Why Mothers Should Be Banned From State Speech Meets

My sweet petunia, Hannah Rose, made it to the North Dakota State Speech Meet yesterday.  I was all smiles and busting buttons.  A cold, rainy day did not deter me from going as a spectator to watch my baby wow the socks off judges and fellow participants. 

You will no doubt have your misgivings about the coming statement, but the unbiased truth is, Hannah is GOOD.  Now you know and there is no need to question that fact any further.  Mother’s are notoriously objective about these things.

Further adding to the brag factor is the fact that she made it in not one, but two events.  Doggonit, she’s good! 

There are a few other important pieces of information you might need to fully understand this story.  Here they are:

1.     Hannah is fifteen.

2.     Hannah is OCCASIONALLY embarrassed by her mother.

3.     Hannah’s mother is generally not deterred by her daughter’s embarrassment. 

Oh, I don’t go out of my way to create discomfort, but by the fourth child, you begin to understand that it matters little what you do or don’t do.  Children are embarrassed by their parents, even when the parents are as cool as Hannah’s parents are (for example).  It is written in the Cosmic Code somewhere that parents cannot win in this arena.  The very act of being alive will create exaggerated eye rolling, head shaking, and loud sighing.  Words muttered under the breath are also a very real possibility.  This is just how it is. 

I have attended a few speeches before, enough anyway to have a rough idea how they work.  My daughter prefers that I not go to these as having a familiar face in the audience makes her more nervous, which is fine.  I get it and understand. 

But making it all the way to state… well, my dear reader, that is a whole new beast.  I am GOING, and that is the end of the matter. 

There are many different categories at these meets. Rosie qualified in two of them; humorous interpretation and humorous duo.  She shines in these categories, because she’s FUNNY.  She has a great innate sense of comedic timing.  More mother gushing here… forgive me.

Her grandparents also wanted to witness this milestone, and were waiting for us in the main lobby when we arrived.  Well, I should probably qualify that statement.  Hannah’s grandmother wanted to come; her grandfather… not so much.  No, no, it’s OK.  It doesn’t hurt the grandkids feelings as Grandpa makes no secret of how he feels about endless sporting events and concerts.  I think he figures he put in his time with his own five children and now he’s earned a pass for the rest of his retired life.  Who can blame him?  I certainly don’t.  He adores his family and makes each grandchild feel as though they are the most special child on earth.  They revel in his love and attention. 

But he comes regardless, and grouses at the refs, and sings the National Anthem comically too loud and offbeat, and wonders aloud “when this train-wreck of a concert will be mercifully over,” or something along those lines.  And we giggle at his adorable boorish behavior and are thankful that he is a part of our lives.

The speech meet began without preliminary ceremonies and we scooted off straightaway to find Hannah’s classroom where she would perform her first event.  Each event is performed and judged twice with different judges so as to keep the things reasonably fair. 

My first misstep of the day was walking in and finding the desks arranged in an odd order.  The desks were divided down the center of the room facing in towards the middle.  Dear, dear, this will never do.  Who came up with this insanity?  I sat down without making a scene, but when someone else arrived and voiced my very thoughts, that was all it took.  Time to rearrange.  In short order, things were more Feng Shui, and I would be able to acceptably concentrate now.

The judge settled himself and called for the first pair of performers without muss or fuss.  Hannah and her partner, Karlie, were fourth on the roster.  I had already decided they were the best, so this charade of going through the motions all seemed pointless to me, but alright, let’s suffer through each performance, if we must.  Whatever…

The first performers were a couple of lads doing a sketch from the point of a brainless dog and a snooty house cat.  It was hilarious!!  Those two were so ON it was unbelievable.  I think from the first words out of their mouths, I was laughing.  Not quiet giggles or bubbling laughter.  Oh no, I mean open mouth guffawing.    I didn’t realize the impact of my mirth until I happened to glance over at Hannah who was sitting a safe three rows over from Alien Mom.  She was glaring.  Glaring and shaking her head in disapproval.  I grinned from ear to ear, spread my hands in a helpless gesture, and mouthed the words, “They’re FUNNY!!”  More head shaking and disapproval from Row 2.

It was the same look she gave me one day in church when her dad and I were shamelessly texting with a college friend.  Each text sent and received was funnier than the previous one and had Hannah’s parents in fits of laughter.  Really, what is funnier than church humor?  She let us know in no uncertain terms that she was quite disappointed in our behavior and would we please put those infernal cell phones AWAY??  (this spoken in teen vernacular, but you get the idea..)  When had the roles reversed around here?  I suspect this will only get worse as she matures and I get just plain old and eccentric.  I will lay my outrageous behavior at the feet of old age and blame early onset senility. 

I looked away from my I’m-the-Only-Adult-Here daughter and focused once again on the action at the front of the room.  They finished their act, I clapped enthusiastically, and the next pair took the stage.  Holy cow, they were funny too!  Well, it IS State.  This is the best of the best.  They are supposed to be good.

When that round had finished, we found room 218 and went through the process again for Humorous Interpretation.  This time Hannah flew solo and told a side splitting mock fairy tale complete with voice changes and gestures.  Wow, when had this quiet, shy child gotten her gregarious side revved up?  Once again, I was the loudest laugher (I know this because my daughter told me so afterwards), and I enjoyed most of the other performances as well.  There were a few that didn’t quite hit the mark, I felt.  Like the one where the guy is contemplating becoming a cannibal to shock himself into becoming a vegan.  It was…well, it was disturbing and weird.  But most were amazing and I tried to show my appreciation for their talent with smiles and laughter.  There was just one judge out four rounds that also allowed himself to laugh in all the right places.  I appreciated that.  Funny is funny after all.

Did my baby win first place?  No, sadly not.  I guess mother’s objective opinions don’t count for much in a competition.  But she is only a freshman and has plenty of time to hone her skills and go for the speech gold.  I doubt for not one second that she will accomplish just that.

So hurrah for speech meets and hurrah for teenagers who give up Saturdays to work on public speaking, and hurrah for dedicated coaches and teachers who go that extra mile to help kids like Hannah discover what gifts and talents they truly possess. Confidence in front of a crowd can only lead to good things. 

And hurrah to parents like me for ignoring our children’s pleas to stay silent and blend in with the furniture.  Someday, my Luv, you will understand that cheering for you boisterously is one of the top ten ways to express love.  You will finally grasp that concept when you have children of your own.  And you will probably be seated in a classroom on a rainy Saturday listening to your own teenager make an audience laugh and come alive.  Then you will know… it doesn’t get any better than this.

Monster Teacher

High-Stakes Testing. I do not think much of those three words.  They represent the insidious side of public education today.  All else pales in comparison to the Almighty Test Score.  We bow before it like the Mayans in front of their sacrificial alter.  If a child does well, then the heavens open and golden rain falls on that child, his teacher, and the school in general.  If he or she does poorly, then there is subsidized housing in your future and a monthly welfare check with your name on it.  You are doomed to failure and poverty.  Your life will be grim, grim, grim.  We live or die by standardized test scores. 

Thank you, President Bush and Ted Kennedy…

Does No Child Left Behind have merit?  Well, my friend, if the educational experts could come to some consensus on that issue, then cancer would be eradicated, young men would stop going to war, and every living human being would live in a palace.  This debate truly embodies the clear dividing line between government-run education and letting Education run itself.  Do politicians make good educational decisions?  I’ll just leave it there.  It is too big and too complex to fillet in this post.  I only mention it to lay the framework for this tale.  The bottom line is, standardized testing translates to stress for all involved.

It goes something like this:  There are two major assessment blocks in our school.  The first is testing that federal government mandates and uses to make funding decisions for states and school districts based upon these scores. The second is a voluntary standardized test called the MAP test (Measures of Academic Progress).  These we begin in Kindergarten and the scores from these are used for a wide variety of purposes that affect everything from Needs Based Instruction groupings to retention decisions, and ultimately, classroom instruction planning.   Needless to say, they are a big deal around here.

Because they are standardized, there is much more weight given the these test scores, than say, subject grades on report cards.  These tests are considered very scientific and have a low range of error.  They are considered to be a fairly true measure of a child’ s progress, or lack thereof.

And truly, having this information in my hands is a wonderful gift, in terms of both short-term and long-range planning.  The different components of math and reading are broken down into tight skill areas, so that I can see at a glance if little Johnny struggles with comprehension more than phonetic awareness, for example.  What teacher isn’t glad to have such information?

The part that is stressful for we teachers, is that we are judged as teachers by these scores.  Good teachers produce good scores.  Bad teachers produce bad scores.  Right?  This only makes sense. 

Now, please don’t misunderstand.  I am all about accountability for teachers.  We are employees of the taxpayer, as well as the school district.  We certainly SHOULD be held accountable.  And furthermore, I feel there are a lot of teachers out there that should think long and hard about doing something besides teaching.  Our children deserve hard-working, dedicated professionals.  Not lazy, frustrated, burned-out educators that really don’t much care for children in the first place.  Get out and make room for someone who connects with kids, for goodness sakes!

I once had a teacher tell me outright during a parent/teacher conference that he did not like my son.  Well… what do you say to THAT little bombshell?  I didn’t think too much of him either after that, if you want to know the truth.

So, back to accountability.  I am all for it.  Really.  But let’s analyze standardized tests.  My students take the math and reading tests in two parts.  One week they take the math section and the next week the reading section.  Knowing that these two days of testing will publicly declare whether my students have learned all they should on my watch, is a bit disconcerting.  What if they don’t feel well that day?  What is life is stressful and distracting at home?  What if they have test anxiety and shut down mentally?  What if they just simply do not care?

Yeah… what if??

Obviously, these stresses on my shoulders have been inadvertently transferred to my precious Darlings.  Here’s how I know…

I always try to begin emphasizing the importance of doing our personal best several days before the tests.  I stress taking their time  -- it is not a race.  I also talk about not giving up too easily and just TRYING to think through and carefully answer each and every question.  This all sounds good and fairly benign, does it not?

But I made two glaring blunders.  Two horrible, new teacher mistakes.

1).  I obviously put a little TOO much emphasis on the whole testing thing AND, 2).  I stupidly thought it would be a good idea to have them do a practice test beforehand.  We have done practice tests before and no rocking of the proverbial boat occurred.  This time I chose a different practice test than what we had done before.  Unfortunately for my students, I was not able to preview the test and know exactly what skills they were testing on.  I knew it was in our grade range, so I went with it.  Apparently this bad boy was intended for young Einsteins.  It was HARD! 

About a third of the way through, their little heads began to swivel around in my direction and frantic words were loud-whispered to me, “Mrs. Dahl, this is hard!  Can you help me?”  No, dear.  I can’t.  Just do your best.  This is just a practice, remember.

After a few more minutes, the looks shooting my way were turning angry.  A mob was forming.  Mutiny was imminent.  After ten more minutes, they were simply despondent, completely beaten down with discouragement. 

The scores were abysmal.

I hurried them out of the Chamber of Doom and back to the safety of The Magic Tree House and tried to reassure each one that this had only been for practice and that the “real” test would not be nearly so difficult.  They would be fine.  Take a deep breath, my dears, and relax.  Why… when you take the test next week it will be a breeze!! 

These are the words I spoke with false cheerfulness as I secretly tore a hamstring trying to kick myself in my middle-aged butt. Stupid, old, green horn teacher!  I’m an idiot (no, please don’t come to my defense.  Your pity only makes it worse…)

That was End-of-the-World mistake number #1.

End-of-the-World mistake number #2 was far more serious and the one that leaves me a bit sickened even now as I type this.

We teachers do have the option of having students retake the test if we feel they did not perform on par with their abilities.  It is a bit of a gamble to do so, so we carefully consider this option.  Will the child be disheartened if they are singled out to take it again?  Will they do worse than the first time?  Will their teacher next year suffer the long-range consequences of a child who now has test anxiety due to over testing?  So much to consider…

I chose to have one of my students retake the test.  My reasoning was that this spring assessment was not a fair indicator of true potential.  This student had actually done better on the mid-year test.  I shared this with the student and set up a retake time. 

The student’s mother called me first thing the next morning and shared that the night before had been a night of tears and trauma.  My poor Little Darling had felt dispirited by the whole affair.

I was devastated. 

The very last thing in the entire whole cosmos I want to do is crush the spirit of a child.  First grade is so incredibly formative.  I have written about this many times.  First grade is foundational in their academic lives.  First grade sets the tone for the rest of their schooling.  First grade should be a wondrous journey of falling in love with learning.  First grade should make them want to go to second grade!

I had single handedly gouged a huge hole in this child’s schooling experience.  I hung up the phone and thought miserably, “Vonda, what are DOING??  Take a breath!  It is only a test!”  The worst part is, I had not realized I was transferring those feelings to my students.  I don’t think I realized how stressed over it I really was.  But kids are so intuitive.  They don’t make that stuff up.  I must have been and they must have felt it. 

It’s sort of like at home when you are getting ready for dinner company and you want everything to look great and taste delicious.  And you hope your children will be angels, and you’ve been cleaning for two days straight and want your guest to think your house is always that clean.  Then just before your guests arrive, you look in your children’s faces and see just a touch of nervous fear and you realize that maybe you have been a TAD uptight about everything.  Then you take a deep breath, smile at your babies, apologize for being grumpety (I just made that up and Spell Check is vetoing it).  The doorbell rings, your guests tumble in, and you have a great time and realize it had little to do with a clean house or delicious food.

I walked down to my classroom after The Call and arrived just as students were coming in the door.  I looked into their precious, priceless faces and knew that I had learned a valuable lesson.  It had been hard to hear that mother’s words, but I was glad she had taken the time to share that with me.  I had needed to hear it. 

When all were seated and the day had begun, I quietly got their attention and told them there was something I needed to say.  “Boys and girls, it has come to my attention that maybe our MAP test had some of you upset.  Is that true?”  The face of the student who’s mother had just called swiveled in my direction with a deer-in-the-headlights look.  A solemn head nodded in the affirmative.  I forged ahead.  “Children, I want you to know that while the test is important, it is not worth worrying over.  It is JUST A TEST.  If you do your best and don’t rush through it, you will be fine.”  I had their complete attention and knew by the looks on their faces that these feelings of nervousness had not been confined to one single student.

“I also want to apologize if I made you feel stressed about it.  I do not want any of you to feel that way, ever.  I am proud of each one of you and know you have tried your best.”  Tentative smiles were breaking out and the clouds parted.  I had just delivered my, I’m Sorry For Being Grumpety speech and smiled before welcoming dinner guests.  All was well.  Mom was herself again.  Order was restored and peace and harmony reigned once more.  They just really want their teacher to love and approve of them. 

Of course I do.  They really have no idea how very much.

The beauty of this tale is Mrs. Dahl got a do-over.  We had another test coming the next Wednesday and I determined with every fiber of my free-spirited, quasi-hippie body that I would do things differently. 

I mentioned the upcoming test beforehand, but just barely.  I always encourage them to get a good night of sleep and eat a hearty breakfast the day of the test.  One chuckling mother emailed me to let me know that her son had given her the riot act about needing a big breakfast to ensure testing success.  When asked what kind of breakfast he thought he needed, he rattled off a list akin to the Grand Slam at Denny’s.  And he got it.  And for the record, his score was through the roof. 

I also promised my Sweeties that I would bring Monster Cookies the day of the test.  If you are unfamiliar with this treat, they are cookies with the caloric content of roughly a Big Mac and Super Size fries.  They are baked large, they are delicious, and they are worth every diet-crash-and-burn calorie.  They are also loaded with peanut butter and oats, so I knew they would make a slow-burn brain booster just before testing.

The tests went great.  The kids were happier.  The day was low-key.  The teacher was the picture of cool confidence.  And The Monster (me) gave out cookies instead of ulcers. 

I fervently hope that My Darlings will be forgiving to a certain new teacher and suffer no long-term damage.  They are so dear and bright and tender.  My blunder at their expense will no doubt help future first graders have a better experience at test time. 

I think they’ve earned another round of cookies…

Where the Wild Things Are

“Max’s mother called him, ‘Wild Thing!’  And Max said, ‘I’ll eat you up!’  So he was sent to bed without eating anything.  That very night in Max’s room a forest grew and grew and grew until his ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around.”

There is not a single person on this planet that cannot relate to the above scenario.  Children and parents have stood toe-to-toe since time began.  Children are naughty sometimes.  They just are.  Parents get exasperated.  They just do.  Eventually children are remorseful and parents suffer the nagging guilt of having been too hasty or too harsh or too heavy handed.  My children’s pediatrician in Vermont used to say, “Mother guilt makes the world go ‘round.”  It is entirely true.  I have personally caused the world to spin wildly on its axis a time or two.

I spent entirely too much of my young years being the naughty, obstinate child.  I seem to have a propensity for stumbling into trouble.  I believe it is part and parcel of possessing the soul of an adventurer and the mind of a prankster.  I became quite familiar with the interior of the principal’s office in my elementary years, had some insightful conversations with my middle school administrator, and even visited the Dean of Students a time or two in my college years.  Yes, Max and I would have made great friends.

Last week I read this Maurice Sendak classic to my first graders and watched with delight as it worked its timeless magic in their wondrous minds.  They were enthralled and identified with Max immediately.

“And when he came to the place where the wild things are, they roared their terrible roars, and gnashed their terrible teeth, and rolled their terrible eyes, and showed their terrible claws until Max said, ‘be still!’ and tamed them with the magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once.  And they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all and made him king of all wild things.” 

(I have a son who holds the same magical powers, I am sure.  He always had a way of talking otherwise intelligent children into doing his devious bidding.  Wonder where he got THAT??!!  No names here… OK, it’s Ryan…).

After reading the book aloud this week, my Darlings made Wild Things masks from downloaded templates and oil pastel crayons.  They are stunning.  I laminated them for durability, stapled tongue depressors to them, and set them aside. 

They also chose a page from the book to illustrate and will create a story plot line to hang in the hall this coming week.  We used discarded wallpaper books to make paper collages (thank you, UMary art teacher, Julie Drevlow!), and experimented with watercolor paints for an entirely different art medium experience.

But the best came yesterday…

“And now, ‘cried Max, ‘let the wild rumpus start!’”

After lunch recess, we got through the usual noisy process of rehydrating at the fountain, replaying the best and worst of recess (everyday has its own drama), and settled in for our read aloud story time.  This is a favorite time of day, both theirs and mine.  Nothing can replace hearing good literature read aloud.  To every parent of young children reading this, the greatest literacy gift you can give your child is to read aloud to them every single day.  Choose quality books and make it a daily ritual. 

This day we did things a little differently.  After they had rehashed who the King of the Playground was for the day, I sat them down for one more reading of the book.  When the last word hung in the air, I looked at them mischievously and declared, “Let the wild rumpus start!”  “YAY!!!,” was heard all around.

I handed out the hand colored masks, gave each child a stack of Bugles snacks for claws, and found a good dancin’ song on my itunes list.  Then they danced and “roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes, and showed their terrible claws.”  It was great fun.  For a few moments they were granted permission to be acceptably wild.  I do feel badly for the class just above ours.  We must be a terrible distraction at times.

Too soon the party pooper clock declared that it was time to scuttle off to the daily reading groups spread throughout the building and I was forced to say, “now stop!”  And I sent them off the bed without their supper… (Not true.  They took their claws with them to munch on). 

Why does this tale still captivate children and adult alike?

The joy and privilege of teaching in mid-life is having a beautiful perspective of both today and tomorrow.  The terrible, awful deeds we have done tell deceptive lies in our ear and try to convince us that on some level, the world has now ended and life will never be wonderful and innocent again.  Children struggle to find perspective in the face of trouble and its resulting punishment. 

But age and years of mothering assure me that life will feel more manageable tomorrow and the poor choices they have made today will eventually become an infrequent memory that is no more than an annoying, buzzing insect in our recollections, at best.  You think your best friend hates you today?  Tomorrow you’ll be thick as thieves once again.  Said something stupid?  Tomorrow it’ll be the kid next to you that will be the object of laughter and your faux pas will be forgotten.  My Wild Things, like children everywhere, will have bad days here and there, but most of their sweet childhood will be filled with light, beauty, and wonderment as they feel their way into mature adulthood.

I know this because children are hard-wired to want their parent’s/teacher’s/significant adult’s love and approval.  They will learn their lessons and endure their consequences because in the end, knowing all is well with those they love best trumps all.

“And Max, the king of all wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.  Then all around from far away across the world he smelled good things to eat so he gave up being king of where the wild things are.”

When once they are assured that all is forgiven, then the sun comes out once more and life is good and filled with happiness.  We adults look back on our childhood with something akin to jealousy.  We only see how carefree we were.  No bills to pay, no deadlines, no daily grind pressures.  Just the everyday stuff of watching our bodies grow and change shape, and filling our heads with new information.  But life is NOT easy when you are kid.  It is because of the very reason I previously mentioned.  Kids don’t possess much of a baseline in the perspective department.  Everything feels too big and too overwhelming at times. 

This is why their needs are so basic; food, shelter, education, boundaries, and love.  Above all and over all, unconditional, unwavering love. 

“…Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-bye.  And sailed back over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day and into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him.  And it was still hot.”

Forgiven and loved.  Max in the story and My Darlings in real life.

I love this book because its message needs to be heard by every child. 

You WILL have bad days but you will never cease to be loved.

Let the rumpus begin…

The Aloha Roller Rink and the Wonder Years

As a new teacher, I was unprepared for the boy/girl thing making an appearance in the first grade.  They notice each other at a very young age now.  Maybe they always have.  Maybe the cultural fabric of our society breeds these feelings younger than it used to.  I do not know.  I am ill-equipped to say one way or another.  All I know is, I did not think much of the opposite sex until I was further along in the grades.  You remember cootie spray, right?  I purchased it by the keg when I was in the lower elementary grades.  I did not like boys then.  I liked their lifestyle, to be sure.  They had it made.  They could climb trees and roll around in the mud, and forget to comb their hair, and no one said boo about it.

But I never liked the infernal teasing of the boys I knew.  My mother said it was how boys flirted.  Soooo you’re telling me that boys get you to like them by making you hate them first?  It was this sort of backwards logic that was proof positive to me that boys are as dumb as I thought they were. 

I could avoid them mostly at school and at church.  But there was one place in my routine where it was nearly impossible to do so.  That place was the Aloha Roller Rink on Pattern Drive.  The St. Louis hot-spot for skating fun.

I grew up in a very conservative home and we attended a very conservative church.  Ha!  Did I say, “attend?”  Attend implies that we visited our chosen house of worship occasionally, possible once or even twice a week.  By “attend” I mean, I lived there;  nearly literally.  My church was also my school, and my father was the principal of said school.  So church three times a week and school five days a week.  Oh, and did I mention that our house was on the church/school grounds so I also lived next door to the church/school/home-away-from-home?  Yeah, I was there a LOT.  And loved it. 

Back to the conservative thing…  We had a pretty long list of things we were not allowed to do.  Movies?  Gracious no.  Drinking?  Only if we were comatose and a hobo poured whiskey from a brown paper bag down our unconscious throat.  Cigarettes?  We could feel our feet getting hot from hell's fires.  Dancing?  Don’t even think about it.  If you think we had no fun at all, you are wrong.  We had a blast and didn’t miss whatever it was the rest of society thought we were missing. 

But I must confess, I always thought the dancing thing was a little over the top.  That’s why I lived for the first Monday night of every month when the big, yellow school bus proudly declaring North County Christian School on its side would pull into the church/school parking lot and load up to take us to the Aloha Roller Rink.  Those nights couldn’t arrive soon enough. 

We never thought much about it, but a Hawaiian-themed roller rink in the middle of St. Louis was something of a marketing genius.  It sounded so exotic.  The “theme” décor was only a palm tree painted on the cinder blocks at one end of the rink, and of course, its name.  Otherwise, it was just a plain ‘ol skating rink.  Old, worn out skates, and old worn out employees in an old, worn out building.  But we didn’t notice or care.  We were young bloods ready to impress and wow with our coolness on the floor.  If you could skate forward without leaving half your knees on the cement, then you were well on your way to coolhood.  If you could skate backwards, well then, nothing more needs to be said.

The night of the skate, we carefully chose which bell-bottom jeans to wear and spent extra time on our feathered hair – boys and girls alike.  We all had identical hair then; parted in the middle and feathered.  We were so cool.

That’s when I was older.  When I was still in grade school and was accompanied by my father, I didn’t worry much about wardrobe, hair, teeth, skin, or hygiene in general.  I once went an entire summer without brushing my teeth just to see if I could get away with it.  I did.  Until my next dental check-up, that is, and a whopping seven-cavity report.  “How often do you brush your teeth?” the dentist wanted to know.  Define “often”….

Up until the seventh grade, I was just there for the pure pleasure of skating for a couple of hours, and for the grand finale every night, the Hokey Pokey.  This was ALMOST like dancing, and we got away with it.  We were so devious.  Our parents never suspected a thing.  We reveled in the rebellion.

In those elementary years, boys and girls began to show up on each other’s radar in fits and spurts.  This was always evidenced at the Aloha during the obligatory Couples Skate; an annoying interruption to my evening that had to be endured.  As soon as the Old Guy with the long sideburns and the microphone announced it was time for The Couples Skate, I suddenly had an urgent need to use the ladies restroom.  The timing was uncanny. 

There was only one reason I skeedaddled to the safety of the three-stall harbor.  It ensured that no boys would ask me to skate.  I would emerge on the last note of the cursed event and head straight to concessions.  If any would-be Askers wanted to know where I had been, I would mumble over a mouthful of pink cotton candy that I had, “peen in tha mafroom…” This usually abruptly halted any further inquiry.  I think it was the combination of embarrassment over my locale and watching me talk with my mouth full.

This all changed when I hit junior high.  Oh boy, did it ever. 

Now, instead of avoiding the very manly and squeaky-voiced males of my skating party, I hoped/longed/prayed that someone would invite me to join him on the floor for the mystical, magical Couples Skate.  If you were asked by a boy to skate then three things were certain:  1.  You got to hold a boy’s hand for 3:52 minutes, or however long the song was.  2.  You probably had to wipe sweat off your hand when the skate was over.  3.  You were cool.

However, now there was a new dynamic in play in the fatal minutes between the announcement of the Couples Skate and the beginning of the song.  This was considered the Do-Or-Die Zone.  A boy technically had right up until the first measure or two of the song to screw up his courage to ask.  If you got to the chorus and no asking had been accomplished then a girl knew it probably was not going to happen.  There was just one thing to do to save face.  Head to the bathroom.  The Shunned skated like fury to the Three Stall Safety Zone where we crowded into the small space, along with the younger Boy Avoiders.  It was incredible how all bladders were synced to release simultaneously.  There were times it was nearly hard to breath, it was so packed with the fairer sex. 

When we heard the last strains of the song ending, and the “all clear” was sounded by The Lookout” standing at the door, then we gave our feathered heads one last toss-and-fluff, made sure there was no pink cotton candy stuck in our teeth, and nonchalantly skated back to the floor, like we had been completely unaware that a couples skate had even occurred.  “Oh, that was NOW??”  We skated past the girls wiping sweat off of their palms and shook our heads in derision.  Poor saps.  We were so secretly jealous!

This is where we suburban St. Louis kids learned the ins-and–outs of The Dating Game.  It was a tough proving ground, but we came through stronger, I think, for having survived the brutal boot camp of Love.  I think this is why most St. Louis newlyweds chose Hawaii as a honeymoon destination.  Somehow it made perfect sense.

So as my little charges giggle at one another and make funny faces and tease each other into making one another hate the other until they like the other, I smile and know that these first crushes are merely a test run at the real deal later.  Much later, I hope.  It will require time, maturity, and an eventual hormonal surge.  Oh, and a cinder block building with a tacky painted palm tree at one end. 

Love, Aloha style…

A Perfect Three

In 1992, April 3^rd was supposed to happen on April 5^th.  But April 5^th was too far away and so a decision was made by people who get paid a great deal of money to know such things, that the 5^th was going to have to be moved forward two days. 

No, I have not been experimenting with mushroom varieties.  I am telling you how Cody came to be.  Cody is my third child and the third son in our family.  Today is his 20^th birthday.  I think you should meet him.  He’s pretty wonderful.  (If you are so not into my personal family stuff, then get off at this station and wait for the next train.  No hard feelings.  I’ll see you on some other trip).

The progression of children in a family’s history is an interesting study in group dynamics.  People often comment on how different children from the same family may be, but we rarely comment on the flip side of that coin.  We parents are vastly different from the arrival of the first child to the senior year of the “baby.”  The first child puts you through the fire of untried parenting.  OK, so you can reproduce.  Now what?  The second child makes you feel like a real family.  Now the first child has an ally and playmate.  The third child is the glue that fills in all the holes and edges. 

Cody rounded out our passel of boys and gave everyone someone to coo over, laugh at every silly smile and deed, and just plain be the adored center of attention.  A family of five is pushing the societal expectations of minimally sized families.  Six turned us into our own reality show.    

There was something wonderful and miraculous about watching my sons get to know one another and understanding that they were becoming a cohesive unit that would endure for a lifetime.  Even on the days they fought the hardest and were the most annoyed/angry/hurt, I knew in this mother’s heart of mine, that they were also surpassing the bounds of blood ties and becoming forever friends.  

A house full of boys meant everything turned into a competition, and I mean EVERYTHING.  It also meant sports were a mainstay of every waking thought, wrestling solved everything, and bodily function was the funniest thing on the face of the earth.  If you want clean, dainty gentility, boys will try your patience.  But boys are also FUN.  I love having sons.  I feel so fortunate and blessed.  Even the Sunday at church when they got mad and started wrestling on the floor of the foyer (yes, really...).

Cody quickly became the family comedian.  The first two were plenty funny as well, but Cody had a gift for entertaining.  I vividly remember sitting at the supper table when he was four.  He asked for more spaghetti, but he did it with a dead-on Italian accent.  I just stared at him.  Who does impressions as a preschooler?  We laughed because we were surprised, but also because he was FUNNY.  After that, there was no looking back for him.  He gunned for the laugh every time.  He can imitate just about any accent he hears.  We joke that he’ll end up doing tech support from India.  He's already got the accent.

He also has an uncanny ability to memorize.  I used to watch him watch television.  It was like he was sleeping with his eyes open.  He would stare wide-eyed at the screen, but was motionless.  No laughter, no commentary, no reaction at all.  It was a little creepy, to be honest.  I couldn’t figure this phenomenon out.  Years later it was explained.  One of his siblings asked him once why he was not laughing at a very funny part of a movie.  His short answer was, “I’m recording.”  And he was.  He can watch a movie once, and recite scenes nearly word for word afterward.  It is incredible.

He had an inordinate amount of energy as a child.  I took him in to our pediatrician for his first check-up and laid him on the examination table.  The nurse just stared in fascination.  My two-week-old infant had lifted both his head and his legs clear off the table and had formed a perfect “U.”  Even at such a young age he had an amazing level of energy (and abdominal muscles).

He also possessed very little physical fear.  The more daring the stunt, the more dangerous my warnings, the more he wanted to try whatever it was that he was determined to do. 

We were invited to swim in a neighbor’s pool.  Cody was about six.  I looked away for just a moment (I probably blinked or something), and when I looked back he was lying on the bottom of the pool, completely still.  I jumped in and plucked him from the bottom, set him on the side of the pool, sputtering and coughing and water pouring from every orifice.  When he could catch his breath, he began to laugh and shouted joyfully, “That was fun!”  I nearly threw him back in…

One summer we were painting the siding of our two-story house.  I happened to look out the window one afternoon and saw Cody trying to drag the scaffolding across the yard.  I opened the window and asked him what in the world he was doing.  His reply?  He wanted to get it close enough to the trampoline to jump off of. 

The year he turned six all of that changed.

His natural exuberance and endless activity came to an abrupt halt the summer after kindergarten.  I was watching him swing by his arms between a kitchen countertop and the island one day in June.  He was wearing shorts and I noticed that his left knee was horribly swollen.  I called the doctor immediately.  The doctor’s best advice was that if it didn’t go away or if I noticed it again, bring him in immediately.  A few days later I was standing in the hall outside his bedroom door when he got up in the morning.  I realized he was limping.  His knee was double its normal size, squishy, and hot to the touch.  The doctor did not hesitate.  He wanted to see him as soon as I could get there. 

The doctor minced no words.  “I am looking for one of three things.  I am looking for lime disease, cancer, or rheumatoid arthritis.”  I sat stunned.  I had pictured this moment completely different.  I thought he had bumped his knee or twisted something, or something equally minor.  I did not like any of the options laid out before me.  No, these would not do at all. 

A battery of tests were performed and then we waited.  The doctor called the next day.  “I am about to use a term you are going to get very familiar with and will learn much about.”  I held my breath without being aware I was doing so.  “Cody has Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis.  It is an autoimmune disease and this particular strain attacks his large joints – such as the knees.” 

My mind was racing at Daytona speeds to try to absorb and process this information.  I was tracking with him enough to understand that he did NOT have cancer.  I was nearly weak with relief.  But this other thing.  The arthritis thing… what does it really MEAN?  I tried to ask that very question, badly I am sure.  The good doctor’s patient reply was that nobody could know what it really meant for Cody.  Every victim is different and will travel a path unique to that person. 

I hung up the phone and felt shock and grief wash over me.  The sort that any mother whose child has been diagnosed with a chronic, debilitating illness experiences.  The next weeks were a blur of follow-up doctor visits, nightmarish and painful treatments, and research into just what exactly this all meant for Cody and for our family.  Chronic illness engulfs every family member.  Your life as you knew it suddenly tilts at a bizarre angle, sweeping all members into its yawning chasm. 

It got worse.

Within six months, the disease had overtaken his young body.  He had inflammation in both knees, his ankles, his elbows, his shoulders, and his jaw.  He was in constant pain and nearly immobile.  Mornings were the worst.  I would arise early on school days in order to carry my first grader into the bathroom and a waiting hot tub of soothing water.  Then I would help him dress and we would do twenty minutes of physical therapy just to get his joints loosened up enough to move. 

His days of riding the school bus came to a screeching halt the day he came home and told me that he had had difficulty getting off the steep step of the bus and had fallen into a snow bank where he lay until someone saw him and helped him into the building.

I nodded in silence as I listened to him recount his morning.  Not trusting myself to speak, I went into my bedroom, shut the door, and bawled my eyes out.  It hit me with ferocity.  I had a physically disabled child. 

We soon had a handicap sign hanging from the rear view mirror of the van and I asked his rheumatologist to help me find a wheel chair.  I had ceased to shop at the mall because I always ended up taking little Hannah out of her stroller and carrying her while Cody rode.  He just could not walk long distances and was too big for me to carry.

It was a dark season for Cody and this mother. 

Only those who have been forced to watch a child suffer understand this brand of pain.  We use the word so casually at times.  But suffering that involves a child is the worst form of punishment.  There were days I could not bear it.  He was so small and so incapable of understanding why he hurt all the time.  Rheumatoid Arthritis is more insidious than just joint pain and swelling.  It affects many systems of the body, causing fatigue and a host of other symptoms.  My active, bouncing-off-every-wall son now lay listless on the sofa even on beautiful days.  He had no energy and could barely move. 

I would love to tell you that he outgrew JRA, as many children do.  He did not and will not, or he would have by now.  He takes a low-dose chemotherapy drug weekly to keep his symptoms at bay.  The side effects can be harsh, but it allows him to live a “normal” life.  This will be his reality for the rest of his life.  Joint replacement will be his next step as the disease takes its toll.

But disease does not define Cody.  He rarely gives it a thought.  When he calls home from college and I ask about it, his answers are almost non-existent.  It is an annoyance to him; nothing more.  He refuses to play the sympathy card.  I doubt his friends even know he has it.  He is brave and he is my hero.

He is now a college sophomore, attending school on a staggeringly large academic scholarship.  He is studying computer science and has found his niche, I believe.  He is polite and respectful.  He is fun.  He is a huge credit to his parents, who can take zero credit for all the above gloatings.

I love Cody for many reasons.  All the usual reasons a mother loves any of her children.  But there is something truly unique about my third-born.  He is fun and funny and smart as a whip.  He is all those things and more.  But I think the reason he so intrigues me is that he is a vast, untapped potential.  Cody has greatness written all over him.  Those in his orbit see it and wonder silently when and where he will find it.  He WILL find it.  Of this I am sure.

On this, your twentieth birthday, my beloved son, I stand silently as the edge of your universe and watch with awe as you find your way in this world and you thrill in the joy of spreading your young adult wings.  You love the wind in your face and the earth far below.  I can see that plainly.  I rejoice with you.  I will not try to hold you close to earth or me.  For I know, as my mother did before me, that you will return to earth and to me when the time is right.  You will find that safe harbor that is home, just as your older siblings have.  Until then, this is your time.  Embrace it!  You will never again have this sort of freedom from responsibility.  Live life to the fullest and fill your life with golden memories and forever friendships.

Happy birthday, Cody.  I could not love you more.