I Wish I Could Play Doh with the Guidance Counselor

By Sheilah

Monday means "Guidance class" in 5th grade. Mondays are no fun. They're focusing on the "transition" to middle school as if it were a contagion. It means the 10 and 11 year olds are getting a touch of being bullied about bullying.

Last Monday:

Dylan: Enough about bullying! We're not worried about that. We're just wondering when we'll get to go to the bathroom. And remembering our locker combinations.

Me: You're absolutely right. That's all you need to be concerned about. (He had his own experience with being a tad bullied last year.)

This Monday:

Dylan: Oh, God. We did rocks and Play Doh in "Guidance" (air quotes and all) today. She said rocks can't be changed, but she's wrong.

Me: Agreed. What about Pop Rocks?

Dylan: Right. And those rocks we call Chinese rocks that you can crumble. We find them at the races and you just dig your thumbs into them and they explode.

Me: Huh?

Dylan: Zack and I made up the name in, like, kindergarten because all the crappy plastic toys that fell apart were made in China, so when we found these rocks that fall apart...

Me: Oh, okay. And did you tell the guidance counselor all this?

Dylan: Yes. She said you still can't change a rock.

Me: But, wait. What's this all about? Is your guidance counselor a geologist?

Dylan: She says it's about what you can change and what you can't in middle school. Her great analogy is that you can change Play Doh, but you can't change rocks.

Me: Wait! Lava and fossils and...

Dylan: I know, right? I can shoot a BB into a rock like a crawdad and it'll bust for sure.

Me: So what's the Play Doh in middle school?

Dylan: I have NO idea.

Me: Huh.

Dylan: Can I go out and play now?

Me: Please. Go change some rocks.

We can't see the middle school for the analogy. Oh well.

It does put a new spin on a very old prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the rocks I cannot change
The courage to change the Play Doh I can
and the wisdom to know the difference between a rock and a hard place.
I pray middle school is all Play Doh-y.

The Hypothesis of the Right Pointer Dude

Every morning I take both boys to school. First one gets dropped off at the Freshman Academy. Then I loop around the elementary school, and take the older son to the main high school. There is a gentleman who stands at the entrance to the car line at the main high school. He stands there and points the way to go. When you drive in, you can either choose to go to the right or to the left. The right leads to a parking area, and the left leads towards the main office, and the cafeteria where most kids get dropped off. Because there are so many cars bringing their teenagers, he points us to head our cars to our right, his left. He basically is standing there, blocking the way from someone turning to the left. Why? Because the cars loop around the parking area forming a line. And sadly, there's always someone who wants to cut in line. I've watched him at times as I've slowly made my way through the line. I've watched him vigorously point to the line as someone tries to inch past him in the hopes of heading to the left, at other times stepping further forward blocking the way, and at times talking to someone explaining why they can't go the easier, quicker way (apparently some things are NOT self evident).

I have to say I find it a little sad, that grownups have to be reminded that they shouldn't cut in line. What? Did you flunk elementary school? I also find it a small microcosm of society. We seem to have become very focused on what we want or need to the exclusion of others, for instance the others who got there earlier and are snaking their way through the line you think you should get to avoid. 

Now I have to admit, I have no overwhelming desire to be a martyr. I don't like to wait in the line anymore than they do. I like to sit down, I like to watch tv, read a book, knit, have a lovely conversation with someone, eat a Krispy Kreme, and then remember my diet... But I seem to have been cursed, err blessed with an overabundance of the "get 'er done" gene. I also seem to have that whole responsibility thing. It's why it's taken me so long to write another blog - responsibilities and priorities. I believe in taking my turn when it is a single line formation (not when you're on a multi-lane road, and everyone is lined up behind a semi - why not pass in that wide open lane - it's sorta what the other lane is for - but that's a whole different blog entry sometime). 

So every day when I pass the right pointer dude, I try to give a little wave. No trouble from me, I'll get in line as I should, wait my turn, tell my kids to get out posthaste, don't dawdle (I need to find a cooler vocabulary). And every week, there's a new adventure - somebody who tries hard to find a way around the rules. I must say a big thank you for the lecture time - because I end up discussing with my kids what SELF-ENTITLEMENT means, and why it isn't their right to try to cut in front of people who have been WAITING THEIR TURN IN SINGLE LINE FORMATION. Maybe it's just me, but I seem to see an awful lot of "gotta have it now", "it's my right" kinda stuff. No where in the CONSTITUTION is it a right to cut in line, text in the left lane while driving, or get the latest iPhone...but thanks for the examples to my kids...let's hope they get it.

Up on the High Wire…Again.

We’ve been on a self-imposed hiatus at 4Gaby. The need to write gets overwhelmed by life itself, and the daily grindings of the daily grind. In short, when you have children and are the numero uno in care taking, plus all the other responsibilities that come along with the parenting game, the part of you that makes you, you, tends to hit the back-burner. Often, it’s a self-inflicted wound. Putting others before us is what we, as women, mostly tend to do. The realization is that we don’t make the time necessary when we say, for this moment, for this hour, this is my time.

I can tell you that we’ve been asked why we write if it gains us no money, and no attention. I can’t speak for my wonderful co-authors, but I can tell you, you might as well ask me to stop breathing. This hiatus of sorts has me short of breath. I have done what so many of us women do, I have put myself last, and it serves no purpose but to make me less of myself. Work, which brings a paycheck, has no comparison to writing. My children’s hugs and their achievements fill my heart, but do not fulfill my soul. Some would call this admission selfish, and I admit, it is, and I counter with “What’s wrong with that?”

As a “Mom” and a wife, we give, short and simple. I have no problem with that, I signed up for it willingly and happily. My life is a blessed one, and I am grateful. I just have to learn to set aside the proverbial “me time.” Not the time spent with the girls, not the hours spent cleaning, taxiing, and adhering to everyone’s schedule but mine. I’ve sat in this saddle before where I’ve pondered how the heck to do it all. I guess I just have to try and follow the Nike slogan and “just do it.”  On the other hand, guilt follows when I say “I need.”  What the heck is wrong with me?

My girlfriends will tell you, oh yeah they will, that it’s a delicate balance and it’s so easy to teeter on the high wire, holding fast to maintain equilibrium. How can I be the best me to my family and friends if I don’t feed what is at the core of me? I don’t delude myself that I am the next Nora Ephron or any well paid, well known writer. I just KNOW that to create is as important to me as breathing, and without it, I am less than. Capisce?

I’m better at story-telling than expressing my opinions. I don’t mean to sound preachy or contrived, but it bothers me that I often set the pattern in motion of making time, only to have that time dropped off the list when others need. What do you do? Seriously. What’s your thing? Is it writing, singing, exercising, running, biking? Do you make time for it and stick to it, or do you acquiesce, and let “other” things prevail?  

Just wondering.

Signed,

Trying to make the time.

Moments, Memories, and Oatmeal Cookies

I have been accused of having a long memory, and it’s true. I don’t have the kind of memory where there’s total recall of what I ate last Wednesday for supper or where I left my glasses (again), and while I do have a talent of sorts for useless trivia, movie star stats, and anything regarding the English Monarchy, those are not the kind of things that I remember with the warmest of regards. I remember people, events, moments in time that come rushing at me like a mockingbird on steroids, bent on getting my attention. The “Aha!” moments are the best, the ones where you have a deeper understanding of those around you.

Mrs. Kane was the closest I came to having a grandmother who baked cookies and cuddled me when I skinned a knee. I remember every time she baked her homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies with icing. She was doing it for me. In her eyes, I was worthy of the time spent. Isn’t this the message you would want a child to remember about you? Even now, these long years gone, I can see her standing in her kitchen, dropping one cookie on the baking sheet at a time, and taking time to talk with me. I swear, I can remember so strongly that sometimes I can still feel my Mama’s hand cupping my chin as I’d lean into her when I needed comfort. She never pulled away from me, always letting me linger until I was ready to stand on my own again. The memory fills me with longing and reminds me of the joy that I had a parent who loved me. The memories of family and friends are always the strongest, but there were times that strangers touched me just as deeply, and their memory remains.

There was a gentleman of Asian descent at Arlington National Cemetery, standing at the grave site of Robert Kennedy. I watched as he read the words surrounding Kennedy’s burial site. He bent low, bowed and backed away in a movement of humbled respect; catching me off guard and making me catch my breath. With a simple gesture he taught me that beauty and respect can be found in the most unlikely of places. I watched a "sales associate" yelling at a Spanish-speaking gentleman in a large (very well advertised) department store during one very bitter winter, telling him she couldn’t understand him. A lady walked over, and knowing very little Spanish asked him if she could help. He pantomimed that he was cold and she somehow understood that he wanted to know where the coats were. He was cold and didn’t have a winter coat. You can yell at someone all day long, and while they can certainly hear you, the only message they will walk away with is they are somehow less than, until someone steps up and shows that perhaps a gentle hand can get you further.

I hear my office mates and friends talking of the New Year, what this one or that one will do, how they will change, eat less, diet more, exercise, give up smoking, take up painting, but I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone say they were going to work on how they would be remembered. I want to be remembered. Not as some famous so-and-so, but as a Mama, a wife, a sister, a friend, and a crazy, silly, melancholy mess called Mary. It’s like a bit of me living onward right here on earth with those I love and hopefully with those I have touched in some way. It’s kind of like the way my children never met Mrs. Kane, but they know of her, and her warm kitchen and spoonfuls of oatmeal cookies and icing from how I remember her. They somehow understand that it was about so much more than baking. Children are smart that way. So as the resolutions begin, I’ll just keep plucking away at being me, and hoping to be remembered.

May God Bless

It's a dreary day here - the sky is gray, and it's a little chilly. It's just dark enough outside to justify turning on the lights on the Christmas tree. I've spent the day doing volunteer work, and soon I'll head to the high school to get my two teenagers. In another time, this would be a boring start to a blog, but the idea of school and children has a resonance now after last Friday.

We spent the weekend with family in Tennessee. It was arranged well in advance of the horror of Friday. Our weekend meant we spent hours upon hours in the car together - Mom, Dad, two teenage sons. And it was rare that my thoughts did not turn towards Connecticut. We discussed music, and I thought of how blessed I was to have my children safely with me. And later we talked about movies, and I would think how blessed I was to have my children with me. And later yet when we talked about football, I would think how blessed I was to have my children with me. Each time a prayer would head to heaven for the families who have lost their little ones, and for the families who have lost their loved ones - the teachers and administrators who were true heroines that day. But my thoughts also turned towards the gunman and his family. And I said a prayer for him and his family also.

When my oldest son was six, he wanted to be a fireman. When my younger son was six, he wanted to be a soldier. At sixteen, my oldest son is learning Chinese, and has found Accounting to be an easy course. He's interested in how he could combine learning both. At fourteen, my younger son is still deciding, and anyone who has been a teenager knows they both could change their minds a dozen times before settling into a career. Each child that was lost was a loss to each of us. Their potential gone before it could happen.

The word evil is used so much when these horrors happen. Certainly what happened is an illustration of an evil act. Nothing can justify such an act. But my heart breaks as a mother for all who were lost, and that does include the gunman. Raising a child to be an upstanding person is simply the hardest act I've ever attempted. Sometimes a child is born broken. If you have not read this article by a mother of a broken child, please do - "I am Adam Lanza's Mother" . We do not know the circumstances, and nothing can justify the act, but my heart cries out also for someone who at 20 somehow thought this was something to do. Why may not ever be answered. I do know that there is never a simple easy answer. Mental illness needs to be a part of the conversation. But simply throwing out a diagnosis such as autism is using too broad a brush - a brush which paints those who don't deserve it.

All I can offer is prayer - for each of the victims, their families, for the first responders, for the gunman, and his family, and each person affected by the horror. May God bless and provide healing.