I Tried This Once...

I find a good cry to be remarkably productive: a release of emotional toxin, a chance to vocalize the ugly, a shedding of a heavy load. When the cry is done, I am able move on with relative ease (assuming the headache subsides.) But if you promise to be gentle in your thoughts of me, I will tell you a funny story. A story of when I tried something new.

The first thing that you need to know is that we live in a glorified shoebox.
400 square feet.
One bedroom.
Living room with enough space for a loveseat only.
My very favorite part of the house is the northeast corner, where if you stand facing the southwest corner, you can literally see every room of my house WITHOUT so much as shifting your eyes. This is how I give the grand tour. The house has a legacy! Remember that.


Second thing you should know. Students failing tests = Me failing job. It is an exquisitely painful experience every dang time.

Story.

Late one September night, after a long taxing day, I was grading failed tests.
I should know by now that this is a recipe for disaster.

The venom of defeat surged through my veins. I decided to walk away from the table (the folding one we put up and down regularly because it doesn't actually fit in our shoebox.) I noticed the enormous collection of dishes piling up on the counter. Another failure. Among the dishes sat a gaudy, glass, butterdish with butter that --- like me--- had seen better days.

I went to my room, hands clenched in my hair, trying to let it all go. But at a time like that one MUST conquer something, right? The children could not be fixed at 10:36 pm, but the DISHES! I could handle the dishes. Paul in the mean time was trying ever so patiently to assure me that I was not a bad teacher…they were just bad students.

Unconvinced, I got up to do the dishes. I would not be beat down by everything in my path that day. And I refused to cry.

I calmly walked to the sink. I calmly washed dishes. My hands moved with remarkable control considering that every pulse of my heart felt like a wave of filth and obscenities. But I persisted. Calmly. I turned to the counter to get more dishes.
There was that gaudy dish. I washed some more. I turned to collect again, and that rancid butter in its heinous dish just sat there. All sparkly.

A dark desire filled my soul. A need to experiment. I wouldn't miss that dish. We don't even eat that much butter. Should I? No. It's irrational. Will I anyway? Maybe. I lifted the dish (calmly) and a feeling that must have been hate...not for anyone or anything, just hate.... took over.

With shriek that would shame an accomplished banshee, I hoisted that ugly dish directly overhead with both hands. And from that point in my house from which you can view the rest of the house simultaneously, I thrust that shiny body to the ground directly in front of my feet.

I should have just cried.

But I didn’t. I stood there. I observed the scene before me. Numb. I noticed Paul sitting bolt upright on the bed. (He later told me that his only thought at that moment was for self-preservation. "Where will I be most safe?”) I turned around. I walked back to the sink. I continued to do the dishes. Calmly.

I heard Paul puttering around looking for shoes. He came out of the bedroom. I glanced at him with soapy hands and with tears finally slipping down my cheeks said pitifully, "Paul, I broke the butter dish." And then the part of me that normally handles stress broke free and I began to sob. He immediately rushed to hold me. I let him, then pulled back enough to look him in the eye and said, "Paul, I feel so bad. We didn't even know you married a crazy person."

He laughed, and hugged me again.

The first thing he picked up was me. He carried me to my room and put me in my bed. Then he picked up tiny shards of glass from every
single
room
in the house.


I finished the dishes the next morning.
7:13 am.
Victory at last.

Finding the Right Words...

A little girl in my class brought a can of "whupped cream" for the banana split party they earned on Friday. I almost died laughing. I for one am sold on the product. I shan't ever use whipped cream again and why should I when I could use "whupped cream."

And for that matter I don't drink hot chocolate anymore. No. No I do not. Frankly, it's just doesn't taste as good at hot chlocket. Thank you, 5 year old, Leslie for introducing me to that sugary wonder.

And what's more, here is a REAL man in the making (Paul, you would be proud). Dressed up as Andrew Jackson, one of my students presented a flawless monologue of the man who's face adorns our $20 bills. Like a celebrity following a press conference he hosted a post-confernce Q and A.

Question: "Mr. Jackson, you said you once killed a man. Why did you do it?"

To which the child replied with sincerity and frankness, "Well, you see, back in my day, if someone insulted your wife's honor, you had the pleasure of killing him in a duel. Someone insulted my wife so I killed him."

And to think that I get my very own right-word-finder in just a few short months.

Random Firings from My Overloaded Brain...

If my brain were a gun in an open firing range, I would yell to everyone around me "Get the h--- out the way! I have lost control of this thing!" Meaning my brain of course. And if we were actually on the range, I would be tempted to say the rest of the "h" word because that's the way of the shooting range. When in Rome, you know (or on the range for that matter.)

When I wake up in the morning, I get tired just trying to keep up with myself. Shoot a little here, fire a little there, try to process the thoughts, but already, I've got buckshot spraying over elsewhere. It's dangerous I tell you.

I won't blame pregnancy. That's simply not where this is coming from.

It's certainly added ammunition to the belt to be sure. But it is not the cause of the rapid fire. PLUS. To blame this on pregnancy might insult the rest of you who know EXACTLY how I feel but happen to have never been pregnant a day in your life.

It's just how life is sometimes. So much to do and not enough time to figure it all out. At least not without shooting my eye out.

Chapter 2

The general announcement was made a few weeks ago that we had started a collection of tiny things for some company that we are expecting in August. I am reminded of late, that I also need to start a collection of BIGGER things at some point too, or I will be spending my summer days in....the nude. For the record, those days (the neked ones) aren't here yet. Not at all, in fact. But come May, the story will be very different.

All of these thoughts have been met with great anticipation and wonder. I can actually feel my muscles stretching. Well, of course I can! They are. But I certainly never thought to think of that! And so I signed up for a weekly email where they tell you the size of your little lovey as compared to some sort of fruit (we have an avocado). I read books that assure me that while I occasionally feel that the mental and emotional me must surely be unrecognizable, the good news is I am normal. And I also view my profile regularly in the mirror to take stock of the physical changes (subtle though they have been.)

All these things are done with excitement and gratitude, and yet, there are moments when I lay by my sweet husband and think of how beautiful life already is.

Just the two of us.

The time has been precious.

We are so soon to close that chapter with just him and me.

And every so often, in the stillness and quiet, I ache. I don't wish for a second that things were not as they are, but oh, how poignant in my heart is the knowledge of the gift that I have already been given. The feeling is something akin to leaving home for the first time or what I will likely feel again, when it's time to put those tiny things away, because it's the first day of kindergarten.

The sweetness of life with just me and him, is lovingly being tucked away in my heart. A memory to treasure as I prepare for my next gift. And so we go.