Listen up, kids. Dad says Mom plays the piano a lot when she's stressed. Some people run, some people eat, some people kickbox, some people shop. Mom, she works it out through her fingers.
Learn to associate certain genres and composers with how she's feeling before deciding when you can interrupt and when you should give it a rest.
Scales: Really? Now? She just barely sat down at the keyboard. She thought the coast was clear, that everyone's needs were met for the time being. Sigh. Oh, well. Ask away. Her mind's on auto pilot. Just don't be surprised if she accents every fourth syllable or expects you to talk fasterandfasterandfaster.
Bach, especially his two- and three-part inventions: Mom's trying to figure something out. (She's been playing Bach to excess lately.) She needs balance. Is she picking up tempo? Ooh, then she really craves order. Be careful. No matter what you ask, she'll tell you to clean your room.
Beethoven: Wait for a bit. Listen for repeated passages. Ah, did the harsh minor key just resolve into a calming, uplifting melody? Good timing. She'll greet you gladly. Hurry -- you have four measures.
Hymns: This is a good time. Based on doing prelude at church, she can carry on an entire conversation while playing. Bonus: no one else in the room will be listening.
Bartok: Back away. She hates Bartok!
Chopin: She's probably frustrated at her limitations. Show what a competent child you are by solving your own problem. That'll restore her confidence.
Broadway: She's sentimental. If you're arguing when she plays Phantom, it will skew her fun memory of playing the piano with Uncle Matt in high school to scare trick-or-treaters. As for Les Miserables, come in during "Castle on a Cloud," and say how much you remember her singing that to you when you were a baby. She'll love that. The world will be yours.
Haydn: If nothing else, she'll remember "Papa Haydn's" celebrated cheerful nature and be glad to stop and chat with you. She might rope you into a playing a duet, however, to strengthen the musical family bond. Be warned.
Grieg: Her imagination is running wild. Ogres, butterflies, creepy-sounding lullabies? Oh, my. Just listen.
Mozart: This is a great time to start your math homework, right?
Debussy: Her favorite. Each note is the pat of the paint brush creating dreamy scenes in France. Go ahead, interrupt the reverie. It's fleeting anyway.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Witnesses
I was rattled at the start and finish of my day yesterday.
A.M.
In the morning I headed to my brother's to babysit my cute niece. I was leaving the highway to merge onto the freeway. There were two lanes on that onramp, and I was in the left one. I noticed a tan car pulled over on the side of the freeway, right before the upside-down Y of the merge. A person stood by the vehicle. To my right a red truck zipped past. And I mean zipped. I remember thinking that was odd, because the cars in my lane were already going at a quick pace. I'm glad I registered the red truck, for without any warning at all, he not only crossed right in front of me, he stopped in my lane. Stopped! I was going 60-65 miles an hour.
I braked hard. Somehow everything cleared behind and to the side of me, and I was able to get in the right lane, past the red truck, and onto the freeway safely. I don't know exactly what happened. I burst into tears. I knew it had been a near miss. Very, very near. I had been protected. I choked out a prayer of gratitude.
My only guess is that maybe the red truck (I'll call the driver Crazy) was on its way to help the tan car but misjudged the junction. Perhaps -- finally realizing that if he took the onramp all the way, he would be ahead of Tan Car and with merge traffic in between them -- Crazy decided to make his own road and cut back. Weird that I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I was shook up, but feelings of calm overcame me. I knew I had been watched. I knew it.
Later, back at home after a fun day with my niece, I told Jeff I had had a near miss. "What do you mean, near miss?" he asked. Valid question. Most days my relatable "near misses" might range from sneaking into the bank right before closing, to almost plunking down $5 for a chair at a garage sale. My life is kind of bland. I told him about the red truck. "Oh, so you got cut off," he said. "Hmm." And then we had dinner.
P.M.
I issued a consequence to one of my children for inappropriate behavior. An argument ensued. The child left the house in a fury, swearing to sleep in a ditch if needs be. It was dark and late. Two of the younger children saw the action unfold and were fearful the sibling would not come back. I got into the car and asked Heavenly Father to please lead me to this child. I drove all around the neighborhood and by schools and parks. I was resigned to coming home alone when -- voila. I pulled alongside the walking child; the child marched right past me. I stopped alongside again and was denied. My heart was breaking when I pulled into the garage.
Later the child did come back, but so did the fury. I tried to soften things by explaining my prayer, and how I knew Heavenly Father had answered it. The child mocked me. That probably hurt most of all.
Why didn't the child believe me, I asked my husband. Heavenly Father helped me. I knew it. I wanted my child to know it. Why wasn't that meaningful to the child? "That witness was for you," Jeff said.
I was thinking about personal witnesses at church today, and marveling how all the messages in talks were just what I needed to hear.
After church Br. C stopped me in the hall. "Hey, did you see all the Scouts waving at you yesterday?" I hadn't. He joked that I must have tunnel vision, for he'd been right beside me on the highway. Br. C was taking a load of Scouts rappelling (incidentally, joining my husband at the rock face Jeff had left earlier in the morning to prepare). Apparently, I was a couple of cars ahead of the Scouts at the onramp.
Our conversation turned somber. Br. C saw everything: The tan car, vehicles that swerved, Crazy practically parked on the onramp. Jeff joined us in the hall by now. It really affected me to hear someone else reaffirm how blessed I was there hadn't been an accident. I could have gone under that truck. "It's good there would have been a witness," Jeff said.
No, it's good on so many more levels. I have witness of that.
A.M.
In the morning I headed to my brother's to babysit my cute niece. I was leaving the highway to merge onto the freeway. There were two lanes on that onramp, and I was in the left one. I noticed a tan car pulled over on the side of the freeway, right before the upside-down Y of the merge. A person stood by the vehicle. To my right a red truck zipped past. And I mean zipped. I remember thinking that was odd, because the cars in my lane were already going at a quick pace. I'm glad I registered the red truck, for without any warning at all, he not only crossed right in front of me, he stopped in my lane. Stopped! I was going 60-65 miles an hour.
I braked hard. Somehow everything cleared behind and to the side of me, and I was able to get in the right lane, past the red truck, and onto the freeway safely. I don't know exactly what happened. I burst into tears. I knew it had been a near miss. Very, very near. I had been protected. I choked out a prayer of gratitude.
My only guess is that maybe the red truck (I'll call the driver Crazy) was on its way to help the tan car but misjudged the junction. Perhaps -- finally realizing that if he took the onramp all the way, he would be ahead of Tan Car and with merge traffic in between them -- Crazy decided to make his own road and cut back. Weird that I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I was shook up, but feelings of calm overcame me. I knew I had been watched. I knew it.
Later, back at home after a fun day with my niece, I told Jeff I had had a near miss. "What do you mean, near miss?" he asked. Valid question. Most days my relatable "near misses" might range from sneaking into the bank right before closing, to almost plunking down $5 for a chair at a garage sale. My life is kind of bland. I told him about the red truck. "Oh, so you got cut off," he said. "Hmm." And then we had dinner.
P.M.
I issued a consequence to one of my children for inappropriate behavior. An argument ensued. The child left the house in a fury, swearing to sleep in a ditch if needs be. It was dark and late. Two of the younger children saw the action unfold and were fearful the sibling would not come back. I got into the car and asked Heavenly Father to please lead me to this child. I drove all around the neighborhood and by schools and parks. I was resigned to coming home alone when -- voila. I pulled alongside the walking child; the child marched right past me. I stopped alongside again and was denied. My heart was breaking when I pulled into the garage.
Later the child did come back, but so did the fury. I tried to soften things by explaining my prayer, and how I knew Heavenly Father had answered it. The child mocked me. That probably hurt most of all.
Why didn't the child believe me, I asked my husband. Heavenly Father helped me. I knew it. I wanted my child to know it. Why wasn't that meaningful to the child? "That witness was for you," Jeff said.
I was thinking about personal witnesses at church today, and marveling how all the messages in talks were just what I needed to hear.
After church Br. C stopped me in the hall. "Hey, did you see all the Scouts waving at you yesterday?" I hadn't. He joked that I must have tunnel vision, for he'd been right beside me on the highway. Br. C was taking a load of Scouts rappelling (incidentally, joining my husband at the rock face Jeff had left earlier in the morning to prepare). Apparently, I was a couple of cars ahead of the Scouts at the onramp.
Our conversation turned somber. Br. C saw everything: The tan car, vehicles that swerved, Crazy practically parked on the onramp. Jeff joined us in the hall by now. It really affected me to hear someone else reaffirm how blessed I was there hadn't been an accident. I could have gone under that truck. "It's good there would have been a witness," Jeff said.
No, it's good on so many more levels. I have witness of that.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Sinceriously
Elise, 11, ending 5th grade; James, 9, 3rd grade; Samuel, 5, Kindergarten. Apparently James' face got mixed in with the yearbook signing. His shirt is from the orthodontist and says,"Perfect smiles are cooler than a mullet." It's one of his favorites.
Today is the last day of school, and I will miss my children's teachers! Elise, James and Samuel have had fantastic experiences in elementary school this year -- experiences that my sleep-deprived, sun-addled brain is too frazzled to articulate. (Plus I'm a little scared what housekeeping hotspot will ignite if I spend too much time here right now. The mice are at play . . . ) But take my word for it, my children have thrived.
These are the notes they wrote to their teachers, without any prompting from me.
Samuel:
thak
you
I Like
the thags
you'v tot me
Sam
(I like the things you've taught me.) I'm super impressed he used an apostrophe!
Thank you SOOOO much for spending tons of time -- hours & hours -- just to teach me. I loved every second I spent in your class. I love how you teach -- strict but kind & a little bit of whistling! I already miss you and will forever miss you. I feel jealous for anyone in your class next year. And the next year. And the next. And forever.
(heart) Elise (in cursive) Elise (printed)
P. S. You bring laughs, love, and lessons to learn wherever you are.
P.P.S. You are very funny and you are WONDERFUL at doing the "Lance Dance,"
P.P.P.S. I will never be as happy in ANY class compared to yours.
James:
Dear Mrs. Swenson,
Before third grade, I didn't know anything you taught me! I'm even planing on wrighting a book,
Sinceriously,
James
(thanks)
You are by far the best teacher I've ever had. I'm not kidding. :) You actually made learning FUN. I realy wish you will move up to teach fourth grade
auvoir,
James
I thank these teachers for boosting my children's confidence in so many ways: 1. For validating and encouraging the expression of feelings. 2. For helping them not let the fear of imperfection (yes, we're talking spelling here) keep them from trying.
And 3. For creating an environment where the word Sinceriously makes perfect and wonderful sense.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Track the pronoun
A conversation with Samuel today:
Samuel: Emily brought her puppy for show and tell yesterday. Her name is Lucy.
Me: Did the class think it was funny that the dog was named Lucy?
Samuel: Yeah, 'cause there's a girl in our class named Lucy.
Me: Yes, I know.
Samuel: She sits at my table.
Me: She's a nice girl.
Samuel: She kisses.
Me: WHAT?
pause
Me: Uh, who does she kiss? When?
Samuel: She kissed Sydney, and then it was really cute 'cause she wagged her tail.
Phew!
Samuel: Emily brought her puppy for show and tell yesterday. Her name is Lucy.
Me: Did the class think it was funny that the dog was named Lucy?
Samuel: Yeah, 'cause there's a girl in our class named Lucy.
Me: Yes, I know.
Samuel: She sits at my table.
Me: She's a nice girl.
Samuel: She kisses.
Me: WHAT?
pause
Me: Uh, who does she kiss? When?
Samuel: She kissed Sydney, and then it was really cute 'cause she wagged her tail.
Phew!
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Random Mom Moment
Moms do get noticed.
It may not seem that way most days. At least, not as recognition from the very people we serve, our children. Yet this is what I want all of my friends to know this Mother's Day:
I notice you. I appreciate your example. As you go about your days trying to be patient and loving, you may never know the inspiration you leave in your wake.
To wit:
The summer after my high school graduation I had the great opportunity to visit my Aunt Susan and Uncle Bryan while they were in Germany. It was a grand adventure (one that my mother, who had never been to Europe herself, graciously allowed me to have).
My flight home was from Frankfurt to Orlando, then on to Salt Lake City. The flight from Frankfurt was delayed, and all its passengers were shepherded into a holding room. Since we had already gone through customs we were not allowed back into the general airport area.
The holding room was uncomfortable, hot, filled with smoke and the bad vibe of impatience. I noticed a mother traveling with three children ages, 7, 4 and a baby. The 4-year-old girl needed to use the bathroom; the mother got permission from officials to take that child out, but what was she to do with the others?
I offered to sit with her son and baby, and watch her baggage. She looked at me dubiously. I don't think it was because she thought I was risky, just that she was surprised to have anyone offer -- at least that's what I hope fueled her hesitation. "It's OK," I said, "I have a 7-year-old brother at home." That did it. She sighed a half smile and went on her errand. What else could she do?
Jeremy and I played card games until his mother came back, visibly relaxed. I was traveling alone and it was good to interact with someone. The family had been visiting her parents in Switzerland and were flying back home to Florida, where dad had returned a week earlier for work. We parted when we boarded the plane.
And there, for me, came the formative scene. The baby cried for much of that 14-hour flight, and the mother paced up and down the aisle with her, trying to soothe her. Instead of frustration, instead of anger, instead of defeat, that mother's face showed peace. She was serene. Absolutely tranquil. She was focused on one thing and one thing only: comforting her daughter, and because she attempted it in such an unrattled way, the fellow passengers who could have been bothered by the noise were also warmed by her sense of calm.
Jeremy waved to me at Orlando's customs. I waved back. If I had known how much I would draw from this memory as a mom myself, I would have left my place in line to thank his mother.
Moms, we notice.
To my mother-in-law, thank you for raising my husband. To my mother, thank you for giving me the confidence to raise my own children, and for continually building me up. I love you both.
Happy Mother's Day!
It may not seem that way most days. At least, not as recognition from the very people we serve, our children. Yet this is what I want all of my friends to know this Mother's Day:
I notice you. I appreciate your example. As you go about your days trying to be patient and loving, you may never know the inspiration you leave in your wake.
To wit:
The summer after my high school graduation I had the great opportunity to visit my Aunt Susan and Uncle Bryan while they were in Germany. It was a grand adventure (one that my mother, who had never been to Europe herself, graciously allowed me to have).
My flight home was from Frankfurt to Orlando, then on to Salt Lake City. The flight from Frankfurt was delayed, and all its passengers were shepherded into a holding room. Since we had already gone through customs we were not allowed back into the general airport area.
The holding room was uncomfortable, hot, filled with smoke and the bad vibe of impatience. I noticed a mother traveling with three children ages, 7, 4 and a baby. The 4-year-old girl needed to use the bathroom; the mother got permission from officials to take that child out, but what was she to do with the others?
I offered to sit with her son and baby, and watch her baggage. She looked at me dubiously. I don't think it was because she thought I was risky, just that she was surprised to have anyone offer -- at least that's what I hope fueled her hesitation. "It's OK," I said, "I have a 7-year-old brother at home." That did it. She sighed a half smile and went on her errand. What else could she do?
Jeremy and I played card games until his mother came back, visibly relaxed. I was traveling alone and it was good to interact with someone. The family had been visiting her parents in Switzerland and were flying back home to Florida, where dad had returned a week earlier for work. We parted when we boarded the plane.
And there, for me, came the formative scene. The baby cried for much of that 14-hour flight, and the mother paced up and down the aisle with her, trying to soothe her. Instead of frustration, instead of anger, instead of defeat, that mother's face showed peace. She was serene. Absolutely tranquil. She was focused on one thing and one thing only: comforting her daughter, and because she attempted it in such an unrattled way, the fellow passengers who could have been bothered by the noise were also warmed by her sense of calm.
Jeremy waved to me at Orlando's customs. I waved back. If I had known how much I would draw from this memory as a mom myself, I would have left my place in line to thank his mother.
Moms, we notice.
To my mother-in-law, thank you for raising my husband. To my mother, thank you for giving me the confidence to raise my own children, and for continually building me up. I love you both.
Happy Mother's Day!
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Flutter by
Look at me. Nothing on this blog for two months, then two posts today. What gives? Laundry avoidance? Probably.
Well, there's beauty in holding still for a moment or two.
The Quiet Wheel
Shh. Don't tell Emma I'm posting this. She doesn't like to be the center of attention.
She practically squirmed at the Student of the Month awards breakfast, where she was honored by her French teacher. "You don't like this, do you?" the teacher teased as she began her remarks.
Emma reminds the teacher of her middle daughter, who even as a baby would utter only the slightest "Unh, unh" if she needed something. In class Emma is self-sufficient -- trying to find solutions on her own before asking for help. She works hard. In a sea of different personalities, the teacher said, it is so nice to have a bit of calm. She appreciates Emma. She hopes she's meeting her needs.
I can relate. I am delighted that Emma got recognized at school, but I also listened to the teacher with a bit of sadness. She put into words the exact dynamic Emma fills in our home, too. Do I do enough to acknowledge this sweet daughter? Am I meeting her needs?
We call Emma our Quiet Wheel. Get it? The opposite of the squeaky wheel, and let me tell you, she follows a VERY squeaky wheel whose demands for name-brand oil exhaust us some days. That's not to mention the other noisy wheels spinning around here.
Throughout it all, Emma keeps turning. She is centered, with a steel-will axle at her core, and I love her more than I can say. "We could have 10 more of her," Jeff said. "Well," I answered, "maybe five." She is a teenager, you know.
Emma wrote this for her 9th grade English class.
Where I’m From
I
am from Salt Lake and Switzerland
From
my parents, my brothers, and my sister
From
sibling rivalries and jokes
I
am from a loud, busy, messy, crazy house
From
inside jokes and funny moments
I
am from gingerbread houses and extended family, from Kohler and Hatch.
I
am from bobby pins, from hairspray, and ballet shoes
From
fruit trees and sunflowers
From
scriptures and praying
I
am from brown hair and brown eyes
From
be nice and looks don’t matter
I
am from piano keys and learning how to play them
I
am from music and laughter and singing.
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