Voice

Voice

I can still hear his voice
true and strong and calm
always steady and right on
rarely quivered
few tears
just a steady direction
for so so many years

I can be his sentences
relieving his whispered gasp
I can be his orders
his appointments
his questions
his rest

My voice often cracking
shaking
strained with worry
weary with what if

His voice still my direction
my calm
my next
mine merely louder
never stronger
rarely calmer
or without fear

The Earth is Flat

When your oldest child is a teenager you are aware that your world is suddenly too big and probably flat, no matter what you've learned. If the Earth were round he would eventually come back somewhere in your periphery if never again in your arms. Once he learned to walk he was walking away. And driving, well, forget it.

My husband and I were so excited to watch his first steps. we clapped and snapped pictures and encouraged more. He grew taller and taller, then he began to run. Away. When kindergarten started I watched kids hold their mother's desperately wailing, tears wetting their knees. My son stood in line looking forward. I waved to the back of his head. I should not have encouraged his development so much. Should not have cheered so loudly. He was growing up. He was growing away.

When he was eleven we got him a phone because he was old enough to walk home from school. We needed to be sure where he was. He also "walked around" a lot with his friends. The phone began to vibrate more and more yet when I called it was not on. The world was getting larger, its edge ever closer. He began to walk with girls and hold their hands.

In December when he was fifteen we barely uttered, "Happy birthday!" when he asked when he could start driver's ed. I threw up in my mouth. Driver's ed? Driver's ed led to driving. Driving led to more distance than a cell phone could report. Driving led to much more than holding hands. He had gone off the edge of the Earth.

(It is June and I have forgotten to sign him up for driver's ed and their calendar is filled...I am hoping for evidence of the shape of the Earth before I clap for this.)

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.