To remember... (SoLS)

This morning reminded me of one morning...
exactly eleven years ago...
Cool, crisp, and bright; the promise of fall
and the excitement of a new school year swirled around me.
As the sun shone through its cornflower blue backdrop today,
I stumbled wistfully upon a thought; a thought I couldn't reconcile
in the stillness of my routine commute:

No child in my elementary was born yet on September 11, 2001.
Not one.
And, this, this is the first year I can say that.

They won't remember a teacher's expression that day
when hearing the hushed news
for the first time
while still knee-deep in morning routines.

Two planes.  No; three.  No; four.
How many more?
Into buildings?
What's going on?

They won't remember the disbelief
we felt in our hearts
and wore on our faces that day
when our deepest thoughts
diverted from planned lessons
to blurbs of news coverage we could get
from colleagues passing by.

They're going to fall.  They're going to fall...
People have to be left inside those buildings.
What about them?

They won't remember the quietness,
the deafening quietness, that day
When no planes flew
through the once menacing sky
now sleeping like a baby.

A field in Pennsylvania? 
The passengers overtook the flight?
To keep us safe? 
The courage.
What would I have done?

They won't remember how it felt that day
to go home uncertain of the future
Scared to be alone,
Wondering if we'd wake up September 12
Heading to one of the many impromptu church services
brought a comforting mix of solace and community.

Will our town be next?
Will I know something big is about to happen before it does?
Will I be able to say, "I love you..." one last time?

Today, I remember how it felt
as a young kindergarten teacher,
to fight the inner battle of 
being honest while being protective
of those 20 little souls,
too innocent to understand
the gravity,
the terror,
the new world they would know
from this point forward.
A world, to which we adults,
were late arrivals.

Could I answer their questions?
How much news coverage their parents allow?
Could I calm their fears when they were the sum of my own?

This morning reminded me of one morning...
exactly eleven years ago...
Cool, crisp, and bright; the promise of fall
and the excitement of a new school year swirled around me.
As the sun shone through its cornflower blue backdrop today,
I stumbled upon a second thought:
Dear Lord, let these children know peace...
not the splintered version we've recreated the past decade,
but rather the truest type --
the type we knew
before the planes,
before the buildings,
before the field
before the fear.

Amen.
b

Baking Cookies... (SoLS)

I stayed later at school tonight, so when I pulled up into our new driveway...there was one toddler 'mowing' (which means he was riding around in his Little Tikes Cozy Coupe stitching the lawn with straight seams) and one daddy breaking down boxes nearby in the garage.  My heart was overjoyed -- so much productivity.  Where would one tired mommy fit into the equation?

Anyone with kids knows there is a daddy dynamic, in which daddy is always right...daddy is peaceful because he is taking care of any describable situation in his own way...daddy disciplines the way daddy sees fit...and everyone is happy in this daddy-driven nirvana.  Then, of course, there is a mommy dynamic, which is somewhat similar and results in perfect peacefulness.  But then, then, there is the mommy-daddy dynamic, which isn't always as copacetic.  It goes something like this -- Mommy knows Daddy's weakness (for kicks, say impatience), and child craftily exploits Daddy's weakness (again for kicks, say impatience), and Daddy knows his own weakness (you can fill in the blank here), and then before anyone knows it, the seas are churning and no one is happy.  (Please say this sounds familiar.)

D: "I'm ready to grill."
M: "But the rice isn't ready."
D: "Well, we can still put the chicken on."
M: "I guess, but it may be done before the rest of dinner is ready."
C: "I wanna grill.  Daddy, let's go outside.  I wanna grill!!!!"

D: "Fine.  Let's grill." 

A couple minutes later, my wondering eyes peeked out the back door.

M: "How's the chicken coming?"

D: "Well, it's done."

M: "Well, I'm not ready for it."

(Insert whiny, hungry child here followed by impatient, tired husband.)

M: "Reid, why don't you come in.  You can help me bake some delicious chocolate chip cookies before dinner..."  (Argh; did Ijust offer that?  I'm tired.  I don't want any more mess or the mandatory hour-plus commitment this project requires.  And, cookies????  I must be out of my mind.  The doctor just told me last week I'm gaining too much weight during this pregnancy...)

C: "Hooray!  We're making cookies.  Just me and Mommy."

M: "Yes, we are.  Just you and me.  Now let's get out the ingredients and read our recipe to see what we need first..."

And roughly three cookies later, one tired mommy's heart basked in the glow of two guys with chocolate-tipped lips...and all was right with the world again.

Write on,

b

I don't wanna go to bed... (SoLS)

For the past three weeks, things have been in a constant state of upheaval...  Exhibit A: all of the contents of our apartment scattered about like boats in post-hurricane marinas.  Exhibit B: half the boxes from our storage space artfully stacked in our new garage.  Exhibit C: bedtimes strictly loosely adhered to while we made the 30-minute trek up here on weeknights to get a jump on the movers (a.k.a. gracious family members who worked for donuts and homemade sloppy joes) to try to do our part.

Yep; there's been no continuity...but one might expect that when there's
    a new house,
          a new town,
               a new school year,
                    and a small, tired family who (luckily) can glimpse goodness
                    through each bleary-eyed gaze.

We're sleepy.  My husband drinks more coffee and I eat more junk food...you know; for comfort.  (If you could nod in agreement here, that'd be super.)  We stay up far too late to cross just one or two more items off our to-do list so tomorrow it isn't as daunting.  I unpack more of my maternity tub to discover the clothes I've been missing for months.  And even still, we find time to play around with our new WiFi system (because we can now) and here I sit, all cozy on our pillowy bed...writing (because it feels good too).

HOWEVER, there is just one person here who hasn't gotten the memo that tired = sleep.  That would be the toddler, in his new room, upstairs away from the excitement of the television and conversation.  The hubbub that he was used to taking in each night on his way to Sleepytown...because the apartment family room just outside Reid's bedroom...is gone.

Now, our new routine after bath, stories, tuck-in: "MOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYYYY.  I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED.  WHERE ARE YOU?'  echoes from a dimly lit room, through the hallway, and then down the stairs.  The first visit in, I'm reassuring and empathetic --- the new surroundings may bring anxiety.  The second visit, I'm impatient. 

"I just want to go to school.  Can I go now?  I don't need to sleep." reasons one sleep-deprived kiddo.  One sleep-deprived mommy offers, "You have to sleep first.  We always sleep before school, so we can be our best.  Mommy sleeps before school too."  (In fact, I'm nearly in a narcoleptic state as we speak...but, you know, all that talk can be saved for later.)

It's funny.  Adults wish for bedtime.  We covet it {and sometimes even sit at our desks wishing for it to roll around quickly}.  Kids fight it {even though their little bodies so desperately need it}.  Why?

Hopefully, tomorrow night...and each night we're in our new house...gets easier, and sleepier, and dreamier...earlier.  I think it will. 

But for now, there's that coffee shop I love...and some great junk food to provide a little comfort... (and maybe even a little more eye liner applied...)

We're glad to be home.

Write on,
b

Remembering... (SoLS)

Much has changed for us lately: we are preparing to close on our new home (!), we are fixing to ditch this tiny apartment and rescue most of our belongings from storage (!!), I started school yesterday, and my excited toddler began a preschool/daycare combo at a local church since he is the ripe, old age of three.  Yes, a rolling stone gathers no moss; so, I guess, that makes us...moss-less.

Except, for all those times we stop and remember...what things used to be like.  You know, the summer things.

I'll admit -- when the heavenly harp strum on my iPhone alarm lulls me out of a deep slumber each morning now at 5:30, my dreaming really encompasses cuddling on the couch with Reid for PBS cartoons and trying to pretend that "The Cat in the Hat Knows A Lot About That" theme song isn't...well...catchy enough to sing while I waste the morning away in my jammies.

I think Reid remembers the summer life too.  Yesterday afternoon when I picked him up from daycare, his teacher informed me that he was "deep in thought" during lunch; so far away, indeed, that she asked him, "Reid, what are you thinking about?"  She giggled as she prepared to provide me his curt and detached response, "I'm not thinking of anything."  (Which I knew, by the way, was a complete rouse -- he is a thinker.)

Once in the car, I conducted my own interview with the tousled hair, backseat passenger: "Reid, your teacher said you were thinking about something at lunch.  What were you thinking about?"  With no delay, his tender, contemplative response leveled me.

"I was thinking of you, Mommy.  I miss YOU," his small voice offered.

With wet eyes, I drove the three minutes home...flipping through my mental card catalog of summertime joys.  The truth: at lunch yesterday, I sat thinking too: of toddler silverware and compartmentalized melamine plates, and of the warm milk, stories, and nap that always followed, and of the times he told me, "You're my friend, Mommy." 

So, we change.  Our schedule.  Our address.  Our hours.  Our ages.  We gather no moss; we just keep rolling.  Even though we do, there are still the memories which tether our hearts...begging us to stop and dally in what was, to reassure what is, and, to dream of what will be again.

Write on,
b

Just listen...

Today, I went on a lunch date...

with my son.

He chose McDonald's,

I chose to have the crispy fries this time.

We sat, without booster,

in a booth that had nice, high surrounds

with enough space to roam.

We sat, chomping on cheeseburgers

and flipping our fries.

But, then, I realized my need for a peaceful lunch

led me into a selfish choice.

Our six-person booth could accommodate

the five lunching ladies who jockeyed their trays and conversations

between two tables across from us.

My heart prodded,

"B, give them the table; it's the loving thing to do."

My mind characteristically rebutted,

"He's sitting; he NEVER sits independent of 

one high chair's snappy strap.  And, he's eating this time.

One more change will upset the apple cart."

We stayed.  

I almost couldn't bear 

the furtive glances laced with discontent,

directed at our happy haven.

And, next, we jaunted through the grocery store.

Just for some odds and ends.

With an unusually meager cart

(and a tired toddler as the naptime window approached),

I wavered between the express and unlimited lanes

convincing myself,

"there couldn't be more than 25 items to ring...

...the cashier will probably have pity on me and help."

She did;

I arranged the packages in rows of five to slide down the conveyer belt.

At five rows, I quit counting.

My eyes, downcast, embarrassed.

My heart prodded,

"B, the people behind you don't have anywhere near 20 items...

and now you're making them wait when they clearly got in line here 

for convenience."

My head said,

"But, she's doing a good deed for me.  

She's empathetic and has nappers at home."

The line lingered, the bags accumulated.  

A humble, "Thank you for helping me out today,

I underestimated my purchases," 

ended the transaction.

Twice, in one hour,

I made the selfish choice

to look out for me,

for my time,

for my sanity,

for my well being.

And, both times,

my choices hurt:

others

myself

my son

because there are

lessons I want to teach him

about being

kind

and generous

and sharing

and honest

and respectful.

That voice,

that little voice,

inviting me into 

giving

and sharing

and honesty

and respect

was there.

Next time, I should be a better listener.

Write on,

b

I've missed you...

It's been a long time...dear writers;

I've missed you and the way we connect.

It isn't that I haven't written 

blog posts

or letters

or funny pieces

or ones which wet my eyes.

Indeed, I've written them all

on the tablet of my heart.

Many too personal,

too embarrassing,

too selfish 

to share.

Since March...things have happened,

like preparing for a new baby

and a new home,

like counting blessings

and stubbornly holding onto hopes yet unseen.

Since March...it's been a long road,

with peaks and valleys.

But the sun is shining now;

it's inviting me out

to bask...

to savor

the warmth.

It's been a long time...dear writers;

I've missed you and the way we connect.

I promise not to be 

a stranger

any 

longer.

It's Tuesday,

let's slice

and share

and capture

the daily magic

that is

life.

Write on,

b

2012 Slice-of-Life Story Challenge | 31

I grew up Mennonite, which usually shrouds my identity in a certain level of confusion. 

          “Do your parents drive a buggy?”

                          “Did you have electricity growing up?”

                                                 “Were your clothes handmade?”

Because in the media Amish = Mennonite and vice versa, most people are sure my family looks like this:

But, the truth of matter is that Mennonite does not equal Amish.  My family looks just like your family.   We drive cars, have power and all the modern conveniences you do, wear jewelry, cut our hair, and buy the latest fashions. 

In considering the many aspects of Mennonite culture, there is something easily distinguishable that fits in perfectly for us today, March 31.  I can tell you about it in three numbers: 606.

‘606’ is what Mennonites refer to as our version of the hymn, “Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow.”  (It’s actually the song’s page number in the old brown hymnal.)  It’s been regarded as the most Mennonite-y symbol of our Christian denomination because it’s a piece old and young in each congregation know by heart.  It’s traditionally sung a capella, with four-part harmonies that would make any choral purist smile, to commemorate a special occasion like dedicating a new building or surpassing an offering goal.   It’s fast-paced, emotion-packed, and a complete blessing.  It is engrained in who we are as a people. 

I’m sharing this song with you today because we’ve reached a milestone together: one we can celebrate as a writing community!  Slicing each day in March was no small feat; with heart we wrote, we read, and we commented.  We emerged stronger through the feedback we gave and received, the way we shopped for writing ideas in our peers’ blog posts and then tried them out, and most importantly, how we held exercised discipline each day through the “B.I.C. Principle.”  (Thank you for the wise words, Ruth!)

So, from me to you on this final day of March, here’s a little slice of celebration:  #606.  I hope you enjoy its simplistic brilliance…  Congratulations, fellow writers, on working so hard this month!

Write on,

b