Being Irish

A bhfad ó shin (a long time ago), new to town and our neighborhood, we received an invitation to a St. Patrick’s Day Brunch. Something about the invite: “Stop by for green pancakes!” intrigued us. And so, we went.

“Welcome!" Our host greeted us. "You’re just in time to find the gold coins!” Off the boys went with a swarm of other kids in search of a pot of gold.

That morning we met many new neighbors and future friends, all in the name of celebrating something that is important to someone who is important to me. 

Being Irish.

I am a cultural mutt. A smidgen of this and a smattering of that. Being married to an Irishman, it took me a while to get that while most of us wear green and indulge in corn beef and Guiness to celebrate the one day each year that everyone is Irish—to people of actual Irish descent, (yes I am about to generalize an entire population) St. Patrick’s Day is much more. 

The day—the season— is a public celebration of a deep down pride most often held in. A commemoration of loved ones long gone and the luck they’ve left behind. 

The annual neighborhood brunch quickly became a meaningful placeholder in our year. So much so that when we eventually moved (again) we decided to keep the tradition going.

Now each year on the Sunday before St. Patrick’s Day we deck our home in glittery green and invite neighbors to “Stop by for green bagels!” (our twist).

Our way to give thanks for—being Irish—and a potluck of friends we've found along the way.

Big On Inspiration

“Alice says hi! Remember, Alice?!” asks my dangly earring wearing, future rockstar friend.

“How could we forget Alice? Hi, Alice. Welcome back,” I say.

Alice replies in frog (which is not easy to understand). Alice is a plastic frog and the unofficial mascot of the BBL Elementary School Creative Writing Club.

Hands shoot up—others want a turn to share their Item of Inspiration. Teddy bears, pencils, poetry. It’s how we begin, every Friday morning. Before the actual writing.

The members of this club are big on inspiration. And, they come in all creative shapes and sizes.

The serious sort, craving instruction.

The prolific powerhouse who I am careful not to praise too much for fear that others (me) will shutdown in her presence.

The future accountant (or maybe software engineer) who balks at the mere whiff of hyperbole.

The silent observer who studies her colleagues before choosing her own way.

The always on time conscientious scribe who brings extra pencils (just in case).

And of course, Alice-the-Frog’s owner who radiates creativity like a July heatwave. She is every quirky, brilliant character ever written. But, way more interesting.

I may be charged with leading them but these inspired fourth and fifth graders are my muse.

Each week I start with a plan. A writing exercise, discussion topic, and a list of things that need to be accomplished for the impending publication deadline.

We, the creative writing club, are after all responsible for the BBL Courant Literary Page (which we promptly renamed Fun Fiction after a member of the club pointed out that literary sounded too much like the word literal. Who needs that?)

Our time is short—45 minutes before school, which is really more like 30 once we get through sharing and questions and the late arrivals and…

Some mornings are without a doubt more productive than others.

Case in point, Halloween fell on a Friday this year. On the one day a year when mere mortals transform themselves into goblins and ghosts and fairies to collect pillowcases full of candy—“Why bother?” was what I was thinking.

I embraced the challenge, best I knew how, with a single sentence.

“Halloween is cancelled!” said Mrs. Huppelpup. “Put your costumes away and resume normal activity immediately!” 

“Is Halloween canceled?” asked my serious friend.

“Look at the name, it’s a character,” whispered the conscientious one.

Alice-the-Frog hadn’t yet taken notice of the prompt. Her owner was too busy adjusting the large spider attached to her head.

Minutes later my petite scribes were deep into compelling plots unearthing why Halloween was canceled and what would happen to the evil Mrs. Huppelpup (one young schemer took the liberty of renaming her Mrs. Howley). We barely made it to the to-do list that day but the activity was a Halloween home-run.

Of course, one month later when their actual stories and poems were due, we could have used that time back. Such is the creative dilemma…

I hope our time together sparks something that will linger in them, as it already has in me.

A reminder that:

People (young and old) do their best “work” at play. 

But, ultimately we all need a deadline to get the piece on the page.  

And, while it’s great to be inspired, it’s even more satisfying to be inspiring.

(Oh, and plastic frogs are super cool!)

Ever-Present

This time of year will forever remind me of the 
St. Patrick’s choir family of my youth. 

Eyes closed, head tilted. She began. Piercingly crisp like winter’s fallen flakes. 

I, on the opposite end of the choir loft. High above worldly eyes and adolescent expectation. It was worth it, to maybe get caught caring.

When Anne Baldwin sang.

“Ave, Maria….”

Babies still as stain glass rattled.

When Anne Baldwin sang.

“Ave, ave dominus…”

Awe quieted fear pushing the pendulum toward hope.

When Anne Baldwin sang.

Misshapen memories rest softly in smiles of friends now gone. Past but ever-present.

When Anne Baldwin sang.

Suburban Relay

The conversation goes something like this:

“Hi, good to see you. How’s it going?”

“Good, everything’s good. How about you?”

“Great. Crazy busy, well you know how it is. Never enough time! Great seeing you!”

“You too!”

And on and on it goes, the passing of the busy baton. You busy? I’m busy! We’re all SO busy.

It’s understandable how it happens. We, the relay team, save our real conversations for friends and family. And then we run the busy race with the people we kinda sorta know, or used to know, or have no interest in knowing.

I often leave these conversations wondering where I am on the spectrum with the people who’ve flung their baton my way. Inevitably I end up passing the busy baton quickly to the next person and worry that it is obvious how much I loathe the exchange.

I’ve found ways to shorten the ritual. In my experience if you are loading multiple kids into a car, you get a pass. No one expects anything but a wave. Or, you can always answer your own question. “How’s it going? Busy?” All my fellow racer has to do is nod. We swap knowing glances and move on.

Lately, I’ve had this little pipe dream, it’s more like a daydream really. What if I were to really answer how I was, day by day, minute by minute?

Early in the morning, my answer might be:

“I’m great. Kids are wonderful. I’m writing every day, exercising most days too. I’ve got balance right now. And you?”

Imagine the snotty, “Who does she think she is?” looks I’d get.

By mid-day my answer would most likely shift:

“I’m good, I think. Not really sure. Writing is going well, but it’s hard to tell where I am in the process. And you?”

And, by the evening hours:

“Eh. Working from home can get a little lonely sometimes. At least I’m close to the washing machine to throw in the forty-seven daily loads required to keep up with two growing boys. That’s fun. Gives me time to contemplate what the hell I am doing with my life. And you?”

I bet I’d have a lot less of these conversations once the word got out. When the racers found out I was the weak link. Most definitely not a team player.

I’ve spent a little more time than I’d like to admit on this daydream. So much time that when the daydream became reality recently, at first I wasn’t sure if I was hearing the little narrator in my head or an actual out-of-body person.

There I was dropping my son off at his evening activity, engaged in the latest leg of the race with a Mom who I barely knew.

“Hi Holly,” said another voice quietly to my left. It was an old acquaintance, a friend of a friend. I’d shared some wine and coffee and screaming kids with her, over the years. She greeted me quietly not wanting to interrupt my “conversation.”

“Hi, how are you? How’s school?” I blurted, more than ready to leave my other exchange.

The last time I saw this person we were out with a bunch of couples, a group that didn’t know each other very well. It was a fun, festive night, and she and I had talked for quite a while about how she was back in school, in pursuit of a career change. The light danced between her eyes as she described her classes and the juggling required to make it happen.

“Oh...um,” she said, fumbling for words.

Thud. The baton dropped on the floor. Oh no. This was exactly why we racers stay on task, to avoid just this moment.

“I’m not in school right now. I had kind of a breakdown in January.” She smiled as she said the words, signally she wasn’t using the term clinically. She glanced nervously at the other woman, who I had been talking to, and to my surprise, continued.

She explained how she wasn’t sure if the new field was right for her. That the program was costing a lot and meant tons of time away from her kids. She felt badly for having wasted the money and was still trying to figure out if there was a way to make it work. Then, she said, as if to add a ray of hope, “I took a part-time job, in the schools, and I’m loving it.”

Her raw pain hung in the air. I knew what came next and I was determined it wouldn’t happen. In two minutes she would get out to her car, and promise herself never again to pour her heart out to almost strangers.

“You’ll figure it out,” I said, as though certainty could be passed like a baton.

Then, an amazing thing happened. The woman, standing next to me, the one I had been exchanging cursory pleasantries with leaned in, as though gathering the three of us into a huddle.

“We’re all in the same boat. Never quite sure that we’re doing it right.”

We nodded, knowingly. It was a whole lot of working, parenting, spousing, vacationing, housekeeping, bill paying, obligating—a cesspool of busy that required no further explanation.

But, for one decidedly not-so-busy moment, there we were. Relay suspended.

“Nice running into you,” my old friend said, finally. “And, meeting you.”

Our new teammate smiled.

“Take care,” I replied.

And, we were off…

Read more at:
www.mamalode.com

Nothing to Fear

Every year in March, it starts. Camps, workshops, teams, trips. A frenzy of information clutters the in-box and mailbox. Promises of learning and expanded horizons and fun in the sun, in exchange for a gargantuan chunk of change. 

Last spring, I was finally feeling the benefits of being an “older parent.” Of lessons learned from too much or not enough, in previous years. This summer’s schedule melded with ease, a carefully woven web of activities for both boys. 

John would attend rehearsals for a summer production three days a week, go to sleep away camp, and still have some lingering free-time.  Check!

Will would be spending the entire month of July swimming and playing tennis at our local pool club. From 8:30 am to 4 pm each day, he was booked, just like he liked it. Check!

Then, on the doorstep of summer…

John decided he wanted to audition for a town-wide production with his friends. Only catch, it was the same weekend as the other production two towns away. He’d have to pick. Oh and that production, the one he ultimately ended up choosing rehearsed from 6 pm to 10 pm Monday through Thursday. Leaving nothing to fill the long days of summer…

I frantically consulted remnants of recycled catalogs. Anyone I ran into fielded my pleas…for ideas on how to fill John’s summer.

A friend suggested he volunteer at the local library. So, I picked up the forms (there are ALWAYS forms) and presented them to John at dinner.

“Maybe,” he said, casually considering his options. “Mom, I’m good. Don’t worry. I’ll ride my bike, hang out with friends, go out to lunch.”

Go out to lunch!? 

The first couple of weeks unfolded seamlessly. A family wedding, John at his first sleep away camp, the beginnings of rehearsals. After a little prodding, he did fill out those forms and discovered that he loved volunteering at the local library. He even started a blog.

Probably the biggest perk of his daytime freedom came when he was able to accompany Rob and I on an excursion to Newport. (Will, of course, stayed back with a friend, determined not to miss a minute of tennis or swimming).

All was good. Really good…until…about one month in…

“Mom, what’s going on today?” John asked with desperation in his eyes.

“Heading to the pool shortly. Want to come?”

Panic. He had absolutely nothing until 6 pm that night.

A few minutes later I heard him noodling on the piano, a newfound filler in his day. This time I decided not to ask…

That night, I pronounced, “I signed you up for a piano lesson tomorrow with Miss Kathye.”

“Okay,” he said simply.

We first met Miss Kathye when she was the music teacher at the boy’s preschool. A few years later, she moved into a pinnacle slot in Will’s life as his piano teacher. Although “piano teacher” doesn’t quite cover it…

She’s the kind of person who after Will’s lesson (which always runs long), inquires about what John is working on, then helps him practice his latest audition piece—giving him ideas and confidence and praise. She’s more than a friend, she’s our family creativity collaborator.

So, it was no surprise to me when, at the end of his lesson, Miss Kathye asked, “Any chance you would want to help with pirate week at preschool camp next Tuesday, John?”

Yes! Please say yes, John.

“Sure,” he said.

“What do you think they’ll have me do?” he asked, as we pulled into his old preschool driveway on Tuesday morning.

“Help with the kids. Talk like a pirate?”

“Please pick me up on time,” he said, exiting the car. (I’m not exactly known for “on time.”)

Four hours later, I parked in the exact same spot, watching the mothers and fathers exit with their petite humans, all smiles and yawns. My almost man was nowhere in sight. I checked my phone.

B out in 10

Ten minutes later, he settled into the seat next to me, matter-of-factly pronouncing, “They need me again tomorrow.” Then, he launched into a hilarious story about one of the adorable little kids he’d spent the day with. “They call me, Mr. John.”

Mr. John went back the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. 

“Okay if we have him for the rest of July?” Miss Kathye asked at the end of the first week.

I smiled. Mr. John had stumbled on the perfect way to spend his dog days of summer. No catalog or brochures required.

For the remainder of July I dropped John off at 8:30 am and picked him up around 1, just in time for him to crash in front of the TV or take a bike ride or a swim, before heading out to his evening rehearsal.

The weeks zoomed by. John’s performance weekend arrived, just as his camp counselor duties were over. Will swam and swam, and played endless tennis matches (that for him were never enough.) 

And then, the calendar turned to August and our marathon travel season began. A time to connect with family and distant friends and each other. We packed and unpacked so many times, “putting away laundry” meant nestling the clothes back into their designated suitcase, readying for the next trip. Until…

It was time for our annual pilgrimage to Staples with a school supply checklist that rivaled our grocery list. To buy jeans that wouldn’t actually be worn for weeks because mother nature clearly hadn’t gotten the “summer’s over!” message. To think about schedules and practices and clubs and homework and…

In the end, John’s summer of nothing was a whole lot of something that couldn’t be planned in March or by me. It came together in glorious old-school fashion, courtesy of boredom and spontaneity.

A reminder, to me, that nothing is better cherished than feared. Because something is always right around the corner…and when it shows up, you can’t help but wish for a little more nothing.

That Time...Again

I wrote this piece four years ago. SO much has changed. Take class assignments, for instance. They now arrive via e-mail making class lists comparable with the click of a mouse, and, and...Who am I kidding?  NOTHING has changed. My boys are off, enjoying summer. And, I'm still working on "someday." 

I pace back and forth “working” in the dining room. The only room in my house with a clear view of the mailbox. Today is the day--teacher assignments arrive in the mail.

My boys are nowhere to be found. They are on their annual summer getaway with their grandparents. They are not losing any sleep or rearranging their day, or even giving a second thought to who their teacher is this year.

Next week, when they return home and are once again surrounded by friends who will ask the obligatory “Who do you have?”, they’ll be happy or a little sad as they piece together their new school family. But that’s it. Just another day, just another year.

So why do I care so much?

The phone rings. “Not yet. Call you as soon as I get it.” It is my almost first grader’s best friend’s mother.

I come from a family of teachers. Both of my sisters are teachers. My parents were teachers. My grandparents were teachers. Growing up I spent weekends and vacations and pretty much every waking minute with teachers.

I have ultimate respect for the profession: for the tireless, non-stop energy and stamina it takes to shape 20 plus little minds each year. I have so much respect for the profession that I didn’t go into it. I know it’s a calling and I didn’t have it.

I also know that teachers come in all shapes, sizes and stages of life. Some are tall, some are short, some are cheery, some rarely crack a smile. They have good years and bad years. They fall in love, give birth, care for dying parents, get divorced, mourn loved ones and get sick. They are energized by the newest reading techniques and overwhelmed by endless testing. They have, do and feel it all. Because — they are human.

As a daughter and sister, I know that good teachers hold their own through it all. But as a parent, I crave the perfect teacher. The trifecta: teachers who love their jobs, get my kids and teach them things too.

My father reminded me last summer, right around this time, that “It’s good for kids to experience all kinds of personalities, to get them ready for the world.” I nodded in obedient agreement and then thought, “Ready for the world? Just let it be a good year!”

But I do want them to be ready for the world, to experience the smile of the new teacher excited by the warm glow of learning. And the mastery of the “seen it all, done it all” type who knows how to crack the “I can’t do it” code. But most of all, I want the only other person who spends seven hours a day with my kids to look into their eyes and see potential.

After the paper with their teacher assignment arrives, I will try to smile and be happy with whatever name it reveals. I will try not to launch through my mental database and into discovery mode seeking out parents who’ve gone this way before. I will try not to care too deeply about the sober ratings of pool parents. Or, passing parents at the grocery store who provide a vague, “You’ll like her.”

I wonder if the teachers are lighting up the phone lines on this day? “Oh no! Not her.” Or, “Fantastic! I was hoping I’d get a group of energetic boys this year.” More likely they’re swapping not so cryptic reviews of the parents, because I’d imagine, some (throat clear) are easier than others.

I hope that I am one of the good parents, the ones with whom the teachers want to work.

Someday, I hope, I will care a little less and trust a little more.

And, I hope my son gets Mrs. … wait … hold that thought. Moment of truth, the mail is finally here!

This piece originally appeared in the Hartford Courant: August, 2011.

What's On Your Summer Nightstand?

It’s here! The sunny space in the year when life’s routines loosen, and an expectant air of possibility creeps in. Lazy afternoons spent by the pool, sipping an icy concoction, as a gentle breeze…(okay, we can dream right?) 

An ideal summer read, for me, tugs just enough, but not too much, nudging a seasonal reprieve from reality along. The adult selections below are just that—friends to accompany you on your chosen adventure. Or, a blessed day of no plans at all.

This month a guest blogger reviews the children’s selections. John Howley (insert a proud mama smile here) is a thoughtful reader, who reviews middle-grade books on his new blog: www.booksformiddleschoolstudents.blogspot.com

Happy Summer, everyone!

ADULT

ATTACHMENTS

by Rainbow Rowell

Is it possible to fall in love with someone you’ve never actually met? It is if you’re Lincoln O’Neill and your job is to read your co-worker’s e-mails for inappropriate content. Lincoln loathes his work and his post-college life at home with his mom who packs his lunch every day, until he “meets” Beth. Attachments explores the complexities of love and honesty in the digital age.  And, as usual, Rowell does not disappoint. Her well-intentioned, but flawed characters are relatable and fun—perfect beach companions.

ONE PLUS ONE

by Jo Jo Moyes

What happens when a single mom, her mathematician daughter, an ex-husband’s teenage son, and a gaseous canine embark on a road trip with a complete stranger? A wild ride, with lots of predictable but entertaining twists and turns. This one’s a quick read that will pair well with anything on the rocks.

THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN

by Paula Hawkins

Ever make up stories about the lives of the people you see while hum drumming through your day? Meet Rachel, a recently divorced thirty-something, whose favorite past-times are pre-made gin and tonics and imagining the life she wants for people she doesn’t know. Until…one of those people goes missing and she decides to enter their reality, intimately shaping her own. 

This story will keep you guessing. Who’s crazy? Who’s sane? The ending may be a tad too tidy, but it hardly matters. This thriller is a ‘get me back to the lounge chair’ read.

KID-LIT

Reviews by John Howley

RULES FOR GHOSTING

by A.J. Paquette

Dahlia Silverton is a ghost, who’s stuck in the house where she died because of an unknown secret from her past. When a new family moves in, she must learn to share her space with living humans, including an annoying boy named Oliver. Dahlia finds hope in the form of another ghost named Mrs. Tibbs, who promises to help release her. But when Mrs. Tibbs is captured by a ghost hunter, Dahlia must seek an unlikely ally to break free from her secret. This book is entertaining, a good read for anyone who appreciates a clever combination of humor and adventure.

GREEK GODS 

by Rick Riordan

In this book you will find all the information you would ever need about Greek gods. From Aphrodite to Zeus this book puts a fun modern twist on all the traditional Greek stories and gods. I really enjoyed this book because it makes you want to keep reading and it is written in a really fun, entertaining way. This is a really great book for people who enjoy the Percy Jackson series or any other Rick Riordan books.