Tag: parenting

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

No matter how old, a kid still needs Mom when illness strikes

Cindy Hval

This summer, our son, Sam, got sick.

Really sick.

ER visit sick.

He lives in Odessa, Texas, and teaches English at Odessa College. Nothing prepares you for having a sick kid, so far from home.

Thankfully, a friend took him to the hospital. Sam suffered through a miserable bout of gastroenteritis that antibiotics cured, but an MRI showed another issue. A large nodule had formed on the left side of his thyroid. Eventually, surgery became necessary.

It wouldn’t be his first stint in the OR, but it would be the first one he remembered.

Twenty-four years ago, Sam was born with congenital diaphragmatic hernia. A hole had formed in his diaphragm during gestation, allowing his stomach and intestines to move into his chest cavity, crowding his heart and lungs.

At 3 days old, he underwent surgery to repair the hole in his diaphragm. After a three-week stay in the neonatal intensive care unit at Sacred Heart, we brought him home.

His recovery was nothing short of miraculous, but any mom will tell you that the trauma of being separated from your newborn is one that lingers.

That’s why when his thyroid surgery was scheduled for Jan. 9, Derek and I immediately booked a flight and reserved a hotel room. Sam insisted that we didn’t need to come. It was outpatient surgery, and friends offered to drive him and care for him post-op.

You’d think he’d know me better by now. No child of mine is going to recover from an operation without my homemade chicken noodle soup to speed up the healing process. Maybe you can mail soup, but you can’t Fed Ex mom’s kisses and hugs.

Besides, I hadn’t been to his new home. Derek had moved him, but I longed to see his apartment and city. I wanted to visit his office and meet his colleagues and friends,

We arrived in Texas on a blissfully sunny day. While the temps in Spokane steadily dropped, Sam showed us his favorite haunts and took me on a walk at Odessa’s Memorial Gardens Park, where the thermometer topped 67 degrees.

The next day, we visited his workplace. We met his dean and the colleagues we’d heard so much about. The college sports a replica of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and Anne Hathaway’s cottage on the campus. Shakespeare in West Texas!

That evening, I cooked a giant batch of soup – enough to see him through his recovery, with extra to stash in his freezer.

His surgery took place in San Angelo – a two-hour drive from Odessa. We met with the surgeon, who explained that the nodule would be biopsied while Sam was on the operating table. If it was cancerous, they’d remove his entire thyroid. If it wasn’t, only the left side would be removed.

I paced the hospital halls while we waited, beset with memories of my newborn, intubated, isolated, in a NICU room filled with machines that kept him alive. While I knew this surgery wasn’t remotely as serious, it was difficult for me to separate the images of my helpless baby from the independent 6-foot-2-inch young man he’d become.

Finally, the surgeon met us in the waiting room. He said the surgery went “perfectly,” and there was no sign of cancer. A blood check at his post-op visit will show if Sam needs to take medication or if his remaining thyroid would produce enough hormones.

A few hours later, our son was eating chicken noodle soup at home. His incision was sore, and his throat hurt, but other than that, he felt OK.

In fact, the next day, he insisted on taking us to his favorite walking trail at the University of Texas Permian Basin. He and I walked a windy 3-mile loop, pausing to take in the student-built Stonehenge replica, view the cactus garden and peer at the George H. W. Bush house. Bush moved to the 800-square-foot house in Odessa with his bride Barbara and 2-year-old son George W. in 1948. In 2004, the house was relocated to its current site at UTPB.

Sam slowed down a bit after that outing, but we spent plenty of time soaking in the warm Texas sun on his veranda and we got in a few more walks.

While he fretted about the time and expense of our trip, he was glad we came. At the airport, he enveloped me in a huge hug.

“Thank you for the soup and for taking care of me, Mom,” he said.

The truth is I couldn’t NOT be there. Though once he fit snuggly in my arms and now he towers over me, he’ll always be my baby boy.

Just don’t tell his students that.

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

Finding thankfulness in empty nest adjustments

Cindy Hval

Baffled, we stared at our dining room table.

With the leaves, it seats 12. Without the leaves, it seats six. Now, there are just two of us.

“Where are we going to sit?” I asked my husband.

He shrugged.

Our places at the table changed over time as our family grew and then shrank. For several years, it’s just been Derek, me and our youngest son. In September, Sam accepted a teaching position at Odessa College in Texas. We hadn’t thought about the practical adjustments empty-nesters must make – like where to sit at mealtimes.

“We can’t sit next to each other. That’s just weird,” I said.

With a full plate in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, Derek nodded toward the door.

“Let’s eat on the deck,”

Crisis averted, we enjoyed our meal in the September sun and discussed where our new spots at the table should be.

“I don’t care where we sit as long as we’re not eating off TV trays,” he said.

I shuddered.

“Do they even still make those?”

In the weeks that followed we slowly found our new normal. While we miss our Baby Boy, we’re finding lots to love about our empty nest – like nuts. Sam has a severe peanut/nut allergy. We haven’t had a dish of cashews or peanuts in our home in 22 years. Now, we enjoy small dishes of mixed nuts as an appetizer or late-night snack. Also, our grocery bill has diminished considerably!

e aren’t the only ones adjusting to Sam’s absence. Our cats Thor and Walter have had to adapt as well – especially Walter. He’s a creature of habit, and his habit is to tag along after me all day long. Most mornings my tabby entourage escorts me to my basement office. Then he plunks himself on our old BarcaLounger near my desk in front of Sam’s TV.

Sam took the TV and the recliner with him when he moved. With no place to plunk, Walter took to napping at my feet. This proved to be a workplace hazard for both of us. I’d forget he was there and step on his tail, or he’d dart in front of me causing me to trip.

I explained the situation during a phone call with Sam.

“Maybe I should buy him a cat bed and put it next to my desk,” I said.

My son had a better idea.

“Why spend money on a cat bed he won’t use? Just buy a clothes basket. He loves them.”

There’s a reason we call him Smarty Pants Sam.

I bought a $4 basket; put an old afghan in it and now Walter has a safe place to nap when he comes to work with me.

Though I’ve found lots to enjoy about our first few months as empty-nesters, I have to confess to feeling a bit blue as I did my Thanksgiving shopping. It’s our first holiday without our youngest son. We’ll have seven family members at the table – I doubt I’ll need to extend it with a leaf.But when reaching for the serving platters behind my Christmas china, I rediscovered my thankful spirit.Sam will come home for Christmas and his place at the table will be ready.

Columns

Saying Grace

Cindy Hval

There’s hungry and then there’s waiting-for-your-father-to-say-the-blessing-over-dinner-hungry.

I grew up in a family that said grace before every meal – even breakfast. My father usually led the family prayer and he was from Arkansas. There’s a reason they call it a Southern drawl.

Basically, it means what most of us say in one or two syllables becomes three or four when pronounced by someone from the South. Also, my parents were Pentecostal and supported many missionaries. Support included mentioning them by name in prayer at every opportunity – often before a meal.

While our Cream of Wheat solidified, our PBJ sandwiches calcified and our meatloaf cooled, my father prayed.

Often, we kids were expected to pick up the mantle. My brother Jon famously balked when asked to pray over dinner. At age 3, he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.

“I payed (prayed) at noon!”

This became an oft-used mantra when my siblings and I were expected to offer the blessing. It rarely held sway.

When Derek and I raised our four sons, we rarely breakfasted or lunched together, but family dinner was sacrosanct and included saying grace.

We held hands and took turns saying the prayer, which almost always ended with “and bless the hands that prepared it.”

Those hands were always mine and whoever prayed that evening often followed their father’s example and lifted my hand to their lips and kissed it. It’s one of the sweetest memories of all my boys at the table.

My sister reminded me that our brothers were less sweet and often got in trouble for amending that phrase to “Bless the hands that repaired it.”

Also, less sweet were the prayers my boys brought home from church camp.

Alex returned after one excursion and prayed, “Thanks for the meat. Now let’s eat!”

I was unimpressed.

His brother Zach upped (or downed?) the ante the following year, by bellowing “Jeeesuus! AMEN!”

I asked Facebook friends to recall blessings they said before meals.

Mary Roy’s family topped my dad’s invocation frequency.

“As a child, we would invite Jesus to our table to begin with prayer, then ended our meals with, ‘Oh, give thanks unto the Lord for he is good and his mercy endureth forever! Amen.’ We were a two-prayer-a-meal family.”

Joe Butler’s family was more concise: “God’s neat, let’s eat.”

When Ellen Peters’ kids were young they said a traditional blessing. “Bless us, O Lord. And these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Gene Brake’s less-reverent blessing didn’t amuse his grandmother: “Good bread, good meat, good gosh, let’s eat!”

Nina Culver said when her family was feeling goofy they’d pray, “Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub.”

My sister reminded me our oldest brother David finished that prayer with a rousing, “Yay! God!”

That seems tame compared to Cecile Charles’ dad. He mortified her mom when company came to dinner and he prayed, “Bless the meat, damn the skin, pin back your ears and cram it in!”

Norma Weber’s family prayer focused on counting blessings. “There’s a roof up above me. I’ve a good place to sleep, there’s food on my table and shoes on my feet. You gave me your love, Lord and a fine family. Thank you, Lord, for your blessings on me.”

And when a teenage Miriam Robbins worked summers at the Salvation Army Camp Gifford at Deer Lake, they sang this grace: “Be present at our table, Lord. Be here and everywhere adored. These mercies bless and grant that we may live to love and serve but thee.”

The simple act of pausing to express thanks before a meal may seem antiquated, but it still has value to me. In a world where many families eat in front of the television or with their eyes glued to their phones, something precious, perhaps sacred is lost.

Recently, Derek, Sam and I enjoyed a lovely dinner on our deck and I was reminded of an older prayer.

“For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.”

That evening, my eyes filled with tears. However slowly my father prayed, his heart was pointed in the right direction – gratitude. No matter the state of the world, if you have food on your table and people you love to share it with, there is always, always something to be thankful for.

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 on Amazon and in bookstores nationwide.

All Write

Turning Tables

Cindy Hval

It’s always a bit surreal to be the interviewee instead of the interviewer, but I had fun chatting with Hara Allison on her podcast “See Beneath Your Beautiful.”

See Beneath Your Beautiful podcast is raw and intimate, sometimes funny and always entertaining. With new episodes every Saturday, Hara explores our loves, fears and hopes with a delicious combination of depth and lightness.

We chatteed about writing, parenting, grandparenting and lots of stuff in between.

You can click here https://bit.ly/3okAtTe to listen to the episode, or find it on any podcast streaming service.

*Disclaimer* I utter the 3 forbidden “p” words!

Columns

Word Trouble: I don’t think that means what you think it means

Cindy Hval

I’ve been told I have a way with words.

After all, I’ve spent many years making a living writing them. But this summer I learned I’d apparently lost my way – at least when it comes to contemporary euphemisms.

Each year I host a gathering of friends in our backyard gazebo. The Great Gazebo Girlfriend Gathering provides a way for me to bring friends from varying parts of my life together to reflect, reminisce and laugh.

It’s also quite an educational event.

My friend, Judi, told us about her stay at a cute bed-and-breakfast with interesting room names.

“I saw that on Facebook!” I said. “I thought it was cool that your room was ‘Netflix and chill.’ ”

A brief silence fell.

Then someone giggled. Someone else tittered. Judi’s eyes got big.

“What?” I asked.

“Cindy, don’t you know what ‘Netflix and chill’ means?” my friend Sarah asked.

Puzzled, I gazed at her.

“Of course, I do,” I replied. “It means you’re going to watch a movie and relax.”

I’m pretty sure the resulting howls of laughter could be heard for miles.

Apparently, somehow, when I wasn’t looking, that innocently descriptive phrase has morphed into meaning something entirely different.

Here’s the Wikipedia definition: Netflix and chill, as a distinct phrase, means to watch Netflix with a romantic prospect with the eventual expectation of sexual activity.

And that’s the most family-friendly definition.

Reader, I beg of you, do not look this up in the Urban Dictionary.

Horrified, I gazed at my laughing friends.

A blush spread over my face and deepened to a reddish hue as I recalled my response when a much younger colleague asked what Derek and I had planned for the weekend.

“Oh, we’re going to Netflix and chill all weekend long. I can’t wait!” I replied.

He grinned.

“Good for you!” he said.

Then I remembered how I’d told the grocery store cashier the same thing. He paused in the midst of scanning my items, smiled and winked at me.

“Awesome,” he said.

I endured my friends’ good-natured ribbing for the rest of the party, but honestly, I hoped they were pulling my leg (definition: to make someone believe something that is not true as a joke, which I looked up to be sure that meaning hadn’t changed).

When they left, I turned to my trusted youngest son.

“Sam, what does ‘Netflix and chill’ mean?”

Peering at me, he cautiously replied. “What do you think it means?”

That’s how I knew my friends were telling the truth, and I was mortified all over again.

I hoped this was something only teenagers, young adults and their parents knew, but recently that hope was dashed.

When we met my friend Jill and her husband for dinner, the subject of my embarrassment came up again. (Honestly, I’ll be 70 before I live this down.)

To prove the phrase wasn’t known to merely the younger set, Jill asked our server, “Do you know what ‘Netflix and chill’ means?”

“Yes,” she replied. “And I only do that with my husband.”

Lesson learned. The next time someone asks what my plans are for the evening I will reply, “My husband and I are going to watch a movie via an online streaming service and relax.”

Or, because truthfulness is important to me, I might just smile and say, “We’re going to Netflix and chill.”

Columns

With 20/20 clarity, I see change ahead

Cindy Hval

I don’t remember ever having 20/20 vision. I got my first pair of glasses in fourth grade, my first pair of contacts at 15, and my eyesight continues to decline.

That’s why I’m really looking forward to this new year – I can finally see 2020! And every time I glimpse the date in my new calendars and planners, I smile. There’s just something exciting about turning a page.

2019 brought change to our household. In the fall, our third son moved into his own place, and we’re officially down to just one kid at home. That kid will graduate from college in the spring, and while he’ll likely stay with us while pursuing a second degree – our empty nest years are looming.

So far, meal planning has been the most challenging thing about our shrinking household. Because Sam works mainly evenings, I foresaw a lot of cooking for two in my future. As usual, my vision was faulty, because at least once a week there are five at my table.

When Zach moved out, I told him I hoped he’d join us for a weekly family meal. Our oldest son also lives nearby, and if I’m cooking for four, it’s certainly no stretch to make dinner for five.

The result? I now get to have my three in-town sons around my table on a regular basis, and nothing makes this mama’s heart happier. Besides, I haven’t yet mastered the art of cooking for three, let alone two.

The holidays revealed more opportunities for adapting. In recent years, our two youngest sons have been in charge of tree decorating. My penchant for holiday décor seems to grow each year, so it’s nice to leave the Christmas tree in their capable hands. However, this year, varying work schedules proved problematic.

I’m all about problem solving, so for the first time in at least 25 years, Derek and I trimmed the tree by ourselves. What might have been melancholy became delightful. We took a lovely, romantic stroll down memory lane as we hung ornaments and remembered Christmases past.

Then came the cookie-decorating conflict.

In 2011, Sam made us a book featuring his treasured Christmas memories. In it he wrote, “I love making and decorating Christmas cookies with you.”

That was then.

This is now.

As usual, I baked dozens of sugar cookies, and then checked with our sons to see when they’d be available to frost and decorate them. Sam seemed ambivalent and told me to check with Zach.

I’ve never wanted to try to squeeze my sons into traditions that no longer fit, so I texted Zach, “How strongly do you feel about decorating Christmas cookies? I can leave them out for you guys to do when you come over Wednesday, or Dad and I can just do them tonight.”

He replied, “I don’t feel strongly either way.”

So for the first time in our 33-year marriage, Derek got to be part of the Christmas cookie fun. He’s artistically inclined, so our cookies looked fabulous. And honestly, I don’t much miss the Cyclops angels or graphically anatomically correct snowmen that our sons were inclined to include.IMG_20191216_194208217

Derek and I further simplified our holidays by skipping stuffing stockings for each other. Less shopping equaled less stress and more fun.

As someone who cherishes the familiar, and relishes ritual and tradition, I’ve been surprised at how readily I’ve adapted to this new season of our lives, and how eagerly I’m anticipating the unknowns that await.

Because whatever 2020 brings, the one thing I can clearly see ahead is change. And instead of dreading it, I’m choosing to embrace it.

Columns

Don’t Blink: Summer and Childhood Vanish

Cindy Hval

They marched out of the old Orchard Prairie schoolhouse, eyes alight with excitement.

“Are they done yet?” asked the oldest.

The three boys had been waiting for their mom, the school’s PTO president, to finish an afternoon meeting that I’d just left.

I’d paused to take a picture of the historic schoolhouse when the boys bounded into view.

They’d been busy while they waited.

“We catched a spider!” shouted the littlest boy. “A GINORMOUS spider!”

The middle brother shouldered him out of the way.

“We put it in a Gatorade bottle that I found,” he said.

His older brother held the spider aloft, soldiering on in search of their mother, while the youngest stayed behind, eager to explain his role in the capture.

“I founded it first!” he said. “Back there!”

He pointed behind the building, bouncing with excitement.

“It’s GINORMOUS!”

Then he hurried to catch up with his brothers.

That encounter brightened a long Monday and memories of my sons tumbled through my mind.

Once upon a time, I had four little boys whose summer adventures frequently included capturing creepy crawlies.

For the record, I’m not a fan of creepy crawlies, but I am a fan of boys and boundless curiosity.

Summer often seems endless when you’re an at-home mom. Endless can equal excruciating when bored boys fight over video games. I worked hard to balance planned activities while leaving room for unstructured play. Anything to keep my busy boys away from electronic devices and spontaneous wrestling matches.

One summer, I grew tired of my Tupperware being used to re-home spiders and insects, so I bought the boys a bug-catching kit. It came with a net, a magnifying glass, tweezers and a plastic container to house their captures.

They spent hours turning over rocks, crawling under decks, and digging through dirt to find new specimens.

We checked out bug books from the library to help identify their finds and to recognize spiders they should avoid.

I realized that backfired when I overheard my middle son saying to his younger brother, “Nope. That’s not a black widow. Keep looking.”

In retrospect, it’s amazing that no one got bit or stung.

I wished I’d been more patient when they careened through the house, shrieking with excitement, holding a newly captured specimen aloft.

Instead, I often feigned interest and wearily reminded them of the “no bugs in the house” rule. In my defense, you can only rave about the coolness of pill bugs a finite number of times.

I just didn’t realize how quickly those summers would pass. Older friends tried to warn me.

“Slow down, enjoy these days, it all goes too fast,” they said.

Sometimes I did slow down enough to savor the sight of four little boys crouching in the driveway, watching a row of ants march across the gravel.

I wish I had a picture of that. But when my sons were small, cellphones didn’t come with cool cameras. Capturing memories meant running back inside the house, trying to unearth a camera.

Summer can seem endless, but it isn’t. You blink and suddenly there’s a chill in the night air and the leaves start to turn.

As I watched the three little boys run across the Orchard Prairie schoolyard with their ginormous spider, I wished I’d taken their photo.

I would have sent it to their mother.

A snapshot of a boyhood that will disappear in the blink of an eye.

Columns

The Green, Green Grass of Home

Cindy Hval

Confession: I haven’t mowed a lawn since 2001, and the only time I mowed the lawn prior to that was when my husband was doing his annual training with the Washington Army National Guard.

The summer our oldest son turned 11, he took over lawn-mowing duties. As each of our three younger sons came of age, lawn-mowing was added to their weekly chore list, and my husband had one less thing to worry about.

“I shouldn’t have to mow the lawn again, until I’m almost 60,” Derek calculated, as he watched our capable sons work.

Derek turned 56 this summer. Our third son is getting ready to move out again, and our youngest probably won’t be long behind him.

Suddenly, Derek isn’t so fond of our large, grassy front yard.

When a homeowner in our neighborhood ripped out his entire lawn and replaced it with bark, rocks and plants, Derek nodded in approval.

“That’s the way to do it,” he said. “Low maintenance. Nothing to mow or water.”

It’s called xeriscaping; a landscaping philosophy that uses native, drought-resistant plants and arranges them in efficient, water-saving ways.

I eyed the neighbor’s yard.

“It looks like the entrance to an office building,” I said. “There’s no place to play!”

Derek shook his head.

“How long has it been since anyone played in our front yard?” he asked.

Then last week, Shawn Vestal wrote a column about how much he hates his lawn.

“See?” Derek said, shaking out the newspaper. “All the columnists want to rip out their lawns.”

Talk about your fake news.

Because this columnist loves to look out her front window and see a lush, green lawn.

Yes, I know it’s probably irresponsible water-usage and rampant consumerism or rampant water usage and irresponsible consumerism, and I’m not the one mowing it, but I’ve already given up our backyard to the cause.

Slowly, but steadily, the grass back there is disappearing. First came the construction of the Shed Mahal, then the Great Gazebo, followed by the Delightful Deck and Derek’s Glorious Garden.

There’s barely enough grass left for me to run through the sprinklers on a hot day. Well, I don’t really run. I romp and sometimes I skip, and if my neighbors are out mowing their backyards, they get free entertainment.

Now, Derek’s eyeing my last green space.

Here’s a list of things you can’t do on a xeriscaped yard: play bocce, croquet, or lawn darts. You can’t do somersaults or cartwheels, or spin in circles until you get dizzy and fall down. You can’t play tag, Red Light Green Light, Mother May I or Red Rover. You can’t lie on your back and look at the clouds, and you can’t spread out a blanket and have a picnic.

All of those things happened in our front yard more times than I could possibly count – just not recently.

Perhaps that’s part of my reluctance to let go of grass and embrace wood-chip mulch.

Last night, I sat on our front steps in the cool of the evening as the sprinklers shushed back and forth over the green expanse.

This lawn holds the imprint of chubby baby feet, sweaty soccer cleats and teenage footsteps that always seem to lead away.

It’s cradled me, while I cradled my boys, as we pored over stacks of picture books. It held us as we stretched out and named cloud shapes, and whispered wishes and counted stars.

Others may see our lawn as a wasteful indulgence, but to me it’s a memory-strewn magic carpet, that holds precious memories of the boys who grew to men, while mowing its contours.

And it shines like a green light to beckon those boys home again.