Mel-o-Drama

Today is National Day on Writing, and I celebrate by reviving this old blog. I love to write, but my thoughts have been swimming, surfacing piecemeal. The water feels so wide as some are upsetting or hard to put into words, so I have ignored them hoping they disappear in the deep end, because, like Eva sings, "I know not if I sink or swim."

Until today, when I was inspired to swim.

I went to the closet to pick my clothes for the day, struggling to appease competing interests fighting within me - the woman who doesn't want to look like a mom and the mom who doesn't want to over do it so as to embarrass Kennedy, now in the wilderness known as middle school. Nothing is worse than having your mother come to your classroom, nothing except having people notice your mother came to your classroom. The intent to blend in was there, yet I was unable to resist the boots.

Her English teacher (they call it Language Arts now, but the nostalgic in me can't let go of quintessential English teacher) is oh, so young and fresh from college, I silently wonder if she has the life experience to teach my daughter about English and literature and the arts of language. Just as my doubts begin to surface in my mind, Ms. H. wins me over, with, of all things, lighting.

I left behind the glaring of the fluorescent lights from the hallway and entered what had here-to-for been an oxymoron to me, a cozy classroom. Pink lamps illuminated the quotes from Twilight scattered across the walls, the skeleton book reports hanging from the ceiling and the faces of the middle schoolers, giggling and gossiping as they sit in a circle awaiting the feather stick ceremony. The institutional levelor blinds were barely noticeable swagged by a medley of pink animal prints. And on the wall, in coordinating pink and animal print words read "writing is a gift." Her room was such an expression of who she was that I almost felt like I was trespassing her personal study, yet the ambiance made my experience there timeless, awakening the middle schooler within me.

"Writing is a gift, and so we share it," Ms. H said. And with that, several members of the class read their Eerily True story - the assignment to pick a frightening real life event and fictionalize it into something scarier. Tears welled in my eyes as I heard brilliant expression in the story of the escalator eating its prey with its steel jaw trap. And that wasn't even my kid. When it was Kennedy's turn to share I sat there paralyzed by my amazement at the depth and complexity of the words forming ideas that jumped off the page and out her mouth.

I was witness to the miracle of middle school. This teacher who loves to write, told her students they were authors and then taught them to be such. She refuses to let them apologize for their work, insists that they share it with their peers and then assigns them thank-you note writing as listeners. Writing is a gift, one I wish for every child.

Writing for me is like that breath of air you gasp when you've been underwater too long. It releases those ideas churning from within my soul to the paper (or in this case the internet) and even if it only makes it to my journal where no one will ever read it, I am able to breathe again. Until the next time. And as I reviewed my backlog of half-baked posts I realized I've been under water too long this time, nearly drowning in my own silence.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Summer Daze

I loved this summer song growing up:

Oh, what do you do in the summertime, when all the world is green?
Do you swim in a pool, to keep yourself cool,
or swing in a tree up high?
Is that what you do? So do I!

Oh, what do you do in the summertime, when all the world is green?
Do you march in parades, or drink lemonades,
or count all the stars in the sky?
Is that what you do? So do I!

I don't know about the equinox and solstice, but for the Buttcho's, Memorial Day is the beginning of summer, a season with two requirements: 1. the pool is open, 2. school is closed.

From grad

As a child, summer meant freedom from the days stuck at a desk in school, from early bedtimes and even earlier mornings, and from smelly stale lunches in the cafeteria. It meant playing Charlie's Angels on our bikes with our walkie talkies (I was Kelly) in the big dirt field all day long. It meant trips to Lake Powell, and a week by myself at grandma's house.

Summer remains my favorite season, I don't even resent the bugs and humidity, they are a necessary evil in my green world with lazy sweltering days. Is there a taste that screams summer more than crisp cold green grapes munched on by the pool on a dreamy steamy day? Is there a place more hopeful than a backyard at dusk full of children chasing fireflies, grabbing for them just as they go dark? Is there a sound more heavenly than the jingle of the ice cream truck when your clothes are doused with sweat and the heat is threatening to break you? Is there a smell more scrumptious than the perfectly blended mix of toddler skin, sunscreen and chlorine from a pool?

From grad

Every Memorial Day weekend, I have the kids make a list of the things they want to do in the summer. The list has a very small affect on our actual plans, but a bigger affect on their ability to dream and to sense the season of summer upon them.

Kennedy wants to sleep in (Ellie asked what "a sleep in" is)

Steve wants to go to the pool every day

Wally wants to ride bikes

Ellie is too busy with her social calendar to come up with a list

I want to enjoy the simplicities of summer by going on a serious screen and shopping diet. How long can we live without TV or Facebook?!?!?

Randy wants to hike on the top of a big mountain

So, what do you do in the summer time?

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Mama Drama

Every Mother's Day I feel like renting a limo to take on the guilt trip. It's inevitable, and I wish I could at least ride it in style.

Leading up to this day of celebration, stories of the women who gave all they have for their children seem to come out of the woodwork. Mothers who happily go without personal time, adult interaction, exercise and even sanity to make time to play with their children. Women who go without any kind of luxury and sometimes even food to make sure their children have the very best. They are women who know their most important job is raising their children. They embrace it and honor it and are fulfilled by it.

I start to wonder if I'm that kind of mom. And then Wally sneaks up to my Diet Coke to steal a sip and I squawk as if he's robbing an egg from my nest. And I know. I'm not. I never was. And (tearing up) despite my best efforts, will never be.

Instead, I'm the kind of mother who counts the minutes until bedtime, and skips the story if I'm too tired. I'm the kind of mother who turns all the field trip forms in late and serves cold cereal for dinner. I'm the kind of mother who uses the TV as a babysitter. I'm the kind of mother who (ouch) yells when I'm at wit's end. I'm the kind of mother who does not thrive on self sacrifice, but feels lonely and resentful and completely unfulfilled by motherhood. None of these make me proud.

Normally that's where my story ends. I vow to do better and then spend six months belittling my abilities and wondering why I ever even had children since I'm the world's worst non-abusive mother. And wondering what deficient character trait makes me unable to "know" like other moms.

But this year, I'm crashing my own guilt trip. I'm realizing that the pieces of motherhood I resent are a part of, but not the definition of the job. The part of motherhood I love, the part that energizes me and sustains me and I do well is worth celebrating.

Because I'm also the kind of mother who follows her hair-brained ideas, children in-tow. I'm the kind of mother who takes (drags?) her children to political rallies, unusual churches, family reunions, recitals, museums, roadtrips across the country and anywhere I can to show them the greatness of the world.

I'm the kind of mother who camps even though she hates it, who plays in the snow even though it's miserably cold, who jumps off the high dive even though she's terrified, who wakes up at 5am to run even though she's tired and slow, and who plants a garden even though she's suckish at it (their word, not mine) to help them understand grit and determination.

I'm the kind of mother who makes wickedly cool costumes for Halloween and book reports, dances to salsa music for breakfast on Cinco de Mayo, and is always good for a prank on April Fool's Day, so they feel the celebration of life.

I'm the kind of mother who relishes her child's friendship with the girl at school who speaks no English and "barks like a dog", who sings Happy Birthday with her kids to the homeless man at the restaurant, and who shows up at service projects, even planning a few of her own, to show them humanity, that there's a need for us beyond ourselves.

And I'm the kind of mother who would be honored to die saving my child's life, who stood between the angry dog and her 8 year old, who steals kisses every chance she gets, who goes to check in on them "one more time" before going to bed, and who will always make them call home, because I love them to pieces.

But I'm the kind of mother who has passions beyond them. I'm the kind of mother who loves alone time with their father, working with her sister, and retreating with friends. And so should they.

From Seattle

I'm starting to embrace the idea that despite the moments of despair, I am actually getting more out of this arrangement we have than they are, I am the one doing the "growing up"; better yet, that they do not expect nor want me to sacrifice my hopes and dreams and friendships and self in their name.

And that they love me too.

What kind of mother are you?

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Why????????????????????????????????

"Why did you want to bring us here - we're going to FREEZE?" Steve asked with complete sincerity about an hour into our Inauguration "picnic" at Centennial Park.

He was right, there was no reason to corral everyone's hat and mittens, all the spare blankets we could scramble together, and our camping chairs. It made no sense to take the kids out of school, squeeze 6 boxes of Mac N Cheese into the thermos while still piping hot, or spend 10 minutes convincing Ellie she was really not going to want to wear the culottes, even though they were adorable (the girl is just like her mother).

But when we got there, and I detest the cold as much as anyone, I felt I had come "home". It's the same reason I drove Kennedy to South Carolina to canvass for Edwards, dragged the children to every political rally I could find this year, went public on marriage equality, and waited 2 hours as it got dark and cold for Bill Clinton to show up and speak at a college campus. Politics is my boyfriend - I love to flirt with it, think about it, and show up for the public events for it. Like a giggly high school girl chasing boys at the Homecoming football game, I feel alive when I join with others I don't know anything about to voice support for causes and beliefs I hold dear. These strangers are my people.

So, when CNN showed pictures of the moving van at the White House and the crowd around me cheered, when Obama took the oath of office and we literally danced with glee (Stevie included), and when we all stood mesmerized by the inspiring speech, I knew why the bitter wind and frigid air did not deter me. I wanted my children to tell their children where they were when the country "picked itself up, dusted itself off and began again with the work".

It was like a family reunion, I wanted them to know their heritage, to see all those who believe freedom is not defined by the right to shop at the mall of one's choosing, prosperity is not limited to the the state of our household budget, and citizenship includes paying a price for the better good of the community, not just our own self-interest.