One of the lines in Langston Hughes’ poem “Theme From English B” is

“As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me—.”

The narrator in the poem is a college student referring to a professor. The reciprocity works the same way with our children. Sometimes as parents, we think we are the teachers, but I’m both blessed and humbled by the lessons I learn from the next generation.

In 1994, Amy Biehl was a 24-year-old American working in South Africa on Post-Apartheid Reconciliation efforts  initiated by Desmond Tutu and Nelson Mandela. The day before Amy was to return to the US, Amy offered to drive a stranded friend home to one of the townships.  The car came upon an intersection with a throng of protesters rioting over recent oppressive legislature. Three men dragged Amy from the car and stabbed her to death.

At the request of Tutu and Mandela, Bill Clinton contacted the Beihl family and asked if they would publicly forgive the murderers as they believed public reconciliation was the key to peace in  South Africa. Peter and Linda Biehl flew to Cape Town, forgave their daughters’ killers, and created The Amy Biehl Foundation as a legacy to  Amy’s service, compassion and commitment to peace.

In July of 2007, our oldest daughter Katie began studying in Cape Town through Marquette University. Katie worked at The Amy Biehl Foundation alongside two of Amy’s murderers, Ntebeko Peni and Easy Nofemela.

That fall, Tim and I visited Katie, and Ntebeko offered to give us a tour of the townships. As he drove, Katie sat in front, and Tim and I sat in back. As we approached the township, I flushed with anguish. I could not make eye contact with Ntebeko in the rear view mirror when he tried to address me.

While looking at our beautiful daughter Katie, a  red-headed version of young, blond Amy,  I listened to Ntebeko tell the story of Amy Biehl’s death. He spoke in the third person, repeatedly saying “they” as he described the actions of the murderers instead of “we.” Skin crawling, I wanted to blurt, “You did it! You killed her! Don’t say ‘they.'” Grasping my hands, I started to pray – for Amy, for the Biehls, for the people of South Africa, for the safety of my Katie.

Ntebeko stopped the car at the small Amy Biehl monument and described the scene of Amy’s death. I thought, You killed someone who is just like my daughter. I just wanted out of that car.

Later, I described my torment to Katie. She explained that Ntebeko and Easy tell the story of Amy Biehl’s death in third person as part of the process of self-reconciliation.

Katie said, “Mom, you have to forgive.” She truly did, and she still does.

So, Katie, I learn from you and from your brothers and sisters. Thank you. Keep teaching.

There are certain non-negotiables when raising young children.

#1    Love them – always.

#2    Read aloud to them – every night, no matter how tired, how crabby, or how many margaritas, glasses of wine, or beers – read and read some more.

To this day, I can recite the introduction to The Berenstain Bears Go to Kindergarten – “It had been a wonderful summer for the Bear family. They had gone swimming and boating at the lake . . .,” and I can tell you all about how the Boxcar Children ended up in the train car. 

When the kids begged for “one more chapter, please,” I would bargain.

“Sure, I’ll read another one if you scratch my back.” I sure miss the heaven of those little hands soothing my itchy Irish skin.

I said I’d post on this blog everyday in July, but I didn’t yesterday. I had a post all set to go, but like a kid who says the dog ate last night’s homework, I have a story.

I just returned from a Friday-Sunday women’s yoga retreat led by a friend at our cottage. Saturday at 8:30am, we lined up our yoga mats in the living room and participated in an incredible ninety minute journey through asanas and meditation. I was all in and finally let go of my worries. Are they too hot? Too cold? Is there enough toilet paper? Do they have enough blankets? Will the storm blow the roof off?

As we settled into heavenly morning Shavasana – my all-time favorite corpse pose of just lying on the floor – we heard a BOOM!! So relaxed into my breath, I didn’t budge. Others later said they thought a garbage truck had hit the house.

Next there was a BANG! BANG! BANG! on the door. I tiptoed through the mats to find my neighbor clad in a white bathrobe on the front porch. She sputtered, “Nancy, a huge tree just crushed a car in front of your house, and the power lines are down! There are sparks everywhere!”

Calm from Shavasana, I strolled down the driveway, violated the retreat’s cell phone hiatus, and called 911. Climbing over tree limbs, I snapped photos of my smashed brand-new Honda CRV in my brand-new unattached manner. Oh, the magic of yoga.

I was so grateful for two things: no one was in the car, and it was mine – not one of the guests.  As I nonchalantly documented every angle of the vehicle for my insurance agent, I noticed the downed power lines. When the Michiana Shores Volunteer Firetruck arrived, Mick the firefighter almost had a heart attack because I was so close to the wires.

Dear Reader, I could not post  yesterday because my car got crushed and the wifi was out.

Dear Professor, I  could not do my online homework because I had no internet.

 I hate to be one of those people with excuses. But sometimes – shit happens.

My father had all kinds of nicknames for my brothers and sisters and me, but I can’t remember Maureen, Timmy, and Susan’s:

Mike the Pike (a fish?)

Therese, Therese Call the Police (Hmmm)

Frank the Crank (he wasn’t)

Bob the Slob (he may have been)

Eileen the Queen (she is)

Nancy Fancy which morphed into Nanco Magansco (not many know this)

Dan the Man (this one stuck)

Tim and I also had our fair share of nicknames for our kids:

Katie became Katie Katie the Kindergarten Lady when she started school at St. Cajetan. She could have been a model for school uniforms in her plaid jumper, white round-collared blouse, and long, curly red hair. (So sweet.)

Bethy was a feisty two-year-old with no fear.  She’d jump off swimming pool diving boards over and over again as we’d race to catch her in the deep end. Her name evolved into Elizafish Anne Underwater Good Manners Giggler Aeesha Girl. (Hint, hint.)

Brendan became Brendoni Bologna with Mustard and Cheese Big Boy. (Sorry, Brendan.)

One day in mass, Brendan tugged on my sleeve, looked up and said, “Brendoni don’t like church.” (Succinct.)

Brigid became Brigie Lou Who Who is Not More Than Two because of her uncanny resemblance to the Grinch’s greeter on Christmas morning. When our pediatrician in Valpo met Brigid, Dr. Miller said, “I never thought I’d get to watch Cindy Lou Who grow up.” (So innocent.)

Kevin is Kevin – often expressed in tones similar to the parents and siblings in Home Alone.  Kevin posts his art on his website –  kevnscannell.com. That’s right. He deleted the “i.” (Makes sense.)

While raising young kids, I relied a great deal on prayer, and there were times when daily mass provided great peace and solace. I remember thinking that if I just went to mass, then maybe my kids would survive the pressures of adolescence. I also prayed that teenage perspectives would become clearer to me. If I said black, somebody would say white. Sometimes they said nothing. That was the worst.  

I regularly attended Catholic daily mass at Saint Paul’s because different weekdays were designated as mass days for different grades. I remember daydreaming about a life of pure service to the church free from forgotten permission slips and incomplete band practice logs. This alternative vocational calling peaked with Kevin’s toddler obsession with turning on and off every light switch as he was carried through the house. The simple navigation from the garage to the family room required immense patience.

I figured if I lived in a convent, I’d surely have less to sweat about unless those darn nuns got on my nerves. I thank God for deep breaths, funny friends, and my loving Mom who made me feel like I was not alone. I am also eternally grateful for my husband Tim, a constant supporter with a knack for remaining on the outskirts of every family crisis. I loved the familiar rhythm of mass and the scriptures, and I always returned home fortified with strength, perspective, and faith.

I still do.

Katie’s first word was “Mama.”

Bethy’s first statement was “Stop-it.” The girls were born fifteen months apart.

Brendan is twenty-eight months younger than Bethy, and by then, I had given up on my vision of having sugar-free kids. Brendan’s first declaration was “cookie.”

Brigid was born three years after Brendan. I have no idea what she first uttered.

Kevin was born forty-four months after Brigid. At two, Kevin sat in the child’s seat on the back of Tim’s bike, stretched out his arms with palms up toward Tim’s back and beckoned, “More candy, Tim.”

That boy didn’t even call Tim “daddy.” When Kevin would hear Tim’s car pull in the garage, he’d beeline though the kitchen with arms pumping and call out, “Tim’s home!”

It’s no mystery to figure out whose joy Kevin was expressing.

Our oldest children spent their toddler years in Chicago, a city where lucky parents can walk their kids in strollers to neighborhood stores. No car seats, just leisurely trips for milk and eggs while checking out the latest outfits on the concrete geese on the porches. We also had one of those beaked porch dwellers, and Bethy named her Kirsten. Concrete Kirsten had a variety of seasonal attire including a Chicago Bears jersey complete with quilted helmet. Festive geese clad as skiers, Valentines, leprechauns, Easter bunnies, graduates, gardeners, beach bums, fall harvesters, witches, pilgrims, turkeys, Santas, and elves served as reminders to celebrate the season. The kids and I loved them. Sometimes the sole reason for a stroller outing was to check out the geese.

The key to a successful grocery shop with kids is a nap. Havoc strikes if the kids are overtired. It also got dicey if I was hungry because then I’d want to buy more than we needed and couldn’t fit it in the bin beneath the stroller seats.

My most humbling shopping experience took place when I was pregnant with Brendan, and we took a stroll to County Fair on Western Avenue. Katie was three and Bethy was two, and I was probably starving. All went well until we entered the check out aisle, and my two little Irish lassies went nuts over a Snickers bar. I had somehow thought that my children were going to be health nuts and not eat candy. Insane, I know, but I was young and thought I could control what went in my kids’ mouths. I naively thought that they would cherish the robust flavor of whole grain wheat bread, crunchy granola, and homemade yogurt. I’m convinced it was my mother who exposed them to the magic of Nestle and Hershey.

Katie and Bethy’s pleading for the candy escalated into pall mall tantrums, and no cooing, bargaining, or pleading would reconcile their quest for the candy. I dumped the basket of fresh fruit and veggies, opened each chubby finger to release their grasps, and hightailed it out of there. It was not a pretty sight and certainly not my proudest parenting moment.

When I got home, I realized that once again we were going to have Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for dinner. At the time, I only cared about blood sugar fluctuations, not the dangers of processed, fake, powdered cheese.

A week later, I went to Chesterfield Federal Bank across the street from County Fair. This was back in the days when people went to banks. My dad was friends with the bank president, and as I was leaving the teller station, the executive greeted me and said, “Nancy, I saw you in County Fair with your children last week.”

I still cringe at the thought of it.

Who in the heck writes something valuable for thrity-one days in row? What was this person thinking? July is one heck-of-a long month? Who would want to read this stuff, anyway? Take a day off!

Okay.

           Last year, Tim and I bought a cottage a quarter mile from Lake Michigan and packed up twenty-one years years of life in Valparaiso with five children in a six bedroom home. At first, I carefully preserve Christmas ornaments made from macaroni and clothes pins, holiday decorations made in elementary school  – Halloween pumpkins, Thanksgiving turkeys, and Valentines made from faded white doilies and red and pink construction paper. As the keepsakes multiply right before my eyes, I question what to do with the crafts, letters, art awards, ribbons, and 5K trophies. What do we do with the fifteen hooded sweatshirts with “Scannell” printed on the back?  The varsity letters, the Mother’s Day cards, the father-daughter dance photos, Raffi CD’s, Disney DVD’s, school essays and report cards?  Theater playbills of Billy Elliot, The Phantom of the Opera, Les Miserables, West Side Story, Brighton Beach Memoirs, and the dozens of local shows where Brendan performed? Bedroom trash bins overflow with oddball items with mysterious origins, nearly used up toiletries, clay pots, seashell necklaces, and old teeth retainer holders. 

          I sort like a lunatic. The New Creation Men’s Shelter picks up the twin beds, and the Caring Place for abused women takes the gently used bedding along with four cartons of tampons. Don’t need those anymore. Fifteen truckloads go to Goodwill and St. Paul’s. Cords, plugs, chargers, keyboards, monitors – recycle old technology. Who needs Walkie Talkies anymore? Triathlon wetsuit is given to a friend. The tri decade belonged to the 40’s. Ironman aspirations have been replaced by yoga.

          Boxes and boxes and boxes of photos, some in albums, some with notes, dozens upon dozens in frames, some in folders, some black and white, some formal, some in clear cellophane class photos envelopes – smiling faces tempt me to sit and reminisce. Track, volleyball, soccer, basketball, student council, cross-country, speech, debate, so many team photos. Kevin smiles from my hip. Cub Scouts and Brownies – until we collectively decided there were just too many rules to be a scout.

          We are fifty-four. Where do we go from here? Build an Irish cottage on the lake property. Complete with black potbelly stove, Belleek china, Gaelic Cead Mile Failte sign (100.000 Welcomes) and green shamrock shutters. Extend the deck at the lake so everyone will fit. Refinish an antique child’s picnic bench for our granddaughter Eileen. Stock the garage with beach chairs, coolers, stroller, bicycles, Burley trailer, and paddle boards. 

          Buy beds, tents, sleeping bags, air mattresses, fresh sheets and new comforters. A variety of pillow styles – flat, fluffy, microfiber, and posturepedic.  Clear parking for a fleet of cars. Stock the lending library with fiction, self-help, philosophy, autobiography, biography, Zen, yoga, sports, history, magazines, and children’s books. Group the bicycle repair manuals for Danny, Bethy’s fiance. He’s a big cyclist.

          Grocery shop for the favorites. Bobby, our son-in-law, loves Oreos. Buy the mega box at Costco. Quinoa and brown rice for vegetarians Katie and Kevin. Cantaloupe, blackberries, blueberries, raspberries for antioxidant aware Brendan. Fresh vegetables for Brigid and Lia along with dark chocolate covered almonds. Eggs, English muffins, and a variety of jams and jellies. Ketchup for Bethy. She’s gotta have it.

          Fire pit with Adirondack chairs. Lake Michigan breezes provide the rhythm for the flicker of the flames. Fill a closet with sweatshirts for cooler nights – Illini, Marquette, Indiana Hoosiers, Northwestern, Seattle U, DePaul. Loyola, Valparaiso High School, Valparaiso University, Chicago White Sox, Black Hawks and Bears. All sizes, all thicknesses.

          Blankets for a chill.

          Wineglasses with and without stems, plastic for the beach, water bottles. Corona,  Miller Lite, Cabernet. Coffee pods for the Keurig. 

          Hats for the beach. Caps for the woods. Hawks, White Sox, Coach Scannell. Lost Dunes, Valparaiso University, Remember Your Roots from my sister Eileen. Safari hats and fishing hats. Sun hats and Kentucky Derby bonnets. Irish knit hats and fuzzy Eskimo warmers. Scarfs and neck warmers. Mittens and gloves, thick, thin, running, and gardening. Bug spray and sunscreen carefully placed in organized baskets. Beach towels rolled and ready.  

          Puzzles for Eileen, sand toys, tea sets. The toy kitchen stands ready for her latest concoction. Rocking chair, crib, high chair and children’s beach chairs, different sizes anticipating growth in toddlerhood.

          Clue, Monopoly, Password, Buzz Word, cards, Quelf, Know It or Blow It, Pictionary. Dice. Blocks. A train set. Lego wagon.

          Stack the firewood by the fireplace. Set out earthy, woodsy candles. What are the kids’ favorite scents?

          Plan a rock garden. Better yet, a children’s rock garden, so that Eileen can participate. Tim can build a child’s arbor and little bench for Eileen. We look for ideas on Pinterest. I buy a children’s gardening set complete with little toddler gloves and shovel. We’ll teach Eileen about seeds and flowers. Maybe plant a vegetable garden. She already loves the deer. 

            We miss the kids, but they are happy, and we are happy.

           We start our day at the lake. Tim takes the trail up to the Irish cottage in the woods to rake the leaves, so Eileen will be safe from ticks. I wash windows and witness the glowing emerging green penetrate the sunroom. I text Katie to see if Eileen can FaceTime with us from Milwaukee.

          Tim enters through the back door, and we make our usual Sunday early lunch of eggs and vegetables. Elton John sings “Our Song” through the surround sound system. Tim patiently listens to my constant inquiry about life’s meaning and our purpose. Where do we go from here? We anticipate visits, and we visit. We take classes. We explore. I run. We work, we learn, we read, and we write. We listen. We serve. We dream. We thank God. We stick together.

          And we tap dance when the kids arrive in the driveway.  Deep down, we know that all they need is love.

Yesterday, I misspelled Eleen’s name in my post. I mean Eileen.