We didn’t know about the flowers.

We arrived in London on August 4 at the beginning of a two-week European vacation. In an effort to keep ourselves awake after an overnight flight, we hopped on an open-air bus tour. It was a magnificent sunny day. The Tower Bridge, the church spires, the Houses of Parliament, and the dome on St. Paul’s Cathedral all stood out in sharp contrast to the clear blue sky. What a welcome.

As the bus rose up the hill past the Tower of London, we caught a glimpse of something red in the moat below. I tipped the view finder on my camera and lifted it high over my head so that I could capture an image:

When we got back to the hotel, I downloaded the photos from the day. The poppies around the base of the tower were lovely, but at the time we didn’t realize how monumental they were. As it turned out, the spectacular installation that was just completed today (November 11), had just been started.

The next day, we returned to the Tower on foot, much more informed about the poppy project and hoping for a closer look. A large crowd had gathered along the wall; they were waiting, it turned out, for a ceremonial appearance by the Beefeaters.

The red coats, the brilliant ceramic blooms, and the significance of the display combined to powerful effect. One stem for every soldier from England and the Commonwealth whose life was lost in The Great War. Every flower was placed by hand, for someone who fell in a field in Belgium, or in a trench in France, or in a haze of mustard gas. Young people fighting for an ancient alliance, giving their lives for a new century and a new world.  We are all the beneficiaries of that sacrifice. We didn’t know about the flowers, but we will not forget.

___

Last month, we brought our French exchange student to New York City to see the sights.  There, at the foot of another tower–this one brand-new and gleaming in an autumn sky, we saw another memorial.

Again, a moat–or, more accurately, two moats–waterfalls, in fact. Rather than the protective boundary of a Medieval castle, these pools define spaces that are no longer occupied. Around them are low walls listing the names of nearly 3,000 people, most of whom perished on a single day as part of a war for which they had not enlisted.

The monument is striking. There are signs encouraging visitors to touch the engraved letters, and on that day, many people did. Fingers traced the grooves, brushed across the titles of engine companies, counted the firefighters from individual ladder trucks.

Some names were marked with flags or small mementos. And in some names, there were flowers. Roses, their stems clipped short so that the blossoms stood just above the surface, and the bright pink color reflected off the smooth stone.

We didn’t know about those flowers, either.

Sweepin’ the Clouds Away

Forty-five years ago today, I was in a first grade classroom in Overland Park, Kansas (don’t even ask why this East Coast girl was in the middle of Jayhawks country, but there I was). It was 1969, if you’re not in the mood for math. In a pique of progressivism, the administration at my school decided that it would be interesting to wheel a television into our reading lesson so that we, the pioneer children of the Space Age, could be exposed to a brand-new concept in broadcasting: the first episode of Sesame Street.

I remember that day, and I would have remembered it even if NPR hadn’t aired a terrific story about the program and the magical, eloquent, indelible mark it has left on me and every subsequent cohort of first-graders.

For anyone reading this post who is younger than I am, it may be difficult to comprehend the sheer novelty of bringing a TV into the classroom back in those days. Sure, we had visual media (who remembers the old filmstrips with the bell that rang when it was time to advance the frame?), but trust me when I say that this was a whole new world. And the program itself was revolutionary. Deliberately, wonderfully, multi-racial, multi-generational, multi-lingual, multi-everything. A neighborhood that was obviously urban, a little bit edgy (come on, there was a grubby green grouch who lived in a garbage can), and decidedly working-class. It was idealistic, but not preachy. And the messaging elevated PBS and Fred Rogers out of his world of make-believe into a real world where grownups could help children navigate their way through a lot more than vowels and consonants.

Looking back now, I can only imagine the sense of urgency the Sesame Street creators felt as they brought their sound-stage neighborhood to life throughout the public broadcasting network. During the pre-production stages, the world had shifted. The US was deeply involved in the Vietnam War. Northern Ireland was in crisis. People had walked on the Moon. The summer leading up to the first episode had been filled with events that we now recall with phrases and one-word labels: Woodstock. Stonewall. Helter Skelter. Chappaquiddick. The Nixon Doctrine. What images from the news had made their way into the living rooms of the children for whom Sesame Street was developed? What worries and ideas were they struggling to resolve? On the steps of Susan and Bob’s apartment building, in Mr. Hooper’s store, in the alley where Big Bird kept his nest, how many difficult topics were raised and addressed with calm, measured, caring tones? And, in the context of the events of 1968 and 1969, and in all the subsequent years, who could have predicted that an earnest group of performers, puppeteers, and child development specialists from the Harvard Graduate School of Education would have built a legacy that has extended through at least three generations?

On behalf of all the grownups like me, who work in schools and have the unmitigated thrill of watching six-year-olds learn to read as an added bonus to an already fulfilling career, I would like to say, this post is brought to you by the letters that spell every good thing. With thanks to Big Bird, Jim Henson, Joan Cooney, Jerry Lesser, and Children’s Television Workshop.

A Room and a View

When I tell people that I have an amazing view from my apartment in New Haven, they usually respond with some skepticism. As in, “Really? What can you see in New Haven?”

My poor part-time city. It doesn’t get a lot of respect as a scenic destination.

My apartment faces north. And, it is on the 26th floor of one of the tallest buildings in town. And, I have floor-to-ceiling windows that make my tiny space feel much bigger than it actually is.

And, dominating my vista is a spectacular geologic formation. East Rock is a 200-million year old trap-rock ridge. Its peak is 366 feet above sea level. It is comprised mostly of diabase, a mineral compound that oxidizes when exposed to air (I looked it up), turning the face a beautiful shade of reddish-brown. All of the non-rocky surfaces are crowded with oak, elm, and maple trees. Since we’re in Connecticut, and it’s October, you can imagine the colors out my window this week. But why just imagine, when I can share the sunset view from my living room on Monday evening?

What can you see in New Haven? Well, I can see this.

And also (because I seem to be beginning most of the sentences in this post with the word and), just to give you a bit more perspective on the whole “Views in New Haven” concept, consider the following. This is the view from East Rock looking downtown.

This photo was taken one week before the sunset shot above. You can see across the top of the Yale campus and out to Long Island Sound.

I love my part-time city.

The Thing About the Coffee

I have a thing about my morning coffee.  It’s been mentioned in previous posts, and here it is again. A 4-shot latte. Usually called a “quad venti,” because I usually get it at Starbucks. Otherwise, it’s just a large four-shot latte. The point is, I order this beverage. By talking to a person. While smiling and usually while making conversation about the weather or some other relevant topic.

When I started my new job last year and rented my new apartment, a lot of my favorite people asked me about my coffee thing. Now that I’d be walking to work, didn’t I want a Keurig, or an espresso machine, or some other handy appliance?

No.

I absolutely do NOT want a coffee-making toy. I am way too much of an extrovert to make my coffee all alone and walk to school for half an hour without speaking to anyone. One of the reasons I decided to live downtown and walk to work was specifically so that I could find a coffee shop (or more than one) where I could stop every morning and talk to someone. Where people might get to know me a little, and might recognize me and say hello when I opened the door. And also, that they would make me a nice strong latte.

I am happy to say that my morning routine is exactly what I envisioned.  Because sometimes, in both large and small ways, we get to make our lives happen. The  coffee thing is kind of small. But it is really nice. Today, it was pouring out when I left the apartment building, so I drove the whole 1.9 mile route instead of walking.  But I stopped for coffee anyway. And when I walked into the cafe, the barista smiled at me and  said, “4-shot latte?” And I said, “oh, yes, please.” And then we talked about the weather.

Tuned In

One of the many reasons I love my job: The Head of School has initiated a “happiness group” among the faculty and staff. A couple of weeks ago, she sent a link to a TED talk by psychologist Shawn Achor, which has been viewed countless times and which, no doubt, has inspired countless people to re-think their ideas about success, satisfaction, and daily experiences. Toward the end of his talk, Dr. Achor offers suggestions for five daily practices that have been proven to raise our level of happiness:

• Naming 3 “gratitudes” each day
• Keeping a journal
• Exercising
• Meditation
• Performing random acts of kindness

One of our 7th grade teachers had brought the talk to the head of school with the thought, “wouldn’t this be a great message to share with our middle school students?”

Of course, it’s a great idea. But before we bring it to the kids, our wise head of school said, let’s offer a challenge to the adults in the community. Let’s see if we can raise our own happiness quotients.

And so, our “happiness group” was born. More than two dozen people volunteered to choose one or more of Achor’s behaviors, and make a 21-day commitment to stick with it. We’ll all be checking in with ourselves and each other during the next three weeks as we try to make happiness a habit.

I like to think of myself as a generally happy person, and I think I try to seek opportunities to discover happiness in my day–but couldn’t we all be a bit more mindful about finding the good in our lives?

http://on.ted.com/f0U0c

Hearts Full

On any given day, hundreds of thousands of children are born on Earth. Each of them is a small miracle, and for the purposes of this post, let us imagine those babies being welcomed and embraced as they take their first breaths. Let us hold in our minds the idea that every one of those children is wanted, cherished, and precious.

A few weeks ago, a little boy surprised his parents and arrived much sooner than he was expected. The universe aligned for him, and for them; he is healthy, beautiful, and thriving. In less than a month, he has attracted a large crowd of admirers, including me. His blissful mama told me that she can’t believe how much time she spends just staring at him. Today, as an infant, he breathes–calmly, or in short little breaths. He startles, and his arms tense. His little forehead furrows and his mouth makes a small o. Everything about him is absolutely fascinating, and he is the only person she has known for his entire existence. What she doesn’t realize yet is that she will never stop being amazed when she looks at her child. There is no comparable experience. It is simultaneously heart-stopping and dizzyingly fierce.

Also this month, another friend invited me to join her for a once-in-a-lifetime shopping trip: looking for a wedding gown with her and her daughter. I was–I still am— incredibly honored to have been included in such a special morning. The joy and excitement of the outing, and what it represents as a milestone, provided a happy undercurrent while we were surrounded by acres of tulle, lace, satin, and silk. However, the moment that made my eyes sting was when this woman looked at her child in what will probably become her single-most-photographed piece of clothing. In an eternal split second, she saw her daughter in one of those rare past-present-future glimpses that make our most intimate relationships timeless.

The title of this post was a hashtag emphasis posted by my college roommate and lifelong comrade in the journey of life. She had just established her eldest in his first apartment, ready to begin his professional life. “He is launched,” she wrote with bittersweet pride. I keep thinking about her thoughts during that weekend. How many times did she catch herself staring at him the same way she did when he was a newborn? Which of his small gestures or facial expressions took her instantly to the time when he was two, or five, or eleven years old? When did she find herself totally still, absorbing the reality of his adulthood?

These people who become adults always start out as tiny newborns. Of the many billions who presently share the planet, I offer you three as reasons to smile. With much love and gratitude to them and their families for bringing joy to me and mine.

The View from 50

Making the Path

Today’s post owes itself to two exquisite poets.

Caminante by Antonio Machado

Caminante, son tus huellas               Walker, your footprints are

el camino, y nada más;                       the road, and nothing more;

caminante, no hay camino,               walker, there is no road,

se hace camino al andar.                    the road is made by walking.

Al andar se hace camino,                   Walking makes the road,

y al volver la vista atrás                     And to turn for the view behind

se ve la senda que nunca                     is to see the path which will never

se ha de pisar.                                        be tread again. 

Caminante, no hay camino,              Walker, there is no road,

sino estelas en la mar.                        only the wake on the sea. 

 

That’s my translation, and while it’s certainly not as poetic as Machado’s lyrical Spanish, it expresses the message.

I first came across this poem when I read Miles Horton and Paulo Freire’s book We Make the Road by Walking. Horton paraphrased  Machado as a way to express the importance of intentionality and awareness as we live our lives. It’s one of the most inspirational and affirming books I’ve ever read, told by two men who made an enormous difference in the world, both of whom were near the end of long, well-lived lives.

We all mark our lives in a series of milestones. Birthdays, especially the ones that indicate decades, assume a particular significance. Aging itself carries weight;  many cultures bestow status upon young people when they have been on the planet for a certain number of years. Civic privileges and responsibilities such as voting, legal independence, and military service are dependent on a person’s age. What would otherwise be arbitrary birthdays (13, 18, 21) take on a level of importance because of the stature determined by a societal norm.

Birth and death are the only universal life cycle events, and humans have honored  them throughout history and across the world. Other milestones– coming-of-age ceremonies, marriage, and religious rites–are often recognized or honored as well.

And then there are the unique milestones we achieve in the course of living our lives. What are they, and what makes them meaningful? More than that, what do these milestones contribute to our narrative?

I’ve been thinking about these questions quite a bit this summer. If there were a map of my life, this season would be represented by an amazing series of crossroads and bridges. From this vantage point in the path of my journey, I can see back over five decades. Some of those distant experiences are clear and shining; others are blurred. Looking ahead, I can hope that the view extends the same distance. I choose to believe that I am at the midpoint.

On this part of my map, there are some very flamboyant road signs. One says 50FIFTY50FIFTY50FIFTY50. Or maybe, just maybe, it is identical to every other tiny marker along the way. Maybe it simply says, in all lower-case letters,  “today.”

Getting to 50 meant passing 18,250 of those little “today” signs. Like my 50th birthday, each of those days only happened once. And as the path unfolds–as I make the path, all of the upcoming days will only happen once.

The milestones along the way are markers that I placed. Reaching 50, to me, is a chance to pause briefly and be grateful for all of the people and experiences that helped me shape this path.

Another milestone this season is the one that I recognize today. July 18, 2011 was one of my own personal markers. Today is the 2nd anniversary of my third spinal surgery. I’ve written about my back and about the gifts of tolerance, balance, and gratitude that accompanied my injuries, recoveries, and discoveries.

This morning began early, with open-air yoga in an idyllic space on Martha’s Vineyard. Every time I do yoga, I find moments of sheer joy and power. Every time I can achieve a deeper bend, a greater lift, a stronger extension, I am energized. Every time I can become entirely present in my breath, or hold a challenging pose for a few more seconds, I am more alive.

There is no road sign for that type of moment–or is there?

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

 

 

Three Little Boys

It seems as though everyone is posting about the attacks at the Boston Marathon yesterday. Most of us can’t erase the images, and the unfolding events, from our minds. What I will remember the most when I think about this day are three young children–all boys, all strangers.

Patriot’s Day is a state holiday in Massachusetts. If you live here, it’s a significant date on the calendar. Patriots Day marks an unofficial start to spring, the beginning of a week of school vacation, an opportunity to reflect on the intellectual and philosophical spirit and emerging national identity that heralded  the Revolutionary War, and a chance to celebrate two beloved athletic events: a Red Sox home game, and the Boston Marathon, which ends less than a mile from Fenway Park.

I’m a marathon runner myself. I’ve covered those 26.2 miles on foot many times, and crossed the finish line in front of the Boston Public Library twice. As many people have written in the past two days, the Marathon has become not only a premiere international race, but also an individual and collective social action effort. Many of the runners making their way down Boylston Street at the time of the explosions had entered the race to end cancer,  AIDS,  homelessness, hunger, and other medical and social causes. They were not  celebrity athletes; they were the “regular” people who find time to train on weekends, early in the mornings, and late in the day. They slogged through the snowy streets this winter, building up their stamina. They sent letters and posted pledge sheets, collecting donations in the name of loved ones. They stood at the starting line on the main street of Hopkinton yesterday morning, exhilarated and a little anxious as they thought about the next four hours of their day.

Most of the spectators standing along those four blocks had been there for hours. They had seen the champions speed past. Now they were watching the 9- and 10-minute milers in their final push to the blue and gold marker painted on the street. They cheered, calling out last words of encouragement, sharing the moment of personal victory for each of those people, enjoying a crisp spring day–that is the spirit of this marathon.

Some of the folks  along those last few blocks–Hereford, Gloucester, and Fairfield Streets– made their way into the Marathon scene after leaving the baseball game, which had just ended. The Husband and I were in the midst of that  group. We had enjoyed a spectacular day watching our team from a pair of terrific seats above the first base line. Part of the joy of the game was provided by our seatmates–a little boy named David and his father. Although we had never met, we all subscribed to the commonly accepted assumption that anyone who shares your row at Fenway is, at least for those few hours, a friend. David is a first-grader. He has the face of countless children who fall in love with baseball for both the joy of the game and the mystique of the ball park. David’s father and I talked a bit between innings and during the slow moments. We expressed our shared devotion to our sons. The dad agreed with me completely when I said that The Boy is my most important investment. We discussed schools, vacations, and family values. David ate a hot dog, sipped on a large soda in a commemorative cup, and smiled shyly when I asked him questions. He kept track of the pitching changes, the outs, and the batting order.

When the game ended, The Husband and I decided that our best plan was to walk from Fenway through the Back Bay and over the bridge into Cambridge, where we would take the Red Line to the commuter train back to our home in the suburbs. In order to execute that plan, we had to get across the Marathon course at Beacon Street. Runners were streaming past us, with a little more than half a mile to go to the finish line.  We stopped for a few minutes to watch them before joining the throngs that were descending into the subway station at Kenmore Square. I held onto The Husband’s coat sleeve to keep from getting separated from him as we made our way through the crowded tunnel under the street and out to the other side. Not long after we had begun our walk across the bridge, we heard the first blast. It was about four blocks behind us. A huge cloud of white-gray smoke rose above the buildings. Everyone stopped and turned to look. People offered their first ideas: a commemorative cannon, a traffic accident, an exploding manhole cover, a burst gas pipe…then the second bomb went off. More smoke drifted up. At that moment, we knew something was wrong. Within minutes, sirens sounded from every direction. Ambulances, police cars, fire trucks, and motorcycles screamed past us. For several minutes, we stood on the bridge watching, although there was really nothing to see. We checked Twitter, news websites, and e-mail. Then we walked on, looking for a place that we could see a TV.

We entered one of the MIT bar/restaurants just as the first camera coverage was being aired. The place wasn’t very crowded, so we were able to find a seat. The bartender turned up the volume on the television and as the reports came in, everyone stopped talking to watch and listen. Those images–dazed runners, spectators covered in blood, emergency responders pushing wheelchairs and gurneys–were almost impossible to process. We had been right there. We had heard the blasts. We were still less than a mile away.

More and more people began to fill the restaurant. Many of them had been walking back from the game, or from watching the race. They had also heard the explosions and wanted to get more information. I turned around to see a little boy with his eyes wide and his mouth open, staring at the screen. He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. I’m sure he had come in with an adult, but there was no one standing with him. I said, “are you OK, watching this??” He looked at me for a few seconds and nodded his head. “This looks really scary, doesn’t it?” I continued. “You know, there are a lot of grownups over there helping everyone. They’ll take care of the people who are hurt.” I didn’t know what else to say.

A few hours later, The Husband and I were safely back at home, still trying to absorb the events and watching more news. When it was revealed that one of the lives lost had been that of an eight-year-old boy, my heart sank even more than it had earlier in the day. A little boy with his family, enjoying one of the great, wholesome, community-wide celebrations in our city. A little kid, watching people accomplish their personal goals, modeling perseverance, motivation, and the human spirit.

Three little boys, surrounded by adults. What did David and his father talk about when they found out that this horror occurred a few minutes after the baseball game ended? What did that child in the bar think, and who else helped him make sense what he had seen on television? What happens to a family literally shattered on a street in the midst of a civic celebration that suddenly turns into a war zone?

I can’t stop thinking of the poem that Nikki Giovanni wrote in the aftermath of September 11. It’s called “Desperate Acts.”

Its not easy to understand

Why angry men commit
Desperate acts

Its not easy to understand
How some dreams become
Nightmares

Those who wish
And those who need
Often feel alone

Its easy to strike back
But hard to understand

She’s right. It isn’t easy to understand. But we need to teach about understanding. For David, for the little boy in the bar, for the children who knew the child who died. We are the grownups. We are their grownups.

Plotting Our Own Course

The Boy inadvertently gave me the metaphor for this post. On the way to school the other day,  he said, “I wonder if you could use the quadratic formula to create a set of coordinates for a circle.” (This is a good question to get your mind working at 7:15 on a Wednesday morning). He quickly realized that a different function would be required to create a shape that arcs back to connect to itself on a coordinate plane. Then we talked about how the quadratic equation always results in a parabola–a perfect, symmetric curve with two arms that reach, ever wider, into infinity.

It’s a beautiful thing, the parabola. It’s anchored somewhere on the y-axis, but otherwise, its path — and the points within its branches — are limitless. What an elegant image to represent the path of our own lives: grounded in at least one base point, and open to possibilities. Every time we add new experiences and new relationships, it’s as if we’ve plotted more values on an enormous sheet of graph paper. The shape grows wider to hold more of the grid, but the formula guarantees that it will retain its integrity.

This week, my own parabola got wider, but my intercept values are still secure. On Monday, I signed a contract and accepted a leadership role at a new school. After 12 years of deeply gratifying work at an extraordinary place, the decision to leave was not an easy one. I have loved my students, my colleagues, the families, and the guiding principles of my school. I have watched children grow from wide-eyed, diminutive pre-kindergarteners into mature, poised, and confident teenagers. I have cried at graduation speeches, delighted in the progress of young readers and mathematicians, had my heart warmed by community celebrations, been nurtured and supported during my own challenges, and have been given the honor and the privilege of sending more than 100 novice teachers out into the world. I love my job. And yet, it’s time to reach further.

For the past year, I’ve been looking for the “just-right” position, relying on my inner quadratic function to guide me in the proper direction. After many conversations, interviews, school tours, and careful reflection, I have found it. Or, to be more accurate, the job found me. An inquiry from the Head of School nearly two months ago led to an exchange of increasingly exciting e-mails, a Skype call, a long day of travel and meetings, more e-mails and calls, and finally, a mutual sense of connection. It is right. It is a new x-intercept.

The Boy will graduate from my current school (his school, our school) on June 7. That morning will also be my last day as an official member of the faculty.Five days after graduation, I will turn 50. It is poetic, and fitting, to start my second half-century with a significant change. The Boy’s teachers have been my colleagues and friends; those points on my graph have been plotted and will always remain.  The Boy and I will walk out of the building together, each of us on the way to our respective next schools, with a summer vacation to serve as the buffer between the known and the new.

When September arrives, our lives will be quite different. My new job is 126 miles away from our house. I’ve reserved a fantastic (yet small) apartment in the heart of New Haven, where I’ll stay from Mondays to Fridays. On weekends, I’ll be back at our house in Massachusetts, or the Husband and The Boy will come to Connecticut. We’ve all made the trip, toured the city, seen the school, met the people, and begun to envision the future.

I believe strongly in the power of intention. I also believe that as long as we are alive, there is always time and space to learn, grow, embrace new challenges, resist inertia, and do our very best to contain all the points we build into our parabolas.

Proportions

Yesterday was The Boy’s birthday. He’s 14 now.

The length of his lifespan computes to approximately 29% of my own life. In this case, statistical calculations do not offer an appropriate representation of the value of those fourteen years. For fourteen years and eight months, The Boy’s existence has been central to my own. Since the moment I found out about him, he has been a cherished and essential element of my daily consciousness. My transformation from individual traveler in the Universe to  parenthood is one of the greatest and most humbling changes I have ever experienced. In my case, this identity shift occurred by choice and deliberate action, and was sanctioned by a religiously and federally-approved marriage with an equally committed co-parent. It is, however, precisely the same gift that my friends and neighbors have experienced through adoption, gamete donation, family blending, and devotion to the people with whom we have all formed homes.

Love makes a family.

If you are lucky, you are a member of a family formed by love. If you are loved, you are statistically more likely to succeed in life.

This statement begs the question: How do we define success?

If you have found this blog post, some portion of our society has already defined you as “successful.” Rest assured, I am not arrogant enough to think that reading my blog is a mark of success. Access to any site such as this one, however, is an indication of a certain type of cultural capital. You are literate. You have the means to use a computer and a link to the Internet. Depending on the time of day that you are reading this digital missive, you have probably eaten at least one healthy meal today. I hope that you slept in a warm bed last night, and that in the past 24 hours, someone has told you that you are loved. If you are loved, you are not alone. If you love, someone else is not alone.

I’m writing this post on a Sunday night. Over the weekend, we have spent time with The Husband and The Boy, with my very best friend and her daughter, with four of The Boy’s closest buddies, with one of our dearest friends, and with my parents. I spoke to my precious niece. All of these people are part of our family. It’s a family formed by love. It’s a family formed by choice. The Boy chose the people he wanted to be a part of his birthday weekend. He chose well.

My boy is 14. He loves, and is loved. He has a family, built through biology and choice. There is no percentage or numerical exercise to determine the value of the people in his lives. There is no greater gift.