. "I feel fabulous and in a great place in my life. And I'm not thrilled about this age's number. So I want to focus on the good part -- how wonderful I feel. And also how pretty I am. Let's focus on how pretty I am."

He apologized. He can't even fathom what 40 means and I know this. In kindergarten, he announced that he loved being six so much he DID NOT want to turn seven. Until I mentioned that would mean not getting the piles of Lego sets he usually unwraps after parties and then he was completely fine with his birthday being eleven months away. Still, he tried to relate.

A few nights later at dinner, we were talking about my birthday, the party my mom was throwing me, what I was excited about.

"I wish the Not Boyfriend could be here to celebrate, though," I said. He'd be leaving for National Guard training the day of my party and coming home the day of his own 40th. No birthday celebrations in person for us this year. It wasn't making the transition into the next decade any easier to have my man out of reach. "That makes me a little sad."

Lil E cocked his head compassionately, smiled and said brightly, "Don't worry, Mommy! You have lots of birthdays left to celebrate!"

I smiled. It was sweet of him to say. But he wasn't done.

"...since you are only going to be TWENTY-SEVEN!"

And then he winked as if I wasn't clear on how he was choosing to un-hurt my feelings about all the previous teasing. He followed that up with a chipper, "You should really enjoy the last days of being...TWENTY-SIX!"

He said it loudly, drew out the number like he he was making sure the Russian spies next door heard every word and would cancel their mission, foiled by the Not-Forty-Year-Old one thin wall away. Well done, 007-1/2, I thought. Kind of well done.

One day, if life goes as it should, he will call me up and tell me how he feels about his 40th birthday. Maybe he'll remember how ancient he thought I was and that looking back on pictures, he realizes how youthful -- and pretty -- I was at this age. And for a few more days, this age is blissfully 39. Or 27. However you look at it.

To enjoy them, as the boy who didn't want to turn 7 suggested, we made a list of words that could describe 40. All beginning with the letter F. 

You can see my optimism -- reframing, my therapist calls it -- in the first three that I chose.

Fabulous

Fantastic 

Fierce

Lil E interrupted with his own and it delighted me.

Fancy

Then he followed it up with a word that hit a little too close to home. Or the chin. One that made the shaking hand over the invisible can reach confidently for the tweezers.

Furry (like Chewbacca)

Oh yes, he added in that last part and asked me to please write it down. And spell it correcty.

Next came tangential F-words that I was obligated to write down.

Fresh

Fruit & Fruity

I countered with something less first-grade.

Fun! 

Exclamation! Necessary!

He ended it all with one of his own.

Flippy.

Why not? Better than flippy-offy. Especially at your own goofy but somewhat well-intentioned kid. 

 

I'm not sure what to do with all that exactly, except laugh. No, not at him with his insistence that I am steps away from requiring a walker. Not even at my parents who have all kinds of jokes to chuckle over in the car and with their friends. 

I can laugh at myself, for wanting to see myself and this time as FABULOUS! and FUN! and FIERCE! but really being mostly fuzzy (OK, furry) about it all. It's a number. A number I don't love. But myself and this time, I do love. 

I just won't be laughing too loudly. Or around my son. Nahhh, I will let him keep *wink*winking* and telling me in an exaggerated voice how PRETTY! and FRESH! that TWENTY-SIX is. 

 

We call him Nicolas Cage Jesus

There are many portraits of the Son of God hanging in my grandmother's house. My grandfather was a Methodist minister who came out of retirement several times to return to the pulpit at churches in need. It's a home where there's always grace before a meal and sunrise service on Easter really happens at sunrise. 

But ever since my brother whispered to me across the expansive dining room table during a family reunion or holiday meal in a way that was intended to sound nonchalant but was so purposeful he almost did a spit=take laughing at himself, "Oh, so you're checking out Nicolas Cage Jesus? Think he's hot?", I can't stop looking at this one painting.

Even before we walk in the door and kiss our hellos, before we pull into the pine cone-strewn driveway, before we turn on to the winding drive named after a prince, before we exit the highway that stretches out over endless flat miles dotted with turbines every few-hundred feet, I am thinking about Nicolas Cage Jesus.

Don't let it offend you. Seeing this vision of "Snake Eyes" may have brought us closer to the Lord. And most images of Christ do depict his flowing locks. They just aren't focused or close up enough to reveal whether that hair is really plugs.

Obviously, this is facelift/weird moustache Nic Cage. Pre-action hero, pre-gnarly "Face/Off" repulsion, pre-SNL "Jeopardy" mockery. I like to think it's somewhere in between "Moonstruck" Cher-passion and slicked-back "Family Man." This Jesus is really "City of Angels" to me. At least in spirit. 

Just take a look at Nicolas Cage's filmography and you will see that his career is expansive. But maybe, just maybe, he's showing up all those Coppolas after all. Maybe Nicolas Cage star does shine a little brighter than the rusty one on Hollywood Boulevard. 

I'm not saying the actor IS a savior of any kind. But I am saying, I could take my Jesus having a bit of a growl and smirk spread across that five-o'clock shadow.

Judge ye at ye will but I think the comparison's pretty (sorry for this) dead on:

Easter details

I like holidays to be full of big, fabulous, fireworks moments bursting out of a box of quiet and grateful and calm. Not to much to expect of myself or ask of my family, right? 

Easter is the exception. I like my Easter low-key. Or lower-key. 

There's a somberness and stillness to Good Friday that overwhelms me every time I sit in the pews at church as the lights dim and the congregation is nested in vast and dark sanctuary. I've been up-close with death, but this moment, sitting with scripture and songs about death, I always feel the peace and presence settle in and ground me.

Then comes the day of dyeing the eggs. I don't usually worry too much about boiling and coloring and decorating and hiding until last minute . It's the gift of this holiday not coming with the chaos and planning of Christmas.

And finally the jubilation. I know, it sounds far more religious than I am comfortable with, or even comfortable saying aloud. I struggle with the "He is risen!" plastered on billboards and church programs. But when trumpets play and the choir processes and the lilies and hydrangeas flood the altar and we all sing, "Christ the Lord is risen today! Alleluuuuuuia!", that peace and present-feeling swells up again, but this time with light and air.

I love the mad dash to find Easter eggs hidden in tea cups and planters and too near the potty. I love the flowers, pinned to lapels and tucked at the wrist and given in memory of people we miss. I love the dinner right in the middle of the afternoon, and later a meal of candy and leftover sandwiches on little dinner rolls. I love the end of day, with the last glory of a corsage floating delicately in a crystal bowl of water and transparent Easter grass stuck to everything. I love the ride of darkness into light and all that means to me, even while I am scribbling faces on hard-boiled eggs with a Sharpie.

The us-ter eggs

 

It is all these little moments, details of the day that make for a holiday, a shift in the calendar, a transition out of fear and cold into possibility and spring. It also means it's only days until my birthday and more turns to be present and grateful and still and celebrating. 

For our family, this is a quieter holiday. Not as casual as Valentine's, nowhere near Christmas. But it doesn't mean it isn't important. It doesn't mean little ones aren't delighting in dollar bills -- oh, yes, there is cash -- folded into plastic eggs and in why they are required to dress up and be at church that day.

So Buddha, the Easter Bunny and an African storytelling elephant walk into a bar...

$13.72. And yes, I made him add it up doing it's-not-a-holiday-from-using-your-noodle math.

It doesn't mean the rest of us aren't stealing candy and having a hard time not snitching where those last three eggs are hidden. Smaller, a little more still, and still important. 

So here we are on Easter. Dressed up, corsaged, candy-happy. Hydrangeas in hand, Easter egg hunt coins rattling in our pockets, that one hymn in our heart. Alleluuuuuia.

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.

 

Quiet observations

He likes to be the lead. He was not happy he only had a few small lines in his Sunday School play at Christmas. He raises his hand, even when he doesn't have an answer. He believes his opinion is just as important as every adult's words in the conversation. 

I love this about my boy. I am raising him that way.

I recall a conversation about cancer research at the kitchen table one night when I was about nine. My parents were discussing some article or study or something that seemed heady and important when my dad stopped abruptly and turned to me and asked me what I made of all of it. I remember the yellowish light from the aged fixture that hung over our hand-me-down table and the clank of the forks on unbreakable china plates and the swell inside that made me physically feel what I always knew, "What I think matters in this family. I have a voice." 

I wanted my child to grow up feeling that. He does. Sometimes overwhelmingly so. Once he cried when I made a unilateral decision about something tragic like where to go out to dinner or what time to leave for the park, sobbing, "I thought we were a team! I thought we made every decision together!"

Obviously we don't. But I also realize I make many solo decisions behind the scenes and rarely skip asking his opinion, even when it's in no way a deciding factor. It's not that I want to un-do all the space and voice and judgment I've given him at our own second-hand kitchen table. But maybe loosening the knot a bit would serve him well, too.

I thought of that when my dad texted me this photo he snapped with his phone last week on a day off from school. Lil E is bathed in the light shining through skylights at the Art Institute, carefully sketching a Picasso painting. 

It was my mom's idea to take sketchbooks to the art museum, in part because she is an artist who has recently re-lit her love of drawing. And in part because she loves to do projects with Lil E and he loves that time back. 

There is something about seeing your child that still. And not just a quiet body, a calmed mind. That was my intention when I created the home where we now live together, for it to be safe and bright and happy and also a place where minds could ease. When I see this, though, I wonder if there could be more room for the stillness in our place, piled high with recycleables and books to review and high heels and plastic crap dug from little boy pockets.

It wasn't all romantic at the museum. He was not shy about telling me many times about the "nakey guy statues" and "boob statues" he saw there. 

He also had a mission from me to find his favorite detail in Chagall's blue stained glass panels, my long-time favorite installation there. 

A pause for something luscious and deep:

In the early '60s, Chagall said of his stained glass window art, "For me a stained glass window is a transparent partition between my heart and the heart of the world. Stained glass has to be serious and passionate. It is something elevating and exhilarating. It has to live through the perception of light." 

But here and probably only for minutes at a time at other stops in front of other paintings, he is sitting, observing, interpreting -- just quietly.  

His body tells me how hard he is concentrating -- he scrunches up like that when he is most focused. And as an only child, he certainly has many moments of reading, drawing, and building Lego in that state. 

Here, though, there is a silence and stillness and a peace that I always associate as being within him but often don't hear coming out of him as he talks and talks and talks details of Wii game levels and movies and shows and crazy-kid stuffs. The balance is good.

It's on me now, to bring some of that basking-in-light, blue-glassed sweet stillness and calm into our home, to fit the museum into through our tight doors and packed schedules and excitement to get our words out. 

The reminder and the balance is here, though, in this photo. If only for one little moment. If only until it's time for dinner again.

Postcards from the past: 4 Februaries ago

 

 

I believe this was the first snowman he ever really helped me build. Birds and rabbits feasted on the vegetables only hours after we turned them into eyes, mouth, nose and hair. Lil E thought it was hilarious. It was snowy but not too cold, sunny but still crisp. We were living with my parents, already four months into an open-ended living arrangement that I couldn't map out when I packed up laundry baskets full of his little leggings and jeans and Pull-Ups and favorite stuffed animals. I have no idea what I took of my own,  just that most things made their way bag by bag to my parents' house that winter.

I was working hard, fighting hard, thinking hard. I was barely sleeping, and when I did, my dreams were full of anxiety. It was my first month of full-time employment in several years, and well into the many visits to the courtroom.Lil E was at his same old preschool co-op, but now the only child with two homes. He was safe and loved and nurtured there. But some of the teachers couldn't listen to the magnamity of the situation and other mothers said horrible, judgmental things to me for leaving, for getting by in crisis in the best way I could at the time.My parents were out of town that month and I shoveled and shoveled and shoveled their walks. I sweat underneath my down coat, cried tears of frustration in the bitter cold. I don't every detail of that February, but I can feel the emotion of that time well up even as I type where we lived and what we were doing. It was a sad and scary time. But there was a stillness in my heart that I remember vividly. I heard a voice from deep within that told me to keep on. Eventually everything would bloom.

It's why I love this photo and this face -- because it says, Look what we made together.

Sometimes I think back on those days and weeks and months...and hell, years...and I want to cry. Other times, something happens or someone appears in my life and all that trauma is triggered and I get all protective and worried and can't sleep. But most of the time, I look back on these photos, remember these moments and I think that it stopped being sad a long, long time ago. I think how happy I am to be right here. To be working from my desk in my own place. To see the snow fall outside and not worry whether we will have a chance to play in it or how much work it will make for me. To know that we have everything we need to get through, to build something up out of whatever we have at home, around us -- to make a statue of snow with arms outstretched and leaves reaching up to the uncharacteristic winter sun.

I look back on this February and I think how grateful I am that I cleared that path, that the little footsteps behind me are now running freely ahead.

Today, I celebrate my mother

It's my mother's birthday -- one of those milestone years that we share being exactly 25 years apart in age. It hasn't been an easy one for my mom to embrace, and I understand that given my own mixed-bag feelings about impending 40. It's also been a year full of loss and ache for her friends and mine, for people we both love. The place where my mom and I meet, even in our big gulp in facing a big birthday, is being here. Right here. On the phone. Five blocks away. In the kitchen together.

 

So today, I put aside the numbers and spotlight the woman who brought me into this world.

Teacher.

Writer.

Artist.

Calligrapher.

Naughty joke teller.

Fancy lady.

Reader.

Thinker.

Thank-you note writer.

Wife.

Math whiz.

Late-night reality show watcher.

Diet Coke devotee.

Mother.

 

Happy birthday, mama. You make this world a brighter place.

 

The last one

I don't love doing dishes. I really do not like standing in front of this corner sink, where I inevitably am doused by the faucet right at the belly when I load and unload water bottles and plastic plates and coffee cups into the dishwasher. I'm not a fan of the smell of this pine-scented holiday-edition dishsoap I got in a big, goopy, beat-up package of cleaning products to review.

But every evening when I stand right there to tidy up the kitchen, every morning when I fill up the filter with eight scoops of coffee, every time I rinse a dish, I smile.

It's because of that round, red scrubber right there among the brushes and sponges. I smile because of that few yards of red netting knotted and worked into a tightly bound circle meant to scrub pots and vegetables and stains and even the bottoms of shoes.

My grandmother made them. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. She crotcheted them until her hands were red and raw. She made big shopping bags full of them even after her arthritic fingers popped out of the joint when she held the needles too long. She made them even though the netting wore at her beautifully kept, long nails until they cracked.

My grandmother made these scrubbers mostly for the winter bazaar at her church, where they were bundled into groups of five, tied with a ribbon, labeled with her name and sold to raise funds for the women's group. But she also tenderly offered them as gifts, laced them into packages for people who requested them, and was sure to choose colors that she knew would match your kitchen or were your very favorite shades.

When I got married, she made every member of the bridal party scrubbers in my wedding colors. She gave me black and white scrubbers just for the newlyweds. I tucked those scrubbers into the beaded clutch purse I bought for her to match the velvet dress she wore that evening. Those are more of a keepsake to me from that day than nearly anything else. They were turned and tied and tucked into my shower gift with such love.

When my grandmother died, my mother passed out much of the scrubber stash she had left at the memorial service. I got a few that my mother picked from the pile that she knew matched my kitchen.

That red one right there? It's the last one left, save the bride and groom scrubbers packed away. I use it -- it's the best way to get the baked on stuff out and the stubborn stuff up. But I don't put the elbow grease into it that I know my grandmother would have and would have nodded at me in expectation if she was standing next to me while I washed those pans in my sink. I just don't want that scrubber to be all used up yet. It's a small thing -- a thing meant to be worn out -- but it's a thing full of so much.

I have other objects and heirlooms from my grandmother meant to be cuddled up to and hung up and use to bake pies and angel food cakes, and I cherish all those ways I feel and see her in my home. That last scrubber, though, works at me like it does on a skillet, getting under all the tough stuff to the shiny part where I can see my grandmother's hands clearly, doing her own daily tasks, standing at the sink next to me, handing me soapy dishes to rinse and dry.

That scrubber -- it's so her. And I love it sitting right there, reminding me that the work is also the love, that the pain of making something simple is worth it, that what we do with our hands lasts so much longer than we ever know.

 

Postcards from the Past: The second New Year's of his life

He was a year and some change, and it was the first holiday season he was aware anything other than bright lights and nap interruptions were happening in his life. He stared into Christmas lights, fascinated. He laughed at the dancing Frosty the Snowman in my parents' living room, pushing the button to make it wiggle and sing over and over and over again. The four meager toys Santa brought were a bounty. And then came the New Year.

My brother was in town. He was still a bachelor and those were the days when we all convened at my parents' in our pajamas for brunches and card games and to watch movies. Lil E fit in snuggly. His legs seemed to stretch out endlessly in his fleece zip-up onesies. His hair was everywhere. His gap-tooth grin and big brown eyes made him so him. He was talking up a storm at that point, and had just started taking his first assured steps. He was so much fun.

We spent New Year's camped out with my brother, playing games and order pizza and ribs and putting the baby down long before midnight. My parents were out at a party and so we had more room than usual to be silly and put together somewhat of a celebration. Before Lil E fell asleep to the sounds of fireworks already being set off hours too early at the park across the street, we took these photos to say goodbye to 2005.

My brother and I are signing the year with our hands. Lil E is perched atop my shoulders, paci popped in, hands laced through my hair. My as-yet-undyed hair. I may look very recognizably me there, but I look at these photos from my days as a part of a family of three -- as a stay-at-home mom in yoga pants and a little lip gloss, who is convinced she will never be able to move out of a cave of an apartment and tries desperately to fix it up each holiday on a budget of only a few dollars, who has no idea that her first blogging job and the beginnings of Sassafrass are waiting only months ahead -- and I think I look so very different.

And then I see this photo, taken a few days later the first time I shoveled our walk with Lil E toddling behind me, and I see the spark and the sense of adventure and the way I am squeezing E tight to me, and I think, "Ahhh, she's been here all along. Different clothes, different hair, different life. Same woman."

Was this lady ready for all that was ahead? Probably not. Perhaps. Of course she was.

Grateful: for our family's thriving self-image

Thank God the names are on these place cards. How else would we know who they belong to?

You won't find mine here. My hands were too greasy from wrestling my mother for the turkey wing. Rest assured, my turkey was totally descked out with a sparkly waddle, huge silver earrings and long lashes. My boy knows me. Too well.

My mom. Also fancy.

My brother. He's an engineer, so that's probably one of those wacky calculators with a hundred buttons those nerds use.

Grateful: for a nephew who knows my name

How do we know that my nephew J belongs in our family? Because he thinks he is the funniest person in the room. And he is probably right.

He's not yet two and is all full belly and slim hips, a fire plug of a boy who looks startlingly like my brother. His hair has come in, fair and feathery curls, and he has decided Lil E's name is Seesee (or CeCe? J's not so hot at writing these things out) and that, my friends, is that. SeeSee is his name. Really, it's a pretty appropriate nickname, because everything my boy did, that littler boy noted and followed. Monkey SeeSee, other monkey do.

We couldn't get enough of this toddler and his definitive "NO!"s that family members are allowed to laugh at even if it totally ticks off the parents to hear. All Thanksgiving weekend, we mocked his adorable baby-steps gait when he ran at the park and around and around the kitchen island. We egged him on to say his favorite line.

"I'm cute."

No smile, no wince. Just a statement of fact.

It was heaven holding this boy. For the twenty-two seconds he stayed there. And it was even more divine to hear him call out insistently, "AUNT JESSIE!" I was at his beck and call.

How to have a Ninjago party

 
You wouldn't be clicking on this post if you didn't already know that Star Wars Lego is wayyyy second-quarter 2011 and the ninja Lego who practice a precise and ancient plastic craft called Spinjitsu are totally au courant kiddie toy. If you haven't heard the name "Ninjago" 400 times in the last day-and-a-half, then I commend you on your finely honed parental ignoring skills or you can expect it to come in 3...2...

There was no contest what the theme of this year's birthday party would be. Or there wasn't after we decided Lil E's party would once again be held at his Tae Kwon Do studio, and after I (apparently ignorantly) suggested we somehow weave together Star Wars battles and martial arts to make some kind of killer intergalactic seventh birthday celebration.

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.