Crossing Over

The girls and I are sleeping at my parents' house tonight; the bridge to the mainland is closed. Four hours ago, a young man no older than 18 by eyewitness accounts skateboarded up the bridge and sat atop its westbound edge. We were sailing underneath in the Beer Can Races when it became clear traffic on the bridge was halted. Harbor Police boats began patrolling the waters below him; helicopters circled overhead.

I couldn't believe it at first, assuming it was an accident up there causing the delay. After over 20 years of living and/or working on the island-peninsula, it wasn't until this year that I knew someone who'd leapt from the bridge. And now, I know two.

I crossed the bridge last night right after a woman abandoned her car and jumped; that morning the bridge was closed for hours until a man was successfully talked down. This morning I cried in my car as I crossed over; the bridge is part of my daily commute and the view from its span can lift my spirits, but our relationship is strained.

Tonight I cringed, fearing what the boater's perspective would yield. I type and hope a conflicted young man surrenders.

On the way to work the day before yesterday I noticed a dead possum in the road on the hill, almost to the shoulder, as if the journey across from one hospitable habitat to the other were just a little too long, or maybe a long shot from the start. I knew I'd watch the evolution of that carcass each day thereafter, like Richard Eberhart's "Groundhog," wondering why the possum left the comfort of the canyon in the first place.

By 10:00 AM that day we learned about the surgery of Auntie R, my husband's sister, whose brain tumor was malignant and aggressive and whose doctors' prognoses were grim.  I visited Husband at work to break the news.  His sister had always taken care of him when he needed her, he shared.  Now he would help her.

In the afternoon I picked up the girls and we drove home up the hill past the possum, admiring hawks orbiting in sweeping ovals above. We parked beneath our giant Aleppo Pine tree, as a flurry of feathers floated down on our car. Big Sis was the first to notice.

"Mommy, look up! Feathers! Lots of them!"

At first the downy wisps looked like ashes we'd seen during wildfires. And then I noticed a hawk perched high in our tree with a smaller bird clutched in its talons. Our attention and exclamations sent the hawk flying off, victim in its beak.

"I don't like that bird," scowled Little Sis. I explained that the hawk was feeding itself, as we need to do (and remember, kiddo? We even eat the occasional cow and chicken?).

She wasn't having any of it, though, pointing out that she, in fact, wasn't directly responsible for her food's demise.  I bit my tongue, recognizing that my daughter was simply doing what I was attempting to:  categorize and rationalize and harvest distinctions between signs of mortality and death, all around us.

The running dialogue in my head reminds me of Pablo Neruda's Book of Questions:

What is the meaning of one possum's life?  


How do I reconcile someone taking her own life with my sister-in-law's valiant quest to save hers?


Are some depressions as terminal as some cancers?


Is the hawk a callous killer?  Are we, human carnivores?


If I were Syrian today, how would I talk about death?


How do we know which deaths are welcome?


What does it mean that we close a bridge for six hours to save a life?  


How many lives are we forgetting or choosing not to save?


Does the value of our lives diminish with age?  Are our lives more precious when we're young?


How do I talk honestly with my (already anxious) children about life and death?

For tonight, the inconvenience of a closed bridge necessitates a slumber party.  I tuck my daughters in bed together at their grandparents' house.  In turn, my mother bids me goodnight, with a sigh of satisfaction that her "eldest bird" is in her nest for the night.  

Husband has flown across the country to be with his sister and his dad and our courageous niece.

The possum is decomposing; the hawk is hunting; the cancer threatens; the bridge is still closed.

But, I feel hopeful.

"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all"
--Emily Dickinson

Wardrobe Malfunction

In my role as Vice Principal, I am the enforcer of the Dress Code.  We have a fairly standard policy:  no hats, no clothing advertising alcohol or drugs, no "gang attire," no undergarments showing, no shorts or skirts shorter than fingertip length, no straps less than 1" wide, no stirrup pants.

Kidding about the stirrup pants. But they were, along with elastic-waist pants of any sort, forbidden from the country club site of a wedding we attended recently (Haters! Why you gotta pick on the stirrup pants all the time?).

Regulating outfits isn't the part of my role I relish. It's uncomfortable and arguably arbitrary any way you slice it. Calling teenagers on their excessive cleavage? Bleerrrggggh. Negotiating what constitutes fingertip length with disproportionately long-armed teens? It's like debating the definition of "dessert" with my kindergartner. And Target, American Eagle Outfitters, and Abercrombie? Thanks a ton for selling shorts that are more appropriately categorized as denim bikinis. You are not helping.

But despite the cringe-worthy moments and occasional necessity of reminding students that they are more to us than what they wear, there are moments of levity related to the dress code and other policies, too.

Before they became freshmen on our campus four years ago, two eighth-grade girls scheduled an appointment with the principal and me to discuss our new closed-campus lunch policy for freshmen.  Despite their professional and respectful approach, valid arguments, and natural charm, we maintained our position. And became fans of these spunky young women. 

Over the course of the next year, they added a third ally and occasionally ate lunch with us outside, lightheartedly bemoaning their captivity and the lack of maturity among their male counterparts.  We bonded over cafeteria salads and social critique, watching the boys chase one another around the quad and cliques form, dissolve, and evolve. 

Alas, sophomore year came and so did their freedom and our conversations were more often quick hellos and goodbyes between classes and as they left campus to eat lunch at a local restaurant or friend's house. 

But on their last day of school as seniors, the trio of now-grown, still confident and hilarious young ladies made a lunch date with us.  So we reminisced.  I asked if the boys had matured by now.  They rolled their eyes.

We praised their gumption, and all they had accomplished.  They praised our approachability.  And our principal's use of slang, such as "swag."  And then, my fashion sense.

??

I was flattered, and also flustered.

"Thank you!" I exclaimed.  "Except..."  I looked at my administrative partner and back at the girls.  "There was this one day when I wore...well, clogs and socks.  Umm...with capri pants."

The girls looked at one another.  "Yeah, we remember that day."

A few days later, a card and gift bag appeared on my desk, with a pad of paper inside:

Oh, how I laughed.  So perfect for me, fashion "maven" and the Keeper of the Dress Code.

Note: stirrup pants warrant a citation. Clogs, socks, and capris do not.

If You Can't Remember a Better Time

Last week began with the poignant story of Marina Keegan, a young writer with a promising career who died in a car accident only days after graduating from Yale.   And our high school is reeling from a week of broken hearts and limbs.  Arms and elbows will heal, but other recoveries take much longer, and true loss is irrevocable. I am thinking of the hurting parents, families, and friends in our community.  When a parent at her son's ICU bedside urges, "Hug your family today," listen. 

I consoled myself with The Weepies this weekend; despite their name, their songs lift spirits.  Here are the lyrics to Deb Talan's song, "Comfort" (listen here):

When everyone has gone to sleep
And you are wide awake
There's no one left to tell your troubles to

Just an hour ago you listened to their voices,
Lilting like a river over underground
And the light from downstairs
Came up soft like daybreak,
Dimly as the heartache of a lonely child.

If you can't remember a better time,
You can have mine, little one.

In days to come,
When your heart feels undone,
May you always find an open hand
And take comfort wherever you can, you can, you can...

...But just like you thought when you stopped here to linger,
We're only as separate as your little fingers.

So cry; why not? We all do.
Then turn to the one you love.
And smile a smile that lights up all the room.
And follow your dreams, in through every out door..
It seems that's what we're here for.

And when you can't remember
A better time,
You can have mine,
Little one.

Naan Pizza

We have a friend sleeping over, and it's Make-Your-Own Pizza Night.  We used whole-wheat naan bread as the base (perfectly sized for the big girls to eat their entire individual pies):  easy, yummy, and healthy.  They chose from pepperoni, ham, red onion, fresh garlic, artichoke hearts, basil, pineapple, and sliced tomatoes for toppings.

Parents' Pizza:  Pepperoni for him; ham for her

It's a gorgeous Memorial Day Weekend, so we ate outside.  One of us ate her pizza in the wagon:

Yay for summer!  So close.  

The Effect of Kindergarten on the Five-Year-Old Brain

Before

After

Thank you, Mrs. G., for making the magic happen!

List: Where I've Been

It's one of those months when activities and obligations and distracting flybys conspire to make me feel as if I am hardly keeping my nose above water.  You know, the end of the school year!  For example, "I just found out" (code for "I wasn't paying attention") that tonight is our daughters' school's Open House.  So we'll fit that in between work events and dentist appointments and if the kids are lucky, dinner. 

Here's where I've been spotted recently:

1. The Prom.
I can report that "Baby Got Back" is still a crowd fave.  Big butts haven't even needed to make a comeback--they transcend time! 

Heartwarming moment of Prom 2012:  a graduating senior with special needs brought his adult sister to the Prom with him, and requested Celine Dion's "Because You Loved Me" as a surprise tribute to her.  Our students cleared the dance floor for their peer and his sister's slow dance, and then joined him in a tear-jerking love fest. 

We have one 'P' down now, and two to go:  the Pep Rally and Powderpuff.  Okay, and maybe the Prank (eeek)... 

2. Signing up for Summer Camp.
Unfortunately, not for myself. 

There's a cartoon about boat ownership that cracks me up; it depicts a man running up and down a dock with carts full of cash he unloads into the hull of his boat.  That's how it feels to arrange for childcare/meaningful experiences for the kids for the parts of summer when they're off and I am not.  Every time I lay out dollars to have my children supervised while I work, I wonder how families with fewer means make do.  Can we do a better job of supporting families through affordable childcare, huh, USofA?  For the good of the whole?

3.  Deleting Election Messages from the Answering Machine.
Leave.  Us.  Alone.

4.  Gearing up for No Big Change.
If you asked me in September, I would have predicted that by this time of year I'd likely have a new baby or a new job.  Alas, neither was meant to be.  On the bright side, I love my job and my life as it is.  And this summer I won't be overwhelmed by the advent of new responsibilities:  disappointment replaced by relief! 

5. Sopping up Water Pooling in the Fridge.
We don't know why we have water pouring from a mysterious source into our crisper and deli drawers, but the repairman who told me it was my fault for overloading our freezer was wrong, wrong, wrong (Ha!  I would get more pleasure out of being right if I didn't already pay the sanctimonious Fridge Doctor $200 to NOT solve the problem).  Meanwhile, we have a rotation of cold, wet towels if you need any. 

6. A Few Award Ceremonies.
My favorite ceremony at the high school is the Faculty Commendation Tea, in which staff members can commend students for ANYTHING:  having a cheerful smile, being profound, demonstrating improvement or perseverance or keeping a stiff upper lip through tough times.  Forget GPAs and scores and stats; this kind of recognition is where it's at. 

7. Blow-Drying Lotion-Laden Hair.
So, we had lice.  And at this point I am pretty sure everyone has lice.  Yes, you!  What makes you think you don't have it?  Have you even checked?  Because those buggers are so hard to get rid of, even if you're a nit-picking Mama like me, that it's a wonder we don't all just cry uncle and be like sharks, happily swimming around with their hitchhiking remora.  But here's where you point out that remora offer some benefit to sharks, and I HAVEN'T YET DETERMINED ONE BENEFIT OF LICE beyond bringing me and my daughters ever so much more closely together.  So, yes, we resolved to fight the fight and I do believe we're victorious.  Paranoia allows for a hint of doubt, though, so we are investing in some Overkill Treatments. 

According to lore, as well as the Brave Moms willing to admit that they've had a louse in the house (fie on you non-disclosing parents!  You are not helping the team!), the most effective treatment is the "Nuvo Method," which involves soaking the hair in lotion, combing most of it out, and then blowing the lotion-y hair dry.  The last step seems so utterly impossible that after thirty minutes of blowing gummy hair I wondered if this was some Super Evil Person's plot to further torture a parent already brought to her knees by Pediculus humanus humanus. 

8. Making Lasagne.
I may be feeling the overwhelm of end-of-year events, but that won't stop me from volunteering to make lasagne for the Staff Appreciation Lunch at daughters' school!  What it will stop me from doing is putting it on my calendar, so that I mistakenly cook a giant gourmet lasagne a whole week in advance.  We celebrated Family Appreciation that evening.  And then I made another one this week.  Thank goodness for no-boil noodles.

9.  Cheering at Lacrosse Games
What a cool sport.

10. Being Alternately Speechless and Outraged over the State of our State's Budget.
Our friends--librarians, nurses, teachers with years of experience--are losing their jobs. Class sizes are increasing and programs are being lost. Who will step up to educate the next generation of children? Why would young people today be motivated to pursue a career in schools with such bleak forecasts? Dismay.

Healing My Heinie

In another justification of my fear of falling, I fell down hard on ice rather than run over Big Sis at the rink and suffered a tailbone injury that is like WOW OW OW OWWWWW I WILL NEVER TAKE MY FANNY FOR GRANTED EVER AGAIN.  I've had a pain in the patootie for three weeks with seemingly no end in sight, and I am happy to whine to you about it.  Or to squirm uncomfortably when I am seated in your presence, so you wonder about my exaggerated leg crossings and weirdly earnest elbows-on-knees-chins-in-palms posture.  I seem both inattentive and then overly so, all in the same meeting. 

People who have hurt their heinies are not helpful.  I've heard, "Oh YEAH...(eyebrows raised)...that takes MONTHS to feel better," and, "You know what?  That happened to me YEARS AGO, and when it's cold or damp out or I sneeze, my arse STILL hurts!" 

Whoopee!  As in, cushion?  Forever? 

No, I'm not going to the doctor, because Doc Google implies, what are they going to do anyway, not put my caboose in a cast, duh, so it doesn't matter if it's cracked or fractured or broken or just bruised.  The only remedy is rest.  Unless, of course, after eight weeks I still can't even bend over or stretch to grab something off a high shelf, in which case maybe they need TO SURGICALLY REMOVE MY TAILBONE, which doesn't sound like a convenient cosmetic procedure.  All of this only leaves me wondering what we're doing, humans, with this wacky vestigial organ that seems to get in the way of the soft landing otherwise offered by my derriere.

I've spent all these months recently strengthening my core with P90X (previously I only strengthened my legs, by running), and I am here to tell you that despite the fact I have appreciated the fruits of my efforts, you can forget your abs, your obliques, or your whatevers, because Your Core is actually Your Butt.  Paris could have taken down Achilles with an easy arrow to the tush instead of aiming for the heel, because it all relates back to the hind end, no matter how rippled your six pack.  Weak abs do not prevent you from driving your car.  Or from walking.  But ruin your rump, and you will not sleep. 

I like unimpaired butts, and I cannot lie.

Do me a favor today, and give your posterior some appreciation.  Kiss your own ass, if you will.  It's doing good work, even when it's just sitting around.