A First

I have never reposted a link to another person's blog on my blog before. But when a previous professor of mine turned friend quotes me in her blog and causes me to tear up because of the eloquent way that she fit my quote into her writing I am unable to hold back from sharing.

She writes of her recent trip to the Dachau Concentration Camp.

Click Here to be moved and read her story.

Proud Parent Teacher Conferences

Last night I attended my 2nd and 5th graders’ parent teacher (& student) conferences. I didn’t exactly learn anything new about my kids; I already knew they were both kind, smart, talented, respectful and succeeding academically, but I was given the largest sense of pride a mother could receive. 

My son’s teacher, whom we do not know well, beamed with pride as she talked about giving an assignment, any assignment, and how my son listens and then successfully runs with the assignment. She shared some of his writing and beamed once again with a teacher’s pride of having a student with a large vocabulary, the ability to expand ideas in detail and write creatively. Her face could not hide what her words did not say, but previous teachers have: She would love to have a class full of students like him. I truly believe she could not have spoken with more pride unless she was his mother. 

My daughter’s teacher, whom my son had three years earlier, praised my daughter’s ability to contribute and add to classroom conversations on a variety of topics. But it was when she spoke about my daughter’s heart that I thought I saw a hidden tear of happiness and hope in her eyes. She said that my daughter has the most golden heart of any child she has ever met. I tried to take responsibility for that, talking about how I have tried to teach her that, but that even I knew that it didn’t all come from modeling, that she instinctually is a kindhearted human being. The teacher said that the way she treats and helps the students who need extra help makes her wonder why she (the teacher) is even there….she is naturally empathetic, a trait that, I, as a school counselor know is incredibly difficult to teach. And above all the students she is helping see her as a friend.

My heart is bursting with pride; every day I see how wonderful my children are, but to hear it through their teachers’ eyes makes me incredibly proud to be their mother. 

My son is as well rounded as my high school class president: smart, cute, and athletic.

My daughter is as smart, respectful and helpful as my favorite teachers growing up.

Who knew I, the average student, who failed the mile in junior high, didn’t enjoy gym class and talked her way through many classes could give birth to such amazing humans?!

Daffodils

Since having my own home and gardens I have had daffodils and have enjoyed them sprouting up in early spring, often in between snowflakes. They offer the first glimpse of spring with their bright colors of hope and rebirth.

During my visit (a year and a half ago) to the U.S. Holocaust Museum’s gift shop I was exposed to seeing daffodils in a new light: as a living symbol and tribute to the 1.5 million Jewish children who were killed in the Holocaust. The daffodil is yellow like the yellow Star of David the Jews were forced to wear and it also has six petals similar to the six points of the Jewish Star. In the gift shop, I saw and purchased a yellow and black beaded bracelet for my daughter (although after returning home I learned it was too large for her wrist and just right for mine.) They were being sold to raise funds for The Daffodil Project inAtlanta, Georgia. To learn more visit their site: http://www.daffodilproject.net 

Salusia & Milius with a nurse?

The other day the weather and timing were perfect for me to plant the 40 daffodil bulbs I had purchased to plant on the hill behind my new house. Ever since I had bought them weeks before the Daffodil Project had crossed my mind. I liked the idea of putting significance behind my daffodils. The morning of planting, hours before the actual planting, I began thinking about Salusia and Milius, my grandmother’s niece and nephew who were lost/disappeared during the Holocaust. All that was left of them, that anyone is aware of is photos with notes written on the back that my great aunt mailed to her parents in New York from Poland. Their fates remain unknown.

However, when the planting began, with my own son by my side, I forgot to think about those two sweet children I only known from photos and focused on the mosquitos, the steepness of the hill and how many 40 actually is….A LOT! But during the digging of yet another 4-5” deep hole Salusia and Milius flashed in my mind, then I hit a rock. “Aw come ON!” I dug up the rock only to discover it’s shape resembled a heart. I chose to place the rock over the bulb I planted, I may not be able to locate the rock again when the brush grows in, and hopefully the bulb will grow around it, but it was at that moment I remembered why my heart was planting 40 daffodil bulbs. 

Age is But a Number

My mother past away a few months shy of her 65th birthday. She would have loved to celebrate turning 65. See, to my mom growing older was never something she minded. (Other than the fact that her mother had alzheimer’s and she had a worry it would happen to her —dying at 64 from lung cancer she found that the positive side was that having dementia or alzheimer’s was not an option. She could find the positive in anything. As soon as she celebrated the age of whatever age was needed for a discount she proudly declared she was that age, to receive the discount of course. Hmm, so maybe it was just a good discount she appreciated.

A little over a year after she died someone I knew was celebrating their 65th birthday and when asked how they would celebrate the response was she has no plans and may just cry all day. All I could think about was how I wished my mom had a 65th birthday. 

It’s poetic to me that the American Cancer Society’s slogan is now “Official Sponsor of Birthdays”. I agree that birthdays should be celebrated, because the alternative is real and sucks.

Last month I turned 39. Just in case you were wondering.

When I was about 16 years old my mom’s boyfriend’s daughter came to live with us for a short time. I would have referred to her as my stepsister but those who know me well and from back then might wonder when my mom got married — (I did respect him like a stepfather though). Anyway, Jeannie was 30. From the moment I remember meeting her I remember thinking that now that 30 had a face to me it wasn’t old at all. She was hip, cool and fun. 

When I was 22 I worked with a few 40 year olds who also gave me a face letting me know that 40 was no old. In fact, 40 is confident, knowledgeable and also fun. It’s Josephine’s face that sticks out in my mind though, she was a naturally, confident, talented beautiful woman. There was only one thing that set her apart from Pam, another confident, talented beautiful and fun 40 year old woman who I worked with and who I actually felt more connected with. Josephine wore no makeup. Not a brush of eyeliner that I recall or lipstick. 

I have never been a big fan of makeup, maybe in opposition that my mom wouldn’t leave the house until “her face was on”. There was a clear moment in my mind that I thought to myself when I am 40 I want to be confident enough in my appearance to not wear makeup. This morning, at 39 and a few weeks old I looked into the mirror and saw extremely tired eyes looking back. I put on makeup to try to cover it up all while in my head I knew that the only way to truly cover them up is to get more sleep. Most days I do, indeed, go out of the house with no makeup on, especially in the summer, but more often than not I put on a little eyeliner and shadow. 

My goal for the year, something I have just now consciously decided, is to get more sleep. Enough talking and thinking about it, now is the time for me to do it. Because when I’m 40 I want to be a younger woman’s Josephine….especially if it’s my daughter’s.

Skunk Season?

Lately I have seen several, not just one or two or three, I mean several skunks dead on the roads; country roads, “city” roads and on roads just outside of the “city”. I have no recollection of ever seeing or smelling for that matter so many dead skunks in a short time. 

Around here it’s easy to know when it’s deer hunting season for many reasons, but one is there are more dead deer on the sides of roads as they are hit by cars while fleeing from hunters in the woods. So, today as I drove by; I took extra care not to drive over, three dead skunks in the road I wondered….is there a skunk hunting season?

I also think of my mom when I smell skunks. That sounds pretty bad doesn’t? Well, the reason is because she always enjoyed the smell of skunk; seriously who enjoys the smell of skunks?! 

Her explanation: She grew up in the city and at the age of 32 she moved to the country - Connecticut - and she told me that when she smelled skunk she knew she was in the country. So, apparently there are no city-dwelling skunks. By the looks of the roads in my city of 50,000 people I think that may be true here too.

The Loss of Robin Williams

When Robin Williams died I mourned his loss by watching movies he was in. I excitedly introduced my kids to Mrs. Doubtfire and was internally joyful when they fell in love with her and laughed at her antics. 

I was very saddened by Robin Williams’ death, but I was not surprised. What I mean by that is that “we” never know another person’s pain or sorrow unless they choose to share them with us; and we all have pain and sorrow. Maybe it’s my counselor brain speaking or just my life experience, but I am never truly surprised when someone attempts or commits suicide, deeply saddened yes, but never surprised. 

What affected me the most about Robin Williams’ death is how he devoted his life to making other people laugh and cheering other people up during their darkest hours. All while he was deeply saddened himself, dying slowly on the inside. His comedy (and from what I have read since his death) his truly kind, thoughtful and generous inclination to help others was a mask he created, in my opinion without having known him, in an effort to make himself feel better, and I don’t mean in the way that some people who have a lot give to those who are less fortunate as a way to make them feel better for having so much. No, I mean in a way that his pain grew inside his head while his heart gave so much to so many.

I have read stories about him requiring that people who were homeless be given jobs on his job sets. I read a story about how giving he was in his home city of San Francisco. In one such story I read he would drive up to a kid run car wash and ask what school they were from, what they were raising money for and then would pull out all the money in his wallet and say he didn’t have time to get his car washed all while handing over the wad of money in his hand. On more than one occasion I have read how he has helped people who were homeless get jobs. 

While Robin Williams was making millions of us laugh (and cry) he was making a difference in so many other people’s lives in such a way that those of us who paid $5, $7, $9 or more to watch his movies couldn’t even imagine.

Also since his death people all over the internet have been posting quotes from his movies; words that he spoke in a script about suicide. I wonder if he even remembered speaking these lines among the millions he spoke in front of a camera? 

Robin Williams hung himself after years of millions of us hanging onto his every word. I hope that Mork, Mrs. Doubtfire and Patch Adams among the many others he remarkably played removed themselves from Robin Williams at the time of his death making way for eternal peace to reside inside Robin Williams the person, father, husband, and son…..na nu na nu

I think he would have wanted me to end with a laugh :)

Soccer

I was impressed with myself by posting a few times in July and then August came. Not sure how the entire month passed by without posting, but it did. OK, maybe I do know. I’ve mentioned before how I “write” a blog a day in my mind. It’s the sitting and typing, which sounds absurd to myself since I’m on my computer more than a few times a day.

OK, enough procrastinating and excuses; let’s get to the writing.

As my daughter was in soccer practice tonight I wondered how the word soccer came about. I agree with the rest of the world that soccer is football, honestly it’s the best named sport there is, it doesn’t get more obvious. FOOTBALL is played with your foot! No hands allowed (except if you’re the goalie, but there’s exceptions in every sport, right?). But this time I began wondering where the American name of “soccer” actually came from. I thought about googling it and then sharing what I found with you, but decided instead that if you were as intrigued as me you could search for it yourself….something else for you to do.