School ends next week and I've had it in my head for a couple of months now to summarize this year in a blog post. But every time I sit down to write it, this is what goes through my head:
I can't.
There are just too many conflicting feelings to even be coherent. So, while I sort that out in my head, I'm gonna just punt on the reflections for awhile. Someone the other day asked me if I was dreading the end of school for my kids and I immediately shouted, "NO!" probably a little too loudly in everyone's ears. Both the ankle biters need a break and I, personally, want to stop doing homework for awhile. This last month has been so full of activity that I've been unable to keep up, or breathe, or have any desire to complete anything at home other than just the bare minimum of what must be done.
As my kids' teachers clean out their classrooms, The Dormouse has been bringing home papers that have been stored in or hung on the walls. I usually try to look through them, but the truth is that most gets thrown away because as it turns out, you can't keep it all. Last week, the following two poems came home in her stacks which I fortunately did not throw out. When I read them, I felt exactly like I did as a freshman in college when I accidentally stumbled into registering for the only honors English class available that semester, Contemporary American Poetry. With the exception of that one Robert Frost poem everyone knows, I hadn't read many poems at all, much less one written by anyone born past 1910. I was completely floored by the incredible images from the likes of Mark Strand, William Stafford and Anne Sexton. It was as if a world that I never before knew existed had suddenly opened up and I wanted to jump into it and say "Please sir, I want some more?" This window into my child's brain was much the same experience.
I can't.
There are just too many conflicting feelings to even be coherent. So, while I sort that out in my head, I'm gonna just punt on the reflections for awhile. Someone the other day asked me if I was dreading the end of school for my kids and I immediately shouted, "NO!" probably a little too loudly in everyone's ears. Both the ankle biters need a break and I, personally, want to stop doing homework for awhile. This last month has been so full of activity that I've been unable to keep up, or breathe, or have any desire to complete anything at home other than just the bare minimum of what must be done.
As my kids' teachers clean out their classrooms, The Dormouse has been bringing home papers that have been stored in or hung on the walls. I usually try to look through them, but the truth is that most gets thrown away because as it turns out, you can't keep it all. Last week, the following two poems came home in her stacks which I fortunately did not throw out. When I read them, I felt exactly like I did as a freshman in college when I accidentally stumbled into registering for the only honors English class available that semester, Contemporary American Poetry. With the exception of that one Robert Frost poem everyone knows, I hadn't read many poems at all, much less one written by anyone born past 1910. I was completely floored by the incredible images from the likes of Mark Strand, William Stafford and Anne Sexton. It was as if a world that I never before knew existed had suddenly opened up and I wanted to jump into it and say "Please sir, I want some more?" This window into my child's brain was much the same experience.
UntitledI am a free, imaginative girl.
I wonder how birds fly south for the winter.
I hear mockingbirds chirp.
I see the sunset in the evening.
I want to be amazing.
I am a free, imaginative girl.
I pretend to fly like a bird.
I feel the warm sun on my face.
I touch the silky red petals of a rose.
I worry when I am lost.
I cry when I am afraid.
I am a free, imaginative girl.
I understand that I choose right or wrong.
I say that everything is great.
I dream to be famous.
I try to read as many books as I can.
I hope to be an actress.
I am a free, imaginative girl.
JoyJoy is blue.
It sounds like ocean waves crashing on the ocean shore
It smells like a fruit tart.
It tastes like blueberry pie.
It looks like new paint on a house.
Joy feels like a warm blanket on a cold winter's day.
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June 3, 2013 at 7:27 PM
She wrote those? Wow. Needs to be published.