Still Learning

 I like to consider myself one of the more technology-comfortable teachers in my school district. I'm not intimidated by new technology and I will spend lots of hours playing with this new app or that new tool, looking for ways to use them in my classroom. I've gotten good at trouble-shooting problems when they come my way, and there is rarely a problem that I can't fix with a good old-fashioned Google search. 

So it was a little puzzling to me last Friday when I tried to save a file on my school computer and I got an error notification. The pop-up window said I no longer had access to my file on our school's network. I thought it rather odd, and assumed that somewhere along the line I probably missed an update. I ran the updates through my computer and shut it down for the weekend. Things were clicking along nicely on Monday morning until I tried to save another file...NOPE. Still no access. The school's network is out of my range of responsibility, so I sent in a tech request for repair and made it through the rest of the day.

This morning, I wandered into school and made my way to my classroom. I passed one of our tech guys on the way and he followed me to my classroom to check out the problem. I logged in, tried to save a file, and up popped the error message. He frowned a little and said, "I've never seen that error code before. I'll check it out and be back in a bit."

Roughly 10 minutes later, he returned...with another tech guy (!)...and said, "Well. This is a first. It would appear that your machine is currently holding SEVEN TIMES the amount of data that is typically allotted in our district." (For the record, he spoke in lower case, because he is nice and calm even when he has a very good reason not to be. I added the all caps because WHAT IN THE WORLD HAVE I BEEN DOING HERE is what I want to know.) 

I kind of laughed nervously and said, "Um, what?" 

He said, "And they're all videos and pictures, which are very large files." 

There was a pause while we blinked at each other and they waited for my response. It took me a minute, but eventually my light bulb turned on.

I'm the Student Council Advisor, and I've been in charge of student activities for about 8 years or so. In that time, I have made (among other things) 8 Homecoming Nomination Videos, around 40-45 Candidate Introduction Videos, 3 Senior Banquet Videos, 3 graduation compilations, and 8 Spring Recognition Videos. Each video ranges anywhere from 10 - 45 minutes long. And while I use a program in the cloud to house those final productions, every single photo or video clip I've used in the last 8 years was being backed up somewhere on our network drives. Because it never occurred to me to delete them when I was done. 

Oops. 

I guess the network finally reached it's limit last Friday. I had asked for another download and it promptly locked me out. So Tech Guy #1 said, "Start deleting." Tech Guy #2 said, "We'll go see if we can get you back into the network...we'll be back later. 

Feeling a little sheepish, I started opening folders. 

I have a lot of folders. The folders all have sub-folders. And those sub-folders have sub-folders. And once I started looking, I found video clips EVERYWHERE. I started dragging massive numbers of files to the recycle bin. Did you know that your desktop Recycle Bin actually has a limit for how much you can put in it before it makes you empty it? Well it does. When you reach a little over 3,000 individual items, it makes you empty it. You read that correctly...and I emptied it three times.

Somewhere in the first hour of deleting, I found an interesting folder in my drive. It was filled with sub-folders whose names were simply dates. When I opened one, it took me a few minutes to figure out what I was looking at. As it turns out, every time I connected my phone to my computer, it automatically backed up every photo and video in my phone to my school computer. There were 63 separate folders. With photos and videos in every single one.

Oops.

But here's where the story starts to get a little bit happy. Back in 2016 when my Mom died, I connected her phone to my computer one afternoon. I was trying to download her passwords so Dad and I could start reconciling her accounts. I had no idea that she had 783 photos and videos in her phone that automatically backed up to my computer. When I opened folder 08/15/16, I opened up my Mama. She was suddenly everywhere again - in my kitchen, on our farm, holding my babies, reading them stories, laughing and smiling and whole and beautiful.

The next twenty minutes was pretty much just me crying at my keyboard, but my heart was just SO happy. Isn't life just so strange? What a wild and wonderful way to launch my Thanksgiving weekend. 

When Tech Guy #1 came back, my computer was lots cleaner. The network was still skeptical though - it wasn't letting me back in easily. Apparently it's low on tolerance for fools like me. It took him another twenty minutes and a million overrides to get me back in. But by the end of the day - I was back in.

When the whole mess started this morning, I was feeling pretty guilty. I meant no harm, of course - I make those videos every year to celebrate our kids and show off their accomplishments. I sure didn't mean to strain the network, so thank goodness my friends hold no grudges over my carelessness. They know my heart. 

And like Tech Guy #1 said to me before he left, "Even in the hard lessons, there is good. Think about that - if it hadn't locked you out, you might never have found your Mom's pictures."

There is good in the hard lessons. You just have to look for it. Happy Thanksgiving!

Running

In 1999 I ran the Bolder Boulder half-marathon. I had grown up running track and cross-country and marked that race as a major accomplishment for my adult self. I finished that race, I took off my running shoes, and I never put them back on again. There was no particular reason - I was just done. In the twenty-plus years since, I’ve coached several sports and done a fair amount of recreational walking & hiking, but my years of calling myself a runner were essentially over. 

When the pandemic hit and we all went home to our houses in March, I found myself without a Spring Play to direct or any sporting events to attend. We had nowhere to go and nothing to do...so the family decided we would leave the house every day at 4:00 and do something outside. Sometimes we walked, sometimes we biked - the girls almost always chose running, of course. Aaron decided he would try to keep up with the girls and challenged himself to run with them as far as he could for as long as he could. Cooper and I did our own thing... usually biking along behind and talking about everything under the sun.

Then one day Cooper put on his running shoes and decided he was going to be a runner as well. I jumped on my bike and chatted with him, encouraging along the way while he huffed and puffed - sometimes running, sometimes walking. On May 17th - I know the date exactly because I had been tracking mileage for the girls - we were out for our usual afternoon trip. Somewhere around the two-mile mark, Cooper got a terrible cramp and decided he needed my bike. Aaron said, “no big deal, Mom can run.” I looked at him like he was insane. No, Mom cannot “run.” Mom does not “run.” I believe we all stood there for about five minutes arguing this point.

But that day, Mom ran. (And here’s where you should stop reading if you don’t want TMI, because I’m all about recording the truth here and now for posterity.) It was awful. I was awful. Like, terrible. Like, really really really bad. I could only run about half a block at a time because three kids and no running for twenty years will ruin your muscle control and I peed a little bit every single dang step. (See? I told you to stop reading.)

Anyway. I got home, peeled off my clothes, threw them in the washing machine and sat around feeling sorry for my miserable self the rest of the day. The next morning I got up by myself, put on some shoes, and went for a run. I made it about two blocks and then I turned around and walked home. No kidding.

And then I got up the next morning and did it again. And so on and so on, almost every single day since May 17th. In the middle of June we tried out the trails at Cedar Creek Park. By then I could almost do a whole mile - running a little and walking a little, but I could just about do a mile. There are two loops at CCP - a flat loop up top that’s about a third of a mile if you run on the outside edge. And then there’s the VERY hilly trail loop that’s about two miles long from start to finish. I became very fond of the short loop. It’s flat, and three laps equals a mile - if felt doable. I decided I would do one mile every single day until I could finish without walking. 

I hit that milestone in early July. Then...I set my sights on the other one...the hill loop. I tried and I tried and I tried...for weeks, I tried. I just could NOT do it. The hills are too much for my old knees. I gave up at the end of July and decided to distract myself by diversifying. I would run/walk two miles on flat land and then switch to my bike. I still LOVE biking - and I was able to get myself up to doing 8-10 miles regularly. It was kind of my consolation prize - the further I can go on the bike the better I felt about my failure at the hill loop.

This whole long story culminates today - August 22nd. I woke up this morning and said to myself, “Well, Sara. You go back to school in about two weeks. You’ve had a great summer...but there’s one thing you said you were going to do and you still haven’t done it.” I drove out to Cedar Creek Park, worrying all the way that I was setting myself up for a big disappointment. I promised myself I would go slow and just see what happened.

And then I did it. 

I ran it. The whole thing. No walking. 2.25 miles, actually, because I felt so dang good I ran a little extra. I credit the bike - I think I was missing the muscle strength in my legs to handle the hills, and the bike is all about the legs. When I finished I was so tired and so excited and so happy I cried all the way to my car. I bumped into a couple of friends who were just in time to see me blubbering over finishing - they had to listen to me laugh-cry the whole story.

I’m recording this today to remind myself that I can still do anything I decide I want to do. It was not easy, it was not always fun, and some days my setbacks were downright depressing. It took me five months to do something that I used to be able to do without any trouble - but I did it. And I needed to remember that I can do hard things. Especially because a Very Hard Thing is coming up in September. 

I think I can maybe call myself a runner again. Dang. That sure feels good.

**Shout-Out to Amber, my accountability partner. Thanks for sending me encouraging snaps and texts at least three times a week to keep me going and also for not judging me on the days that I was complete trash. :)  Also big love to Nike Air Pegasus because they’re the only shoes I’ve ever been able to wear when I run. They came through again, though it would sure be nice if they didn’t cost a fortune. Just saying. And also - SheFit and Enell. My chest makes it really hard to run - like painful. (I told you to stop reading, but if you’ve met me in person, it’s not like this is a big mystery.) Anyway...if you, like me, don't run because it hurts, spend the money on a sports bra from one of these two companies. Game changers.**

Oasis

I snapped this picture on the grounds of the Cancer Treatment Center of America in Zion, IL. That's the real picture - no filter, no editing. If it looks like I was walking around in a storybook, well, I was.

My best friend Cyndi has been battling Stage 4 Metastatic Breast Cancer for more than two years now. From the minute she first visited CTCA, she knew it was the place she wanted to doctor. It seemed like a daunting task to me, traveling 6+ hours for treatments. She had often explained why it was so important for her to go there, but I didn't really understand what she meant until I got there and saw it for myself. This place - it is so different from any hospital, doctor's office, or treatment center that I've ever seen. It left a profound impression on me, and I just had to write about the experience.

CTCA's purpose may lie in treating cancer, but they have never forgotten that each person walking through their doors is more than just a diagnosis. There is a quiet peacefulness that blankets the campus and permeates every wall of every building. The C word is a terrifying set of letters. I was expecting to walk around feeling sadness for all the people that I saw, knowing they are each dealing with that diagnosis on some level. Surprisingly, anxiety and sadness couldn't have been further from my mind.

An appointment at CTCA is only partly about your cancer; yes, you have labs and tests and scans and chemo - all the things you would have at any other hospital. But they believe in treating the whole person, and using every weapon known in the world's arsenal. So in addition to the medical personnel who are making informed decisions about your treatment plan, they ALSO schedule you to see a Naturopath, a Nutritionist, a Massage Therapist, and a Counselor, just to name a few.

They know that your chemo is giving you side effects, and they want to minimize them if they can, so they'll provide meds or acupuncture or massage or whatever it will take to help improve the quality of your days.

They know that your life has been Interrupted in a Big Bad Way, and they know you're going to need someone to talk to about that. So here's someone to talk to who hears you, and listens, and knows how to help you develop some coping mechanisms for the giant Detour you've been given.

They know that your feet are going to hurt, so here's a shuttle every time you have to move the block and a half to the hotel.

They know it's hard to remember all the appointments and details, so here's a printout at the door and a quick scan of your wristband will tell every person at every desk where you need to be at any given moment.

They know you have to eat your meals in their facility, so here's about a hundred options made to order and you can eat them in a dining room that feels more like a restaurant.

They know that the best way to remind yourself that you're still alive is to be surrounded by growing things, so every single piece of artwork is something living - flowers and plants and trees and lakes and insects. The atrium is Peace Personified - it's warm and lush and filled with the earthy smell of living plant life. The grounds are storybook material and every single employee is a Disney Princess in training. (A little hyperbole there, but honestly, these are the happiest, friendliest, most helpful human beings I have ever met collectively in one place.) If any of them are having a bad day, you would never know it.

These are just the generalities; you wouldn't believe how exciting it gets when something doesn't go according to plan. You would think that such a lovely, structured place would get a little crazy if something goes wrong. But then again, cancer is unpredictable, and maybe that's why they're so good at taking detours and making it seem like it's the easiest, least stressful adventure they've had this week.

For example, they know that if you're unexpectedly dehydrated and your port can't be accessed on time, you will need a plan B for chemo. They will have plan B up and running in less than thirty minutes. They will understand that because your chemo will now run 4.5 hours instead of 1.5, you are going to need to be comfortable. You and your friend are going to need a private infusion bay with recliners and blankets from the warmer. You will need a couple of good movies to watch, and since this is now going to run over the lunch hour, you will maybe want food delivered to the bay you're receiving treatment in. They figure you want something good, so here's a menu of thirty customizable options - it's for you and your caregiver, by the way - and they're gonna deliver it right to the bay so you guys can basically be having a catered movie afternoon to take your mind off the fact that you need a couple of bags of extra fluid, some meds for the port, and a lengthier chemo infusion. 

Meanwhile, they'll check in every twenty minutes and offer to bring you more blankets and something to drink...it's kind of like having a personal attendant who only cares about how good you feel and how happy you are. 

I wouldn't wish cancer on my worst enemy. The fact that my friend, my person, my gentle, funny, thoughtful, witty, wonderful human has to manage it actually pisses me off. I still get this wave of simmering rage that bubbles up from time to time when I think about it. I want every day to fix it. I pray every day that some miracle is going to take all of it away and she doesn't have to manage all the things I know she's managing. In the meantime, though, I am supremely grateful for CTCA, because I know that at least she's getting the BEST that there is. It was the highlight of my year so far. There's something really comforting knowing that places like this exist in the world, especially when the world is a tough place to live in already. 💓

Responsibility

During my first year of teaching, I was hired to be a girls track coach in Colorado. While I was an experienced track runner, it was my first time coaching that sport. I was a little thrilled and little terrified at the level of responsibility I found myself shouldering at the age of 26. I learned so many things that first year, but one lesson in particular is branded in my memory.

Our track team was competing in an invitational in Alamosa, a long hour and 45 minute drive south over Poncha Pass. I remember that it was a beautiful day with outstanding weather. Alamosa was a little lower in elevation than Buena Vista, which always resulted in faster times and personal bests. In addition, we were running on the Adams State Track, which had a premium surface, much nicer than the cinder track we had at home. In all, it was a brilliant experience and I was really soaking it all in. We waited for results with the buses full of tired and happy athletes reliving their favorite moments from the day, and I was warmly content, feeling like life really couldn't get any better than that.

Our bus was one of the last to pull out of the parking lot, and that's when I noticed a young man clad in the purple and yellow of our rivals to the north: the Lake County Panthers. He was sitting on a curb next to a duffel bag. His knees were drawn up to his chin, and he was sitting very still, alone. I asked the bus driver to stop. I got out and went to talk to him. Somehow, the poor young man missed his bus. He had no cell phone and he didn't know the phone number for anyone on his team, including the coaches. Fortunately, he did know his own phone number, so I told him to get on the bus while I called his mom and let her know we had him and would find a way to get him home.

I wish I could say he had an awesome time on our bus, making all kinds of new friends, but in truth he slid into an open seat, pressed himself tight up against the window, and watched the trees roll by, sniffling to himself quietly. I offered him some snacks and some water that we had along, but he didn't even acknowledge me. As we drove home, I found myself getting increasingly angry. We watched diligently, assuming at some point the Lake County bus would be returning to the track to look for their lost soul, and we prepared ourselves to flag them down.

The Lake County bus never even turned around.

Imagine what it must have felt like, being left alone, hours from home, and nobody - nobody - noticed you were missing. I studied this young man as we drove; he didn't look the part of a seasoned trackster. He looked pretty green; you can always tell who is new to the sport.

Track meets mostly run themselves...nobody tells you when your event is, when to report, or where to report. Everyone pretty much assumes you'll figure it out. The newbies are easy to spot. They wander aimlessly...a little too excited, a little bit anxious. Sometimes they even miss their events because they got caught up in the atmosphere or they just plain weren't paying attention - it's part of the learning process. The team typically holds each other accountable, seeking out their relay team members and encouraging each other to warm up and get ready.

But what happens if you're brand new, you don't have any friends, and you don't exactly possess the athletic physique or prowess to command the world's attention yet? Who do you suppose looks out for those kids?

Do you think if Lake County's star quarter-miler had been missing someone would have noticed?

That day I learned the most important lesson of my entire career. Up until that point, I had assumed my leadership qualities would be measured by my knowledge of the sport. By my ability to scaffold endurance training with interval workouts. By my knowledge of how to measure out long jump steps, or by my ability to teach my discus throwers how to spin. I thought wins and losses were a big deal, getting times down and helping kids qualify in their events so they could advance at Regions.

I was absolutely wrong.

It would not have mattered to me if Lake County's coach was the most decorated track coach in the State of Colorado - he left an athlete behind. Left him behind and never noticed - not once - that he was missing. I watched that kid wipe his nose on his shirt sleeve and stare at the scenery for an hour and a half, absolutely broken, and knew in my heart of hearts that the ONLY responsibility I had for the rest of my life was to make every single kid who ever showed up for me feel like he mattered.

Is there anything more important than that?

I find myself thinking about that kid a lot lately, because being in charge of something is hard work. This applies to everything - every kind of leader experiences this kind of pressure. It's not easy to be in charge; you have a lot to think about.  Not only is it your job to make sure everything runs smoothly, but good old American competitiveness will tell you that you also have to be good at it. Not just good, you have to be above average, approaching excellence. There are expectations for leaders. It's extremely stressful! Ask any teacher. Ask any coach.

Ask the bank manager. Ask the restaurant owner.

Ask the Governor.

I watch the social media feeds exploding with negativity, more and more every day. Criticisms roll in from every angle pointed in the direction of any person in a position of responsibility. The farther up the chain the complaints are directed, the louder and angrier it gets.

If I had a wish for those angry folks, it would be this: I wish that you had been sitting next to me that day on the bus. Until you get up close and personal with the person on the very bottom rung of the Importance Ladder, you have no idea the impact your decisions can make. For a leader to be truly great, he or she has have the utmost care for every member of the organization. The person on the bottom has to be just as important as the person on the top. Otherwise, you're not much of a leader.

I try to imagine what it must feel like to be Governor Walz. That day in Colorado, I had about sixty kids with me on that bus. I worried myself sick over the one pressed up against the window. What must it feel like to have to worry about every last human in the State of Minnesota? There are 5.6 million of us. I cannot imagine what he must be feeling, every minute of every night during this Pandemic.

He can't make everyone happy. He's probably going to get it wrong sometimes, because we're all human. But if the worst thing the man does is take too long to open up the State, or be too cautious in the interests of the health of his people, well, I can't fault him for that. He is doing the best that he knows how to do; he is enlisting the help of the experts and thinking about our weakest members.

Am I disappointed that we didn't get a Spring sport season? Yes, I sure am. Am I upset that there is no Prom, no regular Graduation, and nobody to color my hair until July 1st? Well, yeah. That's a bummer, for sure. I do get it, though, I do. I get that the experts have said that it's still too dangerous to open up fully. (I happen to be a solid believer in Scientists - they've done an awful lot for society, and the idea that there is a giant conspiracy that is so widespread that the entire world is willingly participating in it is ludicrous. Sorry, it is.)

I also know that I want to be led by the leader that's looking out for every member of his team, no matter what.

I want to be on HIS bus.

Isolation

I took a hiatus from writing the blog last year when my graduate program got really busy. It's a writing program, and my assignments each week took up so much of my writing energy, I really didn't have any more minutes to devote to these pages. But I'm in the home stretch now - only ten weeks left. And, interestingly, the world is in the middle of a pandemic, making it possible for me to find a few more minutes each week to write for myself, so here I am.

At the beginning of our isolation, I wanted to write about our bewilderment - the sheer impossibility of going home, staying home, and watching everything we know come to a grinding halt. We're the busiest house I know, and that's the truth. Between our jobs, our kids, their sports, my coaching, Aaron's projects...we are almost never home. Don't get me wrong - I love our life! We have chosen all the things. We love all the things. We are devoted to all the things. The slow down...then the stopping...was thoroughly bewildering.

I thought about writing more about that. About the listless wandering from room to room. About the edgy restlessness that happens when you think you're probably supposed to be somewhere doing something, and you're...not. About the ping of the calendar reminding you of the meeting you're not at, the rehearsal you're not having, the game you're not watching, or the practice you're not picking someone up from.

Then, as we became more comfortable within our four walls, I thought maybe I would write about the mourning. We are missing so much. Emma's softball season. Carys's first track season. My Spring Play. Emma's first Prom...the list goes on. Everyone is grieving, in their own ways, and so often I thought about writing down the emotional ups and downs.

But tonight, something else is on my mind, and I think this is maybe what I really want to talk about. We're a lot of days in, now. I've been home for 28 days, existing faintly, teaching remotely, parenting vaguely. In between the restlessness and the grieving, there's something else happening.

In the slow stillness of this life, we watch movies. We bake, we cook, we eat together. We play board games, paint canvases, do projects, write letters, organize our rooms, and we talk to each other a LOT. All five of us go on a run/bike/walk every day together at 4pm. We argue and get annoyed and irritated with each other. Then because all we have is each other, we make up and get over it.

I recognize my blessings, and for the first time in a long time, I ACTUALLY give thanks for them every single day. I am practicing gratefulness; something I used to reserve for Sundays and holidays. I still have a job, and I know that's not true for everyone right now. (Teaching under isolation is the hardest, most exhausting thing I have ever done in my entire life, but that's a different post.) Aaron is still essential, but his job requires very little contact with other people, so we don't have to worry about contagion. We have a comfortable existence, and I absolutely KNOW what a lucky lucky human I am to have those things.

Ultimately, this is my truth. (It might have taken a long time to get here - if you're still reading this, congratulations on your reading stamina.) I don't know when isolation or physical distancing is going to end. Whenever that is...well... I'm not sure that we are going to return to who we were before it all started.

The world out there is clamoring loudly for an end to the shut-down. There is a lot of worry about its economic impact on our country, and I get it. I really do - I watch the news and read the articles and get a statement on my investment accounts regularly. Still, the loudest talkers, demanding immediate return to normalcy - well, I'm not sure those people have someone high-risk in their lives. I'm pretty worried about my Dad - he's high risk. And he's pretty much my everything, so to me, it's not worth it for that reason alone. I don't want to return to "normal" until I can feel assured that someone asymptomatic isn't going to pass it to him in Wal-Mart or the grocery store. If my investment accounts go down but I get to keep my Dad for ten more years, that's a no-brainer for me.

Beyond all that, I'm giving serious consideration to what exactly I'm going to do when this is, indeed, all over. I love my stuff, my kids love their stuff, and the world has pretty much revolved around the stuff...but I also really really love the time we are spending together. What do I need to sacrifice to keep this? To hold it just a little longer?

I will absolutely rejoice when I can pull up my lawn chair next to the dugout and watch Emma take the field. I will feel genuine joy when Carys puts on her spikes for a race. I will be thrilled to my toes when Cooper walks out on the tennis court for a match. But I'm not in a hurry for it to happen. There is a gift, buried inside the fear and the tragedy. That's what I want to remember about this time - not the fear, the loneliness, or the loss. I want them to remember the aggravation of too much togetherness and the closeness that emerged from it. I want them to remember the boredom of nowhere to go and the creativity that materialized from it. I want them to remember this as a time of great love, and I want to take all of that with us whenever the world is ready for us to return to it.

And when it's time to go back - when it's safe for everyone, not just me - I'm going to think long and hard about the hours in my days. Where I spend them, and what they're worth.

Limping Toward the Finish Line

This morning I pulled up to Fairmont Elementary to drop the Littles off for school. There were three coach buses lined up at the door - it was 7:15. I looked over at Cooper and said, "Cooper. What day is your field trip?"

"Ummm...I don't know."

"You don't know? Is it possible that it's today?"

"Ummm...I don't know."

As he starts to get out of my car, unconcerned, I feel a panic setting in. "Cooper! What if it is today? Try to remember. Is it today? You have to have a sack lunch and money when you go on this one!"

"Mom, I said I don't know. I'll be fine."

As my mind raced to contemplate whether I could secure a lunch and some extra cash in the next 8 minutes or so, Emma chimed in helpfully from the back of the car: "Mom, his class is going to McGowan's - that's in Mankato. They probably wouldn't take a coach bus to that, it would probably be school buses." That's some great critical thinking, there, Emma, but that doesn't really calm me down.

Cooper is half out the door, still unconcerned, when I notice that he is wearing a tee shirt and jeans and nothing else. It's 47 degrees. He left the house like that and I didn't even notice...my May Parenting has really kicked in, I decided. "Cooper! You don't even have a JACKET?!" My voice might have squeaked a little on that last word.

He paused for a minute, and then calmly said to me, "Mom. I will grab a sweatshirt from the lost and found. I don't need any money, and my friends never eat all their lunch, so I'll just help them with leftovers. I will be FINE. Have a good day!" And with a cheerful wave, he walked into the building.

As he jogged inside, I dialed his teacher - ON HER CELL PHONE - at 7:20 in the morning. I'm sure she wishes she hadn't given her number out to me...I am the reason they make the block feature, I'm pretty sure. When she answered, cheerfully, without even a trace of annoyance, she assured me that the field trip is next week, and not to worry because we're all trying to survive the month of May. She could not have been kinder, though I am sure that she does not normally field phone calls from panicked parents at her HOUSE in the early morning hours. I'm not even sure how I'm going to  make up for that one.

But as I related this story to some colleagues this morning, lamenting my poor May Parenting Skills and longing for the lazy days of summer, one of them remarked that Cooper sure has some great problem solving skills. And you know what? He sure does. He was faced with a last minute problem: no warm clothes, no money, no food - and the kid formulated a plan of attack in about 5 seconds.

 I'm not sure what THAT says about my General Parenting Skills...but I'll try to think about that another day.

Let Them Be Bored

This past weekend I went through a spontaneous surge of spring cleaning, and began emptying closets and bins looking for items I could purge. I was going through Rubbermaid containers from the attic when I popped open one I'd brought home from my Dad's house when we were cleaning it out. It had a wide selection of my favorite childhood books inside, and at the bottom was a set of Childcraft Encyclopedias. Is anyone out there old enough to remember those? My parents bought the set for me somewhere between 1974 and 1978, because I had them already when my brother was born. On top of them was a haphazard collection of Little Golden Books, the Little Women series, The Girls of Canby Hall (which was my personal favorite alternative to the Sweet Valley High books) and a half a dozen anthologies filled with poems and short stories. I ran my hands through them looking at familiar favorites and started to put the lid back on. For some reason, I stopped. I shuffled through the books again, looking one more time at those encyclopedias. Despite being surrounded on all sides by a huge mess that needed to be badly organized, I felt compelled to pause.

I slid a book out from the stack; it stuck a little, sweaty from a few decades of storage. I ran my thumb over the numbered spine. The trim was still shiny, the words still embossed beautifully in gold, stamped on a bright pink stripe. I slid to the floor, cross-legged in a pile of old clothes and discarded winter gear, and I opened up the pages of my childhood.

There's no way for me to adequately explain how an hour of my afternoon just disappeared. As I turned the pages, it was like blowing the dust off volumes of memories from 40 years ago. Every page was familiar, from the pencil and ink drawings of nursery rhyme staples to the longer fables and myths...the pages were pristinely intact, though there were occasional blue crayon marks on some of them. The illustrations are magnificent; while I could not have pulled a one of them out of my memory a week ago, as my fingers paged past them, they became more than just pictures. It was an odd sensation, one I'm really struggling to describe. I could remember poring over them as a child, creating imaginary worlds beyond the words on the page. Some of them thrilled me, some of them scared me a little, and all of them are so deeply rooted in my long term memory that I found myself murmuring the words without looking and finishing verses that I didn't even realize I have memorized.

For a few minutes I felt like the layers of my hardened adulthood had been peeled back, and a sort of reaffirmation of my most authentic, earliest self became visible. I felt like I was glowing from the inside out, like the thread of innocence at the center of all of us was suddenly tangible and within reach. When we're five years old, we only know what we know. Once we reach 44, we are so far removed from that purity of self, it's impossible to remember what we felt, what we knew, or who we were before it got colored and influenced by who we became. But for an hour on Saturday afternoon I saw it again and this time I have four decades of wisdom to look back on it nostalgically.

Do you have any idea how many hours I spent reading these encyclopedias? Me either, but lots. Book after book, from Animal Kingdom to How Things Work, to World & Space and Make & Do, I had a tutorial for life that gave me a head start, not just on school, but on all the skills I was going to need eventually. I developed a pretty good vocabulary and became a fantastic speller, not to mention learning how to be still, thoughtful, and imaginative long before a teacher asked me to do so. I was probably a pretty weird kid; I remember my Kindergarten teacher Mrs. Hart asking us to tell about a place we would like to visit. While my classmates said things like Mt. Rushmore and Disneyland, I said "The Okefenokee Swamp! Did you know they have plants there that eat the flesh of bugs?" There was dead silence after that and a flustered Mrs. Hart said, "Oh my." I ate lunch by myself for the rest of the year, but I wished I could show them all the pages of the National Geographic book with full color photographs of Pitcher plants devouring insects in their luminous sticky green throats.

As I sat there, reminiscing about forgotten pages and pictures, it occurred to me - for me to know these pages as well as I still do, I must have spent hours upon hours reading them. I don't remember my parents making that mandatory; there was not a designated twenty minute reading time on my homework to check off. I had wide open afternoons and weekends, I had freedom to do whatever I wanted as long as I didn't leave the yard. But do you know what I didn't have? Constant entertainment. I didn't have a steady flow of friends in and out of my house, I didn't have video games or television really, except Saturday morning cartoons. I played outside, I harassed my brother at every opportunity, and I read books.

Somewhere into book four on Saturday, my teacher brain kicked back in. I love to read. I LOVE it. And how did I get this way? Because my parents made books available to me from the youngest possible age. They read to me sometimes, but mostly they just made them available and then they got out of the way. When I got bored, I read a book. They didn't sign me up for an activity, I didn't comb the neighborhood looking for someone to play with...it seemed like the easiest thing in the world was just to open a book and disappear for a little while. What a simple, simple time.

Don't get me wrong - since becoming a parent I have made time for play dates for my kids and the list of activities I sign them up to try borders on ridiculous. I love every single thing about every single one of them, so I'm not criticizing the decisions we make as parents to expose them to activity. I'm just reflecting a little on a precious commodity that I don't give myself enough credit for having. When we lived at the farm we had a very isolated, simple life, and it really served us well. We couldn't keep everything when we came to town, but I will say that we still don't have internet at our house for a reason. When we are home, my kids wander around looking for something to do, since a screen isn't readily available. One of mine reads voraciously, asking for book series after book series until I almost literally can't afford his reading habit. One is into sewing at the moment, as well as the fine art of nails and make-up. One especially prefers to paint - on canvas, on rocks - even on an old cello she scavenged from the discard pile at school and I couldn't be happier. I think they become their most creative selves when they have nothing at all to do.

I teach 10th graders now, and by the time they get to me, reading habits are pretty much locked. They read, or they don't. The best I can hope for is to expose them to great stories while I have them, and hope it catches on. But for all my friends who are just starting out on the parenting journey...if I had one thing I would make sure I did all over again, it would be to always have an endless supply of books on hand, and to have hours and hours of absolutely nothing to do.