Ice cream, some cheese pizza, and clean air

Wisdom can come at any age and its lessons can smack you in the head when you least expect it. 

I did not anticipate uncovering such understanding in a pre-school yearbook. But there it was. The messages from a gaggle of five-year-olds seem worth repeating. They made me smile, even hopeful at a time when my adult mind is often hijacked by the 24-hour news cycle of oil and violence here and abroad.

Here's what the boys and girls in D's class said when asked what they wished for the world.

• For everyone to love their family like I love mine.
• For everyone to have a Barbie Doll
• For everyone to have enough food
• For everyone to be nice to each other
• I wish everyone could have a large cheese pizza
• I wish everyone smiled all the time
• That the world would take care of the weeds
• That the world would be happy
• That everyone would get along
• That the world would be filled with flowers
• That the world would be strong and healthy
• That everyone could have ice cream
• That the world has clean air
• That there is no littering
• That we all be healthy and grow
• That my friends and I will be friends forever
• That everybody will turn out awesome
• That everyone could have a big jungle gym
• For everyone to have a good life

Sounds like a plan.

Pomp and circumstance on the preschool circuit

My little guy is graduating from preschool tomorrow. They even have mortar boards.
 I wonder if I would be less emotional if the pre-k graduates could just slip into summer and then into Kindergarten without any fanfare?
I had been noticing change was coming for me. His hand has felt bigger and less pudgy when clasped inside of mine. He seems taller in his 5Ts.
I had to start thinking about whether or not I should carry him when he would ask me on one of those extra groggy mornings. I never minded, really. But the weight of his 40 pound frame was getting more difficult to hoist and carry in high heels.
My baby is growing up. But he is not grown yet.
I remind myself of this often.
I've decided to to live in the moment for him and me.
 If I can still pick him up, I will.
 If he needs to crawl into bed with me after a bad dream, he can.
I am not going to say no, you're too big for that.
Judge me if you must.
When he tells he wants to be a big boy and let go of my hand, I will let him, begrudgingly, and never say a word.
I'll be close by. Always.

Do real moms eat ice cream?

I had an Olive-from-Little Miss Sunshine moment the other day.
We were in Friendly and it was time for the "Who wants ice cream?" question.
I always dread it. Not because I do not love the treat, but because I am perpetually losing 10 pounds and a Weight Watchers life-time slacker.
The ice cream offer almost always feels like someone throwing down a gauntlet.
My son is on to me.
In raising my boys, I have tried my hardest to keep the fat talk to a minimal and the healthy body image messages to a maximum even though such positive thoughts seem to rarely make the top ten station in my brain. (Yeah, I am neurotic. What's it to you?)
"Mom why don't you ever get ice cream with us? Is it because you are on the points? (WW calorie counting for those unfamiliar)" My son asks me.
I don't give the real answer. I so don't want my boys to grow up and date diet-obsessed women even though I suppose I am one.
Sometimes I don't want ice cream, I say while visions of forbidden chocolate with peanut butter sauce on a spoon heading toward my mouth danced through my head.
My husband: "Mommy just tries to eat healthy." Then he orders the  forbidden chocolate with caramel sauce.
Thanks honey...
The boys order make-your-own sundaes.
Our waitress pauses and looks at me.
No ice cream for you? We have fat-free, she says with a little too much glee.
C'mon Mom, my oldest says like a  dare.
I blink and go with the frozen yogurt, sugar free hot fudge and splurge on the whip cream.
Better choice?
Maybe.
Still feels like a cop out.

Big Fat Poop-head Flag - a preschool tale

The call from D's teacher came while I was at my desk.
The number blazing across caller ID induced a flutter of panic.
Oh no...he's got a 102 fever, vomit, accident, (insert favorite nightmare scenario here.)
His teacher tells me there is no emergency.
Phew.
Then she drops the bomb.
D has said some very bad things to a teacher at school. I've talked to him and he said he heard those words from his brother.
Oh my God... what did he say?
He called the substitute a "big, fat, poop-head flag."
The sub was incredulous and hurt by this, the teacher tells me.
I try to uncover what preceded the name calling. My friend and child educator, Bill Corbett, likes to ask what was going on before the behavior erupted.
My sleuthing determined he was being yelled at for dilly dallying in the bathroom. It didn't excuse the name calling, but things were coming into focus.
I had learned from Bill that when a child behaves in this way they are feeling hurt so they lash out to hurt someone else.
It's a human and imperfect response when you can't developmentally express your feelings.
In my head, I think snarky thoughts like, "Shouldn't the sub know this?"
On the ride home D tells me from the back seat that his "heart is breaking."
You're not in trouble, I say. But we need to be kind. We don't call people names.
His response surprises me:
Mommy I don't want to leave (his teacher) and my school . I will never see her again when I "gaduate" and go to Kindergarten.
He is wailing in his booster seat.
At home, I scoop him in my arms.
A-ha
The big, fat, poop-head flag makes sense.

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.

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.

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.