Modeling clay

The walk to school on the first day, Aug. 23.

Indulge me here. I know, I know. The first day of school was last week, and I honestly had this post written in my head then -- but it was trapped there, awaiting the time my hands were free from housework long enough to type. (O, laundry, will we ever part?)

We're off to a great start of school. Our goal is scripture reading at 6:20 a.m. before Jeff leaves for work. So far only Elise has a perfect record of attending, but we'll keep at it. It's worth it.

The children are split two and two between the elementary and junior high schools. And if you're thinking -- what? Emma is in junior high? -- yes, my heart tried to deny it too. 

The traditional front step shot. James is wearing a name tag his teachers mailed to him.

Ooh -- somebody go get Samuel!

Never mind.

Samuel's favorite site at the school: the aquarium.

Modeling Clay

The boy took his assigned seat across from James, scanned the room of new classmates and blurted out in disgust:

"Not him again! I HATE George!"*

James looked up briefly from fist-pounding his yellow Playdoh.

I waited expectantly. I was there, having dropped James off for the first day of first grade. In mere seconds my head was already screaming with "Hey, that's not very nice!" and "I'm the only adult who heard this, what do I do?" I watched to see James' reaction. Would he reply with something far worse?

"Well, I like him," he said evenly. And that was that. Boom. Boom. Boom.

I was so proud of him. Without hurting the speaker he stood up for the subject. 

But I also know that, just as easily, on another day, James could be the one saying hurtful things. It comes with the territory of being a child. You hope, when you can't be there yourself, that someone else will gently help your child squish out the mistakes and start molding and forming again. That if caught in time, no harm is done.

We all reach a time as parents where we simply cannot be as hands-on as before. First grade is one of those measurable times for me. I struggle knowing that the balance of my child's waking time in the home, compared to out of it, shifts dramatically. It's hard.

I can't be there every minute. Instead, I can make sure the clay of my children's character does not dry out, that it does not get broken down by grit and debris, that it does not become so diluted and soupy that it can't take shape. I can teach and model, over and over -- till I'm blue in the face! -- but ultimately my children must sculpt themselves.

Their creations amaze me.

*name changed, of course :)

Dear Grandma,

Dear Grandma,

Thank you for the package! When Mom and I came home from a meeting it was fun to see a box under the door mat. Mom was really excited when she said, "Samuel, this is for YOU!"

I already knew that. "Yeah, my toy is inside," I told her.

She took pictures of me opening it, but she didn't take pictures of my words. If she had, they would have looked like this:

Wow!

and

This is so cool!

over and over that day.

I love my new tools! They're just the right size for my hands.

The drill makes a really great sound -- but that's not the only way I can use my ears:

See? How about my nose?

(James taught me this but I'm pretty sure I would have figured it out on my own eventually.)

I haven't put the drill in my mouth yet (at least not that Mom has seen ... shh!), but my new tools do turn my mouth into a big smile.

Thank you, Grandma. I love you.

Love,
Samuel

Someday Eyes

Gardening has taught me appreciation despite flaws. Gardening has taught me to look at an expanse of land for what it can become, to see future flowers where now are just weeds and hard-packed dirt.

Gardening requires my "someday" eyes.

The children I raise need the same approach. One recent day I was particularly hurt that my teenager exploded in anger when his sister's sudden sickness prevented our trip to the amusement park. I was so upset with him. Where was his compassion?

Where, too, was mine?

I sought a quiet moment to reconcile my negative feelings. The prayer was quick. I came to understand my son's disappointment and his limited tools to express and control it. Even greater, a picture formed in the upper right corner of my mind. I saw him as a man, leaning beside his own daughter in the bathroom and stroking her hair out of the way.  Blond, I think.

Someday.

I saw my son for all the potential within him, and my heart swelled anew with the charge to get him there.

You know you're a mother when ...

... from a room away you can HEAR the difference between a crayon and a Sharpie permanent marker in your 2-year-old's hand.