To my sons after a twisted election.

My Dearest Sons,
Last night, the presidential election took a horrific twist, and instead of electing the first female president, the country elected a reality game-show hosting, beauty pageant sponsoring, fear-mongering, racially divisive, anti-intellectual, misogynist.

I cried because of the hateful tone that won out this election. I cried for the giant back-step our country took. I cried because as a woman, I've been groped on subway trains, walked into football games as drunk frat boys raised numbered signs rating me on my appearance, and now, a man who is on tape bragging about such behavior toward women is to be the face of our nation.  I cried because you're four-years-old my sons, and his name will the first president in your memory...

After the realization set in, I went into your bedroom. As always I re-tucked your blankets, kissed your foreheads, and whispered "I love  you," but I lingered longer, trying to find some hope in this bleak period. And I realized you will help me smile again, and soon--your laughter and imagination will save me from dwelling.  In the coming afternoon we'll play "pirates" and "wizards," meander our cul-de-sac for sticks we'll deem magic wands and yell "Abra-cadabra-cadoodle" on the wind as you tell me what spells you're casting.  You'll keep asking me how to spell words that capture your interest and laugh hysterically as Jack weaves the words "poop," "poopy," and "booty" into any sentence.  Alex, you'll hug me close as you protest my leaving for work, and coo"Awww, thanks mama" when I remind you how much I love you just the way you are.

You're also the hope at the end of this dark tunnel stretching out across the next four years.  You're inclusive, loving, affectionate, compassionate, intellectually curious little boys. And we will ensure you grow into the same kind of men, men who not only embody these traits, but inspire them in those around you.  In this way, I know, through you, I'm helping to make the world better than it is in this dark hour.  I'm forever grateful to you both for the wonderful human beings you're turning out to be.

Love,
Mom

A Much Belated Blogpost

My Dearest Loves,

There is no excuse for the lack of posts in 2015, except that I found myself in a guilt spiral.  I'd think, it will take hours to cover what happened in the past six months; I'll wait until I have a lot of time of my hands.  I always think Winter Break, or a three day weekend, or a day you're out with "T" and Alby will equal numerous free hours for mommy to write a blog post, but that time is quickly eaten up by both "to do lists" and the desire to just breathe and "be" for a moment.

Last night, we put on night time diapers (you are now in big boy underwear all day), turned off Tumble Leaf, brushed our teeth, and Daddy read you Good Night NOLA (which I got for you during  my conference in New Orleans). Lying on the carpet with my head resting on one of your stuffed animals, I sigh and smile when you both yell "beignets!" when he reads "Good night cafe De Monde," then say goodnight to each of the different colored fish surrounding the illustration of the New Orleans Zoo.

Once you were settled in, and no longer negotiating for "one more kiss and one more huggle," I went through my usual routine; while your dad takes out trash and recycling or boots up or packs up his workstation for the next day, I pick up the living room, choose your clothes for the morning, prep your meals for Lonee, make the kitchen and playroom/sunroom presentable, etc.  And as I was carrying laundry up the stairs I momentarily resented the long list of "have tos" my life entails.

But then I remembered two things:
#1) When I started my professorship at DCCC you were three months old and still up multiple times a night.  I was still breastfeeding and pumping, bottles constantly needed to be washed, diapers continually changed, feeding and burping punctually performed, and laundry more hurriedly pushed through.  Your dad and I never slept more than three hours in a row.  Three years ago I was standing on the same basement stair thinking, "If I fell and just hurt myself a little bit, maybe I could be in the hospital and just sleep...."  (I know it sounds drastic, but sleep deprivation will pull your mind into the dark spaces!)

#2) Even if I hadn't known such heightened levels of exhaustion and stress, how could I resent these mundane aspects of  "adulting" when I consider the joyous moments you've brought me over the past two weekends:

• My friend (and former student) Aubrey came over with her charismatic and adorable son Landon (also three) and my heart glowed as I watched Alex name each of his Thomas trains as he handed them one by one to Landon, and Jack explain the mechanics of (then steady) the foam rocket launcher so his new friend could have a turn blasting it into the ceiling.
• Overhearing your conversations with each other; I even enjoy eavesdropping on your arguments.  (ALEX: "Jacky, dat's my chair! Daddy will be so angry!" JACK: "No he won't Awex!")
• While it's heartbreaking that you've both discovered a fear of "night time monsters," seeing Alex look into Jack's eyes and say "Don't worry Jacky; I will take care of you" was a moment I'll never forget.  And you both were comforted by the suggestion of getting into bed together when you're scared, though neither of you has yet acted upon it.
• Even a recent grocery run became magical.  Daddy took Alex, and I had Jack in my cart.  Jack, you talked and entertained me the entire time, asking about the balloons, pointing out the different colored pears and grapes, telling me which kind of tomato soup to buy, and randomly saying "I love you mommy." (You know how to work the words my son, often telling Lonee or me "you're so beautiful" when you're in the thick of a timeout!) When we exited Giant, the pink sky had turned black, though the blinding streetlights blotted the stars. And Jack, you said, "Mommy, the stars are too dark; you need to wipe them off!" Could you possibly say more wondrous things?
• On the drive home, Alex you pointed out different kind of vehicles, and when I asked if you were going to be a truck driver or a pilot, you replied with your standard response: "No Mommy, I'm a train engineer."  I think we've all kind of accepted this as fact, rather than three-year-old whimsy.  
• And at bedtime, despite you're being 40+ pounds, Alex, I love that you always insist "I pick you up?" meaning of course "you pick me up?" (you're getting the pronouns right about half the time now).  You love the train blankets Grampy & Gram gave you and ultimately roll into them like a burrito, your stuffed George monkey locked in your arms.  And every night I kiss and hug you both individually, saying, "Good night little prince, I love you," to which Jack now responds, "Good night big prince," with the utmost sincerity.

And despite the heartbreaking loss of Pop-pop last weekend, you brought me such joy.  We were snowed in, and I got to watch you wrestle with Daddy and giggle until you couldn't breathe. After the snowplows came through, and Daddy was using our neighbor Bob's snowblower to rediscover our sidewalk, the three of us explored the winter wonderland of Nancy Drive.  You reveled in watching neighbors shovel, asking them about their cars, and petting their dogs.  The three of us spent half an hour at the empty cul-de-sac at the top of the road where you giggled and squealed as you chased me with snowballs and then intentionally fell into the giant pillows of snow surrounding us.

So I'll gladly accept the banality of this nightly 'mommy routine' for more of these magic moments; they are sparks of joy that shine into my heart so intensely that I can't wait to lie down and night and recount them all as I drift off to sleep.

A Tribute to My Grandfather, Howard Walter (March 28, 1923-Jan.25, 2016)

I refuse to think of today as the day I lost my grandfather, but instead, I’ll remember it as the day that he and my grandmother were reunited. Growing up, I heard two versions of how they met in Carbondale, PA.  One recounted how he saw a young woman driving his brother's recently sold car, and curiosity told him to follow it. The version I prefer is that after the used car kept breaking down, she brought it back to complain to an unmoved seller, and my grandfather happily repaired it.  Their relationship blossomed, and when her mother refused to let her follow him to his training camp before he deployed to World War II, they quickly married in 1944. While he served in the Battle of the Bulge, the only war stories I ever heard were about sleeping sitting up, the importance of constantly changing your socks, and his unit’s cook who helped him pillage a hand crank ice cream machine which they somehow rigged to a motor, producing enough nostalgia-inspiring dessert for their entire unit.

This gentle giant, the last remaining of seven Walter siblings, adored his big-boned, well-loved mother, but was always disliked and bullied by his small-statured father (who apparently resented him for his size). A father, who after his wife's death and his older children’s entry into the world, shipped his youngest off to a neighbor and left my teenage grandfather alone in the house to finish out high school and pay for necessities by scooping ice cream in the afternoons. And when this crotchety father was elderly and nearly blind, with a condition that made him feel his face was constantly moist, it was my grandfather who would stop by most days after work to clean up crumpled piles of paper towels and ensure the old man had enough to eat.

I remember the terrifying tale of how while working construction, with a young family at home, my grandfather fell off a roof and doctors wondered if he would ever walk again. Once he recovered, he decided to take his skills to the local high school where he would teach shop class for decades, pulling generations of young men out of the dangerous and shrinking Scranton coal industry and point them toward lucrative trades. But before that career began, he juggled construction work, fatherhood, teaching vo-tech, and earning his teaching degree. He would arrive home dirty and sweaty to a bath and a meal, and a wife who would brilliantly brief him on his assigned readings so he could participate in his night classes—once impressing his teacher with details from the Iliad no other student could recall.

A power couple, they cooperatively earned a college degree and his teaching career began. As a young girl I remember asking where framed charcoal drawings and curious lamps came from to hear they were gifts from various grateful students. I heard stories about his years at the high school: one where a student fell asleep in class, so he pulled down the shades and quietly a led out the other students, leaving the boy to waken in hilarious confusion. Once another teacher bet my burly grandfather that he couldn't tip over his new car, and when he refused to pay the agreed-upon amount after he'd accomplished the feat, Howard simply left the vehicle on its side. One of his last outings with my grandmother was to a former student's 60th birthday party--he participated as a surprise guest in a "this is your life" skit, after which he was greeted with the warmest and most grateful of hugs. 

When my grandmother had passed and my grandfather was in a retirement home, I spent one spring alone at their lake cottage, chipping away at my dissertation. One morning, clad only in a bathing suit as I reset the water heater, I watched a middle aged man in a leather jacket roll down the dirt driveway on a Harley. Danger flares ignited in my belly until he asked for "Mr. Walter, my shop teacher." When I explained where he was, and scribbled the address on a post it, he roared back towards civilization. When my uncle visited my grandfather in the nursing home that night in faraway State College, Howard told his son that a former student had come to see him that afternoon. 

Pop-pop, know that every time I visit the lake cottage with my own children, I imagine you and Mom-mom as newlyweds, sleeping in a pup-tent as you began building the structure on that lakeside piece of heaven you purchased for a hard-earned $500. I see my four-year-old self sitting in your lap, giggling manically as I unbuttoned your shirt buttons and you playfully berated me, or I pretended to be a marionette who was supposed to say “Mama” when I bent at the waist, but always said “Dada” to your feigned frustration.  I see us digging for worms in the wet compost heap behind the jungle gym you built us at the edge of the property, then sitting on the dock in my Mickey Mouse life vest, fishing with you until the sun kissed the water. I see my brothers and me laying in the wagon attached to your golf cart, staring up at summer skies as you drove us up and down dirt roads, feeling the vibrations tickle our backs.  I see Mom-mom effortlessly treading water mid-lake with your grandchildren as you watch us from your swing, a trucker’s cap shielding your eyes, a towel draped over your shoulders, and a look of contentment resting on your face. I taste the watermelon you sliced for us with a giant machete-like knife and the feel the coarse peanuts we all shelled after a long swim. I hear bad 90s dance music as my cousin Jessica and I make-up dance routines, barefoot in the front yard. I smell the warm wood in your shop being transformed into building blocks, toy castles, rocking horses, shields and round-tipped swords that would decorate my childhood.  And every time I return with my own children, I see the family and the life that you built in the very walls of the cottage, not just displayed in the pictures that hang upon them. 

And I see you both everywhere in my own suburban life.  The degrees that hang in my study remind me of the years Craig and I lived in Binghamton, less than an hour from the cottage, and all the meals you hosted in your sunroom as the four of us looked out at a placid, lapping, or frozen lake.  Sometimes I think I only earned that final degree because you both reminded me that I had to, especially after coming so far, and then let me live with you that last spring of my coursework when my husband’s career had already led him to Philadelphia.  Every time I enter the classroom, I hope to be the kind of teacher you were, one that reminds my students of the potential they carry and leads them toward lives and careers they hadn’t imagined they could obtain.  And when I look at my oldest son, I will forever see your broad shoulders and your warm, German brown eyes, while my youngest is adorned with your wife’s tight curls.  So while the sadness of this day is undeniable, your life, and the life you built, is reflected in my own and the love you and Mom-mom have shown me will be a part of my very being, always and forever.