Dear Teaching,

 Note: I was going to do this as a lesson with my sixth graders the last full week of school. Let them read Kobe's "Dear Basketball" poem, let them write their own version.

 But they're done. Their little brains have pretty much shut down for the school year. Mine isn't that far behind.  As I was prepping for this lesson, I figured I needed to write one of my own so they could have a model. It's a bit personal, maybe too personal for them. But I think I needed to write it. 

Dear Teaching:

You were not my first choice.

Writing was, then reporting.

But that doesn't mean I haven't thought about you,

flirted with you,

dreamed about you.

I guess you were always my backup plan,

my "someday"

maybe.

My infatuation began with I was just a little girl,

rushing home from school to relive my day's lessons

on Grannie's kitchen blackboard

and giving Grandpa and Rhett homework.

We got a little closer in college,

when I changed my major from Communications to English

and decided I wanted a book-filled office and a big desk,

a classroom full of eager students. Flexible hours.

But then my childhood dreams came true.

A newspaper job! I was a reporter. A journalist. A sports writer. 

Spending Friday nights and many other days chasing high school kids for quotes and waiting futilely on coaches to return phone calls.

I was happy. And well paid.

Until dividends became more important than me. More important than quality. More important than people. And the men in ties decided I was expendable.

I lost more than a job, 

I lost my identity,

My purpose,

My soul.

So I floundered for a while,

Working three or four jobs to pay the bills,

Getting mother-in-law Jane dressed and fed and to and from,

Until I couldn't do it anymore.

I got another chance to write and report,

Be a big fish in a little pond,

An old dog learning new tricks.

But the young guy wanted it his way or no way.

And it was my mama's turn to need my help.

Then I found you again

Quite by accident.

Or maybe it was Fate.

It is the family business after all.

Either way, I found my purpose again,

A place to use what I knew and learn new things too.

To meet a whole new generation of children,

Some of them are the children of the children I knew,

In a place where everybody is family.

I'm happy here. But not so well-paid.

That's OK. There are other rewards.

Not just the cups, cookies, lotions and potions, gift cards and notes.

The smiles,

The thank yous.

The success stories.

The laughter and the tears.

The hugs.

The lessons I've taught and the lessons I've learned.

Knowing I may have made a difference now and then. 

Some think you were my Plan B.

You were, but not really.

It turns out, I loved you all along.

I just didn't know it yet.

Lessons learned

Throughout the country, tired, overworked and underpaid school teachers are going through an annual rite of passage they all hate -- packing up their classrooms.

Some do it because they're moving from one class to another or even to another school. Some are forced to because some underpaid custodian is going to come wax the floors this summer. And some are just giving up and moving out.

I'm kind of in that last category.

Two weeks ago, I packed up my brand new "World's Best Teacher" mug, my personalized pencil holder, my picture of my mama, my $40 pencil sharpener (I paid for) and my stacks and stacks of printed lesson plans because, well, I sort of got fired.

A few days before the end of the term I was called into the principal's office and told that, as of now, they did not have a spot for me for next year. The school, already rather small, will have fewer students in the fall, requiring fewer teachers. Also because I was one of the last to be hired, I'm one of the first to be let go. Then, I'm not a completely certified teacher -- yet -- because of my horrendous skills in math.

But that didn't matter much last August when the were kind of desperate for teachers. At the urging of the school superintendent, whom I had interviewed many many times, I filled out an application to teach English in our neighboring district. Days later I got a call, then an interview and then, a job offer. I was a little stunned.

So I spent the last 10 months teaching -- or trying to teach -- a bunch of unruly middle schoolers how to read and write. I have no idea if they learned anything except how to make my face turn various shades of crimson.

I, on the other hand, learned lots of things.

Reading a chapter a day from two different books to four different classes takes a toll on the human voice.

St. John the Baptist Parish uses the controversial new scripted learning curriculum for English Language Arts. Daily lessons are pre-packaged scripts which must be printed out, annotated, then read aloud. (They also require at least six hours to be spent at the one and only very finicky copy machine in the building.) The pre-selected books --  in my case, A Christmas Carol for seventh grade and Call of the Wild for eighth grade -- also are read aloud to the students. The theory is that students will learn better from the repetition. And I am actually pretty good at dramatic reading. Or so I think.

But, just two weeks in, my voice had enough. I developed complete and total laryngitis. I mean nothing, no sound at all, came out of my open mouth, including the day my friend, the Superintendent, came to observe my class.

I borrowed a bell for a little while and used audio versions of the books until my voice returned, but the students fell asleep more during those readings than they did during mine.

Whispering works.

Want to get students' attention? Whisper to them. They also feel kind of sorry for you because you can't talk. But as soon as my voice returned to normal, all hell broke loose.

Middle schoolers have no filters.

"Mrs. Lyons, is your hair supposed to look like that?"

"Whatchu wearin' Mrs. Lyons?"

"Mrs. Lyons you got somethin' on your butt."

"Mrs. Lyons, your husband looks like Santa Claus."

They also forgot my name frequently. "Miss Thing" was a thing.

Middle schoolers will eat anything. 

Chips, candy, gum, antacids, cough drops....I am convinced that if I sat at my desk eating poison, they would ask, "Can I have some?"

One day I had a small bottle of Tums on my desk (can you guess why?). I had several students ask if they could have one. It drove them nuts that I could eat cough drops during my bout with laryngitis but could not give them any. They also were strangely fixated on the box of cereal I kept in my room to eat for lunch.

Middle schoolers don't really want to be better writers.

My students did do a lot of writing. A lot of it was illegible. A lot of it made no sense. So I would spend hours writing meticulous notes, correcting their grammar and spelling mistakes, trying to make them better writers. I would hand their papers back expecting some "ah ha" moments. But all they did was crumble it up and turn it into a 3-point shot into the trash can. A lot of times they missed. A lot of times they left it there, on the floor.

Planning periods aren't for planning.

Planning periods are for straightening up the room after the first period class leaves all their trash on the floors. And for meetings. And for bringing work to students in detention. And for standing in line at the one and only very finicky copy machine. And for peeing. And sometimes for really fabulous pot luck lunches.

Lunches are for planning.

The reason I kept a box of cereal in my room was because, often, it was all I had time to eat.

Disciplining other people's children is hard.

I never screamed at a child in my life before this. I barely yelled at my own child. I did yell at my mother a lot, but that's another blog post. But over the last year I yelled at a lot of children a lot of times. Why? Because they don't listen. You really do have to tell them five, six or 11 times to sit down, to stop talking, to pick up their trash, to keep their hands to themselves, to stop interrupting you. And that's how you get total laryngitis.

And there's no sure fire way to do it. I read the Wong books. All the experts say the best way to reach students is to forge relationships with them. Then somebody comes in and says you can't be their friends. You try not to scream and yell, but then somebody says you're too nice. So you yell and scream, but your admin tells you you're yelling too much. It's hard. I tried every single piece of advice I was given, but nothing worked all the time. A lot of it worked none of the time.

You have never sweat like you sweat when your principal, assistant principal, superintendent and several people you don't know walk into your room unannounced to watch you work.

This one is rather self-explanatory. I learned that it happens frequently, though.

Middle school is hard.

Middle school was hard the first time I went through it. It was harder this time. No one should have to go through it twice.

Childhood is hard.

Middle schoolers are silly. They are hilarious. They are stubborn. They are smart. They can be sweet. They can be mean as hell. They smell bad. They sleep a lot. They are going through some of the toughest years of their lives. They don't understand what's happening to their bodies. They haven't been on this earth for a very long time and can't be expected to know much of anything. Some of them need medication just to get through the day. Some don't have that medication. Some need more than just a pill. Some of them have nice, warm/air conditioned, comfortable homes with a mom, a dad, a brother, a sister, a dog, a bed to sleep in and food on the table  A lot of them don't. And we don't always know which ones are which.

This was my first class of students. I will remember them forever -- some more than others and for different reasons.

And I made some good friends.

I had good days and bad days. I had awful days and wonderful days. There were days I was an awesome teacher and there were days when I just sucked at it. Ultimately, how I did will be determined by a set of test scores achieved  by a bunch of teens and pre-teens who may or may not have eaten that day and who may or may not have slept the night before.

I don't know if my teaching career is over forever or just for the summer. I know teachers are leaving the profession in droves. My husband, who retired as The Coach a few years ago, retired as The Teacher last month. He taught for 30 years.

I can't imagine teaching for 30 years.

I may or may not get asked back. I may or may not get asked to teach at another school. Maybe I'll get to teach a writing class to students who actually want to write. I may go back to being a substitute teacher so those hard-working men and women can take their much-needed day off. (Subs are in very short supply too.) I may just go work for Uber.

Teachers are heroes.

They work hard. They walk more steps than you. They stand longer than you. They think about tomorrow more than you. They are prepared for the unexpected more than you. They are expected to handle the unexpected more than you. They worry about people with guns more than you and they have to practice for it. They put up with more crap than you. They can multitask better than you. They deserve a raise more than you. They probably know more about your kid than you. They need a vacation more than you. They deserve one more than you.

Waiting for the bus

It was a typical Friday morning.

I pulled out of my driveway a little later than usual -- as usual -- and headed up the street toward my still sorta new job as a middle school English teacher.

It was a lovely day. No rain, no fog, no trains blocking my path. So why did I nearly lose it in a heap of tears just two blocks down?

Because I'm a mom, that's why. And I'm the mom of a kid who is about to graduate from high school. And I never really know what's going to set me off. Last week it was the last back-to-school night. Ever.

On this day, it was all the kids -- and their parents -- waiting for the bus.

They were in front of just about every other house, waiting for the big yellow school bus to stop. And, somewhere in the background, there was a parent  -- a mom in pajamas or a dad in shorts, cup of coffee in hand.

And yes it made me cry.

You see, it wasn't that long ago that I was that parent who had just dragged herself out of bed and thrown on the first clothes I could find to go stand out by the side of the road to wait for the school bus with my kid.

It was 10, 15 or sometimes 45 of the most special of our moments together. Uninterrupted.  Even the mother-in-law, when she lived with us, knew that she could not have my attention until after the bus came. This was our time.

While we waited for the ever-punctual Miss Mamie and the not-so-reliable other driver, Lora and I got in some quality time. We talked about school, her friends, her teachers, how our days would be. Sometimes we shivered in the cold and the rain. Sometimes we hid in the fog. Once or twice we got to crack thin sheets of ice in the driveway puddles and watched our breath float in the air.  We often used the morning sun and our shadows to make funny shapes.



Usually, this was the time when she remembered that she needed 13 things for a science project. Or it was my day to bring treats for the whole class. Or that she had to have her permission slip signed TODAY. Or that her throat REALLY hurt.

A couple of times we forgot it was a late take-in day.

We always made the most out of our time together, though.   

We would sing, dance, play games. I made up silly songs for her:

"Waitin' for the bus,
Just the two of us.
She's gonna get inside,
And then she'll take a ride.
Miss Mamie's gonna stop
and on the bus she'll hop.
And then she'll get to school
And it's gonna be cool."

OK. I'm no rapper but I can entertain a first grader.

There were a couple of times I didn't want to put her on that bus. I just wanted to grab her and squeeze her and make her spend the day with me. The day after Sandy Hook, was one.

One day as the bus came, she ran back to give me one more hug and kiss.

But then one day she rolled her eyes and said, "STOP IT!" Then crossed her arms and stormed off.

Then one day she said, "You can stay on the porch, mom."

Then one day she said, "You don't have to get up."

Then she started riding with her dad to high school.

And now, she drives herself.

So, yeah. I wanted to pull over that morning to pull those moms and dads aside to tell them to cherish these moments with their babies. Have fun. Play games. Tell stories. Sing songs.

Because one day before you know it, she's going to tell you to wait on the porch and the bus is going to pass you right by.

                                                               

School is cool

I used to love to play school when I was a little girl.

My grandparents, who lived in the house next to our little trailer home, had a black chalk board in their little red kitchen and just about every afternoon I would come home and pretend to be whatever teacher I had -- Mrs. LeBoeuf, Mrs. Dupont, Mrs. Pellegrin, Mrs. Smart.

Not Miss Theriot. She was a mean ex-nun and the toughest teacher I ever had (probably the best, truth be told, but it took me years to admit that.)

Grannie and Grandpa were my favorite students, of course. They were smart, polite and never talked back and, like any indulgent grandparents, they did their lessons and took their little tests with no complaint.

But I didn't grow up really wanting to be a teacher. My dreams were to be a writer, a journalist, a documentary film maker and, for a brief moment, a concert pianist.(Grannie and Grampa had a piano too.)

It wasn't until I was a few years into my lenghthy stay at  Loyola University when I entertained the idea of teaching. I loved the the idea of my own book-covered office with my degrees on the wall and standing before a group of attentive young adult extolling on the virtues English literature and grammar. So, I changed my major from Communications to English and enrolled in the Secondary Education program.

Fate took me on another path, however, when shortly before my finished my seventh year at Loyola (don't ask), I was hired by The Times-Picayune newspaper and embarked on a 26-year career in sports writing.

I did marry a teacher, though, whose ex wife was a teacher. My best friend was a teacher (who quit to become a lawyer). My niece became a teacher, as did several cousins. Then I helped raise a stepson who became a teacher and married another --  the daughter of a teacher. Add to that all those coaches I've interviewed and befriended over the years.

Then I got laid off.

With newspapers not hiring so much these days and my with my resume woefully short of marketable skills other than writing (and pool floating), I decided to join the family business.

Since February, I have been working steadily as a substitute teacher in our local school district -- mostly at the same school where my husband currently teaches and my daughter is currently a junior. It's also one of the schools I routinely cover as a freelance sports writer. (No. Not awkward at all.)

I did not sub for any of my daughter's classes at her request. I did see many of her friends I've known since she was in kindergarten.

And, let me just say, it was a learning experience!

I learned a whole lot about teachers and children and teenagers over the past few months, and a little bit about my husband -- mostly that he is never where you think he will be when you need him. Also, that he skipped the lessons about cute bulletin boards and classroom decorations. "It is what it is" is on a poster on his wall. And it is.

Oh he's not the only one. Some teachers have desks piled with papers (where they like to hide the sub lesson plans) and others have different cups for different types of pens and leave you a color coded binder. Some teachers are very, very clever, from their bulletin boards to their classroom decorations to their lessons.

You can tell more about a teacher by how their students react when they see the sub. Some are thrilled -- "Yay! We have a sub today!"

Others, not so much. "Great. We have a sub. That means we won't be doing anything today," was an actual response. Sorry to disappoint you, kid.

You also can tell a lot about a teacher by how their kids behave for the sub. While one or two actually sit down and do their work without a single word, some classes just turn into a zoo. And in that zoo, you will see:

• The Wander: The guy or gal who simply cannot say in their own desk and likes to go visit his friends throughout the class.
• The Preener: The girl who spends the whole class period brushing and styling her hair. I had one girl put on a full face of makeup.
• The Clown: You know him. He thinks he's there to entertain everyone.
• The King: The guy all the other kids will listen to. If he tells them to sit down and be quiet, they will. Often the football team's quarterback. Sometimes, also the clown.
• The Gamer: He's sitting in the back playing Fortnite and seriously thinks you don't know it.
• The Loner: He's sitting in the back all by himself. He's quiet, but not doing his work.
• The Drama Queen: There's always one who is having some kind of problem and needs all of her friends to help her solve it.
• The Eater: Comes to class with a whole bag of chips. Crunchy ones.
• The Sleeper: Rather self-explanatory.
• The Honor Student: While all this other stuff is going on, there's usually one or two kids off to the side who are diligently doing their work -- or trying to.

These are the high school kids. I only ventured into elementary and middle school a few times -- too scary -- where I learned that fourth graders will tell you everything you need to know and watch out if you try to change anything. The have a routine, they know it and they expect you to stick to it.


You learn a lot of things, like, high school kids are really smart. A lot of them are planning for their futures and know exactly how to go about it. I listened one day as a group of young men critiqued their teachers for their own lack of skills and discussed whether college or technical college would be better for their futures and - - complete with salary scales. Then they discussed whether it was better to go into the Army or Navy.

Actual quote: "If you want to build things, go Army. If you want to be an engineer, go Navy."

There were other life lessons.

I learned that teenagers have tiny little bladders that need emptying frequently.

I learned that kids are very sleepy and need naps during the day.

I learned that it's really hard to kill 90 minutes but a 30 minute lunch break speeds by.

I learned that it really sucks to watch three-fourths of a movie three times in a day because then you have to rent it that night to see how it ends.

I learned why my daughter leaves the house every day dressed for winter even when it's 95 degrees outside. Schools are freezing. Someone told it me "it keeps them awake and still." I don't know about that.

I learned why schools are so against kids having cell phones in the schools. As a parent, I do want my child to be able to call me if she needs me, especially in these trying times. But as a teacher, cell phones are evil. No matter what you try or how many times you try, you can't keep them off of them.

I learned just how special the special ed kids are. I spent one whole day as a para to a young man who is non-verbal. We worked on skills, we went to lunch and we spent a glorious spring afternoon watching his schoolmates play cabbage ball. I asked him several times if he wanted to go inside, but he shook his head every time. He loved it. And it broke my heart to know that when he goes home, his mom can't ask him "What did you do today?" because he can't tell her.

And yes, I learned that it's very, very scary to be a teacher. You do look around the room to scope out places to duck, to hide, to be safe. You realize that schools are built for efficiency and storage, not for security. That, despite best efforts, schools are very easy to get to and into. I've been doing it for decades as a sports writer. No one ever stopped me.

I learned that there is nothing in the world more terrifying than an active shooter drill, when you're cowered in the corner of a locked classroom and someone rattles the door -- except knowing that, somewhere in that same building, your child is experiencing the exact same thing.

And I did learn that, despite all of the above, there is a desire in me to teach. My favorite day was my first, when the class was assigned to read a section of "Beowulf" (my favorite!) and answer questions. Most of the classes preferred to read silently, on their own. But one said it was boring and why didn't I read it to them. I did. I loved it, they listened and they GOT it! Go me!

I would love to teach "Beowulf" or "The Great Gatsby" or, better still, the merits of good journalism, even to The Wanderer, The Preener, Kings and Drama Queens.

Somebody's got to.

Guest blogging with New Orleans Moms

A couple of weeks ago, I got an email asking if I would be interested in writing a guest blog for the website NewOrleansmomsblog.com.  I was thrilled! I'm happy to write for anyone who asks me these days, so I happily agreed.

A while later, I got an email telling me to come up with a topic and let them know what I wanted to write about.

Wait. You want ME to come up with the topic? Anything I want? About my snarky tweenage daughter I love to death but who drives me crazy most of the time?

Oh! The possibilities! There were so many. Too many!  It took me weeks to decide -- in between covering baseball games for the upstart New Orleans Advocate, rooting for my husband, driving Miss Jane to dialysis three times a week (and back), going to the store for more macaroni and cheese and keeping the dogs from barking at the neighbors.

I finally narrowed it down to a choice between my fruitless attempts to curb her macaroni and cheese addition (is there a Macaroniandcheese Anonymous?) or our attempts to survive her first year of middle school. Although the editors liked both offerings, they preferred the second choice

So here it is, my first (I hope!) effort for the New Orleans Moms. Please check out their site. And to the New Orleans Moms,  thanks for having me over. Next time I'll bring macaroni and cheese.


The First Year of Middle School: Challenges for both Mom and Daughter

 

In the middle

Her first day of preschool was delayed by Hurricane Katrina, postponed from early August until mid September.

She was so excited to wear her little skort and her sparkly pink shoes, her Kim Possible back pack, and her tag with her bus number on it. And I made sure her hair was perfect and curly and adorned with a pink ribbon.

Someone later gave me a sticker that said, "Hug me: First Day of School Mom." And everyone understood what that meant.

Today she starts middle school. Can I have another sticker please?

 

 And yes, after playing cool all morning, like it was no big deal and I was just a big old pain in the butt, she did turn to me just as the bus drove up, hugged me, kissed me and said, "Bye mom."

Middle school mom

On the morning of  January 26, 2001, a woman named Gail handed me a tiny pink bundle of just-born sweetness, proclaimed that she was my daughter and made all my dreams come true. In that moment, a giant-sized hole in my heart was filled.

It took me nearly a decade to have that moment. Six doctors. A few science experiments. A lot of letters mailed to a lot of people. A couple of false hopes. About a million tears. And one wonderful woman.

But it was all worth it in that moment and in the so many others after.

Every now and then, I let my mind to go back to that moment in that hospital room on that cool winter morning, to remember how happy I was, how fulfilled, how utterly blessed I felt to finally become a mom.

Because now, sometimes I just want to strangle her.

I've gone from the mom of the cutest little baby with the most beautiful curls to the mom of an oh-so-worldly, taller-than-me 11-year-old who knows everything she will ever need to know about life and the world -- except, of course, how to pick up her dirty socks and underwear off the floor. Or make a bed.  Or fold her clothes. Or comb her hair. Or brush her teeth on a daily basis. Or that chips are not a suitable breakfast.

Who only comes out of her room when she's hungry.

Who doesn't need my help to do anything, from taming her unruly eyebrows to styling her often unmanageable hair to picking out an appropriate outfit.

Who will not listen to a single word of advice from me, whether it's how to heat the pizza rolls or how to use hair products or how to glue the letters on her social studies project.

Who will wear the same clothes for three days straight if I let her, and not comb her hair once, but won't let me car dance because someone might see me and she'd be so embarrassed. Ohmygod.

Who is absolutely enthralled by reruns of Full House, and Friends. And SpongeBob SquarePants.

Who has read every Harry Potter book and the first three chapters of The Hobbit.

Who writes incredible stories of fiction like I never could.

Who draws beautifully, even though she insists on drawing the same kooky characters on every single page of her sketch books. Well, they all look the same to me.

Who has the voice of an angel but will sing for no one but her singing teacher during her weekly lessons.

Who thinks macaroni and cheese is a food group.

Who is all packed and ready to go to register for middle school tomorrow.

Middle School? How in the hell did that happen?

Wasn't it just yesterday we were packing crayons into her little pink Kim Possible school bag? That I put the tag with the little picture of the school bus around her neck and prayed to God that Ms. Mamie was a good bus driver?

That she let me dress her and put ribbons in her hair? Actually, that feels like forever ago.


We spent a good deal of time tonight gathering her just-bought school supplies into her just-bought backpack, checking each thing off the long list of school supplies she will need for sixth grade.  Pencils, pens, notebooks, paper. Jump drive???

And as we packed it all up, it took me only a moment to notice that, for the first time, there are no crayons.

Next week she'll put on her new school colors and head off to the land of snarky tweens. Of mean girls in the bathrooms and stupid boys who think straws up the nose and fart jokes are funny.  Of cliques and pecking orders and peer pressure and bullies. Pretty girls and not. Cute boys and not. Nice teachers and not.

Is she ready? Probably. But I'm not.

Postscript: On the morning of the second day of school, my 5-foot-4 11-year-old baby came upstairs to my room at 7:01 and woke me. "Mom," she said. "Do you think we could snuggle? Or is that off limits to sixth graders?" .... Just when I think she's all grown up.... 

Hanging out once again at Yeah Write. Check it out!
  

Social studies

A Facebook friend recently shared the sad tale of a probably well-intentioned father who earned his probably mortified daughter a great big F on her solar system science fair project by doing too much of it himself.

I can relate.

When I was in elementary school I, wanting to be a broadcaster in the days before cable television, 900 channels and 24-hour news, decided to do my mandatory project on radio. Cool subject. But I needed a model.

My stepfather stepped right in. He suggested I build a crystal radio set -- a "very simple" collection of wires and other things that allegedly creates a working radio. Or it did in the 1970s.

You see how much I can tell you about it. He, being one of those parents, did the whole thing, cigarette dangling from the corner of his clenched teeth. I just wrote the report.

 I remember it had a small piece of plywood and a coil of copper wires. I believe it was supposed to have actual crystals, but it did not. And when the judges asked me if it actually worked, I had to reply, "No."

Needless to say, I didn't win.

I was reminded of that incident recently when my own daughter was forced by her elementary school to enter the social studies fair. And I saw just how easy it is for a parent to get "caught up" in the project. It starts right away.

Offered a long list of potential subjects to research, I tried to steer my then 10-year-old fifth grader to a "good" one.

Naturally, the first I suggested was Adoption, she being adopted and all, and me having just published a little book on the subject.

No. she said.

OK. How about the Houma Indians, the unrecognized tribe our hometown is named for and of which she is, therefore, an unofficial member?

No. she said.

And no  amount of persuasion or suggesting would budge her one inch. She had no interest in any suggestion I might have. None. Nothing I said appealed to her. It never does. So I gave up.

And she, completely on her own, selected, "Home remedies."

Really? You sure? Ok.

Several weeks later, I was asked -- no, ordered -- to go buy her the three-sided board necessary to complete the project. Her dad, The Coach Teacher Guy, took care of that. He also bought her the necessary border thing and a little package of letters.

A few days later, I was told I must "help" prepare said board. We had to glue the borders on.

So we cleared off the dining room table and pulled out the glue sticks and threw away the ones that had hardened into rocks and, together, we glued on the swirly red borders -- her on one side and me on the other. And they were pretty straight.

Then her dad came in. He being the math whiz (and me definitely not), he got to help her glue on the letters. First, however, she had to decide exactly what her title would be.

She: "Home Remedies"

Me: "I think you need something a little more catchy. How about -"
She: "No. Home Remedies"
Me: "Lora. You need something catchy, something to grab their attention. How about 'Home Remedies: There's a cure for that."
She: "No. Home Remedies is good enough."
Me: "Dad."
He: "Mom's right."
She: "Ok. 'Home Remedies: There's a Cure.'"

Sigh.

Then, using a very complicated mathematical formula, he and she figured out the proper spacing for that oh-so-catchy title. I left them to it. When they finished, they were left with:

A little crooked but good enough.

Now if any of my daughter's teachers or any of the Social Studies Fair judges would like to know the extent of Lora's parents' participation in said project, that's it.

No really. That is all. She never asked us for another bit of help. A few days later I came home and she showed me the printed photos she had pasted to her boards.

And a few days after that she showed me her paper.

It wasn't great.

Let's just say that any reader in search of a few home remedies would be sorely lacking in advice, except that honey is good for a sore throat and tea bags are good for a canker sore and kerosene used to be used to get rid of head lice.


Me: "This needs a little work."
She: (Rolling her eyes). "It's fine."
Me: "It's a report on home remedies and you don't have hardly any remedies."
She:  "Yes I do."
Me:  (Really long pause) "All I'm saying is, you need a few more examples."
She: .... Foot stomp.

And my work was done.

Well, that's not exactly true.

On the day of the fair -- a day I had to be in the office early as I would be the only one there -- and as I puckered up to kiss her good-bye as she boarded the bus at 7:45 a.m., she informed me thusly:

She: "You need to bring me the stuff for my model at school."
Me: (Still puckered)."What?"
She: "You need to bring me the stuff for my model. I need tea bags, lemon and honey."
Me: "When?"
She: "This morning. I neeeeeeed it!"
Me: "Are you kidding me????"

Me -- after she's gone: Dammit Lora! There's no way. She needs to learn to organize and not spring these things on me at the last second... Let her fail... I have tea bags..... I don't have honey or lemons.... Good. Let her fail....
....
....
30 minutes later, I called the school secretary -- the oh-so-wonderful Mrs. Shelly:
Me:"What time is the Social Studies fair?"
She: "It starts at 9 and goes all day."
Me; "What time will they start judging? Lora needs tea bags and lemon and honey for her model, but I'm at work and I'm the only one here. I can't leave!"
She: "We'll take care of it."

And she did. They found her some tea bags in the teacher's lounge, and some honey in the cafeteria. She had to settle for a printed picture of a lemon.

It does take a village.

Needless to say, my beloved child did not win the Social Studies fair. Nor did she place or show.  (A wonderful young lady with an autistic brother won with her project entitled, "Unlocking the Mystery of Autism.")

But her dad and I didn't get an "F" either. And we can hold our heads high.

I almost didn't cry

I didn't cry when I woke her up and remembered that today was the first day of fifth grade.

I didn't cry when she growled.

I didn't cry when she didn't want my help to get dressed.

Or comb her hair.

I didn't cry when she didn't want me to fix her breakfast.

And I didn't cry when she didn't see the fun message I wrote for her on the bathroom mirror.

Nor did I cry when she went out to the end of the driveway to wait for the bus and I stayed on the porch.

But when she ran back to give me a hug and a kiss just before the bus arrived, well, that's when I cried.

Bye Bye Baby

"Mom?" my 10 year-old daughter asked me today. "Do moms want their kids to cry when they bring them to school?"

Huh? I thought. What kind of question is that?

She was watching this Disney Channel show called "Good Luck Charlie." As Disney shows go, it's a pretty good one.  Cute kids, sharp writing, interesting characters and a really cute little girl named Charlie. (Plus they have this awesome house. Their refrigerator has been painted with chalk board paint so they can leave all kinds of messages on it. And I would kill for their turquoise living room sofa.)

I wasn't really paying that much attention to it. She was watching while I surfed the web nearby.

But then I heard her high pitched little voice say, "Aw," in that sing songy, "That was sooooo cute" tone. Then she hit me with that loaded question.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Watch." She rewound the DVR to show me a scene where the mom is bringing little Charlie to preschool. Mom, on the verge of hysteria, tells Charlie to be brave and that she'll be back really soon to pick her up, then she asks for a hug. Charlie, on the verge of leaving the nest and going off to college (even though she's only about 4), turns on her heel and runs into the classroom without a backward glance, leaving mom a withering mess in the hallway.

"Why is the mom sad," Lora asked. "Did she want her to cry?"

And I had to explain that the answer is Yes. And no.

"Well," I said. "When moms bring their little babies to school at first, we want them to be brave and have fun. But a little piece of us also wants you to miss us too. We want you to need us."

And that little vignette really hit home.

My baby girl is only 10 1/2. Not even close to being grown. But as far as she's concerned, my work as a mom is done.

She can comb her own hair (she thinks). She can set her own water for the shower. She can pick out her own clothes (um .. sort of).

She can put herself to bed.

She also can roll her eyes at me with perfection. 

Saturday afternoon as we relaxed in the pool on our vacation, I was surrounded by parents playing with their children. Mine swam away from me. Pretended she didn't know me. Left me. Alone.

Then when we stopped for a lunch break on our way home I waited by the door to help her get out of the third row seat of my SUV.

"You can go," she said, thoroughly exasperated. "I can do this."

Really? Am I really supposed to just walk away? What happened to my little girl?  Why doesn't she need me anymore.

I got my first reality check when I realized that I was only able to hold my daughter for about 3 1/2 years.  After that she was too heavy. Then she was too big.

I know some moms of my daughter's friends who still can pick up their petite little 10-year-olds. I can't. She's already almost as tall as me. She already has stolen several pairs of my shoes. I can still pick her up in the pool, but she won't let me.


Somehow I am trying to figure out how God gave me a husband who refuses to grow up and a child who grew up so fast I missed it.

That's just not fair.

While I can't hold over her head the whole "I carried you for nine months and went through 20 hours of labor," line like most moms do, I can (and do) tell her, "I waited a long time to be a mom. You have to let me."

But she just rolls her eyes at me.

This week my "baby" will begin the fifth grade. But I can still remember that first day of preschool. Marty and I driving her there with her little Kim Possible book bag. It was not long after Hurricane Katrina had devastated our area and disrupted our lives. She started school nearly a month late because of it, and she and her friends spent much of the year playing evacuation from the little house in her classroom.


"Did you cry when you brought me to school?" she asked me today.

"Of course I did! It meant my baby was growing up and leaving me."

"Aw," she said.

Little did I know it was just the beginning.

Submitted to Lovelinks18. You can expand your bloggerizons and link up too!

Summer Daze

So,

On the first day of summer, Marty, Lora Leigh and I all sat down together at the dinner table. And we each made a list of all the things we wanted to accomplish.

I wanted to swim, read, watch movies and lose 15 pounds.

Marty wanted to lead his team to the Legion playoffs, knock off a few household chores and lose 15 pounds.

Lora Leigh wanted to swim, sleep, go the Insectarium, visit Bed, Bath and Beyond, and go see the movie, "Up."

Among other things....

We wanted to go to the World War II museum. That's been on our list for a long time.

I wanted to take Lora to Laura Plantation, where Marty and I were married. And I wanted to take her to ride a streetcar. They weren't around for a while after Katrina, so she's never been on one.

On the first day of summer I took us all out to Walmart and bought Lora a shiny new bike. I was determined that she would learn to ride it so that we could spend summer days riding bikes. That didn't happen. Hard to get a kid with a pool motivated to go sweat her butt off in a 124 degree heat index.

We did go to the Insectarium and to the French Quarter to visit my mom. We bought Pralines and strolled around. Then she dragged her dad back for a second trip to see the bugs. She wanted to go see the Cathedral on that trip, so they did.

But mostly we swam. We stayed up WAY too late and paid for it dearly the next day. We had our annual luau. We made our annual quick trip to Florida. We went to the movies. We spent hours in Bed, Bath and Beyond.

And we watched the days fly by.

Tonight we all sat down with our lists and pens and checked off all the things on our lists that we had done. Marty and I both still need to lose 15 pounds. Lora won. She actually accomplished the most.

I don't know how. Most days she slept til noon. Sometimes later. One day she woke up at 3. It got to the point that Marty would let her sleep just to see how long she could. She sleeps late because we often stay up WAY too late....

She's a night owl, like her mom...

But there was so much we didn't accomplish. And now we're out of time. School starts tomorrow. Tomorrow she becomes a third grader. And I am sitting here wondering just how that happened as well.



.

School Daze

I will never again force my child to wear a skirt to school.

I will make sure that she packs a sweater, even on the hot days.

I understand now the importance of bedtimes and breakfast and I promise to do a better job at both.

And if she decides she wants to start bringing her lunch to school, I won't try to talk her out of it.

These are the lessons I learned in one half of one day as a second grader.

It was "Take Your Parent to School Day" at our little school on Monday. And, being the ever-so-involved parent that I think I am, I went. Every parent should be required to do this. Every school should offer it. It was a true eye-opener.

Of course, I had to get up earlier than I usually do to get dressed to be there, which was very difficult to do. And, of course, that messed up my own morning routine. I did manage to gulp down a breakfast drink -- and I thank God I did.

I arrived at school at 9 a.m. and was ushered into a welcome meeting. They did have fruit and bagels and coffee. I passed -- and later wished I had not, especially on the coffee. By 10:30 I was ready for nap time. So were most of the students.

And we all were hungry. But lunch wasn't until 12:20.... And in between I sat on the floor, got up from the floor, listened to stories, did math problems, learned about less than and greater than, played Around the World and Magic Number, read books, glued in a math journal...

OK. My daughter did.

And I learned that...

She shouldn't have to wear a dress or a skirt if she is going to be sitting on the floor.

She does need to bring a sweater because, although the room was warm at first, it did get colder as the morning progressed.

It is a loooonnnngggg time until lunch. And that lunch was NOT worth waiting for. As soon as I left, I went in search of some REAL food.

And if you don't go to bed on time, you are really tired the next day.

I deserve detention.