Sunday, February 27, 2022

Mariupol Basements


Look, here's a picture of two-year-old me, sitting snug in my jammies on my grandfather's lap in our basement at home. As a first-phase renovation of their tiny lakeside fishing cottage, my parents literally dug this basement by hand before we were born, with nothing but a pair of shovels and their own determination. My mom cozied up the space to turn it into an agreeable sleeping area and playroom for us kids until a phase two addition with proper bedrooms came along a few years later. The basement went on to serve other needs for our family, such as an impromptu hockey rink and a bunker for watching Hogan's Heroes, but more than any others, I treasure the days of waking up in my snug Michigan basement bed full of dolls and teddies, feeling safe, warm, and loved. 

* * * * *

This year, I have a math student who is from Ukraine. He has fairly recently been adopted by a local American family, but he grew up in his motherland in a city to the southeast called Mariupol. His childhood was not easy and he spent years in an orphanage so the friends that he made along the way and his older sisters who looked after him are especially near and dear to his heart. 

This week, when the Russian army invaded Ukraine, Mariupol came under heavy fire.

Thank goodness, my student is safe here in the States. But his loved ones remain in the city.

They are hunkered down in a basement together, a group of young people mostly cut off from the rest of the world as shells fall relentlessly overhead. Cell phones work intermittently, as electricity is available to keep them charged. My student tries to talk to his sisters every day, and they tell him in no uncertain terms that they are terrified. 

He is terrified for them. 

These Ukrainians hiding in their Mariupol basements are not safe. And I doubt very much that they are warm. But I hope they know that the whole world is praying for them, and I hope they know that they are loved. 

* * * * *

Glory to Ukraine! Glory to the heroes! More stories about an unjust war:

I Pray For Ukraine

Life of A Math Teacher: Unifix Cubes

Mariupol Basements


Saturday, February 26, 2022

Baron

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1Q2k1oo259brCOaa5-zEABUXU5WB3S9L1

Because of Baron, it's always been important to me that my dogs exude maximum friendliness. 

Good old Gracie ticks all the boxes. 

We had the sidewalk to ourselves in the home stretch of our walk when I notice that Gracie, who'd been trotting along at an easy 15 feet ahead of me, suddenly slows her pace. As I cruise up alongside her, she carefully moves into her "heel" position at my left side, and presses herself against my leg. 

A quick look tells me everything.

Across the street, walking with his own human, is a big black dog. Short-haired and long-legged with upright triangular ears, dogs with these features seem to intimidate Gracie, and I suspect she's had some unfortunate encounters with big black dogs in her past.

I understand exactly how she feels. 

* * * * *

His name was Baron. 

He was an big black dog with sleek fur and triangle-y stand-up ears, and he lived at the far end of my little lakeside neighborhood. Baron spent most days hanging out in his open garage which stood just a few feet off the narrow track that passed for a neighborhood road. With my mom, I'd encountered Baron many times; he'd bark an aggressive blue streak at us, but when my mother boldly commanded him to go home, he would obediently shut his mouth and slink back into the shadows of the garage. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1Qj70iX13RVKkSRZe_U81lp2HR8ovAhmN

Although some people mistake Gracie for a little red bear, 

I've never met a single person who was afraid of her.

One winter day when I was a bitty little thing, my mother and my younger brothers and I went to visit some newfound family friends who lived in the next neighborhood over from ours, beyond Baron's house. Wrapped up against the cold, I trudged with my mom along our familiar snow-covered neighborhood lane as it passed the back sides of houses that fronted onto the lake, past Baron's house, along an unfamiliar section of beach, across an even more unfamiliar lakeside park and down a completely foreign lane to our friends' house. 

It was, for my experience, a long, exciting and wildly exotic journey.

We visited for an hour before my mom announced that it was time to get home for my baby brother's mid-morning nap. I was more than happy to head back, but my playmate announced that she was not ready for me to go. In fact, she wanted me to stay for lunch. 

Quickly, the moms put together a plan for me to do just that. They determined that I could walk back home by myself - "You know the way; just follow the lake," my mom coached me - and so it was decided.

A few hours later, this unfamiliar mother bundled me up in my Michigan snowsuit, called my mom to tell her I was on my way, and gently pushed me out the door.

I should probably mention that I was just barely four years old. 

And I was easily a half mile away from home. 

I was a cautious but capable little thing, and I brought all my powers to bear on my journey. The first leg of the trip towards home - down the friends' lane, through the park, across the beach - was formidable. But I remembered my mother's advice - just follow the lake - and soon enough, I found myself back in the more familiar terrain of my own neighborhood. 

Weak with relief, I trudged along the snowy path toward home. The scary part of my trip was over.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1gnaUg-OhVFEsSajc1MutYOTsncKBiULt

She will not bark in your face. Ever. I promise. 

But I had forgotten all about Baron. And sure enough, just as I passed by his garage, he came rushing out. His big, black face staring defiantly into mine, Baron began to bark.

I was terrified. 

I thought of how my mom handled Baron. How she stood her ground in front of him, and commanded him to go home. I summoned up all of my four-year-old nerve and delivered the same message: "Baron, go home!"

But Baron did not go home. 

In fact, Baron stepped closer to me. And then closer again. Barking and snarling with increasing enthusiasm. His flashing white teeth terrified me and all I could think of to do was to back up.

I backed up around the perimeter of his fenced-in yard.

I backed up to the edge of the frozen lake. 

Baron followed me, matching every one of my backward steps with a forward step of his own.

His barking intensified.

Now he had me pinned up against the shore of the lake. Desperately seeking an avenue of escape, I saw only one option. I backed up and out onto the well-frozen ice. 

Baron still followed me.

In fact, he seemed to gain confidence as my terror grew. 

Further and further out onto the ice he forced me, barking with every step. While I was slowly making progress toward my house, I was back-stepping further and further away from shore. At least a hundred feet out in the middle of the desolately empty and icy frozen lake. 

At this point, I was sobbing uncontrollably, icy tears rolling down my face, terrified beyond words.

And then I looked up.

High on the hill above the lake sat my house, strong and safe.

Against the white snow, I saw a tiny figure rushing across our yard and down the steps toward the shore. 

My mother was coming to save me.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=19z7yNJO3eoKhpHRJemylGW2I4iHzdAzC

The general lay of the land. 

Later, I learned that since the phone call notifying her of my departure, she'd been watching for me, stepping out the door and peering down the lane from time to time in hopes of seeing me marching toward home. It was after a handful of these lookouts that she finally noticed a tiny child standing in the middle of the frozen lake as a big black dog stood between her and the shore. That quick glance explained everything.

Still sobbing, I stayed frozen on the spot as my mother slipped out onto the ice, crossed the considerable distance to where I stood, and scooped me up in her arms. She shooed away the still barking Baron, then quickly carried me toward home.

* * * * *

Gracie is still pressing her big, strong, shaggy red body against my leg, and she glances across the street, keeping her eye on this big black stranger. 

He may be perfectly harmless but I understand.

I reach down to pat Gracie's back as we pass the Baron look-alike, and I quickly walk my girl toward home.  

Thursday, February 24, 2022

To the Slough

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=17IK8nJOzOM2AvrAxre9gBWeMz-4UX5QW
Turning 28

Happy birthday to my one and only fourth-born. You celebrate today on 2.22.22 with our annual outing to the great outdoors, and I can't imagine any place you'd rather be than among the waves and wind, the mountains and sky, in the heart of the Pacific Northwest. I watch you stomp across the slough in your rubber boots, impervious to the squelching mud and the near-freezing temperatures as you strategize this way and that, seeking the best route to the sandy strip of beach that lies far beyond the established paths. Patient and determined, you keep working until you figure out how to get exactly where you want to go. 

And I see that as no small metaphor for your life. Your path wanders, and even fades away among last year's windswept cat tails. The way forward is decidedly unclear. But with your goal ever clear in your mind, you forge ahead and make of your life something as glorious and free as the world you love to explore. And I am thankful to watch you find your way. 

* * * * *

Skagit Bay Estuary is a wide, low, and lonely place. On the west, a winter wetland guards access to the sea, green leafy sentries of summer turned brown have fallen across the muddy landscape; a few ancient and battered beach log projectiles lay tumbled a considerable distance from the open water, remnants of a ferocious long-ago storm. To the east, farm fields dot the countryside with irrigation channels weaving through and around to promise fresh water to the crops that  look out across this corner of the Pacific Ocean.

In between stands a dike wall. Tall, grassy, wide enough for a small car but designed for humans only. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1el3SsDkgKstDYNyttAzDR9hLV4KpB4uY
https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1q6WMkJxmXTSaYuGzski3wYWx6KwpDrK7
 
And dogs. 

A few white patches of snow remain from last night's flurries; today's freezing temperatures tempt them to hide among the grasses and live on into the new day. 

.https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1NmbG6pANfrGNPQzM0h_GLi_thtvaPQnA

Our goal - or more precisely, my birthday girl's goal - is to traverse this mucky mess and end up at the shore line. 

And I am entirely game to take on that challenge. Until my feet sink time and time again into the wet mud, and my sneaker-clad feet begin to protest. My daughters are cleverly wearing boots. 

So it is determined that I will head back toward the dike and transit along the drier ground at its base while my daughters follow a similar route alongside the water's edge. 

Gracie is invited to join Team Waterfront but when she sees that I'm heading in a different direction, she digs her heels into her own little patch of muck, locks eyes with me, and refuses the offer. 

"Fine," I say. "You can come with me."

She happily complies, leaping over ruts and channels, adeptly trotting up and down beach logs, and showing off all of her outdoorsy chops. 

We have a wonderful time straggling along, wind whipping us to and fro. The only sounds we hear are the occasional squawks and cries of the local birds - great blue heron, snow goose, osprey, bald eagle - and our own squelching steps. 

There are no humans or man-made structures (except, I suppose, the dike) anywhere in sight. 

And in a moment that, when taken out of context, may sound macabre or at least profoundly melancholy, I thought to myself that this would be a beautiful and satisfying place to die. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1rJw4q3XrScU3f8EmBKp4Bltmlv4dV_Zwhttps://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1kitPEv7HzSQDlvfOiCJFI8pjpWnMqdiI

We reached the rendezvous spot first, Gracie and I, and pulled up alongside a big, bleached beach log just the right size for a rest. With that generous bit of windbreak, the pale sun warmed us. I took off my hat and gloves, and let the wind whip my hair in every direction. 


https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1f3UcS3HSbIarRCD2OQune7fTsaEcA1Iuhttps://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1gh2a8NUn9cm9qgM98PPOdpV1hXM_rknD

We heard them before we saw them. That same wind carried my daughters' voices up from the beach; Gracie cocked her head and listened intently. 

Soon, my fourth-born's brilliant yellow puffer popped into view and we watched them slowly slog through the marshy landscape straight toward us. Gracie was delighted to see them coming, but waited at my side as they approached. Her patience was rewarded with a few treats hidden away in my pocket. 

We swapped stories about our adventures, and my fourth-born allowed that she'd really like to approach the water from a different angle, hoping to land on the smooth and sandy section of beach that she saw but could not quite reach from her first attempt.

My feet still dripping, I allowed that Gracie and I would be content to hike the dike wall and view their progress from that vantage point. 

So off we all went. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1DRKMGFWheipzF0IjMH8APO0BEEurHtGH

Gracie and I spent the rest of the sunny winter afternoon frisking along on our grassy causeway. We stopped now and then to watch the birds sail by, to pull long brambles out of her fur, to feel the wind in our faces. To breathe in deep and feel fully alive. 

When the day was done, we met at the car, all our cheeks bright pink, then drove home for birthday dinner and peach pie. 

And that night we all had a very good sleep. 

Thursday, February 17, 2022

How It Is To Be Loved

 https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1_4k8a6pBPvNUrvWIOYvnkWMCovKUZrAG

Craning my neck, and dodging to peek around my fellow pedestrians and assorted vehicles, I get a clear line of sight to my car in the parking lot. And then I begin to search her out.

Her fuzzy silhouette pops against the light streaming through the windows; I see her before she sees me.

She's sitting prim and proper behind the steering wheel - in my seat - and her ears are up; she is alert, attentive, and clearly on the hunt for me.

In a flash, her ears drop into low, furry red waterfalls, and I know she's seen me.

A giant smile breaks out on my face. I can't help myself. 

Shining brown eyes track my every move as I walk up to the driver's side door, and she eagerly accommodates my return by hopping into the back seat.

Hello, sister!

As I slide into my seat, she's already circled around in the back seat and now leans forward again, pressing her cold wet nose into my face and taking an enormous, shuddering deep breath.

This is how my dog greets me. By breathing me in. 

The mechanics are a bit sloppy but my heart understands.

She literally drinks in the scent of me, and I feel how it is to be loved. 


Happy Valentine's Day from Gracie and me. 

Friday, February 11, 2022

Year Of The Tiger

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1KbAfL78XMhGadN03DM1TCdt87SGJngaU
I knew I saved all those Beanie Babies for a reason. 

It's that time of year again when you'll find me scooping up armloads of fresh red and yellow flowers, sweeping the house from top to bottom (for good luck!) and digging through our stuffed animal stash for that one certain specimen..

Yes, it's Happy Lunar New Year timez! 

It was only ten years ago that I fell in love with this ancient celebration, and wouldn't you know that I was led to enlightenment by two little children. 

Audra and Madelen.

We studied history together, these sisters and I, along with several other homeschooled kids in a sweet little class, and as the holiday approached, they saw fit to use their weekly presentation time to introduce the rest of us to the customs of the celebration.

Both girls were born in China and soon transplanted to the United States. Their gentle eight- and ten-year-old faces bloomed with pride as they shyly explained to us their homeland's traditional holiday decorations and dishes, not to mention the red envelopes stuffed with lucky money.

I don't recall the specific words that Audra and Madelen spoke to us that day. I'm pretty sure that they fed us some rice and showed us photos of dancing dragons and red paper lanterns strung up against the sky, but I have no specific memories of exactly what happened.

What I do remember with crystal clarity is their two small shining faces, flushed with excitement as well as solemn responsibility for bringing such an important part of their native land to life in a classroom far across the sea. 

Audra and Madelen.

I treasure their deeply tender and heartfelt emotions and my heart still swells with love and gratitude - ten years later - for the precious gifts they gave to me that day. 

The gift of understanding each other better.
The gift of celebrating life together. 
The gift of sharing joy with our fellow human beings..

Audra and Madelen, 

Thank you. 

Wednesday, February 9, 2022

Best Mom Ever



I was flicking through stories on Instagram when my thumb came to a screeching halt and my eyeballs recoiled in horror. 

A decor and DIY influencer and mother to a darling four-year-old boy was listing out other Instagram ladies who inspire her, and named another influencer mama as "the best mom ever."

Mamacitas, please. Let's leave the superlatives and rankings to the top tier Olympic athletes and remind ourselves, once again, that mothering is not a competition. 

There is no such thing as an overall, prize-winning, gold medal "best mom ever."

And not a single one of us moms should waste any of our precious time and energy by comparing ourselves to other moms in that way.

But just in case you are the kind of mom who occasionally finds herself looking at the other moms whose kids are not eating sticks at the park or making peanut butter mohawks in their hair, and consequently worrying about whether you measure up, let me assure you.

You - yes, YOU - are the best mom ever for your kids. 

Whether we birth or adopt, we parents do not choose our children. We have no control over 

their personalities,
their temperaments, 
their needs, 
their gifts, 
their adorable and occasionally annoying quirks. 

Some One, some Thing, some Force of the Universe chooses our children for us. I call that force God, and I dare to believe that he makes no mistakes. 


Our children come to us because they are destined to be ours, and we are destined to be theirs. 

And despite all the emotional bumps and bruises of life together, there is no one on this planet who can be a better mother to your children than you. 

You - yes, YOU - are the best mom ever for your child. 

So who cares if other mothers are sedately leading their two-year-olds through hour-long origami sessions or teaching their kindergartners to bake a souffle while you and your kid are throwing Cheerios to the dog who expertly catches them on the fly. 

And what difference does it make if you and your child prefer to lie outdoors in the grass and stare up at the sky while other parents are helping their kids perfect their soccer moves or sewing ribbons on toe shoes for their darling's starring role in The Nutcracker?


Trust me, it's perfectly fine if your kids go to the beach, and instead of water-coloring the landscape or turning a row of perfect cartwheels in the damp sand, they choose to, um, suck on rocks. And not only do you let them, but you laugh and take a photo. 

What I'm saying is that there are lots of wonderful ways to be a kid, and as parents, we have lots of wonderful ways to support them. 

So please, mamas, watch and learn as your children grow and adventure into the world. Find out what makes each one tick and cheer them on. Encourage them and comfort them, as each day's ups and downs require. And trust yourself to be the best mom ever for your children.

Because that is exactly what you are.