The Hulk and His Boy

Dear Diary,

I learned something from a child in a doctor's office waiting room.

A boy walked in with his father and sat down nearby.  IMG --inward mental groan!
I love kids, but I needed a break from little boys for the day.
(I work in a special ed preschool classroom. Need I say more?)

This boy was grasping an Incredible Hulk action figure, as well as a Batman and Robin duo.
He sat for a few minutes and watched as another boy about his age-- I would guess seven or eight-- entered the waiting room.  He perked up, walked over to this potential-to-be-a-new-friend stranger, and this is what I heard:

Hi, my name is Caleb, what is your name?

     ~Noah.

Hi Noah, will you be my friend and play with me?

     ~Sure! Mom, can I play with Caleb?

And they sat at the waiting room kid table and proceeded to orchestrate a Hulk-like pounding on poor Batman and Robin, chatting and sharing toys like they had known each other since at least kindergarten.

I smiled at this exchange and watched them in wonder.

Caleb made it look so easy: making friends.
And Noah's uncomplicated response -- no excuses or shyness or avoidance-- was such a surprise to me.
They played for about five minutes when Noah's mom called him to go.
But Caleb wasn't going to let him disappear out of his life so easily.
He skipped off with him, all the while bantering loudly,

Bye!  
Let's have a play date tomorrow!  
I'll give you my mom's number so you can call her and you can come to my house.  
It's ###-###-####.

Yes, he blurted his mom's phone number for all to hear.  It was awkwardly funny. And Noah's mom humored this stranger-now-turned-bff and thanked him for playing with her son.

I marveled at this exchange for multiple reasons.

First, I work with children whose interpersonal skills are nonexistent.  That these two boys could communicate their names and desires to each other in 20 seconds-- and then enjoy and share the toys together-- was jaw dropping considering what I see everyday in my work.

Second, I know that breaking the ice with a stranger is not easy for many people.
And here two children were living out the scenario with textbook precision.

Hi, my name is LJ.  Will you be my friend and play with me?

How many people do I encounter that are just waiting for an invitation like that?  For some folks like myself, it takes a bit of bravery to put themselves "out there" and ask a question like that.

Maybe I'm not a Caleb.
Maybe I'm more of a Noah, with an open heart, receptive to the call of others.

Yes! I'll play with you!  I'm so glad you asked, here's my number!

Is the world full of strangers, or potential playmates?
Caleb learned at a young age to ask this question, and he is having a ball finding out the answer.

Happy Summer!

LJ

Colorful Hearts

Dear Diary,
I sat next to her, a sugary sweet kindergartner.  We were coloring. 
She showed me her picture: two brightly dressed scribble people. I could tell they were girls from the long hair--one blonde, one brown. 
Colorful hearts surrounded them; green, purple, red. 

"Guess who this is," she smiled at me.
"Hmmm, who?" I asked, not wanting to assume.
"That's me and you!" she replied.
"Oh, I love the colorful hearts you made!"
"Yes!" she said, then added, "My daddy got 'trans'-ported to Mexico."

That was an eyebrow raiser. 
And a colorful heart breaker.
Just what does one say to that?

"Ooh, I am so sorry to hear that," I sympathetically replied.
"I am never, ever going to see him again," she continued, frowning.
Oh Lord, what do I say to this girl? I prayed.
"I bet you can write to him or talk to him on the phone," I replied feebly.
"Yes, I could!" she replied with a glimmer in her eyes.  "I could give my letter to mommy to mail."

Heavy stuff for a sweet little girl to bear.
The weight she carries will leave an impression on me for a long time.



courtesy layoutsparks.com

But her green, purple, and red hearts will always be part of her story, too.

<3  <3  <3LJ

A Very Big Girl Day

Dear Diary,
My oldest girl is growing up. 
She had a Very Big Girl Day today. 

Filling some big shoes 13 years ago.

She had the day off of school --the second day off to be precise, thanks to another polar bear vortex --and, being the tough Midwesterners we are, we decided it was an opportunity to head out the frosty door and take care of some Big Girl business.

First, she dropped off her first job application.  I sat on a hard bench in the elevator lobby and watched her head up to floor #3 of the office complex with application in hand.
Without me.
I knew if I went with I'd just meddle; I Really Wanted To Go Orchestrate Her Success Myself.

Next, with Certificate of Completion in hand, we went to the DMV for a new DL.  Yup.  Her first driver's license.
Trying hard to suppress flashbacks of my own failed first road test, I sat in a blue plastic chair nervously waiting for her return. 


I had given her permission to Fail.  Does that make me a bad mother? 
I prayed for her.  Any question about bad mothering was now redeemed.

She passed, of course.  The chain of road test failure going back one generation had been broken!
We admired her shiny plastic ticket-to-freedom.  Nice picture, too.

Next we hit the road again, this time to the local drug store for a valid passport photo.  My Big Girl is going to Europe this summer.  Without her mommy.  Who has never been overseas.
Rats.

Add the 23 letters from colleges and universities that she received within one week of her published PSAT scores, and have I painted a clear picture of my girl getting Soooo Big?

Yet somehow I get the feeling she wasn't the only one who put on her Big Girl Pants today.

Feelin' small and humble,
LJ

Are You Mexican?

Dear Diary,

I work in a bilingual school. 
The minorities are the majority here.
These dark haired children with varying degrees of beautiful, not-so-pale skin dominate the hallways and classrooms.  I am hard pressed to find any child of Anglo/European descent in the building.

Family and friends who are readers of this blog know what I look like. But in case a reader comes across this highly entertaining and thoughtful diary who has never heard of LJ, let me provide a sweeping generalization.

I am of Euro descent. Gazing upon my countenance one might guess I am German, which is partly correct; however, thanks to my maternal grandmother, I have more Bohemian in me than any other single nationality. So it is fair to say I am...well...fair!

This week I had the privilege of participating in this conversation in my kindergarten room. Names have been changed.

Niki (to her friend):  Katy, are you Mexican?  I'm Mexican.
Katy:  I'm Mexican-American.
Niki:  I will make you a bracelet that's Mexican! (Turns to other friend) Claire, are you Mexican?
Claire: No, I'm not from Mexico.
Niki (turning to me): Mrs. LJ, are you Mexican?

The absurdity of her question really made me laugh (inwardly of course) as I straight-faced answered her, "No. No I'm not Mexican."

But the really cool thing about that exchange was that it wasn't an absurd question to her.  At five years old, she has little notion about what being Mexican -- or any minority for that matter -- means. 
Thus she did not hesitate to ask her blond haired, blue eyed teacher, "Are you Mexican?".

We are approaching the birthday of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. 
As part of his famous I Have A Dream speech, he said:

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."

Dr. King, I just met your dream, and her name is Niki.

LJ

Childish Thoughts

Dear Diary,

I knew I needed to take my walk this morning, but I also had to run an errand. So I combined the two needs and walked the 3 miles round trip, with the dog, to get the utility bill into the village drop box.  This took me exactly one hour.

Half of my walk was in a no-sidewalk industrial park.  So I was dodging work trucks, macks and semis.  That, along with a dog who likes to sniff/mark every tree, post, and shrub, certainly did nothing to improve my time. (I also may have stopped for 5 minutes to rest at the gazebo and stare at the geese in the pond on the way home.)

On the return route, I was getting thirsty.  Almost parched.  It was warmer than I expected and I had overdressed.  Though I took off a layer, I had not brought any water.  My mouth was dry.

I allowed my imagination to revert to childish thoughts.
I imagined I was in a desolate urban landscape, my dog and I the sole survivors of a devastating, futuristic war. 
We must find water. 
Maybe a crust of bread to save for later.
Ach, never mind the bread, we must seek water or succumb to death.
We can't... fail.....must.... survive...

Fifteen minutes after that thought I was home, running filtered water into my cup and planning lunch.

But that brief, childish thought got me thinking about games I played in childhood.  Often they were games of peril, but they were always powered by imagination.

Like the time I would pretend my bed was a sinking boat in a sea of sharks, and my only means of escaping their dangerous jaws was by stepping on randomly placed pillows and stuffed animals on my floor.  This scenario was played out in various forms of doom and demise, including red-hot volcanic lava or an alligator-filled swamp.

Or the time after the dinner hour, when the sun was setting, casting a golden trail between the close-set houses of my neighborhood.  Our front yards were bathed with light, but our backyards were dark save for the gold-paved "road" that led to our back fence. This was a scene just begging for me to link
arm-in-arm with my neighbor friend and belt out "Weeeeeee're OFF to see the wizard, the Wonderful Wizard of Oz!" while skipping down the "yellow brick road."

Or playing board games or hide-out in a blanketed fort or backyard tent. 

Or saving a big refrigerator box and turning it into a play store.  This was a great game considering that my neighbor's dad was an office supply salesman.  Plenty of envelopes, paper clips and rubber bands for our store shelves, complete with carbon-copy receipts to write on!

This is where my mind goes when I am thirsty during an arduous walk. 

I hope this inspires you to take your own journey into childhood.
Just don't forget your water bottle.

LJ

Post Mother's Day Post

Dear Diary,

It is the Monday after Mother's Day.

The day when -- after a blessed day off -- mothers everywhere get back to
loading dishwashers,
making dinner,
changing diapers,
folding laundry,
and eating breakfast at the kitchen counter (or over the sink) instead of in bed.

In church yesterday (btw, I like having Mother's Day on Sunday.  Church is a good place to be on this day.) I confirmed something that I had only suspected was true.  I just needed to know I wasn't the only one who does this.  Now I know.

The two pews in front of me were occupied by mostly women of childbearing age and beyond, along with a baby or two thrown in.  A generous new mommy was "baby sharing" and allowing her little one to be passed into the eager hands of the women around her.
And then, half-way through the service, I saw it. 
One woman in the bunch, who wasn't holding a baby at the time, was doing something she didn't even know she was doing. 

The phantom baby sway.

That natural movement females adapt when within the vicinity of a child under two years of age.  Not actually holding a child, mind you.  Just standing alone, swaying those hips as if to lull the phantom child on them to complacency.
I think it is a pheromone thing. I don't know.

I have caught myself doing it. 
In the middle of a prayer I suddenly become self aware. Why am I swaying?  I peek through my reverently closed lids.  Oh, there is an infant two pews up that has been detected by my mommy radar.  Say no more.

(OK, stop judging me for thinking this during prayer time.  It happens.)

At the time I didn't know if this baby swaying behavior with no baby on board was normal behavior.  I sure stopped as soon as I caught myself.  Am I the only one who does this? I must look silly!

So I felt validated yesterday, when I spotted this woman doing the baby sway with no baby at hand.  Aha!  I am not the only one!   It's natural!  God must have just built that little quirk into our extremely complicated female physiology.

I am not advocating peeking around church during prayer or confession time.  But the next time I see a woman doing the phantom baby sway, I will thank God for giving us people who have a knack for mothering.

And for goodness sake, I will tell her to stop swaying.  She looks silly.

Happy belated Mother's Day!
LJ

1-2-3's of Parenting; A Lesson in Bravery

Dear Diary,
I recently read a post, written by a wonderful friend, on the topic of Bravery.  Her topic got me thinking about how brave acts aren't just those extreme antics in which I rarely participate (does my Extreme Vacation count?), but they can also be found in daily occurrences.

Scheduling the dreaded mammogram,  talking with your child's teacher about problems at school, sticking up for a friend or coworker, sending out job applications, riding in the car with a 15-year-old at the wheel, and disciplining your children, are just a few of these daily acts of bravery. 

Over the years I have been asked about (and/or complimented on) my childrens' behavior.  Educators, family and friends, church acquaintances, and even strangers at restaurants would say, "My, your girls are well behaved.  My kids would be all over the place."

I don't like to preach, but today I am stepping out in bravery to do so.  (Or perhaps this could be viewed as a little motherly advice, which so often unwittingly sounds like preaching, doesn't it?) 

My kids are older now, with my youngest at age 10.  These things were more relevant in my household when they were little: toddler through early primary grades, the "formative years." 

So if you are in a place where you could use my parenting advice, be brave and continue reading. Otherwise, skip to the Wrap Up!

There are two things that were key to my well-behaved children.

First, when a child was exhibiting inappropriate behavior, I expected them to respond to my command the first time I asked. 

"Daughter, stop jumping on the couch." 

If the child continued, I might ask a second time (with a middle name thrown in for emphasis), but no more. 

I set high expectations for my girls:  good grades, respect for others, obedience.  It takes a special kid to be motivated to behave above and beyond any low expectations that was set for him/her.  That's why my expectations are high.

I have a little confession.  The use of what I call the "1-2-3 Method" drives me a teensy bit crazy.  You know what I mean by the 1-2-3 Method -- where an adult gives a child time to decide whether or not to obey by counting to three (or five or ten).

If a parent resorts to cajoling a disobedient child, and then ends up using the 1-2-3 Method, who is really in control? I am no Lehman or Freud, but it doesn't take an appearance on Dr. Oz to figure out the answer.

I have two premises to this advice.  I assume the child can 1) hear me and 2) understand the language I am speaking. 

Repeating oneself, coaxing, and giving them time, is well, giving the child control.  I have even worked with hard of hearing children and even they can understand a command (in their language) the first time! 

It takes bravery to follow through on the consequences when a child doesn't listen the first time.  I will leave that aspect up to you. But as was the case in our home, it has payoff.  Big time.  To the point where even strangers notice.

There may be parents who say, well that may have worked for you but that won't work for us. To them I say, feel free to share what is working for you!  I'm sure there are parents out there who find the 1-2-3 Method "works" for them. I am not writing to change your ways.  Just stating what worked for me.

The second key is an easier one.
Transitions can be hard for kids.  To go from one activity to the next with no warning might make a child rebel (tantrum, whine, argue).  Many parents transition their kids, and I am all about that.  Give a child a warning that in  ___  minutes we will (be going to the store, finishing with TV, going to bed) or whatever.  Then stick to it and don't let them sucker you into "just a few more minutes," at least not regularly!

Wrap Up
It takes bravery to be a good parent.

But brave acts of any kind can result in appreciating life on a whole new level.

What are your everyday acts of bravery?

Courageously yours,
LJ

The Thing's the Thing

Dear Diary,
I am wondering what is happening to the brain cells of my family members.  Are they vanishing because we are nearing the end of the school year, the finish line looming before us, waiting to be crossed at break-neck speed -- except we checked our brains out at the last mile marker?

For example, I recently overheard a statement from daughter #2 the other day that went something like this:  "You need to get the thingy-thing and put it over there on the thing."  (To which daughter #3 would say, "I know, right?")

OK, that's cute the first time.
But saying "the thingy" or "the thingy-thing" is becoming the thing in her normal conversation.

A couple of asides:
1.  I actually understand what she means most of the time, and
2.  Hearing it several times a week has inspired me to change my "What?" to "Whaty-what?"  At least that's what the voice in my head wants to say.

I will use the phrase "totes adorbs" just to give my girls a reason to roll their eyes at me, but otherwise I try to use my middle-age brain cells to form a cohesive sentence most of the time.

However, some of the phonetic faux pas stories I have told my daughters over the years are coming back to bite me.  Recently, when sitting down to dinner, daughter #1 reminded me of one such story from when I was her age.  Her three-word statement was a dig at my story of mistaking the word ravishing for ravenous, which, at the time, made for quite the brouhaha when I announced exuberantly to the family at the dinner table, "I'm sooo ravishing!"

These are the things our families don't let us live down.  Even, apparently, after you have started your own.

OK, so I've migrated a little off topic, but just know that as the days get warmer and the count to the final day of school gets smaller, the brain cells in our household become neglected, which, I guess, is our way of preparing our minds and bodies for the lazy days of summer.

When all nouns get replaced by a creative form of the word "thing."

Linguistically yours,
LJ

Pie Charts and Tally Marks

Dear Diary,

It's all I can do to not raise my hand.

The second grade teacher asks a question about the picture chart.  "How many more pepperoni pizzas were made than cheese?"  The kids aren't getting it.  They raise their hands to answer but just can't quite figure it out. 

Ooooh. Pick me! Pick me! I know the answer! I think to myself. 

I love this math. It is so much fun!  I would love to be able to show the class how smart I am.

But this is not a flashback to my childhood.
This is now.
I am an adult.
An aide, sitting in a second grade classroom, watching a lesson about charts and graphs unfold on the overhead screen in front of me and 25+ eight-year-olds. 

And I want to raise my hand.

Silly, I know.

Thanks to my employment, I now spend a lot of time in first and second grade.

We are
counting coins
charting and tallying
telling time
watching plants grow from seeds
spelling homonyms
reading stories
subtracting three digit numbers
learning not to cut in line. 

Through all this activity I am realizing:

All I ever really need to know I learned by second grade. 

Have I ever used sine and cosine in my "real" life?  Nope.  But three digit subtraction sure comes in handy with my checkbook (and so does counting coins).  And it is always good to know which witch to write, right?

So, just in case the teacher gets tired of hearing wrong answers, and one day I hear,
"Mrs. LJ, what is the noun in that sentence?"

I'll be ready.
'Cuz I've already been through second grade, and I'll know.

Precociously yours,
LJ

One of THOSE Parents

Dear Diary,
I'm actually surprised this scenario hasn't happened sooner.  At least to my knowledge.

I guess the delay stems from my deep desire to not bring attention to myself.  (Actually, I secretly like attention, but only if it's positive. You know, the isn't she cute/smart/funny, or boy I wish I could be more like her, kind of attention.  It's the negative, brow furrowing attention I shun.)

I am talking about embarrassing my kids.  I'm not one of those parents who deliberately embarrasses their kids in front of their friends.  I am too genteel for that.  Especially if they are new friends.  However, I have no problem singing to the radio while driving carpool if they are old friends.

But I won't go around talking about my kids' skin problems or do my Super Grover impersonation in front of their friends just for kicks.  Some parents might do that.  My brother for instance.  But not I.

So the other day I was informed by my freshman daughter I was needed to drive home not one, but four additional friends from school.   Upper classman.   And three of the four were boys.
Hmmmm.  Interesting. 

If I were one of those parents, I could have used that pent up time in the car to really make my daughter (and her friends) uncomfortable. 

I imagine some mortifying conversation starters like this: 
* So, you guys got girlfriends? 
* Do any of you go to church? 
* Don't you think my daughter is talented/smart/cute? 
* You wanna be my friend on Facebook? 
* Are you looking to make an extra buck? 'Cuz I could use some help shoveling my driveway.

That's just the tip of the iceberg.

But that is not me. 
I want to be a cool mom.  Or at least a nice mom. 
Outgoing, without being in-your-face. 
Showing interest, without the inquisition.
Pleasant.

With all the friends deposited safely-- and seemingly without embarrassment-- at their destination, my daughter admitted she had "warned" at least one of the boys ahead of time about me and what I "might say."

WHAT? 

Innocent, little me?  Tame, conscientious, ever-mindful me? 

I was surprised. Though I always knew it, up till now, my kids had never admitted to my face that I had the potential for embarrassment.

Yet, perhaps even more surprising was that I felt somewhat flattered.  I felt validated as a mom of teenagers.  So I do have a little edge.  Just enough to make my offspring a little paranoid.

I admit that feels kind of good. 
And I've only just started.

Rockin' the boat,
LJ