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.
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