To church or not to church

In a few hours church bells will begin to toll around our neighborhood. Their sound will float from unseen belfries over magnolias and brick bungalows, and find me where I sit: on our back patio, drinking a cup of coffee. It’s a peaceful moment, but also an uncomfortable one, because it reminds me that once again we haven’t gone to church.

Of course, we basically never go to church. Aside from a single year in Ann Arbor, and some scattershot appearances as a child, I’ve been unchurched my whole life. That year in Ann Arbor was wonderful, though, and just enough to make it seem reasonable to speculate that more church might be in our future.

Last fall we visited a half-dozen churches, but none stuck. Really, we were probably looking for something that doesn’t exist: a love at first sight experience in the pews. Toward the end of the summer we resolved to try again this fall, to pick one church and give it a real college try. Yet here we are on the first Sunday in September with other plans in store for the morning. Friends are due at ten. The menu calls for baked eggs, bacon, and buttermilk biscuits.

It’s crazy to wish to be something you never were and probably never will be. One of the hallmarks of successful adult life is coming to accept that who you are is distinct from who you thought you wanted to be. I’m never going to be a jazz aficionado or the guy you want by your side when you’re lost in the woods, and I’m probably always going to be more attached to neatness than I’d like to be. Maybe church falls into that category, and maybe it’s time to accept that “God-fearing,” even “church-going,” just isn’t a way I was born to be described.

But aspirations can be healthy, too. Until I was twenty-four I hated running, and now it’s one of my favorite parts of each day. A few years ago it took me four days to write an 800-word book review. Now, for better or worse, I can unspool a blog post in the time it takes to bake bacon.

Sitting here now, with the boys playing downstairs (pretending to be baby twins, from the sound of it), it’s hard to say what our church future looks like. It could begin next Sunday, or it could be the kind of thing where thirty years from now, we laugh when we remember there was a time we thought we might start going. All I know is that this morning, when the church bells ring and find me with a mouth full of hot buttered biscuit, I’m going to feel caught in the act, and like I really should be someplace else.

Where childhood memories catch

Yesterday morning before school I was reading the boys a book on the couch. It was “Richard Scarry’s What Do People Do All Day,” a book I’d read to Jay hundreds of times, but which we hadn’t picked up for awhile. With Wally on my lap and Jay beside me, we opened to the section on “Wood, and how we use it.” The first page is scenes of loggers working in a forest; the second is a diagram of a lumber mill.

When we got to the lumber mill Jay said, “Oh, I love this page, can we keep looking at it.” So he and Wally did. They studied the ways the logs move through different kinds of saws, noted small details like the logger-mice who’ve fallen into the river, and laughed when they saw the place where Daddy Pig has put a two-by-four through his windshield.

IMG_5413As the boys were looking at the page, I thought of an experience I’d had this summer. InHucklebug Cover my childhood bedroom I’d found a book called “Hucklebug.” It was sitting on a shelf, unearthed in some kind of recent moving. I hadn’t thought about the book in years, but as soon as I saw it, something dormant in my bones came back to life. And this reactivation didn’t owe to the book itself. It was caused by one particular detail: Hucklebug’s bright red, high-top sneakers. Something about their color, or maybe the slightly goofy way the shoes sit on his feet, had gotten snagged in my mind a long time ago. Seeing those shoes again, with my own kids playing outside in the yard, I felt the physical experience of being seven years old come rushing back.

So when Jay told me how much he loved the page about the lumber mill, I thought his memories might be in the process of catching like mine had. Maybe a long time from now he’ll come across the book again. He’ll pick it up, begin to flip curiously through the pages, a smile forming on his face, and then his eyes will find Daddy Pig still putting that board through his windshield. He’ll see the little pieces of broken glass on the hood of car, and maybe in an instant, he’ll be back sitting on the couch beside me.

The summer’s harvest

_MG_5278Back in June, during the first week of our summer trip, we stopped in upstate New York for my youngest brother’s high school graduation. Seven of us went to the ceremony, including my other brother, Ryan, my Dad, my sister, and Jay, who didn’t have a ticket and sat on my lap.

We’d seen the program the night before, and knew that early on four seniors would be singing “Forever Young,” which I mentioned in a previous post is one of the songs Caroline sings the boys before bed each night (though this was the Rod Stewart redo, not the Dylan original the boys know). When the quartet rose from their seats and gathered in a corner of the stage to sing, everyone in my family turned their eyes to Jay: They wanted to watch his reaction when he realized his mom isn’t the only person who knows one of his favorite songs.

IMG_5042It was a perfect moment in a couple of ways.

A high school graduation is full of talk about young people setting out on their own. I think hearing four strangers sing a song he knows well might have given Jay a glimpse of the scale of life beyond our home—a hint that there’s a lot going on in the world outside the confines of his childhood.

Graduations are also full of talk about all the people who help you on your way to adulthood. The moment at the start of Forever Young captured that, too. I saw my brother, my sister, my sister-in-law, all looking at Jay, all eager to see his face light up. It struck me then how many people care about him and will play a part in the way he grows up.

Two months later, we’re back in South Carolina. After months of driving, we’ve returned to a familiar routine: home, school, work. After months of visits, now it’s just the four of us, and it won’t be until October, at least, before we see family again.

This is the second summer in a row we’ve spent two months away from home. The ritual feels increasingly like the kind of thing we want to make a staple of how the boys grow up. This year’s trip can be sliced a few ways.

There are the places we went: New York, New Hampshire, Maine, Boston, Nantucket, Virginia.

The vehicles the boys drove: riding mower, farm tractor, John Deere gator, dinghy, motorboat I, motorboat II.

The seafood we ate: Not enough in one person’s book.

IMG_5003But a few Wednesdays ago, as we drove the last 400 miles home, I realized those ways of looking at it miss the point. Somewhere south of Richmond, I convinced Caroline to forgo a passenger-seat nap and instead help me make a list of all the people we’d seen. After we had all the names down we counted the number of days we’d seen each person—deciding, after some debate, that we needed to have spent at least one quality hour with a given person on a given day for it to count. In total, our seven-week trip yielded 94 “person-days.”


That list is the summer’s real bounty—and that’s especially true for Jay and Wally.

Many of the best moments from the summer were when I watched the boys go off to do something with someone else. I think of them baking a cake with my sister-in-law, learning to swim with my aunt, having a sleepover with my stepfather, pitting cherries with Caroline’s mom, covering the boat with Caroline’s dad, drilling a hole with a scarily large drill bit with a friend, flipping blueberry pancakes with Grandpa, building a fire with my brother-in-law, racing bikes with their cousins, learning how to do cannon balls with my college roommate.

_MG_5248I love watching the boys spend time with other people for lots of reasons. I’m proud of them, of course, and like seeing other people enjoy their company, too. More than that, when I see them comfortable with other people, it makes me think they’re on the right track, poised to stand on their own two feet.

It also makes me think they know what’s good for them. Caroline and I give the boys a lot in life; our love makes everything else possible for Jay and Wally. But we’re just two people, with our own specific sets of experiences and knowledge and our own well-worn ways of interacting with them. There are limits to what they can learn from the two of us, but as this summer made plain, virtually none to what they can learn from all the other people they might meet in life.

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…and gets a seat at the cookie table


In addition to “staking his claim,” Wally now has a seat at the cookie table.

Last school year, Jay and I frequently stopped by a bakery after I picked him up from school. We’d always split a large oatmeal raisin cookie and a cup of milk, and sometimes we talked about how next year Wally- who was in daycare at the time- would be able to join us.

Well, next year is here. Today was Wally’s first day of school, in a classroom just across the way from Jay’s. I picked them both up at 2:40pm and had fun leading them back to the car, their water bottles and lunch boxes swinging from their arms, each boy prattling away about his day. We swung by the house, then drove a couple miles up Devine Street to Silver Spoon. They were out of oatmeal raisin but did have toffee cookies. I split the cookie in two, took a bite from each half for myself, then set the boys up at a table on the front porch. Wally didn’t have to be told that the right move was to dunk his cookie. He did, though, end up spilling his milk. Rookie mistake. 

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Wally stakes his claim


For more than a year, Caroline has been singing the boys the same bedtime songs: Lay Down Your Weary Tune, Forever Young (the original), Swing Low Sweet Chariot, and Sweet Baby James. A week ago, though, Wally made a new demand. If Caroline was going to sing Sweet Baby James, she needed to sing Sweet Baby Wally, too.

Wally’s request is in keeping with his new determination to get his fair share in life. If there was a turning point, it was the first weekend in August, on a ferry back from Nantucket. The boys had made an opportunistic friendship with a younger boy who had a lot of trains. The three of them played well together for a while, but then Jay and Wally grabbed for the same tank engine and Jay prevailed.

Usually we can defuse those kinds of situations quickly enough. This time, Wally wouldn’t let it go. He grabbed back, he yelled at Jay, he swept a pile of train tracks from the table. Eventually I pulled him away, up a staircase to the open top deck, where his cries about the injustice of it all were lost in the strong Atlantic wind.

Since then he’s been on fire. After the ferry ride we spent a week with Caroline’s parents. On the first day we moved one car seat into their car so the boys could have more time with their aunt and grandparents. For the rest of the visit, whenever there was even the hint of a car trip afoot, Wally would quickly say, “It’s my turn to ride in Grammy and Opa’s car,” and start angling towards the driveway. It’s not hard to imagine he’s going to be a killer when it comes to calling “shotgun.”

Wally has never been a shrinking violet, but his older brother is a force; it must have clicked for him, that to get what he wants in life, he’s going to have to stake his own claim.

For me and Caroline, this intensified assertiveness is a welcome wake-up call. In our hearts and minds we want equal things for our equal boys, but I know in practice it doesn’t always shake out that way. We’re used to thinking of Jay as the older boy who can do more. When I want some help trimming the hedges or a companion for a walk to the store, I habitually turn to Jay, even though Wally’s not so young anymore, and now can do those things, too.

All told, it takes a more conscious effort than I realized to make sure we give Jay and Wally what they each deserve—especially in all the little micro interactions they have each day.

Caroline and I have become more aware of the many times each day when both boys are talking at once. In the wild, Jay’s voice tends to win out because he’s louder and gets to the point a little quicker. So, Caroline and I have been more deliberate recently about refereeing family conversations, in order to make sure Wally has his say.

This plays out in other ways, too. Yesterday afternoon, Jay, Wally, and I made peanut noodles together. When it came time to mix the sauce, the boys vied to be the one to turn the food processor on. I didn’t know who, in fairness, should have gotten to push the button first, so I let Wally have the honor.

For now, at least, I think the tie should go to him—and if we make what seems like a bad call, I’m glad he’s going to let us know about it.

Watch how fast I can go, watch how fast, watch how fast

It’s been a summer of new experiences for the boys. They spent a week taking care of a sweet Maine coon cat. Wally learned how to make an eager dog drop a tennis ball and how to jump from a boat. Jay learned how to swim and ride a bike and also that learning curves sometimes run into hard objects.

Tuesday afternoon while running I passed a house with a small bike for sale, $5. I finished my run and went back for it. Jay has had limited practice riding a bike- probably ten hours on a balance bike and a few more on one with training wheels. He took to this new bike quickly, though, which is the way he seems to prefer to learn things, at a slight delay, then all at once.

The road by the house we’re renting this summer runs slightly downhill to a wide cul-de-sac. It’s the perfect place to learn to ride a bike, with a downgrade to get you started, a place to turn around at the end, and it’s not so steep coming back that little legs can’t make it. Jay wobbled when he first got on the bike and I ran alongside to break any falls. He peddled down the road, turned around in the cul-de-sac, and peddled back to our house without any help from me. He did it a few more times Tuesday night, then dozens Wednesday and Thursday. I couldn’t believe it. Soon he was cutting smooth arcs across the blacktop.


Last night, Wally and I were down at the bottom of the cul-de-sac and Jay was up above us, by our driveway. He’d been making noise all evening about how fast he could go and he wanted us to watch him make his fastest run yet. He came down the hill toward us. We were kind of in the center of the cul-de-sac, which forced Jay to take a route a little more to the left than he had been. I could see the problem developing: As he approached the bottom, he wasn’t slowing down enough, and didn’t seem to realize he had less space to make the turn than usual. About two seconds before it happened, Jay’s fate was as clear as day: He started to turn, head down, intent on his peddling, and plowed directly into a mailbox. I thought for sure he’d led with his face and expected to see a lot of blood and missing teeth. Thankfully, thankfully, he somehow only bruised his arm. He cried for a while, a long while. We left his bike on the ground, completely indicative of the accident that had taken place, and I carried him back to the house for dinner.

Afterward, when he’d finished his food and been convinced that the bruise on his arm wasn’t much to worry about, I asked him if he wanted to go back outside for a few more runs. I didn’t want him to go to sleep with nothing but the memory of the crash to dwell on. He said no initially, then yes. We walked outside and he strapped on his helmet. He walked the bike down the driveway to the road, mounted the seat, then turned downhill. He went slowly at first, peddling easily, riding the break. At the bottom he made a real wide, long turn, then peddled up to me. Good boy, I thought, now you really know something about riding a bike.

The vacuum cleaner test

After a month of beach trips, the inside of our car had started to look like a sandbox. On Sunday afternoon we called off the fun and sent the boys out to the driveway with a vacuum and an extension cord. They fought over who got to vacuum first, but Jay prevailed. He spent 15 minutes on the trunk alone, and left it spotless.

Wally went next. We assigned him the middle row of seats, but within a few minutes, he went back to his dump truck. Jay took over, and spent another half-hour vacuuming the seats, the floors, the cup holders, the little sandy compartments on the insides of the doors. When he was done, I had an actual visceral flashback to the giddy way I’d felt when we first drove that pristine car off the lot back in October.

Caroline and I had a quick conversation about whether to reward Jay with something sweet, or just to praise him excessively for his work. We settled on the praise, because it’s cheap, doesn’t cause cavities, and in theory will make Jay more likely to do the right things for the right reasons in the future.

After the car was clean, Jay moved on to bike riding, and Wally circled back to the vacuum. He did not attempt to clean with it, though. First he suctioned his fingers, then his hair, then his ear, then his stomach, howling with delight the whole time. Two years ago I wrote about the dangers of getting attached to simplistic narratives about who your kids are. Still, their contrasting approaches were too indicative: Jay is meticulous, loves doing a job well, and doesn’t like chaotic physical intrusions like a 120 volt Dirt Devil going at his navel; Wally thrives on delight and enjoyment, isn’t keen on tasks, is always finding secondary uses for familiar objects, and likes a good thrill. They both, however, will be getting the same thing for Christmas this year.