Whitman

What is love?

IMG_0285

One of my favorite recent pictures, from last October, with my parents, on the water.  I used the photo on this year’s Valentine card.

I’ve long believed that love – actually, life itself – resides in small things.  Yes, roses on Valentine’s Day are nice and weddings can be powerfully moving and the toast at a big birthday celebration carries all kinds of importance.  But day by day, hour by hour, we show people that we love them through our smallest acts.

There are three people in the world that I love the most.  You may have noticed that I write about two of them less and less (and one of them, almost never, though that’s not a change).  Grace and Whit are growing into their own stories, and it feels trickier and trickier to share them here.  In this case, I was very curious about what love looks like for them.  So I asked them.

Grace

Love is when Mum tucks me in at night and listens to me talk about my day.  It’s when she stops doing something important to help me when I need it.  Love is sacrificing some of the things she loves for us – like going out to dinner with friends or reading by herself.  Love is when she thinks of new recipes and makes something new for family dinner.  Love is keeping the kitchen stocked.  Love is sitting in cold rinks and cheering us on at hockey games (though not too loud).  Love is letting us go to sleep away camp even though I know she misses us.

Whit

Love is when Mum snuggles with me at bedtime every night.  It is when she reads me Harry Potter.  When she doesn’t pick up the phone so she can be with me.  When she makes us dinner.  I know 90% of her life right now is work but the other 10% is caring about us and that is love.  She does things that try to make our lives better.  Love is driving around the world constantly to get us places.  Love is when she goes to the library and picks out lots of books for me to see what I like.

******

I really enjoyed this exercise.  Sometimes the things we think mean the most don’t, and vice versa.  Nobody mentioned lunchbox notes, for example, which I write sporadically but not always, and nobody mentioned presents at all.  In fact neither of them mentioned things.  I recommend asking those you live with or love the most what touches them the most.  And then do more of that.

Camp is tremendously valuable for both boys and girls

IMG_8823

Sunset at the beach at our camp, August, 2014

Camp was a very important part of my life.  I went to the same camp, on Cape Cod, for many summers, including four years of a junior counselor training program and two years as a counselor.  It’s a profound joy for me to watch both of my children attend and love the same camp now.  I couldn’t possibly be more of a believer in what camps offer children.

Camp is a place that kids can be away from their parents, a place they can be joyfully rambunctious and experiment with new activities, skills, and experiences, a place they can meet and get to know friends who are different from their friends at home.  I place tremendous value in the out-of-their-regular-life aspect of camp, and in both of our childrens’ cases they went without a friend from home.

I learned recently that our camp, which is coed, is full for girls but not yet for boys.  Apparently all-boys camps are also less full than all-girls camps.  I find this phenomenon fascinating.  What is it about?  Do boys want to go away less?  This is hard for me to believe.  Do parents feel camp is less vital or valuable for boys?  Again, this surprises me, but maybe it’s true.  Is there increased competition for sports-specific camps when it comes to boys?  This, there may be some truth to.

For us, and I speak for both Matt and me here, we feel that camp is equally as important for a girl as for a boy.  We didn’t hesitate to send Whit, as I had Grace, the very first summer he was old enough (8 years old).  Both of our children were excited about going away that first summer (and every summer since).  I didn’t feel different at all about sending my children to camp.  In both cases I felt some trepidation and sorrow about saying goodbye (not really about missing them, but more about the recognition that I’m already here in my life).  But more than anything, I felt excited for them, and downright delighted to watch them fly.

There’s also such huge value, in my opinion, in the relationships that develop between children and their counselors.  Where else in their lives do kids get to form close, loving bonds with young adults, particularly ones who are in aggregate such terrific role models? In my view this is equally as important for boys and for girls.

I did have one boy-specific moment when I observed Whit with his counselors, at pick-up, certainly, but even at drop-off.  I watched the boys play Gaga Ball and felt like I was watching puppies: they were freed to be physical and rowdy, to be joyful and affectionate, to run and jump and yell.  So much of modern life seems to tell boys to be quieter and softer and I distinctly remember watching Whit and thinking: oh, wow, at last, a place he can just be a boy (I realize this a stereotype even as I write it, but it is one that holds true in our family and thus I share it).

This reflection made me more convinced at the power of camp for my son, not less.  Both of our children are looking forward to the summer ahead, and so are we.

Are you a summer camp family?  Do you feel differently about camp for boys as you do about camp for girls? 

 

 

Ten Years Old

Whit 10

Dear Whit,

Yesterday, you turned ten.  Your single-digit years came to a close, and the night before last I kissed a single-digit child good night a final time.  Another last, which, you’ve noted before, all belong to you.  I can’t pretend I don’t feel some sorrow about this.  I do.  I stood outside your bedroom after saying goodnight and leaned my head against the doorjamb and cried.  Hard.

Last night we celebrated, as we always do family birthdays, at home with dinner by candlelight.  You got to choose the menu, which was: your favorite brie, chicken parm subs from our local pizzeria, kale salad, and homemade triple chocolate cake.  You and Grace share a fierce preference for homemade cake.  I love that this is how you feel and I gladly make whatever you want.

When I started this blog you were one.  I’ve chronicled so much of your childhood here, from when I observed that you were leaving babyhood to thoughts on saying good night to a growing toddler, to your ninth birthday letter.  I have also written many times about the overjoyed bewilderment that bloomed the day you were born and that has never quite left me.  A boy?  I’m one of two girls and never had a brother and to say that parenting a son was a new frontier is an understatement.  Of course all of parenting is an adventure without a guidebook, and your gender is only one way in which I’ve been startled and delighted by you over the years.

It feels like yesterday I wrote that your babyhood was clinging to you, and now it feels like it’s your childhood that’s hanging on by a thread.  You’re still small and slight and I can easily carry you, but I know those days are numbered.  You are sprinting towards being a young man faster than I can possibly comprehend, following your sister into adolescence.  I stand in the shadow of that fact every day.

You love hockey and have greeted your sister’s decision to start playing the sport with an equal measure of trepidation (“it’s my sport!”) and happiness (“something for us to do together!”).  You are so capable putting on your gear that you no longer need me in the locker room at all, which, I’ll admit, is okay by me because a roomful of nine- and ten-year old Squirts smell a lot worse than did a roomful of seven- and eight-year old Mites.  I’m confident that your team’s heartbreaking loss in last season’s playoffs is an experience you’ll remember forever.  I know I will.  You’re a good baseball player, too: last year you were the lead-off batter for your team and my favorite moment of the season is when you hit a home run while your grandparents were visiting from Florida and watching.  After you ran the bases, I took a picture of you with your grandparents.  Your face is radiant with joy and I remember feeling your heart thumping in your chest like a rabbit as I hugged you before taking it.

More than anything else, your true passion is how things work.  I think you’re a maker at your core.  When people ask you what you want to be when you grow up, you respond, without hesitation, “a robot designer.”  I won’t be surprised if that’s what you do.  You asked for a soldering kit for your birthday and build large, working Legos without help.  I love that you still love Legos.  You enjoy building electronics and are learning rudimentary programming and love doing science experiments on the weekends.  This fall you made a classic baking soda volcano which your godmother was around to witness exploding.

You’ve always been a capable reader, but in the last year you’ve truly discovered the way a good book can engross and transport you.  It started with A Wrinkle in Time, my favorite childhood book, and watching you fall in love with L’Engle’s world was one of the great joys of the last year for me.  You blazed through The Secret Series this fall and read The Phantom Tollbooth in two days over Christmas.  In fact I busted you reading The Phantom Tollbooth by headlamp at midnight on Christmas Eve, took it away, and your first words on Christmas Day when you woke up (at 8:45!) were “where’s my book?”

Late in the fall, in the fourth grade Environmental Assembly, you gave a presentation to a roomful of school mates and parents that knocked my socks off.  You didn’t read from your presentation or notes, you spoke clearly and audibly, and you made us all laugh.  You were nervous and took the presentation entirely seriously, which I loved to see, but you were transformed into someone confident and capable when you took the microphone.  It’s a moment I won’t forget.

I also won’t forget watching you win the Best Camper Award for your unit at camp this summer.  I went to the same camp for 7 years before I won an award, and in your second summer you won the big one.  I missed you while you were away but I feel proud knowing that you clearly came into your own there, and every word your counselor read before he announced your name made me grin.  It brings tears to my eyes to remember the moment he said “Whit Russell,” and the incredulous, overwhelmingly proud look your father and I gave each other.  You, the only boy in the Junior Scouts who had worn a coat and tie to Cup Night, scurried up to hug all your counselors and accept your trophy as I watched, tears running down my cheeks.  My little boy is growing up, and it was clear as I listened to those words that you’re becoming a young man who takes care of others, sets an example, throws himself into new experiences, and still, loves a good prank.

You like to curl up on the couch and read Harry Potter with me, you love to take tubs, and the only fruits or vegetables you’ll touch are lettuce, spinach, and kale.  Beloved, Beloved’s Brother, and Bear all sleep with you, as does Lego, who you won so many years ago during our first trip to Legoland.  You give me our secret sign that means “I love you” as you head off to school in the morning, proudly name pink as your favorite color, exhibit deep loyalty to your closest friends, and make me laugh every single day.  In my 10 years as your mother, you have never met someone who didn’t say something to me about how funny you are.  At the same time, there’s a seam of sensitivity running through you that reminds me of … well, me.  I’m ambivalent about this and often wish I hadn’t handed down my predisposition towards heartache.  Still, since it seems I did, I hope you never stop showing me your feelings, even if that means that sometimes you hurt.  It’s one of the things I worry the most about protecting – your willingness to feel, and to talk about those feelings – as you grow into a young man.

I couldn’t possibly be prouder of you, Whit, my first son, my last baby.  I adore you and I always will.

Love,

Mum

My past birthday letters are here: nine, eight, seven, six, five, four (???), three, two

10932331_657737107665798_2092409547_n

Image I shared on Instagram on Monday.  You at 3 months, and you at almost-10.  In between lies a lifetime of laughter and tears and adventures and joys, which passed on a single blink.

 

 

10 Things I Want my 10 Year Old Son to Know

IMG_1072

It feels like just moments ago that I reflected on the things I wanted Grace to know, deep in her marrow, before she turned ten.  But now it’s Whit who’s staring double digits in the face.  In less than two months he’ll be ten, and there won’t be anyone with a single-digit age in our house anymore.  Just as with Grace, I keep thinking about the values and truths I want Whit to know, the things I wish I could make him as certain of as he is of his own heartbeat.

Even as I think about and write these things down, I know that I can only do so much to impart them to him.  I know that what I do is more important than what I say.  I know that I had better have been modeling these themes already, since with 10 years under his belt he’s already picked up and internalized a lot of values from me.

With a desperate hope that I’ve done an okay job helping to exemplify and teach these messages, here are ten things I want my son to know before he turns ten.

1. Treat other people with respect.  Women and men both.  The headmistress of your school and the homeless man outside the subway station are both equally deserving of your kindness.  You do this already, instinctively, but please, never stop.

2. Rowdiness and physical activity are both normal and fun.  Rough-housing is okay.  I know I sometimes shush you more than I should, because my personal preference is for quiet, but I’m working on that, because being physically active and even rambunctious is totally fine.  There is a line, however, because violence is not okay.  Learning where this line is is crucial.

3. No means no.  Period.  No matter who says it and in what context.

4. Don’t hide your sensitivity.  You feel everything tremendously deeply: time’s passage, memory, wistfulness, love and loss.  Don’t let the world convince you to stuff this down.  You can be strong and feel a lot at the same time.  In fact, feeling a lot makes you stronger.  That’s true regardless of whether you’re a boy or a girl.

5. You can’t make another person happy, not me, not Dad, not Grace.  Nobody.  Furthermore that’s not your job.  I know this, we all do, and I hope you always remember it.  You are responsible for your own self and for the way you treat others, which can surely impact their moods.  But nobody should ever make you feel responsible for their happiness.  What makes me happy is knowing that you are thriving, challenged, enthusiastic, joyful, aware.

6. Pay attention to your life.  There is so much to notice in the most every day moments.  The other day you told me, before bed, that “the things you hate are the things you wish you had back.”  I asked what you meant and you said, “well, like in Beginners, we had nap, and I didn’t like it, and now I would love to have rest time every day at school!”  But then, after a few moments, you added, “well, at least I feel like I noticed it.  That’s good, I guess.”  And it is.  I haven’t figured out how to stop time, but I do know that paying close attention to your experience rewards us with full days and rich memories.

7. Find your passion.  It doesn’t matter what it is, but “I’m bored” isn’t something I want to hear.  Ever.  You are surrounded by interesting things to explore, learn about, and experience. I’ll support you in whatever you want to pursue, if it is hockey or coding or violin – or all three! – but you do need to find something that you want to throw yourself into.

8. Entitlement is the absolute worst.  I am a strict mother and often feel badly about discipline or sharp language, but one thing I’ll always react to (and I’ll never regret doing so) is if you display even a whiff of entitlement or brattiness.  You don’t do it often, and I don’t think it’s your natural orientation towards the world, but please always remember how immensely fortunate we are.  It is an enormous privilege to live as we do every single day.  Through small things like Sunday Night compliments, occasional volunteering, our Christmas Homeless Veteran relationship, and thank you notes I have tried to instill our family life with awareness of our great good fortune.  That is, I believe, the best bulwark against entitlement there is.

9. Even if you don’t start something, you can be wrong.  I think always of MLK’s line about how the silence of our friends hurts far more than the words of our enemies.  The ringleader is at fault but so are those who go along with him.  Please have the courage to stand up to the popular kids when circumstances arise when they’re doing the wrong thing.  They haven’t yet, but I know they will.

10. I love you, no matter what.  Messing up is a part of life.  The point is learning to let go and start over.  This I know I’ve modeled, probably too well: you are being raised by a mother who’s not afraid to show you her flaws and demonstrate failing, apologizing, and beginning again.  I will always love you, even when you behave in ways I don’t love.  But I also expect you to keep showing me that you know the point is to learn from our mistakes, recognize and acknowledge when we’re wrong, and begin again.

Another year, another camp drop off

photo(1)

Leaving home, early Thursday morning

Last week we took Grace and Whit to camp.  This is Grace’s fourth summer, and Whit’s second.  The drop-off doesn’t get easier.  I’m realizing that’s because the experience forces me to confront where we are right now, and in so doing to reckon with all that is already past.  It is impossible to drop them off without realizing in a visceral way that the path forward holds ever-more dropoffs, ever more farewells, that the distance between them and me continues to stretch as we move forward.

Yes, yes, I trust in the red cord that ties our hearts.  I do.  But it’s still hard.

photo

Beloved, Bear, and Beloved’s Brother lined up on Whit’s pillow at camp.  He ran to join his cabinmates in a game so fast I didn’t even get a picture of him, so I took a photo of these much-loved faces instead.

For some reason, dropping them off and leaving without them – and, maybe most of all, coming back into a house that feels echoingly empty – brings me face to face with many emotions.

I am reminded that my everyday life is full of magic, a truth that Grace saw, and told me, before I ever did myself.  That happened the night before I took her to camp the very first time, and I still think of that conversation all the time.

I think of my dearest lifetime friend, who I met at this very camp many years ago.  When I walk through the familiar camp grounds it feels as though the ghosts of the girls we were swirl around me like dust.  I fall into the black hole of memory where individual moments flash and glint: when I first met Jess, the moment she pulled up to be my co-counselor in cabin 18 after we hadn’t spoken in several years, her gorgeous, sun-drenched wedding, the morning I called her in a whisper to say I’d seen a second, shadowy line on a pregnancy test.  There are a million other memories that drift over me like snowflakes, together forming a bank that is one of the essential bulwarks of my life.

When I think of it I fall into the black hole of memory where individual moments flash and glint: when I first met Jess, the moment she pulled up to be my co-counselor in cabin 18 after we hadn’t spoken in several years, her gorgeous, sun-drenched wedding, the morning I called her in a whisper to say I’d seen a second, shadowy line on a pregnancy test.  There are a million other memories that drift over me like snowflakes, together forming a bank that is one of the essential bulwarks of my life. – See more at: https://adesignsovast.com/2012/08/these-girls-our-girls-this-next-generation/#sthash.CTX137uz.dpuf
When I think of it I fall into the black hole of memory where individual moments flash and glint: when I first met Jess, the moment she pulled up to be my co-counselor in cabin 18 after we hadn’t spoken in several years, her gorgeous, sun-drenched wedding, the morning I called her in a whisper to say I’d seen a second, shadowy line on a pregnancy test.  There are a million other memories that drift over me like snowflakes, together forming a bank that is one of the essential bulwarks of my life. – See more at: https://adesignsovast.com/2012/08/these-girls-our-girls-this-next-generation/#sthash.CTX137uz.dpuf

Most of all, dropping Grace and Whit off presents me with blinding evidence of how much I love my own life.  Right now, this, this mess, this beauty, this noise, this holiness.  This.  These moments, which seem to run through my fingers ever more quickly.  I think of the glorious good fortune that my children will stand in the same outdoor theater that I did, their arms looped around their friends’ shoulders, singing Taps, and also of the keenly painful reality that the years in between those two events have evaporated so quickly I can’t catch my breath.  Then and now, past and present swirl together in a burst of rainbow memory, lit by flashes of lightning, and I swallow, and try to hold back my tears as I hug my children goodbye.

I thought of Churchill’s quote about how “this is not the end.  This is not even the beginning of the end.  But it is perhaps the end of the beginning.”  We left the end of the beginning back a while ago already.  And here we are, in the thick of it, life itself, teeming with both laughter and loss, joy and love and sorrow, every single day a tapestry of experience and memory.  Often this crazy quilt overwhelms me, and it did last week as we drove home from camp.

ccscg

Grace standing on the way to the beach.  I have walked through this passage hundreds of times.  Last summer Jess and I took photographs at sunset on this beach, and I treasure them.