Sometimes We Have to Stretch (SOLSC Day 7)

There are nights when I wish my arms could hold all my boys at the same time. Instead, I end up feeling too small to be a momma. I can't protect my guys from all bad things, I know that. But tonight I needed to protect them from a good thing. Two of the boys and my husband are involved with Kung Fu and tonight, the younger if the two sons earned a sash higher than his older brother. I know I am not the only parent who has faced this, but until now, the family hierarchy had never been upset and although eventually all was fine, it was a challenge to balance enjoying one son's elation while mending the other son's wounded pride. Since my arms aren't long enough to hold them all together and love them so hard that they have to let go of any negative feelings, instead I had to hold them each on their own and whisper whatever they needed to hear: "Work hard and you will reach your goals," "I am so proud of you!" "I love you no matter what," "You are lucky to have your brother," "Thank you for being kind," and "I am always here for you." Until my arms grow, my words will have to do.

Definitions (SOLSC--Day 2)

A student asked me today how we know when we love someone.  Her question was not in connection with a romantic relationship she was trying to navigate, but instead stemmed from her feelings for her parents.  "I care about them," she said, "And I would never wish anything bad to happen to them, but I am just not sure that's what love is."

And in that moment, I am reminded again about why I am a teacher.  It isn't really to teach English or to share a love of books or even to inspire excellent writing.  She wanted to ask questions and have it be okay that the answers weren't complete because we are always moving closer to the truth but never quite reaching it.  I am a teacher because that young lady needed a space to speak those words and she needed me to care about them and really consider my response.  She wanted to open her heart a bit wider than she usually does and know I could be trusted with what was inside.

And that's what I told her I think love is.

What My Son Said

Wednesday evenings have become my most peaceful of the week. The rest of the family goes to church while I take Nicholas to football practice. For an hour and a half, I don't have to speak to anyone, keep an eye on anyone, feed anyone or take anyone to the potty. I love my job and love my family, and goodness knows I love talking, but that brief respite each week has been a blessing.

And then, I get some time with Nicholas. My middle son, he tends to be the quietest of the three, the least aggressive, the most compliant. On Wednesdays, we get time together uninterrupted by his more demanding brothers (who I love like crazy, too, of course!).

After a dinner at Subway (a shared footlong and a chocolate chip cookie) --which earned me a "You're the best mom in the world!"--we had this conversation as we drove home:
(Passing the pumpkin patch)
Nicholas: Look at all the lights. They are so pretty.
Me: They are! Maybe someday when you get married, you can have a reception with lots of white lights like those.
Nicholas: Yes, and maybe after I get married my wife and I can go to the pumpkin patch.
Me: Then you will have to get married in October.
Nicholas: On Halloween!
Me: Well, whenever you get married, the girl you choose will be so lucky.
Nicholas: I want to marry a pretty girl.
Me: Pretty is fine, but it us more important that you find a girl who is kind.
Nicholas: Boys like pretty girls, not ugly ones.
Me(starting to get a little testy): But kind is the best thing for a girl to be; pretty isn't that important.
Nicholas: Well, you are pretty and Dad married you, so I think I will find a pretty girl, too.
Me (a little less testy): Aww, you are sweet!
Nicholas: Yep, Mom, boys like pretty girls, not ugly ones and girls don't like nerdy boys. Sometimes they like boys who are popular if they only do a few nerdy things.
Me: Like what?
Nicholas: You know, like play the banjo.

I love Wednesday night.

Saying Goodbye

Summer vacation was nothing like I thought it would be and exactly what I needed it to be. At the start, I told my husband all about these great plans I had made, the daily schedule I had devised, and all I wanted to accomplish. I even had a little acronym I wanted to use as a "title" for our summer adventures. And then, I didn't do any of it. No schedule, no accomplishment, no acronym. I have to say, it was lovely. The boys and I spent hour upon hour at the pool -- beginning most of our days there and not getting properly dressed until lunchtime. We didn't rush anywhere, we didn't pack anything, and the only schedule came from the fact that the pool opened at 8, so we knew we had to wait until then to arrive. I learned amazing things about my sons, about how their minds and hearts work. Without the demands of the school year, we were free to talk, listen, and wonder together. I watched them play together, fight together and grow even closer to each other. Of course, they had their daily hourly skirmishes and there were a number of days when I thought the top of my head might actually combust in an outward display of my frustration, but those times were worth it for the moments of magic. Diving into the deep end, sprinting through the sprinklers, pizza picnics in the park and the last hours of the evening cuddled together reading books that made us cry -- we spent those long unplanned, unnamed days in love.

Now it is time for backpacks and notebooks. Lesson plans and lunchbags. I'm glad. Too much time away makes me antsy; relaxation begins to feel like laziness. I like thinking and planning and doing. But. We are two weeks into our school year, the boys and me both, and while we are adjusting well, I think we are all having a more difficult time time saying goodbye to summer this year. Or maybe, we are having a hard time saying goodbye to each other.

#Poemaday 10: Speed Limit

Today I was inspired not only by @budtheteacher's prompt, but by the poem Kelly wrote in response. One of the real delights of participating in #poemaday has been the opportunity and nudge to read and respond to the writing of others.

Speed Limit
Add ninety (on the highway)
to noble He and get U --
in '92 it was all I needed to know
about how the world worked.


I thought chemistry was magic,
had no idea it was numbers --
a problem to solve,
equations to balance.

But, I found out the hard way
that two plus one leads to Lie

and even if the atomic number of I
is 53, we all know it is a lonesome one

and the chart might make us think
we know what's solid
and where we can stand,
but heartache turns the world to liquid.

Your foot on the gas,
my heart in your hand.
In '92 it was all I wanted to know
about how the world worked.

#Poemaday 9: Hang Your Hopes

@budtheteacher's prompt is here -- both the photo and the quote pushed me into new thinking.

Hang Your Hopes

Like sugar spilled on a tablecloth of sky,
the stars remind me of sweet what-might-have-beens.

Like us, spread across what we thought was love,
but turned out to be just what was there,
falling into the arms of others before we knew us was real.

Like me, basking in the softness of your old light,
believing it is a wish that might come true,
but knowing it is only what somewhere was me and you.

Warming Up & People Watching

Yesterday, my husband and I were sitting on a concrete wall watching people walk by in Downtown Disney.  The sky was an almost cliche blue with perfectly puffed clouds and the sunshine was warming the tops of our heads and making my eyes squint slightly even behind my oversized sunglasses. My chin was resting against my husband's shoulder and we sat in lovely silence for what felt like longer than it was.   Physically, I was unbelievably comfortable. 

But as I watched the people stream by -- couples, families, brothers, lovers, grandparents, sisters, friends -- my chest began to ache, a deep, deep ache that felt like it had started at the center of me and now was strong enough for my ribcage to sense.  I have felt this ache before and I usually have to quickly turn my attention to some task to take my mind away from it.  When I see people, especially in large numbers, I become overwhelmed by what I can only call love.

I see those faces, so many faces, and I wonder: Who knows him? Who cares about her? Are they happy? Is she lonely? Does he like himself? Where do they belong?

I imagine myself finding the empty space inside each one of them and being able to hand them a piece that would fill it perfectly.  And then they would smile and move on and I would know they were okay. I want to jump up and stop each of them as they pass, let each one know that I am willing to care and willing to help with whatever battle they may be fighting.

But that isn't how it works. Instead, as the people walk by, I become more and more aware of the inability I have to take away the pains of the world. If I let it, this sense of smallness could keep me frozen. 

Instead, I stood up, took my husband's hand in mine, and focused on making him feel like he belonged, right there with me.  And I reminded myself that I have been given people in my life -- my husband, my sons, my family, friends, colleagues and students -- and what a gift that is, the opportunity to fill even a little bit of the emptiness that any of them may be carrying around with them.  I may not be able to save the world, but I can warm the hearts and spirits of those in my life so that they can do the same for others.

Latte at The Happiest Place on Earth

I love it when something lives up to the hype. Yesterday at Disneyland, I enjoyed my first Market House Cinnamon Tea Latte. They have been a topic of conversation among my husband's Disney buddies for months and all have raved about them. Usually, this would be the perfect set-up for disappointment, but as I walked out of the park, one hand holding my husband's and one hand holding the latte, I realized the entire day was like that latte.
We headed out to the park in heavy rain. It rained the entire way there--fat, troublesome rain--and I worried that our Disney date would be nothing more than a soaked fiasco. But I was wrong. As soon as we arrived, the clouds parted and sunlight bathed the area. Due to the morning rains, the crowds were thin and the park was ours. Expectations were not only met; they were exceeded.

From the sunshine-drenched afternoon to the delicious drinks on Main Street, my day gave me hope (and some much needed relaxation!) not hype.

Could You Repeat That?

I have been thinking about repetition.  What do I repeat?  What do I like repeating and what do I repeat so much it makes me want to climb the walls?

I don't like repeating fights or failed cooking attempts.  I don't like repeating my name or mistakes.  As a teacher, I know I need to repeat instructions, but on the 42nd round, I start to show signs of impatience.  I don't like repeating after others and I don't like it when my children repeat things I didn't know they had heard.

But there are a few things I do not mind repeating.  Goodbye kisses and pregnancy stories are high on the list.  I need to repeat praise more often at work and home.  I will repeat "when you were a baby" tales as long as my boys ask for them.  I love you.  I could repeat that to the men in my house a hundred times a day and some days I do.

And this -- writing at night, hemming my day in words --is something I could repeat for the rest of my life, an I love you to myself. 

Just a little bit about love...

Just a small slice today:

Love is hard. It makes you turn yourself inside out trying to make sense where there isn't any. And just when you think you have figured this love thing out, you are reminded that none of us have it figured out. I guess that's why we ache for it. Because it makes us crazy and awful and good. Love is hard, but hopefully it's the one thing we have.

I Once Was a Mermaid...

The summers of my youth were seasons of imagination and belonging.  I remember playing mermaid in my Aunt Joyce's pool -- the submerged lights would color the water a sea green as we constructed elaborate tales of mermaid life.  We'd swim until the sky had turned Egyptian blue and our fingers were wrinkled as raisins.  I remember sleepovers when we would giggle into our pillows and whisper too loud, too late.  All through June and July we would sprint through front-yard sprinklers, play hide-and-go seek in the dark, catch gutter snakes at Grandma's house.  We'd find sanctuary in the station wagon during fireworks on the 4th, and on rare but wonderful occasions, hail down the ice cream truck to buy Bomb Pops and Big Sticks for a quarter.

The "we" of my summer memories is not only my two brothers and me, but also my cousins. Summer was when we could spend the most time together, free from the school schedule, free to be completely ourselves.  

Now, as I watch my sons play with their cousins, the sweetness of summers past comes back to me.  How quickly it seems we left our games behind.  How easily we let the August nights, bathed in starlight and thick with the day's heat, lose their magic.  The rest of the year, cousins were usually relegated to weekends and birthday parties, but in the summer, any day held the possibility of the ideal in playmate -- part friend, part sibling --  the connection of family, but the novelty of an outsider .  I know we had moments of irritation, times when we would bicker or be ugly to each other, but we always knew that in the end, we were loved.  Summertime with my cousins was like salve on a small wound I didn't know I had.  Even remembering it now heals parts of me I didn't know were hurting.


I do not keep in touch with my cousins as well as I should.  None of them even live in the same state as me, which makes staying close even more difficult. However, my oldest son will be taking a trip with my mom to visit with this part of my family (and celebrate my grandpa's 80th birthday!) later this week.  I wish I could be there to share in the moment, but it feels good to know I am sending my son to spend time with people who already love him.  I am learning more and more each day that this is what a family must do if it wants to stay together -- already love each other.  Before my boys arrive for an afternoon of swimming with their cousins, they already love each other.  Even though experience has told us that at some point in the day, they will yell  or cry because of what one of them says to the other, they begin their time together already loving.  And by the time the day ends, they are already loving again.  They are not afraid of the fights; they yearn for the togetherness.

I don't often wish to return to childhood, but if I did get to go back, today I think I would pick the longest day of summer and I would spend it as a mermaid, a hider, a seeker, a popsicle-eater, a snake catcher, and a moonbather -- and I'd want all my cousins there with me.

A Boy Lost

Lucas: This equipment doesn't fit.

Coach: No, it's you that don't fit.

Yesterday, when I opened AOL and the first news story was the death of Corey Haim, I gasped. My students had just started to enter the classroom and they, of course, looked at me with concern.  Even though I was fairly certain what their response would be, I said, "I just found out that Corey Haim died."  As I expected, "Corey Haim?  Who's that?"  My freshmen were born in 1996, after I had already graduated from college and well after the years when Corey Haim was my biggest crush.  In those pre-teen days, the crushes were many, but Corey Haim was the only celebrity I ever sent a fan letter to and when I got back a reply, with a signature that was in ink and not photocopied, I was sure that Corey had read my letter, been touched by it and somehow through the magic of the post office, we were now a part of each other's lives.

This week, my seniors wrote a response to the question, what is a life worth?  We have been discussing how human lives are valued -- the different qualities that have been lauded and loathed in previous eras and the current estimation of what makes a life one of value.  The response varied widely, from those who had definite and unshakable determinants of what makes one life more worthy than another to those who felt that placing value on a life was impossible, and even disgusting, because all human lives should be valued equally.  As the students wrote, I considered how I would respond to this sort of writing exercise. 

Tonight, I would like to offer this: A life is worth another life.

My freshmen are wrapping up A Tale of Two Cities right now and we have been discussing the redemption of Sydney Carton who offers himself up in Charles Darnay's place for execution so that the woman Carton loves, Lucie, can be with the man she loves, Darnay.  Carton lives a rather sordid and sometimes despicable life until he meets Lucie.  The goodness that she exudes helps him to be a better man and he tells Lucie to "think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you."

As a wife and a mother, I know this kind of love.  Each of my boys and my husband know that there is a woman who would give up her life to give them a life they love.  Until my sons are old enough to make this type of statement for themselves, their lives have worth because of my willingness to sacrifice for them.  At some point, their lives will have a renewed worth when they are willing to do this for someone they love. I pray that what I give to them, they will share with another.

As I think about Corey Haim, or any child celebrity Hollywood pretends to mother, but instead offers up on the altar of fame and fortune, I wonder if he had anyone in his life who he would have given his own life for -- if he had ever been shown the kind of unconditional, agape love that inspires one to be willing to put his own wants, desires, compulsions and addictions aside.  If he had, perhaps he would have met a different fate.  Now, he will always be a boy lost.