When I was growing up, my mother and several other adults told me never to put anything smaller than my elbow into my ears. I passed this bit of wisdom on to my children and my students, but apparently that advice is lost on more than a few brave and inquisitive youngsters.
During a recent and rather informal teacher meeting, my friend was asked about her sick child. “I took him to the doctor and it’s the normal stuff; sinus infection and cough.”
All the teachers nodded, as they were dealing with runny noses and all kinds of hacking and sniffling in their classrooms.
“But there was a really embarrassing moment,” she continued. “When the doctor looked in his ear, he kind of grimaced and then with a really thin forceps, he pulled out a small plastic piece of a toy.”
Every teacher reacted differently, but all the responses ended with a laugh. The interesting thing was that everyone had a similar story. Apparently children are fascinated with body cavities and what exactly fits in them. It seems that the only way to know, unequivocally, is to insert various objects. It must also be true that their curiosity is more highly developed than their memory because things inserted often stay inserted.
One teacher related a story about marbles in the nose. Yes, you read correctly. I’m talking in the plural, as in more than one marble in each nostril. And . . . this particular child plied his nose with many different items over the course of the school year. His curiosity was not satisfied by one experience. He needed several trials in his experiment, but now he can tell you, without question, that the tires from a matchbox car are the hardest to retrieve.
I had an experience many years ago when I was teaching kindergarten. Leah was an adorable little girl and when her mother came to pick her up for a doctor appointment she informed me that Leah probably had an ear infection and would be back at school after 24 hours. When she called that afternoon, I have to admit I was taken aback. Leah had put a bean in her ear and the doctor surmised that after several hair washings, the bean sprouted. That sprout was pushing on Leah’s eardrum and causing quite a bit of pain. I was a bit guilty on that count as I’m sure she got the bean from the measuring center in my classroom, but truly. . . . Would you have guessed that instead of measuring the beans and counting the beans, a little girl would be inserting beans . . . . IN HER EAR????
Another teacher turned around at lunch one day and saw several girls leaning over a little boy. Her immediate reaction was, “Oh no, someone is hurt?” As she neared the area, she heard one of the girls say, “Eeeww. . . ” NOT a good sign! However, when she got there, she realized that the situation was not life threatening, although oxygen must have been in short supply. The young man had taken several tiny pebbles from the garden and was counting them as he stuffed his nose and ears. That’s not the oddest thing. He told the teacher that he was trying to beat his record. We know the record was 7, but no one dared ask how they were divided. We called his parents and they were aware that he had done it before at a time when there was construction being done on his street and there was a lot of gravel around. His mother sighed and said, “I thought the emergency room doctor made an impression on him, but I guess not.”
A couple of years ago two middle school boys were having a contest to see who could get the most grapes in their mouth. We put a stop to that when we realized that although we all knew the Heimlich maneuver, no one wanted to use it. I asked, “What were you thinking?” The response was quick and matter of fact. “We wanted to know how much “mass” we could put in our mouths.” Was that evidence enough that we should not teach 6th grade students physics? Perhaps.
Some of our teachers decided to do more with health and biology in an effort to answer some of the questions the children have about their bodies, but I have to admit those lessons are lost on the child who needs to find out firsthand and frankly, that’s the way we teach. It’s all about discovery and hands-on and asking questions and finding answers. Unfortunately, when it comes to the human body, it’s not always politically correct or even appropriate, so what can you do? Well, you just have to laugh! The very thing they live with and inside of every day is a total mystery that requires years of exploration. Children continue on their quest of self discovery for many years and as their bodies change, new and unusual situations occur. It really is a never ending journey.
I recently spent some time with my parents in Florida. It was quite amusing when I saw my 80+ year-old mother talking into my father’s pants pocket. “Mom?” I asked. “What are you doing?”
“Well, your father puts his hearing aid in his pocket instead of in his ear, so I thought that maybe he could hear me if I talked into his pants. He certainly doesn’t hear me when I talk to his face.”
My father responded by saying, “What did you say? – I really think my ears are blocked”
“Maybe,” I yelled “. . . you have a foreign object in there.”
“That darn hearing aid is the only foreign object that’s been in there recently.”
So, in my father’s defense I said, “You know mom, the hearing aid is NOT bigger than his elbow.”
Friday, October 2, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Second Hand Treasures
Teachers are packrats; not amateurs, but true, professional packrats. There isn’t a piece of junk, or a can or a container and especially anything used to package or transport eggs that they can throw away without having a “to-do” about possible uses. So, in August, without trepidation, they arrive with their truckloads of things, and the move-in begins. In addition to all of their accumulated materials, they move in idea books, games that help teach, favorite items from years past and wheelbarrows full of who knows what. The closets are never large enough and there are never enough shelves. It is a storage nightmare – the more space we have, the more stuff we collect. Teachers have been reduced to filling the trunks of their cars with treasures and their garages with better treasures. One teacher was caught going through the dumpster after another teacher actually cleared some things out. We don’t throw things away in front of her any more; in fact we don’t even talk about cleaning in front of her. In fairness, I must admit, she did build a working radio using wire she found that day. Another teacher showed up with a car full of “trash”. It seems that she was driving through a subdivision, noticed a chair at the end of someone’s driveway and stopped to see what else they were throwing away. Lo and behold, she found a record player, an old French Horn and several canisters. I thought it was odd because we don’t have vinyl records at school anymore and the canisters were a little on the battered side, but I didn’t say a word. Sometimes only the trash collecting teacher can see the uses for other people’s discarded goods.
Once I went to a teacher friend’s house; and her dining room table was stacked with assorted piles. I’m not always as tactful as I should be, so I asked, “What is going on in the dining room?” She was actually puzzled by the question. “It’s school stuff.”
“School stuff?”
“Yes,” she replied “I ran out of space in the classroom and I didn’t know what else to do with the stuff. Anyway. . . .,” she continued, “Who uses formal dining rooms anymore?”
That was a question I couldn’t answer. I certainly don’t use mine. So, I said, “I just like to keep my special things in the dining room because it’s the place that stays just the way I want and no one ever disturbs it.
The twinkle in her eye spoke volumes and she answered, “Precisely! These teacher magazines, papers, ideas, boxes, and cartons of stuff are exactly what is precious to me and I leave it in the dining room because no one disturbs it.”
I asked her what happened to keeping things in the trunk of the car.
Her reply? “It’s full.”
“What about the garage?” I asked.
“My husband thinks his car belongs in there, but I share the other half with the lawn mower and weed eater.”
“Do you think that maybe you should rent a storage area?”
“Done,” she answered quickly.
Frankly, I didn’t want to hear anymore.
I know the old saying about one person’s trash is another person’s treasure. Teachers certainly have a knack for seeing treasures when others can not.
Finding the treasure is a good thing. After all, if a set of battered canisters looks good, imagine how adorable a naughty child must be or how cute a child who needs special attention must look. It’s the way teachers are – finding the nuggets of treasure in everything and everyone.
For example, the first thing Byron’s teacher said, in a loud whisper, when she brought him into the office was, “Isn’t he the cutest thing?” Well, Byron was her second grade treasure and he couldn’t figure out why everyone was so distraught about the peanut butter and jelly sandwich IN the plastic sandwich bag being flushed down the toilet. His teacher knew it was a naughty thing, but she couldn’t talk to him without laughing. I was the one who had to put on a serious face and explain that flushing anything except bodily waste was unacceptable. It didn’t help when he reminded me that the sandwich was just several swallows and a couple of hours away from being appropriate for flushing. As he spoke, I realized that this little “nugget” was stealing my heart, just as he had stolen his teacher’s.
Some teachers find goodness in strange animals, too. We have many wonderful classroom pets that everyone finds warm, fuzzy and lovable. And then there’s the science lab with its tarantula, odd frogs, lizards, geckos, meal worms and a host of other unusual “pets”. They have, for the most part, been donated to the school by mothers who changed their minds about having them in the house. These second-hand critters are my friend, Lollie’s, treasures. She can make a single new habitat teach a multitude of lessons.
What, you may ask, are my treasures? That’s easy. I watch teachers take each diamond in the rough, each part of something or someone and work their magic. I am the observer as each egg carton becomes an art project and other unusual items become teaching tools. I have a front row seat as each child is transformed into a lifelong learner. I even learned to treasure that crazy, battered French horn when a child turned it into a planter. Who’d have guessed that the radio made from dumpster wire would be the beginning of an entire ham radio club? And when that dining room table, full of stuff, is harvested and modified, it is sure to reap treasures untold. As for Byron – he’s one of my most beloved treasures.
With twenty-five teachers and two hundred children, I guess you could say I have a gold mine.
Once I went to a teacher friend’s house; and her dining room table was stacked with assorted piles. I’m not always as tactful as I should be, so I asked, “What is going on in the dining room?” She was actually puzzled by the question. “It’s school stuff.”
“School stuff?”
“Yes,” she replied “I ran out of space in the classroom and I didn’t know what else to do with the stuff. Anyway. . . .,” she continued, “Who uses formal dining rooms anymore?”
That was a question I couldn’t answer. I certainly don’t use mine. So, I said, “I just like to keep my special things in the dining room because it’s the place that stays just the way I want and no one ever disturbs it.
The twinkle in her eye spoke volumes and she answered, “Precisely! These teacher magazines, papers, ideas, boxes, and cartons of stuff are exactly what is precious to me and I leave it in the dining room because no one disturbs it.”
I asked her what happened to keeping things in the trunk of the car.
Her reply? “It’s full.”
“What about the garage?” I asked.
“My husband thinks his car belongs in there, but I share the other half with the lawn mower and weed eater.”
“Do you think that maybe you should rent a storage area?”
“Done,” she answered quickly.
Frankly, I didn’t want to hear anymore.
I know the old saying about one person’s trash is another person’s treasure. Teachers certainly have a knack for seeing treasures when others can not.
Finding the treasure is a good thing. After all, if a set of battered canisters looks good, imagine how adorable a naughty child must be or how cute a child who needs special attention must look. It’s the way teachers are – finding the nuggets of treasure in everything and everyone.
For example, the first thing Byron’s teacher said, in a loud whisper, when she brought him into the office was, “Isn’t he the cutest thing?” Well, Byron was her second grade treasure and he couldn’t figure out why everyone was so distraught about the peanut butter and jelly sandwich IN the plastic sandwich bag being flushed down the toilet. His teacher knew it was a naughty thing, but she couldn’t talk to him without laughing. I was the one who had to put on a serious face and explain that flushing anything except bodily waste was unacceptable. It didn’t help when he reminded me that the sandwich was just several swallows and a couple of hours away from being appropriate for flushing. As he spoke, I realized that this little “nugget” was stealing my heart, just as he had stolen his teacher’s.
Some teachers find goodness in strange animals, too. We have many wonderful classroom pets that everyone finds warm, fuzzy and lovable. And then there’s the science lab with its tarantula, odd frogs, lizards, geckos, meal worms and a host of other unusual “pets”. They have, for the most part, been donated to the school by mothers who changed their minds about having them in the house. These second-hand critters are my friend, Lollie’s, treasures. She can make a single new habitat teach a multitude of lessons.
What, you may ask, are my treasures? That’s easy. I watch teachers take each diamond in the rough, each part of something or someone and work their magic. I am the observer as each egg carton becomes an art project and other unusual items become teaching tools. I have a front row seat as each child is transformed into a lifelong learner. I even learned to treasure that crazy, battered French horn when a child turned it into a planter. Who’d have guessed that the radio made from dumpster wire would be the beginning of an entire ham radio club? And when that dining room table, full of stuff, is harvested and modified, it is sure to reap treasures untold. As for Byron – he’s one of my most beloved treasures.
With twenty-five teachers and two hundred children, I guess you could say I have a gold mine.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
My Favorite Day of the Year
What do you get when you combine lots of excitement, a little anxiety, a good breakfast, and new shoes? You get my MOST favorite day of the year. . . THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL! There’s nothing like new crayons, fresh faces, well rested teachers, and those great “first day of school” outfits. The classrooms are ready and as clean as they’ll be all year. The bulletin boards are a peek at what’s in store for the next month and the books are just waiting to be opened and read. Each August is a new beginning – a time to put aside all the past and start again.
Now, no one said that the first day is free of what I sensitively refer to as “situations.” Take, for example, the criers. You get the crying children who are fine less than five minutes after mom leaves and you get the crying moms who are a wreck for a week. You get the dads who get a little misty and you get the grandmothers who, surprisingly, rarely cry. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which are the happy tears and which are the “Oh no, what am I going to do with my day” tears. I always tell moms who don’t work outside the home, “Go get a manicure,” or “Clean out your closet” or . . . and this one works miracles; “you know, this means you can actually have some private time in the bathroom or carry on a phone conversation without interruption.” Then you have the parents of middle school children. They do not cry. . . they drop their children off and thank their lucky stars that summer is over, leaving quickly and I’m sure meeting friends for celebratory activities.
Teachers often find themselves involved in countless other first day “situations”. There are the students who can’t wait to get started because as much as they looked forward to summer, it got boring quickly. You get the students who can’t wait to get their new crayons with a sharp point and no breakage, and the students who can’t wait to tell you about their summer, talking non-stop. Teachers have new lunchboxes to see, new backpacks to break in and new smiles to love. There are questions from students and parents, there is laughter, and the hustle and bustle is electrifying. It’s just about as good as it gets.
Then there are those “situations” that no one can predict. A few years ago a young boy, new to our school, arrived. He was adorable with curly blond hair, beautiful eyes and a charming personality. He looked like he was about 7, but his vocabulary and speech patterns were very advanced. When the teachers went to the yard to collect their students, he got in the middle school line. The teacher politely confirmed that this was the middle school line and he stepped right up. She added him to her list and off they went to start their day. Noticing that our little friend stood amidst a sea of much taller students, I asked the teacher about him. She said that he had assured her he was an eighth grade student and since he was so bright she assumed there was a growth problem. There was no growth problem. There was a “student who outsmarted the teacher” problem. Our sweet little boy with the curly blond hair belonged in second grade. He was kindly delivered to the second grade teacher arguing his case the whole way; an obvious lawyer in the making
On another first day of school we were greeted with television cameras. I immediately ran to put on extra make-up, compose myself and rushed out to meet them. The reporter wanted to do a story on the first day of school. That was great news and I was proud they’d chosen us. “We’d like to do a story we’re calling KID’S FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL.”
“Fabulous,” I answered.
“Where can I find them?” He asked politely.
Thinking that this wasn’t the brightest of reporters, I responded slowly, “They are in the classrooms.” As we entered the first room, he looked a little confused and frankly, that caused me a little confusion.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“These aren’t the kids I was talking about.”
“They’re not? Would you like to film younger children?”
“No,” he answered. “I was talking about kids as in baby goats – the kind that eat homework and cause mayhem. I’m told they help teach children all kinds of things.” While it wasn’t unusual to have people interested in our petting zoo, he did catch me off guard. As we walked I filled him in on the kinds of things our animals do for our children. He happily filmed BOTH kinds of “kids” and we saw ourselves on the nightly news.
Another first day of school was made memorable by our difficult, spoiled rotten goose, Boss. Boss did not like me and each time I walked across campus he would chase me, honking and snorting and biting. He was plain obnoxious. It was not a good situation and when I complained to my real “boss”, she laughed and said I’d have to figure out a better way to get along with my co-workers. Boss was NOT a co-worker, although he did keep morale high as he gave everyone a great laugh while chasing me. On this particular first day of school Boss decided to expand his horizons and pick on another innocent woman. . . the mom of a new student. He came out of nowhere as she was showing her child the playground, ran over to his unsuspecting new victim and bit her right on the thigh. She was hopping around on one well heeled pump, screaming and using her purse in self defense. It was a good thing my friend Travis came to her rescue (he never came to mine). He grabbed the goose by the neck and escorted the darn honker to the horse stables. I was quietly thankful – Boss was put into immediate retirement and spent his remaining days in Tomball where he was the king of over 60 acres.
As I wait for our first week of the new school year, I’m filled with excitement. It’s the wonderment of childhood that fills my heart and the opportunity to turn that wonderment into knowledge feeds my soul. I just love being an educator!!!!
Now, no one said that the first day is free of what I sensitively refer to as “situations.” Take, for example, the criers. You get the crying children who are fine less than five minutes after mom leaves and you get the crying moms who are a wreck for a week. You get the dads who get a little misty and you get the grandmothers who, surprisingly, rarely cry. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which are the happy tears and which are the “Oh no, what am I going to do with my day” tears. I always tell moms who don’t work outside the home, “Go get a manicure,” or “Clean out your closet” or . . . and this one works miracles; “you know, this means you can actually have some private time in the bathroom or carry on a phone conversation without interruption.” Then you have the parents of middle school children. They do not cry. . . they drop their children off and thank their lucky stars that summer is over, leaving quickly and I’m sure meeting friends for celebratory activities.
Teachers often find themselves involved in countless other first day “situations”. There are the students who can’t wait to get started because as much as they looked forward to summer, it got boring quickly. You get the students who can’t wait to get their new crayons with a sharp point and no breakage, and the students who can’t wait to tell you about their summer, talking non-stop. Teachers have new lunchboxes to see, new backpacks to break in and new smiles to love. There are questions from students and parents, there is laughter, and the hustle and bustle is electrifying. It’s just about as good as it gets.
Then there are those “situations” that no one can predict. A few years ago a young boy, new to our school, arrived. He was adorable with curly blond hair, beautiful eyes and a charming personality. He looked like he was about 7, but his vocabulary and speech patterns were very advanced. When the teachers went to the yard to collect their students, he got in the middle school line. The teacher politely confirmed that this was the middle school line and he stepped right up. She added him to her list and off they went to start their day. Noticing that our little friend stood amidst a sea of much taller students, I asked the teacher about him. She said that he had assured her he was an eighth grade student and since he was so bright she assumed there was a growth problem. There was no growth problem. There was a “student who outsmarted the teacher” problem. Our sweet little boy with the curly blond hair belonged in second grade. He was kindly delivered to the second grade teacher arguing his case the whole way; an obvious lawyer in the making
On another first day of school we were greeted with television cameras. I immediately ran to put on extra make-up, compose myself and rushed out to meet them. The reporter wanted to do a story on the first day of school. That was great news and I was proud they’d chosen us. “We’d like to do a story we’re calling KID’S FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL.”
“Fabulous,” I answered.
“Where can I find them?” He asked politely.
Thinking that this wasn’t the brightest of reporters, I responded slowly, “They are in the classrooms.” As we entered the first room, he looked a little confused and frankly, that caused me a little confusion.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“These aren’t the kids I was talking about.”
“They’re not? Would you like to film younger children?”
“No,” he answered. “I was talking about kids as in baby goats – the kind that eat homework and cause mayhem. I’m told they help teach children all kinds of things.” While it wasn’t unusual to have people interested in our petting zoo, he did catch me off guard. As we walked I filled him in on the kinds of things our animals do for our children. He happily filmed BOTH kinds of “kids” and we saw ourselves on the nightly news.
Another first day of school was made memorable by our difficult, spoiled rotten goose, Boss. Boss did not like me and each time I walked across campus he would chase me, honking and snorting and biting. He was plain obnoxious. It was not a good situation and when I complained to my real “boss”, she laughed and said I’d have to figure out a better way to get along with my co-workers. Boss was NOT a co-worker, although he did keep morale high as he gave everyone a great laugh while chasing me. On this particular first day of school Boss decided to expand his horizons and pick on another innocent woman. . . the mom of a new student. He came out of nowhere as she was showing her child the playground, ran over to his unsuspecting new victim and bit her right on the thigh. She was hopping around on one well heeled pump, screaming and using her purse in self defense. It was a good thing my friend Travis came to her rescue (he never came to mine). He grabbed the goose by the neck and escorted the darn honker to the horse stables. I was quietly thankful – Boss was put into immediate retirement and spent his remaining days in Tomball where he was the king of over 60 acres.
As I wait for our first week of the new school year, I’m filled with excitement. It’s the wonderment of childhood that fills my heart and the opportunity to turn that wonderment into knowledge feeds my soul. I just love being an educator!!!!
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Band-Aids
I’ve known this for years, but the reasons are elusive. For those of you who haven’t heard. . Band-Aids can cure almost all ills. They are good for the obvious cuts, scratches and scrapes, but they can also cure rashes, itches, bumps and those formidable invisible boo-boos that, without a Band-Aid, are sure to kill anyone under seven. The thing that stumps me is that children need band-Aids, want Band-Aids, crave band aids only to scream louder when the band aids are ripped off. The manufacturers have made Band-Aids with super heroes, Band-Aids with cartoon characters, flower power Band-Aids, Band-Aids that are ouchless, Band-Aids that breathe and there are even Band-Aids you can paint or spray on. It’s a treasure trove of ways to make our youngsters feel better.
We all hope, wish and pray that all our children ever need is a Band-Aid to make their hurts go away. Their mental and physical health is the supreme gift. It makes everything else possible. So, if our children are blessed with good health, how do we communicate that nothing less than their best is acceptable?
As the mother of two young women I know that my ability to make everything better wanes as they get older. Combined with the fact that their problems become more complex, you soon realize that the hard work and time spent preparing them for adulthood was extraordinarily worthwhile. It merits a big swipe of the forehead and a loud “Whew!” Believe me, it wasn’t always a walk in the park. There were dramatic outbursts, crying, screaming, threatening and door slamming. And my kids were great kids! They, in spite of my “meanness” and “unfairness,” are amazing people. So I’m often asked, “What did you do?”
First of all, they came to me with their own set of individual gifts and personality traits. I got lucky on that count. They also had their own set of challenges. They were stubborn, manipulative and occasionally downright disrespectful. They grew, in fact, into teenagers. Often I felt that the punishment affected me more than them. It was certainly harder on me. I had to stay in when they had to stay in. I had to listen to the crying and last longer than they did. I had to stick to my guns even after the thousandth time they asked me to change my mind. I had to NOT kill them while WE were suffering the consequences of a bad choice THEY made.
So now I have the opportunity to help others get through the years of child rearing. After I get beyond the sympathy I have for parents, I remember the feelings of pride. It’s got to be the greatest plan ever! Children grow inside a mother. She feels them kick and move and can’t wait to meet her new baby, face to face. The pain of childbirth is replaced in seconds with love and gratitude. The newborn is totally reliant on mom and dad for EVERYTHING! The nights of sleeplessness are replaced with the baby’s first smile and first words. Children then become adorable and funny. They provide endless entertainment. Parents get to see the world again through new eyes and partake in each “first” their child encounters. There is the first step, the first tinkle in the toilet, the first day of completely dry big girl or big boy pants. Those firsts are followed by the first day of kindergarten, the first goal in soccer or hit in T-ball, learning to tie their shoes, learning to read, and the first school play. Parents delight in the lives of their children. It seems like our very existence was meant to parent. And then those sweet things wake up one morning and they are teenagers. By then, and this is where the plan really starts working, we are hopelessly in love with our children even though they can make an hour seem like days and an ordinary day seem like a soap opera. We put up with their ridiculous antics, try to guide them as best we can and they still seem like they are working hard at making us miserable. Something takes over their bodies and their brains function in a strange and unusual way. The phone is attached to their ear, their fingers can’t seem to do anything but text, and the computer is their world.
Teenagers can have a dozen or two people that they are Instant Messaging with and they keep up with each conversation, including the one on the phone, but they can’t seem to get a one page paper done with any degree of clarity.
They can manipulate you, all the while seeming logical, yet they have trouble figuring out how to get their rooms clean. They sulk, they cry, they seem depressed, their very lives are a drama, yet they don’t want to be in the school play. They can’t wait to get out of the house to be with their friends because, all of a sudden, parents don’t know ANYTHING! They get more expensive and less appreciative.
There are respites from the challenges of living with a teenager. There are more wonderful firsts; the first honor roll, their first crush, the first formal dress or tuxedo, the first dance, followed by graduations, college acceptances and first jobs. It’s quite a journey, full of ups and downs. It’s the hardest job in the world, if done well. It’s the most rewarding, too.
And when they leave to live the life you’ve spent years preparing them for, you are left with an empty nest and memories. You are laid off from the best job you ever had, or at the very least, the job description undergoes a major change. You miss them and you miss being their full time Mom, all the while being proud of who they’ve become. It’s exciting and sad, and it leaves a wound that doesn’t heal easily. Oh dear, I think I need a Band-Aid. I’m going to put it right over my heart.
We all hope, wish and pray that all our children ever need is a Band-Aid to make their hurts go away. Their mental and physical health is the supreme gift. It makes everything else possible. So, if our children are blessed with good health, how do we communicate that nothing less than their best is acceptable?
As the mother of two young women I know that my ability to make everything better wanes as they get older. Combined with the fact that their problems become more complex, you soon realize that the hard work and time spent preparing them for adulthood was extraordinarily worthwhile. It merits a big swipe of the forehead and a loud “Whew!” Believe me, it wasn’t always a walk in the park. There were dramatic outbursts, crying, screaming, threatening and door slamming. And my kids were great kids! They, in spite of my “meanness” and “unfairness,” are amazing people. So I’m often asked, “What did you do?”
First of all, they came to me with their own set of individual gifts and personality traits. I got lucky on that count. They also had their own set of challenges. They were stubborn, manipulative and occasionally downright disrespectful. They grew, in fact, into teenagers. Often I felt that the punishment affected me more than them. It was certainly harder on me. I had to stay in when they had to stay in. I had to listen to the crying and last longer than they did. I had to stick to my guns even after the thousandth time they asked me to change my mind. I had to NOT kill them while WE were suffering the consequences of a bad choice THEY made.
So now I have the opportunity to help others get through the years of child rearing. After I get beyond the sympathy I have for parents, I remember the feelings of pride. It’s got to be the greatest plan ever! Children grow inside a mother. She feels them kick and move and can’t wait to meet her new baby, face to face. The pain of childbirth is replaced in seconds with love and gratitude. The newborn is totally reliant on mom and dad for EVERYTHING! The nights of sleeplessness are replaced with the baby’s first smile and first words. Children then become adorable and funny. They provide endless entertainment. Parents get to see the world again through new eyes and partake in each “first” their child encounters. There is the first step, the first tinkle in the toilet, the first day of completely dry big girl or big boy pants. Those firsts are followed by the first day of kindergarten, the first goal in soccer or hit in T-ball, learning to tie their shoes, learning to read, and the first school play. Parents delight in the lives of their children. It seems like our very existence was meant to parent. And then those sweet things wake up one morning and they are teenagers. By then, and this is where the plan really starts working, we are hopelessly in love with our children even though they can make an hour seem like days and an ordinary day seem like a soap opera. We put up with their ridiculous antics, try to guide them as best we can and they still seem like they are working hard at making us miserable. Something takes over their bodies and their brains function in a strange and unusual way. The phone is attached to their ear, their fingers can’t seem to do anything but text, and the computer is their world.
Teenagers can have a dozen or two people that they are Instant Messaging with and they keep up with each conversation, including the one on the phone, but they can’t seem to get a one page paper done with any degree of clarity.
They can manipulate you, all the while seeming logical, yet they have trouble figuring out how to get their rooms clean. They sulk, they cry, they seem depressed, their very lives are a drama, yet they don’t want to be in the school play. They can’t wait to get out of the house to be with their friends because, all of a sudden, parents don’t know ANYTHING! They get more expensive and less appreciative.
There are respites from the challenges of living with a teenager. There are more wonderful firsts; the first honor roll, their first crush, the first formal dress or tuxedo, the first dance, followed by graduations, college acceptances and first jobs. It’s quite a journey, full of ups and downs. It’s the hardest job in the world, if done well. It’s the most rewarding, too.
And when they leave to live the life you’ve spent years preparing them for, you are left with an empty nest and memories. You are laid off from the best job you ever had, or at the very least, the job description undergoes a major change. You miss them and you miss being their full time Mom, all the while being proud of who they’ve become. It’s exciting and sad, and it leaves a wound that doesn’t heal easily. Oh dear, I think I need a Band-Aid. I’m going to put it right over my heart.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Power of Respect
I’d heard the sound before. . . . sitting in my car at a stop light. It was coming from the car in the next lane. It looked like the young man in the car was listening to his radio, seemingly unaware of the low guttural sound emanating from his vehicle. He was sitting proud and working hard at looking cool.
“Gee Whiz,” I thought. It seemed that if one had the finances to enjoy a very spiffy car, they would see about that noise. It was obviously a sign of something going very wrong; certainly a problem worthy of a professional mechanic.
This weekend, when I was working in my garden, my quiet space where I relax and putter among the plants, I was struck by an inner vibration; one that started in my head, went straight to my rib cage, then down to my toes. It was rhythmic and never ending. It was the sound of that car in the next lane. I tried very hard to ignore it, but it just wasn’t possible. Where was the intrusion coming from? Why wasn’t my quiet time in my garden being respected? After all, I’m a hard working woman. I deserve to go into the privacy of my backyard and enjoy the calm; to communicate with nature and restore my inner self. It’s not asking too much.
Now, just so I don’t sound like a complete moron, I want you to know that I do know about the bass lever on a radio and I do know that teenagers, especially the boys love the “bottom end.” I’m talking music here.
When I’d had enough, I went in search of the noise. I passed my husband who was busy pressure washing the porch. It wasn’t him. I passed by the roar of a lawn mower. It wasn’t that. I followed the movement of the earth and ended up in the driveway of my neighbor; a young man polishing his very beautiful blue car. It was clear that he was enjoying the noise. So, here I was face to face with one of my new neighbors. They’d moved in sometime over the winter. I introduced myself and he shook my hand and told me his name was Marcus. Marcus is a nice looking kid and it was immediately apparent that he’d been taught extraordinary manners.
“It’s nice to meet you, Marcus,” I said in a professional way. I wasn’t about to let his manners get in the way of my inner peace. “Marcus, we need to talk. Your music is making a very odd sound in my backyard. It’s actually worse over there then it is standing here next to it.”
Marcus couldn’t have been more delightful. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll turn it down.”
I felt the need to explain myself. “You know Marcus, I’m old.”
He smiled and repeated himself. “It’s fine, really.”
I thanked him and went back to enjoy the peace of my garden. As I began pulling weeds and rearranging the impatiens, I realized that my new friend had not only turned the music down; he had turned it off completely. I started to feel bad. Marcus had just as much right to enjoy his yard and his home as I did. Surely he could listen to his music and we could find some degree of compromise. I peeked over the side of the fence and said, “Marcus, I really didn’t mean for you to turn it off completely.”
“I know, but it’s okay,” he said. At this point I wanted to go over there and turn the music up so the whole neighborhood could rock to the intrusion of that awful sound. Marcus had won me over.
Now, I like to think of myself as open minded and having tastes of an eclectic nature. I like many kinds of music from classical to country to classic rock and most especially Broadway music. Surely I can find something good about the music Marcus likes. I don’t have to love it. On my quest to appreciate this new sound I found myself thinking about the type of person that stereotypically listens to it. Wait a minute! Admittedly, I don’t know Marcus. We’ve only had one encounter. But I have a good intuition about people and Marcus doesn’t fit the picture in my mind of a kid who listens to that stuff. So, in addition to finding something positive about the sound, I need to work on my attitude. If my mother could do it, so can I. She thought the Beatles were evil, if you can imagine that and don’t ask her about the Rolling Stones.
Marcus started me thinking about something else, too. He took me from an angry woman to a blithering idiot anxious to make him happy and willing to try to enjoy whatever they call that sound. How did he do it? Well, I can tell you. He did it by having good manners and respect. He was, in a nutshell, absolutely adorable and eager to please. I’m sure he was almost done with polishing his car. It looked brand, spanking new. I’m also sure he’s a typical teenager; not always perfect. But man oh man. . . . he taught me a lesson that I needed to relearn. Respect and courtesy are mighty powerful.
So, I’m issuing a formal warning. If you are sitting at a red light and there’s an unusual sound coming from a van with an older woman sitting in the driver’s seat, it’s me! I’m on my way to the music store and I might look into a new sound system, too. I’m officially expanding my horizons.
“Gee Whiz,” I thought. It seemed that if one had the finances to enjoy a very spiffy car, they would see about that noise. It was obviously a sign of something going very wrong; certainly a problem worthy of a professional mechanic.
This weekend, when I was working in my garden, my quiet space where I relax and putter among the plants, I was struck by an inner vibration; one that started in my head, went straight to my rib cage, then down to my toes. It was rhythmic and never ending. It was the sound of that car in the next lane. I tried very hard to ignore it, but it just wasn’t possible. Where was the intrusion coming from? Why wasn’t my quiet time in my garden being respected? After all, I’m a hard working woman. I deserve to go into the privacy of my backyard and enjoy the calm; to communicate with nature and restore my inner self. It’s not asking too much.
Now, just so I don’t sound like a complete moron, I want you to know that I do know about the bass lever on a radio and I do know that teenagers, especially the boys love the “bottom end.” I’m talking music here.
When I’d had enough, I went in search of the noise. I passed my husband who was busy pressure washing the porch. It wasn’t him. I passed by the roar of a lawn mower. It wasn’t that. I followed the movement of the earth and ended up in the driveway of my neighbor; a young man polishing his very beautiful blue car. It was clear that he was enjoying the noise. So, here I was face to face with one of my new neighbors. They’d moved in sometime over the winter. I introduced myself and he shook my hand and told me his name was Marcus. Marcus is a nice looking kid and it was immediately apparent that he’d been taught extraordinary manners.
“It’s nice to meet you, Marcus,” I said in a professional way. I wasn’t about to let his manners get in the way of my inner peace. “Marcus, we need to talk. Your music is making a very odd sound in my backyard. It’s actually worse over there then it is standing here next to it.”
Marcus couldn’t have been more delightful. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll turn it down.”
I felt the need to explain myself. “You know Marcus, I’m old.”
He smiled and repeated himself. “It’s fine, really.”
I thanked him and went back to enjoy the peace of my garden. As I began pulling weeds and rearranging the impatiens, I realized that my new friend had not only turned the music down; he had turned it off completely. I started to feel bad. Marcus had just as much right to enjoy his yard and his home as I did. Surely he could listen to his music and we could find some degree of compromise. I peeked over the side of the fence and said, “Marcus, I really didn’t mean for you to turn it off completely.”
“I know, but it’s okay,” he said. At this point I wanted to go over there and turn the music up so the whole neighborhood could rock to the intrusion of that awful sound. Marcus had won me over.
Now, I like to think of myself as open minded and having tastes of an eclectic nature. I like many kinds of music from classical to country to classic rock and most especially Broadway music. Surely I can find something good about the music Marcus likes. I don’t have to love it. On my quest to appreciate this new sound I found myself thinking about the type of person that stereotypically listens to it. Wait a minute! Admittedly, I don’t know Marcus. We’ve only had one encounter. But I have a good intuition about people and Marcus doesn’t fit the picture in my mind of a kid who listens to that stuff. So, in addition to finding something positive about the sound, I need to work on my attitude. If my mother could do it, so can I. She thought the Beatles were evil, if you can imagine that and don’t ask her about the Rolling Stones.
Marcus started me thinking about something else, too. He took me from an angry woman to a blithering idiot anxious to make him happy and willing to try to enjoy whatever they call that sound. How did he do it? Well, I can tell you. He did it by having good manners and respect. He was, in a nutshell, absolutely adorable and eager to please. I’m sure he was almost done with polishing his car. It looked brand, spanking new. I’m also sure he’s a typical teenager; not always perfect. But man oh man. . . . he taught me a lesson that I needed to relearn. Respect and courtesy are mighty powerful.
So, I’m issuing a formal warning. If you are sitting at a red light and there’s an unusual sound coming from a van with an older woman sitting in the driver’s seat, it’s me! I’m on my way to the music store and I might look into a new sound system, too. I’m officially expanding my horizons.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Just Asking!
They caught a blue lobster in Canada. According to reports, a blue lobster is only found once in every two million catches. Donald, as they are calling him, is now living the life of Riley in a restaurant tank and apparently attracting a large audience. He is special!!Maybe I’m a cynic, but I can’t help wondering how the lobster community treated Donald. Did they make fun of him? Was he the bait of bullies across the seas? Was he the last lobster picked to be on the clamball team? Was he kept from certain, special places in the ocean because of his color? Were his rights somehow different from all the other lobsters? Was he allowed to marry?
Donald is different. He is rare and because he’s rare, he’s being treated as something of a crustacean celebrity by us, BUT. . . . What if Donald was human? Just asking!
Monday, July 13, 2009
Me? Misunderstood?
I like to consider myself a pretty good communicator. In fact it’s one of the things I do best. I guess that’s part of being a teacher at heart. I’m much better at communicating in person; lots of hand movements, facial expressions and the occasional total body gesture. It keeps the audience, whether it is children or adults, on their toes and interested, but I also love to write. The written word lets the reader have some ownership of the story, interpreting and accenting thoughts as they see fit. Having bragged about my skills at communicating, you can imagine my surprise when I am totally misinterpreted. It happens more often than I’d like to admit.
Each summer our camp has a theme. Last summer we were cruising and with each new week, we stopped in a different port of call, integrating cultural information into the camp activities. It was lots of fun and the campers enjoyed it. In an effort to bring our good news to the public we built wooden cruise ships and put them around our property. Each week we put another sign on the ships telling about our plans for the summer. After a few weeks I received a call from a woman who sounded like a very sweet senior citizen. She explained that she promised her neighbor boy she would send him on a church trip during the summer. Lo and behold, the church trip was cancelled for reasons unknown. The woman and her young friend were very disappointed – that is until she saw our signs. Her prayers were answered. She was going to send her neighbor on a cruise. Our conversation went like this:
“Now tell me, what cruise line are you using?”
“No,no,” I answered. “It’s not a real cruise, it’s just our theme for the summer.”
“Well, I think the theme is an excellent one. Do you leave from Galveston?”
“No, no. We don’t leave the campus. We just pretend to stop in different ports of call.”
“Oh my! I’ll have to tell his mother to get him a passport, post haste!”
“No, no. . . . We only go in our own minds.”
“This is marvelous . . . expanding the mind is icing on the cake, isn’t it?”
It was at this point I realized that my own personal cruise ship was sinking. My sweet woman had her mind set on a cruise; a real cruise on a real boat with a real skipper going to foreign places. I didn’t want to be abrupt or rude so I had to think quickly. I had no problem trying to take the easy way out so I said, “I think it would be best for me to talk directly to the boy’s mother. When she gets all the information, she’ll be able to help you decide if this is the right program for the young man.” She didn’t let me off the hook that easily.
“Oh no, this is a surprise! And when he hears he’s going on a cruise, he’s going to be about as excited as a tick on a skinny dog.”
I was not about to ask what a dog’s weight had to do with a tick’s happiness, but it did give me some insight. “You know. . . This cruise is the best thing since sliced bread and I’m sure your young friend will really enjoy sailing with us. We set sail on June 7th and we come back to port each afternoon. That way the children will be able to sleep in their own beds and have the best of both worlds.”
“Well, goodness gracious sakes alive. . . You can’t get to India and back in one day!”
“Of course we can. . . We’ll be using our imaginations and when you imagine, everything is possible.”
That was the end of our conversation. She said a sweet good-bye and I haven’t heard from her since. I’m sure her neighbor had a wonderful summer adventure.
Each summer our camp has a theme. Last summer we were cruising and with each new week, we stopped in a different port of call, integrating cultural information into the camp activities. It was lots of fun and the campers enjoyed it. In an effort to bring our good news to the public we built wooden cruise ships and put them around our property. Each week we put another sign on the ships telling about our plans for the summer. After a few weeks I received a call from a woman who sounded like a very sweet senior citizen. She explained that she promised her neighbor boy she would send him on a church trip during the summer. Lo and behold, the church trip was cancelled for reasons unknown. The woman and her young friend were very disappointed – that is until she saw our signs. Her prayers were answered. She was going to send her neighbor on a cruise. Our conversation went like this:
“Now tell me, what cruise line are you using?”
“No,no,” I answered. “It’s not a real cruise, it’s just our theme for the summer.”
“Well, I think the theme is an excellent one. Do you leave from Galveston?”
“No, no. We don’t leave the campus. We just pretend to stop in different ports of call.”
“Oh my! I’ll have to tell his mother to get him a passport, post haste!”
“No, no. . . . We only go in our own minds.”
“This is marvelous . . . expanding the mind is icing on the cake, isn’t it?”
It was at this point I realized that my own personal cruise ship was sinking. My sweet woman had her mind set on a cruise; a real cruise on a real boat with a real skipper going to foreign places. I didn’t want to be abrupt or rude so I had to think quickly. I had no problem trying to take the easy way out so I said, “I think it would be best for me to talk directly to the boy’s mother. When she gets all the information, she’ll be able to help you decide if this is the right program for the young man.” She didn’t let me off the hook that easily.
“Oh no, this is a surprise! And when he hears he’s going on a cruise, he’s going to be about as excited as a tick on a skinny dog.”
I was not about to ask what a dog’s weight had to do with a tick’s happiness, but it did give me some insight. “You know. . . This cruise is the best thing since sliced bread and I’m sure your young friend will really enjoy sailing with us. We set sail on June 7th and we come back to port each afternoon. That way the children will be able to sleep in their own beds and have the best of both worlds.”
“Well, goodness gracious sakes alive. . . You can’t get to India and back in one day!”
“Of course we can. . . We’ll be using our imaginations and when you imagine, everything is possible.”
That was the end of our conversation. She said a sweet good-bye and I haven’t heard from her since. I’m sure her neighbor had a wonderful summer adventure.
I can't help but wonder. . . . What did she think about the signs we put up this year? They said, "GALAXY QUEST: Explore the far reaches of Outer Space!"
Friday, July 10, 2009
What's wrong? OY!
Her mouth naturally turned upward on the ends and her eyes had a twinkle about them. The lady at the grocery store had a happy face!!! I wish I had a happy face. I feel happy on the inside most of the time; actually sometimes I have to stop myself from laughing out loud as I think of funny things, but my face doesn’t show it. If I’m relaxed and minding my own business, my face looks sad, if not angry. There have been innumerable times when someone has asked me, “What’s wrong?” I shake off the shock of the question, remember and say. “Oh, its just my face. I’m fine.” That reply usually requires more of an explanation, but frankly. . . . I’m tired of clarifying. There was a time when I tried freezing my face. I figured that if your crossed eyes, per my mother, would freeze that way, maybe an upturned mouth would too. It didn’t work, which makes me question my mother’s wisdom, but that’s another issue.
In truth, things have actually gotten worse. At my age everything is starting to sag. I won’t go into the gloomy details, but I will say that a sagging face is definitely not helping the quest for a happy face. My natural frowns are frownier and my eyes are dropping into a semi-angry position. This really does belie the woman I am.
So who am I? Aaahhh, the age old question. I’m older than I feel. I’m happier than I look. I’m busier than I want to be. I often laugh at inappropriate times. I say things I wish I hadn’t. I love way too much. I have friends who mean the world to me. I’m healthy. I miss my children when they aren’t here. I wish my parents lived closer. I need to be near the ocean. I love children.
Does it sound like my cup is half anything? Not even close. My cup is overflowing. I am drinking up the nectar of a lucky life and taking advantage of every opportunity that comes my way. I’m happy. . . very happy!
So, screw my frowny face and look into my heart. Its corners are turned upward and it beats to the rhythm of happiness and thankfulness.
Aha. . . The next time someone asks me what’s wrong. . . . My answer will be, “not a damn thing.”
In truth, things have actually gotten worse. At my age everything is starting to sag. I won’t go into the gloomy details, but I will say that a sagging face is definitely not helping the quest for a happy face. My natural frowns are frownier and my eyes are dropping into a semi-angry position. This really does belie the woman I am.
So who am I? Aaahhh, the age old question. I’m older than I feel. I’m happier than I look. I’m busier than I want to be. I often laugh at inappropriate times. I say things I wish I hadn’t. I love way too much. I have friends who mean the world to me. I’m healthy. I miss my children when they aren’t here. I wish my parents lived closer. I need to be near the ocean. I love children.
Does it sound like my cup is half anything? Not even close. My cup is overflowing. I am drinking up the nectar of a lucky life and taking advantage of every opportunity that comes my way. I’m happy. . . very happy!
So, screw my frowny face and look into my heart. Its corners are turned upward and it beats to the rhythm of happiness and thankfulness.
Aha. . . The next time someone asks me what’s wrong. . . . My answer will be, “not a damn thing.”
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Lost and Lost
As I lead campers and counselors through the summer, there are a few things that I still can’t figure out about summer camp. Now I’m all for a mystery and I certainly don’t profess to know everything, but these are relatively harmless, simple things that should have easy solutions.
The first enigma is the lost and found. Frankly, I just don’t get it. I’m finally comfortable with the fact that the washing machine and/or dryer eat socks. I can live with the thought that forgotten and lost lunches happen. I can even relate to household pets eating homework, but I can’t figure out how things that end up in the lost and found belong to NO ONE.
I’m not a clean freak or even very organized, but I think that if I sent my child to day camp and he/she came home without something important like an expensive bathing suit or a beach towel, I’d take the time to look for it. Parents are asked to label everything, but few things actually have a name on them. The counselors do a great job sorting out what belongs to whom, but, honestly, it’s a job that is bigger than we are. Each day several new items are added to the pile in the lost and found. So . . .are moms going out each evening and buying new suits and towels? Do they wonder where the lunchbox ended up?
We have “Is this yours?” once a week. I hold up a lost item and ask who it belongs to. At least 70% of the time – it belongs to no one. I may not have all my marbles, but I know that someone brought each item that eventually ended up in the lost and found. I’ve actually said, “Come on, people. This towel didn’t come here because it heard we were a great camp. Someone brought it here and that someone is probably standing among us. Please look closely.” No one answers, so on to the next thing. A bathing suit. I often plead to their sense of style. “This bathing suit is adorable! Whoever owns this bathing suit has fabulous taste. Who lost it?” No one lost the suit. It belongs to no one. My frustration grows. Once there was a perfect pair of sneakers. How can someone lose a whole pair of sneakers and not know it? I talked about the blinking lights on the side of the shoes. I mentioned the really cool color. I begged! At one point I was reduced to saying, “Who wishes these were their shoes?” No one owned or wanted the shoes.
During one particularly difficult session of “Is this yours?” I, unfortunately, took my frustrations out on the counselors. I took them to one side and said, “Listen, guys, we have to be more careful when the children are changing. Make sure that everything is put in their backpacks.” Their response? I follow their gazes and I’m greeted with four backpacks. Guess who they belong to. NO ONE!
And. . . how in the world does anyone explain the occasional naked child; the one that has misplaced his or her entire wardrobe? That’s another thing I don’t understand. Last summer we had a little boy walk from the pool house to his home base room where backpacks, lunches and other personal items are kept, in search of his clothes. He did it in a complete state of nakedness. There was a counselor hurrying to catch him, towel in hand, with a shocked look on her face. When we both got to him, my friend, Paula asked, “Ricky, where are your clothes?” The six year old answered matter of factly, “Well, if I knew where they were, I’d have put them on.” How does one respond to that?
Just last week a little girl was with her group walking to musical drama with only a towel on. She was quite confident that she was well covered, but her entire back side was completely exposed and she had NOTHING on under the towel. Again a counselor said, “Maggie, you have no clothes on!”
Her response? “I know.”
“Don’t you think we need to find your clothes?” asked yet another shocked counselor.
“Okay,” replied Maggie. “When you find them, can you bring them to musical drama?”
Before you think we are completely inept, please know that both of these children left their clothes in the pool changing rooms and they were found promptly. There is always one swim counselor that stays at the pool and one that helps in the changing rooms between periods, but occasionally a camper just has to leave quickly for reasons unknown and although they don’t get far, it’s always surprising. I can’t imagine what they are thinking. I also can’t imagine what must be on the minds of the other campers when they see a partially clad body racing across campus. Am I the only one who seems to think this is odd? These children are not toddlers. I’m thrilled that they are comfortable with their bodies and I hope it remains that way, but let’s face it, there’s a time and a place for everything.
Oh, and two more questions. Do you think that anything in the lost and found belonged to Ricky? He’s certainly a likely candidate, don’t you think? The answer: Of course not. He’d never seen any of those things before. What about Maggie? She, too, says that those clothes and things in the lost and found don’t look familiar at all. After a few minutes of what looked like intense concentration, she declared, “They probably belong to NO ONE.”
The first enigma is the lost and found. Frankly, I just don’t get it. I’m finally comfortable with the fact that the washing machine and/or dryer eat socks. I can live with the thought that forgotten and lost lunches happen. I can even relate to household pets eating homework, but I can’t figure out how things that end up in the lost and found belong to NO ONE.
I’m not a clean freak or even very organized, but I think that if I sent my child to day camp and he/she came home without something important like an expensive bathing suit or a beach towel, I’d take the time to look for it. Parents are asked to label everything, but few things actually have a name on them. The counselors do a great job sorting out what belongs to whom, but, honestly, it’s a job that is bigger than we are. Each day several new items are added to the pile in the lost and found. So . . .are moms going out each evening and buying new suits and towels? Do they wonder where the lunchbox ended up?
We have “Is this yours?” once a week. I hold up a lost item and ask who it belongs to. At least 70% of the time – it belongs to no one. I may not have all my marbles, but I know that someone brought each item that eventually ended up in the lost and found. I’ve actually said, “Come on, people. This towel didn’t come here because it heard we were a great camp. Someone brought it here and that someone is probably standing among us. Please look closely.” No one answers, so on to the next thing. A bathing suit. I often plead to their sense of style. “This bathing suit is adorable! Whoever owns this bathing suit has fabulous taste. Who lost it?” No one lost the suit. It belongs to no one. My frustration grows. Once there was a perfect pair of sneakers. How can someone lose a whole pair of sneakers and not know it? I talked about the blinking lights on the side of the shoes. I mentioned the really cool color. I begged! At one point I was reduced to saying, “Who wishes these were their shoes?” No one owned or wanted the shoes.
During one particularly difficult session of “Is this yours?” I, unfortunately, took my frustrations out on the counselors. I took them to one side and said, “Listen, guys, we have to be more careful when the children are changing. Make sure that everything is put in their backpacks.” Their response? I follow their gazes and I’m greeted with four backpacks. Guess who they belong to. NO ONE!
And. . . how in the world does anyone explain the occasional naked child; the one that has misplaced his or her entire wardrobe? That’s another thing I don’t understand. Last summer we had a little boy walk from the pool house to his home base room where backpacks, lunches and other personal items are kept, in search of his clothes. He did it in a complete state of nakedness. There was a counselor hurrying to catch him, towel in hand, with a shocked look on her face. When we both got to him, my friend, Paula asked, “Ricky, where are your clothes?” The six year old answered matter of factly, “Well, if I knew where they were, I’d have put them on.” How does one respond to that?
Just last week a little girl was with her group walking to musical drama with only a towel on. She was quite confident that she was well covered, but her entire back side was completely exposed and she had NOTHING on under the towel. Again a counselor said, “Maggie, you have no clothes on!”
Her response? “I know.”
“Don’t you think we need to find your clothes?” asked yet another shocked counselor.
“Okay,” replied Maggie. “When you find them, can you bring them to musical drama?”
Before you think we are completely inept, please know that both of these children left their clothes in the pool changing rooms and they were found promptly. There is always one swim counselor that stays at the pool and one that helps in the changing rooms between periods, but occasionally a camper just has to leave quickly for reasons unknown and although they don’t get far, it’s always surprising. I can’t imagine what they are thinking. I also can’t imagine what must be on the minds of the other campers when they see a partially clad body racing across campus. Am I the only one who seems to think this is odd? These children are not toddlers. I’m thrilled that they are comfortable with their bodies and I hope it remains that way, but let’s face it, there’s a time and a place for everything.
Oh, and two more questions. Do you think that anything in the lost and found belonged to Ricky? He’s certainly a likely candidate, don’t you think? The answer: Of course not. He’d never seen any of those things before. What about Maggie? She, too, says that those clothes and things in the lost and found don’t look familiar at all. After a few minutes of what looked like intense concentration, she declared, “They probably belong to NO ONE.”
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Blueberry Picking
The scratches and small cuts across my arms, hands and back are proof that I became one with a bush; several bushes, really. I went blueberry picking this morning. It was a mother daughter excursion! My adult daughter and I set out at the crack of dawn, trying to beat the heat and the crowds in an effort to bond and collect a year’s worth of antioxidants. Blueberry conditions were not perfect thanks to the drought and record breaking heat, but off we went anyway.
I was, literally, in a bush when I heard the whine of a small child. “Mommy, I’m done. I want to go home,” followed by crying and what I believe was the sound of a small body throwing itself on the ground. Firstly, I must say. . . . I’ve been there. Every mother has been there. Maybe not among never ending rows of barren blueberry bushes, but perhaps in the grocery store or in the middle of the mall or well. . . name your place.
I smiled and thought to myself. . . . I’m so glad I’m past that. Most of the time I wish my girls were small and still allowed me to dress them in cute jumpers and Mary Jane shoes, but today I was thrilled to be the mom of a first year attorney who found time to spend with me. I dodged a few bees, sweated profusely and thought about my girls and the stages we’d gone through. In the end, and in spite of many parenting mistakes, they turned out well. I thought about going and finding the mother of the child in the midst of a tantrum to tell her that the future will be brighter, when I heard, “Mom?”
“Mom?” “MO-om?”
“Elizabeth, is that you?” I was pretty sure it was the sound of her voice, but I’ve been in several situations where I answered a strange child’s call for their mother.
“Yes, where are you?”
“I’m in a bush.”
“Mother, everyone is in a bush. Which bush are you in?”
I followed her voice and found her sitting on the ground. “I’m hot!” she said.
“Me, too.”
“Oh good, let’s go,” she answered way too quickly.
I looked at my bucket and it wasn’t even 1/4 full. I wasn’t close to being done with blueberry picking .
“Elizabeth, I came here to pick blueberries and I really need to continue.”
She agreed and we went about hunting for the blue bursts of color hiding among the greenery. It was harder than in past years. The blueberries were few and far between, but I was committed to the job, pulling tall branches down to search and finding great satisfaction when a small bunch of ripe berries were found. Slowly my bucket was filling. I had settled into a rhythm and found the process quite relaxing, until I felt small, hard pellets hitting me. No, it wasn't a bird nor was it small hail and it wasn’t wayward bugs. I looked around and found that they were blueberries. It seems that, once again, Elizabeth was done. She was cleaning her cache and throwing the bad berries at me, her mother.
“Stop that,” I said with a laugh. “What the heck are you doing?”
“I’m really ready to leave. I’m hot and tired and hungry.”
I considered the circumstances and decided that another fifteen minutes would be a good compromise. The compromise idea didn’t sit well with her, so she kindly announced that I could take my time and enjoy. She would wait in a cooler place. As she walked away, she added, “. . . And please don’t get lost.”
I did get lost in thought once again and finished up about 30 minutes later with only 3 pounds of blueberries. Not a great blueberry harvest, but I’d had fun. I began the hike back to the car wondering where I’d gone wrong. My daughter lasted only 30 minutes at best and began a somewhat more dignified tantrum than her 3 year old counterpart. In true maternal style, I was trying hard to place the blame on myself. It was then that I realized that we all have many roles. I know that for a very long time I was different when with my mother than when I was going about my daily life as a full fledged adult. Maybe I was, in some way, encouraging Lizzie to act like a child. My friend Judy often refers to me as “mom.” I can’t seem to help myself. My maternal instincts aren’t just reserved for children. They pop out before I realize it. I tell my husband to wear a jacket when I’m cold. I remind my friends what to bring when we are going on a day trip. I take care of people. Its who I am. Some would refer to it as a control issue. Maybe. I don’t really mean it to be. So. . . After a few minutes of objective introspection, I decided that I needed to work on this aspect of myself. No more over- mothering. I nodded, agreeing with myself and headed to the car where I found Lizzie sound asleep.
“Lizzie,” I whispered. “Wake up, I know a great place to buy you a jumper and some patent leather Mary James.
I was, literally, in a bush when I heard the whine of a small child. “Mommy, I’m done. I want to go home,” followed by crying and what I believe was the sound of a small body throwing itself on the ground. Firstly, I must say. . . . I’ve been there. Every mother has been there. Maybe not among never ending rows of barren blueberry bushes, but perhaps in the grocery store or in the middle of the mall or well. . . name your place.
I smiled and thought to myself. . . . I’m so glad I’m past that. Most of the time I wish my girls were small and still allowed me to dress them in cute jumpers and Mary Jane shoes, but today I was thrilled to be the mom of a first year attorney who found time to spend with me. I dodged a few bees, sweated profusely and thought about my girls and the stages we’d gone through. In the end, and in spite of many parenting mistakes, they turned out well. I thought about going and finding the mother of the child in the midst of a tantrum to tell her that the future will be brighter, when I heard, “Mom?”
“Mom?” “MO-om?”
“Elizabeth, is that you?” I was pretty sure it was the sound of her voice, but I’ve been in several situations where I answered a strange child’s call for their mother.
“Yes, where are you?”
“I’m in a bush.”
“Mother, everyone is in a bush. Which bush are you in?”
I followed her voice and found her sitting on the ground. “I’m hot!” she said.
“Me, too.”
“Oh good, let’s go,” she answered way too quickly.
I looked at my bucket and it wasn’t even 1/4 full. I wasn’t close to being done with blueberry picking .
“Elizabeth, I came here to pick blueberries and I really need to continue.”
She agreed and we went about hunting for the blue bursts of color hiding among the greenery. It was harder than in past years. The blueberries were few and far between, but I was committed to the job, pulling tall branches down to search and finding great satisfaction when a small bunch of ripe berries were found. Slowly my bucket was filling. I had settled into a rhythm and found the process quite relaxing, until I felt small, hard pellets hitting me. No, it wasn't a bird nor was it small hail and it wasn’t wayward bugs. I looked around and found that they were blueberries. It seems that, once again, Elizabeth was done. She was cleaning her cache and throwing the bad berries at me, her mother.
“Stop that,” I said with a laugh. “What the heck are you doing?”
“I’m really ready to leave. I’m hot and tired and hungry.”
I considered the circumstances and decided that another fifteen minutes would be a good compromise. The compromise idea didn’t sit well with her, so she kindly announced that I could take my time and enjoy. She would wait in a cooler place. As she walked away, she added, “. . . And please don’t get lost.”
I did get lost in thought once again and finished up about 30 minutes later with only 3 pounds of blueberries. Not a great blueberry harvest, but I’d had fun. I began the hike back to the car wondering where I’d gone wrong. My daughter lasted only 30 minutes at best and began a somewhat more dignified tantrum than her 3 year old counterpart. In true maternal style, I was trying hard to place the blame on myself. It was then that I realized that we all have many roles. I know that for a very long time I was different when with my mother than when I was going about my daily life as a full fledged adult. Maybe I was, in some way, encouraging Lizzie to act like a child. My friend Judy often refers to me as “mom.” I can’t seem to help myself. My maternal instincts aren’t just reserved for children. They pop out before I realize it. I tell my husband to wear a jacket when I’m cold. I remind my friends what to bring when we are going on a day trip. I take care of people. Its who I am. Some would refer to it as a control issue. Maybe. I don’t really mean it to be. So. . . After a few minutes of objective introspection, I decided that I needed to work on this aspect of myself. No more over- mothering. I nodded, agreeing with myself and headed to the car where I found Lizzie sound asleep.
“Lizzie,” I whispered. “Wake up, I know a great place to buy you a jumper and some patent leather Mary James.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Summer Camp
I think that someone should print a bumper sticker that says “Old campers never die, they just become adults who can’t stop talking about the old days at summer camp.” Perhaps that’s a little long for a bumper sticker, but the point is that a summer camp, if done well, can create some of the best childhood memories. Silly counselor antics, fabulous activities, enriching experiences, new friends and the absolute promise of fun are the things that I remember from my camp experiences.
It’s not often that a thought or memory can create an out loud laugh, but that’s what happens when I think back to summer camp. There was the time we went rowing and during a particularly intense session of giggles, the oars fell out of the boat, far from our reach and we had to use our hands to paddle a very heavy wooden boat back to shore . . . a hard thing to do when convulsed in laughter. Anyone with common sense would have paddled to the oars and reinstalled them, but we were 11 and I prefer to think of the situation as a very entertaining learning experience. Another memory that comes to mind is the time we were washing our hair in the lake and an ornery goose attacked. When all was said and done, my friend Nancy finally got her bathing suit bottom out of the goose’s clutch and we were left, once again, laughing the kind of laugh that cleanses the soul. When I sit back, as an adult, and think about camp as a life experience, I realize that it had an impact on who I am today. Many of my camp experiences formed lifelong interests and friendships. My social skills were finely honed as a camper. It’s where I learned to make friends with other campers and the adults. It’s where I began to understand differences in people, and work as part of a team. And believe it or not, I learned to have fun . . . at camp!
This summer, on the first day of camp, wearing a silly cardboard spaceship, a silver colander headpiece with antennae and awesome space glasses, I found myself reverting back to those days at camp. While singing one of my favorite camp songs in front of a large group of wide eyed campers on their first day of what I hope and pray will be a host of happy memories, I could feel their anxiety – those nagging inner questions. Will I make friends? Will I ever learn the words to those songs? Will I pass the swimming test and be able to swim in the deep area? Will my counselors like me? As those questions passed through my mind, I realized that as a leader I had the ability to help make the answers to all those questions a resounding “YES”. It’s an awesome responsibility, but armed with my crazy get-up, some great and silly songs, and a group of amazing counselors I was up for the task.
So off I go, loudspeaker in hand. . . “LET’S SING AND HAVE SOME FUN!” Of course, as campers near and far know, camp songs add to the lasting memories. Who said that singing had to be in tune, in the same key the whole way through and in some sort of rhythmic order? What happened to singing for the joy of singing? At summer camp we break all the musical rules. Not only are the songs silly and funny, but in the end, it really doesn’t matter how well they are sung. It’s about the happiness they create. It’s about the feeling of being part of a group where everyone is singing the same song, if only in a semi-similar manner. It’s about the funny words and the counselors dancing. It’s about fun.
The campers are learning the songs I sang at camp and I find it funny that while popular music changes faster than the continuum of generations, camp songs NEVER change. It does, however, take time for the silly songs to reach a state of coolness, especially for the older campers. As one particularly stubborn preteen shared, “These songs are weird!” That did not stop the camp song extravaganza each morning after the pledge of allegiance and the obligatory announcements. The first morning we sang “Ravioli” to the tune of Allouette.
“Do I have it on my chin?”
“Yes, you have it on your chin.”
“On my chin?”
“On your chin.”
“OOOhh, oooh oh oh. . . . “
The younger children took to the songs immediately, at first struggling with the words, but loving every minute of them. During the school year I encourage their very best in the classroom, but I don’t care one flip about the way they sing at camp as long as happiness is in the mix. By Thursday of that first week, after introducing several other songs, among them my personal favorites Zippity Doo Dah and Do Your Ears Hang Low?, I overheard the older campers doing their own rendition of Ravioli. I say it was their own rendition because their “sauce” was not just on the chin, nose and cheek. They took it to another level – “on my arm,” “on my neck,” “on my ankle.” I wonder why it took so long for the older campers to catch the song spirit. In any case its obvious that camp songs aren’t cool until they’re cool. When they make the switch is a mystery. I do know, for sure, that once they are under your skin, long drives in the car and cool evenings in front of the fire are never the same for a camper, young, old or in between.
Next week I’m going to introduce another favorite and I’m expecting huge, out of tune, just for the joy of it. . . participation. I can’t wait!
John Jacob Jingle Heimer Schmidt. . . . . . DA DA DA DA DA DA DA!
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