Mom

Unconditional love. Patience. Knowing. How Awe-some (stealing from my fav. Madeline L'Engle here) it is to be blessed by having a mother who is also a friend. Mine is soo kind, generous (to a fault), flexible, spontaneous, and probably one of, if not THE, strongest woman I know. It is so so hard to watch her struggle with her health right now, but she is even grace under fire. There are days when I don't know what I've done to deserve such a Mother and Mentor. If only I can be this Mom to my kids . . .

Illusions Shattered

I recieved an email from the boys' principal yesterday. She sent it to let me know how grateful she was that 10-yr-old reported that there was a student with a knife on the playground. She offered that there had been some other students who had seen the knife, but hadn't said anything. I was surprised to get this email. Being a high school teacher, I'm certainly not naive to the happenings at schools, however, it just had not crossed my radar that this particular kind of happening would involve my children. This is not because I believe that they are special, or especially protected--I just hadn't really thought about it. And then I went to pick-up the boys . . .

 They jumped in the truck, and 10-yr-old instantly began to tell me the rest of the story . . . "Mom, when I saw that he had it, I said, 'Give me the knife--you are going to hurt someone or yourself with it'" With my heart starting to pulse a bit faster, I asked for the rest of the story. 10-yr-old said, "Well, then he ran away from me and when he saw me tell the teaching assistant what was going on, he tried to drop the knife behind him hoping no one would see. But I did. When the TA went over to him, I kept all of the rest of the kids clear of the knife."

 How exactly does a Mom respond to a story like this? I didn't know where to start--so proud of his bravery--so worried that in his attempt to do the right thing he could have so easily implicated himself in the "having a knife situation" had the student actually given it to him--so astounded that he took control (even telling the TA what to do)--so stunned that he didn't even consider that he could have gotten hurt in the whole thing.

I took a minute to gather my thoughts, compliment him on everything he did right, and then promptly fumbled all over myself trying to explain to him why he shouldn't have asked for the knife. In his world, it made perfect sense--he knew how to handle a sharp object, he was older, and he is very protective and responsible. Why wouldn't he try to fix the situation? Ugh. How awful that I had to try to explain that not only could taking the knife have been the thing that got him hurt, but also that had the student given it to him, the student could then have tried to turn the story inside out and gotten him in trouble. 10-yr-old sat next to me quiet. A little confused. And trying to process. I could barely contain my angst for him. The ripping away of the illusion that doing the right thing, the safe thing, is not at all simple, nor straightforward was as painful to watch as the idea that my dear boy could have been physically harmed, felt.

9-yr-old sat in the backseat quiet, wondering what all of this meant for him. The boy with the knife was not a close friend, but in his class, and definitely a playground football friend. Now what? Was the certain look on his face. Am I somehow guilty by association? And, mixed-in those deep brown eyes was also some, Would I have known what to do? anxiety.

We relived the story with Dad at dinner, and he too reemphasized 10-yr-old's bravery and leadership, while trying to assauge 9-yr-old's nerves. We found ourselves groping for the right way to present reality, while desperately trying to hold onto their little elementary world for them. I think we all knew though, that things had shifted just a bit--and that no matter what words are spoken, anytime a 10-yr-old handles a scary situation like a man, a little bit of childhood is over. There was more than one illusion shattered yesterday.

It wasn't even a deep fried Turkey

BAM BAM BAM!!! Someone was slamming on our front door and then RINNNNGGGGing our doorbell at 12:20ish this afternoon. Husband, Parents-in-Law, Daughter and I all looked at each other and than ran for the door. I was thinking that the bang slamming was a little rude for our neighbor boy, and then OMG--it wasn't the neighbor boy, but a random good citizen out for a jog who saw what looked like our garage on fire. We threw open the doors and were met with the nastiest smell and solid wallls of dark grey smoke--the entire garage was filled with what looked like steel wool.  . . . Husband ran into the abyss, and thank God, the only thing on fire was the grill and the 7 pounds of chicken wrapped in 2 pounds of bacon.

Husband had agreed to cook this grill delicacy (marinated in pinneapple juice, terriyaki, and soy) for a joint birthday celebration of the 20- year- old and 9- year- old. They agreed on the meal, harrassed Dad to grill it even though it was November, and once Grandpa arrived the men moved the grill to the garage out of the 30 mph wind--and I do not exaggerate. Dad/Husband is master griller, and kept religiously checking his chix--so we don't know what happened exactly, but for just a millisecond of time I had a flash of what being caught in a real fire might be like. I was able to shut the house doors, Husband grabbed the grill and all but threw it in the driveway, and the only thing lost was the meat. The grill is still TBD. Scary, and wierd, and surreal, and I might add, really stinky. The garage is working on a nice blend of oil, old boots, and now, charred farmyard.

What about dinner, one might ask? Well, the same men who initially moved the grill to the garage, and then wrestled the fiery beast out of the garage, took to Grandpa's truck, a.k.a. "meal rescuer" and drove to the Jewel in search of some more protein. So the birthday kids still had their brown sugar carrots (which were rescured from the dragon), parmesan red potatoes, peas, and Jewel Deli Fried Chicken. And now they have a story to tell as well. And we have a new grill to buy--or so Husband hopes.

An Ode to the Stomach Flu

Oh Stomach Flu, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways . .
I love you to the depths of my tubs of Chlorox Wipes,
to the breadths of couches and chairs covered in sheets and little boy bed pillows.

Your little germies infiltrate the unsuspecting bellies of my buddies--
cutting short the school day and delivering us all home to rest. We
fidget in the strangeness of daytime television, not quite knowing what to do
with ourselves
who
find our legs in jammies, and heads on pillows when the sun is still high.
Boxes of kleenex, cups of ginger ale, and take-home work juxtaposed with
remote controls and baskets of clean unfolded laundry. All quotidian, yet
strangely out of place.

So, how do I love thee? Not so much. But I did:
Rub backs
Grade Papers
Get Kleenex
Answer Emails
Offer Ice
Update my blog
And wish that it was me instead of them.

Favorite

A week of no blogging means a busy week here at home and school. But just to pacify myself that I did, indeed, blog this week, I'll quickly share one of my favorite things . . .

Sleepy boys in their beds, smelling of warm hair and flushed faces as I kiss them awake in the morning. So safe. All of the possibilities of the day ahead getting ready to stretch out before them. Even better? When a sleepy arm unfurls itself from under the cave of blankets to pull me further into the wake-up call. Eyes not even open, but still wanting their Mom even when they are eight and ten.

Parents

Breaking all of the rules of essay writing here. I have no well-developed thesis tucked into beautiful prose to slyly unfold in front of my reader. Simply want to say that it is fun to hang out with my parents. They were here yesterday mostly to go to a minor league baseball game with my buddies, but we managed to sneak in some good conversation before the game, in-between the obnxious announcer, bad music, and piercing air horn being manned by the socially inept gentleman behind us, and for a bit once we arrived home. Nice to want to be with family. Even more lovely to be known by them. And better still for all of us to still keep choosing each other.

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 . . .

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 . . ."

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.

Overheard Weekend Edition

10-year-old's first comment when picking him up afterschool on Friday, "Mom, jumping off of the swings is sooo exhilarating!"--Yes, honey, it is. Oh, to go back to those days. And, I wonder if he can spell "exhilarating"?

8-year-old who has been limping around on a sore heel for two weeks, "Mom, how is this going to get better?" Mom, "by resting it." 8-year-old, "Yeah, like that is going to happen."--Self-knowledge is half of the battle . . .

Watching the famous John Wayne movie The Cowboys with the family, and 8-year-old says,"what are they doing with all of those cows?" Mom replies, "well, they are moving them from one town to another to try to sell them." 8-year-old replies, "So that's why they are called, 'cow boys'? That's dumb."--Well, honey, I'm not sure that the American Old West was the linguistic capital of the world.

"Mom are we going to Church tomorrow?" 8-year-old asks. Mom replies, "Well, honey, that depends." "On what, if Daddy sleeps on the couch tonight?" 8-year-old reasons.--Much funnier if one doesn't know that Daddy has been sleeping on the couch because he has been sick with bronchitis.

Art Imitates Life Again

I just started reading The Wierd Sisters by Eleanor Brown. The wierd sisters, named after the witches in Macbeth, are three sisters in their thirties who find themselves living back at home with their parents. Their father, a college professor, has named them Rosalind, Biana, and Cordelia, and he quotes extensively and exclusively from Shakespeare.Their mother is fighting cancer. One line of the book lifted itself up and offered itself to me last week when I read, "First there was a lump. And then there was a biopsy. And now we are a family who is dealing with the word 'Malignant'."  While my siblings and I aren't named after Shakespearean characters, and we don't live at home, we are in our thirties, my father does often shamelessly quote from Shakespeare, and my Mom is now battling cancer. We are too now one of those families who is "dealing with the word 'Malignant'." But the cancer is contained and Mom is strong."Out, out damned spot!" we say, and in the meantime, we'll, "screw our courage to the sticking place. . ."

Life Imitates Art

I heard shreiking laughter coming from the boys' bathroom after dinner last night. Went to check. Tentatively opened the door a crack, afraid of what I might encounter when my 8 and 10 year olds had been left alone together in the bathroom. I need not have troubled myself however when thrust into the thin slit between door and frame was what was formerly known as an army action figure now had hands where feet should be, and an arm where a head once resided. I paused, wondered, and then was confirmed when 10 year old shouted uproariously, "Look Mom! It's a Picasso!"

Overheard

One of my favorite parts of my college's newspaper was the "Overheard" column--random comments collected by the newspaper staff and then inserted into the paper, purposefully with no context because, of course the lack context makes the comments even funnier, and often delightfully more suggestive. In homage to that profound formula, I think I will offer periodic "Overheard" snippits from my household and a little piece of my stream-of-conciousness that followed.

Here is a sampling from last night:

"Mom, I think you should be a priest."  --Um, okay . . . well . . .

Pouting 8-yr-old son enters house, shutting door a bit too loudly,"All they want to do is make mud pies and dig for worms" -- REALLY? That is a horrible thing for a group of boys to want to do.

"You know, bacon is really the best thing there is for you" --Honey, I couldn't agree more.

Mom to 8 yr-old wrapped in towel after shower dripping wet on the carpet, "Go get some underpants on silly" 10 yr-old brother added, "Yeah, because we don't want to see that." --Right. Because we never see that in a house of boys.

As much as things change . . .

I have learned that they tend to stay the same. This cliche holds true in my relationship with my sister. If you are reading this blog post, then you have likely read the first one on this site, so you are already aware, dear reader, that this blog began because my bossy older sister "made me do it." This behavior is not much different than when we were little girls with sunburnt noses and shoulders and I was the one sent inside to get cups for water, or towels for drying-off from the sprinkler. My bossy older sister of the harder-than-steel shins who won every kicking fight we ever had, and who so kindly "allowed" me to sleep on her bedroom floor when the thermometer hit 95 degrees (she had a window unit air conditioner when I did not), is also the bossy older sister who can make me laugh until I cannot breathe, and she can look at me with one eyebrow raised and that one twitch replaces a 20 minute conversation. She is the gracious older sister who was always my biggest fan even when in many situations she could have simply not acknowledged me and no one would have faulted her. Particularly when my extroverted, um, shall we say, "passionate" self could have, and I assume did, crawl under her more introverted skin. Suffice it to say, I'm writing because she has been hounding me for ten years to write something, and since she did the initial blog set-up, I was trapped, er, I mean, I agreed. So, here, I am, may my musings be worthy of her efforts.

My Sister Made Me Do It

This inaugural entry is really prologue -- a guest post by R's sister, Sherry; I'm the gal who decorated this space in an agreement that if I built it, she would write.  And so, the design, title, subtitle, pictures, descriptions, and song list at this start-up are entirely my (Sherry's) fault,  and any grammatical errors, misspellings, or less-than-sophisticated imagery should not be held against Lady R.  I'm sure she will improve upon this space when it is gifted to her and as she has time here and there after taking the reins.

Love to you, Big R!

--Sbug