Movie Night

I have the windows open on a beautiful sunny afternoon and I can hear the sounds of the kids on the school playground drifting in on the breeze.  I wonder if that is universally received as an emotional pick-me-up.  For me, those voices from across the neighborhood infuse me with good feelings and a sense of contentment and always put a smile on my face.  I can’t be alone in that, can I?

I am sometimes surprised when someone mentions to me they’ve read a recent column I’ve written and say it brought tears to their eyes.  I’m not sure I can fully appreciate how my own personal experiences can bring about a reflection of a feeling shared by other parents who remember similar times of struggle or joy.  But I am beginning to understand more.  

This revelation started in the most innocent way, when I saw the third installment of Toy Story with the boys.  We’d seen the first two movies and so I assumed this one would be similar, expecting lots of laughs and probably some sentimental ending.  Little did I know, that part way through the movie, I would be literally choking back sobs and wiping tears from behind my 3-D glasses.  I didn’t even bring Kleenex for Pete sake! Plus, these aren’t even real people—it’s an animated movie!

Yet somehow, it cut straight to my heart.  The little boy in the movie grows up and prepares to move away to college.  His childhood toys are packed away.  When his mother walks into his empty bedroom she puts a hand to her chest and simply says “Oh.” And in that one word moment I got it.  I couldn’t help it.  I was overcome by an instinctual flood of emotion.  

I surprised myself at my reaction, and laughed about it afterward with the boys.  But it wasn’t until later when a friend casually asked if we had seen the movie that I began to understand.  I told her I saw it and had found it very emotional, and she eagerly shared that she had also burst into tears. So it wasn’t just me.

I began asking around, and sure enough, nearly everyone I talked with had struggled to fight back tears or had openly sobbed along with me when the boy shares his treasured childhood toys with another little girl; repeating one last time, the familiar lines and games he played with each of his favorite toys as a toddler.  Is there a parent anywhere who doesn’t instantly recall their own child’s favorites?

I am now beginning to understand. We parents share some universal emotions and feelings no matter what our other differences.  I have experienced an amazing but simple epiphany. I may be one very small dot in the universe of parents, but the world seems much smaller when you realize that a parent in Milwaukee, or Africa or China can have the exact same emotions as me. And on this very afternoon someone else, far away from here, may be smiling at the comforting sound of those little voices drifting through the window from the playground down the street.

OK, so here it is...

I have been asked if I have a place where people can find my past columns. Until now I didn't.  So here's what I threw together on the Friday night of my son's 9th birthday.  That's the way I do things. 

Each month I write a little ditty about whatever excitement or drama is happening in Coshunland that month and I zip it off to the State Journal and they publish it in their Neighbor's Section on the first Friday of every month.  It's about nothing and everything.  It's essentially my selfish way of journaling the lives of my two sons and all the little things that I'm sure I will forget if I don't put them in writing.

So thanks for checking it out.  I sure enjoy writing it. 
Pam

Planet John Aug. 2010

From the moment his feet touched down on this planet, our youngest son Jake has been drawn by one gravitational pull only. His entire world spins on the axis of one taller older mirror image of himself, his older brother.


It is exactly what I had dreamed of 10 years ago when we decided to see if a second child would become a part of our future. I remember the exact moment I knew for sure I wanted to try for a second baby. I was watching out the kitchen window as our first born sat alone in the sandbox in the back yard digging in the sand quietly. He was a happy contented child, but I knew the moment his brother appeared in the hospital room and, just a few hours old, turned his head toward the first sound of John’s voice, that my wish had been granted. John would never again be alone. No matter what happened to me and his dad, he would always have this little blond headed spitfire dashing about his world to be his friend, his team mate, his confidant, his brother.

This fall Jake is finally able to join John in the time honored tradition of wearing shoulder pads and a helmet and for the first time, playing the sport he seems born to play alongside his older more seasoned brother. He’s watched from the sidelines for the last two years, eagerly longing to strut about, padded from head to toe, but mostly just longing to be with John.

But now for the first time in 9 years something else is happening this fall. John is going off on his own adventure to experience a new phase of his life. He’s become a Middle Schooler. For every way he’s been building up to this new change, his brother has watched and anticipated by his side as he checked out his new locker, the new hallways, the new school.

What Jake didn’t anticipate is how his world would start spinning a little differently. For the first time he is just Jake, not Jake and John. At church when it came time last week for the kids to go to Sunday school, the Middle School students sat tight. They have their own time and space now away from the younger kids. Jake, who normally bounces off without even a glance back at me, turns his head in a steady even stare and says, “I’m not going.”

What he means is, “I’m not going without John.”

He would not be convinced. That’s when I realized, the world as he knows it is stopping on a dime, and no one could have prepared him for it. The walk to and from school is without the pal to tell stories to and confide secrets to along the way. Lunch time won’t include the traditional bump or high five from the cool 5th grade friends of his older brother.

In fact, the very way he looks at himself is changing. As much as he wants to fight it, Jake is learning to be Jake without John. A completely foreign and uncomfortable adventure he would rather not be on. And as patient and tolerant as his brother has been all these years of having this little shadow tag along through life, now, Jake is neither.

It isn’t easy to see him struggle through these days, but in the end I know he must become his own man and that only comes from times like these. I know that not every family has siblings that are this tuned-in to one another with so many similar interests and a real mutual desire to be together. I am certain that the planets must have been in line the day Jake was born and I remain grateful that the gravitational pull of his brother is no less strong today than it was the day Jake searched the room for that familiar voice that would become the center of his universe.

Clear as Mud July 2010

About a year ago I got bifocal contacts. The concept seems impossible. One eye corrects for near vision and the other eye corrects for distance. Then it all gets straightened out in your brain somehow. I don’t understand it, but what happens for me is that I actually have to concentrate on what I want to see and let my brain know what to focus in on. It’s crazy but it does work. It’s just that things are not always in focus right away.


Maybe it doesn’t bother me that much because it is actually a lot like the way I see my kids growing up right before my eyes. No matter how closely you watch you can’t really get a good focus on how they’re changing every day. And then suddenly one day, you dial in a crisp clear picture and see these two young men sharing my world.

Sometimes I am shocked at how they’ve changed because of a growth spurt. But other times it’s a conversation or something they say that stops me and makes me marvel at the way their brains and bodies are maturing so invisibly and yet so drastically.

The other day it happened after a baseball game. Walking to the car I was chatting with John about his game. He had snagged a fly ball in left field running full speed and sliding as it dropped in his mitt. I told him I thought he’d done a good job catching that one. Then I said, “Out of curiosity, John, why did you slide when you caught that?”

After a brief pause he shrugged and said, “Oh, I don’t know, I think it was for dramatic effect.”

It worked.

I am determined that Jake is still little enough to be carried, but the last time I tried we both ended up bursting into laughter at the struggle to lug him through the house from the car. That’s when it happened. He’s counting the days until his 9th birthday but I really hadn’t seen that much change in him since his 8th milestone until now, laughing, I really saw him smiling back at me. That’s when I realized those dimpled cheeks are sitting atop a much longer neck than they used to. His amazing blue eyes smile out from a longer, maturing face that is suddenly much farther away from a toddler and much closer to a young man. And worst of all, the dimples that I love to stare at on his hands have actually given way to knuckles. When did that happen, I wonder.

Now, on the rare occasion when life does come into such sharp focus, I want to freeze time. Each one of them is so perfect just the way they are on this very day. At almost 9 and 11 I would just like to stop time and frame up this picture perfect scene…or to somehow figure out how to slow the speeding freight train from racing quite so fast downhill toward more birthdays, and school years and milestones. But, of course, the days will instead race by in a blur as I struggle to remind myself to enjoy every minute of the crazy ride whether it’s in full focus or not.

I'm With The Band June 2010

I often say my middle school band director is the reason I am where I am today. It’s true. Mr. Hamilton taught me everything I know about breathing properly—from the diaphragm; but also about things like sitting up straight, improving through practice and the value of being a part of something bigger than myself.


It’s amazing really to think about. Walking into band for the first time carrying a briefcase that housed parts of an instrument I didn’t even know how to put together, let alone make a sound on. And yet, he walked me and each student in our little band through every step. Putting each corked piece of my oh so foreign looking clarinet into its proper position, placing my hands in the right spots, positioning my mouth onto the mouth piece and finally blowing into it to produce the most amazing squeaky first notes. It must have been torture to his ears to be in a room filled with loud, but enthusiastic beginning band students. I just remember feeling so amazed that I could produce a sound at all. And then suddenly I shocked myself that I could play one, two even three notes on a scale. And I was even more surprised when I learned how to string them together into actual – music.

That’s why, in the end, being a part of the band was so much more than anything I’d ever expected. I had taken piano lessons but this was different. This was the beginning of the realization that alone one instrument was simple and beautiful in its way. But together, all of us, playing at the same time, it became rich and complex and fascinating to learn to hear each instrument adding its part-- the whole not complete without all the pieces. We grew something from nothing –performing our first concert for an audience of appreciative parents and grandparents. It was something entirely different than anything we’d ever experienced. And all the while Mr. Hamilton, standing before us, baton in hand, carried what became a familiar calm and patient grin that we came to appreciate as reward for a job well done.

And now, a shiny trombone sits packed in its case in a quiet middle school band room waiting to be discovered by my middle school son. He will soon walk into his band room for the first time, and take it out of its case and run his fingers over it for a first inspection, just as I did all those years ago. He will hear that skinny baton tapping on the metal music stand. He will begin to learn the very first steps of playing. Soon he will be able to discern the difference between noise and notes. He will learn, as I did, the feeling of being a small part of a larger instrument.

I realize he can’t possibly anticipate what he is about to encounter. But I believe he is so lucky to have the chance to go through the amazing transformation from middle school kid to musician. The launching pad for so much more and what for me turned out to be one of the great treasures of my life—the gift of saying, “ I’m with the band.”

The Other Futbol June 2010

“Those are my soccer socks!” Jake is shouting back in the bedrooms. “Take them off!”


“You already wore mine!” John shouts back. “All the rest are too small!”

It seems black socks are an elusive thing in our house on this day, and so the battle is on for the remaining uniform requirement that both of them need but no one wants to change.

I try to broker a trade but it appears neither side is willing to budge although both are willing to wear yesterday’s dirty socks again without blinking an eye!

We’re wrapping up the end of a marathon weekend that included four baseball games, and three soccer games and a lot of black socks. Clean clothes are at a minimum, although I do find an extra sock that isn’t ours, oddly enough, in the laundry.

While this likely won’t be the last whirlwind weekend like this, it may be one of the last to include soccer socks…at least for awhile.

Like so many boys entering 4th grade, Jake is wildly excited about playing tackle football for the first time. But to do so, he will be leaving behind, at least for the fall season, a game he’s been playing since he was a toddler, the other futbol. Soccer has been a game Jake mastered early and excelled at because of his natural hunger to compete and score, along with his gift of speed.

While our older son needed years of encouragement before he was comfortable playing soccer in attack mode, it seems Jake came pre-programmed to automatically take on the game like everything else he does, in a sprint.

This weekend he told me he wanted to win his MAYSA Cup games so bad, he was sure they couldn’t lose. Naturally, I encouraged him to play his best but to be happy with a good performance whether that came with a win or not. But an even more determined Jake showed up on the field than we’ve ever seen before. It was as though he wanted to leave his mark here and, at age 8, knew how he wanted to walk off the soccer field, maybe for the last time. It was a performance to remember.

Now I’m looking back at his pictures from soccer with mixed emotions. He’s put in a lot of time to learn this game and become good at it. But he’s been waiting it seems his whole life to play this other sport and I can sense his competitive drive revving up every time there is talk of running backs, interceptions and scoring touchdowns.

And so, we reach another milestone with Jake, turning the page to a new adventure that he can’t wait to rush into. Perhaps we will be back at soccer and perhaps not. Either way, I know he will pour his heart and soul into his sport of choice and we will be all the richer for having the chance to watch and cheer along the way. And chances are he’ll play it wearing black socks.

Middle School Worthy May 2010

Last night at dinner Jake discovered he had a small bit of cottage cheese stuck to his elbow. We told him to grab his napkin and wipe it off. But instead he said, “I’ll just lick that off.” What ensued was a hilarious ten minute display of sheer will and determination, to prove, against all odds and advice to the contrary, that it is indeed possible to lick one’s own elbow.


His outstretched tongue, wagging oh so close to the prized bit of cheese curd, but not quite touching it is the way I feel my oldest son and I are approaching his immanent graduation from elementary school and first dipping of his toe into the waters of Middle School. We’ve had meetings and talks and will soon have a tour and official orientation. But it’s just out of our reach to really grasp that it’s about to happen to us.

All the experiences that are waiting for him in that new life are an exciting milestone to be looked forward to for sure. But of course, leaving behind the school where one started one’s lifetime of learning is a milestone with its own set of emotions, especially for his parents.

John’s last teacher conference in elementary school is the perfect example. His 5th grade teacher is apparently fully aware of the turning point and its emotional pitfalls for parents and of course took full advantage of allowing us to appreciate the moment of his last conference to its fullest. John worked hard to prepare a power point presentation which he presented standing before us at a music stand turned podium to present his accomplishments in his year of learning to date.

Craig and I both noticed how tall he’s grown. John loved rising to the occasion to run the show before us with no help, as a grown up would, explaining to us all the finer nuances of life as big man on campus in the 5th grade. But I also noticed that this man child still has a shy way of tilting his chin down and looking at us with upturned eyes, an old familiar trait we’ve seen since he was a toddler, and flashes of that charming, natural smile that could light my world on its darkest day.

Then, the two of them, he and his teacher, pulled the rug out from under our feet. John took a seat at the table before us and said, “Mom and Dad, I’d like to finish by reading you this letter I wrote to you.”

My heart began racing and I could feel my heart pounding in my temples. I could feel it coming.

His letter began, “Dear Mom and Dad, It’s almost the end of the year! Can you believe it? I can’t. The last 11 years have been awesome! You guys are the reason why they have been awesome so I want to say thank you.”

I could not stop the tears, and I glanced to my left to witness the same from John’s dad. His letter went on to note things like, “Thanks for supporting me at all of my sports games cheering me on whether we win or lose. When I am sick you are always there to take care of me.”

“Thanks for teaching me about sports. You taught me to play baseball, football, basketball and more!”

Their coup worked and their little victory provided me with a moment I will always remember. Now, with that letter tucked away, we have one summer to go before we walk right into the next chapter of our lives and finally reach that bit of cottage cheese stuck there on our elbow.