Going Old School in 2026

Ever look around and wonder what comes next? That is me as we enter 2026. Youngest asked me what I am going to try this year. (She, has set herself the task of becoming a skater girl - she has dreams of conquering the ramps she sees.) I didn't have a great answer for her (or myself) - and now I am deep in my own head. 

It is easy to get wrapped up in the constant movement and challenges of living a productive life from day to day. Being busy with all we juggle allows us to be focused on the now - not a bad thing - but limiting. I look back and I miss writing out loud - to a potential audience. I miss it not because I am convinced that people read it - but because it is so much more challenging to write for others than it is to write privately.

Why did I stop doing this in the first place? I have vague recollections of increasing demands on my time and shifts in expectations. The standard had shifted to podcasts and videos.

In my daily life, I already hear my own voice too much - typically  repeating the same directions or requests for the umpteenth time. At some point you are just sick of hearing yourself. So, no podcast for me. 

I cringe at every picture taken of me. Oldest used to say if I was in Divergent I would definitely be in Abnegation - and I can't deny the lure of no mirrors and selflessness appeal to me. I do work on it - taking pictures with my loved ones that I avoid because... personal growth. However, I am nowhere near having a Tic-Tok let alone a YouTube channel. 

These hang-ups have kept me from sharing beyond my musings around the house. After all, I can read the room and there is a very limited audience for the written word in the online universe. 

But hey, when has disinterest ever stopped me? You are looking at a woman who diligently attempts to get over a hundred 14-year-olds to read and understand the plot and language of Fagles edition of The Odyssey each year - AND make connections to society today!

So here is to a new year with an old school approach. If you are so inclined, join me on my rekindled adventure. Or don't. I will be here either way. Happy New Year! 

The Literal Child

 I am playing hooky took a personal day today. This made me the morning school bus driver, giving Pre-teen and Littlest a chance to eat at home instead of heading off to before care at 6:30am. (Don't anticipate a perfect-parent-school day-breakfast-post.) They had cereal - personal day, remember?

So we found ourselves sitting at the kitchen table with Littlest wondering what to do with the cereal in the bowl when she was full. Glancing at the multi-grain Cheerio's floating in her bowl I said, "Just put it on the floor for the dogs." 

She gave me the the look. Parents, you know that look. The one where your children wonder if you are kidding or if you are just plain stupid. Her eyebrows began to knit together and raise at the same instant while her lips pursed just the slightest bit. Interpreting this look, I assured her it would be fine - the dogs could eat cereal.

Her look intensified; then she looked sideways at Pre-teen silently asking if I had lost it today. Operating on auto-pilot I reassured her it was fine and she responded incredulously. "But Mom, there's milk in the bowl?"

"It's okay - they can have some milk," was my reply.

"Ohhhh kay?" She wasn't all that reassured and still seemed to think aliens had taken over her mother.

"Just put it on the dogs' rug," Pre-teen directed.

Dutifully, but with decided reservation, Littlest trudged toward the rug, so I turned back to the newspaper...

But out of the corner of my eye I could see she was taking a beat or three more than the task required. My full attention turned toward the dogs' feeding rug where Littlest was hunched and was ever-so-carefully pouring the contents of the bowl onto the rug! 

Well, what can you do at that point? Pre-teen & I both instructed her to stop! Then I laughed. And laughed. And cleaned up the spilt milk as I explained that I meant to put the bowl on the ground. 

Ahh, six, so literal. (No wonder she was looking at me as though I had lost my marbles!) Guess it's time to start reading Amelia Bedilia books at bedtime. :) 

Mother of the Pandemic Year - No Thanks

I used to eagerly eye spring break's approach on my calendar, quietly rejoicing that there would be time to clean, do a project or two and schedules would ease up for the final quarter of the year. This year my desk was empty - my grades were submitted - and it was March 12th. We were off  - fair week & spring break, happy thoughts & fewer burdens - until everything was cancelled. Fast forward to today.

As the 4th week of no classrooms begins I look back on the weeks of hectic running that consumed January and February with envy. Lots to do with very little time, dates on the calendar that contained multiple places to be - our school/work/home life. Now the calendar is empty and school/work/home are all at home and happening at once. 

GREAT! So much time for projects! Opportunities for crafts! Inquiry based learning at home can happen daily!   HA!

Let's face it, I am a working mom. And I am pretty dang decent at it - if I do say so myself. I love my job. I revel in challenging students to think deeply, to develop ideas, to support those ideas with facts. I love my family time. I am fulfilled when we are together, when we are sharing, when we are doing. 

But never, not once in my whole life did I ever wish I could home school my kids.

In fact, I love daycare. And really wish Youngest could go there now. It's like a magical place where I drop off Youngest, and when I pick her up she is full of new stories and ideas and experiences to share. We can build on them if time allows and I can supplement her learning with activities at home. 

Key word here - supplement. It means something that completes or enhances something else when added to it. 

That's my role as Mom. But Teacher-Mom creates lesson plans to increase understanding and differentiation of shapes, finds stories to read about shapes with no libraries or book stores available creates shape-based art work for the week and games that are based on various shapes. All configured to work around my daily "office hours" for my actual students, late nights working online, and the needs of Teen and Middle - because four-year-olds do not work well alone. Ever. 

All of this is to say that, while I know you are sending me that "great activities you can do at home" post or forwarding me that "10 fantastic projects you can begin now" email out of love... I may hurl verbal insults at the next person that loves me enough to share another "super-fun-easy craft".

While my calendar may be empty - my plate is full, my cup is overflowing, and I am just trying to keep my head above water - like everyone else. Some days I am so frazzled I mix my metaphors! Maybe it's just me - I suspect it's not - but there is pressure to be THAT mom with every share. The wonder-woman of parenting who can do it all even as the world is in crisis, people are losing their jobs, and the death toll keeps climbing. She can even make special crafts that have nothing to do with the learning outcomes set for the week. She's the pandemic-mom-of-the-year. God bless her. She is NOT me. So, let's cut each other a break and recognize that everyone knows what Pinterest is and can find activities should they need them and we can share messages of support instead. Or really funny parenting memes - because who couldn't use more laughter?

BUT....If you happen to have a week or 2 or 6 of lesson plans ready for printing for a 3/4 year-old preschooler, you are my hero and I will sing your praises to the heavens if you share!

Just Another Morning

I am soundly sleeping that peaceful, deep sleep that tends to come about an hour before the alarm is going to jolt me from the nest of down comforter and soft pillows that encases me. That is when it begins.

The hoarse whisper-call of a sick child croaking for the comforting reassurance of Mom sounds in the darkness immediately rousing me from full rest to puke-battle-ready stance, and I am up. After a quick triage, she crawls into MY SPOT and I settle onto the cliff's edge of the bed with only enough blanket and sheet to cover a portion of myself. I assess the situation and rouse Mr Sunshine enough for him to announce he has meetings all day. So I reluctantly leave my ravaged nest and trudge to Boy's room where I wake him and establish he can, in fact, watch Tweenish today, when, of course, today gets here. With that settled, I slip silently into the small bit of bed that is left to me and try snuggling into my newly rationed portion of pillow. That's when the mewling cry of misery begins - with her! not me, I am above such things, or pretend to be. I do a quick wrist to forehead check and establish she is somewhere in the burning range. Asking for a vomit-scale, I assess a solid 9. 

Would I be a horrible mother to Boy or to Tweenish- if I just stuck with plan A? 
Yeah, yeah, I know all of the above. Onto plan B.

I wish farewell to the few remaining moments of warmth and comfort mostly because guilt won't allow the enjoyment of such things and submit a sub request in the wee hours, while I make myself a cup of tea. I settle in on the couch and begin writing sub plans - heaving a heavy sigh at the thought of missing the professional performance of Romeo and Juliet that I have invested several weeks of instruction to prepping my students to enjoy today. 

Before you know it, the normal household hustle begins in earnest. Tweenish is awake, has had some juice and seems beyond the messy phase of illness... And I begin to wonder - can I cancel a sub I requested? What is the rule? It's over an hour before the sub will show - I can try. Feeling a rush of relief and mild annoyance that I have created sub materials and have everything printed and ready to drop-off, my fingers fly sending a quick text to ask if I can issue a recall on the sub...Change clothes for the second time...be sure Teen and Littlest are ready...and receive the reply - I cannot really cancel, since it's still a 1/2 day off. Okay - plan C is a bust revert to B. Drop Teen at school, leave my sub plans (and tidy my desk because, let's be honest - a sub is like company but in the classroom) drop Littlest at daycare and proceed home. Decide to make the best of the day and get some chores done, change clothes accordingly - at this point Tweenish mentions just how many times I have changed clothes today (and it's only 8 am).

Settling in with tea cup #2, a stack of grading, and a soft blanket, I begin my to do list. My phone buzzes...Check it and discover that I have no sub! HA! read irony here Yes! I can come back. Change clothes again - because yoga pants and old t-shirts aren't suitable teacher gear - and head back to school. Arrived to a surprised class and a grateful stand-in. My day consisted largely of finishing Act 5 of Romeo and Juliet, an amazing production of said work, and even better reflections/debriefings with students. It doesn't pay. It is stressful. I have lots of homework. But I couldn't imagine anything better. And only 1 day until fall break!

They All Have What???

One minute your talking about your day - the next your youngest declares she is not getting married EVER!

It all started as too many things do around here - talking about animal parts. Don't even get me started on the teat and milk conversation Boy, home for spring break, mentioned that the four-year-old boy from next door had been lifting the guinea pig's back legs off the ground and examining the hind quarters earlier in the day. Chuckling, Boy relayed that Young-Neighbor explained that he was looking for the guinea pig's butt to see if it had one. 

Of course, this led to a reminder to Youngest to care for pets appropriately and all that good stuff, and would typically end there - except Youngest was puzzled.

"Mom, I don't know why [Young-Neighbor] said he didn't know if guinea pigs have butts - he says a lot of times, 'I see that guinea pig's butt,'" Youngest questioned. Repeatedly. And in a variety of ways.

Maybe it was genuine confusion in her voice, maybe I was distracted by the dinner dishes I was finishing, or maybe and most likely I was just tired and dropped my guard, but whichever it was I responded, "Oh well, maybe he was looking to see if guinea pigs have private parts and he said butt instead." 

And a light dawned in her eyes, "OHHHH! You mean he was looking to see if it had a va-china! That's funny - everything has a butt! Why would he look for that?" Here is where I made it worse - but don't judge, I can't have her walking around thinking butt and vagina are synonymous.

"Yes, everyone has a butt." And that is where I could have left it - but knowledge and all that good stuff.... "Not everyone has a vagina though, only girls." Her dismissive laughter rang through the kitchen.

"Mom, everyone has a butt."

So, I explained. 

"WHAT?? Everyone doesn't have a va-china?" 

"Nope, only girls."

"[Boy] doesn't have a va-china? Dad, is this the truth? What about Ollie [the dog]? I saw his bottom!" 

And understanding dawned. She took a bite of Neapolitan ice cream to digest this new world view - and ask specifically about every single male in her social circle at least that is what it felt like.

"All boys and male dogs have a penis. All male animals? All male humans?"

I confirmed that humans are, in fact, animals.

"I am NOT getting married! Not ever!" She declared with all the assurance of a newly converted soul swearing off sin.

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.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

Oh Christmas Tree

As any parent, grandparent, uncle, aunt, neighbor knows, September is fund raiser month - it should be declared an actual thing, then maybe we could face it head-on, be done and enjoy the school year. This September saw me ordering magazines, donating to various charities, and ordering Christmas greenery. Yes, I bought my tree in September, sight unseen as it wouldn't be cut for 2 months. 

Beautiful trees are cut, packed, shipped, and delivered right to our high school and then delivered to the customers. Previous customers (from another organization) rave about the beautiful trees and how they last. A great way to earn money for the kids. 

It arrived okay, Boy and I helped unload the truck and picked up or orders for delivery before Thanksgiving. And it was a gorgeous tree. Not too fat, not too scrawny, a perfect height. My husband commented more than once that it was perfectly symmetrical. It decorated our home until the 19th of December.

Yup - the 19th.

The drooping, browning, break-in-your-hands evergreen boughs were doing nothing for the holiday ambiance by then, let alone the fire hazard it posed, and it had to go. So it was that Monday saw me and the kids undecking the halls and Boy wrestling the tree to the backyard.

Tween and I hopped into the car to buy another at a local store. We arrived and wondered at the sight of the closed tent; it was quickly determined that there were no trees left. Do not panic. There are lots of stores was my inner chant as we headed out again. A second store - about 5 trees - as tall as Youngest and she isn't even tall enough to ride the carousel alone. It was at this point that I began to question my thinking, and to silently curse myself for forgetting my cell at home. Driving by an overpriced tree stand - in the midst of packing itself up - no trees here - annoyance turned to dread. At this point, empathetic Tween began to voice options - we could get a palm tree, a small plant to top a table, borrow a fake tree from Aunt C who has a couple in her garage. We headed home to call around. 

After a couple of calls we are able to locate a store that did, indeed, have some trees, and we were off. Tween is a stickler for looking at the options before choosing - even when it's tree #2 of the season. I held up, turned, and twisted tree after tree thank goodness they only had a few dozen left until the Goldilocks of trees was found.

It is a cute tree, full and wild looking, but sporting proportions that required yet another room rearrangement. We set it up, the kids wondering if their dad would notice - I voted a strong yes, and now we are on tree 2.0. The girls are happy to tell you this one sports enough room to add a toy train, something each one of my kids have wanted and to which I finally relented I must be getting soft in my old age or they are just wearing me down.

*disclaimer - My sister also got a tree through Boy, and  has no issues. I think we got a bad one, the trunk was rotting in the water when we took it out.*

Avoidance Accepted

Sunnyville is a hectic place from August through May, but there are moments of respite from the running and juggling that make the school year a test of endurance - and my favorite is Christmas break. The cookies will be baked, there will be time to walk through the woods and along the beach, we will drive around to see the lights - all in all a great time of year - once the chores are done.

Getting the holiday cleaning done weighs heavily on my mind, so it was with visions of dust cloths that I woke much too early for my first official day off and offered Youngest a choice. Part of her aftercare program provides camp for non-school days that occur throughout the year, but I figured she could use a break and I was filled with guilt for wanting her to go to camp, so I left it up to her. She chose to stay home.

I warned her that we would be doing chores today, the clean under your bed and dust while your down there kind of work, to which she assured me she could do it. Okay, home it would be, and we settled in to relax and wait for the siblings to wake. As breakfast came and went, I began to straighten, plan, and warn tell Boy what we would be doing today. At some point in this litany, Youngest walked up to me and said, "I changed my mind. I want to go the the Y today."

So, we hustled to pack a lunch, and headed to the car. Was it the reality of hours spent cleaning, or just the draw of hanging out with friends all day that motivated her to go? I don't know - but if it was chore avoidance, who can blame her? I want to go to the Y too!

Finding Solace

For the majority of this country it has been a difficult week, even here in Sunnyville. I have found solace in the fact that we happen to be working on argument writing in class, not because I want the students to debate politics - far from it as they are outlawed in my classroom for the good of all - but because my text happens to use social justice essays to teach rhetoric.

Today was especially gratifying as we read, "I THINK THAT WORLD LITERATURE has the power in these frightening times to help mankind see itself accurately despite what is advocated by partisans and by parties."

Having my students translate this to everyday speak forced them to focus on the thesis, but the real power lay in the words, "At birth, violence behaves openly and even proudly. But as soon as it becomes stronger and firmly established, it senses the thinning of the air around it and cannot go on without befogging itself in lies, coating itself with lying’s sugary oratory."

I love to dissect this personification with them, the growth of violence, how it cloaks itself to hide and thrive. I love pointing out to them the inevitable connection being made between lies and violence... and then turn them lose to discuss whether this work has any relevance in the world today.

To encourage them to discuss the ideas they have without sharing my ideas or values can be hard, but I live by the motto "my job is to teach them how to think - not what to think." I facilitate through questions and through listening, and I hear them make connections to extremist groups  - the methods they use, I hear them make connections to dictatorships - notably N Korea,
and
finally
I hear a few groups make connections to the idea that media might use lies to achieve a goal. And after warning them that ALL MEDIA should be assessed for credibility and validity, I smile. Just a small, little twitch of the mouth. Maybe - just maybe - I am making a small difference and these kids will assess information and its source before making judgements. That maybe they, like Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, will believe "One Word of Truth Outweighs the World."

On a Lighter Note - Election Flashback

Political ads, attack campaigns, mud slinging, and sound bites are the hallmarks of the season, but sometimes we all need a break - a moment to silence the incessant yammering. So, take a breath, sit back and travel to November of 2000.

Far before Oldest was in her senior year of college as a political science major, she was a curious kindergartner. It was the 2000 presidential election and she had listened. When the radio talked of environmental policies, her blue eyes would grow round behind childproof lenses and plastic frames as she asked for definitions, explanations, and examples. Living in Sunnyville she had grown to be an outdoor girl, spending more time under the shade of the Live Oaks in the backyard playing with her imaginary friends - who lived in various trees - than watching dinosaurs on TV, making the planet and world around her were her biggest concern. So, when it came time to vote - she was prepared.

On the way to school that fateful day, she asked again, "What is the man's name who wants to take care of the planet?" She was ready to vote.

After school that day we went directly from aftercare the plight of the working mom's child to vote. As I parked, Oldest talked about her day and explained the entire school-voting process. She was quite excited as we walked into the precinct and explained, when asked, that she had voted for the man who would keep the earth safe - Bush!

Under pressure, and having forgotten a name, who wouldn't assume the man with the name straight from nature was the environmentalist? She was so disappointed that she had it backwards, but the world didn't end when her candidate lost - a good lesson this evening.

Good night, and may the electoral congress be ever in your favor.

With(out) Apology

This is it. Monday morning the Mr & I will have a child at each level of the educational system.

In some circles this makes us young - with Oldest entering her senior year of college we are the younger parents.

Among the parents of both Boy's and Tween's friends we are just average.

But on a recent visit to the kindergarten classroom, it was quite clear I am an older parent practically the old crone. A perfect example of how age is relative. 

But there exists a constant among all these groups - the reaction given when people hear how many children we have.

I am the often happy mother of four children. Not 100. Yet, to gauge the reactions of others, you'd think I was starring in some reality show. "Wow, how do you manage with four kids?" Or the restatement with disbelief coloring the shocked inflection, "You have four kids?" 

Apparently, there was an unannounced threshold I crossed after three - which was news to me - that seems to have mathematically doubled the meaning of four when related to children. Who knew?

Yet those reactions pale in comparison to the response I receive when they discover that my children span from five to twenty-one. Typically this involves a restatement of the age differences and some wondering comment or another while they look at me as though I were an exhibit in a historical reenactment. Or some poor soul who never learned the benefits of modern medicine.

This is when I am prone to fall into apology... If prepared, I laugh it off. I make a flip comment about spreading out college costs, or kids keeping us young; but, sometimes people ask out of the blue, having gained intel from other sources - typically one of the kids. And I apologize...

I believe apologies are important. To maintain relationships and civility - to grow - it is necessary to clearly state the wrong committed and humbly seek forgiveness. I believe in seeking forgiveness yes, my Catholic is showing, I know. But how often do we apologize for things - through word or action - that need no apology?

I have nothing to apologize for - we are raising 4 independent kids and nothing aside from the household budget is worse off than if we were raising the more acceptable 1 or 2. Sadly, this hasn't stopped me from explaining, and I have told people - who have no right or reason to know - that Youngest is not biologically ours. While it is no secret - she, herself, knows - it is none of their business. It is an apology, via explanation, which I do not owe - and worse one that separates our feisty Youngest from her family - us. So, why do I feel compelled to explain or apologize for that which needs neither?

Who knows why - but I'm not anymore. It is an insult to Youngest and the rest of us. We are who we are. If you are content with no children or 10 - great. I am thrilled for you. We are a family of six. We have four children who are spread over 16 years and span from college to kindergarten. This is who we are and it works for us.

Taking the Bad with the Good

There is one thing that terrifies me, as a parent to Tween, more than anything - taking her for a shot.

At her 5 year-old check-up she cried from the moment she saw the needle and continued for the next thirty minutes. And this was just the warm-up. The next year saw swine flu, and I thought I would be a responsible parent and take the kids for shots. A school cafeteria with sectioned areas for patient shots, many nurses were on hand to administer the shots - or nasal spray quickly. I hoped for the nasal spray - really wanted it - but she was too young. Ok. Deep breaths. She can do this. Into the booth we went, handed over the paperwork, and the anxiety breathing began. Small whining noises and little squeaks that escalated into all out tears and yelling. Panicked cries that truly frightened the other children caused us to make a hasty retreat.

Yes, she was young. I held that thought as I agreed to the pneumonia and meningitis shot at her 10 year check-up. After all, she is a smart child - surely she could hear reason. Nope. The hyperventilating started as I signed the paperwork. No amount of reasoning and calm breathing could alleviate her fear. She did get the shots. And promptly stormed out of the doctor's office and sat on the lawn refusing to get into my car. She hated me most of the day. 

The resurgence of JIA prompted frequent blood work - and she is getting better with needles. Not great, but better. At her recent check-up there was minimal panic - just hyperventilating and unhappiness.

So, imagine my dismay when her rheumatologist determined her swelling and pain is not being controlled enough with medication alone. Nope - he didn't want to give her a shot. He wanted me to give her shots. Plural. A shot once a week in fact - for who knows how long. It took all my control to keep the doubt and panic I felt from bubbling up in his office with Tween looking on. "Keep a brave face and the rest will follow" is sometimes the only defense. 

A training session with the nurse later and I was armed with a supply of syringes, a few encouraging words, and a facade of a positive attitude. Time for Tween's first home shot. I had her hold the syringe - which she dropped like a hot coal. She was armed with a stress ball - she was squeezing for all she was worth, a teasing brother - who may have helped to distract her - possibly, and facing a mother about to jab her with a needle. She did jump out of the chair - twice - but when push came to shove she held still and counted off the milliseconds as she took her first home injection. There was no declaration of hate, no storming out of the house. We all survived the first shot. 

As much as this additional routine sucks now, I remind myself that she is still lucky. She enjoys all her activities - even clogging for hours - and if I have to give her a shot once a week to keep her healthy and active, then so be it.