31: For the ages...

 Dad and I were in their garage workshop this week

He updated me on current furniture refinishing projects

and I noticed a new one: this

A showstopper

"What do you plan to do with this mantel?"

I ask before I get too attached

even though I already have designs about 

how it might be sanded, stained, sealed

to allow the piece's beautiful details to shine

How we might revise our current builder-grade mantel with this

what arrangements we'd need to make to start the installation project

support its progress, and see its completion

what materials we might use in the square opening: brick, tile, or shiplap

Even in its roughest form 

I know it is a beauty

a rare find

full of potential

In the hands of someone who knows about

types, characteristics of wood

how to use tools and materials artfully

the time and care it takes to refine roughness into beauty

{someone like my dad}

the piece will become the truest version of itself

one for the ages

for those in the past

and the special people yet to come

to remember them, him, me

us

Then I started thinking about 

how these special antiques mimic my writing life

March reminds me to get back into the workshop

and notice the beauty in moments, minutes, months

March reminds me

to lovingly refine

and save each one 

as the truest version of itself

to remember

for the ages

for my people

for you

Write on,

b

Congratulations, fellow writers, on SOLSC 2017! 

30: You

I snuggled into bed with you

early afternoon today

You yawned - I knew it was time

You cradled your blankie and rubbed the tag

while sucking your thumb

Your tell-tale sign

It was time for me, too

I don't remember much

past your yawn

your blankie

your thumb

I made it over the hill...

...and then woke up to you 

tapping my nose and 

finger-combing my hair

and giggling

One more tiny kiss on the hair

"Sleep tight"

and

"I'll set the timer and you can get up when it goes off"

and

"Make sure you're quiet enough to hear it..."

And you ran around upstairs instead

while I sat downstairs reading

So I invited you, again, to

"Stay in bed quietly"

"Just five more minutes"

and 

"Be super still..."

And guess what?

You were

For better than three hours

***

At dinnertime

you bounced downstairs

to notice the cookies on the cooling rack

"I was TIRED, Mommy!"

and 

"That was a goooooood nap!"

fell between cookie one

and cookie two

***

Sleepy you...

Funny you...

Growing you...

Blessing...you

Write on,

b

29: Heart check...

Tonight I escaped into the laundry room

to fold the finished clothes and transfer the wet load into the dryer

to find a little peace

I opened the washer

"Moooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmy!  Where ARE you?"

Really?

"I'm in the laundry room."

I could hear the elder little's feet 

pad down the stairs and across the wooden floors

until they stopped on the rug beside me

17 seconds.  17 seconds.

"What do you need?"

admittedly sounding more annoyed than charitable

"I just wanted to see if you need any help.  Can I help you?"

{heart check}

"Yes.  Absolutely.  Thank you for thinking of me.  Thank you for being so unselfish and caring to ask.  Your words made my day."

Write on,

b

28: Weighty questions...

After orange chicken and fried rice at Panda Express and dominoes at home on New Year's Eve, the elder little and I prepared for sleep by snuggling up for Elephant and Piggie stories.  I hopped out of bed to flip off the bedroom lights in favor of the dimmer closet light. His still-wet spikes of chocolate brown hair stood tall against the red-and-white-firetruck pillowcase and his eyes were dark pools as I knelt beside the twin bed for prayers.

"When we're in heaven, will I know you?"

That's a good one.  

"Of course, Buddy."

I mean, I can only guess.  But it seems like we would, right?  

Ever the rational one, the elder little made a plan. "Since you'll get there first, do you think you can call me to tell me what it's like in heaven?  You can tell me where you are."

"There are no phones in heaven; we won't need them," I rationalize in return, already anticipating the peacefulness.  I looked over to his soft, sweet cheeks...they were turning red hot.

He paused and then stammered. "But how will I find you?  There will be millions of people there."

The enormity of it all.

The red hot cheeks progressed into a full-blown sob.  He continued.  "And you're just one person."

I slipped underneath the covers next to his little body and covered the right side of his velvety forehead with the tiniest kisses.

"You'll know my heart, right?  In fact, there are only two people who have been nearest to it...you and your brother.  Don't you spend even one second crying about that... We will find each other."

I just know it.  

I turned away to catch a tear or two sliding, hot, across my right cheek. His face, covered by the crimson quilt with ivory stars, hid equally well.

"I love you...always will; whenever...wherever.  Night-nights."

I pulled down the quilt, just a smidge, to kiss his forehead one more time before tiptoeing downstairs.

He had me thinking...


Write on,
b

27: Surprise...he's in the club

on
the
way
to
grandma
and
grandpa's
house
we
spent
two
hours
on
word
work

beginning
sounds
ending
sounds
middle
sounds
decoding
encoding

he
could
do
it
all
i
was
surprised

he's
four
how
does
he
know
?


Write on,
b

26: Pieces...

I think we were probably doing dishes, reflecting on the day, recapping ball games. That's when we noticed the house was quiet...

The elder little was upstairs working on his arcade.  It is the smaller little who sometimes...disappears.

"Grant?"

Silence.

"Where are you?"

Nothing.

We both walked the first floor, only to find this about a minute into our search...

A piece of hair here, a clump of hair there...

"GRANT!  WHERE ARE YOU?"

More pieces.

Big pieces.

Sections.

We turned the corner into the powder room to find him with orange safety scissors.

Up against more of his "yellow" hair!



"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

He offered, "I'm cutting my hair.*  Reid says I look like a 'goyl'..."

*Now, for your frame of reference, it is helpful to note that this blonde hair has been the source of many conversations over the past couple years.  I'm on team "let's not cut it -- he has curls;" my husband...well, opposes that team, and often asks, "Can you please just cut his hair?  It's time..."  I resist.  Every.  Single.  Time.  


I surveyed the damage -- large chunk of bangs, missing; even larger chunk of hair from his left side, missing.  Noticeably.

*Until this time...

"Tomorrow we'll get a hair cut after church.  This style needs some tweaking."

Together we shuffled over the living room carpet and also the wood floors to pick up the pieces.  My mind imagined the smaller little with one 'little boy cut.'


This morning, we tried to comb straggly strands of wispy blonde hair over the offending sections. The right side didn't hide the second bout with the safety scissors quite as well as we'd hoped.

So, as promised, after church we went for the long-awaited haircut.

The pieces fell to the floor, first large...and then small.  His 'do, shaped, in a way that only someone who truly knows how to cut hair, can.

"One little boy cut," Abigail proclaimed. She cleaned up his neck, preened his risky sections, and added, "I texturized it...you know, so it all blends in the best it can."

"I appreciate that.  You are really good at what you do.  Thank you."

We lifted the older-looking little boy from the car chair and stepped over the million little pieces toward the door.  Abigail began sweeping them into a pile.

A few minutes later, inside the car, Grant celebrated.  "Mommy, I like my hair."

"I do, too, Mr. Moo..."

Very grown up.


Write on,
b

25: That snack...

You know how it feels to just want a snack.

The kind of snack that you should really just reconsider and not put that first delectable, delicious morsel inside your mouth.  The kind of snack with no nutritional integrity but instead a score of sinful adjectives...ooey, gooey, or salty, or sweet, or even salty and sweet together. The kind of snack that you'll regret later but can't seem to turn down....because...

That snack.  

Ree Drummond made that snack on this morning's episode of Pioneer Woman. Barely finished with breakfast I became obsessed with how quickly I might be able to get my hands on that snack.

So in rapid rehearsal, we got out the chocolate chips, flour, granulated sugar, brown sugar, vanilla, and butter (so it would be room temperature).  We lined up the flour, salt, and baking soda next to an assortment of measuring cups and within reach of the Kitchenaid mixer.

We ran to Target for eight ounces of bagged perfection...

And then we went to town.

Half butter, half shortening (the secret)
brown sugar, white sugar

MIX

Vanilla, two eggs

MIX

Flour, soda, salt

MIX

Chocolate chips

MIX


Pause -- you think you know about this snack, don't you?  Yep; I did too.  I know all about this one. Could make it in my sleep.  But, that Pioneer Woman...you know she doesn't like to just hang with 'standard'.  She likes to make snacks homespun.  And hearty.

So, the next step invited us to get out a gallon-sized baggie and pour in the chips.  All of them.  (Well, except the handful we snitched for two reasons: a) because we do not buy chips at our house, and b) because we couldn't wait [refer to former reason]).  Then, we closed it up and took turns crushing them to medium-sized bits with the first little and smaller bits by the second little.

And then we poured half of them into the batter.  Half.

MIX

Note: I tasted the batter at this point just to ensure we were on the right track.

(Undoubtedly, yes.  That snack...)

Then, we used the cookie scooper to make nice, rounded spoonfuls that we plopped into the remaining clump of crushed chips and rolled them around before a toasty fifteen-minute trip into a 375-degree oven.

That snack.  

Golden. Crunchy.
Chippy. Chocolately.
Ooey, gooey.
Sweet, salty.








Beepbeepbeep.

The downfall to this recipe is what happened next -- waiting five minutes to remove the cookies from the baking sheet.









But oh -- with one bite many details disappeared
time, space,
propriety, objectivity
restraint, concepts of calories and weight
and were replaced by golden, crispy sweet-salty goodness, melty chocolate chips
in ooey-gooey batter.

That snack.

I texted my neighbor who responsibly spent the day working in her yard.  Want a chocolate chip potato chip cookie?

My doorbell rang two minutes later.  I answered with two perfect specimens tucked into my right hand.

We sat on the front doorstep and devoured that snack.



Write on,
b


P.S.  You know you want that snack too.  Here's the link to Ree's recipe...

24: Six Word Memoir, Attempt 2

Spring break, a warm afghan, starts...

Write on,
b

23: Six Word Memoir

Reconciling to-do list, pull of sleep

Write on,

b

22: Invention...

A few months ago, the elder little and I watched "Caine's Arcade"
"I want to do that," he concluded

Last week, he decided it was time and so he built
this contraption to take your tickets, or your change to buy tickets

The back of this do-dad has a funnel straight into the
elder little's Tootsie Roll bank!

His first game reminds us both that he loves soccer

and often practices shooting goals from long distances

One goal is worth 10 points for the prize shop!

His second game repurposed a gift baggie, a newfound chapter book,

a school box as a point of leverage, and foam darts

I could make the target with one eye closed
and the other focused on this circle that seems to shrink!

Night after night, the arcade grew
first he'd sketch out his idea in his invention notebook
then he'd build it
...the bowling game
...the prize shop
...the ball toss
...the book shop

Last night, he brainstormed what to do next with his arcade
He realized that he has two types of games:
ones where you toss and hit something
and
ones where you flick and roll something
He also realized that he may need some additional labels
for his new price section
so between the hours of 8:00 and 9:00 p.m.
when he was 'falling asleep'
and I seemed to be falling behind
he problem-solved to get what he needed

At bedtime, I rushed around the house
putting away remaindered items here
and there
I found this on my desk upstairs..

This note
and all the thinking
and all the plotting
and all the sketching
and all the trying
and all the troubleshooting
and all the perseverance
and all the pride in
workmanship
showmanship
welcoming others to play
and hosting players
makes my mama heart
overflow
with
joy
hope
love
inspiration
dreams
warmth
thankfulness


Write on,
b

21: Snack!

You get an idea
and climb up higher than we'd choose
to make it happen
into the refrigerator for a drink of cold, cold milk
onto the countertop for a shorter reach to
candy
cups
peanut butter
Nutella
(which these days, is better than Easy Mac, Uncrustables, clementines,
and even apple sauce topped with a blanket of cinnamon)

You get hungry, so hungry right before dinner...
even while the meat and potatoes are cooking...
that you make your own luck
so today, while I was upstairs transforming from teacher to mommy,
you made the climb again
I shuffled down the stairs
through the dining room
and into the kitchen
to find you solving your own problem
by reaching for two jars

Today,
no crackers
(that would've been another climb -- inside the pantry)
no apples
no bread
no toast
no nothing

Just a spoon
(which is not a climb -- how safe)
because sometimes that is all you need...

...well, maybe really two spoons
a short one for the Nutella, a long-handled sundae one
for the 'we're not messing around' jar of peanut butter

Write on,
b

20: In Common...

I sat

in the running record session

Saturday morning

listening to the speaker talk about coding

how important it is to have a system

that means something

to every person who encounters the 

check marks

appeals

substitutions

omissions

insertions

the M, S, and V

I sang

"Wooden Ships" by Crosby Stills and Nash

in my mind

If you smile at me I will understand

because that is something 

everybody everywhere does in the same

language

I pondered

Do people think smiles are constrictive?  Like codes?

Or, do you find what you seek?

Write on,

b

19: Warmth

Here's my perch this afternoon
Looking south on Broadway Street
Watching the cars, taxis, walkers, strollers pass on 75th
My cheeks are warm, so are my knees as I sit in the sun
reflecting on
 taking and analyzing running records
how running record patterns guide instruction
just-right checklists to help students set and work toward writing goals
and the many ways data points differentiate core instruction

Here's my take on all of it --
I have more questions than answers
More balloon strings at risk of slipping through my fingers
than taking my thoughts into the stratosphere
up, up, up
into new places, new phases, new projects
new understandings
Is it that I'm trying to fit new ideas into old forms
Maybe that's why it all feels slippery

In just a few hours my perch will look more familiar
less like graceful towering buildings and more like green neighborhoods
more like day-to-day activities and less like vacation spontaneity
more like school, family, house
packing bags and pairs of socks
and less like a subway ride to
inspirational addresses and solid workshop sessions
to grow my thinking
How will these ideas incubate?

With time
session notes
"I wonder if's..."
notebooks
sketches
coffee dates
rougher drafts
conversation
cleaner drafts
courage
vision
perseverance

With warmth.

Write on,
b

18: We're all made of stories...

Upper West Side Starbucks (75th & Broadway)

We stopped for coffee, breakfast for the train, and lunch treats for our book bags

For learning day at Columbia's TCRWP

This wall art made me think about connection

How we all pour into each other to light up new ideas

Make brighter those at first glimmer

Drew Dudley talked in this morning's keynotes about how we are all leaders

because we ask questions

live with Day 1 excitement over and over

remember names and stories of others and

create 'lollipop moments' that matter years later

Everyday leaders step up to make a difference over and over

Light

intertwined

with

connection

and

ideas

and

people

growing

together

with our stories

passions

lives

with

Light

"For this is our world...we're all made from stories."
Excerpt from A Child of Books by Oliver Jeffers

Write on,

b

17: Quiet...

This morning we woke up here on the Upper West Side

and decided to go downtown

down, down, down,

all the way down to The Battery's Castle Clinton

to catch a glimpse of Lady Liberty's shining torch

and Ellis Island's spires

and

the 9/11 Memorial

Its location is quiet, unassuming -- I almost missed it

except for the flock of people who banked into the space 

to catch a glimpse of the familiar square outlines, airy waterfalls and pools

and to read the names, one by one

...and her unborn child: There were three mentions like this in the names listed at North Tower.
These babies would be driving now, thinking about college...

Across from the pair of pools is The Oculus

an attention-getter from first sight 

I analyzed the structure as would my husband;

it's his wheelhouse

First thought: What IS this?

It beckons passers-by inside to notice 

two levels of shopping tucked underground

and even a train station

but it is quiet

so quiet

Second thought: Look how small the people are down below!  This IS big.

Across the street is St. Paul's Chapel

Built in 1766

I remember seeing its silvery steeple during 9/11 coverage

Unscathed and poised to serve

How could two gigantic buildings fall across the street and everything here remained intact?

Today's cornflower sky reminded me of my morning commute

that September day so long ago

It was beautiful, just like the water cascading into the footprints of the twin towers

It was bright, just like the glittering gold letters separating sections of names

It was quiet, just like The Oculus' deep, deep drop

...just like me

Write on,

b

15: Day by day, dose by dose...

the past two nights, this has been the bedtime conversation

between my husband and me around midnight

"So, if he doesn't feel any better when we get up in the morning,

who is going to stay home?"

and like clockwork, we'd nickel and dime our calendar engagements

"Well, I have this deadline..."

"And, I have this meeting..."

In unison, "I'm absolutely committed to..."

---

but he's not breathing well

(due to the post-baby RSV twitchy lungs)

and he's not sleeping soundly

because he is coughing

so we're not sleeping soundly

because we're worrying

that he's not breathing well

---

this afternoon's idea: 

if I call the pediatrician's office now

maybe, just maybe, we can still get in 

before I leave town tomorrow

"Sure.  How about 4:15 p.m.?" Barbie offers 

from the other end of the phone line

the cursory exams folllowed

listen to breathing

look in mouth

check out ears

"Buddy, do your ears hurt?"

"No." the eternally happy patient returns

---

I've seen this episode

lived this moment before

---

"You have a double ear infection"

"How about some nice, pink bubble gum medicine?"

---

the smaller little unpacks the CVS bag we picked up on the way home

even before removing his new shoes and placing them back in the blue box

"Can I take my medicine?"

---

dose 1; day 1

19 more doses to go

his eyes are brighter already

Write on,

b

14: More than words...

.......

this is all that is swimming through my writer's brain right now

focus

------

maybe -- well -- I could write about...

just commit already

****

I can't ** not tonight

.......



Write on,
b

13: Mirror Image...

Sometimes I just go in there and shut the door
I have a project to do
They play ball, cars, trains, planes downstairs
My fingers click and clack across the black and silver keyboard
I am surrounded by the shelves of literacy mentors
Calkins, Ray, Serravallo, Roberts, Zinsser, Anderson, Ayres, et al
the binders of notes from institutes that turned into planning files encircle
New Teacher Academy, T1 ELA Coaches 3.13.2017
I sit at the antique desk much like my childhood teachers' back home
The chair swivels, ideas pause and then grow, change
To keep going, I reach for the next tool
in my sunny haven upstairs

Today I found him there before dinner
What are you working on? 
He stacks, staples a lot, and creates something
that looks like a bedazzled layer cake
His weight shifts as his little right palm pushes down my favorite stapler























He sits at my desk opening the jars that hold paper clips, rubber bands, markers
and experiments with pens and pencils from the polka-dot mug























The chair swivels, his project expands into letters...
Here's Hayden, Mommy.  See -- H.

and pictures...
Here's a crane, Mommy.  See -- it has a long arm.

and paper clips...
How do you do these, Mommy?  I need two.

The wide center drawer opens with a tug from his tiny hands
Here are more markers, Mommy.  I'll just use these for my project.























Can you close the door, Mommy?  I need to be able to think...

Write on,
b

12: Sitting, Waiting, Wishing...

Dear Stella,

While we both have claims on the Big Apple this week, mine are of the educational persuasion and yours seem bent on causing trouble.  You see, I've been sitting, waiting, wishing it was time to come back to Columbia University and now it's here. At Saturday's Reunion I'll listen, learn, collaborate, and grow.  With old friends, new friends.  And, typically, because I'm an easy-going type of gal, I would say the weather really doesn't matter...

But you see, little by little I pack my carry-on and refill my stash of travel-sized toiletries...and I realize how you intend to shift what I want to pack in my tiny carry-on.  I borrowed gloves -- because in the Midwest it's on to spring break clothing for retailers and glove displays disappeared with the Mayish month of February -- and packed a new mini umbrella. Because of you and your aspirations. My packing list before you included stylish clothing, fun shoes, and room for a few other items I'd planned to purchase in the city.  Now, I'm squeezing in sweaters and extra layers and heavy socks and a hat and all of it has to match the one pair of boots I'll wear because they won't fit inside the suitcase either.

Really Stella?  Double digit deposits?

Is it possible you're simply full of hot air...the way so many like you are?  Is it possible that your fickle winds will flit away and that the forecast will be redeemed?

Dear Stella...go fly a kite.  Because that's what we all should be doing right now anyway.

And I'll go to New York to learn...and walk...and enjoy.

In spite of you.

Best,
b

11: Tangled up in blue...

the ornaments came off

like for like and were piled up 

in a tidy semicircle on the carpet

around the Christmas tree

the trunk grew looser and looser

as Tom unscrewed each bolt
holding the trunk

"I'll find a sheet so we can pull the tree to the back door"

because of the needles

needlesneedlesneedlesneedles

the needles

feet flew 

linen closet doors opened

eyes scanned the shelves

blue flowers were up front

hands grabbed

but my mind remembered...

the sunny blue bedroom in the front-right

of the ranch on Dearborn

the green furniture

the shag carpet

the soft blue flower sheets

on the guest bed

at Grandma and Grandpa's house

the sheets still folded ever so neatly

now upstairs at my house

my grown-up house

I buried my face

and I was there again, little

following around Grandma

standing in the tiny pantry tucked off the kitchen

opening the freezer for an afternoon treat

they haven't lived on Dearborn for 20 years...

I unfolded the fitted sheet just a bit more

Write on,

b