A typical weekday evening in the Nord household sounds something like this:

Mommy/Daddy: “Wyatt, how was Kindergarten today?”

Wyatt: “Oh brother. Fine.”

Mommy/Daddy: “What did you do?”

Wyatt: “Ummmmm…we went outside one time and we played in the warehouse two times.”

M/D: “Oh, yeah? Did you learn anything?”

Wyatt: “Nope.”

M/D: “Lovely.”

You can imagine my surprise and delight one recent evening when Wyatt responded to my “How was your day?” query as follows: “We had a program today at school. The first and second graders from the other campus came over on the school bus and did a program for us. Then we went outside to play and we had hot chocolate when we came back inside.” Though not exactly an academic discussion, I was nonetheless pleased that he had something moderately interesting to say about the last eight hours of his life. I thought, perhaps, we were having a breakthrough.

Such hopes were quickly dashed, however, when I went to choir practice that night. You see, I happen to sit next to Wyatt’s Kindergarten teacher in the church choir. She’s a lovely woman, and we like to chat it up while the rest of the choir rehearses their parts. While our lone bass stumbled through a particularly tricky passage, I leaned to Wyatt’s teacher and said, “So, I hear you had a program today.” She looked at me puzzled. I said, “Didn’t you have a program from the first and second graders at the other campus?” She said, “Noooo…” I asked if they had gone outside. No. Hot chocolate? Definitely not.

Wyatt had made up the whole story. And with confidence! I was dumbfounded, and frankly felt pretty dumb. He had taken me for a ride on his imagination train, and I’d been a very willing passenger.

If this had been a single occurrence of truth-stretching, I probably would have shrugged it off. But unfortunately, Wyatt has been intermixing fact and fiction for several weeks now, and I can’t help but think that he enjoys pulling a fast one (or twelve) on the adults in his life. He hasn’t lied about anything serious, but there’s definitely a pattern of half truths, quarter truths and nonexistent truths going on here.

I stewed about Wyatt’s “program” story all night, and as soon as I could reasonably drag him out of bed the next morning, I did. We sat together at the dining room table, and I told him that he was busted. (He sulked.) I asked him why he lied to me. (Because he wanted to.) And I told him that he had made me sad. Did he like making me sad? (No, of course, he didn’t.)

I know this latest phase for Wyatt is perfectly normal. And I know it’s not the last time he’ll pull one over on me. He’s way too good at it not to try his luck a few more (hundred) times. There’s also a part of me that’s impressed by his imagination. The kid can spin a good tale, and there are lots of useful applications for such a talent. (Famous novelist, anyone?)

What this situation calls for is a little “channeling of energies.” Maybe a heavy dose of imaginative play will lessen his need to embellish his ho-hum life. Or maybe it will just make him better at his craft. Either way, he’s a good kid. And I love that little dude.

Christian and I went on a kid-free bike ride on Friday afternoon. We’ve been trying to do this for approximately 5 years—ever since parenthood staked its claim on our mythological “free time.” With a few hours of relief from our hectic work lives, and with the boys safely tucked away at school, Christian and I made our escape down the Tomahawk Creek Trail, and we had the best time. The October sunshine was absolutely perfect, and we felt like kids again, speeding along with the wind in our faces. I’m pretty sure I inhaled a bug at one point, but no matter. It was a glorious afternoon.

As we pedaled along, my mind traveled back to my childhood summers in the country. As a kid, I was a bona fide bike-a-holic. My friend Brian and I rode all over the neighborhood, and we enjoyed total freedom in our little adventures. I can remember riding miles in the blistering heat, and there were many times when our folks had no idea where we were. And frankly, it didn’t matter. Our environment was safe. We were trustworthy kids. And we had earned the right to go and do as we pleased, within reason.

While Christian and I enjoyed our own little adventure on Friday, we talked a lot about our childhood bike excursions. We also talked about our own kiddos and their serious lack of freedom—at least at the present time. We watch those boys like hawks, partly because they are uber naughty, and partly because we are terrified at the thought of losing them. It’s hard to imagine a time when we’ll let them take off on their own bikes, riding out of sight to who-knows-where. It makes me crazy to think of it, but it also makes me very sad to think that I would not allow them the freedom I enjoyed as a kid.

The media’s hyper-coverage of childhood tragedies has given me leave to indulge my psycho mom-ness to the nth degree. And I do think there’s a lot to be said for being aware of what your kids are doing, who they’re with and where they are. But it’s also possible to take a “constant vigilance” approach way too far. Kids need freedom to play and chase and climb and break a few bones without Mommy being right there to squash their fun.

I hope we can raise our kids to be trustworthy, and I hope they’ll earn the right to do as they please, within reason. But most of all, I hope that we can parent like our own parents did—giving Wyatt and Graham the opportunity to make their own choices and mistakes, knowing that they are equipped to make good choices. After all, how can they grow up to be fine young men without inhaling a few bugs along the way?

Ah, summer is here. That wonderful time when we kick back, relax, and enjoy a cool glass of lemonade while swinging lazily in a hammock, reading an emotionally stirring best seller. Birds are singing. Lawn mowers are buzzing. Children are playing contentedly in the sandbox, taking turns with the shovel and pail while the dog rests quietly nearby. It’s summertime, and the living is easy.

[Please insert sound of record scratching…if you remember what that sounds like.]

Summer is GONE, and I’m ready to put out a missing person’s report on it! I swear, I turned around for one second and it’s vanished. Poof. Sayonara. See you later.

How on earth did this happen? Wasn’t it just yesterday that we put our house on the market…then sold it…then bought a new one…then moved…then celebrated Wyatt’s 5^th birthday…then painted every non-moving surface in the new house…then had our cat’s cancerous leg amputated…then went on a much-needed family vacation? I’m certain this was all just yesterday, but perhaps I’m losing track of time. Yes, that must be it.

As I flung open the windows this evening for our first AC-free night in a long time, I heard the all-too-familiar chorus of cicadas singing, “Go to school! Go to school you fool!” I simply can’t believe how quickly summer escaped us this year. Wyatt is packed and ready for Kindergarten, Christian’s cross country season is underway, Graham is experimenting with women’s clothing at daycare, and we are all back in the swing of things…kicking and screaming the whole way.

I’ve been entirely remiss in my blogging this summer, and since I can’t even remember what we had for dinner this evening, I won’t attempt to describe our dog days with any wit or style. Instead, I’ll take the cheap and easy road…a photo journal. Enjoy!

Wyatt kicked up his heels in the Brookside Soccer Club. He was fairly terrible but very cute.

Graham and Wyatt put in the hard work to get our house sold.

Grammy’s future is so bright!

On moving day, Wyatt decided to find his perfect sleep number on the family room floor.

Grammy informed us that the Justin Bieber hairdo is so last season. Now it’s all about “The Rooster.”

Gone are the days of dark-wood paneling! After a marathon painting weekend, the family room is now bright and cheery.

Wyatt spends his free time dreaming up the next Facebook.

Peas. Pod. Need I say more?

Maiden voyage on the new bike! Easy on the breaks there, Captain.

Newly painted bedroom. Buh-bye pink walls.

First evening in Cape Cod with the family. Cold water cannot stop us!

The scuba brigade…and Pig-Pig.

Jacob, Wyatt, Abby…and Trout.

My little beach bum. No, really. He’s a bum. He has no job.

Bittersweet end to a wonderful vacation with our boys. Goodbye summer. We’ll see you next year!

After six years of happy residence in Santa Fe Hills, we put our first home on the market yesterday. This action was coupled with all the usual feelings of excitement, anxiety and uncertainty that come with selling…or attempting to sell…a house. But for me, there’s also a great sense of sadness. We did so much in this house as a family, and as much as I’d like a quick sell for the preservation of our sanity, I also dread the day that we’ll have to turn off the lights, shut the door, and walk away.

This house is very special to us, primarily because we made so much family history here. Some of our notable firsts include:

• First baby (and second)
• First bottles, binkies and blowouts
• First rolls, crawls and steps
• First smiles and giggles
• First words—spoken and read
• First tricycle rides and big wheel races
• First dance parties in the living room
• First tender hugs and kisses from our two wonderful boys

Christian and I also learned so much as homeowners, like how to build a deck, how to install tile, how to hang drywall, and how to paint, paint, paint. (Did I mention painting?) Out of all the hours that Christian and I put into remodeling nearly every square inch of this house, we also learned that we make a GREAT team as husband and wife. Sure, we bickered a bit, but we also supported each other, praised each other and powered through the difficult moments together. I’m so proud of Christian for all his handiness and hard work, and I think he’s proud of me, too, and happy to have a wife who gets her hands dirty.

Over the last several weeks, we’ve worked like mad to get our house picture perfect and ready for sale. We’ve finished all those last-minute projects, touched up all the paint, hung a window box for flowers—all things we should have done years ago for our own enjoyment. We’ve worked ourselves into near exhaustion, and I definitely hit a low moment one evening when I was painting over a thousand little fingerprints on our hallway walls. I realized that I was covering up all evidence that our children had learned to walk in this house, one wobbly step at a time. Christian found me crying, wet paintbrush in hand, and wondering why we were doing this at all.

Our first house is wonderful, indeed, for all the work we’ve put into it and all the memories we’ve made. Will it be a tough sell? The current market is certainly not kind to sellers, and I’m prepared to be patient…to a point. But I think we have a good chance of finding someone who will fall in love with it like we did six years ago.

For our family, though, this house will definitely be tough to sell. We’ve been so happy here, and it’s hard to imagine this house not being OUR house. I do look forward to finding our “family home”—the one we plan to stay in until the boys are grown and off to see the world. But this house, our first house, will always be special to me, and I think I’ll always harbor some regret about letting her go.

After 97 years of a life well lived, my wonderful Grandma has gone to Heaven. We celebrated her life yesterday in Caldwell, Kansas and laid her to rest next to Grandpa in the Czech Cemetery. It was a tough day, of course, but also a joyful one as we remembered Grandma’s terrific sense of humor, eager interest in the world around her, and love for her family and friends.

Grandma was a great lady. There’s no other way to put it. She was always sharp. Always classy. And she had a gift for engaging people in conversation, even when she couldn’t hear very well anymore. Part of her “gift of gab” was her ability to ask good questions, which is an art I think we’re losing in modern society. Most people are so caught up in their own lives and want nothing more than to talk about themselves. Grandma, in contrast, was always asking questions of others. “How are you?” “What’s new with your job?” “What activities are the children doing?” “Did you hear about such and such in the news?” “What do you think of this athlete or that coach?”

She had an uncommon interest in learning new things, right up until her very last days. She read every scrap of her daily newspaper, always had a crossword puzzle near completion, and was ready to chat with anyone on a wide variety of topics: politics, sports, business, the economy, farming, you name it. I was always so impressed by her active mind, and every year I would remark, “She’s 93 and sharp as a tack!” “She’s 94…95…96…97 and still sharp as a tack!”

I was and am very proud to be her granddaughter. She represented so many qualities that I hope to possess myself. Grandma was strong willed and incredibly determined. She was intelligent and witty. She wasted NOTHING—not time, not money, not any little thing that could be re-used. And she knew the meaning of diligence and sacrifice in the face of significant hardship and loss.

Grandma was indeed a great lady, and I emphasize the word “lady.” Like many of her generation, she always wore her pantyhose and earrings, always wanted her hair just so, and always had impeccable manners. Every time I visited her, even if our conversation lasted only a few minutes, she would smile and say “Thank you for coming.” It was a great gift to my mom, sister and me that on Grandma’s last night with us, she awoke from a sound sleep as we were leaving, looked us right in the eyes, smiled, and said “Thank you for coming.”

I would say many things to Grandma now if I could. Things I wish I would have expressed to her while she was with us. But in the absence of her physical presence, I’ll send her this simple message: “Thank you, Grandma, for coming into my life. Thank you for the gift of my wonderful mother. Thank you for being so sweet to me and to my children. And thank you for setting such a lovely example of a life well lived.”

I must admit that I’m nearly a month late in paying tribute to my wonderful Graham Henry, who turned the big T-W-O on New Year’s Eve. January 2011 has been a very busy month, and I’ve been neglectful in my blogging duties. But as I always say: Better late than never! I simply cannot let Graham’s wonderful 1’s go by without calling attention to a few of his most memorable moments.

In 2010, Graham transformed before our very eyes from a babbling baby into an intelligent child who thinks and speaks for himself. At two years old, we still don’t understand much of what he says, but it’s clear that HE knows, and he speaks with purpose and passion. Most of his chattering is funny and cute, intelligible or not. But there are a few words that he’s taken hold of that we rather wish he would forget.

For example, “frog” and “truck” are two words that Graham has come to love, but as a one year old, he struggled greatly with pronunciation, and these two words came out all wrong. I’m sure you can guess what I mean. Start with “frog,” end with “truck” and leave the “r” out of it. Yeah, you got it. And unfortunately, Graham came up with about a hundred reasons to say “frog” or “truck” extremely loudly every day for several months. The situation became so dire, in fact, that we began avoiding church, dodging neighbors and generally hiding out at home with shades drawn. Just in time for his second birthday, though, Graham graduated to “fog” for “frog” and “shruck” for “truck.” Not perfect, but presentable, and we feel nearly confident enough to emerge back into society.

Graham’s expanding vocabulary constantly reminds us that he’s growing up and will soon be ready for preschool. But he hasn’t let go of all his baby ways, and I for one am thankful. I’m not ready for him to stop sucking his thumb—the telltale sign that he is sleepy and “over it” for the day. I’m not ready for him to abandon “Pig Pig,” his favorite stuffed animal, which he holds so tightly that all the stuffing has been squeezed out of the poor pig’s neck. I’m also not ready to move Graham into a big-boy bed. Not yet. He’s happy as a clam in his little white crib, and I still love reaching over the rails to lift him into my arms every morning.

I’d be fooling myself if I didn’t admit a little sadness on the day that Grammy turned two. I delight in his growth and development, of course, but he was so sweet as a one year old, and it’s hard to say goodbye to such a joyful year. His chubby baby cheeks, playful giggles and wobbly first steps will live on in my memory forever. Yes, this little boy will always be my baby, no matter how tall and fast and clever he grows. He’ll always be my beautiful Golden Graham.

Another Christmas season has come and gone with the usual flurry of activity and snow. The Nord boys are stuffed to the gills with cookies and candies, and our living room is awash in new toys—so much so that there’s hardly room for living! But while Christian and I may be tripping over something or other and stubbing our toes at every step, Wyatt and Graham are delighted with their stash, and really…what more can you ask?

The weeks leading up to Christmas 2010 were excessively stressful for me this year, but the holiday itself was just about perfect. We ate, we drank, we relaxed, we loved, we played, and we spent some quality time rejoicing in the birth of Our Savior.  

Yes, it was a merry little Christmas. But I would be negligent in my duties as the Nord Family historian if I didn’t mention a few little hiccups. Let’s start with our Rascal in Chief, Wyatt Oscar:

Less-Than-Silent Nights: Wyatt has taken up coming into “the big bed” in the early morning hours, right at the moment when Christian and I are most catatonic and least capable of giving him the boot back to his room. On Christmas Eve, we explained in no uncertain terms that Santa would skip right over our house if he didn’t find Wyatt in his own bed. And what do you know? Wyatt never budged from beneath his blankets, and we all enjoyed a long winter’s nap. But last night, with the “Santa is watching” threat off the table, Wyatt was right back in our bed at 3 a.m., elbowing me in the kidneys as usual. I’m now considering the installation of a low-voltage electric fence.

Feliz Navidad a la Mick Jagger: Both boys participated in the Calvary Christmas program this year, and I have to use the term “participated” loosely on Wyatt. For the most part, he sulked in the back of the children’s choir like a sullen teenager, trying to pretend he didn’t know all the words to Silent Night and We Wish You a Merry Christmas (even though I’ve heard him softly singing these tunes on the way home from school every day for weeks). He had a major turnaround, however, when the group broke out into Feliz Navidad. Wyatt quickly transformed from a wallflower into the next great American Idol contestant, singing at the absolute top of his lungs and drowning out all the other children. His bilingual teacher, Miss Ceci, was extremely proud of his rock-star performance.

As for Graham, he really started to “get” Christmas this year, and it was a lot of fun to watch him shove his chubby cheeks with cookies and tear his presents open with relish. It wasn’t all visions of sugar plums, though. Our sweet little Grammy was no slouch in the rascal department. Consider these two examples:

Neglecting His Flock by Night: Like Wyatt, Graham had a less-than-stellar performance in the Calvary Christmas program. His teacher dressed him in the most adorable shepherd’s costume, but he was entirely uninterested in playing the part. For the first half of his class’s performance, he just looked stunned—a true deer in headlights. Then after 30 seconds or so, he simply gave up, lying down on the ground and refusing to be roused to his feet until the song was over and it was time for juice and cookies.

All I Want for Christmas Is Your Mitts Off My Presents: Graham is quickly shedding the meekness of his infancy, taking on a personality that can best be described as “Don’t Mess with Texas.” He is also fiercely protective of his “personal property,” watching over his new Christmas gifts like a testy mother hen. On several occasions over the last two days, Wyatt has unceremoniously snatched a toy out of Grammy’s hands mid-play, only to be greeted with a tyrannical “MINE!” or, better yet, a punch in the face. Grammy doesn’t believe in subtlety. And while we don’t encourage violence in the Nord household, it’s nice to see our little guy take a stand.

Behavioral blemishes aside, I loved this holiday season with our boys, and the memories of their playful giggles will stick with me for many years. I also loved the relaxed pace of our family festivities. No rushing about. No cramming 27 activities into a single day. Just leisurely enjoyment of good company, yummy food and generous presents. I count my blessings at this time of year—more than any other—for the gift of a wonderful family. One in which love abounds, laughter is plentiful, and a warm hug is always within reach.

My lack of an English accent is my lifelong sorrow. Given the time I’ve invested in reading Jane Austen’s complete works (and re-reading them more times than I care to admit), I feel that I deserve an accent fitting my love of all things English. But alas, I’m an American, and I’ll always speak with the rather bland, non-descript inflection of my fellow Midwesterners.

Why not challenge fate, though? Why not see what can be accomplished with a little accent immersion? These were my irrational thoughts a few weeks ago as I jumped on a plane with my good friend Annie and jetted off across the pond.  Perhaps a week in merry London would turn me into a regular Kate Winslet!

My experiment failed, of course, though I did pick up some really excellent expressions. (For example, “I’m feeling a bit peckish!”) The trip was not a loss, however. Annie and I had a fabulous time tromping around the city, seeing everything we could possibly squeeze into our meager free time. (We were there, unfortunately, for business and spent most of the week cooped up in a conference center.)

Though our London adventure was brief, we made the most of it, as illustrated in this photo journal:

Annie and I in Newark, ready to board the bird!

After approximately an hour and a half of sleep in a two-day period, here we are waiting outside Buckingham Palace for our tea time with the Queen. She totally stood us up! Inconceivable.

Is this the way to the Ministry of Magic?

Pubbing it up with a pint or twelve.

I love the taxis in London. I would absolutely drive one of these! You wouldn’t believe the storage space.

Annie and I went to church at Westminster Abbey—a beautiful and memorable experience (if you don’t count the brief time I nodded off during the sermon. Ooops!)

These signs on the street literally saved us from certain demise as we traipsed about the city. In my opinion, the British drive on the wrong side of the road. This is not a complaint. Just an observation.

Our fancy-schmancy lunch at Harrods. Yum!

The smile on my face indicates that I had not yet realized that we were five minutes late to get into the Tower of London. Rats!

The Traitor’s Gate, where Anne Boleyn was brought into the Tower of London for a little off-with-her-head action.

A late-night stop at St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Followed by a dinner of Bangers and Mash at one of the oldest pubs in London. Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese dates back to 1667 and was built for people who were approximately four feet tall.

After a long week of work and fun in merry London, Annie and I were happy to head home to our boys, our cell phones, and our cars with correctly positioned steering wheels.

If you’ve read any number of my blog posts, you may have noticed several references to music by Sara Groves, a wonderful singer whose lyrics seem meant just for me. I’ve been thinking lately about a song of Sara’s called “A Lot Like Me,” which explores a topic of parenting that most people don’t talk about—those personality traits you pass down to your kids that you really wish you didn’t.

Here’s how her song begins:

Baby I’m afraid you’re a lot like me
You can’t help feeling everything
I can see you’re trying to hold it in
I see your eyes and your trembling chin

So for you and myself I will pray
That our weakness become our strength!

I’ve been noticing lately that Wyatt has a pretty quick temper, and this is an aspect of my own personality that I’ve struggled with for years. I don’t get violent or scream or throw pots and pans, but I do huff and puff at pretty inconsequential things, and I definitely say things in the heat of the moment that I later regret. (As my friend Annie would say, “So many swear words!”)  :-)

In recent months, I’ve noticed some of these same tendencies in Wyatt (not the swearing, thankfully, since he’s only four).  As an example, he’ll be playing with his train set, perfectly happy, and then seconds later, he’s screaming and crying because his train track has fallen apart. It seems like such a little thing—so easily fixed—but he absolutely comes unglued, and it pains me to see him struggle with unnecessary frustration and anger just the way I do.

I guess this flaw must be genetic, because I know my dad also grapples with it, and he spends time in prayer every day on this very subject. I suppose I could look at my dad’s difficulties in overcoming his quick temper, and I could despair of Wyatt and I ever conquering our own. But a conversation I had with my dad this morning made me think in a very different way.

I have a person in my life who is giving me a lot of grief, and I’ve been feeling a mixture of anger, frustration and hopelessness over it all. I was talking to my dad about it this morning, and he listened to everything, agreeing for the most part with my assessment of the situation. But when I’d finished rattling off my story, he put a challenge out to me that I wasn’t entirely prepared for. He urged me to forgive. Even if the circumstances are never set right, I need to forgive.

Dad also cautioned that, if I’m anything like him (and I’m a lot like him), I may find it difficult to forgive. But a good place to start, he said, is in remembering that I, too, am a flawed and sinful person. And when you approach the hard work of forgiving someone by understanding that you are also very imperfect, it makes the goal of forgiveness much more attainable.

This conversation has been rolling around in my mind for the last several hours, and I’ve realized something remarkable about my dad: his long-time struggle to overcome his quick temper has been both a curse and a blessing. A curse in that he battles this issue every day, just as I do, and just as Wyatt may, too. But also a blessing in that his awareness of his own flawed nature perhaps makes him more capable of forgiving others because he approaches forgiveness with prayerful humility. 

Dad and I may never totally master our tempers, and Wyatt may very well inherit “the bug,” too. But as Sara Groves says, perhaps this weakness in some way becomes our strength. We’ll always have to work at staying cool in stressful situations, taming our sharp tongues and keeping frustration at bay. But out of this struggle, God will manage to bring about something good, and that’s pretty amazing.

As Sara Groves sings to her own son in “A Lot Like Me”:

Baby there are some holes you just can’t fill
You try and try but you never will
Baby I believe a God who can
He loves the boy and He’ll love the man

So for you and myself I will pray
That our weakness become our strength!

My father in law has said many a wise, witty and memorable thing in his day, but one of my favorite Carl Nord statements of all time is this: “Sarah, what you need to understand about Christian is that he has a ‘devil may care’ attitude with his physical wellbeing.” This particular comment was in reference to Christian and his college buddies sneaking out onto the roof of a Denver hotel and hanging over the edge. But Carl could have been talking about any number of my husband’s antics: the swimming with sharks, flying over mountain bike handlebars, running in unsavory parts of town, adventure racing, etc., etc.

When we had our first son, I braced myself for a life of motherly psychosis, figuring he’d be just like his dad with the daredevil stuff. To my great relief, though, Wyatt seems to be pretty cautious with his body. He has no need for speed and sticks fairly close to his people. Granted, he’s only four, and this could all change at a moment’s notice. But for now, my blood pressure remains at a healthy level when it comes to Wyatt and his physical welfare.

But not so fast Momma Bear. Enter stage left: Graham Henry, the most reckless child who ever stepped foot on the planet. My party baby, born on New Year’s Eve. At only 20 months now, Graham has me in an absolute state of panic with his incessant climbing, furniture jumping, flipping off the couch, disappearing acts, sticking sharp objects into power outlets, etc., etc. This kid is a regular Phineas and Ferb. (Great show, by the way.)

It must also be said, though, that Graham is as sweet as he could possibly be. As I said in his birthday tribute back in January, he smiles with his whole body and has the best belly laugh in creation. So why would this otherwise wonderful child plague his mother’s heart out with his unruliness? The answer is simple: he’s just like his dad.

Wyatt is Christian’s clone—a “mini-me” like you’ve never seen before. But Graham has Christian’s spirit of adventure. That “devil may care attitude with his physical wellbeing.” As a result, I expect that Graham will live his life to the absolute fullest, with plenty of travelling, sky diving, running with the bulls, and yes…even swimming with the sharks. Wyatt will perhaps take a more cautious route through life, though I hope he’ll enjoy the journey every bit as much—just in his own way.

As for me? I’ll find a good blood pressure medication, a yoga master and a glass of red wine. And I’ll learn the fine art of pretending that THIS IS NOT HAPPENING―a survival skill that so many mothers before me have mastered.

___________________________________________________________
I guess it’s human nature to want to hold you very still
I guess it’s in a mother to inject a little guilt
Go on son and see the world; I hope you see it all
But please please please don’t forget to call

…Go on son and spread your wings; I hope that you take flight
But please please please don’t forget to write

― Sara Groves, “Small Piece of You” from the album Station Wagon Songs for Parents