Slice of Life Tuesday: Adventuring!

On Thursday, I'll walk into the Admin office of a new school district, sign my name on (several) dotted lines, and become a 4th grade Language Arts teacher at a scary terrifying unfamiliar foreign new school. It's been one of those crazy unexpected possibilities that seem to keep popping up -- an interview in a school district I hadn't anticipated working for, a job offer at a school that I didn't mean to fall in love with, a position doing the things I love most: sharing my passion for reading and writing with children that are learning what it means for them to be independent readers and writers.

There's not much to complain about.

In fact, this all fell together so easily that the panicky parts of me are still spinning; waiting for the punchline.

But if nothing else, I know this much is true: this August, I begin a new adventure.

And I am so very ready (blessed, lucky, fortunate, unbelievably giddy) to follow this path wherever it may lead.

Doubts be damned.

“Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.”

Shakespeare -- Measure for Measure (Act 1, Scene IV)

Writerly Wednesday: Beware the Kraken?

Let's start with the important announcement of the day:

I am a big, fat liar-head.

After spending last week revising my current picture book manuscript, I felt like I needed to push it through my crit group one last time. Sadly, this means waiting a couple of weeks before I get to send in my YA chapters (which I promised last week I would do!), but it felt right to keep working on the picture book. The more I revise it, the less it feels like me and I wonder what that means. Is it not really picture book material? Should I pour more into it and sculpt it into a chapter book? Do I have any clue what I am doing? Is it all just complete crap? Or, of course, the most logical place for my brain to leap:

Maybe I'm not a writer, after all.

Yep, that's right -- I'm admitting it. When I have even the tiniest mouse-sized doubt enter my mind, I immediately jump ship -- and although I may be wading in ankle deep water, I'm envisioning sharks and squid and the Kraken all torpedoing straight for me. Death is imminent, my friends. Imminent.

So let's review, shall we?

How I feel when doubting myself as a writer:

Actual level of threat when said writing is in "peril":

And even though somewhere in the extremely tiny logic-side of my brain, I know -- I KNOW -- I am being ridiculous... I still mope. I'm not sure if this has ever been identified in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, but it really needs to be. We can call it Writers' Hysteria Syndrome.

Please tell me I'm not alone here.

In other news, here are some nifty writerly websites I spent time at this week (when I wasn't throwing darts at my WIP, I mean.)

1. Query Shark - a crit partner sent me here, and it's genius. Really. You can trust me, regardless of how the above rant may prove otherwise.
2. Verla Kay's Blue Boards - I'm sure I've shared this before, but it's really worth the time if you're working on building your craft!
3. Jo Knowles' LiveJournal - I just finished reading See You at Harry's, which is wise and beautiful and funny and true, and you should read it too. Jo has been posting weekly writing warm-ups in conjunction with Teacher's Write, and they are always a great way to get started.
4. Stenhouse Blogstitute - this is a great site to follow if you happen to be doubly blessed as a teacher and a writer (hahaha). This week Jeff Anderson is the writer and he shares some great tips, including...

A writer in motion stays in motion.

Kind of difficult to argue with that, even if your logic-center is as small and whispery as mine tends to be. So I guess this week's lesson is simply this: The Kraken is less likely to get you if you keep in motion!!

Or something. I'll leave the lesson-learning up to you.

Writerly Wednesday

June was a writerly kind of month! There was...

• Kate Messner's Teacher's Write! Virtual Workshop (which is -thankfully- still happening!)
• North Star of Texas Writing Project's Young Writers' Camp
• A brand new Caffeine-Fueled Online Critique Group
• Fleshing out a new WIP, and
• Editing a close to finished PB manuscript

While each of these felt monumental in my growth as a writer and a teacher, I think I've learned the most about myself through our new critique group.

People. Let's be honest. Sharing your writing is hard to do. It's not like sharing a recipe, or a good shoe sale, or a brownie -- although, honestly, sharing brownies is pretty hard, also.

But sharing writing is different. We see it in our kids at school -- at the beginning of the year, when I offer the opportunity for author's chair, I am met with a resounding silent wall of dread. It takes time for them to dip their toes in and realize there are no sharks waiting to snatch them off to the deep, dark terror they are anticipating.

As adults, although we like to consider ourselves all grown up and mature and stuff, it's not so different.

For our first round of critiques, I shared my picture book manuscript with the group. There were a few good reasons for this: it's short, it's been through some revisions already so it's a quick and easy piece for me to work on, I reeeaaalllllly want to get it out into the hands of publishers, and I don't have a high level of emotional attachment to this particular piece. It wasn't blood, sweat, and tears to write. It's uber low-threat on the share factor.

And the critiques came back exactly as expected. They saw the same places I had noted that needed changes. They gave excellent advice. It was a nice, safe exchange.

But again. Let's be honest. It was a nice, safe exchange because I am scared to release my YA novel's hand and let it go skipping merrily down the street to meet other people all alone! In fact, after finally rereading it to begin revisions, I realized there is so much more work I want to do with it (so much that needs doing!) -- and I basically wilt when I think of showing it to anyone in its current state of imperfection.

In fact, I've been so upset over the necessary revisions on this novel, that I have pretty much ignored it for the past two months. Basically, I'm hiding it in a closet until I can deal. It's good I don't handle parenting the same way I handle writing. Yipes. 

However, serendipitous as my life has been lately, even though I have attempted to shove that sucker in the closet and move on to new things, my precious novel won't give up. It's in the latest news stories I see snippets of on Twitter and FaceBook, it's singing to me through my favorite songs, it's waving to me from books I am reading, and it's bubbling up and sitting right beside me in my dreams.

Apparently, my sweet little novel has decided she's done spending time in the closet.

Hai. My name is Kelly. And I am an Insecure Writer. And next Monday, when it is time to submit pages for critique, I am going to send in my baby -- the first chapters of this novel that won't let me go -- and although it may hurt, I am going to grow because of it.

And if I'm lucky, so will my novel.

In Which I'm Proven Wrong, Yet Again

Remember how I promised my kids I would actively seek out publication for some of my writing? (And then threw a big hissy fit, positive it was going to kill me?)

And then got this crazy idea to write a completely new picture book manuscript, and take it through all the steps that lead to having an actual-factual book sitting in the stores? (Also: resulting in hissy fit.)

Yeah. I'm still pondering what on earth I was thinking, but it appears -- and I know this will shock you -- it's not quite as bad as I had imagined it to be...

I've followed the Face Book group Writers Support 4U! for a while now. Mostly I just lurk the posts, feeling sorry for myself -- look at all these writers writing! look at all these writers publishing their work! look at all these writers interacting!


Seriously, yo. I'm not really sure why I even joined if I just wanted to creep up on them Peeping Tom style, and not actually participate.

But last week I finally did more than hit the "like" button on a random post.

I asked about critique groups.

The response was quick and painless, and as a result I'm the newest member of a weekly Skyping writer's group and an online critique site.

The picture book has been critiqued twice on the site so far, with some really great feedback! I've got some ideas on a few changes to perk it up a bit, and both critics left me feeling hopeful about sending it out to publishers.

I also read the manuscript to my class, proving to them that I am, indeed, sticking to my word -- they had the same reaction as my own Littles, which was another plus. Laughed in all the right places, and because we so often critique each other's work, they also let me know what was strong and what needed help! What amazing little writers they are becoming!

This weekend I'll participate in my very first Skype critique group. I expect w(h)ine to be involved. (You didn't think I would give up complaining that easily, did you?)

It's good to be moving forward. New possibilities keep springing to mind. And I'm sort of falling in love with that.

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.

Thursday's are Bittersweet

This is seriously rough. But this has been tumbling around in my head, refusing to let me write anything I'd actually want to share. If, after reading it, you find yourself wondering what on earth I'm talking about, go here.

Most days,

I’m okay.

Wake up.

Get dressed.

Feed dog.

Make coffee.

Drive to work.

Teach class.

Read, write.

Relate.

Communicate.

Go home.

But Thursday’s are bittersweet.

On Thursday:

Drive thirty minutes,

pick up the son

that doesn’t live here

Anymore.

Eat dinner.

Laugh.

Watch TV.

Play games.

Pretend

Everything is okay.

Time’s up.

Drive him home.

Share.

Connect.

One last hug;

One quick “I love you.”

Car door slams.

Exhale.

Swallow hard.

Push tears back.

Breathe.

Drive home.

Alone.

Missing the son

that doesn’t live here anymore.

A Wild Imagination

"I'll probably vomit, you know.”


I say this to my husband, avoiding eye contact.

I had just shared my student’s comments about publishing my writing with my husband, who just nods and smiles knowingly, as he's been trying to get me to send things out for publication for months. His smirk of a smile irritates me, and I roll my eyes.

"You don't know how hard it is!" I say. "There's research! And you have to write query letters and find the right people to send it to! It doesn't just happen overnight!"

And still he smiles.



Stupid smiling husband who thinks he knows everything.

And it's not as if I've never looked into it. I follow author blogs! I read agent and publisher websites! I know things, for goodness sakes!

I've been to the website for the SCBWI so many times I have their logo burned into my retinas. I haven't joined, because, you know, then I'd feel like I should go to the critique groups and then I'd have to actually share my writing with people.

Yes! With people! Is there anything more horrifying than that?

He doesn't even look at me.

"At least it'd give you something new to write about."

"I mean it! And I'd cry! I'd go to share my stuff, start crying, throw up, and die of embarrassment. Right there, on the floor of the super awesome writer's meeting."

He sort of half glances at me.

"It could happen," I say. I force my smile to rein itself in. Even I know I'm being ridiculous, but if he sees me smile, he wins this round.

He sets his book in his lap, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "It could happen, I guess. They might kick you out for that. I probably would. But then you could write a new book about all the mean people, and it would be so good they would buy it and you could laugh at them!"

He wins. I can't help it; I'm laughing even though I don't want to.

But this publishing thing is just a fiasco. Have you ever seen those TV shows where some crazy dude is trying to solve a murder on his own, so he has approximately 800 yards of yarn strung back and forth all over a room connecting one newspaper clipping to another, with maps and headlines and big bold circles around the important bits?

Yeah. That's how I feel when I peek out from behind the curtain and view the big bad world of publishing.

Beginning to Wonder

Today I (finally) picked up a copy of Wonder by R.J. Palacio. There's been such a buzz about it online recently that I've been dying to get to a store and dive in. We've talked about it in class; the kids are super eager to read it and compare it to Out of my Mind. Because of all the hubbub surrounding it, I expected greatness. What I did not expect was to be pulled nearly 30 years into my past, sucking back tears within the first few chapters.

I begin each year with my new batch of fourth grade students the same way -- the story of my very own first day of fourth grade.

Beyond any other year in school, it's my most memorable first day. It stands out above the beginning of middle or high school, and is even more vividly stamped in my brain than the first day of school in Soesterberg, The Netherlands. And being in a brand new country was pretty impressive, so I think that speaks loudly about my 4th grade memories.

Fourth grade was a year of new things: new house, new school, new state (we had just moved from Florida to Nevada); oh yeah, and one other thing -- new face.

Perhaps I left that detail out. On our family road trip that lead us to my dad's new assignment at Nellis Air Force Base, we were in the type of wreck that leaves your car flipped over on the side of the highway, resembling a small burnt-up toaster.

Fortunately, we all lived through it.
Unfortunately, half my face tried to fall off in the process.

So I began my new school as a pale, sickly, stitched up, bald spotted (head injuries are the worst, man), fraidy cat with dark circles under my eyes. I was pretty much a fourth grade zombie. That might be a point in my favor today, but back then zombies weren't exactly in.

This is the image in my head on each first day of school with my own students: staring through the window on the classroom door; one hand poised to grab the doorknob and walk in, one foot ready to tear through the school and run all the way home.

I actually love sharing this story with my students, because I think it tells them a few things about me --

1. I know what it feels like to be different.
2. My first goal every year is to make sure everyone feels safe socially and emotionally. All that other crazy academic stuff will fall into place after that.
3. I'm real.

They always respond the same way -- shocked that other kids were so mean to me, amazed that I look "normal" now, and ready to share their own scary school stories. It's a great way to start -- we get all the first day of school anxiety off our chest and happily move on.

It's an important story to share, and I'm glad there are authors like Sharon Draper and R.J. Palacio willing to write it all down.  I've tinkered with my own kid-sized Frankenstein story through the years, told in various ways, wondering if it's a story worth finishing.

And I think the first few chapters of Wonder have given me my answer.

new test, no fear

This year I keep hearing the same things over again:
Standards have changed!
The new STAAR test is more rigorous!
Writing must happen across the curriculum!
There's no time for the fluff writing that used to happen!
FEAR! BLAME! GUILT! WORRY!

Uh, okay... so my 4th grade students have the unique experience of being the first to take this new, highly rigorous writing assessment at the end of the year.

So they are expected to write two short pieces instead of one longer piece.

And one of these compositions will be an expository piece.

Oh, and don't forget the stamp across every thing we're told this year, "No. Fantasy. Writing. At. All. Period. No. Matter. What."

At district meetings, there is nail biting and fretting and eyes filled with horror.

At faculty meetings we look at graphs and bullet points and pie charts on the importance of rigor and excellence and content area writing.

And at each meeting, I grit my teeth and swallow down the words I want to say. No, let's amend that. I swallow down the words I want to scream:

Who cares?!

I mean, in all seriousness, why should this test alter what we've already been doing? My students write what they want, how they want, and whenever they want. Along the way I offer them learning experiences that hone their skills and broaden their craft.

The point is, if you lead your students to love learning, it doesn't matter what tests get thrown at them. A master learner has no reason to fear being asked to show what they know. We're delighted to share our knowledge.

We have already been writing expository pieces, to explain our learning across the curriculum, persuasive pieces, letters, poems, narratives, and God forbid, the poor stepchild of the 2011 writing year, fantasy. When they have free time, they'd rather write than read or even draw. When I offer writing opportunities outside of school, many of them jump at the chance to participate.

If we are already doing what is best for students, the introduction of a new rigorous state test is not a reason to freak out and board the windows against the demons of free thought.

Let the STAAR come, I say, and we'll show it what we're made of.

slice of life tuesday: it's about the kids

30 days ago, I was excited to bring a cornucopia of new ideas into this school year. Plans for a new word study program, ideas from writing workshops I attended over the summer, and a commitment to a daily math workshop all acted as catalysts to launch me happily into a new year of experiments to enjoy.

2 weeks ago, I walked through the hall towards my room, smiling to myself at how fortunate I was to spend my days doing something I love. I couldn't imagine doing anything else. The ideas I brought into the classroom were shifting and changing into activities that would work for my students. Although there were bumps along the way, I felt confident.

7 days ago I left a meeting feeling like all my hard work meant nothing, that it was impossible to meet the needs of my students, balance the desires of my principal, and implement the type of instruction I believe in -- all at the same time.

This morning I welcomed my intern and quickly found a way to involve her in the class, focused on my students, laughed at my mistakes, and generally enjoyed the day with my students. I almost recaptured the beginning of year joy, almost let go of the mounting stress.

This afternoon I sat down to a faculty meeting where I listened to a woman encourage us to stay positive and bit my lip through a discussion about testing -- although my mind rattled and the words bubbled up in my throat so fiercely that I thought I would either burst into tears or burst into hysterics if I didn't speak up.

Tonight I'm thinking about the devotion so many teachers have to their students. Not devotion to a test, or an objective, or even a single subject or style of teaching. It's not devotion to a campus, although we do certainly tend to become territorial! We get up early each morning, often shuttling our own children out the door, already thinking about our students. We spend the day at our wit's ends, racking our brains for that one right way to reach each student. After hours each day trying to find the solution of how to fit the monstrous amount of necessary teaching into a schedule that laughs at anything more than the bare minimum, we say goodbye to our students, go back to our rooms, and begin grading, planning, assembling, and plotting all over again.

I'm thinking about how I fill my huge bag each night and drag everything I can fit into it home so I can continue working. I'm thinking about sitting behind my laptop or a book or papers into the late hours of the night, grading and planning and assembling and plotting ways to make sense of the days that are completely beyond all sense.

I'm thinking that it doesn't matter if you call it a TAKS or a STAAR or any other name. It doesn't matter if we teach TEKS or Common Core. It’s not about the data or the numbers or the graphs and the statistics.

It’s about the kids. It’s about the pure, real learning that happens when children and teachers meet each other every day ready to work together. It’s about keeping it real in a school system determined to forget that teaching is not about the numbers – it’s about the kids.

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.

Shut Up & Write

I had a great conversation today with my sister about writing.  I told her that, if I were to be completely honest with anyone (booorrrring!), the truth is -- I have more unfinished pieces than finished.  Coming up with ideas is never a problem.  My insanely vivid and bizarre nightly dreams provide ample resources.  I could probably become rich and famous just blogging the weird & wacky places my mind travels each night.  Ideas are easy.  There is a very small list of things I know I do well as a writer.

In case you're wondering, dialog is not on this list.

Neither is finishing the damn thing.

I get angry.  I get mopey.  I get depressed.  I get more snacks out.  I get on Facebook.  I get the insane notion to research bits and pieces about my story that don't really need to be researched quite yet, and spend hours looking for obscure information.  I get tired.  I get a headache.  I get many, many things.

What I do not get, my friend, is further along in the storyline.

Last night, I was listening to a podcast at Writing Excuses and realized that I have GOT to stop staring at the same paragraphs, revising, rearranging, and rendering myself useless.  It doesn't matter if it's slop, at this point.  I have an entire storyline in my head.  I know where it ends.  I know the major conflict.  I play it out in my head over and over.

But when I see it on paper (word processor? stone tablet? whatever.) I get skittish.  Suddenly the words seem silly, the ideas aren't always what I thought they would be, there are parts that lag and need tweaking.

When I let my OCD Evil Twin take over, I will tweak that one part until my fingerprints disappear from manic typing.

So.  So what?  After the podcast ended, I just wrote.  I winced at some of the words, but kept going, knowing I will definitely go back later, because if I never push the story along, there will never be a story.

And that would be a miserable regret to look back on.

I started this post with the idea that I would give you a list of reasons (it was going to be ironic! sarcastic! witty!) why I can't write today.  But I guess even I have to admit, the only thing that ever truly keeps me from writing, is me.

**Interestingly enough, as I was sitting down to write this, I decided to check out a few of my new favorite blogs, and over at Shannon Messenger's blog, she's talking about writer's block, or the lack thereof.  Check it out!**

Share n' Scare

I really have to wonder who the heck came up with the whole "sharing is caring" slogan.  Definitely not the emotionally stunted people I grew up around.  "Sharing is Scary" is a much more apropos slogan.  Even kids know the real deal.  How many kids have you ever seen that waltz right up to someone, hand over their favorite Barbie, Hot Wheel, or video game, and say, "Hey man, I care, therefore I share."

Nope.  Not one.  And you wanna know why?

Because kids don't say "therefore" dude.  Seriously?  Sharing is scary.

Granted, the time with my unbelievably awesome new friends with the National Writing Project made sharing much easier.  But I'm not sure even they understood how gargantuan a thing it was for me to share with them.

The first time I read something I had written, I could feel my heart beating in my eyeballs, for Pete's sake.  My. Eyeballs.  I lost my breath a couple times and had to stop reading.  Okay, I know, I'm just more than a little insanely freaked out about talking in front of people and even moreso when it comes to talking about something so personal as words I've strung together into some semblance of a poem or story.

In fact, reading to my NWP peeps was the first time in all of my odd little adventures through adulthood that I had ever read my work to a group of adults.  Kids?  No sweat.  My classroom is a completely different story (harhar).  I can write down just about anything and they're ooh'ing and ahh'ing as if I just completed a Pulitzer Prize winning masterpiece.  And we have fun.  We play with words, we're all learning together, I tell them.  I make it a point to create an environment where risk-taking is looked forward to, because we're learning.  We're growing.

But outside the eternal experimental playground that is my classroom?  No dice.  I've just never been very good at opening up and letting people see what's on the inside.

A few writerly friends have seen the things I deem worthy of sharing, mostly pieces that have zero autobiographical influence.  This was much easier when I wrote nothing but fantasy.  It's hard for people to pick out the veins of your own life that color a story when it's smothered in fairies and magic and folk song.  But the personal stuff?  The --I just bled my heart onto this paper and it's full of demons and disasters so please respond KINDLY, Dear Lord, whatever you do, or I may have an aneurism and die right here in front of you-- that stuff?  Yeah.  That doesn't typically make it to anyone else.  Safer to keep the boogey man tucked away from innocent eyes.

There is one exception to this rule: The Husband.  I have no idea how I lucked out in this department, but this man knows me inside out and upside down and somehow, he still adores me.  I absolutely don't deserve it, he's much better at the whole marriage thing than I could ever dream to be, yet I keep working at it, thinking that eventually I'll somehow be able to show him how much he means to me.  And since he knows me, and isn't (hugely) freaked out by all my fun little neurotic issues, he is the one person in the world I can trust, no questions asked.

So he gets to hear (lucky him!) all the writing that I would typically save for myself.  The crazy, wound-up, gut-wrenching, painful stuff.  The hopeful, romantic, dreamy, mushy stuff.  And everything in between.

You'd really think he'd stop responding so well in hopes that maybe I'd stop reading to him so constantly.

But each time, he listens, he advices, he laughs (and sometimes, I actually catch him a little teary eyed -- we're just going to pretend that it's from great emotional response and not bad writing), and most of all, he inspires.  He motivates.  He pushes me to keep going, to keep trying, to just get it all out on paper.

I've never had that before.  A champion.  Someone in my court, no matter what, come what may, all in, no looking back.

So pardon me if I gush.  Forgive me for my sentimentality.  Excuse, if just this once, that I'm all googly eyed and giggly.

Because everyone should be this fortunate.  Everyone should have someone that will stand right next to them, pick out all the thorns, rub away the pain, and nudge them to keep moving forward.

I hope you do.  You deserve it.

Wherein I Scatter Proper Nouns Hither and Yon

Today was an amazing day filled with poetry, and naturally, that made me very happy.  At NWP we talked about how to let kids use today's lyrics to get inspired for poetry.  We read poetry.  About dogs. (Completely unrelated to the discussion on lyrics!)  Poetry and cute little cuddly puppies!  C'mon, that's fun!

I know, I know.  The Husband often looks at me that way too.

This week, I need to finish eight (EIGHT) of my multigenre pieces, slap down a piece of writing I think is suitable for the anthology, and say goodbye to all my wonderful new friends from Summer Institute.  Not looking forward to any of that.  Well, the writing part wouldn't be so bad if I had half a second to think clearly and finish it.  Oh, and let's not forget the goal of sparing a minimum of 30 minutes a day on my WIP.

Tomorrow is our Open House (this is the post of many proper nouns!), in which I get to show off the amazingness that is Summer Institute to The Husband and friends.  Also, I will meet Donalyn Miller, author of The Book Whisperer!  I am so excited!  I certainly hope I don't do anything stupid, like say, babble incoherently and come off as a complete nincompoop.  Sadly, I can see both in my future.

And this is a particularly ridiculous thing!  I am a grown woman.  I am a teacher.  I am moderately intelligent.  She is also all these things.  What separates us?  A book.  A published book.

Oh, and the fact that she is quite obviously a teaching genius.  My rockin' awesone teacher status is yet to be seen.

Regardless, I'll be sure to take pictures, and attempt witty conversation.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Life

It isn't surprising, I suppose, that I haven't had much to say I have been been so quiet in the past month.

Not surprising, but still disappointing.

When I write, I feel most sure of myself.  When I write, I work out all the problems that keep me up at night, bouncing around my head as if I were an all-night racquetball court, begging for players to come in and tromp around the courts for a while.

When I write, the chameleon slinks away, and I stand alone with myself, and I am not afraid.

Sadly, life rarely cares much for whether or not I have time to write.  Even sadder, the more stressed I am, the less time I tend to make myself take for things like, shall we say, staying sane through daily writing.

The past few weeks have been like a roller coaster with a side of crack.  Way too much sensory overload, not enough time to digest my circumstances before the next bend, dip, loop, or terrific twist comes my way.

Did I mention the TAKS for reading and math are next week?  Next. Week.

Or that my principal may honestly die from disappointment if we don't make exemplary for the 4th consecutive year?  No lie.

How about the fact that I'm still waiting to hear back about grad school?  Seriously.  How hard is it to get one university to transfer information to another university??

Then there's the maddeningly happy fact that I get to be a part of NWP's summer institute this year!  Still dorkily excited for summer to arrive.

Oh, and I'm packing up my big seven person family and moving to a new area in a house that seems impossibly large?  Who's going to clean that beast??

Then there is that resume I need to finish if I actually hope to have a shot at applying for that new position... oh sweet momma, have I lost my mind??

Not to mention: Dos' school has decided I absolutely, positively, without-a-doubt simply must turn in paperwork proving he's an Aspie if I would like his 504 to remain in place?  EARTH TO SCHOOL -- have you met my kid??  Paperwork should not be necessary here!

Among other, less interesting tidbits of life from the past month, I'm actually surprised I've held tight without any major interruption in my regularly scheduled moments tiptoeing through the world of the sane.

Sorry, Dad.

I'm driving to work.
I'm in bed late at night, laptop open, working on a school project.
Sitting on the couch, watching some mindless tv show.
Pushing a grocery cart through the store, alternating between speed-shopping and contemplating ramming my cart into everyone in my way.

It doesn't matter what I'm doing.

When my phone rings, and the name "Dad" glares at me from the screen, I always feel the same.

A sucker punch to the gut.
The air rushes from my lungs.
Suddenly, I feel as if I may either pass out, empty the contents of my stomach onto the nearest (hopefully) empty receptacle, or both.
And the guilt.  The horrible, nagging, heart-wrenching guilt that follows as I watch the call pass, listen to the voicemail alert, and slip the phone back into my pocket.

One day I may regret this.  Sometimes I watch my phone sadly, wondering if he's calling to say he's sick, something's wrong, he needs me.

But for now, all I can hold onto is this small degree of separation, this minute piece of a barrier between alienation and the emotional onslaught that will most definitely hit us like a tsunami the next time we speak.

Let's get this thing on the road, already

I feel a bit like Captain Hook, followed tediously by the tock-tick-tocking of time that refuses to be stopped.

I've done all I can do, my kids have grown so tremendously that I can barely remember the fear that kicked me in the gut at the beginning of the school year when I realized just how extreme one class can be from another, and we are one day of instruction away from the writing TAKS.

Tomorrow will be a day full of team building, pep talks, and good ole stress relief.

I know my kids are ready.  I hope I've let THEM know how amazed I am by their progress.

I'm just ready for the day after the TAKS.

Wherein I Brag Endlessly About Myself

Typically, I have a difficult time taking credit for things I've done.  Well, strike that.  If it was something bad, I take all sorts of credit, with much moping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, as if the hand of God is poised to strike, cobra-style, and smite me.  Of course, so wrought with guilt am I, that complete smiting seems out of the question.  Probably a partial smite, I fear, which will leave me horribly scarred and handicapped for life.

But back to the point (oh yes, I do actually have one).  When I have something to be proud of?  Some giddy piece of news?  I keep it to myself.  Hide it away, not wanting to brag, not wanting to draw attention to myself, to be seen as someone that ... what?  Actually knows that she deserves praise, just like any other human being on the planet?  Not really sure what that is about, and not willing to spend countless hours and endless dollars chasing the truth, I've decided to take a moment to babble childishly about a few things worth noting.

First, the easy one:  I've lost 15 pounds in about a month, by some hardcore dedication to sticking with my current cutting plan.  10 more pounds and I'll be ready to go a little ballistic in the gym, and I'm about two months ahead of schedule on my long term goal.  Sticking with something and seeing the results is a great feeling, especially when this is such a "no room for error" plan I'm on, and considering that it's TAKS craziness season, when the chocolate flows through the school corridors like a river after a long rain.

Now, the not so easy.  Maybe it's because these aren't carved in stone, so there is no true accomplishment to speak of, unless you count the courage it took to take this step.  I fret over telling people about my hopes, in case they don't become realities.  I like to keep my disappointments to myself, thank you very much.  However, I have just submitted two applications about which I am spinning between rambunctiously happy and nauseatingly anxious.  And, whatever comes of the decision to try, I am at least proud of making that choice.

If I am lucky, I will be one of the few educators at the North Star National Writing Project Summer Invitational this summer, where I will spend each day (each! day!) during the month of June learning about writing and literacy and how to improve my own writing as well as that of my students. (A WHOLE MONTH WRITING WITH OTHER WRITERS! Erm, okay.  Sorry.  It's just -- c'mon, how can I not want to do cartwheels about this possibility??)  Sadly, I discovered this opportunity a full month after the application deadline, but after reading my sad, dejected emails, the director allowed me to submit an application and followed up by asking me to submit answers to about 10 interview questions.  They weren't difficult questions -- my only fear is I responded a little too enthusiastically, but trying to dim my excitement when being asked about writing in my classroom was a bit like trying to snuff out the sun.  So ... now I wait.  I'm so hopelessly in love with the idea of spending a month being back on campus at UNT, learning and working on one of my favorite things, that I alter between obsessing about the possibility and lamenting about that damned deadline I missed.

Of course, when I make a leap, I figure better make it good!  So why stop there?  Why not go all out and apply for grad school at the same time?  Yes, ladies and gentleman, that's exactly what I've done.  My application is in, my letters of recommendation are being penned and sent on their way, and my statement of purpose, after days of serious scrutiny, is complete.  If all goes well, I'll be back in classes by the fall, working towards a degree in curriculum and instruction that focuses on writing.  Luckily, my advisor swears to me that my GRE score won't play much of a part in my enrollment, and I'm scheduled to take that beast of a test in June.

It feels good to have so much possibility right at my doorstep, and I'm eager to set off in this new direction.  I've kept this news to myself, only my amazingly patient husband has had to listen to me drone on (and on, and on) as I list all the reasons these decisions are so perfect for me.  Part of me wants to hold it all in to myself, a warm hug that I don't have to share with anyone.  Another piece of me wants to yell to anyone that will listen, "Look what I am doing!  Look how much fun I will have!"  But, I wait.  I suppose partially because if I don't get in, or if something happens and I'm not accepted into my grad program, I don't want the sad, "So sorry it didn't work out" look from friends and coworkers.  And I don't want to hear the normal, "Are you sure you're not doing too much?" questions I tend to have tossed my way, because, really, when am I not doing too much?

I love to be busy, to be wrapped up in new projects, to be pushing through difficult goals.  I thrive on challenges and tend to find myself a little lost and gloomy when I don't have something new to work on. So.  Here is to doing too much.  To cups overflowing with the business of life.  To living.  And, I suppose, to having the courage to say, "I am here, my pursuits are worthwhile, and today, I am proud of my accomplishments."

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...