"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..."

"Let the disappointments pass Let the laughter fill your glass Let your illusions last until they shatter." Jackson Browne

Harrison will not take me to the Sweetheart Breakfast at his school. I pretend it does not hurt that he has grown too big for such things, but it does. Only recently he stopped reaching out for my hand in parking lots.

I miss my little boy.

My son is cynical, and he does not like a lot of things. I wonder when he went from sweet to cynical. I think it was about the time that Gelato, the bunny in this photo, died. Harrison had adopted Gelato when the bunny was only a week old. He wanted to bring Gelato home from the farm where he went each Saturday morning. We did not let him. The bunny froze to death. Harrison refused to go back to the farm program after that. It was a death that could have been prevented and he is still angry with the farmer.

Harrison does not like the farm, and I understand that, but it is shocking to me some of the other things Harrison does not like. He recently confided in me that he does not like The Beatles. I was heartbroken. His revelation confirmed for me something I have long suspected. Harrison does not like anything that is pure and good.

He does not like any of the music I like, especially the song Our House. Even as an infant, when that song came on he would cover his ears and cry. Sometimes on long car trips, Eden sits in the back seat and quietly hums it just to drive him crazy.

Harrison does not like chocolate, or Popeye the Sailor Man, or swimming in fresh water.

He does not like very small children, especially one particular friend of our family who is perhaps the most pure bundle of goodness we know. "She is so annoying!" he exclaims. "She always wants to be in the same room as me and she just always keeps asking me, 'Why?', and so I tell her, 'I don't know why,' and then she says,'Why?' and I say, 'I don't know why,' and she says,'Why?" It drives me insane! I don't like her at all!"

Well, I can understand perhaps finding a toddler tedious, but he truly does not like any small children. He is not wild about children his own age either. I hesitate to even put this in print, but he does not like babies.

Now, some people reading this, Mrs. G. for example, are likely to be on the same page with him when it comes to babies and small children, but I know that babies and small children are pure and good.

"You know what else I don't like that's pure and good?" he asks me.
"What Buddy, What else do you not like?" I ask, although I am afraid to hear the answer.
"Crayons. I hate crayons! And I don't like Crayola Markers either. I hate Crayola markers with their big caps. They suck. Sharpies. I like Sharpies."

This is when his father chimed in," I don't like crayons either! They are useless! And I am not particularly fond of puppies."

Eden nearly fell under the table, tears in her eyes, mouth open in disbelief. "Crayons?" she asks,"How can anyone not like crayons? And puppies? What kind of people are you?
Stop the insanity, PLEASE, No More!"

But this just added fuel to the fire, as Dennis started reeling of some of the many things he does not like - things that other people might think are pure and good. So now we know exactly where Harrison gets it.

They both hate Oprah, not that she is especially pure or good, but they think a lot of women think Oprah is pure and good, so she made the list. They called her the Devil's sister, and they take great pleasure in not liking her.

"Any you know what else I don't like?" Harrison asks, because now he is on a roll.
"It's not pure and good, but I just don't like it. In fact I hate it. I hate it when you are on a road trip and you make a road stop to get a snack and a soda and you go in the restroom and there is a trucker in there and he uses the bathroom and he really has to poop because he has been holding it in for, like, a day and he takes forever and he makes that noise and stuff. I hate that, even though it's not pure and good. I just hate it."

"What do you like that is pure and good?" I ask my menfolk.
They both agreed on one thing.
Pancakes.
Homemade buttermilk pancakes.
But not just any pancakes. Harrison only like my pancakes, and Dennis only likes organic whole grain gluten-free hippie pancakes made with fresh buttermilk and fair trade shade-grown pecans. He especially likes them when he can imagine that the grain was ground into meal by braless young blonds in braids, barefoot and dressed in calico, but I digress...

I am glad to learn that Harrison does love the smell of garlic oil on his hands when he is making breadsticks. He also likes homemade vanilla ice cream, and he loves animals. Yet I think about the content pleasure I feel when I open a new box of crayons and inhale their unique smell, and it makes me sad for him. I keep thinking about The Beatles. My son, lovingly named after George Harrison, can't stand The Beatles. It makes me sad, and reminds me of a song by Jackson Browne. I would play it, but my son would stomp away upstairs and cover his ears.

"They told me when I was younger, 'Boy you gonna be president," but just like everything else those old crazy dreams kind of came and went...."

I picked the kids up from school and our family headed to the polls.
There was no line.
My son went into the booth with me and pulled the lever that closed the curtain.
We carefully considered the proposition before us and the names of the candidates on each line.
Harrison drew down the little red plastic arrows for our candidates, firmly grasped the handle and registered our vote.

I am glad that my children are old enough to remember this election.
I only wish my father was alive to see this day in our history.
I wonder what Dad would have to say about it all.

I think I know what candidate Dad would vote for, as the older he grew the more liberal he became. heck, at the end he may have become even more liberal than me!

One thing I do know, Dad would have loved watching Sarah Palin on tv. My father loved beautiful women, and he loved to watch women flirt, and flirt she certainly does. I just wonder what he would have had to say about her. I think he would feel the same way I do. I know he would have enjoyed talking about the time he spent in Alaska when he was in the Army Air Corps. I can hear him now telling us how that qualified him to lead our nation in foreign affairs.
He would have enjoyed this election.
Today Harrison and I pulled the lever in his memory.

And now we wait.

" 'Aint that America for you and me
'Aint that America something to see Baby
'Aint that America home of the free, yeah
'Little pink houses for you and me, of for you and me." John Mellencamp

"'Good God! Don't jump!' The boy sat on the ledge, An old man who had fainted was revived.

And everyone agreed 'twould be a miracle indeed if the boy survived.

'Save the life of my child!' cried the desperate mother...'What's becoming of the children?' people asking each other." Simon and Garfunkle.

I was up to my armpits in cookie dough when the phone rang.
When I see the school's number on my phone, I'm almost afraid to pick up.

Nurse: Mrs. O'Clair, everything is alright. This is Nurse P. Harrison has been here in my office. He jumped off the top of Wonder Works.
(Wonder Works is the big wooden playground structure).
Me: -stunned silence-
(I was confused. My kid is in the gifted program. He doesn't drop acid. He doesn't think he can fly. He's an active boy, but he is not *that* active. Why would he jump off the top of Wonder Works?)
Nurse: (filling in the awkward gap that comes with a stunned silence, or reading my mind) Harrison was being chased by some little girls and jumped off the top of Wonder Works.

Me: Is he alright?
Nurse: Oh, he is alright. Joey broke his fall.
Me: Is Joey alright?
Nurse: Yes, Joey is alright. Both boys are alright. They have been here in the office with ice packs. The principal will be speaking with the fifth grade. There will be no more Boy/Girl chase games.
Me: Boy/Girl chase games? They have Boy/Girl chases games? Did they kiss him?
Nurse: No, they don't usually catch them. When they do, I don't think they kiss them. Not in this grade. Maybe in some of the younger ones.

Me: The principal is going to talk to the whole fifth grade?
Nurse: Yes. There will be no more boy/girl chase games.
"
Me: (mentally processing the social stigma attached to being the one responsible for the banning of yet another playground activity. "Damn," I'm thinking. "If she is going to talk to the whole fifth grade, this is big. Fly Boy got some 'splainin to do.")
Me: (not sure why I am even having this conversation) Now there won't be any chase games on the playground? All I have heard all year is how lame recess is since they banned tackle football. Now there can be no chase games either?
Nurse: They can play flag football in gym. I don't like when they play tackle football. They can play flag football.
Me: Yes. I see. Do I need to come pick him up?
Nurse: I sent him back to class. I will call him back up to check on him in a little while.

Harrison has a history of amusing playground issues. If I can get his permission, I will post about that tomorrow. In the meantime, here is the rest of the story.

At pickup Harrison seemed just fine.
I delivered to Nurse P some of the cookies I had been baking and thanked her for taking care of him. I thanked Joey for breaking his fall.

Harrison insisted on taking me to the playground -
or shall we call it The Scene Of The Crime.
I asked Harrison to show me the spot from which he jumped.
He gave me a bewildered look.
"JUMP? I didn't jump! Why would I jump from up there?"
He pointed to the tower. He had a point. I knew he was smarter than that. Did I mention he is in the gifted program?

According to Harrison, He Was PUSHED!
Ah Hah!
You see, the way he tells it, he was in the tower, at Boy Headquarters. The girls, they have different headquarters over at the balance beam that is really far away. The girls had been building leaf piles and the boys were sneaking over and trying to destroy the leaf piles by scattering the leaves. After making a sneak attack, the boys would all split up and run back to HQ.

They were all huddled in Boy Headquarters planning strategy for their next attack when TWO GIRLS infiltrated the tower, grabbed Harrison and threw him out the window.

So, I used the wrong song today! I should have started today's post with the nursery rhyme polka lyrics by Trout Fishing In America that goes:
"Georgie Porgie Puddin' and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry. When the boys came out to play they threw them out the window, the window, they threw them out the window. When the boys came out to play, they threw them out the window!"

"Dude," Eden asked while looking up,"That's a really big fall. How did it feel to fall from up there?"
"It felt good until I hit the ground," he answered.

Standing on the wooden platform where he landed, on my tiptoes, with my arms fully extended above my head, I cannot reach the tower window. I'm all for fun, and I have nothing against a friendly boy/girl rivalry, but how dare those little *&^$#@% throw my kid out the window!

Maybe they don't know or care, but I remind you, because I don't get to remind people of this nearly enough -
I puked a dozen times a day for the 43 weeks weeks that I carried that child.
I was on freakin' bedrest with that pregnancy.
I pushed for six hours trying to birth that 9 pound 7 ounce baby. Have you seen the size of that kid's head? It's huge! I worked hard to bring that kid into the world, and I would like to keep him and his freakishly big head around, with all his teeth, with his huge head intact and without any brain trauma, if possible. I mean, if the fifth grade girls don't mind, of course.

Now I understand why the principal will be talking to the whole fifth grade on Monday.
Come Monday, I might just have to so some talking myself. It might be time for a Come To Jesus meeting with some little girls. In fact, it might be time for Mama to infiltrate Girl Headquarters and kick some fifth grade ass.

I got your Headquarters, Girls! Right Here!
You wanna throw someone out the window, you go ride ahead.
Just gather up your little girlfriends and throw my fat ass out the window. Just don't leave anyone out. You may need some sixth graders too.

Come on.
Have at it.
Yeah, that's what I thought.
Damn right he's a Mama's Boy. You got a problem with that?