Another Ode to Mr. Fariss

This is Teacher Appreciation Week. Earlier in the week, we were able to celebrate with the rest of the girls' school when one of the 5th grade teachers was named Massachusetts Teacher of the Year. That's quite an honor. I'm not surprised it was bestowed on a teacher at our school. We have some super teachers. But I've been thinking about teachers in my life. I remember quite a few that were noteworthy. But I found myself quoting one of them in particular throughout the week.

I guess it makes sense that a band director, a teacher that I had for 4 years, would leave a huge impact. It makes even more sense when that band director is a larger-than-life character. I know he's known for quite a few signature sayings. Some were more colorful than others. But there are two that have stuck with me that I had the chance to pass along to my oldest daughter over the last few weeks.

HeyMama has been practicing a piano piece for tomorrow's school talent show. She's a kindergartener. She's been playing piano since this past September. So less than a year. And she wanted to play the Star Wars Theme. So with the help of a musician friend and some free online software, we obtained a version that was appropriate for a beginning pianist. Challenging, but attainable. She's been diligently practicing. Well, sometimes diligently.

"Practice like you'll perform."

This was one of Mr. Fariss' many sayings. If you practice something sloppily, you'll perform it sloppily. If you prepare and practice with the goal of a performance-worthy production, that's what you'll get when it's time to perform in front of an audience. I found it to be true in my marching band days. I found it to be true in non-musical endeavors since then. And these past few weeks, I've been saying it to HeyMama.

But as we've gotten closer to performance time, another saying has resurrected itself.

"Fake it 'til you make it."

HeyMama is concerned about what happens if she messes up during her performance. This is reasonable. I encouraged her to just keep going until she feels like she's got it under control again. In marching band, you can't stop moving on the field just because you forget what to do next. People are running all around you with instruments in their faces. Bloodshed would ensue. You keep moving until you figure it out. And if you've "practiced like you'll perform", it will come to you. And typically, no one is the wiser of your temporary lapse of memory. Again, I have found this advice to be helpful in professional and social situations.

But this week, I've had to take that advice to heart to merely get through the day.
This past Sunday, BestestHusband and I decided that we'd get the big girls on their bikes, HurricaneDebbie in the jog stroller, the dogs on their leashes, and running shoes on our feet. We'd take a family exercise excursion to the other side of the Arboretum to see the cherry trees in bloom. It was truly glorious. The weather was finally sunny and warm. The trees were extravagantly decked out in white and pink blossoms. The place was full of people basking in the glory of a warm spring day. And we had a great workout. I had to do some sprints to keep with the girls. The girls had fun on their bikes. And I think the run was even tolerable for BestestHusband. But two days later, it became apparent that the excursion was not the best idea. I had inhaled a lot of pollen, and my body was rebelling. I couldn't breathe. My nose was ok. It was my lungs that were in crisis. Here are some of the things that have left me out of breath:
Walking up stairs
Walking across a small room
Picking up HurricaneDebbie
Picking up a fork
Making phone calls
Sending emails
Lying still on the couch
Trying to sleep at night
Talking
Sitting quietly

I coughed so hard and so much that I strained my back. I went to the doctor, and got a nebulizer treatment and inhaler. I've been vaguely headachy and have had no appetite since then. I'm a mess.

But I had a job interview on Tuesday. I think I nailed it. I picked up extra work hours today. And I will on Friday and Saturday. Getting off the couch has required great effort. But the words "fake it 'til you make it" have echoed in my ears. It doesn't have to be easy. You just have to do it until it gets easier.

I only cooked dinner tonight because I was afraid of $15 worth of chicken going bad in my fridge. But I ended up making a pretty good meal. (Hey, I got BestestHusband to eat cauliflower and be happy doing it!) I only went to the grocery store tonight because buying ice cream sounded really appealing. (The fact that we were out of fresh fruit and a lot of food staples wasn't enough to get me there.) But I just got started doing the tasks, and they got done. Even though I really didn't feel like I could do it.

So the wisdom of my teacher's words becomes apparent yet again. And I am grateful for Mr. Fariss and all of my teachers that have gotten me here today. I just hope that my girls have at least one teacher who will leave an equally strong impression.

A Lesson in Mercy

Disclaimer:  I tell this story not to show what a good job I did, but to show how God uses children to teach us. It says in the Bible (Matthew 6, specifically) to do our good deeds quietly, in secret, so that God knows the good deeds we do, but that our right hand doesn't even know the money our left hand gives to the poor. By telling you about it, it takes away the goodness of the deed, as your regard is my reward. But I hope it inspires, as I was inspired by the original idea.

One day last week, HeyMama and I were driving home from school. At an intersection, a gentleman was holding up a sign, walking between the rows of cars waiting at the red light. It was a very cold day to be out holding a sign.
"Mama, what does that sign say?"
"It says, 'Hungry and homeless, please help'. "
"Then we should give him some money."
I spent a few moments talking about how sometimes people ask for money for food and shelter, but end up using it on alcohol and drugs instead of food. They might use our money to hurt themselves instead of helping themselves, and we'd rather donate our money to organizations that we know won't spend it on harmful things. Blah blah blah.
"But maybe he really is hungry. We should give him some food."
Yes Joy, maybe he really is hungry. Your daughter is right. Instead of trying to convince her to be as cynical as you have become, perhaps you should listen to her charitable impulses and give the man some food!
HeyMama was right. She was preaching to me the message that I would like her to carry in her heart throughout her life:  People need help, and we were put on this earth to help them.

I remembered seeing the idea of "Mercy Bags" somewhere online. They were gallon ziplock bags filled with shelf-stable foods, including apple sauce, granola bars, a bottle of water, and other assorted items of daily life. I couldn't remember the details, but I knew they weren't all food... The woman made them and carried them in her car. When she encountered people asking for money to buy food, she gave them the bag.
So I mentioned this to HeyMama. I promised her that the next time we saw him, we would bring him some food.

Today, while tucking healthy and nutritious food into the cart around the carseat of my plump and healthy baby, I remembered the Mercy Bag idea. Certainly, while buying food for my well-fed family, I could pick up a few things for others. So I did. And at the checkout, I saw little boxes of Valentine heart candies. So I grabbed one. And when I got home, I made up a few baggies with the supplies. I packed them into the van on the way to pick up HeyMama from school. And when we got in after school, I told her about them. We had a mission to complete on our way home.

It took a while. I made a wrong turn, and missed the intersection completely. It wasn't our usual route from school. I had to loop back through Brookline to find the gentleman. But there he was, in the cold January wind, holding up his sign. But this time, instead of averting my eyes when he approached my window, I rolled it down and handed him a bag.
"Hi, this is for you."
"Wow, thanks!" His eyes grew big. "Applesauce! Lip balm! Candy hearts! This is great! Thank you so much!"
"You're welcome. I hope you enjoy it."
"I will! My name is John."
"I'm Joy. Nice to meet you John. Have a good day."
And then the light turned green.

I'm not sure if he had a good day, but we did.
And now there's not a homeless guy at the intersection, there's a guy named John at the intersection. And we know he likes Necco candy hearts.
And we'll certainly have a snack for him the next time we're in that intersection.

So now we have a stash of food in the back of the van. Because when your 5 year old tells you to have mercy on a man standing out in the cold, you should. God has spoken through lesser messengers.

Our mercy bag.

Playground Politics

I don't really feel like I can label myself as a parent. 

I'm not an Attachment parent. I'm certainly not a Playful parent, and absolutely not a Helicopter parent. I do lean towards being a Free Range parent at times. I'm not a Mama Bear or Tiger Mom. I guess I can describe myself as a This-World-Is-Big-Scary-And-Demanding-And-You-Need-To-Start-Practicing-Now parent. I encourage taking on responsibility as a member of the household. ("No, it's your lunchbox. My hands are already full. YOU can carry it into the house.") I encourage trying to solve problems independently first before requiring parental mediation. ("Did you ask her to share the markers with you? No? Then go ask.") I kiss boo-boos, but don't allow them to become the end of the world. ("Oh, that's quite a scrape, I bet it hurts! Did that happen because you were running downhill in flip-flops again? Yeah, maybe you won't do that next time.") So I'm not all over my kids at the playground. They generally behave well enough for me to keep my distance, and I make sure they're in my sightline, even if that is too far off for me to actually hear what they're saying.

Urban playgrounds are a wonderful place to practice maneuvering in our big scary world. There are kids of different ages, races, languages, socio-economic backgrounds, and parenting philosophies. Boston has some truly world-class playgrounds, and in the summer, some of them have great fountains and water features. We met up with friends at one of our local sprinkler playgrounds on Monday. And experienced a unique parenting "opportunity." 

HeyMama, MeToo, and their best friend Rockstar were playing in the water with 3 buckets we brought along. We moms and Rockstar's baby sister were sitting in the shade, a good 30+yards from where the girls were at that moment. MeToo came running up to me. Something was up. She told me that someone else took one of the buckets, and wouldn't give it back. I looked over, and sure enough, a little boy had one of the buckets. "Did you ask him to give it back?" (The standard question.) "No." (The standard answer.) "Go tell him nicely that you brought the bucket, and you'd like to have it back." MeToo ran off. Now, I'm willing to step in as needed, but I want the girls to learn to use their words for negotiating these situations. When they're in good moods, they can be quite successful with one another, and especially with other friends. They use the word "please". They really do ask nicely. They suggest sharing, turn-taking, or trading, depending on the appropriateness in the situation. It's a delight to watch. When it works. 

Well, I watched MeToo run back to the boy. I watched her try to ask for the bucket back. I watched the boy drink water from the bucket. Then spit it in her face. She moved back. He spit again. She ran. He chased her, spitting water at her as she tried to escape. The words were not going to work today, no matter what she said. Now, I want my girls to be independent. But I also want them to EXPECT words to work. And have the expectation of justice. So I knew that it was time to actually get involved. I hauled my pregnant butt off the ground and met up with MeToo, who was pretty upset. I coached her on how to try again. I held her hand and walked up to the little boy. She tried talking to him. He ignored her. So I tapped him on the shoulder. He ignored me. He had a friend with him, who did notice me and talk to me. "She said 'please', " he told me over and over, referring to MeToo. Because even he knew that asking nicely and saying "please" actually deserved a response. I tapped the perpetrator on the shoulder again. I kindly asked him to give the bucket back. And refrain from spitting. He sulked. He gave it back. And ran off. 

A mom standing nearby commented that she and a few other moms had been watching the whole situation go down. They were wondering if they should intervene. The girls had put the bucket down, so he reasonably picked it up to play with. But his aggression made it too difficult to get back. The moms who noticed the situation were not the moms responsible for the boy. I noticed the situation from over 30 yards away. I was physically confronting the boy, even touching him by tapping him on the shoulder. But no adult responsible for him appeared. If I found another parent addressing my child, I'd be sprinting my giant belly across that playground. Especially if any physical touching occurred. I'd be more concerned about whatever my child had done wrong than what that parent was saying, but I'd be all over that. I was surprised that no one showed up.

I recently read an article written by the mother of a frequent perpetrator:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/malina-saval/parent-bullies-on-the-playground_b_3196632.html?utm_hp_ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false#sb=2845573b=facebook

She described an afternoon at the playground with her son, who has behavior issues, including violent outbursts. She described the "bullying" parents who came to report to her about the aggression inflicted upon their kids by her 6 year old son.

My first "real" job out of college was teaching at a school for children with autism and severe behavior disorders. I have seen truly violent and explosive kids. I have helped restrain them until we could ensure the safety of the other kids in the class. I have witnessed the heartache, frustration, and exhaustion of their parents. I have seen the mountains that these parents have tried to move to help their children. So I definitely had some sympathy for the mother writing the article. But only some.

The problem is, there are too many children at playgrounds who aggress NOT because they have a psychological disorder, but because they have parents who aren't supervising them adequately. I wasn't going to make a big deal out of MeToo getting water spit at her by the little boy. ("Oh you poor poor thing! What did that nasty little boy do to you?" - heck NO!) But I also wasn't going to allow her to be a quiet victim, either. It's hard to know why other kids hit or spit just by watching them from a distance. Do they have a diagnosis? Or are they just punks?

At my teaching job, when we took the kids out into the environment, we took the utmost care to ensure that the outbursts of the kids could not affect other children in the community. Our students needed the chance to learn to behave appropriately, but not at the expense of other kids' safety. 

I agree with the author mom who described the approach of the other parents as harassing and unhelpful. If I saw a child hit my girls on the playground, I'd be right there in that moment. I'd first try to coach them through a confrontation. "You hit me and that hurt me. Please don't hit me again." I'd encourage the other child to talk through it. Or maybe even apologize. And if the other child didn't, I'd ask him/her to point out their parent. Or start yelling "Whose kid is this?!" until they showed up. Then I'd go ask them to help orchestrate the confrontation between the children. Tattling 30 minutes after the event is pointless. The kids have moved on. Parents need to, as well. But aggressive children, including the one in the article, need the chance to hear about the harm that they're causing. They also need the chance to make amends, like we have to do in the grown-up world. They need the chance to receive forgiveness. They can help teach our other children about what it is to lose one's temper and feel really sorry about it. We all do it at some point. We need to practice giving and receiving forgiveness for it. 

I'm sorry that the boy in the article with the behavior problem didn't get that chance. And I'm sorry that the boy at our playground didn't really get that chance, either. And I'm sorry that the author of the article sees herself as a victim. Because she's absolutely not.

Dum-Dums. And My Failure As A Mother.

Once upon a time, I thought that giving candy to your children was evil. Resorting to lollipops to get stuff done meant that I was a failure as a mother. Children did not need that sugar, and certainly I could have a better management system than bribery.

Please forgive me. I was so naive, and so so wrong.

I've since discovered that candy and treats can be an important part of a healthy balanced discipline system. Dum Dum Pops are my favorite go-to bribery treat. While the bakery cookies at the grocery store are handy while shopping, Dum Dums are shelf stable and easy to carry in a purse or diaper bag. They are small in dosage, have a nice handle for making fingers less-sticky, and come in a variety of flavors to keep the interest over time. In other words, they are a godsend.

They were also part of my plan for handling our trip to the doctor's office today. HeyMama was scheduled for her 4 year well-child visit, and we knew some vaccinations would go along with it. So I packed 3, just to be excessive. Or so I thought...

Well, they offered the flu vaccine, which I said yes to. Then they offered it for MeToo as a tag-along consolation prize. I said yes to that, as well. Then they mentioned that they needed blood drawn from HeyMama to check for anemia. Ok. I have 3 Dum Dums, and 3 courses of needles. I'm still golden. Or so I thought...

So the shots went as well as was expected. The nurses showered the girls in stickers, and I whipped out the Dum Dums to distract from the pain. It all worked. Until MeToo saw HeyMama with a second lollipop, and wanted one of her own. Crap. I did count the rounds of needles, but I did not account for the "meee toooooo!" factor. I failed as a mother. 

So I led a wailing 2 year old around the health center while we did a potty trip. It was pitiful to hear. "I wanna wawipop! I waaaanna waaaaawipop! I waaaaaannaaaaa waaaaawiiiiiiipooooooop!" The sound echoed down all of the halls.

We ran into the nurse practitioner who had monitored both girls en utero. After exclaiming how long it had been since she saw the girls, she asked about the wailing. I told the story. She ducked into an office, and came out with a candy jar. The candy jar had a Tootsie Roll Pop. The wailing stopped immediately. "It's a big one!" MeToo chirped brightly.Yes, it was much larger than HeyMama's Dum Dum. And the crisis was over. 

So once again, I have learned about the importance of carrying an excessive amount of lollipops. I hope I don't forget that again. At least not before MeToo has her 3 year checkup next month...

The Future of Elder Care

As I've mentioned before, I have the privilege of working with the elderly. It's not the most glamorous group to work with, but I generally find it rewarding. I learn a lot. Unlike school, I can acquire wisdom, not just knowledge. Good stuff. I've met the people I want to grow up to be like. Sure, God willing, we'll all get to the age of 80. But not all of us will do it equally well. 

I came to the realization at work yesterday that I'm worried about the future of caring for the elderly. I think we have a growing problem that isn't being discussed yet in our field. And I blame it on airplanes.

Stay with me here for the explanation. I worked with 4 different patients yesterday (only 4, it was a short day, and one required a lengthy evaluation). They were all in their 80's. They all lived in their own homes. But only with the assistance of family. 

One was married, but had health problems that require a significant amount of assistance from her husband. He's thankfully healthy enough to provide the care. If he gets ill, they have adult children and grandchildren in the area to help. One of those granddaughters was there at lunch when I visited her. If it weren't for the family members, the lady would need to be in a nursing home.

One patient was never married. He lived a simple life in a menial job. He was retired and doing fine until his health problems began. He'll be fine when he goes home, even if he has lingering cognitive problems. His nephew lives next door. His niece lives one town over. They already were helping him. In fact, his nephew visited at the hospital today. But without his family, I would recommend discharging him to a nursing home.

Two patients had lost their spouses, and were now a widow/widower. They have varying health problems that require ongoing care when they go home. They both have very involved adult children who will help care for them at home, and are already very involved in their hospital care. Without the family members, they would be discharged to nursing homes.

Without local family, all of these patients would end up in nursing homes. They are not people of means. They might have a few resources, but the money would dry up in a year or two, with the taxpayer then picking up their nursing home tabs. You and me. People need nursing homes, and we need to help pay for them. This is a fact. But more people will need these nursing homes in the future.

Our generation is one that has grown up with reasonably affordable air travel. It's no big deal to pick up and move a few time zones away from family. We can always fly home at the holidays. Many of us have moved to cities and settled down among strangers, far away from family and friends. Right now, we're young and relatively self-sufficient. We don't need someone to check in on us and make sure we've had at least one square meal and our daily assortment of medications. But the day will come in the future when we will depend on the help from others for our survival. And if our habit of moving far from family continues, who will come check on us? It's frequently the case that having one supportive family member will make the difference between leaving the hospital to go home vs. leaving the hospital to move into a nursing home. If families keep moving away from each other and more people age alone, we will run out of nursing homes. 

The older I get, the more I see the wisdom in having large extended families settled in the same area. We definitely suffer from not having grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins in the area. And I'm sure that the older we get, the more we will suffer. 

In the Beginning

We took a day trip to the headwaters of the Mississippi River today. It's not so far from where we're staying, and it would be a shame to miss it. 

It doesn't look like much. There's a lake, some rocks, then you're in the Mississippi. Kids were splashing and playing, and it was shallow enough for MeToo to stand in. Tiny fish swirled around our ankles as we walked along the pebbly bottom.

But I think it's worth noting that great and mighty things have small and unassuming beginnings. Without the signs, I'd think it was just another forest stream. But by the time it reaches the southern end of the state, it requires significant bridging, and when it reaches the Gulf of Mexico, it has its own delta.

The girls venture into the water

Well, the girls were underwhelmed. Probably because they were under-napped. We didn't stay long. There were too many tears and meltdowns. But in the future, I hope to show them a picture of themselves knee-deep in the tiny stream while they look at its giant southern counterpart. And someday use it as a metaphor for humble beginnings, possibilities, and hope for the future.

Me in the Mighty Mississippi

Bringers of Humility

I've always been a fan of Gustav Holst's The Planets. The movements are named after the planets in our solar system, and include:
- Mars, the Bringer of War- Venus, the Bringer of Peace- Mercury, the Winged Messenger- Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity- Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age- Uranus, the Magician- Neptune, the Mystic
He included all of our known planets, with the exception of Pluto. But Pluto got demoted, so Holst is right again.


He's inspired me to refer to my children as the Bringers of Humility.


There's nothing like small immature humans to knock you down a few notches. Especially when you birthed them and have the privilege of raising them. (Actually, birthing them has nothing to do with it. Raising them pretty much handles it. But pregnancy was a great intro to the loss of control and feeling of exhaustion that parenting brings...)


We had a busy morning planned. Why did I do that again? Oh, because there's not enough hours in the day for days to NOT be busy. I wanted to work out at the gym (for the first time in weeks), then we were headed to Harvard so MeToo could participate in a research study in one of the human development labs. My Master's thesis was possible because of helpful strangers that allowed me to record their children, so I figure it's nice for me to pay forward the favor. And, stupid as it is, there's a little part of the back of my brain that thinks that this will be good for the girls someday. Maybe they'll fondly remember going to Harvard and want to apply there someday. Maybe Harvard will somehow remember how cute, adorable, funny, precocious, spirited, curious, and observant they were and want to give them scholarships to attend. I know this is all silly. My mantra has always been "Harvard is as Harvard does." It's not the best school around, and certainly isn't the best for everyone. BestestHusband definitely doesn't want the girls to go there. He doesn't even want them to go to its geekier neighbor down the river, despite going there himself. But I digress... 


While HeyMama was playing with a research assistant in the toy room, MeToo went into the study room with all of the video cameras and I followed one of the researchers to the control room behind the curtain. I could watch all of the action on a computer monitor. 


In the toy room, MeToo had been her most charming self. She played with puzzles. She played with shape sorters. She interacted nicely with everyone. She was winsome. She said cute things. And all of the research staff understood her remarkably intelligible and complex sentences. What a good mother and Speech Pathologist I am!!!


But she was different with the cameras on. She wasn't bad, but she wasn't her most charming self. She played nicely with the researchers, she followed their instructions. But she started criticizing their toys. "I wanna diffent toy." (Translation:  I want a different toy. This one is lame.) When she said this, they brought out a new toy. Then 10 seconds later, the verdict came again. "I wanna diffent toy." This went on for about 5 minutes (they needed to collect a certain number of data points, and it took a while...). Then she gave up on their toy collection. "I wanna seeul bah." They didn't hand out cereal bars on command. "I wan see Fwehwah." Her sister continued to play next door in the toy room. "I wan see Mama." No response. So she headed for the exits.


What happened to my charming and winsome little darling? No longer the good mother and Speech Pathologist, I was the mother who had too many overstimulating toys and obviously did nothing to expand her 2 year old's attention span. 


Ok, so the toys were lame, by design, of course. But I felt the need to explain to the researcher watching the computer screen with me that the girls had just spent a week being entertained by grandparents. Spoiled by grandparents. They didn't usually need so much entertainment and external stimulation. They were creative little girls who could play with odd jingling boxes for hours on end. Really! They truly were genius little creatures functioning on the far right end of the bell curve! I'm not a bad mother!


I can lay out structure and provide experiences to help them develop appropriate skills and behaviors, but really, I have little control over their behavior. This is humbling. And will continue to be for decades, I'm sure. 


Working in geriatric rehab, I meet many people who have crushing and incapacitating health problems. And people who have been healthy for 8 decades only to slip on the ice and face a future of dependence. This is hard for anyone. But it seems to be the hardest for those who have never had children. Ok, sure, there are exceptions, like the narcissistic lady with 8 children who was the one who made my life the toughest any time she landed in our fair institution... (Hey Jenny, remember her?) But the pattern seemed to be there. Humility finds you sooner or later. And the longer you wait, the harder it is.  


Another digression:  a dear friend is an OT, and has worked with a lot of stroke patients. She thinks that women deal with hemiplegia (one sided-weakness) much better than men do. She has known women to take care of themselves quite well with only one functional arm. Many of her patients, years earlier, had managed a household with a baby in one arm. So doing things one-handed came naturally. Who knew that having kids could help you after you have a stroke?


So I'm telling myself that humility is good for me. I'll be much better off for experiencing it now. And tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. And the weeks, months, and years after that... 




What's the most humiliating thing you've known a kid to do? 

Thanks, Mr. Fariss

So I capped off our vacation week with some good old VHS nostalgia. My parents had transferred some tapes to DVD, but two of them were copyrighted by the professional videographers. So I watched them in their original format while I packed two suitcases and four carryon bags.

And suddenly I was 14 again, wearing a sweltering black wool uniform and plumed hat that left an indentation in my forehead. The music is etched in my subconscious, and I could hum along to all of it. I have no doubt that in 15 more years, I still will.

One of the great things about Texas' obsession with High School football is the bleed-over effect onto programs that provide halftime entertainment. In my years at our school, the football team wasn't great, but the drill team, cheerleaders, and marching band all won regional and state awards.

I was in the marching band. And that meant I was under the direction of Jack Fariss. He was an institution in our town. Some called him Papa Jack. I'm a grownup and I'm still afraid to call him that. He's Mr. Fariss to me, and always will be.

He knew how to make a difference in people's lives: take a group of kids, challenge them to do something really hard, and push them until they could do it really well. Unfortunately, it takes a lot of pushing, because teenagers are a notoriously lazy and stubborn bunch...

The list of things I learned from Mr. Fariss could go on for a very long time, but here are a few highlights:

"Practice like you want to perform"
"Fake it 'till you make it"
"Take care of your stuff!" (in other words, don't let you problems in the rest of your life interfere with your band life. Just deal with it and be ready to show up and perform)
"On time is 15 minutes late!" (if he gives a downbeat at the top of the hour, you'd better be there early.)
Use your peripheral vision. (This helps keep marching lines straight. It also helps keep the big picture straight in the rest of your life.)
It's easier to do the right thing the first time than be lazy and have to Mile March later.
Sometimes you just have to move fast.
You have to practice to be good.
You have to practice more than you want to to be really good.
You don't have to win 1st in State to be proud of what you created. (although 3rd in State was pretty nice)

Hours spent on a sweltering practice field taught a lot about work ethic. And about how to be a small but accountable member of a big group.

But I would be remiss if I didn't address the topic of music education.

Band provided exposure to music. Good music. The kind of music you pay lots of money to hear in symphony halls across our nation. We heard it. We played it. In the process, we learned a lot about music. How it's played differently across different cultures. How it evokes emotion. How it can make your heart swell when you play it well.

I had more classical music exposure than my college classmates who went to expensive private schools. And better work ethic...

I attribute this to Mr. Fariss.

Education budget cuts threaten band programs. Threaten kids' chances to have a Jack Fariss of their own. I can't help but think that this is bad thing for the future of our nation...

Did you have your own Jack Fariss?
If you knew the real Mr. Fariss, what do you still carry with you?

Sorting Through Everything Left Behind

So Day 6 of vacation brought more fun and conversations surrounding death. This is turning out to be a rather morbid vacation... We took the girls to a ceramic painting place. We shopped for cowgirl boots. Then Mum and I opened the back guest house to look through the remainder of my grandparents' belongings. Both of my grandparents died within the last 2 years. They were people who lived good lives, model bedrock citizens. They lived humble and frugal lives. They could have afforded to live more lavishly, but chose to give their money away. So the belongings left behind were of minimal monetary value, and it was my Mum's job to take care of them. 

I took on the task of going through Grandma's jewelery box. It was a large jewelery box, practically overflowing. There were a few rings of small value (alas, her wedding ring had been STOLEN in the nursing home... sigh...), some silver necklaces and pendants, and lots of costumey pins. Most everything was given as a gift. Or earned unintentionally. 

One of the noteworthy accomplishments of my grandparents' lives was that they always seemed to be giving away their time. They volunteered for a long list of organizations, according to what they could physically do at the time. In the years that I knew them, they helped out at a local state park, volunteered at multiple hospitals, and constantly took on various roles at their church. They volunteered well into their 80's, after cancer, strokes, and hip replacements. They took on mostly menial roles. While they had the skills to lead big fundraising campaigns, they instead cleaned park trails and bathrooms, led children on nature hikes, and visited patients in their local hospitals. They cooked countless meals and goodies for the sick and home-bound in their community. And towards the end, they served as substitute grandparents to all of the immigrant children that had moved into their neighborhood. And these were just the years that I knew them. I know the list could be much longer if I started earlier in their lives.

The jewelery box contained a large number of pins that commemorated their tireless service. They said things like "40 years", "20 years", "1000 hours". And many more just acknowledged their active participation in various volunteer groups. That is a serious commitment to service.

The objects left behind have little retail value. They will be sold for a pittance at a yard sale with the hope that they can make someone else happy in a new home. But they tell the story of two people that left a legacy. A legacy of a model life. A life buoyed by a strong Faith that gave them Hope in the dark days, kept them open to the wonder of Grace, and allowed them to celebrate Joy wherever they could find it. And this legacy is better than any family fortune, better than heirloom silver, better than anything that would allow us to pay off our horrific Boston mortgage (although I wouldn't complain if that came along too...)

And this is the legacy we can pass along to our girls. Stories of their great-grandparents, and an attempt to live the life that they did. Grandma once told me, "If you're not helping someone else, you're wasting your time." Yeah, I could spend the rest of my life trying to live up to that...

To everyone who lost family this past year (or past month), I pray that you too can find peace in the things your loved one left behind.

Life Lessons Learned at the Gym

Yesterday started with high hopes for a busy day that included me as a Trophy Wife, MeToo as a research participant, naps in the car,and orientation for one of our favorite daycare teachers who will be dog sitting for us. Well, some of those things happened. I went to the gym feeling not great, but told a fellow mom (Hi Jenna!) “If I work out for even 30 minutes,I’ll consider it a success.” Well, I made it just past the 30 minute mark. So I guess I have to call that part of the morning a success. Any time life breaks my stride, I tend to observe things I otherwise wouldn’t have. Yesterday this was good and bad, depending on how you look at it… In the interest of finding joy in every day, I’ll focus on the good and share some life lessons highlighted by my trip to the gym.

1. Set reasonable goals. Acknowledge when you meet those goals.Be open to surprising yourself and surpassing them, but don’t beat yourself up when you can’t. Celebrate your accomplishments.
2. Bend at the knees, not at the waist. Especially if you’re butt-naked in a gym dressing room and there are people (like me) standing immediately behind you. Not only is it better for your back, it’s better for the eyes of people standing behind you.
3. It’s best not to share all of the intimate details of your life with strangers. This applies not only to your girl-parts at the local gym, but probably also applies to reality TV, credit card numbers, and innumerable elements of your identity. Other people will appreciate your sense of privacy,too.
4. Save the close-in parking spots for people who really need them. If you’re a healthy 20-something, the old ladies and the mothers carrying two bucking and screaming toddlers will appreciate not having to walk 2 blocks to their car. I mean, seriously, look around the gym. It’s a bunch of octogenarians and harried-looking stay-at-home-moms. Certainly it’s easier for you to walk to the auxiliary lot than them.

Ok, so those lessons aren’t earth-shaking. But I certainly won’t forget them any time soon. Especially rules #2 and 3. Some things just get seared into your visual cortex and need time to be forgotten.

Have you learned any valuable life lessons at the gym?