One of Guy's aunts used to live on Long Island, and when Joseph was about 2, we went to visit. Their home was our base for a long weekend in New York. We had a wonderful time visiting with them, touring Yankee stadium, riding the subway trains, and enjoying a free performing arts festival at Lincoln Center. But there was one thing that made the trip truly unforgettable and different from any other trip I've made to the City.
One of the things I insisted on was to take the Staten Island Ferry and see Battery Park. On our last day, we left early, drove all the way around to Staten Island and rode in on the water. We did some of the usual park things: watched performers, had a 'name' painted by a street artist, perused the merchandise. Then we walked up to Ground Zero.
As we approached, there was still a silence, a reverence in the area; memorial flowers, notes and ribbons fluttered in the fence. At first, we were a little surprised that the fence was so high and the portholes through it so few, but the closer we got, the harder it was to focus through our tears, through the collective conscienceness' pain that still hung in the air. It was more than a little disconcerting to see the mess, the rubble and cracked pavement that could still be seen; and yet a little church across the street was unscathed. We were a somewhat somber group heading back to the ferry to go home. It's hard to be lost in thought for long with a toddler and 3 other young children while visiting an unfamiliar city, though.
Back on the Ferry, I sat on a bench and watched Guy with the boys, lifting them one at a time to the rail to get a better look, and eventually putting Joseph on his shoulders. I tried not to be too nervous about the whole scene before me, since I was tired and glad for the break. A woman sitting next to me asked if they were all mine. "All five," I answered, with a smile, and that warm feeling of mingled pride and admiration at our family. "It's so nice to see families come to the City again," she remarked. Until that point, I had not even considered that she was from the area.
Raised in Upstate New York, I had always heard adjectives ranging from "standoffish and aloof" to "downright unfriendly" used to describe New Yorkers (what we called those from the City). Living in Rhode Island, I had learned that city folks could be a bit bristly, but, in all reality, the city people I'd been in contact with were simply people--busy people with someplace to go all the time, but people nonetheless. This woman was striking up a conversation with me, a total stranger--and obviously an out-of-towner at that. I turned my head to look at her and asked, "Have there been fewer visitors?" In reality, life in Pennsylvania had gone on since September 11th; tourism was moderately affected locally.
She told me that people had started to come back, but for a while--a long while--there were far fewer tourists. Something she noticed particularly on the Ferry. Then she told me about that day. She told me about the boats--hundreds of them--ferrying people from Manhattan to the shores of Staten Island. She told me about thousands of people, dusty, dirty, dazed, in shock, streaming off the boats. For hours. She told me, too, about the Staten Islanders greeting them all.
That was the part of the story that got to me. The part that made me proud to be listening to this woman I sat next to by chance. The part that made me feel an unexplained kinship to her. She told me that the citizens of Staten Island--at the docks at first to get a glimpse of what atrocities had happened across the harbor, like any red-blooded American rubbernecker--became the greeters. Like the Maine Troop Greeters of Bangor, ME, the members of this community gathered at the terminal with blankets, soup, coffee, fresh water, and, most importantly, open arms, shoulders to lean on, and a willingness to listen, to comfort, to cry. And they kept it up for the entire evacuation. Afterwards, many of the shopkeepers and innkeepers on the island offered rooms and goods to the people who didn't know where to go, or who couldn't get home. The Staten Islanders opened more than their arms that day; they opened their hearts wide. They made a difference. They did what needed to be done, without even thinking about how hard it might be, how dangerous, how frightening. They opened themselves, and they grew as a consequence.
I asked the woman if the tone in New York and on Staten Island had changed. She told me that there was a new respect for survival; a new feeling of oneness, if not family. She said there was obviously more generosity of spirit, and more willingness to make eye contact with strangers, and not the suspicious stare-down familiar on TV and in the movies. She said the City had become friendlier, more open, more inviting, without losing its identity. This was what she found most telling. The ability to learn something fundamental about the very depths of your being and still manage to stay who you are impressed her....and me. New York was still New York, only more so. What also impressed me was how humble she was. According to Boatlift, a film short chronicling the rescue efforts, half a million people were ferried off Manhattan island to various locations nearby. A half a million people. The woman had told me that they did what they should; nothing more and certainly nothing less.
As for myself, I was changed by the encounter. We exchanged nothing but some conversation. I don't know her name, and I cannot remember anything at all about what she looked like or her voice. Only her words, and the intense feelings behind them. At the beginning of the Boatlift film, there is a quote: "A hero is a man who does what he can." (Romain Rolland). When I shared the video on my Facebook page, I said that "This is what Character looks like." Riding on that Ferry, out of earshot of my family, a Hero spoke to me. A real Character. And I am all the better for it.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
ouch
My son's shoulder hurts. Hurts as in, has a feeling that can only be described by words that are supposed to be attributed to sounds. Words like "grind," "crackle" and the like. Because he is a swimmer, this is a bad thing. Because he is a very good swimmer, this is a BAD THING. And at the moment, I'm taking it rather personally. I know this is silly, but I'm his mom. I'm supposed to keep him safe, or at the very least, be able to make it all better. Instead, I all I can do is check with our insurance to see what, if any, physical therapy might be available. He went for PT last spring.
Being his mom means that I probably should have nagged him more about wearing his backpack the right way; high on his shoulders and tight to his back. Not that there is much in his backpack, or rather, was much in there in the past. This year, he has more work to do. He's being more conscientious about his schoolwork. I'm proud of him for realizing how important his education is, and I'm thrilled that I don't have to get on him to get his work done. Yet I still feel guilty for 'choosing my battles' and deciding that the whole backpack thing would make sense to him before college, when he really will have loads of books to cart around. (Who am I kidding--college when he gets there will probably mean just a computer, and one that is far lighter than my laptop!)
Being his mom means that I probably should have been more involved in his swim program. There is no real, comprehensive dryland program with it. They run some, but no stretching, no strength training, nothing that I, as a dancer, consider to be important in balancing the muscles he uses to swim. And when he went to PT, I should probably have insisted that the therapist give him a comprehensive progression of exercises to go beyond what they had worked on to keep him interested in the program. When he does the exercises they gave him for "homework" and ongoing therapy, I get bored, so I can understand why he rushes through them with little to no regard for form. And, because I am his mom and he is 15, he doesn't really want to hear from me about how to properly do them.
Being his mom means that I probably should be more forceful in limiting his computer time, mostly because he sits with his computer on his lap, his arms completely unsupported. At least he puts pillows under his knees like I told him he should when he started to complain about his knees hurting. Because I am his mom, I am hurting, too. I wish I knew how to make it all better; how to not only make the pain go away, but also how to make it stay better.
Tomorrow, I'll call the insurance company and ask if he can go back to PT. Then I suppose I'll have to call the doctor to get a referral. I wish there was a better way. I believe in PT, but I know full well from my own experience that sticking with the exercises just doesn't happen. PT does not lead to the lifestyle change that he'll need to continue swimming at the level he wants to swim.
Until then, I'll wonder how else I could have done things. What else I could have done or said. Why? Because I am his mom. It's what I do. And we'll see what we can do for Henry's shoulder.
Being his mom means that I probably should have nagged him more about wearing his backpack the right way; high on his shoulders and tight to his back. Not that there is much in his backpack, or rather, was much in there in the past. This year, he has more work to do. He's being more conscientious about his schoolwork. I'm proud of him for realizing how important his education is, and I'm thrilled that I don't have to get on him to get his work done. Yet I still feel guilty for 'choosing my battles' and deciding that the whole backpack thing would make sense to him before college, when he really will have loads of books to cart around. (Who am I kidding--college when he gets there will probably mean just a computer, and one that is far lighter than my laptop!)
Being his mom means that I probably should have been more involved in his swim program. There is no real, comprehensive dryland program with it. They run some, but no stretching, no strength training, nothing that I, as a dancer, consider to be important in balancing the muscles he uses to swim. And when he went to PT, I should probably have insisted that the therapist give him a comprehensive progression of exercises to go beyond what they had worked on to keep him interested in the program. When he does the exercises they gave him for "homework" and ongoing therapy, I get bored, so I can understand why he rushes through them with little to no regard for form. And, because I am his mom and he is 15, he doesn't really want to hear from me about how to properly do them.
Being his mom means that I probably should be more forceful in limiting his computer time, mostly because he sits with his computer on his lap, his arms completely unsupported. At least he puts pillows under his knees like I told him he should when he started to complain about his knees hurting. Because I am his mom, I am hurting, too. I wish I knew how to make it all better; how to not only make the pain go away, but also how to make it stay better.
Tomorrow, I'll call the insurance company and ask if he can go back to PT. Then I suppose I'll have to call the doctor to get a referral. I wish there was a better way. I believe in PT, but I know full well from my own experience that sticking with the exercises just doesn't happen. PT does not lead to the lifestyle change that he'll need to continue swimming at the level he wants to swim.
Until then, I'll wonder how else I could have done things. What else I could have done or said. Why? Because I am his mom. It's what I do. And we'll see what we can do for Henry's shoulder.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
yes, we need it. no, it's not for your coffee
Over the past month, I've been asked no less than four times, by four different people, when we will be able to have a library "with no card catalog." My answer, in a nutshell, is that it's not possible. And each time, I am met with an incredulous stare. I've been asked why on earth we use the Dewey decimal system, instead of the Library of Congress system. I've even been asked how I feel about not having kids check out books at all. I'm not even a librarian, though I came this close to starting my Master's in Library Science.
Working in the library had been a dream come true for me. Many times, I've wished that someone--anyone--had known me well enough in high school to suggest looking into the field. My interests are about as diverse as they come, and if I could make a living as a "learner," I would be in heaven! Being surrounded by information about any topic imaginable is alternately overwhelming and exhilarating. Some may argue that all the same information can be found just as easily on YouTube or by Googling it, but it's been my experience that without the proper key words, my searches wind up feeling like just that--searches. In a library, I can hone in on topics more quickly. Admittedly, I was completely lost in the stacks for most of my life. Why on earth would Dewey put cookbooks so close to the pet books, and how could poetry, plays and even some prose belong in the non-fiction side of the library?? Why (I still wonder) do people describe fiction as being "untrue" so that non-fiction would then be "not untrue?"
Tuesday, the sixth grade came to visit the library. I asked how many had never been in a library before, and truly had no reason to be surprised at the number of hands that went up. Our elementary schools have been restructuring in order to accommodate larger numbers of students, as well as a move to a new building -- two new buildings, actually. As a result, their libraries have been packed, unpacked, repacked, stored and/or on a cart for a while. Although they had library class, some of the kids had been a little overwhelmed by the new library last January. Plus, our library looks very different from that one; our stacks are double the height, and we have easily double the books, at least.
Janet used to do the sixth grade orientation, and I had seen it enough to feel pretty comfortable showing them around. I found a video about the Dewey decimal system that they tried not to be amused by, and told them about our expectations of them, and showed them around. But the moment they'd been waiting for--the one thing all four classes asked about--was checking out books. Just try to stop them! I told them we have two card catalogs; one in a great big case on the floor, and one on the computer. Most of the kids who wanted to look for something specific, when told to look it up first, went the the physical version rather than the virtual one. And, interestingly, their searches were quicker than the computer searches. On the computer, they have to log on, find the card catalog on the desktop, click on the appropriate school, then type in what they are looking for. It works, for sure, but by the time they did all that, the kids who did it the "old-fashioned" way had already found their books, and were queued up at the check-out desk. Which kids had time to start reading their books before the bell rang?
Why do we need the big piece of furniture in the middle of the room? In addition to being quick if you aren't already logged on to a computer, it never crashes, it never loses power or connectivity, doesn't get corrupted, and it has those nifty drawers. I've been told it looks like a dinosaur (ridiculous because it is cube-shaped!) and does not fit in with the information age. Maybe. And maybe it's not necessary for kids to know how to search for something on their own, without the aid of an engine. But the sixth grade now knows that cookbooks fall under Dewey's broad category of "technology" (so do cats,but I'm not sure I understand that part yet), and biographies are part of history. And they also know that fiction IS imaginary, made-up, fantastical (although the supernatural is non-fiction), and non-fiction IS factual, proven or theorized, real, true, and that art --poems, plays and some prose-- and legends, myths and fairy tales are all considered non-fiction.
We'll always need to have a card catalog in some form or another, and I hope that when the digital age pulls the library in completely, as I think it could, and maybe should in some ways, I hope the name stays, even if the piece of furniture is forgotten. There will always be a need to find the information for oneself; to be able to see the other points of view nearby--how closely related world religions are on a bookshelf, or how similar the covers of books about neighboring countries at war can look. As long as there ARE books, they will be checked out of libraries. That sense of sharing, that trust in stewardship, is necessary to the survival of humankind. I really believe that.
It used to be, when I worked with Janet the Librarian, that I had a long list of books to check out sometime. She was regularly adding new books to the collection, and part of my job was to type up the cards for the card catalog, as well as covering the new books on their way into circulation. Now I make up the cards for the books in the library that had been purchased but not yet catalogued. I have far more interuptions than we had before--the student flow has been changed, and requires much more 'hovering' at times. It has its good points and bad points, but kids still check out books every day. And they use the card catalog. Many of them still need help with both alphabetical and alphanumeric order, but I need help with the Macs, so it all evens out in the end.
I love my job, and I love that libraries are evolving and changing and staying relevant--a tradition in place since Ben Franklin. I love that Dewey still "works" even if it is a little wacky until you get the hang of it. (Watch the video, it's really quite clever!) So don't ask me if the library will be "necessary" in years to come, or if people really "care" if it's there. I do. And I'm not alone.
Working in the library had been a dream come true for me. Many times, I've wished that someone--anyone--had known me well enough in high school to suggest looking into the field. My interests are about as diverse as they come, and if I could make a living as a "learner," I would be in heaven! Being surrounded by information about any topic imaginable is alternately overwhelming and exhilarating. Some may argue that all the same information can be found just as easily on YouTube or by Googling it, but it's been my experience that without the proper key words, my searches wind up feeling like just that--searches. In a library, I can hone in on topics more quickly. Admittedly, I was completely lost in the stacks for most of my life. Why on earth would Dewey put cookbooks so close to the pet books, and how could poetry, plays and even some prose belong in the non-fiction side of the library?? Why (I still wonder) do people describe fiction as being "untrue" so that non-fiction would then be "not untrue?"
Tuesday, the sixth grade came to visit the library. I asked how many had never been in a library before, and truly had no reason to be surprised at the number of hands that went up. Our elementary schools have been restructuring in order to accommodate larger numbers of students, as well as a move to a new building -- two new buildings, actually. As a result, their libraries have been packed, unpacked, repacked, stored and/or on a cart for a while. Although they had library class, some of the kids had been a little overwhelmed by the new library last January. Plus, our library looks very different from that one; our stacks are double the height, and we have easily double the books, at least.
Janet used to do the sixth grade orientation, and I had seen it enough to feel pretty comfortable showing them around. I found a video about the Dewey decimal system that they tried not to be amused by, and told them about our expectations of them, and showed them around. But the moment they'd been waiting for--the one thing all four classes asked about--was checking out books. Just try to stop them! I told them we have two card catalogs; one in a great big case on the floor, and one on the computer. Most of the kids who wanted to look for something specific, when told to look it up first, went the the physical version rather than the virtual one. And, interestingly, their searches were quicker than the computer searches. On the computer, they have to log on, find the card catalog on the desktop, click on the appropriate school, then type in what they are looking for. It works, for sure, but by the time they did all that, the kids who did it the "old-fashioned" way had already found their books, and were queued up at the check-out desk. Which kids had time to start reading their books before the bell rang?
Why do we need the big piece of furniture in the middle of the room? In addition to being quick if you aren't already logged on to a computer, it never crashes, it never loses power or connectivity, doesn't get corrupted, and it has those nifty drawers. I've been told it looks like a dinosaur (ridiculous because it is cube-shaped!) and does not fit in with the information age. Maybe. And maybe it's not necessary for kids to know how to search for something on their own, without the aid of an engine. But the sixth grade now knows that cookbooks fall under Dewey's broad category of "technology" (so do cats,but I'm not sure I understand that part yet), and biographies are part of history. And they also know that fiction IS imaginary, made-up, fantastical (although the supernatural is non-fiction), and non-fiction IS factual, proven or theorized, real, true, and that art --poems, plays and some prose-- and legends, myths and fairy tales are all considered non-fiction.
We'll always need to have a card catalog in some form or another, and I hope that when the digital age pulls the library in completely, as I think it could, and maybe should in some ways, I hope the name stays, even if the piece of furniture is forgotten. There will always be a need to find the information for oneself; to be able to see the other points of view nearby--how closely related world religions are on a bookshelf, or how similar the covers of books about neighboring countries at war can look. As long as there ARE books, they will be checked out of libraries. That sense of sharing, that trust in stewardship, is necessary to the survival of humankind. I really believe that.
It used to be, when I worked with Janet the Librarian, that I had a long list of books to check out sometime. She was regularly adding new books to the collection, and part of my job was to type up the cards for the card catalog, as well as covering the new books on their way into circulation. Now I make up the cards for the books in the library that had been purchased but not yet catalogued. I have far more interuptions than we had before--the student flow has been changed, and requires much more 'hovering' at times. It has its good points and bad points, but kids still check out books every day. And they use the card catalog. Many of them still need help with both alphabetical and alphanumeric order, but I need help with the Macs, so it all evens out in the end.
I love my job, and I love that libraries are evolving and changing and staying relevant--a tradition in place since Ben Franklin. I love that Dewey still "works" even if it is a little wacky until you get the hang of it. (Watch the video, it's really quite clever!) So don't ask me if the library will be "necessary" in years to come, or if people really "care" if it's there. I do. And I'm not alone.
Friday, September 16, 2011
if at first you don't succeed, so what
Once upon a time, my mother told me, rather bluntly, that trying was a waste of time. I was a teenager at the time, and I have no idea what the circumstances were, but, as teenagers tend to do, I got mad , and was offended, and asked what on earth she meant by that. Her response was something to the effect of "you'll never get anywhere by trying.When you try, you allow yourself to fail." It gnawed at me for many, many years: the 'fact' that my own mother didn't believe in my efforts. Then one day, it hit me--
I can't get anywhere if I try. Especially if I try really, really hard.
Finally, I understood that there was some truth in what she said. I don't believe one can never get anywhere by trying, but I am beginning to think that with the things one does regularly, frequently, or with an abundance of emotional or physical energy, it is quite possible to muck it up by trying too hard. I've seen it in myself when I run, when I am frustrated, and even when I'm dancing. But these are small things that really only have any bearing on myself. What about when someone else is counting on me? When I need to be patient, it's easier to lose my head and blame it on "trying to be patient" than it is to "be" patient. And yet, the times when I allow myself the luxury of being, the resulting harmony is almost palpable.
Tonight, I watched as a team of young men tried, in unison, again and again. They didn't fail, but the trying was so clear. As the mother of one of those young men, I started to become discouraged--I can only imagine what they may have felt. At the time, I didn't make the connection; even though "they are trying so hard" could be heard throughout the stands. They really were trying with all their might to play well.
I didn't make the connection when my friend told me about her son on that same field who was trying so hard to write his college application essays, and, despite his marvelous use of language in his everyday speech, couldn't make his own voice shine through. Instead of putting 2 and 2 together, I mentioned some of the flaws with the way kids are taught to write, about the need to "make it good" and get it done the first time, or maybe the second. We tossed around some ideas that might help. Although it was on the tip of my tongue, I couldn't quite figure how "trying" applied.
Something changed in the second half of the game. The boys played. They played, and it looked good. There were still things that could have gone differently, plays that didn't go off as planned, but on the whole, they were one united team. They Played, and there was no more talk of them "trying hard" in the stands. It's a subtle difference, and one that not everyone would notice or even understand. I'm so proud of those boys I could burst, but I still didn't make the connection with trying.
It was after the game was done, we'd greeted our boys coming off the field, chatted briefly with other emotionally spent parents, made our way to the car, and even stopped for ice cream that I realized: They stopped trying to play against that team. After half-time, they played because that is what they went there to do, and that's what they do. Our team scored twice against a team easily twice the size. A team that has an O team and a D team, plus what looked like at least one of each in reserve. Most of our guys play both sides of the ball, and many have to be ready to play multiple positions within those parameters. I can't help but be impressed and proud. But truly what awes me is when they just stop trying and play.
I have no idea what the coaches told them, but I know what I have seen. Trial and error is good. Trying new things is good. But when you are about to do something that you know matters to you, just let go and do it. Write your essay, or jot down notes and stick them all over the refrigerator, or record your thoughts and go back later to write them down--exactly the way you've said them. Play your game, trusting that your knowledge, your practice, your perseverance won't let you down. Tackle those dance steps, lead or be lead, and enjoy the movement and the music. Run until you just plain can't anymore. Be yourself. Believe in yourself.
And shine.
I can't get anywhere if I try. Especially if I try really, really hard.
Finally, I understood that there was some truth in what she said. I don't believe one can never get anywhere by trying, but I am beginning to think that with the things one does regularly, frequently, or with an abundance of emotional or physical energy, it is quite possible to muck it up by trying too hard. I've seen it in myself when I run, when I am frustrated, and even when I'm dancing. But these are small things that really only have any bearing on myself. What about when someone else is counting on me? When I need to be patient, it's easier to lose my head and blame it on "trying to be patient" than it is to "be" patient. And yet, the times when I allow myself the luxury of being, the resulting harmony is almost palpable.
Tonight, I watched as a team of young men tried, in unison, again and again. They didn't fail, but the trying was so clear. As the mother of one of those young men, I started to become discouraged--I can only imagine what they may have felt. At the time, I didn't make the connection; even though "they are trying so hard" could be heard throughout the stands. They really were trying with all their might to play well.
I didn't make the connection when my friend told me about her son on that same field who was trying so hard to write his college application essays, and, despite his marvelous use of language in his everyday speech, couldn't make his own voice shine through. Instead of putting 2 and 2 together, I mentioned some of the flaws with the way kids are taught to write, about the need to "make it good" and get it done the first time, or maybe the second. We tossed around some ideas that might help. Although it was on the tip of my tongue, I couldn't quite figure how "trying" applied.
Something changed in the second half of the game. The boys played. They played, and it looked good. There were still things that could have gone differently, plays that didn't go off as planned, but on the whole, they were one united team. They Played, and there was no more talk of them "trying hard" in the stands. It's a subtle difference, and one that not everyone would notice or even understand. I'm so proud of those boys I could burst, but I still didn't make the connection with trying.
It was after the game was done, we'd greeted our boys coming off the field, chatted briefly with other emotionally spent parents, made our way to the car, and even stopped for ice cream that I realized: They stopped trying to play against that team. After half-time, they played because that is what they went there to do, and that's what they do. Our team scored twice against a team easily twice the size. A team that has an O team and a D team, plus what looked like at least one of each in reserve. Most of our guys play both sides of the ball, and many have to be ready to play multiple positions within those parameters. I can't help but be impressed and proud. But truly what awes me is when they just stop trying and play.
I have no idea what the coaches told them, but I know what I have seen. Trial and error is good. Trying new things is good. But when you are about to do something that you know matters to you, just let go and do it. Write your essay, or jot down notes and stick them all over the refrigerator, or record your thoughts and go back later to write them down--exactly the way you've said them. Play your game, trusting that your knowledge, your practice, your perseverance won't let you down. Tackle those dance steps, lead or be lead, and enjoy the movement and the music. Run until you just plain can't anymore. Be yourself. Believe in yourself.
And shine.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
never forget; ever
September 11. 9/11. However you say it, the memories and emotions come with the same intensity. A single day, but one that impacted even those who like to think it didn't.
That day, 10 years ago, was a beautiful, clear early autumn Tuesday. We walked Jonathan to school, then dropped Drew at preschool, having no idea that in that time, the world had changed. I remember that when I got home, I called Guy at work and he told me that someone flew into a building in Manhattan. I figured small, single engine plane--barnstormer-type--muttered what an idiot the pilot had to be, and began to tell him about my morning with the boys, as usual. He insisted that I had to see what was going on, so I reluctantly turned on the TV. I was completely stunned by what I saw: smoke, clouds of dust, a gaping hole in a magnificent building--and then I saw the most horrible thing of all. As I watched, the second plane flew into the South Tower. 'Stunned' does not even begin to describe how I felt. The wind had been knocked out of me; the very life force. I believe strongly in the collective conscience of mankind, and it was fractured beyond measure. I felt emptiness, deep to the bottom of my soul, along with dread and terror. Clearly, this was the intended reaction.
I stayed on the phone with Guy for a time, but with the announcement that another plane--Flight 93--was off course, I couldn't stay on the phone with him. Shortly thereafter, I was on the phone again with my sister in Atlanta, who very plainly stated that this could very well be our last conversation. What I hadn't thought about were possible targets. I was trapped in a "right now" cycle of thought--perhaps because my family was not securely together. Guy was at work, two boys were at two different schools, and I was at home with the other two. My thoughts had been tied to rounding everyone up when the right time came. Celeste pointed out that if the terrorists were wise, they would strike communications centers next--CNN, for example--in order to increase the feeling of panic: no news=fear of the unknown, a thought far more devastating at that moment than being able to see and hear what was going on in real time. She went on to say that the next targets would be military bases, such as the one in North Dakota where my brother-in-law was stationed.
My soul limped with me to preschool to collect Drew. The parents in the hall outside the classroom were all equally pained. Not one of us knew what to expect, how to cope, where to turn, but each of us knew that for our 3-year-olds, we needed to be strong and optimistic. The teachers had not been apprised of any details, just that there was something happening that would be difficult to face in the hours, days, months and years to follow.
I remember the silence in the days that followed. No planes in the air, only fear, grief, even faithlessness. I remember picking Jonathan up at school, and the pretty Muslim mother stopped wearing her veil, and I felt ashamed that she should be fearful of her own identity. And yet, I did not speak with her; did not introduce myself. I remember the tears that I cried every time I was alone from the boys--the boys for whom I tried to be a rock of safety in this storm of the unknown. I remember B telling me that she had been prescribed anti-depressants because she really could not cope with the events, the news, the silence in the air. She told me she didn't think they were strong enough; she needed more to find peace. Her mantra had become, "Thy will be done." I remember sobbing when I hung up the phone. I could not let go of my fear enough to have faith enough in anyone's will. Anyone at all, even God's.
I had trouble sleeping; had vivid nightmares wherein the fire department would knock on the door in the night to evacuate us, but had no answers as to where we should go. Just get out. Now. I had a constant need to know what everyone was doing and where they were at all times. I was going crazy. Each morning I woke and cried--hard--because I did not think I'd be able to cope, to pretend to my children that life was okay, that they were blessed, and safe, and that the bad guys behind the whole thing would be brought to justice. I wanted to be relieved of that duty, and that pressure.
One morning, after the planes were flying again, I woke to a voice in my mind and in my heart. It consumed me completely. "Be not afraid. I go before you ALWAYS." A song I learned as a child from the Folk Group at church, about the Beatitudes. A favorite song, actually, but I was not singing it, nor thinking about it. And it was spoken. I felt warm, held close, safe, and yet I said, "I AM afraid!" Again, the voice, calm and clear in the center of my being, "Be not afraid. I will give you rest."
I began to live again that day. My remembrance shifted from the pain and sorrow that bring fear to that which brings connectedness. While I was wrapped up in my own pain, I could not see that others felt what I was feeling; that others needed me as much as I needed them and still do. I've always admired firefighters, clergy, the military--people who choose to give their lives to someone or something greater than themselves, as literally as they give figuratively. I will never forget. Remembering is what makes us stronger. Remembering is what gives us the courage to build on what we know--about ourselves as individuals, as family, as a nation. I still weep. I won't stop. I'll fly my flag, I'll thank those who give of themselves, and I will move on.
September 11. 9/11. A single day. A lifetime.
That day, 10 years ago, was a beautiful, clear early autumn Tuesday. We walked Jonathan to school, then dropped Drew at preschool, having no idea that in that time, the world had changed. I remember that when I got home, I called Guy at work and he told me that someone flew into a building in Manhattan. I figured small, single engine plane--barnstormer-type--muttered what an idiot the pilot had to be, and began to tell him about my morning with the boys, as usual. He insisted that I had to see what was going on, so I reluctantly turned on the TV. I was completely stunned by what I saw: smoke, clouds of dust, a gaping hole in a magnificent building--and then I saw the most horrible thing of all. As I watched, the second plane flew into the South Tower. 'Stunned' does not even begin to describe how I felt. The wind had been knocked out of me; the very life force. I believe strongly in the collective conscience of mankind, and it was fractured beyond measure. I felt emptiness, deep to the bottom of my soul, along with dread and terror. Clearly, this was the intended reaction.
I stayed on the phone with Guy for a time, but with the announcement that another plane--Flight 93--was off course, I couldn't stay on the phone with him. Shortly thereafter, I was on the phone again with my sister in Atlanta, who very plainly stated that this could very well be our last conversation. What I hadn't thought about were possible targets. I was trapped in a "right now" cycle of thought--perhaps because my family was not securely together. Guy was at work, two boys were at two different schools, and I was at home with the other two. My thoughts had been tied to rounding everyone up when the right time came. Celeste pointed out that if the terrorists were wise, they would strike communications centers next--CNN, for example--in order to increase the feeling of panic: no news=fear of the unknown, a thought far more devastating at that moment than being able to see and hear what was going on in real time. She went on to say that the next targets would be military bases, such as the one in North Dakota where my brother-in-law was stationed.
My soul limped with me to preschool to collect Drew. The parents in the hall outside the classroom were all equally pained. Not one of us knew what to expect, how to cope, where to turn, but each of us knew that for our 3-year-olds, we needed to be strong and optimistic. The teachers had not been apprised of any details, just that there was something happening that would be difficult to face in the hours, days, months and years to follow.
I remember the silence in the days that followed. No planes in the air, only fear, grief, even faithlessness. I remember picking Jonathan up at school, and the pretty Muslim mother stopped wearing her veil, and I felt ashamed that she should be fearful of her own identity. And yet, I did not speak with her; did not introduce myself. I remember the tears that I cried every time I was alone from the boys--the boys for whom I tried to be a rock of safety in this storm of the unknown. I remember B telling me that she had been prescribed anti-depressants because she really could not cope with the events, the news, the silence in the air. She told me she didn't think they were strong enough; she needed more to find peace. Her mantra had become, "Thy will be done." I remember sobbing when I hung up the phone. I could not let go of my fear enough to have faith enough in anyone's will. Anyone at all, even God's.
I had trouble sleeping; had vivid nightmares wherein the fire department would knock on the door in the night to evacuate us, but had no answers as to where we should go. Just get out. Now. I had a constant need to know what everyone was doing and where they were at all times. I was going crazy. Each morning I woke and cried--hard--because I did not think I'd be able to cope, to pretend to my children that life was okay, that they were blessed, and safe, and that the bad guys behind the whole thing would be brought to justice. I wanted to be relieved of that duty, and that pressure.
One morning, after the planes were flying again, I woke to a voice in my mind and in my heart. It consumed me completely. "Be not afraid. I go before you ALWAYS." A song I learned as a child from the Folk Group at church, about the Beatitudes. A favorite song, actually, but I was not singing it, nor thinking about it. And it was spoken. I felt warm, held close, safe, and yet I said, "I AM afraid!" Again, the voice, calm and clear in the center of my being, "Be not afraid. I will give you rest."
I began to live again that day. My remembrance shifted from the pain and sorrow that bring fear to that which brings connectedness. While I was wrapped up in my own pain, I could not see that others felt what I was feeling; that others needed me as much as I needed them and still do. I've always admired firefighters, clergy, the military--people who choose to give their lives to someone or something greater than themselves, as literally as they give figuratively. I will never forget. Remembering is what makes us stronger. Remembering is what gives us the courage to build on what we know--about ourselves as individuals, as family, as a nation. I still weep. I won't stop. I'll fly my flag, I'll thank those who give of themselves, and I will move on.
September 11. 9/11. A single day. A lifetime.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
a year ago
I love that my status updates from years past show up now on my wall. Seeing what struck me on "this day in history" makes for some great writing prompts! Last year on this date, my status was "Stephanie is very grateful that these peeps are the perfect stage of stale. So need that right now!" I don't know exactly what kind of a day I was having, but it must have been a rough one, and probably emotional. How do I know that? Because of the peep story.
We always had peeps in our Easter baskets. Always yellow chicks--the original peeps. For whatever reason, I always left them for last when eating my Easter candy.....well, almost last: I don't like jelly beans. It was years before I realized that peeps come out of the package squishy and mushy. I preferred eating the chocolate first, so it didn't get that powdery color, and the chocolate was so rich to me that I took my time. After we were married, I discovered two things: 1) that some people don't like peeps at all, and 2) that many people like their peeps fresh, not with a little bit of toothsomeness. I was amazed.
It took a while to get Guy to understand that I just liked them a little stale--maybe a week, on the outside. Then I went to work on the rest of the world. By then, we had moved away from family, and were celebrating Easter among strangers who had become friends. Unbelievably, none of them had ever even tried a stale (ripe?) peep! Some tried, many wouldn't, and very few enjoyed them. Each stale peep, though, still reminds me of my childhood--holidays with Grammy and Grampy, Gramma Katie, Aunt Alice, even Mrs. Ettenberger. Holidays when I was too young to really pay close attention to what the grown-ups were talking about, but too old to go play somewhere else. I was always underfoot (sometimes literally, after dinner was over and they sat at the table having coffee while I crawled around on the floor under the table), and always waiting for just the right moment to celebrate my holiday spoils.
One Easter not long before Dad died, we went to visit for the weekend. When we arrived, Dad pulled out a package of peeps. It hadn't yet been touched, except for the wrapper. It was torn. I looked at Dad and asked what had happened to it. He smiled and said, "I wanted to make sure they were ready for Easter." They were, in fact, exactly the perfect stage of stale. I so needed that right then.
The peeps from last year had been sent in a package from my oldest brother. He'd heard the peep story, and when he and his wife saw the peeps on the shelf at the store, had to send them. There was another time when he was going to visit, so he bought peeps, opened them a tiny bit, and put them on the rear dash of his car so they would 'ripen' before we saw each other. In all these peep exchanges, I've learned that the yellow peeps stale the best, the purple and blue ones never really get stale at all, and the chicks are the best; peppermint star peeps are just not right, except in cocoa, and chocolate covered peeps are an entirely different confection, not to be compared to, or treated like any other peeps.
Like so many other things, peeps make me cry--or, at the very least, tear up, and I would have it no other way. I love my memories being so close to the surface, and I love that the smallest, oddest things can bring them to the surface.
mmmmmm, Lumps in my Farina......
We always had peeps in our Easter baskets. Always yellow chicks--the original peeps. For whatever reason, I always left them for last when eating my Easter candy.....well, almost last: I don't like jelly beans. It was years before I realized that peeps come out of the package squishy and mushy. I preferred eating the chocolate first, so it didn't get that powdery color, and the chocolate was so rich to me that I took my time. After we were married, I discovered two things: 1) that some people don't like peeps at all, and 2) that many people like their peeps fresh, not with a little bit of toothsomeness. I was amazed.
It took a while to get Guy to understand that I just liked them a little stale--maybe a week, on the outside. Then I went to work on the rest of the world. By then, we had moved away from family, and were celebrating Easter among strangers who had become friends. Unbelievably, none of them had ever even tried a stale (ripe?) peep! Some tried, many wouldn't, and very few enjoyed them. Each stale peep, though, still reminds me of my childhood--holidays with Grammy and Grampy, Gramma Katie, Aunt Alice, even Mrs. Ettenberger. Holidays when I was too young to really pay close attention to what the grown-ups were talking about, but too old to go play somewhere else. I was always underfoot (sometimes literally, after dinner was over and they sat at the table having coffee while I crawled around on the floor under the table), and always waiting for just the right moment to celebrate my holiday spoils.
One Easter not long before Dad died, we went to visit for the weekend. When we arrived, Dad pulled out a package of peeps. It hadn't yet been touched, except for the wrapper. It was torn. I looked at Dad and asked what had happened to it. He smiled and said, "I wanted to make sure they were ready for Easter." They were, in fact, exactly the perfect stage of stale. I so needed that right then.
The peeps from last year had been sent in a package from my oldest brother. He'd heard the peep story, and when he and his wife saw the peeps on the shelf at the store, had to send them. There was another time when he was going to visit, so he bought peeps, opened them a tiny bit, and put them on the rear dash of his car so they would 'ripen' before we saw each other. In all these peep exchanges, I've learned that the yellow peeps stale the best, the purple and blue ones never really get stale at all, and the chicks are the best; peppermint star peeps are just not right, except in cocoa, and chocolate covered peeps are an entirely different confection, not to be compared to, or treated like any other peeps.
Like so many other things, peeps make me cry--or, at the very least, tear up, and I would have it no other way. I love my memories being so close to the surface, and I love that the smallest, oddest things can bring them to the surface.
mmmmmm, Lumps in my Farina......
Thursday, September 8, 2011
sisterhood by experience
Two things recently have me thinking, hurting, yet peaceful. It is September; that time of year when things change. The weather begins to change, school starts, the leaves think about turning, and heartache, for many, returns. For me, it's the increased darkness--I do more thinking in the darkness. Summer nights are short, forgetful; blissfully so. The heartaches are not sharp or hard to deal with, and in fact, some I welcome, in a way. Those are the memories I need to keep me remembering who I am, what has helped to shape me, and what makes me grateful for the blessings in my life--some of which would not be possible without the bumps, stumbles and losses.
A dear friend of mine lost a beautiful baby girl in a past September. I had lost touch with her after high school, and didn't know of her loss until a few years after, but thanks to modern social networking, every September I am reminded, and find myself wishing that I could carry some of her pain for her. Instead, I remember. My niece was diagnosed with hypothyroidism this month. With the news, I was reminded of the combined relief and uncertainty that came with my own diagnosis, 18 years ago. These two women are linked in my present, and in my past.
At the time of my diagnosis, I was newly married, working at a job I really liked, and should have been happy. I felt like I must be happy, and yet I was moody, cranky, gaining weight, and secretly seeing someone. The someone I was seeing was a drowning woman in the lane next to me every time I swam laps at the pool. I knew she didn't really exist, because the first time I saw her, I stopped immediately to help until the lifeguard could get to her (I was a certified lifeguard, myself), and the lane was empty. I saw her again the next time I went, and after a while, I just expected her. I'd have said hello if I hadn't been working on rotary breathing. Who on earth could I possibly tell? Only crazy people see people who aren't there, right? The building, and the pool, were new--not even built on an area where there had been water, so she was clearly not a ghost. She was a figment, and I knew it. It wasn't until I went to the doctor for stomach pain, and was, months later finally diagnosed, that I learned that such visions are directly related to hypothyroidism; usually when left untreated for an extended time, but I've never been known for having 'the usual' symptoms of anything.
Almost immediately after starting my meds, I felt better, healthier, happier, peppier, though nervous about this condition that would require testing and medication for the rest of my life. The same condition that had caused my sister to have bald spots at my wedding. What if I lost all my hair? What if I gained even more weight? What if the drowning woman stayed? What if I couldn't have children? None of those things happened, and as a matter of fact, I became pregnant within a couple of months.
We were so excited! We told everyone right away. Why wait? This was what we had been waiting for, hoping for, and dreaming of. Guy was offered a job in Pennsylvania, we began preparing for a move, I began a diary to the baby, we had our first appointment with the doctor. Everything was wonderful.
Then, at 14 weeks, I started bleeding.
My friend, Amy, went with me to the ultrasound. The technician actually said to me, "What makes you think you were even pregnant? There is absolutely no sign of pregnancy here." Through my shock and tears, I tried to explain that the doctor had done all the tests, confirming......it was no use. Nothing, no amount of arguing, sadness, or pleading could bring back that little bitty life. My dear, sweet Amy called each of our family members to pass on the news. I sat right next to her, and she passed the phone to me after speaking to each of my 5 siblings and Guy's 7, and each of our parents. I could never thank her enough in three lifetimes. Fortunately, she knows.
Not knowing if the baby was a boy or a girl, we named the sweet memory Sandy, and managed the stress of the move by talking about what would have, could have been. Three months later, when I was pregnant with Jonathan, we were so overjoyed, we didn't foresee the emotional and painful moments to come. At three months--the time when "telling" is "safe"--we visited RI for Guy's brother's wedding. February. Sandy's due date. Ouch. Yet, in that visit, another relationship was restored--in a way, a gift from Sandy. Mother's Day that year, having the people we'd met in PA comment (constantly!!) on being 'almost a Mom' was harder than I ever would have imagined, and more of the same on Father's Day. Then, of course, that terrible realization in my 8th month that this baby could very well be born on the first anniversary of losing Sandy. I sobbed for hours, asking Guy how I would ever be able to love this baby for reasons completely unrelated to anything this baby could be. Jonathan arrived a week after that terrible anniversary, and all my fears were allayed.
All this time, I've known that Sandy is watching over this family. The doctor, at my appointment the day after the ultrasound, offered the clinical explanation that what I had "experienced" was a "hormonal pregnancy" related to the leveling off of my system when I started my medication. No sympathy at all, just the advice to try again in the future. We know better. I am the mother I am partly because of Sandy. Everything changed that August day, and I am, all these years later, at peace. I know that Sandy has guided me, and the boys, in making decisions. I know simply because it is what I believe. I also believe that Sandy was among the first to greet Dad in heaven, and I know that Dad has been telling stories to Sandy ever since they met. I sincerely hope Sandy and Brooke are friends, too.
In this, I find peace. I cannot carry Lynn's pain, nor can I share it completely, but I can relate in a way that makes me ache with her every September. I cannot anticipate how Anna's diagnosis will affect her, but I can help her navigate the first steps, and those she'll come across years from now. We are linked, forever, by our individual lives. And, though sometimes difficult, it is good.
A dear friend of mine lost a beautiful baby girl in a past September. I had lost touch with her after high school, and didn't know of her loss until a few years after, but thanks to modern social networking, every September I am reminded, and find myself wishing that I could carry some of her pain for her. Instead, I remember. My niece was diagnosed with hypothyroidism this month. With the news, I was reminded of the combined relief and uncertainty that came with my own diagnosis, 18 years ago. These two women are linked in my present, and in my past.
At the time of my diagnosis, I was newly married, working at a job I really liked, and should have been happy. I felt like I must be happy, and yet I was moody, cranky, gaining weight, and secretly seeing someone. The someone I was seeing was a drowning woman in the lane next to me every time I swam laps at the pool. I knew she didn't really exist, because the first time I saw her, I stopped immediately to help until the lifeguard could get to her (I was a certified lifeguard, myself), and the lane was empty. I saw her again the next time I went, and after a while, I just expected her. I'd have said hello if I hadn't been working on rotary breathing. Who on earth could I possibly tell? Only crazy people see people who aren't there, right? The building, and the pool, were new--not even built on an area where there had been water, so she was clearly not a ghost. She was a figment, and I knew it. It wasn't until I went to the doctor for stomach pain, and was, months later finally diagnosed, that I learned that such visions are directly related to hypothyroidism; usually when left untreated for an extended time, but I've never been known for having 'the usual' symptoms of anything.
Almost immediately after starting my meds, I felt better, healthier, happier, peppier, though nervous about this condition that would require testing and medication for the rest of my life. The same condition that had caused my sister to have bald spots at my wedding. What if I lost all my hair? What if I gained even more weight? What if the drowning woman stayed? What if I couldn't have children? None of those things happened, and as a matter of fact, I became pregnant within a couple of months.
We were so excited! We told everyone right away. Why wait? This was what we had been waiting for, hoping for, and dreaming of. Guy was offered a job in Pennsylvania, we began preparing for a move, I began a diary to the baby, we had our first appointment with the doctor. Everything was wonderful.
Then, at 14 weeks, I started bleeding.
My friend, Amy, went with me to the ultrasound. The technician actually said to me, "What makes you think you were even pregnant? There is absolutely no sign of pregnancy here." Through my shock and tears, I tried to explain that the doctor had done all the tests, confirming......it was no use. Nothing, no amount of arguing, sadness, or pleading could bring back that little bitty life. My dear, sweet Amy called each of our family members to pass on the news. I sat right next to her, and she passed the phone to me after speaking to each of my 5 siblings and Guy's 7, and each of our parents. I could never thank her enough in three lifetimes. Fortunately, she knows.
Not knowing if the baby was a boy or a girl, we named the sweet memory Sandy, and managed the stress of the move by talking about what would have, could have been. Three months later, when I was pregnant with Jonathan, we were so overjoyed, we didn't foresee the emotional and painful moments to come. At three months--the time when "telling" is "safe"--we visited RI for Guy's brother's wedding. February. Sandy's due date. Ouch. Yet, in that visit, another relationship was restored--in a way, a gift from Sandy. Mother's Day that year, having the people we'd met in PA comment (constantly!!) on being 'almost a Mom' was harder than I ever would have imagined, and more of the same on Father's Day. Then, of course, that terrible realization in my 8th month that this baby could very well be born on the first anniversary of losing Sandy. I sobbed for hours, asking Guy how I would ever be able to love this baby for reasons completely unrelated to anything this baby could be. Jonathan arrived a week after that terrible anniversary, and all my fears were allayed.
All this time, I've known that Sandy is watching over this family. The doctor, at my appointment the day after the ultrasound, offered the clinical explanation that what I had "experienced" was a "hormonal pregnancy" related to the leveling off of my system when I started my medication. No sympathy at all, just the advice to try again in the future. We know better. I am the mother I am partly because of Sandy. Everything changed that August day, and I am, all these years later, at peace. I know that Sandy has guided me, and the boys, in making decisions. I know simply because it is what I believe. I also believe that Sandy was among the first to greet Dad in heaven, and I know that Dad has been telling stories to Sandy ever since they met. I sincerely hope Sandy and Brooke are friends, too.
In this, I find peace. I cannot carry Lynn's pain, nor can I share it completely, but I can relate in a way that makes me ache with her every September. I cannot anticipate how Anna's diagnosis will affect her, but I can help her navigate the first steps, and those she'll come across years from now. We are linked, forever, by our individual lives. And, though sometimes difficult, it is good.
Friday, September 2, 2011
senior moments
Perhaps I should begin with the fact that I cry at dog food commercials. I always have. I'm just that sentimental. Remember that ad campaign that said, "This changes everything"? I have no idea what was being advertised, exactly, but I do know that every single time I saw a commercial, or even a print ad, I ended up snivelling in a corner somewhere. It's actually one of my finest traits, I think. However, when the public eye is mixed in, I'm never sure how my family will react. They know me so well that Henry, our 15-year-old, considers this reaction typical when we rent movies: (in his words) "You will watch snorfling on the couch, without saying a word, and then when it's over you'll sniff and say, 'That was a really good movie.'" This revelation by him has led to the unfortuneate result of me laughing inside while snorfling--or in the case of The Green Mile, nearly sobbing--which sets off some really strange turmoil in my emotional center!
The coming months will be filled to overflowing with public emotion. Jonathan is a senior. And a football player. And an all-around good kid. The school year is three days old, and I've already found myself wondering how many tears will be acceptable to him. The conclusion I've come to is that he will just have to deal with them, and so will I. So many reasons for "Senior Moments" to hit me right in that emotional core; the spot where all my memories come together with my life force. Pride, joy, anticipation, and the realization that my boy is well on his way to being the man I've always hoped he'd be, and his friends and classmates, too. They have always been a tight group, and seeing just how they support and play off of each other in this special time when they are top dogs amazes and impresses me so much my eyes leak.
Yesterday, there was a Pep Rally at school. For the first and only time, all four boys are in the same building for school. The fact that all Jonathan's brothers would be there made me cry. The fact that I taught dance to about a third of the cheerleaders at some point hit me in the gut. The captains of the Soccer and Football teams taking a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors "very seriously" made me melt. Seeing the tough guy Seniors from those same teams dancing in crazy costumes for a dance-off not only made me laugh until I cried, it made me so proud of how far they have come since meeting each other in Kindergarten. But the moment that nearly pushed me over the edge, the moment that took all the strength I had, was one planned by the Pep Club and Cheerleaders all on their own.
Senior football players were brought to the center of the gym by the cheerleaders, blindfolded, and told that they would get a kiss on the cheek from one of the cheerleaders. When the blindfolds were removed, they would have to guess which cheerleader had kissed them. Little did they know that their moms would be the ones passing out kisses. "Would that embarrass you too much, to kiss him in public?" I was asked when informed of the plan; "Would it bother him?" We moms sat in anticipation, all of us knowing this was a true Senior Moment; a real chance to make a lifetime memory. For me, that kiss on the cheek brought back every first day of school kiss since pre-school, and also a foreshadowing of that hug and kiss that will find us leaving him at a dormroom somewhere with strangers, feeling even more helpless than when we left him at Kindergarten. (That's us, not him, by the way; he's ready to fly, and will undoubtedly be nervous, but certainly not as scared as we will be!) What touched my heart the most, though, was how well the girls who planned this know the moms they selected. The moment was for the moms, of that I have no doubt.
My emotions about this one moment, and the many before and to come, are not related in any way to sadness. I am not upset that "this will be the last [fill in the blank]." Nor am I thrilled at that same filled in blank. I am, however, simply filled to the brim with joy and happiness that I have had this boy of mine in my life for the past 17 years. For almost half my life, I have cared for, helped, yelled at, apologized to, carted around, ridden with, cheered for, played with, questioned, answered, fed, cooked with, awakened, rocked to sleep, laughed with, cried with, stood up for, stood back from, encouraged, discouraged, taught, and learned from this person who started out so helpless and has become so amazingly independent and strong. I cry at these Senior Moments because they are one-of-a-kind moments, blindingly beautiful, and I know that I cannot possibly take in enough information about them to keep everything about them handy. Nor should I. I'm looking forward to sharing Senior Moments with each of our boys, but for now, they belong to Jonathan. And Guy. And the other senior parents that have, truly, become family in a very unique way.
The coming months will be filled to overflowing with public emotion. Jonathan is a senior. And a football player. And an all-around good kid. The school year is three days old, and I've already found myself wondering how many tears will be acceptable to him. The conclusion I've come to is that he will just have to deal with them, and so will I. So many reasons for "Senior Moments" to hit me right in that emotional core; the spot where all my memories come together with my life force. Pride, joy, anticipation, and the realization that my boy is well on his way to being the man I've always hoped he'd be, and his friends and classmates, too. They have always been a tight group, and seeing just how they support and play off of each other in this special time when they are top dogs amazes and impresses me so much my eyes leak.
Yesterday, there was a Pep Rally at school. For the first and only time, all four boys are in the same building for school. The fact that all Jonathan's brothers would be there made me cry. The fact that I taught dance to about a third of the cheerleaders at some point hit me in the gut. The captains of the Soccer and Football teams taking a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors "very seriously" made me melt. Seeing the tough guy Seniors from those same teams dancing in crazy costumes for a dance-off not only made me laugh until I cried, it made me so proud of how far they have come since meeting each other in Kindergarten. But the moment that nearly pushed me over the edge, the moment that took all the strength I had, was one planned by the Pep Club and Cheerleaders all on their own.
Senior football players were brought to the center of the gym by the cheerleaders, blindfolded, and told that they would get a kiss on the cheek from one of the cheerleaders. When the blindfolds were removed, they would have to guess which cheerleader had kissed them. Little did they know that their moms would be the ones passing out kisses. "Would that embarrass you too much, to kiss him in public?" I was asked when informed of the plan; "Would it bother him?" We moms sat in anticipation, all of us knowing this was a true Senior Moment; a real chance to make a lifetime memory. For me, that kiss on the cheek brought back every first day of school kiss since pre-school, and also a foreshadowing of that hug and kiss that will find us leaving him at a dormroom somewhere with strangers, feeling even more helpless than when we left him at Kindergarten. (That's us, not him, by the way; he's ready to fly, and will undoubtedly be nervous, but certainly not as scared as we will be!) What touched my heart the most, though, was how well the girls who planned this know the moms they selected. The moment was for the moms, of that I have no doubt.
My emotions about this one moment, and the many before and to come, are not related in any way to sadness. I am not upset that "this will be the last [fill in the blank]." Nor am I thrilled at that same filled in blank. I am, however, simply filled to the brim with joy and happiness that I have had this boy of mine in my life for the past 17 years. For almost half my life, I have cared for, helped, yelled at, apologized to, carted around, ridden with, cheered for, played with, questioned, answered, fed, cooked with, awakened, rocked to sleep, laughed with, cried with, stood up for, stood back from, encouraged, discouraged, taught, and learned from this person who started out so helpless and has become so amazingly independent and strong. I cry at these Senior Moments because they are one-of-a-kind moments, blindingly beautiful, and I know that I cannot possibly take in enough information about them to keep everything about them handy. Nor should I. I'm looking forward to sharing Senior Moments with each of our boys, but for now, they belong to Jonathan. And Guy. And the other senior parents that have, truly, become family in a very unique way.
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