He Who Shall Not Be Named

I have a child

who shall remain nameless.

He graduated recently.  I wanted to make a big deal about it.  He would have none of that.  He resisted traditional announcements, and finally agreed to one that had a picture of him holding a large, angry iguana.  I wanted him to walk in graduation.  He most reluctantly agreed.  If it had not been for the rule that a cap and gown must be worn, he would have ditched his in the bushes.  As it was, he wore an old t-shirt and work shorts under the gown.  "Gowns are for chicks," he said.

He posed for what I called "mandatory" pictures with an uncomfortable, obligatory smile on his face. 

 He tolerated a small gathering at the house because he was given permission to take off after a while with his buddies.  Also, there was cake, so ya' know, ya' gotta eat cake.  His amazing shop teacher, Mr. Smith, came to the house and shared with the boy what an awesome kid he is.  The boy thanked Mr. Smith for helping him land his first job at a machine shop and for being his mentor and friend.  I cried ('cause I was so happy to eat cake, not because I was in any way emotional).  

He's my boy, after all.

He also turned 18, this child of mine.

Hard to believe.

And in some ways, it seems like much longer.

It's been challenging.  He helps to make sure Guy and I are firm in our parenting resolve by regularly doing a perimeter check of the boundaries.  The bonus is that we are very clear about most parenting questions that come up for us with the other kids.  

Been there, done that, with him.

I'll send him a thank you card later.

The one thing that I know for sure is that children come as who they are.  They are well formed beings from day one.  I could try to take responsibility for the way my kids are, call it credit, call it blame, but the bottom line is, especially in his case, that he would probably have been exactly who he is today if he'd been raised by wolves.

I'm not entirely convinced some wildlife weren't involved at some point.

I love him. 

 I tell him. 

 He grunts and sticks out his chin. 

 I think he means, "You too, mom," but I don't speak caveman.

A grey cake and black candles for the b-day boy atop a Tres Leches cake.  

He was very pleased.

A cool toolbox for him to store his calipers in at work.

And beef jerky.  It's the bacon of the dried meat world, you know. 

Grandpa looks tiny next to the man-boy, and I don't think he's done growing (the man-boy I mean.  Not Grandpa.  Grandpa is shrinking at about 2% annually.)

Oooo.  Ouch.  Lookin' old there.

The best friend he'll ever have, without a doubt.

Support from his friends who all go to different schools.

And the real love of his life.  Sometimes I think she came here just for him.  She has a magical power over him, a soothe-the-savage-beast effect, that rounds out sharp corners and refines rough edges. 

And, if, dear reader, you see him, just remember: I never said who I was talking about, and I will deny everything.  Plausible deniability.

Child?  What child?

Trekies

My big boys went away on Trek this weekend.

No, not the outer space one.

Trek is a wilderness adventure for youth sponsored by our church, where the kids are divided up into "families", given a handcart to pull, and then sent out on a 20 mile journey to be covered in three days, with only the clothes on their backs and the supplies that they can fit into a five gallon bucket.  

Why would a kid even want to do it?  Well, Ethan asked himself that question the first day, as blisters formed and dust flew, but by day two he was singing a new tune.  Well, he wants me to make it clear he wasn't actually singing, but everyone else was.  The kids on the trail sang to pass the time as they traveled, hymns and pioneer songs, and eventually some Disney  (apparently the blisters weren't painful enough, they had to listen to Frozen sung off key for hours).  Still, despite the song selections, my boys still report having had a great time.

Along the way there were occasional challenges placed in the kids' way; a pioneer approached them with an orphaned baby (a weighted doll) that their family was asked to adopt.  They took turns carrying the bundle when they weren't at the yoke pulling or pushing the handcart.  On another occasion, they were approached by pioneers that asked for any food they could spare.  This was the food they had been hauling themselves for the day, and of course, they shared.  Though they never went hungry and the baby never ate or cried, the scenarios presented to them caused them to reflect on the plight of the pioneers who struggled just to feed the mouths in their own companies, let alone share.  At one point along the way, an old prospector, who they learned was not even part of the Trek, but a local fellow who enjoys participating in his own way, offered a taffy to anyone who could hit a log with a thrown hatchet.  Adam tried.  No taffy, but he didn't care.  Apparently I'm the mean mom that doesn't allow hatchet throwing in the house.  Go figure.

As was the case for the Mormon pioneers of olden times, the second day the young men answered the call of the President of the United States to join a battalion and march off to fight for their country, leaving the young women to fend for themselves with the heavy handcarts.  The boys marched in tight rows carrying their buckets, every step the buckets seeming to grow heavier.  Meanwhile, the girls struggled in long skirts and blowing dirt as they made their way up the hill.  It was not uncommon on pioneer trails of old for women to struggle alone with their loads.  Soon the boys were asked to stand by the side of the trail and watch as the girls battled a steep hill with their carts alone.  It was so hard for the boys to keep themselves from offering their help, and when the carts finally reached the top of that particular hill, the boys could not be restrained from running to take over the loads.

It became the boys' turn, then, as they reached a massively steep incline.  The handcarts were rigged with multiple yokes and the boys battled the incredible powdery dust, hauling the ridiculously heavy carts up the hill.  It took 7-9 boys to haul--some pulling in front with a few pushing from the back--each cart to the top, and when they got there, many ran back down the hill to help with the next cart.  Adam helped with five carts.  One boy there, who was well admired for it, helped with eight out of the ten handcarts.

In the evenings they set up camp, then listened to music and dramatic actors recounting true pioneer tales in character.  They loved it, but Adam was so tired that he fell asleep sitting upright on his five gallon bucket.  They later laid out their sleeping bags on tarps right on the ground and slept out under the amazing stars.  When morning came, after they cooked their meal and ate, they would set out again.

They traveled 8 miles each of the first two days, and then 4 on the last, a distance that their pioneer forefathers would have traveled in a single day.  Just before reaching the end of the trail, they stopped in a clearing and gathered for a testimony meeting to share the spiritual experiences they had had individually.  This meeting could be considered the pinnacle of the Trek.  It is not often that young people today are asked to give up comforts or think of anyone other than themselves.  Here, they were compelled to think about each other and the lives of people that came before them that sacrificed much in the name of religious freedom and the pursuit of their dreams.

Ethan and best bud, Tyler.

Heads up!!!

Better than the movies

The roof over their heads 

Marching off in the Battalion

The dust made it impossible to breathe and made them so dirty they were unrecognizable. 

Adam was behind a bar in every picture I saw of him.  

I am so proud to see my boys working so hard.

Live music in the evenings sure beats the britches off MP3s and TVs.

Gathering for the evening devotional.

Adam and his "family".

Ethan and his "family".

*****
I can't say what went on in the hearts of my big boys as they trudged along in the hot sun.  I can only tell you the spirit they had when they came home.  They were excited and open, happy to tell us all about their trip.  Talkative.  Yes, talkative boys.  They showed off their terrible blisters with utter pride.  Ethan had 8 on his feet and ankles, several an inch in diameter, but what he didn't have was a single complaint.  Neither of them did.  They loved their adopted parents, were grateful for the experience and said it was, in a word, "awesome".

Before they left for Trek, Guy read each of the boys stories from the journals of their 3rd Great Grandmother, Sarah Loader, and others who crossed the plains to escape religious persecution.  As a girl of just 11 years, Sarah pulled a handcart with her three sisters while their father and brother-in-law pulled a second cart containing possessions, their sick mother, and pregnant married daughter who was due any time.  After the baby was born, the married daughter and her husband parted from the company.  Soon, Sarah's father became sick and died.  They buried him on the lone prairie in a shallow grave and moved on.  The girls and their sick mother managed to pull their cart through a now frozen countryside.  Waves of rescuers trickled in from Salt Lake and picked up only the sickest of the travelers, one being Sarah's mother.  Now the girls struggled on alone. They ran out of food and drank a broth of boiled rawhide to stay alive.  Too weak to continue another step, they had laid down in the snow to die, when the final rescue party from Salt Lake City came and saved them.  Sarah and her sisters abandoned the cart they had pulled over a thousand miles there on the frozen prairie and climbed into the rescue wagon.

I don't know if my boys thought of Sarah as they journeyed in comparative comfort on their Trek.  But whether they thought of her or not, they have her to thank for their very existences, and I have her as an inspiration.  I doubt I'll ever be called upon to do the things Sarah did, but I hope I will do everything I do with the dedication she had.

*****
I want to give my great thanks to Ron Aguilar for permission to use his amazing photographs.  I wasn't there to see my boys toil on this journey, but through Ron's gorgeous photos, I can almost taste the dust in my mouth, and hear the hymns on the air.

If you'd like to see more of his awesome work, go to:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/ronaguilar/sets/

or contact him at
ron.aguilar@gmail.com

Best. Moment. Ever.

***

I am working in the studio.  Ethan enters.

"Hey, Mom.  I just realized 

I haven't hugged you yet today."

He bends down over my chair and wraps his arms around my neck, snuggles in and gives me a nice long hug.

  

"You know, it's my new goal 

to hug you every day."

I have noticed that in the past weeks I have been receiving some pretty great hugs.  The boy is bigger than me now, and he delights in slumping onto my shoulders and allowing me to bear his weight.  

Giggles usually ensue. 

But I didn't know it was his goal.  I am so thrilled that he would make hugging me a goal.  I mean, who am I in his teenage world to merit landing on a goal list?  I can count on a very few digits the number of unsolicited hugs I have received from the boy in the past few years until recently.

That

boy

made 

my

millennium.

(Posted with permission from "The Boy I am Not Allowed to Blog About".

Love ya, son.)

His Way

I didn't expect much. 

 I have learned not to.  When Ethan left this morning, his kiss barely

hit my cheek before he was out the door. 

"Have a great first day of High School!"  I called. 

"Uhhh."  he faintly replied before the front door slammed.

I couldn't help letting my mind trip back over the years. 

When I picked Ethan up from his first day of kindergarten and enthusiastically asked,

"How was your day, son?!?" 

he had frowned and barked, "I ain't tellin' you." 

Emphasis on you.

So when Ethan trudged up the walk late this afternoon, black pants, black shirt with the Jolly Rodger on it, black back pack dangling, I didn't expect much. 

 Nonetheless, I still asked, with all the enthusiasm of 9 years ago,

and none of the expectations.

"How was your first day?"

"Alright I guess.  I'm tired.  I don't feel good."

It all tumbled out of his mouth in one continuous stream, and before I could say anything he was through the screen door and into the house.  Guy came up the walk then as I called behind Ethan with a tease,

"Nice to see you too, son!  Thanks for the kiss hello!" 

"I'll kiss ya!"  Guy smiled. 

 He told me fragments of what he had been able to wrestle from Ethan

on the way home from school in the car. 

I finished up my yard work and headed inside. 

I found Ethan curled up on the love seat in the den trying to fall asleep before we could make him do anything, like chores or homework, or - heaven forbid-  talk.  I plopped Jonah onto his back (he never gets mad at Jonah for waking him).  He rolled over and told me he thought it would be cool to "sleep forever".  I asked about first period, then second, and so on.  Each time he started with, "I don't remember", but eventually a little of his day leaked out between quips of sarcasm and exaggeration.  No, he hadn't made any friends.  Yes, a lot of other kids brought lunch from home.  And surprisingly, when asked if he had any lame teachers, the answer was a simple, "no".  He had overheard a senior talk about him to a friend, "That kid looks mad", and thought it was funny.  He did his best scowly face at me and  grrr-ed like a pirate, then laughed.

I will hear more about his day over the coming hours. 

The big picture will take shape slowly over days. 

It's not the easiest way to communicate, but it's Ethan's way.