Month: January 2021

This is the thought that woke me at 3:30 AM this morning. My sixth graders chose a nonfiction book to read weeks ago, and they had been doing a weekly check-in or quick book share to demonstrate their progress. Lately, we’ve gotten busy digging into lessons on author’s purpose, text organization, and different types of note-taking strategies with short nonfiction text, and they haven’t had much time to read their books in class. I had planned to forge ahead today with the next note-taking lesson, but that little voice in my head had other ideas.

“What about the books they’re supposed to be reading?” asked the voice at 3:30 this morning.

“They’re supposed to be reading 30 minutes a day outside of class, ” I silently answered, as I rolled back over.

“Uh, huh, I’m sure they’re all doing that.”

“Shut up and let me sleep.”

“They need time to read IN class and to talk about what they’re reading,” the voice reasoned. “You can’t just say it’s important; you have to show it’s important by making time for them to read.”

“But I already made the lesson and the assignment and everything,” I protested, as I rearranged my pillow and stared at the ceiling.

Silence from the voice.

?

…

“Okay, you win.”

I got out of bed, put on a half a pot of coffee, and reworked my plan for today. I’ve scrapped the next note-taking lesson and built in time for the kids to read and talk about what they’re reading. As a former colleague would say, I needed to “slow my roll.”

Reading is important, so let’s read.

Those four letters are etched deeply into my heart and soul. Lara is my sister, who died when she was 22 and I was 17, and Lara is the name of her precocious, spirited granddaughter she never knew.

My sister got pregnant when she was a senior in high school. I remember the pregnancy test in the fridge, which she told my parents was a science project – not a lie, but certainly not the whole story. She confided in me when it turned out to be positive, and fretted about when to tell my parents. When she could contain herself no longer, she approached my mom when she was in the middle of a phone conversation with her friend, Paula. Lara whispered, “Mom, Mom!” My mom brushed her off, but Lara persisted. Finally, my mom told Paula to hold on a second and asked, “What is it?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Pause.

“Diana, what is it? Is it big?” asked Paula.

“Yes, Paula. It’s big, alright. I’ll call you back.”

My parents decided my dad would take Lara out for dinner to discuss her options. When my dad broached the subject as they perused the menu, Lara responded, “What options? I’m keeping the baby.” And that was that. They ordered dinner, and eight months later, we became a household of six: my parents, their three daughters, and now baby Natalie.

The petrified, young father was the son of a Mormon bishop, so this was quite a scandal for their family. The details are still fuzzy to me, but I know that our family went to court with their family, basically freeing them of all obligations, but also stripping them of all rights concerning Natalie. Apparently, the paternal grandmother was in tears, but they had made up their minds. The young father visited on Christmas and Natalie’s birthday, and maybe a few other times, but once he went on his mission, he faded from their lives.

Lara, undeterred, jumped into motherhood wholeheartedly and with a confidence rare in someone so young. I never heard her utter one regret about her choice.

I won’t go into detail right now about how we lost Lara, but when she passed, my parents took over raising Nat. Over the years, they transitioned from Nana and Pop to Mom and Dad. For years, I resisted introducing Nat as my sister, despite her wishes; I felt it was a betrayal to Lara. I finally relented when I realized how desperately she needed to feel like part of a “normal” family and that calling her “niece” made her feel like she was being kept apart. It also left people curious as to how I could have a niece; they only knew of Alana, who was four years younger than me. I also realized it is more important to comfort the living than to cling to my idea of what it means to honor the dead.

Now Nat is 34 and has a loving husband and two children of her own. Though she never initiates or is comfortable engaging in conversation about her mother, she named her daughter Lara. That girl is something else. What I wouldn’t give for my Lara to meet this Lara. She would be over the moon.

We agreed to let Maxine go with close friends of ours to Bethany this weekend to celebrate their daughter’s 13th birthday. They’ve been very careful throughout the pandemic, as have we, and when they asked how we felt about her joining them for a long weekend, we thought it over and decided to let her go.

This is her BFF, and they’ve been so good throughout everything. They’ve had sleepovers in separate tents in the backyard, rang in the new year together in an open garage, taken bike rides together around town, and have logged probably about a hundred hours of FaceTime since this all began.

I dropped her off at their house this afternoon and chatted a bit before saying goodbye to her. She gave me an extra long hug and said she’d call me every day. The girls looked at the dad and at me and asked, “So, we can just go inside together?” We both nodded.

They looked mildly stunned, hesitant, and a bit like they had just won the lottery as they slowly stepped into the house. I assume it took them only a few minutes to fall back into the rhythm they’d had from when they were toddlers up until last March.

Yup, shields are down for now. For good? Probably not, but for now, they have this time together.

We went down to Capitol Hill yesterday to reconnect with our battered, beloved city. We got coffee at Peregrine and walked around Eastern Market before heading to the Capitol. Fencing now surrounds the Library of Congress and the House office buildings, and members of the National Guard were sprinkled around the perimeters.

As we neared the Capitol, the police presence became much more pronounced and the fencing more formidable (what’s that saying about closing the barn door after the horse gets out?). Even though this level of protection and realization came tragically too late, I want to see everything we’ve got – high fences, National Guard, sharp shooters, police forces from DC, Maryland and Virginia – ready to go for Biden’s inauguration.

Even with all the fencing, it’s still as majestic as ever. I just kept staring at the columns, the dome, and the set for the inauguration, trying to imagine the scene I saw unfolding online last week. It just wouldn’t compute. The hallowed building I was gazing at, the building where I took school field trips, where our most honored leaders have lain in state, just couldn’t be anything but what it’s always been to me: a symbol of our democracy, untouchable in its revered, Neoclassical form.

The mood was one of somber disbelief with an undercurrent of outrage. People walked, biked, and scooted by, talking quietly and taking pictures. Young guardsmen and Capitol Police nodded at us as we passed by. A shrine of photos and flowers stood in a clump, honoring Brian Sicknick, the fallen Capitol police officer.

How could things have gone this far? I guess that’ll be the question of the century, one we’ve only just begun to try to understand.

In my fair city

Shouting lies

Spewing lies they’ve been told

Harassing security guards

Threatening reporters

Breaking into lawmakers’ offices

Propping their feet on desks

Breaking windows

Going through files

Not wearing masks

Not getting gassed

Not being intimidated

They’re mostly White, by the way.

I read in the Washington Post this morning about recent painted bunting sightings on the Maryland side of Great Falls National Park.

This is the mythical bird of my youth! My mom had a bird identification book in a kitchen cabinet when I was a kid (I bet it’s still there), and I would climb up on a chair every now and then to browse through the book. After skimming through woodpeckers, shore birds, and various finches, I would inevitably end up on the page with the painted bunting, marveling at its bold, rainbow-colored plumage. This is where I first learned that most male birds are much prettier than females. It seemed to strange to me then. Over the years, the book began to fall open to this page on its own.

So, thanks to climate change, I now apparently don’t have to travel to Florida to see the painted bunting; if I’m lucky, I will be able to catch him in my own neck of the woods. Is this the push I need to become a birdwatcher?

A friend of mine proposed we cut added sugar from our diets for the month of January, starting Monday, of course (what dummy would ruin a perfectly good final weekend of break?). I said I could probably do that. Another friend said, “Yes, I’ll do that, but chocolate chips don’t count because I put those in my oatmeal every morning.”

I think I can meet this challenge. It’s not like the village challenge a bunch of us took on years ago when we could only eat raw vegetables for the first week, then we were allowed to add nuts and fruit, and then grains, and so on. It was ridiculous. I spent several weeks perpetually feeling mildly to very hungry.

One day, when I was almost home from work on my bike, I stopped to say hi to a friend and told her about the challenge. As I was trying to disengage from my clip-in pedals, I fell over. After I stood up and assured her I was fine, I explained, “I’m just hungry.” She said I should eat something. She wasn’t wrong.

It turns out, the village was no match for the lure of the pub on a snowy evening. With the ground blanketed in a foot of snow, school called off for the next few days, and households of restless children chomping at the bit, a bunch of us headed for good cheer (aka: a beer or two). The Sports Pub had recently added a third floor where our kids could run around and not be a nuisance to patrons. One lone villager was incredulous and disappointed. “You’re going to throw away the whole challenge for a beer?” Yes, we were, we did, and we were happy about it.

This is not that. This is simply not eating sweets and drinking alcohol for a month. I think I can keep my strength up just fine with a savory array of homemade enchiladas, chili, seared seafood and whatever else looks good.