Last Day

It was cloudy outside and the threat of rain did nothing to quell the excitement that this was the last day of school for the year. As I walked down the linoleum covered hallway, I took in the sights, smells and sounds of each classroom. I passed a second grade room and as I glanced through the window, I saw the teacher, sitting at her desk, reading one last book to her soon to be third graders. They sat at their desks, captivated by the story and their teacher’s voice she changed it from character to character. I passed another second grade room. Here the teacher was at her desk and her students were at theirs, only they were not listening to a story; they were eating cut up fruit and snacking on cheese and crackers with music in the background. Party time in this room. I reached the first grade room. It smelled of children, glue, construction paper and the underlying smell of what a school smells like. I know it sounds weird, but each school has a smell; it smells of learning. No matter what time of the year you could walk into a school blind folded and be able to tell where you are at because of the smell. (Churches are the same way—I swear!)

The first graders were in the midst of a scavenger hunt game. Several parents lead groups of students around the school to figure out the clues. Each group had clue which lead them to another clue and at the end they were to put together a puzzle of all the pieces gathered. Some teams finished very quickly (one parent literally drug her group through the school running and jogging . . . . . well, we call can’t be type A!) while others took their time. Of course, there were snacks for the children here as well. It seemed every room had an impromptu party to celebrate.

I left the first grade room and discovered that it was pouring rain outside but no one paid any attention to it. I meandered to the third grade room to see that they were starting a game as well. The tables and desks were littered with little bits of cheese, crumbs of crackers and empty vessels that once held juice. The walls were void of all decoration; all the bulletin boards were torn down as well as everything else that let a person know who lived and breathed in these rooms for the last nine months. Just last week the walls were bursting with color and art projects. It seemed sad that they should be so barren over the summer months.

I moved on to a fourth grade room. The room was empty. The students had escaped outside for a water balloon and silly string fight. They came in soaking wet and sprinkled with silly string. But they had fun and that is all that mattered. They cleaned off the best they could and headed down to the elementary gym for the Summer Jam. Someone had come up with the idea of bringing in a DJ to play fun dance songs to send the students off. It was damp and warm in the gym from the rain, but the students didn’t care. They had a blast and danced to a ton of their music. It was their day.

Finally and yet too quickly, it was time to dismiss the students one last time. The fourth grade teacher called out the names of her students in alphabetical order and handed them their report cards, as well as shared a hug before they exited the classroom. She had tears in her eyes as she said goodbye. Over the course of the year, the teachers not only teach, but they are the caretakers and parents too. They settle disputes and sooth heartaches. They give hugs and stern looks. They teach character and compassion. They get to know these little people; their fears and dreams, their habits and quirks. And then they have to let go.

The students scattered. Little voices called out goodbye’s to teachers and to each other. Some would never return for classes here. Parents move and take the kids with them. Some move to other families in other districts. Heaven help us if one is called to God to soon. The school quickly empties out. It’s lifeblood for the last year had disappeared. It is an empty shell, waiting patiently for the students to return for the fall.

Westminster Chimes

The clock just struck two. Two a. m. in the morning. Bing-bong, bing-booong, bing-bong, bing-booooong. The Westminster Chime emits from my clock. I love that sound. It reminds me of being a small girl again on an overnight to my Grandma Sieg's house.

The clock she had was not electric chimes. It played the actual chimes, so beautiful and the entire song as well. On the hour. On the quarter hour. On the half hour. On the quarter til hour. And then, it would mark the how many hours had passed since I last heard it.

When I slept there, my mother would complain about it because it would wake her up. Not me though. I loved that it woke me up. I would be asleep on her orange and black floral covered couch. The smell of cigarette smoke would have faded, as well as the supper smells. The street lights would glow softly through her bay window. Occasionally, I would hear the bar refrigerator kick on and hum softly. Have to keep that PBR cold.

I miss that woman something terrible. She was EVERYTHING. She held the family together--insisted on family gatherings. Insisted on spending time with us. Insisted on the ties that bind.

Now, those ties have come undone and are frayed in sections. Some will never come together again. Some have a chance.

I think as long as the Westminster Chimes play--the ties that bind will always exist. You need to look up the sound and listen to it with your eyes closed. Try it.

Lucky

I have learned another lesson in life the last few weeks.

I am damn lucky. There are so many unfortunate people out there, suffering day in and day out. There are people around the world with little or no food, scant shelter or they could be living in a war zone. There are people who live in countries where ancient boundaries are blurred and war and strife exist because at some point in time, someone from their ancestry lived there. We live in a country where we are able to vote and speak out loud and clear if we do not like what is happening.

I am damn lucky. I have SIX wonderful children, all whom I adore and they me. I am privileged to be able to take care of them and shape their little lives all the way into adulthood. There are families out there that cannot have children. There are families out there that have lost children. There are families out there that have lost a mom or dad too soon and little children are left wondering were the person who hung the moon for them is gone. There are families that are shattered by violence, gambling, drinking or drugs.

I am damn lucky. I have a husband who loves me more today then he did when we took our vows over ten years ago. He has grown up with me, beside me and with our children too. He has been able to become a kid again and yet reach a new level of love and compassion during our journey as a parent and as husband and wife.

I am damn lucky. I write this after I have had the privilege to see how lucky I am. I have watched many close family and friends experience so many painful growing pains and I am grateful for what I have. And realize, that I am damn lucky.

TP-Cheap vs Oh yeah! That's the Right Stuff!

Have you ever seriously studied toilet paper and the many different types that exist to wipe our behinds? Have you ever noticed that the huge grocery chains that we dump our hard earned money in have the CHEAPEST type out there? Next time you go to Wal-Mart, visit their latrine. Hold up a piece of toilet paper. You can see through it. And they expect you to wipe with that.

And what the heck is with the super-sized rolls? “Oh, we don’t want to keep coming in to the bathrooms to change the rolls” and “we don’t want a customer to run out”. Whatever. Sometimes I have trouble finding the end or even getting the toilet paper out of the darn contraption. It looks like a mini-baler on the wall! Then I think to myself, “What if one of my kid’s were in here trying to go to the bathroom? IF I’m having trouble with the dang toilet paper, they probably will too.”

Then my mind spirals even further to the cute little white (or blue haired) grandma that may need to use the facilities. I picture her little arthritic hands trying to get the toilet paper out. Come on people! Some of the massive toilet paper rolls weigh at least ten pounds. And then they want you to pull out the thinner-than-paper type material that is also translucent enough that you could see through it to read a book. Not only that, but what they call toilet paper can only withstand four-tenths of a pound of pressure though it takes at least five pounds of pressure to unroll the wonder wipe.

I have noticed though, if you go to the restroom in a little business that is not part of a chain, their toilet paper is SUPER SOFT and STURDY. Sometimes it is even quilted! And in some old person’s homes, the toilet paper is actually colored pink or blue, other than the boring standard white. Or in some cases, gray (like the cheap, huge chain stores use). Also, the toilet paper is installed on a roller and easy to get to as well. Those are nice bathrooms.

I have also noticed that quality of the toilet paper also directly correlates to the cleanliness of the bathroom. The cheaper the toilet paper, the more likely that the restroom is not cleaned very well and that you should probably be packing a bottle of germ-x because after you walk out of the bathroom, you really would like to hose off with a disinfectant. The softer, or layered the toilet paper is, the store is more likely to care what their bathroom looks like because they have to use it too. And you don’t need to worry so much if your toddler decides to put his hands on the floor to peer underneath the door either.

Frankly, I am at the point I might start packing my own TP. I know it will get the job done and your sensitive areas won’t feel like you ran sand paper over them. I also know that my children will at least be clean from it and I won’t need to worry about re-wiping them at the next gas station. LOL.

Seriously—do your own poll next time you are out and about. Toilet paper is a serious issue! See what you come up with. And then think to yourself “Is this how her mind works? Does she obsessive over this stuff?” Yes and yes. Just in case inquiring minds want to know.

Memorial Day Memories

It is another Memorial Day weekend and it is full of grills lighting up, babes in swimsuits and honey-do lists getting checked off. I went to one of the local lakes today to drop a friend off. As I wound my way through the many twists and turns to the lake I noticed all the vacationers sitting out on their patios and decks or enjoying the open water on their boats. That was all I needed to remember my Grandma Sieg and the wonderful days spent with them when they were camping.

The picnic table would be covered with plastic red and white checkered tablecloth held down by metal clips so the wind wouldn’t take it. They had the lawn chairs with the aluminum legs and plastic woven straps to sit on. The beverage of choice was always PBR, can or bottle, tucked snuggly in one of the many coozies floating around. Bug repellant was always needed. It seemed that the flies and the mosquitoes were always looking for something to eat.

My grandparents had a camper they pulled with their pickup and they always seemed to find the perfect they camping spot. They would roll out their canopy to offer more shade to us when the afternoon sun seemed to be its most brutal. There was always a little Coleman type grill set up and smoldering, perpetually waiting for the food to grace it and mark it with the flavor of grilled foods.

The smells that I remember are unmistakable. My grandma used to smoke and the smell of the cigarettes and onions are still comforting to me. The staple was always hamburgers and hot dogs, along with Hormel chili for the hot dogs. My grandma always had salad and fresh radishes to snack on and there was never a shortage of Shasta pop for us grandkids to drink.

My grandfather would have his bait in a bucket sitting in a flowing stream and we loved to check the fishing poles for a bite. I often wondered if my grandpa ever caught anything because he would leave the poles unattended for periods of time. I guess it never really mattered. My grandparents were together and enjoyed each other’s company tremendously. To pass the time my grandma would read tons of books and my grandfather would work on crossword puzzles during the heat of the day.

I didn’t realized how much I missed it until this weekend. My kids are the close to the age I was when we visited my grandparents on their camping trips. I want them to have that experience too. I know it will never be the same way I experience it, but I still want them to have those memories to wrap themselves up in when they feel lonely or they are missing someone. Just like when I miss my Grandma Sieg so much. My sister found a picture of all of kids sitting at a picnic table with my grandma during one of our many visits and gave it too me for Christmas. I can truly say that was one of my best gifts I have ever received.

It has been a little over fourteen long years since we lost her to an unfortunate mishap. Sometimes missing her doesn’t hurt too badly and then there are the times that it hurts so much that I can barely breathe. I know Memorial Day is remembering our Veterans and service members, but I am also remembering a wonderful time in my past, along with the great woman who filled it.

Mother's Day

Mother’s Day. A day dedicated to the celebration of mother’s. My father always used to tell me this corny saying “Did you know that if your mother never had children, chances are, you wouldn’t either?” It would take me a few seconds to realize “Duh.” My dad. Always a comedian.

Mother’s Day. A salute to all the mom’s out there. Living or deceased. The changes our bodies go through to bring our children here are astounding. The mood changes, the skin changes, the body image changes. The pant and bra size changes. (This is most often a permanent change.) When it was all done with, it often didn’t matter. You and your partner created a living, breathing, squirming (and sometimes squalling) little human. You didn’t need to pass a test. You didn’t need to graduate from a class. You didn’t have to get a license.

After my first child was born and the doctor and nurses had left the room, I looked at my husband and he looked at me and we looked at our daughter. Now what? What do we do now? Did anyone else have this feeling?

I sometimes get this feeling again. Only, it’s after one of the kids do something REALLY drastic. Like today. John took Joel to his bedroom to change his dirty pants. But John did not know that Joel was dirty half way up the back. Leave it to Dad to not take special care to not get poop everywhere. Leave it to Mom to come in and save the day. Honestly—how does one person with the aid of an 8 month old, smear so much poop around in 30 seconds? And I don’t think that it even took that long. I was in the kitchen, heard the gross and disgusted comments from my husband and the “Ah, gross” exclamation from my son and stopped cleaning up from supper to walk to the rear part of the house. Maybe thirteen seconds.

Poop in the hair. Poop all over John’s hands. Poop all over the changing table pad. What the . . . .? Okay, I have another question. Have any of you mother’s out there thought the question “Does my husband screw this up so bad so he doesn’t have to do this? Or is he really that inept?” Just checking.

Then, after everyone is tucked in for the seventeenth time, I saunter back to Jack’s and Josef’s room to check on them (this is a wise decision). Turns out, Josef snuck into the kitchen, grabbed the Tupperware container of Cheerios and dumped what seemed like a million of the little O’s all over his bed sheets. I turned the corner in time to see him stuff a handful of the little cholesterol fighting fiber catchers into his mouth. Then Josef attempted to say “Mwamah. I hun-mphjph” Translation “Mama, I hungry.” Oh man.

Now, after the day is done, I have decided once again that the stretch marks, the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide moments were worth having my kids. There is always some type of drama in our house at any given moment (except when they are all asleep). The little scenes in your life matter the most. I loved it today when they come into my room and peered over my mattress to see if I was really asleep. Then they gave me all the treasures they labored so hard on during the school hours. (God bless those teachers, stoking our children’s inner artist). Some of the art pieces are repeats, but they are all so special in everyway. I cannot wait to get more.

Mother’s Day was a great one today.

P.S. Mother’s Day was first founded by Julia Ward Howe. She made a proclamation was a peaceful reaction to the Civil War and the Franco-Prussian War. Later President Woodrow Wilson signed it into law making the second Sunday of May the official Mother’s Day holiday.

1982

I had the privilege to go back to kindergarten. When I took the subbing job, I was a bit leery at first. Kindergarten! My endorsement is 7-12 Social Studies, not little five and six year olds. But then I reasoned with myself—I have six children. What are thirteen more? As it turned out, they were angels. I even had my own son in the class with me too and he was a model student that day.

The best part of the school day, however, was not when it ended, and it was not when they had nap time either. The best part of the day was recess. And I had recess duty. I had about 50 little kindergarten students lined up to go outside. I, armed with a very piercing whistle, and a hand held radio, as well as my cell phone (it has a clock, and I don’t own a watch anymore), guide the children past the blacktop, back to the far playground to let loose. The biggest challenge was, not keeping everyone in control, but rather, keeping everyone out of the VERY large mud puddles that were oh so strategically placed along the path to get to freedom. I had a few dare devils here and there, but perhaps common sense kicked in. (SNORT) Come on! Kids, especially boys, are so attracted to mud holes that it puts the theory Murphy’s Law as truth.

I digress. We got past the mud with no mishaps. At least, a near mishap. One little boy grabbed a HUGE stone (think brick size) and aimed it at the small lake near the road. Thank GOD he missed his target. Otherwise, I would have had about ten other little boys that would have been really wet.

Once my whole group reached the playground, it as if I was in 1982 all over again. The freedom! The thrill of running around, pell-mell, screaming in exhilaration and not having to worry about getting into trouble was the magic of the moment. And apparently, time had not diminished that magic either. I had twenty minutes to revel in the past and to keep the little kids from seriously injuring themselves on the monkey bars. I was in disbelief how fast the time flew. I was almost disappointed when it was time to go in. (I was cold and I was out of coffee.)

Yes, we had to dodge the vast ocean’s of rain water, but we made it back to the door. And thank the heaven’s Mrs. Johnson (another kindergarten teacher), was waiting where the students line up. She voiced the opinion that getting them “herded up” and back to the school was the hardest part. I silently agreed. With a smile on my face.

I loved it. The cool, fresh air. The sound of gravel crunching under my feet. The screechy sound the swings make as their little passengers pump their legs furiously back and forth to achieve the sense of flying. The sound of students yelling and laughing, darting here and there in their little make believe worlds of play. Kindergarten.