fair

Maybe the conservatives are onto something, as far a parenting anyway, a friend recently said to me.

He’d been to an extended family funeral-come-reunion, and noted that of a whole slew of kids of all ages, only his kids had pitched fits.

—And the other kids, his wife confirmed, where just gracious about it. I mean, they couldn’t have faked good behavior for that long, right?

As mother to a boy who at times throws things, scowls, stomps, talks smack, and generally acts the fool, I knew what these parents were saying. In my extended family, I too have noticed that the kids are sometimes better behaved, more polite. Unabashedly liberal, I think sometimes Billy and I felt sorta bad about telling someone else what to do, even our young boy—like it’s not fair of us. And although we both agree that is part of the job of parent, we’ve executed our commands with a reticence, a kind of ambivalence that our boy would poke at, unravel, rip apart.

Political leanings aside, Billy and I have made a conscious effort lately to draw our line in the sand —a line that does not squash or demean, but instead insists on civility and kindness from our boy. For the moment, it seems to be working. William, our wild one, seems to like it, actually. As if something has been taken off his plate. Like finally he can just relax and tow the line.

Pics of William at the fair, by Billy

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back to school

Summer is ostensibly over; school started last Wednesday so students line up at my door, antsy to draw and paint and tell stories. I spend the first class reminded them why we do art in the first place; but I think, without words they may understand this intuitively, in bone and muscle. We do art, they seem to know, because we are human.

Our new principal gave us teachers a copy of ‘Brain Rules’ during our in-service week, a book about the way our minds work. This read has made me think that although we are often asked to justify art and music and physical education, our so-called peripheral subjects—their core tasks of moving and making and imagining—are at the core of our evolutionary memory, our ways of living and surviving.

Photos by Billy

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mock rock

Briefly, William and H.J. practice rock posture.

Video by Billy

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spinning wheels

Happy to be going nowhere, William fools around on his upturned tricycle. To be four.

Video by Billy
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children and technology

William (4 years old) and his Grandma (older than 4) answer questions about technology. Long story short: William wants to play games, and my mom is funny. Enjoy

Video and Photo by Billy
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girlfriend

I discovered odd candy wrappings and a crust of a PB& J in William’s lunchbox, things I hadn’t packed for him. So I asked him about it. He looked at me sheepishly before answering:

–Maggie gave them to me
–Who’s Maggie?
–My girlfriend.
–So she gave you some of her lunch…did you give her anything?
–My salami.
–But you’re always saying you don’t like girls…
–Well, I like Maggie.
–Why is she your girlfriend? How did you know?
–I looked at her; she looked at me.

Here are a few new talented girlfriends from my writer’s retreat:

And our teacher, Hollins Professor, Cathy Hankla, with her many books, recent winner of the Boatwright Prize for Poetry, and to whom I am thankful for her generosity and guidance.

Photo by Billy
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pants on the ground

William represented at our family reunion in Carolina, hanging out with his cousins and accompanying Grandma and Papa in their rendition of Pants on the Ground in the ‘No Talent Show.’ I’m thinking back to when we hosted the reunion in Charlottesville in 2007: Billy and William played Bongos together.

Photos and video editing by Papa Johnson

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polaroid

Last week I ventured off alone to a writer’s retreat at an old hunting lodge turned rustic camp in bucolic Virginia. This meant of course leaving my own family. My departure was not as tearful as going to to Tinhouse when William was one years old, still there was that same bittersweet quality to being away—indulgence and ease and loneliness all at once.

For six nights I slept in an upstairs room of an old farm house under threadbare blankets. I set up the desk I brought myself by a window, and sat the fat square fan in a chair, facing me, to hasten my words or else lull me to sleep. I ate family style with the other writers, ten or so women– beautiful, bawdy, with a mean age of maybe 65. These writer women had done things: had attended wedding of now grown children, cared for and buried aged parents, held grand-babies older than my own only son. Their writing told that your relationships continue to pull and tug at you over the decades, even after your loved-ones have left this great green earth.

I pinned a Polaroid of Billy and William over my desk by the window. I offered their images and images of the things they’ve done to the other writers whenever the internet caught and held and I had my laptop over dinner. At lunch, over fresh ears of corn, I mumbled to myself, ‘This is sweet, William would like this.’ I guess it shouldn’t be surprising how much their presence pulled and tugged on me across miles. Even then.

Polaroid above by Billy, Checkerboard of Billy, William, and me, plus our friend (and Billy’s assistant) John.
Images of Nimrod Hall below: Painting by Judith Guy and photograph by a fellow writer. Thanks ladies!

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swim

How did this happen so fast? One day, at the ACAC, William learned to swim, to flip even. How did he master this complex move of muscle and air? I remember when he couldn’t even push up, when crawling seemed a miracle.

Which everyday feats, preformed by loved ones, amaze you?

video by Billy

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billy is a sail

Billy is a sail. He puffs up and tugs us way out when the wind is right. To William’s delighted squeals, we take a trip, a risk, try something new.

Billy is billowy, easy to spot even from a distance. I see the two of them–father and son—way out there and so happy to be together that it almost hurts.

Most days, I am the steady plodding one. I drop William off, kiss his cheek at the gate, check to make sure he has everything. He tromps inside to put his lunch in his cubby, and when he returns his big eyes bob briefly past the playground—past the sandbox, where all his friends unearth and bury things–and settle on me.

I imagine I am not all not that easy to see, holding still and blending in with the blue-green foliage by the gate. But he trusts that I am there waiting to be found. Briefly, his eyes meet mine and he smiles, mouthing bye momma before turning to play.

I feel like the rudder then: unseen, understated, but necessary too.

Will and his friend Quinn, Cape Charles
Photos by Billy

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