Happy Birthday Trevor!

There is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart.

– Washington Irving

My baby boy turns four tomorrow. You would think he is going to be old enough to by lottery tickets or to vote with the enthusiasm and excitement that he has for turning four! He has been asking us since May, when Taryn turned 6, how long until his birthday. (Trust me, it has been a long 4 months). He wants nothing more than to be big! And I am proud of him and the boy he is becoming...but I remember my baby.

I remember when all of him fit in the crook of my arms. I remember his hot, sweet breath and the way his tiny body moved up and down so peacefully on my chest when he would fall asleep with me on the couch. "Don't let him sleep on you", they always said, "or he will never sleep alone." I am glad I didn't listen to them because I would hate to not have that memory. If I close my eyes I can still feel the comforting weight of him on me as he slept. I wanted to sleep, but I couldn't. All I could do was rub his soft baby head, and stare at his perfect little nose and tiny little eyelashes. I remember how he still didn't have any teeth on his first birthday, even though he could talk. I was worried...it seemed like teeth should precede a conversation about brushing teeth. :) I'll never forget when he got so sick, with a high, scary fever and he just wanted to be held. I held him and cried for him as he looked up at me with his little shaky body and told me he was feeling better. He always feels better when I hold him. I always feel better too.

So, on his fourth birthday, I will tell Trevor that he is amazing, and getting so big! I will marvel at how smart and strong and brave he is. I will notice that every day he is getting more and more like Daddy. He always gets a little attitude when I call him my baby, but I will explain to him again that it is just a mommy thing because he will always be my baby. Last time, he seemed ok with that. And, on his fourth birthday I will tell myself to breathe. To remember that growing up is what he is designed to do. I can cherish his beautiful baby years, all the while enjoying his growing up years. I mean,he isn't moving out just yet! (Although, I suspect he would if we told him he could). Mostly, I will celebrate the joy and love that his life has brought to mine, and to so many others.

"Happy Birthday, little Trev. You are perfect. Thank you for making my heart smile."

Love, Mommy

Being Me

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

I love people who are unique. When I people-watch I feel like I know what art enthusiasts feel like at the Louvre. Most of my acquaintances who call themselves people watchers are really just looking for someone to make fun of. For me, though, it is educational. I feel like my eyes are opened to possibilities and my heart smiles. Maybe it is an effect of growing up in a small town where the population was pretty homogenous. I don't know, but I have nothing but respect for individuals marching to their own beat.

How can I not respect a guy riding an old Penny-Farthing, well, anywhere? Who doesn't love the one sports fan wearing a Yankee jersey at Fenway Park or the couples in the matching outfits? I have to smile at the tenacity of the frenzied mom and dad at the airport, wheeling carry-ons and holding their three kids on leashes. (They have better names, but "leash" is what I always go with). I admire the 20 year old in a brown bowler hat, and feel like I need to shake the hand of any gentleman who dons a bow tie for any occasion, or none at all.

I, myself am not particularly interesting. I am 98.8 % certain that if I were walking with the masses, no people-watcher anywhere would take note. My clothing and outward appearances are definitely not how I define myself. I pretty much wear clothes simply because otherwise I would be naked. But though my outside is quite bland, I feel like I am firmly aware of my quiet idiosyncrasies, and rather than try to squelch them and be more "normal", I have embraced them. The list is long, and each one could be explored in its own self-revealing essay, but the short list of my oddities is...

I am far too deeply in love with fictional characters, and Bon Jovi. I talk to myself, constantly. I answer on occasion. I am terrified of scary movies. I believe that whoever first invented the idea of zombies was, quite simply, the devil in disguise. If I even think a zombie might make an appearance in a TV show or movie, I'm out. I listen to Christmas carols pretty much year round, and "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" is my daughter's favorite lullaby. (Yes, I said lullaby).
I LOVE music. I go for long walks simply because it is a time to be alone with my iPod. I feel alive at the theater, but rather than being inspired by great talent, I am sent spiraling into a depression about my own lack of awesomeness. (It took me three full days to recover after I watched Wicked, the musical). I cannot imagine being so gifted, and making a living with my gift! Yesterday, I taught class with a British accent for quite nearly the entire day. In my defense, I tried to stop but they prefer my fake voice.

I guess that might be part of what I love about catching a glimpse of someone outwardly unique. I feel like they are showing on the outside what I am feeling on the inside. They share their flair while mine is less obvious, but we are both whistling Dan Fogelberg songs in a world that cares who Lady Gaga is. So, in a way, we are kindred, unusual, amazing spirits! How depressing the world would be if it lacked the color of people just being themselves!

I was going to post a picture of myself but it seemed more appropriate to post a picture of one of the strange things about me. On my perfect day I would be sitting on this couch singing along...quietly...so as not to miss one single note of his perfect tenor voice. LOL!

Fifth grade

I hated 5th grade. It was 5th grade at my private, Christian school that convinced me that I was ready to go to public school. My teacher, Mary Perry, was allegedly human, but seemed more like a monster to me. It wasn't just her physical unattractiveness, though she was physically unattractive (complete with a hairy mole on her lip and an awful white-girl-afro), but her personality too. She didn't talk nicely, and she had a way of making us feel dumb no matter what. She never smiled, or laughed. She just oozed meanness. She also had a mean younger brother, as monsters typically do, who was much older than we were and who sometimes came as a chaperone on field trips. I don't know what his first name was, but it started with a T because his initials were T.P. I still recall the day we first met this T.P. fellow because,in my eleven year old mentality, I made the remark, "Oh T.P. like toilet paper". My initials were J.A. and his response to me, this 20-something-year-old molder and shaper of lives said to me, "Oh, J.A. like jackass." Yep, that was my first time meeting Ms. Perry's brother. He made my insides feel like broccoli mixed with molasses, and I have never forgotten it. At that point in my life "jacksass" was definitely the meanest, ugliest word I had ever heard. And not only did T.P. say it around me, but he was directing it at me. He pretty much was the wax seal on the envelope that declared Ms. Perry was officially a monster. That was it for me that year, and no amount of dulcimer playing that Monster Perry might do could change my mind that she was the enemy.

So, here we are, 26 years later, and I find myself back in Fifth Grade. God has an interesting sense of humor. When my boss asked me to take on this job, I almost burst into tears. Not like I thought Miss Perry would be in my room with me, but hearing "Fifth Grade" brought back that broccoli mixed with molasses feeling in an instant. There was no way I could be a fifth grade teacher. That would make me the Miss Perry to a whole new generation of kids, and that is more than I could bear. I begged God to open another door. I asked him to find me something else to do. Another grade, another school, another career path altogether...just not fifth grade!

He didn't. I opened the door to this school year as the Fifth Grade teacher, and I was terrified. And then, the kids walked through the door to meet me. And they were not frightening. They were definitely not the impetus that would cause some inner monster to emerge in me. They were...precious. Unspeakably precious. Nervous, shy, adorable, smart, and nice. I knew one thing, after my first five minutes with them. I would not ever be their monster. All I wanted to do was love them. For the one who's mom just died a couple of months ago, I wanted to give her extra long motherly hugs, and for the boy who's dad doesn't come around much, I want to listen to his dreams of owning a classic GT Mustang one day. I want to dazzle them with my impressive faux British accent, and give them high fives when they come running in on Monday morning with bright eyes, sparkling, telling me their mom was so proud that she cried when she saw they got a B on their math test. I want to pay for their field trip when the only other option is that they can't go. I want to be the anti-Miss Perry. In every way. In every opportunity. I want to make them feel funny, and smart, and proud of themselves. I want to watch them be the best version of themselves that they can be. I have realized that fifth graders are wonderful.

I have no doubt that God placing me in 5th grade this year has been a gift to me. After a few tough years with some really tough kids, I find myself working with teachable, happy spirits who (so far) have very supportive and logical parents. And, maybe there is another gift for me embedded in this year. The chance for me to see, through my students, how innocent, and undeserving of cruelty I was in 5th grade. To take away that self-condemning voice that I always hear when I remember TP calling me a jackass, and to give me a new batch of fifth grade memories. After this year, when I think of Fifth grade I will no longer have to head back to broccoli-molassesville. I will, instead, be able to smile as I think of my encounter with the coolest class on campus, Fifth Grade!