Boreal Witch

To err is human, I'm told. I must be half-way to enlightened because I feel like I've made a lot of mistakes this week.

As much as I try not to force my children into activities, I find that I sign up Balin for far more activities than I did for Arthur when he was Balin's age. Part of it is because Arthur is so reluctant to try anything new. Part of it is because when Arthur was Balin's age, Balin was an infant and I was so busy trying to keep well-rested and sane. I didn't really have time to drive Arthur all over the place for five different activities. Was that a mistake? I'm not sure. 

In any case, Balin's been signed up for t-ball. 

I also offered to sign Arthur up for baseball, but he refused. Adamantly. 

I wasn't sure what to expect. Balin's excited about it and was disappointed when the first two weeks were cancelled due to weather. When we finally got to a practice, he (like most kids his age) liked batting and throwing much more than catching.  

Arthur discovered that when you aren't signed up for a sport with your younger brother, there isn't much to do. (Luckily, his classmate Masson's younger brother was on Balin's team, so throughout practice Arthur and Masson played together.) Later, he complained that he wanted to play baseball.  

Despite all that, Arthur was a big help getting Balin to participate. There were moments that he complained, "I don't want to," but Arthur would take his hand and gently lead him to the line where the kids had gathered to catch grounders. It always melts my heart when they play so well together. 


Go Phillies!

Blessed be.

Dear Twinkleberry:

Last week, you shocked me with your sudden appearance on my patio rug. I saw you there, so still and quiet, and I thought you were dead. Upon closer inspection, you were very much alive, but injured. Huge chunks of fur were missing on your back flanks and tail. There were deep gashes on your quivering pink body.

Why you crawled to my porch, I cannot say. I was told just this weekend that animals seem to respond to me. I don't know if that is true - I've never thought of myself as an 'animal whisperer' - but did you? Did you know that when the time came for you to pass that my family and I would bury you in the wooded strip between the cornfield and the basketball court instead of callously tossing you into the garbage bin or leaving you to rot?

I am sorry that the wildlife hospital never called me back. I am sorry that Arthur's friend gave you such a fright when he picked you up. Not maliciously, just out of curiosity. But most of all, I am sorry that you suffered and that I could not do anything to attend to your injuries.

It was a lovely funeral. The sun was out, the sky was blue. We said kind words and laid you gently in the hole before covering you with the dark brown dirt. The boys mentioned over and over again that evening that they hoped no one would disturb you.

While I am full of sorrow for your passing, I am grateful to you, dear Twinkleberry, for your mortality. I am grateful that you showed my boys the fragility of life and the dignity of death. I am grateful to you for giving my boys an opportunity to care for the animals around them and learn about the cycle of life and death.

Blessed be, Twinkleberry.

"Why are you guys on a diet? You're like the thinnest people in Wisconsin!" Dad exclaimed as he took another sip of beer. Oh, temptation. A drink would have been nice, but my choice of beverage would have been hard cider, not beer. 

To my boys:

I honestly cannot imagine my life without you.

You've turned me from a self-centered, arrogant, and all-knowing person into a (mostly) humble, patient, and content human being.

I'm still not perfect. There are times when I have a temper or I'm irritated with you, but you still beg for hugs and kisses no matter how much I think I've messed up.

I know sometimes it seems as though I'm ignoring you or that I don't care about what you're doing. Nothing could be further from the truth. I do care. I care that you've built a system of pipes in the bathroom or that you've cooked up a sand cake for me. I care that you tell me about the gossip on the bus or that you scrape your knee.

There's not much in this world that I believe from the bottom of my heart that I'm great at.

But I'm great at being your mom.

And, if you'll let me, I'm more than happy to be your mom for as long as I can.

I love you both.

Today I went to a funeral for a distant family member. She was - I believe - my grandmother's cousin. We may have met once when I was a child but I've met so many people over the years that they've often blurred together and I cannot be certain.

Funerals are interesting occasions, nevertheless.

The visitation was full of a few familiar faces in a sea of strangers. I caught up with the few people that I knew. A darling little 93-year-old woman approached me and we small-talked for a full ten minutes. She was the mother of a family friend and had known my grandmother. She told me about living in Denver and then her recent move to Arizona. She liked the Arizona climate, she said. She wasn't embarrassed when she blurted out, "I have so much crap in my purse," when she was handed a small pack of tissues by her daughter. Soon she was swept away by a throng of relatives and I found myself alone, people-watching. Later Dad told me that old people liked me because I treated them as people, not as the old fogies that most people my age believe they are.

As I sat in the pew next to my father, I thought about losing my grandmother just a few years before. I empathized with the deceased's family sitting in the front rows, with their used tissues, red eyes, and quiet tears. I found myself wiping away a few random tears as I realized that someday I will be sitting in the front row of my own parents' funerals.

It's a terrifying and yet a strangely comforting thought. We may live our lives differently, speak different languages, have different interests, but we all go though the same cycle of life and death. In a way, it's not unexpected because we will all get there someday - we just have no idea when.

And that is Nature's ultimate secret.

So, carpe diem. Do extraordinary things. Be magical.

Ninety-three seems so old, but in terms of the Universe, it is only a blink of the eye.

Blessed be.