Half Day, No Way

One year ago when I was hunting for a half day kindergarten program there were none to be found. Having the youngest possible kindergartners to be, ones who had never been to preschool, I worried that a full day at school was going to be too much, too soon. Full day was pushing, making kindergarten more than I thought it was intended to be. Every school we considered was full day, and the experts told me I would regret doing anything less.

They were right. Six hours allowed for reading and writing, math and science, but also music and art, multi cultural studies, P.E. and thankfully, library. Once a week they had drama, there were field trips to the theatre, an edible garden and Chinatown, all of which would be eliminated in a half day class. Kindergarten would become an abbreviated period of basic learning without the enrichment available in a full day.

For some children the negative effect of a half day could be minimized, hours away from school still challenging and educational, but for others the reduction in school time could mean an increase in television time, parents who work two or three jobs left scrambling to find adequate child care in the off hours when their six year old was not welcome at school. In a school district where 86% of families are classified as low income, full day kindergarten helps to level the playing field, allowing everyone to step into first grade assuming a similar base of preparedness. Eliminating these valuable hours only widens the gap, when education should be helping it to close.

It appears the school district now agrees. CPS announced today that they will fund full day kindergarten next year, and reduce elementary class size to 33, rather than the proposed 37. Parents have worked hard to make this happen, we certainly appreciate the district listening.

In the Name of Love

Mary has decided to name her first born Laura. Mary is five and unaware that I decided to name her Mary about five minutes before she was born.

Kate: Mom has a friend named Laura.

Mary: Who? I don't know her.

Kate then reported in full detail about the time they met my friend Laura and gave a complete and accurate description of her, including specifics about her partner, Candace. Bells then rang out for Mary,

Mary: I remember! Is she married to that lady?

Me: Not now, but they are thinking about getting married.

Kate: Will there be a wedding? Can we go?

Me: Maybe, but they live in New Mexico. I would love to take you there.

Mary: We would love to go to New Mexico!

Me: And they have two babies.

Kate: Why do they have babies if they aren't married?

Thankfully having two children outside the bonds of marriage is the only part of this conversation that didn't make sense to my children. As we celebrate Pride in Chicago today, I couldn't be more proud of my girls.

And those other girls, Laura and Candace, who I'm proud to call my friends.

Life's Illusions

Soccer, 2008

Monogram Early

The girls, with their class, decorated a tote bag for their teacher. Outlined hands, of multi colors, and in the middle they were asked to write their names. Mary's small hand was done in yellow, and in the middle she wrote MLB, rather than her name.

"Mom, you are supposed to put your initials on bags, not your name".

Of course, it's actually mBl, but we have years. Keep up the good work.

Happy Father's Day

Her father called her Dutch and she adored him. He was older and tall, the consummate father who returned at the end of the day to an orderly home, a loving wife, a son, and one precious daughter.

Dad called me Boo. Saturday mornings were the best part of the week: breakfast at Sydney's, haircuts and car washes, time spent in the uninterrupted adoration of my father who always gave in and sat at the counter.

Mary comes by it naturally, following her mother and great aunt in her all consuming love for her dad. She squeals "DAD" when he walks in a room and for a minute or two there is no one else in the world.

Happy Father's Day, that every little girl should be so lucky.

Image courtesy of Clive Reedman, Flickr

Life's Illusions

Birthdays

Birthdays

Getting older is so much nicer when you are lucky enough to spend your days with these people. Old, certainly, but blessed with friends and family who made turning 40 something you might want to do everyday.

Leaving the Garden

My vision of the last day of school was much like my vision of the first: excited children, crying and unstable mother, happy teacher and a wonderful sense of accomplishment. Things are not always as I envision, Kate having spent the past two days on the sofa full of fever and ilk. Her last day of kindergarten was Monday, thankfully the day they "stepped up" to first grade. What she will remember is the incredible year where she learned to go to school, and not the dismal ending, which must be the silver lining to a truly dreary and unceremonious finale.

Mary bounded out the door today with her father, full of school day eagerness, clearly not really understanding that this was the last day that they would walk to the corner, find a taxi and make the short trip to school. The idea that tomorrow would be lazy and unhurried, without the dash out the door that we have perfected over nine months, was lost on her.

I've missed them, my two always companions. It's time for picnics and beaches, a break from the routine that took so long to establish. Of course I realize now that I will miss this new order, days spent writing, without the constant humm of children. My afternoon dash to the school, waiting for the final bell with new friends, wonderful moms who I have spent the past year getting to know; certainly tomorrow afternoon some internal bell will sound and for just a moment I'll panic that I am late to retrieve the kindergartners.

Kate was fever free and ready to say good-bye to her friends by afternoon; we were in the classroom when the final bell sounded and the former kindergartners made their final dash to the playground door. Excited children, crying mother, happy teacher and a great sense of accomplishment, just as I suspected it might be.

Thank you for a wonderful year, it's been the perfect beginning to a lifetime of learning.

Smelling Boats and Beds

Jack opened the huge box and I stuck my head in for a peek, but rather than see bunk beds I smelled life jackets. Opening this box was like popping open the cargo space on the front of the boat, the one where we kept ropes and anchors, life preservers and assorted, and rarely used, flotation devices. Mine was multi colored where all the others were orange, and mine was worn all the time, my mother being terrified of water. Why she chose to spend every weekend bobbing around on a boat in a state of panic I still do not understand.


The musty boat smell was the same, and it lingers still, days after the new beds have been assembled and occupied by two very happy five year old sleepers. Opening the door to their room is like stepping onto the boat, the big yellow beast that was my summer home for years. The stretch from the dock was always a bit scary, just longer than my five year old legs could reach, but with a quick push from my dad I was on board, racing away to a weekend of wet lake fun.

Why these beds arrived full of musty boat smell is a mystery, but I'm happy they did. I've been away from that lake for a very long time, the old yellow boat sold years ago. Still, the smells take me back there from time to time: breakfast sausage and cinnamon rolls in a tube, circa 1974 Coppertone, Fritos, dead fish, lighter fluid, damp towels and always the cigar. Landmarks along the way let me know we were getting close, the market in Laurie meant we were minutes from the boat. Windy roads that now would leave me reeling were all that stretched between our car and water, the last 10 minutes by far the longest part of the four hour trip.

Buried somewhere in the family photo archives there is a picture of Mimi and me bobbing along in a huge blow up life boat, me in the multi colored life preserver and pink sunglasses and Mimi with a scarf around her head, cateye sunglasses and a cocktail in her hand dangling over the water. We were tied to a dock, I'm certain, serenaded by Johnny Cash, Simon and Garfunkel, and Neil Diamond. The same sounds that woke me every morning, my father singing "I Walk the Line" as he flipped the sausage patties on the tiny stove.

Our nautical years came to a screeching halt when my grandparents decided
they'd rather spend their summer on the golf course and Dad headed for the mountains; my mother was greatly relieved. Years later, after they divorced, my mother put her sailor suit back on when she married my stepfather, a wonderful man who would have been quite happy living full time at the lake. They built a wonderful cottage with a beautiful view and a deck that hung out over the water. The trip was the same, a different turn at the end to arrive just across from where we used to be, and the smell when you opened the door, much like opening the door to Mary and Kate's room, the intoxicating musty reminder of childhood, living now, for a short time, in my children's room.

All Grown Up Now

The one on the right just graduated from eighth grade. He is taller, at least five inches, than I am, long and lanky and topped with a poof of blond hair. He was, just recently, voted Most Likely to Become President Someday. I have no trouble imaging this at all; he is bright, witty, charming, a snappy dancer and completely comfortable talking to anyone about anything. The first time we met he threw up all over me but has not once done so since, and I thank him for that. Yesterday he introduced my girls to his cool eighth grade friends as "the sisters he never had", as if I didn't love him enough already.

The one on the left no longer fits in those boots. She is tall and blond and just won, with her team, the state lacrosse championship. One night, very long ago, she woke me crying, not feeling well, and in the middle of the night I rocked her and found out just how lovely children could be. Once calm, I promptly put on her diaper, backwards, and, begrudgingly put her back to bed. She has always been the child most likely to roll with the punches, falling down and bouncing back up immediately. She is silly, articulate and fun. She leaves notes for her mom on Facebook that make me cry and has never shied away from adults, a quality I find amazing given her advanced years.

Their mothers are two of my best friends, the first to have children in my gaggle of dears. Two mothers I looked to, and modeled, when faced with this daunting task myself. And now their soon to be quasi adults make me a little less scared of the teenage years that lie in front of us. These two are nice people who love their moms, well done ladies.

Life's Illusions

Cowgirl, 1973

Getting a Good Deal on a Sandwich

Certainly you saw it also, the line that snaked around the corner and down the street? I saw it three times today, people standing outside, warm in the sun, spending what I assume to be a good portion of their lunch hour standing in line. Blackhawks paraphernalia, right? Must be, Stanley Cup tshirts or car stickers maybe, clearly that was the origin of the line. Maybe Patrick Kane himself was signing the game winning puck?

One dollar sandwiches at Jimmy John's, from 11-3, for customer appreciation, and let me be clear, people were taking full advantage of Jimmy John's need to show their appreciation. How much does a Jimmy John's sandwich cost on a day when they are feeling less grateful?

The McDonalds in my old office building used to do the same thing. Once a year they would sell those little smashed up burgers with the ketchup mustard combo squirt for around $.50. In a two hour window in which everyone who worked in the building, all four towers of at least 30 stories each, would cram into the lower concourse, gleefully clutching their dollar bill, or perhaps two if they were feeling flush, to spend at least an hour waiting to enjoy the bliss delivered in getting two burgers for one dollar. Colleagues would plan their day around the event, scheduling meetings and calls on the outside of the precious window, years of experience valuable when planning your descent into the madness, choosing just the right person to while away an hour of valuable work time in pursuit of the bargain burger. Much like those who line up on Saturday morning at Costco, having sniffed out the woman with the buffalo chicken in her mini oven, they block the already congested aisles, hoping to be first in line for the free fragment of processed frozen chicken covered in mozzarella sauce. Best to be first I suppose as what remains is surely to be sneezed on by the kid next in line.

Where do you find a good sandwich? Not a chain sandwich, or a gimmicky sandwich, not one that is rolled or flattened or stuffed with french fries. Two pieces of bread, put together by an actual person without a photograph of the finished product before him, layered with things that make a sandwich the perfect summer picnic food. For that I would happily pay full price.

Books For Everyone

Reading makes me a better writer. Reading reinforces proper grammar, increases my vocabulary and makes me a much more interesting dinner party guest. Reading challenges me and makes my bag very heavy.

Not everyone agrees. Schools are closing libraries en lieu of media centers, or because there is no funding for books, or a librarian. We've spent the past year recreating our school library: painting the walls, ordering books, tearing up carpet, cataloging our collection and welcoming back the students who were turned away years ago when the library closed.

Some believe that funds could be better spent elsewhere, or that students who want to read can use the public library, or chose from books they have at home. The reality is that an urban school with a 60% low income population may not be drawing families who have personal libraries, or the time to spend at the public library. Children who spend afternoons at after school programs and don't arrive home until after 6:00 have little time to stop off at the library for a weeks worth of books. Providing access to quality reading material at a place where they spend six hours a day is vital to creating readers, a habit that will keep them learning for the rest of their lives.

Yesterday as I stepped on to the playground I was grabbed by a second grade girl, shrieking, "Ms. Ally! I don't want the library to end!". It's not going to end, we'll be back next year, and the year after that. Books are important, and I appreciate the reminder, everyday.

My Bachelor

"Oh come on, look at this, this is not right".

Looking up I was horrified to see what had happened, Jack and his remote control finger flick habit had stumbled onto the Bachelorette. You look away for just one moment and worlds collide.

"Fiction. Not possible, where did they find all these guys so eager to be married?".

Agreed, in Jack's world there were no shortage of guys happily spending their days in a blissful bachelorhood stupor. Happy hours, drunken barbecues at Don's, last minute trips to New Orleans, his two day per weekend golf habit, combined with the two soon to be divorced dudes bunking on his couch, all compelling reasons to not find yourself as a contestant on the Bachelorette. That each one of his former bachelor loving friends is now married with kids, including my bachelor, was not given consideration.

He was now engaged in true train wreck form, paralyzed from the waist up, unable to move away from the disaster unfolding before him. Oh please, let him doze off, please let him miss this, "Scrapbook is not a verb!", yelled the man unable to properly use a glue stick, "this guy made a scrapbook?".

Jack on the Bachelorette? On principle he would have not offered his jacket to the chilly bride hopeful, refusing to dance the same dance as all the others, and would have suggested, quite likely, that she find something suitable to cover up with, while thinking that either she, or the wardrobe people were not bright enough to remember to pack a sweater. There would be no scrapbook, nor ramblings on love or soul mates, and certainly not a poem. He would not mention his family, or his never ending love for his mother, he would not hypothesize as to the perfect wife nor speculate as to the number of children he hoped would someday bear his name. He would not expound upon his dreamy childhood and the amazing bond that has kept his parents together for forty years. He would not reveal the origin of his tragic nickname, if he had one. In short, he would be a terrible candidate, not at all considered genuine husband material when evaluated on these terms and in the end, sent packing, sans rose.

Worked out well for me, and I always bring my own cardigan.

Life's Illusions

May, 1984

My Sister is a Worm Collector

"Dad! Look, look at all these worms!", and even I squirmed, worms not usually bothersome but a handful of five or more wriggly creatures, ick. She dropped them into a pile in the front yard, rubbed her filthy muddy hands all over the front of her pink flowered sundress and took off to find more, for her always expanding worm collection. The large pink bow in her hair now a little askew, having been pushed back repeatedly by the small wormy hand.

Her sister, dressed in long khaki shorts, a navy blue t-shirt and a baseball cap, recoiled in terror. The very idea of one worm, much less an overflowing handful, sent her racing to the certain safety of the front porch, away from the dirt and insect infested yard. She remained in that safe spot for the better part of the afternoon, watching her sister run from worm pile to dig site and back again.

My Dog is a Plumber

My dog is a plumber. He must be a boy,
Although I must tell you his favorite toy
Is a little play stove with pans and with pots,
Which he really must like, 'cause he plays with it lots,
So perhaps he's a girl -- which kind of makes sense,
Since he can't throw a ball and he can't climb a fence,
But neither can dad -- and I know he's a man,
And mom is a woman and she drives a van.
Maybe the problem is in trying to tell
Just what someone is by what she does well?

-Dan Greenburg

Comfortable Memoires

My cousin and her family spent Memorial Day with us, as did my sister, bringing the total to five adults and four children, all inside thanks to a day long rain that halted most, but not all, of our outdoor plans.

Always a nice reminder, the ease of family and the lack of pretense involved when they come to spend the day. I cook, nothing extravagant, in fact yesterday I cooked the entire life out of a pot of potatoes, deciding to pick up the playroom while they steamed. But rather than rush out to buy more I knew that both Katie and Ashley would arrive with delicious food and not be at all bothered by the potato mush I would serve them. The mush, tossed with arugula, stood bravely by as delicious orzo with asparagus and tortellini with feta stepped up to offer a non cooked beyond recognition side dish option.

I'm happiest with people who know where we keep the water glasses, and don't feel the need to ask if they might use one. Help yourself, there is nothing we don't use, no towels only for display.

As Mary ran screaming into the kitchen, her younger cousin Liam in hot pursuit, wildly waving a golf club, Kate announced "MOM! I stepped in goat cheese!", and in that moment I thought just how much our grandmother would enjoy this madness. And that, for me, was the perfect Memorial Day.