who was my size, age and who had the same hair color. When it was time to go, Skyler went to her instead of me ? he couldn?t tell us apart. When Skyler was three, he spent three days at Camp Courageous for disabled children in Iowa, and when he returned he didn?t even recognize me. The pain was almost unbearable. My own son didn?t even know I was his mother. I hid the pain, and we did the best we could for Skyler. We enrolled him in our local area educational agency preschool, where the teachers and speech pathologist worked hard to ladies timberland boots help Skyler connect with the world around him. They used pictures and computer voice-machines that spoke for him, and sign language. These devices gave me little glimpses of who Skyler was, even if he didn?t understand who I was. ?He will talk,? the speech pathologist insisted, but inside, I had given up hope. The one dream I couldn?t let go was to have Skyler understand that I was his mom. Even if I never heard him say, ?Mom,? I wanted to see the recognition in his eyes. The summer of Skyler?s fourth year was when it started. A smoldering ember of understanding in him sparked, and fanned by our efforts, steadily flamed. His first words were hardly recognizable, often out of context, never spontaneous. Then, slowly, he could point to an item and say a word. Then two words together as a request. Then spontaneous words. Each day, he added more and more recognizable words, using them to identify pictures and ask questions. We could see his understanding increase, till his eyes would seek out mine, wanting to comprehend. ?You Mom?? he said one day. ?Yes, Skyler, I?m Mom.? He asked his teachers and caregivers: ?You Mom?? timberland roll top boots ?No, Skyler, not Mom.? ?You timberland work boots my Mom?? he said back to me. ?Yes, Skyler, I?m your Mom.? And finally, a rush of understanding in his eyes: ?You my Mom.? ?Yes, Skyler, I?m your Mom.? If those had been Skyler?s only words ever, they would have been enough for me: My son knew I was his mother. But Skyler wasn?t done. One evening I leaned against the headboard on Skyler?s bed, my arms wrapped around him. He was cozily tucked between my legs, our bodies warm and snug as I read to him from one of his favorite books ? a typical affectionate scene between mother and son, but because of Skyler?s autism, one that I could never take for granted. I stopped reading. Skyler had interrupted me, leaning back his head so he could look me in the eye. ?Yes, Skyler?? And then the voice of an angel, the voice of my son: ?I love you, Mom.? Flying A Kite By Vicki L. Kitchner Her skin was the color of rich, hot chocolate and her brown eyes twinkled with intelligence and humor. Her name was Michelle and she spent her days in a purple wheelchair because she had been born with Cerebral Palsy. She rolled into my classroom ? and my heart ? when she was just three years old. Her courage was an inspiration to me and her spirit touched my heart. Michelle and her mother once gave me a figurine of a beautiful black child sitting in a wheelchair. I displayed the cherished gift on a shelf in my den at home. It always reminded me of the little girl I loved so much. When Michelle was seven, she was to undergo open-heart surgery for the third time. The night before surgery, I sat in the chair beside her bed and held her hand. ?I?m tired, Bicki,? she said weakly. ?Why don?t you close your eyes and try to get some sleep?? ?No, not sleepy. Tired.? I thought of the tiny, imperfect heart that had to work so hard, the grand mal seizures, terrible headaches and tight, spastic muscles that made her every move difficult and painful. I was heart-broken at the wisdom of the little soul who understood the difference between sleepy and tired at such a young age. ?Will I go to Heaven soon?? I placed my hand on her forehead, ?I don?t know, that?s up to God.? She glanced at the stars through the window of her room. ?How will I get all the way up there? An airplane?? ?No, God will send a special angel to show you the way. timberland uk You won?t have to take your wheelchair or your leg braces or any of your medicine because you won?t need any of that in Heaven. You?ll be able to run and play just like your brother.? Her eyes filled with hope. ?Do you think I could fly a kite?? I swallowed a tear and smiled, ?I?m sure if you ask God for a kite, he would find one for you. timberland work boots ? ?Oh, I hope so Bicki!? It was very early in the morning while I was doing my prayer time when the figurine of Michelle, for no apparent reason, fell from my bookshelf to the floor. The impact of the fall separated the figure of the girl from the wheelchair. I was devastated and vowed to have it repaired. Later that same day, Michelle?s mother called to tell me that her daughter?s heart had simply stopped beating and she had peacefully slipped away in the early hours before dawn. I have since thrown the ceramic wheelchair away and the little girl sits on the edge of the shelf with her legs dangling over the side. She?s smiling toward the sky. I always think of Michelle on warm, windy days. I imagine her running through the clouds with a kite dancing above her! Grandfather?s Clock by Kathy Fasiq In the dining room of my grandfather?s house stood a massive grandfather clock. Meals in that dining room were a time for four generations to become one. The table was always spread with food from wonderful family recipes all containing love as the main ingredient. And always that grandfather clock stood like a trusted old family friend, watching over the laughter and story swapping and gentle kidding that were a part of our lives. black timberland boots As a child, the old clock fascinated me. I watched and listened to it during meals. I marveled at how at different times of the day, that clock would chime three times, six times or more, with a wonderful resonant sound that echoed throughout the house. I found the clock comforting. Familiar. Year after year, the clock chimed, a part of my memories, a part of my heart. Even more wonderful to me was my grandfather?s ritual. He meticulously wound that clock with a special key each day. That key was magic to me. It kept our family?s magnificent clock ticking and chiming, a part of every holiday and every tradition, as solid as the wood from which it was made. I remember watching as my grand-father took the key from his pocket and opened the hidden door in the massive old clock. He inserted the key and wound-not too much, never overwind, he?d tell me solemnly. Nor too little. He never let that clock wind down and stop. When we grandkids got a little older, he showed us how to open the door to the grandfather clock and let us each take a turn winding the key. I remember the first time I did, I trembled with anticipation. To be part of this family ritual was sacred. After my beloved grandfather died, it was several days after the funeral before I remembered the clock! ?Mama! The clock! We?ve let it wind down.? The tears flowed freely when I entered the dining room. The clock stood forlornly quiet. As quiet as the funeral parlor had been. Hushed. The clock even seemed smaller. Not quite as magnificent without my grandfather?s special touch. I couldn?t bear to look at it. Sometime later, years later, my grandmother gave me the clock and the key. The old house was quiet. No bowls clanging, no laughter over the dinner table, no ticking or chiming of the clock-all was still. The hands on the clock were frozen, a reminder of time slipping away, stopped at the precise moment when my grandfather had ceased winding it. I took the key in my shaking hand and opened the clock door. All of a sudden, I was a child again, watching my grandfather with his silver-white hair and twinkling blue eyes. He was there, winking at me, at the secret timberland sneakers of the clock?s magic, at the key that held so much power. I stood, lost in the moment for a long time. Then slowly, reverently, I inserted the key and wound the clock. It sprang to life. Tick-tock, tick-tock, life and chimes were breathed into the dining room, into the house and into my heart. In the movement of the hands of the clock, my grandfather lived again. The First Day of Middle School By Patty Hansen My stomach tied in knots, and I could feel the sweat soaking through my T-shirt. My hands were clammy as I spun the face of my combination lock. I tried and tried to remember the numbers, and every time I thought I had it, the lock wouldn?t open. Around and around went the numbers, left, right, right, left?which way was it supposed to go? I couldn?t make it work. I gave up and started to run down cheap timberlands the hallway. As I ran, the hall seemed to get longer and longer?the door I trying to reach was farther away than when I had started. I began to sweat even worse, then I could feel the tears forming. I was late, late, late for my first class on my first day of middle school. As I ran, people were watching black timberland boots me and they were laughing?laughing?laughing?then the bell rang! In my dream, it was the school bell. But as I sat up in bed, I realized that it was my alarm clock jarring me awake. I was having the dream again. I started having the dream around the end of the sixth grade, and as the start of seventh grade grew closer, the more I had the dream. This time the dream was even more real, because today was the first day of seventh grade. In my heart, I knew I never would make it. Everything was too different. School, friends ? even my own body. I was used to walking to school, and now I had to walk six blocks to the bus stop so that I could take the bus to and from school. I hated buses. They made me carsick timberland earthkeepers chukka from the jiggling and the smell of the fuel. I had to get up for school earlier than in the past, partly because of having to be bussed to school and partly because I had to take better care of myself now that I was in my preteen years. My mom told me I would have to shower every morning since my hormones were kicking in ? that?s why I perspired so easily. I was totally uncomfortable with my body. My feet didn?t want to respond to my own directions, and I tripped a lot. I constantly had a sprained ankle, wet armpits and things stuck in my braces. I felt awkward, smelly, insecure and like I had bad breath on a full-time basis. In middle school, I would have to learn the rules and personalities of six different teachers instead of just one. There would be different kids in all my classes, kids I didn?t even know. I had never made friends very easily, and now I would have to start all over again. I timberland baby clothes would have to run to my locker between classes, remembering my combination, open it, put in the books from the last class and take out different books?and make it to the next class all within five minutes! I was also scared because of some stories I had heard about the first day of middle school, like being canned by the eighth-graders. That?s when a bunch of eighth-graders pick you up and put you in a trash can. I had also heard that when eighth-grade girls catch a new seventh-grader in the girls? bathroom alone, they smear her with lipstick. Neither one of these first-day activities sounded like something I wanted to take part in. No one had ever told me that growing up was going to be so hard, so scary, so unwelcome, so?unexpected. I was the oldest kid in my family ? in fact, in my entire neighborhood ? and no one had been there before me, to help lead me through the challenges of middle school. I was on my own. The first day of school was almost everything I feared. I didn?t remember my combination. I wrote the combination on my hand, but my hand was so sweaty it came off. I was late to every class. I didn?t have enough time to finish my lunch; timberland pro seriess I had just sat down to eat when the bell rang to go back to class. I timberland boat shoes almost choked on my peanut butter and jelly sandwich as I ran down the dreaded hallway. The classrooms and the teachers were a blur. I wasn?t sure what teacher went with which subject and they had all assigned homework?on the very first day of school! I couldn?t believe it. But the first day wasn?t like my dream in another way. In my dream, all the other kids had it together and I was the only one who was the nerd. In real life, I wasn?t the only one who was late for classes. Everyone else was late, too. No one could remember their combination either, except Ted Milliken, the kid who carried a briefcase to school. After most of the kids realized that everyone else was going through the same thing they were going through, we all started cracking up. We were bumping into each other in our rush to get to the next class, and books were flying everywhere. No one got canned or smeared ? at least no one I knew. I still didn?t go into the girls? bathroom alone, just in case. Yeah, there was laughter in the hallway, but most of it was the laughter of kids sharing a common
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