"Jack's Shoes. . .

are here."

This email grabbed me when I went to the computer this morning. Our piano teacher wrote it brilliantly. The subject line of "Jack's shoes. . ." made me eager to read on, even though I anticipated the conclusion with embarassment. I admire her tact and brevity. One of the advantages and challenges of taking Suzuki piano is that the teacher gets to know the students, parents and any parenting issues very well. Yesterday when Jack began his lesson she reminded him to take his shoes home with him, wondering how many shoes we need to buy since he has left them several times before. As I pulled out of her driveway, she chased me with one of Luke's shoes. I thanked her and drove off, then had to stop again as she caught up with me to pass the other one through the window to Karina. In a matter of minutes I discovered that Jack had once again left his shoes behind, so I expected and dreaded the email.

How does a mother who seems to be meeting her children's higher needs by homeschooling them, practicing instruments with them, directing them in plays, and all the other things I try to do fail to keep shoes on their feet? The truth: my feet are the bare ones. I appear to have it all together if you don't look at the ground when you see me, where my feet fight against the heat, the cold, the slivers, and the shards of glass. I can't do it all, even with constant effort, and my children grow up with part of the education and part of the clothing I think they should have. Next time you see my family, look above the ankles if you want to see perfection, but don't forget that bare feet are lurking beneath.

Try It

Yesterday morning I made sweet lemon risotto for breakfast, a creamy porridge with rice that I served with a dollop of Greek-style yogurt on top. My children all enthusiastically said they liked it, then ate what they were served in confirmation. For my part, I thought the recipe, styled so well in the cookbook with steam rising off the surface and lemon peel garnish,  tasted fine, so I emptied my bowl, but the texture had me struggling not to gag. Afterwards I asked, "Who would like me to make this again some time?"

Dead silence.

Finally, my son said, "This is the kind of thing you like but you don't really want to eat again," and everyone else nodded in agreement.

I felt grateful: grateful that my children eat without grumbling, grateful that they care enough about my feelings to pretend to like something I prepare that is hard to swallow, but most of all grateful that they are willing to try new things. My prayer is that this trait will be present with everything new I offer them, whether it be experiences, challenges or knowledge. Life offers many beautiful, uplifting things, not all of which appeal to every person. As long as they reject anything immoral or degrading, I want them to accept new things, trying more than a token taste. They need to chew and swallow, consuming the chunks of rice even if they're difficult to get down. Many academic challenges may be like that rice, incomprehensible and difficult to appreciate. Over time, with an honest attempt, that can change and their appreciation may grow.

I may never make sweet lemon risotto again, but I probably will eventually. I've found that I can learn to appreciate the good in anything through a positive attitude and repeated exposure. I pray this school year my family will face every new thing with an open mouth.