Daddy's Little Girl

Since my daughter and son-in-law told us that we were going to be grandparents, I have enjoyed watching the various phases that my husband is going through.

Not long after we got the call from our daughter, my husband sat in his recliner and out of the blue said, “Our baby is going to have a baby.” I’m not really sure that he believed it was possible. It wasn’t so much that our baby was pregnant, but I think he was stunned that we were old enough to actually be grandparents.

It seems like it wasn’t very long after that he mentioned his back ache. Sometimes it takes him a bit longer to get going in the morning. And he keeps asking about the “old guy” in the pictures with me. His impending grandparenthood is quickly aging him!

But yet sometimes he acts like he’s getting younger. He babbles about games that we can play with our grandbaby, and he reminisces about some of the best movies we watched with our children. I can see him planning the schedule of play time with the grandchild.

He gets excited, and then his realistic self steps in. “The baby’s not here yet,” he’ll tell me. He reminds me that I shouldn’t keep making all of these plans. She’s just finishing her first trimester…things can happen.

Then there are those quiet pensive times when I’m certain that he’s asking himself the same thing that I keep asking myself. Where did all that time go? It seems like twenty-eight years have just flown by.

I watch him gaze at our baby girl. I know that he just wants to hold her a bit longer. Just like I do. Our baby. And yet, I know that he is as excited as I am. We get to share that special joy of parenting with her, and with our son-in-law.

Now, we just have to come up with names! What do we want this new baby to call us? On to the first challenge of grandparenting!

My Baby's Baby

I was thrilled when my daughter told us that she wouldn’t be home for Christmas this year. Thrilled because the reason she can’t travel is the arrival of our first grandchild! Yes, my baby is having a baby. When I heard my daughter tell us that our special gift was due to arrive on December 20th, I was elated. We talked, we planned, and we giggled. After we hung up the phone, it hit me.

Where has all that time gone? Has it really been more than twenty-eight years since I felt those flitters and movements that told me I soon would be joining the motherhood club? It doesn’t seem quite possible.

I get lost thinking about the little blonde girl who would squeeze my hand as she toddled her first steps, and her huge grin when she was finally able to let go. All of those nights that we cuddled up to read a good book keep flooding my mind. I remember the teething and the sleepless nights, the toothless grins and the squeals of laughter.

It was over twenty-eight years ago when the doctor announced that we had a little girl. My husband and I held each other, and then came that moment that forever changed my life. The nurses handed me that little bundle, and I looked down at my daughter for the very first time. More than twenty-eight years. It seems impossible.

Her first ride on a bicycle, the first day of school. I see all of those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that I packed in lunches. The school field trips, the loose teeth, and yes, the broken bones. Memories of school plays and concerts, birthday parties and sleepovers.

Then there was high school. The first date. Those first times that she drove solo in the car were filled with anxiety and fear. Graduation with all of its excitement, and then that drive to drop her off at college. It all went so fast. It seems like just a blink.

Then I think of what joy being a parent has brought to my life. It’s something that I’ve wanted for her since that day her father walked her down the aisle. My baby’s going to have a baby, and the joy of parenthood is soon to fill her life. How lucky for me that my life will also be filled with the joy of watching my beautiful daughter grow into her new role as Mommy. It truly is the circle of life.

A Teacher and A Friend

Teachers and other faculty members roam our schools every day. As students, we might not encounter each of them in the classroom, and yet they can still have a tremendous influence on us.

One such teacher at Westminster High School in the late 70’s was Marilou Grout, or ML as she was often called. Mrs. Grout was never my classroom teacher. She came to the school my junior or senior year, but she did manage to become a very respected friend. Mrs. Grout was the advisor for the Speech and Debate club. Since I was hoping to go to law school, I thought some practice with this club might be beneficial for me, so I signed up to join.

ML was a great coach! She took us on adventures to competitions. She coached us, she taught us, and she loved us. ML was also a great cheerleader. And we wanted to win…for her. I spent my senior year of high school as a very proud member of the Speech and Debate club.

Well, ML was also an actress and a director. She invited me to audition for a show that she was directing called Dark of the Moon. She convinced me that it would be fun and that it was a really good show. So, I agreed. And she cast me in the female lead!

It was great fun working with her and the other cast members that summer. I learned things about myself that I never imagined. ML was a great director. She was energetic, enthusiastic and extremely patient. The show went extremely well, and not long after the production closed, I was on my way to my freshman year of college.

ML and I kept in close contact during my college years. In fact, she submitted my name to be a judge at a Speech and Debate competition in Wisconsin. At that time, my younger sister was on the team, so we all set out for a trip to Milwaukee for the tournament. I was so proud that ML had enough confidence in me to judge. It was a great trip, and we became even better friends.

Now, ML was married to a particular Groutie, Phil Grout, a photographer. Phil was an amazing photographer, and so in my last year of college, I asked Phil a very special favor-to be the photographer at my wedding. I felt so close to the two of them, and it meant so much to me that he was there.

After the wedding, we left Maryland because of my husband’s service in the Navy. I lost contact with the Grouts. There was an occasional word from my parents or friends that they had seen them at the mall or at the Fair. ML called once after she left teaching, but there wasn’t any real contact until Facebook. I found ML and Groutie on Facebook! We’re back in touch and planning to meet up for lunch or dinner.

I had never had a teacher become a close friend. And when I did, I realized that teachers are human! And they’re really nice humans! Nice humans who dedicate their lives to the education of young people. I am truly grateful to my teachers for their time, their dedication…and yes, their friendship!

Miss Wentz

I teach French at a high school and at a university. I love teaching French. I love the language and the culture, but French didn’t have a real significance for me until I met a certain lady in the fall of 1974.

My parents had moved the family from the metropolitan area of Baltimore County to the rural farmlands of Carroll County. I was not at all pleased. We were living in the sticks! I could no longer walk to my friends’ houses. I had no freedom to come and go as I pleased. The house my parents purchased was miles from any civilization.

That fall, I began school as a freshman at Westminster High. Since I had taken French I in the eighth grade, I was placed in a French II class. I was the only freshman in the class because in Carroll County foreign language classes were not offered until high school. So, the first day of class, I hesitantly entered the classroom of Miss Rachel Wentz. Little did I know that day that this woman would have a tremendous impact on my life.

Rachel Wentz loved French, the language, the culture, the people. She loved everything about France, and it was evident the moment she opened her mouth. Her classroom was one of the best places in the world! We sang in French, we spoke in French, we read in French. Sometimes we would even discuss politics…in French! It was an amazing place to be.

I continued studying French through my senior year. I was one of three students in French V my last year of high school. That fall, Miss Wentz announced that she was organizing a trip to France for her students. She passed out papers about the trip, and for the rest of the day going to France was the only thing I could think about.

That afternoon, I rushed home to deliver the trip paper to my parents. I begged and pleaded to be able to go to France. My father took the paper and said that he would have to think about it. I prayed and prayed and was about to offer burnt offerings when one evening my parents came into my room and told me that they had decided that the trip to France would be my graduation present! I was going to France! And not only was I going to France, but my chaperone would be none other than my amazing French teacher!

That spring at graduation, I was given the foreign language department award for outstanding achievement in French. The award was presented to me by the department chairperson, Mrs. Reifsnider, who said to me “I never had you as a student, but Miss Wentz said you were wonderful!” And I thought Miss Wentz was pretty wonderful, too!

That summer, I spent ten days in Europe with Miss Wentz. She spoke French with every person she encountered on the street. She encouraged us to use our French, and when the group that I was spending my free afternoon with in Paris got lost, I did use my French! It was an amazing trip, one I knew that I would remember for the rest of my life.

I went on to college and majored in French because I got good grades. My original intent was to go to law school. But things happen and life changes. I think of Miss Wentz almost every day when I’m teaching. I sometimes ask myself what she might have done in certain situations.

Great teachers affect us tremendously. I am grateful for those whose classrooms I was able to share.

This post appeared in my column "The Empty Nest" on June 5, 2011 in the Frederick News Post.

Mrs. Hook

I thought this month that I would reflect on teachers who influenced me during my formative years. Today I would like to introduce you to my second grade teacher, Mrs. Hook.

It was a terribly difficult time for me. I was away from the home I loved and I was struggling with relationships. Yes, the second grade at Berkshire Elementary School was a difficult period in my life.

I remember sitting in the classroom and wishing that I could be at home, playing with my Mommy and my little sister and brother. They were able to do fun things while I was stuck suffering at school. A sick tummy often greeted me in the morning as I was anxious about having to go to that horrid place.

I was having a rough time with a certain Robin Horn. She simply would not say that I was her best friend. It was so important for me to have a best friend, and I thought Robin was the perfect one. She had the nerve, however, to tell me that she had other friends that she was considering for the title of Best. When I cried at recess about this, Mrs. Hook, my second grade teacher, hugged me and told me that it was possible for someone to have several very good friends, and that she knew that Robin and I were very good friends. She made me smile.

And Mrs Hook loved to read! Each afternoon after lunch time and recess, we would all gather on the rug near her rocking chair and she would read to us. I have to admit that this did make all of the stress and anxiety about going to school worth it. Mrs. Hook read us some of the most wonderful books. Mr. Popper’s Penguins, The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking and my absolute favorite, Charlotte’s Web.

I would sit on the carpet with all of the other children in my class, and we would listen to her read about Wilbur and Charlotte and their friendship. Mrs. Hook would change her voice for all of the characters. It was such fun to hear her read the part of Templeton the Rat. We would giggle and laugh when she read his lines.

Mrs. Hook brought all of those characters to life in that classroom. She mesmerized us with those books. I began to admire her for all of her energy and enthusiasm when it came to reading and literature. Her love of books inspired her to lead her students on wonderful journeys.

My teacher must have seen the light in my eyes as she read aloud to us. She must have felt my longing to play those characters. That fall, I learned that I had been chosen to play the lead in the school’s annual Christmas play, Mother Goose’s Christmas. Yes, I was to be Mother Goose! A second-grader in the lead! I was to find out later that it was Mrs. Hook who recommended me for the role. She saw that sparkle in my eye and heard it in my voice when I read out loud in class. She told the play’s director that I was a natural!

There was a fifth grader who was cast in the role of Santa Claus. He was somewhat threatening as he had been in the school Christmas play his entire elementary school career. He was loaded with experience and enjoyed sharing with me how terrifying it would be to be on the stage in front of all our schoolmates!

After the school performance, Mrs. Hook found me backstage. She gave me a big hug and told me how proud she was of me. My classmates were thrilled to have a “star” in their midst.

I managed to somehow make it through the second grade and go on to bigger and better things, but it was teachers like Mrs. Hook who made school worth all the hassles. She truly loved her job and the students she taught. I love books and reading, and occasionally being in a show, to this day.

Teachers have a tremendous impact on our lives, whether we realize in the classroom or if it takes forty-some years. The delayed realization makes it difficult to say thank you. But Mrs. Hook, if you’re out there somewhere, please know that your efforts were much appreciated, and I learned so much about life in the second grade!

Sunday Mornings and Church

Early on in our marriage, my husband and I started going to church every Sunday. It was a tradition that we continued once our children were born. Recently as I was preparing a column about rules and raising children, I asked my son if there were particular rules that he remembered growing up. “Church on Sunday mornings,” he said almost immediately.

Now early on in their lives, church on Sunday mornings was not a difficult thing for my children. In fact, I think they even looked forward to it. Sunday School was obviously the best part of going to church. They were able to play and color and spend time with friends. The church service, on the other hand, was a bit tough.

I remember packing cookies and crayons with paper and even small toys into my purse each Sunday morning. Anything to keep them occupied, especially my son, during the sermon. When my husband was away on a trip, and the three of us headed off to church without him, I had a particular concern. I would often sing with the choir, and having the kids sit by themselves until the anthem was over was a continual worry for me. Tiffany would sit and play or color, but Timmy would often take self-guided tours of the sanctuary—and he typically waited to begin his tour until the choir had begun to sing.

One particular Sunday morning, Timmy decided to explore the altar during the anthem. He even ventured behind the curtains just beyond the altar. I could hear the snickers of the members of the congregation above the morning music, and I grew sick. I prayed that the choir director would up the tempo of the music just a bit so that we would finish more quickly. Finally, when the music had ended, I tried to sneak out of the choir loft without being noticed. I hunched over and practically crawled behind the altar to retrieve my child. I was probably at least a dozen different shades of red as I carried him back to the pew where Tiffany was quietly seated.

But we stuck with our rule. Church every Sunday morning. That is until the kids reached high school. Then we sort of lost our stamina. Waking up two teenagers on a Sunday morning (usually the only morning of the week that they could sleep in) became increasingly difficult. We bargained and agreed on an every other week schedule. They loved youth group and activities like that, anything at the church that didn’t involve an early wake-up call was acceptable, but Sunday morning services were another thing!

I remember listening at one point to an expert on child rearing, and he said to be careful in choosing your battles with rules. Sometimes it was acceptable to bend and at other times it wasn’t. As I got older, and my kids did, too, I realized that this was one of the battles on rules that would be flexible. The flexibility made the entire family much happier and Sunday mornings much more peaceful!

Money in the Jar

Recently I was talking with a friend about raising children and we inevitably discussed the Tiger Mom book and how some Chinese mothers parent. The discussion prompted me to think about some of the rules that my husband and I had implemented in the house when our children were growing up.

My dear son had an issue with using foul language. I think it began when we saw one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movies. Within the first five minutes of the film, one of the turtles said, “damn!” My son thought that was pretty awesome and he started saying the word at any opportunity. If I couldn’t find something at the grocery store, or if I dropped something, my son would mimic his turtle hero.

Over the years he picked up other choice words from various sources, and controlling his language became a concern for my husband and me. I had read about reinforcing behavior by removing privileges. So we tried that. We took away video games, outings with friends and other things that we thought our son treasured. Nothing seemed to work.

At about the age of five, my son began to realize the importance of money, and he soon grew to love money! Especially if it was his. Since we had already tried removing other things from his daily routine and they didn’t work, we decided to hit him in the pocket when his language was inappropriate.

Fees were set for various words. A particularly bad word would cost twenty-five cents. Something less offensive might cost a dime. We found an old jar and made the jar the bank for all fines collected. At collection time, my son would hold tightly to his precious coins before he finally released them into the jar. It was painful for him to bid farewell to those friends.

Even my daughter was in on the sentencing. They would be in the playroom playing and I would hear her say, “Timmy, that’s ten cents to the jar!” She would then come to inform me of the fine so as to insure its collection.

Now the real kicker was that he would never reunite with those precious coins that he released so reluctantly into the jar. At the end of each year, we would tally the amount of fines paid. It was then my son’s decision as to which charity the money would be donated. Since the tally date was usually around Christmas, he often opted for Christmas Cash for Kids or the Food Bank. His fines always went to a worthy cause.

The jar stayed in the house, prominently displayed, until my son reached high school. The total amount collected each year began to dwindle. One year, we didn’t even total the fines, we just let them run into the next year. Eventually my son learned his lesson, that is until he went off to a military school where he picked up a sailor’s mouth!