of haircuts

I wouldn’t call it a rash decision or a thoughtless action.  No, there was a lot of talk for a number of days leading up to it.  But I will have to say: my reaction to it came as a surprise.  Yesterday Mark perched the Eldest on a stool, and with the hair clippers buzzing, cut off his curls.  He dragged them with ease over the outline of the Eldest’s head, staccato motions of transformation.   Large clumps of his golden-straw hair dropped on the patio. And I immediately felt that I clearly had not thought this through.

 

For one, I was certain that he wouldn’t possibly entertain the idea of something so loud and buzzing so close to his ears, his face.  Yet, this time it didn’t faze him.  Already knowing that this is how Daddy gets his hair cut, and so choosing to follow that very same path, he is brave beyond any flicker of uncertainty.  Even given the choice to leave his hair at the longer setting or click it down once more for a closer cut, he choses the closer cut to resemble Mark.  Yes, this boy admires his daddy so.

Mark stands back to look, comes in closer again for one or two more finishing touches.  With pride, the Eldest pop up off the stool, eager to see the results.  I feel a roll in my gut, because I know that I’m not looking at any sort of small toddler, no glimmer of baby here.  With his hair cropped close to his head, he looks all arms and legs.  His physical body demands to be seen for what it is: a boy child, four and a half years proud.  Even my touch to him signifies as much.  I rub my hands up and down his peach fuzz with playfulness, different from smoothing curly locks out of baby eyes.

It catches me throughout the day, this new look of his.  As I turn from the dishes in the sink to ask him to set the table, I’m startled by this lanky boy-face who answers me.  The stark reality of his porcelain face, his forehead no longer hidden behind careless curls, forces me to swallow hard, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.  It’s not as though I haven’t been aware of his growing up, hard and fast.  I watch it minute by minute, day by day.  But maybe that’s why: those are the bits and pieces of growing up, the sands that shake down into the larger picture.  What stands before me almost seems like a leap out of one frame and into another, so abruptly.

This dear boy, though, is every bit as much my baby as he was the day he was born. It’s now late afternoon; I wake him from a nap.  This is itself a tender moment, not occurring very often, but today after joining his brother and sister playing with Mark in the Littlest’s room, he wants nothing more than to curl his long legs into my body and let me hold him in the rocking chair.  It is just as much a reminder to me as it is to him of where we stand with each other: we belong, always, even in the growing.

And I, too, forget that each day he marks out more of his own life for himself, less reliant on me to do so.  He has things he likes; opinions all of his own.  How he wears his hair is less my choice now and more his.  It is just hair after all, and back it will grow, quicker than I can imagine.  And maybe he’ll let those curls come in, spill over his ears and forehead in time for the fall, to keep the chill away.  Or maybe he won’t.  Mostly, I’m just glad that as he stands in front of the mirror, rubbing his head in exploration, he smiles wide when he catches my eye.

WD 40: a story of two tractors

He is so excited to show my dad, his Grandpa Jack, his tractors.  The Eldest had rediscovered this brother-pair of model tractors, about the size of twin shoe boxes, both given to him as gifts a few months back.  Like most shiny things, they had lost their glimmer, but were making the rounds back into play, old toys polished back into newness again by the small hands and attention of this four year old.

“This one here: that’s a Ford,” explains my dad, the arm of his glasses pressed between his lips as he lifts the tractor to his now bare eyes for a closer inspection.  He fingers the axel with his surgeon precision.  ”You can tell by the red and gray.”

The Eldest nods solemnly, so as not to appear too eager or juvenile, but inhaling every word Grandpa Jack says.  He brings the trailer close, leans over the hitch to line it up just right.  ”Look how it hooks together!” the Eldest can’t help declare his enthusiasm.  He loads the trailer up with the hay bales, turns the tractor up the carpet.  ”I hook this one up instead, because that one doesn’t steer well.  And it makes a squeaky sound.” he shows Grandpa Jack the tight steering of the green and yellow John Deere.  Grandpa Jack lifts this one next, flicks the wheels, gives the steering a try.  Indeed, a whiny squeal cries softly as the tractor pushes against the floor.

“I’ll tell you just the thing to do for that.” Grandpa Jack sits back on his heels, his eyes holding steady with the Eldest’s, ready to present this key, this pearl of hard-earned wisdom.  ”Have you ever heard of this stuff called WD-40? I’m sure your dad has some around. Let’s have a look.”  He heads down into the basement, pokes around Mark’s work space, and a moment later is back, revealing the blue and yellow aerosol can.  Grabbing a handful of paper towels on his way through my kitchen, my dad nestles back onto the floor, invites my son in close.  Together, teacher and student, grandfather and grandson, they get to work.   Grandpa Jack squirts some of the lubricant on his fingers, offers them up to the Eldest for a smell.  The Littlest and I are nearby, in the wings of this stage, but even from where I sit the almost rusty smell of WD-40 fills my nostrils, brings me to a basement of my own growing up.

He teaches the Eldest how to point the red straw in towards the tight joints.  He lets him press the nozzle and when he does he releases way more lubricant than practical.  They chuckle together; they wipe up grease together. The Eldest is beaming, his smile stretches from ear lobe, across his ivory chin, to the other ear lobe; I think mine does, too.  I know that Mark will interupt this, in a moment, stepping out of his post-work-day shower. I pause for just a second; wonder if he may feel on the outside of this lesson.  But I know Mark, and I know that, though he has all this wisdom to share with his boy, lessons marked out with mottos like “measure twice; cut once,” I know, too, that he is generous.  He will give this gift, freely, to both Grandpa Jack and the Eldest.

Soon, Grandpa Jack gets off of his creaky knees, ready to respond to the next call.  The other Little Ones crowd out the scene, and there are phones to answer, dinner to be made.  But that night at bedtime, I tuck the Eldest in to with both of his tractors, and he whispers,  ”Mama?” I lean my head to the side, look at his fresh eyes.  ”This one is a Ford,” he tells me, definitively, holding out one hand.  ”And this,” he says, offering the other,  ”the John Deere works now.”

I say good night, make my way down the stairs.  Later, as I’m cleaning up the kitchen, remembering my own version of the day, I hear the hollow sound of tractors being pushed across the wood floor above me.

Really, it was just ten minutes, sitting on the family room floor.

{this moment}

{this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. ~inspired by SouleMama

thankful tuesday: rainy day edition

Today I’m linking up with Micha Boyett of Mama:Monk fame to share in the work of spreading gratitude.  Won’t you join us? 

In no particular order, my list of thankfuls today include:

• Today’s rain (lots of it) after a super hot weekend.  The reprieve that this brings as it ushers in cooler June weather.  The permission that this gives to stay inside, pajama clad, no hurry to change.  With it, possibly, motivation to tackle the basement, to take advantage of the dumpster we have after our  most recent project.
• That this rain is during the day.  At least for now.  Thankful for the sensitive spirit of the Eldest, even if it is cultivated in a fear of the rain in times of dark and quiet.  Thankful that we are watching the rain from our window together, marveling at this gift from God, learning about the care of our garden and the big circle of it all.
• Home-spun treasure hunt.  How surprised I am, often, of the creative spirit of these Little Ones.  Given some empty time and empty space they will fill it, and even occasionally share and play well together.  Right now, the Eldest and Middlest are taking turns hiding treasure, doling out clues as to how to find it.
• For the Hunger Games, and the ability of this story of grit, rebellion, courage, faith and love to grab my husband’s attention and heart for reading.  Mark sometimes needs a gentle nudge to remember the joy of getting lost in a writer’s imagination tangled up with his, the reader’s.  Thankful for the comfort of reading, side-by-side: for this quiet togetherness.
• The plan today: once the Littlest wakes from his morning snooze, we will put slickers on and brave the rain (driving and rain! two fears at once!) to go to the library.  Then later: popcorn, sleeping bags and movies.  I’ll make dinner, and we’ll welcome my mother-in-law with hugs, and invitations to read.
• Celebration of big accomplishments.  For Emily’s graduation.  For the long drive I made, alone, up to the high school football stadium.  For this reason to shake my eggs and hoot and holler with all the strength in my lungs, my voice joined with so many who love her.  Yes, you, Emily.  Thankful for you.
• Family dance parties. Pandora’s 80s pop station. Schooling my Little Ones in iconic Madonna and Michael Jackson.  For the worn couch cushions that I just don’t care about, so we can pull them down and jump and somersault and dragon bite with scissor kicks (who even knew? I didn’t, until last night).  For the Littlest who watches with such joy and animation in his face, and his strong legs that kick and bounce, too.

Now, head over to Mama:Monk and count your blessings with us!

rocking

The ball of my foot pushes the rocker back, and the chair makes a soft creak as it falls forward again in rhythm.  This chant is familiar and comfortable.  My eyes flutter open and then close gently with the rocking motion, weary babe suckling, heavy in my arms.  There is a soft breeze on his cheeks, same as mine, from the ceiling fan, and the evening light that slants through the spaces in the blinds sways over his body. We mark time in this place, countless times a day, but it is also the constant paradox of small lives that in this space time also stops.  I faintly hear the bigger Little Ones in the family room, cheering one happy moment, and just as quickly erupting into shrieking squabble.  Their story is not mine for just this minute, and I leave them to do what siblings do.  The drone of their play is mere harmony for this, rocking and nursing with the Littlest of all.  I fill his tiny belly, nourish his being, and receive my blessing.  His small fingers wrap playfully around the fabric of my shirt, rubbing and twisting until they no longer do. Rest comes.

The fabled calm at the end of the day seems so beyond reach in the marching orders of bedtime: to the bathroom! clothes in the hamper! brush those teeth!  There is little reserve left, and Little Ones don’t quickly listen; I am too quick with harsh tone.  This gray time between emptying and refilling are confusing at best.  Sometimes a drink of water is just a drink of water.  But we make room in the bed for one more body, squeeze in tight for a story.  Together we lift up our day, finding redemption in the retelling and being held by the One who hears it all.  We make haste with one more hug and kiss; dash down the stairs with kisses blown.  Often there is a hungry dog waiting, too, and a sink full of dishes.

Then, later, in the grown-up hours, after a glass of wine and hands entwined, together, we watch those bodies seem so small.  We tiptoe close in, grasp tightly to door knobs, feeling the turn so as not to click awake those Little Ones, and let our prayers out in sighs heavy with the day’s weight.  Small, round bellies rise and fall in rhythm.  Night’s light dulls the edges, blurs day’s brilliance into haze. Now it is with full peace that I cross my fingers over foreheads, sweep sweaty hair behind tiny ears, and kiss baby lips.

And then it is again, the fullness of night bearing down on our house in small hours, I waken to barely a cry, stumble sleep-drunk to the nursery.  I press his not-yet-awake body to mine, sink deeply into the chair.  I lift my shirt.  And again, press the ball of my foot against the floor, sending the chair creaking, the weight of my body and his, my world, back and forth, rocking.