#Slice2013 - Day 20 of 31

I've found (often) that when I struggle to find something to write about, the truth is the problem doesn't really lie in finding a writing idea.

Most often, it's a problem of not wanting to write about the thing most pressing on my mind.

Take this month, for example. Nearly every day I've found myself at 10 or 11 at night, shouting, "Oh no, I haven't Sliced!" before dashing off to grab my laptop. (Procrastination, much?)

Even then, I sit poised at my screen (which, no kidding, glares angrily at me, as if even the laptop itself is saying, Girl, you ain't kiddin' no one!) with fingers hovering over the keys, trying to come up with something worthwhile to say.

It goes a little like this:

Write about how you're struggling to keep it together.
No, that's lame. Stop whining.
Write about how upset you are with yourself for not eating the healthy foods you know you should be eating.
Geez, you are such a broken record. Just start eating healthy and then you won't have to write about not eating healthy! Duh. Besides, how many times can you possibly write about struggling with food?
Okay, fine. Write about how you used to workout --and love working out-- all the time.
OMG WHY ARE WE STILL THINKING ABOUT THIS STUFF?? 
Um, okay, I guess I'll write a poem or about work or maybe a book I read, then...

I'm not making this stuff up, guys.

Almost. Every. Day. This. Month

And the truth is, I don't write about the food stuff and the workout stuff and the health stuff because I am ashamed.

I'm ashamed that five years ago I was in the best shape of my life, never let a morsel of fast food or soda or candy enter my mouth, worked out like a beast three to five days a week, and was HAPPY. I'm ashamed that I let the difficult times in my life become a food-fest and I stopped working out. I'm ashamed of how much weight I regained. I'm ashamed that last year I paid a trainer for six months to help me get back on track and I DID get back on track, but then I immediately fell back off again when I switched jobs last year and fell under the stress bus again. I'm ashamed of this cycle I keep going through because WOW how am I not smarter than this??

So for 21 days I've ignored what is most on my mind because I don't want to whine about it. After all, I caused the problem myself. But I feel sort of hopeless in this area right now, and each morning I wake up and tell myself I'm going to be better ... but then I don't.

So for 21 days I've wanted to say all these words that basically amount to: I'm ashamed.

And writing about it helps, because once I see the words I realize that it's the shame that is keeping me down. Shame likes to hide in the quiet space in our heads. The space we don't let people see. Shame is very comfortable moving into those spaces and taking up residence. And shame will stay a long time -- our whole lives, if we let it.

There is no room in a healthy life for shame. Shame is the thief of joy. And although I can think about the things I want and the things I believe, it isn't until I write them down and see those words that I can fully process what it all means.

Writing the truth is important, especially the big truths that we don't want to see. The ones we want to hide from. But that's where shame likes to hang out...

And shame is the thief of joy.

So for tonight, I'm celebrating truth and joy.

And for tomorrow, I'm practicing putting more joy in each of my moments, because that's where success lies. In the joy of every moment, practicing following the path I want to be on.

(I finally had the courage to write this because a friend on FaceBook shared this post on forgiveness at jonacuff.com)

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.

A Teachable Moment?

Last Thursday began like any other day. Except it didn't. Not at all.

At approximately 7:45 in the morning, I opened my eyes, grabbed my phone and nearly threw it across the room. 7:45? How could this be possible? My students start filing into the classroom at precisely 7:35 every morning!

And here it was, 7:45, with me still in bed. Instantly, I felt sick. By the time I was running for the bathroom to start throwing myself together, my phone was ringing.



A coworker wondering the same thing I was, "What on earth is going on?"

I eventually made it to school, still shaking from anxiety and adrenaline. My entire body throbbed with the dread of facing my students. What could I possibly say to them?

"Sorry guys, I was asleep while you were sitting here wondering where I was."

After taking a minute to calm my frazzled nerves, I called my coworker's room and had her send my class to me.

I took a sip of coffee and stood at the door, waiting. It was only a few minutes before I heard them bubbling up the steps and headed toward me.

Show time!

With a winning smile I greeted them, gave out hugs and high-fives, and told them to grab their writing journals and meet me on the rug. I politely smiled through all the questions about where I had been.

Once we made it to the floor with journals and pencils in hand, I sat down and asked the question burning in everyone's mind -- "So, let's hear it. What could have possibly kept me from being here with you this morning?"

The answers started out simple: I forgot it was a school day, I had a flat tire, I got caught up reading and forgot the time.

"Oh c'mon," I laughed, "No aliens? No mystery? What a boring morning I must have had. Certainly something crazy must have happened to keep me away from you."

I saw the lightbulbs go on above their little heads.

"A fire! Your house caught on fire and you had to save your dog!"
"Someone padlocked you into your house!"
"Aliens captured your family and you had to save them!"

And on and on and on we went... until I stood up, went to the board, and wrote this:

I told them they had 10 minutes to write anything they wanted to explain my tardiness, and suggested this would be a fabulous time to go nuts with figurative language. With that, I turned our music on, started a timer, and began to pace the room.

At the halfway mark, I heard groans -- they had too much to write and not enough time!

When the timer went off, I had to practically pull still scribbling students from their seats.  But it was time to share, and everyone wanted in on the action.

We laughed our way through the next 21 explanations for my late morning, our personal favorite including my untimely parachuting into a warzone and abysmal attempt at shooting my way out of the chaos (I shot at everything I saw, but missed every shot!). In one story my car broke down, so I rode a turtle to school. In another, I found a secret portal in my closet and sped away to a new world. In still another, I was a part of a high speed chase!

By the time we finished reading, we had to head out the door for P.E. and the poor kids never did find out the real story of my out of sync morning. But I have to say -- their versions were much more exciting! And an excellent opportunity to play with figurative language and revision.

Thankfully, my epic teacher fail was saved by their imagination and fantastic writing skills -- a teachable moment, after all.

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: my scrambled august

Two Writing Teachers

It's August.
August is a scrambled month.
The last swirls of summer tug at me, begging me to swim, play, and laze about.
The first hint of school rolls in, urging me to plan and schedule and prepare.
I'm busy reading and writing; there is little time to finish up the last bits of professional development I wanted to do, but I begin to feel greedy with my time -- I want to hold fast to these precious moments.

Today I spent time at the pool with my nieces and nephews and my own two littles. They splashed and played while I watched, journal in hand, working on my current work in progress. Their giggles and screeches were warm and rich. You'd think a morning at the pool with six children that can't swim on their own might be stressful. But it wasn't. It was one of the last breaths of summer, and it was divine.

This afternoon I met with a student I'm tutoring. We worked on math facts and problem solving. It was quiet, just the two of us with heads bent over the table, talking and working together. Her hair was wet; she had come straight from her new pool. My skin still smelled of sunblock. We sat suspended between two worlds, both unsure which we preferred.

August is a scrambled month.
A good month.
A oh-this-is-living kind of month.
And I'm glad it's here.

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.

Going Primal

I just finished reading The Primal Blueprint by Mark Sisson.  I read the first few chapters out loud to The Husband, since we were driving down the road and I wanted someone to share the information and discuss it with me.

I love reading this way, plunging through a few paragraphs, stopping to throw out a comment, reflect, ask questions, discuss connections.  Reading PB was transformative for me, but I think perhaps not for the same reason as most people.  Maybe I’m wrong.  You tell me.

Here’s what I learned, as a brief incredibly long and rambling timeline:

January 2007

Thrown into nutritional reform due to my mother’s midnight Emergency Room visit (which resulted in a diagnosis of diverticulitis).  I swore off everything fried, fatty, and fast, dropping my nightly Ben & Jerry’s pint for more veggies and fruit.  Although I was overweight at the time, my main concern was changing my horrible habits so that I would still be around when I had grandchildren and actually be healthy enough to enjoy them.

I searched the aisles at Barnes & Noble until I came up with a heart-healthy cookbook that would help me reach my goal of less processed food prepared quickly for a hungry family.

I joined the local Y, and dropped in every day on my way home from student teaching, spending 30-45 minutes either walking or slowly jogging.  The weight machines were curious, elusive aliens that I watched but never approached.

June 2007

In only six months, I had dropped 70 pounds.  I walked for graduation at a happy 150, smaller than I had been in high school.  I had moved from daily walks to running 2-3 times a week.  Even when we went out with friends, I opted for lean meats and veggies.  I loved the way I ate; I no longer felt tied to calories or the scale.

August 2007

My first teaching job begins.  I learn quickly how difficult it is to maintain a healthy lifestyle when surrounded by doughnuts at staff meetings, chocolates during training, and baked goods from parents.

January 2008

At 165, I seek out a personal trainer to help me learn my way around a weight room.  I’m petrified about lapsing back into a life of unhealthy eating and a scale that reads 220 or higher.  For the next six months I meet with my trainer 2-3 times a week to lift hard, do minimal cardio bursts, and sprint through the parking lot dragging her along behind me.  I give up running; cardio is boring once I discover the fun of my new circuits.

June 2008
I am a lean, mean, muscled machine.  I feel strong, healthy, more vibrant than I can ever remember.

Summer 2008 in a Nutshell

Although I made huge physical strides in 2008, and felt better about myself than I had throughout my life, I suffered a huge hit on a personal/family level, which I allowed to tear me down.  This was my fault -- not the problem, but my intense reaction to it.

I spent the summer in a daze, hurt and depressed.  I abandoned workout out, rarely ate any of the fortifying meals I had become so accustomed to; in fact I rarely ate anything. (At first.  Then came the tsunami of food.)

December 2008

By the end of the year, I managed to pull myself back together, but the damage was done.  I was out of my routine and lacked the willpower to get myself back in the gym.  I was still fairly close to the same body shape and weight from earlier in the year, and I think I let that safety net become a guise for my new lackluster desire for optimum health.

Summer 2009

Back to my old habits.  Fast food, soda, lying to myself.  “Everything in moderation is okay,” I told myself.  At 170 pounds and  too financially strapped to head back to my personal trainer, I decided to make changes on my own.  My thoughts were completely different from my original 2007 desire for health, however.  I missed the image in the mirror.  I missed how 
I felt when I was lean.  Let’s face it, I missed feeling sexy.  With a roll of fat popping out of my skinny jeans, I was angry with myself.

The pictures I had taken along my journey haunted me.  Flat belly, strong biceps, lean legs.  I wanted it back, and I wanted it FAST.

The focus was not on heart-healthy nutritious foods anymore.  I needed minimal calories, high protein for muscle building, low fat, low carbs.  I needed immediate results.

I was back in the gym, walking or running or climbing for one or two hours at a time.

I was back in the gym, lifting weights, when I wasn’t online researching methods to build muscle and drop fat as quickly as possible.

Oddly, with all my sprints and long runs and heavy lifting and minimal food -- nothing changed.

Well, nothing changed quickly enough for me.  I dropped about 10 pounds (mostly water I’m sure) and toned out a little, but mostly all I ended up with was an insane hunger for more food, and frustration over my slow results.

In the months that followed, this became my pattern.

Work my butt off, starve myself with packaged “foods”, get discouraged and binge.

Honestly, you’d think I just plain became an idiot during that time period.  I already knew what worked -- I’d done it before!  


But I was so hellbent on quick answers that I kept chasing my tail.  Never getting any closer to my goal, always getting further away from a healthy self image.

February 2010

I discover Lyle McDonald’s Rapid Fat Loss plan.  Less than 20 grams of fat and carbs a day, lots of protein, and forums full of people (mostly men) proclaiming oodles of weight loss.  The problem?  They complain of dizziness, nausea, low energy levels, and random digestive issues.

No matter, I can totally do this, I think.  And I do.  Egg whites, tuna, veggies -- no fruit, no nuts (which I miss terribly) -- but for 4 weeks I manage to feast on mostly protein.  I drop 12 pounds, look leaner, and actually feel pretty amazing.  Lots of energy and mental clarity.  I wish I could eat little to no carbs all the time, but Lyle’s book talks about glucose and your brain and metabolism issues -- and honestly, after a while I just get sick of tuna.  And eggs.  And turkey.

Off for another round of yo-yo’ing.  

June 2010

I read Born to Run by Christopher McDougall.  I remember my original love for running, learn a lot about tribal nutrition, barefoot running, and survival.  Something in the back of my mind begins to click into place.


July 2010
I’ve been following the blog Diary of a Modern Matriarch  for a while, but she started a new blog, Primal Matriarch.  It’s all about “eating primal”.  I’m digging the recipes she shares, and the abundance of fruits and veggies she talks about.

I email her, and she tells me about PB by Mark Sisson.  Lots of veggies, fruits, nuts, meat, eggs ... and the list goes on.  All the foods I love. (It reminds me of the Rapid Fat Loss Plan, but doesn’t swear off all the delicious fruits and nuts and dairy that I crave)

As I read the book I’m talking with The Husband about this horrible merry-go-round I’ve placed myself on.

All in the name of the perfect body.  Beauty.  An image.

Yeah, it makes me sick too.  

We talk about how when I originally lost 100 pounds it had nothing to do with how I looked, and everything to do with how I felt, and how I wanted to feel in 30, 40, 50 years.

PB reminded me that what matters most to me is not how cute I look in a bikini, but how much time I’ll be able to spend running down the beach with my grandkids when I’m all wrinkled with time.

It reminded me that when I was able to lose weight and get healthy I was NOT eating processed junk.  I was enjoying real foods: foods rich in color and taste, that grew out of the ground, could be eaten raw, and didn’t require an expiration date for me to know if they were okay to eat or not.

It reminded me that when I enjoyed working out I was lifting heavy, playing around with cardio, and sprinting once in a while.  I was doing these things in short sessions, a few times a week.  Not every day; not for hours at a time.

It reminded me that the way it all started for me -- nothing fatty, fast, or fried was exactly what I needed; what I should have returned to instead of banging my head against the pantry door looking for answers that don’t exist.

I have come full circle.  The way I originally became healthy was by having a true desire for health, no matter how long it took.  I looked for foods that would strengthen my heart, deter cancer, lessen the risk for various diseases.

When I lost my way, I tried to find every shortcut home possible.

I learned there are no shortcuts.

I’ve been eating primal for three days now.  I feel stronger, less bloated, and proud of my choices.  Sure, I’m giving up grain, but I feel I’m getting a lot in return.  No more calorie obsession.  No more starving myself.  No more praying for a quick fix.

This is the only body I have to work with.  I’m worth more than a constant, frustrating hunt for a shortcut that doesn’t exist.  

I’m worth more than always wanting a body that is only seen in airbrushed magazine ads of 14 year old girls.

I’m worth a lifetime of healthy eating, playing in the sun, enjoying myself and my family.

Celebrate Your Muchness.

I finished the draft of the (rockin awesome) proposal to my principal in hopes of inspiring her to let me teach a boys writing class twice a week this year.  Dude, that's a really long, terrible sentence, but I am tired and that's just how it's going to stay.  My apologies.  Sort of.

Writing this letter brought up so many hopes and fears for the upcoming school year.  Being a part of the National Writing Project has (drumroll for the oncoming cliche, please!) been a life changing experience.  Like, clouds parting, sunbeams streaming down, Hallelujah angels singing, and all that jazz.

I'm stoked.

We're toppling into July, I haven't had one summer-ish day in all of June, and all I can think about is the many exciting new things I'm eager to try out in my classroom come August.

I want to take all this knowledge, all this affirmation, all this ALLNESS from the past month and wear it like armor into the oncoming school year.

Because, although annoyingly optimistic, I'm not stupid.

I know what is likely to happen upon settling back into my classroom.  I can hear the, "You want to do what??" and "Why are you causing so much extra work for yourself?" and all the other darts that will be thrown my way, popping little holes in my puffed up "But this is how it's supposed to be!" perfect world dreamland.

And sure, I've always been the one to head upstream, vigilantly shouting, "Let's try it this way!" when everyone is staring at me like I'm wearing the Emperor's New Clothes.  I get it.  I'm the girl with the crazy ideas that are sure to fail...

Only, they don't fail.  And when they do, I revamp, and come at it from a new direction.  My excitement makes my kids excited.  They can't even help themselves.  They're uber-peppy by association.  I love to read, they love to read.  I love to write, they love to write.  I love to do jumping jacks, they spring out of their seats and cheer like I just announced we're going to Disney World.

It's an interesting thing, attitude.

So I'll cling to my realization that --wow-- there are so many other teachers out there that think the way I do, and I'll stand firm on my belief that what kids need is a teacher dedicated to toughing out the hard parts with them and cheering with them in every victorious moment --no matter how small-- and sometimes, just sometimes, when I'm verging on forgetting what's important, in the face of TAKS tests and standards and assessments and paperwork and meetings and insane schedules and seemingly impossible and annoyingly unnecessary hurdles, I'll close my eyes and remember 16 women writing quietly together every morning, sharing through tears, learning new ways to climb mountains, and above all, celebrating in each other's "muchness".

(How's THAT for long and rambling sentences that spread out before you like a road untravelled?)

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.

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.