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.

A Good Idea....

Getting packed for the mission was disappointing for one reason only. Not because it was a reminder that I was leaving my family (and future family) for a year and a half. Not because I had packed into other boxes, reminders of what my joyful life had been for the previos 22 years.

THIS was the reason it was disappointing:

I spent $1000 dollars on new clothes that I didn't really like. Don't get me wrong, I was never once, a day in my mission, a frumpy missionary. I made an oath that I wouldn't be and I wasn't. This oath wasn't driven by vanity. It was driven by self-respect, and respect for the message I bore.

But the point is this: I made hundred dollar purchases on skirts that I did not want to immediately model for my mother and best friends when I got home from the store. And the shoes I bought--- there was no temptation to don them before the appropriate date. I never once lovingly opened my closet to look, and touch gently the new clothes that in just a few days would turn other's heads in admiration. That was not the nature of those clothes. Those clothes were professional. They were tidy. They were modest. And they were FRIGHTFULLY practical.

So, after all that spending, I decided against spending more on things like pajamas.They weren't going to be seen by anyone but roommates anyway. So I just took 2 pairs of drawstring flannels that had been purchased by my mother at the beginning of my freshman year of college. Make do...Remember? (Note: I left on my mission the middle of my senior year of college.)

While living with 5 other sister missionaries in Connecticut, Christmas was quickly approaching. We decided to draw names and give each other a small gift. Unbeknown to myself, my flannels had apparently hit rock bottom. I was made aware of this when, for Christmas, I was given the cutest pair of apple jammie bottoms I had ever seen. Attached was a note that said simply, "Now you can get rid of those nappy things you wear to bed every night." The epiphany was immediate. She was right. Those things were disgusting and I had just been ignoring it.

To make a long story short, let's just say that this entire scenario has repeated itself again this week. With I in my nappy jammie bottoms, and Paul in his let-me-make-her-life-better-attitude. I came home last Monday, to new, wonderfully comfortable pajama bottoms.

And here, finally, is the good idea. Paul, himself, dons some pretty sick flannels. The kind you can't wear anywhere but your own bedroom because the placement of their holes would make other people blush (or tell crude jokes. We do have 7 brothers between the two of us.) And FOR-THE-FIRST-TIME-EVER, I will be the Nappy Pajama-Bottom Rescuer. I will lay those sad puppies to rest. Wish me luck--I am going shopping!

Discovery Part 1

I've come to terms with the idea that I live by the motto "Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without," without even thinking about it. Perhaps it's a survival mode left over from those college days of $3.17 in the bank account for two weeks. I'm not sure of the roots, but when others ask what do you think needs improvement, we have this money over here? or even just What do you need for such and such? I really struggle. I've spent no time figuring out what I need that could make something better. My energies have all been focused on what on earth can I do with this that I have right here?

They gave me $560 to spend in my classroom my first year. (Half year, really.) WHAT IN THE HECK DO I DO WITH THIS? I don't have a clue what I'm doing here and you expect me to tell you what supplies I need to DO it?

Finally---after much deliberation---I realized I could use an easel that actually held things up off the ground, Instead of that thing I used to lean other things against. Awkwardly. If they weren't too heavy. But in my haste to spends the funds at the end of the year, I ordered the most expensive easel that probably ever existed. I ordered an easel that probably could have doubled as a major support beam. When the monstrous box marked "EASEL" showed up in my classroom, I left it alone for weeks, afraid to confront the beast, overwhelmed by this over-sized commitment. Where was I going to put that? It became the proverbially ignored elephant in the room in an sort of literal way.

When finally, I had the emotional energy to confront the problem, I found that I had purchased with that precious money, no major support beam. Nor did I have the easel of all easels worthy of displaying the art of the Masters. No. No, I did not. But I did have SIX identical CRAPPY easels.

The point of all this being that I had spent months getting along just fine with or without that blasted easel and this, I feel, is a good thing. But I also see as a good thing, the ability to look around at a situation and say hey, if we do this, we can make this other thing over here, so much better, then find a way to make that happen. So I've been working on that and I find it's working for me.

My principal suggested incorporating a program that important training would be given monthly. The only catch was that many of the teachers would have to get a substitute on the same day once a month. The former me would have said, "Okay. I'll make that work." But the growing me thought about it, developed an opinion, shared that opinion, and found myself changing the course of the outcome. Maybe this comes naturally to many of you, but this is progress for me. I am finding a voice. Troubleshooting. Purposefully allocating resources instead of wasting them on 6 easels (which just take up space in my closet right now. 2 years later.) I see this as a process of moderation. "Moderation in all things" That's what they say. I'm getting the hang of that one too.