5:31 -- Shoulder Ride

Yesterday, I rode on shoulders of
Loved ones
Friends
Electronic connections
Colleagues
Each supporting me by
Providing dinner
Saying prayers
Making contact
Leaving comments
Sharing surprises

All day, I didn't have to do the work of
Climbing
Running
Walking
Lifting 

Crying

No, I simply rode and it was
Peaceful

Easy
Inspiring

It made me wonder
Who I can
Carry...

Write on,

b

4:31 -- Dinner Shift...

Breakfast shouldn't have been that much work yesterday.

The steaming, syruppy pile of pancakes invited me in,

but I didn't want them.

The warm winter sun beat down my back as I sat at the table,

but I couldn't enjoy it.

In my heart, Monday kept bullying Sunday.

My husband sensed my intermittant attempts

to be strong,

to stop the tears from flowing

every time I thought about my

maternity leave ending;

and taking my coughing baby to day care;

and wondering how our sleep schedules would meld with work responsibilities;

and imagining how crazy our mornings would be from tomorrow forward.

"Tomorrow's a big day, isn't it?"

his question more like the nod of agreement.

"Maybe we could make everything easier tonight

if Reid and I pick up dinner. 

Anywhere you want. 

Then, no kitchen clean-up will eat away our evening." 

(My hero.)

It was then Monday's menacing grip loosened and

Sunday's responsibility load lessened.

It was then I smiled,

and prepared to enjoy the day

with gratitude

with stillness

and the anticipation of delicious dinner

I didn't have to fix.

It was then I felt the sun.

Write on,
b



3:31 -- A Servant's Heart

He'll stay up late finishing a project for you.
He'll change up his tight schedule to make room for you.
He'll get up early and shovel a walk-way through the snow for you.
He'll fill up the gas tank before the day begins for you.

A servant's heart...that's what he has.

These are all things I know to be true about my Dad.  He lives to serve.  Not in an obnoxious, "Look at what I'm doing for you...you'd better thank me" kind of way.  More in a, "let me make your life better, easier" kind of way.  Succinctly, "Let me show you love by quietly serving."

So, it isn't shocking that this type of rich, deep love carries over into his relationship with my elder son.  The one whose smile brightens any room when Grandpa is near. The one who can't get enough of riding on Grandpa's shoulders...or wearing one of his many baseball hats...or making s'mores at his backyard firepit. 

Grandpa stains 'big boy' furniture for him.
Grandpa models gentle, yet strong love for him.
Grandpa makes plates of buttery pancakes for him.
A servant's heart...that's what he has.

Saying their goodbyes last visit, Grandpa's prickly mustache tickled his oldest grandchild's babyish cheeks.  Reid giggled and drew near, his heart bursting with love for Grandpa.  My Dad drew near too.

"I'd swim through a lake of alligators for you," he promised as he gazed into Reid's velvety brown eyes.

Standing a few feet away, I gasped -- not out of shock -- out of love.  The recognizeable kind that fills your heart and soul with warmth because you've been its recipient on many occasions.  The unforgettable kind that pads your mind with cozy memories and aspirations for it to spill over and resonate in all your relationships.  The dangerous kind that pushes you to prioritize others before yourself -- always -- in the mundane and the exciting.

Even if it means swimming through a lake of alligators.

A servant's heart...that's what he has.

Write on,
b

2:31 -- Standing Still

At this point, it's merely hours.  Hours until I head back to my coaching position in an elementary school.  Like a heavy door, my maternity leave closes on lazy feedings and naptime workouts, mid-morning Starbucks runs with a sleeping baby and time enough to actually keep house.  The day is here, as I've peeked at the calendar from afar the last few months, just like I knew it would be.

I initialed all baby belongings in preparation for day care.  I packed the diaper bag and my lunch.  I took stock of the galleria to inform my grocery shopping for Reid's meals away from home.  I tried on my favorite ivory sweater with gentle graphite stripes...the one I wear when I'm up in front and I'm nervous.  I fed Grant as often as he expressed interest because come Monday, the suctiony sounds of my pump will replace the mealtime gurgles and coos and feeding on demand will give way to protecting regular slivers of school time that will secure my milk supply.

There's stillness in my heart though. 

In all the moments I snuggle Grant...and gaze into his giant eyes...and feel his body as a comfortable extension of my own, I wish -- just once -- I could freeze time.  Like ice cubes.  This memory in this compartment, and yesterday's memory in the tray preceding.  I freeze: because if I don't, the remaining hours melt into a buzzing alarm and hot, hidden tears while I help load the boys into my husband's car Monday morning and then drive away by myself.

Amidst the sound and fury, there's a job...that really doesn't feel like much of one.  There's a teacher who emailed early last Monday to wish me a happy last week, but also to let me know she's counting the days until I'm back.  There's a classroom I designed myself to make visiting teachers feel like treasured guests during meetings or planning chats because all my favorite pictures, quotes, and books are displayed like they would be in a home office.  There's a vibe in this school that forwards the belief that ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE.  {And, it is.}  There's a professional development series I'm authoring that's centered around fine-tuning our writing workshops in a variety of areas like nudging boy writers, and increasing volume, and implementing continua to guide instruction as each unit progresses.

Today is soccer...and grocery shopping...and laundry...and bedtime routines.  Sunday is church...and cartoons...and family time.  There will be a bed time Sunday night that's much later than anticipated and then before I know it, I'll pull into the school parking lot with no recollection of my commute. 

Until then, despite the errands and task management, I'll be still.  To savor.  And, to freeze.
Just like the Weepies say... 

Write on,

b

1:31 -- It's time...

Every day since late-December, my heart beats like a ticking time bomb.  I glance toward the basement stairs and look away, embarrassed that I don't just walk over and bounce down them like normal.  Like the first time I think about it, instead of the twenty-first.

"OK, b...it's time to exercise," each breath conspires. 
"I KNOW," is my calculated response,
"this is my chance." 
My makeshift exercise studio downstairs awaits; jealous and wanting.

"It's good for me."
     The baby's asleep.
"It's good for my heart."
     The house is quiet.
"It's good for my mind."
     The routine frees me up to take a mental vacation.
"It's good for my jeans."
    YES.  MY JEANS.  I MISS MY OLD CLOTHES.

And, then, I make it to the closet for my Yoga pants and tank.
And, then, I bounce down two flights of stairs.
And, then, I pop on the lights... one...two...three...four...
all the way over to the TV.
And, then, I click ON to start the electronics.
And, then, I hear the contagious drums...and the encouraging chants..."Lift that leg!  HIGHER!!! 
You can do it!"
And, then, I notice the smiles, the fit bodies; the warm and speedy endorphins cover my mind and body like a race track.  It feels good to be getting into shape again.

Yes, this is my basement date with Mari Winsor's fat-burning Pilates workout.  Yes, every day.  Yes, until I can fit into each and every pre-pregnancy piece waiting in my closet like a forlorn child.  Because, yes, my maternity leave ends this weekend...and Monday, the real clothes -- the ones that don't consist of Gap exercise pants and a forgiving cotton tee -- are front and center.  Zippered waistband and all.

And, now, even as I'm slicing, my heart ticks and my mind wanders down that stairs to the familiar routine that continues to gift me with the ability to wear my old favorites...one by one.

"It's good for me.
It's good for my heart.
It's good for my mind.
It's good for my jeans."

It's time.


Write on,
b

Role reversal... (SOLS)

You've been there; I've been there.  The sacred day that is filled to the brim and runs on such a tight schedule, a rambunctious toddler could use it as a trampoline. 

Parent-Teacher Conferences.

With the expectation that teachers meet with 100% of parents, I'd shake my downturned head each time my phone rang that day and doubly so with each voicemail sampling.

"I overslept.  Can we reschedule?" 
 (Eyeroll.  Blankly look at full scheduling sheet, contacting my inner-Houdini.)

"My husband/boyfriend/lover/friend has the car today. 
Can you come pick me up?"
(Eyeroll, coupled with an escaped and audible, "Really?  When?")

"I have a doctor's appointment today. 
Maybe I'll catch you next time."
(Maybe?  You're the parent I needed to talk to most today.)
                                  
"We're out of town. 
 We thought it was just a day off school." 
 (Is the mail folder not getting home each night?)

And, the ever popular:

"My car won't start.  'Guess I can't come in like I had planned.  I really wanted to though...I'm really into my child's education.  I value it.  We work together ALL THE TIME at home."  
(Uh-huh.  Today.  Yep.)

Admittedly, after awhile, I quit listening because my jaded 'teacher ears' clouded any pieces of truth present in these messages. 

2.19.2013 -- the date of my first conference on the other side of the table.  For the past week, I've thought about how I'll respond to the 'these-are-the-areas-for-growth' comments sandwiched between pleasantries and compliments.  Will I be the parent who bluntly offers, "Well, he does that at home.  I'm not sure why he won't do that for you at school."  Or, will I be the parent who says, "Thank you for all your hard work with my child at school.  He loves having you for a teacher.  We appreciate your time, effort, and feedback."

Well, for today, I won't know...because today, I'm the parent on the voicemail reel:

"Hello, Mrs. Clark?  Yes, it's Reid's mother.  This morning, my husband's car wouldn't start...and after a jump attempt and both of us working to push the Jeep out of the garage so it could be towed, he had to take my car to work.  I'm sad because I was really looking forward to talking with you today about his progress.  I'm hopeful we can reschedule sometime soon."

So, maybe, over the years I've become unfeeling with each passing message.  Maybe, there was truth in each plea for situational empathy.  Maybe, there was an individual or two who tried their darnest to make all the puzzle pieces fit together to protect the opportunity to meet with a teacher on conference day...because the child's education is of paramount importance.  Maybe, a phone call doesn't dilute the parents' assigned value of the work we do daily with students.  Maybe, just maybe...

I'm sitting here now and imagining myself the teacher.  With the extra 15 minutes, I may have fit in a bathroom break...or allowed some room for the preceding conference to run late...or started the next one early because the rest of the meetings are backtobacktobacktoback.  I may have reshuffled my paperwork stack, or tidied up the space, but one thing is for sure: I would've been thinking -- "These people don't seem like the type to cancel last-minute.  She's in education.  She knows."

And, she's right.  I do know.  But, today I feel too.

Write on,
b

(P.S. My OLW 2013 is refine... :))

Things of a life... (SOLS)

Things are mostly moved now, from the big one-bedroom apartment to the small one-bedroom apartment.  The things that make a life, like pictures and furniture, cookware and curio cabinets, piled up and divvied out to new homes. 

The woven photo albums in splashy 70s shades, like avocado and harvest gold, are open again -- their contents like a life movie with each page turn.  There's the old two-story house that came before me, with its summer kitchen, on East Main Street...and the summer trips to 'the lakes' (which, where I live, 'the lakes' refers to a region in the northern part of the state that is polka-dotted with bodies of water remainded from a glacier -- nobody is really particular about which one, Wawassee or Big Turkey -- as long as it's a lake).  There are weddings, and anniversary celebrations.  There are Christmas gatherings, and annual cousin pictures in front of the tree.  I used to spend hours looking through these during visits to Grandma's house.   

The furniture, like the upholstered chair made in my grandfather's factory so long ago, sit waiting for a new nest.  The furniture, made by the hands of men drinking coffee at the Palmer House, worshipping at the Mennonite church, standing at the gas station; the furniture, as strong as the local artisans who crafted it, will stay in the family.  Two wingback chairs to Dick, the kitchen set to Barb, the curio cabinet to Janet...

For weeks now, this move has been in the front of her children's thoughts.  "It's time now, Mom," their minds, and hearts, and hands would say.  Somewhere behind those wonderings hid their darker counterparts...the ones, they hoped, would never see today's light -- "What if she forgets where she parked the car while running an errand?" ...  "What if she forgets how to get home?" ...  "What if something happens to her and we can't get there in time?" ...  "What if she doesn't remember us?"...  "She needs more support than her place offers," they conclude. 

"Mom, we think..." 

The bedroom suite gets divided.  The dressers, both bachelor and tall boy, head to assisted living down the hall; the bed moves to Barb's because the new space is equipped with a hospital-style bed.  Just in case.  Which, by now, the 'just in case' scenario is the stuff of Grandma's dreams.  It's been 17 years now without him.  17 years in her own apartment.  17 years to gradually lose heart and health, family members, and track of what was once so natural.  

"I'll live where you want me to," she resigns.

My mom, third in birth order and elder daughter, is blessed with reconciling Grandma's old apartment kitchen because the new one is a slim reminder of independent cooking.  She finds the dull, metal colander that would emerge each fall for homemade applesauce; the time-worn candy thermometer that would help create the Christmas candy my little chubby fingers loved to reach onto the buffet and grab; the stout stockpot where I once saw a cow tongue boiling.  (I mention this now because I'm pretty sure I will never forget the sight...)  A guilty thought takes root...and grows between the piles of Pyrex, melamine, and relics from a number of auctions and family hand-me-downs: "My mom never had anything nice," she muses while considering the shiny All-Clad cookware tucked into her own kitchen cabinets.

These things are just things, nice or otherwise...the thermometer, the pots and pans, the furniture, the tchotchkes...the ones I remember from their three-bedroom ranch, and then the one-bedroom apartment, now moved and boxed and piled.  They are the things of life, but mostly they are reminders of the person whose hands first held them...and who first held us. 

My grandmother, Lorraine.

Write on,

b