My Boy, A Man.

In less than 24hrs I will put my firstborn son on a shuttle that will carry him to a flight, which will then carry him to Anchorage, from where he will drive to a remote town on an Alaskan peninsula. He will live, work, and soul search there for one month. This will be the longest he and I have been apart from one another in 17 years. While I am notably anxious to send him off, especially as I watch the hours pass and the send-off become more and more imminent, I am finding myself excited and hopeful for his journey. There are many reasons for this, but for brevity's sake I will focus on the top few here. I don't want to bore you by gushing about how awesome my kid is as he grows into a man, but it needs to be said.

First, the boy loves to travel. He has been taking solo flights around the country for a decade already, and has found himself in several other states on various adventures over the years. This trip will be his most independent of them yet. I expect that, in addition to learning copious things about himself, he will come back bearing plenty of lessons about work ethic, dependency, technological reliance, nature, and his place in the world.

Second, the last year has been ripe with transformation for Koa. He left school a few months ago, and since then has secured a fun and interesting volunteer position at the local Alternative Library, earned his GED, and finished Driver's Education. He has begun to explore and imagine a variety of career options and pathways for his future, and to discern and articulate what it is he wants most from life. This trip couldn't come at a better time insofar as helping him distill his dreams.

Third, he is staring down opportunities and has support I didn't myself feel as a teen. This notion is not insignificant, if only because I believe every parent's wish is to see their children have greater opportunities than they themselves had. After I left school and home at 15 I was on my own. For Koa to have our support and help in planning this adventure. for him to know that his bed will still be here, his seat at the table will be here, his family will be here, and his life will be here when he returns, he is receiving more than logistical backing... He is also getting affirmation that whatever he wants for himself in this world, his parents and loved ones will be here to support his work in achieving it.

And finally, he totally deserves it. Koa is a great gift to our family. He is compassionate, funny, smart, playful, thoughtful, loyal and talented. My son, the boy, has always been all of these things. My son, the man, deserves to find himself amidst all of the greatness that he has shared of himself with others. He deserves to feel the self-compassion in processing the difficulties he has surmounted this year, to internalize all of the growth, to challenge himself and see what he is really capable of independent of our immediate assistance, and to feel the freedom that an adventure like this is sure to provide. The constraints of the stress of teenage life are as real as they are in any other phase of life, and everyone deserves a break once in a while.

Dear Koa, I will miss you more than I want you to know. And yet, I am so excited to put you on that bus tomorrow morning. My son, young man, you have made me so proud to know you and grateful for the chance to be your mother. Travel safely, work attentively, and return wholly. We can't wait to hear all of your adventures along the way and upon your return, and to see the sick mustache you grow while you are away. We will be here waiting!

(love Mom)

Crying over spilt milk.

In my circle of friends and among my family members I am recognized as an "attachment parent" or an "unconditional parent," otherwise understood as one who takes careful measure to secure the bond between myself and my children through practices like breastfeeding until my children are ready to self-wean, wearing my babies close to my body in carriers, co-sleeping, and practicing gentle parenting practices. When I reflect on these practices I feel a sense of pride, because these are the acts that bring on oxytocin rushes and that create conditions where my children feel safe to grow and explore with a feeling of confidence and an air of support from me as their guide.

First Mother's Day in WA, '04.

I  became a mother half my lifetime ago, giving birth to Koa when I was just barely 17. I started my parenting journey like many first-time parents do: somewhat ill-prepared, parenting in the framework of my own childhood, and fumbling through the early days inept simply hoping to see my child reach his first birthday relatively unscathed. My parents ran with a punitive parenting framework, which in many ways made it difficult for us to connect. Reflectively, and after a lot of therapy, it's pretty easy to see why. When children are simply acting, as a friend of mine so elegantly puts it, like "developmentally appropriate assholes" it is our job to support them, hold them accountable, and to guide them through those phases toward stronger, more confident, authentic versions of themselves. This is hard to achieve under a punitive model that forces apologies instead of seeking understanding of motive, that grounds and revokes privilege, and that is founded on a deep-seeded distrust risen from unresolved mistakes in the past. I hardly place blame on my parents, who were young when they acquired me following my biological mother's death and suddenly found themselves the stewards of a fragile and conditioned 6-year-old, but I do wish it could have been different a little earlier in my life. So, like any other parent, I am simply trying to right the wrongs I felt growing up by approaching child-rearing in a way that feels right for my own children.

In my house, years ago, a pound of milk on the floor like this would have sent me over the edge. My boys would have likely spent some time in their rooms, crying and trying to understand why they were locked away from me when they simply acted on the age-appropriate impulse to dump it out after I left it in reach. Years ago, I would have denied my own culpability in the situation and instead take out my ill-placed rage on the most vulnerable and reliant people in my life--my boys. This is embarrassing and heart-wrenching to admit publicly, and is among my biggest personal regrets in life. I have a salient memory of expressing my frustration to a 6yo Koa, saying, "When you act like this you make it hard for me to love you." Simply typing these words out has me welling with tears for his little heart; the impact of something like that is so painful and deep... Not to mention a bunch of bullshit. I don't know if he remembers it, but I have never forgotten and have never ceased to regret saying such hateful, frustrated words of anger to my precious child. I admit this here because I think it illuminates the distance I have come, thankfully, for my children, and hope that it shows others that it is always possible to work toward different, more positive relationships in life.

Sushi Date with Koa (16)

My parenting philosophy now rests on drastically different premises. Over the last several years, since Birch (3.5) came into our lives, I have spent a great deal of time and effort reflecting on the way I want to raise my boys. I have subsequently made moves to repair my psyche so that my own baggage doesn't weigh them down, taking special care to deconstruct my earlier experience as a young mother and to reframe this period in my motherhood as something more positive and healthy. Koa and Cedar have been incredibly resilient, and have worked with me to repair the damage in our bonds from my reactive parenting in their formative years. It is the greatest gift they could ever give me, that forgiveness and openness to a new type of relationship.

So much has changed since they were little. When Aspen toddled over and gleefully poured his brother's cup of milk everyfuckingwhere yesterday while I was engaged with Birch in the back room, I was able to simply scoop him up, smile as he rubbed his milk-covered hands and feet all over my body, and simply say, "Oh man, that looks like fun. Let's get you in the bath so you can splash in clean water instead of milk!"

No tears. No struggle. No regret, no guilt, no shame in myself. And for Aspen nothing but a mother supportive of his creative (albeit sometimes overwhelming) exploration efforts, unfaltering in her display of love for him. No son, we will not be crying over spilt milk in this house... and we will all be better for it.

No, not that. Anything but that!

True to the tag I should probably be telling my therapist this instead of you, and I would—believe me, I would—but I only have one hour every two weeks and this just won’t fit in with all the other stuff on my list. Sorry, and you’re welcome.

I got my first tattoo when I was 15. It was/is the most hideous of indistinguishable blobs conveniently located forfuckingever on the small of my back. This tattoo was done by a guy named… what was it? Crawl? D’Beers? Copper, Topaz, Weed, Sailor, Golden, Maggot? I can’t remember his name now but I have six of his “practice tattoos” remaining, and a seventh that was converted into something I’m not embarrassed by over a decade after he scratched the original into my back. And now, tonight, after years and years of general conversation and a solid year of intensive present-day let's-look-at-your-patterns-of-impulsivity-lately conversations with Koa, the kid gets off the phone with my ex-husband, sits down at the table with the family for meat and potatoes dinner, and announces that he has great news! (Fuck me. This scenario is never, ever good. Seriously, there are days I wish the man would just dissolve or something.) 

"Yeah, he said he and grandma will take me to get a tattoo when I visit this summer!" 

And the air was literally sucked out of the room, except for Koa who was smiling and nodding his head affirmatively. He resembled some sort of adorable bobble-head souvenir one would pick up at a gas station or visitor's center at the tail-end of a trip you can't wait to get home from. Meanwhile I was more like the haggard tourist in a foreign land, stunned and stammering, lost, confused, and stuck in my same old outfit and furry teeth because someone stole my luggage back at the station. I stuffed a piece of garlicky steak in my mouth and stared out the window towards Canada. Breathing deeply and slowly grinding through the meat, I took great care to bite the tiny minced garlic particles one-by-one every time I needed to bite my tongue. It helped me be less of an asshole. I'm not mad at my kid; he's just doing the kid thing, searching for the Always Yes--but it's kind of easy for me to flip the asshole switch when my ex enters the conversation.   

Now it's been an hour and so far I've had a little cry and gotten frustration-fueled heartburn from the situation. Balls. Here's the thing: I am covered in tattoos. I have them on my feet, calves, ribs, arms, fingers, ears, neck, back, chest, shins, and the inside of my lip. I have never once doubted Koa would eventually follow suit to some degree, be it one or 100%, ever since he proudly declared he wanted a mermaid with the body of a shark tattooed on his belly when he was just six-years-old. This is just not how I imagined it would go down.

I think all parents have hope that their children will be better off than they are in a number of ways and I am no different. While I fully support my son dropping into life and out of high school, while I have long encouraged him to follow his own path whatever it looks like, I just simply cannot get behind his very first tattoo memory being one tainted by the impulsive nature of his life right now. My own experience not withstanding, I desperately wish he would wait until he is an adult so that he can make decisions based on how his path unfolds as he ventures into a life outside of my nest. It's not a good time for him to walk into a sleazy shop about which he knows nothing, select some shitty flash drawing off the wall at the encouragement of my ex, and allow some degenerate stranger to scrawl into is virgin skin with his tattoo "gun." That, and of course the thought of my ex getting the honor of accompanying him for the occasion makes me throw up a little in my mouth. It's true that I have had every Christmas, every birthday, every Easter, every New Year (save for this very last one), and every Father's Day with Koa throughout his entire life... but that's because I'm actually a reliable parent to him, have always been present in his life, and actually have some idea of where my son is at right now both mentally and emotionally. It's just not a good place to be making decisions that literally mark for life unless he wants to start saving for cover-ups now... but that would be our money because he doesn't have a job, and I don't really have that in the budget.

If nothing else I guess I just assumed this particular rite of passage would be one I was an immediate and positive part of. For now, however, it looks as though I may have to begrudgingly accept his choice to have someone else there instead. And not just someone else, but my exfuckinghusband, some dude I married as a wayward child-bride and divorced before I was 21. I hope my pride and excitement for Koa to transform himself in this way in his lifetime isn't overshadowed or reversed by that particular detail, but more than that I hope he doesn't get a staph infection from unsanitary conditions or poor aftercare in the time he's out of state.  

Cavorting with serpents

When we learned that Koa had severe allergies to pretty much everything under the sun--including all but one of the trees native to a 5 mile radius around our home, his childhood pet cats, his grandparents' dogs, mold, grass, pollen of all varieties, dust, and pretty much every other environmental contaminant imaginable--we began a cleansing process that involved air treatments, immunotherapeutic allergy shots twice weekly, a host of medication, alleviation of yard work and dusting duties for a certain bubble boy, and refusing against all my will to replace our beloved cats once they were no more. Hence the crazy cat lady giveaway...

But the importance and therapeutic powers of the presence of animals is not so easily erased and so we went in search of a calming animal that could help with the general anxiety issues Koa and I share, and that would also provide us with something to care for, to see thrive, and to hold my sons' interest.

Enter the White's Tree Frog. 

We began pursuing these little guys at the recommendation of a longtime friend and herpetology aficionado, and are so excited for them to arrive tomorrow. They are pretty much always smiling, which seems very calming in and of itself, and the home we have built to accommodate them is a stunning focal point of our space.

While Aspen and Birch helped me prepare the coconut substrate for the terrarium, Koa and I worked to place the tropical plants.

 My friend put us in contact with one of her friends (the same man who hooked us up with a donation site for the animal remains from the best birthday party ever) who was able to order five of the little guys for us from a quality source in Florida. You can count on at least one entry on them once they have arrived and settled in!

In the meantime, please enjoy these photos of Koa, Cedar and Birch getting acquainted with Raymond. He came to visit us when the source for our frogs came to check out the terrarium setup last night. You know, no big deal. Just my children cavorting with a massive serpent winding itself around the bodies of my offspring in the comfort of our own home... The usual.

Wishes really do come true!

sack of tools, that is.

I have wonderful friends. Wonderful, brave, daring, talented, hilarious, engaging, and genuine friends. They are always backing me up, even when my ideas are totally batshit crazy. For example I once ran an impromptu coat drive and they stopped by with hot coffee for me and warm coats for the homeless. This time I sent out the invite to my taxidermy themed 34th birthday party and not only did they show up ready to learn, but came armed with accessories like sun hats and itty bitty cigarettes to create incredible taxidermy pieces while here.

This is the best birthday party I have ever had. I once had a roller skating birthday party that was pretty awesome. We had cake and skated. This, however, trumps any birthday party I or pretty much anyone else has ever had. Why?

Three words: Heirloom party favors.

Oh, and we still had cake. Red velvet cupcakes with rabbit ears on them. Thematically apropos.

Not only did these troopers put aside nerves and queasiness, but they brought booze and food and sweet gifts like Magic 8 Balls and bedazzled satin mesh-back Virgin Mary trucker hats (for real, which likely warrants its own photo post later this week). They also wrote genuine messages of love and endearment in my cards, and let me know how special and precious I am to them. They spent hours reminding me why I have chosen them to be my nearest and dearest. Additionally, they are an aesthetically pleasing bunch to spend four hours crammed in a cold garage with, so there's that.

Speaking of troopers, my boys Cedar and Koa deserve a HUGE hollar of gratitude. They entertained, wrangled, bathed five times, read books to, fed, comforted, watched movies and cuddled with Birch and Aspen through the entire duration of the party, the cleanup, and the time it took Brian and I to have a beer, take a load off, and reflect on how much fun everyone had. It really was a once in a lifetime type of thing, and I am so grateful to know the kinds of people who will step outside their comfort zones--or into them, as the case may be--and do something new for the sake of checking things off of Bucket Lists. Monotony is miserable, and everyone deserves to have an heirloom taxidermy piece to leave behind. Thanks to the assistance of Cedar and Koa, I now have two of them. I'll make sure to bequeath one to each of them.

One very important aside: The guinea pigs and rabbits we used were purchased from a reputable provider of feeder animals for zoos, animal rehabilitation centers, and other agencies across the country. They are bred to be feeder animals, and are treated with the highest standards of care during their lives and processing. Humanely euthanized using carbon dioxide, the animals are immediately frozen and sent out. You may notice the mounts we created use only the pelt of the top half of the animals. Because I love me some philanthropy, the parts you can't see (because my Grandpa reads my blog and I don't want to post a picture of a bloody, earless, footless rabbit here to shock him) are heading to Predators of the Heart, an organization serving wild animals in a variety of ways, and will become food for wolves and cougars. I am thrilled to see the animals go full circle to their destiny as feeders while also being memorialized as a tangible remembrance of one of the best times I've had in a long, long time.

Happy Birthday to Me! 34 isn't looking so bad so far... 

   

No, we are calling it "Dropping Into Life!"

I don't want to give too much away because while I want you to understand where I am coming from and the context in which I am living, I want much more to show respect for my son and where he is. Koa is curious and contemplative, and like most sixteen-year-olds he is deciphering which paths he'd like to explore. He has read Emerson and Thoreau, questioned God and Man and his faith in either, created worlds where he is King and walked in worlds where he was nothing more than stardust. The kid is deep, and external and internal pressures have pushed him to the depths for a long time now.

I want you to really understand what it feels like to send your child into the world looking heavy, like the weight of ten men sits on his shoulders as he slugs into the rainy dark morning before most of your neighbors have even turned on their lights. I remember the way hopelessness set in when I was a teenager and I remember the way my parents chose to respond. I remember the adventures I imagined, daydreaming about places I had only seen on television and the new identity I would assume once I arrived. And then, like some sort of sick joke, the next day would come and try to suck the life out of me. Sometimes I would end it crying myself to sleep or in an argument with my Pops about some menial task I managed to fuck up, or maybe glaring at myself in the mirror and biting down hard as I scraped layers of my skin away with the sharpened tine of a fork and bled a better place to be. Sometimes I crouched in the dark of my closet with a flashlight writing shitty poetry that bordered on plagiarism, eventually falling asleep on a heap of laundry or, not. Koa's nights are long like that sometimes; though filled with other sorts of agonizing, he's trying to reconcile all the information and emotions and thoughts and reflections of his days.

The difference in what I experienced and what I do for my own kid exists in the way he is treated for his state. Instead of bearing down on the fissures hoping to squeeze them shut we have decided to fill in the gaps with unconditional love, guidance, support and grace. All that stretching and reaching he's doing is an opportunity for immense growth, and not just for him.

Turns out Tuesday was the last day we let our son go to high school. Turns out none of us knew that it was what we needed to do for him all along. Turns out we probably just saved his life.

While I know my partner and I will face judgment for our decision to create a "drop out" of our son, I would submit that it likely comes from people who live in insulated places far away from the fierce biting and gnashing of anxiety and panic attacks, perhaps even safe in places where they can ignore the symptoms of it in themselves or loved ones. I might even ask someone judging me right now to consider whether or not they believe children are, in fact, people who deserve to self-actualize. I do. I think that everybody deserves to be the best versions of themselves they can be, living the most fulfilling life they can, and doing the most good in the process. Children are not excluded on my list of people who deserve to live that way because, well, they are people. On his first day as a dropout my son researched the local volunteer center process, scoured local agencies in need of help, and reached out to a senior center to fill a position leading art activities with people who have likely not seen their own grandchildren in ages. He left voicemail for the teachers who have impacted him, who respected him and earned his respect and who inspire him, to let them know that he was leaving and to appraise them of his registration for the upcoming GED orientation at the college in three weeks. He wanted to thank them for showing him ways of looking at the world differently, for supporting him, and to give them closure he thought they deserved as people who care about him. He talked with me openly about his life and friends, assisted me in delivering donations to the local men's shelter, laughed with me for the first time in days, bonded with each of his little brothers, went on a run up the mountain, helped clean our home, uncovered infinite opportunities that are now within his grasp since his schedule has opened up considerably, and looked like a kid again instead of a man in the middle of an existential crisis. What did you do Wednesday to help the world, strangers, your family, your community, and yourself?

If your kid told you that he or she didn't believe there was anything more before or after this life, that he was plagued by apathy and feelings of inadequacy, that he swam in anxiety and couldn't stop thinking of dying... wouldn't you choose to hold your child close too? To show them the beauty of the world and help them access it in a way that kept them both alive and stitched to you in a positive way? My parents were either unable or unwilling to do that and I ended up out on the streets making every statistically predictable misjudgment possible. Eventually I found myself pregnant with Koa at 16, his age now, and threatened with depressing patterns of poverty and estrangement. Fast-forward to now to find me deep in the throes of therapy figuring all this shit out--living the paradoxical dream, as it were--and vicariously healing my childhood wounds through gentle parenting and unconditional love for my child as he suffers. I know it's not a competition, and this particular scenario wouldn't lend itself to much of a winning feeling if it were, but I am so grateful to know my kid will have to sink significantly less time and money into therapy due to parental misgivings than I have had to. Earning my degrees was cool and all, as was pulling out of destitute poverty, birthing two sons naturally, and moving to a house with skylights, but knowing I'm doing right by Koa right now is the biggest success I've had to date. That's right folks, suggesting my kid drop out of high school is the biggest success I've had to date.

"You don't have to go back. There are as many different ways to do it as there are people that want to."

"Really? Yeah, sure. Anything sounds better than what I'm doing. I'm in."

"Good. I believe in you and can't wait to see what amazing things you do without all the extra bullshit!" 

This is love in a way that only a teen Mama could love her now-teen-baby. I am so proud of the way he is dropping in to life--he's choosing a path he can see himself on AND that does not include teenage parenthood, juvenile detention centers, hitch-hiking to Rainbow Gatherings, or cocktail waitressing like my path did. If I did all that and still ended up here, trust me kid, you're going to be just fine. I'll see to it myself.

The Warmth Wagon in Numbers

Crappy paper banner #2

First, my apologies for not having these numbers on the blog faster--but seriously, I'm a mom to four boys and have done an incredible amount of work single-handedly in the last 72hrs, so I'm doing the best I can. I really appreciate your sticking with me to see the full results and reflections, though, so here's what you need to know about how things panned out:

Monday night, after only one hour of impromptu collecting in the parking lot of a vacant grocery store here in Tiny Town, Koa, Cedar and I hit the streets. In thirty minutes we gave out 52 coats, 15 sleeping bags, 47 hats, 22 pairs of gloves, 36 pairs of socks, 26 sweaters, 16 thermals, 7 thick blankets, and a large grocery sack worth of snacks and handwarmers. I repeat, IN THIRTY MINUTES. It just so happened that we came across a large group waiting in line and lingering about the general area of one of Tiny Town's most beloved cafes, The Little Cheerful, for the Monday Night Soup Kitchen they offer to the community, and this unintentional intersection made it so easy to access a large number of recipients. Bless the people behind the soup kitchen effort, as it was a hoppin' place to be. The windows were covered by the steam of hot breath coming in off the frigid street, and it would have looked like a restaurant full of typical patrons if only I couldn't see the dirt, the exhaustion, the large backpacks and tired eyes each of the guests carried with themselves. As we drove away the boys and I discussed the spectrum of responses we gleaned, reflected on the many blessings we have in our own lives, and blasted the heat in the Warmth Wagon all the way home.

Tuesday morning after Koa and Cedar had left for school, I loaded up Aspen and Birch for another round of street deliveries, followed by a second brief collection period during the lunch hour. This time a longtime friend and photographer, Jen Owen, stopped by to drop off donations. She hung her camera around her neck and stopped periodically, as she was sorting through incoming bags helping me to organize items, to snap some incredible photos. I'm grateful to have evidence of the generosity of my community, as I was too busy to do much more than snap a few pictures with my phone after a while. By the time the thirty minutes was up my van was full once more. (Tiny Town, you are incredible!)

Two more street delivery rounds brought us to four homeless camps, countless individuals as we encountered them, and the doorsteps of the Drop-In Center and other known homeless hangouts. Beyond that, I was able to connect with several local organizations to make large donations of items of immediate need. The YWCA and the Back to Work Boutique, The Interfaith Coalition Men's and Women's Extreme Weather Emergency Shelters, The Lighthouse Mission, Northwest Youth Services, and the Mission Drop-In Center all received overflowing bags. Some received me with warmth and gratitude, others with skepticism and an air of inconvenience, but all in all I am confident in the ability of these organizations to ensure that nothing goes unused.

• Men's coats: 133

• Women's coats: 75

• Teen coats: 16

• Vests: 22

• Sleeping bags: 29

• Blankets: a million

• Thermals: 2 large bags

• Sweats: 1 large bag 

• Men's tops: 1 large bag

• Women's tops: 1 large bag

• Sweaters: a GIGANTIC heap (and I'm pretty sure they multiplied overnight)

• Hats and other head warming gear: 150+

• Scarves: 50+

• Children's coats/warm clothing: 9 large bags

• Coffee cards: 2

• Hand warmers: 150+

• Hugs: 33 from donors, 8 from recipients

• Smiles and good feels: too many to count     

Seriously. So. Many. Hugs!

 Next up... the motivation and reflection piece. Stay tuned for more! 

Meet the Boys!

“A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.” Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte, 1984. 

One of my most salient roles is that of Mother. I’ve had children for half my life now even though I’m only in my thirties. For you English majors out there I had my oldest son when I was 17, and thus began the only consistent part of my life since then: raising boys.

Sending my "baby" off to Homecoming! 

Koa, 16 Born to me when I was still a child, my oldest son and I have pretty much grown up together. Just as every eldest child in every family, his life has been galvanized by the ineptitude of my first-timer fuckups; however, he is remarkably well-adjusted, exceptionally empathetic, and a borderline genius according to the test scores despite my (many) missteps. Every sunset draws us closer to his life outside the safety of my nest, a day he and I will celebrate and mourn when it comes, yet I remain optimistic that the separation will be buffered by his compassionate sense of loyalty and my late blooming efficacy as his mother. If I am lucky I will still find him hanging around, washing laundry, raiding the pantry, and sitting at my table for many moons to come. In the meantime I relish in seeing him interact with his younger brothers, feeding him lots of home-cooked food, and listening to his ideas about the world as they shift and evolve.

A quiet moment of reflection on top of the world.

Cedar, 11 Easily the most like me of all of my boys, Cedar is wise beyond his years and feels everything in stereo. He is often an equalizer in our family, though his affect is all that is required to light up or shut down any party. He is quick-witted, intuitive, forgiving, and attentive to detail in superhuman ways. He will enjoy a lucrative future in sales, creative advertising, business management or any number of awesome opportunities if he uses his power for good; grifting, strong-arming, or transnational criminal activity if he uses his power for evil. The kid is clever, super charming, and totally heading full throttle into the teenage years. His future remains to be told, but I look forward to celebrating the adoption of his first teenage son down the line—a plan Cedar has talked about enacting since he was five. If there was ever a kid with a softer heart I wouldn’t know.

SUPER hero!

 Birch, 3 Birch started as an idea over artisan beer with my husband and quickly became a redheaded second wave of sleeplessness, diapers, developmental milestones, and parenting faux pas in our lives. Currently enjoying his place as the oldest of the little ones, every day is a Saturday for this guy. Conducting experiments, exploring his world, and looking for Yes as often as possible are among his favorite activities. His biggest challenges right now are an extreme aversion to meat of any kind, the cutting of his younger brother’s teeth and the maniacal laughter that follows his bites, and big emotions that are every bit as heated, beautiful, and attention-grabbing as a metro firework show on the dawn of a New Year. His expressive vocabulary and the depth of his self-awareness are among his strong suits, creating ever-entertaining dialogue and the need for frequent reminders that he is still just three—a tiny person trying stuff on—even with some of those words coming out.

This is a gift I get every day.

Aspen, 1 My youngest son filled my heart, my vehicle and my dining room table to max capacity so he will forever be the baby of the family. As gleeful and adorable as he is with his wild dark curls and impish dimpled smile, I’d be playing impossible odds if I continued the game of temperament roulette. It just doesn’t get better. As of late he enjoys basking in the attention of his adoring brothers, waving to friends and questionable strangers alike, and eating cereal snacks out of his shoes. In his first year he has undergone numerous evaluations and physical therapies, watched a regrettable amount of Sponge Bob Squarepants, taught us about unfiltered joy, and demonstrated a clear and remarkable love for books. He was born at home in the most triumphant and nonchalant of births, a peaceful and powerful experience… that I quickly followed with a Number 1 Big Mac Meal courtesy of my Doula as Aspen lay next to me on the bed and my husband drained the birth tub into the front yard. This sort of duality will mark his life forever, lucky little guy.

Feeding the Masses

“It’s just that the roof is infested with squirrels. They eat the insulation all night long—you can hear them scratching—it’s maddening and nobody can ever really sleep.”

“His roommates are kind of jerks. One of them makes him pay for ramen.”

“He’s a really nice kid and he works really hard but only makes enough to pay for his bills, not food.”

These are the types of statements that make me blurt out things like, “Is it weird that I just want to have him over for dinner and send him home with some freezer meals? Because I do, and here’s why: Kid sounds like an orphan even though his parents are local—I have a soft spot in my heart for kids in this position because I was one. Also, if he’s half as nice as you say he is I’m sure it’ll put my heart at ease to know who you’re hanging out with when you’re not here.”  So I did. And we began planning a fiesta for the inspiring and sassy bunch of teenagers who are important to Koa (including the hardworking kid who recently jumped the nest). 

To select just one “best part” to share would not do justice to the inherent reward of spending this time with Koa. He is inching ever-closer to adventures devoid of my micromanagement and I often contemplate whether he will be one to randomly come home for dinner or drop by to do laundry and hang out on my couch (like my brother does), or whether he will be one to let the wind carry him far, far away to a place where he feels safe to bloom on his own terms (like I did). I realize there are countless ways this scenario might play out but I imagine him here in my space, his shoes at my entryway and his voice rising through the stairwell, eating seconds and thirds at my dinner table. Not every night or anything—I’m not wishing some sort of Oedipus complex upon our relationship—but I hope he will want to see me periodically and forever. Needless to say I am scrambling to reinforce our bond before he feels the need to ask me, in a really gentle voice with blue eyes shining, whether or not I’ll cosign for an apartment for him. I don’t always get it right, but when I do it feels like my vision will come to fruition.

So we went to the store together and bought a ton of food and drinks, compostable plates for easy cleanup, and disposable tin pans to save labor all around. We came home, threw The Budos Band on random, put on our aprons, and made quick work of over 40lbs of turkey enchiladas divided into 9 trays (some for the freezer, some for the friend, a BUNCH for the teenagers). In less than 90min we had churned out enough delicious food to feed the masses now and later. The crowd devoured 15lbs in less than an hour. 

The feeling of accomplishment was only amplified by Koa’s enthusiasm in learning new cooking skills. The immediate and clear benefit of him having the wholehearted blessing of his parents to invite his friends over for a home-cooked meal before heading out to their Saturday night shenanigans was expressed in his eyes, words, interactions with his brothers, and attention to my request that he be home and present early the next morning. Respect and support leads to respect and support? What? Mind. Blown. Teenagers are incredible and deep and inspiring and capable if we treat them as people going through tremendous transformations… because as it turns out, that’s exactly what they are. 

Sweet Koa, your transformation is a gift. Whenever it hurts just remember the turkey enchiladas.

Turkey Enchiladas: A meal fit for the Teens!

We have 92lbs of whole turkey goodness in our deep freezer.

I take full advantage of the couponing season at my local grocer wherein I can score up to a 25lb free turkey for every $150 I spend; last October-November I strategically purchased our groceries and brought four turkeys home. Friday we ate roasted turkey for dinner, and then processed the bird to provide a heaping helping of turkey and two crockpots full of simmering broth to freeze for later. For me this use of the whole animal is both due to the health benefits and unsurpassed quality of homemade foods, and to my desire to ensure nothing goes wasted--not even the marrow.

In anticipation of a dinner party for my son Koa and his friends, I decided to enlist his help and whip up a big batch of turkey enchiladas. Though not true to authentic enchilada form they were inexpensive and made for a great afternoon with my oldest son. These bad boys were easy to make, used up a ton of things I had on hand, called for easily accessed and affordable ingredients to fill the gaps, and were good enough to encourage a gaggle of teenagers to eat 15lbs worth—beneficial or bad for them, you choose.

In addition they freeze easily, so eating well on an otherwise busy night is within reach for a family like mine or a friend in need of a porch-drop pick-me-up.

What we used: 

Affordable, easy-to-access ingredients

day-old roasted turkey
shredded cojack
onions
mushrooms
minced garlic
spices like salt, pepper, cayenne, chili powder, paprika, cumin
4” corn tortillas
enchilada sauce of your choice
refried beans
roasted hatch green chile 
sweet potato/pear/apple/pumpkin spice butter*
*made in my crockpot, one-of-a-kind sweet, earthy taste.

 What we did: 

1. chop onions, mushrooms, turkey
2. sauté onions and some of the spices to near-carmelization
3. sauté mushrooms with minced garlic and remaining spices
4. coat inside of baking dish with enchilada sauce
5. begin with a bottom layer of tortillas, first dipped in enchilada sauce to coat them, only slightly overlapping 6. continue to layer ingredients in any number of tasty orders [gob of beans, sprinkle of mushrooms, tortillas; turkey, cheese, onions, tortillas; beans, chiles, spoonful of earthy jam, tortillas; etc.], placing a little cheese and sauce on each layer— be sure to dip all the layering tortillas in enchilada sauce
7. end with a top layer of tortillas dipped in sauce and topped with cheese
8. bake covered with foil at 400 for an hour, give or take, or until hot in the center
9. remove foil cover for final 10min of baking or place momentarily under broiler until cheese is bubbly and golden
10. let it sit 5min before cutting into it
11. enjoy

As a tip, you could do this process with pretty much any meat, cheese, veggie, tortilla and/or enchilada sauce and it would likely turn out undeniably delicious on the cheap. If you don’t think so, I recommend inviting a table full of teenagers to taste-test for you. They’ll make you feel like a regular Julia Child.