Loving Hard Through the Horror of Being Five

This past weekend, my five-year-old son, Elliot, asked me if he was going to die.

Those words carry weight. "Daddy, am I going to die?"

The tears came soon after, big eye-welling tears because somewhere in his five-year-old brain, he'd made the connection. Real horror came to my son, and nothing could touch him in quite the same way again. Maybe he'd caught just enough of the news or someone talking about the news to shake his frame. Maybe not. The knowing comes for all of us but in different ways.

I remember being five. I remember the day an ambulance came and carried my father away, how my mother didn't come home until nearly midnight, and how my brother spoke of dropping out of school and going to work. It was early fall 1980--the beginning of my brother's senior year. A brain tumor had come for my father.

I remember other things about being young: my grandparents staying with us while Mom was away with Dad. There were trips to see neurologists and CAT scans and other things which seem like bloodletting and leeches now, but delivered state-of-the-art medical care in 1980. Dad changed. He aged faster and vomited often from the cocktail of medications and radiation. He died nine years later, catatonic, in the same hospital where he had been diagnosed.

I also remember how I cried when I thought Kermit the Frog was going to die at the end of The Muppet Movie. Somehow, my five-year-old brain knew, just like Elliot's. Innocence evaporated. Poof. And no horror is truly greater than the loss of that childish innocence. Once it's gone, there is no return. That has always haunted me more than anything. It's the true darkness in the basement, the stranger lurking outside, or the danger in the woods. For me, it wound around the thing which ate my father from the inside out.

My son faces new monsters. We've done horrible things to each other. We've built an artificial world with social media used to insult, divide, and destroy each other. We've killed each other with startling efficiency in Las Vegas, Orlando, Newtown... All that horror, all that innocence lost. We can't go back, and I'm not sure how we can go forward. Where would we go?

What does a five-year-old do after asking, "Daddy, am I going to die?" Where can he go to be safe again?

I have no magic to restore the world--I can't even change what my son now knows. But we play together. We decorate the yard for Halloween and bake cookies at Christmas. We take trips and awe at mountains, hunting for a glimpse of illusive big-horned sheep. We read books together and hug often. We both know, and that knowing makes us love hard.

And love, in the end, is the only thing that really matters.

Playing Through my Midlife Crisis

I'm officially calling my midlife crisis. About two weeks ago, I started a new hobby which ties together several life threads...



Yes, I'm making YouTube videos. I'm an amateur (as my kids remind me), but it's a fun hobby. And it's my excuse to play with toys, buy old stuff, and open collectibles from yesteryear. That was the plan at least. And then Elliot intervened:



Oh, there still will be plenty of old junk, but I think Elliot and I will have some fun playing games together. Even at five, the kid is drawn to YouTube and enjoys watching himself on the little screen.



So for now he's my production buddy. I'll do some solo stuff (boring) and some Elliot stuff (awesome). I'll let him play with some old toys from my childhood and go head-to-head with some modern games. This hobby is my chance to hunt for Aaron the Kid while fully engaging in life as Aaron the Dad. And while Owen and Max haven't been featured in a video (yet), they are watching them. This might be a great way to sneak some parenting messages past them...



Please subscribe to the YouTube channel (if that's your thing) and see where this adventure goes...

Our National Park Tradition

I feel another "significant" post brewing, but it will wait for another day. Today, I bring pictures from our recent trip to Rocky Mountain National Park and one of my favorite stories about Aimee.

National Parks were/are an obsession of ours--I still have our map of all National Parks hanging in the basement (with color-coded pins indicated which family member has been where). In 2000, Aimee and I took a road trip to Yellowstone and Grand Teton. We camped for five nights--four of them in Yellowstone--and enjoyed all the sights. The view of the Tetons from Jackson Lake... spectacular. We rented a boat, a small craft with an outboard motor, and headed onto the lake. The boat's owner gave us a bit of advice which caused contention:

Stay within a mile of shore.

Of course, Aimee (being the adventurous type she was), aimed the boat for the mountains and gave it the gun. My knuckles whitened as I clutched the gunnels.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Staying a mile away from shore like he said," she said.

"No. No. No." I glanced over my shoulder at the swelling waves. The tiny boat would easily capsize in the middle of Jackson Lake. "He said within a mile of shore."

She didn't agree, of course, but the look of sheer-animal-panic on my face convinced her to turn our ship around. Aimee and I weren't able to share enough National Park adventures before her death (could there ever be enough National Park adventures?), but the boys and I will keep going...

I hiked to Fern Lake early on Saturday morning, the date which would have been our 11th wedding anniversary. Aimee and I made the same hike on our 6th wedding anniversary (June 16, 2007), just over a year after Max was born. I was early enough to miss the crowd (it's a tough hike, but a popular one) and have some alone time with the lake, the trees, the mountains, and my thoughts.

Elliot was not impressed by the lack of oxygen above tree line.

Max, Owen, and I on top of the world. Okay, at least on top of a granite formation on Trail Ridge Road. 

Max and Owen showed me how to scramble on the rocks near a waterfall. Going down was easier than up.

Owen, Elliot (in the stroller), and Max on the lookout for yellow bellied marmots. We always find marmots at the "alpine communities" stop on Trail Ridge Road.

Take care, and happy adventuring.

My Yearly Crisis, Amplified

Every summer, I go through a period of "existential crisis." Not a big, scary crisis as in "life has no meaning," but a baby one, as in "I no longer have a job to do and feel lost." I'm sure it's a common feeling for many teachers, although most might not choose the term "existential crisis."

Again, I defer to Wikipedia if you're unfamiliar with the phrase "existential crisis." While the wikis have their shortcomings, it is a good source of group think and common knowledge. Let's examine the first line of the entry:

An existential crisis is a stage of development at which an individual questions the very foundations of his or her life: whether his or her life has any meaning, purpose or value.

I'm not very fond of the word "crisis." It sounds too much like "emergency," as in, if you don't resolve this crisis, bad sh*t is going to happen. Soon.  Guess what... Bad sh*t has already happened.

I doubt there is any way to be truly prepared for a loved one's death, especially a spouse. Aimee and I chose not to include a unity candle lighting at our wedding because we both felt the idea of two people becoming one was a bit old-fashioned. Here's what I learned after nearly eleven years of marriage: you will become pretty damned entwined with your partner. If not exactly "one" flesh, the you learn the other's moves before he/she makes them. Losing Aimee has caused a major rift in my thinking about myself and my place in the world--in addition to the pain and grief of her death.

All relationships change over time, regardless of how intimate the relationship. But most changes are gradual, even if at times marked with periods of sudden, but small shifts. A death is a sudden, violent change. Think a football thrown to a receiver--the ball follows a perfect, arcing path to its target, and then a defensive player reaches up to tip the ball, sending it into an awkward, end-over-end spin out of bounds. Or think of what might happen to a planet should another object knock it from its orbit.

I'm out of my orbit. I'm the football tumbling out of bounds. Sure, I have plenty of meaning in my life--right now my boys, especially Owen and Max, need me to be emotionally present. Elliot's needs are fairly simple (although ever-present). Fortunately, he's going to day care during the summer to keep a consistent schedule. The other guys really need me right now.

And that is good--it is as it should be.

But my life, my meaning, is more than father to those boys. I've spent so long as Aimee's friend, lover, partner, and yes, caretaker, that I have to reexamine myself. And by "have to" I mean I have no choice. The change has come, regardless of my wishes, and here I am.

So this year's existential angst (a little more accurate than crisis) brings a good measure of "who am I, now?" with an eye toward the future and "what will my life be like a year from now?"

Baby steps, Aaron. Baby steps.

My Three Sons

First of all, Max is (somewhat) on the mend. Thanks for all the well wishes and positive vibes; I told him he had good vibrations sailing in from around the globe. He smiled. His condition (which involves some rather unpleasant blood where there should be no blood) continues to stymie the doctors, but we did escape the hospital in time for Christmas at home. His spirits are high and energy better than it has been, so I have hope.

With the infant at our house (Elliot continues to be the most chilled-out baby I've ever met), we didn't have to travel this year. Christmas at home was soooooo pleasant.

Owen is winning the best big-brother award this year. The hug Max delivered upon opening Owen's gift was a once in a lifetime moment. Evidently, Lego Hero Factory kits = "I love you to the moon and back, man" in Max's world. 

I'll start on something writing related soon, but for now I'm just circling the nest.

It's a good place to be.

His Name is (Elliot) Robert Polson

And no, I'm not making (too much of) an allusion to Fight Club.

Elliot Robert Polson with big brother Max. 

Elliot was born at 9:03 PM on 12/15/2011 after a crazy day of induced labor, nerve pinching, and cheerleading. The big fella weighed in at 9 lbs, 2 oz and was a neat 21 1/2 inches long.

He's getting reading to join his brothers' club some day.

(Yes, I know Polson and Paulson are spelled differently... Thank you very much.)

Welcome to this wacky family, Elliot!