Fox

Right out of Aesop’s Fables

A bright sleek fox 

Hopped gracefully to the top of our gate

And down into our fenced-in yard

The fox chased a rabbit

Stopped 

Contemplated the tall fence all around him

Then he lightly leapt again to the top of the gate 

Dropped down into the field and fled

Moral: What holds your prey may hold you too!

The Dark Just Before the Dawn, on a Bike

My youngest child just learned to ride a bike today. We worked for about 20 minutes and he was ready to quit. This is my fourth time through this. I knew we were close. 

“Here,” I said, “Let’s just ride back to the gate and we’ll take a brake.”

“Mom, I want to walk.”

“Come on, one more time.”

“Mom! Why can’t I just walk!”

He started to walk, hands on the handle bars. I held the back of the seat. The bike didn’t budge.

“Mom!”

He heaved a huge, exasperated sigh.

“Just to the gate.”

“I’ll make you a strawberry smoothie when we get inside.”

Another exasperated sigh.

He got on the bike. I ran along side, holding the back of the seat - faster, faster...I let go of the seat and stood still. He got to the gate and jumped away from the bike as it stopped and fell.  He looked around for me and saw where I was. His eyes grew wide.

“Did I do that !?!”

“Yup.”

He could barely contain himself.

“I still want a break and a strawberry smoothie.”

“O.K.”

“But then can we come out and ride some more?”

Lost Hour

Oh my gosh it’s nearly nine!

I forgot daylight savings time

All the family’s still a bed

An hour of morning quickly fled

Where did this magic hour go?

Did it dissolve with winter snow

This hour I seem to’ve found then lost

was it captured by the frost?

My love for time change would be stronger

If one hour could make the summer longer

Farting Birth Stories

I’m so lucky! We have a professional day today. So over this weekend another teacher has graciously let me cut in line and check out “Wonder.” I started reading it aloud to my boys, 8 and 10, last night. We made it as far as August’s birth story. The author is brilliant. The birth story is full of farts.

My boys were rolling on the ground, laughing, tears streaming from their eyes. Many fart noises were made in armpits. Then:

“Mommy, did your nurse fart when I was born?” said the 10 yr old.

“I don’t remember.”

“I was born in the kitchen, right?”

“Yes, we had rented a hot tub and put it in the kitchen. But I was uncomfortable. The sides of the tub were soft and I couldn’t brace myself against it to push you out. So Mary Ellen, the midwife, helped me get out. Then I sat down by the wood stove and I told Mary Ellen ‘I don’t think I can do this anymore.’ and she said ‘Oh yes you can!’ and out you came!”

“Then what did Daddy do?”

“Well, Daddy sat on the couch holding you while I got cleaned up. He kept saying - 

‘You are so born! Yes born is what your are! You are so born...so born!’

“What about me?” asks the 8 yr old

“We were in a hospital...”

“But it was one with a hot tub, it had a hot tub.”

“Yes I stayed in the hot tub. Your sister was holding my hand and telling me to push and then you kind of swam up.”

10 yr old chimes in “You  must have thought ‘nice of them to build an addition! It was getting kind of cramped in there!’

Both boys start laughing again. 10 yr old snorts.

“Yes,” I say, “but then you hit the air and you were not happy!”

8 yr old does his best impression of an unhappy newborn. He’s pretty good!

I marvel again at the power of stories and the magic of writing. We can look at a piece of paper and hear the voice of another separated from us in space and time. Amazing!

Today, on our professional day, we field trip teachers are taking a group of core teachers on a field trip to the main branch of the Denver Public Library. Special collections, amazing new resources in the building and on the internet, and stories, stories, stories! Who wouldn’t want to go?

Please Prove You Are Not a Computer

NAGVIn iturtac

Please prove you’re not a computer

ulopl gueseelo

I make mistakes on my own

ndleg spords

I change my mind

sitherel isersiber

I disagree

ednised ftstest

I am slow to process love

nciasp smencern

and grief

theauro dedise

I think therefore

tioneste rentmen

I am not a computer

Dreaming of My Father's Violin

Dreaming of the smell of my fathers violin

rosin and dust

sharp tang of a spare string

silent, I run my fingers 

across the blue velvet

On his desk

the waxy slice of agate that lay

long after his coffee mug was gone

strips of gold and umber

a tiny crystalled gap

between the layers

dawn creeps slow along 

strips of grey and cream

backing the fading twinkle of horizon lights

the house still asleep

on my computer

I play a boys choir 

singing christmas carols

even though it is March

while, out my dark window, 

a bus trundles lonely down the street

What are you reading? (one day late)

I’m reading a lot of inspiring encouraging blogs

in quick morning moments

I’m reading screenplay pages from my fellow students

on Fridays before class

I’m reading The Hobbit and bits of Beowulf

as I drift into sleep

I’m reading Luke, out loud 

with my daughters on the way to school (teen is driving)

I’m reading Seven Daughters of Eve

and

How the Irish Saved Civilization

and

Brian Green’s The Hidden Reality and Icarus at the Edge of Time

to keep up with my students

And cuddled on the couch before bedtime

with the wind outside whipping around the trees

I’m reading Wind in the Willows out loud

calling in the spring with my boys