As we drove home today, Flash and I noticed a huge pile of leaves at the curb of one of the houses along the way. “Wow,” I remarked, “Those people have a lot of leaves!” “You could say they have a lot of ‘leavage!” replied Flash. Papa would be so proud of his punny grandson.

“That was some deep penetration there!”

“Someone needs to get their hands on that guy!”

“He’s going deep!  He’s going deep!”

“It’s just a matter of inches.”

“He’s not going to quit until he scores.”

“We need to get a measurment here.”

“Was he even in?  I don’t think he even made it in.”

“He works best under the spread.”

“He just had his hands where they didn’t belong.”

“There were a couple other guys that could have made a play, but he’s the one that scored.”

“You have to appreciate the size of that guy.”

“I thought it was only about six inches, but he’s saying it’s more like a foot.”

“He’s explosive when he’s on the inside.”

“He needs to learn not to force it.”

Even with male announcers, I’m not really sure they should say these things.

I was talking with my sister tonight and during the conversation, I mentioned a text message I had received asking if I might want to go out on a date on Saturday. A couple moments into her response, she began whole-heartedly laughing.  Quick to clarify that she wasn’t laughing at me at the thought that I might receive such a request, but that she was laughing at George, she put the boy on the phone to share with me what made his mother laugh so hard.

In his calmest, more serious very nearly eleven-year-old-voice of reason and wisdom he said, “I don’t know much about dating, but I do know about breaking up.  You say, ‘I’m sorry, this just isn’t working out.  It’s not you, it’s me.  Maybe we can still be friends.’ “

I think at eleven, he’s far better at this dating thing that I am. 

Apparently when you break up with a beef grader, the local supermarket stops carrying beef altogther. Well, no, not exactly, but when I went to the market on Sunday, they were quite low on most every kind of beef. I had to improvise for the stew meat on my list and, unsure of what substitutions I might make for his mysterious recipe, I told Flash I’d get the steak he had added to the list later in the week when the market might have restocked it’s coolers with a few more options.

After an ortho appointment last night, I suggested we stop at the market across town to get what else he needed for KICK’N this week. I picked up the spinach I had forgotten from the list (also one of his items) and met him back at the checkout where he appeared with a huge piece of london broil, which, according to him, was the only thing they had that “will do” for the recipe he’s working off of. I gave him a short speech about how he’d better not ruin this meal for the all it was costing me.

Today when I got to school, I opened the back door to get my school work from the backseat to find the grocery bag still in the car. Let me clarify, the ginormous steak I bought last night at the store, had spent the night in the vehicle, not the refrigerator. The boychild had never taken his groceries into the house.

416 weeks of waiting and 12 hours of spoiling. Sigh. I know there was a ton of steak, but I didn’t realize we were inviting maggots to dinner this week.

It’s been eight years since we started full-fledged KICK’N. Flash started helping with dinner much earlier in life, but around seven he started putting dinners together. They started simply enough, just mac n’ cheese out of the box or simple pasta, but as he became more capable he …well, he slacked off and he grumped about it and it became one more point of contention most weeks. He forgot until the last minute most nights, or he complained that there wasn’t anything in the house to cook. There was always a battle and I have wondered more times than not if it was even worth my while to try to get my child be competent and confident in the kitchen.

Until now.

For the past two weeks, Flash has actually planned ahead. There have been mysterious items on the grocery list. Last week there was a request for dijon mustard. This week he wanted sundried tomatoes. Last week, without complaint or fanfare, Flash grilled up some pretty decent chicken and had two side dishes to finish off the meal.

On my way home tonight, however, believing last week to be a fluke of nature and surely not something that would ever be repeated, I actually stopped at the grocery store and picked up Plan B. Flash has been cranky this week (marching in the rain every afternoon will do that to a teen) and I figured he would forget about dinner as per the usual and I’d be left to starve or conjure up my own plan. I decided to pick up something simple, and if he was still his cranky self (as his text messages had suggested) I would just make something simple for us both and let it go knowing the battle over band might be a bigger hurdle tonight than dinner needed to be.

I walked into a kitchen where fresh basil from the herb garden was picked and on the counter. I set my grocery bag down next to marinating chicken. I looked around to make sure I was in the right house. Flash helped me put the groceries away and asked how long until I would be hungry for dinner.

Huh wuh? Wow. Um, I mean….

I changed my clothes, put in a load of laundry and saw Flash out lighting up the grill. Before long, he came in and said it would be two minutes until dinner, a missive that usually means it’ll be two minutes until he realizes he’s a) ruined dinner, b) forgotten dinner or c) completely messed dinner up. I was wrong again. Within two minutes, if not before, he was setting before me a dinner plate with steamed corn and stuffed, grilled chicken breasts that smelled divine. I mean, d-i-v-i-n-e. We both laughed at the bowls of applesauce. I used to joke that he wasn’t allowed to count that as a side dish anymore.

In any case, for dinner tonight, I enjoyed an amazing dish of chicken stuffed with cheese, basil and sundried tomatoes, roasted in a balsamic vinegrette that was to.die.for. good.

Ya’ll should have been here.

Or not. There’s more left over for me!!

Oh my! I just sneaked a peek at the grocery list. He’s added, “steak, bacon, spinach and lemon pepper”. I can’t wait for next week!!

I’ve often said it’s clear that God is trying to teach me patience. I find myself in more and more situations that require the virtue that I am most lacking. Teaching first grade is certainly no exception to that rule. I have a couple students in particular who seem sent directly from the Big Man with a mission that is unconcerned with learning to read or add, but is bent on teaching me how to chill and stay calm and breathe.

One such boy is of particular note. He’s my wanderer – can’t be sent to the office on an errand, can’t come to class from the bus or leave to the bus without holding the hand of an adult. We always check to make sure he’s in line after recess and along for the walk when we head down the hall to music or art. He’s also my talker. He’s a bright child, but with challenges. If an idea is in his head, it’s out his mouth and he just cannot stop himself until the whole speech has been rendered. An entire line of first graders might be silent and ready to go to lunch, but if he needs to tell me that later today his brother is going to get a new dirt bike, well, we’ll all have to wait.

I’m learning how to manage and deal and encourage and differ my needy little students. It’s a whole different ballgame from just two grades up, let me tell ya, but I’ll get there. Each day I learn more than they do, and each day I’ll get better. Today, in particular, I learned quite a lot from my little wanderer.

We were headed to art, in a mostly quiet line – something we’ve worked really hard at (and something I always wonder why we’re so insistent on – why do we remove so much of the socializing from these kids’ days?) anywhoodle…on our way to art. Throughout our hallways, we have stop signs hanging from the ceiling. They are good places for our lines to halt for a moment, let the caboose catch up and we can realign, re-silence, whatever is necessary as we head on down the hallway. At one particular corner, it is tempting for some students to jump up and try to hit the stop sign, as it was today. I happened to be further down the hallway, but caught the action out of the corner of my eye and turned my head just in time to see a blue-shirted child come landing down and another one of my challenges to go jumping up. I stopped my line and went back to the guilty boys. I asked them if when their parents were driving on the road, were they allowed to hit the stop signs? No was the unanimous concensus. I reminded them that the same rule applies here in school and we aren’t to hit our stop signs either. I then quietly told two boys in particular, my blue shirted one and the other, that when we returned to the classroom, they were to move their bees to yellow on our behavior chart. The one blue-shirted boy was silent. I had been surprised that he had done it to begin with, but he didn’t utter a word. The other, as is typical denied everything, even though I had seen him clearly commit the error.

As the line continued on down the hallway to art, my little wanderer spoke up. “Miss Wilson, you know that stop sign back there?” He carried on for several steps down the hallway, despite my signal for him to stay at zero voice in the hallway. Reminding myself that I need to just let him talk it out as deterring him is rarely a viable option, I slowed my steps until I was next to him and we walked on down the hall together, side by side.

“What is it, about that stop sign back there that you want to tell me?” I asked.

“Well, you know how you said they were jumping up and hitting it? I just want to tell you who started hitting it.”

I was about to remind him that it wasn’t his business, although, from experience, I’ve come to realize that my little wanderer believes most everything to be his business indeed, when he continued, “I started it. C didn’t jump up and hit it like you said, I did. I was the one who started the jumping up and hitting the sign.”

I was speechless. My little wanderer stood there, behind the other silent accused boy, in a similar blue shirt. The corner of my eye had deceived me, and I had jumped to the wrong conclusion. I stopped right there and I hugged him and I told him that he was such a responsible, honest boy and how wonderful that was. He apologized to me, saying he wouldn’t do that again, and then looked right at me and said, “I just didn’t want my friend to have to move his bee to yellow.”

I could have cried right there. My little wanderer hates to move his bee. I leave it as a near last resort with him, but have to use it from time to time when he needs to reel it in. It takes him a couple minutes to get up usually and go move it and even then he will be quite sullen and sad about having to do so. I often give him a chance to move it back within a few minutes as I know it’s painful for him to leave it off of green. Today he said, “when I get back to class, will I have to move my bee to red and spend five minutes of recess with you?” He asked it in full submission. He wasn’t trying to negotiate, he just wanted to know before I left him at art class.

“No,” I said softly, guiltily. “You can leave your bee on yellow. You told me the truth and took responsibility and that means a lot to me. You don’t have to stay in at recess.”

I am glad they went off to art and I could go sit in my dark classroom for awhile. I told God I was listening and not just to Him, but to my kids. I got the message. I just hope I remember it for a long, long time.

In the meantime, I hope my little wanderer keeps teaching me.

90 pounds of Honeycrisp apples + Red Sox vs. Yankees game = great Saturday afternoon of making applesauce and watching the Sox beat up on the Yanks, right?

So far, very very wrong. It’s bottom of the 2nd inning and the Yankees are up 6-0.

At least the applesauce is delish!

Flash has been driving quite nearly every day, most times to school in the morning. Our morning route begins in the dark and involves four-lane, one-way roads and over the past month has included some rainy and foggy mornings. As his experience behind the wheel increases, my confidence has been similarly rising, allowing me to actually take in a bit of the scenery from the passenger seat from time to time.

This morning, heading out to the orchard, I put Flash behind the wheel for additional experience. Aware that I would not get to relish the drive as I often did, needing to keep my attention on Flash and the nuances of this lengthier drive, I was getting situated in the passenger seat as he performed the all-too familiar maneuver of getting us out of the driveway.

Or not-familiar-enough, as it would seem.

Having reminded the boy on many a dark morning that Flash needed to steer clear of the mailbox, on a bright, sunshine-filled Saturday morning, he took the opposite approach and backed the car into the telephone pole on the other side of the drive.

Flash + Curbie = Crashie as it turns out.

The damage is minimal, the plastic covering over the taillight will need to be replaced, but the taillight itself is intact and the bumper is only scuffed, not dented. The boy was deeply apologetic. We switched seats and I drove to the orchard. He drove the return trip, making as many cracks about the incident as I did.

At one point, he commented on the fact that winter is fast approaching and he wondered what it will be like to drive in the snow. I reminded him I was already losing sleep and gaining grey hair over sunny Saturdays in the driveway! Lord help us over the next several months. I thought it was only curbs we needed to look out for. Now we have to keep away from telephone poles to boot!

WG cooked dinner for us tonight. It was a wonderful treat to go to his house and enjoy a nice meal together. While Flash and I were there, we noticed this bag of Hershey’s kisses on the counter. The packaging was a little different than other’s I’ve seen, so I took a closer look.

“Aerated chocolate” the bag read.

Aerated chocolate?!?! What?!?! I had to ask. WG explained that it’s a regular milk chocolate kiss with holes in it. “For air” he said, as if that was perfectly normal.

“For air.” I said. “Air? Because air makes chocolate taste better?”

“Actually, I think it does,” he said. He talked about some candy bar from “back in the day” that used to have similar holes in it that was one of his faves.

Air. I just didn’t get it. So I sampled one. I kept thinking it would be like a crunch bar with rice krispies in it or something, but no, it was actually just little air holes.

We were discussing this on the ride home later and I told Flash that I think this is the new Hershey scam. “They are getting away with putting less product in each bag by putting holes in the chocolate!! This is a rip-off!!”

Flash assured me that the bags are packaged by weight, but I’m sure there’s some loop-hole. It’s like buying a quarter-pound burger, it’s all pre-cooked weight. This chocolate is pre-drilled weight!

Aerated chocolate. Ha!! I think they are just blowing smoke up our…well…aerated arses!