Pie Day – SOL Day 10

Youngest walked into class with a freshly baked dark-cherry pie.  I couldn’t be there because I teach.  Just now, though, she gave me a hug and told me, “I feel like you were a part of my class.”

My daughter’s given me the key to being close to her when I can’t be.

My days rush together, my energy falters.

I’m so glad I still get to be her mother.  :)(

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Marry the Dog – SOL Day 7

I forgot my Notebook at school, so here’s a quick write over something that happened at dinner.  Planted this one in another Notebook, too, before bringing it here.  This year for SOL, I’m committing to notebooking first, before bringing anything to this blog.. 

Kids seem to have memories that last longer than the years they’ve been alive..

We chomp over dinner, and eldest-middle child says she once thought she’d marry her younger brother and that older brother would marry older sister.  Younger brother says, “And I thought that the Baby would marry the dog.”

… because when his two-year-oldish reasoning (at the time) figured there was no one left.

I depend on my children’s memories to get me through.  I’ve told you.. my memory faults me for so many reasons.  Know God is the keeper of my memory has let me drift into more important things — priorities, the present moment.  But, even so, every time they tell me some miraculous memory from another life (That happened to us?  Really?  Mama doesn’t remember.. ), I want to tell them with urgency to Write it down, Write it down, Write it down!!

But the teacher part of me wants to rest once I get home, and barely, just barely, I’m beginning to overcome my hesitation to impart what I know are best practices with my own children.  We play, you see.  And I believe in letting the mind rest for the few hours we have before we have to do it all over again.

It’s their viewpoints I want to remember, what I want to keep.  It’s those memories and viewpoints I want them to value over time by putting down those little meaningful details somewhere permanent.  I want them to believe, understand and commit to the importance of reflecting on a meaningful life.. among other things…

I’m telling myself now, so I won’t forget:  it’s not too late to bring the Notebook habit of mind to my children.

.

 

Tree Rings – SOL

My youngest daughter completes her 8th year this December.  To me, she’s already 9, which is mysterious to me because just 6 months ago, she was only 5 years old.

This particular phenomenon is all my doing.  The children don’t see this in themselves, they don’t intend to demonstrate these ages at all, but as the wistful parent who’s watching the last of her children’s childhoods .. it’s all I can do to see them 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 all at once.  Or 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, and 14.  Or 21, 20, 19 and 18.  Or 10, 9, 8, and 7. Or 13, 12 and 11.  That would be my second daughter.  She has always been 11 since she was 2, graceful and mature and independent since she knew she could run.

Beatrice, my youngest, aged quickly from 5 to 9 because 9 has always been my favorite year for the children, because 9 was my own favorite year.  I have very few memories.  What memories I do have depend on photographs of 1.) me nestling next to my mother when she was about 47 (… I’ve silenced myself for a second there.. Just this moment I realized this.  Mom was just a few years older than I am now..) and of 2.)  me before I go on my first trip, by myself to a big city.

Me, standing with medium-length hair parted on the right with a bow.  Me, semi-toothless and joyful.  Me, still clueless in childish wonder.  This was the year before I woke up.  Before I knew.  Before I saw.  Before I felt.  Before I understood.  Before I knelt.  Before I cried.

Sometime several weeks ago, the age kicked in for my youngest.  Which is unusual for my thinking.  Usually, their little years will extend into their older years, and not the other way around.  My soul must sense this last year, wanting to relish this last year early.

With every 9 that my children celebrate, I find myself cherishing the last of their childhood, but contemplating the strength of my will to sustain the joy,  peace and innocence of their lives.  Just by loving well, I think.

That’ll do it.

 

 

 

[still drafting]

 

Rush, Rush.- SOL Day 7

Slice Image

I had another post — I forget what.  Oh.. Trump and whether Dad would have voted for him.

This moment, I’m thinking of the 1 1/2 hours I’ve blown helping my husband send a little yearbook plug for our son who’s wrapping up elementary school this year.  This was supposed to be taken care of .. February something ..

For several hours, I watched my husband rummage through stacks, paw through drawers (yes!), look under beds (yes.).  “What are you looking for?”  He wouldn’t say, until finally he pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of this mystery envelope that he was supposed to have sent off to the PTA weeks ago.

“I remember that.  What about it?”

“I put 5 dollars in it for Paul’s yearbook thing and I don’t know where it is.”

“You mean for the little advertisement for the yearbook with his picture on it and a note from us?”

“Yes.”

“The one you texted me about?  And you wanted some lines or something, so I texted you back and told you something kinda cool?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you sent that off, that was weeks ago.”

“I know.  Have you seen it?”

“Yeah.  I threw it away.”

Husband made special arrangements with the PTA/yearbook lady, who had been so gracious as to do this favor for him.  He had a deadline for tonight.

“Can you call her and ask her to send a template so we can know what to do?”

“No.”

He didn’t write anything on the envelope and I’m The Purger in the family.  Always The Purger.  Even though I try to purge weekly or even daily with this younger set of kids we have, I’m still behind some X years, because there are several boxes of artwork that call to me every night from the garage.  When you’re paying for the kids’ college bills, you tend to ignore anything that has to do with them.  Texts, emails.. Junk.

But I do try to keep up with our little ones.  Saner living.

So, tonight, after he contacted said lady and got instructions, I got stuck with figuring out how to get a 1 1/2 x 3 inch blank space formatted with Paul’s picture and some nice loving phrases in Word, and converting that document to a jpeg.  It sucked. Especially because I lost time looking for Mentor Texts for my kids for tomorrow.

Well.. the nice thing is I remembered Dad always fussing through the house, making the family help with something he was late on.  Dad was so last minute, too.  He’d round everyone up, tell everyone his emergency, and we’d scramble to do whatever, find the thing, do everything that suited my Dad’s fancy.  The house would get loud and people would get nervous.  It was hell.

Tonight, in comparison, was rather peaceful.  I realize I may not have recognized this peace and serenity in my life had my Dad not been such a tempestuous guy  — thats crazy, but it’s true.  Tonight turned out to be a good joke, especially because I get to talk about my dear husband’s knuckle-headedry.  Plus, he has to stop paying attention to politics for the next several days because I’ve had it.

Favors lend weight to an argument, I guess.  I’ve been trying to make him quit for weeks.

If it holds up, it’s worth the few hours loss of sleep.

***

“Are you done?” I ask.  Yes. He. Is. Surfing. On. His. Phone.

“I’m keeping you company.. what are you doing?”

“Writing about you..”