The Music Teacher Detective - Case of the Mysterious Buns

Whoever believes that children are innately pure and cannot be manipulative/canniving is wrong, wrong, wrong.

The saying: "innocent as a child" completely depends on which child you're talking about. I have my doubts that any child out there is completely innocent. Including child-me. When I was a little girl I cut my bangs and then lied about it, not fully grasping the barefaced transparency of the lie. When I went into the bathroom my bangs were normal; when I came out it looked like I had been attacked by a lawnmower. How many conclusions can one actually draw from that situation?

Today I went into my music room and there was a bag of fresh, homemade buns on my desk. They looked delicious but I assumed that perhaps someone had come into my room to use the computer and then accidentally left a bag of buns behind. Strange, but hey- the day started off strange. It's not exactly common for me to walk into a bakery of a music classroom.

When one of my groups of students came up to the room for practice, I mentioned to them about the buns and how I was curious as to why they were there. I told the students that I had no idea where they came from.

After about 5 minutes, one of my students pipes up: "Mrs. Palmer, I gave you those buns."
"Really, ______?" I said, with obvious astonishment and disbelief on my face. "Are you sure about that?" "Yes, Mrs. Palmer. I did." He replied, with a certain look on his face which read: you're welcome. I'll be here all week.

I wasn't buying into it. First of all, this is not the kind of kid who just randomly brings in buns to the teacher out of the goodness of his heart. Secondly, he would have had to come into the school before I arrived, before the bell rang for the children to come in from outside, place the buns upon my desk, and then go back outside again before the bell rung.

Not likely.

I felt stuck. I questioned him several more times and he looked me in the eye and basically acted as though he was making me the beneficiary of his philanthropic disposition. What else could I do but ask him to tell the truth? Even after I did that, his response was an indignant: "It's true, Mrs. Palmer! I'm not lying!"

I knew he was lying. And I hate lying. I was determined to bring him down. I had an idea.

"Okay, ______. Thanks for the buns. I guess I'll have to call your mom and thank her."

"Actually, I made them by myself."

Darn it! He got me again!

I shot back:
"But I'm sure your mom was aware that you were in the kitchen baking bread."

"Nope. I did it all by myself."

Then another kid pipes in:
"It's true. He does cook."

I was completely and utterly being outplayed by a bunch of primary kids. I had nothing left. It was as though I had just been knocked out at the end of a brutal boxing match.

As the students were leaving, I told one of the EAs about the situation. She told me she would have a talk with the little angel. Not five minutes after their talk, the student came back into the music room to "inform" me that he did not make me the buns. HUGE shock.

When my next group of students came in, I asked the EAs if they knew where the buns came from. One of them pointed to the other and said: "She made them."

"THANK-YOU!" I cried, perhaps a little over-enthusiastically. How refreshing it was to hear something truthful for once!

So, case solved. And here's my little Jerry-Springeresque "moment of reflection" or whatever it is he refers to it as:

Why on earth would a child lie about something that is inevitably going to come back and bite them in the butt straight away? Immediately after the thought of taking credit for baking buns forms in the brain, wouldn't a kid use logic that would go something like this: hmmm, there's a very good possibility that Mrs. Palmer may soon discover where those buns came from. When she does, I better not be involved. I suppose I should stay out of this one. Heck, I'm going to stop thinking about this altogether and concentrate on practicing for this BEAUTIFUL Christmas musical song/listening to Mrs. Palmer's angelic piano playing and singing voice!
Or, even more obviously:
I'm pretty sure Mrs. Palmer is intelligent enough to know that I didn't bake bread on my own. She doesn't even know how to bake break on her own! I'm better off ignoring the thought I previously had about taking credit. It's just too risky.

Alas, he took that risk- but proved to be no match for the investigative prowess of the Music Teacher Detective.
So, until the next edition of the mini-series, take care of yourselves..... and each other.

....AND TELL THE TRUTH!

Thank-you, Robert Munsch

The principal at my school let me borrow a copy of her favourite book: "I'll Love You Forever" by Robert Munsch.  It seems I forgot just how sad, happy, and downright emotional that book makes me. It's heavy and incredibly touching at the same time.

I would like to thank Robert Munsch for finding a way to depict the life cycle so accurately in a children's book; though not every child gets to hold their parents in their arms when old-age sets in.

After much thought, I would like to tweak Robert's famous words just slightly, in an effort to make them more appropriate for my life. I suppose it would look something like this:

I'll love you forever,

I'll like you for always,

Even when we're done living,

Your baby I'll be.

Go read the book if you haven't already!  

A Crisis of Hope

Tell me, what situation could be more hopeless than losing someone you love to death?

I do believe in an afterlife, though I cannot offer much insight as to what it might look like. I just know that there has to be a higher purpose; a bigger picture that we as mere humans cannot begin to grasp: like ants in the jungle.

And yet, when we lose someone who means everything to us, don't we tend to feel as though we've been robbed? Violated? It happens to other people and we feel sadness coupled with a brief sense of fear, after which we go right back to thinking that our lives are somehow untouchable; drenched in invincibility. We count our blessings: one, two, three, four - yes, they're all still there. What a relief. Then one night we forget to lock our doors and coincidentally it turns out to be the same night that a thief is lurking in the distance. All our lives we never had to worry about such a thing, so we become desensitized to it, labelling it storybook fiction.

It's a dangerous ignorance.

How many of us, even with a belief in afterlife, would not bring back our loved ones if we could? My selfish desire is for more time, and you had better believe I would bring my dad back if I could. I wouldn't think twice.

Hostages can cling to the hope that they will one day be rescued or devise a brilliant escape plot. The terminally ill can take refuge in the hope of a cure or miracle. The broken down and alone can find solace in knowing that life often changes, people are not stagnant.

But, what hope is there for us? What options have we been presented with? Where is our refuge? Don't we have any choices?

The answer is no! Isn't that unbelievable? We just have to live and accept it. Grin and bear it. Soldier on no matter what. All the while feeling more helpless than premature newborns.

Death in itself is not a matter of hopelessness. The emptiness left behind in those affected by it, that's the real tragedy.

Hearts Breaking Here, Hearts Breaking There... Hearts are Breaking Everywhere.

One of my sweet grade 2 students came into my music class today visibly and uncharacteristically upset.

She sat in a corner by herself, which confused me. It didn't take long for the other students to pick up on that confusion and do the kid thing. Be harshly upfront.

"______ is a little gloomy today," one said, "because she had to go to her grandfather's funeral."

"Oh, well maybe she might not want to talk about that right now," I said. "Maybe she doesn't want to talk but just needs you to be a good friend."

Several girls nodded in apparent understanding, but clearly not grasping the full extent of what their friend was feeling.

Throughout the class the little girl was very emotional, and at every minute she was on the verge of tears. She put so much willpower into building a dam to keep them in.

I could not wait for the class to be over.

I wasn't sure if it would be a good idea for me to address her or not, because I know how it feels to have people constantly come up and unintentionally remind you of exactly the thing that you are finding too difficult to deal with. I know how it feels to cry yourself to numbness. But I couldn't help it. I had to say something.

"I understand sweetie," I said as I hugged her and let her cry on my shoulder. "You know I just lost my grandmother and my dad. It's very hard. I understand."

I did not attempt to appease her with heartfelt but futile platitudes. I did not tell her it would be okay. I did not tell her to just think of the good memories and that would get her through it. I did not recite to her the biggest lie I've ever heard, that time heals all wounds. I did, though, let her cry and tried to show her that she's not alone.

"I just miss him," she told me.

"I know, I know." I said.

I think it will be less difficult in the future for me to approach people who have undergone such loss. It connects you to each other in a way. But I know full well there is no right or wrong approach. People just care. People just want to help, even with the awareness that there's really nothing they can do which will truly help.

So my heart is broken all over again today. Broken because I'm reminded of my loss, and broken because I know that other people have their hearts broken everyday too.

Love

I'm not a hateful person. Before October, I was extremely content with my life. I'm generally such a happy, smiley person. But right now, if I'm being honest, I just hate so many things.

I hate how the people who are put into our lives and we are taught to love and cherish, can be gone in the blink of an eye.

I hate how people judge others.

I hate legalism.

I hate how life is so cruel.

I hate how the world is so cruel.

I hate how people borrow bits and pieces from other people's identity. Get your own!

I hate how life continues on as normal, when the world should stop.

I hate time.

I hate the daily grind.

I hate how I hate so many things.

I hate the weather.

I hate the thought of Christmas this year.

I hate bigotry.

I hate feeling dejected.

I hate feeling rejected.

I hate feeling overwhelmed and responsible.

I hate my inability to articulate.

I hate my loss of direction.

I hate being stuck in one place.

I hate the thought of Father's Day.

I hate feeling alone.

I hate feeling like I have to go on.

I hate when I think he's still there, and then remember that he's not.

I hate that this is not a dream.

I hate that I can't call my dad.

I hate when I break down into tears.

I hate when I don't break down into tears.

I hate the emptiness.

I hate the constant nagging in the back of my head, even when I'm focused on other things.

I hate my dashed dreams.

I hate not having time to mourn my nan.

I hate the lump in my throat.

I hate my broken heart.



............And to think. All this hate stems from such deep, enduring love.

___________________________________________________

Lucky

As a teenager,

I never really experienced the stereotypical pubescent-angst stage. I don't recall ever being embarrassed by my family or preferring the company of my friends.

I love each of my friends dearly, but like a mother cub the primary recipients of my allegiance have been and always will be my family.

When the world is obnoxious and annoying, I avoid it. When my family is obnoxious and annoying, I have to suck it up and love them anyway. That's what is so great about the concept of a family. We can be utterly ludicrous or out-to-lunch and yet there are these people surrounding us who have no choice but to stand behind and catch us when we fall.

At least, that's been my experience with family. They are the people with whom I can be 100% Laura, without any fear of judgement, vendetta, or superficiality.

I'm aware that many people would render a far different definition than the one I have just proposed. Ironically, I guess definitions aren't always definite. Once in awhile they can be subjective.

I'm also fully aware of my luck. For anyone who knows or who can even remotely begin to understand the hell I've been through in the past little while, it might take you by surprise to see me referring to myself as lucky. But you know what? The definition of "father," or "daddy" (if you're me) can also be subjective.

So many people grow up without a father and are therefore incapable of even forming their own definition. So many people grow up with a father in the physical sense, but without him in the emotional sense.

I had the good fortune, the blessing, of 24 years with a playful, kind-hearted, giving, loving, affectionate, humble, intelligent, eloquent, hard-working, honest, loyal, trustworthy, devoted, genuine, strong, logical, courageous, healthy, multi-talented daddy who loved me right back as I loved him.

More than anything in this world I would love to have at least 50 more years with him, but that does not in any way diminish the time we did have. Nor do those 24 years ease the pain of what I'm experiencing right now. My cognizant reflection of our time-well-spent, however, does give me fresh perspective.

I am reminded that "they" do quite decidedly say: "quality over quantity."

Both would be nice, but my lack of quantity does not change the fact that I had the privilege of being fathered by a man of such incredible magnitude.

History in the Making.

Dear Daddy,

I miss you more than any word found in Webster's Dictionary can express.  You are in my thoughts every second of every minute of every day.  Laughing has become a painful exercise because every time I find humour, I also find myself wishing that you were here to laugh with me.

This was a great week to be alive, Daddy. I know we would have had a long telephone conversation about politics and history. On November 4th, Barack Obama was elected the next President of the United States.

Isn't that exciting? 

The Canadian election also happened a few weeks ago. Stephen Harper is once again the leader of a minority government. As a Canadian, perhaps I should have mentioned that first. But somehow - it feels too anticlimactic. 

When Barack gave his acceptance speech, you could almost literally feel the collective sigh of relief by the black community, as well as supporters of the black community. Not that people voted for him based on the colour of his skin- at least I hope not. I hope that people voted for him because of his peaceful ideology and what he represents for America and the world: Change, and hope.

I know there are some crazy people out there though. There have been rumours swirling ever since it happened about assassination. Some people believe that he won't even make it to his inauguration on January 20th. If anything happens to Barack Obama, it will be such a devastation to the worldwide community and a massive leap backwards for America.

Still, every time I see the man LIVE! on TV I can't help but wish that they would put him inside some kind of giant bulletproof hamster ball and let him go about his business that way. It's rather unnerving.

Despite the importance of what has taken place in the world over these past couple weeks, it all seems so trite in comparison to the enormity of what we have lost in losing you, Daddy.

Please be with us and continue to be our sunshine in these bleak, gray days. You will always be one of the most incredible people to ever walk the Earth. You may never become President, but in our opinion Barack Obama has nothing on you - Raymond Andrew Palmer.

Love,

Laura