One Room School House

If parents of school-aged kids got graded, I’m pretty sure I’d be getting a D right now. 

So far, we’ve had Open House Night, Meet and Greet Night, Room Parent Tea and holiday party sign-ups, about 20 forms in various colors due, Market Day fundraiser, Fun Run fundraiser, Pizza Night fundraiser, a PTA meeting, and send-in-three-different-but-very-specific-types-of-apples-to-class-tomorrow day.  (To be fair on that last one, I’m pretty sure I’d have had 3-4 days notice to get the apples if I was an A+ parent and checked the backpack every day.  But it’s Kindergarten for crying out loud.)

I’m exhausted. 

I just filled out and turned in my last form today, after two reminder phone calls from the school nurse.  I didn’t get my PTA membership form and money turned in during the big incentive time, so my kid didn’t get a gumball in the picture on the wall and her class didn’t win the most memberships in the first week and didn’t get the pizza party.  I didn’t hit up 25 of my family members and friends for money for the Fun Run so my kid didn’t get ice cream that day. (We were encouraged to send the letters to everyone on our holiday card list.  You’re welcome.)  We ran into the school secretary at the park one day and she recognized Eden and asked my name, and then remarked, “Oh, you haven’t turned in the Field Trip Permission form yet.”  They are keeping special tabs on us D parents. 

It’s September.  I’m exhausted.  I seriously can’t imagine having several children in several different grades or schools to keep track of at the same time.  It’s ridiculous.  I think I’d homeschool just so I didn’t have to deal with the paperwork.  Our own little one room school house. 

Thankfully my kid didn’t seem to notice her lack of paper gumballs or pizza or ice cream.  And I understand the need for fundraisers, I really do.  It’s just that I wish there was an option to pay a certain amount of cash up front and then have those fundraising papers and forms and events magically disappear.  I promise, I’d have my cash in by May, at the absolute latest. 

At least we’re on time for drop off, usually.  And Isaac’s wearing shoes, usually.  And Eden’s clothes are clean, except for the days last week where she wanted to wear the same cleanish clothes several days in a row and I couldn’t really think of a good enough reason not to, so off she went. 

I’m exhausted.  It's hard work getting a D.  

Making Emends

I’m three days into this ten day challenge and am finding it to be too much.  In aiming for creating meaning and simplicity, making a list of nine changes to incorporate into my life all at once is proving to be too much.  Surprise. 

And there is so much I didn’t account for when making my goals…like, how am I supposed to go to bed at 10pm when Kasey and I recently got hooked on Downton Abbey?  And how am I supposed to keep my time online to 30 minutes per day when I have to do research for teaching and place orders for my art and look up recipes and check the weather so we know what kind of clothes to wear?  And most importantly, how can I possibly add “give up sugar” to any list, since just giving up sugar requires all of the willpower and emotional energy I have in a ten day span? 

So.  I’m making emends.  I’m not making amends, because there is no harm in making a goal and realizing it to be ridiculous.  I’m making emends; because this list-text needs serious revising. 

I picked two goals that have proven to be important and rewarding so far. 

~ Go for a run or walk every day.
~ Keep daily gratitude journal with family. 

I’m loving my walks and runs.  They’re turning into something more – river wading and wet pants, new running goals. 

I’m loving keeping a gratitude journal.  Writing down a couple things I’m thankful for first thing in the day brings my priorities into focus.  And I love hearing what my kids are thankful for…

Eden: “That God is mine and everybody else’s.” 

Isaac: “For the fish in our house.” 
Eden: “That you (Mama) are with me and Daddy is with me and Isaac is with me.  That I live with you guys.” 

That last one was especially meaningful to me, since Eden has been declaring as of late that she wants to live with her friends, or her cousin, or whoever’s house we’re leaving at that moment.  I’m glad she likes living with us sometimes too. 

Now that I’ve decluttered my list, I think I can continue this declutter your world challenge for the remaining 7 days.  

Day One Report: Surprisingly Hard and Surprisingly Easy

I’m halfway through Day One of the 10 Day Declutter challenge, and I’m taking notes. 

What’s surprisingly hard?  Being online for only 15 minutes, 2 times per day. 

Did you know 15 minutes goes by in the blink of an eye when you’re online?  I thought this might be true, and boy is it.  I actually took a minute to plan my time online so I’d be sure to check in on things I needed and wanted to.  I’ve used 8 of my 15 rest time minutes so far and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to do everything I want to do in the remaining 7. 

I’m noticing myself gravitating towards surfing online when I’m avoiding other things, such as the jolt of waking up and getting going in the morning, or my to-do list in the afternoon.  I’d rather sit down and zone out in the mornings, or sit down and click through pages rapidly in the afternoons to give myself the illusion of accomplishment.  But neither of these times are really good for long surfing sessions. 

What’s surprisingly easy?  Taking a walk. 

The hardest thing about going for a walk or run is the planning.  Once it’s planned in my day, it’s as good as done.  I’m thankful to have a beautiful bike and hike trail right near Eden’s school.  I pushed Isaac in the stroller for a long walk and then we waded in the river for awhile.  It was gorgeous and fun and I love how the planned outing led to unplanned adventure. 

He said, "I love you Mama" right after I snapped this pic.  

10 Day Declutter Your World Challenge

Welcome to my blog!  If you're interested in reading more about my quest for a simple life, check out this post on Tips for NOT Living Simply, this post on Creativity and Consumerism, this post on True Poverty, or this post on Creating White Space in your home. Or, click on the "simple living" tag.  Thanks for reading and I hope you'll stick around! 

I’m making an impulse decision at 11pm to join in with bemorewithless.com and the “Declutter Your World in 10 Days” challenge.  Here’s to refocusing and reenergizing at the start of a new (and my favorite!) season.  I’ll write at least one update at the end of the challenge to report back on how it went. 

Basically, the gist is to pick a few goals to work on for the next 10 days within the categories of “Shape Up,” “Pare Down,” and “Tune In.”  I’m feeling a pull to do these things right now, as our new school and work routines get underway and we settle in for the fall.  I hope this 10 day challenge will help me establish new routines with purpose and intentionality. 

Shape Up
~ No sugar.  Yikes!  I can do anything for 10 days, right!?!

~ Go for a run or walk every day. 
~ Start Fall Hiking Spree with the kids and do 2 hikes in the next 10 days. 
~ Go to bed at 10pm and read for a short while, then sleep. 

Pare Down
~ Sort kids’ clothes for size and season.  Donate or sell whatever we’re not keeping.  Store properly whatever we are keeping. 
~ Limit time online to 30 minutes daily…15 minutes during nap/rest time and 15 minutes after kids are in bed.  Set a timer.  For realz.  Other than that internet is used only for music. 

Tune In

~ Write morning pages at least 5 of the next 10 days.
~ Keep daily gratitude journal with family. 

~ Make cookies or care packages for 2 people. 

My goals are lofty (for me) and numerically defined, which I normally avoid like poison.  But I was instructed to “get extreme and a little uncomfortable” by Courtney over at bemorewithless.  And though I’ve never met her, I’m trusting her and throwing this out there. 

Wanna get crazy and make some New Year’s Resolutions in September?  Let Courtney and I know and we can encourage each other for the next 10 days.  

Three Things I'm Learning From Sending My Kid To Kindergarten

This has been Eden’s first week of Kindergarten.  She’s had 3 half-days, and I’ve learned a lot.  I can’t really think about it without getting a sinking feeling in my stomach and tearing up a bit, if that tells you anything.  Here’s 3 things I’m learning and my pro tips for coping, since having my kid 3 days into Kindergarten makes me a pro. 

#1:  Be prepared to be surprised.
You can work hard as a parent to prepare yourself and your child for the next step, and you can still end up unprepared.  Things happen that are out of your control and didn’t appear in the “what-if” scenarios you played in your head for months.  I had two priorities for setting Eden up for success this year.  Firstly, I wanted to find a half-day program, because I feel like that’s enough school for a 5-year-old.  Open-enrollment to a nearby district with half-day Kindergarten accepted – check!  Secondly, I wanted (okay, more like wished) to find a school with teacher-student ratios better than 1:25.  Teacher-student ratio of 1:15 – check! 

But, this first week revealed that I’ve been concerned about all the wrong things.  Or maybe, that there will be a never-ending list of things to be concerned about in this lifelong process of “letting go” of my child.  @#!*% . 

You see, I should have been worrying about her permanent teacher being on maternity leave for the first two months while a fresh-out-of-college sub fills in.  Or, her class being comprised of 2/3^rds wild boys and 1/3^rd too-scared-to-speak girls. 

Don’t get me wrong…I am probably the most supportive person you will ever find of maternity leave and women taking as long as they possibly can or want to.  And I absolutely love wild boys, especially since I have one.  But brand new subs don’t always have the best classroom management skills, and wild boys will take full advantage of this by “wrestling, fighting, punching, and poking” while said teacher “tried all kinds of things but nothing worked and they didn’t stop.”  (It’s awesome having a very verbal child who gives me a full report of her day.  Well, awesome and sometimes nerve-wracking.)  And the thing that killed me?  My girl telling me she “didn’t talk to any of the kids because those boys made me nervous.” 

Pro tip #1:  When you find yourself approaching a massive event and feel like you’ve checked off everything on your list, write in big, fat letters at the bottom of your list: “THE THING I AM NOT AWARE OF THAT IS ACTUALLY THE MOST IMPORTANT THING.”  Try to embrace a meta-narrative that reminds you that you are not in control of your universe, that people and things around you are constantly in play, and that surprises will come.  And then just breathe.  In.  Out.  In.  Out. 

#2:  Overreacting is a skill. 
When my child tells me that her classroom resembles an underage mosh pit with no bouncer, I have a tendency to overreact.  I want to go in the school and drop in the principal’s office to casually ask if she’s thought about mentoring this new sub.  And then meander into Eden’s teacher’s room and casually ask if she’d like me to hang around tomorrow to help.  And I really want to go home and pin all kinds of homeschooling curriculum on pinterest while crafting a letter withdrawing her from public schools. 

I am not even-keeled when it comes to my kids’ safety and happiness and learning.  Most parents aren’t, and that’s okay.  It means we care about our kids.  It’s normal to freak out and overreact. 

Pro tip#2:  Allow yourself to overreact mentally and emotionally, but don’t act on it yet.  Talk it out with safe people (and talk, and talk, and talk – thank you dear friends and patient husband for listening to me this week), run through all the hypothetical scenarios in your head that make you feel worse or better about the current problem, and then do nothing, for now. 

When you’re able, see the situation from everyone else’s perspective.  Imagine those boys who are so excited to be at school and have been picking up on the nervous energy around them for the last week.  Imagine that poor teacher who is on her second bottle of wine while crying into her pillow.  This may help you see new solutions or at least engender compassion and patience. 

#3:  Kids are not as resilient as people say they are. 
Eden told me over lunch today that she was nervous about going to school today.  She was thinking of those boys and her teacher and worried about being in a situation where it felt like no one was in control.

People often say that “kids are resilient,” meaning I guess that they will adapt to a difficult or new situation and find ways to cope with it.  I think this is true, but as with everything, there are degrees.  Some healthy adaptation and coping skills are great.  But coping mechanisms that translate into lifelong struggles are also possible.  Some of my most vivid memories of my elementary school years are the emotionally charged, traumatic ones. 

Kids are easily dismissed in the adult world.  It is often inconvenient to take them seriously.  But I think most adults are walking around with wounds that result from not being taken seriously as children. 

Pro tip #3:  Respect your child’s personhood.  Tell them that their feelings matter and show them you take them seriously.  This is not the same as being a helicopter parent and hovering and becoming codependent.  It means allowing your child to express their feelings openly.  It means teaching your child strategies for dealing with the situation and their feelings.  It means reassuring them that you will help them find a solution, that they will not be left to deal with this by themselves.  And it means dealing with your own emotions separately so that you can be prepared to receive your child’s emotions. 

So this morning, I listened to Eden talk about her nervousness.  I told her I understood.  We talked about how her teacher has had a day to come up with a plan for how to help these boys settle down.  We talked about how the boys might be a little less wild today and make better decisions because they’re getting used to school.  We put on her chewy necklace so she could chew on it when she feels nervous.  We touched her bravery bracelet and talked about how it reminds her that I love her.  I told her she can always tell me what is bothering her and we will find a solution to this problem if it doesn’t get better (and soon!). 

And then off she went.  And I spent the afternoon thinking of nothing else and making “I hope your Kindergarten class sucks less today” cookies for after school. 

And thankfully, today was better than yesterday.  The boys "followed the rules a little bit better" and they got to go outside for recess, too.  I’m slightly encouraged, with a healthy dose of skepticism/wait-and-see thrown in.

And, I'm learning...oh, how educational Kindergarten is for a parent!

Midnight

It's midnight, the first minute of my 34th birthday.  

I sit on the front porch, the orange glow of streetlights and the gray glow of my computer screen my lights.  

I hear the creak, crick, creak, crick of my neighbor's swing and think how my kids would love to be on their schedule.  And I hear cicadas, trilling their layered rhythms.  

 

Today is the first day of my 35th year.  That sounds significant, and old.  I hope this year brings a settledness in my soul.  I still feel like a child much of the time, like my childhood hurts and fears and longings are constantly bubbling to the surface in my snips and snaps and unsettledness.  I hope that this midpoint of my life brings some wearing in...cushions that are not too hard and not too soft, but worn and shaped and contoured just right.  

I wonder if I will still feel like a child when I'm 40, 50, 65.  I came across some old journals last week and was disturbed to see fears, complaints, and conflicts scrawled in my 22 year-old handwriting that I could have just as easily written last week.  Clearly I am in a spiral with these things, but am I heading down, or up?  Am I a tornado, bent towards the ground, destruction, dust?  Or am I a vapor rising from a hot mug, reaching up, cooling, gaining perspective?  

Maybe that answer will come this year, or maybe not until I'm 70.  

I'll spiral on anyway, trusting that I'm held together by Someone who knows who I am, where I'm headed.  

Dear Ernest Hemingway

Dear Ernest Hemingway,

I really wish I could meet you.  I’m fascinated by the fact that you wrote only 500 words per day.  I say “only” 500, but in reality those were probably the most precise, carefully-chosen 500 words that any writer could put down on paper on any given day.  You wrote 500 words per day, while Stephen King writes 10 pages per day, and it shows in your style. 

I just finished To Have And Have Not, where your economy of style is very apparent.  I thought it was interesting how you shifted perspectives, from a first-person narrator, to a third-person omniscient, to a third-person limited, and back again.  I found myself confused sometimes because I didn’t understand the vernacular or the dialogue, and there wasn’t any help or interpretation from the narrator.  I felt like I was being put in an outsider’s perspective, where I was left to figure out for myself what I could about these people and this culture.

Based on the title of the novel alone, I expected to come across more of a range of economic status in the characters.  Most of the characters that fill the story are the Have Nots…there are the poor revolutionaries, the poor who are doing honest work, the poor who are doing whatever they can, legal or not, to pay the bills, and the poor who are drinking in bars.  It seems like you are showing how the poor cannot be painted in large, monochromatic strokes.  Each of the characters had a different motivation, different strategies, and different loves, although most of them ended up the same:  dead. 

The Haves were mostly relegated to short descriptions towards the end of the story, as they slept in oblivion in their yachts while the Have Nots mourned the deaths of their own.  It was almost like you were reversing the space and time that is usually afforded to the poor and wealthy.  The wealthy, who typically dominate the headlines and magazine covers and radio waves and pages, are shelved until twenty or so pages at the end.  The poor, who are typically overlooked and stereotyped, are allowed to live fully dimensional lives in your story. 

The best 382 words (yes, I counted them) are in the brilliant Chapter Nineteen.  The entire theme of the novel lies in Chapter Nineteen in seed form.  I know I don’t need to summarize it for you because you wrote it, but it really is amazing.  The wealthy writer and tourist, Richard Gordon, sees a woman and instantly comes to all kinds of conclusions about her…she is unattractive, she has no sexual desire, her husband cheats on her because she has let herself go, she is unsupportive of her husband’s struggles.  Gordon hurries home to include her in the novel he is writing about a poor man working in a textile factory.  He thinks of what he wrote: “It was good.  It was, it could be easily, terrific, and it was true.  He had seen, in a flash of perception, the whole inner life of that type of woman.” 

In reality, she is Marie Morgan, Harry’s wife…she is beautiful in Harry’s eyes, she has great sexual desire for him, he is faithful to her, he loves her bleached hair and strength in size, and she wants her husband alive more than she wants the income he can get from his risky jobs, despite their poverty.  In reality, she is one half of a happy, vibrant, and loving marriage. 

My first reaction to Chapter Nineteen is that Gordon is a pompous ass.  He just flattened that woman and doesn’t even know her.  He is judging her based on his upper-class, oversexualized, white sensibilities and tastes.  He doesn’t know the first thing about appreciating a woman, so how would he know what kind of man would appreciate this particular woman?  And yet he claims that his perspective is true. 

I want to align myself with Marie, to feel fierce against those who misjudge and destroy.  And then I remember how you, Mr. Hemingway, left me on the outside during much of this novel.  I may understand some things about the poor, and you let me understand some things about the poor characters in your novel, but can I claim to truly understand the “whole inner life of that type of” person?  Aren’t we all guilty of judging each other based on our own sensibilities and tastes, our inherited prejudices and beliefs that we may not even be aware of? 

I was struck by how vulnerable writers are to this kind of (mis)judgment…we try to pay attention to detail, to understand how people’s minds work, to practice empathy, to bring insight or epiphany to our readers.  But how often are our “flash[es] of perception” merely an outsider’s murky view?  The writer’s pen has the power to both enlighten and slander.  Although Gordon, I hope, is not a good example of a good writer.  He vacations to Key West to view the natives from a comfortable distance, and doesn’t bother speaking to the woman he believes to understand completely.  He writes about a class struggle that he doesn’t participate in.  I guess the lesson to writers is to write what you know, and if you don’t know, then either experience it firsthand or talk to a bunch of people who have.  

Thank you for giving this novel to the world, Mr. Hemingway.  Thank you for the reminder to be a ruthless editor and to make each word count.  And thank you for proving that just a few words each day can create something meaningful. 

~Jamie

What Happened To My Summer Reading Program

What happened is, I got summer brain.  I tend to be a bit perfectionistic about writing book reviews, and so after doing my one and only review of The Great Gatsby, which entailed taking notes while reading and spending a couple hours doing research and writing it, I got summer brain and didn’t feel like doing any more.  But I have been reading.  And I would like to have some record of what I read this summer and my thoughts about those books, so I’ve devised a reader-response method that takes the pressure off and is a little more personal. 

Dear Sherman Alexie,

I loved your novel, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian.  I just finished it five minutes ago and you had me laughing and crying there at the end.  I’ll admit, I’m not usually that excited about books that put me in an adolescent boy’s brain space, but I would happily live in Junior’s head for hundreds more pages if you’d care to write them. 

Thank you for giving us your character’s insider perspective on life on a reservation in America.  Towards the end of the book, Junior comments that reservations were designed to be death camps, that Native Americans were supposed to go there and live until they died off.  And how many of them are now complying with that plan through pervasive alcoholism.  I’ve never thought of it like that.  I never realized how torn someone would feel who wanted to be a part of their Indian community and yet also wanted to have opportunities beyond what the reservation affords. 

I was surprised by how much I could relate to Junior, even though I’ve never been the only one of my race, anywhere.  But I’ve been in the tribe of the outsider in other ways.  Junior reminded me that there are all kinds of tribes, and that I have connections with most people in ways I would never expect. 

I felt a little stung by the character of the wealthy white man who showed up at Junior’s Grandmother’s funeral to return the pow-wow costume.  I see in him the ways that (possibly well-meaning) white people love Native American culture to the point of objectifying it and making it something it isn’t.  Maybe that’s not love; maybe it’s fascination, or guilt, or shame, manifested as a love for the external objects associated with Native culture, but lacking any real knowledge of any real people.  I guess you can’t love Native Americans without actually knowing a Native American. 

As a white person, I feel tentative and nervous around Native American culture.  I don’t want to offend; I don’t know if it’s okay but I feel a little guilty about living in a city called Cuyahoga Falls that contains no Iroquois population.  A quick glance at my city’s Wikipedia page makes no mention of the First Americans who lived where I do now…I guess they were long gone by the time the white people settled here.  Junior’s perspective tells me that Native Americans don’t want to be saved by white people, they don’t want to be flattered by white people, they don’t want to be objects of fascination.  I'm not sure what they do want, if anything.  And as I write "they," I think to myself, "they probably don't all want the same thing."

What I come away with most from this book is the realization of how similar I am to Junior.  We are all sloppily finding our tribes, hurting people along the way, losing people and relationships we love, forgiving people even though they will never change, and learning new things about ourselves that surprise us.  Junior and I are not the same, and our differences are vast.  But Mr. Alexie, if I’m reading you right, it seems that we are more alike than different. 

I’m looking forward to reading more of what you wrote.  Thanks for giving this book to the world. 
~Jamie

On Broadway

Confession:  Sometimes I imagine a life for myself as a Broadway singer.  Not the star of the musical, because even my imagined self doesn’t have that good of a voice, but making my living singing and dancing. 

In fact, right now as I’m supposed to be preparing dinner, I’m listening to my spotify playlist of SMASH and Broadway show tunes and checking my favorite performers’ twitter feeds. 

I’m having an early-adult-life-crisis.

It’s not that I don’t love my life, or that I actually want to pack up my family and move to New York.  It’s more that sometimes I feel like there are things that I enjoy, things that I am somewhat good at, that I don’t get to do much anymore.  High schoolers have it pretty good, at least in my thinking.  They get to participate in numerous sports, sing and dance and perform in musicals and choirs, play whatever instruments they choose, join debate teams and language clubs and chess tournaments and everyone bends over backwards to get them to those rehearsals and performances and games and meetings. 

Not so much once you become an adult.  Playtime is over and you better be damn sure that the vocation you’ve chosen will fulfill you all the livelong days. 

We Americans are encouraged to specialize – to become experts and professionals in one narrow field, so that we can beat out the competition, land the prized job, become respected, and pay the bills.  Even within these narrow fields, we are encouraged to focus even narrower, to the point where only three people in the world will have enough knowledge and expertise to recognize how damn good you really are at your job. 

In grad school, it wasn’t enough to declare that I was in the M.A. in English program, in the Literature and Writing track.  The next question would be, “what are you going to specialize in?”  Dude, I dunno.  I thought I was doing pretty good to figure out by the ripe old age of 25 that no, I did not want to be a theologian, or teach elementary school, or teach high school, or be a professional musician, or five other things that I either tried out or had been educated for. 

And then I learned what specializing really means…it means that you choose a small field within the field, and write articles about those works or authors for an obscure academic journal that 25 people read, all in the attempt to get publication credits on your CV so that when you’re one applicant out of 250 vying for that one tenure track position, you stand a chance at getting the job.  

Well, that’s a bit of a cynical take, and I do actually enjoy writing nerdy academic articles.  But the point is, it’s all very pragmatic.  Why specialize?  Why are we encouraging kids to choose one degree, one emphasis, one job as their target, from increasingly younger and younger ages? 

To compete, to land the job, to be successful. 

None of those things are fulfilling, necessarily.  Any one thing is not fulfilling, necessarily. 

I am not fulfilled by motherhood, alone.  I am not fulfilled by my chosen profession of teaching, alone.  I am not fulfilled by having a good marriage, alone. 

And this is not the truth we are told by Disney movies and romantic comedies and our high school and college guidance counselors and a culture that has turned babies into a commodity. 

What fulfills me is the moments in my day when I am connecting with the immaterial within the material.  When I have eyes to see and ears to hear, and my soul is fed by something spiritual in the midst of the very physical world I live in, of potty training and muddy footprints in the dining room and crumbs everywhere.

Fulfillment is soul nourishment, and sometimes it means receiving and sometimes it means giving. 

When my husband and I share a joke that is only funny to us because of our 12 year history of a sometimes difficult and sometimes happy marriage.  When I have a craving to paint something and I sit down with my kids and the watercolors and experiment and make something that looks beautiful to me.  When my body tells me to run and I listen to it and am rewarded with more energy for the rest of the afternoon.  When I see my students’ eyes light up just a little as we discuss an article we read about Mother Teresa serving the poor.  When I just can’t stand how cute my boy is and I curl him up in a ball in my lap and eat his face until he’s laughing “stop, Mama!”.   When I’m inspired by my Broadway longing to sing a song at church and it feels good to contribute to worship.  When I take an extra deep breath and don’t snap at my daughter at bedtime and am grateful for connection instead of conflict in the moments before sleep.  When I sit down and write and write and something finally comes out of me that’s been stuck inside for too long. 

I’m not going to specialize.  I’m going to persist in pursuing a life as a Renaissance woman.  I may not ever make it on Broadway, but I’ll be singing show tunes in my shower for the rest of my life.  

Eden In Her Fifth Year

My sweet pea made me a Mama five years ago today.  We’ve been learning together ever since.  One of the things I learned early on was that being a parent was going to change me.  Eden hadn’t read the same books about parenting that I had, and in her infancy taught me that listening to her and listening to my intuition was more important than what any book said. 

I sometimes regret that Eden gets the rough draft version of my parenting, while Isaac and any future children get a more polished version.  But thankfully she has a sweet heart, and just enough grace and spunk to deal with my imperfections. 

Her fifth year has been big…she has grown to be shockingly independent compared to her toddler self.  I should have seen it coming when she learned to swim on the first day of her fifth year, at her fourth birthday party.  It’s been a year of big firsts.  She entered preschool bravely last fall, a little bit nervous and a little bit excited. 

She walked into her classroom with a heart drawn on her hand and my love in her cells and she thrived.  She had the best preschool teachers on the planet and I’m not biased at all. 

She made fast and strong friends, painted tons of pictures, and learned through playing and singing and reading and touching things and looking and listening and experimenting.  I couldn’t be happier with her first school experience, and neither could she. 

At home, she learned to pump herself on her swing, to pedal strong on her two wheel bike with training wheels, to paint a rainbow, to make herself a bowl of cereal and milk, to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich using a half jar of each, to sing Mumford and Sons, to read simple words, to write her family’s names, to be patient, and to ask for help when she needs it.  She taught herself to whistle after practicing and practicing for the last month.  She is so proud of herself for that and I am so proud of her for not giving up when all she heard was air. 

She loves language.  When she hears a new word she picks it out and asks what it means, and then it becomes part of her vocabulary.  Yesterday she was explaining to Isaac that “quarrel” is another word for “fight.”  She has taught me to be careful what I say because she will be saying it tomorrow. 

She loves her brother and helps take care of him.  She crouches down to be at eye level with him, talks in an excited voice to him, explains things to him in the way she thinks he’ll understand, reassures him, and loves to make him laugh with her silly faces.  She makes up games to play with him and gets upset if he doesn’t want to play with her.  She also sometimes makes him upset because she thinks “it’s funny,” which assures me that she is a normal child.    

She loves her friends.  A far cry from her toddler years when we had to carefully measure out the amount of stimulation and social time she could have before she was overloaded, she now can’t get enough of time with friends and family and activity.  She often asks “how many places are we going today?” and 4 or 5 is her ideal answer.  Every friend is her best friend and she is always sad to leave them. 

She loves to dance.  She took dance lessons for a couple months this year and enjoyed it, but wasn’t begging for more.  She’s more of a freestyler and could not wait for the dance floor to be opened at the several weddings we attended this year.  We have dance parties in our living room to all sorts of music and she has the best moves.  She and Isaac love having dance parties with house music and strobe lights in the basement with Daddy. 

She is growing, changing, learning, and sometimes I see glimpses of her teenage self, her mother self, her working self.  She is a five-year-old who carries the seeds in her of the rest of her life.  She is teaching me to water her well. 

As much as she grows and changes, she will always be my sweet Eden girl, the one who made me a Mama.  We have a rhyme that is just hers and mine, and her eyes still light up when we say it.  Tonight she said “I love you even more” when I said “I love you so, so, so much my sweet Eden girl.” 

Eden,

How much does Mama love you?  Sooooo much. 

More than you can count.

More than you can measure.

Enough to last forever.

Love you sweet pea,

                Mama 

Things I Want To Remember About Isaac At Three

It’s the evening of Isaac’s third birthday and I just can’t believe it.  I want my sweet boy to stay just like he is forever.  Some things I want to remember about his third year of life…

He calls me “fweety mama” when I call him my sweet boy. 

He says his name “Igit.”  He can work very hard and come up with an “Issssssuhc” every once in awhile and he is so proud when he does. 

He loves to organize small things and line them up.  He likes to move his lines of things to other places in the house one thing at a time. 

He vrooooms trucks on the floor to get them where he wants them, and walks/crawls all bent over even if he’s going from one end of the house to the other.

He has a hard time pronouncing the “S” sound, and sometimes it sounds like a Sean Connery slobbery “S”, and sometimes he exhales through his nose instead.  So instead of “snake,” he says “(nose exhale)nake.” 

He says “ever guys” for “everybody.”

He says “I think we better should.” 

He says “you know, like” as if he was a 16 year-old valley girl.  I have no idea where he got this. 

He started his third year sleeping in our bed at night, and he would often fall asleep with his hands on my cheeks, one on either side. 

He then started sleeping in his own bed next to ours, and he would often throw a leg over me in the middle of the night just to make sure I was still there.

He now sleeps in his own bed in Eden’s room and only occasionally needs to hold my finger as he falls asleep.  If he had things his way, he would have ended his third year still sleeping in bed with us, but he has adapted to our changes and done really well with them. 

He likes to give a kiss, then a big strong hug, and then do “noses,” which means rubbing his nose on mine.  He came up with this 3 part routine and especially the noses himself. 

He gets completely absorbed in his play and is content to play by himself for large amounts of time. 

He also LOVES playing with Eden and does not want her to go inside when they are playing outside together. 

He loves to make Eden laugh and will do something repeatedly forever if it makes her laugh. 

His favorite color is orange.  

His favorite TV show is “the one where Curioush George knocks down all the ‘tuff.” 

His most requested books are Everyone Poops and Millions of Cats.  Probably not coincidentally, one of his favorite words this year was “poop”, and “poopy gaga”, and anything else relating to the potty. 

He loves to color and paint.  He chooses one color of paint and covers the entire paper in that color.  He often does the same thing with crayons.  He is a monochromatic artist. 

 He loves bugs.  He will find anything crawling near him and examine it (mostly) gently.  He once carried a small worm in his curled up fist all through a grocery shopping trip.  He dropped it once, told me, and I found it on the floor.  I put it back in his hand and we kept shopping. 

He can count to 11 in perpetuity:  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 8, 9, 10, 11, 8, 9, 10, 11…

He knows bits and pieces of the ABCs, but they’re jumbled and he skips a lot.  He won’t let me help him learn them and says “I can do it, I can do it!” if I try to help. 

He started his third year saying “I can’t sing” and now he sings sometimes, so I let him sing the ABCs wrong as much as he wants. 

He believes in go big or go home.  For Christmas he asked for "a HOOOOOOOGE sucker," and for his 3rd birthday he asked for "all the legos."  

He has to finish his process.  If he is in the middle of a game or activity or job that he’s doing, he. must. finish. before we leave the house or change his diaper or go eat dinner.  He will express very clearly just how upset he is to not be able to finish if I interrupt him through screaming and flailing and limp-bodying.  I’m learning to build in “finishing time” to our transitions. 

He is sensitive to my tone.  He thinks my serious voice is mean and says in his best mean voice, “Mama, you talking MEAN at me.” 

He has a soft heart.  He can be rough and aggressive sometimes, but his heart is tender and he needs connection and gentleness even in the midst of correction.

He lost his toddler belly this year.  I was watching him play in the sand one day and saw him stand up, up, up…no belly.  He’s all stretched out now. 

His favorite snuggle spot is on my left shoulder, head facing out, arms down at his sides or one arm curled around my neck.  He likes me to walk around holding him like this when he needs a snuggle.

His hair is wispy light blond, and before his haircut he looked like a dandelion gone to seed. 

We have a rhyme that is just his and mine, and during his third year he started changing his part of the rhyme to “poopy gaga.”  But tonight he said his words just right, hugged me tight, and said “I love you fweety fwee-year-old Mama” when I said “I love you my sweet three-year-old Isaac.” 

Isaac,

Mama’s love for you is big

                And it’s strong

                And it’s true. 

Mama’s love for you will last

                Your whole life through. 

Love you sweet boy,

                Mama

About That Tightrope Walking Wallenda Guy And Prayer...

So you might have heard of that guy, Nik Wallenda, who traversed the Grand Canyon yesterday on a tightrope wire with no harness or safety net.  He comes from a family that has done outrageous stunts for generations. 

According to this article, he prefaced his stunt with prayer, prayed throughout, and praised God afterwards for his success and safety.  He asked God to “calm these winds in the name of Jesus” as winds gusted up to 48 mph during his crossing. 

  

Meanwhile, I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately.  Usually summer is great for me as far as my general mood goes, what with all the sunshine and time outside and fun things to do with the kids.  But this summer I just feel tired a lot.  I feel like I’m dragging and gravity is targeting me unfairly.  You know how when you’re done taking a bath, you drain all the water out and slowly feel the buoyancy of the water fall away and the force of gravity retake you?  I feel like I’m walking around with the emotional equivalent of not enough water and too much gravity. 

I started taking vitamin b12, trying to go to bed earlier, trying to drink more water, watching comedies (I highly recommend Silver Linings Playbook and Pitch Perfect).  And I thought about praying about it.  I believe in God and I believe that he cares about me, but I have a hard time bringing myself to believe that my gravity problem is significant enough to pray about.  I would find myself starting to pray, and then I would start thinking about so-and-so who has cancer, and about my friend living in another country where girls in her neighborhood are being kidnapped for the sex trade, and about Syrians in the midst of war and refugee camps, and on and on…. 

And I end up saying something like “Um, well, God, if you have any time left after dealing with all of that…I mean, I know you’re not bound by time, but I guess what I mean is, if you wouldn’t mind doing something a little extra and superfluous, could you…oh, I don’t think I really have enough faith for this prayer to make any difference anyway…nevermind.”  And then I feel ridiculous. 

                                                                                                                                                                                     

I feel like my mind chides me to a place of gratitude and glass half-full, even though I feel glass half-empty right now.  And while I know cognitively that God has grace to spare even for my gravity problem, my heart has trouble believing that or being courageous enough to ask for a drop of grace. 

And then Nik Wallenda pulls his stunt, and I can’t help but feel like his prayers are a bit presumptuous.  Really, Nik?  (Doing my own SNL “Really” segment here.)  Really?  You think that God should be concerned about your safety when you voluntarily put yourself in grave danger for what reason, exactly?  Really?  You think that your act of walking the tightrope can be some kind of act of worship that helps people to know God better or believe in him more?  Really, Nik?  Really?  Do you think God might possibly have more important things to deal with than known wind gusts across a 1,500 foot canyon that you subjected yourself to on purpose?  Really? 

But then…I remember my favorite image of Jesus from the Bible, book of Hebrews.  Jesus is described as the curtain.  Not just any window curtain, but the curtain in the Jewish Temple that separated the presence of God from the people.  The presence of God resided in the Most Holy Place, and only one person was allowed to go inside the curtain, and only on one day of the year.  God’s presence was so powerful and so dangerously perfect that we fallen humans couldn’t survive it.  The curtain offered protection to the people and a reminder of who was dwelling among them.

This curtain was still around when Jesus walked the earth.  It still covered the Most Holy Place, protecting the people from the perilous presence of God.  This was the curtain that was torn in two when Jesus died.  In the book of Mark it is noted that the curtain was torn from top to bottom, signifying who it was that did the tearing. 

In Hebrews, the author says, “Therefore, brothers and sisters, since we have confidence to enter the Most Holy Place by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way opened for us through the curtain, that is, his body, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near to God with a sincere heart and with the full assurance that faith brings….”     

Not only did Jesus’ death cause the physical curtain in the temple to be torn, thus allowing free access to anyone who wanted to approach the presence of God, but Jesus’ body is actually the spiritual, metaphorical, immaterial curtain through which anyone who wants to can pass into God’s presence.  It’s like what used to be a force field is now turned into a portal, for any of you sci-fi geeks. 

We have a new and living way opened for us.  And it’s not some scolding, you should be quivering with fear way; it’s a bold, confident way.  We don’t have to wait for the one day of the year that God can be approached, and we don’t have to send our messages in to his presence with someone else.  We can go, ourselves, into his presence, whenever, for whatever reason. 

The way is open.  The invitation has been sent.  All I have to do is grasp the confidence I am allowed to have, and go in.  That’s what prayer is.  Just go in and have a talk.  There are no guarantees as to what the outcomes of my prayer will be.  In fact, the only guarantee is that I can always go in. 

There is no line.  The imaginary line of who should have first access to God’s grace and attention is all in my head.  He’s capable of hearing all of us at once and he’s the one in charge of distributing good things and there is enough to go around.  If he wants to quiet the wind for Nik Wallenda, so be it.  If he wants to lessen the force of gravity on my heart, that’d be freaking awesome.  And I know the suffering and poor and exploited are always, always near the heart of God.  My prayers aren’t going to encroach on that. 

I can pray.  That I can do.  For others, and for myself and my gravity problem.  We can all go in. 

There’s room for Nik and I and you, and the curtain is open.  

Eden made this in Sunday School last Sunday.  Aside from the fact that glitter should be banned from the earth, I thought it was kind of cool that God told her to make this craft specially for me.  (kidding ;) ) 

Today I Felt Like A Substitute Parent

For two very stressful years, I was a substitute teacher.  I taught all grades, all classes, including specials like gym, health, and art, which apparently made me a rarity.  I taught gym, health, and art a lot.  It turns out there’s a reason substitute teachers especially don’t like refereeing dodge ball.  And there was that art class where one tool at the students’ disposal was box cutters.  And the day I arrived at 7^th grade health class to see that the day’s topic was the male reproductive system.  No joke.  There were transparencies to project the male bits on the wall and label the parts and everything.  I don’t think the timing of that health teacher’s absence was an accident, just sayin’. 

It took me awhile to learn classroom management, and before I did, it was a mess.  Did you know that if you ask a classroom of 25 five-year-olds a question, you will then have 25 five-year-olds talking at the same time?  I learned to preface my questions with “Raise your hand if you know…”.  And did you know that if you have to walk 25 five-year-olds up two flights of stairs for library time, they should hold hands or have a buddy or something so you don’t lose a few?  And if you let 25 students free on the playground, you should have some agreed upon plan for getting their attention when it’s time to line up?    

If there is one word to describe how it felt being a sub, it would be behind.  From the moment I walked in the building, I felt behind.  Where was my room, where were the restrooms, where were the specials rooms?  Where were the lesson plans, the attendance sheets, the teacher’s manuals, the worksheets, all the supplies?  The worst was the unplanned absences, where I would be quickly gathering materials, making photocopies, searching the desk for the day’s schedule and seating chart. 

Everyone else knew everything and I knew nothing, and had virtually no time to prepare.  The momentum of the day was coming, and I was going to be carried along no matter what state of readiness I was in. 

Sometimes I sat behind the desk fighting panic before the opening bell and said to myself, “I can do this. I can do this. I can do this” until I sort of believed it. 

Today I felt like a substitute parent.  The day started before I was ready.  Isaac woke up laughing about a funny dream and just had to wake me up to tell me about it, at 5:30am.  It was adorable and something I will always remember, but all the same, I got up feeling sleep deprived, disoriented, and frustrated.  Everything came too fast.  Kids are hungry, kids are fighting, kids are throwing things for fun, kids are screaming at squirrels outside when I’m sure the neighbors are still asleep, kids are back inside.  And now it’s 7:30am.  Repeat. 

It was one of those days where I felt perpetually behind, unable to clean up one meal before it’s time for the next, unable to calm myself down from the last squabble before the next one happens, unable to feed myself or drink my coffee or take a shower before it’s too late and I have a migraine and we’re late to our meeting and I’m just. so. tired. 

When you’re a sub, the worst possible thing you can do is appear flustered.  If your students are young, you will immediately have 25 helpers who will tell you everything you need to know for the next 7 hours.  If your students are older, they will sense weakness and have a field day with you.

I think the same is true for parenting on these days.  If I get flustered and start ranting about how “you are the oldest and should be a good example” and “you are being unkind to mommy when you spit food on the floor because I have to clean it up” and on and on, we all get out of whack.  The kids sense my lack of calm and start to act out more because they feel unsettled. 

On these days I tell myself, “I can do this.  I can do this.  I can do this” until I sort of believe it.  And I tell myself, “Don’t think, do.  Don’t think, do.”  Because my mind becomes a maze of self-judgment, frustration, and wishful thinking on these days.  Better to just put one foot in front of the other and trudge through the day.

And trudge we did.  As with subbing, I’m not sure anyone learned anything today or had a particularly fantastically fun day, but we got through it with no huge crises or damage done.  And that, my friends, is a wildly successful substitute parenting day.  

An Hour At Flurry's Cafe

I had an hour and a half to myself, a book to read, and a café in mind.  I pass little cafés in Cuyahoga Falls and picture myself sitting quietly at a table, enjoying coffee and a pastry.  Until today, it’s just been daydreaming. 

It’s hard to get an hour and a half to myself.  And it’s even harder to convince myself to go to a café during that time if I do get it.  There are always piles of paper to sort and put away, floors to sweep, dirty dishes to do, groceries to shop for…the endless list of daily to-dos.  And then there’s the next level of to-do list: dentist appointments to make, rebates to apply for, wills to finish, invoices for work completed 6 months ago to submit, home budgets to review. 

Cafés don’t make any to-do list in my world. 

But today I went.  To café number one, which was closed.  I headed to café number two, which was also closed.  I sat in my van for a minute and thought about going to Dunkin' Donuts instead, because I was using up all my time driving to closed cafés and at least DD would be open.  I felt my bravery and momentum drifting away. 

But I remembered one more café that I’ve seen and decided that would be my last attempt.  I drove to Flurry’s, thinking about how these little cafés don’t really stand a chance if they aren’t open at 8am.  But then I thought that the shop owners probably like sleep and their families and are trying to keep things in balance by not being open 14 hours a day, and I commend them for that.  And at least I was alone in my van, listening to NPR. 

Flurry’s was open.  The sign said “Breakfast Served All Day” and “Kim – Owner,” and I thought, “This is my kind of place.” 

I went inside and Kim said, “Table for two?  One?” 

“Just me,” I said. 

She sat me at a bar stool in the kitchen.  I felt exposed on the bar stool and thought about requesting a booth, but didn’t.  I ordered the French toast that had “Cinnamon Roll” in the title and she poured me coffee.  A Usual came in and sat at another bar stool.  I looked up at the Garfield clock, his tail swinging the beat of each second.  I heard Mumford and Sons playing on the radio. 

Sandy came by to drop off some bananas, since today’s special was Banana Bread Pancakes.

I listened to the Usual talk about his latest ebay finds – a one-of-a-kind Harley Davidson t-shirt designed by Uhl and a Ralph Lauren polo with a teddy bear insignia.  He asked Kim what the difference was between petite and junior clothing and she and I explained. 

I drafted an outline for a letter to the School Board and drank my coffee.  Every time I picked up my cup it was full, so I couldn’t tell you how many cups of coffee I drank throughout my visit.  I heard my French toast sizzle on the grill.

Kim brought me my food and I ate French toast that tasted like Cinnamon Rolls.  I read the novel I brought with me.  Another man came in and sat at the bar stool next to me.  I didn’t feel exposed anymore.  I felt like I was in a community of coffee drinking, paper reading, alone people who weren’t lonely. 

I read awhile longer.  Kim put my leftovers in a wax paper bag.  I paid my bill and gave an insanely huge tip.  I wanted my tip to say, “I like it here.” And “I’m coming back.”  And “Thank you for making me breakfast.”  And “I like your weird clock and your taste in music.”  And “Thank you for making me feel like a part of a community without pestering me.” 

I went back to my van and felt myself take a deep breath.  I felt my eyes almost tearing up. 

Someone made me breakfast, and I didn’t have to do a thing.  I got to eat a whole meal without getting up from my chair.  I drank as much coffee as I wanted.  I got to read a chapter of a book before 10am. 

I love my kids and I know these intense years are short, but the days are long.  Sometimes the minutes drag out to an eternity. 

Today I got a deep breath.  I feel like I can run a little longer now. 

I’ll be back, Flurry’s.  

The Great Gatsby: The Presence of Absence

This post is going to talk about the theme of absence becoming a presence in The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald.  It sounds confusing, so let me start by giving a concrete and relevant personal experience. 

We are currently transitioning Isaac to a new sleeping situation, and he thinks this is a bad idea.  As a result, something that is currently absent in my life is sleep, both mine and my children’s.  The absence of sleep has a powerful presence, as I’m sure many of you know.  The lack of zzzs manifests itself in easy tears, strong reactions, much fighting and yelling, crankiness, laziness, and distractedness.  (I am just hoping against all hope to write something coherent here.)  So you see, the absence of something can develop a presence of its own. 

In The Great Gatsby, the title character’s life is built around the absence of a woman he loves, Daisy.  Gatsby wants to make a life with Daisy when he first meets her, but doesn’t have the money or status to care for her and goes to war instead.  His entire life’s goal becomes making himself into “his Platonic conception of himself,” the man that could win Daisy, even as he sees her slipping away (98).  She soon marries another man, Tom, but Gatsby remains single-minded in his devotion to Daisy and his attempts at a life with her.  His life is built around a woman who is absent, and whose absence manifests itself in every decision he makes.  His shady business dealings, his building a house directly opposite hers across the bay, and his extravagant parties and “ineffable gaudiness” are all manifestations of Daisy’s absence in his life (99). 

It reminds me of this pipe. 

The Treachery of Images, by Rene Magritte

The French reads: "This is not a pipe."  

And yet it is.  The painting is one representation of a pipe, but as the artist, Magritte, says, “Could you stuff my pipe?  No, it’s just a representation, is it not?  So if I had written on my picture “This is a pipe,” I’d have been lying!” (Torczyner 71).

These tricky Modernists like to play around with questions of reality and illusion.  Gatsby’s imagined version of Daisy is like this painting.  It seems real to Gatsby, but is just his representation of Daisy.

Gatsby is determined to recreate an elusive past, which remains just out of his reach.  When he finally does meet Daisy again, her real presence comes in conflict with Gatsby’s version of her imagined presence.  The “colossal vitality of his illusion” cannot be fulfilled by her real presence (95).  He asks too much of her, denies the reality of her life in his absence and her love for her husband, and so loses her. 

He also loses himself.  In his attempts to recreate the past with Daisy, he changes his name, erases his past, and does whatever is necessary to gain the status needed to gain Daisy’s attention.  His gaudy mansion is filled with the rich and famous, none of whom know anything about Gatsby.  In fact, the subject of dinner table conversation at his parties is usually the latest rumor about whether or not Gatsby has killed a man or who he allied himself with in the War.  Gatsby creates an illusion of himself worthy of his illusion of Daisy, and neither can last. 

In the end, the only person who really knows Gatsby is his neighbor, Nick.  Nick is unimpressed with Gatsby and the flashy crowd that follows him.  In contrast to the free-flowing, undefined moral code of Gatsby and his playmates and business partners, Nick “want(s) the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever” (2).  It seems that only from Nick’s perspective can the illusions be seen for what they are and any grasp of reality be had. 

In short, it’s a good read.  Through a love story, Fitzgerald explores the ambiguity of modernism and demonstrates the powerful presence of absence.  And his use of language is masterful and beautiful.  One of the first things I thought while reading this novel again was, “Damn, he really knows how to use language.”

And finally, a commentary on reading the recent reprint with my good buddies Leo and Tobey on the front, the “Now a Major Motion Picture!” version.  It was oddly distracting to have their faces staring at me when I picked up the book. 

Usually, some amorphous body with a blurred out face is what I picture when I read a character.  This time, I was picturing Leo and Tobey speaking the lines that I was reading, and it was both distracting to the story and limiting to my understanding of the character.  It was weird.  This is one area where I think the murky ambiguity of absence is better.  I guess this is the same argument for reading a book before seeing the movie version…one person’s visual interpretation of the story can limit later readings of it.  Our imaginations can fill in a lot more gaps and leave the important gaps unfilled when given the opportunity. 

So if you’re interested in reading this book, pick up an older version with a boring cover or the original version with Cugat's artistic cover art.

Next up:  A Good Hard Look by Ann Napolitano.  Can Flannery O’Connor and her love of peacocks be appropriated for a fiction book?  We shall see… 

Fitzgerald, F. Scott.  The Great Gatsby.  New York, New York: Scribner, 1925. 

Torczyner, Harry.  Magritte: Ideas and Images.  Harry N. Abrams, Inc. 1979.