The Thing About Teaching...

 See, here's the thing about teaching. It's a lot.

Like, a lot a lot.

I'm not even talking about the task demands specific to the job - the planning and teaching of (engaging) lessons, the remembering and taking of attendance five times a day, the grading sufficiently in each of three categories, the arranging and frequent wiping of desks, the waving-on-down at the car rider line - those are things most any trained ape can do without much challenge. Yes, I included the planning and teaching parts, because I'm not talking about neurosurgery or driving a stick shift here. There is so much about teaching that is just, well, factory work. Not that there is anything wrong with that, as they say.

Except there is something very wrong with that when you are talking about people's lives.

Yeah, I said it, because I was raised to believe that teaching is a noble and altruistic calling that anyone can "do," but also one that not everyone can do well. The longer I teach, the more I see that good teachers are good not because of how they teach, but because of who and how they are. 

And being who others need you to be and how the world needs you to be is, as I said, a lot.

Take a little imaginary journey with me. Guided memory access, if you will. 

Think about a time when you were a student, preferably K-12, in a classroom where you felt valued and even loved, encouraged and challenged, happy to do the work it takes to do the learning. Whose class was that? Who was the teacher? Can you still picture them? Maybe even smell the coffee on their breath? Does a little part of you remember the way they looked at you or the way they looked? Did they love their job? 

I can see so many of mine the way I remember them, as if they were sitting beside me. Indulge me, here.

There's Miss Hobbs and her leathery tan, sending me from room to room during naptime to play pranks on her teacher friends. And there's Mrs. Holden and her plastic Cougar coffee cup that entered the room before she did on her way back from a smoking break. Can't forget Mrs. Muellerweiss on the carpet singing Don Gato along with us, expecting us to master cursive for our stories and multiplication facts for our future. 

And oh, middle school brought Mrs. Furpless, who wrangled a bunch of squirrelly gifted kids through Lord of the Flies and turns on the Commodore 64. She would raise her voice at us when we needed it, but she still sounded like Minnie Mouse, so it didn't matter. She took us on field trips to the big city to see The Dark Crystal and The Black Hole in the movie theatre, back when field trips were just part of what we did. We toured college campuses hours away in the big city, and I've since forgiven my momma for forbidding me from going on the UNC trip because it was on an activity bus and not a charter, given that I eventually got to spend 4 years there.

Ms. Letsen made a crew of freshman English students feel seen as the "mature adults" we clearly were - making us journal, but allowing us to fold over the pages we didn't want her to read, leaving us totally convinced that she never read them. She loved Garfield and hated Thursdays, and was true to her alma mater, Slippery Rock U, which made our lot of small-town southerners giggle every time she referenced it.

Dr. Miller meant business, and his melodious voice brought American Lit to life, despite the intensity and high expectations his essays and exams wrought upon juniors and seniors who had never made anything but an A in anything. His office was a microcosm of literary nerddom, and his open door welcomed all students, whether they were his own or not, to engage in the big talks and to examine life and literature, alike.

Dr. Houpe encouraged playful excitement with foreign language learning, throwing candy for correct responses, letting us flirt shamelessly through performed Spanish dialogues we wrote, and embracing our silly parody sketches of Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers. He was my mentor, my cheerleader, my friend, and the one who made me fall in love with organizing data and using Mildred, the copy machine that resembled the one in 9-to-5 and made me feel like a freaking queen of Xerox. 

Did reading that help you picture your influential teachers? Was it easy for you? If so, I'm guessing you grew up like I did, loving school and loving learning, and I also suspect you credit the teachers you pictured with that comfortable memory.

If that exercise was hard, I bet the other teachers were more impactful on you. You know the ones.

The names that follow here have not been changed to protect the innocent, because there is no accusation of guilt. Each of these people certainly have redeeming qualities and could very well be someone else's favorites, but they are a permanent part of how I became the Who I've become, and are all likely quite oblivious to my existence.

Let's talk in reverse chronological order this time, eh?

There's Dr. Hugh Haskell, my physics teacher at NCSSM, who made me feel like I didn't belong in the first place I ever felt like I actually did. I had never had any rockstar science or math instruction in my years in rural North Carolina, and I was sitting in a classroom with people who were already taking calculus as juniors in 1986, which was NOT the norm back then. I had literally never had any homework that I hadn't been able to finish during a class change or after finishing my work for another class, and I certainly had never had to think. Dr. Haskell taught the physics, with no regard for a student who was struggling academically for the first time ever. Mama made the four hour drive to meet with him when she saw the D on my first report card. She was less than a year into a global head injury that had affected her short term memory access, and I remember thinking he treated her as if she was clearly as ignorant as her offspring. I don't remember much of anything he said, but I remember how he made me feel. And he smelled bad. And his hairy buttcrack occasionally peeked out of his pants when he wrote on the board. And I hated him and hated physics and hated the anxiety he brought out in me, despite my sitting on the back row and avoiding seeking help from him. He knew I needed help and he never once took the initiative to help me. I was barely 15, living away from home, genuinely struggling, and he knew it. And I still don't think he cared to see me or know me or acknowledge my presence.

And he shaped the teacher I have become.

There's Mrs. Brown, who I'm pretty sure sat at her desk every minute of every day in seventh grade science, assigning us the next lesson in our textbook and the questions at the end, chapter after chapter, unit after unit. It's possible that she attempted to teach us and too many of us we were too ill-mannered to allow it, but I remember well that she didn't seem to know anything more than we did about the subject. She was a yeller, I recall, and the tip of her nose bobbed up and down when she talked. She didn't seem to like middle schoolers, so you'll imagine and forgive my surprise when I found in my first year of teaching nine years later that she was the other seventh grade science teacher at my new school. You'll also imagine and forgive my shock that she had super fond memories of me. Now, y'all know that no teacher has EVER had another MeShelle, so that makes sense, and I do leave an impression/wake sometimes, but I never told her that her terrible lack of knowledge of her course and her failure to engage my curiosity was absolutely a driving force in my choice to become certified in the subject.

And she shaped the teacher I have become.

Saving the *best* for last, there was Mrs. Sally Kirby, herself, star of my fourth grade year and unintentional molder of my identity for years. She was seasoned and professional and brilliant, and she managed 31 of us - I counted heads in my class photo some years back - sometimes too carefully. I remember going to the symphony as a grade level and sitting on the front row with Chris Davis, future oboist and fellow music geek, and absolutely JAMMING along like the classical musicians we believed ourselves to be. We pretended to eat ketchup sandwiches when the conductor likened and ABA form to ketchup sandwiches. We must have been too enthusiastic in our participation because upon our return to the classroom, our names appeared in perfect cursive chalk on the board alongside those of the well-known-and-singled-out talkers/players/nonsense makers. We had to copy punishment paragraphs - sentences were too easy to manufacture assembly-line style (I I I I I I I will will will will will will will not not not not...) - about our atrocious behavior and how we needed to correct it. And I'm not still bitter much, but she had failed to write the D-for-Davis and only wrote "Chris," so of course poor Chris Mathis was on paragraph duty from something he hadn't actually done for one. But I digress.

The worst thing Mrs. Kirby ever did to me was to make me feel like there was something wrong with being "smart." When my classmates were divided into reading groups, I was my own group. Singled out. Not allowed to check out books from the E section in the library. Required to read and do book reports on Newbery winners while everyone else got to do Judy Blume or Hardy Boys. As if that weren't enough to make a gal feel like a weirdo, I was seated at the farthest point from the front of the classroom, so that I could feel the breeze created by the spinning of heads to stare at me every time she would announce "There was only one 100 in the whole class" before returning any of a number of assignments, quizzes, tests in every subject. I can still hear the sarcastic way my peers would say my name in unison. What sucks most about this recollection was that I know in my head and I knew even then in my heart that she meant well. She was trying to hold me up like a model, commend me for some perceived feat, honor my accomplishment. Instead, she taught me to shrink and to hide my shiny red nose like Rudolph's dad did to him on the Rankin Bass special. She taught me to choose all the wrong answers on purpose and to "forget" to read the assigned chapter so that I could get a crappy grade and shrink into the mass. Worst of all, she taught me that grades mattered more than feelings, especially after she told my mama that she thought I was trying to do badly on purpose, but never took any responsibility for why I might be doing that. Fortunately, mama helped me to understand that one was meant to do one's best and to tolerate haters before "haters" was even part of the lexicon, but I can still see the way my so-called friends looked at me with disdain because I could do something they couldn't. 

And boy howdy, did she shape the teacher I have become.

So now I challenge you to think about the teachers that made you feel that way, whatever way that way is for you. Who taught you that you were less than or unable or pathetic? Who made you think they didn't want to hear what you had to say? Who is the teacher that broke your spirit? I don't know anyone who doesn't have at least one of those. 

Were they ignorant? Naive? Out of touch? Criminal? Maybe.  

Or maybe they had actual human $h!+ going on in their lives. 

Maybe they were struggling to get to work each day.

Maybe they were neurodivergent before neurodivergence was cool.

Maybe, just maybe, they didn't realize that the real impact of each day of their work was palpable for years in the therapy-needing minds and spirits of the small co-workers they interacted with on the daily.

And that, dear readers, is what I mean when I say that teaching is a lot.

It's a lot of pouring genuine affection and gentle criticism on small humans who also have $h!+ to deal with. It's a lot of considering your words and actions every minute of every school day to minimize the harm you could be inflicting without even knowing it. It's a lot of knowing how to connect with the clingy kids, the distant kids, the strugglers and the shiners, and how to connect them to the content you are offering up. It's a lot of knowing when the content doesn't matter and the only thing that matters is the laughter and the memory-making. It's a lot of programming and reprogramming kids to believe in themselves and to find themselves and to share themselves with the world. It's a lot of managing behaviors with origins well beyond the scope of your experience and knowledge, no matter how vast each of those may be. It's a lot of developing meaningful relationships with hundreds of humans, including students, their families, your colleagues, and your network, not in a social-media-follow-and-interact-when-you-want kind of way, but in a daily-interaction-and-accountability kind of way. 

Daily. For years. It has proven to be both the most satisfying and the most draining work I could have chosen for myself. It used to be so easy for me to just be myself and have that be enough, but I'm finding I have less of me to give to the people I know I HAVE to be present to serve, leaving even less of me for my family and friends and, well, for me.

If you're still here. I guess you ought to know that I'm coming to understand that I don't have the spoons to sustain how very "a lot" the past few years have proven to be. I'm planning to share more thoughts here about my desire to understand what I'm experiencing in my waning desire to be a teacher and who I want to be as I continue to grow up. I hope you'll stick around to see what comes out as I reflect in this open forum, and I hope you might find some inspiration to be true to yourself and your needs along the way. Most of all, I think I hope you'll find a way to forgive the teachers who broke you as I would hope to be forgiven by students whose memories of me are less than fond, knowing that if they don't already exist, they surely will if I keep at this much longer. 

Here's to a few more days of living a little. May your own work be a little and your life become the thing that is a lot.

All Sorts and Conditions at the Zoo

The zoo down the road from us hosts a Christmas light display/event every year from mid-November until late December. For the past few years (2020 excluded, obvs) our theatre company has been providing entertainment in the form of wandering characters. Frosty, Grinch, Rudolph and a host of others add to the chaos and/or magic each year for the guests, providing countless photo ops and as much good cheer as one can muster from inside a fur-covered foam head.

Visibility in said crania is poor below the characters' line of sight, so some of us dress like elves or other "face" characters and accompany the popular folx to point out small humans below and to help manage the crowds that inevitably clamor about. Now, the entitlement of so many adult humans and the occasional piss-poor parenting we see in this role is fodder for another post altogether, but this post is about my most magical moments.

You see, I have always had a spirit for those whose genetics have made them different from the standard, whose needs are often referred to as special, who make us a more diverse society than we might have if everyone were typical. The Almighty (or coincidence) put me in a family with my very own sibling with a chromosomal anomaly, offering me perspective from my beginning. I worked directly with peers, then campers, then students with multiple categories of classifications and diagnoses my whole life. When I finally became a parent, the universe knew that I could handle a little flavor, and I got to be a parent to the most fabulous neurodivergent human I know. 

All of that to say, I have a pretty keen radar for recognizing not only the more physically obvious differences among us, but it doesn't take much interaction to spot someone who might need to be approached in a way that honors their particular circumstances. I can spot a spectrum-dweller a mile away, and I have enough experience to confidently interact with them and their families.

Here's where the zoo comes in. You better know that this girl is going to intentionally pour attention out on families who have one of my buddies among them, mostly because I know that there are way more people in this world than there need to be who haven't had enough experience to know how to be accepting and inclusive of my besties. So, I make may way through the crowds and to the adults and children I see who are decidedly excited to see either me (as a solo elf) or the character I'm accompanying. The other night I got to thinking about the two distinct kinds of caregivers I consistently encounter with my friends: the Announcers and the Accepters. 

Announcers are the ones who let me know before I even get close that I am dealing with someone Different. "He's autistic!" they'll proclaim as I approach. The person-first people will tell me "He has autism," when I am talking to their kiddo/adulto and not getting a verbal response. I usually just say, "Mmmhmm," then continue to take the lead of the friend I came to see. I'm enough of a student of life to know that not everyone wants a high-five, and not everyone will respond verbally. I know enough to know that reactions can even be physically hurtful or put someone in harm's way. But they don't know that. They just see an elf and an interaction that could potentially go badly. Most likely, the Announcer is just trying to keep everyone happy and reduce their own stress. I can't help but think to myself that the intention behind the announcement is to warn me, to let me know what I'm dealing with, to protect my feelings somehow.

Maybe that's just me projecting years of frustration in dealing with parents who introduce their children at the start of the year with comments like, "This is my ADHD one," or  even, "She isn't very good at reading." Like, what? I'm just meeting one of the people you claim to love most and you are going to introduce them to me - their TEACHER - as a diagnosis? It makes me feel icky. 

Either way, it brings me such joy and satisfaction to give the gift of "normalcy" to these families. I love interacting with them in ways that might help them feel hope in a world that isn't set up for their success. I especially love the happy dances and flaps that occasionally erupt, and you better bet I join right in.

Now, the other kind of caregiver I see just as often is the Accepter. The other night, I had two back-to-back cup-filling moments with parents I'd classify as Accepters. It went like this.

As I was heading back to our green room to finish up my night, I came across an older teen having a fantastic debate out-loud and with nobody in particular about the presence of a turkey made of lights. Mind you, I've already spent 8 nights walking the zoo this year, and I had never noticed the turkey, let alone the sheep beside it. I stopped to join in the conversation about how a sheep and a turkey are not anywhere near the same size and the extreme misrepresentation of reality before us. Mom (I assume) expertly redirected my new BFF to notice me and to say hello, going through the routine of introductions I know she has done millions of times before. We took pictures together, did high fives, and went right back to the size-comparison discussion that hearkened me back to the early nineties when my camper, Alex, would constantly ask me, "Who's bigger: Ken Griffey, Jr. or The Power Company?" About this time, Dad (assumption, again) joined us and suggested we sing a song together. Such a masterful redirect! My pal, Rudolph came along, and we all shared in some great singing along about his red nose. More photos, more conversation, and a smile on mom and dad's face that said it all. 

Eventually, we parted ways, and as Rudolph and I continued our long exit, we encountered another new friend who was so excited to see us. She was maybe 40 years old, and her companion was definitely both old enough and patient enough to be classified as her mom. This new friend was LOUDly sharing her joy and asking us who we were. Personal space was not a concern, and I could tell immediately that she was decidedly one of my people. About then, I spotted her hearing aids, and noticed mom signing her answers and answering just as loudly. I got all excited and finger-spelled alongside mom, wishing I knew how to say Merry Christmas in ASL or knew how to sign key holiday terms. We stood there with them in the misting rain, feet soaked from a night of wicking standing water, hearts filled from a night of spreading joy. The more enthusiastically our friend interacted, the more mom tried to convince her to let us get back to the North Pole. Eventually she relented, and we gave lots of goodbyes.

I guess I wanted to share this with you so that you might experience a little vicarious joy. These moments are why I endure those parents who Karen out on us when the human in the Grinch suit doesn't have the stamina for "just one more picture," when those "just one more" add up to entirely too many more and nearing heat stroke. These caregivers, both Announcers and Accepters, are why I wear ridiculous clothes and terrible shoes and tolerate the entitlement and the just plain bratty behavior some parents allow and even encourage. These parents are the ones who bring balance to the parenting force out there in public, putting so much love into their people, raising them their entire lives, expecting others to be accepting and modeling it themselves. 

Pay attention to the caregivers you see in the mall, at the pool, in the world out there. Notice how they position and empower their people. Offer a smile, give space when it's needed, make room in your heart for a little more love to give others. 

And come see me at the zoo. I'll be there December 17, 18, 19, 22, 23. 

Burnout Blog Brushup

Let’s make one thing perfectly clear: the thing I do best in my job is building relationships with kids. I’m also pretty historically good at building relationships with families and colleagues. Everyone in education will tell you how critical this is to success in our field. 

But I also want to make it perfectly clear that maintaining healthy relationships is the hardest thing about our work. How many jobs can you name that fundamentally depend on making each of over 100 clients feel seen, heard, understood, and valued every single day? So much effort goes into carefully monitoring our impact on students’ learning in our content areas, but the depth of impression we make on their very spirits is the one that exhausts us. Or me. I can’t speak for all of us, but I can tell you that my own burnout stems from how much of me is poured out on the daily to simply avoid damaging the little people in my care. 

Last week, lots of notes of gratitude and appreciation came my way from the sweet babies I get to love, and while I do keep a file of those to soften the blow of hard days, I found myself wishing that were enough to sustain me. I’m tired. I’m fragile. Other than choosing rest over exercise, I am caring for myself as well as ever. 

I am coming to understand that I am operating in a deficit of emotional energy to give to a job that requires it in abundance. And to be honest, I don’t like the way I feel when I think about the demands tomorrow will bring. The thought of another 110 tomorrows of being the freaking Giving Tree is overwhelming. The thought of another 10 years or more? Yeah, no. 

So, here I go with this blog again in one final attempt to recognize myself in the mirror and, perhaps, to figure out what might be next for me. Join me here occasionally to be part of the journey or to be a voyeur. Either way, I'm really my own audience, I guess. I welcome your input and companionship.

Wuvvvv, twoooo wuvvv

I'm married. To a man. I love him. I believe an Almighty and loving force brought us together and keeps us together through the hard work and commitment a marriage requires. Our lives are forever intertwined by our own choosing - a choice made once upon a time and every day since.

Even if we were not legally wed, we would still be married, as that is the choice we made and prayed to be blessed in the presence of our Almighty and our families and friends.

We chose to be legally bound, too, because of the many benefits afforded to married people, such as tax rates, insurance coverage, medical power of attorney, joint ownership of property and debt, and more. I am not the property of my husband, however, as would have been the case not too many centuries ago, which originated the need to make marriage a legal institution.

I fully believe, however, that the marriage of our spirits and our legal marriage are two completely separate entities. If there were no benefits to being legally wed, it would have sufficed for us to have only been married in the eyes of the church. But there ARE benefits to being legally married. Real, life-changing, right-bearing benefits. As long as those rights are reserved for two people to choose, they should be available to all pairs of people who legally agree to share those rights. Any two people. ANY.

Why shouldn't a friend be able to cover a friend on his or her insurance if the two agree to share the expense? Why can't two cousins file their income taxes jointly if each saves a little in the end? Who says two people who love each other have to surrender their individual rights to claim communal rights?

That's how our country works, though. We have antiquated ideas about marriage as a legal institution, one founded on a father's transfer of property, AKA his daughter, to another man's ownership. Humans are the ones who decided to make marriage a legal institution. We who profess to believe in a divine being, who want to follow the will of the Almighty - we are the ones who decided to make laws to regulate something we say is ordained by our God.

Huh?

We say marriage is a holy union between heterosexuals ONLY and that God blesses pairs of humans who load the Ark two-by-two. Then we hand that holiness over to legislators, attorneys, nations - scribes and Pharisees, if you will. We take our combined souls and trade them in for a document that says we can automatically inherit the other's stuff without needing a will. For real. What the what?

My point, and I have one, is that we have made marriage a legal opportunity, a civil right, if you will. We have excluded a legal right from being available to everyone based on our own religious principles. But be not mistaken: we are the ones who made it unholy. We are the ones who rendered marriage less sanctified by making it available to any Dick and Jane who sign a paper in a courthouse. But then we complain if Jane and Jane think they deserve to sign a paper, because our God-in-a-box says it's icky.

So let me be clear for those who still don't get it and likely won't:
As long as marriage is a legal institution, it must be available to any two humans of consenting age who wish to enter that contract together.

If you want to protect your perceived notion and the so-called sanctity of marriage, make it strictly a religious joining and don't offer legal advantages to those who do it.

Abolish marriage licenses.
Abolish civil unions between any two humans.
Make no legal concessions for spouses.

If you want to be greedy about love, make it only possible in your limited religious scope.

Above all, quit making love about hate.

My Girl of Grace

This girl, y'all. This girl.

Ever have one of those days when you feel like every other word out of your mouth is your kid's name? I had lunch with a new friend and her daughter today and started feeling like all I could talk about was my Kori. She is heavy on my mind, I guess. With good reason, I suppose, given the broken hip and the start of high school scheduling fun and her general awesomeness...

So, yeah. My baby girl broke her hip. Running. Not falling - RUNNING. At freakin' band camp. What the living what? Oh, but it gets better. It's a fracture typically caused by overuse/hyperdevelopment of muscles/being generally awesome. (Well, maybe not the awesome part.) Essentially, the muscles attached to her iliac crest (that bony part at the top of your pelvis that sticks out in front) were strong enough (and not warm enough) to pull a bit of her bone away from the rest, thanks to the cartilaginous nature of the not-yet-fully-grown skeletal growth plates.

Dang, y'all, why don't I practice medicine? That's another post altogether, I suppose.

Anyhoo, her quads and/or her lateral obliques were not quite warmed up enough for the intensity of her morning warmup jog at band camp (Have you MET Kori? Competitive much?)and one step led to a big pop and a caving sensation. She didn't fall, but couldn't keep running. Or walking. Or much of anything. The cutest (read: oldest and fittest) boy in the band just HAPPENED to be close enough to offer to carry her to the band nurse (who is an actual nurse, thank goodness), who assessed her, iced her, called me, yadayadayada.

Now, to add a little twist, as we Hayses are subject to do: I blame theatre camp. Excuse me - theatre PROGRAM. Mostly because that makes it even funnier than band camp, because really, who thinks of those activities as anything short of innocuous? (How many points have I earned for vocab so far? cartilaginous? innocuous? Dadgum, y'all.) Allow me to 'splain.

See, Majesty spent two weeks at the South Carolina Governor's School for Arts and Humanities this June for their theatre program. Every morning began with a run, and they had African dance every day, as well. Lots of barefootin' and movin' around in the black-box-theatre all day. Oh, and just being Kori. She was already crazy fit, but toned herself even more. In hindsight, she recalls her hips hurting some then, but, in her wise words, "My EVERYTHING hurt. Everyone's everything hurt. It's Governor's School." So, the stress part of this stress fracture likely didn't originate at band camp, but either way, it's almost comical.

Now here's what I love most of all. Besides chocolate. Or fruity umbrella drinks. Or melted cheese. I digress.

I love that her name means "Girl of Grace." Yep. Korianna, a mashup we made up because we couldn't choose between Kori and Hannah and decided to squish 'em together - oh and because it's awesome and one-of-a-kind, like we knew she would be. But oh, the irony. (Yes, Alanis, this is irony. Or maybe it's sarcasm. Either way...) Everyone loves to tease a klutz by calling her Grace. I'm sure I don't know about this firsthand. (See, more examples of irony or sarcasm or plain old smartassery!)Side note - once upon a time, I could rock the toe shoes and look super graceful on stage, but walked like a male duckfrog. Now I walk like an overweight male duckfrog, but that's neither here nor there. I was prone to soft-tissue and/or bone injury from such challenging tasks as walking, sitting, kickball, and showering. (To be fair, I was thrown butt-first into the shower by my very dearest friends, but isn't it funnier when I just say "showering?" IRONY IS FUN, PEOPLE.) There I go again. Digressing.

In fairness to Kori and to any of you who love her or me enough to still be reading this hot mess stream of consciousness, I'll end with a little sincerity.

I never expected I would have a baby girl. I was created to raise boys, or at least I thought. Mostly, I wasn't sure I would ever know what to do with a girl. Girling is hard. It hasn't ever been my strong suit. Raising girls is scary - their parts and their hearts need special care from the very beginning. And they are bombarded with pink plastic marketing. Did I mention how expensive they are? I felt certain the Almighty would grant me sons, as I was not equipped for daughters.

As always, the Almighty won and I am ever grateful for the act of Grace that brought this small, perfect person home to me, to show me how to be girlie, to love girlchildren. It is no exaggeration to say that she amazes me every single day. Exhausting? YES. Frustrating? God, yes. But the most lovely gift I've ever received. She is my ever-present reminder that I am by no means in control of my circumstances and ever grateful that I was wrong as could be about raising a girl.

I love you, chunky monkey.

A girl's gotta blog what a girl's gotta blog

I love writing. I do. But, lawdhavemercy, I know how my workbabies feel when they "can't think of anything to write about!" I recently started to understand that maybe the reason they struggle (I struggle) is that there are TOO MANY topics to know where to start. The clutter of stories writers collect in their heads can prevent the average perfectionist from just getting started. This is where keeping a notebook religiously can come in handy, but that is STILL not a habit I've developed. Alas.

As summer comes to a close, I realize how many stories I want to capture before too much time interferes with my being able to access the details and emotions that make a story readable. This is always a dance for me, too - I like to have a little time to let an experience sink in, to wrap my heart and head around it before wrapping my words around it, but if I wait too long, those thoughts become less clear. Then I just decide maybe the story wasn't worth telling at all. Ridiculous.

So, in the spirit of keeping this effort alive and reminding myself of a few stories you gotta hear (or I just gotta tell, maybe?), here's a classic list of Stories I Could Tell Here. I'm pretty sure I've done this before, and I'm equally sure I've never actually gone back and written those, but maybe you people will hold me accountable, hmm?

Summer 2014 Stories Worth Writing, Possibly Worth Reading

1. Voyage2K14 - The Voyagers in Adolescence at ECSSSJ take Manhattan and the Jersey (City) Shore, learning a thing or two about each other, about ourselves, about our world, about our Savior. This could be a series of stories, including "Where the Hell is Jesus in NYC? AKA Planning a meaningful trip" and "There Are No Fat Bulldogs in the City." Might even get a little poem out of there... We'll see.

2. The Hallelujah Girls - Oh, what a disservice I've done myself not reflecting formally on this yet. I haven't felt more myself in years than when I was pretending to be Sugar Lee. THAT could be an indication of some mental illness, I suppose, but more likely, it's just evidence of how much I love performing. Always have. Really excited about future opportunities I might explore with it. Yes, I'll admit I love the attention - really, who doesn't? - but more than anything I am crazy in love with the process. It's a shame I never really pursued it, and a disappointment that the opportunities really weren't there for me beyond sixth grade, but I am learning there is a crazy strong theatre community here in the greater metro, and I might just have the courage to spend a little more time becoming part of it.

3. Social Media and other addictions - Enough said. Maybe I should just print out my excessive number of status updates and go from there. Each one of them is a mini-story, a random thought that compelled me to put words out there. I could certainly fill in the blanks behind many of them.

4. Emptier Nest - Soon enough, our nest will be empty, and this summer was our first good taste of what it feels like when one or both of our babies are gone long term. I love the people they are becoming, and I am going to miss them beyond measure, but I am eager to learn how to be a grown-up with adult children. The four of us have to learn to negotiate our way through this next part together and to appreciate what we have.

Look for one of these soon. Soonish. I mean, school starts next week and I'll be all focused on that, but whatevs. With a little BICFOK (Butt In Chair, Fingers On Keyboard, per Lester Laminack), I can do this.

One of these days...

One of these days...

...I will live in a house that I designed, filled with fixtures and pieces that I picked out, on a lot that I chose because it is overlooking a body of water and has unusually large trees. I will hold my grandbabies on my lap in my porch rocker, sway with them and their parents in the hammock out back, toast marshmallows in the firepit, and dig for worms in the compost bin. My truelove and I will hold hands and walk nowhere in particular, singing the songs of our youth, remembering how easy love is, despite how difficult marriage can be.

...my heart will skip with joy when my children call me, their caller ID bringing instant smiles and excitement that they want time with their giving tree. They will tell me the tales of the life I wished for them, sharing their woes, simultaneously breaking my heart and filling it with pride. I will wait for them to tell me that they are coming to see me or that they want me to come see them, whether they are minutes or continents away. I will do whatever it takes to make my old body available for them, just to have one more opportunity to hold them and breathe them in.

...I will spend my days in the service of others, giving time to some young kid who needs an adult friend, to someone older who needs a young friend, to causes that heal my old wounds and expose new ones. My money will come from the work I've already done, and it will be enough. My needs will be few, my wants will be fewer, my bucket will be full. I will take time to do what I enjoy, to be myself, to discover my gifts every day.

...the number of continents I've visited will outnumber the ones I haven't. I will have the opportunity to live short-term in any of a number of countries and cities. New York, London, Toronto, San Francisco, provincial France, the Riviera - at least one of these would have been my home for weeks, or months, or a year. I will have lived the lives of the locals, developed a new perspective, and captured their essence in writing or film. And home will have always been home.

...I will capture the dreams of a middle-aged woman whose life is already better than any dream, and I will share them with other dreamers, in search of fellow travelers. Y'all come along.