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Lessons From a Mama Duck

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I’ve always loved ducks. They’re silly and beautiful, graceful and awkward. The embodiment of cheerful contradiction. And the image of a line of ducklings waddling behind the mama duck? The epitome of maternal leadership, in my opinion.

My husband and I had just enjoyed a terrific breakfast at a sidewalk cafe where we met a friendly, young couple seated next to us. They, being recent transplants to the city, wanted to share some of their favorite insider gems. We told them we’d been visiting this upstate city for years, but our visits would probably be less frequent as our daughter had just graduated from the city’s college. Our conversation swayed away from the city’s many attractions to our daughter’s plans. The four of us engaged in a terrific talk about the gift of time and the need to take it while finding your place in the world.

Buoyed by our great talk, we set off on a walk through the city’s central park. Designed by the same architect of the Central Park, it’s a gem. After visiting my favorite sculptures, my husband and I headed towards the park’s exit. My attention was drawn back into the park, though, by a family of ducks swimming effortlessly in a stream. I walked towards the stream, watching as the mother duck hopped out of the stream and led her brood of ten, formed in an orderly line, across the walking path. The mama scaled the rocky slope with ease, leading the way for her ducklings. Halfway up, the first in line began to struggle. The second duckling stayed close while the remaining ducklings turned around and found an alternate route to their mama atop the hill.

I turned to my husband, “What will they do?” I was worried these two ducklings would be left behind. Realizing it could not walk up the rock, the duckling decided to leap. Its sibling followed suit. In moments, all of the ducklings had made their way to the top of the hill. I cheered a little yay for the ducklings. Their grit had prevailed and the duck family was again reunited under the cover of greenery.

Our duck celebration was short lived. We heard a high-pitched chirp from the stream below. Peeking down we saw a lone duckling swimming in the stream. We quickly figured out that this duckling was the eleventh duckling, separated from its brood!

I turned to my husband and said, ““Oh, no! What do you think will happen to this little one?”

“I have no idea,” he said.

We stood there at the side of the stream watching the duckling swim to and fro. Its chirps got louder as it became more agitated. We stood by helpless, but rooting for this little guy to be reunited with its family. From atop the hill, we heard the mama duck vocalizing to the duckling. At last the duckling seemed to hear her and it found a rock on the edge of the stream and made its way out of the stream. It took a step onto the path and chirped some more. It paused, listening for its mama’s reply.

little duckling

Just as it appeared we were about to witness a happy reunion, a little boy walking on the path with his family trailing behind spied the duckling. “Look!” he shouted, pointing excitedly and running towards the duckling. “A baby duck! A baby duck!”

Instinctively, the duckling froze. As the little boy neared, it ran back to the stream and hopped back in the water. The little boy moved closer to the stream to get a better look as the duckling swam in the opposite direction, chirping louder.

Ugh. I was frustrated. The little boy’s innocent enthusiasm had triggered the duckling’s fight or flight response and it had chosen to flee.

“The duckling’s been separated from its family,” I said across the stream to the little boy and his mother. The mother took her son by the hand and led him away. I stood on the other side, watching. Feeling helpless.

Where was the mama duck? Why wasn’t she helping? The duckling swam towards a group of ducks swimming downstream; but they quacked loud quacks that seemed to say, “beat it!” The duckling frantically swam away, into a protected spot of stream and chirped even louder. The duckling was clearly exhausted.

I walked to the bench where my husband was sitting and I said, “I wish I could do something to help.” “I know,” he answered. We sat there quietly, watching. Would this little duckling try again? Or would it remain there at the edge of the stream, alone.

After some time, the mother duck emerged from her hiding spot atop the hill. She scurried down the hill followed by the other ducklings. She ran across the path and jumped into the stream. The other ducklings followed behind. The lone duckling swam quickly towards its mother and found its place in line with its brothers and sisters. All eleven followed their mama’s lead to the edge of the stream.

“Well, that was good,” I said smiling at my husband.

“Yup,” he smiled back. “I was beginning to think we might spend our entire day here,” he teased.

As we walked towards the park exit, I couldn’t help but make the connection between what we’d just witnessed and our breakfast conversation about the gift of time.

Watching the duckling’s struggle had made me so uncomfortable. I’d wanted to help, solve its problem, make everything all better. But I knew I couldn’t intervene with a wild animal. It was not my place.

And isn’t this the same struggle we face continually with our own children? Watching them struggle and lose their way triggers uneasiness. And all too often a desire to jump in “fix” what appears to be “broken.”

But that mama duck stayed put, remained engaged, but from a distance. The duckling needed time to struggle, space to try to figure things out on its own, learn. And she gave that gift of time before coming to lead the way.

“Wow,” I marveled. “That mother duck taught me a great lesson, just now.”

Regardless of age, our children are going to face challenges. And like that duckling, they may lose their way and cry out for help. But we, parents, must give our children the gift of time. Time to make mistakes, time to try, time to struggle, time to figure things out and find their own way. Although it can be uncomfortable, downright painful to witness, it’s our responsibility to step back and exercise patience. And when they’ve invested the necessary time? Tried a bunch of solutions? Found themselves in a corner, truly in need of help to finding their way back to their path? That’s when we can step in and lead.

©Kathie Z.

 

 

Turning Points

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Both of my daughters are at turning points. One is weeks away from graduating from college. The other weeks away from declaring her major. Both are faced with the question: What next?

This question mark is huge. There is absolutely no known answer to this question. Because it’s this question that leads to a slew of other questions. Which, when you share intense passion for creativity and are inherently square-peggish, can be inordinately anxiety producing.

I’ve spent a lot of time on the phone with my older daughter recently. She’s been feeling the pressure of the what next question. It seems everyone she meets from relatives to shop keepers want to know what her next steps are. Some even ask, “What are you going to do?” or “Do you have a job yet?”

The truth of the matter is, I don’t want her to take a “job.” She is an artist. A gifted painter. Her work is beautiful, impactful. And she’s been told by people in the art world, not her mother, people who actually know things that she can make a living as an artist. And live independently. Which is my dream for her.

Her younger sister texted last night, wanting to talk. Which is a big deal. My younger daughter is a very closed-mouth social butterfly. She’d make an amazing undercover operative, we joke. She’s a vault. Except her emotions have a limit and her voice gives her away. She too, is at a turning point. She’s realized she can no longer avoid pursuing her passion, photography. She was upset about changing her academic focus; veering from dependable to unpredictable, disappointing us in the process.

I told her I got it. I did the same thing as a college sophomore. I realized that studying business was not for me. I wasn’t interested in balance sheets or debits and credits. Plus, I was a really bad business student, only good at the “fluff” courses that tapped into my creativity. Numbers numbed me and I over-thank everything. Suffice it to say, I still recall the teary conversation I had with my mother all those years ago when I told her I wanted to study literature instead. And with my father’s blessing, I declared myself an English major, minoring in dance, veering away from a predictable profession.

Until I’d spoken with my younger daughter last night, I’d all but forgotten about the stress of declaring a major in college. When I told her to declare her art major, I felt a heavy burden evaporate. Problems grow to enormous proportions in our imaginations when we keep them to ourselves. Turning points arise when we need them, not when we want them.

The irony of my children being in such synchronicity is not lost on me. They’ve both been feeling the pressure of meeting the expectations of people who don’t matter. Last night I was blunt with my younger daughter. I interrupted her mid-explanation as to why she no longer wanted to pursue the major she had previously (confusing to me) declared. She had to take a course in which she pursued a passion project related to the field. She was stumped for a topic. I told her matter-of-factly, “That’s because it’s not your passion.” She was taken aback a little. I pressed on. “What would make you happy?”

“Photography,” she said through tears.

“Then do it,” I said. “That was the plan, anyway.”

Which is the honest-to-goodness truth.

My oldest daughter picked up a crayon before a pencil. I can’t remember a time she hasn’t been drawing. And my younger daughter became a photographer the moment she picked up her first point and shoot. Both of my children are incredible artists. Who see the world in a different way than most. And the world needs the beauty and perspective artists provide.

I applaud their courage to choose the path of authenticity and creative expression. They’ve chosen challenging, creative fields, but I know they’ll both be fine. Will their chosen passions bring the creature comforts they’ve grown accustomed to? I don’t know. Only time will tell.

But I do know their work is just as meaningful as any other traditional type of work they could choose. I also know, if they choose to turn later on down the road, elect a more traditional path, that will be o.k., too. Their creativity will never die; it’s an integral part of each of them. At this turning point in the road, I want my girls to know what it took me so many years of suppressing my own creative impulses to learn; your work is a reflection of who you are, not the definition.

© Kathie Z.

 

Interconnectedness

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A little more than a week ago, on Valentine’s Day, there was another school shooting. Another.

Looking at my last sentence, I’m stricken by the directness of it. Another.

I’ve been an alphabet soup of emotions ever since. I am heartbroken, frustrated, confused, angry. I cannot believe I am writing about school violence. The thought of school violence becoming a “thing,” something that happens over and over again hurts my head.

But I’m a teacher, a mother, a writer. I make my living by using words; choosing them carefully, using them effectively. I understand the power of words; their ability to inspire or discourage, empower or belittle. So, I must write about this.

When I first began teaching, in 1994, school violence wasn’t even on my radar. I’m sure I would have defined school violence as punches thrown. Over the past two decades, though, the violence has ramped up, morphed, become deadly and come closer to home. Literally.

First Newtown, in our tiny state of Connecticut, a mere 40 miles away; home to one of my dear friends and her family. Now Parkland. Geographically far, but still close.

In the past week, I’ve followed the Parkland story closely. Sound bites, video clips, headlines. I am awed by the eloquence and strength exhibited by victims and parents, alike. I am astounded by the ability of those grieving to speak up, speak out. Forge their grief into action.

Last weekend my husband and I visited our daughter at her college, my alma mater. The flags were flying at half-staff in honor of the victims of Parkland, one of whom we can sadly claim. The victim’s father, an alumna of our little liberal arts college, was a class ahead of me.

Walking on campus on a gray, snowy day I was struck by the interconnectedness of it all. I hadn’t known this man decades ago when we were both students, but I feel a kinship with him, nonetheless. My husband, daughter and I discussed the lowered flags, the senselessness of this tragedy. Another one. Again. Then I remembered another gray day, a little more than a year ago when my husband and I received those texts from our daughter. She’d just witnessed a shooting and was hiding in a locked stock room of a crowded shopping mall. She wanted to tell us she loved us and let us know her phone battery was dying.

I remembered the wave of gratitude that swept over me hearing her voice a few hours later. The police had arrived, secured the area. Miraculously the shooter had missed his target. An odd realization struck me. That gunman had nearly shot someone; his intended target, a young father pushing his baby in a stroller, my daughter, her friend. In an instant, he could have taken someone’s baby from them. What, I remember thinking at the time was, what could make somebody decide to shoot someone else? Harm another’s baby? Then I thought, this person, this gunman, was someone else’s baby. How could this happen? Was it a lack of awareness? Some broken connection?

It’s a question I’ll never know the answer to. What I do know, though, is we are all connected. Every one of us. Whether we’re conscious of it or not. And words have the power to strengthen or weaken those bonds.

To honor all that have been senselessly lost, I will do my best to remain mindful, continue choosing my words carefully. Because words are the currency of education, empowerment and unity. Which, like us, are interconnected.

© Kathie Z.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love Day

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It’s Valentine’s Day. A day to celebrate love.

As I write that sentence, I smile, shake my head because it’s a funny sentence. A day to celebrate love. A day. Which grammatically means one. One day to celebrate love!

Last weekend I was out running errands. I was on a mission. Cards for my daughters and husband, pencils and stickers for my students. Valentine’s Day, placed right in the middle of the year’s shortest month, was days away.

While errand-running, I ran into a friend, a former colleague outside our local Barnes & Noble. She’d headed out on this freezing, rainy day to pick up some Valentines, too.

We stood there on the sidewalk, fingers and toes going numb from the cold, catching up. A lot had happened since I’d last seen her at a colleague’s retirement party last spring. Or was it the spring before?

She’d become a grandma again. This time to a grandson. She scrolled through her phone, showing me pictures of her beautiful grandbabies. Her eyes sparkled as she filled me in. She told me about her daughters who had baby-sat my kids when they were wee ones like her grandbabies. We stood on that wet sidewalk, catching up, counting our blessings, sharing the love.

Our talk transported me back in time, at least 15 years ago. We’d collaborated a lot then, become friends. She, a decade older than me, became a role model. She was committed to her work and still a fully engaged mom. A passionate artist, she was an inspiration.

Back then, I’d fretted over not being good enough, struggled to find balance in my life. I worried about things big and small. Life was difficult, hard work. Because I was still tied to my perfectionistic ways.

I think back on those Valentine’s Days of years gone by. The days when my students entered the classroom full of excitement, still beaming over being served heart-shaped pancakes for breakfast. Heart shaped pancakes for breakfast on a school day?! The thought had never occurred to me. And not thinking about showing my love through a grand gesture made me feel bad.

But that was then. Listening to my friend recount her recent days with her grandchildren and grown children, I was reminded of what’s truly important. This woman was the embodiment of love; self-assured, kind, and strong. She was available and present. And here she was, outside a bookstore, poised to buy her grandkids a book or two that she undoubtedly would read to them over and over again.

I smiled picturing her on the sofa, reading to her grandkids with her gentle, nasal voice. How loved they must feel! Then I thought of my girls when they were little; freshly bathed in their footie jammies, snuggled in close, following along in a picture book as I read aloud. Remembering this nightly ritual from those days so long ago, when life felt so rushed, I feel happy. I realized all was right in my world, even if I didn’t know it then.

It’s in these seemingly insignificant moments of our daily lives, when we make ourselves present, available; we show our children they matter, that they’re loved.

On this Valentine’s Day, I’m reminded that simple, regular expressions of love are tools that uplift our children. Cheers from the sidelines, goodnight hugs, a jar of maple almond butter in the fridge. All are expressions of love. As are just because text messages, answered phone calls and cards that arrive in the mail a day late with the words, “I love you” written in ink. And maybe, just maybe, heart shaped pancakes on a school day.

What I do know is, love is powerful, infinite, transcendent. The ultimate gift we parents can give and receive.

© Kathie Z.

 

 

One Hundred Days

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We educators may seem a bit time obsessed. In our world, every single minute counts. Literally. We plan our lessons to the minute, use timers to stay on task, and make every attempt to transition smoothly and swiftly. We even have bells that ring at key points in our day to remind us it’s time to start or stop or be somewhere.

Time is constantly moving and there are many days I feel like Lucy in the chocolate factory; trying to accomplish as much as I can in the precious minutes I’m given each day. Because we have so much to do, so many concepts and skills to teach. Before we send our students on to learn more, do more, soar higher.

This week we reached a milestone, the 100th day of school. The 100th day is one of the best days of the year. It’s a fun-filled, celebratory day. A day of reflection and acknowledgement. We marvel at how far we’ve come together, how much we’ve accomplished.

I love this day because I get to experience the wide eyes and broad smiles from students as they realize they’ve overcome fears and developed tangible skills. To see a child discover that she no longer struggles to read or complete math problems is a powerful thing to witness.

In our second grade classroom, the 100th day of school is one of joy. A day where we take stock of all of the effort invested, take time to acknowledge individual accomplishments and shared successes.

Coincidentally, this week marks 100 days for my oldest daughter, as well. This week she starts the 100 day countdown to graduation. In a matter of months, my daughter will be a college graduate.

For me, her mother, it’s exciting to consider what lays ahead. I’d love to say it’s the same for my daughter, but her excitement is tempered by the presence of the unknown. And as we know, the unknown can be the source of a lot of stress. And this stress can lead to a full-on crisis of confidence.

Sensing her ambivalence, I instinctively steered towards compassion rather than offering my usual next step problem solving suggestions of “Link in with so and so,” “Go to career services,” or “Reach out to your advisor.” Knowing that this daughter forms her beliefs based on evidence, I took the tactic I take with my seven year old students when they are experiencing self-doubt, questioning their capabilities. I told her to reflect on all that she’d accomplished and write her successes down.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” she dismissed. But I persisted. “No, I’m serious. My kids at school are doing this this week. It will give them the sense of pride and motivation to tackle even harder things.”

“No, I will,” she said. “It is a good idea.”

I heard the weariness in her voice. So I started rattling off all of the ways she had demonstrated bravery, pushed past ambivalence, went for it and experienced success; big and small. That got her talking about some challenges she’d long forgotten about. Things that helped her to grow into the amazing young woman she is.

Then I got thinking. Why wait for 100 days to pass before reflecting on accomplishments? What if we engaged in reflection, recognized specific challenges conquered more often? Say monthly or even weekly? And why reserve this review, this celebration for our littlest learners? What if all participated in this exercise, young and not so young? Kept a record of accomplishments to look back on those days when confidence isn’t optimal? I think that would be one powerful practice.

© Kathie Z.

 

 

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