HELP

1 : to give assistance or support to (help a child with homework)

Yesterday, K brought home her folder with her schoolwork for the week in it. While I was in the kitchen, she pulled it out and was reviewing it on her own. When I came into the room, she showed one worksheet to me and said, "Mom, look at this 5. It's horrible. It's just horrible. I can't write 5's." First of all, I thought it was adorable that she used the word horrible to describe her handwriting - mine was and still is. I also found it endearing that she cared about her schoolwork. K is enjoying kindergarten just fine, but that's because she has a wonderfully kind and engaging teacher and is surrounded by 19 cool kids her age. From K's perspective, the least important part of school is the learning.

So I was encouraged that she was reviewing her work on her own and that she cared. I was also a tad bit dismayed that handwriting was the subject she chose to care about. I can't even really help her very much since #1) my handwriting, as mentioned, is horrible and #2) I'm left-handed and she is not. Luckily, this inadequacy on my part allowed someone else to step in and use their gifts.

Eight year old B to the rescue. She came into the room as K was lamenting her handwriting and she immediately grabbed a pencil to start helping her sister. After they had used all of the available space on the original worksheet practicing the numeral 5, B went to her room and came out with a handwriting workbook from her own first grade year.

The two sisters laid on the floor, side by side, working on handwriting. B came up with a new way for K to try writing it - she put dots that stood for several points along the 5 and had K connect them. With about a half hour of time together, K was noticeably better - and more confident! - about writing her 5's. In fact, B was such an enthusiastic teacher that I overheard her trying to teach K how to write the alphabet in cursive. I gently reminded her that her five year old sister was still learning to print the alphabet and perhaps we should make sure she could do that well before moving on to cursive (which B hasn't even officially been taught yet!).

So I find myself able, just for a moment, to be thankful for my inadequacies, my failures, the things I lack as a mother. Because it is those things that encouraged B to sit with her little sister and not just help her, not just teach her, but love her.

LOOM

2 a : to appear in an impressively great or exaggerated form ed large> b : to take shape as an impending occurrence

A big parenting decision looms large right now. In Nashville (but apparently nowhere else in the world), middle school starts in fifth grade. So while I have one lovely year of all three children being at one school, it is only for one year. Because 4th grader A will head off to middle school next year. This is a big enough step, but when combined with the complexity of the Nashville's school (public or private, neighborhood or magnet, homeschool or traditional school), it's a daunting one as well.

In just a few minutes, I will join some friends to visit a few middle schools. I'm not sure exactly what I'm looking for...

• children who look like her and don't look like her since I want a mix of both
• teachers who are knowledgeable, but kind
• clean hallways, clean classrooms
• an old building with character plus modern amenities
• a principal who cares more about the students than his/her career
• a school that will challenge her academically without crushing her under the weight of hours of homework
  
• an environment where A can keep growing into the person she was meant to be

It's a tall order, isn't it? Because I can't tell these things on the surface. We are blessed to have enough choices that I know A will end up in a school where there are enough desks for every child, where she will be given all of the books she needs, where she will be physically safe. But will she be emotionally safe? Will she be led in a positive direction by both teachers and peers?

And how, exactly, am I to divine all of these things? I really can't. So I'm praying that God will pull out his air traffic controller gear and turn on the runway lights to guide A's landing at the right school. Oh, and for peace for J and I as we attempt to navigate this maze of middle school.

PROMPT

2 : to assist (one acting or reciting) by suggesting or saying the next words of something forgotten or imperfectly learned : cue

I visited a newly formed writing group earlier this week. An area church is opening their doors for open studio the first Tuesday of every month and some of their members were interested in starting a creative writing group. Another friend joined me because we both feel the need for more accountability in our writing - it's so easy, even when you want to write, to not do it. It's so much easier to do the laundry, wash the dishes, vacuum or even clean the bathrooms. That's easier, that's safer, that's productive. But it doesn't satisfy.

Since it was the first meeting of this group, we spent some time introducing ourselves and talking about scheduling. After getting these bits of business out of the way, we still had time on the clock, so we decided to use a writing prompt and spend some time actually writing. Our prompt was "Why do you write? " or "Why do you want to?" or some variation of that. Here are my thoughts on that.

Why write?
Because the words are there, waiting to escape to the page, circling in my head, running around my mind, lining up into neat little sentences.

Why write?
Because it helps me think and, frankly, it helps me live. It helps me capture those fleeting moments that are gone in the blink of an eye. Because my words capture them, pin them down time and keep the memories preserved for me.

Why write?
To use the gift. And now I am getting to it. I write because it is one of the things that God made me to do. I can fight that - oh, and I do - but there it is - a near mandate from my Creator to create, to capture with words the life that I live and the thoughts that I think.

So, why not write?
Fear, of course and more fear. Fear that keeps me paralyzed. Fear of failing - of trying and not succeeding. Fear that what might be a gift is not. Fear that I will let others down. Fear that I will let myself down. Fear that I will let God down. Fear that he made me and simply forgot to bestow any gifts.

LESSON

3 a : something learned by study or experience (his years of travel had taught him valuable lessons) b : an instructive example (the lessons of history)

I've been thinking lately about what lessons I can learn from my daughters. Most often, I am trying to teach them - how to behave, how to live, how to be who they were made to be. But last Friday, I took A & K to a dance performance and while watching A dance, I realized that there are lessons they have mastered that still baffle me.

At this performance, my 9 year old danced and led with a quiet self-confidence that eludes many people three times her age. After just one rehearsal, A was comfortable leading seven other dancers in three performances and in dancing two solos. The night before, J asked me how I thought the performance would go - it wasn't the typical group A dances with and the girls were from three different dance classes and ranged in age from 5 to 10. I said I hoped it would go well and J said, "Well, A thinks it will go well." She was right. She stood there and did what God made her to do.

Just before they performed, an acquaintance leaned over and said to me, "A isn't shy, is she?"

"A?" I replied, puzzled.

"Oh, is that B?" she said, thinking she had mistaken one sister for the other.

"No, that's A and you're right, she's not shy when it comes to dancing."

So I think the lesson I can learn from my eldest daughter is to trust my gifts and the use of them. I want to, like A, do what I was made to do and I want to not question that so deeply, so frequently. A didn't argue when her teacher put her on the front row by herself to lead the other dancers. She didn't puff up with pride, either. She just stepped up and used her gift. And frankly, she glowed while using that gift. She reveled in it. And that is a lesson I need to learn.

More to come on lessons from B & K, who are equally wise in their own ways...

TREADMILL

: a device having an endless belt on which an individual walks or runs in place for exercise or physiological testing

I'd like to think of my life as a journey, with no steps wasted, even the hard, difficult, painful steps ultimately leading me to where I need to go. But I must admit that lately I've not felt like I'm on a journey. It's felt much more like a treadmill. I wake up in the morning, hop on the treadmill and run until it's time to go to bed. I feel busy, but I'm not really getting anywhere. Some of this is circumstantial, but some of it is choices I've made.

Last Thursday, for example, I chose to clean my house instead of writing. I actually had a few hours free and could easily have elected to spend the time with a fictional character, writing a personal essay or editing an article draft that has been gathering mental and literal dust. Instead, I straightened, cleaned, dusted, mopped and vacuumed. Now, I'm not saying that those things didn't need to be done (I'm not the most diligent of housekeepers, so they certainly needed doing), but I cleaned to avoid writing.

I mentioned to a wise friend the problems I've been having with making time to write and with the fear that grips me when I think about writing and she asked a great question: "You were doing great for a while. What changed?" It was a simple question, but not one I had asked myself. After thinking for a moment, I decided that what changed was partly beyond my control (lots of outside commitments that threw off my available time), but largely within my control. Essentially, I let circumstances derail my discipline and when that went, the fear of starting again set in.

So instead of being on a productive journey, I've been treading on an endless loop of housework, child-rearing, cooking, and other necessary tasks that aren't getting me anywhere. So I need to step off the treadmill, go back to the world of discipline and get back on track for a journey worth taking.

LOYAL

: unswerving in allegiance

I cheated on my husband today.... with another football team. He knows I love football. He's known that for years. But I don't think he realized just how much I still love the Alabama Crimson Tide. They were, you see, my first football love.

If I met you, I'd tell you I'm a Vanderbilt fan. And I am. We have season football tickets for our entire family. We have Vandy gear that we all wear to the games - a cute black-and-gold striped dress for the five year old, fuschia t-shirts for the eight and nine year olds, a black & gold tee for me and VU golf shirts for the hubby. We go to every home game, watch every away game on TV. But, Vanderbilt, oh, Vanderbilt. They lose. They lose games they should win. And they do this with alarming regularity.

I start every game excited, fired up to be there. I clap. I scream. I jump up and down when we convert on third and long. And then my team puts me back in my seat. Because our quarterback throws a pass to the wide receiver's knees. Our running back runs straight into a heap of defenders for no gain. And, far too often, we simply self-destruct. Because this has been happening for years - I've been a Vandy fan for nearly two decades - I begin to disassociate when things get bad. I keep watching, but the emotion drains out of me. I half-expect the dropped passes, the near-fumbles, the three and outs. I watch, but my mind wanders. I find this makes the nearly inevitable loss easier to bear. Part of me has already accepted that we will lose, so it doesn't hurt quite as badly.

But today, before the pain-inducing Vanderbilt-South Carolina game came the Alabama-Tennessee game. And watching Alabama is a different story. This wasn't their best game. They didn't score at will, as I would have liked. In fact, Tennessee, the hated University of Tennessee, held the Tide to field goals when I wanted TDs. But, man, is Bama fun to watch. Mark Ingram is simply stunning. I've never seen someone get so many yards after contact. He's quick and he just carried Bama down the field on his shoulders more than once.

And here's where the cheating comes in. While watching Ingram & Co, I clapped, I yelled, I said "Rolllllll Tiiiiide Roll!" with my five year old. And during the painful last half of the last quarter when Tennessee showed signs of an upset, when they actually recovered that onside kick (!), I was beside myself. I yelled, "NO!" at the TV after the aforementioned onside kick. My daughters looked at me like I was a bit insane. My husband looked at me longingly. Because HE yells at the TV - but he does it during Vanderbilt games. That's when he said to me, "You're cheating on me. You're cheating on Vandy. You don't get this excited during their games!" In the heat of the moment, I wasn't sure he was right. And I couldn't stop to analyze it then - the game was on the line! But after Alabama hung on to block UT's field goal attempt and I could think straight again, I could see his point.

I love Vanderbilt. Seeing them win their first bowl game in a quarter of a century earlier this year was thrilling. But when the Vandy game started and my husband was pacing the floor, trying to help players tackle and yelling, I knew he was right. I am loyal to Alabama football. My heart races when I watch those crimson and white players march down the field. My blood boils when a team like Tennessee threatens to thwart what I think might be another national championship season. I am active when I watch an Alabama game and I care all the way through the game. There is no emotional disassociation going on.

So while I live Vanderbilt football, going to every home game, wearing the black and gold, indoctrinating my children to love Vandy and hate UT, I breathe Alabama football. It holds a special place in my heart, and likely always will.

RELEASE

1 : to set free from restraint, confinement, or servitude

The day after Artie the Monarch Butterfly emerged from his chrysalis, B set him free. She knew he needed to head to Mexico, as all monarchs do. But she wanted some of her friends to get to see him "live and in person," not just via a picture that I had e-mailed for her teacher to share with the class. So I picked up Artie in his butterfly tent and met B after school.

K was the first one to emerge from the building. She was excited to see Artie and immediately began calling friends over to see him. But that was nothing compared to when B walked out. Her face lit up when she saw me holding the butterfly tent and she called to her friends, "Come see Artie!" In this picture, one of B's friends is literally jumping up and down with excitement.

It wasn't long before children younger and older than B were hesitantly coming up to her and asking to see Artie. I gave her some time to show him off and asked a few times, "Has everyone seen him?" The librarian came over to see him. B took him up for the principal and teachers to see. She shared him with friends from last year's class, friends from this year's class and curious onlookers.

And then it was time to let him go. I went over to B, who was surrounded by children. I asked her one last time if she'd shown Artie to everyone that she wanted to. She agreed that she had. I told her I thought it was time to let him go and asked a few children to let me into the circle to help her unzip the top of the tent while holding it aloft.

When I went home to pick Artie up and bring him to school, it was obvious that his wings were ready and he was anxious to get going. While he spent the first 18 to 24 hours perched quietly and moving only occasionally, he was flapping around his tent consistently by the 36 hour mark. I expected him to bolt when Bekah opened the tent, so I had the camera ready.

Bekah unzipped the tent. Artie perched on the edge.










And he stayed there. In fact, the children were moving around more than he was.

So I reached out to him and he went onto my finger. He stayed there, seeming to take things in. And as Bekah moved over to get him onto her finger, he left. He circled up, circled again and was gone.









And Bekah was happy for him. There were no tears shed. She did exactly what Artie needed in the time he was with her. She trusted her instincts and fed him what he needed. She provided him with a safe place to live and cleaned out his home. She procured a bigger home for him, with the help of a kind and loving teacher. She watched and waited, never losing faith, while he stayed in his chrysalis for longer than we expected. She was, in fact, the mother I hope to be.

I want to give my children what they need, but not hover, not worry over the outcome. I want to do what I can to train them, shape them and love them. I want to trust that I know what is best for my daughters. And I want to not cry when I release them, but be thankful for the time I had with them.