tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90199331892214314822024-02-19T01:34:39.554-05:00sweet little crosspatchamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-27681623378289935802013-10-30T22:20:00.001-04:002013-10-30T22:36:27.331-04:00Melissa is F-I-V-E, five!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguu-MsDX7uMhLT3slBA-P4MRxxaC9u_VcbEgri6DXKlCbKAM9eaDXCafi4IgsZhcK7mW1TS9WGmM4-H9a3ZD3z5KOa_xevXI8INdSjr4MWUdJfFWMyYP_2YL6SXH7Y8lT0wuD-N_iufiM/s1600/melissa5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguu-MsDX7uMhLT3slBA-P4MRxxaC9u_VcbEgri6DXKlCbKAM9eaDXCafi4IgsZhcK7mW1TS9WGmM4-H9a3ZD3z5KOa_xevXI8INdSjr4MWUdJfFWMyYP_2YL6SXH7Y8lT0wuD-N_iufiM/s200/melissa5.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Hey big girl,<br />
<br />
You're five. FIVE! F-I-V-E, five. That's half a decade, and you know what I learned? Half a decade goes pretty dang fast. In five more years, you'll be ten. That's half of twenty, and twenty is all grown up. This whirlwind growing up gig is mind blowing!<br />
<br />
This morning when you woke up, you turned over and said, "Guess what, mommy? I'm no longer four. I'm FIVE!" And then you demanded your present, which was a dollhouse that you can use to make up lots of stories. You have a vivid imagination, and I really love that about you: I love to sit and listen to you make up stories, and act out all kinds of scenarios that are very super important to people who are 5 or about to turn 5. Like who gets to play in the Housekeeping Center. And who gets to go first. And who gets to be whose friend. And who has to go the Thinking Spot. Very important dilemmas and dramas for pre-school people; which actually aren't that much different from adult dilemmas and dramas, if you think about it (which you don't, because it's not my TURN yet--stop talking about grown ups, Mommy! is what you'd say to that, if I read this out loud to you).<br />
<br />
Can I tell you some more things I love about you at five years old? Of course I can! Your favorite story topic is You.<br />
<br />
*You're opinionated. You've always been opinionated; at 3 months old you had an opinion. I sense this is in your blood, part of your DNA make up, an ancient ancestral trait that stretches back for eons. Often it's exhausting, but I want you to know how much I love that you have opinions, feel them intensely, and so I spend a lot of time encouraging you to speak them to the world strongly and with no fear (in a respectful tone of voice, because currently we're working on reigning in your backtalk-y tone of voice that gets you into trouble at school...because you're a teacher's kid--YOU CAN'T GET IN TROUBLE AT SCHOOL).<br />
<br />
*You have a lot of questions. And when I say "a lot of questions," I actually mean a large, endless, astronomically huge warehouse lot of questions. When I say, "We're having hamburgers for dinner," you say, "Can we have spaghetti?" And this question is followed up with a lot of "Why?" "But why?" "Why?" In the last week alone, you've asked me why people are bald, why we can't have chicken nuggets for dinner instead, why can't we eat chicken nuggets every day for dinner, why can't you pour your own drink from the ten-pound jug of iced tea that will land on your foot and break it or fall and flood the kitchen, why can't you use the big, dagger-like knife to cut out the pumpkin's eyes? Can you light the candle in it? <br />
<br />
I sense this need for answers is also in your blood and DNA, a trait that goes back as far as time.<br />
<br />
*You think farts and poop are funny. You can talk about farts and poop all day long. You like to shake your booty. In fact, you love everything about your booty. The Booty Shake: it's your favorite dance (we need to get you some dance lessons--though your shaking booty is quite adorable, your repertoire is lacking and The Booty Shake can simply not be the only dance you know. I mean, Homecoming and Prom will be complete disasters). This trait is in your blood and DNA, but only stretches back two generations and from half of your family, which would be my side of the family. Your maternal relatives are just a family of people who love fart jokes, because we're from the classy part of Pennsylvania.<br />
<br />
I have no idea where The Booty Shake comes from; we'll put that one on your father.<br />
<br />
*You forgive easily and quickly. I hope you'll keep this trait forever and ever. I know I need it a lot right now. I can't even tell you how many times I've done or said something incredibly wrong and you've let me off the hook (after throwing stuff at me and making me put you in the Thinking Spot, compounding my parental guilt times ten even while I seethe with righteous anger: <i>Seriously? Seriously? Did she throw that at me? At ME?? Oh hell no, this time out is going to last three days. Throw things at your mom. Seriously???</i>).<br />
<br />
*You are a force of nature. People ask me all the time: When will Melissa get a sibling? And I have to say: Never, most likely. Besides, why would we need another kid when we have a 3-in-1? You are an active girl; I always know you've fallen asleep because suddenly it's gone quiet. And if it goes quiet during daylight hours, I a<i>lways</i> check on you...nothing good ever comes out of Melissa suddenly going quiet. Science experiments (not approved by actual scientists) in my kitchen are typically involved.<br />
<br />
*You love boy AND girly things. You are a soccer-playing princess. You like Monster High because they're a little bit hideous and a little bit beautiful. Which I really like about you, because it tells me you're well on your way to a deep understanding of what it means to be a human on this planet: yin yang, ugly pretty. We'll talk later about why.<br />
<br />
*You're a scaredy cat. You like Haunted Hathaways but only because I'm prepping you for future ghost hunts (you're terrified of ghosts, by the way) (and the Big Bad Wolf) (and creepy sounds at night). Sorry, sweet girl. You get this terror of shadows and The Dark from me; that's a gift directly from my DNA to yours. (Can I tell you now that part of the reason I don't play Bad Mommy and force you to sleep by yourself in spite of your very real and deep terror of doing so is because I'M terrified to sleep alone?) (We may need to look into therapy soon.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZKmYOiM4gq71ozgaejc2VgbT8Rbjb2Aqmj-7SVL0wy8tBjVNop4xNiB_jWc8LB3hxiaBVE-8zyupxQRvHZaaoXtGVlsgiispTKHbJ4vSZWTItorGgq6cSdSj71wj69MFdKnBs4RGpt0/s1600/melissa+5.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZKmYOiM4gq71ozgaejc2VgbT8Rbjb2Aqmj-7SVL0wy8tBjVNop4xNiB_jWc8LB3hxiaBVE-8zyupxQRvHZaaoXtGVlsgiispTKHbJ4vSZWTItorGgq6cSdSj71wj69MFdKnBs4RGpt0/s200/melissa+5.3.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
*I love to watch you sleep. Right now, I am watching you sleep. You sleep with your arms flung out just like you did when you were 1 month old. And when you're asleep, your face goes soft and I can still see the baby in you. Everyone told me I'd miss that baby when you got bigger, and Everyone was right. I can still see me holding you in a mirror, so tiny and small and helpless. And now? "NOOOOO! I can do it! Not you, ME!" is a constant, shrill, crazy rant echoing throughout our house. And in our car. And the grocery store. And the mall, parks, restaurants, movie theaters, playgrounds, the public library (you get shushed all the time), and a whole slew of other places we go.<br />
<br />
I like that about you, too: Independence. It's so important. It's good to ask for help, but knowing how to do it yourself works just fine. I love that you're hell-bent on being independent, and I dread the day you walk out into the big, wide world on your own without me.<br />
<br />
Until then, I'm still The Boss (yes I am) (no, absolutely not...but you can be the boss of your stuffed Shrek doll) and no we're not having chicken nuggets for dinner tomorrow. Let it go.<br />
<br />
I love, you Miss M. You are my best blessing, and I'm so grateful God picked <i>me</i> to be <i>your</i> mommy.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IoxOO4kxHy8/UnG5zoCnx-I/AAAAAAAAAsA/c-arfdl1bT8/s1600/melissa5.2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IoxOO4kxHy8/UnG5zoCnx-I/AAAAAAAAAsA/c-arfdl1bT8/s400/melissa5.2.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Happy Big Girl 5 Birthday!<br />
Love,<br />
Mommyamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-18867584013605837172013-04-13T08:30:00.000-04:002013-04-13T15:05:44.195-04:00pirate-y career schemes.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8hm7muBFCtomXUd7nR672Cc0pFiNc5tlfZJa2OmHQ5MOBmBICedG2Sn08SDn3mXStKxw1jLYefwAFX0H8x3t5qDaYJ6W5XkRMyuODyrnp_d4Oev5oUPfVeUOHKZyFd0m87CTFi6I9KA/s1600/film+slate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8hm7muBFCtomXUd7nR672Cc0pFiNc5tlfZJa2OmHQ5MOBmBICedG2Sn08SDn3mXStKxw1jLYefwAFX0H8x3t5qDaYJ6W5XkRMyuODyrnp_d4Oev5oUPfVeUOHKZyFd0m87CTFi6I9KA/s320/film+slate.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I've spent some time over my Spring Break unwinding, genuflecting (occasionally reflecting, but mostly genuflecting), and attempting to be proactive about writing. I am reading a book about starting a career as a freelance writer. I am back to writing (most-ish) every day. I have almost finished a short story. I really wish I could find a way to end that thing--I started it last Saturday, worked a lot on it on Monday, and attempted to put it to rest on Tuesday afternoon. It's really going nowhere, and I'm not sure I'll ever finish it. Right now the ending sentence goes like this: I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO END THIS STUPID FRICKIN' THING!!!!!!<br />
<br />
I'm sure this is exactly what drives literary magazine editors to publish stories: Awesome ending sentences utlizing the phrase "stupid frickin'." Everything ALL CAPS.<br />
<br />
However, never fear. I have discovered a new and possibly exciting career opportunity still staying within the storytelling frame, but kind of way more awesome. A couple of years ago, I did a group blog initiated by my friend Patresa called<a href="http://coffeeisanacronym.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"> </a><a href="http://coffee./">COFFEE.</a> There were about 8 or 9 of us, and we all picked projects to complete that scared the holy living poop out of us. Patresa wanted to sing in front of real people, Holly wanted to complete the Artist's Way, Stephany was learning to live life on her own terms, Katie was working on getting her entire life re-focused, Tawni was going to be an award-winning writer, etc and so forth. Mine, of course, was Grocery Shopping. (Because I'm dangerous like that.) Had I stumbled upon what I stumbled upon <i>this</i> week, however, my COFFEE project would have been: <span style="font-size: large;"><b>Oscar Winning Movie Extra! </b></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(dunh dunh duuuunh!)</i></span><br />
<br />
Because hello! Movie Stardom without ever getting recognized or harassed by paparazzi? That's just a win-win situation, sweet friends. It pays a lot less than regular Movie Stardom, but I hear if you get a Screen Actors Guild card <i>and</i> they hire you to be an extra at some long distance location, they have to buy you a first class plane ticket to get there because SAG says so (further proof unions are NOT evil). Also, did you know Atlanta is like #5 on the list of New Hollywoods of the South (according to <a href="http://www.accessatlanta.com/news/entertainment/movies/qa-hollywood-spotlight-shines-on-georgia-1/nQhgg/" target="_blank">Access Atlanta</a>)? It's true! They film TV shows about <a href="http://walkingdead.wikia.com/wiki/Atlanta,_Georgia" target="_blank">zombies</a> and <a href="http://www.onlocationvacations.com/2013/03/04/are-you-in-georgia-wanna-be-a-vampire-on-the-vampire-diaries-heres-how/" target="_blank">vampires</a> here. And shows about real housewives buying wedding dresses and bras. Because down South we're all about classy. <a href="http://www.imdb.com/search/title?endings=on&&locations=Atlanta,%20Georgia,%20USA" target="_blank">They also film a lot of movies here, too</a>--Tyler Perry being the person who seems to use Atlanta the most (possibly because he has a production company/movie studio here and, like, 500 mansions). <br />
<br />
THE HUNGER GAMES sequel was just filmed here, THE BLIND SIDE, and REMEMBER THE TITANS (do you? remember them?). Tyler Perry makes me nervous, but I could <i>so</i> have drinks with Denzel Washington (who also just made another movie here, some airplane movie called FLIGHT--I bet Denzel is completely familiar with Atlanta at this point and even knows his way around Spaghetti Junction like a boss) (fyi--we do this a lot in Atlanta. We name things based on other things and only Atlantans really know what the heck anyone is talking about--Spaghetti Junction is the I-285 interchange that looks like a big old mess of spaghetti from the air. Spaghetti Junction also serves as our official tool of segregration by dividing Atlantans into those who are cool, hip Inside the Perimeter (ITP) residents and the uncool, unhip Outside the Perimeter (OTP) people. Then there's Murder Kroger, because it's right next to a police station and there was a rash of unfortunate homicides in its parking lot..and Disco Kroger, a former gay nightclub turned grocery store. The South: cute, classy, and quirky, without a slight trace of irony.)<br />
<br />
But most important? Please consider the following as evidence for my natural inclination toward Movie/TV extra acting stardom:<br />
<br />
1) As a child, all I ever did in my spare time was perform Broadway musicals (alone, in my bedroom, surrounded by stuffed animals). My repertoire was wide and varied: Wizard of Oz, Annie, Funny Girl, Westside Story...AND I did my own choreography. At 8 years old, I'm pretty sure that indicates serious tv/movie extra prodigy potential.<br />
<br />
2) One long summer between 3rd and 4th grade, some neighborhood friends and I wrote, directed, produced, costume-designed, and marketed a very disjointed outdoor off off off off off off off Broadway theater production based on a conglomeration of STAR WARS, BATTLESTAR GALACTICA, and HELLO, DOLLY!. (That last bit was mine--the neighborhood friends were all boys, and I really felt we needed some girly songs throughout, just to break up the monotony of aliens getting their heads blown off). We sold tickets around the neighborhood for 25 cents, then quickly marked them down to 5 cents because mothers complained we were price gouging. <br />
<br />
3) I don't want to make anyone feel even more insecure now that you know about my Bedroom Broadway and successful off Broadway Outdoor Theater past, but I WAS also cast once in a high school drama during my junior year--I played an uptight school marm (foreshadowing!) and had three <i>incredibly</i> important lines. <br />
<br />
4) I read a lot of trashy celebrity magazines. I mean A LOT. Like, did you know Khloe Kardashian is now the hottest Kardashian, since Kim got pregnant? If you didn't pick up the latest issue of US WEEKLY and read it over a bowl of Kix cereal, sorry--you're clearly not in the entertainment biz insider loop. <br />
<br />
5) But more important than all of <i>that</i>, I have recently learned (as in, breaking news last night during a late night, not-stalkery-at-all-just-casually-interested-in-him Google search): Jason Isaacs may be coming to Atlanta to shoot a new TV series called SURGEON GENERAL. <i>Jason Isaacs</i>, I hear you thinking, <i>Who the heck is Jason Isaacs?</i> Remember when I wrote about him <a href="http://sweetlittlecrosspatch.blogspot.com/2013/03/ghost-writer.html" target="_blank">in my last post</a>? He's like Less Famous Clive Owen. Just as talented and British, but people don't recognize him in grocery stores which I hear tell he's totally fine with. So if I run into him in Kroger if/when he's here, I'll play it cool by saying, "Argh, matey. Can ye hand me over that dozen of bosun eggs? Aye, but ye're blockin' me way."<br />
<br />
Heh, because see: he once played Capt Hook in a movie. So you probably just read my imaginary grocery store exchange with Jason Isaacs like, <i>What the....Is she drunk?? </i>and really had no idea why I just did that, but Jason Isaacs would totally know why I was talking to him in pirate, and I'm convinced he'd invite me out for drinks after giving me my bosun eggs.<br />
<br />
He's also played Lucius Malfoy in the HARRY POTTER movies and the evil British colonel out to destroy Mel Gibson in THE PATRIOT. But his stint as Capt. Hook in the failed 2003 version of PETER PAN is really just a true, deep travesty of justice because, to date, Jason Isaac's Capt. Hook is the <i>only</i> pirate anybody should really ever even consider inviting to a dinner party. No! Not even Capt. Jack Sparrow! Seriously, I mean it. If Capt. Jack Sparrow even tries to show up, Capt. Hook and I are out of there!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWrbarZ16FhsX_s0MPAE-MsrBWZRJMYS-hyJlxKp5LX3FT0mIPvrVCvARCudOA14tB4ceflGd3fjOdmggORUwD_weOs1G7hoVyCPvCtaCcSDovAP8tTpGrh-fT8ncbK1flXZ353MJt6E/s1600/capt+hook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWrbarZ16FhsX_s0MPAE-MsrBWZRJMYS-hyJlxKp5LX3FT0mIPvrVCvARCudOA14tB4ceflGd3fjOdmggORUwD_weOs1G7hoVyCPvCtaCcSDovAP8tTpGrh-fT8ncbK1flXZ353MJt6E/s320/capt+hook.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He does seem to play an awful lot of villains, but I think Jason also kind of looks like Jesus here, and Jesus was a good guy. Off camera, Jason's Jewish, and guess what? So was Jesus! (I think he should make a movie in which he plays a swashbuckling Jesus who talks like Capt. Hook, is what I'm saying. Just in case his agent reads this.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The only slight, kind of tiny little hiccup to my whole Movie Star Extra/Meet Jason Isaacs Plan? I hate hate hate being: photographed, tagged in photographs, videotaped, tagged in videos, and generally being exposed to the world in a full body shot kind of way. So I'm hoping Jason Isaacs and his new TV series crew are looking for extras they can shoot just from the neck up. I'm in big trouble if they tell me NO on that and if so I may have to figure out a better ending sentence (no use of "frickin'", no ALL CAPS) to my untitled really bad Work in Progress I pounded out in a mere three days this week.<br />
<br />
Oooh! Wait! Coffee girl! I wonder if the movie/tv crews coming to Atlanta need coffee/sandwich go getters for them? I would be so expert at that--my off off off off off off off Broadway years totally prepared me. Off to Google it!amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-81789522937484984442013-03-29T17:01:00.000-04:002013-04-13T02:26:09.076-04:00ghost writer.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigymPGlqss6_veNfBU0Tj2PJveA3JAmZZohHTYPA9MRbORdizs19arZJ3ljnaFnEm5KYHw0tBn1lHTDRDyTUwSuM6lvIqr4loq_dN8ync-2Z35VoO1MayQWMCoL7q4VbDN_VZ-N7n4s5M/s1600/typewriter.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigymPGlqss6_veNfBU0Tj2PJveA3JAmZZohHTYPA9MRbORdizs19arZJ3ljnaFnEm5KYHw0tBn1lHTDRDyTUwSuM6lvIqr4loq_dN8ync-2Z35VoO1MayQWMCoL7q4VbDN_VZ-N7n4s5M/s200/typewriter.png" width="200" /></a></div>
Was it really November 2012 when I posted last? I'm surprised I didn't post in February. Usually each February I try to commemorate my dad, who died February 12, 2001, as well as mourn that entire frickin' month. Nothing good ever happens in February, is my personal motto. Besides my birthday, of course. Which I'm considering switching to March simply because of February's reputation.<br />
<br />
Thirty-ish days of this school year are left. I am glad. I am also detached. I really, deeply love my class--they are good, sweet children, for the most part, and appear to love me back. But many of them and their families are exhausting me; this school year has exhausted me. This is not something unique to me; I'm not some martyr over here. I have spoken at length with teachers at other schools, in other districts, in all socioeconomic areas. <a href="http://k6educators.about.com/od/classroommanagement/a/8understand.htm" target="_blank"><i>Exhaustion</i> is the Word of the Day for public school teachers all over America.</a><br />
<br />
Can I be very frank and honest for a moment? Do you have a moment?<br />
<br />
I have been doing a lot of thinking lately. Actually, all year long I've been thinking. I've been considering this, and considering that. I've done a little networking. I've had good days and thought: this is all right. I've had bad days and thought: really, wouldn't Barnes & Noble be awesome to work at, even if they are slowly shutting down all their stores? I've spent a lot of time thinking and considering.<br />
<br />
I've thought about and considered going back to teach ESOL, except I don't want to go back to teaching that right now...people (other teachers) think I'm crazy, because it has its stresses but hey: no grading! But it is increasingly becoming something I can't agree to do. I do miss teaching it, but only for the relief of not having to be responsible for raising other people's children, and that's no reason to teach something. More and more, I feel that is exactly what is being asked of me, to raise others' children for them. I simply do not feel up to this task. I have a Bachelor's of Science in Elementary Education and a Master's of Arts in Early Childhood Education. I know Reading, Writing, Social Studies, Science, and Math. I am not a social worker. I do not possess a psychology or a counselor background. I have taught children for 18 years, and I'm a parent now, and so I try to draw on that experience to help parent other people's children, but because of political correctness often feel my hands are tied to really give them the help they are looking for, on top of the fact I suspect they don't actually want help; they simply want someone else to be responsible. And I am finding I don't want that kind of responsibility. I would just like to teach children how to read, write, and add/subtract. If I could just do <i>that</i> every day, I'd be happy as a pig in mud on a cool Spring day.<br />
<br />
I am increasingly frustrated. My house looks like an episode of Hoarders. My husband spends a lot of time worrying (often out loud) about my mental and emotional state. My own child is getting less from me than other people's children, and I will be brutally honest: I am growing resentful. I have no energy when I get home--I would like to take my child to the gym or the park every day, or read with her or finger paint or teach her sight words or play with play dough or just laugh and have fun. I am too tired--I cook dinner, clean it up, do bath, and then sit on facebook or pinterest because facebook and pinterest are two mindless, numbing things I can do to unwind. I am beginning to suspect classroom teaching is turning into a single, childless person's game. <br />
<br />
The easy answer seems to be: just don't do it, Amy. Don't go to school at 7:45 and leave at 5:30/6:00 every day. Do what you can and go home and forget about it. But I don't operate that way. Quality matters to me, and if I don't deal with Project X or Y right now, tomorrow it will eat me alive because I won't have a planning period due to this meeting or that one or I won't get to Project S or T and that will cause even further stress than I already have, and I won't have that, concerned friends. I won't have it. <br />
<br />
So I'm slowly and reluctantly starting to wonder if teaching may not be the right career for me. Isn't that crazy sounding? Because it's something I really love. Because I got into teaching because I'm a helper and I wanted to help children. Because people say I'm good at it--I'm never going to win Teacher of the Year, but if you stick your kid in my class? I work my butt off with them. Because I've done it for 18 years. But 10 of those 18 years were in a support teaching role, and support teaching kind of, I don't know, lulls? you into a sort of complacency.<br />
<br />
On a positive note, going back into the classroom this year was like having cold ice water thrown on me repeatedly. This was good, because it taught me some important things--about human nature and what poverty and powerlessness--and, yes, maybe a slight touch of psychosis--can make people do to one another. It taught me some things about me, like I genuinely like children in spite of some of their home situations. I mean, God bless them, they've got a lot on their plates and they don't even know it. I am crossing my fingers and sending powerful prayers to all the Universes out there, begging these Universes to pull these children out of their lives, to help them defy their odds and the growing, enormous chasm between the classes I'm watching good people in this country (myself included, because you won't see me at any Occupy Something events) allow to happen.<br />
<br />
But it has also taught me this is one goddamn exhausting, thankless job. If I were getting paid 6 figures, I'd probably just deal with it for another decade or two. I mean, there are summers off for the love of all--who wouldn't just go find their happy place when needed, for $100,000 a year and decent health benefits? However, I am not getting paid 6 figures. I am getting paid in the mid 5's. And I am not being respected by the very people I'm attempting to help, and I spend a lot of time confused and frustrated and angry about that. And crying. I cry a LOT when I'm at home, because I'm desperately worried my own child isn't receiving what she needs from me. Realistically, I know she will most likely turn out okay--she is deeply loved and hears that all the time. She has two supportive parents who will gently express concerns to her future teachers, not make angry demands. Melissa doesn't need a teacher to send desperate prayers for her out into the Cosmos. But I'm also painfully aware of what schools are expecting from and doing to children these days (another angry rant for another frustrated day), and I need to help my child meet those expectations, to the best of her ability. I need to serve and protect my own child, as much as I love and want to serve and protect other children. I owe that to Melissa.<br />
<br />
I think what I'm saying is: my plate isn't just full, it has become completely overloaded. For some people, this would be A-Okay. For some people, overloaded is a challenge, and dealing with angry people is no biggie and besides they love getting punched in the gut; it builds character. This is not me. I do not do overloaded, angry people, or gut punches. And my plate has been overloaded since August, and I have been talk therapy-ing out the angry people and gut punches as much as possible, all the while continuing to reason that it's just a learning curve and if I just move this roll to this side of the plate and push this pile of potatoes over here and push this angry person under the table for awhile....but the moving and pushing and hiding never seem to end. I mean, it will end: Summer will come, and Melissa and I will read books and visit the library and go to the pool and eat ice cream and paint our horrified HOA neighbors' sidewalks with rainbows and unicorns and giggle ourselves silly as Mr. F glares at us through his window, frantically making notes in his little neighbor spy log.<br />
<br />
But eventually August will arrive, and the plate juggling will begin again and I find I am dreading that. Really, really dreading that.<br />
<br />
Please know: I am not frustrated about my school--I love my school, and my administrators have been nothing but kind and helpful to me and incredibly supportive with some of the gut punches I've taken this year. I am thankful to and for them. And I am deeply in love with all of my coworkers, and think the Supreme Court ought to pass gay marriage just so we can all marry each other and live in one giant teacher commune together. And I am not frustrated about the students--I love the students, kids are kids and I love helping them work on/work out their ridiculous kid issues, as long as I'm not hormonal or ravenously hungry at the moment. Also, when I shut that door and get on the floor with them and read or write, I am completely in my element. I love that feeling. I love sharing books with them and reading their bad writing and showing them a Youtube video about using periods and then dedicating it to the one boy in class who refuses to acknowledge punctuation but is really good-natured about having a punctuation video dedicated to him because he's the class clown and likes that kind of attention. I love that, and if I could do that all day and have time to make lesson plans and grade and not worry about unhinged parents coming up to the school to sue me or beat me up, I'd practically work for free.<br />
<br />
However, this is not Reality for public school teachers anymore, no matter where you are in America. And I am really beginning to wonder if the Universe didn't have A Big Plan for me back in 2011, when I volunteered--sheerly on gut instinct--to leave ESOL teaching and take on a different kind of support teaching which then landed me back in a classroom in the very kind of school I said I'd never (never say "never"!) want to teach in a classroom at. Because sometimes the Universe does stuff like that--takes you over here to get you over there which takes you here so you can land there, which is where you were meant to be at this part of your life all along. I find that's the only consistency the Universe has about it--Its inconsistency.<br />
<br />
And it is not lost on me at all that certain emails and events may have been rained down upon me this year in order to jerk my complacent butt out of its chair of comfort and get it moving.<br />
<br />
So I will spend this summer getting ready for another school year but also working on changing careers. Having talked to some savvy Corporate America People Who Know (C being their spokesman), it's been suggested to me for every $10,000 you wish to earn per year, it takes 2 months of work and dedication and making contacts and finding leads and etc and so forth to find a job making that. C would like to see me make $75,000 per year, because he thinks I'm worth that (which uh, hello, I think he and I need to talk about--clearly I'm worth $12 million, but at 2 months per $10,000 I just don't have that kind of time. If only Charlie Sheen would read this! I know he'd cut me a check). I'd be pretty happy with far less than $75,000, and at this point I think C would be too--he has said on at least 100 different occasions he'd rather see me happy than continue to witness what he's witnessed this year.<br />
<br />
Which all brings me to my point: upon examining my educational background and current set of skills, I think I'm good at a handful of things (besides eating chocolate at night and googling <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0005042/?ref_=fn_al_nm_1" target="_blank">Jason Isaacs</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0124930/?ref_=sr_1" target="_blank">Gerard Butler </a>and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0654110/?ref_=sr_1" target="_blank">Clive Owen</a>). I love children and story telling. I like to write. I like to read. I like to do research. I like coffee houses and singing birds and waking up with the sun, not before it.<br />
<br />
So this is where I've decided to start: I'm exploring freelance writing, which can be slightly lucrative (though far less now, with all the blogs permeating the atmosphere and bad journalism being the rule of the day) but take awhile to break into. Ditto getting a novel/short story published. JK Rowling did not happen overnight--JK Rowling had talent and also timing and luck and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rX4pOuiTt5I" target="_blank">Jason Isaacs</a> in the wildly successful movies based on her books. I just want to be able to afford to eat out once in awhile, not sit on piles of Potter-like money. So I'm exploring writing articles and children's books and story telling and writing a novel and short stories on the side. It sounds like a lot, but compared to the enormous stresses I've been dealing with this year, that's a cakewalk in the park.<br />
<br />
If anyone knows anyone, please point me in their direction. If anyone needs a storytelling researcher willing to freelance write with children while Jason Isaacs, Gerard Butler, and Clive Owen are in the audience, let me know that, too. If anyone wants to write me a check for $75,000, I will write an entire novel about why it's a travesty you are not Emperor of the World (Charlie Sheen, I'm looking in your general direction). amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-20029047633078931442012-11-25T16:20:00.001-05:002012-11-25T16:52:37.000-05:00midwestern people, writing, schedules, proof of heaven, with an abrupt ending.C, Melissa, and I just returned from a Thanksgiving Day/week visit to see his father, sisters, and other relatives in St. Louis, MO. I like St. Louis, MO for a few reasons:<br />
<br />
1a) Midwestern people, or at least those residing in the Kirkwood-ish area of St. Louis, do not seem to be in total control of their cars. At least 3 times I or Melissa were almost run down in a store parking lot; C claims he was able to escape this potential fate because he's just naturally more "specialer" than us and people not in control of their cars manage to steer clear of him in a magical way.<br />
<br />
1b) In spite of this (or maybe because of it), Midwestern people are decent, down to earth, friendly folks. Here in the metro Atlanta area, I sometimes feel like I'm more of New Yorker than a Southerner. People cut you off in traffic, stand in front of you in the steak section of the supermarket utterly oblivious to the fact other people actually exist in the world around them and may need to gain access to your area of the steak section so freaking move OKAY??, and just generally get in the way and don't seem one bit apologetic about it. Just like pre-schoolers in Toys R Us.<br />
<br />
However, whenever I am in the Midwest--be it Oklahoma or Illinois or Missouri (really the only 3 Midwestern places I've been that I have any real knowledge about, so I don't know...maybe this opinion just reflects those Midwestern locations and the rest of the people in the Midwest are complete nincompoops) (no! no, they are not--I am kidding: I know wonderful people from Kansas and Iowa, and they are lovely). Where was I? Oh yes, Midwestern people are lovely and polite. They say "Excuse me," and "I'm sorry," when they have to pass in front of you in a store or realize they're in the way...and they often realize they are in the way, because they are not under the impression they're the only ones on planet Earth. Midwestern people are lovely, friendly, sweet, and just NICE.<br />
<br />
2) We stay at a Marriott-run hotel when we go, the same one each time. It is near the airport, and very nice. We found it several years ago when we needed to stay in a hotel because C's dad's house had too many people in it...he sent us to a Super 8 motel nearby, which was just fine...there is absolutely nothing wrong with hotels that are clean and useful for their purposes: sleeping and showering. ....Unless there is a night of shooting/homicide in their parking lot. That's when we decided maybe not all Midwesterners are lovely, and we needed a place that was slightly more secure. So we went down the road a little and found a hotel pilots and airline attendants like to stay at, which is this place.<br />
<br />
They just remodeled their lobby and so now when you walk in, you feel like you're walking into a really swank hotel any D-list celebrity would stay in (we won't discuss the conditions of the rooms' tubs and the fact that rich people no longer need cord phones in bathrooms to make important business calls...do important business people often make important business phone calls while sitting on the toilet? I wonder). So you feel very swank and important until night falls and you look outside your room's window and see the Hustler Hollywood Emporium across the street, all lit up like a sleazy all-year-round Christmas tree. It really puts vanity into perspective, and I love that.<br />
<br />
3) St. Louis just feels less ostentatious than Atlanta and, I suspect, it's easier to maneuver. The Monday before we left, Anne Lamotte came to town to give a free book reading/talk about her new book. I love Anne Lamotte, and fervently wish we at least lived in the same town and went to the same church. She is funny and honest and really real. However, I had schoolwork to do so I wouldn't have to think about it when we got back, and I had to make a decision--drive 40 miles in freaky Atlanta traffic to hear one of my writing heroes speak? Or do some lesson plans and pull some other school stuff together? My priorities won this time, but only because of freaky Atlanta traffic. I'm sure if I lived in St. Louis this would not have been an issue.<br />
<br />
So, anyway. St. Louis is nice. And it also kept me off the internet (mostly) for several days. What a nice break--do you ever think the internet, facebook, pinterest, etc. are time suckers eating our brains? Honestly, they're starting to make just quietly watching TV (TV, the 20th century time sucker/brain eater) feel like completing a Harvard course in the History of Medieval Law. <br />
<br />
What I discovered while not consumed with mindless, brain eating internet tom foolery: I can finish reading a 400+ page book AND still be a semi-competent mother, wrote at least once in my journal (and I NEVER write in that thing--years of dust fell off it when I opened it and it gave a delighted yet shocked squeal of delight when it realized it was getting written in), and Melissa had my fullest attention ever--she was no less hyper, but far more entertaining than usual. My patience (which is never very big) grew in gigantic proportions, in mere days.<br />
<br />
Which is why I've concluded the internet is eating my brain (yet here I am, writing on a blog....I know. But I'm writing! And writing is something I have let fallen on the wayside for far too long, so any writing--even rambling, incoherent blog writing--is healthy).<br />
<br />
I've decided I need to get myself a schedule. I am a person who needs lists--otherwise, I can't remember who or what I am. And my child, I can tell, will also be a person who needs lists and schedules...we are both easily distracted people who prefer mindless, wasted activities to productive, creative ones. So schedule and lists it is.<br />
<br />
On a sad note, Tasha died before we got her to the vet to put her to sleep. Several important things about this, that my soul did take note of:<br />
<br />
*I asked God to take that decision off my plate. Because God isn't on my schedule, and doesn't act as fast as I think God should, I assumed God wasn't listening to me at all (never, ever assume God isn't listening) and so I said fine, that's how You want it? I'll go ahead and make the damn decision. I went ahead with my decision.<br />
*I began talking to Tasha about my decision, that I was reluctant to help her move on but that she was incredibly sick and old and there was little we could do to help her get better, but that it was okay for her to let go herself. I told her I didn't think whatever is waiting for us after this is scary at all, and that she would be young and happy again, but that we would miss her so much over here on this side of the veil.<br />
*Tasha began letting go. I noticed in small ways, but assumed (because God never listens to me) that we'd still take her to the vet on Saturday as planned.<br />
*Melissa got sick on a Wednesday, and I stayed home on a Thursday to take care of her. Tasha started going rapidly downhill that night--so much so that I woke up C to ask if we should go ahead and take her to the vet the next morning, though I really didn't think she'd even make it through the night. <br />
*The next day, instead of just taking care of sick Melissa, I helped sick Tasha die.<br />
*Tasha died at 10:15 am on Thursday, November 15, 2012. <br />
<br />
I think events like these are spiritual mile markers; events the Universe puts us through to shake us up and make us see what matters. God did take the decision making off my plate. But God also let me see why we should always be careful about what we ask for--watching Tasha go through her dying process was terrible, for her and for me. However, she has gone onto be part of God's peace, and I am left with wrenching memories of watching her die and incredible guilt that I didn't help her go over sooner so she didn't have to go through that...I won't do that again with another aging animal. Lesson learned, the hard way (as I usually like to learn all my hardest lessons, which I suppose God is already quite aware about me). But God also made sure I was there to be with her when she died, and I am thankful to him for that. And she did die at home, with someone petting her head telling her it was okay to go, just let go, until she finally did. I just wish it had been much more quietly, in her sleep (I think that's what I was thinking/hoping it would be...it was the opposite). <br />
<br />
I miss her deeply--people who don't get attached to animals will not understand this. If I were a witch (and I am not, no matter how many times Melissa insists that I am), Tasha would have been my familiar, and my most important, best spells would all be broken now. There are signs of her everywhere still in our house--I'll find pieces of fur every now and then, and the Friday after she died I found one of her whiskers by her favorite window spot. It's always sad to come home and know she won't come downstairs to lay on the sofa next to me, or on a chair. But I think some part of her is still here; I feel her presence everywhere. I hope she understands, in whatever form she's in now. I talk to her every day, just in case she's still here.<br />
<br />
I've started reading a book called PROOF OF HEAVEN by Dr. Eben Alexander, a neurosurgeon who once thought the brain was solely responsible for Near Death Experiences of people claiming to have been to Heaven when they died. He claims he has evidence that dying is not necessarily a brain thing, and this also makes me want to raise my fist in a victory salute (remember in my last blog entry, how I was all: "Curses on YOU, party pooper brain scientists!"? Dr. Eben Alexander is officially off my Party Pooper Brain Scientist list). It's a comforting book...if you're a party pooper brain scientist, I'm sure you'll find a lot in it to do your party pooper arguing about. Party poopers usually do; it's why they're on my party pooper/not invited list. And if you're very fundamentally Christian, you may not like reading Dr. Alexander insisting on referring to God as "Om" and you might feel slighted because Dr. Alexander never ran into Jesus or Paul or anyone while he was over there. But I think there's still a lot of common ground people of different faiths can high five about, and when we do, we can all stare at the party poopers with looks of giant disapproval. Highly recommended, for both soul peace and world peace against all party pooping.<br />
<br />
I'm going to abruptly end this blog post there and go make up a schedule for myself. Winter is knocking and I am at my laziest, least focused during Winter. <br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-37920416474013698582012-11-11T23:51:00.000-05:002012-11-12T00:29:34.354-05:00mucho gato, gracias a dios.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioanRo_lXCX2qyXeGXaumfB9032TX9XNn3atJ-OwGcibMBd_-7n1tarSGYtpCcH6GRJnFDW1mz0SkJ28idwRY4FSoTKXqKt29ASEwDuROZ8yI91L5QezK2izEwBO5EKqC6jISDu121uj0/s1600/IMAG1335.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioanRo_lXCX2qyXeGXaumfB9032TX9XNn3atJ-OwGcibMBd_-7n1tarSGYtpCcH6GRJnFDW1mz0SkJ28idwRY4FSoTKXqKt29ASEwDuROZ8yI91L5QezK2izEwBO5EKqC6jISDu121uj0/s320/IMAG1335.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a favorite perch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This was our last weekend with Tasha. I'm looking forward to the week long break and Thanksgiving (my 2nd favorite holiday, second only to my birthday which I feel ought to be a national, if not international, holiday, definitely longer than just 1 day long at the very least and should always fall on a weekend), but I am also wanting to slow down/stop time.<br />
<br />
I've decided to help Tasha move on to the Other Side this coming Saturday. She is not well, and even though she's still occasionally hanging out with us and is affectionate, I can just tell: she feels icky. Her meows tend to end in groan-like growls. She has huge mats in her hair I can't get out (side effect of hyperthyroidism), and I think her appetite is going. Tasha's appetite going is a huge sign of distress for me--this is a cat who loves her food. I don't want her to suffer. I don't want her to end up in any pain. I don't want her to be afraid or confused by anything.<br />
<br />
But I will miss her deeply. She has been a good, sweet cat, and there for me through thick and thin. When I decide I love someone or something, I am very tenacious; letting go is not something that comes naturally for me, even after it's
painfully obvious to me it's in my own best interest to do so. My friend
Patresa told me the other day cats are notorious at clinging to life,
well beyond the point it's good for them. Which sort of makes me like
Tasha, I suppose, at letting go. This is very, very hard.<br />
<br />
I don't know what state I will be in when C and I drive her to the vet this coming Saturday. I know that when my parents had to put my childhood friend/dog Sassy down, I was in a terrible state of grief when I found out. I have had two great animal loves in my life: Sassy saw me through childhood and Tasha saw me through adulthood. I am sure the Universe has another great animal love to see me through my twilight years.<br />
<br />
When Sassy died, I was in a lot of emotional distress. I'm sure there are neuroscientists in the world who could explain the following to me, but quite frankly I think those neuroscientists are big party poopers who are simply refusing to look at The Big Picture.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I was driving home from work one day, still weeping and grieving over my little black dog, and a tremendous warmth flooded through me. It didn't last more than a nanosecond, but it was so enormous, so gigantic, that even years later, I can still almost feel it. If I were a less sane person (and at times, I have been), I would quit my job, run off to live in the desert, and spend the rest of my life trying to get back in touch with whatever sent me that warmth. It was like somebody gave me a swift, warm hug of deep peace from deep inside of me, just to send me the message: "<i>All is well. Sassy is in a very good place, and she's okay." </i>That was the message, only there weren't words--the message was in the feeling, or actually WAS the feeling. I could feel the words. <br />
<br />
<br />
(Neuroscientists, you may have your field day now...but over there, in
the dark corner where all the party pooper punks hang out.) <br />
<br />
I don't know what happens to us when we die. I wish I knew for absolute sure; some people say they know for absolute sure, but I will not make any rash statements I may have to back pedal on later. I am a mere human being, small in a huge and infinite Universe with amazing things we don't even know exist yet. I feel God around me, I have always felt connected to something that--because this is what my culture calls it and so do I, for convenience and to avoid being blasted a hell-headed heretic--I have always called "God." I believe God is very very real, except I don't think God is tangible, or a big man in the sky sitting on a golden throne surrounded by singing angels; in fact, I don't think God has a gender at all or is even all that judgmental, quite frankly. I'm absolutely certain God wasn't on anyone's side in the recent election. Sometimes stuff just happens because that's what has to happen--it's not good or bad, it just is. If you want God to intervene, just ask Him/Her. Usually, S/He does...usually not in the way you'd like or expected, but the intervention does happen. Otherwise, I think God just loves us, and lets us run around all willy nilly here on Earth, like big crazy kids who really, really need some teacher directed recess but refuse to acknowledge they need that until someone gashes open their leg on some playground equipment.<br />
<br />
That's where I think God exists: in the "just is." (Here, I am sure half of my readers are now logging off, shaking their heads, saying something like: "That freaky Amy is surely headed to hell in a hand basket." This is fine! Since I'm also not really convinced there necessarily is an actual location called Hell. Unless Hell is sitting in my very own living room and having to watch Alvin and the Chipmunks "Chipwrecked" 4,000 times straight and then 4,000 times after it's over, dissect every single thing that Simon aka Simone says and WHY he gives Jeanette the bracelet/tiara...and even if there is an Alvin and the Chipmunks Chipwrecked Hell? I doubt any of us could actually get there in a hand basket.) (Unless you're the size of a chipmunk, of course.)<br />
<br />
I've offtracked myself. I'm sorry if I've totally confused or lost you...my point is: I think the real issue I have with Death is the God-connected energy we all have inside of us. Some people call it our soul or spirit, but to quiet the punk neuroscientists in the dark corner over there, we're calling it Energy. Something must happen with the energy inside of us--that's a simple law of physics. The energy must have somewhere to go. Once, after my maternal grandmother died, I was at a friend's house sitting on their sofa and I felt her, hovering right above my right shoulder--and I instantly knew she was just passing through...stopping by to make sure I was all right, and then she was gone. But I don't know where she went, because I haven't felt her again. But wherever she is, I know she's in a good place, and that she's okay.<br />
<br />
So I have had some incredibly strange and freaky and really wonderfully inexplicable things happen to me and my energy. Which is how I know that there is great, calming, peaceful...energy? spirit?...that will make contact with you exactly when and how you need it to, in just a way that works for you, wherever you are at in your spiritual (or not spiritual) life and beliefs. And I call that spirit God, but maybe you call it Science. (So you punk neuroscientists can all go back to your dark labs now and continue not seeing The Big Picture.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, back on topic: friend Patresa (who is full of good energy and thoughtful and helpful) also suggested I have a heart to heart talk with Tasha, and I have. I have spoken at length with Tasha, telling her about God, and about how I don't know about what happens to us after this physical side of existence. I explained what I've had to decide to do, and why. I've told her the Story of Sassy, and the weird but extremely comforting experience I had after she died. I've told Tasha I'm scared to make this decision, but I'm more scared of watching her get to a point she'll suffer. We talked about what a good, long life she's had. How many cats can say they were born in one part of the U.S. and got to take an airplane ride to live in another part? That's exciting. I thanked her for being such a sweet, even tempered cat--there simply aren't that many sweet, even tempered cats in the world, I think, and I apologized for putting her through the experience of a baby in her twilight years. But she's been a good animal friend/child to me, and a very patient, loving animal friend/sister to Melissa.<br />
<br />
I go back and forth between wanting to be in the room when it happens and not wanting to. I do think I want to take her, to hold her in a soft blanket instead of sticking her in the carrier, and maybe go say good-bye to her when she's gone. Or maybe when Saturday gets here, I won't be able to do any of that--C will have to take her and I will stay home.<br />
<br />
I think this is the hardest part of being human, dealing with death. The spirit part of me knows this is simply a new beginning, and that it's both useless and silly to waste time worrying about it. It is inevitable, and a part of the experience we agreed to have when we agreed to hang out here for XX years and have a Life Experience. It's in the contract, and not in fine print...they're pretty up front about it, I think.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>Off tracking</i></span>: While living in Arizona (Arizona: desert land of a myriad of spiritual experiences; I swear it's the dry heat), I found out my dad had congestive heart failure. The way the information was presented to me made it sound like he had about 48 hours to live (he lived for 5 more years). I was inconsolable then, the night I found out, and went to bed sobbing. I fell asleep, and had a dream. In my dream, I was sobbing, too, and an older lady--I couldn't see her, but I could hear her--asked me why I was crying. She was intensely curious. I told her because my dad was dying, and she laughed...not at me, or in a mean way, but a laugh like, "oh, is<i> that</i> all?" And then she got very serious and said, "God created all creatures great and small. It's true your dad is dying, but one day soon your time will come too. Until that day, you are never to worry about death and dying."<br />
<br />
Then she repeated the last sentence again, but very very firmly: You are NEVER to worry about death and dying...and then I woke up. But only my brain was awake--my body was frozen and deeply sleeping. I knew I was awake, and in my bedroom, and I knew I was awake, but I couldn't move my body. Then, in my ear, a deep male voice said very loud: <b><i>You are NEVER to worry about death and dying</i></b>. And then my whole body woke up. All of that happened so very fast--less than 5 seconds. And of course, I was totally freaked out--I had every single light in my apartment on in less than 10 seconds flat to make sure I was alone (I was...or maybe I wasn't. <i><b>Doo doo doo</b></i>!). And of course (part 2), to this day I DO still worry about death and dying. I worry about it all the time. Who the heck wants to die? Who the heck wants anyone or any pet they love to die? Dying is the Great Unknown...I could barely figure out how to decorate Melissa's room without knowing what gender to plan for...I make lists about lists to make sure I know what's coming next. But Death...don't worry about it? Just...don't worry about it? Me? Who once took 20 minutes to decide between a gray pair of pants and a black pair? What a useless thing to say to a human being. Who came up with THAT lesson plan, Universe? Give them a D-. (And tell them to stop freaking people out at 3 am.)<br />
<br />
Still, I think about those freaky, weird, inexplicable, wonderful experiences of Spirit that happened to me, what I think I know and know I don't know about the Great Beyond. I do not care what neuroscientists, atheists, and so forth have to say about my experiences or beliefs; they happened to me, I like that they happened to me, and I think you and your Science should stick to Global Warming, where you can make a much bigger difference in the long run. They stay in my heart, and they give me a lot of comfort during moments like these, when I have to let go.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Back on topic: </i></span>Tasha is/was a lot of cat. She has a sweet, gentle soul that I hope will come visit if she can, wherever she goes. She loves ear rubs and cuddling up right on top of you when it's cold...I will miss that, this winter and every winter without her. Other than a warm body to snuggle with on colder days, some long ear rubs, and a full food bowl at all times? Tasha has never really asked much out of Life, or from anyone--she is and was a go-with-the-flow kind of cat. Happy and satisfied as long as she had company and food in her belly...tIf you were on the sofa, she'd hang out on the sofa with you. If you were working at the kitchen table, she'd find a kitchen chair to curl up on. When I was on pregnancy bed rest for 4 weeks, she was my bed rest buddy. She's been pretty quiet and content to just be, which is something I think human beings could learn a big lesson from. Just stay quiet, and be content just to be. Tasha has filled up my whole heart for almost 18 years simply by doing that. I am so thankful that God collided our life paths...I am sure she was sent just when I needed her, for exactly how long she was needed.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfwLj6N116L0gIWF6DCWxyrePjTPv2YESRnwSqA-UAmekHJUwulElx-3VmR4D-nYfLQ6PMdvuJJUvbGnKkp-XEaqBItTcv6bZKQiM5blMOIJRLcODRLAUw_R_uEhyphenhyphenUcCkpZuKESQPCuw/s1600/IMG_0736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfwLj6N116L0gIWF6DCWxyrePjTPv2YESRnwSqA-UAmekHJUwulElx-3VmR4D-nYfLQ6PMdvuJJUvbGnKkp-XEaqBItTcv6bZKQiM5blMOIJRLcODRLAUw_R_uEhyphenhyphenUcCkpZuKESQPCuw/s320/IMG_0736.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
I hope she gets some good ear rubs on the Other Side. <br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-34889171192049805222012-10-30T07:00:00.000-04:002012-10-30T08:09:24.931-04:00four.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-FUjHa6JT3DpmjwaI-TmLtjcITdGjKvO_7KpwCiTC7T1Q-JHGvt5M1QfyN7oKE872ickdNjLdl44_v3w7iHMqLHcHmZ4AAWVepKv4sCENeQ_ScyxDjQI4A3ug21JNO62F1YzwMoJmv-g/s1600/IMAG1203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-FUjHa6JT3DpmjwaI-TmLtjcITdGjKvO_7KpwCiTC7T1Q-JHGvt5M1QfyN7oKE872ickdNjLdl44_v3w7iHMqLHcHmZ4AAWVepKv4sCENeQ_ScyxDjQI4A3ug21JNO62F1YzwMoJmv-g/s320/IMAG1203.jpg" width="191" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_1049881378"></span><span id="goog_1049881379"></span>Sweet Melissa, you are 4 today. Can you believe it? I cannot. I took a personal day from work today JUST for you. First, Daddy is taking you out for his annual Melissa-Daddy birthday breakfast. Next, we have to go to the doctor to figure out why that nasty, hacking nighttime cough won't go away. Then, we will play at an interactive neighborhood museum for awhile, and do arts and crafts. Then, we will buy some socks for you. Last, we will go out to dinner and open your special birthday present. You know, the special birthday present you tried to manipulate out us of last night. I took today off for YOU, sweet girl, because I love you and everything about you.<br />
<br />
Okay, okay, fine. And I also took today off because there is a full moon out, and now that I'm back to classroom teaching, I find teaching during full moons to be ridiculous and unpleasant. Neil Degrasse Tyson would tell me I am not being a scientific thinker by typing that statement, and normally I would agree with Neil Degrasse Tyson. Except that I'm pretty sure Neil Degrasse Tyson has never had to teach a large group of easily excitable 7 and 8 year olds during a holiday period AND a full moon, and so what does Neil Degrasse Tyson know about full moons and children anyway? Stick to deep space, Dr. Tyson.<br />
<br />
Anyway, back to YOU (because at this point, you're extremely angry and grabbing my face and demanding I focus on YOU, STOP talking about the moon.)<br />
<br />
So much has changed in 4 years--you are tall and strong and full of wildly imaginative thoughts. Sometimes you will walk by me, still on your tippy toes, then suddenly speed up and say (to the air), "Come on! Come on, Tinkerbell! We have to save them!!" And you are off...though never very far, because you remain convinced the Big Bad Wolf truly lives in our house's shadows and lies in wait for you to leave the safe vicinity of my eyes or your father's so he can gobble you up. Also, Tasha the Cat has creepy eyes--we did establish this long ago. You also don't like it when she steals your sofa spot. That really rubs you raw.<br />
<br />
So half the time I have absolutely no idea who you're talking to, or what you are talking about, and this brings so much joy to my heart because I think all children should live lives embedded in magical worlds of glittery freedom. One day you and I will talk about how not all children get to and why, but for now, I love watching you spread your fairy wings and run around in yours.<br />
<br />
Our cat is old. She won't be here next year when you turn 5. This is hard for me (not for you--you live in a world where everything is magical, and you are shielded from the deep understandings of what loss really is). She is the only pseudo sibling you have ever known. When you were 2, you treated her like a sister--tattling on her, complaining about her, becoming insanely jealous of her if she sat on me or got a head pat or hug. I've had to make the hard decision to let her go before we leave for our Thanksgiving vacation next month. She is old and sick and for some reason not really letting go; I do worry about making that decision for her. What if there's a reason she's clinging to this side of Life? And who am I to take it away from her? I cry about it all the time in front of you, and I apologize if it ends up psychologically damaging you in any way. I hope it's making you compassionate; I don't know. It could be making you impatient with whiners. <br />
<br />
But then again, the other day, when I explained that Tasha would be going to live with God for a long time and she couldn't come back, I asked you if you would miss her. "No," you said pretty breezy, with a lot of confidence.<br />
<br />
"Why not?" I asked (silently horrified at the callous nature of children--what IS it with you people??).<br />
<br />
"Because she'll be here," you said then, pointing at your heart. And my own heart melted. Did I tell you that once? Or a teacher at school? Or did that come from somewhere amazingly mysterious, like when I used to show you pictures of your Grandpa Samson and Grandma Eula and ask if you knew who they were, and you'd say, "Angels" which was totally mind blowing because, at 1 year old, you had no real concept what that word meant and we had no idea where you had learned it in the first place. Neil Degrasse Tyson would have a scientifically literate way of explaining that away, and this is when my Spirit Self tells my Science Self to shut up, sit down, and stop being such a party pooper or my Science Self is uninvited to my birthday party forEVER.<br />
<br />
You are like your daddy in that you do not have patience for my weirdness. You are like me in that you are extremely weird yourself. But in other ways you are just you, and we are just we, and we all live together in this green house we never thought would have any children in it. I feel so blessed that you are with us now.<br />
<br />
Because here you are! You are you: if left to your own devices you'd eat candy all day like a starving man would eat a salad, and after you inhaled all the candy you'd turn around and demand more treats as if you were Marie Antoinette her own diva self. You are the scariest grumpiest angriest little girl when you wake up, and you will throw a little daycare friend under the bus faster than you can say Bubble Guppies. I love and adore each of these things about you even and, in spite of, when they drive me absolutely nuts (and you do, on a daily basis--which is your job of course, as my job is to reign you in and silently laugh at your ridiculous reaction to being reigned in which drives you nuts, on a daily basis).<br />
<br />
At four years old, you are a sports playing, princess obsessed, fairy loving, impatient, demanding, sweet, silly, creative, and smart girl with unnerving diva tendencies. You think the term "private parts" is hilarious and disgusting, and when you dance, you give new meaning to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Md6fZ04CqvA" target="_blank">KC & The Sunshine Band's "Shake Your Booty."</a><br />
<br />
I love you, sweet Princess Melissa. I hope you never have to kiss a frog. But I also know your DNA heritage and realize you will, and you will kiss many. I will squish them for you if you'd like. And we will dance together wearing sparkly shirts and shiny pants to bad 70's disco. I'm so happy I get to be your mommy. Happy 4th Birthday, big girl (who regularly invites and uninvites me to phantom and real birthday parties including but not limited to ones I'm paying for...and regularly threatens to grow up really fast and never be my baby forever if I don't do what she wants). You help me get out of bed on rainy, gross mornings.<br />
<br />
Love always,<br />
Mommy<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzXZFChwDnIJb9g2Yh9FdHTyYg_aqOrHAG0lnCUv9e7cc90K28-PJFdMXtqNUtIINTJGkUFAqoN-nEZFA5Yew' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-57313245819912788742012-10-13T03:55:00.000-04:002012-10-13T04:19:41.120-04:00random insomniac update things.I still have insomnia--it is 3:00, Saturday morning. This is not the first insomnia bout of the school year, and will probably not be the last. I had hoped it was just a Summer thing, but nope. Turns out it's an Amy thing. C has pointed out it may be a now-you're-in-your-40's thing. Whatever it is, I'm glad this bout is happening on a Friday and not a Sunday. Insomnia at 3 am Monday morning on a school week when you are in complete charge of a class of 23 rambunctious, talkative 7-8 year olds stuffed into a trailer classroom like sardines is simply not as doable as 3 am Saturday insomnia.<br />
<br />
I have not posted a blog entry here in months. Actually, just three months, but it feels like half a year. School life as a classroom teacher is immensely different than school life as a support teacher. For one thing, I find I really have to time my bathroom breaks well. It's the weirdest (and probably poor kidney health) thing to leave work after an almost 11 hour work day and realize you have not used the bathroom all day...THAT'S my special super power (what's yours?). And 30 minutes for lunch is actually not that long, but having to share it with 23 children is pure torture (I usually don't have to share my 30 minute lunch period, but when I do, it is always with 23 children). Planning periods are precious commodities--I never knew I could get so ticked off over a mere 40 minutes...don't waste my 40 minutes: I will CUT you. Also I never skip recess unless there is a torrential down pour--kids these days don't get enough fresh air, and that's as much a break for me as it is for them. So sometimes we go ten minutes over what should be the end of our recess time...I have had many of those days this year, days in which I say:<u><i> I </i></u>need ten more minutes out here. Children are begging me to go back inside, but I am firm. Fresh air is good for you, and NO I do not know or care what that weird smell is out here...go climb the monkey bars. Ms. S is still decomposing from that Math lesson.<br />
<br />
I had big (BIG!) ideas going into this year. Too much pinterest, I think. Honestly, I don't know how some of these people have time to teach, raise families, and live life...their ideas are cute in theory but in practice do not execute in ways that are practical and doable for the kind of school I work at. I suspect I need to seek out other Title 1 teachers on pinterest, or start my own pinterest board--Title 1 students and parents have different needs than non-Title 1 people. That is not a judgment call; just an observation.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I quickly realized I needed to scale back my overall, arching plans for this year. And when I say "scale back," I actually mean: raise a white flag, retreat, reorganize. Next year, I will be more prepared. I will know what to expect (I'd forgotten what Title 1 classroom teacher/parent/student interactions are really like), and I'll know exactly what to do with the 10,000 folders and reams of notebook paper and red pens and yellow highlighters I received at the beginning of the year (actually, I don't think I'll ever figure out the red pens/yellow highlighters, though the 500 black dry erase markers <i>are</i> truly coming in handy). I'll also be more savvy about grades, homework, and that home connection binder that was such an awesome idea? Not really working out...simple homework folders would be more practical for where I work. The Keep It Simple Stupid (KISS) principle--will embrace it next year. Fancy ideas are for people who have time (like education policy makers who work in quiet, comfy offices and can spend hours researching research to support that one education reform idea they had in that chili-induced lucid dream during that nap they took on their quiet, comfy office sofa the other day--that is SURELY going to fix ALL the problems!).<br />
<br />
I'd also like about 3 more feet of width on either side of my trailer, and then life would be truly perfect. But that's magical thinking, and I no longer have time for it.<br />
<br />
I did not watch the Vice Presidential debate, in spite of the fact it took place in my hometown. I watched the Presidential debate, and came away so perturbed: those two guys didn't agree on anything except how awesome NCLB and Race to the Top education reform ideas are. We can't agree on how to fix the economy, but we do agree that kids need even more testing and teachers need to feel more pressure over things beyond their control. Way to fix poverty, America. Also, I feel that shows like "Honey Boo Boo," "Jersey Shore," "Keeping up with the Kardashians," and "Real Housewives of (insert big city name here)" are direct results of NCLB and RTTT. In fact, I am pretty confident the founding fathers did not fight a whole war and start a brand new country just so future citizens could go slack jawed watching people in overalls on a show called "Swamp People" on the History Channel wrestle/eat alligators or watch a melodramatic woman on a show called "Dance Moms" scream at young girls and roll her eyes at their horrified, over privileged mothers when she tries to dress their 9 year olds in burlesque stripper costumes because she honestly doesn't get what the big deal about that is. America: Giving Thomas Jefferson post mortem heart attacks, since 1982.<br />
<br />
Diane Ravitch is sponsoring an <a href="http://dianeravitch.net/2012/10/05/instructions-for-the-october-17-campaign-for-our-public-schools/" target="_blank">October 17 letter writing campaign to President Obama</a> about his RTTT experiment. I am participating, and I will be sure to point out in my letter how the plethora and type of reality shows being offered to Americans is a direct result of programs like RTTT. I do not have research to back up that allegation. I will point out to President Obama that I would like to have time to do research to back up my allegation, but unfortunately every Monday I have to stuff Homework folders, Tuesdays-Thursdays I have to stuff small brains full of RTTT-backed Common Core curricula, and Fridays are Common Core curricula quiz and Spelling test days and also I have to stuff Friday Folders and help this one little boy locate all the jackets he's lost throughout the week so his mom doesn't think I'm a bad teacher.<br />
<br />
The President is a busy man. I know his day to day stresses are far and beyond my day to day stresses, and that, as public servants to the greater good, neither of us is compensated at the level of which we really deserve for the hours/stress/work we do for the greater good and we are constantly working our butts off and getting a lot of tomatoes thrown at us in anger; it's the only way Americans seem to know how to say "I don't agree with you, but thank you for doing the best you know how to do" these days. The difference is: I don't get Secret Service protection, Air Force One rides, a cool spy code nickname, and my house doesn't have a bowling alley and movie theater in the basement. I think if the President and all future Presidents can find a way to get me Secret Service protection, a cool spy code nickname, some dinner outings with Clive Owen and Gerard Butler, renovate my entire upstairs and master bathroom, and give me a weekly house cleaning service until retirement, we'll call it a day and I'll do their stupid, dumb educational experiments with easy-to-acronymize titles without another single, whiny complaint. Unless my planning period gets cut. Then all deals are OFF, traitors.<br />
<br />
Melissa is turning 4 in a few weeks. This time 4 years ago, I was on forced bed rest and hating it. Clearly, I was insane due to pregnancy hormones--I now believe there should be a National Bed Rest Day, twice each month and never on a Saturday or Sunday.<br />
<br />
Melissa is a willful child. This is both good and bad--good because it means she's smart, and hopefully will be an independent thinker; bad because sometimes Mommy just needs to get out of the house before 7:15 AM without any arguments because if she leaves at 7:20 we'll hit that big traffic wall and Mommy's WHOLE WORLD WILL BE RUINED. Four year olds don't seem to understand adult work stress, and if they do, they certainly do not care. Brushing their teeth and going potty the way THEY want to do it are far more pressing and stressful, and you and your work stresses can just take a hike. Walls of traffic and your high blood pressure issues?? Psh. Who cares about those petty issues?? I am going to throw a tantrum because you just wiped my butt the way I don't like<b><i> and</i></b> <i><u>I</u></i> wanted to turn off the bathroom light! This is so tragic, and you are the meanest mommy ever and you are NOT coming to (<i>insert random kid's name</i>)'s birthday party!!! (This is a running theme in our house each morning, and I suspect it is not unusual in other households containing willful 4 year olds.)<br />
<br />
Melissa also loves all things princess-y and fairy. I really tried hard to keep her neutral and away from that--I wanted her to like the colors green (nature) and purple (creativity) and play sports and read books and be a girl who can move between the girl and boy cultures and be fluent in both. I do not know how I ended up with a girl who is obsessed with princesses, fairies, and the color pink and likes to do "movie star" kisses but only to mommy and daddy because she's been warned at school that "movie star" kisses are not appropriate for friends. Bright light in tunnel: she does ask for boy toys instead of girl toys sometimes, saying, "It's okay for girls to play with boys' toys, right Mommy? That's okay. And boys can play with girls' toys too." Which makes my heart happy and proud and hopeful, even though she can take that too far--today she said everyone who was coming to her birthday party in a few weeks had to wear a dress, <i>even the boys</i>. (She then backed up and clarified the boys need to wear brown prince dresses, because the girls will be in pink princess dresses.)<br />
<br />
So life is busy and crazy and stressful, but there have only been two moments where I've thought: I really, seriously may need to check myself into a mental health facility; this is a very spiraling-downward feeling I'm having. But I continue to believe we are never tossed into a churning sea without a lifeboat: I work with some incredibly fabulous, wonderful co-workers (the majority of teachers are like this--we are like Army soldiers in an uphill battle, and all we have is each other), and I have a willful girl who needs me to explain why some of her boyfriends may not be so hip on wearing her prince dress, and so we pull ourselves up and go on.<br />
<br />
And there is no problem so big that God can't handle it--my favorite prayer is, was, and will always be "Help." It is instantly answered, and I have never, ever been ignored. (When I ask for more specific things, that's when the Universe decides It has a sense of humor--my advice when communicating with the Powers that Be: keep it simple. Don't make any sudden moves that reminds Anyone Anywhere They have a sense of humor.) (I mean, look at what's become of the entire American political system...this is no time for shenanigans, people!) (And turn off those reality shows and FOX News! You'll rot your brain.)<br />
<br />
The End.amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-18272542554116019622012-07-17T07:00:00.000-04:002012-07-17T13:20:14.640-04:00summer wind downI am down to a mere two weeks left of summer vacation and I am beginning the process of mourning my life. No one around me who works all year long has any sympathy, of course, and this just re-affirms my need to learn how to play the lottery. I'm pretty convinced I would make an excellent rich person as I have zero desire to be famous, just a deep, driven need to lay around thinking soothing thoughts all day and sipping lemonade on hot days/flavored coffee on cold days. And occasionally meandering to the mailbox to pick up my latest lottery installment check. I would do various rich person philanthropies to keep my mind sharp and my ego in check, and I'd write really lengthy blog entries here off and on. I keep hearing kids today are being educated for lucrative careers that haven't even been invented yet, and I hope this is one of them: Lengthy, Haphazard Blog Writer.<br />
<br />
Here is how my summer is wrapping up:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>SWIMMING POOLS AS MICROCOSMS OF SOCIETAL PROBLEMS:</b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpw0EUN4Lr7Fka0cdqT6Wrivsf0pCull7-ZrwtHKUNl_1ijZqgRT3MswgtK1HTJPU_rWSYutaG-L2dF55x8jD9RZ-uV2oMqol5H3fAUUsI3EF2Xdfoy4CeRrK-6r7M6nHQVITHiP9cIAg/s1600/melissapoollogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpw0EUN4Lr7Fka0cdqT6Wrivsf0pCull7-ZrwtHKUNl_1ijZqgRT3MswgtK1HTJPU_rWSYutaG-L2dF55x8jD9RZ-uV2oMqol5H3fAUUsI3EF2Xdfoy4CeRrK-6r7M6nHQVITHiP9cIAg/s320/melissapoollogo.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Embrace your cute geekiness.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Melissa finished up her swimming lessons last week with a bang (literally, with a <i>bang!</i>: a thunderstorm rolled through and they shut the whole pool down, effectively ending all swim lessons 20 minutes early). We never managed to convince her to put her whole self underwater, but after I bought her an orange swim cap with a monster on it and matching goggles, she did let Miss C dump entire buckets of pool water on top of her. She says she would be okay with me dumping water on top of her during our shampoo sessions, too, except her monster cap has to be on. Which, uh, defeats the purpose of the shampoo. This is so difficult to explain to 3 year old people who are all ego and id with very little reason.<br />
<br />
The lifeguards at our swimming pool are both wonderfully watchful and woefully belligerent. I deeply appreciate the serious approach they take to their jobs, as swimming pools are essentially little more than deep, watery death traps. But these lifeguards also scare the holy living bejesus out of me quite frankly, and I find I walk on eggshells around them. I'm constantly seeking their approval and excessively avoiding their disapproval while at the pool, just like a dysfunctional people pleaser naturally does. And I'm passing that people pleasing dyfunction on to Melissa who has also spent her summer in awe and fear of them.<br />
<br />
Example: When we play under or near a chair a lifeguard is sitting in, I talk very loudly about how lifeguards are our friends and helpers and we have to follow their rules. We make sure we always walk when out of the pool, stay well away from the blue rope when in the pool, don't even LOOK like we're trying to jump in the water, and never ever (EVER!) eat granola bars near the pool (the ants are also under lifeguard watch, apparently). I'm a total, shameless lifeguard butt kisser--who knew a teenager would have so much power over me at this age? I don't want them to blow their red whistle at me and use their firm tone of voice, "M'am? M'am! You can't do that here. M'am!! STOP!! If you don't stop, you'll have to leave." (That was an actual quote, except it was directed toward a "Sir." One day, I watched a 50-something man get in a 19 year old lifeguard's face about being allowed to flip his kid high up into the air over the blue rope, very close to the cement edge...it was just a matter of one wrong flip and that kid would have been a quadriplegic forever and ever. The man was pissed off he couldn't recklessly toss his child around, and the lifeguard was pissed the man didn't want to follow pool rules. Like I said: Death Traps. Water-y, suspicious death traps. God help you if you're a kid with a crazy parent with no sense of this. I have no idea why our culture even needs them, except they're attractive to sit around and quite refreshing on a hot summer day. Pools are attractive and refreshing, let me clarify. Not crazy parents.
Our culture would definitely be much better off without crazy parents.)<br />
<br />
Lifeguarding as a career must be extremely stressful...I'm sure they're ready for fall and winter as much as teachers are ready for their summer breaks. In addition to Cement Edge Flipper Guy, this summer I've watched parents hang out on their iPhones at the pool totally not paying attention to their still-in-waterwings small children in the shallow end, I've seen parents doing very intense work (or something) on their laptops ignoring the very water-y death trap their child was playing in, and once I saw a mom (? I'm still not sure if she was a mom or not--she was playing in the kiddie section of the pool and no children were around her) in an entirely too flimsy swimsuit come absurdly close to exposing children to more than just the danger of accidental drowning that day...I mean, the swimsuit was practically falling off of her and I could SEE everything. It's the kiddie part of the swimming pool, m'am, not the set of Girls Gone Wild.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>CAT TALES:</b></div>
Last time, I wrote about fearing my cat Tasha was about to kick the bucket. I've now come to the conclusion my cat Tasha is actually working on her 9 lives. Being an indoor cat, she's never really had many opportunities to utilize these. Now that things are winding down for her at 18 (human) years old, I think she's decided to cash in finally. My feeling is that she's on Life #5 or 6, judging by the vertebrae sticking through her skin. The very day after I wrote that blog, she started hanging out with us more downstairs. C thinks she's just cold downstairs; apparently he enjoys working in a sauna and chooses to keep the air off while he's up there. Old cats and their old bones really love sauna-like atmospheres. So do masochistic husbands trying to save on electric bills. <br />
<br />
I'm still nervous we'll come home to a house of dead cat smell, though. Or a cat who's taken up a nervous cigarette habit or has gotten into the liquor cabinet when we return. Ha! Just messing with you--we don't have cigarettes or liquor in our house. (Just a drawer full of knives...good thing cats don't have opposable thumbs.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>FEAR AND LOATHING IN CHILDHOOD:</b></div>
<br />
My child is afraid. Deathly afeared. Afraid of what? Most everything. Things she is not afraid of: cookies, cupcakes, birthday cake, candy, spaghetti, presents, parties, pizza, ice cream, pajamas, cartoons, a handful of school friends, and Tasha. But everything else in the world? Melissa is deeply skittish.<br />
<br />
The one I'm saddest about her fear of dogs. I love dogs. Dogs are to people as water is to ocean. The only reason I do not currently have a dog is due to having adopted a neurotic, dog-fearing cat ages ago and now she's so old I just can't subject her to the indignity of having to share her last bit of happiness and peace on earth with a slobbery, rowdy canine. Were it not for Tasha, I might have 10 dogs right now. I could potentially be the Crazy Dog Lady across the street at some point.<br />
<br />
I think I know where the dog fear started: on a summer trip two years ago, we stopped by an aunt's house for a family reunion/picnic and someone brought their very boisterous, overly friendly, and very large black dog. It towered over 1 year old Little Miss M, and I could see how jarring this might be to someone who'd never been exposed and up close to boisterous, overly friendly, and large animals with mouthfuls of teeth wanting to leap on top of small humans and slurp their faces all up. A dog's idea of Love Expression is actually not that different than a 1 year old's (ironically), but the execution is much more intense. Ever since then, she's been terrified of even small, harmless dogs like the two miniature weiner dogs next door, Lily and Lucy. She claims she doesn't like dogs sniffing at her, except that's what dogs do--it's all they have to navigate their way through this big, wide place. I've tried to explain this to Melissa, and we always end up in a long argument that eventually devolves into her having a tantrum about how dogs CAN talk with words just like people do.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2371w62d-vQ-eMwcdupNYQgRFgKTh11iKvsm9r9WjmFcEbOWO-OHx9quQiR9QlPFdUIjxB5j5Bt6X59QgtOYii47sxmR2rszmgAaK2bo-iWMvKqfMAaHThEV9fA7-qfDjO05oysvSrE/s1600/pink+puppy.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2371w62d-vQ-eMwcdupNYQgRFgKTh11iKvsm9r9WjmFcEbOWO-OHx9quQiR9QlPFdUIjxB5j5Bt6X59QgtOYii47sxmR2rszmgAaK2bo-iWMvKqfMAaHThEV9fA7-qfDjO05oysvSrE/s200/pink+puppy.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Melissa's future dog, but with Sparkles.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So clearly we need a dog (after Ms. Tasha goes on to the Great Beyond). Here's the real bizarre-o part: Melissa loves the IDEA of dogs and talks about her deep love of them all the time; she thinks they're cute and awesome and really really wants one in our house. Swears up and down all the time SHE'S not scared, SHE loves dogs. But get her around an actual dog, and she's suddenly climbing you like a freaked out cat climbs a tree. She talks a lot about wanting a small, pink dog she would like to name Sparkle. I'm okay with a small dog named Sparkle; I'm not sure about the pink--I'm afraid PETA would come after me. Also, Sparkle would be forbidden to sniff Melissa "with her sniffy pink nose" (that's a direct Melissa quote from a recent conversation about Sparkle the little pink dog). <br />
<br />
The Melissa fear that makes me both wring my hands and giggle with empathy all at once is her absurd fear of the dark. I mean, it's so dysfunctionally sad: even in direct daylight, if there's a shadow in the house, Melissa will shoot past it and/or cling to you like someone is about to leap out of it with a chainsaw aimed at her head. I say this causes both wringing of my hands and giggling with empathy because, during the day, I'm all: <i>Seriously? Are you for real? It's just a SHADOW, silly goose</i>. But at night, I'm all: <i>Dude, seriously, yeah. There could totally be a Texas Chainsaw Massacre man in there. RUUUUUNNNN!!!!</i><br />
<br />
The other night, I discovered the Bio channel's lovely "My Scary Ghost Story." I don't know if that's actually its title, but that's the title I'm giving it because about every 20 seconds through every entire episode I was all "<i>Nooooooo!!! Don't ask the spirits THAT question! That's inviting them to start acting like poltergeists!!</i> <i>What is WRONG with you?!</i>" and "<i>What?!
What?!?! Scary spirits can attach to you AND follow you home?! Holy --what
entity must I contact to object to THIS ridiculous ghost world
policy?!</i>" and "<i>What was that creaking sound in my kitchen? I feel like someone is watching me. Is that an icy patch that just wafted over me or the air conditioning? Don't look in the corner don't look in the corner don't look in the corner--I think someone's standing there!"</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PAST LIFE REGRESSION RESEARCH: </b></div>
The good news: I've read a lot of books this summer. That's good. At least my mind has been active. The bad news: I've become obsessed (please don't ask why, I'm totally floored myself) with Revolutionary Era stories. I'm not interested in romances; I'm interested in stories about strong women and what life was like in the mid-18th century. I may be experiencing past life regression issues. No, seriously: I've spent intense hours on zillow.com researching all the homes built prior to 1800 for sale in the state of Massachusetts (preferably Cape Cod area) I could move my family into so we could all pretend we're Revolutionary War era colonists. I'm not sure whether I'd be a Loyalist or a Patriot, but I still feel I would be very good at this lifestyle, and would like to try spinning flax at some point. <br />
<br />
Anyway, if you, too, like mid-18th century setting stories that do not contain phrases like "He kissed her. Without permission, and without warning, he took what he wanted. She fought at first but then gave in as his tongue flicked..." Ew. Horrors, no, no. Just stories about potentially real people who could have actually lived (and maybe also you'd like to read some detailed paragraphs describing how to spin flax), I highly recommend anything by <a href="http://www.sallygunning.com/" target="_blank">Sally Gunning</a>. I would like to write Ms. Gunning and demand she immediately get started on a new story...except by the time she's finished I may be life regressing in the mid-16th century as a Japanese samurai warrior princess.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>SUMMER WIND DOWN:</b></div>
<br />
So that's how I've been spending my summer. Swimming, researching mid-18th century recipes for tart pies, sucking up to teenage lifeguards, arguing about what powers dogs do and don't have, convincing myself that it actually makes much more sense to only own 2 homespun dresses and using night jars would really be no big deal, and freaking myself out on the Bio Channel's amazing amount of ghost story shows. That, and I've wasted more time pinning crap I have no time to make to various pinterest boards instead of actually making actual things. I mean, I could have made a whole 18th century shift and apron from homespun calico by now, for God's sake. I think I may have a fear of creating--I like the IDEA of it, but get me around a craft store and I start running away, freaked out like a poltergeist is after me.<br />
<br />
Melissa on the other hand, has been far more productive (when not running away from ants, bees, flies, crickets, grasshoppers, and teeny gnats--more things she's terrified of): swimming, playing a little beginning soccer, enjoying summer mini-camps at school...so far, she's been to Ancient Greece, learned about the Summer Olympics, gone on several different types of Journeys of Imagination, and been an Outdoor Explorer. As a side hobby. she's become a gifted photographer. Medium of choice? Stolen moments with my phone's camera. <br />
<br />
I submit the following as evidence I am raising a soon-to-be-famous (phone camera) photojournalist:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfwDAb0S1mbrCUQABkMYeiGhv9HhGE0pJ3oigFwCzO2aEqZaNFiZL4G_Se8PrIFy8cDvMDChX6XWRtE1GOR0KNN-XDwCf5WffGUt7qBzPoUkeQZrP6WveyAU3sJqD99oCDIRMKLdEzP98/s1600/melissafootlogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfwDAb0S1mbrCUQABkMYeiGhv9HhGE0pJ3oigFwCzO2aEqZaNFiZL4G_Se8PrIFy8cDvMDChX6XWRtE1GOR0KNN-XDwCf5WffGUt7qBzPoUkeQZrP6WveyAU3sJqD99oCDIRMKLdEzP98/s320/melissafootlogo.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Melissa's self foot portrait</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Oh, wait! I forgot to mention I've also been watching History Channel shows about shark wrestling Great White Sharks in Australia and South Africa which led me to do some YouTube researching about things like "bull sharks in the Florida Panhandle." I hope the Florida beach people are okay with me bringing these sharp, authentic 18th century whaling weapons I bought off the internet from a belligerent, teenage Cape Cod lifeguard, as I think they'll be so handy in fighting off Floridian bull sharks which I hear tell are a real problem. I hope Florida doesn't have poltergeists--I don't have weapons for those.amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-1640365810550297642012-06-26T10:26:00.004-04:002012-06-26T11:35:46.051-04:00midsummer growing and letting go dilemmas (with one brief, over-indulged and spoiled American rant)Is the summer slipping away? I feel like the summer is slipping away. I wish winter felt this way. Winter always seems to stick around, like a house guest who comes for a 2 day visit and somehow is still there 2 months later (I've never actually had one of these kinds of house guests, but I've heard about them in scary urban legends).<br />
<br />
<i><u>Growing Dilemmas </u></i><br />
<br />
Little Miss M has had a big change in her schedule: she is now a member of the EL-2 class at school (a promotion from EL-1), and has been slapped with a Great Life Growing Up Dilemma at a tender 3 years old: To be a big girl or not, that is the question. On the one hand, she wants to continue her babyhood. And, really, who can blame her? I'D like to be right back at babyhood--free milk on demand, back rubs, and no home mortgage worries. She wants to sleep with mommy and daddy at night, drink out of sippy cups, and make sure we'll absolutely kill all the bears if necessary (we've moved on from Big Bad Wolf fears to just a preternatural concern with....bears? Too much Goldilocks...blast you, Brothers Grimm!). On the other hand, she wants to dress herself, do everything herself, and basically is just desperate to do everything (I quote) "the tall people" do.<br />
<br />
I do empathize with her--I feel this way about working. On the one hand, I thoroughly enjoy having a real reason to get out of the house each day, having a schedule that keeps me on my toes and focused, and getting a paycheck every now and then. On the other hand, I would like to just lose perpetual focus and vegetate in my house everyday, perusing Pinterest and Google all day long while half-listening to The Doctors and The View, scoff at the thought of these ludicrous, creativity-crushing things called "schedules," and......okay, fine. I'll always love getting some money every now and then. Money is good. Living beneath a highway underpass is not--that's not the kind of schedule scoffing and lollygagging I like to do.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Letting Go Dilemmas </u></i><br />
<i><u><br /></u></i><br />
I've been having midsummer insomnia; I think I wrote about that before. Anyway, last night I was an insomniac again and, at some point, maybe around 2:30 AM I realized: I have not seen Tasha in quite some time.<br />
<br />
Our cat basically lives upstairs right now; it's where her litterbox and food/water are, and she can puke on the carpet to her heart's content without me freaking out on her. So, currently, upstairs is not my favorite. My friend Lisa (who never lollygags and lives a highly motivated life) says our house is perfect, and wishes she had it. We do have a cool, walk-in pantry, I'll give her that. I'll miss the walk-in pantry if we ever move. In my next house, if I don't have a walk-in pantry, I'll have no idea where to throw junk fast when I don't feel like putting it where it really belongs. But these compliments from Lisa came well before Melissa forced her upstairs to see Melissa's underused bedroom, of course. I'm sure Lisa had a much different opinion of our house after the Upstairs Viewing.<br />
<br />
What I'm trying to say is: if I'd known then what I know now, I'd have bought a ranch on a basement. And made sure there were granite counters in the kitchen with under cabinet lighting, because that's what HGTV does. And I'd have insisted on all tiled tub/shower set-up with a built-in tiled shower seat with grout that never mildews and double shower heads, possibly an overhead rain shower nozzle (or three).<br />
<br />
Did you know my mom has a heatilator in her bathtub so her
bathwater never gets cold? (I would like to note here how horrified and
amazed I am at what I'm typing down right now--horrified at the fact
Americans are so spoiled and overindulged and no wonder people around the world roll their eyes at us a lot; some people in the world don't have walk-in pantries
or even food and they certainly don't have bathrooms at all--some of
them squat over dug out poop holes in the ground and don't bathe for
months--and a lot of them can't even access clean drinking water. And
here we come with our jetted tub heatilators and whining about not
having granite countertops or undercabinet lights in our kitchens. But
then again, I'm totally amazed because, helloooooo! Your bathwater
Never. Gets. Cold. We've come so far since our Neanderthal days when
just having a really big cave campfire was a home upgrade.)<br />
<br />
<br />
Okay, so I'd be happy with just a one-story house. Maybe even a condo. But with a bathroom that was totally mildew resistant. But mostly: noooo stairs. I hate stairs. I realize they're good exercise, going up and down. But quite frankly, they're a piece of work to clean (which is why I never clean them...I just casually run a lint brush over the bottom three steps occasionally and only fully do a full-on vacuum job when we have non-family guests over and even then I don't focus that hard on the hard-to-reach middle steps). So basically I never go up there unless (a) I can smell cat box and realize: oh yeah, I guess I need to clean that, or (b) I need something and I can't re-create it downstairs. Melissa refuses to sleep in her bed (bears and wolves), so she never ventures upstairs either. Even if she needs a toy from her room. But this isn't due to sheer laziness like me; this is due to the fact Melissa is certain Something Sinister lurks up there. And I've sometimes wondered that myself, too; it gets pretty creepy up there at night. So I'm sure there is Something Sinister up there, and we should all just stay where it's safe: downstairs.<br />
<br />
Plus, who the heck wants to hang out in an area of the house filled with cat hair and cat gut contents? (C, that's who--his home office is up there, and he works from home most days of the week.) I realize I'm painting an incredibly horrifying picture and scaring off potential overnight house guests. It's probably not that bad, or I'd hear about it from C in great, pleading detail. Really, I just hate climbing stairs. I'm going to look into how much installing an escalator would cost.<br />
<br />
At any rate, here's my point: at 2:30 AM last night, I realized my cat had been missing from downstairs for days on end, which meant she'd been hanging out with Something Sinister upstairs. So I found my courage and ventured up to her lair. So shocking, what I found. She's just not the cat I've known for the last 18 years. Over the last year or so, she's started to wither. She was once a HUGE cat, a cross between a small, black jaguar and bobcat. Now she is, quite literally, skin, hair, and bones. She's still eating and drinking just fine, and doesn't appear to be uncomfortable...other than, you know, she's about 126 human years old approximately. I know how I felt when I tried to do the splits at the gym last week at 40 years old, so I can get a pretty good idea of what it would feel like to try to go up and down stairs at 126. I'm sure I'd puke my oatmeal mushy breakfast up, too, every day. And sleep in a warm, sunny spot a lot.<br />
<br />
So I'm facing a dilemma of my own: do I let nature take its course? Or do I take her to a doctor? I know what the doctor is going to say--I'm an internet doctor, and so I've already diagnosed her (just like I diagnosed myself with hand skin cancer that one time I had ringworm--if you ever have a medical question email it to me, I'm totally legit). She's in renal failure, which is how many if not most house cats tend to go when it's their time. So I think a doctor will just tell me what I already know: your cat is really old, and she's got renal failure (or maybe just ringworm), and she's going to die. And then I'd say, handing over $XXX, aren't we all, Dr. Veterinarian? Aren't we all going to die.<br />
<br />
(On a side note, I'd like to share that, once--and this is way before the days when you could be a Google internet doctor, because I think my mom would have made a really fine Google internet doctor--my mom took both my brother and me to our dog's vet to ask if we had chicken pox. We kept getting some chicken pox-like rash/fever, and she thought you could only get it once. We had it about 4 times. So, knowing the vet's wife, and knowing they had 3 children who'd all gone through chicken pox, she scheduled an appointment for us to be looked at by our veterinarian, who announced we did indeed have the chicken pox, and we should be good and set for life immunity against that disease. ....And then he called his wife to talk about the crazy lady who brought her kids to a vet, and his wife called my mom laughing, and my mom was all: "Um, yeah. That was ME." See how cave campfires, bathtub heatilators, and Google/WebMD have upgraded our lives?)<br />
<br />
So clearly, Tasha is on the downswing. But she's not suffering, and pretty cat-happy upstairs with her poopy litterbox and her fresh water/food and her warm sunny spot by the window. But we're headed to the beach soon. Do I really want to come home to dead cat/dead cat house smell? And, more importantly, I don't want her to die alone--she's a people cat, and I don't want her to be people-less when she goes. I sense she feels abandoned when we leave her alone for long periods of days.<br />
<br />
Or maybe I'm humanizing her too much. No, no wait. NO, I am not. Because this is <i>Tasha</i>, who has been with me through thick & thin, as long as I've been a teacher. I've had two important pets in my life: Sassy, the little black dog who saw me through thick & thin and childhood; and Tasha, the big black cat who saw me through thick & thin and growing-up-adulthood. She's my Arizona cat, who suffered through a tranquilized daze of a terrifying plane ride to move to Georgia with me, and she's been there through at least ten of my Psychic Growth (aka Crazy) periods of life, walked me down one marriage aisle, was my pregnancy bedrest buddy, and is the only sister Melissa has ever gotten to have sibling rivalry about. Tasha is family.<br />
<br />
And so dilemma solved: unless she starts showing signs of discomfort, I think I will let Nature take its course, and pray that she survives her Beach Trip Abandonment Period, and also gets through one more course of holidays. Winter (the hour of our discontent) would be a much better time for Nature to take its course.<br />
<br />
I am going to go pat her head and tell her this.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPhazYjbAmQWms7iDjWmIrDDaK4T0IUtQ_fMLZgsXA3U3yhus2w-EOcMY7iMb16HmTzLlP6y4bjBqwZe-66_bznY1XaAaxKw3sRueHHmhW6Lsp_f9kGYCwde9UN6xeatsen6fw491j40/s1600/tasha+and+melissa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPhazYjbAmQWms7iDjWmIrDDaK4T0IUtQ_fMLZgsXA3U3yhus2w-EOcMY7iMb16HmTzLlP6y4bjBqwZe-66_bznY1XaAaxKw3sRueHHmhW6Lsp_f9kGYCwde9UN6xeatsen6fw491j40/s320/tasha+and+melissa.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bigger Tasha and a smaller M sharing serious thoughts about big life dilemmas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-22605097582618045522012-06-17T10:47:00.002-04:002012-06-17T10:56:19.047-04:00Father's Day 2012, by Melissa (and Mommy)Father's Day: that day we honor all that our dads do for us (for our household, these things are--but not limited to--grilling, Home Depot/Lowe's runs, fixing the shower door, paying bills, and generally making sure we don't land in the poor house...Mommy would land us in the poor house).<br />
<br />
To celebrate, I interviewed my young star Melissa. Ever since she entered the communicative stage of life, I've interviewed her a lot about many different things. It may have contributed to her drama queen/diva tendencies, I don't know. So what would a Father's Day be without a Melissa interview? My dad isn't here to enjoy any of this anymore, but I feel him around me often and so I conducted a self-interview. Just to give you a perspective on the difference of Life Outlook between age 40...and age 3.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyU8NMyClCkZIa5b7nT1gZ4QutIUNfK0yEzIC25LX7PA5f3_XMXOi7I8BKu976_RJJ7KL_B3ZN52SyIzc7SItiLxCLOAk0JpeHpZWpYuySmnaWunh-J-JeUsTEg1A_eKOqmCBGhG65Jt0/s1600/394700808_ff405a0aa2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyU8NMyClCkZIa5b7nT1gZ4QutIUNfK0yEzIC25LX7PA5f3_XMXOi7I8BKu976_RJJ7KL_B3ZN52SyIzc7SItiLxCLOAk0JpeHpZWpYuySmnaWunh-J-JeUsTEg1A_eKOqmCBGhG65Jt0/s200/394700808_ff405a0aa2.jpg" width="187" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My Daddy</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">by Mommy, age 40</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My dad was<b> 53 on his last Father's Day.</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">My<b> </b>dad had <b>black</b> hair and <b>hazel</b> eyes.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My dad liked to wear <b>cowboy hats and boots (I feel this was either a serious infatuation with Clint Eastwood or an unrealized life ambition).</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My dad loved to eat <b>steak and potatoes; he was not a health nut. His heart doctors would agree with me. My <i>dad</i> would agree with me; in fact, wherever he is right now, I know he's lecturing me about being at the gym more and using the phrase "do as I say not as I did" without the least trace of irony.</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My dad was smart because <b>he knew practically everything (seriously--unless you had quite a bit of free time you really didn't want to ask him how or why something was or worked. He was Google before there was Google).</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My dad worked hard at </span><b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">being a decent human being. He wasn't perfect; he had many demons (don't we all, if we've lived life out loud). But he did the best he knew how to do at the time he did it. That's an important life skill--doing the best you know how to do at the time you're doing it and being okay with it (I don't think my dad was okay with it, and if he were here right now I would tell him he should be). </b></span><u><i><br /></i></u></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
My dad always told me <b>I could do or be anything I wanted in Life, as long as I worked hard at it (and as long as it had job security and put food on the table..."Dream big, Amy," he once told me, "but not in a hippie commune. Hippie communes are where dreams go to die.") (Now that I'm 40, I wish I'd had the presence of mind back then to ask him how and why he knew that).</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
It made my dad happy when <b>MASH was on...to visit with fellow Army guys young and old to talk grizzly old military people talk preferably with beers in hand...basically, just to talk. Talking was to my dad as oxygen is to life on Earth. Seriously, unless you had quite a bit of free time on your hand, you really didn't want to ask my dad how his day was going...he never responded with just "Fine." A question like that was a whole 2 hour process. (I'd like to note here that I do this, too, but in writing.)</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
If he could have gone on a trip, he'd have gone to <b>either visit his family in the Pocono Mountains or on a road trip. My dad loved to visit different places and learn about how different people live. One of the first books I fell in love with was a book my dad gave me called BURY MY HEART AT WOUNDED KNEE about what happened to Native Americans in this country. I was a 7th grader, and he thught Native Americans and what had been done to them by were/was fascinating, and that I would too. I read that book about 100 times, because Native Americans ARE fascinating, and good people...and I was so upset at what had been done to them...and then I was mad...and then really livid. ......Whenever people ask me: how did you get to be such a bleeding heart liberal from a family of such conservative Republican-like people? I say: because of my very Republican, conservative dad who was such a bleeding heart liberal. (My dad's Republican idol at the time he died was Colin Powell...go read anything Colin Powell has to say and you'll understand.) (Don't read Rick Santorum; my dad would have told dirty jokes about Rick Santorum.)</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
I really loved it when my dad <b>laughed. He had a silly laugh, and it's something I can still hear in my head. He could be watching TV in a different room, start laughing at something, and I'd start laughing too--having no idea what it was we were both laughing about, I just knew if he was laughing it was ridiculously funny. It was that kind of a laugh.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
If I could have given my dad anything, I'd have given him <b>a hug and said I love you. I don't think we did this enough. If you have a dad who you don't do this enough with and he's still available to you to do it with, please go do it now. The sense of longing you will feel when the chance is gone is really, really poopy and it makes you cry a lot.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
My favorite thing about my dad was <b>his family obsession. After he died, a coworker came to my mom's house bringing dinner for us. As my mom started to introduce my brother and me to her, she stopped my mom and said, "Oh, I already know who everyone is and all about you. He had your pictures plastered all over his office and talked about each of you all the time." </b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
"He had your pictures plastered all over his office and talked about you all the time." That one phrase by a total stranger summed up my dad, more than all the words I could ever write about him could.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I miss him deeply every day. The largest sense of loss I feel is about the fact he never got to hug or hold or endlessly lecture or know his grandchildren. On the outside, my dad was like a Marine drill sergeant--friends would call my house, get him on the phone, and go: Amy, every time I call your house, I feel like I need to stand at attention and scream "Sir! Yes Sir!" But on the inside, my dad was nothing but a soft, furry kitten. My dad would have been such a GOOD grandpa; it would have softened his harder outer shell and turned his soft, furry kitten inner heart to pureed mush. Whenever I feel my dad around me, this is a soft impression I have from him.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Wait a second....are you still here? Why?! Have you hugged your dad yet if he's still around? Hurry up! And then come back and read Melissa's very thoughtful 3 year old viewpoints on fatherdom below.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifI_lSszK6xsKD1sFRnvYobRJufF3msEVHDkzTubN9KrOP4BEvC0bnKyusmHoXrlRjmFyFs5Fp1gfL4f5-XxgK-s5jkKyBzwOAbDzYNKkwJQqrKwQQ_d8evyeA84z-1k7Ca7ZOediNq-g/s1600/m+and+daddy+on+halloween.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifI_lSszK6xsKD1sFRnvYobRJufF3msEVHDkzTubN9KrOP4BEvC0bnKyusmHoXrlRjmFyFs5Fp1gfL4f5-XxgK-s5jkKyBzwOAbDzYNKkwJQqrKwQQ_d8evyeA84z-1k7Ca7ZOediNq-g/s320/m+and+daddy+on+halloween.jpg" width="191" /></a></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
My Daddy</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
by Melissa, age 3</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
My dad is <b>2 years old.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
His hair is <b>brown</b> and his eyes are <b>black</b>.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
He loves to eat <b>meat and courage and corn.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
He is smart because <b>he knows all about playing and about playing hide and seek and tag and games.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
My dad works hard at <b>playing games on his computer and saying, "Yes, m'am."</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
Daddy always tells me <b>Happy Melissa Day!</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
It makes my daddy happy when <b>I kiss him.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
If he could go on a trip, he would go to <b>fishing and he would take an airplane.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
I really love it when my daddy <b>plays frisbee outside with me.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
If I could give my daddy anything, it would be a <b>long, long neck with a beautiful, long nose...it's called an elephant!</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
My favorite thing about my daddy is <b>to scratch his back. </b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Happy Father's Da</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">y</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">!</span><b style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Go take your dad out for some courage and corn today, and maybe give him a good back scratch and an elephant.</span><b><br /></b></div>
</div>amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-39082743083643359562012-06-16T00:46:00.000-04:002012-06-16T02:14:27.568-04:00mental acuity ramblings.I am up late. Again. The other night I was up until 4:30 am. I have no idea what is wrong with me, other than maybe I know I don't HAVE to get up early in the morning. Or if I do HAVE to get up early in the morning, whatever it is I'm doing will not require great amounts of intense mental acuity. This, I have come to believe, is the one and only reason I chose teaching as a profession: 8 weeks each year not requiring any strenuous mental acuity. That, and I just dig kids and how their brains work. And I wanted to make a difference. And I like cutting and pasting stuff a lot. And I get to play Design Superstar, Classroom Edition.Sometimes up to 10 times a year if a bunch of hooligans land in my room.<br />
<br />
There is no point to this blog entry; really, it's just that I'm up late and having random thoughts and I thought maybe typing them down for (potentially) all the world to see would help that somehow. And so if you're reading this, I promise (1) to keep it relatively short (I tend to head off on long, rambling tangents when in random mode), and (2) try not to ramble. One or the other, but probably not both.<br />
<br />
1. Teacher bloggers. God bless them and their creative brains. I'm convinced it would not have taken me 10 years to get a clue about teaching had I had access to this stuff back in 1995 when I started. I really feel for just-now-graduating teacher candidates: on the one hand, they're jumping into an ocean of a plethora of resources; resources I, as a 1st year teacher, didn't even know I could dream about...on the other hand: Race to the Top and Michelle Rhee. Man, I hate that for them. Sucks.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I have pinned and <strike>swiped</strike> borrowed so many ideas for 2nd grade/beginning of the school year since the last week of May, my head is spinning. At last count, in my "teacherly" board on pinterest, I'm up to 520+ pins. I have other school idea boards there--Reading, Writing, Math, Literacy, Classroom Set Up/Organization, Beginning of Year, End of Year, Children's Literature, Technology. Possibly well over 1,000 ideas at this point. That's called "internet crack addiction," in case you were wondering. Which is why, when I started thinking of starting a teaching blog I said to myself (very forcibly and out loud), "NO. NOOOO!!!! Are you on crack??? Also, all the ideas you have are pilfered from others. Nobody wants pilfered." Also, once the school year is under way, I sort of tend to wander away from this blog (and my other one--a "get fit" blog I abandoned waaaay back in March, along with the "get fit" idea) and get lost in the desert of stress and life and work, never to resurface until the next time I can have insomnia and not worry about mental acuity.<br />
<br />
So I started a class website instead. I have a problem (this was pointed out to me by a handful of sweet and deeply concerned coworkers, and I was ordered to go on bed rest the rest of the summer. Which I am doing. Except for the cute welcome letter I'm currently working on). Really, it's just a love of internet clip art. (I'm not SAYING I may have bought $20 worth of clip art from a fairly well-known internet clip art site called scrappindoodles.com, but I'm NOT saying I <i>didn't</i>.) (Nobody tell C. He thinks my excessive computer time is me looking up fun beach trip stuff.)<br />
<br />
2. Melissa. Man, she's wearing me out. On the one hand, I love her. I love that she's 3 1/2. I love that she's drawing people now: ridiculous big balloon heads with 2 legs and 2 arms coming out of them and crazy stuff inside she calls "The Face Parts." I love that we can have actual conversations. Conversations that always revolve around how supercalifragilisticexpealidociously awesome she is, while all the other kids get stuck in the class Thinking Spot for various infractions all day long.<br />
<br />
Also, during bath time, we've invented a new game. I call it: At MY Birthday Party. It goes like this:<br />
<br />
<b>Melissa:</b> At MY Birthday Party, there's going to be a big, big cake and balloons and princesses.<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Well, at MY Birthday Party, I'll have 100 balloons, a 200 foot tall cake, 500 princesses, teddy bears, Dora and Diego and Boots will give me 1,000 monkey kisses.<br />
<br />
<b>Melissa: </b>Well, at MY Birthday Party, I'll have princesses, a cake, Grammy and Grandpa Harry and teddy bears, and Boots and princesses and cake and Dora and Diego and Boots kisses!<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: But at MY Birthday Party, all the Yo Gabba Gabba gang will be there, with clowns and hats and a million people and princesses will sing me Happy Birthday and I'll get a cazillion dollars.<br />
<br />
<b>Melissa:</b> At MY Birthday Party, I'll get a a a ca hillion clowns and people and hats and dollars!<br />
<br />
And then I'll say something about how Daddy will be giving me kisses at MY birthday party, and we have to end the game because tears are shed. Daddy is HER Daddy and not allowed to kiss me. Go get your OWN Daddy, Mommy!!!!!!! (I'm not SAYING Sigmund Freud was correct about his Oedipus Complex theories, but I'm not NOT saying he was incorrect.....I guess what I'm saying is Sigmund Freud would be watching this process with a fairly smug look on his chauvinistic, cigar smoking face.)<br />
<br />
3. Oh, wait! I never finished #2. I love all of that about Melissa. Except for the psychotic aspect of life with a 3 1/2 year old. Nothing can ever be experienced half-way. It's either extremely full of joy and excitement, or deep deep dark well of depression and fury-rage. Like living with a tiny, super cute manic depressive. Or with me, about mid-January through March.<br />
<br />
4. I met my sweet friend Jackie for lunch today and we saw The Hunger Games. I've read the 1st book but not the other two. This movie reminded me: Man, those Hunger Games people were <i>messed</i> UP. And just thinking about the Kardashians, Jersey Shore, and the Bachelor/Bachelorette (I promise I don't spend a lot of time thinking about these people; only when I talk/write about The Hunger Games), I can see that being America in about another century or two.<br />
<br />
5. Speaking of Hunger Games: Obama says children of illegal immigrants can stay. While this makes me, someone who loves children deeply and instinctively strives to protect them no matter their immigration status, insanely respectful of his bravery in these dark and angry times and really really happy to see someone in government do something human for once (because God knows Obama's Race to the Top plan does NOT), many other people's panties are in a wad about this. They're mad about jobs. I'm not sure what jobs they want that the illegal immigrants are doing; they're certainly not any kind of job *I* want to do. And also, most of these wadded up panties belong to people who wouldn't vote for Obama should he somehow conclusively prove he's Jesus Christ arisen, so it wouldn't even matter if Obama were Jesus Christ and he magically made everything super perfect and awesome. He's clearly a Marxist Socialist Fake American Muslim from Kenya and those are BAD.<br />
<br />
I'm just surprised everybody's upset about immigration and healthcare and socialism and Obama's suspect immigrant status. Obama's done so much worse than all that combined in his presidential term...I submit Arne Duncan and Race to the Top as Worse Presidential Ideas EVER. And yes, that includes Watergate. Five years ago I was saying that about Bush's No Child Left Behind, never imagining a Marxist Socialist Kenyan Fake American Leftist president would make it worse. (I'm still voting Obama in 2012, though; don't get excited conservative friends. My Communist choices are extremely limited in the 21st century, and Romney strikes me as a snake oil salesman...whereas, Obama strikes me as just the snake oil.) (Do you see what I just did with that? No, I do not either.) Anywho...<br />
<br />
I'm not sure how I feel about illegal immigrants. I do know they aren't all from Mexico, though, and I hope those of you reading this do too. So I wish people would just stop using the term "illegal immigrants" and replace it with what they really mean: "Mexicans and possibly Central Americans but since I can't tell the difference we'll just call them all Mexicans." Because that's who they really mean. I suppose they know if they say it that way, though, they'll look a tad racist-y. Ignorance and hatred are so much more palatable when you use general, inclusive terminology.<br />
<br />
<br />
On the OTHER hand...it really chaps my buns when I run across people who admit to living in the USA for longer than 10 years and they refuse to learn English, or claim they can't (insert reason here). Come on, for real? I know it's a hard, crazy language with no logical rules at all. I'm so glad it's not a language I needed to learn as a 2nd language. But seriously. In 10 years you've lived here, you've never ever figured out how to say "Where's the bathroom?" or "I can't speak English well."?<br />
<br />
Okay. That last part I just wrote was probably a tad on the ignorant side. I'm sure there's a very sound, logical reason someone would move to another country with a primary language other than their own and never even feel the slightest bit interested in learning how to count to ten or know how to say "Help! Police!" But I feel perfectly justified in allowing it for now since I DID take the time to learn Spanish, for no good reason other than once upon a time I wanted to move to Puerto Rico to marry a member of MENUDO.<br />
<br />
So that's the end of political rant/rambling.<br />
<br />
5. Wait, no! I'm also really chapped at people who get on the internet to write hate-filled, ignorant things about immigrants and Obama. At least spell properly, for God's sake, the whole world can see you. We're already the fattest people on the planet. At least let us be the Best Spellers.<br />
<br />
Okay. So it's almost 1 am and this concludes my ramblings. I feel better to get that immigrant/Obama stuff on my chest. My panties are completely unwadded now, and I'm sorry if anything I just wrote got yours in a wad. Start a blog! It's incredibly liberating.<br />
<br />
Also, I'm slightly sad Melissa isn't awake to play the At MY Birthday Party game, though I'm relieved she's not demanding to play games or watch inappropriate Nikki Minaj videos on youtube. I may go pin 10,000 more things to one of my pinterest boards. It requires zero mental acuity to pin stuff that amuses or bewitches you at 1 in the morning. If you don't have a pinterest account yet or you do and haven't pinned anything so far (how is that even humanly possible?!? it's like someone has placed a large slice of delectable cake in front of you and you don't even take a sniff! egads, non-pinning, freakishly normal friends!), may I suggest it as a good stress reliever? It's like one of those squeezy balls, except you just scroll scroll scroll and occasionally CLICK. So awesome.amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-47719026823166876072012-05-24T23:09:00.001-04:002012-05-24T23:29:48.580-04:002nd grader, at last.Soooo....Remember way back in September when I was all: <i>But I don't know if I can do this! Third graders seem weird and psychologically puzzling.</i> And then I was all: <i>No, wait. I got this. Third graders <u>are</u> really weird and psychologically puzzling. But all I have to do is give them my nastiest teacher stink eye and make them skittish about what I'll do next.</i> <br />
<br />
Yes, well, I'm done with that. I'm headed back into the classroom next year (which is exactly what I was trying to avoid when I gave up my ESOL position in the first place months ago, because I thought ESOL was headed for the big, giant Toilet in the Sky) (note: I no longer think ESOL is headed for the big, giant Toilet in the Sky; I now believe ESOL is simply headed toward a really sketchy Title & Pawn shop on that one corner by the police station all the ladies of the night traipse down at all hours in clothing of questionable taste).<br />
<br />
Anyhoo. Due to budget cuts (shaking my fists and casting ginormous stink eyes on YOU, you scurvy, greedy Wall Street tycoons responsible for the world financial mess), we have lost 8 teacher points. Eight whole teachers! That's like one whole grade level, peeps. Which means no more Science/Social Studies model (unless 3rd-5th grade classroom teachers <i>want</i> 30 kids in their homerooms next year...which might put the Science/Social Studies classes up to some crazy number like 35, 40 kids in some groups depending on how they split up their classes when they do ability level) (I know that only makes sense to me and the people who taught the model, so just know: what matters most right now to you are the mind boggling phrases "<i>30 kids in a class</i>"!!! and "<i>crazy number</i>.")<br />
<br />
Long story short: I will be a 2nd grade classroom teacher next year. Frickin' Universe--always playing me like that. Just when I think I've outsmarted It, It throws me a wide, speedy curve ball.<br />
<br />
I'm excited and nervous. Excited because I've missed having that ownership of a class of kids--being their mom-away-from-mom. Also, it'll be nice because I'll only have to plan for 24, not 90...there were so many cool things I chose not to do this year simply because the number of students I had made these cool things logistically (and often financially) impossible.<br />
<br />
But nervous because I simply do not do well with aggressive, confrontational parents. And, man, I witnessed some aggressive, confrontational parent behavior this year in 3rd grade. Professionally, I can't go into fine details here on a public blog. Just know: for some individuals in the world, I'm wondering if there is just not enough Xanax or mental health professionals. (I actually don't think they're crazy. I think they're just looking out for their child...in a really scream-y, being-part-of-the-problem-not-the-solution kind of a way. And I think they're acting from a place of love. Dysfunctional, confining, knee jerk-reactive love. But we all need to start somewhere, I suppose.)<br />
<br />
True confession: difficult parents are why I left the classroom ten years ago. I got some doozies, three years right in a row. And it was really bumming and burning me out...I just needed a parent-on-a-warpath break for awhile. Hello, ESOL teaching for 9.2 years. Which I loved, because I love language. And hello Science/Social Studies teaching for 8 months.Which I loved, because I've decided <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neil_deGrasse_Tyson" target="_blank">Neil Degrasse Tyson</a> is really hot, in a nerdy, very professional and astute kind of way.<br />
<br />
But I was very different person back then, when I was a classroom teacher. For one thing, I had bad hair. No, seriously. I had this biscuit bang flip thing going on that was a total holdover from the late 80's and I wore tacky holiday sweaters starting the day after Thanksgiving all the way to New Year's Eve. And I thought I was <i>swank</i>, people. Really, really swank. I'm still really upset with people in my life who let me leave the house looking like that from 1992-2002. <br />
<br />
Secondly, I wasn't married to C, and C hadn't worked his C magic on me yet. Honestly. If you need help setting yourself straight in some area(s), C knows how to do it. Right now, for example, I'm on something called the "30 Day C Plan," which is supposed to whip my sorry self back into shape professionally, mentally, spiritually, emotionally, and physically. I think I'm at Day 15. I've done two out of ten directives. It is not going well, not going well at all. (fyi: I did the same thing with the Atkins Diet.)<br />
<br />
Thirdly, I hadn't met/worked with some of the most awesomest teachers on Planet Teacherdom. All decent teachers will tell you they didn't become proficient because of Dr. So and So's class at Teacher University. No, no. They'll tell you they lucked out and got put on a team with Ms. Amazing Teacher, Ms. Creative Teacher, Ms. Gutsy Teacher, and Mr. Reality-Based Teacher...who all taught them everything they know today. (Guess how many college textbooks and lesson plans I still use/own today? Zero. Big, fat zero. But I have exactly 3.5 billion files, lessons, and other artifacts I do still pull from that were given to me by coworkers along the way over the last 15+ years.)<i>***</i><br />
<br />
And last, I wasn't a mother. You don't have to be a mom to be a proficient teacher. But because I've become a mother, I can see my child in other people's children. (I mean, honestly...my 3rd graders this year responded to the exact same Pavlovian techniques that work brilliantly on 3 1/2 year old Melissa.) And I'm hoping that makes me far more compassionate than I was ten years ago...as a parent, I will go to my death fighting for what's right for my child and my hope is that, should I get some boxing champ-wannabes in students' parents next year, that will translate over in parent-teacher conferences and we'll reach magnanimous understandings of great and helpful proportions.<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh, and! I did NOT have the droll, smarmy humor about life I possess today. A sense of humor about the pure awesomeness of bizarre, dysfunctionality that exists all around us possibly could have extended my classroom teacher shelf life at least another 5 years.<br />
<br />
So yes. I'll be a classroom teacher again next year. I'm pinning away furiously on pinterest right now, stealing ideas from teaching blogs left and right, blatantly and without regard. My 2nd grade colleagues will be bandit-ized as well, come August.<br />
<br />
But my favorite, FAVORITE part of this whole, crazy school year was this past Wednesday.<br />
<br />
Remember my Promethean board, the one I lovingly nicknamed %%$#@&$#@!%&$? I was lucky enough<i> not</i> to have to pack up my million boxes of stuff and move elsewhere, and the trailer I'm currently in (despite the fact I must continue to share it with %%$#@&$#@!%&$) is really a very nice trailer as far as classroom trailers go--a tad bit longer or wider, I can't decide which, than other classroom trailers--and it's in a prime location (practically on top of school, and some restrooms). So that is all good, and I am glad. But %%$#@&$#@!%&$ continues to take up way too much space on my white board, rendering it practically useless for classroom teaching.<br />
<br />
And then, then! I discovered <a href="http://www.lowes.com/pd_310129-15765-01026_4294729418_4294937087_?productId=3231528&Ns=p_product_qty_sales_dollar%7C1&pl=1&currentURL=%2Fpl_Paint_4294729418_4294937087_%3FNs%3Dp_product_qty_sales_dollar%7C1&facetInfo=" target="_blank">THIS</a> while watching DIY network late one insomniac night: dry erase wall paint! You prime your wall! You paint it with 3 coats of dry erase paint! You now have a new dry erase wall, any shape, size you want! This, friendly friends, is when the craziness of 21st century living finally pays off.<br />
<br />
So, Wednesday, last day of school for children, I primed each end wall on either side of my real dry erase board. I did not ask if I could do this because (a) I knew a teacher who'd taught in this trailer before me had painted the whole thing a few years ago...sadly, just regular paint not dry erase--which would have been so ridiculously awesome had Lowe's carried dry erase paint back then and she'd turned the whole place into one big dry erase room--I'm practically salivating right now just thinking of it, and (b) one of my life affirming, important mottoes is: <i>Asking forgiveness is always better than asking permission.</i> Another nugget of wisdom from a good teacher/coworker along my path years ago.<br />
<br />
So 3rd graders were playing board games, and I was priming while insisting to several overly helpful girls that, seriously, I only had ONE paint brush roller. There would be NO fun wall painting the last day--I let them know I also knew they would probably get into some type of primer paint fight and that was NOT going to sit well with me that day. Go play Uno for the love of god.<br />
<br />
And also I had to keep fending off K, who kept watching me prime my end walls suspiciously while asking in an accusing tone, "But did you <i>ask </i>first? I bet you're supposed to ask first." I taught her my important motto about forgiveness vs. permission, but I could tell: she's a total third grader version of 2002 Amy--if I'd had a couple more weeks with her, I bet I'd have had to put her on the 30 Day C Plan.<br />
<br />
Anyway. Who should show up? My old principal. (Did you know? The principal we started this school year with, who's been our principal for the last 4 years and is quite frankly one of the kindest, best, most wonderful principals I've ever worked for, was tapped to be one of our district's new, big shot area superintendents.) (Of course you didn't know, if you don't work with me--I've neglected this blog for months.)<br />
<br />
So she stopped by our school for a visit, saw me in the doorway, and stepped inside my room to say hello to me and all the kids. And when she saw my walls, she said, "Amy, are you painting?" And I said, all guilty refusing to look at K who I was positive was certainly gloating, "Uhh, yes? Kind of?" And she just shrugged and said, "Oh. Okay."<br />
<br />
Man! That was a beautiful moment. I shot suspicious, accusing K a triumphant look so fast! A glorious finish to a long year: the fricking <i>area superintendent</i> says it's cool, K! No need to even ask for forgiveness at this point, playa! Watch and learn, grasshopper, watch and learn.<br />
<br />
The other glorious, beautiful finish to a long, long school year? Every year as the buses pull out for the last time to take all the kids home, all the teachers line the sidewalks and wave good-bye and the buses honk and honk and pull away. So soul-satisfying. This year, the bus at the head of the line, the one that was supposed to honk and honk start the Grande Finale pull away broke down immediately when it tried to leave. All the other buses had to back up and pull out...starting with Bus 20 waaaay in the back. Took forever. So all the buses, except for Bus 1, have long gone and all these kids on Bus 1 are stuck and don't get the teacher wave...I mean, we DO wave. But only as we're leaving to head to our cars. Gotta go, Flo. Have a great summer, kids. Stay cool!<br />
<br />
And then? Then, I saw my two worst offenders of the whole year were on that stuck bus. And that's when I knew: the Universe really loves to throw me curve balls, but occasionally it throws me a big bone, too, just to let me know it still has my back. Awesome.<br />
<br />
*** <i>Side note: if Michelle Rhee and her Waiting for Superman friends are <u>really</u>
serious about fixing public education, they should lose their lame, unhelpful
anti-teacher attitudes and start with our teacher education
programs...but that's another rant, for another day.</i> <br />
<br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-23312185088490304812012-02-17T09:50:00.002-05:002012-02-17T10:48:43.193-05:00winter whisperer.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrd9DJfeqi__jADFkEweAhCp7DmKlxIClvANsdO70ElEpsrf4yWu4uCIJNeAeohVL2f4PbmTGNdwqZwV51-AU8KOwsUPuVzd9K3MBzOLTyNWtCBy2j5aDg7_8J7EZyJwC6Si4i0zO4GEo/s1600/Winter+Fever+1470.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrd9DJfeqi__jADFkEweAhCp7DmKlxIClvANsdO70ElEpsrf4yWu4uCIJNeAeohVL2f4PbmTGNdwqZwV51-AU8KOwsUPuVzd9K3MBzOLTyNWtCBy2j5aDg7_8J7EZyJwC6Si4i0zO4GEo/s320/Winter+Fever+1470.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I'm having sort of a rough spot at school right now with classroom behavior (the<a href="http://sweetlittlecrosspatch.blogspot.com/2012/02/tales-of-some-3rd-grade-pencil-nabsters.html" target="_blank"> Pencil Situation </a>is the tip of the iceberg). Do not be alarmed (I'm not; just tired). It's not anything above and beyond normal for this point in the school year--the months of February and March are just rough, yo. They were rough when I was a classroom teacher, rough when I taught 1st grade ESOL, and they're rough now. If I were teaching straight A students in Tahiti they'd be rough. I think there's just a natural, circadian pattern to every school year, and February and March just so happen to be its darkest hours.<br />
<br />
<br />
For one thing, it's cold. And outside is simply not attractive--trees are naked, grass all grungy brown. This winter for us has been unseasonably warm then cold with lots of rainy and low barometric clouds. And for someone like me, that is just a recipe for depression. <br />
<br />
And then two, you're heading into the home stretch. The kids who have learning issues and have really struggled all year right now are starting to give up, and you can see it. And you're getting exasperated at the fact you can see them starting to give up and you know you need to throw them some kind of lifeline but dude, seriously. It's February/March, the two longest months of a school year and you're all so frickin'<i> tired</i>. Do you think Lowe's sells lifelines? I hope so, because my creative, hope-y juices are at a yearly low.<br />
<br />
And then Spring hits. In all its fevered glory. Or, you know, if you're like us in the South where global warming is alive and well, you've been enjoying Spring Fever since about mid-January as the temperatures have only been truly wintery for a total 3 days. <br />
<br />
Have you ever experienced Spring Fever at an elementary school level? It is not for the weak, let me tell you. I remain convinced Spring Fever is the entire reason teachers continue to be given 2 month summer vacations. If Wall Street experienced Spring Fever and/or its cousin Warm Spring-like Winter Spring Fever, they too would be taking long summer breaks (....actually, knowing Wall Street, they'd be taking 6 month summer breaks and charging us all for 24 months' of work).<br />
<br />
So yes. I've been having some behavior issues at school. And<i> I</i> don't even have these kids all day--I deal with the issues an hour at a time. Their classroom teachers? Wow. Somebody needs to give those people a $50,000 a year raise. Or at least a 5 star all-inclusive vacation to Bora Bora. Something. Do SOMEthing, educrats. (Because your pay-for-performance ideas are less than stellar.) (As if we're trained seals, willing to do higher back flips for more fish. Fish that's not even fresh. Please.)<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
So I'm having a month. And every day when I pick up Melissa, I'm starting to get notes on her daily report that say things like:<br />
<br />
<i>"Melissa had a hard day today. She didn't listen to her teachers and ran in the classroom."</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>"Melissa did not have a good day today. She yelled at her friends."</i><br />
<br />
I do not know what to do with these notes. <br />
<br />
As a teacher, my instinct is to light into her and support my fellow educators. First of all, I think there should be ZERO light of day between your parents and your teachers. You should know this, and it should be feared. Second of all, I know how it feels to have to deal, all day long, with people who don't want to listen to you, who run in the classroom, and who spend a lot of time yelling at their friends. <br />
<br />
So we've had a lot of sad, teary discussions on rides home that go like this:<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>ME: Why did you yell at your friends?</i><br />
<i>HER: I didn't!</i><br />
<i>ME: Your teachers say you did. Teachers don't make things up. Why are you yelling at your friends?</i><br />
<i>HER: I didn't!</i><br />
<br />
Over and over. Is she lying? Yes. She yells at me, so I totally believe her teachers when they say she yells at her friends. She also doesn't listen to me, so I totally believe her teachers when they say she doesn't listen to them.<br />
<br />
But she's 3. Isn't this what 3 year olds do? Yell at people, run around, and not listen? If she were, say, 7 years old and doing that in her 1st grade classroom, we'd have a big problem. But I get these reports, read them, and go: Yeah. That's what 3 year olds do. Are they supposed to be different nowadays because it's 2012 and when they start school in about two years they'll have to pass a high stakes test? Probably. (Curses on you, George W. Bush and your NCLB drafters.)<br />
<br />
Last night I watched the documentary <a href="http://buckthefilm.com/" target="_blank">BUCK</a>. It's a movie about Buck Brannaman, the horse whisperer. The most important thing I took away from it was the part where Buck says something like, "People hire me to help them with horse problems, but usually what I end up doing is helping horses with people problems." After a tense, just-what-the-holy-hell-is-happening-here-exactly?? kind of week, I could almost audibly feel something click inside of me, internally.<br />
<br />
I need to start thinking like a horse whisperer.<br />
<br />
Which is why I've decided to handle the Melissa notes like this: let her know what her teachers have said about her, tell her it's not okay behavior but that I also recognize she's just being 3, and then I give her a hug and a kiss and say, "I love you. No matter what. Forever and ever. I love you." <br />
<br />
And so I'm thinking this is the approach I should start taking with my 3rd graders as well: tell them it's not okay behavior but I recognize they're 8, 9, and we're all heading into that home stretch of school year. Then pat them on their heads and say, "I'm writing on your behavior card because what you did was so SO inappropriate--I mean, seriously? This is school. You can't do that in school. But I do still love you. This doesn't mean I don't love you and please know I know you're just being a kid. But still. Stop doing that at school. Stop it now. Seriously." Because I do. I do love them. Very, very much. (Oh, wait. Except for that one kid...man, that one kid makes it so hard to find my love. So hard!) (No, seriously. The horse whisperer's bag of tricks would be depleted in 10 seconds flat.)<br />
<br />
Plus it could also just be "that" time of year. February/March simply aren't my favorites--if poopy crap is going to happen, it usually happens in one of these two months. And outside looks so drab and grungy. And it's been a rainy winter. And I hate those.<br />
<br />
Now. Having typed all that, let me off-track myself a bit and also admit that I'm chuckling my little teacher/mommy butt off right now, thinking of an article I just read the other day about bigwig education reformers,wanting teachers to compete for a paltry $20,000 extra a year for good test scores. Those guys need to see BUCK, too. Because if they really understood how teachers work, they'd approach us much more gently, with pure love. They'd put daily chocolate in teacher lounges, every Friday we'd have $100 gift cards to the grocery store and on Mondays there'd be a $50 restaurant gift card. Once a month there'd be free massages and pedicures, and every summer there'd be a paid vacation to anywhere in the world we'd like to go. On top of all that, every <i>five</i> years we'd get a year long paid sabbatical. WITH benefits.<br />
<br />
Or, you know, at the very least, reduce our class sizes by 10 kids. If we can't have gift cards, massages, free flowing chocolate, all-inclusive vacations, and sabbatical packages, we'll take 12 kids per class per year, please and thanks. Teacher satisfaction and stress relief would be so huge our test scores would shoot up in ways that made the Chinese, Russians, and Iranians all nervous enough they'd start holding secret "what the heck do we do NOW??" meetings. I feel certain Mr. Buck Brannaman would agree with my gentle version of education reform.<br />
<br />
Except that won't happen because nobody in government thinks like a horse whisperer. And plus it's February/March. Poop.amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-37596985696368628752012-02-01T06:54:00.001-05:002012-02-01T06:55:14.088-05:00tales of some 3rd grade pencil nabsters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRkaC5hznjSU9RazPkx7zm3BRafYai2Nj0ogomd5-nRjAaV3l_IdK_CXdpXOtgDfK-bxy8r8kA9vH9taWAZyLKonrqn-a0ZWM55fE4PSklIwYe-GFCjpm4YXamjaUz6MEpfYw_Rar9-A/s1600/swiper-pencil-case-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRkaC5hznjSU9RazPkx7zm3BRafYai2Nj0ogomd5-nRjAaV3l_IdK_CXdpXOtgDfK-bxy8r8kA9vH9taWAZyLKonrqn-a0ZWM55fE4PSklIwYe-GFCjpm4YXamjaUz6MEpfYw_Rar9-A/s200/swiper-pencil-case-.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
At this point, I am neck deep in 3rd grade, well on my way to
becoming fairly well-versed in 3rd grader psychology. For example, let's
talk about The Pencil Situation. I understand it's an issue in 2nd and
4th grade as well and it can just get completely outrageous in 5th.
Every year, there seems to be numerous Pencil Swipers amongst the school
hipster set...when not chewing on, ripping off erasers, and sharpening
them down to mere nubs, 2nd-5th graders spend a great part of their day
plotting many different ways to swipe pencils not belonging to them.
Kindergartners and First graders apparently fall under
Pencil-Destroyers-in-Training.<br />
<br />
At the end of October
all the way through December, I attempted the Rent-a-Pencil solution:
You need to borrow a pencil from me? You'll need to rent one. With what
money, you ask? No money. Just one of your shoes. (<i>cue squeals of delighted laughter</i>)
Which shoe? I don't care. Pick one and put it by the door. If you want
your shoe back, give me back my pencil on your way out. What if you want
to keep my pencil and it's very very cold and/or raining that day? I
guess one of your feet is going to be extremely wet and/or cold that
day. Or, better yet: Try to bring your own pencil on cold/rainy days.
What if your mom gets upset when you come home with just one shoe? Tell
your mom to call me so I can explain how upset I get when I have to keep
buying pencils because they keep going home with people they don't
belong to. What if you forget to wear socks on a day you need to rent a
pencil? One of your feet will be stupendously cold, sorry, hate that for
you. What if your feet are stinky that day? Make sure you bathe and
powder them every single morning. Just in case since you never know.
What if you need a pencil AND an eraser? I'll require one shoe for each.
Yes, that does mean you will be working in your bare feet. Just like
old timey country folk.<br />
<br />
Sadly, my Rent-a-Pencil plan
did not thwart them. In fact, they began purposefully NOT bringing
pencils and erasers with them just for a chance to work barefoot. And I
can't blame them; quite frankly, shoes simply aren't as comfortable as
working in bare feet. Shoes get overly hot and by the end of the day,
your feet can feel way too pinched. Don't even get me started on
stilettos. Whoever invented that nuttiness surely was a sado-masochist.
However, my pencils (along with erasers, too, now) began disappearing
more rapidly than at the start. I was Mohammed trying to bring the
mountain, and the mountain refused to come. The mountain, in fact,
decided to stick its tongue out at me and flip the bird.<br />
<br />
So
I started taping my pencils. With pretty, pretty purple tape that would
be totally hard to miss if someone attempted to walk out the door with
it. And please know: I absolutely was under the assumption this Pencil
Situation was all a giant misunderstanding. I was certain the walk-offs
were just accidents--people in a hurry to leave, innocently forgetting
to return a borrowed object. And so I thought: <i>a-HA</i>! Purple tape! Surely, seeing my purple tape would remind them: Oh yes, must put this back.<br />
<br />
That's
when I discovered the deep seriousness of The Pencil Situation: these
people weren't just accidentally walking off with my pencils. No. These
people were nefariously <i>taking</i> them. My poor, innocent pencils
were, gasp!, being pencil napped. And yes--you read right. I DID just
use the words "nefarious" and "pencil napped." Right out from under my
nose! Nefarious! Pencil napping! In broad daylight. Just like C does
with magazines from doctor/dentist offices ("What? What?" he says, "They
put those in there because they <i>want</i> you to take them. They're
just a bunch of old magazines sitting around. They put them there so
people will take them home so they'll stop cluttering up the waiting
area.").<br />
<br />
Anyway. I started finding purple tape on my
floor, stuck under my tables, placed strategically low on my walls,
behind my &^%$#%^& smart board that still never works right and
gives me issues. We had to have a long talk about the differences
between accidentally forgetting to return something one borrows vs.
actually concocting devious ways with which to keep it.<br />
<br />
I
was pretty ticked. Yeah, they're just pencils. But if you add up how
many bags of Starbursts, Skittles, bottles of glue, AND boxes (yes,
BOXES) of pencils I've bought since taking over this position in
September (not to mention a handful of bulletin board sets, a couple of
teaching idea books, some Science materials, holiday treat bags(times
100), three packs of black construction paper because I ran out of that
color, and ten extra scissors ( as some of those have disappeared, too),
we have now reached a grand total of exactly one house mortgage
payment, half of which has left my classroom in the form of pencils. <br />
<br />
Still.
I had to be so careful. SO careful! As I discussed The Pencil Situation
with my sweet friends. I don't know who these pencil nappers are,
exactly, or if it's even a plural issue. Out of my 100 kids, it could
just be one lone diabolical pencil napper. Plus, I don't know if you've
noticed or not lately, but teachers in America seem to be landing on the
5 o'clock news in less than proud ways (personally, I think the 5
o'clock news just needs more to do--it's clearly got far too much time
on its hands).<br />
<br />
The heart warming aspect of this is that
I must say: They were all so wonderful about it. Really. Every single
one of them. Every single kid sincerely expressed deep, honest concern
over my bank account situation, my rising blood pressure levels whenever
I looked at my dwindling pencil supply and/or found more evidence of
purposeful tape removal. Every single kid was indignant. Indignant! In
fact, if you were to stop anyone of those boys and girls and poll them
on how they feel about The Pencil Situation in Ms. S's room, I
promise--they are as hot about it as I am.<br />
<br />
In addition,
many people clearly on their way to successful careers in law
enforcement, law, and/or political and educational reform jobs offered
up several very creative ways I might use in my attempts to thwart the
Pencil Swipers. James Bond-like security cameras were suggested, and
offers of full-time security guard work were given. One sweet girl noted
once watching a movie about bank robbers having to deal with explosive
ink on money--maybe I could rig up some type of explosive ink to my
pencils that would explode as soon as a pencil nabber attempted to exit
the room? Wonderful, impractical ideas only the innocent can think up.
And, while not one person ever came forward and confessed the day we had
The Pencil Talk, I did find one of my purple taped pencils quietly
returned the next day...all chewed up and nubby, eraser completely gone.
I was deeply touched by that person, whoever s/he was. If I'd seen them
return it, I'd have hugged him/her and given him/her a couple of
Skittles for being so honest (finally).<br />
<br />
Fortunately,
I've come up with a solution to The Pencil Situation in 3rd grade. I
call it Duct Tape Solves Everything. I think I even saw on Pinterest
once you can clean an entire two story house with a single piece of duct
tape. (Ha, I'm just messing with you. Duct tape will not clean your
entire house. But it will function pretty handily as a cat hair scraper
upper.) So I sifted through my big, scary drawer o' junk, found a little
hot pink number, and promptly wrapped up about 6 pencils. Besides
fixing leaky pipes and electrical wiring (<a href="http://duckbrand.com/Promotions/stuck-at-prom.aspx" target="_blank">when not moonlighting as a prom dress </a>or
a purse), do you know how hard it is to get duct tape off stuff? No kid
in 3rd grade knew. I have completely confounded them, and have retained
every single one of my Rent-a-Pencils.<br />
<br />
....for now.
I'm sure my Pencil Swipers are putting their heads together at recess
every day figuring out creative ways to quietly remove it. My classroom
has become their pencil swipage dojo, and I their pencil swipage sensei.
Onwards, grasshoppers of pencil grifting. Next, I'll be wrapping fake
flowers to all my pencils and chuckling mirthlessly as 3rd grade boys
get all huffy about having to use girly stuff in class (I don't actually
think I need to go as far as strapping fake flowers onto my pencils to
keep them where they belong; I just get highly entertained watching 3rd
grade boys get all huffy about having to use girly themed stuff).amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-63532435569992624812012-01-08T11:49:00.002-05:002012-01-08T13:46:12.877-05:00boobies and breast feeding (aka: this whole blog is an overshare)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdbdPEs1e43nK6ezelzIp8l0r6Nqfvla04UtpdnnmtY3KgNgWdJo47kplGdY6-Eg1mgQwIxMVOxiuaglYq4VQnJLWF_KVgsmUuzO5oyyLfgyFH-eK1wjHarYbcoUGEtjOmlpWYR9RU578/s1600/baby-bottle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdbdPEs1e43nK6ezelzIp8l0r6Nqfvla04UtpdnnmtY3KgNgWdJo47kplGdY6-Eg1mgQwIxMVOxiuaglYq4VQnJLWF_KVgsmUuzO5oyyLfgyFH-eK1wjHarYbcoUGEtjOmlpWYR9RU578/s200/baby-bottle.jpg" width="96" /></a></div>
My child is obsessed with boobs. I don't know why; I suspect it's my fault (when she's sitting in a therapist's office in 15 years most everything will be). But she's obsessed with them...actually just mine. (<i>Overshare #1 begins here) </i>She likes to talk about drinking milk from them, and I constantly have to ask her to stop attempting to manhandle them. I'm sure her daycare teachers wonder (out loud, possibly in staff meetings) why Melissa is so obsessed with her mommy's boobs, but mostly why hasn't Melissa's mommy told her not to talk about it in public? (Because I haven't found a way to properly frame it yet: I find using the words "can't," "don't," and "stop" make Melissa more determined than ever to be the very opposite of what I envision for her.)<br />
<br />
Here's why I'm sure the booby obsession is my fault: In Psychology 101 in college, I learned about the Oral Fixation phenomenon. Apparently, people who don't get breast fed (like myself and everyone else born when formula was considered best) wind up with oral fixations--chewing on pencils (I do it), overeating (yup), constantly needing a cup of tea/coffee/water/soda/adult beverage close at hand (guilty), biting nails (only stopped when I slapped on acrylic fake ones, still occasionally find myself biting on those)...etc and so forth. Have I mentioned I was addicted, nay, psychotically attached to, my pacifier when I was tiny? I called it my "Binky," and I was simply not myself without it.<br />
<br />
Melissa didn't do pacifiers (her father, a former orthodontia specialist, thinks they're of the devil), but she's well on her way to all those other things. I wasn't able to breast feed...or maybe I was and just didn't try hard enough. Breastfeeding wasn't a fun experience for me, either way; I was fairly miserable about the entire process--the latching on hurt (I was told it shouldn't if I was doing it properly and when I showed hospital nursing experts how I was doing it they all said I was doing it properly...yet my child and I managed to find a way to make it still hurt), and the milk production just wasn't forthcoming.<br />
<br />
True story*: I called my doctor office's Official Breast Feeding Advocate/Lactation Consultant for help. I knew I was doing the latching on properly, as at least 5 separate nurses in the hospital all watched my technique and gave me thumbs up on it. I just got a body that wasn't really into producing milk. (Which is so ironic, because while pregnant all I craved was dairy; if I could have tethered a cow in my backyard and drunk straight from the teet, I'd have been in pure pregnancy heaven.)<br />
<br />
And meanwhile, I was doing all of these exhausting things to supplement that really had me questioning what the point of breast feeding in the 21st century actually was. <i>(Overshare #2 begins now) </i>Like, to simulate breast feeding but provide nourishment while my body worked on making milk, I had this extremely thin little tube. I'd tape it right on top of a nipple, run it through to a bottle of formula that was rigged up to some type of drip drop contraption. Then the formula would run down through the tube into M's mouth--she wasn't getting actual breast milk, but she was getting the simulation of breast feeding.<br />
<br />
I'd do this 8,9, 50 times a day and think: seriously?? Did the cave women do this? Because if Melissa and I had been cave people, she'd have totally been dead of malnourishment by her 3rd day on earth. (Actually, I would be dead, too, from childbirth, as she refused to come out during natural labor.) Which, I feel, is the whole point of being a 21st century mom: You have some options available to you, and the feminist power to flip people off if they decide to be judgmental d-bags about it.<br />
<br />
But here's the thing: breast is best. I got it, everyone on planet Earth gets it at this point. We've all been exposed to the research studies' findings, we read articles about it every month in <i>Parenting</i> magazine, our ob/gyns give us long lectures on why we should really try to breast feed if we even wonder out loud about formula. We <i>hear</i> you, breast feeding militants: breast is best breast is best breast is best. Women who give their kids their breast milk end up with Nobel Peace Prize winners; women who use formula spend a lot of time at the wailing wall, praying over their sons and daughters doing hard time for bank robberies. We <i>got </i>it, for the love of God.<br />
<br />
So, for months I'd been bombarded with the breast is best/if you don't do this your kid is going to suffer message, and there was a lot of guilt on my part about the fact I <i>should</i> be breast feeding but (a) was miserable doing it because it hurt so much and so I wasn't really bonding and top of that I was having to do this ridiculous contraption set up 100 times a day while I waited for my own milk to come in because (b) I was painfully aware my body was unable to properly nourish my own child and I was just stuck in this vicious circle. And the post-pregnancy hormones were no help: I could literally feel a funky funk of a depression setting in.<br />
<br />
By the end of week 3 really, I just wanted to stop...I was utterly exhausted from lack of sleep, flattened psychically from the hormones, and if the whole point of breast milk feedings was better nutrition, then Melissa was already screwed--she'd been chowing down on formula for the better part of her first few weeks on Earth.<br />
<br />
Desperate, I called a Lactation Consultant (aka Militant Breast Feeding Advocate) for help, or at least some encouragement. I expressed my frustrations, described our contraption and my current milk production predicament, moaned about the very real depression I could literally feel myself sliding into about this and begged her for help. I got told it was a supply vs. demand issue. If I truly wanted to breast feed right, I'd need to do the following:<br />
<br />
1. breast feed on one breast for an hour (<i>/end overshare #3</i>)<br />
2. breast pump on the other breast for the following hour<br />
3. take a brief 30 minute break<br />
4. Repeat steps 1 through 3. For 24 horror movie hours at least but possibly more like 72.<br />
<br />
"But that sounds <i>terrible</i>!" I cried out, "I already feel like a cow...now I'm going to actually <i>be</i> one of those farm factory cows. Are there any other options?"<br />
<br />
She was was humorless and unmoved. "If you really want to help your child, this is what you need to do," was the response.<br />
<br />
And so I re-iterated that I could really feel myself sinking into a deep depression over this--I wasn't getting the cozy, lovey dovey feelings supposedly associated with breast feeding and was worried about the bonding I wasn't feeling, and I dreaded the whole feeding thing in and of itself. Mostly I was basically feeling like a failure, and I was really scared. Would it be really terribly so bad if I just switched to formula and bottles, the end? <br />
<br />
"Well," said Militant Breast Feeding Consultant, "I think you need to really think here. Are you switching to formula because it's easier for you? Or are you going to do what's best for your child?"<br />
<br />
Looking back on that conversation, I think the best thing for me to do would have been to end the conversation by asking to speak to her boss and then having an emotional, psychotic breakdown over the phone with that person like I did with the one Target manager several weeks ago. Instead, I whispered <i>&%$%#ing &itch!</i> and hung up the phone. <i>(/end overshare #4</i>)<br />
<br />
And please understand: I am the most mild mannered, nicest person ever. I only use cuss words at other drivers while driving or I stub my toe or I'm very, very afraid. I never even cuss in front of my husband, and I know a lot of women who cuss <i>at</i> theirs. So if you and I are ever interacting, and I launch a raunchy word directed straightly at you, please also understand: You totally deserved it. You f*&^%$ing &^^%$#. Got it?<br />
<br />
I was beside myself. I mean, obviously, my mothering skills sucked. I couldn't even feed my own child. And now I was literally going to have a baby on one boob and a contraption on the other. In between diaper changes, screaming cries, and nights of little sleep, I was (for 24-72 hours and/or until my body finally produced enough milk) to have someone sucking on me <i>(/end overshare #5</i>)and then follow that up with a machine milking me. Just like a factory farmed dairy cow. <br />
<br />
It was too much.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I have a good friend who, while excelling at the act of breast feeding as she does everything else (Hi, Valerie!), is also a practical, nurturing thinker who likes life to make sense. After hearing my dilemma, she reminded me that her daughter had been a voracious breast feeder and still had a few, tiny little health problems so that whole breast-fed-kids-are-superior-health-wise wasn't necessarily true all the time. And that if breast feeding was making me miserable, it was okay to stop--no one walks around with EXCLUSIVELY BREAST FED or ALL FORMULA PRODUCT stamped on their heads. And also, that Lactation Consultant was clearly a real ^&^%$$# *&^% and I was right for whispering it into the phone in a way she probably didn't even hear me before I hung up on her.<br />
<br />
And that I was right: what babies most need, above and beyond breast milk, are mommies who aren't depressed. That's way more important than breast milk vs. formula nutrition.<br />
<br />
And then I had an ob follow up and told my doctor what had happened. And when your ob practically says, "Wow, what a &^%%$* B*&&^," you <i>know</i> you're in the right. Also, she told me that she was raised on formula and now she's a doctor. So while breast milk is undeniably, technically better and pretty much far superior to formula, your kid's not going to turn into a Quasimodo if you feed them formula. Go for it.<br />
<br />
And so I did. And voila! I instantly began to bond with M. I loved, loved, LOVED our feeding times together. I got her on a schedule, and it was almost like instantly she could sleep a whole 3-4 hours straight (yes, because she wasn't starving). And I sent that stupid milking contraption back to whence it came. And we were happy. We were happy for ever after.<br />
<br />
............Until we went to Target yesterday. And I needed a bra. And I entered the bra section. And Melissa said (and she might as well have used their intercom system for this since she has that Voices Carry quality to her that I suspect all 3 year olds do possess): <span style="font-size: x-large;"><i> </i></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>MOMMY, IS THIS THE BOOBY SECTION?? </i></span></div>
<br />
Yes, honey. Yes, this is indeed the booby section. And<i> SHHHH</i>! Lower your friggin' voice. (Of course that makes it into a game, and so now we have to use a louder voice and repeat ourselves over and over over, especially and when a creepy-looking man walks by just as I'm debating between a striped black number and a polka dotted one.)<br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>*This true story is why I get a little militant with the breast feeding militants. Please know: I am not advocating for one way or another in this blog, simply relating my own personal experiences with the act of breast feeding/pumping. Adjusting to a newborn is a full-time job and a nerve-wracking process. I say: do what you need to do to get yourself to the other side of that and keep yourself out of a full-fledged post-partum depression. And if any #$%#&*^ s*&^%$ m*&&^% b**&&^% wants to make you feel bad or guilty about that, cuss them out and hang up on them. And then call me. We'll go have coffee and talk about what d-bags they are and how awesome we are.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>*And furthermore and finally, I remain unapologetically thankful I was not born in the Dark Ages and/or China.</i><br />
<br />
<i>*(China likes to put lead and poison in most everything; I recommend you only buy sweatshop-produced bras from that country.) </i><br />
<i> </i>amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-43359393334053599262011-12-28T09:29:00.000-05:002011-12-29T11:47:47.123-05:002011 Best & Worst<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5e8TCbCv8EhaqoN88-TPfYKdXVqq5VPxQpQ4pvEKcYIGOlILzrE-w31iRf0vx7mojWzoocl24TFBy4RD6NXKIyqkl3aif7VSidVaBJLYfXkyQEX_Gu98lp6UFv_M_5k22IlrfZEurAP8/s1600/2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5e8TCbCv8EhaqoN88-TPfYKdXVqq5VPxQpQ4pvEKcYIGOlILzrE-w31iRf0vx7mojWzoocl24TFBy4RD6NXKIyqkl3aif7VSidVaBJLYfXkyQEX_Gu98lp6UFv_M_5k22IlrfZEurAP8/s200/2012.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Around this time of year, I like to take stock. I like to take stock of how my year went, overall...am I shaking my fists at it and stomping around, cussing like a crusty old sailor? Or just giving it the middle finger raised defiantly up high, in a really indignant manner? I'm certainly never hugging it. I don't think I've hugged an old year going out and a new year coming in since 1982. There's usually something in the past year that has really made me put my hands on my hips in a very annoyed manner and say out loud to no one in particular, "Really, <i>Insert name of year here?</i> Really?? What the freaking <i>heck</i>."(Full disclosure: I might--or might not--use much swarthier words than freaking and heck. It would just depend on the issue, and the year.)<br />
<br />
Another thing I do is come up with Un-Resolutions. This is a very <i>Alice in Wonderland</i> thing to do, and I prefer it because I know I'll be 100% successful at these. For example, in 2012, I unresolve to spend less time on pinterest.com. And, in 2012, I unresolve to spend half of each Saturday lying around staring at the ceiling feeling guilty about all the things I really should be accomplishing. Also, in 2012, I unresolve to clean my toilets more (though I did find a really earth-friendly, economical, most awesome solution of part vinegar/part water/Dawn dishwashing liquid you can make at home that can supposedly scrub blood stains off the inside of a person's body).<br />
<br />
But I also like to review my personal year's Best & Worst. Just like they do in People magazine and on E! News, except without the paparazzi pictures: <br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH2yQPEQ-cXqPgMdOXKrhMl55i9LkyLUXmEzZkZgUKJ0OZsu0tizDSqifF_QJtsC5qLn_axmZ7ULaHEn68dPiSio2MZZ0y0pTj6aCAoW0vAxCDH9yNc5NzBs33RNuXvuzXr4oFCdbLbzM/s1600/aquarium2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH2yQPEQ-cXqPgMdOXKrhMl55i9LkyLUXmEzZkZgUKJ0OZsu0tizDSqifF_QJtsC5qLn_axmZ7ULaHEn68dPiSio2MZZ0y0pTj6aCAoW0vAxCDH9yNc5NzBs33RNuXvuzXr4oFCdbLbzM/s200/aquarium2011.jpg" width="200" /></a><b>Best Kid Moment</b>: Potty training accomplished! No more poopy diapers, no more diaper bills, no more worrying about contributing to the land fill diaper problem in America but being too 21st century lazy and harried to actually switch to cloth diapers and do something about plus that would involve more laundry and I'm really anti-more laundry....woohoo! No more diapers!<br />
<br />
<b>Worst Kid Moment</b>: Realizing potty training isn't (1) fool proof or (2) consistent. Most embarrassing example of this: the infamous <a href="http://sweetlittlecrosspatch.blogspot.com/2011/07/life-is-full-of-poorly-formed-bad.html" target="_blank">McDonald's Poop Explosion of 2011.</a><br />
<br />
<b>Worst Job Moment:</b> Volunteering to leave the dream teaching job I adored to venture forth into unknown waters. Teaching (the Education field in general, actually) seems to be in a bit of a scary and massive upheaval these days, and so who knows where I'll be at this time next year? Upheavals can be both bad and good, but I am never a fan of change. Even and especially when I instigate it. <br />
<br />
<b>Best Job Moment:</b> Finding out teaching 3rd graders is surprisingly a breeze. Jolly Ranchers and lead pencils and the ability to place a "I Actually Don't Find You Funny At All" look on my face in a mere 1.5 seconds really helped that. And the change in focus turned out to be fairly good for me...after teaching 1st grade ESOL for about 10 years, I could pretty much do that with my eyes closed. It's stressful to have to locate, plan, and coordinate new lessons, and I wish I didn't end up staying until 5:00 pm most days. But it keeps me on my toes. And that's a good thing, because I'm the kind of person who really needs to be kept on her toes. Otherwise, I spend way too much time staring at a ceiling for half a day feeling guilty about all the stuff I could be accomplishing.<br />
<br />
<b>Best Health Moment: </b>C got a new knee. It's a lot of work right now, and his body is still adjusting. But in about 6-8 weeks, I predict he'll be walking around like Melissa does when she gets a new bouncy ball: "Mommy! Look at <i>meeeee</i>! Look at me and my new bouncy ball! Look at how good I am with my bouncy ball! I can bounce my bouncy ball really, really high! No! You can't have my bouncy ball! It's MINE!" (C, of course, will not be bouncing as high as he can, but I do suspect he won't share his new knee with anyone.)<br />
<br />
<b>Worst Health Moment: </b>Well, I got skin cancer. That was the worst. But it was a fortunately/unfortunately kind of thing: Unfortunately, I got skin cancer. Fortunately, it turned out to be the unscary kind, harmless little Basal Cell that can sit on your skin for years and years and never make a peep (except you should get Basal Cell off of there ASAP if you do find him sitting there, because occasionally he can turn into his big older brother, Malignant, Scary Carcinoma. Scary Carcinoma is a really crappy bastard, and even his own mother ignores him on his birthday). Fortunately, it was an easy procedure to remove. Unfortunately, I'll be at a dermatologist's office annually for the rest of my life. Fortunately, this will quickly help us meet our insurance's out of pocket maximum so C can get another new knee next year and we don't have to pay a thing. See? Fortunately/Unfortunately.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4SNNxt1VmYHnjq3147LB__3MMjErPpeQIL0s5phomGoiQr3dFiyShRuTtEZzJAcTjYhaQt7Hhyub0Zj1ZW8Ml2flWxB6Qy5bCOxAb3_QGdhUr0qt-E6Wlr8PIkJTZ7rPmKLnz91G0CIM/s1600/kardashians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4SNNxt1VmYHnjq3147LB__3MMjErPpeQIL0s5phomGoiQr3dFiyShRuTtEZzJAcTjYhaQt7Hhyub0Zj1ZW8Ml2flWxB6Qy5bCOxAb3_QGdhUr0qt-E6Wlr8PIkJTZ7rPmKLnz91G0CIM/s200/kardashians.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b>Worst Celebrity News: </b>The Kardashians are really getting on my nerves. I don't understand them, and I don't understand the nation's love/hate relationship and fascination with them. I'm just glad they're in cahoots with Sears. If I had to see them and their sweat shop clothing line every time I bought contact lens cleaner at Target or Wal-Mart, I really think I'd lose my mind.<br />
<br />
...Except I have to say, I do begrudgingly like Khloe. Khloe seems like someone I could have over for dinner and laugh with. Oh, <i>okay</i>...and Kourtney, too. Her little boy is too, too cute. As long as she left the icky boyfriend/father at home, I think we could hang out and talk.<br />
<br />
Fine, fine, fine. It's really just Kim I'm having an issue with. But I think everyone in America is too, and so. Good.<br />
<br />
<b>Best Celebrity News: </b>Apparently, <a href="http://www.ajc.com/news/q-a-hollywood-spotlight-573018.html" target="_blank">Atlanta is quickly becoming the new Hollywood</a>. This increases my chances of bumping into Gerard Butler at Target or Wal-Mart or Kroger or Publix by 1,000%. Obviously, in 2012, I'm going to have to never leave the house without full make up and hair, and I'll clearly have to hire a personal stylist. Oh, and the gym. I guess I'll have to bump up my gym schedule from 0 times a week to at least 1 or 2. Man. That's going to be a lot of work. I may need to set my standards a little lower and hope to bump into one of the Real Housewives of Atlanta's ex-boyfriends.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4CC0nszpkY1r1V8uYmJW1hZJEri6ItYRWWcKTI6a0EwW51lqqdrv-W12yXvrFHuCNze3YGeXlwNH_UyMcTqCrqnoDsFjSkcACDs5BpSm_fbTB5XmeyymE4Az8FlIKw1YQzELf7T7EUI0/s1600/chicken+parm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4CC0nszpkY1r1V8uYmJW1hZJEri6ItYRWWcKTI6a0EwW51lqqdrv-W12yXvrFHuCNze3YGeXlwNH_UyMcTqCrqnoDsFjSkcACDs5BpSm_fbTB5XmeyymE4Az8FlIKw1YQzELf7T7EUI0/s200/chicken+parm.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not what my chicken avocado parmigiana looked like.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Worst Cooking Moment: </b>The avocado/parmigiana chicken dish I got off pinterest.com. It <i>seemed </i>like a good idea in theory. I mean, who the heck doesn't love chicken parmigiana? And avocados are just healthy for you--full of good vitamins and the type of fat your body doesn't use to make you look 6 months pregnant. But in actual practice? It did not execute well, and I apologize to all who came into contact with it (namely, C and Melissa) (C took 3 bites and Melissa declared hers "icky," dumped it in the trash can, and proceeded to demand chicken nuggets instead).<br />
<br />
<b>Best Cooking Moment: </b>The fact that I cooked most nights of the week. The week right before Winter Break and the week of Knee Replacement surgery were pretty rough and full of McDonald's happy meals. But other than that, I've been a cooking fool throughout 2011. Please note: I do not enjoy cooking. Slow cookers make it a tad easier. Unless you have someone who doesn't enjoy slow cooker food, like I do, who (after 3 slow cooker meals) asks you to lighten up on the slow cooker meals. That can really throw off your whole game plan, if you have that. I also don't enjoy the following: menu planning, grocery shopping, food prep, cooking clean up, dishwasher put away, and pantry organization. But the point is, I have learned to overcome all of that, in a very Chariots of Fire kind of way. And I like looking up recipes and conducting recipe experiments. I'm a Chariots of Fire Kitchen Scientist is what I am. And C and Melissa are my lab rats.<br />
<br />
<b>Worst Gift of 2011: </b>There were none. Every gift is awesome. If you give me a gift of any kind, you are permanently on my Favorite People list forever. Unless your gift is the flu or a cold. And then you're on my People to Avoid at All Costs list.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DBIWXnQdALXwrqpYXBdSCNUWINGlNSS_dPpeI5CmgpdzUkL6uHCx7zkmkd0NHiZc90q_bZuY-d7a7_wPxu31Dy8gN4n4bH4x2i-mt1bZKbqugsdr-Av5J6NeLljSXVe_bb1myEmGp1I/s1600/keurig.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DBIWXnQdALXwrqpYXBdSCNUWINGlNSS_dPpeI5CmgpdzUkL6uHCx7zkmkd0NHiZc90q_bZuY-d7a7_wPxu31Dy8gN4n4bH4x2i-mt1bZKbqugsdr-Av5J6NeLljSXVe_bb1myEmGp1I/s200/keurig.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b>Best Gift of 2011: </b>The Keurig. Do you know about them? Next to the Internets, these are one of humanity's most helpful and evil-at-the-same-time inventions ever. You put some water in the holder. You stick your coffee cup under the thingy. You stick a Keurig coffee cup thingy ($9 per box, more expensive at Bed Bath & Beyond) in the thingy. You press a button. Sixty seconds later? You have a coffee (in a variety of flavors, including but not limited to hazelnut, french vanilla, and fair trade decaf) or tea or hot chocolate or espresso or cappucino. It's technology magic. The evil part comes into play because the coffee maker is always right <i>there</i>. On your counter. And if there is water in the water compartment, in a mere 60 seconds you can have your 1,000th cup of coffee (or tea or espresso or hot chocolate or cappucino) of the day. For example, as I type this, it is 10:00 am and I'm enjoying my 6th cup of coffee (an Italian Donut Shop bold that is clearing out my sinuses in a most effective way...I predict the caffeine in this thing will keep me up well past 1:00 am).<br />
<br />
Starbucks is also pissed at the Keurig guys. My yearly $25,000 donation to them is probably going to be reduced by about $24,990.<br />
<br />
<b>Worst Book of 2011: </b>Did Kim Kardashian write a tell-all book about her 72 hour marriage yet? If not, get ready to put that on your "Worst Book" list for whatever year she writes it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRPLS5qEWTlfJumKxpSg1t81fWnYDjw5fA8v7haYnflDUMAT3lRm8gEHWJMs7DmtvVcv6Ft0oL28CIrPDylge_WVXieN7zpjgVlTcbYLhNg1NAn4dV-2LjL11avVyP0DiMRw_Cfw0fytE/s1600/tina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRPLS5qEWTlfJumKxpSg1t81fWnYDjw5fA8v7haYnflDUMAT3lRm8gEHWJMs7DmtvVcv6Ft0oL28CIrPDylge_WVXieN7zpjgVlTcbYLhNg1NAn4dV-2LjL11avVyP0DiMRw_Cfw0fytE/s200/tina.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b>Best Book of 2011: </b>Tina Fey's book <i>Bossypants. </i>I would like to be Tina Fey's friend and confidante. I would like to start a religious cult that worships all that Tina Fey says, writes, and does. (That sounds a bit stalkerish, I know. But honestly, the fastest way to become a billionaire is (a) invent the computer or facebook, or (b) start a religion and get Tom Cruise on board). I have many, many new worldviews because of Tina Fey, and many, many new awesome quotes to throw at people haphazardly when they least expect. Here's one:<br />
<br />
<i>But I think the first real change in women’s body image came when JLo
turned it butt-style. That was the first time that having a large-scale
situation in the back was part of mainstream American beauty. Girls
wanted butts now. Men were free to admit that they had always enjoyed
them. And then, what felt like moments later, boom—Beyoncé brought the
leg meat. A back porch and thick muscular legs were now widely admired.
And from that day forward, women embraced their diversity and realized
that all shapes and sizes are beautiful. Ah ha ha. No. I’m totally
messing with you. All Beyonce and JLo have done is add to the laundry
list of attributes women must have to qualify as beautiful. Now every
girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a
classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a
Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs
of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of
Michelle Obama, and doll tits. The person closest to actually achieving
this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian
scientists to sabotage our athletes. </i><br />
<br />
See? Ladies, wouldn't you like to be friends with Tina, too? Let's get together every Friday and pray to her. (Please bring $25 as a Fey Love "donation.")<br />
<br />
And last (but not least):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSI1lPh4M3wMHC5VpawC68Z7vCd1kVPSZ4Dh7vtGb-aEFw3rxdxtH8zSmalAs5uTrxwBMc8ehMbZ7wpqATOaoKOIzscPjB7MKJA9AdGZPOR1oCa8-qBQEjuFVfh-TEaUCfDqAEsBj2OA/s1600/target_lady.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="107" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSI1lPh4M3wMHC5VpawC68Z7vCd1kVPSZ4Dh7vtGb-aEFw3rxdxtH8zSmalAs5uTrxwBMc8ehMbZ7wpqATOaoKOIzscPjB7MKJA9AdGZPOR1oCa8-qBQEjuFVfh-TEaUCfDqAEsBj2OA/s200/target_lady.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<b>Worst Overall Moment of 2011: </b>The angry, judgmental Target employee and<a href="http://sweetlittlecrosspatch.blogspot.com/2011/11/shopping-confessions-for-black-friday.html" target="_blank"> my emotional breakdown about her</a> (including tears) in front of a store manager while standing in front of Target Cafe's pretzel machine. I've finally managed to successfully shop (tear-free) in this Target again. I've gone back to placing Melissa (in a really defiant way I must add) in the back of the cart (minus the seat belt AND allowing her to stand up). I've also managed to once run into that same angry, judgmental Target employee while Melissa is standing up in the back of the cart (mihnus cart seat belt) and look at that chick with pointy, dangerous daggers shooting out of my eyes in her general direction in a really passive aggressive way. I'm sure she senses when I've entered the store and becomes very nervous. Obviously, I've clearly won.<br />
<br />
...Really, this experience has kind of turned into a it was the best of times/it was the worst of times sort of thing. But I'm still shell shocked about the initial experience, and so I'm making it my Worst Moment of 2011 (there could have been a worse worst moment of 2011, but my memory only goes back to about July of each year, and nothing worse happened to me from July-December than that).<br />
<br />
<b>Best Overall Moment of 2011: </b> We are all still alive. C and I both have satisfying jobs, a roof over our heads, nice clothes (Old Navy recently had a 70% off sale that I hit just right), good food in our bellies (as long as it doesn't involve chicken, parmigiana, and avocados), a sweet girl who only goes to time out 3 times a day, and we are cancer-free (knock on wood), surrounded by family we are on talking terms with who we actually find amusing and fun to be around. Is there any kind of a moment that would be better than that? I don't think so, and I'm positive Tina Fey (blessed be her name) will agree.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Happy 2012, everyone! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfX6L4PuP3z4UNbiILHKy3KIkTMmEp0S8R5nry1H5eVlQRvSwVtb7tmMZYQdq0_WOQyklV394IQkwlLglOrYcFeWeydhOVMbPPVloC6dUAzAAvHXwAtpFvgeaY42Att1ewESqhG5ugEE/s1600/ygg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfX6L4PuP3z4UNbiILHKy3KIkTMmEp0S8R5nry1H5eVlQRvSwVtb7tmMZYQdq0_WOQyklV394IQkwlLglOrYcFeWeydhOVMbPPVloC6dUAzAAvHXwAtpFvgeaY42Att1ewESqhG5ugEE/s200/ygg.jpg" width="119" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-7956883803811320082011-12-19T23:14:00.000-05:002011-12-20T20:03:26.674-05:00christmas tree ninja<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMHQPR_f1TwgFMHgDPv198g8hpPthZvecl8HdJr4O-LXtvNvHgWVXnIWSV7I__ixsjK-y4b3lmXDgt1jLt2QljKvgYraAtlYrenUwtNxBl4DNRVBUIgbpW9n73LDwPKSu9bGXMU0EnY0/s1600/felt+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMHQPR_f1TwgFMHgDPv198g8hpPthZvecl8HdJr4O-LXtvNvHgWVXnIWSV7I__ixsjK-y4b3lmXDgt1jLt2QljKvgYraAtlYrenUwtNxBl4DNRVBUIgbpW9n73LDwPKSu9bGXMU0EnY0/s320/felt+tree.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
I have completed........a craft. Way back around Thanksgiving, I found a cute felt Christmas tree craft idea at <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/" target="_blank">pinterest</a> and threw that into my ::kids are like rainbows:: board.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to December 14th-ish. I am slowly losing my mind with each Christmas decoration that is pulled from the Christmas tree and smashed on the ground. Melissa attempts to blame the cat each time and it's driving me insane.<br />
<br />
Listen--the cat is part of the problem, no doubt. She's the equivalent of 150 human years according to cat time, but it doesn't stop her from wandering all casual-like under our tree and batting at stuff hanging from the bottom. Every other morning I'm picking up the wooden toy horse ornament or the crocheted gingerbread girl and sticking them back on the tree. Sometimes I have to wipe off the cat puke first. And that's always nice.<br />
<br />
There are three key words in that last paragraph I'd like to draw your attention to at this point: <i>bottom, wooden, </i>and <i>crocheted</i>. I don't have a great many ornaments. But the ornaments I've placed toward the bottom of the tree, right at 3 year old girl and cat eye level, are ones that (a) don't matter much to me and/or (b) are practically unbreakable. Because, I don't know if anyone knows this or not, but I do like to think of myself as pretty clever during brief moments of sheer clarity, or at the very least intensely pragmatic. So as I decorated, I said to myself: "Self, make sure you put all these wooden/crocheted/unbreakable ornaments at the bottom or this could get ugly."<br />
<br />
Pragmatic be damned. So far, to date, I have swept up broken, shattered, jagged remnants of the following: one heart ornament a friend from long ago gave me--I've lost touch with the friend, but I'm a sentimental psycho, and so I was deeply saddened to the point of teary eyes when it shattered all over the wood floors below it (because I'm so very dramatic with symbolic messages the Universe tosses my way now and then).....two cheap ceramic snowmen holding cheap ceramic candy canes I just really, really liked, I don't know why......and one "World's Best Teacher!" ornament that simply will not glue back together no matter how frantically I try (let's all pause for a moment of silent reflection as we offer pleading prayers to the Universe that It was not sending any cosmic symbolic communiques with that one).<br />
<br />
I don't know how Melissa gets to them--honestly, it's nothing short of a Christmas miracle. They weren't at the top of the tree, but they also weren't at 3 year old level. She's like a Christmas tree ninja. I suspect most 3 year olds are, and having wood floors only exacerbates the problem. I really prefer wood floors to carpet, 11 months out of the year. Carpet involves lugging out a vacuum cleaner and dragging it around every week, and cat puke is practically impossible to get out, and cat hair is like glued into it forever. I love having wood floors. Love, love, love. But in December? Oh man, how I long for carpet.<br />
<br />
In addition (and more concerning), The Infamous Christmas Tree Debacle of '11 has also advanced warned me: basically I'm raising a 14 year old in a 3 year old's body.<br />
<br />
How do I know? Because the last time Melissa got caught manhandling the tree I snapped, and I snapped really hard. Go ahead, judge me; I do not care. I'd had quite enough of the tree manhandling that had been going on that day as it had reached a zenith of really ridiculous, outrageous proportions. And so I snapped. I snapped and it was not pretty.<br />
<br />
And here's another thing about my little Christmas tree ninja: Melissa's in a weird phase right now (and there are so many of these I hear, from the time they turn one until they're packing for college) in which she slaps when she gets mad. She slaps at objects, she slaps at walls, she slaps at herself, she slaps at thin air. I'm not concerned about the slapping or her slapping at any of the the above--you wanna hit the sofa? Go for it, kid. Here's a pillow, too. It needed reshaping anyway.<br />
<br />
But she's also slapping at other people, and we simply can't have that. She generally doesn't slap hard, just hard enough to express her "you are not the boss of me" attitude. But we don't hit other people, and we don't hit each other in our house. I think people who go around slapping and hitting each other when they're angry have childhood wounds in desperate need of healing. That, or they need a larger vocabulary to express their feelings (which is why 1 year olds bite and 3 year olds slap, of course).<br />
<br />
This time however, she did slap pretty hard. She slapped me, and there was a definite SMACK sound to the slap.<br />
<br />
I put her in time out. She was all indignant about it, and now who wouldn't be? You're already so mad you're slapping and making satisfying SMACK! sounds, and suddenly someone's taken away your primal rage outlet and plopped you in, essentially, a padded cell void of things that are satisfying to whack. So I parked her little indignant, slap happy butt in her padded cell/aka our time out step, and she sat there and cursed me out the only way a 14 year old girl trapped in a 3 year old body knows how to do:<br />
<br />
HER: I'm! Not! Going! To! Time! Out!<br />
<br />
ME: Yet here you are. 3 minutes, m'am. I'll be back.<br />
<br />
HER: I'm! Putting! YOU! In! Time out! Mommy!<br />
<br />
<i>10 seconds pass</i><br />
<br />
HER: <i>You're</i> in! Time out! Mommy!<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>1 minute later...</i><br />
<br />
HER: You're JOINING me!<br />
<br />
<i>30 seconds....</i><br />
<br />
HER: I hate! Time! Out!<br />
<br />
<i>and so on and so forth until 3 minutes were up.</i> <br />
<br />
When her 3 minutes were up I walked over and asked if she understood why I put her in time out. Here's where the 14 year old totally reared her sassy little head: "Yes," she said, "Because you used your mean voice at me. And I hit you. You don't! Use! Your mean voice at me, Mommy! And I<i> mean </i>it!"<br />
<br />
So yes. You see what I'm dealing with? A 3 year old who possesses the reasoning abilities of a wayward teenager. Because I used my mean voice, she just had to slap me. Mommy made her. Because people who use their mean voices just need a good slapping.<br />
<br />
I laughed that one off this time, because she's 3 and it's pretty cute. I did let her know in no uncertain terms was she to ever, ever slap at anyone, even if a mean voice was used. We don't hit, ever. But I did heartily chuckle at her while letting her know all of that. But I chuckled in secret, where she couldn't see, and I chuckled in a sort of nervous way. I can tell: in another 10 years, this is going to get tricky; there's an ability to process and analyze I'm almost positive<i> I</i> didn't even develop until my mid-20's. I could be doomed.<br />
<br />
But I'm also very impressed at the abstract reasoning ability my offspring is utilizing. Most child development researchers will tell you it's all concrete thinking until about age 10. And I've been given a child who, clearly, could make <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Piaget" target="_blank">Jean Piaget </a>scratch his head.<br />
<br />
Which brings me back to my first seasonal craft project: Obviously, little Miss M does not have enough to do. And so we went to Michael's craft store and picked up some craft glue and a whole lot of felt. I cut a tree out of green felt and some tree decorations out of other felt colors. And now? Melissa can decorate her own tree to her little 14 years-in-a-3 year old heart's content: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0cFgZ86lkIwaDL4L7vab0nbWqVrCUSgWlKaLAZA3v-RkPK8mgFo_hpUjAnceoWOJ0dntZ13cKRHyP2NHfDGCEWr3sXoR64hg8k3ubRBSqzRoSkuqfQf1njB1HHJAR172ZsbDZgZCK4c/s1600/felt+xmas+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0cFgZ86lkIwaDL4L7vab0nbWqVrCUSgWlKaLAZA3v-RkPK8mgFo_hpUjAnceoWOJ0dntZ13cKRHyP2NHfDGCEWr3sXoR64hg8k3ubRBSqzRoSkuqfQf1njB1HHJAR172ZsbDZgZCK4c/s320/felt+xmas+tree.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I'm fairly certain this is the look she aims for each time she attempts to re-decorate our family tree. It's avant garde, yes, with a touch of irreverent whimsy. But I have real Christmas tree ornaments that whimper whenever she walks by; I've sworn to protect them. And anyway, we're a pretty modern family and all, but we're just not an avant garde Christmas tree family at the moment. But we do have a tree ninja. (The Dora pj's are just her weekend ninja uniform. She has others.)amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-86930059386154048722011-12-03T18:00:00.001-05:002011-12-20T08:49:17.852-05:00the internet: it's an issue.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIGM8eUjwW3LnGQ4zZUP7j2CWmY8reSC0pWhG7t_EEhD9i10Bm-tiQs3osLiUZrE3mg9obzGblfsqsevCrcNjhV_aMIk-Zw6-Cup2oitPHEIjFd55P4QbQf1KM7WF0Imn-WTBQHNR7No/s1600/internet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIGM8eUjwW3LnGQ4zZUP7j2CWmY8reSC0pWhG7t_EEhD9i10Bm-tiQs3osLiUZrE3mg9obzGblfsqsevCrcNjhV_aMIk-Zw6-Cup2oitPHEIjFd55P4QbQf1KM7WF0Imn-WTBQHNR7No/s200/internet.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I have one last confession. I meant to put this in my confessional blog post last time, but my <i>other </i>other confession (this means I actually have two last confessions) is that I have small dash of adult onset ADD and I can't remember what I told myself I would be doing from one second to the next. Which is why the internet is so perfect for someone like me. While on the internet, I can completely stay focused (translation: eyes glued to a computer like a zombie taking a nap) yet jump around like a complete maniac. I am a completely insane maniac while on the computer, and to look at me, you'd never know; on the outside I'm certain I exude pure zen.<br />
<br />
A typical hour (that turns into 3, sometimes an entire afternoon if I'm on vacation and M is at school) looks like this: I'll hop over to facebook, then to a news site, then to some blogs, then another news site, then I'll do a google search on some random topic I thought of 2 weeks ago but suddenly just remembered, then I'll spend 40 minutes looking up some teaching ideas, I'll head back to facebook, back to another news site, remember another thing I was curious about and google, back to facebook..... <br />
<br />
The internet. Such a wonderful tool, yet such a source of great evil and large piles of unfolded laundry. <br />
<br />
Now that I've made that confession, my other other confession is that I'm addicted to this website called <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/">pinterest</a>. Do you know about it? You have to have an invitation to join, but it's not exclusive; if you ask, they let you in (the complete opposite of my brief flirtation with sororities in college from which I still have PTSD).<br />
<br />
Basically, it's like a picture version of all your internet bookmarked sites. See something you like while surfing? Pin it from your toolbar (they give you a pin tool for this when you join), pick a board (you create as many different themed "boards"as you want), and then as you surf the net, if you see something you like, click "Pin It" and some picture choices will pop up for you to pin along with your boards so you can choose where to pin it...and pow! Now you have the picture (a visual reminder) on a board in one easy to remember location that directly links you back to the page on the website you wanted to remember while surfing.<br />
<br />
Too lazy to surf? Go to pinterest's "Everybody" page and start looking around--you'll find stuff that you didn't even know you wanted on there. You can spend (if you're crazy, like I am) hours finding things to pin and/or ogling what other people in the world think is really rad (and please know: some people have extremely questionable taste).<br />
<br />
Here's the issue: because of all that, I'm on on that site all the time, and if you're one of my board followers, I deeply apologize to you. I'm sure on more than one occasion you've logged onto pinterest, taken a quick look at what your followers/those you follow have pinned in the last 5 minutes, seen my recent 1,000 pictures and thought: <i>Wow, that girl has a problem</i>. I do! It's true, I do. And I also apologize for all of the inspirational quotes plastered with profanities that I love to pin to my ::inspirations:: board. I do try to make up for it with some gooey, chocolate-y desert ideas for you.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what it is about that place, because half of the stuff I see when I head over to the "Everything" link so I can see what the rest of the world finds funny, interesting, yummy, sweet, cute, awesome, cool, etc., makes me roll my eyes. Just judging from what I've seen, there are an awful lot of overly princess-y weddings being planned, with way too many cutesy wedding poses that far too many unsuspecting bridesmaids are forced to be a part of. And there is simply too much country for my taste out there in America. Sorry country fans, but I think there should be a limit on how much distressed hillbilly one is allowed to decorate a house with. I'm also getting ready to blast that place with some Islamic, Hindu, and other world religions sayings that insinuate anyone who doesn't agree with those religious doctrines can kiss my Islamic and/or Hindu butt. (I am neither Islamic or Hindu, of course; it's just I don't like it when I feel I'm somewhere the playing field is uneven, and I have a tremendous, natural inclination to try to balance that out in the most passive aggressive way possible.)<br />
<br />
And then there are the fitness freaks. The fitness freaks on that place are a real point of contention for me. (Full disclosure: I have a fitness board at pinterest. I call it ::health mania:: but I really should call it ::health mania daydreams:: because I pin a bunch of stuff to it but never do a single thing on it. No, not a single thing. I figure eventually I'll put it to some type of use...some time. Maybe. I say if you're going to dream, dream BIG.)<br />
<br />
It just seems there are so many (so many!) women out there who also have their own versions of ::health mania:: but instead of just sticking in pictures of green fat-burning smoothies and treadmill workouts they have absolutely no intentions of ever completing, so many of them fill up their fitness-themed boards with images like this to aspire to:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNeC2Jm1IdpvUvwGoHj06IrQmVznZUXsivG5D0ZSewvIKYsWqZ0Fau2mAD4huS-vQBsjQS-HUeCb9enfZ90Z7zF6L4MmXyiJGHQRAHY5V3fnNMjswoOdx4V_qfcas5tq9DVFUjXY4K1xc/s1600/skinny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNeC2Jm1IdpvUvwGoHj06IrQmVznZUXsivG5D0ZSewvIKYsWqZ0Fau2mAD4huS-vQBsjQS-HUeCb9enfZ90Z7zF6L4MmXyiJGHQRAHY5V3fnNMjswoOdx4V_qfcas5tq9DVFUjXY4K1xc/s200/skinny.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Whereas I would be quite happy with this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzX41F-il-zH5VyIfS-otgVbpf_I-ZD4AeNuHLqqFOUYUO0mi-br-hjUnmQoI2CgK3mjRiBcHIc18giwAa-Rlqt-oQM2Y7EJ-W5xnFdL05r8MQ4GyNx6HNyipdpcQqWVyq-e12CW_R2MI/s1600/plus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzX41F-il-zH5VyIfS-otgVbpf_I-ZD4AeNuHLqqFOUYUO0mi-br-hjUnmQoI2CgK3mjRiBcHIc18giwAa-Rlqt-oQM2Y7EJ-W5xnFdL05r8MQ4GyNx6HNyipdpcQqWVyq-e12CW_R2MI/s200/plus.jpg" width="163" /></a></div>
<br />
A perfectly healthy person, with muscle tone, who can still eat a plate of spaghetti and not feel as though she needs to punish herself by finding pictures like the other one to aspire to.<br />
<br />
I think what I'm trying to get at is that pinterest seems to be one gigantic issue of Cosmopolitan magazine, the 1960's version, and somehow I've managed to get myself hooked to it. This feels very similar to my secret, in-the-closet readings and viewings of the Twilight series. (<a href="http://sweetlittlecrosspatch.blogspot.com/2011/11/shopping-confessions-for-black-friday.html" target="_blank">See last post, toward the end.</a>)<br />
<br />
On the upside, I've gotten some good recipes out of it. And some really cute crafty things. For when I decide to be crafty. Some day. Maybe when I'm 80. And I've found that many women spend a lot (a LOT) of time on some fashion website putting whole outfits (complete with accessories) together and then pinning it on to pinterest. I have more wardrobe options in my ::stylin':: board than I do in my own closet. Yes, yes. It's very sad.<br />
<br />
But then there are the teaching ideas (desperately needed some days), inspirational quotes peppered with the F word, and this one time? I found out how to clean an entire microfiber sofa using just a little bit of rubbing alcohol, water, and some white sponges. It does have its breathtaking moments.<br />
<br />
<br />
So I don't know. I'm just spewing right now; I have absolutely no intentions of trying to curb or eliminate this particular addiction (which I lovingly prefer to call a distraction) (plus, my television is tuned into Nick Jr. whenever it's on...every time The Fresh Beat Band comes on, I ponder how bad it would really hurt if I poked my eyes out with a fork and/or poured acid into my ears--anything but that Go Bananas song again...pinterest is a much safer option, I say). I mean, I've discovered how I'll renovate my bathroom (after I win the lottery):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWXIEpz_JFs64WJp-w-ef_SYmBhgJITbr7iYoVLSnVQvlYHsn7fz2AoqVu-eZkL1cAihAZSTWDPuSHVnhKQo9xvvPmc_fq-7XMu91M0yX7IO_9L_5hCfKC1ZO6fuiU7V6GuK77nafp55k/s1600/bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWXIEpz_JFs64WJp-w-ef_SYmBhgJITbr7iYoVLSnVQvlYHsn7fz2AoqVu-eZkL1cAihAZSTWDPuSHVnhKQo9xvvPmc_fq-7XMu91M0yX7IO_9L_5hCfKC1ZO6fuiU7V6GuK77nafp55k/s200/bath.jpg" width="133" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In January, we'll be studying fossils in 3rd grade, and pinterest has helped me find a plethora (<i>plethora</i>) of useful <i>and</i> cute tools to use:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbC3mt4c_iJFGml4Jp9g2JXsmabSZiMV0F_Bh4sbJI8hRFI_QaoS8H2X3SA06XnVB8j1OCPLwDXbiAOBdcUAdOdC2CH942H4zHvzlR3zaB8jmPmFJ7uWw8T9AtfMOEmXqIYtY_sz3Jyc0/s1600/fossils2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbC3mt4c_iJFGml4Jp9g2JXsmabSZiMV0F_Bh4sbJI8hRFI_QaoS8H2X3SA06XnVB8j1OCPLwDXbiAOBdcUAdOdC2CH942H4zHvzlR3zaB8jmPmFJ7uWw8T9AtfMOEmXqIYtY_sz3Jyc0/s200/fossils2.jpg" width="152" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And apparently, if you get a bunch of rocks and paint them with glow-in-the-dark paint? And then line them up along your sidewalk so they can soak up the sun? Voila! At night you have glow in the dark rocks! (I can hear Mr. F down the street in my neighborhood furiously typing up a complaint letter to the HOA right now, woo!):</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BrsZfu3wf-CtgiHdvZtoRr3q-bRJ4f2l3WgjcYQyVe-WtfEYKchOHCXzUa4fPCu5TdHbZoSv-_BIJVmJyMYkMeaW0Oe4Bb_soA4nkYaOBjNpO6gHl8lP776lN8ZU_3L1fAJrDZUZJSk/s1600/rocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BrsZfu3wf-CtgiHdvZtoRr3q-bRJ4f2l3WgjcYQyVe-WtfEYKchOHCXzUa4fPCu5TdHbZoSv-_BIJVmJyMYkMeaW0Oe4Bb_soA4nkYaOBjNpO6gHl8lP776lN8ZU_3L1fAJrDZUZJSk/s200/rocks.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And then, of course, I make finds on pinterest that pretty much validate the entire reason I exist. And/or give me some good ideas. Like this one:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulZBQXngohzbxE-KKYFIaPSsW7L-5W2cRaGHLv2jasTTdYDxAVHyWrVhTv02TzTAKbEGl04sXG8daxoxNUKsbrJhX8LR-GHIhCvjhwk2ZgpBllSBiOAVsSbedGADLnUOK0d6WuJVyT8E/s1600/funny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulZBQXngohzbxE-KKYFIaPSsW7L-5W2cRaGHLv2jasTTdYDxAVHyWrVhTv02TzTAKbEGl04sXG8daxoxNUKsbrJhX8LR-GHIhCvjhwk2ZgpBllSBiOAVsSbedGADLnUOK0d6WuJVyT8E/s320/funny.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-84779768602618352362011-11-25T08:26:00.000-05:002011-11-25T08:26:24.447-05:00shopping confessions for a black friday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUOvLQvH3ObWjz0INdp_RHsGHpImut1_hhl3rojQVy7pX2c5w_nIU3aoRRIrwaujvrzStK_DBehR4bDzjlEIFc1yOug0zBZhh-16mVcBhKbHJdIo9_ABR6ARD2p8gM1D76H1aIg5_nuk/s1600/target_lady.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUOvLQvH3ObWjz0INdp_RHsGHpImut1_hhl3rojQVy7pX2c5w_nIU3aoRRIrwaujvrzStK_DBehR4bDzjlEIFc1yOug0zBZhh-16mVcBhKbHJdIo9_ABR6ARD2p8gM1D76H1aIg5_nuk/s320/target_lady.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Confession #1:</b></span> I have embarrassingly crude thoughts about fellow shoppers at grocery stores. I have yet to find a grocery store to shop at that has aisles big enough. Big enough for what, you ask? Big enough for everything, I say. I think mostly it's that I just don't get why, in a world consisting of a billion people, 999 million of them don't seem to understand that (1) when parking a cart in an aisle to make food purchase decisions, a cart should (a) not be parked smack dab in the middle of the aisle or (b) parked horizontally at the end of an aisle, as both choices not only completely trap one's fellow shoppers in an aisle, both choices also cause an elevation in blood pressure of certain fellow shoppers (ie, <i>me</i>), causing her to imagine taking a cart blocking her way and slamming it repeatedly into, say, some egg cartons, thereby officially losing her mind and possibly getting arrested. Most definitely getting strange, horrified stares. At the grocery store. Usually in the cereal and canned foods aisles, but often in the dairy section. Because her fellow grocery store shoppers seem to be completely unaware of the fact they are not the only ones who are trying to buy food and exist in the world. <br />
<br />
The other grocery store pissed off confession I have is having to wait for a fellow shopper standing, sometimes for a full 10 minutes, in front of the very area I also need to grab something from, and having to wait for them to make a decision and watching them do so in a most oblivious manner. If I had to think hard for 10 minutes, or even had 10 minutes just to stand and wait patiently for their thinking processes to reach conclusion, this would only be a minor irritation. But this is not the case. I want to grab their shoulders, shake them, and scream into their faces: "YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE!! YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE!!" And then run away, leaving them shocked, confused, and (most likely) still oblivious. Most often in the produce section, but sometimes in the frozen food area.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Confession #2:</b></span> About 6 weeks ago, I totally lost my mind at my local Target. I've been shopping at this Target for going on a decade now, with nary a single emotionally crazy peep. But 6 weeks ago, I'd had a really frickin' long day at work, was dealing with an outrageous amount of hormones, and on top of all that was generally in a big hurry. I'd plopped Melissa in the back of the cart (<i>not</i> properly seat belted and <i>not </i>in the proper front seat <i>not </i>like the properly behaved angel the Target employee I'm about to tell you about apparently demands all strange children who are none of her business be) and was swinging through (in a general, hormonal hurry) to get what I needed from the office product section.<br />
<br />
Target Employee with a Terrific Need to Condemn and Control sees us, and says in a haughty tone of voice: "You better put that baby in the front seat like you're supposed to. She <i>needs</i> to be sitting down." I looked at her long and hard and said, "Excuse me?" And she repeated what she'd said again, this time in (what was clearly) a nastier tone of voice. And so I looked at her even longer and harder and then said slowly (because I was so enraged I couldn't even see straight and was convinced if a brick happened to be nearby I would throw it at her head), "Ooookaaaay. Well. She's not a baby and I think I can manage my own child." And then I stomped off. Target didn't have what I needed anyway. What kind of a stupid Target was this?? With their rude, control-y employees and not having what a person needs anyway.<br />
<br />
So I was furious and in a bad mood for the rest of my time in Target. And at check out, I think I scared the quiet, sweet cashier wearing a headscarf when I abruptly asked to speak to a manager. And when the manager came, I told her what had happened, apologized by saying I never do stuff like huffily demand to speak to managers, but I'd had a really long day and what was said and the tone it was said in was an incredibly inappropriate way to speak to a customer and I'd like to know that the manager was going to let the employee know that. And then before she could even lay out her action plan for me, I burst into tears and left.<br />
<br />
Here's the confession part: I avoided going back to that Target for 4 weeks straight and when I did go back (on a Wednesday, around 5 pm-ish), and ran into both the nasty employee and the manager I'd had a psychotic melt down on? I glared at both of those chicks in a very "You think you want a piece of this?? Bring it." kind of way. And now I only go to that Target if it's the weekend and/or before 4 pm. And every time Melissa is with me now, I put her in the front seat and tell her she has to sit there in case we run into the "mean lady" again. Which means now I'm passing on my hormonal imbalance-y thinking to my daughter, and when she's in talk therapy years later as an adult, she'll spend so much time working out her strange, irrational fear and belief that female Target employees are all "mean ladies."<br />
<br />
But mostly, every time I sit her in the front seat and buckle her in, I feel like I'm letting the mean Target lady win. And this is Christmastime, when mean Target ladies should not be allowed to win.<br />
<br />
Which is precisely why I've decided the next time I have to go to that Target, I'll go (a) at 5 pm on a weekday and (b) let Melissa ride in the back of the cart, standing up, possibly holding a sign that says "You think you want a piece of this?? Bring it."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Confession #3</b></span>: I've also started frequenting (please make sure you're sitting down before continuing)........................... Wal-Mart. Anyone who knows me well should be sitting with a really stunned look on their face after reading that, because historically I'm very anti-Wal-Mart. I'm not convinced they treat all of their employees fairly, and also the aisles are too narrow (see confession #1). And the other customers freak me out occasionally. I will note, though, I haven't run into one inappropriately condescending employee. And they have an organic section. Who knew?!<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Confession #4:</span></b> This has nothing to do with shopping, and I tagged it on at the end in the hopes you'd get bored and stop reading before hitting Confession #4. Confession #4 is that not only have I read all of the Twilight books, I have consistently taken myself (alone, in secret, hidden in the dark recesses of my skeletons' closet) to see each Twilight movie as they come out.<br />
<br />
I read the first book while on bed rest and pregnant. It was horribly written, but I could tell: if I was a teenage girl with angst and social acceptance issues (ie, if I were 14 all over again), I would be on these sparkly vampire people who don't hurt people like white on rice. And then I read the 2nd book, which was written even worse than the 1st. But I couldn't stop. I had to know what happened next! Each book, in succession, was plotted, conceived, and written worse than the last.<br />
<br />
But that's not the worst part of it all. Liking poorly written, gushy romance novels about vampires is one thing. Liking poorly written, gushy vampire romance novels involving helpless heroines is something else. I feel about myself like I feel about my child loving pink and Disney princesses: <i>Oh, Amy. No no no. Where did I fail you??</i> (Bella, the female protagonist, spends every book pining for a boy and begging for rescue). I feel like someone who accidentally changed the tv channel and landed on a perverse reality show (that is so obviously scripted and simply put there to control and then destroy the very soul of America) but after 15 minutes <i>has</i> to keep watching because now I've invested 15 minutes of my time and have to see what happens at the end. Even if the end is sort of like, "That's <i>it</i>?"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Confession #5:</b></span> I go see the movies because (a) the quality is always questionable, but (b) I still really want to see the books put into action, and (c) I'm on Team Edward. Because he has really red lips and nice amber eyes (after slurping down deer blood, of course) and sparkly skin and when he's not in the Twilight movies he has a British accent and I love those. I was a high school freshman when the actor who plays Edward was born and so it's just incredibly inappropriate but not really, since Edward is technically 110 years old or something. Imagination and reality get blurry for me when Twilight is involved.<br />
<br />
Not to mention very weird, since I'll be a 40 year old woman on my next birthday with a lot on her plate to worry about right now: a new job, maintaining a household, raising an independent girl who hopefully will trend toward Harry Potter rather than glittery vampires...which may be precisely why I'm drawn toward being rescued by the undead. As long as they sparkle and won't munch on me (at least not in ways I don't like), it's a release from the day to day reality of crazy.<br />
<br />
I think a lot of the people in the audience with me on Tuesday morning I went to see Breaking Dawn are in this for similar reasons. There were 10 other people in the theater with me and the audience make up looked like this: 4 ladies in their 40-50's, 4 teenagers, 1 lone man who looked like he was in his 70's, and a couple (I suspect the husband was dragged there) in their 60's. And me. Dressed head to toe in black, like I was channeling a stealth ninja. A stealth ninja weakened by an irrational love for imaginary spangly vampires to rescue her, completely forgetting that, yo, she's a frickin' <i>ninja</i>. A <i>stealth </i>ninja.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Confession #6</b></span> (another non-shopping confession): I think only about 6 people regularly read this blog (hi Michele, hi Mom!), so I'm feeling fairly good about this Twilight secret staying securely in the back of my closet. (I also think it's pretty telling that I'm more comfortable with many in the general public knowing about my irrational rage thoughts toward other shoppers in grocery stores and outlandish emotional breakdowns in Target than admitting--out loud--that I'm on, you know, Team Edward.) (Although Team Jacob can be fairly stunning in his shirtless moments.) (No no! I can't, <i>mustn't</i>, betray Edward!) <br />
<br />
I'll be so glad when they release Breaking Dawn part 2 and I can shove this Twilight nonsense into my basement, right next to my Hello Kitty collection.amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-3064795174421786192011-10-30T09:00:00.000-04:002011-12-20T08:48:30.146-05:00tippy toe walking through year 3.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7QwiQGWgrFUNZt_GrvILL0pMqIz-Nm4yhyDHRtPKUlIg_qAzPh3XKv6nUwIKvXWOwywO0gv2TIPOmo3DRzu5gBA_5ax9kf3y9v3nFHTqRDfHxV0lXekXqHatr5H1TFYPCxdksAo8WrMg/s1600/10-30-08_1357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7QwiQGWgrFUNZt_GrvILL0pMqIz-Nm4yhyDHRtPKUlIg_qAzPh3XKv6nUwIKvXWOwywO0gv2TIPOmo3DRzu5gBA_5ax9kf3y9v3nFHTqRDfHxV0lXekXqHatr5H1TFYPCxdksAo8WrMg/s200/10-30-08_1357.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Dear Melissa,<br />
<br />
Today, you're three. <i>Three</i>! Can you believe it?? Man, this time three years ago, I was pushing. And pushing and pushing. Who knew I was such a good pusher?? We had a really sweet mid-wife, but now I can't remember her name. I remember she had blonde hair, a sweet and soft voice, and looked like she participated in beauty pageants with titles like "<i>Southern Miss Tater Tot Queen</i>." But she turned out to be so much stronger than that; never ever judge a book by its cover. Because when it was time to really get serious and push you out, she was anything but sweet and pageant-ly; she was completely in command and in control. And I really, really needed that, three years ago today (and also, apparently: a seriously big oxygen mask...you were sucking the very life out of me).<br />
<br />
Anyway, I needed cool, calm, collected people around me as I had no idea what I was doing. (Confession #1: I still have no idea what I'm doing, with this parenting gig; but it's cool. I like flying by the seat of my pants...unless we're in the car and well, I know you know how mommy feels about <i>that</i>. I can see you're already walking around, nursing a healthy amount of pre-school road rage toward strange drivers on the road, and so I know driving lessons in 13 years are going to go absolutely smoothly...other drivers are crazy, and that's pretty much all you need to know before venturing forth onto Atlanta's freeways).<br />
<br />
You've grown so much over the last three years. Some times I think about how you were when we first brought you home, which, if I had to use a summarizing, over all, very generalizing word? Overwhelming. Sorry, m'am, but you were. You were absolutely, completely overwhelming. You made all these little drunk guy faces (highly amusing), you were unpredictable (not as amusing), and your need for breast milk was constant and unrelentless (absolutely, completely the opposite of amusing).<br />
<br />
When we left the hospital, I remember the nurse wheeled us downstairs, into the beautifully sunny, chilly October Sunday afternoon air, and said, "Congratulations, good luck!" And I was all: "Holy moly! They're just letting us take this completely helpless little thing home with us? Like we're baby raising experts? Geez, I hope nobody gets hurt." And then, later, sometimes, late at night, I wondered: what the holy heck have I just <i>done</i> to myself?? And then other times, we'd lay together on the sofa and I'd watch you sleep, and I'd think: "Wow. I kind of made you and stuff. That's so frickin' amazing."<br />
<br />
Confession #2: Sometimes I watch you sleep at night, 3 years later, and still can't believe you and I were once one; that you were once a part of me and I was a part of you. And that I, you know, kind of made you and stuff. <i>So</i> frickin' amazing.<br />
<br />
And now here you <i>are</i>! You've mastered crawling, you're exiting Phase Toddler, you're walking and running and skipping (like a ballerina, mostly, insisting on getting around the world on your tippy toes, almost exclusively). Hopefully, we won't have to, like, slit your achilles tendon to stretch out those heel muscles like the one physical therapist lady your dad bumped into several months ago said we'd have to do if you didn't start walking flat on your feet...what was up with that chick anyway?? Why the heck would some stranger think it was okay to send your dad into fits of neurotic fear thoughts about the slitting of feet when everyone in the Universe knows how he is about that body area? Plus, now that woman has both of us and all your teachers constantly saying things like: "Walk on your feet, honey." and "Flat feet, remember: Flat feet."<br />
<br />
Which is just so flippin' silly because I can so see this from your viewpoint: <i>Uh, hello, mommy and daddy, I <b>AM</b> walking on my feet. Yes, Ms. B, I'm <b>ON</b> my feet. My silly tippy toe feet!</i>) (Though I do think you may end up with some awe-inspiring calf muscles in a few years) (and please know: I often consider tippy toe walking through life right with you--awesome calf muscles are nothing to turn one's nose up at).<br />
<br />
Oh, and you are absolutely, without a doubt potty trained now...no more mortifying, unhygienic moments at McDonald's playlands now. (Though I do sincerely wish you would stop being afraid of empty bathrooms in our house and learn to go by yourself...while I'm thankful I can finally do my own business solo, now it's flip flopped, and I'm sitting on the bathroom floor while you do your business. And I'm doing bizarre things like talking to your tummy, begging your pee pee to stop hiding and I say goofball things like <i>come out come out, come out wherever you are, Melissa's silly pee pee</i>) (Though I must say you appear to have amazing Kegel muscles).<br />
<br />
What else are you doing now as a big, grown up three year old big girl? Oh yes. You're a critic. A natural-born, argumentative critic who gets indignant about quite a lot. If I say the sky is up, you insist it's down. If I note out loud what a happy girl you are, you yell "NO Mommy! I'm a MAD girl!" And you get so ticked off if someone looks at you at just the wrong moment, and no one can tell when or where or why that moment will be. For some reason only you know, you think being a mad girl is going to get you places. And you know what? You go, mad girl. Because sometimes I wish I had more mad girl in me, too. Saying "No" is not a fear for you, being a people pleaser is simply not part of your repetoire right now, and I like that about you.<br />
<br />
You are afraid of Tasha, for some odd reason. You know: Tasha, our gentle, ancient, aging black cat who sleeps 15 out 24 hours per day and is afraid of bugs. The one who walks through the house at 3 am mourning her life and occasionally throwing up on everything. I suppose she's the closest thing you'll ever have to a sibling. Tasha is basically just your big, dorky, annoying, little sister. And sometimes you'll sit on our couch, look over and see Tasha licking herself, and you'll let out a blood curdling scream. And when we ask you, "Melissa, <i>why</i> are you screaming at Tasha?" you usually respond with, "Because I scared of Tasha. Tasha is the big bad wolf." (Okay, fine. She <i>is</i> kind of spooky--especially when all the lights are off and she jumps out of a corner at you and you had no idea that was coming...or when all the lights are on, but she's lying in a dark corner of the hallway and all you can see are her ghostly yellow eyes...wow. I think the next time I see Tasha I'll scream in her general direction, too.)<br />
<br />
Man, Melissa. The Big Bad Wolf...this is a running theme for you right now, and you have a love/hate relationship with this scary guy. You love to act out the 3 Little Pigs story, and you're getting so awesome at the re-telling of Little Red Riding Hood. But now...<i>now </i>you're reluctant to go anywhere there's even the remotest chance of bumping into the Big Bad Wolf in a dark corner. And apparently, the Big Bad Wolf runs our house once the sun sets.<br />
<br />
Or even after the sun rises: this morning the sun was shining brilliantly but the bathroom simply wasn't quite bright enough; you were sure the Big Bad Wolf (aka Tasha) was waiting in the depths to pounce on you.<br />
<br />
But please know: I so totally get you! Because honestly, I can't go into that bathroom either without flicking on a light. What is <i>up</i> with that room? And YES! The upstairs part of our house IS totally creepy! I don't know what that is. It could be some weird vibes from your dad's office area. Or maybe on one of my ghost hunting adventures I inadvertantly brought something home. We'll never know, and your dad says we can't move right now, the timing's wrong and the housing market bubble bursting has made our house worth cat poop. So we'll do some spiritual cleansing rituals up there when it's time for us to kick you out of our bed; I'm not sure these actually work, but at this point, anything will help. I'm tired of waking up with your feet in my face.<br />
<br />
Also, some nights, when your dad is out of town on a business trip, you know: we sleep with almost all the lights on in the house. I'm sorry, sweet girl. I've totally passed on my irrational fear of ghosts and bumps in the night on to you. Plus, I watch way too many episodes of <a href="http://www.syfy.com/ghosthunters/">Ghosthunters</a> and <a href="http://www.syfy.com/ghosthuntersinternational/">Ghosthunters International</a>. Though I do stay away from that over the top stuff, like Travel Channel's <a href="http://www.travelchannel.com/TV_Shows/Ghost_Adventures">Ghost Adventures</a>. One day, after you've conquered all your irrational fears, we'll watch it together and talk about scientific ghost hunting vs. travel channel crap ghost hunting. There's a huge difference.<br />
<br />
Today, I'm taking you to the Fox Theatre to see Brobee, Foofa, Tootie, Plex, Muno, and DJ Lance of <a href="http://yogabbagabba.com/">Yo Gabba Gabba</a>. You love these bizarre monsters and I have no frickin' idea why. I mean, I get DJ Lance--he's kinda funky, a coolio hipster kind of guy. But that one eyed red monster-y guy? And the green unibrow dude? Who you're absolutely in love with? Oh dear. <br />
<br />
Also, you're obsessed with Dora, Diego, Elmo, and several Disney Princesses and Fairies. I'm currently most concerned about your fascination with the Princesses. The red phallic-like and unibrow monsters I can deal with; even the fairies I get. Fairies are sort of cool, with their magical powers and sparkly wings. But pink tiaras, Melissa?? Seriously. And princesses??? I'm worried we're only 3 years in and I've already failed you...who frickin' introduced you to Disney's version of a princess??? Don't say it! Do <i>not</i> say it. I totally have that daycare kid's name and face in my head right now. You are SO not going to her next birthday party, I don't care if she has 10 pinatas, free pony rides, and a real train. Wrong-headed peer pressure: it starts so early for 21st century kids. <br />
<br />
But I'm <i>glad</i> you're a 21st century kid! You're going to have an amazing life. And what I want most for you, what I imagine for you at this point, is really just a life filled with curiosity, being unafraid to ask questions and take risks, make mistakes and learn from them, take stuff apart and learn how it works. And I want you to try anything you want to try--even if you want to wear pink tutus and dance ballet. And don't even worry if the genetic pool you got has you ending up with the opposite of a ballerina's body (because who the heck is really happy in a ballerina's body anyway...I'm sure you could poll any ballerina and they'd be really sad about how many cupcakes they consistently miss out on). And! Tippy toe walking could be our sign you are actually headed to the New York City Ballet (just please: not as a princess).<br />
<br />
You're smart. You're sure of yourself. You're independent and--other than bathroom trips--fairly self-reliant. You're going places, and I'm so glad the Universe picked me to be your mommy to guide you through it all. Oh, and you're an obsessive milk drinker (it's the only thing you want to drink right now), so I know you'll grow up with really calcium-fortified bones. And that's good. <br />
<br />
I love you, sweet Melissa. And I'm so proud of you and all you've learned and accomplished over the last 3 years. I know you're proud of you, too. You're growing up into a really awesome kid who's going to do great things, and I'm really happy I get to go along for the ride.<br />
<br />
Happy birthday and love,<br />
Mommy<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUzFo4Xdop6t7MdJgjUsvl4EQe-bMEYkr0Zt6LdimPLeK5fV8OeT5CJJFW0IDWBzsEWBJKR7aVC4gw7RGeOU_6sW6f6xjOBGGCDeE_JfyKe2fXulSJCcPogoMFZl3xcmoa1DlGaaUWPU/s1600/04-30-11_1811.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUzFo4Xdop6t7MdJgjUsvl4EQe-bMEYkr0Zt6LdimPLeK5fV8OeT5CJJFW0IDWBzsEWBJKR7aVC4gw7RGeOU_6sW6f6xjOBGGCDeE_JfyKe2fXulSJCcPogoMFZl3xcmoa1DlGaaUWPU/s320/04-30-11_1811.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-29811504882362383072011-10-10T01:46:00.000-04:002011-12-20T08:47:53.750-05:00third grade: the talking year (or: be glad you are not a pencil).<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLnCnixhU6oXcaNEA-uE-iwE8-6mPbNwC43R3dIU1ejYl8BLTQ_Oao0G4A3HOFiwQB03wxUiXad0YI33_B8poNR6lBx0MfrE_H896U931OaYsstmiG5ZnRd5G7kXDp0FEWhB7Sx049MDw/s1600/IMAG0274.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLnCnixhU6oXcaNEA-uE-iwE8-6mPbNwC43R3dIU1ejYl8BLTQ_Oao0G4A3HOFiwQB03wxUiXad0YI33_B8poNR6lBx0MfrE_H896U931OaYsstmiG5ZnRd5G7kXDp0FEWhB7Sx049MDw/s320/IMAG0274.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I have survived. I did know that I would; I just like to be melodramatic in times of drastic change and upheaval. Please make a mental note to yourself right now about this: if 2012 does turn out to be the end of the world as we know it (r.i.p., REM), do not (I repeat: do NOT) ask me to be one of your Post-Apocalypse team mates...unless you're okay being eaten alive by apocalyptic humanoid cannibal zombies in mere minutes.<br />
<br />
So I've been a 3rd grade Science/Social Studies teacher for 2 weeks now. So far, I've taught 2 weeks of Paul Revere, briefly wondering to myself (often out loud) while concocting lessons (and I also did this while developing lessons to teach 1st grade English language learners about odd historical figures like Annie Oakley and Davy Crockett--gun toting sharp shooters, precisely the two people I instantly think of when making American heroes connections to 6 year olds--Abraham Lincoln?? George Washington?? Psh. These are 21st century kids, homies!)...I kept thinking: why THAT guy? There are hundreds, possibly thousands, of people throughout the annals of American history to pick from but we go with the shotgun girl, the raccoon hat dude (or was that Lewis and Clarke? No matter, 1st graders learn them as well), and the guy who didn't actually make it all the way to Concord, MA because some British soldiers took his horse? I don't see the connections behind the why's. I think I get the how's and what for's. I'm just still working out the why's. In my head. Sometimes out loud. But never in front of children. Blatantly.<br />
<br />
But then. I'm not in charge of Curriculum & Instruction, Common Core Standards, etc., now am I? A good thing, because I promise if it were up to me, there would be whole sections on end of year high stakes tests with subject headings like: <i>Compare/Contrast the Mental Health Benefits of Chocolate Kisses vs. Chocolate Ice Cream</i>, <u>Math Problems Using Calculators</u>, and <b>Awesomely Astute Harry Potter Quotes</b>. For extra credit (and fifty teacher pet points), students would be able to write a persuasive essay to Gerard Butler (of <i>300</i> fame, a movie several of my new friends have indicated to me they are totally obsessed with--as well as <i>Bride of Chucky, </i>a horror movie involving axes and hockey goalie masks, and some movie about drug lord warfare) to implore Mr. Butler to be our Mystery Reader for One Whole Week at our school. In my classroom. All day long. Followed by power dinners out. (What? What? If J Lo happened to be in Atlanta and happened to need to access Medicaid insurance information and happened to need to access Medicaid insurance information in our area of town, I'd totally understand if C called me up to let me know he wouldn't be home for dinner.) (I bet outrageous rambling what-if scenarios like these are exactly why famous people feel pressured to hire armed bodyguards.)<br />
<br />
Okay, moving on. Here's what I've learned so far about 3rd grader psychology:<br />
<br />
1. They're basically just 1st graders, in larger packages. They still like to give hugs and get stickers, and they respond in very Pavlovian ways to these types of candies: Starbursts, Skittles, and Jolly Ranchers (Jolly Ranchers having the most peculiar effect: 3rd graders all over the world will give erratic screams of delight upon finding them in a candy jar). Which is so totally awesome, because of all the candy in the world, the three I'm not drawn to are Starbursts, Skittles, and Jolly Ranchers. If they insisted on mini Snickers or 3 Musketeer bars, I'd have to seek other employment.<br />
<br />
2a. But they're savvier in that I can see their little 3rd grade mind gears constantly turning, always trying to trip me up, back me into some corner they've painted, hoping I didn't notice it was there. Like, I let them know I only have one rule in my class and that rule is: You can do anything (<i>ANYthing?? they said with incredulous tones. Yes, ANYthing, I said</i>) in my classroom.....<i>melodramatic pause for giant effect</i>....as long as it doesn't bother anyone else (including and especially me, The Teacher) or mess up anyone else's learning (and/or my ability to teach). Can you hear the disappointed "Oh."s? There were about 100 of these when I exposed the last half of my One Rule, and they came out in a very a <i>Row Row Row Your Boat</i> type of choral round.<br />
<br />
Later that week (okay, fine, the very next day), every class had at least 15 kids who did something annoying, who then immediately attempted to invoke the: "But you SAID we could do ANYTHING we wanted..." defense. Behavior clips were pulled, thunderous "oh man!"s echoed throughout the trailer classroom (which, I would like to note for further effect: noises in a portable classroom are exactly 10 million to the 10th power times louder than in an indoor, regular classroom. This noise level alone causes at least 6 clips to be pulled in my most talkative groups, on a daily, thunderous basis.) <br />
<br />
2b.But I have to give it to them: so far, out of the almost 100 people I see all day, two have very narrowly and successfully mentally maneuvered me into a corner they've painted that I didn't see was there. And good for them! Those little problem solvers! Good for them. Because when I see decent problem solving, I don't care what the circumstances are; those people always get a big high five and a jolly rancher from me on their way out the door. Even if I have to pull a clip while high fiving them.<br />
<br />
3. Third graders like to talk. Third graders like to talk and they don't care what it's about or who they're talking to, as long as they get to talk. If a third grader was sitting by him or herself in a white padded cell with no windows or doors, that third grader would talk to the white pads on the wall, just so she or he could make sure his or her vocal chords remained in good talking condition. Also, they might hum. And if there was something to tap nearby that would make a satisfying and highly annoying to everyone else tapping sound, they would tap it. For hours.<br />
<br />
4. Third graders have a visceral need to be entertained, at all costs. This can be exhausting. But then again, this is also partly just teaching in general--my first graders always demanded entertainment, too (and don't we all?...for example, I just finished the latest PEOPLE magazine plus one OK! U.S. edition C brought back from an airplane trip and TMZ.com comes thisclose to getting bookmarked on my computer every other day).<br />
<br />
This is what teaching is to me: is a little bit of disseminating information, a good portion of cutting and pasting and running off copies, and great deal of acting as a way of keeping pinging neurons focused. There are days I get into my car and I'm all, "When are these non-teachers going to stop complaining about all the things they don't know anything about, and just frickin' broadcast the first annual Teacher Oscars?" Or, at the very least, give me one more pay raise before retirement. Is all <i>I</i>'<i>m</i> asking for. Oh, and maybe less testing, too. A teaching Oscar, a modest pay raise, and less testing. Teachers really don't ask for much. ....okay, well. I was actually pretty serious about Gerard Butler being a Mystery Reader at my school for a week. In my classroom. Including power dinners at swank restaurants after.<br />
<br />
5. Third graders are to pencils as zombies are to the living. In first grade ESOL, every beginning of the school year, I'd buy 4 boxes of pencils. Sometimes just 2. And I'd always have at least one whole box of 24 pencils left over at the end of the year. Because I guess 1st graders simply don't write as much? For sure they don't eat pencils. Which is so odd to discover, because when I think "pencil eaters," I don't think of people finishing up their first decade of life. I think of people who've just recently left toddlerhood.<br />
<br />
Clearly, something is happening between the time children leave 1st grade and arrive in 3rd. Some type of physical and/or psychological shift which causes a child to take out all of his or her passive aggressions on the poor pencils of the world. Two weeks ago, I began my career in 3rd grade with exactly 50 pencils. Fifty shining, perfectly formed, happy new pencils. Two weeks later, I have lost 30 of these pencils and the 20 who've somehow survived the battle are sitting, unsharpened and mangled, in my classroom as I type this. They are chipped, they are stained. They are missing limbs (erasers), they have been chewed on, they have been shredded. They have been stripped of any dignity they had left, and some of them are now nothing more than the nubs of pencils they once were. To be a pencil in the hands of a 3rd grader is to know the true cost of a bloody battle to the death, to be at the mercy of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for decades to come. <br />
<br />
And last and most important:<br />
<br />
6. The coolest thing I've discovered about 3rd graders is this: they can do stuff. When I say "stuff" I actually mean: mostly follow directions. Like, in 1st grade, I would say something like, "Okay, friends. Everyone put your paper under your chair and look at me." And then I would say that last sentence in various other forms again. For 5 more minutes or 200 times, whichever came first. In 3rd grade, I only have to say that sentence about 3 or 4 times and it gets done. I mean, it's not perfect; nothing in Life ever is. You have your stragglers. You have your boundary pushers. You have your tired, your poor, your hard of hearing, and your what-did-you-just-say?-because-I've-been-tapping-this-chewed up-pencil-and-talking-for-the-last-twenty-minutes-so-I'm-not-really-sure-what-I'm-supposed-to-be-doing-right-now-much-less-where-I-am...where-am-I-again? people. But generally speaking, you say it once, and about 60% of the class does it. By the second time, 80% is with you. On the 3rd try, you're really only looking at about 3 people with your best and hardest Teacher Stare. It's like...it's like....it's like<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=usfiAsWR4qU"> this</a></span>. And friends who know kids well will understand when I state: that is <i>all</i> good.<br />
<br />
So basically, I'm okay. There have been some sketchy moments; I'm still clueless about grades...not necessarily what to grade as much as when and how. And I'm up late a lot, looking for cool stuff to show them or do with them with whatever new thing we'll be learning about next. .....Okay, fine. I'm up late a lot just trying to educate myself on whatever new thing we'll be learning about next. Like, when we were doing Paul Revere, I kept getting the lanterns mixed up--how many if by land vs. sea? Which totally could have ruined the whole Revolution thing for us if Paul's friend in the Old North Church tower had been, say, <i>me</i>.<br />
<br />
But I'm really starting to love this. Because you can still do incredibly fun and exciting and cool stuff with 3rd graders while imparting the vast amount of informative knowledge testing gurus insist is necessary for young children to be able to spew. I am fine with this, as long as I can find ways to (a) make it fun so it actually does stick in their heads (even if sporadically and not for very long) and (b) make it fun so I don't stab myself in the eye with a pencil nub suffering from PTSD. Third graders have to do a lot of note taking, and 3rd grade is where school gets serious. But I long for the days school wasn't just testing and information pushing--I miss the fun projects. This is the 21st century; surely projects are the old new wave of the future, right? Please say yes, testing gurus. My pencil nubs are nervous.<br />
<br />
I am also spending some money--this is nothing new for me, to pull out cash (or, in my case, AmEx) for my job and not ever be reimbursed. And I know I don't have to do this because very kind people at school have given me a plethora of lesson plans/ideas. But that's just me. I'm sure it's a weird version of retail therapy...some people shop for shoes. I shop for teaching supplies.<br />
<br />
I'm also on a lot of teacher blogs. Who knew?! Did you know? Not me! Holy pencil chips: there is a veritable plethora of minions of teachers out there in the blogging world who (a) are not using the blogging platform simply as a way to publicly expose their melodramatic accounts of stuff Life flings their way while occasionally overanalyzing the psyches of 8 year olds as well as their almost-3-year old child (who is becoming more and more neurotic about the dark and things that go bump in the night...I suspect one too many Ghosthunters episodes while she was gestating are to blame), and (b) are using blogs as platforms to share and connect with other education professionals....and, you know. Maybe also <a href="http://teachersnotebook.com/">give themselves</a> <a href="http://www.teacherspayteachers.com/">the pay raise</a> all 50 state congresses are clearly reluctant to give. Between teacher bloggers and amazon.com, I just know I'm going to be broke by December (hi, honey! if you're reading this...please send all complaints to Governor Nathan Deal c/o Sonny Perdue and maybe some fat cats on Wall St.).<br />
<br />
But don't worry! I could be rich by the end of this summer! Because--and I don't know if you guys know this about me or not--one of my most favorite things to do, second only to procrastinating which is third only to napping, is to create educational powerpoints. And once I get this Promethean board in my room (which I lovingly refer to as my %$#$@!*&^ board, since it takes exactly 10 minutes or 500 unpluggings and repluggings of the usb cord, whichever comes first, to try to convince the laptop to talk to the board--did they have some kind of a fight before I moved in? Who knows why technology does anything it does) ...once I get my %$#@^%!^ board figured out, I'm positive I'll add creating active board flip charts to my hobbies as well. This could be quite lucrative, if a little time consuming.<br />
<br />
If the teachers paying teachers thing works out, I'm definitely spending at least one summer in the near future world traveling, on a Gerard Butler hunt.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNyyxAT3lPH2r4FshifDVMrdbRmeTdGz19kzn-OMWzxGxVHd5HcaZlg_flRn-XgHbS7gTxHAAY1e3TBUPGP8qmeJmBxzdM5KB2zSXVAAMGgTSShbMZBDq2kkE5h_oO7Hj7P381jN1N2Y/s1600/IMAG0261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNyyxAT3lPH2r4FshifDVMrdbRmeTdGz19kzn-OMWzxGxVHd5HcaZlg_flRn-XgHbS7gTxHAAY1e3TBUPGP8qmeJmBxzdM5KB2zSXVAAMGgTSShbMZBDq2kkE5h_oO7Hj7P381jN1N2Y/s320/IMAG0261.jpg" width="190" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gerard Butler would look totally natural in this environment.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-78218495233025498632011-09-16T23:05:00.000-04:002011-12-20T08:47:34.677-05:00Shock and awe.<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So it's been quite a week of Big New Stuff for me. And for one of my most other favorite co-worker friends. And some (still blissfully unaware) students. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">First some professional background: When I picked elementary education as my college major, I picked it because (a) the psychology department was requiring Calculus as a pre-requisite (which I now know is just so ridiculous: I've paid hundreds of psychologists to listen to me and my problems over the years and not once, not ONCE, have any of them stopped me and said, "Hold on! Hold that thought! I need to convert it to this special Psychological Calculus chart. It's why I took Calculus in college.") and (most of all) (b) I really, really dig kids. And I really, really wanted to do something helpful and important with my life, specifically with kids, more specifically with little kids. And I wanted that helpful and important thing I was doing with my life, specifically with little kids, to be in an area of the country where little kids most needed help (i.e., the ghetto, the barrio, the wrong side of the tracks, places where people on the skids tend to congregate) (disclosure: though I am white and grew up in an upper middle class family, I remain largely disinterested in teaching these people's kids and having to listen to all their champagne problems) (this is possibly one reason I totally don't have a problem with lots and lots of Commie Socialist stuff...like the public library and schools for example...taking over our society).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Anywho. I digress/am suddenly and dangerously off topic.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Oh, but wait--while I'm off topic, I also need to note here that I am no fan of big to large-ish kids. Some people who go into education are--they see humans under the age of 8 as frightening alien blobs that are to be avoided, unless one ends up in their home as a result of a pregnancy. <i>Those</i> small alien blobs are okay, because they're only being dealt with in a 1:1 or 1:2 ratio, and so yes. But in large groups? No way! Some people start itching with hives just thinking about teaching a class of squirmy Kindergartners picking their noses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This is how I feel about big to large-ish kids. I do not understand big to large-ish kids' brains, and I worry about having to hear the rehashing of a lot of episodes of iCarly and The Suite Life on Deck, two shows I just don't get (because I no longer possess a large-ish kid brain). I have taught for 16 years, and of those 16 years I've taught this many children over the age of seven: 0. Basically what I'm telling you is: I am an armchair child psychology expert in Kindergarten and 1st grade, I'll even go so far as to throw early half of 2nd grade into my bag of tricks. Need to know why your 1st grader is making those strange wailing sounds and yanking his arms around like he's having a seizure? Duh! That's just what all 1st grade boys do every day at 2 PM. But 3rd grade boys? At 2 PM? I have no idea. I feel hives starting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I do know Melissa will be in the large-ish kid category one day. But again. 1:1 ratio factor. I do not have to face a large group of 25 big Melissas everyday. The only plus to that situation would be that they are all (hopefully) securely potty trained.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Okay. That's out of the way.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So. Finally getting to my whole point. Here's what happened this week: the state's education budget is a big wad of poop right now, and no one's really trying to flush the toilet. It's just sitting there and sitting there, fermenting like a 3rd grade science experiment gone wrong. I suspect 49.5 out 50 state education budgets are this way right now. But thank goodness Congress was able to bail out those guys on Wall Street! Right? Lord only knows <i>what</i> the children of America could have done with that $700 billion. Most of the small kids I know--after spending a good portion of it on Wii games and junk food and trips to Six Flags and Disney World--would have been extremely generous with it. I'm pretty sure that one little guy in my 4th class of the day--after he'd bought himself a whole room of lizards and snakes--would have made sure my house was paid off. I've never known a decent kid who doesn't have a heart. ...I don't get that same vibe from hedge fund guys. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">At any rate. What I'm taking a really long time to get to is my announcement that I have had to make a really hard decision and give up my ESOL position teaching Kindergarten and 1st grade. There is not enough money to support the number of ESOL teachers at our school, and the 3rd grade teachers deserve some relief (they currently have an average of 29 people in their classes). We had to pull one ESOL teacher to be a classroom teacher, and one to be a Science/Social Studies teacher. And after I slept on it, and meditated in between cussing out God (don't worry--He's totally used to hearing it from me), and really thought about what was happening and what the horizon looked like up the road, I decided I needed to put on my big girl underpants and make like Nike and Just Do It (too many overdone cliches in one paragraph?).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Please know: this was my <i>dream</i> job. When I was in college learning to be a teacher I was always so frustrated, because I wanted to work with little kids who were poor and couldn't speak English and the college didn't offer any programs or even any classes to train me on how to do that. I think I remember one brief blurb in a Language Arts text book somewhere. I wanted to help English learners learn about America, how to speak English, so they could grow up to be part of this country and make it a better place to live. I really believe in the power of diversity and the goodness of multiculturalism; I <i>like</i> seeing signs in different languages on the road...I love the mosques and temples and churches all hanging out together in harmony, One World style...I feel so happy when I'm at the nail shop and I watch two people communicate via 3 different languages. Our differences are our hardest soft power, our greatest strength as a country. I think if you're afraid of immigrants and the changes they bring to your area, you're already behind the times. I know we can all learn from each other and that no one kind of belief system is better than another. Although some cultures do have tastier foods.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I have deeply, incredibly loved my time as an ESOL teacher--I've learned how to be a better teacher just from all the collaborating with other teachers I've done over the last 9 years. And I've taught some ridiculously cute little kids. <i>Ridiculously</i> cute.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But when the current educational state of the situation was presented to us on Tuesday, along with some other situations I've been hearing about here and there cropping up in my department throughout the school district, I could see the writing on the wall and it was those big huge blocks of graffiti you see all over New York City (and some areas that Atlanta's MARTA trains fly by). I'm not sure what the future of ESOL in the state of Georgia is right now; it does not look good, friendly friends. I'd like to think this is just a money issue that will one day be fixed as soon as all the Wall Street fat cats pony up and become responsible tax paying citizens again...I sincerely hope it's not a reflection of the growing animosity I see towards immigrants in this country, even the legal ones. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I actually didn't have to volunteer to change positions--there were a couple of other people on my grade level who would have been tagged due to seniority. But my dear friend and most awesome co-worker J was definitely going to have to go, and I just really enjoy working with her. She's never taught in a classroom, is another small-kids-only oriented person, and she's fairly terrified (but I've team taught with her, and she is so frickin' amazing...one of those naturally gifted at teaching teachers born with an extra chromosome geared for teaching). And I knew that if I didn't do it this year, it would be next year. Or the next. Most definitely by 2014 (when, technically, public education is set to implode if they don't fix that NCLB mess...100% on grade level at that point is like asking toddlers to build a skyscraper to code). And God only knows what might have been waiting for me at that point--most likely a class of 5th grade boys anxious to be the next Li'l Wayne.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So I'll be teaching 3rd grade Science & Social Studies. It's a model at our school--classroom teachers teach Reading/Lang. Arts/Math to half their class while the other half visit me with half of another class for Science and Social Studies. Which are two subjects I generally enjoy. For the love of numbers, <i>NO</i>body wants <i>me</i> teaching their kid how to do long division or complicated multiplication problems, trust me...I'd be sitting there counting on my fingers right along with the 3rd graders, going "I just don't get it?".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I'm grieving. I have cried so much since Wednesday. And people at my school are so kind, so incredibly helpful. Every time someone gives me a hug or asks me how I'm doing, I just want to break down. Isn't that bizarre? It's like my cat just died, or I just got evicted from an apartment. I feel just ridiculous every time I start weeping--because, uh, hello dorky self: you still have a job, you work with great people and are being welcomed onto a new team with open arms, you aren't taking a pay cut (well, actually, I have...since about 2008 when the pay froze), you haven't had to switch schools totally to the Land of the Unknown, and they haven't asked you to teach a class of 5th grade boys who are all anxious to be the next Li'l Wayne. Small blessings, tiny angel helpers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Still, I'm grieving so many things--a sudden, traumatic job change will do this, I suppose. Like, I'm grieving having to leave my classroom I've been in for 7 years. Which is in a crappy portable that I totally suspect spews out mold spores from the air ducts at intervals. I'm grieving not being able to read all the sweet and cute picture books, or do the fun and colorful holiday projects, and just generally get to be around small people all day who don't judge me (generally). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I'm also worried I sound ungrateful. The position I'm moving into is coveted. People have, like, pirate sword fights on the playground over these Science/Social Studies jobs. I deeply appreciate how lucky I am to have this position open up and have it offered to me on practically a silver platter.But I'm overwhelmed by how much I have to do and all the new stuff I have to learn and I'm scared I'm never going to understand how to give grades in real and meaningful way (I haven't had to do grades in 9 years...and now it's done all fancy pants on computers and such). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">However, after the initial shock and awe has worn off, I will be okay. I usually resist change at all costs, but once the ball gets rolling, I'm always okay. It'll be nice to start with a clean slate in a new classroom. And I'll be on my toes this year learning new curriculum, which may help me drop about 50 lbs. since I'll have less time to hit the vending machines. And I love to research and write up new lessons--I like the lure of great possibilities. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Learning curves are just not my favorites, and I tend to really fight the Universe when It throws them at me. For example, since I volunteered on Wednesday, I've been shaking my fist at the Cosmos, Rob Brezny (whose horoscopes have been pointing out this cosmic change in plans for me since about mid-July), both federal and state Congresses, and I've actually considered writing a letter to Goldman Sachs demanding they send me my teacher's cut of their stupid Wall Street bailout money (which I estimate to be exactly $500,000) (<i>I'm</i> not greedy--I just need some new classroom materials and maybe my mortgage paid off so I can continue supplementing at my job).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I don't know. I think I'm just in psychic transition over here, frantically trying to get to a place where everything feels normal again. Everyone swears 3rd graders are little kids in bigger bodies, and it's really the best age. My friend C told me I just made the smartest chess move ever in the history of teaching--in about 5 years, if the trends we're seeing continue, ESOL teaching in Georgia will be the LAST place a teacher wants to find him/herself. She also promises me once I go up, I'll never want to come down (grade levels). And I'm trying to remember being a 3rd grader; I think that's when I got big bug eyed glasses and started walking through the halls with my nose in a book in order to avoid eye contact. I may get a version of my younger self in a class and become the mac to her cheese, help her find a way to redeem herself before middle school rears its big ugly bully face and smacks her in the head. The Universe is so sneaky in setting up connections like that.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I'll be okay. I work with and for really cool people. I hear the horror stories; I know how good I have it where I am. I have stuck around at this school through good times, bad times, and what the heck is going on right now??? times simply because of the people I've gotten to work with over the years. I'd much rather teach an entire class of Li'l Wayne wannabes where I'm at right now than have to pack my stuff up and teach future rap stars at Hell's Kitchen ES, under Principal Gordon Ramsey. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Though I do wish Gordon Ramsey would go kick some education policy gurus in the butt right now. </span><br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-40448379275953025492011-08-27T17:02:00.000-04:002011-08-30T19:54:16.455-04:00hot snippets of bucket.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEium_Nud5bi_sL2x1GAFEl_34N6d_wBmMdH8AZAd0-ESxNcXk8zW_oGzVgvVRnb2XwZVzAS3I0HRY9nJdipYfUlBYfmR2dKxnTWdGCX6geerOu2uYKmGVT5LXTcT5JMPKl3nRH7XsKwzSA/s1600/silly+melissa.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEium_Nud5bi_sL2x1GAFEl_34N6d_wBmMdH8AZAd0-ESxNcXk8zW_oGzVgvVRnb2XwZVzAS3I0HRY9nJdipYfUlBYfmR2dKxnTWdGCX6geerOu2uYKmGVT5LXTcT5JMPKl3nRH7XsKwzSA/s320/silly+melissa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646798519234134898" border="0" /></a>
<br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> First, kind of an apology: it was brought to my attention that last time's post was far too long and a tad too political...for someone who was complaining about people being political (I blame my inner angry hippie for all moments like these). But there were a few highlights/thumbs up (for those who missed it) I've been told were effective: the online politics between my (<span style="font-size:78%;">sarcastic butthead of a</span>) brother and myself, the naming of gay people's political protest glitter sprinkles as "Pixie Dust of Angry Love" (this actually was fairly clever, if I can say so myself), and my rock star design ideas for the Oval Office (seriously, friends, if crazed Texan/used-car-salesman-looking Rick Perry ever gets in there, I feel fairly certain he's going to be all over my electric blue/red and the silver disco ball in the middle design plan...I'll throw in some cowhide rugs and several huge ten gallon hat commissioned paintings; I am acutely aware of how over-the-top most Texans love it).
<br />
<br />So now I've gotten that off my chest, let's move on to some apolitical general August updates:
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Hot.</span>
<br />
<br />1-It's frickin' hot, people. And I'm in a classroom trailer area, and that area is always about 120 degrees hotter than everywhere else on the planet--some areas areas of the world are wind tunnels. The classroom trailers at my school are one giant heat tunnel. Air conditioning is a human right in my area of the world. In fact, at this point, I'm way less concerned about our nation's growing debt and jobs problems than I am about the fact that we continue to insist on starting school here smack dab in the summer heat, during the most godless period of ridiculously ridiculous humidity.
<br />
<br />I've heard insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results each time, and I'm convinced this is what continues school districts here to keep trying to start school at the end of July/beginning of August. And while I'm no internationally recognized economist (you're welcome, world economy), I'm pretty sure starting school after Labor Day or, what the heck, after Halloween, would shave off at least a gabillion dollars from the state education budget in air conditioning costs alone. It's too late for this school year, but I <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> we can do it for 2012-13, with proper leadership (i.e., not me: I'm just a little old worker bee who likes to complain a lot).
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Snippets.</span>
<br />
<br />2-I have morning bus duty this year. It's a fairly intense duty, because of various weather-related issues (see my heat complaint above, #1) (later, in January, I will issue forth a general complaint about school being in session during icy months), but I'm starting to kind of enjoy it because I am privy to the inner mind workings of so many children exiting the buses. Just based on various snippets I've caught here and there, I really think we're going to be okay as a country if/when some of these young stars take over.
<br />
<br />Some recent samples:
<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">4th? or 5th? grade girl:</span> ...all these fools talking about the end of the world. Well it better not be on a Friday. School's the last place on earth I want to spend MY last hour. </span>(I really wanted to high five her for this because, uh heck yeah! But I'm not familiar with 4th/5th grader psychology--would that have made her terribly uncool, to have a strange teacher come up to her and high five her before class even started?)
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">three 2nd? 3rd? grade girls walking in row, girl in the middle speaking: </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">...I'm not going to have a baby. I'M going to adopt. </span>(Girlfriend, right on! Your body will so thank you, particularly if you're in your late 30s when you do it.)
<br />
<br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Bucket.</span>
<br />
<br />3-Melissa has learned to cuss. And, like most everything she starts doing, she doesn't go small. No, this time she's headed for the big one. The F dash dash dash word, and I don't mean Fork, Four, or Fart.
<br />
<br />I must take partial blame for this; <a href="http://coffeeisanacronym.blogspot.com/2011/04/buckin-like-big-moe-boe-amy.html">I had terrible road rage when she was ages 0-2. </a>I never held back because I figured small babies have swiss cheese memories as their brains are in the beginning stages of development, and small toddlers too. But apparently I've been gifted with an obstinate, future actress who lives to shock others, and she's discovered the F dash dash dash word is just the ticket.
<br />
<br />This morning for instance, she didn't want to take her breakfast plate into the kitchen. And so I asked her (tip #1 for new parents of overly opinionated toddlers: Do NOT ask them why not--under any and all circumstances), "Why not?"
<br />
<br />And she replied all casual-like, "Because F dash dash dash<span style="font-style: italic;"> you</span>, mommy."
<br />
<br />Okay, so here's where I do NOT take blame. I'm sure she knows the F word from our driving lessons over the last two years or so. That's all me, I admit it, guilty as charged, I'm sure there's a special place in Hell for mommies like my classy self. However, I know for a heck of a road rage FACT I have never, at any point, ever told another driver in another car that she or he could or should or <span style="font-style: italic;">must</span> "F dash dash dash you."
<br />
<br />I suspect another kid in her daycare class. I find these people are always the easiest scapegoats to point at for most everything (tip #2 for new parents of toddlers): Is your kid suddenly throwing around expletives? Daycare friends. Flinging poop on your walls? Daycare peeps. Refusing to stay in own bed at night, blaming it on fear of the Big Bad Wolf? Daycare homies.
<br />
<br />Anyway. She said it, and I was all <span style="font-style: italic;">"(GASP!!) <span style="font-weight: bold;">What</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>did you just say??" And she giggled and said it again, louder this time, with great amounts of more confidence and self-sure emphasis.
<br />
<br />So we're trying not to make a big deal of when she throws the word around because, first of all, words are important tools for toddlers. They're just learning to navigate Life's crazy, twisty turns and some days, "No!" and "I don't want to!" and "F-dash dash dash it!" are all the power they have to wield in a world that simply refuses to recognize their importance--toddlers are China, and we adults are like one big G8 summit refusing to let them in on the big secret.
<br />
<br />And second of all, C and I are convinced she still thinks the word she's shocking everyone with is "bucket" or a variation thereof. In fact, I fully anticipate her exiting a school bus one day while spouting off worldly wisdom to some friends as they walk by the teachers on bus duty. And I fully anticipate her throwing in the word <span style="font-style: italic;">bucket</span> at the end of whatever wise-for-her-age thoughtful thoughts she shares, because she'll remember that when she was a mere 34 months old, the word bucket always made her mommy's eyes get big, and so she'll be sure the word bucket makes her sound all grown up and hip. And I'm totally okay having some teacher write all that up in a blog one day.
<br />
<br />
<br /></span>amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-4116215854277986692011-08-19T10:30:00.000-04:002011-08-19T10:30:01.153-04:00confessions of a political hack.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfVUi-yGBh5fGOMQu6IDzP6Cl0qwMHgxTe7c2EBJK6lpgWfg55F5Ca2OwfFcQ_HvwqF8gUkYp4TFoA_Q-5V8__vU_Hu_wD1I2JJJqz5q5j_76gduWAgQDrdQbG9I27yeGxOxajgMm16k/s1600/politics.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfVUi-yGBh5fGOMQu6IDzP6Cl0qwMHgxTe7c2EBJK6lpgWfg55F5Ca2OwfFcQ_HvwqF8gUkYp4TFoA_Q-5V8__vU_Hu_wD1I2JJJqz5q5j_76gduWAgQDrdQbG9I27yeGxOxajgMm16k/s320/politics.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642345792446023506" border="0" /></a>
<br />
<br />
<br /><div>Have you seen the video of two angry Tea Partiers confronting Obama in Iowa recently? </div>
<br />
<br />
<br /><div></div>
<br />
<br />
<br /><div></div>
<br /><div></div>
<br /><div></div><a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-503544_162-20092908-503544.html">Angry Politics Make People Weird.</a> (<--video I'm talking about.)
<br />
<br /><div>It's really a chicken or an egg video. If you're a Tea Party fan and/or a conservative and/or a Republican, you'll watch it and go: Woo! Obama got OWNED!! If you're a Progressive and/or a liberal and/or a Democrat, you'll be all: Woo! Obama OWNED those guys!!</div>
<br />Either way, I must say Obama exercised tremendous control, as always. President O is smooth and classy (some on my side are now grumbling: a little <span style="font-style: italic;">too</span> smooth and classy). Plus, sometimes I wonder if obnoxious people like these aren't just trying to instigate someone into doing something even crazier, so they can start some new, fresh crazy, like screaming "Oh, see? We KNEW it! Obama IS a dictator!" as the Secret Service makes them leave (Secret Service! Where <span style="font-style: italic;">were</span> you??) (also: I think people--left and right--who haphazardly throw around words like "dictator" have a weak grasp on their true definition; they just think knocking around volatile words makes them look smarmy and smart) (it does not).
<br />
<br /><div>I will say that, as much as I think the two people in this video seriously need to brush up on their manners for Situations Dealing With VIPs Who Could Totally Have The IRS Put Them In Tax Hell For All Eternity, I'll give it to them: they were courageous to take on the leader of the free world as just ordinary citizens. They used completely disrespectful tones of voice while doing so, but they were very, very courageous. Crazy people often are.</div>
<br />But man. I still watch stuff like this and think: Really, fellow Americans? Really?? This is the <em>president</em>. THE President. You may not like him, you may disagree with his policies, you may even think he's bad for the country. So what? This is the President. Voice your disagreement, voice whatever is displeasing you, but show some frickin' respect. Use the word "Sir," a lot. Check your tone of voice. Speak your mind, but for the love of Reagan, don't badger. Badgering always makes you look like an obnoxious a-hole trying too hard. Don't take my word on that--go watch Bill O'Reilly or Keith Olbermann on youtube for proof. The only people who should be badgering the President of the United States are his political opponents (the ones in actual power, not the ones shouting at Rachel Maddow from their La-Z-Boy recliners). Oh, and FOX News analysts. They get to badger the President, too. But only because they need to feel very, very busy and important. We should all become nervously concerned if FOX News people suddenly don't have enough to do.
<br />
<br /><div>But Amy! (I hear you protest.) People have always gotten hot and bothered about politics. Even people back in George Washington's day got all hot and bothered about major political issues. Yes, it's true. But don't you agree they seemed to do so in more respectful, effective ways? Maybe leaning a tad passive aggressive with their flowery use of the King's English, but you know...times were simpler back then and passive aggression was really all they had. There was no twitter, no on-demand TV with 4500 channels, and people weren't bombarded with a gabillion new reality shows every year. And they always prefaced the passive aggression with words like "Sir" and "Gentlemen." And they bowed a lot, because that's what you have to do when you're forced to wear ruffled, romantic poet shirts and tight breeches as every day garb. And they always gallantly took off their 3 corner hats when greeting foes. And even if they were going to shoot your head off in a duel, they were always polite about that, too: duels totally had <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duel">rules of honor</a>. </div>
<br /><div>George Washington was so polite, in fact, he stopped the whole Revolutionary War so he could return that one British general <a href="http://gwpapers.virginia.edu/documents/revolution/howe.html">his lost dog</a>. Nowadays, news of a prominent political figure doing something like that would be hacked to death by 50 different pundits for 2 weeks 24/7, or however long a news cycle is. And 800 anti-George Washington bloggers and other citizens would find 10 million different ways to call the father of our country a big, wussy wimpy wuss not worthy of the position. And every single person in the country would either obsessively love him for the decision to return the dog, or despise and deride him for it, calling him a traitor to the cause, possibly even demanding proof he was a citizen. Some would probably also demand impeachment, even though George technically wasn't even president when he did that, and you can't impeach non-presidents..though I don't think that had officially been decided yet as the Constitution was still being finalized. But honestly, who cares if it was finalized or not or even what it said when it was finally finalized? Who the heck has time for stinkin' facts these days? </div>
<br />I contend that if George Washington did something nice for an enemy today, many people would resort to brawling in online forums with one another about it, in ways that made them appear to have the maturity level of my 2 year old. People would post angry tweets and facebook status updates, and other people would make snarky comments about their snarky comments.
<br />
<br /><div>And George Washington would probably never have even <span style="font-style: italic;">had</span> a 2nd term if he were president today, because probably the Whigs (or whoever) would have filibustered the whole ratification of the Constitution which would have sent the whole world spiraling into insane madness, and they wouldn't have even cared about that because nowadays it's all about political posturing and re-elections, not doing what will save the country from looking like one big jackass.
<br />
<br />Which obviously means the Louisiana Purchase would have fallen through due to excessive litigation by money hungry lawyers, Texas would be its very own country right now (I mean, nearly every Governor right up to the current one has suggested it, <a href="http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2009/04/15/governor-says-texans-want-secede-union-probably-wont/">often out loud</a>), which means in 2011 we'd all be angry at illegal Texans taking all our underpaid agricultural, maid service, and landscaping jobs, and they'd probably insist on speaking some weird language they call Texican and they'd slap it all over billboards in stately neighborhoods. Oh, my fellow citizens! You think we're a messy mess right now? Be glad there was no internet, social media, MSNBC, FOX News/Nation, or CNN back in 1776.
<br />
<br /></div><div></div><div>We live in strange times.</div>
<br />Confession #1: I thought George W. Bush was bad for America. I did not agree with his presence in the White House. I did not like his policies. I'm pretty sure his (weak grasp on) economics and his bizarre trickle down ideas helped drive us straight into the recession we're currently not enjoying. And I really (desperately) wish he'd have studied harder at fully grasping the nuances of our shared native language. But I always liked him tremendously on a personal level; I really, really WANTED to vote for him. I just couldn't. I still say George W. Bush is probably great fun at barbecues. I was angry and horrified at the (thankfully not American--how embarrassing would that have been?) guy who threw a shoe at him, and I most certainly would never have spoken to him like he was some kind of inept grocery store cashier I was having a disagreement with regarding a coupon.
<br />
<br /><div>And you know why I'm so sure about all of that, how I know I'd never have been, never would be to this day, disrespectful to our former president's face? It has come to my attention, in recent years, that George W. Bush and I may share a common ancestor, and despite this very real and important family connection, George W. Bush never once invited me to the White House while he was in charge. Yes, I'm serious! Not even once! And my dad, mom, and brother totally voted for him. And THEY never got any White House invitations either. And yet he had and still has an open invitation to any of our summer barbecues. That's just the kind of socialist commie pinko I am.</div>
<br />Which is why I watch videos like the one above and think: <em>Wow. Just wow. Total consumption by egoic fantasies of self-righteous indignation with a general lack of facts to back one's self up= so awkward to watch.</em> That's one of the most powerful men on Earth, second only to Donald Trump's powerful ego (awkward as well), and he (Obama, not Trump's ego) deserves a certain level of protocol. Shouldn't all presidents? Even if they never invite you to a single White House ball despite the fact you possibly share a trace smidgeon of genetics?
<br />
<br /><div>What is <span style="font-style: italic;">happening</span> to us, friends? As a society, as a people, as a species? That behaving like this, in public, has become okay? This is normal? Acceptable? We've totally turned into crappy party guests, spilling our red wine and dripping our cheese dip all over our host's brand new carpet, not even attempting to try to clean up after ourselves. And some of us even try to find ways to make it look like it was the host's own fault to start with.</div>
<br />Confession #2: I know I'm completely being part of the problem I'm currently complaining about in this blog post. I also know:
<br />
<br /><div>(A) I'm kind of wasting my time--the internet is simply not a conducive location for reaching hearts and changing minds, and certainly not when it involves emotionally-charged things like politics and religion. Besides, friends who share my political leanings might read this and suddenly this blog could be Ground Zero for angry hippies. </div>
<br />Confession #3: I am often an angry hippie, though I was born 3 years too late.
<br />
<br /><div>(B) I also know blogs, Facebook, Twitter, etc. are simply not places sincere political discourse will ever happen--I mean, take Facebook for instance. It's a living room, and we're sipping our tea and coffee while nibbling dainty biscuits and making polite small talk. Then somebody busts in screeching diatribes against the Speaker of the House or the President? And at least 5 people in the room have close emotional ties to one or both of those people? Sweet friends, no. No, no, no. That's exactly like letting your dog pee on a guest's leg and then refusing to even apologize.</div>
<br />Example to bring this all home: My own brother (who I love with all of my heart, who once drove through a scary, severe thunderstorm in a stupidly ridiculous traffic jam, JUST to hear me give my capstone presentation for my master's degree), my beloved brother is on the opposing side of me in all things political and we've had crazy online arguments about American politics (seriously: I'm certain there are others who've witnessed these exchanges and now believe we're both mentally challenged). Because he's unable to properly read my (highly nuanced, witty, and sagely ironic) tone online, and his sarcastic, butthead tone reads all sarcastic and butthead-y because, well...he just so happens to be a sarcastic butthead. This has lead to problems, and we finally had to do an intervention on each other. And now we're okay. We're able to lightly joke about politics in person, and we agree this joking between us simply doesn't translate well online. So now we've stopped and we both try to contain the political commentary on facebook amongst polite company. It's incredibly unproductive.
<br />
<br />Politics in this place have become so divisive. It does worry me. And kind of creeps me out.
<br />
<br />For the record, progressive gay friends: I include <em>you</em> here in all this. Yes, you. You who throw glitter on our right wing politician friends at various book signings. (Though....Confession #4: in terms of angry protest, I must say this one's pretty genius...you guys get out your anger, make a political statement, AND said opponent winds up all cute and sparkly when they get home. Win-win. I really want to call this: Spreading Pixie Dust of Angry Love, and it's one more example of why I'll forever be on gay people's side in the civil rights fight. Because I mean it: next time I get upset with someone, I totally intend to pelt them with rainbow glitter.)
<br />
<br /><div>When I see news coverage of someone throwing a shoe at George Bush, when I watch a video of two random citizens badgering the President, when I witness trolls word-bombing people in comment sections of blogs, when I'm unsuspectingly subjected to vitriolic political facebook rants in my news feed that mess up my perfectly happy day? I find it depressing, the downside to social media. Can't we all just get along? Or at least just pelt each other with Pixie Dust of Angry Love?
<br />
<br /></div>In fact...you know what? I bet this is <span style="font-style: italic;">exactly</span> how people in the North felt about family in the South and vice versa during Civil War times. And I bet they used "Sir" and "Gentlemen" during disagreements even back then. I'm really starting to suspect technology is somehow behind this poop.
<br />
<br />Well! I'm pretty exhausted after wading through all that, are you? This has been an intensely opinionated, and not that quirky or fun blog entry. I'm sorry if it bummed you out in any way, and I'm giving you high fives and terrorist fist bumps if you stayed with me all the way to this paragraph. But I mean it, amigitos: I'm becoming increasingly concerned about this situation. Because this is not a politician-based problem (amazingly, since they create a good 80% of problems world-wide), this is an Us problem. In fact, it's the single most problem that worries me about my country, second only to climate change. In fact, I feel the two may be connected--fix climate change, and voila! Peace between the blue and red states.
<br />
<br /><div>So I don't know. I don't know if Obama will be re-elected or not. I know he's a citizen. I know he's not a secret Muslim, and even if he is: who frickin' cares? And if you do care, do you think you can explain why but without the words Al Qaeda or terrorist or jihad? I also know he's a great dad with a really sweet love for his girls, and he's apparently a good husband as well. Barack Obama and his family have standing invitations to any of our summer barbecues, just like the Bushes. In fact, I bet if both families showed up at the same time, we'd have a really pleasant evening together, talking and laughing and being eaten by mosquitoes.
<br />
<br />Confession #5: I and my Marxist liberal self actually don't think he's handled all his business in the White House that well, just not for the same reasons FOX News watchers think he hasn't. For one? If I were in charge of the White House? That Oval Office would be stunning shades of electric blue and red with a silver disco ball in the ceiling, and there'd be sparkles in the corners. What the heck, Mr. O? Tan on <em>beige</em>?? Sir, seriously. </div>
<br />In spite of boring decor, I think he's a really smart, good man who's sincerely trying to do what he thinks is best for our country, so please (PLEASE) even if you disagree with me, I beg you: please stop trashing him in demeaning ways on the internet in places my eyes and brain aren't able to avoid and please also have more couth at random political pep rallies. And when your people get into power, I promise I will return the favor to you. Because even if you can't wait for the Obamas to exit the White House, I know you can at least relate to the president on a personal level when it comes to his relationships with his kids and his family. It's how I related to Bush the second, whenever he was tossing around double negatives in his speeches and invading sovereign nations.
<br />
<br /><div>And that's really all I'm saying: we simply must dump this negativity; it's a complete waste of your time, my time, and our Cosmic, collective energy and it's not going to fix a single thing. It never has. Disagree and voice displeasure, but don't forget your manners. And for the love of God, somebody please re-decorate the Oval Office if Obama does manage to score a second term but doesn't make it to our final summer barbecue so I can present my decor plan. And will SOMEbody teach George W. how to pronounce "nuclear" correctly before the End Times are upon us??? </div><div></div><div></div>amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9019933189221431482.post-70740609845440589472011-08-05T17:43:00.000-04:002011-12-20T08:51:16.635-05:00back to school: the audacity of hope<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCLNgxPKShzL7bJGc1Vo-NcrpgEQn8l0NYl2loiA_2opOc0UTqzGwPVTT8a4zGqeNKxwXNiuggvkGfhvYNsiiMYQI2dNeizEK53Z_L-qe04YCJ9jqy6fOCt_FpW3u5CaKX-TQfvOD6aRw/s1600/back_to_school.gif"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637496652902565842" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCLNgxPKShzL7bJGc1Vo-NcrpgEQn8l0NYl2loiA_2opOc0UTqzGwPVTT8a4zGqeNKxwXNiuggvkGfhvYNsiiMYQI2dNeizEK53Z_L-qe04YCJ9jqy6fOCt_FpW3u5CaKX-TQfvOD6aRw/s320/back_to_school.gif" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 184px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 210px;" /></a><br />
Man, what a week. The first week of Back to School is always so rough. First there's the daily body shock of getting up at 5:45 am every day after two months of 7:00 am leisurely wake ups, and at least five (unbelievably relaxing) mornings of waking up as late as 9:00 am (thank you to C for watching 2 hours straight of Yo Gabba Gabbas and Bubbleguppies those 5 mornings).<br />
<br />
Then there are the meetings--it simply wouldn't be a new school year without the meetings. One day for me was nothing but 2 long back to back meetings (though I must say: the first 3 hour meeting that particular day was a talented, most inspiring guest speaker named Dr. Dan Mulligan who made the business of teaching critical thinking skills exciting, engaging, and just all around laugh out loud fun) (and then a teacher friend who lived close to the speaker venue threw a lunch party that started with chicken salad sandwiches and ended with gooey, fudgy, chocolate-y brownies).<br />
<br />
And then there was the moving around of furniture and the organizing of messes (what the poop was I frickin' <span style="font-style: italic;">doing </span>back in May??) (answer: probably recuperating from school year trauma). Don't even get me started on Meet the Teacher night (which was actually not bad...except for that one incoming Kindergartner who actually pooped on one of the cafeteria's stools while daddy was filling out paperwork) (yes, real poop...and I have no idea how he got it out of his pants which remained completely poop free, along with his hands) (????) (and I was all kinds of non-judgmental. Given that I was just in that dad's position <a href="http://sweetlittlecrosspatch.blogspot.com/2011/07/life-is-full-of-poorly-formed-bad.html">less than a month ago</a>) (though I must <span id="formatbar_Buttons" style="display: block;"><span class=" down" id="formatbar_CreateLink" style="display: block;" title="Link"><img alt="Link" border="0" class="gl_link" src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" /></span></span>note here that my child is in the beginning stages of potty training at 2 years old...not registering for Kindergarten at 5) (okay, I <span style="font-style: italic;">promise</span> I'm done).<br />
<br />
I know, to the non-teacher crowd, these all sound like champagne problems. Oh, poor baby. She had 10 months of trauma (in Corporate America I have 12 months). Oh poor thing. She only had two months to recuperate (in Corporate America, I only get 2 weeks). Yeah, I hear ya. But there are things I have to deal with that no non-teacher out there in the world could even possibly imagine having to deal with...couldn't even psychologically prepare for. And I have it <span style="font-style: italic;">easy.</span> I don't have a classroom full of kids to contend with day in, day out--I only see mine in small groups of up to 11 for 4o minutes at a time, 6 times a day. I could tell you classroom teacher stories that would set your hair on fire. Make your innards explode. Teaching ain't for the weak, yo.<br />
<br />
Anyway. Getting back to the happy: what I love most about this time of the school year is its absolute audacity of hope. Everything is clean and new, and shiny shiny <span style="font-style: italic;">shiny</span>. You've got big plans, starry-eyed dreams, and you can actually leave campus to eat lunch...<span style="font-style: italic;">with other adults</span>. It's just like being real people, working in the real world. Yeah, our bodies are angry at us for making them get up so early, but they eventually kind of just grumble and give in around, say, 8:30 (or whenever we've had our coffee) because, hello, they did just get TWO months to recoup (Month 1: Psychological Detox, Month 2: Psychological Boot Camp for next school year). Or maybe just two weeks if summer school was part of your summer equation.<br />
<br />
But whatever. That last group of kids is gone, and we have fresh meat to work with. And we haven't even gotten to know the fresh meat yet, so there's still hope. We have time, and lots (and lots) of hope.<br />
<br />
It's really the calm before the storm.<br />
<br />
So one of the things that came across my desk (actually across my eyes, in a meeting) was the following video. I was going to write this big ol' commentary/preamble before presenting (ha, not that I haven't just done that), but I don't want to get off on a tangent (ha! again) before subjecting you to the magic of this speaker's message. I'll do my commentary/preamble/tangent tomorrow. For today, I would just like you to watch this (if you have time--it's about 19 minutes long), and really think about what it means to be part of a family, a culture, a country, a species.<br />
<br />
The speaker is author Chimamanda Adichie, and she shares a really powerful message about what it means to be human and how we're all in this fight together:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/D9Ihs241zeg" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/%3C%21--copy%20and%20paste--%3E%3Cobject%20width=%22526%22%20height=%22374%22%3E%3Cparam%20name=%22movie%22%20value=%22http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf%22%3E%3C/param%3E%3Cparam%20name=%22allowFullScreen%22%20value=%22true%22%20/%3E%3Cparam%20name=%22allowScriptAccess%22%20value=%22always%22/%3E%3Cparam%20name=%22wmode%22%20value=%22transparent%22%3E%3C/param%3E%3Cparam%20name=%22bgColor%22%20value=%22#ffffff%22%3E%3C/param%3E%3Cparam%20name=%22flashvars%22%20value=%22vu=http://video.ted.com/talk/stream/2009G/Blank/ChimamandaAdichie_2009G-320k.mp4&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/ChimamandaAdichie-2009G.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=512&vh=288&ap=0&ti=652&lang=eng&introDuration=15330&adDuration=4000&postAdDuration=830&adKeys=talk=chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story;year=2009;theme=words_about_words;theme=women_reshaping_the_world;theme=master_storytellers;theme=speaking_at_tedglobal2009;theme=the_creative_spark;event=TEDGlobal+2009;tag=Culture;tag=africa;tag=book;tag=storytelling;tag=third+world;tag=writing;&preAdTag=tconf.ted/embed;tile=1;sz=512x288;%22%20/%3E%3Cembed%20src=%22http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf%22%20pluginspace=%22http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer%22%20type=%22application/x-shockwave-flash%22%20wmode=%22transparent%22%20bgColor=%22#ffffff%22%20width=%22526%22%20height=%22374%22%20allowFullScreen=%22true%22%20allowScriptAccess=%22always%22%20flashvars=%22vu=http://video.ted.com/talk/stream/2009G/Blank/ChimamandaAdichie_2009G-320k.mp4&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/ChimamandaAdichie-2009G.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=512&vh=288&ap=0&ti=652&lang=eng&introDuration=15330&adDuration=4000&postAdDuration=830&adKeys=talk=chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story;year=2009;theme=words_about_words;theme=women_reshaping_the_world;theme=master_storytellers;theme=speaking_at_tedglobal2009;theme=the_creative_spark;event=TEDGlobal+2009;tag=Culture;tag=africa;tag=book;tag=storytelling;tag=third+world;tag=writing;&preAdTag=tconf.ted/embed;tile=1;sz=512x288;%22%3E%3C/embed%3E%3C/object%3E"></a>amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14474804320816948025noreply@blogger.com1