His Last Gift.

The usual calm after the storm had taken over Happy House yesterday.

Children played - fascinated with their newest toys.

Parents closed sleepy eyes and lazily flopped around the house picking at

leftovers. We had a few hours in between festivities.

We all seemed to breathe a collective and appreciative sigh for Christmas. For

each other. For Santa. For the leftovers calling to us from the kitchen.

But, the sun broke through the clouds in mid afternoon and the weather

became, simply put, too nice not to be outside.

Without thinking much about it, I said to the family -

"His last gift

is waiting for us in the back woods.."

And without further ado, the children

raced to that locale.... never asking who "He" is, and never asking what the gift could possibly be. They just took themselves there and the Hubs and I slowly followed.

Dec balanced, listened to a red-tailed hawk and used his new bow and arrow to aim and concentrate.

Nonie pointed her toes, transformed herself into an outdoor ballerina, and performed for restless squirrels and birds happening all around her.

Together, as the setting sun sparkled on the lake in the distance, we all discovered that

His Last Gift was waiting for us in the back woods.

And as I sat on the old stone wall cradling my camera, I lifted my eyes to the sun and marveled that our cup spilleth over on days like today. And, every day, really.

How could we possibly be given more, when we already have so much?

Perhaps a big part of being truly thankful, is taking the time to inventory all that we have for which we could be (and should be) giving thanks.

And how are our children not asking where the gift is right now - do they know that it is them?

And when I opened my eyes - I saw this. My angel. My beautiful Christmas angel.

I believe that our offspring somehow know what I'm just discovering as I sit here on the old stone wall basking in soul-warming Christmas sunshine:

His Last Gift,

is really

His Lasting Gift.

Of course they know this.

Of course I believe in His Last Gift,

and in so much more.

merry everything.

I Sometimes Call You My Mama.

Tonight just might be the night the new babe arrives.

A tad tardy or right on time, depends on how you look at it.

To the hospital they went - after the pageantry and fueled by Sweedish

meatballs. Contractions came and went, then came again.

My hubs shouted out a stream of ridiculously silly baby names to them as they made their way down the path, to the car and onwards to labor and delivery.

And I? I was temporarily gifted their first born.

He stayed with me. Too late to head to the hospital,

but too early to go to sleep. It was time to treat him like a prince.

I tucked him into "his bed in Tar's house" upstairs and promised to stay right with him.

I sat quietly and folded the laundry that I had to clear off "his bed in Tar's house".

He squeezed his lucky reindeer and listened to the glowing owl play music just for him.

When he and I are together like this I often call him a sweet angel boy

because he is. I know he can run his own parents ragged, but for me - especially

on these kind of days, he is a sweet angel boy.

Tonight, early in the night, he half whispered to me, "I love you Tar". And I

didn't ask him to repeat it because my eye contact with him after his soft words met my ears

confirmed that he said what I thought I'd heard. And he meant what he said too.

But while I folded my t-shirt he whispered even more, "I sometimes call you my Mama."

And then he just looked at me with his hershey kiss eyes. And I looked at him for a long time -

And on this night - the night everyone in HIS WORLD had been talking about and planning for, his last night of being the baby in his family, and his first night of being a big brother - on this Silent and Holy Night, he didn't need to utter a single word more.

Because, I knew just what he meant.

So I whispered to him as his eyes slowly closed, "Goodnight my sweet angel boy!"

(Because he is.)

After looking at this picture...

I'm thinking the baby might be scared to come out...

When Everything We Say is Christmas.

We walked up from the lake the other day after decorating the flower boxes at the clubhouse

and a huge hawk flew overhead.

I shouted back to the hubs who was carting Nonie up the hill in the red wagon -

"is that a red-shouldered hawk?"

And before the hubs could reply Declan said (in his most serious bird-watching voice),

"I'm pretty certain that was the partridge from the pear tree."

And then,

He stole a line from the Charlie Brown Christmas movie and tried to convince Nonie

that the Angel who sings in glorious melody to announce Baby Jesus' birth - that

Angel is named Harold. As in Hark the Harold Angel Sings.

And then, there is the great debate going on in our house about the order we light the

Advent Wreath. Purple Purple Pink Purple is my method. However I'm out numbered

3 to 1 in favor of: Purple Purple Purple Pink.

I mean it does seem right that the pink would be Christmas. But I didn't go to 29 years of catholic school to not know how to light an advent wreath.

Christmas has infused itself into the very depths of our family routine. Our conversations

are laced with talk of the little baby Jesus. The brilliant star that lead the shepherds over hill and dale - yup, we made that star and stuck in on our Nativity Scene yesterday after Declan noted its importance in the story and lacking in our Nativity Scene. What is a Nativity Scene without the star?

We talk about silent nights, peace on earth, joy in this world, and how something

as tiny as a baby, can really be a King.

During a time when it seems the whole world is spewing forth Christmas, it is nice

to digest what it means as a family. We take bits and pieces of songs, conversations, stories

dreams and swirl it into our Christmas.

It is this time together, the time it takes to make sense of the lights, the songs, the smells of the season - that always becomes my greatest and most un-wrap-able present.

Right now, and during these days, everywhere we go, everything we do, everyone we see, everything we say is Christmas.

Perfectly Christmas.

Home-grown art shows.

A family tradition -

when the pile o'art becomes too large ...

It is time for a family art show.

Complete with homemade tickets,

backstage passes, exclusive conversations with the artist,

an occasional cocktail, and lots of "oooooohing".

Sometimes we try to guess what the picture is:

"a turkey!" "a snake eating a watermelon!"

"an upside-down cheetah with one extra leg!"

Other times, the artist tells us all about the picture and how

it was made.

This month - Artiste Nonie put on a quite a show.

And to think I knew her when....

Raising the children.

I made it in to first grade today to help out and was immediately asked to find a comfy couch out in the hall where students would come, one at a time, and read to me.

I picked my spot.

The first tentative reader walked slowly out of the classroom and up to me. We opened his reading bag, spread the books out and he picked one.

It was a startling and beautiful moment, when his tiny voice, stumbled through sentence one.

He forged on, despite his struggle, and made up the words he didn't know.

Reader 1 read bravely and beautifully. And it was by his side that I began to feel so thankful to have carved this time out of my "crazed" schedule to be with him. I was his audience, and I focused on his every word and each colorful page he filled. After a while, he warmed up to me -----by book 3, and even gave me a smile after book 4, on his way back to the classroom.

Between readers 1 & 2, I had a few moments to take in my space. Loud (joyful) classrooms lined this common area. Mothers raced in and out of classrooms with Thanksgiving treats and crafts. Teachers skidded from one classroom to the next, swapping books and folders. Some volunteers sat outside classrooms with students next to them working on quiet tasks. Just. Like. Me.... (I thought).

Reader 2 was another, nervous boy. He opened his reading bag and insisted that he was not able to read any of them. After convincing him that I was so looking forward to hearing the book called "Perfect Home", he began it with a nervous laugh.

It was hard to hear his little voice over the steady hum of the classroom villages around us.

Reading is hard.

I thought.

(Noise or no noise, reading is hard).

His questioning finger scanned over some words and paused over most.

Reading is really hard.

But he read so well. We made it through all 4 of his books. He sounded out and worked through some tough words and I was impressed with his focus and ability to keep working at a word he didn't know.

I told him that I was impressed.

And, when I did, he shyly tucked his neck into his shoulders as deep as they would go.

He made his way back to the classroom to tap the next reader on their shoulder.

And so these readers came to me and left me. Oh, I was sad when they left me.

Each reader was markedly different from the next.

The 5th reader to walk out to me was my son. He had his smug smile on because he just loves to have me in his school (he told me this last night).

I pause right here to capture in word only what a picture can truly show **** Declan's proud smile *****!

Declan read proudly, occasionally looking around to make sure everyone saw him reading with His Mom. He too, made up the words he didn't know, just like the rest of them. It must be a first grade thing.

When we were done we met up with his entire grade in the cafetorium where they were rehearsing their Thanksgiving show and where I, to the tune of happy first grade singing, was to pin colorful corn husks to the curtains on the stage.

On my way there, I couldn't believe how good I felt to have just read with these tiny people. I felt so grateful to the other parents who had spent time in the classroom this year.

AND, of course, I felt a million times more grateful for my son's first grade teacher. I can't imagine trying to teach reading to 2 dozen students with vastly different reading abilities - all at the same time.

It is so cliche to walk the halls of an elementary school thinking that "it takes a village" to raise these children. But, that was my thought as I walked. Because it does, take a village.

My final first grade task was to assemble a book within an earshot of my son while he ate lunch with his pals. By this time, he'd forgotten I was there.

But I had not forgotten he was there.

I watched his every move.

When the lunch assistant came to him and reminded him to eat the rest of his sandwich before he began eating his cookie, I was as impressed with her as I had been with myself earlier on the reading couch.

If it doesn't take a village, I'm a firm believer that it takes, numerous, well-intentioned, people in our elementary schools.

This post is dedicated to all those who have helped me raise my children without me knowing it.

Watch where you wipe (your hands)

Last weekend I was at a wedding that's was really hard for me.
Really hard.
I like to kick back and enjoy myself as much as the next gal but this time it was hard. Really hard.
After a day and a half of, let's say "dealing" I was back in the hotel room with my honey, coming undone. My poor honey. Sure, he has seen me come undone. But I do usually try to keep it together.
"I just wish I didint care so much" (heave) "but every time I'm around these people I just (heave) can't help it I get (heave) so wrapped up in everything."

I'm so glad I had the ability to recognize this experience happening to me. Unfortunately I didn't quite possess the strength of character to stop it from happening. I mean I tried, to stop myself.
My poor honey.

I know this about myself, that's why I'm here, I think. Way up here. If I'm there, I'm that. When I'm here, I can be this. I think this is better than that.

So I've come back into my own and thanked my honey and hung up my pink and green so I think balance has been restored. And then today trough the powers of Facebook I saw a girl that I met in new Orleans write "so, I don't wear anything I can't wipe my hands on" and I thought YES that's where I am. What an incredible arc my life has been.
Because, no, one wouldn't want to wipe ones hands on ones Lilly pulitzer dress would they?

And I've got chalk prints everywhere.

He Plays Soccer Each Saturday...

With this motto etched into the bottom of each cleat:

"Soccer/life is not just about scoring goals...

it is about winning."

She Dances Each Wednesday...

In A Studio Beneath A Sign That Reads:

Dance in the Direction of Your Dreams.

Of course she does.

Waffles.

Bleary eyed after tossing and turning

for close to 2 hours,

Dec walked up to me last night and said he was having

trouble falling asleep but he knew just what he needed

to fix the problem.

"Just a couple of waffles and a few pancakes and then

I'm sure I'll go right back to sleep..."

It was close to 10:00 PM.

I did not make waffles or pancakes.

But he did, eventually, fall asleep.

First he made up a fake illness that had to do with a pain in his

right leg, one wiggly tooth, and a "bending in the wrong direction"

little toe.

Then he decided to mop the entire length of the upstairs hallway with his

pajamas (while wearing them).

He flopped around at the top of the staircase like a dying fish.

After a solid 30 minutes, he waltzed into bed.

Dreaming of....dare I guess? Waffles and pancakes...

Turning the Friend Switch On.

Today, my son turned the switch to "on" and he found a friend waiting.

***

Let me back up a few steps.

It had been more than a year since we put batteries in his walkie talkie.

But this morning, a lazy morning (at best)....his father decided to load

his walkie talkie with fresh batteries so that he could banter from his

upstairs closet to his "in-the-kitchen-little-sister" until he either had

nothing more to say or lost interest entirely.

Either way, this was a solid 20 minutes of play between the two of them

and we did what we could to encourage it.

But, seconds after the batteries were placed into the tiny machine, Dec

heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

And it wasn't his baby sister.

I listened with interest or rather a "What the....?" in my gut.....

It was his classmate (wha?), playing walkie-talkie with HIS baby sister just

across the lake.

When I first heard this familiar, yet strange neighborly voice come through the walkie talkie

I thought to myself, "what is the mileage range on those gadgets????".

And after completing a quick calculation, I realized that it was indeed, possible (though quite

a surprise) that

our son Declan had just intercepted conversations between his classmate

and his younger sister.

Just under two miles. And so, we were.

There is so much that I loved about this amazing discovery between friends - classmates:

"Declan, where are you standing right now?" questions. And the "What did

your baby sister dress up as for halloween?" questions.

So adorable.

So earnest.

So sincere.

So - clinging to every last syllable of every last response....

In fact, I really loved the awkwardness at the end of their conversation.

The "how do I end this.... " as they kept saying "goodbye and over-and-out

to each other.

But most of all I loved that this radio wave exchange was

mind boggling

powerful

had little to do with me arranging it

keeps my son wishing to talk on his simple walkie talkie even more

and reminded me *SO MUCH* of the MANY

simple discoveries that I made when I was young....

and I loved that it taught me that

It is amazing what you can hear

and, of what you will find

when you

decide it is time

to turn the friend switch on.

Hope in a Box

What I'd like to share tonight is called "Hope in Box"

You see, it all started when our financial institution decided to eliminate their "cash rewards" program - which I never paid much attention to anyway.

But recently, I noticed a lingering 3,000 + points in the periphery of my banking desktop window.

What's that????? I inquired. Innocently. Upon further inspection, I noticed that my rewards PROGRAM had been eliminated. But I had valuable points JUST WAITING for someone to take notice.

Others with more $, could have cashed their rewards in for cars, luxurious travels, jewels, and niceties... but my rewards? Wow. The best I could do with them was a game of Parcheesi.

So? Of course, I ordered it. And, upon its arrival at our home, I answered a million of these:

"what's in that box?"

"what's in that box?"

"what's in that box?"

"what's in that box?"

"what's in that box?"

"what's in that box?"

"what's in that box?""what's in that box?""what's in that box?""what's in that box?"

you getting the idea?

And when my flat-toned answer resonated with the inquiring children, they would ask,

"Parcheesi? What's Parcheesi? Can we play, can we play, can we play Parcheesi now?"

"can we play Parcheesi now?"

"can we play Parcheesi now?"

"can we play Parcheesi now?"

"can we play Parcheesi now?"

"can we play Parcheesi now?"

"can we play Parcheesi now?"

"can we play Parcheesi now?" "can we play Parcheesi now?" "can we play Parcheesi now?"

We didn't play. Because, I asked the children to wait.

Wait 'til Friday (the game is not that much fun).

Wait 'til Sunday (the game is not that much fun).

But tonight, once the hubs had gone to watch game 7. .....and Nonie had ventured off to sleep. Dec came wandering downstairs asking if I would unwrap the game and play.

"NO!" I thought at first. (Because the game is not that much fun).

But, "Yes" (brightly, smiley, enthusiastically) and so..

Unwrap the box. I played. He played.

Together we played.

He rolled, and counted, laughed, and high-fived... (tiny fists).

I laughed, and watched, savored and loved..... (his whole old soul).

Parcheesi was all that. And then some. I think it may have been a little bit more.

And LONG before I knew it (or discovered it really), my child five times younger than me -

sitting inches away - knew that playing the game was really about... being together.

The two of us. Me and him. Him and me. Parcheesi, aka - "hope in a box".

A reason to smile

I had just been thinking that I take myself too seriously. I mean, last night my Mr. Tried to do some weird high five thing and I told him I couldn't because my hands were busy with some papers.
Really?
This morning I was chatting with a second grader. We were having a fine time until she said

"I don't believe what my brother says"
(he is in my class this year)
"what does he say?"
"he says you never smile".

He might be right. Good grief, if I can't lighten up with 6 year olds what's in store for me?

I hope that little boy caught a glimpse of me later in the afternoon when a student returned to the classroom after his hour with his therapist-buddy.
"I have to tell you something kind of inappropriate" he said to me.
Hm.
"ok. Do you need to whisper it?"
So he said, right into my ear
"my buddy" meaning his counselor. And so maybe you can imagine the horrific scantiois that zoomed through my head of a six year old boy in a room on the third floor with just a twenty something year old gal. Forgive me.
"made me laugh so hard that I peed in my pants".

And oh, was I ever smiling.
I just needed to be handed a reason to.

To Do Lists.

In the hope of feeling
like I'm accomplishing something,
I just wrote something
on my "To Do" list
JUST SO THAT I COULD cross it off.

There, see how productive I am?

They Got Me.

Instead of their Mom last night -
they got me.

Because their Mom was in Michigan at the bedside
of her father who had quadruple bypass surgery the day before.

THEIR Mom stayed an extra day to be with her father
who happened to be celebrating his 72nd birthday.

So instead of her, they got ME.

And I was warned that they would be SAD, SAD, SAD that Mom wasn't home.
So I pulled out all the stops and we played and laughed and laughed and played.
(And managed to get all homework done, lunches made, and reading completed...)

But while taking care of them I realized that it is the subtle differences that make
a Mom a Mom.

And the way I Mom, isn't the way their Mom moms.

Like, my kids jump out of the tub and then I cocoon them in a big blue towel and
call them a burrito.

But, THEIR MOM lays a towel down on the lip of the tub, then they stand up on it
hold their Mom's hands and jump like a flying squirrel onto the slippery wet floor.
(Or, at least, this is what they told me usually happens).

When they are wrapped up nice and snug in their cocoon, it isn't called a cocoon.
Or a burrito.

So when I went to dress them in their PJs (which they call Jammies), we were missing
a key ingredient.

Underpants.

When I came into the family room with the wrong kind (?!) of underpants I went back
into their room searching. And searching.
And I knew they could hear me from their playroom because THEIR MOM still uses a baby monitor. So I kept chatting to them.

"Can you hear me, I'm searching for underpants la la la la underpants where are you????" I shouted into the monitor.

And I could hear their distant laughter from the other room. Far away. While they waited
for their underpants. Laughing at my antics.

For a moment, I think they were happy that they got me tonight.

So, when I came back into the family room waving my empty hands and telling them that I couldn't find any of the "right kinds of underpants". They laughed again.

Because the underpants were on my head.

And I'm pretty certain THEIR MOM has ever done that before.

Thinking 'Bout Getting Older.

There are far too many thoughts whizzing through my mind to write a clear, and coherent post.
This would explain why you haven't heard from me much in the past few days/weeks. What an insanely busy 6 weeks.

I keep saying to people "life seems to be in fast-forward". My neighbor, she drives by while I scoop the mail up, my friends in town - while our grocery carts eek by each other in the pasta aisle, my not-yet-friends in the parking lot of Nonie's preschool.... they all hear my same phrase - "life seems to be in fast-forward".

And it does. Life seems to be moving in fast-forward. The bags under my eyes and my gray hairs are having trouble keeping up.

Can't believe we're halfway through October and moving full steam ahead into November.
Wait. What?!

I'm thinking about getting older. I'm thinking 'bout it a lot.

During these weeks, and days, when I keep saying to myself:

Slow Down.
Look Around.

Your Children Are SO YOUNG.
And Full of FUN. And they WANT to be with YOU.


So, in full awareness of the "getting older" mindset - the other day,

I said to the hubs - let's take the children for a bowl of soup at our favorite spot....
and then to the Res for pictures.


And then to the res for pictures. A photo shoot -

So that we won't forget this day.

This day when I'm thinking 'bout getting older.


***

So, when we got there the children laughed and ran and played about -
as they always do.




And when they got tired we (me and the hubs) taught them all about echos.

You know the echos that come from the sounds we cry out from the depths of our timid souls especially when we think about getting older???

The sounds we hear reflected back at the most unassuming and unexpected times.

-those echos. We had an impromptu field lesson about them.

First it was funny to get the children to scream as loud as they could.

Then,

we each took a turn - howling to the wild blue yonder and carefully listening to each echo as it returned from the distant valley.


That night,

I howled. And howled and howled.

My echo responded. And responded and responded.

And when the howling was done,

In my mind, in my heart, and in my soul...

I never did feel quite so young.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE FAMILY JOY!!!!!

Even when you have BLUE LIPS we love you sooooooo MUCH.

xoxo

These Are a Few of My Favorite...

things.

Diagnosis.

I just love the one shoe on, one shoe off look.

*image not mine - i only wish i could be that clever

not for the teary, a stroll down memoir lane

I REMEMBER,

and I

repeat every day...

"I appreciate this day, this age, this act,

I will not look back with regret, punishing myself for not loving every moment

Life gets better and better"

statement . x two

"are you trying to make a statement?"

she asked, as I made my way down the hall

this morning with Bugsy on my arm.

She is sweet, and quick with a compliment.

Almost one a day for me,

and I have become used to responding to her with a smily "thank you"-

and then stopping for a chitty chat.

We still chitty chat, she and I, just like we used to do

when she had Bugsy in her kindergarten room.

Her room full of chickadees,... she is a sweet lady.

But this morning, more than a smily thank you was in order.

"Are you trying to make a statement" she had asked.

Huh.

A statement.

Huh.

I had to think about it.

Hmmm.

But only for a minute.

"YES"

"yes, I am. "

"I am trying to make a statement".

Isn't it obvious???

My sister loves me.

Pocket Notes

During the past few weeks getting out of the house has been a challenge in the morning.

Even though we have not started a new school and we did not have a nice long 2 month summer break from school, X has shown a major case of schooliosis.

The fits start when it is time to get dressed and don't end until I have calmed him down, pumped him up, and repeatedly reassured him in his classroom that I will return.

He started calling me "mama", and Bri "dada" again, and drop offs have been peppered with sobs and intermittent wails of, "don't LEAVE me MAMA". If any words could ever fracture a heart for real those would be it.

And then I start my day, already a little beaten down.

I sit in my car, in the driveway of my patient's house, stalling. I don't want to go in. I know the questions that are coming, they are the same ones she asked me two days, two weeks, and 2 months ago. And I know my replies are the same. I try to come up with different ways of answering, so she has no reason to ask again, but alas.

She lives alone, 91 years old, and is slowly dying. She refuses aides, showers, help with shopping and driving. She wants to know why she is tired. What can she do?

Finally this morning, after watching George, eating french toast on homemade white bread, laughing and joking while getting dressed, we were ready for school. I try to make the mornings relaxed, not a constant rush to get out the door. There had been no tears yet as we grabbed our bags. At the last moment I grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote I LOVE YOU in big letters. I told X what is said, folded it and put it in his pocket. On the way into school I asked what was in his pocket, and what it said. He remembered. As we walked into school a group of classmates commented on how cool it was that X had a batman shirt on, he let go of my hand, found his place on the carpet, and said "bye, bye, mama".

I walked out of the building like I was floating.

Once again I sit in the car. Once again, I know what awaits me. A lonely lady who seeks my advice, my wisdom, my expertise. I am frank. Again. You have X disease which has Y symptoms which need Z treatment.

Or you could sit here. And let yourself be tired. And wait to die.

In not quite those words, that is what I say. And she seems accepting.

And as I walk to the door once again, she asks me what I "have" for her.

Should she got to the store for some groceries?

And so I tell her something that sounds so easy.

Do whatever you CAN do, and ACCEPT the things that you can't.

And I am gone.

We will see what tomorrow brings. I am prepared for tears, tantrums, hugs and smiles. Whatever it brings, I will try to heed my own advice, keep it in my pocket for the day, and try not to forget it.

Opus.

Dearest Nonie,

On the eve of your third birthday I must say -

not a day goes by when I don't look at you, laugh with you, love you, and think...

you might just be my

Magnum Opus.

I think I know what it feels like to be complete.

You are my sweet, sweet girl. (Even when you pee in your bed 3 nights in a row).

Love,

Mommy

Overwhelming Responsibilities Realized. Hopefully not too late.

At 2:40 the bell rang. I thought I was in the clear.
And then there he was on the rug. Flopped on his back like an upside down turtle.
Refusing to put his jacket on (properly, mind you, which spurred this all) and leave the room. 

So close.

It took some coaxing to get him down the hall and under the watchful eye of his grandpa.

On days like that I feel relieved to go home to a childless house.

Later on, long after I was home and settling into my weekend, it hit me.
Just as the hard part of my day was ending, his was starting.

Little things for me, rationing water intake because I don't have a spare second until 11:30. Frantically getting papers from mailbox cubbies to folders to backpacks and out the door.
Big things for him, who will pick me up from school today. Will my dad be home when I wake up in the morning, or will he have decided to leave again.

I thought of the day just before, when he melted in the afternoon and I walked him down to the nurse for a nap. I asked him if he wanted me to sit with him for a minute while he closed his eyes.
He said yes, and grabbed my arms from his lying down position.
He looked at me like he was drowning and I a life vest being thrown to him.
The tiny smile you can muster up when you are so glad someone is there but it does not overtake the fear and sadness that is pulling you down. His eyes wide open, staring at me. Studying.
I sat on that bed until seconds before the tears would have come, from me, if I stayed there another second.
The sadness I had for his exhausted little body. For the confusion that starts when the school day is over. For the overwhelming feeling of responsibility that I know I have toward him, and the twenty-two others just like him in the other room. It hit me right on the plastic coated bed.

For some of these kids, this year, in years past and in years to come, maybe I am the only thing they've got. The only consistency they know. The only smile they get that day.

I realized, when I was back in my cozy house, that he might not have wanted to leave.
While I was looking at the clock, waiting for the bell,
maybe he was dreading it.
He wanted to stay here in this school, in this classroom. He knows where his desk is and his spot on the rug, right next to me.
"You know, everyone in this school likes me". He tells me at least once a day.
 What about at home?

That, that should be the way that I teach them.
From that completely selfish, overwhelmingly egocentric, unbelievably narcissistic piece of my heart that feels like I am the best thing they've got.

Some mantras that sit above my desk. 

I have a feeling there will be many more to come.

You'll know why.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKIl-v18mgo

catching my breath

did I tell you...
my baby went to second grade...

Actually, she goes every day...

this one is so good I had to share it twice.