Summer Panic

I woke up an hour ago with my mind already racing through all of the things that I need to get accomplished today-phone calls to make, emails to return, laundry to wash, errands to run, but the pressure in my chest came mostly from the schoolwork that is hovering over me. For those of you who are thinking, "Schoolwork? Are you crazy? Aren't you on break?" my answer is, "Yes, sort of , and yes." I could use this opportunity to whine and fuss about how teachers don't really have summer breaks--at least many of us don't--we go to conferences, we take classes, we work on curriculum, we re-work lesson plans, we read. And while I guess I am fussing a bit, I am also using this space to remind myself of the old saying that my Mom used to gently admonish me with, "one thing at a time." I do have A LOT of summer school work to do as I prepare to teach a new class, and try to wrap up a total revision of our department curriculum, BUT, I am telling myself as a mantra this beautiful morning, it doesn't all need to happen today. I'll make my "list," try to pace myself, and remember that I can only do one thing at a time and do it well, and do my best to remember that my little loves deserve for their Mom to actually have a summer too.

My little man

So this is the summer that my ten-year-old is no longer a child. Physically he is growing . . . he and I wear the same shoe size, which is no small feet (take that Shakespeare!) considering that mine are ridiculously large; and I can't help but notice when he takes his shirt off to play shirts and skins with the neighborhood boys how his waist has narrowed, his shoulders widended, and the muscles in his arms are well, muscles. But beyond all of that, I notice how he listens. He takes in attentively adult conversations and understands them. He offers solutions to everyday household problems and usually offers something more practical and efficient than I. He loves to feel useful and wants to work like a man. Currently disgusted is he that he is not allowed to work on the roof with Dad. My little priest who once asked how God invented skin, reminds me when we forget our morning prayer. The oldest brother, he is both obnoxiously bossy and lovingly protective. Walking out of a department store restroom today, he told me that it smelled like the two-month-old daughter of a friend of ours that he has fallen in love with. I laughed, thinking he meant the dirty diaper that he saw changed a few days ago, but he looked me in the eyes in earnest and said, "no, Mom, it smells all soapy and good like Bailey." Oh, my dearest little baby bird, please don't ever stop paying attention to the world and all of the questions in your head and the sensory delights that are so much who you are. And while I love your old soul self, please don't grow up too quickly . . .

All Roads Lead Back to Home . . .

Heading home from a week-long conference this afternoon. I've found that it is always a bit surreal to land at the beginning of a conference--new surroundings, strange people, new daily schedule--but in this particular case I am in southern Wisconsin, not far from my northern Illinois hometown so the surroundings are familiar and comforting. Also, I am here with colleagues, so I brought a little home along with me. Re-entry back into my "regular" life after conferencing is also a bit surreal . . . strange to see how my life goes on even when I'm not there! But it is time, over time, for me to return to my loves--their hugs, their funny faces, their sweaty baseball clothes (the last two descriptors not applying to my husband:). It is indeed true that all roads lead back to home--especially if you're blessed. And I am.

Confusing Idea of the Day

I'm sitting at the first morning session of an AP Lit/Lang. Conference. One of the college professors here as a presenter/facilitator spent about 20 minutes telling us that our high school students come to him able to write, but not knowing how to contextualize their writing. Hm. It seems to me that contextualizing one's writing is a college skill, so it might therefore follow that students should learn how to do this once IN college? The professor seemed really bothered that "we" (high school teachers) have underprepared our students for this writing skill. To me, his argument is akin to me complaining that my undergraduate studies didn't adequately prepare me for my first teaching job because I still had things to learn once one the job. Methinks that friendly-AP-college-professor-guy would rather assign things to his students than teach them . . .

Overheard Baseball Edition

Eight-year-old reflecting on his morning at baseball camp, "Mom, there were like only two or three of us in the 3rd and 4th grade camp that weren't messing around during drill time. Can you believe that?" No, honey, I find it crazy to think that all 20 eight-and-nine-year-old boys weren't doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing when the coach walked away.

Ten-year-old fussing about the nasty case of road rash on his shoulder, "I can barely move my shoulder, except when I throw a baseball it is somehow fine." Funny that. Baseballs must have magic restorative powers.

Both buddies after fussing that they didn't want to pick-up the movies, Wii games, and various Narnia costumes spread all over their playroom, or clean-up their own snack bowls, "Mom, will you have our baseball pants washed and ready for the morning?" You will be able to locate your pants, most likely still unwashed, on the floor of your playroom right next to the sticky pudding bowl, since that is where items of highest importance tend to congregate.

Eight-year-old dreaming aloud about his impending mini-vaca to PNC Park in Pittsburgh, "Mom, I think I'm a Pirates fan now. I mean, I still like the Cubs, but, you know . . ." Honey, if only you knew how many people "still like the Cubs, but, you know . . ."

It always seems to happen . . .

 . . . that God reminds us of our rightful place in the universe . . .just as we are feeling pretty good about ourselves. My latest example happened just this evening as I was out with my three favorite men on a family bike ride. I was enjoying the stunning weather, wind in my hair, giggles of my boys, and the faint burning of muscle in my legs, thinking about how nice I've been to my heart and body this week--run a couple of miles every morning, taken a couple of walks each day, and gone on a bike ride every day for the past few days when it happened. The "It" was a very sharp, tight pair of black running shorts and black sports bra being propelled past me by a stunning young woman with equally sharp tight parts to put into those black pieces of exercise show-off. Sigh. Okay Big Guy upstairs and Stars of the Universe--I hear ya, loud and clear. I won't be trading-in my over-washed Macbeth tshirt that hides the Mommy parts, anytime soon.

The Boys of Summer

I haven't blogged in two weeks now--much of my time since summer officially started has been spent at baseball fields. . . which brings me to one of my latest musings and confessions. Confession first. I really like watching my kids play sports, and I am really proud of their abilities, and am brought close to tears everytime I see them high-five a teammate, take control of the mound, help another player, etc. The reason I write this as a "confession" is that in our sports-obsessed, "Soccer Mom," and every-Dad-knows-how-to-coach society, it has become completely un-PC to actually say that you are proud of your kids' abilities, or that you like to watch them play. Instead, the acceptable thing seems to be to spend ridiculous amounts of money on your kids sports, drive them to games 10 hours away, and burn them out, yet NOT actually say that you are getting something out of your child's sports involvement. Hm. Therein lies my musing. I hope that my husband and I are taking a balanced approach to our boys' lives, and therefore to their sporting lives as well, but I would also like to admit that while pregnant with both of them I prayed for them to simply be healthy, and I didn't necessarily ask God to send me athletes--but it sure is fun that they love to play as much as my husband and I do! So, while we watch the boys closely to make sure that they are kids first, I hope it is okay that I'm one proud Mama when my ten-year-old throws strikes or my eight-year-old cracks a double--and that it is equally okay that I've said it aloud.