How does he know how to do that?

When interacting with Sage, we often find ourselves asking, "How does he know that?" We are often impressed with his knowledge for being only four years old. Sage is extremely observant, perceptive, and has an excellent memory. He absorbs new information like a sponge. I was reminded of his talents this morning while watching him master a new game on his tablet, Cut the Rope. And when I say master, I mean master! He opens the game to a new level and quickly, but carefully makes some observations about what he sees and tries out some moves. Then, within 2-3 tries, and many times on the first try, he wins! It's so interesting to see his problem solving skills in action. I love this kid! Even as I type this, he mastered another 7 or 8 levels.

Winter Warm-up!

Saturday was an unusually warm winter day with temperatures in the upper 50's.  We spent the day playing outside and hiking through the woods behind Grandma and Papa's house.  It brought back lots of memories for me since Jon, Adam, and I spent many days hiking through the woods to spend time in the creek and under the very same waterfall.

Science Center - Jan 2013

Sage playing in the water.

Posing under the T-Rex

Kai with a giant Amazon cockroach!

A Ride on Thomas!

It's no secret that Sage is a huge fan of Thomas the Tank Engine and his friends.  So, when the opportunity to ride on an actual Thomas train came up, we had to go!  

Candy Cans and Sing-a-longs

This holiday season was one of the best yet!  Sage and Kai were totally into Santa and celebrating Baby Jesus's birthday this year.  Some of my favorite memories of the season include:

• The boys saying "candy cans" instead of "candy canes."  It's just so sweet that I don't want to correct them.  Christmas morning, Sage was SO excited that Santa put candy cans on the tree!
• Sage LOVING to sing along to Christmas songs.  I, myself, LOVE Christmas songs and am so excited that Sage loves them too.  For practically a month straight, Sage was constantly singing Christmas songs.  His favorite was George Michael's "Last Christmas."  Too cute!

• A conversation on December 20th
• Sage: "After tomorrow, it's going to be 4 days til Christmas, after that 3 days, after that 2 days, after that 1 day, and after that, IT's GOING TO BE CHRISTMAS!"
• Me: "Are you excited?"
• Sage: "Yes, I am.  That's going to be wonderful!"
• Christmas morning




• We celebrated what was most likely our last Christmas Eve at my grandparent's house. (insert sad face) There were LOTS of people there and it was a bit chaotic, but it was just perfect.  The kids had a great time running around together. 

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• Baking cookies for Santa

• Watching the boys snuggle as they play with their new tablets.  

• Seeing Santa at the zoo



• Sage's first letter to Santa



• Snuggling at nap time!

• Treasure hunts at the Cline/Kelly Christmas!  
• Spending time with family

Four Years Later...

Four years later and another Presidential Inauguration for President Obama.  Today, I watch from home because it also happens to be Martin Luther King Jr. day - a coincidence or an alignment of the universe?  Two men, Barack Obama and Martin Luther King Jr., who embody the hope of America...the hope of this family.  I feel so fortunate to live in these times where my marriage, my sons, will be treated with respect and equality.  In the words of the President,  "We are made for this moment, and we will seize it - so long as we seize it together."

In addition to President Obama's inspirational speech, I was especially moved by the poem from Richard Blanco, "One Today."

One Today

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,

peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces

of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth

across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.

One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story

told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,

each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:

pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,

fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows

begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—

bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,

on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—

to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did

for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,

the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:

equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,

the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,

or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain

the empty desks of twenty children marked absent

today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light

breathing color into stained glass windows,

life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth

onto the steps of our museums and park benches 2

as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk

of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat

and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills

in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands

digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands

as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane

so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains

mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it

through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,

buses launching down avenues, the symphony

of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,

the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,

or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open

for each other all day, saying: hello| shalom,

buon giorno |howdy |namaste |or buenos días

in the language my mother taught me—in every language

spoken into one wind carrying our lives

without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed

their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked

their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:

weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report

for the boss on time, stitching another wound 3

or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,

or the last floor on the Freedom Tower

jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes

tired from work: some days guessing at the weather

of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love

that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother

who knew how to give, or forgiving a father

who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight

of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,

always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon

like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop

and every window, of one country—all of us—

facing the stars

hope—a new constellation

waiting for us to map it,

waiting for us to name it—together