SLICE #31/31- A RECAP

Slice #31!

I did it!

Jumped off the high dive!
Touched the bottom at the twelve foot mark!

Swam all the way across the deep end!

Wrote 31 days in a row!
Woot! Woot! Woot!

My slices this year seemed to divide into several categories.
First, and maybe most important,
were the "How We Became a Family Slices."
I started writing those
after several other posters
wrote memories of days that they had babies
and then a few folks picked up on that theme
and wrote about their gotcha days.
My oldest son is graduating this year
(At least I hope he is, please keep him in your prayers!)
And I thought it would be kind of special
to write a book of slices
to give to him
as a graduation present.
He's come so far…

There were a few other family slices
One about the kindness of a stranger

who unknowingly bought us pizza for my birthday

One about Isaiah unloading groceries

Then finally a slice about our typical day

Which is not nearly as pleasant

As what some readers

seem to think. 

Next there was the "me as a teacher" category.
I did some classroom slices.
Two about the process of saying goodbye to my students,
One "character" sketch
One about the John Henry craze that has overtaken my classroom,
One about running into a former student at the post office,
(I ran into another student from that same group at a shopping center today).
Three about my job hunt
and it's eventual end (phew!)
And my favorite, about the time one of our students who has autism
rubbed the principal's head.


Then there were a few kind of miscellaneous slices
One about lessons from cooking class
(my book club friends decided that we had had  so much fun at the last one
that we should do it again in May!)
Two of my Sunday posts had to do with church and the Sabbath
 (it was interesting that I had a really similar Sabbath post last year,

it made me wonder why that crazy busi-ness is always such a theme in my life)
and one about a peanut butter sandwich message given by my pastor
that I am still thinking about pretty much every day.
I wrote two posts about my "family of origin"
 one about my sister's wedding,
and one about how my grandmother shaped me as a reader.
And then I wrote two slices about my venture into March Poetry Madness-
one a set of really bad limericks
and one about my process of trying to write a poem
which lost in the first round!
And then there was, of course, a poem about my dogs. 

I loved slicing
as much,
or maybe more
than I did last year.
I loved reconnecting with slicers
I had "met" last March
then followed on Tuesdays
throughout the year.
I loved making new friends
from all over the world.
I loved seeing all the different formats people tried
prose, lists, poems, acrostics, limericks, plays, photo essays.
I loved, loved, loved
reading comments that people made about my writing.
And I made a super conscious effort
to comment on other people's writing.
Most days I think I did at least ten
Although I didn't really keep count.

I spent some time last night
reading last year's slices.
And I really think I was writing better-
more details, better dialogue-
last year than I am now.
I wonder why---
maybe just too much on my mind-
son issues, graduation issues, job issues.

But at least I did it.
I sliced
for 31 days
in a row!

A huge thank you to Ruth and Stacey for pulling
the Slice of Life
Writing Community together!

SLICE #30- A WAY MORE TYPICAL SLICE OF LIFE

For those of you who think my family is somewhere close to sainthood, thought I would give you a typical slice from our life. This is one from last night and this morning.

Last night, my book club went to see Hunger Games, then for a bite to eat afterwards. After a terrific evening- great movie, great conversation, lots of laughter- I got home about ten. When I walked in the door, I could hear water running. The bathroom door was shut, so I assumed one of the boys was in the bathroom. A few minutes later, Kadeem walks out of his bedroom.

"I'm going to bed. Good night," he says, in one of those, you didn't do a good job mothering me/you should have been home cooking dinner" designed to induce mommy guilt voices.

"Where's the water running?" I say.

"Toilet," says Kadeem, shutting his door with a little more intensity than I thought necessary.

I resume my running water detective work, knocking softly on the bathroom door. "Isaiah?" I say, in my most pleasant mother/detective voice.

Isaiah doesn't answer. The door is ajar so I push it open just a little. No one is in there, but the toilet is, in fact, running like crazy. I take off the lid, preparing to move from detective to plumber role. I think that the floater valve is probably just hung up.  I know how to fix those.

Unfortunately, the floater valve does not seem to be the problem. I jiggle around all the jiggle-able parts I can see, then try flushing it again. I leave for a few minutes and go downstairs, hoping I have fixed the problem.  I haven't. The water continues to run.

I review my problem solving strategies. My next option is to turn off the water and call the plumber. I find the little valve behind the toilet (after saying some very unmotherlike words about my boys' housecleaning abilities!) and turn it off. I put a sign on the toilet DO NOT USE! and go to bed.

This morning, I got up and called the plumber. Because I am such a valued customer (plumber's code for someone is always breaking something, or putting something somewhere that it should not go),  I have a special valued customer account. April (yes, I really am on a first name basis with the plumber's dispatcher) tells me someone can come out between 12 and 2). I wade into the boys' bathroom and spend an hour scrubbing. (They usually clean their own bathroom, then I do my best to ignore it, but when someone, even the plumber, is coming over, a little elbow grease is usually in order). I discover that the drain in the sink also needs some work, and call April back. She says that will be no problem.  Somewhere during that hour I take a brief intermission because Kadeem insists he needs a shower. I resist the urge to say something unpleasant and unmotherlike about the boys' bathroom cleaning skills.

At about 11:50, the phone rings. April wants me to know that the plumber is on the way. Great. In the meantime, Isaiah comes out of his bedroom, goes into the bathroom, and slams the door.  I tap (Ok, maybe I banged a little) on the bathroom door and tell him he needs to get out of the bathroom because
A) the toilet doesn't work and B) the plumber is on his way up to the door. I tell him he should use my bathroom instead. He comes out of the bathroom and goes back into his bedroom, shutting the door with a lot more force than necessary, and saying, "I'm not an idiot," in a less than pleasant voice.

The plumber arrives at the door. "Hi, I'm Paul," he says. "You're having a problem with your hot water heater?"

"My hot water heater?"

Paul smiles and nods.

"No, I'm not having a problem with my hot water heater. I'm having a problem with my toilet and with the sink not draining."

"You're sure you're not having a problem with your hot water heater?"says Paul.

"No, my hot water heater is fine." I'm not too concerned by what seems like a mixup, because I have worked with this company for several years, and they have always done a great job.  I take him into the boys' bathroom to show him the toilet and sink.

"We usually have special drain guys," says Paul, "but I'll take a look at it."I comment that April had said that the drain would not be a problem. Paul looks at me like he's not sure I'm telling the truth, runs the water in the sink (I think to check if there really is hot water), looks at the drain, and then gets on the phone to call April.

"There's not a problem with the hot water heater," he says. "She has a problem with her toilet." Paul evidently has the phone on speaker because I can hear every word April says. "There's no problem with the hot water heater?" she says.

"No," says Paul. She says that no one is available this afternoon to do the drain, but that they can send someone tomorrow. Inwardly, I groan at one more day of my rapidly disappearing spring break being taken up waiting for a plumber, but I really need the work to be done, so I agree.

Paul rolls up his sleeves and starts to work. I stand in the doorway, waiting for his assessment of the toilet situation. "So how old are your boys?" he says conversationally.

"Sixteen and eighteen," I reply. "Do you have kids?" He does, an eight-year-old boy and a baby.

"Where does your eight-year-old go to school?" I ask.

"In the mountains. He lives up in the mountains with his mom."

This seems like it could be heading toward one of those foot-in-mouth conversations, so I change the subject. "How long have you worked for **** Plumbing Company?"

I have moved away from the bathroom and can't quite hear his answer. I move back to the door.

"I've worked for them for a year," he says, "but it's not **** Plumbing Company. I work for **** (another plumbing company)."

I am a little confused. I wonder if **** Plumbing Company, the one I use, is subcontracting work to this other company.

I must look confused, because Paul points to his shirt. "I work for *** Plumbing Company."

"But that's not the company that's supposed to be coming," I say, hoping for some clarification.

"Isn't this 2557 G Street?" says Paul.

"No," I say, "This is 2577."

"Well that explains the water heater issues," says Paul. "I'm supposed to be repairing a water heater at 2557 G Street." He picks up his materials and I escort him to the door, pointing him two doors down, to where my neighbor is evidently waiting to have her hot water heater repaired.

My plumber shows up ten minutes later, and charges me about $300 to fix the sink and toilet. He laughs when I tell him about my new friend, Paul.

I write the plumber a check and he leaves. I go to let the dogs in and discover that Isaiah has climbed out his bedroom window and  is out in the backyard. The basketball hoop has somehow made its way up onto the wooden deck. A large board on the deck is now broken in half, leaving a hole in the middle of the deck.

"How did that happen?" I ask.

"Basketball hoop," says Isaiah. I sigh wondering where the money will come from to fix that.

"And your stupid dog bit a hole in my basketball," Isaiah continues.

"Did you leave it where he could get it?" I say.

"It's a basketball. It's supposed to be by the hoop," says Isaiah.

I resist the urge to respond.

And this, my friends, is a probably more accurate slice of our life today…

POETRY FRIDAY- THE OTHER MARCH MADNESS

Maybe I shouldn't admit this, but besides being a book-loving, poem-eating, word- hungry teacher, I'm also a huge sports lover. I grew up with a dad who had lettered in football, basketball, and baseball in high school and college. We had only girls in our family, and somebody had to become his sports-watching pal. Some of my happiest memories of my dad involve sitting in front of the television on Saturday or Sunday afternoon, cheering our favorite teams, with chip and dip, or popcorn, or occasionally shrimp, provided by my mom (who also watched a lot of sports!).


I have loved Ed DeCaria's Poetry March Madness. I've read all of the poems, and voted, and shared a lot with my fourth graders. It's been a blast to read all the beautiful/funny poems from the talented people I follow every Friday all year long.


I have also loved the OTHER March Madness- you know, the Basketball one? Is anyone else following that? It seems only appropriate, then, to highlight one of my favorite sports poets, Charles R. Smith, Jr.  Smith is a poet/photographer/sports lover. He has five books of basketball poetry, RIMSHOTS (my favorite), SHORT TAKES, HOOP KINGS, HOOP QUEENS, and TALL TALES. All of Smith's books, or at least all of them that I know, are illustrated with his gorgeous sports photographs.  His book, MY PEOPLE, won the Coretta Scott King award in 2010 and his biography of Muhammed Ali, 12 ROUNDS TO GLORY was a Coretta Scott King Honor winner in 2008.




"Allow Me to Introduce Myself"
Charles R. Smith, Jr.

They call me the show stopper
the dime dropper
the spin-move-to-the-left reverse jam poppa.
The high flier on the high wire.
The intense rim-rattin’noise amplifier.
The net-shaker
Back board breaker
Creator of the funky dunk hip-shaker
The man Sir Slam
The Legend
I Be.
Those are a few
Of the names
They call me.

To get the full effect, you really need to bounce over to Smith's website and listen to him read his poems here.  They are absolutely perfect for introducing performance to your sports lovers!


Heidi Mordhorst is hosting Poetry Friday at my juicy little universe.


Happy Spring! Happy March Madness! Happy almost National Poetry Month!

SLICE #29- THE DAYS OF NOT ENOUGH

The first weekend, or maybe the second, I take Isaiah to Colorado Springs to meet my family. It was Mother's Day, and my family had reservations for lunch. The pictures of that day show Isaiah, a stocky little guy in a brown and gold plaid shirt and khaki pants, clutching my hand, as I introduce him to my mom,  sister Betsy and her husband, Paul, my high school aged niece and nephew- Greg and Megan, and my other sister, Nancy, and her partner, Dee.

I remember only snippets from that day. I do remember, though, helping Isaiah order from the children's menu. The menu, as I remember it, was a typical kids' menu- hamburgers, grilled cheese, and chicken nuggets. Isaiah asked for pepperoni pizza.

The waiter brought the pizza to the table. It wasn't anything fancy, a kids' pizza on a  dinner plate, with a fruit garnish. Isaiah, however, was totally enthralled. When the waiter set the pizza down in front of him, he looked at it, then looked at me.

"Is this all for me?" he asked. "I get to eat all of this?"

In fact, eating was a theme that was threaded throughout that entire first summer. There had been signs for several years that the boys were not getting enough to it. Isaiah would always go back for seconds and thirds in the school cafeteria. His second grade teacher sent him to the office more than once for hiding food in his desk. Kadeem was a skinny, wiry little guy. I did not even begin to understand the severity of their hunger.

Shortly after the boys came to live with me, I took them to dinner at their favorite restaurant, a buffet. They had never eaten in restaurants and I was trying to ease them into a few niceties of life. We ate at this particular buffet every couple of weeks because there was a wide variety of food and an ice cream machine that served as a perfect incentive for doing a good job during the meal. The buffet thing meant that the boys didn't have to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time.

This particular night, we were driving to the restaurant. Kadeem commented that he was really hungry, and I assured him that we would be eating in just a few minutes. He turned to Isaiah and said, "Do you remember how sometimes at Teresa's (previous foster mom, not her real name) we would get so hungry that we would shake?"

Isaiah said he remembered. Kadeem continued, "Do you remember your legs would just shake and shake and you would feel like you were going to fall down?"

My heart broke then, as it would many more times, for my sweet, sweet boys.

Despite my continuous reassurances, the boys seemed unable to believe that there would always be plenty to eat at our house. I have never been a great cook, and breakfast at our house was usually pretty simple-- cereal, bagels, toast, etc. Those first few months, Kadeem's choice was always microwave pancakes.

He didn't, however, eat one or two servings of pancakes. Instead, my skinny little seven-year-old would sit with his fork in one hand, knife in the other, and consume an entire box of microwave pancakes. Every. single. morning. I did not understand until much later that the boys thought that they needed to eat a lot at breakfast because there might not be food later on in the day.

Even now, after nine years of plenty of food, the boys, and especially Kadeem, get nervous if our cupboards start to look a little bare. "Don't you need to go to the store?" Kadeem will say. My boys remember, all too well, the days of not enough.

SLICE #28- SALVAGEABLE?

The boys have lived with me about a month when their social worker 

(who shall remain nameless)

comes to visit.

We discuss the boys' adjustment, 
review summer plans,

and sign the monthly paperwork.

The appointment is almost over, 

when the social worker asks a question.

"So," she says conversationally, 

"Do you think they are salvageable?"

I am socked-in-the-stomach-stunned 

by her choice of words.

Salvageable is a word used to described

Overcooked casseroles, 

wrecked cars,

and ships that have sunk 

to the bottom of the ocean.

Salvageable is not a word 

that should ever be used to describe children. 


I think I manage to stammer
something to the effect ,
that of course they are salvageable.
They are children,
yes children, who have been through very hard times
and have the life bumps and bruises 
to show for it
but of course they are salvageable.
I would not be doing this
if I did not think that they were salvageable.

After thinking about it  for nine years, 

I think I might say, 

"When you talk about my children,

please feel free to use words like…

adorable, 

enjoyable,

 malleable,

valuable

and

perhaps a little unpredictable.

You can use words like 

quotable

and remarkable

if you like. 

Hopefully someday you will describe my boys as

responsible,

respectable,

charitable

admirable,

and of course, by then 

remarkable

will definitely apply.

If you want to,

we can talk about a system,

Or maybe a society,

That allows children 

to suffer

As irresponsible

inconceivable,

or reprehensible.

But please,

don’t ever ask again

if my children

or any others 

in my care

are salvageable.

SLICE #27- COMING HOME

I bring Isaiah home for the first time on a Friday night. It is pouring rain, super unusual for our very dry state. Kadeem has not gone to school that entire week, and the social workers have decided that until he goes back to school, he will not be allowed to come on weekend visits either.

Isaiah and I make a stop first at the foster care agency that is doing my training. The agency is anxious to place the boys quickly and have created a ramped up schedule of classes for me to complete.  Every night, I do a module, then meet with my social worker to discuss it  and turn it in. Tonight, Isaiah watches videos in a crowded office, while we meet. He does not interrupt once, except to ask for a bathroom, for the entire hour.

When I am done, Isaiah and I head for home. My home, an 80-year-old thousand square foot bungalow, is much smaller and much less fashionably decorated than the boys' previous foster home. Isaiah, I think, is a little disappointed in his new home.

Ramsey, my hundred pound golden retriever, and Mattie, the exuberant yellow lab who will soon assume the role of therapy dog, greet us at the door, the same way they have done every night for many years. Isaiah is a little taken aback by their size. "Don't worry, Isaiah, they are kid friendly," I assure him. He pats the dogs tentatively and they follow us happily from room to room, as I give him a tour of the house. By the time we are done, it is nine o'clock, and we are both tired. We watch a little tv, and then I tuck my son in for the night.

The next morning, Saturday, we have much to do. Isaiah came with the clothes on his back and not much more. The soles of his tennis shoes are flapping. My dear friend, Deb, has purchased underwear for that first weekend. One of Isaiah's friends has given us a bag of hand-me-down clothes. It is clear that we need to go shopping. We start at Target, where we pick out shorts, t-shirts, and a pair of khakis and a collared shirt for him to wear to meet my family the next day.

We then move on to Famous Footwear. Isaiah is thrilled at the prospect of picking out brand new tennis shoes and his grin stretches from ear to ear. When I tell him he needs to pick out a second pair of shoes, one that he can wear for dress up, he is incredulous. "I never had two sets of shoes," he declares in complete disbelief.  "These are beauts…" says Isaiah, as he models the second pair. I think of the 10 or 15 pair of shoes in my closet at home.

The rest of the morning becomes, in my mind, a metaphor for what will become our life together- me trying to pretend that I can do the mom thing and the work thing equally well, that there will be no difference between the life I have known and the one I am about to assume. . I am in charge of a parent appreciation breakfast at the school the following week. There is a mile long list of things that need to be purchased, picked up, and created. We pick up thank you presents at two different Pier Ones,  tablecloths and paperware at Party City, thank you notes at Hallmark store, and groceries at King Soopers. Isaiah is a trouper the entire morning. At every stop, the car gets fuller and fuller, and he squeezes into a smaller and smaller space. Finally I ask him if he is used to running errands with his foster mom. "Yes," he says, "but usually Kadeem and me sit in the car and wait."

By the time we get through the grocery store, Isaiah is totally spent and I am beginning to realize that the busy, crazy running around life I have always known may need to change a little…

SLICE #26- THE LONG GOODBYE

I am at a school that is closing at the end of this school year. Actually, the primary wing closed last year, and reopened this fall as a charter school. The intermediate wing will close in May, and then reopen in August as part of the same charter school. Most of my fourth graders will attend the charter school, which is their neighborhood school, next year.

I have only been at the school one year, so it's not nearly as heart wrenching for me as it is for teachers who have been there ten or fifteen years. One of the fifth grade teachers, for example, sent her own children, who are now in their thirties to our school, then she became a paraprofessional, and then went back to school to become a teacher. She has never taught anywhere else.

Even though I have only been at the school for about eight months, I have a feeling that the next seven weeks are going to be one long goodbye. Have I mentioned that I absolutely hate goodbyes?

Last Thursday, for example, Uriel and his best friend, Juan, were talking about Barbara O'Connor. Uriel had just finished THE FANTASTIC SECRET OF OWEN JESTER. He had moved on to GREETINGS FROM NOWHERE and passed OWEN JESTER along to Juan. As we were wrapping up Readers' Workshop that day, Uriel said to me, "Are you going to get Barbara O'Connor's next book?"

I responded that I was sure I would, because she is one of my favorite authors and I have bought all of her books.

Paris, who is one of the strongest readers in my class and read OWEN last fall, while I was reading HOT TO STEAL A DOG to the class, overhead the conversation, "It's the one about the pigeon, right? But it's not coming out until Fall, is it?"

"I think I read that it is coming out in October," I say.

"We won't be in fourth grade, then?" asks Juan, not quite sure of the time frame.

"No, we'll be in fifth grade," says Paris.

"In fifth grade," said Uriel. "But you won't be with us in fifth grade, right, Ms. Wilcox? You will be at the school where they speak Spanish and English. "

"That's right, Uriel," I say.

"Well then, how will we get the book? How will we get to read Barbara O'Connor's pigeon book?" says Uriel.

I have to think fast on this one. "We are a reading family," I say. "And reading families stick together. The day Barbara O'Connor's new book comes out, I will go and buy four copies. I will keep one copy to read myself. And then I will come back to visit you. I will give one copy to each of the fifth grade classrooms, so that all of us who love Barbara O'Connor will get to read her next book. You can read it and email me and tell me what you think."

The boys seem ok with this solution. They will get to read their favorite author's newest book. We will see each other. We will talk about our reading. Just like we do every day.

And me?

I'm absolutely hating all this goodbye stuff.