Fifteen crickets , five pairs of little eyes. Turning to me, blinking big behind magnifying glasses and then bending to gaze into the temporary world, watching crickets scittering around in the grass, nibbling sunny carrot shavings.
In Brazil, I tell them, a green cricket is cause for hope. In China a cricket, given respect and a home in his own little cage, will bring you luck. Generations of children know Jiminy’s wisdom never fails.
Five pairs of eyes, fifteen crickets. Delighting us with their freedom, hopping joyfully into the tiny garden outside my bedroom door, becoming hope, luck, wisdom. Long late hours after the children have gone home, they compose the music of my dreams.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Swing
Kiss me down by the broken tree house
Swing me upon it's hanging tire
Bring, bring, bring your flowered hat
We'll take the trail marked on your father's map
Oh, kiss me beneath the milky twilight
Lead me out on the moonlit floor
Lift your open hand
Strike up the band and make the fireflies dance
Silver moon's sparkling
So kiss me
From the song Kiss Me, by Sixpence None-the-Richer
That summer we were midway down a playground slide, slipping toward the bottom, where homelessness was waiting in the sand. I was exhausted and euphoric after the most difficult of my pregnancies. I wanted only to rest, and to endlessly hold our new baby boy.
Like most young couples, when we first got married we spent a few delighted months playing house, and then a few years learning that we were engaged in the most challenging of all games. Weeds grow and neighbors don’t like it, hot water heaters run cold when you most need them hot; children arrive and take up your abundant space. Life is not always a playground. And now our home of twelve years was in danger of foreclosure.
Ironically, it seemed we had finally gained our balance as homeowners. Weeds were conquered, the bathroom was sponge-painted in pale ocean colors and had seashell shower curtain rings, the garage was converted to an office with crown molding and a deep magenta ceiling. But our balance in other areas was tipped and as the sliding began, we held tight by turning the backyard, inside its safe cedar fence, into our haven.
That summer. Kiss Me played on the radio; Holly flounced around in a bubble of pre-teen chatter, usually wearing a swimming suit and blond tumbling curls; Three-year -old Devin wore an over-sized helmet and zipped around the backyard in his battery-powered jeep. Tom was building a pond with a waterfall and a tiny gurgling stream. I planted lush grass beside it and urged purple alyssum and silver-green lamb’s ear to spread between the stones along its edge. In the cool hours, so sweet after a hot summer day, a cheerful fire in our new fire pit forced panic to remain outside the circle of it’s light.
That summer I had a tired smile. Maybe that’s why Tom built the swing. Warming a 2:00 am bottle, I would see him working, moving in and out of the glowing patch made by a light on a long yellow extension cord snaking through the night-damp grass. Night after night until one night it was finished and he invited me outside and pushed me high in the moonlight.
Tall and strong, stretching to the stars like a real one in a schoolyard, with shiny fittings and a chunky chain carefully covered with hose so it wouldn’t hurt my hands. He’d painted it royal blue. It was easily the best gift I’d ever been given.
That summer. Soaring high, peeking into the backyards around me. Leaning back to see our yard a swirl of green and brown hurtling toward me, my hair skimming the grass. Laughing freely into the breeze. In the midst of fatigue and confusion, fear-held-at-bay and desperate hope, I’d been given uncomplicated joy.
Summer ended. I had to place the baby in the arms of our sitter, loved and trusted, but mostly envied because she held him when I couldn’t. Before another summer had come and gone, we lost the house, found our possessions and our family in a pile locked forever outside that cedar fence.
The swing was disassembled, and it waited. We struggled, and we loved and we hoped and we prayed. And we set the swing up in a new yard, with a tire swing hanging from it for the baby, now turned four, but it never really fit like it did that summer. So just a few days ago we gifted the swing to some friends of ours, grandparents to three little boys who will swing high in the shade of a large country yard.
It remains among the best gifts I’ve ever been given. It was made under the moonlight with nervous, uncertain energy, and given with love. It was grasped like a lifeline. It taught me a lesson. Life is not always a playground, but sometimes, even in the midst of chaos and pain, it is. And when it is, you should play.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PewVqV5QV0E
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
God and Teenagers
Years ago, in an attempt to prepare for parenting my stepdaughter, I learned in a parenting class that teenagers are self-focused and completely in the moment. Tonight I wish I was one.
My son came home yesterday and asked me to find out what was wrong with his friend Kyle—said he was in the hospital. I left a couple of cyber messages for other moms and a return message this morning asked me to call, it wasn’t something to write about. My hands shook while I dialed.
Kyle is the only child of a wonderful couple. He is the sunniest young man I’ve ever met, and one of the first friends Devin made when we moved back to my hometown eight years ago. Though as teens they’re very different people and don’t always hang out together, childhood friendships that grow up in a small town are forever. That’s how it is. Today Kyle has cancer.
From the moms I have the facts. Not embellished or stretched like everyday gossip, but given straight and with a sober and solid determination to stay positive. From the school counselor Devin has the same facts. Kyle has Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, which is a cancer with a high cure rate. Tests have come back showing the cancer is isolated in one spot, around his heart and one lung. Surgery to install a port. Chemo soon. Very treatable.
My younger son, Treyson, everyone’s Little Brother, says to Devin and I over PB & J’s before bed, “Are you scared about Kyle?”
Devin says, “Kyle will be fine.”
“Are you sure.”
“Yes,” spoken without hesitation or doubt, “Kyle’s strong.” Devin is self-focused and Kyle is his friend and his friend will be fine. Devin is in the moment and the moment is two days before summer vacation, spring football practice tomorrow and Prince of Persia at the movies on Friday night.
My first feeling was disappointment in what seemed a lack of depth in his reaction. Until he told me, “I sent a text to Kyle. His mom sent a text back and I told her I was praying.” What a blessing being a teenager is, if being self-focused means you know who you are, and living in the moment means giving things that are beyond you up to God with such confidence.
I’m not doing quite so well tonight. I suspect the other moms aren’t either. We flip hamburgers in the PTO concession stand with this couple, cheer next to them at football games, share photos with them on facebook. Our connection is these children we are raising together; Halloween costumes, field trips, birthday parties, first day of Kindergarten, last day of Jr. High. We never imagined surgery and chemotherapy on the list, but since it’s there, well…we have to do it together.
Only this is their child, and no matter how I ache for them, I can’t really help. I feel gratitude that my son is healthy. I feel panic, because maybe he won’t always be. It’s beyond me. And what I need to do is learn from my teenager and give it up to God.
My son came home yesterday and asked me to find out what was wrong with his friend Kyle—said he was in the hospital. I left a couple of cyber messages for other moms and a return message this morning asked me to call, it wasn’t something to write about. My hands shook while I dialed.
Kyle is the only child of a wonderful couple. He is the sunniest young man I’ve ever met, and one of the first friends Devin made when we moved back to my hometown eight years ago. Though as teens they’re very different people and don’t always hang out together, childhood friendships that grow up in a small town are forever. That’s how it is. Today Kyle has cancer.
From the moms I have the facts. Not embellished or stretched like everyday gossip, but given straight and with a sober and solid determination to stay positive. From the school counselor Devin has the same facts. Kyle has Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, which is a cancer with a high cure rate. Tests have come back showing the cancer is isolated in one spot, around his heart and one lung. Surgery to install a port. Chemo soon. Very treatable.
My younger son, Treyson, everyone’s Little Brother, says to Devin and I over PB & J’s before bed, “Are you scared about Kyle?”
Devin says, “Kyle will be fine.”
“Are you sure.”
“Yes,” spoken without hesitation or doubt, “Kyle’s strong.” Devin is self-focused and Kyle is his friend and his friend will be fine. Devin is in the moment and the moment is two days before summer vacation, spring football practice tomorrow and Prince of Persia at the movies on Friday night.
My first feeling was disappointment in what seemed a lack of depth in his reaction. Until he told me, “I sent a text to Kyle. His mom sent a text back and I told her I was praying.” What a blessing being a teenager is, if being self-focused means you know who you are, and living in the moment means giving things that are beyond you up to God with such confidence.
I’m not doing quite so well tonight. I suspect the other moms aren’t either. We flip hamburgers in the PTO concession stand with this couple, cheer next to them at football games, share photos with them on facebook. Our connection is these children we are raising together; Halloween costumes, field trips, birthday parties, first day of Kindergarten, last day of Jr. High. We never imagined surgery and chemotherapy on the list, but since it’s there, well…we have to do it together.
Only this is their child, and no matter how I ache for them, I can’t really help. I feel gratitude that my son is healthy. I feel panic, because maybe he won’t always be. It’s beyond me. And what I need to do is learn from my teenager and give it up to God.
Friday, May 21, 2010
She Calls Me Grandma
I am thinking of my grandma tonight. I knew when she died I would miss her, but I had this sweet children's storybook idea of her smiling down on me. And I know she is. She waited by the door of the care center the evening before she died. "I got a call," she told the nurse, "they're coming for me." From my birth until her death she was a part of every milestone in my life, and thus she left imprints all over to sustain me. And yet what I didn't understand was how I would miss her presense in each ordinary moment.
I wasn't at her funeral, haven't been to the cemetary since she passed last summer, and in my family tradition, that's just not how we do it. I've promised my mother I will go with her this weekend to plant a red rose, a companion to the yellow one I planted for my grandpa a few years ago. I find myself lacking emotional strength, and suprised that it's so hard. Because she's on my mind this evening and in my heart always, I'm posting something I wrote shortly before she died, which ended up being read at her funeral in my absense.
She calls me Grandma. She’s just a little thing, 15 months old, and it doesn’t quite sound like “grandma,” but it’s definitely her word for me. She says it over and over to me, like a question, and my heart smiles. I wonder what that word means to her now; I imagine what it will mean to her in the years to come.
I know what “grandma” means to me. My grandma. A tiny, plump Italian lady with a smile seldom absent for long. The one person I never doubted would make instant time for me. A person who required hugs and kisses, and who never told me goodnight without also saying “God bless I love you,” the words touching together like a secret phrase that would keep me forever from harm.
She was the perfect companion for a little girl, the one who colored endless pictures with me, taught me how to play Jacks and amazed me with her ability to do “baskets,” held my hand on summer afternoon strolls, bought me Zots at Bud’s and a Little Golden Book every time we went to town.
When I was older, and the stresses of teenage life got me down, I found I would still wander to her house to curl up in a chair in the tiny living room, where the radio played low and cheerful. She always had a drawer full of miniature snickers bars and a bowl of peanut clusters. She was always bustling about, a five a.m. riser who didn’t slow down until after the 10:00 p.m. news, but chances are she would come to sit still in the other chair, to keep me company. I don’t remember if I even talked to her at those times, but she’s a warm, safe presence in my memory nonetheless.
As a young adult, I was aware that I was more adult than she. I drove her to the store and took charge of the shopping list. I knew when I didn’t see eye to eye with the rest of the world, she would agree with me without question. I could count on her to give me her last dime, which I sometimes found I needed to take. Less selfish than anyone I’ve ever known, nothing made her happier than to make me happy. When I opened my daycare she scrubbed dishes, swept floors, and restacked the red, yellow and blue blocks on their shelf a thousand times. With childlike concentration she joined in our art projects, with warmth and comfort she welcomed each child into her arms and onto her lap. In the rare quiet times, we chatted together companionably about small things.
She sits now in a chair by the window at Canyon West Rest Center. I planned to see her twice a week and didn’t think for a minute that I would fail. But my days go by quickly, filled with the coming and going of children, overstuffed laundry hampers and overgrown flowerbeds, watching Devin burst across the goal line for a touch down, reading to Trey as he drifts to sleep, smiling with Holly as she experiences motherhood. The reasons I am here and Grandma is there are many, but her empty sunflower coffee cup makes me lonely.
As life flows from one stage into the next, Makiah calls me grandma and I begin to create one for her, out of the best pieces of me. My own beloved grandma taught me how. If my granddaughter looks back over 40 years of her life and finds sweet memories of time we spent together, I will have made a connection across generations, to pass forward the precious gift I was given.
I wasn't at her funeral, haven't been to the cemetary since she passed last summer, and in my family tradition, that's just not how we do it. I've promised my mother I will go with her this weekend to plant a red rose, a companion to the yellow one I planted for my grandpa a few years ago. I find myself lacking emotional strength, and suprised that it's so hard. Because she's on my mind this evening and in my heart always, I'm posting something I wrote shortly before she died, which ended up being read at her funeral in my absense.
She Calls Me Grandma
I know what “grandma” means to me. My grandma. A tiny, plump Italian lady with a smile seldom absent for long. The one person I never doubted would make instant time for me. A person who required hugs and kisses, and who never told me goodnight without also saying “God bless I love you,” the words touching together like a secret phrase that would keep me forever from harm.
She was the perfect companion for a little girl, the one who colored endless pictures with me, taught me how to play Jacks and amazed me with her ability to do “baskets,” held my hand on summer afternoon strolls, bought me Zots at Bud’s and a Little Golden Book every time we went to town.
When I was older, and the stresses of teenage life got me down, I found I would still wander to her house to curl up in a chair in the tiny living room, where the radio played low and cheerful. She always had a drawer full of miniature snickers bars and a bowl of peanut clusters. She was always bustling about, a five a.m. riser who didn’t slow down until after the 10:00 p.m. news, but chances are she would come to sit still in the other chair, to keep me company. I don’t remember if I even talked to her at those times, but she’s a warm, safe presence in my memory nonetheless.
As a young adult, I was aware that I was more adult than she. I drove her to the store and took charge of the shopping list. I knew when I didn’t see eye to eye with the rest of the world, she would agree with me without question. I could count on her to give me her last dime, which I sometimes found I needed to take. Less selfish than anyone I’ve ever known, nothing made her happier than to make me happy. When I opened my daycare she scrubbed dishes, swept floors, and restacked the red, yellow and blue blocks on their shelf a thousand times. With childlike concentration she joined in our art projects, with warmth and comfort she welcomed each child into her arms and onto her lap. In the rare quiet times, we chatted together companionably about small things.
She sits now in a chair by the window at Canyon West Rest Center. I planned to see her twice a week and didn’t think for a minute that I would fail. But my days go by quickly, filled with the coming and going of children, overstuffed laundry hampers and overgrown flowerbeds, watching Devin burst across the goal line for a touch down, reading to Trey as he drifts to sleep, smiling with Holly as she experiences motherhood. The reasons I am here and Grandma is there are many, but her empty sunflower coffee cup makes me lonely.
As life flows from one stage into the next, Makiah calls me grandma and I begin to create one for her, out of the best pieces of me. My own beloved grandma taught me how. If my granddaughter looks back over 40 years of her life and finds sweet memories of time we spent together, I will have made a connection across generations, to pass forward the precious gift I was given.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Washing Baseball Pants
Summer, 2007
My son Devin has baseball pants, white. A color as bright as the summer evening he first put them on. They are also green in the knees, and chocolate brown across both thighs, where after-game ice cream from the Frosty Palace tumbled off the cone and into his lap. I was scrubbing them this morning, and the feel of them in my sudsy hands brought images to mind so clearly that I had to stop and close my eyes. I tried to press the pictures into my memory, to be able to see them, unfaded, forever.
Just exactly this, I realized, is the gift my children give me. The gift of experiencing something to it's fullest, every little aspect of it, over and over for a short period of time, until it becomes a part of you. Over and over rushing between work and a baseball game, then later getting ready to tuck a tired boy into bed and suddenly realizing that sunflower seeds, their salty shells spit into the grass, and a tipsy ice cream cone were, in fact, dinner. Over and over "Mom, where are my cleats? I can't find my mitt!" Over and over holding my breath when he's up to bat, because I know he worries that he's not a good hitter.
I sent a prayer of praise up from the laundry room today for the sudden clarity that helped me understand, at least for a moment, the pure joy these things hold. It's mostly hard to feel that joy in the scramble of it all. But as I tried yet again to concoct a combination of cleaners that will remove grass stains, I could see in my mind sunburned and smiling faces, hear spirited young voices chanting "We are the Pirates, the mighty MIGHTY Pirates," as they stood against the dugout fence cheering on their teammate at bat. I felt the warmth that comes not only from the sun we complain so hotly about, but from the community of parents enthusiastically supporting my son. Like them, I know each player and who he belongs to, and I rejoice in the pop fly caught by the skin of the mitt, the perfect pitch that surprised the pitcher himself, and the runner who's afraid to slide but somehow did it anyway and is safe at home plate.
Marching across my memory is a row of lawn chairs and umbrellas in all the colors of summer. They fortress the base lines, while troops of parents and grandparents share provisions, passing out water bottles, neck coolers, and bug spray. We cheer loudly for our own and also, though not quite so loudly, for the successes of the enemy. This war is not about winning, but about teaching teamwork and sportsmanship. (To be honest, we adults sometimes have to remind ourselves of that. It's good for us to remember.)
The June page on the family calendar is full of baseball—two sons means four games and four practices a week. And two parents juggling two jobs means that Friday (no baseball on blessed Friday) is our favorite word! It seems endless, and then one day your time with it is done. You are left only to smile, a veteran encouraging a new recruit, as you watch those who come after you. I know this because in my mind's image, sent from heaven while I washed baseball pants, I noticed that somewhere along the course of five seasons, life turned my small son, blue ball cap nearly covering his eyes, into a focused young man with freckles who is concerned because he forgot his sunscreen. I find myself feeling blessed that my youngest son also has baseball pants, handed down from his big brother. From today on, I will be thankful for the fleeting opportunity to wash them!
My son Devin has baseball pants, white. A color as bright as the summer evening he first put them on. They are also green in the knees, and chocolate brown across both thighs, where after-game ice cream from the Frosty Palace tumbled off the cone and into his lap. I was scrubbing them this morning, and the feel of them in my sudsy hands brought images to mind so clearly that I had to stop and close my eyes. I tried to press the pictures into my memory, to be able to see them, unfaded, forever.
Just exactly this, I realized, is the gift my children give me. The gift of experiencing something to it's fullest, every little aspect of it, over and over for a short period of time, until it becomes a part of you. Over and over rushing between work and a baseball game, then later getting ready to tuck a tired boy into bed and suddenly realizing that sunflower seeds, their salty shells spit into the grass, and a tipsy ice cream cone were, in fact, dinner. Over and over "Mom, where are my cleats? I can't find my mitt!" Over and over holding my breath when he's up to bat, because I know he worries that he's not a good hitter.
I sent a prayer of praise up from the laundry room today for the sudden clarity that helped me understand, at least for a moment, the pure joy these things hold. It's mostly hard to feel that joy in the scramble of it all. But as I tried yet again to concoct a combination of cleaners that will remove grass stains, I could see in my mind sunburned and smiling faces, hear spirited young voices chanting "We are the Pirates, the mighty MIGHTY Pirates," as they stood against the dugout fence cheering on their teammate at bat. I felt the warmth that comes not only from the sun we complain so hotly about, but from the community of parents enthusiastically supporting my son. Like them, I know each player and who he belongs to, and I rejoice in the pop fly caught by the skin of the mitt, the perfect pitch that surprised the pitcher himself, and the runner who's afraid to slide but somehow did it anyway and is safe at home plate.
Marching across my memory is a row of lawn chairs and umbrellas in all the colors of summer. They fortress the base lines, while troops of parents and grandparents share provisions, passing out water bottles, neck coolers, and bug spray. We cheer loudly for our own and also, though not quite so loudly, for the successes of the enemy. This war is not about winning, but about teaching teamwork and sportsmanship. (To be honest, we adults sometimes have to remind ourselves of that. It's good for us to remember.)
The June page on the family calendar is full of baseball—two sons means four games and four practices a week. And two parents juggling two jobs means that Friday (no baseball on blessed Friday) is our favorite word! It seems endless, and then one day your time with it is done. You are left only to smile, a veteran encouraging a new recruit, as you watch those who come after you. I know this because in my mind's image, sent from heaven while I washed baseball pants, I noticed that somewhere along the course of five seasons, life turned my small son, blue ball cap nearly covering his eyes, into a focused young man with freckles who is concerned because he forgot his sunscreen. I find myself feeling blessed that my youngest son also has baseball pants, handed down from his big brother. From today on, I will be thankful for the fleeting opportunity to wash them!
Friday, May 14, 2010
Work, Grow, Live
May 14, 2010
Do you think you’ve dealt with messes in your life? We throw it out there all the time: “My son’s room is a mess,” “The yard is a muddy mess,” “Our finances are a mess,” “My life is a mess!” Well, living is a messy business, no doubt about it. And as a daycare provider, I happen to work in an environment where lots of living is going on. So you have messes? I just can’t feel sorry for you. Today, for instance, I cleaned up the following messes:
· An economy-sized container of goldfish flakes, gold and orange and deep purple, and spilled in such a way that they floated into a bunch of little containers of toys which all had to be emptied and washed.
· Green peas and macaroni and cheese, dropped on the floor by two twisty toddlers, and then smashed by tiny pink and brown sneakers and transported across the kitchen into the carpet.
· A bloody nose, not immediately reported, but instead allowed to drip on the table and be wiped across cheeks and onto a t-shirt while the bleeding individual continued to calmly finish her picture of a purple snowman (now accented in red).
· The entire shaved contents of an electric pencil sharpener, which I knocked off the counter and onto the newly swept floor. To be honest I will have to admit I did not clean this one up. There are still pencil shavings all over. I hope they will drift away.
· The bathroom, where I sent a little lady who is going through that rite of passage we call potty training. She had a mishap, and I told her to wait for me there while I went to fetch her clean clothes. I think it’s unfortunate that potty training must be accomplished during the “I do it myself!” phase because, of course, she didn’t wait for me. She did it herself. If I were one to use four letter words freely, I would use one, and it would give you a strong visual of what I found all over her and the bathroom.
Add to all of that the fact that my nose is sniffly, my hair is impossible (that always figures in with me, doesn’t it?), and I’m behind in…well, everything, and it equals a resounding confirmation, yes my life is a mess.
But what does that mean? The goldfish flakes toppled over as one of my littlest ones balanced on tippy-toes with her nose pressed against the fish tank, delighted by the world inside the fingerprint-covered, algae-speckled (i.e. messy) glass. “One, two, four fit-chies,” she counted, making sense of the numbers and colors and wonders around her in this messy world.
Pulling crusty macaroni out of the carpet is a small price to pay for the skills that were learned at the lunch table today. We aren’t born knowing how to spoon peas onto our own plate or how to pass the macaroni to our friend. It takes balance and coordination to clear the table and wash your cheesy face. Mooshed peas are one more step on the road to independence.
I rinsed blood from a t-shirt, sanitized the table, and admired a purple snowman, just like the artist knew I would. That she remained calm and focused until she was done is a testimony to how secure she is in the fact that I am here; that I will help her and love her. Whenever she’s ready for me to. Her confidence in me makes me proud, for giving her a foundation from which someday she may create a purple masterpiece that hangs in a museum. Or paint her house purple and just be happy.
The pencil shavings were knocked over because I grabbed the “Morning Meeting” bag from the counter, behind schedule as usual and in a rush to get to the “fuzzy carpet,” where some soon-to-be Kindergarteners where waiting (not too patiently) for me to play “Hicky Picky Bumblebee.” Silly little chant. Teaches them phonemic awareness, without which they will struggle to read. The pencil shavings can wait.
My life is a mess because living is messy. I wouldn’t have it any other way. What about the bathroom you ask? Undeniably describable only by the use of an obvious four letter word. I had to take a deep breath and count, let’s just say much higher than we count at “Morning Meeting.” Then I searched for some more appropriate four-letter words. The first one that came to mind was mess (more like MESS). I knew I could do better. I gazed down at the dark curls of the do-it-yourselfer, as she bent diligently to the task of pulling her socks over her freshly clean toes, and found the words I was searching for: work, grow, live.
Do you think you’ve dealt with messes in your life? We throw it out there all the time: “My son’s room is a mess,” “The yard is a muddy mess,” “Our finances are a mess,” “My life is a mess!” Well, living is a messy business, no doubt about it. And as a daycare provider, I happen to work in an environment where lots of living is going on. So you have messes? I just can’t feel sorry for you. Today, for instance, I cleaned up the following messes:
· An economy-sized container of goldfish flakes, gold and orange and deep purple, and spilled in such a way that they floated into a bunch of little containers of toys which all had to be emptied and washed.
· Green peas and macaroni and cheese, dropped on the floor by two twisty toddlers, and then smashed by tiny pink and brown sneakers and transported across the kitchen into the carpet.
· A bloody nose, not immediately reported, but instead allowed to drip on the table and be wiped across cheeks and onto a t-shirt while the bleeding individual continued to calmly finish her picture of a purple snowman (now accented in red).
· The entire shaved contents of an electric pencil sharpener, which I knocked off the counter and onto the newly swept floor. To be honest I will have to admit I did not clean this one up. There are still pencil shavings all over. I hope they will drift away.
· The bathroom, where I sent a little lady who is going through that rite of passage we call potty training. She had a mishap, and I told her to wait for me there while I went to fetch her clean clothes. I think it’s unfortunate that potty training must be accomplished during the “I do it myself!” phase because, of course, she didn’t wait for me. She did it herself. If I were one to use four letter words freely, I would use one, and it would give you a strong visual of what I found all over her and the bathroom.
Add to all of that the fact that my nose is sniffly, my hair is impossible (that always figures in with me, doesn’t it?), and I’m behind in…well, everything, and it equals a resounding confirmation, yes my life is a mess.
But what does that mean? The goldfish flakes toppled over as one of my littlest ones balanced on tippy-toes with her nose pressed against the fish tank, delighted by the world inside the fingerprint-covered, algae-speckled (i.e. messy) glass. “One, two, four fit-chies,” she counted, making sense of the numbers and colors and wonders around her in this messy world.
Pulling crusty macaroni out of the carpet is a small price to pay for the skills that were learned at the lunch table today. We aren’t born knowing how to spoon peas onto our own plate or how to pass the macaroni to our friend. It takes balance and coordination to clear the table and wash your cheesy face. Mooshed peas are one more step on the road to independence.
I rinsed blood from a t-shirt, sanitized the table, and admired a purple snowman, just like the artist knew I would. That she remained calm and focused until she was done is a testimony to how secure she is in the fact that I am here; that I will help her and love her. Whenever she’s ready for me to. Her confidence in me makes me proud, for giving her a foundation from which someday she may create a purple masterpiece that hangs in a museum. Or paint her house purple and just be happy.
The pencil shavings were knocked over because I grabbed the “Morning Meeting” bag from the counter, behind schedule as usual and in a rush to get to the “fuzzy carpet,” where some soon-to-be Kindergarteners where waiting (not too patiently) for me to play “Hicky Picky Bumblebee.” Silly little chant. Teaches them phonemic awareness, without which they will struggle to read. The pencil shavings can wait.
My life is a mess because living is messy. I wouldn’t have it any other way. What about the bathroom you ask? Undeniably describable only by the use of an obvious four letter word. I had to take a deep breath and count, let’s just say much higher than we count at “Morning Meeting.” Then I searched for some more appropriate four-letter words. The first one that came to mind was mess (more like MESS). I knew I could do better. I gazed down at the dark curls of the do-it-yourselfer, as she bent diligently to the task of pulling her socks over her freshly clean toes, and found the words I was searching for: work, grow, live.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
What's in a name?
Why Scenes From a Snow Globe? When I was just a girl I met a boy. To be more accurate, I saw a boy and he saw me. We spoke not a word and then we went home. Miles away, worlds apart. If I have reason to believe in destiny, he is one reason. In a random world, he wouldn’t have been in the same place at the same time a year later. If something beyond us wasn’t at work, we would never have known one another. I was more than shy and we only spoke for moments. But when I got home, I couldn’t forget. With a boldness I didn’t know I possessed, I was compelled to take what little information I had, a city, a last name, and slip a letter through the slot, wondering if it would make it's way to the only one who might remember and understand.
Turns out that world’s apart was the distance from the city to the country, from the Sex Pistols to Journey, from juvenile detention to straight A’s, from divorce to security, from bi-polar to cheerleader. Though it seemed distance was against us, instead it worked for us. Through our teen years countless words tumbled onto paper and traveled between us, so that I experienced his world while he experienced mine. What we gave each other was perspective. And then we grew up.
Years later, in the cyber age, I am a grown-up girl who found a grown-up boy on myspace. Just typed his name in the people-search box one day; I swear I didn’t even think about it first. Destiny. Seems we’re still worlds apart but now the distance is from several continents to my home town, from three Harleys to one old jeep, from two ex-wives and many female companions to a husband of 22 years and counting, from “misanthropist” to pacifist. Again, what we give each other is perspective.
He says sometimes he envies my “life in a snow globe.” Which is the gift of our friendship--seeing the value of my world in a whole new light.
Turns out that world’s apart was the distance from the city to the country, from the Sex Pistols to Journey, from juvenile detention to straight A’s, from divorce to security, from bi-polar to cheerleader. Though it seemed distance was against us, instead it worked for us. Through our teen years countless words tumbled onto paper and traveled between us, so that I experienced his world while he experienced mine. What we gave each other was perspective. And then we grew up.
Years later, in the cyber age, I am a grown-up girl who found a grown-up boy on myspace. Just typed his name in the people-search box one day; I swear I didn’t even think about it first. Destiny. Seems we’re still worlds apart but now the distance is from several continents to my home town, from three Harleys to one old jeep, from two ex-wives and many female companions to a husband of 22 years and counting, from “misanthropist” to pacifist. Again, what we give each other is perspective.
He says sometimes he envies my “life in a snow globe.” Which is the gift of our friendship--seeing the value of my world in a whole new light.
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