Music to My Ears

When John was two years old he was already a veteran at music class.  He’d been attending since he was an infant when he would sit in my lap and we would bounce to the rhythm, or I would tap his knees or clap his hands.  As he grew, we listened to music almost every night at bedtime.  We sang during the day and played CD’s that he eventually knew by heart.

As he got older, and continued in his weekly music class, the children of course, became more engaged in the activities, dancing, playing instruments, waving scarves and taking part in organized wiggling.  But John was so very bashful he would never join in.  Each week he would sit quietly in my lap and observe the silly antics of the others.  No amount of encouragement or coaxing could entice him to join in.  Each week his wonderful and wise instructor would lightly and gently say to us, “That’s ok, he’s getting it right where he is.”  I would be consumed with worry on the inside and she would instinctively say, “Don’t worry, he is just fine, he is taking it all in and he will join in his own time you’ll see.”

Week after week my toddler would timidly observe from a safe distance as his teacher routinely passed beautiful wooden tone bars and a mallet to each child, and we would all sing while each played a special rhythm, and then each child pass the bars to the next child.  Each week when it came to his turn, John would stare down at his hands folded in his lap, chubby knuckle to chubby knuckle, and refuse to look up.

            His wise and wonderful teacher would flash that carefree, no worries in the world smile at him anyway and say brightly, “That’s OK John, “ and move on without skipping a beat.

I can remember my heart sinking each time, as I rested my chin on the top of his quiet little head, each of us staring straight ahead, lost in our own mommy and son thoughts.

Finally the last class of the summer session, I watched as the little girl next to John gently sat the tone bars on the floor in front of him and reached out to hand him the mallets.  His turn had come again, and finally, he gingerly reached out and took the mallets from her and ever so softly began tapping out his little two-tone melody, but it sounded like a symphony to my ears.  His wise and wonderful teacher caught my eye and even though we didn’t share words, we shared every bit of that triumphant moment as we witnessed John step out of his private world of protection into a brave new place for him.  I will never forget it.

It is just one of dozens of life’s most precious moments shared with our wonderful and wise music teacher, Jan Vidruk, or “Miss Jan” as she reluctantly allows my boys to refer to her.  She has been a part of both of my son’s lives for almost 13 years.  The brilliant and magical program my sons have had the privlidge to take part in includes music, drumming, stories, pretending, acting, and songs as well as hundreds of things they have no idea they’ve even learned.  Things I have been humming to them since they were infants, they didn’t know why, later, when they were learning to play those same songs on the piano that they sounded so familiar.  They have learned that waving a scarf up as the notes go up and down as the notes go down is a fun game.  They didn’t know they were learning about musical scales.  They have learned that tapping certain rhythms goes with certain songs.  They didn’t know they were learning, quarter notes, 8^th notes and 16^th notes or ¾ time.  Never mind the research that shows correlation between music and learning, I can show the correlation between music and joy.  I have seen it, felt it, sung it, celebrated it. 

The only thing more amazing than what these little musicians learn, is the dedication and devotion to the world of music demonstrated day in and day out by our wise and wonderful teacher, who, in her spare time, dedicates hours to promoting the combination of music and movement taught simultaneously, as my children have had the opportunity to learn.  If it is a new concept to you and you are interested in music or teaching, I urge you to check out her passion, the Early Childhood Music and Movement Association, ECMMA, which is holding it’s International Convention in Green Lake Wisconsin in August.  Find them at www.ecmma.org

My hope is that more wise and wonderful teachers will be born from this international convention in our own backyard, and that more children will have the amazing opportunity that mine have had, to experience music and movement melded into a seamless program from tapping their knees to tapping the keyboard and carrying them into middle school band or orchestra or choir, and beyond, to a lifetime that includes music.

That's When I Knew I Was Pretending

             It’s the middle of the night and my dog, Bucky, is beside my bed panting in my face and pacing about in nervous frustration.  In spite of the fact that he is losing his hearing, and he has cataracts that make his vision poor, he is still the first in the family to know a thunderstorm is coming.  Once I gather my senses, I can see the room lighting up and realize there is lightening close by.  After being with our family for seven years, Bucky has never once even raised his head during a battering down-pour, or batted an eyelash in ear splitting thunder; until now.  No one knows what triggered his change of heart, but he certainly is not happy or able to calm himself while a storm moves through. 

It’s just another sign of change around here that I am trying to ignore.  We don’t know exactly how old Bucky is, but we do know he’s a senior citizen.  His white face gives him away.  And there are other signs.  We have to talk him into eating breakfast in the morning.  He’s not as fast on his walks as he used to be.  And he sometimes seems confused about all the activity around here. I know how he feels, but my reaction to his sure signs of aging, is to pretend I don’t see, to fool myself into keeping Bucky young and spry. 

The same defense I’ve been using to disguise all the emotions I feel as our youngest makes his way through the last days of elementary school.  Can it be possible that we will leave this building behind?  I had tricked myself into believing that I would not have to do this, that it would not happen to me, that my baby would somehow defy the odds and live in some sort of suspended world where he never aged beyond the perfect years of innocence here in the early grades of learning.  I have been able to sleepwalk through the talk of end of year parties, and 5^th grade celebrations. 

But now the warm summer breezes are blowing through my living room and we are somehow suddenly here.  We’ve somehow arrived at the place I liked to think I wasn’t going to get to.  Here before my eyes is the date on the calendar, circled and starred, and highlighted with exclamation marks; the last day of school, the last day of life as we know it, in the familiar easy routine we have grown accustomed to since, just two weeks after he became old enough to go to school, we sent Jake bravely walking through these doors into his new exciting phase of life.  And now, in a mere blink, we are closing those doors up tight. Can it even be possible? 

But of course it is.  This boy on the verge of young man is bursting at the seams to bust out of these doors, to race into the next phase, to tackle middle school at full tilt, just as he attacked grade school, without a glance in the rear view mirror. 

And as I dig in my heels to slow it all down I realize it’s time to let go and embrace his moment in the sun, here as king of the grade school, and just run with him.

And in case I want to hide my head in the sand and pretend, as I would like to, that it’s not really happening, the school is coming to my rescue with proof positive that he’s moving on. 

The tradition at Jake’s school is that next year’s 5^th graders celebrate the outgoing class of 5^th graders by showering them with cheers and confetti as they literally walk through a tunnel of familiar faces leading them smiling and laughing into their next phase of life. The entire thing takes only a few seconds, and yet the symbolism and irony hangs there heavy for me like a silent movie taking it’s time to sink in.  

With just enough time to grab a quick picture if I’m lucky, I will feel rushed to capture the moment before it’s past, and just as I do, the school assembly is over, the kids are out the door and the confetti covered gym is quiet.  One phase ended and another begun, so simply and so out of my control, despite my efforts to the contrary.

And so, I do the only thing I know how to do now, put a smile on my face, and begin to pretend that middle school will never lead to the next step.   

Getaway

It was months in the planning, and the effort was nothing short of organizing a peace summit.  Of course the chance to leave town for even a day or two without taking the children along is a crazy notion due to the excessive planning, orchestrating of schedules and inconvenience to others who bear the responsibility for my children in my absence.  But this time would be even crazier since we were talking about a full week away.  Seven days hanging out in California sounded so delightful even I didn’t balk at the work involved to pull it off.  At least not while I was booking my travel.

            It wasn’t until reality set in a few days later and the true advance work got underway.  My parents would be summoned to care for the children, neighbors and friends would be called upon to help with carting them from event to event.  The house would need to be in order, laundry done, guest quarters prepared, insurance information would be disseminated to all the appropriate parties, schedules printed out with instructions for daily routines like allergy pills and bed time reading.  Of course as the days grew closer, the incredible stress of getting it all done grew ever heavier leading to lists being made to remember the last list.  I found myself at times standing in random rooms in a complete stupor so overwhelmed by the amount of tasks to be finished that it rendered me unable to decide where to start.  One day I found myself putting fresh broccoli away in the pantry. 

            What would I forget to pack? What if I forgot something important for the kids?  What if I missed my connecting flight in Chicago?  When the day before my departure arrived I was thrilled. I couldn’t wait to escape all this madness I had created.  And the day passed like a flash before my eyes.  I was packing in a frenzy, since of course I left my own planning and preparation until the last minute.  In an instant I was saying good night to two tearful boys and suddenly everything changed.  Suddenly all I could think of is, “What if something goes wrong?”  What if one of them is sick or gets hurt?  What if something happens to me?  What if this was all a huge mistake? Maybe I should never have decided to go?  Even taking off the in the early hours of the following morning I still had apprehension about my decision.

            It wasn’t’ until my body was adjusting to California time that I finally came to my senses.  I began to realize how much we parents needed time away, time to ourselves, time to be two instead of four, time to invest in us.  And each day I was separated from those two parts of me back home was a day I learned more about the boys they have become and the mom I have become.  We talked and texted and laughed and missed each other and we all grew in our own ways to appreciate each other a little more, to pine away for hugs and old familiar routine that we sometimes take for granted.  In the end, I couldn’t wait to see them, at the foot of the stairs at the airport.  I swear they had grown, and not just in inches.  We all did.  I am so happy that all the planning, daunting execution, and exhausting travel was worth it for all of us.  Now I just have to decide where to go next!

The More Things Change The More They Stay The Same

“Maaaa-Maaaaa!” 

The wailing is coming from my first born from down the hall.  He was about 15 months old, standing in his “cribbie”, as we called it back then, shaking the railings and letting us all know how mad he was.  It was the culmination of days and weeks of preparation by his dad and I, after careful consultation with his pediatrician, books, magazines, relatives, and friends.   John was going to have to learn to sooth himself at bed and naptime and this was the day we determined we would let him cry it out despite pleas to “sing song mommy!”

As the firstborn child to parents who put off having children until later in their professional working careers, he was perhaps overly welcomed into the world having his every whim catered to without delay. So this rude jolt to his system didn’t pass quietly. 

Standing in the bathroom with the fan vent blowing full blast I was crying as much, if not more, than my sweet, sweet baby down the hall.  I remember the complete emotional upheaval my body endured that day and the following days as he managed to learn how to fall asleep without the lengthy routine we had grown into over time; the routine that I loved beyond words in the beginning with gentle rocking and humming but one that eventually became so drawn out and frankly so ridiculously demanding requiring actual stealth maneuvers leaving his room after his little princely eyelashes had finally closed, that we came to this point.

I was so grateful when it had passed; I never dreamed I would battle that same war again a few years later when, at 3 it was time to go to sleep without a “nook” to pacify him.  We had tried every tactic we could think of to encourage him to give up his habit on his own.  But naturally, expecting him to break his own habit and spare me the toll of taking it from him was out of the question.  And so, we explained, reasoned, and finally walked out of the room of a sobbing 3 year old and down the hall to have my own emotional breakdown, mourning the difficult decision to let go of another milestone in this journey we had not expected to be so heart wrenching.

And so it’s been with my oldest all these years, true to his earliest nature, the cautious observer, the one to hold on as long as possible to the familiar, to cling tightly to routine and never stray far from the comforts of home.

That’s why preschool found me again, sitting in my car in the parking lot, head against the steering wheel, again searching my soul for strength to drive away from the pleading outstretched arms and tear stained chubby cheeks standing just inside the red door a dozen feet away.  How tempted I was to just sweep him up and take him back home and just do it all another day.  How tempting it was to try and fool time, and actually hold on as tightly as he was to the moment I really didn’t want to pass either.

I remember once actually returning to the same preschool to say good bye again a half an hour after I realized I had forgotten to slow down and wave at the window where he stood each day for the final glimpse of mama driving away.

And so, is it any wonder now, as he stands at the threshold of another turning point in his life that I would simply like to stop time and allow him to just wait a little while longer for it to happen.  And is it any wonder that my boy, a teenager now, hesitates to embrace all the freedoms, changes, rebellions and experiences that await him on the other side.

And so, here we stand, his father and I, again debating our age old story with this beautiful, blue eyed teenager who we love more than life itself but we know won’t mature without a nudge.  So, it should come as no surprise that it is once again upon me, this feeling I keep thinking I have left behind at a stage long passed but instead it seeps in through all of my pores, all of my senses, and pulls at my heart.  I am again standing at the edge of change, preparing myself as much as my son for the task at hand, the next steps of growing up that are so much less clear cut and simple as giving up a nook, but just as important in the journey as changing from an infant, to a toddler, to a boy and now to a young man.  All we have to do now is jump. 

Revival of the Fittest

Out with the old.  It’s the American way right?  We are constantly looking for bigger, newer, better stuff.  It’s like the Olympics of our lives as we constantly strive for higher, faster, stronger cars, electronics, homes, appliances, furnishings, vacations, clothes.  You name it, for nearly everything we already have; something else will inevitably come along begging to be its replacement.

For me, recycling helps fight the urge to over-spend.  It is saving us thousands of dollars we frankly don’t have anyway so you can’t really count it as saved, but it’s the principal of the thing.  My weakness is decorating.  So many new and updated things I see in magazines tempt me and all those decorating shows I’m addicted to don’t help either.

So, lately, we’ve been “re-decorating” by “re-purposing” many things in our home that we already have.  The idea is that when you put them in a new place or use them in a new way it tricks my brain into thinking we have a hip new look and then I’m happy. 

Over the years we’ve re-arranged the furniture in many of the rooms of our home many times over.  But the itch had never spread to our son’s bedrooms, until recently.  This proves how desperate I am, since they really don’t understand what all the fuss is about.  I’m pretty sure they would have been happy to graduate from high school with the same bedspread, covering the same bed, sitting in the same spot in the same room they have been tucked into since they were using pacifiers.

But, no!  That simply won’t do and all the talk of re-arranging rooms eventually led my youngest to suggest that he switch rooms and move into the spare bedroom.  “Great!” I thought.   “Even better! Now you’re talking!”

Finally someone else was getting into the spirit of this mission I’d been solo flying for so long.  Finally a makeover project I could really sink my teeth into and it wouldn’t cost anything but a little good old-fashioned elbow grease!

Unfortunately, the process to switch rooms included de-cluttering a room that included year’s worth of collecting rocks, buttons, football and baseball cards, Legos, coins, school art work and all assortments of other vitally important treasures.  And there was the small matter of the bed.   It was purchased years ago when it was first discovered the youngster was a collector of stuff for the very purpose of holding more stuff.  So it includes built in cubbies and drawers and shelves and of course they all had to be emptied and then taken apart board by board in order to make the journey 15 feet to the north.

And, upon further review, the guest futon in the other room wouldn’t make the corner into the new room without another de-construction project of it’s own. 

By noon, all the collections were in bins and boxes and both beds lay in piles in their appointed new living spaces.  My re-decorating partner was losing enthusiasm, as he was medicating for the anticipated backache that was already ramping up to extra strength level, and wondering if the fingernail that was crushed in setting down a heavy load would indeed fall off or just turn black. 

 I on the other hand, was virtually high with decorating deliria, I could see light at the end of the tunnel and the drive to see the finished product; the “after” picture took over.  I pushed through the final miles like an Olympic-marathoner, re-building, re-arranging, and re-working the disaster that made up my son’s smaller original room into the bigger more spacious room that would be his new organized space.  

When school was out, my son came home to a room that seemed fabulous and new, but not a thing in there was actually new.  He was thrilled and jumped into his bed declaring, “This is awesome!”

Cha-ching!  All the payment I needed was collected at that moment. Plus, I thought it was awesome too.  It looked and felt different and special.

Weeks later there are varying levels of support for my desire to continue with my ever-emerging plans to update and spruce up what we already love here in our home by diving into my older son’s living space.  I see so much potential, so much promise, for a great teenage hang out.  Others in my household see the promise of other less appealing things.  And I will admit, there’s a little work involved since this time I am involving a change in paint color, and maybe a closet re-vamp.  But hey, the way I see it, we’re saving a bundle.  

   

Happy "Valentines"

Re-posting some old thoughts from a few Valentine's Days ago.

 Valentine's Day has never been a day I celebrate. I don't expect flowers, don't even want a card and frankly wouldn't even notice it if not for the advertising to guilt my husband into buying me something to make me feel special on this special day.

Don't get me wrong. I'll cut out paper hearts with the kids, set out bowls of those little heart candies and help decorate valentines to pass out at school. And I admit it isn't bad having something to look forward to on these long dreary winter months.
What I love more than anything in the world is celebrating little impromptu Valentines exchanges on random days and moments throughout the year.

Like my 4-year-olds new habit of responding to any annoyed motherly look by quickly saying, "I love you Mommy!"

I love that our first-grader is practicing his new writing skills at school. At the writing center he is allowed to use stationary and envelopes to work on his own project. Very frequently while unpacking his backpack in the afternoon I'll find a sealed envelope covered in stickers with "to mom" or "to dad" scrawled in pencil across the front and a letter inside saying, " I love my dad. He is the best dad."  

I love that my husband and I figured out the other day that last March was the last time we had a babysitter for something other than work … and neither one of us cared.

I love that my elderly dog is now slow enough that I walk him around the block instead of the other way around. And my cat, while just as elderly, allows the boys to squash him with love and purrs to prove it.

I love that my boys end every phone conversation, no matter how brief, with "love you!"

I love those stolen blue-eyed glances I catch when I'm volunteering in the classroom or watching a gym class. The quick look-and-see-if mom-sees-me-and-look-away-if -she-does looks. 

I love the tender bedtime confessions of "mom I don't ever want to get married and move away. I want to live with you forever."

It's not that I don't appreciate a day to pay tribute to love and friendship. Heaven knows we need more of that in this world. I just don't like the added pressure to somehow manufacture or come up with something that happens so wonderfully and naturally almost every day of the year with so little fanfare. If only we could bottle up those little moments for a real Valentine's Day gift at the price you ought to pay for something that precious -- free.

Cherish This Time

My friend’s heart is broken.  He lost his wife of more than 50 years last fall.  Stupid cancer.  Seeing him suffer breaks my heart too.  Tonight I was chatting with him about his cherished memories of their beautiful lifetime spent together and he said to me through tear filled eyes, “Cherish every moment, Pam.  It goes too fast.”

 

Seeing him suffer makes me feel desperate to do all I can to more fully appreciate all I have. I do try every day to cherish life and all of its precious moments.  To live each day to it’s fullest, appreciate my health while I’m healthy, to love my boys while they’re young and appreciate every nuance in each stage of development, to spend time with my parents and friends sharing conversation that has meaning and purpose, to laugh, to hug, to kiss goodnight.

But it is virtually impossible to open your heart and mind wide enough to fully fill every sense with appreciation for the countless things I have to be thankful for.  And I worry about whether I cherish every day enough?  Do I really treasure every moment that I have been given?  Am I doing enough to soak it all in, to see the beauty and promise, to enjoy the ride?

 Because, while I’d like to spend all my time in a state of appreciative euphoria, instead, the dog vomits on the floor, the cable goes out, the health insurance company denies your claim, gas prices go up, the kids have homework even I can’t figure out, laundry sits unfolded, and suddenly any sense of serene contemplation of my joyous gifts is put on hold to deal with, well my life.

It is the great mystery of life.  How am I able to cope with the disaster and chaos that presents itself so readily and randomly and at the same time be happy and grateful to have the opportunity to face life’s challenges knowing that the alternative is pretty grim.

When my first baby appeared in this world he was the greatest miracle I had ever witnessed.  And the feeling that surrounded our little family as we huddled over his beautiful, perfect, newborn arms and legs and toes and cap-covered head was as close to epiphany as I believe I have ever come; a time of unparalleled amazement, wonder, awe, humble relief, joy, satisfaction, and pride.  Then, he cried.  He cried, and cried, and cried.  It was ritualistic.  Every day like clockwork he would start in the late afternoon and continue for hours, undaunted by any and all attempts to offer relief.  It was like war.  Our dog would stand with his face pressed against the garage door begging to escape the insane noise of the household. 

Brutally tired, frustrated, and instinctively jealous of all the maternal images of peaceful snuggling bundles of joy, I can remember the feelings I desperately tried to control and dissect when I would hear the inevitable phrase, “Treasure this time with your baby, it goes by so fast.”

I can remember being alone in my room listening to the crying coming down the hall as I took a break from the front line, sarcastically longing to shout to the world what I really thought of this time with my baby.  It went on this way for six weeks, the longest no doubt of my life.  But now, when I consider the first 42 days with my son, it seems fair to say, while I didn’t treasure those times then, I somehow do now.

With that perspective in mind, while I seek a way to achieve a higher level of consciousness where I can savor every delightful breath for the miracle it really is, I also look for ways to best cope with the now moments that I know I will cherish in due time, once they’ve ripened.  While I strive for a road with fewer bumps, I may not drive it, so whatever scenery the journey brings I hope to enjoy the ride the best I can with humor, patience, and gratitude and know I’m doing the best I can when I fail.

And this long cold winter, I pray for peace for my friend and all who are suffering from the cruel reality of losing their beloved, and hope happy memories will sustain.