Some things are simple. Simple and beautiful. Like an unexpected Snow Day (yes, I capitalize all major holidays).
Oh, I know. I know. There is much shoveling to be done. And nerve racking, fishtailing car rides to appointments that must be kept. And a person can go absolutely bonkers anticipating the inevitable piles of wool socks and jeans that will soon appear, damp with melted snow, piled up in unmanageable heaps at the back door. Someone must address those piles.
Yes, but. . . .
Would it really kill us to commit to doing nothing else but staring out our snow-dappled windows into the wonderland that appeared silently overnight? Tell me what would happen if we succumbed to the siren song of hot cocoa and a fire, rather than the unsorted pile of tax-year paperwork.
No, let me tell you what would happen.
Nothing.
Nothing, except that our heartbeats would slow and our minds would calm down. Nothing, except that we would suddenly recall one January day in 1974 when we could not for the life of us open our back door, so deep was the snow that came up to greet it.
Yes, It can be a dark and forbidding world. But not today. Not with all that fluffy permission outside that harkens lighter, younger times. And we would do well to listen to its quiet whispering.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Sunday, January 27, 2013
No More "Business as Usual," Please
People have a right to be concerned about the fate of U.S. public education, but I'd argue that much of their concern is wrongly placed. It is true that something is amiss. To me, much of what's wrong is rooted in education leaders' beliefs that the business model will save us, even though we have very little in common with that model.
Ah, but educators have never let irrelevance get in the way of our trendsetting.
Gone are the days when we sought out the input of teachers and students (although I'm not sure we've ever really sought out the input of our students--at least not enough) as we created public-school policies. These days, public-education leaders are anxiously elbowing each other in their enthusiasm to line up at the doorsteps of local businesses--these people are professionals, after all--ready to do whatever bidding these businessmen deem necessary " to save our sinking schools," which some cynics believe is really code for "to help train our new employees for us."
So enamored with the business model are these education leaders that they've even started to use new words for old things--always a warning sign to those keeping track. Gone are the principals--the go-to leaders in our schools--replaced with "administrators," whose job it seems is to do the bidding of those above them rather than to intervene for those who work below them.
I work with some terrific administrators--capable, creative, sharp folks who would readily go to bat for the rest of us. As much as they'd like to lead their flock, though, it seems that much of their time is spent delivering to us edicts that come from above. Essentially they've become middle managers, even though I'm pretty sure that they originally signed up to be leaders.
Another problem with education's fixation on the business model is that we've misinterpreted who our clients are. Why is it we continue to seek the input and direction, the approval and support of local businesses? Because we've mistaken them for our clients. Our clients are our students. It is true that many of them are poor, few of them can vote and none of them pays property taxes. But that doesn't make them something other than our clients. Why, then, do we spend so little time asking them what's working and what's not. Why don't we ask the students what they'd like us to offer?
Every business has a bottom line and that line comes down to costs and profits. I think one reason there are so many standardized tests administered in our public schools today is because we can think of no better way to report our profits to the public each year. Considering that it takes our clients at least 12 years to graduate from our programs, graduation rates don't hold the allure that standardized-test results offer to the public. The problem with this solution, though, is that we threaten our ability to create prophets--humans with a capability to lead--by focusing on these middling measures of our profits.
Not every problem in education has its roots in the business model, of course. Consider the slew of books written for educators, more and more of which teachers are being required to read. Too many of these books are written by people who spent nearly three years in the classroom, honing their expertise, until they realized they could make a heck of a lot more money telling other educators how do to their jobs than actually doing those jobs themselves. The tripe that passes for guidance in many of these books would make excellent bait for a catfish angler. Poorly written, often organized in a bulleted format (because well-formed sentences and paragraphs are so exhausting to write), few are deserving of the price tag placed upon them.
Another problem, frankly, is tenure. I know this is not a popular thing for me to say, unless you are a businessman (whose opinion, in this instance, should be sought and followed by educators) . But the truth is, if I'm no good at my job, I need someone else to train and support me so that I get better at that job. But if I continue to perform in a sub-par way, I should find a new profession. Obviously, tenure is important if it prevents someone from firing me for my beliefs or lifestyle, unless those things threaten someone's safety or interrupt the free flow of ideas and growth in our clients. But tenure as rubber stamp of approval isn't particularly helpful to a profession that has a reputation problem already.
If education can't shake its love affair with the business model, then I'd like to recommend one model in particular. Mark works as a cabinet maker at Duncan Aviation, an industry leader. There, employees work in creative collaboration with each other, encouraged by their leaders to take risks, explore new paths, learn from mistakes and build something even better and more beautiful than before. In an industry replete with uncountable hoops and regulations, Duncan is a leader because it listens to its workers, it trusts the ingenuity of the human mind, it knows the value of risking failure in order to find success.
Sounds like a perfect model for education, which is in desperate need of a new role model.
Sign me up.
Ah, but educators have never let irrelevance get in the way of our trendsetting.
Gone are the days when we sought out the input of teachers and students (although I'm not sure we've ever really sought out the input of our students--at least not enough) as we created public-school policies. These days, public-education leaders are anxiously elbowing each other in their enthusiasm to line up at the doorsteps of local businesses--these people are professionals, after all--ready to do whatever bidding these businessmen deem necessary " to save our sinking schools," which some cynics believe is really code for "to help train our new employees for us."
So enamored with the business model are these education leaders that they've even started to use new words for old things--always a warning sign to those keeping track. Gone are the principals--the go-to leaders in our schools--replaced with "administrators," whose job it seems is to do the bidding of those above them rather than to intervene for those who work below them.
I work with some terrific administrators--capable, creative, sharp folks who would readily go to bat for the rest of us. As much as they'd like to lead their flock, though, it seems that much of their time is spent delivering to us edicts that come from above. Essentially they've become middle managers, even though I'm pretty sure that they originally signed up to be leaders.
Another problem with education's fixation on the business model is that we've misinterpreted who our clients are. Why is it we continue to seek the input and direction, the approval and support of local businesses? Because we've mistaken them for our clients. Our clients are our students. It is true that many of them are poor, few of them can vote and none of them pays property taxes. But that doesn't make them something other than our clients. Why, then, do we spend so little time asking them what's working and what's not. Why don't we ask the students what they'd like us to offer?
Every business has a bottom line and that line comes down to costs and profits. I think one reason there are so many standardized tests administered in our public schools today is because we can think of no better way to report our profits to the public each year. Considering that it takes our clients at least 12 years to graduate from our programs, graduation rates don't hold the allure that standardized-test results offer to the public. The problem with this solution, though, is that we threaten our ability to create prophets--humans with a capability to lead--by focusing on these middling measures of our profits.
Not every problem in education has its roots in the business model, of course. Consider the slew of books written for educators, more and more of which teachers are being required to read. Too many of these books are written by people who spent nearly three years in the classroom, honing their expertise, until they realized they could make a heck of a lot more money telling other educators how do to their jobs than actually doing those jobs themselves. The tripe that passes for guidance in many of these books would make excellent bait for a catfish angler. Poorly written, often organized in a bulleted format (because well-formed sentences and paragraphs are so exhausting to write), few are deserving of the price tag placed upon them.
Another problem, frankly, is tenure. I know this is not a popular thing for me to say, unless you are a businessman (whose opinion, in this instance, should be sought and followed by educators) . But the truth is, if I'm no good at my job, I need someone else to train and support me so that I get better at that job. But if I continue to perform in a sub-par way, I should find a new profession. Obviously, tenure is important if it prevents someone from firing me for my beliefs or lifestyle, unless those things threaten someone's safety or interrupt the free flow of ideas and growth in our clients. But tenure as rubber stamp of approval isn't particularly helpful to a profession that has a reputation problem already.
If education can't shake its love affair with the business model, then I'd like to recommend one model in particular. Mark works as a cabinet maker at Duncan Aviation, an industry leader. There, employees work in creative collaboration with each other, encouraged by their leaders to take risks, explore new paths, learn from mistakes and build something even better and more beautiful than before. In an industry replete with uncountable hoops and regulations, Duncan is a leader because it listens to its workers, it trusts the ingenuity of the human mind, it knows the value of risking failure in order to find success.
Sounds like a perfect model for education, which is in desperate need of a new role model.
Sign me up.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Amy Vanderbilt Takes on Facebook, Kind Of. . . .
If
Amy Vanderbilt were alive today, I imagine she’d curl her
perfectly-shaped lips at the very idea of Facebook. Heck, my lips,
which are hardly perfectly-shaped and sometimes crack a bit,
have been curling for the past week and I’m not easily offended or
particularly polite.
Perusing Facebook posts, you would never know that the campaign season is over. In fact, it feels to me that people are spewing their rhetoric at an ever-greater fever pitch, their fingers spontaneously combusting as the vitriol leeches from their bodies and leaks onto the keyboard.
When I (hesitantly) signed up for Facebook a few years ago, after getting the swing of things, my greatest joy was in de-cooling something the younger generation had thought they discovered. I still get a kick out of posting a lousy pun and have trouble resisting occasional bouts of toilet humor, but I must say that the mean people out there are starting to de-cool the medium for me, too.
So, maybe it’s time for a few lessons from “Amy Vanderbilt’s Complete Book of Etiquette” For a book written long before the digital revolution, many of these lessons still resonate, even if the examples seem a little silly.
Dear Amy: Why does my FB friend post such uncomfortable things?
Amy: “There are people who seem to have been born tactful and others who, no matter what they are told or how often they offend consciously or unconsciously, continue their stream of personal questions to the discomfort of all those with whom they come in contact. I'd never ask my best friend whether he or she had dyed hair, false teeth, a wooden leg.”
Dear Amy: I’ve got a FB friend who lashes out online. What should I do?
Amy: “When people are angry and abusive toward some friend, associate, or
member of their family, don't take sides. Listen, refrain from expressing an
opinion, and stay objective, though vaguely sympathetic.”
Dear Amy: Some FB friends think everyone agrees with their opinions. Uh, that isn’t actually true. Why do they assume such a thing?
Amy: “If we know nothing of our neighbor's beliefs or background we may unwittingly offend him. If we have only a vague idea of his religious customs and taboos we may seem discourteous by our failure to respect them in our contact with him. Intolerance often stems from our primitive suspicion of anything that is different or not a part of our own experience.”
Dear Amy: How can I avoid FB confrontations?
Amy: “The hostess with any experience avoids asking a guest who might well turn out to be a thorn in the side to other guests present. If it is necessary to entertain such a burr, she restricts others present to her immediate family, whose reactions she hopes she can control with signals. A clever hostess can say in the midst of a heated argument, "Joe, we can't all follow you in debate, but I know I'm dying to hear you beat out that boogie-woogie."
Dear Amy: I'm thinking about unfriending someone. Any advice?
Amy: Divorce should never be entered into in the midst of battle but should follow, if all efforts of settlement of differences fail, only after as lengthy a separation as possible. It is not only poor taste but a foolhardy procedure to air one's domestic troubles in public.
Ah, but even Amy’s not perfect. . .
Amy on bacon: “Very crisp bacon may be eaten in the fingers if breaking it with a fork would scatter bits over the table. Bacon with any vestige of fat must be cut with fork or knife and eaten with the fork.”
A fork.
Yeah, right!
Perusing Facebook posts, you would never know that the campaign season is over. In fact, it feels to me that people are spewing their rhetoric at an ever-greater fever pitch, their fingers spontaneously combusting as the vitriol leeches from their bodies and leaks onto the keyboard.
When I (hesitantly) signed up for Facebook a few years ago, after getting the swing of things, my greatest joy was in de-cooling something the younger generation had thought they discovered. I still get a kick out of posting a lousy pun and have trouble resisting occasional bouts of toilet humor, but I must say that the mean people out there are starting to de-cool the medium for me, too.
So, maybe it’s time for a few lessons from “Amy Vanderbilt’s Complete Book of Etiquette” For a book written long before the digital revolution, many of these lessons still resonate, even if the examples seem a little silly.
Dear Amy: Why does my FB friend post such uncomfortable things?
Amy: “There are people who seem to have been born tactful and others who, no matter what they are told or how often they offend consciously or unconsciously, continue their stream of personal questions to the discomfort of all those with whom they come in contact. I'd never ask my best friend whether he or she had dyed hair, false teeth, a wooden leg.”
Dear Amy: I’ve got a FB friend who lashes out online. What should I do?
Amy: “When people are angry and abusive toward some friend, associate, or
member of their family, don't take sides. Listen, refrain from expressing an
opinion, and stay objective, though vaguely sympathetic.”
Dear Amy: Some FB friends think everyone agrees with their opinions. Uh, that isn’t actually true. Why do they assume such a thing?
Amy: “If we know nothing of our neighbor's beliefs or background we may unwittingly offend him. If we have only a vague idea of his religious customs and taboos we may seem discourteous by our failure to respect them in our contact with him. Intolerance often stems from our primitive suspicion of anything that is different or not a part of our own experience.”
Dear Amy: How can I avoid FB confrontations?
Amy: “The hostess with any experience avoids asking a guest who might well turn out to be a thorn in the side to other guests present. If it is necessary to entertain such a burr, she restricts others present to her immediate family, whose reactions she hopes she can control with signals. A clever hostess can say in the midst of a heated argument, "Joe, we can't all follow you in debate, but I know I'm dying to hear you beat out that boogie-woogie."
Dear Amy: I'm thinking about unfriending someone. Any advice?
Amy: Divorce should never be entered into in the midst of battle but should follow, if all efforts of settlement of differences fail, only after as lengthy a separation as possible. It is not only poor taste but a foolhardy procedure to air one's domestic troubles in public.
Ah, but even Amy’s not perfect. . .
Amy on bacon: “Very crisp bacon may be eaten in the fingers if breaking it with a fork would scatter bits over the table. Bacon with any vestige of fat must be cut with fork or knife and eaten with the fork.”
A fork.
Yeah, right!
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Candle in the Wind
Tonight, upon learning we no longer had a working lighter in the house, Allison made a pronouncement.
"It's impossible for me to take a bath without a candle going."
I doubt she'll go without a bath tonight, but I rather like what she had to say about what's important to her.
There are lots of ways we let others know what's important to us. Sometimes, it's in what we refuse to do without. Other times, in what we avoid at all costs. And, still others, it's what we'll give up to keep the peace.
Teaching our kids how to choose where to place their own notices of importance is one of the trickiest, most valuable things we can do as parents. And, more often than not, we're probably teaching these things without even realizing it. Who among us hasn't been exhausted by someone who doesn't seem to know how to let go of something or how to discern between what matters and what doesn't? Who among us hasn't been that person ourselves?
And then I come back to that candle, that bath. Surely, valuing a quiet pleasure, while neither earth-shattering nor life-altering, nonetheless represents a willingness to shift gears. To sit. To do nothing but be and watch the dancing shapes against the wall. It is an act both simple and representative of something larger.
My point is that we shouldn't feel like all of our own notices of importance have to be nailed upon great and vast things. In fact, I'd recommend just the opposite. Sure, it's good to have a handful of "big ideas" that we cling furiously to. But we'd be fools to overlook the importance of small and simple things. Like a game of Scrabble with friends or the pleasure of a small candle dancing atop the rim of the bath, while we slip into the steamy water, nary a thought in our minds.
"It's impossible for me to take a bath without a candle going."
I doubt she'll go without a bath tonight, but I rather like what she had to say about what's important to her.
There are lots of ways we let others know what's important to us. Sometimes, it's in what we refuse to do without. Other times, in what we avoid at all costs. And, still others, it's what we'll give up to keep the peace.
Teaching our kids how to choose where to place their own notices of importance is one of the trickiest, most valuable things we can do as parents. And, more often than not, we're probably teaching these things without even realizing it. Who among us hasn't been exhausted by someone who doesn't seem to know how to let go of something or how to discern between what matters and what doesn't? Who among us hasn't been that person ourselves?
And then I come back to that candle, that bath. Surely, valuing a quiet pleasure, while neither earth-shattering nor life-altering, nonetheless represents a willingness to shift gears. To sit. To do nothing but be and watch the dancing shapes against the wall. It is an act both simple and representative of something larger.
My point is that we shouldn't feel like all of our own notices of importance have to be nailed upon great and vast things. In fact, I'd recommend just the opposite. Sure, it's good to have a handful of "big ideas" that we cling furiously to. But we'd be fools to overlook the importance of small and simple things. Like a game of Scrabble with friends or the pleasure of a small candle dancing atop the rim of the bath, while we slip into the steamy water, nary a thought in our minds.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
A Chance Meeting with my Teenaged Dad
Turns out, he was a rangy, rascally, smart 14-year-old version of the man I first met when I was born.
Reading about my teenaged dad's exploits on the Rock Creek Sluggers baseball team made me realize that, until last night, all of my images of Jim Raglin had been adult ones. It was a bit of a mind bend to imagine him in junior high, traveling to St. Louis to visit his grandparents and catch a Cardinals game. Apparently, he considered himself quite a student of the game, bringing home what he'd observed on the field to direct the newly-formed, short-lived Rock Creek Sluggers to a respectable one-loss season.
I don't know what compelled the adult version of teammate Carl Faler to write down the story of that 1938 baseball team, but I'm mighty glad he did. Stretched out over 7 typed pages, there was my father, only a teen, but already showing glimpses of the man he'd become. From the words on those pages, I watched my dad lead his teammates into the belly of the beast--a game against a cross-town baseball team comprised of hooligans and thugs--guide his team to a win and then direct them to run for the hills to avoid a post-game whupping.
Thank goodness Carl was a good writer. He made it easy for me to slip myself into the story, panting frantically in the footsteps of the Rock Creek Sluggers as their adreneline-soaked legs pumped them towards the safety of a malt shop in downtown Independence. I took a seat in the corner, not wanting to call attention to myself. From there, I could watch my dad negotiate deluxe malts at a discount price for his victorious teammates. From there, I learned that, even back then, he had a knack for reaching across the aisle, finding common ground, using humor for good.
It's been over 19 years since my dad died. I was only 31 then. That sounds so young today. He died knowing the mostly-young Jane. He died the adult man I'd known my whole life. Last night, I met the young Jim Raglin, the kid with a glimmer in his eyes.
Once again, even 19 years gone, he managed to build a bridge for me.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Soaking It In
Allison came home around midnight last night and, because she is young, she dawdled a bit before heading to bed. I suppose she got on her phone and texted some friends. The last thing she did before going to sleep, though, had nothing to do with her being young. She took a bath. A very, very long bath.
In fact, I found myself quietly rapping on the bathroom door around 1:30, hazy with sleep and slightly confused by the sound of running water but the absence of light coming from under the door. A minute or two later, we exchanged "hellos" in the hallway and I walked into a small room thick with humidity, the waxy scent of a recently snubbed candle wafting its way upward.
It pleases me that my children take baths. Granted, in a shower-free household, there are really practical reasons for me to love that my children take baths, but it's the other reasons that make me smile.
Patience
Try as you may, it is impossible to take a quick bath. "Quick bath," in fact, is an oxymoron, kind of like "fun run" or "jumbo shrimp." You have to plan ahead to take a bath. And you have to be patient when you get there, as well. Our tub is deep and long and takes a good 10 minutes or so to reach an acceptable level, not to mention the right temperature. I imagine entire herds of showerers have come and gone in the time it takes me just to plug the drain and adjust the water temperature.
I also imagine that there is a direct correlation between those who shower and those who honk their horns impatiently in traffic. And, while I'm at it, I bet no bathers have ever been arrested for road rage.
You might say, then, that living in a shower-free household is actually a part of my parenting plan. You'd be lying, but you still might say it, though.
Pleasure
I doubt that my showering brethren have ever even heard of epsom salts, more or less tossed a handful into the shower. What would the point of that be, after all? Bathers, however, know the value of a good soak and the pleasure of occasionally kicking it up a notch with some salts or a good-smelling candle. A decent music CD is nice, as well, since most baths take at least three or four songs.
An offshoot of the Pleasure Principal of Bathing is that, when bathers do find ourselves in the presence of an available shower, we can't get over what a novelty it is. A shower is a thing of efficient beauty, its water-delivery system both invigorating and shockingly stark. Talk to a bather, post vacation, and you'll probably hear a comment or two about the motel's shower. We're an easy-to-please lot, although we're always glad to get home to our soap-ringed tubs.
On those cold winter nights, when a hot bath beckons, I can think of nothing better than slipping down into the steamy water, submerging my head up to my cheeks, and just laying there, my hair floating alongside me. Lifelong bathers can spend heaps of time doing absolutely nothing in a tub, our silence making others think there's no one in the bathroom at all.
Frankly, this hectic world could use a few more baths, oval-shaped porcelain oases of warmth and solitude that care not a whit about expediency and vigor.
In fact, I found myself quietly rapping on the bathroom door around 1:30, hazy with sleep and slightly confused by the sound of running water but the absence of light coming from under the door. A minute or two later, we exchanged "hellos" in the hallway and I walked into a small room thick with humidity, the waxy scent of a recently snubbed candle wafting its way upward.
It pleases me that my children take baths. Granted, in a shower-free household, there are really practical reasons for me to love that my children take baths, but it's the other reasons that make me smile.
Patience
Try as you may, it is impossible to take a quick bath. "Quick bath," in fact, is an oxymoron, kind of like "fun run" or "jumbo shrimp." You have to plan ahead to take a bath. And you have to be patient when you get there, as well. Our tub is deep and long and takes a good 10 minutes or so to reach an acceptable level, not to mention the right temperature. I imagine entire herds of showerers have come and gone in the time it takes me just to plug the drain and adjust the water temperature.
I also imagine that there is a direct correlation between those who shower and those who honk their horns impatiently in traffic. And, while I'm at it, I bet no bathers have ever been arrested for road rage.
You might say, then, that living in a shower-free household is actually a part of my parenting plan. You'd be lying, but you still might say it, though.
Pleasure
I doubt that my showering brethren have ever even heard of epsom salts, more or less tossed a handful into the shower. What would the point of that be, after all? Bathers, however, know the value of a good soak and the pleasure of occasionally kicking it up a notch with some salts or a good-smelling candle. A decent music CD is nice, as well, since most baths take at least three or four songs.
An offshoot of the Pleasure Principal of Bathing is that, when bathers do find ourselves in the presence of an available shower, we can't get over what a novelty it is. A shower is a thing of efficient beauty, its water-delivery system both invigorating and shockingly stark. Talk to a bather, post vacation, and you'll probably hear a comment or two about the motel's shower. We're an easy-to-please lot, although we're always glad to get home to our soap-ringed tubs.
On those cold winter nights, when a hot bath beckons, I can think of nothing better than slipping down into the steamy water, submerging my head up to my cheeks, and just laying there, my hair floating alongside me. Lifelong bathers can spend heaps of time doing absolutely nothing in a tub, our silence making others think there's no one in the bathroom at all.
Frankly, this hectic world could use a few more baths, oval-shaped porcelain oases of warmth and solitude that care not a whit about expediency and vigor.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Ground Control to Major Mom
On the verge of a new semester, my mind isn't committed entirely to my students. I've also reserved a synapse or two for my own children, just because that's the kind of mom I am. And I'm pleasantly surprised with what the kids are doing with those few synapses they've been allotted.
Eric, whose feet are firmly set in the future, spoke of apartment living come next year. He's been saving like a banshee for that possibility, living on a shoestring budget while building up a small apartment-fund fortune in his savings, his ransom for freedom. That he may end up rooming with his oldest friend, Dylan, a girl he met in our alley 15 years ago, is music to my ears. I love Dylan like a daughter, maybe even more so, considering I didn't have to birth or raise or finance her.
I'm no fool. I know that, if those apartment-living plans come to fruition, it'll mean an end to Eric's occasional man-room takeovers, events we secretly love. It'll also mark the next step towards him taking full control of his life. As a mom who is still nuts about her kid, those things can be hard to swallow, but I would rather choke down his decisions with a glass of cold milk than disrupt the flow of Eric's future just for the sake of my emotional well being.
Allison, too, is toying with my emotional well-being these days. But in a good way, as well. Just yesterday, she spoke of how excited she was about the future, how she felt she'd taken good steps to ensure its details, from applying to attend LPS's technology-focused school next year to seeking out film-production workshops available next summer. It's obvious she sees a clear path to a future that excites her.
And, while I may think I know the truth about their futures (that both will face hardship, disappointment, bed bugs, countless dinners of Ramen noodles and possible unemployment), I also know that those predictions could be made about anyone's future. Anyone's. So, what's the point of me throwing up my hands and disrupting the happy flow of my children's future-oriented minds? Really, there would be no point. Except to pretend that I am in charge. Which, clearly, I am not.
Eric, whose feet are firmly set in the future, spoke of apartment living come next year. He's been saving like a banshee for that possibility, living on a shoestring budget while building up a small apartment-fund fortune in his savings, his ransom for freedom. That he may end up rooming with his oldest friend, Dylan, a girl he met in our alley 15 years ago, is music to my ears. I love Dylan like a daughter, maybe even more so, considering I didn't have to birth or raise or finance her.
I'm no fool. I know that, if those apartment-living plans come to fruition, it'll mean an end to Eric's occasional man-room takeovers, events we secretly love. It'll also mark the next step towards him taking full control of his life. As a mom who is still nuts about her kid, those things can be hard to swallow, but I would rather choke down his decisions with a glass of cold milk than disrupt the flow of Eric's future just for the sake of my emotional well being.
Allison, too, is toying with my emotional well-being these days. But in a good way, as well. Just yesterday, she spoke of how excited she was about the future, how she felt she'd taken good steps to ensure its details, from applying to attend LPS's technology-focused school next year to seeking out film-production workshops available next summer. It's obvious she sees a clear path to a future that excites her.
And, while I may think I know the truth about their futures (that both will face hardship, disappointment, bed bugs, countless dinners of Ramen noodles and possible unemployment), I also know that those predictions could be made about anyone's future. Anyone's. So, what's the point of me throwing up my hands and disrupting the happy flow of my children's future-oriented minds? Really, there would be no point. Except to pretend that I am in charge. Which, clearly, I am not.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Puppy and Yuppy Love
Finn adores me. I mean really adores me. I know this because he'll reach up and rest a paw on my thigh while I'm reading. Or wedge himself in between the chair and my feet, just to be near me. Or lean in close to my face, breathing in the air that seeps slowly from my nostrils.
Friendship is that way--both simple and inexplicable. And it always leaves me feeling like I've caught something magical in my peripheral vision, something sparkly that whizzed by when I wasn't quite looking. I suppose friendship is the reason I get up every morning and, despite reading the headlines, feel a bit of hope about things.
Those invisible, forgiving, adoring ties that bind us to each other are the greatest gifts of all. Even if we did get an iPhone 5 for Christmas--which I didn't. The low hum of loving and being loved by another--whether transmitted from man or beast, maple tree or moon--reverberates all the way to my grateful fingertips.
In these times, hate is the cheap commodity, traded without forethought between faceless factions. But love--dished out despite everything we know about each other--that is the gold standard that keeps our personal economies afloat.
Not even the snarkiest post-modern cynicism has a chance in the face of such pure truth.
That said, though, it is easy to love because of. But it is really something to love despite all the facts. As I get older, I seem to toss up more and more reasons to love me despite, and, yet, people keep showing up for that tedious job--friends I've had since nothing more than a street address brought us together; people I met long ago in the sticky heat of a tassled corn field; folks who've seen me at my worst and, more often, my not-so-spectacular; family members who have heard things seep from my body that would cause others to run for the hills.
More than the act of turning a calendar page, it is the love both of and from others--human, canine, botanical, astronomical--that fuels my resolution to be a better person. And it's not because I fear that they may turn their backs on me if I don't kick up my game a notch; rather, I resolve to be a bit better because their love nudges something better from me.
Friendship is that way--both simple and inexplicable. And it always leaves me feeling like I've caught something magical in my peripheral vision, something sparkly that whizzed by when I wasn't quite looking. I suppose friendship is the reason I get up every morning and, despite reading the headlines, feel a bit of hope about things.
Those invisible, forgiving, adoring ties that bind us to each other are the greatest gifts of all. Even if we did get an iPhone 5 for Christmas--which I didn't. The low hum of loving and being loved by another--whether transmitted from man or beast, maple tree or moon--reverberates all the way to my grateful fingertips.
In these times, hate is the cheap commodity, traded without forethought between faceless factions. But love--dished out despite everything we know about each other--that is the gold standard that keeps our personal economies afloat.
Not even the snarkiest post-modern cynicism has a chance in the face of such pure truth.
That said, though, it is easy to love because of. But it is really something to love despite all the facts. As I get older, I seem to toss up more and more reasons to love me despite, and, yet, people keep showing up for that tedious job--friends I've had since nothing more than a street address brought us together; people I met long ago in the sticky heat of a tassled corn field; folks who've seen me at my worst and, more often, my not-so-spectacular; family members who have heard things seep from my body that would cause others to run for the hills.
More than the act of turning a calendar page, it is the love both of and from others--human, canine, botanical, astronomical--that fuels my resolution to be a better person. And it's not because I fear that they may turn their backs on me if I don't kick up my game a notch; rather, I resolve to be a bit better because their love nudges something better from me.
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