Sticky Stained Glass

Check out Gearhead Mom, where I am making "stained glass" ornaments out of Jolly Ranchers with the girls. 

Happy Sunday!

Trading Perspectives

Dinnertime was a battlefield this week (as I may have mentioned).  I waged war on Big Sis's aversion to locking her lips while chewing (AKA "smacking," as my own mother unaffectionately calls it), and she fired back on the quality of my cuisine.  Playing the "What Was the Best Part of Your Day?" game at mealtime had us all answering internally, Duh...not this dinner hour.

Big Sis has required some extra attention lately.  It comes in waves.  Sometimes, Husband and I look at each other with the unspoken high-five, the our-kids-are-so-darned-great (scratch wood) agreement.  Then we get our comeuppance.  We've added new responsibilities and requirements in this latest round of Reality Check with second grader.  Among them, Child Doesn't Eat Breakfast Till Rabbit Gets His Kibble, and Towel Meets Doorknob (Not Carpet). 

We have been harping; seven-year-old has been crying.

Meanwhile, this evening families, friends, and community members gathered on the beach and watched the sunset in memory of our student who passed away last week.  During the reception afterwards was an opportunity to share thoughts and memories of the young man we all miss.

His father spoke, taking deep gulps, his voice cracking. "I believe there will be ripples which will spread as a result of this tragedy. 

"I tried to emphasize the important things as I parented my son:  honesty, integrity, love, and loyalty.  He and his friends have taught me more about them this week. 

"His death has reminded me what's important, and what's not important. 

"To all the parents out there: stand like a rock on the big stuff, like honesty and integrity. Don't sweat the small stuff, like towels on the floor."

I thought about Big Sis.  About our new towel rule.  About my pursed lips at each bite she chewed with her mouth open.  About unhappy moments in our household this week.  I gulped too. 

"Your kid coming home with ears pierced and tattoos?"  He nodded at his son's friends.  "Those aren't deal breakers."

I went over to give our student's mom a hug before I left the memorial to head home to my family.  "I'll always remember you telling me," she gazed at me, "as he racked up the tardies, 'Let's keep this in perspective.'  And also, 'You know, he actually has a philosophical reason for being late.'"  She smiled, and I suddenly remembered my attendance conversation with her son and my follow-up conversation with her.  He had charmed me with his reasoning.  But he had also reminded me, Minder of Attendance, of what's important. 

And his mother and father reminded me how often it is easier for me to be understanding and forgiving of my students than of my own people.

Being on time can be important; eating politely can be important; being responsible for things, including towels and carpets, can be important. 

But being real, being loving, and being generous with one's time and one's energy are important, always.

That's the lesson he left his friends and family, and that's the lesson I took home tonight.

Thank you, D.

The Last Supper

It's been a rough week for dinner in our household.  Perhaps I am a bit spoiled by my daughters' general enthusiasm for meals, even those including swiss chard, kale, and mushrooms.  I certainly didn't see the gag reflexes coming on Monday when I made stuffed chicken breasts with quinoa and spinach, and on Wednesday when we had meatballs with pineapple and rice.  The spinach wasn't like normal spinach, apparently.  And the meatballs were "too peppery."

The complaining, and sighing, and retching were a bit much for me last night.  I threatened to quit. 

"No more cooking," I declared. 

"I will serve only carrot sticks and sliced turkey from now on," I promised.

Ears perked up.  "Or how about macaroni and cheese?"  Big Sis suggested.  So Not Getting The Point.

This evening, as I headed home with both girls in the car, the inevitable question arose. 

"Mom, what are we having for dinner?" 

"Something you don't like."

Silence. 

And then, Little Sis:  "Mommy, I don't want to have something I don't like for dinner." 

"I want to have something I like." 

"Is there any leftover macaroni and cheese?"

Got to Make the Morning Last

This morning we took the girls and dog for a hike.  We packed turkey sandwiches and PB&Js, sliced apples, and water, and set out to do something free.  And familyish.  And fun. 

Fun we had.  It was a delightful morning and a beautiful Southern California day.  Yellow leaves shimmied in the breeze; bird-sized bugs whizzed by; squirrels chattered.

Our daughters enjoyed each other's company, not always the rule these days.  They sang and skipped and giggled. 

In this photo, they're gently poking at a furry caterpillar crossing the path. 

We saw dozens of them, crawling at remarkable speed out of the meadow and onto the trail. 

Where were they going in such a hurry? we wondered. 

In contrast, our girls couldn't be rushed.  They moseyed along, kicking stones, sharing sticks, climbing on logs, pointing out flowers and holes in the ground. 

And we had nowhere to go, but where we were. 

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving morning.  It's quiet; only the pets and I are stirring.  Soon I'll head out on a run, thankful that my body is sturdy and compliant. 

I am thankful that we're having our family meal on Friday this year, and that we will continue our tradition of delivering student-made desserts to Christie's Place, a resource center for individuals and families afflicted with AIDS and/or HIV. 

I am thankful for our students.  They're baking desserts.  They're cheering one another at championship games. 

They're grieving. 

Yesterday they lost a peer.  We lost a student.  Not a former student, but a saw-you-on-Friday-and-I'll-see-you-on-Monday-in-your-usual-spot-on-the-quad current student. A young man whose furtive, defensive way of looking down when I greeted him was as familiar to me as his kind smile and Bob Marley tee shirt.

Have you ever watched a group of teenage boys mourn one of their own?  I hadn't, until yesterday.  A junior in high school, our friend grew up with a crew of boys since preschool, and some closest to him were with him at the accident. 

Their grief was powerful, difficult to describe.  As if enacting an ancient rite for which they had no model, no leadership, the boys--sixteen and seventeen-year-olds--tightened their circle and focused on taking care of one another and their friend's family. 

A teacher on her morning jog at the beach watched them surf their buddy's board out into the Pacific. They arrived at school together to retrieve a mosaic he was constructing and present it to his mother. When my husband and I visited the tree last night, they were huddled around it together, hoodies and beanies, candles burning, remembering. 

What emerged yesterday was that the young man we mourn for was the most loyal of friends.  His comrades honored this trait in a simple and meaningful way:  holding on to one another, forgiving one another, loving one another.

As I lay in bed this morning, just barely awake, I thought of the mother and father who rise today without their son. 

His parents, his siblings, and his inspiring circle of friends will be in my thoughts today as we celebrate all we have to be grateful for. 

Enjoy your family, friends. 

ReOrg Update

Don't get excited; the Pile of Denial is still intact. 

I tackled the freezer today, though, after some subtle hints from The Husband, and threw out some unidentifiable icebergs.  I also noted (from the back of the freezer) that hey, we don't need more sausage.  Also, we've got plenty o' flatbreads for pizza.  Let's go buy some tomato sauce and mozzarella already. 

I organized the items I salvaged into sections invisibly labeled "Meat," "Chicken," "Dessert," "Nuts," "Bread-like Stuff, Including Dough and Pie Crusts," "Fruits and Vegetables," and "Ice." 

This morning I had breakfast with a friend who organized her pantry around times of day:  "Breakfast" on the bottom shelf, with "Lunch," "Dinner," and "Dessert" ascending from there.  She explained that she and her Other Half were still working out the distinctions between "Lunch" and "Dinner" foodstuffs; he was often confused.

Her "Dessert," I noted, was closest to the heavens. 

"Or," my friend winked, "just out of reach."  

Sticks and Stones

Before I became a vice principal, conflict made me extremely uncomfortable.  One of the times I remember feeling most scared in my whole life was at the roller rink when I was in fourth grade.  A fight broke out near the bathrooms and I cowered in a stall for a very long time. After that, I meekly tiptoed away from shouting, arguing, and confrontation.  I married a non-yeller on purpose. 

The first time an angry parent directed her furor at me the vice principal, I cried.  I am an easy crier, I will admit, but you might have cried too under these circumstances.  Some blows are low, below the belt, and some barely skim the top of your head.  This one cut deep.  But I can look back now and be grateful for the experience.  Under similar circumstances these days, I would hang tough. 

Part of my job is dealing with people.  I don't love that verb, "dealing"--it's like "tolerance"--not quite all the way to being real with other humans.  Most of my job, thankfully, is about "supporting," "guiding," "assisting," "empowering," and "reassuring."  Nevertheless, I have to deal with some people from time to time.  I am happy to report that most of them are strangers.  This is reassuring because if we can at least count on the people who know one another to respect one another...that's good.  That's a start. 

Last night a college sophomore tried to fight me.  I don't think I am exaggerating here, because he also nearly got into a fight with an innocent parent spectator at last night's championship game.  He was an alumnus and fan from The Other Team, The Rival Team.  The Team We Love to Hate. 

This contest goes back so far I sheepishly compare it to the Yale-Harvard rivalry:  one in which we ultimately (secretly, inwardly) concede grudging respect for the other institution.  There's a reason we go up against one another, and it's that we're both awesome at the same things, which are academics, and that particular sport which fuels the rivalry. 

So here we were at the championship game.  Expecting rain and dressing like someone almost on vacation, I sported fleece in our school's color, sweats, and a black wool hat acquired circa 1991.  The final game is an annual event between our high schools, so we could expect light-hearted taunting from either side.  Anticipating such, our Athletic Director and I positioned ourselves in the student cheering section. This year our crowd came somewhat subdued--no students in full green body paint, no signs taunting the refs or the private-school fans from the other side. 

But about one minute into the game a rival fan started taking on our section.  He wasn't outrageous, just obnoxious, turning to our students to comment loudly on every play.  When he began heckling our coach, though, I decided he could use a little intervention. 

"Hey, how about focusing on cheering for your team, and leave our coach alone?  This is going to be a great game, and we all want to enjoy it." 

He quickly stood up and over me, exerting his rights as a fan to say and do whatever he liked.  Who was I, anyway?  I didn't assert my office; I wasn't his vice principal, after all, and I am not, conveniently, Vice Principal of the World (frankly, I don't think my heart could take it; my hat is off to cops who deal with anonymous irrational people on a daily basis).  The Athletic Director and I plunked ourselves down at the edge of our section, right across the narrow aisle from our rivals and his seat, while he got a talking-to from an official.  We were now practically sitting next to each other, he and I, much to his chagrin. 

He continued to challenge our crowd, but it wasn't until he took me on personally that he earned his partial ejection.  While talking to my neighbor, I absentmindedly gave a few claps after a call against our side.  He stood above me me to ridicule my mistake, asking me if I understood what a five-yard penalty was, and was I stupid, etc.  I just shook my head ruefully and noted that his attention was misdirected and that he was making a fool of himself.  He didn't stop berating me; I had to tell him to back up and take his hands off of me at one point.  A league official finally intervened and removed him to an area behind the players. 

Our students, I am proud to say, had stayed classy, refusing to take his bait while his team continued to score against us.  I was able to sit quietly for the remainder of the game, taking deep breaths to compose myself and noting that my heartrate and blood pressure were coming down from the tenth floor.  It's scary when someone big gets in your face.  Someone college-sophomore-athlete big. 

When the game was over, he came back through our crowd en route to the exit.  He attempted to rile up one of our alums as he passed and I interceded just in time, urging him to move along.  He was none too happy to see me, offering a few more shots, including his parting one, "Get a new hat."  I should have responded with, "Next time wear a jacket that doesn't have your name on the sleeve, Genius."  I refrained.  Also, I thought of that snappy comeback later. 

We made sure our fans exited without incident, but he did not--he caused a near-fight in the parent section when he started swinging after someone accidentally jostled him.  He had to be escorted out by a cadre of friends and family members.

The Athletic Director and I congratulated and consoled our disappointed second-place players as we handed out medals and wished them a restful break.  One of the coaches came over to thank us.

Appraising my hat, he grinned.  "Thanks for your support tonight, Paddington!"

Moral of this story:  when friends and foes alike agree on the hat, I think it needs to go.  And it's definitely not worth fighting over.