be when?

I have set out today to answer a ponderous question I know a lot of people are asking. Why should I, my name not being Caesar, beware the Ides of March? All right, maybe you're not phrasing it in that particular manner, especially if your name is Caesar. And maybe you had no idea that today, March 15th, is celebrated as the Ides of March. as it has been for centuries. But I can't help of either one of those unfortunate situations.

As anyone who sat through enough English classes knows, Shakespeare warned Caesar about this particular day, but his warning was not heeded. Caesar went to the Senate anyway, he died anyway, and, as often happens in Shakespeare, a whole lot of other people died anyway as a result of the first dead person doing something stupid. Always listen in English class.

So, for those who have wondered what the Ides of March is, well, it is the same thing as the Ides of just about any other month. The middle. It is not, as one might suppose, always, or even usually, the 15th. Sometimes , specifically in January, February, April, June, August, September, November, and December, it is the 13th. In any month containing a 'd' it is the 12th. In any month containing a 'y' you're not legally allowed to celebrate it unless you willingly jump into Lake Michigan in a bikini. (Guys, too.) Strangely, people tend to celebrate only the Ides of July for this reason.

Factually, the Ides were never particularly bewared prior to Shakespeare. It was just another way of saying midmonth and telling time prior to the advent of Swiss watches and Y2K. Its origins were astrological, which explains why the days would shift in various months, since the moon is not known to cooperate well with the Roman calendar.

Two other days also received names, the 1st of the month (which did not vary and was called Kalends) and the 7th or 5th, referred to as Nones. Without paper calendars or palm pilots, people counted days by referencing these three points. How they did this when two of them changed from month to month I can't say, but the Romans were resourceful. Or was that the Trojans? Had Caesar discontinued this silly system rather than reaffirm it in his Julian calendar, maybe his fate would have been different. I think Congress should take note of that next time they're considering, I don't know, reinforcing our reliance on oil or something.

Having spent the entire weekend around a knife-wielding crazy person (no, really; perfectly serious on that one), it's a bit too late for me to celebrate today by looking around for persons hiding daggers in their cloaks. Maybe I will read Shakespeare. This is a good way to celebrate any day, I think. Or maybe, I'll challenge someone in my house to a fencing duel. Yes, we really could do that. You have no idea what goes on here. And some days, you don't want to.

But the real question: how did you celebrate Pi Day? Scrumptiously, I hope.

help wanted--no boys allowed

Today, this post definitely requires your participation. Today is Girls Write Now Day. To quote the Girls Write Now website:

"March 8 is Girls Write Now Day, or, as we like to think of it, Girls Write Everywhere Day. It is a day to encourage girls of all ages everywhere in the world to put pen to paper and explore the beauty and power of their unique, creative voices. It is a day to celebrate girls, girl writers, and overall girl awesomeness."

I have absolutely no trouble believing all of you ladies out there possess incredible amounts of overall girl awesomeness. So, I am requesting the assistance of all girls (women) for this blog post. We want to write a round robin story. We used to do this all the time when the girls were younger. It's a great way to pass time waiting in a restaurant or in a car with kids.

I will start the story. All of you must continue it with your own additions, however long or short, in the comments section. So please--if you've never commented before and you are female (sorry guys), please do it now. And tell your female friends to come add to our wonderful (strange?) story.


Once upon a time, there was a small rabbit named McGillicutty. She could not spell her own name for kindergarten. Who could? But it left the little rabbit very sad. So one day, she decided to . . . . Take it from there, ladies.

i before e

This is definitely the day created for me. National Grammar Day. I am the woman who corrects song lyrics on the radio. I edit my junk mail.

But although my family and friends, to their utter chagrin, know me as the Grammar Gestapo, the truth is, I came late to the punctuation police.

I grew up in the era when teaching grammar didn't "foster a child's creativity." Too late, we discovered that all the rules we tossed in the 70's turned out to be somewhat useful. Like knowing how to write in complete sentences on a job application. And spell your own last place of residence. (Those were not complete sentences. Ha ha. Writers can get away with that.)

In fact, my junior high language arts career consisted of reading books in the library and occasionally reporting on them. I had somehow passed, a couple years early, all the information they thought junior high student needed to know by the end of eighth grade. How I did this without sufficient grammar skills mystified me. Thus, the library. I got straight A's in high school and graduated with honors in my college literature major all without ever knowing what a split infinitive was. Yes, my college professors would make red slashes and vague comments like "comma splice" on my papers, but I had no idea what that meant.

Then, I became an English teacher. There is nothing like a roomful of high school juniors looking at you like you're the gazelle and they're the leopard to make you learn quickly the stuff you're supposed to teach. I did not want to make a mistake. I'd already done that by trying to teach the difference between "lay" and "lie." Trust me, it's better never to teach this to teenagers. It is not worth the embarrassment when they snicker all the way through explanations of anything getting laid anywhere. And learn I did, a few steps ahead of them, until they and I could all get near-perfect ACT scores in English, if necessary.

They actually thanked me after taking those college exams. "Mrs. Richardson (Miss Hutchinson) we really needed that stuff! And I knew it!" It always amused me that they had such a tone of wonder when they said that, like they had firmly believed I was up there every day teaching this stuff because I had some sweet but misguided illusion that the English language would be necessary to their daily lives.

In honor of National Grammar Day, I offer some often abused language rules. At least I can sleep tonight, knowing I've done my part to save the world.

Oft-abused grammar rule number one-- Quotation marks go outside of periods and commas. Always. No exceptions. It does not matter if the quotation marks are around only the last word in the sentence -- the period goes inside of them. Question marks and exclamation points are completely up to the whim of the writer. Well, not completely, but I'm not going into that. Thus, the sentence:

He will be reading from that stirring essay, "How to Potty Train Your Cat." is correct, while
He will be reading from that stirring essay, "How to Potty Train Your Cat". is not.

Oft-abused grammar rule number two -- Unless someone or something possesses something else, please do not use an 'apostrophe s.' (Note those quotation marks.) Thus,

"The cat's flagrantly disregarded the wisdom of that essay," tells us that there is one cat, and he apparently owns something, perhaps a certain level of disregard. This misguided person meant to say "The cats." Of course, you could say, "The cats' flagrant disregard annoyed me, just like writers' complete disregard for this rule." But that is another sentence.

Oft-abused grammar rule number three--To add the word "literally" to a sentence means just that--something really did happen. I read this so often when someone is trying to exaggerate, but unless what you said really did happen, it is not "literally." When I read "He literally lost his head," I get an interesting visual, but that is the opposite of what the word really means! Literally.

Well, that is enough for today. If i feel any grammar rants coming on in the future, I'll be sure to write them down. Literally. Now, time to go potty train some cats. Not literally. See how handy that is?

flowers and hockey tickets

So, I actually watched the new show "The Marriage Ref" Sunday evening. This was not because I particularly wanted to. It was because I sprained my ankle and strained my back Saturday morning, and the couch was pretty much the center of my weekend entertainment. The show came on after the Olympics. I did not want to get up.

But--having watched it, I feel compelled to offer some real advice to you men out there. Specifically, about Mr. "I want to spice up my marriage." Specifically, too, to the lone woman on the panel who did not have the sense God gave her to tell him where to put the pole he had in mind. Really, I appreciated the show's tagline that marriage is something worth fighting for. That was a good message that needs to be out there.

But, I definitely have some better advice on how to put romance back into a marriage, guys. Advice from a real world woman is preferable, I think, than advice from Kelly Ripa, who likely has never had to change a diaper or unclog a toilet in her entire existence. I am no expert, but nearly 24 years in a happy marriage entitles me to an opinion, at least. And if you ladies happen to print it and leave it lying around the house, well, we all know it was not on purpose.

1. Forget the lingerie and other lacy stuff. If she wants this, she will buy it herself. Trust me on this one. She'd rather pick it out, too.

2. Wash the dishes. There is nothing sexier than a man with a dish rag in his hand. Nothing.

3. Take out the garbage. Without an engraved invitation.

4. Take her out as a surprise. One that you plan, all by yourself. And no, tickets to the Blackhawks or dinner at a sportsbar do not count.

5. See those kids running around that look somewhat like you? Take them out somewhere. Something you plan, all by yourself. Without her.

7. Flowers work. Chocolates are iffy. They're OK, so long as you remember those ones filled with unidentifiable cream are disgusting. No one eats these. They get left to petrify in landfills, and she will remember that you cannot remember she hates them. Safest to go with plain expensive dark. Unless she just told you she is on a diet, in which case, this could be interpreted as an act of sabotage. You will never crawl out of the hole between, "Of course I want to be supportive of your diet," and "Of course I don't think you're fat."

8. Wash her car, inside and out, fill it up, and check the fluid levels and tires. Nothing says 'I love you' like a full tank of gas in the morning.

9. Check her favorite movie out of the library and cook dinner. You can even call your living room Hollywood Palms, if you wish.

10. Never, ever, under any circumstances, pull the line husband #2 tried--"I am the man of the house!" You will be the man of the doghouse. Quickly.

Now, given the famous "five love languages" research, I realize that I fall firmly into the camp of "love is shown by actions" rather than the other four (words, gifts, touch, and I forget the last one, so clearly it's not very important to me). So this list is weighted. My husband has a hard time believing this. He thinks that since I write, I logically must be a words person. But no, I side with the immortal words of Eliza Doolittle, "Don't talk at all--show me!" Which is why I find #2 above so compelling.

But, there is yet another authority on marriage much higher than my own. "And you husbands must love your wives with the same love Christ showed for the church. He gave up His life for her." (Ephesians 5:25) I'm pretty sure that would do it, men, no matter what your love language.

suessically yours

"On March 2, the National Education Association calls for every child to be reading in the company of a caring adult."

The above comes from the official website of the NEA calling us to the celebration of one of the finest daily holidays we could celebrate. Tomorrow is National Read Across America Day, in honor the birthday of the great lyricist, Dr. Seuss.

When our girls were in elementary school, their teachers celebrated this day in style. On this one day, our girls could wake up in their jammies--and stay in them. (Though, technically, I think they usually chose clean ones. I think.) They could wear fuzzy striped slippers and bring Disney Princess sleeping bags, and eat s'mores in class. (No, not over an open fire.) In one classroom, the lucky ones got to read in "the tent."

Since forcing our kids to read was never an issue for their teachers (though child #1's teachers had issues with getting her to not read during class), they usually got to read in the tent.

And they read. All day. It was our kids' favorite day of school. For one day, they forgot about ISAT preparation, PSE preparation, ISPSHUH? preparation and all the other preps for other standardized tests teacher have to administer to prove their own worth to the government (I feel another blog coming on this one). For one day, they focused on the one thing most likely to ensure good school performance--reading. Did you know that, along with the lack of a father in the home, the inability to read functionally is the most common denominator among prison populations?

One year, I was privileged to go into the classroom and read my favorite childhood story. In our house when I was growing up, we had two old, crackly volumes of The Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling. I don't know why. I'm pretty sure I was the only one who ever read them, but someone must have wanted them enough to buy them. The same goes for the two-volume Complete Works of William Shakespeare that sat next to them. Both of these sets I have to this day. Though my mother was not educated past high school and my father past eighth grade, they made sure we had enough to read around the house, encyclopedias to look up all kinds of questions from inquiring minds who wanted to know, and library cards.

Over and over, I sat reading the small-print no-pictures Just So Stories in that set. I loved stories that answered questions like why and how, and I loved these stories' singsong rhythm and imaginative language. So, I chose to share Kipling's The Beginning of the Armadillos with kids I hoped would be equally enchanted. I'm not sure if they were or not. It's tough to read 4th graders. Especially ones that are in their pajamas, so they already look sleepy.

In honor of Read Across America Day, will some of you share with us your favorite childhood story? Not the whole thing, of course, but what story or stories made you smile? What did you return to the most often? What did you love to read to your own kids, if you have them? And kids who reads this--what did you most like to hear?

Have a great Read tomorrow! I am looking forward to it.

and tomorrow is national pass gas day

Today is National Chili Day! Now, truth be told, I do not like chili. At all. And it is an extremely popular dish to serve at pot lucks and get togethers. The odd thing is, I very much like to cook it.

The same goes for soup. I don't generally eat it, but I love to chop all those things up and throw them in the crock pot. There must be something very therapeutic in chopping vegetables. I have mentioned before that I do not, as a rule, enjoy cooking. But there is something about this act that is quite fulfilling.

So for today, I will share with you the three prize-winning chili recipes from our recent 4H chili cookoff. I just will not eat them. Enjoy!

free offer while it lasts! (no, don't put me in the spam filter)

Rarely am I ever accused of doing something early. But last week, in some kind of cosmic accident, I did. I celebrated a holiday too early. It really wasn't my fault. Blame middle child again. It was her idea to play switcheroo with all the furniture. I came home one day, and the dining room table was by the computer in the living room and the couch and recliner in the erstwhile dining room. For over a month, we didn't know what to call either room. We settled on "the computer room" and "the piano room." I do not know how she wrestled a six-foot dining table through a two-foot space alone. I did not choose to ask. As long as walls and floors remained unscathed, I prefer to remain blissfully ignorant.

Two months later, we switched back, on account of no one wanted to watch the Olympics sitting in hard-backed dining room chairs. (We couldn't move the TV.) At which point, she decided we needed to move the six-foot bookshelf. It seemed eminently sensible then to organize and cull our reading material. This is no task for the faint-hearted. We have, at last count, eleven bookshelves in our home, plus a cabinet of cookbooks and various boxes of books in the attic and basement. We just can 't seem to let go of these. We really might need Aboriginal Societies of Central and South America some day. Like, when we move to Venezuela.

Thus it was, I had been celebrating National Clean Off Your Bookshelf Day for a week before it occurred. Yes, it took a week, and I am not done. But now, there is an entire shelf of all of our gardening books. We gave away half a shelf. Ditto for craft books. The writing shelf, reference shelf, entire literature bookcases, 4H project shelf, travel shelf, and --you get the drift. Also, the entire shelf devoted to library books, created years ago when I got very tired of losing books in children's rooms and not unearthing them until we owed roughly the equivalent of the national debt of Zimbabwe.

it's hard to let go of a book. But do we really need four books on African violets (which we do not have) or a 1993 Book of World Facts? Entire countries have come and gone since then. So now, in honor of National Clean Off Your Bookshelf Day, perhaps a free will offering is in order. To the first persons to respond, or maybe the best impassioned plea, I will send:

More incredibly Awesome Crafts for Kids. Geared toward kids younger than my own, but full of fun stuff.


The 2009 Christian Writer's Market Guide. In pristine condition, because I spent the last year working on book proposals and travel writing and therefore rarely used it.

They're yours, free, because a good book needs to be shared.

If you are inspired by National Clean Off Your Bookshelf Day, remember to bless others with the gift of a book. It was a gift to you to be able to enjoy it. If you know you are finished, let it go and pass on the gift. I once had a woman on an airplane offer me the novel she had just finished reading, telling me, "I can see that you are a reader, too. Please take this and enjoy it." No, it was not authored by L. Ron Hubbard. It was simply a gesture of goodwill toward a fellow lover of words.

You probably have an organization in your area that would be happy to take children's books off your hands for those who cannot buy them. Think of the joy it gave your kids--and imagine what it would be like never to have such a wonderful thing as a book of your own.

At least then, when your kids want to rearrange the house, the shelves won't be so heavy.

pizzas and underdogs

"Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere.” J.R.r.Tolkein

My Very Excellent Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas

How many of you plead familiarity with that little anagram? I, personally, did not grow up with this pneumonic help to memorize the planets, but my kids did. Back in the day, it was just plain old-school--styrofoam balls and crude memorization. But now, the situation is much worse. Now, momma's cupboard is bare. She is cosmically forever unable to compete the task of nourishing her children. Why? Because scientists removed the "P" from her equation. No Pluto, no pizza. Tough break, but science is a demanding master. Now that they cut off the queue at eight,though, they've got to deal with all the Uranus jokes.

Personally, I take offense at this. Not simply because I grew up with Pluto and it's a part of my life, albeit a rather distant, unseen part. I mean, I grew up with typewriters and 45's too, and I'm doing OK without either one of them. But Pluto is personal. Pluto is the little kid on the playground being picked on by the bullies. Can't you just hear Jupiter and Saturn exchanging snide remarks at its demotion? And scientists must feel powerful at being able to deem heavenly bodies in or out of the cosmic clique. (I think this is exceptionally unfair payback, since the scientists probably were the nerdy kids on the playground.)

I always root for the little guy. Perhaps its part of being 5'2", or the last of seven kids. Or a lifelong Cubs fan. Take your pick--I'm an underdog magnet.

I guess it shouldn't have been surprising to me to discover, as I recently explained my one published novel and the two in progress, that I deal with the underdog a lot. The underground railroad, the Trail of Tears, and illegal immigrants. Three populations, all similar in their Pluto-like status. The theme runs through most of my nonfiction as well. Don't count out the little guys, the losers, the "less thans." A quote attributed to Cardinal Roger Mahony says, "Any society, any nation, is judged on the basis of how it treats its weakest members -- the last, the least, the littlest."

And I almost forgot to mention--February 18 celebrates the day Pluto was discovered. At least one state has declared a Pluto Day. (Of course, it's New Mexico, which also celebrates UFO Day.) So today I'm seeing Pluto as it represents all of us. The funny thing is, I don't think Pluto much cares. It continues to orbit, never losing much sleep over what minute earthly scientists declare. Happy Birthday, Pluto. At least some of us still care.

once upon a time

Today, I want to tell a story. Once upon a time, a young princess (14)got very, very sick. So sick, she had to go to a place called a sanitarium (I don't think we don't have these in the US anymore) to recover (she hoped) from tuberculosis. But that is not what this story is about. While the girl was there, her mother, age 44, died. The girl could not say goodbye and could not go home for the funeral. When she left, her mother was there; when she returned, another woman was in her house. The princess was very, very sad.

Now, the girl grew up to be a queen, as princesses do. She married and had her own little girl. The little girl grew and grew. Well, she didn't grow so much. She never grew over 5'2". But that, dear friends, is also not the point of this story. When that little girl was seventeen, learning about the world around her, dreaming of her own happily ever after, and getting ready for a strange new invention called college, she was also taking care of the queen and a very, very sad king and their castle. At barely fifty, the queen died and left the princess alone. The princess was very, very sad.

Now, that girl grew up to be a queen, as princesses do. She married and had her own little girls. The little girls grew and grew. But the queen started to get sick, and she, too, would die if no one rescued her from the evil spell that bound up her family. But fortunately for the queen, her handsome prince (the king) knew a way to outwit the magic. Through great peril to himself, he fought the wicked sickness and saved the queen. The princesses were very, very happy. The end.


Yesterday, among many worthy days, was National Donor Day. I did not have to celebrate it. I celebrate it every day of my life, because I still have a life, which is more than can be said for the queens in our story, my mother and grandmother. It is more than can be said for thousands who die every year waiting for organs that never come in time. Every one of those people has a princess, prince, king, queen, mother, or father who is very, very sad. Almost all of them do not have to die. They could be saved by people who make a couple clicks on a web page.

No one likes to think of dying, and I hope and pray all of you and your loved ones live long, happily ever after lives. But it does no harm to any of us to take time to secure that happily ever after for others if we do not achieve it for ourselves. If you are going to a better place when you do go, you will not need those old organs. We're getting new bodies. (If you're not sure where you're going, that's a conversation for another place, but I'd love to have it with you.) Please, become an organ donor. Today. Celebrate National Donor Day in the best way possible.

And, as the King in our story knew, you don't have to die to be a kidney donor, and it really is not "great peril" to donate one while you are still alive. God made us all with a spare--how cool is that?

To join the registry of organ donors in your state, click here: http://organdonor.gov/

To learn more about the myths of organ donation and how to donate, try: http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/organ-donation/FL00077

And, to learn about the disease that took the lives of the queens, and how many, many people are waiting for their knight (or maiden) in shining armor read: http://www.pkdcure.org/Portals/0/files/documents/pkd_ad_01_gen.pdf

refuge

A celebration of National Homes for Birds Week and Random Acts of Kindness Day

My husband has long extolled the virtues of winter interest in the garden. I remained unconvinced for quite a while. After all, once the thermometer reaches a certain point, I consider the backyard hostile territory, inhabitable only by feeder-raiding squirrels and children who don’t know enough to be cold. Who needs anything to look at outside when I have seed catalogues and hot tea inside?

My husband, however, just took the wrong approach. I’ve recently discovered a reason for winter interest gardening that appeals to me. Basic laziness. An ideal winter garden, it seems, is supposed to remain kind of, well, a mess. Forget deadheading those old brown seedpods. Never, under any circumstances, lop down those fading grasses. Swear off raking and bagging leaves for all time. You see, when those perfectly manicured lawns and gardens die or are cut back to the ground by zealous neatnicks (ie, my neighbors), the birds and the bunnies have to look much farther afield for the things they need to survive the cold. They look in my yard.

Thus it is, the lazy gardener who neglects and procrastinates finds herself rewarded by a yard full of thankful cardinals and finches, flaunting their colors at nature’s buffet. What a lovely license—untidiness in my yard can actually make it more hospitable to others. My backyard brambles entice creatures who need shelter from coyotes and cold. Take that, Mr. I-cut-fancy-patterns-in-my-lawn next door.

I’m finding that can also hold true in the rest of my life. It always seems that the times my life is quite messy I find someone who needs refuge. Who wants to talk about fears and shortcomings? Have you ever told someone something excruciatingly painful, only to have him look at you like you're the most deficient person on earth to have gotten yourself into that fix and he totally despairs of you ever "getting it"? Yeah, me too. Only someone who understands messiness can break the silence.

Where we live, perfection reigns. It also chokes. Perfect-looking people in perfect cars commute to perfect jobs, then come home to perfect children and perfect houses. Deviation from the script can get you excommunicated from polite society. Yet, sometimes, don't you recognize the desperation behind those masks? People searching for hospitality for their souls, and they don’t find it in the manicured perfection of our self-protecting masks. They find it in our untidiness, our inability to make all our pieces fit, our willingness to admit our weakness.

“My (God’s) grace is sufficient for you. My power is perfected in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). What an intriguing paradox of what I’m supposed to be. Transparent enough so that His grace shines through my cracks and blemishes.

I love the grass heads bowing under snow I now see outside my sliding glass door. I appreciate the beauty of black-eyed susan seedheads, lovely in their own right without the starry golden petals. The cardinals, goldfinches, and juncos that find my untidiness so inviting are welcome to show off any time they want in my backyard. When the lawn services come one last time to “clean up” my neighbors’ yards, I’m glad to remain a place of refuge.

culture by any other name

I have to admit, I didn't exactly grow up in a cultural hothouse. My dad's favorite singers were Hank Williams and Johnny Cash. I remember having the Columbia Records Library of Classical Music, but I don't remember ever hearing it played.

In one sister's room, I could hear kind of a hush with the Herman's Hermits and in another, climb Stairways to Heaven. (I'm pretty sure the real heaven, should it have stairways, does not have the cochlea-decimating decibels that hers had. But I could be wrong.)

Going to plays meant seeing my sister be a turkey in the Thanksgiving first-grade special. And dance? Well, where does dancing in the living room to the aforementioned Hank Williams fall on the cultural scale? (Dad did teach me some serious jitterbug skills. But that's another story.)

The cultural high point of my young life was probably my mother taking me to the Woodstock Theater (real plush curtains--in a movie theater!) to see My Fair Lady. True, a devout love of musical theater has stuck. But were it not for junior high and high school field trips, I probably wouldn't have had much exposure to museums, orchestras, or theatre with an "re." If not for high school chorus, I might still think Handel was something found on a car door. Not that my parents wouldn't have liked all those things, but let's face it, with seven kids, my parents were lucky to get to the dollar movie for Love Story.

Were it not for those trips, I would not have discovered my love for a Chicago holiday institution--the Nutcracker Ballet at McCormick Center. Since then, I have been as passionate about seeing the Nutcracker as some people are about seeing Elvis. (Unfortunately, I've managed it about as often. Being cultural is expensive.)

So, when my second child showed some promise of grace and rhythm, I did what any suburban mother does. Enrolled her in ballet, at age 4. She was born to dance in her little French maid costume (purple, with feathers), and was, of course the shining star of the class. Meaning, that at four years old, she didn't fall over once in the recital and she ended facing the right direction. But she was less than enthusiastic, and unlike a good suburban mom, I didn't push it. I let her quit.

Over ensuing years, she tried soccer (great goalie, but the concept of kicking and running at the same time was kind of lost on her); track (hmmm, tall; you get hurdles); violin (fun, until high school teachers deemed orchestra was not primarily a social club); show choir ("All of these girls are 5'1" and blonde, mom."). And finally her niche, voice and theater.

So I was somewhat startled by her proclamation at 16 that she wanted to take ballet. Really? And more startled when, after a few months, she accosted me rather indignantly, "I love this! Why didn't you ever put me in it before?"

"Um, I did."
"No."
"Yes. Four years old. Glen Ellyn Park District."
"Oh. So why am I not a prima ballerina now?"
"You quit."
"Why didn't you make me keep it up?"
"'Cause I'm a terrible slacker mother who cares less about the welfare and passions of my children than where I'm going to get my next chai latte."

National Ballet Day was yesterday. Who knew that, 13 years later, we'd be celebrating it? I'm pretty convinced that the reason we are celebrating it that this child, allowed to pursue and discard her own passions over the years, knows now who she is and what she loves. I couldn't force that at four. I can't do it now at seventeen. And maybe she's behind all the girls her age who have been dancing since three. Maybe she'll never get a college scholarship for it or dance the Sugar Plum Fairy. (Though she played her in a Nutcracker play.) But--she loves to dance. That, my cultural and noncultural friends, is something to celebrate.

mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the most powerful of all?

More years ago than I plan to say just now, I met someone who changed my life. No, not my husband. I'll admit to that duration--married 23 years. No, not God, though that was certainly the mother of all changes. Not surprising to a lot of people, that person was a teacher. in fact, a number of teachers have changed me, and to those people belong "National Seeds of Greatness Day." Second to parents, no one other than a teacher plays such a foundational role in recognizing, nurturing, and encouraging the seeds of greatness in a child. Theirs is a position filled with both promise and danger--as is any such place of power. National Seeds of Greatness Day belongs to teacher like:

--The junior high band teacher who told me the last day he ever saw me, "Thanks for being an incredible person." He had no idea that very night I had been badly crushed by disappointed hopes, and so he could have no idea how much those parting words lifted my bruised soul and helped me believe in me again. I was thirteen--that's how long six words can stay with a person.

--The fifth grade team teacher who, despite my open dislike, continued to be kind to me, smile at me, and include me, even when I told her I hated being read to and would rather sit in a corner myself and read something "less childish." I was a little intellectual snob in fifth grade. Wait . . . I was a little intellectual snob for . . . a while after that. From her I learned to be kind to anyone in my path, because I couldn't know what hid behind abrasiveness or that aloof-looking turn of the eye.

--The debate coach who gently suppressed my poor sportsmanship tendencies and effusively congratulated my victories. It requires a pretty talented person to take a blood sport like debate and make it compassionate while retaining the competitive edge.

But for that teacher, would I have had the courage to pursue public speaking and writing for a career? Without that teacher, would I have become a high school teacher myself, if only for a short while, trying to bring that kind of buoyancy to other drifting teenagers? And, would I have had the courage to face the next four years of college alone?

Because that same teacher is the woman who pretty much singlehandedly took an insecure fourteen-year-old and helped her become a confident speaker and, more importantly, confident person. She's also the teacher who held me and let me be that insecure little girl again when I lost my mom senior year. Where is that in the contract?

There are a lot of things wrong with our school systems. (And sometimes, parents, it's our fault.) Sadly, my own kids have had teachers I would never put on a list of caring professionals. (These have been exclusively at the high school level. Even sadder, perhaps. I don't think there's a population more lost.) But others have been Master Gardeners of young souls. And I am grateful for them. They have no idea, while watering the seed, what that plant will turn into. Yet every day, they believe in the seeds.