7 Reasons Why We Don’t Do Santa at Our House

Even back then, I knew Santa was creepy AF.

(Image is of the author, as a toddler girl. She sits
on the lap of a man dressed as Santa, with a white
beard and red holiday hat. The toddler has dark
blonde hair with a white barrette in it. She wears
blue pants with a floral-patterned top featuring
a blue bow. The child looks frightened, and
is crying.)

I’ve come across an increasing number of folks who literally can’t believe that Santa never makes an appearance at my house, and that we don’t lead our children to believe that Santa is real.

Sure... they can’t believe that, but expect their kids to believe that a jolly old elf makes a trip around the world in about twelve hours, and sneaks into children’s homes.

Here’s the thing. There are a number of reasons why Santa isn’t a “thing” at my house:

1. I DON’T LIE TO MY CHILDREN.

Let me just get that out of the way, first. I don’t lie to my children.

I need my children to trust me. I need them to believe I’ll always tell them the truth, when they come to me with questions.

Maybe telling the truth is paramount in my house because of my children’s history (most of my children come from hard places), but there it is.

They have questions about their history, and that's expected. I want them to know that they can ask me anything -- absolutely anything -- and I will tell them the truth, at an age-appropriate level.

I also want them to know and understand that the truth is the expectation in our home. I want and need them to be honest with me, too.

Lying to children for fun, or to create a sense of “magic,” or out of a need for tradition is still lying.

We create our own magic. We create our own traditions. And that magic, those traditions, come from a place of trust.



2. SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE, IS GOING TO TELL THEM.

It’s inevitable that any secret I would try to keep from my kids is going to come out, at some time.

I’d much rather have them learn the truth from me, than for them to feel like I’ve lied to them, and that they can’t trust me.

Funnily enough, we had the opposite happen, when a teacher told Curlytop that Santa was real, and that her parents were lying to her when we said he’s not.

Let me tell you, stern words were had. A lot of them.

I had to explain to the school that when adults tell children that their parents are liars, it grooms the child for abuse, because it conveys that the child can’t trust their parent.

Yes, I just mentioned abuse in a discussion about Santa. I sure did.

Because when children are told “secrets” by adults they can’t share with their parents — no matter how small, it opens the door for adults with ill intent to isolate children, and ask them to keep bigger “secrets.”



3. MY KIDS ARE SUPER LITERAL.

Taking things literally sort of comes with the territory in a house where autism rules supreme, but let me just say that the idea of someone seeing me when I’m sleeping is pretty firetrucking creepy.

A lot of the whole Santa sham is about covert surveillance and someone coming into your home without getting caught.

I mean, really.

As an adult, that scares the hell out of me, and I don't even care about getting presents.

4. I WANT MY KIDS TO EXPRESS THEIR EMOTIONS.

“You’d better not cry; you’d better not pout.”

You can’t lay out the Santa ruse without admitting that a lot of songs and stories have already been written, chronicling how the whole Santa gig works.

And this song? This one tells kids they need to stuff their emotions, because Santa is watching.

If my kids are having big feelings, I’m much more interested in learning what is causing them than having kids stuff their feelings for the sake of the creepy old guy who is spying on them.

I mean, let them worry about Google snooping, and their tablets tracking their location, and Amazon feeding them ads based upon their browsing history. Those are REAL things to be worried about.

Am I right?

5. I DON’T NEED TO LEVERAGE GIFT-RECEIVING TO ENFORCE BEHAVIOR EXPECTATIONS.

I give my children gifts because I love them. It’s not conditional upon them being “nice” instead of “naughty.”

Love isn’t conditional. I don’t only love them when they’re being “good.” I love them because they’re my children.



6. DISAPPOINTMENT SHOULD NOT BE PARALLEL TO BEING “NAUGHTY.”

When kids believe that writing a letter to Santa and being “good” will score them whatever they’ve requested, it sets them up to think they just weren’t “good” enough when it doesn’t materialize.

That year when we were losing our house? That year? No amount of “goodness” would have made an Xbox materialize on Christmas morning, and it had nothing to do with behavior. It was all about finances.



7. SANTA PLAYS FAVORITES, AND IT’S ALL ABOUT SOCIOECONOMIC PRIVILEGE.

How do we explain — if Santa brings toys to “all the good girls and boys” — that children who don’t get gifts from Santa are still good?

How do we explain that Jimmy, who got gum and an orange from Santa, is just as “good” and worthy as Joey, who got a new iPad from Santa?


So... there it is. Seven of the reasons why we don't do Santa at our house.

What do you do at your house? Are you about Santa, or nah? Why, or why not?


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To The Parent Whose Child Just Received an Autism Diagnosis

Image is a blue background with white letters which read:
"Dear Parent, It'll be okay. I promise. Here are some tips.
Love, The Gonzo Mama." Pink lips in the shape of a "kiss"
appear in the lower right corner.

Hello, readers. I've recently been giving this topic a lot of thought, as I've been going through the diagnosis process with Bravo, and thinking about how different it feels, this time around.

When Curlytop was diagnosed, it wasn't news to us, because we knew who she was, and she had been with us for over eight years. We'd been asking and asking for someone to please, see what we are seeing, and give this kid a diagnosis, so we could arm her with the empowering language and identity she would need, as she grows to adulthood. Self-identification ("I'm autistic") is such an important part of self-advocacy ("so I may need accommodation"), and we wanted to ensure she was equipped with that personal toolbox.

And now, we have Bravo. Going through the diagnosis process was different, but just as important. Autism "looks different" in girls, you know? So, it's often easier to spot in boys, and the assessments and observations go more smoothly, and it's really just "yes, it's autism," or "no, it's not." In any event, we already knew Bravo was autistic, so the diagnosis was just a formality, just like in Curlytop's case.

Even though I knew I was autistic, I wasn't diagnosed in childhood, so I had no idea what an "autistic childhood" should or would look like, when Curlytop was diagnosed. I just kind of muddled through childhood and adolescence as the weird girl who didn't understand relationships and friendships, who was always writing or had her nose in a book so she didn't have to talk to people, and had a really overwhelming obsession with numbers and counting things like the number of steps from English class to History class, the number of seconds it took to evacuate the building during fire drills, and the number of tiles in the Science room.

I didn't have an autistic childhood. I had a really difficult, painful, tumultuous adolescence, and when I learned in adulthood that it was autism, it all made sense. It was freeing, liberating, and soothing. Everything I knew about myself fell into place.

How much easier would it have been, had I been able to -- and encouraged to -- identify as autistic in my youth? A large part of me wants to believe I would have mastered self-advocacy much earlier, and I would have felt safer, more comfortable, and less like an outcast. Of course, I'll never know, but I want every autistic kid to have the opportunity to learn self-love, self-identity, and self-advocacy.

Our job, as parents, is to provide those opportunities.

When Curlytop was diagnosed, because I didn't have a model for autistic childhood, I was easily influenced by marketing, false-advocacy, and pressure from healthcare professionals. It took me a full year to gain stable footing as an independent parent and advocate for my child (and myself!), and that footing actually didn't come from parenting communities or "Autism Awareness" campaigns or healthcare providers.

It came from my growing network and community of autistic adults.

What sort of future do I hope for, for my daughter, and the children in my care? I hope for one in which they are fierce, are proud of who they are, are in possession of strong and healthy boundaries, and ask for and receive help when they need it. So, it only makes sense to start setting that future up for them by learning from people who are already living it.

If I could go back to that day of Curlytop's diagnosis, armed with the knowledge I have now, this is what I wish someone had said to me, and what I'm glad I know, this time around (some of these things I already knew, but it would have been great to receive affirmation):

1. Your child's diagnosis does not change who they are, or who you are. 

You've known your child since birth (or -- for families created through adoption, kinship care, guardianship, or foster care -- since placement). You know who your child is. You've been together for a while, and your relationship is not changed by a medical proclamation. Your child is still your child, and your job is still to make your child feel safe, secured, loved, and protected in the world, while helping them to develop into the most beautifully awesome version of themselves they were meant to be.

2. You don't have to change anything, right this minute. 

Really. It's true. Your child was autistic yesterday, and they will be autistic tomorrow, and for the rest of their lives. Taking a little time to research, ask questions, and listen to your child and your heart will not doom them to failure.

3. You DO need to decide one thing, right NOW.

Right now, before you do anything else, you need to decide what kind of parent you are going to be as your child grows to adulthood, and beyond.

Are you going to be the kind of parent who shares things like, "You might be an autism parent if..." memes, without considering if they are offensive or harmful to your child and the autistic community?

Are you going to be the kind of parent who compulsively "likes" and follows every single Facebook page or social media community that has "autism" in the name, without first learning what the page's or organization's views and positions are, and whether those positions are in opposition to the autistic community?

Are you going to be the kind of parent who shares "inspiring" videos about how a football team helped an autistic kid make his first touchdown, without first asking yourself if the video exploits the autistic individual, for the sole purpose of spotlighting the non-disabled people, just to make them feel good/seem hero-like?

Are you going to be the kind of parent who consents to and agrees to everything your child's healthcare provider suggests, without weighing the risks and benefits for your individual child?

Are you going to be the kind of parent who is supports and embraces the notion that autism "stole" your child?

OR...

Are you going to be the kind of parent who establishes healthy boundaries for your social media and real-life conversational sharing?

(Hint: Talking about your child's poop, "stimming," or other behaviors in any way that could be embarrassing or uncomfortable for your child is robbing them of their dignity, and, likely, their ability to feel they can trust you. I'm the first to admit I have been reckless in this regard, in the past, but I've found clarity and sense over time. This post is insightful, though it uses PFL (see point number 4, below), and has some excellent points for consideration.)

Are you going to be the kind of parent who thoughtfully considers the values of a community, social media group, or fan page, and the impact of those values on autistics, before joining or following?

Are you going to be the kind of parent who researches thoroughly every single so-called "advocacy" organization before supporting it, amplifying its messages, or using its symbols and slogans to show your advocacy for your child?

(For example, I always tell parents to stay far, far away from "the puzzle piece," "Autism Awareness," and other high-dollar advertising which have become synonymous with autism in general, but do very little to actually advocate for autistics, and, in fact, may harm autistics through words or policy.) 

Are you going to be the parent who doesn't rush to enroll their child in recommended therapies without researching the methods used, and the possible future implications, first? (See my post on Applied Behavioral Analysis (ABA) therapy, here.)

Are you going to be the parent who embraces everything that your child is, and helps them to become confident in their identity?

4. Learn how to talk about autism, and work through your own misconceptions. Get comfortable with the language, and get uncomfortable when people use language that doesn't respect your child.

This link has some really, really good information about five common language mistakes people make when talking about autistic children. It requires a download of a PDF, but I strongly suggest you not only download it, but also print it out for future use. Make copies to give to educators and service providers. The document is crafted by autistic voices, and when we talk about autism, those voices are the strongest -- and only -- authority on the subject.

Much debate has been seen among my blog comments and social media comments about person-first language (PFL) versus identity-first language (IFL) when talking to and about autistics.

Back when I was getting familiar with and comfortable with not only Curlytop's, but also my own, autism, I fell victim to the "PFL is always respectful, polite, and correct" dogma. However, after talking to actual autistics, I learned why a great majority of (but not all) autistics prefer IFL.

5. Decide, right now -- RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE -- whether you are going to be an "autism parent," OR "the parent of an autistic child."

It may seem like I'm trying to exaggerate what could be interpreted as a small issue of semantics, but the difference is huge.

If you identify as an "autism parent," the emphasis -- the priority -- is on you, and your identity.

When you're "the parent of autistic child," the emphasis -- and thus, the priority -- is on your child, and your child's identity.

It's staggering how such a small difference in wording can create such a huge difference in advocacy positions, attitudes, and effectiveness.

6. Your child needs to see you advocate for them.

Your child needs to see you fighting for them... so they learn they are worth fighting for. 

Your child needs to see you educating others about autism, autistic rights, acceptance, and inclusion... so they can learn to teach others the same.

Your child needs to see you changing the world for them... so they can change it for others.

PARENTS WHO HAVE AUTISTIC CHILDREN: What do YOU wish you had known, or done, when your child was diagnosed?

PARENTS WHOSE CHILD WAS RECENTLY DIAGNOSED: What questions, as the parent of a newly-diagnosed child, do you have?


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The First Day of School... Kind Of

We all got up this morning, with big plans.

Mine was to get the kids off to school, send Pumpkin off with Mr. Wright to take pictures of some house a million miles away, enjoy an adult beverage or six, and take a bubble bath. Maybe crawl back into bed. Whatever it ended up being, it was going to be gloriously kid-free. (See photo.)

Yessssssssss...

So, I got the girls on the bus, and off to middle school:

And got the boys ready:

But I decided to take the boys to school, myself, rather than putting them on the bus, because Bravo had not yet been assigned to a teacher. 

Here we are, on the first day of school, and the kid DOESN'T HAVE A TEACHER, YET.

Let me back up a little...

Our district has a pre-K program available for kids who qualify for it. Basically, if their assessments show they're deficient by a certain percentage in one area, or a cumulative percentage over all areas, they're "in." Well, Bravo came to us with an IEP, so he was "in." He finished out the year with the pre-K program, and at the end of school, his teachers told him how much they would miss him, and how excited they were that he was now going to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER! Woot!

They may have also said something like I needed to fill out a packet for Kindergarten, if he was going to be in district when school started, but, you know, we're doing kinship care, and the plan is for him to go home, so back in June, I had no idea if he was going to be around when fall came, so I sort of filed the information in my "Think About It Later" file.

And there it stayed. Right up until Monday, when I was reminded that he still wasn't registered for school. Aw, firetruck...

So, on Monday, I packed the baby into the stroller, walked a couple blocks to the district office, and filled out the paperwork for him to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER, and turned it in (not without some struggle, because I don't have access to a lot of necessary documents, like his birth certificate, and so on). But, I got it done. 

Then, I was reminded that if I wanted him to attend the same school as his brother, I would need to "choice" him, and that was a completely different set of forms.

Let me back up a little further...

A few years ago, the boundary lines for our schools changed. Our house is in this weird little pocket that got changed from the school Curlytop and Snugglebug had been attending, to this other school. At that time, we sat down with the team, and determined it would be best for the girls to stay in the school they were already in, since their supports were already set up, we had a great working relationship with the team, and it was a familiar environment for them. So, we just had to "choice" them to the school they were already attending. And it was no big deal. 

So, when we got the boys, we "choiced" Alpha into the school Snugglebug was, and had been attending for years, because... one bus, convenience, and all that. (Curlytop had moved on to middle school by that time. Interestingly, she moved on to a middle school out of our boundary, because of the elementary school she had been "choiced" into. Snugglebug joined her, there, this year.)

Anyway, I filled out the choice forms, and was told we should have an approval by Tuesday, unless for some weird reason the superintendent decided to deny it. Good thing, since school starts on Wednesday, right?

Yesterday, I got the call that it had been approved, which was awesome. I asked who his teacher would be, and the district rep didn't know, but said the school should have that information for me. 

I was tied up yesterday for quite a while, and didn't get a chance to call the school until after everyone had already left the office, so I was a little anxious, knowing school would be starting today, and poor Bravo still didn't know who his teacher was.

So, this morning, I just drove the boys to school, and trotted into the office with Bravo. "Who's his teacher?" I asked.

"We don't have him assigned to a teacher, but we should have that information for you by tomorrow."

BY TOMORROW? I mean, this kid was sitting there, in the office, with his backpack on, and his shoes that weren't scuffed, yet, and his sweet little clean face, and all the other kids were heading off to their classrooms, and we would know tomorrow who his teacher was?

"So, what do I do? Do I just... take him home for today?"

I got a blank stare from the secretary. After a moment, she recovered, and said, "Kindergarten starts next week. You know that, right?"

Ohhhhhhh...

Anyway, here's what my plans have been changed to, today:

I think he's a little disappointed. I am, too.

I swear, Southern Comfort, we will see each other again, soon.

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Seeing Red

Photo credit

A few weeks ago at the dental office, Curlytop looked up from her book and said, “Mom, tomorrow is my last day of first grade… Do second graders get to eat Red Dye?”

“Not you, Sweetie – you’re allergic, and so is Snugglebug.”

The color drained from the dental assistant’s face. She’d just finished cleaning Snugglebug’s teeth, a small tub of RED cleansing paste still in hand. “You didn’t use that on my daughter, did you?” I asked, stupidly. Of course, she had.

At that moment, our dentist popped his head in. “How’s it going, here?” he asked.

“To tell you the truth, Doc, I’m a bit alarmed and concerned, since Snugglebug was just treated with red paste.”

He blinked. “But, she’s allergic to Red Dye.”

“Yeah. I know.” I’ve come to believe some medical professionals have hair-trigger backpedalling devices installed during their schooling which activate in response to potential liability, and our dentist didn’t disappoint.

“Well, I know you SAY she’s allergic to Red Dye, but – you know – is it REALLY an allergy? I mean, is it a documented allergy?”

“Well, it’s well-documented with our pediatrician, school nutritionist, neurologist, developmental specialist, five different therapists, and YOUR OWN RECORDS, as evidenced by the all-caps words on that screen.” I pointed to the screen next to him. “Do you need more documentation? I’m sure I can dig it up.”

I could tell our doc was getting a little nervous. “What sort of allergy is it? Do they break out in hives, or what?”

“It’s pretty much straight neurotoxicity. Curlytop has seizures.” I paused, letting that sink in a bit. “Oh, and they do this self-injurious behavior thing where they tear and bite their skin open. It’s a fairly awesome spectacle.”

“Uh-huh… Well, that sounds pretty serious, so, uh… well… erm…”

I took the time to text Mr. Wright: I think you’d better head to the dental office. I’m about to lose my sh*t with our dentist.

Then, I returned my attention to the stammering dentist. “I want a printout of the ingredients in that paste. Like, now.”

The dentist hustled off to find the data, and I was left with the wilting hygenist. “I actually don’t think it has Red Dye in it,” she said, hopefully.

“Really? What do you think makes it bright red?” As it turned out, there were two Red Dye ingredients, according to the emergency hotline for the manufacturer.

Most of the hubbub had died down by the time Mr. Wright arrived, and I informed him we had a rough night ahead of us, following Snugglebug’s exposure.

“I didn’t know whether to contact our attorney, or not,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sure we can document this and ensure it doesn’t happen again on our own,” I assured him.

“I meant for YOU. Where’s the bloodbath? I was looking forward to seeing you in action. I even have popcorn out in the car!”

Is it any wonder I love him so?

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Normalizing Adoption

Snugglebug and Mama
Photo by Mad Rooster Photography.

Snugglebug is now six years old, and tends to favor the dramatic. Mr. Wright says we've solved the Nature vs. Nurture question, right there -- despite being adopted, she's completely "inherited" my sense of melodrama.

Blame it on the coveted Cabbage Patch Kids dolls of my childhood, but I've always thought of adoption as completely normal and, in fact, a matter of course. Even as a pre-maternal teenager, my plan was always to "have two, and adopt at least one."

Regular readers will know my plan didn't work out exactly as intended, but the general principle was met when I had one, inherited four, and adopted two. So far.

Mr. Wright and I have always tried to impress upon Curlytop and Snugglebug that they're special, because they were adopted. They were "chosen," and are cherished because they were a gift, and part of God's plan for our family. We read books about adoption, celebrate National Adoption Day, make cakes for their adoption anniversary, and talk, talk, talk about how they came to be ours.

So when Snugglebug, in tears, woke me a few nights ago, the last thing I expected her to be upset about was the concept of adoption. Perhaps she'd had a bad dream, or she had a tummy ache, or maybe she was stressed out over the national budget... I think I mentioned her love of the dramatic, so her tears were no surprise. Whatever it was, my motherly instinct kicked in, prepared to fix the world so she (and I) could go back to sleep.

"What's the matter, Honey?" I asked, while making room under the covers for her.

"Baby Kade," she sniffled, climbing into bed next to me.

"Kade" is the seven-month old son of my cousin, Mistie Dawn, whose name I have always been jealous of because it's so much cooler than mine.

"What about him?"

"Why hasn't he been adopted yet? I'm so sad his family hasn't found him, yet," she said. "They must be looking for him. I'm going to miss him when he gets adopted!"

Oh, dear... How must the world appear to a six-year old, who lives with two parents but has two other parents? Add to that mind-bender six brothers and sisters who grew up under one roof, but all had other parents, as well, and kids who only have two parents begin to appear an anomaly.

It was midnight, for crying out loud, but I wanted to put the issue to bed (so to speak).

"You know, Sweetie, when a baby is born, sometimes the mommy and daddy don't have a place for the baby to live. Or enough food, or money for diapers and other things a baby needs. And sometimes, because they love their baby very much, the mommy and daddy will find another mommy and daddy to adopt the baby, so the baby can have a crib, and food, and toys, and lots and lots of extra love," I explained. "But other times, mommies and daddies have everything that baby needs, and they don't need help, so they can just love the baby a lot, by themselves. Cousin Mistie and Kade's daddy have everything he needs, so he's going to stay with them. Does that make sense?"

"Oh," Snugglebug said, cuddling closer to me under the covers. "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you and Daddy adopted me."

You know, sometimes I look back on those three and a half years between placement and finalization of the girls' adoptions, and remember what a nightmare it was -- the paperwork (ad naseum), the fear that our state or their tribe would change their minds and pull "their" children from our home, the absolutely driving frustration that forced me to be an advocate, the sleepless nights, the endless questioning... "Are we doing the right thing?"... and know, with all my heart, I'd do it all again.

This is our "normal." Welcome to it.



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Oh, Boy - Obento! Bow Tie Bear Bento

I'm cross-posting this from Sexy Vegan Mama, because it's simple enough that anyone can do it, and cute enough to share!

Happy Vegan MoFo!

Let's make one thing clear... I'm NOT one of those crafty moms who scrapbooks, decorates my house for every season, turns vintage suitcases into shabby chic conversation pieces, or makes masterpieces of boxed lunches.

I'm just not.

What I AM is a mama who's always looking for fun, easy ways to get food into my kids' bodies, while acknowledging our entire family's hodgepodge of food restrictions:

I'm vegan, Pepper has digestive issues (we're still working on identifying those -- she's heading toward a referral to a GI specialist), Curlytop and Snugglebug are allergic to Red Dye 40, and poor little Snugglebug can't have fruit if it's juiced or dried due to the change in sugar concentration.

(Oh, by the way, please go VOTE for this blog in the Circle of Moms Top 25 Food Allergy Mom blog contest! Sexy Vegan Mama was a late nomination, and there are only a few days left of the contest, so I have a lot of catching up to do! You can vote once every 24 hours. Thank you!)

I also don't have a ton of time on my hands, so when I see those crafty moms cranking out cute-as-a-button bentos, I'm absolutely floored that anyone, anyone would spend so much time creating a meal that's going to roll around in a backpack for a few hours before its precious owner gets around to eating it.

Still, there's something to be said for a cute lunch when you're a pigtailed princess in kindergarten or the first grade... So I made a quickie little bento that's so simple, even a caveman mom of seven can do it.

About the bento boxes -- I picked them up in a Tokyo hotel gift shop, and I'm sure I paid too many Yen for them, but they're adorable, and they've held up well over the past couple years, with just a bit of scratching to the adornment on the top lid. I haven't found the exact same ones online yet, but these are similar in design, except they include a spoon, rather than chopsticks. Plus, they're less than ten bucks. Woohoo!

(Read about my adventures in Japan here.)

They have a shallow tray on the bottom with a lid that fits snugly inside the edges, then a deeper tray on top, with removable partitions and a snug-fitting lid. On top of all of it is a clear, shallow, hard plastic top which creates a storage area for small plastic chopsticks (included in the set) or other tiny utensils. (I'm fond of keeping and reusing for lunches the diminutive plastic forks which come in Simply Asia's Sesame Teriyaki noodle bowls (they're vegan!), which I pack when I'm traveling to places where I'll be cooped up in a hotel room or where vegan options are hopeful, at best.)

Anyway, to make this bento, I:

• Cut vegan whole wheat bread slices with a bear-shaped cookie cutter (that link goes to the exact one I use)
• Made a sandwich with PB & J (no "J" for Snugglebug, as she can't digest the sugar, and if your kid's school has a "no nuts" policy, you can use tahini, or make whatever sort of sandwich your progeny will eat)
• Used a wooden skewer to pierce the bread where the eyes, nose and bow tie would be to help the "decorations" stay put better
• Placed a dried currant in each of the holes for the eyes and nose (I had to take Snugglebug's currants out before sending her off to school... She said, "Mom! Are you trying to make me sick? You know I can't have RAISINS!" I tried to argue, "They're currants, Honey, and they're just for the pictures," but... Cue dramatic meltdown.)
• Placed two dairy-free chocolate chips, point-to-point, at the bear's neckline for his bow tie
• Tucked cut broccoli florets around the bear
• Used an inexpensive cupcake paper to line the small compartment, then filled it with slivered almonds and dairy-free chocolate chips (I know they make fancy, colorful bento liners, but I'm cheap, and I always fail to plan ahead. Cupcake papers work fine.)
• Filled the bottom tray with baby carrots, garbanzo beans and fresh peas

That's it! Is that the simplest bento ever, or what?!

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Making Time to “Make Some Time”

"Soup" is good for the soul.

Since collecting seven kids, I’ve learned that there just isn’t time for all the things we parents learn to expect and appreciate in our Before Children (B.C.) days. Twenty minutes alone in the shower, for example. If I have time to wash, rinse, and repeat, I know I’m either dreaming, or the kids are scheming to set fire to the house.

Nothing, perhaps, is so missed as the B.C. convenience of having Grown-Up Time at any time of the day, in any room of the house. We have so many little ears around, we don’t even call it Grown-Up Time anymore—we use code, and call it “making soup.”

B.C., steamy soup was abundant, but these days, it seems the soup kitchen’s experiencing budget cutbacks, with the all-important asset of time excruciatingly difficult to come by—especially since all the kids are too old to take naps, now.

Speaking of naps, I fall for it every time... Mr. Wright says, “Hey, the kids are watching a movie downstairs. Wanna take a ‘nap’ with me?” A nap? In the middle of the day? You can bet your bumpus I get excited about the idea of having a little siesta. The problem is, I always assume Mr. Wright is actually hinting at sleep—a breakdown in interpretation which always causes disappointment. For him, I mean. I’m usually sleeping and unavailable for disappointment.

If he really wanted to be clear, he’d say, “Do we have time to whip up a batch of soup?”

Gone are the crock pot days of slowly simmering batches of soup. Now, it’s microwaved, or everyone goes hungry—if we even stay awake long enough to push “start.” At bedtime, there’s always a kid who has to have just one more story read to her, and another who has to have one more drink of water. There’s always one more back that needs scratching or a kid who needs a parent to cuddle—just in case the closet monster decides to make an appearance.

Mr. Wright offers to do the bedtime routine, because (and I won’t lie, it’s true) I’m too much of a pushover, and I play into the kids’ hands for hours on end, reading The Little Fish That Got Away seventeen times. “Start without me!” he calls down the hall, determined to efficiently and quickly cut through the preliminaries of the nighttime games.

Soup really is best when made for two, and even enjoying an appetizer alone is, well, lonely. So I wait for my super souper to join me as the sounds of “one more story” drift down the hallway for thirty-some minutes, and then... Silence. Success! Any minute, now...

Seriously, any minute... What’s taking so long?

I tiptoe down the hall to the girls’ bedroom, quietly push the door open, and peer in. Curlytop and Snugglebug are wide awake. “Shhhhh,” they whisper. “You’ll wake up Daddy.” Sure enough, Mr. Wright is fast asleep at the foot of the bed.

“Oh, well,” I sigh. “Maybe we’ll be able to reheat some leftovers tomorrow night.”

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Pompous Circumstance

The (vegan) cake I created for Pockets

Pockets is the third kid we’ve managed to nudge through high school, clear through to graduation. Princess’s commencement came right on time and I worried The Dude’s would never come. With Pockets, “Pomp and Circumstance” launched a sneak attack—I hardly saw it coming.

He’s been earning college credits toward his degree at an age when I was agonizing over whether I should spiral perm my hair or not (I did, and it was a mistake), and he’s taking the lead in discussions around the dinner table, inspired by his Philosophy and Psychology classes.

I must point out he’s caught on to those subjects much more quickly than some. Finally, blessedly, he’s begun loading the dishwasher without my asking—and it only took 17 years!

Wasn’t it just yesterday he was the funny kid who wouldn’t eat anything but grilled cheese sandwiches? In the blink of an eye, he’s become the funny man who’s preparing his own gourmet meals and cruising over the mountains to spend weekends with friends in Seattle.

Pockets was a cautious child, frequently hanging back from new activities in spite of my coaxing. I feel like I spent the last 17 years pushing him into the world, urging him to explore, expand, and eventually explode the so-called “boundaries.” So why, now, do I just want to hold on with both hands and pull him back to me?

This... This is the dichotomy of parenthood. We mothers and fathers nurture and grow our fledgling children, preparing them to take flight, but when it’s time to push them out of the nest, it’s nearly impossible to watch those first furious wing beats without feeling as if a part of us is taking flight, as well.

I hope Pockets takes the best part of me with him, because he helped to create that soft, warm little corner of my heart that can’t decide whether to burst with pride or break with emotion today.

Of course, he also helped to create that hard, edgy mothers-only tone of voice I’ve worked so hard to perfect. He’ll have to leave that behind, because we have four more kids to graduate.

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Can't Argue with Pre-K Logic

I don’t know what I’d do without Curlytop and Snugglebug. They always have an explanation for things which might otherwise confound the world.

When reminded they can’t play outside alone, my faith-filled girls assure me, “It’s okay, Mama. God is with me.” Um, no. I follow too many missing children cases to let my little ones wander beyond the front door without the watchful eye of a Trusted Big Person.

Interestingly, inside the house, those same girls won’t even go to the bathroom alone, never mind pick up their room without an adult hovering over them. The tune quickly changes to, “I need you to come with me! God isn’t with me—I can’t feel him!” Now, I’m not a theologian, but I suspect my wee philosophers are simply seeking my attention.

My insistence that certain activities are for grown-ups only has finally sunk in, ensuring Curlytop and Snugglebug understand there are just some things that can’t be tackled until they’re older. Driving, for example. In fact, the girls are so accepting of the concept they’ve decided to selectively apply it to other activities, as well. The other day, I tried to coax Curlytop into trying a new dish. “I’ll do it later, Mama,” she said. “Like, when I’m a grown-up.”

Our mild and sweetly aging family dog, Perseus, went missing the other day. For the record, he’s never lived up to the image of his adventuring, battling namesake. He’s what we call a “watch dog.” In the event of a burglary, Perseus would assuredly “watch” the perp haul off the stereo, the television, the computer…

Anyway, we searched and searched for our loyal canine, calling and whistling for him outside, walking through the house to scout where he may be hiding. A minute short of calling Animal Control, fearing he’d wandered off, I walked into Curlytop and Snugglebug’s bedroom. They both looked completely angelic and nonchalant, watching a video. Too angelic, in fact. “Girls, have you seen Perseus?” I asked. They glanced at one another before answering, in unison, “No, Mama.”

I turned to leave, and heard a muffled scratching sound. “What’s that noise?” I asked. Curlytop and Snugglebug both shrugged their shoulders, turning their attention back to the movie. As the scratching grew more urgent, I followed the sound to the closet. I turned the knob, pulled the door open, and struggled to keep my footing as Perseus burst out, nearly knocking me over.

“How did Perseus get in the closet?” I demanded.

Curlytop shrugged her shoulders again, but Snugglebug cleared up any speculation with a wide-eyed explanation of astonishment. “It must be magic! Perseus is a magician! Isn’t that cool, Mama?”

Cool, indeed. I must be the only pet owner in the world with a magical dog who not only disappears himself, but also traps himself in closets.

Speaking of pets, Mr. Wright recently “fished” a piece of chewing gum out of our aquarium. The reason the gum ended up at the bottom of the tank? “Fish love to blow bubbles.”

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I'm Alive... You?

It's waaaaay past time for an update, and for that, I apologize. Didn't mean to leave you all hanging. As far as you know, I'm still in Miami, right? (More on that next week.)

I took a hiatus from blogging and my column in order to address some family issues, which are settling - I hope. Anyway... Here's what's happened since we last chatted:

1. Mr. Wright and I returned safely from our hard-earned vacation to Miami, Key West and the Bahamas. Well, pretty much "safely." Watch for my column next week.

Key West... "Hemingway Pissed Here"

2. I went to Las Vegas for the Pure Romance National Convention, joining a bazillion of the coolest ladies in the biz (and by "biz," I mean the sexual heath consultant biz). I flew on more than one airplane by myself, and lived to tell about it. In the meantime, I'm romancing between writing and the general hubbub that comes with the Gonzo clan. You can see my product line - from mild to wild - here.

3. The vegan dessert cookbook I'm co-authoring with international best-selling author William Maltese is coming together, after many stops and starts and a general feeling of sheer horror that I wouldn't be able to produce enough content for the book. Turns out I worried for nothing, and now that I'm getting all the parts and pieces stitched together, I feel like a sillyhead. All that worrying for nothing! If worrying was an Olympic sport, I'd have a collection of gold medals to rival Michael Phelps. Let the record show no one has ONCE suspected me of using performance-enhancing drugs - either a testament to my purity, or ineptness.

4. We're adding some additional service for Curlytop, as her IEP only provides for limited therapy during school hours. She's had assessments at the same center Snugglebug attends for speech therapy, and the administrator noticed the same thing I do about Curlytop's learning style - she's a tactile learner. If you can get her to DO something while learning, she'll soak up the information. I'm currently trying to figure out how to engage the school district and her educators to take advantage of this. Any ideas?

5. I recently signed a contract with Momicillin.com to become one of their regular contributors. That means you'll have one more place to get original content from me, me, ME! I'll be contributing featured posts, short bits, and stuff I love, so bookmark or subscribe to the site, and watch for the magic! And look at the cute author caricature their artist made of me:

Image by Momicillin.com

6. Pockets got his driver's license. You've been warned.

What have YOU been up to?

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Miami Vice-less

I'll admit, it was a bit unsettling getting to the airport with enough time to walk to the gate, instead of sprint. I was equally surprised when our checked luggage actually made it to the same airport we did. Those things just don't happen to the Gonzos. We're always rushing this way and that, making frantic phone calls after lost luggage, having difficulty with botched reservations at the hotel and so on, but none of those familiar, soothing scenarios presented themselves. I felt a tiny bit better when our seatmate on the plane filled us in on the latest news about cruise ships - namely, the recent capsizing of the ship in Italy and the widespread outbreaks of Norovirus among ships departing from Florida.

When you live like The Gonzo Mama, crisis and chaos are more comfortable than safe and laid back.

"Maybe, just maybe," I thought, "this trip will be a real break for Mr. Wright and me... No kids, sunshine in February, walking hand-in-hand along the beaches of Miami, and finishing with a cruise through Key West and the Bahamas."

We checked into the hotel with no glitches and headed to the welcome reception, where Mr. Wright effectively ate dinner while I sipped a mango mojito, in the absence of any vegan-friendly fare. We had big plans to take on the Miami nightlife, but I fell dead asleep as soon as we got to the room.

Mr. Wright says that's what happens when a girl drinks her dinner, but I'm blaming jet lag.

The next morning, it started raining. The winds picked up, giving a certain monsoon-like feel to our walk along South Beach, and adding a bit of flair to our outdoor dining experience. I ate a salad, by the way, and passed up the opportunity to enjoy a 36-ounce tropical drink served in a fish bowl in favor of a soy latte.

We headed back to the hotel, soaking wet but prepared to enjoy some private, grown-up time. We drew the curtains to prevent any guests at the neighboring hotel from benefiting from a room with dual views, set the deadbolt on the door, and looked into one another's eyes for the first time in a few years. Just as we barely reached our target aerobic heart rate, one of the kids called, which simply confirmed my suspicion that they intuitively know when it's most inconvenient to interrupt their parents, and they use that skill with deadly accuracy every single time the opportunity is presented.

I'm not asking for a hurricane or anything, but a little adventure would be nice. Where are Crockett and Tubbs?

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I Mean This in the Nicest Way Possible

The pen is said to be mightier than the sword,
but that doesn't mean I'm not tempted to test the theory.
Photo source

The deadline for Sweet and Simple Vegan Desserts, the vegan dessert cookbook I’m co-authoring with international best-selling author William Maltese is growing nearer. I’m actually not even sure when the deadline is, because I’m afraid to review my publishing contract. For some reason, though, “August” is written in bright red letters across my brain.

Mr. Editor once advised me, “No one cares that you’re writing.” At first, I thought he meant no one cared what I’d written. As my hate mail file clearly demonstrates, that is not the case. What he meant is no one—including, and perhaps especially so, my husband and kids—sees me banging away on my keyboard, with beads of perspiration running down my face, and thinks, “Wow! She’s really busy. Maybe I shouldn’t interrupt her.”

Um, no.

As far as I can tell, the sight of me typing on my netbook triggers an irrational, desperate, and immediate need for my young children to start an un-caged cage match, and for Mr. Wright to be mysteriously unavailable to send the fighters to their respective corners. Strangely, my tappity-tap-tap is also the signal for Mr. Wright to start unloading every small bit of trivial news from his brain.

“Did you read what Johnny Whosit posted on Facebook this morning?”

“No, Honey. I didn’t,” I sigh. “I’m sort of working, here.”

“Oh, well, he was just commenting on how the House Republicans need to blah, blah, blah-ity blah…”

“Mmmmhmmm…” Tappity-tap-tap.

“…and so I said, blah, blah, blah-ity, blah-ing blahblahblah. Pretty good comeback, huh?”

“Mmhmm.” TAPPITY-TAP-TAP. “Hey, could you pull Snugglebug off Curlytop? I think she’s starting to draw blood.”

Mr. Editor is right. No one cares that I’m writing. My amazing, generous, talented, handsome and patient co-author, on the other hand, certainly cares that I’m NOT writing. Sweet William doesn’t have seven children, or a very-cute-but-slightly-oblivious husband, so he doesn’t fully understand that when I said, “I’ll write a cookbook with you,” I actually meant, “I’ll attempt to bang out 140 pages while working in the domestic equivalent of a demilitarized zone, with chaos erupting on every side of me.”


Frankly (and I mean this in the nicest way possible), I want my family to shut their ever-loving mouths, get out of my personal space, and for crying out loud in the dark— let me write.

No, Mommy won’t open the pool for you, because her battery is low, and her extension cord won’t reach that far.

No, Mr. Wright, I wasn’t planning on making dinner, and yes, I was actually expecting you to feed yourself and the kids.

I’ll just have coffee, thanks.

I’m sorry you’re having trouble figuring out how to update your social media sites, Dear, but you’re just going to have to figure it out, like the rest of the world. I’m not your personal social media guru. Believe it or not, I’m an author—or, at least, trying to be one. Last time I checked, authors actually write books.

Yes, Mommy would love to play “princess” with you, as long as she gets to be the poor princess trapped in a tower by the evil queen. The game is even better if the evil queen forces her to make words with a mystical electronic device. Throw in a curse that doesn’t allow anyone to talk to the princess, tug on her arm, or try to climb in her lap, and we have mutual acceptance on the deal.

I considered running away to a cabin in the woods, Thoreau-style, but realized it’s difficult to write a cookbook without a proper kitchen, and considerably more so without power.

A hotel room with a full kitchen is outside my budget, what with the cost of vegan powdered sugar and all. I have a friend in Sandpoint, Idaho who offered to let me stay with her to finish the book, but she’s allergic to gluten, and I’d hospitalize her with my beignets and brownies—not exactly what I had in mind when I set out to co-author a book of “killer” vegan desserts.

What’s a writer mama to do, besides tappity-tap-tap—“Stop choking your sister!”—tap?

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Really, I’m Trying to Listen!

Image source

Most moments, I have—on average—between eight and eighty people talking at me. I try to listen. Really, I do. Sometimes, though, it’s difficult. That’s why Mr. Wright and I have conversations like this:

Mr. Wright: Do you want to watch Almost Famous with me?
Gonzo: I’m really tired, and I might fall asleep during the movie. I haven’t seen that one yet, so I want to be awake for it.
Mr. Wright: Okay, how about Notting Hill? You’ve seen that.
Gonzo: Well, I don’t know... What do you want to watch?
Mr. Wright: Almost Famous.
Gonzo: Maybe something else? I haven’t seen that yet...

Curlytop and Snugglebug become understandably annoyed when I don’t listen to or respond to their every word. Here’s a question for you, though: Have you ever intently listened to a four- or five-year old talk? It starts with “Mommy, I’m hungry,” segues into “...and then you can ride on my purple dragon...” and continues with “Mommy, she’s not sharing!” That’s before the child even pauses to take a breath.

Try. Just try to focus all your energy on that conversation which, by the way, originates from the back seat of the car during rush hour, with a county sheriff in the rear view mirror. Try to mediate the not-sharing issue without physically turning around to grab the unshared object away from the dueling darlings. Try to ask all the right questions about the pink dragon— Oops. It’s purple. You’ve already lost the respect of your children, who now know you never listen to a word they say.

I’ve dropped into a dead panic when children didn’t come home, knowing—just knowing—they’ve been snatched by “the bad people” or involved in an accident. When I finally track the kids down, they are safely and comfortably enjoying the event I was told about the week before, and wasn’t I listening when they told me they wouldn’t be home?

Does motherhood affect one’s hearing? How about marriage? Mr. Wright claims I haven’t heard one word he’s uttered since “I do.”

The more I hear, the harder it is to listen. The world is staging an auditory attack on my brain, and I’m absorbing less and less of it. I can hear a can of forbidden soda pop hiss open behind a closed door in another wing of the house, hear tiny footsteps coming down the hall in the middle of the night, pick up on a subtle vocal inflection when a kid is trying to pull a fast one, but I can’t process the words my child is saying two feet in front of me.

While attempting to navigate a recipe to make dinner, I’ll have one kid asking if they may go to a friend’s house; one kid telling me the latest drama among her circle of friends; one kid asking where the power drill is; one kid tugging in my shirt, asking for a drink of water; one kid foisting a party dress on me, asking for help putting it on; and Mr. Wright telling me his schedule for the rest of the week.

Is it any wonder I squeeze the dress onto the wrong child, give the power drill to the kid with the drama, tell the teen girl she can’t go anywhere until she gets a drink of water for the wrong little sister, hand the recipe book to Mr. Wright, and retire to the hot tub with a snifter of Southern Comfort?

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You Know You're a Great Role Model When...

I've been trying to get across to the members of my family that Curlytop and Snugglebug are like over-sized camcorders these days. Anything we say or do is likely to be played back for us by one of our little cinematographers - most likely at the most humiliating or improper moment.

So far, this has included choice phrases uttered by adults and teens in the household (not terribly appropriate for either set, and definitely inappropriate coming out of the mouth of a kindergarten student). Sometimes, it includes an interesting pose or gesture.

Sometimes, it includes both.

Yesterday, Snugglebug walked up behind Curlytop, grabbed her sister's posterior and declared, "Ooooh... that's NICE!"

Pepper and I stared at Snuggle in disbelief, then looked at each other. "Did she just do what I think she did?" Pepper asked. I nodded. "Where did she learn THAT?" Pepper wondered aloud as I explained to Snugglebug we don't do that and it's not okay and her sister's bottom is her sister's bottom, and we don't touch it.

I knew the answer, of course, but Pepper confirmed it when her father came home, entered the kitchen, kissed my cheek and copped a squeeze. "Ooooh... that's NICE!" he announced to everyone within earshot and a decent line of vision.

Then, he scooped up the four-year old attached to my leg.

Where did she learn that, indeed?

Soup, Interrupted

The code word... Do I have to spell it out for you?
Photo source

When Mr. Wright and I were cultivating our first crop of kids, we crafted a code word for Grown-Up Time: soup. As in, “If we can get all the laundry done, the dishes washed, the kids to all their appointments, dinner made, and I can get a shower today, there’s a microscopically slim chance I’ll feel up to having soup for dessert after the wee ones go to bed.”

Last night was one of those rare nights when the stars aligned, and Mr. Wright and I set about preparing the ingredients for a steamy batch of soup.

Just as things were about to come to a rolling boil, we heard the distinct sound of a pair of children’s’ size almost-nine feet stumbling up the stairs to our loft bedroom. “Go on without me!” Mr. Wright cried, but there simply wasn’t time.

Snugglebug crested the top of the stairs, crossed the room, climbed onto the bed and wedged herself between us. Sometimes she arrives half-asleep and conks back out quickly, and Mr. Wright can carry her back downstairs to her own bed.

Last night was not one of those times.

She was wide-awake, and talking up a storm. “Mommy, that’s GirlWonder’s phone. She really, really wants it.” (We’d just implemented a new plan to get the kids to sleep better – collecting their phones at bedtime so they aren’t up all night, texting. Genius, right?) “Daddy, it’s dark in here. We need to turn on the light!” It was well after midnight, and she was running a verbal marathon.

“We need to watch a movie!” Snugglebug announced.

Mr. Wright scooped her into his arms, suggesting a movie would, indeed, be delightful – downstairs, in her own bedroom. Snugglebug resisted, throwing her head into his shoulder in protest, resulting in blood gushing from her tiny nose.

Now, before you call in a report to Children’s Services – and if you’ve known my family for any length of time, I’m sure you have them on speed-dial – I must disclose that Snugglebug gets a bloody nose every time she sticks a finger in her nose, sneezes, or simply looks at herself too long in the mirror.

As Mr. Wright rushed into the bathroom – Snugglebug still in his arms – for the haz-mat material (a.k.a. toilet paper), I fetched the vessel-constricting nasal spray and handed it over to Mr. Wright. This is a modus operandi which takes place a few times a week and changes only in which parent holds the toilet paper to her nose and which retrieves the spray.

There are times, as an adoptive mother, I marvel at how much like me my kids actually are, thus settling firmly in my mind certain portions of the nature-versus-nurture mystery. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Snugglebug is my child by the phrases she uttered during our late-night nosebleed adventure:

“I can NOT do this anymore!”

“Daddy, it makes me sad when you do the nose spray. It hurts my feelings!”

“NEVER AGAIN. Do you understand? I never want this to happen again.”

She cried. She whimpered. Finally, blessedly, she stopped bleeding. By that time, it was pretty much a given that she wasn’t going to go back to sleep in her own room, which was fine – the moment for soup-making had long passed, anyway.

With Snugglebug cuddled between us, Mr. Wright and I marveled at how much she’d grown since we brought the six-pound, three-ounce five-day-old wonder home. “I’m sorry about missing the soup,” I whispered. I really, really was. You have no idea how sorry I was unless, of course, you have seven or more kids yourself. In that case, you know all too well the sense of loss I felt.

“There’ll be other soup,” he assured me. “I wouldn’t change a thing about our lives.”

I agreed with him as Snugglebug began to drift off to sleep. “I wouldn’t change a thing, either.” We smiled at one another and he reached over our youngest miracle to hold my hand as the sound of children’s size-eleven feet echoed up the stairwell and Curlytop’s ginger-colored ringlets found a pillow to rest upon.

Bad Gratitude Monday: A Fearless Kid

I spent the summer of 1994 in the library at Fairchild Air Force Base, where Pockets's dad was stationed, because I was 19 years old, enormously pregnant, and on a quest to read every book on pregnancy and childbirth that the United States military saw fit to stack on its shelves.

Plus, the library was air-conditioned.

I read about preterm births. I read about birth defects. I taught myself Lamaze. I read What to Expect When You're Expecting enough times to not expect anything at all, and Birth After Cesarean - even though I knew I'd never be pregnant again, no matter how the kid came out. Some of the books were downright terrifying, with entire chapters written solely to keep me awake at night, worrying myself into a case of hemorrhoids. Those were the "syndrome" chapters. Down's Syndrome. Fragile X Syndrome. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Floppy Infant Syndrome...

One night, Pockets's dad came home to find his wife, curled around her beachball of a stomach, sobbing. "What if the baby is autistic?" I hiccupped through tears.

"Even worse," he countered, "what if the baby is artistic?"

My list of worries was long, and included:

• The baby could be born early. (About two weeks past my due date, I remembered this fear with great fondness.)
• The baby could fail to develop a hand or a foot. Later, after a particularly bad dream brought on by a combination of nectarines, Swiss cheese and jalepenos on Melba toast, I became convinced the baby would be born without a nose.
• The baby could be abducted by aliens for biological research or, conversely, wasn't even my baby but an alien experiment growing in the petri dish that was my uterus. (Everyone worries about this, right? I'm not alone... right?)
• The baby could look like that guy from Mask.
• After watching Alex: The Life of a Child, I was sure the baby would have cystic fibrosis.
• After watching the Adam Walsh story, I began to wonder why I was even going through this prenancy to birth a child that would be abducted and murdered, anyway.

Pockets's dad disconnected the television and revoked my library card.

Pockets was born, albeit nearly a month late, without complications. He was a beautiful, fully-formed newborn with a healthy scream and a nonstop appetite. I've been smothering him ever since.

Perhaps it's the result of having a worrier for a mom, but Pockets has not, traditionally, been a brave child. Maybe hearing "What if you get hurt?" "Don't touch that - you don't know where it's been!" and "Don't let anyone steal you!" over and over again during his formative years made him overly cautious.

Then again, this is a kid who held out for three and a half weeks past my due date to venture into the world, so maybe Nature wins over Nurture in this particular case. Suffice it to say Pockets has not been the most fearless child I've ever known.

He entered kindergarten a full year early with a tested vocabulary of twelve and a half years. Although he easily held his own academically, he was younger and smaller than the kids in his social circle, and I began to wonder if I'd made the right decision in petitioning for his early entry to school.

When he played on his first tee-ball team, his age and lack of physical maturity showed. The other kids had an entire year of running, throwing and catching on him, and some of the kids had athletically gifted parents who pitched balls to them in the backyard, elevating them to mini Ichiros who didn't need no stinkin' tee when batting.

Poor Pockets. He had a mom whose greatest athletic ability was running up and down the stairs of the restaurant she waited tables at, and - on a good day - not falling on her face.

He was such a beautiful, strange child; sensitive and creative, slight and undeveloped.

My first lesson in letting my kid grow wings and risk falling came during a teeball matchup with a team of steroid-injected first-graders (THEIR moms clearly let them drink the bovine growth hormone milk) coached by a Lou Piniella clone. "My kids don't use a tee," he scoffed, "but if your kids want to, we won't object."

Twelve little first-grade heads huddled with their coach - Pockets included. "Our kids won't use a tee either," announced our coach.

"Are you sure?" I cried. I pulled Pockets aside. "Honey, I know you've never hit a pitch before, and I don't want you to feel pressured. The name of this game is teeball, and if you want to use the tee, you needn't be embarrassed."

Pockets shook his head. "Mom, I can do this."

I held my breath as he got up to bat. The coach pitched the ball. Pockets swung, and missed. Another pitch; another miss. As the third pitch was released, I prepared my best "Good try, Pockets!" as he swung... and made contact.

Base hit!

This year, Pockets earned his first football letter, along with his team's Most Improved award. He turned out for track this spring, even though Driver's Ed got him up at 5:30 every morning. Then, he came home a few weeks ago and announced he's going to enroll in college next year, weeks before his 16th birthday.

"What about football?" I asked. "What about track? You'll need to be preparing for the SATs pretty soon, and..."

"Mom, I can do this," he assured me.

And really, I know he can.

I dropped Pockets off this morning to take his placement tests for Running Start. If all goes well, he'll be entering college at the same time he begins his junior year of high school.

Today, I am grateful for a kid who, in spite of having a mother who eats What If for breakfast and washes it down with a double shot of I'm Not So Sure About That, has become fearless.

What are YOU grateful for today?

Photos:
1) Pockets and Mama gun down bogeys at the National Air and Space Museum - armed and dangerous (and our fingers are loaded, too!)
2) The dynamic duo goofs off in a Metro tunnel
3) Pockets, in football mode (c) Parson's Photography