There were many. And if I catalogue them my heart will fill with the helium of gratitude and fly off into the sky until the sun or the air pressure bursts it into a thousand vaguely biodegradable pieces. This is the gift of memory and nostalgia.
But one day.
There’s a favorite spot for hiking the boys and I have in Hood River. We don’t actually hike. We adventure to places that have interesting views or nooks and meadows to explore or hills for sledding. To get to these payoffs there may be a mildly noteworthy amount of walking.
We went to our favorite spot. When I say “our favorite spot” in relation to anything, it refers to a place I take my children that they cannot opt out of. Their actual favorite spot is the arcade. I hate the arcade.
Our favorite spot is up high, over the river. There are little paths and hills to scramble up. There are drop-offs. I do not like heights. But it’s fucking beautiful.
K-Pants begged to go to the top of the triangle hill that juts out over the meadows.
There’s this thing I do when I find something terrifying. I yell to myself in my head, “YOU’RE DOING SOMETHING TERRIFYING! YOU’RE DOING SOMETHING TERRIFYING!” I’m more open to terrifying things now. They are eye-level with the rawness and stimulation of parenting.
At the top of the little path of the scramble-up hill K-Pants’ soul left his body. He wanted my phone to take photos and video. I hadn’t brought it with us. I could see the car like a beetle down below in the parking lot—phone inside.
There are so many streams of consciousness and so many little decisions in living each day. As a group we decided Boy Woww and I would go down to the car, leave K-Pants on the hill, and come back with the phone. “YOU’RE DOING SOMETHING TERRIFYING! YOU’RE DOING SOMETHING TERRIFYING” leaving your child on a hill.
I love him. Very very much. He doesn’t admit that he loves me except in Mother’s Day cards and birthday cards. He took this photo of me from on top of the hill.
I love him.
He would probably be happy in sports camps all summer. But I would not be happy organizing logistics and carpools.
I need to get in the car and drive away from home. I need to get on the freeway toward “Ocean Beaches” and arrive at ocean beaches. Not veer off at the next suburban exit.
I’m like the plastic disc on the end of the yo yo spinning off your fingertips. I love home most after I’ve gone careening away from it, only to get pulled back by its whiplash tug.
He turned nine this summer.
There is an imaginary milestone out there that says that nine gives kids more rational thinking and more independence and a feeling of control that helps the intense ones feel more like the world is theirs. Maybe they don’t have to fight it so much.
Just this week he started to learn how to yo-yo. So far it’s crashing down or coming halfway back up.
We’ll learn how to get the feel right together.
Remember that vanity lifestyle and crafts channel that Rebecca and I are working on? Well, we need a name! Options so far:
- Pretty Pretty Parenting
Help! We need something that captures messy, normal, non-social-media-ready life but isn’t trying too hard (because we have to pretend like we’re humble). Ideas?
While you brainstorm, here’s a belated Easter/spring craft to do with your kids!
I sent Rebecca this video of two wealthy L.A. moms laughing at themselves making blow job jokes in a million dollar kitchen while blowing eggs. I actually used this video with Boy Woww to make a blown-out egg that we now can’t find.
It’s a good tutorial when you stop yourself from getting distracted by the L.A.-ness and the size of the wedding rings. But who has time to clean their kitchen–especially when they need to contemplate how they would look with a long blonde weave and bangs and a 50-carat ring?
Belated Easter Craft for Kids Everyone Will Love!
So your holiday timing is slightly off… who cares? Pumpkins are cheapest November 1.
Make sure to send us a photo of your finished project, or a photo of yourself not doing this craft! Or just a photo of your latest batch of hard-boiled eggs in the Instant Pot. Everyone keeps saying they’re amazing.
This guy turned 8 this month with characteristic passion and intensity.
The waters are rough.
But worth sailing.
On his birthday he said to me,
“For two years it was only me.”
“Do you wish you were an only child?” I asked.
“Of course no,” he said.
And that made me happy. Summer awaits.