"Ninja's don't quit, Mom. Ninja's don't quit."

This is what William solemnly said to me more than a year ago-- as he sat in the back of our old van, when we lived in our old house, and he went to his old school.  And it was last year that I started this post-- wrote down the title anyway-- and was prepared to write something about what I've learned in my 35 (then) years about not giving up.

William being wise and expressive.

I don't remember what I was going to write, and I don't remember why William said "Ninja's don't quit, Mom" in that particular moment.

I do know that he picked up the phrase from one of the boys' favorite Lego cartoons-- Ninjago. And I'll admit that I happen to enjoy watching Ninjago now and then too.  The five ninjas, their wise sensei, and their spunky sister can be rather funny, and unquestionably tough, and they never give up, even when they are faced with ancient stone warriors, or hundreds of talking snakes, or evil itself (a blackish-purplish mist).

But in the 14 months since William said that, I've actually quit many things.

Our van was the first big thing I quit. Our silvery-gray van (that at times we called the Orca, or the Dolphin, or the Shark) was on it's third transmission in as many years.  And we knew it was used when we bought it, with over 180,000 miles on it, and it's front bumper wired on, but, it was very clean, and all the paperwork and warranties were there. We knew and trusted the former owners, and it was a Honda Odyssey.  And I was so excited to have a van! We had room for all the boys and all their car seats, and most of their friends.  We could pack all the soccer gear and the strollers and the kites and the sand toys and the diaper bags and the back packs and still have room for books and legos and Thomas the Tank Engine and all his friends.

Sometimes shirts were optional for the boys, in the good ol' days, and here Peter is showing me the latest McDonald's Happy Meal toy.  To me, it looks very disappointing, but he was obviously happy.  And those are temporary tattoos.  

I loved to load up the van in the morning, pick up some breakfast and a huge diet coke at McDonald's and go searching for trains with the boys.  Often we would drive up Weber Canyon.  It had the best tracks, bridges and tunnels, and the most frequent trains in the area.  There's a train going through the canyon every hour.  On especially lucky drives we'd catch two trains, or drive along with one for several miles.  We'd see animals, and flowers, and interesting rock formations like Devil's Slide.  We'd eat our hotcakes and biscuits and chocolate chip cookies (yes-- for breakfast), and I'd listen to NPR, and drink my diet coke, and feel connected with the world, with my three beautiful small boys, in my over-used van, in the winding canyon. And usually one or two of them would be napping by the time we got back to our old house, and I would have a chance to shower, or clean, or catch up on the Gilmore Girls.

The view from the van. 

But as time passed, and the boys started school in earnest-- like they had to actually be there on time, and had school every single day and such--those long drives became less practical.  And when we did go on drives, they were not the same. The van had slowly turned into a source of fear rather than freedom.  "Will it make it up the hill?  How much gas do we really have? (The gas gage was broken) Will the bumper stay on if I go over that bump?"  Even trips down to Salt Lake City became nail biters.  At the end of one particularly long week, we packed into the van to head down to meet Grampy at the zoo.  It was a highly anticipated outing, for me as much as for the boys.  I had even used the outing as a bargaining tool for several days.  "If you get your shoes on right now, maybe we can get a churro at the zoo on Friday."

But, unsurprisingly, the van started having a hard time as we labored up the huge mountain from the base of our beloved Weber Canyon up into Davis County (where very few people have vans with bumpers that fall off).  The bumper was riding low, and as we finally crested the hill, with strange chemical smells coming from the hood of the van, and pouring in through the open windows (we never used the AC), the bumper actually started scraping the road in a very loud, frightening way.

I pulled off the highway onto the first road we came to-- a residential area where ironically enough, I'd once changed Peter's diaper right on the unsuspecting lawn of a very tidy home, on his first trip down to the zoo.  We found a church (they have them on every corner in Davis County), pulled into the empty parking lot, and I got out of the van to assess the situation.  The bumper was hanging half-way off, and there was no way I could attach it again.  The little wires were gone, and the holes for the wires were worn out entirely.  The question then became, "Do we really need this bumper?"

Peter and William in Hawaiian shirts at a church in Davis
County.  Not the church, but another one.

Nope. I started using my brute strength to try and rip the bumper off of the car. It was much tougher than it looked, and though I managed to pull it further off, I couldn't get it completely detached.  And then I really didn't know what to do. My phone had just died (used up by my sweet boys who had been destroying bad piggies, and evil zombies all day). New questions flooded my mind. "Should I try and jerry-rig something to keep it on?  Should I continue ripping at it, or maybe look for a hack-saw in the back of the car? Should I just continue driving and see if the road could rip it off?  How worried would Grampy be if we didn't show up?"

As I continued to pull at it,  I offered a silent prayer that we would be able to leave the parking lot safely. That was when the scouts came along on their bikes-- on their way home from the nearby junior high.  They were helpful, courteous and kind.  And thrifty and brave.  They were also strong, and with their help we were able to rip that bumper right off.  And they kept it.  One of them said his dad fixed old cars, and might like it.  I thanked them profusely, and offered them some slightly-melted chocolate chip cookies. They were an unusual site, balancing the worn bumper on their bikes as they made their way to their nearby tidy homes, having done their good turn for the day.

I was so grateful.  We started back on our trek south to the zoo.  I plugged my phone in, and when it had charged three percent I called Grampy who was so glad we were okay, but who also told us that the zoo would be closing before we could make it down there.

That's when I started to cry.  It was just so sad.  I felt stuck and so disappointed.

A trip to McDonald's (yes, again-- don't judge) for Happy Meals with Grampy (who came to us in his car that worked wonderfully) and an hour or so sliding in the Fun Zone and we were all feeling much better.

But it was time to quit the van.

It had fulfilled it's purpose in our lives.  It had stopped being helpful, and had started becoming harmful.  It was burdensome and difficult and dangerous. It was time to let go.  It was, in fact, time to quit.  And isn't that wonderful.

Maybe I'm not a true ninja.  But, I am learning the art of letting go.  Which is a good thing, right? Since I'm a parent and all.  For so long I have really struggled with the idea of time passing.  I have wanted to keep babies little (as mentioned in my previous post), and wanted to hang on to old traditions, clothes, habits, mementos, and friends. Learning which things and people to hold on to, and which ones I can lovingly let go has not been an easy lesson, and I am still learning, but it is good to be okay with change, since that is the one constant. And making room for new things and people feels healthy and happy.  Healthy, mindful quitting is like a good spring cleaning for the soul.  And you can quote me on that.

Boys growing.  It's what they do, and it's a lot better than the alternative!

There are certain things I won't quit.  My family, for one.  Myself. My faith. I certainly never want to quit learning, growing, hoping, believing, giving, reaching, smiling, and loving. I never want to quit trying to be stronger, kinder, wiser, gentler, healthier.  I never want to quit seeking out true joy and peace and light.  I never want to quit trying to become my true best self-- the best woman, mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor, granddaughter, writer, teacher, citizen, I can be.   I don't want to quit simply because there are challenges, or big bumps in the road, or huge hills.  I don't want to quit when I face the blackish-purplish mists of life.

But if the van is broken down, and you're stranded with a dangling bumper, it's time to trade it in. If the dress doesn't fit anymore, and you never liked it much in the first place, it's time to give it away.  If the house isn't safe enough or big enough for your growing family anymore, it's time to look for a new home.  If the school is not helping your boys to learn and be happy anymore, it's time to look for new options.  And if the old friends are no longer making life sweeter, it's time to let them go, and find some new friends for this leg of the journey.

We bought our much newer van last April.  It is a Toyota Sienna, and has leather seats, and a sun roof, and a DVD player, and a fully attached bumper.  We'll be making payments on it for a long time, but so far the transmission has been just fine, and it doesn't leak oil.  I keep adding oil, but it doesn't need it, really, it's amazing. And I love it.  I love feeling that freedom again, and being able to take the tough hills head on.

These days, however,  it's usually just me and James on our drives after we drop off Peter and William and their new cousin Grace to their new, happier school.

Peter and some new friends at a field work day at the Nature Center.

 And we sometimes see trains, and animals, but we usually don't go quite as far, since we have things to do at our new home, and with our new friends.  I still listen to NPR, if we're not singing along to James' newest favorite song, but I don't pick up chocolate chip cookies or diet coke anymore.  See, I've quit other things too---for the most part.  But that is another story, for a new day...

Lego in My Pocket

Peter is seven. Peter loves legos.

Many boys and girls do, and many of his friends have more legos than Peter does, but Peter loves them so very much and he is so very good at building with them.  He can build a new lego model-- the big sets that cost over $40 with hundreds of pieces-- in an hour.  He knows all the major lego players-- Star Wars, Chima, Ninjago, Marvel, Lego Movie, Ninja Turtles-- and the less expensive ones too like Mixels, and City, and Creator (the ones we can sometimes buy on occasions other than birthdays and Christmas).  He follows the instructions carefully the first time through, and then he's set.  He's ready to build his own thing, and make it cooler, or fiercer and always more amazing than the original.  He takes legos in the car and in his bed and to church.  He does not take them to school, because he would lose them, friends would borrow them, or his sweet teacher would confiscate them only to give them back at the end of the year (obviously she's taught second grade for decades).

Peter and I have started getting along very well this past year.  Of course I've loved him unconditionally since the day he was born--the day I became a mother for the first time.  We've gone through all the firsts together, and he has been the cutest baby/toddler/preschooler/kindergartener in America.

 But we haven't always seen everything eye to eye.  He would get frustrated with his two little brothers always tagging along and ruining his stuff-- especially his lego creations.  He would feel life was unfair since he had an hour of homework in addition to a full day of school, and his brothers just got to play all day.  He would get tired, and hungry and frustrated and not be able to tell me what he was feeling.  And I would feel like a bad mom.  Not just bad, I would feel like a terrible mother who didn't know how to help her son be happy and kind and hard-working.

But Peter got older, and I got a little wiser.  I realize now that Peter understands life, even disappointing things, and is often more practical than I, and he usually gets things the first time, if I explain them well.  Then he translates for his younger brothers.  "If we spend our money on these legos now, we won't have enough for the bigger set when they go on clearance-- we have to wait for the red stickers."

Peter understands that life isn't always fair. This past summer we went to the Newport Aquarium in Oregon and after walking around in the sun for a few hours, everyone was excited to get some ice-cream. But Peter, who has deadly nut allergies, couldn't have any since the ice cream scooper explained to us, they couldn't guarantee a clean, nut-free ice cream cone.  So Peter didn't get anything.  We offered him a popsicle, or a fruit bar, or some gum.  But  he was okay.  He walked around, and didn't sulk or cry or complain.  I was so impressed.  An hour or so later, when we left the aquarium his dad took him to a kosher, clean scoop ice-cream shop, and he enjoyed his cone thoroughly.


Now, I'm realizing that Peter understands me pretty well too.  Better than I ever could have imagined.  Bedtime is a rough time for me-- for the whole family, really.  Boys don't want to go to bed, and parents want bedtime to not take four hours!  Drinks of water, and teeth brushings, and jammies can be the straws that break this camel's back after a long day of being a mom.  One particular night, I was exhausted, and emotional and when William and James both decided they were hungry and thirsty and didn't want to go to bed, I lost it a bit.  "Okay! Get yourselves to bed! I'm done!" I said-- not yelled, but said forcefully.  And then I went downstairs and started crying.  Ryan took over and got the little ones to bed, and I sat on the couch downstairs and felt like a failure as a mom, once again.

Peter had been in the office across the hall and had heard everything.  He was working on homework, and he came out quietly, and sat down next to me.  "Am I a bad mother, Peter?" I asked him.

"No.  You're like the best mother in the world."

"You are so sweet, thank you.  But are we doing okay-- as a family?"

"Yes."

"If I could do one thing better as a mom-- pretend you are a mom-critic--what would you say I could do better?"

After a long pause, "Well, you could give us more work to do."

I hugged that boy, and told him thank you, and I would give them more work, and I felt so blessed that my 7-year-old boy could be so wise and so kind.

Last week was Peter's first cub scout meeting.  He starts cub scouts for real after he turns 8 in December, but we went to learn about pinewood derbys and Father-Son Campouts and oaths and mottos and such. I am excited and Peter is very excited. I don't want him to grow up too fast, but I'm excited for now and for next year and for the chance I have to see who Peter continues to become.  I am glad that he and I can figure out together how to be the best family we can be, and I am grateful to be his mom and his friend.

So I usually have a lego in my pocket.  I find them all over the house.  And if I see one that's small enough I stick it in my pocket.  And every time I reach in my pocket I feel it, and I feel happy.  I feel happy about when and where and what we are right now, as a family.  Anyone who knows me knows that I would do almost anything to have another baby.  I feel an ache inside when I see pregnant women, or little newborns, and I remember my little ones and I just want to wrap them up again and feed them and smell them and hold them while they sleep.  I love babies, and for the most part I loved being pregnant.  But that is not where we are right now, and that is so very okay.  Where we are is fun, and busy, and messy, and noisy, and covered with legos.

 And that makes me happy.  If you have a little baby (maybe even a girl) and need a family for her, we'd be happy to oblige, and be assured I would try and give her enough work, as all the very best moms do.  But right now I need to go find Peter's soccer cleats and a motorcycle, and a lego dragon wing or two.

"A turtle is not a mystery."

James said this, very clearly yesterday while watching his current favorite cartoon, Jake and the Neverland Pirates.  He was watching an episode where the little pirates are exploring the ocean, and they run across a mysterious island, that has never been charted on any map.  James, who has seen all the episodes a time or two, told me, "That's not an island, it's a turtle.  A turtle is not a mystery."

James being so very wise.

And he is right, of course.  Although one could wonder a bit about why the turtle that is mistaken for an island, is so enormous, and why it's taken so long to figure out that it's a turtle, and why it has trees on it's back.  But it's a turtle.  It's not a scary, spooky, mysterious island.  And that makes all the little pirates pretty happy.

Marie Curie said something almost as wise as James when she said, "Nothing in life is to be feared.  It is only to be understood."  I read that quote for the first time when I was lying in bed, sick with Rheumatic Heart Disease as a twelve-year-old girl.  It was one of many inspiring quotes found in a large book with pretty photos, lent to me by Onda Thorstensen.  Onda was my mom's visiting teacher, and she lived down the street.  She seemed quite old to me at the time, but was probably only in her 70's back then.  She would pick us up from dance or gymnastics if my sweet mom was working late, and she would bring us food if we were sick.  

Lots of people brought us food that summer, while I was in bed reading inspiring quotes, and being very afraid of life.  It all felt so uncertain.  Why would my own body attack my heart? How could this happen to me, when I'd tried to be good my whole life?  Would I ever go back to ballet and school and life?

I remember one evening, when I was just so sick of being in bed, and tired of all the books and movies we had or had borrowed, and the side effects from the prednisone (acne, weight-gain, depression) felt like almost as much trouble as the damaged heart valves, and I just wanted to be outside with my family-- that evening my dad came in to talk to me.  He and my mom had divorced a year before my illness, but I still saw him all the time.  He came to visit us as often as he could.

My dad and his kids, on someone's birthday, a long time ago!

That night he saw that I was more than a little discouraged. And he picked me up-- even though I was not a little girl-- and he carried me around the yard so I could see the flowers, and the trees, and my siblings playing on the lawn.  He walked for me that evening.  And he showed me that even when things were uncertain and awful, he loved me, and that would not change.  It was enough.  It would be okay.

That love from my dad and my mom, and my siblings and my neighbors, and my God, has helped me see that no matter how scary the island looks, the love is still there, and I can and should even love myself.  I figured that out that summer, that loving myself, my God and my others was enough to make life okay, no matter how scary the situation.  So, it's love that makes the island a turtle.  It's love that we're supposed to figure out on this earth, and that understanding takes away the fear.  

I've remembered that Curie quote, and said it to myself many times since that summer.  Thought of it when my other siblings' illnesses seemed ready to wipe them out entirely.  Thought of it when my boys have been sick with deadly allergies, or high fevers, or just struggling, as James did to be born.

So grateful Professor James was born, and that he teaches me so very much. 

I think of it still when I hear the news. Life can seem very scary, but it's not so frightening when I try to understand it, and when I remember to love instead of fear. And even the most mysterious islands are really just big turtles.  

"We're friends, right?"

Greetings, my dear readers--(aka close family)! I'm going to be honest here at the beginning of this new venture, and just let you know, that this is my very first attempt at blogging, and I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing, or why I'm doing it. I think it fair to say that I'm not an expert, per se, on anything. I don't have proven advice to offer, or poems to share, or ... coupons. And I'm certainly not blogging to impress or depress anyone. 

But, that said, I do have three truly fabulous and adorable boys, who are growing up way too fast, and who are quite photogenic (See photos below).

James (3), William (5), and Peter (7) on Easter Sunday with new matching shirts that they still like to wear.  Yes!

 I also have the best husband in the entire tri-state area, nay the universe, and we do have some pretty great experiences together in our little bungalow.

Ticking Jamesie. A favorite pastime for both father and son.

Maybe it's just that I don't want to forget right now. Yes, maybe I just feel that recording and sharing slices of my life right now is a way to preserve it and even appreciate it a little more.  Or maybe I know that my hand-written journals are completely illegible and my posterity will go mad if they decide to try to read them to figure out who I was and what I was doing in 2014. If you are reading this in the future, and you've tried to read my stack of old journals first, I'm sorry.  I usually wrote late at night, and I was tired. Sometimes the light was already turned off.

This blog will be legible.  It will be full of photos and experiences of my days. It may not be brilliant or helpful.  But we're friends, right?

Boys and Pumpkins on our Bungalow Porch (just had to capitalize those words!)

And that is what William asked James at least two dozen times today.  Maybe more.  "We're friends, right, James?"  

And James would answer in an abnormally high voice, "I'm a baby tiger.  Baby tigers don't have friends."

 William (in front smiling) and James (putting sand on his brother's head) at the Oregon coast this summer.

And William would explain to him that baby tigers could have lots of friends, and they are really cute, and people like them, and we like the tigers at the zoo, and so couldn't they be friends, please?  And James would answer the very same way, more emphatically, and in an even higher voice, "Baby tigers don't have friends!" And William would get very angry and a little teary, and it's at this point that I would step in and tell James, that if he can't be a friendly baby tiger, then he simply can't be one. We only allow friendly baby tigers in our home-- obviously.

This happened again and again today, (we spend a lot of time at home together-- the three of us) and James would usually end up finally allowing William to be his friend, only because he wanted to continue being a baby tiger.  And William would be happy and reach over to take James' paw and say, "Friends forever!" in the sweetest voice you've ever heard.  And James would squeak and say, "Goo goo, ga ga, rawr!"

William and Pikachu at Lagoon-- with eyes.

I think this baby tiger friend conflict today shows the personalities of my two youngest boys so very well. William wants everybody to be friends. He is the most empathetic, kind-hearted child I've ever met.  He's only 5, but he uses diplomacy and compromise better than most adults do--to help all his brothers or friends (or parents, on occasion) get along. In stories with bad guys, William can't wait for the bad guy to see the light and turn into a good guy.  He asks questions about why the bad guys are bad, and thinks they probably were never taught by their parents how to be good.  He chooses things he knows his brothers will like, when he gets to pick the treat or the show or the activity.  And he simply has to be friends with James-- tiger claws and all.

James eating his breakfast.  He won.

James is three, and he acts like it.  He is full of life and energy and is more than a little stubborn at times.  He knows what he wants and he will try and get it--even if it is up high on a shelf.  He climbs-- much more than his brothers did.  He wrestles, and bounces, and does scary things, and hits his head a lot.  He is not afraid to ask loudly at church, "Why he have no hair!?" while pointing to the bald man two rows ahead of us. He is loving and kind and sweet when he wants to be, and is a tiger or a puppy or a fox when he wants to be.  But when he loves, he loves fiercely, and makes me laugh every single day.  He wakes up saying, "I need a chocolate bar." And because I am getting older he usually gets one, after breakfast (sometimes).  That's the kind of focus James has.



So the tiger baby forever friendship, though sweet, usually only lasts an hour, before William, needing reassurance, will ask James again, "We're friends, right?"

Nope.  Not anymore.  Not until Mama Tiger steps in....

So the moral of the story is,  if you must be a baby tiger, be a friendly one, and if you want to motivate your mother to help you and be on your side, use tears and not a shrill tiger "goo goo".  And if you need friendship keep asking.  And we're friends, right? Please?