Welcome to the Knight Bus....

What to do this Good Friday?  I normally dye Pysanky eggs with a really good friend, and since that is our thing I can't bring myself to do it without her.  It needs to be something that will take up the afternoon and focus my attention while allowing me wonder about Holy Week.

Legos!!!!   The best thing about having a fandom is that someone can always get you a gift.   I can wear Harry Potter pajamas, sip coffee from my Free Dobby! mug, wrap up in my Harry Potter blanket, and decide on which  Harry Potter Lego gift set should be done.  It would take me just as long to put one together as it would to melt wax on a Ukrainian egg.  Hurray for Harry once again!

The days of Kenny and Lowell snuggling up next to me as we open the box, sort the pieces by size and color, put the pieces together click by click, and turn to the next page are long gone.  They have moved on to other interests and friends.  As middle school boys, I'd be really nervous if all they wanted and needed was their mama.  The Lego set is mine and mine alone.

I decided to build the Knight Bus.  The Knight Bus is the name of chapter three in book three.   As I sat down to put it together, I started thinking about what drew me to the bus kit in the first place.  The movie scene is not my favorite.  I can't stand the shrunken head.  He isn't in the book.  I told him so when I met him at the Universal theme park.  Call me crazy, you won't be the first.

As I started to build the bus, I focused on  the scene in the book.


At the beginning of chapter three, Harry is not in a good place.  He lost his temper at Privet Drive and turned his Aunt  Marge into a Macy's Thanksgiving day parade balloon.   He thinks he's done in the wizard world.  He used magic outside of school.  He used it in front of muggles with the intention of harming a muggle.  He has nowhere to go.  He doesn't know what to do.  As he holds out his wand, a huge, purple bus shows up out of nowhere.

Off the bus jumps Stan, who begins his speech:

Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard...

 Ok, I need to stop there.  We are in Lent, and up pops a PURPLE bus.  Jo is an Anglican and Harry was waiting. Could that be a liturgical sign?  It is for me either way.  The pandemic has really put me in a bad place.  I'm beginning to feel Harry's frustration.  I'm angry.  I'm off my routine.   I have no idea if I'm going back to a school building before September 1st.   I'm stranded.  Wouldn't a visit from the  Knight Bus be great?

I started thinking about all the different times the Knight Bus has shown up around here over the last few weeks. 

The Knight Bus was a hike with two friends six feet apart.
The Knight Bus was a picnic blanket on another friend's front yard.
The Knight Bus was a friend texting me from the grocery store, telling me she will drop some things off on my steps.
The Knight Bus has taken me to a play reading in New York City, church service at the National Cathedral in D.C. , and an Indigo Girls concert, all without leaving my house!
The Knight Bus is any text, FaceTime, or phone call from someone just to check in.

The Knight Bus has its limits.  It can't do nuffink underwater.   So my Knight Bus can't do nuffink closer than six feet.

What a great image for Lent.  A purple bus here to save us in an emergency when otherwise we are stranded.

I took the time to get it done:

Go be the Knight Bus for someone.

Happy Good Friday one and all.

Mary has this...

This is our 8th Epiphany as a foursome.  They go  to their father’s house for Christmas, so we do our gift giving and church service on January 6th.  I love it.  It feels right to me to have a completely different day than to have “Christmas with mom” and then “Christmas with dad.”  The meaning is lost.  I prefer Christmas with dad and Epiphany with mom.

During our Epiphany service we have a mini pageant. I have a gut feeling it was created for my kids, who are never in town for Nativity and I went through a phase where I cried that Kenny would never be Joseph and woe is me some day the kid will win an Oscar but Joseph the earthly father carpenter will never be on his resume. So another pageant was added.

The other pageant is more of a liturgical dance interpretation of the hymn We Three Kings.  You need a Mary, a Joseph, someone to cary the star on a stick, and as many kids as want to be wise men as there are available.

We had a Mary, my daughter, and we had two older boys to be the readers, and we had lots of kids begging to wear the fancy wise man bling, but no one wanted to be Joseph.  (Ironic, I know, after I lost a lot of sleep over my kid losing the possibility.)

During Sunday school the other mothers and I were searching for a Joseph.  We got nothing. What to do?  Should I get her other brother to do it? No way he would go for that. All the Roblox cash in the world wouldn’t get him to be the Joseph to his sister’s Mary.  Should we start guilting moms that weren’t there?

How can we have an Epiphany pageant without Joseph?

I have been reading the Bible every morning for the last two and a half years.  So I just blurted out:

“We don’t need one.”

Let me guess what you are thinking.  The single mom is trying to rewrite the Bible with some horrible feminist agenda that ruins the role of every man everywhere.  Not quite.  Sorry.

“He wasn’t there.  We don’t need a Joseph if we can’t find a boy to play the part.  Joseph isn’t mentioned in the scene.”

“What?”

I realized the Bible is becoming as much a part of my freaking instant recall ability as episodes of Little House on the Prairie and random Harry Potter chapters, characters, and spells.

 “Matthew!  Go to Matthew!  It’s just Mary with her son.”

Matthew 2:11 “On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother: and they knelt down and paid him homage.”

Joseph isn’t there!  He may be in the workshop, he may be in a different room, but he isn’t in this scene, so we don’t need him for our pageant!And this just reinforced what I already knew about Epiphany.  It’s with mommy.  And the Gospel story is part of who I am and who my children are. And who the four of us are.

I am a big Team Joseph girl. Joseph rocked.  He had no plans to embarrass Mary when he found out she was pregnant.  When Gabriel told him it was part of a bigger plan, he married her.  He raised a son that wasn’t his as his own.  He was a hero and got his family to Egypt.  But he wasn’t there in that moment.  He was not involved in the gift giving Magi moment.

But Mary was - and I knew it.  And I live it.  So we Sunday school moms gave up trying to find a Joseph and let it be.  With or without him, Mary is doing just fine.

I hope everyone has a blessed Epiphany season.

September 9, 1995

Las Meninas

"If and when I have children, they aren't going on any trips anywhere until they can prove to me that they will appreciate it." 

The letter on the 9th was written on a bus ride from Madrid to Sevilla, where I was to spend the academic year.  It summarized the events of the day before.  On September 8th (Twenty years ago yesterday), I went to the Prado museum for the second time in my life.  The first time had been with my mom in 1988.   If you go to the Louvre, you see the Mona Lisa.  If you go to Milan, you see the Last Supper. If you go to the Prado, you go for Las Meninas.

Anyone who ever studied abroad in Spain has seen Las Meninas.  We do a unit on it in Spanish 3. When I was thirteen, I thought it was neat you could see the King and Queen in the mirror.  When I was twenty it was cool he painted himself painting a picture.  Now that I'm forty I can't believe the kid had to interrupt her parents while they were trying to get a picture painted.   It's also an example of how life with children, even royal children, is pure chaos.

I did comment that I wasn't old enough to appreciate the museum in '88 and wrote that  "if and when I have children, they aren't going on any trips anywhere until they can prove to me that they will appreciate it."

My twenty year old self did not know the personalities of three kids she would have one day.  Staying home isn't really our thing.  If we go somewhere, we see and do all we can see and do.  Maybe not the fanciest art museum yet, but some day.

At some point during the previous day I had also received my permanent rooming assignment. It was on a little slip of paper that I kept in a scrapbook probably until the Pittsburgh move.   I was going to live in a residencia for girls with a family ( a mother with three children- more on them as the year progresses) and my roommate was the 25 year old.  25!!!! Twenty five?  She was so old. She had already gone to college once and was getting a second degree.  Who does that?

And I was threatening children not even born yet.

September 7, 1995

The flight movie was Casper.  Whose idea was that?  Obviously, I slept through the entire thing.  Customs and immigration was easy.  We took a bus to the hotel and were warned by Jan, the program director, that petty theft was common in a big city and to please be careful as we wandered around.

 I wrote that "the girl who sat next to me on the plane is really easy to talk to.  I hope that doesn't change."  Her name was Kysa.   We sat on the bus together and agreed to be roommates as others were frantically deciding who would match up with who.

After we settled, we left the hotel to explore Madrid. We were only going to be there two days and this was the capital.  I had gone before at age thirteen, but my mother did all the talking then.  According to my letter, "we ended up exchanging money, talking to other Americans, and going to the Reina Sofia museum, which was free with the International Student ID ."

I spent a lot of time looking at the Dalis and the Picassos. Seeing the actual Guernica is much more impressive than any poster print you hang on a wall.   That day was also my first venture into the Corte Inglés for notebook paper to write home on.  The paper wasn't lined the same way college ruled was, to this day I don't know if I wrote on it the right way or not.

We started our orientation sessions that night.  I went to a bar and spoke Spanish with locals who thought, "My Ecuadorian accent was cute." (I had to shed that right away)

 My first day in Spain!

Reflection:
Even without a smartphone telling me where to go, I wasn't afraid to wander around Madrid and look for what I needed.  I found the department store, exchanged my money, and added a museum to the list that wasn't on our fixed itinerary. I'd already noticed the simple difference in notebook paper.  The only thing we did wrong was wander around during siesta.  After a month I would not be going anywhere after 1:00 or before 3:00.  It was creepier to me than walking home at night.   I even felt it this past summer when my colleagues and I were looking for coffee around two in the afternoon.

I still have a way of finding what needs to be done and doing it. I can explore a city with three children hanging on me.  It started twenty years ago today in Madrid.

September 6, 1995

From the letter:

"Nobody is an ax murderer, although there do appear to be a plethera of sorority sisters that might grate on my nerves."

 Earlier in the day, my mom actually let a class go early so she could take me to the Greensboro airport.  My sister drove.  Before I left my sister pulled me aside. "Page, everything you have ever wanted has worked out for you.  That won't change now."  She made me cry.

I flew up with two others on the program. Natalie and Andrew. Andrew's parents were actually friends of my grandparents from their wildlife conventions.  Good lord my grandparents know everybody. We found the gate in Newark, New Jersey.  Ugh who would live in the north on purpose?

There were thirty of us in all spending a junior year abroad.  23 girls and 7 boys.   Our assistant director, Carolina, checked our names off on a clipboard.  Jen was from Bates, and I'd never heard of that school.

And that was letter one.

Reflection:

• Twenty years later I have flown in and out of Newark three more times.  Most recently chaperoning a group of teens as they go out to discover Spain themselves.
• When I took my sons to preschool in Madison, CT, I met a lovely woman wearing a Bates hat.  I happily told her all about my friend from my junior year abroad in Spain. 
• I was having coffee with a friend yesterday on her porch.  We saw a hawk swoop down for a dove and fly off.  I thought of my grandfather and his wildlife work.  Reading about Andrew in today's letter made that even more special. Maybe I'll go to a wildlife summit myself one day. 
• My sister is right.  Things work out for me.  She still makes me cry. 
• As for my mom, being a parent changes the way you teach.  For her to cancel a class was unheard of before she had children in college.  I myself never took late homework until I found Frances' math worksheet completely done, but under her bed. 

A regifted year in Sevilla

Tonight at dinner I told Kenneth I could find God in anything.   When we are watching Once Upon a Time, walking a sunflower maze, or washing a car together and probably just moving the dirt around, God is there.

Of course he had to challenge this.

"The Terminator?"

I had an answer.

"Mothers have hidden strength they don't know is there., and NOTHING terminates them."

I won. :0)

Everything can be a gift from God.

I haven't blogged in a while.  As my children have gotten older I respect their privacy.   I also went to graduate school and getting a masters degree was a high priority, it didn't leave a lot of time for creativity.  But I have had a yearning to write something  other than a lesson plan.

 God doesn't just gift.  Sometimes, God "Re-gifts".    Twenty years ago today, I left for a year in Sevilla, Spain.  I have every letter I ever wrote home.  Dated. In order. Under my bed.   In the age of tweets, blogs, emails, Facebook posts, and texts, I have letters.   A collection of letters is a gift from God.


I'm going to go through those letters and reflect on the time I was there. I'm going to see some old friends and places.  I might actually be able to connect some of it to things going on in my life right now.  I don't think I can do it every day and if I do it might be a long post or a short one-  or just a quote.  We will see.

Thank you God.

The Obligatory Turning Forty Blog Post.....

I wasn't going to write this.  I have heard it over and over again.  Forty, blah blah blah.....

Then I remembered, it isn't like having a blog about the trials and tribulations of being a mother is that original either.

So, this is what I have to say about today.

Ten years ago, on my 30th birthday:

1) Autism was what won Dustin Hoffman the Oscar.
2) I was perfectly happy in a small town in North Carolina.  I had a house in a new subdivision with a pool.
3) I didn't know the words "Reiki" or "Tough Mudder" or even "Smart Phone"
4) There is no way you could have told me I'd move to the north. I'd only been there once and that was for a high school trip to New York city.
5) I didn't need Facebook, MySpace, or a blog.  Everyone I wanted to talk to was right there in North Carolina.

hmmm, hmmm....to say a lot happened in one decade is a bit of an understatement, isn't it?

It took longer than it should have for me to finally get this message;  you can't fight whatever God has planned for you.   You can try, and he will wait you out.  Eventually, God will get tired of waiting for you. He may send an angel to push you.  Hell, God may send a demon to get the message to you.  But you will get it, you will accept it,  and then life is going to rock.

You can start over. There is nothing so horrible that you can't get up the next day and keep going.   I'm not comfortable with "Born Again" language, because we are all born again and again.  Just this past year it was time to get off the laptop and go into a high school classroom. Now it's time to be a middle school mom.

Any time I try to force my will on anything, it ends up being a hot mess. From now on, I'm going to let it just happen.

I'm good at what I'm good at and I need to embrace that. BUT- when I'm NOT good at something, I need to practice.  Then I'll be good at more things.

It isn't "all about me."  Everything and everybody has their own plan and their own issues and people are going to come and go and come back again.  Or maybe not, and that's ok.

When I think of my 20s and 30s,  I'd do it all over again- every single victory, every single epic fail.

I feel like I just finished folding my 1,000th paper crane.  I'm healed from anything that happened, and I can't predict what's coming my way.


I will always have the Episcopal Church, Harry Potter, and Strong Coffee.

So 40s, welcome. I swear I'll be a good listener this time.  Let's try not to be so dramatic, K?