.png)
Stories of Children
wolves and sheep
​
“Hi Sar, what’s up?” I say, as I answer Sara’s phone call, assuming she’s calling to schedule a playdate this afternoon for the schools’ early release day.
“Hi” she answers with a hesitancy in her voice.
“I’m calling to see if you are ok.”
“What do you mean?” I’m confused.
“I saw that all Thurston schools are locked down.”
“What?!” I exclaim panicking. “I’ve been working, I haven’t seen anything.”
I immediately log in to Facebook to scroll the community groups and read the beat.
Several posts now, dozens of comments piling up, everyone searching for answers.
As I scan, I see that Thurston High school is in lockdown due to a threat. Springfield Police are one site. The more I scroll trying to differentiate information I can see that others schools are also closing. Concerned parents’ questions piling up in the comments, scroll, scroll, scroll.
Finally, I see “What about Thurston Elementary?” “Yes, they’re in Lockout. I called the school.” One comment, one definitive response, 10 min ago.
I hang up from Sara and try to think of what to do. My mind racing back to the school work I had thrown away in the kitchen trash earlier this morning. As I placed it in the garbage my mind jumped to me pulling it back out, covered in cereal and coffee grounds and saving the last remaining work of my kids. Intrusive thoughts. Focus. The counter is cluttered, there’s at least 45 coloring pages, math pages, and handwriting practices pages, that adorn our fridge for a week and then end up getting ‘filed.’ Keep the morning going.
I start to think of my friends and their kids. Jess, her daughter is a freshman. I call.
She’s crying. Kenly is sheltering in her classroom. She’s talked to her. She’s ok, but everyone is scared.​
This is the reality for our kids, for us as parents, for us as a nation. Domestic terror. Our children grow up knowing how to barricade a door, hide in closets and remain quiet. “Wolves and sheep” they call the drill at Johnny and Beni’s elementary school. Wolves. And. Sheep.
I see an email from the school district, finally informing panicked parents of the situation. “Out of an abundance of caution, Thurston Middle, Thurston Elementary and Ridgeview are on lockout due to threat to Thurston High School. No one is allowed in or out of the school in lockout. Teaching and learning will continue as normal.”
Normal? In what world is it normal to have children learn how to function when there are threats to their lives, their safety, their security, their sanity?
The shooter in Uvalde grew up in these drills. He knew they’d lock the school and lock the doors and because he, as a child, grew up knowing the system. He shot 19 children and 2 teachers like they were fish in a barrel.
This is America.
Teaching and learning continued. At 12:40 I picked up my boys, healthy and smiling at the bus stop at the normal time for an early release. The sun shone on their rounded checks, Benji already opening up his backpack, giving me more precious art, handwriting exercises and math work to fill the countertop once again.
puffballs of magical dandelions
​
Puff balls of magical dandelions, weeds and wild flowers, fill the yards between here and the school bus stop. Each day we find new treasures along the route. “Look mama, I found this beautiful rock for you!” “Look mama, an acorn!,” “I picked this flower for you mama.” Each day I add them to my plants and porch at home. Our window seal is a propagation station, with green onions and cilantro thriving, beside colious, and all the tiny stem less flowers picked by tiny hands.
​
We walk at 8:00 down the quiet street, looking for the fluffy kitty that occasionally comes out to greet us. She’ll approach quickly, and stand at a safe distance away as if saying “I’m here, but you can’t have me.” She’ll roll in the middle of the road, scratching her back, and filling her long locks with pollen, pine needles and debris. She’ll pop up as the kids watch from the safety of the sidewalk, all anticipating the show. Sometimes she’ll come to the gutter, close enough to purr and say come hither. But when their timid hands come down to pet her, she shakes her collar and departs.
​
As we continue, I step into the street, as I bypass the full-grown tree that lies in our path. Its top has been cut, cleanly at the curb, as the city cleared roads after the ice storm, leaving the uprooted beast for the young home owners to trim away at. I saw the young man outside once with a drywall saw limbing what he could. But with our approaching chaos he chose depart quickly, so I couldn’t offer him the use of our many saws.
​
It's ok though, now the sidewalk is an obstacle course for three tiny children. They climb over the big trunk with backpacks as big as them, and traverse the lichen on the bark with ease, they jump to the other side and climb over another big log, the city workers must have cut and laid next to the beheaded giant.
​
Their big eyes sparkle in the morning light, hair freshly combed, coats zipped high and washed faces smiling. We play red light, green light to help Tilly our “four year old“ big girl, slow down. She sprints almost anywhere she goes; her strong legs carrying her swiftly with a bow-legged gate, just like my mom’s. Short little steps, arms tucked tight with elbows at her ribs, running fast down the hill no matter how many skinned knees we’ve nursed.
​
Benji in kindergarten and Johnny in second grade, the cool older brothers walk briskly with mom, though some days they won’t allow little sister to beat them, which ends in taunting and tears. We wait by at the Stop sign next to a long and lanky garden of nepeta, spiky yucca plants, and pots and pots of peppers, tomatoes and tomatillos. He must make the best salsa I think, as I watch his garden grow. When school starts in the fall the peppers turn red and dry on the stock and I wonder if he grows tired of all the fruit of his labor.
“Bye boys! I love you!” They both turn around and wave with timid looks on their faces. The school bus is stopped at the intersection and they wait in line to get on. Even though we are the first to arrive at the bus stop, they are generally last to get on as Brooke a precocious girl, runs to the front of the line. She may have been homeschooled, but she hasn’t been taught many manners.
​
The boys wait quietly, patiently as the other kids ascend the big steps and scan their cards to get on. Monte their driver always greets them with a smile. “Hiya Johnny!” “And Benji!” Johnny leading his little brother. Their focus cannot be broken as they navigate the large steps and grab their bus pass attached to their backpack straps and scan in at the top of tall the stairs. Monte always smiles and waits calmly with the door open and the boys scan their cards and walk to their seats.
​
They scoot into the third seat, together, their faces still timid as they join the ranks of chaos on the public elementary school bus. Their big eyes still excited to see mom’s face as they wave until the bus is out of site. I wave with both hands so Benji knows I’m waving at him too, even though he is relegated to the isle seat as he follows his big brothers lead.
​
After leaving the boys safely on the bus, Tilly runs to grab a dandelion puff. She chants “five flowlers, five!” My mom tenderly plucks five seeded stems and hands her the magical bouquet. Just as quickly, Tilly throws her hands to her sides and starts to run with all five puffs in hand.
​
Within two strides, not a single seeded parachute is left, only five stems remain. She pauses briefly to look at her bouquet of stems. No matter, her tiny hands drop them as she sprints up the hill to her next adventure.
a run of peace, while teaching your children to ski
I stopped half-way down the mountain as the sun shines its rays through the storm. They glisten in wide lines of light. No longer swirling in wind, snow drifts to where it will rest.
I take a breath, standing still on the slope, my snowboard perfectly positioned as I lift my face to the sky. I take off my goggles.
The brightness of light, reflecting off a sea of white, burns my eyes, but I can’t look away from the sparkle.
I say a prayer to myself, in my sanctuary, in my peace. Tears join the snowflakes melting on my skin. I pull my goggles down, and in a single move, a swipe of the hips, I slash the powder, absorb the mountain and continue on my way.
When I get back to the lodge, I can’t wait to see Chris. This is why we are here; THIS is why we do this.
I race back up log stairs easily in my snowboard boots, passing all the awkward skiers. The building smells of damp mildew from years of not being properly dried, but also of French fries, hamburgers and all manner of greasy food and spilt beer. The sound of a full ski lodge clatters and roars as everyone but biggest powder-hounds seek refuge from the storm at lunchtime.​
​
​Chris and the kids are in a far corner. Everyone wet after storm skiing on the bunny hill. At one point this morning, my seven-year-old was throwing a tantrum, flailing in the snow, crying “I hate skiing!” “I would rather be at church!” I let him roll around and scream and make a fool of himself, as I turned and listened to the wind howl instead.
​
I looked up, to see if I could see Chris and Tilly on the beginner chair from here, but there’s so much snow and wind you can’t see that there is a lift in that direction. Our five-year-old Benji is semi-happily lapping the Magic Carpet as I wait with the big baby to have his fit.
Eventually Chris skies down with our three-year-old Tilly chanting “Adin, adin!!” But her little legs give out underneath her.
“Let’s take them in” I say, “Then you and I can take some laps. This is exhausting.”
We waddle like penguins back to the lodge through deep snow. Little legs and heavy equipment, tears, and shouts, and wind, and frozen snot; we end up carrying crying children in a blizzard. We find a bench with other families who gave up and are now taking turns storm skiing, while the other partner solo parents in the warmth of a profit center.
“You can go first.” Chris says.
“You sure?” As I am already putting on my wet gloves.
“Ya, have fun honey.”
As I walk back out to the storm and grab my board, I walk a walk I’ve done most of my life alone. Not here, but at many resorts, to the singles line, to the chairlift, to the summit, to the steepest run, to face shots and cold snow on my skin, to a peace found within.
el toro
​
Quiet gets my attention.
I can only hear the muffled sounds of hitting. Back and forth random, battle cries, scattered laughter. This goes on for a moment, and I decide that I need to go outside. One look into the yard, and I realize that I hadn’t arrived a moment too soon.
​
Johnny and Benji are battling with light sabers… excuse me… pool noodles. They are deep in the heart of combat when I shout: “Benji, where are your pants?!”
At the slender age of five he is fighting his big brother, completely nude. His little body lunges at Johnny and he screams “He cut my pants off!”
​
His big brown eyes sparkle and his Cheshire cat grin grows on his face. Little gap teeth, hair wild with delight; brother laughs a maniacal laugh and keeps hitting him with the noodle. Johnny’s toothless seven-year-old grin is quite the match for Benji’s baby teeth. Smiles all around. Even Matilda at three is joining in the fight.
Benji the wild; prefers to be in the buff. I think if his skinny self didn’t get so cold, he wouldn’t wear clothes at all.
​
I joke with the kids that Benjamin named himself. When I was in labor with all of them, I used hypnobirthing. As hokey as it sounds, it’s not hypnosis as much as it is a deep meditative state where you align your thoughts with your body and your baby.
​
Johnny, my oldest, was the bulldozer and he paved the way for the others. After primordial pushing, bloodshot eyes and a birth plan that was more a birth, than the plan. So, with our second, the only thing we planned was his name. When I went into my labor with Theodore; or should I say Benjamin, we were much more relaxed about what may or may not happen.
I labored at home and imagined my body and my baby; trusting myself and knowing that a millennia of mothers had gone before and knew exactly what to do. When we arrived at the hospital, I was calm; unfortunately, the nurses didn’t trust that I was in labor. Roxy the salty RN said “we’ll see if you’ll be staying;” Chris chirped back quickly “Oh, we’re staying!” As they moved me untrustingly to triage and left me there for too long, I aligned my body with my baby.
The whole time I imagined him in the J curve, waiting to meet the world. But it was Benjamin, not Theodore, that whispered in my mind.
​
Ben… Benji… Benny… Benjamin…
​
Today, looking at him as naked as the day he came out, I know that he was destined to be Benjamin. Chris calls him “El Toro” or the bull in Spanish. He is headstrong, like his mama and Benji does what he wants.
​
We battle.
Not with noodles, unfortunately.
I should surrender.
​
Align my body; with my baby.
Give him all the love.
​
Those are the demands.
can I help him blow out the tandles mama?
​
“Mama, can I help him blow out the tandles?” Leaning forward, a little round face looks to me for an answer. “No Johnny, let’s let him do it.” Obediently, he sits back and waits for little brother to blow out three candles on the chocolate Oreo birthday cake.
​
Watching old videos of our kids, it strikes me how much they’ve all changed. Their tiny voices, more articulate, and their whisps of light fine hair, coarser and more filled in. I reminisce with them about when they were babies and we would hold them on our chest as they slept.
​
Johnny, our oldest, turned eight in March, tall and strong he leads the way for Benji and Tilly. The day he was born we got ten inches of snow in Ogden, Utah. A spring flurry that melted quickly, but the temperatures were still cold. As new home owners, we didn’t keep the heat turned on too high so we snuggled deep beneath our pile of blankets. We had a bassinet next to the bed, but more often than not Johnny would sleep in between us.
​
We kept his stripped standard issue hospital hat and bought him tiny pajamas with mittens, so he couldn’t scratch his face. When he was unsettled, I’d snuggle him close and scoot my forehead right next to his and we’d breathe face to face, while I rubbed his little back. He’d fall asleep or I’d fall asleep, or we’d both fall asleep together, comforted by the closeness. On a lucky occasion, or weekend, Chris would be home and the three of us would fall asleep together like an Oreo, two big ends with the sweetest, softest bit in the middle.
​
Watching him now run wild with friends and his brother and sister, yelling and screaming as they battle, it’s hard to imagine the peace in those early moments. His big voice carries throughout the house, throughout the car, throughout the neighborhood. “Johnny, turn it down to seven,” I joke, but like me, he rarely knows how to turn it down. His big toothy smile, with gaps shines back, and he runs while yelling “I just can’t stop!”
​
For as wild as Johnny is, he is just as tender, crying when Benji’s four-year-old foot stomped a snail on the way to the school bus, or when a polar bear grabbed a seal off the ice in a documentary film. His big heart takes in the world and he carries it.
​
Holding a baby doesn’t teach you how to hold your son, how to help him grow, how to comfort his heart. When he cry’s now, I try to understand what he needs. Sometimes it’s an afternoon to go bowling without having to share mom’s attention. A time to sit together and let me see him as the boy he has become. To watch him roll a ball down a lane that weights as much as he did when he was born. Sometimes it’s to snuggle close under a pile of blankets, forehead to forehead and listen to him breathe.
