Reclaiming the Joy

Dear Harry


A few years ago, when I started this blog, I wrote about finding my passion, my joy.  I think, I know, it is still a passion.  I still voraciously seek new ways, new techniques, old things made new to help me be the best teacher I can be, but near the beginning of this school year, my first year mentor and very good friend looked at me with such sadness.  "You've lost your joy."  I could do nothing but agree.

I have become hollow.  The outside still stands and masquerades as a teacher because my conscience won't let me quit.  I will not let me give less to every one of my students than the show that they require.  I still sing and dance appropriately.  I still ooh and aah.  It would finish me off if even one of my students knew that I am half, half here and half somewhere else.

I can't abide people who just phone it in, so I can't be what I detest, but there is something missing in me.  At the end of the day, I am not smiling.  I find myself angry for no apparent reason, it's just an underlying seething of emotion that keeps my temper quick and my patience short, my skin thin.  How do I get back?  What has caused the change?  I had to take a hard inventory.  Did the kids change or did I?

Here's what I discovered.  For the most part, the kids hadn't changed.  They are still teenagers, full of raging hormones, too much hair gel, no clues on etiquette or appropriate language.  They are still hungry all the time and unfortunately, have no table manners.  They still ask the dumbest questions with complete innocence.  They still tell wonderfully silly stories and sometimes laugh at my jokes.  They still think they know every thing and are still the laziest creatures who sometimes have spurts of pure genius wrapped in enthusiasm.  They daily have my thoughts sway between the world is lost to faith restored in humanity.

They still get offended when you point out bad behavior and tell anyone who'll listen that you hate them, when in truth, you are just trying to teach a different lesson, a life lesson.  I've taught long enough now that I've had students come back, hug me, thank me, so I cry and tell them it was worth it.  I've taught long enough to spot some pitfalls in a lesson, to know when the prankster, the class clown is going to crack an inappropriate joke, to know when they really have to go to the bathroom.  I've taught long enough that I know exactly where to find curriculum support, how to gauge the time needed for a lesson, and when to bring headphones to a faculty meeting.

I discovered that it really doesn't matter if you teach freshmen or seniors, the maturity level is a subtle difference.  This year I am teaching two subjects instead of one.  I have freshmen in one and seniors in the other.  The subjects are vastly different but the students not so much.  I do have to remind the seniors when homework is due, but I do not have to tell them to stop running around the classroom or to not lick the calculators, well, most days.  I've learned that my freshmen don't go anywhere, so their classes can stick to a pretty strict routine which helps them and me, while I have to be much more "go with the flow" with the seniors.  They are absent all the time for an annoyingly long list of reasons from AP trips to sick kids to work schedules.  These students are not only responsible for school, an alarming number are supporting children, themselves and sometimes elderly parents.  I have more than a few seniors that are already on their own, with rent, groceries and electric bills.  How do you give meaning to a Statistics lesson when they have already seen more real life than some adults I know.  They are desperate for somebody to care about what they think or desperately trying to figure out where they stand.  I'm preaching college/career and they are trying to figure out food and clothing.

I discovered that it really does not matter how hard I work, not all of the kids are going to learn every lesson.  Sometimes my job has very little to do with math.  Sometimes my job is about fulfilling bureaucratic nonsense.  Sometimes, I can't plan a lesson because I am too busy writing some lesson plan form that neither helps me plan a lesson nor helps me teach a lesson, but it makes an administrator feel better.  Sometimes the amount of documentation I keep on parent contact becomes a full time job and the 45 minute planning period feels like 10.  Sometimes I spend more time fielding emails about new forms I need to fill out about parent contact than actual parent contact.

I discovered that not all teachers actually attempt all of these things.  It took me years to discover that not all teachers contact parents.  That not all teachers search for new ideas, new techniques, take meaningful grades, have expectations.  Then I discovered that the majority of the policies I am struggling to fulfill and still keep my class relevant are because of those teachers and all of the problems that stem from those behaviors.  Now please let me be clear, that number is very small.  I work with some SUPER TEACHERS, capes and all.  When I see them walking down the hall, I see them just like that, capes and hair blowing in the wind.  I rarely see the worry lines, the stress.  I rarely see the temper and impatience I too feel.

I discovered that administrators sometimes mess up and that maybe I hold them to too high of a standard, but maybe not.  I discovered that because of us SUPER TEACHERS, administrators try to use our methods and standards for all teachers, which is unrealistic.  A policy and or procedure that works for an English teacher will not necessarily work for the PE teacher; hence, I refer back to the lesson plan form.  On the other hand, because of the few non-SUPER TEACHERS, administrators tend to assume that the parent couldn't possibly be lying when they say that the teacher has not contacted them instead of asking the teacher or referring to one of the many forms of documentation required and then SUPER TEACHERS get hate mail that because of who they are internalize and redouble their efforts when in a perfect world, the hate mail would not have been sent and SUPER TEACHER  would not have taken any kryptonite.

A coworker told me I needed thicker skin, my mother suggested hormones, and my kids just assumed the crazy was showing more then usual, but I kept going back to that lack of joy.  What was it exactly that made me so angry? Was it the kids, the non-SUPER TEACHERS or the administrators, or was it something else?

The underlying problem as we most often discover and as I finally did, was that it's all of it and yet, none of it.  Did I want to rip a non-SUPER TEACHER's head off when I discovered that he was deleting print jobs as they came in, well, I think anybody would.  Is that a problem only I suffer from,? Absolutely not.  Every office, retail store, restaurant and school has the "holier than thou" jerk face that thinks their work is more important than every one else.  Hopefully, it's not your boss.  I am grateful that he is not mine.  I am grateful that I have four walls, 30 mostly working calculators, heat and air, well sometimes and usually enough desks for everyone.  I am grateful that I drive well maintained roads that are land mine free and I am grateful that I am able to deliver my children including my daughter to school safely.  I recently saw an article that showed classrooms around the world, sometimes, just spaces in a park when weather permitted.  The kids were there and a lone teacher stood.  I do not face those conditions.  I get angry about technology breaking down when at least I have it.  I get angry about a lot, the hate I see every day when I turn on the news from both the left and the right, and I can not get started about the hate I see on social media, where there is not even the pretense of factual guidance. Both sides so convinced they are right and everybody has an opinion, but then, I remember I am grateful that we are allowed to have an opinion.

I have been told more than once by more than one person that my anger is unjustified.   That my anger at the injustices, the non-SUPER TEACHERS, the administrators, the Facebook trollers and photoshop liars is unjustified, and maybe they are right but maybe they are not.  I don't want to stay dry eyed when I see children in pain.  I don't want to not want a better system for our children to learn in and I don't want the hate in this world to win, so I won't! Says the two year old throwing the temper tantrum inside of me.  I mean full out tantrum, legs kicking, face red, tears flowing.  I am right, they are wrong and dang it, I am becoming what I protest against.  Deep breath in. Sigh it out.

I imagine at some point in every one's life as they've grown, they came to a point in their professional or personal lives where a compromise was made.  When we are teenagers and young 20s, we call it selling out.  It's all or nothing, everything is so very black and white.  As I rapidly approach 40, I faced my compromise and the two year old threw a fit, the 20 something screamed, "Sell out".  The mother, the teacher and the woman; however, found peace. Thankfully.  Now, as the passion returns, the hormones kick in and the skin thickens, with luck, the crazy will decrease and if I am careful and focus on what I can control,  on what I can give and keep reminding my self that I am loved and that I love, the joy will return.  I have seen glimpses.  I am hopeful, I am grateful and I am determined that next time I see my mentor she will see the joy from me and not anger or sadness or the worst of all, bitterness.

The bitterness that was taking hold is what finally held the anger at bay, what finally had me pick up the 2 year old and soothe her, what allowed the 20 something to agree to the compromise.  All of me has seen what bitterness does, what it eats away in the heart and the mind and none of me, none of me wanted that ugliness to cloud any of my decisions, so as Thanksgiving approaches, I have the greatest of joys, hope and gratitude!

So here'
s to compromises for the soul Harry and of course to southern cooking at Thanksgiving with all the trimmings!

With love from East Texas

Georgia Peach/Bulldog

Hey Harry

 A few days ago, I said farewell to a dear friend.  She started off as a colleague and strange blonde lady down the hall that I could sometimes hear teaching through the wall but as she headed off on her new journey to teach a thousand miles away, my heart cracked a little.  She brightened our hallways with her genuine smile and colorful style.  There were days where I actually said, “What in the world are you wearing?”, but it was just her being her.  Sometimes we would go a week without seeing one another as schedules became more and more hectic, but I knew if the day became too long or too hectic a smile and a diet coke were only a short walk away. 

5 Things I Learned From a Georgia Peach/Bulldog

1. The southern belle is alive and well.  

From “Bless your heart.” to church dress, she showed me that being a lady was more than your speech, even though hers was impeccable.  Grammar correct and vulgarities absent she proved that you can get your point across without raising your voice.  Even when she was so angry that her face was red and there were tears of frustration, a cuss word did not cross her lips.  She was always wiling to lend a helping hand without complaint or censure even to those who had just caused the tears. 

2. Strength has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with character.

She raised four children on a preacher and a teacher’s salary and sometimes on no salary at all.  She raised them while supporting her husband in his endeavors with faith and positivity in this country and in others.  She taught while battling cancer, while beating cancer, and then went on to show students and staff that her support wouldn't stop even though her cure had come.  She kept a schedule of cheer coach, math teacher and Relay Team Captain every year. 

3. Wave your flag, whatever, it may be.

She showed me that if you were passionate about it, then do it.  She encouraged me to write this blog.  She was there when it first came into being.  She was my first fan.  She always taught with joy and she encouraged every child to participate in whatever it was that brought them joy no matter what others said.  If you want to be in theatre, be in theatre.  If you want to be in the band, then be the best.  Don't be afraid to share your passion with others. 

4. Don’t judge a book by its cover.

This is an old adage that we should have down by now, but she showed me that I was guilty of judging when I shouldn’t have.  She is a true blonde.  She is a cheer coach.  I assumed two things, ditsy and not very bright.  I was so wrong and I am so glad I had the opportunity to realize it.  She showed me how very small my judgments made me with grace and a smile and without ever making me feel like a goof, and although she did have her moments, who doesn’t really, ditsy she was not. 

On Monday, I start a new year.  It will be my 5th year teaching but it will be my first year without our Georgia Peach/Bulldog.  I contemplate how trying it will be for me without her there.  The refrigerator full of diet coke and water and the peanut butter crackers stashed in the closet, missing that smile full of kindness not to mention one of the few teachers still willing to sit by me during meetings. 

On Monday, she will have her first day of class at her new school and again she teaches me a lesson.  I am not having to learn a whole new schedule, find a new grocery store, learn new traffic patterns, figure out where the closest bathroom is to my classroom.  I’m not in a whole new town going to convocation where no one is saving me a seat. I am here going all woe is me and what do I get, but a text from her wishing me a great new year.  Reminding me where I can find some things I’ll need for the upcoming weeks.  

5.  Always remember to count your blessings.  

Per the example above, I tend to be a bit melodramatic.  I rarely see the silver lining until after much lamenting and a lot of reflection and thankfully, most times, a swift kick in the butt.  

So to the Georgia Peach with the tenacity of the bulldog of her alma mater, safe journey, good luck and a very heart felt thank you for everything. 

Talk to you soon Harry!

With love from East Texas

An Ending and A Beginning

I am so sorry Harry, that is has been so long since our last chat.  This spring was one filled with so much that I let our conversations slide.  I bottled up everything and even though there were many evenings where I simply stared at the tv and had ample time to write, I found I couldn't even pick up a pen.  Once the daily grind of classroom bells and tutorials had faded, I continue to struggle with sharing.  Daily I would think, I have to tell Harry about that, but I never followed through.  It took me many months to name the funk that restrained me, but today, I finally opened the computer.  I heard a quote from the writers of Mike and Molly.  It said, "Don't write what you know, write what you don't want people to know."  

I sent the letter below earlier in the summer.  I debated for several weeks as to whether or not to publish it in this format. I write about pride, joy, sorrow and disgust.  Weird, I know, but they can all be inside you at the same time.  It also shows a side of me that I am not very proud.  The side that can be hateful and spiteful.  The kids call it my "grrr" face.  It's the side of me that doesn't want to see the other side of things.  The side of me that doesn't want to turn the other cheek or give the benefit of the doubt.  Those times when doing the right thing is so painful that it makes you physically ill.  I had so many of those moments this year.

All spring I was faced with situations where the right thing was not necessarily the best thing for me.  I had to sacrifice my pride and smile when inside the beasts were nashing their sharp teeth and tearing with sharp claws.  My professionalism was tested almost on a daily basis.  My neighbor and I formed a justice league.  Those that followed the rules and persevered even when everything around them was falling apart and everyone was giving in to societal pressures, following the path of least resistance.  Without her strength, I am certain that the beast would not have been satisfied with imaginary ranting.  I learned many lessons from her this year in patience and tact. The letter; however, is not my best writing, but it is my real feelings.  Will the sending of it do my daughter or any other student any good?  Probably not, but it took me these past weeks to realize that it wasn't for them.  It was for me.  I had silenced my voice all year and this, this was the straw.  I needed me to be heard.  Not for justice or for right, but just for the simple and plain conclusion many of us reach.  Our voice must be shared in some form, whether it be spoken or the written word.  

Dear Principal,

Four years ago, as my daughter began high school; she put a list of goals on the refrigerator.  These goals included things like “Go to State Meet for UIL” and “Go to state for band”.  Every year, she would check something off.  Her dedication, determination and sometimes, pure grit, were nothing short of beautiful.   There was one goal that could not be achieved though until her senior year, Valedictorian.

Each year, I came to you with questions and concerns about her schedule. One year, we learned you did not offer PAP Spanish to freshmen.  Another year, well a couple of years, there was a conflict with band so she missed out on PAP Historys.  This year the schedule had two AP senior classes at the same time.

I recall when I came to you after her freshmen year vividly.  I was concerned because yet again schedule conflicts going into sophomore year were holding her back.  I shared with you my daughter’s goals, including Valedictorian.  You chuckled and said, “Well, that’s a lofty goal, but that might be setting yourself up for failure.”  It took pretty much all of my professional training not to scream at you, “You don’t even know who my daughter is, do you?”  I didn’t though.  I smiled and thought how sad it was that a principal didn’t know his students, especially when this student, as a freshman, had been in the paper for her achievements at his high school 3 times.   By her senior year, you had finally figured out who she was though and now her mentions for your school in the paper have multiplied.  She has put your school in the paper more times than your athletics combined.  

You know this now, but let me tell you some things you didn’t.  You didn’t know how during her senior year, she’s held 3 jobs and volunteered at a soup kitchen.  One of those jobs is tutoring a young girl in mathematics.  She takes her brother to karate on Monday’s when I can’t.  She randomly brings me my favorite Diet Coke with Sonic ice on days I have to work late.  She feels bad that she won’t be here next year, so she keeps taking her brothers and sister out randomly like she’s trying to store up the memories to hold her over till she’s home again.

Through it all she’s hit achievement after achievement.  Her grade point average has steadily climbed and yet, consistently, she has sat at #2. Not by deed, but by schedule conflict.  Each year, you’d pat me on the head and shuffle my concerns under the rug, while my daughter continued to fight for her goals. Each year, you told me it would all work out.  Each year, her light shined brighter and brighter for you and your school.  

I am not sure if you can begin to understand how proud I am of my daughter, sir.  I know you are a father, so I want to believe that you can.  You stood next to her in front of your school board just a few weeks ago as she received yet again, award after award.  You smiled for the camera and shook her hand.  Even now, she’s not done, as she has a state band and state UIL competition still to go before graduation.  

Earlier this week, I learned that her goal of becoming Valedictorian would not come true. Notice I have never called it a dream.  A dream is something that may or may not be attainable, it has a fuzzy feeling and a wispy connotation, but a goal, a goal is something you work for, strive for, and bleed for, if necessary.  My daughter did all of those things.  She did it with character, grace and more understanding than her mother when you swept away my concerns. 

In the long run, will her ranking in high school matter?  Absolutely not.  Has her ranking cost her the university she wants to attend? No, and to be honest, her scholarship was awarded before the rankings were announced.  My cup runneth over as they say, but it has cost her and it has devalued something I was not ready for her to lose.  As a mother, it is my duty, my pleasure, and my responsibility to protect my children from the evils of the world, from monsters under the bed to bullies on the playground.  As her mother, I was not ready for her to realize that sometimes, even when you have given it everything you have, you still lose.  I was not prepared for her to learn that life is rarely fair, that most days the guy doesn’t get the girl, the damsel in distress usually saves herself and what’s right, what’s just, usually loses to what’s profitable.  

I knew that these lessons were not far off as on August 19^th, I will officially leave my child behind in her brand new, well slightly used, dorm room.  From that moment on, my protection privileges change.  Now, I become a bystander in her life and all I can do is support her through the trials, but I had hoped that before that day came, her fairy tale view of the world would not have to be tarnished. 

I gave her the you did the best you can speech and for her part, I think she’s content.  At least, I hope she is, but my heart aches for her and my conscience is not quite clear as I wonder is there more I could have done for her.  Could I have fought you any harder on those schedule changes, sir?  Should I have taken it to the next level?  We shall never know.  I do know that she is better than me and even though the fairy tale is tarnished, her light is not.

I wish you well, sir, and moving forward, my hopes for this letter are simple.  I hope it helps me to forgive us both for whatever wrongs real or imaginary we have done to her and I hope that the next time a parent comes to you with their bright light, that you will pause for just a second before you laugh off their concerns.  

God speed, sir, may your travels be calm and swift. 

As always, with love to you Harry, from East Texas

Messages

Dear Harry

I took a trip.  Just a quick trip up the road to the only natural lake in TX, Caddo.  I traveled with my four children and my best friend.  We loaded up the car with food, clothes and fishing gear for our four day stay.  I wasn't sure if this would be a trip my kids would enjoy as Caddo isn't a lake for swimming.  It sits on the Texas/Louisiana border and has alligators listed as one of its natural inhabitants, but off we went.  The next four days we laughed, we fished and we canoed.  The quiet there was like nothing I had experienced before.  The stillness was its own kind of noise. It was noticeable to the point that throughout the day, you found yourself stopping to comment on it. The laughter of my children was not subdued by it though. They kept me so busy with setting hooks and boat rides, I don't think the stillness around us was ready or will ever forget.   We watched cranes wading through the lilypads and other various wildlife, but to my son's chagrin, we never did see and alligator.  My two teenage daughters actually cooperated long enough to take a canoe ride together.  It was another world that we all found difficult to leave.

My dad seemed to be everywhere there, like he was part of the wind that swayed the moss hanging from every Cypress.  I could see him around every corner, hear his gut laugh and the smell of Old Spice seemed to blend and become part of the bayou.  It was so strong that even after we returned, I couldn't shake it.  So I traveled to my hometown to the small cemetery where he is buried.  I stood there in the summer sun and cleaned up the grass that tried to grow over his stone.  I told him about our trip, his grandchildren and I, desperately, wanted an answer.  None came of course, just the sounds of summer and the occasional car.

Then it's time for school to start again, the hustle and bustle of the familiar routine, but this year is different.  This year my oldest daughter is a senior.  Soon I will have to share her brilliance with the world and as many moms before have done, I am struggling with it.  Just today, I woke and headed to her room to tell her good morning, but she was already gone.  Off to work or to church or to visit friends.  The sadness that came over me at the sight of that empty room seemed to carry a weight.  Although, I am not the only one beginning to feel it.  One of my son's wrote in a school assignment that he wanted to work at GameStop so he would get to see his sissy more.

I began to realize that her graduating is like a loss.  I am grieving even as I rejoice.  My life will never be the same, just as hers won't.  Her journey is just beginning as we plan college tours and apply for this scholarship and that university.  I want to stop the clock's movement because it hurts to know next year at this time, she'll be far away.  We've received two acceptance letters and I predict many more before she makes her final decision.  It is her decision, her journey.  I am desperatley trying not to push one way or the other, but I am afraid I am probably failing.  Of course, one theory of parenting is that we are going screw them up either way, so do what you want; however, I think I'll give it a bit more thought than that.

My little world was shattered again as my Lily began discussing her choices for electives in high school.  My brain actually went blank for a second as in the movies, when the actor looks straight at the camera and asks the audience if what they heard was for real.  She cannot possibly be old enough for high school.

I keep struggling with the back and forth of holding tight to my little ones and letting go so that they can explore, grow, become who they are.  This year the struggle seems to be growing.  Is it the milestones that make me look back or is it fear of the future halting my steps?

Now, suddenly, it seems, it's already the New Year, 2015.  I begin a new semester tomorrow.  My oldest daughter begins her last semester of high school.  My younger daughter begins her last semester of middle school and my baby boys, well, 3rd grade volcanos won't be repeated thank goodness.  The holidays brought adventure as mom hit a hog of all things and needed rescuing on Christmas Eve, but the most intriguing to me was a moment earlier that evening.  My father finally answered me, well, after a fashion.  Karaoke is a tradition for my family on Christmas Eve.  Cousins, aunts, uncles all sing loudly and off key, but with great joy.  The first song of the night was chosen by my son, named for the son my father didn't have.  He picks James Taylor's "You've got a friend."  Now why you ask would an 8 year old pick James Taylor?  Normally, I wouldn't have an answer.  This time though, I do.  That is the last song played at my father's funeral.  The song that will forever remind me of him and that I am not alone.  Message received.

 I sang along, I cried and I took a deep breath.  All is well, Rachel Leigh.  I am not losing anything.  My daughter won't stop being my daughter.  I am not alone.  We are not alone.  Forgive me Harry for doubting.

As always Harry, wishing you love and happiness.  Merry Christmas!  Happy New Year!

With love from East Texas

The Journey Evolved

Dear Harry,

We spoke about many things on that bench over a year ago, but there is still so much to tell.  A year has passed, can you believe it? My first post to this blog was on July 11, lucky 7/11.  My anniversary post is on 7/7.  Hoping to keep the good luck flowing.

I am a voracious ready, Harry.  It does not have to be anything of literary value, I just read everything, food labels, newspapers, Facebook, Twitter, road signs, everything.  It never stops.  I soak it all in, the good, the bad and the ugly, so I decided earlier this year to make a list of books, classic literature mostly, that I needed to read.  I put away my fun fiction, my Nora Roberts and Maeve Benchy and picked up Sagan, Salinger and Steinbeck.  Ok, not Steinbeck, sorry Mrs. Baxley, The Grapes of Wrath left a sour taste.  Jack Kerouac did make the list though and my local library is fairly small, but it had a copy of Kerouac's On the Road.  I read this line, "I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost."  I paused, reread it, thought, "Man, I've been there."

Not only have I been there, but I've revisited it a few more times than I'd like to admit.  I can't speak for other moms, but sometimes the routine, the constant noise, work, home, cook,  rinse, repeat, ugh! I wake up and think, "Where is the person I planned to be when I grew up?"  I have already spoken about finding my passion and I have definitely spoken about how precious it is to me to be a mom, this does not change that; however, as readers are want to do, we begin to question everything.

I call this my internal battle with meaning of life vs. living of life.  This is where intellectual debate battles with water balloon fights, culture vs. fun, reading for pleasure vs. reading for broadening the mind.  I am constantly torn and I believe this battle has intensified as a parent/teacher, not lessened.  Now I am not just responsible for my intellectual and spiritual growth, I am also responsible for theirs, which leads me to make lists of classical literature I need to read, which leads me to read lines like Kerouac's, which leads to the questioning above and the vicious cycle continues.

Our world grows smaller everyday.  My phone now takes me anywhere I want to go with a swipe of my finger.  A mere 30 years ago, that same swipe, only got me one number dialed on a rotary phone and I still had at least six numbers to go.  Even then, that only led to another phone ringing and the hope that someone was there to answer.  Books were our main resource.  My mother was proud to be able to provide her children with a complete set of encyclopedias where we could learn about he world around us.  She also subscribed to National Geographic and bought the complete ChildCraft series, all in an effort to enlighten and inspire her children.  We took museum trips, zoo trips and she was always pointing out some cultural something.

Today, the leather bound encyclopedia has been replaced by Google and sadly, wikipedia.  I now follow National Geographic on Twitter and there is a new Cosmos hosted by Carl Sagan's former student.  With information so readily available, I found the intellectual in me craving leather bound beauties.  I needed to smell paper and ink.  I needed my children to see me reading, my students to know there was life outside the internet and video games.  I began scoffing at anything I deemed unworthy.  If it was pop culture, I did not want to hear about it.  I only wanted to discuss the great philosophies of life and debate their meanings.  I became obsessed with my own self importance and then as I read Sagan, my almost insignificance in the grand scale that is our universe.

Two things brought me out of my own head, a friend and of course my babies.  This blog was inspired in part by an old friend who travels the world taking photographs and sharing the stories of the subjects they display, those human experiences, connections.  He always seems to be reading and quoting something prophetic while being humble and approachable.  Definitely someone I want to be like when I grow up.  A few weeks ago though, he asked if any one had an old video game console he could borrow.  He said he needed to get back to basics for a while, connect with the child inside.  Hold the phone!  Then later that same day, my son wanted to watch Swamp People while singing the entire soundtrack of Frozen.  He is eight.  I cringed but you are only a kid once, so I left the room, grabbed Kerouac and put on an old episode of Cosmos.  A few minutes later, I realize not just one, but all four of my children are on my bed watching Cosmos, asking questions, answering each other and pausing the episode for bathroom breaks, and there it was.  My answer as usual lie within the human connections.  My friend was right to look for our child inside, that curious, wonderful, full of energy and light and questions youth.  He was not leaving his other pursuits behind, he just needed to reconnect with why he was pursuing them and so did I.  I sat there and watched several episodes with my babies until the day caught up with them and one by one I put them to bed.  I remembered a quote I had read by mathematician Blaise Pascal, ". . . it is much better to know something about everything than everything about something.  Such universality is the finest."  I had deemed things unworthy where it was not my place and I shut myself off from the real reason to read, curiosity, child like and simple, but still worthy and most of all, joyful.  I had become the "haunted life", "the living ghost".

Again, I say thank you to my friend whose photographs and stories inspired me to start this blog a year ago and whose words still remind me that my journey is evolving.  I say thank you to my children whose effervescence gives me the energy to evolve and finally, as always,

To you Harry from New Jersey with love from East Texas!

Update to Purple Petunias

Dear Harry

Just a quick update.  Texas EOC (End of Course) Exams are over and they happened to fall during National Teacher Appreciation Week. Coincidence, I think not. 

Today, we received tokens of appreciation from various students and student groups.  I just wanted to send the pictures of what we received.  Blessing come in small packages that have big impacts. (Please note the type and color of the potted plant.)

Purple Petunias

Dear Harry

I'm struggling Harry not to make this blog all woe is me.  I will do my best not to let my recent frustrations burn through the beautiful and positive things that have happened since I last wrote; however, for a teacher, this is the most stressful time of year.  I have spent hours planning, preparing, scouring for new and exciting lessons.  I have tried new games, integrated technology and read countless articles on how teenage minds work, how to counter act environmental influences, how to reach the fringe student and so on, all in preparation and hope that at the end of the year my freshmen babies will be able to pass the one math test that the great state of Texas says they need to graduate high school.

It's crunch time in Texas and for the past 3 weeks we have worked even harder, longer, somehow finding new ways to approach old lessons all the while continuing with curriculum.  Pre-crunch time, I was usually home by 6:30, sometimes 5:30 depending on my biological babies after school activities, but now, I'm lucky if I make it home before 8.  I'm home in time to kiss them goodnight and check homework before the nightly grading and or planning begins for my freshmen babies.  One more week, I have, to try every trick we teachers have compiled to battle the apathy that currently is our greatest enemy, to engage the students who have procrastinated all year and yet still hold true to our own beliefs about not teaching the test.  Eight months of preparation and hard work come to a 4 hour test in May.  Do I hope that I have instilled more in my students than test strategies? Absolutely. Do I hope that I have encouraged, enlightened and inspired my students? Most definitely.

Now all this stress is surrounded by life outside of work. My oldest went to her junior prom.  She looked beautiful.  All of the traditions and pomp and pageantry were observed, the gown, the hair, the make-up and the corsage.  My grandmother, her great-grandmother, made sure she had one.  It was perfect and a simple reminder that times change and technology marches us forward, but the gift of flowers is nothing short of marvelous no matter the generation.

I was in a wreck recently, no one but vehicles was injured and the other guys insurance is paying the bill, so although it's a hassle and my car doesn't look very pretty, I cannot complain against the blessing that I nor the others involved went unharmed.  We did make the front page of small town Texas and for a day or two I had my 15 minutes of fame, but as always, time marches us.

My blessings sometimes are not so obvious.  As every year, spring break beckons me to make plans for my garden.  Normally, I have tilled and planted by our return to school, but this year between late winter storms that included snow fall and an illness that knocked me down, my garden kept getting pushed back.  I would look longingly at that patch of earth as days turned into weeks and still I was unable to plant.  Now Easter weekend was upon us.  On Good Friday, I awoke and headed outside for my morning coffee before waking the kids.  My plan that day was to meet their grandmother so that they could spend the weekend together.  Would I be able to plant while they were away? In answer, I heard the sound that had been absent throughout the long winter months.  The buzz and hum that were too loud for a bee or wasp or even the rambling bumble bee.  I look up from my coffee and there just ahead, he winked.  My ruby-throated visitor of summer past had returned.  He hovered for a moment and I smiled.


My daily grind was getting me down, but the earth was still making her way around the sun.  I was not the only tired, working mom wondering if she had made a difference.  Humans around the globe were having their coffee, putting kids to bed, stressed at work, burying a loved one or welcoming one into this crazy beautiful world.

I traveled to the arranged meeting place and then headed to my local Lowe's.  I gathered tomatoes, peppers, squash and all of my usual, with a few things just for fun, like the mucho nacho giant jalapeño.  As I waited in line, an elderly gentlemen walked up behind me holding a pallet of purple petunias.  I offered to let him go first as he had only one item compared to my cart full.  He slowly smiled and shook his head, "No thanks, the sooner I check out, the sooner I'll have to get to work."  We both giggled.  The line was not moving so no harm in continuing the conversation.  He notices my bags of manure.  Again he smiles, "I love that brand, too.  I got 7 bags, almost 300 lbs, for 11 bucks.  My wife's flowers love it.  That's why I'm here.  Got the wrong kind last time.  She's the flower general that one.  Every year, our yard put on a show, but she got the Alzheimer's so now I make sure I plant her favorites in the box outside her window."

The lane next to us opened up and with a tip of his head, he moved to the register with his pallet of purple petunias.  I could not help the stunned look on my face nor could I stop my heart from turning over.  I imagine his gnarled hands at one time fixed manly things while his wife in her gardening hear maintained her home and yard with the precision of the general he said she was.  Now those gnarled hands dig through manure and sand to hopefully bring some semblance of normal back to their lives. I ache at the love those gnarled hands show a wife who may never again say the words.

So on Good Friday, I planted my garden with my mother for company and on Easter Sunday, I laughed with my sisters about everything and nothing.  Now a week later, on Monday, I will enter the final week before everything is out of my hands.  Some would argue that nothing is in my hands to start with, but that will not stop myself and thousands of others from doing our part.  It will not stop last minute reviews and pep talks, games and
pop quizzes.  Teachers can no more give up than gnarled hands can stop planting purple petunias.

Love keeps us moving forward, despite all obstacles,  despite life's continued roller coaster ride of surprise flat tires, unexpected expenses and unforgiving work hours, despite apathetic students who cannot show fear or interest for threat of peer retribution.

"Once more unto the breach dear friends, once more. . ."

Wish us luck Harry,
With love from east Texas

I love this too

A little change of pace Harry, but the words needed an outlet.

Birds playing in the rain.
I love the sounds, the light patter of the rain,
the bird's songs and chirps,
and the silence of everything else,
the sights, as flashes of red and blue blink through the still bare branches.
The thunder tells me it will not last long,
so I will savor this until the beauty of the storm takes over.

Ah, the beauty of the storm
all rage and roar, blustering winds and sideways rain.
I love this too.
The thunder you can feel in the rattle of window and shaking floors,
the fingers of light giving glimpses of the swaying trees.
I love the goosebumps and snuggles from small, worried arms.
Shh, I say, the storm will pass.
Sleep now, sleep now.

Sleep, the storm shall,
I love this too.
The thunder now fades,
the whistle farther down the track,
the moon a beacon without rocky shore guides.
I love the ring of light,
a halo through the clouds,
as ghostly trees shine,
drips punctuate the still left behind.
I love this too.
I listen now to birds again,
who sing to dawn brought by the man,
who smiles down in the night, rejoicing.

Shh, sleep now, sleep now.
I love this too.
The quiet of deep night,
its stillness wrapping the weary,
shh, sleep now, sleep now.

Hope the storms your way were just as cleansing as the ones through my neck of the woods.
To Harry from New Jersey, with love from east Texas via a thunderstorm in the night.

Rites of Passage

Well Harry, another chance meeting, another moment frozen in a mind, another day where strangers become fast friends. Valentine's Day, a day for sharing our love with its history varied and bloody, but I try to stay in the spirit.  This year, it is one of those weird off days for my school.  Bad weather days that are built in and if not used, we get to stay home.  I suppose that is only a southern thing as I watch the news of the north hit yet again by blowing snow and crushing ice.

On the 13th, I watch young love spread over my high school as teddy bears and chocolates were given and shared.  I saw cheeks bloom with that fresh blush as the no PDA rule was tested again and again and young hearts burst with joy and sorrow over their Valentine's.  I teased appropriately as young girls walked into my classroom carrying the proof of that undying devotion only the young seem to carry so easily.  All of them convinced that this was the best day of their lives.  I secretly thought, "I hope not." My hope for them is to thinks of this day with love, to think of it with a happy smile, but hopefully not the greatest moment.  I hope they have many great moments, sad moments, but I suppose it is a kind of rite of passage.  We all remember our high school crush, some more fondly than others.  I think of my fickle heart in high school and how my crush seemed to change with the seasons.

On Valentine's Day, instead of pampering myself with chocolate and champagne, I woke early so that I could take my eldest for her own rite of passage, the driver's test.  We rode in near silence, I in the passenger seat, her getting in a little last minute practice.  We arrived at the DMV, appropriate paper work in hand and proceeded to wait our turn.  There were several other hopefuls in line accompanied by parents who looked just as nervous as their charges.  It came time and my daughter headed out with the instructor, all jangling nerves and brittle smiles.

The parallel parking portion of the test would be first.  As the instructor had her test mirrors and lights, I and the others watched through the window and the recollections began.  "I took my test in an old Ford with a 3 speed on the column," said a grandmother.  "I took mine in a station wagon.  I still don't know how I passed," a mother said.  My own test was taken in a blue Ford Aerostar.  I, too, do not remember how I passed.  Now, they are off.  We can see the parallel parking portion from our vantage point, orange cones that look to close together.  We all watch with baited breath.  Some of us trying to remember our own, others trying to get pointers on how to pass when their turn comes up.

"She's doing good," said the grandmother.  "Cut the wheel a little harder," I breathe.  Then she's done it.  She's pulling back out and headed off to the road portion of the test.  We all look at each other as the cheers and applause ring off the dull tan walls of the DMV.  Smiles greet each waiting face.  Now I wait for her return, but not alone.  These strangers wait with me.  We all hope she returns smiling.  We all fear she will not.  Only minutes pass before I see her return but they are the long minutes of time reserved for the waiting.  As she gets out of the car and heads in, her face gives me no clue.  Once inside, she sees me and even though it is a little shaky with nerves, she holds up that score sheet and beams at me.  Again, the cheers resound.  Congratulations are given and other hopefuls take a breath.  "If she can do it, so can I."  A few final words from the instructor and we are off again.  Her paper driver's license in hand.  I offer to let her drive home, but she shakes her head, "No thanks mom, you are still the better driver." Always humble and gracious my girl.  I did not have the heart to mention that it probably had more to do with shaking hands and the need to text friends of her new status.  As I head to her school, that did not get the same holiday as mine, we chat now about the car she wants, the job she will get.

Again, I am assaulted by my own remembrances of my first car, my first job.  I wave her off at school with one more congratulations and how proud I am of her, but my mind is still traveling backwards instead of forwards.  I spend the rest of the day doing a little retail therapy in the hopes my past will be forgotten, to somehow restart my forward thought.

At the end of the day as I happily make a congratulatory dinner and listen to the children make plans for where their sister will take them in her as of now nonexistent car, I receive an urgent email to call my aunts.  It seems, Harry, that this Valentine's Day would be a day of love, but of love remembered, love shared in the past.  My grandfather, my mother's father, had succumbed to his weakened heart.  Why had they called me you ask instead of my mother.  Well, good question.  I being the eldest on our side, was nominated since my mother was several thousand miles away in Costa Rica, her favorite place on this earth, her second home.

I was charged with getting in touch with her, with relaying funeral arrangements and other details, and then back to the aunts and grandmother he left behind.  I had to tell my mother through email that her father was gone.  It was necessary as we did not have a way to call and I had to tell her, but it will be a moment that I will have to forgive myself as she does not blame me.  It seems a kind of weird circle as the roles were reversed some twenty years ago when my mother had to tell me of my father's passing and serve as liaison to his family as I was too young.  I suppose that is part of what troubles me. She told me in person and was there to comfort me, while I had to tell her when my arms could not reach her.

So my children and I traveled west to say our final goodbyes.  He was remembered on a Thursday, bright and shiny with a bit of gusty wind.  After flight delays and missed connections, my mother had made it as well as many others.  I was finally able to give her the hug I was desperate for and the comfort I felt she needed although I suppose a child will always want the feeling of being wrapped in her mother's arms. We grandchildren many each said a little something, more I think, for our grandmother than ourselves.  Family never seen before gave their condolences and cousins forgotten were now remembered and greeted as old friends.  Happy smiles warred with teary eyes as each person reconciled with their own faith.

It was a week for rites of passage, Harry.  Some joyful, some sorrowful but all parts of each of our lives.  Death is our final rite, Harry.  As mortals, we struggle with it, we fear it, we either rush towards it or struggle to fight against it at different points along our paths.  We plan for it like it is some exotic vacation, but it is inevitable.

I have called my grandmother more since his death than I did in the six months before.  I slowed down enough to realize that that is all she wants from me, a voice on the phone and maybe a visit now and then.  She knows I love her, but she does not know my little joys, my triumphs, my worries.  I always speak of those random connections that unite us humans, this time I remembered that they do not always have to be random.

So here is to joy remembered, family united and random connections, Harry.  A little poem from my grandfather, Howard Hill, 1927-2014.

                       Miss Me - But Let Me Go
              
                          When I come to the end of the road
                          And the sun has set for me.
                          I want no rites in a gloom filled room 
                          Why cry for a soul set free?

                         Miss me a little - but not too long
                         And not with your heard bowed low.
                         Remember the love that we once shared.
                         Miss me - but let me go.

                        For this a journey we all must take
                        And each must go alone.
                         It's all part of the Master's plan
                        A step on the road to home.

                       When you are lonely and sick of heart
                        Go to the friends we know
                        And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds.
                        Miss me - but let me go.


As always, to you Harry from New Jersey, with love from east Texas via the great beyond.


                       

Under Repair

Well Harry, it has been quite some time since I last wrote. Life has intervened and I am in awe of those who post every week or even every day. I would give much to be able to keep that pace, but alas, I have let two months go.  I have thought over the time in between posts that I really should jot that down if for no other reason than it was an event I don't want to let slip away. For example, fall in East Texas is short, but very beautiful. We live here among the pines that stay green year round, but we also have oak, maple and sycamores. They turn such beautiful shades of gold, red, yellow and orange that they take my breath away. Only now do the trees look barren having finally given up the last of their leaves. Our roads are still covered like a patchwork quilt and my daughter and I giggled as we drove because they danced in our wake like a comet's tail. I cried as my oldest was inducted into the National Honor Society as a junior and my 7th grader was inducted into the National Junior Art Honor Society. She even designed their t-shirt, yet something has always stopped me and I think it was just, for lack of a better word, that I am broken.

I wrote last time of a life changing event. Like you, he came in to my life by chance and like you, I may never see him again, but my life will never be the same. I wrote of him 2 months ago. When I wrote of him, he had not been with me for a month and by the time he left, he had not been with me 3 months in total. I know the cliche about how our lives are changed in a moment, but those moments are usually some cataclysmic event that is unexpected and uncontrollable. There is no time to question one's actions or time to ponder the hurt of the outcome. There is only time to react and pray. For me, that was not the case, or at least for now. I had time to picture my life without him. I had to make a choice. It was my choice alone to make. No one held a gun to my head, no bomb was going to kill millions if I chose poorly and there was no press in the aftermath, but it was a choice that altered the path of my life and my children's lives.

The choice was simple, fight to keep him at the expense of my other four children or let him go.  I let him go. I had two weeks after the decision to live with the knowledge of my choice as I kissed him at bedtime and drove him to school in the morning. I had two weeks to try to reconcile with myself how it was for the best. He was only to be with me temporarily anyway so why prolong the inevitable. I rationalized as I slowly pulled away, hugged him less then hugged him more as I battled with my choice, made sure when he called me mom that I corrected him and explained again who his mom was.

He left on a Monday morning, so on Saturday night, I gave him a special light that would call Santa to our house early since he would not be here for Christmas. He slept in his little bed snuggled in his SpongeBob blanket holding that lantern.  In the morning, he awoke to his Christmas wish, a bright red Cars bicycle just for him. It was a rare, severely cold and rainy day in Texas so he couldn't take it outside, but that did not stop him from riding it around the house nor me from forgiving the rules for a day.  That Monday morning was just as cold and rainy as I put my four children on the bus and gathered his stray items and packed his bag. He knew he was leaving and where he was going, but that did not make it any easier on him or me. I did not have the courage to be there when he left. I could not put him in the car that would take him away. I will have to live with that cowardice for my lifetime and hope that he will be able to forgive me. "Don't leave me," he said as I grabbed my laptop bag and keys. I smiled as big as I could and said, "I'm not leaving you, you're leaving me." I gave him one last hug and ran to the car and cried and cried.

I have now had a week without him. It was a crazy week filled with basketball games and band concerts, dance recitals and after school tutorials. The universe was kind and I had not a moment to spare to think on his absence or maybe I filled my week completely taking on extra to make sure I did not have a moment to spare and like some unspoken rule, his name never passed our lips, his absence would go unheralded. There were great joys and laughter this week as my oldest made first chair, my middle daughter dazzled in her dance production and my freshmen boys won their basketball game.

This weekend though it was as if time has stood still. I could not think of enough to do. I have papers to grade and laundry and a kitchen to clean but my youngest son put it best, I think, when he described to me what type of broke I am. He said, "Mom, there a 3 kinds of broke. There is the one where something stops working, the one where you don't have any money and then there's the one where you are sad. That's what kind of broke you are Mom, so I am going to be good until I fix you." I hugged him close and said, "Thank you." Of course this was followed by a war whoop as he attacked his brother, but it's the thought that counts.

I have made my choice and as I have had more time with my children and have almost caught up on work that was put off I again rationalize that is was for the best. Life is all about choices, some easy, some hard, but this choice was the hardest I have ever had to make. Family and colleagues have been supportive and I love them dearly for it. I know that this diatribe may seem self serving and for that I apologize, but the healing process must begin. I cannot continue to pretend he isn't gone or even worse, pretend he was never here. He was here, his little bed still there as a reminder. Where he has gone, I have no way of contacting him, no way of knowing how he fares. All I can do is hope that his time with us was a happy one and pray that he is loved there as he was loved here.

I know what must be done. I must move forward. As Dori would say, "Just keep swimming." I have so many blessings in my life. I have four healthy, beautiful, totally unbelievable children whom I love very much and they me. I have a family that most would envy. I have a job that I love and that reminds me daily why my blessings are the blessings that they are. I suppose I will go back and read my previous posts to remind me that I have such joy in my life. As time goes by I will remember the joy that he brought to my life and the hurt will lessen.  For now, I remain a little broken but know that in the repair process I will become better, stronger and forever changed. Thank you little man for sharing yourself with me for that short time. Forgive me for not being able to keep you longer. Be happy little man and though we may never cross paths again, may you be strong, wise and know that you are forever loved. May that knowledge guide you through your first heartache, your first failure and all the days of your life. Stand tall, stand proud and never stop loving through it all, for you are mighty!

To Harry from New Jersey with love and under repairs from East Texas

P.S. It's a little late, but Congrats, Harry, on the Boston Red Sox winning the World Series!!

Blessings

About 3 weeks ago my life changed in a way I never foresaw. I suppose we never do but this one really threw me for a loop.  It reminded me of a time long ago when another event changed my life.

About 8 Years Ago

“Some days you see the light at the end of the tunnel, but unfortunately, it’s just a train.”  A very good friend of mine said that to me one night on the phone.  Sometimes, she could see the future. 

“Well, it is official.” Sayeth middle sister at work one day.
“What is official?”
“I am two months pregnant!”
“Oh that is great! I am so happy for you.” I mumbled from cold lips.
“You don’t look happy.” And she was right. I immediately found a calendar and began to count even though; I knew the numbers were definitely not adding up. 
“What are you doing?” She asks innocently.
“It’s the end of August and I haven’t had a period since before I left Cuernavaca.”
“It’s probably just stress. Go take a test and confirm it so you can stop stressing.” She says in that do not steal my thunder tone only a sister can get. I take her advice and head to the local woman’s clinic so that there are no mistakes. 

There is no mistake, I am pregnant.  The tears started as I drove blindly to see my mom.  I walked into her school and straight into her class thankfully as the bell rang with eyes red, snot running and speech incoherent.  She thought somebody had died and in truth someone had.  I did not want any more children.  Why would I? I barely knew how to take care of the growing ones I had. 
“Rachel, what’s wrong?”
“Mom, I, I, I, I am pregnant.”
Her shock was not well hidden and then as only my mom could say, “What were you thinking when you made out this life plan? Three kids?”
“I don’t know Mom, I just don’t know.”

Well, my plans did not really change other than I now had to plan for a third baby. I was still going to school and working part time.  I had worked full time with both girls, so why not, right?  This time seemed different though. I was tired, very tired, more tired than I ever remembered with my previous pregnancies and I was gaining weight fast. When I went to my first check up with the doc, he suggested we do the sonogram a little early just to make sure everything was OK. I agreed, plus, I am a sonogram junkie! I love to be able to see and know what is going on in there. We will not discuss how that factors into my control freak issues at this time. 

Sonogram begins.  Sonographer makes weird face and I say, “Is everything OK?”
“Oh, what?” She says distractedly.
“Is everything OK?” I repeat. 
“Oh sure honey, you are just the third set of twins I have done this week.”
Heart failure is a pretty accurate description of my reaction to that tidbit.

Congratulations! You’re pregnant, with twins! 

TRAIN!! 

NO, twins do not run in my family to answer that question.

The official version is that when I ovulated that month, my body produced two eggs that were both fertilized, which by the way is the rarest form of twins other than Siamese. Little did I know though, the birth of my twin boys would begin a new path for me, a new life, a new beginning, pick a corny cliché and insert here.

In October 2005, I discovered not only was I pregnant for the 3^rd time, but I was pregnant with twins.  Two boys due in mid April 2006 if I went the whole 42 weeks.  Although, that was not expected.  I struck a deal with my professors to basically let me take my finals early, so that I could graduate on time.  All was going great even though my waist was expanding at an exponential rate.  (They had to bring in special desks for me.) I had registered for the spring and final college semester.  I was healthy, the boys were healthy and well, “HALLELUYAH! I can see the light!”

“Mrs. Nolan I need to talk to you about your plans to attend university in the spring.” Sayeth Dr. Ob-Gyn.
“Ok, what do we need to talk about?”
“Well after January 1^st, you’ll have weekly doctor visits and sonograms and I am going to restrict your driving to just appointments.”
“But I am this close; it’s been 6 years since I started this road.”
“Ok, Mrs. Nolan, let me put it this way. If you try to attend university in the spring, I will put you in the hospital at 28 weeks and leave you there until you deliver.  Great, have a nice day.” He grins and exits.

TRAIN!!

Since I had delivered my girls by c-section, the boys would be as well.  I found myself at home excruciatingly pregnant with a soon to be five year old and an active 9 year old.  I had always worked from the time I was 16 to present (or that present). I had no idea what to do with myself.  What did stay at home moms do with their time exactly? I was not crafty nor did I yearn to be and after all those years of working, I could do a 3 course meal in 20 minutes. Then there were new issues? Like we lived in a miniature, minuscule, minute trailer. (Yep single wide). The girls shared one of the two tiny bedrooms.  Where exactly was I supposed to put my new babies and said paraphernalia? (Dresser drawers did actually cross my mind.)

It gave me something to do, a purpose again.  My hunt was exhaustive (probably because I couldn’t breathe do to an elbow under my ribs and I had to pee every 5 minutes due to a knee to the bladder). We ended up moving into a 3 bedroom rent house across the street from our miniature trailer.

On March 27, 2006, (40 weeks, thank you very much! I don’t have little babies), I went into labor and on the morning of March 28^th, 6 lbs 8 oz and 6 lbs 13 oz of beautiful baby boy were brought into this world.  Three days later I brought them home.

Present day

I am not pregnant again and I now live in a quaint 4 bedroom on my own little piece of heaven, but 3 weeks ago, another little boy came to live with us. He is 3 years old and too cute about covers it, but I had forgotten how such a small thing can make such a large impact on ones life. I had become comfortable in my routine. We were a unit, my kids and I. Everyone knew how everyone else worked,  who was a morning person and who was not. If I needed to mow, I could just head out. The kids were old enough that I did not have to watch them every minute of every day. They had their TV shows and I had mine. Table etiquette was taught long ago so reminders of, "Chew with your mouth closed", "Put your plate in the sink", and "Use a fork", hadn't been part of my vocabulary for some time. 

My boys haven't been babies for a long time, but they were still my babies and I still saw them as such. With the addition of our newest, I was forced to realize what cool little people were right beside me. They aren't babies anymore. They are growing boys with these beautiful minds and creative souls and they are huge! They stand next to the 3 year old and I see how big. They tower over him and I can see what beautiful men they will become. I by no means want them to grow up any faster, but I have started to see glimmers like the sun through the leaves of what their future holds. Soon, they will tower over me. Soon, they will leave the nest. I have also been forced to realize that my oldest is not only growing, but is practically grown. College applications and scholarship applications, class rings and class rankings along with plans for next year's senior trip, monopolize our conversations. She's trying to decide what she wants to go to college for and what college and I am left to miss my little girl who sometimes took better care of me than I did of her. She is so beautiful that I want to wrap her up and hide her from the evils of the world so that they can not ever hurt her.  My middle daughter as well seems to have changed overnight. I remember having to constantly remind her about school reports and homework assignments. Don't forget your dance clothes or where's your ID badge for school, but no longer. Now she's reminding me of things due for school and what days she has dance. She had always been my shortest child and now she almost looks me in the eye.  I received a letter saying that she had been inducted into the National Junior Art Honor Society and that her work would be shown at the fair. When did that happen that her art went from the refrigerator to a frame in an art hall?

Our newest addition has added some spice to my life as I now remember that 3 year olds don't sleep late on Saturday morning and they don't sit and watch cartoons while Mommy has her coffee. They make a mess without even trying while eating dinner and they can find something bad to put in their mouth in about 3 seconds that you didn't even know was there. Yes, he drives me crazy because he upset our routine, but he also opened my eyes to some pretty awesome stuff. The feel of a small hand clasped in yours as you walk him into school. The smile that awaits you when you pick them up. The utter helplessness you have against falling in love when he says, "You came back to get me." I don't know how long I'll have him in my life for he may be going back but while he's here I will love him and if he leaves I will treasure the knowledge that he has brought me. Our children are with us a short time before they change and grow and leave our homes. Whether it be by birth that they came to me our by chance, they have brought me countless joys and countless stories that will never fade. 

I have a box under my bed filled with pictures. Over the years the box has grown larger as the collection of pictures has and every once in a while I get it out and see those smiling faces as the years have passed. Soon I will add another year of school plays, art collections and those horrible school pictures, but more importantly, I will add the memories that each of those will represent. This year I think the new face that I will add will always be a reminder that small hands are precious no matter how large they may become and that my blessings will forever be my blessings no matter how far from home they may roam.