What Days This Summer Taste Like

Do you ever have those moments when you wish you could snap your fingers and instantly record exactly what was happening?  I had two of those this week and I have to write them down before they become part of the blur that characterizes my child-rearing years.

The first moment involved Nicholas, my middle son.  I wrote last summer about his reluctance to swim and the breakthrough he had when he finally learned to dunk his head under the water and swim with a flotation device.  Due to a relatively cool June, our pool time hasn't been very consistent, but the last couple of weeks have given us the chance to get into our morning pool ritual.  After a few days, Nicholas asked me, "Why can't I swim yet?" I reminded him that he had refused for the last two summers to allow me to teach him.  "Are you ready to learn now?" I asked.  He definitely was.  After a few minutes practicing kicks at the side of the pool and reminding him to make his arms like big spaghetti spoons, he was ready to try.  He pushed off from the pool's steps, and with that, he was swimming!  Just a few feet at first, but by the end of the hour, he was really getting the hang of it.  Only three days later, he is jumping into the deep end and swimming to the sides all on his own. He still needs to keep practicing and improving, but he is now a swimmer.  On that first day, he looked at me with his wet, shaggy hair falling across his eyes and a smile that could not get any wider and said, "I am so proud of myself!"  My heart must have tripled in size. After years of watching him wrestle with the desire to dive in and the fear that held him back, I couldn't help but have a few tears fall as he reveled in his success.

The second moment this week happened just a couple of hours ago.  I was reading to the boys from Because of Winn-Dixie by Katie DiCamillo, a book none of us has read before.  We haven't even seen the movie, so each night's reading is a fresh experience for all of us.  After a few chapters, particularly sorrow-filled chapters, I finished up and went to kiss my oldest son good night.  He said, "Mom, I think I might be too sad to fall asleep."  It isn't out of character for Michael to be strongly impacted by the situations in a book or movie; in fact, it happens regularly, but tonight, I asked him, "Do you know why it is good for us to read stories even though they make us sad?"  He shook his head and I continued, "Because when we read what other people go through, even thought it is hard and might make us sad, it makes us better able to love people in real life because we understand them better.  Reading stories that make us feel helps us be better people.  Does that make sense?" He understood and we chatted in whispers a bit more about how books do this.  Michael is a challenging boy, but his heart is about as tender as it could be.  I told him that if we keep reading books together, the things he struggles with will become easier to control.  That boy's sleepy eyes and soft smile made me want to lay down right next to him so we could fall into dreams together.  Alas, laundry beckoned and so I sang him a requested lullaby, turned out the lights and left the room where my three boys lay fast asleep.

Funny how the chapters we read in Because of Winn-Dixie tonight were the ones about the candy made with sweetness and sorrow.  Root beer, strawberry and melancholy all swirled together-- I know exactly what that tastes like.

PS: I didn't mean to ignore Lucas in this post; I'm sure I will share a story about his antics/poignant moments this summer soon!

Kung Fu

My oldest son, Michael, attended his first kung fu class last night.  He liked it (he flashed me a thumbs-up sign a few times so I knew).  When we returned home, he was eager to show the rest of the family what he learned.  We encourgaed him and praised him for trying something new and working hard in his first night of class.

I put him to bed and his brothers but twenty minutes later, he came to see me.  "Mom, can you wake me up early in the morning so that I can practice the weeping willow?  When I did it in class it made me feel calm and I think if I start my day with it, I will do a better job of not getting angry during the day."  This stretching and breathing technique had already impacted him. 

When he got up this morning, he had not forgotten his plan.  "Six times should do it, Mom."  And then, as I got dressed for work, I heard him talking to his little brother in the living room.  "Do you want me to teach Duffy (a stuffed bear) kung fu?  "Yes, of course!" Lucas eagerly agreed.  Michael began to show Duffy various kicks and punches.  Duffy (with a bit of help from the boys) responded with kicks and punches of his own.

That's when I knew for sure that he had enjoyed his first lesson -- when you love something, you want to share it, even if it means helping a teddy bear do a hammer punch.

My Boy and his Best Friend

My son Michael has a best friend.  He came over today after church to spend a few hours with us. Sometimes people think I am crazy when I invite another boy into my house (I already have three!) and sometimes I count myself among them.  But more often, I enjoy it when B comes over.  Sure, it is a little bit louder and a little bit wilder.  What really gets me, though, is that when I see Michael with B, I get a glimpse at who he really is. And when Michael is with B, he is happy.

B and Michael at Michael's 2nd birthday

B and Michael at B's 9th birthday

Michael and B have been friends their entire lives.  They have been in the same church nursery, Sunday School classes, and summer camps from the very beginning, before either one could even utter a word.  Now, I hear them out on living room calling each other "dude."  My hope is that someday, B is the friend who drives over to our house and just walks through the front door, no knock or doorbell required. The one we expect could pop in for dinner at any time. The one who has his own toothbrush in the bathroom because he ends up staying the night so often.  I hope that he and Michael stay close and that as they navigate through awkward adolescence and young adulthood, they have each other to lean on and wrestle with all the way through it.  Michael has his two brothers, of course, but there is something special about someone who chooses to care about you, about a friend who loves you like a brother because he wants to, not because he has to.

I don't have a friend I have known in the way Michael and B do, in the way I hope they always will -- a lifetime friend.  And Michael doesn't make friends easily; he can be a challenging personality.  But with B, it is just natural.

So, it is a bit noisier in our little apartment tonight, but it's okay.  I'll take the noise that comes from two boys being the best of friends any day if it means my son has one more person in his life who likes him almost as much as I do. 

Recess

**I am participating in the Slice of Life Story Challenge sponsored by Two Writing Teachers all month.

My eight was hide-and-go-seek, dreams of being a movie star, and not a care in the world.  His eight is a face dirty from tears, a series of citations, and too much yelling. MJ had another tough day.  Playground skirmishes, glasses on the asphalt.  

Sometimes I wish I could be eight, too.  I would take his hand in mine and ask him to play with me.  I would smile at him and he would smile back.  The California sunshine would warm the tops of our heads as we played and pretended.  Knight and damsel. Astronaut and alien.  Pirate and mermaid. We would have our own language and a super secret hand signal that means: "I think you are the very best."

And he would believe it.

On Endurance

Behold, we count them happy which endure (James 5:11).


On the first day of school, I began my AP English Literature class with a poem, “The Seven of Pentacles” by Marge Piercy. As I read the poem aloud again and again – eight times over the course of the day, in fact -- the line that resonated with me was “Live a life you can endure.” Teaching seniors is a complex joy. I feel the pressure of preparing their minds and hearts for a world beyond the gates of high school, but I also experience the excitement and pride as they move confidently into this next stage of their lives. As we discussed the poem, I came back to the word endure. Often, the connotation of this word is negative, implying mild suffering or unwilling tolerance. However, endure can also mean allow or continue. Live a life you can allow. Live a life you can continue.

My son, Michael, has started third grade and getting back into the routine of homework and reading calendars and spelling tests has proved difficult. He tends to rush, make mistakes, become agitated and give up easily. I do not want homework time to become a nightly battle, but I believe allowing him to submit to his laziness, love of video games and the lure of television will not only weaken his academic skills, but his work ethic and intrinsic motivation as well. I have been encouraging him to go beyond what is easy, to be conscientious and to find pleasure in doing well on an assigned task.

Another poem we will read soon in AP Lit is also by Marge Piercy, “To Be of Use,” in which she proclaims that all people yearn for “work that is real.” That is what I want to unearth in my son, in my students and in myself – a desire for work. I have been telling my students that whatever comes quickly is too easy; they need to push themselves to read more deeply, think more creatively, question more voraciously. The literature we study is so incredibly rich that we could never exhaust its supply of insights, connections and revelations.

As a teacher, each year I begin with a renewed commitment to refining my practice, focusing my instruction, sharpening my assessment, sowing and reaping in a carefully planned manner, while relishing the miracle of growth. And I want to balance this deep commitment to my students and my craft with the loving and nurturing of my family, certainly the work that is most real. At school, 146 hearts and minds; at home, four, but the scales lean heavily in their favor. Often, this balancing is the thing I consider the hardest work of all. But it is the best work, too. It is certainly a life I can allow, a life I can continue, a life I can endure.

 

If Renoir Painted at the Airport

When I was younger, I thought that Impressionist works of art looked like the world through tears.  No matter how lovely the image, a Monet always made me feel like there was somberness in the painter's heart.  I am sure research would prove this mostly untrue, but I also know that things of great beauty often possess an element of pain. Raising children has taught me that lesson well.

Earlier this week, my oldest son, fresh off of his 8th birthday, boarded an airplane and flew off without me.  He did not go alone -- my mom flew with him -- or far, but that did not keep me from crying.  I was holding myself together pretty well, aided by the fact that we had to be up at 3:45 am to be at the airport in time for his flight.  I could hardly remember how to drive; surely crying would require too much energy.  Wrong.  As soon as he stepped into the security line and I was on the other side of the crowd control barrier, the tears rushed to my eyes.  And when my son saw me  begin to blubber, his little face screwed up into sadness, too.

I cried as he went up the escalator and I waited until I knew I wouldn't be able to catch another glimpse of him.  Then, I walked to my car, drove home, and fell asleep on the couch, all while I continued to cry. I felt silly for having such a strong response to what is probably routine for many people, but then I remembered the day I left for college.

When I went away to college, I did not go far.  In fact, when traffic was light I could make the drive home in about ten minutes.  Nevertheless, on Orientation and Move-In Day, after hours of meetings and workshops and unpacking boxes, my mom and I stood on the sidewalk outside my dorm and bawled as we said our goodbyes.  It wasn't the distance that inspired the tears, it was the beauty of the moment.  What is more wonderful than bringing a child into the world and then being able to see that child become her own person, inspired by her own experiences and developed through her own education?

The pain comes from the reality that we don't actually get to see it.  In the case of college, this is probably for the best.  But with my son, the tears came because he was going to be making memories that did not include me. It was his first flight and I was not the one holding his hand. And no matter what happened, good or bad, I would not be the one to guide him through it. 

I had to say goodbye to my boy for a little while, but soon I will get to welcome him home.  He will have so much to tell me and while part of me wishes I had been with him, another part is excited to hear all about his adventures from his point of view.  He will have stories and insights all his own.  Even through the tears, I can see how beautiful that is.

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.

Elvis, Lullabies and Magic

When I was in the 5th grade, I tried out for the school choir.  I was new to Alta Loma Elementary School and had to sing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" to a few of the upper-grade teachers.  I remember sitting across from these teachers at a green picnic table, its paint chipped and peeling, outside the classrooms.  And I remember using a falsely-soprano voice to sing the song.  I guess I assumed that was what they wanted a girl to sound like.  I didn't make the choir.

The next year, I tried out for choir again.  This time, as I sat across from the now-familiar teachers at the same picnic table, I decided to sing in my real voice.  I made the choir and was convinced this was a lesson in being true to one's self in order to get what you really want.  However, my mom's reaction when I told her I made it was, "Of course! Now the teachers know how smart and good you are, so they want you to be in the choir no matter how you sing."  Reputation, not skill, was my saving grace in her opinion.  She was probably right.  When I prepared a duet for the Christmas performance with a friend of mine, the peer who was accompanying us on the piano nearly quit when I couldn't perform to his standards.  Apparently, we took this stuff pretty seriously back then.

Singing has always been a skill I have envied and desired.  I have made peace my lacking in this particular talent.  I often tell my students, "We each have our  own gifts" and I realize singing is not mine.  So, I am taken aback when someone compliments my voice. In fact, I can remember very clearly the few times this has happened.  Once was on the summer of 1991.  I had turned 18 and was celebrating with an evening in Beverly Hills with a few of my closest friends.  We went to the Hard Rock Cafe, the Beverly Center, and then my favorite restaurant ever, Ed Debevic's, for dessert.  We had all squished into my mom's Ford Taurus and my friend J. was driving.  On the way home, almost everyone else had fallen asleep.  We were listening to the oldies station (which may have contributed to their slumber) and an Elvis song came on.  (BTW, the pic above has no connection other than the fact that this peanut is dressed up like Elvis. It is located in the Visitor's Center in Dothan, Alabama and the boys loved it, even though they do not know who Elvis is.)

I began singing along and J. said, "You have a really nice singing voice."   Of course, this was much like the choir story.  I am sure it was not the quality of my voice, but the quality of my character that allowed my friend to enjoy my voice. Or maybe he was hearing more Elvis than me. Either way, the truth is, I had an incredible crush on J. so the fact that he was complimenting me on something I felt was less-than-good about myself made it an even sweeter moment.

Not nearly as sweet, though, as the moment I had yesterday.  As I have shared, the boys and I are reading James and the Giant Peach together each night.  On Thursday, we read the chapters with the Cloud-Men who attack the peach with hailstones.  When I finished, my oldest son Michael asked me to sing them a lullaby because the story had scared him a bit.  I started to launch into "You are My Sunshine" which is a favorite of mine, but he stopped me and said, "No, the one about us."  He was referring to a lullaby I made up when he was only hours old.  As I held him in my arms, just the two of us in the hospital room, I couldn't help but sing to him.  The song just came to me and over the years, many times, all three boys have had it sung to them, with their names in place of Michael's.  The song's lyrics are:

Michael, our little angel,
Sent from the Father up above.
Michael, our little angel,
we will share with you a world full of love.

You're our happiness
You're our joy
You're our beautiful baby boy
And we know that you're a gift
So up to the Lord we lift

Our baby Michael
Precious Angel
Sent from the Father up above.

I finished the song, we said our payers, and I kissed the boys good-night.  The next morning over breakfast, Michael said, "Mom, did you know that every time you sing that song to us, I don't have nightmares."  And then, he exclaimed, "When you sing, it's magical!" My heart nearly leapt from my chest with joy!  Then, reality check -- my son likes me, so his compliment shouldn't necessarily be considered accurate, right?

Then I remembered the letter.
 
When my father lived in another state to find work, he sent me a letter.  I was in the fourth grade.  My dad was always embarrassed about his writing, always commented on how he couldn't spell or punctuate correctly.  In fact he often had me proofread what he wrote so that I could fix any errors.  To my dad, his writing was a weakness, but to me -- holding that letter in my fourth-grade hands, missing him with my fourth-grade heart -- his writing was magical.

Michael was right. It is magical that the thing I always thought I was bad at has the power to take my sons safely into dreamland.  Through our children, we are given the amazing gift of seeing ourselves through new eyes,  eyes that love us without question. Because of that, our flaws, our weaknesses, the things we often try to hide, are the very things that our children adore.  And if that isn't magic, what is?

Books-n-Boys

One of the new features I will be working on this summer is a chronicle of the reading experiences I have with the boys.  We usually read together at bedtime and while we sometimes choose short children's books, we often read several chapters of a novel.  I've blogged about this before, but now I am interested in blogging through our reading adventures.

Yesterday, we went to the bookstore to buy our first novel of the summer.  I suggested we choose three books, then vote on which one we would buy.  Michael selected Shiloh by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor and James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl.  I selected The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster.  We sat on the floor in the children's section and I read the back of each book to the boys.  They all voted for James and the Giant Peach.  I am fairly certain it is because Michael loves all that is Roald Dahl and because the boys had seen the movie. I was hoping for The Phantom Tollbooth because I have fond memories of it from elementary school, but I think i will have to keep talking it up before the boys will be ready to select it.

Even though my entry had not been selected, as we settled down for reading time before bed, I was eager to begin.  I have never read James, nor seen the movie, so the story is completely new to me.  The first few chapters, however, proved to be a bit different than what I expected.  The protagonist loses his family, and begins a miserable life with his abusive aunts.  In fact, the first two chapters were so troublesome that I made myself read a few more even though my eyes began to sting in hopes of closing our reading time on a less disturbing note.  The boys even asked me to sing them a few lullabies to help their brains focus on sweeter stuff as they fell into slumber.


Tonight, I thought the boys might be less eager for reading time because of the nature of the novel's opening.  As bedtime neared, I gave them the option of one more episode of The Upside-Down Show or getting into bed for reading time.  To my surprise, they unanimously chose reading time and without delay clicked off the TV and headed for their bedroom.  The reading tonight was not much more uplifting, but the boys are totally engaged in the saga of poor James and I am quite certain they will rush off to bed tomorrow night to hear more about the peach which is beginning to bulge at the top of the tree.

My boys often do the opposite of what I expect, but this time, I was pleased by it.  Michael said the reason they still wanted to hear the story even though it started of with such sad details is because they like to see justice done in the end.  I can't guarantee that it will be, in the book or in their lives, but it gives me some peace of mind to know that he feels that is how the world should work.

This time we spend reading together not only fills our minds with stories about  the lives of others, it gives us a greater understanding of each other and an opportunity to share a vision of the world.  Who knew a peach could do so much? [I'm guessing the peach is going to do more than I could imagine, actually :)]

The Beauty of Afterthoughts

I spend a lot of time thinking about things before they happen.  When I know I am going to talk with somebody, I hear the entire conversation over and over in my head.  Each morning as I drive to school, I envision the day's lesson plan from beginning to end multiple times.   I compose blog entries twenty times over in my mind before I even get to the keyboard.

Yesterday, I was headed to the front door when I decided to throw on a scarf for a bit of extra warmth.  I went to my closet and grabbed a handknit rainbow-colored scarf my aunt made for Michael when he was two.   It wasn't a very long scarf given that it had been made for a child, just enough to wrap around my neck once to protect me a bit from the sharp air.  Honestly, when I arrived at school, I almost took it off . But I didn't -- each time I glanced down and saw that splash of rainbow, I warmed at the memories of my little boy on Christmas morning playing outside with that scarf wrapped around him.

Every period that day at least one student complimented my scarf and several staff members did as well.  Each time I was able to share my story of Michael, his chunky body bundled up, his blonde curls poking out from under his beanie, and the rainbow scarf bright as his holiday spirit.   

Had I planned my accessorizing the way I normally do, I never would have chosen the rainbow scarf.  My plan would likely have included something much less folksy and more in line with what others would be wearing.  But then I would have missed out on all those opportunities to reminisce about my son who has grown well beyond those toddler days.  In the busyness of the day, finding time for memories is rare. 

Afterthoughts can come in so many forms -- a gift we buy spontaneously for a friend, a heartwarming PS at the end of an email, a word of encouragement as a student heads out the door.   Planning and thinking certainly have their value and I don't foresee myself giving up on either anytime soon, but I also want to be sure I see the beauty in the afterthoughts, those moments, words, actions that occur when thinking stops and feelings begin.