Do you have a bike? And if so, do you love it or hate it?
My mom was so excited to get an actual hand-written letter yesterday from a blogging friend. I’m not sure what impressed me more, the fact that she has made a good friend in a “complete stranger” or the fact that some people still write hand-written letters? I put “complete stranger” in quotation marks because I too have developed relationships beyond just the blogosphere with a couple of amazing women. Although we still encourage and support one another on our writing endeavors, we now converse about things other than our blogs. We’re interested in the stuff behind the blog and even fantasize about meeting one day. (I can totally see how internet dating sites could work.)
Late last night one of these friends asked me a totally random question: Do you have a bike? And if so, do you love it or hate it?
I almost fell out of my chair laughing, and for those of you that have known me a long time, you are probably laughing too.
No, I most certainly do not have a bike and if I did, I would probably hate it. Although, I currently “have” DW’s old bike that was too small for him, complete with a new seat and pedals. It left my garage once, I think, this past summer. I do remember cursing at it loudly while trying to ride up a steep hill in first gear, hands tightly gripping the handles, legs trembling and sweat rolling down my back. I might have even shouted at DW who was riding comfortably in front of me, “Can’t I just walk this freaking thing home?”
We were so cute (and I was so blonde!)
Whenever I think about riding a bike, I think about our honeymoon. We were blessed with an amazing trip from my in-laws to go on a 7-day Caribbean cruise. I had never been on a cruise or even out of the country, so I was doubly excited. As I scanned all of our excursion options, I tried to pick out things I thought my dare-devil husband would love to do but would still be within my comfort zone. Plus, since we were newly married, I had this silly notion that I should try to impress him and show my more “adventurous” side. Unfortunately, there aren’t many options for those of us that are slightly claustrophobic, afraid of heights, dislike high speeds, are fearful swimmers and have absolutely no athletic ability. It’s a good thing DW thinks I am smart and cute because he certainly didn’t marry me for my “adventurous side”. My eyes rested on this:
Land to Sea Excursion – an easy, guided group bike tour through the Jamaican landscape, ending at a private cove for lunch and snorkeling.
“How hard could that be?” I thought, “It’s a guided tourists trip and I know how to ride a bike.”
Of course, it had been over ten years since I had ridden a bike, but whatever. DW was going to be so impressed.
I should have known immediately that I had made a mistake when the jam-packed squeaky bus had to turn off the air-conditioning to make it up the steep hill to our starting location, because everything that goes up, well, it must come down.
I don't think the waistband on those shorts could have been any higher!
We passed fields and fields of emptiness climbing to the top, but as we reached the summit, a paint-chipped abandoned looking building surfaced. Apparently it was the community’s school and right next to it were rows and rows of shacks. Some had clothes drying on outside lines while dogs and chickens roamed around in the dirt yards. Half-dressed children with no shoes ran up and down the street waving at our bus. The “Jamaican landscape” we were going to ride our bikes through was a typical poverty-stricken community. The roads were unpaved, gravely, and full of pot-holes. Our tour-guides met us with a flat-bed truck and a variety of well-used bicycles. I was fitted with the smallest on hand, probably a child’s size. Unfortunately, even the smallest equipment was too big. The elbow and knee pads wouldn’t stay in place and kept falling down. Not that it really mattered, I guess, because they weren’t very plush or protective. Luckily I did have a well-fitted helmet. Immediately our group raced ahead, coasting quickly down the unfamiliar terrain. I, on the other hand, clutched both hand brakes with such force that my knuckles started to turn white. DW tried to coax me to “let-go” and let the hill’s steepness pull me along. When his coaxing didn’t work, he decided to use teasing, riding in circles around me laughing, while taking pictures of my fear-filled face. The tour guides didn’t find this funny at all, in fact, they scolded him several times.
“Stop, or you’ll make her fall!” they insisted, “Just go on ahead with the group and one of us will ride with her.”
The didn’t know DW very well. He continued his antics as I crept along until suddenly one of his tires skidded in the gravel and was sucked in to a pot hole. He went flying over his handle bars, landing face first in the dirt. Scrapes and bruises immediately surfaced on his hands and legs. One of the tour guides rushed to his aid, but he just sat in the dirt laughing at himself, shaking his head in disbelief. Once he mounted his bike again, the guide insisted more adamantly that he ride with the rest of the group.
It felt like days before I reached our half-way point and rendezvoused with the rest of the group getting sodas at a small snack shack. My heart was beating ferociously and sores were starting to form on my hands.
“How long have we been riding?” I asked DW breathlessly.
“Not even an hour,” he smirked.
My heart sank.
As people started getting on their bikes again, I noticed that one young woman was climbing on the back of the flat-bed truck. Her bike had already been loaded and strapped down.
“What’s she doing?” I asked excitedly.
“Oh – she’s not feeling well, so the truck is driving her down to the cove,” replied someone in our group.
“Hey!” I shouted towards the truck, dragging my bike quickly over the rough road. “Can I ride down too?”
The tour guide who rode with me smiled and sighed in relief as he reached for my bike, then waved me on to the truck bed. I spent the next hour riding in complete comfort, experiencing the “Jamaican landscape”.
But she seems so normal.
Home schooling just seemed weird.
Not normal.
I pictured families with 20 kids, living on farms, who argue via Bible verses, sew their own clothes and participate in food co-ops. Home schooled children must have awkward social skills, skewed ideas of gender roles in society and a limited ability to work well with others. They also struck me as families that must be extremely judgmental and unable to respect others’ religious, political or personal beliefs. I also assumed that home school families stuck together like a cult, built thick walls to keep all of us “main-stream”, public school, non-religious minded families from negatively influencing their flock.
Yes, I was being judgmental by procuring such a ridiculous stereotype.
Not one of my prouder moments.
A few years ago, I had the pleasure of talking to another gymnastics mom while we waited for our kids to get out of their summer practice. I had seen her in passing a few times, but since our children generally did not practice on the same day during the school year, we hadn’t had many opportunities to speak. Ironically, it turned out that we live just a couple blocks from each other. After visiting with her a few times, I remember saying to a mutual friend, “Man, I really like that mom. She is so funny and stylish. And her kids are amazing, so articulate, smart and witty!”
“You know she home schools, don’t you?” my friend replied.
“Really? But they seem so normal.” I said stunned.
Open mouth. Insert Foot.
The Hare sporting a sassy haircut
Fast forward four years and picture a worn-out, red-rimmed, frustrated fourth-grader sitting at my dining room table at 10 o’clock at night. She has just finished a full day of school, a four-hour gymnastics workout and an hour of homework. Almost everything has been completed, even the make-up work from missing school for a gymnastics competition. Everything, except the mind-numbing task of coloring in a map that she has already studied and labeled correctly.
“Can I just do this in the morning over breakfast?” she whines, blurry-eyed.
“Yes, go to bed sweetie. This coloring is just busy work anyway,” I said scooping up my sleepy child.
Within minutes of tucking her in to bed, she was sound asleep. I couldn’t help but think about the increased anxiety, emotional outbursts and sleep walking The Hare has displayed this school year. She has cried many times about how much she hates fourth grade. Don’t get me wrong, fourth grade is a tough year, especially for girls. It’s the year that they start getting real grades and graded homework. It is the year that clicks start forming, personalities clash and responsibilities increase, but my daughter’s personality just seems to be taking a bigger beating this year than her older sister.
“Do you think The Hare’s schedule is too overwhelming?” I asked DW while we snuggled in bed.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean, do you think that maybe we need to reconsider this gymnastics thing?”
“Of course not, she loves it and has potential to reach the goals she has set for herself. If she truly wants to compete in college then we have to stay on this path.”
“So what if we stayed on this gymnastics path but changed something else?”
“What in the world are you talking about?” he said sitting up.
“I’m talking about home school. Maybe we should consider our options so she can have a better quality of life right now and less stress.”
I fully expected DW to tell me I was crazy for even considering the thought and start laughing out loud, but instead he was silent for a moment.
“It’s a thought,” he said laying back down.
We didn’t talk about it again for a while but it consumed my every thought. I started talking to every home school parent I knew and researched curriculum. I even asked my mom, a retired teacher and Academic Dean, what she thought, again, expecting her to tell me I was crazy.
But she didn’t.
Here’s the thing, I have a kid who is ultra organized and focused. She is not overly social and has one close friend who happens to live down the street from us. Her grades are the highest in her class and even qualified for the Gifted and Talented program. But she loves gymnastics. As she progresses in the sport, which she wants to, she will continue to spend almost as much time in the gym as she does in school. How long can a kid burn the candle at both ends before they burn out?
DW is very concerned about how a decision like this will effect me.
“How will you write? Or volunteer? Or even have a lunch date with your friends?” he has asked me several times, to which I respond, “this really has very little to do with me, I think. It has everything to do with giving our daughter the best tools to succeed in whatever she wants to do.”
Of course, he thinks it has everything to do with me, especially since I would become her educator. And that is a scary thought, but a role I know I am capable of becoming.
I have started gathering more information and am amazed at how many different avenues there are for home school. The curriculum options alone are overwhelming, but now I also realize how strong the cooperative home school groups are in our area. There is definitely no shortage of social opportunities and exposure for my daughter. I have also been pleasantly surprised at how welcoming and informative home school moms have been as well, completely supportive and non-judgmental. It’s clear that each family has chosen their path for a multitude of reasons, from religious to academic to artistic to even athletic. What ever the reason, the decision was made simply for the betterment of their child’s future, focusing on their individual personalities and strengths. It’s obvious that it is not a good choice for every family, and maybe not even every child in the family. The Tortoise has blossomed in the public school system and I think we would have driven each other crazy if I had kept her home for school. The Hare is a completely different kid.
Although we are no closer to making a decision about next school year, I feel like I have some valid options.
And most people would consider me pretty normal, right?
Mentor Moms
The word mentor immediately makes me think of the people who influenced my artistic life, like my oboe teacher Mr. Herbert, my beloved high school English teacher Mrs. Johnson and of course award-winning author Heather Sellers, who was my absolute favorite college professor. Each of these individuals had a profound effect on how I viewed my abilities in a relatively short amount of time. I gained creative perspective, learned to respect my strengths and trust my instincts. Each of these amazing teachers captured my heart as much as my mind and ignited passions that are still burning strong.
However, as I drank my coffee over Facebook this morning, I laughed out loud at a friend’s posted picture. Staring me in the face was a reminder that one of the greatest influences and mentors in my life was, and still is, my mom. And it doesn’t really matter how inaccurately I sometimes remember my childhood, which she is quick to point out occasionally, because who I am is a combination of all the things I remember and all the things I feel and experience.
I felt loved and cherished.
I felt important.
I felt safe.
I felt like my parents were the happiest people in the world.
I felt silly and I felt smart.
My love for cooking, hospitality, writing, friendships, parenting, community and family all stem from my relationship with my mom. Her strengths are the things I admire and want to emulate. And even in her weaknesses, I find her honesty to be the best example of humility, teaching me to not be afraid of being more transparent. Everyday I find that I understand and relate to her a little more, which helps me to understand myself at this stage of my life. Every day I am a better person for knowing her.
Perhaps the best mentors are the ones that slowly influence us, make us believe in ourselves and help us strive for excellence in small simple ways just by existing and being themselves, day in and day out.
It is scary and overwhelming to think about how much influence I have over these two little girls I am raising that will someday be women, wives and mothers. I am their mentor too. The environment and relationship I create now will effect their futures and the people they will become. That is a huge burden and one that I just can not dwell on. I don’t want to over think every situation, conversation or emotion because I might miss the simple things. I don’t want to worry about making everything a “teachable moment” because sometimes the lesson is just time together being ourselves.
I don’t ever remember saying to myself, “I think I would make a great mentor someday” but I do remember thinking, “I believe I can be a great mom someday” because I had a wonderful example.
Do you have a mentor, or are you a mentor for someone else? Today’s writing prompt from Write on Edge asked us to link up a personal experience and show what that relationship means. The word limit was 500.
