A Sunday Afternoon

The thing I miss most about living closer to family is Sunday afternoon. As a kid, on Sunday afternoons, I could be found at my grandparent’s house. Everyone was there—my parents and brother, and my uncles with their wives and children. My grandma made a meal of comfort food (pork roast and mashed potatoes) and we all sat down for it. Passing food and laughing. That’s what I remember. That’s what I miss.

I’m on my fourth week of making a meal of comfort food (today was beef stroganoff with sauted green beans and a salad)—attempting to create something similar to what I grew up with, but with just us, the four of us.

Before dinner we carved pumpkins.

Even Adrienne's American Girl Doll, Haley, is enjoying the Indian Summer weather.

Addendum to The Frog Tale

Despite a higher shelf, a new home in a pink cereal bowl, and a large lid, Greystripe found the survivor from yesterday’s Frog Box disaster.

Adrienne was devastated when she heard the news.

“But I rescued him!” she said.

She couldn’t get her arms around the idea that the cat foiled us again—her frogs were gone.

Today, we have a new frog box—one with green, blue, and white rocks, with a bamboo stalk that arks under the lid like a palm tree, and this time with three small frogs the like to huddle near a large shiny blue rock in the corner.

One frog has white spots (or probably more accurately described as pigment-free). That’s Adrienne’s favorite one.

“That one with the white is the ghost of the one I lost yesterday.” Somehow this idea makes her happy. And if she’s happy, I’m happy.

Now the only question is where to set them where the cat won’t find them.

A Tale of Two Frogs

I found these frogs (African Dwarf Frogs), in a cute Plexiglas terrarium at a Hallmark store, of all places. It was Andrew’s 11th birthday which I thought made this discovery a serendipitous no-brainer. The only questions were, which color rocks and what size frogs?

At the cash register, armed with wrapping paper (my original reason for going into the store) and a frog box equipped with blue rocks and two medium-sized amphibians, I realized that Adrienne would be more than jealous if I didn’t get her a box, too. I briefly debated the new family rule of “only the birthday boy gets presents on his birthday” but decided that despite the fact that I’d made the rule just a few hours before, I’d have to disregard before the idea even had a chance to get off the ground. The frogs were so cool and Adrienne is the animal lover; Adrienne is the fan of all things unique. I couldn’t leave her out.

So, I returned to the cash register with a second box: pink rocks, a bamboo stalk, and two small frogs. Perfect. Adrienne could keep one box for herself and give the other to Andrew at the party that would start in just a few hours. I was happy.

However, at home, the frogs got a lukewarm reception. Adrienne said she preferred turtles if I was going to allow pets that live in or near water in the house. Ultimately, she said she wanted a hamster if I was of the inclination to add animals to the already existing three cats. She stared at the frogs who briefly darted from one side of the eight inch square box to the other, but then left the room—off to something else.

At his party, Andrew smiled at the gift, but the Wii game from his friend, Matthew and the iTunes gift card from a group of girls in his class, trumped the frogs. For the next few hours, the frog box sat in the middle of the dining room table amidst torn wrapping paper and empty Gatorade bottles, forgotten and left behind in favor of the NERF gun war taking place in the basement.

I resigned myself to the fact that I would probably end up caring for the frogs and began cleaning up the table.

However, when Adrienne’s friend Nina arrived late to the party, she found the small square aquatic frog homes extremely cool. Her expression of “awesome” changed the status of the new pets and the kids have been doting over them ever since, happily feeding them every Wednesday and Sunday.

But this is not a happy frog story and the turning point came when our cat, Greystripe discovered them.

Although the boxes have a lid (with a small hole in the top) and sit up on a shelf, Greystripe has been plotting a play date since a few hours after the birthday party when the boxes found their way into the kids’ rooms.

Andrew’s box is placed high enough out of the way, that one frog’s lap across the “pool” doesn’t catch the cat’s eye. However, Adrienne’s box is another story. She’s been aware that Greystripe is interested in the sudden, quick movements the frogs make. And for nearly a month she’d been successful in keeping her frog box in a place that didn’t attract attention. But she likes to move the box around and over the weekend when cleaning her room, she chose a new spot—one that although is high off the ground, could be accessible to a cat motivated by curiosity.

Needless to say, the cat finally got to the frog box (at some undetermined time) yesterday. Adrienne discovered it around 8pm when she came into her room bundled in a robe after her shower. “Greystripe got my frogs!” echoed throughout the house.

The small box lay on its side on the carpet, a layer of pink rocks out before it, with a limp bamboo stalk some few yards to the side of it. And no frogs in site.

I automatically assumed the frogs had been a late afternoon snack for the cat, and so I approached the situation as a clean up NOT a rescue. And who knew, these little creatures were at first snubbed? The reaction from both kids was one of deep sadness and regret.

The stories Adrienne was already weaving as she picked up pink rocks made the frogs seem as if they’d been with us forever. The eulogy she was creating was dramatic, but sweet.

AND THEN: we discovered a frog on the carpet, hiding near a pile of books, on his back, gasping for breath.

The original home, damaged from its fall off the shelf, couldn’t be used again. Instead, I filled a cereal bowl with water, added some of the rocks and the bamboo and plopped the frog in. He darted from side to side then sank to the bottom, no doubt for a thankful meditation on being rescued from the vast water-less world of Adrienne’s room.

Today, I’ll be headed back over to Hallmark, with the intention of doing what the frog box instructions instruct not to do: add a third frog to the perfection of a two frog, frog box. BUT… duty calls.

Nicer Teeth

Here's what I envy about Eric: he approaches life without attachment.

As a dentist in a busy office, he sometimes sees 75 people in one afternoon--people that don't always have a habit of brushing their teeth. He tells them to brush their teeth, of course. He gives them prescriptions for special rinses and recommends fillings or extractions, as needed, but he never takes this stuff personally. If a patient comes back in a year and still doesn't brush or floss and still hasn't had the cavity filled, he shrugs. Don't get me wrong, I'm not implying that he's a bad practitioner of dentistry. To the contrary, he's excellent! He gives the same exam to a complete stranger that he does to me, his wife. His explanations are heartfelt and his desire IS for everyone to get better, to have nicer teeth.

The thing I envy is that he's not invested in the outcome. At least after doing this for over 14 years at the type of office where he works, he’s learned to be committed to his career and his quality of care, but his sense of accomplishment at the end of the day rarely relies on his impressions of what other people thought of him. He's not compromising his practice by thinking this way. Instead, he's figured out that you share your best self with people when you love your job--You share your knowledge in a friendly and helpful way. He’s been known to say, “You can't waste your time worrying if those people you are sharing with get it or not.”

He's accepted that he can't expect everyone he sees to want nicer teeth in the way that he wants nicer teeth for them.

And it's for that, that I want to learn to be Eric.

But for now, I am still me and sitting here feeling really crappy about my day at the office--my day leading 41 freshman students in a discussion about Good Will Hunting (the 1997 movie with Ben Affleck and Matt Damon) for the third time this week.

Here's the thing about me: I tackle everything in my life with energy and enthusiasm. I invest myself in everything I'm doing.
There are lots of people that think that's great, the recipe for success. They'll say things like, "You have to believe in what you're doing," "Everyone should invest 100% if they really love their job."

Sometimes those comments sustain me, but on the days when one of my students seems completely disconnected from class and isn’t even trying, I feel responsible. I beat myself up over what I can do to bring that student back into the fold of learning. Some might suggest that if I have a student that is not connected that I did, indeed, do something wrong or that I didn't do something right to make those connections happen.

It’s usually those days that Eric comes home with a smile—having done his good deed of sharing his best self and then coming home. When I tell Eric about my day, his response is something like, "Your students just don't want nicer teeth today. Maybe tomorrow." Then he usually shrugss.

I always thought teaching was about being in charge which is nice way of saying that teaching is about controlling people. But today, I had no control over sleepy students (two that laid their heads down on the table and slept and several others who dozed off and on while sitting upright), or the ones that haven't read the selection for the day, or the ones that are willing to think hard enough to make cognitive leaps.

I can only stand up in front of them and offer my expertise and hope that understand and "get it" so that they get the educational equivalent to nicer teeth.