Change, Not Chains

Today was my last day at the school I've been teaching at since 2001. A population decrease in the district necessitated lots of cuts and movement, and while no one lost their jobs (this time!) many people were displaced. Before I knew I was going to be one of them, I spent a lot of time talking to people about the benefits of change and I guess I must have convinced myself, as I wound up volunteering to leave (even though seniority would have allowed me to stay.) Below is the letter I sent out to the staff, explaining my decision, and even though it's personal to my situation, I've heard enough talk of change and transition out there (and not just about Caitlyn Jenner) to justify sharing it with you all as well. So, for what it's worth, here it is...

Hello, when I walked into school last Tuesday, the only thought on my mind was how relieved it felt to be "safe" from getting moved down. Sure, I felt a little guilty knowing others were getting displaced, but mostly I was just glad it wasn't me.

 6 hours later, I found myself VOLUNTEERING to be the one to go!

I was as surprised as anyone, and frankly, am still trying to wrap my head around it. But basically my thought process was: I LOVE teaching LA. I live in a world of words. I've read close to 40 books just since January. I've WRITTEN a couple books. I think and act and cope with life through the knowledge gleaned from books. I even have an English degree (which, apparently my professor was right, is not worth the paper it's printed on!) Plus, for the past 14 years, I've worked on the local, state, and national level to develop and improve the LA curriculum and assessments, as well as my own instruction and practice. So when I was informed that I'd be teaching Math next year, it just didn't work for me. I'm HORRIBLE at math. It's not a strength. It's not my passion. And while I'm sure I could have been good enough, I think the kids deserve better than that.

I only had a few short hours to process and decide all this, and in that time, I kept asking myself, "Why?" Why leave the comfort and security of a place I've known for the past 14 years? Why leave the friends and colleagues that have welcomed me into their classrooms, their homes, and their lives since 2001? Why have to pack up ALL my stuff and move? Why change my routines? 

The answer was NOT because I don't like math!

No, the answer was, as much as I fear it, I LIKE change. I truly believe that change keeps us young and sharp, and fresh. Change slows down time and keeps us from going through life on auto-pilot. Change is good.

Yes, I hear some of you wondering, "Well, isn't teaching math enough of a change?" And to that, all I can say is, I found myself more excited about the scary prospect of establishing myself in a new building than the safer choice of learning how to teach a new subject.

Granted, this all happened over the course of an evening, so I may soon be regretting this decision, but I know I made it with the best intentions, for me and the students. If all works out, our math teacher will stay where HE belongs, teaching 6th grade math, and I'll still be doing what I'm highly qualified to do...just away from the people I love. 

And that's the hardest part. We've been through so much together. Forget the school stuff. Over the past decade and a half, we've gone through everything from wakes to weddings, funerals to bat mitzvahs, concerts to happy hours, and from tailgating at retirement parties to illegally dumping a colleague's ashes! 

I do not expect to find another group of people who are more dedicated and generous in the act of teaching children as you all, but I promise to carry that spirit with me wherever I go. And for what it's worth, I don't plan to be gone long!

Thank you all for everything, especially your understanding. 

See you in town and around,

Mike

PS - don't worry, this year's staff party will still be at my house!

Don't Ever Leaf Me!

I collect stories the way others collect shells – shotgun or sea, it does not matter - I pick them up, brush them off, shine them up a little, examine them, and then either toss them back or place them in my pocket.

I’ve got stories about friends that I share with strangers, and stories about family I share with friends (and stories about myself I share with anyone who will listen.) Recently I heard what very well may be the BEST story ever told. It has memorable characters, an interesting set-up, a relatable premise, and an absolutely HILARIOUS pay-off – but, unfortunately, I can’t share it here...yet!

Ask me in person, and I’ll gladly tell it. Just be forewarned, it is awesomely awful! The sort of story you can’t unhear. I’ve already told it a dozen times since I picked it up last week, and it gets better each time.

As for a story I CAN share here, allow me to offer up an all-time fave. It’s one of many that come courtesy of my in-laws.  And while knowing them definitely adds to the humor, it’s still a good story for anyone...

Back about 25 years or so ago, my father-in-law was taking an Environmental Science course, part of which required a weekend of camping and canoeing down the Connecticut River with his classmates. 

He had his wife drive him up there, and when they arrived at the drop-off site, she was surprised to find a bunch of much younger students, mostly artsy, bearded dudes and  attractive, bra-less, free love hippie type women, all waiting to paddle off with her husband (and father of her two children) for a weekend in the woods.

As she waved goodbye from the shore -  he may have waved back – it was hard to tell among all the jiggling boobs and hoisted beer cans - she was certain she would never see him again.  So much so, that when she returned home, her first action was to remove the leaf from the kitchen table as her children looked on.

“Why did you do that?” the kids wanted to know.

“We don’t need it anymore,” she said. “Your father is never coming back!”

Of course, he did come back.  And remained a wonderful and faithful husband right up to (and through) her death in 2010 - but what I really love about the story is my mother-in-law’s physical reaction to cope with an emotional response. In her heart, she knew her husband would return, but the way she dealt with that shadow of a doubt in such a dramatic, yet sensible, manner, really pinpointed her personality for me. And even though I did not know her at the time it happened, hearing it retold cemented my respect for her. 

I know that to an outsider, this is probably just a funny story about the ups and downs of marriage. To friends and family, it might be the essence of Kathy captured in a nutshell.  To me, it's a time capsule peak into my wife's family before I came on the scene. And to you...well, you can share your reaction in the comments below! But that's the true mark of a good story, when both teller and listener come away with something to put in their pockets. 

Stuff It!

Eli, with his latest acquisition 

Our house is overrun with my son’s stuffed animals. There are HUNDREDS of creatures, from armadillos to zebras. Aliens. Robots. Dinosaurs. Not to mention the entire cast of Yo Gabba Gabba, all the Wonderpets, and a whole flock of Angry Birds.

I feel like Noah when I sit on the couch, or E.T. in the closet, surrounded (and in some cases, upon) my son’s menagerie. Admittedly, some DO make good pillows, but most have pointy pokey parts that violate my more sensitive areas. And many tend to squeak, shriek, or sing when you apply pressure on them, which never fails to freak me out.

So, after we recently managed to remove a carload of “hard” toys that he had outgrown by donating them to a local preschool, I thought we could do the same with the stuffed ones. Knowing how much he likes them (and recalling how he reacted when he caught me putting his Weeble Treehouse in the donation pile), my wife and I offered him a reasonable deal: For every ten stuffed animals he got rid of, we would buy him one new one.  It seemed like a true win-win, and I saw NO problems with this plan

Until he showed us the ten he designated for deportation.

“You can’t give away DJ Lance Rock!” my wife said.

“I LOVE those Ugly Dolls,” I whined.

“Grandma gave that to you!”

“He was you FAVORITE when you were a baby…”

“You won that at the carnival!”

“NOT BEAR-BEAR!”

It seemed like everything had sentimental value, and the ones HE wasn’t attached to, WE were.

“Try again,” we told him.

The Ten Castaways

The next time, he came back with the ones pictured above.  And while we (my wife and I) felt a little better about this selection, there were still some choices that left us with misgivings (indicated by sad faces L)

Top Row

Little Blue Bird: part of a cute shape sorting set that I got him for his first Christmas L

Little Bunny: something my wife had since SHE was a baby L

Bug Eyed Raccoon Looking Thing: Christmas gift from his cousin Jamie. I think it’s cool, but not overly attached

Green Alien in Underpants: Came with a book. I think he’s funny, but won’t miss it

Blue Moose: Eli’s favorite toy as an infant. It was strapped to his car seat and provided hours of entertainment. So much so, that when it got left behind in a restaurant, I drove back the next day to retrieve it L L L

Bottom Row

Red Bear(?): Good  riddance. That thing yelped and yodeled whenever you squeezed its belly, and could seriously bite your finger! NOTE: My wife just informed me she felt a tinge of sadness, as the Blue Bear(?) is still here, and apparently they hold hands and yelp and yodel in unison. I say trash them both!

Oogie Boogie: Bought last year on a whim. Eli shares my love for Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas, but apparently not for the bad guy in it L

Mangled Sock Monkey: Even though it only has one barely attached arm, no eyes, and stuffing coming out of it, his sister, Julianna, made it with her own two hands L L

Dollar Store Baby Doll: bought as a prop for a movie making camp I run. I have dozens of them, and we usually destroy several a summer. Eli found it in the back of my truck. Zero sentimental value (or real value, for that matter!)

Creepy Monkey: When its batteries are on, this armpit hair covered chimp emits oddly lifelike baby noises, and moves it eyes and mouth in a very unsettling way. Given to ME as a gag gift by my niece many years ago, this thing has made the rounds. I have regifted it several times, but it somehow always manages to find its way back to me. Jury is still out as to how I feel about it.

5 out of 10? In all honesty, this is shocking to me. I truly believed I’d be happy if ALL the animals disappeared, yet here I am, fretting over 50% of them? What the hell happened to me? Did I suddenly turn softer than the creatures I was looking to evict? I’ve never been particularly sentimental. Sure,  every once in a while, I’m surprised by what I find myself attached to, but this is ridiculous!

Personally,  I think it was the selection process. Had a genie showed up and took them all away with a wave of his wand (or whatever the hell genies use) I think I would have been okay. But seeing the poor little guys getting selected and rejected by the boy who once loved them made be sad.

Not sad enough to save the furry freaks, mind you, but sad just the same.

Hide and Sneak

I’m not sure what I just did…

I just got back from Home Depot with my 5-year old, where he had made a heart-shaped box that he wanted to give to his mother on Valentines Day, and he asked me where he could put it so she wouldn’t see it.

I refrained from the obvious joke: “In the closet, next to the vacuum cleaner,” and went with the obvious answer: “In your bedroom.”

He looked at me wide-eyed. “In my bedroom?”

Now, up to this point, I had taken full responsibility for the hiding of gifts. Christmas and birthday presents that “we” bought for her, I left in my truck. Handmade things he created for her, I stowed in the garage.  So, I mistook his confusion as simply surprise that I was deviating from the script.

“Sure,” I said. “Run up there now while she’s in the other room.”

“But she goes in there!” he said. “She’ll see it tonight, because it’s her turn to read me a story.”

“Just put it somewhere where you don’t think she’ll look…”

“You mean, I can hide things in my room?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

Oh shit, what did I just do?  Did it really never occur to this boy that that’s precisely what bedrooms are for? 

I know he’s only five, but isn’t it ingrained in our DNA that bedrooms have doors, and doors equal privacy?

Then again, based on how he disregards bathroom doors, I shouldn’t have been surprised. It took me weeks to train him that, when in a public bathroom, it was not polite to peek under the closed stall door to “see who was in there.”

At least he’s always been pretty good about bedroom doors, knowing he should knock before entering.  Granted, he does not wait for our permission to enter, but there’s usually enough time for us to, um, disengage, thus saving any awkward explanations about why we were just acting out the cover of Hop on Pop.

But there I was, enlightening my son that his room was not just a place to sleep and play, but also a place to keep secrets from his parents.  And even though it’s common knowledge, and a basic human need, it still felt wrong.  It was like I was teaching him how to be devious. 

Growing up, I had three older brothers, so I knew all about closed doors and hiding spots. But even if I was an only child, there’s no way my dad would have taken me aside and said, “Son, see how this here mattress lifts up? It’s the perfect spot for hiding thin items, like, maybe, that Cosmo mag you “borrowed” from your mom. As for things that you don’t want to crush, like, say, that pack of cigarettes you stole from me?  That old Boggle game in your closet, the one with the missing timer and no E cube, is a great place. Now, let me tell you what you can do with those socks in your top drawer…”

Disturbing, right? But I feel like that’s what I just did. On a much smaller scale of course.  It just never occurred to me that being sneaky is a learned behavior.  I assumed it was something we are all born with. Yet, I clearly just taught my kid his first lesson on how to hide things from his mother. Sure, it was for a cute reason, and he has the best of intentions, but how long until he’s using the same strategy for “bad” reasons? 

I’m not looking forward to those days, but at least I’ll know where to start looking!

A Belated Thanks

An icon from my childhood just passed away, and the sadness I felt upon hearing the news showed me just how hard this poor woman had to work to earn my respect.  I know that sounds strange, and cruel, and basically, it is. You see, even though I grew up with a good group of kids in a great neighborhood, for whatever reason, we needed a common nemesis, and Mrs. Bednarik filled that role.

She was older than the other parents. Her son was overweight. She never tipped me as her paperboy. The list goes on.

Okay, it really doesn’t. And even the three items on the list do not merit the abuse we heaped on her and her family. Yet hers was the only house we egged and TP’d on Mischief Night.  Her son was the only one we ridiculed and bullied at the bus stop. And her paper was the last one I’d deliver.

We were good kids, but we did some cruel things. I don’t why. There seems to be this odd Lord of the Flies period between the ages of 9 and 12 where kids feel this need to demonstrate their powers of destruction. Toys get destroyed. Property gets defaced. Feelings get hurt. Yet try as we might, we could not break Mrs. Bednarik.

When we started aiming our terrible sights at her son, she took to waiting at the bus stop with us. She was the only parent out there, braving the elements and ridicule to protect her son. She tried a variety of tactics, from bribing us with candy, threatening us with punishment, and hurling some mean comments of her own toward us.

I’m not sure if her approach worked, or if it was a stage we eventually grew out of, but we did end up becoming much friendlier with her son. There were football games in their yard, video games in their house, and I remember going with him and his dad to my first automated car wash.  All under her watchful eye.

She had no reason to trust us, yet we felt insulted by her suspicions, which was really just an excuse to continue casting her as the neighborhood villain. So even as we played with her son by day, we still soaped up her driveway by night.

What can I say? We were jerks.

If we had one of those Wonder Years/Stand By Me-style narrators following us around and romanticizing our actions and exploits, he might be able to excuse our behaviors by talking about how we were just looking for a dragon to slay. That growing up in a middle-class neighborhood with no real problems caused us to go out and create some of our own. That Mrs. Bednarik, with her foghorn voice, quick to anger disposition, and refusal to ever back down, was a perfect target for our adolescent slings and arrows.

But even if he was right, we were still wrong.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t until years later that I realized that those very same qualities that made her a target were what made her worthy of my respect.

She was outspoken.

She was a fighter. 

She was loyal.

She never gave up. 

Sure, she was gruff. I know many adults who were afraid of her. But as I grew up, literally and figuratively, I began to see a softer side as well. Still a bit prickly, not exactly warm, but certainly softer.

When I was 15, her husband died, and Mrs. Bednarik had to get her driver’s license. Problem was, she was 53, and had never driven a car!  She made it very clear that she would not rely on anyone for help or rides, so she did what she had to do to take and pass the driver’s test. Even as a kid, I remember thinking that was pretty brave of her.

Somehow, after that, roughly twenty years passed without our paths crossing, until I found myself married and attending the same church as Mrs. Bednarik.  At first I was afraid, worried she would still (rightfully) hold a grudge, but she seemed genuinely happy to see me. So much so, that some other members later approached me, wanting to know what my secret was!

But SHE was the one with the secrets. For instance, I had no idea what a great baker she was until she started pointing out to me that all the cakes I’d been sampling during Coffee Hour were made by her. I also had no clue she could sing, but there she was, up in front with the choir every Sunday.  

She made no secret of her many ills and ailments, opening many conversations with her latest health concern – but it was never “woe is me,” it was just a matter of fact. Matters she bore with great strength and dignity, as she continued to go about her daily business in spite of her cane, or walker, or oxygen tank.

It was also no secret how much she loved her son. They were inseparable, and could often be seen out and about together; shopping and dining, while people watching and drolly commenting on the state of the world. My mom was overjoyed if we went to church with her on Easter, but they went together every Sunday. And they went everywhere else together, too. I may have come a long way from those days at the bus stop, but the two of them never changed, remaining protective and true to each other right through to the end.

I can’t take back all the dumb things I said and did as a kid, but I’m glad I had the chance to at least connect with you as an adult. I didn’t have the guts to say I was sorry when I had the chance, so I won’t bother now - but I WILL do my best to try and impart what I learned to my son, so that maybe he can avoid that disturbing, destructive phase of slaying imaginary dragons, and put his energy towards simply treating others with kindness and respect.  

So, thank you, Mrs. Bednarik. Thank you for tolerating me and teaching me and forgiving me. I may not have always appreciated you, but I do now. 

The Parting Glass

As someone with ZERO musical ability – seriously, I can’t even play the radio (and I suck at musical chairs!) – I consider myself extremely fortunate to have spent my entire adult life in the company of many talented musicians.  For whatever reason, almost every one of my friends either plays in a band or is in a relationship with someone who is. And while many come and go, two bands, Hubinger Street and the Highland Rovers, have been providing the soundtrack to my social life for the past twenty years. Unfortunately, one of them is calling it quits.

I first saw the Highland Rovers before they even had a name. I’m not sure if it was their very first show, but they were definitely soliciting the audience at the brand new Gaelic club for suggestions.  I admit, at the time I was more impressed with the discounted drink prices and incredible interior of the club, and frankly did not pay the band that much attention. But I was there! As were many others, who I would soon become quite familiar with in the coming years as they followed the band on their tipsy travels throughout the state…and beyond.

The first time the band got MY attention was with a funny sing-a-long to the tune of Do-Re-Mi… only it was “Do, is what we pay for beer. Re, the guy who pours the beer. Mi, the guy who drinks the beer. Fa, the distance to the bar. So, I think I’ll have a beer. La, la la la la la laaa! Ti, tanks I’ll have a beer. And that brings us back to Do, oh, oh oh…” What can I say? I was young and fresh out of college and used to playing drinking games, and here were a trio of guys who were basically a living, breathing drinking game. What wasn’t to like?

But I soon learned to appreciate them for their true talents. Whether it was spot-on renditions of Irish classics, truly original originals, or inspired covers of modern hits, the boys had talent. And their hilarious interplay between songs was worth the price of admission alone. They could sing. They could play. They could make you laugh. And they could drink! Again, I ask you, what wasn’t to like?

And I was not alone. The size of the crowds continued to grow with each passing show. And as word of the boys’ charms spread, the look of the crowd changed as well. No longer was it just wool wrapped, kilt wearing, tam sporting Irishmen and women, there were other people there too. Hippies and yuppies and rockers and jocks. It was like the Breakfast Club. Make that the Irish Breakfast Club, minus the black pudding!  And speaking of breakfast, the Rovers also introduced a new generation to the glorious, but overlooked, “classic” by the Fabulous Farquahr,  “My Eggs Don’t Taste the Same Without You.”

I also did my part to introduce new people to the band. While it was not always easy convincing my friends to give up a chance to see established (and, let’s be honest, cooler!) acts like Simple Jim, Deep Banana Blackout, or Gargantua Soul, in order to check out those “Irish guys in vests” - but once they did, they were hooked. 

Unfortunately, as VH-1 has made all too clear with their documentaries, no band is devoid of drama, and The Rovers had their “Behind the Music” moment when the trio became a duo (before remerging as a quintet, and ultimately a sextet!) But the changes added new life to the band and for whatever reason, seemed to push them to reach for new heights, both creatively and professionally. I wasn’t privy to the conversations, but imagine that the break-up was sort of a wake up call, where they realized how quickly things can change and that they needed to make the most of the situation. And did they ever!

As the years passed, the boys expanded their ever-growing fan base and journeyed further away from their home base.  And while we’re talking about bases, who can forget their gig at Shea Stadium?  Or their nationally televised appearance on FOX? Not to mention their Marshall Tucker period, where founding member, Doug Gray, served as mentor and head cheerleader, inviting the Rovers to open for, and join, his band on stage.  But what impressed ME the most were their St. Patrick’s Day gigs, where they would play a full 3-hour set somewhere in Connecticut, complete with shots…and more shots, then jump on a bus and play another full set up in Boston!

On a more personal note, the band was somewhat responsible for the completion of my first novel, Alchemy. I had an idea for a story, and wrote the first chapter, back in the early 90’s, but it did nothing but collect dust until I tore my Achilles tendon dancing at a Highland Rovers show in 2004. Laid up for several months, and with nothing better to do with my time, I dug out the old manuscript and started typing away. A few years later, I was thrilled to be able to present them each with a copy of the finished book.

Equally thrilling was kissing my wife, Sarah, for the first time…which, wait for it, was at a Highland Rover’s St. Paddy’s show at O’Neill’s! Technically she wasn’t my wife at the time, but she soon would be (coincidentally right around the time the band released a song called Sara, which, even though it was about the birth of a band member’s daughter, and missing an H, applied to my new-found love as well: “Sara, you’re the answer to the questions my heart has been asking…”

And then there was the wedding of my childhood friend, the VERY Irish Mary Callahan, who married the even MORE Irish Jimmy Kelleher, and naturally they hired the Rovers to play their reception.  The highlight of the evening, and one of my favorite memories ever, was when they played “Goodbye, Mary” – an original song about a guy who finds out a lost love is getting married, which while having no connection to the bride, was both funny and apropos as it sent them on their merry way with the refrain, “I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

And I want to wish The Highland Rovers all the happiness in the world.  You guys (and gal) have provided me, and thousands of others, with wonderful music and memories for the past twenty years, and we owe you (and your patient families!)  a debt of gratitude for sharing your gifts with us. As much as I would like to have you play on forever, I know all good things must come to an end. And while my heart and soul and feet will miss you and your music, my liver is heaving a huge sigh of relief!

 I’m also a little sad that you won’t be able to teach my 5-year old how to swear, as many a young one has learned to shout “BULLSHIT” whenever they hear, “And his fate is still unlearned.”  And god help those who ask who Alice is!

But in all seriousness, thank you. Thank you all. Thank you, Tommy and Jimmy and Billy. Thank you, Al and Jeff and Michael. Thank you, Colleen and Turk and the Madden Group. Thank you, friends and fans and families.  Thank you for the music, the mayhem, and the memories. And thanks again for snapping my fucking tendon, you bastards!!!!

Good night, and joy be with you all

Moving On (With Mixed Emotions)

I never thought I’d feel anything but pure, unadulterated joy when I no longer had to pay for childcare  - but as I dropped my son off for his last day at A Child’s Garden, those were not tears of joy seeping from my eyes. Turns out, I’m really going to miss that place. As will my son!

Eli has been going to A Child’s Garden since he was five months old. Like most parents, when we made the decision to put our kid in daycare, we felt guilty, thinking, “No one can give our kid the same love and care that we can,” – but they did. So much so that we still felt guilty, only it changed to, “We can never provide as much fun, education, interaction as they can!”

On rare days off, it was a constant struggle to keep up with what he had come to expect from the day. By lunch time, I was the one needing the nap. And we only had the one kid! I still have no idea how they did it, but I was continually amazed at what he came home with, be it artwork, a new skill, vocabulary, even mannerisms. He wasn't just being watched, He was being raised. By people who loved and appreciated him almost as much as we did.

Each new year brought a twinge of trepidation, as every time Eli was transitioned up, we worried that the next room’s teachers could never be as good as the previous ones. But from Miss Jane in the baby room to Miss Kim with the toddlers and Miss ‘Sette in the 3-4-year olds up to Mr. Ben in with the five-year olds, we were always happy and comfortable with who was taking care of our boy. And there were MANY more, but I don't want to start naming them, as I’m afraid to leave someone out. Suffice to say, we loved EVERYONE!

On the days when I picked our son up, I always tried to sneak into the room so I could catch him in action (otherwise, he’d drop what he was doing and rush over to give me a big hug), and I was always impressed with what they were doing. I’d often walk in to find over a dozen 3- and 4-year olds seated around a table, conducting an elaborate science experiment – and NO ONE was ever arguing, or messing with things they weren’t supposed to, or clamoring over who was next. They were always fully engaged and active learners. My wife and I are both veteran elementary school teachers, and it was eye-opening (and a bit embarrassing) to see the staff getting pre-schoolers to cooperate and participate with such interest, while we struggled to get our 6th graders to simply stay in their seats!

And not only did they have fun, they learned! I’ll never forget bringing Eli to visit my mom one summer afternoon when he was around three. A thunderstorm came rolling through, and when Eli jumped at a particularly loud rumble of thunder, my mom tried to calm him by saying, “Don’t worry, that’s just the angels bowling.” Eli looked her dead in the eye and said, “No, it’s not. It’s the sound of a warm and cold front coming together.”  My mom looked at me, as if to say, “Where does he get this stuff?” But I knew right away. It was Miss ‘Sette!

There are so many examples of things my son learned without our assistance. Sure, we helped, but it was at A Child’s Garden where he first started to dress himself, use the potty, clean up after himself (still has not mastered THAT one at home!) read and write, count money, tell time, play fair, share, show compassion, use his manners, draw, color, feed himself, walk a balance beam, celebrate the holidays (even ones I never knew existed), dress up, dress down, cut, glue, pedal, meet fireman and policemen and magicians and Santa, nap, build, climb, jump, dance, sing, and smile, smile, smile. We have an entire wall in our kitchen cover with photographs taken at school (and the other three walls covered in artwork created there) And in every picture, and on every drawing, is a smile.  

Here’s proof, in case you don’t believe me:

Five years of smiles and support and sincere concern for my child’s well-being. Five years of Open Houses and family picnics and holiday celebrations. Five years of summer camps and Back to School nights and birthday parties (OMG the birthday parties! I’ll shed no tears if I never step foot in Bounce U again!) Five years of making multi-course lunches and making sure the backpack was packed (and ALWAYS making drop-off and pick-up on time, but only because they open early and close late!) And most importantly, five years of never having to worry about what was going on with my kid between the hours of 8-4, M-F, as I knew he was safe, happy, and engaged. 

Five years that felt like five months. And now my son is off to kindergarten. I KNOW he’s prepared. I KNOW he’s ready. I KNOW he’s excited. And I know just who to thank for it. A Child’s Garden.

I just never knew I’D be the one so sad to say goodbye L