The Way We Were

Teaching in a high school gives me a rare perspective of aging; I can see where I've been, when I am going, and often, I get a glimpse of what I must look like to my students. A few years ago, one of my female students rolled her eyes at me and said, "Ms. P, you have NO idea what it's like to be a kid." And while a piece of me secretly congratulated myself on appearing so together that this student thought I was a mature, well-adjusted adult (HA - she didn't see the package of Swedish Fish I was planning to eat for breakfast in my purse) another piece of me looked back at my high school days and the way things seemed back then, and the images we all project now.

I was lucky. For some, high school is a battlefield, one whose scars last longer than the battle itself. But I loved high school. I loved my friends, I loved being a cheerleader, I loved finding my way through those years with a combination of teenage trepidation and bravado. I loved taking my first steps into adulthood and falling flat on my face (literally and figuratively - I tripped down the stairs and fell on my chin in front of my football player crush. Well, one of them.) As an only child, I loved the closeness of our class, and the way my friends became family. I would like to think I was kind and fair most of the time, though I know I wasn't always, but whether running from the cops at Florence Park, swaying on the gym floor at one of the dances, cheering on the sidelines, or navigating our first heartbreaks and heals, we seemed to have fun all the time. 

Going to my reunion last night was as fun and exciting as high school was, and connecting (or re-connecting) felt easy and fun. The faces looked the same (although the nametags helped!), and warmth and hilarity was still underlying most of the conversations. As kids, 25 years ago, there was no way to tell that we would still be friends, or even want to, but as the night wore on, we broke off into groups, shared stories, reminisced, moved around and started all over again. There were tears of laughter, old jokes revisited, and photos taken again and again. Sure, parenthood and life in general had changed us, but not in the ways that mattered; we still have a lot to laugh about. And what stories we'll have to share with our kids - if they are lucky.

Being Saved

In a prior post, I had written about losing my students, and about the effect it has had on me as a teacher. Imagine a chance to get a piece of one of them back.

Let me start with an admission: I have hoarding tendencies. I am extremely sentimental, so the treasures my students give me for holidays, birthdays, or end-of-the-year gifts are extremely precious. Not only do they mark a sweet and specific time in their lives, but they also hallmark milestones in my early teaching career. When I was hoping beyond hope that I was reaching my students, it was wondrous  to receive a gift like the sweet shell my students painted on vacation to give to their "favorite teacher." Or the 7th grade baseball trophy with "Your (sp) the best teacher ever" taped over its base. These treasures are priceless in every way.

That being said, after a 20 year a career, I have been blessed with multitudes of cards, letters, books, and little treasures. I want to keep every one of them, and I have managed to do so fairly effectively.

I usually try to purge at the end of the year, while my students are industriously engaged in their exams, and I can sort through the materials I've collected, and no longer need. Last year I parted with volumes of potential textbooks that I received during my tenure as an Adjunct Professor at Bentley; yes, I had saved them merely because they were addressed to "Professor Pascucci" (and yes, purists, I realize I am not a true professor…yet).

But this year at Austin, there was a bit of an upheaval over the summer; the new construction and division of some of the classrooms resulted in a great deal of old things being removed from the building. Though I wasn't directly affected, my classroom got a new floor (and, thankfully, the rug that looked like the setting of multiple crime scenes was finally removed) and my enormous locked cabinet in my closet-free classroom was moved twice, and the contents threatened to explode into my new, pristine room.

So, during a particularly blue day, I decided to sort through some of the videotapes (!) that I had stored in there. And my breath caught.

For in a boyish, seventh-grade scrawl, I saw the name Steve Baxter. Steve was one of my bright, brilliant students with deep intelligence, dry humor and wit and sharp sarcasm. He loved words and writing; he was lyrical and natural and honest and artistic in everything he wrote. He was also gone from this life far too soon. And now I had a piece of him. And I had to share it with his family.

A quick scroll on Facebook yielded his mother's name, and a visit to the White Pages gave me her number. Terrified but determined, I placed the call, and when her machine picked up, I said something like this, which was what I left as her Facebook message: Hello, Mrs. Baxter,
I was Steven's English teacher at Austin Prep years ago; I still teach at Austin, and I found a video Steven and his friends made in grade 7. While the quality isn't super clear, Steven is behind the camera as well as in front of it, and I thought you would like to have it. Please contact me at your convenience at (xxx) xxx-xxxx.
Marla Pascucci-Byrne

Within an hour, she had called me, and was on her way to meet me at school. We embraced in the doorway and reminisced about her beautiful son. She gave me the advice to "enjoy my beautiful children" before she left to bring the video to Steve's father, as today was his father's birthday, and they planned to watch it together. 

In a confluence of chance and clutter, I had made someone's day better, and, at the risk of sounding trite (which wouldn't honor that bright, beautiful student of mine) maybe the things we save can save us.

The War of the Words

As a lover of words and language, I actually enjoy ferreting out the perfect and proper words for any situation. And though I have little in common with Jonas' mother from The Giver, I know I have said "Precision of language, please!" to my students many, many times. When my friends tell me I'm articulate and eloquent, I feel like it's the highest praise. But this is one of those times when words are escaping me, and the complexity of their usage is leaving me confused. 

What's the correct word for feeling both blessed and overwhelmed? For feeling happy and sad at the same time? For feeling blessed with not one, not two, but three jobs I love (motherhood, teaching, and teaching dance) and sometimes, they all drive me crazy? Some days, I feel like I can decompress - but what's the difference between decompression and depression?

There are a million blogs and articles that outline the roller coaster of motherhood: the incredible highs, the crushing lows, and all the minutiae in between. But what about the flashing speed with which things change? What is it called when your day swoops and whooshes, and sometimes crashes? Then there's a peaceful lull…until the next turn? You can practically hear the clattering of the car as it click-click-clicks up the incline.

At the risk of sounding overly metaphorical (who, me?) I will offer some real-life verbal snapshots that all happened in one day, and maybe you can make something out of them:

• The window I thoughtfully left open for cool air turned my bedroom into a freezer.
• The sweet son who breaks into a run to hug me when I come home became a needy koala  encircling my neck. He will not allow me to put him down, and literally curls up his feet and howls when I try to put him on any surface.
• My darling daughter makes me a beautiful picture with markers. It's heartfelt and detailed and precious - and in Sharpie marker that has seeped through to the couch.
• The skinny jeans I was so happy to fit into are now too big at the waist and are continually snaking down my hips. While this is a positive thing, it means I spend more time hitching up my jeans than a cowboy. I have not the time, money nor energy to purchase new ones at this point. Yee-haw. 

This isn't the first time that I have had a tough time finding a word to ; when I was pregnant with my son, my husband called to ask what he should pick up from the store. The exchange went like this:

          "So what do you need, Marls?"

          "Um, you know, the stuff? For the morning?"

          "No, can you be more specific?" 

          "You know, the stuff that you put on the thing…(gesturing pouring with one hand while holding the cell in the other)"

          "I honestly have no idea what you are talking about."

          "The STUFF, Pete! It's white? You put it on the cereal!"

          "Um, (chuckle) 'milk'?"

          "Yes."

I have a degree in Linguistics, but trying to come up with the word "milk" was like trying to pick up an ancient, crumbling file from a dusty file cabinet. I'll blame baby-brain for that incident.

Fortunately, my word-blockage isn't contagious. In fact, while I seem to be at a loss for words (or at least the correct ones), John Sawyer's long-awaited "language explosion" is taking place; he is stringing words and ideas together faster than he ever has before, and they happen to be hilarious. The other day, after I had smooched on his rosy cheeks, I told him, "John John, you're delicious!"

          "No, YOU de-la-la, Mama!"

          "John John, YOU'RE de-li-cious!

          "Mama, YOU de-la-la!"

And on it went. Two days later, out of the blue, while driving in the car, I heard his little voice peep up.

          "Mama?"

          "Yes, buddy?"

        "YOU de-la-la!" followed by fits of baby laughter, which might be the sweetest sound in the world.

So maybe the answer is a word I haven't learned yet. Maybe it's not paradox, parallel, dichotomy or contradiction. Maybe it's not a word, it's a feeling - a wave that rolls out and back in with regularity.

Tonight, I will leave you with the truest words ever spoken by my daughter: "Mommy, I still love you, even when you're mean."

Sigh…and the wave rolls out.

First Grade

We did so many things this summer: went on adventures near and far, saw many (but never enough) friends, and, most importantly, made memories and milestones. Em learned to swim underwater, John Sawyer learned to squeak, shriek and demand "Beppa Bee - snork" which is his way of asking to watch his Peppa Pig video. (The animated piglet enthusiastically announces 'I'm Peppa Pig' and then snorts the way we do when we've laughed too hard, and hearing John's version of this in his baby voice is hilarious. But I digress.)

Anyway, it was a summer of firsts in a lot of ways: the first time we went on a sailboat together, the first time we went peach picking with John, the first time we went on the Swan Boats together, the first summer with our new-to-us swingset and new pirate boat in the yard.  John Sawyer had his second birthday party, but it was his first party that he didn't share with his sister.

And mostly, I was first in command. Don't get me wrong, my husband is a present parent. But like most teacher-parents, we get used to our summer rhythm as the other parent trots off to work, and we become first in command. I am the one that plans the day, makes the meals, cleans the messes and kisses the boo-boos. I am the one who cuddles the Elmo doll, wraps American Girl in her blanket, and picks the snacks for the road. I am the one who packs the bags, brings the extra diapers, wipes and outfits, and remembers the chargers for the various electronic devices that give me a little peace in the car. I am the one who digs under the carseat for the source of the mysterious scent (once it was an apple slice, once a fried clam. Not kidding.) 

Toward the end of the summer, being first was getting taxing. Some days, my calls to my husband increased throughout the day with frequency and frantic undertones. Some days, I couldn't wait to pass the baton when he got home. On those hot summer nights, I would hop in the car, turn up the radio, drive to Target (aka Mom Mecca) and wander the aisles, blissfully alone. Strolling through the store, I could shed the heavy Mommyness of the day, and regain a little of myself. Some days it felt like the summer would never end. Some days, I missed the structure and routine of the fall, and I could feel my hands reaching forward to turn that calendar page.

But it wasn't just the routine of stay-at-home-motherhood that was wearing on me; it was the kids' burgeoning independence. Some days, the kids really pushed their limits. John Sawyer, in an attempt to recreate everything he sees his sister do, went down the slide for the first time, alone. The combination of his wet swimsuit and his chubby little bum made him zoom much faster than either of us anticipated, and he landed a foot from the base of the slide, shocked and crying, reaching his arms to me. Em, in an attempt at newfound confidence, decided to step further into the cold water at Hampton Beach despite my warnings, and a wave knocked her over. She was startled, but stubborn, and kept insisting, "I'm FINE, Mama," even though I could see she was scared. So many little firsts, as they test themselves, and me. 

But tonight...

Tonight, my first born and I are wearing matching pajamas with our names on them, right below a giant pink heart. Tonight, Em went to sleep a former kindergartener, and will wake up a first grader. My melancholy, emotional heart is so proud of the little girl she is: sweet, smart, beautiful, brave and curious. I hope her first day is exciting and fun, and that it goes by so fast.  So many of her firsts already have, and while I look forward to every one of them, and while I know I have to let my children grow up, I hope they will always reach back for me. And I promise I won't mind not being first.

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.