Saturday, May 26, 2012
Oh, my blogness.
Holy cow. I popped in on my blog for the first time in foooor-eeeeeev-eeeeeerrrrrr (what movie was that? Sandlot?) and the whole stinkin' thing has changed. I don't even know or remember what I thought I was going to write about, as I am so freaked out by the new format I am seeing right now. Yikes! Learning curve alert! Woooop! wooop!
I am going to a two-day workshop on google apps in early June. Maybe I'll get some super secret blogger tips then. Heck, I don't even know how to customize my layout - I just use one of the templates google gave me - so maybe at the very least I'll figure that out. But I'm guessing I'll learn more about synchronizing calendars and sharing docs and all that. Either way, I have always considered myself reasonably tech savvy, but lately I am seeing how dusty and rusty I've become.
Working with kids makes me realize how easily they can comprehend and adapt to the torrent of technology that pummels their generation. I know I can count on them to help each other (and me) figure out all the tricks that make using applications easier. This is a good thing. But I marvel at how few of their parents respond to (or even check) their emails - would they ever join an edmodo board? Or comment on a blog their kid kept? Or are they also overwhelmed by all the screen-time in our lives? If I were to position myself (and grow into the practice) as a 21st Century Literacy teacher, requiring lots of digital thinking alongside story times and conversations and handwritten journals, would the parents be inspired to grow with their kids? OR would they be out of the loop? Where do I draw the line?
A few Saturday morning thoughts I had no intention of having, I guess...
More soon.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Reasons I Love Teaching, Episode 3,492
I don't even know if I can sufficiently describe this moment of pure joy between my fifth graders and me this morning. But I want to record it, and I've already updated my facebook status too many times for an average person to appreciate today, so here goes.
Imagine my classroom, normally a busy and inviting place with desks clumped together in work groups and a big open place on the floor for us to gather around the coffee table and share. During standardized testing, however, the desks are all in rows, spread the required three feet apart. The work we've created for the walls is all covered up in scrap paper. The comfy-ness disappears. It's just ugly.
Knowing that all little people (especially mine!) struggle with sitting in a seat for a few hours straight, and knowing that I'd need to rest my brain after pushing it to its limit all morning, I allow the kids to bring a pillow or a lovey or combination of the two (pillow pet, for example) so they can sit comfortably and then nap on the floor when they finish. Yes, they are 10 and 11 years old, but who doesn't appreciate a good nap? Especially if that nap involves a purple unicorn and a frog blanket?
So, this morning, all the little well-rested and well-fed people were in their carefully selected seats, ready for us to begin, when one of my friends asked me if I would wear his necklace so he wouldn't mess with it during the test. Picture a silver chain, just long enough to go over your head, and just manly enough without being gangsta. Add the one-inch silver cross, and you can see how one might need one's teacher to help avoid distraction. As everyone was watching him taking off the necklace and me putting it on, another friend was making sure his plush brown Snuggie was adjusted perfectly so it would stay on in a slightly-bent-forward-over-a-bubble-sheet position.
Necklace Friend to Snuggie Friend: You look like you ought to be in the choir.
Snuggie Friend: Huh?
NF: That looks like a big fuzzy choir robe!
Another Friend: Naw, he looks like a preacher!
Me: I kinda think he looks more like a monk.
(Extreme giggles all around. It doesn't take much with this crowd. Imagine them murmuring, "She said he looks like a monk! You look like a monk, man!")
Now, I haven't mentioned yet that Snuggie friend has been bringing a grey wave cap for two days, as he doesn't want his new twists to get messed up while he is napping after the test. This is critical to the story, So sorry for having waited so long to plant that little part for you! Okay, back to the room...
So I start walking around chanting, while holding my Test Administrator's Manual like a Bible in procession. Pie Jesu, Domine... Much more giggling, but it was polite, as we were trying to set a proper tone for testing, of course.
And then it hit me - a terribly clever idea, a combination of all the comedic elements right there before me. I do think before acting most of the time, but I needed some more giggles in the room, and I needed them to be my own. So I went for it.
Me to Snuggie Friend: Dude, give me the robe!
SF: Why, Ms. Hays?
Me: Trust me! Trust me! It'll be great. (I don the robe. Children are silent with anticipation.) Okay, wait for it, wait for it... (I pull the big silver cross chain out from under the Snuggie and gently place it upon the microfiber vestment) Pie Jesu Domine... (more chanting with the TAM...)
Yeah, man, we laughed. Another friend suggested that I wasn't fat enough to be a monk (A+ for that kid!), so I snatched the nearest Angry Birds Plush Pig and shoved it under the frock, continuing my chant as the portly Friar Hays. Yet another noted that I should be bald. Enter the wave cap! Snuggie Friend put it on my head, and the full effect was achieved.
Yes, friends, I was a spontaneous monk this morning. And we loved it. It will be one of those "Y'all remember when..." moments my kids will have years from now, and it brings me so much joy to think that they will also remember that it was on the morning of some silly test. Okay, maybe they won't remember that part, but I will, because it will serve as a reminder that a little levity goes a long way.
So, as poorly and quickly told as this format and my time allows, there it is. That's one of the countless reasons I love what I do and where I do it. More importantly, that's why I love the little people I get to work with every day.
(And sorry, we didn't get a picture. All of our electronics were shut off for the test, duh!)
Imagine my classroom, normally a busy and inviting place with desks clumped together in work groups and a big open place on the floor for us to gather around the coffee table and share. During standardized testing, however, the desks are all in rows, spread the required three feet apart. The work we've created for the walls is all covered up in scrap paper. The comfy-ness disappears. It's just ugly.
Knowing that all little people (especially mine!) struggle with sitting in a seat for a few hours straight, and knowing that I'd need to rest my brain after pushing it to its limit all morning, I allow the kids to bring a pillow or a lovey or combination of the two (pillow pet, for example) so they can sit comfortably and then nap on the floor when they finish. Yes, they are 10 and 11 years old, but who doesn't appreciate a good nap? Especially if that nap involves a purple unicorn and a frog blanket?
So, this morning, all the little well-rested and well-fed people were in their carefully selected seats, ready for us to begin, when one of my friends asked me if I would wear his necklace so he wouldn't mess with it during the test. Picture a silver chain, just long enough to go over your head, and just manly enough without being gangsta. Add the one-inch silver cross, and you can see how one might need one's teacher to help avoid distraction. As everyone was watching him taking off the necklace and me putting it on, another friend was making sure his plush brown Snuggie was adjusted perfectly so it would stay on in a slightly-bent-forward-over-a-bubble-sheet position.
Necklace Friend to Snuggie Friend: You look like you ought to be in the choir.
Snuggie Friend: Huh?
NF: That looks like a big fuzzy choir robe!
Another Friend: Naw, he looks like a preacher!
Me: I kinda think he looks more like a monk.
(Extreme giggles all around. It doesn't take much with this crowd. Imagine them murmuring, "She said he looks like a monk! You look like a monk, man!")
Now, I haven't mentioned yet that Snuggie friend has been bringing a grey wave cap for two days, as he doesn't want his new twists to get messed up while he is napping after the test. This is critical to the story, So sorry for having waited so long to plant that little part for you! Okay, back to the room...
So I start walking around chanting, while holding my Test Administrator's Manual like a Bible in procession. Pie Jesu, Domine... Much more giggling, but it was polite, as we were trying to set a proper tone for testing, of course.
And then it hit me - a terribly clever idea, a combination of all the comedic elements right there before me. I do think before acting most of the time, but I needed some more giggles in the room, and I needed them to be my own. So I went for it.
Me to Snuggie Friend: Dude, give me the robe!
SF: Why, Ms. Hays?
Me: Trust me! Trust me! It'll be great. (I don the robe. Children are silent with anticipation.) Okay, wait for it, wait for it... (I pull the big silver cross chain out from under the Snuggie and gently place it upon the microfiber vestment) Pie Jesu Domine... (more chanting with the TAM...)
Yeah, man, we laughed. Another friend suggested that I wasn't fat enough to be a monk (A+ for that kid!), so I snatched the nearest Angry Birds Plush Pig and shoved it under the frock, continuing my chant as the portly Friar Hays. Yet another noted that I should be bald. Enter the wave cap! Snuggie Friend put it on my head, and the full effect was achieved.
Yes, friends, I was a spontaneous monk this morning. And we loved it. It will be one of those "Y'all remember when..." moments my kids will have years from now, and it brings me so much joy to think that they will also remember that it was on the morning of some silly test. Okay, maybe they won't remember that part, but I will, because it will serve as a reminder that a little levity goes a long way.
So, as poorly and quickly told as this format and my time allows, there it is. That's one of the countless reasons I love what I do and where I do it. More importantly, that's why I love the little people I get to work with every day.
(And sorry, we didn't get a picture. All of our electronics were shut off for the test, duh!)
Monday, March 19, 2012
Mojo
A few folks whose blogs I love have recently nudged me about my absence here. One said, "And what is up with YOU not writing?" Another simply cleared her throat in my direction. But a third nailed it today by questioning whether I had lost my writing mojo.
Yeah, I think I have. And I miss my mojo. Not just my writing mojo, but my teaching mojo, my parenting mojo, my wifing mojo, my friendship mojo... You get the idea.
Some people get all miserable and grey as summer turns to winter turns to fall. Me? I think I struggle more with the transition toward the warmer months. Can you get Seasonal Affective Disorder this time of year? If so, I have it.
Those of you who teach might understand better than those who don't. This is the time of year when everything is drawing to a close. We have testing and registration and talk of who-is-teaching-what-next-year to remind us that our time with our favorite people is drawing to a close. Each time we dust the pollen off our windshields, we are reminded that there is no more hope for a much-coveted snow day this year. The days get longer, and the little people are decidedly sleepier in the afternoon. I am left with little but my thoughts and reflections about how the year has gone while faced with the fourth quarter - which inevitably is gone before you know it. All of it gets to me a little. It's a what's-done-is-done time of year. It's too late to reset, too early to stick a fork in it and call it done.
And then there is all the remembering. March means momma's birthday. April means Daddy died. May means Momma died. I don't want those months to mean those things, but they always will, just like November means Thanksgiving and December means Christmas. It's not like I make a big deal out of it, or at least I don't think I do. But I notice. And I am not at the point where I always like noticing - yet. Just today, I was working on a prompt-response challenge with my little friends and one of them said something about one reason he'd like to meet Dan Uggla is because he plays for the Braves. When I asked him, "So what?" (My sneaky way to remind them to elaborate) he said, "Because I have always loved the Braves and my grandpa loved the Braves and I would love to meet him so I could spend some time thinking about my grandpa." Now, mind you, I had taught them they can always use the "Fake Grandpa" elaboration when they can't think of any other way to explain what they mean by one of their statements. But THAT Fake Grandpa choked me up!
Anyway...
It's the time of year when I realize I have been existing more than living. I just don't like that.
(So what?)
Existing is no way to live. I want to cherish moments, appreciate wonders, and use my time fully. I want to get the junk done I need to do so I can do what I WANT to do. I long for new challenges to embrace, new accomplishments to have achieved. I need that fresh perspective spring ought to bring to kick me in the butt and keep me going, looking for my mojo, reclaiming it.
So, thank you, fellow writers and friends, for reminding me about this way to process and express all the thinking that goes on in this noggin. I'm here, like the Whos Horton heard - I am here! I am here! I am here!
Yeah, I think I have. And I miss my mojo. Not just my writing mojo, but my teaching mojo, my parenting mojo, my wifing mojo, my friendship mojo... You get the idea.
Some people get all miserable and grey as summer turns to winter turns to fall. Me? I think I struggle more with the transition toward the warmer months. Can you get Seasonal Affective Disorder this time of year? If so, I have it.
Those of you who teach might understand better than those who don't. This is the time of year when everything is drawing to a close. We have testing and registration and talk of who-is-teaching-what-next-year to remind us that our time with our favorite people is drawing to a close. Each time we dust the pollen off our windshields, we are reminded that there is no more hope for a much-coveted snow day this year. The days get longer, and the little people are decidedly sleepier in the afternoon. I am left with little but my thoughts and reflections about how the year has gone while faced with the fourth quarter - which inevitably is gone before you know it. All of it gets to me a little. It's a what's-done-is-done time of year. It's too late to reset, too early to stick a fork in it and call it done.
And then there is all the remembering. March means momma's birthday. April means Daddy died. May means Momma died. I don't want those months to mean those things, but they always will, just like November means Thanksgiving and December means Christmas. It's not like I make a big deal out of it, or at least I don't think I do. But I notice. And I am not at the point where I always like noticing - yet. Just today, I was working on a prompt-response challenge with my little friends and one of them said something about one reason he'd like to meet Dan Uggla is because he plays for the Braves. When I asked him, "So what?" (My sneaky way to remind them to elaborate) he said, "Because I have always loved the Braves and my grandpa loved the Braves and I would love to meet him so I could spend some time thinking about my grandpa." Now, mind you, I had taught them they can always use the "Fake Grandpa" elaboration when they can't think of any other way to explain what they mean by one of their statements. But THAT Fake Grandpa choked me up!
Anyway...
It's the time of year when I realize I have been existing more than living. I just don't like that.
(So what?)
Existing is no way to live. I want to cherish moments, appreciate wonders, and use my time fully. I want to get the junk done I need to do so I can do what I WANT to do. I long for new challenges to embrace, new accomplishments to have achieved. I need that fresh perspective spring ought to bring to kick me in the butt and keep me going, looking for my mojo, reclaiming it.
So, thank you, fellow writers and friends, for reminding me about this way to process and express all the thinking that goes on in this noggin. I'm here, like the Whos Horton heard - I am here! I am here! I am here!
Monday, July 11, 2011
Lazymeesh
I am about five feet tall. Maybe five one. (My license says five one, but the DMV didn't actually measure me. I just decided I was that tall and told them so.) I think I maxed out around the time I was fourteen or fifteen. It has its advantages and disadvantages, as all heights do, I am guessing. It works for me, which is convenient, as there is little I could do about it.
My weight, on the other hand, is a funny little thing that seems to have spiraled out of control. I weighed 115-125 in late adolescence, adding a few pounds Freshman year, shedding a few the next, pretty much squatty but very toned until I became pregnant. Nursed each kid forever, and had no problem shedding baby weight (don't hate) either time. Maintained the 120ish until my sweet Momma got really ill and did a 6-week stint in the stepdown unit of the ICU, with me living in the hospital room with her. Then the weight started creeping up on me, as I lived on hospital food (actually many quite good choices at New Hanover Medical Center, if you are ever hospitalized in Wilmington), takeout, and stress. Thought I was huge when I reached 135 (which, by the way, is also what the DMV thinks I weigh). Managed to maintain that, though, through moving to a new state and all that entailed.
Then, life got a little crazier. Momma and Daddy both died 11 months apart. I had a hysterectomy. My thyroid got wacky. I started teaching again and entered graduate school. None of these things served my waistline well. When I hit 145, I realized I hadn't weighed that much full term with either pregnancy. I did Shrinkdown through the school and the Y, and was developing some pretty good habits, but life took over and I got lazy. My blood pressure got wacky. I kept on eating whatever I felt like eating and sitting more than ever. At 164 I realized I was only a pound away from being fifty pounds heavier than I was 10 years ago. They say five pounds a year can sneak up on you. They are right.
My bestest buddy and roomie of all time (Nicole) is scary fit these days. She and I used to share clothes like we shared giggles and secrets, but my stressors have made me rounder and rounder, while hers have made her leaner and leaner. She had four children within three years, and her party-of-6 has led a healthier, more active lifestyle than my party-of-4, with far less TV, insanely fewer Happy Meals, and many more athletic endeavors. She's a physical therapist (my personal one, thankyouverymuch) and I've always depended on her to help me stay motivated and well, to power through injury, to tell me when I need to get off my butt.
And so I am doing that. A high school classmate of ours developed a neighborhood Lazyman Triathlon last year in Virginia, and Nicole is coordinating one in her Maryland neighborhood this year. She told me about it months ago, and I made her promise me she would hold me to participating at-large (punny, punny). Godblessher, she did. Basically, participants have one month to complete the distances of an Ironman Triathlon. For the month of July I need to accumulate 112 miles of cycling (or spinning on a stationary), 26.2 miles of running (or walking), and 2.4 miles of swimming (or moving in the water). I could have signed up for the Half Lazyman (y'all are smart enough to figure out what that would be), but I figured if I was going to do this, I had better do it full on. (Mind you, I did NOT see any sense in going for the DOUBLE Lazyman!)
Lemme tell you friends, it sounds easier than it is. I need to average 6.55 miles/week of walking, 0.6 miles/week of swimming, and 28 mi/wk of spinning. For those of you leading active lifestyles already, that might not sound like much, but boy howdy, I am spent just trying to get it all in without pushing myself to the point of injury. I was short of my target this week (which was actually 10 days), but when I think about it, I'm okay with it. I have felt myself pushing a little harder, going a little farther, trying to do one more length of the pool because I have a goal and a deadline. These are ordinarily things I don't handle well. I ignore deadlines until they are upon me, and I try not to quantify life. But I am working little by little to improve this one aspect of my life, and it feels fantastic.
Saturday afternoon, my whole family went to the Y and worked out in the Wellness Center for an hour. Tonight, the boys and I went for another hour. I have been walking around the neighborhood. I have been to the pool with my girl and made myself swim (not my favorite thing to do) while she played and encouraged me. This is all good stuff. We might reach the point where we all feel ready to go hiking, which my love and I used to love doing together. I might even learn to enjoy cycling, which my love has wanted me to like for years. More than anything, I know I will not be lugging 165 pounds down the blue hall to my classroom every day next year and trying to lift it off the floor every morning. This is good.
Anyway, that's what I am up to. My endurance on the stationary has already increased dramatically, mostly because I can READ while I do that, but partly because my heart and quads are learning to cooperate with me. I even came home after spinning ten tonight and walked another 3/4 mile with the yellow dog. Tomorrow I'll see if I can squeeze in both a long walk and some extra lengths in the pool. I can do this!
I'll keep you posted.
My weight, on the other hand, is a funny little thing that seems to have spiraled out of control. I weighed 115-125 in late adolescence, adding a few pounds Freshman year, shedding a few the next, pretty much squatty but very toned until I became pregnant. Nursed each kid forever, and had no problem shedding baby weight (don't hate) either time. Maintained the 120ish until my sweet Momma got really ill and did a 6-week stint in the stepdown unit of the ICU, with me living in the hospital room with her. Then the weight started creeping up on me, as I lived on hospital food (actually many quite good choices at New Hanover Medical Center, if you are ever hospitalized in Wilmington), takeout, and stress. Thought I was huge when I reached 135 (which, by the way, is also what the DMV thinks I weigh). Managed to maintain that, though, through moving to a new state and all that entailed.
Then, life got a little crazier. Momma and Daddy both died 11 months apart. I had a hysterectomy. My thyroid got wacky. I started teaching again and entered graduate school. None of these things served my waistline well. When I hit 145, I realized I hadn't weighed that much full term with either pregnancy. I did Shrinkdown through the school and the Y, and was developing some pretty good habits, but life took over and I got lazy. My blood pressure got wacky. I kept on eating whatever I felt like eating and sitting more than ever. At 164 I realized I was only a pound away from being fifty pounds heavier than I was 10 years ago. They say five pounds a year can sneak up on you. They are right.
My bestest buddy and roomie of all time (Nicole) is scary fit these days. She and I used to share clothes like we shared giggles and secrets, but my stressors have made me rounder and rounder, while hers have made her leaner and leaner. She had four children within three years, and her party-of-6 has led a healthier, more active lifestyle than my party-of-4, with far less TV, insanely fewer Happy Meals, and many more athletic endeavors. She's a physical therapist (my personal one, thankyouverymuch) and I've always depended on her to help me stay motivated and well, to power through injury, to tell me when I need to get off my butt.
And so I am doing that. A high school classmate of ours developed a neighborhood Lazyman Triathlon last year in Virginia, and Nicole is coordinating one in her Maryland neighborhood this year. She told me about it months ago, and I made her promise me she would hold me to participating at-large (punny, punny). Godblessher, she did. Basically, participants have one month to complete the distances of an Ironman Triathlon. For the month of July I need to accumulate 112 miles of cycling (or spinning on a stationary), 26.2 miles of running (or walking), and 2.4 miles of swimming (or moving in the water). I could have signed up for the Half Lazyman (y'all are smart enough to figure out what that would be), but I figured if I was going to do this, I had better do it full on. (Mind you, I did NOT see any sense in going for the DOUBLE Lazyman!)
Lemme tell you friends, it sounds easier than it is. I need to average 6.55 miles/week of walking, 0.6 miles/week of swimming, and 28 mi/wk of spinning. For those of you leading active lifestyles already, that might not sound like much, but boy howdy, I am spent just trying to get it all in without pushing myself to the point of injury. I was short of my target this week (which was actually 10 days), but when I think about it, I'm okay with it. I have felt myself pushing a little harder, going a little farther, trying to do one more length of the pool because I have a goal and a deadline. These are ordinarily things I don't handle well. I ignore deadlines until they are upon me, and I try not to quantify life. But I am working little by little to improve this one aspect of my life, and it feels fantastic.
Saturday afternoon, my whole family went to the Y and worked out in the Wellness Center for an hour. Tonight, the boys and I went for another hour. I have been walking around the neighborhood. I have been to the pool with my girl and made myself swim (not my favorite thing to do) while she played and encouraged me. This is all good stuff. We might reach the point where we all feel ready to go hiking, which my love and I used to love doing together. I might even learn to enjoy cycling, which my love has wanted me to like for years. More than anything, I know I will not be lugging 165 pounds down the blue hall to my classroom every day next year and trying to lift it off the floor every morning. This is good.
Anyway, that's what I am up to. My endurance on the stationary has already increased dramatically, mostly because I can READ while I do that, but partly because my heart and quads are learning to cooperate with me. I even came home after spinning ten tonight and walked another 3/4 mile with the yellow dog. Tomorrow I'll see if I can squeeze in both a long walk and some extra lengths in the pool. I can do this!
I'll keep you posted.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
18 years later
So, as the anniversary of my marriage to my beloved approaches, I am getting all sentimental. I've been scanning photos and uploading them to facebook, promising myself that I'll find time this summer to scan the negatives and preserve them digitally. It's funny how pictures can put you in a time and place in a surreal way, isn't it? Before I started scanning them in, I was thinking of posting here a secretish tale of all the things I hated about my wedding. Believe me. There were many. Nasty emotions were present, control issues abounded, and if I had it all to do again with today's eyes, the whole thing would be a world different. But as I scanned and read the thousands of words each photo carried, I remembered all the wonderful things, the happy emotions, the love that held it all together and made it happen. So what you'll read here is a blend of all that, a few pictures of the reality I have created for myself of that day.
We'll start here. The man in the stole is my beloved priest, mentor, friend, grandfather figure, Frank Mason Ross+. He and I spent countless services together at the altar, where I came to learn how to sense his needs before he would verbalize them, and he would gently guide me through caring for God's people. He and his lovely wife, Evelyn, meant more to my family than many a relative, and every Hart wept and giggled at his funeral some years later. He had retired before my wedding, and a new rector had come to lead our parish. I did not like the new guy, and I did not really want to. I wanted my Frank+ to marry us. I wanted MY priest to lay his hands on my beloved and me, to offer God's blessing on our new life together. But the new guy insisted that he be a part, and I questioned his motivation from the beginning. (These many years later, I still do.) Nonetheless, Bob was the one who led our "premarital counseling" (which was actually just a wedding plan - shame on him for not guiding us through important and tough questions!). Bob was the one who insisted during the rehearsal that God was okay with just the bride and groom receiving the communion. Let me just say, Hays-then-Hart showed her royal bridal ass and was plenty ready to run away that night and do it all differently. Nonetheless, my Frank+ made it all better. My friend Maxine+ gently persuaded and firmly insisted. I let the three of them hash it out theologically. Know what's funny? I don't really remember the resolution. I couldn't tell you if we all shared in the bread and cup or not. I just don't remember. All I remember is that I felt let down, disappointed, betrayed by the politics surrounding my faith. But the next day, when my Frank+ asked my love and me to say our vows to each other, when he held my hand before my husband put the ring on it, when he cried all the way through it, I just wanted to jump up in my white dress (which felt like an acolyte's vestment, come to think of it) and sneak into the parish hall and get him some water to help him clear his voice. I kind of wish I had. But I didn't want my Jimmy, who didn't fully understand my relationship with this old man, to think I was running. I didn't care what the hundred other folks crammed into the church thought, but I for sure didn't want my beloved to feel any more uncomfortable than a groom already does. When I think of my wedding, I think of Frank+, and I miss him terribly.
My face pretty much sums up everything I was feeling, I think! My sweet Momma. Oh, how I miss her, too. She tried so hard to be enthusiastic about the whole wedding mess despite her health, her uncertainty about my marrying at not-quite-22, her worries and concerns about pleasing me on a budget (which I later found she had blown completely). I look at the pictures of her dressing me and dressing my niece the flower girl, and I remember how tender she was in her gruffness, how her touch made all things better, and how she cared for me always in all ways. We were playful and silly and positive despite the stress and foolishness of it all. And my Nicole, in the red dress, was and remains my dearest friend of all time. With such a small church, I kept my bridesmaids to just my sisters, and Jimmy had his dad and brother on his side. But my Nik was there to do all the things a Matron of Honor would, and she did. She reminded me to eat and fetched me food. She ran to the drugstore for tampons and hairspray and all the things a bestie grabs from the honeymoon-needs list. She made me nap. She jumped right in and helped to dress me, she checked on the menfolk to make sure all was well there, and she surely did a thousand other things I have no idea about today, because that is what friends do. All these years later, after being pregnant together and raising kids and battling depression and all that life has thrown our way, we know that when we are old and need wiping, that the other will be there.
I don't know if I ever saw this picture before yesterday. I love it.
We had an official photographer, who was sort of adequate, but who didn't require that I buy an album and whose package price included the negatives. That's what I wanted. I never did a formal bridal portrait - too pricey - and spent way too much time during the reception being photographed. I hardly remember the reception. I remember that the community building was not air conditioned and we all spent a lot of time outside in the ocean breezes coming through the inlet, and I really didn't feel all that social anyway. Most of the people there were my family's and Jim's family's guests - not mine, really. I needed space, and I don't regret taking it. Nonetheless, we had also asked my niece's daddy, Stu, to take candids, too. He captured this moment of Hart life perfectly. We weren't all there, but with six or seven, it's hard to all be in the same place at the same time. We were together, and not necessarily concerned about what the rest of the world was up to. We always welcomed happiness in spite of tension. We pooted and giggled. I like to think that in the midst of the nonsense of the celebration that one of us farted and the rest of us were amused by it. That, or someone said something smartypants and triggered the silliness. Whatever it was, I love the look on my parents' faces, the goofy grins we all share in this shot.
And finally, at least for this post...
All my life I lived with this river. The mouth of the Cape Fear - I've actually been called that on more than one occasion - "The Water." When you live in a place like Southport, you take The Water for granted sometimes. You assume it is everywhere. Believe me, I have lived many places, and it isn't. This will always be a place that heals me, reminds me, softens me. I could sit and stare at this water forever. Our family often did, even if not always together. My Daddy spent countless hours sitting on the swings and benches with old-timers who remembered when Southport really was a quaint fishing village. My Momma and I would take my Beth (and eventually my Babies) to The Water to feed the gulls, watch the tides, enjoy the majesty. I would go-go-car-ride with my Maggie dog to find a few minutes to breathe in the salt-tinged air, just to breathe. We look to The Water for what has been, for what will be. When I look at myself in this picture, I think about how long I've been away from that place and how I can never really leave it. I sense a wistfulness, a tightness in the chest that says, "Goodbye, childhood; hello, marriage." And that is what my wedding really was. It was a time to remember how much I need my family, but that I was ready to make my own. It was a time to let the people in my life celebrate, to love me, to serve my groom and me, to serve each other.
I've said before that weddings are about everyone BUT the bride, and I still think that. The bride has already let go by the time the wedding comes around, at least as much as any of us really lets go, but the people around her need the ceremony to allow the letting-go to happen. The mother of the bride needs to have that moment of getting her baby girl ready one last time. The father of the bride needs to formally say, "This is mine. Treasure her," even if those aren't the words he says. The siblings need to have someone to mock once more, to share the attention with before she goes away. The family of the groom needs to let the bride's family dynamic be what it is, and to welcome her into their own. The groom needs to see how much fuss she is worth, to remember her face as she approaches their life together. Everyone needs to look at how the Bride and Groom show their love for each other and to each other, and remember that weddings are about love, about marriage, about commitment. They aren't about the flowers, or the dresses, or the arguing priests. They aren't about perfect pictures or glamorous cakes. They certainly aren't about getting drunk and partying all night, although that sometimes happens. Weddings are about transition from living apart to living as one. Ours was that. It might not have been perfect, and I would do some things differently if I had known better or if I planned it today, but I do know it was about love. I look at these pictures, and I don't see the sadness or hurt feelings, or stress. I don't see the flowers, or the ribbons, or the venue. I see love. And 18 years later, it's still there.
Happy anniversary to my best friend, my boyfriend, my true love, the father of my babies, the keeper of my tears, the holder of my hand, the pusher of my buttons, the bigger piece of me, my Jimmy, my honey, my husband. Wanna get married?
We'll start here. The man in the stole is my beloved priest, mentor, friend, grandfather figure, Frank Mason Ross+. He and I spent countless services together at the altar, where I came to learn how to sense his needs before he would verbalize them, and he would gently guide me through caring for God's people. He and his lovely wife, Evelyn, meant more to my family than many a relative, and every Hart wept and giggled at his funeral some years later. He had retired before my wedding, and a new rector had come to lead our parish. I did not like the new guy, and I did not really want to. I wanted my Frank+ to marry us. I wanted MY priest to lay his hands on my beloved and me, to offer God's blessing on our new life together. But the new guy insisted that he be a part, and I questioned his motivation from the beginning. (These many years later, I still do.) Nonetheless, Bob was the one who led our "premarital counseling" (which was actually just a wedding plan - shame on him for not guiding us through important and tough questions!). Bob was the one who insisted during the rehearsal that God was okay with just the bride and groom receiving the communion. Let me just say, Hays-then-Hart showed her royal bridal ass and was plenty ready to run away that night and do it all differently. Nonetheless, my Frank+ made it all better. My friend Maxine+ gently persuaded and firmly insisted. I let the three of them hash it out theologically. Know what's funny? I don't really remember the resolution. I couldn't tell you if we all shared in the bread and cup or not. I just don't remember. All I remember is that I felt let down, disappointed, betrayed by the politics surrounding my faith. But the next day, when my Frank+ asked my love and me to say our vows to each other, when he held my hand before my husband put the ring on it, when he cried all the way through it, I just wanted to jump up in my white dress (which felt like an acolyte's vestment, come to think of it) and sneak into the parish hall and get him some water to help him clear his voice. I kind of wish I had. But I didn't want my Jimmy, who didn't fully understand my relationship with this old man, to think I was running. I didn't care what the hundred other folks crammed into the church thought, but I for sure didn't want my beloved to feel any more uncomfortable than a groom already does. When I think of my wedding, I think of Frank+, and I miss him terribly.
My face pretty much sums up everything I was feeling, I think! My sweet Momma. Oh, how I miss her, too. She tried so hard to be enthusiastic about the whole wedding mess despite her health, her uncertainty about my marrying at not-quite-22, her worries and concerns about pleasing me on a budget (which I later found she had blown completely). I look at the pictures of her dressing me and dressing my niece the flower girl, and I remember how tender she was in her gruffness, how her touch made all things better, and how she cared for me always in all ways. We were playful and silly and positive despite the stress and foolishness of it all. And my Nicole, in the red dress, was and remains my dearest friend of all time. With such a small church, I kept my bridesmaids to just my sisters, and Jimmy had his dad and brother on his side. But my Nik was there to do all the things a Matron of Honor would, and she did. She reminded me to eat and fetched me food. She ran to the drugstore for tampons and hairspray and all the things a bestie grabs from the honeymoon-needs list. She made me nap. She jumped right in and helped to dress me, she checked on the menfolk to make sure all was well there, and she surely did a thousand other things I have no idea about today, because that is what friends do. All these years later, after being pregnant together and raising kids and battling depression and all that life has thrown our way, we know that when we are old and need wiping, that the other will be there.
I don't know if I ever saw this picture before yesterday. I love it.
We had an official photographer, who was sort of adequate, but who didn't require that I buy an album and whose package price included the negatives. That's what I wanted. I never did a formal bridal portrait - too pricey - and spent way too much time during the reception being photographed. I hardly remember the reception. I remember that the community building was not air conditioned and we all spent a lot of time outside in the ocean breezes coming through the inlet, and I really didn't feel all that social anyway. Most of the people there were my family's and Jim's family's guests - not mine, really. I needed space, and I don't regret taking it. Nonetheless, we had also asked my niece's daddy, Stu, to take candids, too. He captured this moment of Hart life perfectly. We weren't all there, but with six or seven, it's hard to all be in the same place at the same time. We were together, and not necessarily concerned about what the rest of the world was up to. We always welcomed happiness in spite of tension. We pooted and giggled. I like to think that in the midst of the nonsense of the celebration that one of us farted and the rest of us were amused by it. That, or someone said something smartypants and triggered the silliness. Whatever it was, I love the look on my parents' faces, the goofy grins we all share in this shot.
And finally, at least for this post...
All my life I lived with this river. The mouth of the Cape Fear - I've actually been called that on more than one occasion - "The Water." When you live in a place like Southport, you take The Water for granted sometimes. You assume it is everywhere. Believe me, I have lived many places, and it isn't. This will always be a place that heals me, reminds me, softens me. I could sit and stare at this water forever. Our family often did, even if not always together. My Daddy spent countless hours sitting on the swings and benches with old-timers who remembered when Southport really was a quaint fishing village. My Momma and I would take my Beth (and eventually my Babies) to The Water to feed the gulls, watch the tides, enjoy the majesty. I would go-go-car-ride with my Maggie dog to find a few minutes to breathe in the salt-tinged air, just to breathe. We look to The Water for what has been, for what will be. When I look at myself in this picture, I think about how long I've been away from that place and how I can never really leave it. I sense a wistfulness, a tightness in the chest that says, "Goodbye, childhood; hello, marriage." And that is what my wedding really was. It was a time to remember how much I need my family, but that I was ready to make my own. It was a time to let the people in my life celebrate, to love me, to serve my groom and me, to serve each other.
I've said before that weddings are about everyone BUT the bride, and I still think that. The bride has already let go by the time the wedding comes around, at least as much as any of us really lets go, but the people around her need the ceremony to allow the letting-go to happen. The mother of the bride needs to have that moment of getting her baby girl ready one last time. The father of the bride needs to formally say, "This is mine. Treasure her," even if those aren't the words he says. The siblings need to have someone to mock once more, to share the attention with before she goes away. The family of the groom needs to let the bride's family dynamic be what it is, and to welcome her into their own. The groom needs to see how much fuss she is worth, to remember her face as she approaches their life together. Everyone needs to look at how the Bride and Groom show their love for each other and to each other, and remember that weddings are about love, about marriage, about commitment. They aren't about the flowers, or the dresses, or the arguing priests. They aren't about perfect pictures or glamorous cakes. They certainly aren't about getting drunk and partying all night, although that sometimes happens. Weddings are about transition from living apart to living as one. Ours was that. It might not have been perfect, and I would do some things differently if I had known better or if I planned it today, but I do know it was about love. I look at these pictures, and I don't see the sadness or hurt feelings, or stress. I don't see the flowers, or the ribbons, or the venue. I see love. And 18 years later, it's still there.
Happy anniversary to my best friend, my boyfriend, my true love, the father of my babies, the keeper of my tears, the holder of my hand, the pusher of my buttons, the bigger piece of me, my Jimmy, my honey, my husband. Wanna get married?
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Random Summer Reading Thoughts
Took the kids to Barnes and Noble yesterday afternoon to make some "Summer Reading" purchases. They have their lists from the schools they'll be starting in the fall (Godhelpme, middle and high) and want to get the required reading out of the way to free up thinking space for their REAL summer reading.
Austin's heading into English II Honors (whatever that means) and has to annotate his readings. He is at that point where I have spent much time - the place where you think it is offensive, at best, to write in a book. And I'll admit, although I have no problems marking up my professional reading, especially printed copies of articles, I still don't like to capture my thinking in my novels. Maybe that comes from having borrowed so many, or maybe it's some other hang-up about letting the feelings and thoughts enter and exit without needing or wanting to capture them. Don't know... Either way, Austin picked one from the required list and one sequel to a book he'd read earlier this year, and will pick the third sometime after making his way through these two.
Kori's list was actually at the house, so we pulled it up in the i(diot)Phone. She's such a fiction girl, so the SC Junior Book Award Nominees list was plenty for her to make her choices. Conveniently, the good folks at the BN had a table set up with stacks of them. She asked for the one that was missing that she most wanted (Anything but Typical) and sent the workerguy scurrying into the back for it. We picked up a few others and I slipped over to the table for the Children's Book Award Nominees, which was the designated list most of my friends from this year would be using to guide their choices. I snatched up four or five for my classroom and for the beginnings of my own summer list.
See, for the past three years, I have only read a very few novels, what with all the reading of M.Ed. things, and my Summer Reading will be stacks and stacks of books from my classroom library. Sure, there are plenty of grown-up books that I might enjoy here and there, but I need, need, NEED to know more books for helping matchmake them with my fifth grade friends. I have to find more books that compel me to keep reading so I can help my friends meet a book that will push them beyond the required chapter or pages or minutes. I need to find out which ones from the required list will be good ones for me to suggest when I run into my friends in the grocery store and harass them lovingly about what they've been reading. I need to read, and so very often, the truest books are the ones not written for adults.
So, I've read two so far this summer break, and I am remembering how hard it is to try to read a book through a kid's eyes. It's hard to remember that kids don't always read a book cover-to-cover in one or two blocks of reading time. They might hit a chapter or two, then wait a day, then read some more, then wait, so they might not notice that the author seems to be rushing through the story - they've had hours or days to exist with the parts they've read, so when they pick it up, they're ready to move forward. It's hard to remember that my younger friends might get stuck on a part that doesn't make sense, maybe because of some word choice the author made, or because they don't understand a reference, or because the stupid publishers keep splitting the words up in arbitrary places... I don't have that problem as much when I am reading their books, so it's hard to remember how much thinking that can take. It's so hard, in fact, that I found myself wondering why I would even try to be a kid-reader. Duh! In order to make the most of a book, I need to read it through my eyes. Of course! I find myself thinking critically about the complexity of the novels, of how I want the author to develop the characters more, or how I wish they wouldn't leave out such big blocks of time, or blah blah blah, and that makes me realize that some kids will be doing the same thing, even if some are not. I need to be aware of what I am thinking when I am reading and not always second guessing what a kid might be thinking. They want to know what I think of a book when I recommend one to them, not what I think they will think. They want to know what a book made me feel, not what emotions I think it might evoke in them. They want to know what my relationship was with the author. They want to know why I think they would like it, which means that I know THEM, not just the book. THAT is what I need to remember as I read this stack I've started.
Once I got that straight in my head, I opened myself to a realization: what I am learning about myself as a reader is that I bring my relationships with others to every book I read, and that is what makes books great. All that text-to-text and text-to-self and text-to-world connecting and the labeling thereof is one thing (and Austin has to label the connections he makes in his annotations - UGH) but I think we might be ignoring or missing out on one important connection we make when we read: Text-to-others. (And yes, I am making this up as I go, so please, friends, tell me if I stole this from someone else in my subconscious readerbrain.)
Take the book I just finished this morning: Heart of a Shepherd by Rosanne Parry. I found that I wasn't so much imagining how I would feel if I were the main character (Brother) or how he was feeling or thinking. Instead, I realized I was thinking of friends I have who might read this and what they might be feeling as they read it. I thought of a young Catholic friend I taught this year who would understand all the references to the Mass and to serving as an acolyte, and how that would draw him closer to Brother. I thought of my grownup friend from California and how I had never heard of Basque before I met her and how she would connect to those references. I imagined the life my pre-school nephew might lead, being the son of a Lt.Colonel, knowing that his dad might have led some neighbors into battle and sent them home in pieces, and how that might make him feel if he read this when he was older. I couldn't think about how I connected to this text without thinking about how others might. I had all of those people with me in my bed this morning as I read the final chapter and wept and wept. If I had allowed myself to read this book analytically, or critically, or from a how-would-I-teach-this-book lens, I would not have. Because I invited my relationships into the book, I could feel the story, know the characters, and imagine the life Brother was leading.
I guess what I am thinking here is that I need to help my readers find books that connect to them, to their experiences, to their schema, but maybe I need to spend some extra time helping them build relationships with each other so they can take each other home with them over the summer and over their lives. If they know about more than just themselves, if they know their friends and their friends' stories, if they can imagine that theirs is not the only point-of-reference, then they can grow in their own understanding of books by taking those friends' lives into account when they are reading.
So, as I start my next book this evening, know that one or more of you, dear readers, might be curled up beside me as I invite you in for my experience with the new text. Looking greatly forward to seeing who shows up in my head!
Austin's heading into English II Honors (whatever that means) and has to annotate his readings. He is at that point where I have spent much time - the place where you think it is offensive, at best, to write in a book. And I'll admit, although I have no problems marking up my professional reading, especially printed copies of articles, I still don't like to capture my thinking in my novels. Maybe that comes from having borrowed so many, or maybe it's some other hang-up about letting the feelings and thoughts enter and exit without needing or wanting to capture them. Don't know... Either way, Austin picked one from the required list and one sequel to a book he'd read earlier this year, and will pick the third sometime after making his way through these two.
Kori's list was actually at the house, so we pulled it up in the i(diot)Phone. She's such a fiction girl, so the SC Junior Book Award Nominees list was plenty for her to make her choices. Conveniently, the good folks at the BN had a table set up with stacks of them. She asked for the one that was missing that she most wanted (Anything but Typical) and sent the workerguy scurrying into the back for it. We picked up a few others and I slipped over to the table for the Children's Book Award Nominees, which was the designated list most of my friends from this year would be using to guide their choices. I snatched up four or five for my classroom and for the beginnings of my own summer list.
See, for the past three years, I have only read a very few novels, what with all the reading of M.Ed. things, and my Summer Reading will be stacks and stacks of books from my classroom library. Sure, there are plenty of grown-up books that I might enjoy here and there, but I need, need, NEED to know more books for helping matchmake them with my fifth grade friends. I have to find more books that compel me to keep reading so I can help my friends meet a book that will push them beyond the required chapter or pages or minutes. I need to find out which ones from the required list will be good ones for me to suggest when I run into my friends in the grocery store and harass them lovingly about what they've been reading. I need to read, and so very often, the truest books are the ones not written for adults.
So, I've read two so far this summer break, and I am remembering how hard it is to try to read a book through a kid's eyes. It's hard to remember that kids don't always read a book cover-to-cover in one or two blocks of reading time. They might hit a chapter or two, then wait a day, then read some more, then wait, so they might not notice that the author seems to be rushing through the story - they've had hours or days to exist with the parts they've read, so when they pick it up, they're ready to move forward. It's hard to remember that my younger friends might get stuck on a part that doesn't make sense, maybe because of some word choice the author made, or because they don't understand a reference, or because the stupid publishers keep splitting the words up in arbitrary places... I don't have that problem as much when I am reading their books, so it's hard to remember how much thinking that can take. It's so hard, in fact, that I found myself wondering why I would even try to be a kid-reader. Duh! In order to make the most of a book, I need to read it through my eyes. Of course! I find myself thinking critically about the complexity of the novels, of how I want the author to develop the characters more, or how I wish they wouldn't leave out such big blocks of time, or blah blah blah, and that makes me realize that some kids will be doing the same thing, even if some are not. I need to be aware of what I am thinking when I am reading and not always second guessing what a kid might be thinking. They want to know what I think of a book when I recommend one to them, not what I think they will think. They want to know what a book made me feel, not what emotions I think it might evoke in them. They want to know what my relationship was with the author. They want to know why I think they would like it, which means that I know THEM, not just the book. THAT is what I need to remember as I read this stack I've started.
Once I got that straight in my head, I opened myself to a realization: what I am learning about myself as a reader is that I bring my relationships with others to every book I read, and that is what makes books great. All that text-to-text and text-to-self and text-to-world connecting and the labeling thereof is one thing (and Austin has to label the connections he makes in his annotations - UGH) but I think we might be ignoring or missing out on one important connection we make when we read: Text-to-others. (And yes, I am making this up as I go, so please, friends, tell me if I stole this from someone else in my subconscious readerbrain.)
Take the book I just finished this morning: Heart of a Shepherd by Rosanne Parry. I found that I wasn't so much imagining how I would feel if I were the main character (Brother) or how he was feeling or thinking. Instead, I realized I was thinking of friends I have who might read this and what they might be feeling as they read it. I thought of a young Catholic friend I taught this year who would understand all the references to the Mass and to serving as an acolyte, and how that would draw him closer to Brother. I thought of my grownup friend from California and how I had never heard of Basque before I met her and how she would connect to those references. I imagined the life my pre-school nephew might lead, being the son of a Lt.Colonel, knowing that his dad might have led some neighbors into battle and sent them home in pieces, and how that might make him feel if he read this when he was older. I couldn't think about how I connected to this text without thinking about how others might. I had all of those people with me in my bed this morning as I read the final chapter and wept and wept. If I had allowed myself to read this book analytically, or critically, or from a how-would-I-teach-this-book lens, I would not have. Because I invited my relationships into the book, I could feel the story, know the characters, and imagine the life Brother was leading.
I guess what I am thinking here is that I need to help my readers find books that connect to them, to their experiences, to their schema, but maybe I need to spend some extra time helping them build relationships with each other so they can take each other home with them over the summer and over their lives. If they know about more than just themselves, if they know their friends and their friends' stories, if they can imagine that theirs is not the only point-of-reference, then they can grow in their own understanding of books by taking those friends' lives into account when they are reading.
So, as I start my next book this evening, know that one or more of you, dear readers, might be curled up beside me as I invite you in for my experience with the new text. Looking greatly forward to seeing who shows up in my head!
Saturday, May 28, 2011
I'd rather be naked
Before you get excited about the title, know that this is still a PG-rated place. No nudity here, unless you let it pop into your mind, and I strongly suggest you don't.
My family is at the neighborhood pool. I am not. There are several reasons for this, which I suppose you could call excuses, but I'll share them with you.
One: It is hot out there. It is not in here. I love the outdoors, but I have perspired enough in the past 24 hours to last a decade. Fifth grade celebration (which is not a graduation, but by golly it felt like one after two hours in the seriously under-cooled theater) and the extended recess yesterday afternoon had me fanning myself so much yesterday I should have sore triceps today. (I love that as I was pushing the last little bits of paper before it started that my little people knew instinctively that I could not fan myself with the laminated Uncle Sam poster while gluing a script to construction paper, and three of them leaped into action, creating my own personal fan system. God bless them for knowing their old woman teacher.) All of that to say, I am paying for this air conditioning and I do not mind one bit being in it.
Two: Swimsuits are bad, bad, bad news for women who do not have perfect bodies. Guys, I promise, not one of us is judging your middle-aged white bellies or your hairy backs or your scrawny bird chests. We are too busy worrying about who can tell how much skin we have that our swimsuits won't contain, or how European we look despite our best hair-removal efforts, or the number of jiggles-per-step our thighs now make. Really. It is almost hard to have fun knowing that you feel like a marine mammal pretending to be human. It is especially hard when you haven't always had a waistline bigger than your hips or bust. Combined. I tried to put on a suit to go join my family. I couldn't get my biggest one-piece on, and the tankini that fits actually makes me look bigger than I do naked. This can not be the phenomenon the manufacturer expected for me.
Three: I like being here by myself. I like napping. I like (well, don't get annoyed by) doing laundry and tidying up when I am home alone. I can clip my hair out of my face and take off my more uncomfortable garments when I am at home on a Saturday afternoon and love knowing that I do not have to go anywhere all day. Heck, I can soak in the tub and pretend it's a pool - and not have to worry about how I look (see "Two" above).
So, I guess I am saying it is summer and I would rather be naked. Is that so wrong?
My family is at the neighborhood pool. I am not. There are several reasons for this, which I suppose you could call excuses, but I'll share them with you.
One: It is hot out there. It is not in here. I love the outdoors, but I have perspired enough in the past 24 hours to last a decade. Fifth grade celebration (which is not a graduation, but by golly it felt like one after two hours in the seriously under-cooled theater) and the extended recess yesterday afternoon had me fanning myself so much yesterday I should have sore triceps today. (I love that as I was pushing the last little bits of paper before it started that my little people knew instinctively that I could not fan myself with the laminated Uncle Sam poster while gluing a script to construction paper, and three of them leaped into action, creating my own personal fan system. God bless them for knowing their old woman teacher.) All of that to say, I am paying for this air conditioning and I do not mind one bit being in it.
Two: Swimsuits are bad, bad, bad news for women who do not have perfect bodies. Guys, I promise, not one of us is judging your middle-aged white bellies or your hairy backs or your scrawny bird chests. We are too busy worrying about who can tell how much skin we have that our swimsuits won't contain, or how European we look despite our best hair-removal efforts, or the number of jiggles-per-step our thighs now make. Really. It is almost hard to have fun knowing that you feel like a marine mammal pretending to be human. It is especially hard when you haven't always had a waistline bigger than your hips or bust. Combined. I tried to put on a suit to go join my family. I couldn't get my biggest one-piece on, and the tankini that fits actually makes me look bigger than I do naked. This can not be the phenomenon the manufacturer expected for me.
Three: I like being here by myself. I like napping. I like (well, don't get annoyed by) doing laundry and tidying up when I am home alone. I can clip my hair out of my face and take off my more uncomfortable garments when I am at home on a Saturday afternoon and love knowing that I do not have to go anywhere all day. Heck, I can soak in the tub and pretend it's a pool - and not have to worry about how I look (see "Two" above).
So, I guess I am saying it is summer and I would rather be naked. Is that so wrong?
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