Packing

I can't remember a time not wanting to be a mother, so when your kids are grown and they begin to show you they might not need you as much, or tell you they don't need you, or worse, tell you they don't want you anymore, it's a little bruising. And then we ship them away! And we have to be tough and strong and act like it doesn't hurt. It makes no sense. But here we are. And so today we are packing a whole 18 years into bins and boxes and tucking in our hearts and getting her ready to leave. But guess what happened right in the middle of it all? (I need to tone it down here a little, I sound enthusiastic, but I'm not Really enthusiastic...) Annie tripped on the steps and hurt her shin - you know one of those scrapes that doesn't bleed but hurts like a mother. And so I got to be The Mom. I elevated her leg (and she let me) and got her ice and then I let her lick the bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough! And then she let me take her picture! (After she asked me if I remember to check for lighting on my iPhone.)

I'm sorry if I sound like I'm gloating, but I didn't think I'd get a chance to do this today of all days. She has been running around saying goodbye to her friends and getting everything ready and working and busy packing and packing and packing. This was a moment I will treasure. 

And so now to packing.  She has her "Suggested List of What to Bring to College" tacked above her bed. She has crossed off most of it. She has a diffuser, a fan, a fridge, too-many-pillows-for-anyone-to-sit-on-the-bed, sheets, towels, medicine, cough drops, tissues, soap, shampoo, etc., etc. What I want to add are a few extras. These are for the days when life gets really bad, and you're not sure you want to grow up just yet and wouldn't it be nice to just ignore the rain and stay in bed and pretend for a minute that you don't have to grow up and you don't have any responsibilities or any worries or anything to do. Or maybe even for the days when life is really good and you can't believe you get to live this life and you can't hold in your joy and your love and you just want someone to share it with and you find that very person at that very moment you need them the most and you see yourself in them and they amplify you. I wish you all those days and more! And I hope these little things will help you along the way...

• A song that makes you smile and remember your childhood (Life is a Highway, from our trip to Callie)
• A poem that makes you believe in the world (Mary Oliver)
• A picture that makes you see beauty
• A book that you will share with good friends
• A quote that you will share with your first crush
• A story that makes you laugh
• A memory that makes you cry
• A moment that reminds you that you are wonderful
• A feeling deep inside your very core that you are so, so loved
• A reflection that shows you that you are enough
• A dream that may just be beginning to reveal itself to you 
• A hope that everything is possible
• A faith that will be all you have sometimes

And I will bring with me the smile full of all the love a heart can hold and you will only see through the tears of goodbye and then you will go and share that love with the world! I love you, Annie.

Wrinkles

Turning 50 was not as traumatic as I expected. I am really not upset about the wrinkles, all earned and deserved. Some laugh lines, some cry lines, some from maybe a little too much sun. I was the generation that drenched our skin with baby oil to tan. We just didn't know. An SPF of 2 or 4 or 6 was considered pretty healthy. As for the laugh lines, as Martina McBride says, "Every laugh line on your face, made you who you are today!" so I can't begrudge those. As for the cry lines, I learned lessons from every one and those have taught me compassion, so I can't trade those in.

What concerns me about my age and my face is the R.B.F. - resting b**** face. If I were to get botox, it would be simply to eliminate the '11' between my eyebrows. After 23 years of teaching, I have acquired an official Teacher Look, one that comes in pretty handy. I don't even need to say anything to the Mischievous Ones, I just give them the Look. But the look comes at a price, that price being that I am not purposely wearing that look on Friday night when I go out with my husband. It's just that for the last 60 hour work week (yes, a teacher's work week is that long) I've been wearing that face. I am really not upset - about anything! Except maybe the fact that my face has been sculpted into one basic emotion - the 'get-back-to-work' emotion that I use on students. Or when I'm grading papers, the 'what-were-you-thinking' look. 

Apparently, though, I do show a little too much expression on my face. I not only wear my heart on my sleeve, I wear every thought on my face. So when I'm worried, people know. When I'm happy or sad or disappointed people know. My 3-year-old niece asked me why I was sad, and I was merely squinting at the sun, but she knew - I was a little sad. When I watched the replays of the Apollo going to the moon, I was so worried! And they'd already done it! We never would have gone if I were in charge! Thank God I wasn't there - I would have worried too much. And I know I'm not the only one. Even when I go to the grocery store, I see women whom I've never met before looking so sad, so worried about the decision they are about to make. I want to tap them on the shoulder and say, "Relax - It's okay, it's only ketchup!" but I'll probably look so worried when I say it that they'll run away from me. So what can I do about these lines and these faces? I've decided: (and since it's July, it's easy to decide these things) I am not going to worry anymore.

Yep, I said it - I am done with worrying. Even God doesn't want us to worry! Even song writers don't want us to worry and when God and song writers agree, maybe we should listen. In fact every great and ancient spiritual teaching tells us not to worry. So I am giving it up. All the things I think I have to worry about - I'm done. I'm not worrying about our nation, I'm not worrying about the environment, I'm not worrying about my job, I'm not worrying about my kids or my parents or my family. I'm not worrying about other people and their problems. Even when I try to show empathy, I end up worrying others even more. My kids know when I'm over-worrying and over-analyzing their lives and I'm sure it drives them crazy. So no more. I will work to change what I can, but after that, I'm not worrying. Maybe the work is too close to the worry, too much like worrying. But I will do my share. 

I am not trying to be glib about it, but worrying is just not worth it. In our society today, teenage and even pre-teen anxiety is at an all time high. Kids are being diagnosed with depression at alarming rates. I'm not saying this to make you worry, I'm saying it because we have to consider where it is coming from. No one in the video games they watch and play is worrying, even in the face of death, so that can't be it. (I do realize and accept that video games cause their own set of trouble, obviously) But the worry - it's coming from adults.  A friend of mine reminded me of this when I told him about one of my children being worried. He asked, "Well, doesn't he see that you worry?" That really hit home. I have tried to shield my children from some of the more adult things to worry about - but my children are very nearly young adults. And they are adept at reading their mother. They do see that I worry. They hear me saying things about problems and trying to avoid problems and trying to solve problems. Of course they are going to worry when it is modeled so perfectly for them day after day. It has to stop somewhere. 

So, as I enter my 50th year, I am going to make a commitment: not to worry and not to worry those around me. I am going to focus on all the wonderful I see around me - whatever it may be. Whether the sun is shining or the rain is raining, it is all good. If you are facing challenges, good. If you are afraid and need to be brave, good. If you are happy as a clam, good. If you are going to start something brand new that no one has ever done before, good. Don't worry about it. 

Maybe when I let my worries go, my wrinkles, the ones from worry at least, will start to go too. Even in my classroom, I can leave my teacher look behind. I can focus on the kids who are reading and are writing, and I know that eventually the others will follow suit. When we begin to look at all the good in the world, in ourselves, in each other, in our children, they will each begin to see it too.  I'll save my teacher look for later - maybe for when I'm 70.  But for now, I'm not going to worry about it. 

Need a Boost

I can't believe my second child is off to college this fall. Every time I see a young a family, I find myself saying, "Enjoy it!" even though I know those words fell on deaf ears when I heard them, oh about 5 minutes ago. But still, I am trying to enjoy it. I am trying to enjoy even this stage of college and not-quite-out-of-the-house-yet. My daughter insisted last week that she could just drive herself to a surgical procedure, "I AM 18, mom!" Yes, you are. And I'm going to enjoy even that remark!
A few weeks ago I accompanied her to college orientation. It was so wonderful being on a college campus and going to 'classes'. Even thought she's my second, I still needed orientation in a big way. One thing they reminded us as parents was about counseling services. "Everyone needs a boost now and then," they said, "That's what we're here for." It was so reassuring. I didn't even know I needed to hear that, but I did. I needed that boost. Even though Annie insists she is 18 and can handle any and everything, it's comforting to know there are people out there looking out for her and she can turn to them when she does need a boost.
Need a boost. This was something we often said in my house growing up. Was it a 70s thing? In our kitchen growing up, we had these big Early American chairs, that didn't easily glide across the floor. We didn't have booster seats or kid chairs so my younger brothers would often sit on the phone book (remember those?) at dinner. To climb up there you needed to hold the phone book still and swing your bum up on top. It helped to have a boost. "I need a boost!" someone would say. One person would hold the phone book and chair and then you could climb easily.
I also remember my cousins (I am one of 33 on my mother's side), heading off to the high school fields up the street to play and run around. Remember when kids did that? The fields were surrounded by big iron gates, but the older kids had found a way to climb in the fence at a low point as it scaled up the hill. It wasn't too too high for us to climb, but everyone under 10 needed a boost. The alternative was crawling on the asphalt through a little space at the corner of the gate - usually you came out the other side with lots of scrapes. So we would hold our hands out, fingers laced together and bend down for someone to step on them to get the boost they needed to climb over the fence. Once on the other side we could play in the big brick ticket booth, climb the bleachers, or hide under the honeysuckle and suck out honey to our hearts content. I can still remember the feeling of being hoisted over the fence, and of hoisting the younger kids. It is a great feeling either way - giving a boost and getting a boost. And maybe the best part is just knowing there is someone there to give you a boost, someone who will have your back and not let you fall as you take this risk, this big step, take on a new adventure. Someone who will bend down and let you use them to step up and get you where you need to go.
I think it works that way in parenting too. Saying "Enjoy it!" to the young mother in the grocery store is another way of giving a boost. You do make it through even though the days are long. And you survive. And I will survive college. Annie will too. She just may need a boost. And I may too.

Teaching Magic

There is a meme for teachers that reads, "Teachers Aren't on Summer Vacation, They are in Recovery." While that is certainly true on many levels, teachers are also reflective. We are out of school, but school's not out of us yet. We look back and wonder, did they learn everything? Did I leave a lasting impression? Did it work? Did we succeed? Did we fail? It is hard work being a teacher and with summer here, we can breathe and take account of all that happened. But I won't go on about that. I'd probably bore you to death with word wall philosophies and kidney versus horseshoe tables and time enough for recess and time enough for math and math centers and reading centers. I just want to share some of the funnier moments that stand out. 
Toward the end of the year, I found an old writing tablet that was titled "Cursive Writing Tablet." I was clearing out and thought the boys could use it for drawings and things. It sat on the writing table and the boys gathered around this alien piece of equipment wondering what it was. They began to wonder what it could possibly be. One kid, "It says Cursive Writing Tablet." Kid 2: "Yeah, but we don't know Cursive." Kid 3: "Yeah we're not allowed to do that." Kid 4: "Yeah but this takes your writing and turns it into cursive!" All the kids: "Oh Wow! That is so cool!" Me: Shaking My Head.  Why would they think that paper could magically turn their novice attempts at handwriting into cursive writing? I got a good laugh out of that.
Another day I told them that my partner teacher would be watching them while I went to a meeting. She was still in her classroom and they asked, in all innocence, if she could see through the wall. Really? I laughed out loud. They were completely serious. I was perplexed.
For Mother's Day we made a cookbook for their moms.  They wrote recipes as best as they could remember.  Here is one of my favorites:

Apple Bread

A slice of bread

1 ounce of milk

2 apples

½ ounce water

1 ounce flour

¼ ounce sugar.

Cut the apples into little pieces. She has a pan the size of the bread and she puts all the things in there. She puts it in the oven for 15-20 minutes at 199 degrees. And it comes out as a loaf. My mom cuts it into thickish slivers. Sometimes you put butter on top.

Isn't that the best! What wonderful innocence! Everything is magical! Apples turn into bread! Markings turn to cursive! Teachers see through walls! Maybe they think I teach magic.
When I first started teaching, I heard a story. If you walk into a kindergarten classroom and ask them to draw a picture of a dog driving a fire truck, the kids will ask, What color do you want the dog? How big do you want the fire truck? When you walk into a fourth grade classroom and ask them the same thing, they will look at you like you are crazy and tell you there is no such thing. I am so lucky to teach the littles who still believe in magic. Maybe they are onto something. Maybe I should start teaching that there is magic in the world. I try in some small ways. Like the idea that smiling makes everyone more beautiful. Doing something kind helps you feel better. Taking time to check on a friend makes our community stronger. Each act of kindness you do comes back to you. Always. Maybe it is all magical in their eyes. Maybe that's why they believe that magic must work with paper and seeing through walls and cooking. It must work in math too. You can take these numbers and symbols and turn them into complex problems that you can figure out and the answer will always work, forwards and backwards. That is pretty magical.  Reading too! It is a rather magical thing to teach. You take all these scratchings and marks and suddenly you can turn them into letters and sounds and words and sentences and stories and you are a reader. That is magic!
And maybe the most important lessons I've been teaching actually have taken hold. Maybe math shouldn't matter that much if kids are being kind. Maybe the smile is really the thing. It's kind of fun being a Magic Teacher.

The Letting Go Part

Letting Go. Let it go. Let go. I have heard it a thousand times. It's not easy. I know that. But past grievances - yes. I'm willing to let them go. Forgive and forget. Sure. Sign me up. It's a Disney mantra. My first graders know it better than I do. Let it go. Let. It. Go. Now Marie Kondo has made an empire out of it - complete with a television series. That includes psychological counseling! Everyone on the show cries. Let it go. I've tried it and failed. I've tried it and succeeded. I let go of a million things in our house. Clothes first. Books. Paper. Kitchen. I haven't gotten to the last one. Still. I've done my share. I've moved on from past hurts and past pain and past friendships and past pasts. But that was the easy part. The letting go part of motherhood is not so easy. I do not know if I can let go of my kids.

My son went off to college two years ago. I handled it. A mother in the parking lot who was directing us where to go told me everything would be alright and I believed her.  I was okay for a while. I cried only halfway home that day. The hardest part now is hearing hurt in his voice and not being there to console him in some physical way. But sons always leave home. They are always going to find love somewhere else, in a job, in a girl. I was prepared for that in some small way that allowed me to let him go, or at least I've started the letting go. He still has a bed here and this is still his home. He's still my little boy.

This time around it's my daughter. I'm sorry but it's not the same. It's not that she is the favorite or anything like that. She is my daughter. I knew her somehow before she was born. I know she is only 18, but I feel like I have known her longer. First there was the pregnancy - a knowing. Then long before that, the waiting. The wanting. The internal desire for a daughter. I drew a picture of her when I was in high school, just a profile I doodled in some notebook, but it was her. I thought about her when I was young - someday I will have a daughter. Someday I will be a mother. And then she was. She was here. She was mine. And now I think I still have a knowing - a knowing of what she will face in the world. Her amazing spirit that others may try to tamp down. Her tender heart that others may break. Her beauty that others may try to seize. I don't worry the same way about the boys.
I look at my children today and I still wonder how this came to be. How did these four amazing people come to live in our house? Did I do this? Did we do this? Did we have some small part in shaping them? I don't think so. It was more like we had our foot on the potter's wheel, we weren't the potter. We were just some small influence in some small way. Not too fast, not too slow. This is a smooth part, you can push a little harder here, go a little faster. They will be alright. And here they are. Four young and almost-young adults.

So now the time has come for letting one more go. Just let them go everyone says. But again, I see the fragility of their young hearts and minds and spirits. I'm taking deep breaths. Letting go of a daughter is harder than I imagined. I remember years ago when a neighbor told me that when it was time for them to go, it was time for them to go. You felt it. And it's true. There is that moment when they push you over the line and you think for a moment that you are ready for them to go. But I'm not really there yet. I also know that I am subconsciously getting ready and probably doing a little of my own pushing, when I don't need to. But still. It doesn't make it easy.

When I look back on all the pictures and memories of our life, I am amazed at all those small moments that have lead to this one. All the times that we did let go. Holding their hands while they learned to walk. And then we let go! Holding their bike seat while they learned to ride. And then we let go! Holding their hand when they went off to school. And then we let go. Now the only thing I can hold is their heart in my heart. And let the rest go.

When Annie was about 14 months old, I was very pregnant. I could not physically carry her up the steps. She would cry and say, "Carry you me! Carry you me!" But I couldn't - I could only "carry her hand" and I would hold onto her hand and carry her hand up the steps and this seemed to be a sufficient substitute. I feel like now she is still crying out, saying "carry you me" but she knows I can't. I can only carry her heart. I am not sure it will suffice.