The other day, a friend showed me this clip on YouTube:

The back story: the two men raised the lion from infancy until they could no longer care for him properly. He was released to a refuge, where he lived as wild as he could. The video clip shows the trio’s reunion, over a year after his release. At the time, I was overwhelmed by the raw power and emotion of the moment captured on that video. My heart warmed and smiled at the same time.

I couldn’t help but think of that video this morning as I headed out the door to a day-long conference. It was early in the morning — just after seven, in fact. Although awake, neither of my kids had made it out of bed yet. I’d hugged and kissed them in their own beds, sharing a special moment with each of them before heading out the door.

As I opened the door, but before I stepped outside, I heard from my son’s bedroom a sweet voice telling me one last thing: “I miss you, Mom!”

Not even out the door yet, and I was missed. At that moment, I felt the complete love and adoration of my son, more powerful, wonderful and awesome than a thousand lion hugs and kisses.

Men aren’t the most empathetic of beasts. Don’t get me wrong — men are capable of empathy, and when they show it, it’s almost always powerful and strong and supportive and comforting all at the same time. But, in general, empathy isn’t usually the first reaction a man brings to a given situation. For them, empathy isn’t so much instinctual as it is a learned behavior — and one which must almost always takes a back seat, or at least plays second fiddle, to practicality.

This observation has never been so clear to me than it was this morning, as I was helping my son put on his shoes.

“Ow!” he complained, as he accidentally hit, with his shoe, the toe that he’d just injured the night before.

“Oh, I’m sorry, hon,” I offered empathetically. See, there was that female instinct rearing its head.

And in less than a nano-second, Evan replied, revealing his own instinctual bias, “But you didn’t do anything, Mom. Why are you saying sorry?!”

Such. The. Man.

“I don’t like this part,” my son says to me, pointing to his bagel.

“Which part?” I ask.

“This part!” he replies emphatically, pointing to the hole in the middle.

“The hole?!  You don’t like the hole?”

“Yeah.  I don’t like the hole.”

“Well, ” I reply, hesitating only a moment before I offer my solution.  “Just don’t eat that part.”

My moment’s hesitation is matched by his own.  And then his face lights up as he happily says, “Okay.  That’s a great idea!”

Damn, I’m good.

The other day, our entire family went to see Merlin and the Cave of Dreams at the Raleigh Little Theater. We head to this theater about four times a year and enjoy their family series together with my sister and her family. Always, afterward, a pizza dinner at Amedeo’s. This? Is the stuff I love about being a family.

The production was no different than any other production we’ve seen: clever scenery, rich costuming, and acting that leaves only a little to be desired. My children sat intently with their jaws wide open watching the wonders on the stage; I sat intently with my jaws wide open watching them watch the play.

And then Arthur met Uther in the Underworld. Swords clashed, spears jabbed, and dragons hurled fire. Thunder clapped, lights flashed, and men screamed. I watched as Zoe recoiled in horror and fear. And I recoiled in horror and fear as I watched Evan creep to the edge of his seat in awe.

I’ve tried my best to limit my children’s exposure to violence. Television is extremely limited in our home, and that which they watch is usually on PBS. Toy guns are not allowed in our home, and physical play usually emphasizes skill over brawn.

And yet? Evan can make a gun out of anything. He shoots bad guys and spears villians daily. The word kill is not unknown to him. And, more often than not, he comes home from school covered head-to-toe in mulch, undoubtedly from a few good tackles and romps on the playground.

When Zoe began displaying stereo-typical “girl” behaviors — playing dress-up, obsessing over princesses, and oogling grandma’s make-up — my reaction was a less-than-concerned eye-roll. Certainly, this jeans-and-t-shirt kind of gal didn’t impose these behaviors upon her, but they were entirely innocent, and only a bit annoying.

So why isn’t my reaction to Evan’s display of stereo-typical “boy” behaviors anything other than that same bored eyeroll? Why, instead, the arched eyebrow of concern and frantic rush to stifle the behaviors?

A girlfriend of mine, and mom to three boys, says that there’s recent research (which I haven’t bothered to investigate) indicating that young boys should be allowed to play out such behaviors now, in their early years. By the time they get to be teenagers — when they have decidedly less impulse control — these behaviors are nothing interesting, nothing exotic, and nothing to be explored. They’re old hat, quite frankly. The rule in her house goes something like this: play with the swords and shooters as much as you want, preferably going after the bad guys. But if anyone gets hurt, the “toy” goes away. Seems reasonable to me. Guns and swords and shooters as therapeutic play? I’m not so certain I can go so far as to say that, but her point does resonate with me — a bit.

And then I watch my son pick up a stick and “shoot” me with it. And it’s…uncomfortable. It’s uncomfortable because I cannot abide guns. I cannot abide the violence they bring, and the hate they brew, and the discord they percolate. It’s uncomfortable because … it is real. Zoe’s fantasies are just that: fantasy. There are no real-life corollaries to unicorns and princesses in towers and magic carpets. Evan’s games, too, are certainly fantasy. He hasn’t any idea that what he plays in his games indeed has a very real, and very disturbing, corollary in true life. But it does.

One day, Zoe will discover that there really aren’t any unicorns and magic carpets. She’ll be sad for a day or two. Discovering that your fantasy isn’t really real can be devastating. Yet, I wish it could happen to Evan. A tear or two shed upon learning that his fantasy world of bad guys and villians and shooters is just that — fantasy — would be entirely worth the peace brought by the alternate reality.

(Alternate title would have something to do with boys and their Lincoln Logs)

smilence

Pronunciation: ’smI-l&n(t)s
Function: noun
: the sound, as heard by a mother, emanating from behind the closed doors of a room in which two young girls, together for a playdate, are quietly playing.

silengst

Pronunciation: ’sI-[ng](k)st
Function: noun
: the sound, as heard by a mother, emanating from behind the closed doors of a room in which two young boys, together for a playdate, are quietly playing.

geronimOhNo

Pronunciation: j&-’rä-n&-”mO-nO
Function: noun
: the sound immediately following silengst. Usually also accompanied by a thud or a crash.

I’ve been doing this balance and teeter-tottering for the better part of a year now. Most of the time, I’m on the balanced end of the see-saw, but, every once in a while — you know, like when I happen to have a fire, or surgery, or, you know, any number of small little set backs in my life — I’ve teetered and tottered more than I’d like to admit. Because, you see, it takes skill to maintain this balance, and I’d like to believe I’ve got skilz.

Or, maybe it takes just a little luck.

Evan had been nothing less than a total nightmare all. day. long. He was inconsolable, whiney, irrational, and — to be perfectly fair here — a total pain in my ass. As the hours of the day rolled on, ominous clouds began hovering over me. I’d made a calculated risk a few days ago, figuring that my children would play well at the indoor playground in the mall while I was interviewed by a couple considering hiring me as a doula. Evan’s apparent “off day” was coming on the wrong day; he had to shape up before the interview, or my calculated risk would become nothing short of a really bad decision. As it was, I was very concerned that it simply would not work out.

The dinner hour at the mall food court prior to the interview — originally planned to be a fun beginning to the outing — was turning out to be equally painful. Not once, not twice, but three times during dinner, Evan interrupted the meal with the news that he had to go potty — only to steadfastly deny the need once we’d all schlepped all of our selves to the bathroom. I’d had it with him, quite honestly, and I had no room in my being for being sympathetic to the trials of potty training. (Because, you see, he has been “potty training” for a year.) As it was, the pit in my stomach was solid and uncomfortable. Clearly, this was not going to work out.

As the time for the interview approached, I packed up the uneaten dinners and headed down to the play area. Within moments, my son was declaring a need to go potty, once again. Visions of this kind of repeated interruption…shudders. Clearly, Clearly. Not going to work out.

One more time, to the bathroom. One more time, the denial. But, despite the denial, he sat. And he sat. And he sat. And he worked it out.

The interview went off without a hitch.

As much as I’ve praised (and lamented) about boys’ clothes, it is an unmistakable fact of life that boys’ — and men’s — fashion is somewhat limited. Males are destined to a life of stripes, plaid, denim and khakis. That is, of course, unless you’re willing to venture into the more daring territory usually reserved for alternative lifestyles — not that there’s anything wrong with that — or you have a mother who cruelly dresses you in smocked togs — and there’s everything wrong about that.

My son appears to have discovered this little bit of information early in his life, and it seems as though he has a definite opinion on his fashion fate.

The other day, after he’d put a shirt on, I set out two pair of pants — one pair of jeans and one pair of khakis — from which he could choose the remainder of his outfit for the day. He looked at his choices and immediately began to cry hysterically and flail about angrily. There was no calming him down.

“Evan, what is the matter?” I asked with frustration. I was stymied by his obvious — but mysterious — anger.

After a few more shouts and an emphatic stomp of his foot, he declared, in his angriest voice: “MY PANTS ARE BORING!”

And I had to admit he had a point.

Happy Birthday, Evan. You are three.

It’s hard to believe that only a year ago, I was worried that you wouldn’t ever speak. Today, I sometimes worry that you won’t ever stop speaking. But that’s ok, because I love to hear your youthful voice, your quirky malapropisms and mispronunciations, and your infectious giggle. You never cease to surprise with what comes out of your mouth — insightful comments, playful retorts, or just plain facts from the world of Evan. Yours is a wonderful world, and I thank you for sharing with me.

I would be dishonest if I didn’t say that this past year you proved to us that two really can be terrible. Overnight, late last winter, I lost my dear sweet Evan. In his place? A cantankerous little devil with a great propensity for the word No. For a few long months, I wondered where my son had gone. And then, as quickly as the storm initially descended, it lifted. In its place was a warm, funny, energetic young boy, with only a little taste for the word No. I’m glad we were able to trade in for the better model.

All too often, you’ll hear boys described as “lively.” It’s almost always used as a euphemism, a thinly-veiled attempt to sweeten a sour note from an exasperated parent. But when I say you’re lively, I’m saying it with delight. You’re lively — full of life. The day breaks and you are ready to go, ready to break from the shackles of sleep and explore yet another corner of your infinitely polygonal world. You drink it up, every ounce of it, and ask for more — just as you do to your glass of milk each morning. Insatiable. Your father and I watch in amazement, and with a little bit of jealousy.

When you were little (which is laughable, really), you referred to yourself as “Self.” You’ve long since replaced the term with the correct pronoun, but, in so many ways, that fierce self-reliance has only intensified. You want to do everything yourself. Buckles and buttons, doors and latches — they’re all yours to conquer. But when they’re stubborn and unyielding, you forget the world is bigger than you are sometimes. Here’s a hint, kiddo: attaching the word help to the pronoun me doesn’t imply you’ve lost your self-reliance. To the contrary, asking for help is sometimes the most independent and brave thing you can do. Trust me on that one.

Sometimes I find you upstairs in the playroom, all by yourself, immersed in your world of Legos. Daddy gave you some this year, and it was love at first sight. With a fierce determination and a quiet intensity that both intrigues and frustrates me, you construct exacting replicas from the creations of your mind’s eye. Rocket ships and flat-bed trucks and boats and race cars — these are the products of your mind, your hands and a few plastic building blocks. I can only marvel at what you will do with more precise, mature tools at your fingertips.

You recently started taking a gymnastics class. As I watch through the plate glass window each week, I’m struck by how confident and sure you are, not once seeking a reassuring glance from me. You jump and leap and swing and hang with nothing but pure pleasure on your face. And you’ve shown me you’re far bigger than I’d thought. Standing in line, waiting your turn, listening to the Coach — these are things I wasn’t sure you were ready for. But you are. I suspect you’ll always be telling me you’re ready before I’m willing to admit it for myself. I know I fall prey to the tendency to “baby” my baby more often than I should. But I can trust that you’ll set me straight.

You also learned to ride a bike the other day. For almost a year, your bike languished in storage, “too big” for you in so many ways. But as the year came to a close, the inches you’ve stacked on and the coordination you’ve garnered brought you to the big leagues of a big bike.

As soon as you figured out how to pedal, you pedalled off, down the hill, picking up speed along the way. I couldn’t catch up with you. And I hadn’t yet taught you about brakes. One sharp, errant turn, and I watched, helpless, as you tumbled on to the street. I was so sorry — for not being there, for not preparing you well. We both cried a bit. But the next day, once the dirt and blood and tears were washed away, I watched as a very brave little boy got back on his bike. And learned about putting on the brakes a little. Yes, they’re definitely a tool you’ll need throughout your life; without them, you’ll fall unnecessarily. But don’t put them on too hard, either, Evan. A little wind in your face is a good thing.

It used to be, each night after changing you into jammies, you’d stand on your changing table and take a flying leap into my arms. Sometime this year, you outgrew changing tables. I hope you never outgrow flying leaps into my arms.

Happy Birthday, Evan.

My
husband and I have rather purposely not raised our children under any
particular religious doctrine. Matters of faith, we think, are too big
to be dictated; One must choose what they believe on their own. Our
goal is to raise thoughtful, inquisitive young adults who find their
own answers to questions of faith, or, at least, find a place of
comfort in not knowing the answers. If that place of comfort, that
place of knowledge is within an organized religion, so be it. That will
be their decision.

It appears as though we’ve made great strides in paving the path of that journey.

“I’m
going to ‘merca,” Evan said to me this morning. His annunciation still
leaves a lot to be desired, so often there’s a little sleuthing to be
performed. He is quite sure, however, of what he’s trying to say, so
anything that’s repeated back to him incorrectly will be thus rejected.

“You’re going to America?” I guessed.

“No. I’m going to ‘merca,” he tried again.

“America?”

“Nooooo.” Clearly he was getting frustrated with his mommy’s inability to simply hear him. He raised his voice so as to be heard more clearly. “I GO TO MECCA.”

“Mecca?” I asked, clearly intrigued.

“Yesssss. Mecca!” At last! Someone was hearing him!

“Mecca,
huh? You’re making the Hajj?” I expected my addition to reveal his
obvious confusion. Surely, he did not yet know about Islam.

My expectations were not met. His response was an emphatic “Yes! I go to Mecca.”

Choosing his religion — at the age of three.