I don't have to think too hard to come up with a list of my favorite things. I see the world as happy little snippets of film on a cutting room floor. Here are just a few of the things that make me smile:
Brand new baby teeth
Puffs Plus on day three of a bad cold.
A comforting wink from across the room letting me know my friend has my back.
Teachable moments
High pitched squeals of glee from a happy toddler
Christmas making everything magical
The smell of salty air that tells me I'm home
The tightest hug ever from my 95 year old grandfather
How people in love pretend-fight just to amuse themselves
An unexpected gift
Dinner turning into "up way too late on a work-night" talks with a friend
The great cookie debate...cookies or cookie dough?
Pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse
People who let me be me
Others who sing along when I break into spontaneous song.
Pretending my dog talks likes Aunt Jemima
The liberation of my mind when wrapped up in a good story
Praising God
How a look between close friends can take the place of words
Platonic Soul Mates
The way a two year old says I love you
How just knowing he's there makes me feel inside
Promises Kept
Bucket lists
No bills in the mailbox
Texting
When my parents sing happy birthday to me on speaker phone
Choosing to focus on strengths, not weaknesses
The Circle of Trust
I could go on for at least another couple of hundred things. :) Moments are memories, and they are priceless. I completely enjoy the little things, like the way the coins jingle in my dad's pocket when he walks, or the way my husband whistles while he works on his car. Remembering, in life, that limitations are just opportunities to be creative, and that perspective changes everything. There are reasons to be happy everywhere we look! Life is good! :o)
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Easiest Job...Ever.
"I think teaching would be pretty much the easiest job...ever". This is a direct quote from one of my 17 year old students who knows everything. I just smiled and said, "maybe one day you'll be a teacher, and get to find out". On the surface I thought it seemed like an innocent deflection of a thoughtless comment, but in reality, I wish that upon him.
I wish he could experience first hand, how "easy" teaching really is. I wish that he could know what it is like to have to be at school at an hour when most adults are still waiting for the alarm clock to go off every morning. And that instead of "clocking out" at five to head to dinner, he could go home most nights with armfuls of curriculum and papers. I would love to hear this thoughts at spending his "free time" at night grading and planning and having to say, "No, I think I better get some work done tonight", whenever some friends ask him to join them for dinner. I wish this audacious little man-child the "easy-breezy" life of PTF meetings, fundraisers, and sporting events (on school nights and weekends) that he has to go to in order to do his job well. He should get to experience the simple task of engaging the minds of students who are used to flashes of light and sound effects at every turn. Of course, that just touches on the easy part of teaching, the academic part.
Once we get the "hidden curriculum" involved it gets even more interesting. Teaching social skills, conflict resolution, goal setting, self esteem, self-acceptance, self-advocacy, respect, obedience, civic duty, and on and on. Easy? Maybe. And what about matters of the heart? When he might have to comfort a girl whose cousin commits suicide, or parents abuse her, or mother has been in jail for the past ten years...how easy will that be? When he has to figure out what to say to the boy that comes in between classes, and bursts into tears because he is new to the school, has no friends, and feels like if he doesn't bring his grades up that he will disappoint his mom. Will he think that is a walk in the park? I wish he could see, just once, how "easy" it is to sit in a meeting with a parent whose child is a nightmare on roller skates, and find two positive things to say for every concern. And to do all of that creative thinking even while knowing that these same parents have been nothing but critical, hateful, and derogatory toward every effort the teacher has made to help them educate their child.
Yeah, it's not very mature of me, but I wish all of that upon him. If not in reality, then at lest in an Ebeneezer Scrooge type experience one dark night. I think, mostly though, that I wish "The Ghost of High School Past" would show him how "easy" it is to put a smile on his face every day, and give his heart, soul, finances, time, and passion to a bunch of kids who think he has pretty much the easiest job...ever.
I wish he could experience first hand, how "easy" teaching really is. I wish that he could know what it is like to have to be at school at an hour when most adults are still waiting for the alarm clock to go off every morning. And that instead of "clocking out" at five to head to dinner, he could go home most nights with armfuls of curriculum and papers. I would love to hear this thoughts at spending his "free time" at night grading and planning and having to say, "No, I think I better get some work done tonight", whenever some friends ask him to join them for dinner. I wish this audacious little man-child the "easy-breezy" life of PTF meetings, fundraisers, and sporting events (on school nights and weekends) that he has to go to in order to do his job well. He should get to experience the simple task of engaging the minds of students who are used to flashes of light and sound effects at every turn. Of course, that just touches on the easy part of teaching, the academic part.
Once we get the "hidden curriculum" involved it gets even more interesting. Teaching social skills, conflict resolution, goal setting, self esteem, self-acceptance, self-advocacy, respect, obedience, civic duty, and on and on. Easy? Maybe. And what about matters of the heart? When he might have to comfort a girl whose cousin commits suicide, or parents abuse her, or mother has been in jail for the past ten years...how easy will that be? When he has to figure out what to say to the boy that comes in between classes, and bursts into tears because he is new to the school, has no friends, and feels like if he doesn't bring his grades up that he will disappoint his mom. Will he think that is a walk in the park? I wish he could see, just once, how "easy" it is to sit in a meeting with a parent whose child is a nightmare on roller skates, and find two positive things to say for every concern. And to do all of that creative thinking even while knowing that these same parents have been nothing but critical, hateful, and derogatory toward every effort the teacher has made to help them educate their child.
Yeah, it's not very mature of me, but I wish all of that upon him. If not in reality, then at lest in an Ebeneezer Scrooge type experience one dark night. I think, mostly though, that I wish "The Ghost of High School Past" would show him how "easy" it is to put a smile on his face every day, and give his heart, soul, finances, time, and passion to a bunch of kids who think he has pretty much the easiest job...ever.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Inside My Heart
Sometimes in life we have moments that change us. I have had a few. The moment when my parents told me that a close family friend, who was my age, had been tragically killed in a biking accident when I was in grade school was one. The moment that I realized that Jayme was both my best friend and the love of my life, was another one. And few moments have changed me like the moments when I first beheld my two children, and my heart turned to mush...twice.
One of the most significant moments for me happened eleven years ago, and it was more of an event than a moment. It took place over a thirteen week time period, and ended with my heart completely broken into a million pieces, and me forever changed.
Eleven years ago (and a few months), it was 1999. My husband and I had left Maine, the first place we lived as husband and wife, and moved to Florida. While our very first house was being built we were living with his parents, here in Orlando. It was springtime when I found out that I was...pregnant?
I was not overjoyed at this realization. In fact, I remember calling my mom to tell her, and sobbing on the phone that it was going to "ruin Christmas". I remember telling her things like, "It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I'm still a baby myself, and Chrissy is supposed to have kids first." My due date was January 2, 2000. Yep, I was going to have a Y2K baby. If you know me at all, it will not surprise you that to me this meant that all of the computerized medical equipment in the hospital was going to be failing right when my baby and I needed life saving interventions.
But a baby is a good thing, that much I knew. I was married, building a house, having a child with the man I love, and we both had jobs. The logical side of me, which always seems to win out in my mind, decided that this was good. I did not feel pregnant, but I did start to feel happy. That didn't last long. I was happy for a week or so, when the sickness started. It was constant sickness. People talk about nausea or even morning sickness. Ha! I scoff at them. I am talking about retching my guts out twenty four hours a day. Not being able to drink water, juice, soda, milk shakes, lemonade, or even nibble on a gingersnap without getting sick. Not being able to lay down, stand up, sit, or breathe without vomiting. I would awake from sleeping at night to get sick. It was not normal.
My husband called the doctor to request my first appointment, and they scheduled me for one 4-6 weeks away, the typical first prenatal appointment. I was convinced that I would be dead by then, so we got to go in that same week. Fear not, I traveled with my trashcan. At that appointment they diagnosed me with Hyperemesis gravidarum. That's the fancy name for throwing up all of the time when you are pregnant. They recommended lots of remedies and I tried them all. Pressure bands for sea sickness, ginger candies, raw ginger, saltines in bed ten minutes before rising, Preggie pops, mouth sprays, even a positive attitude (as it was alluded to that this may be a psychological condition). Anyway, check, check, check, check, check. The long story, short, is that nothing worked. I was put on Zofran, and anti nausea drug that they give to cancer patients, and had a Reglan pump in my leg that constantly infused my body with Reglan, another anti-nausea drug. I had home health nurses that came in (I don't know how) frequently to change the pump and check on me, but it is really all a blurr. All I know was that in thirty days I lost thirty pounds. During this time when they were trying to help me, I came to know three things without question.
The first is that I was not afraid to die. It might sound silly. I was just pregnant!! But it was really, and truly, that bad. I laid in my bed with my dog curled up on the floor feeling like there was no light at the end of the tunnel, and being legitimately sick, malnourished, and dehydrated. I had no strength. Even going to the bathroom made me nearly pass out, which I did once when I tried to take a shower. I would watch the praise and worship channel on the TV all night long, and during the day when it was not available I sang, "It is well with my soul" about fifty million times. As is often true during desperate times, I have never been stronger in my faith or closer to God than I was during those couple of months. I knew He held the answers, the hope, the health, and when the time came to meet Him it would be a great relief.
The second is that my husband is an incredible man. This was a crazy time in his life as well. We had moved down here so that he could help his parents build their company. Originally, Jayme's dad was a man who owned and operated a car transporter (those giant trucks covered in cars that I am scared to pass on the Interstate). Jayme came to help him build a business where he did not operate the truck, and where they would have multiple trucks and drivers, and clients. He ended up doing that, but not without a lot of really hard work and long hours. At the beginning, he worked out of the house, the very house that I was a dying prisoner in. He had to run upstairs to check on me about a thousand times a day while implementing computerized billing systems, finding clients, hiring drivers, etc. He also had to go out to check on our house periodically and make decisions for the builder to get things how we wanted them. He slept on a mattress on the floor next to my bed. Every night. With the praise and worship channel staying bright in his face all night long, and having to wake up hourly to help me with my trash can. Do you know what? Every time I called, he came. With a loving pat on my arm, kiss on my forehead, and smile on his face, he emptied my trashcan, and held my hand, and proved to me that no matter what the future held for me, it held him.
The last thing I learned was that I loved my baby. I was so silly to not have wanted to be pregnant. During my thirteen weeks of unbelievable sickness, I got to hear my baby's heart beat several times, and with all of the time spent in bed I did a lot of thinking about "his" ( I don't know why I decided he was a he back then, but I did) possible future. I didn't want to be sick, but I wanted to be a good mother. Maybe I had to sacrifice my health for "him" to exist, but there was beauty in the sacrifice, and it was worth it.
The story took a happy turn when I finally got a picc line in my arm to "feed" me intravenously. The doctors had been saying that if I could get food in me I would feel better, but they had said a lot of things so I was skeptical. This time, they were right! I felt better within a day or two. The nutrients started to help the levels of every chemical in my body level out, and I started to feel...not good, but definitely less bad. The whole time of sickness is a blurr, with me just remembering random moments. I recall eating frozen grape juice chips, singing in my bed, and the massive dreaded endeavors to see the doctor. But, I absolutely remember the Fourth of July. It was FUN!!!! I spent time outside on the lounge chair by my in-law's pool and watched while Jayme and his dad set off a bunch of fireworks. I laughed. I smiled. I didn't throw up!! Things were looking up, and I was entering my 13th week of pregnancy where they had said the hormones would level out, and I would naturally start to feel better anyway. I had a glimmer of hope!
I found out on July 5th, 1999 that I had a miscarriage. It was devastating news. I think it was worse because of all that we had gone through just to get that far. I didn't cry when the doctor told me, but Jayme did. For me, it was like time stood still. I didn't feel. I just asked if they were really, really sure. I had to have a D&C in a couple days and didn't want to risk that they had been wrong. The rest is pretty much a blurr too, but we made it through. We survived.
We never did find out why. They tried to do genetic testing on the baby, but it was inconclusive. It's fine though; it really doesn't matter. I don't know what went wrong, or if the baby waiting for me in Heaven today is a "he" or a "she". I just know that someday I will get to say, "Hi, little one. I'm your mommy". I so cannot wait.
One of the most significant moments for me happened eleven years ago, and it was more of an event than a moment. It took place over a thirteen week time period, and ended with my heart completely broken into a million pieces, and me forever changed.
Eleven years ago (and a few months), it was 1999. My husband and I had left Maine, the first place we lived as husband and wife, and moved to Florida. While our very first house was being built we were living with his parents, here in Orlando. It was springtime when I found out that I was...pregnant?
I was not overjoyed at this realization. In fact, I remember calling my mom to tell her, and sobbing on the phone that it was going to "ruin Christmas". I remember telling her things like, "It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I'm still a baby myself, and Chrissy is supposed to have kids first." My due date was January 2, 2000. Yep, I was going to have a Y2K baby. If you know me at all, it will not surprise you that to me this meant that all of the computerized medical equipment in the hospital was going to be failing right when my baby and I needed life saving interventions.
But a baby is a good thing, that much I knew. I was married, building a house, having a child with the man I love, and we both had jobs. The logical side of me, which always seems to win out in my mind, decided that this was good. I did not feel pregnant, but I did start to feel happy. That didn't last long. I was happy for a week or so, when the sickness started. It was constant sickness. People talk about nausea or even morning sickness. Ha! I scoff at them. I am talking about retching my guts out twenty four hours a day. Not being able to drink water, juice, soda, milk shakes, lemonade, or even nibble on a gingersnap without getting sick. Not being able to lay down, stand up, sit, or breathe without vomiting. I would awake from sleeping at night to get sick. It was not normal.
My husband called the doctor to request my first appointment, and they scheduled me for one 4-6 weeks away, the typical first prenatal appointment. I was convinced that I would be dead by then, so we got to go in that same week. Fear not, I traveled with my trashcan. At that appointment they diagnosed me with Hyperemesis gravidarum. That's the fancy name for throwing up all of the time when you are pregnant. They recommended lots of remedies and I tried them all. Pressure bands for sea sickness, ginger candies, raw ginger, saltines in bed ten minutes before rising, Preggie pops, mouth sprays, even a positive attitude (as it was alluded to that this may be a psychological condition). Anyway, check, check, check, check, check. The long story, short, is that nothing worked. I was put on Zofran, and anti nausea drug that they give to cancer patients, and had a Reglan pump in my leg that constantly infused my body with Reglan, another anti-nausea drug. I had home health nurses that came in (I don't know how) frequently to change the pump and check on me, but it is really all a blurr. All I know was that in thirty days I lost thirty pounds. During this time when they were trying to help me, I came to know three things without question.
The first is that I was not afraid to die. It might sound silly. I was just pregnant!! But it was really, and truly, that bad. I laid in my bed with my dog curled up on the floor feeling like there was no light at the end of the tunnel, and being legitimately sick, malnourished, and dehydrated. I had no strength. Even going to the bathroom made me nearly pass out, which I did once when I tried to take a shower. I would watch the praise and worship channel on the TV all night long, and during the day when it was not available I sang, "It is well with my soul" about fifty million times. As is often true during desperate times, I have never been stronger in my faith or closer to God than I was during those couple of months. I knew He held the answers, the hope, the health, and when the time came to meet Him it would be a great relief.
The second is that my husband is an incredible man. This was a crazy time in his life as well. We had moved down here so that he could help his parents build their company. Originally, Jayme's dad was a man who owned and operated a car transporter (those giant trucks covered in cars that I am scared to pass on the Interstate). Jayme came to help him build a business where he did not operate the truck, and where they would have multiple trucks and drivers, and clients. He ended up doing that, but not without a lot of really hard work and long hours. At the beginning, he worked out of the house, the very house that I was a dying prisoner in. He had to run upstairs to check on me about a thousand times a day while implementing computerized billing systems, finding clients, hiring drivers, etc. He also had to go out to check on our house periodically and make decisions for the builder to get things how we wanted them. He slept on a mattress on the floor next to my bed. Every night. With the praise and worship channel staying bright in his face all night long, and having to wake up hourly to help me with my trash can. Do you know what? Every time I called, he came. With a loving pat on my arm, kiss on my forehead, and smile on his face, he emptied my trashcan, and held my hand, and proved to me that no matter what the future held for me, it held him.
The last thing I learned was that I loved my baby. I was so silly to not have wanted to be pregnant. During my thirteen weeks of unbelievable sickness, I got to hear my baby's heart beat several times, and with all of the time spent in bed I did a lot of thinking about "his" ( I don't know why I decided he was a he back then, but I did) possible future. I didn't want to be sick, but I wanted to be a good mother. Maybe I had to sacrifice my health for "him" to exist, but there was beauty in the sacrifice, and it was worth it.
The story took a happy turn when I finally got a picc line in my arm to "feed" me intravenously. The doctors had been saying that if I could get food in me I would feel better, but they had said a lot of things so I was skeptical. This time, they were right! I felt better within a day or two. The nutrients started to help the levels of every chemical in my body level out, and I started to feel...not good, but definitely less bad. The whole time of sickness is a blurr, with me just remembering random moments. I recall eating frozen grape juice chips, singing in my bed, and the massive dreaded endeavors to see the doctor. But, I absolutely remember the Fourth of July. It was FUN!!!! I spent time outside on the lounge chair by my in-law's pool and watched while Jayme and his dad set off a bunch of fireworks. I laughed. I smiled. I didn't throw up!! Things were looking up, and I was entering my 13th week of pregnancy where they had said the hormones would level out, and I would naturally start to feel better anyway. I had a glimmer of hope!
I found out on July 5th, 1999 that I had a miscarriage. It was devastating news. I think it was worse because of all that we had gone through just to get that far. I didn't cry when the doctor told me, but Jayme did. For me, it was like time stood still. I didn't feel. I just asked if they were really, really sure. I had to have a D&C in a couple days and didn't want to risk that they had been wrong. The rest is pretty much a blurr too, but we made it through. We survived.
We never did find out why. They tried to do genetic testing on the baby, but it was inconclusive. It's fine though; it really doesn't matter. I don't know what went wrong, or if the baby waiting for me in Heaven today is a "he" or a "she". I just know that someday I will get to say, "Hi, little one. I'm your mommy". I so cannot wait.
You're not with me anymore. We said goodbye before we even said hello. The emptiness is hard to ignore. I feel like I've lost my soul. But your still my baby boy, you're still the news that came and filled my heart with joy, and even though we're apart, you're always here with me inside my heart...
Monday, January 10, 2011
Is that Jen, again?
If I had a nickel for every time that the phone rings, and Jayme says, "it's Chrissy...again" or every time I pick up the phone to call someone and he says, "are you calling your sister...again?", I would be a rich woman. In his opinion we talk a lot. I, however, have no idea what he's talking about. I only call my sister when I need something.
Chrissy is almost five years older than me, and we have a lot in common besides genetics. We are both teachers, wives, and mothers of young kids; so there are plenty of opportunities for me to need something from her. Occasionally, I need teaching advice, or just someone to vent to about such- and- such a student. More often I need parenting advice because suddenly Trevor doesn't want to take naps anymore and Taryn is starting to sass me. I don't always want to call, but I NEED to, because after we talk I am certain that I am not alone in my woes. I am, almost certainly, not the only mother who wishes to be sentenced to a few hours in solitary confinement just every once in a while.
I need to talk to her about all different things. Occasionally, yet be assured very rarely, I need her to tell me that I don't need to worry about what Mom said, because she's "crazy" anyway. And, on the nights when I think that grilling one more hamburger or spinning one more salad might kill me; I absolutely need Chrissy to reassure me that it is indeed a lot to expect me to cook dinner EVERY NIGHT. When I have to bake some deliciously rich dessert for a baby shower, and I know my sister has the perfect recipe,one from my grandmother's recipe box, then what else can I do but call Chrissy? I need that recipe, and she has them all!! And when I send my 95 year old grandfather the "Best Birthday Card Ever", I need to tell her so that she can mail her more inferior card out too, and get it there in time.
It isn't always easy. There are days when I am tired of talking. I have talked to my students, my husband, my kids, my coworkers, the guy that is doing market research (just as I get dinner on the table), and the man from the Fraternal Order of Police. On those nights, quite frankly, the last thing that I want to do is to talk to one more person. Alas, I need to call my sister to tell her that I played my turn in our Scrabble games on Facebook, and there was a line on a TV show the night before that reminded me of her or our family growing up. Sometimes, its a little bit random, like when I just need her that she doesn't have to worry about me because I met a new friend at work, who I think really "gets" me. After all, she knows that people seldom really get me. Likewise, when they serve Buffalo Wings and celery at lunch, and the celery is so fresh that I can smell it, well, then I need to tell her that I know how much she would have hated just being in the celery's presence. I have no choice.
I love my friends, my husband, and my kids, but I am surrounded by people who have only known me for 15 years, and most for much fewer. I need to know that in her I have someone who "knew me when...". She knew me when I had a mullet, and braces, and allegedly peed in a yellow Vega. She knew me when I was really good at basketball, and spent consecutive summers at Martha's Vineyard playing "Pitch" and "Cribbage" with my aunts, uncles, and cousin. She knew me when I was Grandpa's favorite and when I caught my brother smoking pine needles in the back yard. Somehow, I need her to make me seem more real. My imagination is quite inventive, and me creating my whole past is not unfathomable, even to me.
So, maybe I do call a lot, but that's just because I "need" a lot.
What I need most is just to know that she is there.
"Pooh," he whispered.
Chrissy is almost five years older than me, and we have a lot in common besides genetics. We are both teachers, wives, and mothers of young kids; so there are plenty of opportunities for me to need something from her. Occasionally, I need teaching advice, or just someone to vent to about such- and- such a student. More often I need parenting advice because suddenly Trevor doesn't want to take naps anymore and Taryn is starting to sass me. I don't always want to call, but I NEED to, because after we talk I am certain that I am not alone in my woes. I am, almost certainly, not the only mother who wishes to be sentenced to a few hours in solitary confinement just every once in a while.
I need to talk to her about all different things. Occasionally, yet be assured very rarely, I need her to tell me that I don't need to worry about what Mom said, because she's "crazy" anyway. And, on the nights when I think that grilling one more hamburger or spinning one more salad might kill me; I absolutely need Chrissy to reassure me that it is indeed a lot to expect me to cook dinner EVERY NIGHT. When I have to bake some deliciously rich dessert for a baby shower, and I know my sister has the perfect recipe,one from my grandmother's recipe box, then what else can I do but call Chrissy? I need that recipe, and she has them all!! And when I send my 95 year old grandfather the "Best Birthday Card Ever", I need to tell her so that she can mail her more inferior card out too, and get it there in time.
It isn't always easy. There are days when I am tired of talking. I have talked to my students, my husband, my kids, my coworkers, the guy that is doing market research (just as I get dinner on the table), and the man from the Fraternal Order of Police. On those nights, quite frankly, the last thing that I want to do is to talk to one more person. Alas, I need to call my sister to tell her that I played my turn in our Scrabble games on Facebook, and there was a line on a TV show the night before that reminded me of her or our family growing up. Sometimes, its a little bit random, like when I just need her that she doesn't have to worry about me because I met a new friend at work, who I think really "gets" me. After all, she knows that people seldom really get me. Likewise, when they serve Buffalo Wings and celery at lunch, and the celery is so fresh that I can smell it, well, then I need to tell her that I know how much she would have hated just being in the celery's presence. I have no choice.
I love my friends, my husband, and my kids, but I am surrounded by people who have only known me for 15 years, and most for much fewer. I need to know that in her I have someone who "knew me when...". She knew me when I had a mullet, and braces, and allegedly peed in a yellow Vega. She knew me when I was really good at basketball, and spent consecutive summers at Martha's Vineyard playing "Pitch" and "Cribbage" with my aunts, uncles, and cousin. She knew me when I was Grandpa's favorite and when I caught my brother smoking pine needles in the back yard. Somehow, I need her to make me seem more real. My imagination is quite inventive, and me creating my whole past is not unfathomable, even to me.
So, maybe I do call a lot, but that's just because I "need" a lot.
What I need most is just to know that she is there.
"Pooh," he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw, "I just wanted to be sure of you."”
Friday, January 7, 2011
Fog on the mirror
I was taken aback when I walked into my favorite taco place yesterday and saw the sign behind the counter that indicated that you had to be born before 1/6/90 in order be served beer. WHAT? People born in 1990 can drink? ahhhhhh...(long despairing sigh). I am so old.
I remember 1990 well. 1990 was the second half my Freshman year of high school. It was the conclusion of my first year as an "only child" because my older brother and sister were off in their Freshman year of college. This was the banner year that my mom finally bought Skippy peanut butter instead of the natural stuff where the oil rose to the top, and I had to get my knuckles all greasy trying to mix it up. In 1990 I had a perm, and braces, and a crush on Andrew Earle.
I was 15 years old in 1990, and it is inconceivable that people who were born when I was 15 are old enough to drink! I am not delusional. I see the stray gray hairs in the mirror. I stop in the cosmetics aisle at the grocery store for minutes on end pondering night-time eye cream and Retinol A. I am starting to think about wearing my sunglasses when I go outside in order to reduce squint time so that the "crow's feet" might "keep off". I even wish that for my whole life my nose hadn't wrinkled up when I smiled because I see nose-laugh-lines that I do not appreciate. Despite all of this, it seems like it should not be possible that people who were getting their umbilical cords cut when I was learning to drive a car are 21.
Woooooshhhhhhh! Did you hear that? It was my life, flying by. It goes so fast that it makes me think of the mirror after I take a shower. I can't even see myself because it is covered in fog. I get impatient. I think I will never be able to get ready for work because I need to see my reflection in order to do my make up. I consider using the blow-dryer to help the fog go away, or a towel, but before I can do either the fog is gone. Vanished just as quickly as it appeared. Leaving behind it no trace.
My life is the fog on the mirror. It came quickly, and will vanish suddenly. And you know what? I am (surprised to be) okay with that. Unlike the fog, I am leaving traces behind...in the lives of my children, in the back of my students' minds, in my diaries, and blogs, and letters to the President. I am getting older, and that shocks me. But as fog goes, mine is good! I adore my family, am pleased with my work, cherish my friends, and am happiest in my home. My foggy life is blessed, and my heart is glad.
Ecclesiastes 5:19-20
"Moreover, when God gives any man wealth and possessions and enables him to enjoy them, to accept his lot and be happy in his work-this is a gift of God. He seldom reflects on the days of his life, because God keeps him occupied with gladness of heart."
I remember 1990 well. 1990 was the second half my Freshman year of high school. It was the conclusion of my first year as an "only child" because my older brother and sister were off in their Freshman year of college. This was the banner year that my mom finally bought Skippy peanut butter instead of the natural stuff where the oil rose to the top, and I had to get my knuckles all greasy trying to mix it up. In 1990 I had a perm, and braces, and a crush on Andrew Earle.
I was 15 years old in 1990, and it is inconceivable that people who were born when I was 15 are old enough to drink! I am not delusional. I see the stray gray hairs in the mirror. I stop in the cosmetics aisle at the grocery store for minutes on end pondering night-time eye cream and Retinol A. I am starting to think about wearing my sunglasses when I go outside in order to reduce squint time so that the "crow's feet" might "keep off". I even wish that for my whole life my nose hadn't wrinkled up when I smiled because I see nose-laugh-lines that I do not appreciate. Despite all of this, it seems like it should not be possible that people who were getting their umbilical cords cut when I was learning to drive a car are 21.
Woooooshhhhhhh! Did you hear that? It was my life, flying by. It goes so fast that it makes me think of the mirror after I take a shower. I can't even see myself because it is covered in fog. I get impatient. I think I will never be able to get ready for work because I need to see my reflection in order to do my make up. I consider using the blow-dryer to help the fog go away, or a towel, but before I can do either the fog is gone. Vanished just as quickly as it appeared. Leaving behind it no trace.
My life is the fog on the mirror. It came quickly, and will vanish suddenly. And you know what? I am (surprised to be) okay with that. Unlike the fog, I am leaving traces behind...in the lives of my children, in the back of my students' minds, in my diaries, and blogs, and letters to the President. I am getting older, and that shocks me. But as fog goes, mine is good! I adore my family, am pleased with my work, cherish my friends, and am happiest in my home. My foggy life is blessed, and my heart is glad.
Ecclesiastes 5:19-20
"Moreover, when God gives any man wealth and possessions and enables him to enjoy them, to accept his lot and be happy in his work-this is a gift of God. He seldom reflects on the days of his life, because God keeps him occupied with gladness of heart."
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Earning Her Words
Last week, a little cold front blew through Orlando. The lows were in the thirties for a few days, and I realized that Taryn would probably not be warm enough at school in just her white cotton sweater. We hit the mall in search of a winter jacket that would be Florida appropriate; not full of down, super insulated, or safe until -32 degrees. Not only are those too expensive, but they are total overkill. If they filled out applications for the job of becoming Taryn's winter coat, they would be officially classified as "over qualified".
It was not an easy task. Meandering through the mall with two small children at Christmastime is fun. But being on a mission to get one thing and get out as fast as possible is a bit more trying. The mall is full of wonder for the kids. The Disney Store, Pillow Pals, the M & M store, and we had to walk by those temptations, and more, on our quest. What was supposed to be one stop turned into four, but we finally found it. A warm-enough-but-not-too-warm winter coat. It was a thick fleece jacket in the style of a pea coat. Adorable on my little four year old angel, and making her look way too grown up for my heart to take. But, the price was right, the kids were at their limits, and we were thankful to find it. We bought it with happy hearts.
On the way home, Taryn told me she liked that her coat was like mine. I have a charcoal grey, wool, pea coat that I have had since before she was born. I was wearing it in the mall that day, when we bought her little fleece version, but I hadn't even thought of that. I smiled, and said, "me too", and that was that.
The next morning I got Taryn dressed for school. Uniform shirt, check. Corduroys, check. New coat, check!!! I asked Taryn if she wanted to button it or not, and that is when her words melted my heart on the spot. "What are you doing with yours?" she asked. "If you are buttoning yours, then I will button mine, but if you aren't, then I won't. I want to be like you". Her words were sweet, and light-hearted, but I could feel their weight. She wants to be like me. Immediately my weaknesses flood my mind, and all I can think is that she can do so much better than to be like me. She just doesn't know it yet!
So, now it is my prayer that I can earn her words. Today, her world is small, and I am her everything. That is all it takes for her to want to be like me. But with each new day, and with every experience her world gets a little bit bigger, and I get less and less impressive. So one of my many prayers in life is that God will guide my steps as I raise my little girl. That He will protect her from the mistakes that I will inevitably make, and that with His help I will live my life in such a way that maybe, some part of her will always want to be like me.
It was not an easy task. Meandering through the mall with two small children at Christmastime is fun. But being on a mission to get one thing and get out as fast as possible is a bit more trying. The mall is full of wonder for the kids. The Disney Store, Pillow Pals, the M & M store, and we had to walk by those temptations, and more, on our quest. What was supposed to be one stop turned into four, but we finally found it. A warm-enough-but-not-too-warm winter coat. It was a thick fleece jacket in the style of a pea coat. Adorable on my little four year old angel, and making her look way too grown up for my heart to take. But, the price was right, the kids were at their limits, and we were thankful to find it. We bought it with happy hearts.
On the way home, Taryn told me she liked that her coat was like mine. I have a charcoal grey, wool, pea coat that I have had since before she was born. I was wearing it in the mall that day, when we bought her little fleece version, but I hadn't even thought of that. I smiled, and said, "me too", and that was that.
The next morning I got Taryn dressed for school. Uniform shirt, check. Corduroys, check. New coat, check!!! I asked Taryn if she wanted to button it or not, and that is when her words melted my heart on the spot. "What are you doing with yours?" she asked. "If you are buttoning yours, then I will button mine, but if you aren't, then I won't. I want to be like you". Her words were sweet, and light-hearted, but I could feel their weight. She wants to be like me. Immediately my weaknesses flood my mind, and all I can think is that she can do so much better than to be like me. She just doesn't know it yet!
So, now it is my prayer that I can earn her words. Today, her world is small, and I am her everything. That is all it takes for her to want to be like me. But with each new day, and with every experience her world gets a little bit bigger, and I get less and less impressive. So one of my many prayers in life is that God will guide my steps as I raise my little girl. That He will protect her from the mistakes that I will inevitably make, and that with His help I will live my life in such a way that maybe, some part of her will always want to be like me.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
How Embarrassing!
Most embarrassing moments. We have all had them. Mine still make me get that hollow feeling in my stomach when I go back and think about them.
There was the time in middle school when I fell in front of the whole school. I was new at the school, and it was an end of the year awards assembly. The kind where all of the students sit in the bleachers, the teachers stand around the perimeter giving dirty looks and threatening shhh's. For the masses to hear the speaker, a cheap PA system is set up for the principal to talk into, the kind where if she gets too close to the speaker it screams a terrible squeal that would make adults plug their ears, and middle-schoolers scream. Everything makes middle-schoolers scream. Anyway, this having been my first year at Benjamin F. Wentworth Middle School, and me knowing me as I do; I am sure I had been trying to play it super cool when I got called to the middle of the gym to get my award for who-knows- what. I jumped down from the bleachers and spun on my heal to head toward the bearer of my glorious paper certificate, when I my soft soled suede shoes it a dusty spot on the wood floor, and I went down hard. In front of the entire school. The students. The teachers. The cute boys. Everyone. And anyone who has ever fallen knows that no matter how super cool you are most of the time, no one falls super cool. Well, ninjas, maybe. Of course, everyone laughed, and I got up laughing too. I brushed myself off, got my award, and went back to my seat pretending to think it was funny, but seriously wanting to vomit. I remember telling my friends about the dusty spot, and my shoes being slippery. They had to know why it happened, and that it wasn't my fault.
That was my most embarrassing moment for a long time, actually. But then, there was my bridal shower at my mom's friend's house where I left the bathroom with my dress tucked into my pantyhose. No, worse, tucked into my body- shaper. Luckily, my mom's friend saw me on my way out of the bathroom and started pulling on my dress to free it from body-shaper-prison and cover my back side appropriately, and I laughed and thanked her...again, fighting off the familiar pang of nausea that comes when I make a fool of myself. Trying to explain what a hurry I had been in, and how that dress was far too long. That was it! It was the dress's fault.
Well, yesterday it happened again. A new embarrassing moment. I had plans to meet my best friend for lunch. I was super excited because I used to see her every day and now our visists are few and far between. We were supposed to meet at noon which was right when my 5th period class gets out. As soon as the bell rang, I dismissed them and went to check my phone for a message. Sure enough, there were several texts, "I'm here! Waiting in the car! Come get me. I'm starving. I'm going to eat all of the chips." I was so happy as I started to walk down the middle school outdoor hallway to meet her at her car. Then, excitement took over and I started a little jog. During the first few steps of my jog my left ankle started feeling a little pang. I attributed it to the suddenly cold day we were having. I have heard old people, and my husband, always say that old injuries can be achy on rainy or cold days. Anyway, one jogging moment I was fine and the next I was on the ground. There was no pain when my ankle gave out, so I don't think I twisted it or anything, it just decided to say "No. Not gonna work at this moment". It felt strange. I put my foot down and it didn't catch me...didn't hold me up. So I put my hands out and fell. There was no stopping it. It happened fast. Before I knew it I had rolled over on my back and was staring up at a twelve year old named Leo. He had a concerned look on his face, but clearly didn't want to get to close either. From a few steps back he looked down on me and said, "You OK? "Yep", I said. "You need help," Leo asked. "No. I'm good." As I stood up and the vomit pangs returned I said to Leo. "I'm fine. I have this old ankle injury...from when I played basketball. I tore the ligaments in my left ankle during practice. It really has never bothered me too much before, but I am getting older, and I have heard the cold weather sometimes makes old injuries act up". Poor Leo. His face told me that he wished he could rewind time and not be the one standing there when I fell down. His confused little eyes looked at me like I was a crazy cat lady. "OK, " was all he said. As I took a few lame steps toward where I need to meet my friend, I passed a few more twelve-year-olds that had seen my fall. It was between classes so there were a few kids at their lockers in the 6th grade hallway. "I have an old ankle injury, " I told them as I walked past..."but I'm fine...".
I have relived "the incident" from yesterday at least 37 times in my head, and what keeps getting me is their faces when I explained why I fell. Not understanding looks, to be sure. Actually, it was the explanation that confused them. See, they are 12. They get falling. They fall too. They trip, the drop things, they lose things, they get lost themselves. Falling didn't need any explanation. And when I did explain, that was when they didn't understand. Old injuries, cold weather, old age...what?
Now I have been reflecting on all my embarrassing moments, that aren't being deeply repressed, and I have seen a common thread. Every time I embarrass myself, I try to offer reasons. The dusty floor, going to fast, too much fabric, an old ankle injury. Isn't the real reason for all of my embarrassing moments just that I am alive? I am living, breathing, walking, talking, trying my best, and failing at perfection every step of the way...sometimes quite literally. So, I am trying to remind myself that no excuses or explanations needed. We all fail. We all fall. No need to be embarrassed. The important part is the getting back up.
There was the time in middle school when I fell in front of the whole school. I was new at the school, and it was an end of the year awards assembly. The kind where all of the students sit in the bleachers, the teachers stand around the perimeter giving dirty looks and threatening shhh's. For the masses to hear the speaker, a cheap PA system is set up for the principal to talk into, the kind where if she gets too close to the speaker it screams a terrible squeal that would make adults plug their ears, and middle-schoolers scream. Everything makes middle-schoolers scream. Anyway, this having been my first year at Benjamin F. Wentworth Middle School, and me knowing me as I do; I am sure I had been trying to play it super cool when I got called to the middle of the gym to get my award for who-knows- what. I jumped down from the bleachers and spun on my heal to head toward the bearer of my glorious paper certificate, when I my soft soled suede shoes it a dusty spot on the wood floor, and I went down hard. In front of the entire school. The students. The teachers. The cute boys. Everyone. And anyone who has ever fallen knows that no matter how super cool you are most of the time, no one falls super cool. Well, ninjas, maybe. Of course, everyone laughed, and I got up laughing too. I brushed myself off, got my award, and went back to my seat pretending to think it was funny, but seriously wanting to vomit. I remember telling my friends about the dusty spot, and my shoes being slippery. They had to know why it happened, and that it wasn't my fault.
That was my most embarrassing moment for a long time, actually. But then, there was my bridal shower at my mom's friend's house where I left the bathroom with my dress tucked into my pantyhose. No, worse, tucked into my body- shaper. Luckily, my mom's friend saw me on my way out of the bathroom and started pulling on my dress to free it from body-shaper-prison and cover my back side appropriately, and I laughed and thanked her...again, fighting off the familiar pang of nausea that comes when I make a fool of myself. Trying to explain what a hurry I had been in, and how that dress was far too long. That was it! It was the dress's fault.
Well, yesterday it happened again. A new embarrassing moment. I had plans to meet my best friend for lunch. I was super excited because I used to see her every day and now our visists are few and far between. We were supposed to meet at noon which was right when my 5th period class gets out. As soon as the bell rang, I dismissed them and went to check my phone for a message. Sure enough, there were several texts, "I'm here! Waiting in the car! Come get me. I'm starving. I'm going to eat all of the chips." I was so happy as I started to walk down the middle school outdoor hallway to meet her at her car. Then, excitement took over and I started a little jog. During the first few steps of my jog my left ankle started feeling a little pang. I attributed it to the suddenly cold day we were having. I have heard old people, and my husband, always say that old injuries can be achy on rainy or cold days. Anyway, one jogging moment I was fine and the next I was on the ground. There was no pain when my ankle gave out, so I don't think I twisted it or anything, it just decided to say "No. Not gonna work at this moment". It felt strange. I put my foot down and it didn't catch me...didn't hold me up. So I put my hands out and fell. There was no stopping it. It happened fast. Before I knew it I had rolled over on my back and was staring up at a twelve year old named Leo. He had a concerned look on his face, but clearly didn't want to get to close either. From a few steps back he looked down on me and said, "You OK? "Yep", I said. "You need help," Leo asked. "No. I'm good." As I stood up and the vomit pangs returned I said to Leo. "I'm fine. I have this old ankle injury...from when I played basketball. I tore the ligaments in my left ankle during practice. It really has never bothered me too much before, but I am getting older, and I have heard the cold weather sometimes makes old injuries act up". Poor Leo. His face told me that he wished he could rewind time and not be the one standing there when I fell down. His confused little eyes looked at me like I was a crazy cat lady. "OK, " was all he said. As I took a few lame steps toward where I need to meet my friend, I passed a few more twelve-year-olds that had seen my fall. It was between classes so there were a few kids at their lockers in the 6th grade hallway. "I have an old ankle injury, " I told them as I walked past..."but I'm fine...".
I have relived "the incident" from yesterday at least 37 times in my head, and what keeps getting me is their faces when I explained why I fell. Not understanding looks, to be sure. Actually, it was the explanation that confused them. See, they are 12. They get falling. They fall too. They trip, the drop things, they lose things, they get lost themselves. Falling didn't need any explanation. And when I did explain, that was when they didn't understand. Old injuries, cold weather, old age...what?
Now I have been reflecting on all my embarrassing moments, that aren't being deeply repressed, and I have seen a common thread. Every time I embarrass myself, I try to offer reasons. The dusty floor, going to fast, too much fabric, an old ankle injury. Isn't the real reason for all of my embarrassing moments just that I am alive? I am living, breathing, walking, talking, trying my best, and failing at perfection every step of the way...sometimes quite literally. So, I am trying to remind myself that no excuses or explanations needed. We all fail. We all fall. No need to be embarrassed. The important part is the getting back up.
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