Fiber Arts

Necklaces, bracelets, hats, ropes. My boys have been compulsively finger-knitting, competitively finger-knitting, for every spare moment. During quiet time, on the sidelines of their soccer games, early in the morning, in their rooms late at night. They have knit long enough tubes to go across the San Francisco Bay--or at least to stretch from upstairs, down the stairs, around the corner and across the living room. It is competitive, it is creative, it is fun!

Too Much?

This year we have two weeks off for spring break, and for me, it does not feel like too much.

I know, if you are working it is a royal pain. And yes, I had plans, magnificent plans, of all I was going to get done during this period, and need to get done during this period. And will not get done this period (each night I must console myself and tell myself it is OK, I cannot write stories, interview people, edit a magazine story and care for boys all at the same time).

But my boys are tuckered out.

I could feel our engines on low.

I could barely get the boys to do homework or practice piano the weeks before break, and I was getting tired of riding them, too. The math homework doubled right before break and I thought Theo was going to go on strike. And he loves math.

We skiied for three days, that was our super duper extravagant wonderful treat. And now, the boys do not want to do a thing.

They do not want to go on adventures. They do not want to get in the car. They do not want to go to the library, see exhibits, or even go to the park. They are cool with things that we can walk to. But they just want to draw, play chess, sit around in their pajamas, stay up late reading, cuddle and play endlessly with legos and magnatiles. Sure, they get feisty at the end of the day when they have not done enough.

But their need to be bored, to stay still, to not move, to be lazy, outstrips their need to do anything at all.

So I am giving in. Which is hard for me.

We are recharging.

In our pajamas.

Spring Break

Chess in pajamas and underwear, 24/7. That is spring break, 2011.

Love and Money

Here is a cold hard truth of our summer:

We may have to sell our house because I stayed home with the kids.

Of course it is not just that, but my time at home was a critical factor in where we are financially.

Come September I will have been home for four years. That is four years where Jonathan had to haul ass to keep us afloat. The time also coincided with the writer's strike and the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression.

I love our house. I love it because it is beautiful, but I also love it in the way that only someone who has moved their whole life can love a place, a house that is really theirs, where every scratch and scrape and brick and tile holds a memory of us, our family. It is the geography and history of us. For me it is a bedrock, the mother country, our original homeland, our continent.

If I had worked through all of this, we could have held on. As is, we may, we may not.

And here is my cold hard truth: It was worth it.

I have loved my time with my boys. I would never, ever trade it in.

I got four glorious years to see my boys, be with them, take vacations, watch them grow, appreciate them, bask in them. They are a gift I never thought I would have. And here they are, on loan for a little while, and I got to be with them and savor them. And though it is uncool, unambitious, and very very un-American of me to say so, I am so deliriously glad I was here.

Life with Boys

What are you looking at?

Well, this is a Kenex flying machine, with motor, constructed by Theo. It flew too close to Benji's head (powered by Theo) and ended up getting tangled in Benji's hair, engine still running.

I was angry (the pain for Benji, the fury I felt at MORE crying, the slightly aggressive play by older brother imposed on younger brother) but when I saw the flying machine stuck in his hair like a giant's rat's nest, I could not help but burst into laughter.

I got it out without cutting. And three hours later Benji got it stuck in his own hair.

O Mamamia!

Do boys just have a self-destruct mode?

Please explain, fellow mothers of boys!

Why I Love My Mommy

This from Benji--in the giant puppy pile in our bed--as we laze around refusing to get up on spring break:

"Daddy, get away. You have spikes growing on your face!"

Dreams

Far too many nights, Benji climbs in bed with us. Usually he is just a big cuddly heat-seeking baby--as he has been from the minute he arrived on this earth.

The other night it rained and rained--so loud it woke us up, over and over again. Not gentle rain that puts you to sleep, but violent rain that sounds like your house has sprung a million leaks.

He climbed in and said:

"Mommy, I have been dreaming. Bad dreams."

"It's OK," I mumbled.

"What are dreams, Mommy? Are they just pretend? Are they real?

"Dreams are stories that happen in your mind when you sleep," I said. "They are not real."

"Oh."

Afternoon Nap

Boys piled on top of me, higgledy piggledy.

A six-year-old leg flung across my thigh,
A three-year-old arm across my chest.

Benji, lying, with my heart as his pillow,
Theo, clinging to me like a baby, something he is now too grown-up to do
except in his sleep.
I look at their curly lashes. Their parted lips. Their new-born freckles.
I feel their soft little boy breath on my cheek.

I marvel at their perfection.
I drink in their beauty.

The late afternoon sun streams across the bed,
painting us gold.

My neck is cricked. My arm is pulled.
But I don't move.

Because this is heaven.

To be sleeping in a pile of boys.