Lessons

The boys had their first gymnastics lesson today. It is the third "being taught" experience for Sam and the fourth for Trinidad. Initially, Sam clung to my legs whispering regrets about having signed up. Trinidad asked me not to stay and watch.

I walked slowly, Sam barnacled to my left thigh, to the circle and sat down. Over ten minutes, I slowly faded behind and away from my six year old as he took up the movements of the group, smiling.

After the hour of tumbling, rolling, and balancing, I asked my boys what they most enjoyed. Sam celebrated first that he had asked the teacher for help when he needed it. Wow! The fact that he valued the ability and willingness to seek support when needed -- how empowering I imagine that is for him! Trinidad told me that he loved it all. "Some things she asked us to do were plainly too difficult," he told me (his words, honest). "So Sam and I just found other things to do on the equipment when that happened."

I watched their integration with interest. In terms of motor skills, they both appeared to be ahead of the pack in almost all ways despite the novelty of this equipment. Other mothers turned to me with looks of surprise. "Looks like you've got a natural there," said one. Perhaps they stood out, being the only boys and wearing faded jeans and t-shirts rather than formal "gym clothes."

I also thought I saw a bit of awkwardness socially as they took instruction in a group format, something uncommon to their experience. Only once did they find themselves unable to resist the call of the beam when everyone else sat for instruction. But still, something about their quality of focus when they turned their full attention on the instructor seemed unusual. Perhaps it's my bias, but other parents did smile my way which seems to support my theory. Something akin to the mule that took the dressage title, yah? I'm guessing that their natural aptitude comes from the amount of time that they spend exploring their world freely in body, mind and spirit.

Maybe instead of "unschooled" we should call it "undesked."

The Wake

I put on the Madre Deus album, Existir, and emotion that has been brimming strikes me head on. The rain that falls grey and lush around my cozy kitchen as I cook and cook and cook, my children playing, arguing, running, jumping, shouting, and eating... all of it mirrors moments a year ago and beyond. What have I learned? Where am I now?


I have learned that I will never truly know another creature, never understand completely their perspective -- their whole being that gives and receives. This alone will inspire me in learning compassion, the fact that I can never assume for a moment that I understand. Track nine plays and I fall to the floor on my knees in tears. The children and the dog come to my rescue, but I do not want to be rescued. It is my work now to toss adrift. I ask them to go, and they do. A year ago, two years, they would not have come. They saw me cry too often then. They accepted my sadness without fear.

I am engaged in my life, my work. This has not changed from then to now. The way is easier now, gentler. But I have not forgotten what I learned then. There is no high, no singular love that I can believe in with fierce or trusting care. There is no falling in or out of love. There is only my care in the moment directed to nurture the world around me, or at this moment, the woman I embody here on the kitchen floor, rocking. Opening slowly, I bare my heart to the world -- my kitchen, the backyard pond, the garden. Opening myself to mourning, I am moved by the enormous energy of loveinsadness that flows through, beyond, and around me. I rest in the wake.

This is not a sadness about any one person, incident or accident. It is a formal recognition of the loss of innocence, so beautiful a sacrifice. It is a celebration of the precious gift this loss has offered me -- a peace and acceptance beyond words. No regret, no bitterness.

But waves on waves of sadness are mine at times when all is water falling, and my world is so quiet the boat may be felt. Perhaps the moon sings its song, and I listen. Perhaps a thousand invisible forces collide and I am halted in the tracks of my daily work to pay homage.

I do not know. But here I am.

If The Shoe Fits....

Sam: My shoes are too small.

Trin: Your feet grew.

Sam: No. They're just too small.

Trin: That's because your feet grew.

Sam: No. They fit five minutes ago!

Trin: Feet grow fast.

Sam: Look at them. (The boys compare foot size.) See? They're smaller than yours.

Trin: Well, compare them to Mama's. They get bigger as you do.

Sam: I want to take them off and try again.

Trin (aside, to me): Sam doesn't want his feet to grow because he likes his cowboy boots so much.

Sam (to me): My shoes are still to small. My feet are cramped.

Me: What are you going to do about it?

Sam: Maybe eat some ice cream? When I eat cold things I shrink up.

Me: Hmmm.

Sam: Maybe. Or maybe I'll just try them again. (He takes them off and puts them on.) There! Now they fit.


To be continued....

Did I Hear You Correctly?

It's ten o'clock at night, and I'm shuffling around picking up the last odds and ends before bed.

"In three years, I mate," says Sam, age five.

Seda thinks to herself that she should be concerned by this statement, but is too tired to remember why.

"You mate?" I ask. I am trying not to make assumptions. Perplexed.

"I mate!" he says emphatically. I shake my head.

"What do you mean when you say 'mate?'" I ask. I would like him to lead this discussion.

"No!" he says. "In three years, I'M EIGHT!"

Oh.

Fundamental Difference

"I'm back at my old Waldorf school again," a young friend shared with us at dinner.

"Waldorf? Circle time -- iahhhhhhhhh!" shrieked Trinidad, wide-eyed running from the room. He returned momentarily with swinging stride and eight-year-old slouch, grinning broadly.

"We like to have a bit of drama in our family," I told our friend.

She looked at me blankly. "We like to have harps in our classroom," she offered.

A fundamental difference. Perhaps irreconcilable.

Free Food

This week, I threw up my arms and dropped one of my final Control Freak Frontiers: food. I told the kids to have at'em. Eat whatever they wanted, as long as they clean up after themselves.

"I'm having marshmallows!" said Sam.

"Me, too!" said Trin.

"Cool," I said. "When they're gone, they're gone. Hope you like them plain. I'd rather have mine with hot chocolate, but with weather like this, who wants hot chocolate?"

"Right," said Trin. "I'll save mine for tomorrow morning when it's cold."

Hmm. This could be sustainable.

There's certainly a lot more creativity and cooking. Trinidad fried himself two eggs and ate them with the yolks cooked hard (he prefers over medium). I did not realize that I still owned peaches in a can. But they found them. The boys are turning the place upside down to see what's in our addled pantry. I found Sam randomly peering under the sink and into far off cabinets. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"Looking for food!" he said, opening the cold oven door. "Bacon!" he cried. "I'll have bacon!"

"What?! Bacon? In there?" Apparently I had left it in the oven last Sunday and turned it off. A lecture about the possibility of food poisoning ensued. (Seda couldn't resist and snatched it later -- if only she'd heard the lecture?)

Tonight, as Trinidad told me about how clear his head felt in the time he spent at the top of a fig tree, Sam erupted with a post-dinner announcement: "And then we ate all of the Tobasco sauce, mom, and we thought of lots of things."

Well. What do you think of that?