Wrapping

In the cold I wait for the light.

I see the clouds galloping across the sky—

yes, galloping, grayish white against a tint of blue—

and that same gale that hurries them

stings me to my bones

numbing me through to my toes.

I return my borrowed

fleecy black gloves and rush

across the field thinking

hey, at least I ran a quarter mile today.

He waits at the van,

takes me home in the heavenly heat,

but I am still shivering under my

newly borrowed double layer jacket

and supposedly warm wool socks

and two rounds of dipping Polly Pockets

into the “hot springs” pool.

When he calls for dinner,

my shrieking hazel-eyed girls

lead the way upstairs

and before I can even take my seat

he wraps his warmth around me

with a steaming cup of Earl Grey,

not for one second forgetting

the two sugars, the spoonful of half and half

and I smile enough to light two rooms

and melt the darkness away from

the weak place inside of me

that he has just given strength to.

Giver of Words

Mythili, you always know just what to say.

When Isabella has forgotten her water bottle

it’s, “You know she better check the lost and found

tomorrow or else she wouldn’t have it anymore.”

or when Riona asks for a taste of my tea, you reply,

“We only can have smells, unless we’re sick,

then we can have tea or even ginger ale,”

nodding and sticking your finger back in your mouth,

pushing blankey against your cheek.

or when we take a walk and you ask,

“What is that extra space for

next to the sidewalk where no cars go?”

and when I explain the parking lane,

your answer is complete: “When people have

birthday parties on Saturdays that’s where

the guests park their cars.”

and sometimes I can hardly believe

that you are only four when you

look up at me through your thick eyelashes,

your nothing but golden eyes,

and tell me that you have now decided

you will be both an astronaut and

an artist, no longer the butterfly

of your three-year-old dreams,

“Because, Mama, it is time that

someone really could paint the stars.”

My Oldest Getting Too Old

I keep wanting to say that you are seven

because even though I cringe at the thought

of you not being a baby, a toddler, a preschooler,

you seem seven to me now

with your lanky arms,

your longing eyes,

your pride in your Daisy Girl Scout patches and vest,

the giant words that come out of your mouth,

the flippant attitude you have mastered,

the three boyfriends that you just proudly announced

(I thought Reuben was the one),

and the way you live for your friendships.

Your hair is even longer than I imagined

from my mostly-bald baby,

you can count to a hundred in English and Spanish

and insist on shouting out every letter

of your baby sister’s alphabet placemat

before she has a chance.

When the six kids are together,

you are the alpha female in your game of hunting cats,

telling the boys and your sisters where to go,

which way to pounce,

and where the best hiding spots are.

You climb trees like there’s no tomorrow

and would ride your bike around the block

every day if I let you,

and have let loose your fear of ringing

Kiara’s doorbell for a requested playdate.

But are you six in those pants that come

up to your ankles,

in the art that you create with three-dimensional

expertise, your grandmother’s gift

skipping a generation?

I suppose I have to accept it,

accept that you now attend school all day,

that you know how to use a computer,

type your name on Daddy’s iPod,

and know all the words to Mama’s favorite songs,

and that, before I even blink,

you really will be seven.

Riona, My Angelic Baby

Your eyes are darker than your sisters’

though still hazel

you peek them out of your

falling-in-your-face golden strands of hair

and tap my knee relentlessly,

“Mama, Mama, Mama,” until

I can’t help but look, smile at

your imploring expression,

and agree with your request

to play Polly Pockets with you in the green room.

You stop midway—

it’s time to cuddle in my lap,

thumb in mouth,

on the pillows that you have already

set up for us.

I love you to pieces

even when you adamantly refuse

to even taste the broccoli on your plate,

waiting… waiting… waiting

to stick out year lip

and let out your cries

when I won’t dismiss you

I love you to pieces

because you are my last,

my baby,

my youngest daughter,

and everything that you do,

from diligently stacking blocks

to asking me for a nose kiss

to insisting that you sleep blanketless

is pure beauty in my eyes.

You are three now,

and as we cuddle,

I wonder how long this will last,

knowing that it will never be long enough,

that you will grow and take

those mercurial eyes

to school,

to work,

to the altar…

but for now, I still

have you tapping my knee,

begging me for attention,

and I know that I must do

whatever is in my power

to give you my all.

When I come home each day from a long day of teaching and visiting classrooms, from dealing with the needs of all of my students, I have three needy, loving little girls dying for my attention. And during the past six years, they have taught me more about differentiation than I would ever learn in the classroom.

Today for example. I was in a meeting all day today. Sitting on my butt. Not that I didn’t learn anything (check out this site, in particular–www.thisibelieve.org), but sitting around all day in front of the computer is, well, more than draining. Gotta hand it to all you office folks who do that daily. That’s why I’m a teacher. I need the neediness. I need the human interaction!

So back to my story. I got home and decided, it being close to 70 degrees on the 20th of January (for those of you who haven’t considered moving to Colorado, after watching the frigid inauguration today, maybe the blue, sunny skies of our beautiful state will appeal to you), that I should take the girls on a nice, long walk. Riona, who’d missed her nap already, was sleeping in the car in the garage. So, I was left with Isabella and Mythili. And when I say I wanted to go on a walk, I really meant a run. I’ve been trying to run three miles a day, so I figured two miles pushing a stroller with 90 pounds worth of little girls would be equivalent. But Isabella didn’t want to ride in the stroller–she wanted to ride her bike. I could have been the adamant teacher that I sometimes am and that I see almost every day when I visit other classrooms and said, “No, we’re doing what I say,” but why not? I knew that her riding her bike would mean I would only get to run part of the way, that we would have to stop every time we came to even a slope of a hill, that I would have to push her up some and comfort her when she fell. But the light in her eyes, the excitement about getting to ride–I knew it would surpass any of the usual dull moans.

And Mythili? Her needs are a bit different. At first, she just wanted to push the stroller. Again, I could have insisted that she couldn’t keep up, but I let her give it a try. And before we had reached the edge of the cul-de-sac, she was begging for a ride, where she immediately took on her role of Captain Mythili, commanding me to run, to stop, to help Isabella.

Despite the pauses, Isabella directed us all the way to Meadowood (1.5 miles away), so they could play on the playground. Again, the differentiation occurred: Isabella, as usual, busied herself with her innate abilities to socialize with every young child on the monkey bars, and Mythili relished me following her every move like a younger sister, as we were playing family and she was the mom.

When just past dark and more than an hour later we arrived home, I could hear Riona screaming from the house. She stood next to the couch, an untouched bowl of Cheerios that Daddy had attempted to placate her with sitting on the table, and no one could say a word to her without another acute outburst, until I suggested, “Do you want to sit in my lap?” That was all she needed: a good 30-minute curl-up on the couch, thumb in mouth, as she reluctantly released her cries into groans and then whimpers, and finally, just moody responses.

I needed to spend time with my girls today. I needed to get exercise. They needed me, each in their own way. And if I could differentiate for them, couldn’t I do it for everyone? Isn’t that what teaching is all about? I have learned more from them than anyone in my life so far. Isn’t that amazing?