Sick Day

Some of my students do not feel well today.
The school nurse tells me a stomach bug is going around. I make a mental note to swipe the desks with Clorox wipes.
One student asks if she can call home this morning. Her face is pale.
"Of course," I tell her.
"What's hurting?"
"Everything," she says.
She calls home, and her grandfather promises to pick her up. I know her family. I am sure her grandma will have a soft pillow and blanket on the couch, ready for her when she gets home. Perhaps her grandma will set a folding tray next to the couch, with a glass of crushed ice and Sprite and a red and white striped straw. The TV remote control or a favorite book will be on the folding tray.
Her grandma will take her temperature even though the school nurse has already done so, reporting to the grandfather that it was 100 degrees exactly. Her grandma will take it again, just to be sure. She will give her liquid Tylenol, even though the girl is old enough to try to swallow a tablet. Why make a difficult day any harder?
Later today, if the girl feels up to it, her grandma will make her clear soup or cherry Jell-O. The house will be quiet. Her grandfather's cool hand will press against her forehead while she's sleeping, checking to see if the temperature has gone down. Her grandma will tuck the blanket around her shoulders.
After the girl calls home, the rest of us watch as she gathers her folders, her jacket, her lunchbox.
"Feel better!" I say.
We feel bad that she is sick; but some kids, I know, would trade places with her in a heartbeat. One student, across the room, looks equally pale. He lays his head on his folded arms.
He doesn't even ask to call home.

Mulch for Sale

We'll deliver to your door
if you buy 10 bags or more

Though I'm not usually the begging sort
high school lacrosse is a costly sport...

Before you say "No thanks" to me
I'll remind you of my generosity

"I'm on a diet!" I wanted to shout
But I bought Tagalongs from your girl scout

I subscribed to magazines last summer
to fund band camp for your snare drummer

You sold me more wrapping paper than I could use
 to pay for the golf teams' new golf shoes

Big donations for twin cheerleaders
Read-a-thon sponsor for avid readers

Bake sales for the high school talent show
car wash tickets and cookie dough

Your garden will look like a new creation
when I deliver the mulch bought with your donation

I appreciate your order, I hope you know...
I've gotta run...I still have 99 bags to go.

Unprepared

During the course of each school day, 105 students make their way in and out of my class; and on any given day, many of them are unprepared.
"Find any pencils lately?" they ask. They know we are at the point in the school year where we are running low on the pre-sharpened pencils I bought at the beginning of the year with school supply money. Now, I keep my eyes to the tiles, rescuing dropped and abandoned pencils I find in the hall. I doctor them up with a hand-held sharpener and a neon pink cap eraser. I hand over a rescued pencil, stifling a heavy sigh.
"Does anyone have lined paper?"
"May I use your scissors?"
"I left my binder in my locker."
"Is it okay if I bring the vocabulary homework in tomorrow? It's on my kitchen counter."
"Could I call my mom and ask her to sign my permission slip?"
"Could I use some crayons?"
I dole out a shocking amount of free school supplies.
Despite the temptation to lecture, I usually just hand over the tape or black Sharpie or my own personal pouch of colored pencils. My students are, after all, only 12-years-old; and any harsh words from me would only postpone (even longer) the work that needs to be done.
They know, though, that I am disappointed by their lack of preparation. My lips form a thin straight line instead of a smile; and my eyebrows arch into question marks...questioning their irresponsibility.
I send them a silent reprimand; and though I don't say a word, I might as well shout. "It's a school day. You've been to school hundreds of days. You know what you need to bring to school!"

* * *

This morning, I woke up early, thinking I had plenty of time to straighten the house, drink a cup of coffee, walk the dog, wash a couple loads of towels, run through the cash machine, and still have time to drive my 14-year-old son to his out-of-town lacrosse game. I even thought I had plenty of time to write my slice before we headed out. I sat down on the couch and reached for the laptop, pausing to check for messages on my cell phone. That's when I realized I had misread the schedule. The game was twice as far away as I had thought. I launched into panic mode. Fortunately, I had already walked and fed the dog. The towels would have to wait. My son loaded his lacrosse bag into the back of the car, I hit reverse, and we leaped out of the garage. My son put the field address into the GPS; and I crossed my fingers that we had enough gas to get us there.
We arrived at the field just in time for my son to hop out and hurry over to the team for warm-ups. The rain started as soon as he got out of the car. Wasn't it supposed to be warmer today? I had not had time to check the weather. On the way out of the house, I had grabbed my short winter jacket (the one without the hood)  instead of my long, puffy winter coat.
After parking, I climbed out of the driver's seat. It felt really chilly, and the wind was blowing. I rummaged through the back seat while misty rain frizzed up my hair. I found my raincoat (thank goodness!), balled up in the back floorboard, and I put it on over my winter jacket. I looked and felt all bunched up; but at least I had a hood now. A pair of thin, fleece mittens were stashed in the glove box; one was ripped at the wrist, but they would have to do. The shell for my older son's ski jacket was in the trunk, along with an old picnic blanket. I gathered it all up, hoping to make do. It was raining harder now; and the weather app on my phone confirmed my suspicions. It was only 40 degrees! Since there had been no time for the cash machine, I was relieved to find four dollars in the zippered part of my wallet and four quarters in the console...just enough for the price of admission, but not enough to buy hot chocolate at the concession stand.
I was facing a miserable hour and a half.
Of course, my comfy stadium seat was folded neatly on top of the thick stadium blanket...back home in our garage.
I spread out my picnic blanket on the hard bleachers and wrapped my son's ski coat around my legs. I'd left home in my lightweight Adidas running shoes; and without my rain boots, the hem of my jeans was soaked through. My thick socks were at home in my sock drawer; and the short socks I had on didn't even cover my ankles.
I was unprepared. I had been irresponsible. I looked and felt like a sorry excuse for a fan.
Over the years, I had attended hundreds of spring sporting events. I knew what I needed; but today I didn't have it when I needed it.
Sitting there, hunkered over in the cold, a steady rain dripping off the hood of my raincoat (the sports umbrella was in my husband's car), I thought of all the little faces who had looked at me with hopeful eyes, holding out their hands to borrow pencils and pens and paper and paperclips. I vowed that if my feet thawed out by Monday, I would hand over whatever they needed with a smile and a wink and a little one shoulder hug.
"We all forget what we need sometimes," I might say encouragingly. "Don't let it get you down."

Anything But Bacon

We have a Schnauzer, Jersey,...a 12 lb., two-year-old Schnauzer who, despite several sessions with a trainer, still struggles with behavior problems.
She stands on her back legs and paws my legs with her front feet, whining frantically for me to pick her up.
"Don't make eye contact with her when she does that," the trainer advises. "Eye contact from you is like a big hug to her. She thinks you are encouraging that behavior."
"Um...okay," I say, trying to go about emptying the dishwasher with the dog pawing at me and the trainer watching. I can't help thinking that Jersey looks like a little toddler reaching up for me. Maybe I have been encouraging that behavior. Usually I lift her right up to my face and give her a little snuggle. Definitely, I have been encouraging that behavior. I decide not to admit that to the trainer.
The trainer has agreed to work with us, at our house; and he wants us to go about our daily business so he can see how Jersey interacts.
"Your house always smells great," the trainer says, sitting down at the kitchen table. It's his third visit. "It always smells like bacon. I can see how a dog would be really happy here."
"Thanks," I say. Does my house always smell like bacon? I have teenaged sons; so I guess we do eat a lot of bacon. Do I smell like bacon? Now, I am not only worried about the dog's behavior, I'm also wondering if I smell like breakfast meat.
After I load the dishwasher, the trainer suggests we take Jersey for a walk.
"Brace yourself," I say. "She goes crazy when we pass another person...or dog...or squirrel." I think to myself that it's a wonder the other dogs don't bark at us...especially if we smell so strongly of bacon.
Jersey has a very high-pitched, anxious bark; and though she is not an aggressive dog, her barking makes her seem out of control. By the time I finally gave in and called the trainer, it had gotten so bad that I found myself walking Jersey at an uncharacteristically early hour each morning to avoid other dogs and owners. Even so, we almost always managed to run into someone...usually the neighbor with the perfect Golden Retriever. Jersey would bark as if her life depended on it. Her shrill voice echoing down the near-empty sidewalk.
I actually started cursing under my breath whenever I saw anyone walking in our direction. I wanted to shout.
"Please stay INSIDE until I have walked my dog! Do you really need to BE OUT HERE at 6:00 AM? You should know by now that my dog is not as PERFECT as yours. All I want is a PEACEFUL walk with my CRAZY dog before I have to go to work. Is that too much to ask?"
Instead, I appealed to my dog. "Please, please, please do not go into a barking frenzy," I would whisper to Jersey the minute I spotted the Golden Retriever prancing along peacefully in the distance. "Just ignore them. Please Jersey, ignore them. You're going to wake up the whole neighborhood. You're going to look mean; and I'm going to look stupid."
It never worked. The minute she caught a glimpse of the oncoming dog, she started her embarrassing, nonstop, ear-splitting yelp.
"She's just a little excited..." I called, waving half-heartedly, as the Golden Retriever and her superior-looking owner walked by.

* * *

Now, with the trainer's support, we head out so he can see Jersey in action.
Of course, right away, she begins her crazy barking.
"Yeah...I see what you mean," the trainer says.
He takes the leash and walks Jersey a few feet away from me. It tugs at my heart when I see her nervously glancing back in my direction.
"Do you mind looking the other way?" the trainer asks.
"Oh...of course...no problem," I say. I look in the other direction. Miraculously, Jersey and the trainer head off down the street silently. Apparently, I can't even watch her walk without causing a problem. I'm the trigger.
Although I feel hopeful for Jersey by the end of the training session, I also feel pretty bad about myself. I love that crazy dog, and I hate the fact that I seem to be the root of her misbehavior.
The trainer explains to me that I have to set some boundaries. I'm so glad my husband and sons are not home to hear this. I'd never hear the end of it. The trainer points out some specific things I need to work on.
I am no longer supposed to pick up the bone for Jersey when she drops it off the couch and barks until I reach down and hand it back to her. I am not supposed to give in when she uses her nose to push my computer off my lap or forcibly squeezes herself between me and my husband when we are sitting side by side, watching TV. I am not supposed to allow my anxiety to travel from my head, to my heart, into my hand, and down the leash to the dog. (Now how in the world am I supposed to prevent that?)
Before the trainer leaves, we set a time for the next session the following week. We also discuss possible new groomers...since Jersey has recently been banned from her previous grooming salon because of her barking.
I walk the trainer to the door, making a mental note of all the things I have to work on before the next session...walk the dog with treats in hand, require her to wait for an invitation onto the couch instead of allowing her to jump up at will, reward the positive, ignore the negative...buy some scented candles that smell like anything but bacon.

Curvy

My husband drives a Pilot, an older model, bulky, squarish, always clean inside. I drive a CRV, fondly called Curvy, squattier than the Pilot, always a bit of a mess. The floorboards are littered with crumpled tinfoil from egg sandwiches eaten en route to school, a dirty soccer sock hides out under the driver's seat, clumps of mud from lacrosse cleats cling to the backseat carpet.
She is, on a good day, disheveled. In order to spare Curvy any shame should an unexpected passenger need a ride, I bark orders at my teenaged sons.
"Quick!" I say, in a panic, "Toss the loose books, water bottles, and gum wrappers into the main back. One of you swipe up the melted Hershey kiss from inside that little compartment by the door handle. Use that old ripped t-shirt in the backseat to wipe down the dashboard."
A few weeks ago, I wrecked Curvy, dashing off half her left rearview mirror against the side of the garage. I've backed that car out thousands of times without incident; but I was running late, and my parents were visiting. I was trying to avoid bumping their vehicle when I heard the sickening crunch of the mirror glass. A lump jumped from my chest to my throat. I knew it was bad without looking. When I did look, her side mirror was hanging akimbo and my reflection was a jigsaw puzzle. For a couple weeks, I drove her around, her mirror a testament to my negligence...like sending the boys to school with bad haircuts or unsigned permission slips. I was relieved when my husband ordered a replacement part and patched Curvy up himself with a little gorilla glue. Not quite good as new, but good...a small scar marking the place where he reattached the severed mirror casing.
Curvy has not had a winter wash in a couple of winters. I feel bad for her; but with kids, and work, and life in general, her cleanliness is not a top priority. She soldiers on...through rain, slush, snow, salt. I wonder if she's embarrassed, parked in the garage beside Pilot. He seems like a take-charge type...the kind who might rub it in just a little that she's always so haphazard. He is like a pilot, well-kempt and wise...a little standoffish.
Curvy, on the other hand, is long-suffering, approachable...on hand every day, carting us without complaint to practice and the mall and church and the grocery store.
Now that my older son has his driver's license, the Pilot will soon be his car. I find some comfort in that. Pilot has proven himself a leader among cars...strong, invincible, reputable, proud. Perhaps Pilot will take issue with the fact that he will no longer warrant garage status and will be parked, instead, in the back driveway...exposed to the elements.
Curvy, humble and serviceable, will not gloat. Instead, she will rumble a sigh of regret. Pilot has been her roommate now for more than five years. Despite his authoritative air, he's been company for her. Curvy forgives his egotism.
My husband is shopping for a replacement vehicle for the Pilot...something newer, shinier, bigger, boxier...
He asks my opinion, touting mileage reports, safety reviews, color, make, model. I'm more concerned with the name.
"What about a Rogue?" I suggest. "Curvy would like sharing close quarters with a Rogue...rakish good looks, a bit of a mischief maker." My husband shakes his head and swipes his tablet.
"Umm...no," he says. He keeps looking. Whomever (I mean whatever) he chooses, I'm sure Curvy, true to form, will make the best of it.

Years from Now

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to fill the cabinet
under the kitchen sink
with disposable aluminum pans,
and empty butter dishes,
and old saucepans;
so my grandchild
can help herself to
everything she needs
to make mud pies
and fancy grass salads.
I will give her a wooden spoon
so she can stir
invisible soup over the
old grate in the backyard.

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to make pigs in a blanket
for lunch,
and I will teach my grandchild
how to melt butter until it sizzles
and pop popcorn on the stovetop...
a lost art.

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to slice cucumbers in neat rounds
to eat before dinner;
and I will have
a small Formica table
where we will have breakfast,
eating grapefruit
with little sharp-edged grapefruit spoons.

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to keep a cut-glass candy dish
on the end table in the front room.
I will fill it with colorful hard candies
shaped like fruit.
In December, I will make
little green Christmas tree cookies
that taste like almond extract.

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to set up a quilt frame
in my living room;
so my grandchild
can hide beneath it
and cut paper dolls from catalogs
I saved for her in the magazine rack.

Years from now
If I am a grandma,
I will remember
to gather an extra quilt
from the cedar chifferobe
and tuck the heavy quilt
I stitched myself
on top of the blankets
on the guest bed
where the grandchild sleeps.
I will say, "Good night," and
"I love you," and
"Don't forget to say your prayers."

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember.

A First Time for Everything

Recently, I joined our state's chapter of the Audubon Society; and, in early February, I participated in my first bird watching event. Steam curled off my coffee as I made my way from the parking area to the meeting point. I was nervous.
First days are always a little nerve-wracking.
Would I be able to identify any birds? Since Christmas, I had studied my copy of National Geographic Birds of North America; and I had kept a close eye on the song birds visiting the feeders in my backyard; but I was certain I'd be the least experienced in the field that day. The small pack holding my stadium binoculars bumped against my hip. We were supposed to meet at a point just past the entrance to our city's historic cemetery. My 16-year-old son, a history buff, tagged along to enjoy the winter morning.
We spotted the group right away. Five birders clustered near a hedgerow. I touched my binocular case self-consciously.
"My field glasses are too small," I whispered to my son. The other birders wore expensive Eagle Optics or Nikons, secured to their chests by binocular harnesses.
"Don't worry," my son advised. "You'll still be able to spot some birds and have some fun."
I was doubtful. No one likes to feel like a novice.
We introduced ourselves and headed toward the underbrush.
"There," the leader, Bob, aimed his binoculars toward a few birds pecking at the ground near a fallen tree. "A dark-eyed junco," he said confidently. I unpacked my Bushnells, awkwardly balancing my half-empty coffee cup in one hand while holding my tiny binoculars in the other. I could barely make out the shape of the little bird; let alone the species. A dark-eyed junco? Could he really see the bird's eyes with those binoculars, I wondered. The other birders, in an attempt to make me feel like part of the group, gathered around me, pointing out various birds as we snaked our way around the cemetery.
Bob dutifully pulled a folded index card from his pocket and used a stubby golf pencil to record each species we identified...more than 16 total.
As we rounded the bend in the road near the duck pond, the group slowed to a stop.
"Did you just hear that red-tailed hawk?" one of the birders asked. Everyone was silent, straining to listen. A goose honked at us from the pond's edge. Even I recognized his message: "Move along people...nothing to see here." We never saw the hawk; but I made a mental note to listen to some bird calls. I had no idea I was supposed to be skilled in birding by ear as well as eye. I had work to do!
The group said it was a slow day; but I felt invigorated...inspired even. Later that afternoon, using my book as a guide, I spotted a dark-eyed junco, nibbling from the tray on the feeder outside my kitchen window. I didn't need to be close enough to see his bright, black eyes to recognize his plump gray body, pale beak, and white feathered belly.
I was not the best birder that day in February; but I was learning from some of the best. The fun of trying something new conquered the fear of not being good enough.
First days are nerve-wracking; but as day one slides into day two, then three, and suddenly ten...nervousness gives way to joy, fears fade as friendships are forged, skills are honed, and perhaps the red-tailed hawk sails overhead in plain sight, calling out encouragement.
"You've got this!" he shouts, tipping his wings as he circles overhead.