Heart Breaking Plans: Run or Hide?

This post shooting conversation was different.

Perhaps because they are now thirteen, or maybe because they are both looking at high school in the very near future, or possibly because they are more political now than ever before, but this conversation was different.

They have a plan. My children have a tangible plan for what they will do if this kind of horror ever finds its way to their schools. No longer can we talk about the good, or look for the helpers; they aren't buying that line any more because they know that this is real and this happens and it could happen in the very places that they feel safe nine months of every year.

Mary has a hiding place, a spot she has identified in her school as a place she feels will shelter her from a shooter should someone get in her building. Kate has no such place but worries because two of her classes are held in rooms with one glass wall, "it would be like a fish tank Mom, a shooting gallery", so she'll run. They've spent time discussing this, and last week they discussed it with me.

No parent should need to discuss with their children where they will go when someone with an assault rifle gets into their school, and no child should ever have to make this plan.

But there we were, discussing the pros and cons of hiding versus running, the security measures in place at both schools, which teachers they feel will protect them, and the importance of speaking up if something feels wrong. There we were, last Thursday, having a very real conversation about what exactly my children would do if someone came into their school intending to kill them and their friends with an assault rifle.

Maybe this conversation was different because my children are no longer asking "why?".

They are planning and in that, accepting this as normal. It's not, it can't be. I'm angry, you should be too.

Alexander Hamilton: Before We Rapped We Read

Hamilton with his nemesis Burr

Every year on January 11th, or, if that glorious day falls on a weekend, the nearest weekday, I read just one book to every class at Alexander Hamilton Elementary School, "Duel! Burr and Hamilton's Deadly War of Words", by Chicago author Dennis Brindell Fradin (sadly attempts to lure him to Hamilton School have been unsuccessful). January 11th, Hamilton's birthday, is celebrated with great gusto at his namesake school, in fact the founding father himself has visited almost every year (quite confusing to some younger children who were almost certain that he was dead).

Before there was a healthy school, there were cupcakes for every child, and a school wide birthday sing along lead by the choir or the music teacher or a willing guy with a guitar (thankfully for my children this celebratory task was never assigned to me). My self designated role on the greatest day of the year has always been to read about Hamilton and to talk about his accomplishments and his shortcomings. To remind children that while what he might be most well known for, until recently, was his tragic death, that his list of achievements is long, and often overlooked.

Three things that students are expected to know:

1. He was never, ever a President,
2. But he was the first Secretary of the Treasury, and
3. His face is on the $10 bill; one of only two men to never serve as President honored in this way.

Older students get to listen to me blather on about his leadership in the creation of our system of finance (and his advocacy for reasonable public debt), his want of a strong Federal government, his role in the compromise to unify the states and locate the new capital in northern Virginia, and his mad writing skills, most notably found in that page turner, The Federalist Papers.

We do not discuss his indiscretions, poor decision making skills or Maria Reynolds.

Talking with children about history is fun and interesting. When you create stories, rather than facts, it's engaging. Of course when you create awe inspiring musicals that sing, dance and rap the story it's even better. Teaching children history is important because some day it might be cool to know exactly who this founding father without a father really is; students at Hamilton School already do (I hope).

Kindergarten classes are spared the tragic and sad story of the duel. Conversations with young classes focus on the idea of honor and the long held belief, and hope, that Hamilton shot into the air.

July 11th marks the anniversary of the duel, fought in Weehawken, New Jersey 212 years ago. 

Books We Love to Read

Duel! Burr and Hamilton's Deadly War of Words, Dennis Brindell Fradin and Larry Day
Alexander Hamilton: The Outsider, Jean Fritz
Aaron and Alexander: The Most Famous Duel in American History, Don Brown
The Duel: The Parallel Lives of Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr, Judith St. George

No Need to Apologize, We All Do It

It seems, in recent weeks, that we have become an exceedingly polite society. My Facebook news feed is now littered with posts imploring me to please excuse this friend's need to support the troops, or this friend's need to fly the American flag. Some of my friends go so far as excusing themselves for reciting the Pledge of Allegiance or, now my current favorite, the seasonal "please pardon me for saying Merry Christmas". When did this happen? We need to excuse ourselves for politely offering a seasonal greeting to those we meet during the holiday season? Who, exactly, are you offending?

An informal poll conducted last week by me, via email to friends who do not celebrate Christmas provided this information: none of them are offended when someone says Merry Christmas to them. Not one. Now, if you were to give them a creche that lights up and plays Silent Night on constant repeat, or a large gold cross to hang on the front door, perhaps that might be offensive, but a simple Merry Christmas, always welcome.

Five of seven days per week I begin my morning by pledging allegiance to the flag of the United States. Not once have I apologized for this reckless behavior. I have not felt guilty, embarrassed, coerced or dirty. One day recently the speaker wasn't working in the fifth grade classroom and we missed the morning announcements. About an hour into our day one of the students remembered and asked if we could stop what we were doing to say the pledge. Four days after the attacks in Paris he suggested we take our moment of silence that follows the pledge to remember the victims in Paris. Our children and our schools are not so bad; why do we keep insisting that they are? When was the last time you pledged allegiance to the flag? I don't need to repost the pledge on Facebook to prove my patriotism. I do so by studying and understanding American history, by showing respect to the president of the United States, by participating in the political process and by not expecting others to believe exactly as I do.

This sign appears in the front window of an Ohio bakery. And the sheriff of Harris County, Georgia posted this message next to the Welcome to Harris County sign: WARNING: Harris County is politically incorrect. We say Merry Christmas, God Bless American and In God We Trust. We salute our troops and our flag. If this offends you...LEAVE!

This Trumpian form of patriotic bullying seems counter to everything good about living in the United States of America. Those who boldly proclaim their patriotism by excluding and offending others seem to be missing the point, which is unfortunate, especially at this time of year.

When did it become politically incorrect to show respect to others?

Hi Ho Hi Ho, Off To Middle School They Go

One week from tomorrow they start middle school. It sounds dramatic but in our small school in our giant school district, the move to middle school is not terribly noteworthy. They will be in the same building, the one that's been home since kindergarten. They'll have some of the same teachers, and some new ones, as is the case every year. They'll eat lunch in the same place, go to the same library and gym, and if they would like, they may still play on the same playground. And even though it's not a huge change, they will be part of the middle school, which means something, certainly to them. Right now they see very tangible differences:  no Halloween costumes on October 31st, at least not at school (big plans are in the works for after hours, presidential hopefuls are being discussed); lockers (logistics of which are causing some confusion); after school walks to Starbucks; new students in a classroom of nine that has not changed much since kindergarten. They see what they can hold on to, I see what I cannot.

Middle school is the start, as was kindergarten, of something new. The first day of kindergarten was rough, I expect nothing less from this year.

It's another leap away from childhood, another easily identifiable marker in the move from my life to theirs. And that, despite my first day of school weepy self, is a good thing. They are doing what they are supposed to be doing: they roll their eyes at all the appropriate ten year old times, they abhor my musical selections and they cringe when I even threaten to dance. But they love me, and they still find some measure of pleasure in spending the day with me, even if it's biking around town in search of an elusive Spanish pepper (no luck on that).

Milestones have a way of creeping up and forcing you to take stock. The beginning of middle school warrants at least a few looks back: Have they fallen down enough to know how to put on a band-aid all by themselves?  Are they still sufficiently awed by fireworks? Do we have a good supply of photographs with ice cream smeared all over their faces? Does a summer day without schedule still make them happy? Can they decide and order for themselves in a restaurant? Do they make good choices?

Kindergarten, grade school, middle school, high school, college: we are ticking off the list at an alarmingly rapid rate, but I'm happy to see, when it's all spelled out, that they are just at the start of the middle, on the ladder of educational markers.  My children are now the big kids, the ones who seemed so tall and scary to me five years ago. They'll walk confidently in on the first day, not dressed up or even wearing something new (I've been warned). They're ready, and so am I. But that first day, it's always a killer, as new things, even ones quite familiar,  so often are.

As I review and edit my children are in the back yard building a pirate ship out of Adirondack chairs and a tree swing, I'm feeling pretty good about the childhood check list.

Play. Run. Read. Repeat.

When we talk about summer reading at school I say this to the children, "Read books. Not all the time, not even most of the time. Play, run around, eat ice cream, scrape your knees, ride your bike, fall down, get back up and ride some more. Get sticky from watermelon and popsicles and strawberries. Go to the beach or the pool or both. Dig in the sand, dig in the dirt, find worms, don't eat them. Plant flowers, cut flowers, smell flowers. Chase fireflies. But when you have down time, and we all do, choose a book."

They have so many options: movies and video games, tablets and Iphones, but they also have books. There is time at the end of the day to tuck your scraped and dirty knees under you and lose yourself in a story, one you can hold and read and share.

When there is a choice, choose a book.

Summer Reading Favorites
Blueberries for Sal, McCloskey
Summer, Low
Everyone Can Learn to Ride a Bicycle, Raschka
Time of Wonder, McCloskey
What Do You Do With an Idea?, Yamada
Little Country Town, Southwell
Harry by the Sea, Zion
Beach, Cooper
Tar Beach, Ringgold
Henry Reed, Inc, Brown
Cornelia and the Audacios Escapades of the Somerset Sisters, Blume
From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, Konigsburg
Junonia, Henkes
The Penderwicks: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits and a Very Interesting Boy, Birdsall
Seaglass Summer, Banerjee

Homework for Today: PDF. Breathe. Discuss. Read.

It's true, I dread the first day of school, I always have. I dread the early morning wake up, the strict adherence to routine and, more with each year, the amount of homework confining my children to the dining room table every day. Our afternoons are a race to finish homework, shower, eat dinner and get in bed, because they have to get up at 6:15 to start the race again. It's exhausting. And I'm lucky, battles over homework are rare. If anything the battle is mine, asking them to please stop what they are doing and take time to eat dinner. More than once I have put away the notebooks before the work was complete, choosing well rested children over ones who have finished their vocabulary work. They don't usually agree, which is understandable, both afraid of being the child with unfinished work to start the day. But they're alert, fed, and clean, and that matters to me.

Homework started in kindergarten, which was then only 10-15 minutes, and which I understood as a means to teach them responsibility and scheduling. It has grown each year; in the past three years my children have devoted between two to three hours each day to homework. They get out of school at 3:00 and go to bed at 8:00. That leaves only a few precious minutes to be a child, and spend time with the family they don't see all day.

This year the principal at the girls' school has implemented a new homework policy for the K-2 students, homework is PDF:  Play time, Down time, Family time. There is no assigned homework for students in kindergarten through second grade. My children, in fifth grade, are not directly affected but it seems that the philosophy of PDF is reaching upwards: homework in their class will generally be confined to reading, something my children love to do but, given the amount of homework assigned over the past few years, was not time permissible during the school week. They are both very happy, as am I.

Today after school they played with their friends outside for over an hour. We went to Trader Joe's. They helped put away groceries while acting out a new game played on the rock climbing wall at school. They told me about a science project having to do with magnets and one asked for advice after admitting that she has been getting in trouble for talking in class. And, while I made potato soup, they escaped to opposite ends to read books of their choice.

That's a great school day, one that gets us ready to do it all again tomorrow.

Realizing that by writing this I am breaking my unspoken policy of not discussing where the children go to school, I  share this link to an article from the Chicago Sun-Times, highlighting the new homework policy at Hamilton Elementary. Thanks Principal Gray.

Fifth Grade, Better Now Than Then

On the first day of fifth grade, in my new upper grade classroom (about which I was most excited), I eagerly waited to hear my name as Gwendolyn Winans called out names from her class roster.

"Lang, Allyson? Allyson?", impatiently asked, as she peered over her glasses, scanning the room.

From my desk I waived my hand wildly, having always been a child who liked to have her name called, being just self important enough to think I had something interesting to say.

"Allyson? Oh there you are. Hmm. I hear you're a trouble maker", and she moved on, to the next on her list.

Apparently my reputation as having something to say arrived in the classroom before I did. I was always a talker but rarely a trouble maker, and I was soundly defeated on my first day of school. Fifth grade was not the best year of my young education.

My daughters walked into the first day of fifth grade today, to a new classroom and a new teacher and a new set of classmates. I am confident that their first day will be more successful than mine was, although one of them is quite a talker.

Have a wonderful day girls, and stay away from teachers who peg you as trouble before you have a chance to speak.

It Just Takes One Bad Apple

Oh the last day of school, oh the celebration, free for the summer! It's a race to the neighborhood ice cream shop, a race we never win as my poor children must wait for their mother to gather her things, shut down her computer and pile books to sort through in September. And so we arrived to find at least thirty children on the sidewalk outside, eating ice cream and running joyously, celebrating the last glorious day of school.

A second grade boy saw us first, as we drove down the street across from the sidewalk. His friends joined in and then everyone, screaming and yelling, so excited to see the librarian coming to the ice cream store. I lowered all the windows to allow the voices to be heard, the unbridled screaming, "Ms. Lang! Ms. Lang! Look who is here, it's Ms. Lang!".

Never, not once in my entire life, have I been so well received. The cheers were deafening, the crowd growing, the children running along the sidewalk, following our car until I stopped at the red light. I waved, acknowledging my fans, those same children who only one week ago scowled at me when I asked them to be quiet in the library. My own children were shocked to near silence in the backseat, "Um, Mom, they really like you", said Mary, seeing her now famous mother in a whole new light. For this brief and shining moment I was the queen of the Last Day of School parade.

A car pulled up next to me, having just turned onto the street. The old man stopped and rolled down his window, his wife in the next seat. "Are you a teacher?" asked the old man, surely stopping to thank me for another wonderful school year, another glorious nine months of learning and growing.

Rather than bore this kind man with the details of my specific role I nodded and smiled, "yes, yes I am!". He turned to his wife, nodded and then smiled at me, "well then you make too much money, driving that expensive car", and he grunted, laughed, and sped away.

There's one in every crowd.

1984, Just Like it Was Yesterday

1984

Twenty years ago this summer I went to my 10 year high school reunion. Moving beyond the excessive air intake in realizing just how incredibly old I now am, I can say, with fondness, that it was a most wonderfully dull evening.

Which is not to say, at all, that I didn't have a good time. I did, I loved the whole experience, and was, I believe, one of the very last to leave. It was just that in 10 years nothing had changed. I arrived optimistic, and had done my part in cutting my hair, but found immediately that the same groups of friends had found each other (perhaps they had never left each other). The theatre geeks still sitting with the theatre geeks, cheerleaders with yell leaders, math nerds with math nerds, as it goes. I had really hoped that the girl who walked silently from class to class, outscoring the rest of our cumulative ACT score, might have found a seat with the girls who drove fast cars and scared me on Friday nights. She did not. In fact everything was so solidly 1984 that my high school friend, the one who had a knack for talking me into situations which often resulted in a trip to the vice-principal's office, almost got me kicked out of the reunion. Her refusal to pay for the $80 ticket, and borrowing my name tag to legitimize herself to the organizers, landed me a 30 minute time out and a lecture by the head of the event company. His words eerily evoking the spirit of Dr. Nichols, "Don't let your friends talk you into bad decisions, follow your own compass", and there I was, right back where I started ten years prior.

1994

When 20 happened I was two weeks away from giving birth to two children, and two months past measuring full term in the mid-section. I was enormous; transportation would have required a flatbed truck and very large straps to hold me down for 500 miles. Not knowing if one of my fellow graduates had chosen a career in obstetrics and unsure about delivering two children in the middle of my high school reunion I chose to stay home.

This past weekend was 30 years. The busyness of this life kept me from visiting that one, the timing coming right at the end of the school year, right as we rolled into summer (although I must note that my girth and ability to wedge into a commercial airline seat was no longer a relevant factor in my travel plans).  I followed the planning on Facebook: casual bar get together Friday night,  spouses claiming boredom being ditched, big event Saturday, cocktail dresses or pants, lunch at Taco Via every single day (disclosure: I have never loved Taco Via nor did I have any idea that everyone else did. I would have been at Winstead's but that is another story).

Sunday morning, iPad and hot tea in hand, I settled in on the back deck to check out the antics of those I had loved so much so long ago.

Who were these people? I recognized about 3% of the faces appearing before me. Hadn't these 600 plus people been the reason the sun rose and set every day? Why didn't I know every single one of them? Why didn't I know any of them? Did my brain shut down after the ten year reunion? Were all of the early 80's lost to me? 

Wait, Jeff you stand there by Paul, and then Joey, you move in next to them.  Becky, you stand next to Laura, and then Sarah and Sarah, you two together over there. Can we get Kathy and Brooke together please with Colby and Steve?  Karen, you go to the left, with Lisa and Amy and Brian, you move over there by Charles and Chris. Wait a minute, where is Margaret? Nobody move…say cheese!

Maybe at 10 years we got it all right, somethings should never change. Raiders we shall always be, as long as we stay frozen in time and stand next to those we stood next to 30 years ago, even if they talk us into trouble. I'll see you all in ten years, and don't cut your hair.

 

My wonderful grade school friend Jim and I have a date to attend 40 together. He's wearing Granimals and I'm going with gauchos. We may not fit in but at least we will know who we are, or were, in 1978.

No picture from the 2004 era, not enough room on the page.

Like Sand Through the Hour Glass

The First Day of Kindergarten

"This will fly by", said my friend when Mary and Kate started kindergarten. "Hold on to your seat", they said, as the first day became the first month and then, before I knew it, kindergarten was over.

We just wrapped the final day of fourth grade. The school year, with it's rigid schedule, bounds us so tightly in our collective race to the finish line that, in our effort to get through to the next vacation day, we do miss the day to day joy of dragging our children out of bed at 6:00 A.M.

We start out with the best intentions. September lunches are packed the night before and include sushi, fried rice and black bean wraps. By May my children are eating snack pack applesauce, still frozen edamame and at least twice per week, the cheese lunch box from Starbucks. The clothes that fit, and matched, at the beginning of the year stretch to cover growing bodies in June. At the end of this annual race I'm happy to get them out the door in clothes that are clean: horizontal stripes on top, vertical stripes on the bottom but at least they are Downy fresh.

"How many days until summer?", not because we don't like school but because we are exhausted and deeply moved by the idea of sleeping until something exotic like say, 7:00 A.M.

Kindergarten just became the summer before fifth grade and the mountain of discarded days, those piled up in the race to finish math homework I scarcely understand before eating a hastily created dinner, showering and getting to bed at a time that will at least allow enough sleep so as to facilitate the impending early morning wake up, those days have been carelessly tossed aside in an effort to get through to the next. And the problem with this kind of daily sprint is that you do tend to miss out on the whole of days moving forward, taking us from one grade to the next. You see I don't actually know when the math homework moved from identifying the shape, which I did understand without question, to computing the area of complex three dimensional figures, which I absolutely do not. I wish I did.

The Last Day of Fourth Grade

My concern, because it is not that I like my soon to be fifth grade children any less than I liked my soon to be kindergarten children, is that these days continue to grow behind us as we race to a time when the girls move from my daily life to their daily life. And these days so casually cast aside in an effort to get, clean and well fed, to the next make up the time warp that is hurling us at lightning speed to a time without childhood. Which I believe is some sort of math problem but I can't be certain.

It's time to dig in and enjoy the slow day to day of summer, where being well fed means eating a few ripe strawberries after your second ear of corn on the cob and where math problems are created while lying in the grass looking at starts in the sky. These we remember, and savor, even as they move us from one day to the next.

Choosing the Right One

"If you're going to chose someone to like, you should try and chose the right person".

She knows she has chosen the right person, "I've never had a friend like this before", and she hasn't. She's a very young fourth grade girl who often thinks like a 43 year old: intensely logical, curious, pragmatic, keenly aware, and sometimes just too practical. When she wants to discuss the first ten amendments to the Constitution she finds very few who take the seat next to her at lunch.

Several months ago she found that person; a friend who moved into her classroom, one who now would be there at recess when she felt like making it a Langston Hughes day. They found a table together in class, right in front, and at lunch.

"Mom, we do stuff, we spend a LOT of time together", and she was happy, because for the first time in a long time she knew that there was someone near who also found a conversation about the Gettysburg Address a worthy use of free time.

"Did you get new shoes?", asks the boy.
"Yes, did you?", answers his friend.
They are standing face to face, inches apart, each pushing up his own glasses in a most entertaining and stereotypical manner.
"I like your shoes", and they giggle, because they are wearing the same tennis shoes, in different colors.

This weekend his family announced that at the end of summer, after only a few short months of being classmates, they are moving to New York. I cried for her because I knew that this was going to be very hard, even for my child who often couches her emotions in a most adult way, and for her mother who has delighted in seeing her child discover a good friendship.

"You can talk to me, you know, if you're sad, about him moving".
"I'm sad Mom. I'm very sad", and she went off to get ready for bed.

Later she wanted to know just how far away he would be: were they going to live in the city? Would we fly to visit? Would he still come here?


"We have a strong bond Mom, we have great affection", and she cried.

We have the summer, and we will make the most of being together. We'll visit, and so will they, and both of our children will be just fine. But when you must lose the one you chose, the one who makes you feel less alone in a room full of people, that's hard to take, when you're nine, even if you think like you're 43.





 

This post was inspired by the novel Bittersweet by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, a novel about summer, and family, and friendship. Join From Left to Write on May 20th as we discuss Bittersweet. As a member I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

I Have a Little Shadow

Last weekend we collected sticks to build a sun dial, this week they outlined their shadows with chalk and last night Kate spent over an hour charting the various lengths of shadows during the course of a day. Science class, a new addition to their fourth grade curriculum, is casting a big shadow over homework, to the delight of my budding heliologists.

"Kate, you should offer to share the shadow poem with your class."

The head, inches from the table, slowly rose, "Mom, I get that you are a librarian, I appreciate that you are a librarian, but this is science class. We don't have poems in science class", and the head fell right back to the paper.

"Kate, I appreciate that you are nine, I get it, but it's nice to cross from one subject to the next, you know they really all work together".

She looked up, "Mom. There is no hypothesis, there are no conclusions, there is no data in that poem. I know you love the shadow poem but I am not offering to share that with my science class".

My little shadow is growing up but there's still so much learning to do.

My Shadow
by Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,

And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;

I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Catch the Door Before it Closes

I've been keeping pretty close tabs on things. All of those people who said that time flies have nothing on me, I'm watching it happen. And I am doing my very best to suck every bit of life out of every minute of every day because I know, and it bangs away in my head every time my mind wanders, that this is THE summer after third grade. When they look back at pictures they will say things like "oh Mary, that was the summer after third grade, when you fell out of the tree by the coffee shop" or "Kate! Look at this picture of your knees! Mom, was that the day she learned to finally ride her bike?". Yes, I am painfully aware that the door on this summer is about to close, a big loud slam that is set to happen in three days. I'm on top of it. I think.

There are things that I like better about children who are eight and not three. We do not have to assess their level of exhaustion before deciding to eat in a restaurant. Unless it's way, way past bedtime, they can swing it. We can stay up to watch fireworks, catch fireflies, and eat s'mores. They sleep in, current wake up time is between 9:30 and 10:00 (which is going to be a bear of a reversal once this summer door closes). They can pour themselves a glass of lemonade, after, of course, asking if they may. We can take a two hour car trip without an arsenal of activities; for two glorious hours they are actually somewhat happy talking to me (recent topics of conversation include: what exactly is in strawberry jam? and why is it called jam? what does it mean to sue someone and why does everyone sue McDonalds? is it because they have bad food? why don't boys have boobies? how long until the new prince will be king? and why isn't the queen's husband a king?). Distinct advantages to being eight, and I appreciate every one of them. However, eight is just a stop on the road to summers spent working and sweating and cursing the humidity for creating a droopy mess out of a once crisp linen blouse, and that I'm not ready to accept.

As much as she hates it, Mary's somewhat diminutive size means that I can still scoop her up and carry her when one of her summer battle wounds is proving too much for the last block on a long walk home. She fits quite nicely on my back, at least for one block, and I love that she still finds that space a safe spot to shrug off the responsibilities that come with her eight years. Her sister, now much too tall for me to carry, is perfectly content climbing into our bed and reading with me for hours. She brings her bear and senator and rainy Sunday mornings are the best part of my week. Because even though they are eight and much too rapidly picking up the this and that's which will lead us to the teen years, they still fit snuggly in my world, and they still like it here.

We have three days before we return to a schedule that requires an alarm clock and a strict adherence to bed times. A Monday to Friday gig that means less spontaneity, more responsibility and quite often a scramble for clean clothes. We're going to make the most of these three days, I'm watching, I see the time flying by but we are loving every bit of it. It's been a glorious summer, don't let the door hit you as it closes.

Two Peas in Separate Pods?

When they started kindergarten we asked them for their opinion; did they want to be in the same class? Mary was certain, same class, but Kate wavered. On the first day of school it was Kate who clung to Mary as they walked in together, to the same class, a decision we all made together, based in part on the simple fact that they had never before been to school. It didn't seem that their initial classroom experience should be the first thing to separate them after five years of togetherness.

The next year they were apart, Kate moving into a split grade class. Mary was nervous initially but they did well and were often so happy to see each other at the end of the day the incessant bickering was slowed, thanks to the seven hour break from one another.

Reunited for second grade, and now third, they have done well spending every waking moment together. They save the bickering for me, they help one another in class and have successfully shared lunch items. Their unique strengths have benefited the other: Mary pulling Kate into the social circle of third grade and Kate pacing Mary to a more focused study time. It's not perfect but for two years this arrangement has worked well.

Recently Kate has started to muse about going to another school, one that would be, perhaps, more suited to her strengths. It's not going to happen next year but she is curious and we've agreed to explore the possibility. Last night at dinner the separate school question was raised, the first Mary had heard of this idea.


Before Kate finished her thought Mary was crying, "no Mom, no. If Kate wasn't there the classroom would feel empty".

A classroom of 19 children would feel empty to Mary if her sister wasn't at the next table; the conversation just became much more complicated.

Blue Ribbon Winner at the Science Fair

It's been all the talk recently, few things able to compete with Mary and Kate participating in their first science fair. Not being a terribly science driven kind of family we have, of course had to discuss repeatedly every single hypothesis that pops into their eight year old heads. Mary struck gold last weekend with this idea:

"How do people who marry get kids that are similar to them?"

I continued to wash the dishes, hoping she might move on but knowing exactly what she was asking, something that has been dancing around for the past few months: why does Kate look so much like Dad when she came out of me?

It's true, they are 8 and I should probably address this. Eddy Scanlon told me the entire sordid story when I was in third grade, while jumping on the trampoline in our back yard. I didn't believe one word of what he was saying. Given that my children are now in third grade it's possible that I should step in, before their own brand of Eddy Scanlon takes over but we don't have a trampoline, we don't even have a backyard; I thought I had more time.

The truth is my children are in a classroom heavily weighted with boys, some of whom are almost two years older than they are. My time is running short but given that I giggle like a fourteen year old girl every time we drive past The Crafty Beaver hardware store, I was hoping for a few more years, time for my own maturity to kick in.

Mary continued, "Hmm, this might be hard....I think you'd have to show it. Maybe I could make a model?"

Pass the play dough, we're going to the science fair.

Show What You Know

My daughter was afraid to go to school today, which is consistent with her thinking at the end of second grade when she was terrified of third grade in whole. It's not her safety; she isn't being bullied nor has the onslaught of gun violence created this fear, it's testing.

In Illinois state standardized testing begins in third grade.

She's a bright child who I know will do well on the test, but that isn't the issue. It's her fear and anxiety and what drives this which concerns me.  The truth is what starts now is not just this week's testing but an immediate future of bubbles to be darkened, test booklets to be opened, and timers to be set.

The challenge is in balancing the importance of the test with my child's sanity. She is not told that school funding is tied to her performance, or that her principal and teacher are evaluated based, in part, on these scores. She's eight, she has years and years of worrisome burden in front of her; for now the world is hers to enjoy and so this test, she is told, is a tool for the teacher, to help her better understand where her students are excelling and where they might need more help. It's an assessment, which seems a far less scary word to me.

One of the teachers at school tells her children to "show what you know". We've adopted this mantra, be proud of all you can do and all that you have worked so hard to learn, and yes, do your best. But remember, you still get to come home at the end of the day, and go on vacation and play with your friends and be a wonderfully silly eight year old girl. This test won't change any of that one bit, and that's very important to know.

Still Wanting to be Heard

"What happens if you don't vote?"

The question came from a fourth grade boy who has, for months, been listening to me blather on about the election and the political process and true joy that comes from casting your vote. He raised his hand this morning and quite politely said, "what happens if you don't vote?".

Hmmm. Nothing, absolutely nothing.

For me, not voting has never been an option. I registered to vote on my 18th birthday and look forward to election day like many count down to vacation.

"So you don't get in trouble?"

No, you don't get in trouble, not at all. But you silence yourself and say, in a very quiet way, that your opinion doesn't matter. It's like sitting in class all day with your hand up and not expecting anyone to call on you. It's accepting the idea that someone else is going to make decisions for you, without your input, which, especially in fourth grade, is not ideal. It's letting your mom pick out your clothes every single day.

When I was in fourth grade, my favorite classmate was Jim. We spent all our time vying for the coveted title of class clown, talking out of turn and engaging classmates in our antics, to the certain exasperation of Mrs. Grow. Rather than concern ourselves with the presidential election we spent out time re-enacting the John Cameron Swayze Timex commercials that ran so frequently during 1976 television, "takes a licking and keeps on ticking". Jim and I are now almost 40 years older. John Cameron Swayze has died, as has President Ford (Jimmy Carter, like a Timex, still ticking). Yesterday I got a very long email from Jim, imploring me, and others, to consider his human rights before I voted, his rights as a man who wants to marry but in Florida, where he lives, he is unable. No longer disrupting the class but, like me, still finding his voice and working to be heard. They are my rights too, they are human rights.

"What if you were offered a choice, say to have an extra recess or extra free choice time in the classroom, and you didn't raise your hand to vote for either option. And then what if the class decided to have recess and you really wanted free choice time? When you don't vote, you sacrifice your voice and your right to complain about what is happening in your classroom, or in your country", which was part of my response to the fourth grade student who was worried about the punishment for not voting.

You don't have to vote, you don't get in trouble and no one takes away your after school playground  time if you don't, but you should, because you can. And when you do, consider fourth grade and what you thought then, and what you think now, and remember how much you hated not being able to chose what you wanted to wear to school.

Voice of Reason, Voice of Quindlen

Several months ago I had the opportunity to hear Anna Quindlen speak at a luncheon, discussing her memoir, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake. Anna Quindlen has no idea who I am, other than the woman who brought her seven year old daughter to a book luncheon (and whose seven year old daughter did really well), but I'm almost certain that given the chance, the two of us would have a wonderful time together. I know this because I read everything she writes and I laugh out loud, nod knowingly and smile in agreement, which I think is her appeal to so many, although I'm certain that above all others, it's me who really knows her best. I tried desperately to make eye contact while she spoke, but in the sea of 100 women (and one child), my friendly eyes were hard to find.


Because we have this connection, I knew exactly what she was going to say when asked, "what three things are you the most proud of?". Without hesitation she answered, "my three children". Me too Anna! Although, of course, I have only two, but I am proud enough for three. My children are funny and silly and kind. They say thank you to the taxi driver, almost always say please when ordering food and spend hours creating gifts for one another out of discarded boxes, toilet paper rolls and grocery bags. Pretty good stuff when talking about 8 year old girls, but Anna's children are older, adults.. Surely their list of accomplishments is far more extensive; I was ready and eager to hear all about her amazing children. And you know what she said? To paraphrase: my children are the people I like best in the world. I enjoy nothing more than having dinner with them.


That's great Anna but where did they go to college? What high profile jobs are they now doing? What kind of grades did they get in school? For God's sake, how old were they when they learned to read?

My children are sent home each Friday with a progress report; they are in the third grade. Parents discuss grades on the playground, many digging into those Friday backpacks, frantically searching  for that weekly affirmation of good parenting. Sadly the children have caught on, the lure of waving the straight A report around the classroom is tempting. One of my daughters apologized Friday for a B in reading, "Mom, I'm so sorry, I keep getting this B and I don't know what to do." My heart breaks; keep doing whatever it is that you are doing because a B in reading is wonderful and should be celebrated, not pardoned.
 
My friend Carrie, who is one of the most reasonable people I know and mom to one of my favorite children, wishes for her daughter a good education that will get her into a good college that will lead to a good job that will allow her to take vacations at a beach when she grows up. And to accomplish all that, her spunky and fabulous 7 year old daughter did not need to be able to read when she entered kindergarten. Carrie knows that what is really important is raising someone who you like well enough to travel with in years to come. 

Thankfully I enjoy having dinner with my children, as I expect I will in 10 years, when the conversation might be less about who picks their nose in class and more about who picks their nose when they think no one is looking. I'm as proud of that B in reading as I am in their ability to turn toilet paper rolls into fabulous art deco style lamps for their doll house, and nothing makes me glow like overhearing them ask someone, "do you want to come and play with us?". Grades matter, more than they used to I fear, but kindness matters more, and being a good friend, dinner guest and traveling companion are tops on my wish list. Maybe we should invite Anna Quindlen to join us, because you know, we just really understand each other. She, and her children, are welcome at my table anytime.

One More Good Guy in a Bears Jersey

Despite our best efforts to check before we get out, we have left quite a few things in taxis over the years. This summer Mary left a bag containing two blown glass bugs that we had just purchased at an art fair, a huge loss considering they were handmade and very one of a kind. Her beloved doll Molly lost a fine pair of shoes a few months ago when she apparently kicked them off on the short ride downtown, to lunch at the American Girl store, and then had to suffer the indignity of lunch without shoes. A few years ago Mary left her brand new hand me down purse, a sassy red and white gingham sized just for her, in the back seat when we got out for dinner. The biggest lost there, other than my purse, was the treasures she had stored inside: a bracelet she made with buttons, an acorn from Michigan and a coin purse brought home from France by Uncle Ed. As always we hoped that the driver might find the purse and stop back at the restaurant where he dropped us, but he did not. It seems that what stays in the taxi, well, stays in the taxi.

But not always. Last week a man appeared in the library, a gruff looking guy wearing jeans and a Bears jersey. He smelled like smoke and looked like he was about to yell at me.

"Are you the librarian?"
"I am".
He handed me a book.
"I dropped off two kids here this morning, I think one of them left this in the back of my taxi".
"Really?"
"What? Is that a problem?"

No sir, no problem at all, something much more like shock, and gratitude.


It's a scramble each spring, a wild hunt for each overdue book, in hopes or reclaiming every one before the school year ends. Children transfer or move away, and their books go with them. Some just don't bother to return them, for reasons I will never understand.

My message is very clear: having a library is a privilege and these books are here for everyone. If you take a book and don't return it, you are preventing your friends from enjoying that book. Libraries provide a wonderful lesson in community and sharing, in responsibility, and in taking care of things that belong not just to one but to all.

Great thanks to the stranger who took the time to do what so many do not, return a library book. What a decent guy.

Two in Two, September 2011

Re-posted from this same time last year, when I was again mourning the loss of summer and convincing myself that a return to school was a good thing.

Tuesday my kindergartners started second grade. This came as quite a shock to me. As usual I was the blubbering parent on the playground, long after the last child made the first day of school march into the building. Jack is patient, he guides me away from the school as someone yells, "not again! Don't you work here?", as I sniffle and shuffle away.

The truth is that I love school. I love paper and pencils and backpacks and books. I love the smells and the people and even sometimes the learning. School has become, in our two years there, our community and I am happy to be back with the teachers and staff who are now my co-workers and who color the bulk of my weekday life. I am happy to be back in the library, back with the students, back in the meetings and back at the neighborhood Starbucks, running into my favorite parents. This morning's coffee conversation topics included circumcision, Orthodox Jews, lollipops and Christian Science; not the stuff of my regular summer repertoire.

It surprises me, the need for a calendar again is compelling, when one week ago I would have said I could live the rest of my life on a lazy summer schedule. I enjoy pulling out a sweater each morning and I'm considering stashing my favorite canvas bag en lieu of a big leather tote.

This year the bandage was ripped off; the last few weeks of summer were spent roaming around the east coast, putting a halt to my regularly scheduled mantra of savoring each and every dwindling moment of summer. We came home, they went to school, it was that easy.

Children bring me back to the idea that summer is the very best time to do as much of nothing as possible. They leave seashells and sand in my bag and wet bathing suits on the floor. They are frequently sticky, coated with a thin layer of ice cream drips, and often dirty. They spend three months smelling of Coppertone and bug spray. A wedge of watermelon after dinner ranks amongst the world's greatest treasures and capturing a firefly before bed is the ultimate cap to a perfect lazy day.

The end of summer signals not just the end of bug bites and corn on the cob but also a marked notch in the forever enabled passage of time that leads, eventually, to growing up. As it turns out, growing up has not been all bad, especially when children remind me just how great it is to be a kid.