Armed

I hear a lot about my chosen profession. Lately, it is the selflessness, its courage and dedication. Stories of teachers who died protecting their students or lived talking them through it. Clever and kind and true.

A few months ago it was the selfishness. There were strikes and outrage that this union dare want more money at a time so many are unemployed. Listened to others debate my hours, my dedication, my pay. I have heard that term babysitter and watched eyes roll as I have summers "off". The profession is so easily scorned or adored.

The latest idea that we should be armed has touched off a debate that would redefine what it is we really do. Most teachers know that what we should be armed with is compassion, empathy and education. As people, no matter our profession, what most of us need are words. We have lost, through technology, and the crush of life, the ability to use words to communicate with one another. Complete sentences and eye contact are drifting as we watch our phones. There is no other way to empathize than to speak and to be spoken to, to listen and to be heard.

I choose to arm myself with books, information and understanding. I will fill my arms with as much as I can carry, read as quickly as I can and share with my students. Ignorance kills dreams. Ignorance encourages misunderstandings.

Education creates plans in hope and the future. A path. It is easier to be protected when you know where you are going than when you are wandering lost with no life. Choices are different when you are lost, desperate. Our collective responsible is not to use as targets those lost but to identify and guide. To offer help enough to decide before an evil deception is conceived, dreamed and seen as an infamous exit. A scheme that shatters all of our dreams and redefines security. We must try to find a way to make right a life wronged.

I also know that teachers would be much more likely to reach out to the gunman, to use their words, to negotiate both lives while sweeping those they are protecting behind them. I know many who would be more likely caught between, than ready to aim.

It is not the gun that kills, it is the person with the gun, but if that person had words, compassion and empathy we would all be better armed.

my ticking list...

pediatrician
allergist
radiologist
gynecologist
pulmonologist
nephrologist
endocrinologist
internist
gastroenterologist
plastic surgeon
general surgeon
obstetrician
dermatologist
neurologist
orthopedic surgeon
urologist
rheumatologist
physical therapists
hematologist
oncologist
ENT
audiologist
neuro-muscular specialist

Stands

I will watch this football game without anxiety,
clenched fists and teeth.

I will see the whole field, take in the entire place,
no squinting for his number or legs underneath.

I can hear the wind blowing,
remarks from the fans.

He is injured, sidelined, safer than he'd been.
Casted, put together barely managing not to beg to be let in.

Understanding all this as I see my son,
this man among boys.

Certain a sadness has settled in his growing frame, across his chest
that keeps him from catching, gripping and throwing with the rest.

His right hand is casted, a twisted prize from his play.

High school games are ended as quick and tough as they began.

I will watch this Saturday football game with no curses caught in my chest.

I can see without worry catching my every breath.

Noticed

Looking down as she whispers,
"Can I tell you somesin'?"
little voices ask
eyes large, blinking slowly
gaze steady
hesitation ours
trust in the answer
allows the inquiry
from voices so small
tinny, stretched
straining to hear
bending to deny distance
another hears whining,
a squeak to be silenced
irritation
for those of us that look down
cup the chin
part the hair
catch the fear
are privy to a world
of delicate wonder
easy injury
simple truths
smoothing a softer place
where answers may be difficult
solutions sticky
yet presence necessary
other adults disappointing
their choices selfish
their anger theirs
the chin in my palm
the only thing real
"Yes. Of course you can."
kneeling, mind swarming with worries lent
hands hold tiny fisted fingers
calm and open them
lead them slowly, gently, carefully
to the officer waiting to hear those same truths

Truth

He is smart. He is funny. He is kind and empathetic. Not to mention, tall, dark and handsome. A complete package. So why can't I trust him? Why do I question him and raise my voice? Why is it I feel so worried and controlling most of the time instead of pride?


Because he is fourteen. Because he is DS #1. Because he is mine. Because he is what I am leaving this world although I would like to keep him from it. Put him back in a playpen, surround him with soft toys and know where he is at all times. I would also love for him to want to be home sometimes.


There have been many discussion of "shenanigans". So many, in fact, his younger brother asked me with a lot of concern in his voice exactly what "shenanigans" are because he doesn't ever want to have them. I assured him they were not contagious and I was sure he would know how to avoid shenanigans when he was fourteen. Deep down I prayed I would get through them both being teens for a few years.


The issue of girls, dating, "hanging out" and shenanigans had filled the house with tension like humidity, making me sweat and want to lie down. He is persistent and smart, wants to be a lawyer. I think he is practicing on me. So he follows me as I walk through the house picking up shoes, underwear, kleenex and socks, why so many random socks?


"Ma. Why can't I just hang out with her? Her mom's home."


Ahhh. So much to say and not say. Her. "I don't know her mother."


"You can meet her when you drop me off."


"And what if I don't agree with the a...situation?"


"Then I will leave. But what would she do at the door anyway. C'mon. If we don't get to hang out then we're gonna break up soon."


Aha! A diabolical plan is hatched. Keep them separated and she will move on. Yes!


As if seeing the light bulbs igniting in a blinding circle around my head, he says, "If you don't ever let me do anything how will you know you can trust me?"


Damn truth.


"Ok it is not like you don't leave the house. You are always doing something. You are also only in eighth grade and I don't even know this girl."

Only vaguely what she looks like, what is posted about her on facebook and google and that her name ends suspiciously in a vowel.


"Did your mom trust you with dad?"


Yikes! The secret is out. I met his father when I was fifteen. My mother did not know when I was "hanging out" with him. There may or may not have been shenanigans.

"That was different. You aren't marrying her. You have a lot of things to do."

"I know. And I know what you mean about screwing up (shenanigans). I'm not gonna screw up anything. I am going to college. I won't mess that up."


"Her mom is home?"


"Stepmom."


"Let's go but I am not promising anything."


Three weeks later it was over. Turns out hanging out does not lead to life-long, or month long commitments.


Truth.

And?

And I notice the tremor
Let go of my pen
Touch gently my shoulder
Deny it again

And I feel the slow twitching
Take over my calves
Relaxing my shoulders
Deep cleansing breaths

And I ask the right questions
See doctors who should know
Take the medications
Symptoms continue their show

And I believe in the diets
The vitamins
Their hope
Try to stop googling
Taking notes

And I keep moving forward
Understand the delays
Lie still for scans
Appreciate the days

And get through the nights
That capture the pain
Encourage the stiffness
Trapping the muscles for days

And....

Stomanache (2008)

Stomanache

“Can you read these with me, Mommy?”

Jeremy was on my lap before I could move the clothes I was forever folding. His tanned legs reached to my calves now as he tried to settle into my lap; tall for his just six years he was too big and heavy to hold but he nestled in, pushed his back into my chest and rested his head in the curve of my neck. He held his books up, grazing my nose.

“Which one first?” I asked looking through several of his easy readers, surprised he had not snuck in Spiderman or Star Wars.

“This one.”

He chose Bananas Sometimes, a book he had read several times in kindergarten but until now I had not seen. The before bed grab a book and jump in my bed ritual had not ceased even though summer was here and the days less structured. Our basement was a mini library, filled with books I’d used in my own classroom and books I’d ordered for Jeremy and his older brother. As first grade neared and the summer was nearly over, I felt an anxiety growing in Jeremy to try to do more on his own and trust that he could be successful. This feeling of confidence was not something that came easily. Jeremy’s carefree and bubbly “let me do it” was often replaced with “I can’t” without even trying.

“Should I read it first?” I suggested, anxious myself to have him succeed.

“No, Mommy I wanna get my brain ready for school. I don’t remember kindergarten.
I won’t be ready. I don’t wanna be dumb and fat again this time,” he said matter-of-factly.

And with that the air in the room was removed and my lungs felt abused by this sudden lack of oxygen. I swallowed the sob that threatened to escape my clenched teeth. As I counted my careful measured breaths there was a fight to keep my lips tight, to hold all of the words that he should not hear me say; checked the anger that was building at the bullies of the world that had already whittled away at Jeremy’s sense of self.

Kindergarten had been difficult. There had been a bully and Jeremy had been an easy target. He was just five when he started, with that early August birthday.

On the day of his birth I had been so relieved that the doctor induced me weeks before my due date assuring me it was best for the baby. The diabetes and asthma medication had made the pregnancy high risk, so he and I were monitored closely. I had been so anxious to meet him, so desperate to be sure he was healthy, never thinking it would make him so young for school; forever tender to those born only a few months later. His height, nearly four feet, made the option to hold him back from kindergarten seem wrong. Being unsure made it easy to pick on him. And they did.

He was belittled for his height, his weight, his handwriting, his frequent tears. He was shy and more comfortable playing alone or with one or two other kids. The cliques already forming in the neighborhood or on the playground were intimidating. He did not defend himself with his words. My husband and I were suspicious when he did not love school then slowly made excuses not to go. The "stomanaches" in November seemed so real, I was sure he had a disease. The pediatrician assured us it was nothing physical. I should have taken the time to press him more or just tell him that I knew something was bothering him. When he did not answer or said it was boring I did not push, happy to be ignorant.

The real reason for his school anxiety did not come to light until January and by then the damage was done. He had came home elated, throwing open his backpack to reveal his first birthday party invitation.

“Read it to me, Mommy! Read it to me! When is it?” he shrieked as he waved a red and black postcard in my face.

I slowed his waving hand long enough to grab it. He was so happy, barely able to stand still.

“Who gave this to you?” I asked reading the postcard.

“My friend. I knew he would be my friend Mommy. I knew it. He invited everybody! The whole class. He gave me mine today. He said it is at Chuck E Cheeses. Right, Mommy? Everybody is going.”

The postcard was an advertisement for a school program. There was no invitation.

“Jeremy, I’m sorry but this is not for a birthday. Maybe you got mixed up. Did you leave it at school?” I searched for an explanation, something less agonizing than this truth.

He crumpled and cried on the floor, his back pack lying open like the lie it had held.

“He invited everybody before. He promised I could go, too. He said that was it Mommy and I put it in my backpack ‘fore I lost it. Read it again. Everybody is going,” he hit his thighs with each exclamation and cried, knowing the truth too.

I spoke to his teacher. I could feel her trepidation as I said the boy’s name. She apologized and said she would speak to the class. She later told me that others had been fooled also. It was explained that this boy had “issues” and that she was “working closely with the parents.” I knew that was code for class bully.

I felt I had betrayed Jeremy as I dropped him off each morning assuring him he was good enough and smart enough for school. I had brushed off his tears and stomanaches, not really listening enough to his protests, too busy with my own job.

He trusted me to get his brain ready for school--his mom, the teacher. I knew it was not his brain that needed readying, it was his heart. A tender soul and a spirited child is how he is best described. He cared more about what others said than what he knew.

Elementary school can be brutal to someone so raw.

I knew this brutality well as a teacher myself. Remembered the names of those bullies and those bullied; relived myself the sense of outrage and helplessness. I knew as his mother that I could not toughen him but I could give him words. I could teach him to read, and question and wonder. I could teach him to believe in himself so that when that bully struck with his limited vocabulary and own lack of self-esteem, Jeremy would not take those hurtful words as truth, he would know better.

I settled in. I inhaled the coconut lotion on his tender skin, let his sandy brown hair tickle my nose and gave his belly an extra squeeze. A deep breath released the pressure of that sob. Stretching my arms around him to hold the book in his sight I felt him swallow hard. He began chewing his cheek in his anxiousness to read, to make the letters on the page words and those words a story; to make sense of those things important in school. And he began…Ba-nan-as Some-times.

He read each word beautifully. But the cheek chewing continued, proving he was still unsure, unready, young.

“Jeremy that was great! You are such a good reader,” I whispered into his ear.

He sighed, pushing his head into my chest. “You read one too.”

I read the next book to model for him and watched closely to see if his jaws relaxed, hoping to see any changes so I could know if my words held any more weight than those who had put him down.

I read slowly and watched as he mouthed the words with me, trying forever to be right.

Definition (2002)

Definition

“Mommy. Can I ask you somesin?” came John’s voice from a face filled with anxiety.

Hmm. It is late Saturday night with the threats of no story, time out before breakfast and no dessert tomorrow still hanging in the air. My voice hoarse from just trying to get him to hurry up and brush his teeth and go to bed. He is just five and his baby brother is sleeping quietly upstairs. I was hoping to finish cleaning the kitchen tonight and be in bed by eleven.

But now this question hangs on his lips. A worry. A five year old fear shuffling his feet and slowing his bedtime routine. I have to let him ask it if I am to get any rest.

“Sweetheart, what is it?” I ask slowly then seat myself on the couch as he shuffles closer, now with no eye contact; never a good sign.

He sits next to me, sighing, his chubby cheeks drawn and his eyebrows furrowed with worry. Leaning into me, he speaks in almost a whisper. His legs now just long enough to touch the floor, but a word so big has crossed his lips that I put my hand to my mouth in surprise.

A question and a word pass those cute pouty lips that sounds so wrong in his still baby voice, I am temporarily speechless. My husband is working and I am alone with one of those questions I have feared since his birth. As a teacher I have books and explanations for just about every why is the sky blue variety but this one was trickier.
I was so certain it was someone at school who had been rude and introduced this crude word into his vocabulary. He just started kindergarten. Public school! Who had used this word and planted it in his naïve brain. Who was I to give it credence and definition? My mind scanned through each name on his class list and narrowed in on a few. I contemplated calling the teacher or approaching their mothers before school. I would call in sick. I would take care of this.

He was patiently waiting for my answer with his fingers folded on his lap, his eyes studying the tile, miles from the bathroom, the toothbrush and paste and even further from his bed. I could handle this. I don’t need to consult my husband.

“Why, John, did someone call you that?”

“No, but really why would you call that to a boy?”

Hmm. More specific. Now it is called to a boy. John has always been very verbal. He spoke very early and was inquisitive from the moment he started to put words together. He was also very patient and empathetic, always waiting quietly for a response and letting others have their turns. Now, though, he looked worried. Guilty? Why does this only happen on Saturday nights when I am home alone with him?

So I do what I do best, take a deep breath and dive in with information. I am full of it, information that is, and often offer too much. “Well it is a bad word for a boys’ privates. Sometimes boys say it to be rude and not nice, but we don’t say it. Ever. We would never use that to make fun of somebody, it’s a bad word.

Now I watch his chubby cheeks droop and color, he looks shocked. His brown eyes are wide and his mouth twists uncomfortably about to ask an even more important question but afraid to do so. He is quietly picking at the blanket near his legs.

I should have called my husband.

“Mommy, on my NFL football game for Xbox, it is rated E for everyone and it is for kids. I know it is ok for me to play it. On that game, Mommy, on that game they call a boy that name.”

That’s it! I am never answering another Saturday night question without backup to tell me when to shut up.

So I do what I know I must, confess. “John, Dick is also a boy’s name. I thought you said someone was calling you that name.”

“But Mommy, why would a Mommy name her baby after his privates?”

Hmmm. “I don’t know sweetheart. I don’t know. Let’s go brush and read your I SPY book.” Let’s do something safe before I can give you more inappropriate information!

Sunday afternoon as I unloaded the hundredth load of laundry into yet another empty basket in hopes it would be put away by morning, I hear John playing his X-Box football game. “Well, Dick, can you give us the stats on that player this game?”

I contemplate putting the game away just so I don’t need to relive my huge mistake again and again.

Lucky

For those who say...

"You don't know what it's like,
you moved out."
Out was required for the moving on to begin
To admit that I had to be the ONE.
College my near nirvana.
Packed myself, studied, worked,
graduated without much applause.
I ask,
"How much easier is it to be the one who
stayed,
watched from a distance,
settled in,
to a life that did not move
or the one afraid to look back?"

"You are so lucky,
you've always got so much."
I set their alarm for five-thirty
those of their children for six.
I weigh down a tote with books, papers,
hopes and dreams.
Journey in traffic to a place I graduated,
encouraging little ones bravery to take flight.
Stretch their days
working so hard,
head down, smiles up,
the hours are lost
in the love of teaching and being taught.
Trade tv channels for chapter books,
parties for papers.
Tuck them in at eleven
too tired to see what it is they have or have not
only thinking of what is to come.
Display the erasures,checkbook prayers.
Tour a house of imperfections, patches glaring.
Still comfort and cozy fill the space.
I ask,
"Where will you retire to when your life has been so tired?"

"You are so lucky,
you have a job, no one is hiring."
I turn back my own clock to the beds I made,
the sponges I filled, the notes I took, the books read,
laundry I was paid to do, the jobs I've had and the blocks I've walked.
Tally the hours I spread thoughts on pages no one else will ever see but me.
I would like to remind them that so many of those they found hiring
were soon firing and they should ask the mirror why.

"You don't know how hard it is,
your kids are so good."
I open the curtains allowing a glimpse of dinners shared.
Hours spent reading, discussing and just being near.
Time found in my own life gently given to them
for this small piece called childhood,
the selflessness necessary for forming another life
more important than the nutrition of pregnancy,
the projection of right.
I say to them, "You could be so lucky,
if you would look past me."

Dear Santa (2006)

Dear Santa

The standard Saturday morning table had been set. I had opened all the mail. Discarded most and organized the rest. The bills were piled neatly in order of urgency. Those to be mailed were stamped and waiting to go. Coupons were cut out.

Jeremy entered the dining room jogging and breathless bursting with a story to tell. “Mommy! Mommy WAIT!” he shouted, skidding to a stop.

I smiled, still seated at the table and waited for the story to flow from his cute pink lips, his cheeks red with excitement. His stories always came so quickly he would hardly have time to pause for breath and his hands would accompany him to indicate the urgency and punctuate the drama. My Jeremy, story teller.

“You CAN’T mail that yet. I’m not ready. I didn’t listen at school last day, Mommy. Next day I am gonna dance and sing. I didn’t wanna this day Mommy. Wait. Santa can’t know me yet. Save it. Can you put GI Joe guys on there too. I didn’t tell him Water Spiderman too. Can you put lots and lots of GI Joe guys, Mommy?” He stopped abruptly with his hands now resting at this sides and his lungs quickly drawing in air again. His head was tilted upward waiting for me to agree with him. He stood as an advertisement for Marvel Comics with his Spiderman tee shirt and jogging pants. Spiderman underwear under there too and of course no socks. He was always too hot for socks.

I tousled his fine hair and pulled him as best I could onto my lap. He was so big for four. When I was pregnant and the ultrasound revealed my second and last child would be a big boy I always thought as an adult he would be big, not at four. He was tall and solid. He was almost too big for me to pick up. Jeremy also did not like to sit still very long or be held much. I relished this opportunity to quiet his energy and try to have a conversation.

He was worried about Christmas now that it was only three weeks away. His grandparents and brother had warned him about being on the good list. Jeremy had heard the Christmas Carols warning of being good and nice. He had been spoken to by myself and my husband about his choices at preschool and doing his best. He was admitting yet again he had not complied.

I tried to stifle the giggle that was rumbling in my chest as he begged me to add to and hold onto his letter until he was ready to sing at circle time at preschool.

Preschool had been a struggle. His teachers had told us that he was a “young four” with that August first birthday. As an elementary school teacher I knew this was a nice way of saying he did not follow directions and was difficult. I braced myself and tried to help him search for talents that did not require silence or conformity.

“Jeremy you like music, why don’t you sing at school?”

He sighed, “Mommy, I like rock! I don’t like that baby stuff.”

It was true. His favorite bands were Tool and Foo Fighters. He had, as long as I can remember, disliked Raffi and Elmo. Even my CDs in my car were deemed Girl music and he would request I turn it off or change the station.

“Jeremy, we don’t have much time to send our letters to Santa. He needs to have time to get all your presents ready. Why didn’t you listen today?”

“Mommy, I don’t like that music. I told her I like rock.”

I slump into the dining room chair, the dishes I am clearing are suddenly too heavy. A sigh escapes me. Jeremy told his preschool teacher he does not like baby music. He likes rock. These are the reasons he cannot sing or dance nor participate in circle time activities so vital to four year old preschool. I felt this problem coming. I knew with his history of stubborn cool determination he would not cooperate. Jeremy’s older brother was nearly nine and his friends were Jeremy’s buddies too. He had little interest in Dora the Explorer or Sesame Street when there was Spongebob and X-box games. He never liked Raffi but preferred Foo Fighters.

Yelling from the backseat, “Turn off the girl music Mommy! Put on scary songs. I like rock!” With the speakers blaring a hard rock drum solo Jeremy would imitate them on his knees and in a deep voice try his best to sing songs much older than him. The Foo Fighters Best of the Best song has lyrics he could not possibly understand yet could scream each line.

Four year old honesty is not appreciated by preschool teachers when it comes to reasons one cannot participate. Now the pressure of Santa and making better choices so as not to appear naughty have changed things. Negotiations were underway on when best to mail the letter. Jeremy would not go to the mall with me because he did not want Santa to see him yet, did not want him to know him.


“Mommy Santa can’t know me yet!”

“Jeremy, Santa already knows you. He knows, like I do, that you are a good boy but sometimes you make the wrong choices. Sometimes you want things to be your way and if they are not you do things that are not always nice. You are still nice but the choices are not nice.”

“He can’t see me! He is miles away!” He screeches and runs upstairs to his room. Conversation over.


With only a few days left of school before break Jeremy said it was ok to mail the letter. He had joined in circle and sang the song.

I did my best to assure him he was going to be very happy because we all knew he was good. He counted down the days with his brother, both excited and unsure.

Gifts

There were two Christmas gifts for me this year that define us.

My husband and I shop on black Friday every year, actually in the middle of the night on Thursday. It is hectic and tiring but so many deals it cannot be missed. It is also our time. Alone. Tradition.

This year has been a little hard for me physically and I could feel he wanted to do something more than we could afford. He also wanted to make things better and that is sometimes not possible without medical training. While shopping he suggested two gifts to me. It was my husband's way of making everything better. You must understand we have been "dating" since we were teenagers so there is not much he does not know about me.

Gift #1 was a Garmin. My sony GPS had died and there were many frantic, "I am lost, I will be late, The construction isn't on my directions" calls. I get lost a lot but I also drive to a lot of places I have never been before. He is always on the other line and has this uncanny ability to know precisely where I am and where I should be going. Like magic really. He also calms me down about the being lost and never found and about being late and rescheduled or about the news I may hear. He is forever talking me down.

His favorite line is, "It is what it is. You can do this." I secretly whisper, "Because you are who you are."

Gift #2 was a smart phone for all the same reasons as #1.

With two gifts he said he could solve all my problems.

Even after having said that we knew that was not true but the intentions were right. The appointments and unknown would remain but I would never be lost or without his voice to talk me down.

New Year, New You

My children are back to school today. I am alone with my tea and a messy house. We cleaned closets and found many clothes to donate. Not much else was accomplished winter break. John had surgery to remove a cyst from his eyebrow just before Christmas and he proved what a courageous and polite man he is even in the recovery room.

Reflecting on 2011 is a mixed one. There were so many wonderful things my children succeeded in and flourished. John, at almost six feet is amazing with great grades and athletic ability. He is a good friend to many and easy going. Jeremy is less shy and has had friends over and gone alone to their homes. An accomplishment! They have grown into two very kind and generous young men. I am so proud of them.

My husband has shown his dedication is unwavering and that he wears exhaustion well. We have continued on our no credit card trek. I am glad we have taken on paying off our debts together. The medical bills are mounting for me and I fear they may topple us. There is no end to the medical mysteries. I have met many wonderful people who are also doctors. They are working hard to help me. I managed to complicate things by smashing my toe but hoping it will heal properly. I have many resolutions to make this a healthier year and to give back to my family for all they have done for me.

We lost our dog Buzz in August and still miss him. The holidays were much quieter without him underfoot. I have made the mistake of going to pet stores and looking for puppies online. We have agreed to wait a year so that we can travel and adjust to losing a fifteen year old feisty dog that cannot be replaced.

Work has been wonderful this school year. I have loved all the new technology I have learned and even grown to love to teaching kindergarten and first graders whom last year scared me! Their teachers are all eager to help their students and I have enjoyed learning from them. Hopefully, I will be able to finish my ESL classes. I miss learning new things but our lack of credit has put a dent in coursework.

I must get back to my short story collections and novels I have started. I need to go to my writing group who has reached out to me so often. They are inspirational and just lovely. I need to remember I am a writer as well as all those other hats I wear.

Although 2012 has a lot of leftovers from 2011 for me I'd rather leave there, I will be as courageous as my teenager and as fun as my preteen. I will try to be as selfless as my husband and as hopeful as I was last year.

Welcome 2012.