Stupid Thick Mugs

I am not a fan of mugs. Other than a couple of times, I have not willingly had coffee from a mug in my adult life. Now, perhaps I respectfully have accepted a mugful of coffee to be polite, but when I make my own coffee I "Go Mugless or Go Home". I prefer to use my paper coffee cups with lids, so I might not spill. Plus, I am usually taking my coffee in the car with me to head to work, and they travel well.

I am not a mug-hater. I have a few mugs that I love, like my "Got Bon Jovi?" mug that was given to me as the best late Christmas present ever. That one just makes me smile. It is covered with images of one of my favorite crooners, Jon Bon Jovi, and reminds me of the time we held hands. Yes, I initiated it. Yes, it was in the middle of a concert surrounded by 10,000 fans, but trust me, we both appreciated the moment. I could tell by the way he stopped to, ever so gently, shake me off so that he could move on that it was special. I also love my set of Nordic gnome mugs. They make me laugh because I once had a classroom mascot who was a gnome, named Jack For No Reason, and they remind me of those happiest of times with him hiding around my classroom.

Aside from those, however, I have a cabinet full of mugs that just make me mad. There they sit, all heavy, and thick rimmed. Reminding me that I could not use them even if I wanted to because coffee would drool right out the sides of my mouth. I can't get a proper seal on those thick rimmed mugs, and I always feel drinking-impaired when I try to casually sip my coffee from such a mug. I usually end up having to use my tongue on the mug. And trust me, you should not have to use your tongue to make your mouth strong enough to sip. If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times. Or never. I've really said it never, until now, but I do believe it.

I have a smallish house. Space is at a premium, and those mugs are mocking me...taking up space I do not have to spare. Stupid thick mugs that I hate. I am pondering your demise. So, sleep well in my comfy cabinets while you can. Your end shall be, and it shall be sooner than later.

I apologize for the dark and threatening tone of today's blog. Once I handle those mugs, I predict that things will be all sunshine and rainbows. (Haha, handle the mugs. See what I did there?)

"I do not like coffee mugs, and I am a successful human being. Therefore, successful human beings do not like coffee mugs." -Jennifer Lynn Andreson Freitas

What if?

What if law makers remembered that eight year-olds watch SpongeBob, and sleep with a night-light? What if they realized that if they can’t find their favorite stuffed kitty, with the scratched marble eyes, and the grey fur that used to be white, that they can’t sleep? What would happen if they remembered that eight year olds want to please the grown-ups in their lives more than ANYTHING at all? They want their teachers to be proud of them, and they want to feel smart. What if they knew that kids don’t want to be taught how to pass a test? They want to be taught that dreams can come true. They want to learn about people who lived before them who had crazy, messy, bold, daring, adventurous dreams, and who followed them even when it wasn’t easy. They don’t care if it’s Despereaux or Neil Armstrong, but they want a front row seat to adventures. Their minds are not small enough for standardized tests. They aren’t confined enough to boxes yet to really do well. No, these minds take boxes, and turn them into castles, space ships, and race cars. We don’t produce innovative thinkers because our education system is designed to take innovation out of learning and standardize it. But the best minds are anything but standard. What if the people shaping public education in the United States remembered that? What if grown-ups stopped trying to impress other grown-ups by how complicated they could make elementary school, and common sense ran the world again? Would the performance over 180 days school matter more than one single test then? What if it did?

Best Losers Ever

When I reflect on my prayers for my kids, sometimes I giggle. I always amuse myself when I wander around inside my own head, but in particular to my prayers and dreams for my kids- well, sometimes they are somewhat odd. For example, when I was pregnant, I prayed typical prayers...let them be healthy, (10 fingers, 10 toes, etc.), but I also prayed for my kids to look alike. I even prayed this for Taryn, my first born, who obviously had no one yet to look like. It seemed normal to me, but in talking to people now, I think maybe it was an unusual concern. I remember vividly when I was pregnant with my son, who is two years younger than his sister, people asking me who I wanted him to look like. Though I mostly just wanted him to have all the appropriate working parts, since they asked I always answered, "I don't care if he looks like me or Jayme, but I hope he and his sister resemble each other." People would kind of nod and walk away, and I would think, "Is that a bad answer?" I don't know why it was so important for me to have my kids look alike, but like most things I think it goes back to my childhood.

Growing up my sister and I always looked like, well, sisters. I LOVED how that felt. I loved people calling me "Little Chrissy" and how folks would see us and say that they could tell we were related. Mind you, my sister was my hero. I realize in another set of circumstances kids might hate that...but for me, it was awesome. I also remember how my brother (who is my sister's twin -her younger sibling by a mere 20 minutes) didn't look much like either of us.

We had brown eyes, he had hazel. We had darker hair, he had lighter. When people would see my sister and brother they would always remark about how they looked NOTHING alike-especially for twins. Maybe it's because I was a kid and so, subconsciously, the world revolved around me, but I always felt bad that my brother didn't look like us. I don't know why it mattered, but I have deduced that is where my desire to have my kids resemble each other must have come from.


Another prayer I had while pregnant was that they wouldn't be geniuses, but that they would be average and hard working. I know. Who prays for their kids to be average? I do. I think this prayer came from my experiences as a teacher. I have taught lots of high IQ people that I couldn't stand to be around. They were socially awkward, never quite fitting in. Sometimes they were overconfident, and lacked the ability to empathize. Oftentimes they were lazy. They could do well without trying, so they developed bad habits and didn't do their best. I also taught a lot of amazing kids who were just average or high average in their IQ, but they had passion to do their best. They were able to make friends and interact with people. They got my jokes (which was way high up there on my list of key attributes in a person) and their work ethic made them accomplish GREAT things and develop successful habits. To me, IQ was way less important than gumption, as they say. (Yes, I now realize I could have prayed for them to be geniuses AND hard workers, but I'm no genius myself).

My most recent, somewhat odd prayer for my children is that they will be the best losers ever. Life is about way more failure than success. There are more strike outs awaiting them than home runs, and more second places than grand prizes. Just think of how many more lottery tickets are sold than winners picked. Quite frankly, not everyone gets a trophy! Hopefully my kids will get a taste of winning, but I KNOW they will get a taste of losing, and I really want them to be the best losers ever. I don't mean that they will be content with losing. I want them to hate it with every fiber in their being. But in their anger, and disappointment, in their fury and failure, I want them to stand tall, and be proud of their own efforts. I want them to have stone faces as they hold back the tears of disappointment that will later run down their cheeks, and congratulate the "better man". Then I want them to work like they have never worked before so that next time they can avoid the sting of defeat. It's not my job in life to keep them from being disappointed by losing, but to teach them that losing IS life, and not the least bit of an excuse to stop being the best. Even if it is just being the best losers ever!

"To be a good loser is to learn how to win."


*As a bonus, they DO look alike. :)

Hands

Hands hold a special place in my heart. It's possible that I am strange. I am very aware of that. I have always had a "hand-thing". In fact, when I think back to my first boyfriend, I barely remember his face, but I can picture his hands very well. Young, smooth hands, nervously holding mine. My favorite moment at my wedding was putting the wedding ring on my husband's finger, and I can still picture his left hand on that day, glistening for the first time with the symbol of our eternal bond. Bon Jovi concerts are one of my favorite places to be, and when I think of Jon Bon Jovi, I always picture his hands on his black acoustic guitar, effortlessly dancing across the strings making music. It's magic. "Hands" is also an expression that my friend and I say when something happens that is SO FUNNY that we can no longer function. It means, "I'm laughing so hard that I can't feel my hands." It happens to me regularly. I just have to drop my pen, or stop typing, or put the phone down- basically rid my hands of anything that they were occupied by- so that they can flop while I laugh. It's the best, really. My favorite Christmas ornament is the impression of my daughter's one-year-old hand that has been hanging on our tree for 7 years. I can see every line, and chubby indentation and I can instantly picture her tiny baby hands reaching up without a doubt in her mind that I would reach back.

People talk about their "love languages" all the time. It refers to what makes them feel the most loved. I have taken the test, but honestly, it doesn't have the category that applies to me. My love language is hands. This Christmas, instead of buying me gifts to put under the tree, my husband bought lumber, and cement blocks, and he used his hands to make my presents. Last night, we lit a fire and sat around a fire pit that he constructed. My heart was full. For someone to love me enough to use their talents, and their sweet hands, to make me a gift- well, there's nothing better! He's also building our family a kitchen table. Every time he asks me to walk out to the garage to check on the progress, or give my opinion, all I can say is "I love it. You made it with your hands." He doesn't appreciate that response. He wants an actual, objective opinion. But I can't be objective about it. All that I see when I look at it are his hands. Hands covered in sawdust, full of splinters, with stain stuck around each fingernail, holding sandpaper. Hands curiously examining the texture of the table- is it smooth enough? Is it ready? I want it in my house whenever he deems it ready to be here. He and his hands.

I hope people realize the power in their hands. Hands can write words that inspire, encourage, and tell a story that takes people to far off places. Hands can lift someone up from a dark place, or stroke the fevered head of a child in the middle of the night. Hands can fold in prayer, and move mountains. One hand can grasp another, and tell someone- you're not alone. Hands can make music that moves people to tears, or dinner that feeds hungry faces. They are small. Just ten little fingers.

But hands have the power to do great things.


"I've learned that you shouldn't go through life with a catcher's mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back."
Maya Angelou

Mayflower, Pinta, and Santa Maria?

So, Thanksgiving is Thursday, and Christmas is just around the corner. I am beyond excited, let's just get that out in the open right now. Thanksgiving I only like because I am a traditionalist. I rarely think of the Mayflower on Thanksgiving, in fact, if I am going to be honest I can never remember if the Mayflower goes with Thanksgiving, or if it was the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria. And quite frankly, it doesn't matter that much to me. They were all boats. I know that. I also know that a holiday where the main objective is to give thanks is all good. Turkey, eh, I could take it or leave it. The sentiment though, I think we need to pause and give thanks more often, so I am all about it.

It is easy for me to be thankful. I have a wonderful family, job, friends, and good health. I know what it is to love and be loved. I have woken to the pitter patter of little feet running down the hall, and have fallen asleep with the warmth of sweet baby breath on my cheek. I have danced in the kitchen with my husband, to a soundtrack in my own mind, while waiting for the bacon and eggs to cook. I have had loss, but I have not had the kind of earth shattering, life altering loss that crushes me under the weight of it.

So many people don't find it quite so easy to give thanks. They struggle with health issues, with brokenness, and they live with a hole in their heart etched from unspeakable loss. Just thinking about it breaks my heart. The thing is, that they inspire me because even those people in my life living in utter despair find things to be grateful for. It's like they know that a choice has been set before them, and they choose gratitude. Grateful people aren't necessarily happy. Some of the most grateful people I know cry all the time, but I haven't seen a more beautiful thing than when someone with every reason to be bitter chooses to give thanks. It is humbling for me to see, and I hope a reminder for those of us who don't have to dig quite as deep to find things to show gratitude for, to show it all the more. And may those of us who "have" this holiday season, be looking to help others have a little too.

How do you force gratitude if you don't really "feel it"? I don't know. I think maybe gratitude is just seeing what you are instead of what you aren't. It's seeing what you have instead of what you don't have, and it's seeing how far you have come, and not how far you have left to go. It's focusing on whatever beautiful thing you had, rather than on the pain of losing it. I think, at its most basic level, being grateful means you don't feel entitled to anything. When no one owes you anything, or you don't see yourself as a "good person" who "deserves better", then everything is more than you could have asked for. Maybe gratitude is just the fruit of humility. Live humbly, and gratitude will abound.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. May you be surprised by how many blessings you find yourselves surrounded by. Most importantly, may you spend a few minutes looking around to see them.

:)

Oh, and the boats are important, so here you go. Thanks Google...
The Mayflower was the ship that brought the Puritans (pilgrims) to the new world where they could escape the tyranny of the King of England (James 1) and the Anglican Church. (The church established by Henry the Eighth as the official Church of England (Angle-land) when he broke ties with the pope and started his own church). The Plymouth colony was begun in 1621 by these Pilgrims.

Columbus, 129 years earlier, had sailed in search of a better trade route to the orient. He proposed, properly, that one might sail around the world. He failed, however, when he discovered that the Americas got in the way of that route. His ships were the Pinta, Nina, and Santa Maria.

Super Me...It Was a Nice Thought

Yesterday morning, I woke up on top of the world. Mind you, it was at 6:30 in the morning, when my 8 year old walked up to my bed side to ask me if she could play on the computer, but even so, it was a good day. The first official day of my Thanksgiving break was upon me. I had 8 whole days ahead of me to be home, and be "Super Me" -the best mom,wife,and friend that I can ever be. No excuses. No work to do, or rush of to, or come home late from. Just all of the good parts of me to dedicate to all of the people that I love, with no excuses. To top it all off, I woke up to rain! Bonus! It wasn't the typical Florida rain, that you can see move in like a wall of black clouds against an otherwise bright sky, drops buckets on us for a moment, and leaves at quickly as it came. Rather, it was a drizzly, enduring, rain that fell from an entirely grey sky, and that I could tell with just a glance was going to be happy to stay with us all day. I love this kind of rain. It is a call to comfy clothes, coffee, and quiet moments. And, since it was the first day of Thanksgiving break, I decided making hand stamped Thanksgiving cards with the kids would be fun for everyone!

I opened my cabinets that contain my stamps and card making supplies, and called Taryn to my bedroom to help me carry the armloads of colorful ink pads, cute scissors, patterned papers, and raffia (one can never have too much raffia) to the kitchen. She came after I called three times. Super Me didn't let that ruin my mood. After all, we were about to have mommy-kid perfection. We had about three trips to make, but after the first trip, Taryn never came back. Trevor had been getting dressed, and then joined me to help carry some more stuff. Then Taryn ran back to me in the bedroom, my arms full again with supplies and announced, "I'm done. Come see my card." Thoughts were flying through my mind. She's done? We haven't even brought all the stuff out there yet. I haven't even cut the card stock into card-sized pieces, how is she done? Super Me said, "OK honey, let me put all of this stuff down THAT I DIDN'T EVEN SET UP FOR US YET, and then you can show me." She showed me her card. It was cute, but had been finished in a rush. Oh well, we could make more. Then she said, "Oh, and you need to fix these stamp pads."

It was a simple statement of fact, and said so airily that she may as well have said, "Oh, and I want marshmallows for dessert". It caught me off guard though, and I felt an anxiousness in my chest that is all too familiar. Super Me slowly gave way to Plain Old Me, and I could feel it coming on. It started off slowly, "Taryn? Why didn't you wait for me to help you open the stamp pads? These are tricky ones, and I expected to help you." The words were calm, but there was a tension in my voice. She just shrugged in reply. As I had been talking, I had been trying to fix the ink pads. I held the red color in my hands. It was in two separate pieces. These particular ones are meant only to slide open and closed and never to actually be separated at all, and I tried to force them back together. I was getting ink all over my hands, and all over the parts of the ink pads that are not supposed to be inky. I was also getting revved up. "I just don't understand why you couldn't wait." I said again, louder. Then, in an instant, my mouth had taken over my brain and was running the show. "You always do this. You always have to be the first one to do everything, and make sure you get the first choice of the colors, and you never wait. It's all about rushing and being first AND IT'S SELFISH. Now instead of you and Trevor having a fun morning of Mommy-Kid time you are getting to watch me GET ANGRY AT INK PADS! HOW"S THAT WORKING FOR US ALL?"

The kids were quiet. Trevor announced that he felt bad for Mommy, and Taryn quietly said she was sorry. I just walked out of the room, too late, for a mommy time out. I knew I was making a big deal about nothing. I knew I said things that would hurt my little girl's heart, and that those stupid ink pads had been sitting there in the cabinet in my room for a year, and that even if they were broken it wasn't important. I was disappointed in myself, and in Taryn. She really does tend to rush, and put herself first, and break things. Mostly, I was disappointed in Super Me. I had big plans for a perfect day because every other day I have so much going on that I have reasons to justify impatience, and imperfection in my parenting. On this perfect, lazy, rainy, peaceful day that I had set aside just for me and my angels, there was no excuse. And even with no excuses, I couldn't be perfect. Not even for, like, 5 minutes. Super Me, exit stage left.

I came back out to the kitchen where Trev was waiting quietly at the table. Taryn had moved to the couch and was reading a book. I called to Taryn to come join us, but she said she was afraid she would break something else. My heart sank, and so I went to my little girl, and picked her up, and told her that no one is perfect. That even when she is trying her best, she will make mistakes and she will break things, and that sometimes when that happens I will get mad because I'm not perfect either. I told her that even when I'm upset, and even though things might get broken, that I still want her to try again, and I still want her around. Every time. For forever. And she told me I hurt her feelings, and I told her that I was wrong, and so sorry. She told me I made her feel bad, and I told her that was the point. We both laughed at that. It was the point. I got too upset, and too loud about it. I should have been able to help her to feel badly about her behavior without being ugly to her, but I did want her to feel badly about what she did. I was wrong to yell, but she was wrong to be impatient and rush. She understood, and kissed my cheek. Then I kissed her little nose where it wrinkles when she laughs, and we made a big mess of that kitchen. We made pretty cards, and ugly ones, and plain old me with all of my imperfections made perfect memories with my family...covered in ink, and giggling, and being together.

And we were on top of the world.

Teaching is Easy

Teaching is easy. I wanted to say it just to see what it sounds like, since I have never actually said those words ever before in my life. Well, probably I said them when I was a snotty, know-it-all, 17 year old talking to my friends about our teachers. Never, though, since I have been a teacher,have I uttered those words. Here's the ironic thing. In it's most basic form, teaching IS easy. It is passing on something I know to smaller people who don't know it. I have been "teaching" all of my life. Whether it was as captain of a sports team, or partnered with someone in study group. I always found myself naturally comfortable in a role where I was breaking down information for other people to try to learn. So, why then is the occupation of teaching so hard?

I know what you are thinking. "Oh no. Here we go. More about how hard teachers work." You don't want to hear it. After all, we already have a whole week dedicated to appreciating our occupation. You have countless friends who are teachers, and you read TIME magazine. You know why teaching is hard. Long hours, not enough pay, parents with unreasonable expectations, limited support at home, too many state assessments, Common Core...and on and on. Here's the interesting thing though; you've got it all wrong. It's true, those things (and a whole bunch more) make teaching very difficult. However, those state tests, and parents who want me to parent for them are really not the hardest part of teaching. The hardest part of teaching, for me, is making the tough decisions.

When I talk about the tough decisions, I do not mean whether to take off 1 or 2 points for sentence structure. That's simple stuff. The decisions I'm talking about are much, much harder. Like, do I write a note in a student's agenda for bad behavior when I suspect that punishment at home for a bad note is extreme? What do I do for the student who practically can't see because he needs glasses, and no matter how many times I try to let his mom know, I can't get through to her? The hardest part is trying to decide whether or not to call The Department of Children and Families. As mandated reporters, teachers have a legal obligation to call DCF if we suspect abuse or neglect of any kind. That's a tough call to make. We don't want to put families through an investigation unnecessarily, and we don't know for sure that what we suspect is actually abuse. Plus, if a child is being neglected, is it better for them to live at home with their siblings and neglectful parents than it is for them to be taken away and put into a state system? Will the parents pull their kid from my class, angry that DCF contacted them? If so, is it because that child really IS in danger and they have something to hide? Tough decisions. When the student looks at me, with hungry eyes, and tells me he didn't eat since his free lunch at school yesterday because the only food his mom could buy at the store was formula for the baby, what do I do?

My students think I have all the answers. After all, what I can't answer off the top of my head I can find in a Teacher's Edition or answer key of some sort. What they don't know is that the answer keys only give answers to the easy questions. The agonizing decisions that make me lose sleep, and soak my pillow with tears don't come with a solution manual. I'll tell you what though...if someone could come up with one of those, teaching really might turn out to be not so hard after all.

:)

You cannot teach a man anything, you can only help him find it within himself.”
― Galileo Galilei