Hitting the Triangle at the Right Time

I'm in the dining room, the warmest room in the house, back on Blogger, tapping the keys, attempting to hit something, anything (maybe it's the coffee pot—which I've already too often hit—or, maybe it's the pavement that beckons me, walk! or, it might be—or should be—the books, or maybe it's my damn forehead) at the right moment. Smack. Harder. Smack. As it turns out, I hit my forehead more than anything else. And it hurts. 

This snippet, from a paper cutout taped to a black and white photo found on Bennington alum Mary Ruefle's website, was this morning's flash moment:

Mine is like the role of a triangle player in an orchestra. 
Every once in a while, I have to hit the triangle at the right time. 

British musician/producer/composer Nitin Sawhney's answer to How does the orchestra's triangle player earn a living? (From The Guardian):

No one in an orchestra is paid by how many notes they play. They're paid, and rightly so, for the amount of time they spend in rehearsal and on stage. You might think a triangle player's job was pretty easy compared to, say, a first violin, but just think of counting all those bars' rest and what happens if you come in wrong.

Sometimes, I experience extended moments wherein the weight of time flattens me. The brows are thinning, people! I don't want to come in all wrong, I haven't the time! Jesus, how long do I have to wait before hitting it? And can you imagine if a writer were paid for the number of hours she put in sitting at her desk? Rehearsing? Waiting? Smacking her head with the palm of her hand. Repeatedly. Rehearsing some more. Waiting, waiting, waiting. To hit it. Smack, smack, smack. It might actually be worth all those hours of self-flagellation.

I'm going for a walk...



I'm back. Wait. Wait. Waiting... Rehearsing... smack.

- - - - - - - - - - - 

I'm going to pick up the kids at school...



I'm back. Wait. Wait. Waiting... Rehearsing... smack.

On Bennington:

Here's the best thing about a writing workshop: You cannot escape from what you've failed to include. There's an (rhetorical) inquisition: Why has the shell hardened? Are you rich? You have kids(!)? Is it dead or gone? Are you ok? Are you wearing snowshoes to write? 

Mute answers: I'm not sure (maybe I used the wrong adjective—or the wrong WIP altogether). Hell, no. Yes. Both. Yes. Hahaha... um, bad metaphor. Really bad metaphor.

Writers are reading between the lines. They are scrutinizing the subtext. This is good, yes, but I'm thinking, They are all so much smarter than me. How did I get here? Perhaps I hit the send button, with my writing samples attached, at the right time. Yes, that was a triangle at-the-right-time moment!

My two essays were workshopped on the last day of the ten-day literary vortex that was my first residency at Bennington. Pretty easy compared to, say, a first violin. From there, I lunched and vortexualized with my new writerly vortexees (and, boy, do you ever bond quickly with writerly vortexees), and then set out (a little weepy) for my three plus hour drive back home. Counting all those bars' rest. Lulu kept me company on the phone for the last half hour stretch through Rhode Island, right to my front door. What happens if you come in wrong? There, she waited for me with a great big zealous embrace. 

I waited a long time for that hug.

(Lulu knows precisely how to come in right.)

Happy, happy I was to be back home with the orchestra. Waiting, rehearsing, even smacking the head. You see, what I've discovered is that, as impatient as I am, I can wait. And don't I enjoy being a triangle player. 

With(in) Time

I know I haven't made myself present in the blogging world lately. I've been too present elsewhere, though I'm not certain one can be too present. In my case, being too present means I'm giving attention where attention is due, without the usual distractibility suffered by those of us with ADHD. Ah, if I could only manage the same with my writing.

The past seven days or so, I've been helping the kids stay focused on their studies. Not studying with them (except for grammar with Lulu), but wrangling them into study mode. Semester exams began last Friday and ended at 11:20 this morning. As did the last day of school. Thus, begins summer.

Another milestone, too: Lulu turned thirteen this past Sunday. We are now a true teen household. It's becoming increasingly more difficult for me to remember what life was like before the teen years. Childhood and the peri-teen years. (And for the girl, the peri-peri-teens. An agonizingly extended period.) I genuinely welcomed my children's growing independence. Perhaps my failure to summon certain stages of their development stems from an established management strategy; a coping, or defense, mechanism—a survival tactic—the subconscious suppression, or repression, of those infant and toddler days.

There was a stretch of time, six years to be exact, after an ambivalent move to the burbs, when the kids were very small and when my husband traveled nearly every week, a time when this now thirteen-year-old sprite never slept and her older brother, the Nocturnal Knight, never stopped, when I was working full-time, three days in the office, two at home, a time of overwhelming single-mother type stress, when I felt desperate for help. And for sleep. Though I never would have admitted as much then. I barely remember that stretch now. This too shall pass was my mantra. And it did. Pass.

Last night I watched the now 6' 2" Max lift himself from his comfy, curled position on the couch and stride over to the kitchen with a very man-like gait. Shoulders broad, head up, confident, but still rail-thin. When did this happen? This man thing? He won't be fifteen for ten days.

*   *   *

On the eve of her thirteenth birthday, Lu says, Ma, you know I'm happy you're an older mother. I think older mother's are wiser. They don't spoil their kids as much.

I consider this for a moment. But didn't you get everything you wanted for your birthday, Lu? (She didn't want much, really. Just a few clothing items and perfume from her favorite Pink and Hollister stores.)

True, but you don't spoil me like some kids are spoiled, and some kids are not so nice to their parents because of that. They know they can get away with things.

So, you're saying you don't mind that you don't always get what you want.

Yup, that's what I'm saying.

I punch my fists in the air, Yes!, and tell Lu that I wish I'd had her words recorded on tape. (There are many, many things I wish I had on tape. Or on notes. Or video, or any medium given to reproduction.) I try to expunge the thought that, at least in my mind, the essence of this conversation is that I am old. And Lu is anxious that I may not be around as long as some other moms. But that's another conversation. One that we've had. Fears.

*   *   *

I try to remember them as babies. I look at old photos lining the upstairs hall. I recall their smiles and laughs at various stages of their young years. (I  heave aside the colic and tears.) Their pranks and late night prowls in their bedrooms and throughout the house. I almost remember the warm feel of them in my arms, but it is like the warmth of an an old friend who has moved to another country. And I don't have a passport. I want to go there. But I don't necessarily want my photo taken for the papers. What those days ultimately bring to mind, aside from some funny and absurd moments, is how well toned my arms were back then. I wonder if it would be any easier to get those back.

Tonight, I head back to my old high school with Lu. She will present a certificate to the girl who won a college scholarship in my father's name. (Father taught English at the high school.) Max and his cousin Emmie presented two years ago, and another cousin last year. Lu will be at a podium. She will speak. She has prepared notes. She is ready. She does not seem worried at all. It's her time.

_______________________________
June 8, 2012 Postscript:

This morning, I'm heading to the wilds of Maine with the kids to celebrate the end of the school year. We'll be at the family lake house (where internet service is taboo) for the next several days. I'll be catching up with all of you when I return next week. Have a wonderful weekend. :)

"Friday Night Frolic" - On Becoming a Freshman

 

Max--with 'lil sis-- his first day of 1st grade.

He slept in late this morning

this, the first of long summer days

that sit between the afternoon’s high heat and high school.

He wheeled off on his dad’s old Santa Cruz

moments after Mama bandaged the scrapes on his elbow,

from the fall at the edge of the sloping driveway.

He, resisting iced peas as aid,

stepped back on the narrow board,

and tacked atop the hot, cracked pavement.

Out of Mama’s sight,

to the club across Nate Whipple Highway
where the pool had just opened.

She wondered if she should have driven him.

Last week, the pediatrician’s standard inquiry: you like girls?

the boy grinned an affirmative answer,

conceding his broadening affections.

They hadn’t had the sex talk.

Or had they? It was time. 

It was not. It couldn't be.

Sketch pad and kneaded eraser tossed on the table,

trilobites, igneous rock, northern Pangaea,

participles, exponents, realism a closed chapter.

Middle school books to be returned to the town,
(seems yesterday they were just covered)

a tattered grey lunch bag and chewed pens to replace.

The sky receded with indigo clouds,

a growling acceleration of a squally evening. 

He’d left on four wheels screwed to a wooden board’s bottom.

She hadn't mentioned the hour to return
when he appeared at the door, sweaty, flushed, puffing,
thinly beating the rain spew, white hot vectors, the air collapsing in on itself. 

The green of the grass deepened as the storm rolled over,

lights flickered around the house,

Dirty Harry flashed from the TV screen.

Six feet tall, shirtless, shoulders that had bolted 

it seemed, overnight, unwinding on the leather couch

he looked casually at his summer reading list: Dickens and Dumas.

How wide the space had grown 

between the little boy of first grade, Dr. Seuss, crayons,
and the charcoal prints he brought home yesterday.

There's a slow, woody nightshade unfettering,
scrambling over the trellis, a liberation,
ever so rooted in that vessel called home.

* * *

Peter Wolf, former lead vocalist for the J. Geils Band (I still have their old vinyl "Blow Your Face Out"), has released seven solo albums since leaving the band in 1983. His latest, Midnight Souvenirs, was released in 2010.

"Friday Night Frolic" - On Becoming a Freshman

 

Max--with 'lil sis-- his first day of 1st grade.

He slept in late this morning

this, the first of long summer days

that sit between the afternoon’s high heat and high school.

He wheeled off on his dad’s old Santa Cruz

moments after Mama bandaged the scrapes on his elbow,

from the fall at the edge of the sloping driveway.

He, resisting iced peas as aid,

stepped back on the narrow board,

and tacked atop the hot, cracked pavement.

Out of Mama’s sight,

to the club across Nate Whipple Highway
where the pool had just opened.

She wondered if she should have driven him.

Last week, the pediatrician’s standard inquiry: you like girls?

the boy grinned an affirmative answer,

conceding his broadening affections.

They hadn’t had the sex talk.

Or had they? It was time. 

It was not. It couldn't be.

Sketch pad and kneaded eraser tossed on the table,

trilobites, igneous rock, northern Pangaea,

participles, exponents, realism a closed chapter.

Middle school books to be returned to the town,
(seems yesterday they were just covered)

a tattered grey lunch bag and chewed pens to replace.

The sky receded with indigo clouds,

a growling acceleration of a squally evening. 

He’d left on four wheels screwed to a wooden board’s bottom.

She hadn't mentioned the hour to return
when he appeared at the door, sweaty, flushed, puffing,
thinly beating the rain spew, white hot vectors, the air collapsing in on itself. 

The green of the grass deepened as the storm rolled over,

lights flickered around the house,

Dirty Harry flashed from the TV screen.

Six feet tall, shirtless, shoulders that had bolted 

it seemed, overnight, unwinding on the leather couch

he looked casually at his summer reading list: Dickens and Dumas.

How wide the space had grown 

between the little boy of first grade, Dr. Seuss, crayons,
and the charcoal prints he brought home yesterday.

There's a slow, woody nightshade unfettering,
scrambling over the trellis, a liberation,
ever so rooted in that vessel called home.

* * *

Peter Wolf, former lead vocalist for the J. Geils Band (I still have their old vinyl "Blow Your Face Out"), has released seven solo albums since leaving the band in 1983. His latest, Midnight Souvenirs, was released in 2010.

"Friday Night Frolic" - On Becoming a Freshman

 

Max--with 'lil sis-- his first day of 1st grade.

He slept in late this morning

this, the first of long summer days

that sit between the afternoon’s high heat and high school.

He wheeled off on his dad’s old Santa Cruz

moments after Mama bandaged the scrapes on his elbow,

from the fall at the edge of the sloping driveway.

He, resisting iced peas as aid,

stepped back on the narrow board,

and tacked atop the hot, cracked pavement.

Out of Mama’s sight,

to the club across Nate Whipple Highway
where the pool had just opened.

She wondered if she should have driven him.

Last week, the pediatrician’s standard inquiry: you like girls?

the boy grinned an affirmative answer,

conceding his broadening affections.

They hadn’t had the sex talk.

Or had they? It was time. 

It was not. It couldn't be.

Sketch pad and kneaded eraser tossed on the table,

trilobites, igneous rock, northern Pangaea,

participles, exponents, realism a closed chapter.

Middle school books to be returned to the town,
(seems yesterday they were just covered)

a tattered grey lunch bag and chewed pens to replace.

The sky receded with indigo clouds,

a growling acceleration of a squally evening. 

He’d left on four wheels screwed to a wooden board’s bottom.

She hadn't mentioned the hour to return
when he appeared at the door, sweaty, flushed, puffing,
thinly beating the rain spew, white hot vectors, the air collapsing in on itself. 

The green of the grass deepened as the storm rolled over,

lights flickered around the house,

Dirty Harry flashed from the TV screen.

Six feet tall, shirtless, shoulders that had bolted 

it seemed, overnight, unwinding on the leather couch

he looked casually at his summer reading list: Dickens and Dumas.

How wide the space had grown 

between the little boy of first grade, Dr. Seuss, crayons,
and the charcoal prints he brought home yesterday.

There's a slow, woody nightshade unfettering,
scrambling over the trellis, a liberation,
ever so rooted in that vessel called home.

* * *

Peter Wolf, former lead vocalist for the J. Geils Band (I still have their old vinyl "Blow Your Face Out"), has released seven solo albums since leaving the band in 1983. His latest, Midnight Souvenirs, was released in 2010.

"Friday Night Frolic" - On Becoming a Freshman

 

Max--with 'lil sis-- his first day of 1st grade.

He slept in late this morning

this, the first of long summer days

that sit between the afternoon’s high heat and high school.

He wheeled off on his dad’s old Santa Cruz

moments after Mama bandaged the scrapes on his elbow,

from the fall at the edge of the sloping driveway.

He, resisting iced peas as aid,

stepped back on the narrow board,

and tacked atop the hot, cracked pavement.

Out of Mama’s sight,

to the club across Nate Whipple Highway
where the pool had just opened.

She wondered if she should have driven him.

Last week, the pediatrician’s standard inquiry: you like girls?

the boy grinned an affirmative answer,

conceding his broadening affections.

They hadn’t had the sex talk.

Or had they? It was time. 

It was not. It couldn't be.

Sketch pad and kneaded eraser tossed on the table,

trilobites, igneous rock, northern Pangaea,

participles, exponents, realism a closed chapter.

Middle school books to be returned to the town,
(seems yesterday they were just covered)

a tattered grey lunch bag and chewed pens to replace.

The sky receded with indigo clouds,

a growling acceleration of a squally evening. 

He’d left on four wheels screwed to a wooden board’s bottom.

She hadn't mentioned the hour to return
when he appeared at the door, sweaty, flushed, puffing,
thinly beating the rain spew, white hot vectors, the air collapsing in on itself. 

The green of the grass deepened as the storm rolled over,

lights flickered around the house,

Dirty Harry flashed from the TV screen.

Six feet tall, shirtless, shoulders that had bolted 

it seemed, overnight, unwinding on the leather couch

he looked casually at his summer reading list: Dickens and Dumas.

How wide the space had grown 

between the little boy of first grade, Dr. Seuss, crayons,
and the charcoal prints he brought home yesterday.

There's a slow, woody nightshade unfettering,
scrambling over the trellis, a liberation,
ever so rooted in that vessel called home.

* * *

Peter Wolf, former lead vocalist for the J. Geils Band (I still have their old vinyl "Blow Your Face Out"), has released seven solo albums since leaving the band in 1983. His latest, Midnight Souvenirs, was released in 2010.

Belonging

There are some times when a mother can't help but feel like a failure. Especially when she gets a phone call late afternoon, from a member of the Campus Ministry Team at her son's school, reminding her to send in the now overdue letter she was supposed to write for her son's 8th grade Recollection, which is on Friday. Especially when all she does is write.

To be honest, I'm not up to snuff on the Recollection stuff. Or, for that matter, any of the Catholic stuff. Max attends a Catholic school, and even though I was raised Catholic, I didn't listen much. But that's no excuse. I should be more attentive. Especially when my kids are in Catholic schools. And why we send him to this particular Catholic school, aside from its rigorous academics and excellent fine arts program, has a lot to do with the Campus Ministry phone call. And those people behind the calls. It's about caring, and watching out for one another, and taking the time to call slackers and say, Hello, did you forget? (No, no! I didn't honest *God strike me dead* I'm bringing it in tomorrow morning!) It's about teaching kids not only academic crap they'll forget years down the road, but about the power of kindness, and compassion, and dare I say, even prayer: Moments to meditate, to ponder their soul, to think about their purpose in this world, and how their actions, their thoughts, have real effect on mankind. How they can use all of their gifts and talents to better the world.

Hey, is that not Recollection?

Well, when I was a girl it meant begging for forgiveness for all the bad things I did (oh, and there were so many, but sometimes I had a stretch of a few good days and had to make things up for confession so as not to appear too perfect) from secret, and very stern, priests hiding in dark, screened booths. Oh, wait a minute, that was Confession! Or Penance. Or something scary like that. (Sorry, 'tis all I remember from my Catholic school days.)

So, because I'm a seriously deficient Catholic mother, I looked up the term on a religious website and found this definition for Recollection: Attention to the presence of God in the soul. It includes the withdrawal of the mind from external and earthly affairs in order to attend to God and Divine things. It is the same as interior solitude in which the soul is alone with God.

Moments to meditate. This sounds like a good idea to me. Not too scary. Take a breather. Reflect. Withdraw the mind "from external and earthly affairs in order to attend to God and Divine things." Recollect. I guess I wasn't too far off with that first thought. Phew. Perhaps there's still hope for this Catholic lady.

The letter. The letter is to be delivered to the students at some point during their day of Recollection this Friday. The theme, this year, for Recollection: Belonging. I thought that was a beautiful theme, and why I didn't respond immediately I don't know. I mean, what an opportunity, what a precious gift to give to your child. A letter. About belonging. Don't we all need to feel like we belong. Maybe I had to let the theme percolate.

In any event, it's done. Sealed. And includes a photo of Max when he was just a very little man hangin' and jivin' in bouncy seats. I hesitate to publish my letter here, but there's this voice saying, Oh Hell, tell the world how you feel about your son, and belonging. And then there's the other voice that says, It's private. And yet another that says, Boy, this is going to confirm how kooky your mother is, poor kid.

But no matter, we're all kooky in our own way, aren't we? And we all belong somewhere, doing some thing, being some one. In our own kooky way. So if you want to look at some kooky mom's letter, you can read more below. If not, stop here, and recollect. (You don't have to be Catholic or religious to do that.) You belong.

Demophobia

Internet source unknown

Per Murr, I’ve been eating prolific amounts of oatmeal and yogurt on a daily basis, so when my week’s supply ran out today, I had to hoof it to the market before the crowd surged. At 1:00pm, the snow had just begun to fall—the commencement of yet another winter storm—and the great milk and bread rush would, no doubt, soon be in full tilt.

I’m no Chionophobic, quite the contrary, however I loath the inevitable confluence of panic-stricken personages at the grocery, so I don’t ordinarily food shop pre-blizzard. But dammit, I needed more than milk and bread. I needed oatmeal. And yogurt. I had a real emergency.

So there I was at Dave’s, where parking was miraculously still available. It seemed people had actually pre-prepared for this one. How lucky. I tucked my reusable bags under my arm and sashayed (yes, that's right, sashayed—I am a snow goddess, I am Khione herself, lady of mountain gales, I sleep in frozen vapor, ask hubby, he controls the thermostat) my way inside. And while there, at Dave’s, why not throw a few veggies in the cart for good measure? Oh, and the salmon was on sale; as were the blueberries (remarkably!). I was enjoying myself so much that I poured myself a cup of coffee and spent a little time with the cheese.

Over at the deli a small crowd was forming, the ticket dispenser wildly whirling, numbered-pink-paper-slips fluttering to the floor. The market was swelling, and I realized I’d have to pick up my pace before I melted. (Make no mistake; one must execute extreme finesse under such occasion.)

Source

So, favoring perimeter shopping, I circumvented the deli—it’s much healthier, anyway—and made my way to the picked-clean milk section. All of this, mind you, in a matter of fifteen minutes, or so it seemed. A few yogurts lay sideways in the cold case, and I grabbed the last of them.

I pushed my small cart around the final corner, down the aisle, toward the cash registers, whereupon... to great alarm... there, I did see: an overflowing stream of basket-pushing buggers at check-out.  I began to melt. I did. I was flushed. I tugged at my scarf. I needed to get back out in the frost, in the snow, onto God's white earth. Fhark! I had spent too much time with the cheese! (Which is the very problem to begin with.)

Getty Images

Just then—as I was about to evaporate into an ocean of hysteria—I found a hole. Right there, in the other lane. Other people saw it, too, but no one was making a move. I looked about at agitated shoppers, wondering if jumping in the hole was a good idea. I paused, spied around once more, lowered my head, darted through the line and into the little culvert. I was there, right at the register, and I hadn't even cutoff anyone! Honest. It was as if the stream had parted its rising tide, and waved me through the watershed. Though some shoppers looked at me with envy, none dared cross the divide, and so I felt immediate relief.

Bags were packed tight, and I glided outside—the air so chilly, such solace—sashaying my way back to the chariot, where I gathered the reins, and headed, victoriously, into the valley of glaciers...

...without the oatmeal.

And school is closed tomorrow...

Happy Birthday Mother—My Anti-Tiger Mom

Today my mother is 76 years old. I'm not so sure she'd be happy that I'm revealing this, but hey, it's her birthday, so Happy Birthday Mom. Now the whole world knows how old you are. I know you don't read my blog (it's OK, neither do your progeny—the five others—love you guys), don't have a computer, and I just spoke with you over the phone; but after I put the receiver back in its cradle, I started contemplating a few things, and perhaps I should just call you back, only at the moment I'm in the mood for a write.

I'm not going to get all gushy here, but what's on my mind is this, Mother:

I'm glad you didn't parent like Amy Chua. Not that I have anything against Amy, I think she's pretty cool, in fact, for spilling her guts in her memoir Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. She doesn't profess to have the answers, she admits her mistakes, and reveals some ugly truths about herself. I don't know too many parents who would confess to calling their children garbage. This is not bravado, it is bravery.

You sure had your moments, though, forcing me to practice piano—and, as an eight your old, hike up the hill on my own, with the $2.00 fee in my pocket, for lessons that put me to sleep; but after three years of torture you let me give it up when you realized it was hopeless (now I wish I hadn't quit).

I wanted to be in the streets playing Kick the Can, not running scales at the keyboard. I wanted to learn lessons my way, and you let me. Sometimes the neighbors called, complaining about how (brother) Chris and I had been climbing trellised grapevines, and precious cherry trees, picking them bare, and jumping from roof to roof through the neighborhood (you could do this in the city) with our goods, hollering like monkeys. You remained calm, and told me that you thought fence and garage climbing might not be a good idea. You said I might get hurt, and neighbors didn't take kindly to it. (Imagine this happening today with everyone so obsessed about liability.)

You let me go to sleepovers, and watch TV (a little), and get grades less than an A—although I know you didn't like it when I did. You let me spend Saturdays at the Y jumping on trampolines and gliding along the balance beam, playing basketball, and making bright key chains with gimp. You allowed me to take my wooden sled, unsupervised, to Banana Hill, where Chris, Tony and I, and the rest of the local clan, would fly down the snowy, narrow knoll and straight into the brook (its best you weren't there).

You let me produce reams of my own crayon-colored newspaper, and peddle it door-to-door. You let me fry Barbie's blond locks into an afro with my hair dryer. You let your wee ones crack your entire collection of Hummels while we tossed footballs in the dining room. Why you ever kept those figurines on open shelves...

You let me work out problems with friends, or teachers, on my own, and you never hovered. You never wanted to be friends with my friends, or organize socials. You didn't care if you weren't my friend. (I'll bet you'd never friend my Facebook friends.) You never scheduled a play date for me, but you let me run out the door, or take a bus to the mall or the beach. You never meddled in my social affairs, eavesdropped, or read my diary (or did you?!).

You let me rebel, but watched me closely, and listened quietly to my adolescent diatribes. You let me have knock-down drag-out  fights with my siblings. You let me drink and smoke cigarettes behind your back (or did you honestly not know this?). You let me get sulky and crabby and bossy, but you put me on my knees in the corner when I went a little too far. Sometimes you even swatted at me with the spatula.

You even let me say I hate you more than once, and never said it back. God, I don't know how you did this, because you never, ever deserved that.

But we had curfews, the six of us, we had the education first talks, had to study hard and pull in good grades, although that didn't always happen. We had to get to bed at a decent hour. We couldn't date until we were sixteen, and weren't allowed to wear makeup to school. We had to work for our own spending money, and we had to walk or bike to a friends house if we wanted to see them, no matter how far away they lived. We had to wash a ton of dishes, vacuum the floor, wipe down chairs, and dust the windows' louvered shutters. And that was just one-tenth of the chores—wasn't it?

You let us turn the backyard into a mud hole digging to China, and paint the metal swing-set Jackson Pollock (you want to check out that link, it's fun) style, with psychedelic colors. You let us use your kitchen gadgets, pots and pans, and clothing, and pretty much anything we desired, as props for impromptu summer theatre-in-the-yard. Dad hammered together an ice rink for winter skating behind the house, and you always had hot cocoa at the table for us when we piled back in, drenched and cold.

None of this is to say that you were indifferent, or unconcerned, or unavailable. You knew precisely what we needed, and were more present for us than I could ever hope to be with my babes. You were home most of the time, returning to work only when the last little one went to high school. You didn't have a fancy career, weren't flamboyant or super cool, but you were the mom my friends most admired—beautiful, elegant, gracious, warm and optimistic—it's still that way, you know.

Anyway Mother, I'm glad you weren't a Tiger Mom. Even though none of your grown children may ever win a Nobel Prize or shuttle into space, they didn't turn out all that bad. We all went to college, we all got good jobs, we're all healthy and productive beings, raising fine children of our own. We all cherish our family more than anything in the world.

And you're no wimp, Mom. You knew that some things had to be learned in the streets. Even if they were pretty tough lessons. You knew the value of painful and embarrassing moments, and failure as priceless. You knew a thing or two about building character. Still do.

You are the amazing Anti-Tiger Mom. I didn't want to be like you back then. I can only hope to be now.

Ring Ring Goes the Bell...

(Feel free to keep groovin' to the music while you read this.)


Books covered. Check.
Lunch packed. Check.
Uniform ironed. Check.
Calculator functioning. Check.
Summer reading complete. Check.
New schedule in hand. Check.
Smile on Face. Check.

'Tis true—the very first day back to school for you, my sweet eighth grader.  Do you look the least bit worried?  You couldn't be happier—how you love your school, you think your going off to a party, a Chuck Berry concert, twisting the day away, a back-to-school lollapalooza of World History, Algebra 1 and Art. A full year of Art! Again! What will you do when you have to take a real elective, like...well... Spanish or French (oh Français s'il vous plaît, please choose French)?

Eighth grade, where The Language of Literature awaits you, Little Man—I'm already sifting through your at-home duplicate copy (which I purchased online because I know that you'll forget to bring your book home and anyway, it's an awful heavy reader to be lugging to and fro school) of this hard-covered magnum opus. I see a whole section dedicated to Mark Twain. Twain—the one who wouldn't let school interfere with his education (but I won't tell you about that particular quote) yet still managed to become one of our greatest American writers. Perhaps you read about him in this year's Old Farmer's Almanac—you know, the one in our first floor bathroom. Maybe I will actually convince you to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn this year. Maybe I'll read it again myself. And maybe your English teacher will help you understand the significance of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451—your required summer reading—the little novel that so frustrated you, its theme you thought irrelevant, or maybe just odd (technology attached to you at the hip). But know this, Little Man, in 2010 this fifty-seven year old parable, a literary classic, could not be more relevant! Oh, maybe I should just rent the movie and have you watch it. 

Eighth grade, where Science will reveal many serious matters, compounds, mixtures and important minerals (like diamonds), and we can talk all about Libebcnofne and Namgalsipsclar... and other little tricks... and my days in chemistry class with Mortimer Simons—the original mad scientist.

Eighth grade, where the algebraic equation is waiting to wrap its linear arms around you and perplex you with all its inequalities. Sorry to say Little Man, I won't be of much help to you in that cozy little huddle. I recall the cold cuddle I had with Mr. Buonanno when he told me with his mean molars and thin eyes that I passed his high school class "by the skin of my teeth."  It won't do you (or me) much good if I finger through the duplicate copy of that colossal codex—ask your uncle, the one with whom I went to college, about my, shall we say, adventure with Math 109. I've forgotten now how many times I took it. (And as far as I'm concerned, parentheticals and expressions ought to be reserved strictly for use in sentences.)

Enjoy 8th grade little man, because after this year it gets pretty serious, in high school that is. Doesn't it?

Hail, hail, off you go Little Man... 

...American history and practical math, you'll be studyin' hard and hopin' to pass. (Won't you now?!) 

Meanwhile, I'll be waiting for your 'lil sis to return to school—next week!—at which time I'll be doing the twist. Hail, hail School Days!