The red homework folder sits on the counter, right next to the empty lunchbox. I open it and find the usual stack of completed school papers, a new lunch menu, and a drawing. I sort. Recycling, recycling, show to Papi when he’s home, recycling, recycling, put in the sheet protector for the month… I come to the picture.
Nathan doesn’t usually draw with much detail. He despises drawing people the most. It’s not that he dislikes art - he actually really likes sitting down and working on a guided activity. But drawing for his regular class falls under “unnecessary” for him. This drawing has more detail than usual, so I look closer. I call Nathan over. “Do you want to tell me about your drawing today?” I ask. “Sure. We were supposed to draw a house with different levels. So this is the downstairs, the main floor, and then upstairs,” he points as he talks. “And these are the people.” On the main floor he points to a pair. “This is me, and this is a girl. She’s the mom.” He points upstairs. “And these are two of our kids. And down in the basement is our other kid. I put three because that’s how many kids you and Papi decided was good. So that’s probably good for me too. You know.” He gestures with both hands, as if that point is self-explanatory. I smile. It’s a cute little kid answer to what life might hold down the road. It’s sweet to see how he’s applied his current life to his future life. Some days stick figures are just stick figures. And some days they’re filled with a little story meant for a mom’s heart.
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We got the boys an Echo Dot two Christmases ago. It always seemed an unnecessary extravagance to us, and quite honestly, it is. But the world revolves around digital libraries for everything: books, tv, movies, music.
Music. That last one is what did it for us. The freedom from “Mommy, can you play Frozen” and “Papi, will you play the song for the Blackhawks” made it all worth it. Instead, “Alexa, please play Waka Waka Eh Eh by Shakira” has become music to our ears. Then again, sometimes Alexa totally fails us. She won’t play a song we know she knows. She’ll suddenly think we live in California. She will think we’re speaking Spanish when we’re actually speaking English. Or we have to speak Spanish with a hard gringo/a accent. And then, there was yesterday. Yesterday I walked into the family room to hear “…as he walked a path through burning carcasses and massive destruction.” I paused in my tracks and turned toward the smiling tiger that is our speaker and focused more. “...total carnage of all that was in front of him.” “Alexa, stop.” I turned to Nathan, “What on earth are you listening to?” “A story.” He shrugged. He listens to stories all the time. Initially, we started stories and music together, monitoring closely what he was asking for and making sure Alexa was offering kid friendly options, as we had her set up to do. Monitoring also that our child was following the expectations we had regarding what he was requesting. Without many issues, we slowly released control to the point where we’re fine not being in the room when he starts something. “Alexa, what story are we listening to?” I ask, knowing the irritation in my voice will be lost on the AI in our house. “You are listening to Minecraft: The End of Days,” she replies, her tone, in turn, inspiring the head shaking-eye rolling combo I give her. “Yeah, we’re not going to listen to that. Okay, boys?” I head out to continue something - the laundry, cleaning, changing of clothes from 4T to 5T - one of the managerial chores that filled the better part of the day. Five minutes later I flitted into the room to leave a laundry basket for folding after the boys’ bedtime. “...was a complete massacre on both sides…” Alexa droned on. Oh, for crying out loud, I thought. What is happening? “Alexa, stop. Alexa, what story am I listening to now?” “You’re listening to the story Civil War on-” I cut her off. “Alexa, no. Alexa, stop. Alexa, no war stories. Do not tell me any more Minecraft stories or war stories. Alexa, play stories for kids.” I barrage her with commands. “I’m sorry, I do not have access to that on Audible. If you’d like to hear a story-” “Alexa, just tell me a children’s story.” Bingo. A plethora of options more suited to the ears of our four and six year old children are presented. Nathan picks one. “Okay, boys, no more stories about killing people, okay? If you hear that, please turn it off. Actually, no. Just… just ask Alexa for children’s stories. They’ll be better topics for you. Okay? I’ll figure out what’s gotten into Alexa and make sure those are blocked.” So…if anyone knows how to set parental controls specifically on Audible books available via Alexa, I’m all ears. Clearly she has a penchant for bloody war stories right now, but I’d really love her to go back to the unnecessary, yet helpful, extravagance she was before. We’re not bird people. Not really. We enjoy nature, love a good walk, appreciate nature, are recharged by the serenity it brings, and look forward to exploring new places. But birding has never been on the list of things we set out to do.
And then we got a bird feeder last summer. It’s one you throw a cylinder seed ring on. No mess, no frequent refilling, easy. I need easy with three boys to chase around. And then we got a second bird feeder last weekend. It’s a tube that has a spring loaded ring at the bottom. You set the tension so that only light birds can access the seeds. The heavier birds and squirrels will weigh the ring down, closing the openings to the seeds. It reduces the amount of seeds tossed on the ground, prevents the big guys from consuming all your seeds in a day, and allows the birds you actually want to see to have priority. Again, easy. Today was our first day home since installing the new feeder, and we were surrounded by birds. I happened to toss in a great “Birds of Illinois” book in my bag last weekend. Today we spent a good portion of the day alerting each other “Hey! There’s a new kind of bird at the feeder!” We’d all dash (very slowly, so as not to startle our guests) to the windows, snap a quick picture, and then sit on the couch to debate which bird we saw. Today we also discussed getting another bird feeder. As it turns out, we just might be bird people after all. Teamwork makes the dreamwork.
I said this once and my boys took it and ran with it. They say it to each other often - when it’s time to clean up, before going outside to play, when we come home with school things, after dinner, before baths… It’s applicable uses are endless. Yesterday as we pulled into the driveway, they asked if they could play with a friend down the street. “Sure thing,” I said. “Once your after school jobs are done, you are both free to go.” “Okay, Adam, let’s do our things really fast. Okay?” asked Nathan. “Yeah. We can─ We can do it together,” Adam answered. He sat contemplating in the obvious deep thinking way four-year-olds do. “And we can do teamwork. Right? Right, Nathan?” “Yes, Adam.” “Because… Because teamwork─ If we do teamwork─ Mommy, if we do teamwork, then..” he trailed off, trying the sentence out various ways in his mind’s eye. “If we do teamwork, then our dream will work.” I love the way his phrasing doesn’t quite fit standard English yet. I love when a gem like this comes out of his mouth. It harkens back to the days of “Pick you me up,” calling himself “A-yam,” and telling us, “I’m not comfy, I’m Adam!” without realizing the humor. It reminds me that for all his newfound independence, he gets to be my little boy for just a while longer. I don’t correct him, hoping this phrase variation will stick around for a little while as well. A package of girl scout cookies showed up on our counter last weekend.
I didn’t recognize them as part of the stash I have hidden in the cabinet above our fridge. (Before you judge, they’re my “when I can eat soy again” sweet celebration. Which is why they’re squirreled away.) I very much doubted my husband had any idea where they came from, but I was intrigued. So I asked. He smiled sheepishly. Of course, there was a story here. The retelling went something like this: I ran into the store for the groceries we needed. I was in and out faster than expected and pretty proud of myself. But I got trapped on the way out, and I was corralled into buying this box. There was nothing else I could do! They were a swarm of moms. I walked out and there they were - five of them, with a horde of children. And they were all strutting around, with a barrage of information about girls and the program and cookies. I couldn’t get out of there. I was trapped. So I pulled out my wallet, only to find $4. When I explained I was a dollar short, one of the moms piped up. “Oh it’s no problem! Someone overpaid by a dollar earlier, so that would make up for you!” Like I said, they attacked me. They were everywhere. There was no way out. So I shoved my $4 in her hand, grabbed a box, and ran off to the car. And I could see it clear as day: the store entrance, the tables, the children, the moms, and my husband, at a loss for how to escape the clutches of the Girl Scout Cookie sales pitch. Today I heard a student say, “What do you think is actually in there?”
And that’s all it took to catapult me back through time - back to the days when I was the student peering down the hall at the only unexplained room in the school: the teacher’s lounge. The door seemed to loom. It had an aura around it, almost as if it cast off its own glow, somehow regal in its plain wooden exterior. To those of us nestled in the elementary world, it seemed impenetrable. What do they do in there? we’d wonder aloud. It must be something special, or the door would be left open, rather than closed tightly. Our imaginations left to run untethered, it was too limitless to fathom. So inexplicable was it that we could never come up with a single logical explanation as to what lay behind the door to the teacher’s lounge. Clearly it couldn’t be just a room! Looking back of course I laugh. For it is simply, just a room, encircled by four walls, much like any other room in the building. It has a table and chairs, a fridge and a microwave, a sink and a stove much like any kitchen that students are accustomed to. The door may be closed from time to time, but that’s mostly to give teachers a break from being constantly accessible or to mute the boisterous laughter coming from inside. It’s funny how, despite the decades between then and now, students are the same. Their perception of “The Lounge” is the same. Somehow, the magic of what lies beyond holds true, no matter what else the march of time has changed. ***************** Addendum: I also find myself grateful to be on the other side of the door, sharing in the community that is education and the laughs that ensue from what we do. Turn signal, right turn
Continue to drive Garage door button Wait for it to rise Pull in, park Ignition off Sliding doors open One kid races inside Diaper bag, car seat Middle child’s hand in mine We walk to the house Starting the after-work grind School bags, snow boots Lunch boxes come next Work bag, water bottle Keys and coat in hand One by one Bags and boys disappear The clutter is gone Leaving just one more The baby in the car seat Smiling big and bright Despite what has happened And what the night has in store For just a few moments It’s just us, and we’re home “What’s that?” Adam asks, mid-fork-to-mouth motion. He scrunches up his face and then shrugs. “Oh, right. It’s just the spider web.”
One can never be sure if this is reality or a play world, so I follow-up, “What spider web?” “That one. Right there.” He juts his chin upward and continues to eat. I look up, seeing nothing. “Like… a real one?” “Yeah,” Nathan pipes in. “It’s right there.” Finally I see it, waving to us from the corner of the ceiling. Right where the dropdown which covers out air ducts meets the wall. “So it is,” I sigh. “I guess someone should go around and hunt for spider webs. I’m sure there are more.” “Yeah, that one’s been there for like hundreds of days,” Adam quips. So there it is. An insight into our lives in a mere 60 seconds. Our house is filled with boys, laughter, and spider webs that hang around for hundreds of days. Enter at your own risk. You know those visits from friends that you count down the days? The ones that are decades old? The ones you needn’t catch up on everything because you fit the friendship like a well-loved sweater and faded pair of jeans? That’s my friend, Jill.
We met in preschool in the 80s, shared a love of leggings, fluorescent shirts, and scrunchies in the early 90s, and then survived her family moving when we were 10 years old through pen pal letters and annual visits. But this isn’t a story about her move, it’s a story about one of her visits when we were in our 20s. I had worked late Thursday, ensuring that my lesson plans were ready to go for the following week. My class packed up, the bell rang, and I walked out 15 minutes after they did, a rare occurrence in my second year teaching. Smiling, I tossed my trusty teacher bags in the backseat, turned up the radio, and hit the road. With little traffic on the highway so early on a Friday afternoon, I was going to be early - also a rare occurrence. Flight landed on time. I’m here! came the text. We’re deboarding now. See you soon! My family have developed the routine of looping around through arrivals - parking until we’re yelled at to keep moving, driving up to the next section until we’re pushed along again, and looping around until our arrivee exits the airport. Jill was used to this procedure. And so, receiving Jill’s text, I made my way to the arrivals loop. Heading out! came her next text. Great! I’m just starting a loop. I’ll go slow. I responded. Exit 2B. See you soon! 2B was still up ahead, so I breezed past 1C, and 2A before slowing and parking. I scanned the crowd. Tap, tap, came the hand on the window. “Move on.” I rolled the passenger window down. “I’m actually picking up my friend. She just came out and should be walking up now.” “You see her?” I craned my neck. “Not yet.” “Move on then.” I groaned and put the window up. I cruised through all the 3, 4, and 5 exits, looped around, and headed back into arrivals. 2B. Still no Jill. Odd. Tap, tap. The same woman. “I know, I know. I’ll keep going.” I dialed Jill. “Hey, are you out here? I was just at 2B and didn’t see you. They made me drive around.” “Yep, I’m here. I’ll wait,” Jill said. Drive, loop, enter arrivals, call again. “Okay, I’m pulling up to 2B. I still don’t see you. Are you sure you’re at 2B?” I asked. “Sure am, I’m here. I’ll wave my hand. There’s not a lot of people around. You literally can’t miss me.” I looked at the crowd of people in front of me. Was I the one at the wrong exit? I checked the sign: 2B. “Okay, I’m literally parked right at the beginning of 2B. I don’t see you anywhere. There’s a ton of people,” I said, exasperated. And then it hit me. “Jill… what airport are you at?” “Midway. Why?” I closed my eyes and groaned. Of course. She always flies into O'Hare, but this was a work trip, paid for by work. She must have flown Southwest. “Well…” I paused. “I’m at O’Hare.” Tap, tap. “I know, I know. I’ll pull around.” At this hour…
The weekend stretches before me, untouched and promising. Three slumbering children (and one comatose husband) are tucked in their beds. A favorite alpaca blanket from Ecuador drapes across my legs. A cup of steaming Swiss tea beckons from the coffee table. A list of to-dos waits in the wings, surprisingly patient. I sit and watch the first rays of sunshine climb into the sky, Timid at first, then gaining a bravado that declares the day has begun. ****************************** Several of my slices this year have come as inspiration from Elisabeth at The Dirigible Plum, who’s theme for this year’s Slice of Life challenge is finding inspiration in the writing of others. This has inspired me to branch out, read more slices from more individuals I don’t know in this writing community, gleaning ideas for writing styles, formats, voices, themes, purposes and so much more. Today’s slice idea happens to be borrowed specifically from Elisabeth (who borrowed it from several others!). I’ve been waiting to use it on a weekend when I’m actually sitting and the world isn’t racing to meet me. |
AuthorHeidi. Archives
March 2022
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