It’s not quite as bad as last year. Sure there is screaming and gnashing of teeth. (Okay, mostly mine.) And there are little people who refuse to go to sleep at bedtime, thereby making it much harder to wake them up in the early reverie. And there are some wardrobe malfunctions. Shoes that fit three days ago at the store will not find their way onto feet that need to walk out the door in five minutes. And there are routines to re-establish. Lunches are packed and clothes laid out the night before amid a lot of whining and griping.
But really, it’s not quite as bad as last year.
This is the time of year that tries a mother’s patience. Add to that the fact that I am a teacher AND a mother, and I have my own lunch to pack and clothes to lay out, and things can get really harried.
But they are growing up, I think. The middle guy’s in kindergarten, and happy as a clam to be going to school all day, walking to and fro with his big sis. She, for her part, has made it “upstairs” as a second grader, and seems able to handle the homework planner and guiding her brother to and from school. Even the baby, a misnomer if I ever heard one, is getting his act together for pre-school and excited about his Spider Man book bag and new friend Isaac.
We still have occasional screaming and tantrum-throwing, lost forms and lost patience, but the transition is as good as can be expected.
I think the patient will survive this crisis.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Around the Corner
My legs are churning, heart racing. This asphalt path is good for speed. Acorns already litter the smooth course and the evening light falls faster into shade. I round a sharp corner and gasp so loudly that the man in front of me turns to see if I have fallen. I cannot take my eyes off the ball of fire dipping into the sky. It falls so fast, too fast for me to get a glimpse of it around the next bend. I content myself with the one moment of sheer beauty that I have witnessed, the brightest of red against the backdrop of blue sky and jagged trees.
Just around the corner. It could be my mantra these days. I am on the brink. “It” with a capital I is just around the corner. I don’t kid myself. It is not always so glamorous as a perfectly setting sun. Last week I rounded a bend on my bike and almost got clocked by the Superintendent of schools dragging himself home after a long day. A few days before that I scared the hell out of a deer and myself when I hit a curve too quickly.
But just around the bend works for me. And I’m an optimist, so I imagine they’ll be more royal sunsets than near collisions. So many lessons for me these days. So many things just around the corner. And they are not lost on me.
It’s the getting on the path that does the most good. Being there. In the moment.. Moving forward to see what might be there. Breathing deeply. Crunching acorns.
And waiting to see what is up ahead, around the next bend.
Just around the corner. It could be my mantra these days. I am on the brink. “It” with a capital I is just around the corner. I don’t kid myself. It is not always so glamorous as a perfectly setting sun. Last week I rounded a bend on my bike and almost got clocked by the Superintendent of schools dragging himself home after a long day. A few days before that I scared the hell out of a deer and myself when I hit a curve too quickly.
But just around the bend works for me. And I’m an optimist, so I imagine they’ll be more royal sunsets than near collisions. So many lessons for me these days. So many things just around the corner. And they are not lost on me.
It’s the getting on the path that does the most good. Being there. In the moment.. Moving forward to see what might be there. Breathing deeply. Crunching acorns.
And waiting to see what is up ahead, around the next bend.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Magical Memories
Another perfect day at the beach. The usual summer fare. But this one is slightly different, filled with a myriad of emotions and some old family friends. The usual players are along too: my tow-headed boys, their bronzing sister, the giant blue shovel and a big pile of buckets. Today the waves are tiny, the carpet of algae barely moves on the surface of the lake.
The story starts too long ago to recount, in a stark hospital where our mothers shared both nursing duties and friendship. And then their children came along and our mothers shared us too. Our big thing was Catawba, where each summer both families enjoyed cottages and beach towels, corn on the cob cook-outs and candy hidden in trees for the children to hunt. The years passed as they always do and we kids drifted in and out of each other’s lives like the boats on the waves where we used to play.
Until today. The winds have carried us right back to where we started. And here we meet on the same beach on which we played as children. Only now we are the grown-ups and our children are running and digging and frolicking in the surf.
My eyes are drawn to the girls: my daughter and his daughter, twins in more ways than one. (He is the oldest son of my mother’s friend. Many years ago, he and I spent more than our share of time in his aluminum boat together. We talked, fished, giggled. Almost lost our lives one hot stormy afternoon when lightning came close. And there was other heat too. But that is a story for another day.) Today it is his daughter and mine, running down the sand in tandem, chasing sea gulls.
They are relentless in their pursuit, single-minded. They deem the gray seagulls the slowest, so they focus their energies there. They share the intensity of oldest children and an interest in following rules. They look back to judge their distance from the group. But then the rock-throwing starts and (who would believe) they hit a sea gull on the tail feather. They are funny in their lukewarm remorse, softening the blows with guilty looks and shy smiles for each other’s parents.
Later we leave the beach and the girls walk hand in hand. How does this happen after a few short hours together? But really it is more. There is history here, a past they couldn’t possibly know. But perhaps like muscle memory, they understand beyond their capabilities what has come before.
We return to the cottage and they rinse the sand and suntan lotion from their sun-kissed skin. They shake their own tail feathers and giggle as they dress; only girls of this age could pull this off.
The night ends with ice cream, as any perfect summer day requires. The two sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing licks and sharing secrets. I feel sad, really, because I know how far apart they live. And the magic of Catawba will not transcend the miles, I’m afraid.
As we say our good-byes, I catch the eye of my old friend. His face reflects my own amazement and uncertainty. What a day it has been for connections and re-visiting the past through the eyes of the future. What a day for our daughters. And I catch the twinkle in his eye and think that maybe the magic of Catawba may prevail after all.
The story starts too long ago to recount, in a stark hospital where our mothers shared both nursing duties and friendship. And then their children came along and our mothers shared us too. Our big thing was Catawba, where each summer both families enjoyed cottages and beach towels, corn on the cob cook-outs and candy hidden in trees for the children to hunt. The years passed as they always do and we kids drifted in and out of each other’s lives like the boats on the waves where we used to play.
Until today. The winds have carried us right back to where we started. And here we meet on the same beach on which we played as children. Only now we are the grown-ups and our children are running and digging and frolicking in the surf.
My eyes are drawn to the girls: my daughter and his daughter, twins in more ways than one. (He is the oldest son of my mother’s friend. Many years ago, he and I spent more than our share of time in his aluminum boat together. We talked, fished, giggled. Almost lost our lives one hot stormy afternoon when lightning came close. And there was other heat too. But that is a story for another day.) Today it is his daughter and mine, running down the sand in tandem, chasing sea gulls.
They are relentless in their pursuit, single-minded. They deem the gray seagulls the slowest, so they focus their energies there. They share the intensity of oldest children and an interest in following rules. They look back to judge their distance from the group. But then the rock-throwing starts and (who would believe) they hit a sea gull on the tail feather. They are funny in their lukewarm remorse, softening the blows with guilty looks and shy smiles for each other’s parents.
Later we leave the beach and the girls walk hand in hand. How does this happen after a few short hours together? But really it is more. There is history here, a past they couldn’t possibly know. But perhaps like muscle memory, they understand beyond their capabilities what has come before.
We return to the cottage and they rinse the sand and suntan lotion from their sun-kissed skin. They shake their own tail feathers and giggle as they dress; only girls of this age could pull this off.
The night ends with ice cream, as any perfect summer day requires. The two sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing licks and sharing secrets. I feel sad, really, because I know how far apart they live. And the magic of Catawba will not transcend the miles, I’m afraid.
As we say our good-byes, I catch the eye of my old friend. His face reflects my own amazement and uncertainty. What a day it has been for connections and re-visiting the past through the eyes of the future. What a day for our daughters. And I catch the twinkle in his eye and think that maybe the magic of Catawba may prevail after all.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Bruise
“It only hurts when I touch it.” My kids say that all the time, while sporting the latest scrape, bruise, or scratched-into-oblivion bug bite. I always wonder why they just don’t touch it!
And it’s the same with me tonight. I’m enjoying a family party with the Irish cousins. We don’t get to see them all the time, but they are the sort of people you catch right up with as though you’ve never left. It’s the kind of party where all the kids play in the basement and resurface only to replenish their sugar supply and the grown-ups sit around a big table drinking and telling tales. Fun for everybody.
The patriarch Kevin sits surrounded by his children, cousins and older grandchildren. We are all trying to stay out of the rain. My daughter emerges from the basement and bounds over, happily oblivious to my presence at the table. She stops short of Kevin, with the shy face I know means she knows what she wants but not quite how to go about it. Then she silently climbs onto his lap with a grin.
And in that quick instant my breath stops. He looks so frail under the weight of her braided pigtails. And she looks so serene on his lap. And I wish with all my might that it was my dad. And she had a grandpa. And it is a twisting blade, this desire for my dad and his plaid shirt and my smiling daughter on HIS lap.
But it only hurts when I touch it.
And it’s the same with me tonight. I’m enjoying a family party with the Irish cousins. We don’t get to see them all the time, but they are the sort of people you catch right up with as though you’ve never left. It’s the kind of party where all the kids play in the basement and resurface only to replenish their sugar supply and the grown-ups sit around a big table drinking and telling tales. Fun for everybody.
The patriarch Kevin sits surrounded by his children, cousins and older grandchildren. We are all trying to stay out of the rain. My daughter emerges from the basement and bounds over, happily oblivious to my presence at the table. She stops short of Kevin, with the shy face I know means she knows what she wants but not quite how to go about it. Then she silently climbs onto his lap with a grin.
And in that quick instant my breath stops. He looks so frail under the weight of her braided pigtails. And she looks so serene on his lap. And I wish with all my might that it was my dad. And she had a grandpa. And it is a twisting blade, this desire for my dad and his plaid shirt and my smiling daughter on HIS lap.
But it only hurts when I touch it.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Dear August
You don’t scare me. You, with your back-to-school sales and disappearing daylight, your sense of foreboding for a lady who is both a teacher and a mom of three kids who are going to school. I suppose I’m supposed to drop everything and rush to buy your twenty-five cent crayons and drag the offspring to squish their freedom feet into starchy shoes. But I’ve still got my hands taped and I’m not going down without a fight.
I think I’ve really tasted victory this summer. I’ve taken on your J and J brothers and kicked them all over this sunny town. And country! Who needs a straw? I’m sucking marrow from a PVC pipe and loving the heck out of these hot summer days.
We’ve frolicked at the beach. Lake AND ocean. Dominated the pool: swimming, sliding, jumping, jumping (and more jumping.) We’ve picked blueberries and made shoebox replicas with popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners. We’ve devoured more watermelons than we can count and way too much ice cream to admit to. We’ve watched fireworks and caught fireflies and somehow kept our skin from catching fire with all of our outside time. We’ve ogled a moose and ridden an Iron Dragon and discovered snakes in bushes.
So bring it, August. I’m not done with summer yet. Others are packing up the beach toys and setting up the homework stations, but I am still full-go summer. I have a rocky river to kayak and some rocks to climb and more blueberries to pick and more trips to the pool. I have miles to run and hot fudge to drizzle and a few more late nights up my sleeve.
And when we report for duty at the end of the month, all sun-kissed and light-haired and bruise-legged and sandy, you’ll see that we made the most of your fiery month. And the rest of the summer, too.
I think I’ve really tasted victory this summer. I’ve taken on your J and J brothers and kicked them all over this sunny town. And country! Who needs a straw? I’m sucking marrow from a PVC pipe and loving the heck out of these hot summer days.
We’ve frolicked at the beach. Lake AND ocean. Dominated the pool: swimming, sliding, jumping, jumping (and more jumping.) We’ve picked blueberries and made shoebox replicas with popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners. We’ve devoured more watermelons than we can count and way too much ice cream to admit to. We’ve watched fireworks and caught fireflies and somehow kept our skin from catching fire with all of our outside time. We’ve ogled a moose and ridden an Iron Dragon and discovered snakes in bushes.
So bring it, August. I’m not done with summer yet. Others are packing up the beach toys and setting up the homework stations, but I am still full-go summer. I have a rocky river to kayak and some rocks to climb and more blueberries to pick and more trips to the pool. I have miles to run and hot fudge to drizzle and a few more late nights up my sleeve.
And when we report for duty at the end of the month, all sun-kissed and light-haired and bruise-legged and sandy, you’ll see that we made the most of your fiery month. And the rest of the summer, too.
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