#EveryDayinMay - Ten (New) Slices of Life

Go check out Crystal's Ten by clicking above!

Every day is an opportunity for new experiences. Some good, some bad, some completely unbelievable. Today's Tuesday Ten is also a Slice of Life brought to you by one experience that made me realize how many new things happen to us in a day that go unnoticed. I wondered if I could come up with a list of ten new experiences today, to notice each moment that otherwise might slip by without celebration.

Ten Things I Did Today That I've Never Done Before

1. Ate a veggie sandwich at Schlotzsky's. Sure, this doesn't seem like a big deal, but hey -- it was new to me. Lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, cheddar cheese, a spicy ranch sauce, all on a deliciously toasted sourdough bun. Tasty.


2. Shared one of my Google Docs with a stranger. Proof I'm learning to play nice with others. I recently created a rather lengthy planning calendar for the upcoming school year, filled with literary events celebrated on a global level along with monthly deadlines for district technology and literary initiatives. Yesterday I noticed a tweet by someone looking for a calendar of literary events to use in their school next year and I thought, "Why not?" If my overly neurotic need to plan can be of some use to a fellow human, I'm happy to assist.


3. Used Skitch to screen capture and annotate an article. I've used Skitch before on images, but haven't played with it to highlight text, take notes, and summarize my learning. I did this today in a Discovery Education training, and when our instructors and a few other teachers noticed what I was doing, they tried it out also. It was fun to watch this spontaneous learning spark across the room.
   
   

   

   I think it turned out well!



4. Ate half a brownie. Now, I could be wrong. There may be some completely forgotten time in my past where, halfway into brownie consumption, I pushed that scrumptious little morsel of gooey chocolate aside and said, "Oh no, thanks. I couldn't. I'm just stuffed." But I have a feeling it hasn't happened before. When it comes to chocolate, I'm all in. Or I was. Today I have the wrapped remains of my half-eaten brownie sitting in my backpack to prove me wrong.


5. Used my phone to video a person using their iPad to demonstrate how an app works. Now, this app is probably one of the coolest things I've seen in the world of all things appy, so my nerdfest device-o-rama was definitely warranted. A Heart Cam app. Awesome. Sauce. You can listen to my obvious glee in the video!

  heart cam AR app demonstration  I'd like to point out that I wasn't the one that asked if that was his real heart. Just sayin.

6. Gave a dog Benadryl. Grimm seems to be suffering from wonky allergies. He gets big welts sometimes, which I believe are from bug bites. The vet suggested dosing him up with Benadryl, and although I'm not a fan of dosing any living thing up on anything, the poor guy is all itchy and bumpy and sad, so I gave in. For the first time in his little dog life, he actually spit something out. I tried again by dropping the pill into a handful of treats, which he happily gobbled up. By the time Uno and I got home from our errand, all his bumps were gone!


7. Oh, the errand. This has to be the most sketchy and least worthy of celebration in my list of newness. Uno's car was towed the other night when he unknowingly parked in a spot that required a visitor's permit while spending the night at a friend's apartment. I went with him tonight to pick up his car, and about $400 later he emerged with his car from the fortress of steel and security cameras that will forever be known to me as Car Jail (Carcatraz??).

   

   Watch what you say, yo.



8. While waiting in line behind the four people ahead of us at Car Jail, a tow truck from another company drove up and the driver parked and walked over to join us in line. He was an older man that looked as if he'd had a life punctuated with discomfort. His mannerisms and quiet observation of the scene around him made my writer's mind start wandering, so I took out my phone and started a short character sketch. I've never used my phone to take writing notes like this before (I make far too many typing errors with my phone! Kudos to peeps like Lauren Oliver, who appear to have the ability write entire novels using their phone!), but I'm glad I had it because this wasn't the type of place where I wanted to take a leisurely seat in the dirt, pull out my fountain pen, and start writing away in my moleskine journal!


9. Followed Uno in my car. I'm accustomed to chauffeuring my kids around town. I'm becoming accustomed to having them follow me places now that they drive, and we sometimes need to take separate cars when we're out and about. I am absolutely not accustomed to following one of my children as they speed down the highway like an actual grown up human. It's weird, people. It's a weird, weird life we live.


10. Looked through a collection of Uno's photography to select some pieces to frame and hang in the house. Okay, I've done this with artwork before. All throughout the boys' childhood, I framed and placed their art around the house. But this feels different. These are black and white photography pieces from his first photography class in college. And they are timeless and hauntingly beautiful and a message about the uncapturable energy of youth. I love them, and not simply because they are a part of him.

Above photos by Steven Lifsey, who
doesn't like sharing as much as I do.

The Right Audience

Today I read the Littles (she's 5, he's 8) my newest picture book manuscript. Right under 1,000 words, it's just short enough for a quick read aloud. Of course, I have no awesome illustrations to keep their interest, so I have to really play up my reading skills.

They squeal, they laugh, they nudge each other at all the right places.

My inner monologue, the one that was snickering at me last night while I narrowed down possible publishers to query, whispered, "That's right, you're a read aloud story creating rock star! Get it, girl!" It was nice to have my persnickety monologue being polite, for a change.

Of course, the story is inspired by our youngest's larger than life attitude, and they know it. So -- hardly an unbiased crowd!

Still, there's something magical about sharing a story with children -- something you've crafted on your own from beginning to end -- that makes them clap their hands over their mouths and laugh until they fall over.

Our little man immediately piped up with, "I'm going to be the illustrator of this book!"
And the sassy Diva herself pointed at me and quipped, "That book is not about me, it's about you!"

I wrapped that small moment around me like my favorite warm fuzzy blanket on a chilly night, and carried it with me the rest of the day.

And it was a very good day, indeed.

Thursday's are Bittersweet

This is seriously rough. But this has been tumbling around in my head, refusing to let me write anything I'd actually want to share. If, after reading it, you find yourself wondering what on earth I'm talking about, go here.

Most days,

I’m okay.

Wake up.

Get dressed.

Feed dog.

Make coffee.

Drive to work.

Teach class.

Read, write.

Relate.

Communicate.

Go home.

But Thursday’s are bittersweet.

On Thursday:

Drive thirty minutes,

pick up the son

that doesn’t live here

Anymore.

Eat dinner.

Laugh.

Watch TV.

Play games.

Pretend

Everything is okay.

Time’s up.

Drive him home.

Share.

Connect.

One last hug;

One quick “I love you.”

Car door slams.

Exhale.

Swallow hard.

Push tears back.

Breathe.

Drive home.

Alone.

Missing the son

that doesn’t live here anymore.

So Quickly

They grow up.

Your mom warns you. "Don't blink, it all goes so quickly," she says. "One day you're changing diapers, the next you're sending them off to college." And she shakes her head. She chuckles.

You think she is crazy.

It all goes so quickly? What a joke! What is quick about diapers and dishes and the ever present disaster in this house? Quickly. She's off her rocker.

You're convinced you'll have these moments forever. Relaxing together after Kindergarten, reading stories at bedtime, cheering at soccer games, hunched over homework.

These days are long. It's only the night that goes quickly. That last stolen glance into the bedroom; peaceful sleeping faces nestled against Star Wars bed covers. You yawn, mentally ticking off your list of to-do's before you too, can sleep.

But still, her words echo in your mind.

You close your eyes.

Middle school dances, pizza parties, last minute research papers; an uncomfortable itch starts to settle in your mind.

Was she right?

You blink.

There are high school schedules to figure out, which may as well be a corn maze attempted with a blindfold. You sit side by side deciphering the wide world of electives, thankful that they still want your help for something besides movie money.  Suddenly: Driver's Ed, dating, football games, first jobs, and then; an order form for a cap and gown?

It all goes so quickly, you think.

Why didn't anyone warn you? You need more time to prepare!

You chuckle. You shake your head.

And want, fiercely, to call your mom.

Tuesday Slice: time for the sun

I promised myself that as school began this year I would not stop writing.

It appears that has been more difficult than originally believed.

So I am sort of proud of myself for making time to write this Tuesday, just 45 minutes before midnight.

Tonight, as I googled and researched and wrote in student files and signed papers, I chatted on the phone with my 15 year old. He's been living with his dad for the past year, and although I spent the year in a flatlining stupor, I've finally begun healing.

In fact, I was told today that I seem more at peace.  And I am.

I'm at peace enough to not let the little things feel like impossible mountains. And I'm at peace enough to spend most of the evening on the phone with my sweet boy, when I really want to be sitting by his side.

He had a poetry assignment tonight; his teacher asked him to write a poem based on Identity by Julio Polanco. He's always been a good writer. Words come easily to him. But he has always had difficulty accepting that he could actually be good at something.

I hope tonight changed his mind.

Here's what he came up with (I have left it entirely as is, no editing of grammar or spelling):

The Life Giving Sun
Let them be the moon
Always cool, mysterious, the controller of the tides,
But only able to reflect the sun

Id rather be a bright, warming sun,
Beaming down on all, like eyes in a meteor shower,
Always giving, but never taken from.

To break through the surface of clouds,
To shine, to be uncontainable in a never ending sky,
To shine in a forever lasting universe,
Day by day, it will be free,
beyond The blackholes and galaxies,

I'd rather shine on my own,
Then to be alone, in the darkness,
Only to be howled at by the wolves,
Or chased by the astaurnauts,
To be walked on.

I'd rather begin a new day,
Than shine through the night,
If I could sail through the sky independently,
I'd rather be the life giving sun


Written by Daegan Lifsey


I love what he did with this, and I love that we worked on it together, and I love that we are still close enough to do these things -- even if it is just over the phone.

Slice of Life Tuesday: my scrambled august

Two Writing Teachers

It's August.
August is a scrambled month.
The last swirls of summer tug at me, begging me to swim, play, and laze about.
The first hint of school rolls in, urging me to plan and schedule and prepare.
I'm busy reading and writing; there is little time to finish up the last bits of professional development I wanted to do, but I begin to feel greedy with my time -- I want to hold fast to these precious moments.

Today I spent time at the pool with my nieces and nephews and my own two littles. They splashed and played while I watched, journal in hand, working on my current work in progress. Their giggles and screeches were warm and rich. You'd think a morning at the pool with six children that can't swim on their own might be stressful. But it wasn't. It was one of the last breaths of summer, and it was divine.

This afternoon I met with a student I'm tutoring. We worked on math facts and problem solving. It was quiet, just the two of us with heads bent over the table, talking and working together. Her hair was wet; she had come straight from her new pool. My skin still smelled of sunblock. We sat suspended between two worlds, both unsure which we preferred.

August is a scrambled month.
A good month.
A oh-this-is-living kind of month.
And I'm glad it's here.

Because She Is My Person

When I was very small, she pulled me in close and we snuggled and sang and told stories between tickles and giggles and screeches of delight. She taught me to swim, gave me my first Cabbage Patch dolls, and showed me how to use a curling iron. She bought me my first pair of "big-girl" shoes and my first bikini. With her, I learned how to sign, listened to stories of teaching children, and found the meaning of compassion. Each visit was more significant than the last, as each year I became a little more aware of just how special my Aunt Billie was.

As a teenager, our family moved overseas and a number of years went by before I saw my aunt again. When I finally made it back to her home, I was greeted once again with bearhugs and happy tears. We stayed up until the birds began singing their morning song, announcing the arrival of the sun. I shared the story of my life, stories no one else could be trusted with. It didn't matter that time had slipped by; she was still my person. She always will be.

Her children became like my own niece and nephews, and as my family grew our visits became louder and messier and filled with silliness. This is happiness to the utmost degree, family sleeping on couches and floors, cramming into too-small cars and giggling into the starlit hours while sharing stories and pictures and memories. I watched her pull my own children in close and snuggle and sing and tell stories between tickles and giggles and screeches of delight and I smiled because I knew she loved them every bit as fiercely as she loved me.

Eventually their traditional family vacation grew to include us, and we now spend two weeks each July on a road trip that takes us from Texas to Michigan and back, with a few pit stops along the way. We spend all year anticipating summer vacation, if only for this reason. Nearly a week of the trip is dedicated to The Ranch, where we spend our days tubing down a river with a cold beverage in hand and nothing but blue sky and warm sun to occupy our time. When the sun slips beyond our view and the the nights grow cold, we slip on jackets and jeans and surround the campfire. Everything about this trip is Aunt Billie; from the chili we all clamor for to the "shhhh!" that we can hear through the night when our laughter becomes too loud. Aunt Billie is in the river, too -- she taught my boys how to navigate the ice cold waters when they were little, and she's my favorite person to hitch a ride with as we slowly rock our way back to camp. The ranch is Aunt Billie. Without one, there is no reason for the other.

This year Aunt Billie won't be at the river. This year Aunt Billie has exchanged her tube for a hospital bed, her cold beverage for an IV bag, and instead of gathering by the campfire with family each night, she will spend her evenings in Bed 1 under the careful eye of the hospital staff at Good Samaritan. This year Aunt Billie has an auto-immune disorder that the doctors haven't quite figured out yet, and it is a thief that has launched a sneak attack on our family, robbing us of a precious resource we scarcely have enough of as it is: time.

This year Aunt Billie has demanded that we go to the ranch without her, not sit at her bedside and look pitiful. But I don't know how to slip down the river without hearing her laughter ringing through the trees or sit by the fire without her giving us the look and telling us it's time for bed -- even though I'm nearly 40 years old! Without her, a part of the ranch has been severed away. Because she is my person, and she always will be.

Aunt Billie, Uncle Craig, and a motley crew of kids that love them both!

Summer Slipping By

The past few weeks have been too full and too frenzied to summarize here, but I'll try with a list:

• Road trips, especially with 5 children, are loud and lovely
• It is possible to lose weight and feel better on vacation -- I have proof!
• The scritchscratching in the back of my head about what I "should" be doing is very loud when I am trying to relax.
• I love the just-before-dawn hours, the purple hazy grey hours, driving down the road, 5 kids asleep, chitter-chatter-laughing with The Husband as we go.
• Momster is still Momster.  I doubt now that she will ever change her eating habits, and it makes me very sad.
• Everyone should enjoy food from a farmer's market.  There is nothing else like it.
• There is still not much better than a tube to float on, a cold drink to keep you warm, and a spring-fed river to replenish your soul.
• It is possible for a 13 year old boy to break a 35 year old woman's heart.  Dos has decided to go live with his father.

There is much more, and the memories are like fish swimming about in my head, and maybe -- if I can get out the words about Dos, about my tiny boy -- my little monkey -- my rope climber, face licker, raspberry giver, misdiagnosed originally, hug squeezing little Aspie that will be sleeping somewhere else in a couple of weeks ...

Well, if I can get all those words out, maybe I will find something more to say.

The Sting of Parenthood

I'm sitting in the driveway, phone clutched in hand when the car pulls up.  The two boys hop out of the old, white Suburban, ambling wordlessly toward the front door.  They don't see me in the truck; their thoughts are a million miles away.

"Hey," I call out, rolling the window down and staring at the two strangers; two tall, handsome boys that were once crawling and crying and cuddling up to me yammering for books and cookies and hugs.  They turn, faces blank, and stop to stare at me.

I wonder who they see when they look at me.  Do they see the mother that loves them, that aches for the days when we sat huddled under covers pretending to be camping, makeshift s'mores still gooey in our hands?  Do they see the woman that rocked them every day after school just so they could have some quiet time after a long day learning the business of being a kid in a classroom bustling with activity?  Or the mom that got up at 5:00 every morning when she was divorced, working full-time, and going to school, just so she had time to make them a hot breakfast before rushing off to class?  Most days, I think they see the mom that screamed "SHUT UP!" on that miserable day outside the McDonald's when I just couldn't face another demand from anyone on the planet, not even my own kids.  Or the woman that, upon watching her pre-adolescent son, bitter at the world and angry beyond reason, rioting in his room,  lost her temper and joined him, throwing his stuff in a show of equal childishness, until he stopped, mouth open wide, eyes haunted.  Or perhaps the mom that, when they were so unimaginably small, depending on me for everything, tore them away from their father for reasons I will never be able to tell them, reasons I just can't bear them knowing?

Now it is me that watches them with eyes, haunted.

"Hey," I repeat, "You took a long time to get home tonight.  I need to run to the store, but I'll be right back ... is everything okay?"

Uno, my oldest, my twin soul, who has shoved himself so far behind walls that he makes the defenses I created while growing up look like the house made of straw, glares at me, jaw set tight.

"Yeah.  Fine.  I just want to go in, shower, and go to bed.  That. Is. All. I. Want."  He turns, and is gone.

My youngest, Dos, the peace maker, smiles at me.  "I just have to pee, mom.  We're fine!"  He too, turns, sprinting into the house.

Of course, now, I can't leave.  My need for a run to the store seems distant, after the fire in my son's eyes.

I will go into the house, attempt, much like a fortune teller with a crystal ball, to make the smoke clear and scry the meaning behind tonight's wall.  I will bring my ladders, catapults, battering rams, all the tricks I have up my sleeves, anything -- everything -- in hopes of reaching, once more, that place where we sat together, laughing, when everything seemed so much easier, when all we had was time in front of us.

And when that doesn't work, I'll hug him goodnight, close the door, walk the short distance that feels like miles from his room to mine, and cry for all the wounds I've caused, for all the mistakes I've made, for the love unending that I somehow fail so often to communicate to him, for the two painfully short years I have left before he goes to college.  I'll cry.  And pray tomorrow I get it right.

Pretty is as Pretty Does

This evening Sassafrass is running through the house (and believe me, this is quite a feat in itself, given the limited space and abundant stuff that clogs up said space) yelling in her tiny-yet-loud sing-songy voice, "I love you, Kelly, I love you, I love you, it's fun to have a step-mother, a step-mother,IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou, and now I can call you mommy!"

I'm trying like hell to watch her and respond, even though there are only about 1.2 seconds between each sentence, and sometimes no time at all as if her words must match her feet as she nearly flies, tumbles, hops through the house.

Then, suddenly, she is right in my face, mouth full of tuna melt, breath on my cheek, as she proudly declares she loves me, once more, in a spray of spittle and tuna, which, on most circumstances is not a very desired gift -- yet somehow, as I wipe the remnants of her statement of love from my eye, thank you very much, I can't help but laugh.

She twirls, she prances, she curtsies, she dances.

"Sassafrass," I call her to me, "come look at these dresses. I think we're going to order one. Help me pick out a colour."

And soon we're alt-tabbing and scrolling our way through ye olde internets as we wade through a sea of ribbons, bows, polka dots and flowers, pinks and purples, trying to decide on the perfect dress. When suddenly, she peeks up at me, batting her too-long eyelashes, and says, "I must have that dress so I can be beeeaaaauuuutiful!"

Insert loud sound of record screeching to an abrupt halt HERE

Say what?! I just stared at her, unable for a moment to bring forth the words, as images of Dove commercials and catwalks with supermodels and my own pathetic teenage years flashed before my eyes.

"Sass! You ARE beautiful no matter what! You don't need a silly dress to be beautiful." I say this, thinking simultaneously, 'Well who was the dumbass that was showing her all the dresses in the first place? Way to go, Ms. Women's Movement USA.'

She stomps her little feet and folds her arms, pouting at me and declares, with all the attitude a diva could possibly muster, "Kelly, you don't want me to have that dress, but I will have it, and I will be beautiful in it!" If that weren't enough, she ends with a dramatic staredown.

Sassafrass will be four in June. FOUR. I am new to the world of little girls and ribbons and lace. I always said if I had a daughter she would play soccer in the mud and wouldn't care about Barbies and make-up. Less than a year with Sass, and I am frothing at the mouth anytime I'm near anything lacey or pink.

But I don't want her to grow up dependent on stuff for confidence. Surely there is a happy medium somewhere. Let's just hope we can find it. Soon.