Sixteen years ago today I was waiting to give birth to my first baby.  Today, I’m waiting for that baby to take her first SATs.  The words of my grandmother ring loudly in my ears, reminding me of how fast the time goes.

I always thought that was old people just complaining, whining about missed opportunities and broken promises.  I wondered if they wished they had done life differently, had spent more time pushing their kids in the swing or reading them bedtime stories.  I briefly considered how that would feel, and tucked it away inside that long list of things I would never do as a parent, a list carefully created over years of trying to correct other parents mistakes that ended up in my classroom.

She was probably in her eighties when I started noticing the pain in her voice as she recalled her glory days of pigtails, freshly ironed short pants and dinners around the oval oak dinner table.  Most vestiges of her children were long ago relics of days she cherished, only the occasional tear in her eye as evidence of when she felt truly happy.

Sixteen years ago, I was not thinking of the memories that would be building from the moment she was born; I was thinking of how strong I could be to make it through the labor, and not much else.  I worried about how life would change and could I do all the right mommy moves to make sure she was safe, nourished, and nurtured.  Never did I think this far into the future that she would be walking out of my car and working towards leaving me.

As I sit here, watching car after car pull in, I tense as the clock ticks towards the starting time.  Kids continue to pour in even after they have no hope of admission through the testing door.  I watch them come back, rejected, and notice a mom not willing to take no for an answer.  Her son protests as she resolutely marches him back in, determined to give him another chance.  Minutes later when she returns alone, I see love etched into every fiber of her face; the kind of strength it sometimes takes to be a parent.

Sixteen years ago, I had no idea what it would take to be a parent.  I knew it was something I wanted for my life, not understanding the determination, dedication and sheer will it would take.  I didn’t understand why it would be so hard to watch her ride off on her bike alone, to let go of her hand at the corner of the school building, or let her take over the car steering wheel.  I did not imagine the pain of watching her cry or struggle through friendships that had ended or defeats on the ski hill.  I didn’t comprehend the many, many hours I would lose sleep to hold her tight, rock her gently, or support her through the different phases of growing up.

Sixteen years ago I never imagined the tests my baby would put me through, or how she would help me grow into a better human.  When she walks back to me today I will welcome her with the swirls of my grandmother’s voice running through my head, and realize that what she said really is true:  they do grow up so fast, and the years pass by far too quickly.  I will lock this memory into my mind, knowing all too well that when she finishes this test, another will present itself, challenging me to dig deep and take it on.

 It has nothing to do with driving-I like that, too, especially when it’s on the open highway.  What I’m talking about are those rare moments when I’m completely locked in my glass bubble.  The engine isn’t running, the radio is silent, and if I’m lucky, the rain is gently falling on the roof.

When I was a kid, I used to love going in our garage when it was raining just to listen to the soft, rhythmic sound of rain hitting the shake shingles.  It felt safe, quiet, and I guess meditative, although I had no idea what that was at the time.

Today, I spend my days in an endless gurgle of people wanting, needing, and questioning.  My continuous ‘response with a smile’ feels exhausting by 4p.m. and I find myself craving quiet.  That is where the car comes in.

I don’t slip out to the garage and leave my family inside the house wondering what’s up with Mom.  I don’t drive around the block searching for a place to park.  Sometimes I do linger after I’ve arrived home, savoring the last of the NPR story, or taking a few deep breaths to center myself.

My car sitting time is often while I’m waiting for my son or daughter to finish a class, an activity, or some sport that doesn’t require spectating.  It’s best when I park in a quiet neighborhood without many pedestrians peering in the windows.  I prefer daylight quiet in my car, although I do keep a Halloween style skull lantern in my glove box to shed a little light as needed.

What do I do in the car?  I sit.  I write.  I think.  I grade the endless papers that my students provide me every day.  I don’t like to talk on the phone, but I do occasionally check my email, play Words with Friends, or send a text or two.  I write lots of blog posts, I do lesson plans, and once in awhile I’ll read a book or catch up on the newspaper.  I even keep a blanket handy.

Once I did fall asleep – it was dark and after dinner – that felt a bit embarrassing and disorienting.  As my teenage daughter would say, it was ‘sup-awk’ to wake up to the chatter of kids leaving their class knowing I had been snoring with the windows open!

Mostly I find that I breathe, sink into the seat, and just slow it down.  I let my heartbeat match the rain, and concentrate on me. Most of the time people don’t notice me there, and I like that.

Now that I’m an adult, I don’t get to hear the rain on the roof of our house.   The sound of rain hitting skylights just isn’t the same-it’s more of a ping than a satisfying thud.  But when I’m alone inside my car I hear it all-rain, the wind, birds, dogs, and passers-by all create a meditative backdrop to my thoughts.

As a turtle needs to retreat into its shell to protect its soft body, as a chipmunk scurries into its hole, and as a rabbit retreats to its den, I need a place to go and shut out the world.  The demands of a job and a family can, just for a moment, stay outside the bubble.  Safe, dry, and protected, I can breathe in and out, and find my center again.

Call me weird, but I really like to sit in my car.  Alone.  Quietly.  What about you? Where’s your quite place?

I’ve always been a working mom.  I was one of those women who thought that I could do it all – full time teaching, ever present spouse and greet my kids after school with a tray of freshly baked cookies.

Life didn’t exactly turn out that way.

When my daughter was born, I was sure I could return to my 7^thgrade English teaching job.  It only would require a 60-minute round trip commute and leaving her home with her dad all day.  And, I could still breast feed.

Luckily, the sleep deprivation got to me, and I realized not all that was going to happen.

After six months home with her it was time to return to the classroom.  I settled on a 5^thgrade position that would allow me to work closer to home and have fewer papers to grade.  I could zip home on my lunch hour to feed the baby, zip back for the afternoon and be home in time to bake cookies for my husband.

Life didn’t exactly turn out that way, either.

Trying to time a feeding for the 10-minute window I had available didn’t sit well with my stubborn daughter.  The tears when I left didn’t sit well with my husband.  Fifth graders were sucking all my patience – they were so clingy.   And the cookies?  That was just a fantasy.

The following school year I tried something else – a 7^thgrade position in a town about 10 minutes away.  The plus side was the curriculum-my comfort zone-and my schedule-8-12.  The down side was the commute-15 minutes each way might have well been crossing the state line.  But she was growing up, and didn’t depend on me quite as much.  My husband mastered the art of the long walk to tire her out, and she adjusted.

Then life presented baby #2.

This time I gave in.  Stay at home mom I would be.  The pendulum swung, my husband took a second job, and I spent every waking moment with both kids.  I baked cookies-but he was too tired to eat them when he got home.  Baby #2 didn’t seem to know who this man was that stumbled into the house every night, too exhausted to play, laugh or go to the park.

Going back to work was at least familiar, if not exciting.  Teacherwolfe went into full gear.  I decided that the commute could be a time for myself, and found that by the time I got home mamawolfe had reappeared and was excited to re-enter the home. My husband left his second job, balance slowly reappeared, and so did the cookies.

Life never tasted so sweet.

In 2002, when my son was just turning three, all he wanted to be when he grew up was a firefighter.  Well, maybe Bob the Builder, too.  Dreams of saving structures and the people trapped in them was his kind of a dream job.  Cameron had it all-the firefighter suit, the plastic ax, and even a pedal powered metal fire truck that his big sister had outgrown.  I guess firefighter fantasies run in our family.

I’m not sure how much 9/11 influenced this decision-probably not a huge amount at his tender age-although the media was full of heroic images of  brave men and women who fought to save those people trapped in the twin towers.  Out of this tragedy the “Twin Towers Orphan Fund” was born, and author Christine Kole MacLean published

Even Firefighters Hug Their Moms to raise money for the children who lost parents in the World Trade Center.

It was a perfect fit for my family – a picture book about a boy and his little sister who love to pretend play, especially fantasizing about firefighters.  It became an instant favorite for my son, and as he grew it evolved into a catch phrase for us-whenever it seems like I will never get a cuddle again, I remind him of his favorite story.

Yesterday, I reminded him.  Since kindergarten, my husband or I have always ridden bikes with our children to school.  At first it was for safety reasons-tippy training wheels for my daughter while my son gloried in the bumps of the bike trailer, we loved the ½-mile ride to and from school each day.  Often, my daughter would beg me to ‘drop her off at the corner’, but I always managed to make it into the bike racks, grabbing a last kiss and hug before she trotted off to her classroom.  Later, once they were both in school and I went back to teaching my husband joyfully took over the duties. When Lily advanced to 7^th grade, she and I biked to and from our school together and enjoyed the time to talk about what was coming up in her life and how she was getting along with friends.  Now I bike alone each day, missing her company.

So when I had the opportunity yesterday morning to ride to school with Cam, I jumped on it.  This is our last year of elementary school, and it feels like a chapter of childhood is closing.  Eager to squeeze out every moment I can, we hop on our bikes and quickly head out on the bike path.  My big red cruiser is no match for his neon pink BMX bike-I have to work to keep up. After a few minutes he slowed and said, “You know, Mom, when Lily was in 4^th grade she rode to school by herself.  Why do you still ride with me?”

“Well, it’s not because I don’t think you can do it, Cam. It’s because I want to be with you.” I answer.  “Remember how you like me to tuck you in at night? It’s kind of the same thing.  It’s just  a special time when we’re together.”  Silence greets my comment like the calm before a storm.

“Dad never rides all the way anymore.  He drops me off at the park just before the bike racks.” Clearly he is ready to hold his ground.” And you know, I ride home with my friends now.  You don’t need to pick me up anymore.”

“Really?” I reply, a hint of sarcasm in my voice.  “You mean I can’t take you all the way, help you lock your bike and give you a big hug and kiss?”  His cold, silent stare gives me his answer.   “Even 6^th graders hug their moms.”

“Hi, Max!” Cameron yells, ending the conversation as if on cue.  Sure enough, here comes his buddy riding up right  behind us.

I take the hint, and quietly whisper, “Bye, Cam.  See you after school” as I turn and ride towards home.  The pang in my chest carries me, tears welling as I pedal.  I realize that my little firefighter may not be wearing the costume, but I still adore him just the same.

Seven hours later, long after the pain had subsided and he walked in the door after school, I was welcomed with a great big bear hug.  Yep, even 6^th graders hug their moms.  Just not in public.

 

After maternity leave, I’m still getting the hang of getting out of the house on time each morning. I’m up early enough to have some ‘me’ time – 5:30 a.m. – before the pitter patter of my 23-month-old boy’s feet signal the start of mommy-time.  Must plan Cameron’s birthday party for next weekend, I think. Coffee made, candles lit, I start up the desktop as part of my morning ritual, eager to check email and read the news.   Having children broke us of our TV news habit when we realized they were transfixed with images of stark reality we were trying so desperately to shelter them from.

 

 

A breaking news alert flashes into my inbox – “Plane crashes into building in New York.”  Hmm.  I’ve never been to New York.  Worlds away from my cozy study.  I hope it’s nothing serious.

 

Pitter patter pitter patter…here comes my boy, blankie, and book in hand.  My heart thrills at the sight of his big round head.  “Make sister juice,” he chimes with a smile as big as any Cheshire cat.  I switch off the computer, eager to start the morning snuggle and reading time.  It is just another ordinary day.

 

The 11-mile commute to school is nothing unusual.  I drive past the harvested tomato fields, crop dusters skim the highway.  Lesson plans fill my mind.  Exit right, then left, then straight down the walnut tree-shrouded road towards Douglass Junior High, where my 7th grade English students stand lined up, waiting for me.

 

“Hey, did you hear about the plane crash?” they shout as I open the door.

 

“Yes, I did,” I answer, and switch on the lights.  “Let’s get started.”

 

“But, can’t we watch the TV?  I have an aunt that lives in New York, and I’m worried,” a child pleads.

 

“TV?  When do we ever watch TV in class?” I respond with a smile.   ‘Let’s get started – it’s grammar day everyone’s favorite!”

 

Moments later, an announcement is delivered by a TA telling us the grim news.  Not one plane crash, now it’s two.  What???  The Pentagon?  Three planes?  Buildings collapsed?  People dying?  But it’s just an ordinary day!

 

Why don’t I have my cell phone?  This ancient classroom has no Internet; the only technology is the old TV mounted in the corner of the classroom.  Where are my babies? Did Lily make it to kindergarten?  What the hell is going on? I want to go home…

 

Thoughts flash through my head as I try to process what to do.  Thirty sets of eyes stare at me, searching for comfort.  I’m the teacher.  I’m in charge.  I know what to do?  Frantic thoughts of my own children race through my mind.  Are they OK?  What will happen to us?  Are the terrorists on their way?

 

Then I realize-someone is taking care of my children, just as I’m taking care of someone else’s.  I know what to do.  They need me to make sense of it.  That’s what I would want my child’s teacher to do.  Reluctantly, yet desperately, I turn on the TV.  I have to know. I can’t wait all day.

 

After two hours, no word from my family, I switch it off.  Business as usual – that’s what educators do.  Keep them calm, keep them busy.  I know it’s only going to get worse, and it’s only 10 a.m.

 

Two more hours and I’m done.  As I jump in my little gold Escort wagon, I’ve never been so relieved to only work part-time; 11 miles fly by-not enough time to decide how to explain the unexplainable to my 5-year-old.  The radio news drones on and on.  Thousands dead.  The children.  The mommies and daddies who will never commute home again.  The parents who will never see their babies again.  The young people who will never have the joy of holding their child in their arms.  It’s more than I can bear.  The tears stream down my face as I safely reach home.  It’s clearly not just an ordinary day.

 

‘Mommy, why are you sad?  What happened at school today?” Lily whispers, her big blue eyes boring into mine.  How do I answer?  She’s only five.  Far too young to have to learn about such horrors. I tell her a story about a plane crashing and good guys trying to stop the bad guys. “Did the bad guy go to jail?” she questions.

 

“I’m sorry he died, Mommy.  But I’m glad that we weren’t on that plane.”

 

“Me too, baby.  Me, too.”  I realize it may never be an ordinary day again.