Mother's Day

What if you could write a letter and deliver it to your former self or someone you love, at some key point in the past, warning of mistakes to avoid? Or encouraging yourself to persevere? Or hinting at the many good times that lie ahead? My classroom kids and I recently gave this a shot. With Mother's Day quickly approaching I was determined to have them create something special their moms would enjoy (especially after having forgotten to do anything at all last year).

The kids and I created prewriting notes around our childhoods: stories you've been told about when you were a baby, accidents you had, great vacations you've been on, the best gifts you've ever received, cute things you've said, trouble you've gotten into, sad things that have happened, and things your mom has done to make you feel loved. We took these notes and used them to write letters to our mothers. Letters that might be delivered the morning before our own deliveries - our birth day.

I was worried this might be a little difficult but what they came up with was both amazing and heart-felt. Their notes moved from humorous to nostalgic to touching.

"Don't be alarmed by those pains in your stomach. You're just having a baby. Me in particular."

"Some day you're going to decide to have another baby for me to play with. I'm going to hit her and even push her off the couch. Remember that I still love her though."

"We're going to go on some great vacations together. Don't be surprised if I never want to leave. We'll visit..."

"You might be tempted to buy me socks or underwear for my birthday but I'm going to like toys. I'm going to really LOVE toys!"

"You're going to be the best mom. And I'm going to be your 'special' girl."

After we had our first drafts complete we worked hard to create our own stationary for these letters. The kids carefully drew hearts and swirlies and dots.

"Please don't draw Gamecocks or footballs," I pleaded.

"But my mom LOVES the Gamecocks and football," a few protested.

"I'm sure you think she does," I countered. "That's part of what makes her such a great mom. But for this one day let's give her something other than sports."

After completing their stationary we took more than an hour to meticulously transfer our drafts onto the paper. I was so amazed by their work I ran them down to the office to make copies for my files before the originals were laminated and sent home. I hope they were well received.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

June 11, 1974

Dear Mom,

Today is a BIG day. You are about to give birth to a tiny baby boy. He won't stay tiny very long, though. Soon he will become fat. Really fat. He's going to cry a lot too. Even more than most other babies. Nothing you do will help. He will scream through your very best efforts to rock him, walk him, and sing to him. Remember that this is not his fault. He cannot help it. With time and patience this will pass and he will fill your days with laughter and smiles.

You'll want to keep a close eye on this little guy as he learns to crawl. Keep him in your sights - especially when going out of the house. He might one day crawl away from you, pull down his diaper, and leave a "present" on someone else's floor. Though it may not seem like it at the time this will one day be very funny. There will be other mistakes made. Should you decide to dress him up for a studio photograph you may want to consider having him use the potty first. This will save you some frustration and him some shame.

There will be many good times ahead. He will say silly things like "pamshoo" for shampoo and "mertmane" for airplane. He'll cruise the house on his Tike bike. He'll grow to be a good listener and baseball crazy. Time will fly as you take family trips to the Ozarks and to Arkansas. You will celebrate the excitement of new pets and cry together when they die. There will be church gatherings, movies, and games. Most of all there will be laughter. Hold on to as many of these moments as you can. They are easier to forget than you could ever imagine.

You're going to make a great mom. You'll give him lots of hugs, plenty of Band-aids, and a lot of love. All your hard work will help him grow up and go to college, become a teacher, and have a loving family of his own.

So brace yourself not just for this one BIG day but for the many smaller ones that will follow. They are all just as important and just as special. Enjoy your journey!

Love,
Your son, Chris

A Kinda Easter

When I was little nearly all holidays were spent at my grandparents' house. There'd be aunts and uncles to listen to and cousins to play with. Since moving to South Carolina five years ago a number of these same holidays have become somewhat awkward. With no family nearby, days like Easter tend to be just like any other day - other than the fact they begin with baskets of eggs, candy, crackers, toys, and baseball cards (due to Ainsley's request we did not put underwear in anyone's basket this time around).

This year we avoided the holiday all together by planning a trip to the beach. We left home at 8:00 in the morning and were on the beach at Isle of Palms by 10:30 enjoying the waves and sand with all the other non-church goers. By the time the sun rose directly above our heads the non-heathans finished their morning services and crowded in among us. Evidently a day at the beach sounds like a pretty good Easter to a lot of other families as well.
I noticed right away that the kids were different this year. In years past Harper would want me to hold her hand as she fought her way through the surf. Ty would only venture a few feet out and Ainsley avoided the water all together. They are obviously getting older - and braver. Harper and Muluken had to be constantly reminded to go no further than the end of the pier as their tiny heads bobbed up and down out past the biggest waves. Ty and Ainsley both giggled their way out quite far as well. Keeping track of all four was more taxing than relaxing. I'm sure there will be a day when a trip to the beach is filled with lounging, reading, and splashing around in the water but believe me when I say that day has not yet come. One head, two heads, three heads, four. All day is spent counting, recounting, and giving the "Come back, you're too far out" wave.

There was a short time today when Ty went missing. He was supposed to be following me up the beach toward our stuff but somehow took a wrong turn. Muluken found him just a few minutes later heading for the stairs to the boardwalk. As we showered off and changed into dry clothes I thought back to a fiction piece I wrote two years ago about visiting the beach. I'm going to post it here since there are a handful of new readers who check in from time to time. I had originally named the piece "June" and planned to write accompanying pieces for each of the other months of the year. Though I'm still not closer to finishing this it does strike me as a good idea.

***********************************************************************

I hate the beach.

My friend Brooke says it’s her favorite place because she gets to relax and to read and to let the world just peel away from her like bark from a birch tree. There was a time I would agree, looking out over the horizon and feeling the wind sweep across my face and listening to the cadence of the sea coming in to greet me. Everything about it makes you want to stay forever.

Almost everything.

Going to the beach starts out well enough. The first weekend of every June we squeeze everything into the van – towels and blankets and pails and shovels and chairs and snacks and sunscreen. Four kids. Tricia and I. Two-and-a-half hours away is a county park on Isle of Palms that has the softest sand. It never burns your feet no matter how hot it gets outside. I don’t know how this works - it just does. Muluken says it’s because we’re boys and we’re tough but I remind him that his mother and sisters are girls and they’re tough too. He doesn’t look convinced and flexes his tiny brown muscles in protest.

Ty reacts to the beach like a June bug reacts to light. He runs around, wildly bouncing off things. Off people. We try our best to reel him in but our arms are full of bags and coolers so for this one moment – this one day – he gets to act like a child. After a year of time-outs he probably deserves at least as much.

We find a spot to drop our stuff. It has to be close enough to the waterline so that we can see it from the surf yet not so close that we will have to retreat from the rising tide. Tricia says I obsess over the spot too much. She says I’m like an old man circling the mall parking lot in search of the perfect spot by the door. I couldn’t really say, but it is important to me. I do take it seriously.

The first thing Harper does is to grab her boogie board and head off toward the water. The board has a big picture of Dora on it and it’s really too babyish for an eight year old but she doesn’t seem to mind. It’s functional and she knows how hard it is to find money to replace the things that aren’t broken. She bounds through the waves trying to get past the breakers but her frame is small and she has the legs of a reader. She’s knocked to the ground numerous times before she finally wrestles her way to calmer waters. Despite the effort, a smile as wide as a Wal-Mart parking lot spreads across her face and she squeals uncontrollably. She has been waiting for this exact moment all year long.

Tricia and I make our way down to the water to take this all in. By this point Muluken and Ty have joined their big sister while Ainlsey – sweet, little Ainsley – dances around us begging to search for seashells. Not liking to get her face wet, she prefers to stay on dry land. Tricia takes her hand and together they head off toward the pier in search of half-buried treasures.

I breathe in all that salty air and sunshine and then I run out to join the kids. And that’s how the beach starts.

Not a bad start.

But not long after the morning shadows disappear everything changes. My heart somehow knows before my eyes do. I look out at the water. And I look out across the beach. And I count three heads. Just three heads. When there should be four.

And now, I hate the beach.

I hate the beach because when I yell for Tricia I can see that she’s already noticed. She’s looking around and every ounce of blood has drained from her cheeks and her knuckles are bone white as she clenches the sides of her swimsuit. She looks at me and says something I can’t hear. Suddenly I’m very aware of all the noise. And all the people.

I run down to the water as Tricia makes her way across the sand. I glance back over my shoulder hoping to see her signal to me that everything’s okay – that she has found what, at this moment in time, I need to see more than anything else in the entire world. But she hasn’t. I can see that she’s screaming now, moving from towel to towel, person to person, pleading with them to help. But no one does because they don’t understand. No one understands. No one but us. And among all these people I suddenly feel alone.

I turn back to the water and there are so many bodies and the sun is so bright that I can barely make sense of what I’m seeing. I move out further to get a better view. The waves crash down on me so as to make me turn away -but I refuse to. The saltwater stings my eyes and my feet betray me as I fall back and I’m surrounded now by nothing but muddled sounds and murky water and more than at any other point in my life I feel completely out of control.

Tricia gathers up the other three kids and asks them if they’ve seen anything. They laugh at her because they think this is some kind of trick or joke and they don’t understand the seriousness of the situation. They don’t understand what’s at stake. She orders them back to our blanket because she doesn’t have the time to make them understand. Or the heart.

She tells me to go get the lifeguard.

The lifeguard smiles at me and calmly climbs down from her chair. She looks to be all of about nineteen years old and flips her hair from her face as she reaches back to grab a radio. I want to scream: How can you be so calm? She asks a few questions of which I try to answer but I can’t concentrate. My mind is racing. I’m scared and angry and the lifeguard is still acting casually as if this type of thing happens every day. Every day to some kid. But this isn’t just some kid. It’s mine.

She gets on her walkie and begins talking to someone else. I look down the beach to see if one of the other lifeguards is beginning to move or to look toward us. Finally, I see one of them signal to her. She tells me that she has put out an alert and that I need to backtrack through all the places we’ve been. I’m happy to have been given an instruction. Happy to have someone else who knows.

I turn to go find Tricia and see immediately that she is standing at the water’s edge - tears streaming down her face, her heart beating through the purple diamonds that line her swimsuit.

Her entire face is swollen.

She drops to her knees. And she screams.

A numbness falls over me like I’ve never felt before and my heart is pounding and pounding and pounding and I hate the beach.

But then… I see her reach out. Out toward the sea and a wide smile washes over her face, erasing the terror. I realize now that the screams were not of pain, but of joy.

She wraps her arms around a confused set of shoulders that have waded in through the pools of water left from the tide. She pulls those shoulders in to her tightly and squeezes them with all the strength she has left.

I run over and I grab hold of both of them and we sit that way for a very long time.

Afraid to let go.

I look out over their heads at the vast blue ocean and see something I had never noticed before and I wonder: What if…?

And now, I hate the beach.

Week In Review - Too Much to Write About!

I came back from our Christmas trip to St. Louis with more blog ideas than I possibly had time to write about. My buddy Tim gave me a small notebook on our last day of school before Winter Break that read "Fill these pages with important words and thoughts." He might be disappointed because, instead, I filled it with superficial observations and smart ass comments from our Christmas trip.

The first came just a few hours into our drive as we passed into Georgia. One of the very first billboards I saw read:

Make your ONE call to...
1-800-CALL -KEN
Ken Nugent Legal Services

Really? I know that colonial Georgia was basically a roaming prison, serving as a spot for England to send its less desirables, but I would hope that after these hundreds of years things would have changed. I've been to both Alabama and Louisiana and I know for a fact that a good deal of those "less desirables'" descendants are now living throughout the south. So why would Georgia allow Ken Nugent to welcome travelers with such a sign? Are there THAT many people getting arrested? Is there really that much money to be had from these people?

The second blog idea came on our second day with Tricia's parents. I made my first visit to church in five years. I really do not like church. As a child I went as often as three times a week - Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening. There was also church league bowling, softball, and volleyball. And youth group, play practices, and countless lunches and dinners. It wasn't the amount of time spent at church that turned me off, though. I just grew to question the likelihood of all those stories and the reasonableness of all those beliefs.

Tricia's parents church is quite different from the smallish Baptist church I grew up attending. It seats more than a thousand people. has two big screen TVs mounted behind the pulpit, and hosts religious and social events most, if not every, night of the week. The service lasted a little over an hour but the sermon itself was ten to fifteen minutes tops. The sermon was all about "breaking down the walls that we build around ourselves." The walls were a metaphor for our need for a sense of comfort, safety, etc. There were very few mentions of God or Jesus so it went well enough. The other fifty minutes were spent singing songs and listening to announcements. My mom asked how it went. "It went okay. Maybe I'll go back in another five or six years," I said. But probably not.

The third blog idea came when Tricia and I went out for a date night. We went to one of our favorite restaurants in St. Louis - an Indian place in the Central West End called Rasoi. Afterward we headed over to the Chase to see True Grit. As always, parking in the Central West End was nearly impossible. We finally found a spot but had only fifty cents for the meter. As Tricia will attest, I always seem to think that we don't need to feed the meter. "You don't have to pay after 5:00" I might argue. Or, "It's free on Sundays." Or worse, "No one even checks these meters!" I'm generally very much a rule follower. Like Ainsley I think people should follow the rules no matter what. I'll sit through a two minute red light at 3am with no cars anywhere in sight because that's what I'm supposed to do. I often stand on the curb and wait for what seems like forever for the walk signal even though there's no traffic. But for some reason when it comes to paying the meter I find every reason not to adhere to my legal obligations.

As we pulled into our parking spot and Tricia found that we only had two quarters she asked what I thought we should do. The movie didn't start for another hour (we were planning to walk over to the library to browse before heading down the block to the theater) and the movie was an hour and half at the very least.

"It's after six," I said. "You don't have to pay the meter after six."

"You always say that," she pointed out. "You NEVER think we have to pay the meter!"

"But I'm always right!"

Tricia sighed and looked up the street.

"Look," she said. "There's the meter reader!"

She was right. Two cars in front of us was a meter reader writing a ticket. After placing it under a windshield wiper he made his way up to the next car.

"We definitely have to get some change or find a parking garage now," she argued.

"No we don't," I said. "Look, he just checked all the cars on this block. It's 6:07 now. What are the chances he gets back to our block tonight? Euclid is a l-o-n-g street with a lot of meters. If anything we're more safe than ever."

It was dark but I can only imagine Tricia rolled her eyes. I really am hard to live with at times.

"Okay," she said. "But if we get a ticket you have to pay for it out of your own money."


"Ha, as if such a thing exists," I laughed.


We climbed out of the car and, ignoring the meter, pulled our jackets up around our ears and huddled together to head up the street. We instantly saw that the meter reader's car was parked just four spaces in front of our van. More debate ensued but we forged ahead. Once we got into the library I went to the information desk to ask how late you had to pay the meters. The librarian told me that they stop checking them at 7:00. Whether this meant you still have to pay them I wasn't sure but I headed back over to Tricia to gloat none-the-less.


"Well, go out and put our fifty cents," she told me. " At least we'll be paid until a quarter 'til or so."


I knew when to play nice and headed toward the front door. On the way I debated whether I should actually head out into the cold for what was certain to be a wasted effort (and wasted money) or if I should just hang out in the vestibule area for a few minutes and then head back in. Half an hour later, as we were heading out for the theater, Tricia, knowing me all too well, asked whether I had actually paid the meter or just pretended to. True to form I refused to say.


My fourth blog idea came a few nights later when attending "Christmas Eve" with Tricia's extended family. Due to busy schedules this party is never really on Christmas Eve but it's close enough. We haven't been able to attend this party the past few years so this was the first time we had seen these families in quite a while. Even when we lived in St. Louis we saw most of them only once a year, at this very party. They were like sometimes relatives.


I'm not much good at small talk and at no other time is this more evident than at this party. Tricia tried to coach me on the way.


"Talk to my Uncle Dennis about the food dehydrator you got from your kids at school," she suggested. "He used to have one too and talked about it all the time."


She's worse at small talk than I am and I wasn't too sure why she felt a need to offer help given that the one person at that party that I was usually pretty good at talking to was her Uncle Dennis. We generally talked about vacation plans and running. It was perhaps the only two things we really had in common but we could talk endlessly about both topics.


As we walked into the party the room fell silent and all those strange faces turned to stare at us making our entrance. Only five seconds in and it was already awkward. This would prove to the be the high water mark for the night as things only went downhill from there. I started by seeking out Dennis. I figured I should start strong and move on to the others from there. Unfortunately our conversation didn't go as planned. Someone else I didn't know too well was part of the conversation too and I didn't feel comfortable talking about running for fear of leaving him out. I wanted to talk about vacations but they were just finishing up a conversation on this topic as I made my way over. I was baffled. What to do?


"So," I said. "I got a dehydrator from my kids at school for Christmas!"


"A what?" he said.


"A dehydrator," I repeated.


"What's that?" the other guy asked.


"You mean a dehumidifier?" Dennis asked.


I stammered.


"It dries your food out," I explained. "You know, it takes all the water out."


"Why would you want to do that?" the other guy asked. It wasn't the type of question that made you feel as though he really wanted to learn more about the subject but, rather, that he wondered what in the hell was wrong with you. As if you making this all up.


"It's to help preserve the food for hiking and backpacking," I explained. "You dehydrate it, pack it up, and then rehydrate it on the trail."


"Oh," they both said, simultaneously. They both looked around uncomfortably and walked away.


I stood there for a moment playing with the food on my snack plate. Tricia and her parents were talking with someone else across the room. I was tempted to join them and take comfort in numbers. Around this time Tricia's cousin Michael walked by to freshen up the snack table. He and I have had just a handful of conversations over the past fourteen or fifteen years. We have little in common and he's not all that talkative anyway. Still, I felt I needed to try. I had to prove to myself that I was capable of this simple social skill.

"Hey Mike," I said.  

Doh, I thought. He goes by Michael you idiot!
 
I saw that there was a book on his television titled The Elf on the Shelf. I knew of this book from school and had a funny antecdote concerning a conversation I had with my kids about it. I shared it with him and he said nothing. He didn't even offer up a chuckle. It was a good antecdote too. But still he didn't smirk.


"Yeah, well...I oughta be finding Tricia I guess," I said.


"Alright," he answered and turned away to return to the kitchen.


I was 0 for 2. My ability to make small talk didn't much improve from there. I later found myself in conversation with another teacher but we had an entire discussion where I don't think either of us really understood what the other was trying to say. Later I talked with a lady who took great interest in everything I had to say. She's known for this. In fact, she takes so much interest in what you have to say that you almost feel uncomfortable. She leans in real close, has a perpetual smile, and never breaks eye contact. Ever.

She really liked that the kids had spent time backpacking last summer.


"Now they will know how to fend for themselves and find food if they're ever lost in the woods," she commented.


She was serious. I didn't break it to her that backpacking was more about high tech cook pots and fuel canisters than berry gathering or squirrel hunting. She wanted to know about the bears, too. I may have disappointed her when letting on that we hadn't seen any bears but we had seen a  lot of snails.

"Tons of them!" I assured her.


The only highlight of my ability to make small talk was when I later told of our encounter with the parking meter for Tricia's sister and brother-in-law. They laughed and laughed. I suddenly felt like a bad poker player. The one who stays in to the bitter end of every hand and only to lose nine times out of ten. Why, then, does he stay in so often? Because he remembers that ONE TIME when he pulled the perfect card and won. Tricia's sister and brother-in-law are my perfect cards. They keep me wanting to try again.


So there it is. More stories than I could ever write about.