Sugar baby is growing up

She walked around the sugar house like she owned it, "I'm getting a juice for Uncle Howard."  In that moment, I realized my six year old was no longer the sugar baby of last year, caring only about the sampling of wares and overseeing the candy making in hopes of acquiring a maple sugar cookie.

Though she still stayed close when Auntie Jeanne made candy, she then ventured back to boiler room, without checking with me first, or holding my hand and asking me to "come with me mommy."

Throughout the afternoon boil, she asked questions and watched, I could hear Howard  answering and explaining as he worked.  He even taught her to "predict" when the syrup would draw, a "trick" that has amazed many fieldtrip kindergarteners over the years.

"We are making syrup fast today." Or "After I pour the syrup in Auntie Jeanne or mom will run the filter.  When you hear it get noisy you can flip this switch." Pointing to switch on a post nearby.  

Of course, when canning time came, my sugar baby showed her face once again.  "Mommy can I have a sample?"

For just a moment

Amidst the chaos of the beginning of school, with coworkers bustling about the room, and darting in and out of conversations before the children arrived something drew my eye toward the high window. As the world around me whirred and moved, I sat staring and taking in the moment.  On the corner of the roof white with winter, two shining black crows sat upright preening and pecking at the snow, tall against the sliver of blue. . . only visible from my perch at the computer.  

Barbie Bandits

She climbed into the car after dance and in disheartened squeal, "Where's his shirt?  They lost it and I'll never find it!"  As I poked around in the winter boot Ken was sticking out of, I found the shirt, "Don't worry, it's right here.", I picture the two brothers waiting in the car, watching movies, and . . . playing with sister's Barbie and Ken.  "Why do they have to mess up my dolls?" another anguished plea.  And my reply, "I guess if you don't want them messed with just leave them in your backpack out of sight, and as I speak these words I file the moment for future use with future girlfriends or wives to be, graduation day, or who knows when . . . *insert evil snigger here.

Like Percy

teacher smiled direct,
I caught it.  the kid's story
changed everything

More than Peanutbutter and Football

I climbed the stairs to the sound of raukus banging and thumping just in time to see the peanut butter container fly to the floor and land with a boom.  In a flash, I recalled recontainering two pounds of peanut butter once before when the plastic jar cracked. "What are you doing?!" I yelled.  The overtired boy flew up the stairs, and my husband took the fall, "My fault!  Yell at me, not him!"

I try to be fair and look at situations before reacting, but sometimes. . . Then I wonder over the many times teachers are put in the position of reacting to "situations", and with the ratio of at least 20 students to 1 teacher and the job of teaching  and 'no tolerance' on the mind, I wonder how often we get it right?   How often do kids pull their friends out from under the bus?  How often do we get it wrong and have a child go home to report, "That teacher is an idiot!"  

Not to dwell on my mistake, I haul myself upstairs after him to appologize and give him a hug.  "Sorry I overreacted buddy." and he hugged me back.

March Poem 2015

Even as we are just barely emerging from one of the coldest, snowiest winters since I was a kid, I couldn't help but smile at the snow flurry mixed with sunshine, warm air, and blue sky as I opened the door just now.

March Poem 2015

Open door. . .warm
High Sun shines on
White flakes flurrying across
Blue sky
Smile

Tracking

I've been waiting.  It has been such a crazy week, no time to deal with the snow and now it holds a sign.

As I approach, I wonder, Are those tracks, pressed into the slush covered drive, wider than the usual?  I've been waiting.  So, to me it looks like they swung wide before heading left up our little hill.  My husband and I don't really do that.

I crest the hill and my eyes quickly scan past the sleeping maple tree and burning bush to the porch, because I have been waiting for this.  Tracks lead right up to the house.

I knew it!  The brown shape stands out light against the dark wood, tracking label shining bright in contrast.  As I approach the steps, My suspicion is correct.  My package is here!

And the Giggling Ensues

I was feeling pretty bad.  I had just grumbled at my daughter, basically for being a kid, while I was trying to do a tedious task on my computer.  To cheer her up I promised something fun. . .bubbles in the tub!  Then, I realized sadly while running the bath, there are NO bubbles in this house!  She burst into tears again.

In an instant, I transformed her dreaded hairbrush into a scandalously funny character reminding her to wash her hair and put conditioner in.  With an inconsistent accent that is a cross between a female version of Gru (from Dispicable Me) sprinkled with hints of attitude of Colette (from Ratatouille), and who knows what else?, the hairbrush came to life.  "Don't forget to vash yoa hayar and some condishonar too so you vont have all tangles in dat hayar."  A Giggle bubbles out of my daughter.  "Vat are ju laughing at, I vill reeeep out jor hayar, ju silly goose!"  Outright laughter.

In my own voice, shampoo in hand, come let me wash your hair. I began to scrub and said oh my goodness the brush is making me do it!  My arms are scrubbing like crazy! Brush, "Scrub it up ju grubby dub, vash your hayar."  The rinse and conditioning was peeled with laughter and smiles as was the brushing through tangles.  "Vat is dis?  No teaers?  Ju are supposed to be crying and vining right now ju rrascal, vat is goiiing on around heaar?"  Hysterics.  "Vy are ju laughing and not crying?"

Lila, "You are making me laugh, it doesn't hurt when I am having fun!!"

The view

From the view of a warm car, having just delivered one child to school and others still bound for destinations, I see them again.  A family, I think, two children, bundled, hoods up making themselves busy in the snow banks lining the slush covered sidewalk as the adult looking down the street, (for the bus?) puffs a cigarette.

Each day I see them in some form of waiting on this street outside a package store.  Today I was running late and for the first time saw those two bundled kids scurry onto the school bus and I couldn't let the image go unwritten.

I think about how I have watched strangers' children grow over months, sometimes years from the view of my driver's seat. . . And wonder do they ever notice us as we pass, a warm family filled van in various states of mood and expressions we pass by?

Boys on Friendship

I was lying on the sleeping bag and pillow, the ones my boys leave out for the 'designated reader' at bedtime.  Although everything was late tonight, including bedtime, they both asked if I would come up and keep reading Wonder by R.J. Palacio.  When ten and eleven year old boys ask mom to come read a really good book, it is hard to resist.

We just reached a place in the book where the true character of one of the boys in the book really becomes apparent, before I stopped reading.  One of my own boys began to talk about how if he had to choose a good friendship over being popular he would choose the good friendship.  I talked about how I could see where the character was coming from at first, because in real life sometimes it can be harder to see things while they are happening and then we realize man, that was dumb, or look what I am missing. . .

Then my youngest agreed in an unexpected way.  He talked about a boy he was in class with the year before and how he thought they were friends.  When the other boy said things like, "Give me a pencil or I won't be your friend." my guy said, "I did all kinds of things for him, because I thought he really was my friend all this time, then he punched me and that was it.  He wasn't really my friend."

In that moment I was struck by how the right books can really open important conversations with our kids.  Conversations that can otherwise feel canned or static only for the sake of having them, can become truthful and important.  So greatful to fabulous authors. . . 

Ready for the day?

I am not ready.  It is Monday and there is so much I haven't done to prepare for the week.  Meals aren't ready.  Kids' papers fluttered across the kitchen counter on Friday lay still, cluttering the expanse.  I am pretty sure my favorite pants are still crumpled in a pile of dirty laundry that grew over the weekend instead of being washed and returned to drawers.

I take a sip of hot tea, strong and just a little sweet.

And then I take another.  I calm my thoughts.  I make a plan in my mind for supper.  I decide what I can wear today.  Papers only take a moment to gather.  I will throw a load of laundry in before my shower and waking the kids.

As I finish my last sip of tea, I know I am now, at least a little bit more . . .ready.

Wondering. . .

I put on my coat and boots, to go help move more firewood in, and she was rushing about, "Where are my boots?", and then found them and began tugging them on.  She was tying her boots, coat on but unzipped, when I walked out the door, to fill the wheelbarrow.  I had dumped a few loads down to the pile when she came out, coat zipped, and asked, "What should I play?"  After a short back and forth of ideas, our yard is deep with snow, and she didn't put on snowpants, she asked "Can I just play in the driveway?" to which I replied, "sure".

Our driveway is pretty long, we are far from the dirt road on which we live, and even the plowed area is essentially still snowcovered.  As she walked along, she called "Can I go on the hill?"  The hill is about 100 feet from our house, and as I answered "yes" it sort of struck me that she even thought to ask, it is just halfway down our driveway. Then I thought about this youngest one, who always seems to have someone, me, her dad, one or both of her brothers, to do things with and I wonder for a moment that she actually has an opportunity to be a little independent in her own way.

The sky is grey and leaking a few flakes into the cold air as I stand and watch her trod along in her insulated boots and winter coat, with her hair hanging long over the hood in back, and I realize I want to write about this moment or thought, but I am not really sure what it is exactly.  She is only gone minutes when she returns to the house. As I type, hours later snow has only lightly covered our vehicles and is still falling, now from the black sky outside my window, and I wonder if my little girl gets enough time to just be with herself, or if she will one day learn to enjoy it. . . 

Sledding

Hot layers,
clothes and climb
Cold steals through,
Backs in snow,
bare treetops, sky swirls
refreshing,windblown laughter

Be Kind to your DPW Drivers!

So I was sitting with my husband last night, and he was talking about how frustrating it is to work on our local Town Highway Dept. It really bothers him that so many people badmouth the town crew. If you know him and many of you do, he is very Smart, very kind, and a HARD worker, raised on a farm and taught to always give his work 110%. Frankly, the crew he works with now is extremely competent and hardworking despite rumors and badmouthing of surprisingly unsupportive local and prominent mouthpieces, who seem to feel it is their duty to stir up trouble, or keep the stereotype of the lazy town employee alive and well.

So imagine his dismay, when he stops to get some food after being out almost 24 hours, and is told to go out and re scrape a road, because someone called to complain that the job he did wasn’t “up to standards”. The reality, his supervisor confirmed, he did a fine job, the snow on the road came from snow filled trees after some wind . . .of course it will need to be rescraped, but that is no fault of the man driving the plow. What? You think the town crew should keep trees from overhanging roads? They would be glad to, but so many residents are against tree maintenance/removal that many roads are left with poor sunlight (necessary for melting), poor drainage (necessary for reducing ice buildup) that they must just do the best they can with the situation at hand.

So, back to my hungry husband, here he is rescraping a road after the snow stops falling. He passes driveways all day, he is plowing a road, that is his job. Yet instead of a friendly wave from residents, folks yell obscenities and raise their middle finger as he passes as if he could somehow magically divert snow from landing at the edge of the road each driveway . 

Just think how that makes a person feel. . . 

When he does finally get a break, or stop for coffee at the local store, he is publicly ridiculed for hanging around, lazy. . .Do people think the running joke about lazy highway workers is funny? (he tries to ignore those comments, bc well .. . who has the energy when he's left his bed at 2 am and hasn't been home in 16 hours, 3 hours, 8 hours, 24 hours, (what does it matter, he left his warm bed, his baby's birthday party, a newborn and mom, a wife fighting cancer, a daugter's dance class. . (I could go on and on, the possibilities are endless because those guys are human after all, they are not the enemy) They do that job for however long it takes to get it done.

My challenge is this: 

• If everyone who sees this could share this message, that would be fantastic. (time @ 3 seconds)
• Then, if you have another couple seconds, when you see anyone driving a town/state plow truck, give them a wave and a smile, that's all. . .
• If you are feeling ambitious, and you happen to see town crew around town eating or chatting alone or as a group, ask them how long they have been out or expect to be out, ask them how it has been going? or when's the last time they sat down for a hot meal. . . say thank you! A little empathy goes a long way. . .
• Have Patience: and keep in mind a few facts. . .
• In Northfield 6 guys (actually 5 right now bc one was injured falling on the ice recently) each have a route that can take from 3-6 hours to complete depending on rate of snowfall, ice, visibility and so on. . .
• Breakdowns happen. . . equipment fails. The trucks and equipment see a lot of miles and hours, and despite frequent and regular maintenance stuff breaks.
• The reason the plow goes by . . . again, and again after a storm ends, is to push back banks, especially on a year like this where storm follows storm, otherwise the roads become very narrow as the winter progresses.
• Unexpected things happen, even when drivers are carefull. . . ***think glare ice, steep hills, and curves, 20 foot or less visibility and one tired guy in a very BIG truck with a sander and a plow. . .
• Despite what might occur in a perfect world, all this happens with a budget in mind, a budget for sand, maintenance, overtime and so on. . . these guys are doing the best they can with what they have and those resources are naturally depleted as the winter goes on and on as this one does. . .

If you made it this far, thank you for reading and educating yourself! PLEASE share this message with others and hopefully we can all share the Love, for the hard work and tenacity of the Highway men everywhere this winter.

Amy Boyden,
Wife, mom, teacher, and highway department supporter, lover of humanity

Lost in the Details of an Anxious Mind

It was evening and the boys were put to bed.  My husband read to them, and I rubbed backs and tucked them in.  We were catching a piece of Trump's Apprentice, when the younger complained from the top of the stairs, "Joey shot a rubberband at me when I was sleeping!!"  I made my way up, feeling frustrated, but knowing this is my boy, his anxiety is ramping up and we are all feeling it, at home and at school. He has been getting lost in details, overly critical, details preventing him from seeing the big picture when he makes a poor choice, details getting in the way of taking responsibility. . . He has made so much progress curbing his comments and taking ownership for his mistakes, it seems out of character now for these things to pop out again.

He is a preteen, and will be changing schools next year, we don't know which one for sure, but a huge change in any case, and his anxiety comes out in his ability to get along with. . . everyone.  Plus, he is a preteen, ugh, need I say more?  He has been disrespectful, which led to the meeting this week.  I pictured him at the meeting hands shaking, he tried to hide it with slumped poster and attitude eyes, but words simply weren't there for him.  I know this because I have experienced it.  I know people don't understand how a bright, otherwise very verbal person, could suddenly not have words, but it happens to me still, so I know.

So, I tucked the youngest back in with hugs and kisses, and sat down on the bed of the oldest.  I told him "I know it has been hard, the meeting, the talks. . .but everything will be ok.  We love you, me and Dad both, and we are here to help you." I rubbed his back with pressured strokes, to try and settle him down and told him,  "We will help you over the bumps"  and then jokingly, "but could you try to steer around a few of them?"  He said, "Feels more like mountains, can't really go around mountains." I told him, "I want you to close your eyes and picture the mountains shrinking."  and true to form, he said, "What kind of mountains are they?  Oceanic subduction? continental subduction? or fault line?"  I gave him a hug and said, "You pick." and "promise to picture the mountains shrinking."

December Rains

I am in a muddle.  I haven't written anything in a few weeks, short of an email or quick facebook post, so here I sit in silence, on the weekend between Christmas and New Year's, with pen, notebook, tea, and dimly lit tree, knowing it will be coming down in a few days.

The idea, of taking the tree down, colors my thoughts with a melancholy blanket of blah.  This year has been a rainy December.  There is much winter to go, and I am hoping for a clean, white slate soon, and even though I know I have had a good month with my family, I can't help but feel dissatisfied with the winter rains that have drowned the sleeping landscape in a puddle of gray.

I dread taking down the tree.  I know it will feel good in the long run.  I have left the tree well into January before, and regretted my procrastination as it became a grim, looming thing while the days passed and the dread of sorting ornaments weighed heavier and heavier.  "I won't do that again" I think to myself.

As I sit, curled into the cushion of the overstuffed chair, mind continuing it's wander, I recall my husband's grandmother's words, "In January, the cold gets stronger, and the light gets longer."  I catch a glimpse, in my imagination, of a January day when I suddenly notice, (as if it was actually sudden and not a very gradual thing) that the sun is rising a bit further North, climbing higher in the sky, and shining into the later afternoon hours.  I can see it clearly for a second, even feel the sun on my skin if I let my mind relax. . .breath just right. . . or concentrate just enough. . . then the image is gone.  Did I really feel it?  Just as swiftly as the image appears, it fleets away leaving me settled, once again, by the old Christmas tree as the December rain begins to fall in heavy, steady, drops on the metal roof overhead.

25 Days

With the truly jaded outlook of a mom of 3 kids who have been consistently NOT getting along lately, I constructed our first advent calendar in an attempt to get them in the Christmas spirit by the time Christmas arrives.  We worked together to paint an old canvas I had in my craft area, Lila enjoyed this.  We puzzled over the size of the envelopes, how small would they need to be.  I finally settled on using mini craft bags cut into thirds and hot glued on the bottom only 24 fit at this size, so I chose to add a full size bag along the side, just to be different.  Joey put a stack of old calendar numbers in order so I could see what was missing and I collected miscellaneous holiday papers and old holiday cards from my stash to add some color.

Scraps and Cards and papers

envelopes and bags, what to use what to use?

An evenings work



Next day embellishing has begun!

I have begun adding do dads and whatnots to sparkle it up a bit and give it some fun, I think I will probably keep adding throughout the season, because it is just fun to do!

So, December first arrived!!!  Under number 25, the kids found a scrap of paper that read, "Make paper chains to decorate for Christmas"  So groggy but 'game' they began their morning, 6:30am making paper decorations. 

Day 2 however, began in a very crabby way, crying over the candies I left.  This picky girl who changes her tastes witht the wind. Boo!!  But there is hope, Charlie offered up a trade, and Joey put breakfast together and morning crafts on his list of "Good ways to start the day" (which we had to make because the kids were off to such a tough start this morning) One step forward, one step back and we are going to be in the spirit by the 25th!!!

 

Fall-Preparing for Winter

I stepped out into air like smoked mint,
Crisp, slightly kindled from fire already burning,
together we stack, clack stovelengths, pack, clack tight
strained and strong we stack, clack, pack clack tight
helping, handing, chuckling and chucking we all pitch in. . .

Book Report Hell-p

I hopped out of the car, kids in tow and sent the youngest two to play.  My oldest is about to experience his first official teacher conference, we are immediately met by one fast talking teacher, a familiar face and voice he has been working with for a few years.  She gives me a quick heads up about the book report assignment, which I had heard nothing about from him.  “It will be coming home.  The aid made some notes and wrote you a note so you can understand the situation.  He will need to finish it up at home.”  I had only a moment to reflect on this statement, “situation”??  The sixth grade teacher, the new voice for us, pops his head out the door of his room.  “Thanks for coming!  Sorry to keep you waiting!   Let’s head right in, shall we?”  The conference felt good, productive even, and I didn’t give the book report another thought till the following evening when an adult sized eleven year old landed, sprawled one foot straight behind him on the floor, another knee on the bench, and his head laying on the table squeaking out moans of protest, “I don’t know what to do!”  I didn’t need to read the note to understand this was going to be a long night, for both of us.

It took me a good twenty minutes (or more? in the din of protest, it seemed like hours!) to sort through my son’s writing folder, there was a post it from the aid, which helped, a little, but I still needed to get my bearings here, and figure out how to help my guy tackle this.  Unlike the recollection my husband and I have of regurgitating books in the name of “book report”, the structure for this sixth grade book report requires using three kinds of writing; expository, descriptive, and persuasive.  It also has specific guidelines that include a first person narrative from a character’s perspective.  My son had two pieces started and the third final section yet to begin.  So I started him there.  It was as close to a ‘fresh start’ as I could manage and I needed to muddle over the first two pieces a bit and figure out how to help him proceed.  After a few prompting questions, to determine his stance on the book, my son was writing. 

The next night, I was armed with a plan and a chart.  My son, of course, being himself did not want to use the chart.  Part of the problem with this first book report, is that the class was all working on the same book, except him, because he wasn’t integrated into the afternoon ELA workshop till several weeks into the year.  If I know anything about my boy, it is that he is very conscious of wanting to be “like everyone else” and sure enough, he was pretty sure no one else’s mom made a chart.  But for my own sanity I combined several pages of guidelines and instructions into one piece of paper anyway and am glad I did it!

The thing that I think helped my son most was to break the task down into chunks starting with the 3 sections of the book report.  Then I looked for the basics within each section, did he have any or all of the pieces?  He actually did have most of them.  The few missing components then, became easy to point out and for him to tackle.  After the basics, I looked for anything that needed a bit more information, detail, or examples, but for this time, I tried not to get carried away.  I was proud of myself this week, when I read Anna Gratz Cockerille’s “Work Smarter not Harder” post and realized I had intuitively broken down this task into the two qualities of writing to focus on when giving feedback, “organization and elaboration”.  Aside from the one post-it the aid left me in the writing folder, there were scads of notes, not just about the parts of the report, but about craft and language.  (That was why on night one, I got him started on a new section.  With all the notes, I was overwhelmed too!)

I know where she was coming from.  The aid at school certainly knows the sixth grade teacher, and his expectations.  After attending curriculum night, it was clear to me that the students this year will be expected to approach their writing, even the historically mundane book report, with a bit of artistry.  As is generally the case when approaching a job started by someone else, it seems too easy for me to say “She shouldn’t have pointed out quite so many places to “fix””, this is not a criticism of someone in the trenches.  I know, honestly, every teacher of writing has run into this hazard, too many “fix it” notes! Many posts on the Two Writing Teachers blog confirm that as they address how to avoid overwhelming students with comments, how to narrow down a teaching point, etc.

I also realize there are always two sides to a story, and am quite familiar with how my son can put the “Hell” into “helping”.  Things can snowball quickly with him if he is discouraged. Knowing my son as I do, (we’ve been doing this school thing together now for 8 years starting with preK), I figured he would need to learn to build the walls, the structure, before asking him to add paint and trimmings.  He can have a hard time seeing the big picture, and easily gets bogged down in details.  I also know there will be many more book reports this year, and many opportunities for practicing his craft, for choosing paint colors and adding tchotchkis.  This week he has settled into a new report.  He hasn’t asked for a minute of help.  He doesn’t want me to see it till it is done.  He has been working independently, no sprawling or squeaking involved, no protest no “Hell-p”!

The Night Fairy and Company (a Halloween Tale)

Every year, my two youngest children's birthdays and All Hallow's Eve fall in the same chaotic week. . .Every. . .year!  My husband and I used to handle this diligently by attempting to set our kids to costume brainstorming and creation early in the month, as soon as we turned the calendar over to October.  Even still, we often had that last minute rush for the final piece, or last minute adjustment, but this year it was the night before Halloween, my oldest just lugged home a big chunk of (teethpulling type) homework to complete, and all three kids were desperately in need of costumes, and the oldest didn't have a clue what he wanted to be this year.

As big brother set to homework and middle guy gathered his Lone Ranger gettup, my little girl and I began collecting fairy trappings from around the house.  One of her favorite books is The Night Fairy, by Laura Amy Schlitz, and she decided to be Flory the night fairy this year.  Daddy prepped her to assert, "I am a night fairy" rather than "I am Flory" when people inquired about her costume this evening, in order to avoid any confusion as many people are only familiar with the more pop-culture fairies of the world.  We dug for just the right tights, and sparkly shoes, and I found the perfect dark haired wig.  She tried on three dresses and decided on reworking a tinkerbell costume, removing the tinkerbell broach, while daddy transformed into the magical warlock of wings, (fixing them up like new, after all not everyone is familiar that Flory's wings were damaged for most of the story. . . ) and slowly I evolved into a homework hag.  "What do you mean you don't know what to do?"

The next night, Halloween, I made a mad dash to the grocery before heading toward home.  I realized  exasperatedly that I needed a few things for the next day's two parties.  (This was the fateful year, my daughter finally reached kindergarten.  For years I have told her "no kid party till kindergarten". . .My time was up!)  While I slogged through the Friday afternoon crowd, my husband braved the downtown traffic and Halloween turmoil of trick or treaters literally in the streets, to bring home pizza, so I could help my oldest prepare his Zorro attire.  I fashioned a hat out of cardboard while the boy diligently fabricated a sword out of brakeline and electrical tape.  (Despite our great efforts, most folks sadly dubbed him a "bandit" for the evening, perhaps because he lost his sword by the fifth
house? sigh. . .)

Finally, finally, finally we piled our troops in the van and headed toward town.  (The trees in these here woods make quite fine neighbors, but don't give much in the way of candy at Halloween)  As soon as we stopped the car, Zorro leapt out with great flare, zinging his sword of brakeline with gusto, (and getting scolded for almost zinging mom in the eye)  He continued leaping zig zaggingly in zany Zorro form throughout the night, while the Lone Ranger moseyed through the town with the genuine sore feet of a cowboy without a horse.  A true predictor that the cowboy theme will be abandoned next year.

The night fairy hopped from the car with pure joy glowing from her.  Irridescent wings fluttered happily through the darkness seeking sweet treats as Flory's smile lit up the night and polite thank you's (slightly out of character for Flory) graced the evening.  I laughed out loud as I watched her flit from house to house wings wiggling, and curls bouncing in true fairy form, and thought to myself, "this is what Halloween is all about" . . . despite it's perpetual ill timing.

Tween years, Choose Kind

The phone rang on the wall in our classroom and my coworker answered.  It was for me, which was the first sign of trouble.  My son's teacher began talking and before I had time to wonder if someone was sick or hurt, I realized the call was about a different kind of trouble.  "The bus ride in the afternoon has been a problem.". . ."unkind to a student from another school". . . "multiple sources reported".  My heart sank to the pit of my stomach.

Sometimes, I feel like we (my husband and I) are doing a great job teaching our kids to be kind and compassionate.  They can all be exceptionally thoughtful at times, sometimes unexpectedly so.  I notice those moments when they show us the best of themselves as they truly look out for one another or their friends.  A lot of times, I am just not sure.  Then, there are those "What were you thinking???!!!" moments, like this one, when I wonder what we are doing wrong.  He can have difficulty seeing the perspective of others, though we go over these situations often, but he does eventually understand.  The question is how to bridge the understanding within a supportive environment after the fact and creating independent understanding that can stand on it's own when we the parents aren't around to help.

Over the weekend, I picked up my nook and tapped and swished to a book I started reading well over a month ago and just hadn't returned to.  This day, I returned to Wonder hoping for wisdom to woosh from the pages.  As it turns out, what is great about this book is not that it is full of answers.  Wonder is simply and complexly a weave of characters faced with choices and making choices, good and bad, every day.  (If you have, live with or work with children in the tween years, I highly recommend reading/sharing Wonder, by RJ Palacio)

A particular teacher is highlighted in this book for sharing his "monthly precepts", (a general rule to regulate behavior or thought)  He begins in September with, "When given the choice between being right and being kind, choose kind."  I  hear this phrase "choose kind" now everywhere I turn, it seems.  I latched onto it myself, after first beginning this book over the summer, because I could see so many opportunities, for my boys in particular, to be more compassionate with one another.  I keep trying to encourage them to see the gray areas between the black and white thinking which seems to be so prevalent in their brains, the black and white thinking that drives their incessant need to be right even at the expense of relationships with family, classmates, friends.

Some of the characters in Wonder are around my son's age, but even the older ones are faced with choices.  Choosing kind sounds easy, perhaps that is part of the nature of a precept (to sound, but not actually to be easy to carry out)  This book reminded me that in real life and especially at this age, it can be hard , really hard, to choose kind.  Even the most likeable characters in the book make missteps.  I can reflect on my own life's experiences and relate to different characters at different times, recall my own missteps and misunderstandings.  I can see through the grey areas in my mind now to the old roads of black and white that once guided my thoughts, and I realize my kids are living those now.  I can recall the times I did or said something that for days or weeks or years after, if someone asked me why, I would not be able to answer.  I have lived through that regretful moment of knowing, realizing, I didn't choose kind. I have wished I could go back and fix it, and I vaguely am aware of the realization that grew as I got older, that 'next time' was my opportunity to fix it, to do better.

This somehow makes me feel slightly relieved, remembering that I have done dumb or dispicable things myself.  When we look at our kids and hope for them, it is easy to forget how hard it is to be young as we joke, "you've got it so easy", "wait till you have  to go to work for a living".  But if we set aside the romanticised memory of childhood, we would admit the tween years particularly are hard work too, they are growing into humans and that is not an easy simple task.  On navigating the tween years with my kids, I hope to also Choose Kind, as often as I can, and remember as humans we do the best we can each moment with what we know now, in that moment.  The next moment might change what we knew a minute ago.

Growing a writer, a human, a boy

My son wants to improve his writing.  Specifically, he wants to learn to write more creatively, in his own words, “with fewer transition words like ‘first’, ‘next’, and ‘then’”.  It still amazes me that he has reached and exceeded the point where he likes to write again.  He started excitedly in kindergarten, but by third grade he would refuse to make a birthday card for anyone, let alone sit down and write a story.  Last year I thanked his teachers for giving him the tools to move forward, especially in writing, I may have even written about it here somewhere. My little guy is growing up, literally. . .at age 11 he is 5 foot 3 and wears his dad’s old pants and has to shop in the men’s section of the shoe store, and he likes to write his stories.  He’s gaining skills, and now he has even set a goal for himself. . . in writing!  This mama, teacher, writer couldn’t be more proud.

His 6^th grade teacher is a man, who at nearly 7 feet tall commands a presence in his classroom.  It was clear at curriculum night that an appreciation for literature, poetry and art were high on his priority list along with teaching our kids to take responsibility for their own learning, (and that of the other kids in the class as well), to be actively engaged in developing desirable character traits within the classroom and to have the skills necessary to survive the big school next year. He includes the students in conference time with parents and, this week, sent home a brief outline of academic goals to look over before conference.  A few areas seemed to my son to need little attention, and honestly he may be right.  A few others brought up red flags in my brain and sent my son literally sliding under the table just thinking about them.  The writing goal, however, brought an immediate sincere response from my eleven year old boy, a desire to get better and enough confidence that he could achieve this goal that he actually said it, out loud, for me. 

So, I will bring our list of goals to conference with the idea that all of us can help my boy, (including the boy himself) grow into the best writer, human, sixth grader he can be.  I may just start surfing for mentor texts to help him in his writing goal before then.  

10 minutes or days? a writer's perception of time

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. . .
The clock on the wall mocks me as I finish an application for Reading program,
tick, tock, tick. . .
as I do a quick edit of meeting notes from this afternoon
tick, tock, tick, tock, . . .
as I stare at the screen and wonder. . tock, tick. . . what to write, tick, tock. .
so I just do. . .tock, tick, tock,
what comes to mind, tick, tock,
Click, click, click of the keyboard
as the tick, tock, tick of the clock continues on and on and on
tick, my eyes grow heavy
and tock, chill settles on my shoulders
tick, I must rest,
for now. . . tock.

The Most Important Thing. . .

Just yesterday, I was reading an online Q and A with Elizabeth Gilbert, (Eat, Pray, Love) and came across this advice from her.  "The most important thing in your life today will get the most time."  She goes on to say, "Every day I have to mobilize myself and ask, 'What is the most important thing today?' and then I say to myself, 'Prove it Liz.'"  I loved reading this!  It reminds me that we all have to make decisions every day that shape our lives.  How motivating it is to think to myself, "If my family, or my writing, or teaching, or my yoga practice is really important to me, why the heck am I wasting time reading random FB posts during my morning quiet time?"  But it is more than that isn't it?  I struggle with acknowledging "what is important", sometimes from minute to minute, not just day to day. 

Sometimes the "what is important to me today", isn't so straightforward, as I noticed this weekend.  We spent a couple days in Maine, and took one to visit the Fryeburg Fair.  I found myself feeling not quite tip top that morning, and though I had been looking forward to the trip, once we were there I was just going through the motions. . . ok, where's a ticket booth?, which rides do you want? we'll get a candy apple after, I was just on autopilot as if I didn't really want to be there. It was drizzly, but not too cold and we separated so Lila and I could find the little kid rides.  Though it may seem silly there were a couple points where I just had to ask myself, "What is important today?", but it was not just "what's important to me?" my family of course, but within that, if family is important to me, then I had to ask, "What is important to them?"  Fortunately it was not just to spend money and eat junk food, but also to experience things they may not experience every day, so when Lila went through the fun house and decided to log roll through the spinning cylinder at the end, I didn't tell her to "stop", or "get up", or "don't get muddy, hurry up", because to her, in that moment, rolling in that tunnel was, "the most important thing." and I reminded myself that my most important thing in that moment was to say "yes!".

A bit later, the boys headed into the blacksmith's shop to have another link of chain added to their link from a previous visit, and my husband suggested the baby barnyard for Lila.  She Loved that idea, and I said "yes!", but my personal reaction even before we rounded the corner to see the line headed into the petting barn was sadly, "ugh."  I was standing there with my little girl, waiting probably a bit impatiently *smirk*, when I thought to myself, "This is why we are here!  Hello lady, wake up and be in the moment."  That is the point when I began to notice the line wasn't so long, Lila was enjoying a nearby show of young tap dancers, the rain isn't so bad just really thick mist, what a great day we are having!  When we entered the barnyard it became very apparent that Lila knew what was important to her and she found some of the cutest little goats to pet and feed.  The barn was filled with little critters, goat kids, people kids and lots of clean dry hay, one of the most lovely "petting barn" experiences I have had.  She was in heaven, and she brought me with her.

I left the fair with my family, smiling at the great day and memories.  Now with a bit of nostalgic melancholy, I recall a time when the boys were still tiny, probably it was when I just had the one, that living in the moment and saying "yes!" to my life was so much more natural feeling.  Perhaps because "all that was important" was rolled up in one tiny package and a husband and we had committed to me staying home at that time, so I had no distractions, no other ambitions or dreams to dilute my focus at that moment.  As time moves forward, my family grows, and I return to teaching, and discover writing, my focus shifts so frequently, I have to keep reassessing and reminding myself of what is important today. . . what is important right now. 

My hands are in it

My hands are in it, squeezing the salt into the cabbage, crushing the squeaky shredds to start the fermentation process when my mind takes a wander. . .or is it my body?  I become aware in that moment, watching the muscles in my own fingers working in the worn stone crock, of the many hands that must have prepared the kapusta for winter storage over the generations of my mother's maternal side of the family.  I can almost picture the hands, all shapes and sizes, working just as I am now.  I enjoy bread making in much the same way, kneading the product with strong hands and love and knowing I am making something that will nourish family.

My grandmother was born in America, of Polish immigrants, farmers, and squeezing cabbage was surely not the hardest work any of those hands had seen.  I wonder for a moment about the generations of family who I will never meet and if they enjoyed this process as a tradition, a promise of a winter feast, or if it was merely a chore, with a 'Cabbage is better than none.' mentality, but that thought passes and I sink back into the work, and press the cabbage firmly, now packing it tight and watching the water rise to the top.  It has begun.  I tuck large clean leaves on top, weight them down and cover the crock with a cloth.

Then, I wait.  My hands no longer in the crock, but still in the family.

The Little Philosopher

After driving across town to pick up my middle son at school, he runs toward me swinging his backpack and being goofy, big smile on his face.  He is like this every day at the end of school and though he would never admit it, I am sure it is as much to do with his current school as it does that school is over for the day.  He hops in the car, first stopping to be goofy with Lila, then climbing onboard.  As we drive off, he begins talking, "Did you ever think so much, you outsmarted yourself?"  No way to answer that one, and luckily I didn't have to, he kept on talking.  As my mind glanced back at the days of sitting in philosophy class in college, my son continued, "You know when you think so hard about something it gets confusing?  Did you know that everything is made of nothing?  There's these things called atoms that are about eighty percent nothing and when they get close together, we can feel them, like when I put my finger on the dashboard, but this isn't really a dashboard, it's really a bunch of nothing.  And we can't really see things, we just see the light reflecting off the atoms."

A couple hours later, at supper, the conversation resumed with big brother kicking in like they had read the same book.  (As it turns out they did, *snicker*)  Joey turned the conversation, "Yeah and when you read something, it's like you suddenly start seeing it everywhere, like just today Mr. Gifford said. . ." My mind wandered.  I know Mr. Gifford, Joey's sixth grade teacher, said last night at open house, "I appologize in advance for how many times you are going to hear my name this year."  The next thing I knew the conversation had moved on without me. . ."and isn't it cool that powder is explosive if you put it in the air?"

So I have been practicing my questioning skills and asked, "Given what you guys have been talking about with atoms, and air, and objects, what do you think is the reason why powder in the air is explosive?"  (Go. Mama! Go. Mama!---my silent cheer as I ponder my own question.  I am curious to hear how they explain it)  Charlie didn't have an immediate answer, so I encouraged him to keep thinking.  Then Joey decided it had something to do with the surface area of the powder molecules.  Dad pitched in a hint about the burn triangle, and added his own question, "What will there be more of around each particle of flour when it is, here's your word of the day, atomized?" and both boys chimed in, "Oxygen!"

Sometimes the richness of the conversations my kids have, or are capable of amazes me. . .   

A Sweet Memory

(this slice was late, so is not posted on the SOL list this week, but I had to get back into it :)
My last baby started Kindergarten this year.  I can hardly believe how much she has grown in height and as a personality.  I am enjoying watching her become a fantastic little girl.  Tonight I had a rare treat when I went up to kiss her goodnight.  Daddy had already tucked her in for the evening and she asked me, as she does, to lie next to her for a few minutes.  I stretched on the edge of her bed with my arm across her tummy as she rubbed it, then before I knew it the rise and fall of her quiet breath filled my senses and carried me back to a time when she was just a baby, warm and fuzzy headed, smelling new and sweet and faintly of milk.  Then just as quickly, I was back.  Like waking from a dream, I was present and kissing her cheek.  I moved out of her room as she curled cozily onto her side for a good night's slumber.

Conversation beginning with. . . "Graveyard"

Tonight my almost Halloween baby, almost 6, asked me, "Mommy, what is a graveyard?"

So not wanting to say, "A place to bury dead people." I told her, "It's a place to remember people who have died."

Then Lila, "Like who?"

"Well Super Grampy for one."  I did talk to the kids this spring, but they didn't go to the funeral, and it seemed to have floated over little miss Lila, because she replied, "Super Grampy Died?" (insert quivery voice). . .that's sad."

So onward our conversation traveled, past the Graveyard and up to Heaven! and of course Lila asked "What's heaven?"

I said, "It might be different for different people? If we use our imagination that's what our heaven is. . ." and Lila replied,
"No, it should be the same for everyone."

"Well honey, I do think heaven is a place where the most beautiful parts of our selves go after we die?  remember how we talked about being beautiful inside?"

Lila, "Do we have houses there?"

 Me, "I don't know because I've never been there, but I think we just live on the beach."

"I think we have a long row of houses that goes around and around and is surrounded by the ocean. . . .no it's surrounded by a lake bigger than Sebago Lake."

"Wow, that sounds amazing."

Then she hugged me around the neck and said, "Mom, I love you more than me.  I love you to the edge of outer space and back, and to the edge of outer space and back, and to the edge of outer space and back."

I take that as high complement from an almost 6 :) And about as much sign I got this conversation moderately close to "right" as any parent can expect to get.

twilight

A few moments,
dew drops on metal roof
crickets, crickets, crickets, crickets, crickets. . .
black of night,
ink sky
crickets, crickets, crickets, crickets, crickets. . .
fades to black tree top shadows
against blue twilight
a last star
Boom!

In a split second. . .

There is a line from a movie my kids watched recently, about a split second of bravery, when you take the leap and voila, you can change the course of your life (and it only takes that split second of bravery).  I still can’t quite remember what movie it was, and I don’t dare wake my kids to ask, or I won’t get to write this!  Yet, that idea of doing something that scares the pants off me only taking a deep breath, a moment’s decision, one baby step and then voila?!  It is so enchanting.  That was the thought in my mind when the principal asked me to tell a bit about myself. I knew that was, The Moment, I took a deep breath and I began to pull photos and materials from my bag. (How many interviews have I done and left my true teaching self hiding in a bag or basket on the floor, leaving the scared mom looking for a job sitting in front of a panel of interviewers?)  Today, I let the teacher out of the bag!

Suddenly, the door was open, I had bridged that point where I usually struggle to find the right words, because I wasn’t the only one talking.  The others, a combination of teachers, curriculum specialist, and principal, instantly saw me as a teacher.  I explained how in ancient times we teachers did not have to stamp everything we did with the standard we were teaching, but I had gone through my things to see how they apply to current teaching standards and written the standards that applied.  My good faith effort for them to see, I “get it”.  I know that we need to cover CCSS, but I also know it still needs to be good teaching and worthwhile to children. 

The interview flowed like a conversation after that.  Sometimes they skipped questions I had already answered. They each asked questions, and so did I.  We were all talking and smiling and it felt right.  We ended with a tour of the school, a handshake, and a promise that I would find out by the end of the week.  I left, past the field with the little overgrown gardens of school during summer, out past the farm houses, barns, tractors and miscellaneous four wheelers and variety of critters pastured along the winding mountain road, feeling the tension gone from my shoulders and knowing whether or not I get the job, I accomplished something life changing in that split second.

Our Magical Creatures-To start a New School Year

Many of us have children beginning school soon, or who have begun a new year already. We are parents and teachers and we know, beginning school can be hard for kids and families with new routines, new teachers, new classes, or new schools. I thought of this post as I do at the start of each school year, from a time when feelings were still quite raw from a "difficult" school experience, and am reposting for you all to reread and share. Here is hoping that you all are blessed with kind, loving teachers with abilities to see the best, the most positive traits in your children.  Hope you are blessed with Teachers and staff able to erase the proverbial box and replace it with an open mind and heart.  
:)  Amy

OUR MAGICAL CREATURES

When I started teaching, someone, I think it was my stepmom, shared a poem or letter? she found.  I believe it was written as if from parent to teacher about a little girl on the first day of school.  And though my memory is foggy on everything else, I remember the message as 'please notice that my child is nervous and excited to be at school, that she wore 'special shoes' and lost a tooth last night, and she longs to be noticed for who she is and welcomed to this new adventure called school.'  

I felt most successful as a teacher when I made time, first thing, to check in with each and every child, each and every day.  I would say, "Tell me something you've done lately." or "Tell me something I don't know about you."  or I would just let them bubble over with whatever they were fizzling to tell me.  I really felt I knew my kids and therefore taught them better for it.  Conferences were easier because the parents and I could laugh and share their children.

Isn't that what we all hope for when we send our children off to school?  We want our children to be noticed and loved for who they are, and who we parents created.  Creation via a child is a powerful (or at least time consuming :) form of self expression.  Probably the most painful as well, because our children are us, and our children are not us, all at once.

What I didn't know while reading that letter as a twenty something first year teacher was that when I feel my child has been rejected or is not being seen for his true and beautiful self, to say it hurts doesn't even scratch the surface.  I've had to grow a thick skin as the mom of a child with an invisible disability.  People in general have a hard time believing what they can't see.  So, to explain what they don't really understand, they make up stories like the Greeks, and Romans and many other cultures between now and then. 

One popular tale is "I see that child misbehaving.  That parent is doing a lousy job.  She needs to discipline that kid the way my parents did it."  The story is based in fear of the unknown I think (The idea that a child that might not succeed with the usual parenting techniques or the one's we're most familiar with may seem scary to some), and (the story) is meant to create a feeling of safety (this couldn't happen to me) for those telling the story.  They also distance themselves by giving our kids worrisom names or labels; naughty, manipulative, busy body, bully or more serious; Attention Deficit Disorder, Autism, Asperger Syndrome, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Child Onset Bi Polar Disorder, or Tourret's Syndrome. . .  and They see our children as monsters through their fear. 

The lucky ones (parents, teachers, relatives, friends), those not blinded by fear, see our children as the magical creatures that they are.   Our children are truly Magical creatures with special powers to ignite ideas into being, to illuminate the darkness with their smile, poetry, music or art as they dance through life to an unfamiliar beat.  The lucky ones hear our child's voice as a song on the sea breeze gentle and steady and meant to be.

As a Mom and teacher, I feel the need to extinguish the power of the bad stories and names and the fear.  In order to do this, I accept the sage advice of wise philosophers.  I love what is, and accept the truth.  So when the storytellers say "He is oppositional, defiant, or seeking attention.", I say "Yes. He is!"  He is defiantly opposing being placed in a box built by a stranger . . .built, for some other child.  He demands for people to pay attention to who he truly is.  He is loving and loved, creative and evolving, strong and fragile, and. . .human.  As a parent I love him, nurture him, teach him and advocate for him.  As a teacher I love those like him (and all the others too), I nurture them, teach them and advocate for them.