But for the grace of God, there go I.

Please pray for Katie Granju and her son.  Katie's teenage son is recovering from a traumatic brain injury and drug addiction.  Katie is eight months pregnant.  She is bravely writing about her son's struggle. When I was leading breastfeeding support meetings on Long Island, Katie's book, Attachment Parenting - Instinctive Care For Your Baby and Young Child was the most popular book in our group's lending library.  That book provided countless mothers with information and support.  You can read Katie's blog here.

"She never had an education, She uses life as her vocation, Standing on ledges clinging to the edges, The world's a hard place to land on..." Elsie, by the Divinyls

If you take the Long Island Expressway, you can still see her, every day, rain or shine, on the Service Road, in her big yellow hot dog wagon. My Aunt Elsie, at 80 years of age, gets up in the morning and sets her truck for the day's hard work. Her kosher hot dogs are a treat. I recommend you have one with her special onions and cheese, but if you are from out of state, you'll want the traditional New York dog, with sauerkraut and mustard - and she'll give it to you, with a smile, a funny story, or a piece of her mind, depending on her mood.

My Aunt Elsie was the neatest grown up I had ever met. She was not like any of the others. She was never too busy to talk to me. She treated me like I was special, and when we came to visit, she paid more attention to me than anyone ever had. In many ways, she was like a fairy godmother. When I was a very little girl, maybe four years old, and we would visit New York, it was overwhelming. It was loud, and confusing. Everything smelled funny, and people would switch languages and I never knew what they were talking about, and they all looked alike, so I could not tell them apart. All these strangers that were my family were really strange to me. What were they saying? What were they trying to get me to eat? Why did they laugh at me when I put butter on my rice? I could never quite get anything right, and I felt like I was being swallowed up in this loud ocean. Everyone else was having fun, like they were at a beach party, and I was lost at sea. In the midst of the mayhem, just as I felt like I was about to go under, my Aunt Elsie would come and find me, and she would take me aside and into her magical world – the garage.

Aunt Elsie’s magical garage was the most wonderful place I had ever been – filled with more soda than I had ever seen – and not just Coke-ola. Aunt Elsie had sodas in flavors! Orange and Grape! And most wonderful of all, a special drink that I thought she invented right there – Yoohoo. It was not chocolate milk, and it was not soda. It was chilly and smooth, and Aunt Elsie said I could have as much of it as I wanted.

I had never been in a garage before. I remember the feel of the cold cement on my bare feet, and if I close my eyes I can still remember the smell. It was the most glorious smell. the essence of nine million white bread hotdog buns – and sugar – an abundance of Reeces cups and chewing gum, and the slightest, lightest, loveliest smell of all – one I can’t quite describe. It floated above all the other smells in that cool, dark haven. It might have been the mingling of onions entwining with the scent of tobacco from fresh cartons of unopened cigarettes, I’m not sure. Could it have been something else? I think so. I suspect it might have been the smell of a fat wad of cash she kept, rolled up and wrapped in a rubber band. This wad of cash would mysteriously appear, and Aunt Elsie would peel off a couple of singles and press them into my little hands. “For candy,” she would say. “Here! Take it!” Holy Mother of Happiness! I was in kid Heaven. My Aunt Elsie had a garage full of candy, and she was paying me to eat it!

The next morning she would take me with her, in her truck, to get her meat. She drove across Long Island into some mysterious neighborhood – I think it might have been the Bronx. I was on the ride of my life! Aunt Elsie could drive and talk at the same time, and she didn’t even have to look at the road! She was always looking back over her shoulder, at me. It was exhilarating to ride with Aunt Elsie. More exciting than The Cyclone at Cony Island. A ride with Aunt Elsie was a trip like no other.

Aunt Elsie took me on several special trips. She took me to the corner of Madison and 118th street, and told me what it was like when my mother was born, and pointed out where Grandma ran the store. Once she took me to the automat in New York City. It was the most amazing place. There was a whole wall of little glass windows. The sun reflected off them, and when we first walked in I did not understand what it was because I could not see, but she took me close and let me take my time looking through all the little windows – then she bought me a piece of lemon meringue pie.

Aunt Elsie had a little poodle, and she would let me walk it. I remember being very upset when the poodle peed on a mailbox, but Aunt Elsie laughed and explained to me that dogs do that, and it was ok, because the dog just wanted all the other dogs to know it had been there. Aunt Elsie always took time to explain things to me.

When my mother and father celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary, Aunt Elsie came to Kentucky. I was not quite 12 years old, and I was acting out, being rebellious toward my mother. I wanted to wear a glamorous dress and high heels, like my sister Jane wore. My mother forced me into submission and made me wear a dress appropriate for my age, with little blue flat shoes. Instead of buying me a bra, which she insisted I did not need, Mom bought me little white ankle socks to wear with these little flat shoes. I was humiliated, and I was being a horrible brat about the whole thing, but Aunt Elsie took me aside and worked her magic.

We went into the dime store, and she bought me real pantyhose to wear with the dress. She also got some robin’s egg blue ribbon, the same color as my little flat shoes, and she sat down with a couple of twist ties and bobby pins, and fashioned the ribbon into bows for my hair. I had never had a hair bow, and it transformed me. She fixed my hair, taught me how to put on the pantyhose, then let me help her put on her makeup. She showed me her beauty tricks, and I was impressed. She had a little stick of cocoa butter, that looked like a translucent lipstick, and she rubbed this on her cheeks. Then she dabbed a little lipstick on top of that. Voila! Her blush perfectly matched her lipstick. Aunt Elsie understood beauty, and she made me feel like I was beautiful, too.

When I got older and we would visit New York, Aunt Elsie still treated me like I was special. She let me go on her truck with her and sell hot dogs, which was really fun. She also took me to my first Pentacostal tent revival, which was not nearly as much fun as working the truck. It went on all day and into the evening. I fell asleep at one point and she thought I had been hit by the Spirit. She tugged on me and woke me up and tried to get me to go to the front where they were casting out demons and such. I knew I was not ready to be born again, since I was pretty sure I was born right the first time. I felt torn, because I did not want to disappoint my dear Aunt, but there was no way in Hell I was going down to the front of that crowd.

Lucky for me, my little brother Kelly felt moved by the Spirit, and his conversion both thrilled and distracted her. After the service, Aunt Elsie took us to Friendly’s and bought me my first patty melt. Over buttery grilled bread, melted cheese, sautéd onions and a meat patty, she told me it was the devil that made me want to wear that tight sweater. I was to watch myself, and remain pure, so as to make it hard for the many demons that were waiting to possess me. Say what you want about my Aunt Elsie, but there is no one else out there ready to battle the beasts of Hell for our souls. She has our back.

When we lived in Kentucky, Aunt Elsie would call my mother on Saturday mornings. We always knew when she was on the phone, because Dad would leave the receiver on the table and walk upstairs to get my mom. If mom was in the bathroom, the phone would sit there like that for quite some time until one of us picked it up. We would pick it up midstory, and Aunt Elsie would just be talking away, unaware that no one was there. I would fuss at my father about this. He would just laugh and say, “It does not matter. She doesn’t know. Elsie’s phone has no ear-piece, only a mouth piece!” We laughed about this, but we treasured her calls.

When I was in college, Aunt Elsie sent me a plane ticket to New York for Christmas. My friend Paul came with me, and we had a blast. We were only supposed to stay for a week, but we had so much fun we stayed for almost three. When Aunt Elsie picked us up at Newark, she took one look at Paul, and sized him up and down. Then she saw the three suitcases he packed for the trip, and her eyes got really big. She was scared. “How many days are you planning to stay?” she asked, “because it looks to me the way you packed, you think you are moving in! Don’t think you are going to move in with me. Only able bodied men can move in with me, and they have to pay rent. No free rides, you hear?” Aunt Elsie nicknamed him Three Suit Cases, but when she decided she liked him, she called him Three Suits for short.

I asked Paul to send a memory about Aunt Elsie from that trip and this is what he wrote:

The first, best memory of Aunt Elsie is when she picked us up in Newark and started quizzing me on if I knew where I was going to be staying for the week. I said "Long Island," and she said, "LonGisland". I said "Long Island" and she said LonGisland!". Repeat, getting louder and louder until I finally realize she's putting the stress on the "G".

So here I am, some young pipsqueak from Kentucky, in NY for the first time in my life and within a half hour of hitting the tarmac I got some crazy lady screaming at me while she's driving in cross-town traffic, "LonGisland! LonGisland! LonGisland!" Of course I fell in love with her instantly. It wasn't until later, when I tasted her hotdogs that I realized she was too good for me.

Please tell her I wish her a *very* Happy 80th! And let her know that I am still a compulsive over-packer.

When Paul and I left for the airport to return to Kentucky, Aunt Elsie hugged me goodbye, and pressed a wad of cash into my hands, for candy. That candy money paid for my college text books for the following semester.

When I left college and moved to New York, Aunt Elsie was good to me. I was living in an apartment in Queens, bringing home $212.00 a week, and paying $200 a week in rent. Aunt Elsie knew I was always broke, so she would show up at my apartment with hotdogs, pantyhose, coffee, milk, and little things she thought I might need. I was lonely, and I really appreciated those visits. Sometimes she would take me down to Jamaica Avenue and we would shop at May’s. Other times, on my favorite nights, she would check to find out when it was big trash night on the North shore. On big trash night people would put out their furniture and old televisions and things too big for the regular garbage pickup. She would pick me up and we would carouse the very best neighborhoods looking for furniture. People on the North shore did not put out junk. They knew quality - and Aunt Elsie had an appreciation for quality, especially abandoned quality on the side of the road. I still have a coffee table from Manhasset. Sometimes we would stop at Carmela’s. Other times we would just cruise, treasure hunting. At the end of a good night, she would drop me off at my apartment and press a few dollars into my hand. If I tried to protest she would say, “For candy! Spend it on candy!”

When I married and moved to Long Island, Aunt Elsie would come to my cottage in Amityville for coffee. When I was pregnant, she doted on me, and told me stories. She helped me sew the white eyelet cover for Eden’s bassinet, and she loved on my babies like nobody else. Before Eden was born, Aunt Elsie sat at the kitchen table with me and patiently folded envelopes I was making in which to mail the birth announcements. When Eden was born, at Good Samaritan hospital, my other wonderful aunts came to the hospital for visiting hours, but there was no Aunt Elsie. At the end of visiting hours, she burst onto the maternity ward as if she had been shot from a cannon. She had two dozen pink roses, and a bad attitude. She was angry. Or, as Aunt Elsie would say, “She was howyousay ANGRY! A! N! G! R! Y!” When Aunt Elsie feels passionately about something, she is likely to, howyousay, spell it out. Aunt Elsie can spell, and she can curse, in both languages.

She was all riled up that night, as only she can get. They would not let her see her niece! Can you believe the nerve of them? Never mind that she had been down the street, at Southside Hospital, and I had the baby at Good Sam. They should have let her see her niece! She had been giving them Hell, those yellow rat bastards! She was there, and they were refusing to let her onto the maternity ward. Finally, one of the nurses called Good Sam, and found out where I was, and sent her on her way. As she told the story, Aunts Minerva and Raquel collapsed in a fit of laughter, Aunt Raquel telling her to calm down, because she was here now, and Aunt Minnie saying, “They wouldn’t let you up because of your hair! They were afraid you would scare the babies! What’s wrong with you? Don’t you own a mirror? Look at your hair! Stop scaring the babies!” That’s when Aunt Elsie started to laugh, too. She said, “I must look like Whodunitandrun! I didn’t have time to fix my hair! I had to get to the hospital! I had to see my neice!” then there was a slight pause, “But I do have my eyebrows on!” and we all laughed some more.

When I got home from the hospital, she came to visit again, and when she thought I was not looking, she took my baby over to the sink, real sly-like, and baptized her in the tap water. That’s my Aunt Elsie, looking out for my baby’s soul. If only everyone had an Aunt like her.

This is what I remember most: The laughter, the love. The way she looked out for me. The way all my Aunts come when they are needed and shower us with love. All my aunts have given me something special. Aunt Virginia gave me shelter when I needed it most, and taught me to make pernil (use plenty of garlic). Aunt Maria taught me how to make empanadas (you can bake them, but they taste better fried) and gave me stories that helped me understand our family. Aunt Minerva taught me how to make rice and beans (it's perfectly acceptable to use the Goya beans in a can and a packet of Sazon). Aunt Minerva also took me to my first mall, and bought me my first soft pretzel. She taught me that once I was a married woman, my status was changed, and I was equal to every other married woman. Aunt Raquel reminds me how important it is to stay connected with family. When I've suffered loss, it has been Aunt Raquel who called me, and offered comfort, and although she never took me to a tent revival, I know there were times when she prayed for me. All my Aunts are special, but my Aunt Elsie, well she loves me best, and always has. She was my fairy godmother. I am so very blessed.

"Day by day, Day by day. Oh, dear Lord, three things I pray, to see Thee more clearly, Love Thee more dearly, Follow Thee more nearly, Day by day by day." Fredric Nietzsche

 So, I've gone and done it again. I bought myself a new organizer, because I know if I can just get the right day book, my life will be all unicorns and rainbows. I will always know what day it is, where I am supposed to be, where my kids are and what I need to pick up at the store. This one is just dandy - a Day Runner Life Tracker, featuring the X17 Modular Binding System, patent pending.

It has a sunshine orange plastic cover, not so bright as to make one proceed with caution, but vivid and trendy. The plastic cover is practical, easy to wipe clean. The Day Runner Life Tracker is made up of separate little notebook style components, called modules, which slip into the plastic cover, allowing you to customize your book to fit your life.


The X17 Modular Binding System has sleek black elastic bands to secure the modules. Just slip those custom components in under that elastic band and organize your life. It is comforting to me to think that when I am barely holding it together, those sleek black elastic bands will secure the pieces of my life.  For an additional $8.95 I added an expense tracker, so that I can chart each penny I spend and figure out why I am broke.

I tied a pretty striped ribbon to the elastic bands at the top of the spine, so that I could use the tail of the bow to mark the calender page for the current week. The X17 lacks a pocket, so I taped an envelope to the inside of the plastic cover so that I have a place to save all these receipts until I have a chance to enter them into the expense tracker. In the past my day books have had a place to slip a photo of my kids, in case I forget what they look like while I'm at work. The X17 lacks this feature. I hope this does not become an issue.

The only real concern I have about this new day book is it's name. They call it a Life Tracker. When I hear the word tracker, I imagine an expert marksman, out in the woods, tracking a wounded bear in order to shoot it, and put it out of it's misery.  Maybe this is a fitting image. Maybe what I really want is for someone to track my life, and put me out of my misery. I will try not to think about that. Instead I will focus on the positive. It is the end of March, and I have selected my new calender. It holds such promise, such hope.

I just know that now all my problems will melt away within the plastic orange goodness.

"See the west wind move, like a lover so, upon the fields of barley. Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth, among the fields of gold..." Sting

I saw a new doctor yesterday, and now I have some research to do on grains. She took one look at my medical history and advised me to go gluten-free. I was stunned.

All I could think, as I heard these words, was how this was going to seriously impact the life in my kitchen. The baking station is the heart of my home. Kneading bread while listening to Joni Mitchell is my therapy.  My cookie jar runneth over.

I closed my eyes as the doctor spoke, but I had to open them again, because the visions I was having were too disturbing. Thin slices of country ham floated by on buttery angel biscuits while onion laden foccacia and homemade yeast raised doughnuts appeared from nowhere. I've never made those doughnuts, but they have been on my to do list for quite some time.

Oh, beloved wheat. What will I do without you? It was only a few short months ago when I placed a crown of wheat upon my head and went to the Halloween parade dressed as Ceres.

After work last night, I went online to research the things my new doctor and I discussed. Again, I was stunned. Dennis looked over my shoulders while I read lists of symptoms from site after site after site, both of us shocked that every physical difficulty I have experienced, for as long as we can remember, could be the result of gluten intolerance. Why had I never made this connection?

Good bye, scones. So long, soy sauce. Buttermilk biscuits, I see you in my mind's eye, gently holding a slice of homegrown heirloom tomato, all warm in your blanket of cream gravy, with a light sprinkle of black pepper and kosher salt. Visions of you have gotten me thought some difficult winter days. I'm going to miss you most of all.

Dennis is not sure how I will make it. I usually buy my flour at Sam's Club in 25 pound bags. I guess Dennis won't have to go shopping with me anymore. I only need him when I shop so that he can lift that awkward heavy bag.

If you are familiar with gluten-free baking, please contact me. I welcome any suggestions on recipes and products.

"Listen. Do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?" The Beatles

As a rule, I don't believe in keeping secrets. I get a sick feeling in my gut when I think about keeping secrets, perhaps because child abusers often tell their victims that it is their little secret, and threaten them if they tell. Some secrets are dangerous to keep.  Some secrets are too hard to hear. 

Some beliefs, although not secret, are held close to the heart, in a place so private it is hard to enter. That is how it should be.  There are things you do not want to know about me, and there are things about you that I am pretty sure I don't want to know.

I am sometimes afraid to express my beliefs because they have the potential to cause other people pain. Other times, I am afraid to express my beliefs because I know that others, who disagree, will become confrontational, and we will both be injured. There are some subjects not meant to be discussed in polite company.  

This morning, someone I have never even met in person, hijacked a thread on my Face Book wall because I don't believe in abortion, and she does. 

People, who know me well, know that I do not believe in abortion. This is not a secret. It is something I don't like to talk about. I did, however, make the mistake of posting a link to a news story regarding legislation advanced in my home state of Kentucky that protects breastfeeding mothers from harassment, protects whistle blowers, and requires mothers having an abortion to undergo ultrasound before consenting to the procedure.

These are all subjects about which I care. I shared the link because I knew of several people reading my page that would be interested in following at least one, if not all of these subjects. I have since removed the thread.

Abortion is one of many delicate subjects likely to cause internal as well as external conflict.  If you have had an abortion, and you regret your decision and need to talk about it, we can talk about it. I listen with compassion. 

If you have had an abortion and want to come down on me because I don't believe in abortion, and then criticize me for being judgmental, please don't. 

If you think I want to make you feel guilty, rest assured I don't. My beliefs are based on my own personal and spiritual experiences, and have nothing to do with you.

Sometimes, when people find out I don't believe in abortion, they begin to act like bullies, and try to make me justify my belief system. I think that is what happened to me this morning. I have seen this happen to other people in public forums as well. I don't try to make them explain their beliefs.  Why do they think it appropriate to challenge mine? 

People who do not know me well assume that I am pro-Choice because I am liberal on most social issues. The reason I am a liberal is because I believe in society working to take care of all people, including the unborn and the women who carry them. I am always shocked and disturbed when a woman I barely know tells me about her abortion. I can hardly have this conversation with women I deeply love. I certainly don't want to discuss this with someone I hardly know.

I don't spend my weekends going to pro-Life rallies. I do not think anyone is justified in going into an abortion clinic and shooting the place up. Neither is there any justification for shooting up a church.

I have seen a bumper sticker that says, "Against Abortion? Then don't have one." When I see that on a car, or in someone's signature line on an internet posting, I want to shake that person, slap them in the face, and rage at them. How dare anyone take something as serious as abortion and reduce it to a slogan on a bumper sticker? How dare they trivialize abortion and invite me to join their pro-Choice Facebook group? What makes people think this is acceptable social behavior?

I know and love many women who have had abortions. I do not condemn them. When I think of their situations, I try to hold compassion and love in my heart. Some of these women had illegal abortions in the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. Others chose selective reduction after undergoing assisted reproduction procedures, something that is hard for me to wrap my mind around.  One friend lost her unborn baby's father on 9/11 and made her decision while experiencing shock, severe trauma and grief.  Her situation is tragic.  Every abortion, in my opinion, is tragic.

Please don't presume you know where a woman stands on this issue. If you believe in a woman's right to choose, don't talk down to me as if I am too stupid to have an opinion. Don't talk to me of chromosomal disorders and having to choose between your own life and that of your unborn child. I had to make that decision while signing consent forms for a blood transfusion and trying to get someone on the phone to take care of my toddlers. I have strong feelings on the subject, and you don't want to hear them.

If you are going to reveal something to me, and you don't want me to judge you, then don't tell me. I have a hard enough time taking care of my feelings about my own reproductive health.  I would rather not worry about hurting yours.

There are some things I don't want to know.

"I'm so glad that you finally made it here. You thought nobody cared, but I did. I could tell. This is your year, and it always starts here, and oh, you're aging well." Dar Williams

My husband’s birthday is this week. I feel guilty, because I have not yet planned a special celebration for him. I also feel guilty because he is aging so well, and I am not. Feel free to leave me lots of comments at the end of this post telling me I look really good (for a woman my age). Try to reassure me. The truth is, he is aging well, and I am not. In photos from the early 1980s, he looks almost exactly the same as he does now, even with the substantial increase in forehead. When people see these pictures, they exclaim, “Wow! Is that you? When was that taken?”
I do not look like I once did. Dennis looks like he always has. He hasn't packed on the pounds. He doesn't cover any grey. He says not to worry about it, that I look fine. Then he asks if I’ve seen his glasses anywhere.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror recently, as I was nearing the end of a bottle of face cream and reevaluating the need for a replacement. Did I really need to spend twenty bucks on Regenerist? “Nah,” I thought, “I'm aging pretty well.”

Just when you have a thought like that, the universe jumps up and bites you in the ass, or in my case, the eyelid. No sooner than that thought crossed my mind, it happened. I picked up The Glass of Cruelty - the mirror that 5x on the side I had been using, and 10,000x on the side I flipped over while wiping it down. You know the mirror, the one that makes my skin look like a pancake that is ready to flip, or a close up photo of the moon's crust, ashen, dry, and covered with craters. I had been blissfully using the kinder, more gentle side of the mirror. Ignorance being bliss was no longer an option, because I saw It.

I shudder at the memory.
Suddenly, where there had only been eyelashes, It as there.
It was vile. I could not wipe It away.
Suddenly, there was a pink fleshy mole in my lash line. It was awful.
It appeared from nowhere, like a giant pink finger pointing at my reflection. With an evil laugh It said, "Oh, really? You think you are aging well? Then you haven't met ME!" I think I was smote, as It was a harsh blow that came down upon me.

I asked my husband if he had seen It, and he said no, It was barely noticeable, and really no big deal. He looked at it closely, in the light, and suggested that if it bothered me, I should talk with the doctor. The Doctor? Which doctor? Dermatologist? Plastic surgeon? Psychiatrist?

Within a week, a second little mole appeared near It. I call them The Pointer Sisters, as when I look in the mirror they rudely point at me, mocking me and chanting, “Now you are now a woman of a certain age! Soon our cousins will appear on your neck! You cannot stop us! Our troops are gathering in your basal cells and soon to your epidermis we shall arise!”

Over the coming days, I light candles and set up an altar to Saint Stratum Corneum on my vanity. I offer Her the finest sable brushes, and consecrate to Her unguents and pots of colorful creams. I determine that as I invoke Her, if I apply brown eyeliner exactly right into the lash line, and I dab it carefully onto The Pointer Sisters, I can camouflage them as a clump of mascara.

This is tricky to do, and not without risks. First, I must wash my hands in The Holy Water of Sink. Then I must use my left thumb at the outer corner of my eye to pull the skin above my cheekbone toward my ear. While using my index finger to haul up and hold that flap of eyelid that was once under covered my brow bone, but now droops over my eye in one flabby fold.

I pray as I steady my right elbow on the vanity and firmly grasp the thin eyeliner brush in my shaky hand. I lean in close to The Glass of Cruelty and the ritual dabbing begins. If my prayers have been heard, and the Saints are pleased, my hand is guided by forces from the Heavens, and I do not poke myself in the eye. “Holy Mother of Mascara”, I mutter, “Don’t fail me now.”

Thus each morning begins. When I light my candles now, I say a new novena, one for my mid-forties.  It is my husband’s birthday this week, and when he blows out his candles, he will not be the only one making wishes.
I wish I could be more like my husband.
I wish I could age without being judged, or imposing judgments upon myself.
I wish I could see my crow’s feet as pretty birds singing the harmony lines in the song of my life.
I wish I could be like the woman with the bundle of sticks in Dar Williams’ song - that I could beat back the voices in my head, and hear only the ones that say, “Aren’t you aging well…” Her song is beautiful. You can listen to it here. I have to go now and touch up my makeup.

"Boy of mine...as you sort among the stories you've been told, if some pieces of the picture are hard to find and the answers to your questions are hard to hold, take good care of your mother..." Jackson Browne

It's like Where's Waldo, or maybe a crime scene.
It's like Jackson sings, "some pieces of the picture are hard to find."
In this case, the piece that is hard to find is the rest of the boy.
This is how I found my boy, sleeping in my bed, his body all the way across it. I knew he was in there somewhere, buried under comforter and covers and pillows Then I found it, a piece of my little boy.

These days, when I find a piece of little boy, it is delightful. He is not so little anymore. His world is bigger than I would like it to be, and he sometimes carries the weight of it. He experiences stress I can't absorb for him. He is tender and loving and kind, and I have to remind his teacher that he is just a little boy.

Sure, he looks tough, and he certainly acts tough, but under all that hair, he is still beautiful, soft, and sensitive. He can be those things and still be all boy.

We push our boys to toughen up. We expect the bumps and bruises they take to become calluses when they should still be tender feet. We expect them to sit still and walk in lines, to be more organized than their mothers. We've got it all wrong. We send them to play on playgrounds with signs that say No Running. We send them to schools that take out the swing sets because swing sets have become a liability issue.

"When did swing sets become a liability?" I asked.  "Well, one child broke his arm when he jumped from the swing set," they told me.

Of course he did! When I was in elementary school, that happened about once every two years. Do you remember the year the kid in your class broke his arm?

When kids jumped from swings, our principal didn't consider it a liability. He considered it a learning experience. The howling boy would pull it together and act strong while the principal gently wrapped a magazine around the arm. He put an icepack between the arm and the magazine, and he taped it so that it stayed the way he wanted it. The magazine provided stability while the boy waited for his mother to take him for an x-ray. As the mother drove away, the principal told the other students, "Looks like a pretty good break. He'll be in a cast for a long time. Won't be able to play ball, or get it wet. No swimming," and everyone would be a little more careful when they jumped. We still jumped. We ran, leaped, fell, and smacked our heads and banged our knees and had fist fights, even us girls.

They removed the swings on which my boy loved to play. The boys started playing football at recess. They told them no tackle football, and the boys tried to keep it to touch, but they are little boys. Touch didn't last for long.

The first time a child fell they banned footballs at recess. Their footballs all confiscated, they took to the woods, and began playing the same game, only using a pine cone instead of a ball. It was easier to throw, harder to catch, and much more likely to put out an eye than a ball.

Sixth grade is hard. It was hard for his sister, too. I can't help but think it doesn't have to be, and it should not be.  Our system makes it that way. They want to toughen them up before sending them to middle school. Schools used to provide more stability than stress. It used to be a place where the larger community kept an eye on you. They expected you to be a kid. I don't see that anymore. One sixth grade teacher told the parents on orientation night that she had never had a group of boys like this one, and she didn't know what to make of it. They are always hugging each other. Hugging each other! Not that there is anything wrong with that, but she finds it strange, and is not quite sure what to do about it. Harrison's other teacher said to me that she has never had boys as tightly knit as this group. I think when they get a glimpse of the soft little boys who aren't afraid to hug, it seems wrong. We have to make them afraid to hug. Make them feel ashamed.

My son is not habitually late with his assignments, but last week his teacher thought he needed to focus more on his reading, and kept him in from recess.  I have asked her not to do that. Boys need recess -  fresh air, sunshine. They need running and laughing without restraint. They need footballs and swings.

He is growing up too fast, as they all do. He watches the Jets with his dad, cooks with me, and drives his sister insane with his Nerf guns. Much to my horror,  he is listening to Kanye West, while his sister is living Taylor Swift's Fifteen. She is a pretty good sister, and she loves him, but sometimes I have to remind her, "Take good care of your brother..."