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Full Plumage
I’ll leave an envelope in your mailbox with a letter explaining what this is all about, he said.
It’s hard to believe school starts again in just a few weeks! Where did the summer go?
Where did the years go?
During the school year, my kids are super spoiled fortunate to be driven to school every day. Not like the early years when they actually wanted to get up early and take the bus; at least Noah did. Gone too, are the days when I’d follow the bus, every day, ensuring that my son didn’t get abducted along the way OR so I could be there, just in case he needed me in some way along the route OR God forbid, there was an accident and I needed to jump into rescue mode for my little boy on the big bus. Nope, those hovering masterful parenting skills vital to ensuring my son’s safe transport to school, are no longer needed. Indeed, it is no longer required of me — by me — to make a mad dash to my car as soon as the big double-wide doors are pulled shut. Trailing, oh-so-not-discreetly, behind the big yellow boat carrying my its precious cargo is something I just don’t have to do anymore.
September 2003 ©Karen Szczuka Teich & TakingTheWorldOnWithASmile
Back in the day and during his entire first year on the bus, I’d follow and then veer off at the corner of Dunkin’ Donuts and Route 9 while the bus would head into Princess Circle where a cluster of apartment buildings were. The apartment-pick-up allowed me just enough time to run in for a cup-of-Joe and be back outside standing on the corner, ready to catch a glimpse of my then 5-year old who’d be peering out of the window directly behind the bus driver. The bus driver would make him sit in the seat right behind her every day.
I make all the little ones sit behind me, so I can keep an eye on them, she told me one day.
September 2003 ©Karen Szczuka Teich & TakingTheWorldOnWithASmile
Thank you, Jan.
An older woman with a big heart, there was no pulling-the-wool over Jan’s eyes. And instead of balking at my stalker-ish behavior, she’d honk the bus horn two or three times and I’d over-hear her through her cracked window telling Noah,
Look, there’s your mom. Wave to her!
He and she, would, as they rounded the corner from Princess Circle to route 9, every time.
It made my day. Every-day.
And, to-this-day, if Jan sees me around town she honks her big yellow bus horn and waves to me with a big heartwarming smile on her face.
Thank you, Jan.
But, I digress.
My 5-year old is now going on 15 and he can sit where he wants to on the bus. Plus, these days, he has a companion. Well, sort of. He and his sister take the bus home almost every day together. Although I somehow doubt they actually sit together. And they don’t always get off at the same STOP. But people know they’re siblings, including their current bus driver, who Hannah has had now for the past two years in a row.
It was the end of June, school was over when the man on the other end of my cell identified himself as “Vinny”, my kids’ bus driver. He told me he would leave an envelope in my mailbox explaining what the call was all about.
According to the letter, each year the Federation of Workers representing nine units (including bus drivers) in the school district we live in, take part in a program that allows for 40 out of the well over 65,000 children served, to be recognized for exhibiting outstanding behavior.
Accompanied with the letter were 4-tickets to a Renegades game; our local minor league baseball team.
If our name comes up, Vinny said, we choose a student that we’ve come in contact with during the year that has shown exemplary behavior. We’re only supposed to pick one but I chose both your kids because they’re both great kids and really deserving. They never give me a hard time. They say hi and thank-you, are polite and Hannah helps me out with the little kids all the time.
Like a peacock fanning her feathers in full plumage, I could feel the pride swell inside.
Since my last post boasted the sibling rivalry that exists between my pair, I thought it fitting, to highlight their cooperation; even if they don’t always realize or recognize it; sometimes, other people do. Way to go Hannah and Noah!
Thank you, Vinny!
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True Story
In just about every family that has more than one child, I’ll venture to say, you’ll find some type of sibling rivalry. It’s a natural, normal part of growing up. Sometimes it even extends into adulthood, but that’s another post for another day. Maybe.
This post is about the sibling love between my kids. I’ve written about the dynamic between my son and daughter before. They’ve been playing and bickering together, loving and fighting each other since the day I brought my baby girl home.
August 2001 ©TakingTheWorldOnWithASmile.com
Sometimes, I think my son was so sweet to his sister the day she was born because he thought she was going to stay there — in the hospital that is, in Poughkeepsie. He cradled her and sang “Rock-A-Bye-Baby” to her the first time he met her. Precious. Truly. Actually, even the first few days after she was brought home were filled with curiosity and a few tender moments. It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when he realized, this baby-doll was here to stay, that the two-year-old-tantrums began. Hey, it’s good to be the king! He had a good gig being numero uno for a while there before she came along. Can you blame him?
©TakingTheWorldOnWithASmile.com
Twelve years later, it’s still sometimes difficult for him to accept that she’s not going away and the fact that she’s two inches taller than he is right now doesn’t help much either. Poor guy. He truly finds himself irritated by almost everything she does.
Just last week he came to me with this:
Mom!
She’s doing it again!
Who? What?
Hannah!
Good grief. What now? What is she doing? What is the problem?
Reading!
What??
Reading!
She’s reading again!
That’s when the dumbfounded, quizzical look appeared on my face to which he retorted:
I’m serious!
That’s all she ever does now and she’s wasting her life away reading!
And so she was,
is
and continues to do so — read — that is.
Yes, she is “wasting her life away with it”.
Nine books in five weeks.
I’m just a mom striving to live life on life’ terms while taking my kids the world on with a smile
True Story.
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Strawberry Fields…
“Let me take you down
‘Cause I’m going to
Strawberry Fields
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry Fields forever”
~ The Beatles
I love strawberries with fresh cream. I love my kids too. They do not necessarily love the same things I do.
It was the first weekend in June, last summer.
Even though I met with a fair amount of objections, I managed to persuade my kids that this outing would be fun. As we approached the annual Strawberry Festival at the waterfront by the train station in a neighboring town, we came upon a young police officer diverting traffic away from the train station parking area which was full. Ten minutes later we finally found a spot. This diversion along with a blazing, hot sun, hastened the regression of both of my kids to those early toddler-tantrum days. The sweltering heat which hovered in the mid-nineties that day didn’t help. It caused my kids to moan, groan, rebel and resist as we embarked on the half-mile decent from the very tippy-top of a winding hill. By the time we reached the entrance-way to the festival, my kids were toast; hot, sweaty and agitated to a point-of- no-return. That happens with teenagers sometimes and it was clear, no one was going to have a good time. I all but gave up trying to convince them they would. We decided to abort this mission and just leave.
Before making the steamy ascent back up to the car however, I needed to use one of the several port-a-potties lined up at the start of the festival.
Ugh! Gross! And Yuck!
I’ll be right out. I explained.
Three times in two minutes, someone attempted to enter the stall I was in, even though I’d made it clear that someone was inside. I left flummoxed and aggravated. When we were all finally back in the car my motherly instincts to try and salvage the afternoon kicked in and I declared that we would stop for ice-cream before heading home.
I can’t think of too many things that would be more embarrassing for an 11-year old girl and a 13-year old boy than for their mom to force bring them into a sit-down ice-cream parlor, chat-it-up with the new owner and then discover she had no money or credit card with her to pay for the three sundaes they just enjoyed when presented with the bill. That’s right, nothing. Not-one-penny did I have, despite the fact that I distinctly remembered putting cash, a credit card and my license into the back pocket of my jean shorts. ‘Gone’ I thought in a panic and Oh. My. God. there was only one place they could be.
We left with an I-OWE-YOU and headed back to the port-a-potty at the Strawberry Festival from hell.
This time when meeting up with the young officer directing traffic to the tippy-top of the hill half-a-mile away from the festival, I gave him that get-out-of-my-way-and-let-me-pass look that only a mother in distress, who means business can give. If you’
re a mom, you know the one. You know exactly what I am talking about. It’s the same kind of aura you emit when your child is in danger and the strength to lift a vehicle or move mountains automatically fills you.
With my son in the passenger seat and my daughter in the back, I rolled down my window smiling that no-nonsense-smile and before he could get a word in, I said,
I’m going down there with my car to get my wallet, drivers license and credit cards.
Without hesitation, he stepped aside and waved me through.
Of course, there was no available parking in the lot by the entrance to the festival where the port-a-potties were, so I did what any other good, mortified mom in this desperate situation would do: I drove to the end of the lot and parked head-on at the wall, blocking in at least four parked cars, two on either side of me. Then of course, I did what I’m sure every other mother in my sad and sorry situation would do: I left my car running with my two kids in it. The temperature after all was in the nineties.
Don’t move. I’ll be right back! I bellowed to the blank stares looking back at me.
Of course, I was not, right back.
How many embarrassing moments can happen in the span of one hour?
There was nothing to be found in the port-a-potty that three people walked in on me, in the span of 2-minutes nearly an hour earlier, so I did some inquiring and sprinted over to the “Lost & Found” booth at the far end of the park. In the middle of the park a stage had been setup for bands. One was getting ready to play. The pleasant woman at the Lost & Found table said nothing was brought over but,
We can make an announcement, she said. Come with me.
Unwittingly, I followed, passing all the luscious booths selling the strawberries and cream and shortcake in a variety of mouth-watering versions that I had come for but would not have that day. Instead, I found myself standing in the center of the stage where the band was setting up. The woman I followed stepped over to the microphone and in a very matter-of-fact motion removed it from its resting place and handed it to me. I stood bewildered until she snapped her head toward me in a, “go ahead” nod of affirmation. Startled and stunned, I stumbled over my words as feedback from the microphone penetrated the park and the hustle and bustle of the festival’s activities came to a screeching halt. All eyes curiously gazed upon me. I have no idea what I said. All I remember is that my mouth moved and words came out. When I was done, I bolted toward the parking lot where my kids were waiting in the running car.
Could there be any more embarrassment?
Of course there could. Indeed, there was a not-so-happy man trapped in his car as a result of where mine was.
Oh, my God, Mom! I heard as I jumped into the driver seat and proceeded to back my way out. That man is so frustrated. He kept coming up and asking us when you were coming back!
Uh-huh. That’s right. I left my kids in a running car where they were approached by a strange (aggravated) man more than once.
They were mortified. So was I.
The ride home was a quiet one. I kept trying to tell myself it could be worse, it was only money and a credit card and my license, all things that could be replaced. Once inside I retreated to my bedroom. Now, I was toast and needed to change into something more comfortable. When I opened up my closet door there was a pair of jean shorts laying on the floor, ‘right,’ I thought, the ones I had on first this morning and Oh. My. God.
…. the ones with the cash, credit card and license in the back pocket.
Life has a way of throwing a wrench in even the simplest of plans. As parents we try our best without a lot of training. For me, finding the humor is key. Thankfully, hindsight is a wonderful gift and today my kids and I laugh a lot and out loud about the calamities of that day.
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Coming To A Rainbow Near You….
Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig!
An Irish Blessing
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
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100 Days!
This week elementary children all over the country celebrated 100 days of school. Teachers asked students to show them what 100 looks like by bringing in 100 of something. 100 is a big number and it’s a big task for a 5, 6 or 7-year old. They spend a lot of time preparing; thinking, plotting and reminding their parents to help them find, make or buy 100 of something to show off to their teachers and classmates. In some cases like the school I work at (and the one my kids went to up until the 5th grade) exhibits are set up showcasing the creative way students bring 100 to the classroom. Always excited to see what they come up with, this year’s exhibit met the bar with such items as 100 colorful ribbons hanging from a branch, 100 Cheerios strung together on a necklace string, 100 pieces of macaroni spelling out a child’s name, 100 different Hot Wheels cars, beautiful buttons and gorgeous gems to name a few. It brought back memories for me from when my kids were at this school. That evening when I was telling my now 6th grader about the exhibits, it brought back memories for her too.
Do you remember what you gave me to bring in for my 100th day in Kindergarten? She asked.
Um, y-e-a-h. I said, like a peacock fanning it’s plume. “In fact”, I went on, “I think I still have that Tupperware lid that says 100 Kisses on it. I couldn’t help by pause to give myself a little mental pat on the mother-of-the-year-award back for the clever pun of sending 100 Kisses into her class. Hershey Kisses of course!
Those were the days when all I ever thought about was how to be the best-est mother ev-ah! Lost in my moment of motherhood glory I almost missed the scowl on her face.
What? Was that not the best 100 Days ever? Come on, I said. 100 Hershey Kisses! How clever?
Um, Mom, I don’t mean to ruffle your (peacock pluming) feathers but that was not my 100 days. That was Noah’s.
Don’t you remember what you did for mine?
I thought I had. Confusion set in. She was right though, that was for Noah and I was drawing a blank. I’m lucky if I can remember where I set my car keys down when I come home from work these days. Surely it must’ve been great, if not greater than the Hershey Kisses I quickly convinced myself and then a vague, blurred memory began to clear in my head.
Yes, I remember. “Cupcakes! I made 100 cupcakes for the whole school!” I said, beaming.
Mom! I was 5, so excited and that morning you must have forgotten. When I asked you about it, you went to the cupboard and took out cupcake holders. You gave me cupcake holders! You told me ‘No other kid will have these.’
Now it was all coming back to me — like a bad dream.
“That wasn’t even the worst part”, she went on. “I brought them into class and when Susan (the teacher) saw them, she told me to count them.”
There was only 54!
Okay, cupcake holders for the 100th day of school are lame and math was never my forte. I guess I wasn’t the super-clever-mom my mind’s eye seemed to remember me to be either — that time.
What can I say? Parents try their best – always. Sometimes, we come up short.
Like, 46 cupcake holders short.
Sorry, Han.
Do you have a coming-up-short parenting moment you can share?
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Fish Out of Water!
Caution: Some of the images contained in this post may be considered disturbing.
Ever find yourself in a situation where you feel like a “fish out of water?”
Ever wake up in the morning to find your fish – out – of- water?
As a mother, my nature is to nurture. Once you have a child and start taking care of it, something happens within you and you start taking care of EVERYTHING that comes into your life or crosses your path; extended family members, friends, other people’s kids, pets and plants included. You can’t help it. Unfortunately for me, while taking care of my children and other human beings has always come easily & naturally, the taking care of plants and animals, not-so-much. Last winter however, when we moved into our new place, a neighbor welcomed us with a beautiful poinsettia plant that regardless of any amount of neglect I seamlessly bestowed upon it, it not only thrived but has managed to survive, to this very day. It’s even budding new red leaves.
Astonishing!
So, when my daughter won two gold-fish at the County Fair last August, thrilled with both her achievement and the notion of finally having a pet, I had hope and thought, why not? Maybe like the rest of my life, I’m headed in a different direction here. We’ll give it a try and see what happens I told her. Being reasonably skeptical however, we hesitated to name them, referring to them only as “Fish 1” and “Fish 2” (just-in-case ) and never quite knowing exactly which fish was which. Not surprisingly, about a month later we woke up to find a pair of floaters in the fishbowl. As I set about the business of transferring Fish 1 and Fish 2 to their final flushing resting bowl, I caught a faint fin-wiggle out of the corner of my eye. Upon closer examination I could see Fish 1 was actually still alive! Sure enough, after being put into a small holding tank and fed, he began to perk up and swim again.
Interesting. I thought.
Sometime in December however, again, I woke to find a barely breathing “Fish” (which is what we were now lovingly referring to him as), struggling to stay alive. Oddly, again, I put him in our small holding tank, fed him and voila! He was back to his perky self in no time and carefully transferred back into his fishbowl.
If cats have nine lives, how many lives do fish have?
Strange. I thought.
Alas, a few weeks ago, I woke to find an empty fish bowl. Gone, he was. Indeed, Fish, it turned out was out of water! Seriously, sometime during the night, Fish had somehow jumped out of his fishbowl and landed in the kitchen sink! (I know, EW!)
True story. And dead he was. Truly.
Or so I thought.
I left Fish in the sink. This was something I thought Hannah had to see for herself. A few hours later, when she got up and after delivering the sad news, in ceremonious fashion, I awkwardly scooped up Fish in his little net and quickly tossed him into the big bowl that would ultimately carry him to fish-heaven, if you will.
Is there anything you want to say before we flush him Hannah? I asked.
She is after all, such a dramatic sensitive child.
She nodded negatively, peered into the big bowl, put her hand on the lever and SCREAMED…
Mom! Quick! Get the food I think he’s still alive!
Disturbing Image #1 ~ Fish & food in the big bowl.
Instead of full-on-mouth-to-mouth, I did what she recommended and sprinkled some food into the bowl. Why? I have no idea but she was right and there was movement. You could see the ever-so-slightly wiggle (again) of our Fish’s fin and his teeny, tiny black eyes peering up from the big bowl.
Indeed, Fish was alive! Again.
Disturbing Image #2 ~ Indeed, Fish is alive.
For a third time, Fish had been snatched from the jaws of death, quite possibly even the jaws of JAWS, not to mention a fatal flush. And once again, we placed him into the now, “magical holding tank of LIFE”…..
Disturbing Image #3 ~ Putting the net in the toilet to retrieve Fish. Ugh!
….where amazingly, Fish instantly, began to swim! Again.
Good God! I thought, I couldn’t kill this fish if I tried!
Somewhat Disturbing Image #4 ~ Fish alive again!
I consider myself to be more of a spiritual rather than a religious person. Clearly, there is a greater power at work here.
Early on in motherhood, you quickly learn not to question certain things. Count your blessings and be grateful. You take the inexplicable and otherwise bizarre happenings in stride and simply say,
Yep, that seems about right.
Bizarre & Disturbing Image #5 ~ Fish, alive, yet-again and back in his fishbowl.
Good night, Fish.
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Castles In The Sky
Take your sword and your shield
There’s a battle on the field
You’re a knight and you’re right
So with dragons now you’ll fight…
Fairytales live in me
Fables coming from my memory
Fantasy is not a crime
Find your castle in the sky
~ Dj Satomi
Nothing contents a mother’s heart like the distant sound of chatter or laughter coming from the place where her children are playing. And nothing jump-starts a mother’s heart like the sudden shriek of discord coming from the place where her children are playing.
Sibling relationships are complicated. Mysterious. Maybe that’s because most siblings are polar opposites.
So, while it’s true that the work of children is play, it may also be said that the work of siblings is rivalry.
In a loving way of course.
Because aside from our parents, they are our first introduction to love.
They’re also our first introduction to conflict.
They are our first playmates.
And our first best friend.
Yep. Since the age of dawn or shortly there-after, let’s say since the days of Cain and Abel anyway, sibling rivalry has been a mainstay in family dynamics. It certainly was in mine and it is for my kids. I’m always suspect when people tell me they never rivaled in some way with their siblings growing up. Really? I can’t imagine what that’s like.
It’s not a bad thing; sibling rivalry. It’s a natural thing. Siblings are practice people. They help us understand who we are and let us know how we’re perceived by others. They help us find our limits and our boundaries. And when they’re not rivaling with us, they teach us about friendship.
Siblings get the first glimpse of our future through the dreams we share with them. They are lifetime confidants, the only ones who really understand the inner workings of their unique family dynamic. It’s the bond that keeps them together and tears them apart. The relationship between siblings is fickle. It can be fractured by the slightest of provocations just as easily as it can be mended by a few soft-spoken, intentional words.
If you let them, they will build it.
They might even build it together. ~ Kavst
Little do they know, while it definitely gets easier as they grow up, it also gets harder.
It’s complex.
Siblings. They are the keeper of each others’ secrets. The holder of one another’s dreams and may they always, always help each other build their castles in the sky.
Photo Credits #1-8: ©2013 KarenSzczukaTeich & Takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
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A Stranger’s Grief
One of the things that had a profound effect on me upon giving birth and becoming a mother, was the almost instantaneous and overwhelming feeling of love I felt within my heart, for not only my child but for all children. Within the first few weeks of my son’s life, I will always remember how it struck me that what seemed like all-of-a-sudden, children were my concern, all children. It’s a gift I think we receive innately when we become parents, so I don’t think I am unique in feeling this deep sense of caring for the well-being of children in general.
Incomprehensible.
The tragedy that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut last Friday is simply incomprehensible.
Heartbroken.
Like so many other people, parents; moms, I am heartbroken. The magnitude of this loss fills me with pure, raw sadness. My heart is overflowing with deep sorrow and intense grief for the families and their suffering.
Guilty.
I am guilty of avoiding the internet and television in an attempt to circumvent reports and updates on this massacre. I desperately want to hide from the truth. I am too weak to find the strength required to stop, watch and listen to the details of what happened. I end up crying each time I try. I am afraid to hear the names; the children’s names. They have released the names of the victims and even though I am a complete stranger to all of them, I can not bear to hear their names.
Consolation.
I have no consolation for anyone. I feel foolish looking for something positive in this. I see no positive side, no possible reason for this happening. No matter how deep I reach, I can not find anything soothing to say. I have no consoling words that might help anyone and I don’t believe that in hindsight we will glean any kind of lesson or understanding from this event. There is no amount of human kindness that could come from this, that I could possibly use to make sense of this senselessness.
Each and every parent who sent their child off to school at the end of last week had every expectation that they would meet again at the end of the day.
This is not how I want to be reminded that every day we have with our children is a gift or that life is short — although like every other parent I imagine, I took a moment this weekend to hug my children a little harder and a little longer than usual.
When I drop my children off at school this coming Monday, it will be with a heavy heart and a slight sense of trepidation but at least they will return to school. I will think of them often throughout the day as I will undoubtedly be thinking of those children who will not be returning to school:
Charlotte 6, Daniel 7, Olivia 6, Josephine 7, Ana 6, Dylan 6, Madeleine 6, Catherine 6, Chase 7, Jesse 6, James 6, Grace 7, Emilie 6, Jack 6, Noah 6, Caroline 6, Jessica 6, Avielle 6, Benjamin 6, Allison 6.
And the educators who served them:
Rachel 29, Dawn 47, Anne Marie 52, Lauren 30, Mary 56, Victoria 27.
Photo Credit #1 ~ Google Images
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The Other Side of Bullying
Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too
~John Mayer
We have an awesome job as parents to guide our children. We often do that by example. Children watch what we do and say, all the time.
Bullying is no joke. When an adult labels a child a bully, they need to make sure they have all the facts. Other children are watching.
Sadly, most of us adults have experienced bullying in one form or another, at some point of our childhood or adolescence and fully understand the hurtful mark it can leave.
I never took a school bus as a kid. My Dad drove me until I was old enough to walk on my own. I went to catholic school. I wore a white blouse, red sweater, pleated skirt, navy knee-socks and a sturdy shoe, every day. No sneakers. Sneakers were for gym class, worn in the gym; only.
School was a long walk, about two miles from the apartment building I grew up in. I was ten or eleven when I remember clearly, two girls who followed me home daily. They were also from my school. One was in my class, the other was a year younger. The route I took included a shortcut through a wildly-overgrown, empty lot between two residential streets. The lot had a path that cut right through the streets but concealed its foot bearers. The girls kept a fair amount of distance from me until I entered the lot. Once I stepped onto the pathway, there was no turning back and as soon as I stepped onto the pathway the taunting from behind began. Each day for several days in a row they’d make hurtful remarks about how fat or ugly or stupid I was, all-the-while, using their own sturdy shoes to take turns kicking up my pleated skirt from behind. Kicking up my skirt high enough of course to reveal whatever underwear I was wearing that day.
I was embarrassed. I was humiliated. It was painful.
So painful, that on the on the fourth or fifth day of “the following”, I finally summoned up enough courage to turn and face my “tormentors”.
Everyone has their limit and sometimes you need to let people know when that limit has been reached.
It surprised me as much as them when I abruptly turned and told them to “Stop!
They laughed and continued. I warned them again and told them to “STOP!”
They didn’t.
Instinct and impulse stepped in.
There was a full-force push to the ground, a stunned look from both ends of the assault and ultimately, freedom. The younger girl ended up on the ground, crying but they never bothered me again.
The question is, who’s the bully here? Maybe to some it’s debatable. Not to me.
I know what bullying is.
I would never endorse violence but I don’t believe in allowing yourself to be taunted either. Sometimes you have to tell people to stop and when they don’t, when they keep pushing or poking or pulling at you and you give them fair-warning and they still don’t stop; you need to push or poke or pull at them back; even if you are bigger than they are.
That’s not bullying, that’s setting boundaries.
Moms and dads who fail to see (or ignore) the whole picture and mislabel this as bullying are doing their sons and daughters an injustice, not to mention, sending a dangerous message.
As parents we have an awesome responsibility to teach and guide our children.
So, Mother’s — be good to your daughters.Teach them not to push, or poke or pull at other kids because they might get pushed, or poked or pulled on– back –and that’s not bullying; that’s setting boundaries.
Photo Credit #1 Mother/Daughter Silhouette
Photo Credit #2 Sturdy Catholic School Uniform Shoe/Google Images
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Transition 101
September is a time of change for many of us and change is a fact of life.
In the northeast, the warm weather wanes, temperatures begin to dip and cool breezes begin to blow. Our evenings get chilly and the mornings turn slightly brisk. After any kind of change, there is always a period of adjustment. Here in New York, sweaters are coming out of the closets, pants are being worn instead of shorts. Sneakers and socks are starting to replace sandals. September means school. Teachers and students are going back to school and in many cases, a new school. In some cases they’re going to a new middle school. Middle school is notorious for being difficult to navigate and signifies a huge change for kids ages 11 through 14. It can be a very scary endeavor.
For some kids the transition into middle school is really hard and approached tentatively.
They quietly tread their new paths lightly.
Others kids approach their new experience like an adventure.
They embrace it.
Jump into it with both feet.
Color their hair purple three days before the first day of classes….
…and then proceed to run for class representative, in their brand new school.
Go get ’em baby girl!
How do you meet change?
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Oooh, That Smell!
It’s back.
That smell.
That once foreign, gawd-awful, wretched, in-the-name-of-all-things-sweet-and-soft-and-pretty, what is that smell?—smell!
It. Is. Back!
It’s the one with gag-appeal that begs for the windows in the car to be rolled down, all-the-way-down, despite the rain storm beating against the windshield. It’s the smell that vanished suddenly for eight glorious months only to return with a fierce vengeance, commanding a presence as potent and foul as ever.
Unlike the lyrics of the song however, it’s not the result of a hard living; whisky drinking, pot smoking, pill popping, needle sticking, life that summons the angel of darkness carrying with him, that smell.
On the contrary, think cow manure meets bleach and laundry soap melded with freshly cut grass. Add a rain storm and mix it all together with the sweat from the body of a still growing teenage boy and you’ve got that smell!
That gross, worse than a wet, dirty dog, wonderful smell that tells me once again, it’s Football Season!
Yes, it’s that smell; that permeates every spec of fresh air living within the confines of my car after nearly 3-hours of hard-hitting, ball kicking, mud splattering practice that screams,
“My boy is back on the field!“
With all its potency, this horrible but heavenly smell brings with it the promise of good health, plenty of exercise, restful, slumber-filled nights and if history repeats itself, academic excellence!
Ooh, that smell, that wonderfully putrid smell has miraculously become a welcome and familiar waft now that dare I say, I think I missed! So, bring it on.
Bring on, that smell!
Cause, I’m taking that smell on with a smile!
Ph0to Credit #1 & 2: Google Images
Photo Credits #3,4, & 5 ©Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
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Going On…
This week’s re-post Diamond in the Rough is from November, 2011. I chose this one not only because it’s a favorite among readers but also because the beautiful journals that I mention below are very close to becoming a book. A Kickstarter Campaign has been started to help defray some initial start up costs. If you have a few minutes please visit
Diamond in the Rough
Gratitude.
This week I can’t help but be thankful for the people in my life, my children and our health.
It’s a tradition in the school I work at, to celebrate each year’s accomplishments at a Stepping Stones ceremony in June. Throughout the year some of the faculty collect beautiful stones from a wide variety of places for each student to pick from.
A few years ago, one of our senior graduates turned the tradition around. He’d gone mining earlier in the year and instead of just taking a stone for himself, he gave each member of the faculty and staff a Herkimer diamond. It was a touching gesture.
Mine, was stolen from a drawer in my bedroom a year-and-a-half ago.
He passed away a little over a year ago.
This particular graduate was an extraordinary human being. I knew he could write, memorize and recite complicated monologues. But it wasn’t until his memorial service that I discovered the breadth of his artistic abilities. It was there that I was given a glimpse into just how talented he was. I didn’t know he had such an incredible eye for photography or that he whittled the pieces of an entire chess set out of wood or fashioned a beautiful wooden flute for his mom. He also made grand bags out of leather and bark and created with glass. He made beautiful marbles and knives. He was quite the unique individual and his art reflected that. In this technological age of all things electronic, he was a breath of fresh air.
He was a diamond in the rough.
Recently, his mom who is also an artist, had an art exhibit entitled 100 Hearts in his honor. I have three.
I spent a few days with her this summer at our place in the woods Upstate. I read her beautifully drawn journals, the ones that try to put into perspective what her daily life is like now without her son, how her grief is endless and how grateful she is for the time she had with him. As a mother I am in awe of her strength sometimes and heartbroken by her loss, always.
Just before the Thanksgiving break, I was in her classroom and she handed me a small bundle of tissue. Beneath the folds of the carefully wrapped paper lay not one but two of the Herkimer diamonds her son mined that year.
One is clear and small. The other is larger and contains rare impurities. Both are beautiful in their own special way. Heart stop.
Needless to say thoughts of this young man and his spirit have lingered with me all week-long.
Gratitude. Be happy for what you have — right now.
This week in particular, I’m thankful for the people in my life, my children and our health.
Hug your diamonds in the rough today.
Going On: A Book About Life
Photo Credit #1 Hearts By Goldy Safirstein/Going On- A Book About Life
Photo Credit #2 Gratitude
Photo Credit #3 Stones
Photo Credit #4 ©Karen Szczuka Teich & Takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Photo Credit #5 Children
Photo Credit #6 Book Cover by Goldy Safirstein/Going On- A Book About Life
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Relax, Recharge, Repost #2: Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones But Names Can Break My Heart!
Week #2 of taking a blogging break in August. For a few weeks, I’ll be Relaxing, Recharging and Re-posting some of what my stats say are YOUR favorite reads.
Here’s one from January 2011….
Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones But Names…. Can Break My Heart!
“You know Mom, he’s lucky I didn’t SQUASH him like a bug!”
That’s what my 9-year-old daughter came home saying the other day after spending an afternoon at a birthday party. The “he” who is lucky “she”, didn’t, squash him like a bug, is a 10-year old classmate who was also at the party. “He” is her pal, her chum, her friend. He is her partner at school when pairing needs to be done. He is also the boy who tried to hold her hand when the lights went out in a Star Lab dome, but that’s not why she wants to pummel him.
There are some things you never forget: getting an award, your first sleep-over, punching a fella in the mouth for asking you to marry him (in first grade!), the soft, warm lips of a shy boy’s sweet and gentle kiss during a game of spin-the-bottle and of course, the first time someone embarrasses you in front of a group of friends by calling you a name. For me, it was buoy. And in 4th grade, I didn’t have a clue. So in a naive and unsuspecting way, I asked the boy who had just referred to me as a “buoy”, what that was.
You know, he said, it’s that round thing that bounces up and down, bobbing in the water. A buoy!
That was followed by what seemed to me, to be a roar of group laughter.
Painful. I forced a smile and walked away. I’m sure I could have flattened him but my heart had sunk to my knees and I was too hurt to react. I never forgot that feeling.
Like her mom, my girl is made of hardy stock. She is strong, confident and independent. She’s out-going and adventurous. She loves to laugh. Also like her mom however, she happens to be very sensitive.
He called me fat in front of all my friends at the party, she said. He embarrassed me. We were laughing about who would make the best Pińata and he said, ‘Hannah would, cause she’s fat!’
My heart immediately sank to that familiar place by my knees only this time, it broke.
He’s lucky I didn’t squash him like a bug! And you know I could, were the next words out of her mouth.
She’s right. She could.
Well then, I said, maybe next time, you should.
Okay, maybe that was wrong.
Sticks and stones may break my bones but names…..
Honestly, I would have preferred if he threw the stone. That wound heals faster.
We spent a long time that evening discussing potential reasons why her friend might have said that about her. Insecurity. Bravado. Maybe he was trying to look cool in front of the other boys. Perhaps he didn’t mean it and it was just a poor choice of words. Most likely, he like, likes her. No matter how much we dissected it though, the result was always the same. She could get past the word. She knows she’s bigger and taller than the other kids in her class. She accepts that her body is changing and maturing faster than theirs.
It was the betrayal she had a hard time reconciling with. He’s her friend.
It was after midnight when she came into my bedroom and crawled into bed with me that night. She snuggled up close and whispered,
Mommy, why did he do that? I thought he was my friend?
Cue the breaking heart again. She slept with me for the first time in years. And it was a big wake-up call to me as a parent and an adult, just how omnipotent words can be. Life is hard enough without us hurting each other with the things we say. And I’m reminded of how critical it is for me to set the example, practice kindness, show compassion and be forgiving.
Words may not be able to break a bone but they sure can break a heart.
The flip-side of that however, is to know that words also have the great power to fill a heart! So in the end, my advice to Hannah was to have, an open heart.
We are after all, only human. We all make mistakes and good friendships are worth keeping. So, when the boy came to school the next day and said,
Hey, I was only kidding. I didn’t mean it that way. I can’t believe you thought I was serious!
That was all she needed to hear to buddy-up again and put it behind her.
Besides, she told him that if he EVER does that to her again, she is going to “SQUASH him– like a bug!”
Photo credit: Squashed Bug, Broken Heart
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Moonrise, Mistakes & March of the Penguins!
Ever since I took my boy to see March of the Penguins, in 2005, he’s been “scarred” not to mention very skeptical of me when I say,
We’re going to the movies!
March of the Penguins, produced in part by the National Geographic Society is a French documentary film that depicts the yearly journey of the emperor penguins of Antarctica. It follows penguins of breeding age as they leave their natural habitat to participate in a courtship that will hopefully end in the hatching of an egg.
I was excited! My son was seven. My daughter had recently turned five. The three of us went to a matinee showing. Ten minutes after the movie began and both kids realized this was not a cartoon and there were no actors and no speaking parts, other than the soothing voice of Morgan Freeman’s narration, something extraordinary and completely unexpected happened.
She fell into a deep sleep and he began to cry.
It was one of those parenting moments that creeps up inside your head and blind-sides you, hitting you at the exact moment of no return.
What, was I thinking? And what was it again that made me think the 7-year old wearing the Spiderman suit would be interested in a documentary about penguins?
As I looked around the crowded theater, it struck me that not only was I the youngest adult (by about forty years)at this movie but there were no other children in the theater. Not one. Now, my daughter was sleeping and my son, with tear-filled eyes, was frantically begging mouthing the words:
I don’t like this! Please, I want to go home! Can we leave?
No, I thought in a panic! We can’t leave. Don’t you understand I’m caught between two generations and paralyzed here? Waking a nearly comatose toddler would be like calling in a storm, a very loud and disruptive, disastrous storm! It wouldn’t be fair to all these, well, elderly people that came to see the movie. I couldn’t carry her out either. At five, she was now too heavy for me.
We had to wait it out.
I spent the next 70-minutes dodging my son’s anger and avoiding his pleading glares, hoping my girl would awaken any minute, gently, quietly, happily, so we could sneak out without incident. She didn’t and he’s never forgiven me.
How could I have been so wrong? I thought for sure, he would love this movie.
He hated it.
He’s thirteen now & seven years later, history repeats itself — or some people never learn. I’m a repeat offender. Well, kind of.
This week I announced, “We’re going to the movies!”, the three of us, again, with my mom. He of course was skeptical and rightfully, so. Although, while he hadn’t heard of the movie, Moonrise Kingdom, in this case, it was the theater I was certain he would have a problem with and not-so-much the movie.
With a stellar cast of stars he actually knows and likes, including Bill Murray and Bruce Willis, it had to be good.
The Downing Film Center is a very cool, very small, non-profit theater in Newburgh, NY that shows about 50 independent and/or international films a year. The theater boasts 58 thickly, cushioned seats, most of which recline, all of which come with a pillow. It’s like being in a large living room. Even nicer, the tickets and snacks are affordable! With one showing a day during most week days and two showings of a single movie during the weekends, it’s advised you come at least 30-minutes early to get a real comfy chair. Seating, is first come, first served. Heading the warning, we arrived early and chose mid-center.
As the theater began to fill however, I couldn’t help but notice that the patrons were reminiscent of that day so many years ago. Apparently, so did my son.
Mom, this is “March of the Penguins” all over again!
He said with fear and anxiety in his eyes.
Once again, I found myself to be the youngest adult in the crowd, only this time it was by about thirty years and mine thankfully, were NOT the only children in the audience. There were two other kids there!
It turns out however, I was wrong — again.
It wasn’t the theater that the boy didn’t care for, in fact he later admitted,
It was cool.
No, it wasn’t the theater, it was the movie — again.
Come on mom. Boy, girl first crush = total chick flick!
Oh, well. He’s thirteen. At least he came! Besides, the girl stayed awake the whole time, this time. She loved the theater and the film and so did my mom and I!
Two thumbs up for Moonrise Kingdom — smartly written, humorous, off-beat and highly recommended. Go see it!
Have you seen any good movies lately?
Photo Credit #1 March of the Penguins
Photo Credit #2-5 ©2012 Karen Szczuka Teich & Takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Photo Credit #6 Moonrise Kingdom
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Simply Joyful
School’s out and summer’s on!
When I sat down Saturday afternoon to collect my thoughts and start writing, I realized after having been away all week, I hadn’t given the content of this week’s post much thought. Oddly enough, I wasn’t panicked either. It also occurred to me that even though there is still so much going on around me and so much to do, there is nothing pressing, nothing special, nothing terrible and nothing wrong, to write about.
It’s kind of nice when that happens. It doesn’t happen often but when it does, it really is kind of nice. Fishing for something would be foolish. I truly appreciate being able to step off of life’s roller coaster every once in a while, for a while. Recharge. Regroup. Rejoice!
In searching my heart for what was tugging, I kept falling back to thoughts of this past week and smiling to myself.
Nothing brings more joy to my heart than seeing children happy.
Helping the 2-yr old fill up the water tank on the rescue jeep. Get ready to get wet!
And having a rather playful heart myself, I’m keen to the sound of mischievous giggles. When the laughter has an 11-year span in childhood and includes kids ages 2 to 13, conspiring in harmony, even better! Catching the moment on camera? Well, priceless!
This week was simple. It was joyful. It was Simply Joyful.
What brings joy to your heart?
Photo Credit #1 The Gift of Joy
Photo Credit #2 & #3 ©2012 Karen Szczuka Teich & Takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
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Striving to live life on life's terms while taking the world on with a smile.
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Taking The World On With A Smile! 
