What's in a Name?

I was born a Jennie.  Well, technically a Jennifer.  For my earliest of years that "ie" followed me around everywhere in a sea of "Jenny's."  I was a child of the 80's and it seemed as though I was one among hundreds with the same name.  Yet my mother used the more traditional shortened spelling over the modern one to help me stand out.  Then I turned ten.  And at all of ten years of age, I decided to change my name.  I wanted to be one of the cool kids.  One of those girls who wore NKOTB t shirts knotted at their hip over neon leggings with high tops in a rainbow of colors.  A girl who rocked the side pony and had a cool denim purse.  So I dropped the 'ie' and went with the hip 'y'.  All those yellow number 2 pencils my mother so carefully lettered with my name got scratched clean by me and re-labeled.  Through those awkward middle school years, stretching into high school and early into college I stuck with the jaunty 'y' like it was my talisman against the cliques that shunned me.

But at 20 I was an adult now.  I thought my name sounded entirely too childish.  Dropping the end and going with a simple "Jen" made it somehow grown-up cool.  My college friends all called me Jen.  It was a short and easy name to use.  Entering the world of work, my colleagues used it.  After I married, my name became one word "Jenclark" instead of the short Jen.  I felt like it embodied who I am. 

Yet lately I've noticed something.  My siblings still call me the old Jennie.  So do my parents.  And my uncles and aunts.  Childhood friends use it.  The strangest thing is though, my husband, stepdaughter, brothers-in-law, even my niece and nephews call me Jennie.  Maybe all those years ago my mom just knew that suited me best.  A sweet, old-fashioned, not formal at all name for a girl who is fun, nostalgic, not cool at all, kind of dorky, and embraces her lack of status.  So I'm sticking with it.  Not that I want to change anything, just keep things the way they are...because for those who know me best, I will be able to tell just by the way you answer when I pick up the phone. 

And yes, I can totally hear the "ie" just like Anne of Green Gables could hear the "e" at the end of her name.

When You are Five

You sing out loud without worrying what other people will think.

You dance to your song, not considering if your moves are cool.

You give food an actual thumbs-down when you put it in your mouth and it tastes bad.

You tell someone if you like them (or not).

You love with your whole heart.

You want to learn all the things.

When you are five you filter nothing and take in everything.

Last night our son was at swimming lessons.  He is re-taking the same level again.  It is clear he has the same fear of water I had at his age.  I am not too concerned about this, as once I got over the fear I became a fish and would swim any time I encountered so much as a puddle.  The instructor took the students into the deep end and onto the short dive board.  When it came to his turn he crouched down on the end and it was clear he didn't want to jump in.  She seems to be no-nonsense, and I could tell she was commanding him to get in.  Once he did, and bobbed to the surface (with the help of a noodle tied to his waist) he was over the moon.  He climbed the ladder, skipped to the back of the line, was singing loudly, and danced while punching at the sky.  Oblivious to the looks other kids were giving him.  Not caring what anyone thought.  He conquered a fear.  He was celebrating.  His next jump was a jump.  An arms in the air, catapulting himself upwards off the board with all his might, splashing in fine five-year-old boy form, jump. 

When I witnessed this, I thought we could all learn a little from five year-olds.  They are uninhibited still.  They revel in their emotions.  Free of the temper tantrums of toddlerhood, yet allow themselves to fully immerse in joy and sorrow.  Willing to sing out loud whatever is in their head.  Willing to dance if so moved.  Willing to celebrate accomplishments with abandon.  When do we lose this? I think I am going to try to take some of it back.  Dance some more.  Sing even if I am off key.  And I won't worry (or at least try not to) who thinks I've lost my mind.  Because after all, why shouldn't I celebrate the best moments in life with gusto?

Of Teaching and Learning

Like many of you, I've been glued to my social media outlet of choice on and off since Friday, staring at the television news, and trying to tear myself away from the side of my five year-old son.  I've been trying to rationalize away my fears, to explain what may have gone so horrifically wrong in the mind of a young man, and to have some comprehension.  I've thought about what I would write here.  I've thought about many different things, but quite simply I don't want this space to be about what happened in Connecticut, because I am not part of the story.  It wouldn't be right for me to write about people I do not know, and experience I have not had, when I am not a trained journalist writing for assignment.

Then this morning we had on our usual CBS Sunday Morning in the background and I heard a story about a public school music teacher and a principal harpist in The Atlanta Symphony Orchestra who had formed a group for youth-The Urban Harp Youth Ensemble.  I listened to the story as I dressed for the day, and it got the wheels in my head turning.  Teachers like Roselyn Lewis changed my life.  From kindergarten through junior high school I was a shy and, okay I'll admit it, dorky kid.  I had a few friends, but never was a social butterfly.  I envied those girls.  The ones who had perfectly matched outfits.  The ones who played some mysterious game of tag by the fire escape on the playground.  The ones who sat with the boys on the junior high school bus.  The ones who got to wear cheerleading sweaters to school on game days.  I was always buried in a book, giant glasses slipping down my nose, hair never quite right, re-wearing the same quasi-cool sweater to school.  Then I discovered band.  I started by playing the flute.  Worked my way through the level books early on.  By high school I was fully-immersed in the world of band nerds.  If my entire day could've been spent in that band room, which occupied its own floor in my first high school, I would have been thrilled.  These were my people.  Music was my language.  I was finally in a place where I felt appreciated. Loved.  Accepted.

During my sophomore year of high school my dad started working at a high school just for kids like me.  A music & performing arts magnet school.  He tried to get me to go in 10th grade,  but I wouldn't budge.  Don't ask me why, but one day the bug bit, and I found myself auditioning for a spot.  Little did I know it would be the single most important decision I have made on the fly.  I may have started there with the intention of becoming a concert flutist, but I left having discovered my voice.

My choir director Basil Kochan, my band director Steve Hadgis, my English teacher Mary Styslinger, and many others were beacons of light for a young, awkward girl.  I hadn't ever sung a note outside my bedroom before Mr. Kochan.  I hadn't ever played a solo on my flute before Mr. Hadgis.  I hadn't ever written my own words for publication before Ms. Styslinger.  Suddenly I blossomed.  They provided me the confidence I needed to move forward in life.

There are teachers out there in this world that do the very same thing every day.  Teachers, principals, counselors, coaches, and many others who work with our young people that inspire greatness in many ways.  These people are willing to do whatever it takes to help them on the path to their own destiny.  Even if it means sacrificing their own.  Tomorrow I will head back to my office in a school building.  I will not be fearful.  I will love my students even more than I did last week, or the week before.  I am one of many surrogate caretakers they have while they are in our presence.  Just as my son will enter his classroom tomorrow and his teachers will care for him in the same way.  We will carry on.  We will continue to work to build a safer country for our children.  It is what must happen to honor those who have gone before.

Always a Comet

Yesterday evening I checked my Facebook feed randomly as we drove home and saw the news that a teacher I had, who later became a co-worker of mine, suddenly passed away. I sat in stunned silence for a moment, unsure if it was even true. The more posts I saw, the more real it became. Yet Dave McCormick has a personality that is larger than life. It is difficult to fathom someone who is filled with so much life is simply not here.

I met Dave in the fall of 1995 as a high school junior; then Mr. McCormick to me. I was new to Coventry High School. Choosing to leave behind the school district where I had been since kindergarten to attend CHS for a music program. I rode to school each morning with my dad, one of the guidance counselors (I know, talk about following in footsteps...). Because dad went in early (we left the house at 4:30am, yikes!) I was always there before all the other students. My hangout of preference was the cafeteria. Our high school was converted from a former entertainment complex, and our cafeteria was the old restaurant. We had booths for tables. It was fabulous. My neighbor (who had also chosen to transfer districts) and I would sit there alone for over an hour, doing our hair, makeup, eating breakfast treats from the cooks, and chatting with Mr. McCormick-the first teacher to arrive most every day. He was hysterical. Told us jokes. Was loud. Called me Wronkie-which stuck. He made us feel part of the school culture. We were two new kids that weren't quite sure where we fit in at the beginning. But that is how he was with every student at CHS-made sure they belonged.

Next school year in Senior Government, I witnessed the same thing in action. My Government class fell during the final block of the day for me. I was usually droopy-eyed, but you couldn't doze off in Mr. McCormick's class. Nope. He was every bit a big personality in front of his classroom as he was out of it. He would teach us about laws and governing through stories. And they stuck. I still remember an example about why school property is searchable-having something to do with a student dropping cherry bombs down a toilet and causing horrific damage. We were in tears as he told us about the "victim" of the story. And he never told a story sitting down. More like standing on his table.

Years later I accepted a teaching position right out of college in the English department at CHS. I would be teaching Senior English, Speech, and Yearbook. When I showed up that summer to begin to get my classroom and office ready, who was there to greet me but Dave? A giant bear hug and exuberant welcome. Watching him from my new perspective it was clear just how important he was to the student body. The amazing pep rallies he ran that included everyone. The personality that dominated our wing as students passed by. The energy he brought to all the after school events. He promoted student activities tirelessly-from athletics, student council, to music and drama. If it was happening in the school, Dave was there.

I left CHS after one school year to move across the state for a new teaching position and to begin graduate school. Eventually I got married, finished graduate school, became a school counselor, and have put down roots here. But a very large part of me will always be a Coventry Comet. Yes, I attended a different school district for 11 years. Yet the two years I spent at Coventry changed me in profound ways. When I think about high school I always call to mind the hallways at the North Campus. The friends I have kept in touch with from high school are the ones I made sitting in the booths of our cafeteria or in the back hallways of the music wing. Dave McCormick is an inseparable part of those memories. Farewell teacher, mentor, friend. You shall be among the stars now-so fitting for a Comet.

For those wanting information, here is a link to the obituary.

 

Without Teachers...

...where would I be?

I wouldn't have discovered how to make butter out of heavy cream and a marble inside of a plastic tub. Shake, shake, shake...pass to a classmate, cheer them on, poof! Butter! Spread on some saltine crackers and enjoy. Teamwork makes the best treats. Thank you Mrs. Billings.

I wouldn't have learned the power of friendship between a spider and a runty pig.  Or how the smallest voice could be the most powerful in a sea of chocolate. From Charlotte's Web to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, chapter books became my friends thanks to Mrs. Krusinski.

While I may be a bookworm at heart, a simple "I believe in you" powered me through long division. Math became my friend (for a while) and a teacher that frightened me at the beginning of the year was now my super hero. Mrs. Kerby, you made me feel I could accomplish anything.

At the end of a hallway was tucked a room-dusty, crowded, and noisy.  It was a sanctuary for middle school students like me who didn't seem to fit anywhere else.  With our instrument cases and giant music folders, Mrs. Grom and Mr. Santelli coaxed us from rocky scales in sixth grade to eighth grade band where we were convinced we were master musicians. A gift of music is one that stays forever.

She was the "Ms." in the sea of "Mrs."  She made us read short stories filled with gore and horror.  We tackled American poets and playwrights with appetites fit for college lit classes.  We wrote analysis essays and sat wherever we pleased.  We felt respected and rasied our own standards. I've never worked harder for a teacher-in high school or college.  Mary Styslinger (now Dr. Styslinger), you showed me what it meant to be a powerful, strong, and amazing English teacher. You were my model when I ventured into my first classroom.  You fanned my own flames.

I never had a voice. Suddenly I was a soprano.  I was shy.  Now I had a solo.  I trembled like a leaf.  Now someone belived in my talents.  I lacked confidence.  I now belonged.  We sang in Latin.  We swayed to American Gospel.  We improved to Jazz.  We sang in the dark while standing on our chairs-to be "in" the song.  Mr. Kochan, you gave me a voice.  You gave me the gift of my song. 

Without the teachers I have named, I would not be the woman I am today.  The woman who loves discovering new foods.  The woman who reads voraciously.  The woman who has confidence in herself.  The woman who can play the flute still and loves to sit and listen to a symphony orchestra, high school band, or jazz combo.  The woman who taught High School English, will analyize literature, and loves to edit essays.  The woman who sings in the car, even with the top down, because she knows she has the chops.  My teachers all gave me gifts I am forever changed by.  Today is Teacher Appreciation Day, and while I am always thankful for what they have all done for me-I am taking a moment today to pause and give them their time in the sun.  Thank a teacher today-thank them for what they have done for you.  Thank them for what they have done for your child.  Or just thank one for what they do for any child.  Just thank a teacher and make their day a little sunnier. 

It Wiggles!

This is what we heard exclaimed from the backseat of the car on our way to shopping on Saturday. 

"It wiggles!"  With his fingers jammed into his mouth.

"My toof! It is loose!"

I was not ready for this.  I mean, the dentist said a few weeks ago he had moderately loose teeth on the bottom.  Ones that may (or may not) be out by the end of summer.  You know, right before kindergarten starts.  But that was months away.  Ages. 

Not now. 

I glanced back.  Fully prepared for his little sausage fingers to show me a "toof" that barely budged under their force.  But no.  This sucker was a dangler.  Shoved forward in that grotesque way that teeth do when they are ready to come loose from a child's mouth.  This one wasn't even the tooth that had shown signs of wiggle.  How could that be?!

He couldn't wait to get into the store.  Bolting for the first mirrored pillar, he stared, open mouthed, wiggling it with his tongue and trying not to grin.  Also, trying to talk at the same time.  Pulling him away was more than difficult. 

By the time the two of us parted from my husband and headed for Gap Kids, he was pausing at every mirrored surface in the mall.  Checking to see the progress of the wiggler.  Needless to say, our progress was a bit slow.  I kept telling him to be careful, he didn't want to lose it here and miss out on the tooth fairy getting it. 

I swear, he is on to us.

48 hours later and the "toof" is still there.  Dangling by a thread.  I cannot stand to look at it.  The whole process of losing teeth just grosses me out.  Of course, now that he knows this, he misses no opportunities to show me the progress.  I am certain before we get to our family photo shoot on Sunday, he will have a gap on his lower jaw to show with pride.  Part of me grins to think of it.  Part of me is wistful.  Once the baby teeth are gone, he loses that "littleness" forever. 

Sigh.  This mothering business is nothing but heartbreak and falling in love all over again. 

For now, I'll be taking suggestions on tooth fairy amounts.  Last I checked, it was less than a dollar.  But that was in the 80's.  I'm sure inflation has upped her amount!  And we will need the skinny soon...

No One Parks Blanche Under the Porch...

It was hot out.  We had every window down in that black Camaro, t-tops off, radio blasting Billie Jean.  I was barely tall enough for my blonde pig-tails to drift out the side of the car as we whipped around the corners.  The red leather seats were sticking to my legs just past my shorts and matched perfectly the polish on my toes.  It was a Saturday with Grandma and all was right with the world.

"I have a convertible you know."

Now, even at seven I was able to discern between truth and story-telling in my family.  It was a skill you needed to survive family holidays, Sunday dinners, or even simple phone calls from a relative.  So my response came as no surprise.

"Yeah, right. I've seen your garage. You have an Olds and this car Grandma. And you can't hide another one anywhere because you can only fit one car in your garage. So there."

"You are wrong girlie.  I have one. You'll see."

"Prove it then. I want to see it when we get to your house."

She thought for a minute. Clearly on how to extend her story to make it more believable I supposed. I twirled my hair around my fingers, tilting back into the summer sunshine.
"I store it under the front porch.  There is a secret door to get it out. I never drive it because it is old and I don't want to ruin it." 

So my seven year-old brain mulled this over. Her porch was elevated.  It did have space under it we couldn't get to.  And it did jut fairly far off the front of the house. Hmmmmmmm...

"What color is it?"

"Well, it is, um, green.  The car is green!"

"Sure. And I want to see it when we get to your house."

After several more minutes of bantering and giggling on my part telling her there was no way she had this supposed convertible, we pulled into the driveway.  Both of our jaws hit the red carpeted floor.  There, parked outside of the one-car garage was a little forest green MG convertible with the top down.  She slowed the Camaro to a stop and we just stared, wordlessly, the only sound was our breathing. 

"NO WAAAAAAAY!!!!"

What had happened was a friend of my grandpa's stopped by.  They hadn't seen him in years-at least 10.  He had just restored the MG and was out driving around on a perfect summer weekend in Ohio.  She truly had no idea this one would be there when we arrived.  That drive around the block of their Firestone Park house was one of the best of my young life.  We joked about her hidden garage right up until the last day I saw her before she passed away.  And we always giggled to tears over it.

Fast forward twenty-six years. I swore I would drive my Subaru Forester, Rosie, to her grave.  But while at the Nissan dealership I spotted a lovely Murano Cabriolet.  Blanche wormed her way into my heart.  By the time I had done the test drive I was smitten. Head-over-heels in love.  She is a rosy-coppery brown.  Her seats are buttery leather.  And as far as convertibles go, she fits our family with room to spare, has a trunk that will carry our luggage to the beach, promises to drive me through the Ohio winters with her all-wheel-drive, and sits up high as my Rosie did.  Blanche is my perfect car. 

We brought her home on St. Patrick's Day-and for Ohio, it was a week of record warmth.  Normally, it wouldn't be until May that you could drop her top.  Yet I spent a week with her rag top back and the wind blowing through our hair.  Someday I'll share the story with my son, of my Grandma's green convertible.  For now though, he is crushing on the very real one parked in our garage.  And she is here to stay.



Meet Blanche, our sassy new addition!



Playing Pretend

Who remembers this VW commercial?  The boy who believes he is Darth Vader completely? And to keep his imagination going, dad "helps" the fantasy along a little?  I love this commercial to pieces because I loved to dress up, play pretend, go places in my imagination that were not possible as a child living in a Midwestern suburb in the 1980's.  Given a golden sunny afternoon, I would don the first long and flowing skirt I could find, a straw hat, throw my hair into a bun, and become my own version of a pioneer blazing a trail from Ohio to the frontier.  Or I would be an immigrant coming to the New Country for the first time.  Or simply living in a log cabin in "olden days" as I liked to call them.  Sometimes I'd steal away to one of the empty lots in our neighborhood where there was a flatbed trailer and imagine I lived near the seashore and it was my fishing vessel.  Creeks and ponds were my friends.  Woods were best pals with me.  And if the weather did not cooperate, to the basement I went.  I had all the proper tools as well-slates, a slate pencil, a Goody Reader, a rag doll, reproduction dollar bills, even pretend homemade soap (that is another post entirely!).  With parents who found historical sites to be good vacation side trips, I had gift shops at my disposal for "artifacts."  And bookshelves filled with Laura Ingalls Wilder, American Girl (Kirsten, thank you very much), a series about a pioneering family from Ohio that headed to Oregon, and a few child picture books about Colonial Williamsburg and Sturbridge Village, I felt I was the resident expert on historical accuracy. 

While my son does not hold the same fascination for pioneering life that I once did, I see the same spark of imagination growing in him.  Last night I snuck down to stand outside of his playroom to spy.  In place of my world of rag dolls and slate pencils he has a world filled with spies and superheroes.  I had sewing and cooking.  He has blast-offs and flight paths.  The older I got, the less magical the world of imagination became.  But watching him so immersed in his world is every bit as magical.  Whatever it takes to keep the magic alive for our little man, I am all in.

The bullied all grown up

You read that right...bullied.  As in the victim.  Or the powerless.  Or the one who is the butt of the joke.  However you look at it, the person who is picked on, is the bullied.  And at one time, that was me.  Last night's episode of The Big Bang Theory (sidenote: a fantastically funny show, if you haven't watched it) hit home for me.  It spoke to any of us who had been on the receiving end of a bully's wrath.  We all would like to stand up to them now that we're all grown up, have recognized our own inner strength, and know that what the bully did or said was wrong. 

As a grown woman in her 30's, I see all too often the havoc bullying can play on the lives of kids.  Of course, I'm a school counselor so I get to work in those trenches on a very regular basis.  Yet, I think that many times the people who have done the bullying don't even realize it hurts.  To them it is just fun.  Playing around.  I would be willing to bet that the girl who called me "fat ankles" from fourth grade until she moved after eighth grade doesn't even remember doing it.  Or if she does, it was a harmless nickname that made her laugh.  The boy who teased me endlessly in freshman English class about my boyfriend and what we did (or didn't do) and made all the girls around us laugh at me-he probably does not even remember doing this at all.  But I remember the shame and embarrassment I felt every day in that front right seat.  The boys who threw coins at me on the playground in junior high school because I broke up with their friend.  The mean girls who made mean comments to me about my clothes and makeup.  Oh, I remember them all.  But they probably don't even think about them now.  Each day one of my students sits in my office in tears, I am reminded of those times.  How much it hurt.  How I wished to be prettier, more popular, more liked, happier.  Why do we allow this to continue?

The best thing I ever did was to leave the school I had attended since kindergarten and start new in 11th grade.  I started fresh, made new friends, and found that there were places where I would be accepted.  I also began to realize that I wasn't some hideously ugly person, but a beautiful young woman.  Now I look back on photographs of my early adolescence and want to tell that girl how lovely she was then, and let her know what the kids at school are saying is simply untrue.  I cannot un-do what the mean girls, the taunting boys did to me then, but I can speak out about it now.  I can stand up for the students in my own school who feel powerless.  I ask you to do the same.  As adults, treat each other with kindness and respect.  Model good behavior for our children.  And when you know bullying behavior is happening, don't stand by and wait for it to stop.  Intervene.  You never know what a difference you will make for the bullied child. 

Why I hate cookies...

Oh Christmas season, you come to me laden with cheer, tinsel, twinkle lights, and a healthy dose of guilt.  Why, oh why, must you bring that last piece?  I mean, I have several strikes against me in the guilt arena already...I'm a mom (strike one-you can't ever live up to the expectations of your child) I was raised in a Catholic household (strike two-oh the everlasting guilt laid on thick by the Catholic church) and I am a generally anxious people-pleaser (strike three-always worrying if everything is okay).  See? I don't need the holidays to make it worse!

So when Christmas rolls around, I do my best to minimize it.  I have my decorating down to a science.  I stay home on black Friday and get everything done on that day.  Bam. It is Christmas. I menu plan for each event we host way in advance and do plenty of shopping to make sure we have what we need and then some.  We like a well-fed and watered crowd.  I shop online so I don't have to spend more time than needed away from my little family during the hectic holiday time.  Yet somehow the evil elf guilt creeps up on me and sits on my shoulder.  Today he (yes, I have decided it is a boy) is hanging around because I totally forgot about St. Nick's Day.  Last night our son should have put his shoe out for St. Nick to leave him some treats.  But I didn't have treats for St. Nick to leave.  So I forgot.  And elfin guilt cackled at me.  Grrrrrr. 

Then there is the whole baking with my boy complex I have.  I adore to bake.  Love it.  Cakes, pastries, pies, custards.  Oh I can bake you a layer cake that will make your tongue slap your brains out.  And my son loves to help now that he is getting to be big enough.  I'm teaching him that you have to put the flour into your measuring cup with a spoon and heap it then level it with a knife-not scoop it in and compact it.  Put ingredients away as you are done using them to make clean-up go faster.  How to alternate your wet and dry ingredients when making a cake so it comes out perfectly.  He is a quick study and loves to help. 

However...

I despise baking cookies.  Despise it I say.  And to make matters worse, I have a son who adores eating them.  I think my hatred stems from all the scooping, shaping, trays, racks, crumbs...the mess just seems to morph and grow.  It is so irritating.  My mom was (is) a wonderful cookie baker.  When December rolled around she baked and baked and baked until the house was filled with cookies of every shape and size.  We had cut-outs, rolled cookies, scooped cookies, shaped cookies.  Cookies with fruit, chocolate, sugar, candy.  I loved baking with her.  My poor son won't have those memories at holiday time because I simply cannot bring myself to stand in our kitchen and do it.  One batch of peanut butter kisses is all I'm good for.  What mom hates baking cookies? My elfin guilt cackles at me whenever a cookie special pops up on the Food Network.  I cringe in horror. 

Yet my son will have other memories I tell myself.  We make homemade marshmallows (so easy-peasy, so yummy) for favor bags at our family holiday gatherings and for our Christmas Eve traditional homemade hot cocoa.  He loves to eat the fluff off the whisk.  We tell the family story of our Christmas tree.  We go to a tiny town on Christmas Eve and walk the streets lit only by luminaries.  We may not bake together at Christmas, but we have our own traditions he will remember.  So be gone elfin guilt.  I may not be a perfect mom, but I am his perfect mom.  And these Christmases will be his perfect childhood ones. 

Things Overheard Between Two Kids in My Car...

Jack isn't an only child, but because his sister is 18 years older than him, moved to Virginia when he was only six months old, and continues to live there to this day, he hasn't had the luxury/pain of living with another human being his own age.  It didn't dawn on me until this morning, that he really hasn't ever ridden in our car with anyone under the age of 18.  Ever.  The only conversation he has in our car is adult in nature.  So today, when we picked up a family friend of ours who was in his pre-school class, to take to Safety Town, it was as though the heavens opened up and granted him the wish of his dreams....a sibling his own age to be in cahoots with.  It is a miracle I didn't drive off the road, so hysterical was their talk.


Here is a sampling for you to enjoy...


Jack:  "Look!  A Pond!"
C:  "No.  That's a river"
Me: (to myself) It is a borrow pit...skinny, long, I can see both points since she can't see both ends.  I'm staying out of this.
Jack: "No! Pond!"
C: "No!! River!!"
Jack: irritated "Nooooo! Pooond!"
C: It's a river pond."
Jack:"Hmmmmm. Okay."


Both of their fathers work in the same school district.  One is a principal, one another form of administrator.    That should be enough background for this exchange...


C:"My daddy is a princ-a-pal.  But Jack, your daddy is in charge because my daddy is sick."
J:"Huh? Your daddy isn't sick. He's fine."
C:"No, he isn't sick. But he's sick, so your daddy is in charge."
J:"My daddy works at (school)"
C:"So does my daddy!"
J:"Nu-uh. He can't.  My daddy does!"
C:"He does so! And he's sick, so your daddy is the princ-a-pal."
Me: (sensing this is careening into a fight in my car) "They both work in the same school, but C, your daddy is the principal, and Jack, your daddy is the administrator.  C, your daddy isn't sick today, right?"
C:"No."
Me:"But if he was, would Jack's daddy help."
C:"Ugh. That is what I said."
Jack & Me:"Oh."


Later this afternoon...stay at home moms, if you wonder what your children say about you, be afraid, be very afraid.  But working mom's kids will stick up for you, so all is well!


C: "My mom doesn't do work.  Only my dad does work."
J:"Your mom DOES work."
C:"Nope. Just stays home with my baby brother."
J:"That's work!"


And there is where I promptly began to laugh so hard I nearly peed myself on the back porch.  The best part is nowhere in their conversations did Safety Town come up.  Unless prompted.  They were in their own 4-5 year-old worlds.  I loved it.  Now my boy is sound asleep on his bed, wrapped in dingy blankie, sunburned cheeks and strawberry blond sweaty hair.  These are the best days ever.

Kids at the Bus Stop

Driving to work today, I saw a large group of kids standing waiting for their school bus and was thrown back many years (no, I won't say exactly how many) to my own childhood days of standing at the corner of Loyal Oak & Silverdale with the neighborhood gang waiting for the school bus to pick us up.  From those balmy first days of school, to the slushy and dark winter mornings, to the days in spring when it seemed that every bird in the world was singing, those days are steeped in memories. Watching those kids chase each other around as I whizzed past I suddenly was reminded of the game we invented to pass the time waiting for the bus.

Blacktop.

I can't say exactly what grade I was in when we invented the game.  Nor can I tell you who started it exactly.  There were at least 10 kids at our stop on any given morning, so possibilities are endless.  At its most pure, it was tag.  One person was "it."  You had to make it from my parent's mailbox to the street sign on Silverdale while running on the "blacktop" without getting tagged by the kid who was "it."  If you set foot in the grass you were automatically the new it kid.  We loved this game.  We would get to the bus stop extra-early just to play it some more.  Kids from the stop down on the other end of our neighborhood would come up to play.  Blacktop was king.

The funny thing was, whenever we tried to play it in the afternoon or on a summer day, it wasn't fun at all.  It lost all appeal.  Sure, we played other games...kick the can, freeze tag, flashlight tag, hide & seek...but Blacktop was only for those misty school mornings when our bookbags were stacked at the base of the stop sign and we were freshly scrubbed for school.  Maybe someday I'll go back and play...or just remember all the fun we used to have standing down there all those years ago.