Why I Think I'm Good At This...

Teaching of course.

Now, I worry (though only ever so slightly) how this post will come across because I fully intend to tell you why I am good at my job. But not in an arrogant way, in a "holy-cow-this-fits-me-like-a-perfect-pair-of-shoes-that-I-really-like-to-wear" way.

I will start by saying this. There is only ONE aspect of my job that I loathe.

Recess duty right before or right after school.

I JUST HATE IT.

If I could pawn it off on someone else EVERY TIME, I would.

But I digress.

Six reasons why me and teaching work.
I'm not sure if they are in a particular order.

1. I LOVE to be in charge.
It's true. Ask my immediate family (although they have some nasty word for it like "bossy" or something. I prefer the phrase "management oriented.") A classroom is a microcosm, a mini-corporation. I am responsible for a certain product and it must be produced amongst and amidst MULTIPLE and complex variables, and it's an exhilarating thrill to produce it every day.

2. I NEED to be loved.
Everyone does. Everyday, I must stand in front of multiple people (yes kids are in fact PEOPLE---though I get the impression that sometimes others view them more like pets) and I must win their affections over and over. I must earn their loyalty, their respect, their admiration, their trust. There is nothing in my position that entitles me to these sentiments. I must live and interact with these people in such a way that they willing give them to me --- against all odds sometimes. And when they do, my soul soars.

3. I NEED to LOVE people.
My favorite pastime is not reading, exercising, or even singing. It is TALKING. I will sacrifice hours and hours of precious sleep if it means I have the chance to get a glimpse of someone else's soul and then share with them part of mine. I spend a majority of each day learning about these people and what makes them tick. What frustrates them. What inspires them. And then have the opportunity to try to provide for some of their needs. And I am happier because of it.

4. My other favorite pastime is organizing stuff.
I have a collection of Barbies from my childhood. I don't remember ever making up more than handful of scenarios for them. Dramatics were to be played out by ME (see below) not some doll. The purpose for dolls as far as I was concerned, was to look pretty in their immaculately organized house. So I spent hours organizing their house OVER and OVER and OVER again. And as a teacher, there is the obvious organization of classroom supplies and furniture that must occur, but it's so much more. One must figure out how to organize time, and teams, and lessons, and units, and people in such a way that not a minute is lost. So that when a kid leaves my room everyday and then at the end of the year he RECOGNIZES "Hey, I learned a bunch of stuff. And it was cool."

5. I always have an audience.
I'm not sure of any other profession in the world where my amateur Spanish, Texan, or British accents would be so VASTLY popular. Where my somewhat classically-trained voice would be so praised (or imitated---because sometimes a teacher MUST declare it opera day where all communication must be SUNG until you're laughing so hard that breathing becomes an issue), where my storytelling would be so admired. Where a disheveled lab coat, pipe-cleaner glasses, and wacky hair would make me something of a legend.

6. It makes a difference.
In the back of my room, in giant cutout letters is the phrase, "I can do hard things." We talk about it all year long. We point it out to ourselves all year long, when we have and when we haven't. We push and we push and we push all year long, until I have taught them and they have learned how to multiply 3-digit times 2-digit numbers. This is a hard thing (for both of us) and when they can do it, our eyes are a little more bright and our backs are a little more straight and our grin is a little more wide and we soar. Together. Cuz' it was hard. And we did it. And now we have faith that we can do even more.

And so.
I teach.

A Love Letter About Ducks

Dear Paul,

Thank you for Mother's Day. Thank you for gifting it to me without qualifiers like "even-though-it's-not-official" or even, "I-just-couldn't-wait-till-next-year." Thanks for just giving it to me. For recognizing me, as a mother. Thank you.

The day was perfect---except for the parts that weren't (and for those who were patient with me through the imperfect parts, I truly love you with all my heart...especially you, Paul)--- there was church, and good food, and wonderful presents, and an afternoon under the sun reading a novel with you.

Oh yeah---and remember that duck who sat ever-so-protectively on her nest yesterday. She is a noble duck. I hope my human-motherness is as vigilant as as her ducky-motherness. I really mean that. If you were reading this over my shoulder, Paul, you would lqty (laugh quietly to yourself) and assure me that I had nothing to worry about, but you would know exactly what I mean, because truly, she IS a noble duck.

And remember how at the end of Mother's Day, Kelly took a nap under her desk for her birthday. Maybe we could suggest that next year to my boss. That is a good idea.

I love you with all of my heart. Hurry home to me. I want to finish reading the book with you, and then stay up far later than is good for us, talking about it. Besides when the the baby is "officially" here, that will be an even worse idea then, than it is now. :-)

Love,
Me (and Grace because we both love you.)

It Occured to Me...and Thank Heaven it Did

I was maybe, truthfully, the tiniest bit afraid of the fact that we were having girl.

It's true.

You see, I know MYSELF and I just couldn't fathom having to try to say the right things TO myself. You see...I can be kind of...well...a weepy person and what was I going to do if there were TWO weepy persons in the house?

So I have been a bit afraid of this little, tiny, potentially weepy girl. I'm not referring to the crying that is COMMUNICATION in a small child. I am talking about the weepy-ness that can be ME.

But that was NOTHING compared to my fear of the DRAMA that can often be OTHER girls.

So I thought about it. A lot.

In fifth grade, I was prank-called by a girl pretending to be boy in my class. Being the heart-on-sleeve person that I am, and due to the fact that puberty had not set in for any of us, it was easy for me to confess to the "boy" that I liked him. Humiliation set in the next day at school.

In the sixth grade, I got kicked out of the cool-girl-trio we had because I was the new-comer (my mother assured me that this was no problem because the other two girls had decided to call themselves "Blonde Bimbos" and this was simply not something I wanted to be associated with anyway---thank heaven for wise mothers.)

Then I was ostracized again in the eighth grade because I was nice to the "nerdy" girl.

I personally think not having sisters made me particularly sensitive to these moments because I wasn't well versed in defending myself against this brand of attack.

And as I recall, that's about the time I started keeping my distance from the females of the species.

To survive---and to thrive I might add---in highschool, I found a handful of girls with whom I could discuss openly my two favorite subjects: boys, and the religious and philosophical implications of the world as I knew it---and ignored the rest of the backstabbing lot.

However, with age, maturity, and experience, the fear of girls was, I thought, gone. Until I realized I had to raise one.

Crap.

But I started to watch the girls around me. I've always loved the girls from the generations one or two before mine. They're good listeners and have good advice. My soul thrives on the conversation of the girls my own age at work, from the mission, and old college friends. We laugh hysterically as we tell stories of just plain-old-life. I adore the little girls in my class whose hearts are so pure as they are just being introduced making tough decisions about how to treat other people. And holy cow, who doesn't laugh out loud when they hear a toddler tell her dad that her mowf is pink because she's been eating "Fez" all day (she meant Pez of course.)

And then epiphany came. Last Thursday night, in fact. It was not GIRLS I ever had a problem with...it was just the teenage version of them. And by golly, this little girl of mine ISN'T GOING TO START OUT AS A TEENAGER!!!

And so I'm not afraid of her any more.
And as for the weepy-ness, me and my mom weep together all the time, and then hang up the phone, loving each other more than we did when the conversation began. It's perfect.

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.