Page 60 of Husband of the Year
“He didn’t chase the cat in the park. Or eat the cake of those people on a picnic,” Marley says.
“I love picnics,” Audrey says. She often shares about her picnics on the Eastern Prom with her family. “And cake. But I’ve never brought a fancy cake on a picnic like that.”
“He didn’t dig up the flowers,” Danny says.
“He made better choices!” Brian yells.
My head nods as they call out, and with the last declaration from Brian, a big smile springs up on my face.
Children process and learn by talking. Sure, shouting out may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but I know they’re engaged. They’re taking turns and not talking over each other. It’s productive talk and with Brian’s summary, they’ve uncovered the kernel of wisdom I’ve hoped to share with them for this lesson.
“Yes! He made better choices. When you make a mistake, you can make a better choice the next time a similar situation arises—when you know better, you do better.”
The entire class leans toward me, eyes open, tracking my every word. They’re in this with me—eager to learn. It’s one of the things I love most about kindergarten. Their complete enthusiasm for whatever I teach.
“Have you ever made a mistake and then decided to make a better choice?” I ask.
They look at me, then at each other, and I slowly see a few light bulbs go off over their small heads.
“Let’s turn and talk to our partners about a time we made a mistake and then did better. One time I made a mistake and did better was…”
Given a prompt, like clockwork, each child turns and talks. A gentle hum of focused conversation permeates from the carpet as they chat. But instead of listening in as I should, my mind wanders to Olan.
He mentioned doing better by his parents. His family. His mother. Living amends. Changing his behavior to show his mother he’s sorry. Changed. And it’s been years, but he’s still doing it. And he’ll never stop. He said it was a lifelong process he continually needed to show up for.
Just like my mother showed up on my doorstep. Sure, unexpectedly. Unannounced. Uninvited. But she’s here—shopping at Hannigan’s, packing Happy Meals, and making meatloaf. She’s probably cleaning the oven. Who cleans their oven? Sarah Block. And, yes, she’s possibly finding the sex toys Olan bought for us, but I’m not focusing on that right now.
When she started her recovery, she told me she was sorry, but I also remember her saying she would show me she was sorry by changing her behavior. Cold chills scatter up my arms. Time after time, my mother shows up and tries. Maybe it’s about time I stop shutting her out.
“Mr. Block? Are you okay?”
Marley’s squeaky voice brings me back to the task at hand and a momentary pang of guilt slaps at my chest. I should have been listening for a few nuggets to share. Usually, I’m much better about being present with my students and I shake my head, hoping to center myself in the moment.
“Yes, all good. I just got distracted for a minute.”
“Happens to me all the time,” Marley says with a quick nod.
Marley’s face softens with relief and he stares up at me with the rest of the class, waiting for my instructions.
“How was your day?”
Illona sits next to me on the bus as it heads down the hill toward the ferry.
“Fine. The ‘toy’ your mother gave me in my ‘Happy Meal’ was interesting.”
“Oh no. What was it?” I wince, afraid of what she’s going to say.
Illona reaches into her backpack and pulls out a small, banged-up compact. Opening it, she flashes the mirror toward me.
“It came with a note.”
She unfolds a small piece of paper, and there, in my mother’s chicken scratch, it says: Look at how beautiful you are! Inside and out.
“That’s sweet,” I say.
“Yeah, but it’s no toy.”
“Fair.”
