Yesterday Facebook reminded me of a memory from teaching fourth grade in Ecuador. We had been doing labs in science, and we went all in, with lab coats, name tags and goggles. One day, my students decided to act like small children, not in maturity, but in stature. They pulled their arms into their lab coats and took off their shoes, kneeling on them. Indeed, they looked like even smaller scientists that they already were.
The following encounter with students went something like this: Student 1: I invented this move. Me: Brilliant! But wait… kids did that when I was a kid. You mean to tell me that you were alive when I was your age?!? Student 1: *GASP* I was NOT alive then! Okay, maybe I didn’t invent it. Student 2: I was alive then. I was a teeny tiny, itsy bitsy atom (aside #1: we had been learning about molecules) floating around in the universe. And then, my mom ate me, and I wiggled my way down her esophagus, next to her trachea (aside #2: we had just studied diagrams and one happened to be about the human body), into her stomach, and- Me: Okay then! No more small people. Everyone, grow your little arms and legs back out because this conversation is taking some unexpected turns. You should know Student 2 did not think this is how babies are created. And yet, that was not a discussion I wanted erupting at 1:25 during our science lab. That being said, if this was one Aesop’s fables, the moral would be as follows: Watch your back or you might inadvertently eat a floating baby atom and get pregnant.
2 Comments
As my feet slip out from under me and my body hangs, suspended for two seconds, I have enough time to think - Well this wasn’t what I had envisioned - before I come crashing down. My fingers splay out, clutching at the ground, finding only unforgiving ice. I slide, and slide some more. My eyes glance to the edge of the 3 foot wide path.
What are the chances I stop before going over? I search for something to get my feet on. And then my brother grabs my hand. I stop. Hilarity ensues. We’re standing on a 30 percent grade incline, which isn’t the steepest thing I’ve ever climbed, but it is a solid sheet of ice. My legs shoot out at ridiculous angles, my tennis shoes finding zero traction. Were it not for the hand holding my hiking backpack, I’d start sliding downhill again. Somehow I manage to get upright. “I’m good,” I reassure everyone. “I’m good. Let’s keep going. It’s just a little ice.” I look up the path where my husband is. He’s clinging to a tree growing out the side of the mountain, which makes me giggle, but he gives me a thumbs up. So up we continue. We’re clearly not dressed for this hike past the Flatirons and up to the arch. We’ve seen other hikers coming down with heavy hiking boots or snow spikes. But we don’t own those, it’s March, and our hike yesterday had snow only to the side of the paths, so we figured, “Let’s give it a go! So we get muddy, snowy, wet, (fill in the blank). Shoes can be washed! We’re only in Colorado a short while.” What’s a little ice? I’m now halfway up to the next turn, still a good 30 feet from the top. It’s slow going, but I’m determined to get there. Two girls in their twenties who passed us earlier come back from around the bend. I hear them say, “It’s just not smart today… too slippery… We’ll come back in a few weeks.” They start a very precarious descent. On their heels are two more seasoned hikers, who pass the girls quickly. I raise my eyebrows. “No luck?” “It’s quite icy. There are steps on the other side of the turn, but they’re all iced over. We made it up, only to find another steep incline of ice. The mountain will be here another day.” She sighs and marches swiftly down the path on her snow spikes and out of sight. I look at my husband, who looks at my brother, who looks at his wife. Everyone nods. We go down. It turns out hiking down a sheet of ice is much harder than hiking up one. Which is how I end up on my bottom for a second time, this time by choice. Starting from the top, one by one, we sit down on the path, feet out in front, gloved hands trailing behind. Like little ducklings, we glide down the mountainside, laughter reverberating through the ravine. Sometimes life gives you lemons, so you make lemonade. Other times it gives you an unhike-able path, so you toboggan down instead! He lands on a wall to my right - a flash of muted blue and white. The woodhouse’s scrub jay takes in his surroundings, as do I. I imagine our perspectives are quite different in this space.
My eyes move from one rock formation to another, taking in the red rocks that jut out at odd angles and balance precariously on one another. I imagine the scrub jay’s are scouring the rock surfaces a bit more intensely, looking for fallen berries or spring’s first insects. I pause to watch a rock climber search for a new handhold, pulling his body weight up a few more inches, in awe again at the physical perseverance needed to climb unforgiving landscapes. The scrub jay cocks his head, most likely tracking the movement in search of threat. For me, this meeting is a break from my normal routine, a breath of fresh air, a reminder to be present for life. As fellow slicer Steph so poignantly stated, it “calls me back to the awake world.” Something tells me the scrub jay is just as present, no matter who else ambles into his world. I'm reminded again that nature tends to the soul and pushes us to find pause in a world that can drown us in constant "doing." I saw this post last year on Musings of an Ordinary Person in Recovery, and loved her commitment to being grateful. I decided to write today on finding gratitude within things that are also a struggle or source of stress for me right now. My five finger gratitude turned into a full two hands of gratitude, and I’m so glad it did.
Sitting on our couch, my laptop propped on a pillow while sitting criss cross - my favorite way to get work done at night.
Before that I cleaned out the bathroom vanity in preparation for our bathroom renovation (post water leak two months ago). Before that I tucked each boy into their beds, surely the sweetest part of my day. Before that I conquered dinner, a whirlwind of an ordeal today. Before that I wrangled each kid out of daycare or afterschool care, into the van, and home, bags weighing us down. Before that I perused replacement flooring options, becoming more glassy-eyed and uncertain by each passing minute. Before that I checked student work, tidied my room, and prepped materials for tomorrow. Nothing feels better than ending the day clear so I can start fresh tomorrow. Before that I rocked a great day with students, where each lesson seemed to fall into place - the perfect sequence and pace - a feat that doesn’t often happen the whole day through! Before that I squeaked into the parking lot with a few minutes to spare, still not meeting my vow to get to work earlier. Before that I woke three boys, got two to smile, let the third mellow in his morning mood, got them dressed, fed, and out the door to school and daycare. Before that I awoke to my alarm, definitely not ready to meet the day, wishing I had gone to sleep a bit earlier the night before. As I sit and contemplate how to approach my writing today, I nod to Charles Dickens. One, in the title of this entry. Two, in reflection of his poem, “The Road Not Taken,” where two lives diverge in a wood. Where it’s impossible to know what life would be like without certain choices. Yet where the author knows the choices have made all the difference. So here it is… A Tale of Two Lives.
****** ** ****** ** ****** ** ****** I’m out of town for the weekend, Just my husband and I. What do we do with ourselves? It feels so odd. So much time, so little agenda. The normal hustle and bustle Quieted for four days. There’s time to talk Time to hike Time to read Time for quiet. The mornings are slow We wake on our own Are lazy to get ready Yet we’re always prepared With time to spare. It’s nice My has it been nice. But, oh, do we miss our lives. The ones that are busy With days filled to the brim So much agenda, so little time. Quiet that’s broken without end With little time to ourselves. There’s meals to be made Little feet to chase Hugs to give Arguments to quell Stories to share. Mornings are a blur We wake to alarms and children Rush to get everyone out the door We’re always just barely on time Not a minute to spare. It’s chaos But it’s full And it’s ours And I can’t wait to get home. I’m in the middle of a FaceTime call with the boys.
“And the first game Grandma won, but the next one I did.” All of a sudden, there’s a poop emoji sticker on the screen. Nathan giggles. Then one with heart eyes appears. Star eyes. Crying. Winking with its tongue out. All poop emoji stickers. More giggling. “Okay, okay, Nathan. I would still like to be able to see your faces. His face pops on screen, eyes glimmering. One by one, the emoji stickers disappear. And then Adam’s face disappears into a massive poop emoji. More giggles. Adam’s poop head opens its mouth, sticks out its tongue, and blinks. “Alright boys, you’re getting goofy,” my mom says. Lucas, not one to be left out, says, “See. See!” The phone is passed around the table to my mom, who holds Lucas on her lap. Her head bursts into a poop emoji, and the boys keep laughing. Lucas glances over at her, clearly confused. When he turns his face back to the camera, it's his turn. Gone is his sweet 22-month-old face, replaced by a blinking, moving, poop emoji face. I lose it. It illogically tickles my funny bone, and I’m laughing just as hard as our two older boys. Hilarity ensues as the next five minutes are filled with changing emojis - mice, elephants, monkeys, cows. Lucas squeals, “Mousie! Mousie!” and “Ooo-ooo-ah-ah!” as faces change and new animal emojis emerge. I give into it, because it’s not a battle I can win. It is one I can fill with laughter though. And so this is what FaceTime has boiled down to for us today: poop emojis and laughter. Three kids. Three weeks. SICK.
It’s been a year. The kind of year where “sick” is never quick. It’s a five day fever here. A seven day stomach virus there. A ten day hand a foot over there. The kind of year where we catch things we’ve never had before. But if there’s one guarantee it’s this: It’s a virus. Nothing to do but rest, drink, and wait. Wait. Wait to get better? Wait for the next symptom? Perhaps. But more likely wait for the next kid to catch it. To get sick. With the same five, seven, or ten day virus. And no. Oh no. Ha! By golly no. This will not happen at the same time. They’ll drop like flies, but one at a time. They’ll wait for the previous brother to be well for one day, maybe two. Perhaps there will even be a five day respite! But then, yes. Yes, yes, yes! The next one will fall. So that five day fever will turn into fifteen days. The seven day stomach bug will be fifteen days. And when it’s all said and done, that 10 day hand and foot will be thirty days. When it’s all said and done, you’ll wonder: What does it even feel like to have a healthy household? Is it possible to work a full week? But more importantly: How on earth do people with more kids survive? I was inspired to rewrite yesterday's story in a different format today. So here it is!
We sit here, We two, My last baby and I. As the world sleeps, And the sun starts to peek. This one, Like the two before, Won’t keep. The day will start, Demanding and busy, Calling for our attention. But for now the world sleeps, The sun starts to peek. And we? We sit here, My last baby and I. It’s a morning much like any other morning.
We sit, my baby and I. The house is still. The room is dark. The world has not yet woken. It’s not that he’s any more special than my other children - but he’s the last. That fact carries something different with it. I’m older. I know time marches on; I know the value of slowing down. This babe won’t keep. And soon the day will start, with all its demands and business, calling for our attention. This particular moment in time will fade away to noise and action. So for now, we sit, my baby and I, soaking in the stillness that is 4 am. |
AuthorHeidi. Archives
March 2022
Categories |