Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Yesterday was a life changing day.
It all started with a letter I received last week. It came from a volunteer that had worked for me at the Nursing Home where I had resigned just about two years ago. She is an unforgettable character but many of her peculiar traits are the kind that you wish you didn’t have more of. She tends to be difficult to deal with and mostly because of her intense need to keep conversation flowing constantly from her body. She could out talk any one else I have ever met. Many of the things she has to say are interesting but almost all of them are about her, and the sheer volume of her dialogue wears you out. She also speaks in negative, complaining tones usually about someone that annoys her, which is a great deal of this earth’s population.
She has a sidekick, not quite like Dr. Jeckyl or Mr. Hyde, or Mutt and Jeff but more like Abbott and Costello. In the past they were always fussing about one another. This partner was also a volunteer of mine, with an added commitment; she was the sister of one of the residents of the Nursing Home. So passionate about their care, she often jumped in when she felt her talent to raise funds and tell the story of the Home could be utilized. She knew first hand how important the money being raised could be used to benefit some very special people. Often times she would get so caught up in her request for help that she would go beyond just asking and start demanding people pay attention, it was my job then to soften the edges and keep the connection beneficial between both the giver and the receiver.
The letter stated that this passionate lady who’s brother I knew as a resident, was going to die. She had caught the dreaded smoking stick disease and it was close to the time of losing her battle. This letter was an attempt to reach me since my talkative acquaintance hadn’t been successful in the past couple years of leaving messages on my answering machine. It was the request of her comrade to talk with me before she unable to do so. I made plans to call the next day and when I did the phone was answered by a caregiver who confirmed the awful news and then handed the phone to her. My past volunteer told me that she only had a few days to live and that she had missed talking with me, and wished she had been able to do so earlier. Guilt filled every fiber of my being. I had thought this was one of those relationships where you knew the people and then you said “see ya later” and went about your business. See ya later, meant our paths will most likely cross again, probably in the grocery store or at Wal-Mart. It never occurred to me that I would be missed, or in any event, that when someone was close to death, it would matter about seeing me one more time. I’m not that special.
I made plans to visit with my sick friend the next week, and I was reminded by the wordy one that it was conceivable, she might not live until that time. I thought about the upcoming visit all week long. What could I say that would be appropriate? What does one bring to a person who’s about to vacate this earthly life? I had no prior experience with this. Even my own grandparents were gone before I was able to really understand how fragile life was. I was more than nervous, I was terrified. Mostly because of what I didn’t want to say, something that would cause her discomfort, pain or just annoyance. How could I offer words that would make this visit something worthy of such a request?
Yesterday when I got up, it was snowing. For a moment I thought about the snow getting in the way, but it wasn't the kind that made driving a challenge, it was the kind that filled the sky with a curtain of lace. The snowflakes, melting as they touched the wet roads made the sky look like a huge, never ending snow globe, that someone had forgotten to turn right side up. I took the kids to school and then on to pick up the gal who made me aware of this situation. On the way, I stopped to purchase a bouquet of spring like flowers, I thought maybe it would be refreshing, a hopeful sign of good things to come.
When I met the gabby girl friend, she started right in with a long explanation of what had taken place in her life in the last couple of years while she sidetracked herself enough to guide me to the proper address of our sick friend. I didn’t mind the ongoing conversation at this point; it was like the steady beat of my windshield wipers, constant and protective. It kept my mind off what was going to take place at the next stop.
Upon entering the house, I was greeted by the caregiver who I gave a nervous hug to even though she was a complete stranger to me. She lead me into the space where I saw that this despicable cancer had taken its toll on the voice I had spoken to just last week on the phone. At that time, she had sounded tired but still very much alive, and still able to function for the most part. Now she was a very small, weak individual who was lying on a hospital bed in the corner of the living room, connected to oxygen tubes and fighting to take in each breath. She chose to face the wall that held a fireplace covered with a whole array of angel figurines. I shook off my coat and immediately went to her.
With one look into her eyes, all my fear and hesitation went away. In an instant, I knew, after seeing her struggle to suck the precious air into her body, that this visit had nothing to do with me and my fears, in fact it had nothing to do with me at all. She lay in a close to fetal position, barely able to lift her head from the pillow and used her eyes to show recognition and expression because of how difficult it was to speak. She had not been able to swallow any food other than liquid for the past four days. She was holding on to life as if she were walking across a tightrope, balancing the wire or toying with the idea of just letting go into a free fall. It was painful to see her in such a state. I instantly felt so close to her, like we had been long lost friends. I wanted to do everything I could do to pamper her, to offer her whatever comfort I could.
I knew in my heart, this was an occasion to share some very cherished moments with someone who needed all the compassion and attention I could muster. I tenderly took her hand in mine, and without even thinking about it, silently, asked for God to be with us, and to help ease her through this next passage. I tried my best to let her know she had my undivided attention. I rubbed her head and gently rubbed her face to let her know that she wasn’t alone and that I was so sad that this was taking place for her. I don’t even know where this strength came from, to weep and pray to myself for her, I just knew it was something that I was supposed to be doing right at that moment. It was as though time was standing still; I could look out facing her window as I stood by her and continued to see this beautiful display of winter lace.
She looked at me with such an intense gaze and made great efforts to push out words. Some of them made sense, some of them did not, and most all of them were spoken so softly that I had to try with all my might to listen as hard as I could. All of her communication with me let me know that she was glad we were clinging to each other. I could tell that even though her body was giving up, her spirit and passion, were still very much alive and now and then I even brought forth the laughter as we remembered our past times together.
I spoke to her like we were meeting in the grocery store and told her tales of my kids and how much I learned from them daily. She was in such pain and discomfort, but she did her best to stay alert with me. Every now and then I would ask her what I could do for her and I was able to figure out she was thirsty and then she would drift into wanting to tell me things and become frustrated realizing I could only comprehend so much. The tears would fall from my face when I least expected them, as I told her I loved her and rubbed her arms. They were so frail and scarred. I was amazed at how much she was able to comprehend from my communication, and we even made some of our own private jokes about the chatter that was taking place in the background between the caregiver and the non stop talking of the friend I had driven over. It was like old times, where they would often talk to me about each other while only steps away from one another; she smiled whenever I would make a commentary of this.
The three hours that I had been able to stay had gone by so quickly. That time will always be memorable to me. She didn’t want to let me go, she held on so tight that I had to slowly and carefully release her grasp, so as not to hurt her. We told each other again how much we cared, I told her I would try to come back and visit and how glad I was that we were able to be together today. I knew that this might be the very last time I was able to see her alive, and I was sad.
This visit changed me; it allowed me to understand how important people can be to each other even if it is just reaching out in our hour of need. It reinforced my knowing that death doesn’t take place in some grand scale of climatic scenery with trumpets blowing to announce the moment, it happens quietly, among the daily activities of others doing the business of caring for you, quiet and peacefully and possibly in your own living room.
I wanted God to take care of her, to take away her pain, to let her know that she was close to the end of this suffering, and that the passion that she had always displayed to help others would be her entrance fee into an eternal life where it was her turn to be taken care of. I told her when I went to church tonight, I would light a candle for her, she smiled and said thank you with her eyes.
I don’t know what I did to receive this honor today; I certainly wasn’t the closest of her friends, nor the most faithful. I gave to her the only thing I knew to give and that was a sincere appreciation of who she is and how simple, yet important it is to care for one another. I am glad we had a chance and the courage to tell each other," I love you", because it was the right thing to do. I will remember this day and her for the rest of my life.
It all started with a letter I received last week. It came from a volunteer that had worked for me at the Nursing Home where I had resigned just about two years ago. She is an unforgettable character but many of her peculiar traits are the kind that you wish you didn’t have more of. She tends to be difficult to deal with and mostly because of her intense need to keep conversation flowing constantly from her body. She could out talk any one else I have ever met. Many of the things she has to say are interesting but almost all of them are about her, and the sheer volume of her dialogue wears you out. She also speaks in negative, complaining tones usually about someone that annoys her, which is a great deal of this earth’s population.
She has a sidekick, not quite like Dr. Jeckyl or Mr. Hyde, or Mutt and Jeff but more like Abbott and Costello. In the past they were always fussing about one another. This partner was also a volunteer of mine, with an added commitment; she was the sister of one of the residents of the Nursing Home. So passionate about their care, she often jumped in when she felt her talent to raise funds and tell the story of the Home could be utilized. She knew first hand how important the money being raised could be used to benefit some very special people. Often times she would get so caught up in her request for help that she would go beyond just asking and start demanding people pay attention, it was my job then to soften the edges and keep the connection beneficial between both the giver and the receiver.
The letter stated that this passionate lady who’s brother I knew as a resident, was going to die. She had caught the dreaded smoking stick disease and it was close to the time of losing her battle. This letter was an attempt to reach me since my talkative acquaintance hadn’t been successful in the past couple years of leaving messages on my answering machine. It was the request of her comrade to talk with me before she unable to do so. I made plans to call the next day and when I did the phone was answered by a caregiver who confirmed the awful news and then handed the phone to her. My past volunteer told me that she only had a few days to live and that she had missed talking with me, and wished she had been able to do so earlier. Guilt filled every fiber of my being. I had thought this was one of those relationships where you knew the people and then you said “see ya later” and went about your business. See ya later, meant our paths will most likely cross again, probably in the grocery store or at Wal-Mart. It never occurred to me that I would be missed, or in any event, that when someone was close to death, it would matter about seeing me one more time. I’m not that special.
I made plans to visit with my sick friend the next week, and I was reminded by the wordy one that it was conceivable, she might not live until that time. I thought about the upcoming visit all week long. What could I say that would be appropriate? What does one bring to a person who’s about to vacate this earthly life? I had no prior experience with this. Even my own grandparents were gone before I was able to really understand how fragile life was. I was more than nervous, I was terrified. Mostly because of what I didn’t want to say, something that would cause her discomfort, pain or just annoyance. How could I offer words that would make this visit something worthy of such a request?
Yesterday when I got up, it was snowing. For a moment I thought about the snow getting in the way, but it wasn't the kind that made driving a challenge, it was the kind that filled the sky with a curtain of lace. The snowflakes, melting as they touched the wet roads made the sky look like a huge, never ending snow globe, that someone had forgotten to turn right side up. I took the kids to school and then on to pick up the gal who made me aware of this situation. On the way, I stopped to purchase a bouquet of spring like flowers, I thought maybe it would be refreshing, a hopeful sign of good things to come.
When I met the gabby girl friend, she started right in with a long explanation of what had taken place in her life in the last couple of years while she sidetracked herself enough to guide me to the proper address of our sick friend. I didn’t mind the ongoing conversation at this point; it was like the steady beat of my windshield wipers, constant and protective. It kept my mind off what was going to take place at the next stop.
Upon entering the house, I was greeted by the caregiver who I gave a nervous hug to even though she was a complete stranger to me. She lead me into the space where I saw that this despicable cancer had taken its toll on the voice I had spoken to just last week on the phone. At that time, she had sounded tired but still very much alive, and still able to function for the most part. Now she was a very small, weak individual who was lying on a hospital bed in the corner of the living room, connected to oxygen tubes and fighting to take in each breath. She chose to face the wall that held a fireplace covered with a whole array of angel figurines. I shook off my coat and immediately went to her.
With one look into her eyes, all my fear and hesitation went away. In an instant, I knew, after seeing her struggle to suck the precious air into her body, that this visit had nothing to do with me and my fears, in fact it had nothing to do with me at all. She lay in a close to fetal position, barely able to lift her head from the pillow and used her eyes to show recognition and expression because of how difficult it was to speak. She had not been able to swallow any food other than liquid for the past four days. She was holding on to life as if she were walking across a tightrope, balancing the wire or toying with the idea of just letting go into a free fall. It was painful to see her in such a state. I instantly felt so close to her, like we had been long lost friends. I wanted to do everything I could do to pamper her, to offer her whatever comfort I could.
I knew in my heart, this was an occasion to share some very cherished moments with someone who needed all the compassion and attention I could muster. I tenderly took her hand in mine, and without even thinking about it, silently, asked for God to be with us, and to help ease her through this next passage. I tried my best to let her know she had my undivided attention. I rubbed her head and gently rubbed her face to let her know that she wasn’t alone and that I was so sad that this was taking place for her. I don’t even know where this strength came from, to weep and pray to myself for her, I just knew it was something that I was supposed to be doing right at that moment. It was as though time was standing still; I could look out facing her window as I stood by her and continued to see this beautiful display of winter lace.
She looked at me with such an intense gaze and made great efforts to push out words. Some of them made sense, some of them did not, and most all of them were spoken so softly that I had to try with all my might to listen as hard as I could. All of her communication with me let me know that she was glad we were clinging to each other. I could tell that even though her body was giving up, her spirit and passion, were still very much alive and now and then I even brought forth the laughter as we remembered our past times together.
I spoke to her like we were meeting in the grocery store and told her tales of my kids and how much I learned from them daily. She was in such pain and discomfort, but she did her best to stay alert with me. Every now and then I would ask her what I could do for her and I was able to figure out she was thirsty and then she would drift into wanting to tell me things and become frustrated realizing I could only comprehend so much. The tears would fall from my face when I least expected them, as I told her I loved her and rubbed her arms. They were so frail and scarred. I was amazed at how much she was able to comprehend from my communication, and we even made some of our own private jokes about the chatter that was taking place in the background between the caregiver and the non stop talking of the friend I had driven over. It was like old times, where they would often talk to me about each other while only steps away from one another; she smiled whenever I would make a commentary of this.
The three hours that I had been able to stay had gone by so quickly. That time will always be memorable to me. She didn’t want to let me go, she held on so tight that I had to slowly and carefully release her grasp, so as not to hurt her. We told each other again how much we cared, I told her I would try to come back and visit and how glad I was that we were able to be together today. I knew that this might be the very last time I was able to see her alive, and I was sad.
This visit changed me; it allowed me to understand how important people can be to each other even if it is just reaching out in our hour of need. It reinforced my knowing that death doesn’t take place in some grand scale of climatic scenery with trumpets blowing to announce the moment, it happens quietly, among the daily activities of others doing the business of caring for you, quiet and peacefully and possibly in your own living room.
I wanted God to take care of her, to take away her pain, to let her know that she was close to the end of this suffering, and that the passion that she had always displayed to help others would be her entrance fee into an eternal life where it was her turn to be taken care of. I told her when I went to church tonight, I would light a candle for her, she smiled and said thank you with her eyes.
I don’t know what I did to receive this honor today; I certainly wasn’t the closest of her friends, nor the most faithful. I gave to her the only thing I knew to give and that was a sincere appreciation of who she is and how simple, yet important it is to care for one another. I am glad we had a chance and the courage to tell each other," I love you", because it was the right thing to do. I will remember this day and her for the rest of my life.
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Choices: why is it that we have to make choices and worse yet when we have to live with them?
My kids talk a lot about choices. That seems to be the new kid management thing today. I guess our parents are still wondering about some of the choices we made and so that means my generation, the people who are trying to manage today's youth, want choices to be really good ones, so with that theme, my children bring home drawings, booklets and mottoes.
Everywhere I look or read there seems to be urgings on good and bad choices, no in-between, and the question that is in my mind, is what does that mean to me as a parent and as a person? Was that a good choice? I find myself saying it a time or two myself, as if I am expecting my words to inspire my children to take responsibility for their actions “ Now do you think that was a good choice?” the answer they give me quite often is, “I don’t know.” Or if its really on the list of don’ts, a no. This will at least get the subject moving again, take the focus off of them individually, and get the punishment pronounced so the waiting doesn’t become worse than the doing the time in the time out space.
This major focus of today’s behavior causes me to reflect on some of my own choices. Would I make different choices, and were they right or wrong? Should I have become a nurse like my mother wanted so much for me? Why do we always feel as though somehow we let our parents down because we dared to choose differently? Would it have been okay to stick a needle in someone’s butt, knowing that isn’t what I wanted to do and would each little jab bear the resentment for the goal that was not mine? I think I have encountered some nurses who might very well have listened to their mothers. Ouch!
Was my first marriage a mistake even though it brought forth our daughter, whom we were hoping, would heal the wounds that came from being too young and immature? The first time we bond together in a matrimonial event there is such great pressure to make the right choice, the person that will fulfill all of our parent’s dreams for us. To live happily ever after. Does the partner of this destination, light up and flash neon signs with little hearts that have our name on them? If so I must have been blinded by the light!
Should I have stayed consistently working with my education straight through instead of waiting for years later to get the same amount of degrees? Even though the journey of learning ended up being more satisfying then the now dusting off of the frames? Is education supposed to be in a certain order or do we stop being intelligent enough and lose the ability to cram for a Biochem test which has now been replaced by the test to remember the order of our children’s birthdays?
Second marriages, is there really such a thing, can one possibly get re-married, which sounds so much like re-heating and does it lose some of its flavor as second time cooked dishes do? Do we choose wiser now that the first experience was our big opportunity to make all our mistakes, like leaving the lid off of the toothpaste, which is now replaced with a capless tooth-polishing machine? What happens when we hit bumps in the second one? Do we check out again, like a well used library book and keep doing it until we are well read on the subject, or do we thrust our feet firmly in the sandy foundation of our second time around and say I will not fail again?
Parenting choices, which is a category all to its own, do we ever stop blaming ourselves and shift the blame on to them, maybe when we call on them on visitation day at the prison? Is there a thermometer much like the device that tells you when the Thanksgiving turkey is ready, that you can finally turn the heat off and say, “They’re done!”?
What choices do we make to contribute to society? Do we judge the world we live in by what the media focuses on and the image of that “in the spotlight society” that is being tuned into by millions? Where friends are those that they go to work when they want to, and solve all their problems at delis and coffee shops, or at the same cheerful bar stool where everybody knows your name?
Are the families we want our children to identify with and model after, are they the ones who become proficient at inviting cameras into every detail of their lives? Where they argue, have kids who get drunk and party right under their nose, where the head of household who walks around in a stupor all day, bites off bat heads and the common sibling brother tries harder at looking like the sister than the sister? Do we let our children think that the typical family conversation really can’t exist without a few dozen bleeps?
Will my kids be able to see beyond this circus of choices? Has our world of media offered them up a buffet selection of bad choices so that they won’t have to look too far to see where mistakes can be made? No wonder homework and good old-fashioned hard work such as chores seems so boring, and unrewarding. If it doesn’t come with a million-dollar contract, what’s the motivation? I’m anticipating that maybe the media in its overzealous desire to create viewers and ratings will present just enough of the bizarre to provide an opportunity to think about the wrong choices others have made and have had to live with publicly.
All these lessons and more will be needed to sustain my kids and provide them with the self confidence and skills in the decision making process that will allow them to build productive and independent lives for themselves. A necessary training, as one day they will be addressing the subject of choices with their own children.
In the end, it appears to me that choices are all about cycles, and fate and common sense. We can’t make them for others and we can only hope that we pick the right one for ourselves. I also think sometimes bad choices are as beneficial to us as the good ones, not to the degree of wearing a bright orange suit and having to do jail time, but its because of the pain of wrong choices that I know I have grown my tallest. The difficult ones have made me reflect on how lucky I am, and the how life can be totally turned around with a left or a right turn. I can only trust that some of those drawings, booklets and mottoes stick in their heads when they are left alone to choose on their own. Most especially, that they will also be able have enough character when they have to live with the decisions they make in their own lives.
My kids talk a lot about choices. That seems to be the new kid management thing today. I guess our parents are still wondering about some of the choices we made and so that means my generation, the people who are trying to manage today's youth, want choices to be really good ones, so with that theme, my children bring home drawings, booklets and mottoes.
Everywhere I look or read there seems to be urgings on good and bad choices, no in-between, and the question that is in my mind, is what does that mean to me as a parent and as a person? Was that a good choice? I find myself saying it a time or two myself, as if I am expecting my words to inspire my children to take responsibility for their actions “ Now do you think that was a good choice?” the answer they give me quite often is, “I don’t know.” Or if its really on the list of don’ts, a no. This will at least get the subject moving again, take the focus off of them individually, and get the punishment pronounced so the waiting doesn’t become worse than the doing the time in the time out space.
This major focus of today’s behavior causes me to reflect on some of my own choices. Would I make different choices, and were they right or wrong? Should I have become a nurse like my mother wanted so much for me? Why do we always feel as though somehow we let our parents down because we dared to choose differently? Would it have been okay to stick a needle in someone’s butt, knowing that isn’t what I wanted to do and would each little jab bear the resentment for the goal that was not mine? I think I have encountered some nurses who might very well have listened to their mothers. Ouch!
Was my first marriage a mistake even though it brought forth our daughter, whom we were hoping, would heal the wounds that came from being too young and immature? The first time we bond together in a matrimonial event there is such great pressure to make the right choice, the person that will fulfill all of our parent’s dreams for us. To live happily ever after. Does the partner of this destination, light up and flash neon signs with little hearts that have our name on them? If so I must have been blinded by the light!
Should I have stayed consistently working with my education straight through instead of waiting for years later to get the same amount of degrees? Even though the journey of learning ended up being more satisfying then the now dusting off of the frames? Is education supposed to be in a certain order or do we stop being intelligent enough and lose the ability to cram for a Biochem test which has now been replaced by the test to remember the order of our children’s birthdays?
Second marriages, is there really such a thing, can one possibly get re-married, which sounds so much like re-heating and does it lose some of its flavor as second time cooked dishes do? Do we choose wiser now that the first experience was our big opportunity to make all our mistakes, like leaving the lid off of the toothpaste, which is now replaced with a capless tooth-polishing machine? What happens when we hit bumps in the second one? Do we check out again, like a well used library book and keep doing it until we are well read on the subject, or do we thrust our feet firmly in the sandy foundation of our second time around and say I will not fail again?
Parenting choices, which is a category all to its own, do we ever stop blaming ourselves and shift the blame on to them, maybe when we call on them on visitation day at the prison? Is there a thermometer much like the device that tells you when the Thanksgiving turkey is ready, that you can finally turn the heat off and say, “They’re done!”?
What choices do we make to contribute to society? Do we judge the world we live in by what the media focuses on and the image of that “in the spotlight society” that is being tuned into by millions? Where friends are those that they go to work when they want to, and solve all their problems at delis and coffee shops, or at the same cheerful bar stool where everybody knows your name?
Are the families we want our children to identify with and model after, are they the ones who become proficient at inviting cameras into every detail of their lives? Where they argue, have kids who get drunk and party right under their nose, where the head of household who walks around in a stupor all day, bites off bat heads and the common sibling brother tries harder at looking like the sister than the sister? Do we let our children think that the typical family conversation really can’t exist without a few dozen bleeps?
Will my kids be able to see beyond this circus of choices? Has our world of media offered them up a buffet selection of bad choices so that they won’t have to look too far to see where mistakes can be made? No wonder homework and good old-fashioned hard work such as chores seems so boring, and unrewarding. If it doesn’t come with a million-dollar contract, what’s the motivation? I’m anticipating that maybe the media in its overzealous desire to create viewers and ratings will present just enough of the bizarre to provide an opportunity to think about the wrong choices others have made and have had to live with publicly.
All these lessons and more will be needed to sustain my kids and provide them with the self confidence and skills in the decision making process that will allow them to build productive and independent lives for themselves. A necessary training, as one day they will be addressing the subject of choices with their own children.
In the end, it appears to me that choices are all about cycles, and fate and common sense. We can’t make them for others and we can only hope that we pick the right one for ourselves. I also think sometimes bad choices are as beneficial to us as the good ones, not to the degree of wearing a bright orange suit and having to do jail time, but its because of the pain of wrong choices that I know I have grown my tallest. The difficult ones have made me reflect on how lucky I am, and the how life can be totally turned around with a left or a right turn. I can only trust that some of those drawings, booklets and mottoes stick in their heads when they are left alone to choose on their own. Most especially, that they will also be able have enough character when they have to live with the decisions they make in their own lives.
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Observations: Did you ever wonder, if I am thinking about what some people are really like, they just might be wondering the same about me?
I see people go by every day, in the car, as I am buzzing down the interstate to pick up my middle one at school, as I wait in the car drop off line for the Middle school and when I stand in the cold waiting to pick up the youngest from the Elementary school. You just have to wonder what makes them tick, having been a people watcher for years, the expressions on their faces are even more interesting to read then the latest best seller.
I have stood next to the same lady for the past two years at the elementary level, what I know about her I could fit in a thimble. I know she hates the cold, as she starts shivering as soon as the fall breeze rushes in. I know that she is anxious to grab her daughter’s hand as soon as she sees sight of her, calling her name if the child happens to be occupied with something else. I also have heard from her about how much she loves her older model and rugged Jeep. Her few words of conversation have been always how great it is in the snow.
Then there is the more than curious, fashion designed Mother who has the same daily repertoire of questions for me, you get the impression that she is sizing up your social status, and determining whether or not, it will improve her status to talk with you. You know that she has made a point to remember all of the names of the children and parents that she feels could benefit her. With me she has selected a frequent conversation, primarily concerning the common experience with our children having been past students enrolled in the Montessori school system. I get the feeling for some reason; she carries a certain amount of guilt in her decision of coming to the dark side, transferring her only son into the public school system. She then asks me more than once, "Do you think my child is learning as much here, as if to say to her resident couch coach, am I comfortable with my resolve to trust the public way of education? I do my best to point out the good things I have experienced; saving the frustrating ones for another parent who has a greater tolerance level for such things. I tell her good examples as I know she needs to hear them, but I must confess that when I go to stand in my self appointed spot, I am not always unhappy that she sees someone else she knows, and chooses to converse with them. Sometimes it feels like work to provide her the daily dose of comfort she needs.
There is the Dad from down the street, whose two sons have played at the summer playground with mine and who at first glance, looks like a very involved father who enjoys being there for his boys. Then you notice his habit of making sure he arrives just in time to stand by the glamour girl of the neighborhood, you can’t help but watch their dance of attraction. You know that both of their spouses are otherwise occupied at this time, and I can imagine, totally unaware that picking up their children is so much fun for their mates, especially when hormones play into an extra bonus for the day.
Then there is the Father, who is very quiet in his stature. He doesn’t ever utter a word, simply content to stand in the same spot looking as if he is holding up the wall of the building. The only outward sign he demonstrates, is the nod that he administers everyday to me and the lighting up of his face as his child runs into his arms. He looks to be a mystery just waiting to be solved. It is easy to see however; that he is very devoted to his family and that makes him a really good read in my book!
I only know these people from 3:15 to 3:35 everyday, 20 minutes of observation Monday through Friday, but they are as faithful as the earth is turning. I know their body movements and gestures so well that I could role-play without missing a cue. I wonder what they do after 3:35; do they rush home to their families to be greeted with the same exhilaration as mine? Do their kids all try to get out the news of the day, as fast as their mouths will move, shoving examples of artwork and accomplishments under their nose as they unfold the experiences of the time we have been apart?
Do these sidewalk roommates of mine ever reflect on the rest of us that stand with them in the same spot day after day? Or do they go about their business oblivious that someone is taking account of their existence, taking the time to wonder about the people who populate the shared space in that boldly marked, no parking, school bus zone?
Or maybe at 3:35 each day, they are wondering about that chubby little lady who happens to wear no socks all winter long and who asks her child the same question after greeting him, of course, after the hug. So how was your day?
I see people go by every day, in the car, as I am buzzing down the interstate to pick up my middle one at school, as I wait in the car drop off line for the Middle school and when I stand in the cold waiting to pick up the youngest from the Elementary school. You just have to wonder what makes them tick, having been a people watcher for years, the expressions on their faces are even more interesting to read then the latest best seller.
I have stood next to the same lady for the past two years at the elementary level, what I know about her I could fit in a thimble. I know she hates the cold, as she starts shivering as soon as the fall breeze rushes in. I know that she is anxious to grab her daughter’s hand as soon as she sees sight of her, calling her name if the child happens to be occupied with something else. I also have heard from her about how much she loves her older model and rugged Jeep. Her few words of conversation have been always how great it is in the snow.
Then there is the more than curious, fashion designed Mother who has the same daily repertoire of questions for me, you get the impression that she is sizing up your social status, and determining whether or not, it will improve her status to talk with you. You know that she has made a point to remember all of the names of the children and parents that she feels could benefit her. With me she has selected a frequent conversation, primarily concerning the common experience with our children having been past students enrolled in the Montessori school system. I get the feeling for some reason; she carries a certain amount of guilt in her decision of coming to the dark side, transferring her only son into the public school system. She then asks me more than once, "Do you think my child is learning as much here, as if to say to her resident couch coach, am I comfortable with my resolve to trust the public way of education? I do my best to point out the good things I have experienced; saving the frustrating ones for another parent who has a greater tolerance level for such things. I tell her good examples as I know she needs to hear them, but I must confess that when I go to stand in my self appointed spot, I am not always unhappy that she sees someone else she knows, and chooses to converse with them. Sometimes it feels like work to provide her the daily dose of comfort she needs.
There is the Dad from down the street, whose two sons have played at the summer playground with mine and who at first glance, looks like a very involved father who enjoys being there for his boys. Then you notice his habit of making sure he arrives just in time to stand by the glamour girl of the neighborhood, you can’t help but watch their dance of attraction. You know that both of their spouses are otherwise occupied at this time, and I can imagine, totally unaware that picking up their children is so much fun for their mates, especially when hormones play into an extra bonus for the day.
Then there is the Father, who is very quiet in his stature. He doesn’t ever utter a word, simply content to stand in the same spot looking as if he is holding up the wall of the building. The only outward sign he demonstrates, is the nod that he administers everyday to me and the lighting up of his face as his child runs into his arms. He looks to be a mystery just waiting to be solved. It is easy to see however; that he is very devoted to his family and that makes him a really good read in my book!
I only know these people from 3:15 to 3:35 everyday, 20 minutes of observation Monday through Friday, but they are as faithful as the earth is turning. I know their body movements and gestures so well that I could role-play without missing a cue. I wonder what they do after 3:35; do they rush home to their families to be greeted with the same exhilaration as mine? Do their kids all try to get out the news of the day, as fast as their mouths will move, shoving examples of artwork and accomplishments under their nose as they unfold the experiences of the time we have been apart?
Do these sidewalk roommates of mine ever reflect on the rest of us that stand with them in the same spot day after day? Or do they go about their business oblivious that someone is taking account of their existence, taking the time to wonder about the people who populate the shared space in that boldly marked, no parking, school bus zone?
Or maybe at 3:35 each day, they are wondering about that chubby little lady who happens to wear no socks all winter long and who asks her child the same question after greeting him, of course, after the hug. So how was your day?
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Brothers: what bond could be more like oil and water but blend together to make the perfect pastry, full of sweet stuff?
Who was the remarkable person that claimed children should be seen and not heard? They must have had these very vocal brothers in mind.
My boys each have their own personality profile, the oldest is eight followed closely at his heels, quite literally, by the seven year old, who couldn't be more opposite if you designed him that way.
No one warned me about the energy that is born into male children, if I had known, I would have taken out a new warranty on myself, at least I would have bought new batteries for my well earned pacemaker!
I marvel at how the two of them can exhaust me while even just standing still. I thought that sonic booms were things that followed jets, not jet propelled little people that can scream louder than a cat in heat, and by cat I mean, the Bengal Tiger kind! These sound breaking noises come as a result of one brother just touching the other brother, much like you would imagine a person who have just dipped their hand in acid!
The first time I heard it, I am sure my heart stopped, I think my car was automatically headed for the emergency room. Little did I know that emergencies such as that would become an every day occurrence.
My memory comes to register on such a time while on my way home from work with children in tow, we came across a 4 minute, Have It Your Way, wonder worker, at the local fast food drive thru. This just doing my job kind of person, unwittingly ignored my pleas of putting together the eldest son’s Happy burger Meal, only ketchup please, and no pickle.
As I re-entered traffic, in my making list mode, of what to do first when we get home, I hear this blood curdling scream coming from some possessed alien that has somehow entered the dark of my back seat and into the mouth of my child. His mouth was contorted into a scream that only occurs from grown men who have wagered all this weeks earning on a Super Bowl play and lost. Buckets of tears were streaming down his face, as he is yelling, “I ate a pickle!"
I think I might have actually swallowed my tongue, I couldn't quite make out that there was a pickle disaster in progress, because with the level of his screams I thought for sure, he must be bleeding, and we only had moments until he would be unconscious.
When I did get the translation from his older sister, who could obviously understand panic screams or at the very least, pickle talk better than I do, my next reaction was, THEY GAVE YOU A PICKLE! Had I not been next to my driveway, I do believe I would have sped to that chef of cruelty, and carried my child with pickle juice still on his breath, and demonstrated the trauma that was caused to my young. How dare they just make it their way, instead of mine!
Screaming seems to run in our family, at least on the male side of things, our seven-year-old holds a metal for being able to squeal the loudest with his teeth clinched, just breathing through his nose. He is the Scream Master, his voice is so high pitched that we make sure we are drinking out of plastic when he goes into his routine, and that's his good morning tidings, to let the world and half the block know that he is still alive!
He has figured out how to avoid using less of the English language as possible. Instead of saying, "Help, my brother just stomped me in the head, he hits the diva register voice range, and shakes windows. We race to their room, to see the evidence of the dead body that surely must have become one of CSI’s famous outlined corpuses, complete with the yellow caution tape at the door. Gets me every time!
Oh there are so many stories to tell, as evidence of their continuing, contrary relationship, but there is one thing I can tell you without a doubt. If you just happen to catch a glimpse of them in the rear view mirror, without their awareness, most likely you will see their heads transformed, almost melded into one, trying to figure out the latest level of the Game Boy mania, together. Big brother helping his little brother as he leans in, letting him know that he is there for him, to catch him when he falls, even if it is only from Frogger’s lily pad.
I have been known to slip quietly into their room, long after the screams have been replaced by the steady, sweet sound of sleeping children, only to find both boys sleeping side by side, sometimes arm in arm, snug in one of their beds. I know that they must have entered into some private agreement to hold each other close through the night to chase the boogie man away.
They are my precious boys, they teach me every day that from one second to the next, life is all about having the courage and energy to express yourself. Even if it is screaming at the top of your lungs, or whispering some shared brother’s only secrets. To never be quiet about the important things in life, and whenever you get pickled, scream bloody murder!
Who was the remarkable person that claimed children should be seen and not heard? They must have had these very vocal brothers in mind.
My boys each have their own personality profile, the oldest is eight followed closely at his heels, quite literally, by the seven year old, who couldn't be more opposite if you designed him that way.
No one warned me about the energy that is born into male children, if I had known, I would have taken out a new warranty on myself, at least I would have bought new batteries for my well earned pacemaker!
I marvel at how the two of them can exhaust me while even just standing still. I thought that sonic booms were things that followed jets, not jet propelled little people that can scream louder than a cat in heat, and by cat I mean, the Bengal Tiger kind! These sound breaking noises come as a result of one brother just touching the other brother, much like you would imagine a person who have just dipped their hand in acid!
The first time I heard it, I am sure my heart stopped, I think my car was automatically headed for the emergency room. Little did I know that emergencies such as that would become an every day occurrence.
My memory comes to register on such a time while on my way home from work with children in tow, we came across a 4 minute, Have It Your Way, wonder worker, at the local fast food drive thru. This just doing my job kind of person, unwittingly ignored my pleas of putting together the eldest son’s Happy burger Meal, only ketchup please, and no pickle.
As I re-entered traffic, in my making list mode, of what to do first when we get home, I hear this blood curdling scream coming from some possessed alien that has somehow entered the dark of my back seat and into the mouth of my child. His mouth was contorted into a scream that only occurs from grown men who have wagered all this weeks earning on a Super Bowl play and lost. Buckets of tears were streaming down his face, as he is yelling, “I ate a pickle!"
I think I might have actually swallowed my tongue, I couldn't quite make out that there was a pickle disaster in progress, because with the level of his screams I thought for sure, he must be bleeding, and we only had moments until he would be unconscious.
When I did get the translation from his older sister, who could obviously understand panic screams or at the very least, pickle talk better than I do, my next reaction was, THEY GAVE YOU A PICKLE! Had I not been next to my driveway, I do believe I would have sped to that chef of cruelty, and carried my child with pickle juice still on his breath, and demonstrated the trauma that was caused to my young. How dare they just make it their way, instead of mine!
Screaming seems to run in our family, at least on the male side of things, our seven-year-old holds a metal for being able to squeal the loudest with his teeth clinched, just breathing through his nose. He is the Scream Master, his voice is so high pitched that we make sure we are drinking out of plastic when he goes into his routine, and that's his good morning tidings, to let the world and half the block know that he is still alive!
He has figured out how to avoid using less of the English language as possible. Instead of saying, "Help, my brother just stomped me in the head, he hits the diva register voice range, and shakes windows. We race to their room, to see the evidence of the dead body that surely must have become one of CSI’s famous outlined corpuses, complete with the yellow caution tape at the door. Gets me every time!
Oh there are so many stories to tell, as evidence of their continuing, contrary relationship, but there is one thing I can tell you without a doubt. If you just happen to catch a glimpse of them in the rear view mirror, without their awareness, most likely you will see their heads transformed, almost melded into one, trying to figure out the latest level of the Game Boy mania, together. Big brother helping his little brother as he leans in, letting him know that he is there for him, to catch him when he falls, even if it is only from Frogger’s lily pad.
I have been known to slip quietly into their room, long after the screams have been replaced by the steady, sweet sound of sleeping children, only to find both boys sleeping side by side, sometimes arm in arm, snug in one of their beds. I know that they must have entered into some private agreement to hold each other close through the night to chase the boogie man away.
They are my precious boys, they teach me every day that from one second to the next, life is all about having the courage and energy to express yourself. Even if it is screaming at the top of your lungs, or whispering some shared brother’s only secrets. To never be quiet about the important things in life, and whenever you get pickled, scream bloody murder!
Monday, February 09, 2004
Well now I am tired! It feels good to be back together! I will have to leave this to later to think about what I have been wanting to think about! Tonight is making castle night, so we are going to create the Kindness Kingdom! Well time to go make some dinner, see you later on tonight! I hope!
