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.

Anticipation

Picked blackberries with the truelove last night. They grow wild everywhere along the roadsides out here in our little neck of the boonies. I love that he wants to do this more than I want to. I love that he talks me into it and we go off together like a couple of young lovers or old married people (is there much difference?), holding hands, toting buckets, devil-may-care.

You forget how brambly and prickly blackberries are until you are reaching for just one more juice-laden big'un and every article of clothing is pulling in a different direction because it's caught on a different vine. But that doesn't stop a die-hard, slightly OCD picker. There is such tremendous satisfaction in removing every ripe berry from any given cluster of vines before moving on, knowing that there will be more ripe ones the next day. Foraging like animals, sweating like pigs, paying careful attention that Brer Snake is nowhere near, we picked four cups or so before we gave up and trod through the woods to get back to the road.

So tonight we are making a blackberry pie with our harvest using some recipe found online that only called for ingredients we had on hand. Well, we only marginally had enough sugar, and couldn't find the cornstarch anywhere, so we sent out a mass text to the neighborwives and scored a few tablespoons. (Beauty part is that we found ours when we were cleaning up...) Who knows if it will turn out okay, but with enough ice cream, it's sure to satisfy, at least.

The hardest part is not picking the berries, although working for your food makes it so much more satisfying than buying it ready made. It's not waiting for the crust to reach a perfectly golden-brown state of flaky goodness. It's waiting for the darn thing to cool and set. I'm not at all hungry and have actually put on a couple of previously-lost pounds in the last few days of sloth, but I am READY for some dang pie. The anticipation is the struggle and the test of one's mettle. Truelove is going to want to cut into it as soon as it's out of the oven, but I'm going to try a little delayed gratification for once and see if I can wait until it reaches a reasonable temperature.

Then again, the ice cream cools it off, right?

Saddle Up

Remember that scene in The Lion King when Rafiki says, "It is time" and goes all baboon-loony about Simba claiming his throne? So, that's where I am these days.

It is time to get back to the pleasure that is putting my words into a computer and seeing what comes out of them. I've neglected my writerlife for too long now. I thought about starting a few different blogs with different themes - one place for family life reflections, another for teaching perspectives, still a third for my "work" with Voyagers in Adolescence - but here's the thing: all of those are inseparable parts of this chick. So, if you're here, be prepared to never know what to expect.

It is time to assess my priorities and time expenditures. Time is so precious, and here on the first of July already, I am sensing the wasted hours so far this summer - just sitting, watching tv, thinking about getting up and doing something, and lordhavemercy the social media obsessing. The most accomplished I've felt all summer was the day I entertained myself by making a "ta-dah" list (on twitter, like a dork) instead of a "to-do" list. But it's time to make the occasional list of tasks that must be handled. It's entirely too easy to neglect my responsibilities or to pawn them off on the other people who share my life. It's even easier to neglect the responsibility to use the gifts I know I've been given. If you would, please, be patient with me and recognize that, more often than not, this blog will be random and nonsensical, very drafty, and largely unimportant. But it will exist. I will work out the kinks of making it part of my routine to share thoughts with you and let you decide if they mean anything. I know I need to develop a writing discipline. I also need to get back in touch with the other talents and/or passions that have been too long dormant. So don't expect this to be my only creative outlet!

It is time to awaken and behold all the majesty that this life holds. I can't help it that I was born a chronic optimist and that finding silver linings seems to be one of those gifts I mentioned. I don't have time for negative energy in my space, whether I create it or it surrounds me. It's high time I focus on shifting what I can and separating from what I can't shift. Mine is a charmed life, and I want to live grateful for it.

So, I'm in the saddle again, heading somewhere bound to be beautiful, hoping you'll join in the journey on occasion. I'm a glutton for attention and praise, but also a big fan of honesty. Comment, people. Interact with me. If I say something stupid, challenge me. If something here resonates, tell me your story. We all need to connect in real ways about real life. It is time.

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.

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!)

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!

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.

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?

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!

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?

Are all readers created equal?

Some of you who frequent this space might not know that I am in my capstone course for an M.Ed in Language and Literacy from USC. (Okay, most of you who frequent this space are in that same program. But I like to pretend I have other readers.) It is not a thesis program (hence, the M.Ed. and not the M.A., I am guessing) but we have a culminating academic paper due in, um, 11 days, which is to be a synthesis of our understanding about one of the tenets of literacy instruction we've explored and embraced over these 33 hours/ 3 years. Am I the only one who thinks this is actually a thesis program? Hey, we've been doing academic vocabulary in our district - see that "thesis" root in "synthesis" up there? Yeah. I am to express belief and support it with evidence from the Body of Works we've studied...

Anyway, I digress. (Not shocking.) And I am on this site writing some random ponderings instead of in Word writing the bloody paper. (Also, not shocking.) But not really...

See, I just finished rereading a couple of articles we read at the beginning of our program, way back in the summer of 2008, right at the peak of my mourning and during a time when I still wasn't certain if I would be teaching the coming fall. Both were about Louise Rosenblatt: one was her thoughts on reading occurring in the transaction between reader and text, and on the efferent and aesthetic stances of readers. The other, on her theory in practice at my pal Emily Grace's AMAZING elementary school. As I read these articles with my older and (perhaps) wiser eyes, I experienced something new (as Louise would have predicted). Actually, I think I experienced some of the same old things, just with a different perspective grounded in having experienced more living and teaching and mothering.

Here's what I read today: School too often interferes with growing readers by trying to grow them too quickly, at someone else's arbitrarily inflicted pace and under someone else's definition of "growth."

Now, some of you are trying to figure out how I got there, I am guessing. (Some of you might not have any idea what I am talking about, but read on, and I promise some of it might make sense.) This week, my precious babies (those both borne and assigned unto me) took MAP (Measures of Academic Progress) Reading. They sat at their little computer screens and answered all kinds of "comprehension" questions about passages, roots of words, literary elements, and such. Some of them did astoundingly better on this administration of MAP than they had in the fall. A good many of them flatlined within the range they had scored in the fall. My own personal fifth grader kicked its assonance, both in raw score and in fall-spring difference, especially unusual given that she didn't have much room to grow! With all this MAP on the mind and with my existential ponderings of my core beliefs which I call "pre-writing," I came to wonder what in the world is going on in our classrooms and lives that makes one kid's MAP Reading transaction produce results so very different than another's.

It occurs to me that MAP (and, indeed, PASS, SAT, and all other standardized testing) measures not "academic progress" but "dominance of efferent stance in experiencing this text." It also occurs to me that the brilliant things my students have said all year long about the texts we've shared and the ones they've read with friends can not be reflected by this test. Now, I don't teach Kori (thanks be to God) but I do teach lots and lots of little people who have been in her classes since first grade. She has sat alongside these chronological peers for the same "lessons" in reading and writing, math, science, and social studies. She has heard the same lectures, done the same activities and projects, eaten the same lunch, played the same PE games... In short, she has lived with these people school day in and school day out. But she looks infinitely "smarter" when it comes to the numbers she can get the test to produce.

And yes, y'all, that girl is smart. But I can't say that she thinks any more deeply than the people I teach. She is clever and witty, but no more so than many of my babies. She is quick to incorporate new concepts into her current understandings of the world, but I teach lots of kids who are that way. I am definitely not involved in her homework - never have been - and I don't even read to her anymore. (Sad!) Our family is as dysfunctional as the next. (OK, maybe not, but we do argue and keep a messy house and watch a lot of tv...) HOW DID SHE LEARN TO PLAY THE TESTING GAME?

The only answer I have is that reading is a part of her - a big part - and she has always been a reader, not just of texts, but of everything around her. She studies her environment, connects to it, makes everything make sense. But don't these other kids? Didn't their mommies take them to the hands-on museums and the Little Gym and all the other hyper-mom nonsense I've done? Most of them did. Some of them have provided experiences I never even thought of or cared to! But something in her multitude of experiences made language, made literacy make sense to her in a way that it doesn't yet to so many other kids. She can distinguish "paradox" from "oxymoron" and "hyperbole" because she constructed ideas of these concepts, then someone named them for her, and then she managed to remember the name long enough to recognize it on the test. Maybe her aesthetic stance toward life has enabled her to code-switch and recognize when an efferent stance is needed, and her aesthetic reading foundation has made the efferent possible...

It is hard for me to distinguish which of my beliefs about reading and learning were always part of me, which ones were confirmed by my participation in this program, and which ones I have only recently come to hold true. I do know this: learning is harder for some kids than others, particularly "academic" learning. Maybe it isn't even harder as much as it takes longer to take root. But our system fails those kids by making them jump right into demonstrating their understanding before they are ready to even realize that they DO understand. We fail them by spending too much of their life hours doing mundane and damaging tasks rather than helping them see what a life as a reader and learner has to offer. We spend precious hours teaching them how to use each other's expertise to further their writing and how it feels to record your thoughts and share them with the world, and then we have to spend countless more hours helping them learn how to respond to a prompt all by themselves without assistance of any resource other than a dictionary and a thesaurus. It's crap. Pure. Crap. And I don't know how much longer I can endure it.

So, to bring it back to my title - are all readers created equal? YES. Yes, they are, in that each is equipped with the capacity to acquire language and to use it to make sense of the world around them. Each is born to be loved and to experience life fully. Each comes to school looking for someone to help them further their understanding of the world. And we systematically blow it for so many of our kids by doing ridiculous things in the name of Education.

I don't need a test to show me which kids are readers and which are not. They all are. I see it in them every day, and I intend full well to help them see it, too.

Spring is in the air - and my bronchi

Blucko. I have an official case of the crud. My official self-diagnosis is a bronchitis/sinusitis combo, brought on by the public mating of all God's vegetation over the course of the past two weeks.

And so, I self-medicate. A little of this, a lot of that, hoping to find the right combination that will knock the edge off of my cough-till-I-pee-a-little crud-expelling. (Have I mentioned my affinity for the hyphen?) Today's drugs of choice include Robitussin DM and ibuprofen in addition to the daily cetirizine (Zyrtec) and Flonase (rather, its generic, manufactured by - no kidding - Hi-Tech Pharmacal).


I'm about to bite the bullet and try the much-lauded neti pot. I am a girl who greatly (overly?) appreciates the beauty of pus, that amazing combination of white blood cells, bacteria, and proteins that magically rids our bodies of many rank and raunchy invaders. I openly admit the pleasure I find in bursting big boils, popping pimples, draining abcesses and cysts... So you'd think I'd look forward to the potentially disgusting booger-ridden crud that will pour from my nostril if I find the courage to squirt saline up the other.

Here's the problem with THAT: I have always been mortified of drowning. (Thanks, momma.) I grew up at the coast, and I love the water, and I do know how to swim, but I am still a little anxious about putting myself in any situation in which I might find myself inhaling water. Know what I am saying? Why would I ever squirt volumes of water up my nose? Seems counter-intuitive to the whole breathing concept.

But I might be reaching my limit. Might give it a try.

Or I might just go see the doctor tomorrow and see what other pharmaceutical magic she has up her sleeve for me.

Squirrel Euthanasia

This story has so much potential for full development and pondering, but here are the nitty gritty details.

Casey Jones managed to catch a squirrel today, which is something our beloved Estherjen (RIP) never managed, but much attempted to do.

I was alerted to this accomplishment by the Boy, who was somewhere between mortified and delighted to report that the yellow retrieverhound was playing chew-toy with said rodent. Apparently there was thrashing about of the then-LIVE squeaky toy. And there was, apparently, squeaking.

Now it's one thing to find a mouse the cat killed, and likely toyed with for a while before it died, but this was timed right in the throes of the action sequence.

Anyway, I rushed to the aid of the rodent, sending the most-proud canine strutting joyfully into the house. As I arrived on the scene, I saw the 3D, HD version of one of those cartoons where a critter splats up against a hard surface. (Picture Skrat in Ice Age as he hits a glacier.) Arms splayed, one of them inverted in a completely unnatural direction. Back half moist with Caseyslobber, stiff. Frantic breathing, but total stillness otherwise. Beady eye glistening and wide open. Oh. My.

Honestly, my first thought was to call a wildlife rehabilitator. I am not even kidding. But then I came to my senses and realized that this poor guy was beyond rehab, or at least a prudent use of fiscal resources required to rehabilitate a dime-a-dozen creature stupid or slow or sick enough to be caught by my not-so-bright-herself mutt.

I knew it needed mercy. Husband wasn't due home for hours. I just wanted to hold it, which, boys and girls, despite everything I know about rabies and diseases and such, I did. Kori brought me an old rag; I wrapped it up and it allowed me to hold its busted little body gently, without protest. I thought about all of the life-on-the-prairie sorts of books I've read (what would Caddie Woodlawn have done?), and figured its little head needed a swift blow to ensure immediate ending to this suffering. (I did run through my mental rolodex of NRA members I knew...)

But, friends, I couldn't muster the guts. Maybe I could have, but my dear friend's beloved was willing to assist, so I didn't have to be this poor little fella's grim reaper. I almost thought I could have suffocated it, held its little nose and mouth shut, but it might have started to struggle (not okay!), and in light of recent SC news, well, you understand...

So, my neighbor is my hero today. My kids got another life lesson. And, here's the bonus, I learned a little about myself. I am only merciful-ish, and I am pretty sure I don't want to be a farmer.

RIP, little guy. And for cryin' out loud, little guy's friends, get the hint: Rat-dog lives in my yard! Go somewhere else!

Summer Plans

This cracks me up.

The Hayspartyof4 should be receiving our passports any day now. We needed to get them because the Senior Hayses are taking us on a cruise to the Bahamas (yeah, we're grateful, but...). Now, we 4 had already planned to go to Sandusky, OH to go to Cedar Point and ride a bunch of roller coasters and such, but since we will have passports, we have added Canada's Wonderland in Toronto to our itinerary. Fun.

Well, it seems that Rush is on tour this summer, too, and we thought it would be entirely too cool if they were playing in Toronto at all in July, and, of course, as fate would have it, they are. So, we are now planning our Cedar Fair Parks tour around the tickets we have now purchased for the July 17 Rush show in the YYZ. Too much. (No, we will not be attending the RUSHCON in town that week...)

Anyway, just wanted to mention that, as it makes me smile to imagine the memories we will be making with our little family this summer, both on a boat with their grandparents and in the Honda with just the four of us. I can't wait.

Anyone know of any crazy roadside attractions on our route from SC to Toronto to Ohio and back?