Tupperware as Kiddie Pool

Further Transformations

It sure seems like from one day to the next, Django has a whole new handle on me. He ropes me into games he's designed, tells me what he wants to wear, and gives both of us a case of the giggle when he laughs at his own jokes.

Too fast. Time is going too fast. I hate to be cliche, but it's true.

When the Chorus Went Silent

I thought I had this great idea for Mother's Day. I gave 5 of the moms in my family the same book to read -- Because I Love Her, edited by Andrea Richesin, a collection of essays of the mother-daughter bond. I fantasized that we might all come together in the Bay Area for brunch sometime down the line and be able to share our favorite parts, like a family book club! Sure, it was also a way to bribe the far-away moms to visit, but the intent was true. I even made some time to start reading my copy. Before the end of the Introduction, I'd already started taking notes. Here was my first quote:

In Mary Olivers gorgeous poem "In Blackwater Woods" she explains that to live in this world you must do three things --"to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go." (p. xxi)

I've still not searched out the whole of that Mary Oliver poem, but I thought the little snippet Andrea Richesin chose sounded so wise, so essential, so right. It almost sounded easy. Then, this week, one of those times came to let "it" go. And I found myself, instead, clinging like a barnacle to a sinking ship. On my way down, I started to list some of the things I think Mary Oliver forgot. I won't repeat them all verbatim here, since I do try to keep the profanity to a minimum on these blog posts. I will say she could've at least mentioned something about how deeply you must be willing to hurt.

I hope you won't think it overly dramatic when I tell you that my big hurt this week was caused by the death of a pet Pacific Chorus Frog. But, really, he wasn't just any frog. He was my Prince Charming. Let me explain.

Back in the early days of 2002, I was in the end of my teaching credential program at the University of San Francisco's Center for Teaching Excellence & Social Justice. It was my second tour of graduate school, but the first time I thought I might actually know what I was getting into and be suited for it. Teaching high school seemed like a it might be a good fit, maybe even County school, where the students are also inmates -- steeper climb, better view at the top, I thought. But then I student-taught in 1st grade. I was floored, in the best of all possible ways.

Perhaps all parents have a sense of how hard first grade actually is for first graders, not to mention their teachers. But I wasn't a parent then, and I was a fledgling of a teacher myself. I had no earthly idea of the challenges and rewards of such primary education. Think about it. If all goes well, the students learn to read, write sentences, add, subtract, get the idea of measurement, name shapes and use scissors -- all in 9 months. Those are pretty amazing feats for a 5-6 year old. I fell in love.

Unfortunately, I also fell out of love that winter. Or, rather, love relocated with my former boyfriend and his new girlfriend leaving a gaping hole in the universe I promptly fell through. I don't know why -- and, Django, I'm REALLY sorry if it turns out to be genetic -- but heartbreak undoes me to the point of true madness. I lose sight, and will, and perspective completely. I suppose that's true of everyone to some degree or another, but you'll know (and, I hope, tell me) if you've inherited my version of Black Hole. It's a mess.

Anyway, the point is that it was deep in the heart of this darkness that Prince Charming arrived -- not on a white horse, but in a vial of pond water from the Mission Science Center. I can't really even remember how or why the vial went home with me instead of one of the first graders with whom I was on a field trip. I only remember that a few weeks later two newts had transformed and promptly escaped the terrarium to their deaths from dessication, and Prince Charming morphed to stay. At that time in my life, taking care of him was one of the central motivations I had for taking care of me. Sad, ridiculous even, but true.

Then, as if the story wasn't melodramatic enough, Prince Charming had a medical crisis at the end of the summer of 2002, when he was just a wee frog. There was no way I was letting either of us go down without a fight, though, so I did what any good pet-owner does -- I charged the $800 in exams, hospitalization, medication and follow-up to my credit card. I even force-fed the poor guy for a few weeks until he was feeling better. If you're having trouble imagining how one force-feeds a dollop-sized frog, I don't blame you. I don't know how I did it either, but it involved a couple steady hands, a needleless syringe, some bug mush and and occasionally a fingernail. It really seemed crazy at the time.

Prince Charming ended up living with me for seven years. He sang for me, through good times and bad. He taught me more about crickets than anyone might want to know. He was, truly, part of my family before there was much of my family to speak of. He was the first animal Django could sign, and his was the first animal sound Django could imitate. He was important. He will be remembered long, and well. And he will be missed.

(p.s., 12/31/09...Turns out I never got any good photos of Prince Charming while he was alive. No surprise, really, since he was the circumference of a quarter, spent his life inside a 10-gal aquarium filled with plants, and was prone to camouflage. So I meant to posthumously take one at his funeral to attach here. But I haven't been able to let go of his little body yet. It's still in my freezer, along with my placenta, fyi. With any luck, they'll both be buried under a nice tree somewhere within the next 6 months. For now, here's a picture of Django playing the role of Prince Charming in a t-shirt he got from Laura for Christmas.)

Mother's Day #2

I'm still not accustomed to being one of the honorees on this holiday. So when a nice man cheerily waved and called out "Happy Mother's Day!" to me as Django & I briskly strolled past him on the top of Bernal Hill, what first came out of my mouth might best be captured as "BWAAHA!" -- before I regained my composure and shouted back a more appropriate, "Thanks!!"

I have been really feeling my mom-ness these last couple weeks, in my achy back and my soft & squishy belly. I realize I'm not so fluent in adult conversation anymore, either. But, man, I've got Djanguage down! And, I can lift 30lbs, floor to ceiling, from pretty much any angle, with one hand if completely necessary. So I feel pretty good.

I have been thinking a lot about a favorite teacher/mentor of mine, Herb Kohl, and a book he wrote titled, The Discipline of Hope. Its a book about Herb's career in education, but also about the power -- or, perhaps more accurately, the requirement -- of creativity and faith to transform almost any situation for the better. I've read, and really appreciated the inside of the book, but it's really the title I think about most often. Hope. Discipline. It's so easy to think you either "have" something like hope -- or patience, or time, or even love -- or you don't. But these are really things we make, anew, every day. Or we don't. The title reminds me that hope can be hard work, but good work, and I must. Practice, practice, practice.

On a lighter note, Jesus is in the house, and it turns out he's a WHOLE LOTTA fun. Who knew? (Thanks for putting that action figure in Django's Easter basket, Bubba Mike!)