Lori Gard2013-05-19T11:30:34-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=lori-gardCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Lori GardGood old fashioned elbow grease.I May Not Be a "Good Mother", but I Am Good Enoughtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31517772013-04-25T17:06:25-04:002013-04-25T17:06:40-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/
(So just to clarify. Would that really make it an "E" for erratic? And while we're on the topic, exactly what are some characteristics of "good enough" (albeit erratic) mothering?
Well, I can only speak for myself.
For starters, I use nearly-rotten bananas in smoothies and quickly hide the skins in the compost container. Just so the kids don't see what grossness they are actually drinking. And when playing hide and seek, I will use the time I count slowly to twenty, as well as the time I painstakingly pretend to look for the kidlets, to do various household chores and other odds and ends.
Or I will merely use that precious time to breathe steady and remember that bedtime is almost here. Yes, I do skip pages when reading at bedtime. That tactic is on its last legs as Littlest One is herself now reading. It was such a lovely trick. And sometimes I forget to pick my children up from their after-school activities. Oh! And I have left a child behind. But only occasionally. Unfortunately, this also indicates that I am absent-minded.
True: I have also been known to stealthily finish piano homework with my children while the lesson is in progress. Just so we can get the sticker and call it a wrap. And, okay, our kids sometimes eat cereal as their main meal. Pretty well every one of my children wears socks with holes in them.
Then again, so do I.
So, I might as well admit this too: I take my kids to the pool primarily so I can sit in the hot tub. And in conclusion, I am perpetually late for everything. E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G.
Does this make me a slacker? Am I good enough? The real question begs to be asked: could a good enough mother like myself ever hope to be a truly good mother? Dare I say it, even a great mother? And what exactly is the difference between the two?
Good moms cut up banana into neat little slices and make sure there is an adequate covering of yogurt to suffice.
Good enough moms make it one step easier. They tell their kiddos to eat one bite of banana, alternating with one spoonful from their serving-sized yogurt cup.
Good moms do not allow their children access to pens for writing on inside door frames.
Good enough moms first ask their children what exactly they have written that encompasses two feet of wooden space (in-between the kitchen and the den) before photographing it and proudly posting it on Facebook.
Good moms pack everything in Tupperware containers for litter-less lunch week.
Good enough moms tell their children that they will wash and re-use the numerous plastic baggies crammed into their dirty little lunch cans.
Good moms remember theme nights for school and extra-curricular activities.
Good enough moms pretend that their children's sweatpants are night wear. And of course, they are. Sometimes.
Good moms allow enough time for children to eat their meals at the table.
Good enough moms stop their children mid-meal, transport their supper to a plastic dish, and make it a portable snack for the rest of the evening.
Good moms make time in the morning for grooming, styling (and always remember their after-school hair appointments).
Good enough moms carry a brush with them at all times so as to do their children's hair at least twice a week. As time allows.
Good moms always remember to take shampoo with them to the pool.
Good enough moms use the soap dispenser. Which certainly does the trick.
Good moms always remember homework, piano practice, and reading at bedtime.
Good enough moms own shares in Apple instead (and we all know that iPods count as technological literacy).
Great moms? I admire them from afar. And while I believe that good moms are who we are most of the time, 'good enough' moms are just as awesome for all the rest of the times. As for the truly mediocre moms, they are few and far between. The collective majority can breathe a sigh of relief over that one. And stop with the self-deprecating humor (note to self).
The truth of the matter is this: being good enough is good enough.
At least for today, it is for this Mama.
]]>A Reminder to Live Life Large and in Colourtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31134852013-04-20T08:04:31-04:002013-04-20T09:02:45-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/
It is so unfathomable.
It then becomes probable, for those of us who are left to identify with the face of this loss of such epic proportions, to somehow fall victim to the guilt complex. That is: The Blame Game. By way of the "what ifs." The "what if this were me and my family?" question. Which leads to the "it can't happen if I avoid x,y or z" phobia. That eventually results to a syndrome we fall prey to when realizing how precious life is and how fleeting days are and how truly few are the actual moments we are given. And which subsequently causes us to live in paranoia.
And this syndrome sometimes instigates otherwise rational, common-sense type parents, such as I would consider myself, to do strange things. Like panic. Go to pieces. Become frightened and start to dread everything and everyone around me or my children. To avoid crowds. To become paranoid on airplanes. To watch news coverage ad-naseum. To be consumed with alternating feelings of rage and sorrow. And to believe that everyone could be a suspect.
And when in this mode of thinking, we tend to bunker in and batten down the hatches, erroneously believing that by cocooning ourselves and our family, we will somehow be safe and untouched. Oh! how easy it would be to just hide under the covers and ignore the bad guys. Pretending it would all go away it we just make a simple wish.
If wishes were horses, my friends, beggars would ride.
But what we fail to sometimes remember, in the midst of our over-planning, our over-protection, our over-bearing goodwill toward those we love. Is this. It is in the unfearful living of life, free and glorious, that our lives are released, liberated from the bondage of the awful here and now. And by facing our fears, as one who moves into the wind, rather than backing away from it, that we truly feel the strength and intensity of our willingness to live. To embrace life. To feel the complexity of power and weakness and their interconnectedness. To finally know ourselves and discover what it truly means to be human and all that entails.
And by allowing ourselves the experience of knowing wonder and excitement -- like when our child first experiences a ride on an airplane. We discover that life is not two-dimensional. It is far better lived in 3-D. Lived in colour. Lived out loud, and very, very large.
And that means enabling our children the independence to come and go, that they so very much need to live and co-exist on a planet crowded with people. That means allowing ourselves the ability to enjoy life in its complexity and beauty and chaos and confusion. That means knowing fear but never allowing fear to preside. That means moving outwards when all we feel like doing is staying in.
A few short years ago, our young family of three under six years of age took a trip to New York City. It was a Saturday night in Times Square that I remember so well. Vividly. Husband had one child, I had another by the hand and the baby in an umbrella stroller. And I remember the people. Crowds, and crowds and crowds of people. It was so densely packed, sidewalk to sidewalk. And we could only inch ourselves forward, small baby-steps at a time.
And what I remember even more than that picture of us inching our way toward the notorious NYC subway system was this: the fear. Because what you need to know was that this was not long after 9/11. And we had earlier that day been to Ground Zero.
Things were still pretty fresh in my mind (Read: fear, paranoia, anxiety).
And while looking back now (as a more experienced parent), we country-bumpkins probably should have left the city earlier. We probably were a little more foolish and brazen back then. But nevertheless. The reason we stayed was because FAO Schwarz was in the middle of Times Square. And it was like a magical fairyland of dreams come true. Complete with a Ferris wheel in the middle of the store and all the Lego a boy could envision. And the reason we stayed was for our son. Because we wanted him to experience the wonder. The excitement, indeed the thrill of the ultimate shopping adventure that is that mammoth of all toy stores: FAO Schwarz.
So we stayed because to leave would have been to miss out. To be denied that experience. To not live in the moment. To not live life large.
And I say all that to say something else: sometimes in life we do things for ourselves and our children -- not because they are the most practical, the most prudent, the most protected means of living. Some decisions we make are simply for the thrill of experience. Like riding the roller coaster at Disney. Like snorkelling or scuba-diving in the ocean. Like deep-sea fishing. Like hiking to the top of a mountain. Or like watching a friend run a marathon in a densely packed city with lots of strangers packed in tightly around you.
Is there inherent danger in every one of the above? You betcha. But there is also thrill, excitement and wonder. And isn't that all a part of living?
And although we often must needs weigh the thrill against the peril, we must never choose to deny ourselves the experience of living life out loud -- full and free and large. For in living large we get to see life from that unique vantage point: the peak. And life from the peak is sacred, worth the experience.
Worth the risk.]]>Personal Best: Very Different for Everyonetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.30296062013-04-08T17:15:52-04:002013-04-08T17:28:53-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/
Bottom line, teens really just want the adults in their lives, including teachers, to see the best in them. Whatever package that best of theirs comes in.
Around this time of the year, a lot of the high-school students in our area start back to work at the fish plants. The hours are wacky. Usually students would work late into the evening, past my bedtime for sure. And this meant they were either no-shows the next day at school or they fell asleep in class.
There was this young guy that use to get attention for coming to school and falling asleep in class. (Um, of course there are more than him that do this, but his story was special!) He worked every night and then arrived at school with the buses. Then as soon as the lights went out, and the overhead projector was turned on, he put his head down on his arms and fell asleep. I had a bit of fascination for that guy. I am sure that there were discussions around his lack of participation in class. And I am sure that he was the bane of some teachers existence. If anything, I can identify with how frustrating it can be to project info to a class of uninterested, sleeping learners.
But what fascinated me about The Boy Who Slept in School was: he showed up. It fascinated some other teachers too. We use to discuss the reasons for his coming to school, as he could obviously have stayed home and got a better sleep. Tears later, when I think about him, I am in awe of how he exhibited his personal best, each and every day. Was he a star student? No. Did he ever receive accolades for achievement? Not so much. Was he any more enlightened for the courses he took? Who knows. What impressed me, indeed what has stuck with me all these years later, was the way in which he gave his personal best, each and every day. While other students gave their best shown via their distinguished marks, while others contributed to rich class discussion, while still others perfected their ability to take notes and listen, while still others acted the class clown and got everyone off topic, this guy's best was simply in showing up-- showing up for class, showing up for school, showing up for himself --whatever his reasons. And in showing up, being there, day in and day out, he made an impact. In acting on an impulse that allowed him choice. He chose to act on that choice and show up.
And through the years, it's got me thinking. I come back to this topic again and again. About what it means to give your best. About what a personal best looks like. About people, and the bests they offer the world around them. About myself and what my own best looks like, from day-to-day.
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And I think where we sometimes err in understanding the word bestand what it means, is when we use it as a tool to compare. Personal bests are never meant for comparison. My daily best might be quite different than your daily best. And what I have to offer should never be brought up in comparison to your life contributions. We each come from very different places, different mindsets, different backgrounds, different circumstances. And when it comes to defining what is best, bests can run the gamut. Bests are usually different.
Because people are different.
Sometimes, personal bests look real shiny and pretty. It comes wrapped up in bows and sits on the mantle for all to see. Like when you get an award for good service, or recognition for outstanding achievement. But at other times, your best just means holding it together for the sake of your sanity, and the sake of others around you. It's about not killing the people in your life who are driving you crazy. It's about choosing to put one foot in front of another. It's about choosing to sometimes let things go, even when everyone around you is shaking their head in disapproval. It's about believing in yourself, even when you are not making the mark, when you are falling short from traditional standards. It's about showing up, when what your exhausted self would rather do is sleep. Forever.
There are times when showing up is too hard and one's personal best becomes just choosing life. Choosing breath over dying and letting each moment lead to the next. Being one's best is many different things. And the beauty of being one's best self, is that it is tailored to fit the person perfectly. Bests come in all shapes and sizes. And personal bests, like snowflakes, never truly look the same twice.
If we chose to see the best in the people around us, to truly believe that each and every person around us was giving their best, in the ways that they were able, how might the world look?
I recently had opportunity to separately talk to two partners in the same failing marriage. From both perspectives, there is a lot of negativity. But when I see these two people, I see two amazing individuals. People with possibility. And I can't help but wonder, what would things be like for them if they only saw what I see...heard what I heard. That each person is doing their best. That each is a beautiful individual, full of potential and possibility.
I often have discussions around the struggling students in our school systems. These are positive, rich conversations about how best to help these students find their personal best. And I can't help but wonder, if every teacher, every parent, every individual with connection to a child realized that each student brings their personal best to school, regardless of how that looks and measures up, wouldn't the school system and our homes be drastically different places?
And past that, if the world was able to be seen through a lens of caring, realizing that we are broken, fragile, hurting people. People who sometimes make tragic mistakes. People who can't always be let off the hook for wrongs done, but people with some hidden good- somewhere inside, wouldn't the gift be to try and see, in as much as we are possibly able, the best in people?
Because I believe we humans all have a best. It just looks different depending on the lens from which we view. And in those wherein we cannot possibly see a best, indeed to see their humanity. I say this: they were once a child. Whom someone quite possibly failed to see their personal best. Or at the very least, they were a child who was not able to see in their own self any thing on which to base a best.
How truly sad.
In as much as we are able, how can we then see each one's best? How then can we not? Does not the peaceful functioning of the world depend on this? We talk about peace, but if we cannot find peace with the people around us, and see that they are bringing their best to the table of life, peace is not an option. We need for our own security and stability, for people to see our best. It's time we saw the best in others.
And maybe it starts with acknowledging those people for whom their best is simply this: showing up and choosing life. Choosing to be civil over angry. Choosing to be calm over irate. And when those are not options, choosing to be still...choosing to listen.
For it's in the stillness that all our bests shines the brightest.]]>Who Are We to Judge Moms Who Need a Break?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.29598542013-03-28T08:44:23-04:002013-03-28T08:44:13-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/
I am tired, frayed around the edges. And I need to zone out for a few. So I scroll mindlessly down the news feed. Until I come to this. A picture of a mama and her kids at the park. The kids are happily playing on the playground equipment while the mom checks a message on her phone. It is a snapshot, a moment in time.
What could she be doing? Could a very important phone call just have come in? Could she have just finished taking a picture of her precocious children, which she is quickly in process of uploading to Facebook? Is she making dentist arrangements? Calling her husband? Is her mother sick? Her grandmother dying? Does she have news from a doctor that just cannot wait?
The caption underneath the photo says it all. Or does it? Is this merely a disengaged mama immersed in her phone? Or could there be more to the story than all of this?
I will admit it. While I am there, analyzing the photograph, I can feel my own precious child breathing down the back of my neck, just behind me. And I feel it. Guilt. So, I click the x at the top of the screen and allow myself to be dragged into a game of To Know Me is To Love Me. And it is relatively painless, if you don't count that it ends with one child crying and the other child cheating.
But I do it. And all in the name of being a good mama. Because I don't want to be that other kind: a mother guilty of choosing technology over her children.
Isn't it time we stopped the judgment, people? This small-minded blame game? Stop pointing fingers! Can a mom not take her children to the park and stop for a two-second break? These two children could have been holed up inside a dark house, sitting on a couch in the television room watching cartoons. They could have been, but instead they are outside, in the sunshine, their mother an arms-length distance away. They don't look deprived. They don't look neglected.
To say it carefully, they look as happy as pigs in poop.
And that mother -- maybe she had a rough day. Maybe she is dealing with more than a picture can show. Oh sure, I agree that it would be unfortunate if she only ever had eyes for nothing else, indeed for no one else but for that tiny metal appendage. Her smart phone. If she was truly as neglectful as the write-up suggests. Or as truly absent in presence. Sure, it would be sad...she would certainly be missing out by my account of mothering style. But who am I to judge her mothering style? Who am I to judge?
Let's be honest. We mothers, we've been in her shoes before. Checking out our phones, our Facebook, our texts. We might have even been snapped in a quiet moment, just like her. Preserved for all infamy, going down in the record books as a neglectful, uninterested mother. We live in a connected world. This could happen, just in a single snapshot: our whole way of mothering set on display for all the world to see. As if a picture really tells the whole story.
We are not that simple. And life is not that uncomplicated. It is not that easy to read, this picture. And neither is she that easy to read, this mama. We need to cut each other some slack. That picture, that mama: this is you and me we're talking about.
And who are we to judge?]]>International Women's Day: Keep on Keeping on, Soldiertag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.28331222013-03-08T12:30:20-05:002013-05-08T05:12:01-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/That moment. When you feel so very, very horrible. And all because you have left your middlest child at the rink, waiting for the better part of an hour because you had no way to get in touch with her. And all because you were driving from Point A to Point B to Point C to Point D. And on the way you nearly ran out of gas.
And then. When you finally did arrive and met your crying child at the door of the rink, your friend says to you, eyes raised as she breezes by, "She sure was getting worried." And you later find out that 'said' friend also asked your child, "Does she always forget you like this?"
That moment. When the semi-middlest child tells you that you never give her enough attention, that you always favour the youngest because they're the baby. That you never listen to her. Oh! That dreadful word never. Never, never, never.
That moment when Oldest tells you that you never (there it is again...) go to the rink to watch his games; or that, at the very least, you are not there as much as he would like. That you never pick out the right kind of jeans, that you don't buy the right kinds of cereal. That you don't live up to all his wildest expectations of what a mama should do and say or be.
And you think you might be a fail.
That moment. When your older child takes a compliment you've given to a younger child and turns it into a stab in her own back. As if to say. That in complimenting anyone else, it automatically means attacking someone other than them in the process.
That moment when you are trying to tell everyone how well they've done, how very proud you are. And no one is listening because it is not about their own very selves, at that very second.
And you feel so very tired.
That moment. When you are worn down and drug out and used up because of life. And because you went to bed late the night before. And all because you were booking a solo ticket south FOR YOURSELF. For the very reason that you dropped a chair on your foot earlier in that same evening. And that incident was the last straw that broke the camel's back.
Because you've hardly given your own worn-out self any attention lately.
That moment ...THAT MOMENT. When you look at your hands, at your feet; and they look...old. When you look at your body and it seems flabby. When you look at your eyes, and they seem tired.
That, my dear Mama, is the moment you realize. That being a mother is the hardest gig you've ever had to do. Harder than anything. Ever. And a secret part of your own self knows this to be true: that the reason God doesn't let us look forward is because in His great wisdom, He knows a mother's heart would fail if she knew all that was to come. Yet. In His great mercy, He allows us to look back and see how far we've come.
That moment. When a Mama gives herself grace. When she forgives herself, even when her four precious off-spring in their immaturity cannot. And she tells herself:
"Well done, Warrior Mama. You are doing a bang-up job being a Mom. You are doing me proud, Self. I know how hard you work at this. Keep on keeping on, Soldier Mama. There will come a day when this too will pass, and you will forget how hard it was and only remember how awesome you did at the hardest job know to human-kind. Mothering. You are beautiful, wise, full of grace upon grace. And your children will one day rise up and call you blessed. Don't you ever give up."
That moment is what keeps me going. Keep on keeping on, soldiers.]]>People Don't Want a Real Answertag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.27859762013-03-01T16:07:45-05:002013-05-01T05:12:01-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/"Do I enjoy teaching?" or the more broad "Do I enjoy parenting?" or the more specific "Do I enjoy having a big family?": I feel like it's a test. Like I am completing a final exam, on which my life depends. And we all know when writing exams or when answering those kinds of questions there is always a right or a wrong answer.
I wish people would just ask me if I have ever tried licking my elbow. For the record, I have tried. And no, I cannot.
In general, people don't really want to know the realanswer to tough questions about life. They want to hear you say theright answer. That "yes," you love "altruistically laying your life on the altar of self-sacrifice and that you get a secret thrilling satisfaction from doing everything the above questions entail, including but not limited to refereeing disputes and laminating holiday crafts of every variety, to wiping snotty noses (this one is geared to the middle and last questions) and changing bums, to acting as a chauffeur and making household ground rules only to have them broken the minute they're been issued."
I quite like all that. Really. I do.
But if that was the real reason I decided to be a teacher, or a parent or a mother, I'd have to be truthful.
There'd be more mental health days from work than just the current one I was on today before I wrote this very post. Because quite honestly, I don't really love all those latter parts of my job, as it concerns both being a parent or a teacher. Or as it concerns being a mother, to up the ante even more. The above answer is more about the details that complicate my love of this life that I am living. Not so much about my true motive for why I live that Life.
We all know that details sometimes weigh us down. The records I am required to keep as a teacher, the list making. The unrecognized acts of service: like wiping up bloody noses and picking freshly chewed up wads of gum off the classroom floor or dispensing of crumpled up food containers that didn't quite make it in the right waste receptacle. The constant, continual reminders, to follow the classroom rules. The late nights and early mornings. The duty days with no regular pee breaks.
Acts of service that sometimes go unnoticed. It's often in the details.
Details like rushing home so as to throw supper on before rushing back to pick up kids from after school programs, then making sure everyone has practiced their piano, done their homework and hung up their coat, even if that means receiving the Meanest Mommy Award in the process.
Details like sifting through backpacks and lunchboxes so as to ensure everyone has their 'favorites' and enough of these goodies to last at least three feedings throughout the day; along with all papers signed and ready to go, mittens, hats, boots, coats. Oh! And pajamas, teddy bears, slippers and housecoats packed, if it happens to be Winter Carnival week. Details like filling medicine vials for one while slathering Vapo-Rub on another, while lying down with another who is just a wee bit scared of being alone. Details like acting as the presiding judge over such important cases as "who really did touch that donut first" or "who let one go during bedtime story."
Details like listening to your children's hearts and navigating through the clutter of their everyday lives. To search out and know, I mean really know the issues that matter to them. The issues that are important in understanding another human being, as precious as a child. Details that help shape a person into a good citizen, details that make or break a person's character. Details. But so important to the job.
Without such, there would be no job. The details could be defined in this way: all that essential stuff that makes a person into a teacher, a woman, a mother, a human being and a citizen: stuff the life manuals, textbooks and baby books never covered. You can't fault a book. They just forgot to include that life isn't really all in the details.
Sometimes life is more complicated than that. No biggie.
We human beings can forget that life is about caring for people, not the details of how or why or what. We humans can sometimes feel these expectations weighing down on us. Feeling pressure on us so much so that we think if we slack off in any aspect of our lives -- whether that be in our job, in our homes, in relationships, through unspoken expectations we have placed on ourselves or whatever -- that we are failing to live up to a certain standard.
Some people oddly, yet joyfully, align themselves as slackers. And I'll admit it. There is a certain freedom that comes in embracing imperfection and not letting that bother you. And for those who don't take the pressure off themselves, there can be enormous guilt from not living up to one's own expectations for themselves, whether those be for a job or a home. But for either/or: if a person CARES about what they do, it really doesn't matter how well they think they are doing. Or not. What matters is their concern about the matter.
Caring about something indicates your heart is in the right place. You cannot qualify care. You either have it, or you do not.
The thing is. We all want to do our best. Those who openly say they don't care, and those who inwardly beat themselves up because they do, we all care about what we do. We care, because we are human. We care about what we do because to not care would be to not be human. And caring is just a form of kindness. When we care, we show kindness. Whether that be showing care to one's students, co-workers or one's children. Care indicates kindness.
All of life is really about kindness.
The question then becomes: "Are you kind? Do you show others you care?"
I write a message to my Kindergarten students everyday to reinforce learning outcomes, and the latest area of teaching has been regarding the area of punctuation in writing. So this week, I introduced quotation marks. Every day, I write a new quotation at the end of my message, all in the hopes that the students will "get it." The punctuation, that is. I am such an intentional teacher, teaching quotation marks to Kindergartners. But I digress.
So this morning, I was finishing up my message, all while searching my mind for a quotation to put in the message. I began looking around the classroom, and the very last line of our collaboratively created classroom rules caught my eye: Show others you care. Which is to say, I wrote the following: "Show others you care," said Mrs. Gard. And as I was writing, I began to see that teaching quotations marks is not the lesson. The message was the lesson. "Show others you care."
Is this not all of life summed up in a line? Is it not the answer to those hardest of hard questions? Do I like teaching this age or that age? Do I like my job? Do I like parenting? Do I like mothering? Do I like the details that weigh me down in my various roles of Life? Do I always even like my own four sweet children?
Does the answer always have to be yes, that I like the details in order to prove that I love The Life? No. Do I even have to like everything I love? When I love the people who are affected by the details, who often create the messiness of the details. It is there that one finds the proof for the belief that all of life is essentially about love. And love is borne of care. And care is just another word for kindness.
The right answer to the hard questions about people is this: care about people. If we care, it takes care of the sordid details. Caring makes everyone and everything else in life worthwhile. And if there is one message in the universal classroom of Life that I would have my students learn, indeed my Flesh and Blood- my own four beautiful babies learn, it is this. That all of human relationships- both work-related and home-related boil down to this underlying principle: caring and kindness are what life is all about. And when we practice these two in tandem, it makes all the difference for everything else.]]>Even Mothers Sometimes Need a Mothertag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.27462492013-02-23T08:31:18-05:002013-04-25T05:12:01-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/know. To feela mother's love. To know that she is there. That she's within arm's length, when story lines grow dark. Becoming ominous, sinister. That she is only a whisper away. When the plot thickens to a portentous climax. When the theatrics prove a bit too much to take. One needs a comforting hand, a steady shoulder to lean on. A warm body to touch.
A mother to cling to.
When the world just seems too much to bear. To much to take in. A mother slows life down with her soothing hand, her gentle touch.
The brazen ones say they can do things on their own. That they are strong. Tough. Independent. That they're too old for this silliness. That they are enough in and of their own strength. But one forgets sometimes. A body needs a mother.
Even if only sometimes.
It often takes a crisis to remember all the reasons why this is so. Takes a sudden jolt to bring one's world to a frightening halt. The clutches of a vicious rattle in the chest. And suddenly, hospital corridors summon. Prescriptions take up the empty cupboard space. The covers on the bed are adjusted a hundred times, and medicine vials are filled and emptied. Filled and emptied. Machines whir vapor mist into the lungs, freeing the soul to inhale. Exhale. Breathe. And the mother becomes the doctor and the nurse.
A mother's love, a balm that heals.
It takes a wind storm, cutting off connections to the real world. When the lights flicker, then dim. Dark replacing light. Even then, a body can need a mother. Sometimes even a boy old enough to not need a mother, brave enough to do things on his own. Even he sometimes needs his mother. To walk together through dark passage ways where no one wants to walk alone. To play a slow game of chess to pass the time. A boy needs a mother. To chat about the day's events and share a cuppa hot steaming broth.
A mother's presence fills the void.
It takes growing pains, sharp knife-like throbs in strong, young legs. That only a mother can ease with equally strong, knowing hands. Erasing the pain so slumber finds its way at last. It takes a mother to hold close the fearful, the wounded, the lonely, the discouraged, the heart-sick, the restless. A mother knows just when is right to talk, when is right to listen.
And yet, a mother can only do so much. Only as much as the day allows. As much as she is able. And when she is unable? What of her then? Sometimes even capable, competent she, even a mother needs a mother. One who can bear her load and lessen the toll that comes with mothering. To lend an ear, a shoulder, a helping hand. A mother needs a mother. And when mothers receive, they are then able to give back threefold. For a mother's returns are always greater than her acquisitions.
A body always needs a mother. Even when that body is a mother herself.]]>Does Proper Grammar Still Matter?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.26913092013-02-18T10:34:58-05:002013-04-20T05:12:01-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/ain't in everyday conversation. So. Of course Littlest One says it as much as possible. Every time I turn around, actually. There it is. Inserted into every response, comment or answer she gives me or any other family member.
And I know this word is not unexpected for the five-year-old vernacular. Whatever that means. But I just feel so icky when she uses a word not accepted as grammatically proper. Ain't. Sends shivers up my spine. Call me a Grammar Nazi. I'll take the label. I just can't handle a word that brings to mind poetic lines that conjure up images of mothers fainting and dogs calling the F.B.I.
And don't get me started on poems with tail rhymes.
But seriously. Is it just me, or is the general consensus among the speaking public no longer in favor of proper word usage? And should I really care about this little grammar faux pas when compared to the greater schemata of more serious and pressing life concerns? Concerns for me which would include sibling rivalry and parental disrespect?
A world where solitary words are substantial enough to stand alone in their very own paragraph. Pretty empowering stuff, this blogging business.
In truth, I am still forming my opinion about the connection between ideas and grammar and that ever-evolving relationship that entwines the two. The jury is still out for me on whether or not bloggers should be held to some form of higher literacy scrutiny. So as to validate those of us who take this form of writing half-seriously.
But when push comes to shove, I feel saying that word is actually perilous to my health. And I'll let the following example of genius from my imagination express in poetic language exactly why this is so.
Don't Say Ain't
Don't say ain't.
My heart will faint.
My stomach will feel like it's full of lead paint.
My liver will fry.
My 'blood-pres-sure' will rocket to the sky,
And my sanity will wave bye-bye
.
So there you have it. Don't say ain't. It's bad for the health. Don't say I didn't warn you. Hope this little public service announcement eliminates all usage of that puny little word. Which simply serves to confuse the listener into trying to figure out if it is am not, is not, or are not. Confusing. And unacceptable in my world.
Just stop saying it already.
Enough.
(And I ain't gonna say it again.)
]]>Dispatches From Down East: Thank God It's Sunday Nighttag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.26591992013-02-10T21:01:33-05:002013-04-12T05:12:01-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/
Two storm days back-to-back, courtesy of the Nor'easter that hit the Maritimes this past weekend, and I am more exhausted and wrung out now than I was Friday afternoon at 3:00 p.m. I now know why some animals eat their offspring. It would at the very least be one way to keep things quiet around the den.
And if I have to so much as see one more board game, let alone pick up the scraggly remains of Littlest Pet Shops or the like kicking around on the floor. I swear. You will see the bonfire from here to Timbuktu. Because that's what will be lighting up the sky: Uno-Spin.
And don't get me started on the game To Know Me is to Love Me. (Disney Fairy Princesses have no right garnering that much information in one setting from hapless players such as myself.) We let a Certain Someone win that game. If we hadn't, WWIII would now be in progress. Figures. The only question that was answered correctly about my preferences was this one: Pick 'A' if said player's favorite thing is when everybody gets along. Darling Daughter didn't even bother reading out the other five options. Everyone knows what mama loves.
Peace and quiet.
Ah. It wasn't that bad. I'm just joshin' with you. About some of the above. The part about eating one's young, specifically.
But there truly was nary a moment of peace over the last two days. And by breakfast time this morning, when the screaming was just reaching a feverish pitch, I overheard Husband saying to Darling Daughter, "Can't we just pretend to get along?" to which came the reply, "Do you know how hard that is?"
Yes, Dear. I know how hard it is to pretend how much I love playing board games. So, Darling, you can pretend that you children are all getting along.
Kids need to learn through modelling. So this is how we roll over in our neck of the woods. The Kidlets watch the pros in action: the True Pretenders (a.k.a. Ma and Pa) act as if they love playing board games. And True Pretenders in turn expect that the Kidlets will 'pretend' to like any number of communally shared things, including the chili that Ma served both yesterday and today for the main meals. (Things have also not been smelling the very best, but that just might be more than a body needs to know.)
So while the fights were breaking out over Apples to Apples this afternoon, I leaned over to Husband and made the subtle comment that I wished this game would soon be over. To which came the reply:
We need more T.V.
Yes indeed. That, and a pillow to drown it all out: the incessant racket that is children's programming.
But seriously. It is so very much fun being home with six people in a house together for forty-eight plus hours. (Excuse me a moment here while I insert the contrived and expected 'cough', 'cough' sound effects.) One's toilets get that much more experience. The fridge gets emptied faster. The meals get more scant. (Great for those on a diet!) The company goes from friendly to combative. The conversations from descriptive to terse. It's just one new life episode feature after the other. And having survived it all, I must say it was comparable to starring in a bad television sitcom with the only thing absent being the paycheck rolling in at the end of the weekend.
Well, shoot. I don't want to leave you with the wrong idea. It was really all good. It was so much fun! And I especially loved it when the kids asked me this:"Do you think school will be cancelled Monday, Mom?"
Over.my.dead.body.
]]>Why Gratitude Matterstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.26422022013-02-08T15:38:14-05:002013-04-10T05:12:01-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/
I wish I could jump into the script and wring that little gourd's rubbery neck. But I resist. Because in a world of cartoon characters, it is that easy. To draw the lines, shade in the edges and round-out the scene. If you want it to happen, it will happen. Just enter it in the script. If you want a happy ending, wave the magic wand. Done. If you want someone to like you, threaten banishment. If you don't like the way life's going, re-write your story.
If only real life were so easy.
And when actual life of the "here-and-now" variety is factored into the equation. And the show is over and real life begins. That's when the truest test of character is evidenced. When the chips are down, and everything is laid bare to the raw bones. That is when we see what stuff we're really made of.
When we discover that joy can be found even in weariness.
But that takes time. And time does damage sometimes before it can work its way back to good.
It's the gradual wearing away, the erosion of patience and understanding and empathy that really cuts us to the heart and soul of the matter. The endless trips we make back and forth, from home to goodness knows where else. It's the lack of time for meaningful conversations. The sleepless nights. The gray hair. It's the little things that wear us down and make it so hard to be thankful.
To be grateful.
Living life with gratitude sometimes means one must offer thanks at the most un-opportune moments. Uttering words of gratitude even for those things in life which one is not always fully enjoying, passionately loving, deriving pleasure or benefiting greatly from nor receiving back a large measure of happiness.
Sometimes we give thanks for the smallest of things. And in that one item of thankfulness, it can often more than balance the scales in the long run. Life lived in gratitude is the truest measure of joy.
Blog continues below slideshow...
Tonight. I am thankful for:
1. My ignorant bliss this morning as I slept in almost an hour past my alarm. My body needed that little bit extra.
2. Not losing my patience as I coped with having slept in way past what I should have done.
3. Nutri-grain bars. Great breakfast option on-the-run.
4. That domino game I forgot about. As I also forgot my math teacher's edition, it was a great pinch-hit for a harried teacher.
5. My colleague who offered me a domino worksheet last Thursday. Whoever would have dreamed it would've come in so handy.
6. Five-year old helpers. Who are almost already out the door even before I get my thoughts out of my head and into words.
7. A husband who packed my lunch today. And always.
8. Cell-phones that are not broken.
9. Schedules that allow windows of opportunity.
10. Supper meals without fighting.
And these, dear readers, are just a few of my favourite things. More than enough to be grateful for.]]>The Parent-Teacher Phonecall Needs a Makeovertag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.26027112013-02-04T08:37:05-05:002013-04-06T05:12:01-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/
I have maybe nine minutes to run to the washroom, grab a glass of water in the staff kitchen, and check my mailbox in the office. En route, I duck into an adjacent classroom to mine so as to make a quick phone call. To a parent. The call is regarding a preference her child has about an optional in-school activity, and I just want to double-check with the mom that this student is truly opting out with parental consent. When I make the contact, I can sense the panic in her voice as she picks up the receiver. And I can also tell that she thinks an unpleasant report will follow the preliminary greetings.
And then she says to me: "I always worry when you call."
I am a bit taken aback. I do not take myself to be an intimidating teacher, nor do I see myself as an unapproachable person. But I get what she is saying. When the teacher calls, usually something unpleasant is inevitable coming down the line. It's just the way the cookie crumbles.
Why is that the case? As both a parent and teacher myself, I can put myself in both roles. I know what it is like to receive the phone call from a teacher and I also know what it is like to make it. Speaking as a parent, usually when a teacher has called our home -- and (thankfully?) these calls have been quite rare -- it has to do with a fairly important issue.
The issue could be minor or of a more serious nature, but there is generally something that I, as a parent, am expected to respond in some proactive way. And by that same token, most of the phone calls I have made as a teacher have been the same: calls with regards to something student-related that requires parental attention.
And, of course, there is nothing wrong with this model of interaction. Per say.
Last year, a woman with far more experience than I in the education field came to our school to speak to the staff. In her discussion, she broached the topic of communication with parents. And one thing she said stuck in my head and has challenged me ever since. I still think about her idea often. And it was this: her practice as a teacher was to make a call home to one set of parents of a student in her class each day after school. And the nature of the call was to simply tell the parents how much she enjoyed the child as a member of her class. Nothing unpleasant, nothing related to an issue. Purely a phone call to say how much she liked their child and valued them as a student.
I can't get that image out of my head. The image of the dumb-founded look on that parent's face when they held the telephone receiver in their hand. Because truth be told. After the parent had gotten over the initial shock that their child was not in trouble, the shock that someone had made a specific call home to them with the sole purpose of stating how lovely their child was, would be enough to knock a parent over with a feather. Believe me, I can just imagine. I am a parent too, remember.
So here's the deal.
Making a phone call a day is doable. It is a five-minute commitment. And it takes the time one might otherwise use to walk through the school once. And what a gift that would be: to call solely for the purpose of making someone's day a little brighter. Brighter both for the parent. And brighter for the child. And it could very well be the change that everyone is always talking about.
A teacher could be "the change." COULD BE THE CHANGE!
The other evening I had to make a call from home to a parent regarding a rather serious issue that had come up in the course of the school day. The tension was inevitable in the phone wires and I felt the need to break the tension somehow, with whatever means I had at my disposal.
After getting through the preliminaries, after addressing the issue and ensuring the child in question was going to be okay, I remembered something funny about the situation that was just one of those things that sometimes serve to be the silver lining of an otherwise dark cloud. As I considered ending the conversation, I decided on a whim to share the funny story with the parent.
And by the end of the story, we were both crying with laughter, humor that is often the bonus result that comes with acknowledging life in all its complexity. The fact that we can take a step back from life and laugh about it is sometimes all that carries us through the hard times. And when parents and teachers can laugh together, it makes all the difference.
I'd like to say that I am the kind of teacher that calls home every night. I don't. But I certainly aspire to be her. And aiming for a target and setting the goals to do so is a very good place to start. Because one never knows what impact that one telephone call might make in even one's child's life.
And one never knows which child just might be the starfish for whom it really matters.]]>The Importance Of Being Alonetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.25467612013-01-26T07:51:57-05:002013-03-28T05:12:01-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/
My life is many things, but quiet, it is surely not. Not for lack of trying, mind you.
But just now. Quiet. A word fitly chosen. Describing at least my house, if not my state of being within this tiny, framed window of time. Calm, silent. Still. So quiet I can finally hear things gone unheard for quite some time.
The wind moving around the outside corners of a farmhouse, where centuries-old wood has joined to form pillars of a home. The rustle of an artificial evergreen wreath against a frosted window pane. The hum of the aging washing machine, churning darks into frothy white, just one floor up. The click, click of my computer beside me, my constant companion. The breathy whir of a furnace as it puffs heat into frigid air.
The wheezy sound my lungs make when I breathe in deeply. Reminding me again of why I so desperately need this quiet. This moment of solitude.
I wasn't meant to have it, a quiet moment tonight. Or should I say, it came unexpected. I was rushing. As per usual. Meetings, deadlines, e-mails after school. The dash home to start the pork simmering before carting Four off to the hairdressers for their quarterly trims. The hustle back home again with one very upset about the artistic state of the haircut. So then. The other parent driving that same child back again to the hairdresser to explain the dire straits of the situation; thus, the need to correct it (The Haircut) before practice tonight, before the inevitable demise when all is unveiled to friends at school tomorrow.
Serious, life-altering stuff.
The potatoes boiling over, the supper meltdowns, the clock ticking. And then. The tumbled rush out the door, a spewing of boots, coats, mitts, hats and bodies spilling onto the iced doorstep, then further onto the slick walkway toward the half ton. And after it all, I am left spent. Still feeling the need to clean up the remains of the day, field phone calls, and mop up floors before making my own trek to town after the tedious chores are completed.
Bundling up in my less than attractive winter attire, then running out to the van to allow it the minute of idle time necessary to get it going, I realize this: my husband has the van keys. They are in his pocket. And I am completely stranded, whilst the other musicians I was to jam with are waiting in a warm sanctuary of a little white church. For me. And rather than seeing this as a moment of blessing, a free space in the game of life, I see it as a set-back.
And I want to. Wring.my.husband's.neck.
But instead, I resist the urge. (Much to his complete relief.) And taking a deep breath, I make the necessary calls to cancel evening plans. After doing so, the sense of peace that washes over me, I might have never known. Because now, and all because of botched plans, I have this whole three-quarters of an hour to myself. And it is mine. I can spend it as I wish. Wasting it lavishly or using it sparingly. It is mine to spend. The added bonus that comes with this newly acquired freedom is the quiet accompaniment that is my friend, Solitude.
To think, I might have never known her.
To make the right choices in life, you have to get in touch with your soul. To do this, you need to experience solitude, which most people are afraid of, because in the silence you hear the truth and know the solutions. (Deepak Chopra)
In order to listen to the cries of one's soul, to hear truth and know solutions, one needs to block out the noise. Even but for the briefest of moments. Cutting off the voices that shout to us, come here, go there, that call this is all-important, this is a necessity. Shutting out the images, the icons, the media, the busyness. And telling oneself that it's okay. To be alone.
To be quiet.
More importantly, it is sometimes the setbacks in life that bring us the most joy, the most revelation. For all of life is meant to be. Even the valleys. And in our darkest, most solitary moments, even in the setbacks, we discover who we truly are. And all we were meant to be.
If we are not quieted, we miss hearing the still small Voice reminding us. Why this is an absolute necessity.]]>Dear Robert Munsch: Love You Forevertag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.24839172013-01-16T17:15:02-05:002013-03-18T05:12:01-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/
I don't know if you read the Huff Post, but I am taking a chance that either you or someone you know does. At the very least, I figure this medium is the quickest way to reach you, as time is of essence. So here goes.
Our school lost a shining light this week. A little boy -- six years old. He, the lover of hockey, fishing and fun, was taken suddenly, leaving our school community grappling with life and death issues. We bury him Thursday. We as teachers were left to help pick up the pieces of that most puzzling of puzzles left in our youngest student's minds. Of the bigger why along with a million other related questions. In my classroom, I turned to the one sure thing I knew could shed some light, love and laughter on an otherwise dark cloud that hovered low. Your books, Lighthouse A Story of Remembrance and Love You Forever: I turned their well-worn pages and read words that breathed hope.
And I want you to know that I know the power of the written word, the beauty that is a well-loved story, the comfort that is a dog-eared copy of an old-favourite. Whatever the naysayers and non-readers might say about books proper, I still hold to the truth about books. They are the lifeblood of our classrooms. And they are what bring us comfort in our darkest moments.
And here is another reason why I feel so strongly about your books. They have made me a better parent, a better teacher, a better person.
Bob Munsch, we have somewhat of a mantra in our school. And it is this. When some of us meet others of us in the hallways, and we want to show how much we care, we say this:Love ya forever!
So, I'll end with this: Thank you for your books, all of them. But especially the two I mentioned above. And do know this,
This is one teacher who will love ya forever,
Lori Gard
]]>Dispatches From Down East: Remember to Play in the Snowtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.24693152013-01-14T17:26:43-05:002013-03-16T05:12:02-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/
What really happened is this: everyone proceeded to move from one activity to the next, like a bull in a china shop. And by the time we were ready to eat lunch, one pair of bindings was broken on my set of skis and a pair of antique snow shoes were broken in half. Add to this, complaints about the four remaining Tim Hortons doughnuts offered for mid-morning snack. You know the ones. The gross leftovers that nobody chose the two other times picks were made. Then, Oldest dragged his sorry self out the door only so as to sit on the porch swing, bribery being the motive for his appearance in the light of day. And lastly, this -- Littlest One says to me: "Does playing outside count as our chores?"
As if, sweetheart. As if.
And then, as if a light bulb has burnt out, and a cold wind has chilled the earth: the mood suddenly shifts. To ambulances, hospitals, life support, death. And one is left to process the fact that a child's shining light will no longer illuminate here on Earth.
Heaven's gains are Earth's losses.
And so we go from one moment to the next, those moments connected to more moments. Never quite knowing where the next step will lead. Will there be a next breath? Another hour to come and go, to see and do? Will there be another evening to "lay me down to sleep and pray the Lord my soul to keep?" Will there be another morning, another sunrise to awaken the soul? Will there be?
Oh, how very much we take for granted.
Backtracking, it was a bit of a rough start that morning referred to above. Things were a little crazy, what with all the skis and snowshoes breaking, the doughnuts not being just right, the Boy balking at the thoughts of going outside, the propositioning about chores and all. All that murky day-time stuff. And then there was the lunch-time fiasco. Ah! Lunchtime. A smorgasbord of delights to turn the stomach. Leftover pasta, leftover meat pie, leftover Chinese food and a few really, really burnt fries and lemony fish sticks that were really leftover, if you know what I mean.
The garbage can didn't even want those puppies.
All this, leaving me feeling pretty cranky by the time lunch was over. Growly about the food on the floor, growly about the food left on the plates, growly about the leftover food going back in the fridge. It was all classic Gard family stuff. Things that happen here pretty much every day, really. It was just that I was taking it all to heart, as if it all really mattered in the scheme of life.
After lunch, there was a rush out the door taking us to the local rink. The Boy was having a bit of a panic attack over not being on time for the pre-game "guy stuff" that goes on in the dressing room. So out we all hurried to the van and piled in like a bunch or sardines. I was still cranking because things remained a little crazy in the van, what with everyone still reeling over the after-effects of all those greasy leftovers. And so on a lark, I went back into the house, putting us in grave danger of being late for the GUY STUFF, and I grabbed some essentials: Ketchup chips, Double Stuf Oreo cookies and juice boxes to hold us all over.
And then we were off.
As there was a stretch of time pre-game, I decided the girls and I would go to the park behind the rink. I was feeling generous with my time. Actually, more like a wee bit smug with thoughts of what a great mom I must be. Taking time out of my busy day to play with my kids. We parked the van and then trudged through the deep snow to the park.
When our troupe got there, something magic came over me. I remembered what it felt like again to walk in the snow toward the monkey bars. What it felt like to thrill at reaching the second hoop, after many tries. What excitement it is to swing as high as you can go, and then jump. Landing on your own two feet. I remembered what it is to feel the winter sun on your face, the warmth of daylight illuminating the deepest corners of the soul, shedding light in dark places.
I remembered.
What a joy are winter picnics, especially when chips are involved. How precious are those photographs taken when all is well. When children are simultaneously at your feet and in your arms.
And as I sit here in reflection, I realize this. Each day, from start to finish is a gift. Every moment. From those moments of utter confusion and chaos that make up much of our days to those moments of peace and joy that are sandwiched in between. They are all a gift. A GIFT! And we must never, never take them for granted.
It is indeed a wild and precious life. Take nothing for granted and embrace each moment. Live each day with passion and joie de vivre. For one never knows what a day will bring. Nor can we know which day will be chosen, to be the very last.]]>A Mother's Story: How to Love Your Angsty Pre-Teentag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.24287872013-01-10T15:09:50-05:002013-03-12T05:12:02-04:00Lori Gardhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-gard/
Here we sit. The older ones remaining, as little ones have left for nursery, ready to take in the Sunday sermon. Me, a bustle of movement until this moment. And now that I've stopped, I collapse. My days and moments, leading up to this one, have in fact been peppered with much motion, activity and energy. Emotional energy, physical energy with all our familial comings and goings, events, visitations, preparations and the like. All that energy exerted. Wears me out. Add to all the business -- the stress of four kids, a messy house and a bunch of stray cats that sit meowing on my doorstep.
Hungry, as usual. Well, join the crowd.
It has been a wild few days of fear and anxiousness and uncertainty. And that's just speaking of the boy. He sits now, as still as a statue. And I feel him lean into me. He, who has uttered those dreaded words a mother fears hearing. Those words that tear a mother in two, sometimes. Words about who he is and who he is not. What he wants and what he doesn't. Words that sometimes are ill-spoken. Words that cut. And yet. We are all learning that words are just that.
Words.
And sometimes they fail us. A mother knows. He is growing up, growing into the man he intends to be. Like it or not. And he is trying to find himself. Pushing back, sometimes. Pushing away at others. But still holding on. And so am I. Holding on.
And I am still trying to hold him close.
More words were exchanged between us two just the day before. Trying to sort out the tangled web of emotions from the days prior. He, with a hoodie pulled over his face. Me, raw emotions and bundled nerves pleading for answers. Both of us feeling raw and exposed. On a road of good intentions, going nowhere fast. I concede him the victory. Whatever that means. And then I walk away, determined to let it all go. And start over.
Best decision I've made yet.
Things start to simmer down. And I feel the house let go a sigh of relief. I know I for one have heaved a weight off my aching back. And so has he. I can tell. Small things matter most. And his shoulders are more relaxed, of late.
We sit waiting for the sermon to begin, and I feel the weight of him. His 12-year old self leans in to my shoulder. I keep my eyes fixed on the speaker at the front. I dare not look to my left or to my right. I don't want to glance, in case this is not real. He wouldn't lean against his mama in public, now would he?
But I feel him. Heavier, now. It is a touch of two bodies. One I did not initiate, but will gladly accept.
And on a dare. I reach out my hand, move it down to his. And I feel for the hand he has shoved so deeply inside his Sunday best trousers. The black ones I ironed for him just last evening while we watched a family movie. A movie he opted out of watching because it was too tame. It was too childish.
And I feel his hand there.
And then. I grab onto those fingers, tentatively. And I keep my hand over his for a few uncertain moments. Waiting for the bubble to burst. All the while, training my eyes on the pulpit at the front. Only looking forward. Afraid to break that delicate bubble that has so gently appeared before me. Rising, as if an apparition.
And I know he feels it, his mother's love over top his hand. Because he draws out his rough, Man-child hand from inside the pocket of those freshly ironed pants and slips his hand into mine. Curling his fingers inside my hand. Not too tightly. For that might indicate weakness.
No. Just slack enough to prove his manliness is intact, but that his little boy-ishness is still very much alive inside him. And to say my heart swells, an understatement. Because a mother knows. That a child is still a child sometimes.