As I pumped my legs and leaned back in the swing, I noticed my younger son swinging next to me, in parallel, our swings moving in time together.
A memory of swinging as a kid flashed across my mind – the idea that if you swing in sync with someone else, it meant you would get married. I smiled. That saying was nonsense of course, mere playground silliness. But to see this being, the child who I remember being so small, swinging on his own, next to me, reminded me of our deep connection to one another.
Side-by-side, my kids working together – I paused for a moment and gazed in wonder.
That afternoon, we had been preparing the garden for winter. Each fall, after we’ve pulled out all of our plants, we pile up compost, straw, and leaves to build the soil, mimicking what happens in the forest. This year, we had an addition to the process. When we ordered our seeds in the spring, my younger son spotted a plant in the catalog named for his favorite animal – elephant garlic. As we were also ordering carrots because they’re associated with my older son’s favorite animal (rabbits), we just had to get it.
So while I shoveled compost, I gave my kids the task of planting the garlic. My older son was (justifiably) complaining about the smell of the compost and loves picking things apart, so peeling the garlic was a perfect task for him. Once that was done, they needed to work together to plant it. I pointed out that it might be best for my older son to measure out where to put the cloves – elephant garlic needs a ton of space – as he has experience from math class at measuring things. Then my younger son could dig the holes, drop in the cloves, and cover them up.
“You know, you’re lucky. They used to burn stuffed animals when kids got sick,” I said, pulling my older son’s stuffed rabbit out of the washing machine. “You just had to go through the laundry.” Despite that, I still felt bad for the poor, bedraggled thing.
The white board hangs on our basement wall, rather disused. A few letter magnets – an A there, a D there – hang on it, along with a mess of adorable Where the Wild Things Are magnets. In bulletin board letters, the words “Question – Imagine – Wonder – Explore“ posted around it declare its purpose – to inspire questions and inquiry. But while it seems unused, its appearance belies its real impact.
Processing the name tag of the person standing at my table at the local book festival, I had an ah-ha moment. “I think my kids are going to go to see you talk later today!” I exclaimed to her,. “You wrote the elephant book, right?”
She smiled and nodded. “That’s why I stopped by your table – the elephant sign,” she said, gesturing at the sign that said “Protect Elephants from Climate Change” sitting next to a stack of my books. My younger son had made it a few weeks before for a climate change rally. It seemed like an appropriate decoration to accompany an environmental parenting advice book.
“But you know what?” she added, leaning in conspiratorially. “Everyone thinks elephants are my favorite animal because I wrote a book about them. But they’re not. Squirrels are.”
I started telling my husband something, but like always, my kids were listening. My kids are always listening, unless it involves something we need them to do.
I was telling my husband about how I had answered a question on Facebook – one that the original poster probably meant as a hypothetical. I said, “So they asked, ‘Why did we all have to learn square dancing?’ It was probably meant as a joke, but I replied – in all seriousness – “Because of racism and anti-Semitism.”
“Why do all of these people already have friends?” I thought to myself looking around the elementary school cafeteria during parents night for kindergarten. Clumps of parents sat at long tables, chatting away. Even my anti-social husband had wandered off to talk to someone he knew from preschool. I stifled the urge to get out my phone and stare urgently at the screen. Instead, I read the multi-colored handouts with an intense stare. Being there brought back so many experiences that color my perspective on my kids today.
“Look, there’s a bat!” I exclaim, my finger moving as a dark silhouette flits across the sky. My younger son and I are sitting on the back steps of our deck, looking up into the darkening night sky.
Eight years ago, you finally came into our lives. Five days late, ten hours of labor. You and your brother have both always been on your own timelines. But you alone made me a parent. You made me a mom.
And now, you’re right on the edge between being a big and little kid. I can no longer say I’m the mom of “little kids.” Just one little kid, with one big one.
So much has changed in the last eight years. I’ve watched you grow so much.
“I want to help!” my older son declared, in that way he does when he feels like life has dealt him a terribly unfair hand.
“Oh! Sure,” I said, handing him the snow shovel. We were clearing the sidewalk of snow, in one of the few times a year Washington D.C. gets it.
Both his tone of voice and demand to help surprised me. He’s a kid for whom chores are like pulling teeth. So volunteering for a hard job that meant I did less work? Excellent. I did want to give him a heads-up though. “The snow is pretty tough to shovel, as there’s a layer of ice underneath. From when we had the freezing rain last night. So try to get under the ice, if you can.”
As he managed the big shovel awkwardly, I tried to both hold my tongue and figure out what inspired this burst of enthusiasm.
