I am currently reading “The Yellow Feather Mystery” with my 7-year-old. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s Volume 33 in the Hardy Boys mystery series — and we are in possession of an original hardback copy published in 1954 thanks to my mother’s “waste not, want not” baseline standard of living. From the same basement, we also scored the 1935 “The Hidden Harbor Mystery,” which has my grandmother’s maiden name inscribed on the inside cover page.
Frank and Joe Hardy, those perpetually 18- and 17-year-old amateur sleuths, so far have gotten stranded while skiing in a blizzard, have gone boating in perilous ice-filled waters and have driven through country roads in their convertible chasing suspicious characters — all in pursuit of that mystery man, the Yellow Feather! Who is he? What is he after? And, most importantly, will the boys make it home in time for dinner? These are all burning questions as we flip the pages.
I joke, but I am loving this time with him. I have always enjoyed a good mystery and, despite some non-PC language (poor chubby Chet Morton), the Hardy Boys are good, clean fun with just the right amount of peril for an adventure-loving second-grader. Frank and Joe, it also must be said, are respectful to their mother, obedient to their father and keep their tempers even when standing up to bullies. Be like Frank and Joe, kids.
Each night I read a chapter (or two, if one cliffhanger is particularly nerve-wracking) as my lanky 60-pounder cuddles up to me like he is 3. It’s the absolute best.
Once a week, I take my 5-year-old daughter to dance class. She gets dressed in her pink or purple leotard and tan tights. We do her hair, and sometimes she gets a smidge of lipgloss. I watch as my shy-to-strangers girl slowly gathers the courage to speak out loud to her teacher. On the way home, she tells me about her favorite part of class — this week, they learned a new step, something to do with digging a toe. I am not a dancer.
We stop for coffee and scones. She tells me what my order should be before I am even in line, and she never forgets to advocate for her brothers’ pastry needs. She prefers her scone to be fully covered with icing, with no gaps in any parts. She gets first dibs. I am loving this time with my diva girl who is growing so quickly.
My 2-year-old knows just about every word to Dr. Seuss’s “Green Eggs and Ham,” and bedtime isn’t bedtime right now without it. His favorite pages are when Sam-I-Am and his green eggs and ham-hating friend go into a tunnel. For a couple of verses, he fills in the word “dark” with a sweet sing-song whisper of “darrt,” and then insists on reprising his moment of glory as many times as I will allow it. He prefers for us to read literally while we are fully covered by a blanket. I explain to him that Mama needs to breathe and so does John. He asks me to sing Immaculate Mary, and he softly sings along with me. I allow a final short cuddle under the blanket.
On a recent episode of Julia Louis Dreyfus’ podcast “Wiser Than Me,” in which the Seinfeld star gleans wisdom from older women, she asked actress Sally Field what it’s like being a grandmother. Field responded that developing relationships with each of her grandchildren takes intentionality, saying, “you have to find a place that you land together … someplace that belongs just to the two of you. … Otherwise, you’re just a glorified babysitter.”
There’s an uncomfortable truth there for parenting, too, especially as kids get older and start to become more independent. I think this is especially true when parents work and when older-kid activities start to eclipse family time. The questions need to be asked and re-asked: What are we intentionally doing to find and grow our places, and our relationships, together as family? How are we doing this with the guidance of the Holy Spirit? And how do we lean into the special moments of today?
For us, right now, it’s part Hardy Boys, dance classes and scones, and snuggling “nunder” blankets. What will it be next year, next month, next week? I can’t say. But I know I can’t stop seeking them out.
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