Tag: motherhood

Friday Photo: Holding On

Posted on August 18, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my children growing up and away from us.

When they were born, I never wanted to let them go. Sliding their precious bodies into another’s arms was reserved only for moments desperate for solitude. Sleeping side by side, we monitored their every movement, every breath.

When my son started kindergarten, I was excited. He was so ready to formalize his education – he loved learning, loved socializing, and eagerly anticipated learning Spanish like his big sister had. He smiled all the way to school, and babbled about his adventures all the way home.

When my daughter started middle school, I was elated. Finally, she would be on my campus, and all the regrets I had about not volunteering in her classes or driving on field trips might be soothed by knowing I could see her every day. She immersed herself in friendships, studying, and never missed a dance.

When my son left elementary school, I was saddened. Eleven years spent between the two suddenly evaporated without even being able to take one final bike ride to pick him up from school on the last day. He was so ready to move on with his education – he loved his friends, loved socializing, and couldn’t wait to ride his bike with his friends all the way to the middle school.

When my daughter started high school, I was nervous. This is when it all comes down to the end, the grades, the transcripts, the test scores and college admissions. She would get her driver’s license, go to the prom, and before I knew it, leave home.

The clock in my heart began counting down.

When my son starts middle school this year, I am still half-way holding on. I can’t quite let go, can’t pass him off to what’s next even though I know it will happen despite me. I squeeze my eyes shut and hope for it to happen painlessly, for it to slip through my awareness without having to feel the drop of my heart, the skip of my breath.

I’ve been thinking about them both lately. I’ve been hoping that the days will stretch on endlessly, the mothering will just shape-shift into some kind of form that I can still cling to even when they’re not here. I’m not ready to let them go, not eager for that kind of solitude. I’ve been trying to cast every moment in bronze, and not let them slip through my fingers.

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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Summertime Payback

Posted on June 22, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

This may be a little known fact to some, but school teachers don’t exactly get three months of vacation.

The way I see it, our vacation is really a way to add in some of the overtime hours that we racked up during the school year.

Let me explain. If my teaching day ends at 4:00, I have put in 8.5 hours at school. Only 50 minutes of that was allotted for preparation and grading. If I assign one essay and spend 20 minutes per student on grading it, that will take 720 minutes (12 hours) for one class of 36 – remember, no one has class sizes of 30 anymore. if I have five classes, that’s 60 hours of extra work per essay assignment. That’s another entire work week, plus overtime.

As I head into my second week of ‘vacation’, I’m finally starting to relax. I’m not hearing any bells buzzing in my ears, telling me when to stop and go. I’ve stowed my book bags in my home office, willing to let them sit until August. I’ve gone to the gym and grocery store mid-day, I’ve washed all my coffee travel mugs, and am beginning to make my way through the stacks of magazines that have built up since December.

But the best part about being a teacher isn’t all of those things; it’s not even the time payback.

I really think the secret is that teachers have the best of both worlds.

I’ve always been a ‘working-outside-the-home mom’. I’m not complaining-we made that choice in order to live where we do (California), get health insurance benefits, save for retirement and our children’s college, and to have the ability to live off of two incomes. I don’t know what it’s like to be a stay-at-home mom, but I imagine parts of it are pretty great.

I also imagine there are parts of it that are really, really hard.

The loveliness of being a teacher isn’t just about having fun in the classroom, or having a few weeks off in the summer. It isn’t about having my own child at school for three years, personally knowing all her teachers, or having a place outside my house to store all my books.

What I find delicious and at the same time difficult is the transition between being a ‘work-outside-the-home’ mom and being home all day. I say it’s my compromise for all the missed walks to and from school while they were little, the lunches I forgot to pack, and the field trips I couldn’t go on. It’s my way of making up for not being the ‘science’ or ‘library’ mommy in their classroom, and for having to send store bought cookies for their birthday celebration.

Summertime is my time to not only catch up on the ‘to-do’ lists, but also to do things with my kids that I can’t squeeze in during the school year- like long walks at dusk, talking about what’s important. Riding our bikes. Spending hours in the library looking for a perfect book. Making that cake recipe that takes an entire day. Swimming and reading at the pool. Wandering around a museum. Road trips to anywhere. Lying on the grass for a cool evening baseball game.

For me, working-outside-the-home makes these moments just a little sweeter-it makes summertime special.

Nothing is better payback than that.

Jennifer Wolfe

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The Sixteen-Year Test

Posted on June 2, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

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.

Jennifer Wolfe

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The Bullies, Bullied and Bystanders: Which One Is Mine?

Posted on May 7, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

via Photobucket

55 middle school students and I crowded into our local movie theater this week, not sure what we would experience. Our group was a combination of kids from several classes at school, mixed ages, races, and genders, but the common thread that pulled us together was our experiences with bullying.

I don’t think there’s a person alive who hasn’t felt bullied. Sadly, it seems to be part of the human experience. And it’s not just kids that bully-I’ve experienced adults bullying kids as well as other adults. Working in schools as long as I have might have made my bully radar more heightened than most, but I still remember the childhood feeling of wanting to melt into the earth rather than be the last one chosen for a team, or the criticism for how I dressed or how quietly I spoke. I remember my high school classmate who died at the hands of a bully.

In fact, bullying has reached such epidemic levels that some independent filmmakers followed kids with video cameras for a year, inside and outside of school, to document exactly what is happening with bullying in America. The resulting film,“Bully”, is heartbreaking, terrifying, and leaves the audience wondering what to do next.

via Photobucket

It didn’t take long for the mood in the theater to change from excitement to shock. Watching regular, American kids experience verbal, physical and emotional abuse on the big screen made my popcorn unappealing, and had me reaching for a tissue. I felt my body convulse with sobs as I watched Ty’s parents bury their 11-year-old son, a boy who reminds me so much of my own. As his mother, nearly comatose, rocked in his bedroom, wondering what she could have done to prevent his suicide, it was more than I could take. I wanted to scream at the screen, lash out at the pathetic creatures who taunted this little boy day after day until he felt, at 11 years old, his life wasn’t worth living. What person has the right to inflict this type of torture on another human being?

During our debrief after the film, my students kept coming back to the parents. How could they not have known what was happening? And what kind of parents would raise children to think that this type of behavior was acceptable? I wonder myself, if the parents of bullies even have an idea of what their kids are doing to other children. Do they think that they’ve raised their son or daughter to be intolerant of differences, to be an aggressor, to be a bully? And do they feel responsible for their child’s actions, even the slightest, when they find out that the baby they raised has turned into someone who takes joy in bringing others pain?

And I wonder about the parents of those who are bullied. Do they know what their child endures every day as they ride the bus to school, walk the halls, or eat in the lunchroom? Is their child ashamed to share their experience as a victim? I wonder what I would do if my son or daughter came home and told me that they never wanted to go back to school, that they had no friends, and they didn’t want to face another day.

Days later, these thoughts continue to clog my brain. I tuck my 12-year-old son into bed at night, and wonder why and how he’s escaped this torture. I watch my 15-year-old daughter, weary with studying, and wonder how she has escaped the cyber bullying. And then I wonder, do I really know what’s going on with them? Do they see this happening at school? Are they bullied? A bully? A bystander?

I tell myself all is well, I’m doing my job, and they are safe.

I wonder if Ty’s parents thought that, too.

Jennifer Wolfe

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On Life & Childhood Dreams: A Lesson I Learned After 23 (Long) Years

Posted on April 4, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

Do you remember that moment when you knew what you wanted to be when you grew up? Please enjoy today’s guest blogger, Anne Mercado, as she shares her story of following her dreams.

“There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in.” -Deepak Chopra

As adults we view childhood dreams in two ways. The first as an uncanny certainty of what a child wants despite her tender age. The second as a changing desire of an impulsive and creative young mind. For the latter, how many times have your children proclaimed their inner-most desire to become a spaceman, only to have this change the following week. What do they want to be now? The next Picasso. It’s for this very reason we initially dismiss childhood dreams as anchorless ships that sail off into the vast blue sea, never to return again.

But that’s not how it was for me.

I always knew I wanted to write. In fact, I was always writing (and reading) as a child. My younger self – during the time when I could barely spell “chicken” right – would pound away on a typewriter, basking under the sun. I wrote about nature-inspired poetry, fictional news reports and stories produced by a hyper-active imagination. I spent my after-school hours in the backyard taking in fresh air while observing chicken, dogs, grass, leaves, trees, and yes, even creepy-crawlers. These were often the subject of my writing. As I got older my intensity for writing grew with me. Pen and notebook in hand, my thoughts would materialize into words etched into white pages. I wrote more poetry, fictional news reports and stories about scientists using the moon’s magnetic field to hurl missiles at approaching meteors. There was even once when a magazine published my writing.

You’d think that with such a desire for it, I would end up just as I had always wanted to be.

Wrong. I was advised against pursuing my dream and chose a career path that had little to do with writing anything creative, unless you consider reports and contracts as page-turners. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending how you view it, I couldn’t seem to find fulfillment from the jobs I had. In retrospect, it was because what I really wanted was to churn out words. I wasted 6 years of my life, excluding college. 6 years I could have spent honing my skills as a writer. But hey, now I’m back writing. Starting from scratch, which by the way is wrought with challenges. A bumpy road indeed, but what path isn’t? If there’s anyone who claims to have had a silky-smooth road to their dreams, they deserve to be ostracized from the rest of humanity for risk of spreading false hope.

Now for the takeaway.

“The things which the child loves remain in the domain of the heart until old age.” – Kahlil Gibran

Once my child told me he wanted to be a chef. Fine with me. Now he wants to be a lawyer. Nothing wrong there except I’d rather have him pursue another career (the reasons are my own and irrelevant to this post). I was thinking about our conversations and realized that my objections shouldn’t prevent him from following what he wants. It’s not my life to live after all, but his. And if defending those in need makes him fulfilled, who am I to prevent him from that? Now that we have children of our own, let’s not be so quick to smirk at their childhood dreams. These aspirations should be taken seriously and nurtured because those who love what they do often excel. Why? Because one of the best things about being human is the feeling of fulfillment and purpose that comes from passion. Passion is an endless supply of fuel, one of the greatest motivators there are. So for my child who has recently turned 5, my promise is to help him lock-down the sometimes elusive childhood dream and help him reel it in. That way, he never has to “work” a day in his life because he’ll be doing what he loves, whatever that is. As long as it’s legal, of course.

Photo Credit: Creative Common from Linda Cronin

Anne Mercado is the quirky author behind Green Eggs & Moms, which offers clever parenting tips and news to keep moms with young kids sane. When she’s not hunched over the computer working, you can find her either counting down to ten to get her kiddo to move faster, or reading a horror book. She also loves vampires and zombies.

Jennifer Wolfe

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