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Multigenerational Mom Muses on Twin Toddlers & Twenty-Something Daughters

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At the center of it all— at a distance

I have an aunt I haven’t seen in years. She and my uncle divorced when my girls were small, before my grandmother died (she died when Bethany was four). So my girls don’t really know her. But me, I do. I love her and I miss her.

She was always the quiet, bookish sort. Sort of like me — or I like to think so.

When things got too crazy with our clan, she’d stir up a cup of tea and head to a back bedroom to read. She was steady and calm as a ship moving through the tumultuous seas of our family gatherings.

Now when I say “tumultuous” I mean in a good way. With kids spinning like water spouts in every direction, high-kicking at doorframes to see who could tap the top with their toes, or swirling in a whirlwind of tufted midcentury armchair mechanics as a pump organ clanged thunderously in a corner.

Where physicists gathered like the male version of Shakespeare’s Weird Sisters, heads touching like storm clouds above a coffee table, posturing this and theorizing that, formulas drawn quick as lightning across fragments of paper, igniting frenzied animation on bearded or bespectacled faces.

As high-tinkling laughter drifted in on warm currents of baked pie crusts from the kitchen where my other three aunts gathered, two at the red formica table, one sipping Tab, the other waxing poetic over Mozart or their 20-pound Maine Coon. The third, apron ties flapping in concert with the sticky percussion of her heels on linoleum both tacky in aesthetic and feel, issuing orders to pour this, wash that, to the older of us cousins. Well, to me. Because the second oldest was the one clanging away on the pump organ while the third and fourth were out there spinning like water spouts with the youngest among us.

Meanwhile, my unflappable aunt sailed in and out of the tribal typhoon, warm as a beam of God-light, regal, composed on her way to a back berth with her tea cup and book.

She’s who I longed to be, but have never quite been able to become. I don’t have her genetics. I don’t have that certain je ne sais quoi. I’ll never know what it is, nor know how to posses it, her well-coiffed confidence; her cool, sweet nature. She’s the crem de la crem.

But I do have her love of reading and her desire to disconnect from the chaos. Well, I do and I don’t. Because I secretly harbor a distinct love of the chaos too. I wish to always be in the center of it all, while also maintaining my distance.

Things have changed drastically in the passing years. We cousins are grown and our children are grown (or mostly). So our kids’ kids (along with my mid-life medical miracle additions) are now spinning like water spouts and kicking at doorframes, but not at family gatherings. We haven’t had an extended one in a while. Not since Covid hit. And when we do finally get back together, two of us won’t be here to gather… my father-physicist and one Tab-sipping aunt.

In spirit, though, they hover about me daily, feeding me love and the language to tell their stories. To tell our stories.

Because life is short and limited. That’s the ugly part – but also what makes life so beautiful and precious.

And the older we get, the faster life spins — kind of like that mid-century armchair from my childhood. Only now it’s a mid-century merry-go-round of time’s making and I’m at the center of it all — and at a distance, thanks to Covid.

Which just goes to show you’ve got to always be careful what you wish for.

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My Philosophy

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My Philosophy

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Sippin’ on Summertime

I settled on the screened porch to the honking of geese overhead, a whole gaggle, rowdy in the early morning haze of an August sky.

A reminder that summer is drawing closer to its end.

A rustling of leaves at the tree line joined in, a breeze taking flight, joining the uprising… protesting or promoting the closing of the season?

The ensuing rustle, a bit like rain, a bit like the street sweeper that climbs the hill in front of our house collecting grass clippings on summer mornings, leaf droppings in fall.

Collecting fallen reaped things.

Even in this season of plenty — even now — autumn is drawing nigh.

Nobody says that anymore, have you noticed? 

Not the autumn part, though that too… that beautiful word, losing ground to the curt simplicity of Fall… but the growing nigh part?  

Just poets. Maybe. Rarely. 

Those of us who want to hold onto the nostalgia of old words wheezing their last, along with the weedy wistfulness of summertime.  

Both futile undertakings.
Still. They’re not dead yet. 

Not the words, as long as we’re willing to sit with them a while in their magic, and not the summer, while we’re willing to sit with her a while in her moment. 

Summer’s ripe and blowsy, beautifully overgrown, gorgeous and gone-too-soon moment.

Today, I will seize her like a ripe tomato – bright and round and shining with the taste of sunshine.

Today, I will fill my soul with her,

Much like the hummingbird, flitting about to show me he’s here before perching, iridescent, on the red roost against the blue backdrop of the swimming pool. 

He surveys his domain and drinks himself giddy. 

While directly below, a bee ambles its way from leggy petunia to leggy petunia gathering nectar to make honey while the sun shines warm.

A pool float drifts aimlessly in the remnants of the breeze, gone as fast as it came. Gone as fast as summer.

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The Season that Eclipses our Seasons

It’s the first week of August

Heat shimmers off asphalt

Tomatoes wither on the vine

And in fields everywhere —

In small towns and big cities alike —

Players are planting their cleats in the turf 

And sewing reps for the upcoming season

And coaches are planting kernels of wisdom 

Pouring their heads and hearts

Into the storehouses of our future

So that soon

Footballs with hang times 

As high as the mercury

Will tee off and inkblot the sun

In half-second oval eclipses

To kickoff the season that eclipses our seasons.

When Friday Nights light up the sky

Scorching skirmishes 

On lines of scrimmages

Linemen brawling

Helmets flashing

Shoulders clashing

Turf pellets scattering like buckshot

Behind the blazing feet of the skills fleet

While the quarterback searches for split-second targets

and sheets of sweat slick everyone’s neck

and the drumlines roll

and the symbols clash 

and the whistles keen

and the fans all dream

Of cooler nights

As they wait for the relief of

Halftimes

Under velvet twilights;

Where fans collect

To dissect

The first two quarters

Hair and skin draped in soggy blankets of sweat 

While moths bash their bodies in cataclysmic ballets 

beneath blazing stadium lights 

and starlings and swallows 

scoop them like popcorn from the sky

While actual popcorn

clutched in white paper bags

perfumes the air below

Butter dripping off dipping fingers

As the dew point drops to

collected condensation, while the crowd’s conversation

turns to playoff runs, and championship sights

and cooler, so much cooler nights.

And the coaches in the locker rooms

Adjust and turn

And the players in the position groups

Listen and learn

grow and glean kernels of wisdom

in victory and defeat

in the season that eclipses our seasons.

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When Teachers “Give” Out

We’re pencil nubs. Burned-out candles. Overdrawn bank accounts.

We’re spent.

We’re teachers… with nigh-on nothing left to give. Out of ideas, resources, energy… everything.

Without those, we can no longer engage or awaken — and without engagement, without awakenings, we can no longer educate and inspire.

Our effectiveness is gone. And we don’t know why… although we have our suspicions.

Is the pandemic to blame — with its ensuing lethargy? Or the parents and their increasing laxity? Or the powers-that-be and their never-ending lists of demands and all-consuming blame?

So many obstacles are stacked against us and our backs are against the wall.

And we’re tired.

Tired of juggling classes and assignments and grading and meetings and all the rest of all the things. Tired of doing our jobs and then our colleagues jobs, too, because there aren’t enough subs. Because teachers are sick — or their kids are sick. Or they’re sick to exhaustion and need more than a single night’s sleep to recover.

We aren’t recovering.

We’re doing too much and carrying too much and caring too much.

Because that’s what we do. We care. We’re empaths. It’s the nature of our job.

We feel for our students. We ache for our students, who also are suffering under the weight of all the things. Pandemic and parental struggles. Poverty and violence and loss. So much more than ever before.

And so our students aren’t keeping up — not with assignments or attendance or… anything. And it falls on us to keep up with it all. And it’s impossible.

But we try. We keep smiling. And doing. Carving out kindnesses from our very souls because all the other cupboards are bare… scraping our hearts and sharing the scraps with our depleted, dejected students.

We fake it, trying to make it. But at some point — and soon — nothing will be made… no progress; no achievement; no benchmark of understanding. No eye contact, even.

We already aren’t seen by anyone. Not the students. Not the parents. Not by the public or the politicians. We’re heaped under the avalanche of everyone else’s agendas and told to stay strong.

Stay? That ship sailed a long, long time ago.

So I guess we stay… what? Weak? Exhausted? Underwater. Under-seen. Undervalued. Under pressure.

The pressures of trickledown education.

Where we’re crumbling beneath the weight of doing it all, but are we accomplishing anything?

It doesn’t feel like it.

And something’s gotta give.

And it can’t just keep being us. We’re “give” out.

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Christmas Books Our Family Loves

The boys are growing up (fast!) and for the first time, we’re including a chapter book on our list of snuggle-up, read-aloud Christmas books. It’s only been recently published, but it’s already a family favorite.

But first, the annual tried and trues:

Red and Lulu, written and illustrated by Matt Tavares

If you love Christmas trees and love stories — especially the larger-than-life trees and love stories that come with Rockefeller Center during Yuletide, you’ll love Red and Lulu. It’s the picture book equivalent of a Hallmark movie, but with birds. And not just any birds — Cardinals, the most festive and Christmas-y birds of all.

The illustrations are as beautiful as the storyline. Red and Lulu live their best lives in a big, beautiful evergreen… until one day, when the tree is loaded up and transported to NYC, with Lulu still inside its branches. And so begins Red’s quest to find and reunite with his one true love.

Next up…

The Broken Ornament, written and illustrated by Toni DiTerlizzi

The first time we read this book, I thought it was all sentimental fluff and stuff. The second time, though, it won me over. This story matters. When you have twin boys, accidents happen (hopefully not to cherished ornaments, but still).

In this cautionary tale, young Jack wants more and more and more festive decorations to attract Santa’s attention. But when he breaks an ornament he’s not supposed to touch — an ornament passed down from his mother’s grandmother — he learns that Christmas magic can’t mend everything, but it can definitely point you in the right direction.

And finally…

The Christmas Pig, written by J.K. Rowling, illustrated by Jim Field

Like I mentioned before, we’ve added our first chapter book to our family’s Christmas book tradition. We’ve been reading quite a few since January: three Harry Potters and the first four Chronicles of Narnia. (Side note, those Chronicles are getting a bit — dare I say it? — weak and boring. Not quite sure why they’re so highly recommended…)

But we are LOVING The Christmas Pig!! We bought a physical copy as well as an Audible download, so we’re listening AND reading along. (By the way, the Audible version comes with sound effects — a BIG PLUS in Parker’s opinion.)

The Christmas Pig features yet another Christmas quest — this one to find and rescue (yet another) Jack’s most-loved stuffed pig from the Land of the Lost and the soul-crushing monster known as Loser. Jack’s new “replacement pig” plays the part of his guide through this dark underworld.

Part Velveteen Rabbit, part Dante’s Inferno, this book is both simple and complex, and the young and old alike will enjoy it. Do yourself a favor and buy it AND the Audible version and enjoy some quality snuggles with your little ones every night between now and Christmas.

We know we will.

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it can’t have already been a year

My dad died one year ago tonight. Every morning this month I’ve said things like…In two weeks, he wouldn’t be here anymore…. In 9 days, he would be gone….In one week exactly, he would leave this earth.

And now… In the next few minutes, he would fall to the floor in his basement, all alone, and wait for us to find him.

It’s surreal. And awful.

And my heart is broken. Everyday, it splinters more. Pieces spill like flint — hard, dry, bitter pieces that skitter and scrape across the hard ground. Everything’s harder now.

I miss him so much.

I miss his mineral blue eyes, clear as heaven at high noon. Eyes that twinkled when he told a story — and he was always telling a story. So I guess they were always twinkling. They twinkled extra hard when he laughed.

I miss that laugh— a unique, slow, sort-of-horsey “hyuh, hyuh, hyuh” found at the tail end of a joke. Usually his own. Jokes only some of us ever got. Not a lot of us. Mainly just the physics fellas in our family. (Although honestly, we have three physics fellas in our family, which probably constitutes a lot in the grand scheme of things.)

But now there’s one less. And he was the youngest of the bunch. The end of an era.

And now, at the end of this full year of him being gone, I’m missing him more than ever. And my body is physically sick from the grief. It’s rebelling. No way it’s already been a year. I haven’t had enough time to wrap my brain around this loss yet.

Time should’ve stopped. The world should’ve paid more attention. Stopped spinning. Quaked or something. Been picked up as far south as his namesake geophysics observatory down in Australia

When Randall Douglas Peters fell, the seismograph in his basement should’ve noted the magnitude of loss. Registered it on his data like it registered in my body.

But still hasn’t registered in my mind.

It can’t have already been a year.

It can’t.

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Our Family’s Favorite Picture Books for Reading at Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is perhaps my favorite of all the holidays. I know the kids like Halloween and Christmas best. When you’re a kid nothing competes with candy and presents… but once we’ve outgrown our greedy seasons of childhood, we come to favor the holidays that focus on blessings and family. And for me, the one that takes the cake (or pie, I should say because… oh, the PIES that come with this one) is Thanksgiving.

But the cupboards are pretty bare when it comes to the family reading fodder.

It’s hard to find picture books devoted to Thanksgiving. So I had to include books that deal with fall weather, too. Which is okay, I guess, because fall weather is football weather, and that underscores yet another reason why this is my favorite holiday. If our blessings are abundant, each year our family is week-three deep in the playoffs. (Here’s hoping we’ll be counting that blessing this year!)

So this list begins with a book called Football with Dad. We received a copy as a gift a few years back by my dear friend and fellow coach’s wife, Kim.

Football with Dad,
by Frank Berrios, illustrated by Brian Biggs

It’s a Little Golden Book — so it wafts nostalgia the minute you crack the gilded cover. The storyline is exactly what you’d expect — a game of pickup football with a dad and his son, along with a few neighborhood kids (girls included — YAY). It celebrates family and tradition and football fundamentals, and we love it in our house. (Of course we do.)

Next up, is the childhood classic, Winnie-the-Pooh and the Blustery Day. This is a great one to read the day before Thanksgiving, as it is set on a “Windsday.” Piglet and Pooh and all our Hundred-Acre friends are here — including the first appearance of everybody’s favorite bouncy, trouncy, spring-filled character, Tigger. The story involves coming together to celebrate — and even sacrifice for –our friends. What better story to read the day before Thanksgiving? You can find it in The Complete Tales of Winnie-the-Pooh (which is what we have) or in a smaller book all its own.

Winnie-the-Pooh and the Blustery Day, by A.A. Milne, illustrated by Ernest H. Shepard

There are two more books that focus on blustery days included in this list. The next up is also a Disney-sponsored picture book — one my mom gave the boys a couple years back. It’s Bruce’s Big Storm, and once again, there’s a bear and a storm, plus more gathering and celebrating and sacrifice. But this time the bear is an introvert surrounded by neighbors bound and determined to adopt him as their “den leader” (much to his [dis]pleasure.) As a fellow introvert, Bruce and I are kindred spirits. Sometimes in big get-togethers, I sit off in a corner and just absorb. It doesn’t mean I’m not having a great time; it just means I have to experience the shenanigans on my own terms. Just like Bruce.

Bruce’s Big Storm, written and illustrated by Ryan T Higgins

Speaking of feeling overwhelmed (which we were, in case that wasn’t clear), Sweep, by Louise Greig, is a great book to read when you have kiddos struggling to learn to control BIG emotions inside little bodies. The entire book revolves around an onslaught of leaves, collecting and swallowing everything in its path. This becomes a clear metaphor (even for little kids to pick up on) about how a bad mood can seize control of us until we become buried alive under our dark, moldy thoughts. But this book reminds us to look up. To rise above our collection of negative thoughts and remember the beauty and love around us. It’s powerful for both Greig’s message and for the stunning illustrations provided by Julia Sarda.

Sweep by Louise Greig, illustrations by Julia Sarda

Now if you love poetry like I love poetry, In November, by Cynthia Rylant, is the book for you to read out loud every single night to your littles. While not technically a book of poetry, the language is chockful of lyrical imagery that lights up your soul with all the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and feels of all the types of gathering, from harvests, to winter coats, to hibernation hovels, to logs for the fire, to spices for the pies, to generations of families. It’s all packed tight-to-bursting with beauty. Do yourself and your kiddos a favor and get this one.

In November, by Cynthia Rylant, illustrated by Jill Kastner

And finally comes the Thanksgiving addition that we discovered just last year. Thanksgiving in the Woods, by Phyllis Alsdurf is also full of sensory details, traditions, and multi-generational gatherings. Only this time the scene is an outdoor gathering. It’s as if Emerson and Thoreau begat a little children’s book full of the magic and wonder of the woods. It even includes lines from a song the boys and I would sing and sway to at bedtime when they were babies — a Shaker hymn called “Simple Gifts.”

And honestly, isn’t that what Thanksgiving should be all about? Celebrating the simple blessings we so often take for granted?

And for us, a simple gift that holds a special place in our hearts is reading as a family every night. We’ve done it since the boys were first-hatched and we’ll carry on as long as we possibly can — till they fly the nest if they let us.

Thanksgiving in the Woods by Phyllis Alsdurf, illustrated by Jenny Lovlie

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Spooktacular Picture Books, according to the Candela Twins

Our family loves Halloween. We love the costumes, the decorations, and the candy, of course. But we also – thanks to this nerdy, bookish, English-teacher mom — love the picture books.

This morning, as we put out jack-o-lanterns and skeletons and gravestones in the yard, an Amazon delivery brought us the newest installment to our Halloween library: Gilbert the Ghost.

He joins The Scariest Book Ever, our “Ginny Goblin” collection, The Creepy Carrots and Creepy Pair of Underwear duo, a nonfiction book called Skulls, and our perennial favorite, The Pomegranate Witch.

The Scariest Book Ever is anything but. It’s all about the scared-y-est ghost ever… so terrified to venture out that he spills orange juice on his sheet just so he can stay home and eat donuts.

The pair of Ginny Goblin books are full of shenanigans and hoodwinks as the impish green girl quests to foil surprises and house rules.

The “Creepy” books are full of cavorting carrots and greenish, glowing underpants.

Skulls is about — you guessed it — skulls in all their beautiful, bony perfection.

 

And then, there’s The Pomegranate Witch. If you haven’t seen it yet, read it yet, bought it yet… well, I can’t tell you how much you need it in your child’s life. In YOUR life. It is beautiful, lyrical, mystical, and even a tad bit hysterical.

Continue reading “Spooktacular Picture Books, according to the Candela Twins” →
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