Musings, ramblings and such

So I had the opportunity to attend a writing workshop with the wonderful and talented Sheree Fitch   a couple of weeks ago.  Hence the flood of writing you're so lucky to have stumbled upon, mwah ha ha... One of the great things she shared with us was her poem First Day of School .  It's just lovely, and written from the perspective of a parent who knows what is important, and how difficult it can be to preserve in a classroom.  She challenged us to write a response, as teachers, with that different perspective of what happens in the classroom. So I did. Here is Sheree's poem, followed by mine. First Day of School Here, take my child. He has a fistful of crayons, Is ready to begin To enter the halls that smell of chalk dust and lemon oil. He wants to colour a picture. Help him to see that the colour he chooses, The pictures he makes, are beautiful….. Before you ask him to paint the Sistine Chapel. Here, take my child. She knows one and one...

Sometimes we get busy Head down in a hurry Minds cluttered with worry Forget to look up But looking just down While free from distraction Breeds dissatisfaction And troubles compound So look up Then look down Look left and then right Don't limit your gaze by direction For maybe (Quite likely) This looking around Is the way to maintain true connection.

She slept so much i worried something was wrong. (for the love of god don't tell people that; they'll think you're bragging) Her spirit outpaced her tiny body and she fought sleep. I held her tightly as she cried and cried until her will surrendered to the security. So different from her brother content to sit and play no rush to run I can almost not remember her not talking. My clumsy toddler. As likely to fall from a dead standstill as a run. Has chosen her own clothes since she was able to get them on herself. Such a fashion plate Where did that come from? She would survive on cucumbers and ice cream if I let her and has told me with a straight face that she doesn't like cooked rice. She will move mountains if she can protect her beautiful heart I will try not to stand in her way but beside just behind my hand on her shoulder. let me do it don't make me do it my sweet sleepy baby my talkative toddler my Miss Independent my so-c...

Annabella Louise (both names if you please) takes particular pleasure in climbing tall trees As one would imagine this peculiar passion has led to its share of scraped shins and raw knees She won't let that sway her nor certainly stay her from climbing her way to the sparrows and bees So next time you're walking look up, see birds flocking to their favourite tree climber Annabella Louise.

Such an easy baby slept and nursed like clockwork though not a fan of sleeping through Did not protest the glop of peanut butter fudge crunch landing squarely on his fuzzy 3 month old head did protest the sunglasses More bonks and scrapes sustained as Indy than anyone could count running by 11 months has its consequences He learned to use his eyebrows at three Suddenly more serious dubious quizzical Never let slip more than a word or two until that next summer when entire stories flowed freely Made me feel alternately equally a mothering expert and sure that I would never survive he does still my fever-hot baby my on the run toddler my furious four year old my proud kindergartener my fierce warrior my strong student my eighteen year old twelve year old my boy.

A voice now so unsure quiet and confused But it led countless library storytimes (they always loved hearing the word bum)  shared ideas  sang hymns Eyes that now see things I can't and not always what is there Have selected beautiful works of art watched children, grandchildren, great grandchildren grow  Seen sights abroad and close to home  just as beautiful  and noticed more than their fair share of nice-looking young men. I remember the real you. The old toys and good books The sugar cereals and special treats (especially if you looked through the tins)  The weekends and Keppoch summers  spent almost entirely on the beach. Never one to judge a book until you had read it yourself. We watched your change from a strong, confident woman  to a frail, beautiful bird. And now you've flown.  But we'll remember.

Or at the very least, I'll have a home for all the stories and poems and things that to this point have been trapped in journals or my laptop or more often, my poor brain.  Everything here is mine, please don't borrow or steal it.