Tag: moms

Columns

At 94, Mom keeps me on my toes

Cindy Hval

Recently, I took Mom to an emergency dental appointment. We pulled up next to the Spokane Party Bus.

Hoping to mitigate her anxiety, I asked, “Wanna get on the Party Bus?”

“No thanks,” she replied. “They’d probably take you and leave me behind. Plus, I didn’t brush my teeth this morning.”

This even, though I’d called to remind her to brush them 10 minutes before I picked her up.

Caring for a 94-year-old lady with dementia can be a lot like dealing with a recalcitrant preschooler – equal parts exasperation and amusement.

I prefer to focus on the fun, so I’m glad that for many years I’ve been tracking her humor with the hashtag #ThingsMyMomSays.

April 2016

Mom explained a bit of family faith history.

“Your grandma and grandpa had a mixed marriage. Her dad was Lutheran, and his dad was Baptist. One sprinkled, the other dunked. Neither dad was happy about the marriage, but they came around and became great friends.”

April 2018

Mom had a panic attack during her oral surgery appointment, so the paramedics were called.

She was in good spirits after a few hours in the ER – except for her missing socks. Somehow, they’d misplaced her socks.

She put her underwear on over the hospital-issued panties.

“They’ve got my socks, so I’m keeping their underwear,” she said.

June 2018

Today, I noticed her birthday balloons from March had finally deflated.

“I guess they died before me after all,” she said. “We were neck-and-neck for a while.”

May 2019

I told Mom the dining room was serving French dips for dinner.

“Well, they better not expect me to speak French!” she said.

September 2020

During our visit today, I reminded her to pull her mask up over her nose.

“It’s kind of big,” I said.

“My NOSE?” she replied. “I can’t help it. I got the Schmidt schnoz.”

May 2021

I found Mom in the lobby looking lovely in a yellow sweater. She’d visited the hair salon and had her photo taken because it was the facility’s picture day.

“I told them I didn’t need my picture taken because my kids take too many of me.”

“But these are professional photos,” I said.

“Well, that doesn’t mean I’ll look any better,” she said.

October 2021

This week, I cleaned out one of the cupboards in Mom’s kitchenette.

It was overflowing with Ziploc bags, plastic bags, foil, and used plastic lids with straws.

“Any idea why you’re saving all this?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“You never know, I might get invited to a picnic.”

Which doesn’t explain anything, but it made me laugh.

January 2022

I helped Mom fill out a reflection about 2021. A sample question: “What did you learn last year?”

Mom thought it over.

“I don’t think I learned anything. I’m just trying not to forget what I already know.”

“How’s that going for you?” I asked.

“Who are you again?” she replied.

April 2025

I picked up a couple of dirty shirts in Mom’s bedroom.

“I’ll take these home and wash them,” I said. “The laundry service is iffy here, but I learned from the best. The only thing you tried to teach me that I haven’t mastered is ironing.”

“Oh, honey, I really need you to learn how, now,” she said.

“Why?”

“I need you to iron the wrinkles from my face!”

July 2025

We were talking about a mutual friend who refuses to get hearing aids. Mom says there’s a lady at her dining table who won’t wear hers and then says, “What? What?” when people are talking.

“I put mine in first thing every morning, so I can hear everything,” Mom said.

Then she shrugged.

“Of course, I still have NO idea what’s going on.”

A couple of weeks ago, while going over the weekly activity calendar with her, I spotted something intriguing.

“Oh! Two Gray Cats are going to do a show next week,” I said. “I’d like to see them.”

She sighed and patted my hand.

“Cindy, you do know they’re not really cats, don’t you?”

She may be 94, but Mom is still keeping me on my toes.

Columns

The most delicious gift is one-on-one time with sons

Cindy Hval

I fed them.

All of them.

From breast to bottle to mashed peas and sweet potatoes to countless homemade casseroles and cookies.

I spent hours shopping, prepping, baking and cooking. Keeping my four sons fed often felt like a full-time job.

With the work came the joy and satisfaction of watching them grow into healthy, strong and smart young men.

They all started working as teens. To my delight, each son began using their hard-earned cash to treat me to lunch or dinner – usually around my birthday. Watching your kid tell the server, “I’ll take the check,” is one of the sweetest things I’ve experienced as a parent.

More than that, it’s the precious one-on-one time that delights me.

Recently, Ethan our firstborn treated me to a meal at one of my favorite restaurants. It was fun introducing him to their stunning Happy Hour, but the happiest part was sitting across the table from him.

My time with our Ohio son Alex revolves around the grandkids. But before he became a dad, I flew out alone to visit him. We spent the day together sipping coffee and exploring a beautiful park and its lush gardens. He even slid down a wild slide built into a hillside – so much fun to see my little boy shining through my grown-up son’s eyes.

When our third-born began dating Naselle last year, Zach explained his tradition of taking his mom to lunch. She told him how special she thought that was, and he replied, “Well, she’s a special lady.”

“She must be to have a son like you,” she said.

Is it any wonder we adore her?

This year, they’re newlyweds, but she happily shared Zach so he could treat me to lunch on a Saturday afternoon.

Since our youngest son, Sam, moved to Texas, he takes me out when he comes home for the holidays in December. We go to dinner and a movie. I pick the restaurant, and he chooses a movie he thinks I’d enjoy – this visit we saw “Wicked.”

Of course, I still feed my crew.

The kids in town come to dinner twice a month. Sam spends the holidays and a stretch of summer with us, and I cook for Alex and his kids when we visit Ohio.

So, the blessing of having one of them treat me to a meal is something I don’t take for granted.

The food may be fabulous, but it’s the one-on-one time with my sons that truly feeds me.

Freya update

In a recent column, I lamented that Freya, the Fierce Sheep Poacher, had absconded with the cotton ball lamb from our Play-Doh nativity. But just like the Biblical parable of the lost sheep, there was great rejoicing last week when the wayward lamb was found. Freya had tucked it behind assorted cleaning products in a closet.

Also, my husband’s wish is sometimes my command. Derek said our athletic kitten needed a cape, and I found a pink-striped satin Freya-size cape at PetSmart. Boy, were they both surprised!

More memorable birthday feedback

Reader Eddy Birrer celebrated his 80th birthday at the Dome in Edinburgh, Scotland.

“I highly recommend it for its exceptionally great ambiance and quite modest cost,” he wrote.

Scotland is on my bucket list, but since I have a February birthday, I hope to visit in the fall or spring.

Susie Leonard Weller added a bit of joy to the world on her 70th birthday.

“Inspired by a friend’s example, I tithed my first Social Security check,” she said.

She asked friends to help celebrate her 70th birthday by giving to individuals in need or to charit able organizations. She sent $70 in cash to 34 friends, along with an explanation of the money’s purpose and a postcard. She asked them to return the postcard and to share, in writing as well as during a Birthday Zoom meeting, what they did with their donation.

“I loved hearing how the cash benefited their neighbors, as well as local, national, and international nonprofit organizations,” Weller said. “In a joyous Zoom meeting, friends who knew me from elementary school virtually met my other friends. Many people donated extra money as matching funds to increase the impact of their donation. I’m grateful my 70th birthday celebration provided an opportunity to bring more joy into the world.”

Columns

Dementia sometimes changes the stories, but Mom’s humor is forever

Cindy Hval

Almost a year has passed since my last Mom update.

Her 94th birthday is approaching, and while she’s a bit frailer, she still knows us and has a story or two to tell most weeks.

Like many seniors with dementia, she tends to repeat the same tales. But every now and then, she adds an unexpected twist – like telling me I was born in the Philippines (that was my sister). Or recalling how she used to push my brothers in a stroller all the way to NorthTown Mall (that was my sons).

I just roll with the stories, happy when she’s engaged because sometimes she’s not.

Sometimes, she’s scared and confused, and all I can do is sit with her, hold her hand and tell her that I love her.

Her funny quips a few and far between now, but I can still make her laugh. I’m glad because her sense of humor is probably the best thing I inherited from her.

March 2018

I picked Mom up for an early birthday celebration.

“You look pretty in your pink sweater,” I said.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I put it on to look less dead.”

April 2018

As we neared the sidewalk at the dentist’s office, I steered her away from the curb.

“You don’t want to see me jump the curb?” she asked

I shook my head.

“That’s OK. I left my racing walker at home.”

April 2019

Mom on friendship: “My best friend Bonnie and I were so close we shared everything, even a Kleenex.”

April 2019

“How are you doing with all those men?” she asked.

“Which men?”

“Don’t ask me! You’re the one responsible for them!”

(I really hope she was referring to my husband and sons.)

May 2019

On personal appearance: “I don’t wear makeup anymore, except on Sundays I wear the lipstick you gave me. Why? Because I’m 88 and makeup doesn’t help.”

June 2019

Mom’s anxiety was pretty bad today, but she did perk up when talking about high school sweethearts and had this word of advice for single gals.

“Men don’t like it when you flirt and carry on. Boys liked me because I ignored them.”

March 2021

I went over the weekly schedule with Mom and informed her about an invitation to a drumming session the next afternoon.

“I don’t drum,” she said.

“Well, you can learn,” I replied.

“First I need to find out WHAT or WHO we’re going to drum ON, and then I’ll decide.”

April 2021

Me: Oh, look! You’re having quiche Lorraine for dinner.

Mom: What a fancy way to say scrambled eggs.

November 2021

“When we got married, he was going to be the breadwinner, and I was going to be the bookkeeper,” she said.

“How long did that last?” I asked.

“Oh, it took about a week for him to realize I entered everything under miscellaneous.”

March 2023

Mom was in top form today. As I struggled to help her on with her coat, a gentleman walked by. “You’re not leaving me already!” he said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back,” I replied.

“Shush!” she said. “Don’t give him any advance warning!”

July 2023

Since Mom always calls our youngest son her “Sam Baby,” I thought it would be fun to get a photo of him sitting on her lap. We tried, but he’s 6-foot-2 and can no longer fit on Grandma’s lap.

“That’s OK,” she said. “I’d rather be able to walk.”

January 2024

Mom asked about my day, and I told her I interviewed a fly fisherman.

She leaned forward and put her hand on my arm.

“You do know they don’t actually fish for flies?”

January 2024

I read the retirement center’s weekly newsletter to her. The director again reminded residents to be kind and patient with the dining room staff.

“Gosh, I don’t want to be a mean, cranky old lady when I grow up,” I said.

“Me neither,” Mom replied. “I’d rather be a silly, crazy old lady.”

I assured her she was absolutely that.

“I WIN!” she said.

Yes.

She does.

Columns

Recipe for easing worry

Cindy Hval

Many years ago, on a bitterly cold January afternoon, I sat down to write a column about soup because January is National Soup Month.

Like many columns, this one had a mind of its own and turned into an essay about worry.

I wrote, “Making homemade soup is great therapy. In fact, it’s become my surefire stress reliever. Nobody does worry like a mom, and mothers of teenagers are in a league of their own. If worry were an Olympic sport, moms would own the medals stand.”

Now, with our four sons safely past their teenage years and on their own, I assumed our pleasantly empty nest would become a fret-free zone.

Wrong.

Not only do I still occasionally worry about my kids, I now worry about my aging mother. How’s that for the circle of life?

August is too hot for soup, but recently, after an extremely stressful day, I stood in my kitchen surrounded by bowls, pans, veggies, chicken breasts, lemons and spices. I needed some cooking therapy.

Some people stress-eat. I stress-cook, and the recipe for the day was lemon-herb chicken, broccoli and potato sheet pan dinner.

Place a sheet pan in the oven. Preheat to 425 (leave pan in the oven). Cut Yukon gold potatoes into chunks and toss with olive oil, salt and pepper in a large bowl. Remove the pan from hot oven and coat it with cooking spray. Spread potatoes on the pan and roast for 15 minutes.

Mom is losing her teeth and for various reasons isn’t a candidate for dentures. With one lone upper tooth, she’s distressed about her appearance and afraid she won’t be able to eat. At least once during every visit, she asks, “What about my teeth? I don’t know where they went. Everyone asks me what we’re going to do about it.”

And I explain again the importance of caring for her remaining teeth and remind her of all the good things she still can eat – like potatoes.

In a large bowl, combine chicken breasts with olive oil, salt, pepper, parsley, rosemary and garlic powder. Grate the zest and squeeze the juice from one lemon and toss with chicken. Thinly slice the second lemon.

The tangy smell of lemon makes me think of my oldest son and his love for sour things. Ethan and his friends planned to float the Spokane River later in the week. They don’t have tubes or floaties; they just wade in and float. I’m pretty sure he’ll forget sunscreen, but he’s 33. At some point, you have to stop sending “don’t forget the sunscreen” texts. At least I know he’s a good swimmer. Those years of lessons paid off. But the river is unpredictable.

In the bowl used for potatoes, combine broccoli florets with the remaining oil, salt and pepper. After the potatoes have roasted, carefully remove the pan from the oven. Add the broccoli and stir to combine with the potatoes.

Our youngest son Sam doesn’t care for broccoli much – or roasted potatoes. As I cook, he’s driving to Dallas from his home in Odessa, Texas, for a getaway. Tollways. Traffic. Unfamiliar city. Did he top up the coolant in his car? Are Google Maps up to date?

Clear four spots on the pan for the chicken and add to the pan. Scatter lemon slices over. Roast for 15 minutes.

Zach is working on his new album. Our third-born would love to quit his day job to make music full-time. He’d also like a steady girlfriend. It occurs to me that most of my worries are about my three single sons. I wonder if when they are partnered like Alex, I’ll worry less.

Remove pan from oven and brush chicken with soy sauce; roast until the chicken is cooked through and the veggies are tender, about five minutes more.

As I set the table and cleaned the kitchen, my heart felt lighter and my mind clearer. I often pray while I cook, and that plus the absorption of the tasks helps me chop, measure and mix my concerns into bite-size pieces.

Cindy Hval can be reached at dchval@juno.com. Hval is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation” (Casemate Publishers, 2015) available at Auntie’s Bookstore and bookstores nationwide.

Columns

Still afloat on the pond of English 101

Cindy Hval

I am absolutely not going to tell you how many years ago I took English 101.

For one thing, I’m not good at math – something my college transcript verifies. For another thing, it was a really long time ago. How long ago? Well, let’s just say all of my essays were handwritten. In cursive. In pen. No, not with quill and ink.

Memories of that class were triggered when our youngest son headed out the door to Eastern Washington University last week. He’s not taking 101 – he’s teaching it.

Sam’s first day of teaching English 101/First day of kindergarten.

Sam is in the final year of his graduate degree and is a composition instructor in the English Graduate Student Assistantship Program. His 22nd birthday was Friday, but he’s already teaching a class of 24 students.

He’s relishing his new role, and I’m sure his students will benefit from his enthusiasm. For many of them, English 101 will be just another required class to get out of the way, but perhaps for some the class will trigger a desire to learn more about writing.

That’s exactly what happened to me at Spokane Falls Community College.

At 18, I still wasn’t sure what I wanted to be when I grew up. The career aptitude tests I took my senior year of high school pointed me toward fashion merchandising. I’m pretty sure that’s just a fancy way to say retail sales clerk, but I could be wrong.

Dad said college would be a better place to discover my aptitudes and paid for my first quarter at SFCC. I’d been the editor of our school newspaper and co-editor of the yearbook, so English classes didn’t scare me. I was far more terrified of classes involving math – a justified fear as evidenced in the above-mentioned transcripts.

I’m sorry to say, I don’t remember the name of my English 101 instructor. I do remember he was also the tennis coach and often wore his tennis whites to class. Maybe fashion merchandising should have been my thing, after all.

Yet, he’s the one who lit the spark of interest – who first made me wonder if perhaps writing was something I could actually be good at. To be sure, 101 is the most basic of college classes. Students typically learn the different stages of writing: gathering material, drafting ideas, revising drafts, editing and proofreading.

Sitting on my desk is one of the first essays I wrote for that class. The title? “From Duckling to Swan,” in which I related my middle school to high school transformation.

Honestly, reading it now is cringe-inducing, but I’ve saved it all these years because of the comment the instructor wrote in pencil on the title page.

“An essay like this can keep you afloat in the pond of 101.”

When that paper landed on my desk, after he first read it to the class, it was an a-ha moment for me. I thought, “This is it! This is what I want to do. I want to write and I want people to read what I’ve written.”

And here we are.

Now, it’s Sam’s turn to make a difference.

Who knows? Maybe someday a writer will sit down to pen a newspaper column or write a book, and remember an English 101 class at EWU, and the instructor who encouraged her to believe that she had a way with words. And perhaps that teacher’s name will be Sam Hval.

It wouldn’t surprise me a bit.

Columns

It’s not what I miss; it’s who

Cindy Hval

March 29.

For those keeping track at home, that’s the last time I wore mascara. I’m putting that extra five minutes a day to good use, though. For instance, I posted that fascinating tidbit across my social media platforms.

Seriously, for all the frustration and inconvenience of the stay-home order, there are bright spots. Not only am I saving money on cosmetics, but my gas use has plummeted. Doing all my interviews by phone from home means the only time Ruby Sue and I leave the driveway is for groceries.

And new routines are replacing the old. Knowing my family’s screen time has increased exponentially, I dug out a deck of cards, and introduced our youngest son to Gin Rummy and Kings Corner.

Sam wasn’t so sure about this old-fashioned nondigital form of entertainment, and I was horrified to discover he didn’t know how to shuffle.

I’m proud to say that after several weeks of nightly card games, our son can shuffle the deck almost expertly, and has actually won a few hands. If the stay-home order isn’t lifted soon, we’ll have to teach him poker, and I fear for our stimulus money.

Some friends are using their mandatory confinement to explore new hobbies or tackle remodeling projects. I’m a wee bit jealous, because I’ve always worked from home, and I’m busier than ever. But I’m extremely thankful to be able to continue the work I enjoy. And honestly, I’d probably spend my bonus time napping.

Speaking of naps, Sunday is now a lot more relaxing. While I miss corporate worship, I have to be honest – livestreaming the service in my bathrobe, ensconced in my recliner, is heavenly. I did make more of an effort in honor of Easter. I wore yoga pants and sparkly slippers.

Still, I miss lots of things – happy hour with girlfriends, picking up books at the library, getting a haircut, and Saturdays with my mom.

Feb. 29

That’s the last time I visited Mom in person. She lives in an assisted-living facility that was extremely proactive in quarantining its residents. I’m so thankful for their foresight and diligence. They quickly went from screening visitors to no visitors to residents staying in their rooms at all times. And so far, no residents or staff has been infected by the virus.

But this is the longest I’ve ever gone without seeing my mom. We’ve always lived in the same town, always within 3 miles of each other. Even before she moved into assisted-living, I’d stop in and see her every Saturday.

She’s been in great spirits for the most part. Even though she has Alzheimer’s disease, she usually remembers why I haven’t been to see her.

“Don’t worry honey, they won’t let your brother in here anymore, either,” she said.

Having all her meals in her room isn’t much fun, but she seems to understand the reason for the quarantine.

She teases the staff.

“I tell them I’m going to be extra good, so they’ll let me out of my room again.”

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Mom turned 89 on March 21. We dropped off gifts at the designated area, and the staff delivered them to her room. Then I called her from the parking lot, and she came to the window so we could see each other.

“You look so cute with your hair in a ponytail!” she said.

I explained I couldn’t get a haircut, and she laughed.

“Me either, I think I’m just going to leave a curler in my bangs so I can see.”

But recently she seemed a bit down.

“I miss you,” she said. “This is getting hard.”

Then she told me a story about how she and Dad never went to church alone. They were always stopping to pick someone up and give them a ride. One woman’s name was Aleece.

“She told us her daddy named her that because they had a lot of boys and he said, ‘At least this one’s a girl!’ ”

Sure, I miss the freedom to dine in a restaurant, shop in a bookstore, or get a haircut, but I miss Saturdays with mom a whole lot more.

Mom and Me

Columns

Smells Like Teen Spirit

Cindy Hval

The nurse in the delivery room smiled as I pressed my nose to the downy head of my newborn son.

“He smells like angel kisses,” I murmured, besotted.

I had a nonmedicated birth, so I couldn’t blame that statement on a drug-induced haze. Nope, this was a love-induced haze.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” said the nurse. “In about 13 years you’re going to walk into his room and gag. It’s gonna reek like ripe goat pen meets Old Spice.”

I stared blankly at her. It was like she was speaking Swahili.

That was many years ago, and of course, now I know that nurse had pretty much called it. However, I can’t attest to the goat pen analogy. In my experience (and I’ve had a lot of experience) the scent of a teenage male’s room is best described as sweaty gym socks meet crushed corn ships, mingled with soccer jersey left to mildew in the bottom of an athletic bag, topped with a cloying cloud of Axe body spray.

The odor could be marketed as a teen-pregnancy-prevention aid.

Baby boys should come with a disclaimer. The heady scent of Baby Magic lotion wears off long before they reach kindergarten and is initially replaced by the smell of dirt. Plain old dirt. Which isn’t bad, it’s a reminder of all their adventures.

Adventure-reminders also include; worms, gravel, sticks and clumps of mud left in pockets. Mud? You may ask. It was for the worms, of course. But that earthy aroma is better than what comes next.

Around age 12, the smell of dirt gives way Eau de Gag. It’s so unfair that by the time they really start smelling good again, they move out.

At one time I had three teenage boys living in my house. Trust me when I say there are not enough Yankee candles in the world to compensate.

Change in body odor is one thing, but the universal shift in attitude as boys transition from teens to young men – well, that’s something impossible to mask.

Eye-rolling “whatevers” often replace heart-to-heart conversations. The chattiest of teens suddenly embraces sullen silence, and sometimes the silence is shattered by angry words and accusations that fly through the home polluting the atmosphere more than gym socks and body spray ever could.

And the things we find in pockets are far more sobering than worms.

Even when you know this necessary bid for healthy separation and independence is coming – when you know this is the natural order of things – it’s still painful.

As they grow, we lovingly support their independence by giving them safe places to explore. But when they can drive and spend long hours away from our watchful eyes, they sometimes explore places we’d rather protect them from.

Now, with just one teen left at home, these pitfalls don’t dismay me and instead of clutching him more tightly, I hold him more loosely than I did his older brothers.

Because I know what comes next. If you can weather those turbulent teen years, a really nice young man may come home to visit you. And he’ll actually choose to spend time with you.

Last weekend, one of those young men came home for dinner. As I reached up and wrapped my arms around my oldest son, he pressed his whiskery cheek against my forehead.

I hugged him, and somewhere beneath the cigarette smoke and shampoo, I caught the faintest whiff of my baby boy. Time blurred, melted and stopped momentarily, as I closed my eyes, breathed deeply and held him tight.

This I know. If someday my eyesight fails, if my hearing declines, if I lose my sense of touch, I will always recognize this man I call my son. His infant scent is embedded in our mutual DNA. To me he still smells like angel kisses.

Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” You can listen to her podcast “Life, Love and Raising Sons” at SpokaneTalksOnline.com. Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.

Columns

On My Son’s 21st Birthday

Cindy Hval

I wrote this column for our number 3 son, seven years ago. The speed of the passage of time takes my breath away. He’s 21 today.

When your mother is a writer, your life can be an open book. Just ask my sons. Their names regularly appear in this space as well as in books that are sold all over the world. And readers often ask if the boys are embarrassed to have their lives discussed so publicly. I get a kick out of that.

The fact is they love to see their names in print. “Am I in this column?” they’ll ask, and if I say no, they don’t bother to read it. I often run stories by them to make sure they’re OK with the content, and not once have I heard, “Please don’t share that.”

However, when I look through my files and clippings, I see that one name doesn’t appear quite as often as the others. That would be Zachary. He’s a middle child. As I type this I can almost feel the collective sighs of middle children all over the world. They can relate.

Our firstborn gets lots of print because even at 18, everything we experience with him is still new. He’s the first to do just about everything – including being the cause of my first gray hairs.

The second-born is the family athlete. He’s a bit on the wild side and accumulates adventures like other kids add Matchbox cars to their toy collections. He’s got the scars to prove it.

Then there’s the baby – everything he does has added poignancy because he’s my last glimpse into the world of childhood.

But Zachary was the third child added to our family in a five-year span. His brothers expressed mild interest in his arrival. And though I remember every excruciating detail of his birth, the months and years that followed seemed to whirl and blend together in a kaleidoscope of bustling boys and sleepless nights.

Thank God for video cameras. The magic of Zack’s first bite of solid food, first giggle and first steps are preserved on tape. His birth is also on tape, but as Zack would say, “It’s best not to talk about that.”

This middle child has always had a way with words, though his vocabulary got off to a shaky start. His first word was uttered from his high chair as he watched his two older brothers attempt to communicate entirely through belching. Frustrated that he’d not mastered that skill, he hollered, “Burp”

That provoked gales of gleeful laughter from his siblings and only encouraged the now verbal tot. “Burp!” he yelled. “Burp, burp.”

Fortunately, he’s continued to sharpen his wit. A few weeks ago, after his younger brother’s birthday party, we waited in the car for Zack, who was still somewhere in the bowels of Chuck E. Cheese.

Finally, the van door slid open and Zack announced with great disgust, “They didn’t want me to leave without a parent!” He slammed the door shut and added, “However, negotiations were brief.”

He’s always been full of surprises. When asked to share what he learned on his first day of kindergarten he was momentarily stumped. He pondered the question deeply and finally had an answer. “I learned this,” he said, and jumping up from the table he inserted his hand under his shirt and began flapping his arm wildly. He’d mastered the art of armpit flatulence.

“He’s gifted,” his oldest brother opined.

But for all his words and talents, what I most appreciate about this middle son is his affectionate nature. Our firstborn was reserved, and we could never catch the second-born long enough to cuddle. But Zachary’s warm and loving heart spills over into hugs, kisses and spontaneous bursts of affection.

Last week I was driving the kids home after school. Traffic was heavy and my temper was short. “I love you, Mom.” Zack said. “I love you, too,” I replied distractedly.

We were quiet for a few blocks and then Zack said, “I want my last words to you to be ‘I love you,’ because you never know how long we have.”

He has a knack for reminding me what really matters.

His Sunday school teacher once said that Zack has the soul of a poet, and I agree. I’ve worried about his tender heart, watching the way unkind words can wound him. I’m torn between hoping that he’ll toughen up so he won’t get hurt so often, and praying that his heart stays soft. The world could use a little more tenderness.

A couple of years ago he asked for a guitar for Christmas. With wonder, I’ve watched the way he’s made a place for himself through music. He plays beautifully. Each afternoon, strains of Marley’s “Redemption Song,” or Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower,” wail through the house as our son unwinds from an arduous day of middle school.

Today is Zachary’s 14th birthday, and this column is for him. Zack, every home needs music, and I’m so grateful that you are the song in ours.

Correspondent Cindy Hval can be reached at dchval@juno.com.

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