My Kids are the Best Kids

It's Mother's Day, and I'm sure everyone is sitting around feeling loved and appreciated and like they have the best kids in the universe. Got news for you all, though. I have the best kids in the universe.

You don't believe me? Well, that's your prerogative. But I know what I know, and besides, I have proof.

Like every other weekend morning, I was the first one awake in the house today. I got up and put the dogs out and fed the cat and make my tea and carried it into my dark study to do some writing. And when I tried to put the hot teapot down on the blotter, it clinked and shifted. I was startled, and a little irritated, thinking Robert had spread something out all over the desk and not cleaned it up. Sigh. But then I turned the light on, moved the teapot to a coaster, and found this:

WE LOVE U
NEVER CHANGE

I mean, come on. D knew I would be up and in my study before the rest of the house awoke, and had this waiting for me. Plus, a visual pun! You're charmed, aren't you? Of course you are.

So after a couple of hours of writing, I was told I should really go back to bed. (K is clearly going to be an excellent covert operative some day. He is superbly sneaky.) In came the gang with songs and a tray of breakfast and a card K illustrated:

Inside the card, each had written a long heartfelt message to me, and I could share them with you and you'd cry and be amazed by what loving, articulate, funny, delightful sons I have. But they're personal and I'm going to hoard them instead. Trust me, though, they're perfection. Much like my sons themselves.

So I could write three hundred thousand nine hundred and seven separate lengthy blog posts about the fine qualities of my children, but you might get eye strain or accuse me of bragging. And that would be a shame, because admiring my fantastic sons ought to be a national pastime. Or international - they do carry EU and USA passports, so that's two continents largely covered in the global quest to find the most admirable people in the world.

You'll just have to take my word for it. My kids? The best in the universe. But happy Mother's Day to all the mothers of imperfect children out there, too. I suspect that loving imperfect people is more of a challenge, parenting-wise, than I ever have to face, so I salute you all. And if you ever see me accuse either boy of being less than perfect, well, just remind me of what I said here today. My kids are the best in the universe.

"Tolstoy is a GENIUS"

My eleven year old announced, a couple of weeks ago, that he wanted to read War and Peace. In a day.

I grinned to myself. He's a mischievous soul, but brilliant, so I found him a copy. Predicably, he fanned through it and said something flippant. I figured I'd be reshelving it soon.

Then he took to carrying it in his (messy, overstuffed) backpack to and from school. Opening it in the evenings. Studying the appendices. Reading the thing.

Okay, why not, right? He's an advanced reader, and he may not be fully comprehending it, but it's cool. When I was in 7th grade my history teacher lent me the complete Sherlock Holmes and I carried that tome around for weeks. K is only in 5th grade, and this is more complex, but there's no harm in indulging him.

Tonight we lounged on his bed reading. (I was reading a modern romance novel on my phone. My elementary-schooler was reading an epic 19th century historical masterpiece in translation.) At one point he groaned, then explained "I thought I was going to like that character."

"What happened, did he die already?"

"No, he's being mean to his wife. I think he's going to end up being a sexist."

"That's a shame," I answered, going back to my own book, smiling that he seemed to be following it pretty well after all. (And that he disapproves of sexism.)

And then this happened: K lowered his forehead to the open page, closed his eyes, went still for a moment.

I figured he was getting sleepy. It was after bedtime, naturally. (Bedtime is easily disregarded in our house in favor of reading time.) And, come on, he's eleven and he's reading War and Peace. I haven't read War and Peace. I suggested it was time for lights out.

"No." Pause. "It's just - the words."

"The words?"

"Yes. The words."

"Are you trying to absorb them through osmosis? Do you need a definition?"

He lifted his head and shook it impatiently. "No, it's... I don't know how to say it. It's so - so subtle." (My eyes widen some, my heart swells. This child of mine!)

He cast about, trying to express exactly what he felt. "It's not a page-turner, exactly, it's not that. But you just can't stop reading it. There's something that's just so good about it!"

"You're absorbed in it."

"Yeah."

"And aren't you just so glad that you have so much more to go?" I flipped towards the back. "Imagine when you're here, how devastating it'll be that you only have 200 pages left."

"I know! And 200 pages. That could be a book on it's own for some writers."

"Yep."

"Tolstoy is a genius! It's so good, what he does with the words."

He allows me to take a couple of photos of his cute self, then goes back to the page. I try to collect myself as he mutters, "Footnote 17," and flips to the back.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is just one moment when I've found myself breathless with awe at this child, who is all mind and all heart. Tolstoy!