One Final Thought for March

It's been a quiet, lazy morning, spent sipping my vanilla latte and watching The Ted Bundy Tapes while leaned back in our new recliner with a sleeping cat curled up at my feet. I will admit there is a twinge of guilt because, of course, there is a whole list of things that need doing today. But those things can wait. I think I'm finally learning it's wise not selfish to take care of myself.

It seems appropriate that this last day of March, this last day of the writing challenge, has arrived with bright blue, beckoning skies full of hope and promise. It is a welcome change from the churning gray and doubt and fear that has colored much of the month. Although nothing has really changed, today I feel that I have. On the days when the sky was dark and threatening, I learned to put up my umbrella and soldier on. I learned to look for rainbows and believe in their promise. I learned that every storm passes eventually and that blue skies are always on the horizon. It may not feel like it at times, but just hold on and wait and they'll appear.

During this month, I have read blog posts about needing to stay positive and watering flowers not weeds. All right and true words, and yet, in the face of some challenges, wholly inadequate. Demons, like weeds, sometimes do appear and need to be dealt with, not simply ignored with a cheerful expression plastered on your face. And there are times that demand our tears, no apology necessary.  We just can't let those days defeat us.  

The sun streams through the windows and the chirping of birds flitting through the air can be heard just outside. I don't know what the day holds in store. There is a part of me that is afraid of what waits just ahead. But in this moment, all I know is clear blue skies and the promise of a beautiful day. 

And that is enough for now.

Shoes, Shoes, and More Shoes

1...2...3...4...5. Five pairs of shoes strewn across the entryway floor. Which is interesting, really, because only four people live in this house and not a single pair of shoes is mine. The reason none of them are mine is because I've learned a secret that the others clearly don't know. Quite some time ago, I discovered that after I took my shoes off, I could pick them up and carry them upstairs. And put them away in my closet. I know, crazy, right? Who knew it was possible to carry things up the stairs?

It drives me crazy, these shoes all over the floor. You walk into the house and it looks like you accidentally walked into a shoe store, albeit an extremely messy one. It's not like they're neatly stacked in a corner, mind you. They are. all. over. the. place. Last night I didn't turn on the light before heading up the stairs and stumbled on an oversized pair of hiking boots sitting right in front of the bottom stair. My own fault, really.  I should have assumed they were there. I mean, where else would they be? The closet?

The thing is, too, the boys of the house all know it drives me crazy. How many times have they heard me rant about keeping the entryway neat? I once bought a cute box for them to put their shoes in, figuring that if I couldn't get them to take their shoes to their room, at least they could be neatly contained in the corner. Do you think that worked? Of course not. The pile of shoes just grew until they overflowed onto the floor.

This morning before I vacuum, I will carry those five pairs of shoes up the stairs and deposit them in the room of their rightful owner. (Although, truth be told, the kids' feet have gotten so big, it's getting harder to tell them apart.) I will hope, once again, that my boys will get the hint: shoes are either on your feet or put away.

But I know how this story will end. You probably do, too. Later today, a curse word or two will be mumbled under my breath after I trip over yet another pair of abandoned shoes.

Third Grade Enthusiasm

"Class?"

"Yes?" twenty-three voices respond in unison.

"So, here's the plan. You have all been divided into the four tribes we will be studying. Everyone got either their first or second choice. I have two sources of information for each group. You will research your tribe, and then you will work as a team to create a Google slide presentation to share your research."

Honestly, I wasn't expecting the reaction I receive. Hands clap together. Smiling faces turn to look at each other in eager anticipation. Cheers erupt.

"Along the way, we will also do a few craft projects to explore the cultures of some of the California Indians," I continue.

More excitement erupts from the crowd of third graders.

"I like social studies now!" one boy enthuses, grinning from ear to ear.

After announcing the groups, giving them instructions on what to do, and getting them settled with their first source of information, I stand back and watch them get to work.

Personally, it hasn't been a great day. Just moments after announcing to my coworkers in the morning that I was hopeful that this would be the first "normal" day this week, I had received a message that quickly squelched that idea. More not-so-great news had followed, leaving me feeling deflated.

But now, as I look at these eager young faces, I can't help but smile and feel just the tiniest bit excited, too.

District Writing Assessment

The only sound in the room was the clacking of pencils hitting the paper as my students began to fill it with their minds' creations. I looked around the room; every head was bent down over their desk, each person in the room intently focused on the task at hand.

I had spent the first few minutes running from raised hand to raised hand. They were full of questions. Unfortunately, most questions were met with an apologetic "I'm sorry, I can't answer that." It wasn't because I didn't want to answer their questions. In fact, I had had to stop myself a couple of times; after all, answering questions was what I was there for. But the rules today were different. My students were taking their district writing assessment.

Watching them in this moment, hurriedly moving their pencils across their paper in an attempt to keep up with their minds, it struck me just how committed they were as writers. Fifteen minutes in and several had already gotten up to get another piece of paper. There hadn't been a single "I don't know what to write." It was clear that everyone, even my kiddos who struggle with conventions, knew what to write. There wasn't even the slightest hint of ADHD in the room. 

These kids had come a long way. At the beginning of the year when they were asked to write a narrative, it was clear that many didn't know exactly what that even was. Now, my only concern was that they would have too much to say and wouldn't be able to finish in time. (The directions say the writing is untimed, but they have only two days to write. Yeah, I don't really get it either. Sounds like a time limit to me.)

When they are done, I know their stories won't be perfect. You are, after all, dealing with the imaginations of eight and nine year olds. But, man, are they confident writers! It is clear they know they have stories to tell and that there will be someone excited to read them.

Another hand went up. I walked over, prepared to recite my "I can't answer that" line. I could see that J had filled two sheets of paper, cramming a final line into the bottom margin.

"I'm finished. You said there was a limit to what we could write, right?" he asked.

"Oh, no. We have to finish these tomorrow, but there's no limit to the number of pages you can have," I assured him.

"Oh, phew!" he replied, and turned back to his piece of writing.

Which reminds me. I need to get more paper.

For My Husband

"Whatcha doing, honey?" I called to my husband from the bathroom where I was getting ready for work.  I could see him sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

"Reading your blog," he answered.

"Aww. Thanks!"

"It better be about me and it better be flattering," he added.

"Tomorrow," I responded, and we both laughed.

It's now tomorrow, and I have to say, if anyone deserves a flattering blog post, it's my husband. Now, don't get me wrong, he has his faults. We all do. But I honestly don't know how I would survive without him.

Dan has been my rock the last few. . . well, I was going to say weeks, but since we've been married for almost 21 years, it's really been much longer than that. We certainly have had our ups and downs along the way. Broken communication lines have at times threatened to pull us apart, but never went so far as to sever the ties that bind us. We have had our share of challenges, I suppose: years of struggling with infertility, job stresses, sick children needing to be rushed to emergency, and the loss of loved ones. Recently, though, I have realized that overall we have been pretty blessed. The challenges have been few and far between.

Over the last couple of months, though, it seems like the challenges just keep coming. And while one could argue that they're my challenges, he has accepted them as our challenges.  

Dan has taken time out his day to make phone calls to make sure my mom had transportation to and from the hospital. He has made trips to the pharmacy and then delivered the meds to my mother, all after spending over 10 hours at work. He has spent his days off taking her to the doctor, stopped by after work to check in on her, and convinced her to come over for dinner when she resisted. 

He's done countless little things for me as well. Just last Sunday morning, I had shut myself in our bedroom to grade my students' narratives. Suddenly, Dan appeared with a plate filled with toast and an omelet. (I didn't even know he could make omelets. After 23 years together, you'd think there'd be no more surprises.) He brings me coffee and cooks the occasional dinner or picks it up when we're both too tired to cook. He gives me space to write my blog and encourages me to keep going. He picks up the kids and takes them to appointments. He pours me a drink at the end of a long day and listens to my rambling tales and my angry rants. He sits with me on the couch and binge watches Netflix when we just need to escape reality for a while. He makes me laugh and plans our future with me. We get each other in a way no one else ever could.

So, Dan, this one's for you. During all the recent rainy days, you have been my rainbow, promising me that we will weather this and every storm. . . together. I know it may not always seem like it, but I do notice and appreciate everything you do for me and for our family. And even though, as we are quickly learning, growing old kind of sucks, I am so glad that I get to grow old with you.

Too Many Questions, Not Enough Answers

I thought I had been doing a pretty good job of keeping it together, but last night I lost it.

I was finishing up a few things at work before packing up and heading home. My husband and teenager were on their way to pick up my son's car after being serviced, so it was my job to pick up our younger son. Dinner with a glass of wine was all that was on my mind.

Then, my phone rang.

Ordinarily, I would not have answered it since I didn't recognize the number. Lately, however, there have been countless calls regarding my mom so I have learned to pick up anyway.

"Hello?" I said hesitatingly, hoping fervently that I was not about to be greeted by a telemarketer.

"Hi. Is this Amanda?" an unfamiliar voice queried.

"It is."

"Hi. This is Catherine, your mom's home health nurse. How are you?"

Well, I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to be good all that much longer, but I did the polite thing and said I was fine.

"I wanted to update you about your mom. . ."

It went downhill from there.

Over the course of the conversation, my plan for a relaxing evening at home was replaced with one that involved a trip to the ER. Only it wasn't really an emergency. (Why would you go to the Emergency Room if it weren't an emergency??) I had a hard time wrapping my head around what she was saying. One minute we had to go, the next we could wait until tomorrow. What made me lose it however, was the fact that I was just learning that when my mom had started antibiotics for an infection a week ago, the doctor had told her to send my mom to the ER if the wound wasn't looking better in three to five days. Why was I just hearing this now? It seemed like this would have been good information to have had a week ago. Forewarning us certainly seemed preferable to urging us to go to the ER at five o'clock at night.

I'm afraid I wasn't very nice as all my frustrations and worries of the past few weeks (or has it been months?) came spewing out all hot and fiery like lava from a raging volcano.

I got off the phone once again not knowing what was the right thing to do. It was a feeling I was experiencing a lot lately. I still hadn't figured it out when my husband and I arrived at my mom's. She ended up making the decision for us. She seemed stronger and more self-assured than she had the last few days and stated plainly that she didn't want to go to the ER. I told her that I would get in contact with her doctor to find out what her orders really were and made my mom agree that she would do whatever the doctor advised. I left, hoping we had made the right decision..

At an age where I used to think I'd have it all figured out, I'm finding myself all too often with so many questions and too few answers.

A Taste of Home

I reached into the cabinet above the oven and pulled out my old wooden recipe box. Rifling through the tattered pieces of paper and index cards, I found just the one I was looking for and pulled it from the box. I walked over to the kitchen counter, set it down next to the ingredients that I had already gathered there, and began the necessary preparations without even a glance at the recipe card. I don't know exactly why I even got it out. I had made this casserole so many times I knew the recipe by heart. But I guess there was a measure in comfort in just having the recipe near. 

Comfort. That was what I was looking for. That was the reason I had decided to make the casserole my mother had made hundreds of times while I was growing up. I figured we could all use a bit of comfort food tonight.

As I chopped the yellow onion and green pepper, I thought about the article my sister-in-law had shared on Facebook the day before about the emotional benefits of cooking. Honestly, I had scoffed at the idea. Cooking was not one of my favorite things to do, although it may not be the cooking itself but the piles of dirty dishes afterward that stress me out. Aside from the casserole dish it would bake in, there would only be a knife, cutting board, and a couple of measuring cups that would need washing afterward. I began to feel the tension melt from my shoulders as I fell into a familiar rhythm measuring and layering the ingredients. My husband and younger son were working in the yard, and my older son was shut up in his room, hopefully, but not likely, doing his homework. It was just me and the task at hand. I began to think cooking might be therapeutic after all.

After laying a few slices of bacon on top, I covered it and slipped it into the hot oven. Now, all I needed to do was wait. It would be one and a half hours before my mom, husband, sons, and I would be able to sit down to dinner. It would be worth the wait, though. When it was done, it would emerge from the oven bubbling and sizzling and smelling like home.

Looking for the Rainbow

I allowed myself the luxury of sleeping in this morning, not rising until 7:30, which is late for me. We had stayed up until 10:00 p.m., which is, again, late for me, waiting for our son to return safely from the movies. I had been up twice in the night to check on him when I was awakened by his coughing. Fortunately, there was no vomit to clean up either time. Yesterday, I had not been so lucky.

It's now 11:15 a.m. I am still in my pajamas (or at least what I call pajamas) and I'm sitting on my as-yet-unmade bed. There is a pile of clean towels heaped on the end of the bed, waiting for me to get up and fold them. Or not. I don't think they really care one way or the other. Student writing is spread out next to them, having just been graded. Had I not promised my students to give them feedback on their writing prior to the district writing assessment this week, they would probably still be neatly clipped together in my bag. Through my closed bedroom door comes the sound of water filling the washing machine as a load tumbles around and around. There are more loads waiting their turn.

There is also a whole house needing to be dusted, vacuumed, scrubbed, and polished. Which explains, I suppose, why I am still sitting here, secluded in my room, putting off the inevitable. Pale sunlight streams through the half-open shutters. The skies are overcast, a bluish gray that I am sure some paint company has a fancy name for, but which is only known as "blah" to me. Even so, I wouldn't mind blowing off my enormous to-do list to be outside and running free.

I don't know if it's just by some random happenstance or not that the rainiest season of my life has coincided with the rainiest winter we've had in a long time. I thought we were past the gray days of rain, but more is predicted throughout the week ahead. So, no, it looks like we haven't earned our spring just yet. Just yesterday, in fact, a somewhat freak thunderstorm unexpectedly sneaked up on us. 

"I think I just saw lightning," my husband said as we got out of the car at my mother's. "Did you hear thunder?"

"I thought it was just the wind," I said, and struggled to sweep the hair from in front of my face so I could actually see where I was going.

The clouds, dark and ominous, were still there when we left twenty minutes later. When we got home, I happened to glance out the sliding glass door in our kitchen. Arched across the sky was a radiant rainbow.

"Jack! Jack! Come look at the rainbow!" I called to my son in the other room.

For a few moments, my husband, son, and I all stood in awed silence, witnessing one of nature's most beautiful spectacles.

As I stood there, I thought about the story of the rainbow being God's promise to never flood the world again. Maybe that's true, maybe it isn't. But as I looked at that rainbow, I did see it as a promise: a promise that even after the darkest and stormiest of weather, the sun will reappear and prove that there is still plenty of beauty left in the world. 

So, as I sit here this morning, I think not about the storms in my life but all the rainbows that I have been blessed to witness. Because, truth be told, the rainbows have outnumbered the storms by far. There have been hard times and there will be more hard times, times that threaten to yank my heart out of my chest and crush my very soul. But there will be days of sunshine and days of wonder and days of bursting happiness as well. There will be simple little moments of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet made all the more beautiful by the passing dark clouds. 

Uncertain

You look so small
sitting in your chair 
hunched over the dining table
slurping soup.

It's Friday night,
you should have 
been expecting us,
but clearly
you weren't.

Hi,  I say 
with false brightness.
Did you give up on us?
I lean over 
to give you a hug
then sit 
in the chair
next to you.

You mumble 
something
and I lean closer
to hear,
wishing I hadn't.
The story you tell
makes no sense,
at least
not to me.

We should go,
our son waits
at home,
but I 
can't leave you
at that table
alone.
So we
stay.

We sit,
drowning in silence,
watching you
slowly eat
the rest of your soup
and move on to
your salad.

When you speak
it's of movies
never made,
of people
who haven't visited,
of conversations
that haven't been 
spoken.
I play along
and smile
as my heart
grows heavier.

I pick
my brain,
searching for
conversations
we can have,
things I can say
that focus on
the here and now,
things that
are true 
and real.

You follow along
then tell me
Something's happened to Dad.
Thinking I've misheard
I ask you to repeat
Your father. Something must have
happened to him.

And I don't know
what to say.
How do I look into
your uncertain eyes
and say 
Dad is dead?
It's been almost
five years,
but saying it
would make it
seem like it was
happening all over 
again
for you
and for me.

Dad's fine,
I say,
hoping it's true,
that in some 
other dimension
Dad is fine,
watching over us,
patiently waiting for
you.

You look at me 
suspiciously.
Are you sure?
I sit silently
for I am
certain of nothing 
anymore.

Hold on Tight

"Good night," I called to the custodian as I walked to my car.

"Have a good night," he replied, carefully wheeling his cart of cleaning supplies and rolling garbage can toward the multi-purpose room.

It was 6:00 p.m. and the parking lot was fairly empty. I noticed a man standing outside an SUV in front of the open back door and could hear the sounds of crying, but I didn't think much of it. It's not uncommon, after all, to hear children crying, especially at the end of a long day. I stepped off the curb and began to cross the parking lot. Just then, a fire truck with lights flashing turned into the drive and headed straight toward me, followed by an ambulance. I picked up my pace and glanced over at the man as I passed by. He looked rather frantic and the girl sitting in the back seat was clearly distressed, tears streaming down her face while she bawled uncontrollably. I hesitated in my steps, unsure if I should offer help but realizing if a call to 911 had been made, the paramedics were better equipped to deal with whatever situation was unfolding than I. I continued to my car, but sat there for a minute, wondering what could have possibly happened. Was the little girl sick or injured? Or was there someone else in the car that I hadn't seen that was in need of help? I fervently hoped that, despite evidence to the contrary, everything was all right.

I drove away, not knowing the answers to my questions, but disturbed by what I had seen. It struck me, not for the first time, just how fragile life can be. One minute it's an ordinary day and you're going about your business expecting that the rest of your evening will play out as planned. Then the next minute, everything has been shot to hell and not only are things not going as planned, but you have no idea what is going to happen next.

With that thought, all I wanted was to be at home so I could gather my boys close and hold on tight.

Tired

"It's 5:17," I say quietly to my husband.

"I guess we should get up," he answers from his side of the bed.

"Unfortunately. I feel like I could sleep for another two hours," I say as I turn off the alarm and slip out of bed. I walk slowly across our dark bedroom, waiting for my muscles to loosen up. After putting on a sweatshirt and warm socks to protect me from the chill of downstairs, I head for the kitchen, stopping to pour cat food in the cats' bowls before starting a cup of coffee for myself.  My husband soon joins me.

"What day is it?" I ask as I pull the milk out of the refrigerator.

He looks at me blankly for a few seconds. Both of our sluggish brains are trying to figure out the answer to my question.

"Thursday," he says.

"The 21st," I say, sniffing at the gallon of milk.

"Oh, you're checking the milk. Do we have another one?" he asks.

"Yes, but waste not want not and all that," I respond, pouring a small amount of milk in my coffee.

"Does it smell okay?" he asks.

"Well, I just poured some in my coffee, so let's hope so."

I carry the steaming cup of coffee over to the kitchen table and sit down at my laptop and begin to type.

I am tired, and not entirely confident that the coffee or the hot shower I will be taking in the next thirty minutes will do anything to alter that. A yawn that threatens to split my face in half overcomes me.  

I am tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally tired.

I am tired of being overwhelmed.

I am tired of worrying.

I am tired of feeling like nothing I do is ever enough.

I am tired of there never being enough time to do the things I have to do.

I am tired of feeling guilty when I take a break from that never-ending to-do list to do something I want to do.

I am tired of faking smiles while holding back tears.

I am tired of the relentless, impossible expectations of others.

I am tired of feeling like time is running short and there is so much more that I want to do.

I am tired of feeling like there isn't enough of me to go around.

I am tired.

My toast pops up in the toaster and I get up from my chair to retrieve it.

"You want me to get it?" my husband asks. He has just sat down to eat the bagel he made for himself before slipping a slice of sourdough bread into the toaster for me.

"No, I can get it. I don't expect you to wait on me," I tell him. He already does so much for me. 

He is tired, too.

Seventeen Hours Later

I awoke with a start and glanced at the clock. 4:18 a.m. I had slept through the night.

I was reminded of when my boys were infants and I would miraculously get a full night's sleep. I would wake with a start then, too, and immediately lean over the bassinet beside my bed to make sure my baby was still breathing.  After the previous night's scare, I forced myself to control the impulse now to sneak into my son's room to check on him. I was fairly certain my motherly concern would not get a very warm reception.

As I lay in bed, my mind drifted back to the evening before. Our day that had begun with a decidedly rough start ended on a high note at the local high school listening to the district bands perform. We sat crammed into the old wooden bleachers of the muggy gym, our knees turned sideways to avoid jamming them into the backs of the people in front of us. Rows of teenagers sat in folding chairs on the gym floor, waiting their turn to play. I scanned the crowd of black pants and white shirts, searching for my son. I finally spotted the side of his head on the opposite side of the room, where he sat, head cocked to one side, focusing on the band that was playing. When it was his band's turn to perform, I marveled like I always do at his steady confidence as his fingers moved to form the right combinations to make the desired notes as he blew into his clarinet. It seemed impossible that just 17 hours earlier my son had been gasping for air and we had been looking at a trip to the emergency room. Here we were now, two proud parents, sitting calmly, albeit uncomfortably, and enjoying the music when a mere seventeen hours earlier we had been scared shitless.

But, that's how life goes, isn't it? Always moving, always changing. Sometimes it's a blessing and sometimes it's a curse.

Sometimes it's just hard to keep up.

2:00 AM

It has become the norm in the last couple of weeks to wake up to the sound of my teen-aged son coughing in the room next door. Ever since he was two and diagnosed with asthma, any time he was sick we could expect a fit of coughing somewhere around 2:00 a.m. This morning, though, was different.

I had been asleep for four hours when it began. My groggy brain recognized the coughing and was about to dismiss it, when the sounds changed. There was some thumping and a squeak of his bedroom door as he rushed out of his room. I expected him to head into the bathroom across the hall, but instead he turned left toward our room. 

"Help me," he managed to get out in between strangled gasps for air.

My husband had already bounded out of bed and headed for our bedroom door. When he opened it, we found our son sitting on the floor, trying to get air into his lungs.

It's all kind of a blur after that. I remember hitting him on the back, trying to force whatever was blocking his airways out. I was a bit panicked, not knowing exactly what to do. All I knew was my son was in distress and needed help.

"Oh my god, Dan. Do we need to call 911?" I asked, scared out of my wits but trying to remain calm.

"I don't know." Somehow my husband managed to lead my son into the bathroom, where he continued to vomit the rest of his carbo-loading dinner.
"Just sit here, put your head down, and breathe," he said. I suspected my husband, with his own history of asthma, had some firsthand experience with this type of situation. My son at this point still couldn't talk and was swallowing compulsively, but at least he could clearly breathe. "Do you want some water?" he asked. My son nodded his head, the only way he could answer.

"I'll go get it. You stay here with him," I said and headed downstairs. If I was going to remain calm, I needed to keep myself busy. After returning upstairs and handing him his water, I turned to the task of cleaning up the carpet in the hallway. That didn't stop me, though, from asking a few hundred times if my husband thought we should take our son to the hospital. This was my baby, my 16 year-old beautiful boy, and I needed some reassurances that he was truly okay.

A phone call to the advice nurse helped to allay my fears somewhat. She suggested sleeping propped up and eating some honey to soothe his irritated throat. After answering my questions about aspiration, we were ready to get off the phone and try to get a couple more hours of sleep. My son, though, had one more question.

"So, am I cleared to run this afternoon? I have a track meet."

Clearly, he was feeling better.

Planning for the Present

Sundays tend to be busy days for us, and yesterday was no exception. Having spent all day Saturday at a track meet almost two hours away, we hadn't been able to do any of the usual weekend laundry, grocery shopping, and housecleaning, leaving it all to get accomplished in one day.

But it was such a beautiful day, too beautiful to waste by spending it indoors. The warm air and golden sunshine beckoned. We needed to go to the grocery store anyway, so my husband and I jumped in the car, but rather than head straight to the store around the corner, we made a detour to drive through a neighborhood in our town that we love where the houses are older, custom-built and more spread-out than the stereotypical suburban neighborhood we live in. My husband has had his eye on one house in particular for years. Each weekend we joke that this is the weekend there will be a "for sale" sign out front. I'm not sure what will happen if there ever really is one.

As we drove past a park, I couldn't help but remember the times we had taken our boys there when they were little. I could almost hear their laughter and sweet baby voices as I pictured putting them on the swings and pushing them as high as they dared to go. I felt a pang of regret that I hadn't taken them to the park more often. Those days were long behind us, never to be seen again.

"What would you like to do with the boys while we still have a chance?" I asked my husband, proceeding to explain what I had been thinking about the park and missed opportunities.

As we wound our way through the streets of town, soaking in the beauty of the green rolling hills and pink- and white-blossomed trees, so full of the promise of spring, we shared our vision of how to best spend the time we have left as parents with children at home. We agreed that our jobs were sucking too much of our life force lately. It was time to recommit ourselves to home and family, to live our life according to our priorities. 

Together, we began to plan our present to ensure a future full of memories without a trace of regret.

The Plan

"Okay, so I've come up with a plan," I abruptly announce, walking into the kitchen.

My husband and older son are seated at the table, hunched over and devouring their . . . well, since it's Sunday, this is technically their first pizza of the week, but given past history, it is certain it won't be their last. They raise their eyes and give me a questioning look, no doubt wondering what on earth I am talking about.

"So," I continue, "I don't know why, but I was thinking UCLA was south of Disneyland, but it's not. It's actually about an hour north. I'm thinking, after we leave Disneyland, we can stop and check out UCLA, then drive up to Santa Barbara and check out UCSB. We'll spend the night in Solvang, and the next day, we can stop at Cal Poly and check it out. How does that sound?"

"Sounds good," my son answers to my surprise. 

Wait a minute. Is this the same kid who absolutely refused to look at colleges just a few months ago? The same kid I couldn't get to look at the emails and pamphlets he received from universities across the United States?

Of course, it is the same kid and it isn't. He continues to grow and change every day. What he wasn't ready for a few short months ago, he is today. I walk away excited that now, at least, he's interested in considering the possibilities. The light dims, just a little, however, when I realize what all this means.

He's one step closer to adulthood and one step farther away from me.

Road Trip

Saturday morning
Should be a time for sleeping in
But the alarm rings at 5:00 a.m.
Just the same

Rush rush rush
We’re running late
Some place we need to be
It’s time for a road trip

We pack in tight
Fasten seatbelts
And make one last check
Nothing’s been left behind

A blanket of silence
Settles around us
Disturbed only by the occasional odds and ends
Of conversation

White lines and red taillights
Stretch before us
As the sky slowly
Lightens to blue

I reach for my coffee, take a sip,
And the first deep breath of the day
Slowly the stresses of the week
Slip from my shoulders

So many responsibilities
Lie behind me
But nothing more important
Than what lies ahead

Today we’re taking a road trip
To watch my boy run

Pencil Puns

They came streaming through the door in a somewhat orderly line. Twenty-four third graders radiating excited energy. 

"Good morning!" I said brightly to each individual as they passed by me. 

Today was our annual fundraiser, a Fun Run, which accounted in part for the high level of excitement. In addition to that, because my class had earned over $20 per lap in pledges, they had been rewarded with a crazy hair day. Some of them took crazy to a whole new level.

As they entered the classroom, I made note of their craziness: A. with a braid that went from one side of her head to the other, wrapped with colorful pipe cleaners to make a rainbow; E. with branches of an artificial plant looped through her braid, transforming her into Mother Nature; J. with his hair colored silver, giving him the look of an android. I stopped when J.V. got close. His hair was all messed up, going in all different directions and a subtle shade of purple had been added.

"Nice hair, J.V. I gotta say, that look works on you," I said, and really it did.

Then there was G. She walked in with her hair in a bun and pencils sticking out in all directions. I was a little concerned about safety.

"They're not sharpened," she assured me. Still, I wasn't sure how safe it was to run around with pieces of wood stuck in her hair.

"Here, this is for you," she said, handing me one of her unsharpened pencils with a green rubber band wrapped around it, keeping a tiny scrap of paper in place.

"Thank you," I said.

We had a busy morning of getting our Fun Run t-shirts on, squeezing in a reading activity, and actually participating in the run, so it wasn't until much later that I had a chance to look more closely at the pencil G. had given me.

I unwrapped the green rubber band and discovered there were actually two tiny pieces of paper, torn corners from a sheet of binder paper. On one it said, "You erase my bad habits." I smiled.

It was the second one that really got me, though. "You are really sharp" it said. Now, I appreciate a play on words, but the truly funny part was the P.S. she had added. Down below she had written "P.S. Sharp also means smart," just in case I didn't get the joke, I presumed.

I laughed out loud as I tucked her precious offering into my desk and prepared to welcome these crazy, wonderful kids back to class.

An Unexpected Observation

It  had been a busy day, but then again, when is a day at work not busy? Yesterday, though, it seemed like I couldn't get on top of it all more than usual. We were starting a new round of interventions, and I spent my entire prep period preparing for that. (My own fault really. I decided to make flip charts and wasn't thinking how much time it would take to staple 26 flip charts together.) Then there was that moment of panic right before the kids got to class when I realized that I had planned to have my students look at nonfiction texts, but I hadn't gathered up the books yet. Writer's Workshop wasn't until after recess, but this was my day for recess duty, so that 15 minutes of prep time was gone. Frantically, I searched through my classroom library for informational texts with tables of contents. I finished just in the nick of time. The rest of my morning was spent teaching, freezing outside as I watched students complete unfinished work on the work bench at recess, and finishing up the endless stapling job I had created for myself.

All this is to say, by the time I got to social studies at the end of the day, I was not as prepared as I had planned to be. It wasn't a big deal really. I was going to be using a pictorial to teach my class about the Maidu Indians, a lesson I had done numerous times.  Normally, I would have lightly traced my drawings and text with pencil on the chart paper to go over in marker as I was teaching. I had run out of time to trace last year's, so I decided I would simply hang my new chart paper over the old chart on the white board. I would be able to see the through the paper well enough to trace it as I taught. Problem solved.

So, there we were, my students on the floor in front of me with their own papers to copy the pictorial as I filled them in on some interesting facts about the Maidu. We were in the middle of talking about food, when in walked my principal. It was clear she was there for a walk-through. No problem, I thought.

And then she sat down.

Suddenly, the walk-through had become an informal observation. My brilliant solution of hanging the new chart paper over the old one didn't seem so brilliant anymore. It seemed sloppy. I was also acutely aware that my cold-induced raspy voice sounded slightly annoying and my hair was no doubt a complete mess. Nothing I could do about that. 

I was just getting to a fact that I found most interesting. Problem was, even though I knew what I was about to tell them was true and I had heard it from multiple sources, I started to doubt myself. What if I had it all wrong? And here I was about to tell them this preposterous-sounding fact in front of my principal. My hands began to sweat a little. There was nothing to do but carry on. Hoping I appeared enthusiastic and engaging and not just weird, I continued on.

"In addition to birds and mammals, the Maidu had another source of protein."

"Fish!" a few called out.

"Yes," I said, adding "fish" to my chart. "What's really cool, is the Maidu had this plant called soap root." I wrote soap root on my chart.

"Did they use it for soap?" someone inquired. I think they thought they were being funny.

"Yes, they did. But they used it for something else, too. The Maidu would put soap root in the water where they were fishing. . ."

"And the fish would eat it and die!" Giggles erupted around the room.

Normally, my class doesn't call out so much. I was not sure why it was happening now. Probably because my principal was in the room, no doubt making note of my poor management skills.

"Just let me tell the story, would you?" I responded. Everyone laughed.

"The fish would become paralyzed by the soap root and they would float on the water, making it easy for the Maidu to catch. Pretty clever, don't you think?"

They all nodded and murmured their agreement that that was indeed cool. At this point my principal stood up. "Wow, you learn something new every day," she said.

I smiled and agreed, all the while thinking, I just hope it's really true.

Learning to Say Yes

"Do you want to play a game?" my son asked.

Honestly, I didn't. I had just gotten home from work and, as usual, I was exhausted. Two nights in a row of interrupted sleep certainly hadn't helped. I knew, however, that it was important to him. Certainly, I could spare a few minutes before starting dinner to play a game. Besides, how much energy did a game of Battleship or War take?

"Just give me a minute to comment on a few blogs, and then we can play," I told him.

I grabbed my laptop from my bedroom and headed downstairs where I plopped into my chair at the kitchen table. As I was reading blogs and enjoying the recounting of others' slices of their day, Jack walked in carrying two small rackets and a birdie, an impulse buy on our last shopping trip to Target. So, that was the game he had in mind. Inwardly, I groaned. That was going to take a bit more energy.

"I'll just be a few more minutes," I said as he walked past to get to the sliding glass door behind me. I could tell by his slow walk and slumped shoulders that he was upset that I wasn't immediately jumping up from the table and joining him.

I finished my commenting, then took a few extra minutes to check email and the news of the day. I didn't really want to get up out of my chair. It felt good to relax and do nothing after a day of constantly running around. I knew, though, just behind me, my son was hitting a birdie up in the air alone. And I knew that I really should be there with him. It had become too easy to say, "No, not now, I'm tired" or "I can't, I have a lot to do," leaving him on his own to fill up his time. We had recently greatly restricted his screen time, making it even more difficult for him to entertain himself. And truthfully, how many more opportunities would I get to play with him? In the blink of an eye, he would be a teenager, no longer craving time with his parents. In another blink, he would be out in the world on his own, and I would be left regretting that I didn't seize more of these opportunities to push everything else aside to simply spend time with him.

I closed my laptop, pushed back my chair, and opened the door.

"I just need to get my shoes," I hollered. Then, I ran upstairs to grab my shoes and ran back down to the kitchen. I sat only long enough to slip my shoes on before joining my son in the backyard.

I walked over to our patio table and picked up the racket that lay there waiting for me, and my son lobbed the birdie toward me. I was surprised when I made contact and the birdie sailed up into the air in his general direction. We continued to play as the golden rays of the slowly setting sun lit up our yard and our smiling faces. We probably missed more shots than we made, but we talked and laughed and enjoyed every minute of it. 

Surprisingly, I no longer felt tired. Every time I watched the birdie fly through the air, my spirit flew with it.

Monday Meeting Miseries

Mondays have never seemed like a good day for a staff meeting. Yesterday was no exception.

I went to bed later than usual the night before and found myself once again tossing and turning for hours in the middle of the night. Actually, it was early morning. You know how it is: you wake up, look at the clock and tell yourself, "If I fall asleep right now, I'll get another three hours of sleep." This invariably leads to a countdown as you try desperately to fall back to sleep but to no avail. "If I fall asleep now, I'll get two more hours of sleep. . .one more hour. . .15 minutes. . . ."

Somehow I managed to get through five hours of teaching. Mondays are early release days, so they go pretty quickly, not allowing me much opportunity to sit, let alone fall asleep at my desk. After school there was just enough time to run to the office for a quick bathroom break before heading to the PLC meeting. My grade level team had a lot to talk about and work out in preparation for our upcoming round of interventions, and we had only 50 minutes to get it done, so again there wasn't much opportunity to let the afternoon slump take hold.

That all changed at 3:10 when we moved to the library for the staff meeting. Standing at the front of the room was someone from the district office that I didn't recognize, but was later introduced as being part of the special education department. Once everyone was settled in their seats she began her presentation, complete with colorful slides that included charts and quotes and all sorts of information that perhaps on another day would have been somewhat interesting.

Yesterday, however, all I wanted to do was fall asleep. I felt my eyelids get heavier and heavier and fought off the temptation to close them, just for a minute. I tried to focus on what she was saying, honest I did. I sat forward, attempted to read what was written on the screen, but all I could think about was just how tired I was. I looked around the room, and judging by the looks on everyone's face, they were all thinking the same thing: Why today? We just made our clocks move ahead an hour yesterday, and we're all sitting here wondering why spring break is still four weeks away.

After about 15 minutes that felt like an eternity, her presentation came to an end. My team and I looked at each other with the same half-asleep expressions and shook our heads.

"I'm so tired," one said.

"I almost fell asleep three times!" exclaimed another.

Then we quickly downed the M&Ms our principal, assistant principal, and instructional coach had left for us, hoping the dose of sugar would be enough to get us through the rest of the meeting.

Hard Questions on a Monday Morning

I lay awake in the dark, early morning hours, wishing fervently I could go back to sleep. It's hard to stay focused and have the patience needed to work all day with 24 third graders and sit through two meetings on only four hours of sleep. As usual, I could not will myself to sleep despite my attempts at deep breathing and visualization. Instead, I found myself listening to the noisy thoughts swirling around in my head.

I had been thinking a lot, even before my interrupted sleep, about the poem I wrote yesterday, "Giving Up," and some of the ways people had responded to it. One reader had questioned how I defined success and suggested that simply showing up was a victory worth celebrating. I couldn't agree more.  This is as true in life as it is in this writing challenge. There are days when going through the motions takes everything we have, and the fact that we show up at all is a success in and of itself. Most days, though, we set the bar higher, strive for something more than simply being present. Ultimately, whether it is in life or in writing, I think we look for connections and feeling that our contributions mean something to those with whom our lives intersect.

While my poem may have been born from my frustration at having failed to make those kinds of connections, it took on a much deeper meaning for me, part of which I think I only realized after looking at it and analyzing it more closely after it was written. The more telling line to me was "It's true what you have feared." That nasty inner voice whispering to give up is more a product of underlying insecurities than it is of current realities. When we are feeling strong and confident, we brush such ideas aside if in fact we hear them at all. It is only when we are at our most vulnerable that the whispering begins, rising to a shout that we can no longer ignore. The persistence makes us believe that it must be true.

When I wrote it, my favorite part of my poem was the ending, where the "give up" turns into a question uttered by my own true voice and I assert that I refuse to give up. This is a truth about me; I don't give up. Even at my darkest moments, when the voice of doubt is at its loudest, I refuse to give up. I remember many years ago when I had just moved to the Sacramento area and started a new teaching job. It was a year-round school, so I had worked for two months, July and August, and had the month of September off. I was miserable. I was working with an entirely different clientele than the one I had worked with for the previous six years and felt relentlessly questioned and attacked. I spent the first week or two of my break repeatedly asking my husband if I could quit my job. I was in a vulnerable state anyway, having recently suffered a miscarriage, which definitely didn't help. Then for no apparent reason, my attitude changed. I got pissed off and decided no one was going to drive me from my job. I finished the year stronger and more confident (and seven months pregnant). My refusal to give up saw me through.

But today I find myself questioning if refusing to give up is always a good thing. We are fed a steady diet of "never give up" from the time we are children. How many times do we tell our students that? How many stories do we read to them with that message? Is it possible we are not teaching them an entirely accurate lesson?

If we're being honest, there are times when we need to give up. I'm not talking about the Slice of Life Challenge here. There's no need for me to give up. My persistence in this case is healthy and benefits me while causing no harm to others. That's not always the case in real life. So, how do we know when it's time to give up? It's a question I keep coming back to and an important one, I think. I pride myself on being a warrior, going bravely into battle when it's called for, often to protect and fight for loved ones. But what if my loved one does not wish for me to fight? Do I continue anyway? And just who, then, is it I'm fighting for? I suspect at that point it is no longer a valiant battle for someone else but a selfish one fought for my own purposes and to satisfy my own needs. Am I fighting for a cause or simply fighting because that is what I do? But how do you give up when you fear what the consequences of surrender might be?

I don't know if there are any easy answers to any of my questions. Or, perhaps there are, but I do not want to acknowledge them because if I did, I would be forced to admit it was time to give up, and I refuse to know the meaning of those words.

We admire the ones who never give up. We see them as strong and determined. Sometimes, though, it takes a hell of a lot more strength and determination to let go.

Giving Up

Give up

Numbers do not lie

Give up

Why do you even try?

Give up

Admit that you were wrong

Give up

You've fooled yourself for far too long

Give up

It's true what you have feared

Give up

Your words are nothing anyone wants to hear

Give up

You tried, but you have failed

Give up

Others have prevailed

Give up

It's time to admit defeat

Give up

You never will succeed

Give up?
You're right, it is absurd
Give up?
But I refuse to know the meaning of those words

One Step Closer

"Hey, Jared? Jared?" I call through the bathroom door in my weak, raspy voice. Whatever illness I contracted on Thursday settled into my throat last night and destroyed most of my voice. "You might want to consider taking DayQuil before you go. And take some water and snacks. Oh, and your Albuterol." He, too, has been sick, longer than I have been, and I'm worried that his coughing will affect his concentration.

He opens the door a crack and looks at me in that "Oh, Mom" kind of way that each child seems to master upon becoming a teenager, but he graciously says, "Okay," before he closes the door again.

He's up early for a Saturday, but with good reason.  Today my son takes the SAT.

Truthfully, I'm excited for him.  And nervous. And a little sad. Where did my little boy go? Pictures of him as a child keep flashing in my head. My happy little boy. In front of me, however, stands a handsome, almost-grown young man. (Almost. Trust me, we still have a ways to go.) It seems like this day came about so quickly, more quickly than I am comfortable with. 

As parents, this is one of those days we work toward. Our whole job is to prepare our children to leave us, to find their own paths, and set out into the world. I recognized years ago that my children were not mine, I was theirs. They are not here to satisfy our needs, we are here to satisfy theirs. It is our job to love and nurture, to educate and discipline, and to ultimately push them out of the nest and say, "Fly, be free." We hope, if we've done our jobs right, that their wings will be strong and will take them where they want to go. And we pray that wherever their journeys take them, they will always find their way back home. 

I am not ready, though, to contemplate an empty nest. I can't imagine this house without my son's daily presence. So, we will take this one step at a time and celebrate each milestone, pretending that it doesn't ultimately lead somewhere I'm not entirely sure I want to go.

"Do you have everything you need? Your admission ticket, your driver's license, your pencils?" I ask as Jared enters the kitchen where I secretly blog about our morning.

"Yes," he responds, holding his ticket and pencils up for me to see. "And my calculator."

"Okay. What about water and a snack? You're not going to be done until around 1:00, since you're doing the essay."

"I'll be fine," he says as he walks out of the kitchen and heads towards the door.

"Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad. Thank you for bringing me to this point. I love you." 

I laugh because it's my husband who says this not my son. I'm sure Jared is thinking it though.

"Bye," he calls out from the other room. Then I hear the front door close. He is on his way.