Tag: memories

Prom Night At Our Place

Posted on December 13, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

I am definitely not a person who is into cliques. As a result, I’ve never been much of a joiner of clubs, groups, or anything that labels. I even resisted junior proms and senior balls as a teen. I don’t think at 16 I was thinking that I was being ‘true to my authentic self’; I just knew that something didn’t feel right, and prom wasn’t the place for me to be.

As a middle school teacher and survivor of the teenage years I know the damage kids can do to each other by labeling, stereotyping and making exclusive groups. As a mom, however, I was really pleased to be nominated as the “cool” place to hang out and prepare for the junior prom. As it turns out, kids in our town don’t need to have a date in order to go to the prom-what progress since my high school days! As a result, I had ten sophomore girls arriving to my house in waves to primp, polish and prepare for the first big dance of their young lives.

With iPod speakers blaring the young ladies began to polish toes and fingers in anticipation of the slightly tippy, strappy sandals most would be wearing, despite the 30 degree weather outside. It was an amazing sight to see that their texting ability wasn’t slowed down a bit by wet paint on their fingertips!

Next, the hair. Straight locks are out this season-with coordinated teamwork worthy of a football playbook, one after the other the girls strategized the curling process to result in Taylor Swift-worthy tumbling tresses.

Then, the food. In-n-Out was the request-what girl doesn’t need a big burger and fries before dancing the night away, right? Washing it down with sparkling cider served in my great grandfather’s tiny crystal wine glasses surely added class to the menu!

Dresses? Can anyone say micro-mini? Sheesh…these girls tugged and pulled to ensure no accidental wardrobe malfunctions! Some of the dresses were very, ahem, sophisticated.

The boys arrived next. Surprisingly there were a few ‘dates’-the sophomore boys seemed to wait until the last minute to ask the girls. Were they building up courage, or hoping that their last minute plea would be desperately accepted? Maybe they were just traditionalists trying to do prom the old fashioned way. Regardless, there didn’t seem to be any problem with only four of the ten girls having escorts-aside from the fact that none of the girls really knew how to act or entertain them while they waited. Standing awkwardly in their new suits, squeaky shoes and fresh haircuts, the boys waited patiently in the living room for the ladies, while mamawolfe acted as a human buffer between them and the hallway to the bedroom.

Finally, the photos. With flashbulbs that would challenge any paparazzi, the girls dazzled in a variety of photo combinations. Yes, there were the awkward groupings of those with dates, those who had been friends since elementary school, the whole group, and the shoes to show off the pedicures.

After all the memories were captured and we all piled in cars to drive to the high school, one of the girls commented, “Wow, you must feel really popular, mamawolfe, to have everyone want to hang out at your house tonight. It’s the place to be!”

Her comment stopped me cold. Popular? Not the word my adult brain would use. Special? Definitely. Recognized? For sure. Thrilled? Absolutely.

For me, this year’s prom night was so much more than all the pageantry. Sure, watching my little girl transform into a young woman before my eyes was beautiful. Feeling the excitement, the anticipation, and the energy was contagious. But what prom night really taught me this year is that belonging happens in many different ways. The girls learned that they don’t need to be joined (literally or figuratively) with a boy to have fun. The boys realized that if they ask, they have hope. And now I know that I don’t really need to join anything to be important in my daughter’s life – by being myself she and her friends feel comfortable. Actions speak louder than words. My house really is the place to be.

What more could a mom ask for?

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.

More Posts - Website

Follow Me:

Friday Photo: Old Friends

Posted on December 10, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

Old friends are just the best. It’s so easy to pick up where we left off, jump into conversation, and not have to do all the ‘getting to know you’ kind of talk. Especially when they’re really old friends-I’m talking nearly 30 years of friendship.

Old friends don’t judge. They take you for who and what you are, and know it has all come about from who and where you’ve been. In my mind’s eye, we haven’t changed that much. I don’t need a recent photo-we are still those girls in 1983 going off to college in our VW Things, ready to take on the books, the beach, and the boys-and not always in that order!

So when I met up with my old friend this week, we just picked right up where we left off. We looked into each other’s eyes and remembered living together, arguing with each other, and trying to understand how a Physics major and English major could possibly communicate with each other. We laughed about our adventures, and prayed that our own children won’t repeat our stupidity. We remembered the tears, the break ups, and the meals we shared as we ventured out into adulthood together.

But mostly I smiled, and laughed, and felt a deep sense of connection to my old friend, my confidant, my history keeper. And while our road trips together have been on hiatus for awhile, we know that one day we’ll jump into a convertible, put the top down, and cruise down to Baja just like the old days.

Old friends. They’re just the best, aren’t they?

Jennifer Wolfe

More Posts - Website

Follow Me:

Tribute

Posted on November 17, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

His laugh, low and husky, always makes me smile. Not a man to rush, he enjoys the moments of his life, no matter how big or small. ‘Things have a way of working themselves out,” he always tells me.

For a little northern California girl, Los Angeles is a city of magic. PSA shuttles me to Burbank during the summer, never disappointing my expectations. The burgundy Buick feels slow and safe, just what a small granddaughter needs to feel welcomed in the big city. The short drive to Sherman Oaks holds the anticipation of Christmas morning at the end of the road. Down one endless avenue to the next, right up to the little yellow house. His strong hand reaches for mine across the beige upholstery.

The radio in the front bedroom quietly broadcasts the latest news as Nanook the Husky softly nuzzles my welcome. Push up pops appear from the freezer. The bullfighter still graces the bedroom wall. Joan of Arc gazes from her perch. The bean bag offers a nest to sink into.

He slows down with time, his feet shuffling down the street and heavy on the pedal. My turn to drive now. Eyeglasses no longer slip from their case tucked into his breast pocket. My turn to read aloud the news. Clarence Thomas on the front page evokes his sense of morality, long honed through years in the legal profession. His hands strong, skin thin, grasp mine gently across the kitchen table. I settle into the moss green upholstery, trying to plant myself in the moments I know are few to come. The clock talks to him now, announcing the loss of minutes left to spend together. “Go, Abuela, I’ll stay here,” I urge, clamoring for another precious moment.

Later that night, strains of ‘Gone With The Wind’ float through the apartment. The phone rings in the dark. ‘Please come,’ the voice pleads. ‘He’s gone.’

We arrive in the darkness. More stoic unsettled, she draws the long silver Cartagena scissors to tenderly snip a lock of his hair. So still. The tears flow silently, slowly.

His hands clasp in tranquility. I slump to his side, tenderly kiss his cheek. No rush now. He has enjoyed the moments of his life. I savor this last one we spend together. Somehow, I know things have a way of working themselves out.

Jennifer Wolfe

More Posts - Website

Follow Me:

Even 6th Graders Hug Their Moms

Posted on November 14, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

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.

Jennifer Wolfe

More Posts - Website

Follow Me:

Friday Photo: Dia de los Muertos

Posted on November 11, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

At this time of year, many people are thinking about spirits, ghosts and ghouls. Spooky haunted houses, scary noises and images of skeletons populate our communities. But for me, this time of year is meant to honor those who have come before me-the spirits who made me who I am, and who continue to inspire me long after they’ve left this world. Dia de los Muertos, celebrated on November 1-2, is a Mexican holiday celebrated all over the world to honor and remember family and friends who have died. Sugar skulls, photographs, favorite foods, marigolds, candles and special artifacts create altars eclectically magical and stunning to see. To me, their beauty is worthy of year long display.

What altars do you use in your life?

Jennifer Wolfe

More Posts - Website

Follow Me: