See you again in 2013!
Miss Janice was our wonderful tour guide in Colonial Williamsburg. She was one tough cookie. Kids who idly scuffled pebbles while she spoke immediately froze in their tracks when she would shoot them a warning look. She asked a child a question and when he said, “What?” she looked at him incredulously and corrected him with a: “PARDON me?!” When a child mentioned the word “slaves” she said, “All people are born free, but they can become enslaved by unjust institutions and laws that permit that kind of thing to happen, so we call them enslaved people rather than slaves.” She talked about these enslaved people coming to the colonies “empty-handed,” but not “empty-headed.” At the conclusion of our tour, she lined us up and led us in a call and response work song, in her rich, beautiful voice. I would have taken pictures, but I was afraid she might rap me across the knuckles. Here are some other pictures from the day.
Adolescence has come galloping into our household like the wrathful four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
If you look closely, you can actually see both my husband and me in the painting above. I’m the one with the horror-stricken saucer-eyes underneath the guy who’s gnawing on my arm. We’re both about to get trampled by the black horse. My husband’s the cowering bearded figure to the right, futilely shielding himself from the white horse, which is about to stomp him into oblivion.
So now that we’ve oriented ourselves, I can continue…Last night my husband and I were standing in the kitchen. Our son sat in the adjoining breakfast room at the kitchen table doing (or rather not doing) his homework. He was raging, raging, raging at every word that came out of our mouths. It was like gently lofting balls into the air and then getting them smashed back at our heads at 100 miles per hour. I was facing my husband with my back turned to our son and mouthed the words, “I don’t think I can take this.”
At this juncture, I have to interrupt my narrative again to tell you a little about my husband. He is a very intelligent man. He wins awards for his brilliant ideas. He earns a living by thinking deep thoughts. And yet sometimes he comes up with ideas so stupid they take my breath away.
Trying to comfort me, he grabbed my shoulders and said reassuringly, “Think of this as a contraction.”
At this, I whisper screamed the only rational thing a mother writhing in pain could say:
“Well then get me an epidural. Where’s my @*$% – ing epidural?!”
I heard the terrible news as I was driving a carload of mothers home after we had spent the day chaperoning our children’s 5th grade field trip to Williamsburg. One of the mothers saw a report of the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary School on her phone and began reading the information to us. The minivan that had just moments before been buzzing with tired, but happy chatter became silent. I drove on, half-blinded by the tears that fell as I thought of the parents who had sent their children off to school that morning, never considering the possibility that it would be for the last time. I thought of the little children, who died in fear and unthinkable violence. I thought of the heroic principal and teachers who lost their lives trying to protect their charges. I think all of us mothers were finding it impossible not to picture ourselves and our own beloved children in that horrific situation. The second we arrived at our kids’ school, I leaped out of the car and ran into the school building to find my son, who had arrived minutes earlier on the bus with the other children. I felt an enormous rush of relief to see him sitting on a bench waiting for me just inside the lobby, safe and sound. I snatched him up and hurried home to get back to the rest of my family. I hugged all of my children extra tightly that night and went to bed early with tears that wouldn’t stop rolling down my face.
The next morning I woke up still crying and had to drag myself out of bed. At times like these I careen between two extremes: I either want to escape the pain of sentience with the sweet opiate of sleep or I become possessed with a manic need to clean and scrub and purge and organize until I drop in exhaustion. I decided it would be the latter, more productive option. Pity my poor family, because they all get conscripted to help me when I metamorphose into a cleaning machine and start barking orders like a crazed martinet. My “ballistic intentions” for the day, as psychologist Eugene Galanter would put it, were to clean the house to a sparkle and to finish all of the Christmas decorating. We finished hanging every single ornament on the tree and hung the stockings on the mantel. I trimmed the boxwoods in front of our house and sent my daughter around the yard to gather sprigs of pine, magnolia leaves and clusters of Nandina berries so that we could finish the advent wreath I had thought we would just not bother with this year. I dug up the advent calendars my mother-in-law made for the kids and hung them up after all. We unearthed the Noah’s ark calendar and hung 15 animals. We got up to date on our “Jesse tree” that only had 4 rather than the 15 stickers it should have by the 15th of December.
The day before, I had convinced myself that it was pointless to bother with these things, especially the ones that mark the passage of time. Now that we’d already missed half of advent, I had thought it was silly to go to the trouble for just the two remaining weeks. But today it seemed important and necessary to observe all of our holiday traditions. It seemed especially important to bother with the rituals that mark the passage of every single day we’ve been given on this earth.
As for my second “ballistic intention,” after all of that decorating, well…the whole cleaning-the-house-to-a-sparkle-thing didn’t seem quite so important after all.
How do we continue to live our lives after tragedies like this? How do we not become frightened, broken homebound recluses? We cry, we stumble, but we get out of bed. We get dressed. We do the best we can to be the best people we can be, even though we know we are flawed in so many ways. We fiercely love and care for each other, especially the “least among us.” We try to treat everyone as if they were our sister, our brother, our mother, our friend, our child. (Everyone except the Westboro Baptist Church hate-mongers, who exclude themselves from the human family with their evil ways. It’s simply impossible for me to feel anything but visceral revulsion for them). We allow our children to go outside to play, to go to school, or to a friend’s house, even when we’d rather just keep them locked up safe at home. We try to give them the experience of love, warmth and safety, knowing full well that this is not always what the world will have in store for them. We don’t give up correcting them when they are not their best selves, even when it seems hopeless and we’re tired of the battle. When we see other parents struggling with their children, maybe we look on with compassion, rather than judgment. Maybe we even let our house stay messier than it should be, so we’re not as crabby as we could be…
We just got back from our church’s candlelight Lessons and Carols service led by children in the congregation. My daughter was not feeling well, but it felt like we needed to be there together.
When we sang the line “Bless all the dear children, in Thy tender care. And fit us for heaven to live with Thee there,” it seemed like a special benediction for the children of Sandy Hook Elementary School and really – for all of us.
For some reason we’re finding it really hard to get motivated to put up the Christmas decorations this year. Just yesterday I remembered the beautiful quilted advent calendars my mother-in-law lovingly sewed for each of my children. Every year we hang the three calendars from the kitchen counter and I scramble to find something to fill three different pockets for the 24 days before Christmas. (72 things)! It’s already December 14th and I’m only now remembering the existence of those calendars. The Noah’s Ark advent calendar has also not yet been unearthed from the bowels of our basement. Neither has the Fisher Price creche set. Every year at church we make an advent wreath with five candles. At dinner time we would always light a candle for every week leading up to Christmas. The last candle is lit on Christmas day. We missed the actual wreath-making event this year, but got the supplies to do it at home ourselves. They’re still sitting, untouched, on our kitchen counter. Even our Christmas tree is only partly decorated.
As I drove my kids to school this morning, I tried to rouse them into action, (because Lord knows I’m a lost cause).
“Hey, guys! Why don’t you finish putting up the decorations on the tree when you get home from school today?”
My son answers, “Hanging decorations is not my thing. I don’t think it’s fun at all. I consider it to be a chore.”
Even though I heartily agree with him, I say, “Hey! Quit acting like an old man. You’re only ten years old, for Pete’s sake…Well, T, I guess you’re going to have to work a little harder to make up for us old fogeys.”
“What’s a fogey?” my son asks suspiciously.
“An old fogey is a crusty old fart,” I reply.
“Wait a minute. Did you just call me a fart?!”
“Ummm, no, actually. I called you a crusty. old. fart.”
This exchange sparks another intellectual line of inquiry.
“Do you think cavemen farted?” he asks.
“Do you think the colonists farted?”
“Well, do you think it was considered rude for colonists to fart?”
We will seek out the answers to these eternal questions tomorrow (today) as we embark upon the birthright of every child growing up in the great Commonwealth of Virginia. Yes, my friends: another month, another Colonial-themed field trip. This time I’ll be chaperoning my son’s 5th grade field trip to Colonial Williamsburg. I’ll report back our findings next week. Until then, hope your weekend is wonderful.
When I got to work this morning, my colleagues and I decided that we would get together to somehow celebrate the remarkable, once-in-a-lifetime occasion of it being 12/12/12 at exactly 12:12.
The next thing I knew it was some really mundane time like 1:34. We’d missed the opportunity to notice, really notice this unrepeatable moment in time!
I was disappointed and mad at myself for forgetting to take note of the time, but when I thought about it, 12:12, 12/12/12 is really no more or less remarkable than this moment:
Or this moment:
Our lives are made up of unrepeatable moments in time, which is why I’m so obsessed with recording them in pictures. Sometimes you capture moments like these:
Or like these:
And this is why I feel compelled to torture my children with endless photo sessions:
Please don’t call social services on me. I’m capturing once-in-a-lifetime moments!