Sunny Saturday

It seemed to be taking me forever to get out the door.  No sooner would I make a step in that direction when one child or another would come back through it to ask for something, a glove, a drink, a hat. . . I began to put on face cream which made me think of sunscreen.  I realized they would need some too, so I began to snag them one by one to rub on the potion.  As I am stepping through the doorway my youngest comes up the steps smiling, "Hi Mommy.  Daddy says it's really nice out, you should come outside."  I contain my eyeroll by closing my eyes for a short moment, and tell her, "I am coming out right now honey, I have some things to do in the garden."

I headed to the tiny greenhouse just a short distance from the house.  The sun is shining and air is clear, just a bit of a breeze momentarily cut off as I duck in and grab a couple plant trays, hot in here.  Across the yard, I go to a low area which seems to collect just enough moisture so I rarely have to water the garden there.  The lettuce I began a few weeks ago is just beginning to look good, but still too small to be eaten even in "baby" form.  I direct my attention to plucking a few rogue weeds that escaped my last garden adventure.  I dig into the warm, damp soil with my fingers reaching for roots to pull and flick them into one of my signature piles along the edge of the garden.  Once clear, I smooth the surface with a rake and then dig several small holes.  First I plant the peppers, then the eggplants, it is hotter in the hoophouse and I hope that will help these heat lovers thrive. I think to myself, it would be nice to have another for the tomatos, but then I would have to water, a lot.  Not a good plan.  Before I know it I have planted about 20 tomato plants, and I am ready to begin work in another section of garden, pluck, rake, dig holes, plant.  Here go more tomatos, along with some cukes and zukes.

I stand and stretch my back and legs and walk back to the house for some seeds.  I am never satisfied with my organization of seed packets.  No matter how I do it, I always end up spending countless minutes searching for a packet I "just had my hands on".  I headed back outside with a handful of paper envelopes, nasturtium, carrots, lettuce, spinach, beans.  I gave up looking for the beet seeds, which I know are there, and decide that what I already have planted is enough for now.  Again I pluck, rake, and this time swish little rows with the handle of the rake to they will come out relatively straight.  I sprinkle in carrot seeds, and a couple different varieties of lettuce, alternating throughout the bed, and look up to see my kids riding down the driveway on their bikes, the boys bikes are tethered together by a rope about 10 feet long.  Do I say anything, nah!  They are boys.  I continue on to planting beans, whoops pluck, rake, swish, first.  Along the kids come again, now Lila's three wheeler is attatched like a little caboose behind the two boys and their bikes.

Suddenly though the sun was still shining, raindrops began to fall in such a way that felt surreal.  They were falling in enormous droplets and spread out so that it seemed I might be able to walk between the drops without being touched if I were quite careful.  But I couldn't dodge the argument that would soon begin between siblings.  Ropes were untied, grumblings echoed, clouds of blackflies appeared out of nowhere and garden time came to an imperfect, but well timed end as I had accomplished all I had set out to do, and the black flies hadn't even noticed.

Family Stuff

I recently saw an image of my livingroom pop onto a screen at a relative's house, and was amazed at the amount of floor space I used to have.  I could see the entire room without a car, sock, cup, or random scrap pile of paper.  The only things on the rug were children (not mine), and the wood floors reflected light! Our house isn't huge, but it surely felt bigger before we had children.

When I came home later, it was as if the walls were squeezing in on me.  I was greeted with dozens of shoes, sneakers, workboots, cleats and flip flops cluttering the floor, and a basket attempting to contain baseball equipment hanging out in the corner.   Sometimes the 'stuff' of my family of five overwhelms like a glacier slowly creeping in till I suddenly can't overlook the fact that something huge is looming.  Truth be known, of course, there is nothing particularly large or obviously responsible for taking up the space we once had in my house except maybe my children, who aren't that big.  They have an indescribable knack for covering any flat surface faster than a storm whips up on Big Sebago, by setting down one little thing after another.  The fact is, this was all cleaned up not very long ago, we cleared rugs for vacuming, and tables for projecting.  It can sometimes take just one rainy day, or one hour of mom writing or doing anything "in the other room" while my kids play together, that is the loose brick that ultimately breaks the dam, or opens the floodgates.

As I glance around, I see childrens' scissors sprawled open on my desk, abandoned just five short feet from the jar that ought to contain several pair but holds none.  A tubby duck lay on its back smiling up at me from next to the scissors, the top of a nearby toy shelf holds a recent art project of hot glued popcicle sticks and lego figures possibly trying to look sea worthy (or see worthy?) floating next to a Goldiblocks set, abandoned at the mouth of the River "I'm not done yet, I will put it away later." and merging with more hot glue projects of plastic cups with  stick ladders and straws glued onto them, dumping into the sea of "these are so special, they should adorn the remaining flat surface" On the floor are containers of cars, lego parts and miscellaneous sciency type projects that "not me" left, instead of moving them a foot, two feet, six inches. . . to the shelf where they might be considered put away.  This is just when glancing to my left, and frankly I don't have the energy to describe in detail the miscellaneous dolls, stuffies, books and so on that cascade to my right.

Honestly, if this were my classroom, we would have a meeting, do some interactive modeling and practice "taking care of our room and our things", and I would do this without resentment.  Somehow at home, I feel like "Geeze do we really need to go over this again, same kids, same house, sort of the same stuff. . .?"  I guess it is the nature of the beast, because my kids really do need to be reminded, often, just as sure as Charlie reminded me tonight when he mirrored my own thoughts on the subject, "It just sort of builds up slowly, I don't really notice it until one day I come home and, Whoa!"

Good to the last throw. . .

My boys don't live baseball, but they love it nonetheless.  Some kids have been tossing balls since they could walk.  Our boys. . . sorta, kinda, once in a while would play catch, usually with Dad.  As they get older though they are becoming more and more interested, each spring they are more capable than the last and their interest increases.  This is a whole new experience for me since I never played sports as a kid myself, other than gym class, and though I loved phys ed, I just despised baseball out of principle.  The fact of the matter is, I really knew Nothing about the game.  It was easy to label it stupid though, because my only first hand experience was in public school PE classes, where the teachers assumed everyone knew the "rules", watched the game, and played the game, and then the class--mostly the boys, would spend the next 30-40 minutes arguing about the "rules".  To this day, if a dispute breaks out about the "rules", I go to my "happy place" in my mind. Now that my own kids have played for a few years, it amazes me that our teachers back then didn't just lay down the PE version of baseball rules.  So far we have been through t-ball rules, farm league rules, minors rules, and we are still learning majors rules, how hard would it have been to lay down the PE rules?

So, tonight when I went out to "play ball" with my boys, I laid down the Mom rule.  Rule Number 1 (the only rule):  We are playing catch, that's it.  I don't pitch, but the boys are both learning, which equals "the boys are both very unforgiving of each other and each other's mistakes despite being imperfect themselves".  Therefore, bats and Mom are out of the question.  So we headed out to play ball, first Charlie and I, while Joey finished his homework.
As we found our turf, I said to my son, "Charlie you might have to give me pointers, I don't want to throw like a girl."
Charlie replied, "Mom, that's going to be kind of hard since. . ."
Me, "I know I know, I am a girl"
And so we began, the sun just low enough in the trees to not be a nuisance, the sky still blue, the air still relatively warm.  Thwap.  Thwap.  Thwap.  Thwap.  Charlie is talking away and throwing them in, I had reminded him "no lobs" as we began, and we discussed the wrist snap vs. straight release. Whoa, I realized silently that my feet were firmly planted on the ground, I could snap balls out of the air without moving an inch.  By golly this kiddo can really throw this year, no squiggly laps all over the yard for Mom this time.

Soon, out of the house steps Joey, glove on hand and ready.  I reminded him of Rule Number 1 and then repeated it again, "We are playing catch, only catch."  In the past a game of catch with 2 boys and mom have ended in a grouchy huff for most if not all parties.  Joey formed our triangle and we threw the ball.  Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Joey gets a stinker look on his face as he throws me a fast one, he claims is not fast at all. I catch it, smile and remind him "You are pitching to me, we are just playing catch." He smiled back and after a while, we switch up the rotation Charlie to Mom, Mom to Joey, Joey to Charlie, and back around again.

The whole time my ears are filled with advice, "Square up for a grounder Mom", or "catch it in the pocket so it doesn't hurt" or requests, "Throw me a pop fly"  Thwap.  Thwap.  Thwap.  After a while, the boys began the usual, try to irritate the other type throws, bullets from Joey to Charlie, sky balls through the tree branches from Charlie to Joey.  I instituted, "Throw it back to me"  I am determined, I will not let this end on
a sour note.  A few throws later, a miriacle happened as we all headed back to the house with smiles and good spirits, fresh air on our shirts and the smell of leather on our hands.

Creativity, Writing, and Resilience in a Storm

I recently watched Elizabeth Gilbert's TED talk "Success, Failure and the Drive to keep Creating"  drawn in because creativity creeps into my thoughts often when I consider teaching and learning.  It is an important concept and even skill to foster in our children and ourselves and it is connected to resilience. The idea of resilience really sank in for me during this talk, as well as Elizabeth's ultimate message, to "find your home, that thing that you love to do more than you love yourself."  Where these ideas collide, I see lessons I would love for every child, student, person to learn.  Basically, first, find your own home (that place where you love to work, play, persist) Then, figure out how to stay there in that productive place, "safe from the random hurricanes of outcome", because both success and failure have the equal and opposite potential to pull you away from your home, away from what you love to do.

As I watched and listened to Gilbert speak, I was transported back to that second grade poetry experience I have written about before, I think of how writing that one poem, and the way that two teachers responded to that poem created for me, my first random hurricane, at age seven.  My experience was on a smaller scale, but parallel to the one Elizabeth Gilbert herself had after writing Eat, Pray, Love.   I had no idea how to handle that.  But I knew, just as she knew, that whatever I wrote next, those two teachers were not going to like it. In that moment, it felt like the fate of my new vocation, "writer of poems", was up to these two teachers to decide.  The message to me was "One good poem does not a poet make" when really, I should have been learning the lesson "Keep writing.  Write often.  Perservere."  If I take what Gilbert says to heart, really my writer self was still in there, she hadn't gone anywhere, she just needed to get back to work. . . instead my writer put down her pencil after that second grade poetry unit, and didn't pick it up again on her own accord for at least 15 years.

The funny thing, a second grade friend in that class who had seen this whole thing unfold, "What did she expect, you were just going to sit down and write another great one, because she told you to?  Doesn't she know about inspiration?"  What is it they say about the mouths of babes?  Thirty something years ago, we grappled, at age seven, with the very same issue that this now famous author of Eat, Pray, Love has had to grapple with as an adult writer, the very same "hurricane of outcome".  So of course, I ask myself, how can we teachers, parents, mentors teach our young writers to ride the storms?  That is an important skill throughout life, not just writing, yes?  I also wonder if we shouldn't be concious to not create storms of outcome for our new writers.  It always strikes me when we ask children to create, how often and persistent many of them are at seeking approval from the adults around them. I always try to give supportive feedback, but try to word it carefully so as not to sound like the be all end all of their creative career. I feel if we perpetuate the idea that someone outside the writing, teacher, parent, reader, can determine a piece of writing's worth, aren't we just pushing our kids out in the storm without an umbrella, in the dark.  Are we then failing to teach them how to find their own way, how to be resilient?   

Let's Play the Ball Game!

"Let's have a special night." said my five year old daughter as Daddy and brothers headed out the door to baseball practice.  She hopped down from the Lazy Boy in the livingroom.  "Let's go play the ball game!"  "Alright kiddo." I replied and we slid on our shoes.  I was expecting to need to pull on a sweatshirt, but as I stepped off the porch into the sun, I realized the air was still quite warm.  I know it should be warm, we are approaching the end of April now, but I scraped snow and ice off the Cherokee just last week.  After such a long winter I seem to bundle up out of habbit, as if I expect to be wearing fleece and gloves in June too.

Out in the yard, a warm breeze feathered our skin as Lila began to swing quickly and steadily.  "You won't have to wait for me!"  She was right.  With the large pink ball in hand, I watched her swinging.  She swooped low and high, stretching her body long and pulling in strong.  (Didn't I have to push her to get started just last year?)  I timed my toss and she popped the ball into the air over my head.  She giggled wildly.  I zinged the ball again, my timing was off.  The ball went under her swing and I performed my best grumbly exasperated act while fetching the ball and tickling her on the way by.  (Game requirement)  She giggled wildly.  Again and again I tossed the ball, and fetched the ball, once her flip flop went further than the ball.  She giggled wildly. . . and flipped the flop off the other foot too, this time squealing with laughter!

This is her game, The ball Game, and this girl will play and play and laugh and play for as long as anyone will play with her.  We play it in sun and snow, wind and rain, from dawn till dusk.  Summer months see more action only due to the abundance of free time and daylight hours, not because the weather matters. As I chase the ball across the dried grass and cold spring ground in my now bare feet, an emotion washes over me, along with the warm air and bright sunshine.  Honestly I'm not quite sure what it is, wistfulness? awakening? hope?  Little buds on branches, a few patches of freshly turned earth planted with little rows of spinach and carrot seeds just hours ago. . .I have noticed these things throughout the day, but it just now struck me;  spring is really here!  summer is on it's way!  Just eight weeks to the end of school for the kids and I.  Days have been flying by and I have felt as if I were trapped in time gripped by winter's cold hand.  Despite the cold weather, time tramped on, the suns arc traveled and my daughter grew.

Return to My Proffession--My Messy Beautiful

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

I am a forty something, mom of three, wife of 17 years who is  currently trying to break back into the field of teaching after 10 years learning how to parent three tricky students of my own! ( I think this post describes that time best) It has been a messy beautiful process that has carried me to this point in my life (and has inspired this blog).  At this moment, I am no longer just along for the ride, to see where it will take me, yet I use that skill to ride out the bumps.  I am making choices and digging in to reach my goal, and I have confidence that I will reach it.  I am looking at ‘little obstacles’, like not getting the job I applied for, as stepping stones and learning experiences .  Life’s classroom is so rich!

I began as a straight A high school student who Flunked Out of my first year at University--and I didn't even party!!  But I did have an overly controlling boyfriend--Can you say worst year of college ever?!  I followed that year with a summer art course, "just for fun." but that led me to completing an art program at a local community college where I decided I wanted to teach.  The pivotal moment was the moment it struck me, really struck me, that here I was learning about making art with a bunch of other folks my age and older, and wow, Isn’t that something!  Whether or not I had a gift for art, or ever became famous, I was learning how to create something from my heart, mind and soul.  I was learning how to learn, and that was a gift itself.

When I was younger, even just a few years earlier, I had somehow arrived at the notion that people were born to be artists.  I truly felt since I had not found my own art yet, I must have missed the boat, I was doomed to be a gas station attendant, and that was that.  It was quite dismal really, because I really could only see everything I hadn’t yet done as untraveled roads already barricaded to me.  I really had a hard time seeing possibilities back then.  When I chose to teach, it was because I really wanted young kids to see and learn about “what could be” for them, I wanted to open doors, and remove baracades. I thought of the time I spent already, just in my youth, feeling like I had missed a boat or many boats, and I reflected on the waste in a way that moved me forward, and motivated me to want to move others forward as well.  

   

I did open doors.  I taught many children to read and write.  My six and sevens wrote and rewrote stories, participated in poetry readings, danced and let their minds be guided into both growth and relaxation.  There were opportunities for all to shine.  I fell prey to a “reduction in force” just when I felt I was hitting my stride.  I was really picking up steam, trained as a reading interventionist and using those skills in the classroom to really boost my students’ literacy learning.  But in my usual form, I took this as a sign, I should take some time at home with my newborn baby, which eventually became my three children over a span of ten years.  I regretfully watched my teaching certification fly off into inactive status when my third child, a daughter was born, but honestly even without her, my return would have been postponed.

My oldest had hit kindergarten by then and the very verbal little boy who we were sure would love school was struggling wildly with odd things like sitting at circle to sing songs, and what one teacher dubbed “buzzing” around the room.  He was sent to the office frequently for social faux pas and skirmishes, and the dreaded "lack of empathy".  By first grade I was solely engrossed in figuring out what was causing our curious motivated learner at home to become a distressed mess at school.  You know that mom you see storming into school determined and wide eyed, she scares everyone a little, she is so so angry . . .?  That was me. . .  Getting help for my son was a nightmare of roadblocks that to this day make no sense to me, I was stressed beyond belief.  As strange as it sounds, it snuck up on me! I jumped, dodged and pushed to get past the blockades and eventually got the former nay sayers on board and found a place where my boy could not just survive, but thrive.  Then I had to get myself and my family back on track.  Regular excercise and outlets for mom rose in importance. I have had to work past that "trigger time" in the mornings when my son would set up for battle over going to school.  I had to learn to breath, learn to breath, learn to breath.  If someone isn't ready or can't find something as we are going out the door, I still need to remind myself, this is a little bump, no big deal, we will get there. . . because my brain wants to freak out as if we were back in that time three years ago.  But today's bumps have nothing to do with then.  

Along the way, I learned a lot about myself, and my teaching self.  I learned never to give up excercise and healthy habbits because I am too busy "solving a problem", (because that just causes another problem some place else!) I recognized some faulty assumptions I once made as a young teacher, and learned how to make other theories I felt in my heart come to life "Children do well if they can, not just if they want to." became my new mantra stripped straight from the pages of  Dr.Ross Greene's (author of  books.  I read, and worked, found jobs where I could use my teaching skills even if they weren’t the coveted “teacher” role and have begun learning the ins and outs of twenty first century public education, and at the same time realize that the "good teaching practices" I have under my belt never go out of style.

I even interviewed for a “dream job” at a tiny ruralish local school, but besides my brain going into flight mode for most of the interview. << I soo wish I could blog my way through interview!  I would just reply to questions with, please see blog post # 17 where I discussed this at length. :))>> When they asked why I wanted to work there, I really had no good, honest answer.  In that ridiculous moment right In the interview, I realized I really didn’t want to work there!  It suddenly seemed too small, too homogeneous and I knew I would miss the diversity I had found working in a larger school the previous year.  Umm. . .yeah, interview did not go so well.  My husband says everything I feel at any moment washes acrossed my face all day long, maybe I need some of that "Pokertox" or whatever it was called. . . some Doctor invented it to help poker players keep a straight face while holding a royal flush!!  Imagine the possibilities?!  

So instead, I found a part time one on one position in a district where many people don’t want to work, a huge number of administrators left 8 to 10 years ago, school choice has resulted in a hemmorage of students out of the district to places not unlike the one where my own son suffered, (honestly struggled is not a big enough word to describe what my son and our family went through there). So I  am hoping to find a place here in this recovering district, with soon to be hired new superintendent, where diversity is wide and possibilities for the future are many.  They are in flux, and where there is change there will ultimately be growth, I am excited to be there to help.

Yet here I am, the mom of now 11 years, trying to work my way back in to the profession I love.  As much as I want to convey confidence, and truly I am confident that this work is mine to do, I get this little niggling feeling of doubt when I begin this job search process.  The back of my neck tightens, my jaw sets and I fear it will never happen, that due to "mind in flight" during interviews, I will be seen as a wannabe teacher who just happens to have a Masters Degree in Curriculum and Design, intensive training in reading intervention/instruction, and a newly approved teaching liscence under my belt.  And I forget that I jumped into full time work and completed three college level courses in education to get my liscence back, and that I enjoyed, almost, every minute of it.  I forget that I have been going into schools and feeling like I am home for the past couple years working with other teachers and educators of all kinds.   I forget that I have patience for the kids who most everyone loses patience with, because I want to treat them the way I hope my own children will evermore be treated.  I forget my toolbox continues to be filled by yours truly, as I continue searching for more ways to help children succeed in more diverse ways. I forget that I have a gift of my own, for seeing into the hearts of children and helping create a place in school where they can learn and grow and create something from the heart, mind and soul, and that is a gift to them.  I forget that I am determined to teach them how to learn, how to think like a learner, how to act like a learner, how to be a learner. . .  I just need to remember, keep the confidence, brain power and appropriate facial expressions through an entire interview and pray for the best!

My favorite rain moment

It is raining here today, an all day steady, sometimes torrential rain that makes my hair curl and my bangs stick out like horns of the devil.  For this moment, after a long day, I sit and recall a moment that I return to often when it rains, wishing for just that kind of moment again.

I think of one particular rainy spring day. I just happened to be walking determinedly across a local college campus when I suddenly became aware in a single moment of how simply lovely this rain was. . . gentle and steady.   As my feet slowed avoiding puddles on pavement, the balm of the rain and crispness of the sweet pink apple blossoms balanced just right to create the perfect scent of spring, fresh, clean, even pristine.  At one point I simply stopped. . . to smell the raindrops.

So to honor poetry month I have created a poem to capture this moment. :)

I puddle hop with purpose along pavement,
while trees hold bouquets of blossoms
delicate drops clean crisp air
satiate my senses, slow
I stop, smell, the raindrops
tiny reflective globes on satiny sweet petals

Another Chance

Sitting at the back of the room, stacking folders and staying out of the way while cleanup begins in my son's class, my attention is drawn to the girl with long curls and hands to her face.  The classroom teacher makes her way over and  listens to her problem somehow related to another student, a boy I have a soft spot for.  He is a bright and interesting guy, a bit quirky, but sometimes, like this one, he can be infuriating, much like one of my own boys.  The teacher assures the crying student she will deal with the problem.  As she tends to the class, and directs them down the hall to technology class, she calls both students to talk to her.

I headed to tech with my son's class, with math folders in hand, find an empty table, and get to work checking their minute math pages, while keeping an eye out for "help" flags in case I am needed.  A few folders in, the crying girl joins us, I notice the teacher return with the other student a bit later.  Before the classroom teacher has even walked away, the tech teacher is on the boy's case to throw away his gum before sitting at his computer.  He resisted at first, but eventually made the decision to lose the gum, the gum the classroom teacher gives him, because it helps him find more success during the days at school, the gum she gives him because she takes time to try to figure him out and help him succeed.

When I saw her again, the classroom teacher was clearly upset, but her expression was introspective. . . I could tell she was not upset at the student, but upset at herself.  I have felt this feeling with my own son, so that old cliche, "It takes one to know one." I guess it applies.  This was not the right opportunity for me to speak, so I waited.  As the kids waded through the last of their end of day routines, my mind was already on the message I wanted to give this classroom teacher.  Now, don't think I am an egomaniac who thinks she has all the answers, far from it! but I have been the parent of one of these frustating and wonderful children for 11 years and when I saw the look on the teacher's face, I had a feeling that she might need my words.  I was right, we exchanged emails, and essentially she told me she felt like she was failing him!  She has had a cold, is feeling tired, a lot going on at home, less patient, and he is having a rough spell.

So my last words to her I think were the most important, because I had to learn them for myself and accept them for the truth in order to keep trying, trying to be the best mom I can be to another quirky frustrating amazing boy.

You are not failing, you are tired, and He is a tricky and special kid.  It does not feel hard because you re doing anything wrong, it feels hard because it IS hard :-) (this is my mantra)  This student is very lucky to have you on his side this year!  Rest well!

I hope she is able to hear this message and take it to heart.  I hope that she doesn't think I am just sending her some kind of fluff or trying to sound like a know it all mom.  I hope she can hear that those words I wrote are true, and that they help her navigate the bumpy roads that tricky children leave in their wake for teachers and parents to follow.  I hope she will understand that her frustration with herself is evidence she is really doing so much right, this is a bump, don't change course, don't turn back, breath deep and lean in, tomorrow is another day, another chance, for everyone. 

 

    

Dawn. . . A Moment

A moment.
Sky gray, silver
barely illuminated
Promise of sun
Not yet
Over the horizon
Soon
Pink creeps into silver
Brightening
Against branches reaching, gripping,
Slowly releasing,
The black of night.

Poem. . . Me?

Today is a Poem about Me now, I posted a poem about Me by my 7 year old self a while back

Who?
Me?
Mom? Wife? Daughter? Auntie? Sister?
. . .
Writer.
Teacher.
Learner.
Artist.
Creator.

Lover of. . .
Snowflakes, a steaming cup
Sugar Clouds billowing

Sunday family dinner
Laughing eyes crying

Soil Digging
Spring green glowing

Suits of Sand and Salt
Cottony Clothes and Sandals

Fine tipped pen
Fresh paper calling

Popcorn crunch
tongue, icecream melting

One Girl Show

"What store are we going to?"  my daughter asked from the backseat as I drove toward the shopping area.  "It's a bookstore, a big bookstore, bigger than our library in town."  As I drove up the aisle toward the store, looking for a space to park the car, I heard, "Ohhhh, I remember this place I think!  It has a play area, can I play?"  I told her, "We don't have lots of time, but I think there will be a little time for play. . . "  

As luck would have it, I found the book I was looking for immediately on the path to the children's section at the back of the store.  My girl held my hand and directed me to the place she remembered, sat me down on a stool nearby and headed for the stage where she first began to dance. . . 

 She was quiet, and I thought she might sing. . . she always sings, well unless she notices me watching in an obvious way.  Today she didn't sing, but I could hear her whisper (yes whisper, I could barely here her the entire time) to people backstage (area behind the tree trunks), to fellow performers and such. . ."Turn the lights off."  her little hand poked a spot on the wall behind the tree.  "ok.". . . "spspsps. . .like that"  "sorry. . .right"  I saw her push the light again and then she danced again, for just a few moments then, "Let's make some space"  "like that" She moved a chair walked around it then moved it again closer to the "tree". . . She ran along the row of benches to backstage and moved swiftly with pointed toes across them again towards me on my little perch.  I mentioned, "It is almost time to go" she replied, "one more dance"  She was looking like she was ready, for something, when I saw her gaze fix on something, someone beyond me in the book browsing area.  

Then as sudden as a whirlwind, whips leaves into the air, the show was over.  A boy, probably about 8 or 9 strode right up on the stage and sat, leaned back, put his feet up on the chair and simply settled in for a good read. . .Lila just looked at me then, and without a fuss, said in a non whisper "Let's go now."  I was still so caught up in the show, I whispered, "Ok. lets get your coat on."  She asked me, "Mom, why are you whispering?"

Sunday Dinner Stories

Day 30

Sunday nights are family nights for us, especially during sugaring season.  So after an afternoon of running from tree to tree, or from counter to canner, we clean up equipment and head from the Sugar House to the Supper House, so dubbed by my oldest, back when he was just a little guy.  There we talk our way from the kitchen to the dining room gather round the table to feast on food and stories from the present to the past, and tonight was just one of those nights.

Somehow an exchange took place right at the table that involved knocking on wood, (my oldest son's head was the wood of choice)  then a knocking on engineered wood, (my oldest nephew, the engineer's head)  Of course posturing occurred first from the engineer something like, "Engineered wood is stronger, more versatile, and highly adaptable. . ."  then my eleven year old chimed in, "And Thicker!"  Laughter burst out from all of us adults, then the kids too, probably at us adults.

We revisited the comical moment earlier that day when another nephew phoned mom to see "Am I still on AAA?", "Do you know my number by any chance?" Turns out it was a flat tire, but he had no spare.  He has found his card and was in good shape now.  That reminded Uncle and Auntie about Auntie's flat tire dilemma this fall.  After one tire shredded itself into pieces, all she had was a "space saver" spare, flat of course, and she was in a dead zone with no cell service.  Luckily a policeman stopped and called AAA for her.  She spent the next couple hours waiting all four tires to be replaced, and arrived at her final destination 4-5 hours later than planned.

Then I chimed in, "I had several flats when commuting to North Adams, but every time I was wearing a dress!  What a pain!"  I thought of that day when I saw that snow chunk in the road too late, and it turned out to be not a snowball at all, sharp ice or more likely a sharp rock fallen from the ledge the road was cut from.  I had just crested the top of the mountain and headed down out of the last little wisp of a town into beautiful stretch of curves cut through rock that followed a mountain stream and was overshadowed by tree covered cliffs.  Luckily I was able to pull over tires crunching on the gravelly turnaround, there weren't many safe places to stop on this road, since many who traveled this path felt it made a lovely raceway.  It was cold, and I recall thinking, "Of all the days to be wearing a dress and heels" and I began to recount my adventure. . .

I was not to be deterred, I had no cell back then-- no service there anyway, but my boyfriend (now husband) made sure I knew how to change a flat, though I hadn't actually done it before, I headed to open the hatch and lift the carpet where the spare and tools for the job were hidden.  I got busy jacking up the car, then realized, "Crap this lug wrench is full of ice!  Now what?" so I thought, smacked the wrench on the ground to see if the ice would come out. . .it didn't. . . and thought some more.  Then, Babing!  I knew what to do, I got back in the car, started the engine and got back out, walked around to the tailpipe and held the lugwrench by the hot exhaust to melt.  In just a couple minutes I was in business, except I had to let the car down again so I could loosen the lugnuts, they don't loosen easily when the tire is spinning, and I was cussing myself out for my foolishness, when I saw it, and my heart skipped a beat.  A black windowless van coming around the corner and sweeping in to the turnaround.  I froze for what I hoped was an imperceptible moment and continued at my task.

Out of the van stepped a man with longish graying hair, reminded me a little of Sam Eliot, he offered to help.  I suppose I could have said "no" at this point, I had it almost under control, but I let him finish the task I started, and knew I would have a tale to tell someday.  He remarked at my good luck that it happened near this one turnaround, I babbled about my iced lugwrench fix, while he worked and it wasn't long before we were both on our way, "Bye, thank you for helping." "No problem, drive safe."  I wonder if he ever tells a story at Sunday dinner, of a damsel in distress, in skirt and heels, who had a flat on this dangerous stretch of road on a cold winter day. . .

A House For Hermit Crabs

Lila chose A house for Hermit Crab tonight.  And that moment when Hermit crab leaves his too small shell behind I had a flash of a day this summer, and the ones before when, our family left the lake, for a single summer day at Ferry Beach.  It is a small beach on the edge of a bowl opposite the ramp where fishermen launch and moor their boats.  When the tide pulls out, you can see the way they hollow the sand in that bowl.  Barnacle covered rocks and mooring anchors are exposed  and the shallow water pulls all the boats, chained at the bow, around till they point inland.

This is the best time to arrive, on a morning when the tide is out so there is room to walk with toes sifting through soft, fine sand.  When the tide is in we walk through the water, the narrow strip of beach so full of blankets, babies, buckets and such, no land path remains.  So we walk, carrying or bags and blankets, towels and treats past the piece of beach that parallels the tiny parking lot out to a sandy knoll that overlooks the inlet itself where tidepools wait.                                                                                    

 The kids head right in, eyes in the water, between the crevices and rocks and seaweed, searching for anything that moves. . Hermit crabs are the gold nuggets of this mining expedition.  Joey and Charlie dig a hole and build up the sides on the sandbar, "It's a castle for Hermit crabs!"  They scan and sneak their hands in, trying to be stealthy, and snatch the shells from the water to place them in the castle.  One boy stays on guard to make sure they they have plenty of water, (and don't try to sneak out).  There are short breaks for swimming, sunblock, and snacks, but the kids are steadfast in their mission and proud of their work.  They call me from my warm perch on the now sand scattered blanket to check out their treasure.  We were all circled, squatting, kneeling, backs bent and noses down watching the crabs when we saw it.  The one crab who had decided his shell was a little snug, and it was time to leave his too small shell behind!  "Just like in a House for Hermit Crab!"

Now the mission changed course, "Let's find some empty shells!!"  This was a good plan for Lila who wasn't yet ready to pick up the shells that tickled back with crab legs surprise.  But before long, the shifting sun and tides remind us that time has passed. Another day is done, and we must change. . .out of our suits of sand and salt, and into soft dry clothes and sandals.  Our snacks are gone, it's time for a seafood supper, and a happy tired ride home till next year. . .

These pictures are my best from a few years ago, but we make this trek at least once every year since we discovered this treasured spot.

Took a little Trip Today. . .

A coworker handed me a candy today, about the shape and size of a sweet tart, similar texture.  "They are from England and they are really good."  So I placed it on my tongue and waited, not sour, a little sweet, is that a fizzle?  I didn't even think to ask where she got them, (she hasn't been to England recently) because I was busy taking a trip back in time to sixth grade.  . .

The first picture that came was of those fizz candys that were just a hard candy on the outside, grape or cherry maybe, but they had a not so surprize middle, as the name would suggest.  After working them in your mouth till the outside candy layer was thin, a white fizzy substance would seep out and make my mouth bubble.  Next came the image of pop rocks that created a sensation of mini explosions on my tongue.  We could get them at College Highway Variety along with watermelon Jolly Ranchers and pink lemonade flavored bubble gum.  But that fizz reminded me of pop rocks, and of Jesse.  He sat, a head full of blond curls, in front of me during 6th grade reading class, he was in the front row, me right behind him. Robin was at the desk next to him and Laurie must have been nearby too.

I can still see him turn around to show us his face foaming with laughter and poprocks,  the day he dumped a whole box of rocks, or more in his mouth.  Was it any wonder why Ms. Nathan tried to corall this joyous boy in the front row surrounding him with the "good girls"?  I still laugh at the thought!

Bedtime Ritual

Day 27

Smell of shampoo greeted me as a wet head tucked up to my cheek from behind.  I gave my big boy a hug, as my husband only half joked, "How do you get her to stop writing to give you a hug?"  J's reply, "She wasn't writing she was on facebook."  Busted! I had just tucked my baby girl in and turned on the computer, and checked my blogger stats, email, and yes facebook page. . .

Then just as quickly as that little hug, the conversation changed to eyesight, "When we see, it isn't really the objects we see, it is the light reflecting off of them."  This is my eleven year old talking and he could just as easily have tipped the conversation to fishing, or fractions, you just never know. "If the lens is too flat light goes right past the retina, causing farsightedness.  If the lens is too convex light won't make it to the retina, causing nearsightedness."  This is how it works around here, I never know what this guy will choose to share or when, but this is a good time to listen in.  I creak back in my desk chair and watch his hands wave around as if squeezing an invisible beach ball as he talks.

Seconds later my younger son comes out of the bathroom in underwear and dripping hair.  My husband herds the two upstairs, only to lose one, less than a minute later.  The oldest races down the stairs shoulders slightly hunched elbows and knees flying, gives me a sideways glance and sneaks his hand under the coffee table, and hunchy head down elbows flying up the stairs he goes with a crinkly plastic bag of. . . something.

As I write this, my husband has just returned from reading, seems like it was a short read tonight, (he is still upset about yesterday)  The usuall request to come upstairs calls me away for a moment. . . I leave my screen shining, cursor blinking and head upstairs.  I turn first to the youngest.  He is the backscratch King, I scratch every inch, notice his ear is red tonight (he isn't usually the red eared one) as he asks, "You didn't call anyone did you?"  He is worried his Uncle will find out about his blowout tantrum yesterday morning. "No. I haven't called anyone."  He didn't really look relieved, then we exchanged "I love you."'s and a hug.  As I move around the room to another boy, I am thinking our mom and dad tag team talk last night had some effect after all.  He appologized to me about 10 times today.  My oldest rolls over for a backrub, and when I ask if he has been reading the book he just got the other night, he remembers, "Oh yeah I wanted to finish it, can you turn my lamp back on?  Look how far I got last night... "  I am not surprised to see there are probably only about 8 pages unread.  Then more "Love You's" and "Goodnight."

I pad sock footed down the stairs and return to the blinking cursor and here I am again, sitting, tapping keys, and thinking that I should reread the email my middle guy's teacher sent about an issue at school with another student.  C has been a good friend to this likable kid who seems to struggle, alot.  But lately, the boy has been doing things C finds mean.  I think of C's tantrum yesterday and wonder if it had more to do with this on and off friendship than a hat. . .  I know my husband needs to read the words she wrote about our son, the one who gives us headaches at home.  I know I need to remember them when his hard time turns into my hard time.

"Please keep me informed if this continues.  I adore C and admire the amazing person that he is and I  don't ever want him to feel badly especially because he is so incredibly helpful and caring with ___.  He deserves to be treated with utmost respect as he is always such a respectful and giving soul!"

And now as finish reflecting, I post my slice here, and on Two Writing Teachers and I wrap up my bedtime ritual. 

Waiting for Spring. . .

Day 26

It is long past January where Great Grammy reminds us, "When the days get longer the cold gets stronger", the cold just keeps holding on and on and on.  It is holding us inside, when we are usually out, it is holding sap in the maple trees and refusing to let go and it feels like it is holding this family in an endless pattern of eternal waiting for spring, for change, for something to give in the attitude of one child in particular of the three. . .

It all started again with a favorite hat, the one he couldn't find this morning, when it was time to leave.  I went back in the house to give a second look around, but that doesn't matter to him, as he screams, "I need my hat! You don't understand!  You don't even care!" on repeat for the entire 20 minute ride, through morning hell.  I stopped the car, opened the door, hopped out and walked to the back of the car.  I opened the hatch careful to push it up, so I don't wap my head when the frozen pistons leave it sagging right at forehead level, and looked in the back pack, the one he already looked in.  This has happened before.  Though I try to look carefully, his hollering continues as I move things and check each pocket, I see nothing of the hat.

I climb back in knowing, this resolved nothing, now he will yell, "Turn around, go back home!!!" on repeat for the eternity of a ride, intermittently with "You don't care!! I hate you!!  I need my hat!!"  I don't have time to go back, I have three kids and myself to drop of at different locations over the next 45 minute ride through neighboring towns, over winding roads, rumbling bridges, and highly synchronized morning traffic.  I know if I can just wait him out, keep my mouth shut and drive, he will cool down.  At the first stop the other two both come in with me, he sends us off with a holler, but is quieter when I return with the oldest.  One down, I can't hold my tongue as tight as I like this morning, and there is no reasoning with this kid when he is cranked.  He sees no overreaction here, it's "MY HAT!!"  I drive on following traffic, signs and a usual path.  Drop off my oldest, he gives me the "I love you" sign with his hand, he knows this is hard on me, and everyone, he is being sweet, I return the sign, toot the horn, put the car into gear, and direct the cherokee toward the next school.

With the others gone, I am firm, this reaction was too big.  The placing of blame, unacceptable.  "I'm sorry but. . ." he says, and I retort, "I'm sorry but (insert excuse) doesn't cut it. . ." He seems to understand, but how can I know?  Despite this serious conversation, when the Jeep bumps down the hole pocked driveway to the school, he is calmer, as I predicted, after the long ride walks to the hatch like I did and pulls out his backpack, waves to me like always, and goes into school.  I am not worried there will be trouble at school.  He's the helpful one at school, everyone knows him, calls his name, he works hard and doesn't complain.

When I pick up the kids this afternoon, things are low key.  Till I mention needing help emptying the dishwasher, and he asks if I looked for the hat. . . "No. I haven't had time to look for the hat."  Everyone piles through the door backpacks, boots, coats piling over each other as only three kids can.  He goes into his backpack for his homework. . . and pulls out a bag. . . in the bag. . is the Hat!  "I found my hat!  I can't believe you didn't find it!  It's all your fault that this morning was bad!!"

 I am still waiting for spring. . .for change. . .for something to give, in the attitude of one child in particular of the three. . .

A Week of Running

The Saturday before last began a long week of running.  Two kids ran to the bathroom, over and over, then I ran, and my husband ran, over and over and over.  In between trips to the laundryroom, my husband and I throughout the week ran my daughter to rehearsals each evening, we ran to dress rehearsal, we ran to dress rehearsals onstage, and show after show after show over the weekend.  Between the sickness and the madness of our schedule, I ran to the store or for a sandwich, I ran home for an hour or less at a time and I didn't even have time to cook a meal till Friday night, (I don't have any memory of what it even was, because right after, we ran Lila to show number one) Between show number 2 and 3 I ran to the grocery store and ran home, my husband ran C to a birthday party.  On our way home from a family dinner Sunday he even ran his chainsaw to cut up a tree lying across the road home . . .

Monday came this week, with no relief from the weekend.  I had my own class that evening, and tonight was "Bingo for books" at my son's school more running.  I am even running for School Counil.  Running, which for me is chaotic enough before I consider the many big and tiny conversations that I don't usually have, lots of car rides and jostles and smiles and crowded places.  There were heaps of not home cooked meals, night after night of not relaxing in the evening before falling into bed, and no no no yoga!

And now I sit to write a slice, my mind is running, but not across anything in particular. . .

My head is full, full of noise, full of voices, full of laughter, cries, whines, and squeaks... full of the aftermath of running through life this week.  I know what I need is a bit of slow, a bunch of quiet, and billions of nothingness. . . So I am still really pretty full of all the noises and bumps and smiles and peopley stuff, and I really feel like I need to release all that, but probably not tonight because right now I must run upstairs and fall into bed, into quiet, into sleep.

Making connections, Foot to floor, foot to brain

My street shoes roll quietly in the door, with me and my bag along for the ride, then stop at the bench where I sit for a moment, while Ruthanne readies the room.  I pull off silent shoes heel first, then rub and bend my feet before wedging them into the snug and soft black leather, pull the laces firm, and tie them tight.  I roll my ankles round and round for good measure and stand to stretch. I make my way to the faux wood floor, and can't help but smile at the crisp tap, tap, tap, tap as I walk.  There must be just a tad of kid left in me because I just love that the shoes tap so clear almost a chime.

Deb arrives, with a friendly hello and begins to change up too.  We chatter about this and that while we stretch and pull one foot at a time back to behind to wake up the front of our upper legs, more ankle rolls, and we are off.  "He's so tired, and he has all this stuff going on all at once. . ."  Tip, tap, tip, tap, tip, tap, toe, heel, toe, heel, tip, tap. . . heel, toe to the front then ticking our way around one oclock, two oclock, three oclock. four oclock, five oclock, and back toward the front, other leg, tip, tap, tip, tap. . . ". . .family is coming all the way from Jersey to see. . . .  .  Let's flap"  We flap, floppy from the knee down, floppy feet fl ap, fl ap, fl ap, fl ap, fl ap, fl ap, fl ap . . . "Does he mind?"  Walk. toe, heel, toe, heel, click, clack, click, clack, . . .flick quick on the toes shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. . .

Before long conversation fades into my mind as we dig into the dance, toe heel toe heel, shuffle shuffle shuffle shuffle, toe heel toe heel shuffle shuffle shuffle shuffle, Oh whoops am I early or did they forget to turn? keep going.   slap, hop shuffleshuffle, step, slap hop shuffleshuffle, step, stomp tap tappa tappa tap stomp tap tappa tappa tap. . . Whoa!  silent cheer for being on time there. . . I did It!. . .keep going kid!  swoosh, whoops, almost fell over grace.  . . What's next???  Oh yeah like this part. . .smack, weeee the leg goes round, step stomp.. .

Finished a run through, and Ruthanne shows us a new step to add on.  I listen and watch, and ask, "Did she shuffle again, or just a flap then switch?"  "yeah its there but it's quick"   Slap flap tap, ok got that part, but the next?  I can feel my brain stretching!  Yikes. . . this is going to take a while, I know if I can just take a few tries on my own it will come, the sound, the feel, better if I don't watch her, I will be off a beat. . . Before I figure it out, we change gears back to the beginning of the dance, this run through feels more fluid, more in synch, must be some new connections in my feet. . .  in my brain  :)

The Dance of Fives

Slice of Life Day 23:

I thank God my daughter seems to have been born with a wisdom that surpasses mine when it comes to some things.  She cried one day when I picked her up because she told her friend she didn't want to play with puzzles, and her friend walked away upset.  She didn't want her friend to be upset, but she didn't want to play puzzles either.  We talked a little about how to say "no" in a friendly way.  Relief washed over her little face when I told her, "It is never too late to talk to your friend, tomorrow you can let her know you are sorry you upset her."

On the flip side, she is on the other end of this situation this crazy, busy recital week.  She has a friend who acts like a best best friend at school and barely notices her, or even tells her "I won't play with you.", in other situations (like recital time) outside of school, and I know she finds it confusing.

Frankly, I am 42 and I don't understand this stuff, but I have come along way, after 11 years, from my new parent self that might have found solace in judgeing fault in the parent or the other child for this kind of behavior.  Now, after 11 years, I can apply a few bits of knowledge. . .

1. First and foremost. . .(We need to stick together people!  This parenting stuff is hard!) That means I do not look at parents and wonder what they did wrong.  I know parenting is hard even when we/they do it right, or as right as we/they know how to do at any given moment.
2. They are five (9, 11, 26. . .you get the idea), and are still learning. . . I have a few years on them and still have not figured it all out.
3. I know that despite our best intentions, and worst faults our children have the inate ability to delightfully surprise us or shamelessly mortify us at any moment with actions or words that have nothing to do with anything we taught them.  
4. Sometimes the answer is "no" even when it is a friend asking.

I really don't know how to help my daughter here, so I tell her lamely, "Why don't you go play with your other friends for now. . "

Silent in response, my girl, 5 squeezes my finger, tight, while she watches her friend run and laugh with another. She moved us around, pulled me by the finger for about fifteen minutes (maybe it was 5 but it felt like 15), trying to keep them in sight.  I know.  The way a mother knows. I know that she is secretly hoping to recapture that preshow excitement from the first night, the moment when two girls came together to hold hands, and the others all joined, a serpent of jumping, chanting and laughter. . . Together.  I could tell, last night she was baffled by the calm, and the coloring pages.  Tonight, if I could have read her thought bubble I know it would have said, "Isn't anyone excited?!  Let's laugh and squeal and chant!"  I know, tonight she is still in search of that jolt of energy.

At one point she got an opening to say hi to the little girl she had been bubbling about all the way to this event.  The two girls joined hands, mine jumped excitedly, the other not so much, her gaze trailed off and she was running again, my girl left standing.

But she didn't stand for long.  Somehow, from somewhere, my girl managed to find grace.  She tiptoed to her other friends, joined hands with those girls and smiled shyly for a picture. (far left)

Breakfast Math Lesson-

It is funny that Stacy mentioned using dialoge in a Slice today, as I had just decided a moment at my breakfast table this morning was post worthy!  

"I only see you guys every other day!"  exclaimed our youngest, five, to her older brothers, when she heard the boys will stay at Uncle Howard's tonight.  Charlie leaned back in his chair with his knee slung over the arm of the chair, his fork waved a piece of ham, as he replied, "Well, actually you see us everyday accept sometimes when we go help with sugaring."  "Yeah,"  Joey chimes in while stabbing another piece of fruit with his fork,  "'Every other day' is a pattern of days Lila, like 1,2,1,2,1,2."  Lila's face lights up, "I know a pattern! Blue, Red, Blue, Red!"  Charlie sits up, "Just so long as it repeats it's a pattern, even this is a pattern", still holding fork up, empty now, "fork, fork, fork, fork, fork,fork,fork,fork. . ." Joey mopped up the last of his egg with a piece of potato pancake, "yeah and ABCDE, ABCDE, ABCDE. ."  Lila holds her hands up in front of her turned to her nearest brother and told us, "I made a pattern at school yesterday!" She poked up her fingers one at a time as she said, "red, orange, yellow, red, orange, yellow, red, orange. . ." till she ran out of fingers.

7:00 The Show Begins

So I have been taking in the inspirations and ideas that have been posted each morning on TWT, and thought tonight would be a good night to just snapshot an actual moment in time. . . Tonight my daughter was off to her place in the show while I waited, listened, & watched backstage. . . 

Tap dancer tap tap tap taps by then stops, shuffle shuffle goes her shoes, and keeps walking.  Girl in red leaps by and then she leaps legs long again.  Boys horse play, one pulls the fake knee to the groin, they all laugh. Little one by my feet has reappeared. . . to check on her stuffed dog propped against the table leg, and talks to him lovingly.   Bongos beat on a bench seat .  Boys eat. . .apples and gummies. "Ooohhh. She's totally breaking the rules again" says a mom as she b lines across the crowded cafeteria. Puppy girl is back whoops she caught me smiling at her.  Girl donning fluorescents and black rides piggyback on the purple sequined girl.  Those little leopards are still walking about purposefully. Pink poofs practice spinning, one smiling one serious.  Boys run. Tapity tapitty shuffle step shuffle step.  Another mom says,"The show has started now. . ." her voice trails off into the din.

Excitement Built by Girls

We bustled into to the buzzing room, dancers everywhere, an organized chaos now familiar. Quickly scanned the room for familiar friends and bright pink tutus and zoned into place.  I unpacked the costume while my little girl checked in with friends, then we sped to the changing area, jostled our way in to the crowded space, and jiggled out of streetwear into foo foo and frills.  We squeaked our way back out stepping and squeezing over and around, till we reached the open stretch then zipped back to a holding pattern of giggling girls, gripping and hugging hands.  They chant and "Jump!  Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!" delighted, dancing circles a  glimmering serpent grows hand by hand and speeds up with slips, squeals, hugs. Then, they hear their call.  Suddenly serious they step forward hand and hand, side by side, a synchronous bloom of pink, ready to dance.

Besties begin the chant!

Bedtime and Ramona the Brave and Me

I hearded the boys to their room where J turned on his light to read about a crochet stitch he wanted to try, and C snuggled into his quilt, just his head poking out. . . I grumble good naturedly about the mess, hold up a pair of underwear J swears, "They're clean mom!" and I toss them and tell him, "You check."  He laughes, and replies "They smell like laundry detergent!" as they fly into the open drawer.  Trying not to let their room drive me crazy, I settle onto the unofficial reader's pillow on the floor between the two beds, open up Ramona the Brave to "Owl Trouble" and read.

When the class pulled out paper bags to decorate as owls, I felt zapped by Ramona, such a connection! Was I that girl?  Oh, how it drove me crazy when another child copied and the teacher didn't notice, or worse. . .PRaised their work!  I grew up with Ramona, though I scarecly recall reading her books as a child, in that age of "no tattletales", "no copycats" teachers who never seemed to notice me, unless it was for something I didn't do. . .The one time I recall being noticed for doing something a teacher liked, it somehow felt just as humiliating.  I read the chapter tweaking my voice to sound a little dumber than Susan might have deserved, but I don't care for copycats either, I am with Ramona on this one for sure!  If I was brave enough that day, I may have thrown my owl away too. . .Ok. I was a bit too timid to really be Ramona.  I read on to the end, and when Ramona looked in her new mirror of her new room. . . "Ramona thought of herself as the kind of girl everyone should like, but this girl. . ."  Sigh, there I am again.

I lie here on my kids floor a split second I am, 6 with that mean teacher who didn 't seem to care about what was right as much as she wanted to avoid tattletalers and copycats.  Pressure built, when she yelled at me for writing on my desk, only it wasn't me, our desks got switched.  I actually ran like Ramona out of school, my six year old self screamed "I hate you"and I ran.  Why did school have to feel so hard back then?  Is it still this hard for our kids?  I know, if I listen to the stories my boys tell, it is.  It is just as hard, but usually for other reasons, teachers have come a long way.

I scanned and reached around for the bookmark, but it had strangely disappeared.  The page was already folded over, J read this chapter already.  So I placed the book into the old school desk that C tucks with books and stuff.  I stood, stretched than leaned against C's bed to scratch every inch of C's back, just like he likes, then gave J a shoulder rub, he was engrossed in that crochet stitch and wouldn't notice anything else right now.  Saying "Goodnight! Sleep Well."  I flicked off the overhead light, C smiled and I headed for the stairs, still thinking about Ramona, and me.

A Story about a Fairy Dust Morning

There must have been a squall, but all I could think was, "It's a fairy dust morning, fairy dust morning, fairy dust morning. . . "  Repeating the words like a mantra I rushed to find the pants my husband was looking for and set them on a chair where he would see them.  I hauled the boys' sheets down to the laundry, flump, slam, click, glug, whoosh, and bustled upstairs with another basket.  Repeating in my mind, "It's a fairy dust morning. . ." while noise of a family filled weekend morning faded into the background of my consciousness.  I grabbed my notebook, my pen, and slipped to the window to watch, to wait, and to write.

The poem came quickly. . .

Fairy dust morning

Silver sun sneaking through pine boughs

Sprinkling sparkles

Sun kissed saplings

Criss crossing

cold swirls twinkling among the trees

Across the yard

A gift

A poem

A fairy dust morning

Then, I was reminded of another day.  It was a day a lot like this one, but without the clutter of children and chores to distract me.  Long ago, with a backpack tucked with pencils and square slips of paper, a water bottle and wool blanket.  It had been ages since I had sketched, but I was prepared.  I entered the woods. . .

It was slow walking through the snow past the old stone chimney standing sentry.  I took a moment to acknowlege, a silent nod, and keep on, this spot is too close to the road, to travelers, to the real world.  I crossed a little bridge over a brook.  The light, wondrous in the woods today, a luminous dappling on snow and ice covered branches, rocks and half rotten logs.  It was a quiet walk, snow crunching softly, loosened by the sun, beneath my feet and only snowfleas unsettled on the surface to keep me company.  I stopped to marvel at how quickly they danced on cold crystals.  Knowing I could not capture their magic with my pencil, I moved further up a knoll, I would know when the place was right. . .

Then there it was, a welcoming log frozen into the snow, a patch of sun warming this glorious spot surrounded by nothing. . . but forest.  All was quiet while I settled onto the warm wool and leaned against the log, pencils, paper ready, I took a sip of icy water and just looked all around me, at everything, and I waited.  Light glittered, illuminating ice traced branches, and the world seemed to shimmer magically around me as I disappeared, still.  This is the spot.  Soon the winter birds come in fluttering and flitting like sprites, a squirrel chattered back, tail twitching a few trees away.  I am forgotten.

They are here in this enchanted place.  Twinkling sparks of light on limbs and crystals of snow that surround me.  I can feel their gift and begin to slide my pencil around a square of paper tentatively at first.  Then intuition guides me.  I sketch the magic of a quiet morning in the forest where snowfleas dance and sprites and fairies leave precious gifts.  I sketch light, and line and a love of this moment, in hopes that I can wrap them gently and take them home to treasure.  

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the glistening frost slowly gave way, snowfleas no longer danced, and I had sketched my fill for the morn.  I rolled up my wool and tucked into my pack and smiled a thank you to the magical ones who shared a gift with me today.  Then I walked taller out of the woods, off the knoll, across the brook, past the old stone chimney standing sentry.  Back to the road I walk, toward travelers, the real world, and home. . .

Yes.  This was another one of those days.  A fairy dust morning, a fairy dust morning, a fairy dust morning. . .They left me a gift enchanted with magic.  I am wrapping it up here to pass along to you.

The memories of that morning are attatched carefully to pink paper, bound loosely with smooth ribbon, placed in a basket of other lovelies for safe keeping

  

Fairy Dust Morning- Poem

Slice of Life Day 17



I have a story about this day, but have a nasty stomach bug and can't sit up long enough to type it in, hopefully tomorrow.

Fairy dust morning
Silver sun sneaking through pine boughs
Sprinkling sparkles
Sun kissed saplings
Criss crossing
cold swirls twinkling among the trees
Across the yard
A gift
A poem
A fairy dust morning

Day 16- Growing Slices

Slice of life post # 16, wow! second half has begun, Today I decided to write about the ways I noticed my kids (my own and from school) suddenly seemed more grown up this week.  

This weekend I sat rocking in the sun with a cup of tea, spiced chai with a dash of milk, steaming in my hand. I was home on sick duty, while my husband and oldest were out.  Charlie was sleeping again, Lila was coloring and singing while watching PBS, and I had this quiet space, on a sunny in the house day, to reflect.  I realized there were several moments this week when I noticed one of "my" kids doing something they hadn't done before and I ticked off a list in my head.

• Lila, 5 put her own pony holder in her hair working hard with her fingers to keep it from tangling, and it was "all by myself" not "selth".  I sighed when I heard it, another babyism gone by the way of forward growth.
• M, 3 jumped with 2 feet at the same time and when I reminded him to share the dinosaurs with friends he didn't scream "no!", he said "ok."  
• Ch, 9.5 had a stomach bug and never once called me in the middle of the night even though he was up several times.  
• J, 11 stayed at Aunt and Uncles without his brother for the first time.  
• S, 4 opened her milk carton by herself after trying and trying.  
• Ca, 4 ish joked  and talked with me every day this week instead of looking at me silently.  
• H, put on his coat without waiting and asking for unneeded help.  
• B let me help her without stubborn refusal. 
• K focused on making letters out of playdough for a loooong time.  
• Jr 4 learned to catch a ball really well and throw it back to me.  
• M, G, and L solved their own problem at recess, all I had to do was ask, "what could you change?"
• Ja, 4 I sang a line or two from "Sweet Baby James" and James said to me in good natured exasperation, "Miss Amy I'm not a baby" 

Gazing at the way the sun almost shines through some of the thick waxy leaves of the plant nearby, an idea dawns, these kiddos are growing up as I sit and type, and go about my day in many various ways.  I am concious, it is not a new idea, but that moment of being fully aware when it happens tingles my skin. . .and these are just the very small moments I saw!  "Imagine the moments I may have missed!" my voice in my head exclaims.  Then I envision how these small moments will continue to grow.   My fantasy, in this moment, is that this is a slice full of mini slices waiting to grow into full sized slices.  Each individual will multiply into several, many tightly bound wedges full of juice, full of flavor, bound with fibers, a seed here or there, round and full. . .