You know that really awkward moment when you walk into a room and everyone gets suddenly quiet? You realize in an instant that someone’s been talking about you. Truly, I thought I was past those sorts of encounters(I am, after all, out of high school) but this week I discovered, in the awkward accidental kind of way, that not everyone loves my music. What? I thought everyone loved Ms. Myra….o.k., not everyone, but a lot of people, anyway. :)

Now to be fair, I don’t think they were launching an attack on me personally, they were just annoyed because my 6th grade class is working on a drum ensemble, and, as it turns out, using trash cans as drums can be a little noisy. When I realized what I had walked into, I wanted to bring out my syrupy sweet (albeit slightly sarcastic) side and say, “Wow, did you hear them? Wasn’t that great? I mean, isn’t it terrific how we can use music as a means to express ourselves. These kids (from Children’s Home Society)who have been abused and neglected are learning to speak up for themselves and are finding their voices through music. Wow, don’t you just love that, isn’t it great?” But, I didn’t say that. I let them off the hook and looking back now, I so wish that I hadn’t. I wish that I had been stronger and stood up not only for myself as a teacher, but also for kids who were just being kids.

Music can be noisy. Children can be noisy and the combination of the two, well, that’s not a hard one to figure out. At any given moment during one of my Kindermusik classes or one of my classes at Children’s Home, you may walk in to what appears to be total chaos. But come in closer and you will see children making music, learning patterns, developing gross and fine motor skills. Look closer and you will see children creating and growing and inspiring. Look closer and you will see children being children.

The problem with their annoyance is that it’s not really just about music. It’s about a culture that is uncomfortable with children. It's about a culture that wants children to act like adults. So in addition to standing up for myself, I wish I had stood up for all the parents out there who get dirty looks in a restaurant because your child thinks spaghetti is funny (and, I mean, it is funny!) or, heaven forbid, your 4 year old (and I’m not naming names) laughs too loud and too long during movies. I’m just curious, if we aren’t supposed to take our children to nice restaurants, how are they ever going to learn how to act? I’m all for putting my babies in the nursery, but at what age is it o.k. to let them sit in church and learn how to worship as a family? And don’t get me started on airplane travel. When I’m flying solo with my kiddos, I either get that “Oh PLEASE don’t make me sit next to them” look or I get no look at all; they are like children who think we can’t see them if their eyes are closed. Do they think I’m going to ask them to change a diaper if they accidentally look my way? Am I supposed to keep my children at home for the next 10 years and hope they magically learn how to act in public? Please understand, I’m not one of those moms that lets my children run crazy up and down the halls at the mall (o.k., well sometimes I am, but where else are we supposed to get exercise in the middle of a South Dakota winter?) and I do have high expectations for manners and respectful behavior, but I’m also one of those moms that knows children are not grown-ups and we shouldn’t expect them to act that way.

Next week my group of 6th grade boys will perform their trash can ensemble, “SPEAK UP!” in front of the school. We are going to be loud and it’s going to be fun! I’m going to tell them (simply because I’ve always wanted to say this,) to “Bring in da Noise, Bring in da Funk.” And the next time someone thinks my music or my children are too loud, well, I’m going to remember my own 6th grade message. I’m going to “SPEAK UP!”

Are you "tuned in" to your children?

On top of our kitchen cabinet is a sign that reads JOY. My husband gave it to me for Christmas, but I’m not sure if he really meant it as a gift, or more as a reminder, as in “today, remember to choose joy.” At any rate most days I love it, but some days it just stares at me and mocks me from afar and one morning last week was one of those times. Emma Claire was sick and hadn’t slept well for days. This meant I hadn’t slept well either, plus she couldn't be around other children so I had to call Pam, our babysitter/nanny extraordinaire, to come over. My call woke Pam up, so to review,no-one had slept well and now everyone was cranky. The engine light had come on in my van (yes, I drive a van but don’t make fun of me, because I love my van. My first car was a Chevy chevette with an 8-track player and an “I love gymnastics” bumper sticker and I can’t even do a cartwheel, so trust me when I say my van is pretty cool in comparison!) Anyway, I couldn’t figure out how to get it checked out while still having us all be where we needed to be, when we needed to be there. And then, looming over it all, was my appointment later in the day to get a crown (and no, not the sparkly Miss America kind.) Clearly I was having trouble choosing joy.

Actually, the therapists at my school would have labeled my emotional state as “dis-regulated.” And seriously, what better way to regulate one’s emotions than with a super carbo-load in the form of a bagel with cream cheese and a diet coke. So on our way to pre-school, we made a bagel run. Coulter was beyond excited about the surprise stop and after a few bites, he interrupted the silence and said, “Mom, this is the best day EVER!” Hmmm…… Really??? A bagel? We seriously need to get out more.

Later in class, Coulter's “best day ever” comment long forgotten, I looked over to see a Mom completely disengaged from her child. She had become totally fascinated with a piece of lint on her shirt. This is almost a Kindermusik crisis because our goal, our mission, is “all involved, all the time.” Her son kept trying to win her attention, but his attempts looked like misbehavior on his part, so Mom kept taking his instruments away. I knew that I needed to intervene is some positive way, and yet, I felt myself just observing. At that moment, when her goal was to have quality time with her child, she was a thousand miles away. I am in no way passing judgment because I have been that mom more times than I care to admit. Playing cars, tossing the ball, even reading to my children when my mind is,like hers,a thousand miles away (thousands, actually, usually someplace warm with salt water and sand and I’m all alone and…o.k…..focus...) Anyway, in that moment of observation, I think I better understood why Coulter had found such joy in our bagel run. I was present. It was just the two of us. No radio, no phone, no distractions. In that moment, with the caffeine kicking in, I had forgotten about our sleepless night and the dental work to come. I had even forgotten about the van light (which turned out to be nothing more than a reminder to change the oil, now does your cool SUV do that? Well it probably does, but whatever.) The point is Coulter had my full attention and I’m embarrassed that it took thinking a bagel was as good as it gets to remind me of the importance of that.

So today, as I write from my kitchen table, my JOY sign is smiling at me. Perhaps it’s because Emma Claire is asleep and Coulter and his Daddy are out of town (I’m just kidding, of course that isn’t the reason!) Perhaps, though, it’s because I’m starting a new week optimistic that this time I’ll get it right more than I get it wrong. I’m optimistic that I will be present with my children...the children that I’m raising and the children that I’m teaching. I’m optimistic that this time, I will choose joy, find joy and ultimately bring joy.

A lesson in gratitude

Recently, my fellow Kindermusik teachers and I got together for a little “post-Christmas” Christmas party. Well, not so much a party as perhaps a get together with friends and colleagues. The hostess did serve wine, though, so maybe it was a party. Actually, I don’t drink wine but come to think of it, I did have 2 diet cokes and drinking that much caffeine after 6:30 means it must have been a party. Anyway, it was a fun evening because we rarely have the opportunity to be all together. We are a group of 6 highly educated, extraordinarily talented woman (or at least that’s my humble opinion of the other five) with a 20 year age span between us. And, yes, it was definitely a party because in addition to wine and diet coke, there were presents.

Now, I will start by saying that I am usually a very grateful person. I love gifts. As a teacher, I am blessed with gifts of all kinds and I appreciate the thought, the effort and the generosity behind each one. Last week one of my KM families gave me a pair of slippers because our room is so cold. I was very grateful. However, on this night (and I can’t believe I’m admitting this,) I was confused, (maybe even disappointed?) by the gift we received. Part of the problem, (and again I can’t believe I’m admitting this,) is that I was sort of expecting a small bonus in the form of a gift card, but instead, the gift was a book. Now, ordinarily, I would enjoy a good book, but this wasn’t just any book –at first glance, it appeared to be a marriage counseling, how to love your spouse (put your children in their crib and reclaim your marital bed) kind of book. (See former blog on co-sleeping.) Add to this the fact that another friend had just the week before suggested I read “The Love Dare” which then becomes a verb….you “love dare” your spouse and, well, I just felt overwhelmed. Fireproof your marriage, fill up their cup, love dare your spouse, learn how to speak his or her love language. I started to get hot and panicky just thinking about it. I did manage a gracious “thank you” before I got in my car and immediately burst into tears. I know. It’s crazy. I mean who cries over a book? I think I experienced some kind of self-help mental break—I mean, well, it was either that or the fact that I was seriously upset about the gift card. :)

Later that night I found myself unable to sleep, (which either had something to do with feeling guilty over my lack of gratitude or the aforementioned diet cokes) so I began to read my new book; “The Five Love Languages,” by Dr. Gary Chapman. In it, he suggests that each of us have a primary love language and we need to be spoken to in that language in order to feel loved. The 5 languages are Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Gifts, Acts of Service and Physical Touch. I read and read and read, and as I read it became clear just what a great gift this really was. A lot of what he says makes you say, “Well, duh! Why didn’t I think of that?”And yet the point is, I didn’t think of it. Not, at least, until now.

At the end of the book he introduces a chapter from “The Five Love Languages of Children.” I was so excited. What better gift can I give my children than to speak to them in their own love language and what better gift can I give to my Kindermusik families than to encourage them to do the same. I’d like to invite you to come and read with us.Regardless of what your family make-up is, chances are you are important in the life of a child.

The art of gift giving is anticipating what might possibly be a blessing to the recipient. The gift giver on this night has been my friend and mentor for almost 10 years. She knows me quite well (and in this instance better than I knew myself) and for that, truly, I am grateful.

Last week as I was leaving for work, I looked over to see the broken snow blower ready to be picked up for repair. To be honest, it irritates me that we own a snow blower, or, more to the point, it irritates me that we need to own a snow blower. Furthermore, I’m not even sure that it’s broken. I have long suspected that my husband doesn’t really know how to use it. (Our neighbor, Mary, probably suspects this too, since she is usually the one to clear our driveway. I’m fairly certain her husband doesn’t know how to use it either!) Anyway, on that particular morning, the snow blower represented everything I find hard about living in South Dakota, primarily, that I’m cold All THE TIME. Usually I handle it better, but I think I was extra sensitive that morning because the night before a friend from Arkansas, suggested that Yankee living had made me “snippy.” I wanted to yell “I AM NOT A YANKEE!” through the computer, but I thought that sounded, you know, a little snippy. So instead, I calmly explained to him that Yankees live in New York or Boston or wherever. I am a Southerner living in the Midwest. And, aside from the 30 or 40 inches of snow we’ve had (and the fact that Midwesterners drink milk with, like, every meal (as opposed to iced tea,) they don’t like grits, cheese or otherwise and they think a toboggan is a sled) well, aside from that, there are actually very few differences between the two cultures.

So what does all this have to do with Kindermusik? I’m not really sure, actually, except to say that when I finally crawl out from the snow and the ice, when we start making music and I’m surrounded by my little ones---miraculous babies who are learning to crawl, joy-filled toddlers who are starting to talk and sing, and fearless pre-schoolers who are just these tiny, emerging little humans who will someday change the world, well, then, there in the midst of our weekly Kindermusik ritual , the cultural differences that are sometimes so huge in my head start to fade. Children don’t care that Miss Myra says “y’all” instead of “you guys”. Children don’t care that I don’t know what a hot dish is and that I’m not a Vikings fan. As a matter of fact, in an effort to reach out and bridge the cultural divide, I teach my Young Child students how to call the Hogs! (If you think about it, it’s quite musical…..we go high with a glissando, we crescendo, we are calling in our forte voice…you get the idea.) Anyway, children don’t care about our differences...they don’t even notice them...and perhaps neither should I.

So that same morning, as the children were leaving class, a 2 year old little boy turned back and, at the last minute, said, “I’ll miss you, Miss Myra!” I’m pretty sure it was all the trains that we played with that’s he’s going to miss, but I’ll take it. I love my job as a Kindermusik teacher. I love that “my” children run to give me hugs, and that they sit on my lap and dance with me. I’m pretty sure my friend from Arkansas would agree that I’ve never really been considered “cool”, but I think I’ve found my niche with the 2 year old crowd. Toddlers think I’m pretty hip, and I’ll tell you, it’s hard to be snippy when you have a job like that!