The pen is mightier than the sword, they say. But is it any match for the blank page nuzzled at my fingertips? I have carved out of my day, (there is that sword again,) a pocket of time in which to write. So many facets of my life get slivered in the process. And this house is quiet. That in itself is a miracle. The needy ones are at rest. The questions have been put to bed. The “whys” of another day have been answered and re-answered, along with a few other demands the natives make. Maybe sword fighting would be easier than mothering, actually. My mind is free to chase my dreams now. Unfortunately, my mind is not interested in the task at all.
So this pen is silent. A sharp wit can cut down kings and marry enemies. But it is useless against the stark white of this page. Wouldn’t make a very good warrior if I can’t even defeat a piece of parchment, I guess. And the witty words are left unspoken as the quiet of this house lulls my mind to rest.
So I might have to settle for court jester tonight. This, I understand. I can already juggle. Three evenly sized balls flying and returning again and again. Haven’t tried bowling pins yet. Or fire. But on second thought, maybe I have.
The daily juggling is what is most dangerous. Tossing ideas and feelings of kids that share my name, and kids that simply share my classroom. Catching and retrieving and sending back my heart to my captive audience. And they must learn lessons. And share toys. And take nourishment. And all the while the balls and the fire and the swords I am juggling are in the air and I am moving as fast as I can. Sometimes they drop. And when the fire hits the ground I follow it and I know that I have failed.
People laugh because that is my job: to bring some joy to the royalty. But I often feel a failure as I witness the smirking faces of the crowd as my props plunk the earth. I cannot keep them all in the air together. I am too tired to try. I see that the fire is dangerous just because it is; it doesn’t even matter what it touches.
And so I return. To this blank sheet in front of me. To my quiet heart. To the fire that rages in me and the balls that contort me. I know this job well. And I know that I will fail. I think it reasonable to assume that I cannot fill this page and I cannot juggle with fire.
But court jesters are known for their foolishness. And I must live up to my name. So I write and I juggle and I drop and I retrieve. And this sword carves a path for me as I make my way.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Happy Birthday Friend
When does a friendship begin? Sometimes the moment is sharply clear, like a thunderbolt or a shooting star. Sometimes the beginning is more muted, like the fading of dark to light as the sun rises on a new day. And when you look back twenty-five years later, you can’t even see where it began.
It’s like that with my Nora; I can’t put my finger on the where or why of how this all started. Somewhere in grade school obviously, within a flurry of blue plaid skirts and basketball games. There were the talks about boys on our bus and the endless recess games. And always the homework, the minutiae of the school days, the milk cartons and the gym classes. And somehow the magic of fashioning from those ingredients a friendship that is not dependent on earthly measurements of time and distance, but something more real; a true paradox.
We have not been in the same school or even the same town practically since we were fourteen. I laugh when I think of how we had it all figured out then and we knew exactly how we were going to change the world. Time changes so much in people and their circumstances. We have been through grad school, marriages, babies, jobs, and more. Many big and small moments have been spent without the other. We don’t talk on the phone all that much, and we don’t always recognize birthdays either. We always remember, but sometimes life gets in the way. Still, the magic happens and when we pick up the phone or see each other we are right where we left off.
She is the one who moved away, but we beckon her back, her family and I. I have adopted her family too, and I walk in the back door these days without even knocking. They don’t really need another child; she is the youngest of nine. But there is comfort in seeing her Dad the judge reading his paper at the table, the only Dad we have left between us now. And her Mother is a saint I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in real life; her calm and sturdy ways are infectious.
Breakfast is our thing, a few hours to drink coffee by ourselves and deal with the big questions. These days we don’t have ANY answers. We muddle through together somehow, these problems that don’t come with an instruction manual. She knows I love her, my Nora. But I don’t tell her often enough. She is my beacon when my boat is pitching in the seas. Lately my skiff has lost a sail and sprung a leak, but she is always ready with a life jacket and a buoy. No, I cannot pinpoint the moment that this started, but I can’t imagine this tumultuous world without her. And when the hushed hues of the sun setting in the sky come to end another day, I know that she is working hard to live her best life, just as she expects of me.
It’s like that with my Nora; I can’t put my finger on the where or why of how this all started. Somewhere in grade school obviously, within a flurry of blue plaid skirts and basketball games. There were the talks about boys on our bus and the endless recess games. And always the homework, the minutiae of the school days, the milk cartons and the gym classes. And somehow the magic of fashioning from those ingredients a friendship that is not dependent on earthly measurements of time and distance, but something more real; a true paradox.
We have not been in the same school or even the same town practically since we were fourteen. I laugh when I think of how we had it all figured out then and we knew exactly how we were going to change the world. Time changes so much in people and their circumstances. We have been through grad school, marriages, babies, jobs, and more. Many big and small moments have been spent without the other. We don’t talk on the phone all that much, and we don’t always recognize birthdays either. We always remember, but sometimes life gets in the way. Still, the magic happens and when we pick up the phone or see each other we are right where we left off.
She is the one who moved away, but we beckon her back, her family and I. I have adopted her family too, and I walk in the back door these days without even knocking. They don’t really need another child; she is the youngest of nine. But there is comfort in seeing her Dad the judge reading his paper at the table, the only Dad we have left between us now. And her Mother is a saint I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in real life; her calm and sturdy ways are infectious.
Breakfast is our thing, a few hours to drink coffee by ourselves and deal with the big questions. These days we don’t have ANY answers. We muddle through together somehow, these problems that don’t come with an instruction manual. She knows I love her, my Nora. But I don’t tell her often enough. She is my beacon when my boat is pitching in the seas. Lately my skiff has lost a sail and sprung a leak, but she is always ready with a life jacket and a buoy. No, I cannot pinpoint the moment that this started, but I can’t imagine this tumultuous world without her. And when the hushed hues of the sun setting in the sky come to end another day, I know that she is working hard to live her best life, just as she expects of me.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Her Oyster
My first grade daughter is one tough customer, and I am really starting to realize it this week. Wednesday was our second day of school. We have a system, my daughter and I, to get ourselves to school and her brothers to the babysitter. She loves to walk to school, two long city blocks from our house. Some days we walk together, but this day she set out while I schlepped my textbooks and my sons to the babysitter’s house on the next street. We end up at school at the same time and I help her cross the fairly major street. She gets a little exercise and autonomy, and I get everybody where they need to be on time.
I was waiting for her in the faculty parking lot as she happily bounced about twenty more yards to the road. She looked like a pro with her backpack nestled on her shoulders and her lunch bag swinging. She had a big grin as I walked her across the street. I told her she did a great job and she said, “Except for one bad thing Mommy.” Pictures flashed through my head of what she might consider bad on a solo walk to school: a loose dog, a stranger, an untied shoe. Turns out she was stung by a bee on her way; she hadn’t even made it one house before it happened.
I have learned over the years to stifle self one that wants to scream and over-react when something happens to one of my children. Maura herself didn’t seem too upset and she said it only itched when she looked at it. So we both giggled as I told her not to look at it and took her inside. My friend the science teacher gave me some baking soda and we covered the sting. She was calm and happy and proud to tell her story all day!
But it got me thinking of all the times when she has reacted like a champ and her Mother has had to bite her tongue to keep herself from passing out. Her first encounter with a bee was at a fall soccer game last year. She had played so well that day and had already scored three goals. The fall air was cool and sunny as she rested at half-time. She was standing talking to her teammate’s Mom when a bee stung her. She didn’t even cry. She put some ice on it and went back in the game, nearly scoring goal number four.
And then there was the day of her double tooth extraction. Her mature teeth started growing in before her baby teeth fell out so there was no room for the baby teeth to wiggle. The doctor scheduled a double tooth extraction that almost made me throw up. But she went willingly and calmly, and when she was done she said it was “Fun.” How sad must her life be if she thinks a double tooth extraction is fun? But in actuality, the dentist does have the helpful laughing gas and the Dora show on the television above the chair, so I can see why she likes it. And plus, she is resilient. She reacted the same way for her kindergarten shots. I had heard stories for months about how difficult the shots were and how traumatizing. Maura didn’t even bat an eye or shed a tear. Four shots straight into her thighs without so much as a whimper. Looks like she has the medical world covered already.
Being tough in this world is essential. And I’m sure I help a little by not falling to the earth sobbing or clutching her to my bosom every time she encounters a difficulty. I am okay with a little hardship and failure for my daughter. I know it builds character and makes her stronger. What more could a mother desire, than a child who can roll with the punches and keep on walking, despite bee stings or needles? As they say, I think the world is her oyster, but I am glad she can deal with the rough grains as well as the beautiful pearl.
I was waiting for her in the faculty parking lot as she happily bounced about twenty more yards to the road. She looked like a pro with her backpack nestled on her shoulders and her lunch bag swinging. She had a big grin as I walked her across the street. I told her she did a great job and she said, “Except for one bad thing Mommy.” Pictures flashed through my head of what she might consider bad on a solo walk to school: a loose dog, a stranger, an untied shoe. Turns out she was stung by a bee on her way; she hadn’t even made it one house before it happened.
I have learned over the years to stifle self one that wants to scream and over-react when something happens to one of my children. Maura herself didn’t seem too upset and she said it only itched when she looked at it. So we both giggled as I told her not to look at it and took her inside. My friend the science teacher gave me some baking soda and we covered the sting. She was calm and happy and proud to tell her story all day!
But it got me thinking of all the times when she has reacted like a champ and her Mother has had to bite her tongue to keep herself from passing out. Her first encounter with a bee was at a fall soccer game last year. She had played so well that day and had already scored three goals. The fall air was cool and sunny as she rested at half-time. She was standing talking to her teammate’s Mom when a bee stung her. She didn’t even cry. She put some ice on it and went back in the game, nearly scoring goal number four.
And then there was the day of her double tooth extraction. Her mature teeth started growing in before her baby teeth fell out so there was no room for the baby teeth to wiggle. The doctor scheduled a double tooth extraction that almost made me throw up. But she went willingly and calmly, and when she was done she said it was “Fun.” How sad must her life be if she thinks a double tooth extraction is fun? But in actuality, the dentist does have the helpful laughing gas and the Dora show on the television above the chair, so I can see why she likes it. And plus, she is resilient. She reacted the same way for her kindergarten shots. I had heard stories for months about how difficult the shots were and how traumatizing. Maura didn’t even bat an eye or shed a tear. Four shots straight into her thighs without so much as a whimper. Looks like she has the medical world covered already.
Being tough in this world is essential. And I’m sure I help a little by not falling to the earth sobbing or clutching her to my bosom every time she encounters a difficulty. I am okay with a little hardship and failure for my daughter. I know it builds character and makes her stronger. What more could a mother desire, than a child who can roll with the punches and keep on walking, despite bee stings or needles? As they say, I think the world is her oyster, but I am glad she can deal with the rough grains as well as the beautiful pearl.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Loud and Dear
The children are screaming again. It is all coming back to me now. The tragedy of the beginning of the school year is upon us. Early bed times. Early wake-up calls. Long days in short desks for her, and for him the jealousy of not starting pre-Kindergarten until after Labor Day. Everyone is tired and cranky. And apparently my offspring stress most efficiently through vocal usage. Marty has been whining for sixty straight hours. Even in the middle of the night, he wakes up crying that there might not be cowboy clothes in pre-school. And Maura vacillates between sing-songy repetition of her brothers and creative top-of-her-lungs renditions of made up songs. She is the newest craze in singer-songwriters apparently; but she is entirely too loud. Only the toddler makes sense these days. Who knew that the most helpful and well-behaved child, not to mention quietest, would be a two-year old boy?
Of course he has his own vocal needs. They are just shorter, quieter, and much more focused. Seems he has all but given up on the pool, and has now graduated to “I go polka, Momma. I go polka.” Who knew that polka could be so important to a two year old? His Nana is Polish and her brother is a card-carrying member of the Polish American club who hosts a gigantic Polka Party every year in his back yard. Last year the cops were called. They bit back snickers when they arrived at what they thought was a loud keg party to find a bunch of dancing geriatrics drunk on jello shots and Polish brandy. This year Sean was invited and immediately began his mantra: “I go polka.” I can’t imagine what he thought it was before we arrived.
He waltzed right in (or should I say polkaed) like he owned the place that night. He was the youngest guest in attendance of course, but that certainly did not stop him from joining in the merriment. His usual fave band the Wiggles was soon forgotten as he stared glassy-eyed at the Honky Express, a raggle-taggle group comprised of a guitar player, saxophonist, drummer and the requisite accordion player. When they took a break, the four accordion garage band took the stage. Sean was smitten from the first three-step. He jumped, boogied and even stood on his head to the beat that night. And ever since then he has been recounting his evening. Albeit in short (and quiet I might add) phrases.
So tonight, I cannot decide what I need. If the Honky Express would have me I could go for some saxophone jamming. At least I would be making my own noise. And I sure wouldn’t mind drowning the cacophony around here in a plate of stuffed cabbage or a symphony of blackberry brandy. But its bedtime now and as I sit in the quiet, I already forget the crazed vocalists that inhabit my home. Bedtime brings the sweet sound of silence to my ears. And that is something worth dancing about if you ask me!
Of course he has his own vocal needs. They are just shorter, quieter, and much more focused. Seems he has all but given up on the pool, and has now graduated to “I go polka, Momma. I go polka.” Who knew that polka could be so important to a two year old? His Nana is Polish and her brother is a card-carrying member of the Polish American club who hosts a gigantic Polka Party every year in his back yard. Last year the cops were called. They bit back snickers when they arrived at what they thought was a loud keg party to find a bunch of dancing geriatrics drunk on jello shots and Polish brandy. This year Sean was invited and immediately began his mantra: “I go polka.” I can’t imagine what he thought it was before we arrived.
He waltzed right in (or should I say polkaed) like he owned the place that night. He was the youngest guest in attendance of course, but that certainly did not stop him from joining in the merriment. His usual fave band the Wiggles was soon forgotten as he stared glassy-eyed at the Honky Express, a raggle-taggle group comprised of a guitar player, saxophonist, drummer and the requisite accordion player. When they took a break, the four accordion garage band took the stage. Sean was smitten from the first three-step. He jumped, boogied and even stood on his head to the beat that night. And ever since then he has been recounting his evening. Albeit in short (and quiet I might add) phrases.
So tonight, I cannot decide what I need. If the Honky Express would have me I could go for some saxophone jamming. At least I would be making my own noise. And I sure wouldn’t mind drowning the cacophony around here in a plate of stuffed cabbage or a symphony of blackberry brandy. But its bedtime now and as I sit in the quiet, I already forget the crazed vocalists that inhabit my home. Bedtime brings the sweet sound of silence to my ears. And that is something worth dancing about if you ask me!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
First Day of School
There is something mildly terrifying about today. I am sending my little girl into the big bad world of school. I know I shouldn’t panic. She has the sweetest teacher on the planet. She has a few good friends and many genuinely sweet students in her room. But still I worry. Maybe it is because she is my first born. I have never been through first grade as a parent before. Maybe it is because she is so specific and serious in her learning. Maybe it is just because I know how mean children can be to other children, even under the best of circumstances. And so I wait, watching the clock spin slowly and willing her a good day.
She is a marvel, this daughter of mine. And I am learning to expect more from her as she grows more competent and confident. Last night she packed her own lunch. I never even touched it. She made a roast beef sandwich, complete with mustard, and packed several side dish items. She insisted on a snack too, in case the first graders get a break. I like how she thinks ahead and shapes her days in her head.
But as I wait for her homecoming today, the what-ifs are dancing in my head. Have I taught her the skills she needs? Will she read more fluently this year? Will she fit in with her peers? Will she use her manners? The questions and worries are endless really. I walk a fine line between wanting her to be a strong individual, but also a classmate that is well-liked and fits in. I want her to ask questions and push boundaries but also be respectful. I hope that she is concerned for others but also takes care of herself. And I wonder if I have used the last seven years to the best of my abilities as a mother and a mentor for her.
Seven years almost to the day since I welcomed my wrinkled baby daughter into the world. And there have been seven years of laughs and tears, lessons and love. I hope she realizes how I cherish her and how she amazes me. And on the first day of school, I hope that her classmates will see in her the sensitive, funny, confident girl that I see when I look at her. And I hope they will value her as I do.
She is a marvel, this daughter of mine. And I am learning to expect more from her as she grows more competent and confident. Last night she packed her own lunch. I never even touched it. She made a roast beef sandwich, complete with mustard, and packed several side dish items. She insisted on a snack too, in case the first graders get a break. I like how she thinks ahead and shapes her days in her head.
But as I wait for her homecoming today, the what-ifs are dancing in my head. Have I taught her the skills she needs? Will she read more fluently this year? Will she fit in with her peers? Will she use her manners? The questions and worries are endless really. I walk a fine line between wanting her to be a strong individual, but also a classmate that is well-liked and fits in. I want her to ask questions and push boundaries but also be respectful. I hope that she is concerned for others but also takes care of herself. And I wonder if I have used the last seven years to the best of my abilities as a mother and a mentor for her.
Seven years almost to the day since I welcomed my wrinkled baby daughter into the world. And there have been seven years of laughs and tears, lessons and love. I hope she realizes how I cherish her and how she amazes me. And on the first day of school, I hope that her classmates will see in her the sensitive, funny, confident girl that I see when I look at her. And I hope they will value her as I do.
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Book Bag Wars
Back to school shopping, for a woman who hates to shop, is a nightmare. Of course I put it off as long as I can, and then dive in for a two-day assault. Day One of shop till you drop was going so well. Although my first grader was a little snitty in the shoe department, we had chosen tennis shoes and school shoes. We were the proud owners of washable markers, folders, specialty scissors and a pencil sharpener with receptacle! Then, the backpack aisle undid me. She ran, literally, to the character bag section, yanking one and then another from their hangers. Jonas Brothers. Wizards of Waverly. Hannah Montana. High School Musical. Her bright blue over-marketed eyes lit up. She was not too happy when I shot them all down.
I just don’t understand the point of wearing someone else’s picture or name on your clothes or bags. The marketers have done a very fine job, of course, in getting my daughter to covet these products. What used to be Dora and Princesses is now a long list of tweener singing groups or shows. And she is smitten. Even for a girl whose screen time is monitered and whose Mother thinks you should be a lot closer to high school to watch “High School Musical”, she certainly knows a lot about the shows. What she doesn’t understand yet though are all the adult themes, the sarcasm, the insidious behaviors and flippant attitudes of these characters she wants to befriend. And that is not even to mention what the actors are doing in real life!
When I was in school the only name you wore on your clothes was your own. In the form of monogramming usually. I still have the blue cableknit sweater with monogrammed initials that my Dad bought me when I was twelve. And I still wear it sometimes, although the initials are no longer correct. It reminds me of who I was and who I am today. And that is my worry with all of the marketing. My daughter’s individuality, her turns of phrase, her toothless grins, the way she treats her brothers with a hug and a smile, is getting lost. Get a group of first graders together, and they immediately gravitate towards their idol characters. I would rather my daughter strive to be herself, then busy herself trying to emulate a star who makes too much money to make good choices. Or realistic ones.
According to my daughter, I am the ONLY Mom who doesn’t like Hannah Montana. Lucky her. Silly me for not wanting my daughter to watch a show whose role model star is pole dancing at awards shows and kissing co-stars. My daughter is SIX, and although she claims she is outgrowing princesses, I certainly don’t think she is ready for the adult themes of these shows and their stars. I understand that these shows can be learning tools, but when she is watching television, I am usually washing dishes or making dinner and am not around to explain things and answer questions. I refuse to trust my daughter’s moral compass to Miley Cyrus.
So no character book bags for first grade in this house. We compromised on a brown bag with girly geometric shapes. Fits in well with the new butterfly school shoes and sparkly tennies. And works well for a little girl searching for her style and her place in the world. It is harder than I thought to steer my daughter away from the oceans of advertisements and expectations. But little does she know that I am a very strong advocate of paddling upstream, and I have the monogrammed sweater to prove it!
Friday, August 21, 2009
Almost
Stuffed peppers grace the dining room table and my family is just sitting down to eat when the phone rings. My husband’s Dad is on the floor again and he must leave immediately to go pick him up. When he arrives, his Dad is laughing and his Mom is going about her business of tidying up the house. Just another normal day. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when Pa could walk and talk and live outside his hospital bed. But then came the fated night and the stroke that almost ended it all. So now he is bed-ridden and cannot talk. He requires constant companionship and care. But he still has a lot of living to do and he is still an integral part of our lives. Even if he falls and his wife can’t get him up off the floor.
Tonight I think about my children and how they almost lost their Pa. Maura was a precocious three and a half, her brother barely two. The call came in the early hours, piercing the quiet. My husband rushed to the hospital, and was almost too late. Pa was not supposed to make it. A massive brain stem stroke had rocked his body, and a heart issue to boot. I took Maura to say good-bye; although he was unresponsive, I knew he could hear the light of his life. The picture of her pale Pa wasn’t pretty; attached to tubes and monitors, he looked more like a frail gosling then the tickle monster she was used to. But I thought they were saying good-bye. It was important. He tenaciously clung to life, but just barely. After three weeks in the intensive care unit they wrote him off and sent him directly to a nursing home.
There followed a hazy time for him when he was aware but only vaguely of what transpired. And Maura would not go near him. Seeing him in the hospital had really spooked her. Marty had no problems. Happy go lucky to begin with, he was only two and they had canaries in the waiting room, so it was all good. I remember Maura sitting in the hall when we visited because she was too afraid to come in the room; she sat in her chair with just her shoes visible so I knew she was still there. It was like keeping an eye on the Wicked Witch who was smashed by the house.
Nine months passed before the Christmas miracle. Pa was going home the day after Christmas. I was worried about the day, wondering how everyone would react. I shouldn’t have. Something magical happened when he returned to his house. Maura lost her fears. In fact, she climbed up into Pa’s hospital bed immediately when we got him settled. Soon after, she raced back out to the living room declaring that Pa was hungry. She was four, and he couldn’t talk, so I marveled at how they figured that out.
These days when we go to visit, my three kids make a beeline for Pa’s room as soon as they hit the front door. Two year old Sean never knew the “old Pa”, but he is the one leading the pack and clambering up into the bed first. Sometimes I even feel bad for Nana that he gets so much attention, but I am glad my children understand we need to take care of the more vulnerable among us. The kids take turns regaling Pa with stories and laying with him in bed. They try to pry the giant television remote from him and get a cartoon instead of the requisite “Cash Cab”. And they shower him with the love that he almost missed. Lucky guy. And very lucky grandchildren.
Tonight I think about my children and how they almost lost their Pa. Maura was a precocious three and a half, her brother barely two. The call came in the early hours, piercing the quiet. My husband rushed to the hospital, and was almost too late. Pa was not supposed to make it. A massive brain stem stroke had rocked his body, and a heart issue to boot. I took Maura to say good-bye; although he was unresponsive, I knew he could hear the light of his life. The picture of her pale Pa wasn’t pretty; attached to tubes and monitors, he looked more like a frail gosling then the tickle monster she was used to. But I thought they were saying good-bye. It was important. He tenaciously clung to life, but just barely. After three weeks in the intensive care unit they wrote him off and sent him directly to a nursing home.
There followed a hazy time for him when he was aware but only vaguely of what transpired. And Maura would not go near him. Seeing him in the hospital had really spooked her. Marty had no problems. Happy go lucky to begin with, he was only two and they had canaries in the waiting room, so it was all good. I remember Maura sitting in the hall when we visited because she was too afraid to come in the room; she sat in her chair with just her shoes visible so I knew she was still there. It was like keeping an eye on the Wicked Witch who was smashed by the house.
Nine months passed before the Christmas miracle. Pa was going home the day after Christmas. I was worried about the day, wondering how everyone would react. I shouldn’t have. Something magical happened when he returned to his house. Maura lost her fears. In fact, she climbed up into Pa’s hospital bed immediately when we got him settled. Soon after, she raced back out to the living room declaring that Pa was hungry. She was four, and he couldn’t talk, so I marveled at how they figured that out.
These days when we go to visit, my three kids make a beeline for Pa’s room as soon as they hit the front door. Two year old Sean never knew the “old Pa”, but he is the one leading the pack and clambering up into the bed first. Sometimes I even feel bad for Nana that he gets so much attention, but I am glad my children understand we need to take care of the more vulnerable among us. The kids take turns regaling Pa with stories and laying with him in bed. They try to pry the giant television remote from him and get a cartoon instead of the requisite “Cash Cab”. And they shower him with the love that he almost missed. Lucky guy. And very lucky grandchildren.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
In Memory of Brian
I wanted to make meatball sandwiches tonight. Meatball sandwiches, the food of death. Oh, I know most people consider ham to be the food of death. Publish an obituary, and within days, hours even, the house is so filled to the cusp with ham that the wolf would be in a veritable coma. In our house, meatball subs are the food of death. That night, hazy August heat flickering, meatball sandwiches fill my too round belly. Her birth is only weeks away. We walk,waddle really, to the lake to taste the kiss of summer air. Winter comes too soon to Cleveland, so we suck delight from the heavy airless night. It is later, after dinner and walk and evening melts, that the phone rings. My husband runs screaming into the now black night….air not thick enough to stifle his cries, beating the ground with head and limbs and tears. His screams are swallowed whole by the humid embrace of earth. His brother, too sad and tormented for this world, has been found motionless and grey. The stars close in, the moon descends to earth, as does the brother in a few short days. So tonight, no meatball sandwiches, no brother, only the grey of winter punctuated by the laughter of her, of the now six year old that filled my belly so many nights ago.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Parenting at the Pool
My third child has no fear of the water. He is two and a half, built like a linebacker, and the kind of child who listens when I call him. But he has no fear. He does not wait timidly clinging to my leg when he could be splashing and enjoying the pool. His five year-old brother is also a fish. He loves to jump in the pool, paddle for a few seconds, jump back out again, and repeat. The pool is probably our greatest joy of summer. Until today anyway. Today I experienced a meddling Dad intent on “fixing” my bad parenting. I am still seething.
I believe strongly that children learn best by experience. No matter how many times I tell them not to touch a hot stove, they will listen most clearly to a burn on their hand. And I don’t think I have to follow my children around like puppy dogs, staying always within arm’s reach. Today at the pool was no exception. I was sitting on the lounge chair poolside, about eight feet from the zero entry side of the pool. I had been in the three foot earlier, splashing and bouncing with the boys. Then I was sitting on the side, letting the little monkeys crawl up and down my legs. After several sessions of playing, I was enjoying the show from the sidelines. The linebacker was happily splashing in about four inches of water, toddling awkwardly to water that was a little deeper, then back again. His brother was up to his neck, alternating the doggy paddle with treading water, and going to the shallow end to play with his bro. That is when the trouble started.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed what looked like the manager intently speaking with a man who had just brought his daughter in to play. I had noticed him earlier as he helped her don lotion and water wings for her trip into six inches of water, and then he proceeded to stand right next to her, holding her hand. She was at least three. He had to extract her from the pool, in fact, to go get the manager to tattle on me. I noticed the furtive glances toward my children before she finally strode in my direction.
“Are these your children?” she gruffly inquired. I nodded affirmatively. She then explained none to politely that they were entirely too young to be “swimming unsupervised”. A parent must be with them at all times.
I just do not understand how a child is going to learn to regulate himself or to live within boundaries if he is never given a chance to practice. My son does not fear water, but neither does he have a death wish. He faithfully waded into the deep water and then right back out again. I know my boys and I know their limits. I think they deserve a chance to play and frolic without Mommy magnetized to their sides. And I deserve a chance to sit down in the sun as well. Should an emergency occur, I could have reached either of my boys in seconds, not to mention the lifeguard who was even closer.
Yes, water can be deadly. But there is more than one way to make sure your children are supervised. Over-parenting can cause more fear and clinginess than a healthy distance, and that is not good in water or in life. So I will continue to give my boys some room, let them swim their own strokes and experience the pain of a belly flop gone wrong. And I will be right there with a towel and a snack when the break bell rings. They know where to find me.
I believe strongly that children learn best by experience. No matter how many times I tell them not to touch a hot stove, they will listen most clearly to a burn on their hand. And I don’t think I have to follow my children around like puppy dogs, staying always within arm’s reach. Today at the pool was no exception. I was sitting on the lounge chair poolside, about eight feet from the zero entry side of the pool. I had been in the three foot earlier, splashing and bouncing with the boys. Then I was sitting on the side, letting the little monkeys crawl up and down my legs. After several sessions of playing, I was enjoying the show from the sidelines. The linebacker was happily splashing in about four inches of water, toddling awkwardly to water that was a little deeper, then back again. His brother was up to his neck, alternating the doggy paddle with treading water, and going to the shallow end to play with his bro. That is when the trouble started.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed what looked like the manager intently speaking with a man who had just brought his daughter in to play. I had noticed him earlier as he helped her don lotion and water wings for her trip into six inches of water, and then he proceeded to stand right next to her, holding her hand. She was at least three. He had to extract her from the pool, in fact, to go get the manager to tattle on me. I noticed the furtive glances toward my children before she finally strode in my direction.
“Are these your children?” she gruffly inquired. I nodded affirmatively. She then explained none to politely that they were entirely too young to be “swimming unsupervised”. A parent must be with them at all times.
I just do not understand how a child is going to learn to regulate himself or to live within boundaries if he is never given a chance to practice. My son does not fear water, but neither does he have a death wish. He faithfully waded into the deep water and then right back out again. I know my boys and I know their limits. I think they deserve a chance to play and frolic without Mommy magnetized to their sides. And I deserve a chance to sit down in the sun as well. Should an emergency occur, I could have reached either of my boys in seconds, not to mention the lifeguard who was even closer.
Yes, water can be deadly. But there is more than one way to make sure your children are supervised. Over-parenting can cause more fear and clinginess than a healthy distance, and that is not good in water or in life. So I will continue to give my boys some room, let them swim their own strokes and experience the pain of a belly flop gone wrong. And I will be right there with a towel and a snack when the break bell rings. They know where to find me.
Lessons from my Daughter
The top of the ferris wheel is no place to panic. But here I am, simultaneously clutching the bar and my daughter, willing my heart to slow. She, of course, is wide-eyed and beaming as we sit trapped at the top of the summit. She insists on turning and jostling in the seat to get the best view from the height. I am just white-knuckling it to make it back to firm land.
How did I find this child, ready for any amusement park challenge? Poor thing, she really loses out in the parenting department for wild rides, it seems. I spent most of my childhood being motion sick on the side of our nation’s highways or the bushes near the Witch’s Wheel or the Scrambler. But these are the same rides she eyes today; like a pit bull straining its leash, she is ready to roll.
And one of the things I admire most about my daughter is evident in this park today. She knows what she wants and she goes after it; she doesn’t worry about what other people think or do. I would think a six year old would be intimidated to stand in line by herself at a strange amusement park, but she does this time after time. When she gets to the ride, she is strapped in alone. She giggles and screams and exits the line barely able to speak from the excitement.
She cons me onto the RolloCoaster, a ride that jerks the riders so violently I wonder how many have fallen out. The plummet from the top of the hill doesn’t help. But all the while she sits in the very front seat with her hands in the air and a huge grin on her face. Her favorite is a monstrous ride that spins and spins and pins the rider to the wall before dropping out the floor on which she is standing. Unbelievable to me that she exits in such glee.
I’ve always marveled at my daughter, of course. Marveling at offspring is covered in the parenting handbook after all! But I was not prepared for all the lessons I would learn at the hands of my children. I like the way she looks at life; she moves from ride to ride with such exuberance. And I love her ability to enjoy herself, by herself! I admire her sense of adventure to try new things. And when I pick her up at the end of the night to carry her to the car, her body a rag doll because she left it all on the rides, I am thankful for the reminder she gives me to live each moment passionately.
How did I find this child, ready for any amusement park challenge? Poor thing, she really loses out in the parenting department for wild rides, it seems. I spent most of my childhood being motion sick on the side of our nation’s highways or the bushes near the Witch’s Wheel or the Scrambler. But these are the same rides she eyes today; like a pit bull straining its leash, she is ready to roll.
And one of the things I admire most about my daughter is evident in this park today. She knows what she wants and she goes after it; she doesn’t worry about what other people think or do. I would think a six year old would be intimidated to stand in line by herself at a strange amusement park, but she does this time after time. When she gets to the ride, she is strapped in alone. She giggles and screams and exits the line barely able to speak from the excitement.
She cons me onto the RolloCoaster, a ride that jerks the riders so violently I wonder how many have fallen out. The plummet from the top of the hill doesn’t help. But all the while she sits in the very front seat with her hands in the air and a huge grin on her face. Her favorite is a monstrous ride that spins and spins and pins the rider to the wall before dropping out the floor on which she is standing. Unbelievable to me that she exits in such glee.
I’ve always marveled at my daughter, of course. Marveling at offspring is covered in the parenting handbook after all! But I was not prepared for all the lessons I would learn at the hands of my children. I like the way she looks at life; she moves from ride to ride with such exuberance. And I love her ability to enjoy herself, by herself! I admire her sense of adventure to try new things. And when I pick her up at the end of the night to carry her to the car, her body a rag doll because she left it all on the rides, I am thankful for the reminder she gives me to live each moment passionately.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
A Strange Place to Rest
The chair in the middle of the Cuyahoga River
Belies explanation.
Not sure how it arrived there. Or why.
Maybe it was hurled from the restaurant nearby
In a midnight brawl.
Or perhaps thrown as garbage with a wobbly leg.
Somehow the river doesn’t mind.
The waters make room and flow
Around now-warped legs and seat.
The fish don’t care and the birds don’t
Take a second glance.
Only I am wondering about this chair.
Maybe I just need a place to sit and
This concrete I am perched on is
Just not snug enough.
But I know that there is more.
For my life flows around me,
Currents that force through
And under and around.
And I stand out in my world
Like a chair in a river,
Contemplating how I managed
To get to this place and
What to do about it now.
Belies explanation.
Not sure how it arrived there. Or why.
Maybe it was hurled from the restaurant nearby
In a midnight brawl.
Or perhaps thrown as garbage with a wobbly leg.
Somehow the river doesn’t mind.
The waters make room and flow
Around now-warped legs and seat.
The fish don’t care and the birds don’t
Take a second glance.
Only I am wondering about this chair.
Maybe I just need a place to sit and
This concrete I am perched on is
Just not snug enough.
But I know that there is more.
For my life flows around me,
Currents that force through
And under and around.
And I stand out in my world
Like a chair in a river,
Contemplating how I managed
To get to this place and
What to do about it now.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
A Brand New Box of Crayons
The back-to-school sales have been in full swing since early July. There is something so enticing about a brand new box of crayons and markers that haven’t yet dried out. I remember as a student I would obsess about picking the perfect folder and pencil case, and choose notebook colors carefully. There was something so magical about school supplies!
Now that I am a teacher, I still appreciate the magic of back-to-school preparations. They just don’t surround the choice of a perfectly-colored folder these days. When the calendar pages flip to August, I know it is time to begin. Of course I am a little behind the retail world, but no less passionate about new beginnings.
I love the renewal of teaching, the chance to start fresh with brand-new school supplies and pencils whose erasers have not been whittled to nothing. The students are fresh too, eleven weeks of swimming and sleeping and sunning behind them. And everyone is a whole year older and wiser. Including me.
The plan book is a beautiful enigma. The pages are still empty, yet filled with endless possibilities of the year to come. August is the time for big dreams, before the minutiae of the alarm clock and paperwork take hold. And my dreams really are gigantic. I love to wonder about my students and who they are. I enjoy planning unusual activities to catch their attention and make learning enjoyable. And every August I spend some time incorporating some new technology into my lesson plans. This year’s version: wikis. And let’s face it. In August, every plan is perfectly executed. No one forgets their homework, the technology never fails at a crucial moment, and every lesson has the power to capture students’ attention. The reality in the classroom is subject to so many variables.
I always say that teaching is a career of moments. In a room full of students with very different personalities, the unexpected often occurs. Students (and teachers) enjoy triumphs, battle bad moods, learn from each other, and teach each other. I appreciate the interactions around me, the little inside jokes each class acquires, the way individuals come together to make a whole far greater than the sum of their parts. I marvel at what the students teach me. There are always insights I had never before discovered or talents that I can only dream of nestled in the students before me. There is magic in classrooms, and I am honored to be a part of the show.
And I think that students would be surprised to know that teachers have some fears about the first day of school. As the first bell creeps closer, the school dreams start: everything from waking up late to being embarrassed in front of a class. We take the time to carefully choose an outfit for the first day. We pack our bookbags methodically with our new school supplies. And we have trouble falling asleep on the night before school.
But beyond the highlighters in five different colors and the brand new lunch bags, teachers are focused on only one thing: the students. Growing up is difficult and we do everything in our power to make the transitions and travails easier for the students. Whether it is a smile, a kind word, a little note returned with a paper, or even the tough love of a detention, we are always teaching life skills along with our curriculum.
And that is why the clean slate of August is such an enchanted time. Who will my students be this year? How can I help them grow up? What milestones and miracles will we meet along the way? The pencils and crayons will dull throughout this year, but my hope in August is always for my students. May they become sharper and wiser in my classroom and beyond.
Now that I am a teacher, I still appreciate the magic of back-to-school preparations. They just don’t surround the choice of a perfectly-colored folder these days. When the calendar pages flip to August, I know it is time to begin. Of course I am a little behind the retail world, but no less passionate about new beginnings.
I love the renewal of teaching, the chance to start fresh with brand-new school supplies and pencils whose erasers have not been whittled to nothing. The students are fresh too, eleven weeks of swimming and sleeping and sunning behind them. And everyone is a whole year older and wiser. Including me.
The plan book is a beautiful enigma. The pages are still empty, yet filled with endless possibilities of the year to come. August is the time for big dreams, before the minutiae of the alarm clock and paperwork take hold. And my dreams really are gigantic. I love to wonder about my students and who they are. I enjoy planning unusual activities to catch their attention and make learning enjoyable. And every August I spend some time incorporating some new technology into my lesson plans. This year’s version: wikis. And let’s face it. In August, every plan is perfectly executed. No one forgets their homework, the technology never fails at a crucial moment, and every lesson has the power to capture students’ attention. The reality in the classroom is subject to so many variables.
I always say that teaching is a career of moments. In a room full of students with very different personalities, the unexpected often occurs. Students (and teachers) enjoy triumphs, battle bad moods, learn from each other, and teach each other. I appreciate the interactions around me, the little inside jokes each class acquires, the way individuals come together to make a whole far greater than the sum of their parts. I marvel at what the students teach me. There are always insights I had never before discovered or talents that I can only dream of nestled in the students before me. There is magic in classrooms, and I am honored to be a part of the show.
And I think that students would be surprised to know that teachers have some fears about the first day of school. As the first bell creeps closer, the school dreams start: everything from waking up late to being embarrassed in front of a class. We take the time to carefully choose an outfit for the first day. We pack our bookbags methodically with our new school supplies. And we have trouble falling asleep on the night before school.
But beyond the highlighters in five different colors and the brand new lunch bags, teachers are focused on only one thing: the students. Growing up is difficult and we do everything in our power to make the transitions and travails easier for the students. Whether it is a smile, a kind word, a little note returned with a paper, or even the tough love of a detention, we are always teaching life skills along with our curriculum.
And that is why the clean slate of August is such an enchanted time. Who will my students be this year? How can I help them grow up? What milestones and miracles will we meet along the way? The pencils and crayons will dull throughout this year, but my hope in August is always for my students. May they become sharper and wiser in my classroom and beyond.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
A Lifetime to Love
I am always amazed by longtime love. Kevin and Ann were experts. You couldn’t say one without the other. Nor did you want to. Until today. All eyes are on Kevin as he tucks his wife in for the last time and deals with the grief of her funeral and burial. They have been together so long it is hard to imagine a time that they weren’t. You have to go back nearly a half-century and travel the ocean to Ireland. She was born in Newport, County Mayo, the oldest of sixteen. He was the middle child in a brood of five on a farm in the middle of Galway.
They separately set their sights on America and dreams of a better life. Kevin landed in Cleveland at his Aunt Theresa’s, my Grandmother, at age 18. He was the brother that my Mom and her three sisters never had. And I still remember the stories of Ann on the airplane. Tea brews loosely in Ireland, and when the stewardess gave her a tea bag, she opened it in her cup. A rather inauspicious beginning. My Mom had a hand in their first meeting. They had all gone to a dance and she picked out the prettiest girl in the room for Kevin to ask for a dance. And the rest, they say, is history.
I don’t know that I know a couple who has been through so much. They lost their son Kevin from meningitis when he was just three. And then Ann came a few breaths away from death when chicken pox invaded her last pregnancy. The strapping fireman today belies the four pound baby that wasn’t supposed to make it. Kevin had triple by-pass surgery before it was done routinely, and then a few more times for good measure. I’ve lost count of the times he was not supposed to make it. And work did not ever come easy. It is hard to be a construction worker and trucker when you are in and out of the hospital. The last several years have been difficult with illness after illness affecting Ann, and Kevin giving his all to make her well.
And so this scene today: Kevin stands tall in the front pew of Our Lady of Angels church, his daughter Theresa beside him. His four sons support him with their wives and fifteen grandchildren between them. The church is filled with three hundred people, although Kevin always says he doesn’t have any friends. We are here to say good-bye to a lady whose life was not picture perfect, but who left behind a legacy of love.
The cemetery is the hardest. I watch Kevin hold on to his oldest granddaughter, and I am not sure who is holding up whom. Ann’s eyes dance in her granddaughter Ellen’s face, and Ellen is the same age today that Ann was when she first danced with Kevin. The priest finishes his prayers and the funeral director tells everyone to leave. Nobody moves. The air is still and the crowd is hushed. And still nobody moves. Kevin clings to his granddaughter as the crowd starts to disperse. I can’t imagine what it is like to say good-bye to a love like that.
They separately set their sights on America and dreams of a better life. Kevin landed in Cleveland at his Aunt Theresa’s, my Grandmother, at age 18. He was the brother that my Mom and her three sisters never had. And I still remember the stories of Ann on the airplane. Tea brews loosely in Ireland, and when the stewardess gave her a tea bag, she opened it in her cup. A rather inauspicious beginning. My Mom had a hand in their first meeting. They had all gone to a dance and she picked out the prettiest girl in the room for Kevin to ask for a dance. And the rest, they say, is history.
I don’t know that I know a couple who has been through so much. They lost their son Kevin from meningitis when he was just three. And then Ann came a few breaths away from death when chicken pox invaded her last pregnancy. The strapping fireman today belies the four pound baby that wasn’t supposed to make it. Kevin had triple by-pass surgery before it was done routinely, and then a few more times for good measure. I’ve lost count of the times he was not supposed to make it. And work did not ever come easy. It is hard to be a construction worker and trucker when you are in and out of the hospital. The last several years have been difficult with illness after illness affecting Ann, and Kevin giving his all to make her well.
And so this scene today: Kevin stands tall in the front pew of Our Lady of Angels church, his daughter Theresa beside him. His four sons support him with their wives and fifteen grandchildren between them. The church is filled with three hundred people, although Kevin always says he doesn’t have any friends. We are here to say good-bye to a lady whose life was not picture perfect, but who left behind a legacy of love.
The cemetery is the hardest. I watch Kevin hold on to his oldest granddaughter, and I am not sure who is holding up whom. Ann’s eyes dance in her granddaughter Ellen’s face, and Ellen is the same age today that Ann was when she first danced with Kevin. The priest finishes his prayers and the funeral director tells everyone to leave. Nobody moves. The air is still and the crowd is hushed. And still nobody moves. Kevin clings to his granddaughter as the crowd starts to disperse. I can’t imagine what it is like to say good-bye to a love like that.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Whispered Lullabies
I feel them blowing through the quiet.
The specters of my past breeze by
And bring a hint of long-gone days.
Caught between two worlds,
To taste the truth I must observe
These phantoms of my holy history.
Knotted crosses kiss the sky and
Long grasses grow wild among
The rocks that pile beneath the sun.
The bagpipe mourns its song in
Wisps and cries that echo in the
Field in which I stand.
And I am reeling like these ghosts
Between the crags, my cries are echoing
The mournful pipes this day.
The whispers in the field I must obey
For it is I who knows the secrets trapped
In piled stones and crumbled names.
And who is it that speaks my past to me,
With lilting brogue and blue-eyed gaze?
Whose haunting whispers rustle prairies near
My feet? And who am I to hear their tales
And pass them round the peat?
The sun beats down as all the spirits rise
To meet their newest sister in the deep.
And I give way to echoes of the past as
They sing lullabies to bid her sleep.
And they sing lullabies to measure out our sleep.
The specters of my past breeze by
And bring a hint of long-gone days.
Caught between two worlds,
To taste the truth I must observe
These phantoms of my holy history.
Knotted crosses kiss the sky and
Long grasses grow wild among
The rocks that pile beneath the sun.
The bagpipe mourns its song in
Wisps and cries that echo in the
Field in which I stand.
And I am reeling like these ghosts
Between the crags, my cries are echoing
The mournful pipes this day.
The whispers in the field I must obey
For it is I who knows the secrets trapped
In piled stones and crumbled names.
And who is it that speaks my past to me,
With lilting brogue and blue-eyed gaze?
Whose haunting whispers rustle prairies near
My feet? And who am I to hear their tales
And pass them round the peat?
The sun beats down as all the spirits rise
To meet their newest sister in the deep.
And I give way to echoes of the past as
They sing lullabies to bid her sleep.
And they sing lullabies to measure out our sleep.
One Dream
One dream
Both impossible and deferred
Slinks through my slippery grip.
Like that fish flopping on
The dock when I was young,
Breaking free from my bamboo pole.
Or the way my son maneuvers
Like a running back when
I want to change his diaper.
One dream
Both tenuous and bold
Firms in my grasping hands.
Like the way a spider
Spins her web upon my
Backyard swing.
Or how my son constructs
A tower of blocks when
He is playing in the morn.
One dream
Both staunch and lively
Plants upon my heart.
Like the way the sunflowers
Tower towards the light
Within my garden.
Or my sweet son grasps
My face with pudgy arms
To gain my focus.
One dream
Turning, spinning, building, firming.
To free itself in me.
Both impossible and deferred
Slinks through my slippery grip.
Like that fish flopping on
The dock when I was young,
Breaking free from my bamboo pole.
Or the way my son maneuvers
Like a running back when
I want to change his diaper.
One dream
Both tenuous and bold
Firms in my grasping hands.
Like the way a spider
Spins her web upon my
Backyard swing.
Or how my son constructs
A tower of blocks when
He is playing in the morn.
One dream
Both staunch and lively
Plants upon my heart.
Like the way the sunflowers
Tower towards the light
Within my garden.
Or my sweet son grasps
My face with pudgy arms
To gain my focus.
One dream
Turning, spinning, building, firming.
To free itself in me.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Ghosts of my Past
The map of Ireland traced on her face, she sits at my Mom’s kitchen table. With the Irish, it’s always the kitchen. The tea is poured and her grandchildren’s pictures viewed. And then her brother arrives. He has just lost his wife, and Theresa has flown halfway around the world to comfort him. As they embrace I look away, embarrassed to be sharing this intimate, tragic moment. Then it’s a flurry of stories of far away places and people long dead. More tea and more stories and some laughter as well. The lilting voices soothe me. America cannot wipe away Kevin’s brogue, even though it has had 45 years to try.
And these stories take me back to my own trips to Ireland, sitting around the table of Theresa’s kitchen so many thousands of miles away. I can’t shake these connections: the resemblance of children, the ease of reconnections, the hospitality and quiet way of this family.
I felt it most strongly in that graveyard in County Mayo, giant Celtic crosses whose inscriptions were almost smooth to the touch. I waded through knee-high grasses to find my great-grandfather’s grave. The stillness of the air stopped my own heart as I bent in prayer. And later, a peat fire warmed my chill in the tiny home where my grandfather was born. I knew a spiritual world as I stared into that fire.
I have always felt different, not quite enmeshed totally in the world around me. And I can see the reasons here at the kitchen table today. I have been straddling these cultures, torn between the ghosts of my Irish ancestors and the modern flurry in which I live. My past, it tugs me and nips me and won’t let me go. I feel comfort in the language and the soft-spoken charms. I feel old beyond my years and nostalgic for a past I never knew in a country I never called home. And the tension is ripe; I do belong there.
So I revel in the family tales of sheep interrupting traffic and the neighbor’s disputes over the family farm. There are jokes that God created beer so the Irish wouldn’t rule the world, but it’s the tea that really slows them down. Cup after cup is poured. Story after story is told. And I take it all in, because this is my story today. I think I belong in the country of green, at a slower pace, in a more hospitable land.
And tomorrow, another graveyard. Theresa will comfort her brother as he lays his wife to rest. And I will watch from the center of two cultures, the spirits of Ireland tussling my modern sensibilities. I will stay for now, but the map on my own face and the lilt in my own voice will surely call me home someday.
And these stories take me back to my own trips to Ireland, sitting around the table of Theresa’s kitchen so many thousands of miles away. I can’t shake these connections: the resemblance of children, the ease of reconnections, the hospitality and quiet way of this family.
I felt it most strongly in that graveyard in County Mayo, giant Celtic crosses whose inscriptions were almost smooth to the touch. I waded through knee-high grasses to find my great-grandfather’s grave. The stillness of the air stopped my own heart as I bent in prayer. And later, a peat fire warmed my chill in the tiny home where my grandfather was born. I knew a spiritual world as I stared into that fire.
I have always felt different, not quite enmeshed totally in the world around me. And I can see the reasons here at the kitchen table today. I have been straddling these cultures, torn between the ghosts of my Irish ancestors and the modern flurry in which I live. My past, it tugs me and nips me and won’t let me go. I feel comfort in the language and the soft-spoken charms. I feel old beyond my years and nostalgic for a past I never knew in a country I never called home. And the tension is ripe; I do belong there.
So I revel in the family tales of sheep interrupting traffic and the neighbor’s disputes over the family farm. There are jokes that God created beer so the Irish wouldn’t rule the world, but it’s the tea that really slows them down. Cup after cup is poured. Story after story is told. And I take it all in, because this is my story today. I think I belong in the country of green, at a slower pace, in a more hospitable land.
And tomorrow, another graveyard. Theresa will comfort her brother as he lays his wife to rest. And I will watch from the center of two cultures, the spirits of Ireland tussling my modern sensibilities. I will stay for now, but the map on my own face and the lilt in my own voice will surely call me home someday.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Summer School and Lessons Learned
The panic is setting in. I lasted longer than usual this year, but this morning I am losing my mind. To a teacher, the early days of August do little to relax. I think of the plans I am not making for school, and I worry about all of the things I did not get done this summer with my time off. Yes, there is definite panic.
Any Mother worries, but in August, the teacher Mother could win Olympic medals for negative nostalgia. Did I do enough with my children this summer? Was I at all times patient and nurturing and clever? Were there enough enrichment trips to the zoo and the museums and the local rivers to search for crawfish? In a word, no. I know I am delinquent in many categories, including but not limited to: family bike riding, chore list enforcement, backyard baseball playing, and summer bathing. The shaving cream I bought them to play with in June mocks me from the bathroom cabinet. Junie B. Jones and The Boxcar Children are enjoying an unnatural friendship on the coffee table since the dutiful readers won’t touch them. And nobody learned to tie their shoes this summer, either.
And how about the way I used summer free time to prepare for my busy school year? Not so much really. How is it even possible to teach 2700 years of history in five major cultures? Or to put a creative spin on the same old writing assignments? Or how about jazzing up the old standby stories to make them relevant for a twelve year old? I was so overwhelmed that I didn’t even start.
So what DID I do? How have I used my sixty plus worry-free summer days? I can barely remember the early days when our amazement at the free time was as new as a squawking baby bird. First, we needed some days on the couch to recuperate from a busy school year. And then we flung ourselves into a summer at the pool. A million “Watch this Mommys” from a child doing a headstand or sticking his head in the water. Hour after hour of chlorine and sunshine, diving and snacking. Then there was a week for Bible School, another (hotter) week for soccer camp, and of course the all-important swimming lessons. And I can’t forget all the sand in my car, brought in by the nefarious pirates parading the local beaches! In between, a lot of cuddles and backyard Indian games and popsickles.
And for the Mommy? A new trend of setting the alarm and doing something for me. Finding a voice for myself that does not involve assigning grades or soothing boo-boos. Now I am the bird breaking out of my shell in my new morning reverie. And the early summer squawking is starting to turn a bit more melodious as the mornings progress.
But the clock is ticking and the calendar flips. And my summer schedule and savage tan will both soon be fading. What will stay with me? The memories of the high dive and the humor of my offspring. The endless hours of water sports at the pool and beach. The backyard lightning bug adventures and grilled burgers. And most importantly, I think, the tenuous confidence of a fledgling writer with a story to tell.
Any Mother worries, but in August, the teacher Mother could win Olympic medals for negative nostalgia. Did I do enough with my children this summer? Was I at all times patient and nurturing and clever? Were there enough enrichment trips to the zoo and the museums and the local rivers to search for crawfish? In a word, no. I know I am delinquent in many categories, including but not limited to: family bike riding, chore list enforcement, backyard baseball playing, and summer bathing. The shaving cream I bought them to play with in June mocks me from the bathroom cabinet. Junie B. Jones and The Boxcar Children are enjoying an unnatural friendship on the coffee table since the dutiful readers won’t touch them. And nobody learned to tie their shoes this summer, either.
And how about the way I used summer free time to prepare for my busy school year? Not so much really. How is it even possible to teach 2700 years of history in five major cultures? Or to put a creative spin on the same old writing assignments? Or how about jazzing up the old standby stories to make them relevant for a twelve year old? I was so overwhelmed that I didn’t even start.
So what DID I do? How have I used my sixty plus worry-free summer days? I can barely remember the early days when our amazement at the free time was as new as a squawking baby bird. First, we needed some days on the couch to recuperate from a busy school year. And then we flung ourselves into a summer at the pool. A million “Watch this Mommys” from a child doing a headstand or sticking his head in the water. Hour after hour of chlorine and sunshine, diving and snacking. Then there was a week for Bible School, another (hotter) week for soccer camp, and of course the all-important swimming lessons. And I can’t forget all the sand in my car, brought in by the nefarious pirates parading the local beaches! In between, a lot of cuddles and backyard Indian games and popsickles.
And for the Mommy? A new trend of setting the alarm and doing something for me. Finding a voice for myself that does not involve assigning grades or soothing boo-boos. Now I am the bird breaking out of my shell in my new morning reverie. And the early summer squawking is starting to turn a bit more melodious as the mornings progress.
But the clock is ticking and the calendar flips. And my summer schedule and savage tan will both soon be fading. What will stay with me? The memories of the high dive and the humor of my offspring. The endless hours of water sports at the pool and beach. The backyard lightning bug adventures and grilled burgers. And most importantly, I think, the tenuous confidence of a fledgling writer with a story to tell.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Legacy of Dirt
She sits in the damp green grass
Caressing the soft dark earth at her feet.
The sun is bright, reflecting the pools of
water welled in her eyes.
Her chest heaves, she grips the soil,
Remembering with just a touch,
All the moments and movements of earth between them.
Sunny day, she is 3, plopped on chubby legs in the garden.
She eats a tomato, salty juice and dirt streaking her chin
“Its all part of nature, you see” he says.
Freezing day, she is 14, standing like a sentry at her Grandmother’s grave.
The dirt creates a hole today, a bigger one in her heart.
The first time she sees her Father cry.
Spring day, she is 21, kneeling on piles of dirt tucked in for a flower bed.
They design and plant together now
He sees a fellow gardener in her.
And now, this final planting.
Etched permanently with the dirt in her hands.
She covers him lovingly with earth he can no longer caress.
She is the gardener now, tending
The memories of her childhood,
Remembering the seeds of the past.
Caressing the soft dark earth at her feet.
The sun is bright, reflecting the pools of
water welled in her eyes.
Her chest heaves, she grips the soil,
Remembering with just a touch,
All the moments and movements of earth between them.
Sunny day, she is 3, plopped on chubby legs in the garden.
She eats a tomato, salty juice and dirt streaking her chin
“Its all part of nature, you see” he says.
Freezing day, she is 14, standing like a sentry at her Grandmother’s grave.
The dirt creates a hole today, a bigger one in her heart.
The first time she sees her Father cry.
Spring day, she is 21, kneeling on piles of dirt tucked in for a flower bed.
They design and plant together now
He sees a fellow gardener in her.
And now, this final planting.
Etched permanently with the dirt in her hands.
She covers him lovingly with earth he can no longer caress.
She is the gardener now, tending
The memories of her childhood,
Remembering the seeds of the past.
A Father's Love
I have never felt so loved by my Dad than the day he escorted me down the aisle. True to the Murphy’s Law of things, this was not your ordinary proud father and weeping daughter. My father rolled me down the aisle in a wheelchair. He had spent the last 115 days in the hospital, the target of a disease that choked his arteries, amputated his left leg, weakened his heart, and rendered him a paraplegic. The disease could not dim his spirit.
I’ll always wonder how he did it, how he put his proud, private self on display for me, how he donned a tux, put on one shiny black shoe, and left his hospital bed after nearly four months of convalescing to roll me down the aisle. A man who spent his life water-skiing, gardening, swimming in the ocean, a man whose pride was based on walking tall and whose heart was bent on walking his oldest daughter down the aisle. I don’t know how he did it: showed himself so sick, so vulnerable, so frail, in front of all who knew him.
He looked so pale that day, but so proud. I didn’t know until later that he almost didn’t make it to the church at all. Artery diseases don’t stop for weddings, and this particular predator had found a new victim earlier that week: his colon. I’ll always remember how he held my hand so tightly as we walked down the aisle. As a little girl, he held my hand to keep me steady. Now I was doing the same for him. My arms still feel that hug at the end of the aisle, as he wiped a tear from his eye and gave me away to my waiting beau. I didn’t know it then, but that was the last hug my Dad would give me. I could feel his eyes, his smiles, his pride as he watched the vows unfold on that sunny Saturday. And I’ll never forget that gift of love.
Who could have known that it would be his last perfect gift to me? The day after the wedding, he was in a coma, his brain protecting him from the ravaging pain of his constricting arteries. His blood pressure plummeted as I soared through the air to Jamaica with my new husband. The doctor said he’d be dead within the day. My Mom didn’t want to ruin my honeymoon, so she bore the burden without me. While I sipped tropical drinks by the shore of the Caribbean Sea, my Dad sank lower as his heartbeat slowed.
For four long days, I basked in the sun while my Father refused to die. On the fifth day, I knew. Something inexplicable forced me to call. I found him in the ICU, waiting for his goodbye. Although he couldn’t talk, I know he heard my words. I thanked him for his love, I assured him of mine, and I marveled at his amazing gift to me: the day when he summoned his last bit of strength in order to offer me every girl’s dream, a proud father to escort her down the aisle. He died twenty minutes after that phone call, and although I was thousands of miles away, I held his heart in mine as he drifted off to sleep.
I’ll always wonder how he did it, how he put his proud, private self on display for me, how he donned a tux, put on one shiny black shoe, and left his hospital bed after nearly four months of convalescing to roll me down the aisle. A man who spent his life water-skiing, gardening, swimming in the ocean, a man whose pride was based on walking tall and whose heart was bent on walking his oldest daughter down the aisle. I don’t know how he did it: showed himself so sick, so vulnerable, so frail, in front of all who knew him.
He looked so pale that day, but so proud. I didn’t know until later that he almost didn’t make it to the church at all. Artery diseases don’t stop for weddings, and this particular predator had found a new victim earlier that week: his colon. I’ll always remember how he held my hand so tightly as we walked down the aisle. As a little girl, he held my hand to keep me steady. Now I was doing the same for him. My arms still feel that hug at the end of the aisle, as he wiped a tear from his eye and gave me away to my waiting beau. I didn’t know it then, but that was the last hug my Dad would give me. I could feel his eyes, his smiles, his pride as he watched the vows unfold on that sunny Saturday. And I’ll never forget that gift of love.
Who could have known that it would be his last perfect gift to me? The day after the wedding, he was in a coma, his brain protecting him from the ravaging pain of his constricting arteries. His blood pressure plummeted as I soared through the air to Jamaica with my new husband. The doctor said he’d be dead within the day. My Mom didn’t want to ruin my honeymoon, so she bore the burden without me. While I sipped tropical drinks by the shore of the Caribbean Sea, my Dad sank lower as his heartbeat slowed.
For four long days, I basked in the sun while my Father refused to die. On the fifth day, I knew. Something inexplicable forced me to call. I found him in the ICU, waiting for his goodbye. Although he couldn’t talk, I know he heard my words. I thanked him for his love, I assured him of mine, and I marveled at his amazing gift to me: the day when he summoned his last bit of strength in order to offer me every girl’s dream, a proud father to escort her down the aisle. He died twenty minutes after that phone call, and although I was thousands of miles away, I held his heart in mine as he drifted off to sleep.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Waiting
Waiting patiently is not in my skill set. I have never been good at waiting for special events like birthday parties or trips to the circus. The countdown to the first day of school gave me fits. As a student because I was dying to get back to it, as a teacher because I longed to spend a few more days (or weeks) cuddled with my children. Or lying on a beach somewhere. And waiting nine months for a baby to arrive? Forget about it. Although I did it three times, it never got any easier.
But now I find myself in a very different holding pattern. My cousin is waiting to die. She has been sick for a long time but always bounced back. But now it seems the final chapter is upon her. Last Thursday the doctors gave her twelve hours to live. They have never seen anyone last more than two days in her condition without dialysis. Ever. But it has been practically a week and she is still waiting. She is a tough Irish lady, for sure, and this week her ten brothers and sisters flew in from Ireland to say their good-byes. Her five children take turns at her bedside and her devoted husband is ever at her side.
She is home from the hospital now, still waiting, and I marvel at the circle of it all. This is the family home where she welcomed her new children into the world. Her oldest son died here when he was a young boy. Her fourteen grandchildren have enjoyed family dinners and backyard games for the past twenty years. And in between the daily cups of tea and pieces of toast, countless birthday parties, wrestling matches, lost homework, and found cousins who needed a place to stay.
Her life has not been easy. The oldest of sixteen, she was forced to grow up quickly and her decision to come to America forced her to leave so much behind. She lost a child and almost another when chicken pox invaded the end of her pregnancy. The emergency traecheotomy changed her lilting voice forever. Her husband’s health has always been precarious and she has endured her share of hospital waiting rooms during his open heart surgeries. Her financial world has often been tough as well.
But through it all I have learned from her stoic pride, her love for her family. I don’t know five grown brothers and sisters that spend more time together. Anywhere. And her quiet devotion to her husband is a true treasure. So I wonder what she is waiting for. Why she is holding so tightly to a body that is clearly giving out? I wonder what jobs she thinks she must finish before her spirit can rest in peace. And so we wait. And we take food to her siblings and take her children out for a beer and a smoke. And we watch her doze and wake and make peace with her life.
But now I find myself in a very different holding pattern. My cousin is waiting to die. She has been sick for a long time but always bounced back. But now it seems the final chapter is upon her. Last Thursday the doctors gave her twelve hours to live. They have never seen anyone last more than two days in her condition without dialysis. Ever. But it has been practically a week and she is still waiting. She is a tough Irish lady, for sure, and this week her ten brothers and sisters flew in from Ireland to say their good-byes. Her five children take turns at her bedside and her devoted husband is ever at her side.
She is home from the hospital now, still waiting, and I marvel at the circle of it all. This is the family home where she welcomed her new children into the world. Her oldest son died here when he was a young boy. Her fourteen grandchildren have enjoyed family dinners and backyard games for the past twenty years. And in between the daily cups of tea and pieces of toast, countless birthday parties, wrestling matches, lost homework, and found cousins who needed a place to stay.
Her life has not been easy. The oldest of sixteen, she was forced to grow up quickly and her decision to come to America forced her to leave so much behind. She lost a child and almost another when chicken pox invaded the end of her pregnancy. The emergency traecheotomy changed her lilting voice forever. Her husband’s health has always been precarious and she has endured her share of hospital waiting rooms during his open heart surgeries. Her financial world has often been tough as well.
But through it all I have learned from her stoic pride, her love for her family. I don’t know five grown brothers and sisters that spend more time together. Anywhere. And her quiet devotion to her husband is a true treasure. So I wonder what she is waiting for. Why she is holding so tightly to a body that is clearly giving out? I wonder what jobs she thinks she must finish before her spirit can rest in peace. And so we wait. And we take food to her siblings and take her children out for a beer and a smoke. And we watch her doze and wake and make peace with her life.
Could Have Been
**To honor a friend who lost her baby this week and to wonder about my child who would be three and a half today.
Blood dripping down my leg, pools in a shallow stillness on the floor. A clump of cells the doctor said, clinical, unfeeling. My contracting muscles beat a sorrowful dirge as this life leaks onto dusty linoleum. Twenty-one days to make a heartbeat, to fuel a soul they say. Twenty-one days to build the dream of tiny fingers reaching out in love. And now the dream drains away, the red starkness the martyring of a life…..onto the tear-stained floor. Its okay, they say, you have other children; you can try again some day. But who is it, I wonder, that is leaving this mortal coil, whose smiles and skinned knees and tufts of hair I will never kiss? Who is it that will never brush my cheek with peanut butter lips and smooth my hair with grubby fists? Whose laughter and tears are falling drop by precious drop on this stark bathroom floor tonight? Cell by cell the sad parade drips on, cramping home no longer needed beats the sorrowed time as the tears and baby meet upon my dirty floor.
Blood dripping down my leg, pools in a shallow stillness on the floor. A clump of cells the doctor said, clinical, unfeeling. My contracting muscles beat a sorrowful dirge as this life leaks onto dusty linoleum. Twenty-one days to make a heartbeat, to fuel a soul they say. Twenty-one days to build the dream of tiny fingers reaching out in love. And now the dream drains away, the red starkness the martyring of a life…..onto the tear-stained floor. Its okay, they say, you have other children; you can try again some day. But who is it, I wonder, that is leaving this mortal coil, whose smiles and skinned knees and tufts of hair I will never kiss? Who is it that will never brush my cheek with peanut butter lips and smooth my hair with grubby fists? Whose laughter and tears are falling drop by precious drop on this stark bathroom floor tonight? Cell by cell the sad parade drips on, cramping home no longer needed beats the sorrowed time as the tears and baby meet upon my dirty floor.
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