Halloween From the Eyes of a Parent

Happy Halloween everyone! 

       In between all the school parties, costumes, carving pumpkins, candy, and everything else you didn't get to, hope you can take a minute to read this—because it all goes so fast......

Halloween From the Eyes of a Parent

        When my children were in pre-school, Halloween was a much-anticipated, momentous occasion. It was a night in which the young were free to imagine, to giggle and scream, and to be who they truly were, deep in their five-year-old hearts. 

       Back then my kids put great thought into their elaborate Halloween costumes. My daughter was enraptured by Cinderella, and we bought the Disney maiden’s shiny blue dress weeks before the big night. Of course, a blond wig and tiny glass (plastic) slippers were essential.  

       Every piece of her costume had to be perfect; but unfortunately, because she had modeled the get-up for her daddy several times, my showgirl forgot where she put the show-stopping shoes. They had to be somewhere in the house. After tearing our living quarters apart for a solid hour, I glanced at the china cabinet.  

       Lo and behold, the silicone slip-ons sparkled in the illuminated display, occupying a place of distinction beside my glimmering wedding china. She forgot she had stashed them there, secure from her baby sister’s grasp. She concluded that the logical hiding place was, of course, among the china.

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        Where else would you put “glass” slippers?

        As dusk approached on every All Hallows Eve, my husband and I spent grueling hours getting three kids ready, taking pictures, and simply striving for a photo in which no one was ogling at the camera with their nostrils against the lens. After I smoothed Cinderella’s hair and attached the last sash on my swashbuckler, my kids’ reality melted into a misty fantasy of fairy godmothers and fiery galleons on stormy seas.

        Whether the night was clear or whether a perfect storm brewed, a magical, mystical electricity penetrated their rationality. It stirred them into a suspended disbelief that vampires morphed into bats and goblins greeted those who dared to approach a house with no porch lights on. They relished the paranormal pageantry under the aura of dim streetlights but within safe range of strong arms.  

        Each stage of life melted into the next, and this year I must reluctantly adapt again.  For the first time, my son won’t be home this Halloween to steal peanut butter cups from his sisters’ pillowcases of loot. And there will be one less flickering jack-o’-lantern lining our entry hall of horrors as a glowing memorial to each family member.

        In May he walked across his high school stage and through the looking glass into another world. An adult world in which the roads are paved with promise and you have to pay for your own gas. On graduation day he donned his four-cornered tasseled hat and raised his treasured scroll. But my heart still pictures him donning his three-cornered pirate hat and raising his trusty scabbard. I turned around and a real five o’clock shadow replaced his black-marker mustache which was often eclipsed by a Gatorade one.

        Back then, each scrape and scar had a salty story, and a damsel in distress beckoned around every corner. At age five, he strode out the door to chase his dragons, and just a few months ago, he strode out the door to chase his dreams in college.  

        May his ship be guided by the compass of faith, and may his gleaming sword slay every giant that stands in his way.

        Through the years my little girl swirled into adolescence too. She traded her sparkly princess gown for a shimmery prom gown and now glides gracefully down the stairs in five-inch heels. 

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        But I still see my Cinderella clack-clacking down the stairs in Barbie high heels, not bothered a bit that her crown slips precariously over one eye as she bounds over the last three steps. I cherished all the memories because I knew that in a moment her chubby little hands would clutch car keys instead of a candy pail.

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        Years before, she flew out the door to carve her jack-o’-lanterns. And pretty soon she’ll fly out the door, trying out her wings in a great big world, carving her own future.  

        May her every pumpkin turn into a gleaming coach, and may she find glass slippers in the most unexpected places.

KINDERGARTEN TEACHERS WATCH THEIR GARDENS GROW

My short essay was published in the Memphis newspaper in September.  Thought I'd share it!

Kindergarten Teachers Watch their Gardens Grow

By this time of year, students of all ages are settling into a routine at school.  Kindergartners, especially, have gone through major changes in the last few months. And so have their parents. They are glad their 5-year-olds are ready for some independence but reluctant to let go of leisurely time spent sculpting play-doh and aligning army men in the sandbox.

When I had babies and toddlers, some days seemed to pass at a sluggish pace.  It was an endless cycle of messy high chairs, exploding diapers, and horrific fits at the grocery store.  And sometimes it was the kids who threw fits.  To me, kindergarten may as well have been the prom because they both seemed so far away I could scarcely imagine it.  But as inevitable as kids learning to talk and then to talk back, the time for kindergarten arrived.  On my son’s first day, I stooped at the door of his classroom to give him a kiss, relishing the thought that I might have a little more time to myself.

But a funny thing happened.  As he walked away and the flashing lights on his Batman tennis shoes became dimmer with each step, I realized I wasn’t ready to let him go.  I wasn’t ready to give him up to a teacher that he would be with more than me.  Moreover, I didn’t even know this woman I was handing my child off to.  I worried that she might get impatient because he usually ate his lunch slowly.  And sometimes he couldn’t remember the difference between a “b” and a “d.”

But my apprehensions were quickly soothed.  His teacher was a gentle, caring lady whose patience far-exceeded my own, and she made every child feel special.  Twelve years later she’s still at his school, plugging away, enlightening little minds on the tricks of telling time and counting money—and often pulling baby teeth after class.  There’s only one reason she spends year after year nurturing little ones—she loves it.

A kindergarten teacher is like a gardener who starts fresh every season with newly planted seeds. She enriches the soil with creativity, coaxes her seeds to bloom, and prunes with purpose.  She spends time on her knees, cultivating the blossoms who flourish in fertile soil and toiling with the ones who struggle among the rocks. 

Every year on the first day of school, a kindergarten teacher probably notices a little boy who meanders into her classroom looking as if he might cry.  She takes his tiny hand and feels his small fingers curve cautiously around hers.  More than likely it has been many years since that first boy walked into her classroom, and she knows from experience that a red popsicle usually cures the jitters. 

Like a gardener, she knows there’s promise in every seed, a remarkable story waiting to unfold.  She doesn’t know yet the particular qualities that make the little boy unique, but after some tears, crises and crumpled paper, she’ll figure it out as she always does.  She understands that some of her tiny shoots bloom easily, with all the colors of God’s rainbow, but some take longer, often spurred by patient appeals, Kool-aid, and a few cheesy Goldfish.

She plans projects and pow-wows, and every year she teaches her apprentices how to be gardeners themselves.  Scooping dirt with chubby fingers, they’ll carefully tuck bean seeds into white styrofoam cups and faithfully watch for little stems to appear.  Then she’ll explain how to step back and watch them grow, just as she lovingly steps back and watches her students grow.

They tip-toed through her garden gate as tots, peeking their heads through the door like sprouts through dirt, and they will seem to wave good-bye at the end of the year all grown up.  Velcro shoes will give way to carefully tied sneakers, and the stick people they used to draw will have fingers and clothes and cowboy hats.

She thinks of students she has nurtured through the years, adding by tens and learning shapes with sprinkles of humor and the fertilizer of praise.  They are now young ladies and men.  With her, they learned to make their letters—and years later, they’re learning to make a difference.

After ten months of tending, she’ll hug the same little boy who was so nervous the first day of school.  She’ll take his tiny hand on the last day and feel his fingers now curve comfortably around hers.  They will share an unspoken bond, and she’ll know that he takes a little piece of her with him as he leaves her garden.