Matinee

Today the boys and I watched The Fighting Sullivans, the story of five brothers who are all killed aboard a Navy boat during World War II. This movie was legend in our home growing up because my mom and her siblings (one sister and seven brothers) ranked this movie as No. 1 in their youth.

The boys really dragged their heels when I said this was the Afternoon Movie. They had noted on the Netflix case that the movie was made in 1944, which meant it probably didn't even have sound.

"Let's start the movie," I said, gathering them in.

"That one that was made in 1896," said one boy as he deeply exhaled and then flung his head off the back of his neck. I bent down, picked up his head, and then helped him reattach.

"Yes," I said, "that's the one."

We started the movie, despite their protests, and within two minutes, everyone was hooked.

"I win," I said (to myself, because I know better than to say this out loud).

My boys loved every single minute of this film. One or two may have cried, I don't know. I mean, I doubt it, but I heard a few giving each other a hard time about being sad, which to me at least indicated they grasped the significance of the boat going down with all five brothers on board (as opposed to being enamored by the explosions of that moment).

The lesson to be learned is: ignore all that body language they send your way. You know best! Trust your instinct. Also, black and white films, contrary to what they might think, will not singe your children's retinas. They are tough enough for this, and a whole host of other hardships as well.

Synchronicity

I walk into the front room after finishing up on the computer.

"Hey, why don't we turn on Swiss Family Robinson," I ask, referring to the movie I just checked out from the library.

"We're already on it," says one of the boys, and I notice the door to the DVD player is closing as he speaks.

"Awesome," I say.

Walking into the kitchen, I holler to them.

"Does anybody want any popcorn?"

Just as I ask, I notice something is cooking in the microwave.

"Already on that too," says another boy.

In a few hours I plan to ask them if they want to brush their teeth and get their toenails trimmed. Will my luck continue? We shall see.

Afternoon Activities

Elliott, reading in the front room: This book is awesome. It tells you how to read people's minds.

Me: Cool. Why don't you try that out on your brothers.

Charlie: Uh-uh. Uh-uh.

Elliott, with slight regret: It's more complicated than it sounds. It involves a country in Europe.

Easing Into Summer

Weekly column

The boys were doing their chores one recent morning, collecting trash, unloading the dishwasher, gathering dirty clothes to bring to the laundry room.

As I started to load the washing machine, I noticed nine-year-old Charlie was wearing a shirt that practically begged to be cleaned. In fact, as I stared at the shirt I realized I had been seeing a lot of it lately – like on and off every day since Sunday. We were currently halfway through the week.

“Let me take that,” I said, motioning to the shirt that could have walked over to me on its own. “and I’ll spray something on the front to get those stains out.”

“Thanks,” said Charlie, removing the shirt, “this shirt really means a lot to me.”

“It is a special shirt,” I agreed. Charlie had just gotten the shirt from his aunt, which explained why he wanted to wear it constantly. It was the exact basketball t-shirt he had asked for and she tracked it down and presented it to him for his recent birthday.

“This is the shirt I packed Ethan in,” he said with a hint of melancholy.

I got a little choked up. Our oldest son was currently away for the week at Boy Scout camp. He had left Sunday, Day One in Charlie’s endless shirt run, and we were all missing him.

“Oh,” I said, “were you wearing this when you helped Daddy pack up the car with Ethan’s stuff?”

“No,” Charlie said, coming back from his pleasant memories, “this was the shirt I was wearing when I packed Ethan – when I smacked the ball out of his hands when we were playing basketball.”

We finished our walk down memory lane, and Charlie handed me the shirt to throw in the washer. He found something else to wear and headed off to finish his chores.

That particular morning was especially good because I had finally decided to get going with my summer schedule. A few weeks earlier, after reading an inspired article about setting a schedule and having a plan, I was reminded of the need for structure in our summer days. Growing up, my mom did an excellent job of planning summer (days that included work, reading and lots of time outside) and I find that when I hearken to those days, things go very beautifully around here.

But Henry’s cast situation had left me feeling like we were in a holding pattern. Weeks earlier I had written out our schedule and even discussed it with Paul. I had started off with the best intentions and somehow eased into shooting from the hip. Apparently, I had come to the conclusion that we would start our schedule when the cast came off and Henry was free from his shackles. Then I could focus on running a tighter ship.

At some point, though, I had a revelation: what exactly are you waiting for? That’s what I asked myself as I tread water in a sea of endless lounge-living. Of course Henry being in the cast limited our out-of-house activities, and it was certainly easier to park him in the front room in his beanbag and let him watch his brothers play a video game (or two). But the fruit in our home was hardly worth the “convenience” of keeping my expectations so low.

I’m all for being realistic in dealing with these boys, but at some point I had lowered my standards to frightening depths. Just because Henry wasn’t mobile didn’t mean the other boys couldn’t get going on morning chores and reading and life beyond doing nothing. It’s true the cast has been emotionally and physically draining, but I was ready to quit lounging and start living.

What a difference structure makes in the lives of children. In the few days that I have been sticking to our (now prominently-posted) schedule, the boys are like new creatures. Of course there is the occasional moaning and groaning, some healthy emoting from the poor soul who just does not have it in him to unload the dishwasher and then sweep the porches?! How could I expect so much?

But once I remind these boys that they are indeed capable of doing this work, well, suddenly they are. The more I expect from my boys, the higher they seem to rise to the occasion.

Well it's nice to see you too!

It is my favorite sound of the day -- the sound of the back door opening as Daddy walks in from work.

Before he announces he is home, before I even leave my post to greet him with a kiss, I hear Charlie welcome him.

"Daddy," Charlie asks, skipping a more traditional greeting, "would you rather be eaten by a giant, or a giant bug?"

"A giant," Paul answers without hesitation.

"Me too," says Charlie, and then runs back into the front room to carry on with his brothers.

Finish Line

We did it! We got to the doctor today and after a two hour wait, with me feeling totally nervous the entire time (why?), the doctor walked in and said "Looks good. Cast is coming off." And then I started to cry.

Thanks for all the encouragement and support. What a journey. When I gathered Henry into my arms, after the cast had been sawed off, I remembered how good it feels to hold a little 23-month-old guy. It all came flooding back to me: non-Spica living. And right now I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude and peace, joy and of course relief. A lot of relief.

Pictures from today (that I was posting to Twitter in Real Time):

I love this first one. I sent this to Twitter and a few minutes later, I get a text from my sister saying "fix Henry's shoe. It's about to come off." Love it!



This next one is odd to see, because it's been my view, when looking down while holding Henry, for the last seven weeks. The boys had wanted us to save the bar (for reasons not entirely clear to me) but when I saw this all in the trash I thought, yes, this is where it should be.



And here is the money shot -- this sums up our feelings, me and Paul and everyone else in our life who loves us and has walked through this journey with us -- and that includes YOU. Thank you!

Thoughts on Spica, for my Sweet Baby Boy

Dear Henry,

This is a letter to you, from me (your lovin' mama) that I am putting in your baby book. It concerns a very unique season in your life that is about to be over (if not tomorrow than at least very, very soon) and one day the details of this season will not have the sharp focus that they do this evening. And while I have not loved every moment of these last seven weeks (seven weeks, two days, six hours) -- they have been sweet, because you have been at the center of each of every one of them. That is what makes it a bearable, worthwhile tiny little cross to bear. Jesus has given us the grace, but our overwhelming love for you helps a lot too.

Lord Henry, my sweet little baby boy, you broke your leg. This is what I tell people, all the people everywhere we go who ask what happened, what on *earth* happened to that poor baby? This is what I say, everywhere we go:

He broke his femur, I say (pointing to my femur). We were at a park, a plantation we go every Mother's Day, and our dog (our little 30 pound dog) was on a very long tether. I threw a ball and off she went and Henry got caught by the tether. He landed hard, his leg splayed at a funky angle (I say this every time, and then try to fashion my leg at a funky angle). We went to the ER and found out he broke his leg. He got his cast the next morning.

People tell me, Henry, that breaking a femur is the most painful break a person can have. And when I hear that it makes me cry, not too much but enough. I am so sorry you have had to endure this, but I am so proud of how well you have managed. Maybe it's just your age, maybe it's your personality, maybe it's grace from all the people praying for you -- but over these last seven weeks you have not complained at all. You have not screamed or grabbed at the cast or done anything to show any hint of agitation. Yes, you have tried to get in the pool (when we drop the big boys off for swim team). And your vocabulary has grown to include words like "ow" and "it hurts" and "stuck! I stuuuuck!" But mostly you have accepted this burden, and Daddy and I are amazed because you don't necessarily realize that being in this cast won't last forever. But here you are, dealing with it all.

There are some funny things about a Spica cast. On one of the first days you had the cast, I took you out for a walk. We went to see your friend Judah and his mommy gave you a cupcake. You ate that cupcake, enjoyed every little morsel that fell in your mouth. When we got home (about an hour later, because we took some looooong walks), I changed your diaper and out fell a handful of crumbs. They had shimmied down the front of your cast and out the other end!

Last night, you did not sleep well at all. You were awake from midnight until five this morning! I don't know what was going on, but at some point I changed your diaper and discovered a Scrabble tile! Where did that come from? I'm wondering what else we will find when this cast comes off.

This has not been an easy trial, Henry, but you have been such a good, good boy. I am proud of you, because you don't know how to count the days (and hours and minutes) off a calendar and even so, you are content. You are happy to have your brothers surrounding you as you hold court in your bright red beanbag. You ask for very little -- you want to watch "jay tay" (jelly telly on the computer), you want the occasional lollipop, and you are happy to play with whatever toys we set next to you. Lately you are asking for Nerf guns, and you will shoot and then wait for a brother to help you reload and shoot again.

You are a dear, my Henry boy. I'm looking forward to grabbing your whole, healed body (ever so gently) and holding it next to me. No heavy cast. No clunky bar. No awkward angles. Just you. I don't want to forget this season, but I am happy we are about to leave it behind.

Upcoming

1. For locals, this Thursday evening I'll be on WBPI, Club 36 (Comcast Channel 12). The show is LIVE! from 8-10 p.m. and we'll be discussing how to enjoy your kids when they're home for the summer.

2. Saturday, July 11 I'll be in Macon, Georgia to speak at A Woman's Call to Holiness. The retreat will be from 8:30 a.m. - 6 p.m. at St. Peter Claver Catholic Church. All talks are based on Novo Millennio Ineunte, Pope John Paul II's vision for a universal call to holiness.

Email me if you have any questions or want more information!

On the Kindness of Others

Weekly column. I know you guys are going to miss Spica when it's gone. Aren't you? Just admit it.

When I was pregnant with our first baby, I worked at the local newspaper. My job involved working with area schools, where I would introduce students to the newspaper through classroom presentations and seminars for teachers.

Several days a week, I would travel throughout the region visiting schools. I’d walk in and out of buildings carrying large stacks of newspapers, learning materials and Mr. Newspaper, our newsie mascot (human insert not included). This was easy enough until the end of the pregnancy when I no longer had a waist, which prevented me from opening a door and carrying things simultaneously.

One day I realized that as I waddled towards a door, I was praying for just the right person to help me at just the right time. It worked, and I used that reliable method until the baby was born. Someone was always there in my moment of need.

These last few weeks of Henry in a body cast have sent me back to a season of neediness. Unfortunately, I recall that pregnant season with more fondness than I currently feel. It’s not fun needing help. It’s so much easier to get the job done myself – when I want to and in my own timeframe – than to ask for help and see what I get (and when).

For a while, practical living with the cast wasn’t too taxing. Of course there was the initial shock and upheaval – and friends brought meals and watched the boys in those first few days. But then we settled in and things were fine. Maybe I’d even say things were lovely.

The boys still had a few weeks of school, so most of their day was accounted for. And while I couldn’t grocery shop alone – Henry can’t fit into a shopping cart – that inconvenience afforded me several memorable outings. One morning, my brother rode with me to the local food warehouse. He pushed the cart while I managed Henry and I still got a month’s worth of food just like I always do.

A few days later, Henry and I hit Target with a friend who pushed a cart that I loaded with beanbags, diapers and other essentials. My friend and I even grabbed coffee on that outing, something we’d been planning for months but could never find the time. All it took was a spica cast for me to slow down enough for an iced hazelnut latte.

But that was then. Now, it’s summer. Now I have four big boys who need to get out – who really can’t stay inside watching television all day (despite their protests to the contrary). Now I am back to relying on the kindness of others – of praying for friends to help fill the gaps that I am temporarily incapable of filling myself.

Instead of me hanging out at the pool every day, I ask my friend if the boys can go with her. When my sister-in-law offers to have all the boys over to play, I gratefully accept. My sister has watched Henry every chance she gets, with open and eager arms – and still I find myself sheepish when I accept, or when I need her help again, a few days later.

It would be so much easier to say no, it is too much, you have all done enough already. I want to say I can handle it myself and I’m so grateful for your generosity but I’ve got it under control.

But I can’t. Because I don’t. While I could limp along and just white knuckle this situation for a few more weeks, the thought of it makes two weeks seem like a lifetime. I realize that the only thing keeping me from accepting help is my pride, and my desire to do it all myself.

These weeks with infirm Henry have been hard. It is hard for me to ask for help with my boys – or to accept offers of help. But I have. What a strange, challenging, possibly even liberating thing to take people up on their offers of kindness.