Sail Away

I don't write a lot about this guy anymore, not because he doesn't fill my world with stories-- quite the opposite-- but since he turned 10, and started making faces like the one above almost every time I pull out my camera, I've become so aware that his life is becoming his own. And that means I need to be careful when I want to write about Noah, to ask his permission to send my enthusiasm and awe out into this great abyss.

But I couldn't let this one go, and so, I was kindly given the green light by my little sailor man (who will, no doubt, be ready to string me up if he decides to read this..."Little sailor man" is not exactly a cool nickname).

I wrote a year ago about Noah discovering sailing (and sailing inspired Fourth of July floats).

He loves everything (but capsizing) there is to the sport. He talks about these things: how fingertips flutter instead of sink as they skim the water when under sail; the way it feels be called for skipper the first time; the smells of lake and wind and sun and stinky boat that melt from his skin into his sheets at night; the totally awesome teenagers, like Josh and Norm,

that he gets to hang out with every day, as if they are truly the epitome of a life well-lived.

This winter, while waxing poetic as only Noah can to a sailing legend who happens to live in our town, my child got a very big invitation: to sail with this wealth of knowledge every Tuesday night during the Yacht Club's race series. Justin, who, in a previous (aka pre-married) life made a living racing sailboats, heard this news like it was a gift from heaven. Noah, who knew Norm (the teenage hero) also crews the boat (as does his sailing school director) heard that he got to hang out with "the coolest dudes ever" for three extra hours a week. Me? I just heard sailboat. fast. child on board.

This Tuesday was Noah's first stint on Surprise. We were both nervous wrecks before he hit the docks. I ran around doing those things a mother does when she's nervous; I overfed him. I dressed him for the arctic circle, during a monsoon season, even though it was 50 and not raining. I checked and rechecked his lifejacket. I forced him to wear said lifejacket the second he stepped out of my car, in the parking lot, 200 feet from the docks.


(hence the "are you kidding me" expression, I think).

For Noah's part, his simply sat in the backseat, asked me to turn up the radio, and said in a quiet voice, "I'm nervous." and "You think I'll be okay, right?"

The minute we arrived, however, that fog of fear lifted (for him at least) and he was on the boat faster than I could unbuckle Lizzie from her carseat. I stood on the dock for a few minutes, feeling strange and somewhat ackward. He had not needed me to walk him down, to get him settled, to go over pick up times or safety rules. He was simply gone, learning the ins and outs of the boat without even looking back to see if I was still there.

So I snapped a few pictures. And tried not to cry.


For those of you who have older kids, you know this scene well. This moment when you understand that you've arrived at the day when your child feels independent enough to let go without looking back. I didn't know how to feel, so I concentrated on Lizzie squirming in my arms, the chill of the evening air making her bare feet search for warmth again my skin. She would point to Noah's direction and clap, nestle in against me, and then go back to pointing and clapping. I think she got it as well as I did.

Soon enough, the boat left its slip and began disappearing into the harbor.

I went home and began bedtime routines. The baths, the jammies, the snacks. Something kept pulling me back to the water though, and so I packed up Max and Liz and drove along the shore. My breath almost went from me when I saw this:

Do you see? How very far away these boats are? My baby! My first born! On the other side of the bay in a sailboat-- in a race no less-- without a parent's watchful eye. Tension leapt into my breathing. I stopped the car and starred. And then, from the backseat, Max said, "Oh, mom. Noah is racing! Way over there! He is the coolest dude ever." His envious sigh was so big and so reverent that it brought me back to reality. It brought me back to this amazing, beautiful truth: my baby is growing up. And he is one cool dude.

Sailing has been known to draw plenty of metaphors for life. I'll skip that stuff, since it's Noah that is the sailor, not me. Instead I'll simply say this, Noah did something all on his own-- without my protection or guidance or safety net. He's changing. He's learning his way and I'm so filled with respect and admiration that it aches...in the best possible sense of the word. This growing up stuff might not be so bad afterall.

In this moment:: weekend four (better late than never)

In this moment::

I am:: grateful for every giggle I can get out of my daughter. Cutting four top teeth at once brings little in the way of smiles, but for some reason, the camera always shows her shining.


I am:: finally finished obsessing over more than 2,000 pages of smut which I loved getting lost in, and yet, am too embarrassed to name here. Whew.


I am:: planning projects, both the kind that are tangible, and the kind that are anything but.


I am:: eating leftovers from last night's dinner with friends and marveling over how much easier it gets to feed nine children at once, as they get older and more, well, self sufficient.

I am:: thrilled for the onset of summer schedules, just two days from now. There will be sailing school and naps to guide our days, but little else to dance into our rhythm.



which is lovely, because
I am:: working toward transforming my view of time, aware now that each moment brings its own dawn, its own joy, its own space to simply be.

And he rides.

I love this child.

Ah, Max. A middle born in every way, my sweet boy got a little bit older yesterday. A little bit more independent. A little bit more like his big brother. Yesterday, we bid farewell to his training wheels.

The idea was all his, as he sat around the kitchen table early in the afternoon and said, quite matter-of-fact in his four-year old voice, "I'm having dad take my training wheels off of my bike. Then I'm going to ride around in the grass. And after that I am going to just go really, really fast."

Really fast.

I remember late November 2006, Max's wispy blond locks blowing every which way, his sherpa patagonia vest (my favorite kid's clothing item ever) zipped up tight in the late fall wind. We'd just handed down Noah's old Red Flyer tricycle, and there was a look of sheer determination in Max's eyes. A look that said, "I don't care if my feet don't touch the pedals. I'm makin' this work."

And he did.

Now I find myself standing in front of that same Red Flyer, only it isn't Max messing around with the handlebars and pedals. It's Lizzie.


Max is zooming up and down the driveway, his training wheels wobbling and buckling under his speed. Yes, I thought to myself, he's ready. So soon.


Justin came home from work early and set about making a true two-wheeler. There was so much excitement in the air.

I found myself skipping between video camera and still frames, trying to hide my need to protect, to control the situation from behind the lens as I watched Justin run alongside, and let go, Max teetering and toppling over again and again.





My natural instinct was to run alongside yelling things like "Justin! Hold him tighter!" and "Careful, Max! Careful!" But everytime he fell, he had a face that said "I. Love. This."

So I bit my lip. I watched a group of ants scrambling in and out of a pile of sand along the side of our driveway. I took a breath and looked up as Max screamed out my name.

And this is what I saw:


I so, so, so love being a mama.

In this moment:: weekend three

In this moment::

I am:: loving the fact that Lizzie's idea of a good time is carting around the laundry for me.


I am:: having so much fun watching Noah play soccer, more for his natural celebration of teamwork than anything else.


I am:: moved to tears when watching Max nap-- on the couch or my bed or the floor or where ever else his four-year old body gives out-- as I see glimpses of his baby days and his growing kid-ness all woven in the threads of his blankie.


I am:: thinking this through the lens of our anniversary.

As the years pass, I am coming to understand that we celebrate more than our commitment to each other when we remember our wedding day. We are remembering to be joyful in the little things. I know just how much milk to put in his coffee. He understands the look on my face that says I need a break (now). We can look at our three children, humbled, knowing. Yes, an anniversary is not really about a wedding at all, because that piece of paper means nothing compared to the choices we've made everyday since. To plan. To get off track. To forgive. To love. To grow, each day, together.

(and grow with such maturity too)

Just maybe, the meaning of life

Two nights ago, I saw the most beautiful sky sweeping across our town's little harbor. Walking our two dogs at 8:30 p.m., I stood on the bluff and paused, feeling revrant and awed as I watched a thick line of fog move in to cover the land across the bay, giving the illusion of a canvas with wet colors or a bowl of melting pink and orange and creamy grey ice cream or, I don't know, something mythical, something unreal. As the dogs pulled me down the hill, I knew the gravity they were contending with was not a vertical pull, but a horizontal one. Whereas the rich rows of lilacs edging up from the hillside were slowing me down, the call of the lake, nearby, not frozen and yet so still, was driving my Teton and Dakota into a near-frenzy. We moved swiftly toward the shoreline, and when we got there, I was stopped in my tracks. By beauty.

Have you ever been stopped in your tracks by beauty? I kicked myself for not having my camera, but in that rare and fleeting timeframe to get outside-- without small children, without a to-do list-- I left without thinking.

And maybe that's okay.

I needed to see this horizon, vast and full, and not through a view finder. If you close your eyes and picture a shawl, made from the most wispy tangerine-colored yarn, spreading across a pale blue sky, reflecting in a pale blue lake-- that is what I was seeing. A sliver of a moon was shining through, and as the wall of fog softened, it dipped into the water, stretched up like a dance. It was 49-degrees. I inhaled, taking deep and slow bouts of cool evening air, silent and absorbed in each breath,

because it carried
the lake, the sky, the sounds of waves of birds, of breeze
into, out of my body.


By the way, that painting, which feels a lot like that night, was created by this artist, whom I am lucky enough to know and admire.

In this Moment:: weekend two.

In this moment::

I am:: wearing my first hand sewn skirt. And I'm so very happy about it.


I am:: falling in love with the book A Homemade Life, with its rich recipes and sweet prose. And I'm so very happy about that too, especially after just finishing the book Infidel, which disturbed and challenged my thinking in more ways than one.


I am:: still sighing over Max's words this morning, "Mama, you make the best pillow."


I am:: still grinning about Noah's exclamaition last night "Mom, I totally love your laugh."



I am:: feeling in tune with my choice to stay home, raise a family, grow our life; looking forward to planting our garden and later, washing dirt from small fingers; wondering how to be an activist without actively over-committing; thinking it is a luxury to wonder such things; wanting to write a poem after reading these words:
"When I grow weary
of the ceaseless prattle
of my brain-sealed
mind-talk, the inner
play-by-play man/
color commentator who
never lets the action
speak for itself, I

split off, stand away,
become the benign,
vigilant watcher
of the entity named"
...
which is part of a poem by this writer, one of my favorites, and also, my friend.

I am:: learning to be okay with-- no, that's not quite right-- learning to celebrate the me that I am, inconsistent, full of conviction, always scattered and sometimes just. simple.


Happy weekend.

Milestones

There are a lot of big milestones happening around here lately. Noah, at 10, has now stayed home alone while I ran to pick us up our favorite milkshakes from downtown. It was a whole seven minutes and 28 seconds, not that I was counting (deep sigh of relief). Max is actually opting to sleep in his "big boy bed" (as in, the futon mattress on the floor of our room) instead of hurling himself headlong into our bed when he wakes in the middle of the night. Lizzie's vocabulary is steadily increasing and she's slowly moving toward more food, less milk in her daily diet.

But there are the small milestones too, the ones that slip by unnoticed if we aren't paying attention. I found myself privy to one of these moments last night, as the kids and I headed out back for a pre-bedtime walk in the woods.

When we hit the tall grasses of the field, Lizzie normally squawks and throws her arms up in that "Mama-carry-me-right-now!" kind of way. Which I do. The entire time we are out walking. Occasionally, she'll let me set her down, so long as I hold her hand. Tightly.

As the dusk light gathered around us yesterday, however, something happened: she. let. go. I don't know if the whoops and yells of her brothers, far ahead and in a full-on stick sword battle caught her attention.

Or maybe it was our dogs, circling like she was a lamb that needed herding that distracted her.

Or it might have just been this:

Whatever it was that made it happen, My little girl let go of my hand.

She began to walk away from me-- tentatively at first-- as she reached over and touched everything in sight.

She came back once or twice to steal a hug before venturing off again, a little further...

As for me, I just hung back, watching her go. I took a few breaths, knowing I was seeing her gain a little independence, a little desire to explore the world around her all on her own. High in an old oak, a mourning dove cooed. Its song seemed full of peace and promise, as it carried my girl forward.


*I disappeared for a week (something to do with a dead computer...sigh) but I'm back, and do plan to post here at least twice each week. You can also find me at Cluck and Tweet, where I post crafts and recipes and silly domestic matters every other day (and on my off days, my partner in crime is much funnier than I). I'm also still here at MyNorth, where this month I'm focusing on fun things to do outdoors with the little ones.