Monday, May 17, 2010

The bud of confidence

I heard from one of my all time favorite teachers today. It was a random FB hookup.
The funny thing is, even after all these years, the impression she left with me remains.

She, or her belief in me, was the spark I needed to start seeing myself in a different light and listen to my gut instead of the high school mellowdrama that continuously buzzed in my ear.

I couldn't always hear that voice or heed it over the years, but even as I would drown myself out, the whisper that I was capable of more than I gave myself credit for remained.

My teacher taught the feared English class. And true to form, she was no softy.  I was 17 and a little perplexed that I somehow ended it up in a room full of the perceived smart kids. She didn't seem to notice.

We covered everything from the Red Badge of Courage to Shakespeare. I even wrote a research paper on Karen Silkwood.  I loved it.

My crowning glory was acing the Shakespeare test and getting the highest grade in the class.
My teacher gave me the highest  accolade - public recognition that bore a byproduct of confidence I had not known before.

I hope my boys will know this kind of teacher - the kind who pushes and encourages you to achieve more even while others say you don't have it in you.

She shaped my life. And it's a good one.

Monday, May 10, 2010

The Frugal Housewife and other stories

I went back in time for Mother's Day.
We loaded up the boys in the car and headed back to the 1830's in Old Sturbridge Village.
I was so excited. I had not been to this living museum since I was a girl and loved Laura Ingalls Wilder or, more specifically, Melissa Gilbert. It's safe to say I wanted to be "half pint."
So while the boys were in the tin shop, I was sitting in the Parsonage listening to Lydia Childs offer up the child rearing advice of the day from her book, "The Mother's Book."
 The book was not as well known as her "Frugal Housewife" tome that dispensed offerings like: use earwax to cure chapped lips. But then again, it had to be tough to follow those tips.
Lydia, or rather the woman who played her, told a group of  us that, as mothers, we must never yell.
"The first rule, and the most important of all in education, is, that a mother govern her own feelings, and keep her heart and conscience pure."
Lydia goes on to say that you cannot be pure if you raise your voice at your children or otherwise let your own "vexations" affect your little cherub.
I find myself nodding along with the fake Lydia.
 I don't want to yell.
Tell me what to do do...Mrs. Childs.
Pray.
That's it?
I started to think there were no new solutions or much difference for mothers over time.
But then Lydia reminded me time changes everything.
She said if you could not get through to your child about their misbehavior, you must tie them to a chair "gently" about the arms and legs with  "string."
So maybe that's where the advice went awry for me and knocked me back to the present.
Still the book's dedication is timeless.
"To American Mothers on whose intelligence and discretion the safety and prosperity of  our republic so much depend."
No wonder we need our own day.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

The day before Mother's day

There was a bad dream last night.
He came into my room before dawn and hugged me.
Then he told me the plot and guilt set in like some suffocating vapor cloud.
It was the usual chased by monster dream with a knife-in-the heart-twist. The monster was me and I was trying to get him.
The standard, silent, mental tailspin: oh-my-god-what- is- wrong-with- my kid-what did-I-do-can-I-do-I-am-a bad-mother-repertoire ensued. It's a  tic that happens now and again and it is heavily rooted in the "Please God don't let me screw up my kids" prayer I often utter during difficult times when I think I have no business in this role.
I know dreams can be unresolved feelings or things rolling around in your brain that are not literal but represent something else.
I went out last night with some friends. My departure was an up and downstairs flurry. I got home from work, went for a run, showered, gave quick kisses and left for dinner.
He was watching TV and playing dinosaurs. At 8, he barely jumps up for the kiss and this kills me. But I say nothing.
I guess subconsciously it was bothering him too.
"Were you upset that mommy went out last night?"
I was just a little bummed.
"Sometimes if you tell people how you are feeling, you won't have bad dream like that. And we can talk about it," I say.
I give him a hug. And he puts his head on my chest.
Can I turn on the TV now?
And just like that he's moved on.
But not me.
I am on the couch writing this and thinking I should never go out again.
Happy Mother's Day.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Talk Before Radio

My Dyl is a bit like Chris Matthews on our daily commute.

His line of questioning is often sudden and thud like. I am usually woefully unprepared and insufficiently caffeinated. I suspect he knows this. He raises his voice an octave, bellowing from his booster seat to test whether I am paying attention.

And then the conversation shifts life the wind, leaving me searching for a thread of connection where there is none. It's just what's on a five-year-old's mind...unfiltered.

This was Tuesday's talk:

Mommy turn down the radio. I want to ask you something.
Why did you cry when grandpa Danny died?
Why did he die?
What's a disease
Where did grandpa Danny work?
Why is it so long  till my birthday ?
Are you getting me a present?
Why does my party have to be in the Winter? ( I secretly want to hold a summer party for him so he can have a bounce house. He doesn't know it.)
Can I get wrestling guys for my birthday?
No, no, no. Wait.
Can I get two wrestling guys and a matchbox?
Remind me, I say.
Anything else?
No. That's it.