First Words

My munchkin is learning to talk. I yelled down the stairs during bath time, "Baby said his first word!" and his brothers and dad came to listen.

"Ball." It was clear with nice emphasis on the b and a soft ending on the l. He was holding one in his fist at the time, red with yellow stars. He lifted it to his mouth, as he does with just about everything and made another sound. "Baby said his second word!" I yelled again. Or maybe he was just saying, "Ball, ball..." because as he placed it over his mouth again and again, it sounded like he was saying, "Bubble." Hey, we were in the bath tub, so it's not so far fetched. Either way, I'm obviously quite proud.

This is my third baby, so it's not the first time that I've nurtured and observed speech development in my home. I'm still struck by the natural progression. From those early vowel sounds to consonants, I've seen my infant sons experiment, moving their little mouths into various shapes to form words. I've seen them all stare intently at our mouths as we talk and then they'd break into laughter at their favorite sounds. We could always get our first son to laugh by saying, "Cous-cous." Our next son responded to, "Shaky, shaky." This week, Munchkin can't contain his excitement when we fake-sneeze, "Aaaah-choo!" Then there's always the delight he gets from hearing lines from a book. The giggling was contagious last night when he laughed to the rhythm of, "Dum ditty, dum ditty, dum, dum, dum," a line from a board book called Hands, Fingers, Thumb. He's learning by listening, watching, experimenting. We make it fun by giving him fun words to say.

I can't help but connect this process with an activity I've done with my English students to enhance writing instruction. I call it Writers Read, tapping into the idea that writers learn by reading.
It started years ago when I realized that overall my sixth graders were more eager to get lost in a story than they were to put words on a page. Some of the same kids whose hands pressed against their foreheads before their blank paper were the ones who stood by me in the library with book recommendations. I worked to build a bridge between their cherished stories to their own writing. How does the author let you see it, hear it, feel it? What words jump off the page? First, find a book you want to read. Next, uncover what draws you in. Talk about it with your friends and with me. Now try it yourself.

Just as a baby watches his mom form words before he speaks his own, we can invite our students to observe published authors. The key is to draw them in with writing that pleases them. A ball, a bubble, a book. Whatever we put before them, it sure helps if they like it, too.

Third Wheel on the Loose

I can see my school from my kitchen window where I sit. I won't be heading in that direction until August, but the security lights are blinking at me through new leaves on the trees. With my impending return, I've been back in touch with colleagues, especially as our principal tinkers with team configurations for next year. I wasn't surprised to learn that I'll be moved over to the new team they're forming to alleviate class sizes for the 315+ sixth graders on the way. Wow.

I agree with her decision, actually, even as I'm sorry I won't return to the same team I left. She's trying to spread "experience" among the groups, so I suppose I should be flattered. But just last week, I said to anyone who might have been listening at the time, "I won't ever be team leader again." Maybe what they heard was, "I won't ever feed cream to a hen." I'll try to enunciate next time.

The fact is that I'm excited about being a part of a new team. Looking back, there were routines and practices that needed a tune-up, but we had worn deep grooves on the track, making it tough to deviate from the annual plan. The next step, though, is to get our wheels aligned before we start our engine. Here's hoping my new team is also a fan of the open road.

Move Over Mark Zuckerberg

Am I glad I posted 28 out of 31 days? Yeah, I'm glad.

It's April 1 today, and looking back on the last posts of last month, I feel lucky to have a written record of those days. One thing everyone always remarks about as they get older is "How time flies." and it's true. The days slip through our fingers like gack at a YMCA summer camp with those bright colors and the "wow, that's neat" special texture, but once it drops into the bucket and mom comes to pick you up, that gack is only a vague memory. But this March, my memories are not resting in the bottom of a bucket for camp counselors to clean out at the end of the day. Instead, the moments of my day have been composed two or three paragraph posts. I don't have a closet full of journals to capture this part of my life. Life is moving too fast for that, it seems. So thank goodness I have slices.

I just left Writing Group where we spent the last few hours talking about our experience with the challenge, among other compelling topics, such as pacifism, cupcakes, and the cost of anything you want to buy these days ($100). The four of us sliced all month, and I'm going to miss reading their daily posts most of all. As we discussed tonight, a slice of life is almost a genre of its own, one that invites a reader into your life, providing a personal picture window, bringing spice to plain vanilla. Some posts were better than others, but every day is a journey in writing that I feel fortunate to have taken. Forget tweets and Facebook status updates. The Slice of Life is the new black, and I'm wearing it.

Cousin on the Way

Holy moley, my sister is less than a month away from delivering her first baby. She's younger by seven years, so it wasn't likely that we'd have kids together making it a special bonus that her little sweet pea will be only nine months younger than mine. It wasn't long ago that I was the one showing up for weekend dinners with my swelling belly or waddling along on a family walk, but now she's the one growing a little human in there. She called tonight with a status update--she's on a twice weekly routine to the doctors, and between a thin uterus and a breech baby, she could potentially deliver next week.

I remember sitting in the backseat of the car with my brother after church one Sunday when my parents announced that we'd have a baby brother or sister soon. Months later, we visited my mom in the hospital to meet my baby sister. I was dressed in overalls and crooked pigtails that my dad had given me; I got to hold the bunch of balloons. My mom let me hold her as I sat next to her on the hospital bed, her warm arm around me as I held the tiny infant in my arms. Now, she asks me questions about birth, sleep, and breastfeeding. She holds my baby over her round belly, getting in some solid practice while she can.

My own cutie has grown to eight months in what seems like overnight. He sits, he climbs, he even stands, but I can still remember the moment less than a year ago when my husband held our baby's wet little face right next to mine for the first time. This will be her reality in a matter of weeks. I'm looking forward to holding my niece.

...who'll eat anything in a tortilla

It wasn't too long ago that I was bragging about my progress in the kitchen, and while I haven't posted much about it, I'm still getting those dinners on the table. Some new recipes, some old, but each time I put a meal together, I'm pleased to be the one providing the food that my boys scarf down with gusto. The wintry mix today didn't invite any afternoon walks in my neighborhood, so I went without a trip to the store to pick up extra ingredients. I worked with what I had. Pork loin in the freezer thawed and was placed into the oven to roast with a coating of cumin, chili powder, and pepper flakes before I shredded it with sauteed onions and garlic, and then tossed it with cilantro. I wrapped it in tortillas, poured mole sauce, simmering on the stove, and covered it with cheddar cheese. Black beans made it to the plate, too, with avocado, salsa, and sour cream.

Dinner is a main attraction around here, and my efforts don't go unnoticed either. As I stood by the stove, my third grader joined me to say with a hug, "Thank you for making enchiladas. I love you sooooo much." To think there was a time I wasn't even interested in cooking.

Just Another Day in Teacher Town

First, the good news. I've secured a job teaching sixth grade English at my home school. All that worrying for nothing because now I know that I'm headed back to the school where just last year, I grew my baby boy from poppy seed-sized to Butterball turkey. Every day I walked across the soccer field, from my backyard to the door of the cafeteria, my puffy feet in flip flops. That cute little turkey will have a working mommy next year, but at least she can rest assured knowing where she'll be and what she'll be doing. Phew, now that's settled.

This morning, I headed over to the same school as a parent to my eighth grader. I had copies to make and boxes to stuff as a member of the Eighth Grade Promotion Party Committee, and I enjoyed the excuse to visit to find co-workers in motion stopping to share school news and happiness that I'll be back in the fold before long. I stood by the copy machine, imagining what my life might be like next year while the little monkey sat next to me in the stroller, pacifier in mouth, wide-eyed and rosy cheeked. I was counting out copies for homerooms...5, 6, 7, 8, scoop...5, 6, 7, 8, scoop. My phone rang. It was a school number on the screen.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mrs. Mom. Your son is in the clinic. He has a sore throat."

"Oh, thank you. I'm in the next room. I'll be right over."

I pressed End on my phone, pushed stop on the copy machine, and pulled the stroller next door to the clinic where I found my son, flushed and coughing, with the nurse (new since I left) in baffled recognition, still holding the phone. We had passed each other in the office a little while ago.

"I was helping out with some copies," I told her. "I'll sign him out now."

Family, neighborhood, school, work all wrapped into one. Believe me, it doesn't always come together like that, but sometimes they all hold hands and sing Kumbaya.

Weekend Homework

Two brothers sit at the dining room table "working on homework". A notebook lies open before one and a laptop is open before the other.

"Did you know that I love dark chocolate? I mean, I really, really love dark chocolate."
"Why don't you marry it?"

A loud, squeaky sound of tools on wood comes from the other room. Their dad has closed the door to start a building project in his home office.

"That sounded like a giant fart," followed by fart sounds he's making with his mouth.
"Dad, take it easy on the beans."
"I'll be sharing that with dad, you know."
"Yeah. It was meant for him."
Silence. One reaches for a ruler to slide it back and forth on the table.

"It's 2:20."
"No, it's 2:21."
"It's 2:20."
"Seriously, it's 2:21."
"Look at the phone. It's 2:20."
"Too bad Verizon's pretty dumb, too."

Tap, tap on the notebook.
 "Uh oh. I drew 12 panels, and I only need 8."
"That's a tragedy."
"I know. How will I survive?"

More silence. One drinks water from a glass.
The other checks phone for texts.
One looks out the window. He rubs forehead with his hands and places head down on paper.

I decide to intervene, "So are you thinking of starting that comic strip?"
He laughs. "Five more minutes."
His brother chimes in, "You're crazy. I just want to point that out."
"No, you're crazy."

One picks up the camera, approaching me at my laptop saying, "Get ready for a huge picture of your nose." Beep, beep, click. Giggling, "Hee hee hee hee." He runs from the room.

The pencil hasn't touched his notebook since those panels. The keyboard remains untouched. More proof that Sunday should just be a day of rest.

Syndrome Shmyndrone

I was instantly enamored with Lisa Simpson when she proclaimed, "Victory for the middle child!" after Marge sent her on a surprise visit to a camp for the performing arts.  I could relate to her joy, not only as a middle child myself, but also as mother to my middle child. While he had eight good years to be the youngest, I've always thought he was born a middle child, knowing somehow, even when the rest of us were unsure, that he would someday be sandwiched between two brothers. And while I oppose the general view that middle children get the short end of the stick, I still work hard to make sure he doesn't.

Happily, the last few days felt like a victory for our middle child, one I've stayed awake at night worrying that he would never join anything. First, he shared his sense of humor with his school community (and then some) in his school play.  I've never seen him so happy as he headed to the many hours of rehearsal and on stage, listened closely for his cue, and then put his whole body into his lines as Octavius in a child's version of Julius Caesar.

And then this morning, he jumped out of bed early for his first hockey class, a Learn-to-Play session where he finally gets to wear full gear and connect the stick to the puck. Wouldn't you know it, he fell as soon as he hit the ice, but he got right back up to join the rest of the players. Even with his caged mask, I sensed his satisfaction. One save, a goal, and an hour of drills later, he told me in the car that he could have skated all day. I couldn't ask for a better end to the class than that.

I am aware that the general population feels bad for the middle child. It looks like my middle child just might prove them all wrong.

Nap Time

Nap when the baby naps. This is the advice that many people have given me that I rarely follow. There's too much to do, and plus, I'm just not a fan of sleeping during the day. Today, however, was one of those days when that advice was greatly appreciated. Maybe the drop in temperature nudged me toward my decision to finally give in. After weeks of interrupted sleep, days of driving the family train, and one late, late night, I took one hour to close my eyes in the middle of the day and go to sleep.

Kids Today

My eighth grader and I shared a school building for his sixth and seventh grade. I miss seeing him in the halls or his occasional visits between classes (usually to borrow a ruler or ask for more lunch money, but it was a joy just the same). Since I'm not in the classroom for my his final year of middle school, I thought it would be fun to volunteer instead. What was I thinking?

I'm on the committee to plan their eighth grade promotion party, and the first task is to select a theme. We, the parents, narrowed our ideas down to four choices, and the students will read descriptions and select their favorite one. What's on the ballot this year? The Emerald City (as in Wizard of OZ), Hollywood Premiere (walk down the red carpet), Beach Bash (surf's up!), and Anchors Away (think cruise ship). The difficulty here is that each one of these was thought up by individual moms, each of whom believes her theme is #1. I asked if there has ever been a student focus group to brainstorm ideas that they like...and the committee chair looked at me like I had three heads. Guess what her favorite theme is. She's not going to be happy until 300 eighth graders come skipping down the Yellow Brick Road.

My personal focus group of one (my son, of course) isn't crazy about any of the themes, but I'm not sure party themes are designed for boys anyway. Personally, I predict that Hollywood Premiere will come out on top and that Beach Bash will come in second. But then again, I'm not thirteen years old, so what do I know?

Want to weigh in? Put yourself back in middle school and tell me which one you'd choose.

Speaking of Birds

Holy moley, I can barely concentrate on writing this post with all the racket. I don't need to rely on the crocuses to tell me that spring is here--spring is shouting its arrival to the tune of squawks, chirps, whistles, and squeals. The windows were open in my car the other day when we saw a hawk with a most impressive wingspan alight nearby, and I yelled urgently to my kiddos to be alert. That beast looked strong enough to swoop into our car with his claws outstretched and carry any one of my sons off with them (well, maybe not the thirteen-year-old). Fortunately, the light turned green just in time.

This morning I was on my way down my dark street alone to meet some friends for an early run. The bird songs were so loud, they seemed to be shouting some sort of warning, but I couldn't decipher their code. I was on guard for any dangers of the wild kingdom, and I didn't feel safe as I waited on the corner, the light of a streetlamp my only comfort. What good would my cell phone have been? Would my husband take me seriously if he were woken with a call like, "Help! I'm being attacked by a pack of warbling martins!" If the birds sensed danger on my behalf, it was a false alarm. My outing went smoothly aside from a few freak attacks from the side, some fool-hardy chickadees, I'm sure. Meanwhile, I'll keep a wary eye on these first days spring. The weather sure is nice, but sheesh, watch out for those birds.

Story Time

We had a table for nine + baby for brunch yesterday to celebrate my birthday. In keeping with tradition, everyone at the table was asked to share a story about the birthday girl before dessert. This practice, cooked up by my mom, is one of those things that we of the immediate family have known for years. My siblings and parents can whip up a birthday story faster than you can say chocolate icing, but the in-laws and the grandchildren have required a little flour to keep their stories from sticking to the counter. Whenever I'm in the spotlight like this, I wonder if the yarns will uncover some squirm-worthy tale that I'd rather forget (I embarrass easily), but I listen with fascination at what everyone chooses. This last round of anecdotes turned out to be one of my favorites.

1. My dad likes the way I get my boys' things all lined up for school in the morning.
2. My husband was pleased with my work on a surprise painting job I did when he was away.
3. My mother-in-law said she didn't know how nice it was to have a daughter until she met me (no, she didn't have any girls of her own).
4. My sister told of how she's been copying me for years, from my T-shirt color to my dinner plans, which is flattering since I thought I was the one copying her.
5. My brother-in-law likes the way I have turned things that are important to them into pieces of art.
6. My mom remembered how she used to tell me, "You're an ARTIST," and I would yell, "No I'M NOT!" and stomp away. She still thinks she's right.
7. My oldest son described how I forced an [extremely delicious] lemon square on one of his friends, and said friend still asks about my lemon squares whenever I see him.
8. My middle boy laughed about how I yelped loudly about an enormous bird we saw on the road the other day, in fear that it would swoop in the car to steal my children.
9. The baby just sat in a high chair at the end of the table and made really spectacular raspberry sounds. I can't wait for him to tell me what he meant.

Soccer without Borders

On yet another perfect spring day, my son and about ten boys got together for a pickup game of soccer on the back field yesterday. They've been playing on a club team since first grade, coached by my husband, and with the exception of a few players, the core group has been together all along. Practices for the new season start up next week, but they couldn't wait for it. Now they're old enough to call/text/e-mail a time and place, no adults needed except maybe for a ride. One ball is all they need and they were ready to scrimmage for a couple of hours, with only a quick water break on our back porch.

To see them on the field, you might think they're all best friends in the way that they make calls, pass, and celebrate goals. The truth is that the school day reveals the typical web of most adolescent social patterns; they don't all sit at the same lunch table or snag seats together in class. But what's barely visible to the naked eye is that light thread that runs between them. They may break off into groups of three or four in the cafeteria, but they always come together again when they're out on the field. Our middle school feeds into two high schools, and between public and private schools, my thirteen-year-old will say good-bye to a lot of classmates at the end of the school year. There's already a buzz among these guys that the team will stay together--this remains to be seen. For now, I'll enjoy the unity from the sidelines.

Jungle Boogie

I was out on the Town last night to see a band at a small club nearby. No kids, new jeans, a couple of glasses of wine and a cupcake gave me the nutrients I needed to step out of my comfort zone and into the dark and crowded place. Six girlfriends and I squeezed through the crowd with fresh stamps on our hands for a better view of the band. I knew the lead singer and guitarist giving me a little more boogie to those first beats. Next to me, a nice looking guy stepped into the same groove and looked over, "This is great," he said, and I nodded in agreement.

"You've heard her play before?" I asked as I kept on dancing. He glanced from his friends to my group of girls.

"Yeah, you?"

There was a great vibe in the room, familiar tunes pulsing from the speakers. I proclaimed loudly and proudly, "Oh yeah! She's my son's guitar teacher!" And it occurred to me that I might have misread his cue as soon as I gave myself away. His furrowed brow said it all, and he and his friends danced away. Times like these make me glad to be an open book.

Bill and Rupert

Walking out of our neighborhood grocery store today, I overheard two elderly gentlemen chatting on a park bench. One was telling the other, "I was part of the first graduating class of Teacher Town Middle School back when it was a junior high." Knowing that it opened in 1940, I couldn't help but slow down, look back and say, "Wow!" I've been known to be shy, and it would have been completely natural for me to have walked on without a word, but I decided to stop and explain myself instead.

"I taught at Teacher Town Middle School before I had this baby." I said, walking up to this happy pair enjoying the sunny day. We introduced ourselves, shook hands, and talked for a while about what our neighborhood was like when both Bill and Rupert were growing up around here. They both had children of their own go through Teacher Town schools, and the pride they had for their school communities back then hasn't died down. They remember great teachers, hard projects, and the math, oh the math, was not the same math they learned in school.

"Have you been back to visit?" I asked. Neither of them had set foot in the school since the 1970's, so I encouraged them to go in for a tour. A lot has changed in the last forty years or so, even more than the math. I know they would be welcomed there. Bill has heard there's a picture of his class hanging in the hall, and I'm pretty sure I walked by that framed portrait every day at work.

"I can tell you're a great teacher," Rupert told me as we prepared to part ways. I couldn't confirm that for him, but I told him that I try. There's no way for them to know, but I appreciated their heartening words. Teacher Town is a cozy place, so I feel certain that I'll see them again. I'm glad to know their names.

A Walk to the Grocery Store

After a night of frequent interruptions, little one had an even crankier morning here this morning. Judging from the way he was jamming his toys into his mouth with force against his lower gums, it's obvious that he's teething. His calls sounded like a demanding seagull between naps and entertainment. I did as much as I could to distract him, which didn't stop at faux-ballet dancing around his exersaucer to the tune of Beethoven's Wig (it worked).

In the afternoon, my voice worn out from too many verses of The Wheels on the Bus, we took to the sidewalk. It's safe to say that spring is here, thank god, and despite the overcast skies, the chill in the air was only mild. He sat upright in his throne in silent meditation, his eyes wide to look at anything that stretched toward the sky, lamp posts, trees, phone lines. I walked with the top of his sweet, fuzzy head in my view. He was wide awake all the way to the store, and he watched me through my shopping trip as I chose only enough to carry under the stroller including an avocado, oatmeal, ricotta cheese, and juice. It wasn't until we were a few minutes from home that he finally closed his eyes, his head tipping slightly to the side. And for some reason, even after a restless night and a tiring day, my heart swells at the thought of this sweet soul as he fusses, watches, and rests. This is true beauty to me right here, right now.

A Walk to the Post Office

Baby or no baby, we could all list hundreds of things that we can count as "done" on any given day, but there's something about caring for another mini-human that makes each completed task feel like I've reached the peak of the mountain. I could go on and list my long list of feats for the day, but I won't. Instead, I'll assure my readers that I was fulfilled by this day, beyond the satisfaction of putting all that laundry, and beyond the achievement I felt after making dinner in time to attend a volunteer meeting. Between a 6 am trip to the gym and a 10 pm viewing of laughing babies on Youtube with my eighth grader, I found several elusive pacifiers, drank just enough coffee, and watched my nearly mobile baby nearly climb up the leg of the kitchen table. And those invitations? I finished printing and stuffing envelopes. A walk to the post office lead to a trip to the library before we headed back around to the bus stop where my third grader would arrive shortly. Don't I sound so proud?

And then I read the front page of the newspaper, and I considered the contrast between my unremarkable day and what is going on in Japan. It sent a tremor of emotion right through me, leaving a sense of powerlessness too great to comprehend. I shall not complain of my pedestrian existence, nor will I roll my eyes any longer. For each mundane moment, even our walk to the post office, is a blessing indeed.

Mundane in the Membrane

There's a scary mound of laundry growing in my basement, and I'm not proud. I prefer to keep a neat house--clutter gets me down--but it's becoming increasingly difficult these days. In years past, I've maintained what I've thought is a decent system for laundry: a full basket indicates it's time for two washes, one light, one dark; the empty basket remains in the closet, open to anyone's deposits. Isn't that such a neat little system? Wait, there's a catch. The challenge here is to make sure the dirty laundry is washed, dried, folded, and put away before the other basket gets full. Why? When I carry the next basket down, we are kangaroos without our pouches, cars without trunks, our worn clothes drifting aimlessly in the atmosphere. I shudder at the thought of a basketless closet, no place for dirty clothes, just an innocent spot of carpet waiting to be abused with a careless toss of worn socks, underwear, bunched up jeans, etc.

Meanwhile, the modus operandi has crashed and loads of laundry have piled up in a state beyond my control. I've found myself carrying down two or three pieces of clothing to our basement laundry room at a time, just to save my closet from ruin. When there's no home for them there, shirts, jeans, pj bottoms, rest like hobos on a park bench. It's time to clean up and make a respectable living for everyone.

Some good news: at the point of this post, every last piece is clean. I ran load after load today in the hopes that I would also find time to fold it all by the end of the day. Ha. Better luck tomorrow. Until then, I rethinking my methods, and I've got a feeling it will involve those darling boys of mine.

Lights On

People complain about Daylight Savings Time, and when it's time to spring forward, I'm usually in wholehearted agreement. Losing an hour is really the last thing anyone needs. I was up too late last night. I had the rare opportunity to go to dinner with friends while the baby was content at home for an early bed time, so I was ready to make up for the lost hour by skipping a morning run to enjoy the quiet of the morning with my eyes closed. As it turns out, babies and DST don't mix. At least an hour earlier than usual, I heard the regular calls from the other room. This cutie doesn't wake crying, and that's a plus, but I'm the one person in the house who can't sleep through his happy chatter as he rolls from side to side in his crib. Really, why would I resist anyway? Because as soon as I walk in the room, his head pops up to look at me, toothless and blissful, rays of light practically shining from his yellow bed sheet. This morning, I would have been happy to get a little more shuteye--and the lack of sleep followed me all day, dull but incessant. No luck and extra coffee didn't help, either.

We were all visiting my sister's house this evening, but it still felt like the afternoon. The sun warmed us in in the backyard; thankfully, the cool air kept me awake. Yesterday, the darkness would have signaled the end of the day, but tonight the light brought an optimism for the spring that and summer that lies ahead. I might not have had the energy for it today, but I see long days in my future. It's time to rest up so we can enjoy them.

Sliding Home

I spent the morning with my son at his school to rehearse and paint a set for a show at the end of the month.  It's not surprising that when they asked for volunteers to mix colors and paint, I raised my hand high. We all took our shoes off to walk over the massive mural. That part was fun, just as I imagined. I also got to see my third grader, the one who was too shy in pre-school to say "here" during a fire drill, move on the stage with confidence and a grin. That part was even more fun.

The best part of the morning, the part I wasn't expecting, was when I was all alone. On this quiet Saturday morning, no classes in session, I headed down to the art room to wash some brushes. Bright colored paper lined the halls, a collage of self-portraits and temples of Ancient Rome, and the floors shined, perhaps untouched since they were polished and buffed when the children left the day before.  This year I miss being in school, and spirits of the week's activities, the familiar laughter and chatter in the halls, the scribbling of the pencils, and the call of the teachers' voices glimmered warmly. It energized me and since no one was looking, I ran down the empty hallway, sliding in my stocking feet, and it felt like I could take flight.