Susiej

Some of us pinched ourselves when we got the letter. First, the event signaled that the first year of Middle School is finally nearing its blissful end. Second, we learned from this letter, that that our children, in spite of all of the late-night homework struggles, long hours pouring over math puzzles, and relinquishing Saturday nights for special school projects, had earned 3-quarter honors. The school was inviting us to attend a ceremony to honor them.

Wow. This was not an accomplishment I could attribute to my own middle school years. Did they even have honors ceremonies in middle school when I was a kid? If they did, they didn’t invite me.

As we sat in the auditorium, I smiled at familiar faces of parents that I’ve only briefly seen since that day we sent them out of Elementary school, right after they made their fortunes, and when they promised us that , “Life is Good.”

“Get used to this place, ” I told myself. “You’ll be spending lots of nights here, God willing, as each of your kids file through the grades here for concerts, award ceremonies and plays.” I refused to let myself think of her, and how much I wished she was here. This kind of “wishful” thinking, I’ve learned, takes me away from the present; she is here. Something I just know now without even questioning. Oh, but please don’t make me analyze that, because under scrutiny, under close scrutiny my theory just falls apart, and I’ll feel alone as ever. Maybe I’m right.

While I waited for the ceremony to start, I remembered what I felt when I appeared in concerts and award ceremonies when Mom was in the audience, and how grateful I was to give her a reason to show off her daughter. I wondered how my son will remember these nights.

As the school administrators handed out their praise for such a hard work, they filled these these kids with accolades about their character, (pleasure to have in class, eager to help other students, and knows the difference between intramurals and math finals), and my wish is that they hold these truths within their souls until high school and beyond. I think a few of them gulped when the details of what they’ve achieved tonight were spelled out.

Still, when they called the name of the boy who’s Father died so quickly and unexpectedly this year, I felt such a pang of sorrow for him. His name was followed by sniffles from other Moms who sat around me. So young for this boy, and to know he will have to work so hard to fill in the spaces where his Father could have stood, for so many years ahead.

The stage swelled with after kid after kid, boys in ties, and the one ballerina in the white skirt with red tulips and black tights who I half expected, and hoped, would Fouetté jeté on the stage. These kids stood looking back at us, beaming, holding their certificates and medals. I remembered them as little girls and boys when I volunteered in the first grade classroom when they were cautiously learning how to fill in the number line. And look at them now. Blink. Where did five years go?

And then, they called the name of the boy who had such a hard time in elementary school, and believed he was a nothing but a loser. “This is the year,” his Mom said, “That I’m trying to build his confidence up.” And there he was… walking on stage to collect his honor. Hat’s off to that Mom.

I looked over and happened to catch a glimpse of a man weeping. Joy for his son, and sorrow, I’m sure. He recently lost both parents. I knew what he was thinking. I looked around more and relished the unique human experience in this room, as it boiled down many years of life into this one microcosm of time.

As we left the school together, Mother and son, I was aware of how close I felt to him. The words flowed easily between us, and he listened to everything I said, the first time, when we got home. People can scare you into thinking that closeness will go away once they start to grow up; the same rumor that causes so many tears on the first day of kindergarten. Closeness deepens as our children grow; and we have more events to share between us.

No more pinching myself; the presence of these kids on stage exudes power and confidence. This is just the first of many award ceremonies, for various interests, they’ll have over the years. I’m honored to know them. Oh, yeah, and so PROUD that my son is one of them.

Three Word Wednesday: Cautious. Human. Maybe. I LOVE these challenges!

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My Junior year of high school was my best. An outsider would probably attribute my joy to the fact that I had one of the leading roles in our high school musical, but there were other factors. Things like getting my driver’s license. Geometry was over and done with, leaving me to pursue funner stuff, Algebra and Trigonometry. At that point, I knew which high school teachers I could count on to let us get away with goofing off, and which ones to avoid. I was settled now in my role as first chair, as the director gave me the role of last-minute tunings, on stage, before he appeared at our band concerts. Now, the hallways at school were filled with younger faces who were much more naive about things; the way I was two years earlier. In a word, I developed a sense of power and confidence — in high school — of all places.

Perhaps this was what gave me the confidence needed to not only read for the script for the lead in the Spring of my Junior Year, but also to sing. Alone. Sing. All by myself in front of peers and classmates — and soon — their parents and families. Leads were to go to the seniors, as a courtesy. But, by gosh, they couldn’t let me slip away, so they gave it to me as a Junior. I had talent.

As the Junior year left, my senior year brought the opportunity for the senior class play. Auditions took place in the fall. Of course, with the confidence I had built up by this point, my role, was in the bag. Except, that I didn’t make it. I didn’t even make the choir. As I scanned the list, posted in the hallway bulletin board, I looked for clues… did everyone who starred in the musical last year get rejected? No, not everyone. I tried to make some kind of logical connection to understand why they didn’t choose me. I must have preformed horribly last year. I did something terribly wrong. Shame and embarrassment descended my shoulders, and every inch of breathing space around me. Luckily, the final school bell had already rang for the day, and I was alone in the hallway. I took off, before anyone had a chance to see me. I needed to get to my own room, with the door locked, fast.

Except, my pesky younger brother had already seen me, and he was high-tailing it behind me. Couldn’t wait, I figured, to tease me on this one. Because I had a head start, I made it home before he had the chance to pelt me with taunts about not making it in the play. When I got home, he worked his way around to look me in the eye. Here it comes, I thought.

“Susie,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I saw you didn’t make it and I was trying to find you in the halls at school to see if you were OK.”

The ache in my heart to reach the privacy and safety of my own room soon opened and gave way as I considered that maybe I could wallow in self-pity out in the open, in every room of the house. I forgot about the play. Our parents were recently divorced, and while I zoned in denial, my brother realized, before me, that we needed a new set of operating rules. One that didn’t include our favorite pastime, fighting like cats and dogs. We may only have each other, as uncertainty about the future loomed. This was the olive branch. Like mine, his eyes had tears; hurt that I didn’t get a part. More than ever did I want that part in the play; just give me that part because I can’t bear to see him suffer. I don’t remember feeling so much hopeless sadness since Mom gave our new kitty away one day while we were at school.

My senior year wasn’t much fun. The sense of confidence I built in my Junior year got knocked down in a series of doubts centralized by one single question that was never answered, “Why not me.” Maybe I should have asked, and learned. Looking back, I know, as a parent, I would have found out. Harmless miscommunication can do great damage, and someone should step in and help clear the air.

But, I did have a renewed sense of family. From that point on, I walked through the hallways at school knowing I had an ally I never new existed before. My brother. We’re still close like that.

I think its only appropriate that I write about this today, as Brook on American Idol, I learned has been voted off the show. I have never watched American Idol, but friends, neighbors, and complete strangers have been stopping me on the street to say, “You remind me of Brook.” I hear she has long hair, I say. “Still, you look like her,” they say. Sunday Scribbling Prompt: Family

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A story to pass on to the Grandchildren: So, Daddy was driving down an old country road, driving about 60 mph, (minus 55), and Mommy was looking out the window, and she yelled, “Stop, I see one!” Once the car stops, she jumps out of the car to retrieve her treasure.

You can’t see it? It’s right there! A wild snakehead mushroom. Never in my life, nor have I met anyone, who spotted a wild snakehead mushroom from the inside of a moving car. It’s almost as if a fairy told me where to look, and when.

Thinking we had hit the mother-load, we pulled over and started looking for the mushroom’s twin. (They always grow in pairs.) Earlier that morning Daddy found a morel (grey sponge) mushroom at the city park during lacrosse practice. With that one mushroom as our motivation, we headed out of town to the woods to find more.

Snakeheads are usually early, so there is probably still be more to come over the next few weeks. We need rain. (Do I sound like a farmer?)

It’s was almost as if the mushrooms heard us making so much noise, so they tucked back under ground.

I stood in one spot, saw fresh deer tracks, wild roses, earth moist from a creek, and a hill. Here, I had all of the trappings for a big mess of mushrooms. But not one was in sight. But I could smell them.

We found only a few more snakeheads, after a couple of hours searching in the woods. A disappointment, as my sons have now acquired a taste for this exotic delicacy, and there were just a few to share. (I only ate 1 before they were all snatched up!) We took a cell phone picture of our mushroom find for the day and sent it to my brother. His one-word text response was simply, “Where?”

See more Best Shot Monday’s at Mother May I.

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I tend to wrap myself so tight around decisions, trying my best to foresee every possible outcome of each side of the issue. This, of course, leads to paralysis… or indecisiveness. I look hard, I pray, I meditate, I think. Less than I should, I talk to other people. Even though talking seems to help the most, I rarely talk, as I am a bit isolated in my world of children now. Or maybe just because I’m thinking too hard to talk.

Some days, a decision I made three years ago about one of the boys will come barrelling down so hard on me today, that I realize now, was a big mistake. I am wounded when this happens. Worse, it makes the decisions that are facing me today seem all that more insurmountable. That mistake begins to weigh heavily on my future decisions.

Some people, wisely, I guess, use their blog as a forum to search for answers; to gather opinions from others as what they should do. The blog-sphere does, usually, respond generously with help, solutions, advice and support. The perfect “village that raises the child.” I like to come here, fresh to the page, with a solution perfectly in mind, undistracted, unfettered about what to do; whether or not I know yet if I’m right or wrong. (Please, by all means, feel free to give me advice anyway, as I am hopelessly indecisive, and your opinion could greatly turn the tide.)

This morning, rain was blessing our earth with its earthy smells, the wild noise of splashes, and trees brushing against the house as wind blew. The sounds meant that we wouldn’t be rushing a boy out at 7:40 this Saturday morning, in uniform, to lacrosse practice. We could all sleep, and get much needed rest, I thought. He woke anyway at 7, to work on homework. When the car pulled up at 7:40, and we were still blurry-eyed and in our jammies, (let me re-phrase that… my children have enlightened me that they are called b-jammes), I realized I had made another mistake. Apparently, there was lacrosse practice this morning, my son wasn’t ready, and this up-and-at-’em-Mom had driven out of her way to pick up my son. “Oh Hi. I’m sorry, I thought it was cancelled. He’s not ready… so just go ahead without him.”

He was working so intently on his homework, I wasn’t about to rush him around now and get him there. So, I stewed about the missed practice, not checking e-mails like I should have, my inability to be “up-and-at-’em” and of course, the Mom who had went out of her way.

Two hours later, I went to the computer, to dutifully check this time, to see if the 11′o clock practices were still on as well, as more rain came shooting down. Yes, they were still on… but what’s this? I see that the 8 a.m. lacrosse practice was cancelled, after-all. I was right. There was no lacrosse practice this morning.

Gratefully, as time passes, more information and irrelevant facts that were hidden are revealed, and the burnished brass begins to look more like gold. Bad decisions, miraculously sometimes turn out to be great ones. Even the ones that look wrong three years later can, with more time, begin to look like brilliant decisions. I’m not sure if we “grow around” those bad decisions like a tree will sometimes heal itself from injury, or that our path was clearly not meant for that choice.

I still can’t help but wish, everyday,  that the all-mighty creator, who is much wiser than me, would just step down and show me what is right for them, and we would gladly follow that dictum. A wise, kind minister told me, during a dark time, that the Bible promises to restore to us all that we’ve lost. I hope so. People are so full of faults, and we are prone to mistakes, naturally. We need something bigger than us, to hold everything together. That force that helps the tree grow around the injury, and to keep growing tall, despite the fault. What I hope for, and need, for my future, is that regardless of my mistakes, that there is an overriding power that will make everything turn out OK, after all.

He has his father’s grin. That confidence his Father has. “No worries. Everything will turn out OK.”

Sunday Scribbling asks, What is the future of the planet?

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Roxanne’s forbidden after-school visits to her boyfriend’s house soon turned to overnight ones… even on school nights. How did she pull that off? She simply told her Mom she was spending the night at my house. So, what happened when Roxanne’s Mom called my Mom and asked to speak to Roxanne? More importantly, what would Rose Rock, Chris Rock’s Mom, who raised ten children and 17 foster children, have to say about Roxanne’s Mother’s parenting skills? Read more here.

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It didn’t help that each and every one of the 1,000,000 dogwoods that grow in my old neighborhood were blooming today, as I drove through to drop off a check. A stupid, time-wasting errand that could have been avoided if I would have just put a stamp on the envelope and mailed it days ago. The houses, many stone, and wood, look luminescent under the filtered sunlight of the dogwood flowers. They do that; the flowers of the dogwoods cast a shimmer down on anything that stands beneath them, for that so brief time when they bloom. Rather than houses, they suddenly look like large-over-sized pillows, beckoning me to take a rest.

At our house here, we had an apple tree with a branch that swooped down low enough to leave you feeling that it was really a large arm about to pull you in for a big hug, but never could quite make it to becoming that real.

I begin to feel lucky for serendiptiously forgetting to mail that check at the precise time that the dogwoods are blooming. Still, I had completely forgotten how lucky we were to relish in this grass that is always lush and green because it’s always shaded, the dogwood blossoms, and the trees. The trees, and the woods that cluster in groups on ravines everywhere you turn. My four-year old was with me in the back seat. This is a world he’s never known, so I explained to him each and every landmark. I was really talking to myself, trying to draw out the memory that is etched within me, buried, under laundry, questions about what we’re having for snack today, and the refrains of will-you-buy-me-this.

Refusing to believe that Paradise is never really lost, I work hard at trying to remember the relaxed comfort of home I feel here as I drive past these houses where, I suddenly realize, I was living a much different life. I’m looking at the trees, but I’m really remembering pages of days, turning them one-by-one, as I try to reconstruct who I was when I was here. Of course, I believe, I was so much happier then. What is missing now, I wonder.

The roads curve, hiding the houses, so that you see more trees, before you see the next house. Certain neighbors must not see me today. As much as I will try to smile, and ask them how they’re doing, I might crack. If I let myself too close to that edge, I will fall apart like Humpty Dumpty and all the king’s horses won’t be able to put me together again. The egg holds the secret that I now realize I’m keeping, even from myself. I want to go back home. Then, they’ll spill those words they’ve been dying to say all along. Once back here, I won’t leave these trees again. But, I keep hearing those wise and true words in the back of my head, “you can never go home again.”

Still, Paradise is never lost, I tell myself. This is your new challenge. Create the happiness you’re remembering from this place within yourself now. As in the wise words of my yoga teacher, “make this your new normal.” Still, I can’t help but think, shallowly, “If I could live here again, I’d be happy all the time. This IS paradise.”

Up ahead, though I see a familiar car. Could it be he’s back? Or maybe, he just left it here for the school year. As I drive a little further, I see the familiar shape of our favorite babysitter walking his dog. The one who was once our neighbor. I can let my egg crack in front of him, I think, as I pull up beside him and roll down the window, smiling, to see him waving back. He’s here for just a short break, but will be coming back May 15 for the summer. Yes, he’d love to baby-sit. (Can I hold out until May 15, I wonder?) He got me up-to-date on a year’s worth of freshman transformation, the earthquake that hit his roommates this morning while he was here, and seeing that he’s still the same wonderful self. I realize now, I don’t need to compose myself, as I’m not going to crack, after all. We compare and contrast life here, versus life in my current neighborhood, where he worked as a lifeguard for a few years. He doles me out a compliment, collected from the other lifeguards, about being a cool, non-conforming Mom.

The thought of finally having regular scheduled kid-free time, washes a wave of relief over me, as I drive away, past more dogwood trees. I stop at my neighbor’s house to ring the doorbell to surprise her. She always lovingly calls me her long-lost daughter. Margie never lets me mope around or whine too much. She always draws me back in to raw practicality in an unfussy way. Sadly, it turns out they are not home today.

I turn to look behind me and point across the street. This used to be our house, I say to my son. The large lush lawn sprawls out in front, and I remember my oldest running through the sprinklers here. Now, this lawn needs the feet of four little boys to trample all over it, I selfishly think. I want to move here again, he says. I look at him, and see that the dogwood flowers are illuminating the sunlight that falls on his cheeks.

Sunday Scribbling Prompt: Compose

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That red car up there is the 10th Pinewood Derby car my husband has built. When all is said and done, my husband, God-willing, will have built 17 Pinewood Derby Cars in total for our four boys over 11 years.

Two of our boys were competing in this year’s event. Here, our youngest one (too young to enter) is peering over the finish line. If you have been to a pinewood derby event in your lifetime, you’ll know that the entire atmosphere is overwhelmed with male testosterone. Truly a little boy’s initiation into their first “manly event,” as evidenced here by the appearance of man’s universal “tool,” duct tape. Foam wrapped in duct tape is used to cushion the cars as the pummel into the end of the finish line.

There is a table set up on the back wall filled with scales (each car must weigh exactly five ounces — no more, no less) with power drills and lead to give weight to cars that are too light. Here is the wooden podium, which will soon to support the first, second and third place winners for each event.

The wooden track is somehow rigged with a sensor that instantly displays on a computer the first place winner for each race. Each car will race several times, switching to a another one of the four lanes, each time, racing different cars within your age group each time. The goal, of course, is to win as many of these trials as you can.

This is how a kindergartner looks when his car wins. Not just one, but each and every one. First place.

It’s one thing to see the excitement and almost bewilderment on a kindergartner’s face the first time he sees his car actually in a pinewood derby race. It’s quite another to see him win. As the Mom of this middle child, where so much of what he has is handed down, I was pleased to see him have this sweet victory.

Here’s his car; the red one, barreling down the finish line.

Our third grader was set to race in just a few hours. In those few hours between races, sibling rivalry showed its ugly head. It was difficult for him to accept his kid brother’s victory as a gift — no, I think, impossible. Instead, he felt that as a veteran pinewood derby racer, he should at least be able to beat his kid brother. Irrelevant, to any of them, that the outcome of the race was basically “out of their control.” The real outcome was determined by the design of the car, as compared to the design of the other cars racing that day. And, of course, the track.

His car is the green one.

Speeding past here, and he too did remarkably well. Soon the jokes started to fly about how my husband, who has built so many pinewood derby cars by now, probably has a “just-in-time” factory set up in the garage, and has the whole manufacturing down to a science.

In the end, the big brother came in second place overall. So, remember that podium up at the top? This is how we filled it… and number three went to our littlest one, who has yet to compete in his first.

And where’s our oldest? With his own pinewood derby cars in his past, he’s now too cool for this stuff now.
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Decorating decisions made in the kitchen usually reveal our deepest passions. The front of the house can be all sedated, safe, and reflect the latest paint colors and decorating style, but the kitchen is where we go wild, lavishly displaying our favorite collections, whether it be farm animals (pigs and roosters), vintage Mexican glass bottles, or cookie jars. This makes the kitchen the most authentic room in the house.

This is why, maybe because we feel so comfortable there, that the kitchen table is where life’s daily drama is played out. Sofas will come and go over time, but the kitchen table remains, for years, as the altar of the home. It’s easy for us to cherish our kitchen tables; love just happens there, step by step, day by day. I’d love to hear your favorite kitchen table memory. (Write a post, email is fine, or leave a comment — whatever.)

Utility: It’s best not to spend a lot of money on the table, as you be fraught with worry. There will be scratches, spills, and the pencil marks from homework might go through the wood. Accept these “love taps” as marks of love. I have found, however, that it’s a good idea to spend enough money to make sure the legs are sturdy.

Lavishly Spread the Warmth With Friends: Sure, they will try to play a round of four-on-four in your living room, and then hold a wrestling match in your basement, but the good cheer will be worth it. Especially when they start one-upping each other with their worst injury stories ever. You will learn so… much… truly, you will.

Be Open to Hosting Vigilantes: You just never know who might show up in need of a sustenance. So, be vigilant, stay prepared, and have plenty of crackers on-hand. (And a very good vacuum cleaner.)

Obligation: You may be called on to do service for others… providing shelter for gumdrops, engineering a way to affix graham crackers, and to remind others not to eat the glue. Note again here, why the sturdiness of the table is so critical.

Allow Quiet Time For Contemplation: Discovery, insight and a deeper understanding of our world can only happen in the stillness that occurs between our breaths. How many of us remember those moments of epiphany generated from kitchen table talks, late at night? Here, in this picture, he’s deep in thought, trying to figure out how to get the houses from Monopoly to fit on his fingertips. Whew! Talk about revelation and Epiphanies! I’m telling you, there is a lot of DEEP thoughts that go on around this house. (I don’t need to mention it again, do I? About the importance of a sturdy table?)

Creativity: There’s always something new under the sun. Keep yourself open to new possibilities, and protect the table with plenty of newspaper.

Love: This picture just speaks for itself. I have nothing more to add.

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I found myself making up fictional stories, horrifying ones, to accompany the photos Dooce referred to. Knots hit my stomach as I started filling in the words for these victims… and then I realized my stories weren’t… even…. true.

My imagination tends to do that, quite often. I have the instant vision of the worst possible outcome, and rarely are things ever that bad. Sometimes, though, life presents a reality, so clear, so convincing that you have no choice but to overlay your worst nightmares and fears with something much more hopeful, serene and beautiful.

I started remembering the non-fiction stories I do know about life before death. Now, that is a picture of bliss. So, Susiej, instead of creating all this horrible images, why not comfort yourself with bliss? The bliss you know to be real? Here’s my version of an image of life before death:

No, there was no camera within reach that night, but I can describe the most important images for you.

It was after-visiting hours, I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I just got back in town. Maybe this would be the night that she would hear my voice, and finally wake up.

Her door was locked. I started to knock, to be pushy and get myself into the room to see my own Mother… but then I stopped. I looked into the narrow rectangle of glass and watched the two nurses work in that caring way that good nurses do. They were washing my Mom’s hair, changing the dressings on her IVs, and sponging her clean. Then, and now, when I remember this scene, it brings back the feeling I had when I was sick as a child, and my Mom would bathe me. Do you remember how amazingly good that felt, as a child, to be so sick, and then to have someone wipe your face with a warm washcloth? That’s what I felt then. A wave of comfort just washed over me… and again now, just remembering that. There were hard times between my Mom and me… but I remember this sweet moment. This is what I want to leave standing in my memory. So, I choose to do so.

Her pink manicured toes were starting to show the signs of wear and tear from hospital days… 20 days with no manicure maintenance. (My fingernails looked pretty ragged themselves… as the trauma of the last 20 days had left me with only the resources to do the bare minimum of maintenance on myself, while still managing the children at home.) Still, as the nurses laid my Mom back down on the bed, and her head hit the pillow, she looked so radiant… so refreshed… so peaceful… and so completely ready to go.

At this point, I finally got it. The idea of asking her that question, again, no longer felt right. Had I been making her feel obligated all this time? Asking her to hang on in this world that she was already, clearly, ready to leave? For the first time in the 20 days that she lay attached to the ventilator, I wouldn’t ask her to get better. Not tonight. I would let her have her peace.

So no, the look of death is not so horrifying.

I turned to leave, quietly, so as not to make a scene in the hospital after-all, for arriving so late. The security guard stopped me, “You’ll need this token to leave the parking lot. The parking attendants have all left for the night.”

Three Word Wednesday. Prompt: glass, question and token.

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My Mother began telling me about you the summer before I enrolled in first grade at WLS. She was preparing me for what she knew would be “the best time of my life” at the place where I would meet the “best friends I would ever know.” She treasured her years with you, and these reunions were a sacred event she wouldn’t dream of missing. I doubt she expected not to make it here with you tonight; the night of your 50th.

When she met many of you in 1946, back when you were known as either a red or a gray squirrel at the stone elementary building, you were some of the first friends she knew. Growing up on Couchman road, out in the country, as the youngest of seven children who were many years her senior, there were few chances for play dates. No car was available, yet she did have her horse, Spring Design, and a brand new saddle that came for her 16th birthday from Aunt Edith. She fell and broke both arms during a race, and undaunted, got back in the saddle again.

When you were the top of the heap at WLHS, the high school had recently opened its new wing, Elvis Presley served in Germany for the Army, Great Balls of Fire and Tequila were number one on the charts. Color TV sets were the rage, and girls still wore dresses, below the knee, to school everyday. High school trips were fashionable. How many of you remember that Janet developed her aversion to cottage cheese during your trip to New York City? And by the way, which one of you wrote in her class autograph book, “I like it when you wear low-cut dresses… just kidding,”?

Your high school science teacher, Mr. L., was still the head of the Bunsen burners when I arrived in the classroom some 20 years later. So both of our gen