Primary Program

Every year, the children in our church put on a Sacrament Meeting program for the whole congregation. They sing the songs they've been learning, they share scriptures, and some of them are asked to give talks. Alice got to sit in the pews with Bobby this year (she aged out of Primary last January, after participating in 9 years of programs!) while the boys and I sat up in the choir seats. Matthew did great. James did great. Robert did great. I was SO relieved that the loudness of the microphone and the congregation staring at them the whole time didn't intimidate any of my kids very long.

Robert was all tied up in knots about his speaking part, though.

He was asked to summarize a story from the scriptures where Jesus showed his love to someone.

I wasn't part of the writing session this time. Bobby kept Robert company in his room and asked him questions to help him figure out what he wanted to say. Robert didn't WANT to say anything. Especially something he wrote himself. He would MUCH rather have been handed a script or a scripture to read. I heard much wailing and moaning through the shut door. It took probably 30 minutes to write it start to finish. In the end, he came out with this, and this was his contribution to the Primary Program this year:

I love that boy.

Right after Robert spoke his part, he turned to go back to his seat. As he passed my seat, he gave me a quick expression: furrowed brow, frown, tongue stuck out in disgust, head shaking side to side. I interpreted it as, "Whew, I hated that." And then he thrust his hand towards me, containing his folded and scrunched up paper, and spoke with a raspy whisper, "Burn this when we get home!"

I received several comments afterwards from people appreciating Robert's honesty.

Both of Matthew's preschool teachers came to see the program. There are three kids from our congregation who attend Wee Disciples Preschool and Matthew is one of them. It didn't occur to me to invite his teachers to the program, but I'm glad someone else thought of it :) One of Matthew's teachers has been at the school long enough to remember Robert as a preschooler there. She especially appreciated Robert's post-talk expression, noting that it was very, very Robert to respond that way. She loved it.

Can I just tell you now that I LOVE that there are people outside my immediate family who know and love my kids? That's special to me.

We got home and I let Robert burn his talk in the outside grill. He was utterly relieved that the whole thing was over. Me too. Those programs are so, so stressful for the kids and the teachers and the leaders. Whew!

Doing Some Math

I was fast-walking the track at the gym this morning, thinking to myself. On my mind this morning was the farm and my exercise goals and my schedule this summer. This is my last school year with a preschooler. That's been on my mind a lot. It's been 13 years or so since I regularly spent most of a weekday on my own. I'm curious about the change. A little excited. But also pretty sure that there's a lot I don't know that I don't know about this new chapter. Oddly enough, thinking about Matthew going into full-day kindergarten also has me thinking about Matthew leaving the house entirely. An empty nest. I'm curious about how that will feel and what all of us will be doing and learning at that point in our lives.

I did some math.

Alice born in 2007, Matthew turning 19 in 2033. That means the "kids at home" chapter of my life is roughly 26 years. When Alice turns 13 in March, we'll be halfway through it.

Astounding!

And I have the unsettling feeling that the first half was the easy part ;)

And that the third and fourth "halves" of motherhood will hold plenty of learning opportunities, too.

I used to think that change was hard for me. I don't think that's always true anymore. Change is sometimes refreshing and inspiring. It's inspiring me to love the now and be patient with its frustrations, at least. For now. Ask me again in 13 years ;)

When I sit on the couch

This is what happens when I sit on the couch to listen to music:

And, moments later, when Robert was done doing his thing on the computer (putting 40+ graphic novels on hold at the library on MY card!!!) he came over looking for a piece of me to claim as well. This particular evening, I enjoyed the attention and physical closeness. My kids have no problem these days demonstrating (and fighting over) how important I am in their lives. It won't be like this forever. So many things won't last forever. I'm not sad about it, though. Just recognizing it. Trying to appreciate it right now when it's too easy to take it for granted.

Why Poetry?

Why do I have a hankering for poetry? What am I craving?

It's not Walt Whitman.

I scoured my bookshelves for other kinds and found some Shel Silverstein. That was fun to read out loud with the kids. Robert took it with him to bed. But it didn't scratch my poetry itch.

I rediscovered some poetry by Bobby's maternal grandmother, Celia the Great. That was more what I was looking for:

Singing Silence

Yes, all the world 
Has gone to bed,
And so should I
And yet, 
There was magic silence singing,
And I would sing in silence, too.

(Published Helen Reese, ed., An Anthology of Fraternity and Sorority Verse, The Greek Letter, (New York: Henry Harrison, 1940), 123.)

And this one from a book of poetry she gave her future husband on Valentine's Day 1940:

I love you when laughter
Sparkles in your eyes,
And tinkles round us
And even the wind laughs.
But I love you best
When we stand, gravely,
Side by side,
Finding beauty too deep for words.

And I revisited the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows for a couple of my favorites. Here's one:


midding

v. intr. feeling the tranquil pleasure of being near a gathering but not quite in it—hovering on the perimeter of a campfire, chatting outside a party while others dance inside, resting your head in the backseat of a car listening to your friends chatting up front—feeling blissfully invisible yet still fully included, safe in the knowledge that everyone is together and everyone is okay, with all the thrill of being there without the burden of having to be.

The creator of the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows said this, "I think the act of naming something implies, very simply, that you’re not alone. We give names to things so we can talk about them. Once there’s a word for an experience, it feels contained somehow—and the container has a handle, which makes it much easier to pick up and pass around. Kinda comforting."

And I think that's what I'm looking for in this poetry hunt: 1) proof that others have felt the things I feel and 2) beautiful containers with handles.

Comfort, empathy, feeling understood...that's poetry.

Poetry and Live Jazz

I have recently had a hankering for poetry. But I don't even really know what kind I like. Robert was unbearably bored this evening waiting for Bobby to make dinner, so I suggested he read me poetry from Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass (it's one of only a handful of poetry options currently in our house). He humored me, slightly amused, and read the first one. After a few more, he said, "This is like reading random words in a line. No rhyming. No sentences. I don't understand ANY of it. It's even worse than reading the scriptures!" Well, I had a hard time understanding it, too, the way he was reading it.

*sigh*

Maybe Walt Whitman isn't the best start. I'll give him another go on my own and see.

Bobby, Erin, and I went to see a friend sing jazz tonight. She was great! On my way out, I saw the venue's performance schedule for the rest of the month...there's a poetry night! Dare. I. Try?