Cages.

I was reading a sweet little fictional book to my toddler.

It was about a mole who found a baby bird who had lost its mother.  

So he fed that sweet little bird and took care of her and gave her everything 

she would need to survive.  But then one day, she showed strength 

enough to fly.  She fluttered her little wings and was ready to take off in the wild wind.  

And that little mole was so fearful.  So, he built a cage and kept her in it....

to keep her safe....to keep her with him.  And she was so sad.  

He soon realized that keeping her caged was the wrong solution, 

and he eventually let her free.  

And off she flew.  

And they were both happy.

It is a darling story.

And as I read it, I recalled a saying I have had on my fridge for several years, "Let's watch til they're ready and then we'll teach them to fly."

And then it made me really ponder.

Fear does a lot of things.

But one thing it really does is

C
A
G
E

us
from
mov
ing
for
war
d.

And it made me really think about me. And my kids.  And my husband.

How am I letting fear get in the way?

Do I sometimes hold on too tight when I'm afraid they might fall?

Do I  hover?

Do I protect them from making mistakes?

Am I afraid to fail?

And the answer to all of those is
Yes.

At least sometimes.

And I realized as I read this sweet little children's story, how easy it is to quickly build "cages" to protect those we love in order to keep them safe.  And that cage can be the very thing that is holding us back from happiness.  And growth.  And discovery.

It's taking that leap and letting the wild wind lift us.  That's where real things happen.

So it's time to open the door.  And use my wings.

And show my kids how to fly.

Dear Repeat Button

Dear Repeat Button,

Yes. You.  You know who you are.  You are stuck or something.

Because I'm on repeat.  Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

See?

For example.  Let's take yesterday.  I vacuumed floors.

Today.  I vacuumed floors.

Yesterday: I washed Elsa's nightgown.

Today: I washed Elsa's nightgown.

Yesterday:  I read Goodnight Moon.

Today:  I read Goodnight Moon.

Yesterday:  I wiped toilets.

Today: I wiped toilets.

Are you seeing the pattern here?  My days are on repeat.

But somehow, I'm just fine with all that repeating.  Because it means I get to kiss the folds of little necks.  Every single day.  And it means I get to yell out, "Have fun at school today!" as I watch little bodies step out the door to find themselves.  Every single day.  And it means I get to recite Goodnight Moon for the thousandth time.  And it means that I get to listen to giggles behind closed doors.  Every single day.

What's going to happen when you're not stuck on repeat anymore?  I'm a bit concerned.  What will I do when I'm not completing the same Frozen puzzle that I completed yesterday and the day before and the day before that?  Whose lunches will I pack?  Who will I put princess dresses on?  Whose shoes will I pick up?

So.  Go ahead and stay on repeat.

That's all.

Stay stuck for now,

Jamie

Banana Cream Pie.

I pulled out my recipe book today.

This sounds like I actually use this recipe book.  But, not so much.  I only pull it out a few times a year.

Because in it are only a handful of things that I actually use.

Star Valley chocolate chip cookies.

Grandma K's german pancakes.

Homemade syrup.

Mom's chili.

And banana cream pie.

I could eat an entire pie by myself.  No problem.

And as I pulled out the worn 3x5 card with my mother's handwriting on it, I could feel my heart moving its way up to my throat followed by the sting in my eyes.  Tears were coming.  Because that banana cream pie means much more to me than just a delicious dessert.

It is represents everything good I know in my life.

It is family.

It is love.

Isn't it beautiful how food can connect us so easily to some of the most beautiful moments?

Grandma Gilligan dancing in the kitchen with her 

pudding spoon, slapping at any seeking hands, 

mom standing over the stove teaching me how to 

whisk, whisk, whisk to prevent the pudding from clumping, 

sitting at the Thanksgiving table with turkey comas 

and yet, somehow making room for pie.

My grandmother taught my mother how to make these pies and my mother taught me.  And today, I will gather my girls (and boys) around me  and teach them how to make pudding from scratch.  Just like my mother did.  And just like hers did.

And it will go on and on.  

I love how food connects us to the things we love most in life.

8 Bowls of Oatmeal.

Time is precious.

So, I've become very protective of my time.  I have learned that it is okay to say no to

favors 

and programs 

and extra practices.

To more commitments.

To meetings.  

And to PTA.  

And it is okay to do nothing but watch little fingers explore cupboards, and watch as little eyes widen at the touch of a fuzzy caterpillar, and sit back and enjoy the sounds of gurgles and coos and smiles. 

There is nothing wrong with doing less.  

Because I realize that before I can even blink, my little baby girl with the chipped tooth and toddled walking will one day be walking out of my home.  And into her own.

And so, I've learned that using my time to do things like fill these eight bowls of oatmeal is enough.

It just is.

Names.

Destiny and Stormy.

And those are just two names.

There's many, many more.

Marcus.

Tony, 

                                                       Timothy, 

Gilbert.

Noel                                      and Nicole.

                                 Dede

and Meisha.

Aana, 

                         Rita, 

                                                  Steve.

Betty.

Damian.  

                                               Jacob.

Rose.

Peati.

Marvin 

                                            and Jose.

People often ask where I received my college degree.  And I answer with true alumni pride, "The University of Utah."  But when asked where I received my education, I'd have to say,

 "From these guys."  

Because you see, I learned very quickly not to let schooling get in the way of my education.  I learned that real learning comes from the people around us.  And for me, that began with some of the most incredible people I've ever known.

Maya Angelou said,

"Your legacy is what you do every day.  Your legacy is every life you've touched, every person who's life was either moved or not.  It's every person you've harmed or helped.  

That's your legacy."

So thank you.  To all of you.  For really moving me to be better.  For really touching me.  For helping me to understand the world just a little bit better.

You've left a beautiful legacy 

on me 

and taught me more than I could have ever 

imagined possible.

You are more than just names to me.  I will never forget any of you.

Never.

Buckets.

Sometimes I feel 

e m p t y.

Like I have nothing else to give.

And nothing left to 

cope 

with what may come.

And when those moments come, I have to make a decision.

About what to do with the time that is given to me to fill up that emptiness.

There are many choices.

And those choices either fill me up

or 

drain 

me 

even 

more.

But I've learned where to fill my bucket.  Totally and completely.

It's in moments like these.

I hope it fills yours today.

Dear Mr. Elementary.

Dear Mr. Elementary,

Or are you a Mrs.?  Excuse me for not knowing.

But that's just it.  I don't know you that well.  And yet, you see three of my babies five days a week.  And Mr. Middle School has one of my very handsome babies.  But I haven't yet figured out how to approach Mr. Middle School yet.  That will come later.

But you.  Mr. Elementary.  I am more familiar with.  My children run to you at 9 a.m.  And then leave your care at 3:30 p.m.  You share most of the day with them.

So I wanted to write this letter to you today to let you know how very lucky you are....to spend so much time with them.  

I have taught them.  I have nurtured them.  I use every spare minute possible to fill them with everything I can give them so that when they come to you, they can put to use and practice what they have learned at home.

They know what it means to be honest.
They know how to share.
They know it's okay to believe in things they cannot see.
They have talents.
And yearn for more talents.
They know how to be tolerant and forgiving.
They have felt empathy.
They understand the value of work.
And working with others.
They know kindness. And love.
And they are not perfect.

Which is why they need you.  To give them new opportunities to be successful.  And to make mistakes.  And to learn from those mistakes.  They need you to give them what I cannot.

So could you please?  Could you give them a problem they need to solve?  Could you please sit them beside someone who is different from them?  Could you hold them accountable?  Will you please give them a friend to love?  And someone who loves them?  Could you give them another adult to trust?  Could you please test their strength to stand up for themselves?  Will you push them to try harder?  Will you give them a useful role?  Will you please have them help?  Will you ask them about their future?

You see them in the day more than I do now.  So I'm relying on you.  A lot.  Please don't let me down.

With appreciation,

The Mom