The Boy

My son's favorite job around the house is cleaning the table.  He goes back at least five times to re-wet the sponge.  His mission: to make the house "sparkly."

His favorite song?  Beyoncé's "Run the World (Girls)."

He cries.  Often.  About a lot.  His baby sister is able to get his waterworks going over just about anything.

He will stare out of a window for twenty minutes, just observing the clouds and squirrels and trees.

He has the amazing capacity to ignore anything that is not of interest to him.  He will get up and walk out of a room in the middle of a discussion because a new idea has hit him, and he must investigate it.

He asks about death, about God.

He has this urgent need to get his thoughts out: whether you interrupt him, complete his sentence, or answer his question that's still in progress, he will finish his statement.  An example:
     "Mommy?
     "Yes, son."
     "If you turn on the light switch --"
     "Then the light will come on."
     "-- will the light come on?"
     "Yes, son."
     "Oh.  And if there's a fan --"
     "The fan will come on, too."
     "Will the fan turn around and around all day?"
     "Yes, son."
     "Oh.  So, when you turn the light switch on --"
     "When you turn the light switch on, the light and the fan will come on, too."
     Pause
     "So, Mommy, when you turn the light switch on, the light and the fan will come on, too?"
      "Yes, son.  Now go play while Mommy mixes a drink."

Of course, all of these -- except for the Beyoncé thing, of course -- can get annoying.  They felt especially frustrating when I was exhausted from working long hours or rushing to get him and his sisters dressed and off to school.  They were frustrating for his teachers who had twenty other children's needs to address, twenty other sets of quirks and delights and frustrations.  They are frustrating to his sisters, the ones that interact with him the most. 

Is it his boy-ness that makes him a different animal than what we chicks in the house are used to? 

Who knows?  And, really, who cares?

What is most important is that my son has the space to explore and think and be who he is.  Not lost in the crowd of children on their own developmental journeys.  Not chastised for being "girly" or refusing to hide his emotions. Not deemed as disobedient or inattentive if he is more fascinated by his new pet rock than some math problem that he's already solved.  And if the boy wants to dance to "Single Ladies" all day long, I want him to be in a place where he can dance freely, because all dancing, exploring, sobbing, loving, cleaning, playing, and jumping is absolutely okay for my girls and my boy.

But then I'd ask him if we could listen to "End of Time" next.  That song is so much better.

Eight Months Ago

I heard her fidgeting a bit too much.  That's how I knew she was awake.  I left my starting-a-new-blog-for-the-(gasp!)-first-time-ever investigation to talk with my oldest daughter.

If this had been eight months ago, I would have stormed in, fussing, roaring: "It's after ten o'clock!  You should be asleep!  Go to sleep RIGHT NOW!"  If this had been eight months ago, I'd already have been exhausted from a full day of teaching and an evening of taking classes toward my next degree.  I'd have been trying to figure out how to make my last ten dollars stretch for the two weeks until payday.  I'd have been swirling in what more than one past lover has told me is my own personal vortex of negative energy, thinking that this working-PhDing-single-mother-of-four shit is the worst, mainly because there seemed to be no alternative.  Thinking that maybe being dead would be better than living, 'cause living was too hard.

If this had been eight months ago.

Tonight, I went into her room and just talked with her.  We discussed her friends at school, the class bully, the colleges she wants to attend, future job prospects.  She is such a contemplativeworrierpeoplepleaser, just like her Mama.  She needs time to think, to say what she needs to say.  She has borne witness to the fact that if there was one thing I never seemed to have, it was time.  I want her to know that I have it now.

At the end of this summer, it'll be time for her to go to middle school and me to go back to teaching.

But we will not.

Am I worried about making ends meet?  Hell, yes.  Am I going to have to do some hustling to pay the bills?  Probably.  Will I have bouts of exhaustion, helplessness, hopelessness as I try to unplug myself and my children from financial and educational systems that seek to chew us up and spit us out? For sure.

But I was worried and hustling and exhausted and helpless and hopeless when I was working all day and just wanting to be around my children, to watch them learn, to help them grow.   So why not trade in full days with other people's children for full days with my own?

We will have our time.  And I want the whole world to bear witness.