Tag: Parenting

Sympathy for the Giant

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The steps creak a little more each day as Thing1 descends from his bastion on the upper bunk.  He’s been taller than his mother for a year now, and, even though he enjoys sizing up the difference every time we pass in the hall, I am getting used to looking up at someone I used to carry around in a Snugli.  It’s strange feeling, and a few weeks ago, I realized that Thing1, evoking a decidedly impish quality, didn’t really suit him anymore.

I’ve been using nicknames for my kids and husband since this blog’s inception.  My six foot six husband is the Big Guy.  My twelve and six-year-old boys are known as Thing1 and Thing2 (or SuperDude if he’s wearing his cape and wig), respectively.

My decision to use nicknames was not so much to safeguard their internet safety – very little is private anymore now  – but more the result of the feeling that, especially with the kids, I had the right to tell our stories but not the right to opt in the use of their real names until they were old enough to make that decision themselves.  The result has been a mostly illustrated blog (the few photos of the kids are usually old enough to prevent easy recognition by anyone but the people who already know them), and I’ve been happy with it.  Now, however, as I’ve been searching for a new, more appropriate nickname for the gentle giant that roams our house, I realize that part of the motivation for the original nickname was my denial that he is growing up.

There is still a bit of the imp in him, but middle school and the discovery that a world lies outside Minister Hill have made him serious.  When the imp is revealed, Thing2 is often the inspiration and the provocation.  Like any good younger brother, Thing2 carries around a bit of loving hero worship for his big brother.  Most afternoons he expresses his love by snuggling up to his older brother, but there are times when love hurts.

Sometimes inspired by boredom, sometimes by that most flattering of desires – to imitate his older brother in every possible way – Thing2 will sidle up to Thing1 at his desk or on the couch.  He’ll work to inhabit the space with his brother.  Then he’ll ask to play whatever Thing1 is playing, listen to whatever song Thing1 has blasting, or watch whatever show Thing1 thought was great last night but couldn’t care less about this afternoon.  He is dogged in his admiration, and, when Thing1, in the time-honored tradition of surly preteens everywhere, ignores the initial overtures, Thing2 finds a plan B.

Snuggling becomes poking.  Then poking becomes climbing, and sometimes the climbing hurts.  Thing2’s faith that Thing1 would never hurt him is stronger David’s in a God that would guide his slingshot was.  For the most part his faith is well-placed. Unlike the ancient Goliath, when our giant needs a lot of needling before he responds in kind.  Sometimes the giant will lose his temper, but he rarely loses his cool.

Lately he’s been taking on more grown-up chores around the house.  He’s attentive and responsive when we need a quick favor.  Naturally, I see him through my maternal bias, but as I watch the imp becoming a man, I’ve decided it’s time for someone to get a new nickname and rehabilitate the name Goliath.

The Hairy Edge

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Maybe if it hadn’t been a snow day filled with lolling about and lying around, this milestone might have gone unnoticed.  But twelve-year-old Thing1, getting as big as a good-natured Goliath these days, made the mistake of mentioning that he wanted a shower on a slow news day.  The Big Guy and I looked at our son and then back at each other, the same question on our minds.

I think the Big Guy was the first to ask Goliath point blank if there was a girl involved.  Our firstborn immediately rebuffed such a ridiculous suggestion.  His hair was too long, he said.  It was too warm and he needed to cool off.  

I don’t mean to imply that Goliath doesn’t shower regularly.  But anyone who’s raised or raising boys will concur that there comes a phase in their lives when they develop severe soap allergies, as evidenced – at our house – by the sounds of cajoling and pleading (and that’s the parents) that commence many evenings just after supper time.  We have heard every excuse for why Goliath and his six-year-old tormenter, David, should abstain from contact with cleanliness.  They don’t feel dirty.  They’re just going to get dirty again tomorrow.  They’re trying to save water and (going after our off-grid Achille’s heels) electricity.  So when we haven’t had to cajole or plead for not just one night, but three in a row, it’s a major event.

The Big Guy and I didn’t contest any further his earnest contention that a sudden romantic interest was not at the source of this sudden spate of elective hygiene.  Once Goliath cleared his place and retreated to his half-hour shower, however, the Big Guy and I looked at each other, realizing we are getting closer and closer to the scary hairy edge of being parents of a full-fledged teenager.  And as frightening as that thought is, the scarier idea is just how fast it’s all going.

So Uncool

The best thing about having a preteen is not the sudden displays of independence (or rebellion depending on your take) or the occasional surliness.  It’s the fact that no matter what you do, for the next decade or so, you know you will never be cool.  Now, no one has actually ever accused me of being all that hip – except maybe the Big Guy when I complement him on a burp – but I’ve noticed that the little bit of cool factor I may have enjoyed, has taken a nose dive as Thing1, my first born, approaches the big One-Three.  This might have bothered me once upon a time, but, now, as I’m getting a lot more selective about which dragons I go chasing after, it’s actually quite liberating.

My precipitous loss of coolness (always in danger due to my uncanny knack for mastering fashion trends just as they were ending and love of all things geek) became apparent one morning as we were driving to school.  Thing1 had already begged me to stop dancing in the car, regardless of our surroundings, and, well remembering the gauntlet called middle school, I respected this ‘request’.  My music choices, however, stayed pretty much the same.  I listen to everything, and my playlists vary with my mood.  My tastes can have us listening to Pavarotti one morning, Rolling Stones  another, or an eighties pop list the next.   It was an eighties pop mix that first prompted Thing1, a budding music geek with firm ideas about “what’s good” that can only survive in the hothouse of adolescence, to assume the role of arbiter of musical taste on our morning school runs.

He began switching up the playlists on my iPod, and, for the most part, I acquiesced happily.  That acquiescence made him happy on the drive, but when we arrived at school, he began hitting the pause button before the car stopped.  After a few mornings of this I realized my acceptance of his choices was causing him to question not his taste but his own coolness.

He’s not into girls yet, so fashion – the most visible signal that a kid is trying to display their coolness – hasn’t really become an issue (boys seem to escape a lot of this anyway), but as he stops the music and climbs out of the car, everything in his demeanor says he’s still anxious to be cool.  Most of the kids entering the building seem to have this same anxiety, translated through their tense postures and nervous glances at their friends.

It’s not just maternal bias when I say that, in my eyes, Thing1 has always been cool.  He’s a door-holder.  He can carry on a conversation with grownup. A number of his classmates are like this too.   So, as I watch these pleasant, curious kids scurrying to school, wearing their self-consciousness on their sleeves, my first daily thought is how ironic it is that they should worry that they’re not cool enough.  When the car door shuts and I unpause the music, my second thought is usually how exhausting it once was to worry about it.

I know Thing1 will survive this gauntlet.  The Big Guy and I are fiercely protective of the inner young man full of hopes and dreams and ideas, but we also know navigating between the desire to fit in and his true north (when he discovers it) is part of the test of teenager-dom.  It’s a journey we can’t take for him.

I’ve recently adopted a new exercise regimen of dancing for a 3 minute song in front of my laptop every few hours so that I can fit some movement into my day.  I pretty much look like an idiotic bowl of jello for those 3 minutes, and sometimes I’m glad none of our windows look out on neighbors.  But I would be dancing even if they did.  That carefree dance is the reward at the end of that journey.  I’ve discovered my true norths now, and, while I’ve started another part of the path, I’ll be waiting for Thing1 when he’s found his own groove.

Of Birds, Bees, and Bathtime

I was curious about boys when I was twelve.  I was attending an all-girl school, so my preteen theories about dating and boys were purely conjecture.  Even when I moved to a co-ed school, however, my curiosity and my ability to attract the opposite sex were completely out of sync, so my parents seemed comfortable waiting to have ‘The Talk’ until I was well into high school.

My dad was a doctor, so he had no qualms about discussing the science of sex with us, but it was my mother’s less scientific take on the subject one afternoon that has stuck with me.  I had invited a few friends over, including a girl who had left school when she had a baby.  She had brought her baby, and we had all fallen in love with it.  None of us were thinking of the larger issue of teen pregnancy at the time – I was still trying to get someone to take me to a movie – but my mom clearly was that afternoon.  She enjoyed holding the baby too, but when my friends and the baby left, she sat me down for a chat.

“That baby is very cute, and your friend is doing a wonderful job with him,” she said, “but I hope you notice that she’s not going to any dances or parties.”  The Talk that day revolved around, not judging someone’s choices, but making me aware of some of life’s consequences and that, even though I’d always have my parents’ love and support, I would be the one to shoulder them.

I remembered this conversation when I was dating.  I remembered it when the Big Guy and I were DINKS (Double Income No Kids), indulging in carefree travel and dinners out as often as we could afford (or were invited).  And, as I see very socially-aware Facebook posts by kids at my son’s school (and even grade), as well as teenage parents at his and other nearby, I’m remembering it.

My firstborn is a bit of a computer geek.  Unless a girl had a keyboard or a mouse attached to her, he might not give her a second look.  Knowing, however, that he is seeing this conversation played in different forms around him, I realize we will be having The Talk a lot earlier than I did.  I’m a big believer in the facts.  I want him to understand how his body works, what he needs to do to keep it healthy, and how to keep from reproducing before he’s ready for the consequences of that decision. Most of all,  I want him to understand the potentially life-changing magnitude of those consequences.

Thing2 is six years younger than his big brother, and Thing1 has been privy to all the joys and pains of living with a newborn, toddler, and rambunctious grade schooler (he will never admit to having inflicted the pains himself).  He has ridden next to a car-seat loaded with a screaming and sometimes smelly baby.  He has watched us negotiate with nature’s most annoying creature – the fussy eater (his own memory of this phase is conveniently blank).  Most of the time, he takes things in stride.

Sometimes, however, he cracks.

Last night was one of those times.

Thing2’s gift for getting dirty becomes an art form on the weekends, and I had ordered him into the tub.  I hosed him off before letting him indulge in a little splash time.  He relocated all but a few tablespoons of water from the tub to the bathroom floor before I let him know it was time to get out.  The floor is concrete and tolerates ponds, so I ushered him to his bedroom to get him dried and dressed before mopping up.

“What!?!”  An annoyed cry came from the bathroom.  Thing1 came marching into the bedroom.  “Why is the bathroom such a mess?  There’s water everywhere,” he yelled at his brother.  I quickly put the lid on his outburst, reminding him the commode still functioned when wet and this was not a catastrophe.  Thing1 moderated his tone but not his attitude as he turned on his heel and returned to the facilities .  “I swear, I’m not going to have little kids in my house till I’m forty-five,” he muttered.  I wrapped the towel around Thing2, grinning like David who had just awoken Goliath, and gave him a big hug.

Clean and dry, relieved and defused, the boys retired to the couch for a few minutes of TV before bed, friends until David decides to needle Goliath again in the morning.  I know there will be other versions of The Talk.   Watching them teach each other about boundaries and bathrooms I’m appreciating how my mother’s words in a completely different way.  What was a warning when it needed to be, is now a promise fulfilled by patience.  Now, as I think about how to impart the perils without dimming that promise, Thing2’s object lessons make sure that Thing1 is gaining a clear understanding of consequences.  And, while now many of those lessons may only teach Thing1 patience of a different sort, I’m hoping the occasional cease-fires are implanting another, if subtler, kind of understanding of how, with patience and timing (and luck), consequences can also be rewards.

A Day with the Boys

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Once upon a time I would have traded blood and organs for the chance to be a Work At Home Mom (WAHM).  A few years ago, I stumbled onto the right ad on Craigslist and, without making any deals with the devil, joined the growing legions of moms who work from home.  For the most part it’s been a win-win.  I’m home on snow days and sick days.  There’s no dry-cleaning to worry about, and the gas and rubber saved is significant.  It has also, however, taught me a lot about the difference between quality time with my kids, twelve-year-old Thing1 and six-year-old Thing2,  and simply more time.

Our town has school choice, so Thing1 and Thing2 go to different schools in different towns.  The schools are a mile apart, and, while the calendars often overlap, there are somedays when one school is closed and the other is not.  Yesterday was Thing2’s day off, and, enjoying a unprecedented state of organization last week, I remembered to schedule a day off for myself.

The kids are in school full-time now, but summers and holidays mean that I’m often scrambling to entertain them while I work.  More often than I’d like, this results in kids playing on iPads or computers and me snapping at them to stop fighting over this or that toy.  It’s more time together, but it is not quality time.

Ironically, spending more time with my kids has fueled my desire to carve out more special days with one or the both of them.  It’s a tradition that started when Thing1 was still Thing-only.  Mommy-Thing1 days started with a special breakfast and then a visit to a museum or even just a day on the couch watching a movie of his choice.  It’s one-on-one face time, and it’s become a sacred ritual for both kids.

Thing2 and I started the day with breakfast and haircuts.  Money he had earned was burning a hole in his pocked, so we took a quick trip to the toy store and then went to visit a friend who’s recovering from surgery.  By the time we got home, my day with Thing2 was drawing to a close, and a planned evening with Thing1 was about to begin.

The Dorset Theatre was in its final weekend of its production of The Crucible, and, since we don’t have a regular babysitter, the Big Guy and I had decided to take turns attending.  We’ve been dragging Thing1 to plays for a while now (with increasing levels of enthusiasm), and I decided we would go out to dinner before the play.  Thing2’s palate is getting more adventurous so we ended up a Thai place in Manchester, VT.

The restaurant was a little more upscale place than we usually go with either child, but Thing1 warmed to the subdued atmosphere.  Absent distractions, we began to have a different Mommy-Thing1 day.  Thing2 is still at that stage where Mommy and Daddy are at the center of his world, and our special days are basically one big mental cuddle.  But Thing1 is at the border of adolescence, and the independence that accompanies that stage of life means that our special days have changed in content and character.  Last night, as our special day consisted mainly of  very grown-up dinner conversations about technology and society and later about the play and the performance, I began to see for the first time how that change is bringing us closer.

Good Parents Never Retire

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There are a lot of things I love about my parents.  I love that they never pull out a tape recording of all the things I said I’d never do as a parent when I do exactly that.  I love that they are flush with great advice but wait until it’s asked for.  I love that, as I begin to understand their point of view on so many things, they never say, “I told you so.”   And I love, that at the ages of 70 and 72, they’ve never really retired – not from their jobs or from parenting.

My dad knew he wanted to be a doctor pretty early in college.  He’s been in medicine in one way or another for most of his life (not just his adult life – his life).  His career has changed over the years, taking him and us around the country and even the globe.  What never changed was his drive to learn.  My mom started her career as a history professor when my sister and I were a little older, and, while her job didn’t involve as much globetrotting, she had the same insatiable lust for learning as my dad.   

When they got closer to their retirement age, we expected they might slow down and transition into being full-time grandparents.  My dad, however, kept traveling for one lecture or research project, and my mom kept reading and writing and teaching.  They did have tentative plans for after retirement, but they constantly seemed to get pushed further down the road.

My dad announced his retirement first.  I wondered how long it would take this man who was constantly traveling to go stir crazy (or make my mother crazy).  But he already had plans.  He barely seemed to stop for a breath before launching himself into a different incarnation of his love of medicine and learning and service.  He may have left his job, but, even now, years later, he is still a medical man.  It was not just a job or even a career, it was and remains a passion.  

My mom continued this pattern.  Her job ended, but her work continued.  Like my father, her retirement was marked by the end of a paycheck and the beginning of projects.  She joined another history organization, investing almost as much time on research and writing as she had before retiring.  She’s been retired for several years now, but she is still every bit a historian, and, with my dad is still busy teaching me some valuable life lessons as she navigates this phase of her life.

They don’t work as many hours as they did when they were employed, but even when they’re on vacation, they will retire to their office/bedroom for a little research or writing.  Most days I like my job very much (absent a winning lottery ticket or  writing the next Harry Potter, I’ll probably be doing it till I retire).  Only unwillingly, however, do I let it intrude on my family vacations, and it wasn’t until recently that I ‘got’ why my parents invited their ‘work’ into their holidays and their retirement.

What helped me ‘get’ it was finding the Writer’s Project at Hubbard Hall led by author Jon Katz.  I always loved writing, but there had been times when life got too hectic and I let it fall by the wayside.  The Project demanded that everyone who was intent on staying with it needed to write and share regularly through our blogs.  At first, this was as an act of  discipline.  Then it became my regular indulgence in ‘me’ time.  It was not until we went on vacation with my parents, however, that I began to realize that it was giving me a brand new perspective on my parents and on work.

Determined to have a real vacation last year, I only took my iPad and left ‘work’ at home.  But from the moment we left our dirt road for the paved highways, I wrote.  Every place we stopped I wrote.  At night, I wrote after everyone else was in bed.  When the kids were busy with their Tinker Toys or at the beach, I wrote.  And, as I watched my Mom and Dad withdraw each day to their office and invite their lifeworks into their vacations, it struck me that, for the first time in my life, I had done the same thing.  

Finding the Writer’s Project was serendipity, and it would have been worth selling blood and organs to join had it been necessary.  But watching two people living their passions as I rediscover mine has enriched the experience in ways I couldn’t anticipate.  The workshop encourages us all to follow our passions.  My parents are showing me how to thrive on them for the rest of my life.

World, Meet Boy

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I’m leafing through the pages of my sketchbook looking for a blank sheet.  There are mostly hastily penned doodles for blog posts.  But here and there and there again, there are drawings made with a different scrawl.

There’s a picture of a guitar, the heavy lines suggesting an energetic hand behind the pencil. Below the guitar is scratched the name of the artist whose painting inspired the sketch.  The letters are rough and just slightly clumsy.  On the next pages are renderings of places and even faces I recognize.  And, throughout the strong, impulsively laid lead lines, I see my six-year-old son’s spirit.

His art is like him – uninhibited and full of adventure.  And, like his physical presence, his etchings are talismans of joy.  They are hope in an often hopeless world.  They are a promise of his future, and the affirmation is a priceless powerful drug.  

There is little daylight between his youth and his joy right now, but I know that rarely does that carefree exuberance survive adolescence or maturity.  While it thrives, however, I will nurture it.  The day will come when the lines will become studied and serious.  For now, I’ve pressed these souvenirs back into my sketchbook, saving his spring like a dried daisy to be rediscovered on a colder day when it’s needed most.

Standing Down

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About a month ago, our twelve-year-old  (lovingly nicknamed ‘Thing1’ on this blog) brought home an abysmal grade on his report card and promptly lost access to his computer.   After some bargaining and tears, he accepted his fate, at least, for the night.  Over the last month, however, what we thought of as a decisive tactical strike has devolved into a cold war, and I’ve had to reconsider how I define victory.

Thing1’s computer expertise long ago progressed to the point where he could evade parental controls.  Between school work and an earned half-hour of time, he has defiantly managed to squeeze in some leisure activity.  We were fast reaching a stalemate.  Much of his schoolwork requires a computer, but his prowess (combined with preteen rebelliousness) can make policing his activity a full-time occupation.  Our only defense against this has been that most medieval parental control – taking the thing away.

A couple of days ago, the battle lines began to shift.

A friend from work posted a video and link to an online programming tutorial on her Facebook page.  I followed it, played with the tutorial for a few minutes, and instantly thought of Thing1.  This I could allow.  It was fun, and it wasn’t another mindless video game.  Best of all, it was educational.

The only hitch would be piquing his interest in a website his mother was recommending (Mom-recommended activities are automatically hamstrung with an uncool factor of -12 points).  I hoped, however, he would jump at the chance for any extra time, no matter how educational it was.  Wednesday was a half-day at school, and knowing both kids would need to be occupied while I worked, I made my move.  Thing1 gave me my opening almost as soon as we got in the door.

“Mom, can I please earn more time on the computer if I do my chores and another job or two?” he moaned.

“Is all your homework done?” I asked casually.

“Yes.”  Knowing I would need to get back to work quickly, he decided to press harder, apparently hoping I would accidentally give permission in the rush of things. “I’ll walk the dog. I’ll fill the woodbin.”

“You’re supposed to do that anyway,” I reminded him.

“Isn’t there anything else I can do?”  He put on his best desperate face for this last question.

“Let me think about it,” I said as I checked to make sure six-year-old Thing2 was occupied before heading back to my office for the rest of my work day.  I sat down at my desk before calling to him through the open door.  “You know,” I said, “I might be willing to extend your time for a few minutes if you wanted to take a look at this page.  It’s all about programming.”  Thing1 came in to look at the link.  For a few minutes skepticism reigned, but his computer addiction ultimately triumphed.

“I guess I’ll try it,” he muttered almost reluctantly.

“Hey, it’s 20 extra minutes.”

“I’ll try it.”  And he went to his desk.

Following the mantra ‘Trust but Verify’, I gave him 10 minutes before quietly peeking around the corner to monitor his activity.  He was hunched over the screen, index finger over a line of code he had typed into the site’s tutorial.  I recognized that pose.  It’s the one I assume when I’m looking at a page of code, hunting for a missing semi-colon or forward slash.  I had to suppress a crow of victory, as I watched my firstborn getting sucked into this world.   I went in and put my hand on his shoulder.

“How’s it going?” I asked.  “Are you liking the site?”

“I guess,”  Thing1 responded with the perfunctory preteen indifference.  He silently stared at the code.  “I can’t figure out why this won’t run,” he said.  The indifference disappeared.  I leaned over to look at the code with him.

“I think you’re missing a bracket there,” I said, pointing to a line.  He let out an exasperated snort, corrected his mistake and ran the program.  When he leaned back in his chair he was grinning, flushed with success.  “Do you want to do another ten minutes,” I asked, or would you rather find something else to do?”

The nonchalance returned, and he said, “I guess I could do this for another ten minutes.”

“I’ll set my timer,” I said, almost waltzing as I headed back to my office.  At the ten minute mark, I hit the pause button on the timer and took another peek.  Thing1 was thoroughly engrossed in the next assignment, and I decided to let the timer stay paused.  I knew our battle lines had been redrawn, and I wasn’t sure who had gained the most ground.  I was pretty sure, though, that it didn’t really matter.

The Momcave

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About six months ago, inspired by Virginia Woolf’s missive that a room of one’s own was as important to a woman’s writing career as a pad and paper, I decided to clear out our laundry room and create a studio/office.  At the time, I was drawing and even painting as well as writing, and, after a weekend of intense re-arranging, managed to carve out a bit of space among the drying racks and guest beds that get used 3 times a year.  I think I used the room for the purpose of writing and drawing exactly 3 times.

It should have been a hum dinger of a studio/office – the sliding glass doors look out on to our yard which is surrounded by mountains and forests – but for some reason I still felt the pull of our inherited round kitchen table.  I spend most of my workday there – it’s sunny and, when warmed by the wood cookstove, cozy.  However, while the kitchen table makes for a fantastic office, letting me stir dinner while I type, it was not so great for writing or drawing.  The activity around our kitchen table inspires most of what I write, but working at it requires finding an hour when it is not in use as an office or family community center.

Then, on my quest for more time (a key creativity ingredient Virginia, being single and childless, failed to mention), I stumbled into a room I had dismissed and forgotten.  Windowless and situated at the back of our house just behind the wood stove, sits a tiny room that was originally designed to be a photography studio.  Still used occasionally by the Big Guy when he’s at the computer, it’s been mostly a receptacle for crap being moved from the living room when we have guests.  It gets cleaned exactly when we have overnight guests who might actually see it with the door open.  Fortunately, one of those cleanings coincided with my pre-New Year’s resolution to try a morning writing regimen, and I was able to find my way from the door to my old-fashioned pull-down desk.  I’ve been using it almost every morning since.

Over the weekend I decided to pull the trigger and finish making it my own.  Knowing that the Big Guy will be moving his desk to his workshop soon, I planted my flag by doing the unthinkable – I cleaned on a weekend with no company (just this room, mind you.  I haven’t gone completely nuts).   Papers were filed, cords were coiled and organized.  Pictures of the boys were tacked up, along with a poster I did for a production of ‘You Can’t Take it With You’ at Hubbard Hall, a local community theatre in Cambridge, NY.  Then, with the help of the big guy, I brought down a tacky blue arm chair for Katy, my canine companion and took a picture (it won’t be this clean again for quite some time).

I think most parents will understand the sentiment that, in a family, there are very few things that belong solely to oneself.  Your time is definitely not your own.  For your kids, your possessions are curiosities.  If you’re a mom, even your body is often not your own.  Even long after they’ve been weaned, kids seem to have an innate sense that Mom and Dad belong to them – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  

It’s almost dawn now, and I’m tapping away in the new and improved Momcave with Katy sitting behind me in her new chair.  I am keenly aware of irony that someone who’s carried a mental cave around for years has carved out a physical one.  But, while the silence and solitude and even the dark are luxurious, I am equally aware that, against the backdrop privacy and time, the people who inspire most of my life – on and off the page – are truly illuminated.

Of Mountains and Mud

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There is little snow on Minister Hill this winter, and part of me has been mourning the absence of sledding and snowshoeing.  The road down our hill is mostly mud now.  

Navigating the deep oozing ruts adds another five minutes to every little venture.  Today, though, even the sight of the nearly naked mountains rising up over the muck as I drove down the hill was enough to slow our trip to the ice rink even further.  If the road had been better, I would have worked harder to pilot and gawk at the same time, but the mud nearly forced me to a stop several times.  I snapped off a couple photos, figuring I would do a sketch while I watched the kids during school skate.  

We returned a few hours later to a road even more scarred from a wintry mix and other vehicles.  I was a few sketches richer.  Thing1, my twelve-year-old, increasingly pensive as he approaches adolescence, was cheerful after racing around a rink for two hours.  Thing2, my six-year-old whose normal state is chatter and dance, was nearly asleep from his exertions.  

The mud up our mountain, earlier the guardian of my mindfulness of the mountains, was now just another obstacle between us and home.  Thing1 began pointing out the least treacherous parts, and the car’s rumble seat imitation began to rouse my younger passenger in the back seat.  As we passed the horse farm that lies just below our driveway, the ruts in the muck became deep slick channels, and my only option was to keep accelerating and let the edges of the chasms help me find the least resistance.  

Ten feet later, as the swells in the silt became more navigable, I was glad I hadn’t had much for lunch.  I glanced at Thing1 who was now grinning and looking very twelve.  In the rear view mirror, I could see Thing2 continuing to bounce, even though the car had stopped.

“Can we go again?” he asked, knowing full well that we will be ‘going again’ tomorrow.  But tomorrow morning, when we head out on our slimy roller coaster ride, I’ll remember that, while the coasting has it’s appeal, the climb can be pretty fun too.