April…a flash of a month, a month of endings and beginnings, of rain, snow, moving home and moving forward. April left me full of memories, moments flashing back too fast to catch my breath. Even my sister begged me to stop posting all those tender snatches of childhood that made our eyes fill with tears and our hearts fill with love. April was a month of decisions for the future, a few turning points and some joyous celebrations, all wrapped up into a big, gooey mush pot of emotion. It kind of wore me out, actually.

My Best April:

Best Quotes:

I kept Twitter busy in April! I love Twitter for the educators I connect with, for the access to news and so many points of view, but lately I’ve just loved reading quotes. Trying to sort through the endings and beginnings in my life right now, somehow reading and posting the #quoteoftheday has helped smooth the jagged edges. I’d love to tweet with you-follow me here!

“And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” -Anais Nin

Maya Angelou (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“You are not your bank account, or your ambitiousness. You’re not the cold clay lump with a big belly you leave behind when you die. You’re not your collection of walking personality disorders. You are spirit, you are love.” ~Anne Lamott

“For bringing us together and keeping us laughing and having fun” – Richard O”Brien Memorial Award

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.” Theodor Seuss Geisel

“Courage is the most important of all the virtues, because without courage you cant practice any other virtue consistently.” – Maya Angelou

Best Poem:

April was National Poetry Month, and some of my favorite teaching moments came with my students sharing poetry that was meaningful to  them, and then presenting ‘snippets’ of poems in our very first Poetry Slam. I was so thrilled that several students chose to share Mary Oliver poetry – her gentle words so often reflect exactly what I cannot express myself. This month, I was dazzled by “Live A Life of Amazement” – if you haven’t read it before, it will dazzle you, too.

Best Blog Reads:

My dear friend Michelle has dedicated her career to helping children-not as a teacher anymore, although that is how we met twenty-something years ago. Michelle shares her compassionate and caring spirit with children who are victims of abuse. A gifted writer of prose and poetry, Michelle shares her beautiful words of comfort and hope in her blog, Metamorphosis: Musings on Healing and Transformation. Take a moment to read her post “Going on a Treasure Hunt” where she explores the metaphor of life as a journey.

This month has been all about the college decision in my house, and Frank Bruni’s article “Our Crazy College Crossroads” came at just the right time to help me remind all the high school seniors hanging around my house that their worth is NOT determined by their acceptance letters, and their ‘dashed hopes’ attached to a rejection letter should, in reality, be seen as an opening for the possibilities yet to come.

Best Photos:

He’s home! Never a dull moment when C is in the house!

Spring is here, finally! The end of ski season brings the beginning of a new, brilliant burst of color and life. My garden is exploding!

I just love this photo my sister took…it reminds me of my girl’s courage and fearlessness. Just look at the size of that pole!

My girl has been an athlete for most of her life, winning awards and achieving her goals. But this month, the most memorable moment for us came when she won the Richard O’Brien Memorial Award, for her ability to inspire her ski team, to bring them together and to have fun. This award represents everything we ever hoped she would learn from athletics-and from life.

Best Moments:

Endings and beginnings. My best moments last month were bittersweet; the ending of winter term at Sugar Bowl Academy brought my boy home. The ending of ski season brought great results and excitement for the beginning of next season, and the end of racing for one of mine. Beginnings of the last quarter of the school year, beginnings of spring erupting in my garden, and beginnings of searching for college dreams.

L and C ski race at Alpine Meadows

April, a month of endings and beginnings. And as Meister Eckhart so eloquently taught us, “…suddenly you know: It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.”

Wishing you great possibilities and the magic of beginnings in May – and as always, thank you for supporting mamawolfe. I’d love to connect with you on Instagram and Facebook, too!

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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It seems like it was just yesterday. It was, in fact, nearly the same time of year. The garden bloomed profusely, and she was just finding the confidence to let her feet take her where she wanted to go. We were never so happy that Fisher Price created a structure sturdy enough to endure the speed with which she would race down the long hallway, wheels screaming on the hardwood floors, the beam of her smile indicating her pride. She was independent; she no longer needed dad’s strong fingers to guide her steps. The tripod shaped vehicle was all the support necessary to take her where she wanted to go. And she always wanted to get there in a hurry.

I remember questioning if she’d ever have the courage to let go of that vehicle; at one year old, I expected her to be walking like some other babies I’d seen. But she was my first, my test-child, and when she grinned from behind her handlebars I knew that she was right where she needed to be. She was taking life on her terms even then; there was no time to waste, and she needed to find the fastest course between two points. Just over a year old, full of courage and determination.

It wasn’t long after that she began vaulting out of her crib, too. Nap times? Non-existent. Life had far too much to offer to waste any moment behind bars. She wanted to explore, to climb, to be surrounded by her people. It no longer mattered how soothing her nursery was, or how cozy I made her nap time ritual. When she swung those long, skinny legs over the side, we knew life was about to change. I think I even spent a night or two on the floor beside her crib, hoping that it was a fluke but knowing that if she vaulted, I would be there to break her fall. At that age, she already knew where she needed to be-and it wasn’t in her crib.

We weren’t quite ready for life with a toddler, but in reality, who ever really is? I’ve written countless times about the absolute inadequacy I felt at becoming a new mother, and how I’ve had to learn to rejoice in every moment. It’s kind of a cruel trick that life plays on some of us, those who get so caught up in the minutia of the moment that we miss the true beauty happening right in front of us.

And today I find myself equally unprepared, fighting nearly identical feelings of inadequacy about letting her go. The more I look back, the more I know that all that we have done, and all that we have experienced, has prepared us both for the moment yet to come – the moment when we wave goodbye, tears trickling down our cheeks, and walk away. The moment when she is right where she needs to be, on the precipice of her new life, ready to take it head on. She’s almost eighteen years old, still full of courage and determination.

This post was inspired by the novel Dad Is Fat by comedian Jim Gaffigan who riffs on his adventures co-parenting 5 kids in a two bedroom Manhattan apartment. Join From Left to Write on April 22 we discuss Dad Is Fat. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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The snow glows white on the mountain tonight

Not a footprint to be seen

A kingdom of isolation,

And it looks like I’m the queen.

The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside

Couldn’t keep it in, heaven knows I tried

I could hear you singing “Let It Go” through the walls last night. It wasn’t hard to notice-you were belting it out like your heart would burst if the words didn’t come forth. Then giggles, a bit of commentary, and you started up again. You two didn’t care that you were slightly off key. And if I had slightly squinted my eyes, I could imagine you, standing tall in sparkly dress up shoes, light brown bedhead hair, silky Little Mermaid nightie, adorned with Mardi Gras beads and maybe  touch of mommy’s lipstick.

When’s it my turn?

Wouldn’t I love, love to explore that world up above?

Out of the sea

Wish I could be

Part of that world

Barely reaching my shoulder, your blue eyes sparkled as you twirled, a song tucked inside your for a private audience. For just that instant, you were seven years old in my mind’s eye, just about to realize the power of your voice.

Don’t let them in, don’t let them see

Be the good girl you always have to be

Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know

Well, now they know

Let it go, let it go

Can’t hold it back anymore

Let it go, let it go

Turn away and slam the door

Now you’re seventeen. You’re so much taller and stronger, and have replaced silkie nighties with Nike spandex. I gaze up, not down, when we talk. Bed head is hidden behind a messy bun, a delicate silver monogram pendant encircles your slender neck, no lipstick in sight. You are strong and beautiful and everything I ever imagined my daughter could be. And you have found the power of your voice.

It’s time to see what I can do

To test the limits and break through

No right, no wrong, no rules for me

I’m free

Let it go, let it go

I am one with the wind and sky

Let it go, let it go

You’ll never see me cry

In the start gate

Let it go, little girl. You’ve done the work you needed to do. You’ve listened and loved and learned what we’ve been here to teach you. You’ve kept your eyes on your goal, even when you weren’t sure exactly what shape it was going to take. You’ve learned that life isn’t all about taking the same path as everyone else. You feel the power of living life with a balance of fun and dedication. You’re in the start gate of life – a life on your terms. You’re at the top of a challenging course with no chance for inspection. You’ve trained on difficult terrain. You’re well equipped, and now, it’s finally your turn. Let it go, baby girl.  As always, I”ll be on the side of the course, cheering you as you fly by. Kick start and let it go. You’ve got this.

My power flurries through the air into the ground

My soul is spiraling in frozen fractals all around

And one thought crystallizes like an icy blast

I’m never going back,

The past is in the past

Let it go, let it go

And I’ll rise like the break of dawn

Let it go, let it go

That perfect girl is gone

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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I’ve been doing a monumental amount of looking forward by looking back lately. I’m absolutely certain it has to do with this indefinable space of my life right now, were I’m learning to let go of everything I’m comfortable with, everything I’m used to, and being forced to look forward for the magic that is sure to come.

Something really surprising has happened during this process. Something that has really made me stop and think about motherhood in a new way. Something that has caused me to question what memories I’ve chosen to hang onto, and how I choose to define the new path motherhood is about to lead me on.

Looking back on my first born, I vividly recall the sleepless nights, the insecurities, and the absolute amazement that I would be responsible for this little six-pound creature for the rest of my life. And I also remember the screaming.

She was what I considered a difficult baby. She rarely slept, nursed often, and always wanted to be on the go. She followed everything with her eyes, and struggled mightily to get what she wanted. After a few months of sleep deprivation and the desire to make life just a little bit more bearable, I realized that if instead of trying to set up a nursing schedule, or hoping that the bouncy chair would last long enough for me to get the dishes done-if instead of trying to make her fit my needs, I tried to fit hers, life would, or at least could, find a better rhythm. I discovered that if she looked forward, she was happy and content.

It wasn’t until I was flipping through my old photo albums recently that the impact of this change really resonated with me. All she has ever wanted in her life is to look forward. She never liked being confined or fitting into someone else’s dreams. It wasn’t so much a selfish outlook on life; what she was really asserting, from a very young age, is her desire to move through life looking just ahead of where she was at the present moment. She wanted to see it all, not wait for life to pass her by.

In nearly every photo I have of her during her first six months she is smiling, a strong arm securely wrapped around her middle, facing forward, bright blue eyes shining.

In a few months she’ll embark on her first great adult adventure. She’ll have chosen her home for the next four years, her life ready to unfold in front of her. And I can relax a little now; I can exhale the air I’ve been holding for so long. I can trust that this grown up creature will make good choices and will let her wishes be heard. I can release my grip just a bit now, knowing she’s secure enough to go in the right direction alone. And I know she’ll face college just like she’s tackled every other challenge in the last 18 years – facing forward.

This post was inspired by the novel Reasons My Kid Is Crying by Greg Pembroke who captures frustrating yet hilarious parenting moments through perfectly captioned photos of unhappy kids. Join From Left to Write on April 15 we discuss Reasons My Kid Is Crying. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Most moms dream of a day like I’m having today. I’m on vacation, absolutely no obligations besides catching my flight home this evening. I slept in and woke without an alarm. I didn’t rush out of the motel room, instead I moved at my own pace. I downed several cups of coffee before I even got out of bed, slid into comfortable clothes, and headed out for the day in Salt Lake City.

Alone.

Attempting to avoid the rain, I found refuge in a bookstore. I browsed every stack with pleasure, not feeling like I needed to be anywhere or pick up anyone.  Hours ticked by, the rain poured outside, and then it happened. That moment that knocked me out of my reverie, sent the tears to my eyes, and forced me to scramble for cover.

The children’s section.

When my babies were younger, we spent hours in bookstores. I found the brightly lit space lined with title after title so enticing, and so full of possibilities for their future. Weekly we would park the stroller to the side, bags of Goldfish crackers in hand; I loved the chance to snuggle up with them, choose a new book to look at, and hope their imaginations sparked and they would grow to love the comfort of books as much as I had.

My shelves at home still retain the evidence of our visits; I cannot bear to part with the Puppy Place, The Magic Treehouse, The Diary of A Wimpy Kid, Harry Potter, Nancy Drew and the escapades of Rick Riordan. To me, it never mattered what they read, simply that they were reading. When interest waned, I lovingly lined another space with their cherished titles, hanging on to the hope that someday they would pick one up again, call to me, and settle in for hours of dreams of their futures.

Those bookstores have closed now, and I must admit, my teens and I rarely spend time searching for dreams together amidst the stacks anymore. Sports, social lives and academics have replaced the stroller and sippy cups, and I find myself today, alone with my memories.

My children are growing up and away, spending their days in the snowrather than safely snuggling against their mother. College visits have replaced our family vacations, and the piercing reality of the end of our life under the same roof attacks in the most unexpected moments.

Like the rainy day I’m alone in the bookstore.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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