when you are trying to raise a son into a man that sees

I want to raise a boy into a man that sees.

I send him over to ask if it's okay.  He runs back all smiles - yeah, Mommy, she says I can.

So he is changing clothes and bug spraying when my phone rings.

Marie, Max just knocked on my door and asked if he can cut my grass.

Yes ma'am, is it okay?

It would be wonderful.  Last night before I fell asleep I prayed to God to send someone to knock on my door today to cut my grass.

We both laugh amd chat a minute and then hang up.

His daddy gets him going and then he cuts.  He follows the pattern and cuts circle after circle after circle.

And I watch.

And then my phone rings.

Marie, my son says he wants to send Max $30 for cutting the yard.  

No, thank you, but please no ma'am.  That's not why he's cutting it.  I don't want him to think he has to get paid.  

And then she begins to cry.  

I prayed to God last night before I went to bed that someone would knock on my door today and ask to cut my grass.

Yes ma'am, I know.  

And she hangs up crying.

I go to the window and watch.  He's cut the same spot so many times there's bald patches appearing. I go outside and guide him to a few missed spots.

Repost from here - We were blessed beyond any form of our worth with three beautiful girls and my years were over forty and much time had passed since we made the unspoken bond of no more children by not speaking of it any longer.

There are some things that are very hard to explain.  And the fear is if you try you might sound somewhat extravagant.  Or like a dreamer.  Or just plain foolish.

But on a night earlier pressed against each other I laughed loud and told him we just made a baby.  I knew it.  I felt it.  I can't explain it.  I said it but how does a woman know such a thing at such a time?

But I did.

And I was right.

And weeks passed and he came home as I walked out of the laundry room and right into his arms and cried and there were only three words -

You're pregnant?

Yes.

And I said words that were too honest when I wondered aloud why would God give us another child?  I didn't want another baby or need another baby and why would I be pregnant unless He was giving us a son?  Why would I be pregnant if it were a girl?

Some things will shame till the day we die.

And I didn't realize how badly I wanted a boy until the thought that I might not have one.

But I was afraid to say the words too loudly or too often.

And on a table too short in cold dark room I held the hand of the man I love and watched only him.  And there it was.  Wand moved and fingers touched keys and I saw it on his face before she spoke the words.

It's a boy.

But I already knew for his smile started slowly and he saw and looked at me in a way he had never looked at me before. 

And then my excitement turned to fear as I realized I had no idea how to take care of a boy.

But I could figure the taking care of part out.

But raising a son?.  How do you raise a man?

To be honest I had come to believe God didn't think I'd be any good at it.  I guess He believed I was the daughter raising type.

But here, now, he was granting us a son.  Blessing us with a son.

In this post I continue on to explain a promise I made to God when it appeared later on in the pregnancy that something was very wrong with Max.

I'm still not going to share that promise here in this white space.  It's personal.  Too personal.  And it was a hard promise.  One I want to keep but am not so sure I'll ever be able to.  I think of it often.

So here we are raising a son.

Girls are natural care givers, mostly kind-hearted and compassionate.  Instinct drives much of what they do.  A mother's instinct.

But boys like bad guys and heroes and dirt and mess and often get wrapped up in their own little gross worlds, too wrapped up to just notice things around them. They go too fast to just notice.   

And boys seem to not have chivalry in this modern age.  I don't want the age of harlots and brew and turkey legs devoured around an uncivilized table.

But there has to be an in-between, because boys growing up now are missing the mark.  Parents are missing the mark.

I want to raise a son into a man.

A real man.  A man like Christ the man.  A wise, kind, compassionate, loving man who has the hands of a hard worker.  A just man who angers with injustice and a zeal for God's house that will consume him. John 2:17 

A man who is not afraid of hard work and sweat.  One who is not afraid to be gentle. A man who never tires of loving one woman and telling her so.

And I want to raise a son who grows into a man who notices.  One who notices things going on around him.  A man with a keen sense of what needs to be done and then just does it.  One who notices a woman carrying a box while men stand all around her.  Notices an elderly neighbor's yard that needs attention.  A man who notices the child in the corner without a friend. And then becomes that friend.

I want to raise a boy into a man that sees.

Max says . . .

And I find this photo on my phone.  A surprise gift from Maxster.

Which reminds me of when I found these on the camera, one day, out of the blue.  One of the best days.

And this morning, cuddled in bed exhausted from the week, we have this conversation.

Thank you for being so good this week.  You were patient and never complained about all the work for the play.  And you pitched in and worked hard.  You're a super son! 

laughter as he buries his head deep into my shoulder

I'm gonna buy you a shirt that says, 

Super Son.

Mommy, that'd be so cool!

I can wear one that says Super Son, 

and Daddy can wear one that says, Super Dad.

And you can wear one that says,

wait for it - - 

I have a Super Son!

What?  Maxster, wait!  There is something wrong with this picture.  

You get a Super Son shirt, 

Daddy gets a Super Dad shirt, 

and I get a I got a Super Son shirt?

huge laughter as I hug him close and marvel that he is here.  This gift.  This son of mine.

when you should have hid the cologne the first time

It's been a really long while since I told y'all some of the cute things Max says and does.  And, well, part of that is because as boys grow, which I'm still learning all about, they don't grow in cuteness as much as they grow in grossness.

Burps, armpit farts, the back of knee farts - does that area of the body have a name? kneepit farts?

And I don't wanta scar him for life or anything.

Maybe this will only scar him temporarily ...

Mama, I'm gonna write a diary.

Boys don't have diaries, baby.  Maybe you should make it a journal?

But I wanta write Dear Diary.

But I don't think boys have diaries.

Okay.

A short time later.

Mama, do you want to know what I wrote?

I'd actually love to know what you wrote, but I don't think you are supposed to share your journal.

It's okay.

Okay, I'd love to hear.

Dear Diary (in which he just looks up and grins)

I have an awesome life (in which he just looks up and grins)

I wrote another one.

Dear Diary

I want to start wearing perfume.

Baby, boys don't wear perfume.  They wear cologne.

Oh, okay.  I want to start wearing cologne.

What kind of cologne do you want to wear?

The kind that attracts girls (in which he just looks up and grins)

Daddy's got some cologne.  See if you like it. (in which I made a mistake and had to sleep with my head under the covers that night)

And then today, weeks later -

Forest says ...

So a few days ago he comes to me and wants to know how one changes their eye color.  I'm not really sure of the question and mumble some ridiculous answer about age changing the color of your eyes.

And I know that isn't what he wants.  He looks unsatisfied.

And he returns and asks about contacts.  So now I'm following the conversation - but only for a moment.

Contacts can change your eye color.  If you have blue contacts your eyes might change from brown to blue.

 

Where are they?

 

What, baby?

 

The contacts.

 

In your eyes.  They are like little round pieces of soft plastic and they sit on your eyeball.

And then - to my never-ending amazement that is Maxster - his face lights up as he places his fingers inside his eyes -

How do you get them out, Mommy?  Help me, Mommy.  Help me get mine out. I want to see my other eye color.

 

I'm eternally amazed by the things he doesn't know.

 

And as Forest says, That's all I have to say about that.

 

you ole sweet talker, you

I grew up in this house.  And I'm curled up in bed with Maxster telling him what this room looked like when I was seven years old.  Telling him about the old rotary phone in the corner and that Izzy's bedroom used to be the living room. 

And yes, he does say this -

Back in the 1800's, right?

And, believe me, I do more than just beg to differ.

I oppose loudly.  He blushes and stumbles and explains he meant the 1900's.  And really it doesn't sound much better. 

The 1900's?  Really, Max?

And then today we are preparing his project fair items and reviewing the Titanic books.  Do I really have to go on?  You know where I'm going here, right?

And yes, he does say this -

Mommy, how old were you when the Titanic sank?

 

 

Older than you're ever gonna see, Son.

when he might like to quaft just a smidgen more

He wouldn't give valentines at all if I didn't make him.  One day, four or so years ago, he asked to be excused from making some colorful glue-filled cut-out with the words -

Me don't 'ike to quaft.

And he ran off to play.

But I make him.  I don't believe it's necessarily necessary for him.  I'm not afraid he'll find himself lost one day on this great big planet with no friends because he wouldn't valentine gift.  His writing needs improvement and his scissor skills lack some, but will making thirty valentines form a Hemingway or a Meirs?

But I make him and we fold tinfoil and pull duct tape too sticky from the sun beating the dash all those days I looked at it and decided not to bring it in and we laugh when we both want to fold the last piece over and I pretend let him win.  It takes us both to pull the tape and he says -

We should do this more often.  We make a good team.

And there are no words lacking ending or beginning blends or shortened vowels or double l's.  But there is snaggletooth lisp and I kiss his nose and don't have to pretend to not be able to pull the tape hard enough.

And he helps.  He slices with the cutter and cuts the string and doesn't complain this year about writing his name so many times.  But he won't draw a heart or write the word from.

 

But saying we make a good team?  Wow.  What a compliment from my not-so-crafty valentine.  Because, well, you know - love is a battlefield.

a special thanks to Tia @ events to celebrate and Jamie @ creating really awesome free things for the free valentine print outs

when it's just time to exercise a little faith

So we are driving to Sunday School, just Maxster and me, when the song This is Only a Mountain by Jason Castro comes on the radio.

Max is singing like he always is, he knows the words to all the songs.

And then I mess up an opportunity to teach when the wrong words just tumble out of my mouth and I know I'm not saying the right thing but I can't find the words to make him understand.

So I do the wrong thing.  I say the wrong thing.  I think I just told my son he'd never have enough faith to move a mountain.

Mommy, what do those words mean?

This is only a mountain

You don't have to find your way around it

Tell it to move

It'll move

Tell it to fall

It'll fall 

 

I tried to explain about faith.  How it doesn't take much faith, I skip the mustard seed part because I know he wouldn't get that,  but then I'm saying there can be no doubt and I'm rambling and  I see him in the mirror. He's looking at me.  He's trusting me and believing with all that he is worth that he does have that much faith. 

 

But if he doesn't - can I tell him how to get it? 

 

He wants to move a mountain.  And if all it takes is believing then he doesn't understand.  Does God not believe that he believes?  and for just a brief moment of taking my eyes off the road I see in his eyes that he thinks he can tell a mountain to move and it will.  Because he loves Jesus and believes it will move.

 

And I'm grasping for words and then I tell him he'll probably never have enough faith to really make a mountain move because we can never erase that little doubt in our minds that we can't really make a mountain move and I know that's not right but maybe it will work and that's not really what Jesus meant when he talked of the faith of the disciples in that verse and I'm rambling and falling deeper and deeper and pulling him into a pit of confusion.

 

Not just confusion - but I see it - a moment in his eyes of questioning.  Just a moment of maybe, maybe every thing he believes is not real.  Did Jesus tell him something wrong?  Doesn't it say it in the Bible?

 

Oh boy, I just told my son he'd never have enough faith to move a mountain and he's only six and he can't separate literal from implied.  I remember less than a week ago I discovered during a lesson of the globe that he didn't know - he didn't know - that Bethlehem was a real place on our Earth.  I never imagined he would think that. 

 

What is he thinking now when I just told him he can't move a mountain and the Bible says he can?

 

He doesn't understand that God lowers himself to us and speaks to us in ways that we can understand.  Just as I am trying to speak to Max in the way his limited intellect can understand, that is how my Father speaks His Word to me.

 

Jesus does not mean that mustard seed sized faith can literally move mountains.  His expression was just a metaphor describing what we think is an impossible task.

But I can't say it right and he turns his head and is no longer singing the song but looking out the window and I just lost him.  He doesn't want to listen anymore.  I just lost that moment.

 

Superman can fly and Spiderman can climb buildings and Jesus is supposed to be real and bigger and didn't Jesus say it?

 

So I backtrack.  I look at him in the mirror and tell him it's hard to understand but 

 

yes, yes he can tell a mountain to move and it will move from here to there if he has enough faith.   

 

He looks at me again.

 

How much faif does it take, Mommy?

 

And I smile at him in the mirror.  And he looks out the window again. 

 

But I see it -  just a hint of a little smile on his face reflecting on the glass. 

 

And I shut up.  Because to a six year old life really isn't that complicated.  And faith is big.  

when it takes eight ingredients to love like God

We're lying in the bed and Maxster says this - hands flying around counting on his fingers -

Mommy, God told me how to love like him.

 

He did.  How?

 

It takes vese ingredients.  Big hope, little hope, big faif, little faif, big love, little love -

 

Wait.  If you're going to love like God why are you saying little love?  God has only big, big, love.

 

No, he has just big love.  But ven when you add a little love wiv it and mix it up it makes it even bigger.  Get it, Mommy?

 

I say Got it as I watch him stir and demonstrate with lots of hand gestures.

 

So, big love and little love, big hope, little hope, big faif, little faif, and ven iron and Jesus.  Ven you smash it all togever.  I'm not sure why the iron but I vink you pobably need it.

 

 

So, He supplies all the big love and all we need to add to it is just a little - just a little love.  World, all the work has been done, all we need is just a little love - just a little.  We can do that, can't we?

 

He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them.  And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

Matthew 18:2-4

when everything they say makes you smile

We walk in the post office and Maxster says -

I haven't been in the post office in years and years.



So Maxster and I are reading a child's version of Gulliver's Travels. 

As he is finishing the first page, Gulliver mentions that he is from England.

So, Maxster says -

Mommy, I should do a English voice.

I agree, so he starts over at the beginning.

And this is what he says -

Chapter Uno

Yep, still love that boy.

when you're reminded that you can't remember

I was reminded today of why I blog - or why I used to blog.

My friend's son offered to buy her some new shoes.  She was as we all are sometimes - admiring a pair of shoes that were pretty but didn't pay the bills so they would have to wait - and her sweet son wanted to buy them for her.

She didn't let him.  She is one of the best mamas I know.  I can't think of anything she has ever done that I would do differently where children are concerned.  She has raised and is raising exceptional children.  I admire her - much.

But I would have let my son buy those shoes for me.  Yep, I would have.  I can think of plenty good things that would come from that sacrifice from him.

And joy.  Hopefully it would bring him joy.

Okay, so maybe I would be thinking more of myself and she was thinking more of her son but we won't go there cause that's not the point. 

The point is that I was reminded why I blog.  The conversation made me remember something that happened last week, except I couldn't remember it.  Maxster did something super sweet and six-year-oldish and I can't remember what it was.  I remember thinking I need to write that down before I forget it but sometimes I have more faith in myself than I should and I did forget it.

If I don't begin to write again I'll never remember things like the morning of Delia's wedding I popped a pill to prevent a virus I felt coming that I had just cleaned up from 48 hours earlier in a panic that I might take it and that the pill made me so loopy and sleepy that my pictures are so bad from the wedding that I had to use the touch-up tool in Photoshop to make myself look partially presentable for this my first child's wedding day pics. 

That was a secret - the Photoshop part - so it's not exactly the kind of stuff I'm talking about - but you get the picture.

I think I'll take my son to the store and admire a pair of shoes and see what kind of job I'm doing - as long as I keep him away from the Nerf gun (or any kind of gun) aisle I might have a chance.

When Son's Not As Smart As You Think He Is

Mommy, I want to be in de movie.

 

Okay, you can go too.  But that doesn't mean you'll get to be in the movie.

 

Is it a cartoon?

 

No, it's not.  Why?

 

I don't want to be in a cartoon.

 

Oh, why?  That might be fun.

 

No.  Cause some cartoons look like clay and I don't want to be in one dat looks like clay.

So now I'm completely aware that his sweet brain is about to give me one of the moments I blog for.

And the other day he said something that made no sense and I looked at him kinda crazy - crazy enough that he knew he had to explain but not so crazy that I'd scar him or anything - and he said - sometimes my words mess my brain up -

really?  I didn't know.

but back to this story . . .

Baby, I don't understand.  Why wouldn't you want to be in a clay one?

And then there it is.  The look.  The look he gives me far too often when he can't understand why I don't just know. 

Cause, Mommy, dey would have to turn me into clay.

And I stare, trying not to laugh.

He stares back - rolls his eyes - embarassed for me and my stupidity -

And Mommy, dat would hurt.

 

. . . and dey would have to make a clay head of me and den put it on top of my head like dis and it would be heavy and . . . . . . . . .

 

and on and on and on.

And on and on and on until I'm staring at him glassy eyed.  I'm thinking- maybe the stork really did bring him - but from where?

No Maybe About It . . . His Name is Max

Maybe he thinks I will forget how to spell his name.

 

Maybe his eyesight is poor and he thinks I can wear his shirts and he wants to discourage me from doing so.

 

Maybe he just wants to remind me who he is.

 

 

 

Maybe I should never turn my back on him and a permanent marker?

 

Oh boy, boy, boy.

She's A Very Blessed Little Girl

I lie straight in the bed and stare at the ceiling.

Mommy, I miss Daddy.

 

 

So do I, Maxter, so do I.  But, thank you for sleeping with me every night and protecting me.

This son of mine takes my hand and says -

 

I'll hold 'ou hand, Mommy.  I'll never ever let go.

I don't know where she is or who she is.

 

I don't know if she'll catch a bus for school tomorrow or wet her bed tonight or run to her parents from a scary dream.

 

I don't know if she likes blue popsicles or purple, or if she likes the crust cut off her sandwich or not.

But I am sure of one thing -

she's a very very lucky little girl.

(that is if she can get past him leaving on adventures to save the world from all the villans, and that he often misplaces his secret identity mask - and she'll have to find it - and that he likes to pee off the porch)

she's a very blessed little girl.