“Melinda Mae” from Where the SideWalk Ends, by Shel Silverstein

I’ve been eating a whale in small bites this weekend–tackling little things I’ve put off until they acquired sufficient collective mass to great to be ignored. The beast is comprised of tasks like organizing my tax receipts, filling out cub scout camp applications, small copywriting jobs, and various other things I apparently signed on for.

Procrastination is my lifelong companion. At thirty-eight, I’ve accepted that it is an incurable condition, like alcoholism or diabetes. It can only be managed,  never eradicated. Today I am less inclined to view it as a curse, and more disposed to understand it as a natural offshoot of many positive character traits (creativity, intuitiveness, flexibility). My brain is far-sighted. It’s the nuts and bolts of daily life that are blurry to me. 

I’ve had to learn a trick or two, and I’ve had to learn it, like everything else, the hard way. I’m a gulper, not a nibbler of life, but I’m getting better at taking small bites. When it comes to the good-for-you-but-tasteless bits, anyway.

 And so, this weekend, I started right in at the tail, opening envelopes, pulling files, signing forms, forcing myself to click the dreaded “new blank document” option from my word processor menu. I didn’t lock myself inside the house until it was all done. I didn’t binge. I didn’t beat myself up for not doing it sooner, or for having to fork over a late fee for camp, or over all the bounced check notices of last year that had to be faced, and filed. I didn’t make myself sick over any of it. I didn’t despair over the enormity of what had to be swallowed. I just bit off a piece of whatever was in front of me and chewed, slowly, until I was full. Then spent some time living life.

It’s Sunday night, and my plate is hardly clean. But I’m amazed, like I always am, at how much has been accomplished. Little Melinda Mae was hip to Goethe: the act of beginning something has power and magic in it, inverse to the terrible drain of avoidance.

Yesterday I went to Meredith’s school to watch her run in the school’s annual Turkey Trot. This is the equivalent of what we used to call Track-n-Field, but in a sort of Cliff’s notes version. There is only one run - the 50 yard dash - and it isn’t an all day event. The winner of both the boy’s and the girl’s final heat get to take home a turkey to their family. The 2nd place winners get a bag of fruit and the 3rd place winners get a bag of candy.

THAT is a way to make a child strive toward mediocrity - I could hear them arguing in the hall, “No, I WANT TO BE 3rd!”

But in the end, when that gun pops off, those kids kick it in and the bag of candy is forgotten for the stardom of crossing that finish line first.

I’m a mainstay in my kids’ elementary school. I wish the Intermediate school had more room for parental involvement, but then again, I realize that 5th graders are not so enamoured with their parent’s presence at school as are Pre-K and 2nd graders.

Meredith was still in class when I arrived yesterday - having a lesson in grammar.

Peeking in from the doorway, I took in the aroma of school. If you can get beyond the smelly bodies and the lingering scent of Pine-Sol, you can catch the familiar whiff of paper, well-worn books, and hear the hum of overhead projectors and the grind of the pencil sharpener as another kid gets up to sharpen their tip. I love school supplies - now, office supplies to me.

A few minutes later Mrs. S. had all the kids lined up in “magic number order” to head to the hill. Girls would compete first. Meredith was in the 4th heat. She’s on the far left in the turqouise shirt.

I become exceptionally stomach-twisted when my kiddos compete, but I love that they do. Meredith seems to thrive on competition. On the way to the playground in the hall she said, “I’m a little nervous momma.” At that point, any anxiety I had escalated ten-fold as I took on hers too.

And they’re off.

There were 6 or 7 heats of 4 and 5 girls. The winner of each heat was pulled aside to run in the final heat. I was disappointed to see that Meredith was running against one of her best friends, Tatum (on the far right), in her first heat. Tatum’s strength is speed, and although Meredith is fast, her strength is perserverance.

True to form, Tatum kicks it off the starting line…pulling ahead of Meredith.

Pulling ahead of Meredith by a few lengths now, Tatum takes a strong lead.

I’m always amazed by how these girls can fly. I enjoy watching Meredith’s slight alterations that will give her just a bit more speed, a bit more length, a bit more of whatever she thinks she needs to win.

But she won’t always win…and she didn’t yesterday.

I love for my children to compete. True competition is about knowing that sometimes your best won’t place you first, second, or even third. Sometimes your best is what you do because you have integrity and you know you want to give it your all in spite of the outcome.

Meredith is learning her strengths - she’s an excellent self-pacer and a strong cross country runner.

She’s fast, but not faster than her buddie.

I won’t lie and say she was happy at the end of this heat - she wasn’t. She wouldn’t accept my congratulations right off and had to walk away for a second and be alone before she could join her friends again and wait for the final heat. If she had run against another group of girls for her first heat, she likely would have gone on to the finals. She knows this and I believe it was a bit of a punch to her pride, but I AM GLAD she doesn’t always win.

Sometimes learning to lose is just as important as celebrating victory.

At the end of both final heats, before the winners were announced, Coach Elliot gave a sort of pep talk. Not a mediocrity talk that says “Everyone is a winner.” Instead, that everyone made him proud by trying their hardest.

Tatum won 1st place with Meredith screaming for her on the sidelines - she took home a turkey for her family for Christmas.

I have a feeling these two will be running together for a long time; it’s good for them to be learning each other’s strength and weaknesses, how to win and lose, and most important, how to not let it change their friendship.

Everyone needs a haven - a place of refuge in times of trouble, emotional or physical difficulty. I learned early on what my source of refuge was…whose wing to find shelter beneath.

As a child I had a very active imagination. My parents learned early on to protect me from things that negatively stimulated my imagination, like scary books or television shows and movies. If not, without fail, they’d wake to screams deep in the night.

During third grade I experienced nightmares nearly every single night for a few months. As I look back at it now I believe it was likely tied to anxiety and a specific teacher. We went through much the same thing with our oldest daughter, Emelie, her 1st grade year. Night terrors, bed wetting and a severe change in personality ended up being the result of a method of discipline (shaming) a particular teacher was using in her classroom at school. We pulled her out and all our lives became more peaceful almost overnight.

My third grade teacher despised me; nothing I could do was good enough. I remember wondering if she enjoyed torturing me. Third grade, for some reason, wasn’t a challenge. I’d finish my work and grow bored; I became a bother to those around me. Other teachers gave me extra worksheets, allowed me to help them staple packets, grade papers or run errands for them, but this teacher wanted me to sit still and be quiet.

The year dragged on and every day after school I’d have to deliver a report to my parents of my behavior for the day. A single, black stamp - smiley face or frowny face sealed my fate for the evening.

I hated that teacher. I hated that year.

I also hated the nightmares that began that year. I dreamed of a man with a machete that was coming to cut me up piece by piece. I would pull the covers tight over my head and tuck them all about me, so as not to let anything in. A tiny little “breathe” hole was the only thing I allowed and I would wait - as still as I could be - and listen. I tried to fall asleep before my parents went to bed, but if I didn’t…I’d lay awake listening - hearing sounds I mistook for him.

Sometimes the fear became too unbearable and I would scream out for my parents; a blood curdling scream that had them running (at first) or walking (as the months wore on) to check on me. They were tired - at their wits end.

I was terrified to go to sleep.

And then, one Sunday at church our Children’s minister offered a challenge. Whoever could memorize the 23rd Psalm and say it from memory into the microphone at Children’s church, would get a 2 lb. bag of peanut M&Ms.

Chocolate has always been a major motivator for me, so you can bet I got busy memorizing that scripture.

As luck would have it, my 3rd Grade teacher had a Bible on her bookshelf. It took a bit, but I finally found the nerve to ask if I could use it, and to my surprise, she agreed. I would finish my work, retrieve the Bible, and write the 23rd Psalm over and over.

Day by day, line by line, I memorized the 23rd Psalm.

A couple of Sundays later, I stepped up to the microphone at Children’s Church and recited the entire passage. And yes, I took those M&Ms home.

I didn’t realize then how that passage would impact my nights and my days, but as God’s Word does, it touched me to my core.

Surprisingly to me, it came to mind as I staved off nightmares and I begin to call for my parents less and less as I drew refuge in the words,

“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

In class, I would write the passage over and over on paper, practicing my handwriting and trying desperately not to get into trouble.

“He leadeth me beside the still waters, He restoreth my soul.”

And later in life, when I first set out on my own and spent nights alone in an apartment, I would pray the Psalm until a peace came over me and I could rest.

“Thou annointest my head with oil. Thy cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Refuge.
Mine is rooted in my faith.
Do you have a refuge?

My kids are growing up with a pyschologist for a Daddy, and he doesn’t bring home his work, nor are his freebies necessarily useful for kids. However, their momma has a car and there is an Office Depot in town, so we’re good to go.

When you are 5, 7 and 11 there are only a few tools to your trade…

I believe it is more than a little bit important to keep mine stocked. I imagine the CEO of Crayola himself will greet me one day and thank me personally for providing the income for 1.2 families.

IN OTHER WORDS, I BUY A LOT OF CRAYOLA PRODUCTS.

And not just for me and mine either. I give them as gifts. How much more perfect a gift can a child (or parent, for that matter) receive than a bin full of art and craft supplies?

Talk about FREEDOM. Imaginations loosed.

Transformers? Meh. I’ll show YOU more than meets the eye!

Star Wars? Nah. Darth Vader ain’t your father.

I want my kids to unpack their minds all on their own. Googly eyes, glue, markers and scissors can become anything - anything at all.

More than once we’ve used art supplies to work through issues with our kiddos. We ask them to draw how they feel…Draw me what scares you. Draw me what excites you.

As they get older the illustrations are punctuated with words, and then, a bit older, the illustrations are a sidebar to the dialogue. Map pencils replace markers and journals replace manilla paper.

And though I miss the squiggly one-eyed humans with their over-sized heads and uneven stick legs, a new dimension emerges and I’m so very grateful to watch the little person grow.

It all starts with the first pack of crayons - the first sheet of paper - the initial freedom to color, draw, write and make believe.

Positioned at Emelie’s desk, Kenny colors while Em talks with a friend that came home with us from school.

“What are you drawing right now Kenny?”

“Love”

“Love?”

“Yes. Mommy, this one is for you, because I love you.”

My heart implodes from the sweet pressure of his love picture.

I think I’ll probably remember drawings like this when I see his signature one day as a man - on a Mother’s Day card or maybe a birthday or other holiday.

And I’ll promptly go out and buy a few more packs of supplies for my grandkids.