That’s what life is. No surprise to any reader, I’m sure. There’s so much to do, and so little time. And of late, so little extra energy. I’ve sworn off coffee after 2, so I can get a better night’s sleep. And, it’s working. Sort of. Because, I’m not always so great at reading the actual clock versus the I-could-use-another-cup-of-coffee clock. But, I’m trying.

Balancing act

We had a smashing weekend. Busy, busy. To say the least. I hit the hay at 9 p.m. last night, exhausted. Took Mary Claire out for a date with just Richard and me. Sang at a wedding and two masses, cheered at two soccer games, sold popcorn, cleaned the garage and closets, and a attended a very enjoyable party at a recently renovated Frank Lloyd Wright house at which my dear spouse is part of the design team. It was a beautiful afternoon party. And a much-needed time out.  But exhausting just the same.

And now, here it is, Monday. And I’m feeling unprepared for the week. I am always balancing (more like teetering) on the edge of the darn sin called sloth.

Strange, but true.

In my life it’s really the sin of productive procrastination. Here I am, blogging (productive) when I should be working (procrastination). I could pretty much re-roof the house eagerly before I sit down and do some of the stuff I HAVE to do. Hence: therein lies the sin.Yes I’m productive (and then some) but there’s still undone stuff that HAS to be done. And coffee isn’t going to cut it.

So, now that I’m no longer in denial, I’m going to finish this post and get to work … after I make myself another cup of coffee … and re-roof the house.

Okay. No he doesn’t. Not with actual words. He is still the silent (in words, not noise) thinking man. But he speaks in so many other ways.

The eyes of a thinking man

Yesterday, I took Lillian and Cliff for a quick trip to the zoo.

I thought he was going to explode when he saw the giraffe. He pointed, he babbled his long monologue babble. During which, he was apparently telling me all about what he saw. Nodding at me, with a don’t-you-agree-with-me expression.  I talked back. (I, on the other hand, was actually using words.) He listened. Agreed, nodding. Looked into my eyes and told me more. Leaned his head on my shoulder briefly and loved me for showing him the giraffe. He also loved me for the kangaroos. The zebra. The rhino.

When we got home, we told daddy all about what we saw. Cliff listened intently, smiling. He walked over to me and leaned his head into my legs and loved me some more.

Without words, that boy speaks volumes.

Weekly, Henry is charged with some creative writing assignment using about half of his spelling words. This week he saw two: one was make a comic using seven of the 15 words, and the other was to write a friendly letter using eight. The comic wasn’t so bad. There was initial complaining, but Henry didn’t have high expectations of the comic being a brilliant tale. He gets comics. They are just a tidbit of fun.

The letter, on the other hand, was a completely different story. No different from last week’s story, which also stumped him. Henry, up until this point, has struggled with creative writing. Last year I had him write in a journal each day, the 20 minutes before lunch. I’d give him a topic and say go. He struggled and complained and did the absolute minimum possible to get me off his back.

Now, in school, there’s someone else reading his work. So there’s another element of pressure for him. His MO has been to do the minimum. If the assignment is write a story using eight words, you can be darn sure that story is not going to have a sentence more than eight. In most cases, he’s been able to use more than one word in a sentence. He’s all about conservation.

He finds the task difficult. Not because he’s not creative. He is pretty much an all-around hilarious and quick-witted kid. The task is difficult for him because his brain has some kind of automatic siphon that filters out words he cannot spell. Which, in third grade, boils down to about 99.999% percent of the English language. So he’s stuck with a list of seemingly unrelated spelling words and the puddle of words he’s confident (or at least semi-confident) he will spell correctly.

I’ve watched him become almost paralyzed in this processes during these first weeks of school. We always get through it, with a few thought starters from me. And I will say, in some cases, even I would have had a tough time coming up with an actual story using the word list. Henry likes good stories. His expectations are high. But yesterday, we turned a corner.

Richard originally helped him with the assignment. Half way through, Henry approached me and said, “I hate this letter. It’s a baby letter. Like a love note or something.” And before my very eyes, he tore the paper in half. “I want to start over.”

Well, that in itself, was a first. Re-doing something on purpose. So he sat down and wrote this letter to his brother …

Dear Clifford,

I promise we’ll play baseball when you get older. I hope you do not strike out. I can’t wait until the moment when you’re in your uniform. That’s a while from now. But now you’re barely human and we keep in a cube in the cellar. That doesn’t mean I do not like you.

Love Henry

That’s my boy! The spelling words were: we’ll, strike, moment, that’s, human, cube, cellar and doesn’t