Bad Moms

bad-moms-trailer-tease-03-160503_354f27e1f5010db26fc76e6faefdda9c.today-inline-largeI have many women friends who are highly accomplished professionals. They are lawyers, doctors, engineers, educators. They have risen through the ranks in their respective careers. They have made important decisions as part of their duties, sometimes involving life and death situations. They are unafraid of hard work and challenging problems. They stride through life with confidence. It is only when they have accepted the role of mother that they falter just a bit. To a woman they each admit that parenting is the hardest job that they have ever held.

The demands of being a mom begin with the first signs of pregnancy. A woman’s body begins to change to accommodate the life growing within. For me the first sign that something was happening was the most extreme heartburn that I have ever experienced. Not long after those first symptoms I was afflicted with morning sickness, a general feeling that I was going to puke my guts out. The sight of certain foods made me even more ill. My high level of energy seemed to become diminished with each passing week. I never strayed far from bathrooms because my bladder seemed to be continually full. Different body parts became sore and I slowly but surely grew to feel like a beached whale. My fingers and ankles swelled to three times their normal size and I developed a limp with my left leg because the baby was lying on a nerve. In spite of all of the aches in my body I was always delighted whenever I felt the flutters and kicks that told me that I was carrying a life inside my body.

I had my children when I was in my twenties. I was thin and wiry back then, a healthy woman who had no problems either carrying my babies or birthing them. So many women are not nearly as fortunate. They have to spend weeks immobilized by bed rest. They require the surgery of a Caesarian section rather than a more natural delivery. By the time that their children are born they themselves are in need of recovery time but instead they are thrown into the whirlwind of routines required to care for an infant. They must awaken for feedings even in the middle of the night. There is little rest. Even with help the tasks of mothering are often daunting in the first weeks and months of a newborn’s life. So many things can and sometimes do go wrong. The mother experiences a roller coaster of emotions, often caused by hormonal imbalances that render her unable to maintain control. It is the best of times and the worst of times.

Those early days when mother and child bond are forever etched in a mom’s memory. No matter how many years pass she always recalls the unmitigated happiness of holding her tiny baby. Those sleep deprived nights become beautiful moments. The chores that were at first exhausting evolve into a routine, her way of life. She begins to react to the demands of her children with love. It is what a mother does. She learns how to snatch a bit of rest here and there in between the caring and the teaching and the loving. She juggles hundreds of tasks in a single day but still worries that she may not be doing enough. Her children become the driving force of her life and even as they become more able to fend for themselves she thinks of them constantly and always will.

The years go by at breakneck speed. The first day of school comes all too soon. The child begins to slowly but surely push away to gain independence. All moms want this for their children but still feel twinges of regret that their roles and relationships are ever changing. They lie awake at night wondering if their actions are building strong and healthy children who will be able to navigate the world. They chastise themselves for the wrongs that they believe they have inflicted. They are their own worst critics.

It is little wonder that the summer comedy hit Bad Moms is resonating so well with mothers across the country. Entire theaters are filled with women laughing hysterically and relating to so many of the over the top jokes. I went to see the film last week with a group of twenty ladies of all different ages and each of us found moments in the movie that spoke to us. The truth is that we are often judged the most in our roles as moms. Society in all eras has inflicted its mores and customs on mothers, often resulting in making them feel inadequate to the task. The truth is that human beings cannot be perfect all of the time. None of us have the fortitude to be without flaws and somehow when we exhibit them in our parenting they are magnified.

Bad Moms points to our tendencies to compare ourselves to others and to standards that may actually make us feel uncomfortable. It also draws back the curtain on the realities that each of us struggles to overcome. Our children are not automatons. They are individuals just as are we. As mothers we have to understand when it is right to curb our ambitions both for them and for ourselves. We have to know when it is okay to pamper ourselves and when we must be available for our children. Raising children is a continual balancing act that requires wisdom and sacrifice but not a total surrender of ourselves.

When I was a young mother life was admittedly a bit simpler. I thought nothing of allowing my children to enjoy free range time around the neighborhood. Nobody was going to judge me for telling them to play outside on a hot summer day. I did not feel any pressure to entertain them or to enroll them in a never ending schedule of activities. I gave them swim lessons and took them to the park. They learned how to roller skate and ride bicycles. When they expressed an interest in dance I found a teacher for them. I purchased art materials and let them experiment. They ran around in their bare feet and often had dirt on their faces. If anyone was thinking ill of me for being lax they never mentioned it. My biggest concern was always that I might be spending too much time on my teaching job. I worried that my girls might think that I cared more for my students. All in all I felt comfortable that I was doing my best but it involved far less than the requirements that I see being placed on today’s young mothers. Bad Moms addressed the pressures that are now overwhelming so many women who are striving to give their children the best possible environment. Sometimes today’s mothers are losing themselves in the process.

Parenting is admittedly difficult. Those of us who agree to accept such a responsibility would do well to support one another rather than constantly critique. We all want our children to do well and that means that we should suspend our judgements and competitive spirits so that we might work together. We don’t all have to rise before dawn to run around the neighborhood track so that we might remain thin. Sometimes that extra hour of sleep does way more for our well being. Our meals don’t have to be ready for the Food Network. Sometimes microwaving some chicken nuggets gives us more time to sit and talk with our kids. If the house is strewn with toys and laundry we can make a game of quickly placing everything into neater piles. Our children do not need to have the latest phone or the most stylish shoes but they do need us. Moms have enough to worry about without including the insignificant in the agenda.

I am more proud of being a mother than anything else that I have ever done. I know without anyone telling me that I was as imperfect in that role as anyone who has come before or after me. I woke up each morning and did my very best. I had to learn how to forgive myself for all of the mistakes. My girls are now in their forties and I am still their mom. These days I have to remind myself that my new job is to support them as they raise their own children rather than to tell them how to do things. They are incredible mothers so I guess I did something right although I’m not sure that I should take full credit. The reality is that all of us are the product of our mothers, our fathers, our extended family members, our teachers, our churches, our entire histories. We are all in the game of life together. Bad Moms reminds us to focus on the things that truly make our families strong.

The Making of a President

Mount RushmoreI have often wondered what convinces an individual to believe that he or she is worthy of being President of the United States. I’ve read stories about former presidents like Lyndon Baines Johnson that tell of mothers or grandmothers predicting greatness at the time of birth. I just finished a biography of Bill Clinton which suggested that he had wanted to be President from the time that he was young and that he had convinced his friends and family that it would happen long before he was even old enough to run for office. Others, like George Washington, appear to have reluctantly taken on the job more from a sense of duty than a desire for power. Regardless of what motivates the individuals who have sought the presidency, I have to ask what makes them feel that leading our powerful nation is within the realm of their skill sets.

Most recently the Republican party fielded seventeen potential candidates. Several among them, including the eventual nominee, were seemingly ludicrous, reaching far beyond their abilities and yet each firmly believed that he/she was ready to handle the demands. The Democrats only had two choices, mostly out of deference to the woman that they felt needed to be given her due, despite the fact that her track record in public life is not nearly as outstanding as the party would like us to believe. The level of confidence that I see among political candidates is stunning and as an educator, mother and grandmother I would love to know how to inculcate such qualities of self worth in the many truly outstanding young people that I know. 

I found a hint as to what differentiates those who win the ultimate prize and those who fall by the wayside in a biography of Bill Clinton that I recently read. During his high school years young Bill was often bested by a young man who seemed more likely to be destined for greatness. In contest after contest he beat Bill and was well on his way to a political career long before Bill had won a single office. Along the way this man decided to drop out of contention. He quite simply disliked the price that he and his family would have to pay to rise through the ranks. He abhorred the loss of privacy and the compromising of his principles that seemed to be required in the political world. He left politics and instead rose to prominence in the private sector. Bill on the other hand molded his entire existence around an unwavering desire to one day be President. Virtually every choice that he made in life was predicated on the effect that it might have on his political career.

Right now it’s quite popular in educational circles to speak of the importance of grit in determining success in any endeavor. The people who eventually reach their goals are those so determined to make it that they are unwilling to allow any obstacles to get in their way. Perhaps it is resolve that is the ultimate factor in whether or not someone makes it to the top. If so, how might those of us who work with children teach them how to work hard and stay focused on the tasks that will help them to achieve? Are such skills innate or is it possible to cultivate them? For that matter do we even want to create hard driven adults or is it best to only encourage our young to follow their hearts wherever they may lead?

My father was somewhat of a perfectionist. I often believe that I inherited my own tendencies in that regard from him. I am admittedly a high energy, competitive individual. I want to be the best that I might possibly be at everything that I try. I am more than willing to put in the heavy lifting to get where I want to be. I once spent an entire summer perfecting a baton twirling routine with bumps and lumps on my head as proof of my work ethic. I am one of those people who will get somewhere early and be the last to leave to prove my mettle. Still when the higher ranks of the educational world were within my grasp I flinched. My school district selected me to be one of their leaders and was even willing to pay for the education and certifications that I needed. I ultimately chose a different path because much like the young man who had been Bill Clinton’s early nemesis I decided that I did not feel comfortable at the top. It felt too distant from the heart of schools, too removed from the students. I continued in a role that better suited my disposition, that of a facilitator, a right hand assistant.

One of my all time favorite professors taught a Public Administration course that I took when earning my Masters degree. He had spent years working on important projects on the Beltway in Washington D.C. He insisted that most of the policies that affect us are created by unknown people who work in the shadows of the many agencies that dominate our nation’s capitol. They are lifetime bureaucrats who are never elected and rarely leave even when a new party takes over. They know more about how things work in our government than those for whom we vote. They are the unseen drones who wield power over us without our ever realizing that they even exist.

Since first hearing about the worker bees who do the heavy lifting to keep our nation running I have found myself wondering if it is possible that they are indeed the most powerful, the Rasputins among us, the handlers who create the public faces of our leaders. If that is the case then maybe those who run for the highest offices have learned along the way that all they really need is a crew of smart and trusted associates to help them. They understand that they need not stand all alone in running a country or a state or a business. They do not become candidates for President because they believe that they have all of the answers but because they know which people will help them to gather the information that they need. That is a very different skill set indeed than the one that we often imagine is needed. It requires the mind of a manager, someone who has a knack for seeing the big picture and all of its working parts, someone who knows how to motivate people and stay on top of things. When viewed from this angle, it becomes apparent that the ingredients for the making of a president are far more complex than a few simple character traits.

The truth is that very few of us ever aspire to the job of leading a country. For those who do, the requirements seem to begin with a certain level of desire and confidence. Unswerving grit helps but matters little without intellect and managerial skills. Quite frankly someone without at least a touch of charisma may never achieve the loyal following of supporters needed to rise to the top. Finally the person must be willing to pay the high cost of public exposure which always exacts its incredible price. I suspect that in the end few of us would want such a life either for ourselves or for our children. Still there is nothing wrong with knowing how to encourage those very special youngsters who somehow have the strength of mind and body to endure the rigors of taking their exceptional abilities all the way to the top. A good parent or teacher sees the potential of greatness and shows the child how to develop it to the utmost. We never really know from whence the next Abraham Lincoln may come. He or she may be crawling across a room right now in preparation for one day leading us into the future.

  

Higher Ground

4-ways-to-prevent-office-bulliesI’ve observed bullying for most of my life. I was once the victim of bullying, a situation that I nipped in the bud by ignoring my antagonist whom I considered to be sadly damaged. I successfully defended a classmate who was the brunt of ugly jokes and taunts. As an educator I witnessed incidents of cruelty that were horrific. I did my best to teach both my children and my students the importance of living by a moral code imbued with sensitivity, integrity and kindness. When necessary I entered the fray to protect those who had become emotionally broken from the barrage of insults that they had experienced. Sadly I have noticed that over time the game of bullying has only seemed to grow stronger and more common as social media provides a powerful conduit for harming individuals with words and ideas.

Bullying appears to have evolved into a worldwide blood sport these days. We have a presidential candidate who is lauded by his supporters as a kind of warrior because of his fearlessness in accusing an opponent’s father of being somehow associated with an assassin or remarking on the physical flaws of women that he finds threatening. He hurls insults at entire religions and countries. Instead of admonishing and spurning him, large groups of people provide him with attention and adulation as though his lack of manners is a sign of courage rather than crudeness. What are our children to think?

We have countless commercials in which people quite subtly demean others in an attempt at humor. Why do we find it funny when an individual pokes fun at a friend’s command of grammar? What is so wonderful about a woman rolling her eyeballs at a husband being portrayed as a total moron? Why do we laugh when we know we should instead feel uncomfortable?

Facebook and Twitter abound with ugly derisive posts. We encourage bad behavior by sharing and retweeting comments that might once have been considered too rude to repeat. We say that we abhor bullying of any kind and yet we do little to stop the ceaseless chatter that demoralizes and demonizes individuals and groups alike. In today’s world none of us are immune from unwanted and often unsolicited hatefulness. It is little wonder that so many people are choosing to tune out.

Prince William and Princess Kate are attempting to vanguard a movement to bring attention to the horrific effects of bullying. Their campaign reminds us of the often unfair and sordid gossip that swirled around Princess Diana, William’s mother. The poor woman was hounded by cameras and invasions of her privacy. Rumors smothered her attempts to live normally. In the end she died in a tragic accident as she attempted to evade her stalkers. It might be said that she was the victim of a form of salacious and relentless bullying from a public all too hungry to learn her dirty little secrets.

I have generally found that bullies are quite insecure. While they may appear to exude confidence the truth is that they have a need to exert power over others to assuage their own fears. When stripped of their boorish behaviors they often have very little to offer. They are generally very unhappy people and many times are the product of abusive parenting practices. They struggle physically, academically and emotionally. Their bravado masks the emptiness that they feel. They need to dominate others so that they might may pretend to be powerful. They become particularly happy whenever they attract a following for their contemptible behaviors. Like the boorish dictators that they are, they mistake fear for respect. In most cases the quickest way to shut them down is to leave them alone and isolated, a tactic that is all too many times easier said than done.

Back in high school I ran for student body secretary. One morning I had a minor skirmish with a fairly well known bully. I stood at the entrance of my school handing classmates campaign material and requesting votes. Most people politely acknowledged my greeting but one fellow decided to speak his mind. He tore the paper that I had given him in half, spat on it, let it fall to the floor and then crushed it with his shoe. He looked me in the eye and proclaimed that nobody liked me and that I espoused a special hatred in him. He told me that I was so unattractive that it was hard for him to even look at me. As a parting shot he gave me directions as to where he thought I should go.

I suppose that he wanted me to cry or react in some manner but I was determined not to give him the satisfaction. The only thought that I had was a deep sense of sadness that his life was so bereft that he found some sense of joy in putting me down when I barely knew him. His actions only registered in my mind because they seemed so overblown and indicative of an individual who was headed nowhere in life. I’ve always remembered that occasion because I wanted to understand what kind of poison might have created someone so hateful. His cruelty was stunning to me because it said more about him than it did about me.

We all have a vested interest in helping not only those who are bullied but the bullies as well. Our children need counseling in how best to handle such negative situations but we also must consider how to help those whose actions are so obviously toxic. We can begin teaching our kids by modeling healthy behaviors ourselves. We have to speak out against anyone who wrongly uses words and actions to demean or harm. We must show our young that it sometimes requires courage to stand up for what is right. We have to be careful that in defending we do not sink into the morass. We can demonstrate how to debate with facts and ideas rather than insults.

There have been bullies throughout history. We have yet to find a sure fire way of ridding ourselves of them. Sometimes the answer is as simple as ignoring them. Other times we have to provide them with counseling and help. When all else fails figuratively bloodying their noses is our final option. Mostly though the most effective method for dealing with bullies involves being assured within ourselves. When we have confidence nobody can touch us. Feeling good about who we are is the first line of defense against bullies. Our goal for stopping the current trend toward ugliness should be to show our children how to rise to higher ground. When we provide them with a strong moral compass they will be ready to overcome any taunts that come their way and they will do so with the strength and conviction that we have imbued in them.

Just Breathe

764562-Kid-1411175258-363-640x480My fourth grade school year was traumatic in more ways than one. My father had died the summer before and our family was in a state of grief and uncertainty. We had returned to a familiar neighborhood after Daddy was killed in the hope that being back among good friends would help us to heal. Our home was a shell of the one that we had inhabited with my father. Without his engineering income we had to downsize considerably but ours was a sound house and the neighbors were warm and welcoming. I reenrolled in Mt. Carmel Elementary School and was looking forward to being united with the classmates that I had known before we moved in my third grade year. It was comforting to be back in a place that had heretofore been quite happy for me. When I learned on the first day of school that I was in Sister B’s class I had little idea that my emotional rollercoaster would become even more torturous.

Sister B was one of those old school Catholic nuns about whom legends and comedy routines abound. She thought of verbal and physical punishments as ways to build lasting character in young boys and girls. Those of us subjected to her classroom management style thought differently. It took no more than a few weeks in her presence for me to become utterly terrified, so much so that I was afraid to even speak of my fears to my mother. That environment was totally the wrong place to be for someone already scarred by the death of a parent. It was so hellish in my mind that I somehow began to believe that I had unconsciously and unknowingly done something terrible for which I was being punished. Why else would I have to endure a year with this tyrant, I wondered? I adapted each day by telling myself to just breathe.

I was actually one of the students that Sister B most cherished. For a very long time I was not the object of her wrath. She loved me so much that she became good friends with my mother. She often gave me letters of encouragement and special religious gifts. I should have returned her affection but I have always been a social justice warrior and I witnessed her unkindnesses to my fellow students more often than not. I don’t know if she just didn’t realize the impact of her humiliations but I did. With no place to turn, I seethed inside each time one of my classmates was harmed. I found solace in escaping to a place in my mind where all I had to do was just breathe.

Sister B once created a bulletin board that featured rockets advancing to the moon. On the side of each rocket she had written the name of a student and the grade that the individual had made on a test. Mine was proudly standing on the lunar surface with a one hundred indicating my success. Down at the very bottom were the spacecraft of less fortunate souls whose names were on display as failures with their rockets lying broken in half. Even as a nine year old I knew that it was utterly wrong to bring such negative attention to those who had not done so well with their academics. I felt embarrassed that I had to sit near the bulletin board filled with so much venom and hurtfulness.

I listened to the verbal taunts of my teacher until even I felt broken. I lived in fear that I might one day invoke her ire and become the focus of her anger. I hardly slept at night and thought myself terrible for thinking badly of a religious person. I was torn between hating her and wanting to forgive her. Since there were no counselors back in those days I suffered in silence often reminding myself to just breathe whenever the atmosphere became unbearable. Eventually things turned dark even for me, one of her pets.

We were in the middle of music class one afternoon when my bladder told me that it needed to be emptied quickly. I hated to interrupt Sister when she was so engrossed in a lesson but I felt that I had no choice. I raised my hand and calmly asked to be excused but my request was instantly denied. I crossed my legs and hoped for the best but as the minutes ticked by the pain that I felt became almost unbearable. I repeated my request several more times, being refused over and over again even as I began to wiggle in my seat to keep from having an accident. I was on the verge of tears and getting dirtier and dirtier looks from the teacher as I realized that I was not going to be able to hold back for much longer. I made one final attempt to be released to take care of the problem only to receive the same negative response. I was doomed and I felt my bladder slowly but surely ease the pressure as a puddle formed on the seat of my desk. At that moment I was in agony. I wanted to disappear so that I would not have to endure the fate that I knew was coming. I sat rigid hoping against all reasonable hope that nobody would notice what I had done. Of course that was not the way things were going to work.

Soon enough Sister was standing over me demanding to know what had happened. She ordered me into the hallway where she berated me for being absurd enough to wet my pants rather than race out of the room to the bathroom like any rational person would have done. I had no answers for her. I had learned long ago that she never accepted the excuses that any of us gave for our unwanted behaviors. I just stood silently wishing that I might run away and never have to face her or my classmates ever again and urging myself to just breathe lest I let my own tirade escape from my lips. She sent me to the office where I waited for my mother to come with clean clothing and a ride home. I was never able to fully explain to my mom why the incident had occurred. Sister B had already muddied the waters with her own defense and since my mother only knew her as a saintly woman I made no effort to disagree.

When I returned to school the following day my classmates pretended not to have noticed what had happened. I suppose that they all felt as I did that we had to weather the storm of our teacher’s angry behaviors together. Somehow we were bound by the realization that the way she was treating us was very wrong but there was little that we might do other than accept our fate and just breathe. I suspect that I first learned how to be a good teacher in that classroom. I remembered what not to do to students from those days. For that I am thankful to Sister B but I would have preferred not ever knowing her at all.

For a very long time I felt terribly guilty for disliking my teacher, especially since she was a nun, that is until I learned that my brother also found her behavior to be abusive and untenable. When he confessed to me it was like having a heavy weight lifted from my mind. I no longer had to just breathe when I thought of that terrible woman.

My mother corresponded with Sister B until she died, convinced that my old teacher had been a master educator and a saint. It was not until I was almost fifty years old that I shocked my mom with revelations that she found to be painful and difficult to believe. I kept my negative comments mostly to myself. I didn’t want to destroy the icon that my mother thought Sister had been.

I suppose that I developed lovely cursive handwriting under Sister B’s watchful and critical eye. I even mastered the lessons of the fourth grade curriculum with her guidance. More importantly, however, I understood the need to treat children with dignity and respect. I didn’t suffer permanent damage from that school year but I don’t believe that any of us needed to endure the shabby treatment that was inflicted on us. We were resilient but it seems that we never forgot what we had seen. Now I can laugh a bit at the memories of those days but I suppose that I always knew that what we endured was wrong. Thank God I survived by being able to just breathe. 

It’s About Time

Glenda Jones13516264_10209578242793605_5124992074342233422_nBack in the eighties my eldest daughter, Maryellen, was a member of the Janette Dance team at South Houston High School. She had taken ballet and tap lessons from the time that she was five years old, first at a church in Pasadena and later from Patty Owens near our home in southeast Houston. Our family budget often tended to be stressed beyond our means but we somehow managed to find the funds for the classes that she loved so very much. Over time it became apparent that she had a natural talent for dance, most likely inherited from my mother who had her own reputation for being light on her feet and as graceful as a swan. When Maryellen earned a coveted spot on her school’s dance team it seemed to be a reward for all of her hard work and determination. Our family time began to revolve around practices, performances at football games, cotillions, competitions, camps and shows.

I was a fairly young mom, only in my late thirties, when I joined forces with other mothers in providing costumes, decorations, food and other kinds of support for our beautiful young girls. We were all caught up in the joys of our children’s teenage years. We ladies often met to build sets or design programs. We became expert seamstresses who made intricate pieces of clothing. I still recall almost tearing my hair out while sewing the game day suit that Maryellen had to wear on Fridays during football season. It was a complex project but well worth the effort in the end. I recall volunteering to work long hours in those days and at those times I got to know the other moms who were as lovingly devoted to their children as I was to mine. There were dance competitions that demanded whole days of our time and summer camps that required long drives and funds that we might have used otherwise. We sometimes joined in the fun by performing in hilarious dance routines that made us the laughing stock of the audience but also demonstrated just what good sports we were. Those were some of the best times of my entire life and the memories of those days remain precious even today.

Maryellen advanced through the ranks of the team to become one of the military officers, a Lieutenant. She worked hard to meet all of the requirements of the honor, including choreographing original dances and designing costumes and props. Because she so loved the experience, so did I. Those were the wonder years in which her confidence and abilities grew under the watchful eye of her always committed instructor, Glenda Jones Bludworth, a loving woman who taught her dancers how to present themselves with grace in any situation. She was more than just a teacher. She became a friend, mentor and counselor to each of her students. Because we parents witnessed her devotion to our children, we loved her as much as our girls did.

As is usually the case with good times, they flew by all too quickly. Soon Maryellen was attending the University of Texas and focusing on more serious academic goals. She had little time for dancing as she studied constantly to earn the grades that would allow her to be accepted into the McCombs School of Business. The days of visiting Southern Imports in search of fabrics, feathers and sequins were gone. The worn section of carpet in our den where Maryellen had practiced all of her dance routines was the only reminder of those lovely days. I lost track of the women with whom I had spent so many hours. Time raced by and I too turned my attention to new challenges and adventures, forgetting for a moment the joys of being a dance mom.

It has been almost thirty years since Maryellen donned her leotards and dancing shoes. In the interim she earned degrees in Finance and Accounting, worked, married and became mom to four boys who find the stories of her days on the stage to be strangely confusing. Now she is the one who spends almost every free moment supporting her sons’ hobbies and talents. She is the one who now juggles the family budget to find all of the funding for equipment, camps, classes, trips and college so that her boys will be able to enjoy their youth as much as she did hers. Like I once did, she has a circle of friends whose commonality is based on swimming, scouts, theater and school activities. She keeps books for the teams and creates end of season slideshows. Her world is hectic but wonderful. She rarely thinks back to those days when she was an extraordinary dancer who riveted the attention of her many admirers. The memories seem to be both long ago and just like yesterday.

A group of Janette Dancers recently decided to host a kind of reunion of the classes who had been members of the team under the direction of their beloved Glenda Jones Bludworth. The “girls” are now in their forties and some are even knocking on the door of the fifties. Like Maryellen they have children in college, high school and middle school. They have enjoyed marriages and careers and evolved to a time in their lives when they more closely resemble their mothers and me were back in the day. They are beautiful women who learned their teacher’s lessons well and carry themselves with the poise and self respect that she instilled in them.

Happily they did not fail to remember their mothers in planning this event. We were invited to celebrate the life of Glenda Jones Bludworth along with them. I enjoyed sitting at a table with ladies who had been my constant companions so many years before. We bragged on the successes of our daughters and exchanged photos of our grandchildren. We recalled our own sacrifices of money and time and how we would not have changed a thing. We laughed at some of the silly things that we did and grew saddened as we remembered ladies who had been part of our mother brigade who are no longer alive. Mostly we each had remarkable stories of the wonderful influence that Glenda had on our children. We all agreed that she was one of those once in a lifetime educators who goes well beyond the requirements of her job. She reached into the very hearts and souls of her girls and helped them to find the strengths and talents that defined them as unique and outstanding individuals.

It was grand to once again be reminded of a time in life that was so happy for all of us. I found myself amazed that our time together had been so long ago and yet seemed so near and dear. I was particularly happy that all of the delightful young women whom I had watched grow in wisdom and age and grace had remembered and appreciated their amazing teacher. She had so truly earned the attention and praise that they heaped on her. All too often we become so busy with the demands of daily existence that we forget to show our gratitude to the people who did so much to make us who we are. We let the clock tick and tick until it is too late and our hearts are filled with regret that we never took the opportunity to voice the thanks that we always meant to convey. Somehow Glenda’s Girls understood that they needed to stop the passage of time for a few hours so that they might demonstrate how truly important their moment with her had been. It’s about time!