CHASING THE SUN

I grab my travel cup, scooping up Cadence’s backpack and load the strap over my shoulder. We are, as always, late for camp. “Let’s go NOW or you’ll miss role call!” I spout my daily mantra as she fusses with her hair. The stones in the driveway are still wet from the night’s rain and the damp earth smells of summer. The sky glooms with the remnants of last night’s storm but the day is predicted to be a nice one.

After depositing Cadence beach side with her counselor and friends, I drive home contemplating the day. It seems I have had no summer at all with far too much work and no play that I can recall. The sun peeks through and driveways steam off the dampness; it looks like it will be beautiful as predicted. I am practically giddy with the unscheduled day before me. All work wrapped up and no new assignments, I decide that I will clean the kitchen, wash some clothes, prime the new wood trim that Brad has finally put up and then slip away alone to the beach; just me, a towel and a book.

Last summer, work was scarce and I made great use of our beach, going daily in the afternoons with Cadence and lingering well into the dinner hour. I have now been blessed with full time work; much needed indeed, but cannot seem to squeeze in even a little bit of summer, finding myself working well into the dinner hour instead.

July brought with it one calamity after another: a leaking furnace, the death of my car, a blown out electrical circuit in an important part of the house and August has followed suit. We began last week with the septic tank alarm waking us at 4:00 am and went without showers or toilets until the repair man arrived at 7:00 pm. He set us up temporarily, but would need to bring an electrician back in a few days.

“You really do have a black cloud over you.” A friend told me. Yesterday, the men returned with the electrician and spent most of the day working on restoring and improving the system. There is nothing more depressing than throwing money into a hole in the ground; wasting money on crap…literally, but I wrote him the check for $1,300 and closed another crisis.

When it was time to pick up Cadence, I grabbed a book and a towel and decided to stretch the afternoon into something pleasant. I pulled my car beach side and felt instant relief as my feet sunk into the warm sand. I noticed a man sitting close to the parking lot in a beach chair with ear buds implanted. He opened one eye as I passed and drifted back into somewhere else. It astounded me that on such a beautiful day, the beach was empty, but for Mr. Ear Buds and the lifeguard. As I spread my towel to sit, I heard a low rumble and I turned slowly around to face the northwest. “Are you kidding me?” I said aloud to the dark sky moving in my direction. I held still long enough to determine the direction of the wind and indeed, my black cloud was following me; my attempt at summer foiled.

Today, on the other hand is perfect and I refuse to miss out. Kitchen cleaned, laundry done, trim primed, I take one last look at my email and do a little happy dance to see no new assignments. Steps from my escape, the phone rings and it is my boss. I assume she wants to go over the assignment I sent her yesterday and inwardly grown knowing that this could take up an hour. Instead, she says her internet is down and she likely won’t get to this until late afternoon or tomorrow. The beach seems meant to be.

I skip down the steps under perfect blue sky and scurry to run a couple of errands on my route to the beach. I pull my car beach side at about 1:30, noticing Mr. Ear Buds in the same spot as yesterday. He once again opens one eye as my feet hit the sand and once again, the beach is near empty. I stroll toward the water; warm sand massaging my feet and seagulls calling greetings. Midway to the water, a low rumble behind me stops my feet and I turn to the northwest. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” I say loud enough to elicit the attention of the few lone sun-worshipers.

My black cloud, larger than yesterday moves in my direction. I am determined this time to hold my ground. Maybe it will stay to the north and I nestle into the sand, opening my book. The rumbles get louder and the camp kids are hustled onto school buses to relocate to a town building. I am not deterred. My cloud continues to approach, but my side of the beach still sunny. Finally, white streaks slice through the black and I retreat to my car, walking by Mr. Ear Buds as he does the same. I am tempted to apologize for bringing my cloud as I settle into my book inside the car. I’ll simply wait until it passes. In short order I am sitting under a torrential downpour and there is no hopeful light spot in the sky.

Back at home, I whip out the paintbrush and tackle some trim paint. The storm passes and blue sky abounds. I log onto local radar to find that more is coming from the northwest; warnings of hail and wind and I head into town to pick up my daughter. Cadence packs her things and stands in line at the ice-cream truck. My friend talks of heading down to the beach and I feel like Eeyore explaining in a defeated voice, “More’s on the way… won’t be long… this one with hail…” Cadence, always full of sunshine and adventure says “So what? It’s not here now! Let’s go to the beach!”

Re-energized, I pull up beach side and see Mr. Ear Buds just settling into his chair. He has both eyes open this time and looks at me like I am the Grim Reaper. I shrug and smile as I step onto the sand with a thunder rumble in the distant northwest. I push a mental button like the one on the retractable dog leash and let the tether to my cloud out at far as it will reach. Our friends join us and we squeeze every last drop out of the sunny spot on the beach, lingering just to the edge of safety before making our retreat.

Tomorrow is supposed to be one of the top ten perfect days. Maybe my cloud will sleep in late.

MICHAEL'S TREE

My first sip of coffee catches in my throat when my eyes see the date in the corner of my computer screen. July 22^nd. I feel a tight pull in my stomach and I try to keep the rewind button of my mind from pressing, but I am zooming backward to that surreal moment. I can see and hear and smell that moment, when everything went still. “Michael’s dead.” It was as if a huge pause button had been pressed and my mind could not allow the words in.

I remember as child losing a tooth; in spite of the bitter sting of the empty hole in my gums, I could not keep from sticking my tongue into the void. There was nothing to gain from this but pain, but somehow I could not hold back from confirming the empty space over and over. July 22^nd always finds me poking around in the bitter sting of the empty void.

Stepping outside into the morning, the heat of the day already blazing, I look at Michael’s tree. We planted this beautiful Weeping Cherry in my brother’s memory that summer in 1997. It was a trunk with a few wispy twigs adorning the top, planted with laughter and tears. It blooms in April, right around Michael’s birthday every spring and now holds the memory of beloved family pets in its roots.

I stand beneath its canopy, looking up through its tangle of strong branches, now towering above the roof top, sheltering me in the shade. Peeks of sun shimmer through the heavy foliage. The remnants of last spring’s Robins nest are wedged tightly between a cradle of branches. The breeze sweeps the weeping branches out and back like breath. There is peace here.

Michael would have loved this tree.

IMPRINTING

I turn to look over my right shoulder, wanting to absorb every bit of the moment without making myself obvious. Cadence sits with her feet barely reaching the bubbles, holding the arms of a chair that was meant for a much larger body. I see her suppressing a ticklish giggle and I am careful to be sure she doesn’t notice me; her image wavers in my eyes between little girl and young lady.

She has an astounding appreciation for all things and recently, we watched a movie called "Fly Away Home" that she described as the most beautiful movie she had ever seen. It is a story of heroism and love in which a young girl rescues a clutch of abandoned goose eggs and with the help of her father, sees them through to adulthood. The girl needed to teach them to groom and to fly and to migrate by modeling these behaviors, as geese learn through imprinting.

im·print·ing

rapid learning that occurs during a brief receptive period, typically soon after birth or hatching, and establishes a long-lasting behavioral response to a specific individual or object, as attachment to parent, offspring, or site.

I think about my role as human mother and know that the process is really not so different and wonder how long this brief receptive period lasts. As parents, we imprint so much of ourselves onto our children; the good and the bad. As humans, many of us fight the imprints, struggling to shed them or to pattern something different. Some of us slowly become our parents as time moves us forward to raising our own flock.

The imprints of my parents are clear markings of my life pattern. My father taught me to be efficient and strong-willed. There is a part of me that is methodical and strives to maximize production of each moment. He taught me to plan and to be on time and never to rely on anyone but myself. My dad was a hard-working man who never relaxed or did anything just for sheer enjoyment. I know as I bounce from project to project and from job to chores that the need I have to not be wasteful with my time is branded deep into my being.

My mother was likewise hard-working. She taught me that women are strong and capable and can do anything. She taught me about faith in God and how to pray. She taught me about sacrifice and about going without so that someone else might have what they need. My mother grew up the youngest of ten in a home of profound poverty. She learned from her own mother how to be strong and proud and to make things work no matter what the circumstances. Her mother taught her to be private about her troubles; ‘no one else needs to know’ and the imprint of my grandmother finds its way to me through a deep marking; no weakness and no asking for help. We are strong Irish women who do not need to be coddled.

I steal another glance at Cadence who is trying to appear casual, as if being in the nail salon is a typical experience. She had accompanied me for hours on a rare and wonderful shopping spree into the finest boutiques in town. It is not the standard trip to a department store, where the first thing I look at is the price tag. I am on a quest for the perfect outfit for a special night and Cadence partners me with her eye for fashion and brutal honesty. Our last stop on this long and hot summer day is the nail spa for a manicure and pedicure, another atypical indulgence for me. “I don’t have an appointment,” I tell the woman, “Do you have time for a manicure and pedicure….” I pause, “for two?” I wink at Cadence as we are directed to take a seat.

I had my first pedicure when I was well into my thirties and the mother of two. This type of pampering is not found anywhere in my deep Irish imprint. It would be years between that first and second time for me and some time after that, I brought my mother for her first pedicure. We learned together about being kind to ourselves and it was a ritual that we would treat ourselves to once a year or so.

Several years ago, Cadence wrote on Mother’s Day tribute at school that her mother was ‘magical and got things done really, really fast.’ I think about what I am modeling for the youngest in my flock about efficiency, strength and sacrifice. These are important to her future, however I must change the imprint to add relaxation and stillness and self respect. I need her to know that guilt does not need to hold hands with self caring.

Cadence climbs into the black swivel chair next to me, toes shining and adorned with tiny flowers and fully extends her arms to reach the manicure table. “How was it?” I ask, as if I am speaking to a contemporary.

“Amaaazing!” She says, turning to the woman who is filing her fingertips. “My mom says I shouldn’t get used to it.” She adds.

“Not until you’re older,” I tell her, “and then you can get used to it.” Cadence nods and shoots a dimpled smile to me and I have no doubt that she will. It isn’t that my imprint or that of her grandmothers will elude her, it will just be altered to include a new dimension and perhaps, I will be learning through my own teaching.

THE PUPA YEARS

There is nothing more exasperating and endearing than the thirteen-year-old boy, although to be honest, I think this human version of the pupa stage might have been an oversight on God’s part. The butterfly, a perfectly magical creature, is equipped to go through its awkward and delicate change from its childish caterpillar self, under cover and protected. Caterpillars shed their final layer of skin to reveal a pupa. The outer skin of the pupa hardens to form a chrysalis, which shields the amazing transformation that is taking place inside. The same is not true of the thirteen-year-old male human. He sheds his final little boy layer slowly, exposed and vulnerable.

This human pupa resorts to creating an invisible shell, a fierce and arrogant demeanor intended to ward off attention to its delicate transformation. He is often guarded, pushing away affection and kind words, ready to battle on any front. Like the caterpillar, he eats tremendous quantities of food in order to fuel his massive growth, shedding layers of his younger self in the process.

As I pull my car in to the middle school driveway on Friday afternoon to pick up my pupa, he is surrounded by a pack of similar creatures; all trying to act nonchalant as he “Oh-so-subtlety” asks to bring them home. He is five foot eight with size thirteen shoes, baby-faced with braces and teenage complexion. I watch, as they attempt to appear unaware of the request being made.

“Hmmm,” I pause, silently counting heads. Trevor looks all ‘sad puppy’ at me and raises his eyebrows. “Boys, do your moms know that you’re coming to my house?” I ask.

They all validate that this has been run by all five other mothers and affirmed as they duck, one by one, under the slider door and into the van. The van rocks back and forth as they push and shove each other, laughing with pupa jokes. I shoot Trevor a sideways glance over the top of my eyes, letting him know that his attempt at subtly gaining clearance from me was a transparent plan since they had already cleared it with their mothers.

“Thanks Mom!” He barrels in next to me.

“Put your seatbelt on.” I tell him, trying to look stern, but he knows me too well.

“Oh, beep at those girls!” They beg as we pass a pack of female pupa. I toot the horn and all six boys wave wildly, chortling amongst themselves. Pulling into the driveway, they tumble out as gracefully as they barreled in; twelve giant skateboard shoes are kicked into a pile inside the front door, six back packs beside. They swarm to the kitchen, looking for fuel and I let them know that I will bake chocolate chip cookie bars in a few minutes. “Awww, your mom is awesome.” One says as they retreat, “My mom would never bake us something.”

They move from the house to the yard in a noisy cluster, pushing and shoving with playful affection. “Mom, I think some of us stepped in dog poop.” Trevor announces, handing over several giant skateboard shoes. “I tell him to leave them outside and shoo the pack into the family room, later investigating to find only muddy sneakers.

The chocolate chip cookie bars vanish before they can cool and slowly, one by one, the pupas yell “Good-bye Mrs. R, Thanks for having me!” as their families arrive to retrieve them. Finally, only two remain and they are calmer now playing video games.

“Are you guys going to spend the night?” I ask, before Trevor has a chance to ask.

“Sure, if that’s OK.” They answer.

“Is it OK with your moms?” I inquire.

“Yeah, they said it was fine.” They answer, falling into the trap again. I look over my eyes once again at Trevor to let him know he has been caught.

“Thanks Mom!” He says in his baby man voice, looking much more like a caterpillar than a butterfly.

*photo by bsi.montant.edu

HEART & SOUL

We have a long standing family addiction to American Idol. Perhaps it is to do with the lack of programming that will not only entertain, but be appropriate for all ages. Animal Planet, the Discovery Channel and American Idol pretty much exhaust our repertoire of family viewing. Perhaps it is fueled by the fact that we have talented musicians in our family; Cadence, with amazing nine –year-old vocals and love for the stage has definite plans of going toe to toe with Simon Cowell when she reaches the minimum age requirement. The rules for watching Idol are strict, however. First of all, there is no talking permitted during the singing, or during the commentary from the judges. Secondly, commercials are muted in order to discuss our own opinions; a difficult task for the remote hogging husband who happens to love commercials.

“Daddy, turn this up!” Cadence urges as a Geico commercial fills the screen. The Gecko chatters on about auto insurance, Cadence listening attentively.

“He’s cute, isn’t he Cadence?” Brad asks her, “Don’t you wish you could have one of those for a pet?”

“Actually,” she answers, “I’d marry him. I can’t explain it, but I am strangely attracted to him.” She says in a voice much older than nine.

Brad breaks into a fit of laughter, telling her how funny she is, while her brother tells her she’s a freak and leaves the room. But with remarkable clarity, I know what she is saying and share a story to let her know that I can relate. The gecko is smart, witty and full of exuberance and, on a strictly superficial level, has that hot Australian accent.

The next morning, in keeping with my commitment to my family, I beckon Cadence’s permission to blog about her strange attraction to the Gecko.

“NO.” She answers, slightly embarrassed. Brad once again is consumed by laughter and tells her it was one of the funniest things she ever said.

“That’s not what I want to write about it for…not to make fun of you; just the opposite, actually.” I explain.

“Mom, it’s not that I’m attracted to a reptile. It’s the man playing the gecko!” She clarifies.

“But you’ve never even seen him.” I remind her.

“I mean his voice, what he says, his sense of humor, who he is.” She explains further. “I’m attracted to what’s inside the gecko.”

“My point exactly.” I tell her. “You see straight through the package to the heart and soul. That’s a good thing. So….can I write about it?”

“Fine, but only if you include that you admitted you were also strangely attracted to the Cave Man.”

As promised, I hereby admit that I do find one of the Cave Men attractive; in an adorable hairy sort of way.

PS: It is important to note that as of this post date, Cadence is NO LONGER ATTRACTED TO THE GECKO!

*Photo by www.thefriendlygecko.com

MUDDY WATERS

Riding in the car alone, I vacillate between silence and music and news on the radio, depending on my mood. Last week I was scanning through the channels when two buzz words stopped my hasty fingers. “Balanced Life” caused my sensors to zero quickly in on the words vibrating through the speakers, as this is a subject that I struggle with more and more.

The radio announcer did not offer a magic solution. In fact, he was advertising for a service that allows a person to view their PCs desktop from another computer. I reached to scan some more, when he stopped me again by suggesting there is no such thing as a balanced life anymore, but that we can live an integrated life. No need to sit late in the office finishing work; go home, be with your family, snuggle with your kids beside you doing their homework while you work from your laptop with access to your office computer. The idea stirred strong negative emotions and left me with a vision of parenting half way; of being home but not present; of faking it.

I shut the radio off and drove with the idea swirling irritably in my head for a while. Must we be always working? Does sitting shoulder to shoulder with our children while our heads are elsewhere count as quality time? Does 'no excuse not to work' technology give us an excuse not to parent?The more I thought about it, the more I realized that our lives have become overly integrated. Nothing is compartmentalized anymore.

“I think God creates the spirit and gives it a body, and then He picks the parents that sort of look similar, makes sure they would be good parents of course, and sends them that spirit as a baby.” Cadence tells me, while drizzling too much syrup over her pancakes the next morning.

“Hmmm, could be.” I tell her as I stuff her lunch money into her backpack. I sign her “pick up note” and slip it into her backpack as well. “I always thought He created the baby spirit, then chose the right parents and made the baby to look similar to those parents.” I tell her, reaching for the bird seed to silence the noisy, feathered ones calling for breakfast. “But what’s really cool is how I got picked to be your mother. I mean, of all of the jobs on the planet, how the heck did I get the best one?” I ask, opening the cage door to fill the seed bowl.

“Well, I could have gotten any mom and He gave me the best one, that’s for sure.” She counters. “He must have known you’d be the best mom for me and I am sure lucky. Of course I did get those brothers though.” She laments, guzzling a glass of milk.

“Well, it is sometimes hard to live with boys but God must have planned to teach me something by being their mother, too.” I tell her.

“Guys are just so different from us. They don’t think the same. What was God thinking?” She asks through pancakes.

“I think He did have a plan.” I tell her and proceeded to explain. “In very early times, there were no grocery stores or places to go to get what was needed to live. God equipped us with what we needed and gave men and women different natural gifts. Men were made a little bigger and stronger to hunt for food. He made them with minds that stayed in a straight line so they could stay focused on that one thing; feeding their family. I think, maybe, he also made their hearts a little harder because they needed to be able to go out to kill that animal for food. Looking at that animal’s face and then killing it wouldn’t be easy with a very soft heart.” The vegetarian in Cadence was about to interrupt, but she pushed back in her chair, seeing that I was on a roll.

“Women in early times had a very different job. He made them soft and gentle so that they could care for babies and gave them minds that could whiz back and forth between caring for the children and making them clothes and growing their vegetables. The woman was known as the Gatherer and the man as the Hunter and their jobs were very clearly different.”

“But now we have stores and cars so men don’t have to hunt and women don’t have to stay home to grow vegetables and sew clothes,” Cadence points out, the wheels of her mind turning behind her eyes.

“Actually,” I continue, hardly aware that this is a conversation anymore, “we’ve really muddied the waters.”

“The waters?” Cadence asks, seeing I have gone off track.

“Well, over time and with the invention of things like stores and cars and technology, we realized that the jobs can be done by both men and women. Women do not have to stay home and sew and are smart enough to do the jobs men do; Smarter even,” I wink at her. “And men, while they still like to make a way to feed their family with their jobs, are capable of doing the home things that women do. We have crossed over into what was the other’s territory and it is no longer clear. While women are still expected to be the gatherers and juggle a million things, they are also expected to harden their hearts sometimes to compete in the work world. And men, who are still expected to hunt for the family with their jobs, are expected to take their straight thinking brains and bounce them around being gatherers.”

I pause for a moment, coming to a very clear place in the muddy water. “That’s it! That’s the problem!” I look directly at her. “You helped me solve what I have been struggling with. The problem is that we are expecting each other to be able to cross over and to do it well. We are expecting each other to be capable of everything. We are expecting there to be no difference in how men and women do the same thing, but there is a huge difference and we need to accept that! It is expecting clear sailing in muddy water that leads to frustration. Thank you, Cadence; you have just helped me sort out a big life problem!”

“Okaaay,” Cadence looks at me like I’ve gone completely mad, “I don’t know what I did, but you’re welcome.” She answers and reminds me that the bus will be coming any minute.

I send her off feeling a sense of accomplishment. I know that I would not be happy to go back in time. I know I would never trade places with my grandmother, and I am sure today won’t be any more balanced than yesterday. Tossing the last of the laundry into the washer and pushing start, I grab my briefcase and coffee to head off for the hunt.

For now, some integration will have to do. It’s OK with me that I do not have any solutions to the problem. Sometimes, the answer comes in just being able to identify the problem; to accept that the water is muddy, and to navigate with compassion.

LITTLE BOY BLUE

Recently I read a post by Waking Up in Portland that resonated deeply. Being hurled into the full-time work force, she reflected on her previous view of her time with her children, “I gave myself permission to miss moments because I knew that another one would be coming along right behind it and I could just grab that one.”

It has become very clear to me lately that these “moments” become fewer and farther between as our children get older. When my boys were little, I worked nights, giving me the freedom to grab so many of these moments; the scheduled and the spontaneous. The choices were mine to “get things done” or to leave them “undone” while taking the afternoon to pick apples or look for colored leaves. I made time for Chucky Cheese and play groups with moms that I enjoyed being with. I scheduled special dates for concerts or to slip away to the ceramic studio that offers pre-made pieces for painting and firing. I do not remember the obligations that were left undone in those days or whether or not I got the cleaning and chores done, but I do remember those moments and so do my boys.

I am in a very different place as a mother now. Each and every day is overloaded and bursting at the seams with obligations. My career is based on accepting the work as it comes and adhering to daunting deadlines. My teenagers, more independent than their previous little boy selves, require more supervision than ever. The mother who reveled in “moments” seems almost unavailable to her nine-year-old daughter, who has never set foot in Chucky Cheese or the ceramic studio.

“Let’s you and me go to that ceramic place this week.” I tell Cadence on the drive to school, “And how about we go to Chucky Cheese this weekend?” I ask. She squeals with delight and bounces out of the car, racing to the double doors, eager to share the news with friends. I feel relief, knowing that I still have time to create these moments with her. As for the boys, our time for creating moments is running short and opportunities are limited; I mentally commit to seeking them out.

“But people don’t have blue hair, Tyler. Not unless you count the old ladies.” I look at the determination on his face and know that I am headed for an argument.

“I’m not people, Mom. I’m an individual.” He states, strumming the guitar which is almost a part of his body. “I’m expressing my creativity. Besides, you always said you didn’t care about how we wore our hair. What about that?” He asks, calling me on my own proclamation.

I think about the art high school where he spends the second half of each day. I remember thinking at open house that my son was the only one with hair-colored hair and no facial piercing. These creative youth, in their attempts at self expression, stand out in the world, but become almost conforming within these walls.

“What about the prom?’ I ask, knowing it is only months away.

“You think I care if I have blue hair at the prom? I want blue hair at the prom. Besides, I only want the bangs blue.” He says, holding a chunk of long blonde hair out for examination.

“You will look back in the year book and say, what the heck was I thinking?” I tell him, hoping to hit a hot button somewhere.

“You’re supposed to look back at high school and say that, Mom! That’s the whole point!” He says, strangely beginning to make sense.

“Ask your father.” I tell him, knowing that when all logic fails, the shoe drops there. Of course I am spot on with this tactic. Dad’s paying and says his obligation stops at the haircut. He will not finance blue hair.

And then I saw it.

This was a moment.

There aren’t very many left.

I agree, under very strict terms, to help him express his individuality.

First: it must be of the temporary, wash-out variety.

Second: he is sworn to secrecy; he must not tell anyone that I helped him, lest they thing I approve of blue hair.

Third: it cannot cost more than ten dollars.

Six dollars and ninety-nine cents later, we sit at the kitchen island with the shocking blue box. “You know you will look like a cartoon character when we finish.” I tell him, brushing the bleach on the spiky ends on the back of his head and painting his long blonde bangs.

“Aren’t you going to read the directions?” He asks, tapping his fingers on the counter.

“Nah.” I tell him. “Bleach and I are old friends.”

“How long does it need to stay on?” He interrogates, not confident in my abilities.

“Till it’s done.” I tell him. “Not to worry.” Worry spreads across his face, bleaching it faster than the goop on his hair.

We rinse the bleach after a brief lightening and I marvel at the incredible highlights. “Please just leave it like this.” I urge, “It looks amazing;!” He agrees, but is committed in his mind to shocking blue. I realize glancing at the clock that I might have to leave before it is finished, but his impulsivity is raging and he insists we forge ahead.

“You are going to look like a Smurf.” I tell him, surprised at how blue this stuff really is. The tips of the spikes go on quickly with a brush and I disregard the direction that encourages covering skin with Vaseline to prevent staining, as we are going nowhere near his skin. Things get a little messy, however once his long bangs are coated with blue dye, as they fall repeatedly against his forehead.

“It’s on my skin!” He yells, full of panic like the wicked witch about to melt. I tell him to relax, as I try clipping them to the top of his head.

“Okaaay….” I say in my most calm voice, “There is some on your face, but we’ll take care of that.” I say as I wash my hands to get the blue off. The blue does not come off. I grab a towel and scrub my fingers to no avail. “Oh boy.” I say.

“Oh BOY??” He yells, in full blown panic. “Tell me it’s not really on my face!”

I bite my lip, both amused and horrified at the vertical blue stripes that run down his forehead and onto his nose.

“I’ll get some bleach.” I tell him.

“BLEACH?” He screams, running to the bathroom. “OH MY GOD!” I hear, collecting myself and hoping that he really does enjoy being an individual.

“Try some face cream.” I yell from the kitchen.

“FACE CREAM? What’s FACE CREAM?” I hear him thrashing around in the bathroom closet. “Is it called, SORRY... I PAINTED YOUR FACE BLUE AND IT WON’T COME OFF Cream? I don’t see any of THAT!”

Slowly and careful, I bleach his face clean and tell him I need to go pick up his sister. “ARE you kidding me? You’re leaving me NOW?”

I smiled, realizing that I had, in fact, created a moment.

Remember Chucky Cheese?

Remember the Raffi Concert?

Remember painting ceramics?

Remember when I painted your face blue by accident?

WHAT CAME FIRST?

I sometimes wonder what came first; the bald head or the carcass?

It’s sort of a chicken or the egg idea but you’ll have to scroll back to read

“The Unlikely Teacher” to understand my analogy. You see, I cannot decide if the Turkey Vulture adapted to the unusual features he was designed with, or if he was given them with intent.

Did God just randomly, in a funny moment, decide to make one bird with a bald head, keen sense of smell and sight and low flying abilities, leading the ugly strange creature to sort out his strengths and adapt to the life of gliding for carrion?

Or, did God think, “I need some way to get rid of decaying carcasses so let me make a bird that can easily find them and give him the tools he needs to do the job.”

Do we have gifts granted at random by God; to use or not to use?

Or did God give them with intent; purposeful in his selection?

I wonder what came first; the story or the writer?

Does it happen that we have a random gift and love for words; happening upon a thought or a story and deciding to write it?

Or were we given the gift of words and the stories we live for a purpose; for teaching, healing, finding truth and meaning?

I suppose it isn’t important to know, but rather to be who we were intended, but still, I wonder…

DANCING WITH THE STARS….IN WAL-MART

“We’re taking ballroom dancing lessons.” my mother-in-law tells me on the phone. The words ballroom dancing take me straight from the conversation to my long gloves, silver shoes and crinolines. William’s Ballroom studio was my secret home away from home for many of my younger years; secret from my school, secret from my friends. It was a place where I found magic and beauty. It was a place filled with young people, infused into a different era. Perhaps the reason I was so enthralled at the time was because the onus for success was not singular; a great deal depended on your partner and the synergy between two people.

Instruction was in groups and between couples and I found the moves easy to master from the beginning. Group classes consisted of the boys and girls being taught in lines, eventually crossing the room to “take a partner.” It was fun to mix it up and dance with different people, but the real good stuff happened when paired with my regular dancing partner.

Getting into position with my partner was like slipping on a favorite pair of soft, faded jeans that knew every curve of my body and fit as a second skin. This kind of dancing is not two people moving simultaneously, but one smooth and graceful unit that needs no eye contact, no words; only music and the rhythm of each others bodies. I was not required to think or decide, but to follow and that, for me, was easy.

Private lessons were my favorite, as they met us where we were and took us higher. Our ‘routine’ was unique to us and we perfected our routines to in order to compete. I adored the long bus rides with our dancers and families to other states for weekends of camaraderie and competition.

It was elegant, sleeveless, fitted dresses that circled out at the waist over layered crinolines; long gloves, very high-heeled silver shoes, hair in a classic up-dos or long cascading curls.

It was tuxedos with shirts that matched the dresses, cuff links and highly polished black shoes.

It was competitors from flashy cities; couples with numbers on their backs and winning in their smiles.

It was hearing just the right swing song or favorite tango begin to play in the ballroom, putting the ease into my head tilted back and to the left and allowing a smile to creep onto my face.

It was hearing the winners called in order of 4^th to 1^st and standing in that one blazing moment of glory to accept a trophy.

“We’re learning the Rumba.” Dianne tells me and my knees immediately bend as I step into rhythm, hips responding in kind. The Rumba was my favorite dance. I chuckle to myself as I picture my in-laws in tuxedo and crinoline.

“That’s one of the hardest to get right.” I tell her, quite surprised that a teacher would pick that as a first dance. I think of watching beginning Rumba dancers, who find it near impossible to bend the knee of the foot that they are stepping on; quite opposite our natural instinct.

“Well, I can hear the beat and that’s the most important thing. Bob’s still looking for the beat.” She tells me. I picture my sweet, quiet, reserved father- in- law digging out the steps of the sexy Rumba with a sparkle in his eye and a grin on his face.

“I decided to get some CDs for us to practice,” she continued, “so I went to Wal-Mart to the music section.” I am not surprised because Dianne does not do anything half-way and the excitement in her voice tells me that this is going to be a passion to rival golf!

“I asked the boy that worked there to direct me to the Rumba section and he said ‘What’s that’?”

I picture in my head a spiky haired young man with several facial piercing who knows two different dances, the mosh and the cherry picker.

“He told me they have a machine where I could place the bar code beneath and it would play the songs. What a fantastic thing that is!” She continues. “So I found a section that said ‘Mexican Music’ and I spent at least forty-five minutes pushing those CDs under and counting out my steps to try to find the beat.”

I hold in a laugh, picturing my mother-in-law doing the Rumba to Mariachi music in Wal-Mart for forty-five minutes, most likely unaware of the security cameras or the potential crowd gathering.

“You know I have to blog about this.” I tell her. She surrenders immediately.

The vision greets me several times through the day and brings a warm smile. I am envious in a funny way; not just of the dance classes but of the unbridled boldness that it would take to dance alone in Wal-Mart.

And then I wonder; would it really be so weird? There’s a Wal-Mart not far from here.

I really do miss dancing the Rumba…

TIME'S UP....PENCILS DOWN

Our nation has committed that no child will be left behind. Our schools have committed to proficiency for all. Our teachers are committed to student achievement.

Our measure for success?

Standardized testing.

I get it.

I know that we need to be sure that we have a way to verify the success of our methods; to be sure that standards are being met. I just wish there was a different way other than one size fits all tests.

Mastery tests are issued in elementary school and middle school to assess progress along the learning journey and to warm them up for SATs. SATs are issued to test a child’s general knowledge and become his benchmark for a successful future. These tests are intended to provide an accurate and consistent measurement of learning.

I worry about the one size fits all method of testing.

I worry about the child whose brilliance is written in musical notes or stroked with a paint brush rather than a number two pencil.

I worry about the child who locks it up when faced with the silence of the testing room; whose knowledge is strong, but thrown back behind a wall of anxiety.

I worry about the child, who is choked by the stop watch; who can compute with accuracy, but just not as fast as the “standard” child.

I worry about the child whose ideas are bigger than the test.

The writing prompt reads: You are on your way to school and you find a magic key. Tell what you do next and what the key opens.

The directions remind the child to “Think, Plan, Write, Read, Edit and Revise.” Write your opening paragraph on Tuesday night (at least 5-6 sentences) for the beginning of your story and bring back to school tomorrow. This should take 15-20 minutes. Write the middle of your story on Wednesday night (at least 5-6 sentences) and the end of your story on Thursday night (at least 5-6 sentences.)

“Hmmm.” Cadence ponders, serious expression, pencil rolling between her fingers. Her tight lips begin to widen until a slow spreading smile creases her face. One eyebrow raises as she announces, “I’ve got it!” She begins to write as fast as she can to get out the opening sentence or two, and then ponders some more. This process continues and she pauses to share her idea.

“How does this sound?” she asks, laying out her plot in hurried words and I begin to worry about how she will ever get it all written. Her imagination races forward like a freight train, unable to stop.

“It sounds so exciting!” I tell her. “Let’s see if you can get a little more down on paper.”

She writes quickly, her brain faster than her fingers and she tries phrases out loud until she plucks just the right word from her highly charged orbit. She fills the page and re-reads, making revisions, finally satisfied with her opening. It has been thirty minutes.

Night two is much of the same and I realize that the story inside of her will not fit into the next two evenings. I suggest that since she has it all written in her head, perhaps I should see if we could get an extension on the assignment. The next morning, I send a note to her teacher explaining the exciting creative process I have witnessed and request that she have the weekend to finish.

My answer comes on cheerful yellow paper, exclamation marks with smiley faces beneath. “If Cadence likes this particular prompt, certainly she can have the weekend to continue, however most should be completed in 45 minutes.”

I think of the writers I know who have taken a year, or perhaps five, to get their story to the ending. I think about trying to tell my daughter that while her story is good, she needs to cut it in half and get to the point. Wrap it up. Dissect it into three clear sections and focus on a conclusion before the timer goes off.

I hate standardized testing.

I know plenty of children will follow the training manual; select a plan, create three well designed paragraphs (5-6 sentences each) and read, edit and revise in the allotted forty five minutes.

Simple ideas; carefully chosen words.

But what about the thinkers?

What about the writers, whose idea swirls around, scooping up details like leaves in the wind, gaining momentum like a tornado; unstoppable.

Do I teach her to follow the training manual?

To get to the point?

To reach a conclusion?

To think in 5-6 sentences sections?

Or do I teach her to write with her heart, passionately creating as fast as she can, only to risk receiving demerits for not reaching a conclusion?

Do we impose time pressure on other creative disciplines?

Paint quickly, crank out that masterpiece and whip it into a frame?

Or do we allow brilliance to unfold at its pace, taking our breath away in the process?

I need to teach that girl to type; to move her fingers as fast as her ideas. Perhaps she will have to produce mediocrity for the standardized tests and save her brilliance for an appreciative audience.