The Comfort

 February 26, 2021

I only had two classes today and sweet Hal looked so sad this morning I said, “better to ask forgiveness than permission” and took her along. The kiddos in class loved on her and she relished their company; but she still returned to my feet and laid down as if the nearness of me was a comfort.

The nearness of her is a comfort.

In those moments of such familiarity, I see that kids reframe me as a person. They were happy today, as was I. And they needed a little something.

Lately in class we have been discussing parenting, and life at home, and all the rest. I’ve listened to them, and searched my soul for how I’ve been as a daughter and as a mom.

For some reason, I recalled this, out of nowhere:

When I was in elementary school, my dad went to school on my behalf. See, I had grave insecurities and a unibrow and a bad perm, and I was surrounded by lovely girls who seemed to have the world by the tail. My struggle became evident at home. Dad ventured in to see Mrs. Jarmin, my kind 6th grade teacher who always adjusted her elastic-waist pants awkwardly and who I thought was, frankly, marginal. (In retrospect, she was perfectly wonderful and we got to make marionettes and type on the computer, so what the hell did I know?)

I find faults with the Pops of my childhood for his temper and controlling nature during my formative days. It was—to put it mildly—difficult on the levels of bad Lifetime movies. But I get it (mostly). On that day, in Eugene Field Elementary, he showed up, hat in hand, to try to find out how he could help his little girl. (I didn’t know he had done that at the time: he told me later.) The little progeny he saw at the dinner table and loved more than anything didn’t match up with the tortured 12 year old almost on the ledge.

I will never forget that he searched for the answers.

It’s the caring that is the defining factor. 

And today, when my not-so-little pup accompanied me to class, I saw a relief and joy in the eyes of sweet students who talked to me of the lives they lead; and I thought of mine.

That’s the stuff: dogs and kids and care. Isn’t it?

Chances

 Feb 19, 2021

Years ago, I had guided one of my best and brightest to perform a piece by Whoopi Goldberg. We had the audio version, but nothing printed. It wasn’t legal for our district tournament. I was young and naive. I went so far as to contact Ms. Goldberg’s agent. 

No dice.

We were moments from the tournament. Within a week, we found another script that was beyond reproach. It made me cry, it was so moving. My student mastered it quickly, and qualified to the national tournament.

I remember the guilt I felt at screwing up the original script, how hard we worked to make it work, and how I sweated bullets watching her amazing talent deliver one brilliant result after the next to get her where she always deserved to be.

I tell this story because I see second chances all around. I am the poster child for chances second, third, fourth...

If everything had worked out perfectly with that first script, I think of the lessons I wouldn’t have learned. It was the struggle and the sprint to the finish that makes the memory, 20 years later.

Grateful, sometimes, for the struggle.