And then I poked him in the eye

I love how asking a four-year-old a direct question -- when you KNOW they've done wrong -- never gets a straight answer. Instead their voice rises to levels of earnestness brought on only by remorse (at being caught, I'm sure) and the resulting "explanation" is like something out of a drug-induced dream sequence. I'm convinced that when Vincent "explains" why Dominic is crying, he's hoping I'll get bored halfway through his soliloquy and drop the inquisition.

The latest answer, after I heard a piercing scream from the boys' room and found Dominic clutching his eye:

"Well, we were playing dump trucks, and I was the dump truck, but then we got out real dump trucks and I said, 'Dommie, do you want to play real dump trucks?' and Dommie said 'Yea!' so I got out our dump trucks and then he dumped out EVERYTHING from the drawer and I said, 'Dommie, do you want some chocolate chips?' and he said, 'Yea!' and so I went to get us chocolate chips, and we filled up our dump trucks with them and I said, 'Dommie, do you want some marshmallows?' and he said, 'Yea!' but we were out of marshmallows and then we knocked over the chair and then we decided not to play dump trucks anymore because Dommie wanted more chocolate chips, and then he got out the eggs and ripped off the top and I said, 'No Dommie! Mommy will be so mad!' and he said, 'Yea!' and then we went back into my room and started playing dump trucks again. And then I poked him in the eye."

Partners in Slime

Saturday morning I was home with the boys while Catherine and Roger took the van to be vacuumed out (or something equally exciting), and I asked myself, "Hmmm, what kind of fun activity can I do with the boys?"

The obvious answer, of course, was "Make homemade slime." So a Google search later, we had a slime mixture of Elmer's glue and Borax that absolutely thrilled the boys. And by "thrilled" I mean they started throwing it at each other across the table until Mommy yelled at them to stop. Then they took baths to clean the slime out of their hair. Let's hear it for buzz cuts.

But the point is that the brothers really do get along well. Anything Vincent does, Dominic does, right down to trying to wear his shoes and jackets. Hero-worship at its finest.



It's like Vincent has his own little echo. If Vincent calls out, "Hey, let's be monsters!" we'll hear a tinny "Monsters!" behind him. Or, "Hey, let's be aliens!" "Aliens!" "Hey, let's be cowboys!" "Cowboys!" We probably ought to give singular credit to Vincent for his brother's recent onslaught of vocabulary.

Imitation is flattery, right? I think another way of putting that is that there is nothing as much fun as a big brother.

So, what have we been up to?

Well, a lot! We've had beautiful weather down here, which means lots of family run/walk/bikes along the American Tobacco Trail, or as Vincent calls it, the Kabaca Trail. Kabaca, in case you're wondering, is what people smoke in pompettes, and pompettes make people sick, as he is sure to tell everyone he sees smoking one.

Besides that little educational foray, the kids have been learning about the human body, so they did a neat project that involved tracing their bodies life-size on large sheets of paper and coloring them in. Roger thought Catherine's eyes looked a little too Joan Rivers-ish so he took an eraser and pencil to them. Vincent's doppleganger also got a facelift after he got confused and drew the nose above the eyes. At first Vincent insisted that his paper friend have a skeleton so he could carry him around, and I kowtowed to that by taping rulers together for a spine, but after the fifth broken bone (courtesy of Dommie) we bandaged him up. When I asked Vincent where we should hang him he decided that we should hang Paper Vincie on the closet doors the master bedroom, "so you and Daddy can look at me all night long."

Old faces: 

New faces: 

And then there's Dommie. Speech-wise, he has gone from "Uh, should we get the kid tested?" to "Be quiet for just a second, would you?" He came out with his first sentence in December ("Hit rooster!") and now strings together things like "Mommy help me puzzle" and "Dommie candy. Dommie candy. Dommie candy!" The other day when Vincent lost his popcorn privileges Dominic rather gleefully reminded us for hours on end, "Dommie popcorn, Vincie no popcorn!"

So the house gets louder and louder, and in March it'll get louder still! The other morning the kids came with me to a doctor's appointment and when the doctor asked the routine, "Do you have any concerns about this pregnancy?" Catherine answered, "YES. We are CONCERNED that the baby might not be a GIRL" while giving her brothers the evil eye.

And I do have to admit, sometimes, like right now when the boys are running around with their arsenal of guns and swords, I think that it might be nice to have a sweet, quiet little girl.

Colonial waterslides

On Friday afternoon the kids were constructing pyramids and writing hieroglyphics from ancient Egypt. By Monday we had time-traveled to a Powhatan Indian village and Jamestown, where the first settlers landed in 1607 (way before those credit-hogging Pilgrims). Tuesday morning found us scooting down decidedly modern waterslides, and Tuesday afternoon we had skipped back to the 1700s in colonial Williamsburg. I vacillate between thinking that the kids will someday have an in-depth appreciation of history and thinking that they're going to expect to see King Tut at Jamestown.

At any rate, we had fun on our mini-vacation! And now that we're back, it's on to a study of Victorian houses. 

Thanksgiving redemption

I know, it sounds like this post is going to be all serious and stuff. But it's not. It's just to show the "good" stuff the kids did around Thanksgiving (and to show Uncle Luke he hasn't won the Redneck War). Our kids still have class (a little, anyway).

In preparation, we read bunches of books about the Pilgrims and Indians and the Mayflower. One morning when the kids woke up I informed them that we were headed off on a long journey, and that they needed to pack -- but they could only pack the same things the Pilgrims packed, which were a Bible, one set of clothes, tools, cooking implements, firearms, and one toy.

For Vincent, "one toy" translated to: his wooden catapult (to fight the Indians), his nerf sword (to fight the Indians), his wooden shield (to fight the Indians), and a truck. When I pointed out that trucks weren't invented in Pilgrim times, he informed me that he had invented them. So there.

The kids took it farther than I thought they would. They combed through their dress-up boxes for suitable outfits. Vincent found a frilly white shirt, and Catherine pulled out a green dress from Gaga that looked perfect for a good little Pilgrim girl. To this she added her colonial bonnet. Dommie stripped off his clothes and ran around naked.

The Pilgrims also packed food. For 66 days they ate hard tack, a form of beef jerkey, and, if they could cook safely on the ship, soup of dried beans. The problem was, many of those 66 days were turbulent, so lighting a cooking fire on board was out of the question.

So we made our own hard tack. Flour, water and salt. Lots of salt. I turned the kids loose with the ingredients and let them roll out their hard tack and bake it. It was surprisingly decent and, not so surprisingly, horrendously messy. But by the fourth day that stuff was HARD. Like, crack-a-tooth hard. Poor Pilgrims.

But the most important thing we did was to remember the true meaning of the Thanksgiving spirit: Being grateful for all that we have, and remembering that not everyone has these same blessings. So on a sunny Saturday afternoon we went to our church and decorated tons of boxes to deliver to families without the means to have a big Thanksgiving dinner, and then the kids filled them with food. But I had to agree with Vincent when he said, with a slight shudder, that he was glad there was no hard tack in those boxes.

If you're gonna deep-fry a turkey...

Deep-frying must be a Southern thing. It's probably just too cold for some guy to sit around Minnesota checking the temperature of a bird bubbling in peanut oil -- even if he has a six-pack (or two) to keep him warm. Lucky for us that Thanksgiving Day brought sunny skies and temperatures way up there on the thermometer.

And in true redneck fashion, our official turkey-fryer Uncle Luke brought over a new cap for Vincent. Let me specify: a new bright orange hunting hat that read "Life is a Game. Hunting is Serious." And it was with joy that Vincent sat outside with Uncle Luke wearing his new hat and pointing his musket at the turkey as it was lifted from the foil wrapping into the fryer. Bam! Shot by a little redneck.

Uncle Luke redeemed himself later on by reading about 60 pages of a princess book to Catherine while Dominic jumped on his head.

Meanwhile, Dominic proved his complete uncouth-ness by helping himself to a) a drumstick, and b) the bowl of whipped cream. Who needs spoons, forks or plates? Not our kids!

The end of a road

Almost exactly two years ago, Roger and I entered the Department of Orthopedics at UNC Hospitals carrying our sleeping five-day-old son in an infant carrier. We were, as most parents of newborns are, sleep-deprived and exhausted. But beneath the fatigue was anxiety: We were about to start an unknown journey, one that would take baby Dominic from club-footed to, well, normal.

When we walked out that day, we had a clearer picture of the road ahead of us. We also had a son who had suddenly gained two pounds in plaster -- double leg casts, toe to thigh.

Yesterday morning, at Dominic's two-year check up, we followed the red flashes of Dommie's light-up sneakers as he jumped off chairs and ran down hallways. And we rejoiced in the good news: For all practical purposes, Dominic is cured. His feet are completely normal. Our journey is almost done.


If he had to have a birth defect, bilateral club feet was a good choice. It is the most common defect, occurring in 1 in 1000 births. Some children have just a single club foot; in a way, Dommie was lucky to have two because his feet, smaller than a normal child's, match. No need to buy special shoes or different sizes for each foot. He can wear his light-up sneakers all he wants.

I could tell stories -- horror stories, you might call them, except that his deformity was minor compared to those suffered by millions of children around the world. To recount how his tiny toes once got bent and mangled in a cast, or how his casts, and then his brace, prevented him from ever developing a regular sleep routine, or how much it hurts to get kicked in the mouth with the orthopedic brace he wears at night -- well, to recount those seems an awful lot like whining now that we're done. And now that I can look back and say, It wasn't that bad.


It just seemed like it at the time.

In truth, having a baby with "special needs" gave us a lot of reasons for gratitude. I am grateful for the wonderful nurses and doctors and UNC, for their compassion and skill and humor. I am grateful for the support and prayers of family and friends. I am grateful for all those people who babysat while we made the every-two-day, then weekly, then bi-weekly, then monthly trips to UNC in the early morning hours. I am grateful to everyone who brought us meals, who took the kids on looooong walks, who made emergency trips to the library. I am grateful to the people who made me laugh.

I am grateful for the long car rides through the quiet Jordan Lake wilderness. I am grateful that I had that time to spend with my husband, just talking. In our hurried life, we don't get enough of that.

I am grateful to God that we have Dominic. I am even grateful that he had clubbed feet. It is all part of God's plan.

At this latest appointment, the big question was how much longer he would need to wear the shoes and brace at night. This was the first appointment where Dommie had some inkling -- if two-year-olds are capable of inklings -- that he was at a doctor. He kept saying, "Dot-tor?" and then, pointing at this feet and asking, "Weet?"

When Dr. Henderson finally came in, the conversation went something like this:

Dr. Henderson: "Dominic, can you show me your feet?"

Dommie: "No."

Dr. Henderon: "Can I see your shoes?"

Dommie: "No."

Dr. Henderson: "Will you walk to me and show me how well you walk?"

Dominic: "No. Done."

On a side note, a couple weeks ago we visited the Rembrandt exhibit at the art museum. About twenty minutes into it Dominic suddenly announced, "Done!" and made for the nearest exit.

So apparently he thought it was time for the appointment to be done. No more dot-tor.

Dr. Henderson's recommendation was that as soon as Dommie outgrows his current orthopedic shoes and his brace, he can stop wearing them. Right now he still wears them at night, and every night I go through the routine of buckling him in and snapping on his brace. Then he and I cuddle for a while. He sucks his thumb and holds on to my hair while we watch TV. Every night he and I have the same conversation: I say that it's time to put on his special shoes, and he waves his arms wildly and says, "No. Done."

Around age three we'll make another UNC visit to check his muscle balance -- club-footers usually have smaller, and sometimes unequal, calf muscles that can affect balance. But until then, we just wait for his feet to grow, and the night will eventually come when I sit on the couch with him and tell him, "No more special shoes."


And while we cuddle, while he sucks his thumb and yanks my hair, we can both say, "Done."

Finding JOY

For over a year now Catherine has belonged to Little Flowers, which is a Catholic girls group that meets monthly to study a specific saint and an associated virtue. This past Friday when I picked her up she presented me with a Christmas ornament she had decorated and solemnly informed me the ornament should remind us to be joyful. "The way to be joyful," she explained, pointing to the large J-O-Y running down one side of the ornament as an acronym, "is to remember that joy comes from serving Jesus, Others, and then Yourself."

Fast-forward an hour. I'm struggling to get the coconut-crusted tilapia in the oven, the asparagus roasted, the potatoes baked. Dominic is running around naked, the dog is yapping at squirrels, Vincent is trying to tell me his idea for some complicated boat that involves motors and propellers and sails and do I think we can build it right now? Meanwhile, my joyful little angel is writhing on the kitchen floor swearing that she is about to expire from hunger, because, after all, the ONLY snacks she had this afternoon were frosted cupcakes, iced petit fours and two bowls of popcorn at Little Flowers.

Then -- miraculously -- dinner is ready, and I drop her plate on the table and tell her she doesn't have to wait for the rest of us to eat.

And what does she do? She becomes very, very quiet and just sits there.

And Vincent gets out the balsa wood to start building his boat.

And Dominic takes his clothes off once again.

"Mommy?" Catherine says. "I don't want to eat yet."

"Well, then go find your brother's clothes before he pees on the couch."

"At Little Flowers we learned that joy comes from serving others before you serve yourself, and I just got served first. I'm going to wait and make sure everyone else is served before I eat."

Yipes. It was one of those moments when the world slows to a crawl, when a naked toddler and a mess of balsa wood and glue doesn't seem to matter because your child is teaching you something far more important than your own distracted rushing. Something about what really matters -- joy.

Even if she doesn't quite understand what is meant by "serve."

"You know," I said, sitting beside her at the table, "'serve' doesn't mean just serving people at dinner."

Shock. "It doesn't?"

"Serving means doing things for others. It means thinking of what others need before you do things for yourself."

"So I can go ahead and eat my dinner?"

"Yes."

"Good. Because I was really starving."

But it sunk in, because that night she announced she was going to spend the next day serving others, starting with raking the neighbors' leaves while they were out of town.

"And I want to bake gingerbread cookies for our neighbors," Vincent chimed in. "And then build my boat."

Fine.

Saturday, 7:11 a.m. I'm enjoying a quiet morning, drinking my coffee. All the kids are asleep -- until I hear, "Can we bake the gingerbread now?" and Vincent stumbles out in his Spiderman pjs holding an arm across his eyes.

Ummmm... no. Let me reiterate -- I'm enjoying my quiet morning. I'm not interested in cracking eggs and flouring the kitchen floor. And anyway, I have about 3,792 things I need to do today. "How about TV?" I ask.

"No. Gingerbread. You said we could serve others."

So we do the gingerbread, and then Catherine gets out everyone's boots (never mind that it's 60 degrees) so we can go rake. Luckily we discover that we own four rakes so we can avoid fights. But having an au natural yard (read= no raking) means I don't have a clue how long it takes to rake a normal-sized yard. Hours. And then some, because as soon as we finish raking the wind comes along and drops another carpet of leaves on the grass.

As the boys depart for haircuts after lunch, Catherine looks out the window at the neighbors' yard and says, "I think we need to rake some more."

Very little gets accomplished on my task list that day. I'm too busy baking gingerbread cookies and raking leaves. The laundry piles up, the dishwasher sits unloaded. Our own yard badly needs some attention. The dog needs a walk.

But the kids are happy. And Catherine, as she tells me that night, is joyful.

And you know what? So was I. Because although I got nothing done -- nothing that I had deemed important, anyway -- the kids, through their desire to serve others, had given me an opportunity to serve them. And that, as my daughter reminded me the night before, is what joy is all about.

A final thank you to a soldier

This July, my grandfather, a World War II veteran, engaged in his final battle.

Cod never spoke much about the war, at least not to me. Or, if he did, I didn't listen. I wasn't much interested in battle stories. What I do know is that he was a tank commander, that he gave candy to German children, and that in his closet he housed a German Luger of whose provenance he would only offer a gruff, "Well, I got it somehow."

This summer, though, I was listening. Listening, as the weeks stretched on, to the daily medical updates by phone and email from my grandmother, mother, uncles, cousins. Listening to the predictions of the doctors and then of Hospice. Listening, praying. Checking flights. Making reservations. Understanding the ultimate outcome: He would lose this battle.

Thinking about how to say goodbye.


Nearly 70 years ago, many people never got to say goodbye. Sure, they kissed departing soldiers at the train stations, uttered hopeful "See you soon!"s and "Hurry home!"s. But in the fields of Europe and Asia, soldiers died alone. Their families grieved alone. It was too late for goodbyes.


Cod was lucky. He made it home. He came back and married his sweetheart. They had five kids. He ran gas stations, managed the St. Vincent de Paul Store. Stayed in the same Iowa farmland his entire life.


In his last days, he had children who could say goodbye. And grandchildren. And great-grandchildren. He had a legacy.

Those soldiers who never made it home, who never had their own children or grandchildren -- they left a legacy, too. Their legacy was one of freedom -- freedom for others, at any cost.

But sometimes legacies are only apparent in a person's shadow. On that July morning while Cod underwent a biopsy that would determine the remainder of his life, I wasn't thinking too hard about legacies. We were on vacation in Ohio, and I was watching the kids take their first cracks (literally) at putt-putt at a tourist attraction dairy where you could smack balls into holes, pet some goats and gobble down fresh ice cream.

Still, Cod was on my mind.

While we tried to keep Dominic from maiming his siblings with his golf club, Cod was in an operating room under a fluorescent light. While the kids clamored for bubblegum ice cream, doctors were biopsying his tumor. And while we sat there amidst other noisy families eating our ice cream, soldiers were dying in far-off places.


As I was thinking this, a group of five people in camouflage fatigues walked through the door. I watched them order their ice cream, then stand in a corner eating it. I thought of my grandfather, of boating on the Mississippi, of riding in the bucket seat of his station wagon. Of eating bowl after bowl of buttered air-popped popcorn. I thought of him hearing the results of the biopsy.


I left my family and walked across the crowded restaurant. The soldiers didn't hear me as I approached; only when I nervously broached an "Excuse me," did they grant me their attention. I can't say they looked pleased to see me -- I was interrupting their ice cream consumption, after all. I nearly scampered off back to where Dominic was hollering for more ice cream. But then I looked into the eyes of one of the young men, and I wondered where those eyes would ultimately close -- if it would be while looking into the kind eyes of those who loved him, or on a field in some far-off country. And I wondered if anyone had ever thanked him for risking his life so that I could eat ice cream with my children and husband.

And then I realized I had never thanked my grandfather. He was, to me, Grandpa first, a soldier second. He was the man who gave me his bowl of popcorn, commanded me to obey my mother, walked me through snowy streets on winter nights.

I told those soldiers about Cod, about his battle. I asked for their prayers on his behalf. I said, "Thank you for what you do. For keeping us all safe." I was horribly inarticulate. Then I slunk away, and I gave the rest of my ice cream cone to Dominic and watched him smear it all over his face.


A month later, Dominic was with me in Iowa. By then the family knew what the outcome would be. We knew it wouldn't be long. Cod, the former soldier, was confined to a hospital bed that had replaced the couch in the living room. Its presence was a testament to how much he was loved -- there would be no putting him behind closed doors, no hospital stays. He would die at home, his wife of 65 years at his side.

He would accomplish what so many soldiers never did.

It wasn't easy to watch. It wasn't easy for his children to rearrange their schedules for around-the-clock care of their father. Still, the house was filled with cheer as family danced in and out, a complicated but good-natured tag-teaming of coordinated care. It meant extended time off from work, late nights working on laptops, long drives after long days. It meant cutting short European vacations. It meant hours -- days -- without sleep.


I never heard a single complaint.

This is how death should happen. At home, with family. Knowing that you are loved. Not in a foreign field at the point of a stranger's gun. Not wondering whether the world will remember you. Not worrying whether your legacy will endure.

The soldier's legacies did, of course. We celebrate them today. Those brave soldiers exhaled freedom with their final breaths. Freedom for the world, for their families who would never get to say goodbye.
And as I prepared to say goodbye to my grandfather, I realized that he had left another legacy: one of love, of family unity. Just as he and others sacrificed on the battlefields of war, Cod's children sacrificed in the final days of his life. They would be there; their father would die at home, whatever the cost. They would honor a soldier's last wish.


I didn't stay until the end. I left four days too soon. But as I held my son, our bags packed and at the door, I kissed my grandfather's wizened forehead and I whispered my last words to a brave soldier. "Thank you."

Fun in Ohio

Priceless moments.