Observations

I was in an elementary school today with a classroom the teachers turned into a “Reading Oasis.” There was a kiddie pool filled with books, and lawn chairs spread around it. Another corner was set up like a front porch; rockers and fake grass, and books in wooden crates for sitting a spell. There were bean bags and strung lights and papers and crayons for coloring and I wanted to have the meeting I was supposed to have on data or standards or whatever it was in this place. Instead of talking about effectiveness and efficiency we could talk about which books in this room we’ve read, and which ones we want to read. Surely that could make us better librarians, couldn’t it?

“The middle schoolers would tear this place apart,” one of my colleagues said. He was probably right, but my heart broke. It broke for the students I once had. The ones who read The Lightning Thief with me in the fall, the ones who, one afternoon last spring, discussed the importance of reading books like The Hobbit or Harry Potter in a Christian school, the ones who I called my grizzly bears, each of them poets. I would’ve made a reading oasis for them. They might’ve trashed it. I like to think I would’ve cleaned it up.

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These days in June when every inch of the world screams summer and we are still in school are brutal. The girls and I went to the library after school today. Harper played with the dinosaurs that were on the table (the library sets out a rotation of different toys to play with regularly), Hadley found JK Rowling’s Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, I read Maggie Stiefvater’s Ballad, the second book in a faerie series. At 5:15, we needed to leave because both girls had sports to get to, and walking out of the library I thought, “I want to be done. I want to go home, and for Jesse to come home and I want that to be the end of the day.” No more packing lunches. No more picking out outfits for the next day.  I want to go on a bike ride, and eat ice-cream for dinner. I want to sit outside on the deck until the fireflies come out.

Instead, we go home and I scrape together dinner for Hadley and Harper while one puts on soccer clothes and another puts on her bathing suit. They’ll eat, come home after 8, shower, go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I empty the dishwasher while the water boils.

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Harper walks into our dining room with a brown grocery bag filled with art work. She takes each piece out, walks it into the kitchen and explains the art work to me. “Mama? Here’s my sparkle soda. I created my own kind of pop and stars come out of it when you take the top off. Mama? Here’s my mug with steam coming out of it. I like all the patterns. Mama? Here’s my 3-D butterfly.”

Alternately, Hadley tells me different facts about JK Rowling’s creatures: where you can find them, how long they live, what they eat. I pour water into the coffee pot, measure out the beans for tomorrow morning,  fill up my water bottle for school the next day to the tune of my children’s voices telling me about the fantastic beasts they’re keeping company with and creating.

I hold the painting with the cardinal perched on a branch on a snowy day in my hands. “Harper, I love this one.” I walk over to our room with the fireplace, and say, “I want to hang it in here.” I have another painting of a bird in the room. I found it at TJ Maxx several years ago. I think it’s supposed to be a Christmas decoration, but I keep it up all year because it says, “JOY,” and that seems to be a good word to read all year long.

Harper’s artwork is spread out on the dining table – a mini art exhibit of an 8 year old. I walk around the table and pick up each piece. “Maybe we can hang some of these in the basement when we’re done with it,” Harper suggests. I think that’s a great idea.

Hadley walks to the stove with a jug of milk and butter, and dumps a splash and a pat of each into the macaroni and cheese. She lifts a wooden spoon from the jar next to her and stirs it all up.

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First, Harper wouldn’t go in the water without floaties. Then, she wouldn’t put her head under. Next, she wasn’t going to swim in the deep end. Finally, she wouldn’t dive.

All these rules she had for herself were broken one summer, then the next, and the next, and now we are walking out of the clubhouse after the lessons and one of the lifeguards is in the parking lot sweet talking his girl, and one of Harper’s classmates runs past and screams, “Harper! Hey! Hey, Harper!” and she says hello and lowers her head so I can’t see her smile, but I see it. She’s diving and swimming in the deep end, and Hadley’s playing soccer under one of the nearby college’s domes and there are two more school lunches to pack and two more outfits to pick out and two more nights to say, “No, you can’t stay up until the fireflies come out. It’s time to sleep. Summer is coming.”