Something I Can Still Do

It's 11pm, but I'm hurriedly doing a once-over on the house because we have friends coming over first thing in the morning. My husband and our 15 year old are pilfering the freezer for ice cream, laughing and talking about the trip we're taking tomorrow. I'm sort of half aware of this, but mostly I wondering where my oldest son is right now. He's been at an all day music festival today, and I'm expecting to hear from him soon. Although 18 now, I think I worry more every time he leaves the house. He's not just shooting baskets in the driveway or riding his bike down the street anymore. These days, when he walks out the door he could be headed pretty much anywhere.

My mom-brain hasn't worked out the right neural pathways to deal with this yet.

As I shove too many dishes into my groaning dishwasher, fill it too full of detergent, and ignore the arched eyebrow of my darling husband, my mind wanders to a discussion I overheard earlier tonight. I only picked up bits and pieces of it, but they were talking about a group of teenagers, reckless driving, a death, and possible jail time.

I silently curse myself for allowing these kinds of things to pop into my brain. The faces of Steven and all his friends, being driven around in a big old van by one of Steven's best friends, drifts through my thoughts. I slam a cabinet shut and start scrubbing countertops.

My phone rings, and I must look like an Olympic track and field gold medalist, hurdling past our slumbering dog to answer it.

"Hey Mom, it's me. So... I'm okay, but... the concert was great! But, so, I fell and I'm hurt and there's a lot of blood..."

Neurons fire. Pathways form. Time for my brain to learn how to deal with 18 year old Steven.

"Okay, Steven, just explain what happened."

And he does. A lot of rambling words about racing his friends back to the van, a curb that appeared out of nowhere like the boogey man, causing him to basically launch forward and slide across the pavement for what his friends estimate was a good ten feet.

I breathe. I grab a countertop. I ask more questions.

"Where are you right now?"

"We're still in Grand Prairie, we haven't left yet, so Ryan's going to drive me up to the front of the arena. There's a first aid center there, and we'll have them check me out. There's a lot of blood. There is just a lot of blood."

Yes, I think, my stomach curling in on itself, I believe you have mentioned the blood several times.

I want to teleport myself there. Grand Prairie is a good 30-45 minute drive from us, and I just want to be there in that van with those kids -- with my kid -- and fix this whole situation right now.

"Ok, man. That sounds like a good plan. Go see First Aid and give me a call as soon as you've talked to them."

"All right, Mom. I love you."

And we hang up. Simple. Easy. The kids-become-adults have got the situation under control. There's an unknown amount of blood pouring out of my son's body, but not to worry. Some kid in a First Aid clinic out in the middle of nowhere can treat him and send him on his way, lickety-split.

I look up at my husband, suddenly aware that he and Daegan have stopped kidding around and are staring at me. I give them a short recap of the conversation. Isaac just shakes his head.

I go back to cleaning, to shuffling things around, the way I used to shuffle these boys around from school to soccer practice to birthday parties and home again, when they were younger. It was so much easier then, when I had the illusion that I was in control of their tiny little worlds. Now their world is huge and open and as wide as they can imagine it to be, and I love that the possibilities in front of them are endless.

And I hate it, just a little bit, too.

A second phone call lets me know that he is fine, although the people at the First Aid center only looked at him, didn't treat him. He has some road rash, a little dehydration -- nothing major.

I breathe. I put the phone back down. I calm my mind. I think again of the teenagers affected by the car accident earlier this week. I don't know how people put the pieces back together after something that tragic. I count my blessings.

By the time he walks in the door I'm waiting, first aid kit in hand, ready to help.

Because for now, that is something I can still do for him.

So Quickly

They grow up.

Your mom warns you. "Don't blink, it all goes so quickly," she says. "One day you're changing diapers, the next you're sending them off to college." And she shakes her head. She chuckles.

You think she is crazy.

It all goes so quickly? What a joke! What is quick about diapers and dishes and the ever present disaster in this house? Quickly. She's off her rocker.

You're convinced you'll have these moments forever. Relaxing together after Kindergarten, reading stories at bedtime, cheering at soccer games, hunched over homework.

These days are long. It's only the night that goes quickly. That last stolen glance into the bedroom; peaceful sleeping faces nestled against Star Wars bed covers. You yawn, mentally ticking off your list of to-do's before you too, can sleep.

But still, her words echo in your mind.

You close your eyes.

Middle school dances, pizza parties, last minute research papers; an uncomfortable itch starts to settle in your mind.

Was she right?

You blink.

There are high school schedules to figure out, which may as well be a corn maze attempted with a blindfold. You sit side by side deciphering the wide world of electives, thankful that they still want your help for something besides movie money.  Suddenly: Driver's Ed, dating, football games, first jobs, and then; an order form for a cap and gown?

It all goes so quickly, you think.

Why didn't anyone warn you? You need more time to prepare!

You chuckle. You shake your head.

And want, fiercely, to call your mom.

The Problem

The problem with writing is this:
there are too many words, too many
ideas; popping up like springtime dandelions,
ripe to be carried away by the wind.

This was nudging itself around my head while I tried to sleep last night. It's still barely a seedling, but I'll play with it... if I don't lose it, or forget the words, or worse, accidentally delete it...

I've been thinking a lot about organization of writing and what to do with all the ideas, all the words, all the fragments that I've collected.

Do I start a new journal for every new story? I new file folder? Buy a hard drive just for my writing?

I need to do something. Right now I have journals, files, documents, napkins (seriously), you name it -- strewn through my life like a breadcrumb trail.

And honey, we're not gonna make it home on bread alone.

So I pose this question, friends: how do you organize your writing? I'm ready to learn.

revolution by the seat of my pants: today, we learned.

Last night I watched some TED videos. I needed inspiration. I needed to slide back into my teaching sweet spot. I wanted to see something truly innovative.

I found this video:

Watching the video, I was captured by the wonder and intrinsic motivation that seemed to sweep the children away into a new style of learning. But Mitra was working with children that had barely ever seen a computer. My students would yawn at the technology that had enthralled the kids in this study.

So how could I take Mitra's work and make it meaningful to my own students? How do you amaze and dazzle kids that have technology literally at their fingertips 24/7?

Today, during a typical math lesson, I decided to give it a shot.

We've been working on strategies for solving word problems for a while now. Nothing amazing; I introduce a method for working through a problem, they practice it together, then they do some work independently. By now, they are fairly confident when working through a problem, but they still make mistakes and don't really take the time to think about whether or not their answer is reasonable. As long as an answer is found, they seem happy. I rarely witness any true wonder or joyful curiosity.

Today was different.

After spending about a minute to review steps that can be used to solve a story problem, I placed this problem on my document camera:

Following Mitra's lead, I gave them the following rules:

• Everyone will work in a group.
• If you feel your group isn't working for you, find a new group.
• Feel free to switch groups as often as you like.
• Use whatever resources you have to solve the problem.
• You can look at what other groups are doing, and report back to your group to help each other out.
• You may not work alone.
• Everyone in your group must agree on a final answer and be able to explain in detail why you are 100% confident it is correct.
• Once your group is in agreement, find another group and make sure you agree with them.
• Everyone in the room must agree on the correct answer.

In the beginning, it was quiet. Groups worked together, just like any other day. Within minutes, they started bringing their math journals to me -- as they always do -- seeking affirmation.

"Does everyone agree with your answer, and are you all able to explain why it's correct?" I asked.

I had more than a few angry glares and exhausted sighs as the kids shuffled back off to work.

After a little while, things began to heat up. I roamed the room and watched them work, smiling and encouraging them to keep working. It didn't take long before two major groups formed. They battled wits, arguing about why each group was right.

There were some tears. I stepped in and modeled appropriate and mature debate language. We continued.

Lightbulbs began appearing. Kids abandoned groups. Reformed. Abandoned. Asked questions.

They stopped coming to me.

No, dude, seriously. They stopped coming to me!

Remember, this is all work on one single math problem. After more than an hour of debating, calculating, and rethinking, a single answer started to find its way around the room.

They beamed at me, proud of their work.

"But... how do you know?" I asked.

More glares. More sighs. More shuffling back to work.

They wrote diagrams and tables and all sorts of things. They checked and rechecked. They talked it over with their groups. They checked with other groups.

Meanwhile, I roamed the room snapping pictures and taking short video clips of their work. I won't lie: I was in heaven.

Finally, we were ready to discuss our work.

Someone from each group came to the whiteboard and showed, in implicit detail, how they found their answer. They talked us through it, making sure we all understood every step they took.

Every group had come up with an entirely different method.

Every group found the correct answer.

I am stunned by the ways they solved this problem. Having little to no background knowledge with long division and decimals, they invented color coding systems and charts that were the stuff of genius.

After every group shared, I modeled how to write about what they had done. I told them writing two sentences that they had added or divided or "worked it out" wasn't going to cut it anymore.

With my word processor up on the projector for everyone to see, I talked them through my 2 page explanation of how I solved the problem.

And then they wrote. For minutes and minutes, word after word after word, pages upon pages, they wrote.

I couldn't be more proud of them. Although it was frustrating and uncomfortable, they kept plugging away.

All because of one 17 minute video watched late on Wednesday night.

Today, we learned.

Slice of Life Tuesday: Rejecting the Rat Race

Somewhere after midnight Saturday but before the sun popped up with its bright hello on Sunday morning, we put down our bags and laid down our heads and uttered silent thank you's to our beds for still being here to greet us.

It's good to be home.

But home comes with many invitations, and I find myself hypersensitive to the pull of the never-slowing hamster wheel of activity our society has created.

There are birthdays to plan and school supplies to buy and lessons to prepare. Dogs need walking and clothes need washing and I need exercising! Children want dinner. Bills must be paid. And did I mention lessons must be written?

I tend to throw myself in every direction at once, like one of those crazy amusement park octopus rides with arms flying everywhere, spinning wildly out of control.

As long as I keep everything neatly packaged and spinning perfectly, as long as everyone is having fun -- well, there's no harm in that, right?

Perhaps. At least, that's what I used to believe.

But a new thought has been tapping my shoulder and begging to be noticed. A quieter, less juggle-minded, calmer thought.

What if, instead of attending to every invitation, every idea, every request -- what if -- I carefully choose how I spend my time? What if instead of spinning and whirling and juggling, I simply relax and let life flow. I can choose how I spend my time and define my own priorities instead of allowing them to be defined for me.

This year I will regard the many invitations to join the rat race very carefully. This year I refuse to let another person or idea dictate what is important for me and my family. This year, when stress levels rise and anxiety begins to creep inside my classroom, my home, or my mind, I am prepared to sweep them away with these words:

1. First, do no harm. (Positive thoughts about myself and others)
2. Breathe and be in this moment only.
3. Do something kind every day, for myself and others.

More on these three concepts later. For now, it's time to cuddle up with a good book. The dishes can wait.

Summer Slipping By

The past few weeks have been too full and too frenzied to summarize here, but I'll try with a list:

• Road trips, especially with 5 children, are loud and lovely
• It is possible to lose weight and feel better on vacation -- I have proof!
• The scritchscratching in the back of my head about what I "should" be doing is very loud when I am trying to relax.
• I love the just-before-dawn hours, the purple hazy grey hours, driving down the road, 5 kids asleep, chitter-chatter-laughing with The Husband as we go.
• Momster is still Momster.  I doubt now that she will ever change her eating habits, and it makes me very sad.
• Everyone should enjoy food from a farmer's market.  There is nothing else like it.
• There is still not much better than a tube to float on, a cold drink to keep you warm, and a spring-fed river to replenish your soul.
• It is possible for a 13 year old boy to break a 35 year old woman's heart.  Dos has decided to go live with his father.

There is much more, and the memories are like fish swimming about in my head, and maybe -- if I can get out the words about Dos, about my tiny boy -- my little monkey -- my rope climber, face licker, raspberry giver, misdiagnosed originally, hug squeezing little Aspie that will be sleeping somewhere else in a couple of weeks ...

Well, if I can get all those words out, maybe I will find something more to say.

Road Trip 2010 Begins

The truth is, I'm a highly anxious, easily stressed lady.  Granted, if you see me out in public, you'd probably never notice this.  Throw me into chaos at work, and I can quickly come up with solutions.  If you aren't looking closely, you might label me as patient, diplomatic, clam.  Hence the chameleon.

Fling a whopper at me when I'm just around my closest family, most trusted friends, and you get a whole different monster.  Literally.

For the past few days, we've been busily preparing for our big yearly road trip across America.  This involves a ridiculous amount of strategy, given the fact that we have to take all our camping equipment with us up to the northern most part of Michigan -- and when I say "us" I'm talking about myself, The Husband, Uno, Dos, the two Littles, and Uno's best friend Dos #2.  Whew.

Since I don't like to stop at fast food places along the way, this trip also requires that I spring into Ultra Mom mode, and bake, make, mix, and organize snacks and meals and such for our journey.  So besides everything else we're bringing, we now need a huge cooler and a box for all the other food items.

Yipes.

Then there is my nonstop fear that we're going to have some terrible malady besiege us and drain every last dollar we have.

I won't even go into all the other worries and concerns I have before we set out.

All these worries, concerns, and craziness can easily result in what I lovingly call, "Ultimate Freak Out of Doom."

Trust me.  I've done it many times.  Temper tantrums, tears, you name it, I've done.

It's really rather embarrassing.

Luckily, last year something changed this.  For the first time ever (and dude, this is a serious accomplishment), I was able to plan, prepare for, and set off on our trip -- without a nervous breakdown!

This year, we've added three more kids and two more stops along the way.  I'm beginning to wonder if I have a desire to torture myself.

But, once again, I've been able to hunt and gather the necessities, get everyone rounded up, and in about 15 minutes, we'll be out the door.

The secret ingredient to my success?

The Husband.

He calms my fears, eases the tension, sets me back up on my feet when I topple over in a tizzy.

Granted, just thirty minutes ago I was standing in the driveway as he was zipping around loading things into the van, barking orders and looking a bit like a timebomb.  It just took a few words, and hand on his shoulder, and he visibly relaxed.  Things got packed, a little less stressed.

So off we go, Iowa bound (for starters).  I am so fortunate to spend the next 17 days surrounded by laughter, silliness, and definitely some good road trippin' karaoke.  But definitely, no ultimate freak outs. And that's a nice thing.

Choices

It seems I have two modes I live in, one in which I ping-pong around all energized and happily eating up life, doing the things I love, immersing myself in my wide and oddly random array of interests (this would be happy, loving, peaceful Kelly), and one in which I workworkwork and tear through project after project, busily filling the needs of coworkers and performing wild circus stunt type uber-learning experiences to the delight of my students, but leave myself drained to the point of lumbering around during non-work hours in a sort of zombified numbness (this would be morose, blank, grumpy Kelly).

I used to believe that I was a sort of super woman ultramultitasker that could do it all.  And hell, maybe I was.  Perhaps I can blame this switch on age.  It seems to become increasingly easier to blame just about anything on age... in the past I could work 10 hours, runningrunningrunning all day, solving problems and leading a team on to victory (huzzah! huzzah!), then go home, whip up a tantalizing dinner, get some housework done, read to children, and stay up half the night playing video games.

I can't even remember the last time I sat down and played a video game.  That makes me a little sad.

Lately, I've been in full force work mode, and it's left me with little else to give once the work is done.  Or perhaps more problematically, the work never seems to be done.  I bring oodles of things home with me, and yet the piles of things to do rarely gets smaller, and each night, I'm toting more and more and more things home.  Papers to grade, new learning methods to examine, a little research here or there, always looking for a better way to teach this or that.

True, this is the time of year that things tend to spin hectically out of control -- TAKS tests looming in the not so distant future, expectations from admin and parents become a little more in your face, and those kids that are just bordering on success haunt you in your dreams.  There must be something else, I say to myself like a broken record, there must be something I'm not seeing.

And so, my personal life becomes a shadow, and the time I had for toying around with my camera, writing here or working on the story idea that I've been playing with, and all the other small things that make life interesting fade away, for the time being.

Worse still -- and I truly wish I could pinpoint how the hell this happens -- I basically cocoon myself protectively into my wall of goal-oriented data-driven know-how, and find myself a little emotionless towards everyone and everything around me.  I don't mean to turn into a brainless drone ... but then, there it is.

And finding the switch back into being a real girl is not always something I know how to do.  It's as if my emotions have gone on vacation, not left a forwarding address, and will be back just as soon as they damn well please, leave a message at the beep, k, thanks.

Even writing this now I am thinking about the work I should be doing instead.  But at some point, isn't enough really enough?  I feel somewhat like an 80's self help guru chanting mantras about being good enough, gosh darn it, but I think in order to wrench myself out of this funk I am actually going to have to make a date with myself for at least 15 minutes a day -- to write, to read (non-work related stuff!), to play with my camera, to snuggle with my husband.  I wish I could add gaming to that list, but 15 minutes of rpg'ing awesomeness would just be salt in one of my zombie wounds!

Perhaps those minutes, few as they are, will help me sweep away the cobwebs and find my "real girl" switch once again.

You Win Some...

A few weeks ago I decided that I was definitely, no matter what, come what may, taking January 27 off from work.  One of my best friends was having surgery, Uno and Dos had half days at school, and I really need to go have my last name changed all official-like.  Lots to do, perfect day to miss work without guilt.  A done deal.

This past week, I realized that this was just not going to happen.  Serious work issues, then multiple coworkers out sick, one at the hospital with her son.  My team needed me.  My class needed me.  I just couldn't miss.  I could just figure out another time for the official name stuff, find rides home for the boys, and my friend was surrounded by family so I could check up with her later.  Ok.  Fine.  Work was going to win, this time.

I woke up nice-and-mind-jarringly-awake at 7:45 this morning. Seven! Forty! Five!  OH, what a great start to the day.  I leaped out of bed, ran and banged on the boys doors, and like any decent Drill Sergeant, began barking out orders.  I grabbed my phone, called the school, and informed them I was running, oh, an hour late.  They swiftly informed me there was no one to cover my class, due to all our specialists being needed for testing today.  Awesome.  That meant one thing -- my principal would be with my class until I got there.

At approximately 8:05, we ran from the house and jumped in the truck, me hoping against all odds that I could still, at the very least, save the boys from being late because I am an idiot.  Dos was my first delivery, one full minute before he was supposed to be in class. Good luck, kid, I think, as I tear off en route to Uno's school.

I'm beginning to feel a little better, knowing I have plenty of time as I round the corner to the high school, when I spot the police car sitting in the median.  Nutburgers, I think, knowing my time has run out.  My inspection is expired, and seriously, I know it's not difficult to renew, but, as stated earlier, I am an idiot, and I just haven't taken care of it.  Now, any other day, I think I may have scooted past him unnoticed.  But oh no, not today.  I drive past, and he does a slow turn around, lights blaring, and I sigh, pull over, and tell Uno, since we're sitting right in front of his school, to hop out and get to class.  He shakes his head, says, "This is not your day," and ambles off to class.

Tears are already forming.  I cannot stand being pulled over.  I hate this reaction, this stupid dumb-girl overspill of emotion, but, there it is.  The officer comes up, talks about my inspection, and all I can do is nod and cry.  Insurance card, he asks?  Well, sure.  Oh... but... no.  I haven't put then new one in the truck, so I'm sitting with an impotent slip of paper that does me no good.  More tears.  He hands me two citations for being, what was it?  OH yes, an idiot.  And I'm free to go to work, now sobbing, because, I don't know, maybe I should have just taken the stupid day off from work and none of this would have happened to begin with!

Arriving at work, I get my dumb girly emotions in check, walk-run to my classroom as fast as I can, thinking, Okay, my kids know the routine.  They do the same thing every morning, they've got this covered.  I am going to walk in and they are going to be pleasantly hard at work, just like they do every morning.  I have taught them self-reliance.

Except, I haven't.  One of the specialists is in my room (Score! My principal didn't have to come to my class!) and my kids are noisy, wandering the room, confused.  I breeze in, asking what they are working on.  They stare at me, wide-eyed.  They do not know.  I ask what we normally do each morning, and they tell me.  Then a massive OOOHHHH from the little darlings, and they rush to get started as I unload my packmule assortment of bags I carry in each morning and the day gets started without much ado.  I thank the specialist, and off we run.  We have things to learn, thank-you-very-much.

Fifteen minutes into our morning work, my principal steps in. (Can I take back my earlier pronouncement of AWESOME, please?) She was, in fact, in my room earlier, and the kids told her all about the things we are working on, and oh, by the way, when you have a second could you please email me with a time we could meet today?  And then she was gone.

No "we must chat about your kick-butt teaching strategies" or "I can't believe you left your class hanging and lets discuss how irresponsible you are".  Just -- email me, goodbye.

Thankfully, the meeting was not a scolding for my idiocy, but a necessary discussion of things to come.  Thankfully, the rest of my day was fairly easy.  And most of all, thankfully, my amazing husband showed up at 1:00, handed me my rings that we had send off to the jeweler to have soldered together, and asked for my keys, as he was taking the truck to be inspected.  He hugged me, talked to my class, gave me his big "I love you" smile, and he was gone.

And just like always, I felt immediately better.  How is it that just being in the presence of one person can have such a calming effect on me?  As nice as it would be for me to learn some of my own self-calming techniques, if I could bottle what he does to me, I would be a freaking billionaire.

I ended my evening by taking some dinner to my friend in the hospital with her son, calling my other friend that had surgery today and making sure she was well taken care of, calling my mom and telling her about the coin drive I organized for the relief fund to Haiti, and soaking in a hot bath.

So all in all?  Not a bad day.  Not bad at all.  Sometimes, in the climax of all the turmoil that surrounds me, when I am freaking smooth out, as I am prone to do, I really need to just take a step back and remember how blessed I am.  My children are healthy, my husband is amazing, my class is growing daily, and I am much stronger than I give myself credit for.

And with that, I believe sleep is in order.  Must remember to set my alarm clock...

Not My Best Moment

Yesterday, I drove through a roadblock.

I wish this were a beautiful or simply witty analogy for a major milestone of my growth, reflecting the majesty of my awesome spiritual/emotional/blahblahblah progress.

Sadly, it is what it is.  I. Drove. Through. A. Road. Block.

But in my defense?  It was a really horrible day!  The evidence speaks for itself:

1. I woke up late.  I refused to tear my lazy butt out of bed, because I don't seem to think I need to go to sleep until after midnight.  This caused me to flood the house in a wake of chaos and frustration, driven by my own self-loathing brain rattling cry of, "Way to go, Ms. Responsibility.  Even your CHILDREN were ready to go before you.  Like you couldn't have forced yourself out of bed 10 minutes earlier?  What kind of mom are you?"
2. Therefore, I left my breakfast on the kitchen counter, which I had stayed up til midnight lovingly baking for myself the night before (yes, I can lovingly bake things for myself!).  My delicious and nutritious egg & spinach muffins were most certainly devoured by my giant horse of a chocolate lab within minutes of my truck backing out of the driveway. Stupid, mouth-breathing, hairy beast.
3. On the way to drop the boys off, I frantically began a mad search for my classroom key, which is always --yes, always, I don't make mistakes, duh-- sitting in the center console of the truck.  No keys.  Nokeys.nokeys.nokeys, and this topped off by items 1 and 2, threw me into a panic.  I was already late, so by the time I got to school, there would probably be kids waiting at my door, which AWESOMELY, I would be unable to open.  Splendid.
4. Because my leadership abilities refuse to stay hidden, I am currently the team lead for my grade level.  I email all my happy teammates with important tidbits for the week, which, within minutes, is being replied to with the news that I am giving them bad information, and my plan for the week won't really work because, oh, in case you had forgotten Kelly, you are a moron.  Gotta love the self-talk that spirals downward until you are sitting in a pool of sticky black ink, praying for the last swell of oxygen to leave your sad, angry, little body.
5. Prepped my kids for the writing test they would have to undergo the following day, which always makes me feel a little like a bloodsucking muckity-muck, because the way in which we force them to write seems to have the express ability to turn them all into one massive UniAuthor with several sucktopus tentacles waving about haphazardly as they die, ever so slowly.  I spend every day attempting to keep their inner-writer alive and not suck their creativity away.  Testing days are painful for me.  And them.  So by the end of the day, I'm on high-alert, red-flag, ABANDON SHIP OR DIE mode.  And I flee from the building just as fast as my feet can carry me.

Reader, you may be looking at this list thinking, "Really?  REALLY?  This is what got you all out of sorts?  When people are homeless and dying and don't have clean water and and and..."

To be honest, I think it, too.  Nonetheless.  Yes.  That is what had me all out of sorts.  Bite me.

So I pick up Dos, and we're chatting away and I'm trying to get home as fast as I can because a) if I don't get the chili cooking right now dammit, then we will all die, and b) Amanda Palmer is about to have a webcast, and since she is marrying my favourite author EVER, I figure I should know more about her.  I don't know.  It seemed important at the time.

The roads around the boy's school are currently torn to shreds with road construction, so I follow a detour sign onto a side street, which leads to a bloody roadblock with no freaking way out but to turn around, and no way to turn around due to all the damn cars lined up on both sides of the streets.  Also, as I am sitting there, staring angrily at the barricades, breathing deeply, two more cars pull up behind me.

I throw the truck into reverse, begin to back up, only to watch the driver of the SUV behind me stare vacantly in my direction, and stay put.  I slam on the brake.  I stare, seeing nothing.  I sigh.  I look at Dos.  He looks at me.  I stare some more, watching cars drive down the road in the direction I need to go, on the other side of the barricades.

I throw the truck into drive, drop an F-bomb in front of my child (MOM OF THE YEAR, HOLLA!), and weave through the barricades, a group of construction workers gaping wide-eyed at me, as I listen to the somewhat satisfying kathump-kathump-kathump of road blockades dying beneath my tires.

And then I went home.

And started my chili.

And watched Amanda Palmer.

And waited for the police to show up at my door, arresting me for things like civil misconduct and property destruction and public display of moronic behavior.

Thankfully, I think the only jail time I'll be doing is the guilt-infused cell I seem to keep myself locked in.  I wonder which is worse: imprisoned behind metal bars, or locked in behind years of self-amassed guilt? At least when your jail sentence is over, the gates open up and let you out.  With the guilt?  I've never managed to find the gate.