Knocking Through the Door

By: Wendy Rhein

My 7-year-old is more mature than I am. Maybe it is because he hasn’t been hurt or jaded or twisted as I have become in my 43 years. Maybe he is just a better person than I.

I have long suspected that he is an old soul who has more kindness and generosity of spirit than most children his age and certainly more than many adults I know. His intensity and sensitivity continue to amaze me.

The latest evidence of this was found in his announcement that he wants to write a letter to his father.

Following on my comments last week about keeping the door open to their relationship, I think he’s decided to give that door a hearty knock.

They have not seen each other since Nate was a toddler. Nate understands and accepts that his father lives in another state and is not part of our family but the questions have been coming more frequently lately about who this man is, what is he like, and would he like me. The last one is a gut twister.

He says he’s been thinking about it and the first line of the letter will be “hi dad, this is Nathan. I’m seven years old now.” He wants to tell him about his school, his friends, and what he wants to be when he grows up. He wants to tell him about how he loves to build things and how he is training to be a ninja. He wants to say that he hopes his dad will write him back so they can be pen pals and maybe someday they could meet.

I support the letter and yet had to warn him that his dad may not respond, and that if that happens it will be ok to be sad. He rolled his eyes and said he knew that, he just wants to try it and see what happens because even if he doesn’t write back, his dad would probably read the letter and know more about him. (See, this is the wisdom I’m talking about – he can’t control the response, only what he puts out there, and that’s ok.) When I wondered aloud why he was choosing to do this now, he said that he’s seven now and he knows a hundred people, but not his own dad.

Good point.

My immediate reaction was to panic. He’ll be disappointed. He’ll be hurt. He will take it personally when his father ignores the letter. He will be crushed, then resentful, then angry. He will decide that men abandon people who love them and are not trustworthy. (And let’s all say it together: PROJECTION!) But maybe I will be pleasantly surprised. Maybe Nate’s optimism can override my pessimism. I can hope for the better response instead of planning for the worst. Being pen pals with his dad will fill the need he so rightly has for a close connection with a man who should be not just his father but his dad.

I have always said that the door is open for them to connect. I have purposefully kept in limited contact with his biological father and have long encouraged a connection between them but the adult in their relationship has chosen otherwise. I cajoled, I yelled, I threatened, I disappeared, I cried, I flippantly dismissed. I always said that some day, Some Day, he was going to open the door to see this tall, lanky young man with beautiful brown eyes standing on the other side of the screen demanding to know where the hell he has been his whole life. And he would have to answer for his absence. I never thought that would happen this quickly. Or with this kind of love and compassion of a young child, just wanting to know if his dad liked to build stuff out of Legos too.

One of my greatest fears is that as Nate gets older he will choose this man over me as the person he loves more than his cherished poster of all the US presidents. I could close the door, I know. I could destroy his image of this man who would be his dad with my own tainted memories. But I need to be the parent and make decisions that I believe are in his best interest, even if it means that one or both of us gets hurt, again, along the way. He deserves that from his parent.

The Opening Door

By: Wendy Rhein

This passed weekend we celebrated Nate’s birthday with three of his buddies. In typical Nate fashion he wanted an event unlike any other. That dream was translated into an afternoon picnic and romp at an old battlefield fort, now a national landmark. Each of the four seven-year-old boys had his own compass, his own canteen, and a bandana to tie over his head as they explored and played spy games around Civil War era cannons.

As we trekked to our picnic site from the car, each kid carrying something we needed, one of the boys asked Nathan about his father. Before Nate could answer, the same child turned and asked me, “Nathan doesn’t have a father, right?” I replied that yes, he does in fact have a father but he’s not part of our family. Another boy chimed in, “yea, that happens. Same with my cousin, except he has two moms now.” Yes, I said, that’s a family too. “Yea. And sometimes parents have to leave. They can’t stay married even when they love their kids.” Yes, I said. Sometimes that happens too. The third boy asked Nate, “so where is he, your father?”

“He’s in another state. I don’t see him. But my mom keeps the door open just in case we want to see each other when I’m older. Right Mom? (with a big smile on his face and a slight leaning into me) You keep that door open.”

I could not have been more proud in that moment. Proud of how these boys talk to each other and to me. Proud of how they can acknowledge how their lives are different and the same as other people’s. And incredibly, abundantly, and gratefully proud of my own child’s confident response.

Yes, love, we keep that door open.

No fears, no worries, just the honest truth.

And off they ran, this band of brothers, to tackle the fantasies of invisible enemies and “us versus them.” It gave me hope that the “us” is widening and expanding with each year as these boys and others like them grow into men.

A Fantasy

By:  Wendy Rhein

I have a confession. I have a fantasy that is occupying more and more of my time. It is tantalizing to distraction and I’m fantasizing about making the fantasy reality.

Take a deep breath and close your eyes. Come with me.

I dream of a vineyard with a few out buildings and a 15th century stone house that leans slightly to the left.

There is an old wood slat barn down the pebbled path, perfect for a cow or two, some sheep and goats. Maybe even a pig. The rolling land has a vineyard on one side and an olive grove on the other. And in the middle is me, shoulders back, confident, the natural wave in my hair flowing (all of the grey is gone too, by the way), with a basket of dirt-clinging vegetables resting on one hip and a baby on the other. I’m happy. I’m relaxed. My kids are running barefoot through the olive grove. There are no car alarms going off, no toy-stealing and no one slamming doors down the hall.

 

Can’t you feel your blood pressure dropping just LOOKING at this?

In my waking/tied to the desk hours, I sometimes close my eyes and go to this happy place but increasingly I’m frustrated when I open my eyes after the phone/email/blackberry/cell phone pings. It isn’t refreshing anymore. I wonder what it would take to make the dream a reality. Could I really uproot my family and move to a pastoral village? That’s easy: absolutely. No problem. Sell our belongings, pack some bags, promise my elder son that he’ll make new friends and off we’d go. Sounds a little cold I suppose but the prospect of that kind of adventure and way of life sends me over the edge of compassion for my kids and into “mama says now” mode. But the rest of the fantasy, that’s the hard part. Finding the right property. Discovering how to make money in this new environment. The logistics of living as an ex-pat. Schools. Language.

Damn I hate when reality gets in my way. But it has to be possible. I know scores of people who have made the literal leap over the Pond for a different way of life.

This could be in the cards for us and I’ve gone as far as discussing it with my mother. She’d pack tomorrow if I let her. Her request is that I promise to not relocate us to Africa, and that since she would fully expect to die wherever we go so she would like that place to have decent medical care so she can get the good drugs in the end. Fair enough.

So, if anyone is looking for a permanent caretaker for their European second home, or you know someone who needs some help on a vineyard or a small B&B, give me a call. You’ll be amazed at how fast I can pack.

Brother From Another Mother

By: Wendy Rhein

“Who is THAT?”

“This is Nathan’s brother, Sam.”

“He isn’t Nathan’s real brother!  He doesn’t look anything like you.”

And so started my Friday evening.  Actually, let me back up.  My evening started when I dashed out of work for daycare pick up.  I walked into the happy and bright room and saw a handful of little people surrounding a daycare worker, a substitute, and together they were studying something orange and fuzzy.   I hung back, loving the look on Sam’s face when he sees me at the end of the day.  The biggest smile creeps over his face and he explodes with a running leap to me.

He saw me, smiled, and as he started his dash, the substitute daycare worker stepped in front of him.   She glared at me and asked who I was.  Meanwhile Sam is behind her yelling happily “Mama! Mama!”  I replied to her I am Mama.   She looked at Sam, wide eyed, and then looked at me with narrowing eyes.  And looked back at him.   He scooted around her legs and ran towards me but by this point my excitement over his excitement had been tarnished.  We proceeded to walk around the room and gather his end of the week things: a random art project, his red baseball cap.   The worker followed me around the room as I followed Sam.   I wondered if she thought she could catch me not knowing where things were or trapping him in the coat room.   I was tempted to say something but held back.  This isn’t the first time my parenting link with Sam has been questioned by an African American  woman, just as I have written before about Caucasian people raising a questioning eye.  It goes both ways, folks.

Just in the moment that I wanted to remind her that there were four other 2-year-olds that could use her attention, one of the regular class leaders came in and greeted me by name.  Immediately the watchful woman hung back and sat down.   I admit I felt a little smug in the moment.  Sad but smug.  Is that possible?

Once we were home, I was greeted by the conversation above from a 7-year-old playmate of Nathan’s.   Within a minute of the comment his parent arrived to take him home and none too soon.  My mom went on to tell me of the other things that had been said that day, judgments flying as soon as he walked in our home.  The most hurtful of which involved Nathan not having a father (the kid’s words, not mine) and that Nathan could never be a Jedi or a ninja (the two most sought after career options of 7-year-old boys) because only dads can teach those skills, not moms.   Nathan, bless him, countered with the simple statement that his mom is an incredible Sensei and a Jedi Master (which I am) and his training has been excellent.

His training in self respect and self restraint is clearly excellent.

His Master and Sensi, however, needs a refresher.

I waited for several hours and let the comments fester.  I reached out to a single mom friend of mine with a multiracial family and we discussed options.   I was frustrated and hurt and angry and yes, feeling lacking as a parent to not be able to prevent these kinds of lobs of divisiveness that still surprise me.   More often than not I expect it from adults – the mean spirited comments, the looks, the “he doesn’t belong to you” stares.  I expect more of children.  I have seen so many of them ask questions out of curiosity and wonder, accepting the answers that we give about fathers and colors as if they make perfect sense.  Because they do make perfect sense.   Families are all different and it is love that makes a family.   Or, as Nathan said about his friend’s comment on his brother:  he was born to a different mother, so what?  He’s my brother no matter what.

In the end, I wrote the parents of the child a cordial and careful email, explaining that comments were made that caused some hurt and I hoped they would work with me to address them because our kids have a special bond and I would hate for these things to get in the way.   I monitored myself very carefully.  I chose my words to make my point and not to give life to the rant that was ping ponging around my brain.   In their response the parents were horrified and apologetic.  They swore they didn’t understand where that language and thought was coming from, and I believe them.   They would speak to him.  They would work it out.

In the day that followed my email Nathan had all but forgotten the comments made.  He had dismissed the no dad/no ninja comment as some silly and uninformed quip.    He knew better, he said.  And yet, he remained upset by the comment about Sam.  A full 24 hours later he said that he was so glad that Sam was little and couldn’t understand what was said because he knew it would hurt him more than it hurt Nathan, and that was already a lot of hurt.   What better demonstration of a brother’s love could anyone want?

Two days later Nathan and I went to see them to have a quick chat – after multiple attempts the child remembered he needed to apologize for saying ‘something’ that hurt Nathan’s feelings.   Was I satisfied?  Not really.  Am I expecting change?  Unlikely.   Am I incredibly thankful for the loving and courageous friends of all races, family compositions, ages and genders who are raising inquisitive and caring children for whom something different is not something wrong?  Absolutely.   All y’all know who you are.   Thank you.

Mission in Space

By Wendy Rhein

There was a moment today when I could have sworn I was channeling my grandfather. I woke up very early, with my usual enthusiasm for the day (please God let’s get through this without bloodshed or broken bones. Amen.) but today I woke with a mission. A space mission.

When I was a kid, and into my teens, my sister and I used to spend part of every summer with my mother’s parents in Florida. Each summer they would load up their trailer with canned goods, hot dogs, saltine crackers and their minibar and off we’d trek to some far off destination full of mystery. Like St. Augustine. Or Charleston. And whenever possible, my grandfather would take us to space launches.

I have seen 5 launches of rockets or shuttles from Kennedy Space Center. I can tell you how even a mile away the ground shakes when the engines ignite. I can smell the ocean and fuel melding together. And I still feel the murmured excitement of hundreds of people gathering in pre-dawn darkness waiting to a “go/no go” call. For years after those summers, whenever there was a space launch, I would tell friends that I’d been there, I’d seen that. It is one of my most cherished memories of my grandparents and I am forever grateful that they thought exploration of any kind was important and that being a witness to history was valuable.

Spending those summer weeks with them wasn’t always easy but I am grateful for the countless memories of dinners in trailer parks, long days on the road, stopping for every historical site, picking oranges in their back yard and trying and failing to master my grandfather’s peach cobbler. Those memories are part of the reason that I get through the challenging times of having my own mother live with me and my sons. They know their Nana deeply and she knows them.

I was sad this year to miss the last space shuttle launch. I had grandiose Ideas of trekking my kids to Kennedy Space Center to stand near the spot I had so many times. But their ages, bottles, diapers, a work change, a move and my mother’s health all seemed to say that this wasn’t the right time, even when I knew it was the only time. I may have missed the final mission of the shuttle, but I didn’t miss the shuttle.

Today the Discovery flew over Washington DC, making its way to its new home in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum’s Udvar-Hazy Center (or, as my 6 year old say, the ‘most secret museum on the planet.’) When I heard the shuttle was going to make a low fly by of the capital area including the Mall before heading to Dulles airport, I told my mother. She said exactly what her mother would have said: this is a once in a life time opportunity. We can’t miss that!

So at 6:45 this morning, I piled my mom and my 2 kids into the car with a packed breakfast, school backpacks, day care bag, work stuff and headed downtown. My mom entertained my kids with stories of her parents and their road trips, how she watched the launch to the moon on a 8 inch television screen with her whole second grade class in her living room since most people didn’t have televisions then.

We found a wonderful spot in a grassy park on the Potomac and waited with scores of others. Unlike the space enthusiasts of my youth, many of these folks were following the shuttle and its hosting 747 on Twitter and on a live NASA feed. Sam ran around chasing the ducks and coveting the extensive camera equipment. Nathan was thrilled to be near his favorite places in the world – the Lincoln and Washington Memorials. After an hour of anticipation, we watched in amazement as the shuttle flew over our heads, a mere 1500 feet off the ground. Incredibly, it made 2 circles over us and so we were able to see it four times. It was beautiful. Sam pointed at it and said “bird!” Nathan said he couldn’t believe he had waited his entire life to see something so phenominal. My mother cried.

I see my grandparents in her more and more as she ages. It is shocking, scary and empowering at the same time to be a witness to this last stage of her life while also witnessing the beginning of my sons’ lives. And somewhere in the middle, is me. I want to take the opportunities like today to be a witness, to mark these days and take note that together, we were part of something incredible. And I hope that one day my kids will tell their kids about the day their Mama and Nana took them to watch a space shuttle fly.

Just When You Think You’ve Heard it All

By: Wendy Rhein

So I went on a date last week. Just a drink. This was my dip-a-toe-in-the-frigid-and-murky-pond-of-dating-in-your-40s. Hold your applause and keep the Bride’s magazine in hiding.

He seemed like a nice enough man, also in his 40s, divorced, employed, no (obvious) criminal record and when speaking and writing, he communicated in complete sentences where the subject matched the verb. We “met” via a dating website and graduated to speaking on the phone before meeting in person. This is good. This is progress. I actually looked forward to meeting him and gave careful thought to what I would wear, beyond the normal prayer to just get out of the house without food, dryer lint, or a Tow Mater sticker on my shirt.

Let’s call him Tom for the simple sake of having something to attach an expletive to later.

Tom arrived on time (a plus) and came in with a smile (bigger plus). I was happy to see that our phone repartee and rapport could continue in person. This has promise, I said to myself. I’m not making a grocery list in my head or wishing I was home sorting socks. This is good!

And, near the end of what I thought might be the first hour of real, adult, flirtatious, and interesting conversation I’ve had in much too long, he asked about my children.

I do not hide the fact that I have two children when I meet someone, nor do I launch into the full background of my family arrangements. That’s at least a second or third date, right? The idea is not to send him running for the hills before he’s had a chance to experience my witty humor and radiant smile. That’s the goal anyway. So, Tom asked about the father of my children. Basically he was drilling for any baby daddy drama. I very simply responded with the truth – my elder son’s father is not involved in our lives and my younger son is adopted and we’re not in touch with his biological family. It’s just us, our happy little family.

Silence.

Tom took a deep breath and started to speak. Speak is a gentle term for what happened next. Tom launched into a soliloquy about adoption. He did not think he could ever raise an adopted child. He knew he wouldn’t feel ‘attached’ to that child, and how do you adequately love a child you can’t form a bond with? And he loves kids. He wants kids. Just not adopted ones. Being a step parent, he believes, is somehow different, at least those children were related to the other parent, and if you love that other adult then of course you would love the children they brought into the world.

My turn for silence. I’m trying to decide if this almost-stranger is being sarcastic. Is this an attempt at humor? Not looking like it. The good angel and devil angel from Tom and Jerry appear on my shoulders. I could get up and walk out. Or, do I bother to impress upon this previously imagined sensible person that I am in fact attached and bonded to my younger son? That just because I didn’t push him out that I am lovingly ushering him through the world? This is a teachable moment! I could change someone’s mindset right this minute! On the other hand, this is a first date and do I want to have to convince someone of something so basic, so core, to my family as welcoming and cherishing adoption? Those unmatched socks are looking pretty good to me right now. I wonder how quickly I can get my car out of valet.

He notes my silence and immediately says it was so great to finally meet and he hopes we can do it again soon.

Excuse me? I say. I’m sorry; I really don’t think that’s necessary. I wish you well but this isn’t going to happen. (He looks genuinely surprised and, I’d like to think, a little disappointed.) I don’t think our long term views are compatible and I value my time and yours and wouldn’t want to waste it. Goodbye, I said.

Yes, I missed my teachable moment. Yes, the activist in me could have leapt out of my hanging open mouth and delivered a litany of reasons why his position is narrow-minded, inexperienced, and just plain wrong. But my dating-weary 43-year-old self wasn’t in the mood. She just wanted to check this off the list and move on. Besides, I had huge hugs from two happy little ones waiting for me at home.

Where’s that valet ticket?

Why I Love Boys

By: Wendy Rhein

 

I love little boys. Grown boys too, but that’s not what I’m talking about here.

I’m talking about little boys. Mid-sized boys. Boys before they can drive and ask your daughters out on dates. I’m sure I’ll love those boys too but right now, I’m in awe of little boys.

They can turn any song into a laugh-fest by adding the words fart, poop, pee or plop.

They develop a swagger that comes with their first tight group of friends.

They can be louder than a freight train one minute and then absolutely silent for an hour. Just add Legos.

Boy + dirt + creek = joy

They want to play soccer but during the games they are more impressed with a stray yellow balloon floating in the sky than the ball coming at their heads.

They still talk to their mothers about the prettiest girl in their class and who (else) likes her.

Every cardboard box holds secret potential as a fort.

Little boys pretend they are Voldemort by filling a sweatshirt hood with sand, slinging it on their heads, and then spinning around, watching sand fly everywhere, mostly down their shirts and pants.

Little boys want to cook. They want to clean the bathroom mirror. They want to put away their clothes, if you give then a penny. A penny is MONEY. Real money.

Little boys want to know if you can make a sword out of toast and if the Easter Bunny farts powdered sugar.

Little boys still want a morning snuggle before dawn. They still want to hold your hand in the parking lot. They still run to their moms to fix a broken shoelace or a scraped elbow. They still believe their moms can do anything.

Love em.  Just love em.

Passing on the Code

By: Wendy Rhein

The murder of Trayvon Martin has consumed the media and many a mind these last few weeks. The death of a child is always a tragedy but this one has taken on a larger grief because of its racial foundation, its avoidability, and its shocking reminder that the death of a young black man at the hand of a person who believes himself to be an authority is not new. Not by a long shot.

I am a white woman raising two young black men. I’m well aware of that. I’ve been accused of being overly aware of it. I can’t tell you how many people have told me that that they just don’t see race, or that race isn’t a factor anymore.

(That’s just not true. And it bothers me when people claim to not see race because it is an intrinsic part of identity and pride. Don’t negate my sons’ race by saying you don’t see it. Celebrate it. Welcome it. Cherish the fact that difference exists everywhere you find it.)

I digress.

There is this thing called the Code. I’ve been told about the Code. I’ve asked scores of not-so-sensitive questions about the Code and how to share it with my sons someday. I am incredibly grateful to the men who have been willing to talk to me openly and honestly about what to say and how, acknowledging my limitations. I could have left this alone until they are older, ignored it until absolutely necessary because that certainly would be less confrontational for me. But I want to be prepared. I want them to be prepared. And I admit to a level of shame about the need for the existence of the Code that I need to deal with too.

Generations of African American families have sat around thousands of kitchen tables and shared this sad reality with their sons. One day, my dear child, you will scare someone just because you are a young black man. They will question your presence in their neighborhood, at their school, late at night at a traffic stop. Pay very close attention to your environment, to your surroundings. If you feel uncomfortable, pay attention to that and leave. Over time you will develop a sixth sense about these things, I’ve been told. Be respectful when you are stopped by a police officer even when you have no idea why. Don’t be submissive but don’t challenge. Find respect in humility and self preservation. And please know that not all white people will be like this, you have a wide and loving group of examples that prove otherwise. Don’t let these indignities make you angry or hateful because that’s not who you are. Be aware that others fear and judge based on their issues; it has both nothing and everything to do with you.

My boys are too young, thank God, for this discussion but I know it is coming. It is hard for me on many levels. I see the internal battle between teaching them to be wary and questioning and creating distrust and bitterness. I want them to live in a world that is full of love and creativity and purpose, not labels and misconceptions and genuine danger. How do I balance raising them to be self confident and powerful young men while also telling them to be careful about going to a Stop n Shop after a football game? How can I tell them to be who they inherently are and yet plant this insidious seed of self-limitation and self loathing?

I wish I could say that I’m shocked and surprised that a 17-year-old black man who tried to shield himself from the night’s rain with a hooded sweatshirt was gunned down in his neighborhood. Instead, I’m shocked and surprised by the shock and surprise of so many others. This is the reality for many black male teens. For those who say they don’t see race, please understand that others’ experiences are not yours and we need to acknowledge that racial reactions still exist, whether in high profile situations like Trayvon’s or the more subtle indignities faced by black men daily. I don’t know how so many of these parents have talked to their sons over the years without erupting in rage over the very fact that we still have to have this conversation. I don’t know how I will.

A Grown Up Tantrum

By Wendy Rhein

I did not have my best moment as a parent today. I shouldn’t have any expectations that my kids should recognize or even acknowledge how hard I work to be their mom and to provide for them. I know I shouldn’t but on some days I do.

One of my biggest challenges with being a single parent is the lack of a shoulder or cheerleader to take over when I’m at my wit’s end or to validate that yes, that child was being Voldemort’s spawn and the red-faced yelling match that ensued was indeed justified. Someone who understands the wide-eyed look of amazement I sometimes have when I watch my child step over 7 dirty socks 13 times in one hour as if they are invisible, all the while complaining that he has no clean socks. I long for that occasional reminder that while I signed up for motherhood gleefully with all my being, I did not fully realize the implications of raising two independently minded, strong willed and creative young men, and that my breaking moments are understandable.

One such moment today resulted in my actually suggesting to Nate that if he liked the rules (or lack of) and the constant new legos and $20 weekly allowance for a 6-year-old without any chores that seems to be the norm at his friend Scott’s house (name changed to protect the maybe innocent) that maybe he should go and live THERE. Without me. Without Sam. Without Nana. I even offered to drop him off after school. That way he’d be there in time for the dinner that never includes vegetables and is almost always take out. You want me to pack your suitcase too?

Silence from the back seat.

As I said, not my finest hour.

The problem with listening to your kids is that you sometimes believe them. And this morning in my exhausted and frazzled Monday morning state, I believed Nate. I had been hearing about the glories of Scott’s world all weekend and since 6am today and this morning I actually believed the undercurrent of the comparisons: Scott’s parents are better at this than I am. All those insecurities about not being able to provide everything financially, practically, and emotionally; the ‘never enoughs’ as I like to call them. To be fair, I don’t think that Nate believed that undercurrent, or was even aware of it. I’ll own that one. Just like I own inviting my 6-year-old to move out. I launched into a mental temper tantrum of my own Scott list: I bet Scott’s family shops at Whole Foods all the time, they certainly can with their two professional incomes and the full time nanny who teaches the kids Swedish! And I bet they can take three vacations to Legoland and Harry Potter’s village at Disney every year! And stay at the resort! I bet Scott’s mom doesn’t have to hire a babysitter for $40 to see a $10 movie, no of course not. And of course Scott’s parents never have to nag Scott to pick up his God-forsaken dirty socks!

Lucky for me, I did manage to find some adult restraint and let that all play out in my head and not my mouth. We were quiet for a few miles, which in Nate’s world is an eternity. I was feeling about 2 inches tall, clearly not the role model of single motherhood and doing it all well that I try in vain to be. We arrived at his school and as he was getting ready to leap out of the car and start his day, he leaned forward, grabbed me around the neck and said “I don’t want to live anywhere but with you. You’re my best mom. And besides, Scott’s house doesn’t have cable.”

Perfect.

Of God, Jesus and Bird Poop

By: Wendy Rhein

I love the conversations I have with Nate in the car. I am fascinated with his thought process and how his mind works. I am a linear thinker; I process and plod along a logical path. Not my child. He is a big picture, eyes wide open kind of thinker, absorbing bits and pieces of information, sights and syntax before he comes up with his own amalgam of understanding.

I drive him to school every day. I could let him take the bus but selfishly, I want the time with him in the mornings. We do some of our best and funniest communicating during that brief ride. Like today. Today we talked about God. And Jesus. And bird poop.

Nate: Mom, someone at school was talking about Jesus last week. Where is Jesus buried?

Me: Talking about Jesus at school? Hm. Well, that’s an interesting question. Jesus was buried in a cave.

Nate: Is he still there?

Me: No. There was a big stone at the grave site, to keep robbers out, and after he died, a few days later, some friends and family came to visit, including the woman who might have been his wife, but that’s another story, anyway, they came to the grave and the huge stone was gone and the body was gone.

Nate: Why?

Me: Well, Jesus didn’t need a body anymore. He was a spirit, a soul, and he told the folks to go away, that he didn’t need his body anymore and they shouldn’t look for him there, he was now with God. (I really hope I’m getting close to the story that I recall from an Easter service many years ago.)

Nate: With God? Is he really God’s son? I heard that at school. Does he call God “Dad”?

Me: You heard that at school? Who is talking about God and Jesus at school?

Nate: Calm down Mom. It’s no big deal. Besides, you tell me we live with God all the time because God is all around us, everywhere, like energy and air and love. I told the kids that.

Me: Yes my love, that’s what I tell you. (And in my mind, I’m thinking, Oh there will be letters home, I can see it now.)

Nate: So go back to the body part. Why doesn’t Jesus need his body?

Me: Because he died.

Nate: So? So now he just goes around like a spirit on Scooby Doo, being kinda scary and kinda silly looking?

Me: Not so much like Scooby Doo. Think of it like this. A body is like a garage. (He laughs.) Yes, a garage. And it houses the most amazing, wonderful, unique spirit that is the real YOU. Your spirit is the most precious part of you.

Nate: So my body is a garage and my spirit is like a totally cool motorcycle?

Me: EXACTLY! You want to protect and care for the motorcycle, right? Just like your body houses your spirit, the garage houses the motorcycle.

Nate: We don’t have a garage for your car, though. Doesn’t it need to be protected like a motorcycle too? Because it gets pretty messy and dirty and birds poop on it sometimes.

Me: Are we talking about my spirit now, or my actual car?

Nate: The CAR, Mom. Birds don’t poop on your spirit.

Me: Sometimes, kiddo, I wonder about that. (Feeling the analogy getting away from me now, I’m thinking about metaphorical bird poop.) So your motorcycle is the spirit inside of you, and your body is a garage. But once you die, you get to be the motorcycle all the time, and who needs to be parked in a boring old garage when you can speed around (safely, with a helmet and pads on and never over the speed limit) seeing the world and loving everybody? Jesus didn’t need his body anymore to be full of love for people, he gets to just be spirit now; he gets to be his own motorcycle.

Nate: I’m the motorcycle! Awesome! Is it ok with you if I live a long, long time before leaving the garage? I’d rather stay with you in my garage.

Me: You can stay with me for as long as you want, my love. We’ll both keep our garages and keep the bird poop off our spirits.

Nate: I like that plan.

Me: Me too.

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