“I think his name was Paul,” she said, with all the innocence of her eight years and those pursed lips and wide eyes she uses to shyly say she is proud of herself.
She had wanted to polka. With a vengeance. The invitation had come several weeks before for the annual party held by her Nana’s twin brother. And she had talked of nothing else for days. I knew she was excited for the pierogies and the dessert table, but it was really the dancing that had her mesmerized.
But when we arrived at the party, she realized that there was no one to dance with. Nana was busy telling stories, her parents had no rhythm, and her brothers could not be cajoled away from the marshmallow peanut butter brownies. Uncle Nick did his best and tried his hand, but it was all too soon before a kinder older gentleman stepped in. We think his name was Paul.
Let me digress to say that my children and I were the only people there under the age of fifty, by a long shot. And most of the guests were quite older than that. But her youth was not the only thing that made Maura stand out. She is earnest, in all tasks, but especially things like this. She doesn't quite stick her tongue out while trying to figure out the polka, like her little brother does when he is busy concentrating, but her face says it all. Quiet strength.
She has this shy demeanor, especially in public, and never moreso than at a gig like the Honky Express bash, median age 63. (It would also be a good time to point out that the police were called, albeit at 4:30 p.m., because the music was too much for the neighbors. I hope they didn't see the geriatrics double-fisting Crown Royal in the corner. There HAS to be a law against that!) So amidst all the chaos, of course Maura turned bright red when her uncle twirled her into Paul’s waiting arms, and then again when Paul continued to polka her feet around the dance floor.
And it was somewhere there between the Honky Express saxophone belting in the summer afternoon, and the gray-haired man twirling my girl around the floor, and the sweetest smile of pleasure and delight plastered to her face, that I lost it a bit. The elders were too intoxicated to see the tear roll down my cheek. But I had to bite my lip to keep from losing them all.
It’s so unfair, these moments remind me, what she has lost. Although in fairness I suppose she cannot miss what she did not have. But my heart is heavy for her grandpa she never knew (and who would most likely never have polkaed with her had she did.)
But what she WOULD have had?!? Oh, what she would have had.
The way she looked up at Paul on the dance floor with the sun kissing her tanned skin, and all the joy and trust in the world wrapped in the face of an angel, well that scene made her mother wish for many things that might have been.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Tell Me About Your Child
I was just fine until I got to the Tell Me About Your Child form. The first day of school is always busy, a whirling of early waking and getting there and getting through. And we did it. We had a heck of a day. I liked my students, my kids liked their teachers and everybody liked the spaghetti and meatballs for dinner.
And now they are all in bed. (Take THAT late summer nights!) And the lunches are made and the uniforms laid out and I have settled in with my ballpoint and pile of forms: the usual permissions and doctors’ phone numbers and handbook agreements and then this.
For the first grader, tucked at the back of the pile, a questionnaire. Oh, the things I could tell you about my child. There is suddenly a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye and I don’t understand how a school form just stops me dead in my tracks.
And I am not sure how to condense his whole self into six questions on a form.
Oh, to put all the dreams on this paper. My goals for my son? His special qualities include? How does he approach learning?
Does she really want to know?
He approaches learning, that’s for sure!! I’m not sure she can handle the truth: the animal habitats that he makes in the yard (and the dead frog attempted-resuscitation on the air hockey table), the cardboard collection that clogs the basement stairs and collects in his closet, the Lego world that tumbles through my dining room.
She’ll learn soon enough that he is everybody’s friend. Trust me, it won’t take long to see him hug his buddies and check on someone who falls on the playground or demand that someone give him a piggy back at recess. And they always do. He is pretty magical.
He won’t finish anything. (Well maybe now that he is at the ripe old age of seven, but I think he had a pretty solid non-finishing policy last year.) Oh, he’ll start with gusto and a passion I’ve rarely seen, but it takes a pretty amazing Lego set to keep him going to the finish. He lives in the moment, and he lives with fire. The heat may surprise her and it will certainly keep her on her toes.
How do I tell her all of this in a few lines on a form? That he is the one that will take care of me when I’m old. That with his twinkling eyes and crooked smile, he is starting to look a lot like my long-dead father. That he is a boy beyond my wildest dreams and I have no idea how his creativity was born. That he works hard and plays hard and dreams big and oh, if you REALLY want him to do something, you need to offer him cold hard cash.
Tell her about my child? It won’t take very long for her to figure him out herself. He wears his heart on his sleeve and a few tricks up it too. And I am hoping she can love him like I do.
And now they are all in bed. (Take THAT late summer nights!) And the lunches are made and the uniforms laid out and I have settled in with my ballpoint and pile of forms: the usual permissions and doctors’ phone numbers and handbook agreements and then this.
For the first grader, tucked at the back of the pile, a questionnaire. Oh, the things I could tell you about my child. There is suddenly a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye and I don’t understand how a school form just stops me dead in my tracks.
And I am not sure how to condense his whole self into six questions on a form.
Oh, to put all the dreams on this paper. My goals for my son? His special qualities include? How does he approach learning?
Does she really want to know?
He approaches learning, that’s for sure!! I’m not sure she can handle the truth: the animal habitats that he makes in the yard (and the dead frog attempted-resuscitation on the air hockey table), the cardboard collection that clogs the basement stairs and collects in his closet, the Lego world that tumbles through my dining room.
She’ll learn soon enough that he is everybody’s friend. Trust me, it won’t take long to see him hug his buddies and check on someone who falls on the playground or demand that someone give him a piggy back at recess. And they always do. He is pretty magical.
He won’t finish anything. (Well maybe now that he is at the ripe old age of seven, but I think he had a pretty solid non-finishing policy last year.) Oh, he’ll start with gusto and a passion I’ve rarely seen, but it takes a pretty amazing Lego set to keep him going to the finish. He lives in the moment, and he lives with fire. The heat may surprise her and it will certainly keep her on her toes.
How do I tell her all of this in a few lines on a form? That he is the one that will take care of me when I’m old. That with his twinkling eyes and crooked smile, he is starting to look a lot like my long-dead father. That he is a boy beyond my wildest dreams and I have no idea how his creativity was born. That he works hard and plays hard and dreams big and oh, if you REALLY want him to do something, you need to offer him cold hard cash.
Tell her about my child? It won’t take very long for her to figure him out herself. He wears his heart on his sleeve and a few tricks up it too. And I am hoping she can love him like I do.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Dear Parents:
Dear Parents,
Summer is drawing to a close. I am sure you have purchased a bunch of pens and white polos and two-pocket folders by now. But before you start the Halleluja Chorus and send the sweet little beasts back to me, let’s get a few things straight. I love your children. I said that out loud to you last night at Meet the Teacher, and you were probably wondering about me. I said other odd things too (and your children will report these continuing idiosyncracies throughout the year I’m sure); I like to shake it up a little, and the love comment probably had you furrowing a brow. But think about it: why ELSE would I hang out with thirty 14 year olds every day, masochism aside of course? And especially your kids? You know how they can be!!
I suppose even after 15 years of teaching I am still a Polly-Anna of sorts. I still think I can change the world with a bit of passion and a couple teaching strategies up my sleeve. I’ve honed my style for years and have a few letters after my name to prove I am highly educated in my field (MAT if you were wondering). Not quite a Master Jedi, but it will have to do! And I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I will teach your students how to write this year and communicate effectively in a variety of ways. And I have actually been paid to do this myself: to write, to edit, to publish. Just so you know. And although I am an old-fashioned kind of gal, I will do my fair share with the active board and ipads and grammar ninja interactives this year. I know all about Facebook and text messaging and all these new-fangled things so they can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Don’t you worry.
Because I love your children, there are a few things you need to know. With love comes responsibility: theirs and mine. First of all, I want what’s best for them, just like you. I want them to think creatively and critically and make new friends and enjoy their chocolate milk cartons at lunch and bring their homework to class. And I also want to challenge them to be BETTER than they think they can be…at thinking, at compassion, at writing, at living. Sometimes it is smooth sailing and we do our lessons and write our vocabulary sentences and eat our Smarties and everything is hunky-dory. But sometimes the little dears may require a little more TLC: Tough Love Camp. (Ask my own son why he is often sitting on the step in time out or losing out on the baseball cards he was trying to earn.) Discipline is the key to success in all aspects of life. And if your children need a little dose of discipline to get them on the right track, just know that they will get it. If we do the small things well, we can move to success in the big things.
Please know that I do not lie awake at night thinking of ways to torment your children. Believe me, I need my sleep and I am usually snoring before my head hits the pillow. This job is exhausting. Three hundred decisions a day. “Can I go to the bathroom?” “Is this the right answer?” “Where do I put this test?” (and I bite my tongue to resist the snarky answer since we have put EVERY test in the exact same spot and it is APRIL!) “Is it time for lunch?” “Can you talk to Johnny? He just punched me.” The all-day answering machine (me!!) gets pretty worn out. Not to mention the kids with the real problems like a father with cancer or a mother in another state. I used to haul dirt and rocks for a landscaper in the summer. I was MUCH LESS tired after ten hours of landscaping in the sun than from a day in the classroom. So no, I don’t have time for vendettas, or to pick on your individual children. I like them all equally!
Middle school is a difficult time; let’s make that clear at the beginning. It is my privilege to help your children navigate a world where they still appreciate smelly stickers on their spelling tests but they are starting to deal with puberty and drugs and friends that are enemies and bad influences that look pretty darn appealing. But I cannot coddle them. Growing up and breaking up are both hard to do. Life is not always fair and bad things DO happen to good people. I would be re-miss if I did not try to teach your children these truths. I will be gentle (mostly) but some of my best lessons from my own father who loved me dearly came at pretty ferocious speeds and very high decibels. I will do my best to teach your children well.
My hope for them this year is that they will become articulate, fun-loving, passionate, and hard-working. We will have our moments of disappointment and great joy this year, I am sure. (Everything is larger when seen through the lens of middle school angst.) And yes, I will love them. Love them with all my might as we navigate together this middle passage. I pray for calm waters and smooth sailing, a sturdy boat and a lot of hands on deck, and it should be a pretty great year!
Summer is drawing to a close. I am sure you have purchased a bunch of pens and white polos and two-pocket folders by now. But before you start the Halleluja Chorus and send the sweet little beasts back to me, let’s get a few things straight. I love your children. I said that out loud to you last night at Meet the Teacher, and you were probably wondering about me. I said other odd things too (and your children will report these continuing idiosyncracies throughout the year I’m sure); I like to shake it up a little, and the love comment probably had you furrowing a brow. But think about it: why ELSE would I hang out with thirty 14 year olds every day, masochism aside of course? And especially your kids? You know how they can be!!
I suppose even after 15 years of teaching I am still a Polly-Anna of sorts. I still think I can change the world with a bit of passion and a couple teaching strategies up my sleeve. I’ve honed my style for years and have a few letters after my name to prove I am highly educated in my field (MAT if you were wondering). Not quite a Master Jedi, but it will have to do! And I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I will teach your students how to write this year and communicate effectively in a variety of ways. And I have actually been paid to do this myself: to write, to edit, to publish. Just so you know. And although I am an old-fashioned kind of gal, I will do my fair share with the active board and ipads and grammar ninja interactives this year. I know all about Facebook and text messaging and all these new-fangled things so they can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Don’t you worry.
Because I love your children, there are a few things you need to know. With love comes responsibility: theirs and mine. First of all, I want what’s best for them, just like you. I want them to think creatively and critically and make new friends and enjoy their chocolate milk cartons at lunch and bring their homework to class. And I also want to challenge them to be BETTER than they think they can be…at thinking, at compassion, at writing, at living. Sometimes it is smooth sailing and we do our lessons and write our vocabulary sentences and eat our Smarties and everything is hunky-dory. But sometimes the little dears may require a little more TLC: Tough Love Camp. (Ask my own son why he is often sitting on the step in time out or losing out on the baseball cards he was trying to earn.) Discipline is the key to success in all aspects of life. And if your children need a little dose of discipline to get them on the right track, just know that they will get it. If we do the small things well, we can move to success in the big things.
Please know that I do not lie awake at night thinking of ways to torment your children. Believe me, I need my sleep and I am usually snoring before my head hits the pillow. This job is exhausting. Three hundred decisions a day. “Can I go to the bathroom?” “Is this the right answer?” “Where do I put this test?” (and I bite my tongue to resist the snarky answer since we have put EVERY test in the exact same spot and it is APRIL!) “Is it time for lunch?” “Can you talk to Johnny? He just punched me.” The all-day answering machine (me!!) gets pretty worn out. Not to mention the kids with the real problems like a father with cancer or a mother in another state. I used to haul dirt and rocks for a landscaper in the summer. I was MUCH LESS tired after ten hours of landscaping in the sun than from a day in the classroom. So no, I don’t have time for vendettas, or to pick on your individual children. I like them all equally!
Middle school is a difficult time; let’s make that clear at the beginning. It is my privilege to help your children navigate a world where they still appreciate smelly stickers on their spelling tests but they are starting to deal with puberty and drugs and friends that are enemies and bad influences that look pretty darn appealing. But I cannot coddle them. Growing up and breaking up are both hard to do. Life is not always fair and bad things DO happen to good people. I would be re-miss if I did not try to teach your children these truths. I will be gentle (mostly) but some of my best lessons from my own father who loved me dearly came at pretty ferocious speeds and very high decibels. I will do my best to teach your children well.
My hope for them this year is that they will become articulate, fun-loving, passionate, and hard-working. We will have our moments of disappointment and great joy this year, I am sure. (Everything is larger when seen through the lens of middle school angst.) And yes, I will love them. Love them with all my might as we navigate together this middle passage. I pray for calm waters and smooth sailing, a sturdy boat and a lot of hands on deck, and it should be a pretty great year!
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Things I Never Thought I Would Have to Do
1. Create a family rule that goes something like this: “No sitting on the couch without underwear.” This seems, at first glance, to be something the offspring might know intuitively, but in actuality it is an oft-quoted and difficult to enforce rule.
2. Pry a flattened, dead bird from inside my sobbing son’s makeshift banjo. (Think empty blackberry container covered in tin foil and strung with three or four rubber bands.) In a cemetery. And the crying was NOT because of his two dead grandpas buried in said cemetery, or even the fact that the poor bird was dead, but his giant hiccupping cries were because he wasn’t allowed to take the dead bird home!
3. Supply endless plates, sponges, pieces of foil et al. for the frog habitats being built in this yard. This place is just JUMPING with frogs. And little boys who want to build them homes, (whether the creatures want them or not.) And the little architects are pretty miserable that there is no netting or chicken wire available. Poor things.
4. Flush the toilet every single time I walk by the bathroom. This one is self- explanatory.
5. Dole out popsicles, fruit snacks, pretzel rods, snack crackers and juice boxes like some soup kitchen on steroids. Really, how could these waif-like kids eat this much?! And still maintain their skeletal figures?
6. Insist that the offspring change their clothes at least several times a week in the summer. (Sometimes they also take baths, although they maintain that the chlorine in the pool scours them just fine.) I probably could have saved a ton of money on the wardrobes. This does not include, of course, the costume pieces, which can never be too prolific. And summer apparently is the perfect time for tiger suits, dragons with head- pieces, and full body sharks.
7. Cower in fear when my son comes to hug me because I have been burned one too many times by the Fake-Hug-Drop-Worm-Down-Mom’s-Shirt move.
8. Catch my breath when the little guy rides his bike at breakneck speed down the sidewalk to cross a street or his brother front flips off the diving board. My heart is strong but these daredevils give these poor valves a work out, both in the intensity of my love for them and the heart-stopping rhythms with which these kids live their lives.
2. Pry a flattened, dead bird from inside my sobbing son’s makeshift banjo. (Think empty blackberry container covered in tin foil and strung with three or four rubber bands.) In a cemetery. And the crying was NOT because of his two dead grandpas buried in said cemetery, or even the fact that the poor bird was dead, but his giant hiccupping cries were because he wasn’t allowed to take the dead bird home!
3. Supply endless plates, sponges, pieces of foil et al. for the frog habitats being built in this yard. This place is just JUMPING with frogs. And little boys who want to build them homes, (whether the creatures want them or not.) And the little architects are pretty miserable that there is no netting or chicken wire available. Poor things.
4. Flush the toilet every single time I walk by the bathroom. This one is self- explanatory.
5. Dole out popsicles, fruit snacks, pretzel rods, snack crackers and juice boxes like some soup kitchen on steroids. Really, how could these waif-like kids eat this much?! And still maintain their skeletal figures?
6. Insist that the offspring change their clothes at least several times a week in the summer. (Sometimes they also take baths, although they maintain that the chlorine in the pool scours them just fine.) I probably could have saved a ton of money on the wardrobes. This does not include, of course, the costume pieces, which can never be too prolific. And summer apparently is the perfect time for tiger suits, dragons with head- pieces, and full body sharks.
7. Cower in fear when my son comes to hug me because I have been burned one too many times by the Fake-Hug-Drop-Worm-Down-Mom’s-Shirt move.
8. Catch my breath when the little guy rides his bike at breakneck speed down the sidewalk to cross a street or his brother front flips off the diving board. My heart is strong but these daredevils give these poor valves a work out, both in the intensity of my love for them and the heart-stopping rhythms with which these kids live their lives.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Ready to Roll
“Can we just have a little race, mom?” The kid is funny. First day on his new bike. He starts in costume, and soon realizes that the dinosaur tail and hood hinder mobility, not to mention it is over 80 degrees.
The costume gets flung aside quickly, and his grin widens as he realizes what this two-wheeler (four if you count the trainers) can do for his mobility.
And the race idea is funny. He doesn’t require another racer or a course or really much of anything for a “race”. All I need to do is say “Ready, set. Go” and he is off!
It’s a good metaphor as he grows and begins a new school year. My baby is four. He is entering pre-kindergarten this year (oh where do they get these monikers?) Apparently this just means extra time with crayons and letters and flinging pairs of socks at classmates in the large motor room (don’t ask).
He’s grown up a lot in the last few months. I see it in the way he talks to people, the aunts he knows so well and the kids he just meets at the playground. I marvel that he can fully dress himself (as long as we don’t mind if the cow shirt is backwards). And I get a little misty as I watch him ride his big boy bike all the way to the library. His churning legs keep up with the big kids and his face barely contains the giant grin and the pride in his eyes.
I hope he keeps this energy, this optimism, this flinging himself at life. The costumes will not last forever (well I guess you never know in this
family.) The bikes will be outgrown. The new markers and teachers and scissors will all dull with age, but I hope that this one thing will always remain. A precious boy with a zest for life and a desire to try new things. A boy who takes the job seriously when his mother says: “Ready, set, go” for whatever the future may bring.
The costume gets flung aside quickly, and his grin widens as he realizes what this two-wheeler (four if you count the trainers) can do for his mobility.
And the race idea is funny. He doesn’t require another racer or a course or really much of anything for a “race”. All I need to do is say “Ready, set. Go” and he is off!
It’s a good metaphor as he grows and begins a new school year. My baby is four. He is entering pre-kindergarten this year (oh where do they get these monikers?) Apparently this just means extra time with crayons and letters and flinging pairs of socks at classmates in the large motor room (don’t ask).
He’s grown up a lot in the last few months. I see it in the way he talks to people, the aunts he knows so well and the kids he just meets at the playground. I marvel that he can fully dress himself (as long as we don’t mind if the cow shirt is backwards). And I get a little misty as I watch him ride his big boy bike all the way to the library. His churning legs keep up with the big kids and his face barely contains the giant grin and the pride in his eyes.
I hope he keeps this energy, this optimism, this flinging himself at life. The costumes will not last forever (well I guess you never know in this
family.) The bikes will be outgrown. The new markers and teachers and scissors will all dull with age, but I hope that this one thing will always remain. A precious boy with a zest for life and a desire to try new things. A boy who takes the job seriously when his mother says: “Ready, set, go” for whatever the future may bring.
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