For What It's Worth

Sometimes, judging the value of something is impossible, and the question, "Was it worth it?" is just plain ridiculous. 

We all know that those treasured photos of friends, lovers and relatives that are no longer with us (either from relationships deceased or defunct) are worth more than diamonds. And the little surprise compliment given to us on the day we feel particularly low can make our day. When I was pregnant with my son and feeling especially balloon-sized, a former, now deceased, colleague told me I looked "radiant," and he paused and smiled before saying, "You've got that glow," and it literally made me beam. 

Those are obvious treasures, like the chipped dishes we may save from our first apartment, the tarnished keychains from high school proms, the tiny clothes from our kids' first days and the like. Yes, those things have a "worth," right?

But yesterday I made a grave error in judgment. I let John take a late nap. And the aftermath was hell. 

Honestly, the whole reason for the late nap is one that all of us as parents can relate to: I let John Sawyer take a late nap because I was tired. Me. I was dead. After a full day with the kiddos that included the building of multiple cities in multiple formats (blocks, Duplo Legos and the "real"/small Legos) the three of us headed out in search of fun and went to two different parks. In the words of Sissy Spacek as Loretta Lynn in "Coal Miner's Daughter," I was "about ready to die." So when John Sawyer fell asleep in his carseat on the way home, covered in ice cream, I carried his sweet and sticky self up to his room and let him snooze. I thought it would be "worth it." I was so wrong!

At first, I didn't realize how late it was. But as the clock struck 6 and his Royal Chubbiness showed no sign of waking up, I sent in the big guns, also known as Big Sister. If anyone can get him to budge, it's her.

No such luck. On he snored. And I let him. Because I was wiped out too. Some small part of me hoped he was exhausted enough to sleep all night - or maybe wake up around 5 a.m. 

But it was a nightmare. Somewhere between 7:30 and 8, as Em drifted off to slumber, John woke up angry and fretted and cried, snacked and snarked and cried some more. It's as though he knew it was late, but was frustrated because Daddy and Mimi weren't around. He wanted to play, but was falling over because he was still so exhausted, but couldn't bring himself to submit to sleeping again. Somehow I thought he'd go back to sleep around 10, or maybe even 11 (horrors) but that I'd be able to settle into a late-night Housewives marathon and chill out. No way.

We changed his pjs. We watched a little Peppa Pig. We had a little snack. We sat on the porch swing, which usually chills him out. We went through that cycle of 

• snuggle him and rock him and put him down while he's practically sleeping
• silently creep out the door with exaggerated steps like a cartoon
• wait for him to cry, and listen as the cries turn to shrieks, tell myself he'll fall back asleep
• when he doesn't, let him cry it out for 15 minutes until my actual heart breaks and I have to pick him up again 

Repeat. Repeat. Repeatrepeatrepeat until almost 1:30 a.m.

Let me be clear; John Sawyer isn't a bad sleeper; on the contrary, he's been a dream baby since the beginning (which makes up for Em's projectile vomiting and general sleeplessness for her first five months). But age 2 is bringing a lot of changes, and we're all still adjusting to them.

"Worth," gets recalculated all day - the lollipop that you know is impending tooth decay on a stick is worth it when you need to finish that conference call in the car. The rules you make for yourself as a parent or as an adult can go right out the window.

Today I feel hungover and hellacious. All the MAC concealer in the world can hide these bags but a green tea might help. And if the kids are going to be parked in front of the tv, for a bit, it'll be worth it.

Happy birthday, little one!

Dearest John Sawyer,

Two years ago yesterday, I couldn't wait to see you, and your extra day on the inside was both a blessing and a challenge, because I wanted to meet you so much! And then two years ago today, I got my wish, and I remember every detail about it. That day will be imprinted in my mind, if I am very lucky, until I am very, very old. In another letter, I have written you all the details of that day so you can read it with your loved ones. But if it's one thing you have taught me, little one, it's to live for today. And today...

Today, you wake up happy and sing your self to sleep.

Today, you come crashing at me around corners and smash yourself against for me for a powerful surprise hugs.

Today, you say, "I don'knooooow" and hold your little palms to the sky.

Today, you can say, I'm "two" but the "two" sounds more like the "tu" in "tutu" and you usually hold up a few fingers. Sometimes two of them, sometimes three of them.

Today, you proudly shout out the letters that you know when you see them. "H" is your favorite. We don't know why.

Today, you are crazy about apples, apple sauce, and especially apple juice! You ask for " Mama-appa -juzh-bu-Emma-cuh-peeezh?" every morning, which translates to, "Mama, apple juice in my blue Elmo cup, please?"

Today, you love Elmo so much that your entire birthday party is themed around him.

Today, you do a happy dance when you see cookies, leaping from one little foot to the other, and you say "Mmmmmmmmm!" when you get one. You love graham crackers and oreos.

Today, you 'dance" by throwing your elbows back and swinging them. You love dancing, probably because your sister does too.

Today, you love your sister so fiercely that you want to be just like her (again, an admirable choice) though you forget she is nearly six, and you, just two. For example, yesterday, we went for our first sail, and since Emerson took a dip (well, a half dip - the Maine waters were colder than Hampton, and that's saying a lot) you squealed until you dipped your little chubby feet off the side as well. You admire her, you follow her, and you though you both drive each other a little crazy, when I watch you together, my heart grows. I am so happy you have each other to share life with.

Little one, little son, I hope you always feel the love that surrounds you, today and always. You have made me so happy and I wish that same happiness to you every day, today and always. Thank you for being the sparkle in my eyes.

Happy, happy second birthday, my darling son!

Love,

Mommy

Have You Heard?

First, let's start with the backstory: I have bionic hearing. I hear everything, all the time. I hear people whispering in line behind me, I hear all the squeaks and shrieks (thank you, John Sawyer) in my house in the middle of the night, I hear the incredibly subtle underlying soundtracks in movies (heartbeats, mellow rainfalls, and geographically accurate birdcalls) even. I hear my students whispering in the back row of my class and, unfortunately, the subjects they are whispering about, and though they test me at times, I always catch them. I hear it all. 

In one of the great ironies of my life, my husband is slightly hearing impaired, while I am particularly sensitive to noise. We like to joke that, when we are very old, my eyesight will be gone, he won't be able to hear anything and we'll toddle around together. He'll tell me I look beautiful even though I've applied lipstick to my eyebrows, and I'll completely misquote poetry to him and he'll smile in agreement. We like to think we'll balance each other out.

But sometimes my auditory gift is just too much - it can be distracting and annoying. At parties, I hear conversations happening simultaneously on both sides of the room. John's endless renditions of "Elmo's Song" are endearing, but become grating very quickly. And when Emerson plays video games on the iPad, it sounds like they're happening on my shoulder. 

Lately, however, Emerson, age 5, has been saying she "didn't hear me" say certain things. Yet I know her hearing is perfect. 

"I didn't hear you, Mommy!"

Mommy ain't buying it.

I know that 5 is a distractable age, but at the risk of sounding melodramatic, her words seem particularly manipulative as ours is a semi-hearing-impaired household, so my husband's actual inability to hear her sometimes does not equal Emerson's choice to deliberately ignore my words. 

Yes, I can understand how she "didn't hear me" when I was on the phone with my boss, when I surreptitiously asking her to stop leaping on a sheet of bubble wrap, gesturing silently and wildly for her to cut it out whilst the bubble wrap emitted pops that sounded like gunfire. 

And yes, perhaps she "didn't hear me" when I asked her to get a diaper for me as I chased her mid-potty-training brother, who was also in medias poop and left a package on my bathroom floor. And her bedroom floor. And his bedroom floor. 

Maybe she didn't hear me when I asked her to quit squirming in her chair at breakfast at the risk of  knocking over my life force Starbucks unsweetened green iced tea and John Sawyer's bowl of Cheerios and sliced peaches. Both were full and untouched. John Sawyer cried just a little more than I did.

But when I warned her about throwing a foam cube backwards over her head at the trampoline park, and she "didn't hear me" and gunned a stranger in the face with said cube, I had HAD IT. Immediately after the cube-in-face moment and subsequent apologies, I informed Em she was tv/iPad/iPod/computer free for the day. 

"Are you listening, Em? I told you not to throw that cube, and you heard me and did it anyway. Luckily that nice lady wasn't hurt, but you lost all of your privileges today. No devices."

"I heard you, Mommy."

I expected to hear grumbling all the way home. I expected to hear her cry at the injustice of being taken to task. Here is what I have heard instead; I have heard my daughter:

• Singing dozens of songs on-key (which is a genetic mystery) while playing with her dolls 
• Creating multiple drawings for all family members
• Reading four books aloud
• Building an elaborate railway system for her napping brother
• Making a list of menu options for the upcoming week
• Generating a Christmas wish list and belting out holiday songs with new words

Now that's what I like to hear. 

In addition to being a Gold Medalist in the Hearing Olympics, I also tend to be a perfectionist. I want things to be done completely, thoroughly, and hopefully, with a little bit (or a lot) of enthusiasm and style. I am  used to my students listening (or pretending to listen) when I teach. So maybe my expectations are a little high. Coupled with the onset of summer, and with it, my idyllic dreams of fun days with my kids, maybe my expectations skyrocket. Like most teachers, I want to pack each day with as much fun, laughter and excitement as possible, so I can reach back for these happy days when I'm up to my ears in college recommendations and work obligations, and take a sip from them like they're a nice, relaxing glass of wine. With that being said, I'm afraid I may turn into Chevy Chase in vacation when he informs his kids, that they're "On a quest...a quest for fun!" and well, here's the rest: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=makeONYZfXM

I want to give my kids happy experiences, for their own memories as well as my own. And like all quests, sometimes we get lost along the way, but we discover something else pretty cool. Sometimes things backfire - in a perfect way. Sometimes, you just have to listen.

Week in Review: Neat and Complete? Oh, but no.

As I get older, I am aware of my affection for things that are “neat and complete.” Like the perfect card that gets mailed on time, the playdate that goes by smoothly, and the laundry that is washed, folded and put away. These days, completion seems to bring me a satisfaction that has no parallel.

On Thursday, I had such a day – I completed the in-text vocabulary list of a 500+ page summer reading book that I’ve never taught before, ordered new textbooks and finished some administrative tasks connected to my new position, and, in an attempt to make my health and fitness a priority, saw my terrific nutritionist who is really helping me to turn my diet around. On my way home from my appointment with her, I stopped at a farm stand and, inspired, bought tons of fresh fruit and veggies that we all enjoyed that day.  We swam, had showers and a nice dinner, and went to bed happy and exhausted. 

Neat and Complete, right?  Evidently the duration is only about twelve hours. Because the last day and a half has been a mess.

Yesterday I was preparing for my parents’ 44^th wedding anniversary, which is also my dad’s birthday. I planned to write something cute on one of the slates my husband keeps in the basement, pose the kids for a little photo on the porch swing (while strategically leaving out the windowsills that have been scraped down for our next home project – trim painting). On my quest for chalk, I headed to the garage and stepped on a silver of glass that lodged itself in the pad of my left foot and I almost went through the ceiling.

After trying to dislodge it myself with tweezers, a hot shower, and a lot of prayer, I called my dad to watch the kids while I headed to Winchester Hospital (where they’re masters of delicately removing things – they once extracted a fake Styrofoam sparkly berry from a shoplifted Christmas ornament Em stuck up her nose when she was three). ANYWAY, plucking out glass is a lot more intricate that it sounds; I had an x-ray, lots of paperwork, and a genius nurse named Allison who took it out in less than two minutes.  Thank God. But in the midst of all this, I forgot a hair appointment, missed a barre class, and managed to piss off both of my kids so they decided to fight with each other all day.

After the glass in foot disaster yesterday, I thought today would be simpler. It was not. Much like an unfinished play that constantly begs for revision, my life is messier by the minute. I will spare you all of the gory details, but here's a small plot outline. If I tell it in third person, it's easier to laugh about it:

Setting: LuluLemon dressing room

Cast: MARLA, filled with newfound confidence and excitement to buy workout clothes, her daughter EMERSON, her son JOHN, and his overflowing DIAPER

Plot summary: After trying on a few items, MARLA lifts JOHN out of his stroller to give him a snuggle and realize his entire stroller is full of poop, as the DIAPER has somehow disintegrated. 

EMERSON (horrified, shouting): OH NO! THERE IS POOP EVERYWHERE - IT'S DISGUSTING! JOHN, THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE! YOU ARE SO GROSS!

JOHN giggles in response.

SALESGIRL (knock knock): Is everything okay in there, Maria?

MARLA: Um, it's MARLA, actually, and I think we have everything under control. Thank you.

There is absolutely no conceivable way that the recovered wood dressing room doors provide any protection against the stench emanating from the usually sweet JOHN. MARLA digs all the wipes out of the package in the back of the stroller, changes JOHN into an outfit she originally intended to return, and tried to recover some dignity on the way out the door while smuggling a plastic bag full of refuse, including the malfunctioning DIAPER under her arm.

...and scene.

For Good

In a reflective moment of post-graduation melancholy, I have been listening to “For Good” from the Broadway musical “Wicked” in various forms. The original cast version (Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenowith) is incredible, and the crush I developed on Anna Kendrick after “Pitch Perfect” is only escalated her performance with Kristin Chenowith here  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEdnIvnCko8 

It’s an ode to growing and outgrowing each other, and it’s perfect for us as teachers, who, if we are very lucky, are told that “we change lives.” But if we are very, very lucky, we are changed ourselves.

I've heard it said,

That people come into our lives

For a reason

Bringing something we must learn.

And we are lead to those

Who help us most to grow if we let them.

And we help them in return.

Well, I don't know if I believe that's true

But I know I'm who I am today

Because I knew you.

…

It well may be

That we will never meet again

In this lifetime.

So, let me say before we part:

So much of me

Is made of what I learned from you.

You'll be with me

Like a handprint on my heart.

And now whatever way our stories end

I know you'll have rewritten mine

By being my friend.

…

Who can say if I've been changed for the better

But because I knew you.

I have been changed for good.

It’s melodramatic to say that every student changes our lives, but they exist for me in groups. TrevorMaddieMaxAileen exist for me as one beautiful, intelligent, intertwined conglomerate. CeciliaAmyPaige were truly the beating heart of the dance program this year. I could go on and on, but I will keep it simple: I thank them for a terrific year, and I certainly have been changed by their energy, enthusiasm, and exuberance.

Mother's Day Musical Musings: Where Am I?

I’m always amazed at the tactile and transformative power of a song to bring me back to a time in my memory. Maybe it’s universal, but when a certain song comes on the radio, I’m suddenly transported back in time. It’s practically palpable.

On Mother’s Day, I was at Saint Anselm College. Well, not really.

While my NH alma mater certainly holds a place in my heart for a million reasons, I was actually in Maine, Kennebunkport to be exact, eating a long-awaited lobster roll with my husband and my littles. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and we had a great time together. But Sunday’s siren song is always behind us, so while I could have stayed, shopped and snacked all day, we had to get home to the inevitable prep that late Sunday afternoons always demand.  A little grumpily, but with the martyrdom only moms can have, I got into the car to head home on the highway.

On the drive, the kids were happy, tired, and sticky (thank you Ben &Jerry’s “Two Free Scoops for Moms”) but they were beginning to get into that weird hyper phase that precedes a nap, exacerbated further by their carseat captivity. So Peter and I decided to pick out some calming tunes to soothe the backseat savages. Peter chose classic 70’s rock songs, as always. But my choices surprised me. I chose songs that took me right back to college, songs that anyone who graduated in the 90’s would find on their “Chillax Playlist.” But this time I chose them for different reasons.

When I was in college, my favorite song was “All I Want” by Toad the Wet Sprocket, a 1992 classic introduced to me by a dear friend. At the time, the cache of “I found the coolest alternative band” was as impressive as the song was, but again, the lyrics spilled over into my life. http://www.metrolyrics.com/all-i-want-lyrics-toad-the-wet-sprocket.html I loved it, and listening took me right back to sunny days on the Quad, watching people play Frisbee when I should have been at Humanities lecture.  The lyrics repeat “All I want is to feel this way/ To be this close, to feel the same” and it’s just how I felt at that moment: young, invincible, happy and free. After I graduated, “Stay/Wasting Time” by Dave Matthews Band became my anthem – a semi-sexy little ode to being in the moment, to love, and to chilling out and being young that captured my heart. http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/davematthewsband/stay.html. 

What I realized, though, was that the songs I was wistfully choosing about being young and being in the moment still had relevance right now. Yes, my “present” is very different than what it was when I first heard those songs. True, my “moment” isn’t spent lying carefree on the college lawn, knowing the people I loved most were right on campus with me. But I remember being in that moment too – feeling lucky that my family afforded me the chance to attend such a beautiful college, lucky that I felt loved and valued, lucky that I was studying something that spoke to me so clearly. I was also afraid of not finding the right job, worried what path my then-boyfriend and I would take, and overwhelmed by the thought of the future outside my safe college cocoon. Being in the moment wasn't about the perfection of the moment - it was about being there, and being aware of what I was thinking and feeling.

There have been so many moments since my college days. My outfits, my body, and my definition of “family,” have changed substantially (my erratic sleeping patterns, ironically, are identical) but that realization of where I was in space and time, was a special one. I was with the ones I loved. We had laughed together and played together. we had celebrated my birthday and Mother's Day, and we had more responsibilities to meet together. So yes, the time was passing, but it was passing together. And zipping down the highway being pensive was something that would happen again and again, with music playing in the background. Maybe I'll be driving Emerson to her first day of college, when she's nervous and excited. Maybe I'll be coming home from a hockey game with my son, when he's proud and beaming, or exhausted and disappointed. The moments of reminiscence will always come as we make more and more memories, but looking around is always better than looking back, and though my ears may request songs of the past, my eyes will be on the ones I love. 

So where am I? In the words of the Dave Matthews Band, "Where you are is where I belong/ I do know, where you go, is where I wanna be." So that's where I am: in the moment. Because it's the best place to be.

Untitled and Unfinished

When I told my father I wanted to become a teacher, he flinched. Not because of the traditional reasons, such as the limited financial possibilities, or the fear that my career might mirror his own short teaching career in the 60’s, where race riots and metal detectors were the norm at Medford High. No, he was nervous that I’d get hurt. At the time, I thought I might want to teach kids with special needs, and he (correctly) speculated that I would want to adopt them all and take them home, that I would want to hold them all, hug their hurts away, and potentially give too much of myself to them. But a few courses in, my lifelong love of literature and writing solidified my true calling as an English teacher, and I am sure my father was relieved. But I am also sure he didn’t expect the hurts to come in a completely unexpected and sad way, like when I lose a student. It has happened too often, and the list is too long.

Steven DeMarco. Allan MacLean. Jeff Flores. Jason Graham. Jimmy McGonagle. Steve Baxter. Ross Alameddine. Carolyn Smallcomb. Alyssa Nanopoulos. Patrick Barry.

Most of them were barely twenty, and though they are united in the fact that they all left us too soon, that they all attended Austin, and that they left holes in our hearts, they are as different as shells on a beach.

Losing them hurts in a way I never expected, and never completely goes away. As an English teacher, I feel sometimes connected to my students in a special way, as so much of what they learn and contribute in my class involves a give and take, or a revelation of personal history. They write about their feelings, their fears, their triumphs and reactions. They joke about their families and friends, they find themselves, their opinions, and pieces of their future selves in new and surprising ways on the page. They are often braver on paper than they are in speech, for the mere distancing of those words in writing from their physical selves means they can shape them, own them, and change them. In the fall, they are nervous and expectant; as the seasons change, so turns their dedication, and by spring, the warm weather awakens their silly side, and everything becomes relaxed and happy. By  the end of springtime, we know each other well, we have tested each other, we have become friendly. And when we all leave for summer vacation, we feel good. Happy to have known each other, and, in a positive way, to have outgrown each other. Spring and summer are usually wonderful. 

But when Ross Alameddine died in the spring of 2007, it wasn't just Austin's pain; it was the nations. In April of 2007, Ross was one of the victims in the Virginia Tech shooting. I had known and adored his older sister for her charismatic personality and adorable ability to make anyone smile. She was petite, lively, and hilarious, and though I had not actually taught her in class, she was one of my dancers, she had attended my alma mater, and she had even lived in the same dorm room on the first floor. Ross was one of my students; he had taken my Creative Writing class as a senior in the spring of 2005, and had impressed me in a totally different way; he was as articulate as he was intelligent, quirky and unique, wonderfully gifted and unabashed. I adored him in a completely different way, and though I hadn’t directly spoken to him after his Austin graduation, I still had his senior picture posted on my file cabinet. 

I was driving to my mom’s house when my cell rang.

“Marlz?”

“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

“Did you see the news? There was a school shooting in Virginia. At Virginia Tech.”

“Oh, Christ. Was it bad?”

“Honey, I think one of the students – one was from Austin. I think - I think he was one of yours."

When I arrived at my mom’s house, the news was on, and seeing the same senior picture I had taped to my file cabinet broadcast across the news was gut-wrenching.

Our school was in shock. When I was asked by our Campus Minister to say a few words about Ross at the Memorial Mass to be held at our school, I was so honored and humbled to be the person who could give voice to the eloquent and exemplary young man who graced my classroom. But I couldn’t find the right words to capture him. I spoke about his intelligence and excellence as a writer. I spoke about the way he was so comfortable in his own skin; how he was a terrific dancer, how he fixed my computer weekly, how he sought out new and obscure bands. I spoke of the way he ducked his head and smiled to the side when he read his work aloud, how he adjusted his glasses and nodded a little like, "Yeah, that was pretty good," when it was excellent. I said I was sorry he was gone, that I knew he had so much more to share, and that the world he would have created and shaped would be different now. I said I was lucky to have known him, that we all were, and that I was proud to have shared laughter with him and applauded his successes. I said that his short life gave us a glimpse of what could be, and I was so grateful for it. I read some of his poetry and choked up halfway through it. 

His wonderful friends stood up and shared memories of him from his elementary school days all the way through his life. They were eloquent, honest, and real, just as he was. They wore their "Rosslets" - turquoise rubber bracelets with "Rossmo" stamped on them. And while I could never take any credit for the people they became that day, a piece of me is so happy to have known them, taught them, and been there for them when they were young, because I was able to see them when they were kids, and I have the privilege of watching them grow. 

How I wish they all had more time. 

Today I'll wear turquoise for him, and my classes will pray for him. Much like this post, things will feel unfinished and sad today.