Globe People

Scrap paper in our house is in high demand these pandemic days.

Everything that’s not neatly in some sort of stack or pile is up for grabs in the hands of our bored artists. This is not altogether bad, mind you–we appreciate “reusing, reducing, and recycling” as the old PSA goes.

Recently I found that my youngest son, Alistair, had taken one of my printed sermons and used it as an easel. I’m not mad at all; I love his aesthetic.

What I love about the drawing is the fact that he didn’t mind the words at all, he just simply drew over them.

Upside-down, actually.

The result is this kind of cool juxtaposition of perspectives. The hard-print words of an expository sermon turned on it’s head and embellished with fancy globe people in vibrant shades of orange and blue.

It is, actually, what the sermon should have been in the first place. It’s what all good sermons are, I think. All good public proclamations aimed at moving people should embody this kind of artistic deftness and whimsy. They should turn the words on their heads in order to allow people to embody them, live them in all of their fullness, their roundness.

“Tell all the truth, but tell it slant,” Dickinson famously penned.

In a roundabout way with roundabout globe people on an inverted manuscript, Alistair did just that.

After all, sermons are meant for people of all shapes and sizes, in all their shining vibrancy.

He’s welcome to embellish, or better yet, embody, my work anytime.

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In Support of a Gap Year. For Everyone.

We live in Raleigh, North Carolina.

Our Covid numbers keep rising. We’re trying (well, some of us…looking at you, Rowan County), but they just do.

Schooling this Fall will be tough. It’s just going to be. For everyone, not just those in our county.

As parents, we have a few options.

A) We do virtual schooling.  They’re proposing 5-6 HOURS OF INSTRUCTION PER DAY with this option.  Supervised by…?

Right.  My partner or myself.  Who both still have full-time jobs. From home.

Even if we call in reinforcements, our regular sitter and some parental help, this is unimaginable.

B) On-Off option, where they’ll go to school for one week, and then are virtual for two weeks.

What fresh hell is this?!  So, we’ll risk lives for one week, and then we’ll somehow magically put everything on hold for two weeks to monitor them at home for 5-6 HOURS PER DAY.

Did I mention that this is PER DAY?!

And look, it’s not the teacher’s faults, or the principal’s fault, either (we love our local school).  It’s not even the school board’s fault…there are no good options here.

No. good options, Beloved.

Except this one, and I’m serious: everyone–students, parents, workers of all stripe–all get a gap year.

For workers? No performance reviews.  You try giving your all in a pandemic, dammit!  It’s not possible.  And if you have kids at home?  Let’s just say you are working about 40 minutes out of every bankable hour, if that.

That’s on a good day.

And workers without kids?  Please, can we not pretend this is easy for anyone?  And not just not easy, but seriously, mentally, emotionally, socially, and physically unhealthy?

None of what is going on right now is healthy.

For students?  We do the best we can and fit as much as we can in two freaking hours a day.  Seriously.  Do the basics. Reinforce the bare minimum, especially for elementary students.

And High School?  No SAT or ACT for college acceptance this year.  Do your best, get in, and prove your worth.  Then maybe we can phase our those terrible tests, anyway…

College Seniors regularly take a gap year between their graduation year and their first year of gradschool or workforce.

This year?  We all get a gap year.

For everyone. Even after we get a vaccine…everyone gets some leeway.

This is not fair to students or teachers, and it doesn’t work for parents who are trying to keep their lives from crumbling while keeping everyone healthy.

And just a quick reminder: it didn’t have to be this way.  Had we had competent, organized leadership from the top, this all could have been different.  It may not have been perfect, but it wouldn’t be the life-threatening disaster this is today.

Vote in November.

**There seems to be some confusion on this, so I want to be clear:

-When it comes to the education of our children, I am not proposing we just take the year, or even the semester, off of school.

-I am suggesting that we suggest realistic solutions to learning in a pandemic that adjust educational metrics and standards to reflect the current time.

-Focus on necessary basics for the semester.

-Be clear about benchmarks, and make those the main thrust of education for the semester.

-Don’t over-schedule or try to over-compensate for lost instructional time.

-Be lenient with grade advancement, and dismiss standardized testing for the year.

 

 

I’m Done Saying “I’m Trying”

When I miss something with work, a detail of some sort, it’s terribly frustrating. Perfectionism is a plague upon the human soul…I know this. I used to preach about this.

But it’s a disease I have all the same.

“I’m trying,” is what I usually tell myself. In this pandemic, being torn in a million different ways, everyone gathered in the same space, the ability to have attention diverted is multiplied by an infinite number of possible distractions.

Or when it gets to be 5pm, and your kids come up the stairs to the home office, calling your name. “You’ve been in here all day!” they say, even though you’ve come down the stairs multiple times in response to multiple calls for assistance, or to make lunch, or to turn on the sprinkler, or to…

And so that 5pm stopping time can’t really be stopping time anymore. You look at them and say, “10 more minutes. Promise.” “Hurry!” they implore.

“I’m trying,” you say.

Or the weekend comes, and you’re wracking your brain trying to figure out how to do something as a family when you can’t really go anywhere.  You look at your parenting gauge and you realize you’re already running in the red, because there’s really been no time off…for anyone in the house.

“I’m trying!” you tell yourself as you stare into your eyes in the mirror.

And that workout you had to skip? “I’m trying,” you say, pinching an inch.

And that morning you slept in because you stayed up too late the night before watching episode after episode on streaming TV because it’s the only damn time you get a second to yourself anymore.  “I’m trying,” you groggily sigh as you rise to make breakfast.

And not working 24/7 because now the commute is 4 minutes instead of 40 and that long list of possible projects to fill up the empty itch that normalcy used to scratch (though, if you’re honest, it didn’t scratch it that well, either) calls to you? “I’m trying,” you say as you sit down again at your desk on Saturday morning to just “do a few things…”

Yeah right.

“I’m trying” is about the best any of us can realistically do these days, but I’m done saying it.

I’m done saying it because it suggests that we’re lacking here.  That there’s some sort of official mark that we’re missing.

Look, in a pandemic, we all need to seriously embrace a total reevaluation of every benchmark, every previous measure of success (and, maybe, when this is all over we don’t move those marks back).

Every measure of success is now history, Beloved.

Instead of, “I’m trying” I’m resolved to instead say, “OK.”

Because, really, it has to be OK right now.  It’s OK right now.  I’m not striving to meet previous benchmarks, I’m OK with these new ones.  I may not love them, but fighting against them is swimming up a stream that will overwhelm us all if we keep it up.

And you’re at the end of this really short post, thinking to yourself, “It’s going to be hard to stop this kind of mindset.”

And my response?

OK.

Why I Took My Sons to a Graveyard

“What about this one?” Finn asked, walking up to a faded gravestone.  The weather had done its work on the old marker, and we could barely make out any of the writing.

“No,” I said.  “It doesn’t look like it. I can’t see any signs of military rank on this one.”

We walked on.

Every year since they could walk I’ve taken the boys to a local cemetery on Memorial Day.  This has happened even when we’re on vacation for the long weekend somewhere.  I get little flags from the grocery store, and we make plans to “go for our cemetery walk,” as Finn calls it.

We look primarily for people who died in a war, as this day is intended to honor.  Memorial Day used to be called Decoration Day, the day when everyone would come to the cemetery to mark the graves of those who died in war.

Today it seems like it’s mostly for buying goods like mattresses on sale and vacationing.

I’m not against those things, of course, I love a good bargain and rest.  But, if we’re going to get the day off of work, we should probably use it as it was intended, right?

Sometimes we can’t find people who died in battle, though, and so we’re OK just putting the flag next to any grave of someone who served in a war.  Here in North Carolina, that also means we put an American flag next to folks who fought in the CSA, indicating they fought with the Confederate States Army.  Our oldest cemetery here in Raleigh, established in 1798, has a number of those.

There’s a little irony there, of course, marking the graves of those soldiers with the flag they didn’t fight under.  But there’s also a lot of hope there, too.  Having all my roots in the South I know what it’s like to not love that part of your heritage, and seek to redeem it somehow.

Perhaps we can help them do that in a small way on this side of the grave.

Plus, it’s a good opportunity to learn.

“The Civil War was when we fought against each other, right?” Alistair asks.

“Yes,” I say looking down. “Because,” Finn continued, “sometimes people disagree and then they can’t work past it and so they fight.  And that’s bad.”

“It is,” I nod.  “Some things are worth fighting for…but I hope that never happens again.”

“That’s when the slaves were freed, right?” Finn wonders.

“It is.  People used to think some people could be used as slaves just because of how they looked, and that’s wrong and evil.  We fought over that.  Some people still think that way, which is also wrong and evil.”

“Martin Luther King worked hard so everyone can live together free,” Finn went on.  We’ve been reading a lot about MLK lately.

“Yeah,” Alistair chimed in, “people used to not be able to be friends or eat together and he changed all that.”

“He worked hard to,” I said. “It’s crazy to think you couldn’t do that, right? We still have to work hard to make sure everyone is treated fairly.”

“Yeah, that makes no sense,” Finn said, elongating the ‘o’ on that ‘no.’

We find another grave, from World War I.  Alistair plants a flag.

“Dad, who won in World War I?” Finn asked.

“Well, we won that war,” I said, “working with other countries.”

“And we won World War II, right?” he continued.

“We did.  You great-grandpas fought in that war.”

“Wow, we won a lot!” he said.

“Well,” I hedged, “in war, even when you win it feels like it hurts.  You’re glad it’s over, but it hurts.”  I’m trying to be honest.

“Yeah,” Alistair said, “because people die, and that’s always bad.”

“Yeah,” Findley said, “which is why we put out flags, right?”

I patted his head, “Right buddy.”

We stumbled across a small marker.  “Hey Dad, is this one?”

“No, buddy.  That’s a grave for a baby.  They were too young to be in a war.”

“Oh,” Finn said, “that’s really sad.” He knelt down by the grave and ran his finger along the simple moniker, ‘Infant Son.’  “How did the baby die?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, buddy. It doesn’t say.  It just says that it didn’t live past a year. Sometimes that happens.”

“Are people under our feet?” Alistair asked.

“They are. Which is why we’re careful,” I said.

“Can they hear us?” Al asked.

“No,” Finn said, “when you’re dead you can’t hear anything.”

“Right,” I said.

“Everything dies,” Alistair offered truthfully. “Everything that lives, dies.”

“They do.”  We walked on.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, Finn?”

“It’s a pretty day to be here.”

He knelt by a grave and put a flag down next to the one we had stuck there last year, one of the few that survived.

“It is, buddy.  You can learn a lot about life from a grave yard, right?”

He nodded, “It’s why we come here, right?”

But he didn’t bother to wait for my answer…he knew it, anyway, and they walked off together to find another person to honor.

He Grabbed His Hand

It’s 1:30am and I can’t sleep.

This is, unfortunately, typical in these days. I’ve read the articles about how the shelter-in-place, going on 8 weeks now, is affecting all of our rhythms, clouding our brains.

It is certainly that. That, and the massive poison ivy rash I’m nursing now for a second week. I wake up scratching absentmindedly, and when I come to, I can’t undo the wake.

But tonight there’s more.

Today my 5 year-old’s preschool, a place that has worked hard with both of my boys, but especially intently with my feeling, perfectionist, bright young guy, had a drive-up graduation.

We are so grateful they did.

Our buddy regularly notes that he misses his friends. He regularly expresses some hesitation about next year: a new school, no familiar faces, a new routine…and routine is everything to this guy.

And so the cheering teachers, the gifts, and the fact that he won the “science award” because, well, you’d be hard pressed to find a kid more enthralled by nature and facts, the kid was having his day.

It was great.

He smiled ear to ear. He had me redo his hair three times (and immediately asked if he could mess it up again after the brief ceremony). He waved and told everyone what he’d been up to and held tightly on to his little diploma.

But he did it from so far away.

I could see it: he wanted to hug them and be hugged. He wanted to give a high-five and fist bump and he wanted to do more than just show up; he wanted to be there.

But he couldn’t. We can’t. Not yet. And for our little guy who feels a lot but is not very touchy-feely, for him to want to do that…and you could see it on his face…and not be able to, well, it’s just another tragedy of this whole mess.

Even if we can be together in these days, it’s mostly just showing up, and not a lot of being, together.

And it made him sad. And it makes me sad for him. Well, and for me. Because those teachers deserved the hugs and high-fives and much more! Our guy is a handful.

And so, as we were standing there, and this little boy just wants to hug someone, to celebrate some joy in a span of weeks that have been marked, even for his little heart, by some anxiety and the daily question, “when will the virus be over?”, as we’re standing there, he reaches over and, without looking, grabs his big brother’s hand.

And he just stands there, holding it.

He just stands there talking to everyone, answering questions, saying thank you, drawing strength from the one place lately where he’s been able to not just show up, but also be and interact: his constant companion.

He grabbed his hand.

And tonight, thinking back on it, I am proud of both of them. For him, because he knew what he needed in the moment and did it. And for his brother, for letting it happen.

And even though I’m up late tonight thinking about all this, I’m not doing so out of worry, but more out of awe and wonder.

I somehow think that today showed he, they, are going to be alright in spite of all this, if they keep doing just that: hanging on to each other, drawing strength, not just showing up, but being there, together.

Looking Up at the Stars on Earth Day

Last night we all piled into the Honda in search of the stars.

The Lyrid meteor shower was set to start in the Eastern sky around 10pm, and though it was a Tuesday…I think (it’s hard to tell in these pandemic days, right?), we let our towheaded stardust-wonder boys stay up way past their bedtime to go on this adventure.

They wrapped in their sleeping bags at 7:30pm, just after dinner, making no effort to contain their excitement.  To manage expectation we put on a movie and turned down the lights, hoping they might sleep a bit before we hit the road.

No luck.

Every half hour, on the hour, we were bombarded with requests for our ETD (estimated time of departure).

Unable to hold off the savage pajama-clad explorers any longer, we clamored into the car and headed out.

The light pollution in Raleigh is actually pretty low, at least compared to our previous Chicago haunt, so we knew the sky would be clear.  The challenge was finding a clearing at all.  The woods of North Raleigh are as thick as tar, especially now that all the buds have bloomed and the leaves have been loosed.

We drove north toward Creedmoor, getting dangerously close to Oxford, but no dice.  We thought perhaps we’d find a bridge overlooking the lake which would ensure a better view, but when we drove over the overpasses that crisscrossed the lake we saw flashlights dancing on every bridge: night fisherman taking advantage of the warm weather and the fish jotting near the pylons.

I asked my partner to put on some “space music” for the adventure: the theme from Space Odyssey, Rocket Man, or Bowie’s Starman.

Instead she chose Brandi Carlisle which, for her, is celestial music…and it is.  It’s interesting how some musicians with that down-home feel, like Carlisle, can throw you toward the stars with lyrics that are so beautiful they’re otherworldly, right?

As our trek turned into a journey, the boys in the backseat fell victim to sleep, wrapped in their Spiderman and Star Wars cocoons.

We explored our digital maps, trying to find a good spot.  With the parks closed, clearings were hard to come by, and the ones we did find had too many lights.

Finding one promising spot, we woke up the boys.  I got out and craned my neck toward the sky, putting my hand over the street lights in my line of view.  The sky was darker and clearer…but not enough.

I got back in the car to give the disappointing news.

We tried one more, a school parking lot hidden in the trees.  The boys had played ball there last year, so we knew there was a clearing.  As we approached, though, we knew it wouldn’t work…the trees were too tall to see much of the sky.  That, and there were “Video Monitored” signs all through the parking lot, which meant we couldn’t stick around for long anyway.  One of the boys asked if they were recording us as we drove through and I said, “Yes, make sure to smile!”

He did.

Seeing our adventure was going to be a bit of a bust, I saw a light in the sky that offered some promise.  As I pulled in the parking lot, the mood in the car lifted, especially in the backseat.

“Welcome to McDonalds,” the voice crackled over the monitor, as if from the International Space Station.

“Two large fries,” I said. “That’s all.”

“Second window,” the disembodied voice responded.  In my adventurous mind she had said, “Roger. Copy that.”

We flew our wheeled rocket to the window, docking next to the sliding glass doors.  The woman behind the glass smiled and handed us our wares.  They might as well have been from another planet, honestly: the boys have only eaten at McDonalds one other time in their life that we know of.

The steam filled the car with the smell of fat and fried starch.

As we drove into the driveway I set up some lawn chairs facing East, toward the end of the concrete.  The youngest opted for the comfort of the couch inside, but the eldest held out, sitting down on that lawn chair, gazing over the roof, chomping his hot fries.

“A pretty good night,” he said after a while, still looking up.  “I’m cold, though.”  It was almost midnight.

We didn’t end up seeing any meteors that night, at least not all together. My scientist of a wife got up at 4am to catch a glimpse, saw one, and headed back to bed.

But even though we didn’t see the meteor shower, I have to think that we honored Earth Day just a bit, spending some quality time on an adventure with our stardust children, paying attention to the unfathomable fact that we are floating in space, and if we want to live well in this absolutely awesome, unthinkable existence we’ve been afforded, we should take a risky adventure of gratitude every-so-often and take good care of the place that allows us to do so at all.

Because this floating blue marble needs to stick around for a while so my kids can take their stardust families on such an odyssey one night, right?

We didn’t see the meteors, but I got to hang out with the stars of my little universe for a bit.

Something’s Wrong

My two boys have started to tell us “I love you” a lot.

And I mean, a lot.  Like over ten times a day.

Part of it, I’m sure, has to do with the fact that we’re spending just a whole heck of a lot of time together, and they call our name before they know what they want to say, and so they just fill the response with, “I love you.”

But much of it, I think, is because they know something is wrong.

Every morning my 7 year old asks if the people who have the virus are getting better. “Are there fewer cases?  People are getting better, right?  The spread is slowing, right?”

The fact that he knows “slow the spread” at all is a little jarring to me…I don’t think we’ve ever used that language around the house, but he does watch the news with us.

Being a “Corona-kid” is not easy, I think.

Hell, being a Corona-parent is not easy. It sucks in a lot of ways.

These days we take walks together on the regular.  We play outside every evening now, when the weather allows.  There are a lot more game nights and shared movie nights and cooking adventures that involve them.  And I guess the silver-lining-seeking folks would say this is all a plus.

And don’t get me wrong, in some ways it’s good to be together so much.  We’re all stretching and growing.

But it’s not normal. Something’s wrong. And in some ways we’re all shrinking inside these walls in ways we have trouble admitting. And no silver-lining can prevent the kids from seeing that.

I don’t think they’ll be “messed-up” by any of this anymore than any of us are messed up by this.

But the fact that they’re saying, “I love you” a lot makes me wonder if maybe, along with the evening games and movie nights we just might need to remind them that they are, and always have been, really loved.

Maybe we should say, “Yeah, something’s wrong…but it’s not you. You’re so right. And so loved…

Which is why we’re staying home right now.”

Creating a Culture of Failure for My Kids

“Fail hard and fail fast.”

When I sit down at my desk these days, I tell myself this mantra before I begin making calls.  As a fundraiser and mission ambassador, a lot of my day-in and day-out is spent on the phone calling donors, making connections, making asks, and scheduling visits.

And I love the work. I enjoy the work. I believe in the work.

But deep inside me there is this unfounded, but embedded, fear that I’ll be rejected by the person on the other line.  Or that they won’t call back.  Or that they will, but I won’t like the answer.

“Fail hard and fail fast,” I pep-talk myself.  Because to make the ask you have to risk the fail.  You don’t do it wantonly, of course, and you don’t do it without preparation and planning.  In other words, I don’t *try* to fail.

But I have to risk it.  I pick up the phone.

Or, when I pitch an article, I always pep-talk myself before clicking the “submit” button.  “Fail hard and fail fast,” I’ll say, out loud.  I sound like a lunatic, and honestly only a lunatic would submit some of the articles I’ve submitted over the years…

I love the work. I enjoy the work. I believe in the work.

And I’d rather be a lunatic that risks life than a sane person who never lived.

And as I continue on this journey of parenthood, it’s become even more important for me to let my kids see my fear and trepidation, but then see me take the leap anyway.  They need to know that I fail, so that they know they can fail.

“We can do hard things,” is another phrase we repeat a lot in our house, especially before baseball games, roller-skating (especially that first time), and cooking experiments.  We’ll fail hard and fail fast as a rule.

“Jump,” I told my six year-old when we were at the park recently.  He was about 8 feet off the ground and, like his father, doesn’t love heights.  He nervously looked at me.

“It’s ok,” I said, “jump. You can do it.”

I didn’t offer to catch him.  And I didn’t promise him it’ll be “OK.”  Because, how would I know how it turned out?  All I knew is that he could jump safely from that height, and he’d probably learn something about himself while doing it.

He counted “1…2…3” and took a leap.

He landed, rolled, laughed, and did it again.  For a kid that doesn’t like heights, that’s no small feat.

Recently he received a book with instructions on how to draw animals.  It’s an advanced book, much more advanced than a 6 year-old can handle.  But he wanted to try it.

Circle after circle, oval after oval, he slowly drew an anteater, and an otter (which he eventually colored green), and a tarantula.

Was it great?  Hell no.

But was it good?  Well, it was for a six year-old I think.  And even if not, as cranky author and theologian Ann Lamott says, “we all have crap first-drafts” to throw out into the world.  The point wasn’t doing it well; the point was doing it.  And with some drawings, he crashed and burned. That tarantula looked more like a hairy glove with a smiley face than an arachnid.

But fail hard and fail fast.  Try it anyway.

Honestly, I don’t like doing things I’m not good at.  Part of my disfunction is needing to be, or at least appear, perfect.  But I’m working on this.  And I don’t want my boys to fall into this trap that, I think, starts early.

So we’re going to fail hard and fail fast as a family.  We’re going to build a culture of failure, of making mistakes, of doing things we suck at with all our heart.

And, hopefully that means we’re going to be really good at something, one day.

We don’t need a generation, largely like mine, who feels they have to be perfect.  Not everyone gets an A every time, Karen!

We need a generation who doesn’t believe in “perfect” anymore, but believes in good risks, fast failures, hard falls, and the resilience that comes from it all.

Fail hard and fail fast.  Crash and burn with a blaze of light that illumines the faces of everyone watching.  Melt their faces with your failure. Take the risk.

And then try again. You can do hard things.

Lessons on Life from Watching My Son Paint

My son, my five year old, is in love with water colors.

He sits at his little table, blank page before him, and carefully swirls his brush in the water dish like a chef carefully mixing the batter that will be baked into something good.

And then he dips it in his desired color, the edges of the paint container stained with a menagerie of other colors, and goes to town.

A swish. A splash. A dot.  It’s kind of like what I imagine watching Jackson Pollock paint would be like, but he does it with his tongue out, concentrating. He’s intense.

And then, poof, it’s done.

And I peer down on his page, and he’s only made a small dent on the white space, sometimes no bigger than three nickels worth of area. And yet, “I’m done!” is his proud pronouncement.

And onto the stack it goes. A fresh sheet of paper comes out, and creation begins again.

I’m consistently impressed with how much he lets the canvas speak around the paint.  Or, perhaps, it’s how loudly he lets a little paint speak for itself amidst the blank space surrounding it.

And I can’t tell if it’s because I’m his father or because there’s actually something there, but I think it’s stunning.  And not just the art, but the whole process.

The careful attention to detail.  Knowing when something is done, even when it doesn’t “look done” to any other eye.  Not being concerned that the paints bleed together, imagining that this kind of blending and imperfection is part of the process.

Watching him paint is a study in what it means to be OK with what you produce in life. To call it quits when you’re done.  To not worry about the details, or even the critics, and let something be fully itself.

It’s a study in both minimalism and maximum attention.  He’s not interested in filling the canvas. His concern is to watch and see when it’s completed.  This is at odds with so much in our world today that encourages us to pack every. damn. moment. full of meaning and activity and productivity.

But sometimes the canvas can speak.

A calendar full of unmarked space is not the marks of a boring life.

A few strokes of color are sometimes all that you need to be full.

Why I Sing To My Boys

Most nights, as the lights go out, my boys will request that I sing them a song.

Not just any song, mind you, but from a catalog of random songs that I’ve sung to them since I first rocked them to sleep the day they were born.

We’ve added a few over the years, but most of these were, from the start, their songs.

The old Civil War era song Cindy Cindy tops the list.  They especially love the verse:

I wish I was an apple

a’hangin’ on a tree

and every time my Cindy passed

she’d take a bite of me!

And then there’s the hymn Abide with Me, a lullaby for the very young, or the very old, to entrust them to the Divine.

They’re also a big fan of I Know An Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly, which tests my ability to remember multiple verses in a row at breakneck speed.  The faster the better.

And then a little socialist, hippy tune I picked up from my summers romping through Pennsylvania, Calling All the Children Home by John McCutcheon.  They especially love this one because I’ve included their names in the final verse, and they claim I wrote it just for them.

But here’s the thing: I don’t sing to them to get them to fall asleep.

I sing to them so that they’ll sing.

I sing to them so that they know that men sing, and sing well, and sing in public, and sing tender songs as well as fun songs.

Their mom sings to them, too, of course.  Lullaby by the Dixie Chicks is what they ask from her most. And they love it.

Because singing with your children, to your children, not only teaches them that it’s OK to sing, but it also teaches them the amazing thing that happens when you sing to and with someone else: a special bond is formed.

And what has happened because of all this singing?

My five (almost six) year old sings to himself in the shower, and it’s great to hear from outside the door.  He knows the joy of song, and acoustics, and is figuring it all out.

My four year old sings along with every song on the radio, and listening to his voice is one of the most amazing things because it’s so neat to hear him pick up notes and complicated lines at a young age.  He’s learning to try, at least.  And that is something that can’t be taught overnight…it takes a while.  Years of singing.

They ask me to put on my records, and they sit and listen to whole albums.  They not only know how to listen to music and sing along, but they’re starting to appreciate music.  They’ll listen to a song and give an opinion now.

And in a culture where music and the arts are disappearing from classrooms in deference to STEM curriculum, I want them to get this in their bones now so that they’ll be able to do it on their own later.

But, also, I sing to my boys because I like singing.  And just like any parent, I want to share the joy of the art with them, so that they can know what it truly is to be human in this world of growing automation.

I sing to my boys…and you should too. Whether you have the vocal chops of a lark or a loon, sing. Teach them to sing.

Because to be human is to sing.  And it is divine.