Posts Tagged ‘children’
Of Having Dreams
The kids are home from school today. I asked them if they knew why.
“Because it’s a holiday,” said the oldest.
“It’s Dr. King’s day,” said the youngest.
I asked them if they knew why we celebrated the life and achievements of Martin Luther King.
“Because it’s a holiday,” said the oldest.
“Because he did great things for civil rights,” said the youngest.
And then he sang a song about the man and what those great things were. The works of Dr. King had been the primary focus of his kindergarten curriculum for the previous week, and he had taken it to heart, for that is where his songs are kept.
I looked at the oldest, “Haven’t they talked about Dr. King at school?”
“No.”
“Do you remember me talking to you about him last year?”
“Kind of.”
And then I sat down and explained to two small children about ignorance and hate and how they manifested themselves in the belly of a nation.
“That’s like that Nina Simone song,” said the oldest, and I smiled softly, because it certainly was. Then he hummed a few bars.
I spoke in gentle detail about harsh realities, and I couldn’t help but regret the need to do so. Their faces were alive with disgust and confusion, and the more we spoke the more another layer of innocence slipped away.
“Were they Nazis?” asked the oldest. That was an evil he understood. Between The Sound of Music, Indiana Jones, and Bedknobs and Broomsticks he was well-versed in the fear such a movement could cause. It caused great fear in him.
“They were people that had been taught to hate,” I said. “Dr. King taught them to dream and love.”
“I wonder why we didn’t talk about it at school,” he said as his voice drifted off in the direction of the open window, and his thoughts seemed to follow.
“People still need to dream,” he said.
His 8-year-old wisdom was deeper than anything I could offer, so we let it hang there in the air around us. The boys both pressed close against me with a tenderness they reserve for moments of quiet and reflection, and the moment became just that.
Then the youngest sang his song in careful whisper and the oldest sat still, his arms around his brother, his head upon my heart, and he listened.
____________________
Photo by Emma Rödjer; drawings by the kindergarten class
Nothing is Quiet on New Year’s Eve
Across the calendar a line of Xs stand upon the dates that we have kissed goodbye. Each line an ending, a memory, and one step closer to hugging someone at the last possible minute.
The year goes out with a bang, just as it arrived. It spends its last week sleeping off holiday treats and shopping fatigue. As the end draws near it makes a reservation, shaves what’s hairy, and puts on something that pops. It’s a party after all, and the year deserves it.
In the wings waits the next one. It is young and naive, full of hope and promises. It watches the current year and notes what it will do differently. It watches and it waits, one eye always on the hourglass. It too will dress in something smart, but not nearly as outdated.
People pull out resolutions and change the date accordingly. The one becomes an awkward two and everyone is the wiser. They are losing weight and quitting vices. They are eating healthier and trying harder. They have waited a year to repeat themselves. The first week is the hardest, and often the only.
The children want to stay up until midnight because everyone is doing it and the reviews are fantastic. They laugh every time someone makes a joke about seeing them next year. They are alive with apple juice and Chex mix. They are why the new year rings.
The year will fall, another will rise to take its place, and the world will carry on regardless. There may be song and a spot or two of dancing. Laughter is strongly encouraged.
Happy New Year. You deserve it.
Christmas Past and Presents
The night before Christmas was, once upon a time, the night that my family came together to celebrate the holiday. We would all meet at the home of my grandparents and have dinner, some laughs, and a gift or three. However, it, as all things of childhood tend to do, slowly lost its magic piece by piece, year by year, until it became an exercise in survival, closet drinking, and gift receipts. The year my grandmother died the illusion shattered like a snow globe against the kitchen floor — so much glass, so many flakes.
And yet the memories of those early years are among the best that I have. Christmas Eve was the pinnacle of childhood joy. The air was thick of happiness and the forced smiles of people that, thanks to the soothing tone of my grandmother, hid their resentment of each other from the rest of us — at least those of us too naive and innocent to recognize such things. It was everything I wanted.
Christmas Eve isn’t what it used to be. My extended family has long retreated into their own camps, their own trenches. Their fires can be seen from holiday cards and Facebook greetings. They seem happy and fairly healthy, which is better than any gift I could have found for under $25. They keep Christmas in their own way, and I wish them well accordingly.
The years have turned and my vantage point with them. My lens on the world is now one of parent. Christmas is no longer about savoring the magic, but the creation of it. My goal, as it is always, is the happiness of my children, only more so. It is through them that I find my joy. It is through them that I embrace the season.
We may not spend Christmas Eve with cousins or grandparents, but we spend it. The traditions of my youth have given way to new experiences. Some stick. Some float away like so many ghosts of Christmases past.
In the early light of Christmas morning with their hair unrestrained and their bodies wild, they move like a memory. They fly unwired and work without a net. There is nothing more real than my children in that moment — that moment where all they know dances with all I knew, and a lifetime of lessons and milestones melts down to now. Now, the moment that I am there again, too innocent to realize that innocence doesn’t last forever, and far too happy to care. It is the pinnacle of joy, and the only gifts that matter are two small boys smiling wide, their eyes filled with stars and wonder.
It is everything I wanted.
Winter and the Days That Break It
It was the last day of school before winter break, and it was a cool 63 degrees in the shade. The sun was bright and blinding.
There were 14 parents standing alongside the curb in front of the museum. Six of them were dads. The children were in various modes of field trip readiness. A man from the museum was speaking to them. He had long gray hair and a collection of bones tied loosely at his side which he refused to answer questions about. The children had trouble asking about anything else.
The tour was a nice mix of quiet listening and loud, interactive action. We saw wild deer grazing about 40 feet from the trail. There was a third grader for every foot between the animals and where we stood. The deer didn’t even flinch. They had seen the tour before. They may have bought the t-shirt. And then, most likely, eaten it.
At some point the wind turned and the leaves kicked up. The kids tightened their seldom-used jackets and returned to the bus. The parents had cars of their own. We all drove back to the school in a leapfrog parade, little faces pressed against dirty glass for a chance to wave at the parent of their choice. The adults rode in expensive cars and discussed holidays, trades, and whatever song came on KROQ. We met again in the school parking lot and it was like we had never left.
There were parties. Then the desks were cleaned, the lost and found emptied into the hallway, and children exchanged holiday greetings with each other while giving pretty packages to the teachers that taught them. It was a blizzard of activity, and the closest thing we would see to a winter storm this season. The cars were stuffed with sugar-filled faces and we all rode into the sunset like a jolly gingerbread army.
It was the last day of school before winter break and we drove with our windows down. The city sidewalks were busy, and when the wind swirled around the shoppers it was from the breath of happy children singing. The smiles stretched for blocks behind us.
Unexpected Delays of Family Travel
The drive to Tucson should have taken seven hours. It took twice that. The boys passed out shortly after sunset and we let The Muppets soundtrack play through two more times before we replaced it with conversation and the sounds of the open road.
It took over three hours to drive from one side of Los Angeles to the other. The rest of the drive was long and lonely. We stopped for a burger. We stopped and slept in a rest area parking lot. We stopped for gas, sunflower seeds, and coffee. We lost an hour in the middle of nowhere.
The boys woke up shortly before sunrise. They found the symmetry enticing. The sun also rises, and so too, the sons. We arrived at Nana’s house and we let the games begin.
Traveling to visit family over the holidays is exhausting. There is more to do and see than one can fit in an extended weekend without becoming extended themselves. The demands on time are great, because the people you wish to see are great. Most of them. But they have friends and families, too. Nothing gets any easier.
The boys spent time with grandparents, an aunt, an uncle, and a great-grandfather that embraced them with a joy that none of us knew he still possessed. They also ate a lot.
Thanksgiving rolled into Black Friday, and Saturday came and went in a blur of quick greetings and endless leftovers. People were hugged accordingly.
Sunday found us sitting on the hood of our car in the middle of Interstate 10. There had been an accident — something horrible 30 miles ahead. The freeway had been closed for hours, but, according to news reports, by the time we stopped it had been open for nearly 90 minutes. It takes a long time for freedom to trickle back. We walked along the asphalt of the interstate and talked to strangers. Children played soccer on the shoulder. Teens skated around parked cars. There was talk of a barbecue a mile down the road. We had already eaten.
There is an odd sense of community meeting your fellow travelers while, literally, on the road. We all had our bags and our baggage. We all had someplace to be and someplace that we were coming from. And we all knew that it was better to be at the end of the line than the cause of it. Everyone was free and easy. Everyone was on their way home or something close to it.
The unpacking of the highway finally reached us and our journey continued without a hitch, but it did have a few more waves. What were once faceless targets of frustration and the occasional curse word were now bonded by shared experience. We traveled as a caravan, going whichever way the road goes.
The drive from Tucson should have taken seven hours, but we weren’t in a hurry. At some point the sun set, and the boys were right behind it.
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