As a hypothetical, let’s say your 6 year old daughter who chews gum during class to help her focus asks you for more gum.  A LOT of gum.  And you ask her where the gum has gone, because didn’t you just give her 2 packs of gum?  And what if she admits she’s been paying off the boys in her class to not play against her in games of Ga-ga?  She’s trading gum for advantage in a game of Israeli Dodgeball.

What do you do?  Do you…tell her it’s wrong to pay off her opponents with gum?  Do you…congratulate her Capitalist tendencies?  Do you…see it as bribery and shut down the gum trafficking?  Do you secretly think, “Good job gal…you’re making it past the Cornucopia in the Hunger Games. Keep it up in case of a reaping.”

It’s just a scenario.  I’m not suggesting my tu-tu/cowboy hat/karate-kicking daughter is winning Ga-ga games with gum.  It’s possible.  It may be probable.  But I’m not saying it.  I’m just saying IF THAT WERE THE CASE…the parenting here is A RATHER GREY AREA.

This clown did a full roller skating show, and then blew up that red balloon.  That’s right…the marionette blew up his own balloon.  It…was…AWESOME.

Summer chit chat seems to be all around me.  Everyone is talking about camps and classes and trips.  I seem to have concerned myself with the really-not-fun stuff thus far: securing the tutoring, the OT’ing, the summer review workbooks (we use Tri-C).  COME ON MOM!  Get your summer on!  While I’m sure there will be plenty of swimming, berry picking, and a morning camp or two, I guarantee you’ll find us front row at Peewinkle’s Puppet Studio, because their Summertime Cabaret is my fav-or-ite.  You’re thinking: how many marionette shows have I attended to have a favorite?  A LOT.  I like theater, I like live performance, and by God, everyone likes marionettes.  The girls and I sit with little bags of popcorn and just laugh and laugh, inside the tiniest black box theater, situated off the back docks of a local winery in downtown Indy.  It’s cool on so many levels.

The Children’s Museum is putting on David Shannon’s “How I Became A Pirate” in the Lilly Theater.  The Indy Zoo is opening Flights of Fancy, and I’m so excited about a feeding aviary…it’s a picture-taking Mommy’s heaven.  No butterflies in the gardens, so you know I’ll stage some kind of a protest.  They’re doing Orchids again.  It’s like they don’t WANT me to visit.  I wouldn’t mind taking a farm tour (stop…I haven’t been on all of them…yet).  Any suggestions? It’s going to be hard to beat last summer’s farm.  Llamas, Alpacas, and I nearly carried home a baby goat. You’re guessing I might make some jam.  A little jam.  No more than 70 jars…my poor hand will probably only tolerate half that. The Indianapolis Public Library does a great summer reading program, and the girls will earn stamps and trade them in for all levels of tchotchkes.  If you haven’t been downtown to Central Library yet, I’m not telling you to go.  I’m not even mentioning the kids’ computers and green screen interactive theater and super clean bathrooms.  You never heard me mention that the place is packed with a kids books in “The Curve”, fully staffed all day every day with child librarians.  And because it’s nowhere near the ‘burbs, it’s not picked over in the summer.  I didn’t tell you this, because if I did, you’d overrun my secret branch and take all of my faves.  So I’ll make you a deal: go to Central, but leave the Patricia Polacco books.  Deal?

But the best part?  Cousin Avery is coming to stay.  Which means I’ll need a banner.  And a catchy theme.  Some super-dupery get dirty clothes.  A back up bathing suit.  And some rest.  I’m going to go to bed right now, and you can wake me up in early June.  I’ve said it before, and I stand by this statement: the summer of a stay-at-home Mom is a full court press.  It’s our busy season.  I’m ready…who is with me?  What are you doing this summer?  Tell me all the good news.

*No part of this post includes a paid advertisement.  No free/discounted tickets or entry into anything.  I love this town enough to chat about it here, free of charge.  BUT, if any of you WANT to pay me, I won’t say NO.  In fact, and this is just a hint, I’ll probably say YES.*

I can’t tell you how many times while working through Sara’s Math Learning Disorder, I’ve wracked my brain, trying to remember math lessons from early elementary. Did I find it easy?  Did I struggle?  If I found early math easy…I couldn’t help but wonder why. Loving math is Greg’s shtick.  Surviving it for the sake of science is mine.  And then I remembered my first math lessons, and nearly smacked my head into the wall for not thinking of this earlier: I’ve been playing Black Jack since I was 4 years old.

During a very rainy weekend at my Grandparents’ Lake House, when Grandma had run out of games and coloring books, Grandpa called me into the kitchen, set down a deck of cards, and told me he was going to teach me to “count to 21″.  It sounded awful.  Grandma bribed me with Pringles to at least try the game.  I never looked back.

I played Black Jack through my entire childhood, and was famous for taking money from Grandpa and his buddies.  By 6, I had developed my own strategy, and by 8, I spent the occasional Saturday surrounded by cigarette smoke and old men drinking Budweiser, wearing Grandpa’s Yankee Hat…just taking those fools’ money.  Uncle Rex had been warned, but one very sunny family vacation in Nags Head, NC…I took his money for an entire week.  We played on the beach.  We played on the porch.  We played before dinner and after dinner.  We played so much Black Jack, Grandma nearly forced us to quit, just so we’d go see the ocean.  We went fishing at 6 am one day, to make her happy.  We returned with fish and donuts, and sat down for the rest of the day with our deck of cards.  It was the best family vacation I’ve ever taken.

So it was settled; if Greg and I didn’t give Sara Math genes, maybe I passed on my love of betting in card games. Saturday afternoon, I put my theory to the test.  Sara had the game down in 5 minutes flat.  Kelly picked up on it with equal speed, but after a few hands (and 1 loss…4 year olds don’t part with money well), she decided she’d much rather play Strawberry Cafe (our imaginary restaurant, famous for its Strawberry Soup).  She served us imaginary food for the rest of the game. We played for about an hour, with our ginger ales and new lingo.  I taught her the hand gestures to hit, to stand, and how only really good players know how to slide their cards under their chips on a stand without moving the chips. We had to use an old deck of cards with a Jack Daniels logo (I know…it’s bad), because they were the easiest to count.  I wanted big spades and big hearts…easy to see, easy to count.

So there you have it….Black Jack, the fantastic math class that teaches addition, subtraction, algebra (an ace can be multiple quantities, which requires substitution), money, and strategy.  And now you know why our first cat was named Black Jack, may he RIP.  I called Grandpa as I tucked away the deck into its box, and he couldn’t stop laughing.  He laughed, and laughed…I haven’t heard him that happy since I named Kelly after him.  I could hear Grandma in heaven: “Oh Junior…now you’ve gone and done it.  That’s just what this family needs…another Black Jack player.”  Just one more hand Grandma…I promise.  Just one more hand.

Our “right now”  seems to be quite tranquil, quite pleasant (link is to Soulemama, a woman gifted at keeping her family centered).  Still, I find my mind stealing away to the wishing fields.  I wish Sara were done with Occupational Therapy.  Sara wishes she were done with Occupational Therapy.  Our Occupational Therapist seems to have a gift at keeping a straight face while we dance our wishes around her.  I wish we could just fast forward to the Fall and get through Sara’s transition.  I wish for the waves of grief, even though they’ve turned into ripples, to become a distant memory.  I wish, I wish.  This week, after the books and hugs and lullabies, I quietly walked around my house with my camera, documenting “the now”.  Being in the now is such a conscious choice I must make. Cultivating a response to the now feels challenging.  Why is that?

While Mommy is still requested for daily reading assignments, she is more of a silent bystander these days.  More of a crutch, less of a necessity.  Finding Sara’s little stacks of books all over the house makes me so happy, especially when I sneak upon her, head bowed, giggling over Beatrix Potter stories.  So many memories of me tucked away in a cozy corner, reading Mrs. Tiggy Winkle, imagining myself as Lucie…

I’m grateful for more purposeful and focused crafting.  I’m doubly grateful for a newly developed willingness to put it all away when the creative spirit has passed.  I’ve been told this necklace matches everything in my closet, and I should wear it everywhere.

Why is my mantel never finished?  Why can’t I piece together pleasing what-nots on top of one simple piece of white wood? Every night, I take it all apart, move it all around, decide to live with it…then take it all apart again…decorating just ain’t my bag baby.

The no-longer-a-baby sister now has projects of her own, trickling into the house, taking more and more substantive shape.  I find her enthusiasm for her work infectious, but finding time to review, organize, and process the daily tsunami of papers that runs through the house is mind-boggling.  I need to create a filing system with titles such as: (1) Stuff I should probably address at some vague point in time. (2) Stuff I’d like to throw away, but doing so would necessitate downing a shot of Mommy guilt. (3) Crinkled stuff that lacks conformity of shape, and therefore must be somewhat meaningful. (4) Crap Mail I should probably run by Greg, but he’ll just think it’s crap and set it aside, until I ask him if I should throw it away, which means crap mail now went through our hands 3x, making it a total waste of time.  In case you were wondering, no one sells this filing system.  I’ve looked.

So many of my friends tell me their kids just don’t play with their toys.  We don’t seem to have that problem.  Last week I came upon an entire school built out of blocks, populated by fairies of every shape and size.  Right now, there is a game being created in the basement that definitely involves a kazoo and tambourine.  I can’t make out the words, so much as the NOISE.

What one has to work so hard to grasp, the other seems to do almost intuitively.  Effortlessly.  Finding the balance of how my reaction to either scenario could affect them both feels impossible.  You know what it feels like?  College genetics.  You THINK it’s going to be all Punnet Squares and Fruit Flies, and it’s just so much more complex than you anticipated.

And so that means another tiny pair of hands has started her own book piles.  It’s easy to tell which pile is Kelly’s: just look for a Matthew McElligott book.  She drags those around like stuffed animals.  Of all the things I find messy in my house, I can always overlook a stack of books.  Books in a house of nerds is less mess, and more decor.  Hey!  I’ve got it!  I’ll just stack books on my mantel!

So take a moment to share with me: what is occupying your “now”?

*An update to “A Walk With Kelly”: I stand corrected.  Mr. Brandon DOES wear a nightcap to bed.  It’s a blue Santa hat he got during a free giveaway at Christmastime at the Mall, and he even brought it to school to show the class.  He has also proposed to his Mother, not once, but twice (just to make sure).  His Mommy and I have had some good giggles this year.  4 year olds are just too funny.*

On a bit of a hike to the cleanest bathroom at the park today:

Kelly: Mommy, Brandon wears a nightcap to bed.  I want to wear a nightcap to bed.  Can I?

Me: He also says he’s going to marry his Mother.  I’m not convinced Brandon wears a nightcap to bed.

Kelly: He IS going to marry his Mother!  He proposed and she accepted!  WHO AM I GOING TO MARRY NOW?! I’m so sad.  I guess I’ll just go back to my first plan and marry Neil.  So.  Can I wear a nightcap?

Me: Did Brandon announce he wears a nightcap while you were on the Field Trip to the Log Cabin?

Kelly: Yes.

Me: That’s what I thought.  He doesn’t wear a hat to bed. (QUICK MOMMY…change the subject).  What did you learn in school today?

Kelly: How to tell time and then I learned Chinese.

Me: Wow, not a bad day!

Kelly: Wo de Ping guo.

Me: What did you say?

Kelly: I said “my apple”.

Me: I’m going to have to take your word for it.

Kelly: When we get to the bathroom, can I go first?

Me: Kelly, you’re getting to be a big girl.  I think it’s time for you to have your own stall.

Kelly: What if the toilet flushes itself?!  Those scare me!

Me: You won’t flush down the toilet.  It’s time.

Kelly: Are you going to poop?

Me: UM…why do you ask?

Kelly: Because if we aren’t together, and we both poop, we can hear the pooping, and by echolocation, we’ll know how to find each other.

Me: I’ve never thought of using the word echolocation in this type of situation before.

Kelly: It’s not just for bats.

Me: Apparently it’s for lost pooping humans as well.

Kelly: Walk faster Mommy. There are only 60 hours in a day.

Remember when I nearly ate my way through Seattle last fall? Sweet, sweet memories.

Last night, I did the unthinkable.  I tried to cook with Velveeta.  How bad could it be?  I mean…it MELTS EVENLY! In my vain efforts to use my crock pot (ugh…my crock pot skills SUCK), I tried a cheese spaghetti recipe.  I unwrapped my first block of Velveeta.  It was less of a cheese and more of a jello.  So weird.  So wiggly.  I thought maybe the girls would be thrilled.  Maybe they would dream that Twinkies would follow.  After all, I’m not a purist.  I shoot for 80% healthy around here.  I let my kids eat absolute trash on road trips.  I drink soda at least once per month.  What’s the harm in trying Velveeta? It’s just CHEESE.  Sorry.  It’s just a CHEESE PRODUCT.

And if smooshy wet cheesy substances are your thing, man do I have a recipe for you.  And leftovers.  Sara and Kelly wouldn’t touch the stuff.  I think their response was something along the lines of “we’d rather go to bed hungry”.

Greg stopped me from buying one of everything.  Some women buy shoes.  I buy produce.

I got to thinking (oh no…here she goes again) about food.  I feel awful for food.  It used to be so real.  But too expensive.  The War on Hunger fixed that problem.  Now it’s cheap!  And fake.  A once skinny starving America has turned into a country of obese dying people, consuming a side dish of healthcare dollars with every meal.

So why do we eat it?  Because it’s available. Because it’s affordable.  Because we assume that some Big Brother has proclaimed it safe for consumption. Not because it tastes great…as a country we’ve forgotten the taste of real food.  I don’t think our Forefathers would have served our snack food to their livestock. Just coat it all in sugar, which masks all flavor, and we won’t know the difference.  But there’s no getting away from this fact that is true throughout the centuries: food is love, and the providing of it to anyone is an expression of love.  Folks, we are loving ourselves to death.

No extra charge for cleaning? Double my order!

The food companies exist in a capitalist society.  To survive, they must make what sells.  But wouldn’t it be refreshing if they changed their ad slogans to tell the truth?  Spin is fun, but the truth is SPICY.

A few suggestions to get us started:

High Fructose Corn Syrup: People are dying?  We don’t see any dead people.  Pancreatic what?  La-la-la-la…

Doritos: Because nothing says “snack” like FLUORESCENCE.

Soda Pop: The only food in longitudinal studies linked to the probability of developing Type II Diabetes.  Take that Gatorade!

Kool-Aid: Available in  many flavors…I mean…food dyes outlawed in most of Europe.  Land of the Free!

Crumb Mini-Donettes (oh heavens, my favorite snack): Now!  With only 10 teaspoons of sugar per pack of 6 minis!

Half-Pint of Chocolate Milk: More sugar than a package of Peanut M&Ms!  Come on candy.  You’re just not trying hard enough.

Rice Cakes: We’re still safe!  Smear us with jelly!  Wait…nope…not safe anymore.

Lunchables: Over HALF the daily recommended sodium allowance for children. Salt Schmalt.  The kids love it!

Fruit Roll Ups: Yeah…it’s not really fruit.  You know that right?

And my absolute favorite, created as an amalgam of a slogan from a friend from high school and my own twisted imagination:

Velveeta: The Oobleck of a Dystopian Future.

Bon appetit, mes amis.  Bon appetit.

Reading Poetry to the 1st Grade the day I was “The Mystery Reader”

It’s the School Fundraiser time again.  And I SWORE, and I mean SW-AH-ORE, I wasn’t going to be a classroom “Coach” for the annual Jog-A-Thon.  Last year they asked me to warm up the class before their run, and preschoolers still in pull-ups could tell I had the coordination of a Emperor Penguin. By the time the Lower School hit the track, I’d been fired.  Thank GOD.

Sara Jog-A-Thon, running with her good pal, 2011

Go ahead and compute a little Lori Math, and you’ll see why I not only took Sara’s half of 1st Grade, but indeed, I volunteered to coach ALL of 1st Grade this year.  A few of you are experts in Lori Math, which as you know, has it’s own rules.  First and foremost, logic and reasoning do NOT apply.  But I digress.

In year’s past, I’ve sent out the perfunctory, “Hey, your packets are coming home today”, and the obligatory, “the due date came and went…we’ll get ‘em next year gang”…I can’t say I gave it my all.  That might have something to do with last year’s due date falling right on top of Staff Appreciation Week, which I chaired.  Don’t those Spring Volunteer opportunities look yummy at Fall Sign Up Night?

Sara running the Jog-A-Thon, 2010

This year I was bitten by the Jog-A-Thon bug.  I was in it to win it.  I spent all of last week writing witty emails, cheering on the parents, convincing people how FUN it would be to address envelopes and donate money.  I figured if I can’t make administrivia fun, I can at least be entertaining.  I hadn’t given Kelly’s class a thought, because her class Coach is another parent (and I Coached her class last year), and I had turned her packet in the second I got it. I may over-commit, but I’m not the kind of lady who harangues parents for packets before I finish my own. That’s bad PTA politics. Everyone knows this. Back to my original point, I hadn’t thought about Pre-K until…UNTIL…I got the email that Kelly’s class was hot on our heels.  Excuse ME?! I was sure my 1st Graders had an easy 20 point lead.  I had been EFFERVESCENT, after all.  And suddenly I felt horrible.  How could I be pushing Sara’s class to win, and actually be wishing for Kelly’s class, to therefore…lose? What had gotten into me?! Why did I care so much?

Sara (far right), et al., intently studying insects at the Cincinnati Zoo

Then I admitted something to myself that brought me to my knees: this win was my last present to Sara’s class.  If they win, they get a party.  A party I probably won’t even attend, but in my heart, I knew it was my way of kissing each of their little noggins goodbye.  I’ve been so worried about Sara handling her Gift of a Year, that I hadn’t taken the time to place myself inside this scenario.

Sara, First Day of Preschool, same parking spot we still use today, August 2008

After all, I’ve known many of these kids for 4 years.  The span of age 3 to age 7 encompasses a world of changes.  I’m very close friends with their parents.  I know their siblings.  I’ve helped them shop for holiday presents.  I’ve held their hands to and from Art and Spanish and Gym and Library and Lunch and…I’ve chaperoned them on countless Field Trips, including the Zoo in January (really, there should be a badge).  I’ve watched them learn to spell and to read, and spent hours upon hours in each of their classrooms, cheering on their phonics and helping them finish tangrams.  I’ve ooh’ed and ahh’ed over every Diorama, every Science Fair Project.  I’ve snuck into the back of the Theater with their Mommies, and shared Kleenex during the dress rehearsal for “Arf!  The Musical.” No really, it’s far more moving and emotional than the title lets on. I’ve been their Daisy Scout Leader.  I’ve read them poems.  I’ve organized their Halloween parties and Holiday Parties and Year End Parties and made sure they all remembered cards and flowers on their teacher’s birthdays.  And the Valentines.  The addressing of so many Valentines. I’ve convinced several that they weren’t dying after taking minor spills on the playground. I believe I’ve seen every single one of them dressed as either Harry Potter or a Disney Princess at least once. I’m one of a handful of Moms who can tell the difference between the twins.  I won’t be there when they figure out if they switch their glasses, they could switch classrooms, and no one would know.  I’ve watched nearly all of them blow out birthday candles in every venue in this city. I’m not a silent bystander in their lives.  They know if they are tripping down the hallway in the morning, I’ll be the first to lend a hand.  I’m always there.  I’m the Mom who calls them out by name, and prays for them daily, in a heart I never knew could have so much space for children not my own.  These are not just kids to me.  These are my people.  And I’m no stranger to them. I’m Mrs. Sara’s Mommy.  I have a business card and everything.

Remember the bajillion tulips the Daisy Scouts planted last fall (see link above)? They came up!

And come May, I shall be waving my precious little ones onto 2nd Grade, while Sara and I remain behind.  It’s now apparent to me that it’s not just Sara who will be saying goodbye.  This Mommy must hold back her tears, make it look great, and say goodbye as well.  Sure, I’ll always be Mrs. Sara’s Mommy to them.  I’ll still pass their lockers and congratulate their myriad of projects dangling throughout the hallways.  But I won’t get to hear the collective gasp I overhead from 2 little gals hovering by their lockers when they didn’t realize I was near, “Did you see the Jog-Thon packets?!  Mrs. Sara’s Mommy is our Coach!  YES!!! YEEESSS!!!”

Sara and I at the Daisy Scout PJ Party, 2011

I’ve met the new class.  Little Sara belongs there, and there isn’t a doubt in my mind.  The new class hosted a Parents’ Dinner and sent us a lovely invitation.  We couldn’t have felt more welcome at the dinner…it was simply awesome. But in my heart, there will always be room for 40 kids who stole my heart circa the fall of 2008.  You know who you are, and I don’t need to tell you I love you.  You know every time I ask, “Sweetheart!  Where is your coat?!” And of course, I’ll see you on the track.  Literally…ON the track.  I usually fall somewhere on the track during the Jog-A-Thon.  It’s OK to laugh. Now tie up those laces, and let’s show this school which class OWNS Jog-A-Thon 2012!  And while I’m thinking about it…go get me a popsicle!!

Every spring, just inside the doorways of our school’s preschool hallway, you can hear a collective gasp as Pre-K parents hold their breath: it’s Homes Report Season.  Sounds innocuous, right?  The students study homes, visit a variety of unusual homes (a dormitory, a cabin, a trip to Home Depot to make a bird house and learn about wiring and plumbing and roofing…oh my!).  What could be difficult about a Homes Report?  Ask the family who draws the White House.  Or a Mews.  Or the Ndebele Painted Homes in Africa.  These kids make everything from House Boats to Sears Catalog Homes.  I have dreams we draw the White House and I get lost in a maze of sugar cubes, while Kelly sits idly by, shoving her face full of our building materials.

Kelly drew Log Cabin, which is akin to winning the Homes Report Lottery.  How hard is it to help her learn the home style she memorized from the Little House series? Kelly looked at the picture on the Lincoln Logs box and built this little pioneer vignette, if you will.  Greg hot glued the entire thing together.  She had trouble choosing her report details, and we nearly fell out of our chairs giggling when she told us log cabins of present day are glued together, but Laura and Mary Ingalls had to use mud because glue hadn’t been invented yet.  For the first few practices, she talked mostly about the cows and the dog.  But her teachers swear she did a great job on her report.  Those beautiful sweet women.  Someone should build them a chalet made of sugar.

I told Greg at dinner on New Year’s Eve I didn’t want any presents for my 40th; just tell people to help kids in Indy.  And because Greg’s knowledge of me seems to know no bounds, after that meal, we drove to my surprise party, which was a fundraiser for The Oaks Academy. 15 years ago, some visionaries in our city got the crazy notion that if they put a school in the most dangerous part of Indy, created an enriched, classical education, mixed families who could pay for private school with families of need, and made sure there was racial equity among the scholars, they could change the face of a neighborhood, and change the stars for children.  It was a highly improbable notion.  Even today, as I recounted an experience I had last night at The Oaks to my grandfather, he said, “But Lori, that could never work.”

But it did.  The Oaks Academy, founded in a part of Indianapolis nicknamed “Dodge City” almost 15 years ago, is a raving success with Wait Lists at every grade level.  Last night, they held a dinner at their new, 2nd location in Brookside, and Greg and I had the pleasure of attending.  Oh, the precious inner East side of Indy…a place so dear to my heart.  I bought my first home in a historic neighborhood on Indy’s East Side known as Irvington, and often cut through Brookside on my to here and there.  It’s also quite…dodge-y, to be frank.  Using the same model with the first school, the Board bought an abandoned school building, did some rehab work, and are opening the doors to students in the Fall of 2012.

I found the speeches by the Heads of School to be deeply inspirational, followed by a 5-Star sermon given by the original visionary, Mitch Daniels, the Governor of Indiana.  In the Midwest, we have freedom OF religion, not freedom FROM religion.  If our Governor wishes to stand in front of a microphone and tell an entire gymnasium full of people of the many miracles God performed to make The Oaks Academy possible, he is met with enthusiastic rounds of “Amens”.  God is everywhere, in us, as us, and in Indiana, we’re quite comfortable sharing that love with everyone who visits. Oh wait…did you think our hospitality comes from a love of sugar cream pie?  OK, to be fair, it might have a little to do with the pie.

I hope you’ll take a few minutes to watch their video.  You will be enlightened by the simplicity that makes this education possible.  They did it without fancy facilities, endowments, or years of red tape and planning.  Just some Christ-centered people who didn’t allow an address to scare them, and had evolved way beyond a level at which most of us exist.  It will allow you to believe that the US education system can be repaired, and with its rise, our communities will rise with it.  Godspeed, Oaks Academy, and may your new school see showers of blessings in the years to come.  My prayers are with you.

Dear Sara,

I’ve written this letter at least 100x in my head.  I woke up today with a terrible cold and a rotten stomach.  I sat down at the Mac, wondering if anything would be accomplished today, and I watched a video about using everyday objects for unexpected uses. And it brought me great pause; I saw a new perspective.  This once tearfully sad letter about Daddy and I making extraordinarily tough decisions for you now feels ridiculously limiting.  So here goes:

Sara.  You are going to attend 1st grade again next year.  Parts of this plan are going to totally suck.  You will miss the pals with whom you’ve shared a classroom for 4 years.  Parts of the year may feel repetitive.  Just visualizing the possibility might scare you to your very core.  Like I said…SUCK.

Sara.  Parts of this plan will liberate you beyond your wildest dreams.  As an August baby who was actually due closer to September, you will finally be with more kids who are your age than with kids who are older than you.  You are a natural-born leader and you might get to try that hat on for a change.  Your Language Arts curriculum will be different, because you’ve worked your BUTT OFF and will move groups.  Your Math curriculum will be a total repeat.  Awesome.  I don’t think you can imagine a world where math even remotely makes sense, and if this plan works?  I’m a wizard.  We don’t have any guarantees that it will come together, but this chess move is most certainly the wisest.  You get to stay at the school you love, which you declared was your top priority.  You, who are fantastic at making new friends, will be introduced to a new class of kids, half of whom you already know, and who I’m sure will adore you.  You get to stay with the teacher who has taught you to fly.  You get to repeat a year you have loved to pieces, which is astonishingly weird, considering the circumstances.  In your entire life, you might be the only person you’ll ever meet who struggled academically, and still begged to go to school.  And your academic struggles might turn into victories.  That possibility is too bomb-diggety fabulous for words.

Sara.  Your Daddy and I prayed and fought and hugged and cried over this decision for weeks.  We met with everyone but the Dalai Lama to help us decide.  In the end, in a fit of anxiety, I laid it at God’s feet one night and begged him to decide for me.  In a newly cleared conscious, he put these words upon my heart: The Gift Of A Year.  And there it was.  A gift we give to you.  Who wouldn’t take a free year?  As an adult, this will make more sense; time is the ultimate gift.  A gift that cannot be bought, wrapped, and given.  But I CAN.  I CAN GIVE YOU A YEAR.  RIGHT NOW.  For free.  I’ve driven you to Educational Psychologists, Occupational Therapists, Urologists, Developmental Neuro-Optometrists, highly specialized Tutors, and experts in Twice-Gifted Curriculums….and now?  I’m going to give you something far more valuable and infinitely interesting: TIME.  I’m going to watch you shoot for normal.  You are going to be in extra-curriculars.  Be less tired at the end the day.  Be less pressured.  Be given space to stretch and breath. JUST BE.  Time is a gift no doctor or specialist can grant.  It’s the gift of 2 parents who are looking over the horizon, and knowing you as we know you now, are not sending you to college at 17.  We love you.  We’d like to keep you…a whole do-over year.  It’s sweeter than cotton candy Ducky.  I promise.

Sara.  Your existence brought into stark focus for me that I was living in a limited reality.  I saw life as win or lose.  Black or white.  Pass or fail.  I’ve never been comfortable with the idea that a more evolved world view includes a thousand shades of grey.  I simply didn’t have the guts for it.  Alive or Dead…that was my gold standard of measurement.  Then I met you.  Not a single piece of my formula worked.  I couldn’t cry or scream or manipulate or think or read or cheerlead you into a first-this and then-that process.  You are a multitude of colors not currently on anyone’s map.  You are a breaker of the cosmic egg of every institution you’ve encountered.  You don’t just change policy…you change PEOPLE.  Within you lies a endless list of possibilities…and to take this journey with you…I had to change.  Everything.  I had to get braver.  I had to dare to look into the eyes of seasoned experts and convince them to try something new.  I’ve had to believe in unconventional plans that have no guarantees.  I’ve had to take a hammer to my imaginary crystal ball.

Not a single step has been taken haphazardly or tread without an enlightened team of people who have shared with me every ounce of their expertise. The people surrounding us, whom have shown us uncompromising charity with their love and guidance, has allowed me to break free from my solitary fortitude and believe in LIFE.  In the direction of the Universe.  In the idea that THIS WORLD IS INNATELY GOOD.  This experience of helping you through Dyspraxia, Convergence Disorder, Daytime Enuresis, an unlabeled yet intrinsically present Learning Disorder, and ADHD…should have been awful.  It certainly WAS the end of the world as we knew it.  But there have been arcane moments when we climbed yet another mountain, and we could look out over the landscape and see that we are far better people than we were before you came.  We are more charitable.  We are far more gentle and empathetic.  We have patience we never thought imaginable.  We have emotional scars.  We’ve never been more frightened.  We have never believed in anything with a more singular and intense focus.  We’ve found that we are never alone.  We’ve come to believe in God and our spirituality in a way I could have never imagined. We’ve been humbled by the belief God had in us when he chose us for you.  We know our wisdom won’t fix everything, and we’ve accepted that life is intrinsically imperfect.  We’ve learned that we see and experience grief, growth, victory, and challenge with different eyes, and are learning to accept that we must somehow win this potato sack race together, despite these differences.

Sara.  I hope someday you’ll look back and see how this crooked line makes sense. I hope my myriad of feelings become a straight line as well.  Right now, I’m wavering between horrid fear and new bravery.  Just the thought of walking you through this change makes me want to hide under my bed, which can’t be confidence inspiring for you.  I’ve spent most the past month forcing myself to live inside the other half of my brain.  The half that knows to her core this is the right decision.  The half that listened to the parents who said they wished they’d done the same, and to the parents who made this same choice and swore is the best thing they could have done.  In all of my very unscientific research, I haven’t met a single person who said grade retention was a terrible mistake.  But then again, you are the Master of Unconventional Outcomes…so still, I hold my breath.

For better or for worse, we are here, always together, always trying, sometimes failing (with great noise and confusion), and maybe this time finding a new and better reality without a label whatsoever.

In any case, you are and will always be, our blessedly perfect baby Sara, and no 2 people will ever love you more.

With every ounce of devotion,

Boppa & Daddee

*Special Note for our fellow scholars at school: while the adults are aware of this decision, we are leaving it to Sara to decide when to inform her friends.  As of now, she has decided to wait until late May.  Thank you for keeping Sara’s confidence.*