On the eve of eighteen

/

My baby is sick. My first baby, that is. He's not just sniffly sick, he's totally wiped out sick. He's the kind of sick that has a very pregnant mother haul herself out of bed two or three times a night and go down two flights of stairs just to hover over his bedside. And then, because I'm so very pregnant and feeling way too maternal, I fight the urge to cry. Who will hover next year? Who will be there for this midnight vigil when he is living on a college campus? The convergence of new baby and "newly minted adult" is brought home to me at three in the morning with an overwhelming force.

Tomorrow is Michael's eighteenth birthday. As this baby stays tucked up tight, my husband jokes that we will never have eight children. Tomorrow, we will have seven children and a brand new adult. Someone decided that my first born baby is now old enough to vote, to go to war, and (joy of joys) to get a Costco card. What a momentous occasion it will be. We made it--the three of us: Michael, Mike and me. We navigated an entire childhood. And he's really a wonderful young man.

I remember so well the day he was born. I remember becoming a mother. And I remember every single lesson he has taught me since that day. The irony is that we are probably hours from beginning the adventure again with a new baby. And much of the reason we are so eager to do so is Michael. That first childhood entrusted to us was such a joy, let's do it again. And again. And again. Well, you get the idea.

I think that I loved being a mom and he loved being a kid because we lived a lifestyle of connected parenting (sometimes known as attachment parenting). We kept him with us. We answered his cries promptly and then, when they evolved, we listened to his every word. We respected the person in the child. We loved wholeheartedly. And we were so richly rewarded.

He talks often about how we fostered independence. But I think what we fostered was interdependence. We grew up together in many ways. I was barely older than he is now when he was born. And as Mike and I caught a vision of life, we naturally shared it with our child. We knew he was capable of great conversation even when he was very young. And so we talked. We talked and we talked and we talked. They say that you can't or shouldn't be a friend to your kids. That's probably true. Children need to see a clear authority. But the goal is to raise children whom you would love to have as your friends. So, you can and should be a friend to your young adults, right? Because this kid--I mean, young adult--is one of my best friends.

It's all good right? I can go out and tell the world how well attachment parenting--especially Catholic attachment parenting--works. I can shout from the moutaintops what a beautiful way it is to raise a family.

Well, yeah. Except I really should tell you about the tears, too. A couple of weeks ago, Michael sat in the seat I'm in right now and learned that there really isn't a place for him on the soccer team of the local university where he hoped to spend the next four years. It had nothing to do with his ability and everything to do with a quirk of numbers. They had long told him he'd be there, but there was a dawning realization that this year's kids weren't playing; there wasn't going to be room for more of them next year.

We live in an area that is flush with colleges and universities. He began to look at rosters of every school in the area--a wide area. And with every click, we learned together that there is an abundance of underclass defenders on the area's soccer teams. He looked at me, blue eyes wide and filling, and said, "I'm going to have to pick between my dream and being close enough to be an integral part of the lives of my little siblings." He pretty much hasn't slept since that night.

Nothing else was said. He is acutely aware of my pain. And I am aware of his. We are connected.

Lissa is packing...

/

...and while I'm still firmly in denial mode (I like her in Virginia), I am enjoying all the goodies she unearths in the process. Se sure to visit the Bonny Glen today to read about how God brought a great good out of a tragic situation and the Martha books were born amidst the trials and sufferings of a young family fighting leukemia.

And since we're unearthing old memories, I remember when Lissa first reached out to me and offered to write the foreword to my book. I declined. I hadn't read any of the Martha and Charlotte books. As a matter of fact, I thought them heresy. How dare anyone try to further Laura Ingalls Wilder's own series?! The audacity! To understand my devotion to Laura, you must know that I consider those books an integral part of my childhood, a driving force in the formation of who I was to become as an adult and second only to my children's Bible when I consider how I survived some very difficult growing years. When I wanted an example of a strong, faithful, and compassionate father, I looked to Pa. When I wondered how to behave as a mother in a household full of chidren despite trial and tribulation, I studied Ma. I studied every nuance of Ma's responses to Pa and Ma's responses to her children. I even memorized Ma's housekeeping routine! And when I wanted an example of a confident child whose whole childhood was preparing her to be a writer, I had Laura. No one could mess with Laura in my opinion. But something nudged me to read Lissa's books, probably the loveliness of Lissa's online posting--I wanted to know what she could do with fiction.

So, for my "babymoon" after Stephen was born, I binge read them all. And I found that someone could take the inspiration of Laura Ingalls Wilder, honor her legacy, and write something even better. There. I've said it in public. I think the Melissa Wiley Little House books are even better than the Laura Ingalls Wilder originals. They are richer, more complex, more lyrical. They are finely woven tapestries. Every word, every page, every turn of the plot is carefully measured and artfully crafted. In a time when so many series for children are cranked out in the vein of Captain Underpants, Martha and Charlotte shine alone. For they are truly children's literature. They are art.

The Martha and Charlotte books, like the Laura books, are set apart because they respect children. They love children. Laura wrote during a time when children were prized and cherished. The Martha and Charlotte books are written during a time when children are prevented and discarded before they ever see the light of day. And, sadly, much of the publishing industry treats children as commodities but not as precious minds and hearts in need of art to be fed to their souls. The publishing industry churns out much twaddle these days, making lots of money off of children but hating them right along with the much of the popular culture. They offer fare that is stripped, dumbed down, and beneath the dignity of the child. Books like the Martha and Charlotte books are the exceptions--they respect children; they love children. They give them the rich experiences for which literature is intended.

They are books that can take a little girl in a sad home situation or a child in a leukemia ward and transport her to a place of hope. And once she's there, the books have enough depth and texture to keep her there, to stay with her, to carry her through. And one day, someone will ask that child--now grown up-- who influenced her to become such a good mother, to put so much emphasis on family and love and fullness of life, and she will stop and ponder. And then, she will reply confidently, "Martha Morse and Charlotte Tucker." Remembering that she is grown and that they are characters in a childhood book, she'll revise her answer, "Melissa Wiley. Melissa Wiley made my childhood good. Really."