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In case anyone was wondering- filling out financial forms for your college student is just like running through a field of daisies bathed in beautiful sunshine while wearing a twirly-swirly dress and eating chocolate.

Oh, wait- no, I was thinking of something else.  Financial forms are whatever is the exact opposite of the above.  Add in the whole privacy issue- where a parent has to have magical incantations performed on a night with a full moon before being allowed access to the records for which they are financial responsible- and your head starts to gently throb.

Last week I received an official  letter informing my daughter that she would not be eligible in 2014-2015 for their scholarship.  My daughter has a boatload of scholarships, I scrambled trying to figure out the issue- trying to figure out which scholarship this was and how much a money loss it meant.  The acronym listed on the letter rang no bells and made no sense.

I re-updated our FAFSA.  I re-checked and re-checked FAFSA.

Finally, today I reached someone who transferred me several places and reached a human woman willing to discuss my daughter's accounts and scholarships but only after I did a rain dance in my living room and answered her questions with the name Rumplestiltskins.

The answer?  The notice was for a scholarship my daughter had, in fact, never been awarded in the first place.

A sort of scholarship Naaa Na Na Naaa Naaa?



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I make our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with my wedding silver.  I put aside my cheap flatware years ago because I wanted beauty in our daily life.  I wanted my family to be my special guests at meals and I didn't want to have closets and cupboards full of baggage that never saw the light of day.

It was a mindset- intentional motherhood complete with a tiny bit of arrogance, as all good intentions tend to be.

This weekend I was cleaning out my bedroom closet and found this little book.



This book was the bread and butter of my earliest cozy childhood bedtime memories.  After my mother died my siblings and I discovered that the book had disappeared.  A sister moved heaven and earth looking for the publisher based on only her memory of the story and 10 years ago surprised us all with our own copies.  I immediately vowed to myself that I would share the book and thus share the grandmother with my children that they had never had the chance to meet.

And I did- for a while, until this happened.



and so I put the book away... just until my kiddos were a little older. Except now my 7 year old has almost finished reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix to himself.  My youngest, my 6 year old, still loves picture books but he's too old to develop that visceral feeling of love and comfort linked to a single bedtime story.

I've missed my window...

and that's what grandchildren are for.




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There exists almost nothing cuter than the Little Dragons class at our martial arts school.  Think of fifteen 4-6 year olds dressed in black gi imitating ninjas.   Then think of fifteen fuzzy kittens dressed in black gi imitating ninjas.

Same difference.

I was kneeling and belting my 6 year old prior to his class.  He was so adorable that I couldn't help myself; I leaned in and asked for a kiss.

An abashed quick look to see who among his fellow students might be watching- then, "Mom, dragons don't kiss, they spit fire."

Combining imagination with diplomacy, good save Son.



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My kids love to assign me reading.  I try to comply because I assign them quite a bit of reading.  Sometimes compliance is easy- my 7 year old comes to me begging me to read a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon.  Sometimes I just refuse- a daughter begged me over and over to read Les Misérable one summer; she insisted on the unabridged version.  I didn't refuse because of it's length but because I tend to become immersed in whatever I am reading and absorb the emotions of the characters. Happy summer-time fun mommy and Les Misérable? The title is warning enough.

This weekend the Les Misérable daughter handed me a copy of a short story by Wolfgang Borchert called, Die Küchenuhr.  Unwittingly I read it standing in the kitchen while waiting for water to boil for tea.  A few minutes later I was sobbing.  Yes sobbing.  The main character is approximately my oldest son's age and has discovered that he has lost both his home and his whole family to a bomb.  My daughter started apologizing, hugged me, and handed me a P.G. Wodehouse short story to read.

Literature as Kleenex.  The gesture made me laugh.

The problem is that it is February.  The blahest of the blah months.  This poem by Herman Hesse should be called February... This blogger (rather loosely) translated it and has a link to a youtube reading of the poem done by Herman Hesse.  I love this poem- and don't know why.

Im Nebel

Seltsam, im Nebel zu wandern!
Einsam is jeder Busch und Stein,
Kein Baum sieht den andern
Jeder is allein.

Voll von Freunden war mir die Welt,
Als noch mein Leben licht war;
Nun, da der Nebel fällt,
Ist keiner mehr sichtbar.

Wahrlich, keiner ist weise,
Der nicht das Dunkel kennt,
Das unentrinnbar und leise
Von allen ihn trennt.

Seltsam, im Nebel zu wandern!
Leben ist Einsamsein
Kein Mensch kennt den andern,
Jeder is allein.

How about this poem by Dickinson-

258

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons-
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes-

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us-
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are-

None may teach it-Any-
'Tis the Seal Despair-
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air-

When it comes, the Landscape listens-
Shadows-hold their breath-
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death-

These resonate this time of year... and make me think that all poets and/or poetry lovers should own full-spectrum lamps or at least round out their readings with poems like the following by Ogden Nash

The Duck

Behold the duck.
It does not cluck.
A cluck it lacks.
It quacks.
It is specially fond
Of a puddle or pond.
When it dines or sups,
It bottoms ups.



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