life and write

Saturday morning I opened our bathroom hamper to find the laundry sea level rising with Legos. Let me guess, I wonder who could have dumped all those Legos in the hamper? This morning the laundry is all done, but in the blur of the weekend, I forgot about the Legos, and obviously so did my boys. This morning, when I opened up the hamper to throw in a towel, guess what I found?

I showed my three-year-old the basket and asked him what was in there. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and smiled, “clothes?” I opened up the lid of the hamper and we both laughed.

Hope you’re having a good morning. Happy Monday.

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“I dream that every child has a home, food, a bed to sleep in; that every child has someone who cares for them, someone they can trust, someone to tuck them in at night, someone to love.”—My eight-year-old

“My dream fell into water and it was floating into me.”—My three-year-old

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What do you get when you mix a strip of tape, a plastic USC cup, and a mini basketball? According to my three-year-old, ice cream of course! This morning on the end table I found remnants of my three-year-old’s imagination—a hand-made, re-purposed ice cream cone with just one colorful swirl (notice the single strip of tape). It’s a good thing this delectable treat didn’t melt, or maybe fall over, I might have missed yet another time to celebrate the creative things kids do with random stuff around the house.

Yesterday, while in the kitchen, I overheard my son playing with the cup and the ball, but I had no idea he saved his simple creation, and added a piece of tape to it. Or maybe he left it out on display for us to see. Either way, finding this continues to remind me that the ordinary shapes and objects we have around the house open up an imaginative world we busy adults don’t always have access to.

Imagination does not become great until human beings, given the courage and the strength, use it to create.
—Maria Montessori

I’ve been engaged in myriad conversations over the past few weeks about creativity. This subject keeps coming up. Where does creativity come from? How can we encourage it in children, in ourselves as adults? Why is there a battle in education, in our homes, in the workplace between critical and creative thinking? Why do those spaces want to choose between the two—which is more rigorous, beneficial, salient? Why can’t we (as humans) young and older practice both in learning and in the wider part of our lives? Why does education (and often other aspects of our lives) strip us of our ability to see our creative selves, think creatively? I keep coming back to some of the same sensibilities. We have to undo what it is that blocks us from wonder, play: stress, excuses about time, space, money, fear.

I work with young people on how to “undo” some of that fear of creativity before they reach adulthood and can’t find that sense of wonder anymore. I work with adults (other educators/parents), to encourage, give “permission” to allow room in their lives, their student’s lives, their children’s lives to think creatively, to wonder. I watch my own children access their creative selves everyday. They remind me how it’s is done…

I typically use the funnel in the kitchen pouring liquid, grains, from one container into the next. But when my three-year-old gets a hold of the funnel he is much more imaginative. That sputtering sound I heard the other day was no trumpet but rather my three-year-old composing his best kid rendition of some unknown tune on his newly imagined funnel horn. And while I thought that horn might be the only trick he had up his sleeve that trumpet quickly became a birthday hat for his younger brother (not sure if the younger brother was thrilled about that). But you can’t have a birthday hat without birthday cake, so my three-year-old ran to the other room and brought back the small plastic containers I use to organize stuff around the house, for his pretend birthday cake, when the funnel had one more magical use, as the candle on top.

Now I will have to go back to using my funnels in that same old boring and practical way. But next time I use that funnel I’ll remember metaphor, and how even kitchen utensils have creatively secret and interesting lives of their own.

What toys? Kids find play in anything, everything.

Happy Friday!

His vote may not move the electorate, but his voice is part of a future generation engaged.

My three-year-old isn’t writing just yet, but his eye for language led him to some remote corner in the house inside the black bin where we keep our shredded text, including bills, junk mail, and other bits of random paper. And as a writer I was so proud to see my three-year-old trying to “write” (sort of) standing in the middle of a blizzard of black ink and broken typeset, a storm of fonts, letters, broken and bending words.

The rambling shreds spread all over the floor were remnants of our identity ripped and twisted by child’s play. I imagine he was drawn to the pool of white slivers, until he discovered those peculiar little paper strips appear even more magical piled on the hardwood floor, like snow flurries indoors or pollen in the spring. I do love his graceful lettering, sculpting far beyond his vocabulary into a land of faceless characters, unknown “found” poems, and accidental, nonsensical lines of language. Instead of digging for a ready-made story, today he wrote one himself, building on jagged little shapes, crooked strands of paper, a pile of interesting mess. There are some things that are simply better in shred, and I guess today, “play” was one of them.

“A piece of creative writing, like a day-dream, is a continuation of, and a substitute for, what was once the play of childhood.” —Sigmund Freud

For more thoughts on word play read: Freud on creative writing and daydreaming by Maria Popova

A few weeks ago, on a Saturday, my seven-year-old and I set out on an adventure together. I believe in pulling my children away from each other for one-on-one time with each of them. They all have very different personalities and one on one time allows them to be themselves fully without the sometimes awkward dance of balance and siblings.  This time not only allows me to be fully present with each of them, it also allows me to know them outside of the normal chaos of our lives, to listen to their needs, questions, confessions, to just be present.

This was Mason’s day, and science is his thing, so we headed down to Mini Maker Faire at our local science and industry museum to contemplate invention and design. We widened our eyes and minds with 3-D replication engineering, glass blowing, robotics, and couldn’t leave without stopping in to see the newest Lego exhibition. My son was cool with his hands his pockets; though I noticed his heart on his sleeve. And as we bounced around all over town that day, every now and then, as we crossed the street, I held out my hand and he easily slid his hand in mine. But before I could sigh a sense of, “he’s not too old to still hold my hand,” his fingers would slip away, swinging along his slow stride.

I was happy in this very moment with my oldest son, as we took our day slow, talking or silent, walking or standing still. It was the last day of the Bebe Miller exhibition at Urban Arts Space so my hope was to get my seven-year-old from science to art all in one swift shift, after lunch on a full belly was my strategy to slip ourselves into the galleries downtown. In front of Miller’s work, contemporary dance written in images, the history curling inside the streaming video feeds, my curious (and cool) son walked through the show slowly, stopping to read or look, sitting on the bench staring at me, at the faded color images and bodies wound in tights, in each other’s outstretched limbs. It was the end of our day, a few minutes until the close of the exhibition, and as grace (or luck) would have it, BeBe Miller in person walked by with a few friends. It was a brilliant moment, one I could not have ever planned or expected. I stopped to greet her and shared our experience in the exhibition. Miller and her friends took interest in my son, his shy eyes and sincere smile. They talked with him about dance, and honored his interests as he lit up talking about movement, hip hop., and breakdance. I just watched and let him hold his own with the elders. Inside I smiled thinking, “If we listen, the elders will teach us. And when they listen, we may speak what we have learned.”

I learned something that day, as I always do when spending time with my children. As he and I wandered through our day, between art and science, between dance and design, between he and I,  I remembered how our interests blurred that warm autumn day, and how that blur was just us— present—in love and wonder.

Back by popular virtual audience demand, my observations and musings on the everyday objects creative kids (and adults alike) find amusing. There is typically a laugh (and a lesson) somewhere in these stories so enjoy and remember—it’s not necessarily what you play with, it’s how you play! 

As I reached for my toothbrush a few mornings ago, my eye caught a glance at what looked like a tangled blur of red and blue. As I looked closer, I thought, “Are these ninjas battling to the death in the bathroom sink?” By the look of things they’ve been tossing around in there all night.

And though I’m not a fan of fist fighting, I will endorse an occasional (and respectful) verbal fight (or debate if you prefer) every now and then. But from what I could tell, this brawl was surely not respectful or verbally debatable—these guys (or ninjas if you will) were at each other’s plastic throats. The head of one bruised and broken body is already missing, but something tells me he didn’t lose it in this present brawl. My hunch is some adventurous toddler might have gotten to him first.

I would like to think the sink is straight forward—simply for washing our hands, brushing our teeth and other such hygiene related things. But with kids, I know better. That sink has been known for many a days play with soap and bubbles, cups as waterfalls (that end up in a watery mess on the floor), and as evidenced here: a “battle royale” of headless action figures. And by the look of this porcelain battle ground, there’s not much hand washing going on at the moment. Ninjas, if you will excuse me—I need to break this battle up and brush my teeth.

Happy Friday!

Today those little fingers reach for monkey, elephant, tiger, and lion. Tomorrow they’ll reach for whatever else his head and heart can think or dream. #beginnings

“I’m going to reuse this paper. It’s just an old multiplication worksheet.”–My seven-year-old

My husband just got back from duty and brought both boys new shiny black jet fighter planes. Cool right? Well, the boys do love their planes and hold them in their hands, pass them back and forth to each other and roll them on the wall, the sofa, and the floor. They also fly them through the air throughout the house and in the car. My seven-year-old naturally gets a bit more altitude because of his height, but my two-year-old seems fine to fly a little low (and swipe his brother’s plane when he’s not looking). And while these planes are cool and new (these kids seem to like anything new for at least five minutes), those mini metal aircrafts still don’t seem to compare to the old standby, the craft that will never let them down, wings that glide and soar through the air (or at least our living room).

What am I referring to? None other than the paper airplane of course. One might think compared to those shiny new metal planes; paper planes would have no appeal. One (meaning me) would be wrong. I suppose paper has a sort of accessible quality, it makes a way out of no way, junk mail, old school work, random paper lying around, and my favorite—planes formed from loving notes scribbled on the inside that read: “I love you mom” or “you’re a great dad”. I guess that’s proof that the tiny pilots in my house are full of adventure and affection.

Anyway, as I think about paper’s appeal, I imagine the boys find it easy and immediate to fold, shape, and recycle their own handmade aircrafts out of life’s colorful leftover stock. Now that I think about it, there are more images, textures, and weight of paper to play with. I imagine these planes are more interesting with their advertisements and colorful wings, with their lightweight nature and glide time of at least a few seconds from the living room to the dining room or from the top of the stairs to the landing at the bottom. I believe part of the secret to the appeal of paper planes is that they fly…and beautifully, when well engineered and crafted by little people with big ideas. A fold here, a tuck there—my seven-year-old designs and turns out these planes as if an engineer, a skilled craftsman, or just a kid having fun. I love how simple plain paper can take on a life of its own, entertain the kids, and fearlessly take to the sky (or at least just below the ceiling).

It’s a good thing we recycle. Those planes do tend to clutter up the house, the car, or wherever else these boys fold and leave them. But I guess that comes with the territory of creatively turning the objects in our lives into toys and wonder, or in this case sudden makeshift airports.

Fly on boys, fly on. But when you’re done, don’t forget to clean up and recycle your creative little mess.

What is my two-year-old doing? He was looking for music. He was attempting to listen to the tiny crevice he found in the tile surrounding the fireplace. I didn’t tell him there’s no music in the fireplace because I found it more interesting that he would look there in the first place. Maybe it’s because the crevice between the tiles was too tempting to pass up, the narrow end of those headphones seemed to fit perfectly in that crevice so he tried over and over to get the jack to fit. I wonder what (if anything) he heard. When I asked him what he was doing, he replied, “music.”

I watched him try for a while, those headphones, slightly too big for his tiny ears, slid to his shoulders, but he kept trying to fit that jack into the tile. His determined look seemed to suggest he believes music lives somewhere in that fireplace. The birds sometimes call their song from the top of the chimney, and I suppose he wondered if there are other noises he could find with his headphones plugged into the unknown world behind that tile. And even as I know there is no sound, no music on the other end of those headphones, I also know my son’s imagination was intent on listening, looking for rhythm in the most unlikely of places.

And even if he never finds the sound he’s looking for, the music that will make him dance and sing, I hope that won’t stop him from trying to listen again to something else random and ordinary in the house. Looking, listening for the sound around him, creating magic of the everyday.

I don’t know what it is about commuting in the car, but somehow my seven-year-old always finds a way to innocently lure me into complex conversations about life. I call it his backseat curious kid confessionals, and no matter how clever I think I’ve gotten at answering his myriad questions, he always finds a way to stump me every now and then.

“Mom, should I get married when I grow up?” he asked.
“Sure honey, if you meet someone special, someone really nice,” I said.
“How do you know if someone is special? I don’t like to argue,” he said. In that moment I thought to myself, “which should I try to tackle first, ‘the someone special’, or the arguing?”

“I think the person you marry should be someone you are nice to, and that someone is nice to you. You want to first love the person you marry, but I don’t know if love is always enough,” I said. It’s a good think I was driving and couldn’t see what I imagine was a perplexed look on my son’s face as I went on to say, “I think you should also like the person you marry. I think you should be friends with that person because honey, most people in relationships have disagreements or arguments sometimes. That’s just how it is. You can’t always agree on everything,” I said, “But if you genuinely like and get along with that person, you won”t hurt each other when you disagree on stuff.”

At this point in my explanation, I started second guessing myself. I wondered if I was over explaining, telling him too much. I wondered if the person I was really talking to was myself, that little girl thirty years ago when I was seven, or that big girl now, driving and reflecting. As a matter of fact, I knew I was probably over explaining all of this love and relationship stuff, but I just kept going.

“Honey, I think if you love and really like someone, it makes it easier to get along with that person,” I said. “When you disagree with someone you care about, if you are friends, if you love and like that person, you will want to be nice to them and they will want to be nice to you. You don’t have to be with someone who isn’t nice to you. And someone isn’t going to want to be with you if you are not nice to them.” “Nice” was the most simple and direct adjective I could think of at the time—remember I was driving and he’s only seven-years-old.

I can’t believe my son is already thinking about how relationships and love work. I thought just getting through first grade was enough; but here he is thinking about the qualities of a healthy loving relationship.

It was interesting to have that conversation with my son that day because it got me wondering if other parents are getting these kinds of questions from their young kids, and if those parents are also fumbling trying to talk to their kids about this stuff. When the time comes, how will our kids know what a healthy relationship is if we don’t sprinkle them with a little early wisdom to think about as they grow and mature?

Sure, I’d like to think that my seven-year-old is miles away from finding that special someone, but I also think he is curious as he watches the relationships around him, with my husband and I as front and center. I think naturally a part of parenting is modeling a healthy loving relationship for our kids, but I also think it’s about fielding their most innocent questions about love, friendship, and healthy relationships, that allows them a safe space to ask questions, even when those questions make us as parents speechless or uncomfortable.

How else will kids learn? Who will they learn some of these life lessons from? Sure there will come a time of trial and error once kids are old enough to date, but I’ve come to see that kids are curious much earlier than when they are old enough to start dating, and I think it’s healthy to talk about these kinds of things with kids when they ask. As a matter of fact, I appreciate my son trusting me enough to inquire about what makes a healthy relationship. It was a catalyst for me to reflect on how little I knew about the ingredients to a healthy relationship until much later in life.

Growing up, I just don’t remember having any conversations with my parents or a trusted adult about how a person should be treated in a relationship, and I admit, I stumbled and made quite a few mistakes before I finally got it right. As I remember, I think my mom tried to talk to me about the very basics of love and relationships, but I was much older before my mom and I could talk more candidly. It wasn’t until my thirties, before I realized what a healthy partnership, a friendship, a loving relationship could look like. And it wasn’t until I had some ideas about what healthy love didn’t look like before I finally started making some different choices in life. I often wonder had I had someone to impart wisdom, a few simple reflections on healthy love, maybe that might have saved me from a few rough years of heartache and pain. Then again, maybe the only way for me to have discovered a healthy love was to stumble through all the other, less than successful dating, “love”, and life experiences.

And while I wish I could impart enough wisdom to ensure my son won’t have to experience bits of love’s heartache, I know that’s not realistic. Naturally as his mom I want to protect him, but in reality I know all I can do is continue to talk to him, allow him a safe and healthy glimpse of love in all it’s beautiful complexity, slightly annotated with sweet honesty, and a few words of wisdom from mom.

No those odd-looking goggles on my two-year-old aren’t some new fashion statement—although in some alternative universe they might help him see the future. And with no swim lessons for him for a few more months and generally not much water in sight other than a bath (the occasional playing in sink water and random spills don’t count), my guess is maybe this kid is channeling something more interesting, more cunning.

Well, good for him, I assumed those goggles only helped my little one see everything in front of him in blue, but maybe he’s not telling me something. Maybe they allow him to see around corners or through walls. Maybe when looking in the mirror, they allow him a vivid reflection revealing mysteries and secrets of the past and present only he can view through those tinted oversized lenses. And while those awkward looking spectacles don’t seem a requirement for any part of his adventurous little life, he’s been wearing them on and off around the house for the past few weeks ever since my seven-year-old ditched them for a new (and from what I hear better) pair of swim goggles. So what would little brother possibly need with big brother’s reject goggles? I would assume nothing, but what do I know? Maybe the magic of futuristic x-ray vision only works for little kids wearing big blue goggles with wide eyes and a crafty spirit.

It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.—Henry David Thoreau

Is it still bad luck to open an umbrella indoors? I guess I’m not really that superstitious, but I hope not, considering that my two-year-old discovered his brother’s Batman umbrella and played with it until its metal brackets and frame came unhinged, until it could do no one any good in the rain as it lie there broken and bent out of shape in the middle of the living room floor. Batman looked less like a superhero and more like a shadow of himself in tights and begging for mercy from my curious and determined little boy.

Who is Batman’s archnemesis? If you ask my husband, who I’m mildly embarrassed (for him) to say knows all about these comic book characters, he might suggest “The Joker”, “Riddler”, “The Penguin”, or “Two Face”. Don’t ask me how he knows these things. I might also add that once I got him talking about comics, it was hard to get him stop. But after considering all those imaginary enemies the masked man in tights battles in comics, on television, and on the movie screen, I imagine his real (and ultimate) challenge might actually be my curious and somewhat destructive two-year-old as he repeatedly opened and closed Batman’s flimsy fabric wings, turned the umbrella upside down and spun it like a spinning top, and dragged that poor superhero down the stairs and all throughout the house. There was even a point when my little boy stomped inside the open umbrella (I think) just to see what would happen. I knew what would happen—it would lose all its superhero powers, and therefore lose its playful mystique. And of course after a few minutes it did. So how do I break the news to my seven-year-old that his little brother broke his Batman umbrella—my guess is very gently.

My seven-year-old is notorious for ignoring his shoe laces as they drag on the floor, in a puddle, or outside on the playground. How does he do all the things a kid does throughout the day with his shoes untied? How does he not notice that? Isn’t that annoying to him? Maybe it’s just annoying to me. And maybe it’s just my kid that does this. When I see him at the end of the school day, I think to myself, “Don’t those long dangling laces get in the way? Don’t they cause him to trip over them, lose balance, and fall?” I wonder if his shoes ever come off when he’s running, jumping, and climbing on the playground? I wonder if after tripping over those laces again and again, he doesn’t make some cosmic connection that all he needs to do is tie his shoes for less hassle, less nagging, and the most important, for walking ease. I don’t get it, but I refuse to give up on this battle, allow dirty laces in complete sprawl to go untied all day.

And even as untied laces are a slight source of frustration for me, for my seven-year-old, I’ve noticed that those same seemingly insignificant laces apparently fascinate and peak a sense of curiosity when they are not a source of mild conformity, begging to be laced and tied in shoes. What does this all mean? Apparently when those same laces are out of my son’s shoes, they instantly become a puzzle, a fantastical bendable string with elastic wonder and endless revelations of play. How is this possible? How can said child be so curious about the curl and bow of these laces while he pulls, turns, and ties them in his hand, but could care less while they pull, turn (untied), and drag lazily beside his shoes on the ground?

Parenting is often baffling. These curious things that kids get into and we adults wonder about do not have rhyme or reason because “play” is determined naturally, with objects that peak children’s innermost curiosity. This mundane “task” of tying shoes (mainly because mom, dad, or a teacher) asks him, is not high on his priority list of curiosity or play. I suppose at seven-years-old, keeping shoes tied is not very interesting, not fun, and certainly doesn’t compete with pulling those same laces out of shoe eyelets and letting them curl about, winding in and out of his fingers in the shape of bows, dragon tails, string battles, and whatever else that young mind conjures up.

Just keep playing with those laces son, a mom can only hope through practice those curious fingers learn to tie bows and knots, keep those shoes tied all day, just as masterfully, as you do in play.

One would think that surrounded by colorful action figures and tiny race cars, my toddler would surely have no interest in the awkward looking, two-toned, cone-shaped contraption conspicuously sitting on the sofa. I was wrong. And you know my theory—kids can have all the latest, most interesting, most technologically crafted toys in the world and still find themselves most curious about the simple objects around the house. It’s not a scientifically proven theory of course, but I see my kids each week reach for odd things around the house to dazzle their curiosity and inspire their creativity.

The seemingly uninteresting Dirt Devil hand vacuum is no different. I typically try to keep it on hand because these boys are notorious for adorning my slightly post-modern sofa and slick wood floors with their “crumb nation”: Goldfish, graham crackers, bread crumbs, you name it, they eat it and spread the aftermath all over the house. So I finally invested in a cheapish “hand vac” to quickly remedy those eyesore crumbs and attempt to keep my house (almost) clean. Mind you, it will never be “fully” clean until these boys grow-up and get out of here, but a girl has a right to try.

Recently I’ve given the vac to my seven-year-old to use while he’s doing his little chores around the house, but my two-year-old must have wanted in on the action. I suppose he was curious about this little machine that makes things like crumbs, lint, and dust disappear. Maybe he thought to himself, “what else can I make disappear?” It would be one thing if he (meaning the two-year-old) used the mini vac in the way it was intended, but no, that would be much too easy.

I watched him the other night entertained for quite a while as he measured (by eye) the toys scattered on the sofa next to him to see if maybe one of his smaller toys might disappear in the narrow open mouth. He turned the vacuum on and off, then on and off again, countless times, until the battery begged for a break and began to run with a slow, muffled groan. I guess it’s a good thing this machine runs on rechargeable batteries. It puts a time limit on the random mischief my kid can get into and hopefully will spare the life span of my vacuum.

Maybe one day instead of plotting to suck up toys, he’ll clean up his mess with it. For now, that’s probably unlikely, but I’ll keep my fingers crossed, you never know, he might just discover that vacuum is for cleaning and not for unleashing tornado havoc on his action figures.

“When do we get to the 3000s,” my seven-year-old asked.
“The 3000s,” I asked.
“Yes. We’re in the 2000s now, and I’m wondering when we’ll get to the 3000s.”
“Oh honey, neither of us will still be alive then,” I said carelessly, nonchalantly.
“Why,” sounding devastated. “But I want to live for a long time.”
“Ok, that’s fine, but do you realize that the year 3000 is a thousand years away, that’s longer than most people live. But if you eat healthy, get your rest, and try to make good choices, you can increase your chances of living a long time.” (I couldn’t resist throwing some tried and true mom advice in there.)
“But I want to live until I’m 100.”
“That’s fine, but like I said, the year 3000 is actually one thousand years away. So even if you live to be 100, you will only see the year 2100. Does that make sense?” He gave me a blank look. “I know, it’s confusing and that seems like a long time. I hate to break it to you honey, but nobody lives that long.”
“Except God,” he quickly countered.
I paused for a moment…
“Ok,” I said, “you’re right but…”
“I want to be like God,” he chimed in. “How does he know how to live that long?”
That’s a good question I thought to myself.

We both sat there in silence contemplating this broad spiritual and philosophical question that was sure to elude us both. But we kept thinking about it.

There are some questions kids ask that even the most well-intentioned parent just doesn’t have the answer for. My son is mildly obsessed, or maybe I should say seriously concerned with aging and death (he hates the thought of it). So naturally, he’s also been fascinated with living for a long time—as long as possible (I think). He’s curious about what it takes to live to be 100 years old. I keep thinking if I had that secret, I would be rich.

Personally, living that long seems exhausting, but I didn’t say that to my son, I don’t want to ruin his age-defying aspirations. But I did somehow want to reassure him he has plenty of time to live. Only, there’s that other side of the story, the truth or shall I say reality; that we just can’t predict how long any of us will live. None of our next breaths are “promised”. There is so much mystery and unknown in terms of human lifespans that I can’t in good conscience promise this kid he’ll live forever. Sometimes I wonder if instinctively my son wonders that already and wants to counteract his reasonable fears of death and its unknown, with optimistic hopes of living forever. I get that. But what a dilemma we’d found ourselves in.

After our conversation, I thought more about my son’s questions and thought what would it hurt to support him on his age-defying journey. I might even learn a few tricks to improve my own quality of life. So the other day we discussed some of the things people might do to live to be 100. He reiterated things we’ve discussed in the past: eating healthy, getting rest, and getting a good education. I thought o.k., that’s a good start. But when I probed a little more about what he could do to improve his chances of living longer, he added: taking care of the Earth and not taking too many dangerous risks (like alcohol in excess, smoking, or drugs). In other words, try to make good life choices. I was proud of him. And though I know doing those things may or may not necessarily guarantee us a long life, it’s a good start.

So in an attempt to inspire and empower my son to live his fullest life, I’ve set out to help him do some research on the subject. We’re on our way to long and healthy lives, and if you’re curious, you too can strive to live to be 100 years old. Join my seven-year-old, he only has 93 more years to go!

Want more (legitimate) ways of improving quality of life and aging healthy (and gracefully)? Check the following articles out. Quick tip: flossing can help you live longer, who knew?
How to live to 100
11 Health Habits That Will Help You Live to 100

Tucked away in the closet (if you want to call the tiny space in our room a closet) our toddler found a roll of the holiday wrapping paper. Don’t ask me why it’s still in the closet, but it was there and he, with the mind of a crafty performance artist or the dreams of a magician, thought he might wrap himself up in that paper and what: roll away, send yourself to grandma’s house (that’s not a bad idea)—no, no, this child just wanted to lie there performing and wasting all that wrapping paper. I suppose he imagined himself a caterpillar (a very hungry one I might add) or a gift (you are a gift to us my dear). But I think he looks more like some kind of human cannon ball, or a “fruit roll up”, or a sushi roll (I miss sushi). I also think he liked the clash and crinkling of the paper as he rolled around in it. I watched him as he was determined to figure out how to get this paper around his entire body. During his play, he had a slight moment of frustration. I was tempted to help but I was curious too, so I stayed out of the way and secretly rallied for him to figure it out. He obviously did.

I guess he thought he was clever “finding” that roll of paper in the closet right where we (oh um, I mean Santa) left it in plain sight. I should only blame myself (or maybe my husband, it’s his closet) for leaving things out for this kid to find and tear up (I mean be creative with). Do you know how many more gifts we could have wrapped for you next year in that perfectly good paper? I guess you’ll never know…

I should add: It’s a good thing we are committed recyclers. It was tough tossing all that paper away in the recycle bin. But I just couldn’t stop him from having all that fun in all that colorful paper. When it comes to the kids’ imaginations, I again just try to stay out of the way, watching to make sure they don’t break something or hurt themselves, but most of all just allowing them to have fun and create with the world around them. Here’s to raising creative and imaginative kids.

Imagination does not become great until human beings, given the courage and the strength, use it to create.
—Maria Montessori

On Friday, my two-year-old walked in the door still wrapped in his coat and boots, and after saying hi, the first thing he asked was, “Where is M…?” I quickly replied, “He’s with his dad.” Slow to respond, my young son turned away from me to my husband and pointed, “daddy.” My husband smiled and shot me a glance, “you know this is over his head,” he said. I nodded my head in agreement.

As our son quickly turned back around to face me, he pointed up to the “family” pictures on the shelf and said, “there, mommy and daddy, Rafael and Mason.” I understood his innocent reasoning. The picture seemed pretty clear, fairly simple right? That was a true statement he put together, but little does he know, it is much more complicated than that. And if this moment, possibly one of those loss of innocence type conversations, wasn’t first breaking my heart, I might have come up with something clever to respond with. But I wasn’t ready for this, not when Rafael is two, not when he is 12. I don’t know if I will ever have the right thing to say to him, but I want to always tell him the truth and I know that some day that truth may hurt a little.

That’s the thing about parenting—sometimes as adults, we make decisions in our lives and don’t know or sometimes even care at the moment exactly how they will affect our children. It is something that haunts me, but it is the truth of our lives and the consequences (good or bad) of our adult decisions—I can handle that. What I have a hard time handling is how to explain those more bitter consequences, those stinging truths to the younger and innocent, more vulnerable ones in my life—my children.

And as I thought about what I might say to explain this truth, this fact about our family to my two-year-old, I just couldn’t come up with the words. “Yes,” I said, pointing back to the family picture on the shelf, “That is mommy and daddy.” I smiled at my son and at my husband. I was at a complete loss for words but I was trying.

“Where was Mason,” I thought to myself. I knew where he was, and I had dealt with it all day at work. I had prepared for it the night before, and as we said our goodbyes and sent him off to school that morning, I knew that goodbye was until Monday. But my two-year-old didn’t have that time to process and because little people live so much in the moment I had no way to help him understand the time, the waiting, the fact that we won’t see Mason until next week. It was difficult to hear Rafael ask about his brother over and over again, it was painful to watch him try to process this at such a young age.

On Saturday morning, as soon as Rafael woke up, he asked again and again about his brother. I watched him stare out the window as if waiting for him, looking for him to walk up the sidewalk. As Rafael gets older, the effect of Mason’s intermittent absence shows more and more. And as I watch Rafael go through this, I still did not have the right words to say to him that will make this all better, make him more comfortable with the absence of his brother for a few days. “He went bye, bye honey, he’s with his dad,” I said. “Where’s daddy,” he said. “In our room,” I said. “Mason is visiting with his other dad,” “Mason is with his other family,” my husband chimed in. “We share him with his other dad and he is away for a little while o.k.” I said. “Ok,” he said without much expression and most likely without much understanding. “We share him,” I kept thinking to myself.

I imagine this conversation may get easier as the boys get older, but I don’t know for sure. This subject or better yet, this way of life is something we’ll just have to keep working on and keep talking about—our blended family is forever.

They play with the laundry basket instead, and pretend it’s a tent, or a cave , or a car, or a thing they climb in, turn upside down, or fill with stuff. They might get upset or frustrated when their laundry basket won’t do exactly what they want it to do or if they can’t seem to find a way to climb inside of it, but once they master their basket’s magic, those fake tears will dry up, replaced by focused, hands-on play.

Kids are imaginative with that basket; they throw stuff inside of it (not clothes of course), turn it into a castle or a dumping ground for action heroes, or fill it with a blanket and turn it into a bed for stuffed animals. What was once a plain plastic container with a practical (dare I say boring) purpose, transforms into a cost-effective, curiously engaging “toy” of choice (for the moment). Now if I can just figure out how to borrow that magic basket and transform doing laundry into something much more interesting and exciting.

Imagination does not become great until human beings, given the courage and the strength, use it to create.
—Maria Montessori

I love crisp white bedding, it is so simple, easy, and chic. I have many faint memories of when my white sheets would capture a hint of the sun showing through the window, the translucent yellow light would ripple through the slightly wrinkled sheets and pool in warm swirls that I could toss and turn in all morning. White sheets are so fresh and beautiful, I love how they glow and draw light into the room.

I can remember a time (long before kids) when my sheets would actually stay white, bright, and fresh, just as if right out the washer and dryer. But now, no matter how many times I wash them, with Oxyclean or if I’m desperate, a hint of bleach, I still have yet to get that old feeling back. Where has it gone? Why can’t I keep my sheets looking, feeling, and smelling new like they used to? They lack the luster they once had before my kids invited themselves to brush their long days across the messy or made-up bed (depending on the day). I miss the days when my white sheets would stay clean all week. I could fall into their fluffy fresh and nearly melt away in the soft thread. Now all I get are faint traces of white covered in random speckles of dust and fury, the left over traces of kids in all their curious dirt and childhood splendor.

So what have I learned? No, not to ban my kids from my room (although sometimes I’d like to). I think the only way to keep my white sheets “looking” white is to switch them out constantly (which often includes the comforters) so that all the sheets get their fair share of play, and to always have an extra comforter and sheet set clean, fresh, and on hand–ready–any time, any day. I never know when clean sheets will run into kids wrestling, building a cloud castle, or just curled up in the soft white sea.

So remember that children’s book we received in the mail (the one from the previous post with the fabulous and playful packing label)? Well, I wanted to write about the impact that book had on my oldest son (because obviously my youngest was far too caught up in the packing label to care about the new book). Anyway, when we opened the shipping box, we found a beautiful hardcover children’s book titled, “Chocolate Me”, written by Taye Diggs and illustrated by Shane W. Evans. I knew exactly who it was from, and that it would be a conversation starter.

This gift could not have come at a better time, as just the sight of this book took me back to this past summer when I held my 6-year-old son in my arms as he cried soaking his soft flushed cheeks with tears and wearing an innocent pain only children can name. He sobbed about this inner curiosity, this insecurity about his skin complexion (which I tell him all the time is beautiful). He talked about his “darker” skin as being “different” (he said he didn’t understand why his skin was so dark). “Why is my skin dark?” he asked innocently. He talked about how everyone around him: me, his brother, the kids at school are not as “dark” as him. And while this is not exactly (literally) true, this was his truth. And in an intense emotional moment like this, it’s difficult to take my adult reasoning and try to convince my 6-year-old that his pain, his feelings, his own youthful reasoning were not real to him, were not valid. When he looks in the mirror his way of seeing himself in this world is not something I can try to convince him isn’t real. What I needed to do back in that moment was listen, hear him out, take his pain seriously, address his questions as best I could, and most of all–hold him as he cried. I needed to honor how he was feeling and help him talk through and face these feelings. I remember as I listened to my son speak, that moment hit me in my heart as my own eyes welled with tears. This kind of pain is what I’ve held my breath for, hoping he would not have to deal with serious (or painful) matters of identity until much later in life.

As a parent, maybe naively I had hoped I would not have to bridge complex identity issues with my children at such a young age. I had hoped this subject would not come up until they were ready, able to express their ideas, their feelings in more complex ways. It’s difficult when your child is crying in your lap, but sometimes those tears are the only common language, the only way to express what needs to be said. I remember that moment as profound. And I remember feeling that it was hard to begin to explain, to help him understand the complexity of identity. In that moment, it was difficult to reassure him that it was o.k. that he looked “different” (from his friends, even from other family members), especially when what I felt he was looking for at that moment was reassurance that he was indeed (literally) just the same as everyone else.

I think that’s why this story reminds me of past experiences in thinking and talking about identity with my oldest son. This book, while it is super simple in plot (after-all, it is a children’s book), uses metaphor to help this abstract concept of difference and identity appear more concrete. However, it’s important to remember that this story is just an entrance, a bridge into conversations about difference, a way to allow children to ask questions safely, innocently, and creatively. This story (among others) also allows me to teach my child to look at literature critically and to ask questions of the narrative (we don’t have to agree with all that is said in books we read, even if they appear as endearing stories).

As I think about the issue of racial identity, I honestly don’t know when, how my 6-year-old began questioning his own identity, and even more specifically questioning his skin complexion. I know he’s encountered social situations of varying degrees, and I’m curious whether this comes out of those situations naturally or if there is something else more inherent in children that again naturally drives them to ask these kinds of questions of themselves and others. In our home we don’t teach divisiveness in difference. We teach peace, empathy, and understanding alongside natural, healthy teachings about our own cultural/ethnic heritage. But just as much as we teach about our own ancestry, we also celebrate the curiously brilliant differences of people all around the world. Somehow this kind of balance feels important as I raise my children in an increasingly interconnected global community.

My sense is that this questioning of identity is something innocent, natural, and comes from children discovering their myriad physical and internal differences. I think that discovery is natural, and my hope is that as teachers, parents, and those that are helping to raise and prepare children for this world, cultivate a hopeful spirit, and have a comfort with talking about and accepting difference just as much as sameness.

And so now back to the book. After that brief surge of memory from my son’s experiences this summer, I was back and present in the moment with this new book. We opened it and I read it aloud to both of my kids; then sat it on the table without incidence. Moments later, I noticed my 6-year-old grab it, curl into a ball in the corner, and read it silently. I watched him turn the pages slowly, staring at the little brown boy on the page, thinking about the metaphor, questioning what this book was saying. I saw him thinking, processing with a serious brow. So after a while I sat down next to him:

“What do you think about this book?” I said.
“I like it,” he said.
“What do you understand about it?” I asked.
“At first the boy wanted to be just like his friends but then he thought it was o.k. to be different, to be himself,” he said.
“Do you think that’s o.k., to be yourself even if you feel (or someone else) thinks you look different?” I said.
“Yeah.”

This was again one of those moments when all we could do was sit in silence and just be together. I know this won’t be the last time we broach this topic, but I do hope that each time we do, I will remember to listen, allow room for tears, and even more room for understanding.

Thank you Maggie for understanding Mason, for helping him talk about his pain, and helping him do this in a healthy way. As parents we do our best to reinforce what is beautiful and special about each of our children but sometimes the world around us can help reinforce and sometimes challenge those notions and teachings. There is a lot of pressure to just be like everyone else. I’ve been watching Mason work through this for about a year now. Thanks for listening Maggie and for knowing what he needed and when he needed it. I love that there are people in our lives that love and care about our children just as we do. I’ve come to realize that we can not parent alone, and we are reminded everyday that we are not alone in the raising of our children. It takes this village around us near and far. Thank you.

Even as we have a handful of gifts, bows, and ultimate thrill and surprise waiting for their big debut under the tree, we received one lone slim cardboard box from Amazon addressed to the boys. And as we opened the box to a beautiful hardcover children’s book it was as if Rafael skipped right over the glossy colorful book and went straight for the tracking label. He slowly peeled away the receipt and pretended it was a BandAid. He must have played with the black and white tracking label for at least 5 or 10 minutes, sticking it to surfaces (including the dining room table) until it would not stick anymore. And after all that, where is that tracking label now? You can probably guess. It never fails, kids somehow find a way to make play out of the everyday.

Here’s to a wonderful holiday season with family and friends, and to many more days of play for the kid in all of us. Peace.

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I imagine my 2-year-old is mimicking me when I comb my hair in the mirror in the mornings. I catch him sometimes out the corner of my eye, his little mind fascinated with my combs and brushes, my hair dryer, my flat-iron, and especially my magnetic rollers (that’s another post waiting to happen). I think he’s just curious about all the different types of crazy foreign things I use on my hair. To a kid, it makes sense enough that all kinds of things could go in your hair right?

Well the other day, I caught him with two plastic forks and a little bit of time on his hands. He seemed content and focused, attempting countless ways to get those plastic forks to stay in his soft curly hair. I watched him play for what seemed to be a long time with those things. Watching him play with those forks was pure entertainment for me and reminded me that once again instead of toys, kids often choose “real” and ordinary stuff around the house to play with. I thought he would eventually get bored, but this kid was determined to get these forks to stay in his hair. I kept watching and had to grab the camera. He really thought he was doing something special with those forks and once they were both affixed to that little head of his, he was very pleased with all his efforts.

So after all that hoopla and play, the trick now was making sure I tossed those forks so no one could accidentally use them to eat with. Now that would be funny, err, umm, I mean, gross!

Sometimes it surprises me that my 6-year-old still believes in “Santa Claus”. I might be labeled a “mean” mom because I’ve told him over and over that “Santa Claus”, the “Tooth Fairy”, and other such characters of our childhood are made up, make-believe childhood icons that are wildly imaginary, figments of children’s imaginations. I of course didn’t explain it to my child in that formal way, but I have prided myself in trying to break him in slowly that these characters, these wishful beings are really just about our imaginations, our dreams (and of course commerce—but I’ll clue him in on that more complex stuff later).

Anyway, I’m always surprised when each year he still talks about Santa Claus. I keep thinking to myself, isn’t he over that yet? But he still believes. Even when he writes out his Christmas list and gives it to me, or even when he asks me directly how many items he can ask for on Christmas, or even when I’ve told him straight out over the years that Santa Claus is not real, mom and dad buy the gifts, wrap them, and put them under the fake tree. I know, it seems mean, but quite frankly, I don’t see how believing in Santa Claus hinders the wonderment of the holiday season.

I’m not a scrooge, but I just don’t see the point in drawing out this highly commercial, already characterized image to my kid. But in that same vein, I also understand that images are what kids can wrap their minds around, it’s what they can cling to for understanding. Santa isn’t conceptual, it’s literal for many kids, and no matter how a parent may try to convince a child that Santa (the one splattered on t.v. or sitting in the middle of the mall) isn’t real, they still have that innocence, that wonderment, that will to believe—just because.

As a matter of fact, just the other day, my six year old said to me, “since Santa Claus is so round there’s no way he could possibly fit down our chimney.” I listened for what I thought would be the ultimate moment of epiphany…but instead, he just said, “that’s why Santa just slides the gifts down the chimney and somehow the gifts slide over to the Christmas tree,” (I sighed to myself and smiled inside at his innocence). I did not have a comment that day. What does a parent say to that? I did not have the heart to break it to him one more time that Santa isn’t real. There is this obvious magical appeal even if it seems absurd. My grown up truths can not compete with the magic of a child’s imagination.