Can I get a "Hallelujah" for the month of May?
May!
Is it so that May has looped up behind us already, with its golden poppies and the school year wrapping itself right up? Is it May with Boonville Beer festivals, childhood-friend weddings, and camping adventures to be made? Can it really be that it is May?
I'll tell you, since my last May, it's hard not to be jazzed up about this one. It was one of those months that just remind you how blessed you are to be living in your body; living amidst the people that just so happen to grace your world. I'd never identified a span of 31 days as so darn blissful before. An entire year has past and now, once again, I'm stoked it is May.
Maybe it's some kind of teacher thing. The end of the school year chapter is swiftly coming up and ladies and gentlemen, you couldn't imagine the imminent serenity. I can't even be talking, for I've never even had to write my own lesson plans. Yet when one recognizes the sheer bulk of hours I've spent trying to pump up and organize the children, the notion of summer for a substitute teacher still tastes savoringly sweet.
Something to report: I am no longer a private tutor to the two little boys I spent many an hour with since October. Mr. Dad called me last week to cut me loose, claiming he and Mrs. Mom were looking to revamp their sons' schedules, meaning I was no longer to be a part of their rigorous daily activities. I went into the last two days fueled with energy, admittedly relieved that my services were soon to come to a close. Yet on the last day when I let Alex, the 7 year old, know I would no longer be coming, the look in his eyes bolted straight into my heart. He tried to relay the news to his little brother, Brian, but it didn't seem to register. Now I don't mean to flatter myself here, but if you got to spend an hour a day as a little tyke having Stephanie read you stories and ask you silly journal entry questions, amongst other things, and then bam, parents decide to send her off without even a little warning, wouldn't it be just a tad bit jilting. Such emotional boo-hunk never seemed to enter that household. The expectation to achieve (as a preschooler and 1st grader) mugged up the whole atmosphere of this home that on some occasions even I was overwhelmed, and I am 22. I just hope by eliminating "the tutor" these boys' lives will be enriched with more play time. Play time that I fear, however, will be stuffed up with too much Spongebob, play guns, and chewing gum.
I learned a great deal entering this home every day for two hours to teach these little boys. I learned how people struggle to make the right choices for their children, especially when they are barely afforded the time to know them. From my perceptions of this family (and I'll be the first to admit that one can't truly know what goes on inside another's family) I've come to realize how difficult it seems for parents to know what is right for their children's emotional and cognitive health. In the interim, kids naturally attach to attractive scapegoats to fill up the hole that is drilled by their parent's oblivion to what's really important. I'll give it to you in three words (call me audacious, hell, I know I'm not a parent):
OUR LOVING CONNECTION
Okay, maybe I cheated a little bit on the advice giving, as the term "loving" is so abstract that these three words could be interpreted to mean anything, one might say. And god knows that kids have been loved but still turn out really messed up. I suppose by using this term "loving" I mean to imply all the heart and soul it takes to raise and teach a child correctly. It's not just some simple formula of this and that lessons, and this and that curriculum. As a parent, one has the greatest advantage in the game of life. This kid is made up of you! And damn, yes, there are so many treacherous forces that seem to have the power to interpolate into our children and make them little cyborg robots serving the Man but NO, as a parent the control is still in those soft, bearing hands, in those eyes that look just like your child's eyes, in the ears that have the opportunity each day, even if it's just for a few hours, to listen, really listen to the voice of your child, and to hear what that small voice is trying to say through it's blank-slate cluelessness. And if your child can't say anything because he is too afraid of what you might think, or say in return, to not judge him by the way he fidgets or her performance on a spelling test because your judgement will become your child's whole entire world. Take your hands, and with all the loving you can muster after a grueling day of working for the Man yourself, go home, and convince your child each day, because you are convinced yourself, that together, with love, you can become valuable human beings.
