I am the Gil and other reflections from the week past

Gus could not stop touching his head wreath.

This bit of choreography was not part of the program.

Spreading the joy.

"I'm tired of this!"

Just ... can't ... stand ... anymore.

.

Indulging in a little pick.

Part 1: I am the Gil

As I took in Gus's Christmas program on Friday morning, the late-80s movie, Parenthood, came to mind. There is a scene toward the end of the film when the family is preparing to go watch the daughter's play. The movie's protagonist, Gil Buckman, is talking to his wife. His ancient, possibly senile, grandmother has just delivered a meandering soliloquy about how when they were young, her husband had enjoyed the merry-go-round while she preferred the roller coaster. (Forgive me if I'm mincing details - I was too lazy to actually go back and watch it again for accuracy.) So, Gil tells his wife, Karen, that Grandma is nuts, while Karen remarks that, no, she is full of wisdom.

Cut to the play - I think it was Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. A child in the play, as part of the script, does something to hurt the daughter. The youngest son runs onto the stage, shouting, "Don't hurt my sister!" Scenery falls, chaos ensues, the show is brought to a grinding halt. Around him, Gil notices various reactions: some people are laughing, some are shocked, some are dismayed. Gil's reactions are shown as if he's riding a roller coaster.

This long aside brings me to the thought that I can so relate to Gil. I knew that Gus's performance probably wouldn't be smooth sailing, so I was somewhat prepared. We sat down, and Gus and his classmates processed in to the Christmas carol, "The Friendly Beasts." Immediately, Gus shouted out, "I can't see my mom!" Then spotting me: "Oh, there she is." From there it was much more of the same. My youngest did some great singing, but he also could not stand still. He twirled, he engaged in a bit of nose picking, he slumped over in boredom at times. When he received his bell to jingle for "Jingle Bells," he stuck the end his mouth, tried shoving it up his sleeve several times.

There was a point at which Gus and his classmates got sticks for tapping. "I made mine into a 'v!'" he gleefully shouted. "Yours is an 'a' without a line!" G exclaimed to the kid next to him. "Gus!" his teacher whisper-yelled many times. (I can just imagine Gus thinking sometimes, "What is the problem with y'all that everything needs to so serious and quiet all the time?") Without exception, Gus bowed deeply after each song, even though it was not yet time to bow.

I watched all of this as if riding on my own roller coaster. At times, I laughed uncontrollably. Other moments, I grimaced in fear of what might happen. I was genuinely nervous that Gus's antics might knock down a kid or two around him. I think I can safely say that Gus was the star of the show, but in a way that could be taken many different ways. Some people probably enjoyed it, thought he was hilarious; maybe others were annoyed; still others may have thought, "Gosh, I'm glad that one's not mine." Thinking the latter two thoughts got to me, I must admit.

I don't want to be the Gil. I'd rather be the Karen. (Though I can relate to Karen in a Gus kind of way in the scene when at a birthday party, her youngest son is wearing a bucket on his head and ramming into the wall. "He likes to ... butt things with his head," she murmurs in explanation.) Gil's wife is rational, even, keeps things in perspective. Though Gil loves his kids desperately, he is neurotic, worries non-stop. Unfortunately, we don't get to choose our temperaments.

After the show, Gus's teacher, Mrs. Howard, approached us. "Gus did great!" she said. "He brings life to our class." Another mom, came up and said, "I just loved Gus. He was so expressive. I thought it was beautiful. I have a soft spot in my heart for Gus." Obviously, this mom is my new best friend.

I can't control what other people thought. If Gus brought joy to some, that is wonderful. In the end, he definitely brought me a lot. I will forever carry the morning's unforgettable moments. In truth, I probably prefer the merry-go-round. Maybe God knew I could use a little roller coaster in my life. And that is my Gus.

Part 2: A sad epilogue

There is another part of the movie in which Gil vividly imagines that his failings as a dad have led his oldest son to turn insane. The son is in college and goes on a shooting rampage. This part of the movie was laughable for its absurdity, I suppose, when it was made in 1989. That dad is such a worrier. That would never happen. At that time, we were still years away from Columbine and a rash of other school shootings. How I wish the idea of such occurrences were still unthinkable.

When I turned on my iPad after Gus's show, the first thing I saw was a New York Times alert that 18 (later to be 20) children had died in school shooting. I could barely take it in. I wished in vain I could make it untrue. It made all of my fretting from hours before seem unbelievably trivial. I felt chilled all day after hearing the news and seeing more and more sobering reports pour in. Seeing that it was all 6- and 7-year-olds who died, I couldn't help but think of my own 7-year-old, of all my kids.

Like so many, I've been feeling down about the state of the world since Friday. Sadly, there will always be disturbed individuals who wish to do others harm. I think the only way we can go on, those of us blessedly removed from the direct effects of the tragedy, is to focus instead on the goodness of so many of the people involved. Their stories make me gasp in awe when I read them. The principal who perished trying to disarm the gunman. The teacher who died trying to shield her pupils. The custodian who ran through the halls warning others. The teacher who calmly led her students to a back room and read to them to calm them. These people didn't have time to think about it. It was just in them to commit amazing acts of heroism.

A post has been widely making the rounds on Facebook the past couple days. It is a quote by Fred Rogers, aka Mister Rogers: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'” I think we just have to believe that the number of people in this world who want to help and do good is so much greater than the number who want to do harm, and I hope we all can rest in that knowledge.

I don't know if I'll get to post before Christmas, so try to have a merry Christmas, even if the idea of celebrating seems a little wrong at a time like this, as it does to me. Take pleasure in the little things and hold your loved ones close. Peace be with you all.

A much needed reminder of what's important this season

Paul's drawing: "I made a snowman out of socks."

A few days ago,  a Facebook friend posted an adorable picture of her daughter and son, her son licking the mixer's beater. Above it was a caption reminding moms and dads to breathe this Christmas season, that we never get these moments back. It has stuck with me, and I saw I immediately thought two things: 1) you've got that right! and 2) for me that is easier said than done.

Why is it so easy to understand this truth and yet so difficult to follow through accordingly? I know that even next year my kids won't be exactly as they are now. (Heck, with Ben going into middle school next year, who knows what I'll get in a year or two.) But somehow I still invariably lose sight of enjoying the little moments and more often than not let myself get harried.

I think of Paul, who a few weeks ago wanted to do a Christmas craft project. Instead of embracing the idea, initially I hemmed and hawed a bit. I'm not very good at crafts, I told myself. We won't have the right supplies. After a little web searching, however, I found some snowmen we could make with old tube socks. We took a quick trip to my mom's for fiber fill and buttons, and we got started. It turned out to be easy, fun and gratifying. Paul was so happy with his little snowman. He wrote about it in his school journal, and of all his possessions, he chose to bring the snowman for his class's special reward show-and-tell later that week.

The same goes for Gus. Since it snowed on Sunday, he's asked to go outside each day. I was game on Monday, but yesterday, I sighed deeply and told him it was too cold. I should've gone out with him. Really, what's the difference? I should be encouraging my kids to go outside, welcoming the opportunity. He can decide on his own if when it's gotten too cold, and surely I can withstand 20 minutes of frigid temperatures. I see some outdoor play in our future for today.

I need to remind myself that with kids, experiences are what's truly important. Sure, my boys are bubbling with anticipation of the Christmas gifts they'll receive. When they think back on the Christmases of their childhood though, I highly doubt they'll be remembering the things they received. If they're like me, they'll recall decorating the Christmas tree, making cookies with Mom, snuggling up for holiday movie, having a snowball fight with Mom and Dad, rushing outside to see the Santa Float.

So thanks for the much-needed reminder, Katie. I have dough in the refrigerator to make cutout cookies with Gus later. And if he leaves a few fingerprints in the dough, who cares? All the germs get baked away in the oven anyway, right?

Gus and the learning curve

Standing in the homework line waiting for Gus to receive his sticker the other day, the mother in front of us asked Gus if she could see his picture. The assignment was a color-by-number. Though Gus is enthusiastic about homework, I've gotta say, he kind of phoned this one in. Rather than coloring in each space, he scribbled a bit of color in the designated spots. Whatever, it's preschool, I thought.

"Oh, nice coloring, Gus!" the mom cooed, peering at his paper. Then to me: "How old is Gus?" "He turned 4 in August," I explained. "Oh, that explains it," she said. Huh, I thought, taking in her son's expertly colored-in picture. "My guy just loves stuff like this," the other mom, whose son turned 5 in September, chirped. "He gets out his box of Crayolas and goes to town."

It was one of those moments when I wish I'd had a clever retort to put her on the spot just a little bit. "Explains what, exactly," I'd ask innocently. This mom seems like a lovely person, despite her comment that smacked of an irritating competitiveness and subtle bragging. (And let's face it - who isn't guilty of that from time to time?)

It's true. Gus's fine motor skills are behind those of his peers. Virtually everyone in his class can write his or her name with some proficiency. My youngest is nowhere near writing his name remotely legibly. His coloring and drawing abilities are similar.

I haven't been particularly concerned about Gus's development in these areas. Again, he's in preschool. Furthermore, Gus is the youngest in his class, and he's a boy. These skills will come eventually for him. Still, I know expectations are only growing more rigorous at ever-younger ages.

For months now, I've been meaning to crack open the book our family doctor recommended after I expressed concern about Gus's energy level. It's called "The Purpose of Boys." Surprise, surprise, I have yet to dive in to the book. I've heard so much about the differences between the ways boys and girls learn, that school is more geared toward girls, who are more mature, especially in the younger years. I really do need to learn more.

When I begin to worry that Gus won't be able to match his peers' skills, I remind myself of all that is special about my boy. He may not be able to perfectly color a picture, but he's got the most winning personality, the biggest smile.

The other day, we ran into a friend from high school. Gus looked right at her kids and said, "Hi, I'm Gus!" This is something my other two boys would never do. At Mark's grandpa's 90th birthday party on Saturday, Mark's aunt, who I barely know, saw Gus and smiled. "That's my buddy," she said, referring to some encounter she must've had with our outgoing guy. At church yesterday, a pair of elderly women in front of us enthusiastically reached for Gus's outstretched hand at the peace greeting. Instead of ducking his head and going shy like many kids, Gus makes eye contact and speaks loudly and clearly.

In short, these are gifts Gus just has. That kind of confidence is not something someone can easily learn, if at all. Coloring pictures and writing his name, he'll get those.

Finding our way in competitive basketball

When I spotted the flyer for the Menasha boys basketball club at registration, I snapped one up for Ben, thinking this could be just the opportunity for my b-ball-adoring guy. Ben is one of those boys who loves every sport, and shooting hoops has recently taken the No. 1 spot in his heart.

After Mark attended the informational meeting, it became clear this would be no casual engagement. Ben would practice two nights a week, and he already had a fairly full schedule. Though this gave me pause, my oldest boy's enthusiasm remained, so we went for it. Since mid-October, Ben's been attending two 90-minute weeknight practices, and the past two Saturdays, his team has played three games each day - a whopping five-hour time commitment. I don't love sports, but I do love watching my kids play. Still, this has been a lot.

It soon became clear that Ben is a little out of his depth. Yes, he's younger than all of the kids and a good head shorter than many, but the majority of the other boys have been playing in this league for years, and this is Ben's first time. As a result, Ben, for all intents and purposes, has been assigned to the C squad, the bottom tier of his 15-player team. I don't have any quibbles with this. I understand that it must work this way. Ben's gotten to the age where sports become more competitive.

And yet. It's hard to see Ben struggle with his position on the team. He understands full well his place, and it's a blow to his ego. Ben got all of about 90 seconds of play in each half of the game I watched on Saturday. I can understand how that must be so frustrating for him. You can't play because you're not good enough; you can't get better because you're not getting any playing time. I was beginning to worry that competitiveness may just strip Ben of his love of the game. Is this experience really more gratifying than just shooting hoops in the driveway?

Ben's team lost all three of its games two Saturdays ago. After the game, Ben was in tears both as a result of the defeat and because apparently the coach told Ben's group, the C squad, that they didn't even look like they wanted to be there. Right there, the mama grizzly emerged. Who was he to say that to my kid? Surely he wasn't saying MY son didn't want to be there. Ben is all heart, mother_____. (There's an obscure "Jerry Maguire" reference for you.) But seriously, I bet you'd be hard-pressed to find a kid who wants to be there more, who has a purer love of the game.

I'm coming to grips with the fact that my nurturing instincts are at odds with the tougher world of boys (and girls?) sports. Where Ben's coach aims to fire up the team with some provocative words, I'd prefer to give each losing boy a hug and a cookie.

I'd better get used to all of this if Ben is to continue competing. Maybe, just maybe, boys need both - the coach that pushes them toward becoming men, tougher competitors, and the mom who's waiting with a hug and some gentle encouragement.

Ben hits us with the heavy question

It had been going on for months,  Ben sporadically complaining of difficulty falling asleep. He'd be very concerned that Mark and I might fall asleep before him, checking again and again before he'd go to bed- "What are you guys going to do - read, watch TV?" In the summer it was a particular problem because we relax Ben's bedtime rules, letting him stay up until 10:00 some nights, and all three of us often would go to bed at the same time. Those nights I'd be liable to stumble over him sleeping on our floor on a mid-night trip to the bathroom.

We questioned Ben again and again trying to pinpoint his anxiety. He'd just mumble something about not knowing. Finally, one night last week Ben came into our room after trying and failing to fall asleep. He told us he was afraid to die, afraid that he'll die and won't remember anything of his life, that someone he love will die. Wow, heavy. Of course, this isn't the first time Ben's brought up death. When he was younger, he watched "Mickey's Christmas Carol" and was good and terrified after taking in the scene of the Ghost of Christmas Future pushing Scrooge McDuck into an open grave.

Obviously Ben's grown and learned a lot since that viewing. I could tell that this really was weighing on him and that he'd been thinking about it a lot. My oldest is right at the age where he's beginning to understand the immutability and irreversibility of death. I remember going through a similar spell at his age. I was particularly afraid that I would lose one of my parents (though fear of my own demise gripped me when I was a little older).

Our conversation tugged at my heart because it immediately struck me that this is one fear that I can't take away for him. I can't fix it for him. Sure, I can reiterate what our faith teaches us about death, but I don't particularly remember that making it feel less scary for me. I recall my friend's father talking about the fact that Jesus could come back and the world could end any time. He talked about it like it was a good thing, and I was gobsmacked. The idea frankly terrified me.

It's taken me years to accept and become more comfortable with the fact that I and everyone I love will die. At 35, the idea isn't frightening to me the way it once was (though obviously contemplating losing a loved one is no less devastating). So for my part, I tried to impart to Ben that death probably won't always feel so scary for him.

After our conversation, I did a little research on talking to kids about death. Don't sugarcoat the topic, one website urged. Convey that death simply is part of life. Reassure the child that he and you, his parents, will live for a long, long time. The fact that you can't promise this matters little, one site noted.

I think Mark and I did most of this. At the end of our talk, I told Ben that I was glad he brought his fears to us. I told him that worries that are left inside to fester often just grow and grow and that just bringing them out in the open can help immensely. I hope this is true for him. I know that this question is one of many difficult ones that will cross Ben's mind as he grows, and I hope for the good grace to answer each one honestly and intelligently.

This play date has jumped the rails

Oh, structured days, how quickly I've taken ye for granted. The boys have the afternoon off today, for the second time in two weeks. (They'll also be home Thursday and Friday and another day two weeks from tomorrow - our school district is really testing my mettle.) I've always kind of looked forward to having them around on these days off,  but today I was reminded just how good it is for everyone's sake to have the boys at school.

I picked up Ben, Paul, and Paul's BFF, Jonathon. On the walk toward school, I carried Gus, who carried the umbrella, and he kept dropping it on my head. Things only got worse when we walked in the door. Jonathon's mom had dropped off his toys last night, and I knew right away this would prove problematic. Just how bad, though, I had not anticipated.

Jonathon immediately asked for his box of Skylanders. If you're not familiar with Skylanders, they're little figures that link to a video game. I hate them because they're expensive and cheap at the same time, if you catch my drift. You can expect to pay anywhere from $9 to $15 for one, but they break really easily. Paul loves them, so of course, Gus fell hard for them, too.

I knew as soon as I laid the box in Jonathon's hands, Gus would go ballistic. We, of course, have our own box filled with Skylanders, but that would be nothing next to the forbidden fruit of Jonathon's stuff. I was right in my prediction, natch. Paul and Jonathon preemptively and vociferously warned Gus to keep his hands off Jonathon's stuff. It immediately escalated into a screaming match. Gus was apoplectic, screeching, "Just let me see!" Jonathon yelled back, "I can't trust you! You're going to break them!" Fair enough. Because of the aforementioned cheap construction, and because I think it's fair for Jonathon not to want Paul's brother touching his stuff, I was not keen on Gus getting his hands on them, either. I understand Paul and Jonathon, I really do. Gus can be super-annoying and persistent. And yet, it's got to be hard to be the youngest.

Ben jumped to Gus's defense, which was kind of sweet, but in reality, it only made matters worse. Now everyone was yelling at one another - Ben arguing like a champion debater, Jonathon now telling Ben to be quiet, Gus having a full-on temper tantrum. Over the shouting, I tried to explain to Paul and Jonathon that sometimes with little kids, it's better to just indulge them for a little bit to get the desire out of their system. You know, let him look at a few, hold them for a couple minutes. Gus never stays on one track for too long, after all. It didn't work - can you imagine? All the while, I was trying to get their lunch on the table. I was ready to start doing some yelling of my own.

I got the meal served, and things calmed down a bit after that. After eating his chips and orange,  Jonathon declared that he had no room for the sandwich I'd made him. This happened a few weeks ago when Jonathon slept over, too. We were eating pizza for supper, and he said, "Jess, I ate supper before I came, so I'm not really hungry." He'd arrived at 2:30. Side note: I'm not one who's ever cared how kids address me - whatever their parents' preference for addressing adults is fine with me. Somehow the informality of this 6-year-old calling me "Jess" always throws me for a loop and makes me giggle a bit.

This play date has been under way for two hours now, and things are going fairly smoothly at the moment. For my sanity, though, I think the forecast for get-togethers at our house on Thursday and Friday looks poor. And next time Jonathon comes to play, I hope to God he leaves that *%$@ box at home.

First slumber party proves, er, enlightening ...

Saturday night, while it was all still fun and games.

Ben, in the throes of the world's worst slumber party hangover.

Over the weekend, we embarked on another first: hosting a slumber party. As is characteristic (as a result of me more than Mark), we probably overdid it a bit. Ben invited six boys for a trip to Badger Sports Park and then dinner and a sleepover. We figured it would be nice to do something special for our eldest son's 10th birthday. And just because we invited six kids didn't mean they'd all be able to come, right? But they were, and did I mention that Sunday afternoon we'd also hold our first open house?

Our trip to Badger went smoothly despite the extra-lousy weather, which brought extra-large crowds to the indoor attraction. The boys played a round of laser tag and quickly blew through the gaming cards we'd purchased for each child. Mark and I entertained Paul and Gus while the big boys played. (Aside: there are few tasks more loathsome than guiding a child through the process of choosing crappy prizes at the arcade ticket counter, am I right?)

We came home and fed the boys, and wow can they eat! I figured that some fifth-grade boys have morphed into big eaters, while others, like Ben, haven't yet reached that point. Deciding on the quantity of food was stressful for me, but we seemed to do OK.

A little before 9:00, the boys asked if they could go outside to play night games, a request we welcomed after all the time they'd spent playing with various electronic devices. We gave them a gentle reminder to keep down the volume and sent them on their way. They played ghosts in the graveyard and kick the can while Mark and I watched TV in the living room. By 9:20 they were back in the house.

About 10 minutes after the boys had finished, we saw a police car pull up near our house. Mark and I watched with curiosity, as the officers seemed focused on our house. Sure enough, moments later, they emerged and were walking around our backyard with flashlights. Mark went outside to investigate. Turns out a neighbor had seen the boys running around and was concerned.

Officer Nick asked us to summon the boys upstairs for a couple questions. "Men," he said after we'd gathered the puzzled and probably a little freaked-out boys, "Were you just playing some night games?" "Ah, yes," they replied. "OK, well, carry on then." Lame. I guess our neighbors were nice to try to watch out for us, but calling the cops probably was overkill. They could've just stopped over and talked to us. As it was, we got the privilege of having to explain to each boy's parents why their sons might be retelling the story of the cops showing up at our house.

After that little bit of drama, I was ready for bed. Mark decided he'd stay up a little later to keep an eye on the boys and try to steer them toward winding down by midnight or so. When I sleepily opened my eyes the next morning, Mark informed me that three of the boys, including Ben, hadn't slept all night. I honestly had not expected this. We've had kids sleep over before, albeit just one at a time, and they may go to bed late, but they do sleep. I thought maybe at worst they'd stay up until 1 or 2 a.m. but still get in at least five or six hours of sleep.

Sunday morning, Ben was nodding off before the last boy even left the house. Mark and I knew we'd be in for a lot of crabbiness, especially since we didn't want Ben to snooze all day, as we figured that would only further mess up his sleep schedule. We decided we'd let Ben nap while we cleaned for the open house and then try to make him stay up until at least after supper.

Awakening Ben after his little nap proved no easy task. When we tried to rouse him to get changed and ready to go to my parents' before the open house, he was surly and disoriented. A sampling of the dialog between Mark and Ben. Ben, crying in frustration: "What is this? I don't even know what this is!" Mark: "It's underwear." Ben, more crying: "I don't know what to do with it!"

I can only describe what ensued over the next few hours as a slumber party hangover, a direct result of an underconsumption of sleep with a simultaneous overconsumption of sugar, soda and Cheetos. There were lots of frustrated tears: "Why can't I just go to sleep?" Ben tried to lie down and sleep at every opportunity. It was a full-time job trying to keep him awake, though we did give in and let him sleep for small chunks.

In the end, we all survived the day. We held the open house, Ben went to bed early and slept a good 12 hours. Ben's always been a bit of a night owl. I hope maybe this experience has taught him something about the value of sleep. Yeah, I don't think so either. I can tell you one thing, though, it's going to be a long time before we decide to host another slumber party. Oh, and one more thing, we host one hell of a slumber party.