Frogs and Flowers

Nothing profound or thought provoking today – just hope. Hope for Life, hope for Light.

Today. Today the frogs were peeping! I almost couldn’t believe my ears, but they were! A never seen, high-pitched chorus. And if that weren’t enough, several sweet little yellow crocuses popped up sometime while we were at school, and are now blooming in the front yard! All of this today!

Don’t get me wrong. I love winter: a time of rest, a time of peace. But once the rest is over, (and believe me, I’ve been ready for it to be over for a while now!) I’m always ready for a healthy helping of rebirth, of excitement, of light, of life.

I know the cold is not over. In Indiana, we've come to expect our “Sectional Snow.” But, hearing the frogs, seeing the flowers, I now have hope again.

(Of course, if you ask Rob, these signs mean only one thing: yard work!) =(

Never Ever Serve Worms

The beginning of the end was the day I heard “yellow.” No more “weh-woh.” I took that one hard, but it wasn't a devistating blow. Half Pint was still my baby. “L” wasn’t the end; I still had “R.”

“R.” One more sound before I'd have to admit that my baby was not only not a baby, but not a toddler either; she’d be a little girl. I still had “vewy” and “Pawkaw” and “Mistuh Buhkhawt.” I could hear these “wuhds” and know my baby was still my baby.

Sure, I’m a good Mom. I periodically tried to correct her pronunciation, to get her to contort her tiny mouth into the correct position for that difficult “R” sound. But if it didn’t happen, I didn’t push – a good Mom wouldn’t. Don’t want to mess with her self-esteem. But, secretly, I was glad she hadn’t yet gotten it. It was endearing. What’s the hurry anyway?

And then today. Today, with a simple conversation about which direction we were driving, it all ended.

“Which way aw we dwiving, Mommy?”

“We’re going north, sweetie,” I answer.

“What’s nawth mean?”

Her Daddy explains, complete with a detailed drawing on her magnadoodle. He explains how a compass works. She spins here diagram as we twist and turn down the country highway, shouting out our new direction like a navigational pro! He then proceeds to share with her his mnemonic device for remembering the order of the four directions. “Never ever serve worms.”

She repeats it. “Never ever serve worms.”

GASP!

She was supposed to say, “Nevuh evuh suhv wuhms!” That’s what my baby would say! But this little girl spat out a very distinct, “Neverrr – everrr – serrrve - worrrms.”

Where did that come from?!? No coaching. No correcting. No second or third try. It just popped out, as if she’d been able to say a proper “R” for years! I react. I cheer. I brag. I smile at her in the rearview mirror. I do what a good Mom should do.

But Rob saw, from his seat beside me, the shock. Shock at her wonderful accomplishment. But also shock at the loss of this endearing quality. Shock at the physical proof of her growing up. Shock that my baby is no longer a baby. Shocked that my baby is gwowing up.

Practice

In an attempt to bring music to the forefront of positive attention in this dying economy, one in which music is one of the first things declared “unnecessary” by schools, I sent out a quick survey to my fellow educators. I was asking them questions about their experience in music. Did you play an instrument? Do you sing? Where are you now, musically? etc. etc.

The answers were interesting. Besides finding out that I work with three other oboe players (what are the chances?), and that pep band is the only experience with live music known by most of my non-musical colleagues (that’s another blog entirely – the death of non-pop music…), I’ve heard many other stories. Stories of people whose choir directors told them not to sing, just to mouth along – that’s a shot to the ol’ self-esteem! Stories of people who wished they’d been given the chance to learn an instrument, but whose parents couldn’t afford it. But the most poignant this moment are the stories of people who hated practicing.

It matters this moment because right next to me, at this very moment, “Zeke” is practicing for tomorrow’s piano lesson. Is he enjoying it? Not particularly. Is he enjoying me? Not a bit.

I’ve become that typical Mom from bad TV shows. “No! Play those notes shorter! Slow down! Try it again!” Blah, blah, blah.

I do know better. If he weren’t my kid, I could guide him through a practice session, never losing my cool, never raising my voice, never harping. But with my own dear son …

Patience. I need to show more patience. And understanding. Oh, yeah, and better yet, encouragement.

I know practice is worth it. My colleagues who hated practicing as students themselves know that practicing is worth it. Even Zeke himself knows that practicing is worth it. He’s seen the results. That moment when everything just clicks and a piece is no longer work, no longer filled with struggle, no longer requiring every ounce of concentration. He knows. I know.

Patience, Mom. He’ll stop goofing around at the keyboard eventually. So he sits a little longer – so what? Understanding, Mom. Yes, he’s the son of two musicians. That doesn’t mean he has to be perfect straight out of the gate. Encouraging, Mom. He needs to be told what he’s doing right, that’s he’s making progress, that you still love him, despite wrong notes, wrong rhythms, and wrong articulations. He needs to be reminded that practice can be fun too. That getting there is sometimes the best part of the trip.

Mom, you’ve got to be both teacher and mother here. Patient, understanding, encouraging, and most of all loving. You want him to love music. The art. The challenge. All of these, as well as the final product.

VBS

My wonderfully over-involved, ever-energetic husband and I are coordinating VBS this year again! Why am I mentioning this now, when it’s 25 degrees out and VBS doesn’t come until those gloriously warm days of summer? Because the VBS Curriculum Fair is this weekend. (Yes, there exists a curriculum fair for VBS. Can you believe it?)

I remember my times at VBS as a child very fondly. My sitter took us to every one in town. Didn’t matter if they were Baptist, Methodist, or other, we were there. (Now that I have kids, I understand why she did it – free childcare for the childcare worker!) No matter how many we attended, I remember loving all of them. I loved the songs, the games, the crafts, the time with other kids. What I’m sure I don’t remember is a THEME.

What’s with the themes? Every year we have to change our church into some new VBS Wonderland! It’s been a farm, an Egyptian cave, the ocean, a circus, a desert, … We’ve had so many, I don’t even remember all of them!

I’ve been told to have a theme to make it memorable. But what are they remembering? I’ve been told to have a theme to make it fun. But isn’t recreation time fun no matter what? I’ve been told to have a theme for continuity. But doesn’t the Bible provide that?

Is it enough that our visitors remember our church as the place with the slide coming out of the baptistery? (Yes, we had that last year – it fit our backyard theme!) Are we focusing our energies in the right direction?

I’m torn on this issue. The themes are fun – they’re fun for me! Give me a theme and I’ll take it as far as I can run! But I’m sure it should not be the driving force behind curriculum choice. And it won’t be. I’d be lying, though, if I said it won’t be a factor.

Popularity

My newly found on-line community with old friends and acquaintances has brought back deep feelings of, fears of, popularity, or my lack of it.

What made the popular kids popular anyway? Was it beauty? Was it fashion? Was it intelligence? Was it money? Was it sense of humor? Was it confidence?

I thought these painful feelings were gone. After high school, they seemed to wane. College didn’t hold the same divides the teenage-filled hallways contained. I loved that. I loved that I mostly could be me, be myself, and not feel quite so alone, feel such an outcast.

FaceBook has brought it all back. The pain. The fear. The anxiety. I find myself checking to see who has confirmed my request for friendship, who has requested me. And when someone doesn’t confirm right away, I wonder why. Is it because I was a nobody back then? Because they never really liked me in the first place? Not hearing from one particular friend right away actually had me in tears (She confirmed the next day – anxiety nixed).

Now, 18 years out of that place that gave me such grief, my emotions are still the same. I wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t fashion-forward. I was of average intelligence (less than, if you ask Mr. Claxon). I didn’t live in the rich neighborhood. I wasn’t particularly witty. I definitely wasn’t confident. 18 years later and I’m shaking as I write this. If they read it, will they laugh at me? Am I making myself even less appealing by sounding so pathetic?

It is 18 year later though. Therefore, the questions no longer need be about why I didn’t fit in then. Instead I need to deal with the now. I think I’ve learned one thing through the years. Popularity is not about beauty, fashion, intelligence, money, or wit. I really believe it boils down to confidence. Popular people are popular because they draw people to them, they are true to themselves, they expect people to like them, and they believe they are liked by those who call them friends.

Confidence is really what it’s all about. Do I have it? Can I fake it? Do I need to? I do possess more confidence than I once did…

I do need to work on my confidence. I need to trust myself. I need to trust others. I need to trust I am liked, I am loved. I need to work on this to reinforce my relationships. My goal should not be popularity, it should be strength.

Everyone knows it’s wrong to seek popularity, but it can’t be wrong to seek confidence. Confidence, not for popularity’s sake, but the sake of confidence itself, and the strength it may bring.