When The Dogs Bark, Do You?

It's time for Kid A to register for next year's high school courses. This event led to a conversation between her and my hubby about college and the vast options opening up to her.

I sat and listened, wading through memories until hubby started reminiscing about the first day of a psychology class. I never took psychology, and now I'm wishing I had, because the first day Hubby and all the other students sat in their chairs and stared at each other, waiting for the professor to show up. They sat some more, stared some more, and tapped their watches in disbelief as the minutes dragged past.

Then someone started barking.

Yes, you read that right, barking like a dog that hadn't seen it's master in days. Drooping heads lifted, eyes widened, and silence reigned. At least it did until the barking resumed--coming from the professor who'd been hiding under his desk the whole time.

Kid A and I listened to the story entranced with the image of a teacher barking to a room full of astonished students. Kid A laughed. I grinned and said, "I'd have barked back."

Apparently that's what the prof wanted. Why? Probably for the same reason I suddenly want to head to a library, or session of congress, hide somewhere, and bark my heart out.

Because, wouldn't it be fun to watch all the reactions? Yes, I realize this makes me more than a little strange, but it would be great research into body language and people.

Writers make a living out of showing people's reactions and emotions with words. We can't just tell you someone was surprised or embarrassed. We have to show you, paint a picture in your mind so you live the event with the character. In essence, a writer shows you who the character really is.

Think about it, if someone, anyone, had barked back that psychology professor would have known a lot about them, almost as much as he discovered about the people who just stared. So, the question is, would you bark back?

End of School and My Kids' Awesome Teachers

It's here.

The end.

Not of the world, but of school.

Usually I quake and tremble at the mere thought of school letting out. Usually I crawl out to the bus in my fuzzy slippers, drop to my knees, and beg them to keep coming. I make visits to the teachers and implore them to stay in the building teaching my children.

Why would I do such a thing? Because when school ends, the lovely yellow bus won't pull up at my curb and take my children away. The teachers all go home. These are the stuff nightmares are made of. I know because I read the ingredient list.

I also know this sounds bad, and that several of you may be nominating me for a mother of the year award right now. But let me explain. My children will be stuck with me. All summer. All day. Every day.

Let me say that again. They'll be stuck with me. They won't get services. None. No speech or physical therapy. No highly trained, talented teachers that use their magic touch to crack the shell around my kids and let them escape from their disability for a few precious hour a day.

How could I not want that to go on all year long?

So in my own twisted way, this is a shout-out to all the teachers, assistants, therapists, peer tutors, bus drivers, administration, lunch ladies, librarians, and custodians who help shape my children's lives.

We love you. Yes, all of you. I know words are poor and flimsy compared to the hours, weeks, and months you dedicate to my children, but they come from the heart. You are a vital extension of my family, and we couldn't do it without you.

So, thanks for loving the boys even when they refuse to shower and smell. Thanks for loving them through long fingernails and temper tantrums. Thanks for caring even when they throw things, break headphones, or flush sack lunches down the toilet so they can eat pizza at school. Thanks for loving them even when they growl at you or refuse to leave the room because there are clouds outside.

Thanks for teaching them to read, count, and tell time. Thanks for teaching them to do all the thousands of little things the rest of us take for granted. I know it's slow going and hard, but each small triumph is huge. Every word, figure, or number is a miracle to us. We feel your impact here at home. And for the first time, I'm not scared of summer because your influence has been so lasting in their lives. For the first time I don't want to dress as the Grim Reaper on the last day of school.

For the first time I'm excited for summer.

So thank you for my children. Thank you for everything.