Meet my two roosters, Sunshine and Chestnut.

I’ve known Chestnut (an Ameraucana) was male for a long time. I never really doubted because he acts roosterish. He now has longish, pointed tail feathers and a golden mane of neck feathers that he puffs out when he’s showing you how bad he is. I’m seeing some lovely green irridescence in some of his feathers, too. He has a striking appearance, though I don’t know if I’d call him handsome. Perhaps he is still an awkward youngster? He’s … kind of scruffy.

I was pretty sure Sunshine was a boy early on, too, because he started developing a big red wattle and comb early on and the other Buff Prpington chick, Buttercup, did not. You can see them both in the photo below. They look pretty different, don’t they? And yet, I hoped he was a she. But, it’s official as of yesterday: Sushine is definitely a cockerel. I heard and saw him crowing in a kind of teenage-trying-this-cock-a-doodle-dooing-thing-on-for-size way.

So, out of ten chicks we have raised since February 17, we have two roosters. Not great odds, if you ask me. Honestly, we didn’t want roosters at all. And I’m not at all sure what we’ll do with them. My boys say that killing and eating them is out of the question, even though that’s probably Ian’s preference. There is a slight chance that the two will get along even as adults; it does occasionally happen. But more likely, they will begin to compete for the affections of the hens.

It is not raining rain to me,
It’s raining daffodils;
In every dimpled drop I see
Wild flowers on the hills.

The clouds of gray engulf the day
And overwhelm the town;
It is not raining rain to me,
It’s raining roses down.

It is not raining rain to me,
But fields of clover bloom,
Where any buccaneering bee
Can find a bed and room.

A health unto the happy,
A fig for him who frets!
It is not raining rain to me,
It’s raining violets.

—Robert Loveman, “April Rain”

This is some of Asher’s most recent art. The top is an oil pastel he calls “Map to Burning Man.” We are not allowed to call it a drawing, or art. It’s A MAP. It’s also the first time I’ve seen any ladder (or train track) in his work.

Then, just a day or two later, he made this one—all ladders. These are considered to be a sign that a child is becoming ready to write.

Wednesday evening he sat in my lap while I was editing on the computer. He wanted to draw, so I handed him the second page of my SMUD bill with lots of blank white space, which was on my desk and within reach. After a moment, he pointed to his paper, which was still mostly blank. “Mom, is this an 8?” He face lit up when I said yes. And then he carefully drew several more.

Inspired by SouleMama {this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

“It is summer,” said the fairy,

“Bring me tissue light and airy;

Bring me colors of the rarest,

Search the rainbow for the fairest

Seashell pink and sunny yellow,

Kingly crimson, deep and mellow …

Bring me diamonds, shining brightly

Where the morning dew lies lightly …

With an art no fay discloses

I am going to make some roses!”

—Mary F. Butts

Our third-grade class at Sacramento Waldorf School recently completed a bock of study on clothing. As part of this block, they helped to shear one of the school’s sheep, Misty. Then they carded the wool and spun it into yarn. This is Misty and I must say, she is a good sport.

The March morning dawned beautifully on the school farm. The children lined up along the fence rails of Misty’s pen. The former handwork teacher, Ms. C, greeted the children and shook their hands. Farmer S instructed them on how to behave around Misty. In small groups the children cooperated to shear her. Some children held Misty’s legs, while Farmer S, Mrs. P, and several children began shearing, using scissors.

Mrs. P instructed each child how to use the scissors so that Misty wouldn’t be cut and so that the fleece was cut very close to her skin, preserving the long fibers so that they could be used for handwork.

She taught Lucas what to do. One must hold the scissors horizontally and be able to see the points before cutting. One mustn’t tug on the fleece while cutting because that can endanger Misty’s skin.

Every child in the class got a turn to shear and to help hold Misty, who patiently endured all their busy hands.

It was truly an amazing thing to watch these normally rambunctious children behaving so quietly and moving carefully.

Several parents were there to assist. We all got a chance to shear a bit, and hold Misty, too. Touching the fleece made my hands so soft from the lanolin in the wool.

These animals were the lucky ones: a ram and Balboa the llama. No shearing for them this day. Also spared was the ewe with two spring lambs to care for.

A rainbow of third-graders. Honestly, what a lot to endure! I think I’d freak out if that many hands were on me. Farmer S cut Misty’s hooves and did all the delicate, tricky shearing around her hindquarters.

Some of the kids sat cross-legged, holding Misty’s head in their laps. Here’s R covering Misty’s eye with her hand and whispering to her that everything is OK.

The kids really had a great time, I think.

Not so sure Misty did, but she survived!

Lucas’s first-ever sleepover birthday party started with an epic balloon fight.

Six 9-year-olds and a determined-to-keep-up 4-year-old is a what you might call a cacophany of boys. The dozen balloons lasted almost 8 minutes.

The theme— “No theme, Mom! Just a sleepover.” The cake— “No cake, Mom! I want a homemade apple pie.”

There were antics of all sorts. There was talk of how girls trying to kiss you is the grossest thing ever. There was plenty of belching words. There were stick fights and spy-on-the-parents games. After they inhaled the watermelon, there was a rind fight.

There were two episodes of “Mythbusters,” at the special request of the birthday boy, with extra explosions.

Lucas received marvelous gifts, like a mosaic stepping stone kit, a solar cooker, a Hex Bug, paintbrushes, LEGO, and more.

He greatly enjoyed being the star of the show for a full evening, night, and morning. The boys stayed awake talking and laughing until about midnight, before they finally all fell asleep.

After the guests left on May 1, we spent some time with just the four of us. We gave Lucas our gifts, such as a solar kit, books, a basketball, wool roving and needle-felting tools, extreme dot-to-dot and puzzle books, North American animal fact cards—just the sort of things a 9-year-old needs.

But best of all—most desired of all possible birthday gifts—was this:

And thus he spent much of the day whittling. We were all a bit worn out from the festivities of the night before and so we elected not to attend the May Day festival at Lucas’s Waldorf school. (The third grade had no part to play in the festival this year, and so we left the choice up to Lucas. He wanted to whittle.)

Later that evening, we went to Grandma’s and Papa’s house for dinner. We enjoyed tacos and salad and birthday brownies for dessert. The boys wanted to go swimming—on May Day! And although it was not exactly warm, well—it was his birthday. May Day is traditionally the “first day of summer.”

The next day, which was a day off from school, Lucas got to visit with his other grandmother and his auntie. He came home with a set of woodcarving tools and more LEGO. Bliss!

It’s two weeks later now, and I can tell Lucas is supremely happy to be 9, and is really enjoying all his gifts. He has finally (and briefly) caught up to the age of his classmates, some of whom are soon to turn 10.

We all love to dance, but somehow it was our younger son who galvanized this passion into a family ritual. We didn’t set out to make it a regular part of our family life, but before long it was. We hold After-Dinner Discos—dance parties for four that let us all cut loose for a while and get the dishes done. They are one of my favorite family activities.

We finish dinner around 7 p.m. on most nights. My boys go to bed at 8 and they usually shower before bed. Most of the time, we have a lovely 10- or 15-minute window after dinner and we crank up the music and boogie. When the daylight stretches longer into the evening, I confess we party even more, and our dancing spills out into the backyard under the sky.

What kind of music, you ask? Truly, it’s not lyres and pentatonic flutes. The music we play depends on a lot of things: What mood are we in? Is it a night near a holiday? Have we been talking about anything over dinner that brings to mind a song, a style, or a period of history?

Around St. Patrick’s Day, we all kick up our heels to the Pogues, Black 47, and the Chieftains. During Christmas time, we enjoy the Pandora online radio station called “Christmas Lounge.” At Diwali, we might put on some Bollywood film music. We dance to Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra and Aretha Franklin. We shake our booties to Lady Gaga, Cher, and Pink. My older son loves the White Stripes. The little guy loves the Beatles, Bob Marley, and Shakira. I’m fond of Michael Franti and OK Go, and Sting’s music has always been close my heart. My husband is a true musical aficionado, and he always has a fine suggestion for us. Perhaps it feels like ’80s night, or maybe a little big band music fits the bill. We sometimes play a CD called “AM Radio Hits of the ’70s.” Maybe it’s time for some Goa trance or techno. Did you know you could party to a fabulous, techno remix of an autotuned Carl Sagan lecture called “A Glorious Dawn” by Symphony of Science?

My younger son, who is now 4, feels music in his very bones. He’s really got moves, and he’s serious about it, too. He works on a new dance move for a while until he gets it to where it feels just right, to where it’s a facile part of his physical repertoire. Then he works on the next thing. Sometimes I see him mimicking one of us, working out how to make his body do the same thing. There’s no instruction of any kind, and it’s not mechanical or rigid—it’s just a natural learning about his body in space, how it feels to move through the air or place his feet just so. You should see his rock star power slide on his knees.

And he is driven to dancing to just about anything. Beethoven and Mozart work just as well for him as Katy Perry. When the spirit moves him, there’s no standing on the sidelines allowed: “Dance! Mama, Dance!” If I let a little too much of my attention stray to cleaning up our dinner mess, I hear about it. “Mama! You’ve gotta dance with me!” And heaven forbid I’m feeling under the weather. “Mama, I know what will make you better. Let’s dance!”

My older son’s dancing has changed over the years. The carefree quality of his young childhood is moving away gradually. Now, at 9 years old, he sometimes performs Eurhythmy he has learned in school, or attempts some fancy footwork, like a made-up jig or tap routine. He likes to head-bang to electric guitars (which pleases Daddy to no end), and I’ve caught my son playing the air guitar more than a few times. More often than not, these days, my older son’s dancing is morphing into a kind of acrobatic martial art of his own invention, with high kicks and blocking stances. He spins, punches, and dodges imaginary assailants in time to the music.

Before I had children, I used to imagine I’d one day be one of those moms who drives her daughters to frequent ballet lessons. I don’t do that (although if my sons asked, I would). Having boys doesn’t mean I can’t share the gift of music and dance with them, no matter the cultural forces that suggest that boys don’t dance. What better way is there to bring our family together after our long days than to crank up the tunes, revel in our bodies’ abilities, and express ourselves through dance? To get our hearts pumping and put smiles on our faces? What better way is there to have fun and celebrate life?

… make me happy.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you talented, sexy, competent, clever, thoughtful, giving, resourceful, beautiful mamas. You are both the backbone and the safety net of the whole world. Your work is vital. We see you and we thank you.