It’s been a blast these past two years being out on the playground with elementary age students. Ever since I took a very part time job (1.5 hours a day) as a recess paraprofessional I’ve been able to observe a ton of kid behavior.

Sure, I have two children of my own. But at ages 21 and 17, I’ve lost touch of what little kids want and need. I don’t know what’s popular in toys or video games. I’ve forgotten that kids cry at seemingly little things, such as if one gets “out” at four square. I spent so much energy working full time and driving my kids to and from sports and activities to fully appreciate how wonderful little people they were. I regret that.

To be sure, our family was and is very close and we enjoy each other’s company (to an extent, I’ll be honest). But this opportunity to really listen to and be able to watch children as a spectator has been cleansing to my soul.

Being a recess para, as it’s turned out, has enabled me to gain access to the mindsets of little ones.

We all don’t get to relive our days as parents. The patience and experience I’ve culled over the years has come in handy in dealing with these youngsters.

After all, who, besides grandparents, get to bestow their experience on young and impressionable minds?

Basically it comes down to teaching kids (or at least trying to) how to keep feelings out of their reactions.

Nothing quite exemplifies this concept as being first in line. Or even budging in line. Manners is of course a wonderful lesson to learn. No one should cut in line. But put it in perspective, I’ve told them. If you’re lining up to go to lunch, I’ve said, everyone is going to the same place, so there’s no need to worry about who is in front. You’ll all get your food, I’ll tell them.

Now, when it comes to standing in line for a ride at a carnival then yes, being first certainly counts. But when we’re all going to the same place, as in for the cafeteria where everyone will be getting the exact same item (which let’s be honest, is a barely warmed up pile of chicken nuggets) then it really dosen’t matter. (Cue in Bill Murray’s character in the classic Meatballs – “It just doesn’t matter!”).

Imagine my pride when, after four months of saying the same thing, I heard little Anthony saying to Mason that being first didn’t matter, as they were all going to the same place.

(Insert heart hands.)

One day I watched kids on the playground argue over a game of four square. This kid was out but others said he was in. During this heated discussion, which involved accusations and finger pointing, I said whoa, don’t take the game so seriously. Once you get out, get out. You’ll be back in the game again in no time. One young gentleman suggested that two out of the three other children in the square should decide if someone is out and let that be the rule.

Brilliant, I said.

Then there’s Depressed Kid (I always have names only I refer to them as). He always looks sad and is the last one in line to go inside. Always. He’s on the fringe of his class, sometimes playing with kids and sometimes playing alone. He gets hurt, whether it’s his feelings or physically.

I watched him throw a Wiffle ball with some boys the other day. I told him he had a good arm asked if he plays baseball. He didn’t answer, but the next time he got the ball he made sure I watch him throw it. I smiled, as it reminded me of when my kids were young and wanted to “show me” their new feat.

We’ve been buddies ever since.

Then you get the criers, the ones to whom something always happens. When a kid comes to me after they get hurt, unless it’s an injury to their head or an obvious broken bone, I have them take a rest on a bench and tell them to let me know if they’re still in pain when I come back to check on them. Nine out of ten times I look over and they’re already back playing with their friends.

Speaking of tears, girls in the lower grades will come crying to me saying another girl said something mean. One little gal broke down the other day when her friend told her she couldn’t go to her house over the weekend because she asked someone else. Other girls had surrounded her and I pulled them all close. 

I encircled five of them; ten watery eyes looking up at me. “You need your girlfriends,” I told them. “We girls need to stick together.”

I’ve found not talking down to kids helps. Sure there’s some ones who never seem to get the basic tenets of life. But overall if you talk to them logically, most seem to relate.

For instance, a first grade girl came up to me once and said a boy said something mean to her. I asked her to walk me over to the culprit and as I was doing so told her that this won’t be the last time a boy says something mean to her.

“If you cried every time a boy said something mean to you, you’d be crying every day,” I said.

I added that there are times when the best way to handle situations such as this is to walk away and not give any kind of reaction.

I’m not a man-hater so on the flip side, I’ve told boys that girls can be mean, as well. One situation involved a boy’s ball that went towards a group of girls. Instead of tossing the ball back to the boy one gal kicked it the opposite way.

“Why’d ya have to do that?” he yelled. I went up to him and said some girls are just not nice. I have a son, so I should know.

The list could go on but each day I’m reminded not only of the fragility of grade schoolers but their strength and resilience. I

I’m just grateful if I get to play a small part in their upbringing.

This election is making me sick – physically. I haven’t been able to eat since Monday and it’s now almost Friday.

When my blood begins to really boil, I have to turn off the news and not look at social media.

That’s when I know I have to practice love.

As my pastor says, Godly love isn’t a feeling. It’s an action.

It’s a response to the commandment to love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind as well as loving your neighbor as yourself.

Too often I get caught up in the belief that if I don’t love someone, or even like them, then they don’t deserve my attention.

Then I’ll remember to pray for an extended family member who I don’t like, or wave to a neighbor who is on my nerves. Or I’ll give my husband a neck rub even when I’m tired. These have all been ways I’ve forced myself to put love into action.

Is it work? Heck yeah.

When I’m truly worried about something, my first response is to become lethargic. I sit and stew, and spend countless, meaningless hours scrolling through my phone.

But today, at my lowest, I compelled myself to wave to a neighbor of mine who constantly gets on my nerves. Later, I got in my car and purchased a sympathy card for a friend who recently lost her mother. I had already responded to her post on FB with my condolences, but thought how a message, written in my handwriting, may bring additional comfort to her.

Later, I texted a friend whose political leanings are vastly different than mine, and to whom I haven’t been in contact with since Tuesday. It seemed as though we had been avoiding each other due to the uncertainty of the election. All I wrote was that I was thinking about her and asked how she was doing.

I felt good and energized that I reached out to people in a positive way instead of moping around my house.

Love, put into action.

My driving habits have evolved over the years. I no longer tailgate and I don’t speed.

But one thing hasn’t changed.

I don’t look at cars next to me.

But when I do, the person is always – and I mean always – touching or picking their nose.

Long ago I stopped looking at traffic driving by. I especially don’t look to my left or right at a stop light. I mean, forget about checking phones – people have time to do a quick pick.

Do I take notice of vehicles around me as a safety precaution? Of course. But the people inside? Rarely.

Friends and neighbors tell me all the time that they see me at a stoplight and wave but I don’t see them.

My husband, on the other hand, is a rubbernecker if there ever was one. He always has to see who the “dumbass” is that committed the heinous act of either going too slow, or cut him off, or has a bumper sticker he doesn’t like.

A guy I used to work with used to look at every car he passed on the way to and from work to see if the driver was cute (girls only). I got a ride home from him once. Never happened again. He wanted me to duck down each time he approached a car.

Every once in a while I forget myself, such as today.

And BAM!

There it is – the finger/hand/nose thing.

I am disgusted yet oddly triumphant, as I don a self-satisfied smug smile on my face, knowing I am once again vindicated in my conviction.

Love: Dreaming about shopping.

Hate: Waking up and not being able to bring back all the stuff I bought.

As my kids get older, I appreciate whatever stage they’re currently in.

Gone are the days of diapers and tantrums (THOUSANDS of diapers; few tantrums), the checking of schoolwork, and taxiing them to their activities and friends’ houses.

I wouldn’t give any of it up, as I’ve learned so much about life through watching my kids grow.

And now that they’re older, I’ve looked forward to lending a friendly ear or advice instead of admonishment.

But every once in a while a situation arises and I realize I still have more work as a parent to do.

Take an evening last week.

Something small escalated into something big and before we knew it my husband and son were going at it. Tried as I did to stay calm, I got sucked into the fray, as well.

Next thing we knew, our son took off, loudly announcing he’d spend the night in his truck.

After cooling off, I texted and told him to come home; that I was sorry for my part of the argument.

His text back was a yeah-ok type of reply.

My blood began to boil again, but instead I paused.

Then a light turned on.

My husband and I have taught our kids to say please and thank you. We’ve taught them to respect teachers, coaches, their grandparents, and wait staff. But some we’ve never really taught them to say I’m sorry or about forgiveness.

I measured my words carefully in my next response. I texted back that I know he’s a great kid but that he needs to learn forgiveness; that forgiveness is a big part of life. I added that I’m human and I know I’m not perfect.

After a few minutes, a reply came. I could tell my words had softened my son.

He agreed that no one was perfect and that he’d be coming home.

I decided not to confront him at the door and rehash the evening’s events. Instead, I stayed in my room and went to sleep.

The text exchange must have sparked something, however, because the last five days have been wonderful.

For instance, the very next day, a snowstorm blew in. I came home from work and found our son, also home from a long day at work, shoveling our driveway – without even being asked!

He protested, but I said I’d help him. Together, we cleared it in no time, never mentioning the previous night’s issue.

Now, to work on our 17-year-old daughter, who desperately needs to grasp the same concept…

It’s 1992. My friend Lisa and I are downtown Minneapolis for a night out. We pull our car into a lot and pay the obligatory $7 fee. It’s winter and we exit the car onto snow-packed asphalt.

Though it’s 10-degrees outside (and that’s on a warm night) we shed our coats, clad in nothing but tight jeans and a little shirt.

With a “Ready – one, two, three!” we jump out of the car and race towards the bar.

There’s a line, however, so we must wait outside.

Teeth chattering and goose bumps on our arms, we stomp our feet back and forth until we are mercifully admitted inside.

For a few drunken hours, life (and the men who inhabit it) is good.

Then comes closing time. We have to venture back outside to an ice-cold vehicle.

When I met my then-boyfriend (now-husband) he would always tell me to dress sensibly, particularly in boots and a hat.

I hadn’t worn boots nor a winter hat since grade school, I told him.

Fast forward a decade or so.

Once our son started playing hockey, my mindset changed.

I started purchasing sweatshirts, gloves, boots (from Sorel, naturally) and a cute team hat.

I mean, I discovered if my head was covered I was infinitely warmer.

Years later I’d end up investing in a pair of lined snow pants.

Where have these clothes been all my life? I thought.

It probably wouldn’t hold up in court, but I’m slightly obsessive compulsive, as now, once there’s even a slight breeze, I put on a hat.

“It’s 60-degrees outside and you’re wearing a hat!” my husband and kids chide me.

And after  I purchased my first Love Your Melon hat, I started to get compliments.

Because hats cover my immense forehead (and the subsequent lines that are on it) I’ve been told I look like I’m 15. (True, the one person who said it was at a bar and also true had imbibed quite a few, but a compliment is a compliment, right?)

This morning, there was a mix of light snow and rain. Everyone on my FB neighborhood groups were up in arms.

Perhaps years ago I would have been one of those people.

But it happens every year. Or at least it has for the past 50 years of my life here in Minnesota. I no longer dread the season. I’m 50 and I get hot. I get cold, also, but I’ve learned it’s easier to put on layers instead of take them off.

I’ve come a long way from wearing my short, tight clothes running to and from my car with no coat on.

Besides, with my body now, wearing more layers isn’t such a bad thing.

Chips. That’s the best part of football.

I love any excuse for a gathering with friends, food being only part of the excitement.

Except football. For me, that’s all there is.

Baseball and hockey – now are two sports I get behind. There’s seriously nothing better than sitting in the bleachers or arena, beer in hand, nachos (with jalapenos, of course) on lap.

I get the appeal of football. The strategy and the testosterone. I get men like to hit and tackle each other. I mean, when I’m supervising grade school-age kids at recess there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t witness boys wrestling with one another. And it’s rarely if ever bullying – boys just have it in them to get into scuffles.

However, I’ve never taken the time, in all my 50 years, to really learn the rules of football. I’ve been to a few professional games (and man were they FUN) and of course attended all of my high school ones – more to watch all the guys on the field (who of course didn’t even know my name). I even learned how to throw a perfect spiral, thanks to my brother who played.

Still, I fully understand the hype.    

Yes, I believe one can appreciate something without completely buying into it.

I mean, I support it infinitely more than that other thing the rest of the world calls football – soccer, is it?

After all, football is American. North American. Specifically, United States of America(n).

I swear I write the next Great American Blockbuster in my dreams at least once a month.

When I first wake up it all makes sense and the scenes fit together perfectly.

As the fog starts to lift, however, I start to work out the deets and realize it’d be the stupidest movie ever.

As the temperature starts to cool, I find myself wistful for days I didn’t appreciate at the time. Nor did I think I would yearn for them decades later.

My college years.

Nowadays, four years go by lickety-split. But in college, each year seems to be frozen in time, marked by different lovers, classes, and milestones (turning 21!).

An entire feeling sticks with me for a couple of weeks, usually around the end of September and into early October, when the skies turn grey and I don my beloved trench coats.

As the maple trees start to turn bright red, yellow, and orange, I’m reminded of my college campus. I smile as I picture myself heading to class, leaves crunching under my feet as I hoof it across the University of Minnesota’s massive East Bank with nothing but a clunky Walkman as my companion.

The scene in St Elmo’s Fire captures my feeling best, I think. It’s when Rob Lowe’s character, Billy, returns to college and, for one afternoon, plays football with his college sweatshirt-clad fraternity brothers on the university lawn. He even considers getting a job on campus, wanting to put off that leap into adulthood a little longer.

A friend of mine had a friend like that. I didn’t know the gal well enough to ask but I’m convinced she got a job at the “U” just to keep that nostalgic feeling with her.

I can’t totally blame her. What I’d give to go back for a few days and retake the art history and literature courses of which I often overslept. I’d proudly sit in the front row like one of those “adult learners” I previously so detested, asking questions long after class time was up.

My yearning for the promise and hope that only the start a new college school year provided me dissipates as the snowflakes start to come down.

What gets me through winter, after the Christmas and New Year’s festivities have passed, is the anticipation of spring,

Springtime was a whole new ballgame in college; literally for me and my best friend, as we were always part of an intramural softball league. But what memories really come back are those of boys. They were EVERYWHERE. My friend Stacy used to say you could just smell the sex in the air. And as the snow thawed so did my inhibitions. My skirts got shorter and my taste for beer grew larger with every frat party I attended.

Alas, I digress. For at least for another week or so, this October weather has me thinking textbooks and tests.

I’ve heard some people cringe at the words “moist” and “panties.”  Neither one particularly bothers me. Who’d want to eat a dry and crumbly cake? And I’d rather whisper to my husband to take off my panties instead of underwear. I mean, grandmas wear underwear. Cute young ladies wear panties…

Consequently, If someone really wants to get under my skin, just repeat the buzz words and phrases of the last several months.

Virtual.

I love live theater – everything from meeting out with friends for dinner before the show to a drink afterwards to discuss and dish about the actors.

Last spring, I had five musicals and plays scheduled on my calendar. I also had plans for events put on by the historical society as well as craft shows and outdoor concerts.

But since March, their hands, feet, and voices have been stymied, at least to a live audience.

At first, I was overwhelmed by the amount of free theater and museums that sprang up online. I enjoyed and teared up at offerings from both local and nationwide artists. I forewent ticket reimbursements for shows that were cancelled in order to support the theaters and performers.

But I’ve tired of virtual life. Like this whole lockdown and “masking up,” it’s gone on too long.

It hasn’t been the actors or theater owners’ choice to close for the time being; I realize that. I’d bet my life, however, that an overwhelmingly amount of the those involved in the arts vote Democrat. They vote the very same people in office as the ones who shut down their places of business, rendering their performances, and thus their livelihoods, moot.

What’s even more baffling are the outdoor activities. 5Ks and music in parks have been “rescheduled for next year.”

Just like church, there’s something magical about being among a group of people experiencing what’s going on in front of them at the same time.

If you can’t have me in person, I’ll save my money, thank you.

Social Distancing.

In what world does it make sense that I can stand by someone while grabbing a gallon of milk, all the white touching the same door to the refrigerator yet have to stand six feet apart of them in line to pay for said milk? And don’t get me started on us both using the stylus pen to sign for our purchases..

Elementary kids at our schools are only allowed to spend recess with the 23 kids in their same class yet must distance themselves 6 feet apart AND put on their masks when re-entering the building and their classrooms with those same kids?

I’m not saying all teachers independently vote left but teacher unions overwhelmingly vote blue. I live in a blue state with a Democrat governor, so I know this only too well.  

New Normal.

Masks. No handshakes or birthday parties. No hugs given from teachers to kids. I refuse to accept our country’s citizens will be forced to wear face coverings out in public for the rest of eternity.

I want my live theater fix. I want to meet my parents and brother’s family out for dinner without having to be seated at two tables. I want to take my daughter to a movie and gorge on Coke and popcorn. I want to smile at the person holding the door open for me at the convenience store.

I’ve thought about expressing these feelings to my favorite theaters and museums. Tell them that I abhor all of the mask and social distancing mandates as well as the events now rendered virtual. Tell them that I vote conservative yet am indeed well-educated, well-read, and have spent my well-earned money to attend their musicals, shows, and events.

Until things change, I’ll stick with my own “new normal.”

This includes not spending my money on parking for plays in the city or food at my favorite trendy restaurants. It includes playing games and fixing puzzles at home and going fishing. As it is, I’ve never  read more books in a year and my list of must-reads is a mile long.

No, make that a 5K long.