That first blush

Just before 7:30pm, on a Friday night two Decembers ago, Jack and I convinced Tom to let us adopt Nutmeg. I will never forget the amazed expression on J's face when I said, "We did it! Get your shoes on, and let's go get that cat!" 

Not only was it way past bedtime, and not only were we both stunned that T agreed to house yet another living creature, but it was also such a wonderfully unorthodox way for J and me to spend a Friday night that we buzzed on a giddy high the whole way to PetSmart. 

One of the tactics we employed to sway Tom's opinion was Jack's saying, with dreamy eyes and in a slightly dramatic, clutching-pearls way, "Dad, Nutmeg is my soulmate. We need to have him."

Although that was largely untrue then, J and I love the Nut so dearly and deeply now, that in retrospect, his claim seems totally honest and reasonable. 

More recently, one of Jack's girl friends, X, adopted a gray tabby named Sugar. She loves Sugar in the borderline-obsessive way we love Nutmeg, and she and J bond over their cat-adoration on a regular basis. J went to her house for an after-school play date a couple weeks ago, ostensibly to meet Sugar and share photos of Nutmeg, and later regaled me with the grand time they'd had.

"Sugar doesn't really like boys, but X and I still had a lot of fun!"

"What did y'all do, honey?"

"Well, we mostly just fought."

"What?? Were you mad or just playing?"

"Just playing. We just threw things at each other. That kind of fighting..." And he smiled.

I'd noticed, as this conversation progressed, the slightest tinge of red creeping into Jack's cheeks. By the end, his porcelain skin was positively aglow, and although he couldn't have articulated why, I certainly could. And I smiled.

"It begins," I told Tom that night over dinner. 

"Oh Em, I don't know. He's only in third grade."

"Yes, but even if he's completely unaware of romance or crushes or the ways people interact when they flirt, it is still a nascent dawn of a new era." And I smiled again.

I wish you could have seen the upward curve at each corner of his mouth as Jack relayed this story to me. I wish I could more accurately describe just how innocent and sweet he looked and sounded when describing the way he and X "fought." I wish I had a photograph of him in that moment so that the image of my little boy feeling something new and exciting would never fade in the way that memories are wont to; the pencil-eraser-smudging over time of what was once sharp and crystal clear.

Jack has always had such a delightfully clueless aura about him. He was never remotely vexed about his passion for all things pink as it didn't occur to him that anyone would care (and of course, they shouldn't have). He wore his pink shirts and slept in his pink and white sheets and rode his magenta bike with its white seat and streamers and butterfly decals with all the unadulterated confidence in the world.

He has never expressed an inkling of concern about not much liking or being terribly good at most sports, and he didn't notice that (until he shot up like a beanstalk in second grade) he was one of the shortest boys in the grade. Even burgeoning social dynamics and divides haven't much phased him. It took a bully to get his attention to those sorts of challenges, and even then, his primary reaction was simply one of sadness: "Why would anyone act like this?" 

Oliver is much more attuned to societal dynamics, norms and expectations, and although his awareness arguably means he's more prepared for the realities of the world, it still makes me sad for him because he doesn't experience childhood with the same blissful ignorance as has Jack.

In that regard, I can only describe Jack as angelic, an attribute that made witnessing that first blush especially dear. With the knowledge of what's to come, I basked in the utter innocence of his experience. Perhaps he's not even thought about it since. But I have. And it still makes me smile. 

Love affairs

Yesterday morning was both sunny and warm enough to finally return to the farmers market. I have missed it desperately, so after their swimming lessons, the boys and I beat a path down to Dupont, found a great parking spot and headed in. They ate everything they saw, and I came home with some real treats. 

Can you even stand how gorgeous this bread is? I mean, you'd have bought it too, right? Indeed. Once home, I immediately made a sandwich with a wedge of it; dripping with peppery olive oil, salt, pepper, basil and tomatoes, avocado and chicken, it was so satisfying I nearly had another.

And how fresh and lovely is that head of lettuce I ask you?! It just made a fabulous lunch salad.

We were so happy to be there. Now if only the boys would talk a bit less next time...I'm serious. It was epic.

On the way home, we passed this tulip tree. It lives about a half-mile from our house, and every year I'm flabbergasted by its marvelously ostentatious display. It's Octomom-pregnant! DC in the springtime really can't be beat, aesthetically speaking.

Ol headed off to a birthday party, so I decided I best go for another run. Jack asked if he could join me, and I'll admit that I was hesitant at first. His coordination skills are not always tremendous. He's been known to fall down while simply standing in place, and I wasn't sure I wanted the equivalent of Phoebe from Friends (remember how she ran?) tagging along behind me. But he was so earnest and darling, and I would love a good partner, so...

4.2 flipping miles later -at a 9:39/minute pace!- this awesome kiddo and I arrived home. I remain floored by his running prowess and am unbelievably proud. T attempted to join us, but when we circled back at mile 3, we found him panting on a bench. He has wide, flat, plank-like paddle feet which is one reason he was a good swimmer but is also why running is not his best activity. He drove home which was a good call. 

Last night, still amazed by Jack's out-of-the-gate run in inappropriate shoes (he was wearing those heavy, light-up shoes kids like; they don't even have laces!), I was certain I'd done something dreadful to him and that he'd wake up paralyzed. I may have even shed a few tears worrying about it.

No, he popped out of bed and isn't even sore. Did I mention he talked the entire time? I mean, that kid could probably run a damn marathon tomorrow if he closed his mouth to conserve the energy he spends verbally.

It's so cool to have your children knock your socks off in a good way. Maybe you've underestimated them, or maybe you just don't realize how capable they're become as they grow up. It's like a niece you haven't seen in a year, and so in your mind, she's still just walking and not really talking. Then you see her, and she's running and is a motor-mouth but it's dissonant, because she stopped growing when you last saw her, right? Except of course she didn't; your mind just froze in time.

With your kids, whom you see every day, it's the same but different: you recognize that they're changing but you don't see the changes as dramatically as you do when your times together are years apart.

And then boom, one day your eight-year-old  runs alongside you for more than 4 miles and says, "When we're done, I want a double high five and a hug. And then, I want to do this again together next weekend!" and you think, "Wow, when did this happen?" And it's cool.

Wiping away the sleep

The end of winter wore hard on me. In the chilly gloom of March, I felt myself withering, drying up, losing elasticity. Like my garden, I need light and warmth to thrive. 

This is just the way I'm built. Some may consider my intolerance of long winters a weakness, as I once did, but as I age, I'm trying to cast off unnecessary self-judgment. It seems reasonable to believe that becoming deeply glum after four months in darkness and cold is not the worst personal flaw. 

See, I'm a bustling, bubbly, merry extrovert but also a sensitive, stormy introvert. I have long walked that line.

I've worked hard to push my innate pessimism to the curb, harder still to quiet the anxieties that cause me to over-think, over-worry, overdo. The oppressive shroud of too-much-winter amplifies the noise from my tumultuous interior and makes tranquility elusive.

I recharge in solitude, in the quiet company of cooking and gardening, ideas and myself. I didn't realize just how true that was until I had children, nor did I understand the ways in which introversion can make being a parent that much more challenging. Especially if your children are not silent wallflowers. Especially when winter persists and solitude and time in the yard are harder to come by.

When darkness falls, outside and in, maintaining stasis in the delightful circus that is parenting my two spirited boys can feel Sisyphean. At times I lose perspective, fail to see their bright inner lights, struggle. The fear of being unable to meet multiple demands correctly and in a timely fashion teases up the anxiety lurking within; the two build on each other into a pulsing swarm.

It is unpleasant, tiring and disappointing, but fortunately, with time and spring, a wave of renewal comes and brings a soft cloth with which I wipe my cloudy eyes.

I spent most of yesterday and much of this morning clearing the detritus from my yard. It's dirty, sweaty work, and I never wish to be anywhere else. Out there, I thought again about what a powerful concept rebirth is. Of how parents sometimes need a reset to see both children and selves clearly. Of how the warm light of spring provides just that.