Jamie Janosz

As a child and as a parent, I loved the storybook, The Little Engine That Could . In the book, a brave little train attempts to make it up a big hill. He accomplishes this feat by sheer determination and bravado – pushing and struggling his way to the top. However, at my college’s graduation this week, the keynote speaker referred to that childhood book in a different light. He said to these new graduates, “The truth is…You can’t do everything.” He suggested that we don’t do our children any favors when we tell them that they can do anything, that they can be anything they want to be. The truth is, there are some things they can’t do and things they won’t be able to be. His point was that, as parents, we’ve bought into a culture that emphasizes encouragement in all things. We want all of our kids to be winners – we want everyone’s self esteem to be protected. But, the truth is, that we aren’t all good at everything. Some of us are better at public speaking. Some people have t

When I was in junior high, the cool girls sat at a different lunch table. Every day, they would sit together in the lunchroom – the four of them – Jodi and Teresa and Diane and Cindy, chatting and giggling with secrets that only they shared. They did the same thing every noon. They would each purchase a different type of bagged chips or cheese popcorn, unfold a napkin, and pour the contents into one provocative mix. The rest of us girls would look up over our individual paper sack lunches with envy. If only we could be a part of their clique – if only we could take part of that chip mix. In her novel Cat’s Eye , author Margaret Atwood describes the sometimes troubling friendships of girls: "Little girls are small and cute only to grown-ups. To each other they are life sized.” As grown women, we often reminisce about our childhood friendships. Many of us had a best friend, someone who we confided in and played alongside: from swing sets to Barbies to trying on our older sis

As I sat in the audience at my daughter's handbell concert, the third one of the year, I couldn't help but say a silent thank you to my own mom and dad who faithfully attended my many band and choir concerts. My music experience began in 2nd grade - taking piano lessons from Mrs. Vanden Bosch. In 5th grade, I joined the Wolcott Jr. High band pictured above. I am the one not dressed in uniform in the first row, second from the left. Our band director, Mr. Pitts, was an older balding man who wore short sleeve cotton shirts and frequently smoothed down his unrully white wiry hair. Mr. Pitts would patiently lead our beginning band as we squawked and squeaked through the notes. Shaking his head in despair, he would play the song for us on his upright piano. He would then raise his baton back to our 5th grade band, begging us to play anything that resembled the correct tune. "Marching to Pretoria" was Mr. Pitts favorite song. We played it again and again while marching