KIDS HAVE A CREATIVE SENSE OF TIME

When I was a child, the long hot, summer months seemed to stretch out to infinity.

Sometimes, on days so sultry you could see steam rising from the pavement, I’d wish I were back in school with my teacher marking days off on a big chart.  In March, the calendar had a lamb and a lion on each side.  In April, there was an umbrella and a duck.  Seven red “X’s” finally made a week go by.

Now, vacation time seems to pass before I can even get all my kids’ hot weather clothes out of the boxes and into their drawers.

Someone once told me the difference between children and adults is that kids have a more creative sense of time.

“When did you get your ears pierced, Abby?” I asked my neighbor’s four-year-old daughter as she proudly touched the tiny stars that glittered in her earlobes.

“Just about eighteen years ago when I turned two, the little girl replied without blinking once.

“Wake me up in three minutes,” my preschooler Matthew yawns as he snuggles into bed.

“You’re not planning on sleeping very long?” I ask, pulling the covers up beneath his chin.

“Only ‘til morning...” that little boy trails off.

Teenagers aren’t much different.  Back in 1971 when I was a 22-year-old first-year teacher, an eighth grader asked me how old I was when World War I began.  Seriously!

“What are you going to be when you grow up, Mommy?” three-year-old Christie wants to know.

“Older.”

“Older, like a grandma?”

“I hope so.”

“Then whose little girl will I be?” she worries.

“No one else’s.  You’ll be my big girl, all grown up.”

“Oh,” she pauses, her eyes beginning to fill as she continues, “I’m not sure I want to grow up.”

“Now, why would you say that, Little One?”

“Oh,” she paraphrases Mr.  Rogers, “I guess I like us just the way we are!”

Would that I had a child’s command of time.  Some moments I would stop the ticking clock.

Some moments I would stop the ticking clock!

FATHER'S DAY GIFT IDEA

Want to give your dad a special Fathers Day gift? 

• Read the poem below.
• Then complete the "You are" phrase with special memories of your own father.
• Anyone can do this.  You don't have to be a great writer. Click the following link if you want to use a template: http://freeology.com/graphicorgs/i-am-poem-template/.
• Make your poem as long as you want. 
• Add a picture.
• Print and frame it. 
• Or roll and tie it with a piece of ribbon or raffia. 
• It will mean the world to him.

These are some of the images I see when I think of the special man I call  Dad.

DAD

You are the solid wood ball

in my set of classic jacks

You’re Auld Lang Syne on a quiet New Years Eve,

Butter brickle ice cream on a Sunday afternoon,

Braised pot roast in the electric frying pan,

Hiking boots and long canoes,

Pan-fried brook trout caught at Lily Lake,

Helping hands for everyone in need,
Mama’s lemon pie,
Warm soaks at Crystal Springs,
Brown, canvas coveralls and long-sleeved, cotton shirts,
The backyard swing you built yourself,
Road trips to Michigan in a ’57 Chrysler station wagon
Warm, glowing coals in your wood-burning stove,
Vicks Vapor rub on a croupy day,
And everything you’ve ever bought on sale.

--Sharon Nauta Steele 

Daddy with a great grandson

GROWING UP TUG-OF-WAR IS SUCH SWEET SORROW

"I can't believe I'm going to graduate this month!" my oldest daughter exclaims as she helps me clear the kitchen table.  "I keep pinching myself to make sure it's not a dream."

Scraping mashed potatoes from a bowl, I notice how expertly she loads the dishwasher--plates on the bottom, glasses on the top.

"How graceful this girl is," I think, as she bends to place a saucer in the rack, her burnished curls falling loosely from a single gold barrette.

What happened to the rowdy child who always had a bandage on each knee?  Where is the teething baby with strained carrots on her chin? Where is the colicky infant that I rocked for hours long ago?

How did she grow so competent in just one night?

I watch her move deftly between the cupboard and the sink with mixed emotions, knowing time has snatched away the precious child who blew wet kisses in my ear, and handed me a wonderfully independent 17-year-old fully capable of going off to college and succeeding on her own.

Holding onto the memory of a rosy-cheeked toddler whose tiny fingers once wrapped so trustingly around just one of mine, I embrace the lovely woman who clings to me now with one hand and pushes me away with the other.

I wonder if she feels it too--this push-me-pull-me tug-of-war.  Sometimes she just can't wait to get away.

"When I'm in college..." she says,  leaving the sentence unfinished in order for me to imagine every possible thing she plans to do then that I won't let her do now.

"When I'm grown..."

When she's grown and has children of her own, she won't make any of the mistakes I've made.  She'll be a perfect mother, perfect adult, perfect employee.  She'll do it all.  She'll have it all. It's what I've always wanted for her, but it's hard to let her go.

But sometimes, quite unexpectedly, she tries to snuggle back into the predictable security of our home.  I feel her arms again around my neck.  I see her walking through her bedroom, smoothing back the bedspread, stroking a bedraggled Teddy bear, touching the tattered wallpaper that's been there all her life.

She knows her little sister has big plans for that room--paint the walls lavender, rearrange the furniture, bring in a daybed of her own, let Big Sis use the trundle on the weekends she comes home.

"Just don't change things 'til I've gone," my oldest daughter pleads because she finally understands how getting things you want can make you cry.

"We won't," I promise, knowing well how painful changes always are.

How graceful this girl is!