Baby steps

Rank and file: There's a definite hiearachy at elmentary school -- especially the first day -- and doesn't sixth-grader Emma know it! These three could not have been so evenly spaced apart if they'd tried.

This picture of Kyle isn't actually from the first morning of school; that would have been a blurry dash

of errant shoes, backpack and pencils. Yet this afternoon shot is strangely appropriate:
Look, he still doesn't know where his shoes are!

When the friendly crossing guard lady (that's our term, is there an official one?) greeted our stroller and backpack caravan on the first day of school, she couldn't possibly have known how much her words stung.

"Wow! Your baby is getting so big!"

Yes, he is. Samuel was born the day before school started two years ago, when Elise started kindergarten. Aside from diapers and gibberish there's not much baby about caboose Samuel anymore. It makes a mother sad.

It's James' turn to start kindergarten. He's so excited, and I'm excited for him. Yet this milestone is tempered for me because it breaks a long-running pattern in our family. Not only was Elise's first year of elementary school marked by the birth of a baby, the others were as well.

Yep, I was three for three. I learned I was pregnant with Elise at the precise time we had to register Kyle and choose a track preference at his year-round school. We chose one with a break we hoped would correspond with Elise's debut. I also wanted morning kindergarten because we were without a second vehicle then, and the school journey was just shy of a mile -- the narrow distance between being acceptable for walkers, but not far enough to have to require buses. Accounting for summer and early fall heat, I figured it would be easier for me to be a pregnant wagon train in the morning.

One of the funniest things about that first baby/kindergarten combo was when Kyle's teacher approached me about being in charge of the Halloween class party. Hello! Can't you see I'm 8 1/2 months pregnant here? Sure, I said, if I'm around. Well, I was. Elise was overdue, which was a bit of welcome torture after Emma had been six weeks early. Elise arrived on Nov. 6, conveniently during Kyle's three-week school break.

James also came during a school break. Having a baby with a kindergartener wasn't so bad, but having one with a kindergartener and a full school day student? That was crazy. I felt like I was in an eternal school transport loop, frantically trying to fit feedings into non-existent blocks of time. It's no wonder that most of James' naps were in the stroller or car seat, poor kid.

And Samuel, too, whose birth was the craziest timing of all. (You'd think I would have learned my lesson!) I remember holding that beautiful day-old newborn alone in my quiet hospital room, looking into his intent eyes, but with my own mind elsewhere. It was hard for me to miss Elise's big day, and the others' new starts. What a treat for Jeff, though, to be the launching parent that year.

The start of the school year is always a mixed bag for me. I think school is the greatest. I'm thrilled for the opportunities ahead for my children, but sad that the balance of time with them each day shifts abruptly. This year I'm also especially sad that I let my own problems keep me from enjoying the summer -- and that open malleable time with my children -- more before it was gone. (Hmm, maybe escaping from harried mom is why they're so excited this year . . . )

It's hard to see my children grow up, to wonder if I've done enough to help them in the world. It pains me to know that Kyle has only this year of school and four more before graduating from high school (gasp!).

It's almost as if my time to get things right with Kyle is measured, finite. That's a heady realization.

But then when I realize that my days as a mother of young ones are also measured, that my number of first days of kindergarten is down just to Samuel's one, why, that makes me want to cry.

Right in the middle of the crosswalk.

Worth reading

Book recommendation:
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

I so enjoyed this book that, in the spirit of back-to-school week, I'm willing to recreate the dreaded timed writings of 12th grade English so I can sing the book's praises here before Samuel wakes up from his nap.

This book is a delightful quick read with something for everyone: character study, historical fiction, humor, sadness and even a shifting kaleidoscope-type of love triangle. Like other good books it can be enjoyed on many levels. It is a treat on the surface, or meaty food for thought for those who dig in.

The novel is set in post-WWII England and chronicles letters between Juliet Ashton, her publisher, and her friends as the young, vibrant author searches for a subject for her next book.
She discovers it in unexpected correspondence with a man on the British isle of Guernsey, who finds her name and address inside a secondhand book. Juliet -- like many of today's readers, I suspect -- never knew much about Guernsey's utter hardships during the five years of Nazi occupation and isolation. For a group of its residents to find comfort in literature endears Juliet all the more. She decides this is her story to tell.

The novel's device of letters made me yearn for the same type of earnest personal expression today. While technology allows us to say so much so quickly, I often wonder how much of ourselves we really ever convey. In contrast, the characters that arise from their penned letters are vivid and richly unique. In fact, my one complaint about this book was the introductory line "from so-and-so to so-and-so" atop each letter. I would have preferred the challenge of identifying the writer as I read, letting each voice speak for itself.

For these characters truly are memorable. An amazing power of this book is the way I cared about Elizabeth, whom all of the Guernsey society members mention in their letters to Juliet, but who never actually appears.

It is her presence, or perhaps essence, that helped form one of my deepest connections to the book. There were times that I wondered why certain letters appear. What is their purpose? How do they advance the story?

Then I would read along much later and one word would forge a link, clanging like iron. When Juliet writes that she is so sad a little girl "will never know her mother -- except by hearsay," I took notice.

That one word, hearsay, brought me back to an earlier letter where a society member shares with Juliet the writings of Thomas Carlyle:

Does it ever give thee pause, that men used to have a soul -- not by hearsay alone, or as a figure of speech; but as a truth, that they knew and acted upon! Verily it was another world then . . . but yet is is a pity we have lost the tidings of our souls . . . we shall have to go in search of them again, or worse in all ways shall befall us.

It is true that I'll never know of the tragedies of Nazi rule firsthand, only through hearsay. Yet what this book taught me, even as Juliet realizes she indeed can learn from the Elizabeth she has never known, is that the only way to check the tidings of our souls is to see the human ramifications of history.

Well, Samuel's up. Let me know what you thought of this book!

Difficult-E

One key on my piano has been stopping traffic this past week. Every single student has recoiled at the surprise that is E below middle C. "Did I make that sound?!" Instead of the pleasant C scale do-re-mi of just days ago, it's more like a do-re-MEOWNGGGGGG that comes out of nowhere and takes you right back with it to its lair.

It isn't pretty.

Is the wire wound too tight, has it snapped, is the hammer missing the mark? I don't know, but it kills me to have to call the piano tuner for this ONE key -- months before his scheduled visit.

Meanwhile, because every soundtrack needs an action sequence, cue the unfolding companion drama around here:

One child is making me pull out my hairs before they've even had time to turn gray. She is moody and loud and snippy and angry and mean, mean, mean. She fills the air with her discordant outbursts. (If I had just one daughter I'd feel bad that my use of the pronoun "she" identifies the child, but I have two girls, so there. No guilt. Nor is it wrong to point out that her initial, E, matches my keyboard woe, for both share it!)

I love this child dearly, but I really haven't wanted to be around her. (Isn't that awful for a mother to admit?) The risk of rubbing her the wrong way, of hitting the wrong button, has been too great. I don't know what to do.

My head is always bouncing with thoughts. The other night, these two separate, distinct ones jumped into each other and made an excellent conglomeration. A-ha! I will need to call in a tuner, that I know, but the solution for my other E problem requires the same approach: individual attention. How grateful I am that Heavenly Father can use everyday experiences to guide us with our children.

The piano E didn't want to go so sour, and when I think about it, neither did the child. She must feel so out of control. Both need a little bit more one-on-one right now to get back in tune.

When I was about 13 I was a youth leader for my age's church group, and as such worked with adults to plan our activities. I remember that the adults always wanted us to plan things that a girl named Brenda, who loved horses, would enjoy. Frankly, I found that tiresome. I didn't get it.

I do now. It was important to make Brenda feel comfortable to join us, to have her interests validated, to help her feel a valued part of the whole.

And so on to the child. I remember that every youth planning meeting included prayer, and I will need that too to reach out to my sweet child not, perhaps, in the way I want, but in the way she needs most.

Wish me luck with the music ahead.

Fallen

Last night's ferocious wind toppled many of the flowers I'd started from seed. I found my once glorious mass of 5-foot-tall pink cosmos cowering on the ground, broken at the base. Some of the perennials were uprooted too.

I sighed. I knew I had a lot of cleaning up to do, but I decided to salvage what I could and make bouquets. I brightened at the thought of delivering one to a homebound neighbor. I spent a lot of time sitting on my garden path, searching the heap and culling the stems for suitable blossoms. What a mess! It would have been so much easier to take these cuttings straight to the garbage can.

Instead, I saw the hummingbird that dared come to the nearby petunias because I stayed still so long. I noticed, for the first time in my long relationship with cosmos, the perfectly-shaped yellow stars bursting inside. I saw the bees that still hovered, attracted to these fallen blooms. It reminded me that we can possess beauty and purpose even when we need help to stay upright.


Many years ago, for a newspaper piece, I interviewed women who had survived breast cancer. Their collective strength and upbeat attitudes were inspiring. I still remember the spin one of them gave to a common expression:

"When life gives you lemons," she said, "learn to love the lemons."

During her cancer battle she was buoyed by the support of neighbors and colleagues who brought meal after meal, among myriad other compassionate acts. She was touched when her church group formed a driving posse to cart her on the 120-mile round trip to chemotherapy treatments -- for six weeks straight.

A rare side effect of her treatment was hip bone deterioration, but she never considered it for herself, with such far-out odds. It happened. The day of her hip replacement surgery she came out of the hospital, looked at the mountains looming above her, and was grateful she'd already had a chance to climb them.

We don't always know what will fall in our path or, rather, what paths we'll fall into. Yet we can keep marching forward. I wouldn't have picked some of my struggles, but they've helped me to see anew that my husband and children love me -- despite my foibles. And I know more assuredly that my Heavenly Father does too.


Sometimes we add sugar to make lemonade. Sometimes lemons help us appreciate the sweetness that was there all along.

First tomato -- finally!

We harvested our first tomato today, and suddenly all that work gardening seems worthwhile.

If you make only one purchase at a farmer's market this year, make it a Brandywine tomato. It is a bit of rosy pink heaven, I tell you.

Garden's revenge

Remember Gardenzilla?

Well take that, little boy!




Garden photos are taken about eight weeks apart. Shots of curious hose looker to dripping wet chin, only about 8 seconds apart.

Freaky Monday

Front row, left to right: James and Elise. Or is that L to R Elise and James??!! Either way Emma, who undoubtedly played a director's role in all this, is in the background.

File this in the "stories to share with future dates" file:

I was working in the kitchen Monday afternoon when Elise's voice preceded her entry by about two seconds. (She'll be a great freeway driver, I'm sure.)

"Hey, Mom, look at me! I'm James!" Were it not for James' favored Denver Broncos shirt I would hardly have noticed the change in Elise's normal summer get-up, I confess.

So good thing James, ever the method actor, came giggling and bouncing into the room. "Look at me, Mom! I'm Elise!" He raced off as soon as I reached for the camera. Emma caught him for this next shot, then she took the others.

Now, should I be worried? There's an infamous story in my family of the ONE time I dressed up my little brother Jeffy as a girl, but I'm pretty sure he was too young to object. Pretty sure.

Yep, this is a perfect James impersonation.

Multiple choice

When you discover that the sticker sheet handout your son brought home Sunday is now firmly polka-dotting the floors in every single room of the house do you:

a. Try steaming (beats fuming)

b. Pledge to thank his Primary teacher for a lesson that stuck

c. Spend a few minutes here so you can laugh, reset and prepare to meet the next mess?