Frantic

Clean the house - the litany of chores in my head always starts with clean the house. Three little words and so dang much work. Some days this is the list - at other times of year - Christmas for example - this is just the barest glimpse of the tip of a million things that must be done. And it is daunting.

I make lists.

I fret.

I schedule.

I fret.

There are items on the list I love - baking and decorating rate among the top. But it is so hard to get there since it starts with "clean the house." There are many hands, feet, & paws tracking in and trailing debris at an alarming rate. Vacuuming to do. And let us not forget the mountains of laundry that mock me from assorted baskets. There is shopping and wrapping, and gift making. And there are beds to strip - clean sheets are an apparent requirement for the birth of Christ. There are school performances to attend - and toilets to scour in case Santa needs a pit stop I guess.

It's a wonder I don't freeze into a catatonic state of panic. But I trudge through the lists. And I fret.

I've pondered this need to have my house in perfect order for the Eve of Christmas. Will the kids refuse to open gifts if there are unmade beds? Will the cookies be less delicious if the laundry is not folded? Of course not, but here I am - burdened by the guilt that I am not the perfect mom.

And I blame the Parable of the Ten Virgins - from the Bible. I sorely want to avoid being the foolish one, the one whose lamp has gone out with no oil and is incapable of meeting the bridegroom. I want to be ready. I want to be worthy. But I think - at least I dearly hope - that God is not judging my worth on my ability to juggle motherhood, working, and housekeeping. So, I am going to try to let it go. I am going to try not to panic because the dog did not get into the groomer.

Let us be determined to remember that we try to prepare our hearts for this day all year long - in the kind acts we show to others and the care we take of those we love. Let us remember that Christmas is a celebration of love and not a final judgement on how much our houses sparkle or how much like Pintrest our crafts turn out because I fail there, for certain every dang time. Those we love will cherish the day, even if our cookies have burnt bottoms. And maybe that is the kindness we need to show ourselves.

Merry Christmas!

Mourning for Michael

My brother died on Tuesday, past. That is a difficult thing to write. Somehow the act of the writing seems to make the action true, but it was already there. The brother who looked out for me and those around him, was diagnosed with cancer on Thursday night and died in the early morning hours of Tuesday. 

I was able to say goodbye and lend my love to that of his parents, sons, and siblings as we wished him a safe voyage. I was able to share stories, laughter, and tears with family as we came together that night in support and love. For those moments, I am grateful. But I am not able to attend his memorial today. My family cannot leave Sunnyville to gather with friends and family and celebrate the life he had and the ways in which he touched others, and for that I am angry. 

I am taking small comfort in the fact that I wrote the following, and my eldest Seashore Sister will read it. I am taking comfort in the fact that we here in Sunnyville will gather today to simply be together as our family will be doing in the City of Big Shoulders. So, I share my farewell here, with you - a tribute to my brother whose last voicemail sits on my phone and has been played a dozen or more times in the past several days, his voice a reminder of laughter and happy moments we shared.

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I can't be with you all here today as you celebrate the life of my brother, but I want to share a thought - to contribute to the collective memory of Michael C---- C-----. 

We all know that Mike was social and....well...LOUD. He enjoyed a crowd - particularly if he could feed and entertain them - and he liked to have a good time. His voice could carry over the masses in joy and displeasure alike. These attributes often made others see him as a couldn't-give-a-damn guy. But they couldn't be more wrong.

From the airplane rides he gave me as a small child, to the time he stood guard at the front door to keep 14-year-old me from sneaking into the night, to the week he spent remodeling my entire bathroom, and a million other moments, Mike has been a steady presence of caring in my life. He was one of those few who can be called to help and will answer the call - regardless of his own situation - and he would do whatever was in his power to help those who needed it. In fact, his biggest complaint to me was that his power to help wasn't greater. 

I am heartbroken that you have to gather here today at all. The thought of times I will not share with him makes me sad beyond measure. Gone are the days when I will hear him call, "[Seashore]!" and for that I mourn. I mourn my loss of Mike, just as you all mourn your loss. And though I cry as I write these lines (and I'm sure my proxy reader is tearing up, too) I cry for myself, for his sons, and his family. I cry for what we will miss as we continue through this life without him. But I do not cry for Mike himself. He has passed on, and I am thankful that he is at peace with the Father. I know he is safe in the embrace of God and the loved ones who went before. So, while I am sad, I am secure in the knowledge that when it is my time to pass there will be a warm place for me and, if Mike has any say at all - a barbecue with too much food and lots and lots of love expressed at full volume. 

I leave you with this from Psalm 34:18

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

Thank you.

Duty and Disagreement

About a year ago Teen (then, Tween) started getting shots for JIA. It was a rough start (that you can read about here), but surely now at the almost 1 year mark, it must be better - right?

Surely she has become desensitized to the act of receiving an injection - it has been nearly 52 after all. Couple that with the required blood work and an emergency hospital stay this year, and she should be beyond freaking out. RIGHT???

Not even close.

Here it is, shot night or night of hell coupled with crippling guilt and she has to take a nausea pill prescribed because she is sick afterwards. Once I remind her about the pill she begins to create reasons that the shot should wait for the next day. "I have a lot to do tomorrow and it makes me tired." "It's too late now, by the time the shot works it will be past my bedtime." You get the idea.

A steadfast demand that she take the shot today leads to the pill and she slowly begins to withdraw into herself.  Whether we are watching a movie, playing a game, or she is reading a book, you can see the fear in her eyes. The worry about what is coming. Some nights she tries to sneak off to bed without follow-through. This entails a casual heading toward the bathroom and a quick dart to bed. I have caught on to such tricks and head her off which leads to arguments of: the shot doesn't make a difference, burns, makes me sick, and "How can you torture your own child?" slamming into me across the house. I brace myself, hold steady and administer the hated dose of poison that will keep her swelling down and, hopefully, keep the pain at a low throb.

She stands rigidly to receive the shot as tears stand out in her eyes. She flees the scene as soon as the deed is done, throwing herself into bed and cries or worse - writes me well reasoned notes about how I must not believe her and she is disappointed in me.

I counsel myself that it could be so much worse. The illness could be worse, the treatment could be worse. We are all lucky in the scheme of things. But it still sucks...

So, I am allowing her to take a break. I tried to get into the doctor earlier than our August appointment - but he is booked until October. With no other avenue open, Mr Seashore and I have decided she will be okay to go off for a month. I feel weak and unsure, but as Mr said, "It's only a month. She will be fine." The real concern is how will she be if the shots continue...

On-Call

Most of my life is dominated by must, have to, should, and in the rare case that I escape all of these - the guilt that follows. So, it is with relief that I look toward Tuesday night - date night.

Dinner was a success, we talked and laughed while our cell phones sat silently to the side. Not a peep. No calls that Boy was tormenting Tween or Youngest was tying the dog to her bed. So, off we went - headed to shop for exciting items to spice up our time in bed - new pillows. Don't hate us because we make parenting look so glamorous.

Just as we entered the toothpaste aisle - yes we really were shopping for pillows & household goods - my phone chirped. Seeing it was Boy, I brought it to my ear and promptly heard a piercing cry from the background. "Mom, ---- sprayed herself in the face with bug spray....." Shift mental gears - quickly. Instructions were given in quickfire succession: wash her eyes with cool water, calm her, wet a towel and place over her eyes. These were largely done - she was not calmed. Mr Seashore abandoned his quest for bath products as soon as he heard bug sprayed in the face and we made a hasty retreat.

I was on the phone to the pediatrician even before we hit the exit doors, leaving a message with the on-call service. We talked about Youngest and her penchant for getting into things - including the cabinet locks as we drove maybe a bit above the speed limit home. The conversation was focused on anything that wasn't the possibility of  irreparable eye damage. Just as we were entering the neighborhood, Boy called again. It wasn't bug spray, it was pepper spray. Pepper spray that has lived in the junk drawer so long, I forgot we owned any. Don't judge, do you know the inventory of your junk repository? This is awful, but it elicited an internal sigh of relief - pepper spray wouldn't cause blindness.

We arrived home to Youngest with a towel on her face, Boy watching over her, and Tween busily trying to distract Youngest and herself from the chaos of 20 minutes earlier. The story was told, the pepper spray discarded, the doctor reassured us it would be okay, oldest texted to check the status of Youngest, and life returned to its normal pace. Once Youngest was showered and ready for bed, Boy told us we were free to head out again - isn't he sweet - but the moment was gone.

One day, there will be no kids in the house to mistake pepper spray for a flashlight and we will be able to shop all night if we choose, but for now we run the risk of date night being called on account of parenting.

Strong Willed

It was a simple bargain, made without thought, if Youngest ate all her dinner, she could have the entire sheet of bubble wrap, a glorious 6"x10" sheet of air bubbles for popping. I tucked the sheet away without another thought and proceeded to prep dinner.

Taco Tuesday. I knew this would be a contentious meal - with both Youngest & Tween avoiding Mexican food at all times - but the other three people love it, so que the struggle. Much care was taken in the prep of the girls' plates. The chicken was extracted from the sauce with any trace of pepper or onion thoroughly removed before placing the shredded meat in a warmed soft corn tortilla. Liberal amounts of cheese were sprinkled over the meat before the taco was plated with corn & rice. We all made our way to the ring table.

Youngest poked and prodded at the taco, folding it this way and moving it from here to there. She finally settled in, thoughtfully scooping corn kernels onto her spoon as she eyed the offensive taco with much hostility. With only a few errant kernels and grains of rice remaining, she began the task of bemoaning her fate eating the taco.

Food battles are not of value to me. My children need never finish their plates if they do not enjoy a meal. Of course they may not trade-up to a bedtime snack if they turned their noses up at dinner, but neither will they be sent to bed with hunger pains. It is the standard practice at our home not to force feed our kids.

Knowing she didn't want the taco, I offered Youngest more corn or rice, and upon her declining I excused her. She did not leave. Whining, moaning, and general all-around complaint about each and every bite ensued. The time dragged forward and all, eventually, left the table, all but Youngest. Nerves were set to their very edge by the vocal struggle to eat playing itself out at the table, and I cast my mind to the freezer and fridge to figure if there was some exotic dessert - like ice cream - she was struggling to win. Nope.

At some point I really just wanted it to be over. "[Youngest], why don't you just be done?" To which she looked up to me over the last 1/4 of her manhandled taco, huge, round eyes brimming with unshed tears and said, "I want that bubble wrap!"

And at this is the point I was faced with that parental call - forgo the previously established rule, or ride it out. I am no monster. In that moment, the words of excuse tickled my lips as they began to slide out, "Okay, you did a good job...." and I caught myself. By giving in at this moment, the previous 3/4 of the taco chocked down bite by bite would have been for naught. I would be stealing the victory from my youngest child who prides herself on being "a not giver-upper!"

So, I bit back the words that would free her from this self-induced agony. Instead I finished with, "only a couple bites to go. You can do it." And do it she did. It took twenty minutes longer for her to eat than everyone else, but she moaned and groaned her way through the last bite.

Was her bubble popping pleasure made that much sweeter by the lengths she took to earn it? I do not know. What I do know is that she is "not a giver-upper" and that tenacity paid off in bubble wrap, as it will pay off time and again in her life. I love this spirit and fire and drives her - until that will is pit against me, but it's the price paid for raising strong kids - at least that is what I tell myself as she insists she should spend her saved $10 on a balloon at that fair...

If They Can Do It...or "Why I Love My Job"

My media feeds are inundated with vitriol from both sides of the spectrum. Maybe this is what we have been taught. The leaders of our country have been modeling just such behavior for years, and it seems that the disgust shown to one another has trickled down in a way economics never did to offer us more than we can possibly use. It is staggering in its negative message, and yes I will use the appropriate buzz word here divisive at its core. There is no way a people who look upon one another with such disdain can hope to move forward in a positive way.

And that is simply unacceptable to me - as a parent, a teacher, a citizen, and a human I cannot sit by twiddling my thumbs while the virus of us versus them continues to spread. What is more, I cannot stand to sit by as this behavior is taught to my students, by means of the examples being set on every platform of social media, certainly not without fighting back.

I leave my politics firmly outside my classroom door. It is no educator's task to indoctrinate the young minds he is charged with teaching - the calling lies in giving them the tools to step up and form their own hopefully valid & reliable (preferably peer reviewed) researched answers, opinions, and ideas - regardless of the subject. While teaching the fundamentals of research and argument is a standard practice, it dawned on me that perhaps I have, albeit inadvertently, been fueling this us vs them mentality. My students are so focused on refuting the arguments posed by other students, and waiting to share their take on Okonkwo's deeply seated fear of becoming his father that they have forgotten how to listen to each other.

Yes, it's a standard. Yes, we practice listening: to reports; to speeches; to stories.

But, we don't truly practice listening to each other, allowing the ideas of other students to truly get into our thoughts and to germinate. We don't allow the idea that the same piece of text, in context can lead to different opinions to grow. Until yesterday.

Yesterday I changed my lesson plan - 15 minutes before my first period. Without boring you to tears with the schematics of my lesson, I will share the basics. My students took a position on a harmless topic (relating to Things Fall Apart) and spent a few minutes bullet pointing their support to prep for a discussion. Run-of-the-mill English stuff. Until the discussion.

They were explicitly instructed to listen with open minds to their peers. To understand that though they may have said nay, there are likely elements of yea that they will see as valid. Yes, they could discuss, yes, they could debate one side - but the focus was not to "win" support for one side. Instead, the focus was to understand each other.

They discussed. I watched and prodded here and there, played a bit of devil's advocate facilitated.

Then it was time for reflection. Instead of reflecting on the conversation, they were instructed to reflect on opposing views that were valid or with which they could understand or agree given the support. Then they shared.

I was blown away.

Students who were staunch supporters of one view or another were sharing with the class their original position and what they felt was valid or what they hadn't even considered about the other position. They were listening and truly hearing one another - here was the evidence. A couple even changed their opinion - though I had made clear that this was not the goal - and far more was heard than when they typically argue their own side and feel the need to dig in further to support their own positions.

In the scheme of the world, it matters not one lick if my students believe the Ibo people were or were not a civilized culture - but this listening and sharing of ideas is the groundwork of a civilization that works. Who can ask for more?

So I say to you, grown-ups of the world, if my 9th graders can listen to understand one another - why can't you? You might be surprised at what you learn.

Last, First Day

I got a phone call from Oldest today. While I miss her in the house and our everyday lives, and think about her a hundred times a day, hearing the ring tone designated for my kids was not bringing a smile to my face - mostly because my face was sleeping trying to anyway - but I roused myself from my flu-induced nap to connect before she went to voicemail. If that isn't mother love, I don't know what is. 

Once I made myself heard after hacking up a lung and was able to ask what she was doing, she explained she was running home before heading to the library on campus. She was full to brimming with the excitement that comes with the first day of new classes - what to expect, which professors she had classes with previously and was happy to be with again, how she would balance 6 classes, her internship, and working. Ah, the energy of youth It stirred within me all the feelings of new beginnings that I know and love so well - truly worth giving up my nap.

Then she said something.

She said, "It's my last first day of school."

Now I am sitting here thinking of her first, first day of school. Little-girl bangs and eyes alight behind her glasses, she was so excited in her pooh bear overalls. I walked her through the neighborhood to the school, pushing chickenpox covered Boy in the stroller. She was chattering the whole way, asking about homework and lunch, reassuring herself that it would be a good class because, "You know my teacher right, Mom? You worked in her classroom." (which I had as an intern class in college)

The memories hit me - coming around the corner to the classroom and peeking through the windows for a glimpse of the brand-new students already at their seats and curiously exploring the space with their eyes. Seeing the child unwilling to let go, and then Oldest saying, "Okay, bye Mom!" as though she had done this so many times before. This day, this memory is far too vivid and fresh to belong to this young woman embarking upon her last semester of college. 

But she is. It is her last, first day.

I feel proud and nervous and excited to watch her as she takes these steps toward graduation. But I would be lying if I said there wasn't a teary part of me that looks on in astonishment wondering how it happened that my strong, independent little girl became this fiercely determined young lady in just the blink of an eye.