In early October of the year 2007, I was eleven weeks pregnant. Of my three pregnancies, this was the only one that was planned. Number two. As my husband joked (over and over) at the time, "I guess what happens in Vegas, doesn't stay in Vegas." Good one, babe.
We were living with my parents while we waited for our newly purchased house to close. In the bedroom that was mine as a child, with the same pink walls and frilly window valance, I woke at five-thirty a.m. Deep in my belly, there was a pop that shook me out of a sound sleep. It didn't hurt, but I figured my bladder must have burst because I thought I'd wet the bed.
I was hemorrhaging.
The sight of the blood caused my heart to drop, a broken elevator lurching down. I sat in the same bathroom where my mom had bathed me as an infant, the same one that served as my bedroom for an indeterminate amount of time in my babyhood. As a little girl, this was the toilet I'd run to when I was sick. And just like those long ago days, I waited until I could get up and walk, then went straight to my mother's bedroom door.
"Mom. I'm bleeding."
She sat by my side as I called the doctor's emergency hotline. As he told me an eleven-week pregnancy wasn't a guarantee. As I sat in the doctor's office beside Joe, my mom was still there, holding my hand. The three of us leaned on each other when the sono tech said, "No, no. it's okay. The hemorrhage isn't hurting the baby."
Eight months later, that same baby caused me more trouble in the delivery room. Once again there was blood when there shouldn't have been. Once again there were doctors and nurses rushing around me. This time, they lifted me onto a gurney and raced me down the hall. My heart pounded in my chest as the worst pain I'd ever felt stabbed at the place where my baby rested in wait.
C-section baby. My little emergency.
When they put him in my arms, everything about him was golden and perfect. He was alive! He was beautiful. Gold cheeks, gold hair. A little round angel with a scrunched-up nose and an ear that folded in on itself. I kept pressing it down with my finger, worrying it might stay that way, and then yelling at myself for even thinking it. He was alive. My little boy.
Noah.
There are a million Noah stories on this blog, and sometimes I wonder if they all say the same things. He is too much, but not enough. He makes me crazy. Why is he so loud? This is not regular-child loud, this is cover-your-ears volume that could wake a dead person from their grave. He hates spiders, and the dark, and being alone. His hugs are proof that heaven is real. He fights, but only about things no one can help...like having brothers, or going to school on Mondays.
When you're a parent, there is one thing that continues to challenge you over and over again. It can be so ordinary it's actually mundane, though sometimes it isn't. There are days where it's awful on a level for which you can't find words. Either way, it sucks. Watching your kid struggle.
Is that all? Yes.
For a million reasons, a parent suffers alongside their child through every bump, bruise, and break. Through every tantrum, disappointment, and failure. Sometimes we don't let it show. Sometimes we can't help it. We say things like, "I'm so sorry this is happening to you. Please tell me what I can do." We cry with them. We wait until they go to sleep and then close our doors and cry for them. Our hearts fill up and crack open and leak out pain we never knew existed.
One day awhile back, Noah was being...well, Noah. We'd just finished dinner and the other boys had gone off to do other things while Noah stayed in his seat, head in hand. Complaining. Disgruntled. Feeling all the world was against him and it just wasn't fair.
He was being a shit and I knew it.
But that doesn't change the instinctive need inside me to make things right for him. "What's wrong?" I asked. He gave a list of silly things: His brothers were against him, school is the worst, the dog likes someone more. But each one was delivered with such anguish. What a performer. The world is his theatre; every step he takes, he builds more stage.
"Noah, you have to stop letting these things bring you down." It wasn't the first time I'd said that. And his response wasn't new, either.
"I can't help it!"
"Yes you can," I said that day. "Every day that you wake up, you decide to get out of bed, you begin another chapter. Your life is a story, and you are the main character. You decide every single thing that character does. You don't like the story? Don't blame other people. You have the power to change it yourself."
"That's not true!"
"Okay, well, fine. But you know, one time, when I was a little girl--"
"Yeah, yeah. Your mom put you in the bathroom and nobody wanted you. You've told me this story like a million times, Mom. I've heard ALL your stories a million times."
Oh, Noah.
He really is a performer. Luckily, we've found ways for him to use that part of himself to be successful. He wants a stage? We found him real ones. But none as special as the one on which he stood last night, playing the part of a disgruntled little boy hearing his dad's crazy stories. Last night, costumed in a t-shirt and jeans, he climbed up on the stage, lifted his fist into the air, and into a quiet theatre, his small voice rang out.
The small voice of that baby who lived through the hemorrhage, through the battle of birth, and so many other challenges life has brought: a baby brother ("I'm not the youngest but I'm not the oldest...I don't know what I'm supposed to be!"), never quite fitting at school, the lifelong stomachaches that landed him in the hospital a year ago with a tube down his nose. His little voice, punched with something he has more of in his little finger than most people will have in their lives: heart.
"Let's fight the dragons and then storm the castles 'til we win what needs to be won..."
The story of a father and son--and I don't mean to steal my husband's thunder here--a parent who raises a little boy on stories of giants and witches and battles and victories, to prepare for a great big messy world where he absolutely can, should, be a hero.
Noah, you already are my hero. "Proud" doesn't even begin to cover it.
Saturday, October 13, 2018
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
When I Woke Up
At thirty years old I walked my son into kindergarten orientation. He was a fresh, adorable five-year-old with a big smile and absolute self-confidence. He let me gel his hair that day. He'd picked out a lunch box, and I don't remember what it was.
Round tables were set up in the gym of his school. We picked a seat near the middle, because I wanted us to appear friendly and open to meeting new friends. Joey tried to sit on my lap, but I made him take his own seat. He looked around, that grin never leaving his face. He was happy just to be there. A great big kindergartener.
I hushed the voice in my head that wanted to scream, "Please! Please, please love my child. He is creative and funny and caring...and also, he's terribly sensitive, and if eats Cheez-Its on a hot day he might throw up. And call me if you need anything! I'm still trying to master teleportation but I'll get here lickety-split!"
I watched other moms walk their children in. You can tell the difference between the first-timers and the more-experienced parents. Some let their children run away from them, too far ahead to possibly catch. Their faces showed no apprehension, their mouths were relaxed into smiles as they called, "Hello!" to other calm parents.
I was the youngest one, and I felt like everyone knew it. I was sure I had an aura visible to all of the other adults in the room that said, "She doesn't know what she's doing."
But my Joey sat beside me, his feet swinging in the too-large chair. Every time his gaze fell on me that smile widened, his eyes lit up, and he said, "I can't believe I'm in kindergarten!"
He believed, unfailingly, that I knew exactly what I was doing. My perfect boy.
I went to bed that night, my heart racing. A broken record played in my head: "Please! Please, please love my child. He is creative and funny and caring...."
When I woke up the very next morning, I heard him down the hall. I called out, "Joey! Joey?"
And this emerged from his bedroom:
Just like that.
Today I took him to his eighth grade orientation at the very same school. Some of the students from his kindergarten class have left and moved on, other kids joined his group in later years. To see him sitting at the table today with those other gigantic boys...are they MEN? dear GAWD...slouched down in the chair with his feet sprawled across the floor, all of them laughing at some goofy thing. There were a few remember-whens from them, and my heart did a somersault.
What happened? How did I kiss a five-year-old goodnight and wake up to an eighth grader?
Round tables were set up in the gym of his school. We picked a seat near the middle, because I wanted us to appear friendly and open to meeting new friends. Joey tried to sit on my lap, but I made him take his own seat. He looked around, that grin never leaving his face. He was happy just to be there. A great big kindergartener.
I hushed the voice in my head that wanted to scream, "Please! Please, please love my child. He is creative and funny and caring...and also, he's terribly sensitive, and if eats Cheez-Its on a hot day he might throw up. And call me if you need anything! I'm still trying to master teleportation but I'll get here lickety-split!"
I watched other moms walk their children in. You can tell the difference between the first-timers and the more-experienced parents. Some let their children run away from them, too far ahead to possibly catch. Their faces showed no apprehension, their mouths were relaxed into smiles as they called, "Hello!" to other calm parents.
I was the youngest one, and I felt like everyone knew it. I was sure I had an aura visible to all of the other adults in the room that said, "She doesn't know what she's doing."
But my Joey sat beside me, his feet swinging in the too-large chair. Every time his gaze fell on me that smile widened, his eyes lit up, and he said, "I can't believe I'm in kindergarten!"
He believed, unfailingly, that I knew exactly what I was doing. My perfect boy.
I went to bed that night, my heart racing. A broken record played in my head: "Please! Please, please love my child. He is creative and funny and caring...."
When I woke up the very next morning, I heard him down the hall. I called out, "Joey! Joey?"
And this emerged from his bedroom:
Just like that.
Today I took him to his eighth grade orientation at the very same school. Some of the students from his kindergarten class have left and moved on, other kids joined his group in later years. To see him sitting at the table today with those other gigantic boys...are they MEN? dear GAWD...slouched down in the chair with his feet sprawled across the floor, all of them laughing at some goofy thing. There were a few remember-whens from them, and my heart did a somersault.
What happened? How did I kiss a five-year-old goodnight and wake up to an eighth grader?
Friday, August 17, 2018
College Good-Bye
My hands are poised at the keyboard, the screen is glowing, and I'm all alone downstairs in my dark house while my boys sleep. My cheeks are wet with silly tears. I'm crying because of all that I have, and all that life is, and everything in between.
Today I left this little person in a parking lot.
Except...somewhere along the line, it turns out that that little girl actually grew into this:
And it wasn't just any parking lot. It was a college parking lot.
What the hell?
For years my family has rolled their eyes at me, repeating what has become a mantra: She's not your daughter.
No. No, she isn't. But she still asked me to come today. And then, with brown, scared eyes she asked me not to leave her. But I had to. For a million reasons, not least of which is that my sister pulled her away and my mother (who also came) pulled me back. Torn apart, like the elephants in Dumbo.
Okay, I admit that's a bit dramatic.
She will be okay. I'm not worried that she won't. I'm excited for all that she will grow to be. I remember this fierce little monster girl, about three years old, with shiny red ringlets and a scrunched up nose, singing into a turkey baster on the coffee table. A little girl who whispered, "Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!" in our ears when she thought her mother couldn't hear. You'd never guess she was once that little ball of fire who had us all laughing...everybody's baby. She has become so much. Tall, for one thing. (Ridiculously unfair. I'm having flashbacks to my first day of kindergarten when I cried in the driveway because my mother told me I'd never be tall.) But she is smart. Creative. Classy. And...I know it shouldn't matter, but it's just icing on the cake. She's so beautiful.
Why do we love people? A million different reasons, I guess. Livvie isn't perfect, you know. My own kids aren't either. They drive me crazy. Liv has always driven me a little crazy, especially on her bad days. But maybe that's part of it. Family love. Mother love. Sister love. I'm neither her mom nor her sister. I'm her aunt. I'm her godmother. I never knew, eighteen years ago, how much that would fill my heart. Or in what ways. I don't love her for her talents or her strengths. I don't love her in spite of her flaws. I love her because I love her. It doesn't need to make sense. It doesn't need a reason. It just is.
My arms were locked around her today like iron bars and she shook with quiet tears. I whispered, "Remember what I said. Call me. Call me any time. Middle of the night. I don't care. You call me."
"Okay," she whispered back.
I would do anything for her.
She will learn life. She needs to. She will rediscover that fire we all found so irresistible all those years ago. I hope with all my heart she manages to mesh it with who she was today: my classy, smart girl, poised to hide her fears. She will be unstoppable. The little pip who stood with her hands on her hips and her chin lifted up while she stared you down. Whatever she decides to do with the next four years, and all that she encounters after that...it will be amazing. I have no doubt.
But in the meantime, my heart is here.
Today I left this little person in a parking lot.
Except...somewhere along the line, it turns out that that little girl actually grew into this:
And it wasn't just any parking lot. It was a college parking lot.
What the hell?
For years my family has rolled their eyes at me, repeating what has become a mantra: She's not your daughter.
No. No, she isn't. But she still asked me to come today. And then, with brown, scared eyes she asked me not to leave her. But I had to. For a million reasons, not least of which is that my sister pulled her away and my mother (who also came) pulled me back. Torn apart, like the elephants in Dumbo.
Okay, I admit that's a bit dramatic.
She will be okay. I'm not worried that she won't. I'm excited for all that she will grow to be. I remember this fierce little monster girl, about three years old, with shiny red ringlets and a scrunched up nose, singing into a turkey baster on the coffee table. A little girl who whispered, "Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!" in our ears when she thought her mother couldn't hear. You'd never guess she was once that little ball of fire who had us all laughing...everybody's baby. She has become so much. Tall, for one thing. (Ridiculously unfair. I'm having flashbacks to my first day of kindergarten when I cried in the driveway because my mother told me I'd never be tall.) But she is smart. Creative. Classy. And...I know it shouldn't matter, but it's just icing on the cake. She's so beautiful.
Why do we love people? A million different reasons, I guess. Livvie isn't perfect, you know. My own kids aren't either. They drive me crazy. Liv has always driven me a little crazy, especially on her bad days. But maybe that's part of it. Family love. Mother love. Sister love. I'm neither her mom nor her sister. I'm her aunt. I'm her godmother. I never knew, eighteen years ago, how much that would fill my heart. Or in what ways. I don't love her for her talents or her strengths. I don't love her in spite of her flaws. I love her because I love her. It doesn't need to make sense. It doesn't need a reason. It just is.
My arms were locked around her today like iron bars and she shook with quiet tears. I whispered, "Remember what I said. Call me. Call me any time. Middle of the night. I don't care. You call me."
"Okay," she whispered back.
I would do anything for her.
She will learn life. She needs to. She will rediscover that fire we all found so irresistible all those years ago. I hope with all my heart she manages to mesh it with who she was today: my classy, smart girl, poised to hide her fears. She will be unstoppable. The little pip who stood with her hands on her hips and her chin lifted up while she stared you down. Whatever she decides to do with the next four years, and all that she encounters after that...it will be amazing. I have no doubt.
But in the meantime, my heart is here.
My head is here.
And my girl is there.
Olivia, you are loved. You are the most loved child I've ever known.
You've just been handed the world. I can't wait to see what you do with it.
Whatever that is, I'll be here for you. I love you always, no matter what.
Love, Your Goddy
Monday, July 2, 2018
Fake News
Fake news is a big thing right now, isn't it? It's causing arguments and uproars, with loved ones and enemies alike debating what's real and what's not. I'd like to focus on the fake news that I think is hurting everyone the most.
I have heard, more than once, someone sadly indicate that Facebook (social media for old people, my son tells me) shows them how great everyone's life is, and makes them feel badly about their own.
Stop. Right. There.
Facebook started off as something very different. A college kid wanted to meet girls. Period. Now, for us old people (and a few mature-minded youngsters, too), it is a way to connect with friends and family we would not otherwise be in touch with on a daily basis. Indeed, I am superficially caught up on where most of high school classmates are in their lives, as well as distant family members who've moved away or who I'd ordinarily see once or twice a year at obligatory events (or, oh God, at funerals, which is hardly the time for a jaunty how-do-you-do). And, to be perfectly honest, I love using it to commiserate with my mother and sister over various inside jokes, and even to tease them a bit.
That said, let's be real. Years ago, some viral posts started going around that expressed something along the lines of "Don't be a complainer on social media." Okay, I'm here to tell you, that message was received loud and clear. Unless someone is a pain in the ass in large need of therapy (my sister calls them the "over-posters"), people are not sharing everything on Facebook or Instagram or whatever.
These things are modern-day photo albums. They show the very best moments we've had. That is why we share them. I do not take the bait when Facebook's status bar invites me to share how I'm doing, because, well, a lot of the time, it would be something like, "I'm a little overly anxious today and feeling gassy. Hope I don't fart in front of the kids because they'd never let me live it down."
Or, "Joe and I had a huge fight about where we should keep the spatulas."
Or, "Today I pulled a wet ball of poo out of the bathroom garbage can while Joey gagged in the next room."
Or, "The postpartum depression is lasting way longer than it probably should."
Or, "I really miss my grandparents and I think the loss of them has irreparably changed my family for both the good and the bad."
Or, "I accidentally threw away something that caused a missed opportunity for one of my kids and they were devastated and Joe was furious."
This last one is actually a big part of my life right now, because I'm starting to wonder if I'm in the early stages of dementia. It doesn't really run in my family, but I seriously pull into parking lots and can't remember why I'm there, or I drive to the completely wrong place. And when you're on the Thruway heading for downtown and realize you meant to be heading toward Angola, that's a real problem, because they're in opposite directions.
I try to create little routines for myself so I can better remember what's what, but then someone always comes along and messes it up. Really! It's so thoughtless and rude. SOMEBODY stole my phone charger from my nightstand, for example, and though I was able to procure a new one (score one point for me!) I could not seem to remember to put in my room, or on my nightstand. This is very inconvenient when each morning as you leave the house your phone's power bar is in the red, and you can't charge it in the car because...maybe that was the charger you took to replace the aforementioned stolen nightstand one.
I digress. I think at some points, I am a bit of, as my sister would say, "an over-poster," but only because I'm such an embarrassing extrovert. It shocks people to learn that I'm actually a private person and don't like people to know my business at all, but that brings me back to the point.
What we share with others is not the full sum of who and what our lives are. I'm happy when I see photos of people's beautiful children, and my heart aches when people I care about need prayers (that's actually an exception to the rule, though; I think people must realize you have to be careful with it...there are "rules" about that in itself: don't be too mysterious, don't be too frivolous in the asking, don't discount those who are suffering more, or those who are too busy to be worrying about you....yeesh!).
But for the most part, social media is a patchy, incomplete version of our lives, and we'd do well to keep that in mind. No point in comparing all that is in your heart, mind, and daily life to anything you see because it is, in essence, fake news. The real stuff is messy. It's complicated. We don't share it, but we all have it.
Yesterday, I had the opportunity to do something I haven't done in years. I rode a jet-ski solo on the lake. I was worried about my healing arm (it's been months since I fractured it but it still gives me trouble), but the water was calm and I figured I could just test it out and see. I really, really wanted to go on the jet-ski. So I did. I climbed on, like I did when I was eighteen. I puttered gently out of shallow water, checked for traffic, and then, I GUNNED IT.
My hair flew back. I rode standing so I could glide off the boat waves and get some air. Arm forgotten, I swirled in 180s and let the lake water soak me. I held the throttle flush to the handle bar and I flew. And as I zoomed back toward shore, I was standing up on the jet-ski feeling powerful and amazing and, a little eighteen-ish. It was awesome. I felt like me.
I have two bits of advice for you to take away from this.
One: social media is fake news, because no one is going to tell you their whole story. Don't waste time comparing your life to the fake news.
Two: Jetskis might not be your thing, but once in awhile, remember YOU. Yourself. Do something that lifts you up and gives you the freedom to be absolutely the best part of yourself. Why? Because it will remind you that comparing and worrying is pointless.
The whole point of you is to be something nobody else can be. Get off the electronic device and go give yourself to the world in the best way you know how.
Freedom.
Monday, May 28, 2018
Summer of Senior Year: Bucket List
Last week Wednesday, my baby girl graduated from my high school. My alma mater. I know what you're thinking: But Mary Pat, you're a Boy Mom! Yes, yes. I am indeed. But before that, I was something else. Something I never stopped being.
A fairy godmother, of course.
When my sister had her first baby, I fell in love with a tiny redheaded bundle. She grew into a human who lives up to the fire that grows from her head, and she means as much to me as my own children. I have been a part of her life from the day she was born and every day since. I'm actually a little offended because mothers of graduates who are alumnae were invited onto the stage during the handing out of diplomas, and no one told me.
"You're not her mother," they all said.
Speechless. I was speechless.
But still, she is my girl. And seeing her graduate from my school brought back so many memories, especially of my senior year. How was I so lucky that I loved that year of my life? I often hear people groan over memories of high school, but somehow, through a stroke of luck or fate, I ended up with the perfect friends for me. And when I think back on that summer after we graduated, I remember sunsets and dusk light turning the trees gold. Thunderstorms. I remember backyard fires and elbow tag (it's a Mercy Girl thing) and just...being together.
I may not be Olivia's mom, but I don't doubt I am a special part of her life. A fairy godmother gives gifts and blessings and, well, magic. So for Liv and her friends on the night of her graduation party, I compiled and shared with them this bucket list for their summer of senior year. Based on my best memories and the things that have stayed in my heart and become a part of my identity, I gave them this:
Mary Pat's Summer To-Do List:
1. Do something unusual and fun together at least once a week. Rollerskate. LaserTron. Go-karting. Beach bonfires. Those kinds of things.
2. Practice making strangers smile. Out of joy. When you pull up next to someone at a traffic light, for example, give them a hearty thumbs up. Wave. Blow a kiss. Dance in the car. Don't be obnoxious. Never be rude--it's not worth it. Making people happy as much as you can when they don't expect it is MAGIC. And, like, blow a kiss at an old man who looks lonely (but not in a perverted way).
3. For the love of God, DANCE. Find as many opportunities to dance as you can. And most importantly...DANCE IN THE POURING RAIN. No shoes. In puddles. Hair soaked. Blare a song, and DANCE.
4. When you are out in public, make conversation with people you don't know. Start small. The cashier at Wegmans. Then go big. Someone in line at Target. Then bigger: a guy at the go-kart place. Ask people about themselves. They love that. Ask them their backstory. Ask them their dreams. Literally, look at a stranger and say, "Excuse me, but what ARE your hopes and dreams?"
5. Kiss someone on the cheek. Just 'cause. (Make sure they don't seem like a rapist, of course.)
6. Get a dozen roses from Wegmans and go to Canalside or the mall. A big busy place. Walk around and hand a rose to people who inspire you or seem like they need cheering up. Tell them it's just to make them happy and to have a nice day.
7. Go kayaking. Two people to a boat. You can rent them at a bunch of places. There is no trust game like operating a kayak with another human.
8. Wear your prom dress to a backyard party. This one should be at the end of summer. Make sure you hang string lights, eat chocolate, and drink sparkling grape juice.
9. Run down the hill at Chestnut Ridge. Then sit on the swings and watch the sunset.
10. Do a walking ghost tour. Drive to Valvo's. Then to Lily Dale.
11. Write a letter...with pen and paper...to each friend. You all have to do it. And give them to each person on the day they leave for school. Seal them in envelopes. Write your memories and wishes for each other. And then when school is overwhelming, or big, or you are just homesick, you will have your friends right there with you. A blank page that is filled up by a person's words to you is...MAGIC.
The End.
Saturday, May 12, 2018
What Makes Her Beautiful
In preparation of Mother's Day, I asked my boys today what they liked best about my mother. Without hesitating, they all answered, "Her cooking." Okay...lame and obvious. I asked what they loved to do with her.
"We love when she tells us stories about you and how crazy you were."
Okay, before anything else, let the record show that I was not crazy. If anything, crazy well-behaved. But that's it. I was a freaking angel.
Anyway.
It's funny because that's my favorite thing about my mom, too. I love the stories she tells about her life. First because the life she's had from beginning to end is unique and fascinating, but also because I love imagining how she saw herself when she was young and comparing it to who she is now.
I know she was beautiful. I think she was fearless. I know that she snuck cigarettes in the high school bathroom. She liked high ponytails. But when I see pictures of her from when she was young, I notice something else, too.
She is stunning, isn't she? But...she didn't smile much. At least not in pictures. Her face here is perfect, at least to me, her daughter. I did not inherit such a face, or her sleek black hair. And still, the first time I ever saw this picture, she snatched it right up and said, "Wasn't I gorgeous?" (She's funny like that.)
I don't know where I got this from, but I'm a blurter. As in, I have to be really careful to control the stop sign that's supposed to be between my brain and my mouth, and I'm not always good at it. So in that moment, I blurted, "You look like a bitch."
She wasn't offended. She laughed out loud and said, "Well, that's because I was!"
Well okay then.
Tonight is the eve of a Mother's Day where her baby girl is thirty-eight. There are many, many more pictures of my mom now, and though she is older and smarter and, as my children can attest, a marvelous cook, I know she does not like that she has grown older.
I've tried to argue with her, but she usually changes the subject abruptly or gets sad. So mostly I steer clear of the topic altogether. I mean, I'm thirty-eight and I miss being a teenager who used to pretend she was only borrowing the car to go to library and then picked up her best friend and went cruising through South Buffalo with the windows rolled down, looking for boys. I get it. It's just that when I look at my mother, I see something very different than she does.
I see her sitting alone in the morning when it was still dark, a cup of coffee next to her on the table, enjoying the rare silence that mothers crave. I see her standing at the front of a checkout line with her scary eyes demanding that a cashier give her the sale price. Coming into my room when I was younger and upset about some silly thing, trying not to smirk, always able to make me laugh. Always able to make the problem feel small and make my heart feel big. I remember my cousin John Conor being upset about something once, and my mom jumped up just as his chin bunched up to cry, and she took his hand and said, in her trademark matter-of-fact voice, "Come on, let's go see if I have some candy somewhere." When she talks like that, people don't argue. They don't question. It's like a magic spell. They're momentarily confused, probably thinking, "Wait...candy? But...I'm upset. Or am I?" and they follow this woman who confidently leads the way. And within minutes, the only thing any of us ever think is, "God, I love her."
It doesn't matter that she is forgetful and scatterbrained and probably suffering from ADD at some sort of exponential level. When things go wrong, she is the person I want. And I pray with all my heart that in thirty years, that is how my boys feel. And...not just that they will want me. That they know I will always be here for them. I will never say no. Because that's how my mother is for me.
When she looks in the mirror, I know she wishes she saw that sixteen-year-old version of herself, poised in white gloves beside a fireplace and refusing to look at the camera. But look at her now. Do you see the difference? All these years, all these Mother's Days--and birthdays and Christmases and Thanksgivings and grandchildren--and yes, her face has changed. It radiates with happiness. It is the embodiment of love, the real, raw kind that holds on to you and swears it won't let you fall.
I don't think I have ever seen anyone more beautiful.
Friday, May 11, 2018
A Summer Girl
I measure years by summers. It began with being young and in school, and was perpetuated by becoming a teacher and a mom. When I say this year or next year, I'm speaking in terms of time span that runs from September through June, with July and August existing in a magical limbo that is disconnected from everything else.
I wrote once, long ago, of blossoming trees. As the leaves come out and fill the skyline with green, I think of all those leaves will see in their short lifetime. They live during magical limbo, and drift off when the new year begins. When they begin to fall, my heart hurts for the ending of my favorite time of year.
Today the brand new leaves saw my four-year-old son take on the world wearing khakis, a button-down shirt, and his Phantom of the Opera mask. One of the things I've learned as a teacher is to let kids be comfortable being as weird as they are. I will not squash his Phantom love out of him. Sometimes he wears the cape. Sometimes he wears the whole tux, and I'm not kidding. The leaves of this summer will see my littlest boy embracing his weirdness.
They will see my oldest embrace his newfound independence. Riding his bike through the neighborhood, going to movies sans parents in groups that include--gulp--GIRLS. What I love most about the way I've raised him is that every day since kindergarten I've sent him off with the message, "Try your best and be kind to everyone." I see the fruit of that now. It didn't always feel like he was listening; it still doesn't. But then I see the way he reaches out to friends, and to people who aren't his friends. He tries to understand everyone's backstory so their attitudes, often different from his own, don't bother him. "Be everyone's friend," I tell him. "Don't get involved with the negative stuff. Just be neutral. Just be kind."
The leaves will see my middle boy struggle as he always does. I say the same things to him that I do to his brothers, but his response is different because he is different. And that's okay. I like my little middle. The leaves will watch him take his confusing world and mold it into what works for him, and I love that.
Dear Summer Leaves,
I pray that you will whisper with soft warm breezes and bless us with a kind of pixie dust that makes us strong and healthy, quick to smile, slow to anger. Bring us moments that will stay in our hearts like photos in an album. Bring us chances to rise up and make our lives special, even when it is daunting to do so. Help us to spread goodness where it is needed, and to make the world as magical as you are.
Love,
A Summer Girl
I wrote once, long ago, of blossoming trees. As the leaves come out and fill the skyline with green, I think of all those leaves will see in their short lifetime. They live during magical limbo, and drift off when the new year begins. When they begin to fall, my heart hurts for the ending of my favorite time of year.
Today the brand new leaves saw my four-year-old son take on the world wearing khakis, a button-down shirt, and his Phantom of the Opera mask. One of the things I've learned as a teacher is to let kids be comfortable being as weird as they are. I will not squash his Phantom love out of him. Sometimes he wears the cape. Sometimes he wears the whole tux, and I'm not kidding. The leaves of this summer will see my littlest boy embracing his weirdness.
They will see my oldest embrace his newfound independence. Riding his bike through the neighborhood, going to movies sans parents in groups that include--gulp--GIRLS. What I love most about the way I've raised him is that every day since kindergarten I've sent him off with the message, "Try your best and be kind to everyone." I see the fruit of that now. It didn't always feel like he was listening; it still doesn't. But then I see the way he reaches out to friends, and to people who aren't his friends. He tries to understand everyone's backstory so their attitudes, often different from his own, don't bother him. "Be everyone's friend," I tell him. "Don't get involved with the negative stuff. Just be neutral. Just be kind."
The leaves will see my middle boy struggle as he always does. I say the same things to him that I do to his brothers, but his response is different because he is different. And that's okay. I like my little middle. The leaves will watch him take his confusing world and mold it into what works for him, and I love that.
Dear Summer Leaves,
I pray that you will whisper with soft warm breezes and bless us with a kind of pixie dust that makes us strong and healthy, quick to smile, slow to anger. Bring us moments that will stay in our hearts like photos in an album. Bring us chances to rise up and make our lives special, even when it is daunting to do so. Help us to spread goodness where it is needed, and to make the world as magical as you are.
Love,
A Summer Girl
Saturday, May 5, 2018
Slice of Life
This is going to be poorly written, but if I don't do it now I won't remember it. And it so perfectly sums up the chaos that is my life.
Where do I start.
Joe and I have an event to attend tonight, which means we need a babysitter. That means, at least to me, that I have to do a run through the house with bleach and Pledge and make sure it at least looks good enough for me to say, "Oh, my, excuse our mess! Tee hee!" instead of "Please don't call CPS."
So I'm running around, scrubbing the toilets and wiping the mirrors behind every sink, because boys are gross and for some reason when they spit out water they need it to be like putting a thumb over the hose nozzle.
When it looked decent (and it doesn't; I left two full baskets of laundry downstairs by the entry of all places...I hope remember to move that), I was like, "Okay. Shower." Get the older brother to watch the younger brother. Warnings and threats about behavior because these two are oil and vinegar. Or really, vinegar and vinegar. Or like...machete and machete. I don't know. Dangerous combo. So, yeah. Warnings and threats.
Dash up the stairs (of which I'm terrified because I almost died falling down them four weeks or so ago), fling off my clothes, and hop into what will most assuredly be a half-assed shower.
Through the steam, I see my four-year-old son run into the bathroom. I can see he is wearing one gardening glove and is brandishing scissors. The wrong way. They're safety scissors, but I've always found that ascription to be a bit of an oxymoron.
"NO SCISSORS!!!!" I screamed.
Even through the steam, I can see he is annoyed. Like, "Guh. Mom is so stupid, thinking I'd hurt myself with scissors."
Whatever. He put them down.
Then, I hop out of the shower, and I'm wrapped in a towel running around (is this too much information? apologies, but really, it's life, right?) and I see Max in the hallway in his underpants and bright orange socks, yanking on his Thomas the Tank bathing suit.
"Max!"
He put a hand up, like a crossing guard about to let children cross the road. "I have a cold. I'm very sick and I need a shower." He was so matter-of-fact (and also lying), I was momentarily stunned into speechlessness, before I said, "Just take your socks off first."
I mean, really. I just can't.
Right now he's lying on his belly on the floor of my shower waving his arms and legs around like he's swimming, and he has a plastic dinosaur next to him. The safety scissors are on my counter and the gardening gloves lays in the wait on the floor.
He's singing Phantom of the Opera songs louder than a Broadway diva. I gotta get outta here.
Where do I start.
Joe and I have an event to attend tonight, which means we need a babysitter. That means, at least to me, that I have to do a run through the house with bleach and Pledge and make sure it at least looks good enough for me to say, "Oh, my, excuse our mess! Tee hee!" instead of "Please don't call CPS."
So I'm running around, scrubbing the toilets and wiping the mirrors behind every sink, because boys are gross and for some reason when they spit out water they need it to be like putting a thumb over the hose nozzle.
When it looked decent (and it doesn't; I left two full baskets of laundry downstairs by the entry of all places...I hope remember to move that), I was like, "Okay. Shower." Get the older brother to watch the younger brother. Warnings and threats about behavior because these two are oil and vinegar. Or really, vinegar and vinegar. Or like...machete and machete. I don't know. Dangerous combo. So, yeah. Warnings and threats.
Dash up the stairs (of which I'm terrified because I almost died falling down them four weeks or so ago), fling off my clothes, and hop into what will most assuredly be a half-assed shower.
Through the steam, I see my four-year-old son run into the bathroom. I can see he is wearing one gardening glove and is brandishing scissors. The wrong way. They're safety scissors, but I've always found that ascription to be a bit of an oxymoron.
"NO SCISSORS!!!!" I screamed.
Even through the steam, I can see he is annoyed. Like, "Guh. Mom is so stupid, thinking I'd hurt myself with scissors."
Whatever. He put them down.
Then, I hop out of the shower, and I'm wrapped in a towel running around (is this too much information? apologies, but really, it's life, right?) and I see Max in the hallway in his underpants and bright orange socks, yanking on his Thomas the Tank bathing suit.
"Max!"
He put a hand up, like a crossing guard about to let children cross the road. "I have a cold. I'm very sick and I need a shower." He was so matter-of-fact (and also lying), I was momentarily stunned into speechlessness, before I said, "Just take your socks off first."
I mean, really. I just can't.
Right now he's lying on his belly on the floor of my shower waving his arms and legs around like he's swimming, and he has a plastic dinosaur next to him. The safety scissors are on my counter and the gardening gloves lays in the wait on the floor.
He's singing Phantom of the Opera songs louder than a Broadway diva. I gotta get outta here.
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
The Middle Child
When I turned ten, my older brother said to me, "That's it. You'll have double digits for your age for the rest of your life."
This gave me a complex that lasted at least three years. I was the baby in our family. It was my Role. Having left behind my single-digit era, I found myself in an identity crisis of Wendy Darling proportions. Except she was an oldest...so even that failed to serve as comfort. (Poor me.)
This is far from being the only complex inspired by my older brother. Scarred by his dethronement as youngest by my unexpected existence, I was subject to all sorts of twisted tomfoolery. I was backup to his lead in our pretend band. I was placed in precarious situations (like dangling from our second floor bannister) so that he could play the part of Superman and rescue me. And of course, I was forever subject to playing the part of the younger brother he never got to have. I played GI Joes (but never the cool guys; I always had to be the unwanted character), He-Man (same situation), and a gamut of sports that has left me with many physical scars, including a permanent lump on the left side of my head. I was never going to be an athlete due to lack of talent, but being forced to pretend in order to fill the part of the missing opponent may have sealed any possibility of attempt.
Even so, I love my brother heaps and we've grown past these silly sibling issues (mostly). But what always strikes me is the irony of how he has been reincarnated (while still being alive) in the body of my own middle child. Mr. Noah.
There are a few words that can best describe Noah. They may not immediately make sense to an outsider, but it's more about putting them together to paint a bigger picture. Ready? Emergency. Fireball. Black hole. Maniacal laugh. Compassionate. Bursting. Disgruntled. Senior citizen.
Day after day for the last ten years, walking hand-in-hand with this child has been like trying to pull a wagon that has blocks for wheels up a hill riddled with potholes and stubborn thorny bushes. But, imagine if you will, the feeling of great satisfaction that fills the heart when you get that wagon to the top of the hill, square wheels and all?
That is what it's like to have a good day with Noah.
He's not easily swayed by much. By pure coincidence, my sister and I both bought him a copy of A Wrinkle In Time this Christmas. When he unwrapped the one I'd bought him Christmas morning, he'd made a face like it was a pair of socks or underwear and then wordlessly cast it aside. My English teacher's heart broke.
Imagine my reaction when he opened the same thing from my sister later that day and expressed...joy? Excitement!
What a little jerk.
Anyway. He read the book cover to cover in less than a week. And then, because he's Noah, he had the frustrating audacity to sidle up to me for a snuggle and say in a googly, lovey voice: "You were so right, Mom. It was the best book. I loved it." Right. But only because Aunt Jane recommended it. (For the record, I totally watched to see which physical copy he chose to read from; mine gathered dust beneath the Christmas tree.)
But Aunt Jane wasn't the person he invited to see the movie. That very special privilege went to me. Just me. Daddy and the brothers went to see something else with gnomes or something. Noah and I went to the concessions counter, picked out snacks, and took seats in a near-empty theatre together.
He sits on his feet. His eyes are so big, particularly his pupils, so the reflection of the movie was in them the whole time. He held my hand (until it became, as he loud-whispered apologetically, "too warm"). True to his personality, he teared up at certain parts, but when the credits began to roll he shouted (because he only knows how to be loud), "That was terrible! The book was so much better!" (A Band-Aid on my English teacher's previously broken heart.)
And then, "The best part was the Tesseract. That was cool."
*Sigh*
Today is his tenth birthday. The spirit of birthdays is, of course, celebrating the birth and existence of a person we admire and appreciate. Happy Birthday! I like to follow it up with, "I'm glad you were born!" And if I can, I like to find the exactly right gift to let the person feel inside what their existence makes me feel.
I scoured Amazon for about two hours after seeing this movie. And then I found the perfect birthday gift for this amazing boy entering into double-digits. See, when my oldest turned ten (or thereabouts), I bought him a light-up globe. "I'm giving you the world," I'd said. Hard to compete with, and sort of lame if copied with the next child.
But after A Wrinkle In Time, it was easy enough.
Dear Noah,
When it becomes hard to not be oldest and not be youngest, when life seems impossible, when you feel like a wagon with square wheels, remember that my heart is always with you. No matter what else, you have my love. You may not always see it, but remember: Not gone. Just folded.
Love,
Mom
This gave me a complex that lasted at least three years. I was the baby in our family. It was my Role. Having left behind my single-digit era, I found myself in an identity crisis of Wendy Darling proportions. Except she was an oldest...so even that failed to serve as comfort. (Poor me.)
This is far from being the only complex inspired by my older brother. Scarred by his dethronement as youngest by my unexpected existence, I was subject to all sorts of twisted tomfoolery. I was backup to his lead in our pretend band. I was placed in precarious situations (like dangling from our second floor bannister) so that he could play the part of Superman and rescue me. And of course, I was forever subject to playing the part of the younger brother he never got to have. I played GI Joes (but never the cool guys; I always had to be the unwanted character), He-Man (same situation), and a gamut of sports that has left me with many physical scars, including a permanent lump on the left side of my head. I was never going to be an athlete due to lack of talent, but being forced to pretend in order to fill the part of the missing opponent may have sealed any possibility of attempt.
Even so, I love my brother heaps and we've grown past these silly sibling issues (mostly). But what always strikes me is the irony of how he has been reincarnated (while still being alive) in the body of my own middle child. Mr. Noah.
There are a few words that can best describe Noah. They may not immediately make sense to an outsider, but it's more about putting them together to paint a bigger picture. Ready? Emergency. Fireball. Black hole. Maniacal laugh. Compassionate. Bursting. Disgruntled. Senior citizen.
Day after day for the last ten years, walking hand-in-hand with this child has been like trying to pull a wagon that has blocks for wheels up a hill riddled with potholes and stubborn thorny bushes. But, imagine if you will, the feeling of great satisfaction that fills the heart when you get that wagon to the top of the hill, square wheels and all?
That is what it's like to have a good day with Noah.
He's not easily swayed by much. By pure coincidence, my sister and I both bought him a copy of A Wrinkle In Time this Christmas. When he unwrapped the one I'd bought him Christmas morning, he'd made a face like it was a pair of socks or underwear and then wordlessly cast it aside. My English teacher's heart broke.
Imagine my reaction when he opened the same thing from my sister later that day and expressed...joy? Excitement!
What a little jerk.
Anyway. He read the book cover to cover in less than a week. And then, because he's Noah, he had the frustrating audacity to sidle up to me for a snuggle and say in a googly, lovey voice: "You were so right, Mom. It was the best book. I loved it." Right. But only because Aunt Jane recommended it. (For the record, I totally watched to see which physical copy he chose to read from; mine gathered dust beneath the Christmas tree.)
But Aunt Jane wasn't the person he invited to see the movie. That very special privilege went to me. Just me. Daddy and the brothers went to see something else with gnomes or something. Noah and I went to the concessions counter, picked out snacks, and took seats in a near-empty theatre together.
He sits on his feet. His eyes are so big, particularly his pupils, so the reflection of the movie was in them the whole time. He held my hand (until it became, as he loud-whispered apologetically, "too warm"). True to his personality, he teared up at certain parts, but when the credits began to roll he shouted (because he only knows how to be loud), "That was terrible! The book was so much better!" (A Band-Aid on my English teacher's previously broken heart.)
And then, "The best part was the Tesseract. That was cool."
*Sigh*
Today is his tenth birthday. The spirit of birthdays is, of course, celebrating the birth and existence of a person we admire and appreciate. Happy Birthday! I like to follow it up with, "I'm glad you were born!" And if I can, I like to find the exactly right gift to let the person feel inside what their existence makes me feel.
I scoured Amazon for about two hours after seeing this movie. And then I found the perfect birthday gift for this amazing boy entering into double-digits. See, when my oldest turned ten (or thereabouts), I bought him a light-up globe. "I'm giving you the world," I'd said. Hard to compete with, and sort of lame if copied with the next child.
But after A Wrinkle In Time, it was easy enough.
amazon.com
My gift to Noah this year was a Tesseract. I didn't give him the world. I gave him the Universe.
When it becomes hard to not be oldest and not be youngest, when life seems impossible, when you feel like a wagon with square wheels, remember that my heart is always with you. No matter what else, you have my love. You may not always see it, but remember: Not gone. Just folded.
Love,
Mom
Friday, April 13, 2018
Boymom 101 - Enjoy!
Noah is twelve days shy of his tenth birthday. This kid has driven me crazy since he was in the womb. Before he turned two, I was convinced he was plotting my death like Stewie from The Family Guy.
Awhile back, I instituted Family Meetings as part of our household structure. The children hated them, Joe was enthusiastic to the point of weirdness, and Max repeatedly left the table. But, in the end, it really didn't matter because I got to ring a bell every time I made a point. Nothing can really get me down when I get to ring a bell.
Family Meetings led to chores as Law. Among other things, Joey and Noah now do the dishes. When I say they "do the dishes," I mean I make them clear the table. They rinse the plates. Load the dishwasher. And they do all of these things so half-assed that every morning after they've left for school I have to re-do the whole damn job. It's fine. I love doing it! I embrace it!
No I don't. I'm being sarcastic. I effing hate re-doing the work for them. But whose fault is that? I know it; I own it.
Tonight Joey is having a friend sleep over. It's Friday the 13th and they've begun a tradition of watching horror movies on said date. It went swimmingly at the last event; this time the tradition morphed into six seventh grade boys sleeping in my basement. That's fine. I don't really mind, but you can bet your cottontail that I'm going to make him earn it. This morning when I opened the dishwasher, nothing was even placed properly. All pots, bowls, and plates were flung in haphazard heaps with no attempt at organization. I pulled a coffee mug out and it was crusty inside. Unacceptable! I calmly put the mug back in the dishwasher, closed it, and walked away.
Sleepover is set for 8 pm. I made Joey clean the entire basement, including the bathroom (except the toilets, which is Noah's job BECAUSE...you don't want to know why, I promise). And then, just as the boys settled in to while away the rest of the hours by watching Spaceballs, I sang out, "Oh, boys! Let's talk about the dishes."
Boom.
Parenting is power, and I am wild with it.
You can imagine they were beyond disgruntled, right? I tried not to show my amusement as they grumbled and shoved at each other trying to complete the task they had carelessly believed was done. (Chumps!)
And then it happened.
"For Chrissakes, Joey, get outta my way!"
WHAT.
I almost peed my pants. I'm not even kidding. About seventy percent of my instincts wanted me to laugh, but the other thirty percent had to rein in that stampede of hysteria with maturity.
"NOAH."
He'd forgotten I was there. You should have seen him freeze up. He didn't even turn around, but his voice grew a bit squeaky on the one word..."Sorry?"
"NO WAY. GET OVER HERE."
It's not enough to have a scary "serious" voice, you know. You need to perfect the crazy eyes. I learned it from my mom, she'd be proud to know.
Noah's face went from white to a rosy blush as he walked over to me, his mouth open just a little.
I pointed at the floor. "TWENTY-FIVE PUSHUPS. NOW."
Let it be known that my father-in-law was a big fan of pushups as consequence, and since Joe's brother was only fourteen when we started dating, I saw with amazement the incredible results of this genius. It's not just character building. It's exercise, too. WIN-WIN!
Joe taught each boy how to do pushups around the time they started climbing on furniture. As tots they found it enjoyable and loved impressing their father. Fantastic. Positive preparation.
But that means that in that moment when I pointed at Noah, I was SO READY.
He got down and started the process. He huffed and he puffed to his third pushup, and then dramatically whispered with strain, "TWELVE..."
"No way, buddy. That was THREE."
He looked up, a small smirk starting on his lips. My scary eyes washed it away within seconds.
At fifteen, he asked for a break.
"I'm getting your father."
"Nooooooo!"
Yeah, right. I was escaping so he wouldn't see me laugh. I ran up the stairs to where Joe was getting Max ready for bed and whispered the whole thing in his ear, and he, too, got the giggles. But for good measure, he yelled, "Don't make me come down there!"
Listen. If you're judging us right now, I don't even care. These boys are disgusting! You can't even imagine the crusty bathrooms. The junkyard they call their closets. The toothpaste on the mirror because spitting after brushing teeth apparently means turning into a power washer of epic proportions. The farting. The fart JOKES. The pranks! Joey once pretended he broke his neck by crunching a plastic water bottle in his armpit. He abruptly collapsed to the floor like a limp noodle. I screamed and started to cry. He began rolling on the floor, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. They run me ragged and then cover me with hugs and kisses and apologies and compliments of such sincerity I start to cry all over again. They talk about their poop. Sometimes they call me into the bathroom to show it to me! I'm not kidding! They are exponentially disorganized, and it's literally in their hormones to be so. And oh my goodness, the blood. There's always blood on one of them. And then it's on their clothes with the grass stains and food stains and exploded pens that they keep in their pockets because they must want to one day be sterile!
Read my words: THEY MAKE ME CRAZY!!!!
So, yeah. Given the opportunity to build character, encourage exercise, and return the crazy, you bet your boots I'm taking FULL ADVANTAGE.
And that's called BEING A BOYMOM.
Feel free to share your crazy parenting moments in the comments below. I love it, and believe me, it feels amazing to vent!!
Awhile back, I instituted Family Meetings as part of our household structure. The children hated them, Joe was enthusiastic to the point of weirdness, and Max repeatedly left the table. But, in the end, it really didn't matter because I got to ring a bell every time I made a point. Nothing can really get me down when I get to ring a bell.
Family Meetings led to chores as Law. Among other things, Joey and Noah now do the dishes. When I say they "do the dishes," I mean I make them clear the table. They rinse the plates. Load the dishwasher. And they do all of these things so half-assed that every morning after they've left for school I have to re-do the whole damn job. It's fine. I love doing it! I embrace it!
No I don't. I'm being sarcastic. I effing hate re-doing the work for them. But whose fault is that? I know it; I own it.
Tonight Joey is having a friend sleep over. It's Friday the 13th and they've begun a tradition of watching horror movies on said date. It went swimmingly at the last event; this time the tradition morphed into six seventh grade boys sleeping in my basement. That's fine. I don't really mind, but you can bet your cottontail that I'm going to make him earn it. This morning when I opened the dishwasher, nothing was even placed properly. All pots, bowls, and plates were flung in haphazard heaps with no attempt at organization. I pulled a coffee mug out and it was crusty inside. Unacceptable! I calmly put the mug back in the dishwasher, closed it, and walked away.
Sleepover is set for 8 pm. I made Joey clean the entire basement, including the bathroom (except the toilets, which is Noah's job BECAUSE...you don't want to know why, I promise). And then, just as the boys settled in to while away the rest of the hours by watching Spaceballs, I sang out, "Oh, boys! Let's talk about the dishes."
Boom.
Parenting is power, and I am wild with it.
You can imagine they were beyond disgruntled, right? I tried not to show my amusement as they grumbled and shoved at each other trying to complete the task they had carelessly believed was done. (Chumps!)
And then it happened.
"For Chrissakes, Joey, get outta my way!"
WHAT.
I almost peed my pants. I'm not even kidding. About seventy percent of my instincts wanted me to laugh, but the other thirty percent had to rein in that stampede of hysteria with maturity.
"NOAH."
He'd forgotten I was there. You should have seen him freeze up. He didn't even turn around, but his voice grew a bit squeaky on the one word..."Sorry?"
"NO WAY. GET OVER HERE."
It's not enough to have a scary "serious" voice, you know. You need to perfect the crazy eyes. I learned it from my mom, she'd be proud to know.
Noah's face went from white to a rosy blush as he walked over to me, his mouth open just a little.
I pointed at the floor. "TWENTY-FIVE PUSHUPS. NOW."
Let it be known that my father-in-law was a big fan of pushups as consequence, and since Joe's brother was only fourteen when we started dating, I saw with amazement the incredible results of this genius. It's not just character building. It's exercise, too. WIN-WIN!
Joe taught each boy how to do pushups around the time they started climbing on furniture. As tots they found it enjoyable and loved impressing their father. Fantastic. Positive preparation.
But that means that in that moment when I pointed at Noah, I was SO READY.
He got down and started the process. He huffed and he puffed to his third pushup, and then dramatically whispered with strain, "TWELVE..."
"No way, buddy. That was THREE."
He looked up, a small smirk starting on his lips. My scary eyes washed it away within seconds.
At fifteen, he asked for a break.
"I'm getting your father."
"Nooooooo!"
Yeah, right. I was escaping so he wouldn't see me laugh. I ran up the stairs to where Joe was getting Max ready for bed and whispered the whole thing in his ear, and he, too, got the giggles. But for good measure, he yelled, "Don't make me come down there!"
Listen. If you're judging us right now, I don't even care. These boys are disgusting! You can't even imagine the crusty bathrooms. The junkyard they call their closets. The toothpaste on the mirror because spitting after brushing teeth apparently means turning into a power washer of epic proportions. The farting. The fart JOKES. The pranks! Joey once pretended he broke his neck by crunching a plastic water bottle in his armpit. He abruptly collapsed to the floor like a limp noodle. I screamed and started to cry. He began rolling on the floor, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. They run me ragged and then cover me with hugs and kisses and apologies and compliments of such sincerity I start to cry all over again. They talk about their poop. Sometimes they call me into the bathroom to show it to me! I'm not kidding! They are exponentially disorganized, and it's literally in their hormones to be so. And oh my goodness, the blood. There's always blood on one of them. And then it's on their clothes with the grass stains and food stains and exploded pens that they keep in their pockets because they must want to one day be sterile!
Read my words: THEY MAKE ME CRAZY!!!!
So, yeah. Given the opportunity to build character, encourage exercise, and return the crazy, you bet your boots I'm taking FULL ADVANTAGE.
And that's called BEING A BOYMOM.
Feel free to share your crazy parenting moments in the comments below. I love it, and believe me, it feels amazing to vent!!
Saturday, March 31, 2018
No Apologies
When I marched up to the gate at the airport the other day, my family rolled their eyes. Here she goes again, their expressions announced. And I mean...my whole family. I haven't been on a plane with my brother and sister since I was fourteen. Their spouses and children all watched me march right up to the gate attendant and announce my injury.
I boarded the plane ahead of everyone, cheerfully claiming my seat. Asking my husband sweetly, "Could you help me?" and reminding him, "I have a broken arm."
I'm annoying everyone and I'm totally fine with it.
A week ago, I was getting ready to board a different plane. Different trip, different flight. It was 3:30 AM, and I didn't want to wake my kids. My middle son Noah had crawled into bed with me at some point, so I had to be really quiet, because I knew if I woke him the resulting whines and tears would cause me strife.
Instead, I dressed for my flight as quietly as I could. To avoid excess noise, I lifted my suitcase up and hobbled to our stairs. And because I'm me, my socked foot slid on the first step and I bounded down eight stairs with the suitcase on top of me.
At the landing, I was crumpled in a daze. The noise of my fall on hollow wood in our echoey house woke everyone. The dog sat worriedly at the bottom of the stairs, Noah rushed down to me, my husband crowded in.
Later Joe told me, "You never made a sound. The fall did, but you didn't."
I did not ask for help. I did not say I was hurt. I didn't say anything. My life is not mine. It belongs to my family. My heart is not mine. It's theirs, too. The only thing in my mind was, "I am getting on that plane." I was going to New York City with my book. The one thing in the world that is one-hundred percent all mine.
I blacked out. Twice. I threw up. Once.
When I couldn't lift my arm at airport security, they offered me first aid. I had no choice but to refuse it when they told me I couldn't fly if my arm was broken.
That's when I knew. Of course it was broken.
"I'm okay," I insisted.
I waited my turn to board the plane. I held up the line of boarding passengers while a nice middle-aged man helped me lift my suitcase into the overhead compartment. In my seat awaiting takeoff, I held my seizing left arm with my right hand and did Lamaze. As the plane picked up speed on the runway, I was sweating, but I felt amazing.
Nothing could take this from me.
I was getting to New York City. I would attend the New York Pitch Conference. I would meet with editors from the best publishers. I would pitch them the book that has consumed my life for too long.
And three of them would say "Send me your work."
The first day I was there, I had no time to worry about a broken arm. I barely made it to the conference. I downed ibuprofen and sat in my chair, avoided movement on my left side, balanced my laptop on my knees, and tried to absorb everything that was said to me. That night, once the conference had finished for the day, I made my way to a creepy city urgent care. My Uber got lost. "Ubers don't get lost," Joe said. "They use Google."
Mine got lost.
The X-ray at urgent care confirmed that my left elbow was fractured. They gave me a sling and advised me to see a specialist as soon as I could.
"Monday," I said. It was Thursday. They looked disapproving, but what could they do, really?
Days one and two of the conference, I was the first of our group to pitch. In front of eighteen people I'd never met before, I had to talk about my book. I had to summarize a story that has become part of me. I had to sell it. Without anyone else to show me how, or to mess up for me to see what not to do, I got up and followed one my life rules: Act confident and no one will know you're not.
When they found out my arm was broken, someone said, "My God. Are you okay?" and I laughed. I told them, "I've waited too long to get here. This won't stop me."
And it didn't.
Day four, I was last to pitch. A new friend (of which there were several, and I'm so grateful) laughed because I had seated my temporarily handicapped self right beside the door and waited and waited for the end of the line to come.
She said, "You're first in line but last to go!"
I burst out laughing much harder than I think she expected. Except...she had just encapsulated my entire life in eight words.
Always first in line. But somehow always last.
A few days later with my arm in a sling, I had my three sons, their respective backpacks, two stray hoodies, and a purse laden with hand sanitizer, gum, snacks, a bottle of water, and somebody else's headphones.
"MO-OM! Joey's not letting me use the tablet!"
"MOM! Tell Noah to stop touching my stuff!"
"Mommy? I have to pee SO BAD!!!!!"
"Mar? Do you have room in your bag for this?"
"I WANTED TO SIT THERE! MOM, TELL HIM I CAN SIT THERE!"
"NO! MOM, TELL HIM I WAS THERE FIRST!"
"Mommy? Is our dog going to die while we're gone?"
Yes. I got on the plane first.
Yes, I asked for help.
But. As you can see, I was first in line, but still last. I'm not complaining.
But I'm not apologizing, either.
I boarded the plane ahead of everyone, cheerfully claiming my seat. Asking my husband sweetly, "Could you help me?" and reminding him, "I have a broken arm."
I'm annoying everyone and I'm totally fine with it.
A week ago, I was getting ready to board a different plane. Different trip, different flight. It was 3:30 AM, and I didn't want to wake my kids. My middle son Noah had crawled into bed with me at some point, so I had to be really quiet, because I knew if I woke him the resulting whines and tears would cause me strife.
Instead, I dressed for my flight as quietly as I could. To avoid excess noise, I lifted my suitcase up and hobbled to our stairs. And because I'm me, my socked foot slid on the first step and I bounded down eight stairs with the suitcase on top of me.
At the landing, I was crumpled in a daze. The noise of my fall on hollow wood in our echoey house woke everyone. The dog sat worriedly at the bottom of the stairs, Noah rushed down to me, my husband crowded in.
Later Joe told me, "You never made a sound. The fall did, but you didn't."
I did not ask for help. I did not say I was hurt. I didn't say anything. My life is not mine. It belongs to my family. My heart is not mine. It's theirs, too. The only thing in my mind was, "I am getting on that plane." I was going to New York City with my book. The one thing in the world that is one-hundred percent all mine.
I blacked out. Twice. I threw up. Once.
When I couldn't lift my arm at airport security, they offered me first aid. I had no choice but to refuse it when they told me I couldn't fly if my arm was broken.
That's when I knew. Of course it was broken.
"I'm okay," I insisted.
I waited my turn to board the plane. I held up the line of boarding passengers while a nice middle-aged man helped me lift my suitcase into the overhead compartment. In my seat awaiting takeoff, I held my seizing left arm with my right hand and did Lamaze. As the plane picked up speed on the runway, I was sweating, but I felt amazing.
Nothing could take this from me.
I was getting to New York City. I would attend the New York Pitch Conference. I would meet with editors from the best publishers. I would pitch them the book that has consumed my life for too long.
And three of them would say "Send me your work."
The first day I was there, I had no time to worry about a broken arm. I barely made it to the conference. I downed ibuprofen and sat in my chair, avoided movement on my left side, balanced my laptop on my knees, and tried to absorb everything that was said to me. That night, once the conference had finished for the day, I made my way to a creepy city urgent care. My Uber got lost. "Ubers don't get lost," Joe said. "They use Google."
Mine got lost.
The X-ray at urgent care confirmed that my left elbow was fractured. They gave me a sling and advised me to see a specialist as soon as I could.
"Monday," I said. It was Thursday. They looked disapproving, but what could they do, really?
Days one and two of the conference, I was the first of our group to pitch. In front of eighteen people I'd never met before, I had to talk about my book. I had to summarize a story that has become part of me. I had to sell it. Without anyone else to show me how, or to mess up for me to see what not to do, I got up and followed one my life rules: Act confident and no one will know you're not.
When they found out my arm was broken, someone said, "My God. Are you okay?" and I laughed. I told them, "I've waited too long to get here. This won't stop me."
And it didn't.
Day four, I was last to pitch. A new friend (of which there were several, and I'm so grateful) laughed because I had seated my temporarily handicapped self right beside the door and waited and waited for the end of the line to come.
She said, "You're first in line but last to go!"
I burst out laughing much harder than I think she expected. Except...she had just encapsulated my entire life in eight words.
Always first in line. But somehow always last.
A few days later with my arm in a sling, I had my three sons, their respective backpacks, two stray hoodies, and a purse laden with hand sanitizer, gum, snacks, a bottle of water, and somebody else's headphones.
"MO-OM! Joey's not letting me use the tablet!"
"MOM! Tell Noah to stop touching my stuff!"
"Mommy? I have to pee SO BAD!!!!!"
"Mar? Do you have room in your bag for this?"
"I WANTED TO SIT THERE! MOM, TELL HIM I CAN SIT THERE!"
"NO! MOM, TELL HIM I WAS THERE FIRST!"
"Mommy? Is our dog going to die while we're gone?"
Yes. I got on the plane first.
Yes, I asked for help.
But. As you can see, I was first in line, but still last. I'm not complaining.
But I'm not apologizing, either.
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
March 14 Student Walkout
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
Almost one month ago, one young person massacred a high school. In the weeks since, stormy debate has overtaken the media over how to best handle this going forward.
I'm not going to talk about that.
I want to shout from rooftops at all the students I ever taught who questioned me when I told them WORDS ARE POWER. I teach seventh grade. It's an age where humans are at a developmental stage that makes them question everything, even things we know they once knew, like "Why do I have to respect the teacher?" and "What is noun?" and "Why should I be nice to everybody?"
So of course, when I'm jumping around my classroom shouting, "Reading is what the cool kids do! Words are the greatest gift we have!" they're going to call me out.
And good on them.
For real.
First, I don't mind explaining. I could talk endlessly about words (and individual letters, for that matter).
Second, let's raise humans who question the way of things. Let's raise them to examine circumstances and information and to STOP and THINK about WHY. To question:
That is what the world needs now, and if I may be so bold, our survival always has and always will depend on it.
I was thrilled when I heard about the scheduled National School Walkout scheduled for tomorrow, March 14. All this because a wounded mass of teenagers in Parkland, Florida stepped out of the wreckage and used their words. It wasn't enough that five years ago kindergarteners were killed. That for five years, parents who should have taught their children to swim, taken their little son or daughter to Disney World, or read them Harry Potter have lived every day since December of 2012 living with the aching awareness that they were robbed of those opportunities.
The teenagers of Parkland have emerged from their tragedy strong. They have done research. They have found the right things to say, the best words, and the right things to DO to make a change. They took this on the grandest scale they could: NATIONAL. As a country, they said, let us all show each other that we are not going to allow this anymore. As a country, as our nation's students, let us walk out on the current institution and shout from the rooftops that the status quo is NOT OKAY.
It's beautiful.
Except...
More than once in the time from this plan's inception I've been told of "how each individual school is going to handle that." Um, what?
*chuckle, chuckle* You're joking, right?
Okay. So, hey teenagers. America's youth. Are you out there? Can you hear me? I want you to do me a favor. Google "walkout." Google "taking a stand." You don't need to tell me what you find out. I guarantee that you're smart enough to process it and realize what I'm saying.
You are our future. Don't let the message of Parkland's survivors be muffled by adults and administrations who can't be bothered, or...what? Are afraid? I don't even know.
Use your actions. Use your words. THAT IS HOW IT'S DONE.
Any school, any administration, that employs punitive action against students who participate in the walkout is wrong. Stand together in the largest group you can gather.
Stand up. Walk out. Lives have been lost. Change the future.
Sincerely,
Mary Pat Bielecki,
former teenager
former student
mother
teacher for almost 18 years
believer in words
believer in YOU
P.S.-- Can you spot the shooter in this video?
P.P.S.--Sandy Hook Promise
Almost one month ago, one young person massacred a high school. In the weeks since, stormy debate has overtaken the media over how to best handle this going forward.
I'm not going to talk about that.
I want to shout from rooftops at all the students I ever taught who questioned me when I told them WORDS ARE POWER. I teach seventh grade. It's an age where humans are at a developmental stage that makes them question everything, even things we know they once knew, like "Why do I have to respect the teacher?" and "What is noun?" and "Why should I be nice to everybody?"
So of course, when I'm jumping around my classroom shouting, "Reading is what the cool kids do! Words are the greatest gift we have!" they're going to call me out.
And good on them.
For real.
First, I don't mind explaining. I could talk endlessly about words (and individual letters, for that matter).
Second, let's raise humans who question the way of things. Let's raise them to examine circumstances and information and to STOP and THINK about WHY. To question:
Is there a better way for the greater good?
That is what the world needs now, and if I may be so bold, our survival always has and always will depend on it.
I was thrilled when I heard about the scheduled National School Walkout scheduled for tomorrow, March 14. All this because a wounded mass of teenagers in Parkland, Florida stepped out of the wreckage and used their words. It wasn't enough that five years ago kindergarteners were killed. That for five years, parents who should have taught their children to swim, taken their little son or daughter to Disney World, or read them Harry Potter have lived every day since December of 2012 living with the aching awareness that they were robbed of those opportunities.
The teenagers of Parkland have emerged from their tragedy strong. They have done research. They have found the right things to say, the best words, and the right things to DO to make a change. They took this on the grandest scale they could: NATIONAL. As a country, they said, let us all show each other that we are not going to allow this anymore. As a country, as our nation's students, let us walk out on the current institution and shout from the rooftops that the status quo is NOT OKAY.
It's beautiful.
Except...
More than once in the time from this plan's inception I've been told of "how each individual school is going to handle that." Um, what?
"Our school is just going to take seventeen minutes of silence so as not to disrupt learning."
"Our school will gather in the gym."
"Our school won't be participating."
*chuckle, chuckle* You're joking, right?
Okay. So, hey teenagers. America's youth. Are you out there? Can you hear me? I want you to do me a favor. Google "walkout." Google "taking a stand." You don't need to tell me what you find out. I guarantee that you're smart enough to process it and realize what I'm saying.
You are our future. Don't let the message of Parkland's survivors be muffled by adults and administrations who can't be bothered, or...what? Are afraid? I don't even know.
Teenagers of America: if you believe in Parkland's message, stand with them. Get up out of your chair, walk out of the classroom. Go down the stairs and out the door.
Stand together.
Use your actions. Use your words. THAT IS HOW IT'S DONE.
Any school, any administration, that employs punitive action against students who participate in the walkout is wrong. Stand together in the largest group you can gather.
Stand up. Walk out. Lives have been lost. Change the future.
Sincerely,
Mary Pat Bielecki,
former teenager
former student
mother
teacher for almost 18 years
believer in words
believer in YOU
P.S.-- Can you spot the shooter in this video?
P.P.S.--Sandy Hook Promise
Saturday, February 24, 2018
On Carrying a Gun in My Classroom
WARNING: You may hate me after this post. I'm a little scared to hit "Publish." But if you'd like to know about the reality of what so many are asking, I have to do it, and encourage you to read it.
My classroom is an energetic place, to say the least. On any given day, a student's experience is one or all of the following:
My classroom is an energetic place, to say the least. On any given day, a student's experience is one or all of the following:
- Jumping up and down
- Screaming and yelling of vocabulary, life experiences, sound effects
- Dramatic re-enactments of literature or life experiences
- Throwing of candy to well-deserving students (they like Jolly Ranchers best--you should see when I accidentally drop one; they dive at it like a herd of Walkers in The Walking Dead)
- Me, running around in erratic circles to hold the attention of seventh graders who hate to read, all the while bumping into things because I'm klutzy, which I accept because it further holds their attention. What's funnier than seeing your teacher trip and fall?
- Loud music
- Amazing and intense Powerpoints set to inspirational music
- Leaping off of furniture
- The Hokey Pokey
- The Chicken Dance
- Final Copy Day; in which my students must turn in final manuscripts of a writing piece on which they've worked for weeks and which must be free of errors lest I return it to them and mark it in my grade book as a zero until it is corrected. High tension situation right there, no exaggeration.
- Writing Workshop, with students wearing headphones to create their own "soundtracks" or else me playing a loud "Study Playlist" to block out distractions while they work
- Writing Workshop, in which I travel student to student through the classroom and work one-on-one with them to meet their particular needs for writing improvement. I have between 115 and 130 students year to year. I sit beside each one with a purple or green pen and mark up their drafts from beginning to end with suggestions and changes. I have conversations that include uncomfortable eye contact so they will (to any degree) absorb what I am teaching them.
- I am an anxious person. This isn't really anyone's business because I do my job well, but for the sake of this discussion, I'll share that I do get migraines, and have, on occasion, taught through migraines accompanied by an aura (spotted vision/vision loss).
- I do not have enough sick days because I'm a young mother whose children are sick often. We have a lot of doctor appointments that can only be scheduled during school hours. This means I often come to school exhausted and/or not feeling the greatest.
Due to all of the above listed items, I am not capable of operating a gun. I should not be given a gun, because in all truth, the above items will affect my judgment and ability to obtain the (presumably locked up or not-immediately-ready-to-fire) gun. I cannot be trusted to aim well for any of the reasons listed above, not least of which is the wellness factor. I will hesitate to pull the trigger because I am not confident I could attack another person, no matter the situation.
Fire me and find someone who can and will carry a gun? Okay. But know that I'm not alone in this. I am not the only teacher whose classroom looks like this and who has the same reservations. I'm willing to bet I'm in the majority, in fact. So what will we end up with? Military teaching our kids? Sacrifice the success of education (which is already a hot-button issue currently being ignored...by the way, please opt your children out of state tests since nothing has changed enough yet to make those tests effective) so that, bottom line, gun laws don't have to change? Not to mention the cost of training and arming educators. But don't worry. School districts have bottomless funds...oh, wait. They don't. Countless fantastic educators have lost their jobs in the last decade. Valuable programs and extracurriculars have been eliminated. Because schools don't have enough money to begin with.
Further, I am going to be one-hundred percent honest with you. Every year, I get to know and truly love my students. But no matter what, I love my own children more and my greatest fear is that I will die and they will grow up without me. Self-centered? Vain? Conceited? I don't care. Call me whatever you want. Bottom line? I'm an EXCELLENT TEACHER, but I will NOT sacrifice my life for anyone but my OWN FAMILY. I will follow all protocol and use logic to the best of my ability to keep students safe, but I won't be the hero on the news. I am needed elsewhere, and that will always be my priority.
Follow the success stories of so many other countries. Limit access to guns. If you're looking to teachers for guidance on this, learn from our example. If a student starts poking a classmate with a pen, a ruler, a pencil...I take the fucking thing away.
Tuesday, February 20, 2018
Flashback Post: More Than Magic
Flash back to...2011. Joey was 6. Knowing him now, this is even better.
My favorite thing about Joey reading is that he laughs out loud at the funny parts.
There are many things about Joey that remind me of myself. I suppose this is true for all parents, but it still surprises me because he's a boy. It's odd to see so much of yourself in someone who is so fundamentally opposite. It started when he was a newborn, and he wailed dramatically just to eat, easily comforted when he finally got what he wanted after being made to wait a whopping ten extra seconds. My mom saw this and raised her eyebrows. She looked at me knowingly and said, "Who does THAT remind me of?"
It's more pronounced now. There have always been the flickers of me in his regular actions, like when he chooses to draw with chalk instead of play catch with father. When he uses his superhero action figures to create complex storylines instead of having them battle. When he loses time watching the leaves fall from the trees, perfectly content to just sit and daydream. All of these things and more drive my husband crazy, because I guess when you wait all your life to be a father to a son, you don't conjure up the image of a happy little dreamer.
But Joey is so lovable as he is, there's no danger of wanting him to be different. And also, like everyone else in our family, he has stubbornness issues. Even if we did try to encourage him to be anything else, it wouldn't work. He'd resist us fiercely and in his totally matter-of-fact, why-are-you-bothering way.
It's the reading thing that has really spelled it out for us. Joey took to reading fast. We show him words only once or twice, and they are committed to his memory forever. I remember one day in kindergarten, my husband said, "Maybe he should be reading by now." I'm a teacher, but I teach older kids, so I had no idea. I made a face, shrugged a shoulder, and said, "I'm sure they're working on it at school," a phrase that I completely abhor as a teacher and a parent and I still can't believe it was my mentality. It just hadn't occurred to me that he could be old enough to read. "No," my husband said. "We should be doing it now."
So I started filling up Post-It notes with sight words, and then basic words, and then words that turned up in our stories that Joey asked about. We stuck the notes on our kitchen cupboards, and before long our kitchen was a rainbow of words, words, words. Everywhere. On the microwave and the refrigerator, too. And Joey knew them all.
After reading became less of a novelty and more of a, "just what he does" thing, Joey became obsessed with writing. I've always taken for granted that I'm great at spelling and figuring words out from having read so much, but I realized it had to have started somewhere even if I don't remember. We started our Post-It words over again, clearing the cupboards and making room for a new list. Joey began a story on Microsoft Word, his fingers hovering hesitantly over the keys while he struggled to recall where each letter was located. Each time he needed help spelling a word (which was all of them at first), I'd write it carefully on a Post-It and put it up where he could see it. This process only lasted a couple of weeks. After that, he didn't need the Post-Its anymore at all.
When Joey brought home his first report card, it goes without saying that his strongest performance was in Reading and English Language Arts. Art class, Literacy and Library, and Computers gave glowing compliments. He did well in his other subjects, too, but you could see from the teacher comments that his magic comes from the right side of his brain. My husband read the comments and...not quite frowning, looked puzzled. He's an accountant. He loves numbers. He loves charts, especially color-coded ones. He looked up and said slowly, "I think...this must be exactly what your report card looked like when you were in school."
Stupidly, I beamed.
For all of it, nothing fills me with as much joy as when Joey is curled in the sofa with a book or a borrowed Kindle, eyebrows furrowed, lips moving silently to the words on the page. The room is quiet, and I watch him. Suddenly, the frown of deep thought disappears, completely erased as though he is surprised by some delightful part of the story I cannot know. The corners of his mouth curve up, so like his father, his teeth showing in a grin. He closes his eyes, tips his head back, and lets out a loud and wonderful laugh. Sometimes it's accompanied by an, "Oh, man! That's hilarious!" and sometimes he just reads on. But it is wonderful to me that he has the ability to lose himself and enjoy the words so thoroughly.
For me, reading has always been magic. But my son as a reader? More. Much more.
My favorite thing about Joey reading is that he laughs out loud at the funny parts.
There are many things about Joey that remind me of myself. I suppose this is true for all parents, but it still surprises me because he's a boy. It's odd to see so much of yourself in someone who is so fundamentally opposite. It started when he was a newborn, and he wailed dramatically just to eat, easily comforted when he finally got what he wanted after being made to wait a whopping ten extra seconds. My mom saw this and raised her eyebrows. She looked at me knowingly and said, "Who does THAT remind me of?"
It's more pronounced now. There have always been the flickers of me in his regular actions, like when he chooses to draw with chalk instead of play catch with father. When he uses his superhero action figures to create complex storylines instead of having them battle. When he loses time watching the leaves fall from the trees, perfectly content to just sit and daydream. All of these things and more drive my husband crazy, because I guess when you wait all your life to be a father to a son, you don't conjure up the image of a happy little dreamer.
But Joey is so lovable as he is, there's no danger of wanting him to be different. And also, like everyone else in our family, he has stubbornness issues. Even if we did try to encourage him to be anything else, it wouldn't work. He'd resist us fiercely and in his totally matter-of-fact, why-are-you-bothering way.
It's the reading thing that has really spelled it out for us. Joey took to reading fast. We show him words only once or twice, and they are committed to his memory forever. I remember one day in kindergarten, my husband said, "Maybe he should be reading by now." I'm a teacher, but I teach older kids, so I had no idea. I made a face, shrugged a shoulder, and said, "I'm sure they're working on it at school," a phrase that I completely abhor as a teacher and a parent and I still can't believe it was my mentality. It just hadn't occurred to me that he could be old enough to read. "No," my husband said. "We should be doing it now."
So I started filling up Post-It notes with sight words, and then basic words, and then words that turned up in our stories that Joey asked about. We stuck the notes on our kitchen cupboards, and before long our kitchen was a rainbow of words, words, words. Everywhere. On the microwave and the refrigerator, too. And Joey knew them all.
After reading became less of a novelty and more of a, "just what he does" thing, Joey became obsessed with writing. I've always taken for granted that I'm great at spelling and figuring words out from having read so much, but I realized it had to have started somewhere even if I don't remember. We started our Post-It words over again, clearing the cupboards and making room for a new list. Joey began a story on Microsoft Word, his fingers hovering hesitantly over the keys while he struggled to recall where each letter was located. Each time he needed help spelling a word (which was all of them at first), I'd write it carefully on a Post-It and put it up where he could see it. This process only lasted a couple of weeks. After that, he didn't need the Post-Its anymore at all.
When Joey brought home his first report card, it goes without saying that his strongest performance was in Reading and English Language Arts. Art class, Literacy and Library, and Computers gave glowing compliments. He did well in his other subjects, too, but you could see from the teacher comments that his magic comes from the right side of his brain. My husband read the comments and...not quite frowning, looked puzzled. He's an accountant. He loves numbers. He loves charts, especially color-coded ones. He looked up and said slowly, "I think...this must be exactly what your report card looked like when you were in school."
Stupidly, I beamed.
For all of it, nothing fills me with as much joy as when Joey is curled in the sofa with a book or a borrowed Kindle, eyebrows furrowed, lips moving silently to the words on the page. The room is quiet, and I watch him. Suddenly, the frown of deep thought disappears, completely erased as though he is surprised by some delightful part of the story I cannot know. The corners of his mouth curve up, so like his father, his teeth showing in a grin. He closes his eyes, tips his head back, and lets out a loud and wonderful laugh. Sometimes it's accompanied by an, "Oh, man! That's hilarious!" and sometimes he just reads on. But it is wonderful to me that he has the ability to lose himself and enjoy the words so thoroughly.
For me, reading has always been magic. But my son as a reader? More. Much more.
Writing at Age 5
Reading at Age 12 (on a phone...what is this world?!)
Essential Oils and Alexa
Hello, welcome to 2018. This is my life.
At a dinner party a few weeks ago, friends of ours demonstrated the wonders of the Amazon-based smart home device Alexa. "It's not all that expensive," they said. "You should check it out."
So I did.
And then, true to my nature, I ordered it on Prime so it would come really fast. I ripped open the box, because that's always fun. And then I let it sit on my counter for two weeks. Inside my brain, I think there's a Tilt-a-Whirl. You know, the crazy carnival ride where individual cars are spinning in different directions at once while all of them are on a fast rotating wheel. I love that ride, but when that's your life...well.
Anyway.
It's February break in our house, so the boys are off from school. The weather is warm and rainy, and I have the windows and back door open to let in the clean fresh air. I filled my diffuser with an essential oil called Loyalty. I didn't even know I had it! It smelled amazing, and I honestly think it made me happier to be around my kids. They volunteered to help me set up our new Alexa device. I looked at their shiny eyes as they read the directions and it made me feel all lovey and grateful.
Once we got it going, I quickly deterred Joey and Noah from being, well...themselves. That sounds awful. But really, you have to understand, there's a time and a place to break out the juvenile humor of little boys. "Alexa, make a fart noise." "Alexa, what does the fox say?" (Seriously??? That was, like, so 2013!) I jumped in quickly to say, "Alexa, play my iTunes."
If you are looking to feel sentimental with your children, wait for a warm rainy day. Open your windows. Diffuse something wonderful. And turn on Five For Fighting and let your kids serenade you.
We rocked out, singing into imaginary microphones and twirling through the kitchen. We are BIG-TIME twirlers in our house. It's only annoying sometimes.
Watching Joey and Noah in that moment, I thought about my house growing up. Music has always been a huge part of my life. My dad has eclectic and oddly specific taste (he once created a mix tape entitled "Middle Charts Rock"; it was his pride and joy as mix tapes went), and it pushed all of us to develop our own quirky playlists. Now, I can't hear music without building a story in my head or jetting back in time to some almost lost memory that becomes crystal clear with lyrics I know by heart.
Once, my mother and I did a late-night shopping trip to a drug store near our house. We loved shopping there because they had great makeup and beauty products super cheap. Oh, and pantyhose! It was great...if there was a last-minute pantyhose emergency, it was all, "RUN TO VIX!" That was the store's name. Vix.
Anyway, Mom and I were shopping at Vix and had separated somewhere near the lipstick. She always gets sucked into the big center displays of novel items, where I'm more of a go-to girl. Unconcerned, I was scanning for my lipstick color (I think was called Burnished Siena) as the song switched on the speaker somewhere overhead. The store was pretty empty and the aisle shelves were high, so when "You're So Vain" came on, I felt nice and alone and comfortable singing along. As the song progressed, well...I mean, it's "You're So Vain." Surely you've been in a similar situation. I was all alone and lost in the names of lipstick colors and my Tilt-a-Whirl brain was carried away.
As I flung my arms out for the big crescendo, I did a half-twirl. And there, from out behind a giant display of glitter eye shadow, jumped my mother, also doing the dramatic half-twirl to the song's high point. We startled each other, but then burst out laughing at what was, really, a perfect mother-daughter moment. One I'll never forget.
Flash forward to today. Five For Fighting drifted away and the next song on the radio was "Don't Go Breaking My Heart." (I told you. Quirky taste. But you and I both know you're singing one of these songs right now.) Joey was dancing in place by the pantry. I bopped into the laundry room to change loads. As the song grooved into the chorus, I twirled back into the kitchen at the exact same moment that Noah twirled out of the refrigerator. We locked eyes, and, still dancing, broke into crazy laughter.
Magic. The weather's just right. The air smells amazing. Alexa is awesome, and so are my kids.
The world's a mess, and I'm a Tilt-a-Whirl, but that was a great moment.
At a dinner party a few weeks ago, friends of ours demonstrated the wonders of the Amazon-based smart home device Alexa. "It's not all that expensive," they said. "You should check it out."
So I did.
And then, true to my nature, I ordered it on Prime so it would come really fast. I ripped open the box, because that's always fun. And then I let it sit on my counter for two weeks. Inside my brain, I think there's a Tilt-a-Whirl. You know, the crazy carnival ride where individual cars are spinning in different directions at once while all of them are on a fast rotating wheel. I love that ride, but when that's your life...well.
Anyway.
It's February break in our house, so the boys are off from school. The weather is warm and rainy, and I have the windows and back door open to let in the clean fresh air. I filled my diffuser with an essential oil called Loyalty. I didn't even know I had it! It smelled amazing, and I honestly think it made me happier to be around my kids. They volunteered to help me set up our new Alexa device. I looked at their shiny eyes as they read the directions and it made me feel all lovey and grateful.
Once we got it going, I quickly deterred Joey and Noah from being, well...themselves. That sounds awful. But really, you have to understand, there's a time and a place to break out the juvenile humor of little boys. "Alexa, make a fart noise." "Alexa, what does the fox say?" (Seriously??? That was, like, so 2013!) I jumped in quickly to say, "Alexa, play my iTunes."
If you are looking to feel sentimental with your children, wait for a warm rainy day. Open your windows. Diffuse something wonderful. And turn on Five For Fighting and let your kids serenade you.
We rocked out, singing into imaginary microphones and twirling through the kitchen. We are BIG-TIME twirlers in our house. It's only annoying sometimes.
Watching Joey and Noah in that moment, I thought about my house growing up. Music has always been a huge part of my life. My dad has eclectic and oddly specific taste (he once created a mix tape entitled "Middle Charts Rock"; it was his pride and joy as mix tapes went), and it pushed all of us to develop our own quirky playlists. Now, I can't hear music without building a story in my head or jetting back in time to some almost lost memory that becomes crystal clear with lyrics I know by heart.
Once, my mother and I did a late-night shopping trip to a drug store near our house. We loved shopping there because they had great makeup and beauty products super cheap. Oh, and pantyhose! It was great...if there was a last-minute pantyhose emergency, it was all, "RUN TO VIX!" That was the store's name. Vix.
Anyway, Mom and I were shopping at Vix and had separated somewhere near the lipstick. She always gets sucked into the big center displays of novel items, where I'm more of a go-to girl. Unconcerned, I was scanning for my lipstick color (I think was called Burnished Siena) as the song switched on the speaker somewhere overhead. The store was pretty empty and the aisle shelves were high, so when "You're So Vain" came on, I felt nice and alone and comfortable singing along. As the song progressed, well...I mean, it's "You're So Vain." Surely you've been in a similar situation. I was all alone and lost in the names of lipstick colors and my Tilt-a-Whirl brain was carried away.
As I flung my arms out for the big crescendo, I did a half-twirl. And there, from out behind a giant display of glitter eye shadow, jumped my mother, also doing the dramatic half-twirl to the song's high point. We startled each other, but then burst out laughing at what was, really, a perfect mother-daughter moment. One I'll never forget.
Flash forward to today. Five For Fighting drifted away and the next song on the radio was "Don't Go Breaking My Heart." (I told you. Quirky taste. But you and I both know you're singing one of these songs right now.) Joey was dancing in place by the pantry. I bopped into the laundry room to change loads. As the song grooved into the chorus, I twirled back into the kitchen at the exact same moment that Noah twirled out of the refrigerator. We locked eyes, and, still dancing, broke into crazy laughter.
Magic. The weather's just right. The air smells amazing. Alexa is awesome, and so are my kids.
The world's a mess, and I'm a Tilt-a-Whirl, but that was a great moment.
Tuesday, February 6, 2018
Why is Mom yelling NOW?!
"Why is Mom yelling?!"
Or, more frequently, "Why is Mom yelling NOW?!"
Some people aren't born yellers. They're patient and calm and speak in a nice low voice all the time, even if someone sets their hair on fire. Max's preschool teacher is like that. He loves her. Hell, I love her. She's fantastic.
But me? I was born loud. I'm not ashamed. I come from loud people. It should be listed as part of our ethnicity. Polish, Italian, Irish, LOUD.
Also in that list would be emotional. This used to bother me, but I'm kind of proud of it now. You never need to worry about whether I'm being honest with you. My face is ALWAYS honest with you, no matter what my mouth is saying.
So if shit goes down, this mom is yelling. That answers that. But let's now look at a typical morning in my house, and you tell me if you can figure out why Mom is yelling NOW.
For the fourth or fifth time in a row, my four-year-old son Max woke at 4 am unable to breathe from coughing up all the gook that had settled in his chest while sleeping. All children do this at some point or another. With my older two, it was annoying, an inconvenience, but also pleasant in the way that I could pick them up and lean against the wall or sit in the rocking chair and at least half sleep while comforting them.
Max wants a shower.
Max, as a human, is relentless. So, at 4 am, I get up, take off his jammies, and put him in the shower. And then we both get steamy, our noses run, and we are wide awake.
And usually by now, so is the dog and so is my middle son Noah.
Okay, I think, I can do this. As long as I have coffee.
Making coffee is a nice easy procedure. Except the few simple steps are interrupted by I want breakfast. I have boogers. Bizzy's in the basement! No, not THAT breakfast. Hey! He took the last muffin! I wanted THAT muffin! I have boogers. Ew! He has boogers! I'm gonna puke! Uuuggghhh. Mom, I missed the toilet. Ew! He missed the toilet? Now I'm gonna puke! Did he take my muffin?
But that's not even when it gets exciting. Wait until the oldest wakes up and "can't find" whatever he needs for school. It's usually laying on the floor. Right in front of him. Because, did you know?, that's where stuff will be found when you never put it away.
By the time I got to take my first sip of coffee today, my brain was scrambled eggs. So when Max came up, two snot rivers flowing cheerfully from his nose, and said, "I'm bored," I put my coffee down, and said in my usual loud voice, "I AM HAVING A BAD DAY."
To which he responded, "Geez! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"
*Narrow-eyed, dead-pan facial expression.* Right here.
But he is sick. He is my little sickie. His eyes are about two inches in diameter and the prettiest green you ever saw, and somehow when he is sad his eyelashes get longer and poke the top of his head, so I said, "Here. Let's do something fun."
And I got the great big bowl reserved for Halloween candy and I filled it with fresh snow from outside. We got our Play-Doh toys and a ladle and Max's mittens and BOOM! A snow day indoors.
I am awesome.
All joy and smiles until I walked away for ten seconds and he decided to add sundae sprinkles to his snow bowl.
And they spilled.
Everywhere.
Man those suckers get some distance when they hit the floor.
So I'm vacuuming. It's cool. I love to vacuum. I break out the vacuum hose; I'm loving the sound of the sprinkles getting all sucked up.
"Mom! I'm gonna go get some superheroes to play with in the snow!"
My clever, creative boy. I'm so proud of us both, I'm dancing with the vacuum hose.
That's when I sucked up his mitten. You know...I try to be myself for one second...and guess what else? I still haven't had any coffee.
Thirty minutes later, my brand new vacuum is dismantled. The floor is a giant puddle where the snow melted. The dog is throwing up (because why not?). My arms are covered in vacuum dust. Max is bored.
"I'm going to wash my hands, and then we'll clean up," I tell him.
I enter the bathroom. I step in a lake of urine.
"I am having a BAD DAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!!!"
"Geez, Mom. Mrs. Hanley always tells me, 'Just forget about the bad thing and move on with your day.' That's what she tells me. You should try that."
Thanks. Thanks a lot. But I am covered in vacuum dust and someone else's pee.
Screw it. I'm just drinking my coffee now.
P.S.--Max is still wearing the other mitten because, he told me, he needs to keep it safe from crazy mom.
Or, more frequently, "Why is Mom yelling NOW?!"
Some people aren't born yellers. They're patient and calm and speak in a nice low voice all the time, even if someone sets their hair on fire. Max's preschool teacher is like that. He loves her. Hell, I love her. She's fantastic.
But me? I was born loud. I'm not ashamed. I come from loud people. It should be listed as part of our ethnicity. Polish, Italian, Irish, LOUD.
Also in that list would be emotional. This used to bother me, but I'm kind of proud of it now. You never need to worry about whether I'm being honest with you. My face is ALWAYS honest with you, no matter what my mouth is saying.
So if shit goes down, this mom is yelling. That answers that. But let's now look at a typical morning in my house, and you tell me if you can figure out why Mom is yelling NOW.
For the fourth or fifth time in a row, my four-year-old son Max woke at 4 am unable to breathe from coughing up all the gook that had settled in his chest while sleeping. All children do this at some point or another. With my older two, it was annoying, an inconvenience, but also pleasant in the way that I could pick them up and lean against the wall or sit in the rocking chair and at least half sleep while comforting them.
Max wants a shower.
Max, as a human, is relentless. So, at 4 am, I get up, take off his jammies, and put him in the shower. And then we both get steamy, our noses run, and we are wide awake.
And usually by now, so is the dog and so is my middle son Noah.
Okay, I think, I can do this. As long as I have coffee.
Making coffee is a nice easy procedure. Except the few simple steps are interrupted by I want breakfast. I have boogers. Bizzy's in the basement! No, not THAT breakfast. Hey! He took the last muffin! I wanted THAT muffin! I have boogers. Ew! He has boogers! I'm gonna puke! Uuuggghhh. Mom, I missed the toilet. Ew! He missed the toilet? Now I'm gonna puke! Did he take my muffin?
But that's not even when it gets exciting. Wait until the oldest wakes up and "can't find" whatever he needs for school. It's usually laying on the floor. Right in front of him. Because, did you know?, that's where stuff will be found when you never put it away.
By the time I got to take my first sip of coffee today, my brain was scrambled eggs. So when Max came up, two snot rivers flowing cheerfully from his nose, and said, "I'm bored," I put my coffee down, and said in my usual loud voice, "I AM HAVING A BAD DAY."
To which he responded, "Geez! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"
*Narrow-eyed, dead-pan facial expression.* Right here.
But he is sick. He is my little sickie. His eyes are about two inches in diameter and the prettiest green you ever saw, and somehow when he is sad his eyelashes get longer and poke the top of his head, so I said, "Here. Let's do something fun."
And I got the great big bowl reserved for Halloween candy and I filled it with fresh snow from outside. We got our Play-Doh toys and a ladle and Max's mittens and BOOM! A snow day indoors.
I am awesome.
All joy and smiles until I walked away for ten seconds and he decided to add sundae sprinkles to his snow bowl.
And they spilled.
Everywhere.
Man those suckers get some distance when they hit the floor.
So I'm vacuuming. It's cool. I love to vacuum. I break out the vacuum hose; I'm loving the sound of the sprinkles getting all sucked up.
"Mom! I'm gonna go get some superheroes to play with in the snow!"
My clever, creative boy. I'm so proud of us both, I'm dancing with the vacuum hose.
That's when I sucked up his mitten. You know...I try to be myself for one second...and guess what else? I still haven't had any coffee.
Thirty minutes later, my brand new vacuum is dismantled. The floor is a giant puddle where the snow melted. The dog is throwing up (because why not?). My arms are covered in vacuum dust. Max is bored.
"I'm going to wash my hands, and then we'll clean up," I tell him.
I enter the bathroom. I step in a lake of urine.
"I am having a BAD DAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!!!"
"Geez, Mom. Mrs. Hanley always tells me, 'Just forget about the bad thing and move on with your day.' That's what she tells me. You should try that."
Thanks. Thanks a lot. But I am covered in vacuum dust and someone else's pee.
Screw it. I'm just drinking my coffee now.
P.S.--Max is still wearing the other mitten because, he told me, he needs to keep it safe from crazy mom.
Saturday, February 3, 2018
Exceptional
My son Noah is nine years old now, almost ten.
He is fire and madness and drives me crazy. Everyone says he is just like me. I think he's like my brother, who was always far more trouble than I was.
Noah plays the piano. He loves crafts (to my chagrin) and magic tricks. He has a beautiful smile.
At Christmastime, I like to give each of my boys one special thing from me to them. Something they never thought of, but lets them know I notice they are special. I always hope that if it isn't obvious at first, they will take time to think of why that gift was chosen for them. Sometimes it works and is magical. But they are kids. They are boys. (Insert eye-roll here.)
This year I bought Noah the book Wonder. Many of my seventh graders did presentations on it last year (I suspect they had read it in an earlier grade but whatever) and then my nephew told my sister that reading it changed his life.
If that's not a recommendation, I don't know what is.
If you don't know, Wonder is the story of a boy who, due to a genetic abnormality, has facial deformities and is starting school for the first time in fifth grade. That's just a byline, of course. It's a story about people. A family. A little boy. A teenaged girl. Humans.
Noah loved it so much he put it straight in my hands and begged me to read it.
"Then we can go and see the movie, Mom," he said. "Just us."
Today was that day.
I don't usually want to see a movie right after I finish the book. It's too easy to pick out the changes and cuts, which frustrates and annoys me. I didn't expect to enjoy anything except Noah's company.
About thirty minutes in, I was crying. Hard.
Forty-five minutes in, my cheeks were pruny from the tears. This was when Noah laid his head on my shoulder. When I looked over, his eyes were shining.
At the point when my sobs became audible, a tiny little arm (because my boy is small and scrawny) reached up and wrapped awkwardly around my neck. It pulled me close to a fuzzy blond head.
My heart exploded.
Watching Wonder with my wonderful boy.
When it comes to school, Noah lives for lunch and recess and dress-down days when he can wear the t-shirt that reads in bold lettering, "Dear Teacher, It doesn't matter where you move my seat. I talk to everyone." His mouth is rarely closed and he speaks at one volume: too loud. He fights fierce and mean and is serious about getting his way. He is, in short, a pain in the ass.
But he shines, too. He lights up the dark. After all, he is made of fire.
On the ride home, I was all emotional. I looked in the rearview mirror at him and said, "Noah, I love you. You are exceptional."
"You cried almost the whole movie, Mom. I gotta say, I was pretty embarrassed."
He is fire and madness and drives me crazy. Everyone says he is just like me. I think he's like my brother, who was always far more trouble than I was.
Noah plays the piano. He loves crafts (to my chagrin) and magic tricks. He has a beautiful smile.
At Christmastime, I like to give each of my boys one special thing from me to them. Something they never thought of, but lets them know I notice they are special. I always hope that if it isn't obvious at first, they will take time to think of why that gift was chosen for them. Sometimes it works and is magical. But they are kids. They are boys. (Insert eye-roll here.)
This year I bought Noah the book Wonder. Many of my seventh graders did presentations on it last year (I suspect they had read it in an earlier grade but whatever) and then my nephew told my sister that reading it changed his life.
If that's not a recommendation, I don't know what is.
If you don't know, Wonder is the story of a boy who, due to a genetic abnormality, has facial deformities and is starting school for the first time in fifth grade. That's just a byline, of course. It's a story about people. A family. A little boy. A teenaged girl. Humans.
Noah loved it so much he put it straight in my hands and begged me to read it.
"Then we can go and see the movie, Mom," he said. "Just us."
Today was that day.
I don't usually want to see a movie right after I finish the book. It's too easy to pick out the changes and cuts, which frustrates and annoys me. I didn't expect to enjoy anything except Noah's company.
About thirty minutes in, I was crying. Hard.
Forty-five minutes in, my cheeks were pruny from the tears. This was when Noah laid his head on my shoulder. When I looked over, his eyes were shining.
At the point when my sobs became audible, a tiny little arm (because my boy is small and scrawny) reached up and wrapped awkwardly around my neck. It pulled me close to a fuzzy blond head.
My heart exploded.
Watching Wonder with my wonderful boy.
When it comes to school, Noah lives for lunch and recess and dress-down days when he can wear the t-shirt that reads in bold lettering, "Dear Teacher, It doesn't matter where you move my seat. I talk to everyone." His mouth is rarely closed and he speaks at one volume: too loud. He fights fierce and mean and is serious about getting his way. He is, in short, a pain in the ass.
But he shines, too. He lights up the dark. After all, he is made of fire.
On the ride home, I was all emotional. I looked in the rearview mirror at him and said, "Noah, I love you. You are exceptional."
"You cried almost the whole movie, Mom. I gotta say, I was pretty embarrassed."
Friday, February 2, 2018
Groundhog Day: Break the Cycle
Happy Groundhog Day!
February 2. The day made legendary by a Bill Murray movie, referenced often to indicate the repetitiveness of things that frustrate us in our lives. Cycles that we can't control or change.
A year ago, my sons (budding young thespians) became obsessed with the musical Newsies, and "Seize the Day" played over and over at full volume in my new and curtain-less (ie, echoey) house. Max, at three years old, mastered the dance moves on pieces of paper to mimic his favorite characters from the show.
Seize the day.
A phrase that began to nag at me.
At school, I jump off furniture, shouting at seventh graders to find their strengths and passions and follow them. Why would we be given talents and passion, I urged, if we are not meant to use them for some way to better the world?
And yet, I wasn't doing that myself. I was letting myself stay in a cycle that made me unhappy. Groundhog Day didn't work out for Bill Murray until he broke the cycle.
So that's exactly what I did.
One night last year during a particularly high-anxiety time for me, I lay awake. It was between two and four am, something that had become another regular (and unpleasant) pattern. My eyes were wide as my mind played the causes for my anxiety over and over again (typical of anxiety). And then, something happened.
I felt the pressure of strong, familiar arms pressing me into a huge hug. Just as when I was a little girl, a teenager, a bride, a new mom...I was instantly comforted.
Grandma.
"You can't be a writer unless you actually write, Lovey."
"I don't know how you do it with these crazy boys! You're a saint!"
I have to laugh at that one. We were in Florida and my boys, aged 3 and 6 at the time, kept knocking over our heavy suitcases while we waited for our ride to the airport. They'd run by in a whirlwind and the suitcases would crash down. Boom! And Grandma would dutifully stand them back up, growing more irritated each time.
"It's OK, Grandma, I got it," I kept saying. By the fifteenth or twentieth time, she threw her hands up. "You're going straight to heaven!" she'd proclaimed.
She was right about so many things. I don't know whether being a boy mom earns me a place in heaven, but I do know that she taught me that being there for my kids when they need me most is a priority at all costs.
And that your life won't be what you want unless you make it that way.
Just like I taught my seventh graders.
Just like I'm doing now.
I don't have it all figured out, but last October, for my thirty-eighth birthday, I invited my closest friends and family members to my house for a party. I made them participate in lip sync battles and dress up and dance around in my house. I stood on a ladder--in my wedding gown--and made a toast. To them. For being integral pieces of my life, of who I am, and of who I want to be.
Every day my grandparents were together, they woke early in the morning. They ate healthy breakfasts and read the newspaper. They did the crossword together. And then they'd plan out their day. For them, every day was an opportunity. Grandma would say, "What are we gonna do today, San?" and he'd start listing. And worked into everything would be a workout at the gym, a good long run down Route 5 or at the Botanical Gardens. A visit with family. Connecting with friends. Dinner with great wine.
They made every day an occasion, and because of of everything they taught me, I am, too.
February 2. The day made legendary by a Bill Murray movie, referenced often to indicate the repetitiveness of things that frustrate us in our lives. Cycles that we can't control or change.
A year ago, my sons (budding young thespians) became obsessed with the musical Newsies, and "Seize the Day" played over and over at full volume in my new and curtain-less (ie, echoey) house. Max, at three years old, mastered the dance moves on pieces of paper to mimic his favorite characters from the show.
Seize the day.
A phrase that began to nag at me.
At school, I jump off furniture, shouting at seventh graders to find their strengths and passions and follow them. Why would we be given talents and passion, I urged, if we are not meant to use them for some way to better the world?
And yet, I wasn't doing that myself. I was letting myself stay in a cycle that made me unhappy. Groundhog Day didn't work out for Bill Murray until he broke the cycle.
So that's exactly what I did.
One night last year during a particularly high-anxiety time for me, I lay awake. It was between two and four am, something that had become another regular (and unpleasant) pattern. My eyes were wide as my mind played the causes for my anxiety over and over again (typical of anxiety). And then, something happened.
I felt the pressure of strong, familiar arms pressing me into a huge hug. Just as when I was a little girl, a teenager, a bride, a new mom...I was instantly comforted.
Grandma.
"You can't be a writer unless you actually write, Lovey."
"I don't know how you do it with these crazy boys! You're a saint!"
I have to laugh at that one. We were in Florida and my boys, aged 3 and 6 at the time, kept knocking over our heavy suitcases while we waited for our ride to the airport. They'd run by in a whirlwind and the suitcases would crash down. Boom! And Grandma would dutifully stand them back up, growing more irritated each time.
"It's OK, Grandma, I got it," I kept saying. By the fifteenth or twentieth time, she threw her hands up. "You're going straight to heaven!" she'd proclaimed.
She was right about so many things. I don't know whether being a boy mom earns me a place in heaven, but I do know that she taught me that being there for my kids when they need me most is a priority at all costs.
And that your life won't be what you want unless you make it that way.
Just like I taught my seventh graders.
Just like I'm doing now.
I don't have it all figured out, but last October, for my thirty-eighth birthday, I invited my closest friends and family members to my house for a party. I made them participate in lip sync battles and dress up and dance around in my house. I stood on a ladder--in my wedding gown--and made a toast. To them. For being integral pieces of my life, of who I am, and of who I want to be.
The theme of the party was "Your life is an occasion. Rise to it." (Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium)
Every day my grandparents were together, they woke early in the morning. They ate healthy breakfasts and read the newspaper. They did the crossword together. And then they'd plan out their day. For them, every day was an opportunity. Grandma would say, "What are we gonna do today, San?" and he'd start listing. And worked into everything would be a workout at the gym, a good long run down Route 5 or at the Botanical Gardens. A visit with family. Connecting with friends. Dinner with great wine.
They made every day an occasion, and because of of everything they taught me, I am, too.
Now is the time to seize the day.
I took a leave of absence from work. My family needed me.
And not just my kids. I planned a trip to Italy for our whole family.
and you made sure we knew you were with us...
but we already knew...
I fight fiercely for family. I won't let them out of my life. To the point where I give them exactly what they need for birthdays and special occasions. A picture of me.
Family first, right Grandma?
Hey Grandma? You were right. I finished my book. Because of you.
And, well, because of me.
Thanks for the hug. I miss you, but I know you're with me every day.
And to everyone who has read this far, never forget:
YOU write your story. If it's starting to feel like Groundhog Day, break the cycle. Change the story. Write something you're proud of.
Seize the day.
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